Absolutely livid.

"Hey."

You can already envision the dopey smile spread across his face, his eyes twinkling in a way that always seems to send your knees wobbling every time he catches your eye.

Even though the sudden appearance of your lovely boyfriend was a comfort you needed right now, the idea of Clark only spread more guilt throughout your body. Your pace only seemed speed up at the sound of his voice, you can only imagine the look on his face right now as you try to control your breathing with shaky inhales.

All this was supposed to be an amicable relationship, a comfort to when you couldn't seem to stay asleep at ungodly hours of the night —unwilling to wake up Clark from his slumber for something so little— and companionship to the hero of Metropolis when the night was slow and lonely. That's all it was supposed to be. Especially, when the sweet, dorky, and absolutely perfect farm boy was already yours.

God, how did this happen.

How could you do this to Clark?

Something pulls your hand away from your mouth, just before you could rip another piece off. Your brain seems to clear as you feel a hand side onto your waist, stopping you from wearing down a path on the roof even more.

The haze of anger, confusion, and guilt that seemed to surround you almost completely disappears as you feel a warm, stable beat of the heart you've devoted so much time learning and memorizing the song of under the pads of your fingers. Your heart begins to match its rhythm as Clark wraps around you, shielding the rest of the world.

The low timbre of his voice fills the space as he hums a small tune, if only to center your brain on him and not whatever is on your mind.

"What's going on in that beautiful brain of yours?" Clark softly asks as a smile grows across his face with a tilt of his head, "I know it's not nothing."

Anger flares up again, fanning the flames at a particular man of steel as warm, gentle hands move to cradle your head. Blue eyes seem to soften the burn as they crinkle with concern.

"C'mon, you know you can tell me ."

Nevermind, guilt is also back on the table.

"It's genuinely nothing," you muffle as you tuck yourself deeper into his chest. Hands creating wrinkles as you take fistfuls of his crisp shirt, just to avoid those same eyes.

Your jaw starts to clench as more thoughts seems to zoom across your mind. Of fucking course, it's fucking Superman. His name is literally fucking Super. Man. How cliche of you. Is bread the best thing you've ever tasted? Oh, you're attracted to a man with big muscles, a kind smile, and the symbol of all that is good in the world? Call the press because you've got a groundbreaking story right here.

And the cherry on top of all of that, your boyfriend seems to be the only reporter in the city that has a rapport with him, someone that he trusts.

"You really think I believe that?"

"Can you just believe it for now?"

"Nope."

You pull away with a drawn out groan, his laugh lingering in the background as you restart your route around the area.

Ok, it's not like you have to see him everyday, well in person that is. This is what you were training for, you can just avoid Kal. All this will go away if you just stay in your bedroom and not venture out when you can't sleep, simple, succinct. You'll never need to address the familiar feelings that usually only sprout with Clark that are now starting to grow when you're with him as well. Nor will you need to address the confusing feeling that started to grow into another thing when he decided to absentmindedly and softly kiss you when he had to leave last night. Which obviously made you like this now, so now you never need to address it! Great! Then you can just live your wonderful life with your wonderful boyfriend who you love and adore and the two of you'll go off and-

"Honey, I can hear your thoughts from over here," Clark chuckled, now settled next to the bags you carelessly tossed to the floor in a haste to try and stop your racing heart, "I promise you it can't be that-"

You fold under absolutely no pressure.

"I have a stupid crush on Superman, ok?!"

You huff, pretty much throwing yourself to the ground next to Clark, "It's ruining my life."

The silence from the man next to you sends nausea rolling throughout your stomach as you breath through your hands, trying not to freak out.

A silence that lasted way too long for someone like Clark.

You peak through your hands, only to see Clark looking away with puffed cheeks, very obviously trying not to laugh. It's only till he turns back to look at you does a snort escape from him.

"Clark," you whine, "I'm being serious."

"I am too!"

You start to get back on your feet, "That's it, I'm walking off the roof."

"No, come back here," he very easily pulls you back down with a laugh, only for you tuck yourself into his arm, trying to hide your embarrassment.

You can practically hear the smug look on his face, "Now. Superman, you say."

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Ok. So, let's talk this through, what about him do you like so much," Clark smiles down at you, "From personal experience, I know your head isn't turned so easily."

Your face could burn a hole into Clark's shirt with how hot you feel as Clark just keeps on pestering you about your life changing discovery.

"I'm not telling my boyfriend about a crush I have on another man," you grumble.

"Humor me."

You peak back up to Clark. No anger, disgust, or even jealousy is evident in his face, only the same face you fell in love with greets you, eyes still bright as it was before. Sure, an annoying smirk is splashed across his face —you have no idea why that's there—, but the same old Clark is staring back at you.

"You like his muscles, don't you?"

"I'm actually going to jump off this building," you pull away from him with fake annoyance, sitting up straight yet still pressed into his side.

Clark snickers besides you, "Oh, so that Superman can hold you in his big, muscular arms."

"No," you snort.

Metropolis starts to fade as you zero into Clark, only Clark. What does Superman have over the kind, bumbling dork you call yours. Powers? A Cape? Nothing can truly compare to what you have right now.

You soften, "Not when you're right here next to me."

A breeze starts to pick up as you lean up and press a small kiss into the corner of his smile. A secret kind of quietness fills the space as the two of you look over the city. Pressed into each others side, you're happy that you chose the man beside you.

"Speaking of Superman…"

You groan, "I thought we dropped it."

"I know, I know, it's just," Clark inhales, "I've been thinking about this for a while, now that you bring him up that is."

"What, you have a crush on the man of steel too? I mean, you might spend more time with him the most besides me, interviews and all."

"Honey, are you having an affair with Superman?"

Oh fuck, "NO, NO, I am NOT. Sometimes I just can't fall asleep and he gets lonely and we just end up talking. Oh my god, Clark, Ipromisenothingisgoingon-"

Clark interrupts, "I know, Honey. Don't worry, I would know if you were having an affair with Superman."

"I mean, yeah, he doesn't seem like someone who would do something like that, I mean I saw him save a squirrel before. You talk to him and there's no way that he would hit on a colleague's partner especia- NOT THAT I WOULD CHEAT ON YOU."

"I know you wouldn't," his voice stopping you from spiraling even further.

"Im just telling that I would know," Clark smiles and with a final exhale, "because I'm Superman."

Pulling off his glasses, the rug is pulled under you as you just blink at him. The haze seemed to be lifted as your brain starts to fill in the blanks and finally connects the final pieces needed for you to catch up.

You fell for Clark. Superman.

Twice.

What the fuck.

Silence seemed to build and you can feel the nervous energy rolling off of Clark. Suddenly springing up from your seat, you return to the route burned into the top of the Daily planet and Clark springs up right behind you almost immediately.

"If you need more evidence, I am more than willing to-"

"You have got to be kidding me."

Clark starts to shrink into himself, "I know you're mad I kept this from you, but you've got to understand, I have a lot of people who want to hurt me and I couldn't drag you int-"

"So you're telling…I fell in love with the poster boy for attractiveness? Not once but twice???"

Clark stops, "What."

"Oh my god, is vanilla my favorite flavor of ice cream? Is Avatar my favorite movie? I fell in love with the symbol for all that is good in the world, twice. Oh my god, call Perry because this is a news worthy story-"

"I don't know whether to be flattered or…"

"The definition of easy on the eyes. I'm over here falling in love with Mr. six-foot-four, chiseled-abs, biceps the size of my head-"

"Good to know that I was right about the muscles thing."

"Has everyone in the world drooling over him, twice. God, I can't believe I fell for the fucking trap, multiple times-"

You pause.

Slowly you turn, marching right up to Clark's stupid, dumb, unbelievably charming face.

"This is un-fucking-believable. You hear me, Smallville? You can't just go and kiss someone when they're sleep deprived and don't know that their boyfriend is Superman."

Flashes of realizations rush across his face that soon settle into understanding. A red flush covers his face as he pulls a hand to rub the back of his neck, "Oh, right that."

"You…"

A small shift in his step makes his nervousness more evident to you, "Are you still mad at me?"

A large sigh escapes you, your hands already reaching up to cup his face. With the sun fully set, only the lights of the buildings around you illuminate the roof. Almost automatically, Clark leans lower, chasing your hold as the two of you perfectly fit against each other, his hands already resting on your waist.

Your eyes flicker over his features, now fully revealed to you. Your hand starts trace through the small differences, the ones that set apart the two lives he was living. His nose a bit sharper, his eyes a little brighter. While your brain was catching up, trying to piece together the two pieces to fit, of course your heart recognized him, how could it not.

Superman may forever belong to the world, but Clark Kent, your Clark, belonged to you.

Your hands settle at the nape of his neck, "No, I'm not. Not really."

A soft hum comes out of his lips as he leans down to rest his forehead on yours. You can't help but laugh as he makes it a point to lock his eyes onto yours.

"You know, I didn't know you had a type."

You can't help but groan.

"Am I really that irresistible to you?" God, you're never going to hear the end of this, "what was it about having biceps the size of your head?"

"I don't want to talk to you right now."

Heat started to run across your body as he continued, "Poster boy for attractiveness, was it you said? Or, or was it the definition of easy on the eyes…"

His voice started to fade as he leaned closer, just to close the gap between the two of you. Right as the gap was about to close, your hand pushes against his chest, just enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Wait a second, I told Superman about your birthday present."

"What's that? Oh no! I can hear a cat stuck in a tree, I guess that's my cue!"

"No, Clark get back here-"

taglist: @wichu127 @scissorhvnds @starr-jazz @kryptidfiles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger

if you enjoyed, remember reblogs and comments are an authors best friend!!!!!

His face is a map of healed disasters—thin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.

The Joker had called it “light acid.”

As if acid could ever be light.

