Lost

It’s your first month without your superpowers and you’ve already managed to get stabbed at Crime Alley tonight, in civilian clothing in an attempt for a sorry excuse of a petty criminal to rob you. Then the rain has to be pouring while you’re left to walk home with blood pouring from your side. And now, with all the lights gone in your district you're left to wonder how you’re gonna patch yourself up.

The universe profoundly hates you.

By the time you reach the second floor, the stairwell smells like damp concrete and cigarette smoke from whoever’s been sneaking up here between shifts. The emergency lights along the walls are dead too—nothing but the occasional flash of lightning through the stairwell window to guide you.

You press your palm against your side as you climb, feeling the dull throb of the wound under your coat. The bleeding’s slowed, but every step still sends a spark of pain through your ribs.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve had worse. You’ve had way worse.

Just… not like this.

Not without backup. Not without powers.

When you finally reach your door, you have to fumble twice with the keys before the lock clicks. Inside, the apartment is pitch black except for the faint orange glow reflecting on stormy clouds from the city’s uptown part lighting. You drop your umbrella against the wall and listen—to the rain, to your own heartbeat, to the emptiness that feels louder than both.

The quiet is so absolute it hums. No neon, no chatter from the corner diner. Just Gotham breathing slow in the dark, like the whole city’s holding its breath.

Your apartment feels foreign in the blackout. The usual hum of the fridge is gone, the digital clock blank, the air oddly still. You drop your keys on the counter, the sound too loud in the quiet.

The place smells faintly of motor oil and takeout. You left the TV remote on the coffee table this morning, and somehow the sight of it when lightning flares outside makes you want to laugh. It’s the only thing that looks remotely normal.

It’s almost peaceful—if it didn’t feel so much like an ending.

You set your phone on the counter in flashlight mode and stomp through the kitchen in search for the bag of tea lights you've bought for situations just like this.

You find a candle in the drawer next to the sink, light it with shaking fingers and a lighter that makes you curse any higher being in the process of trying to work, and then a second later the little flame from the candle throws shadows across your walls. The light flickers, in one, overly bright flame, given the darkness surrounding it, over half-unpacked boxes, a pile of files from the League, the empty coffee mug you left out this morning before everything went to hell.

When you finally find the courage to try and peel your jacket off through hisses and curses, when fabric sticks to the cut—you set it on one of the chairs, neatly as you can and take a look at the side of your ribs where the cut is. Blood’s already soaked through your shirt and the hole in the fabric is big enough to be concerning. 

At the thought that you’ll have to do stitches on yourself when you can barely see, you limp.

Fine. One breath in. A choked breath out. You refuse to let yourself cry over such a minority.

You make your way to the bathroom, find the first-aid kit under the sink.

The candlelight catches your reflection in the mirror. You look wrecked. Hair plastered to your face, eyes bruised with exhaustion, skin slick with rain and sweat. You’ve looked worse, but not by much.

You dab antiseptic against the wound and bite back another evil curse. “Okay,” you mutter. “Just a scratch. Just another night in paradise.”

The power outage hums through the city—distant sirens, the faint echo of something crashing blocks away. Gotham always sounds different when the lights go out. Like it’s remembering what it really is.

For a moment, you think about calling Jason.

You don’t even know why. Maybe because the power’s out and it feels like the rules have changed. Like the world’s given you a pause you don’t deserve. Because he’s helped you stitch yourself up a thousand times, because at a time he wouldn’t lecture you like Dick would.

If your phone’s battery died halfway home, it’d be a good excuse not to rampage through your contacts for his name. Maybe that’d have been for the best.

You hold the phone in your hand for a long time before you actually decide to do it.

The screen’s light is too bright against the dark—your own face caught in reflection, frail and tired, with rain still sliding down your jaw. The signal icon flickers between one bar and none. Gotham’s blackout has eaten the grid alive, and your building is on the edge of that nothingness.

You scroll past Jason’s name once. Twice. Your thumb hovers over it, long enough that the screen goes dim again, and for a second you let it stay that way. You imagine his voice—gruff, half-grunting, but the kind that softens when he realizes it’s you.

You close your eyes. The last exchange of  words between the two of you tastes like eating wet ash from the forgotten ashtray in your balcony now that you’re alone.

Rain taps against the window, slow and steady. Somewhere across the city, you imagine him still standing on a rooftop, soaked through and stubborn as always. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing. Maybe he isn’t.

It shouldn’t matter.

You end up calling Dick anyway. 

You’d rather his lecture wound your pride and not a potential rejection from Jason.

It rings thrice before he answers, voice too alert for this hour, too polite to sound real. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“Define okay.” You laugh, but it comes out thin through a cough “Got stabbed earlier at Crime Alley in an attempt to get robbed. And power’s out in Midtown so I can’t see shit to stitch myself up. So, you know. Thursday.”

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end. “You what—? Where are you right now?”

“At home. It’s fine. I just wanted to ask if you know when the power will be back..”

“Bruce is on that” He exhales like someone who’s been holding his breath too long. “And! You can’t keep saying that every time you get hurt.”

“I can if it keeps being true.” You press a palm over your bandaged side, flinching when it twinges. “I’m just calling to make sure you’re not out patrolling. The blackout’s making everyone stupid.”

“Everyone includes you,” he says gently. There’s a pause. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

You stare at the flickering candle, the wax dripping down one side like a clock running out of seconds. “I’m used to it.” 

Your reflection in the mirror remains bloody, tired. You wish you could patch yourself as soon as possible.

“I could—” he starts, and you can almost hear him standing up, ready to play savior.

“No.” You cut him off, firm. “Stay where you are. You can’t fix this. I just wanna get this over with”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then, softly, “This isn’t about me fixing anything.”

You smile without meaning to. “Sure it’s not.”

“I don’t want you to bleed out”

Lightning flashes outside, and for a second the city glows again—wet streets, distant silhouettes, all swallowed by blackness just as fast. You feel the loneliness slip under your ribs, sharper than the cut on your side.

“I’ll be fine if the power comes back”

Dick sighs. “You sound tired.”

“I am.”

“Then put pressure on the wound with a cloth and lay down! Lock the doors. I’ll check in when the power’s back.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, even though you both know you won’t.

When the call ends, the silence hits harder. The rain’s still there, the sirens, the hum of a dying generator somewhere below—but none of it fills the space.

You set the phone face down on the counter. For a moment, you think you see the faintest flicker of movement in the glass reflection of your window—someone’s shadow, or maybe just the rain bending the light wrong.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You’ll just…. take the blackout as a chance to have a candlelit shower, clean the wound and then try to stitch it together with said candlelight. If nothing works in your favor you're going to at least try to romanticise the situations that you’re in.

Thus, you light another candle, balancing it on the bathroom counter beside the sink. The flame bends and steadies, painting the tiles in slow-moving gold. The rain outside keeps whispering against the glass, like the city’s trying to lull you into forgetting where you are.

The weather app on your phone doesn't say anything about the rain stopping anytime soon, no matter how much you check; albeit the angrily enlaced clouds reflecting light from uptown Gotham serve as your only steady light source beside the candles.

You strip down carefully, your tank top sticking to the dried blood at your side. When you peel it away, the wound pulls with it like it did with the jacket—raw, red, ugly. Not too deep, but bad enough that it won’t heal clean. The flame's light makes the red wound look almost black, deep in the shadows it cast on your skin. You have to brace your elbow on the counter and practically put your side in the flame's glow just to see the edges of the cut clearly.

You run the tap, but the water comes out in short, coughing spurts before settling into a steady trickle.

Great.

Rembrandts of warm water hit your fingers first, then your side, before turning to lukewarm ultimately, washing the crusted red away in ribbons. The sting that comes with it makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Romantic, mmmmh”  you mutter to yourself as shivers start shaking your body from deep in your core the colder the water gets “Just how I pictured my perfect Thursday night.”

You reach for the soap, lathering what’s left of your good arm, watching bubbles cling to your wrist like small, intact galaxies. You let yourself drift—let your mind blur around the rhythm of the rain and the smell of the candle wax melting down too fast.

For a few minutes, there’s peace in that . The kind that’s thin and borrowed, doomed to vanish. But peace all the same.

You try not to think about Jason. Or how you were about to call him out of all people to tell him about your injury. Like he would care or even pick up after the way you fought last time you saw each other.

You finish cleaning the wound as best as you can, begrudgingly towel off, and grab the needle and thread from your first aid kit. The flame on the counter dances as you hold the needle over it, metal glinting orange. It’s an old habit—sterilize, stitch, survive. It doesn’t matter anymore if you can’t see well enough. You don’t have enough time to stay waiting for the lights to return at the cost of bleeding out.

You thread the hooked needle and bite down on your lip as you bring it to your skin, the lightning flashes one more time,almost sympathetically, making your reflection in the mirror look like a ghost preparing to pierce their own body. You close their eyes and try to push the needle through, only to have your hand tremble violently—not from fear of the pain, but from the fear of doing it wrong and getting an infection they can no longer shrug off. No metahuman abilities can help you heal at this time. 

