misa stan

“What do you see?” Lottie asked. 

“A baby,” Leon answered. 

Something was being shuffled around on the table. “And now?” 

Leon tilted his head. “Still a baby, it’s just upside down.” 

“Wrong,” Lottie scolded. “It’s a guinea pig.” 

Leon sighed. “Lottie, you’re not getting a guinea pig, you’re getting a little sibling.” 

You stuck your half made up face out of the bathroom door. “Leon, you were supposed to talk to her about something else, remember?” 

Leon cleared both the 9-week and the 12-week sonogram off the table and pulled Lottie’s chair closer to him. 

“Okay, listen, we need to talk about Brinleigh.” 

“Oh, I got her good,” Lottie said, her face darkening. 

“Yes, you did and that’s kinda the problem. We can’t go around beating people up like that. I taught you that as more of a ‘in case you ever need it’ skill. Because I want you to be able to protect yourself. I don’t want you to hurt others.” 

“The bullies are scared of me now.” 

“Really? That’s impressive.” 

Your face made another appearance and Leon’s gaze flicked to you. “But we’re having a lot of trouble because of that now. Just because we can doesn't mean we should, okay?” 

Lottie nodded, gnawing on her fingernails. “I called her Toothless instead of her real name at school and now everybody else is calling her Toothless, too.” 

Leon burst into laughter. You cleared your throat and stared him down. Leon coughed.

“No, Lottie, that’s really bad. We don’t bully people,” he said. “Even if it’s a little funny,” he whispered the last part but you still heard him. 

You fluffed up your hair and stepped out of the bathroom. “How do I look?” 

Leon let his eyes wander over your dress pants, cream blouse and pearl earrings. “Like you’d vote against abortion.” 

“Perfect,” you mouthed. 

Leon stepped closer to you, fumbling with the top button of your blouse. “He’s hit on you before, right? So maybe just…” He opened the first button and another one, exposing the top of your breasts. “Jog his memory a bit. Of how hot you are. Tastefully.”

You stared at him. “Honestly, whatever helps not getting sued for negligence. Are you ready to go?”

He grabbed the huge bouquet of flowers from the vase on the kitchen table and helped you into your coat. 

“There’s still Brinleigh’s mother, so be handsome and charming,” you said, lifting a finger at him and he flashed his best pearly white smile. A sight you didn’t see too often. “Yeah, like that.” 

He pressed a quick kiss to your lips and guided you out the door, his hand on the small of your back. 

All of your combined hotness didn’t really help, it seemed. Brinleigh-Mae’s mother was fuming, shooting up from her chair when she saw you. 

Leon held the massive bouquet of flowers out to her before she could even get the words out. “These are for you,” he said. “To apologise. I don’t know what to say, it’s really unlike Lottie to do such a thing.” 

Brinleigh’s mother let out a surprised gasp. “Oh, that’s uh…” 

Leon slipped into the chair next to Brinleigh’s dad, clearly having taken the wind out of the mom’s sails. 

“Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?” Brinleigh’s dad hissed. 

“I thought it was customary to get each other’s wives flowers when our children beat each other up at school,” Leon said, looking at him deadpan. “I’d ask her out for dinner too, but the missus is right there.” He grimaced. “I don’t think she’d be too happy about that, what do you think?” 

Brinleigh’s dad sank back into his chair. 

The principal called all four of you into his office, kneading his hands nervously. There clearly was no precedent for this. 

“Before anyone blames anyone, I just want to start by saying that we spoke to Lottie about this and it won’t be happening again,” you stammered, trying to defuse the situation before it even started. 

“Your child is a lunatic,” Brinleigh’s mom snapped. “If not a downright threat to the entire school.” 

Leon held up a hand. “Oh come on, she’s seven.”

The principal cut in. “Regardless of age we have a zero violence tolerance policy here at this school and I’m afraid Lottie’s behaviour was unacceptable. We have decided to suspend her from school for ten days.” 

Your face dropped. “She’s already been out of school for the entire past week,” you said. 

“Yes, but that was a voluntary decision on your end.” The principal folded his hands on the desk. “I advised against it, if I remember correctly.” 

“Yeah and why did you?” Leon snarled. “Because that Brinleigh kid is the real lunatic here. She should be suspended.” 

Brinleigh’s mom gasped. “Brinleigh didn’t do anything.” 

“She teamed up with Lottie’s bullies and cut off all her hair. I wouldn’t call that nothing. Premeditated as well,” Leon said. “From the way I see it, Lottie was only defending herself.”

You grabbed Leon’s shoulder and tried to shush him, but Brinleigh’s mom was already up and at him. 

“So you condone this? Perfect. I know many very influential people, Mr. Kennedy. The school board director would—” 

Leon snorted a laugh. “Put me in detention?” 

“Is this funny to you?” 

“A little.”

Your eyes caught Brinleigh’s dad, who was looking between Leon, his wife and you, his gaze settling on you. 

“Honey, calm down,” he said and gently grabbed his wife’s hand. “Maybe this is just our sign to finally send Brinleigh to private school. We’ve been discussing this for a while. She could focus a lot more on dancing than at a public school.” 

“Send her to whichever school, I don’t care, I don’t want her near my daughter,” Leon snapped and you kicked him under the table. 

“Does Lottie need to be suspended?” you asked the principal. “Brinleigh will be out of school anyway. It’s not like they’ll run into each other. I really don’t want her to miss that much. She’s just been diagnosed with dyslexia. I don’t want her to get left behind.”

The principal looked at you. “We’re actually in the process of organising an anti-aggression training for the entire class next week. She would benefit from attending that.” 

You nodded eagerly. “That’s a great idea.” 

The principal sighed. “Alright. But if anything like this ever happens again…” 

He didn’t have to finish his sentence. “It won’t, I promise,” you said. “She’ll be on her best behaviour.” 

“I’d expect as much. She really can’t afford not to be,” the principal said and closed your little meeting. You let out a relieved sigh. 

Brinleigh‘s dad leaned in a little as he walked past you with his wife.

“Consider this a dozen oysters,” he whispered and you looked after him, puzzled. What the hell was he talking about?

