XO Peach

FAFSA couldn’t help him as much as he wished when it came to securing an acceptance letter to the prestigious Gotham University. The tuition alone was impossible, an expense he could never cover out of pocket, even with a scholarship on top of it.

Rejecting that offer had felt like swallowing glass, a future dangled just close enough for him to see before it was ripped away.

FAFSA had been kind enough to cover the cost of community college, at least. He was stuck with an associate’s degree in Criminal Justice, scraping together whatever money he could in the hopes of pushing his education further someday. Even if that someday felt unreachable, more fantasy than plan.

Jason drove his fist into the heavy boxing bag.

The impact sent it swinging, chains rattling softly as it absorbed the force of his frustration.

Jason ripped the headphones from his ears, the music cutting off abruptly as he let them hang loose around his neck while the world of machinery, grunts, and thumps were heard.

His chest heaved with each breath, lungs burning, sweat slicking his skin and sliding down his temples to drip from his brow. His hands ached, knuckles throbbing beneath worn wraps, but he welcomed the pain.

It was grounding for him, tangible, and easier to deal with than the mess of thoughts pounding through his head.

“You have one hell of a build, boy.”

Jason quickly flicked his head toward the source of the voice, eyes locking onto a man standing a few feet away. He had dark hair threaded with silver strands, the kind that spoke of years rather than neglect, and warm brown eyes that carried a quiet wisdom. Fine lines crinkled at the corners when he moved, evidence of age and experience, yet his body told a different story.

His build was solid and strong, with toned muscles that were clearly defined without being bulky.

A slight softness around his stomach showed the passage of time but still held undeniable strength. It was the kind of body that carried experience, what some might call a dad bod, balanced between resilience and the natural wear of age, giving him an air of quiet confidence.

“Thank you—”

“Your technique sucks.”

The man snorted, a sharp, amused sound that made Jason raise an eyebrow in surprise.

“I’m August. Yeah, like the month. You ever done actual boxing before?”

Jason thinned his lips and shook his head.

“Only picked up bits from my… dad, watched videos, and gained some tips from the other guys around here, but it was never anything permanent.” He shrugged, feeling a tad-bit weird out of this guy that came up to him randomly on a Tuesday.

August picked up on the pause immediately, his expression easing as his voice dropped into something more measured.

“Hn. Well, if you’re interested, my partner’s been looking for people around this time. He’s recruiting boxers.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Jason with a knowing look. “He’s got his own gym, proper equipment, the whole deal. And if he sees potential in you,” a faint, confident smile tugged at his mouth, “you could go further than you think. Big leagues, even.”

Big leagues.

“Not interested.”

Jason replied immediately.

He could already see how this was shaping up, the way August pitched it like a door to door sale, all confidence and promises, as if a few words were enough to change the course of someone’s life, selling your soul type, controlling over someone and putting them in debt.

It reeked of a scam.

The man sighed, clearly catching the defensive edge in Jason’s tone.

“You don’t have to own a membership or anything like that,” he points out, adding sugar to his words. “Unless you want to, of course. Just give it a try.” August reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, holding it between two fingers.

The business card was sleek, clearly well kept.

Out of courtesy, Jason took it, deciding to put it into his wallet without bothering to glance at the name or details printed on it to satisfy the weirdo.

August watched him for a moment, then gave a small nod, as if that was all he needed. “No pressure,” he puts his hands up, giving a simple shrug before stepping away from Jason, moving on to probably find another poor person to recruit.

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

He highly doubts he’ll change his mind.

Jason gave a noncommittal hum, erasing the interaction within a second once he had left his vicinity, slipping his headphones back over his ears and flexing his fingers.

Then his fist slams into the bag.

Unfortunately, Jason would have never expected to be swallowed by the life of boxing, to have his motivation and desperation quietly reshape themselves into a career he had never once imagined for himself.

Jason wasn’t one to quickly change his mind either.

It took him an entire month and a half.

Why?

First of all, scammers.

Second of all, he genuinely forgot about it.

And third, because it was absolutely, undeniably, one hundred percent screaming scammer alert.

Some random weird lookin’ old guy at the gym finding boxers, offering to train and an opportunity that felt like the opening line to a debt that can’t be repaid Mafia style, or trafficking him in the worst way possible.

And Jason was not in the financial position to fuck around and find out.

But how the hell did he end up—

There was a bulletin board at the club where he worked, cluttered with old flyers curling at the edges, corners yellowed and wrinkled from time and neglect. He had passed it countless times on his way to the bathroom without a second glance.

This time was different.

Mid stride, his eyes snagged on it, the bulletin board. A new flyer pinned among the decaying ones, edges still crisp, ink still dark. He read it, feeling a sense of curiosity and remembering the card August had given him, one that he hesitates to contact, but deeply sighed.

This time, he felt the need to fuck around and find out.

CARNAGE KNOCKOUT !

Boxing Rookie Tournament— step into the ring and prove you’ve got what it takes!

Win up to $7,000!

The flyer displayed information on the date, six months from now and the location of the fight. The registration displays there, but Jason didn’t go on it.

He wasn’t even sure if he was serious about it, but the annoying old man had given Jason a card to call, or the location of the gym.

But— Jason really needed a new used car.

He's maintained his car for quite some time since junior year of high school, but it’s been wearing down easily and needs new repairs every few months.

7,000 dollars is enough to land him a nice used car on Facebook marketplace if he’s willing to scout.

That night, when Jason got home, he found himself digging through his wallet. His fingers brushed against the smooth card that’s still intact, pulling it out and turning it over in his hands.

He was surprised to find that August’s name wasn’t on the business card. Instead, it bore someone else’s name and a location of the gymnasium.

Curious, Jason quickly looked up the name online, wondering if there’s public information about the man.

His jaw only dropped in disbelief.

The card belonged to a retired boxer— a legend who had not only dominated the MMA championship multiple times but had also held countless titles. There were articles of rumors and stories painted him as a notorious lady killer, a man who commanded attention both inside and outside the ring and one of the biggest competitors against Bruce Wayne.

But that was twenty five years ago.

Everything was buried in old Reddit threads, faded articles, and grainy videos dissecting the rise and fall of the fighter and his retirement.

And then, Jason fell into the rabbit hole.

One link led to another.

Fight highlights stitched together with dramatic music, slowed down punches, commentators shouting over roaring crowds. Old forum posts arguing about whether each boxer’s technique was ahead of its time or reckless, possible disqualification. Interviews clipped short, the boxer younger, sharper, cockier, and a different man entirely.

He started digging through the rules, tactics, and techniques. He quite literally fell deep into breakdowns of footwork, positions, and strategy. He watched specific workout routines, rewound clips to catch subtle movements, and even found himself following a few fighters and trainers on social media that caught his interest.

Before he knew it, Jason lost track of time.

Suddenly, he’s standing inside of the gym.

It was definitely interesting, it wasn’t a chain like Planet Fitness, VASA, LA, or Anytime Fitness that’s located in a plaza.

Don’t get him wrong, Jason had been aware that gyms that were a small business were sometimes located in basements, junkyards, or units.

But this was Jason’s first time being at a sketchy fucking location, even if it was broad daylight.

There wasn’t a logo, signage, or an indicator that this was a gym unless you’re searching it up on google maps.

It was quite literally a small storage warehouse that crackheads would probably roam around, or a gang would trade weapons.

At first, Jason thought he had the wrong location.

The place looked deserted, quiet enough to make his skin prickle, yet the parking lot was dotted with cars that didn’t match the emptiness of the building. His unease grew the more he stood around, his thoughts spiraling into darker possibilities, the kind that made his stomach twist and clutching the strap of his duffle bag.

Yeah, hell no.

He was going to leave.

He did not want to fuck around and find out.

But that's when August spotted him around the corner of the warehouse.

Recognition lit up his face as he let out a full bellied laugh, running up and clapping a heavy hand against Jason’s back like they were old friends.

“Well, well! Didn’t expect you to come!”

Before Jason could question any of this, August glimpsed at the garage door, reached up and hauled the garage open.

The metal screeched as it lifted, and the space beyond was revealed to him.

“Ya could’ve used the door on the other side of the building,” August pointed with a grin, gesturing behind him, “but welcome to our boxing gym.”

Jason barely heard the last part.

His attention had already been stolen by the space beyond the warehouse(?) garage. Equipment all over the place, worn but well loved, steel frames and hanging bags stretching farther than he expected. The air hummed with the steady rhythm of machines, the scrape of weights, the sharp thud of gloves colliding with canvas and padded shields.

Grunts and exhaled breaths echoed off the walls, raw and relentless with instructive yells were heard.

It was expensive.

Way different than the equipment at the gym, although it is nice— it seemed like it didn’t compare to this.

“Don’t get too excited, you gotta meet the big man.”

August nudged Jason’s shoulder and started walking, clearly expecting him to follow. They moved deeper into the warehouse, rounding a corner that revealed the building’s L shape and a whole another level that the gym couldn’t offer, specializing in its usage.

The ring.

His heart practically jumped at the sight of the ring in all its glory. His palms turned clammy, a rush of excitement crawling under his skin, tangled tightly with nerves.

The man he recognized from the internet stood nearby, arms folded, eyes sharp as he watched a few fighters move around the ring. He barked out commands with authority, voice cutting clean through the noise of the gym. Titles, championships, and decades of reputation carried under his belt in the way he stood alone were no longer just headlines or grainy videos on a screen.

The ex boxer glanced toward August, having caught the sound of approaching footsteps. His gaze then settled on Jason, sweeping over him slowly from head to toe as he let out a low, thoughtful hum.

“Ah,” August said, glancing toward the ring, “your daughter at it again?”

He bumped his elbow lightly against him, earning a groan from the former boxer as his eyes stayed fixed on the fighters in the ring.

Jason’s eyes flickered on the ring, noticing a woman up there, panting heavily before you countered a man’s punch easily.

You were absolutely…

something.

You hauled the man over your shoulder with ease before dropping down on him, driving a rapid series of jabs into his core.

He grunted beneath you, scrambling to recover, managing a desperate jab aimed at your face.

You blocked it without effort, muscle memory taking over.

Your father’s voice cut through the noise of the gym as he shouted your name. At that, you withdrew immediately, pulling off your glove with ease before stepping back and offering the fighter a hand up as if nothing had happened.

“That’s his daughter,” August muttered to Jason, pointing out the obvious. “She’s his assistant when it comes to training. And trust me, she’ll whoop your ass, a lil’ dirty spitfire, that kid.” August chuckled, shaking his head as you took a long swig from your water bottle, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Sweat clung to your skin as you wiped your mouth, then your gaze lifted, sharp and curious, landing on the two of them next to your father.

“Aye! August, did you drag in another newbie?” You called out, grinning wide, straight perfect teeth flashing as you leaned against the ropes. You grabbed the towel draped there, wiping sweat from your forehead and down your neck like it was nothing.

You were really unfairly attractive.

“I did! What’d you think?” August points to him, having a conversation as if he wasn’t standing right here.

Jason felt his spine straighten the moment your eyes landed on him. Your gaze dragged over him slowly, openly, leaving a trail of heat crawling up the back of his neck as he suddenly became painfully aware of every inch of himself.

“Hm,” you hummed, licking your top lip.

“I could definitely take him.”

A sexual innuendo coming from you definitely provokes an image to his head.

But he’s quick to wipe it away.

You grinned like you knew exactly what you’d just done, like you were fully aware of the provocative thought you’d planted.

“Well, get on up there, boy,” your father grunted, giving Jason a firm slap on the back that nudged him forward toward the ring.

“Wait—”

August barks out a laugh.

“No point in waiting! She said she could take ya’!”

Jason furrows his brow, flickering his gaze up at you.

Your grin doesn’t disappear, but there’s a mischievous glint in your eyes. “We can do it with or without boxing gloves,” you said with a casual shrug. “Though gloves might be better. Gives me an idea of where you’re at,” your brow lifted slightly, deliberately, “especially since you look pretty new to all of this.”

Your father crossed his arms, eyes sharp as he studied Jason from where he stood.

“Gloves on,” he decided. “We’re not breaking him on day one, August wrap him up and prepare him.”

You rolled your shoulders, still watching Jason like a cat sizing up something interesting. “Hear that? Lucky you.” You stepped back, gesturing toward the corner of the ring.

“You’ll stand there when you’re done.”

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, heat still lingering at the back of his neck.

“Don’t you think we should talk about this—”

You laughed, sharp and effortless, cutting him off as you waved your wrapped hand dismissively.

“That’s for later.”

You turned away from him, already moving toward the center of the ring, confidence rolling off you like it was second nature. The canvas dipped slightly under your steps, familiar territory, owned.

You tugged at your gloves, tightening the straps with practiced ease.

“Clock’s running,” your father called out from the side, voice firm.

“No fancy shit.”

Jason exhaled slowly and followed, stepping into the ring proper and August followed with a smirk, wrapping his fists and helping Jason. The ropes framed his vision, the noise of the gym dulling into a low hum as his focus narrowed to you. Up close, it was worse.

The intensity.

The way you stood relaxed but ready, weight balanced, and your eyes sharp as if you were an animal catching prey.

You tilted your head, studying him. “Relax,” you spoke lightly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Then your smile curved.

“Unless you give me a reason.”

Then, your father’s voice rings the gym.

“Start!”

You closed the distance the moment your father’s voice sounded, footwork smooth and deliberate.

Your hands stayed high, chin tucked, eyes locked on Jason like you were reading him line by line. Jason barely had time to register the sound. Instinct kicked in and he brought his guard up, shoulders tight, and his stance stiff that you immediately note.

You feinted left.

His gloves snapped up in response, exactly where you wanted them. You stepped in and tapped his guard with a quick jab, not hard, almost considerate. It was a test of his experience that brings a tad bit of frustration that he wasn’t really trained for this, bringing out the fact he wasn’t as experienced as the people you’ve fought earlier.

You’re—

“You’re in your head,” you mentioned, snapping his focus back into the ring. “Get out of it, this is a practice match.”

amazing.

He swallowed, nodding at your advice and tried to adjust, in fact, he threw a jab of his own.

There was raw power there, but it sailed past your cheek by inches.

You slipped it easily, close enough that he could feel the rush of air, then answered with two quick short shots to his ribs.

Jason sucked in a breath, a sharp grunt leaving him as he stumbled back a half step. His eyes widened, not from pain, but realization.

August whistled from the sidelines. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s about right.”

You circled around him, light on your feet, hopping back and forth to keep your feet moving with your gloves still raised but posture loose.

Jason analyzes your form, matching it to which you grinned with pride.

“Well, that’s definitely a start.”

Heat flushed up his neck, but something stubborn sparked behind his eyes.

Then, you crushed it.

His weight shifted forward just a second too slow, just a fraction too heavy on his front foot, and you were already gone from where he thought you’d be. A quick pivot, light and effortless, your feet barely making a sound against the canvas. He swung anyway, a wide hook fueled by frustration more than strategy.

You slipped it clean.

The glove cut through empty air as you stepped inside his range, close enough that he could see the focus in your eyes.

You planted your feet just long enough to land a sharp jab to his cheek, followed immediately by another to his shoulder, then a short shot to his ribs.

Jason hissed through his teeth and staggered back, guard scrambling to catch up. His breathing was already off, chest rising too fast, thoughts lagging behind his body. He tried to reset, but you were already circling him, cutting off angles, forcing him to turn instead of advance.

“Feet,” you reminded him calmly. “They matter.”

He lunged again, stubbornness flaring, throwing another punch that carried real power but no patience.

You ducked under it smoothly, shoulder brushing past his torso, then tapped the back of his head lightly with your glove as you passed. By the time he turned, you were already facing him again, gloves up, balanced, and waiting for him when you could’ve punched again.

“I just realized you’re not much of a talker.”

August laughed under his breath somewhere off to the side. Jason growled and came in harder this time, swinging fast, messy, trying to overwhelm you.

His predictable approach created an opening.

You stepped in and snapped a clean jab into his mouth, not enough to split skin, but enough to sting. Before he could react, you followed with a quick combination to his body, then one final tap to his jaw that sent his head snapping to the side.

Jason stumbled, boots skidding against the canvas as he caught himself on the ropes.

He stayed, breathing heavily.

You stopped, lowering your gloves.

“Alright,” you announced. “I’ve seen enough.”

Jason pushed himself off the ropes, swallowing hard, humiliation from your words and awe mixing in his expression, respect in his gaze.

He nodded once, unable to argue your words— knowing you were trained for this, he wasn’t.

You studied him for a moment, then cracked a small grin.

“Let’s talk now.”

“Ah, that’s why you’ve come. ‘Carnage Knockout’? The rookie tournament.”

August folds his arm, understanding dawns on him before glancing at Jason, who sat on the bench catching his breath, shoulders still tense as he explained his reasons for wanting to box.

Across from him, you and your father listened in.

“Well, we can definitely get you ready for the rookie tournament happening in…” You paused, unlocking your phone and scrolling through the Instagram page for Carnage Knockout. Your eyes scanned the dates until you found the next event. “…six months.”

You looked up, meeting Jason’s gaze with a small, confident smile.

“If you’re serious, willing to put in the work, and ready to commit to boxing, then I’ll train you,” you firmly stated, folding your arms as your foot taps against the floor. “But if you start treating this like child’s play, I’m kicking you out.”

Your father grunted in agreement, his few words carrying heavy weight, making it clear he didn’t tolerate anything less than dedication.

“Would your father also train me?” Jason asked, genuine curiosity, wondering why you were training him, but not in a disrespectful way. He didn’t mind, but he simply questioned why your father wasn’t going to—

“He’s old.” You bluntly told him with a laugh escaping from your lips, your father slaps your back in retaliation, hearing an audible ‘ow!’ That still causes you to laugh, pushing your father’s bicep to quit it.

August barked out a laugh, shaking his head.

Your father shot you a look, unimpressed but fond. “I’m not old,” he muttered. “I’m experienced.”

You smirked. “That’s what old people say.”

Another swat came your way, lighter this time, and you leaned away, still grinning. Then your expression shifted, focus snapping back to Jason.

“I’ll be the one in the ring with you,” you confidently say, tone more serious now. “I’ll push you, correct you, and knock bad habits out of you before they stick. He—” you jerked your chin toward your father, “watches, steps in when needed, and makes sure I don’t go easy on you and relax if I’m going overboard.”

Your father nodded once more.

“Listen to her, all of your opponents in the ring will most likely be my daughter.”

Jason huffed out a quiet laugh, nerves easing just a little. He straightened on the bench, settling the nerves into his posture before looking at you. “I’m serious,” determination leaning through. “I won’t waste your time.”

You hummed softly, a gentle smile curling at your lips as the usual mischievous spark in your eyes softened.

“I believe it.”

The words landed heavier than he expected.

Something in his chest shifted, unfamiliar and unguarded, catching him off balance.

And you weren’t the kind of person who lied.

The certainty on your face, a grin on your face displayed with confidence lingered with Jason in the days that followed.

When the nightclub cut his hours and sales failed to meet quota, his schedule suddenly cracked open, leaving him with more time than he’d had in months. Training slid neatly into those empty spaces, even if it came at a cost. To stay afloat, he picked up more shifts at his serving job.

Thankfully, that part wasn’t so bad.

The restaurant was quite popular, the tips were enough, and it was one of the few places that didn’t leave him completely drained by the end of the night.

And on the first few days, training him—

You grilled him.

“You can’t just be stiff,” you snapped, circling him. “You gotta move, put more energy into your footwork. Loosen up!”

You tapped his shoulder with your glove, then his hip, forcing him to adjust, to think on his feet instead of locking himself in place. Every mistake was called out, every hesitation corrected, until sweat soaked through his shirt and his legs burned from keeping up.

“Again.”

Hit.

“Again.”

You hit.

“Jason, again.”

Another hit lands.

“You’re making the same mistake again!” You grumbled, annoyance filled onto your face with a frown.

Jason tried to follow, feet dragging just a second too late as you shifted directions. You cut to his blind side, light and quick, hitting his ribs with your glove to make the point that has him groaning in pain while you snickered.

“I told you, don’t do it again! Roll your shoulders and relax, dammit! You’re not moving those feet!”

He exhaled sharply, nodded, and tried again.

This time he stayed lighter, bouncing just enough to keep momentum and focusing on defense.

After another round of drills, sparring, fixing, and instructing his form— you finally called a pause. Jason bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard against the ring’s ground.

You crouched down to his level, tilting your head as you studied him. Throughout the entire session, you hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“You’ve clearly been relying on strength training,” you point out calmly. “Not cardio. That’s the first thing we’re fixing.” You tapped the canvas lightly with your knuckles. “And your reflexes are decent. You dodge well when I’m on the offensive, but the second I start moving and changing pace, your defense falls apart.”

You straightened slightly, eyes sharp but not unkind. “You don’t anticipate my moves and you’re too much in your head—”

Jason grit his teeth, a scoff slipping past his lips.

“Then what do you suggest I do?”

You ignored the sharp edge in his tone, the frustration bleeding through his words. You’d dealt with this kind of pushback before, and you never took it personally.

Anger was easier than admitting weakness.

And you knew, deep down, that he wasn’t lashing out because he didn’t care.

He was lashing out because he wanted to get better.

“I’ve got a workout plan in mind, if you’re up for it,” you offered, shrugging lightly. “We need to build your cardio first, that’s non-negotiable. And I want to do sparring with footwork involved.”

You glanced at him, gauging his reaction. “It’s illegal in the ring, yeah, but this isn’t about rules. It’ll force your legs to stay active, keep you moving instead of freezing up. And without the gloves, I’ll get a much clearer read on where you’re really at.”

Your gaze drifted for a moment, distant, like you were turning over an old memory.

“You won’t be the first in this situation.”

He was grateful to you, more than he ever said out loud.

For the last three months— you provided him with a full workout regimen, including calorie targets, and protein as well. There were even meals you’ve recommended including the restaurant if he ever wanted to go out, or a list of ingredients of the meal to make.

You introduced him to other rookie boxers, going up against them.

They weren’t you.

Sometimes, he stayed late at the gym with you.

Long after the others filtered out, when the lights hummed softly and the place felt almost calm.

You would often find him staying behind, driving jab after jab into the punching bag. The echoes rang through the gym, sharp and brutal, each impact cracking through the space with a violence that could rival a gunshot.

He was majorly improving.

Jason would shadowbox while you watched from the side, eyes sharp, offering the occasional hum of approval or a quick note of criticism. Sometimes you would join him, adjusting him immediately, muscle memory starting to take shape and hits landing sharper and stronger than before.

Your relationship stayed purely professional.

Jason undeniably found you attractive, but it never tipped into anything reckless or distracting. If anything, it settled into something steadier, teetering on the edge of friendship rather than anything complicated.

Even if you’ve teased him way too many times.

There’s one night, after the gym had mostly emptied out, Jason sat on the bench with a towel draped over his shoulders, chest still rising and falling as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. The air smelled like rubber and metal, the low hum of the lights filling the silence between rounds.

He hesitated for a moment, then glanced up at you.

“What made you become your father’s assistant?” He asked, voice casual but curious, like it had been sitting with him for a while.

You folded your arms, one brow lifting as you studied him, surprise written in your expression.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to ask,” you chuckled, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Believe it or not, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, I’ve been trained for years.”

You shifted your weight, arms still folded as you continued, your voice smooth with honesty. “I went to college for an athletic training degree. I wanted to be here, working alongside my dad, learning how to train people the right way and treating injuries.”

A hint of fondness crept into your expression. “And I wasn’t lying about him getting old,” you added lightly, nudging your elbow against his side. “Someone has to keep him from running himself into the ground, it’s not a secret how he retired.”

Your gaze drifted downward then, something quieter settling over your features.

“The old man never learned how to quit,” you laughed, your eyes speaking in a way of a fond memory. “He loves boxing too much to do that. Even now— he’s retired from the scene, but never from life. It’s the reason why he created this ‘sketchy ass’ gym for people that wanted to become greater.” You shrugged.

“And besides,” you added, glancing back up at him with that familiar spark returning, “turns out I’m good at it, I love it actually. I love teaching, breaking things down, pushing people without snapping them in half.” Your mouth curved upwards. “At least most of the time.”

The gym hummed around you, the distant sound of the air conditioner and your quiet breathing beside him. Jason nodded, something settling in his chest.

“What about you?” You asked, a teasing edge in your voice. “You’re obviously about the same age as me, and I know you want the money to buy a new car,” you cross your legs, shaking your head. “But is there anything else? Any real aspirations? Something you’re trying to gain in life?”

You leaned in slightly, tilting your head as you watched his brows furrow in thought and his lips press together briefly before easing into a more relaxed line.

“I wanted to be a lawyer,” Jason simply stated, seeing your eyes widen with surprise. “I had a rough childhood, figured if I could help others in tough spots, maybe it’d mean something— university is expensive, so the money could help a bit.”

You nodded slowly, letting his words hang in the air without pressing for more. After a beat, you offered a small smile.

“Well, don’t stress yourself out too much over it. I somehow have a feeling that you’ll win and be… something greater.”

Those nights at the gym became something more.

In fact, he learned a lot of things that surprised Jason about you.

First, you were obviously a fighter.

Your strength or your experience as one was not something to be underestimated, honed through years of discipline across taekwondo, Muay Thai, boxing, and judo. It showed in everything you did. The way you moved with purpose, the way your body seemed to know what to do before your mind ever had to think about it.

You were always busy whenever Jason found you in the gym, rotating between drills, sparring partners, and corrections without ever looking winded. Especially that first day he’d walked in, when he watched you take a man twice your size and put him on the mat with effortless precision, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That image had stuck with him.

Second, you weren’t cruel about it.

You corrected without belittling, pushed without breaking. Even when you were sharp with your words, there was intent behind them, not ego.

Every command, every adjustment, was meant to make him better, not smaller.

And then there was the way you watched him.

Not like he was weak, or wasting your time, but like he was a problem you were determined to solve. As if his rough edges and bad habits weren’t annoyances, but potential waiting to be shaped under your hands.

Third, you were sharp around the edges, all bite and precision when it mattered, yet after hours your words softened especially when you found a cut on his cheek.

You chuckled softly. “Did Alejandro rough you up again?” You asked as you carefully cleaned the wound and slid a bandage on the cut.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, grumbling under his breath.

“He’s good.”

“Not better than me I would assume?”

Jason scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“He could never be better than you.”

For a moment, you fell silent, and Jason caught the way you inhaled just a little sharper at his words and the pause.

Jason didn’t know when he had fallen so, so hard for you.

Maybe it was the nights you both spent closer than before, sharing takeout at the park, sitting side by side under the whisper of rustling trees and the soft chorus of crickets. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you, and the close proximity between you

Maybe it was the time you were too tired to make it home yourself, and Jason offered you a ride in his beat-up car, nothing flashy, far from your own, but it didn’t matter. You didn’t judge him, not once of his background, the state of his car, or his current job of being a waitress/server at a restaurant.

Maybe it was the time you found yourself scolding him for pushing too hard— when he’d ended up with a fever from overtraining. You showed up at his run-down apartment with medicine in hand, but somehow, you ended up gently pressing a damp, thin towel to his forehead, trying to cool the heat.

You made him eat the soup you’d cooked as a remedy, sitting by his side quietly, the usual sharp edge in your voice softened by concern.

You would plant your arm against his bed, leaning against your arm and nearly falling asleep.

Jason didn’t know how long you’d been there, but when the towel on his forehead warmed from the cold, he shifted to replace it.

Before he could move, you stirred awake, a soft protest slipping from your lips. “Hey, lay back down,” you murmured, “I’ll go change it—” You pushed yourself up too fast, failing to notice your legs falling asleep from sitting so long.

Before you could steady yourself, a sudden weakness made you lose your balance, and you tumbled forward, landing right on top of Jason.

He caught you instinctively, steadying your weight as you both froze for a moment, the unexpected closeness filling the quiet room with a new, electric tension.

For someone usually so bold, you were completely flustered in that compromising position— your eyes snapping wide, suddenly fully awake. Your faces hovered mere inches apart, each breath shared in the stillness between you.

Jason swore you could feel and hear his heart racing in his chest.

“Ah— um, uh, my legs are numb,” you stammered, quickly pulling yourself off him.

You quickly grabbed the small towel and moved away awkwardly, wincing as the sharp tingles from your still-asleep legs shot through you while Jason watched you, feeling his heart beat with craze and his cheeks heat up with such overwhelming warmth.

He knew it wasn’t the fever.

Maybe it was after that first time he lost a spar against you, the sting of each hit still fresh, or the way you’d effortlessly pinned him to the ground more times than he could count.

It was one of those moments.

Jason would circle cautiously, eyes locked on yours, trying to read your movements. You mirrored him, light on your feet, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Without warning, Jason lunged, aiming a quick jab toward your face. You ducked low, sliding to the side and catching his arm mid-swing. With a swift twist, you swept his leg out from under him. He hit the mat with a grunt but rolled immediately, pulling himself up to his knees.

Jason came at you again, this time feinting a punch before shooting a low kick. You caught his ankle, yanking him off balance. He stumbled, but you didn’t give him a moment to recover— you closed the distance fast, driving your shoulder into his ribs, pushing him back.

He gasped but countered with a knee strike to your side. The wind knocked out of you for a second, but you twisted away, grabbing his wrist and locking it behind his back in a quick armbar.

Jason gritted his teeth, struggling but finally tapping out.

You released him, both of you panting, sweat dripping down your faces.

