N_BZ

Of course, when Roy brings it up, rolls of gauze clutched into the crook of his elbow, Jason just works his jaw with one hand in his hair, the other scribbling in red Sharpie. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jason drawls, face steeled to perfection. He doesn't even look up, too busy brooding down at the spread of documents and maps pinned down by several empty cans of Coke; a few drops of sweet, dark soda stain the papers. 

“You know, I heard from a little Robin,” Roy sings, sauntering over and dumping the gauze onto the small table—one roll bounces onto the floor and off Jason’s slippers, “that you have a girl.” 

Gotcha. Wind had reached Roy from Donna, who had heard from Wally, who had heard from Dick, who had so on and so forthed until the rumor could be traced back to a certain grumpy, spiky-haired sidekick who claims to have seen the second Robin dreamily admiring a nurse as she patched him up on the floor of her apartment.

That makes Jason look up. A shadow crosses his face, one that makes an odd kind of shiver tickle at Roy’s nape. It’s the same kind of look that comes when things go sideways or shit blows up when it isn’t supposed or when Batman does something that really sets him off. 

(But like father, like son. The way Jason is practically glaring at that loose-leaf pile of shit looks just like those old photos of B sent to a long-destroyed phone. Courtesy of Dick, who always has a field day spamming the Titans’ defunct, triple-encrypted groupchat when he happens to be back in Gotham.) 

And then Jason looks to the pile of little, unused rolls spilled across the table. Like—really looks at them, as if it’s the first he’s ever heard of gauze. Then he tilts his head and stares at Roy, mouth pressed into a razor-thin line. 

“Really?” Jason says, brows lifting like he’s totally disinterested. Then he points a finger at himself, really humored. “You think I have a girlfriend? ‘Cause what, I'm well stocked, or Damian said so?” 

Roy narrows his eyes, hands immediately coming up in defense. “I never said it was Damian.” 

“Just giving an example.” 

Jason shrugs—too casual to be innocent—but Roy’s already caught on long before that. The little flicker of ‘oh, shit’ across his face, the slightest thread of apprehension shooting through his deeply furrowed brow. 

Perks of being a deadeye: you catch all the shit everyone else misses. 

So. That little gremlin was telling the truth about seeing his adopted brother—or however the hell their relationship works—sneaking into a girl’s apartment and being all lovey-dovey with her even though he’s literally a menace to the city. 

And a menace to Roy, because Jason’s ticking jaw is starting to look like he’s on the edge of flipping the damn table. 

"Alright." Roy concedes despite the nagging itch in his head. Jason Todd is lying. "If you say so." 

"That's what I thought." 

— 

Contrary to Jason's (likely) belief, things don't end at the medicine cabinet. In fact, that had just been the start. 

The next revelation comes when they’re supposed to be infiltrating the Iceberg Lounge for a business exchange between a mysterious broker and the Penguin—back from a brief stint in jail, again, much to Jason and everyone else’s chagrin. 

This is a no-mask occasion, just to play the harmless civilian and not get a beatdown from the bouncers. 

It’s loud inside the lounge, a heavy bass beat thrumming at such a strength that Roy is wary to even brush up against the walls. The soles of his boots stick to the floor, gummy in the way only nightclubs can be; the air is soaked with the scent of sweat and booze. He’s already flicked his shades on and pushed them all the way up to his eyelashes, but the strobe lights flashing through the nightclub still need squinting to get through. 

Thus, he almost misses Jason’s hand tapping on his shoulder, too busy shrugging off the hot press of clubbers swarming the floor. 

Roy turns, raising his eyebrows at his partner. He gets the feeling that this is a little strange, being on a mission bare faced with a stupid Gotham U shirt and a half-broken comm chip in the ear. Jesus, he looks and feels like a frat guy despite being a decade too old.  

Jason doesn’t seem to mind though, dressed in a thin, maroon hoodie that does nothing to hide his shoulders, and grey jeans. Casual, in a nonchalant way. The I’m a frat who just threw on whatever and I’m ready to get sloshed way. 

His hand is still incessantly tapping on Roy’s shoulder, not really aware that they’re already facing each other, Roy expectant and ready to listen. 

“Hell-o?” 

“Oh.” Jason blinks, seemingly snapped out of it. There’s a sort of far-off look in his eyes, mouth barely parted, like he’s just seen a ghost and he’s trying to hide it. His gaze darts around, but it’s inevitably drawn to the blue-neon shelves on a back wall. 