Leon wrapped an arm around your waist and pressed a kiss to your temple. “That went well,” he said. 

You nodded. “I’m not your wife.” 

He looked at you, confused. 

“You said to get each other’s wives flowers,” you clarified.

“I mean, there was really no need to differentiate.” His cheeks turned a rosy pink. “And I already asked you once.”

“And I said no. Because I didn’t want to marry you just because you had knocked me up. I wanted more time.” 

“I know. That memory is branded into my brain.” His breath hitched. “If I asked you now, would you say no again?”

You blinked, your heart stumbling into a sprint. “Is this you asking me?” 

“No?” he breathed, watching your face for a reaction.  

You swallowed. “Well, in that case I guess you’ll never know.” 

Leon was back to work, which meant, never there when you needed him.

Or wanted him, rather. Like when you had your 22-week scan, a moment you would have loved to share with him but he was probably in some kind of zombie headlock right now instead. You didn’t even want to think about it. 

Sitting in the sun, in the backyard of the diner, you ate your greek yogurt parfait with honey, nuts and plenty of fruit because baby needed nutrients—a lot of them, constantly. 

You tried to get a hold of Hunnigan for the n-teenth time today. Because you needed communication with Leon—a lot of it, constantly. You were convinced she had just stopped picking up as soon as she saw your name on the display. Otherwise nobody could be so difficult to reach, not even the dispatcher of a government agent. 

You finished your parfait and leaned back, closing your eyes, enjoying the sun. You absentmindedly rubbed your belly as you held the phone to your ear, waiting to connect. 

You were now positively popping, as they say and you would have to agree with Leon: you looked so pregnant and so cute. You absolutely loved it.

Lottie loved it, too. Insisting on kissing her little sibling good morning and good night every day. Or, anytime she remembered. Only to giggle excitedly, especially in the mornings when you called her close to try and feel the small fluttering sensations you could feel from the inside, on the outside too. Sometimes it didn’t work, but it was getting more and more frequent and Olive was getting stronger and stronger.

Lottie was beyond excited. 

It was honestly so great to experience this with your daughter. Olive wasn’t even born yet and they were already strengthening the bond between their older sister and their mother. 

Or his sister and his mother, rather. Because, as it turned out as of today: Olive was a boy. 

“Hunnigan speaking.” 

“Hey, it’s me,” you purred into the phone. 

“This is turning into a very inappropriate stand-in relationship and I’m going to need you to stop.” 

You chuckled. “If you would pick up your phone more often, we wouldn’t have that problem.” 

“Did you hear what I just said?” 

“Hunnigan, where is he?” you asked and you felt a little fluttering sensation beneath your palms, your lips falling open in a soft gasp and your gaze dropping down to where Olive was hopefully nestled cosily in your womb.

Hunnigan sighed into the phone, debating whether or not she should tell you. She finally cracked. “He just finished his mission. We’re waiting for him to return to base.” 

You let out a sigh of relief. Nearly done. He was almost home. 

“Is there something you want me to pass on?” Hunnigan offered and you blinked. You had to take advantage of her soft side. 

“Tell him we need to come up with a new name for our work in progress.” 

She sighed. “What the hell does that even mean?” 

“He’ll know what it means. Tell him Olive is a boy and I’m not calling my kid Oliver or we’ll have two that will get bullied.” 

“Okay anything else?” 

“Tell him I miss him. And Lottie. But I miss him the most.” 

“He misses you, too.” 

Your eyebrows shot up. “Hunnigan, you’re really getting into character here.” 

“He told me to tell you when I get the chance.” A warm feeling spread through your entire body and you had to resist the urge to kick your feet.

“He’ll be home soon.” 

Hunnigan ended the call and you felt relieved. This was the best news ever. You checked your watch. It wasn’t even too bad that your break was over now. You would be waitressing like there was no tomorrow fuelled by this news. 

You shot up from your seat, immediately regretting your excitement, as you steadied yourself against the dizziness, grabbing onto the back of the chair. 

“Oof,” you murmured, “Yes, Olive, I agree, that was a little too fast. You’re right.” 

Tying your apron around your midsection again, a little higher than normal, so it sat right above your bump, you walked back inside. 

Javi greeted you with a basket of chicken tenders. “Ah man, I didn’t know you were taking your break just then. I made you these. And for our special guest,” he added a shotglass with a single dill pickle inside. “A little amuse-bouche. Or amuse-baby, however you wanna call it.” 

“Aww, Javi. Thank you,” you said, walking up to him. Even though you had just finished the parfait, your mouth already started watering at the proposition of something savoury. 

“No worries if you’re not hungry. I can keep them warm for you.” 

You snatched the basket from his hands. “Don’t underestimate how hungry I am these days. I will demolish these in under five minutes. Watch.” 

Javi chuckled. “Okay, I’m watching.” 

Your tongue darted out between your lips and you tore into the first chicken tender, dipping them into Javi’s special sauce as he called it. Something something honey mustard but with a little spicy kick to it. 

You nearly moaned when it hit your taste buds. “Holy fuck, this is amazing.” 

“Hey pregnancy gremlin,” Rhonda said, coming up to you with her signature pot of coffee glued to her hand. “There’s someone new in your section.” 

“Oh,” you exclaimed, licking your fingers clean and wiping them on your apron, before handing the basket over to Javi. “In that case, can you keep them warm?”

Javi nodded. “Honestly, just come in when you're feeling peckish, I’ll keep them separate for you.” 

You loved how everyone at the diner was just as excited for Olive as you were. Everyone was taking really good care of you. 

You took out your pen and notepad and rushed past Rhonda. 

“Wait,” she reached out for you but you were already on your way to your section. 

“Welcome to the diner on Main, what can I get you?” you recited your usual shtick at whoever was in the booth, scribbling down the table number in the upper corner of the notepad. 

“Aren’t you just the cutest thing.” A very musical chuckle reached your ears. 

Your head shot up. The person sitting in your booth was Ada Wong. 

Your stomach dropped. 

“I’ll take a coffee. Black. Two sugars,” she said and you didn’t even have to write that down. 

“Alright, that’ll be right with you.” 

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” 

You pursed your lips. “Honestly? No.” 