You extended a hand to help him up, and he took it, pulling himself to his feet with a tired smile.

This time, Jason looked at you.

Fully.

He thought about all the times you’d pushed him harder than he thought possible, how you moved with a strength and precision that seemed almost effortless.

Then there was the way you looked— tired sweat glistening on your skin, your hair pulled back but still escaping in wild strands around your face, eyes fierce and focused.

Oh fucking god, he admittingly couldn’t look at you for a few days one time, having you in his spank bank for how much you’re on his mind, for how much you tease him, and the way your eyes would stay glued on him.

He wants your eyes to stay on him.

You are magnetic to Jason— irresistibly compelling in the way you carry yourself with effortless strength, quiet beauty, and unshakable resilience.

There’s something about you that pulls at him, drawing him closer even when he tries to keep his distance. His heart aches in ways he can’t ignore, bleeding quietly for you, tethered to every glance, every moment you share with him.

It's so utterly painful when his thoughts are kept to himself.

He admired how you never backed down from a challenge, how you held yourself with a quiet confidence that could fill a room without needing to say a word. You had this fire— this fierce, unbreakable spirit, that inspired him to keep going, even on days when he wanted to give up and leave the gym in frustration.

Yet, he’s standing here.

It had been exactly six months since the day he first stepped into your gym. Six months of bruises, sweat, and relentless training under your watch and alongside the others. Six months of you pushing him past limits he never knew he had.

He felt different now.

Stronger, sharper, and more relaxed. His body had changed, yes, but so had something deeper. The way he moved, the way he thought, and the way he carried himself.

“You ready, champ?”

You asked, leaning lazily into the ropes, eyes dragging over him in a slow, deliberate sweep. There was a glint in your gaze, playful and knowing, the corner of your mouth curling as if you already liked the answer.

By all means, your eyes on Jason made him feel goosebumps linger on his arms.

He wore lightweight red boxing shorts matching his gloves, satin catching the light every time he moved. They were a gift from you, a quiet reward for surviving everything you’d put him through, hell and back included.

You hadn’t realized how different it would feel seeing him like this. All those months of training, he’d always been in undershirts clinging to broad shoulders, fabric stretched over bulging biceps, or worn graphic tees that did nothing to hide the veins running along his forearms.

Now, stripped down to just the essentials, there was nothing to soften the reality of how much he’d changed.

And your eyes lingered, unashamed and instinctive, tracing the hard lines of his chest down to the cut definition of his abs, then back to the strength packed into his arms. Sweat glinted on his skin from the warm-up, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

It was almost predatory, the way your gaze followed him, slow and deliberate, like a hunter appreciating the power of what stood in front of them.

For someone usually so composed, you felt it then, the heat crawling up your spine, the sudden awareness of how close you were standing, how much he’d filled out under your hands over months of training and how the heat in your eyes slowly travels down to your panties.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Jason mumbled, his voice husky, betraying more than nerves. His gaze dipped, just briefly, catching on your lips before he dragged it back to your eyes like he’d been caught doing something dangerous.

You notice, biting onto your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning but you fail to cover it, looking away briefly as if to compose yourself.

Jason couldn’t help but smirk at that, erasing it quickly so you don’t catch it.

You cleared your throat, running a hand through your hair as if to steady yourself. “There’s going to be people here,” you stated, voice settling back into something calm and assured. “Recruiters, patrons, and watchers. They might try to get in your head.”

Your eyes softened as you looked at him, more sincere now. “If anyone bothers you, find my dad. Or find me.” A pause, then a grin curved across your lips, confident and fox-like.

“I know you’ll win this tournament.”

And you weren’t wrong.

When you’re watching from one of the cracked metal seats in the small junk warehouse hosting the tournament, the lights dim and the low hum of the crowd swells. About a hundred people pack the space shoulder to shoulder, voices overlapping, anticipation thick in the air.

The place smells like sweat, metal, and adrenaline.

Your eyes never leave the ring, watching him put on the mouth guard before August helps him wrap his hands, and putting on his boxing gloves, tightening them.

The match begins.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, hands cupped around your mouth as you call his name, your voice cutting through the noise. You cheer without restraint, sharp and fierce, every movement of his answered with a nod, a shout, a grin he doesn’t see but somehow feels.

You track him instinctively, reading his footwork, his breathing, the way his shoulders settle when he finds his rhythm. When he lands a clean hit, you punch the air. When he stumbles, your heart lurches, your voice rising louder, steadier.

Jason rolled his shoulders, breath steady, eyes locked on the man across from him. The crowd blurred into a low roar, lights glaring overhead, heat clinging to his skin. All he could hear was his own breathing and, faintly, your voice somewhere out there.

His opponent came out aggressive, swinging heavy and wide, trying to overwhelm him early. Jason slipped the first punch, just barely, feeling the rush of air graze his cheek.

He pivoted, light on his toes, letting the next punch sail past him before snapping back with a quick jab to the ribs. The man grunted, surprise flashing across his face.

He remembered you barking at him to loosen up, to stop muscling everything, to let his body do the work. His arms felt lighter now, his movements cleaner. When the other fighter tried to corner him, Jason ducked low, slipping out along the ropes instead of backing straight up.

The crowd erupted when he landed a clean hook to the jaw.

His opponent staggered, recovered fast, and came back swinging harder, frustration bleeding into every punch. One caught Jason on the shoulder, another clipped his cheekbone, sending a sharp jolt through his head.

He tasted metal for a second and welcomed it.

The opponent growled and came back harder, swinging wild. Jason ducked under a looping hook, countering with a sharp cross that snapped the man’s head back. The crowd surged, sound crashing over him in a wave. He caught a glimpse of movement beyond the ropes and imagined your grin.

He cut Jason off, backing him toward the ropes.

Jason slipped along the ropes, narrowly avoiding being trapped, and came out the other side with a quick combination.

Each punch flowed into the next, his body loose, his strikes efficient.

The man stumbled.

He heard your voice in his head, sharp and calm.

Don’t get greedy, let it come to you.

His opponent tried to recover, swinging in desperation now, to balance off.

Jason waited for the mistake.

It came.

Jason stepped in, driving a clean jab straight down the center, followed immediately by a heavy cross. The impact echoed through his arm. The man staggered backward, crashing into the corner.

The referee edged closer.

Jason closed the distance, cutting off escape, forcing the man to stay put. Another combination, it’s controlled, ruthless and lethal. One final punch landed square, and the man dropped to a knee, glove pressed against the canvas as the referee rushed in.

The count rang out over the roar of the crowd.

Jason backed away, chest heaving, fists still raised as sweat dripped down his spine. His legs shook, not from weakness, but from adrenaline. When the count hit ten, the bell rang again, loud and final.

Jason stood there for a moment, stunned, heart pounding, hands trembling as the realization settled deep into his bones.

The noise of the crowd washed over him, distant and unreal, but inside, everything felt achingly clear.

He didn’t think he could quit boxing.

And when he found you in the crowd, screaming his name, pride and fire written all over your face as you celebrated his first win like it was your own.

Something in his chest broke open.

Jason realized that he didn’t think he could quit you either.

Seven thousand dollars was a lot to Jason.

At least, it was when he was twenty years old, having a criminal justice degree, dreaming about becoming a lawyer at Gotham’s University, imagining a future where he stands for Justice that felt distant but possible.

He hadn’t planned on ending up in the boxing gym of a legend. Hadn’t planned on being trained and rebuilt by the man’s daughter, his coach’s assistant, the woman he had slowly and hopelessly fallen in love with.

Now, he is twenty-four.

Jason Todd is an MMA fighter now.

He’s earned more trophies, more belts, more gold, silver, and bronze than he ever did in high school or any life he imagined for himself back then. Each one is proof of how far he’s come, victories carved from sweat, blood, and stubborn refusal to quit.

He’s stronger than he has ever been, carved by discipline and hunger. His name is rising fast, climbing the ranks with every fight and every win. Word spreads quickly, faster than he ever expected. Clips of his matches flood social media, his face, his name, donations he’s poured into shelters, charities, and hospitals and his story plastered across screens he once scrolled through in silence.

Meanwhile, you were always in the crowd.

Always.

You cheered louder than anyone in the room, louder than August, louder even than your father, the former champion whose name had once ruled the scene.

Your voice cut through the noise without hesitation, raw and full of pride. Your name had always existed on the edges of the boxing, MMA, and JLC (Justice League Championship) world, familiar because of your father, because of the legacy he left behind. But now, it was different.

Your name was inseparable from Jason’s now, listed beside him in headlines and fight cards as his assistant, his coach. There were clips, photos, and everything between the both of you.

It was purely professional.

That’s what he likes to say himself.

Oh, who is he really kidding?

A clip blew up when you straddled his thigh without a second thought, fingers careful and steady as you cleaned the swelling beneath his eye and tended to the cuts on his face like it was second nature.

Your brows were furrowed, a small frown set in concentration as your foreheads touched, close enough to blur the rest of the world out. The cameras never caught your words, the audio lost beneath the roar of the crowd, but Jason knew exactly what you’d said.

He heard it anyway, clear as day, etched into him just as deeply as the bruises, cuts, and scratches you were so careful to mend.

You had your hands on his cheeks, thumbs pressing in just enough to ground him, to make sure he was looking at you and no one else. Your grip was steady, intimate, almost reverent, yet there was nothing gentle in your eyes. You searched his face like you were carving the moment into memory, breath close enough that he could feel it. Jason’s heart stuttered in his chest, lungs pulling in a deep, shaky breath as the world narrowed to just the two of you.

“Jay,” you murmured, voice low and lethal, “knock him the fuck out.”

Those clips went viral, edits, screenshots frozen and replayed a thousand times over.

And safe to say, the image lives rent-free in Jason’s mind.

It stayed there, uninvited and permanent, replaying in the spaces between fights, between breaths, reminding him just how impossible it was to separate the ring from you.

Yet, he was still a wimp to actually be more than… whatever you guys are.

Is this a situationship? He doesn’t know.

And people still have the nerve to ask to be his coach.

“Don’t you think it’s time to switch—”

“How do you feel about your assistant!?”

“Jason, have you thought of Hal Jordan’s offer!?!”

“What’s your thoughts on Lady Shiva AKA Sandra Wu-San’s offer?!”

“Are you dating—!?”

“Is your assistant planning to recruit—!?”

Jason snorted, the barrage of questions more amusing than tempting as he pushed through the flashing cameras and microphones shoved in his face as he walked through the red carpet, his hands tucked into his dress pants. The noise blurred together, names thrown at him like bait, legacies dangled as if loyalty were something to be traded.

“Excuse me! I’m Lois Lane from the Daily Planet,” a voice cut through the chaos. “Could you share your thoughts on declining the offer from the former MMA champion, holder of the most titles in history, Bruce Wayne?”

Jason’s head snapped toward the name.

Not Wayne’s— hers, Lois Lane.

“Lois Lane,” he repeated, already moving in her direction. “Congratulations on your tenth anniversary with Clark Kent. How’s retirement looking for him?” Lois laughed into the microphone, genuine and warm, clearly at ease. “Doing well. He’s on dad duty right now, taking care of our son. Now,” she added, lifting the mic again, “back to the question? The offer rejected by Bruce Wayne?”

The cameras went wild at that, shutters popping faster as he stopped just short of the barrier separating them. He didn’t blink at the lights, didn’t flinch at the microphones crowding his face, anticipating his answer.

“Why would I downgrade?”

A crooked, unapologetic smirk pulled at his lips as the lights bore down on him, blinding and relentless. A beat of silence followed before scandalized gasps rippled through the crowd, sharp and hungry.

He could already picture the headlines forming in real time, the outrage, the dirt people would swear he’d just thrown at Bruce Wayne.

You’re going to kill him.

Lois only smirked, a soft chuckle slipping out as she adjusted her grip on the microphone.

“I don’t think Bruce is going to like hearing that,” she dragged a note, amused, before smoothly shifting gears. “But you are competing in the JLC! For the new viewers, it’s short for Justice League Championship, and you’ve been absolutely crushing it! Your next match is against Roy Harper. What do you expect after that match?”

Jason rolled his eyes, a slow, amused scoff leaving him as if the answer were obvious.

“After that match?” Jason planted his hands on his hips, tilting his head like he actually had to think about it.

He didn’t.

Roy Harper wasn’t worth the mental effort.

“Hm,” he hummed, lips tipping into a slow, dangerous grin. “Dick Grayson should start getting real comfortable with second place.” The shrug that followed was careless, almost bored, like the result had been written long before anyone stepped into the cage.

The roar of the crowd only fed it, the screams bouncing off him like fuel on a fire.

“Because I’m bringing the title home,” he went on, voice smooth but edged with promise, ego worn without apology, “and I already cleared a space for it.”

Lois shook her head, laughing softly into the microphone, the kind of laugh that came when confidence crossed into something sharper, something inevitable.

Lois lifted the microphone again, eyes sharp with curiosity, clearly enjoying herself now.

“Confidence aside,” she pitched her tone higher, a teasing edge slipping into her voice, “a lot of people credit your rapid rise to the team behind you, specifically your coach. How much of tonight’s performance belongs to you, and how much belongs to her?”

The crowd stirred at that, cameras immediately angling for his reaction.

“And speaking of her,” Lois continued smoothly, “what are your thoughts on the relationship between your coach assistant and Dick Grayson? Bruce’s protégé, currently having the most belts in—“

Huh???

“Wowowow—“ he stops Lois Lane, a clear furrow of his brow. “What do you mean relationship with MY assistant? I am not aware of my assistant’s dating history, but I assure you that Dickhead hasn’t been with—”

Lois burst out laughing before he could finish, the sound bright and uncontrollable as she lowered the microphone for a second.

“Whoa, easy, tiger,” she grins, still chuckling. “Not that kind of relationship.”

Cameras snapped faster the second Jason’s expression changed, shutters clicking in rapid fire as photographers caught the way his jaw set and his eyes darkened.

A few of the paparazzi leaned toward one another, voices hushed but urgent.

Jason froze, scowl faltering into open confusion. “…Then what the hell are you talking about?”

Lois wiped at the corner of her eye, composing herself before lifting the mic again to herself. “Then you must be unaware,” she explained smoothly, slipping back into reporter mode, “that Dick Grayson was trained by your coach assistant long before Bruce Wayne recruited him. It was early in his career, formative years.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Lois continued. “By most accounts, she helped build the foundation of his fighting style. Footwork, defense, and adaptability when he was nineteen and she was seventeen. The very things that earned him those belts.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, slow and deliberate.

“Oh,” he flatly replied.

Lois watched his reaction with interest, smirking as if she could read his thoughts. “So,” she pressed, “knowing that your possible opponent was once trained by the same coach who trains you now… does that change how you see the match?”

Jason’s lips curled, sharp and dangerous.

“If anything,” he began, voice dipping lower, edged with something dark and certain, “it just means she knows exactly how to take him apart.”

The TV flickered, then cut to black.

Jason sat back against the worn couch cushions, the room suddenly too quiet without the crowd, the cameras, and the noise.

The glow from the screen faded, leaving only his reflection staring back at him for a split second before it disappeared completely. He let out a slow breath through his nose, jaw tight, replaying his own words in his head instead.

The interview looped in his mind anyway.

As expected, he’d won his match against Roy Harper. It’s been two weeks, Roy Harper, respectfully was a name checked off the list, another highlight reel already circulating online.

His knuckles still ached faintly, a dull reminder of the fight, but it barely registered.

What lingered was you.

The thought of you standing cage-side, sharp-eyed and unflinching. The way your voice cut through the noise when it mattered. The certainty in your hands, the confidence in your touch.

Dear god, the way he— Jason groans, tilting his head back until he looks at the high-rise ceiling of his penthouse.

The way his head rewinds two weeks ago.

Two weeks.

After winning his match.

“Now, in what world was it a good idea to provoke Roy Harper?”

Jason frowned, irritation flashing across his swollen lip.

“Provoke? Please. I was speaking the truth.”

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed, and pressed deliberately into a darkening bruise along his ribs. He hissed sharply, fingers snapping around your wrist on instinct.

“Hey—”

“Don’t grab,” you warned lightly, though your mouth curved into a smirk when his expression pulled into a small, offended pout. “That’s what happens when you let your ego do the talking.”

Jason released your wrist, muttering under his breath, but there was no real bite to it. Not when you were this close. Not when your hands were already back on him, methodical and careful, tending to him like it was routine.

“Still won,” he simply whispered with a bit of attitude. You huffed, shaking your head as you reached for another wipe.

“Which I’m really happy you did, but you kiddin’? That was a close call.”

A brief pause followed, Jason's shoulder slumping, furrowing his brows together at the way you’ve been frustratingly been so…

So damn annoying.

A pain in the ass, and yet somehow he had still found a way to like you. No, that wasn’t even accurate. There were too many things about you to like, too many moments that had piled up quietly over time. Enough that it startled him when he realized the truth.

He’d been pining over you for three years.

He dragged his hands through his face, closing his eyes in disappointment of the lack of courage to ask, to just ask you officially instead of interfering the way you’ve found yourself on a date, or talking to someone.

Ughhhh.

I mean, it was obvious, wasn’t it?

He brought you flowers on Valentine’s Day and brushed it off like it was nothing. He paid every time you went out to eat without even asking. Tuesdays somehow turned into movie nights at his place, him cooking while you hovered nearby, stealing bites and commentary. He drove you everywhere in his new car, never once complaining, and when your car broke down, he fixed it himself, wrapped your car in a color you’ve liked as if they were your pretty nails that HE HAS PAID FOR.

And if there’s one thing that he will never ever admit?

Whenever he’s injured, he looks forward to your hands.

He really likes your hands all over him in any sort of way.

He’d loved your hands since the first time you’d slipped on your boxing gloves and proved him wrong, ever since the sharp crack of leather against skin and the bruise blooming on his cheek from your own hand, your unapologetic smile while your father pointed and laughed from the ringside at his cocky assumption that he’d had the upper hand.

August had gotten a good chuckle out of the fifth fight of the week with you, losing once more with a hope that he’s able to turn the tables against you, having you pinned underneath Jason.

The imagery of your wrists pinned beneath his palms, the mat cold against your back, his control effortless and precise. It was something he wished to happen once.

Yet, the thought crept in uninvited and unwelcome, settling like a bruise he could not ignore.

The way your hand kisses any bruises he has, healing them under your touch.

The thought of those hands ever belonging to anyone else, or pinned underneath anyone else.

He hates it.

“You trained with Dick Grayson.”

The question— no, the statement slipped out sharper than he intended.

Your hands stilled for half a second.

You glanced up at him, expression unreadable, then went back to cleaning the cut along his cheek like nothing had changed.

“What about it?”

Jason lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, his jaw tightening as heat crawls up his neck.

“What about it?” he echoes, incredulous. “You trained one of the biggest names in the MMA world. One of the biggest names in the JLC. And it just… never came up? You didn’t think that was relevant?”

This time, you really look at him.

Your brows lift slightly, eyes searching his face with quiet precision, like you’re peeling back layers he hasn’t even admitted are there. The room feels smaller under your gaze, heavier, and Jason suddenly wishes he’d chosen his words more carefully.

“Is that what this is about, relevancy?”

He hesitated.

The locker room felt smaller all of a sudden, the hum of fluorescent lights louder, the sting on his cheek forgotten.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, fingers curling against the bench.

“I just—” he exhaled through his nose, voice low and raw. “Feels like something I should’ve known.”

Your hands, the same ones that had been there to put him back together more times than he could count, found their way to his jaw, gently tilting his face upward.

Your touch was steady, unwavering, like a silent question lingering between you.

“Why?” You asked softly.

Jason swallowed hard, caught in the weight of that simple word and the way your eyes held him so completely.

From this angle, looking up into your calm, steady gaze, something deep inside him tightened— a mix of longing and vulnerability he couldn’t fully voice.

He wanted to pour everything out, to lay bare the ache and the hope and the quiet desperation in his chest, but the words caught, tangled in his throat.

Because the idea of someone else standing where he stood made his chest burn.

Because hearing Dick Grayson’s name attached to you made something ugly and possessive twist in his gut.

Because he didn’t like how much it bothered him.

Because he didn’t want to imagine your hands belonging to someone else.

Jason stayed quiet.

“I didn’t tell you,” you begin after a moment, voice low and even, “because it wasn’t about you, or him. It was about work— training, boxing, and MMA. We’re friends, acquaintances, but it wasn’t anything more.” He nodded, but the motion was shallow, unconvincing.

His eyes stayed on yours, searching, like he was bracing for a hit he wasn’t sure was coming.

“I know,” he murmured. “Doesn’t make it better that I had to find out through them… well, Lois.”

The complaint slipped out in a low grumble, all the fight finally draining from his voice. His shoulders loosened, tension easing as he let himself lean into you, his face turning pliant in your hands like he trusted you not to drop him.

For someone who fought for a living, Jason went oddly still when you touched him like this.

Your fingers remained steady against his jaw, thumbs warm, and grounding. He exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before opening again to look at you.

You were smiling.

Quiet amusement at the familiar name.

“Why am I not surprised you found out through Lois?” You chuckled softly. “Working with Dick wasn’t exactly a secret, but it also wasn’t something people cared to dig into.” Your smile turned a little wry. “Guess that’s changed now.”

Your thumbs brushed his skin again, absent but intimate, as if you were smoothing the moment itself.

“Fans love a narrative,” you continued. “They connect dots that don’t exist, twist history into drama. It makes for good headlines.” You shrugged easily, as if it doesn’t bother you of what people say on Twitter, Tiktok, or any social media platform.

“You should get some rest, Jason,” you commented, the edge of authority slipping back into your tone like armor. “I’ll see you later. You’ll have a month to recover before your final match.”

Your hands finally fell away, the sudden absence making the air feel colder.

“Oh, I forgot one thing—”

Then, before his brain could catch up to his body, you leaned in.

A brief kiss pressed to his cheek, warm and unguarded, lingering just long enough to leave him stunned.

You turned away immediately after, already heading for the door like you hadn’t just rearranged his entire nervous system.

But just before you stepped out, you paused.

You glanced back over your shoulder, a slow, knowing smirk curling at your lips, eyes glinting with something dangerously unreadable.

“Congratulations, Jay.”

Then you were gone.

Jason sat there, frozen on the bench, like the world had stalled mid-breath. His pulse thundered in his ears, cheek still warm where you’d kissed him, your voice replaying on a loop in his head.

Congratulations, Jay.

Jason sat there, frozen on the couch of his living room. His pulse thundered in his ears, cheek still warm where you’d kissed him, your voice replaying on a loop in his head only differently.

The kiss on his cheek still felt like an imprint, one you’d left behind even two weeks later, he wondered how it would feel if your kisses were possessive.

If your lips lingered instead of retreating, if they traced the line of his neck with intention, leaving behind nothing visible but everything felt. The kind of closeness that didn’t need marks to claim him, only the quiet certainty that he was yours in a way that mattered.

The kind that leaves him panting for more, his hands tightening on your naked hips, watching your tits bounce from every lift that comes down onto his pelvis, and your hands trailing from his shoulders to his chest, running through his pecs before they settle on his abs, flexing under your hands while your pussy clenches around him.

He had always felt guilty of these dirty thoughts, avoiding your gaze at one point two years ago, where you licked your lips, flipped him onto his back, caging him while you stared down on him while he tried to control his dick from twitching.

He really couldn’t face you, tried to wipe those thoughts, but he’s given up too many times, looking on pornhub, Twitter, and had one or two hookups that had him accidentally imagining what you’d be like.

The pure imagery of your voice, pitched pornographic moans echoing in his mind, his hands stroking his cock as he calls out your name under his muffled breath, his arm thrown across his eyes, his head tilted to the ceiling from his couch, biting onto the hem of his shirt that he bunched up from the wet dream that has been on his mind for days, uncontrollably moaning, feeling his cock twitch and the sound of his slick echoing his living room.

How he would love to see your lips around his cock, pressing a kiss onto his tip before spitting onto it, running your tongue all over the base to the tip that leaks pre-cum.

Filthy.

Jason isn’t usually dramatic.

He isn’t big on theatrics, doesn’t care much for putting on a show. Though, if he were being honest, he’s always had a soft spot for musicals. The way actors exaggerate emotion, how they lean fully into feeling without shame, how everything is bigger and louder, trying to fight for the spotlight.

He pretends to scoff at it, calling it ridiculous.

Yet, here he is.

Jason feels like he’s been hurled through a glass window, the impact sudden and merciless. The world fractures on contact, splintering into a thousand sharp reflections as he falls, helpless, watching everything he thought was solid shatter around him.

It’s slow motion and absolutely disgusting to see.

Richard Grayson has no business having his hands on your wrists, staring down onto you with a fucking grin on his face.

That’s not only the worst part: he’s pinning you down into the floor mats, something Jason has never been able to achieve, breathing harshly as you glared up at him, pinned underneath him.

At 6 in the damn morning.

It was the night before the match, facing Dick Grayson.

Jason’s hands curl at his sides, nails biting into his palms as something ugly and heated coils in his chest. Jealousy, yes, but tangled with something worse.

Your father stands off to the side like this is just another Tuesday, arms crossed over his chest. Meanwhile, Bruce fucking Wayne is in the gym. In your father’s gym. As if it’s not absolutely insane to have a former world champion, global icon, philanthropist with a reputation built on charity fights and clean victories, just casually observing sparring sessions on scuffed mats.

The contrast is jarring.

“I fold,” you whispered into the quiet.

Dick laughed immediately, bright and easy, like he’d won something harmless. He released your wrists and stood, offering you a hand to pull you up, that same grin still firmly in place. You took it without ceremony, brushing yourself off as if you hadn’t just been pinned in front of an audience that mattered far too much.

And then Dick looked past you.

Straight at Jason.

The grin shifted. “Well,” Dick realized a new figure in the gym, clapping his hands together once, “been a while since I’ve seen ya’! You did great in your match against Harper last month!”

Jason didn’t return the smile. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking briefly to where Dick’s hands had been on you before settling back on his face.

The air between them went taut, stretched thin with something unspoken and ugly.

“Didn’t know you were comin’ here.” Jason grunted, pulling his headphones out of his equipment bag before throwing his equipment bag to the side, passing Dick to your side.

You turned to him as he wrapped the headphones around his neck.

“He’s here to briefly visit,” you explained. “It's been a while since we’ve seen each other, especially since the championship is going to be in New Jersey, the home of the well-respected boxers: Jason Todd and Dick Grayson!” You flung your arms out as if you were an announcer, hearing the roar of a nonexistent crowd.

Bruce chuckled at that, landing his gaze onto Jason.

“You sure you don’t wanna take up on my offer?”

Jason scoffed, “disrespecting my coach in front of me? In your dreams, you’ve heard my answer in the interview.” You glanced at him, your lips curving upwards, knowing exactly what he’s referring to.

“Well, all due respects to your coach.” Dick winks at you playfully, coming up to your other side. “You could learn some tricks from Bruce and maybe I can catch up with—”

“Not a fat chance in hell.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

You raised a pointed brow at him, wondering what’s with the attitude against your former teammate, or whatever the fuck.

“Oi’! Be nice, Todd.” Your father sways a finger at him, knowing he’s half-joking, but Bruce could only laugh at Jason’s intimidation.

Yuck.

Dick, of course, looked delighted. He walks over to a towel hanging off a bench, slinging it over his shoulder, entirely too relaxed for someone standing in the middle of a territorial standoff. “Didn’t realize I’d walked into your gym with your name on it,” he pokes at his response, his voice filled with sarcasm. “You always this friendly, Todd?”

Jason stepped closer, tension rolling off his shoulders.

“Only when necessary.”

You insert yourself between them before it could escalate further, noting down Jason’s hostile attitude.

“Both of you,” you dryly cut their conversation. “Save it in the cage, tomorrow.”

Dick lifted his hands in surrender, a grin still lingering on his face, showing off the pearly whites.

“Relax, coach. We’re just talking.”

Jason’s jaw ticked.

“Sure.”

Bruce observed the exchange like it was a chess match unfolding. Your father, meanwhile, looked one smirk away from enjoying this far too much.

“Unless yall wanna fight it out now.” Your father suggests, hearing Dick laugh, waving his hand around.

“Nah, let’s save that for the match tomorrow!” Dick shot back easily, clapping Jason once on the shoulder.

Then his gaze slowly trails off to you, dragging the towel through his hair, grin still shamelessly intact. “Hey, do you mind if we get dinner—”

Jason clicks his tongue.

“She’s busy tonight.”

Dick slowly side-eyed him. “Oookay…” he drawled, clearly amused. “Do you mind if we grab some friendly coffee?”

He emphasized on friendly.

Your brow twitched, glaring at Jason behind Dick’s shoulder when his mouth opens before it shuts. Your gaze clearly tells him that you can answer yourself.

Jason internally grumbled, jaw flexing.

You crossed your arms, looking at Dick with a polite smile. “Yeah, I’m down.”

And that was that.

And Jason— Jason’s fist tightens, his teeth clenching before he walks away from the conversation to start his warm-up, annoyed with Dick Grayson and his punchable face.

“Do you want me to get you anything—” you called after him, noticing the tension radiating off his back.

“I’m good,” he replied, loud enough to cut the air between you.

He didn’t look at you.

He just pulled the headphones from around his neck up over his ears, sealing himself off. The music wasn’t even playing yet, but he needed the barrier. Jason could already hear and see the furrow between your brows, your snark of his behavior, and the sigh filled with frustration that makes Jason wanna bite down on his tongue and die from being the reason for your frustration.