Slow to say, tongue wetting his bottom lip, “I’ll take the bar.” 

Roy huffs, crossing his arms. “Alright. I’ll take the floor.” 

They both nod to themselves, though Jason looks very satisfied that he’s gotten what he wanted. Usually, they flip a coin or play rock-paper-scissors or use whatever is on hand at the time to decide scouting positions. 

Like that one time, with the water bottle. They had spent so long trying to get it to land upright that they almost missed their cue. 

But that’s a story for another night, because Jason is peeling away and making quick strides to the bar. He slides into an empty stool to the left of a woman, leaning his elbow on the counter with a small smile. 

Roy posts up against a wall on the opposite side of the bar, eyes roving. There’s a suspicious-looking guy in the far corner—a black suit type, slicked back hair and shiny laced loafers swimming with a leather-warped reflection of the strobe lights. The man is nursing a glass of whiskey, dark amber liquid turned to pitch when the music switches up. 

He scoots closer for a better look at their potential broker, and then he catches a glance of Jason at the bar, still talking to... 

Oh, shit. 

The screenshot passed around hero communications like a virus resurfaces in Roy’s mind. Sure, she’s wearing a cute outfit and some makeup instead of soft sleep clothes, but it’s unmistakable. 

Jason Todd is talking up his not-girlfriend in the Iceberg Lounge during a mission. 

People’s eyes bugging out of their sockets used to be an impossible concept, and yet. Here he is, helpless on the other side of the club as all the little pieces click together and catch up to him. 

The hardly used medical supplies. The ‘oh, shit’ look. The fact that Jason lied to Roy’s face.  

You smile in that teasing, kind of girly way you did in Damian’s leaked screenshot, much to Jason’s apparent enjoyment. He leans the side of his head on his left fist, that elbow in turn balanced on the bar top. 

Transfixed, Jason watches your hands move as you explain the mentality behind the designated driver role, how your day went, and say something that sounds like: it was super chaotic, but I can’t really say more ‘cause of HIPPA, so… 

Wait. 

Roy can hear you. 

He has to laugh softly to himself when he realizes. Fuck, Jason is so whipped that he isn’t aware of the fact that propping his head up has activated their comm chip. 

Not so much of a tough guy now, it seems. 

Keeping an eye on the could-be broker, Roy presses his earpiece in a little deeper and plugs his other ear to block out most of the club’s thrumming noise. 

“Anyway,” you say, and even though Roy can’t see it, he knows you’re grinning wide. “What do you do, stranger?” 

Roy’s eyes flick to the ceiling, but only for a fractured second ‘cause the lights are starting to give him a headache. Of course you don’t know his civilian identity. 

“Uh—” and there’s that telltale sound of Jason wetting his lips “—you could call me Jay. I’m…a fixer.” 

Funny. Fixer is quite a versatile word, it seems. 

You laugh in a tone Roy has only heard when a girl looks down and brushes her hair away. “Is it weird that I kind of guessed? I dunno, you just look like a guy who’s good with his hands.” And then a little faster, earnest, “I’m so sorry, Jay, that came out—” 

“No, no,” Jason is quick to interject, “I appreciate it.” 

“Is it weird that I think you’re a great guy after talking for five minutes?” you ask after a moment. For the briefest second, Roy manages a peek over to the bar—you’re mirroring Jason’s pose, except the hand you aren’t resting your chin on is tracing the rim of a crystal water glass. You smile, close-mouthed, and he gets it. Gets why Jason is so drawn to you (even if Roy doesn’t feel the beckon himself). 

It’s a kind look about you. An open flame, ready to warm. You look at people without expectation, and knowing Jason, that’s big. He doesn’t have to be the Big Bad or the sweet, martyred Robin for you. 

You know the cabinetry of Jason’s body so well already, and most of all, you know him at his most vulnerable. Blue-green doe eyes, sweat-matted hair, hydrangea-bloom bruises—the whole works. 

You stand for everything Jason protects in the world: the raw, unfiltered good. 

Roy snaps back to what he’s supposed to be watching right as Jason ekes out a rough chuckle. 

“Sounds like you have some assholes in your life. Need a hand?” Jason says it in the stilted, fish-out-of-water way he always does when he’s trying to flirt without fulfilling the half-dead requirement first. 

At arm’s length, quivering for the chance to come closer. Like two poles on a magnet, rejection and attraction. 

(Mhmm, an asshole, Roy thinks, I wonder who. He feels like putting his head in his hands and screaming.) 