As if anything about it had been.

After that, hair just… didn’t grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.

Jason never got that stage.

He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.

Until now.

At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.

There is hair there.

Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.

Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.

It doesn’t.

The memory surfaces uninvited—your voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadn’t eaten in days. You’d swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.

It hadn’t been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.

Not that time.

“Oh, god,” he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.

He looks dreadful.

That’s the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hair—thick, black, unruly—is sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t bother winning.

He leans closer.

At least his skin looks better.

That part softens something in him.

You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated again—too tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadn’t teased him. You  just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.

He grumbled the whole time.

You ignored him the whole time.

In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his face—gentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. You’d murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.

Jason had fallen asleep like that.

Just like that.

He doesn’t remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.

“I knew it was hair!”

Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.

He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.

You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.

Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. You’re wearing one of his old shirts—swallowed by it—and a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they don’t drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.

Like you belong here.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.

“Jason, baby…” you murmur, studying him in the mirror like he’s something precious and slightly ridiculous.

He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where they’re clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.

“You loooove it,” he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though there’s something almost hopeful beneath it.

You hum, pretending to consider it.

One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.

“Hmm,” you decide, lips twitching. “It's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.”

Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.

Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.

“I don’t have a razor,” he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like he’s something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. “And it’s a holiday… stores won’t be open.”

The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning way—sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest. 

Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.

“I use a men’s razor,” you mumble thoughtfully, as if you’re offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. “Wanna use that? I can disinfect it.”

He stills.

It’s subtle—the way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wrist—but you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that aren’t empty; they’re crowded. This is one of them.

“I…” he starts, and the word drags.

Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.

“I don’t know how to shave,” he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Even… before… uh. It didn’t really grow.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t have to.

The space after before is heavy, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.

“Why now?” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if you’ve already decided the answer to that question doesn’t matter nearly as much as what you’re going to do next.

Jason watches you through the mirror.

Why now?

It’s the same reason he’s gained weight—real weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didn’t force himself to finish out of obligation. There’s a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like it’s bracing for impact every second.

He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.

Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.

Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.

He doesn’t say that.

“Maybe it’s because you’re always slathering me in your fancy stuff,” he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. “It probably shocked my face back to life.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.

Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.

The light doesn’t hide anything. It travels openly across him—over the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.

But you didn’t run.

The first time you saw him like this, you hadn’t looked horrified or pitying. You’d looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always did—no hesitation, no recalibration.

If you didn’t run from that, he doubts you’ll run from stubble.

You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like you’re about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink you’ve just run warm water into.

“C’mere,” you murmur. 

You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.

“This feels like a trap,” Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.

You smile down at him—slow, fond, almost reverent—and press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.

“Relax,” you say softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

The words aren’t dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.

He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if you’re handling something both fragile and fierce.

You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything that’s going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scent—clean, subtle, faintly medicinal—mixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.

Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.

“Hold still,” you murmur.

He huffs softly. “I am holding still.”

“You’re flexing.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.

He forces his shoulders to drop.

Jason isn’t used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correction—forceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, it’s impact—bruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.

But this?

This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him. 

You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. You’re meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.

Your touch changes when you reach the scars.

Not hesitant. Not afraid.

Just attentive.

You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when you’re trying to get something exactly right.

“You don’t have to look at me like I’m hurt and you need to patch me up,” he mutters.

You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.”

He snorts quietly despite himself.

The razor touches his skin for the first time.

It’s a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.

Jason feels it more than he expected to.

Not pain—just awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time. 

That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.

The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.

He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.

“You trust me?” you ask lightly, but there’s something real beneath it.

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

“Yeah.”

The answer is simple. Immediate.

Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek. 

His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.

You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jaw—the place where the skin never quite grew back the same.

“Does this one still feel tight?” you ask softly.

“Sometimes,” he admits.

You don’t comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.

Jason’s eyes close for a second.

He lets them.

There’s something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like you’re not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. I’m not afraid of any of it.

When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.

“Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.”

“Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.

You grin. “Sure, baby.”

You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.

He watches you again.

The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you don’t seem to notice how intimate this is—how your hands cradle his face like something precious.

When you’re done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.

“There,” you whisper.

You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.

“Much better.”

Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.

The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.

He looks at himself in the mirror again.

The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.

But there’s something different in the way he’s sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isn’t waiting for the mirror to betray him.

He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he mutters against your skin.

Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Thats the goal,” you say.

And for once, the idea doesn’t sound like a threat.

jason peter todd tag-list : @justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree, @kekeanna266, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theonlysakura, @givemefinganame, @theonlyshowgirl, @melllzz, @strawbrysapphic, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @tasia13, @foivetimesacharm, @noble-17, @celestialend,@superuddertrash-blog, @revesephemeres, @redhooduwu, @themessedupsonata

Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too

(｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)

How the fuck did Vanessa cheat on this man?

You’d known Dick ever since he and Vanessa were in the early stages of dating around two years ago, and you hated to admit it, but he was one objectively sexy man. Who was sat there with a cappuccino in a local Blüdhaven coffee shop, looking the most tortured you’d ever seen him, over a girl who cheated, nonetheless.

You sipped your latte. “You look like shit, Dick.” Your voice was softer than intended. Maybe a portion of you felt bad. “What’re you thinking?”

He scrubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean to drag you out here to sit in silence, I’m just… confused. How could she— did I do something?”

You sat forward in your seat, raising an eyebrow, sighing. “Really?” You clicked your tongue noncommittally. “You’re gonna blame yourself for this? Dick, you got her expensive jewellery to ask her to be your girlfriend, you were pretty fucking perfect.” He’d done the research. Seen what colour jewellery she wore, if she preferred gold or silver, her birthstone, what cut, how long, and got it custom made. If he did anything wrong, you’d be surprised. “It’s her fault.”

He looked sceptical. He even let out a disbelieving scoff, like you were talking bullshit. “You don’t seem heartbroken. Like, at all.”

You shrugged, stirring your latte with a wooden stick. “If she can take him, she can have him. Carter couldn’t do anything without his mother’s approval anyway.”

His nose wrinkled. “Yikes. That sounds rough.”

"Why'd you offer to buy me coffee anyway?" His text had come out of nowhere, but he probably had his reasons. One or two at least.

His sigh was of defeat as he rubbed a sugar packet between his fingers, rubbing the back of his neck with another hand. “I just— you got caught up in my ex-girlfriend’s shit, and it felt unfair.”

You gestured to him. “You got caught up in my ex best friend and my ex-boyfriend’s shit, so arguably, I should be paying for this.”

“But I already paid.”

“So let’s go out for a drink sometime.” You shrugged. “I wanted to get wasted and forget about this anyway, might as well take you with me.”

His grin was blinding, the kind of thing Vanessa used to giggle about when she first met him. “A little too soon to go out for drinks, huh?”

“It’s a proposition.” You laughed, shrugging. “Drinks on me. Let’s go tomorrow.”

Dick had been used to fancy hotel bars, at least whenever Bruce had thrown parties with bars included. The ones where the bartenders wore suits and ties with top shelf liqueurs.

He felt a sort of thrill when you dragged him into a bar on the corner of 6th, one with dim, flickering warm lights that clashed with blue and purple ones. The bartender wore plaid, spoke in a thick Boston accent, had an unkempt five-o’clock shadow. The bar top was wooden and chipped, and on the makeshift dance floor were plenty of drunk people grinding on each other.

“Oh, this is amazing,” He couldn’t help but smile widely, turning to you. “There are places like this in Gotham?”

“Yes, Mr Trust Fund— Scott!” You flagged down the bartender. “Can we get a round of shot roulette?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” Scott flashed you a smile, wiping down a glass before heading to set up the shot roulette.

Dick turned to you, leaning on the bar slightly, tracing the wood grain with his finger. “So, you come here often?”

You perched yourself on a barstool, prompting him to do the same. Something that sounded like 50 Cent was playing on the speakers in the corners, bass thrumming in the back of your mind. “Oh, all the time. Best place in Gotham.” The shots were slid in front of you, and you both grabbed the glass and chucked it back, both of you humming. “Huh.”

“Kind of… fruity.” He mused, staring at the shot glass, putting it down. He glanced at you through his stupidly long and pretty lashes, clearing his throat. “How did you find out that… never mind.”

You chased the alcohol down with water. “I got a photo of a girl fucking Carter.” You scoffed lightly. “I saw a tattoo on her upper thigh that I’d paid for when we were in college.”

He ran a hand through his hair, huffing. “Fuck, shit, I’m so sorry— she just came clean to me. Maybe after you found out.”

“It’s not your fault.” You said lightly, waving your hand. “It’s theirs. They couldn’t keep it in their pants, Vanessa had a great, hot guy and she lost him, so…”

He couldn’t help his soft smile. “You’re gorgeous too, you know. Carter doesn’t know what he lost.” His eyes flicked down, to your lips, then to a barely working lightbulb like a moth would. But you caught it.

Your teeth snagged your bottom lip.

Vanessa made a huge mistake.

Dick’s hand was firmly on your jaw, leaned over the centre console of his Bentley so his lips could slot easily against yours. Your hand was carding into the floppy strands of his hair, swallowing each other’s heavy breaths. His cologne was deliciously clouding your senses, the hand not on your jaw reaching behind you to grab at your ass, squeezing, teasing your bottom lip with his warm tongue. His mouth separated from yours to burn down your neck, laving your pulse, pressure on your jaw gone in favour of tugging your shirt down over one shoulder to palm your tits over your bra.

“Your apartment is,” You paused to moan quietly, tugging his hair as a keep going, “literally right there. We can — fuck — get comfy.”

He nodded into your neck, brushing your skin with his lips one more time before looking you in the eye. “Good idea.”