You focus on the glow instead of the pain, counting the loops and ties like you used to count heartbeats in the field.

It’s messy work, but when it’s done, you sit back against the wall, sweat sticking to your collarbone, the night world humming faintly beyond the walls.

You close your eyes, listening. There’s something about the blackout—the way it strips everything down to breath and sound. Gotham feels closer in the dark, like it’s watching.

You almost laugh at yourself for thinking this is poetic in any way.

The sound of your limping fills your apartment soon and it’s louder than any siren in the distance. A desperate attempt to find something warm to wear goes in vain. All your warm clothes sit in an unwashed pile on top of the washing machine including your pajamas and so, the only available piece of clothing you have that won’t rub onto your wound and irritate it, is a summery leopard print nightgown. The one you had bought only to have something nice to wear to sleep when Jason would come over.

“Fuck meee” you sigh

And for all that’s worth, you pick out the matching robe to throw over your shoulders.

Now, back into the bathroom, you're wrapping gauze around the cut again when you hear it—a low creak, the sound of a window shifting open somewhere in the apartment.

Your head snaps up. Candlelight trembles against the wall.

Probably the wind. You hope it’s the wind.

No other sound reaches your ears, so, you settle for dressing as quickly as you possibly can without causing too much strain onto your wound.

You end up sinking onto the couch and exhale, finally letting the adrenaline drain out, just like Dick said. Your hands still smell faintly of antiseptic and hydrogen peroxide. Your throat burns from holding back too much for too long.

You think about calling Jason again. Texting, leaving a voicemail. Anything to reach out and make amends.

You glance toward your phone, still lying face down on the counter where you left it earlier. The screen is black, your reflection warped across the glass.

You almost get up to grab it. Almost.

But then the power flickers again—just once, a faint hum in the walls before everything goes quiet.

No light. No sound. Only the rain.

You reason with yourself— instead of contacting Jason you should just smoke a cigarette.That’s right. Seems reasonable enough.

You get up, even if the balcony seems yards away in your painful state.

The chilly air of the night makes you pull your robe tighter, the thin fabric doing nothing against the draft of air crawling in through it. The city is still dead; even the faint glow from the Uptown part is now gone, swallowed by the storm.

You sit there for a while, just breathing. Listening to the rain drum against the railing.

Maybe if you stay still long enough, the ache in your ribs will dull, the weight in your chest will fade. Maybe the blackout can take the noise in your head, too. Surprise—it doesn’t.

When the next gust of wind pushes the curtains behind you inward, you hear it again. A soft scrape. Not the wind this time. Heavier. Intentional.

You freeze. The sound comes from right next to you on the balcony. Metal on concrete.

You move before you can think, pushing yourself up with one hand pressed to your side. The robe slides off your shoulder, and the candlelight catches the faint shimmer of rainwater tracking in from the balcony door.

And then a shadow moves through it. 

Instinctively your leg moves up high in a kicking motion that only makes you flinch in pain. The figure, now visible in all his bat-on-the-chest glory, dodges successfully. You open your mouth to speak—to tell whoever it is to get the hell out—but the words die the second you see the red glow catch against the wet metal of a helmet.

Then, he speaks “I was wondering when you’d notice. Took you long enough!”

“Jason!? Are you insane?” You wince, moving away in a swift motion.

Jason steps in without asking, boots leaving dark prints on the floor of your balcony, rain still dripping from his jacket. His voice rough—filtered through the modulator—cuts through the silence.

“Grayson called.” 

You stare at him, half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. “Of course he did.”

Jason’s voice softens just enough to sound human again. “Said you got stabbed.”

You blink, still caught halfway between relief and anger. “He—he what? I told him not to send anyone.”

Jason tilts his head slightly. “And you thought that meant he’d listen?”

The white eyes of the helmet turn toward you, scanning you as your face grows sour. You can tell he’s taking in the details—the candlelight, the blood-streaked gauze staining fabric, the nightgown.

He stops at the robe sleeve that’s fallen off your shoulder.

“You look like hell,” he says with finality, voice low, still too distorted. It’s better that you can’t see his face right now.

“Wow,” you mutter. “You really know how to make a girl feel better.”

He exhales through the modulator, the faintest sound of amusement beneath it. “You shouldn’t be moving around.”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be breaking into my apartment during a citywide blackout, but here we are.” You limp toward him, arms crossed. “You could’ve knocked. No mask”

Jason takes a step closer, rainwater dripping onto the ground between you. “You would’ve told me to go home.”

“I am telling you to go home.”

He shakes his head. “Not happening.”

“You’re not my keeper, Jason.”

“I’m not trying to be,” he says quietly. “But you got stabbed, and you didn’t even call me.”

Your throat tightens. “Didn’t think you’d want me to.”

For a second, neither of you move. Just the sound of rain and your pulse thudding in your ears in a loud, erratic manner.

Jason finally reaches up, removing his helmet. His hair’s damp and plastered to his forehead, eyes darker than usual in the reflection of the candlelight. The sharp edges of his expression soften, but only ever barely. There’s something hollow under it—an exhaustion that no amount of bravado can mask.

“You really thought I’d ignore that?”

You look away. “You’ve been ignoring worse.”

That lands between you like a live wire. He doesn’t argue. Just studies you, taking in the scene—your pout, the stubbornness behind it, the way you keep looking between his chest, lips, and eyes, the way that black lace trim of your nightgown sits perfectly on your chest.

He thinks about how much he wants to reach his hand out and cup your face, and in his mind, he does. But in the flesh, he doesn’t. He never does. Because every time he tries to fix something, it breaks worse. Every time he reaches, someone pulls away. So instead, his expression softens.

“You really know how to make a guy worry, you know that?”

His heart is hammering in his chest, even at the mere delusion that you would respond with kindness to such touch—but the reality of your response hits him harder than a brass knuckle punch.

“Then stop worrying,” you mutter, grabbing for the belt of your robe and pressing it tighter against your ribs. “It’s nothing I haven’t handled before.”

He exhales through his nose, quiet but bitter. Handled before. Yeah. He knows what that sounds like. What kind of people say that. He’s one of them too.

He leans against the wall, helmet tilting in his arms. “Yeah, well, forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

A moment bleeds into silence for far too long.

“Let me see it,” he says finally, nodding to your side.

You clutch your robe tighter. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll decide that.”

You let out a dry laugh. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice quiet. “You usually love that about me.”

And just like that, the air shifts—closer, heavier. He steps toward you, and you don’t step back.

The distance between you disappears until the hem of his jacket brushes your arm, until you can smell the rain on him, the faint bite of gunpowder and wet leather. His presence is overwhelming—too close, too charged—and it pulls at something in you that you’ve both tried to bury alive months ago. It’s electric and painful; both at a time.

His eyes drop to your lips for half a second—half a second too long—and you feel something stir deep in your chest, unwelcome and familiar. 

When his gaze lingers on your mouth, you bite down on your lip and accidentally make the cut on your side throb in response, grounding you in reality.

You breathe in, shaky. “Don’t.”

Jason’s voice is rough when he answers. “Wasn’t gonna.”

But he doesn’t move away. Neither do you. The leopard print of the thin nightgown suddenly feels less like a garment and more like a second skin, exposing every raw nerve to the heavy air between you. 

The candle flickers inside. The blackout lingers through the city. And for a heartbeat, you both just stand there—caught somewhere between anger and something that feels too close to longing.

Jason gulps and bites his lip. 

His pulse stutters, and he hates that you can probably hear it. He hates that he’s still this easy to read—that one look from you can undo the armor he’s built. He tells himself it’s just the storm. The tension. The way you always look when you’re trying not to care.

Then you turn first.

“Go inside and dry off,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “You’re dripping.”

Jason doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, watching you, rain still sliding down the curve of his jaw and dripping from his hair. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head—the same stubborn, reckless rhythm that’s always gotten both of you into trouble.

Then, he tilts his head in a motion that is pure, stubborn Jason. He sees the path you’re offering—a tactical retreat—and chooses to exploit it.

“Yeah,” he rasps, taking a step toward the apartment's interior. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your, uh… nice pajamas.”

He still considers what you said ‘go inside and dry off’ like it would be a bad choice. Because it feels like stepping over a line he’s drawn for himself again and again.

When he decided to come check on you it was because he didn’t want Dick to do it, because he wanted to be the one to have an excuse to see you. He hadn’t thought of any of his following actions. But maybe spontaneous is for the better.

Maybe you wanted to see him too. Maybe you want him to stay.

Finally, when he steps past you and inside the threshold, his heavy, wet boot prints marking the rug just inside your balcony door echoing against the floor as he walks inside, you follow. He turns his back to you just long enough to slide the door shut with a soft, final clack. The sound seals the two of you in—you, him, and the timid awkwardness. The shift of air follows him, carrying the scent of rain and cold metal. He sets the helmet down on your counter, slowly, like he’s staking a claim.

“You got any towels?” he asks.

You blink, thrown off by how casual he sounds. “You break into my place and now you want towels?”