There was just something aggravating about Dick Grayson.

And he knew it was going to bite him in the ass later.

It always happens.

And today was no different, except the fact when you came back to the gym with Jason’s regular order— he had left already.

You expected to see him at the heavy bag, or in the corner stretching, or arguing with someone about footwork.

Instead, his space was empty.

“Hey, where’s Todd?” you asked casually.

Your father glanced up from his conversation with Bruce.

“Left.”

You blinked. “Left?”

“An hour in,” he added, mildly confused himself. “Didn’t say much when he left except talked with August about tomorrow.”

That didn’t make sense.

Jason never left early.

Left immediately after the first hour which was highly unusual of him— Jason had never left the boxing gym, he would at least stay for four hours, yet he had left.

You were left with confusion.

And Dick simply sips his coffee.

While Jason is in a turmoil of feelings.

After multiple messages left on read by him, your name flashing with a vibration of his phone that automatically went through voicemail while he begrudgingly ignored the flash of a picture of him and you together, ridiculous face masks on, fluffy headbands with bows, a night of self-care of one of the movie nights you’ve had, leaning into him for a selfie that he had pretended to hate.

It had quieted down after 2:00 PM.

“I think you should really tell her how ya’ feel.”

And like every other time, he has to consult with Artemis on FaceTime, her fiery red hair is down, brushing through it with a pointed gaze, piercing through the device into Jason’s soul.

Jason choked.

“Did you even listen to what I said for last four hours!?”

Artemis groaned, dragging a hand down her face like she was the one exhausted. “Oh my god, I’ve been listening since day one of this whole situation,” she snapped. “And I can’t help but say you’re blind as a damn bat!”

“I am not blind,” Jason shot back.

“You are catastrophically blind and we truly didn’t need this debrief and your internal crisis,” she corrected. “You think she memorizes your coffee order, patches you up like you’re something fragile, and looks at you the way she does because you’re just another fighter? The fact she motivates you every single time? Or the kiss on your cheek? Or have that viral clip go everywhere and not say a word of what yall are?”

Jason opened his mouth, then he closed it.

Artemis pointed at him. “Exactly.”

He stood abruptly, pacing now, agitation crawling under his skin.

“You didn’t see her with him!”

“With Grayson?” Artemis scoffed. “Please. I’ve seen that man flirt with a mirror. That literally means nothing.”

“It didn’t look like anything?!”

“And what did it look like?” she challenged, folding her arms.

Jason hesitated, jaw tight.

“She looked comfortable with him.”

Artemis’ expression shifted from exasperated to something almost pitying. “Jason. She’s comfortable with him because they’ve trained together. History doesn’t equal romance and I thought she cleared that up from the last conversation we had when y'all were in the locker room.”

And Artemis once again— had a point.

“She’s not choosing between you and him,” Artemis sighs quietly. “She doesn’t even know there’s a competition, because you’re the only one fighting it, dumbass.” Jason shouts a ‘hey!’ Before he frowns.

“You gotta stop being a wimp and just— I don’t know, take her out on a date for once!”

“I am not doing that!”

“Holy fuckin’ shit! Man UP, dude. Do you want to see her with Dick Grayson, then!?”

The fuck!?

“I thought you were on my side!”

Jason stares at her in disbelief.

“I am literally on your side!” Artemis annoyingly says. “Don’t drag this out any longer.”

“I—”

Jason’s door starts banging.

Artemis swears she saw Jason become ten-times paler.

“I know you’re in there, Jason! You better explain yourself!”

Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.

“What the fuck do I do—!?”

He hisses into his phone.

The call disconnects.

The last thing he sees is Artemis smirking at him before she hangs up.

Oh, what the absolute fuck, bruh.

The banging continues.

“Jason!”

He drags both hands down his face.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Okay. You can absolutely tell her— you fight grown men for a living. You can open a door and confess.”

Another bang.

He flinches.

“JASON TODD.”

“Alright! Give me a second, woman!” He shouts back automatically, then winces from the annoyance in his tone.

He takes a deep breath, praying mentally to himself, and opens the door.

He leans against the doorframe like that might steady him.

“Hi,” he says weakly.

And like every other time that he had pissed you off—

You do not look amused.

You’re standing there in a plain graphic t-shirt wearing comfortable sleep shorts, arms crossed, eyes blazing with anger, hurt, and worry.

“You left,” you state.

“Yes.”

“You ignored my calls.”

“…Also yes.”

Your eyes narrow. “Are you five?”

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “In my defense, I was having a crisis.”

“A crisis,” you repeat flatly.

“An internal one.”

You stare at him for a long second.

“Jason,” you say slowly, dangerously calm, “did you really leave training early, ignore me for hours, and spiral because Dick asked me to get coffee?”

He freezes.

You blink.

His silence answers him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

He winces. “It sounds worse when you say it out loud.”

“It is worse out loud!”

He steps aside automatically when you push past him into the apartment, pacing once like you’re trying to process the level of stupidity before he closes the door.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

“I know,” he says immediately.

You turn on him.

“Why?”

“Tell me, Jason,” you step closer until his back hits the door with a dull thud. “What exactly happened? Why were you so pissed at Dick? I’ve told you before we’re just friends! We’re old acquaintances!”

Something in him snaps.

“I know that!” He fires back, louder than he means to.

“You think I don’t know that?” he continues, running a hand through his hair. “You think I’m stupid?”

“I think you’re being absolutely ridiculous,” you shoot back.

“Yeah?” he laughs, sharp and bitter. “You wanna know why I’m being ridiculous?”

You stare at him, jaw set.

“Enlighten me.”

“Because I absolutely hate how I feel.”

And he seethes, watching the way your eyes widen, your face written in confusion while he continues. “I hate that he pinned you when I couldn’t and that I haven’t. I hate that he’s got history with you, I hate that you light up when you talk about old training stories with him—”

His chest heaves. “I hate the fact that the media has this narrative between the two of you the last few weeks as if I am not there, I hate the fact we aren’t anything more than friends, and I hate that I don’t get to say anything about it because technically I have no right!”

He steps closer now, frustration radiating off him.

“I hate being friends. I hate the fact you don’t realize how much— how much I feel for you and I hate that we label the times we go out together ‘hangouts’ when I want it to be a date, or whenever you’re with someone else!”

The anger fractures, bleeding into something raw.

“I buy you flowers. I fix your damn car. I let you come over every Tuesday. I let you yell at me. I let you patch me up every round because it’s the only time you touch me without thinking and when you drop off medicine when I’m sick.” His voice breaks slightly at the edges. “And I don’t say anything because I don’t want to fuck this up!”

You stand there, taking it all in.

You watch the way his chest rises and falls like he’s just gone twelve rounds. The way his fists are still clenched at his sides, knuckles pale, like he’s bracing for impact that never comes. The anger is still there, but it’s fraying at the edges now, splitting open to reveal something far more vulnerable underneath.

Then, as if a switch flipped, the air changed.

And then he caught the subtle way you wet your lips, almost unconsciously, like you were thinking too hard about something you hadn’t decided yet.

His gaze dipped before he could stop it.

To your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered under his breath, voice lower now, rougher.

“Like what?” You asked, though your voice had lost its earlier edge.

“Like you wanna fuck me.”

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you hummed lightly, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your knuckles and all the blood rushes to his dick.

“You’re really funny, you know that?” You murmured.

And then you leaned in, not to kiss him, but enough that your lips hovered near his ear, your breath warm against his skin.

“You’re not the only one that has feelings, Jay.”

And suddenly, your mouth crashes against his, teeth grazing, breath stolen. Jason makes a startled sound against your lips before he’s kissing you back just as hard, hands gripping your waist like he needs something solid to hold onto.

There’s nothing tentative about it.

Your fingers slide from to the hem of his shirt in one decisive motion.

He barely pulls back long enough to breathe.

“You’re—”

“Shut up,” you murmured against his mouth.

Fuckin’ crazy hot.

You drag his shirt up and over his head in one swift pull, tossing it somewhere behind you without looking.

His hands automatically find your hips again, tightening them as a low sound rumbling from his chest as your palms press flat against the bare skin of his chest— warm, solid, and real.

He’s basically grinding against your core, the imprint of his dick on his sweatpants rubs against your shorts that hugs your thighs, and every time he lifts you every few seconds, he catches your clit through the thin piece of a poor excuse of shorts, hearing you moan from the slight pleasure.

It doesn’t take long for your shirt to also be thrown somewhere in the living room, which unsurprisingly, you’re not wearing a bra that leaves him in a daze, staring at your tits that makes his head spin from how perfect they are.

Your hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, and then you’re pulling him down again, mouth finding his skin with the same confidence you dragged him into that first kiss. He exhales sharply when your lips press to his jaw, then lower and slower.

He’s imagined this, too many times.

Jason doesn’t know what to do with you, especially with the way you’re not afraid to be the one directing the pace, being the bold one to pull the first move, to have your lips marking him up everywhere.

Your teeth graze lightly over his skin.

He sucks in a breath.

“Mm,” you hum against him, clearly pleased with the reaction. “You’ve thought about this before?”

Shit, did he say that out loud?

You nip gently at the side of his neck, it wasn’t hard, but it was enough to make him let out a small, involuntary sound that vibrates through his chest.

“Don’t—” he starts, but it dissolves into a breath when you press another slow kiss just below it, knowing full well the faint flush of red will linger.

You pull back slightly to admire your work, fingers brushing over the spot you’ve claimed and the other red spots that linger all over his collarbone.

Jason’s eyes are dark, blown wide, chest rising a little faster now.

“Answer me,” you murmur, lips ghosting over his pulse point. “How many times?”

His hands tighten at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to steady himself.

“You don’t wanna know,” he says hoarsely.

“Oh,” you whisper, pressing another deliberate kiss to his throat, “I think I do.”

Your hand moves slowly, unhurried, sliding from his shoulder down over the firm plane of his chest. Your pretty manicured hand drags lightly over warm skin, fingers splaying as if you’re mapping him out from memory.

“Once?” you press.

A huff of breath leaves him— half laugh, half disbelief.

His dick twitching.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You drag your nails lightly down his chest in response, watching the way his stomach tightens under your touch.

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna answer.”

Then, your hand drags down till you’ve grasped onto his cock, feeling it slightly twitch beneath your palms even through the cloth.

“Oh f—“

You softly chuckled.

“I’ve thought of sucking your dick before, ya’ know?”

With that, you squeeze him a tad-bit, fueling the fire in his stomach when you watch his facial expression twisting into pure pleasure, closing his eyes in bliss, releasing a sharp moan from your words, his cheeks flushing in a pretty red color before he slowly opens them to face your devilish smile.

Without a single thought behind Jason’s eyes, he watches you stick out your tongue, placing it on his chest—

And dragged it down.

His mind focused on the pink muscle, everything thrown out the window, gliding your tongue lower, tracing the defined line of his abs, feeling it clench when you run the ridges between them, tasting the salt on his skin as you go.

His breath hitches, a ragged sound that vibrates through his chest and into your mouth. You pause just above the waistband of his sweatpants, looking up at him through your lashes.

His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust, fixed on you as if you’re the only thing that exists in the world, mouthing the imprint.

And it feels heavenly, the intensity of the heat, the wet mouth of yours sucking him through the cloth for a second.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you hook your fingers into the elastic of his sweatpants and boxers, pulling them down together. The fabric catches for a moment on his erection before you free it, and his cock springs out, hard and flushed.

The sight makes your own arousal spike, a wet heat pooling between your thighs and your fingers dragging to your core providing relief when you rub yourself.

You don’t waste any time on Jason.

You lean in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head, tasting the bead of pre-cum that’s gathered there. Jason’s hips jerk, a choked gasp escaping his lips. You smile against him, then part your lips wider, taking just the tip into your mouth.

Your tongue swirls around the sensitive ridge, teasing him, savoring the way he trembles under your touch and when you follow a particular vein that nearly makes him lose it all.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands resting on top of your head. “Don’t fuckin’ stop.”

You take him deeper, inch by inch, until he’s hitting the back of your throat. You relax your muscles, letting him slide even further, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at his base. The guttural moan he lets out is raw, unrestrained, and it sends a thrill straight through you. You start to move, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm, your other hand stroking what your mouth can’t take.

His hands tangle in your hair, his grip tight but not painful. He’s trying to hold back, you can feel it in the tension of his thighs, the way his breaths come in short, sharp bursts.

But you don’t want him to hold back.

You want to break him, to make him lose all control. You pick up the pace, sucking harder, your tongue flicking against the underside of his shaft with every pass.

His hips start to move, thrusting forward to meet your mouth, moving your head slowly to follow and you let him, taking him deeper each time.

And the way your eye rolls to the back of your head.

“That’s—fucking hell,” To hear the broken thoughts of the man stuffed in your mouth only encourages you to repeat the entire process of pulling yourself to the tip of his cock before taking him all-over again to the back of your throat.

“Fuck, take all of it.”

Jason finds himself encased in a wet heat that holds him hostage, shutting his eyelids from the pure bliss you’ve given him from your lethal tongue of yours.

The room fills with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth on him, his ragged moans as he starts to lose himself. His groans were becoming a higher pitch now, bordering on whimpers as he grew more daring with moving his hips against your face. His excitement was only spurring you on, a desperate little moan rumbling in your throat as you watched his face contort.

You greedily licked as he fucked your throat, your fingers repeatedly circle your clit as his cock twitched against your palate.

“God, I’m gonna—” he chokes out, his grip tightening in your hair.

The head pushes against the back of your throat when you try to fit as much of him as you can. You struggle to breathe, airways blocked by the thickness of his cock. But it’s fucking worth it when he quivers under you, knowing he’s so close, the back of your skull reveling in the pressure of his palm.

You hum around him, the vibration pushing him closer to the edge and with a final, broken cry, he comes, his release hot and bitter on your tongue.

You swallow it all, milking him for every last drop before slowly pulling back.

You look up at him, his chest heaving, his face flushed and glistening with sweat.

He looks completely wrecked, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

You don’t know how long you’ve been having sex with Jason last night.

You can’t remember when you’ve found yourself in his bed, having multiple rounds with one another but you know you’ve come onto Jason’s tongue multiple times, and Jason has only come a few times, still wanting to continue, even though there was the final match the next day.

You goddamn nearly blacked out from how good he was eating you off the damn bone.

And he still is— except all you feel and remember is the divine stretch, a full, aching pressure that steals the air from your lungs. You can feel every thick inch of him pulsing inside you, a hot, heavy presence that makes your head spin. Your arms snake around his shoulders, nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back as you pull him down, crushing his chest to yours.

“Knew you could take it,” he rumbles, his voice a low, smug vibration against your ear.

You clench around him deliberately, a tight, wet squeeze that makes his breath hitch. A smug little smirk plays on your lips. "Yeah? Well, you gonna just sit there and admire the view, or are you actually gonna fuck me?"

He lets out a low groan, a sound of pure annoyance that only makes you wetter. He pulls out, a slow, agonizing drag that leaves you feeling empty, before sinking back in just as slowly that feels tortuous.

A slight pull out, and then back in.

"Is that all you've got? I'm bored." You let your forearm fall over your eyes, a dramatic gesture you know will piss him off. "Wake me up when you're done."

You hear the sharp grind of his teeth. "You've got a smart mouth on you suddenly," he mentions, his voice dangerously low. "Keep talking and I'll make you choke on my dick from earlier."

You peek out from under your arm, a defiant glare in your eyes. "Then, move faster—”

A sharp, forceful thrust punches the air from your lungs, choking off your next smart-ass remark. Your eyes fly wide, a gasp tearing from your throat as he hits a spot so deep you see stars.

"What was that?" he snarls, doing it again, harder this time, hooking one of your legs around his waist to change the angle. "Fuck you," you spit, but there's no heat in it, only desperate, needy pleasure.

"Oh, I am," he snorts, a wicked, cocky laugh escapes that makes your stomach flip. "I'm fucking a goddamn slut that can’t keep her legs shut." He sets a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the room.

Each thrust is deep, powerful, designed to punish, to overwhelm, grasping onto your hips to pull you into him further, reaching deeper that has blubbering moans uncontrollably while your hands, your pretty nails drags his back, knowing there’s going to be marks tomorrow imprinted on his skin.

"Still bored?" He grunts, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you in place, a possessive brand that makes you dizzy.

"Look at me when I'm fucking you."

Your vision snaps to his gaze, it’s blurry with unshed tears of pleasure coming from the corner of your eyes. His eyes are dark, burning with a fire that matches the one building in your core.

"You're such an asshole," you moan loudly, your voice breaking as he drives into you relentlessly.

"And you love it," he counters, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Take what I'm giving you."

The coil in your stomach tightens, your muscles tensing as the pleasure builds to an impossible peak.

“Jason… I'm gonna—"

"No," he cuts you off, his voice firm. "Don’t cum yet. Not until I say so." He slows his pace, rolling his hips in a way that drags his cock against your clit every second with every stroke, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall.

“Please—”

“No.”

Then, without listening to a damn word Jason had told you, the coil in your stomach snaps, his thumb rolling just once against your clit and your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave.

“Jay!”

A strangled cry tears from your lips as your walls clamp down on him, a series of violent, rhythmic spasms that milk his cock. Your vision whites out, your body arching off the bed as wave after wave of intense pleasure wracks you.

“Not really a good listener, are you?”

Jason groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction as he feels you come apart around him.

He doesn't stop, his thrusts becoming erratic, chasing his own release as you ride out the last tremors of yours. "Ts’ okay, you feel so good when you come on me anyway," he pants, his forehead pressed against yours, his thumb still rolling on your overstimulated clit. "So fucking tight around me."

There’s a certain slight burn to it that feels so fucking good, allowing him to continue to chase his orgasm while your own continues to crash like a continuous tidal wave.

Jason grunts melt into desperate mewls and whines with each rut of his hips.

He sounds so needy.

And there's a raging urge within you to hold him as he reaches his climax. To wrap your arms around his head and cradle him when he makes noises like that. And without a second thought, you did that— pulling him into you before he stills, cumming within you while your name leaves his lips.

There’s nothing in the room except the smell of sex, heat in the room and two bodies.

Your body becomes limp, exhausted and completely spent. You barely register the moment Jason slips out of bed.

But he’s back within seconds.

The mattress dips beside you, and there’s a soft touch against your thigh— gentle and careful. You blink lazily and see him with a small towel in hand, damp and warm.

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly, brushing your hair back from your face. “Stay with me a second.”

You hum in response, too tired to form words.

He cleans you up slowly, respectfully, checking in without making it clinical. His thumb strokes along your hip in between, grounding, reassuring.

“You okay?” he asks, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You nod faintly. “Yeah.”

A small, proud smile tugs at his swollen lip.

“You were incredible,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “Did so good for me.”

When he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and slides back under the covers immediately. You instinctively roll toward him, pressing into his chest like it’s the only place that makes sense.

Your skin sticks slightly from the heat of the room, but neither of you cares. Jason wraps his arms around you automatically, pulling you flush against him. One hand settles at the small of your back, the other cradles the back of your head, fingers threading lazily through your hair.

He exhales like something in him finally unclenched.

“Got you,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You tangle your leg with his, forehead resting against his collarbone, his heartbeat steady. Every so often, his thumb traces absent patterns against your spine.

His lips brush your temple.

“You need water?” he asks quietly. “Pain anywhere?”You shake your head again, sleep already pulling at you.

“Good,” he whispers.

He presses one last soft kiss into your hair before his body fully relaxes, holding you close like he has no intention of letting go anytime soon.

“And welcome back, ladies, gentlemen, and nonbinary folks— if you’re just tuning in, you chose one hell of a night to do it!”

The arena is shaking.

The noise of the arena vibrates through bone and steel, rattling camera rigs and makes the commentators lean closer to their headsets just to hear themselves think. Spotlights sweep across a sold-out crowd, catching handmade signs, painted faces, phones already recording before the first punch has even been thrown.

“Tonight’s main event is one we’ve been anticipating since Roy’s match!” The announcer says, voice rising over the roar of the crowd. “Isn’t that right, Clark?”

The arena responds instantly— loud, sharp, and multiple voicing his name when they recognize who’s seated at the commentary table.

Clark Kent adjusts his headset, offering that modest, almost sheepish smile to the camera as the crowd continues to cheer.

“For once,” Clark replies smoothly, “I’m glad I’m on the ringside and not in the middle of it. These two?” He laughs, shaking his head. “This has been building for such little time!”

The other commentator lets out a low chuckle. “That’s putting it lightly.” He gestures toward the massive screens overhead as highlight reels flash— Dick’s acrobatic knockouts and Jason’s brutal finishes.

“On one side, the golden prodigy of Bruce Wayne— Richard Grayson.” The crowd cheers at the mention of his name. “And on the other— the so-called underdog who refused to stay one. Jason Todd!” Clark whistles low, the commentators letting the crowd’s cheer bypass, but he can’t help but swear he’s never heard a crowd this loud since his own match against Bruce Wayne, ages ago.

“He’s the man who fights like he’s got something to prove every single time he steps into a ring!”

The camera cuts briefly to Bruce Wayne seated close to the ring, waiting for the show to go on.

“And here’s the kicker!” The commentator continues, leaning into it. “They’re both molded under the same coach!” The camera pans to the person next to Bruce Wayne, your father before it flickers to you.

“To be specific, the assistant coach of the former boxing champion! They’re two fighters forged in the same fire— who took very different paths once they stepped out on their own!”

“And tonight,” the announcer finishes, as the bell official steps forward, “we find out which path leads to gold.”

“Give it up… for DICK GRAYSON!”

His music slams through the speakers again, louder this time, bass thundering through the floor. The crowd leaps to its feet in a wave of sound that feels almost physical.

Dick Grayson bursts through the tunnel like he owns it. All easy confidence and loose limbs, he jogs down the ramp with that signature grin— playful, effortless, like this is just another rookie fight.

He shadowboxes toward the ring, light on his feet, tossing sharp combinations into the air for the cameras. A wink to the front row. A quick spin just to hear the crowd react louder. He slaps hands with fans leaning over the barricade, soaking in the cheers like sunlight on bare skin.

The arena is still buzzing from Dick’s entrance when the lights suddenly cut to black.

A low, distorted bass hum rolls through the speakers— slow, heavy, and almost predatory. It vibrates through the floor, through the barricades, through the ribs of everyone in attendance.

“And now…” the announcer’s voice drops, stretching the anticipation tight. “His opponent.”

A single spotlight snaps on at the mouth of the tunnel.

“Fighting out of Gotham City… weighing in at—”

The music hits.

“Give it up for… JASON TODD!”

A mix of roaring support, sharp boos, and that electric kind of chaos that only follows someone unpredictable.

Jason steps into the light.

He wears a simple black robe, the hood up with his fingerless gloves already on. His shoulders are broader than they look on screen, posture heavy with controlled tension.

Jason rolls one shoulder as he walks, loosening it. Cracks his neck once, sharp and audible even through the music.

He steps into the center of the ring and finally reaches for the tie at his waist.

The arena feels like it collectively leans forward.

He unties it slowly.

He lets the robe fall open just slightly— revealing his ribs, defined muscle, the faint outline of old scars earned the hard way.

Then he shrugs it off completely.

And the reaction shifts instantly. What begins as admiration fractures into something else entirely—gasps ripple outward in a visible wave, followed by scattered, disbelieving laughter and sharp, scandalized shouts from the lower rows close enough to catch the screen in full detail.

The production team, bold or messy, lets the camera linger half a second too long as it pans across Jason’s back. Under the harsh white arena lights, the marks are unmistakable.

Darkened impressions bloom against his skin, scattered along the broad plane of his shoulders, trailing down between his shoulder blades and curling up toward the side of his neck.

Some are half-hidden beneath athletic tape, peeking out like secrets that were never meant to stay private. Others are fully visible— deep plum and fading crimson against flushed, fight-warmed skin.

The crowd noise swells into something chaotic— half shock and the other half in delight. Someone wolf-whistles from the upper rows, he nearly hears a chant almost start before dissolving into laughter.

The camera zooms instinctively, catching the curve of muscle and the unmistakable shape of one darker mark near his shoulder, before snapping back to a wide shot as if remembering this is, technically, a sanctioned sporting event.

“Well,” the other commentator manages, clearing his throat as he tries— and fails— to suppress the grin bleeding into his voice, “it appears Mr. Todd had a very… thorough preparation phase.”

Clark exhales softly beside him, professional but clearly aware of the moment. “That is certainly one way to make a statement before the opening bell.”

Jason rolls his shoulders once, slow and deliberate, like the noise is nothing more than background static. The referee steps between them. Dick bounces lightly on his toes across the ring, grin sharpened now into something competitive.

The bell rings.

“And here we go!”

Dick comes out fast, testing range with quick jabs, light on his feet. He circles left, then right, throwing a clean combination that snaps against Jason’s guard.

JLC matches tend to take forever.

They average at least an hour or two, so it was no different that two experienced fighters would drag on the match with split knuckles, bruises, a spit of blood escaping someone’s lips, or wiping away the corner of their mouth.

“This is dead even,” the commentator says, voice tight, sweating profusely from the last few matches exchanged between the two men. “You could make a case either way.”

Dick moves first, snapping a jab that splits Jason’s guard, followed with a quick cross that forces Jason back half a step. The crowd surges at the shift.

“Grayson finding rhythm!”

Jason pivots.

“Look at the way he moves!”

“Dear god, is Jason simply going to take that brutality!?”

“And oh my god, here comes Dick Grayson!”

“And Jason strikes again him!”

“Holy crap! Look at him!”

Then, it was silent.

A left hook comes from tight and brutal, compact and devastating.

It lands clean against Dick’s jaw.

The arena goes silent for half a heartbeat.

Dick’s body stutters mid-motion, balance unraveling in slow, terrible clarity. His knees give. He hits the canvas hard, the impact echoing through the ring.

The crowd explodes.

Jason steps back immediately, chest heaving, eyes still locked on his opponent as the referee dives in.

The count begins.

Dick rolls to his side, blinking, trying to orient himself. He pushes to one knee at six.

The crowd counts with the ref.

The referee looks into his eyes.

Hesitates.

And waves it off.

“That’s it! It’s over!”

The arena detonates into chaos.

Jason exhales slowly, tension draining from his shoulders all at once, blood streaked down his temple. Chest rising and falling like he just outran a storm.

The referee grabs his wrist and raises it high.

“And your winner— by knockout— JASON TODD!”

Dick steadies himself against the ropes, one glove hooked over the top strand as he regains his balance. His jaw is tight, chest rising and falling hard, but when he looks across the ring at Jason, he gives a single nod.

In the center of the ring, Jason stands still as the official approaches with the JLC belt. Blood continues to slip from the cut above his brow, trailing down the side of his face and along his jaw before dripping onto his shoulder.

The belt is fastened around his waist briefly before he shrugs it off and slings it over his shoulder instead. It rests there heavy and earned, gold catching the lights as flashbulbs explode around him.

He grins.

“Oh— hold on,” the commentator says, voice rising. “He’s heading somewhere.”

Jason doesn’t wait for the post-fight interview.

He doesn’t pause for the cameras.

He hops down from the ring apron in one fluid movement, belt still hooked over his shoulder, ignoring a handler trying to steer him back toward center ring.

“He’s not going to the panel— he’s not—”

The camera scrambles to follow as he pushes through some individuals that try to interrupt his path.

Straight to you.

The crowd begins to realize what’s happening before the commentators do.

His hands find your waist first, firm and grounding, pulling you flush against him as the belt nearly slips from his shoulder.

And then he kisses you.

A full, claiming kiss right there under the arena lights. The crowd gasps, audible and scandalized, before the sound erupts into cheers so loud it nearly drowns out commentary.

“Oh my—!” the announcer laughs in disbelief. “He just sealed the victory with that!”

Clark exhales a quiet, almost amused breath. “Well… that will be replayed for a while.”

“Doesn’t it remind you of that time with Lois, winning that match against Lex Luthor?”

“Huh, it quite does.”

Jason pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath still heavy, grin spreading wider: feral, victorious, and entirely unapologetic. The belt hangs loose against his shoulder, gold catching the lights while a thin line of blood slips from the cut above his brow and tracks down his cheek.

They’re close enough now that the overhead screen fills with the two of you— your hands fisted in the front of his wraps, his fingers still firm at your waist. The arena noise swells again, cheers rolling like thunder.

But in that small pocket of space between your foreheads, it feels quieter.

His lips brush near your ear as he says something— too low for the microphones, too close for anyone else to catch. From the outside, it looks like nothing more than a breathless murmur, a champion whispering something triumphant after a win.

“Hey, kiss it better?” He murmurs softly, almost shy beneath the swagger.

And he feels your breath hitch into a quiet laughter, nodding your head before he drags you away.

Behind close doors with not a single eye of media, you kiss the split knuckles dedicated for you.

a/n: HELLO EVERYONE!! it’s been a while!!! this quite literally took a month and a half to write? I was on hiatus for a bit! Don’t expect me to stick long haha, I’m doing slow updates, so any work from now on will take a fat minute to write out. But I’m glad I was able able to push this fic out!! Let me know your thoughts on boxer!jason winkwink b/c holy cow. Never in my life have I ever wanted to suck the living soul out of jason todd… PLUS be sure to reblog, comment, and like!!! It means the world if you interact, especially if you comment or reblog your thoughts!!