You couldn’t remember how you actually got into his apartment, but you did remember stripping him of his clothes and pushing him down onto his bed, unclasping your bra. He hummed, biting his lip. “I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.” You breathed, your breathing stuttering as you ground your panties-covered pussy over his boxers-covered cock.

His hand slid over the back of your neck, encouraging you closer. “Let’s send them a photo,” He murmured, pecking your lips, his nose rubbing against yours. “You know. Revenge.”

Your hand was already scrambling for your phone, switching to selfie mode just as he smashed his lips to yours, your thumb hitting the circular button and taking the photo. “Good?”

“Yeah, fuck, that’s hot,” He nodded, tugging you so he could kiss you, middle finger reaching down to rub at your entrance over your panties. “You’re soaked, shit, sweetheart,” He reached up and tugged, sliding down the lace covering your pussy with his pointer until they slipped off, lazily chucking your panties into the corner of his room. “C’mere.” He grabbed your hips and pulled you till your pussy was right above his mouth.

Wait what— fuck.

His mouth wrapped around your clit as two fingers pushed into your cunt, practically sucking his fingers in, dear God. Your head fell back, mouth dropping open as a surprised moan left you, hand shooting to grip his hair. He groaned, deep in his throat, other hand pressing on the small of your back to encourage you to grind your clit on his tongue that was circling and pressing on your clit.

“O—Oh, Dick—”

“Yeah, that’s right, give it to me, baby.” He moaned, yanking his fingers out, and just before you could protest at the loss of anything filling your aching pussy, he thrusted his tongue into you, flicking at your clit with his thumb, his nose bumping occasionally against you. The taste of you on his tongue made him want to sing your praises, but it came out muffled, the vibrations making your hips twitch and eyes roll back.

Repeated cries of “yes” punctuated by your broken moans fuelled his ego and his already painfully hard dick. With your walls fluttering around his tongue fucking into you, he’d say you were fairly close.

A lot of things were going through your head. Like how this was a stellar pussy eating. How Carter refused to let any part of his face touch your vagina. How Dick was so willing and drinking your arousal up like it was the gods’ nectar.

You were coming on his tongue soon enough, pulling at his hair to make him moan and lap at your cunt faster, slicking his lips and chin.

A minute later, he was still kitten licking you clean, and as much as the stimulation made you stroke his hair and whisper praise, you needed to get a move on. So you pulled yourself away from his mouth, pulling down his boxers while he whined and pawed at your hips to try and bring you back.

“M’ not done— fuuuuck,” His head dropped back into the pillows, giving way for the weight, as you sank down onto his waiting cock. Your warm walls wrapping around him, making his head spin before he snapped into reality. His hands took hold of your hips again, helping you move on him, thumbs kneading your skin as you dragged up and down his dick.

He hadn’t felt like this before. Your lips were on his neck, leaving kiss prints on his skin, from his chest to his jaw and around his lips. Raising your phone and clicking a photo of his fucked-out grin as you rode him, thumb hovering over send to Vanessa.

“You ok with this?” Your voice was uncharacteristically soft, circumstantially breathy, your nails raking down his abs and making him shiver.

He grabbed the phone, pressed send himself, propping himself up so he could take one of your tits into his mouth, sucking to stifle his shamelessly loud moans. Wasn’t working. “Mhm— ride my fucking dick, gorgeous,” He gasped between switching to your other tit, laving over your skin with his tongue. “Just like that, so perfect, honey.”

His mouth running away with him told you he was close, his thumb reaching to rub circles on your clit propelled you that much further, but you refused to come twice before he had even once, so you pulled his head away from your tits, bit his earlobe and sucked a mark behind his ear.

He shuddered and groaned your name, hot come spilling into you — morning after pill, here we come — and the twitch of his cock sent you straight after him, his mouth slamming sloppy into yours, gripping the back of his neck while his tongue slid over your lower lip and his lips following straight after.

You milked him for all he had, until you were both panting and he was staring up at you through his lashes like he wanted to fuck you on all fours. “Wanna go again?”

“We’ve got time.”

carter -> you carter : c'mon, baby, let's talk about it you know i love you she didn't mean anything i swear i can't live without you sweets you : she's busy. carter : doing what???? who is this ??? you : fucking me. it's dick, btw ;) carter : vanessa's ex? you piece of shit give the phone back to her [ blocked ]

vanessa -> dick vanessa : you're really gonna throw years away for that bitch ?you're mine i want you back let's talk about this i miss you so bad we can go to couples counselling, work on our problems together you weren't really fulfilling my needs, i had to look out for myself dick : for a guy who wasn't 'fulfilling your needs' nessie he sure was fulfilling mine vanessa : youre such a bitch to think you were my best friend fucking my EX ??? could you go any lower ?? dick : *you're vanessa : UGH

“Baby,” Rafe calls out in hopes that you’re just in the bathroom. He stares at the ajar door leading to the toilet, but it doesn’t move. No one responds to him. A few birds chirp outside his window, and he finally realises that he’s completely alone right now.

He pouts. Rafe Cameron pouts, because there’s no one here to see him act like a child and he’s missing his pretty girlfriend too much. You left him to wake up alone, so that must mean you hate him.

Fuck. He knew it. He knew you hated him. He’s had a feeling for a good amount of time. An angel like you should never settle for a bullshit of a boyfriend like himself, and you realised that yourself at last.

So Rafe trudges down the stairs of Tannyhill in an absolutely foul mood, sending glares toward every corner despite being alone in the Cameron estate. But even then, even as he’s pouting and frowning and waiting to punch anyone who appears in front of him, he’s still hoping that with every edge he turns, you might appear.

You don’t. Maybe that’s because he hasn’t really turned any corners at all, but still. You don’t appear. You just don’t.

Have you really left? Left Rafe alone to wallow in his misery once again? He hasn’t not had you in a while, and truth be told, he’s gotten too used to it. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. He loves you too much, and he needs you too much. Every second of every day.

“Baby …” he whines in frustration, to no one in particular, as he enters the kitchen, expression contorted like he’s holding back tears. He runs a rough hand through his buzzed hair and tries to grip and pull on his strands, but then he remembers that he doesn’t have that hair anymore.

(He should’ve listened to you when you told him not to shave off all his hair. Is that why you left him? Fuck. He hates his past self now. Why didn’t he listen?)

Rafe heads straight for the coffee machine, grumbling under his breath about how you “better be surprising me with head for scaring me like this.”

“The fuck?”

He whips around, almost spraining a muscle. His eyes are as wide as saucers, pupils blown so wide that the blue of his irises is almost nonexistent. Rafe swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he stares straight at you.

Shit. Did she hear that?

“What’s got your panties in a fuckin’ twist?” you scoff lightheartedly, amusement lacing your features as you laugh softly. You’re holding a mug, filled with your morning coffee already, and Rafe thinks he might cry.

Your lips part again so you can say something, but Rafe doesn’t hear a single word at all. His mind is racing, and his heart is beating too loudly in his chest. He can hear his heartbeat speeding up with every second that passes, and the pace with which he approaches you almost matches the rate his heart is going at.

“No— Nonononono, my coffee—” you sputter, attempting to save your day’s life support by leaving it safe on the nearest counter. A good half of it spills anyway when Rafe throws himself at you, clutching you so tightly you wonder if you’ve done something wrong.

The base of your mug clatters against the marble counter. Rafe buries his face into your neck, inhaling your scent like he’s forgotten it over the time he spent without you in bed with him. He lets out a soft sound that’s a little too similar to a dog’s pitiful whimper.

His nose twitches. “Why did you leave?”

You roll your eyes, but hug him back just as firmly. You’re a little pissed that you’ve lost some of your energy in the form of caffeine, but you have no capacity to think about that as Rafe hugs you so close you’re practically one figure now.

“I was literally just going back up,” you deadpan, patting his back gently, trying to soothe him. You swear he’s crying into your shoulder — is he sniffling? Whining? You’re not sure. You do know that he’s sulking, though. He always does.

And then the proof comes: Rafe groans, the sound muffled from the way he presses his face against you. It’s familiar, because you’ve heard it countless times over the course of your relationship. Which is practically every single fucking day.

He doesn’t say anything, much to your exasperation. He never says anything though, so you don’t know why you’re so pressed. You file that thought away and focus on soothing your big baby of a boyfriend.

For a few very long moments, the two of you stay like that. You’re not sure how much time has passed, but it’s enough for you to grow tired on your feet (because you haven’t had your morning coffee yet).

“Can we—?” you begin, but Rafe cuts you off promptly.

“I thought you left,” he says sadly into your neck, and you can hear the slight crack in his voice. The shakiness and fear of his statement possibly being true when he woke up without you by his side. “For real, baby. I thought you actually packed your shit and left.”

Your annoyance fades into a fond sort of concern. Rafe has attachment issues, and you’re the one person he actually loves too much to let go of. He’s made it clear that anyone else can fuck off when he gets tired, but you? The six feet two future CEO of Cameron Development never wants you to be out of his sight. He needs to have you with him every time.

It’s clear to even a blind person that Rafe can’t function properly without you. Ward’s labelled you a liability countless times before, but Rafe doesn’t care — he hasn’t cared in a long time, and neither have you.

Your head turns to press a kiss against his temple. “Sorry, baby,” you murmur, warm breath tickling his skin. He shifts a little and buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck. “I didn’t think you’d wake up yet. You know I’ll never leave you like that.”

Rafe makes an unintelligible noise that you’re about to question, but then he pulls away from your neck and stares down at you with that pout. You fall silent immediately, watching closely as Rafe’s expression changes from sulky to hopeful and relaxed.

“Yeah,” he whispers, like raising his voice even just a little would chase you away. “You won’t. You love me too much.”

You flash a smile at him, cupping his face tenderly, when he suddenly leans down to kiss you. “Rafe—!”