“You have dipping sauce in the corner of your mouth.” You wiped your mouth out of reflex, earning another chuckle from her.

You turned on your heel and walked back into the kitchen to prepare the coffee.

“Are you okay?” Javi asked.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You’re really pale all of a sudden.” Your gaze dropped down to your shaky hands, as you spooned in the coffee powder and flicked the switch on the coffee machine. 

This wasn’t a hey girlie situation, right? Right? Because if it were, you really couldn’t handle that. Not right now. 

Olive started moving and you winced, gently placing a hand on your belly. You tried to push the flashbacks of polaroids aside and let out a long breath, remembering the four quadrants, circling the trust issues with the exclamation point. You trusted Leon, right? Right?

“Do you want a chicken tender?” Javi offered, helplessly. 

“It’s fine, Javi,” you murmured, filling up a cup with black coffee, grabbing a packet of sugar and a spoon from the shelf and carrying it over to your section. 

“Here you go,” you said, voice forcibly calm. “Can I get you something else?” 

“Not right now, thank you. Is this filter coffee?” 

You nodded. “Yes.” Something about Ada made her sound like she was always critical of everything. You wondered if that’s how she treated Leon, too. You would hate that. 

“And you do free refills, right?” 

You nodded again, trying your damn hardest not to be intimidated right now as you stood in front of her: with dipping sauce in the corner of your mouth, an apron stretching over your bump and worn out trainers.

She leaned back in her seat, her dark dark hair bouncing with perfect styling. “You’re glowing.” 

You crossed your hands in front of your chest, or on your bump rather. “Alright Ada, cut the shit. What do you want and how did you know where to find me?” 

“Who are you exactly?” She leaned forward, looking like she was about to eat you alive. 

“Leon’s girlfriend,” you said, not being able to hide the question mark at the end. There should be no question mark. There were no doubts. Leon had told you he loved you. And you trusted him. Right? “You know me, don’t pretend like you don’t.” 

“No you’re not,” she crooned and you felt sick to your stomach. “You’re the one who’s impossible to forget. No matter how hard I tried. And believe me, I tried.” 

“I know, I saw,” you hissed and her brows shot up. “Now do you want to order something or should I close the bill after the coffee?” 

You ground your teeth. There was no way Ada of all people was going to play with you. 

“Thank you. But I actually came to congratulate you on the new baby.”

“He’s not born yet, that’s bad luck,” you spat, your blood boiling. 

“Not always,” she murmured and produced a gift wrapped with a neat little bow. “I can’t make it to the baby shower, so please take this.” 

She put it on the table, pushing it toward you. “And I want you to know that if I can get him out of trouble, I will. I’ll go easy on him from now on because I know he needs to come back home to you.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t go at him at all,” you said. “You could just get a regular job, you know? Like hairdressing or something. Your blow out’s really nice.” 

She chuckled, an amused glint in her eyes. “Thank you. Do you want to know what products I use?"

You took a deep breath. "I appreciate your well wishes, but we're not friends." You tapped your notepad. "Now, anything else I can get you?"

An arm wrapped around your waist and the mattress dipped behind you. You jolted awake. 

“Shhh, it’s just me,” Leon murmured and pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, pulling you flush against his chest. 

“You didn’t go home to your apartment first.” 

“I wanted to come straight here. I missed you so much.” He buried his face in your neck. You relaxed into his touch. This felt like real life. Like the life you were supposed to live. The soft life all of you deserved, not the life you were living when he was away. 

“How are you? How's baby?” A hand traveled down to your belly and you felt a little flutter again. 

You smiled. “Can you feel that?” 

Leon stilled for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I can’t. Is Olive moving?” 

You nodded and lay there with him, reveling in the fact that he was home. “Olive’s a boy,” you murmured. 

“I know, Hunnigan said.” He propped himself up on his elbows and turned you to him, leaning in for a tender kiss. 

“Are you okay?” you asked, cupping his cheek. “Any injuries this time?” 

He shook his head. “No, it was really smooth.”

You let your head fall back into the pillows. Thank fuck.

“Ada came to the diner,” you whispered and Leon tensed. 

“What?” 

“She gave me a baby shower gift.” 

“You didn’t open that,” Leon said, alarmed.

You shook your head. “I threw it out, immediately.” 

Leon blew out a relieved breath. 

You gnawed on your lip, squeezing your eyes shut. You had to ask. You just had to. “How does she know I'm pregnant? You're not talking to her, right?” 

He stroked your cheek, his jaw working. “No. But I'm going to speak to Hunnigan about this because if she can find out, other people can too.”

Panic gripped your chest like a vice. You hadn't even thought about it that way.

Leon noticed and cupped your face with both hands. "I won't let anything happen to you and Lottie, you know that. And I would never throw any of this away for Ada, you know that too, right?"

“I know,” you whispered, pressing another kiss to his lips, Michelle's pen finally crossing out 'trust issues' scribbled underneath the four quadrants.

____

Tag list: @salem--bitch--trials @ordelixx @xx-anastasia-xx @like-gh0sts-in-sn0w @galactic-evil @necrozlana @superunkn0wn @iceyyycapsicle @cherryc1nnam0n @genuinelystrangespirit @gabithefanwriter @hedonist-k1l @nicxl333 @cheesecakeghost @dyscalculiaaa @barryatsumu @nerdytowerwind @l0diluvs @mushythemushroom04 @firefoxkairan @toesucker59 @rubixgsworld @sl4t7 @sirenpearldust @leonsbride @mylifedoesntexist @typical-ukraine @kaitieskidmore97 @nearria @halohalona @skylar896 @ayyeitseve @fondlyfuriousstar @radioactive-ocha @maddieesthings @moraxswhore @otakusimp1 @motherfckerrr @alwayswabisabi @riddikulus-obsessions @shanana-banana15 @too-attached-to-fiction @ejk31 @yannieackerman @ineseuu @zaddywiththephatty

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!!

He's reminded of this particular weakness whenever he's banned from voice or text chats in his games, where one too many creative insults about the opposing team's mothers slip out before his brain catches up to his mouth.

And there's also the whole cocaine thing. But that's not important. He's working on it. Malevola makes sure of that.