“Do you want me to show you the touch of another person?” Your eyes snap up to look at him. Not once would you ever expect that a simple catch up session with a round of drinks in Jason's apartment could come to such a conclusion. “You don’t have to say yes. I'm just offering you a solution and teaching you that it’s different with someone else’s hands on you.” 

If you didn’t know any better, it’s just a fancy way of Jason saying that he’s thought about this before. That he’s thought of you in such an indecent, obscene way, but it makes your thighs clench together and your heart race faster than it should.

“I . . Are you sure about this?” your voice is a bare whisper against the fog of inadvertent tension in his living room. When he leans back against his couch, the silver of his necklace chain twinkles so teasingly before your eyes fall back onto his face. There’s a small smirk playing on the corners of his lips and you feel reassured that he’s assuming his cavalier charm for your own sake.

“I am. So, what’s your answer? I promise I'll be gentle . . . or rough, if you like it like that.” There’s the mocking and insufferable Jason that you know.

Despite the roll of your eyes, you know that the unbearable warmth on your cheeks and neck tells you otherwise. You just hope he doesn’t pick up on your flustered state. taking a deep breath, you look him in the eye and nod firmly.

“No can do, birdy. You have to give me a verbal answer or I'm staying put here.” You know that he’s an assertive character. You’ve seen, witnessed, and experienced this countless times before so why does it leave you chasing for a little bit more oxygen in your system?

The glass in your hand has already been drained of its alcohol long ago. You are sober enough to make your own decisions and you know that the same goes for him. Placing it on the table right in front of you, you unknowingly glance at the distance between both of your bodies at different ends of the worn leather couch. Your eyes finally rest on his face, gentle and observing.

Has he always been this attractive?

“Yes, I'm sure. Please, Jace. I . . . I want to know.”

“That's all I need to hear,” he chuckles. Jason shifts his position so that he’s properly supported. His leather jacket has been discarded long ago, leaving him in his compression shirt and sweatpants.

Upon spreading his legs, he pats his lap with both his hands as though inviting you to sit on them.

Oh.

He is making you sit on his lap.

“C’mere and sit on my lap, pretty. The pace is yours to set.” You get up and obediently make your way over to him but you just stand there with a frown that screams a lack of experience and he boisterously laughs at your reaction.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, dick for brains!” You grumble with a faux sense of anger. You huff, glaring at him before taking a step forward and then back. Then you inch to the side but ultimately you’re stuck in your original position because you just don’t know how you should even be sitting down on his lap. You've seen it countless times in multimedia but for some reason it feels foreign when experiencing it firsthand. “Are you done?” You deadpan him as you cock an eyebrow upward. There’s still some giggles that are leaving him but eventually it stops with a long sigh.

“Alright, alright. Let me give you a hand.” Jason grins and his calloused hands reach forward to settle on your waist. Carefully he guides you towards him and you’re taking meek, timid steps before you’re descending lower, lower, and lower until you are finally sitting down on his lap. You can feel the cool metal of his necklace with his chest pressing up against yours.

His body is warm and you feel safe in his care—as you always do. Both of your hands fall onto his firm shoulders. His muscles are much broader than you last recall, and when did he get so muscular?

Swallowing thickly, you slowly raise your head to look at Jason. Your faces are inches apart, his warm breath stained with red wine fanning against your cheek, and only then did you notice that there’s a hint of a darker blue in the irises of his icy eyes . . . which are on your lips.

The heavy thump thump thumping of your heart is making you feel a little queasy in fear he’ll hear it and his quiet chuckle breaks the brief moment of silence. “Comfortable?” His thumbs massage the flesh of your sides through the fabric of your top, something to keep you focused on him while also relaxing. The last thing that he ever needs is for you to be uncomfortable with him. You murmur quietly in agreement. Jason’s lips tug into a wide smile at your answer. “That's a good birdy. I'm going to kiss you now, okay?”

Taking a deep breath, you nod.

Before you know it, his warm lips are on yours, moving against them gently and you mirror his movements. The quick, chaste pecks lets you get used to the feeling before he gets a little bolder and slides his tongue along your bottom lip. A soft gasp of surprise follows and his tongue is exploring the taste of your favourite alcohol on you, your grip on his shoulders growing a little tighter and he’s pulling you a little closer to eliminate any minuscule space between. Your body is starting to heat up and there’s a warmth stirring deep in your belly with every kiss and every passing second and it’s embarrassing how easily you’re getting turned on by just a few kisses. Eventually you have to pull away for breath and while he lets you recuperate, he dives into the crook of your neck instead.

Your body's a canvas that he’s littering in kisses full of adoration, humming as he tries to find the spots that will make you unfold and loosen up into a mess in his lap. There’s this image of you, so innocent and pliant, coming apart by his hands, his mouth, his cock, his everything; and it’s sending him into a feral frenzy. He knows he has to take it slow for your sake so he’ll do everything that he can to make you beg for more of him.

Sparks are igniting through your body when he latches onto a spot that is suspiciously sensitive and a loud moan of his name escapes your throat before you even register it coming. You feel him smile in pride against your skin and it’s a sign of trouble you know all too well. He's going to find all of your weaknesses and he’s going to make you crumble by his own hands.

Your hands venture up the back of his neck and into the tresses of his dark hair, fingers curling gently into his locks and tugging as you buck your hips against his desperately. His hardening erection is rubbing against where your clothed heat is and you need more.

“Damn, is someone getting impatient already?” Jason brings his mouth right next to your ear. The baritone of his voice sends shivers down your spine and it pulls a small whimper out of you. “You’re gonna have to wait a little longer, birdy. Let me show you how good it feels to have someone touching you.” If you weren’t so hot and bothered you would’ve retorted back with something smart.

Curse him and his stupidly handsome face. A brief chuckle escapes his lips at your lack of a proper reply.

His hands that are on your waist slide down to grab the back of your thighs and wrap your legs around his frame. Without a warning, he hoists the both of you up and you wrap your arms around his neck in alarm but the heat and wetness staining your underwear is starting to get uncomfortable. His erection is pressing right against your core and you had to bite down on your lip to prevent yourself from moaning out loud. Despite a makeout session so tender that lasted an eternity yet too short at the same time, you’re already caught in a daze from his intoxicating touch.

“Wha– what are you . . .” Your voice falls into a breathy whisper, a byproduct of his mind-numbing effect on you, and he squeezes your ass in response. “J-Jason!”

“Can’t have your first time on a couch, silly. It’s going to be on a comfortable bed, it’s going to blow your mind, and you, my pretty little thing, are going to scream my name,” he nonchalantly continues the conversation as he makes his way to his room.

A vulgar image of him rutting his hips against yours, reaching the deepest parts of you and making you cum more than you can count has you flustered and speechless. Before you can even think of saying any more, you’re in the far too familiar territory of his room. Jason places you gently on his bed, crawling over you with icy flames of lust in his eyes as he licks his plump lips. It’s the same look that a predator would give its prey after a successful hunt and it sends shivers down your spine and a perpetual ache in your needy, throbbing cunt. Your thighs clench together desperately. “Now, where were we?”

His strong hands pull your legs apart so he can settle himself in between your thighs. He gives you a kiss so saccharine that it has you yearning for more and he allows his hands to wander further down. Nimble, calloused fingers work away at undoing your top and taking away any constraints on your body before they’re fondling your chest so lovingly. His lips travel down the expanse of your neck, down your décolletage, until they’re wrapping around your nipple.

The warmth of his tongue swipes over your bud while his fingers roll and gently pinch at the other. His touch is electrifying and you hate to admit it but he is right. When it’s him who touches you, it’s making your body keen into him and pleasure is overtaking your senses. Your eyes are snapping shut and your body is reacting on its own accord—your fingers fist at his bedsheets underneath you, back arching into his touch, hips bucking into the air helplessly to the point that he has to use his left hand to pin your body down. Heat rushes to your core and you know that your underwear is ruined beyond salvation. Slick is already seeping through the fabric and you can already tell it’s going to bleed through your bottoms.

“Don’t get impatient or I'll leave you needy like this,” his tone lilts upwards mockingly and all you can do is hit his shoulders weakly. “Hmm, or should I let you show me how you play with yourself? I am a little curious about how your toys look, birdy.”

“What? No!” Your eyes immediately snap open to look at him, hot, breathy pants tumbling from your mouth, only to see his smug smirk that you want to wipe off of his stupid face so much. “Please– fuck, please I need you. If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear to god I will–”

“You’ll what?” He challenges, lifting himself from your body to hover over you. “Or you’ll cum without me? An adorable thing like you wouldn’t know the euphoria of a real orgasm, so you better behave or I'll leave you on your own. You know better than anyone that I keep my word.” Something that he has learned from being around you for so long is that silence from you is a form of acquiescence because you’re too proud to verbally declare that you obey. It’s not at all something that he would ever complain about. the corners of his lips are tugging upwards into a wide smirk with lust burning menacingly in his eyes. “I want you to tell me that you'll behave, birdy. Loud and clear.”

Chewing the insides of your cheek, you maintain eye contact with him and ponder over your options for half a second. Eventually your need for a release triumphs your pride and your gaze meekly falls to his lips, swallowing thickly when they pull into a grin.

Upon your realisation that you’ve been caught, you grump and revert your attention back to his face. His warm breath is puffing against your cheek heavily. Cocking an eyebrow, he pulls himself back. Underneath the fluorescent lighting over your heads and bodies in his room, you can clearly see the muscled planes of his body outlined by a warm halo. There are some healed scars from battles and fights that he’s both won and lost that litter his abdomen, muscles so strong and defined yet soft enough to give you the best hugs. Your eyes travel over the expanse of his chest and chiseled abs, over the dips and curves of his biceps, down to the dark tuft of hair that leads to his erect cock hiding underneath his sweats.

His right hand finds its way down to your heated core and cups it, face morphing into an expression of pleasant surprise. Your eyes fall back to his face in alarm. Now he’s got your attention. He bucks the heel of his palm against your throbbing clit. Before you can even control yourself, you’re whining at his touch and your hips are moving on their own accord to get more of him.

“I'm done playing games. Beg for it.” The sudden drop in Jason’s voice has you frozen in your spot. There’s a dark shadow looming ominously over his features when your eyes snap up to look at him. You don’t know whether you should be scared. His large hands—calloused, warm, and inviting—are making quick work of his belt and trousers. Within the blink of an eye, he’s fully bare in front of you and the sight of his cock has you salivating.

Everything about him is huge. He's thick and girthy, with pretty veins lining the sides of his cock. The tip is swollen and nearly purple from the lack of attention given. You don’t know whether he’s too long or not, but one thing you do know is that he won’t fit at all. Yet the thought of struggling to fit all of him inside your cunt has your walls pulsating and clenching around nothing.

“P-Please,” you whisper softly. He wraps his fingers around his cock, pumping it back and forth at a languid speed. Veins are bulging in his arms and biceps at his movements while he closes back in on you, free hand grabbing at the remaining of your clothing and ripping them off of your body. Now, you’re completely bare to him. Your slick is drooling all over your inner thighs and you clamp them together out of reflex. You’re throbbing, you’re needy, and good god do you need his cock inside of you right now. “Please, Jason, I need your cock. I need you inside of me, I need you to tear me apart and ruin me until I'm crying and begging for more, please! I can't take it anymore!”

Both of his hands effortlessly grab the back of your knees and spread your legs apart. Your juices are spilling down onto his bedsheets and they glisten so tantalisingly. You’re repeatedly mumbling “Please, Jason, I need you,” over and over again like a broken record, tears starting to spring from your eyes from your lack of stimulation.

“I wanted to taste you, but I guess that’ll have to wait,” he grunts quietly. Your begs are too pure and sweet, just as they should be from someone who’s never been touched like he touches you. Your voice is so precious that it’s making his cock harder from the thought of destroying you for everyone else and having you for himself. Maybe it’s selfish of him, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to take care of you and breed you full of his cum. “Or maybe not. Shit, I need to prep you. Gotta get you nice and warmed up for my cock, yeah, pretty?”

You weakly nod, not trusting yourself to speak or make a sound.

As much as he wants to be selfish, taking your virginity is something that he intends to honour as one of your closest friends. He doesn’t want to hurt you and above all, he wants to prove just how good it feels with someone that you trust compared to when you do it alone.

With that in mind, Jason teases your clenching hole with the tip of his middle finger. He watches with nothing short of amusement and glee when you try to catch him, desperation overruling your senses completely. You’re so adorable like this, he thinks.

He eases his finger into your gummy walls and he’s rewarded with a soft sigh of pleasure. Your eyelids flutter at the relief of a stretch, no matter how small it is compared to the actual girth of his dick. You’ve most likely only ever used your fingers or a small dildo, he assumes, so he needs to warm you up and stretch you out.

“That feel nice, birdy?” He hums, nosing at your jawline. Your hands find purchase on his broad shoulders as if bracing yourself for impact. Blunt nails dig into the muscles, eyes rolling back as he curls his finger into a gentle hook. After a few experimental thrusts he manages to find just the right spot hidden in the roof of your walls the second you’re gasping in surprise. He notices the way your thighs twitch, the way your nails are digging in a little harder, and by god is he enamoured with the way your back arches so beautifully into him. “That’s it, baby. Just relax and let me take care of you.”

He slowly drags his finger in and out of your warm, tight cunt, whispering praises into your ears. He gives a gentle warning when he slips in his ring finger but he doesn’t bite back the smile on his face when he watches you relax into the pillow underneath you.

Jason’s lips find yours and he kisses you so tenderly that you’re getting butterflies in your stomach. He doesn’t rush it, letting you get used to the rhythm while he continues to pump his digits into you. He swallows every single moan from your throat when he successfully stimulates the roof of your walls, and it doesn’t take you long until you’re whining and begging for more.

“C’mon baby, say it for me,” he urges. His broad shoulders keep you wide open as he hooks your knees over them, settling himself by the edge of the bed as he descends to his knees. Warm breath puffs against your swollen clit and you whimper.

“Fuck, feels good, Jay.” You’ve resorted to gripping the sheets underneath, pulses of heat sending shockwaves through your body. It’s a known fact to you that sex is supposed to feel good. It’s not something that you’d do for a one night stand; you’d save it for someone special. For someone you trust to make your body feel good in a way you might not even know how to achieve. “D-Does it– Can we try– your mouth, please?”

“You’re so damn cute when you’re flustered.” He chuckles lowly.

The constant pressure against your G-spot is already edging you ridiculously closer to your orgasm. You can taste it by the skin of your teeth, starting to pull you under with his constant ministrations.

“Jason, fuck– don’t be a dick! I’m so close– shit.” One of your hands shoots out to grip onto his dark hair and push his head down. He lets you.

And oh, how sinful your moans sound when he wraps his lips around your clit and starts to suckle. He doesn’t care that his forearm is beginning to ache, doesn’t care that he has to recall his deep breathing techniques while you’re using his face to cum. Hell, he doesn’t even give a fuck that he’s so hard that it’s painful—as long as you’re cumming for him.

Your orgasm pulls you under with a satisfying wave throughout your body. The familiar knot snaps in your lower belly until you’re gushing around his mouth and fingers. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches into the air and the long whine of his name that comes from your lips goes straight to his cock.

He continues to fuck his fingers up into you through your orgasm, only slowing down when you eventually relax and come down from your high. He raises his head, the corners of his slick-stained lips curling into a smirk.

“God, you’re so goddamn hot when you cum for me.” Jason plants a soft kiss to your throbbing clit, then another one to the inside of your thighs. You watch him with half-lidded eyes as he rises to his feet, licking and lapping at your juices and cum on his fingers like it’s the last of his favourite sweet treat—all whilst maintaining eye contact with you.

You bite down on your bottom lip but it doesn’t hide your moan all too well.

“You taste so perfect, birdy.” He leans down and gives you another kiss on your forehead. Butterflies erupt in your stomach from the tender gesture. “Y’know I’ll always help you, don’t you? Wish you’d come to me sooner with this curiosity of yours.”

His voice is low and husky as he wraps your thighs around his waist. One hand grips the base of his cock while the other supports his body as he holds himself up above you. The biceps in his left arm bulge, the veins in his forearm protruding from the strength needed. He takes his time to gently caress his cockhead along your labia, catching it against your entrance only to slide it up to your throbbing clit.

He does this again, over and over as you whine and move your hips with him in a feeble attempt to catch him.

“Jason, don’t tease,” you whimper out loud, your hips rolling forward. You gasp when the tip suddenly presses into your entrance. He slowly inches himself in and you know that he’s being patient for your sake from the bruising grip that he has on your thighs. You can feel the throbbing of the veins running along his girth, stretching you out and sending your head spinning from the overwhelming sensations. Sparks ignite all over your body as your lips part for a silent cry of his name. The coil in your belly is starting to wound itself from the sheer size of him alone. “Y-You’re too big– too big, you won’t– ‘s not gonna . . . you’re not gonna fit!”

“Oh, you silly little thing,” Jason croons darkly with a grunt. “I’ll make it fit.” He pushes himself in further and further until he’s buried balls deep inside your throbbing cunt. He’s reaching so far in that you’re sure he’s barely brushing against your cervix and you’re moaning around him, clenching tightly at the delicious stretch of his cock in your cunt. Carefully he takes your knees and hooks them over his shoulders so that he’s able to align himself up properly to be able to reach the spot that’ll have you seeing stars behind your eyelids. After making sure that your neck is supported with his pillows, he starts at a slow pace. He drags his cock back and forth along your insides, groaning and grunting as he lets you get used to his size. “Fuck you’re so fucking tight. Perfect little cunt made for my cock, huh?”

“J-Jason, that’s- that’s embarrassing . . .” You can barely even form proper words from the sheer size and weight of him inside you, tip bumping against your cervix with every slow push and pull of his hips. Before the words click in your brain, you’re begging for more as your ankles are digging into his muscular back.

“We've barely begun and you already want more? Something tells me that you’re just a little whore who just wants my cock in the first place.” Without a warning, he withdraws himself until his tip is poking at your entrance before slamming his hips back down until he’s buried to the hilt. The sheer force and power of his thrusts makes your toes curl and your back arch gently into his chest.

“J-Jason!” His name is ripped from your lungs in a loud, piercing cry that sends a pulsating throb straight to his cock. He’s thrusting into you relentlessly with brute strength that you don’t recognise. Every harsh upward stroke of his cock into your cunt, he pulls you down to amplify the pleasure and you’re seeing constellations in thin air. There's not a single coherent thought in your brain, rattled from his reckless speed and strength but it’s lighting up every vein in your body with adrenaline and a lustful fire. The wooden frame of his bed is squeaking and groaning in tandem with him as you’re babbling incoherent nonsense.

“Jason, Jason, Jason, fuck, ‘s too much, you’re too big, I– I can’t, you’re so—haah—fuck, feels so– so good!” Fat crystals are dancing down your soft cheeks, glimmering, telling him that it’s too much, and he’s too big, yet you’re taking all of him in so easily. You’re so tight; your cunt is wrapping around him like a vice and sucking him back in every time. 

“What? It’s too much? Baby, I’ve barely even started,” he gruffly grunts right into your ear, groaning and hissing as he continues abusing your hole. Your body feels so hot. You’re burning up and you’re sobbing from how his cock is drilling against the roof of your cervix so effortlessly.

Everything is too much for your body to handle and you quiver under his ministrations. where his large hands are positioned at your hips, pulling you in to meet him in the middle with every single thrust upwards. The sudden increase of intensity in the pressure against your G-spot only makes the familiar coil in your belly tighten.

“Look at you, pretty birdy. Who knew such an innocent little one like yourself could go ‘round makin’ such lewd sounds and faces. All ‘cause my cock’s buried in your tight cunt. But lucky me, your tight cunt’s all mine, ain’t that right? Perfect cunt made for my cock.”

His name is bouncing off of the walls of his room, cries of pleasure filling his ears and stroking his ego as the melody of obscene skin slapping falls to a steady, fast rhythm. Every push and pull of his hips and yours is edging you closer and closer to an orgasm that you know will never compare to all of the past ones that you’ve had on your own. Your thighs are quivering and shaking and he tuts mockingly, shaking his head while chuckling.

Oh, what now? One of his warm hands slides down between where your bodies are messily meeting in a flurry of impatient thrusts. His thumb starts rolling at your swollen clit, hard and throbbing, as he does his best to stimulate the neglected nub in figure eights as accurately as he can.

Your gaze shakily lifts up to his face and you’re caught with one of the most stunning sights you’ve ever seen. Dark black locks are sticking to the sides of his face, his plump lips are parted as he pants heavily over you, whispering, grunting, moaning your name and how good you feel wrapped so tightly around his cock. His muscles are flexing and relaxing with every heavy, precise thrust into you and you’re melting in his hold as the coil inside of you snaps without warning.

“I'm cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumm– Jason! Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” A sharp, hot white flame spreads across your belly and you cream around his cock with a choked cry of his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head and your body convulsing and twitching underneath him. Jason, however, is not stopping at all.  His eyebrows are furrowed deeply as his thrusts increase in speed and strength. his hips are pistoning in and out of you mercilessly sends your senses into overdrive.

“You've already cum before me, birdy?” He pants hotly, encouraged by how you’re chanting his name, body shivering from the warm temperature of his hands against your burning skin and the overstimulation. His thrusts have long rid itself of a rhythm and a steady pace. He's rutting into you like he’s in heat, desperate as he chases his high. Blunt fingernails dig into the plush flesh of your waist and thighs so strong that you know it’s going to leave bruises for days upon weeks to come. “Fuck, you’re gonna take all of my cum inside of your cunt like a good birdy, aren’t ya? You’re gonna milk my cock dry ‘til you’re leakin’ cum.”

Curses are falling from his lips until his shoulders are shuddering and he falls to a standstill.

Jason buries his cock deep inside of you one last time and he spills his hot load. Your name, dripping with lust and a mind-spinning orgasm, is dragged from his lips with a loud, guttural moan. Ropes of thick cum paint your pink walls white, filling you up to the brim as his cock throbs whilst resting in your convulsing cunt.

“I'll get you some water,” he whispers, leaning forward to plant a sweet kiss on your lips. He stays still like that for a moment, not wanting to overstimulate you too much. His gaze softens as he looks at you. “Then we’re continuing. I've got so much more to teach you, darlin’.”

When he withdraws to get a good look at your flustered, fucked out face, he smiles to himself.

He sure is lucky. You’re not exactly innocent or a prude before this, but you’re so sweet with the right kind of sharpness for a tongue. But now, with his cock buried so deep in your aching cunt and struggling to even form coherent words, it’s something that he’ll forever hold to his heart.

After all, he’s the one who has you screaming for his entire neighbourhood to know how good his cock is stretching you.

the whispers of supernatural inhabitants were hard to ignore, even if you had never seen one. many gothamites were convinced that there were more than most people had thought. recent whispers had began to state that the only vampire in the city was the batman himself — a figure that had risen in the past couple of years and that was the reason for his nocturnal lifestyle. 

the lingering fear of the supernatural that was inherently spread through the city had kept your circle small, allowing you to keep only a few friends that you had since you were a child. that was all you had needed for a long time.when you had started taking classes at gotham university, your circle widened slightly. halfway through your first semester in university, you found a job in a small bookstore not far from campus. being so close to the university, it was in a relatively safer neighbourhood for you to commute to on your own when the sun was down. 

residents of gotham knew: do not go out alone past 10 pm. 

that unspoken rule was not just due to the supernatural beings that lurked in the shadows. gotham was notorious for crime. the human residents were just as dangerous as the unknown vampire. 

the job at the bookshop became your sanctuary, a place where you knew you were safe no matter what. you were constantly surrounded by books and people who shared a passion for literature. you circle expanded more — only this time, you had met someone who infiltrated your life in ways you had not anticipated. 

jason todd. the son of bruce wayne. 

jason was a ghost in the bookshop, at first. he barely made a sound, sat in the back corner of the shop for hours with his eyes glued to the book. he never bought them, only read for as long as he could then quietly slipped out of the shop. 

one evening, when the shop was slow, you had quietly approached from under the guise of simply restocking books. when you neared his spot against the back wall — where you had set up a chair for him when you had realized what he had been doing — you quietly held a book out for him. Pride and Prejudice. 

he blinked at you silently, analytically, as if you were holding a book concealed as a weapon that was intended to hurt him. 

"you read this last week," you blurted out gently, the first words you had spoken to him. "and you picked it up the first day you came here. this is my own copy. take it, keep it. it's yours now." 

he continued to blink up at you blankly, though you could tell from his body language that he was guarded — a sight you had grown accustomed to recognizing in residents of this city. your arm didn't waver despite how much you wanted to pull back and hide behind the front desk. he reached up and quietly took the book from you, pulling it into his lap. his fingers pulled back from the smooth cover instantly, as if touching the cover was burning through his flesh. quickly. so quick that you barely processed the actions before he was turning back to what he was reading. his mouth tightened, the muscles around his lips tensed around unspoken words that were fighting to break through. 

you introduced yourself to him just as quietly, a soft whisper of your name, as you chose to ignore his reaction. you didn't push any further than that — didn't ask him to introduce himself, you already knew who he was. everyone did. instead, you forced yourself to move on with your maintenance tasks to keep yourself busy under the crushing weight of that interaction. you weren't sure when he had slipped out of the bookshop either. he suddenly disappeared from view like his presence had never existed in the shop to begin with, yet the silence that followed was suffocating. despite jason's intentional silence, his presence was tangible. comforting. a steady weight in the room that quelled your heart, your mind.

you liked to think that you had the same effect on him, that you could provide him the same amount of solace that he had managed to do for you, that the whispers of gotham's violence could be forgotten in the safety of the bookshop. 

your answer came a week later. 

a book. jason's own book. he strayed from his usual routine, he came in through the front door. loud, almost intentionally so, drawing attention. he made sure you heard him coming this time. thudding footsteps from the door towards the front desk, steady and consistent. thump, thump, thump, in rhythm with your pounding heart. your eyes followed him, focused on his form as he made his way closer to you. 

theatrics weren't his style. grand gestures were unnecessary. he brought you an exchange. it was simple. you gifted him a book. he gifted you one of his. he needed to give you reciprocity. this barter was quiet. swift. almost transactional. as if he was unaccustomed to these slow interactions. 

"jason," he mumbled simply after the surface of the book thudded on the desk. his voice was smooth in a way that you hadn't expected. rough around the edges, around certain syllables that molded in his mouth that he spat out harsher than needed — but smooth in the middle. it was a soothing melody that you were embarrassed to admit had affected you to the depths of your bones. 

"hi," you greeted softly in the return. the corners of your lips quirked up in a shy attempt of a smile. 

"for you," there was roughness, low. a grumble full of annoyance that masked the tenderness threatening to rise to the surface. his head nodded towards the novel before he turned and disappeared silently between the shelves to his corner in the back. quietly. natural. his footsteps light and practiced.

your eyes flickered down to the book he left on the desk, worn and tattered. loved. Pride and Prejudice. only, this wasn't your copy that he was returning. the cover was different, pocket sized, molded to fit the curve of the human body. his body. his copy. 

you flipped the cover to the first page, his name scribbled in a skinny scrawl. jason's copy. written in the top right corner messily. underneath, was your name, written in the same skinny letters that made up jason's. your copy. you swallowed that down and flipped a few pages ahead. annotations. pencil markings filling the margins of his thoughts, observations, doodles. 

you smiled at the sight.

you gazed into the dimly lit walkway between the shelves in front of you, letting the weight of his actions gloss over your mind for a moment. his intentionally loud entrance so you would know he was coming. the book that sat in front of you to the right in your peripheral vision, daunting. the stone look you had been met with previously had slowly turned into something softer, still grey and clouded, but with light threatening to peek through. suddenly, the quiet boy that was a silent entity in the shop became something more. something closer. tender. 

                   ‿‿‿‿

the shift was subtle. 