He plants a giddy kiss on your lips, short and sweet, before pecking your entire face over and over again like he can’t get enough of you. Rafe’s relishing the soft laughs you’re letting out, his heart lurching at the realisation that he’s making you laugh like this.

How could you leave him when you look so happy having his kisses all over your face?

“Come back to bed,” he mumbles, focusing his affection on the corner of your mouth. When he locks eyes with you, you can see the plea in the blue. “We haven’t cuddled enough.”

You nod despite yourself, already reaching for your mug (now half-filled because of a certain someone), but Rafe has other plans.

The fucker picks you up bridal style, ignoring the yelp you make.

“You’re not escaping me this time,” he reasons simply, already walking out of the kitchen despite your protests about your abandoned (and spilt) coffee. You eventually quieten down about it when you realise Rafe won’t be turning around.

Now your coffee’s going to get cold, and you’ll have to make another one.

“You don’t need coffee when you’re gonna spend the whole day with me,” Rafe huffs petulantly, as if he can read your thoughts (and at this point, he probably can, with how well he’s able to decipher your expressions).

“You are exactly why I need coffee,” you grumble under your breath, then let out a high-pitched scream when Rafe almost drops you. “Hey! You know it’s true!”

“But you still love me.”

“Debatable.”

“I’m gonna throw you out the window.”

“You won’t do that. You almost cried ‘cause you woke up alone.”

“I— Fuck. Fine. But we’re still cuddling.”

•───────•°•♡•°•───────•

“Baby,” you call out quietly.

Your boyfriend, who’s seated right next to you, hums at the nickname. It’s his way of telling you that he’s all ears for you, without removing his eyes from the monitor.

“Are you busy?”

His fingers hesitate on the keyboard, weighing the answer before finally deciding on, “A bit.”

Your eyes sparkle in your mirror before dropping the question that always makes him fold, “too busy for me?”

And like clockwork, his fingers pause indefinitely and rest on the keys before turning to you.  There’s a slight upcurve of his lips, with a tease lingering in his eyes when he narrows them playfully at you.

“You know the answer to that.”

You did. It was always never.

It’s almost funny, you would’ve never imagined that Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne had separation anxiety. From the beginning of your relationship, he was the most avoidant guy you’d ever gone out with. He’d say it was fine if you couldn’t see him for a week, or went a full day without talking, or hell even going to bed before saying goodnight.

He wasn’t good at letting himself want things- not truly anyway. Then after a few months and you both got more serious, it was like a light switch flickered on.

He rarely wanted to be apart from you. He’d be with you every opportunity he could. It didn’t always have to be a date, you guys didn’t even have to talk. It was just comforting to know that you were somewhere near him, choosing to exist with him.

It was actually so serious, that when he started organizing the apartment for you to move in, he made room next to his desk for your vanity. While he would spend hours on his computer working on files or looking over spreadsheets for WE, you would spend hours testing new makeup looks. This was just another way for him to coexist with you- a parallel play of sorts.

 When you both visited the manor last week, Selina gifted you a brand new lipstick collection someone sent her in the mail. After her wedding to the most eligible bachelor in Gotham, brands began to send her thousands of packages of PR.

She knew realistically, she wasn’t going to use it all. So, most of the packages ended up donated to woman’s shelters or regifted to some of the bats or bat-adjacent people, like you.

Now, after weeks of putting it off, you finally got to cleaning your vanity. While taking in your work, you began eyeing the new collection from where it rested in front of you for a few minutes; debating what to do with it when the idea hit you.

“Well, Selina gave me these lipsticks when we were at the manor last week,” you start off the pitch and he raises an eyebrow, amused.

“I remember,” he removes his hands from the keyboards. Pushing off the desk, he crosses his arms over his chest turning all his attention to you.

“And I was thinking, how on earth could I test all of these and see what I think of each shade?” opening the drawer to your left without looking away from him, you retrieve the small packet of makeup wipes from it and place it on his desk.

His eyes shoot to it for a second before turning back to you. “I don’t know darling, how do you plan on doing all that?”

A big toothy smile creeps onto your face and he mirrors it. He knew what you were planning, but it was always fun to watch him play along when you got in your moods.

“Well I just remembered,” leaning over, you drag his chair to right in front of you, “I have the perfect canvas right here.”

He laughs, it’s not loud and it doesn’t fill the room, but it fills your heart. It’s a quiet thing that eases every discomfort you’ve had through the day. This little laugh is him unguarded, it’s him giving you a part of him he doesn’t give anyone else.

There’s a small shake of his head, before he picks you up and sits you on top of him. Your legs are straddling his and a small giggle escapes you when he places a hand on your back. Leaning forward to grab the box filled with thirty different lip sticks, he moves them to his desk.

“Come on Ms. Arteest, make me beautiful.”

You can’t help the snort that escapes you. He’s relaxed back on his chair ready for you to attack him with different shades of red, pink, and mauve.

Opening the first one, you twist the bottom to apply it on your lips, and he springs into action. Carefully taking it from your hands, he whispers a quiet domestic “let me,” before applying it for you.

And that- well that, has your face burning to a red that rivals your lips. Tim was always an acts of service guy, so this wasn’t particularly new, but it was still sweet. It winded you sometimes because it always came from nowhere. It was out of the blue when you least expected it, he would jump at little things.

His eyebrows furrow together with a barely there wrinkle between them when he focuses, making sure to apply it on your lips just right.

Pulling back to admire his work, no amount of strength from you biting your cheeks could hold back the smile.

You place the first kiss on his cheek and back away, admiring the first of many. Then Tim reaches behind you and picks up a makeup wipe from your pack to clean the shade off for you, and the process repeats.

You filled his right cheek, then his left, then pinned back his hair to paint his forehead, then his neck. And when you ran out of room, you pulled over his shirt and continued going down. Giggles echoed in the vents of the apartment you shared, and Tim thought he could die happy in this chair looking up at you.

When you got to the last shade, you dropped the kiss right above his heart. His face was pink for an entirely different reason now.

Without saying anything, he holds you close to him and stands up. Your legs wrap around his waist with a yelp. He moves to look at both of you in the mirror and grins.

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look this happy before. In your reflections, you don’t see the mastermind vigilante Red Robin. You don’t see the boy who held the world on his shoulders. No, you see your boyfriend. You see the man who always shows up for you, the man who didn’t think he was ever going to be loved, and the man who adored you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“What do you think?” your voice is breathless while making eye contact with him through the mirror.

“I think,” his face has still has the ghost of all your laughs lingering in his cheeks and you would treasure this sight forever, “I think that this one,” he points to the bright red stain on the center of his forehead, “is my favorite.”

Then he turns away from the mirror and starts making his way across the apartment, peppering your face and neck with kisses of his own. Sounds of Joy filling the hallways as you give yourselves a break from the world.

Arriving to the bedroom, he drops both of you on the bed. Caging you under him with his arms, he has a wicked smile before whispering above your mouth,

“Now it’s my turn.”

•───────•°•♡•°•───────•

He spends Wednesday night in the hockey-house kitchen complaining that she’s been suspiciously affectionate since the weekend, as though her sitting sideways across his lap is evidence of organised crime. He pulls her closer each time she tries to stand, mouth finding the side of her neck while Dean watches from across the island with the hollow expression of a man being punished for sins committed in a previous life.

“What’re you hiding?” Garrett murmurs against her skin.

“Nothing.”

“You said that too fast.”

“You ask stupid questions.”

His hand slides under the back of her sweatshirt, warm palm settling over the curve of her waist less than an inch above the tattoo. She goes still for one sharp second, then catches his wrist and drags his hand around to her stomach before his fingers can wander lower.

Garrett narrows his eyes. She kisses him before the investigation can advance.

By Friday, the secret has begun to feel hot, because it’s his. A tiny private mark resting beneath her clothes while Garrett walks beside her across campus with one hand hooked through the strap of her bag, completely unaware that forty-four is inked into her skin. 

He complains about practice. She complains about an exam question that used the phrase most appropriate intervention despite three answers being clinically reasonable. His thumb finds the bare strip of her wrist where her sleeve has ridden up. All the while, his number is sitting just above the waistband of her jeans.

The thought stays with her when he arrives at her dorm that night.

Her roommate has gone to visit her parents for the weekend, and Garrett appears just after nine in grey sweats and a black hoodie and cheeks pink from the cold. He has a backpack over one shoulder, though she doubts it contains a single item remotely connected to studying. The last time he brought a textbook to her room, it remained unopened beneath her desk for three days while Garrett insisted proximity counted as academic effort.

“Hi, baby,” he says when she opens the door.

She barely gets the lock turned before his hands are on her. It begins with one kiss, which is how most of their poor decisions begin now. Garrett catches her waist and pulls her into him with the deep, satisfied exhale of someone who’s spent the whole walk across campus anticipating exactly this. 

His mouth is cold from outside and warm beneath it, lips moving over hers slowly while she hooks both hands into the front of his hoodie and walks him backward toward the bed.

“You missed me,” he murmurs.

“I saw you this morning.”

“Exactly.”

“You slept in my bed.”

He shakes his head. “Not long enough.”

The backs of his knees hit the mattress. Garrett sits and draws her down with him before she can pretend she intended anything else, her legs opening around his hips as she settles over his lap.

The first press of him beneath her is enough to strip whatever remained of the evening’s patience. He’s already half hard through the soft fabric of his sweats, heat and shape caught between them when she rolls her hips forward. 

Garrett’s head tips back slightly. The smile that moves across his mouth is slow and knowing, his hands spreading over her hips beneath the oversized hoodie she’s stolen from him so many times it’s practically transferred ownership.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

She catches his curls at the back of his head and brings his mouth to hers before he can become any more pleased with himself. The kiss turns wet and deep almost immediately, Garrett’s tongue sliding over hers while she grinds down again, a little harder, friction catching warm between her thighs through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts and underwear.