He glances over his shoulder, that infuriating half-smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. How am I supposed to dry off? And maybe I’d like a shower too, if I’m lucky. Power’s out—I’ve been patrolling out in this storm for hours.”

You cross your arms, the robe tugging tighter against your ribs. “A shower.”

“Unless you’d rather I drip all over your couch.”

You roll your eyes, hating that he’s right. “Fine. Knock yourself out. You know where the bathroom is.”

Jason pauses the grin that’s creeping up on his features, eyes flicking to your side again—the blood starting to seep faintly through the gauze. “I’ll shower after I look at that. I’m not going anywhere until I see that wound,” he states, his voice now lower, carrying only the natural rumble of his chest. He takes a step toward the bathroom light. “Where’s the kit?”

You feel the surge of anger, but you’re too tired for it to be effective. “I already stitched it.”

“I know what your stitching looks like when you’re bleeding out and can’t see the thread, so don’t lie to me.” He walks past the couch where you had been resting, and his eyes catch the phone still face-down on the counter. He paused, looking from the phone to you. “You called Dick. And you stitched yourself up. But you didn’t call me.”

He doesn't make it a question; it is an observation, heavy with hurt.

You look away, unable to meet the direct gaze. “It wasn’t your problem.”

He doesn’t need to know how much you wanted to call him but opted not to in the end

He finally reaches the bathroom and peers in, the candlelight illuminating the haphazard pile of gauze and the bloody towel you used. He lets out a slow, heavy sigh that seems to deflate some of the tension.

“Every damn thing you do is my problem,” he murmurs, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide and a clean gauze pad. He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning back to you with the items. “Let’s go to the couch. Lean back. I’m just looking.”

“No couch” You groan. “Jesus, are you always this persistent?”

“Only when people I care about try to bleed out in their apartments alone.”

You freeze at that—care about—but you cover it fast with a sharp breath and a pouty glance away. “You don’t get to say that, Jason.”

He steps closer again, voice low. “Yeah, I do.” 

“Don’t,” you warn, quieter now. “Not tonight.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, his shoulders visibly tightening before he lets the breath go.

He doesn’t push it anymore. Just sighs, dragging a gloved hand through his wet hair. “Then let me see the damn wound so I can stop hovering. I’ll drop it after that.”

You know he’s lying. He won’t drop it. But you’re too tired and faint to argue, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—steady, unflinching, pupils blown wide when he takes off his gloves and hovers his arms over your hips to ground himself as he kneels before you—that makes resistance feel like a waste of energy.

You tug the robe open and lift your nightgown just enough to show the edge of the bandage. The candlelight from the bathroom flickers across both of you, throwing soft gold along the sharp planes of his face. He leans closer, close enough that the heat from his body cuts through the chill still clinging to your skin. You can feel his breath onto your stomach and it makes your skin crawl.

His gaze lingers on the bruising, the uneven stitches. “Christ. You did this yourself?”

You snort faintly. “Who else was gonna do it?”

Jason’s jaw tightens. He reaches out, hesitates just before touching you. “Can I?”

You nod, but your pulse kicks up anyway when his fingers brush your side, rough but careful, not to touch the wound. The warmth of his touch contrasts too sharply with the cold air.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment—just looks, assessing, breathing a little too close to your skin again for your liking. You catch the faint hitch in his chest, the sound of rain still dripping off him onto your floor. Your core gives a warning pulse that you hope he doesn’t notice— he comes any closer, and you’re off the deep end. Well, assuming that him breathing into your stomach isn't close enough.

“It’s not infected,” he mutters finally, his thumb ghosting near the bandage. “You’ll live.”

“Glad I have your medical expertise,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.

Jason looks up then, and the space between you narrows again. “You still should’ve called me,” he says, his thumb finally, barely, tracing the hem of the dirty bandage.

You swallow. “Wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“It would’ve changed where I was,” he shoots back.

The silence that follows feels heavier than the blackout outside. You both stand there, soaked and stubborn, the distance between you practically humming.

Finally, Jason steps back, voice low again. “Fine. I’m taking that shower before you pass out just to spite me.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

He smirks, already slipping his jacket off. “You let me in. That’s on you.”

You shake your head and sink back onto the couch as he disappears down the hallway, boots leaving a wet trail behind him. The sound of running water starts a moment later, echoing faintly through the dark apartment.

For a while, you just sit there, listening—to the rain, the pipes, the low hum of your typical Gotham outside and you try not to think about the fact that Jason Todd is in your shower, dripping with rainwater and tension you can’t seem to wash away. All muscle and handsomeness.

____

By the time the water shuts off, the rain outside has softened to a steadier rhythm—less of a storm, more of a whisper against the balcony glass. The candle on the coffee table has nearly burned itself down, a waxy crater around a trembling wick; in simpler words, a pain to clean up.

You’re half slouched on the couch, fighting to stay awake, when you hear the bathroom door open.

Jason’s footsteps are quieter this time. Bare, damp against the wood. When you look up, he’s standing in the doorway with a towel draped around his shoulders, steam still clinging to his skin. He’s pulled on an old metal band t-shirt which used to be his that he found in a drawer. You remember how big it used to look on him then, though now it clings to him, darker from water. His hair is pushed back, messy, but his eyes are clearer.

“You still awake?” he asks, voice lower now, raw around the edges.

You hum. “Barely.”

He glances around, taking in the dim apartment, the candle, the bottle of antiseptic left open on the table. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

You snort softly. “Where was I gonna go? Out to dance in the blackout?”

Jason gives a quiet, almost reluctant laugh. “To avoid me? You would.”

You shrug, pretending you don’t like that he said it. “As if I’d leave my house because of you.”

He crosses the room and sits down, cross legged, across from you on the floor leaving a respectful distance—but close enough that you can feel the weight of him, the quiet he carries. His hands rest on his knees, still damp, the veins on his fore arms raised under the candlelight.

The sight alone makes you gulp.

“You eat anything?” he asks.

“I’m not hungry.”

He studies your expression for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re lying. “You should eat something.”

“Don’t start.”

Jason leans back, sighing more than exhaling. “I wasn’t starting. Just—”

“I know,” you interrupt quietly. “I know.”

The room goes still again. The kind of silence that isn’t comfortable, but isn’t quite cruel either. It’s the kind that only comes after you’ve both said too much in the past and have nothing left to throw now.

Jason looks down, rubbing a hand over his face, sighing. “I hate when you do that,” he mutters.

“Do what?”

“Act like I don’t get to care.”

You look away. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” he says, his tone sharper than before, though it cracks halfway through. “You get hurt, I worry. That’s not complicated.”

“It’s complicated because you left,” you say quietly.

Jason flinches. Just barely, but really, it’s more than enough. The air thickens. You don’t mean for the words to hang the way they do, but they do. Heavy. True.

He swallows hard, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I did.”

The honesty in his voice stings more than you expect.

He meets your gaze again, something green naked from emotion in his eyes now. “You think I don’t regret that?”

You blink slowly, exhaustion dulling everything but the ache in your chest. “Regret doesn’t change anything.”

Jason’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a bitter smile. “No. But it still keeps me up.”

You want to say something back—something sharp, something to even the scales—but your throat burns too much to form the words.

Instead, you just whisper, “You shouldn’t have come tonight.”

Jason looks at you for a long time. “Yeah. I probably shouldn’t have.”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand.

The storm outside growls low and distant again. The candle sputters, almost dying, before flaring back to life.

Jason leans forward, resting his arms on his thighs, and for the first time all night, his voice softens. “You know, every time you get hurt, I think—maybe next time it’s gonna be worse. Maybe I don’t get to show up in time.”

You sigh, pressing a hand against your side. “Jason…”

He shakes his head. “Don’t. I’m not looking for forgiveness. I just—I don’t know what to do when I’m not there.”

The words hit you somewhere you’ve kept sealed for too long. You feel your eyes sting, but you blink hard, refusing to let it spill.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you murmur. “Showing up only when everything’s already broken.”

Jason nods, slow. “I know.”

And somehow, you believe him.

Neither of you say anything after that but the silence feels softer this time. The candlelight flickers across his face, the scar at his temple, the small lines that weren’t there the last time you were this close.

You reach for the blanket draped over the couch and toss it toward him without looking. “Don’t catch pneumonia on my floor.”

Jason catches it midair. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t push it.”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound small, almost fond. “Still bossy.”

You lie back against the couch, closing your eyes. “Still reckless.”

He hums in quiet agreement, pulling the blanket over himself. “Guess we deserve each other, then.”

You don’t answer—not because you disagree, but because you can’t bring yourself to admit how much that thought hurts.

You close your eyes, taking in a breath you don’t expect to last for as long as it does. Jason keeps quiet too, but the shaking in your chest refuses to leave. It lingers, like words are bubbling inside the more you think about his last line.

Saying something you don’t mean is the only option to make it feel better. 

“I didn’t want you to come. Dick shouldn’t have told you about this.”  you mutter, leaning against the couch frame, staring at the dark ceiling like it’s interesting. “You two gossip like old ladies.”