His greatest weakness, though, walked into his life a month ago.

Specifically, when you began working at SDN.

It was love at first sight. At least for him, because you hadn't even looked at him as you walked by, following Blonde Blazer as she animatedly introduced you to the dispatchers you'd be shadowing.

A few seconds was all Victor needed to know he was fucked.

He paid more attention in the weeks that followed. He gathered intelligence: not only were you hot—like, objectively, scientifically attractive—but you were funny. More than funny. Hilarious, actually. At times, he found himself coughing to cover up his laugh after he'd eavesdrop on your conversations. Not entirely creepy, because he only did it when you were in the break room or the conference room, and he considered those public spaces. Natural ground. It wasn't his fault he had exceptional hearing.

His crush has only grown since then, metastasizing into something he can't quite control.

There are times he's convinced you're secretly enhanced, some kind of undercover operative. It's the only explanation, really—maybe you're a temptress, a succubus, some lust manipulator with pheromone control. Because without fail, you turn him to putty. He has to readjust himself in his dress pants whenever you walk past, because your perfume wraps itself around his veins and tugs the flow of his blood straight to his dick like a leash.

Malevola had laughed herself sick one evening when she'd noticed, telling him he was "down catastrophic" for someone he didn't even have the guts to talk to. She'd shared the observation with Z-team too, and when Prism caught him adjusting himself during a mission briefing, they'd called him a perv loud enough for half the room to hear.

You'd earned the nickname Medusa after that, because Malevola found it hilarious that you managed to turn him rock-hard just by existing in his line of sight.

Victor had thrown a pen at her head. She'd caught it without looking and threw it back five times as hard.

Standing in the hallway, Victor rises to attention as you walk toward him, following the usual path to your desk. He adjusts his tie, tuning out Malevola's conversation, and steels himself mentally.

"I'm gonna go talk to her."

Malevola glances up. "Oh yeah? What are you gonna say?"

"Something good. Get her interested. Leave her thinking."

Malevola scowls. "Please don't mention your crypto portfolio."

"Why would I mention my crypto portfolio?"

"Because you mentioned it to the last three people you tried to talk to."

"I was networking!"

"You were being insufferable."

Victor sneers at her, half annoyed, half embarrassed. "Whatever. Watch and learn."

He tightens his tie and steps in front of you, halting you in place.

"Oh," you say, blinking. "Hi, Sonar."

You offer him a smile—polite, gentle. Good sign.

"Hey," he grins. "How's it going?"

"It's... going good, I guess. Just a regular Monday."

He nods. "Right. Cool. So, uh, I noticed you take like three sugars in your coffee."

Okay, good start. Observational. Shows he pays attention.

"...Okay?"

"That's cool. I mean, that's a lot of sugar but like, you do you. I usually go for two max." Wait, that sounds judgmental. "Not that three is bad! Three is good. Sweet tooth, that's chill."

Your smile is getting tighter. "Thanks?"

"Yeah, no problem." He shoves his hands into his pants pockets. "So hey, I've been looking at the mission numbers. You're doing pretty well. Like, way above average. If you ever want any tips on dispatch strategies or whatever, I could totally help you out."

"I... you're not a dispatcher. I am."

"Right, yeah, I know that. I just meant like, general efficiency stuff. I'm really good at that kind of thing. Optimization, time management, all that." He's nailing this. "Actually, I used to run this whole investment operation and—"

"The fraud thing?"

"—it was very successful. Financially. Before the legal issues." Okay, maybe don't bring up the crimes. "But like, I learned a lot about managing systems and people and—"

"That's great, Sonar, but I really should get back to work."

"Oh yeah, totally. I get it, you're busy. Respect the grind." He nods. "But hey, if you ever want to grab coffee and talk shop or whatever, I know this place that has really good espresso. Well, decent espresso. It's acceptable espresso but the vibe is nice."

"I'll... keep that in mind." You slip past him, the tight, nervous smile still on your face. Maybe you're nervous because you like him too. Score.

"Cool, cool. See you around!"

You give a little wave without really looking at him and speed-walk toward your desk.

Victor turns back to Malevola with a grin. "Dude, I think she's into me."

Malevola stares at him, mouth agape, the corners of her lips turned down.

"What?" he asks.

"I don't think so. She literally ran away from you."

"No she didn't. She walked. Quickly. Because she's busy and dedicated to her job. That's attractive, actually." He feels good about this. That went well. "She smiled at me."

"That wasn't a smile. It was a grimace. I felt like I was watching a hostage negotiation."

"You're being dramatic." He loosens his tie a bit, feeling accomplished. "I was smooth. I gave her an out by mentioning coffee, showed off my skills without being too much about it—"

"You told her about your fraud charges."

"I was being honest. Chicks dig honesty."

Malevola sighs. "Sonar—"

"You're wrong," he says, cutting her off. "I know what I'm doing, okay? I've got this. Tomorrow I'll try again. Maybe I'll tell her about that time I made 100k in a month. That's impressive."

"Please don't."

"Or maybe I'll ask about her interests. Show I care about her as a person."

"That one. Do that one."

"And then tell her about the 100k."

"Sonar, I'm begging you—"

But he isn't really listening anymore. He's already planning his next move, thinking about what to say, how to stand, when to catch you again.

He's got this. He's good at this.

Victor's eyes track you through the open break room door.

"What are you staring at?"

Victor flinches at Malevola's voice, straightening himself in his seat. "Huh? I'm not staring at anything."

"Uh-huh." She follows his gaze and sighs, turning back to him with a pitiful expression. "Please don't tell me this is why you wanted to take break at 2:15 instead of 3."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Malevola groans. "It is, isn't it? You figured out her schedule? Dude, that's so creepy."

"It's not creepy. It's called pattern recognition. That's a skill."

"Technically, so is stalking."

Victor glares at her but doesn't reply, his white eyes flickering to where you stand as he registers movement. You're wrapping up your conversation now, waving goodbye to another dispatcher. James, maybe. Something with a J. Victor sits up straighter without meaning to.

"Oh, she's coming in," Malevola says, grinning. "You gonna talk to her this time?"

He frowns. "What are you talking about? I talked to her last week."