He groans against her mouth. His fingers tighten. “Fuck, baby.”

Her hoodie is too warm suddenly. The dorm room is too small, too dim, the little lamp beside her bed throwing everything into soft amber while rain ticks faintly against the window. Garrett’s shoulders fill the space beneath her hands. His thighs flex under hers every time she moves, and she can feel him becoming fully hard beneath her, thick and insistent and still separated from her by several deeply unnecessary layers of clothing.

He kisses across the corner of her mouth, along her jaw, down the side of her neck with the greedy familiarity of someone returning to a favourite argument. His teeth scrape lightly beneath her ear. 

She inhales and tightens her fingers in his hair. “Garrett.”

“Mm?”

“That feels good,” she breathes.

“I know.” His mouth drags lower. “You’re humping me like you’re trying to start a fire.”

She rolls her hips again because Garrett’s smugness has always been more effective encouragement than he understands. His hands guide the movement, pulling her forward over the hard line of him and then back, slower on the return so the pressure catches exactly where her body has already become embarrassingly sensitive.

Her next breath breaks against his cheek. Garrett smiles into her throat. “Yeah?”

“Don’t.”

“Wasn’t saying anything.”

She tugs hard enough on his curls to lift his mouth back to hers. Garrett laughs into the kiss, low and rough, then grips her beneath the thighs and stands. The movement steals a startled sound from her. Her legs tighten around his waist on instinct, arms locking behind his neck while Garrett takes one step, turns and lowers her onto the mattress. The bed gives beneath their combined weight, springs creaking a small complaint that neither of them acknowledges.

He comes down over her immediately. Their mouths meet badly at first, teeth knocking, her laugh caught between them while Garrett braces one hand beside her head and uses the other to drag her higher beneath him. Then the angle settles and everything goes hot again. His body fits heavily between her thighs, hips pressing down until she can feel the full hard length of him through his sweats.

She arches into it. Garrett’s breath catches. “Jesus.”

His hoodie becomes an obstacle. He sits back just long enough to grab the hem and strip it over his head, hair coming up with it in a dark, disordered mess. The shirt underneath follows, both pieces dropped somewhere near the foot of the bed while she pushes herself onto her elbows to watch.

Garrett catches her looking. His grin flashes. “See something you like?”

“Not especially,” she grins.

“Liar.”

He climbs back over her before she can improve the insult, one hand sliding beneath her hoodie and over her stomach. His palm is hot against her skin, callused fingers spreading over her ribs while he kisses her again and starts working the fabric upward.

She lifts her arms. The hoodie catches briefly around one wrist. Garrett frees it with a sharp tug and tosses it toward the chair, where it lands halfway over a clean pile of scrubs.

The air moves cool over her bare stomach and the little green lace bra she chose that morning with absolutely no ulterior motive. Garrett stills above her. His gaze drops. His eyes travel slowly over the lace, the soft rise of her breasts above the cups, the way her nipples have tightened beneath the fabric from cold air and attention.

“Fuck,” he says.

Her face warms. “You’ve seen this bra.”

“Don’t remember.”

She tilts her head. “You took it off with your teeth.”

“Must’ve been distracted.”

He bends before she can answer, mouth closing over one breast through the lace. Her head drops back. The thin fabric turns damp and warm under his tongue as he mouths her through it, one hand slipping beneath the other breast to lift it while his thumb presses over the sensitive peak. He sucks harder. Pleasure catches bright and immediate low in her stomach, dragging a helpless sound from her throat.

Garrett hums against her, he likes this part too much. Seeing the change in her breathing. Feeling her thighs shift more restlessly around his hips. Learning which pressure makes her voice climb and then repeating it with the focused persistence he brings to anything he has decided matters.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, mouth moving across the centre of her chest. “Know what you looked like all week?”

She swallows. “What?”

“Like you were thinking about me.”

“I was doing other things.”

“Mm.” He slips one finger beneath the edge of the bra and drags it slowly along the skin there. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

His mouth finds the other breast. One hand reaches behind her, and the clasp opens with the efficient little flick he’s far too proud of having mastered. Garrett pulls the straps down her arms, drops the bra beside them and immediately puts his mouth back on her.

His lips closing around one nipple while his hand covers the other, squeezing and rolling it between two fingers until her whole body pulls tight beneath him. She grabs at his curls. “Oh, fuck.”

Garrett looks up at her without lifting his mouth, dark eyes warm and wicked beneath the hair falling over his forehead. He gives one slow suck, then releases her with a wet little sound. “Sensitive tonight.”

“It’s been days,” she whines.

“Four.”

“That’s days.”

“My poor baby.” His voice drops into false sympathy while his thumb circles the damp nipple he has left behind. “Been walking around all needy because her boyfriend had practice?”

“I’ve had exams.”

“Those are over.”

“Exactly.”

His grin presses against the skin beneath her breast. “So now you’re mine.”

The words send a hot, liquid pull through the centre of her body.

Garrett feels the way she shifts against him. His hand slides down her stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of her shorts. “These off?”

She lifts her hips. He drags the shorts and underwear down together, impatient once they catch around her thighs, his mouth following the movement over her stomach and hip. The clothing disappears over one ankle and lands somewhere beyond the bed.

Garrett spreads her knees. The air touches her first. Then his eyes, and his face changes.

There’s something shamelessly gratifying about Garrett looking at her like this, the same boy who can stand beneath arena lights in front of thousands of people without blinking now visibly losing the thread of his own breathing because she is naked on a dorm bed. He presses one palm against the inside of her thigh and opens her wider. “Baby.”

She covers her face with one arm. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Make what weird?” His thumb skims along the crease where her thigh meets her body, close enough that her hips lift toward it. “How wet you are?”

Her entire face heats behind her arm.

Garrett laughs softly, then kisses the inside of her knee. “That’s not weird. That’s hot.”

“Garrett.”

“Been like this since I got here?”

She lowers her arm just enough to glare at him.

His mouth curves. “Longer?”

“Come here,” she groans.

“I am here.”

“Higher.”

“No.” He presses another kiss farther up her thigh, then another, slow enough to make every inch between his mouth and where she needs it feel deliberate. “Like it down here.”

She knows that. Everyone in a three-mile radius may know that.

Garrett Graham treats getting his mouth between her thighs less like foreplay and more like a personal calling. He’s arrived late to parties because he refused to stop. He’s missed the beginning of a movie, let Tucker’s dinner go cold and once remained there long enough that she had to pull him up by the hair and remind him she possessed other body parts.

Now he settles onto his stomach like this is where he intended to spend the evening, one arm hooking firmly around her thigh while the other hand spreads her open.

His first lick is slow. It moves from low to high with the flat of his tongue, collecting the wetness already gathered there before pressing deliberately over her clit. Her hips lift from the mattress. Garrett keeps her there with his forearm and does it again.

“Fuck,” she breathes.

His mouth closes over her. There’s nothing tentative about the way Garrett eats her out. He licks like he’s hungry and has never been embarrassed by appetite, tongue circling and flattening and flicking until her legs are tense around his shoulders and the fitted sheet has begun to twist beneath her hands. He kisses her between strokes, wet open-mouthed presses that feel obscene in the quiet room, then drags his tongue lower and pushes it inside her.

Her breath punches out. Garrett groans into her. The sound vibrates through her body, low and rough, while he fucks his tongue into her with one hand still holding her open. She reaches down blindly, finds his curls and pulls, to keep him exactly there.

He understands. His fingers tighten around her thigh. “Missed this,” he murmurs against her, the words broken by another slow lick.

“You saw me yesterday.”

“Didn’t do this yesterday.”

His mouth closes over her clit again before she can argue, sucking with enough pressure to make her legs jump. She gasps his name. Garrett answers by pressing two fingers against her entrance.

He pushes one in first, slow only because her body is already clenching around the intrusion. The second follows quickly, stretching her with the familiar pressure that makes her thighs fall wider even as the rest of her pulls tight.

His fingers curl. Pleasure strikes deep and sharp, the angle exact enough that her back arches from the mattress.

“There,” Garrett murmurs.

She makes a sound that has no language left in it. His fingers begin moving properly, pumping into her while his mouth stays fixed on her clit, the rhythm deliberately uneven at first as he listens to her breathing and watches the twitch of her stomach. Then he finds it. The pace that makes her hips start chasing him, makes her fingers clench in his hair and her other hand grab uselessly at the pillow beside her head.

The room has narrowed to wet heat, the sound of Garrett’s mouth and the steady drag of his fingers and rain brushing softly at the window like the whole campus has agreed to look away.

“Oh my God,” she whimpers. “Baby, I’m–”

Garrett moans against her, his fingers curling harder. He knows. The fact that he knows makes it worse. She comes with her thighs clamping around his head and his name breaking high out of her throat. Pleasure rolls through her in hard, pulsing waves, stomach tightening beneath the drag of his forearm while Garrett keeps licking her through it, slower only when her body begins jerking away from the sensitivity.

By the time he lifts his mouth, she’s breathing like she’s run somewhere.

Garrett wipes the lower half of his face against the inside of her thigh with no dignity whatsoever and starts kissing his way back up her body. Her skin feels loose and over-warm beneath him, every place his mouth touches sparking faintly in the aftermath.

He kisses her stomach, between her breasts, the base of her throat. Then he comes over her and catches her mouth.

She tastes herself immediately. Garrett doesn’t ease her into it, tongue sliding between her lips while one hand wraps around the side of her neck, thumb resting beneath her jaw and fingers spread gently along her pulse.

The hold is firm without pressure. Familiar. Enough to keep her face angled exactly where he wants it while he kisses her slow and filthy, swallowing the little post-orgasm sound she makes when his hips settle between her thighs again.