“Yeah, well, one of the old ladies said you got stabbed and were bleeding out in the dark.”

You roll your eyes. “He exaggerates and you know that”

“Yeah, well, that’s never stopped me before.”

You look at him—really look—and for a second, it’s quiet again. The rain’s softening to a hiss again, but the lighting that strikes, illuminates Jason's frame in a dangerous manner. You hate that something about it feels familiar. Comforting, even.

“You should be lying down, not arguing about something that won’t happen.”

“I’m fine”

Jason exhales through his nose. “You always say that when you’re not.”

You look back at him, your voice softer this time. “And you always show up when you shouldn’t.”

That lands somewhere deep. For a moment, neither of you move. He’s close enough now that the barrier of the distance between you feels like it’s nothing. You pat the edge of the couch like it’s instinct. Jason shakes his head, a quiet, humorless chuckle escaping him. “You’re an impossible idiot”

You lean back, resting your head against the couch. “Takes one to know one.”

Something soft flickers in his expression at that. The corner of his mouth tugs, barely visible. He gets up without a word, moving slow, cautious, like he’s afraid to spook you. The blanket slips off his shoulders as he does.You watch him circle around, expecting him to sit at the other end where you gestured—but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers himself beside you, the couch dipping under his weight. The proximity is sudden, and somehow not at all.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice slurred with fatigue.

“Getting comfortable,” he mutters. His hand twitches like he wants to touch you—your shoulder, your wrist, something—but he doesn’t.

Instead, his voice lowers. “You can keep pretending you don’t need anyone. But one of these days, you’re gonna bleed out like this, you’re not gonna call Grayson and no one’s gonna find you in time.”

“Then maybe that’s what I deserve,” you say quietly.

He flinches—barely, but you see it. The silence between you goes taut, humming with something that feels dangerous. He slugs closer again, slow, careful.

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

You turn your head to look at him, the distance between you dissolving until there’s barely an inch left. “Don’t I?”

You don’t move away. You’re too tired, too cold, too unwilling to start something you’ll only regret stopping. He sits still for a moment, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to go. You don’t. And maybe that’s all the permission he needs. No matter how fast his eyes move to scan your body language for any discomfort, he finds none. Only your words, the one you don’t mean, stand between you like a wall.

Jason's determined to break it. Head first.

You feel him shift closer, the warmth of him bleeding into the space between. One arm comes up behind you, not quite around you—just there, a quiet anchor.

Then your head tilts, almost by accident, brushing his shoulder. Jason goes still. You can swear you hear him hold his breath. You don’t lift your head, though; opting to coo into his side like you want to be cradled. It’s easier to stay here—to pretend this is just a temporary truce, something small and quiet to get through the night.

A moment later, he moves again, barely. His arm slips lower, settling around you properly this time, the edge of the blanket tugged over both of you. The shift is natural, unplanned. Like gravity doing what it does best.

You don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your fingers brush against his chest—until the steady rhythm of his heartbeat starts to match the soft pull of your breathing.

Something aches deep in your chest, heavier than pain. You shift just enough to look up at him. He’s already looking down at you—tired eyes, rain-damp hair, mouth set like he’s trying not to say more than he should.

For a heartbeat, it feels like everything stops—the storm, the city, the noise in your head. It’s just him. Just this.

You could pull away. You don’t.

Jason hesitates, a flicker of something raw crossing his face, a battle fought and lost in an instant, then brushes a loose strand of hair from your face with the back of his fingers. His hand lingers by your jaw, thumb tracing the faint line where the candlelight hits your skin. You lean into it before you can stop yourself. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up again. For a heartbeat, you think he’s going to close the gap. The hope is a sudden, sharp ache in your chest. You even want him to.

But he doesn’t. He just exhales, long and shaky, like he’s fighting himself. It sounds less like a breath and more like a surrender of a deep-seated wish.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“I’m not,” he murmurs.

He isn’t. Neither of you are doing anything—and yet somehow, you are. The air feels heavier now, filled with everything you won’t say. all the unacknowledged history and the terrifying possibility still hanging between you.

“Not like this,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on some point over your shoulder, like he can't trust himself to look at you anymore.

You force a smile. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning to kiss you either.”

A lie, of course. One that hurts worse than your wound. It’s a deliberate little cruelty aimed at yourself for wanting this so badly.

Jason’s breath hitches at that, just barely—like he almost believes you. A shadow of self-reproach darkens his eyes, a familiar doubt about his own appeal. But his hand doesn’t move. It stays there, warm and steady against your jaw, his thumb ghosting along the edge of your throat. You feel your pulse kick under it, sharp and traitorous.

He notices. You know he does, because something flickers in his eyes—something between longing and regret. Then, as if realizing how dangerous the silence’s gotten, he drops his hand, leaning back a fraction. The sudden loss of heat is a physical sting, sharp and immediate.

“Get some sleep,” he says, voice low. “You’re gonna need it.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, one that sounds more like a displeased sigh. “You’re staying?”

Jason shrugs carefully, eyes on the candle’s flickering light instead of you. He shifts uncomfortably, a familiar shield of nonchalance settling over him. “’Til morning. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t rip your stitches open trying to prove you’re fine.” His voice carries a practiced lightness, but the tension in his shoulders betrays the lie.

Jason shifts again, careful not to jostle you. His shoulder brushes yours. “Go to sleep,” he says, quieter now. “Before you start trying to pick a fight.”

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“You were.”

You let out a small noise—somewhere between annoyance and surrender—and close your eyes. “You think you know me so well.”

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is almost too soft to catch.

“Used to.”

You open your eyes again, but he’s already leaned back, head tipped against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. His expression’s unreadable in the dim light, all shadow and exhaustion and something else you can’t name.

You want to say something—ask what used to means, if he misses that version of you, if he still thinks she exists—but your throat tightens around the words.

Instead, you whisper, “Jason?”

He hums in response.

“If you leave before I wake up…” You hesitate, the sentence half-built, breaking apart on your tongue. “I won’t forgive you” The quiet finality of the threat is meant to wound him, to anchor him here with guilt.

Jason’s chest hitches. The words hang between you, quiet but sharp, like they’ve cut through the last bit of distance he was hiding behind. His jaw tightens, locks. You can almost see the instinct—the urge to deflect, to joke, to turn the weight of what you just said into something lighter. The habitual, self-deprecating joke about how little his presence matters is right there on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. He doesn’t. Not this time.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says finally, voice rougher than before. 

You nod once, slow. “You always say that. You always leave.”

He looks at you then, really looks—eyes tired, regret heavy in them. “Yeah,” he says softly. “But this time, I mean it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The room feels smaller now, the rain outside thinning into a faint, steady rhythm. Jason shifts closer, his shoulder brushing yours again, careful but deliberate.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost breaking around the edges. His next words come quieter, careful. “You scared the hell outta me tonight.”

This time, you’re the one who hums in response.

_____

The candle’s melted halfway down by the time the room settles into that strange, humming quiet that comes after too much adrenaline. The storm’s still whispering against the glass, but it feels far away now—like it’s somewhere else entirely.

Jason’s weight is still solid beside you. He hasn’t moved in a while. You’ve lost track of whose arm ended up where, how the blanket tangled the both of you. His chest rises slow and steady under your cheek, the fabric of his shirt warm against your skin.

Every now and then, you feel his breath in your hair.

You should move. You should get up, at least check the locks or blow out the candle. But you don’t. You just breathe him in—leather, rain, something faintly metallic and familiar. It feels like home in a way that hurts.

Jason murmurs something you can’t catch. His voice is rough from exhaustion.

You hum a quiet “hm?” against him, but he doesn’t answer. Just shifts slightly, tightening his hold, fingers brushing the curve of your hip through the robe as if to make sure you’re still there.

Your eyes are already half-closed when he speaks again, softly, as loud as a whisper in a soundly room can sound. “Your skin’s soft”

You tilt your face up toward him, lazy, barely awake. “You think?”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

His eyes flick down. It’s barely a movement—half-lidded, uncertain—but enough for your breath to catch. For a moment, you’re both hovering in that space between sleep and something else, where words don’t mean anything and distance doesn’t either.

The shift happens so quietly it almost doesn’t. A brush, feather-light, the faintest touch of his lips against yours. More breath than kiss, a sleepy mistake or maybe a memory of one.

He freezes, so still you can feel the hesitation tremble through him. You don’t pull back. You don’t do anything. The world feels too fragile for sudden movements.

When he finally exhales, it ghosts against your mouth.

“Sorry,” he whispers, voice thick with sleep.

“Don’t be,” you murmur back.

But his chest burns the closer your lips get. You both fumble your movements underneath the blanket, kicking it softly, merging into each other’s arms, eyes lazed out and sleepy. Until your lips are brushing and your noses touch, both of your breaths hitch, entangled.

You could pull away. You don’t.

Instead, your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt and hold it, and his trace lines in the back of your neck. That’s all it takes.

