BLANK.

He pops the lunchbox open anyway, eyes lighting up. “Is that…no way. Is that a grilled cheese?” He squints. “Why does it smell… illegal?”

Jason sighs like he’s been dealing with this his whole life. “Don’t touch it.”

Dick is already touching it.

He lifts half the sandwich, cheese still perfectly melted, butter chicken tucked inside like a secret, the bread crisped just right. He takes a bite before Jason can stop him.

And then-

“Oh my god,” Dick says around the mouthful. “Jason. JAY. Why are you hiding this from the family?”

Jason snatches the sandwich back, scowling. “Because it’s mine.”

Dick chews thoughtfully, eyes wide, genuinely impressed. “That is insane. That’s comfort food and flavor crime at the same time. Whoever made this-”

“She did,” Jason says automatically, and then freezes because he didn’t mean to say it that soft.

Dick grins instantly. The I caught you grin.

“Ohhh,” he says. “So that’s why you’ve been weirdly calm lately.”

Jason shoves the sandwich back into the lunchbox, ears just a little pink. “She makes ‘em for patrol. Don’t make it a thing.”

Dick holds his hands up. “Hey, I’m not judging. I’m jealous.” Then, after a beat: “Can I have another bite?”

“No.”

Dick laughs, claps him on the shoulder. “Tell her she’s a genius. And if she ever wants to make one for Nightwing-”

“Don’t push it,” Jason says, but there’s this fond edge to his voice he doesn’t bother hiding.

Later, on patrol, Jason eats that sandwich slower than usual. Sits on a rooftop, helmet off, savoring it. The spice, the warmth, the way it tastes like home.

And yeah—he absolutely texts you after:

And he sees it—actually sees it—because you go still in that soft, quiet way you only do when something hits a bruise you didn’t show him.

Your hand pauses on the strap of your bag. Your eyes lower. Your throat tightens just a little.

You whisper, “Oh. Okay,” and you try to smile, but it flickers out before it even forms.

He doesn’t breathe for a whole second.

Then— “Hey. Heyheyhey—what the fuck? No.” He’s across the room so fast the chair behind him screeches. His hands catch your arms before you can turn away, warm and firm, but not tight. His voice drops that fake Jersey bite instantly, cracking into something real, raw, terrified he just hurt you.

“Baby, no. I didn’t mean that. That was—shit, that was a joke. A shitty one.” His brows crash together, that deep worry line digging into his forehead, and he cups your cheeks with both hands, tilting your face up because you’re looking anywhere but at him.

When he sees your eyes—shiny, brimming, that betrayed softness you never show anyone—his whole chest caves in.

“Fuck.” It’s barely a word, more like a prayer blown out of him.

He pulls you into him so hard your feet almost lift off the ground. His arms wrap around your back, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head like he’s trying to shield you from the entire world.

“You thought I meant it,” he murmurs against your temple, voice breaking open. “You really thought I wanted you gone? You? Sweetheart, no. Never. Not in this lifetime. Not in any version of me.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to hold it in, and he just shushes you gently, brushing his thumb under your eye, wiping a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen.

He steps back only enough to see your face, eyes frantic, jaw tight with guilt.

“Look at me.” You do.

“I love when you’re here,” he says, voice firm, low, absolute. “I miss you the second you leave. I’m fucking stupid sometimes, but I’d never—never—kick you out of my life. You hear me?”

Your lip wobbles again and he physically winces, like your hurt is a bullet he’d take a thousand times instead.

Then he leans in, forehead to yours, breath warm, hands still holding you like he’s anchoring himself.

“I’m sorry, baby. Let me make it up to you. Let me take care of you. C’mere.” He kisses you like you’re fragile and furious at the same time—soft mouth, desperate pressure, his heartbeat slamming into your chest because the idea of losing you, even for a second, scared the ever-loving hell out of him.

His breath catches like you punched the air out of him. His hands come up fast, gripping your waist hard like he’s scared you’ll disappear. His eyes go wide, then dark, pupils dilating until there’s barely any blue left.

You keep kissing him, relentless, and he’s just… gone.

“Baby-” The word breaks out of him, husky, shaky. You kiss him again.

“Sweetheart, wait-…hey-” Another kiss. Another. Another.

He can’t even finish a sentence. His chest is rising too fast, hips shifting under you like he’s trying and failing to keep still. His fingers curl into your thighs, digging in for restraint he absolutely does not have.

And then, you kiss right under his ear.

That’s when he really breaks.

His breath stutters, hips jerk up tight against you, and he bites back a sound that’s way too desperate for early morning cuddles.

“Fuck-” he gasps, grabbing your hips like they’re the only thing anchoring him. “You-you gotta warn a guy-”

You kiss him again. He chokes on a laugh and a moan tangled together, head falling back against the pillow.

You don’t stop.

And he gets too excited too fast, body tensing under you, thighs flexing, his entire frame arching up into your softness like it’s instinctual.

He tries to hide it, tries to be cool about it, tries to swallow the little noises slipping out of him, but you feel the way he keeps grinding up without meaning to. You feel the way he trembles when you kiss the corner of his mouth again. You feel every shiver.