Jason started coming in through the front door. always when you were distracted behind the counter. he watched, timed, perfected his entrances. he knew. he had observed you, your quirks, reactions, your routine. he had it catalogued in his mind, imprinted in the groves like a permanent stain. he would walk in when your brows would begin to scrunch, eyes focused on the screen, or the papers, so far away from reality that you needed him to pull you back in. he relished in the distracted greeting you would give, a small 'welcome in!' paired with a flash of your teeth. his satisfaction lay in the way you would double take when you noticed it was him, a slower greeting, one that lacked the plastic rigidity of your customer service voice. he would barely nod in return, pushing down the lurch in his stomach at the sight of your smile, as he disappeared between the shelves and to his spot at the back. he couldn't let you see how it affected him. how you made him feel alive, more human than he had in years, how you made his heart feel like it could beat again. 

he didn't need this library, he didn't need this bookshop. but he needed you. you, who was safe, steady, oblivious to him and his nightly endeavours. the shop was quiet, always dimly lit, the perfect place for him to to waste time before he began his nightly patrols. 

this time, however, this time was different. 

he disappeared to the back, you watched the way the shadows invited him in, breathed in tandem with his movements like they were familiar with him. they were familiar, inseparable. except, he came back — book in one hand, the armchair in the other. he pretended not to notice your lingering gaze, the questions swirling in your irises that he refused to acknowledge. he set the chair down in the corner beside your front desk, a soft thud rattling the floor. the cushion exhaled under his weight, deflating and settling around him. 

there were a million thoughts, questions, scenarios on the tip of your tongue that you fought to swallow down. they burned your tongue, sizzling onto the backs of your teeth instead. he sat next to you. next to your space. reading. you turned back to the monitor, the spreadsheet of inventory pulled up. the numbers no longer make sense, blurring and mixing together. 

you could see him from the corner of your eye, hands cradling the paperback spine, head tipped down in comfortable focus. you didn't miss the way his shoulders remained tense, his chest deliberately moving up and down in steady intervals. perfect, almost too perfect. his legs were spread, thighs pressed to the cushions, and feet planted firmly on the floor, ready to flee — or fight. 

you weren't surprised. everyone had to be prepared in gotham. the attacks were steady, consistent, unmistakable. targeted attacks. bodies drained of colour and blood left in the streets for people to find. a message. the signs continued to point towards the batman — gotham's protector, the nighttime vigilante. it made sense, it did. the victims were dangerous men, men who stuck to gotham's shadows and preyed on the innocent. batman's targets. 

a comfortable silence settled between the two of you, charged with an undercurrent of electricity that both of you refused to acknowledge in fear that it would dissipate beneath you. he kept coming back, however. through the front door, disappearing to find his book before settling in the chair planted next to the front desk. 

he pretended not to notice your glances, lingering looks that stopped on his hands, his face, and you pretended not to notice the glares he would give to customers who stood too close to you, too close to the desk, loitering in your space and striking up conversation. conversation that was quickly silenced when the weight of his gaze would cut into the customers chest, slicing uncomfortably and driving them out of the shop. 

lingering looks turned into moments spent in close proximity during the long stretches when no one was in the store. you would plant on top of the desk, legs dangling beside him, dangerously close to brushing against his but not quite. never enough to calm the itch that ignited flames under your skin. 

having him in close proximity was tantalizing. he was an enigma that you were unable to decipher. he had seemed normal, despite how private he was. he was the son of gotham's richest man, a man that had thrust into the spotlight and scrutinized by every voice imaginable. his image was curated, and he never seemed to stray from it, from what you could tell. but you noticed the inconsistencies, the minor details — something jason hadn't accounted for. 

it wasn't that he underestimated you, no. he recognized your intelligence upon the first moments of meeting you. he just didn't expect you to be so analytical in your gaze. it unnerved him, kept him feeling scrutinized. he loved it. 

he loved seeing the gears turn in your head, the tightening of your eyes when your thoughts consumed you. it was for that reason that he had to keep you distracted. he had to keep you off his trail. he knew your body reacted to his presence, it was meant to. it was instinctual for your atoms to crave him, to want to be pulled in by the very scent of him. he avoided touching you through calculated movements. he wasn't warm, hadn't been in years. the chill of his skin would cut into yours without permission. the kind of cold that covered his body didn't have the undercurrent of blood ready to heat him back up. no, this cold was ghastly. uncomfortable. a sickening chill that caused bile to rise up people's throats. because despite how alluring he was to a human, it never stopped the weariness from prickling through their clouded senses.

but not yours. he heard the way your heart skipped a beat, faltering in your chest as if he was someone kind. someone with a soul. someone who wasn't a monster.

"there's… jason, are you bleeding?" you had asked, so concerned for his well being. you pinched the sleeve of his shirt between your fingers, attempting to pull it up to inspect the source of the blood. 

he knew exactly what you had been looking at. it was dried. not human, but animal blood. he needed to eat something before he saw you, otherwise the monster in him would claw up his throat, rip his flesh from the inside out to get to you. he never wanted you to know that side of him, to meet the side of him that could smell the agonizingly sweet scent of your blood thrumming through your veins. 

"it's nothing," he pulled his sleeve back down and over his hands, away from you, away from your touch. he desperately wanted to feel your skin. taste it. know it, but he couldn't. 

"you're gonna bleed all over the fucking books," you grumbled, attempting to keep the tone light. despite the pout on your lips, the concern was still evident through the shine of your teeth, something you were unable to hide.

"then, it's a good thing i'm not bleeding then, isn't it, angel?" he grumbled back, his hands finding his hips. the nickname never failed to hit you square in the chest, like a force that left you gasping for air each time. angel. he raised his brow as he tilted his head down to look at you. one thing that you had learned about jason todd was that he was a diva. those who met him described him as brooding, rude, volatile. the accusations of his character were taken as truth, stated as fact before his heart could be uncovered. no. he was a diva. no one had sassed you more than he did. 

you grabbed the book beside you and swung it at the arm that didn't have blood on it. there wasn't enough force behind your swing to hurt him, you knew that. the book smacked his arm with a solid thud ricocheting off and back towards you. you didn't want to think about how solid his arm felt under the book; how the muscle was cement, an impenetrable wall that provided the book no cushioning. he didn't flinch, the amusement in his eyes only seemed to burn brighter in the flickering of the overhead light. he would have been able to move if he wanted to. his reflexes were unparalleled — supernatural speed that the human eye would never be able to comprehend. he wanted you to hit him, wanted to feel something from you. have you close, even if it hurt him inside. 

"what the fuck was that for?" he grumbled, the dip in his cheek threatening to crack through with the curve of his lip. your eyes softened slightly at the sight of him unguarded. happy. softer. there was fire on your tongue, retorts that could burn him and keep the banter going, but they all fizzled out when you saw the hidden glee in his eyes. 

"let me grab the first aid kit," you whispered softly. you made no move to stand up yet, continuing to gaze down at him from your spot on the desk. his gaze was just as intense, dark eyes boring into yours, softening, lacking intensity. you lifted the book again and swung it at the same arm. he let the hit land, letting scent of your happiness fill his lungs and ease his hunger, yet simultaneously made him ravenous. you were a conundrum for his instincts. he yearned to be good for you, to cradle you delicately in the soft silence of the bookshop. but the primal part of him, the monster within longed for a taste. a taste he would never allow himself to have. 

you slipped off the top of the desk, stepping around and kneeling down onto the floor to grab the handle of the first aid kit. your head ducked from view to pull it free, the hefty weight of the kit pulling you down with it. 

"you owe me one for-" you stood up, heaving the kit onto the desk where you had been previously sitting, only to be met with emptiness. no sign of jason. words had failed you momentarily, trailing up your throat and dying on your tongue. how did you not hear him leave? you had been ducked out of view for less than five seconds. his swift disappearance cause an ache in your heart that you chose to ignore.

you didn't know the extent of your relationship with jason. you were friends, yes, but there was a pull towards him that rooted so deeply in your heart. except, he refused to go close to you. he had just proved that once again by leaving when you offered to tend to his wound. that clearly showed you that your relationship was strictly superficial, so it shouldn't mean anything to you. the two of you were friends. something that was hard to find in gotham. you should have been grateful that you had a friend. just friends.

but then, your relationship changed again. 

it was nearing the end of your shift, quiet in the shop, had been for hours. normal for a weeknight. jason was in his seat. a new book was pressed to his fingertips, his pointer finger gently slipped behind the page and slid down to curl around the thin sheet of paper to flip to the next one. you suppressed a shudder at the sight of his veiny hand working the pages of the book. a fucking book. god, you needed to get a grip on yourself. 

the gotham gazette sat in front of you, covering the keyboard and your mug as you read the front page article. 

LATEST VICTIM IDENTIFIED WITH TIES TO THE PENGUIN, COULD HE BE NEXT?                    by Vicki Vale

The body of a John Doe was found last Saturday at Port Adams at 5:53 am, according to police records. He has now been identified with ties to The Penguin. Coroner's report shows cause of death to be several lacerations to the…

you flipped cover over, folding the paper and shoving it to the side. fear was a uncontainable wildfire that blazed through the city. every crevice had messaging of the vampire that spilled — or drank — blood from gotham's residents, every mouth whispered accusations, rumours, so-called factual information about the assailant terrorizing the city. news outlets refused to connect the string of murders to a supernatural force, omitting anything that could send the public into a spiral.

but that couldn't stop the panic, the precautions that people believed would keep them safe: don't wear strong scents, he'll be able to smell you. don't invite anyone you don't know into your house, he can't come in without permission. wear silver, it'll burn his skin. don't-

it was beginning to get out of hand. you didn't necessarily believe you were safe, but you recognized the pattern. never the public, never the innocent residents of gotham. 

"what did it say?" he murmured out, a question that broke you out of your bubble. his tone wasn't inquisitive and he barely spared you a glance as he spoke. you almost missed it, would have missed it if your body wasn't painfully aware of his every move. the two of you had shared small conversations before, of course. though, they were always short, restrained like he was forcing himself to keep his head down, like being in your presence was already too much for him to handle. 

"they're classifying it as a homicide," your voice was breathy, distracted as your eyes read the rest of the article. targeted. drained. a crime committed by another human being — allegedly. 

his jaw ticked, a subtle clench in the muscle that worked near his ear. he could sense the subtleties in your tone, the implications of the rumours that spread through the city. 

"then it's a homicide,"

"the body was drained," you argued back, raising a brow at him. the newspaper crinkled as you swivled in your chair to face him.

"bled out," his gaze didn't lift from the pages of the book. his tone would have sounded rude, bored to anyone who didn't know him. you knew him now, had picked up on enough cues to tell. he would not have entertained this conversation with you if he did not want to.

"where did all the blood go? wasn't on the ground," 

"were you there, sherlock? should we get you on the case?"

you let out a soft huff, shooting him a playful glare, and — there it was. the lift of his lip, a hint of white peeking through the crack. he was smiling, if you could call it that, but nonetheless a jason todd smile. 

"there are no vampires in gotham," he muttered, his eyes rolling. they were clear lately, his eyes. less guarded, softer, calmer.

"i'm just saying, if the batman did come out as a vampire, people wouldn't be upset. or if it was robin? maybe red hood," you mused softly, a soft breath of concession before your lips pressed together. a soft choking sound exited out of jason before he quickly cleared his throat.

"batman doesn't kill people, neither does robin," jason's tone was simple, his throat working up and down as he cleared it for the second time. your eyes trailed the bob of his throat, listening to the vibrations as he cleared his airways. he shifted in his seat, almost uncomfortably, as if something was eating him from the inside. 

"so, red hood? could be him? i wonder what he looks like under that-" 

"what if it's you?" he turned the question back on you, his brows raising in accusation. 

"what if it is?" you added back, your tone low with conspiracy. the two of you were well aware that you were painfully human, lacking any qualities that would raise you as a suspect of supernatural tendencies. 

you, however, got lost in observing him. there was so much about him that you longed to understand deeply, to feel personally, intimately. the skin on his face was pale, and you wondered if it would be warm or cold to the touch. you wondered how the smooth expanse of skin would feel under the gentle trace of your fingertip. his hair was jet black, except for the streak of white in the front that was as pale as his skin. the tendrils looked soft, effortlessly so, always falling over his eyes and covering the feature you desired to see the most. 

"you're wearing a new perfume today," he broke you out of your reverie once again. embarrassingly so. it paralyzed you, left you frozen in your spot as you tried to process his words, let them into your mind and form a coherent response in return. he knew it too — that piece of shit. the amusement was evident in the way his finger came up to rest on his chin, and in the way his tongue poked into his cheek.

"yeah," you cringed, turning your face away in embarrassment at the crack in your voice. stupid. you cleared your throat with a sharp exhale as you faced him again. you handed him a book from the pile beside you, his fingers brushed against yours, innocently, of course. though, this was the first time the two of you had been in contact, the first time your skin had touched his. from a simple exchange of books, your fingers to his. his hands were freezing, like frigid waters crashing over your hands and paralyzing you. he heard the way your lungs caught in your chest, restricting momentarily at the shock of his marble limbs. this was what he had been trying to avoid. he didn't have warmth inside of him.

he couldn't help but pause as well, refusing to pull away for a moment, then pulled the book from your grip and back down to his lap, reminiscent of the way he had done the first time you had handed him a paperback. it was embarrassing how a simple brush of his fingers could cause your brain to short-circuit. to explode your synapses so ferociously that your eyes melted out of your head. 

the same guarded look slid over his eyes, his barriers raising back up in an instant. another vicious swallow sliced down his throat. his fingers clenched and unclenched on the novel, sliding against the cover with a force that threatened to rip it off. 

"might have been too generous with the sprays," you added cautiously. your brows furrowing at his reactions. 

"i like the old one more, it mixes with your skin better," he closed the book he was reading. you swore you could hear the deliberate breath he took after finishing his sentence. a deep inhale that expanded his lungs to maximum capacity and held them there to settle. then, he was disappearing again to place the back on the shelf. it was almost as if he floated as he walked, an elegance that was unnatural for a man of his stature. he was gone from your view, hidden in some back corner of the store. 

wait, mixes with my what? your brows furrowed as you stood up. there was a soft crash, a shaking of the shelf, and you were instantly on alert. your feet automatically followed him into the shelves, faltering at the sudden silence in the shop. 

did he leave? your skin prickled in fear? anticipation? the temperature in the room dropped several degrees and froze your fingertips. but then you saw him, hunched over a shelf, his body weight relying on the ledge to support him. his entire body was tense, muscles threatening to rip out of his skin, the cords twitching underneath his shirt. 

"jason?" you were panicked, immediately stepping beside him. your hands hovered over his arm — his deathly frozen arm — concern clouding your eyes, your judgement. "what happened? are you-"

he shuddered through an aggressive inhale, ripping himself up and stepping back. you stepped back as well, giving him space to breathe. he was pale, dark swirls peeking through the collar of his shirt and curling up his neck. the only sound coming out of him were ragged, choking gasps getting caught in his throat. 

you moved closer, your hands raising placatingly. he could see the apprehension on your features, the way your fingers trembled as you held them up. for him. all of this was for him. your scent moved with you, potent in the hair and sticking to his nose. it was everywhere. consuming. suffocating. he wanted more. he needed more. needed to taste, to— 

"i'm fine, stay away," he choked out again, his body flung back against the shelf behind him. the spines rattled on the shelves, a quiet crack rippled through the air and fell upon deaf ears. your heart was pounding at the sudden change. the two of you had been getting somewhere, getting somewhere good. he was talking to you. the twitch of his lips that threatened to reveal a smile was becoming more and more common, something you had been steadily uncovering from him layer by layer until he would feel comfortable enough to show you a real one. now, he looked like he was physically pained by the sight of you. 

"let me help? i can call-" you were practically pleading with him. you were confused. panicked. way out of your element. you were scared to touch him again. his reaction from a brush of your fingers was enough. had you done this to him?

you stopped, your voice cracking. your vocal cords shaking around your words,"j-jason? your eyes are red?"

"i have to go," the words ripped out of his throat. spat out with venom and disgust, slamming into your chest and knocking you back. he was gone in an instant, in the blink of an eye, before you could take air in your lungs to protest his departure. the only sign of his presence was the sound of the backdoor slamming with the force of his exit. 

you were shaking in the silence. worried, anxious, scared. confused. you were fucking confused. 

your legs were shaky, your knees cracking as you kneeled down to gather the books that had dropped in his panic, the ones that had been knocked off the shelf when his back collided with the wood. in the quiet of the aftermath, you began to re-shelve the novels, handling them with the same care you watched jason handle them with. 

ice flowed through your blood as your gaze leveled with the shelf he was gripping. your breath caught in your throat, the book slipping from your grasp and thudding on the floor again. your fingers shakily came up and pressed into the indented wood, smooth and still warm, shaped like fingers. molded to a hand that burned hotter than the sun. you swore his finger prints were branded into the wood, sizzled like they had every right to be there, like they deserved to be permanently etched into the place that had become his sanctuary. yet, the wood was ice cold when your fingers smoothed over the indents. temperatures that reflected frostbite seeped from the wood and into your finger, forcing you to pull back and attempt to sooth the ache that was caused instead. 

all you were left with was the puzzling sight of his red eyes, lacking the usual stormy blue that would warm the back of your neck when he thought you were too distracted to notice him. you always noticed him. 

the haunting red. vibrant and angry. like blood. 

                   ‿‿‿‿

after that incident, he had become a literal ghost in your life. he was one with the darkness. the shadows that clung to him swallowed him whole, enveloping him like an old friend. he always had been, you realized. there was a magnetic pull that centered jason, everything in his vicinity orbited in his galaxy. the tether was almost unbreakable, though you questioned whether you wanted to be released from his grasp.

you missed him. 

shame was a lump in your throat that you struggled to swallow. your routine was disrupted. tilted off its axis. what once felt like a steady comfort in your life, now left you reeling. every gust of wind that passed through the door as it swung open held the ghost of him. there were traces of him everywhere — in the chair that remained planted beside your desk that you refused to move; in the pile of books that accumulated beside the chair, his chair, that reminded you of him; in the wood that had bended to his will on the shelf in the back corner of the store. 

another shift passed with jason's absence. agonizingly slow. dull. the crack in your chest carving deeper with each day passing. 

you wanted answers. you deserved answers. 

he had looked at you as if you were the one hurting him. his eyes had turned red. or did they? you didn't know anymore. it was a blur in your mind, a dream. you had ran through those moments so many times in your mind that you couldn't distinguish between what was reality, and what was fantasy — rationalizations of your mind attempting to fill in the gaps of what you couldn't comprehend. 

unfortunately for you, the shift was far from over. you had inventory and stock to complete before you were allowed to go home. normally, the shipments would come at the beginning of the shift, allowing whoever was working plenty of time to complete the actions and make it somewhere safe before hitting the danger zone — or 10pm in gotham. 

the truck was delayed, held up due to multiple blocked streets that were covered in layers of ice from an attack by Mr. Freeze. the chill was noticeable, despite the attack being on the other side of the city. unfortunately, Mr. Freeze making an appearance didn't mean you could go home, it was just another day in gotham. 

by the time the truck did arrive, your shift was nearing it's end — meaning that nightfall was quickly approaching. stock never took long though, you believed you could finish it quickly and make it home safely, in a timely manner. you could do it. everything would be fine. 

everything was not fine. 

there was more inventory than you had accounted for, double than usual. granted, the past couple of times the inventory had arrived during your shift, jason was with you and offered assistance. but this time, jason wasn't with you. hadn't been with you for weeks now. 

and it was late, dangerously late. you were getting increasingly more worried with each minute that passed. you were nearing the end of the pile, though that didn't bring you any solace. you still had to make your way home.

from behind you, the back door crashed open, the steel hinges screeching under the force of the impact. the knob slammed into the wall, cracking into the wood with a sickening split. your heart lurched into your throat as a frightened scream tore out of you. you were back against the wall in an instant, looking around for an escape. 

a body fell through the door, landing on their knees through heaving breaths. a red helmet, a large body under a fitted black suit. red boots caked in mud. red hood. 

you could hear his heaving breaths through the helmet, his arms barely holding up his body. 

"red hood?" you choked out weakly, the adrenaline continuing to pump through your body. you were dizzy with panic. 

his head snapped up with force to meet your gaze. he crawled closer, forcing himself in front of you. 

"angel, i-" red hood spoke, his words continuing to be choked out. you legs pulled up your chest, keeping some space. red fucking hood was at your knees. the familiar pet name hung in the air and only deepened your confusion. he reached up, his fingers pressing into a button on the side of his helmet. a soft click echoed between the sound of his breaths before he ripped the helmet off his head. he kept his face angled down, but the familiar strands of black hair with a tuft of white were the first thing you noticed. jason. jason was red hood, and kneeling in front of you. 

his head dropped further as a pained groaned exited his mouth. there they were again, peeking out from the collar of his armoured plates. dark swirls, curling up his neck, blackening his veins and causing them to protrude against his milky skin. they looked identical to the first time you saw them, like the shadows in the corners that enveloped him. that's why they were familiar. they lived inside of him. 

you were speechless, lips parted in shock as you gazed down at him. there was grime covering his hands, his suit, his hair. his back tensed again, writhing under the pain that you couldn't see. he inhaled deeply through a staggering choke. his head leaned up, his eyes, half lidded, meeting yours. red. 

"forgive me," he choked out before his heavy weight settled on top of you. his face shoved into the crook of your head, nose nuzzling into your jugular. the scent of your blood up close was better than he had ever imagined. one of his hands cradled the back of your head gently, the cold of his hands seeping into your skull. his other arm slid around your waist, supporting your body against the hard shelves behind you. 

you froze in your position. you had never been this close to jason before, and now he was on you, his arms around you. he was inhaling deeply against your neck, aggressively. no matter how much he took, it was never enough. it would never be enough to quell the hunger that consumed him. 

"smell so fucking good," he growled softly, pulling you closer into him. you could feel every inch of his body, feeling the way his lungs expanded in his chest with every intake of air. his head lifted slightly, enough that you could feel the brush of his lips against your skin as his nose moved up towards your ear before back down to it's original spot on your neck. his shoulders began to shake with restraint. 

"fuck," he gritted out again, his breath fanning across your skin. you felt the soft press of his pillowy lips to your neck before he was gone from your body. his body flew back across the room, a loud woosh of air accompanying his shaking body. it was as if he was shoved by an invisible worse, hitting the shelf so hard that it cracked, forming a jason-shaped crater into the wall. 

you tried to ignore the way it felt when his lips touched your neck, how gentle he was despite his vicious tremors. 

his face scrunched in pain, eyes pinching shut. with that, his lips curled up and your heart stopped. fangs. two sharp, pointed fangs in his mouth, venomous. lethal. vampire. jason todd was a vampire. the vampire. gotham's vampire.

this entire time. the entire time you had known him. all that time you had spent together, coexisting in silence. the lingering glances, the nights he drove you home after your shift to ensure you got back safely. the — oh, god — the bodies. all the bodies, the blood spilled in gotham. it was him. it was him the whole time. 

and despite knowing this, you loved him. you were in love with him. the sight of him in pain was agonizing to view.

another invisible punch landed on jason's ribs, his body jolting and writhing. a soft whimper escaped his lips. a fucking whimper. 

you sat up on your knees, crawling closer. another choke left his mouth at the action. he was shaking his head before he could gather his words. "no," a beat and a heavy breath, "no, stay back. you can't… you can't come any closer,"

"let me help you, please," you whispered. pleading. you felt helpless, scared. you were out of your depth, in over your head. "tell me what to do, jason"

"you can't fucking help me, angel, i shouldn't have come here," he heaved. 

"well you did," you snapped back, crawling closer and settling down in front of him. just as he had done to you. the wood bit into your knees, grounding you through the intensity of his gasps. "so tell me what you fucking need," 

"you. okay? i fucking need you. it's only ever been you, and i can't—" he cut himself off to catch his breath. "i wasn't going to make it in time, i need… i need to eat, but i can't—"

your hands came up, gently moving to cradle his face. he groaned instantly, the weight of his head dropping into your palm. "eat? will it help you? if you… you need to drink blood, right?" 

he forced a weak nod, his eyes drooping. "you have to go, far away from me, angel, please, i'll be okay,"

you ignored him, inhaling a shaky breath. you crawled closer between his legs, angling your neck to the side. "then drink,"

"no," he gritted out. forced. leaning his head further back into the wall. 

"yes, you can, let me help you," you whispered. your chest met his, keeping your neck on display for him. it was taunting him. 

"i can't, angel, you don't understand, i won't be able to stop,"

"i trust you,"

"well, don't. i'm a fucking monster. i've been haunted by your scent for months. by the sound of your blood pumping out of your heart and through your veins. all i want is a taste," his teeth were clenched so hard you were sure they were going to crack. the light caught on his fang, taunting you with the prospect of sinking into your flesh. 

"it's okay, jase, i promise. i want to help you," your fingers curled into the back of his back as you brought him closer to your neck. he let out a shuddering breath, his nose pressing into the skin again. his arm curled around the back of your waist, lifting you up and settling you on his thighs. he pressed another shaking kiss to the skin before letting out a weak groan. 

"just a taste, and i'll stop. i promise, angel, i don't want to hurt you, would never hurt you, i—" he muttered out weakly, seemingly hit under delirium. he waited a moment, giving you second to back away. 

you had expected pain. you had expected piercing pain. you hadn't expected the rush of pleasure that tingled your fingers. you couldn't control the sharp gasp that escaped from your mouth as your hands tightened in his hair. his grip on you tightened in return, pulling you closer. 

he moaned into your neck as he lapped up the blood. you were exploding on his tongue, curing him. the sweetest libation he had ever experienced. he was ruined. your blood was pure of sin, strong, addicting. 

"fucking shit, angel, you taste so good," he groaned into your neck, sinking his teeth back in. he could feel his strength restoring, the effects immediate. the darkness in his veins slowly disappeared, his luminous skin smooth and unblemished once again. he should stop. he knew he should stop. but you tasted too good, too good to stop. he needed more, wanted— 

your eyes were drooping in pleasure, slowly going limp in his arms. your mind was hazy, though you didn't know if it was from the blood loss or how good it felt. there was a soothing warmth settling over your skin, like the rays of sun that had once illuminated gotham. the rays that you never saw outside anymore. the rays that you saw deep in jason's soul. 

jason forced his head back from your neck, his veins thrumming with the high of your blood. he was full. full of you, full of your life. it was different than drinking the blood of gotham's lowlifes, he didn't know how he would be able to go back. your head lolled forward without the support of jason's fangs in your neck, immediately falling onto his shoulder. he kissed up your neck, towards your mouth. you gazed up at him and desire surged, raw and invasive, up your throat, restricting your voice momentarily. you wanted him. needed him. 

this was not how you had imagined your first kiss with jason to be: rough, devouring, twinged with the coppery taste of your blood. but perfect.

a whimper rumbled deep from his chest and into your mouth, thickening the fog that continued to cloud your mind. his lips were slippery with your blood, tangy, mixed with the addictive taste of him — a taste that was meant to trap you, hook you into his web with no room for escape. you were his now. his. 

"hmmm, my angel, so sweet," he licked into your mouth to emphasize his words, his fangs retracted now that his hunger for blood was satiated. his hands held your hips down against his, and he ground his hips up against yours to punctuate your words, "wonder if you taste good everywhere." 

his words sent fire straight down your spine, desire pooling in the heat of your underwear. you practically whined into his mouth with want, words failed you. he lifted you in his arms, laying you on the floor and covering you with his weight again. you arms immediately pulled him closer. his frigid body seemed to be warmed by the desire blazing between the two of you.

your mouths clashed again, your tongue dragging over his teeth to catch his fang again. he smirked into your mouth before trailing kisses back down to your neck. his hand gripped your chin, exposing the bite marks in your neck that he had left moments prior. he gently pressed his mouth to the wound, eliciting a gentle whimper from you at the sensitivity. his tongue licked over both of the holes, letting his saliva pool into the bite marks. jason's venom had healing properties, ones that he never had to use often, ones that you obviously didn't know that he had. 

he trailed down your body, lifting your shirt to stop just under your bra. there were too many layers between you, he longed to feel your skin against his, feel every crevice of your body on his, feel you. your heart beating under his palm, steady, warm, alive. another time. he would get that another time. 

but he was impatient. he longed for a taste. not for your blood, no. the monster inside was calm. asleep. this hunger was different. this was jason. and he needed it more than he needed the taste of your blood. 

"tell me to stop, and i will," he mumbled against your stomach, licking and sucking every inch of skin he could find. you were here with him, it would be enough if that was all you wanted. 

"don't you dare," the thought of jason stopping, his mouth leaving your skin sent a flare of panic up your ribs. he popped open the button of your bottoms, pulling them down with a fever. the fabric was tossed behind him, discarded like it had personally offended him for simply being on your body, for keeping him away from the bare skin of your inner thighs. 

heaven. he was in a heaven he didn't deserve. he couldn't die, condemned to immortal life of suffering, but the space between your thighs made him feel alive. 

he dipped his nose into the crease between your hip and thigh, filling his lungs once again. you writhed on the ground slightly, attempting to nudge him to where you wanted him, needed him to be. 

"i know, i know," he cooed softly, his hands gripping your inner thighs and pushing them open. his half-lidded eyes landed on you, exposed, spread for him to see. "gonna give you what you need,"

he leaned down, his tongue tracing a line through your folds. your back arched immediately at the action, the wetness of his tongue. he dove in immediately after, his lips circling around your nub and sucking. his tongue circled your clit with precision, like he knew your body, like he had memorized every single thing about you. 

you were at his mercy, held still under his grip as he got his second fill of you. as he drank from you again, though this time it wasn't blood that he was craving. mind-numbing. it was mind-numbing. your hands gripped onto his hair, steadying yourself from the onslaught of his mouth. 

he moved down to your entrance, tasting your walls. he moaned into your pussy, pushing his face further into you. his tongue slid back up before sealing over your clit again. your hips slowly ground into his face, chasing the pleasure that he was giving you. your teeth were threatening to tear through your bottom lip with how hard you were biting into the flesh. 

"jason, please, please, please," you babbled softly, tugging on his hair. tugging him closer. to give you more, give you everything. and jason wanted to oblige. he was greedy. the darkness inside of him was screaming for you, to trap you in his grip. he leaned back to gaze up at your appearance. wrecked. panting. fucking ruined. 

he parted his lips, flashing his fangs extending out of his gums. a twisted smirk spread across his face at your hazy eyes locked into his fangs. he dropped his head back down, his tongue flattening against you with a new intensity. you choked on a scream with the force of his tongue flicking against your sensitive clit. the sharp points of his fangs dragged against your folds, causing a wave of slick to drip down you. he didn't let it waste, leaning down to lap back at your entrance. 

you could feel the pressure building up, between his tongue, his fangs dragging against your skin, begging to dip in for another drink. you were putty in his grasp. it was too much. electrifying, setting your veins on fire with every drag of his tongue. 

his hand left your thigh to settle his thumb on your clit, rubbing tight circles while he continued to lick into your. your body jerked, a soft shriek exiting your mouth as your body shook with the force of your release. your muscles tensed, your fingers tightening in his hair, keeping him in place as you rode out your orgasm on his face. 

his hand left your clit and smoothed up your stomach, keeping you pressed down as he continued to slowly drag his tongue along you, cleaning you up, leaving nothing of your release to go to waste. he groaned in satisfaction, releasing your clit with a soft pop, pressing one last soft kiss to the jumping muscle before gathering you back in his arms. 

you were limp against him through the shock of the aftermath of both events. 

his fingers gently carded through your hair, cradling you against his body. 