"Whatever that disaster was, was not talking."

Victor's expression flattens to unamused. You're approaching the threshold of the break room now. He can already smell your perfume. "Okay. I'm doing this."

"You're doing this," Malevola echoes.

"Yup." He stands. "Gonna be casual. Relaxed. Normal."

"Three words that have never been used to describe you."

He glares at Malevola again, but she only raises a brow, the corners of her lips quirking upward. Despite her amusement, there's an encouraging gleam in her expression that Victor recognizes. He matches it with a confident nod, fixes his tie, checks his cuffs, and makes his way to where you stand at the counter.

The break room isn't large by any means, but he feels as if he's been walking for a long time. He can feel Malevola's gaze following his movements. Good. Witnesses to his success are important. This time is going to be a win. He can feel it.

You're making coffee. Perfect. He's got this.

He opens his mouth as he finally reaches you, winding up one of his practiced conversation starters, but stills as you put in headphones.

Shit.

He looks back at Malevola. She's watching with barely contained glee, making a "go on" gesture with her hands.

Okay. Okay, he can work with this. He'll just... wait until you turn around. It gives him some time to prepare, anyway. A few seconds can be priceless to a man if he knows how to use them right.

A few moments pass, but you have yet to acknowledge his presence. Or anything besides your coffee making, really. Which, now that Victor's thinking about it, is concerning. How have you not been mugged?

You're adding sugar—one, two, three packets, as usual—and he should probably say something or clear his throat or do literally anything besides hover like a creep, but his brain has completely blanked.

You're stirring now. Any second you'll turn around and he'll say something smooth and—

He's made a miscalculation.

Grabbing your mug, you step backward—and walk directly into his chest.

You gasp, spinning around. The coffee in your cup jumps, sloshing over the rim and splashing across your hand, your wrist. Drops hit your shirt, your pants. Your headphones catch and pull free from your ears.

"Shit!" you hiss, jerking your hand back. Coffee drips onto the floor between you.

Victor's frozen, staring at the spreading stain on your shirt, at your reddening hand. At least the break room coffee is never really hot. Perpetually room temperature, in fact. "I—"

"Jesus Christ, Sonar!" You set the mug down hard on the counter, shaking out your hand. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I wasn't—I just—" His mouth is moving but nothing useful is coming out. "Maybe thirty seconds? I was waiting for you to turn around because you had headphones in and I didn't want to—"

"So you just stood behind me?" You grab napkins from the dispenser, pressing them against your shirt. The coffee's already seeping through. "Silently?"

"I didn't want to startle you—"

"Well, congratulations. You failed." You're dabbing at the stain, movements sharp and frustrated. More napkins. The coffee isn't coming out. "God damn it."

"I can help—"

"It's fine."

"Let me get you paper towels, or—"

"It's fine, Sonar." You crumple the napkins in your fist and toss them in the trash. When you look at him, your expression is carefully neutral. Painfully polite. "I have an extra shirt in my locker. I need to go change."

"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I know." You're already moving past him, toward the door. "It's fine. Just... an accident."

But the way you say it doesn't sound like you think it's fine at all.

Victor watches you leave, your coffee-stained shirt disappearing around the corner, and something in his chest sinks.

The break room is quiet. Too quiet.

He turns slowly, meeting Malevola's gaze.

"Don't," Victor says.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking it loud enough."

Victor's tried four more times since the coffee incident.

Each interaction has been uniquely catastrophic in ways he didn't think were possible. There was the time he tried to hold the elevator for you and accidentally hit the emergency stop button instead, trapping you both for twenty minutes while you made increasingly uncomfortable small talk and he sweated through his shirt.

He followed that disappointment a few days later when he brought you coffee from an overpriced cafe as an apology (three sugars, he remembered) but had accidentally grabbed another order instead—black, no sugar—and watched you take a sip and immediately wince.

Then there was the time he tried to compliment your new haircut but instead said you looked "different" in a tone that implied he meant it negatively.

And finally, there was yesterday, when he'd attempted to help you carry a box of files and had somehow managed to trip over absolutely nothing, sending papers exploding across the hallway like the world's most pathetic confetti cannon.

The Z-team has been having a field day. He's even seen money exchanging hands in the break room. Malevola claims she's been betting in his favor, but her recent vinyl purchases suggest a very different story.

By this point, Victor's half-expecting a restraining order. Or at minimum, a very awkward meeting with Robert to discuss workplace boundaries and what constitutes harassment.

He's given up. Officially. He's waving the white flag.

Which is why he's at Gracie's on a Saturday night, letting the terrible DJ and even worse drink specials wash over him in waves of aggressive mediocrity.

The music is too loud. The bass is making his head throb—enhanced hearing is a blessing until it very much isn't—and some drunk girl just spilled her vodka cranberry on his shoe.

He needs air.

Victor pushes through the crowd toward the back exit, shouldering past a group doing shots and a couple making out against the wall. Lucky them.

Reaching the door to the patio area, he shoves it open and steps outside.

And freezes instantly.

You're sitting on a picnic table that's been shoved up against the brick exterior wall, perched on the top with your feet on the actual seat, scrolling through your phone. The string lights overhead cast everything in warm amber.

Oh fuck.

Victor immediately pivots, turns on his heel, fully prepared to march right back into the bass-thumping hellscape he just escaped because this—this looks like stalking. This looks like he planned this. This looks like—

The door slams open into his face.

"Shiiiiiit, dude, my bad!"

A drunk guy stumbles past him, hand briefly patting Victor's shoulder in apology before he makes a beeline for the porta-potties in the corner of the patio.

Victor's holding his temple, white eyes squeezed shut against the sharp pain.

"Sonar?"

He opens his eyes and turns around. You're looking at him now, phone lowered, expression unreadable.

"Oh, heyy." His voice comes out pained. "Didn’t see you there. What’s up?”

He genuinely considers willing himself to transform and flying away, dignity be damned.

You lock your phone. Drop it in your lap. "Are you stalking me?"

Victor's eyes go wide. His hands come up immediately, waving emphatically. "No, no. I swear, I didn't know you'd be here—"

A smile breaks across your face within seconds, your laughter following suit. Bubbly and amused and completely unexpected. "I'm just fucking with you. Everyone and their fuckin' mom comes to Gracie's on a Saturday, apparently. Dunno what the fuck that's about."