“Okay,” he finally groans, pulling you down, breath hot against your lips, “you win. You win. Just—just come here…”

His hands slide up your back, big and warm and greedy, guiding your mouth to his in a kiss that’s not soft at all, hungry, needy, edged with the kind of excitement he can’t hide anymore.

“Keep kissing me like that,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough and low, “and I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”

He knows exactly what he does to you.

Jason Todd is the definition of pretty boy hunger — all jawline and scars and soft morning voice, acting like he’s normal when his whole body is begging for your touch.

And the way he looks at you after that?

It’s devastating.

He’s still breathing hard, chest rising under you, hair a mess from your hands, lips red and kiss-bruised. But it’s his eyes— soft, wild, worshipping — that finish you.

He cups your cheek gently, thumb brushing your lower lip like he can’t believe it’s real.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice still broken from earlier. “You’re gonna kill me one day, sweetheart… I swear to God.”

Then his hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touch.

No teasing. No smirks. Just that raw, aching stare like you’re the first good thing he’s ever woken up to.

He nudges your nose with his. Tiny, tender. Unbearably intimate.

And then — because he’s Jason — he breathes a shaky laugh and wraps both arms around you, rolling onto his side so he can hug you even tighter against him.

“I’m not letting you go today,” he mutters into your shoulder, placing a soft kiss there, greedy and sweet at the same time. “You started this. Now you’re mine for the morning.”

Another kiss. And another, trailing up your neck. Slow… claiming… addictive.

He squeezes you closer, like he’s trying to mold your body against his, and whispers:

Dick’s laugh echoed over the comms, bright and easy — the exact opposite of Jason’s mood. Patrols with him always started civil and ended with Jason threatening to throw a batarang at his face. Tonight felt no different.

They moved across the rooftops, silent except for the occasional comment from Dick. Jason kept his gaze on the streets below — scanning alleys, storefronts, and the occasional late-night wanderer. Gotham wasn’t safe for anyone, not even at the “quiet” hours. Especially not—

Jason froze.

Half a block down, under the dim halo of a flickering streetlight, you were walking. Alone. Jacket pulled tight against the wind, hair catching the orange glow as you adjusted your bag.

Jason’s pulse spiked. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Dick’s voice came immediately. “Talk to me, Hood.”

Jason didn’t answer. He crouched at the ledge, trying to tell himself he was wrong. But no — it was definitely you. Every curve of your walk, the way you were glancing around — cautious but calm, like you knew this city and still refused to let it scare you.

“Red Hood,” Dick pressed, now sharper. “What’s wrong?”

Jason muttered under his breath, “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to think it. He’d spent months keeping this part of his life private — the one good thing that wasn’t tangled in blood and masks. You didn’t know about the family business, not really, not like this.

And now? Now his girlfriend was strolling through Crime Alley at two in the damn morning.

Dick followed his line of sight and gasped dramatically. “Ooh, what do we have here? Is that— wait, Jason. Jason. Are you blushing under that helmet?”

Jason growled. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god. You know her, don’t you? You know her.”

“Nightwing,” Jason hissed, already moving, “drop it.”

But Dick was grinning through his voice. “Oh, I knew something was up with you lately! The late-night calls, the suddenly soft tone when you think no one’s listening—”

Jason didn’t hear the rest. He leapt off the rooftop, cape flaring, boots hitting the pavement hard enough to echo. His heart was pounding for two reasons now: the embarrassment burning through his chest, and the sheer terror of seeing you walking alone in Gotham.

You startled when he landed, eyes wide — until you recognized the red helmet.

“Jason?” you whispered, more question than statement.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he snapped, voice muffled but unmistakably him. “And why the hell are you walkin’ here alone?”

You frowned, still half-confused. “I was coming back from the late shift! My phone died, I didn’t think—”

“That’s exactly the problem, sweetheart, you didn’t think. This city—”

A second thud interrupted him as Nightwing dropped down beside you both, graceful as ever. “So this is her,” Dick said, arms crossed, grin wide. “Hi! I’m Dick. You must be the reason Jason’s been sneaking off like a lovesick teenager.”

You blinked. “Sneaking off?”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his helmet like he could rub the moment out of existence. “You are dead, Grayson.”

Dick leaned toward you conspiratorially. “He talks about you, you know. Constantly. I was starting to think you were an imaginary girlfriend.”

“Dick.”

“—but wow, you’re real and way out of his league. Impressive.”

Jason stepped between you and his brother, pointing a gloved finger at him. “You got five seconds to disappear before I forget we’re related.”

“Relax,” Dick said, laughing as he backed up. “You’re welcome, by the way. I scared off that creep who was following her from the last block. You can thank me later, lover boy.”

Jason froze again — his stomach dropping. “Someone was—?”

But before he could finish, Dick was gone — grappling back up to the rooftops, his laughter echoing in the night.

You touched Jason’s arm gently. “He’s… a lot friendlier than you said.”

Jason sighed, voice low now, softer but still threaded with leftover adrenaline. “He’s a pain in my ass, that’s what he is.”