Giggling like you’re kind of drunk and aren’t the designated driver, “It’s just one. Well, kind of—he’s…a guy who shows up sometimes.” A pause, as if you’re thoughtfully tonguing the next words into your cheek. “He’s a fixer too, in a different way, but I think he’s really sweet under all that meanness.” 

Jason hums, considerate and falsely sympathetic. “I’m sure he’ll come around someday.” 

(This fucking dickwad just loves to play in everyone’s faces.) 

“Sorry,” you breathe for the second time tonight, “you just have this really reassuring feeling, but I don’t wanna put my troubles on you.” 

“Well, I did technically start this,” Jason says, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he has the gall to sound sheepish. Roy almost can’t believe his ears. 

“Right, right,” you agree, that smiley sound in your voice again. Then you pitch it down, mimicking, “Rough day? Looks like you’ve seen some shit.” 

“That’s—I don’t sound like that.” 

(Agree to disagree. You’re pretty good with Jason’s tone.) 

Scoffing in amusement, you tease, “You do.” 

“Even if I did, you definitely practiced that,” he says. It’s in a fake-nonchalant voice that Roy can instantly pinpoint even through the shitty Bluetooth connection and the club’s deafening EDM slop. Jason really is defying all expectations tonight. 

You hum, “I might’ve picked it up from a certain guy. Can’t help it—you have the same accent.” 

That gives Jason pause, if only for a moment. The cylinders in his brain are probably firing at maximum power. “That’s...impressive.” 

Roy wipes a rough hand over his eyes. God, can this guy’s game get any worse? 

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Roy considers picking up a better job than people-watching. For example: right now, he could be building a crazy spaceship to take him to a planet far, far from Earth and Jason’s hopeless situation. 

A flicker of movement catches his eye. Approaching the broker is one of the Penguin’s bodyguards—Roy remembers him from the last encounter they had with the crime lord. He’d whipped his bow into the guard’s nose. 

Still looks like that nasty break hasn't healed well. 

Slipping a deft hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a vape. At least, that’s what the bouncers thought it was when they patted him down. 

Roy disassembles it, and a little silver pipe slides into his palm. It’s warm against his skin. A mini blowgun is definitely not his ideal weapon, but a guy’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. 

And now, that’s to shoot a tiny bug onto the broker’s jacket. 

The man is already mid-escort to the stairwell that leads to the more private lounge, flanked on the right by the bodyguard. It's a tough shot, and it’s dark and noisy and stuffy as hell in the club, but it’s also Roy Harper who’s doing this. 

(Duh, it’s in the name. Arsenal, former protégé of Green Arrow, anyone?) 

Slotting the pipe between his lips, he waits for the perfect moment. In a dense, obstructed club like this one, the stars would have to align for him to make the shot. 

He does anyway, the tiny listening dart flying across the room and latching onto the broker’s shoulder. 

Pat on the back, Roy Harper, he thinks, mission well done. 

— 

“She looked kind of familiar,” Roy teases as they stroll out of the club, almost singing.  

The thudding bass is still audible, even from the other side of the doors, and his ears will probably be ringing for another week. Not that he needs them to maintain his stellar aim, but how will he listen to Dick’s incessant voice messages about his recent round of stalking Jason’s not-girlfriend's LinkedIn? 

Their feet are light on the concrete, only making a greater degree of sound when they briskly traverse the many puddles plaguing Gotham. 

Case in point: Lake Glenn, named after Glenn Avenue, where a twelve-foot-long, shallow concrete basin of stale rainwater is slowly colonizing the remaining sidewalk. It reeks of piss and sour dick, too.  

Meanwhile, Jason seems eerily at peace. They cross the street to avoid the pond of pee, and he’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded jeans.  

He dodges a whirlwind of litter—it curls into a ball and bounces down the sidewalk like fucking tumbleweed—with a pep in his step. One block over, a patrol car wails out a single chirp, and Jason doesn’t pay any mind.  

Roy has never seen a smile linger this long on his partner’s lips, and it almost looks uncanny. 

He seriously considers grabbing the other man and howling: who are you and what have you done to my best friend’s little brother?  

Jason Todd does not walk with a bouncy gait. He doesn’t stick his hands in his pockets, where the confinement can double the time needed to grab the nearest weapon. And it’s certainly more-than-irregular to ignore a police siren and keep a faint smirk of anything but smugness on his face for more than five minutes. 

Diana H. Themyscira, he’s in love and he’s stupid with it. 

Instead, Roy just slips back into his practiced nonchalance and truthfully remarks, “Seems like a good person.” 