He pulls back by half an inch. “Hi,” he murmurs.

Her mouth curves before she can stop it. Her body is still humming, muscles heavy against the mattress. “Hi.”

Garrett kisses her once more, quick this time, then brushes his nose over hers. “Roll over.”

His eyes are dark, cheeks flushed and mouth still wet from her. Whatever version of Garrett arrived smiling at her door has disappeared beneath something rougher and hungrier, the easy confidence sharpened now that he has her naked and loose beneath him.

She turns. The movement exposes the tattoo before she remembers it exists.

For the last twenty minutes, she’s been too occupied by Garrett’s mouth to think about anything except Garrett’s mouth. Now she settles onto her stomach, forearms folding near the headboard while the cool air brushes over her back.

Behind her, the mattress shifts. Garrett stands long enough to shove his sweats and boxers down, fabric dragging over his thighs before landing somewhere near the edge of the bed. 

Then his hand slides over the back of her thigh. He lifts one knee onto the mattress, catches the pillow near her head and says, “Up a little, baby.”

She raises her hips obediently. Garrett tucks the pillow beneath them, adjusts her with both hands and goes completely still. Every muscle in her body remembers at once.

Her eyes widen into the pillow. “Baby–”

Garrett’s hands close over her hips before she can turn. Firm enough that the message is immediate. Stay.

She swallows. The room is silent behind her.

Garrett’s thumbs rest on either side of her lower back, just beneath the small square of skin where the tattoo sits. She can feel him looking at it. The attention is almost physical, a line of heat dragging across the freshly settled numbers.

“Fuuuck,” he says eventually.

The word leaves him slowly, low enough to move through the mattress. She tries to glance back over one shoulder. His grip stops her from twisting too far.

“Is that real?”

The disbelief in his voice makes her want to laugh, though her stomach has gone tight beneath the pillow. “Mhm.”

“Is that…” He trails off. His thumb moves closer, hovering beside the tattoo without touching the healing skin. “That’s forty-four.”

She presses her face into her forearm. “Yeah.”

“When?”

“The other night.”

“What other night?”

“The girls’ night.” She bites her lip. “When we went out to the bar.”

Garrett says nothing. The silence stretches long enough that the heat in her body begins rearranging itself around nerves. She had imagined Garrett shocked. She had imagined him smug, turned on, maybe insufferable enough that she would have to threaten to remove his number with a vegetable peeler.

She hadn’t imagined silence.

She pushes herself onto one elbow. “Baby, are you… are you mad?”

“Mad?” His hands tighten and release against her hips. “I mean– shit. It’s…” He breathes out hard through his nose. “Baby, that’s a tattoo.”

“Yes.”

“That shit’s permanent.”

“I know how tattoos work,” she breathes.

“I’m just saying.” He sounds dazed. “You put my number on you.”

She turns her face enough that she can see part of him over her shoulder: broad chest, flushed skin, curls fallen over his forehead, eyes fixed helplessly on the tiny forty-four as though it's altered the known structure of the universe.

“Well,” she says, and the laugh caught in her voice makes it softer than she intended. “I love you.”

Garrett’s gaze lifts to her face.

She shrugs carefully beneath his hands. “And I think it’s hot.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Then his hand slides over her ass. The touch is slow, almost absent at first, his palm following the curve of one cheek while he continues staring at the tattoo. His thumb presses into the soft flesh. His fingers spread wider.

“Hot,” he repeats.

“Mhm.”

“You think this is hot.”

“I did when I got it,” she nods.

Garrett bends. His mouth lands on the curve of her ass, one open kiss followed by another. She gasps softly when his teeth catch the lower edge of one cheek, biting just enough to sting before his tongue smooths over the mark.

“Garrett.”

He kisses higher, across the small of her back, careful when he reaches the tattoo. His mouth stops just beneath it, breath warm over the healing skin without touching.

“No liquids on this yet, right?” he asks, voice rough.

A giggle slips out of her before she can stop it. “Not yet.”

Garrett closes his eyes. She feels the exhale against her lower back. “Fuck.”

His hands move suddenly. One catches beneath her hip and pulls her higher over the pillow. The other spreads firmly between her shoulder blades, pressing her chest down as Garrett shifts closer behind her.

She feels the blunt heat of him at her entrance. “Baby–”

He pushes in. The first thrust is controlled only in the technical sense that Garrett doesn’t injure either of them. He fills her in one hard, steady drive, stretching her around him so quickly that her mouth falls open and the sound tears out before she can soften it.

“Oh, fuck, Garrett.” His fingers dig into her hip. “Holy shit.”

He withdraws nearly to the tip and drives back into her. The force sends her forward against the pillow, breasts dragging over the sheets while pleasure catches deep and hot through her body. She reaches blindly for the headboard. Garrett catches her other hip and sets a rhythm before she has finished taking the second breath.

Hard. Fast. No adjustment period because her body is already wet and open from his mouth, already clenching around him with every rough stroke. The bed knocks softly against the wall. Her dorm mattress squeaks beneath them with increasing distress.

Garrett’s breathing turns ragged behind her. “This is…” Another thrust drives the sentence out of him. “Shit. This is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

She whimpers into the pillow. His palm comes down against the side of her ass – a sharp, hot smack that makes her body jerk and tighten around him.

Garrett groans. “Fuck, baby.”

Her hands lose their grip on the headboard. One slips back toward him, finding nothing but his thigh for half a second before Garrett catches her wrist and pins it against the centre of her back. The position lifts her shoulder slightly and arches her deeper over the pillow. Garrett looks down at the curve of her ass. His cock disappearing into her. His number sitting neat and dark above all of it.

Something in him breaks. He fucks her harder. There’s no uncertainty left in the movement now. Garrett’s hips slam against her with enough force that the bed shifts beneath them, one hand holding her wrist while the other grips her hip and drags her back to meet every thrust. 

The room fills with the wet slap of their bodies, her broken moans and the low, filthy things Garrett keeps saying every time the sight of the tattoo seems to hit him again.

“My fucking number.” She nods into the pillow, though he cannot see it. “On this ass.” His hand tightens around her hip. “Jesus Christ. You’re insane.”

The laugh that tries to leave her turns into a cry when he changes the angle, lifting her slightly higher and driving in deeper. “Oh God!”

“That it?” Garrett’s voice is rough and breathless now, all the usual smug control fraying at the edges. “Right there?”

“Yes.” She twists her pinned hand beneath his palm. “Baby, yes.”

He gives it to her again. Same angle, harder. Her whole body pulls tight. The pleasure is building too quickly, dragged out of the soft aftershocks of the first orgasm and sharpened by every deep stroke. Her thighs have begun to shake against the mattress, knees slipping wider while Garrett keeps her exactly where he wants her.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Pretty girl can’t even hold herself up.”

She presses her forehead harder into the pillow, voice breaking. “You’re fucking me too hard.”

“You want me to stop?”

She shakes her head so fast her cheek drags against the pillowcase. 

Garrett’s hand leaves her wrist only so he can reach around and catch her jaw, turning her face enough that he can see it over her shoulder. “Use your words.”

“Don’t stop.” Her eyes meet his badly from the angle, vision already blurred at the edges. “Please, baby. Fuck me.”

His expression goes wrecked. “Good girl.”

He pushes her hand back to the mattress and drives into her hard enough that the next sound comes out of her as a sob. The orgasm hits before she has time to announce it. Her body clamps around him, hard pulsing contractions that make Garrett swear and lose the rhythm for one brutal second. Then he keeps going, fucking her through it while her legs tremble and her fingers claw at the sheets.

“Garrett,” she cries.

“I know.” His hand spreads over the side of her ass, holding her open. “I know, baby. Give it to me.”

She comes apart around him, hips jerking beneath his grip. Pleasure rolls through her so hard that her ears ring faintly, body suspended in the bright, breathless place where everything hurts in exactly the right way.

Garrett doesn’t stop. He slows for perhaps two strokes, just enough to let her breathe, then pulls her hips higher again.

“Baby,” she gasps, oversensitive and loose beneath him.

His palm slides gently along her spine, avoiding the tattoo, while his hips continue moving. “You good?”

“Yes.”

“Still want me?”

“Yes,” she breathes, the answer comes without hesitation.

Garrett bends and kisses between her shoulder blades. “Then take it.”

His pace builds again. The third climb is different. Messier. Her body is already shaken open, every nerve sparking too close to the surface while Garrett keeps driving into her with the relentless focus of somebody who has discovered a new reason to lose his mind and intends to study it thoroughly.

He reaches beneath her, a two fingers find her clit. She squeals.

Garrett laughs once, breathless and filthy against her shoulder. “There she is.”

“I can’t,” she whines.

“Yeah, you can.”

His fingers circle faster while his hips maintain the same punishing rhythm. She tries to close her legs, but Garrett’s knees are between hers, keeping her open. The pressure builds with nowhere to go, every thrust feeding it higher while his number burns invisibly at the base of her spine under his fixed attention.

“My girl,” Garrett says. “Look so fucking good with my number on you.”

She nods helplessly.

“Whose good girl, huh?”

Her mouth opens. Nothing useful comes out. Garrett’s fingers slow. The loss is immediate. She whines and pushes back against him.

He catches her hip. “Asked you something.”

“I am,” she gasps.

“Yeah?”

“I’m your good girl.”

The words hit him like contact. Garrett groans and drives into her, his fingers returning to the exact pressure she needs. “That’s right.”

Her third orgasm catches at the edge for one impossible second, body stretched between too much and not enough. Then Garrett’s thumb presses harder.

She comes with a sharp little cry that turns into a squeal halfway through, legs shaking so violently the mattress trembles beneath her. Her arms give out completely. Garrett catches her by the waist before she collapses awkwardly, holding her up while he keeps moving through the contractions with short, desperate strokes.