Then he looked at you — really looked — and the sharp edges of worry gave way to something rawer. His hand came up, cupping your face lightly. “You can’t just walk around here alone, baby. Not in this neighborhood. I don’t care how tough you think you are.”

You smiled faintly, fingers brushing his wrist. “I know. I just didn’t think you’d actually be out here tonight.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, tilting his forehead to yours, “Gotham never sleeps, and apparently neither do you.”

The city groaned around you — sirens distant, wind tugging at your coat — but for that one second, you could feel the tension melt. His voice dropped even lower, rough with something unspoken.

“I’m takin’ you home,” he said. “No arguments.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look he gave you made it clear — Red Hood wasn’t asking.

As he guided you toward the bike, his thumb brushed over your hand — protective, grounding, and just a little possessive. Somewhere up above, Nightwing’s laughter still echoed faintly, but Jason didn’t care anymore.

He follows the sound, slow, hesitant. The sight waiting for him feels like a hallucination. You’re barefoot, hair messy, stirring something on the stove. There’s a faint glow on your skin from the candlelight, a record spinning quietly somewhere in the background, and a half-set table with mismatched plates because you probably couldn’t find the matching ones.

For a second, Jason just stands there. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His hand’s still gripping the strap of his duffle bag. You turn, mid-stir, and when you spot him, your face lights up like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

“Hey,” you say softly, voice thick with warmth. “You’re home.”

It’s such a small sentence, but it hits him harder than a bullet ever could.

He swallows, eyes flicking between you, the candlelight, the steam rising from the pots. “What’s all this?” he manages, voice rough, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

You just shrug, smile crooked. “Dinner. Figured you’d be starving. And the lights were too bright, so… ambience.”

“Ambience,” he repeats, a little dazed.

You move closer, towel slung over your shoulder, and he can’t help but look at you like you’re something fragile and unreal. The heat from the stove, the low music, the faint smell of food — all of it wraps around him like a blanket he didn’t know he missed.

“Jason,” you murmur, catching the bruise on his jaw with your eyes. “You’re hurt.”

He snorts, tries to wave it off, but you’re already reaching for a damp cloth, gentle as you dab at his skin. He flinches, not from pain — from tenderness.

“You shouldn’t wait up for me,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t,” you tease, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… didn’t want you coming home to nothing.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. He drops the duffle to the floor, rubs the back of his neck, then exhales long and low, shoulders finally sagging. When you turn back to stir the sauce, he moves behind you, slipping an arm around your waist, forehead pressing to the back of your shoulder.

He smells the food, your shampoo, the wax of the candle. The world narrows to warmth and breath.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he mutters against your skin, the Jersey in his voice rough and honest.

You laugh softly, leaning into him. “Yeah, well. You bring the chaos, I bring the soup.”

Jason chuckles — really chuckles — and you feel the vibration of it against your back. For once, he doesn’t feel the need to say thank you. He just stays there, breathing you in, melting into the quiet.

For a second, he just blinks at you. Then he’s up on his feet so fast it startles you, phone forgotten, his hands already reaching for you. “What the fuck you mean stuck? Like—inside stuck? Baby, are you serious right now?” His Jersey accent kicks up thick with panic.

You nod solemnly, doing your best to keep a straight face.

Jason starts pacing, running a hand through his hair. “Shit. Okay. Okay. Don’t freak out. I mean, you’re probably not freakin’ out but I am. Do we—do we go to the ER for this? Or like… I dunno, do I need fuckin’ pliers? No, that’s stupid, don’t look at me.” He’s muttering to himself, jaw tight, every muscle in his body tensed like he’s about to fight your tampon in hand-to-hand combat.

You can’t help it—you burst out laughing.

Jason freezes mid-pace, his eyes snapping to you. “Wait. Wait wait wait. You’re laughin’? You’re—are you fuckin’ with me right now?”

You’re doubled over against the doorframe, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “It’s a TikTok trend, Jay! I wanted to see what you’d do.”

He just stares at you for a long moment, dead silent, his face unreadable. Then he groans, dragging his hands down his face. “Oh, fuck you,” he growls, though there’s no heat in it—just embarrassed relief. “I was about to Google ‘tampon extraction techniques’ like a fuckin’ idiot.”

You’re still giggling when he stomps over, grabs your waist, and hauls you up over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. “You think this shit’s funny? Making me think my girl’s dyin’ ‘cause of some cotton ball? Hilarious. Real fuckin’ hilarious.”

“Jay!” you squeal, pounding at his back as he starts walking toward the bedroom.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that one, sweetheart,” he rumbles, voice low, almost playful now but with that dangerous Jason edge. “Next time you’re beggin’ me to be gentle, I’m gonna remember the tampon prank.”

He tosses you onto the bed, looming over you with a crooked smirk, his blue eyes still sharp but softer now that the panic’s worn off. “Jesus Christ, I thought I was gonna have to fistfight your uterus.”

You barely have time to catch your breath from laughing before Jason’s mouth is on yours—hot, sharp, possessive. His hands grab your wrists and slam them into the mattress above your head, holding you pinned like you’re nothing but a plaything under him.