The space between you folds in, quiet and inevitable. His breath catches, yours follows, and before either of you decide anything, the kiss simply happens —soft at first, almost clumsy from how tired you both are. His lips are warm, dry from the rain, and they press to yours like a question he’s been too afraid to ask for months.

You breathe into it, slow and trembling, and Jason makes a sound low in his throat —part relief, part disbelief. The hand at your neck shifts, his thumb brushing the line of your jaw as if to steady himself there. You taste the storm on his mouth, smoke and something faintly sweet that lingers when you tilt your head just enough to kiss him back.

He deepens it once, tentative, before stopping — like he’s afraid to break whatever spell this is. Your foreheads rest together, breaths uneven, hearts out of sync but trying and the hand at your neck tightens just enough to make your pulse stutter. Every heartbeat seems to ask for more, but he doesn’t move to kiss you again—not yet. It’s worse that way.

Your fingers twist in his shirt, knuckles brushing the solid warmth of his chest underneath. He’s still damp from the shower, still but like smoke and city air, and it hits you how close he really is—how much space he’s taken up in your head even when you swore you’d stop letting him.

“Jason…” The way you say his name barely sounds like a word; it’s more like an exhale.

He looks down at you—eyes dark, expression caught somewhere between restraint and want. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, though it sounds more like a warning to himself than to you.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “I do.”

“But—“

“I thought about calling you. I was about to, twice. Before I ended up calling Dick”

That’s what breaks him. 

Something inside him just folds.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind that starts careful and turns into something else entirely—hungry, tired, aching. You feel it in the way his hand cups the back of your neck, the way he exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding that breath for months.

You pull him closer, the blanket slipping lower, the world narrowing down to the weight of him, the sound of rain, the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin. There’s nothing careful about it anymore, not when his fingers slide up your arm, not when your lips part under his.

It’s messy, a little desperate, all the things you never said tonight spilling out between the spaces where breath should be. When he finally breaks the kiss, his lips hover against yours, both of you catching air like you’ve just surfaced from something deep.

Jason’s hands come up to cradle your face, palms warm against your skin, thumbs drawing slow, steady circles on the hollow of your cheeks. His touch is deliberate, grounding, as if he’s reminding himself that you’re really kissing him again, that he's kissing you back too. His nose brushes yours—a light, almost shy movement—and you can feel the air shift again, thick with everything you both keep trying not to say but don’t really need to.

You exhale softly, your lips grazing his when you speak. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

His voice comes out rough. “Can’t help it.”

He tilts his head slightly, the tip of his nose trailing along your jaw before settling near your temple. The gesture isn’t about claiming—it’s about remembering. About wanting to stay.

Your hands move without thinking, tracing the edge of his collar, feeling the quiet tension still held in his shoulders. He relaxes under your touch, eyes closing as if the world outside doesn’t exist.

It’s in the next, unfortunate, instance that all your self-refrain vanishes. When his breathing turns into panting. When your hands slip with a tortuous pace against his chest until they rest under his shirt.

The pain that sits on your ribs is nothing when he’s making you this helpless. 

His shirt goes flying in a pitch black corner of the room and it’s indifferent to you when you throw it, if it lands on a candle and lights on fire. You couldn’t care less when you go and pull him into your face feverishly, panting in a rhythm that matches his.

When you bring your lips to his to kiss him again, you only manage to peck, before he pulls away and pushes you back, green eyes searching yours in order to speak.

“—can’t,” he rasps, pressing a palm to your cheek. “You’re still hurt.”

“That’s never stopped us before” you whisper back, voice trembling, bold and dangerous at the same time.

The look he gives you then is pure conflict—fire and ache tangled together. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw once, like a warning, and then he gives in. He groans low in the back of his throat and the kiss that follows isn’t gentle. It’s desperate, rough around the edges, the kind that swallows all the noise and leaves only heartbeat.

Jason’s hands stay at your sides, heavy and insistent, but careful where they rest. His lips brush yours again—this time slower, teasing, and all the rest of the world fades into candlelight and shadow.

You arch against him, breath hitching, fingers tangled in his damp hair, but just as the moment threatens to tip over, a sharp inhale breaks the spell.

“Help me take your clothes off” he whispers against your lips.

Your hands freeze on his chest for a heartbeat, heart hammering as you meet his gaze. The candlelight flickers across his face, highlighting the storm behind his eyes—want, restraint, and something deeper you can’t quite name.

Waiting for your response lasts seconds in reality, but to Jason, it’s an eternity. He takes it as a chance to bury his face in your neck and catch your skin between his lips, shaking as he feels your heartbeat racing against his nose.

“I… okay,” you moan, voice trembling just enough to make him growl softly against your neck.

The belt of your robe is undone and the garment itself is slipped off so fast, it feels as if it was never there to begin with.

Jason’s hands move, warm and steady, sliding the lacy strap of your nightgown down your shoulder, where he places a kiss, then tenderly along your sides as he leans you back slightly, guiding you with a precision that feels both tender and demanding. Every touch leaves a trail of heat across your skin. You can feel the tension in his shoulders, the careful control he fights to maintain, and it makes your chest tighten in anticipation.

Between hot, sternum kisses, he finds your hips, fingers shimming underneath fabric, bunching it against his wrists and fists and you slug your body ever so slowly against his, until the dress is over your head and thrown where his shirt must have landed.

Your breasts perk, nipples puckering angrily at the cold air that hits them, but Jason’s got his palms on them before he manages to even take a breath.

He pulls away, ever so slightly, but just enough to look at you, eyes dark and hooded with want, lips slightly swollen from the chase. The pause is torturous, and you shiver under the weight of his stare. His thumbs trace slow, teasing circles over your nipples, dragging every nerve alive as he measures your reaction.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growls, voice rough, low, vibrating through his chest into yours. His hands roam with intention now, exploring the familiar yet electrifying territory as your body arches instinctively toward him. The world has narrowed again—just the two of you, the rhythm of your breathing, the soft scrape of candlelight across skin, the scent of him clinging to your senses.

Your back arches instinctively, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “Ffffuck Jay–” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing and the rain outside.

He hums against your skin, a sound so approving, before lowering his mouth to your collarbone. Each kiss down your chest is so pretentiously exploratory—hungry but careful, a balance of restraint and release. His hands glide down your sides, fingertips brushing the curve of your hips, tracing the line on the inside of your thighs. Every inch of him pressed against you sends fire up your spine, making it impossible to think, impossible to stop wanting.

He pats your thighs slightly; a silent command to part them. When you do, he slips between them, his body almost crawling into yours. He lines his hips with yours and ruts once, experimentally, but it only makes him bite his lip and throw his head back as all blood rushes to his cock.

Your fingers wander along the edges of his biceps, tracing the familiar contours, while he presses closer again, bucking against you in ways that make it impossible to think.

“Fuck,” he mutters, under his breath, as if the word can scrub you from the inside of his mouth.

He runs a hand down his face and feels the twitch of his eye, the split in his lip that’s healing from when it was inflicted on him a few nights ago on patrol. He looks down at his own body and where the last garments of clothing divide you from merging completely. Both of his arms come to rest on each side of your head and he bends his back in impossible ways to be able to get his mouth around one of your nipples again.

He knows he should wait when he hears you wince in the tiniest tint of pain, he knows he should be patient. Take his time with you like he’s never done before, but it feels impossible–his tongue comes out to lick a circle, then another one and only then, when your wince is replaced by a moan, is he content enough with himself.

He takes a second to breathe against your saliva coated breast, shaky, unsteady. Every part of him feels strung too tight—like if he doesn’t touch you, he’ll snap. The air between you hums, warm and electric, filled with the small, helpless noises that escape between breaths and then, his mouth is on you again, softly alternating between sucking at your nipple and worrying it between his teeth.

His gaze drops, fixating on the angry red line stitched across your ribs—the reminder that brought him to this agonizing halt in the first place. He reaches out, fingers hovering an inch above the bandage, an unspoken apology in the tremble of his touch.

“I’m not gonna let you feel any pain,” he whispers, the admission tasting like ash on his tongue. 

The look on his face is pure devastation—the kind that makes you want to pull him back down and kiss away every single dark thought. But you know this is real, this concern. This is the part of him that would sooner break himself than hurt you.

You lift a hand, letting your palm rest flat against the curve of his throat, feeling the erratic drum of his pulse beneath your skin. "I know Jay" you tell him, your voice soft, cutting through the noise of sirens somewhere in the background. “‘M not in pain”

You pull gently, a silent invitation, and this time, he lets you guide him. He lowers his head until his forehead rests against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your cheek. He pants a kiss on the apple of your cheek, and then, he moves back down again, trailing short kisses on your sternum.

The moment he reaches your belly button, he pulls back an inch, and his gaze searches yours, looking for permission for the next, inevitable step. You give him a small, fierce nod, brows furrowed..

Jason finally allows his control to break, but only halfway. He still doesn't plunge back into the feverish pace from before. Instead, he drops a kiss right over your belly button—a promise, a grounding touch—before letting his lips drift down to the corner of your mouth.