“Fuck.” His forehead drops between her shoulder blades. “Fuck, baby.”

She’s barely inside her own body now. Everything feels warm, loose and distant, Garrett’s hands the only clear edges left. He slows. His breathing is rough against her skin. His cock is still hard inside her, every small movement enough to make her twitch.

She swallows, trying to rebuild language. “Lemme…”

Garrett stills. “What?”

She turns her head toward him, cheek against the sheet. “Want you to finish… in my mouth.”

The words come soft and dazed. She tries to roll. Her body responds in pieces, thighs trembling beneath her and arms gone soft enough that Garrett takes over almost immediately, pulling out with a low, wrecked groan before catching her hip and turning her carefully onto her back. 

He snatches the pillow away before it can drag across the tender skin at her lower spine, tosses it somewhere toward the wall and hooks both hands beneath her arms to draw her upright.

For a second, she only sits there between his knees, naked and thoroughly ruined, hair tangled around her flushed face and lips parted around breaths that still haven’t found a sensible rhythm. 

Her thighs keep giving tiny, involuntary tremors against his, the room blurred pleasantly at the edges while Garrett kneels in front of her with his chest heaving and his cock hard, wet and flushed between them.

He looks at her like she’s done something genuinely dangerous. The tattoo. His number sitting permanently above her ass, still hidden from this angle and branded into the centre of his brain now that he knows it exists.

His hand comes to her face, thumb dragging slowly over her swollen bottom lip. “Look at you.”

She turns her mouth into his palm and kisses it, then reaches for him. Garrett’s breath catches when her fingers wrap around his cock. He’s slick from her and from himself, hot and heavy against her palm, and the first slow stroke makes the muscle jump visibly beneath his stomach.

“Baby,” he groans.

She looks up at him through lashes still damp from everything he has already done to her. Her body feels boneless, loose and warm enough that even lifting her chin requires concentration, but wanting him is simple. Wanting to give something back after he has spent the last hour pulling pleasure out of her until she could barely remember her own name feels simpler still.

She loves him. Stupidly. Completely. Enough to put his number into her skin and kneel there afterward with her legs shaking, wanting to watch his face when she makes him lose whatever control he has left.

Garrett cups the back of her head. His fingers sink into the tangled hair there, holding without directing her, his thumb moving once near the base of her skull. “You don’t have to, baby.”

“I want to.” The answer comes quiet and a little hoarse.

Something in his face shifts. His jaw tightens, eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before finding hers again. “Yeah?”

She nods and leans forward. The first drag of her tongue along the underside of him tears a rough sound from Garrett’s chest. She feels it more than hears it, low and helpless above her while she kisses the tip, lips closing softly around him before taking him into her mouth.

Garrett’s head falls back. “Fuck.”

His hand tightens in her hair as she works him deeper, tongue flattened beneath the hot weight of him while her fingers curl around the base. She’s sloppy from exhaustion and want, mouth already wet, movements slower than they usually are because her whole body is still recovering from him. 

Garrett seems to like that more. The soft mess of it. The way she has to pause for breath with her lips still brushing him. The way she looks up at him like there’s nowhere else in the world she has any interest in being.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Fuck, you’re so good to me.”

The praise moves warmly through her, settling somewhere lower than the soreness and higher than her ribs. She takes him again, deeper this time, cheeks hollowing as her hand follows the rhythm her mouth sets. Garrett looks down, and his expression breaks open.

She can see the tattoo still living behind his eyes, the disbelief of it layered into every filthy, affected look he gives her. His girlfriend kneeling between his thighs with his cock in her mouth and his number newly inked above her ass. The thought appears to have stripped away the final useful part of his brain.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, voice catching when she swirls her tongue around the head. “You put my number on your fucking body and now you’re looking at me like that.”

She hums around him. Garrett’s stomach jerks. His hips push forward on instinct, not enough to take over, only enough to slide him deeper across her tongue. Her eyes water faintly. She keeps looking up at him through the blur, one hand braced against his thigh and the other stroking what she cannot fit.

His thumb brushes gently beneath one of her eyes, catching the dampness there. “So fucking pretty.”

Her thighs tighten beneath her. She takes him again, eager despite how tired she is, mouth moving wetly over him while Garrett praises every little thing she does as though he cannot stop the words now that they have started.

“Good girl. Just like that.” She sucks harder. “Fuck, baby, your mouth.” Her nails catch lightly against his thigh. “Love when you look at me.”

She does. She watches every part of it: the tension sharpening his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his curls cling slightly at his temples, the hard flex of his stomach each time she takes him deep enough to make his breathing fail.

Garrett’s fingers spread more securely over the back of her head. “You know how fucking crazy you make me?”

She pulls back just far enough to breathe, her hand continuing its slow movement over him. A thin line of saliva connects her bottom lip to the flushed head before breaking, and Garrett watches it disappear with an expression bordering on pain.

She kisses him there once. “How crazy?”

He gives a breathless laugh that contains no real humour. “You tattooed forty-four above your ass.”

“Mhm.”

“Then let me fuck you until your legs stopped working.”

She smiles, dazed and soft. “They still work.”

“Barely.”

His thumb passes over her cheek. She turns and kisses it, then takes him into her mouth again before he can say anything else. Garrett groans her name.

The sound makes her try harder, because she loves hearing him come apart for her. Loves that Garrett, who carries entire games on his shoulders and makes confidence look effortless, cannot hide a single thing when her mouth is on him. Every rough breath belongs to her. Every flex of his hand in her hair. Every broken piece of praise dragged out of him while she strokes and sucks and watches him lose control.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Fuck, baby. Don’t stop.”

She doesn’t. Her hand slides lower, fingers tightening around the base as she takes him deeply enough that her throat works around him. Garrett’s hips jerk once. His free hand braces hard against the wall beside her bed, forearm flexing while he tries to hold himself still.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked.

She looks up at him and keeps moving. Garrett says her name again, rougher this time, but she only tightens her lips around him and strokes faster, wanting it. Wanting all of him. Wanting the moment his face finally loses every trace of control because of her.

His eyes drop to hers. That does it.

Garrett comes with a deep, broken groan, hips pushing forward once as his hand tightens helplessly in her hair. She takes him, swallowing around the first hot pulse while his whole body shudders above her.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Fuck– such a good fucking girl.”

The praise turns even rougher as she keeps her mouth around him through every pulse, swallowing everything he gives her while his fingers stroke shakily through her hair. She doesn’t pull away until he has gone sensitive, easing him gently from between her lips before pressing one last kiss to the tip.

For several seconds, neither of them speaks. Garrett stands over her panting, one hand still cradling the back of her head while she kneels between his thighs with flushed cheeks, wet lips and the loose, pleased smile of someone who has been fucked far too thoroughly to experience shame.

His eyes move over her face. Then past her shoulder, toward the lower half of her body as though he can somehow see through her.

“Fuck,” he says again, apparently the only word left available to him. “Roll over. I need to see it again.”

She starts laughing. “Garrett.”

“Please.”

“You’ve seen it.”

“Not enough.”

Her legs are not especially reliable, so Garrett handles most of the repositioning. He lowers her carefully onto her stomach, makes sure the sheet beneath her is smooth and then shifts down the bed until his face is level with her lower back.

He doesn’t touch the tattoo itself. He only rests one hand across the top of her ass and stares at the little forty-four with the solemn concentration of somebody studying an artefact behind museum glass.

She folds her arms beneath her head. “You’re being weird,” she mumbles.

“I’m having a moment.”

“You’ve been having a moment for, like, an hour.”

“Yeah, because my girlfriend got my number tattooed above her ass.”

“Lower back.”

Garrett looks up. “Baby.”

She presses her smile into her forearm.

His thumb strokes the skin beside the tattoo. “You really did this.”

“I really did.”

“For me,” he murmurs.

He kisses one cheek, then the other, his mouth soft now, all the feral heat of ten minutes ago settling into something heavier. His chin rests briefly near her hip.

“You won’t regret it?” he asks.

The question is quiet enough that she turns her face toward him. Garrett’s still looking at the tattoo, but the thought behind his expression has moved farther than the bed. Farther than tonight. Permanent isn’t an easy word for him, no matter how hot the evidence looks above her underwear. Permanent has always carried too many promises made by people who didn’t know how to keep them.

“I might regret letting Paige choose the bar,” she says. “I might regret wearing jeans to get it done. I’m almost definitely going to regret whatever you tell Dean tomorrow.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches.

“But not the tattoo.” Her fingertips move gently along her own forearms. “Even if something changed one day– and I’m not saying it will– I’d remember how I felt when I got it. I was happy. I love you. You’re my favourite thing in my life right now.”

“Right now?” he asks, because he’s still Garrett.

She groans. “Don’t ruin it.”

His laugh presses warm against the side of her hip. Then he kisses the skin just below the tattoo again, careful, lingering there without touching the ink. “My girl,” he murmurs.

She closes her eyes. Garrett stays behind her for another minute, one hand moving lazily over her ass while he continues looking at the number like he expects it to disappear if he blinks incorrectly.

Then he says, “Can I take a picture?”

Her eyes open. “Absolutely not.”

“For me.”

“No.”

“Baby,” he argues.

“You’ll show the boys.”

Garrett starts laughing, forehead dropping against her lower back. She can feel the effort he makes to avoid the tattoo.

“Fine,” he says. “No picture.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m memorising it.”

“You’ve been staring for ten minutes,” she giggles.

“Need another ten.”

She sighs into the pillow, but her body goes softer beneath his hand. Garrett kisses her hip once more, then crawls back up the bed and folds himself around her without asking her to move again. His chest settles against her back, one arm sliding beneath the pillow and the other wrapping around her waist.