“You think that was funny, huh?” His voice is low, gravelly, Jersey accent curling every word, his breath hot against your ear. “Scarin’ the shit outta me just so you can laugh? You got jokes, sweetheart.”

He drags his knee up between your thighs, forcing your legs apart, grinding up against you. The bulge in his sweats is already straining, hard and unforgiving, pressing right against your clothed heat. You gasp, arching instinctively, but he shakes his head, eyes dark.

“Nu-uh. You don’t get to move. Not until I say.”

And then his mouth is on your throat, sucking, biting, leaving marks that ache. His grip on your wrists is iron, unrelenting, the kind that makes your pulse hammer. He shifts, rolling his hips just enough that the drag of his cock through the thin fabric has you trembling.

“Bet you thought you were real cute,” he growls, dragging his teeth down your jaw. “Standin’ there gigglin’, watchin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind over your little prank. You feel cute now? With my cock rubbin’ up against you, makin’ you drip through your panties?”

He lets go of one wrist just so he can yank your shirt up, baring your chest. His tongue is on your nipple immediately—hot, wet, filthy. He’s not gentle, either. He’s biting, sucking, spitting, then sucking it back up with obscene slurps that make your toes curl.

You moan, squirming under him, but he pins your free hand again. “Nope. You don’t get to squirm outta this. You wanted to see how I’d react? Then take it. Take every fuckin’ thing I give you.”

His tongue lashes your nipple, flicking over and over until you’re whimpering, your hips betraying you by grinding up against his cock. He hisses against your skin, teeth scraping hard. “Fuck, you’re so needy. Look at you—mockin’ me one second, and now you’re humpin’ me like a bitch in heat.”

He pulls back just enough to spit directly on your chest, watching it slide down over your nipple before he laps it up like he’s starving. The noise he makes is guttural, desperate, obscene.

“You’re gonna apologize, sweetheart,” he mutters, tugging your hips tight against his. “Not with words. You’re gonna rub that sweet little pussy against my cock until you’re cryin’ for it. Until you remember not to fuck with me.”

He rolls his hips harder, the thick ridge of him grinding right against your clit through the fabric. His tongue’s back on your chest, sloppy, relentless, as he groans into you. Every thrust up makes your head spin, every suckle sends sparks down your spine.

“Say it,” he snarls, breath ragged. “Say you’re sorry while you’re humpin’ my cock.”

His patience finally snaps. Jason tears your panties to the side, one rough hand holding your wrists pinned above your head while the other fists his cock, thick and leaking. His blue eyes are burning down at you, all frustration and hunger, his voice a low growl that vibrates in your chest.

“You wanted to play games, huh? Wanted to see how I’d react?” He presses the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, teasing, smearing your wetness. “Here’s your reaction, sweetheart.”

And then he slams into you in one hard thrust. Your body arches up with a cry, the stretch deep and raw, his hips grinding flush to yours like he’s trying to fuse you together. He doesn’t give you time to adjust—his rhythm is brutal from the start, hard and fast, each thrust slapping skin against skin, rattling the bedframe.

Jason leans down, his mouth hot against your ear, teeth grazing. “Fuck, listen to you—already screamin’ for me. You love this cock too much to pull shit like that. Ain’t that right?”

You can barely breathe, your wrists trapped, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you. He shifts his angle just enough to hit that spot that makes your vision blur, his thrusts pounding it over and over.

He groans, biting at your shoulder, his voice harsh. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. Like your pussy knows who it belongs to. Like it’s beggin’ me not to pull out.”

Every time you whimper, he fucks you harder, sweat dripping down his temple. He releases your wrists only to grab your throat, tilting your head back so he can see every inch of your face as he drives into you.

“Say it,” he orders, hips snapping forward, balls slapping against you. “Say you’re mine. Say you’re sorry for makin’ me panic.”

When you choke out the words, his hand slides from your throat back down to pin your hips in place, holding you still while he absolutely wrecks you. The wet sounds of your bodies echo, his groans raw and unrestrained, his dirty Jersey drawl pouring filth into your ear.

“Gonna fuck you so deep you won’t ever think about jokin’ like that again. Gonna fill you till you’re cryin’ my name, sweetheart. Till this pussy knows not to tease me.”

Jason’s thrusts are unforgiving—each one shoving you deeper into the mattress, making your back arch, making your nails claw at the sheets because your wrists are still trapped in his hand. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping down, his jaw clenched so hard a vein is standing out in his neck.

“Christ, baby… look at you—” His voice cracks, gravel low and breathless, Jersey accent heavy. “So fucked out already, and I ain’t even close to done with you.”

He adjusts his hips, angling himself deeper, and the head of his cock slams into that perfect spot. Your cry rips through the room, loud and needy. Jason growls, biting down on your bottom lip before sucking it between his teeth.

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s the spot, huh? The one that makes you scream like a fuckin’ angel. You wanted to prank me—now I’m givin’ you a real reason to scream.”

His free hand slides down to your throat, not choking, just holding—possessive, steady, controlling your every move. He uses it to tilt your head back, making you look him dead in the eyes as he pounds into you.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he pants. “I wanna see your face when I fuck the sorry outta you.”