“She is.” 

The answer is curt. Stony. No room for questions, but boy, does Roy have questions. 

And since when has he paid any mind to social conventions? 

Naturally, he must keep pushing. “Alright, I can excuse blatant flirting on the job, but dancing?” 

Jason grimaces, finally wiping off that disgustingly fond expression on his face. “We didn’t—” 

“Dude, you don’t even try to defend yourself—I saw you grinding on her like a lovey-dovey teenage boy with both of my deadeyes.” 

The chilly, damp air of the city does nothing to disguise the way his ears bloom with a dusty pink. The Red Hood may be able to school his face, but he still can’t control the involuntary rush of blood to his ears. 

Roy almost coos at the adorable observation, but he rather likes the shape of his nose right now.  

Anyways, the thought is quickly overwritten by the sheer regret of witnessing how Jason’s fingers twitched when you guided them to grasp your waist on the dance floor. How his blue-green eyes sat at half-mast and dinner-plate dilated when he pulled your hips to his. How his lips had grazed the shell of your ear, whispering things that made your movements more desperate as you strayed from the pounding beat. 

Or how Jason, with a furrow of utter shame between his brows, definitely adjusted the fit of his clothing—specifically his jeans—after you kissed his cheek and bid a wistful, starry-eyed farewell because your friends needed you to step up as the designated driver. 

Said horny fool only scoffs, but a quiet smirk of amusement (holy shit, Roy just unlocked a new emotion) dawns on his face, and the sweet rays gradually brighten his gloomy countenance until the soft pink blush in his ears begins to warm his cheeks, too. 

And with it comes the slow, sweet creep of realization over Jason’s soldier-like posture. 

There’s that lovey-dovey look.

“Yeah,” Jason admits after that moment of reluctance, flicking his still-dilated gaze to a rare patch of starlight glimmering in Gotham’s cloudy sky. He lingers on the pretty sight, the rigidity in his shoulders melting slightly as newfound fondness swims in his eyes. “Maybe we did that.” 

“mm, that’s okay.” you simply shrug, sliding your panties to the side, “just wanna feel you close.”

“okay,” kirishima swallows dryly, watching you hover over his painfully hard erection, “wait fuck? are you sure?”

“think you’ll feel so much better like this.” you sigh, hovering over his painfully hard erection. his creamy dribble of pre-cum glistening in the soft lighting.

you hips wobble at the feeling of his wide tip hitching between your raw slit, his thick cock head beginning to stretch you with a hiss from his lips. “shit—so damn tight,” he curses, but with each inch of his veiny cock your cunt begins to swallow, kirishima’s mouth goes silent, his mind going dumb.

he feels everything. the way a second heartbeat erupts from your puffy cunt, sappy walls drenching him with a creamy ring around the base with a fat ‘squeeelch’ as you slowly sink down on his cock until your ass finally meets his now tense thighs. every clench and ridge easily comply around his girth, the feeling almost unbearable.

kirishima is on fire, the way you sucking him in with your heat feels entirely different than the times previously, the good-for-nothing latex shielding him from just how perfect your cunt could feel.

“fuck babydoll, been hidin’ this pussy from me?” he groans, biting the bottom of his lip with ivory fangs in an attempt to not pass out. “never using a condom ever again, n-not when i got this to look forward too.”

and he’s telling the truth, your soft walls of velvet reminding his cock of the squishy flesh hidden behind your cheeks when you swallow him down your throat, the difference between the sheer amount of slickness and tightness in your womb.

you’re not much better off than he is, the sheer size of him almost knocking the wind out of your chest with each roll of your greedy hips, your clit chasing the soft patch of dark hair on his pelvis. “can feel you everywhere eijiro, feel even bigger without it.”

his cock treacherously maps you out, prodding at your tenacious spots and slithering against the mushy points between each divot of your silky walls with an almost calculated confidence, the warmth blooming inside of you unmistakably him.

“yeah i do don’t i? take me for all i’ve got, look so fuckin’ sexy riding me like this baby.” he throws an arm behind the seat, watching you take what you need from him, your ass slapping his thighs, the noises ricocheting off the cloth roofing.

“feels so good.” you moan, quickening your pace, feverishily swirling your hips in wide circles that don’t go unnoticed by krishima, his ruby shaded eyes watching you bounce up and down in awe.

“not gonna last long like this baby. not when you're sucking me in so tight.” his hand falls down to your clit, the messy slick covering your bodies making it easy for him to slip two fingers to the sensitive bundle, gently rubbing the folds.