He nudges you gently onto your side, easing you into a position that puts no pressure on your injury, just to be able to hook his thumbs under the trim of your panties. His body follows, pressing close from behind, his bare chest a warm anchor against your thighs. He nips at the edge of your hip and your core trembles.

“Move it Jay”

The command makes him smirk.

"Ask me nicely, princess." He nips at your hip again, the smirk on his face almost feral now

“Don’t tease”

Jason kisses playfully at your lower belly before continuing in a dark tone "Here's where you usually say 'Yes, Jason. I'll do anything you ask. I'll be good for you.'"

You raise your brow at him, sporting a look that's too amused to contrast your previous sleepiness. The amusement on your face is genuine, a spark of defiance against the tidal wave of desire he's orchestrating. You don't take the bait.

Instead of the submissive words he’s fishing for, you use the only weapon you have left– touch.

You sit up carefully, bending your torso as far as your fresh wound allows you to and trap his chin between your fingers. His response is silent, only a kiss to the pad of your thumb that rests on his lower lip.

He smirks again, deviously.

“I’m not supposed to be good, Jason,” you whisper, your voice a low, throaty rasp, utterly devoid of the trembling compliance he expects. The words are meant to be a direct counterpoint to his challenge, but then, you add “But for you i might as well be”

“I like the sound of that…”

"I'll do anything," you murmur, your voice dropping to a low, husky register, "if you stop talking and show me."

His breath hitches, the smirk dissolving instantly into a look of startled, raw heat. He understands the shift in power.

His fingers, which had been gently hooked on your panties, suddenly become taut and insistent. He stops the slow tease and, with a swift, decisive move, he hooks his thumbs deeper, pulling the thin material down and off your body in one fluid motion. The lace barely brushes your knees before it’s gone, discarded somewhere in the shadows.

He nips at your inner thigh again, still teasingly close to your center, the back of his knuckles stroking over your sensitive slit slowly.

“You’re going to get your wish, then,” he vows, the words a promise and a warning.

And then, finally, in one agonisingly slow movement. His mouth is on you.

His lips lock around your clit, placing the faintest kiss, before his tongue darts out to run an exploring, tentative lick on you. 

"Easy, baby," he rasps “I’ll just get you nice and wet for me” 

Your back arches, a low, involuntary sound of shock and immediate pleasure tearing from your throat. Your fingers clutch frantically between the locks of his hair, trying to anchor yourself as the world tilts. The soft weight of his breath against your skin, the humid heat of his mouth, and the slow, precise movement of his tongue are a focused, singular assault on your senses.

“Still fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, lips pressed to the slick heat of your folds. “Can’t believe how much I missed this pussy.”

“Fuck, fuuuck Jason” you moan out “just like that.”

He groans against your clit like it’s a goddamn relief to hear you say his name like that.

You’re sprawled out on your back, thighs spread, ribs emitting a dull ache as you pull on your stitches—and yet, every nerve ending sparks like you’ve never felt Jason eating you out before.

He licks with slow, practiced precision, dragging the flat of his tongue up your center before sucking softly around your clit. His arms are wrapped under your thighs, keeping you pinned open, completely exposed. You squirm, but it only makes him moan deeper, nose nudging where you’re soaked and twitching.

“Fuckin’ taste of you,” he mutters, “I could live on it.”

Jason shifts slightly, his hand resting heavy on your hip, pressing you lightly against the couch as if to keep you pinned down. He hums against your pussy—a deep, satisfied vibration that sends a fresh wave of need straight to your hot core. He ignores your attempt at a challenge when you try to buck into his mouth, already too consumed by the task at hand.

The exploration of his mouth stops being tentative.

His tongue becomes firm, confident, working with a relentless precision that knows exactly where to hit and how long to linger. Every lick that makes a sound, makes your clit ache for more to the point it burns.

You are helpless under him. The words you want to say—the ones about not wanting him to stop—are lost to a rising tide of pleasure. Your hips buck forward again instinctively, pressing against his mouth, begging for more, for faster. 

Had it been any other time, he would force your hips down with his palms to work at the pace he wants, but the fact that you’re hurt is always in the back of his mind, not letting him get cocky with his movements.

He gives you a moment of blissful pressure before slowing again, tormenting you with a return to the languid, worshipping pace. He looks up when he pulls away with a smooching sound—those green eyes of his, dark, hooded, and triumphant—and he knows he’s winning.

“M gonna put a finger in, ‘kay?” he slurs, chin wet with your sleek. 

He lands a kiss on your puffy clit when your eyes fully blow into his, fingers digging into the skin of your hips.

You manage a shaky nod, the motion small and weak when every muscle in your body is strung too tight to allow for a full movement. His question is more of a courtesy; the deep, hungry look in his eyes tells you he’s already committed. The small, wet smooching sound as he pulls away is immediately replaced by the rough, welcoming friction of his chin against your slick skin.

He dips his head, placing another promised kiss—a possessive, lingering weight that sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. His fingers, which had been anchoring your hips until now, press down hard enough to leave faint bruises, giving you something physical to brace against as the sensation intensifies.

The first finger slides inside you, slow and deliberate, a precise invasion that makes you gasp. It's an exquisitely agonizing stretch, a sudden pressure that perfectly fills the void left by his mouth. You taste the sharp inhale of air, a thin, desperate sound that cracks in your throat.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a dark, encouraging counterpoint to the rush of blood in your ears.

He groans, grinding his hips into the couch, rutting against nothing like he's so hard it hurts. His finger pumps harder, tongue flicking rapid-fire across your clit like he’s chasing your orgasm for himself.

He withdraws slightly, then pushes back in, finding a deeper, more sensitive spot. The movement is steady, controlled, a stark contrast to the wildness you feel inside. He watches your face, his gaze fixed on the sharp tilt of your jaw, the tight closure of your eyes, measuring the effect of every fraction of an inch he takes.

When the second finger follows, it’s not an accident. It’s a deliberate filling, an attempt to take you to the edge again, slowly, but definitely. Your body accepts the pressure with a shuddering moan as your cunt swallows both of his fingers– a sound that starts low in your chest and escapes as a choked “Oh my God”

The words, coupled with the slow, internal stretch and the focused friction of his tongue returning to your clit—softly at first, then firming into a quick, demanding rhythm—shatter the last pieces of the coil that has been gathering in your abdomen. The tension that has been building since he walked into the room, the fear and the want, breaks like glass the more he fucks his fingers into you while still licking your clit in a circular motion.

The sensation becomes too intense to process. It’s a ringing in your ears, then a blinding white heat behind your eyes, and a convulsive tightening deep in your core. The muscles in your legs tremble violently, in a manner that makes you want to hide your face away from him and your back arches one final, painful time off the mattress.

The sound that tears from your throat is not a word or a gasp, but a single, loud, and sustained scream—a raw, helpless cry of pure release.

Your body is shaking violently, locked in a series of deep, shuddering spasms. Your hands, still tangled in Jason’s hair, tighten into desperate fists as you cling to him through the aftershock.

Then, just as abruptly as the orgasm began, it ends. Your body goes slack, collapsing onto the couch in a heap of exhausted, damp limbs. All that’s left is ragged, heavy breathing and the faint, rhythmic drumming of your heart trying to beat out of your chest.

Jason slows his movements easing back into a gentle pressure. He doesn't pull away immediately; he lingers ever so slightly, ensuring you’re fully grounded, letting the friction fade into a soft glide. He gives you one last, open-mouthed kiss before finally lifting his head, a thin line of your sleekness visible at the corner of his mouth and onto his chin.

He looks utterly spent, his chest heaving, his own control only now fully catching up to yours.

He lowers his forehead back to the mattress beside your thigh, resting there for a long moment, simply breathing. He doesn’t speak, allowing the silence to be filled only by the fading echo of your pleasure.

Finally, he pushes himself up to climb up your body, his eyes softening as he takes in the sight of your face—flush, glistening, and completely, utterly undone. He reaches out a trembling hand and gently brushes the damp strands of hair from your cheek.

“See?” he whispers, his voice is thick and rough with profound satisfaction. “Good for me. You’re always good for me.”

He pulls you tight against his chest, careful to support your body in a way that avoids your ribs, tucking your head securely under his chin. His body is a hot, heavy weight against you.

He closes his eyes, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling deeply, a long, shaky breath that seems to finally settle the storm in his own soul. He rests his cheek against your temple, and you can feel the low, fast thump-thump-thump of his heart beat gradually start to slow beneath your ear.

“Jay” You whisper, kissing his cheek “I’m okay we can continue”

“Good,” He kisses the top of your head, a soft, deliberate touch. “I’m not done with you, not even close,” he murmurs, his tone a husky promise

He leans in, breath stuttering, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin over your collarbone. “If you're sure you’re okay with that, princess” he murmurs, the words an agreement, a surrender, a warning–all rolled into one husky growl.

The smirk is back, sharp and knowing, but the vulnerability in his eyes doesn't quite fade. He knows this surrender is a lie; he knows you're challenging him to break. And that's exactly what he's going to do—but on his own terms. He needs this to be slow, he wants to be remembered.