His mouth finds the back of her neck. “You’re the sexiest person alive,” he says.

“Mm.”

“Objectively.”

“Garrett.”

“And fucking insane.”

She smiles into the pillow. “Yeah, well, you match my freak.”

His arm tightens around her. “Yeah,” he murmurs, laughter warm against her skin. “Definitely.”

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“oh, oh my, yes, yes please! I have to keep going. I’m about to cum. it’s gonna get all over your pretty little pussy.”

he learns all his dirty talk from the dirty movies they’ve watched too. apart from his instincts and his imagination, and of course all his grunts and movements were purely primal.

“it looks so big when you press it up against me. I don’t know how it’s gonna fit when we get married,” she gasps, watching him rut like a dog and how it goes past her belly button. it’s sloppy, slippery, jutting around from all the blood that’s filled up. his sac is even heavy against her too. the way it bounces against her hole, gives her another part of him to clench onto too.

“shhh, we’ll make it fit. I won’t let it hurt you. we’ll be nice and wet together, just like this, then it’ll just… it’ll just slide right in,” he gulps. losing any other words that are left to say the more he thinks about it. “we’ll feel so good. and you’re gonna be my wife.”

“keep — keep going baby, don’t stop now,” she pleads. clark nods immediately, kissing on her neck while he humps her even faster. the slick is audible, gushing in between them as they whimper and slide.

“they think I don’t even touch you,” clark hums a laugh, slobbering on her throat through a wet, lazy kiss. “mmm. they think I haven’t even seen you naked. they don’t know I can still make this pussy feel good without even putting it in.”

she sprawls out her legs even wider, mouth open as she has her toes further up in the air, letting him take over their gyrating completely as they both leak all over each other.

“let’s cum together, honey. let me make you feel good. let go for me, cum on me. I wanna make this pussy feel nice and happy.”

clark ruts harder, faster. kisses her chin and swallows up his favorite noises that leave her mouth when they both feel the electric dip in their bellies. both of them clench, clark’s tip stills and presses up right against her clit while he lets out his long, gushing first spurt. she cums just as he’s creaming all over her clit, making a mess of her mound and even up to her stomach. they both roar and hum and whine as they rub out their highs, the splatter of all the evidence of their innocent fun coated all over her as they catch up to their wild heartbeats.

he kisses her and hums all his praises right into her mouth, some of it even nonsense as he slaps his filthy, heavy wet tip back on the lips of her pussy and the hood of her clit.

“you um, felt good? jeez, it’s so wet….”

clark is in awe at her shiny center, enthralled while he plays with the mess a little more. he gets shy and ducks his head back with a laugh and says he’s sorry if she’s too overstimulated. she laughs right back at him and shook her head, wrapping one leg around his hips to trap him back in.

“you can keep playing. it’s all yours.”

“it’s ours. our mess… and gosh is it pretty,” he breathes, rolling his head and tapping the sopping wet folds. “prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I can’t wait to be your wife.”

“well I can’t wait to be your husband,” clark retorts, pointedly looking at her and leaning in to give her a warm, selfish kiss.

“can’t wait to feel you inside me. all the way,” she whispers. holds onto his face.

“I’ll make you feel so good. I already can’t keep my hands off you.”

“and they’ll never know.”

“nope,” clark grins.

Pink, blue, black…

You huffed as you rummaged through the same drawer for the third time, hoping what you were looking for would magically appear between the mess of cotton, polyester, and lace.

The bedroom was a complete mess; drawers drawn open, half-empty because you’d carelessly thrown their contents out trying to find the piece, some bras landed on the floor, some shirts on your velvet vanity stool, and there was a pile of skirts and dresses forming atop of the bed.

Your eyes scanned the room again, trying to catch even the slightest glimpse of the intense, scarlet red you were desperately trying to find.

Your reflection stared back at you from the mirror—hair styled to perfection, black dress hugging your figure, and your lips painted a deep red color that was supposed to match the lingerie you’re wearing under the dress.

You had the bra, the only thing missing were the panties.

It was a special night, your two-year anniversary with your boyfriend, and Jason—who always makes it clear he’s not a fan of lavish and over-the-top dates—had surprised you with a reservation at this fancy steakhouse in downtown Gotham with a rooftop lounge that overlooks the city and has live jazz music playing the whole night.

You wanted to surprise him back, wearing the delicate, red, lacy lingerie set you know is his favorite, so that at the end of the night—in the backseat of the car, on the couch in the living room, or wherever he decided he wanted to take you—, you could feel his breath hitch and watch him lick his lips as he undressed you.

Besides, as stupid as it sounds, that set holds some type of sentimental value.

You bought it over a year ago, it’s a high-end designer piece that caught your eye the moment you stepped into that luxurious, ridiculously expensive boutique. It cost you an arm and a leg—you remember contemplating if it really was worth going broke for as the saleswoman talked about the quality of the materials.

You decided to buy it before you could think too much about it, swiping your card through the terminal and almost wincing when you saw the money deducted from your bank account.

It was more for Jason than for you anyway, and that’s what convinced you. It was a few days until his birthday, and you wanted to wear it as one of the many gifts you planned on giving him.

That night, straddling his lap as he laid on the couch, you saw his pupils dilate, watched him suck in a deep breath and pull his bottom lip between his teeth as he took off your dress. You decided that it had been completely worth the money.

It’s also the only set that’s made it through more than three wears—since Jason seems to have a kink for ripping fabric off of you, but apparently he’s decided he likes this one so much that he can be a little more careful with it. He almost always asks you to keep it on as he fucks you.

You really didn’t want to—it was supposed to be a surprise—but after checking the clock and seeing it was almost time to leave the apartment, you stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room to ask the only other person who could have any idea where your panties were.

“Jason, have you seen—”

Well…

There was your answer.

Jason sat on the couch, legs spread as they always are—no matter how much you scold him for his manspreading—, wearing a burgundy dress shirt that had you impatient thinking about the moment when you finally get to unbutton it.

His gaze was focused on the book perched on his lap, and in the gutter of said book—between thin, black ink-stained pages—were your panties, their red color bright against the yellowed paper.

You simply sighed, it was your fault honestly.

You started it a few months ago, Jason had taken a night off patrol and vigilante duty, and Cass had kindly offered to cover for him—watching over Crime Alley and the other places he usually took care of so he could spend time with you.

It was almost 2:00 a.m., your cheek was pressed against his bicep—because there’s nothing you love more than resting your head on your boyfriend’s muscles—, your legs shifted beneath the sheets to tangle with his, the soft cotton felt cool against your flushed skin.

Jason’s left hand was busy playing with your hair, twirling the strands around his scarred fingers while his right held the book he was reading.

He’d made you orgasm more times than you could count in a single night and you were convinced that you were completely satisfied.

Until you teared your eyes away from the ceiling to look at him, and he looked so cute and hot and sexy with his drugstore glasses perched on his crooked nose, and his brows had that furrow of concentration, and his thick lashes fluttered as he read through whatever greek tragedy he was so focused on, and his pretty lips formed the cutest pout you’ve ever seen on someone.

The sight made you feel that familiar heat between your legs—the one that appears whenever you see Jason doing practically anything.

You peppered kisses on his naked, glistening chest—still covered with a thin layer of sweat—, your fingers tracing down the lines of his abs and his prominent V-line until they reached the hem of the sheet—the only thing covering his lower body.

Jason breathed out your name, his heartbeat sped up under the touch of your lips, and he tried telling you about how he was in a really interesting part of the book, attempting to convince you to wait—but he didn’t make any real effort to stop you.

You looked up at him through your lashes, tongue darting out to trace one of the scars on his chest. You told him you couldn’t wait—and that it was his fault for making you so horny.

Picking up the pair of baby pink panties he’d tossed somewhere on the floor when he slipped them off of you, you took the book from his hand and placed the lacy garment on the page he was reading before closing it and handing it back to him. Your eyes never left his as you did so, and you had to bite your lip to hold back your giggles.

Jason’s eyes were wide as he took the book from you, his expression completely dumbfounded, and you swear that’s the most adorable he’s ever looked.

For you, Jason’s a weak, weak man. He could never deny you anything—trust, he’s tried.

And after that, you didn’t need to do anything else to convince him. He simply placed the book back on the nightstand beside the bed and rolled his eyes.

“You’re insane,” he scoffed, “and insatiable.”

You didn’t bother trying to defend yourself, it was true after all. You simply smiled in victory as your hand slid under the sheets.

Since that night, you never saw that pair of panties again—a shame, truly, it was a beautiful pink—and a few more disappeared from your underwear drawer to be found in the bookshelves.

“Jason,” you sighed. “I’ve been looking for those panties for like an hour!”

Jason looked up from his book—a dystopian novel you forgot the name of—, smirking when he caught sight of you with your arms crossed, wearing the dress he’d bought you specifically for your anniversary date.

“You look nice,” he whistled, looking you up and down shamelessly.

“Can you please give me my panties back?” You walked up to him and extended your hand out, expecting him to return your underwear.

“No,” he almost laughed, “I need my bookmarks.”

That made you roll your eyes, and before you could process it, Jason wrapped his hand around your wrist and pulled you into him so you were sitting on his lap.

“Besides,” he whispered into your ear, his voice carrying that teasing, smug tone you would never admit turns you on, “why do you need panties?”

“You know what would be a nice anniversary gift?” He continued, fingers teasing the skin of your thighs through the glossy fabric of your dress. “You not wearing anything under that dress.”

short n sexy mini fic for my baby jason todd while i work on my beach date with dick grayson one-shot 🤭

sorry if this was kinda ass, the idea was better in my head, still hope you enjoyed!!

thanks for reading!! likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated!!

please do not copy, translate, repost, or feed my work to ai (especially this!!)

images from pinterest