Your cunt is dripping, every thrust squelching, obscene, your thighs slick and trembling from how hard he’s driving into you. Jason snarls against your skin, grinding his hips hard at the end of each thrust, keeping himself buried as deep as possible before pulling back and slamming in again.

“You feel that? That’s me—splitting you open, hittin’ you so deep nobody else ever could.” He licks a stripe up your neck, filthy and hot. “And you’re takin’ it like you were made for me.”

Your orgasm builds fast, your walls fluttering around him, and Jason notices instantly. His grin turns wicked. He shifts, pounding harder, faster, his cock pistoning into you with brutal precision.

“Gonna cum for me? Yeah, you are. Can feel this pretty pussy squeezin’ me already. Don’t you dare hold back. Cum all over my cock, baby—make a fuckin’ mess for me.”

The release slams into you, white-hot, your whole body convulsing, toes curling as you cry out his name. Jason groans loud, guttural, the sound vibrating against your chest. He doesn’t let up—he fucks you through it, riding your orgasm, hips never slowing, dragging more whimpers out of your overstimulated body.

“Fuck, that’s it, good girl—look at the mess you’re makin’ on me. You’re mine. All mine.”

His thrusts get ragged, desperate, his grip bruising your hips now as he chases his own release. He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing, and with a growl that sounds half like your name, half like a curse, he spills inside you—hot and thick, flooding you so much it leaks around him, dripping down your thighs.

Jason collapses against you, chest heaving, lips pressed sloppily to your shoulder as he groans through the aftershocks. He stays buried, refusing to pull out, his hand finding yours and squeezing tight.

“Next time…” he pants, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours, “don’t fuckin’ prank me. Or else I’ll make you cum so many times you won’t be able to walk to the bathroom, tampon or not.”

The lieutenant scrambles, knocking over bottles, shouting for backup. Jason puts a bullet through his knee before he even makes it halfway to the door.

Jason stalks forward, slow, deliberate. “You knew where she worked. You knew what time her shift ended. Who the fuck told you?”

The guy babbles, blood pooling around him. Jason grabs him by the collar, lifts him, and smashes his head into the bar counter—once, twice—until the wood cracks.

“Wrong answer,” Jason mutters, before shoving the gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. The spray paints the shelves behind him crimson.

A runner tries to make it out of Gotham—cheap car, low tank, desperate. Jason hunts him down on his bike, the roar of the engine echoing in the night. He doesn’t even stop the bike—just drives up alongside, fires through the driver-side window, and watches the car flip and burst into flames in his rearview mirror.

Helmet voice: “Stay the fuck outta my city.”

A warehouse full of armed guards. This one Jason takes personal. Silent entry from the rafters, a crowbar in his hand—the same kind of weapon that once ended him.

They never see it coming. He drops into the middle of the pack, and the screaming starts. Bones snap. Skulls cave. Blood drips down the crowbar like paint.

When the dust settles, fifteen men are dead. Jason stands in the middle, chest heaving, blood spattered across his jacket.

Finally, the man who signed the order. A crime boss fat off pharma kickbacks, drinking scotch in his penthouse while your coworkers’ blood still stains the tile at your office.

Jason doesn’t announce himself. He blows the bodyguards away in seconds, bullets precise, cruel.

The boss stumbles back, hands up. “I’ll pay you double—triple! Whatever you want—”

Jason grabs him by the tie, slams him against the window so hard the glass cracks. The city lights up behind them like fire.

“You tried to take the only good fuckin’ thing I got.” Jason’s voice is guttural, shaking with rage. “You thought she was easy prey? That nobody’d come for you?”

The boss chokes on his own breath. Jason presses the gun under his chin.

“Say her name. Say it.”

The man stammers, terrified. Jason doesn’t wait for him to finish—he pulls the trigger. The body crumples. The glass stains red.

Jason comes back to you bloodied and burnt out, slips into bed after scrubbing the gore off in a too-hot shower. He holds you like he didn’t just massacre half of Gotham’s underground.

But Batman knows.

When Jason’s on his way back from another patrol, the comms crackle. Bruce’s voice is tight, furious:

“You went too far. I know what you did, Jason. You executed every single man tied to that hit. We don’t do that.”

Jason rips the comm from his ear, throws it into the street, voice dripping venom:

“I don’t give a fuck what you do. They touched what’s mine. That’s on me to fix.”

When Bruce corners him later, the Bat looming, Jason doesn’t flinch. He lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, exhales smoke right in Batman’s face.

“Yeah, I killed ‘em. Every last one. And I’d do it again. You got a problem with that?”

Batman’s jaw tightens. His silence says everything.

Jason smirks beneath the helmet, flicks ash onto the floor. “Thought so. Now get outta my way. I got someone waitin’ for me at home.”

It’s early morning, that gray hour where Gotham’s still half-asleep and the sky hasn’t decided if it’s gonna stay dark or let the sun in. Jason’s still dead to the world, sprawled out shirtless on his stomach, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed like he’s keeping watch even in his sleep.