He dips his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that is deep, immediate, and utterly possessive, yet still measured. It’s a thorough kiss that demands a response, and you give it freely, your hands sliding up his chest to tangle in the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

It’s a mess. Sloppy and slow. Lips sliding, tongues tangling, your taste smeared between his jaw and yours. You moan into it, not from need but from overwhelm, from the unbearable tenderness in the way he holds your face like he can’t even believe you’re real.

You don’t even know where his hands go after that. It’s all just a blurry vertigo—your hair, your neck, your chest, as if he needs to touch every inch of you. His body slots over yours, big and casually bruised and burning, hips cradled between your thighs like they were made for him. He shifts his weight again, his movements becoming slow and so undeniably sensual. He uses his knees to gently widen your thighs, pushing his body fully into the space between your legs.

While his mouth is busy claiming yours, his hips make a subtle, precise shift. He settles the heavy, insistent heat of his pelvis right against your entrance. The thin, rough material of his boxers is the only thing separating you, and the slow, grinding friction instantly steals the breath from your lungs.

He breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch your eyes roll back slightly. He’s deliberately maximizing the sensation without crossing the final threshold. The coarse cotton of his boxers brushes against your slick, the bare skin where your thighs conjunct with your core, the friction immediately drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

“I need to feel you,” he murmurs, his gaze burning into yours.

“Then take them off,” you command, your voice low, steady, and utterly demanding. There is no defiance left, only honest need. “Now, Jason.”

You look up at him, locking your forehead with his as a string of saliva connects your mouths, the need in your eyes giving him all the power he craves. You can only manage two, barely gullible, broken syllables.

“Please...”

The single, broken word hangs in the air between you—"Please"—a complete and utter surrender that thrills him more than any impatient cry for pleasure. He cups your face, brushing your swollen lips with his thumb.

If you said his name like a breath before, now you exhale it like it’s your last.

Jason doesn't move to undress in order to enter. Not yet. He accepts the plea, absorbs the heat of your demand, and then, slowly, deviously, he pushes the boundary.

His thumb peels away from your lower lip and dips slightly into the corner of your mouth. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your head back, urging your lips open again. He leans down and begins to kiss you once more, but this time it’s softer, more tender—an orchestrated contrast to the raw pressure building below.

While his mouth is gentle, his hips are merciless.

He moves his body just slightly, shifting his angle, and uses the rough seam of his boxer briefs to rub with an agonizingly slow pressure right across your clit. He works in small, lazy arcs, maximizing the intense, localizing the friction. He keeps the full, aching weight of his length pressed against your thighs, letting you feel the pulsing promise of him, but denying the finality of entering you.

Your soft gasp is swallowed by his kiss, the sound vibrating between your lips. Your hands, still tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, pull him closer, desperate to ground yourself against the exquisite torment. You try to shift your hips, instinctively bucking against the friction, but the weight of his body and his controlling hand on your jaw keep you perfectly pinned.

"No," he murmurs against your mouth, his voice low, vibrating through your core “Stay still, or you’re gonna be in pain. I’ll do the work”

He finally breaks his control entirely. With a sharp, sudden exhale, Jason reaches down and hooks his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. He doesn't look away from your eyes as he tugs the material down. The sound of the elastic band of his underwear rasping down his thighs and off his feet is muffled and quick, and the garment is tossed carelessly toward the floor.

The instant his hot, bare skin presses against your own—hip to hip, thigh to thigh, the hard, veiny length of him settling precisely at your slick, aching entrance—you arch violently, a sharp, choked gasp tearing from your throat. His cock is finally free and its hot, hard, and undeniably heavy against you. He pauses for a split second, allowing you to feel the reality of him pressed against your folds. The contact sends a violent spike of need through your body. His eyes darken to a dangerous, predatory shade of green.

He dips his fingers into you, coating his hand in your sleek and then his fist wraps round his cock, and he gives himself a few pumps, smearing wetness along his veiny length. The slick, slow movement is a direct provocation, a counted cruelty that makes your vision blur with anticipation. You moan at the sight, biting your lip at the way his forearm flexes..

"No more holding back, i gotchu" he states, the finality of the words.

He finds your mouth, and the kiss that follows is a complete, total consumption. It’s deep and messy, filled with every ounce of frustration, fear, and desperate affection that had been bottled up between you. He swallows your moan, your breath, your very will.

While his mouth devours yours, his hips make a single, decisive move. He bucks slightly, then uses his hands to pull your hips up just enough to allow him to align himself perfectly.

He doesn't ask again. He simply drives forward.

The initial thrust is slow, deep, stretching you in ways that make you cry out—a sound muffled against his shoulder as he pushes his face into the soft curve of your neck. Your nails dig into his back when he fills you completely, sinking in until his hips are flush against yours, merging your bodies into one single, shuddering unit.

He stays perfectly still for one long, suspended moment, allowing the overwhelming sensation of your fluttering walls tighten impossibly around him to make him cry out.

Then, he pulls out– only an inch, just enough to break the connection and heighten the tension. He hovers there, barely withdrawn, the friction of the withdrawal sending a violent tremor through your core.

His hands trail down your sides, still burning with that possessive heat as he positions himself between your legs again. You can feel the weight of him, both physically and emotionally. The way his gaze burns through you, the way his cock presses against your thigh, so close, but he’s still holding back. The tip of him teases your entrance, a molten press against your slick folds, sending sharp, delicious spikes of anticipation through your lower belly.

His lips hover over yours for a beat, just breathing you in. The quiet intimacy of the moment makes your heart race—this isn't just a need for physical release. It's something heavier. Something more. And you can feel it in the way his hands are gentle now, caressing you rather than gripping.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

You feel it again—that ache, that tenderness that splits you open wider than any knife wound could. Because it’s not just make up sex like any other time. Not when he kisses your sternum like it’s sacred. Not when he moves down your body with a hunger laced in awe.

“You good?” he asks and you nod in response

“Good,” he murmurs, and in one swift motion, he’s inside you again, sliding deep with a single thrust that makes you gasp.

The familiar stretch, the familiar burn, but this time it's different. This time, it's mathematically controlled. He keeps pulling out almost entirely, and then pushes back in, dragging out the sensation so you feel every inch of him. Every pulsing vein on his cock rubbing into your throbbing walls.

His lips find your neck, sucking lightly at the bruises he's left there, biting down just enough to remind you of the marks he’s claimed on you.

“You feel so fuckin' good,” he growls against your skin, his voice rough and thick with desire. “Squeezing me so damn tight... can’t get enough of you.”

You moan, fingers digging into his back, urging him closer, deeper. Every inch of him fills you, makes you forget the outside world, makes you forget everything but him. The feeling of him inside you, the heat, the pressure building with every slow, dragged-out thrust.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand finding yours and pinning it beside your head. His thumb traces over the back of your hand like he's marking you, claiming you. You reach up, your fingers curling into his hair, tugging him closer until your lips crash together in a messy, desperate kiss.

Your body moves in sync with his now, hips rocking against him, each thrust deeper than the last, building tension between you until it feels like you're both on the edge of something dangerous, something overwhelming.

“Fuck—just like that,” you whisper, your voice breathless. "I can’t—"

He pulls his face from your neck, his head tilting back as he stares up at the shadowy ceiling, his jaw clenched, riding the intensity of that initial, deep connection. Sweat glistens on his temples, illuminated by the guttering candlelight.

You don't need to be told what to do. The long, agonizing wait, the deliberate entry, and the fierce, consuming heat of him finally inside you ignites a desperate, instinctive reaction.

Your hips rise sharply off the mattress, a sudden, fierce thrust upwards into his body, initiating the rhythm you both crave. It’s a primal movement—an urgent demand for him to move, to continue stretching you out until you finally let loose.

The motion pulls his attention instantly back to you. His green eyes snap down, meeting yours—wild, dark, and momentarily surprised by your sudden aggression. The pain from your ribs is a distant, forgotten memory, completely eclipsed by the profound chase of release.

“Dont stop Jay, ‘m gonna cum–ah fuck”

He answers your challenge with a low, hungry growl that rumbles deep in his chest. His hand that had been steadying your hips, now grips your thighs firmly, lifting and angling them over his shoulder to take him even deeper. Only then does he lower his thumb between your legs, pressing onto your clit.

At this new angle, he begins to move, slowly at first, but with a crushing force. Each retreat is agonizingly slow, and each drive forward is a profound, earth-shaking penetration. He pushes in, finding the deepest, most sensitive point with ruthless accuracy, then pulls back just enough to gather momentum for the next powerful stroke.

The rhythm quickly accelerates. He’s no longer thinking about gentleness; he's only focused on the pure, raw release. You meet every thrust, your hips driving up to meet his, your low moans swallowed by the frantic, wet sound of skin slapping against skin and the bang of the couch against the wall.

The combination of him fucking his hips into yours so deeply and the focused pressure from his thumb rubbing circles against you is too much. You gasp, and the sound is a sharp, broken intake of air– your whole body locks up. 