The word 'fuck' sounds strange coming from you. Wrong, but in a way that makes his body heat with warmth he's not entirely prepared for. He's seeing you in a completely new light now as he slowly walks closer: gone is the corporate demeanor, the professional distance.

You, his Medusa, are a potty mouth.

In a way that's much more endearing than when Chase does it.

Victor realizes he's been quiet for a few seconds too long. "Yeah," he manages. "What the fuck is that about?"

The grin on your face widens as you tilt your head, examining him. Instinctively, Victor stands straighter, hoping it radiates an attractive aura of confidence rather than the barely-restrained awkwardness he's actually feeling.

"Can I join you?" He points to the space next to you.

You glance at it, then back at him. Nod. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Cool."

He climbs up, settling beside you. Not too close—that would be creepy, invasive, weird. But not too far either—that would be offensive, like he thinks you have a disease or something. Just in case. He scoots a little to the left. Then back to the right.

You don't comment on his musical chairs routine, which he takes as a win.

Now that he's closer, he can see the slight tint in your cheeks, the looseness in your posture that speaks of a few drinks in your system. Which might explain the casual swearing—and the fact that you didn't pretend not to know him entirely.

The drunk guy exits the porta-potty, stumbling slightly as he heads back inside. A few girls immediately take his place, their loud laughter cutting through the muffled bass still thumping from inside the bar. Victor grimaces at the sound of one of them vomiting into the open toilet.

Classy establishment, this.

You're looking down at your lap now, twirling your phone between your fingers. Nosily, Victor tries to peek at your lockscreen, see what hints it might give about your life outside of dispatching. But he's met with nothing. Just the black, smooth coating of a privacy screen protector.

Smart.

He's half-tempted to pull out his own phone just to give himself something to do besides aimlessly bounce his knee. But that would be rude. And you haven't unlocked your phone either, which feels like a sign. This is his chance. His shot at redemption. To make up for the elevator incident and the coffee mix-up and the box of papers and every other disaster that's led to this moment.

He sorts through the thoughts in his mind, watching dialogue options flash across his consciousness like some shitty dating sim.

"Can you—" You grimace slightly, glancing at him. "Could you stop that? Maybe?"

Victor blinks, head whipping to the side. You're pointing at his knee, your gaze bouncing between his face and the traitorous limb that's been bouncing hard enough to shake the whole bench.

"Oh, yeah. For sure. My bad."

He clears his throat, placing his palm flat on his knee. The movement slows, but he can still feel the muscles twitching under his hand, restless energy with nowhere to go. He knew those lines in the bathroom were a mistake. Victor opts for a better solution, leaning forward to brace both forearms on his thighs, using his weight to settle the spasms.

Silence settles between you again. You're humming under your breath, and without looking directly at you, he can hear the rustle of fabric as you sway subtly to the music bleeding through the walls. The vibrations meet his eardrums, bass-heavy and relentless.

He steals a few glances at you. After the third, his gaze settles on the side of your face, taking in your profile. The shape of your nose, the curve of your jaw, the way the string lights catch in your hair.

Conversation. He needs to make conversation. He's alone with you, and you haven't skittered away from his presence like every other time. This is it. Say something. Anything. Something to engage you, make you like him—

"You want some coke?"

Your eyes lock on his as you turn to look at him, brows furrowed and mouth slightly parted.

"I have some. In case you do."

You're still staring. Your mouth parts even further, but he can see the corners of your lips beginning to turn upward.

"Or not. That's totally cool. You don't have to. I just thought I'd offer because we're both here and—"

Finally, you break your silence with a laugh, your shoulders shaking with it. "You know SDN drug tests, right?"

If Victor had a human face, he's sure it would've been drained entirely of color. He sits ramrod straight, leaning further into your space without meaning to. "What? They do?"

Pressing your lips together, you give him a tight nod.

His face falls. He looks forward blankly, speedrunning the image of unemployment in his mind—fired for a failed drug test of all things, after everything he's survived, after clawing his way back from federal charges and—

Then his ears twitch, picking up another sound leaving your lips. Another fit of laughter.

He turns to face you once more.

"I'm just fucking with you again," you say, curling into yourself as your laughter settles into something softer. "Oh my god, your face."

"So not cool," Victor says, but he's fighting back a chuckle of his own. "My life just flashed before my eyes."

"Oh, I saw it." You bite back a smile. "Don't worry. If we started drug testing, I think we'd fire half the staff." You give him a pointed look. "You guys love your drugs."

You're teasing him. This is a win. He's winning. Victor clears his throat, hoping to play it cool.

"And I was still willing to share."

"Oh, how charitable of you."

You're looking at him through your lashes now, your head slightly lolled to the side. You look... so hot. He's fighting the urge to inhale your scent like a rabid dog. He's more refined than that. More dignified.

"I'm actually very charitable," he says, nodding seriously.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Not to brag or anything."

"Seems like you're super humble, too."

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Totally."

His response earns him another laugh. He's racking up wins tonight, each one more improbable than the last. Finally.

You shift slightly, curling in on yourself, arms wrapping around your middle. It's not really cold outside, but he sees an opening. A chance. Every romance movie he's ever secretly watched while high has prepared him for this moment.

Victor shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders in one smooth motion.

You jump slightly, startled, but then you realize what he's doing and soften into it, pulling the fabric closer around yourself.

"Oh," you say quietly. "Thank you."

And he swears—he fucking swears—you run your gaze over him. Over the white dress shirt, over the loosened tie at his collar, lingering just a second too long. You're checking him out. Holy shit, you're actually checking him out.

"No problem." He's trying not to grin too wide.

You settle back into your sitting position, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders like a claim, and Victor has to resist the urge to fist-pump right there.

"I'm—I'm sorry that I brush you off at work."

Victor raises a brow, surprised. He wasn't expecting an apology. Wasn't expecting you to acknowledge any of it.