You, though—you’re awake. Not because of any nightmare, but because Milo decided now was the perfect time to crawl onto the bed, purring like a little motor and demanding affection. He plopped down right against your chest, paws kneading into the blanket, tail flicking in that lazy orange-cat way.

So you gave in, of course. Fingers scratching behind his ears, running down his back, soft coos slipping out of your lips. “Good boy, Milo…you’re so handsome, huh? My sweet boy.”

That’s what wakes Jason.

He stirs slow at first, groaning into the pillow, then blinks blearily at the sight of you petting Milo like he’s the king of the house. Jason’s hair’s a mess, his voice gravelly when he finally rasps, “...’the fuck is this? You cheatin’ on me with the furball?”

You glance down at him with a grin, still scratching Milo. “He wanted attention. Can’t say no to that face.”

Jason shifts onto his side, squinting, then reaches out and pokes Milo’s tail with one thick finger. The cat immediately swats at him, claws just grazing his knuckle before scampering up to settle on your pillow like he won some kind of battle. Jason glares, muttering in his rough Jersey drawl, “Little shit’s tryin’ to steal my girl. Thinks he can just climb in my spot, huh?”

You laugh softly, stroking Milo’s back until he purrs even louder. “He’s just keeping me company until you wake up, Jay.”

Jason finally drags himself closer, tucking his head into your chest and wrapping an arm possessively around your waist. His voice is muffled against your skin, low and grumbly: “M’awake now. Company’s over.”

Milo flicks his tail right across Jason’s cheek like he’s mocking him. Jason groans and buries himself deeper into your chest, inhaling you like he’s trying to drown out the cat’s existence. “Unbelievable. Not even nine in the mornin’ and I’m losin’ a turf war with a ten-pound orange rat.”

You’re giggling by now, stroking Jason’s hair with one hand while the other still absentmindedly pets Milo. Jason notices, of course—his hand shoots up, grabs yours, and presses it to his mouth. He kisses your palm, looks up at you through sleep-heavy lashes, and grumbles, “Nah. Hands are mine. Cat can get bent.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart squeezes at the sight—your big, tough, grumpy Jersey boy, glaring at a cat while cuddled into your chest like he’s trying to fuse into you.

Milo, utterly unfazed, yawns wide and curls right into the pillow, like he knows he’s safe anyway.

Jason sighs, finally settling, his lips pressing lazy kisses along your collarbone. “Don’t laugh. You’re mine. Not lettin’ some flea hotel steal you away.”

And before you can tease him back, he’s already dozing again, heavy and warm against you, holding you tighter like he won the war after all.

At first, it feels normal—like any other lazy morning—but then you notice it. The way his jaw is locked even in sleep. The faint twitch of his brows. Like he’s carrying something heavy, even in his dreams.

When his eyes finally blink open, blue and bloodshot, he tries to give you that usual lazy smirk. His voice is raspy, but there’s no warmth behind it.

You lean over, brush a kiss across his cheek. But you don’t smile. You’re staring too hard into his eyes, the way he won’t hold your gaze for more than a second.

“Jason,” you whisper. “What happened last night?”

He goes still. His hand on your hip tightens, not rough, just… holding. He clears his throat, looks away at the ceiling. “Nothin’ you need to worry about.”

“Don’t do that.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t shut me out. I know you… and I know when something’s eating you alive.”

His throat bobs. He sits up slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. For the first time in a long time, Jason Todd looks small—not because he isn’t strong, but because the weight he’s carrying is too heavy for even him.

“I lost it,” he mutters, voice low. “Last night. After what happened at your job… I couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t just… sit around while those bastards were breathin’.” He finally looks at you, eyes glassy with something he’ll never admit to. “So I made sure they’re not.”

Your chest tightens. He’s clean, but suddenly you can see the blood on his hands. The rage. The violence. The vengeance.

You cup his face, force him to meet your eyes. “Jason… you did that for me?”

“Don’t—” he cuts himself off, voice breaking. He grabs your wrist, presses your palm tighter to his cheek like he can’t let go. “Don’t make it sound noble. It wasn’t. I just… I couldn’t risk someone takin’ you from me. Not again. Not ever.”

His breath shudders. He looks like he’s waiting for you to pull away, disgusted, scared of him.

But instead, you climb into his lap, straddling him. Your forehead rests against his. “Jason,” you whisper, tears blurring your vision, “I don’t care what you did. I just care that you’re here. That you came home to me.”

His arms wrap around you instantly, crushingly tight. His breath is ragged against your neck. “You should hate me,” he mutters, broken. “You should fuckin’ hate me.”

“Never,” you say, fierce, clinging to him. “I could never hate you.”

For the first time since the massacre, Jason lets out the smallest, strangled sound—half a sob, half a laugh—as he buries his face against your chest. You stroke his hair, cradle him, whispering over and over that you love him.

And even though the guilt lingers in his eyes, for that moment, he finally breathes.

The rest of that day, Jason’s a shadow at your side.

You try to make breakfast, but the moment you step toward the kitchen, his arm snakes around your waist, tugging you back against him. “Uh-uh,” he mutters into your hair. “You don’t lift a finger today. I got it.”