"you're so perfect, my angel, did so good for me," he whispered into your head. he shut his eyes, letting out another ragged breath, though this one wasn't due to insatiable hunger — but out of love. he loved you. he fucking loved you. he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he had fallen in love with you, though he knew from the moment he had laid eyes on you that he was consumed forever. 

it took a little bit for you to regain your strength, for the shock to dissipate from your system. jason's gentle words of encouragement brought you back, the feel of his hands running up and down the expanse of your back. you lifted your eyes to gaze up at him, your eyes checking his well being, calculating. 

"good?" your voice was small and breathless, but not weak. there was hunger beneath your tone. there was blood around his mouth, dried, staining. your blood. trickling down his lips and towards his chin. red stained his teeth, stuck in the crevices of his incisors. his eyes were blue again, the familiar colour that you had loved so dearly. no trace of red, no trace of the dark swirls that littered his skin. he looked beautiful. utterly destroyed, but beautiful. 

his dishevelled appearance paralleled your own. you were shattered. eyes barely open as you inspected him, but he could see your senses returning back to you with each breath. you shuffled closer on his lap, ignoring the groan he bit back at the action. 

"hey, hey, don't move to fast, angel, i'm right here," he whispered, supporting your body in his arms. "just breathe with me for a second, yeah? that was a lot."

"so it was you," you whispered softly in return with a slow blink.

he nodded in confirmation, his eyes flickering over your features. memorizing each crevice. he wanted to keep you away from this side of him, to keep you safe. guilt pooled in his stomach at the thought. 

"just you?" 

"my family… we all are," his soft revelation hung in the air between you. you took a moment to consider the implications of his words. his family. 

"you said it wasn't batman," 

"i said batman doesn't kill people, not that it wasn't him,"

"now is not the time for semantics, jason, you said-" 

"you're so beautiful," he whispered, cutting off your words with his own reverence. his thumb traced the skin of your cheek. soft. his eyes were softer than you had ever seen them. his thumb moved from your cheek to press into your bottom lip. 

"thank you," he added softly after. you could feel the gratitude, not for letting him feed from you. for trusting him. For seeing beyond the monster he thought he was and just seeing jason. 

because that was what he was. he wasn't gotham's tyrant. the vampire that caused fear in the inhabitants of a city. 

he was just jason. 

your jason. 

an: i need him so bad it's insane. I feel like this is all over the place, but I'm very proud of it. please like, comment, reblog, send me your thoughts! I would love to know how people feel about this one. the thought of this has been eating at me for a while now, now enjoy!

special shoutout to @moonologyy for matching my freak. that's my goat. idk what i'd do if you didn't listen to every single one of my thoughts! i owe you

and shoutout to @athenxt for being my first (and continued) supporter!!! you're special to me, queen.

"'M sure. Drills were a breeze today. Coach said my form's great." She looks up at you, where you're hovering. Jay slips a hand on your hip, kneading reassuringly. "Hey. I'm fine, sweetheart. I wouldn't go out there if I wasn't."

Which you don't entirely believe. Jay has been itching with cabin fever. That was only compounded by the fact that she couldn't touch you after you confessed your feelings.

It wasn't that Jay was unwilling. You had firmly told her no, and that she needed to wait until the doctor said she was okay. Jay tried to cajole you into doing more than kissing, but each time, you pulled away. Not that you didn't crave her touch, because you do. This new dynamic takes getting used to, but that hasn't stopped your body from flaring with heat whenever you see Jay partially undressed, or looking after you.

She's insisted on cooking every night, now that she's moving around. You've stayed in her apartment with the excuse that you want to make sure she's okay, but really, it's because you'd much rather be with her than at home.

You chew a cuticle. "I just feel like it wouldn't be so bad if you rested a little longer."

"I'll go crazy if I wait any longer, I really will," she says, finally standing. "What'll make you believe me, hm?"

"I don't know. I guess I'll be worried for a while. Nothing you can do."

Jay clicks her teeth, gently nudging you to the wall behind you. She leans in to kiss you, and you let her. You've missed her touch. Before you confessed your feelings, before Jay's injury, you were able to hug her whenever you wanted. Touch her just for the sake of touching her. These past six weeks forced you to be careful, hesitant, and to touch only with the intention to help or heal.

Out of habit, you avoid her left side, keeping your weight off of her. You only hold her face as she kisses you, even while Jay wraps her arms around your body and pulls you flush against her.

"C'mon, touch me," she murmurs against your mouth.

"What are we doing right now?" you ask, smiling.

She grunts. "You're holdin' back. I can tell. Not gonna break."

You sigh, head resting against the wall as Jay kisses your neck. "I'm not holding back, J—"

And quick as anything, you're off the ground. Your legs are around Jay's waist, knees on her hips. She holds you by the backs of your thighs, creeping up your ass. Your face immediately goes hot.

"This proof enough?" she asks, watching you. "Hm? Look at me. No shakin' or strainin'. No sweat. Could touch you all night like this if y'let me."

It still startles you, the contrast between your best friend and your girlfriend. Not that there's much of a difference to begin with. Jay has always loved you, and whether you make out or not doesn't change how she loves you for the most part.

But there's times like these where you let yourself completely feel the reality of your relationship. Jay is a very attractive woman, who's muscular and strong from hockey, and who has fucked women before. And she's been dying to fuck you too. She hasn't complained or pressured you, but she's been restless, clingy. She's been waiting, you realize, for an opportunity.

"Please don't touch me all night like this," you say, flustered and scrambling for some control. You were just lecturing her, weren't you? What about?

"'Cause you don't want me to? Or y'think I can't handle it?"

Jay nuzzles your jaw with her nose and presses a kiss there. Your resolve is slipping. She's just so intense. You hadn't realized how much Jay was holding back until you told her how you feel. Suddenly, every interaction between you was magnified by a thousand.

"I know you can handle it, I just don't want you to try. You might hurt something."

Jay sighs, like her arm is being pulled for having to fuck you. "Doesn't sound like you believe in me. I guess I have to restore your faith."

You roll your eyes. "Please don't take this as a challenge, Jay."

She shifts your weight to one arm so she can push your shirt up, revealing your bare breasts. Your nipples are already hard, cool air searing your skin.

"Challenge makes it sound like it's difficult," she says, unbelievably cocky. Normally, you'd tell her off when she gets like this, cheeky and full of herself. Sometimes it happens after games, when she's high off adrenaline and she's scored plenty. You wonder how she'll be after her first game with you in the stands, no longer just her best friend, but as hers, in every sense of the word.

Unfortunately, you can't form a coherent thought right now to put her in her place.

You stare at her face on your chest. She pulls one breast into her mouth and flicks her tongue around your nipple. Your mouth falls open at the sight.

"Jay," you say, whimper. "W-we can go on the bed."

"I know," she says against your skin. "Right now, I wanna suck my beautiful girl's tits. Gonna give me what I want?"

You moan, squirming. "I'm too heavy for y—"

"Oh, don't you dare finish that sentence. Worryin' 'bout your weight. Wanted to tear that dress off you at the charity event. 'Is this too tight?'" She mimics you and pushes you harder against the wall. "Couldn't believe you were serious. Prettiest woman I know with hips I'd die in. Hope they bury me right here." She presses into the crease where your thighs join your hips, fat bunching from the angle she has you.

You unzip her sweater, just enough to pull her sports bra up, her breasts soft and warm. You're frantic, needing to touch her. Jay immediately returns to sucking your nipples, her free hand slipping into your pants. Down goes the waistband, then your panties, just enough for her to slip her two middle fingers in. She doesn't push into you yet, taking her time by playing with your folds.

"You got so wet so fast," she says against your breast, awed. She finds your clit and rubs, which makes you clench. "Little clit's so hard, huh? How long have you been waiting for me to touch you?"

She's desperate to know, you can tell. Desperate for you to say how long you've been wanting her. Your clit throbs.

"So long," you say, grunting when she pushes her fingers into your pussy. It makes a wet sound, and pleasure tightens your belly. "I-I almost touched myself a few weeks ago when you were asleep. I felt bad, though. F-felt like—ah, Jay, Jay—"

"Felt like what?" she asks, thrusting her fingers. "Tell me, c'mon."

"Felt dirty to do it without you knowing. I kept thinking about you on top of me, f-fingering me till I cried." Your ears burn at the confession, but your embarrassment is forgotten at the expression on Jay's face. She's hungry.

She laughs like she can't believe what you're saying, almost a growl. "Oh, fuck. Yeah? You want me on top a' you? You're so pretty. I love you so much. Can't believe you love me. I'll do anything y'want, sweetheart. Loved you for years."

The confession makes you wetter. Jay's loved you, desired you, wished you were hers alone for years?

"I'm yours, Jay," you say, which makes her moan. "No one else's. Only you get to touch me."

"Oh God," she says, and it sounds wet, like she's tearing up. She kisses you hard, fingering and rubbing your clit like she'll die if she stops. "Want you to cum, baby, c'mon, lemme feel it."

You tighten around her. "Close, Jay, so fucking close. You feel so good."

Your orgasm washes over you with Jay still inside, your pussy pulsing around her fingers. She peppers your face and neck with kisses.

"Thank you," she says in between kisses. "Thank you, thank you. Fuck, that was so good. Was it good?"

You're nearly boneless, bordering on overstimulation with her fingers still inside. She could probably keep going and pull another one out of you, making you cry from pleasure nearly becoming pain.

"Yeah," you say, head light. You wiggle out of her hold and try to stand, but your knees wobble. Jay quickly picks you up in a bridal carry, laughing a little.

"Sorry, sweetheart," she says, not sounding very sorry at all. "I gotcha."

She carries you to her bed, laying you down.

"Believe me now?" she asks, helping you pull off your pants.

You sigh, splayed on her pillows, watching her take care of you. "I believed you from the beginning, Jay."

She crawls up the bed, bracing herself over you. "No, you definitely had some doubts. Hope we cleared that up. Can't have ya thinkin' I'm a bad lay."

"You so don't have to worry about that."

She grins, leaning in to kiss you again. She rubs your arm. "Wanna love on you properly. Take you out someplace nice. Should've waited, but I wanted to touch you so bad. Forgive me?"

you’re visiting the manor for the weekend and sitting at the table with tim and barbara. the heavy footsteps told you of his presence before he even enters the room. jason walks in with dick after patrol and beelines right over to you.

striking gleam in his eyes that greet you like something sacred when your eyes meet. he smiles before he coos your name,

tossing his mask in the table and biting his glove off of one hand to cup your cheek. drawing you a little closer to him so he can kiss you, sliding beside you with his strong arms pulling you in tight.

tim makes a face at dick when he sits next to him.

they’re conversing about something that’s probably important but you’re busy watching jason. his pretty eyes steady while he starts telling you about his night.

he opens his mouth, “y’know dick stuffs his suit.”

the table goes silent.

“—are you kidding me?” barbara stiffles a laugh while tim is hysterically laughing and pointing at dick who nudges him hard.

dick stammers, trying desperately to defend himself, “hey that’s confidential! and only sometimes because the suit is so tight it outlines everything!”

but it’s too late and the damage was done, even after barbara confirms that dick was telling the truth.

jason didn’t have a secretive bone in his body. at least not with you.

you knew jason could never cheat on you, not that you ever doubted him, but he just didn’t have that in him.

he asks to run your errands with you and will sit with you while you do your skincare routine, yapping about something he just discovered. jason bookmarks papers and websites to talk to you about later. he texts you about his thoughts when hes not around you to just blurt them out.

he sends cryptic messages sometimes, or just a photo of something he liked. often not even explaining himself before sending it. on patrol one night, he sends you a photo of two birds, sitting near him like he wasn’t armed.

you could practically hear the snicker in his text, his voice rang through your ears, as if you were there next to him,

“that’s us. i’m the uglier one btw.”

he might struggle with admitting he needs help,

but with you?

it comes easier than with anyone else.

he’s open and be honest because he’s seen how far communication goes with his gorgeous girlfriend. he’s gone far too long with miscommunication from family and literally spent years suppressing that down.

but he’s also observant when heaviness grows in the air and you seem to be less yourself than usual.

maybe he’s seen it from your daily tasks, noting a slouch in your shoulders or a hint of annoyance on your face. when you have a hard day and he chooses to be softer.

he knows when you want to be alone, but he’ll also follow you to your room anyway just to run his fingers through your hair and tell you all the reasons why he loves you.

jason’s the most vocal when you’re in bed.

when the world goes silent and you can really be with him, he looks at you as though you could be the answer to all his prayers. he is the most gentle lover you’d ever had and he’s so careful with you.

he literally cannot stop praising you. soft moans escaping while he chants your name so easily. praise isn’t even enough to describe how he is. deliberate, practiced, disciplined love is what he gives and you take it down because it’s everything that matters.

his warm palms slid up the back of your thighs while he drops his head against the pillow. panting hard and hips stuttering against restraint, jason groans your name while he watches you move. beautiful, he looks horribly delicious from up on your throne that was seated in his lap. sweat wicks down his temple when he praises,

“mmhf— you look so pretty from down here,” he pants, “y’re taking me so well.”

it’s a mess of soft moans spilling out of you, little jumps when it felt like he was reaching deep. using his chest as stability even when your hands shook. you know it must be testing his restraint, because he was so close, edging off that peak but stopping when you got tired again. he wants you to let go first.

he babbles on as you start getting restless again.

“that’s it pretty baby, ride me,” you’re trying to, holding his shoulders, leaning on his chest, crying out, “come on, it’s all yours. take your time.”

like he sees it, knows that you can’t keep going at this pace, he leans forward and captures your lips. he’s breathing heavily into your mouth as he guides your hips, nudging you to the right direction. whispering how good you’re doing,

“should reward you for doing so well, whatchu want hmm? can i eat you out after this?”

but you’re babbling a little, too lost in the sauce while he’s glimmering with sweat beneath you. the thought of him eating you out after sounds great but he’s distracting you from the task at hand. moaning when he bucks his hips up to meet yours.

“there she is,” to which will spur you on to go faster, making him breathless again in the way that he can’t speak.

bouncing a little faster on him, enough so that he’s gasping and trying to slow you down.

but he’s still trying to talk to you.

“i’m thinking i—ah, i give you a good scrub after this, maybe lotion your body—fuck—wait, slower,” he pants, grabbing at your waist to slow you.

“you talk too much, just feel me jay,” you smile down at him like you’re not breaking yourself at this point, working in tireless effort now.

you were on a mission—shutting your boyfriend up.

but he knows what you’re doing, he’s not letting you keep control like this. your hips start to slow, the sting present. muscles aching while you desperately try to match your earlier pace. but his face untangles itself and he breathes a harsh breath.

he coos at you, “can’t?” he smiles up at you when your pace falters, “don’t worry sweets, i’ll do it,” and when you can’t speak, he drills in perfect, angled thrusts, smiling harder than ever, “there’s my girl.”

soft chants of profanities, mewling how fuckin’ good you feel. he watches the contort of your face, then nibbles up your neck, whimpering by your ear, yes baby yes.

by the time you’re both coming down from your highs, jason’s perched on his side already, hand tucked under his head while he watches you catch your breath.

“did i tell you i started that bridgerton show? well actually, i started the queen charlotte one first on accident but it was pretty good. anyways—”

you’re dozing off to the sound of his voice, smiling fondly while he keeps going on. somewhere along his speech, he pulls you closer and you curl into him.

the hum of his voice vibrating as slumber takes over you.

the boy could tell you about the history of socks and you’d be attentively listening, glued to how focused he is. you knew if he went to school, like really studied, he’d do so well. at times you wanted to encourage him to go back to school, go try getting into it since he’s so passionate about so many things.

but jason shrugs it off. he always says that chapter is closed for him, and that he wants to protect the things around him more.

he says that his world was already full of everything he needed—you.

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

The universe profoundly hates you.

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

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

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

Just… not like this.

Not without backup. Not without powers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, you think about calling Jason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shouldn’t matter.

You end up calling Dick anyway. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want you to bleed out”

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

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

Dick sighs. “You sound tired.”

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

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

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

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

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

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

Great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck meee” you sigh

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

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

Your head snaps up. Candlelight trembles against the wall.

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

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

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

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

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

You almost get up to grab it. Almost.

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

No light. No sound. Only the rain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then a shadow moves through it. 

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

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

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

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

“Grayson called.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am telling you to go home.”

He shakes his head. “Not happening.”

“You’re not my keeper, Jason.”

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

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

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

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

“You really thought I’d ignore that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment bleeds into silence for far too long.

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

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

“I’ll decide that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You breathe in, shaky. “Don’t.”

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

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

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

Jason gulps and bites his lip. 

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

Then you turn first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got any towels?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

You hum. “Barely.”

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone makes you gulp.

“You eat anything?” he asks.

“I’m not hungry.”

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

“Don’t start.”

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

“Act like I don’t get to care.”

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

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

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

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

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

The honesty in his voice stings more than you expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason nods, slow. “I know.”

And somehow, you believe him.

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

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

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

“Don’t push it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

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

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

Jason's determined to break it. Head first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could pull away. You don’t.

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

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

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“I’m not,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“You were.”

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

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

“Used to.”

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

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

Instead, you whisper, “Jason?”

He hums in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he breathes.

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

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

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

When he finally exhales, it ghosts against your mouth.

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

“Don’t be,” you murmur back.

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

You could pull away. You don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you breathe, “I do.”

“But—“

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

That’s what breaks him. 

Something inside him just folds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Move it Jay”

The command makes him smirk.

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

“Don’t tease”

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

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

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

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

He smirks again, deviously.

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

“I like the sound of that…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The exploration of his mouth stops being tentative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please...”

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

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

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

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

While his mouth is gentle, his hips are merciless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dont stop Jay, ‘m gonna cum–ah fuck”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile faintly. “Good.”

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

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

“Not tired,” he lies.

You smile faintly. “You will be.”

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

Neither of you notice when the lights flicker back on.

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

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

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The alley reeked of damp refuse and something metallic that made your stomach churn. You were just trying to cut through, a shortcut that now felt like a very bad idea, when your foot snagged on something yielding. With a yelp, you stumbled, nearly falling headlong into a pile of overflowing trash bags. As you righted yourself, your gaze landed on the dark, unmoving shape at your feet. Panic flared, cold and sharp, until a glint of red caught your eye, and then the stark realization of what, or rather who, lay before you.

It was Red Hood. Or what was left of him.

Your breath hitched. The blood was undeniable, a dark, spreading stain against the grimy concrete. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum against the sudden, overwhelming urge to run. But something held you rooted, a flicker of an instinct you hadn't known you possessed. He was just a man, bleeding and broken.

Dropping your messenger bag, you knelt, your hands hovering uncertainly over his armored form. The metallic scent was stronger now, coppery and sickening. He was heavier than you’d imagined, a dead weight that seemed to mock your efforts. You fumbled with the straps and clasps of his armor, your fingers clumsy with a mix of fear and urgency. Piece by painstaking piece, you managed to divest him of the heavier plating, revealing the stark reality of the wound. It was worse than you thought.

With a groan of effort, you managed to hoist one of his arms over your shoulder, grunting with the strain as you tried to drag him. It was slow, agonizing work, a desperate, inch-by-inch shuffle through the alley. Your muscles screamed in protest, but the fear of leaving him there, bleeding out in the cold, spurred you on. Somehow, you managed to maneuver him out of the alley's shadows and onto the quieter backstreets, each step a testament to sheer will. Cars whizzed by, their occupants oblivious to the grim struggle unfolding on the sidewalk. You kept your face down, your body hunched, trying to make him less conspicuous, though it felt like an impossible task.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reached the relative safety of your apartment building. The elevator ride was agonizingly slow, each floor a testament to the precariousness of your situation. You prayed no one would step in, that no curious neighbor would ask questions. By some miracle, you made it, wrestling his unconscious form through your apartment door and collapsing onto the living room floor, both of you gasping for air – you from exertion, him from the relentless grip of his injury.

You wasted no time. The immediate danger of the street was gone, replaced by the suffocating urgency of the wound itself. Your hands, still trembling, moved with a newfound purpose as you peeled away the remaining pieces of his Red Hood armor. Each buckle and strap seemed to fight against you, but you worked methodically, driven by the expanding crimson stain on his side. When the last of the hardened plates clattered to the floor, you saw the extent of the damage. His black shirt was soaked, clinging to his skin in a grotesque second skin. With a grimace, you carefully cut the fabric away, revealing the raw, angry wound beneath. It was a bullet hole, jagged and unforgiving, just below his ribs.

Your breath hitched again, this time not from fear, but from a sudden, stark realization that made your stomach clobber. With the shirt gone, the mask-tan faded from his face, and the harsh lines of his jaw and chin were fully exposed. Jason Todd. The name, whispered only in hushed tones and frantic news reports, echoed in your mind. This wasn't just some vigilante; this was the "dead" Robin, the one who'd supposedly come back to haunt Gotham as the Red Hood. A cold dread settled in your gut, quickly followed by a surge of something akin to awe. He was real. And he was bleeding out on your living room floor.

Calling an ambulance was out of the question. You knew the drill. Even if they treated him, his identity would be compromised the moment he hit the hospital. He’d be arrested, locked away, and the fragile balance of vigilante justice would be thrown into chaos. No, this was on you. You weren’t a nurse, or a doctor, or anything close, but you’d taken a first aid class in college – a requirement for your old summer camp counselor job – and suddenly, those forgotten lessons flooded back.

"Okay, okay, deep breaths, Y/N," you muttered to yourself, your voice a shaky whisper. You rushed to the bathroom, grabbing the cleanest towels you could find, a bottle of antiseptic you usually reserved for scraped knees, and a roll of medical tape you kept for emergencies that never seemed to arrive. Back in the living room, you knelt beside him, your movements more deliberate now.

His skin was clammy, pale beneath the faint stubble on his jaw. His breathing was shallow, punctuated by soft, almost imperceptible groans. You pressed a clean towel firmly against the wound, trying to stem the flow, and he flinched, a low sound rumbling in his chest. "I know, I know," you murmured, your voice surprisingly steady. "Just hold still. I'm going to help you." You poured the antiseptic onto another clean cloth, wincing in anticipation of his reaction, and began to gently clean the area around the bullet hole. He tensed, his head rolling to the side, but he remained unconscious. The smell of blood and antiseptic filled the air, a grim perfume in your usually quiet apartment.

The air in your apartment hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic and something metallic that made your stomach churn. You stood, swaying slightly, looking down at the still form of Jason Todd. Your hands, slick with his blood, trembled as you finally lowered the last of the makeshift bandages. Against all odds, you’d done it. The bullet, a small, mangled piece of lead, lay on a discarded paper towel, a grim trophy of your frantic surgery. You’d used a pair of sterilized tweezers from your emergency kit, your breath held, and the memory of the extraction made your own skin crawl. It had been messy, horrifying, but it was out.

He was still unconscious, but his breathing, though still shallow, was steadier now. The ragged edges of his gasps had softened, replaced by a more regular rhythm. You had cleaned him up as best you could, wiping away the worst of the gore from his torso and face, leaving him pale but no longer covered in his own vital fluid. His face, even in repose, held a certain hard-won weariness.

Taking a shaky breath, you backed away, the metallic tang of blood clinging to your hands, to your clothes, even to your hair. It was a smell you knew all too well, one that always brought a wave of nausea. This was why you’d gone into nursing, not surgery, not emergency medicine. The thought of being knee-deep in this kind of trauma every day was enough to make you queasy. Your current role, while challenging, rarely involved this much visceral horror.

You stumbled towards the bathroom, your limbs heavy, feeling as though you’d run a marathon. The moment you stepped into the shower, the hot water beating down on your skin felt like a blessing. You scrubbed furiously, lathering shampoo into your hair again and again, trying to wash away the lingering scent, the phantom stickiness of blood that seemed to cling to every pore. Even after you were clean, wrapped in a towel, the faint, coppery scent seemed to linger in your nostrils, a constant reminder of the life-or-death drama that had just unfolded in your living room.

The lingering scent of antiseptic still hung in the air as you stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around your still-damp hair. Your eyes immediately went to the living room, to the figure still sprawled on your rug. He was unnervingly still. A fresh wave of anxiety washed over you. Was he still breathing? You watched for a long moment, until the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest reassured you. He was alive. For now.

His armor lay in a dark, discarded heap, and his bloodied clothes were a stark contrast to your carefully cleaned apartment. He couldn't stay in those. You needed to find him something clean, something inconspicuous. Your mind immediately went to the back of your closet. Your ex-boyfriend, Mark, had a habit of leaving things behind. Annoying at the time, but now, a surprising stroke of luck. He was roughly Jason's size – tall, broad-shouldered.

With a final, lingering look at the unconscious vigilante, a strange mix of trepidation and a nascent sense of responsibility swirling within you, you padded silently to your bedroom, leaving the living room in a hushed silence.

A low groan escaped Jason’s lips, the sound raspy, unfamiliar. His head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that echoed the searing pain in his abdomen. His muscles felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive. He forced his eyes open, but the world was a blurry, unfocused mess of muted colors and indistinct shapes. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was the bitter taste of blood, the burning in his gut, and the cold, unyielding concrete of an alleyway.

He tried to sit up, but a sharp, excruciating jolt of pain ripped through his side, forcing a strangled cry from his throat. He fell back, a gasp escaping him, his mind slowly, painfully, piecing together the fragmented memories. The bullet. The desperate struggle to breathe. Tearing off his helmet. Then… nothing.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The ceiling was white, unfamiliar. The air smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral. Not an alley. Not a hospital. A sudden, cold dread gripped him. Was he captured? But the bed beneath him was soft, not the cold steel of an interrogation table. And the pain, though immense, felt… managed. Bandaged.

He slowly, carefully, moved his hand to his abdomen. There was a thick, firm dressing wrapped tightly around his midsection. He could feel the distinct absence of the bullet. Someone had pulled it out. Someone had helped him.

His eyes darted around the room, taking in the soft lamplight, the framed pictures on a nearby dresser, the general lived-in feel of the place. It was an apartment. Someone's apartment. But whose? And why had they helped him? He was the Red Hood, a dangerous vigilante, a known quantity to the police and the underworld alike. Most people would have left him for dead, or worse, called the authorities.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he closed his eyes again, trying to marshal his strength, trying to make sense of his impossible situation. He was injured, vulnerable, in an unknown location, at the mercy of… whoever had brought him here. The thought gnawed at him. He needed to be alert, to figure out who his samaritan was, and what they wanted. He just needed a little more time to clear his head, to fight through the pain and the fog of unconsciousness that still clung to him.

The soft padding of footsteps approached from the hallway, growing louder with each passing second. Jason’s eyes snapped open, a jolt of adrenaline cutting through the lingering haze of pain. Instinct took over. He wasn’t safe. He was vulnerable. His gaze swept the room, landing on a heavy, ceramic lamp on a side table. With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself up, gritting his teeth against the fresh wave of agony that shot through his abdomen. He snatched the lamp, its cool, smooth surface a surprising comfort in his trembling grip, and stealthily, painfully, moved to the corner of the living room, pressing his back against the wall, weapon raised.

You stepped out of your bedroom, a pair of Mark’s old sweatpants and a faded t-shirt clutched in your hands. A small, hopeful sigh escaped your lips. At least he’d be comfortable. The living room was quiet, perhaps too quiet. As you rounded the corner into the main space, a sudden blur of motion, a flash of something dark and solid, made you gasp.

Before you could react, a vice-like grip was around your throat, pressing hard, cutting off your air. The lamp, heavy and cold, was pressed against your temple. Panic flared, hot and sharp, and your hands instinctively went to his arm, clawing at the strong muscles. You couldn't breathe, couldn't scream.

"Who are you?!" a voice, raw and gravelly, rasped close to your ear. It was Jason. His face was inches from yours, pale and etched with pain, his eyes wide and wild, reflecting a deep-seated suspicion. "Why am I here? What do you want?" His grip tightened, and black spots danced at the edges of your vision. You gasped, a small, choked sound.

He watched you, his gaze piercing, searching for answers in your terrified face. Then, a sudden, involuntary wince pulled at his features. His grip faltered, a tremor running through his arm. A deep groan escaped him, and he leaned heavily against you, his strength visibly ebbing. The weapon clattered to the floor, forgotten. The raw, unfiltered pain in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Hurts," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper, the fight draining from him as quickly as it had appeared. He swayed, his knees buckling.

Your hand immediately went to his arm, no longer in fear, but in support. "Hey, hey, easy!" you gasped, your own throat aching. "You’re still hurt. You just had surgery, remember?" With considerable effort, you guided him, half-carrying his dead weight, towards the now-stained couch. He collapsed onto it with a muffled grunt, his head falling back against the cushions, eyes squeezed shut. His breath was ragged again, short and shallow.

You rushed to your bathroom cabinet, pulling out the strong painkillers you had for your occasional migraines. You fumbled with the child-proof cap, your fingers clumsy with urgency, and then poured a glass of water. "Here," you said, pressing the pills into his hand. "Take these. They'll help with the pain." His fingers, still trembling slightly, closed around the small capsules. He swallowed them without a word, his gaze fixed on you, still wary, but now laced with a flicker of something else: dependence.