"I have this anti-superhero policy," you continue, not quite meeting his eyes. "For flirting, or whatever. A lot of you guys are just so stuck up, you know? Full of yourselves. And I thought—" You pause, picking at your nails. "I thought you were messing with me for some weird entertainment. Because the Z-team is always laughing whenever you try to talk to me."

You guys. You consider him a proper superhero.

"They were laughing at me," Victor says quickly. "Not you. Totally not you." He runs a hand over his head, over the smooth fur there. "They were laughing because I kept messing it up. Every single time."

"I realize that now," you murmur softly.

Victor opens his mouth to say something else—something smooth—but you make a small sound of discomfort, dropping your head down as you run a hand across your temple.

"I think I should go get some water."

You're starting to move, preparing to haul yourself up from the table, but Victor stands quickly—too quickly—and nearly stumbles when his foot catches on the ledge of the bench.

"No," he says, then clears his throat, smoothing his voice into something more casual. "I mean, you stay here. I'll go."

"Are you sure?" You're looking up at him with furrowed brows, readjusting his jacket across your shoulders.

White eyes track the movement, and his heart beats faster at the image of you in his coat. It skips, unhappily, at the thought of you taking it off in favor of going back inside—at the image of losing you to a crowd.

He nods, probably too quick. "For sure. You just—you stay here. Don't move."

His hands raise to emphasize his point, and thankfully, you bite back a laugh at the motion. "Okayyy."

Victor nods again, smiling, then starts backing toward the door. He glances back once, twice, making sure you haven't moved. You wave at him, amused, and he nearly walks into the doorframe before catching himself.

Smooth. Real smooth.

He opens the door casually, steps inside—

And then he's running.

Waters acquired, he heads back, walking quickly but not running this time. Playing it cool. He's got this.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder—

And immediately registers that something is wrong.

You're standing now, backed up against the picnic table. There's a guy in front of you. Too close. Your arms are crossed, body language screaming discomfort.

"—just being friendly," the guy is saying, his words slurred. "Why you gotta be such a bitch about it?"

Victor's jaw clenches.

"Wow, I'm swooning," you say, annoyed. "Leave me alone, dick."

Victor steps forward, waters still in hand. "She’s not interested."

The guy turns, taking in Victor with bleary eyes. Scoffs. "Nobody's talking to your recalled beanie baby ass."

Victor's mouth falls open slightly. Recalled beanie baby? Now he's pissed.

"Fuck you, man."

The guy laughs, turning back to you. "What, this your boyfriend or something?"

"Don't be a cunt," you say to the guy.

Another laugh, ugly and mean. "Sure, I'll stop being one if you show me yours—"

One second, Victor's standing there, waters in hand, watching this play out.

Then the glasses in his hands shatter.

And everything goes red.

His vision tunnels. His hearing sharpens. He feels the familiar, uncontrollable surge of his body changing, growing, warping. Clothing tears. Air hits fur. His heart pounds in his chest, rapid-fire, and his breathing comes harsh and ragged through expanding lungs.

Distant thuds fill his ears: people scrambling away from the patio area, the man's heartbeat kicking into overdrive, terror-sharp.

And yours—your heart is racing too.

Victor—no, the beast now, the creature version, massive and monstrous—hunches his shoulders and bares his fangs.

He shrieks, a guttural sound of pure rage, and the guy's eyes go wide, face drained of color.

"She told you to get lost," Sonar growls, his voice distorted and deep.

The guy nods frantically, stumbling backward. "I'm—yeah, I'm going, I'm—"

He turns and runs, practically falling over himself to get back inside the bar.

Victor watches him go, head turning to track the movement. He's still breathing hard, teeth bared, arms tense and ready. The predatory satisfaction of watching a threat flee courses through him, hot and electric.

Then his gaze swings back.

And he sees you.

Wide-eyed. Mouth open. Hands tightening around his jacket.

Shit.

He transforms back in a rush, the shift happening so fast it leaves him dizzy. Fur recedes. Size shrinks. His breathing evens out.

And then he's just Victor again, standing in the middle of the patio, completely naked, glass crunched under his feet.

You're staring.

"I... kinda feel like I may have overreacted," he says.

"No—that was—" Your eyes flicker downward and widen more.

"Oh!" You turn immediately, one hand coming up to cover your eyes. "Oh my god. Your dick is out."

Victor stiffens—in multiple ways, unfortunately—and looks down.

Yup. Dick's out. He moves to cover himself with his hands.

He's not ashamed, exactly. He knows he's packing more than average. But he's also a grower in more ways than one, and this was definitely not how it went in his fantasies when you first saw him naked. He'd imagined it would be more empowering. That you'd go wide-eyed with lust and excitement, maybe bite your lip suggestively.

Not turn away and exclaim while covering your eyes. That's... not a good sign.

"Shit. Sorry. That—the clothes don't come back when I transform. Because of the whole ripping apart thing."

"Um," you say, voice muffled behind your hand. You're carefully not looking at him, which would be funny if Victor wasn't dying inside. "Here."

You take his jacket off your shoulders and hold it out blindly, arm extended.

"Thanks," Victor mutters, taking it.

He tries to figure out how to position it around his waist. The warm night breeze kisses his exposed skin.

"Can we—can we just—" He does an awkward shuffle-turn with you so his bare ass is facing the wall. "Just turn with me—yeah, like that—"

Finally, he gets the jacket positioned, holding it around himself like a towel. Roman bath-style. "Okay. Got it."

You peek through your fingers. "All good?"

He clears his throat. "Yup. Yeah. All good."

You drop your hand and turn fully to face him, holding his gaze for a long moment.

And then you're laughing, covering your face with both hands, shoulders shaking. Victor feels the tips of his ears go hot with embarrassment.

"Maybe you could not laugh in my face after seeing my penis."

You're laughing harder now, doubled over. "No, it's not that, I swear, it's—"

You press your fingers over your lips, taking a deep breath to compose yourself. "I appreciate you defending my honor."

"Anytime," Victor says, and he means it despite the circumstances.

Someone bursts through the door, yelling your name, and both of you snap your heads toward the sound.

Your friend stops in place, eyes going wide as she takes in the scene—you, Victor in nothing but a jacket-toga, broken glass everywhere.

"Uh... hello." She walks over slowly, confused but clearly intrigued. "Am I interrupting something?"