And sure enough, he’s cracking eggs, buttering toast, grumbling at the coffee maker. Except every few seconds he glances over his shoulder to check that you’re still sitting at the table, safe. His knee bounces the whole time, restless, like if he lets himself relax even for a second, the world will snatch you away.

When he sets the plate in front of you, he doesn’t sit down to eat his own food. He just leans against the counter, arms folded, watching.

“What?” you ask softly.

“Just makin’ sure,” he says. His voice is too casual, but his eyes are hungry, devouring every breath you take like he needs proof you’re real.

Later, when you curl up on the couch with a book, Jason wedges himself behind you, pulling you into his lap. His chin hooks over your shoulder, big hands sliding absently up and down your arms, your thighs, anywhere he can touch. At first it’s protective, but as the minutes pass, it becomes desperate. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you with his hands.

At one point, you set your book aside, twist in his lap, and kiss him. Slow, steady, nothing more. But he doesn’t let you stop. He chases every pull of your lips with his own, kissing you like he’s drowning, like you’re oxygen.

“Jay…” you whisper when you finally pull back, cupping his cheek.

His eyes flicker down, dark and stormy. “Don’t call me that right now. I don’t deserve—”

You cut him off with another kiss, firmer this time, forcing him to listen with your mouth since words don’t reach him. When you finally part, you rest your forehead against his. “You came home to me. That’s all I need.”

The guilt doesn’t vanish—it won’t, not overnight. But Jason softens against you, letting himself be held for once instead of holding. His head drops to your chest, his breath warm against your collarbone.

For the rest of the day, he follows you like a shadow—into the kitchen, into the bathroom, into bed for a nap he swears he doesn’t need. Every time you shift, he’s there, dragging you back into his arms, muttering into your hair: “Stay. Just stay with me.”

And that night, when he finally drifts off with you curled against him, it’s the first time he doesn’t dream about blood. Just about you.

@yyiikes @soulsforsales @shiftingbonesofapoltergeist @eeveedream

Coworkers drop around you. The lounge is chaos—people screaming, diving under tables, blood already streaking the tiles. And in the middle of it, you’re frozen with the horrible truth crawling up your spine.

This is a hit. On you.

Gotham’s comms explode.

Batman’s voice is sharp in the comms:

“Shots fired at [pharmaceutical company name]. Casualties reported. It’s not random. They’re after her.”

Jason’s voice cuts in like a thunderclap, gravelly and already furious:

“The fuck d’you mean they’re after her?!”

You can hear him already moving, boots pounding against rooftops.

Then Dick’s voice—controlled, but the edge bleeds through:

“I’m closer than you both. Sending location now. I’ll intercept first.”

Jason:

“Over my dead fuckin’ body, Grayson. I’m closest. She’s mine.”

Batman growls:

“Focus. Get her out. We’ll deal with them later.”

Back in the lounge, your ears are ringing from gunfire. You’ve crawled behind an overturned chair, clutching your phone with trembling fingers, dialing Jason without even realizing. He answers on the first ring, his voice distorted from the modulator but still so him:

“Baby? You keep your fuckin’ head down, you hear me? Don’t move—don’t you dare move. I’m coming for you.”

You whisper his name, voice breaking, and then the phone clatters as one of the gunmen spots you. Boots crunch closer. You press a hand over your mouth, shaking, eyes burning.

The shooter raises his weapon.

Then—CRASH.

The window bursts in. Glass sprays like diamonds. A red helmet gleams under the fluorescent lights.

Jason.

He doesn’t hesitate—guns blazing, knives flashing. His fury is like a storm, every movement precise, every shot dropping a man before they can blink. His voice roars through the modulator:

“You picked the wrong fuckin’ girl.”

By the time the last gunman falls, the room is wrecked. Smoke curls. Blood stains the tile. And Jason? He’s ripping off his helmet, dropping to his knees beside you, shaking hands cupping your face.

“Baby, baby, look at me—ya bleedin’? Did they touch you?” His Jersey drawl cracks, desperate, as he drags his gloves off to check you over.

You’re trembling too hard to speak. The only thing you can do is throw yourself into his chest, sobbing, clutching at the armor plates like if you let go, he’ll vanish.

You shake your head, breath hitching, and before you can speak he’s pulling you into his chest. The Kevlar digs into your cheek, smells like gunpowder and smoke, but his arms are solid and crushing you against him like if he lets go the whole world’ll split open.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” he mutters into your hair, rocking you against him. “I leave you alone for one goddamn shift and the whole fuckin’ city wants a piece of you.”

You try to tell him you’re okay—but your voice cracks, and suddenly you’re sobbing into his chest. Jason just squeezes harder, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping the back of your shirt so tight his glove creaks.

But Jason Todd doesn’t stay soft for long.

There’s still one gunman alive. Groaning on the floor, clutching his stomach where Jason winged him instead of killing him outright. Jason hears it, feels your body jolt at the sound, and his whole vibe shifts.

He leans back just enough to wipe your tears with his thumb, jaw flexing. “Don’t look, baby girl. Don’t fuckin’ look.”