You watched as Jason swallowed the pills, his Adam's apple bobbing. His shoulders, previously hunched in aggressive tension, began to relax almost imperceptibly as the medication started its work. The harsh lines of pain around his eyes softened, though the wary glint in their depths remained.

"Here," you said softly, holding out the folded clothes – Mark's old grey sweats and a faded black t-shirt. "Your clothes are... well, they're pretty shot. And you don't want to be bleeding all over my couch."

He took them slowly, his fingers brushing yours for a brief moment. His gaze flickered from the clothes to your face, a question in his eyes that he didn't voice. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to reconcile the woman who'd just had him in a chokehold with the one now offering him clean clothes and pain medication.

"Thanks," he rasped, his voice a little clearer now, less strained. He didn't move to change immediately, instead holding the clothes in his lap. "Why'd you help me?" His voice was low, careful, still laced with suspicion. "Most people wouldn't. Not... not someone like me."

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe, a small sigh escaping your lips. "You were bleeding out in an alley, Red Hood. What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?" You paused, then added, a hint of weariness in your tone, "And frankly, I didn't think calling an ambulance was going to end well for you. Or for me, for that matter."

His eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle shift that showed he was processing your words. "You know who I am." It wasn't a question, but a flat statement.

"Yeah," you confirmed, meeting his gaze directly. "Pretty hard not to. The news has been talking about you for years. Jason Todd, the 'dead' Robin, the Red Hood..." You trailed off, a strange mix of awe and discomfort washing over you. It was one thing to read about him, another entirely to have him, bleeding and vulnerable, on your couch.

He shifted, a new tension entering his posture despite the drugs. "And you just... brought me here? To your apartment?" He looked around, taking in the small, cozy space, clearly assessing it, searching for any hidden threats or motives. "Why risk it? You could be in serious trouble."

You shrugged, though the thought had certainly crossed your mind. "Someone needed help. And I had a few basic first-aid skills. Besides," you added, a faint, dry humor entering your voice, "I don't think you were in any position to argue." You knew you were pushing it, but a part of you couldn't help but challenge his aggressive demeanor.

A faint flicker of something that might have been amusement, or perhaps just grudging acceptance, crossed his features. He didn't respond immediately, just sat there, clutching the clothes, his gaze still fixed on you, trying to decipher your intentions. The pills were clearly starting to dull the sharp edges of his pain, but the ingrained caution of a vigilante, especially one like him, was proving harder to dislodge.

You held out the clothes, and he slowly, almost hesitantly, took them from your grasp. His eyes, though still guarded, seemed to hold a flicker of something new – a mix of exhaustion and a dawning comprehension.

"You can change in the bathroom," you said, gesturing towards the door you'd just come from. "I'll... give you some space." You paused, then added, your voice softer, "Look, I know this is a lot. For both of us. But you're safe here. And you're free to stay until you're back on your feet. No questions asked, no calls to anyone. Just... get better."

His gaze sharpened, searching your face for any hint of deceit, any hidden agenda. The offer was so simple, so straightforward, it almost felt like a trap. But your expression was open, devoid of guile. He simply nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible dip of his head. He pushed himself up from the couch, wincing but managing to stay upright this time.

He moved towards the bathroom, a slight limp in his stride. As the door clicked shut behind him, the apartment suddenly felt strangely empty, the tension momentarily replaced by a quiet hum.

The apartment settled into a quiet hum, the kind that only truly descends at night in a city that never sleeps. You moved through your routine, each action a little slower, a little more deliberate than usual. The dishes from your quick, solitary dinner were washed, the lights dimmed. The shower had helped, but the phantom scent of blood seemed to cling to your senses, a persistent whisper of the evening's events.

As you changed into your pajamas, your thoughts drifted. Would he still be here in the morning? The question echoed in your mind, followed by a torrent of others. What would happen when he was fully recovered? Would he just disappear, a ghost in the night, leaving you with a surreal memory and a lingering sense of unease? Or would he say something? Do something? You were harboring a notorious vigilante, a man the world thought was dead. The enormity of it all settled over you, a heavy blanket of responsibility and apprehension. You knew you had done the right thing, the human thing, but the implications felt vast and unknown. Sleep didn't come easily.

The first rays of morning light, pale and tentative, filtered through your living room window. You blinked, slowly emerging from a fitful sleep. The apartment felt… different. Quieter, perhaps, or just more aware. With a soft groan, you stretched, the aches from your impromptu rescue mission a dull throb in your muscles.

You swung your legs out of bed, the silence of the apartment almost deafening. Taking a deep breath, you walked out into the living room, your gaze immediately drawn to the couch.

He was still there.

Curled on his side, in Mark's too-big sweats and t-shirt, Jason Todd was a surprisingly peaceful sight. His dark hair was a mess, falling across his forehead, and the tension that usually etched his features was softened by sleep. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was the only sound in the room. He looked vulnerable, almost fragile, a stark contrast to the fearsome figure of the Red Hood.

A strange warmth spread through you, chasing away some of the lingering anxiety. He was still here, and he was sleeping. That had to mean something. A small smile touched your lips.

"Right," you murmured to yourself, a plan forming. "Breakfast." The clinking of pots and pans would be a familiar, comforting sound, a small piece of normalcy in a truly extraordinary morning. And maybe, just maybe, the smell of coffee and pancakes would be a welcome change from antiseptic and fear.

The scent of brewing coffee was the first thing to permeate the haze of sleep. It was a familiar, comforting aroma, entirely out of place with the throbbing pain in his side and the lingering confusion in his mind. Jason's eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the unfamiliar surroundings. He was still on the couch, wrapped in clothes that weren't his, a vague memory of a sharp, accusing voice and a soft, kind one warring in his head.

Then, another smell hit him: something warm and sweet, mingling with the savory sizzle of frying bacon. His stomach, which had been a tight knot of pain and anxiety, rumbled in protest. He hadn't realized how truly hungry he was until that moment.

He pushed himself up, gritting his teeth against the pull in his abdomen. The pain was still there, a dull ache now rather than a searing fire, thanks to the pills. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, testing his weight on his feet. He was weak, unsteady, but he could stand.

He followed the enticing smells into what was clearly the kitchen. You were there, humming softly to yourself, your back to him as you flipped something in a pan. The morning light caught your hair, making it gleam. You were wearing a comfortable-looking t-shirt and sweatpants, completely oblivious to his presence.

He watched you for a moment, the picture of domestic normalcy so jarringly out of place with his usual world of shadows and violence that it almost felt unreal. The tension in his shoulders, a constant companion, eased ever so slightly.

"Smells good," he rasped, his voice still a little rough from sleep and disuse.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, letting out a small shriek as you spun around, spatula still in hand. Your eyes, wide with surprise, landed on him, then quickly softened with a mixture of relief and a hint of a smile.

"Oh! You're up," you said, a hand pressed to your chest. "You scared me! I didn't hear you get up." You gestured vaguely with the spatula. "Pancakes, bacon, and coffee. Figured you'd be hungry."

He just stared at you, a ghost of a frown on his face. He was still assessing you, still on guard, but the rich, inviting aroma of breakfast was slowly, surely, winning him over.

You watched him, a faint smile playing on your lips. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, or perhaps more accurately, a predator momentarily disarmed by the scent of pancakes.

"Go on, sit back down," you urged, gesturing toward the couch. "You're still recovering. I'll get you a plate in a sec. And don't worry about the couch right now; I'll clean that up later. I'm just sorry you had to sleep in that mess."

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flicking to the stained cushion, before turning and slowly making his way back to the living room. As you turned to finish breakfast, you could hear the soft creak of the floorboards as he moved around.

Jason re-entered the living room, the offer of food a powerful lure despite his lingering unease. He didn't sit immediately, though. Your words about him "still recovering" resonated. He felt it – the deep ache in his side, the exhaustion that pulled at his muscles. But there was also a prickle of curiosity, an urge to understand his surroundings.

He moved with a quiet stealth, the habit of a lifetime. His eyes scanned the room, taking in details he'd missed in his pain-addled haze the night before. The bookshelves lining one wall were packed, not with weapons or schematics, but with well-loved novels and textbooks. A comfortable-looking armchair sat by a window, a soft blanket draped over its back. On a small table, a few framed photos showed a smiling woman with bright eyes, sometimes with friends, sometimes with family. His gaze lingered on a particularly candid shot of you laughing, your head thrown back. It was a stark contrast to the terrified expression he'd seen when his hand was at your throat.

He noticed the small, personal touches – a half-knitted scarf on the coffee table, a stack of art books, a ceramic mug with a quirky design. This was clearly a home, lived-in and cared for, utterly devoid of the cold, sterile efficiency he associated with medical facilities, or the stark, utilitarian spaces he himself usually inhabited. He even glanced down at the discarded remains of his Red Hood armor, lying in a dark, ominous heap by the door. It looked almost out of place now, a relic from a different world.

A faint clinking from the kitchen signaled your return. He quickly moved back towards the couch, not wanting to be caught "exploring." He settled back down, trying to appear nonchalant, but his mind was still racing, piecing together the fragments of this bizarre new reality. The smell of breakfast was getting stronger, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, his hunger outweighed his paranoia.

You reappeared from the kitchen, a plate piled high with fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon in one hand, a steaming mug of coffee in the other. The aroma was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the sterile scents that had filled the air hours before.

"Here you go," you said, a small smile on your face as you handed him the plate. "And why don't you just sit in the armchair over there for a minute?" You gestured with your chin to the comfy-looking chair by the window. "I'm just going to quickly tackle this." You nodded towards the blood-stained couch, a determined glint in your eye.

He took the plate and mug, his fingers brushing yours briefly. His eyes, still assessing, followed your gaze to the couch. He moved stiffly, but complied, settling into the armchair. The cushions molded around him, surprisingly comfortable, and the warmth of the coffee mug seeped into his hands. He watched as you walked over to the couch, a spray bottle and a clean cloth already in hand.

You knelt, your movements efficient and practiced. The spray bottle hissed, releasing a clear liquid onto the dark stain. Then, with firm, circular motions, you began to blot and rub. The crimson began to lighten, then fade, disappearing into the fabric of the cloth you held. You worked quickly, methodically, changing out cloths as they became saturated, until, remarkably, the evidence of the night's bloody drama was almost entirely gone.

Jason's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes, usually so quick to pick up on inconsistencies, now narrowed in a new kind of suspicion. He hadn't seen anyone clean blood like that before, not with such ease, such thoroughness. It wasn't the kind of quick wipe-down an average person would attempt. It was too precise, too effective. Most people panicked, smeared it, made it worse.

How did she know how to do that?

The question echoed in his mind, sharp and insistent. It wasn't just the fact that she'd helped him, or that she knew who he was. It was the calm, almost professional way she handled the aftermath. It hinted at a past, a skill set that didn't align with the seemingly ordinary apartment, the cozy domesticity, or the nervous tremor in her voice when he'd first confronted her. His guard, which had momentarily softened with the promise of food and a warm place to rest, subtly clicked back into place. This woman was more than she seemed. Much more.

You stepped back, surveying your handiwork. The bloodstain was gone, completely absorbed into the cloth you now held, leaving behind only a slightly darker patch on the cushion where the dampness lingered from the cleaning solution and the vigorous scrubbing. Even the faint, tell-tale copper scent was gone, replaced by the mild, clean smell of the stain remover. A small, satisfied smile touched your lips as you looked over at Jason.

"There," you announced, gesturing to the still-damp spot. "Give that a few minutes to dry, and then you can have your seat back."

His eyes, however, weren't on the couch. They were fixed on you, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "How do you know how to do that?" he asked, his voice low, lacking its earlier raspiness but still sharp with suspicion. "Clean blood like that, I mean."

You met his gaze, that small smile still playing on your lips, though a hint of weariness crept into your eyes. "I'm a nurse," you replied simply. "A pretty new one, actually. Still, we learn a few things about… biological cleanups. It's mostly just knowing the right products and acting fast." You shrugged, a subtle gesture that belied the controlled chaos of the previous night.

Jason's gaze lingered on you, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "A nurse," he repeated, almost to himself. "Why'd you become one?" The question was direct, probing.

You offered a small, polite smile, one that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, you know," you said, shrugging lightly. "Wanted to help people. Always felt like a good fit." The words were smooth, practiced, a standard response. But the forced pleasantness in your smile, the subtle tension around your mouth, didn't escape his notice. He saw the lie, clear as day. It was a fleeting, almost imperceptible shift, but he'd spent years learning to read the tells in people, to spot the cracks in their composure. He grunted softly, acknowledging your answer, but the silent question remained in his gaze.

You quickly changed the subject, a slight nervous energy entering your movements. "Anyway," you said, gesturing vaguely around the apartment, "you're welcome to stay here for as long as you need to recover. Seriously. No rush."

He just gave another noncommittal grunt, his eyes still on you, searching. The offer was generous, almost baffling, but his years of paranoia had taught him to question every kindness, every seemingly altruistic gesture. He took a bite of a pancake, the maple syrup a sweet burst against the blandness of his pain.

You glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, your eyes widening in alarm. "Oh, no!" you exclaimed, a sudden burst of energy propelling you forward. "I'm going to be so late!"

You quickly moved to the sink, rinsing your plate and mug, your mind already racing through the day's schedule. "I have to go to work," you said, almost to yourself, turning to face Jason who was still slowly eating his pancakes, a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth. "Look, just... make yourself at home. There's food in the fridge, the TV works, feel free to use the shower, whatever you need." You gestured vaguely around the apartment, then back towards the kitchen. "There are clean towels in the linen closet, just help yourself."

You rushed into your bedroom, a flurry of motion as you pulled on scrubs and tried to tame your hair into a quick bun. Your mind was already at the hospital, picturing the overflowing waiting rooms, the demanding patients, the endless charts. This was not how you'd envisioned starting your workday, not after literally pulling a bullet out of a vigilante in your living room just hours before.

The frantic scramble out of your apartment was just the beginning of a truly brutal day. The hospital hummed with its usual chaotic symphony: the insistent beeping of machines, the hurried footsteps of nurses and doctors, the low murmur of worried families. You were immediately swallowed by the tide of urgent care. Code blues blared, demanding your immediate attention, pulling you from one room to another, your brain a constant whirl of vitals, medications, and patient histories.

Mrs. Henderson in Room 3 complained relentlessly about her lukewarm soup, even as you juggled a crashing blood pressure in Room 7. A new admission, a cyclist hit by a car, arrived in a flurry of paramedics and gore, demanding every ounce of your focus as you helped stabilize him. You barely had time to gulp down lukewarm coffee, the bitter taste a stark reminder of the exhaustion seeping into your bones. Each moment was a delicate balance of critical care and emotional support, of sterile procedures and comforting words. The metallic tang of blood, a phantom from your morning, seemed to cling to the air around you, a constant, unwanted reminder of the secret you carried. Your feet ached, your head throbbed, and by the time your shift finally, blessedly, ended, you felt wrung out, utterly depleted.

The drive home was a blur of traffic lights and weary sighs. Your mind, though tired, raced with a single, pervasive question: Would he still be there? The thought had been a persistent hum beneath the chaotic symphony of your workday. A part of you hoped he'd be gone, the surreal events of the morning relegated to a bizarre dream. Another, smaller part, felt a strange pull, a flicker of curiosity, even concern.

As you fumbled with your keys, unlocking your apartment door, a knot formed in your stomach. The silence that greeted you was profound, different from the quiet hum of your waking home. It was the silence of an empty space. You stepped inside, your eyes immediately sweeping the living room. The armchair was empty. The couch, now impeccably clean, was clear. No discarded clothes, no sign of the makeshift bandages. He was gone. A wave of something akin to disappointment, quickly followed by a strange sense of relief, washed over you. Of course, he’d left. What else would a vigilante do?

The silence of your apartment was a heavy blanket after the ceaseless clamor of the hospital. You kicked off your shoes by the door, the small thud echoing loudly in the quiet. Your scrubs, particularly the left sleeve, bore the tell-tale, slightly sour scent of a patient's unexpected contribution, a harsh reminder of the long, grueling shift. All you wanted was a hot shower and the blessed oblivion of sleep.

Just as you straightened up, a sharp, insistent rap echoed through the door. You froze, every nerve ending screaming in protest. No one ever knocked. Your neighbors just texted. Dread coiled in your stomach as you peered through the tiny peephole.

It was Mark. Your ex. His face, usually annoyingly handsome, was contorted with a familiar blend of frustration and self-importance. He hadn’t changed, not really. Your stomach tightened. You considered pretending you weren't home, a tactic you'd perfected over years of dodging his unexpected appearances.

You backed away from the door, holding your breath, hoping he’d give up. But then the knocking escalated, becoming a furious, relentless pounding, punctuated by his muffled, angry shouts. "Y/N! I know you're in there! Open up! We need to talk!"

Just as the cacophony reached its peak, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of the hallway. Jason. He emerged from the living room, a ghost in the dim light, looking far more alert than he had any right to be. He was still wearing Mark's sweats and t-shirt, a subtle bulge under the fabric hinting at the bandages beneath. His gaze, however, was sharp, immediately assessing the situation, settling on your face, then on the shaking door.

A small, involuntary smile touched your lips, a flicker of genuine amusement breaking through your exhaustion. He was still here. Despite everything, he was still here. You met his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you, before your attention snapped back to the relentless pounding. The sheer audacity of Mark, the unending noise – it grated on your last nerve.

With a sigh of pure exasperation, you swung the door open, blocking the entryway with your body. "What do you want, Mark?" you bit out, your voice low and tight with irritation, deliberately keeping the door open just enough to show the immediate kitchen area, shielding the living room from his view.

Mark, mid-rant, stumbled forward, caught off guard by the sudden opening. His eyes, already narrowed with anger, widened slightly as he took in your disheveled appearance, the faint stain on your sleeve. "Finally! I've been ringing and knocking forever! What the hell, Y/N? We need to talk about..." He stopped short, his gaze now fixed on something just over your shoulder, something beyond the kitchen. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion, then suspicion, clouding his face. He leaned forward, trying to peer around you. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice suddenly hard.

"It was just a friend, Mark, they left," you said, trying to push him back gently, but he was a stubborn, immovable force. You hated how easily the lie came, how he seemed to swallow it, momentarily distracted by his own self-importance.

"A friend?" he scoffed, pushing against the door, trying to force his way in. "Don't lie to me, Y/N. I know when you're lying. And even if it was, what the hell are you doing letting people in when we need to talk? You always put everyone else first! Always! What about my feelings, Y/N? What about what I need?" His voice rose, sharp and cutting, echoing in the small hallway. "You think you can just ignore me? After everything? After everything I did for you? You wouldn't even have this apartment if it wasn't for me! You'd be nothing without me!"

He loomed over you, his eyes blazing, a familiar rage twisting his features. The smell of his cheap cologne, the aggressive set of his jaw – it all brought back a wave of suffocating memories. You felt the familiar exhaustion drain away what little fight you had left. Your shoulders slumped, and you just stared at him, too tired to even formulate a response, too bone-weary to push back against the tide of his verbal assault.

From the corner of your eye, you saw movement. A shadow, silent as a ghost, detaching itself from the living room. Jason. He was standing just out of Mark's direct line of sight, hidden by the angle of the kitchen counter. His presence was a stark contrast to Mark’s loud, aggressive display. Jason's head was slightly cocked, his gaze piercing Mark, then you, then back to Mark. His hands were clenched into fists, though he remained still. He was a coiled spring, a predator watching a weaker one try to assert dominance. You could feel the suppressed fury radiating off him, a low thrum in the air.

Mark, oblivious, leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that was even more menacing than his shouts. "You think you're so independent now, don't you? This little job, this little apartment. You're nothing without me, Y/N. Go on, try to deny it. You think you can just discard me? We're going to fix this. You're coming back with me. Now." He reached out, his hand closing around your arm, his grip bruising.

"No, Mark," you said, your voice surprisingly firm despite the tremor in your hands as you pulled your arm away from his painful grip. "Just... no. It's over. Please, just leave."

His face contorted, the anger morphing into something uglier, a sneering contempt. "Leave? You think it's that easy? After everything I've done for you?" He took a step closer, his breath hot and stale against your face. "You ungrateful little..." His hand shot out, backhanding you across the face. The force of the blow sent a jolt of pain through your cheek and made your head snap to the side.

Before you could even register the shock and sting, a blur of motion erupted from the shadows behind you. A hand, strong and swift, shot out and clamped around Mark's wrist, stopping his follow-through in mid-air. Mark yelped in surprise and pain, his eyes widening as he was wrenched backward with unexpected force.

Jason stood there, a silent, menacing figure. His face, still shadowed in the dim hallway light, was a mask of cold fury. The borrowed clothes did little to diminish the aura of danger that radiated off him. His grip on Mark's wrist was like steel, and Mark, for all his blustering aggression moments before, now looked small and genuinely terrified.

"She told you to leave," Jason's voice was low, a dangerous growl that vibrated through the small space. "Maybe you didn't hear her the first time." He didn't raise his voice, didn't need to. The sheer intensity of his presence was enough.

Mark's eyes darted from Jason's face to the obvious bulk and hard set of his jaw, then down to the hand that held his wrist in a vise-like grip. His bravado instantly evaporated, replaced by a stammering fear. "Who... who the hell are you?"

Jason didn't answer, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly. A low grunt escaped Mark as his wrist protested. Jason simply stared at him, his gaze unwavering, a silent threat that spoke volumes.

Jason didn't release Mark's wrist. Instead, he twisted it, not violently, but with enough deliberate pressure to elicit a sharp, pained cry from your ex-boyfriend. Mark stumbled, his face paling, his eyes wide with genuine terror.

"Leave," Jason repeated, his voice still low, but now edged with an unmistakable, lethal calm. "And if I ever see your face near this apartment, or Y/N, again, you'll regret it. Every single bone in your body." His grip tightened one last, agonizing time, then he shoved Mark backward, sending him sprawling to the hallway floor.

Mark scrambled to his feet, eyes still fixed on Jason with a mixture of fear and disbelief. He didn't say another word, just turned and fled, his heavy footsteps echoing down the stairwell until silence, profound and absolute, returned to the hallway.

You stood there, breathing heavily, your hand instinctively going to your stinging cheek. The adrenaline that had surged through you was now receding, leaving you trembling. You looked at Jason, who stood unmoving, his back to the door, his chest rising and falling slowly. The raw, contained power radiating from him was palpable.

He turned then, his eyes finding yours. The anger in their depths had not fully dissipated, but it was now tempered with a different kind of intensity – a protective, unwavering gaze that held no judgment, only a deep, quiet concern. He took a step towards you, then another, until he was close enough to reach out. His hand, the same one that had just effortlessly tossed Mark aside, gently brushed your cheek, his thumb lightly touching the reddened skin where Mark had struck you.

"Are you okay?" His voice was softer now, rough with concern.

You met his gaze, the warmth of his thumb on your cheek a stark contrast to the lingering sting of Mark's blow. A soft smile, a little shaky, touched your lips. "I'm fine," you murmured, the words feeling oddly inadequate, yet true in the face of his unexpected defense. The silence stretched between you, a fragile, intimate bubble in the wake of the storm. In the quiet, beneath the surface of the lingering adrenaline, something shifted, a tiny spark igniting in the space between you. His eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, held a surprising tenderness.

You broke the spell, pulling back slightly. "How are you feeling?" you asked, gesturing vaguely to his side.

He let out a low chuckle, a dry, almost rusty sound. His gaze drifted to your left sleeve, a faint smirk touching his lips. "Better now that the pain meds are kicking in. Though," he paused, his nose crinkling almost imperceptibly, "you, on the other hand, smell like you've had a rough day."

You laughed, a short, tired huff of air. "Tell me about it," you said, glancing down at the offending stain on your scrub top. "Some poor guy came in from a bike accident. Took a nasty spill. Head injury, the works. He was pretty disoriented, and well... when he came to, my sleeve apparently became his target practice." You wrinkled your nose in distaste. "You can still smell it, can't you? It's why I wanted to take a shower so bad. Just couldn't get the scent out of my head."

He actually managed a small, genuine smile then, a fleeting glimpse of humor that softened the hard lines of his face. "Occupational hazard, I guess." His eyes still held that lingering concern as they flickered back to your cheek. "You sure you're okay, though? That was quite a hit."

You touched your cheek, a faint pink blush still visible. "I've had worse," you lied, though the sting was a sharp reminder. "Comes with the territory of working in an ER, sometimes. People get stressed, they lash out." You sighed, the exhaustion washing over you once more. "He's not usually like that, not really. Just... when he gets cornered, he turns into a real piece of work." You trailed off, realizing you were telling a vigilante, a complete stranger, far too much about your personal life.

He didn't press, didn't ask for details, just nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Some people don't know when to quit," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. "Or how to take no for an answer." There was a quiet intensity in his tone, a depth of understanding that went beyond mere sympathy. It felt like he was speaking from experience.

The silence that followed was different this time, comfortable even. It wasn't the wary, assessment-filled quiet from earlier, but a shared moment, a mutual understanding forged in the crucible of unexpected violence. You found yourself looking at him, truly looking, noticing the subtle shifts in his expression, the way the light caught the dark strands of his hair, the surprising warmth in his eyes despite their inherent guardedness. He wasn't just the Red Hood, the urban legend. He was just Jason, hurt and tired, but fiercely protective.

"Well," you finally said, breaking the quiet spell, "I really do need that shower. And then maybe, just maybe, I can finally get some sleep." You gave him another tired smile. "Feel free to raid the fridge if you get hungry. And no more violent confrontations while I'm gone, okay?" You tried to keep your tone light, but the memory of Mark's fear-stricken face was still vivid.

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "No promises," he said, the words dry, but his eyes held a flicker of something almost akin to amusement. "But I'll try to keep the peace."

As you turned to head for the bathroom, you felt his gaze on your back, a silent, comforting presence in your quiet, extraordinary apartment.

The next few days unfolded in a strange, yet comforting rhythm. Jason stayed. For now, at least. He was a silent, watchful presence in your apartment, a stark contrast to your usually solitary evenings. The initial wariness between you slowly began to dissipate, replaced by a quiet understanding, forged in the crucible of a shared secret and an unexpected act of kindness.

You continued your demanding hospital shifts, returning home each evening utterly drained, only to find him either reading one of your forgotten paperbacks from the shelves or quietly watching something on TV. He kept to himself, never demanding, always seeming to anticipate your need for space after a long day. You'd find a fresh mug of tea waiting for you sometimes, or a blanket folded neatly on the couch for when you inevitably collapsed there. Small gestures, but they spoke volumes.

He rarely offered details about his life outside your apartment, and you, in turn, didn't pry. You talked about your day at the hospital, the ridiculousness of bureaucracy, the quiet triumphs of helping a patient recover. He would listen, his gaze steady, occasionally offering a dry, insightful comment that made you realize just how observant he was. You learned that he preferred his coffee black, that he had a surprisingly soft spot for old sci-fi movies, and that he could spend hours just staring out the window, a distant look in his eyes.

One evening, you found him attempting to stitch a tear in his Red Hood jacket with a needle and thread he’d somehow acquired. He was surprisingly clumsy, his large hands ill-suited to the delicate task. Without a word, you took the jacket from him, sitting beside him on the couch. Your fingers, accustomed to suturing wounds, worked deftly, repairing the tear with precise, even stitches. He watched, fascinated, a rare, unreadable expression on his face. When you handed it back, he simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the small intimacy.

Another time, you were struggling to assemble a flat-pack bookshelf. He appeared, silently took the instructions, and within an hour, the sturdy unit stood assembled, a testament to his quiet efficiency. There were moments of shared laughter too – over a particularly bad movie, a ridiculous patient anecdote, or a dry, sarcastic comment from him that caught you off guard.

He was still guarded, of course. The shadow of his past, the burden of his identity, was always there, a subtle tension in his shoulders, a flicker in his eyes. But with each passing day, the walls around him seemed to soften, if only imperceptibly. The quiet moments stretched longer, the comfortable silences grew deeper. He was no longer just the injured vigilante you had saved; he was Jason, the quiet, observant man who now shared your living space, and in some unspoken way, a piece of your unexpected life.

The turning point came on a particularly stormy night. Rain lashed against your windowpane, a relentless drumming that drowned out the city's usual hum. You were curled on the couch, half-asleep, while a documentary played softly on the TV. Jason was in the armchair, seemingly engrossed in a book, but you'd caught his eyes drifting to you more than once.

A sudden, violent crack of thunder split the air, making the entire building shudder. You yelped, startled, and instinctively flinched, pulling your knees closer to your chest. The power flickered, plunging the apartment into momentary darkness before the lights struggled back on, dimmer than before.

You let out a shaky breath, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping you. "Okay, that was loud," you mumbled, trying to brush off your reaction, but your heart was still thudding. Thunderstorms had always made you jumpy, a silly fear you’d never quite outgrown.

Silence followed, save for the continued roar of the rain. Then, the distinct creak of the armchair. You looked up to see Jason standing over you. His face, usually a study in controlled neutrality, held a hint of concern. He didn't say anything, just reached out, very slowly, and without touching you, simply offered you the book he’d been reading. It was a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice.

"Distraction," he murmured, his voice a low rumble above the storm. His gaze was steady, understanding. It was a small gesture, but the quiet consideration in it, the way he'd noticed your lingering unease, chipped away at the last of your defenses.