You are completely at his mercy. Probed and open, all limbs gooey and unable to move if he doesn’t show them how.

You arch your back, your nails digging deeper into the muscle of his shoulders, needing the pain to ground you against the intensity of his rutting. He leans down, not to kiss you gently, but to bury his face in the curve of your neck, his teeth gently nipping the sensitive skin.

"Look at me," he commands, hand tracing the line of your jaw slightly, and your eyes, wide and glassy with tears that threaten to slip, snap open to meet his.

In that moment, the world narrows to just his face: the harsh lines of his jaw clenched with restraint, the way his eyes have narrowed into yours, the soft parting of his lips before he bitens onto them– just the sheer intensity of his focus. You are utterly consumed, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

The only word that escapes is the one that acknowledges the profanity of the situation.The word that recognizes this specific kind of gut consuming feeling. A deformed effort at speaking his name. And then.

A sharp, ragged cry of "Im gonna come" tears from your throat, followed by a series of helpless, high-pitched moans.

The sounds seems to fuel him. His expression twists into a dangerous, dark triumph. He takes your command—your reaction—and uses it as leverage. His grip on your thighs tightens, and he drives into you with three crushing, piston-like thrusts that completely steal your breath. The force sends shockwaves through your hips, making the couch hit the wall with another resounding thud.

The world dissolves into a blinding cascade of sensation. Your body arcs violently against his, your toes curling, your muscles seizing as the first, powerful wave of climax hits you in waves. You clench around him, your internal walls tightening and seizing until you feel him shudder, his entire body going rigid above you.

He lets out a choked, half-bitten snarl deep in his throat as your muscles clench him, and he drives home one final, agonizingly deep thrust, before he cock pulses inside you, painting your walls in ropes of white.

His body collapses onto yours, his chest heaving, sleek with beads of sweat as his cum starts pouring out of your cunt slowly, with each movement he makes without pulling out. He buries his face back in your neck, not moving, simply holding you into him as you’re both riding this moment.

He doesn't move for a long moment, simply resting his forehead against the damp curve of your neck, his breathing coming in thick, ragged gasps right against your ear. The low, frantic beat of his heart begins its slow, arduous descent back toward a normal rhythm.

When he finally shifts, it's slow, agonizingly careful. He doesn't pull out immediately; instead, he eases his weight off your torso, moving to support himself on his elbows. He keeps himself deep inside you, the conjunction of your bodies heavy, still intensely present, but removes the pressure from your chest and ribs.

Your thighs, still lifted and draped over his shoulders, feel like lead. You keep your eyes closed, listening to the only sounds left in the apartment: his uneven breathing, the faint, wet sound of skin separating as he began to move, and the almost silent hiss of the rain outside.

He lifts his head, and the candlelight catches his face. He looks utterly spent, slick with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. The dangerous, predatory look is gone, replaced by a quiet, searching tenderness—the one that always resurfaces when the adrenaline fades.

His eyes, dark with satiation, drop instantly to your ribs. He checks the bandage with a quick, worried glance, as if expecting to see blood seeping through. He reaches out a hand, not to touch your injury, but to gently cup the side of your torso, his fingers spreading wide across your skin, checking for any sign of a flinch or a wince.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, his voice raw, throat tight. It's the first coherent question he's asked since this insane mutual seduction began. It’s not a check on the pleasure, but a genuine, terrified assessment of your pain.

He waits, his own body entirely suspended on his elbows, unwilling to move, unwilling to breathe until he has your answer. The quiet intimacy of the question, posed while he still hasn't pulled out, still physically desperate to be one with you, feels infinitely more vulnerable than any demand for surrender.

You look up at him, your breath still catching in shallow, rapid spurts. His face is so close, framed by the shadows and candlelight, raw fear lurking beneath the exhaustion in his eyes. He’s utterly defenseless at this moment, held captive only by his concern for you.

You manage a shaky, breathless smile. It’s a genuine smile, the kind that reaches your eyes and bunches their outer corners in absolute contentment.

You lift a hand, your fingers finding the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb resting over the pulse hammering wildly beneath his skin. You gently rub the spot,in a comforting gesture.

“I’m better than okay, Jay,” you whisper, your voice thick and heavy with the aftermath of release. You want to take the worry off him, to show him that he didn't hurt you.

You shift slightly beneath him, a small movement that tightens the internal connection between your bodies. The subtle pressure makes him suck in a quick, sharp breath.

A ragged sigh of pure relief breaks from Jason’s lips. His eyes flutter shut for a second, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. When he opens them again, the searching look returns, but it’s softer now, tinged with a deep, private sadness.

“God, I was so scared I messed this up,” he murmurs, the admission behind it too heavy. He moves his left hand from your side, trailing his fingers up your collarbone, then hooking them lightly around the back of your neck. He leans down, resting his forehead against yours, the damp skin-to-skin contact grounding you both.

He pulls back just an inch, his hips still connected to yours, and lowers his mouth to yours for a kiss that is nothing like the frantic hunger of moments before. This one is slow, open-mouthed, and tasting of sweat, desperation. It is a kiss of thanks, forgiveness, possession. His way of saying that he missed you too.

He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours again. The deep, heavy connection keeps the world simplified, focused only on the pulse of two bodies joined together.

“Please,” Jason whines, the sound small and broken, “Don’t push me away,” he pleads, the words rough, a confession whispered against your lips. “Not this time. I won’t push you away either”

The last part is the true admission of his terror, a promise he's never successfully kept.

Your eyes spark and you blink. Unsteadily and in disbelief. The reality of what you did hasn’t sunk in until now. It’s out of place and awkward to ask what this makes you, how and if this changes the trajectory of the bad aftertaste after your last breakup. 

You’re too scared of the inevitability of him and you. It always ends in tears. Either Jason feeling drowned, or you feeling abandoned, or vice versa. There’s never been even the slightest effort to understand. Both of you always just let feelings consume you until they burn down your bridges.

But if you’re scared, Jason must be terrified. You realize that every panicked breath he’s taken since he came here tonight has been in anticipation of the crash, and his need for either of you to find the strength to stop it is what keeps him trapped here, vulnerable, in your arms.

You let your fingers trail from his jaw, down his throat, and rest on the damp, solid muscle of his chest, right over his pounding heart. "Right here," you insist, pressing your fingers slightly. "This is exactly where I always needed you to be."

His expression softens, the harsh lines of worry in between his brows smoothing out as your words finally register. He gives a deep, shuddering sigh of pure relief, and his eyes drop closed for a long moment.

"God," he murmurs, the word weary like a prayer. He reluctantly begins to withdraw from you, pausing the motion several times, whining as if the separation is a genuine, physical pain. He settles beside you on the bed, immediately pulling you back into his embrace, folding your body against the familiar, solid contours of his side.

He strokes your hair slowly, rhythmically, his entire focus now dedicated to quietly comforting you. His thumb moves in small circles at the back of your head, every motion deliberate, almost meditative. It’s the kind of touch that speaks without words, a quiet I’m here threaded through each stroke.

For a while, neither of you speak. The city hums faintly in the distance, the faint pulse of emergency lights flashing far below. Jason’s heartbeat is steady against your palm, a rhythm that feels achingly human in a night that’s been anything but.

When he finally does speak, it’s low and hoarse. “You know, I hate how easy it is to lose you.”

It’s the part of Jason that’s tired of losing—his parents, Bruce, his own life. Everything he’s ever cared about seems to get ripped away just when he starts to believe it’s safe to hold on. And tonight, when he got the call from Dick about your condition, it must’ve felt like the same old story replaying in a crueler tone.

You can feel that weight in his voice. It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly against your shoulder, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

You shift slightly, turning your face toward his chest. “You didn’t lose me.”

Jason exhales shakily, the sound breaking somewhere deep in his chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “For now.”

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes. “Don’t do that,” you say softly. “Don’t act like I’m already gone.”

He lets out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “You say that like you weren’t halfway gone when I got here.”

You want to argue, to insist that you were fine, that you’ve always been fine—but the words catch somewhere between pride and exhaustion. So instead, you just mumble, “You worry too much.”

Jason’s hand stills for a second in your hair. “Yeah,” he admits softly. “I do.”

The honesty in it makes you look up. His gaze meets yours—open, stripped of the armor he always wears, even when he’s half-asleep. There’s no smirk, no teasing retort. Just Jason, tired and real and right here.

Jason presses a hand over yours on his chest, his grip rough but trembling. “You make it really hard not to care, you know that?”

You smile faintly. “Good.”

The smallest laugh escapes him, low and tired. “Yeah. Good.”

“You should sleep,” you whisper, tracing the edge of his jaw with your thumb.

“Not tired,” he lies.

You smile faintly. “You will be.”

He doesn’t argue this time. He just nods, eyes softening, and lets his forehead fall lightly against yours. The warmth between you feels fragile, the kind of peace that could shatter if either of you breathe too loudly. But for now, it holds.

Neither of you notice when the lights flicker back on.

Okay, well maybe the universe doesn’t exactly hate you. Or, or– Dick Grayson is a really good wingman.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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