“fuck—that’s okay. i want it, n-need to feel you cum inside,” you sigh, mind fuzzy and body desperately cock drunk on the feeling of him stretching you full, his curved shaft pressing snuggly into your g-spot with every sloppy kiss of his reddened mushroom tip.

your sultry words make him involuntarily jerk up into you, the hand steady at your waist now easily plopping you up and down, “shit! y’really want that? you’re really letting me?”

he throws his head back, messy crimson locks wildly spiking on the leather seats as your mouth finds his neck. your tongue runs down the soft spot behind his ear, slurping up the salty sweat collecting behind it with a grin.

“mhm—please,” mewling, you let him do all the work, his hands working you further into ecstasy like it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, bouncing you around as if you weigh nothing. “eiji, wanna feel you drippin’ out of me.”

his strength levels on inhumane heights, your head slightly grazing the soft roof with each ‘thud’, ‘thud’, ‘thud’, of his bulbous cock, the spongy texture kissing your cervix.

“yeah? wanna make a mess? l-let it leak down these soft fuckin’ thighs and out that pretty pussy?” he’s growing delirious, imagining his milky seed spilling from your cunt like a stringy web connecting him to you.

he wonders if you’d clench your hole just like you are now around his cock, forcing his cum deeper and deeper inside of you, or— if you’ll let it leak down your legs, the visual effect of him clamming your cunt for the world to see.

you quickly respond to his pondering, and he begins to wonder in his fucked-out state if he’s said it out loud. “yes! i’ll try to hold it in ‘til we get home! keep me warm ‘n full—wanna- wanna be good for you eiji.”

“fuckkk,” he grunts, his face flushing scarlet at the teetering feeling deep in his stomach beginning its unbearable balancing act, his cock needing release. “keep you nice and warm for later, right? gonna cum inside this pussy again and again and—shit! keep squeezin’ babydoll.”

“can fill me like this all you want ei.” the fingers on your clit turn you into a pliant pile of slippery jelly, your cunt just oozing and pouring relentless buckets of slick down to his balls with every snap of his brute of a cock.

it’s a slippery slope, every steady boundary the two of you break makes him more unhinged. he’s losing his resolve, snapping up into you with a mission to cum inside of you, the car rocking back and forth, the metal frame creaking.

the hand on your hip easily spreads to your lower belly, and he can’t help the words that fall from his slacked jaw at the sight, imagining you stuffed full of his seed. “w-what if it goes up here? y’still gonna be good ‘n hold it?”

he’s testing you, unsure of what you’d say if you could see what he’s thinking about as he grips your soft stomach. he’s imagining you; your soft body growing softer and rounder as the weeks turn into months, waddling around the house while your body develops to grow his baby deep inside of you. your thick hips would grow even wider, round tits doubling in size to prepare for the arrival of your baby—hopefully a boy, produced by pure love.

“please—please—please! gonna be so good, k-keep all of it inside!” you cry out, voice echoing in the silence of the backseat, your much smaller hand finding his own.

he lets you wrap your fingers around his thumb, giving one harsh press to your clit as he cums, instantly setting your own release off. “fuck alright—shit! take it baby.”

you’re babbling his name and sweet nothings into the shell of his ear as you ride out your high, yet kirishima can only think of the aftermath of his decision.

he wonders if this time he’d get lucky and it would take, but if it doesn’t? he’s gladly ready to step up to the challenge and fuck you daily—nightly even, feeding your greedy cunt fat loads until his balls are deflated and his cock can’t stand back up.

krishima can’t help but picture it, he’d be your big strong body guard, his tall frame hovering behind you each time you have to leave the house. everyone would know it’s him, the strong manly hero who fucked you raw and knocked you up, no one would mess with you ever again.

your hand gently tapping his cheek gets his attention, his eyes wildly blinking as you stare down at him, a giggle erupting from your chest. “i got carried away there… was that okay? if not-there’s a convenience store just around the block and we can go and snag a—”

“—what? no, wait-are you serious?” he gasps, his kiss bitten mouth falling open, brows furrowing. “baby, you told me to fill you up so i did.”

laughing, you clench around him, feeling the sappy liquid swirl in your walls as your cunt sucks him dry. “yeah, i know! just didn’t wanna scare you off… didn’t know if it was you or your dick talking.”

“don’t worry about that right now…” he pauses, watching his seed drip from your slit. “worry about not makin’ a mess when you lift off of me okay?”