Then he stands.

Helmet back on. Gun out. Boots heavy as thunder as he crosses the bloodstained floor and plants one on the thug’s chest.

“Talk.” His voice is metallic, cold through the modulator. “Who sent you? Who the fuck told you to aim at her?”

The man wheezes, spits blood, tries to laugh. Bad idea. Jason cocks the gun, presses it to the guy’s forehead.

“I’ve had a real bad night. You got one chance. One. Or I paint the wall with your brains.”

The name spills out fast. Jason memorizes it—burns it into his skull. Then pulls the trigger anyway.

The thug’s head snaps back. Silence.

Jason holsters his weapon, turns back to you. And in that moment he’s two people: the merciless Red Hood who just executed a man without blinking, and the trembling Jersey boy who kneels in front of you again, pulling you into his arms like nothing else matters.

“C’mon, baby. We’re goin’ home. You’re not spendin’ one more second in this goddamn hellhole.” He growled and snarled, leaving the mess for dick and Bruce as he exits through the paramedics and the police cars parked outside.

But home isn’t enough. Not for Jason.

Not when he has the name. Not when he knows who wanted you dead.

That night, when you’re finally asleep—eyes puffy, curled up against his chest, Milo sprawled protectively at your feet—Jason slips out of bed. Kisses your forehead, whispers, “Back soon, doll.”

And then the Red Hood paints Gotham red.

Your head snaps up. “What—?”

Jason doesn’t hesitate. He tilts your chin up, crashes his mouth to yours, all heat and teeth. It’s messy and claiming, like he’s been waiting for someone to say it out loud. You melt into it, gasping against him.

When he finally pulls back, Dick’s smiling like the cat who caught the canary. “Your turn.”

Jason wipes his mouth with his thumb, still holding you close. His eyes glint with something wicked. “Truth or dare, golden boy?”

Dick: “Dare. Always.”

Jason leans back, smirking. “Kiss her harder.”

You don’t even have time to protest before Dick’s cupping your face, tilting your head back, and devouring you. His kiss is different—smoother, slower, like he’s savoring every second Jason left unclaimed. His tongue slides against yours, his hand at the base of your neck.

Jason growls, low in his chest. You feel it vibrate against your side. “Tt. Show-off.”

But instead of stopping, Jason grabs your waist and pulls you half onto his lap while Dick keeps kissing you. It becomes this chaotic tug-of-war—Jason’s teeth nipping at your ear, Dick swallowing your moans, both of them daring each other through you.

And the worst/best part? You’re the game board.

Jason’s mouth is hot against your neck now, biting just enough to leave a sting, and Dick refuses to stop tasting your lips. Their breathing is heavy, yours worse, caught in this twisted push-and-pull.

Jason grins against your skin. “My turn again. Truth or dare, princess?”

Your voice cracks. “D–dare.”

He smirks. “Grind on me. Right here.”

Your heart plummets to your stomach, but his hand is already guiding you, settling you onto his lap so you’re straddling his thighs. The rooftop suddenly feels too public, but Jason doesn’t care—he’s leaning back, eyes dark, watching you roll against the hard outline under his jeans.

Dick curses under his breath, running a hand through his hair, torn between laughing and combusting. Jason growls at him. “What’s wrong, acrobat? Jealous?”

Dick’s grin turns sharp. “Fine. My turn. Dare.” He looks at you, eyes wicked. “Moan his name loud enough that I hear it.”

Jason stiffens, jaw clenching—then your hips buck against him, and a sound tears out of you before you can stop it. His name, desperate, raw. Jason’s grip on your waist tightens like a vice.

Dick groans, fists curling. “God, that’s hot.” He crouches behind you suddenly, lips brushing your ear. “My turn again. Dare?”

You nod, dizzy.

“Say mine, too.” His hand slides up your thigh, nails scratching. “Louder.”

You gasp it—“Dick”—and it sends him feral. His mouth latches to your shoulder, teeth sinking into fabric and skin alike, while Jason’s breath shudders in your ear.

Jason snaps, “Alright, my dare—kiss him while you’re still grinding on me.”

Dick doesn’t hesitate. His mouth slams to yours, and Jason curses, rocking you harder against him while Dick devours every sound. It’s a filthy knot of heat—Jason groaning against your neck, Dick swallowing your moans, your hips moving helplessly.

The comm crackles.

“Report. Now.”

Bruce.

You freeze. The boys don’t. Jason snarls, dragging your face away from Dick long enough to mutter, “Tt. Not now, old man.”

Dick, breathless, smirks against your mouth. “Tell him we’re… occupied.”

Bruce’s voice comes again, harder, clipped. “Jason. Dick. Where. Are. You.”

You’re still trembling on Jason’s lap, both of them flushed and feral, when Jason finally slams a hand to his comm, growling, “Busy.”

The silence that follows could kill a man.

Then Bruce: “…get back to the cave. Immediately.”

Both boys groan like teenagers caught sneaking out.

Jason leans his forehead against yours, still holding you in place. “One day, doll. One day I’m not stoppin’.”