You took the book, your fingers brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through you, a warmth that spread beyond your fingertips. The air between you hummed with a different kind of electricity than the storm outside. You looked up at him, a genuine smile, soft and unguarded, gracing your lips. "Thanks, Jason," you whispered, the informality of his first name feeling suddenly intimate.

He didn't move away. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of you, closer than he ever had before. The faint scent of old paper and something uniquely him – clean laundry, a hint of something metallic from his gear, a subtle earthiness – filled your senses. His eyes, usually so wary, held a quiet intensity as he looked at you, truly looked, seeing past the nurse, past the woman who’d saved him, to something deeper. The unspoken tension, the undeniable attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface of your interactions for days, was suddenly palpable.

He reached out again, his hand hovering for a moment, then gently cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the fading pink mark left by Mark's slap. His touch was feather-light, yet it grounded you, a silent promise of protection, of care. Your breath hitched, and you leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When you opened them, his face was closer, his gaze locked onto yours. The storm outside raged, but in your small living room, a profound stillness settled, heavy with unspoken feelings, ripe with the promise of something new.

The days that followed that stormy night were infused with a new, quiet intimacy. The spark that had ignited between you and Jason blossomed into something tender and warm, a fragile bloom in the unexpected shelter of your apartment. He still didn't speak much about his past, and you respected that, but his presence became a comfortable, cherished part of your routine. He’d often watch you while you cooked, a silent, attentive observer, or offer to help with chores, moving with a surprising gentleness for someone so outwardly formidable. Nights often found you both on the couch, the book from that stormy night still nearby, sometimes reading, sometimes just existing in comfortable silence, the occasional brush of shoulders or an accidental touch of hands sending a quiet current through you both. The subtle tension was still there, but it was now the tension of unacknowledged desire, not of suspicion.

He was healing, visibly. The limp became less pronounced, the stiffness in his movements eased. The color returned to his face, and the haunted look in his eyes softened, replaced by a guarded but undeniable peace. You knew, deep down, that this quiet idyll couldn't last forever. He was a creature of the night, a protector, a shadow. Your apartment was a temporary harbor, not a permanent home for him.

The morning he announced his departure was a crisp, clear one, a sharp contrast to the storm that had brought him to your door. You were in the kitchen, making coffee, when he appeared in the doorway, fully dressed in his now-repaired armor. The sight of him, so suddenly complete, so definitively himself again, sent a pang through your chest.

"I'm leaving today," he said, his voice low, steady, but with an underlying current that you now recognized as reluctant finality. He didn't look at you directly at first, his gaze fixed on a spot just over your shoulder.

Your heart sank, a cold weight in your stomach. You'd known it was coming, but knowing didn't lessen the ache. You turned, clutching your coffee mug, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Oh," you managed, your voice a little breathy. "Right. Of course."

He finally met your eyes, and in their depths, you saw a flicker of something akin to regret, a quiet acknowledgement of the unspoken connection between you. "I'm... better now. Thanks to you." His gaze was intense, searching. "You saved my life. And you didn't have to."

You offered a small, sad smile. "Anyone would have done the same." You knew it wasn't entirely true, not for him, not for the secret you now shared.

He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing directly in front of you. The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken words and lingering emotions. His hand reached out, slowly, and cupped your cheek, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, just as he had after Mark's visit. This time, there was no pain, only the warmth of his skin against yours, a silent caress that spoke volumes.

"I'll be back," he said, his voice a low, firm promise that resonated deep within you. It wasn't a question, or a casual remark. It was a statement of intent, delivered with a quiet gravity that left no room for doubt. His eyes held yours, a silent vow passing between you.

You leaned into his touch, your own hand instinctively rising to cover his, holding it against your face. "Okay," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Be careful out there, Jason."

He nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible squeeze of your hand. Then, with a lingering look that held a universe of unsaid things, he dropped his hand, turned, and walked out the door, disappearing as silently and swiftly as he had arrived. The apartment was quiet once more, but it was a different kind of quiet now, filled with the echo of a promise and the tangible presence of a bond forged in blood and unexpected kindness.

He was true to his word.

The first time he reappeared, it was late, just as you were drifting off to sleep. A soft tap, tap, tap on your living room window made you jump. You found him there, a dark silhouette against the moonlit glass, a small, almost shy wave as you pulled back the curtain. He slipped in, silent as a shadow, and the comfort of his presence immediately filled the space.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, "I'll be back" became a consistent rhythm in your life. He started showing up every other day, sometimes three times a week, a familiar knock on your window or a soft scratch at your fire escape door. He’d arrive, sometimes fresh from patrol, a faint scent of city grime clinging to his armor, other times clearly injured. Those were the nights he didn't even bother with the window, just a quiet key in the lock you’d given him, a silent plea for help as he limped into your living room, seeking the familiar solace of your care.

You became adept at patching him up, your hands moving with a practiced ease over bullet grazes and knife wounds. But it wasn't just the physical healing that deepened your bond. It was the emotional unburdening that slowly, painstakingly, began to unfold.

One night, after a particularly rough patrol that left him with a deep cut on his arm and a scowl etched on his face, he paced your living room like a caged tiger. He cursed, a low, guttural string of expletives, detailing a botched bust, the stupidity of the criminals, the endless, futile fight. You simply listened, offering a quiet antiseptic wipe, a steady bandage. When he finally slumped onto the couch, exhaling a ragged breath, the sheer frustration and anger radiating off him were palpable. You just sat beside him, offering a hand to squeeze, a silent anchor in his storm. He didn't say thank you, but the way his grip tightened around yours, a desperate, human need, spoke volumes.

Then there were the lighter moments. You discovered his surprisingly dry wit, a dark humor that often mirrored your own. You’d develop inside jokes – a particular type of terrible coffee you both hated, the ridiculousness of a certain news anchor, or the "squirrel conspiracy" in your local park. You’d find yourselves laughing, truly laughing, the sound echoing through your small apartment, chasing away the shadows.

He'd start sharing snippets of his day, not just the brutal parts. He'd talk about a frustrating encounter with a pigeon (which you then dubbed his "arch-nemesis"), or the bizarre street performers he'd encountered. You, in turn, would recount the absurdities of hospital life, the endless parade of bizarre ailments and demanding patients. These were the conversations that truly knitted you together, building bridges across the vast chasm of your disparate lives.

Sometimes, for the sheer hell of it, he'd just stay over. Not always sleeping in the armchair or on the couch. There were nights you'd wake to find him on your bedroom floor, a silent, comforting presence, or occasionally, when the unspoken pull became too strong to ignore, tangled in your sheets, a heavy arm draped possessively over your waist, the quiet rhythm of his breathing a lullaby against your ear. In those moments, the Red Hood was gone, replaced by Jason, the man who was slowly, utterly, letting himself be known. You saw him angry, happy, tired, vulnerable, all the emotions he shielded from the world, revealed only to you.

The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the distant hum of the city, a quiet backdrop to the comfortable silence that had settled between you and Jason. He’d slipped in through the window moments ago, shrugging off his leather jacket, the faint scent of ozone clinging to him. You were on the couch, lost in a book, and he’d simply sat down beside you, closer than usual, the familiar weight of his presence a comforting anchor.

Your fingers traced the words on the page, but your awareness was acutely tuned to him. His breathing was soft, even. The casual brush of his arm against yours as he reached for the remote to mute the TV sent a jolt through you. The silence deepened, charged with an unspoken electricity that had been building between you for weeks, simmering just beneath the surface of shared jokes and quiet conversations.

He turned his head then, his gaze finding yours. His eyes, usually so guarded, were softer in the dim lamplight, a vulnerable warmth flickering in their depths. Your breath hitched. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle shift in the air. Time seemed to warp, stretching out, elongated by the intensity of the moment.

He lifted a hand, slow and deliberate, and gently cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed over your skin, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine. Your eyes fluttered closed for a second, then opened, locking onto his. The unspoken question in his gaze was clear, mirrored by the desperate longing in your own.

His face drew closer, inches shrinking to mere centimeters. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, the subtle shift of air as he inhaled. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum against the delicious anticipation. Then, his lips, soft yet firm, finally met yours.

It was a tentative touch at first, a hesitant exploration, but then it deepened, a surge of pent-up emotion erupting between you. His hand moved from your jaw to thread into your hair, tilting your head, deepening the kiss. Your own hands rose, instinctively finding purchase on his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. The scent of ozone and something uniquely him filled your senses, overwhelming everything else.

The kiss became more urgent, more demanding, a fiery confession of weeks of unspoken desire. His body pressed against yours on the couch, the solid weight of him both thrilling and grounding. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer still, lost in the intoxicating rush of sensation, the shattering realization that this was real, that this was happening.

His lips trailed from yours, leaving a burning path down your jaw, to the pulse point at your throat. A soft moan escaped you as he nibbled gently, then trailed back up, his breath hot against your ear.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, sending a shiver through you. "God, Y/N."

The air was thick with unspoken words, with raw, undeniable need. The world outside, the city, the storms, his life, your life – it all faded away, leaving only the two of you, entwined, breathless, on the cusp of a profound and utterly life-altering moment.

Without a second thought, you shifted, straddling his lap, the soft fabric of your clothes rustling against his. A low groan rumbled in his chest as your body settled against his, molding perfectly to his hard frame. His hands, no longer tentative, found purchase on your waist, pulling you closer still, eliminating any last sliver of space between you.

His lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, a burning trail of open-mouthed kisses, each one sending shivers through you. You tilted your head back, exposing more of your throat, lost in the exquisite sensation. He nipped gently, then sucked, leaving a faint, stinging heat that you knew would blossom into dark, tell-tale marks. You threaded your fingers into his thick, soft hair, tugging gently, letting out soft whimpers and moans that were barely audible above the frantic beat of your heart.

"Good girl," he rasped against your skin, his voice rough with desire. "So soft. You feel so good." The words were low, a wicked counterpoint to the sweetness of his touch, a dangerous edge of possession that thrilled you to your core. He continued his assault on your neck, his free hand slipping under your shirt, the cool brush of his skin against yours sending a fresh wave of desire through you.

You arched into him, a silent plea for more, your fingers tightening in his hair. The scent of him, raw and intoxicating, filled your head, blurring the edges of reality. Every nerve ending in your body was alive, humming with a delicious, aching need that mirrored his own.

His hands, warm and eager, found the hem of your shirt. With a fluid motion, he pulled it up and over your head, tossing it carelessly aside. The cool air brushed against your heated skin for a brief moment before his gaze, dark and intense, swept over you. He then moved to your bra, his fingers surprisingly deft as he unhooked the clasp, pulling the lace away with a soft whisper of fabric.

Your breasts spilled free, and his eyes lingered for a delicious moment before his head dipped. He trailed a line of burning kisses down your sternum, his breath hot against your skin, until his lips reached your stomach. He kissed the soft expanse, his tongue flicking lightly, sending a jolt through your core. His hands moved, strong and possessive, to your waist, his fingers digging in lightly as he held you captive, pulling you even closer.

Then, he moved higher, his mouth closing over one of your breasts. A gasp tore from your throat as his lips latched on, suckling gently, his tongue flicking at your nipple. His other hand went to your other breast, thumbing and teasing the peak, eliciting a low moan from deep within your throat. The sensations were overwhelming, a delicious fire spreading through your veins.

You arched into him, a desperate, guttural sound escaping you. Your hips began to move instinctively, grinding against his core, a silent, primal rhythm of desire. His breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he responded to your movements, deepening the kiss, mirroring your urgency. The world outside the apartment, the lingering thoughts of work and stress, vanished, replaced by the all-consuming, intoxicating pleasure of his touch.

He pulled away from your breast, a low, ragged breath escaping his lips. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, locked onto yours. You didn't hesitate. You leaned forward, pressing a fierce, hungry kiss to his mouth, pouring every ounce of your longing into the contact. His lips parted under yours, allowing your tongue to trace the seam, a silent invitation.

As the kiss deepened, your hand, almost with a will of its own, slid down from his shoulder, past his hardened stomach, until your fingers brushed against the denim of his pants. With a soft click and the rasp of metal, you found the zipper and slowly, deliberately, pulled it down. You could feel the immediate, eager response of his body beneath you, a hard, pulsing warmth that pressed against your core.

A low groan vibrated from his chest, a primal sound of pure need. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "God, Y/N," he rasped, his voice thick with unfulfilled desire. His hands, still gripping your waist, tightened, pulling your hips even more firmly against his. "You have no idea what you do to me." His words were rough, honest, brimming with a vulnerability you'd never expected from him.

You whimpered softly, pressing yourself closer, the friction a delicious agony. "I think I might have an idea," you whispered back, your voice just as breathless. Your hand slipped inside his opened pants, closing around him, feeling the heat and the rigid strength. A sharp intake of breath from him, a soft, helpless sound, was all the answer you needed.

Your touch sent a shiver through him, a ragged gasp escaping his lips. His hips instinctively bucked against yours, a silent plea for more. "Y/N," he groaned, his voice thick with raw desire. He pulled his mouth from yours, trailing hot kisses down your throat, over your collarbone, his body pressing into you with insistent urgency. His hands, still on your waist, lifted you slightly, adjusting your position, deepening the connection between your bodies.

You whimpered, lost in the overwhelming rush of sensation, your hand tightening around him. The friction, the heat, the sheer intensity of the moment was all-consuming. Every nerve ending in your body sang with electric anticipation. He shifted, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest, and then, with a controlled thrust, he pressed into you, a perfect fit that made you gasp.

You arched your back, a soft cry tearing from your throat, as the exquisite pressure filled you. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you flush against him as he began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly intensified. Each thrust was met with a moan from you, a desperate, hungry response that drove him further. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling his head back, your eyes meeting his. In their depths, you saw not just desire, but a profound vulnerability, a raw need that mirrored your own.

His breath hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest as you continued to grind against him, your hand a firm, knowing grip around him. He was thick, straining against your touch, hot and hard and achingly ready. You moved your hand up and down, a slow, deliberate rhythm that intensified the delicious pressure building between your bodies.

He dipped his head, his lips pressing a searing kiss to your stomach, while one of his fingers, warm and calloused, slid between your legs, gently probing, finding your entrance. You gasped, your hips instinctively arching into the touch, a silent invitation. He pushed in slowly, carefully, stretching you open, his thumb brushing against your clit with each deliberate movement. You whimpered, a soft sound of pure need, as he added another finger, then a third, slowly, expertly preparing you. You were hot, wet, and utterly responsive, grinding against his fingers, your legs feeling weak and boneless as the pleasure intensified, spiraling higher and higher with every touch.

Just as the pressure intensified, coiling deep in your stomach, just as a soft whimper of impending release was about to tear from your throat, he pulled his fingers out. The sudden absence was a sharp, exquisite frustration, and a raw whine escaped you.

"No," you gasped, your eyes flying open to meet his. "Jason, please."

He looked down at you, his eyes dark with a wicked blend of desire and control. A low chuckle, rough and throaty, vibrated in his chest. "Easy, angel," he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper. His hands, firm and possessive, moved to cup your hips, pulling them even closer. Your underwear, already pushed to the side, was no barrier as he pressed his rigid tip against your slick, aching entrance, teasing you mercilessly.

The agonizing tease sent a fresh wave of fire through you, a desperate ache building with every brush of his hard tip against your swollen flesh. You whimpered again, a breathless plea that was half-moan, half-sob. Your fingers tightened in his hair, a silent demand. He watched your face, his eyes dark with a primal intensity, a silent question in their depths.

"Please," you gasped, your hips instinctively bucking against his, desperate for the release he was withholding. "Jason... now."

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of raw, unleashed desire that sent a thrill straight through you. "My angel," he breathed, the words a rough caress against your ear. With a sudden, deliberate thrust, he pushed deep inside you.

A gasp tore from your throat, pure, unadulterated pleasure exploding through your senses. He was everything you'd imagined and more – full, hot, and utterly perfect. You cried out, arching into him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in as deeply as you possibly could.

He began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that quickly escalated. Each thrust was a primal declaration, driving you higher and higher. You met him with equal fervor, your hips grinding against his, lost in the intoxicating friction, the desperate race towards oblivion. The sounds in the room were raw, guttural – your gasps and moans, his ragged breaths, the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. The world outside the apartment, the city, the dangers, his past, your past – it all faded into a meaningless hum. There was only this, this raw, explosive connection between two broken souls finding solace and fire in each other's arms.

He moved faster, harder, pushing you to the brink. You were breathless, your vision swimming, the pleasure a blinding wave consuming every inch of your being. He buried his face in your neck, his lips hot against your skin as he whispered your name, a broken, desperate plea. You felt the delicious coil tighten in your stomach, drawing tighter and tighter, and then, with a shattered cry, you convulsed around him, pure, unbridled pleasure tearing through you.

A moment later, with a guttural roar, he followed, his body tensing, pushing deep one last time as he poured himself into you. He collapsed onto you, heavy and spent, his breath ragged against your ear, his body trembling with the aftershocks of release. You held him tight, your fingers still tangled in his hair, both of you breathing heavily, the silence in the room now thick with the aftermath of shared ecstasy.

You whined softly, a sound of profound protest, as he slowly, reluctantly, slipped out of you. The sudden emptiness was a cool rush, and you felt a warm gush leak onto the bare skin of your thighs. He groaned, a sound of deep satisfaction mixed with a lingering ache.

He shifted beneath you, his body still trembling slightly. You pushed yourself up, your muscles pleasantly sore, a light flush rising to your cheeks. He was now stretched out on the couch, his chest still heaving, a satisfied, almost languid expression on his face. Without a moment's hesitation, you settled back down, but this time, you lay on top of him, resting your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

His arm came up, circling your waist, pulling you close against him. The scent of him – sweat, sex, and that uniquely Jason scent – was intoxicating, a new comfort. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the powerful rhythm of his breathing beneath you.

"Still think I smell bad?" you murmured, a teasing note in your voice as you looked up at him.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. "Definitely better than vomit," he conceded, a faint smile playing on his lips. He ran a hand through your hair, tangling his fingers in the damp strands.

You laughed softly, the sound feeling light and free. "That's high praise from you, Hood."

"Mmm." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "This," he murmured, his voice a little rough, "this is better than any damn mission."

You burrowed deeper into his embrace, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the aftermath of passion. It was a warmth of connection, of shared vulnerability, of a bond that had been forged in the most unlikely circumstances. You talked then, about nothing and everything. You recounted another absurd patient anecdote from work, exaggerating for his amusement. He, in turn, told you about a particularly stubborn stray cat he’d been trying to catch for weeks, a story so mundane for him, yet so endearing in its telling. You laughed, easily and freely, the sound echoing softly in the quiet apartment, filling the space with something real and new.

The quiet morning on the couch was merely the first brushstroke in the masterpiece of your shared year. The "almost every other day" visits soon blurred into just "every day." Jason, the phantom of the night, slowly, irrevocably, became a permanent fixture in your life. More moments like that first, raw intimacy followed, each one deepening the connection, weaving your lives together until the threads were indistinguishable.

He moved in gradually, almost imperceptibly. A toothbrush appearing next to yours, then a few spare shirts in your closet, then a duffel bag that somehow always seemed to be full. Soon, the scent of his particular brand of aftershave mingled with your shampoo, his heavy boots by the door a familiar landmark. Your small apartment, once a solitary sanctuary, now hummed with the comfortable presence of two.

He still disappeared for his nightly patrols, but the anxiety of his absence was always tempered by the certainty of his return. You'd leave a light on, a warm meal in the oven, and he'd slip back in, sometimes battered, always tired, but with a softening in his eyes that was reserved only for you. You learned to read the subtle shifts in his mood, the slight tightening of his jaw when a patrol had gone wrong, the quiet hum of contentment when it had gone right.

He kept the pet name, "angel." It became your special secret, whispered against your skin in the dark, growled in frustration when you teased him, murmured in triumph when he got home safe. It was a constant reminder of the night he’d called you that, when he’d been so vulnerable, and you had shown him a kindness he hadn't known existed.

There were countless small moments that built the foundation of your love. Early mornings, just before your shifts, where he’d make you coffee, strong and black, just the way you liked it, even if it meant getting up earlier after a long night out. Quiet evenings spent side-by-side on the couch, not talking, just existing, the warmth of his leg pressed against yours a constant comfort. Late-night discussions about everything and nothing – the absurdity of Gotham's villains, the nuances of your hospital dramas, dreams you hadn't dared to voice to anyone else. He listened, truly listened, his intense gaze unwavering, offering dry wit and unexpected empathy.

You saw him angry – a simmering, dangerous fury that he usually kept caged, but sometimes, after a particularly brutal night, it would flash in his eyes before he’d rein it in, turning to you for silent grounding. You saw him happy, a rare, genuine smile that transformed his usually serious face, especially when you managed to surprise him with his favorite obscure comic book or a perfectly cooked steak. You saw him vulnerable, moments when the weight of his past seemed to press down on him, and he’d seek comfort in your arms, his head buried in your neck, a silent acknowledgment of the pain he carried.

You had inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else – a shared look that conveyed entire conversations, a muttered phrase that would send you both into fits of laughter. He taught you how to properly throw a punch (just in case, he'd said, a serious glint in his eye), and you taught him the names of constellations from your living room window.

Sometimes, for the sheer hell of it, he’d just stay over. No patrol, no mission. Just you, him, and the quiet comfort of your apartment. Those were the nights filled with a blissful normalcy that you never thought possible. They'd wake tangled together, the morning light soft on his face, his arm heavy and protective around you. Breakfasts would be slow, lazy affairs, filled with the aroma of coffee and the easy banter of two people deeply in love.

"Did you do it?" Jason's voice echoes in the cold room.

Ra's spins around, trying to locate him. "Jason?"

"Is it done?" He asks again.

The older man's eyes lock on the movement in the shadow of his cold lab. 

Ra's Al Ghul had always had a problem of messing with the line between life and death. 

When he'd brought Jason back, he was utterly disgusted by what he created. Though the pits can rejuvenate life, he realized it should never have been used to bring life back.

Thus, his disgust began a hatred between the two.

Jason had ran off a year ago, but returned with a plea. A threat.

Create one more. A bride. Someone that didn't look down on him for what he was. And he would never bother the Ghul again.

Ra's was intrigued by the idea of doing it just once more. His pride was too strong. Not a demon, but a goddess, he'd claimed. It made Jason's heart stir.

But Ra's was clever. 

"Yes," he said, stepping towards the shadows curiously. "She's almost finished. Perhaps you'd like to see her before I bring her to life?"

Jason's eyes lit up, green orbs being the only thing visible.

"Come out," Ra's called. "Yes. That's good."

The young man took slow steps. He still didn't trust the Ghul completely. "Where is she?" Jason croaked out. "Where is my bride?"

Ra's stepped back with a small grin, beckoning Jason to follow him further through the lab.

A sheet covered a table. Something was clearly under it. And Jason quickly realized that the one thing he longed for laid under the sheet.

Ra's rounded the table, standing on the other side to let Jason had a proper view of what he'd made for him. 

The sheet lifted.

A woman.

His goddess.

The most beautiful thing Jason had ever laid eyes on. 

Her skin seemed so soft. Her hair beautiful and perfect. He could imagine spending his hours combing through it for her. 

Her body was pretty, though covered by a thin gown Ra's had found. A protective thought ran through Jason's mind as he considered how much smaller she was than him.

How he hoped her eyes would look on him with mercy.

His hand reached out, but Ra's tutted at him. "She's not finished, Jason. But tell me. What do you think of her?"

 "She is… she is beautiful. I will treat her as my equal-"

"Will you care for her?" Ra's pressed.

"Yes."

"Will you protect her?"

"Yes."

"Will you love her?"

"Yes," he cried. "Yes, I will love her. Please-"

"And what if she does not love you?"

The question hung in the air. Jason was stiff. "What?"

"What if she despises you?"

"No, no, she wouldn't do that! She will love me! I will be sure of it!"

"She will see you as the rest of us see you," Ra's growled. "A monster."

"No!" He covered his ears. "No! She can't!"

"I will not make her for you, Jason," Ra's yelled, finally showing the boy his true colors. "I will not give you companionship. I refuse!"

"I will treat her as you treat a goddess! Like you said," he begged. "I will keep her from harm! You swore!"

"Did I?" Ra's taunted. He enjoyed watching Jason spiral. He pulled a knife out, holding it over the woman's body.

"No, no, no," Jason pleaded. Everything was being ripped away from him. "No, you swore to me!"

Ra's sunk the blade into her torso, tugging to ruin the organs he'd so carefully placed. 

Jason screamed.

He crossed the table, making Ra's abandon the torment and run.

If Jason caught him, he was as good as dead.

But he got away, leaving Jason in the lab.

He crossed the cold floors, going back to the body of his bride-to-be.

And this time, he let his knuckles trace over her cheek. 

She was going to give his life reason. She was going to change things. She was…

Jason pulled the knife out with difficulty, bending over the table to pull her to him. He cradled her lifeless body close to his chest while slightly rocking.

He would try this last attempt himself.

Picking her up, he carried her to the Lazarus Pit. 

The green acid bubbled horrifically. Jason was sick to even look at it. But for her, he'd do much worse.

Keeping her close, he stepped into the liquid, watching it crawl up his ankles, then calves, then waist, until he was was up his chest.

It burned so harshly that it felt cold. His skin ached. But he'd continue.

He lowered her down in his arms until her entire body was submerged.

And now he only had to wait to see if it worked.

It was so silent. He could feel her skin against his. An overwhelming feeling.

Within a minute, her body squirmed desperately, arm reaching out to claw at his bicep.

The scratching didn't bother him at all. In fact, it made his heart soar.

He pulled her up, ignoring the stinging of his own skin.

The green acid parted to reveal matching green eyes— wide and frightened. 

She gasped out, unable to catch her breath. She clung to him, tucking her nose against his neck.

Jason wasn't sure what to do. 

She felt so… perfect against him.

This was… this was more than his mind could have imagined.

He'd thought for months about their first meeting. What he would do. How pretty she would be. How he'd deal with that feeling in his chest. 

He didn't think he'd have to comfort her immediately.

He knew his hands were shaking.

Right, the pit. Get her out of the pit. Yeah.

He took cautious steps, avoiding rustling her any more than he had to.

He set her down gently.

When her body touched solid ground, she pulled away from Jason and began to crawl backwards from both him and the pit.

Jason's heart tore in two.

He stepped after her, hand out in a plea. "Don't hide from me! I'll never harm you! I love you."

Her eyes watered, causing her to blink in more panic.

"I know you don't understand why you feel this way," he pleaded more. He bent down to her level. "Please. Please, let me love you. Give me a chance. I saved you."

His hand gently takes hers, and she instantly relaxes.

His lips pull up in an uncomfortable smile, but he continues, interlocking their fingers. "You're beautiful."

Her head tilted.

He looked her over, noticing the deep stab wound is gone.  "I would do anything for you. Speak to me."

She opens her mouth but a weak whine comes out.

"'S alright. You and I have eternity.."

She becomes brave, reaching out her other hand towards him until it rested on his chest.

Jason's heart leaped. His breath caught. He imagined this for weeks, but he couldn't have imagined that his skin would feel this way at her touch.

She traced down his chest, feeling the warmth of life under her fingertips. She wasn't used to it.

Lower and lower she went.

Her fingers settled at the band of his pants and paused.

Jason was shaking in anticipation.

He wasn't expecting something sexual with her. No. Not immediate.

It would take time and patience and trust.

Or perhaps it wouldn't, it seemed.

"Do you…" he paused, not wanting to scare her off. He could feel his heart pounding out of his chest. 

But it wasn't of fear. No, his heart was pounding for another reason.

He wanted to be closer to her. As close as she'd let him.

He reached out himself, cupping her face with a shaky hand. As his fingertips finally got to feel the soft, perfect skin of his goddess, he shuddered.

She blinked once. Twice. Then gently leaned into his palm.

"You were made so beautifully," he whispered. "Far too beautifully to counter something like me."

A soft hum comes from her lips. 

He remembered the few romance books he was forced to read before all this. Romeo and Juliet. Things like that.

So he knew he was taking a risk when he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. 

She initially flinched, not expecting it, but she quickly countered, learning to kiss him back.

He moaned into it, not expecting her to so earnestly reciprocate. 

When she parted from him, he could tell her eyes were dilated. 

"Love me, Jason."

He paused, feeling the blood run south in his body. Her voice was so cooling.

Then, his lips crashed back onto hers.

…

"My g~goddess. My sweet girl," Jason shuddered, his hips meeting hers.

His hands were sweetly gripped around her waist, like cradling something far too precious to ruin.

She had no shame, perhaps she had not learned it yet. So she basked in Jason's praise, letting out soft moans and arching up into his hold.

He kissed at her chest, softly licking nipping at her skin as he worked his way down slowly.

He slipped an arm around her back, supporting her and bringing her closer to him. 

She squealed as his lips closed around her left nipple. One of her legs kicked out, but Jason quickly soothed her and pulled her as close as he could.

He was sure the thin layer of sweat on him would repulse her. But she made no reaction against him.

He focused, letting his tongue sweep over her nipple again and enjoying the sounds that came from her.

"So good," he cooed again, breath over her breast. "I won't let you go, my love."

And he never would.

.....................................

A/n: this is the one I've been most excited about so I HAD to post it first.

Taglist for all: @domineezy, @cctoma, @iluvoaldmen, @borednessa

DC taglist: @maidenwhorecrone