You and Victor glance at each other.

"No—uh, this is Sonar. We work together," you say quickly.

"Heyy," Victor says. He readjusts his hold on the jacket with one hand and extends the other for a handshake. "What's good?"

Your friend takes it delicately, eyebrows climbing higher. "I'm—wow. Okay." She introduces herself, then looks between you and Victor, amusement growing in her expression. She looks at you with a shit-eating grin. "Do all the hot superheroes at your job get naked for you?"

Victor sees an opening and points at her. "Only the best ones."

Your friend cackles. You cover your face again, but you're smiling.

"Well," your friend says, turning back to you, "I've been looking for you. I think we're ready to head home. That cool?"

You nod, glancing back at Victor. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"'Kay, I'm calling the Uber." Your friend pulls out her phone and steps away, giving you two space.

You turn to Victor fully, and he holds your eye contact for as long as he can manage without combusting.

You walk toward him.

Victor stiffens—and embarrassingly, he can feel himself getting hard. He attributes it to the warm breeze and your smell flooding his nostrils and the softness of the jacket lining. Curse his excellent taste.

He tracks your movement with white eyes. When you're close enough, you go up on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek.

His brain flatlines.

You pull back, and there's a strand of hair stuck to your lip gloss.

"Oh, hair," you laugh softly, pulling it away from your mouth. "I'll…see you Monday?"

Victor's still stunned. Completely frozen. "Yeah. For sure. See you... see you Monday."

Your friend grabs your hand, tugging you toward the door. "Uber's here. Let's go."

She glances back at Victor as you both head inside. "Nice meeting you, Batman."

"It's—it's Sonar—" he calls after you, but you're already gone.

Victor stands there for a moment, alone on the patio, hand still pressed to the fur on his cheek where you kissed him.

He does a celebratory fist pump, his jacket falling to the ground. "Yes! This is what I'm talking about!"

Someone stumbles out of the porta-potty. They make eye contact. The guy freezes, taking in Victor's naked form with wide eyes.

"Celebrating a massive win," Victor explains.

The guy keeps staring.

Victor leans down slowly to grab his jacket, wrapping it back around his waist. "Aight. Night, man."

He lets his excitement bleed through his body, raising his heartbeat as he transforms—carefully holding his jacket this time—and takes off into the sky. Victor is too consumed in his success to register the small baggie that fell out of his jacket pocket and landed on the ground.

The guy from the porta-potty watches the giant bat fly away, then looks down at the baggie at his feet.

He picks it up, examines it, and grins.

Score.

thank you for reading and please lmk if you enjoyed <3 i operate entirely on positive reinforcement like a dog with treats :D

GEN 1: Aristocrat Goth

The founders of the Goth legacy, their aristocratic air lends credence to their importance. Drawing from historical periods such as the Victorian and Edwardian eras, this subgenre of goth fashion features tailor suits, cravats, waistcoats, corsets and hats.

Master the piano and violin skills.

Reach 500,000 simoleons in savings.

Master the business career.

Make enemies with at least one Landgraab.

GEN 2: Witchy Goth

Drawing inspiration from their parents' lifestyle and beliefs, Cassandra and Alexander adopt a more spiritual approach to the goth aesthetic. This fashion subgenre is characterized by esoteric and spiritual elements in the outfit, such as moons, stars, skulls and maybe black cats if you want to be on the nose with it, while the cultural approach to it is inspired mainly by, of course, witchcraft.

Become a spellcaster.

Master the medium skill.

Learn all potions.

Reach lvl 5 in the gemology skill.

GEN 3: Traditional Goth

The "original" goths, who find their roots in gothic rock born in the post-punk era, the traditional goths are what you first think of when you hear the word goth: ripped, black clothes, dark makeup and wild hair. As a punk offshoot, traditional goths prioritize self-expression, individuality and challenging traditions.

Join any artistic career, and reach lvl 5 in it.

Master the guitar skill.

Volunteer at least once a week.

Befriend any occult.

GEN 4: NU Goth

A slightly controversial subgenre in the goth culture, NU or "new" goth is a more modern approach to the goth genre. More lenient in their view of what "makes" a goth, they are known to be more welcoming to mall goths and baby bats than trad goths (though that does not mean traditional goths are hostile to the two, simply that there is a prominent debate in the goth scene on what consists "a true goth"). This fashion type is what you'd probably find on pinterest or tiktok, with the more current fashion trends influencing the style.

Sell at least 5 thrifted outfits.

Join the social media career.

Film fashion tutorials at least once a week. (Get Famous)

Have at least 500 followers on any social media.

GEN 5: Cyber Goth

The cybergoth subculture and fashion mixes industrial, 2000s and rave aesthetics in one, featuring leather, neon colors, futuristic looks and a love for electronic music. They embrace philosophical discussions and imaginations of a dystopic information society future.

Master the DJing skill.

Reach lvl 5 in the dancing skill.

Go clubbing at least once a week.

Master the programming or robotics skill.

GEN 6: Pastel Goth

Mixing the kawaii aesthetic with gothic ideals and themes, pastel goth makes it's mark by ... well, being pastel. Often seen dipping into lolita or fairy kei fashion, this style can accessorize with sometimes cutesy details. This style is more focused on the fashion and aesthetics of the gothic look rather than the music, and on having fun with their self-expression.

Have an all-pastel home !

Join the Style Influencer career.

Make 5 friends.

Thrift clothes at least once.

GEN 7: Romantic Goth

As expected, romantic goth subculture focuses on romanticizing death, the macabre and the dark. They find beauty and appreciation in things like withered roses, skulls and more. Their fashion is characterized by flowy, ethereal silhouettes, and a feminine touch to their outfits. Its the embrace of beauty.

Have a gothic wedding ceremony.

Master the writing skill.

Have a cemetery.

Romance a vampire at least once.

GEN 8: White Goth

The white goths reverse the traditionally dark and ... well, black palette of the gothic genre for white, and other such colors you shouldn't wear at a wedding. Their clothing taste often includes silks, ethereal garments, ornate jewelry and parasols.

Master the organ skill.

Master the painting skill.

Serenade someone at least once.

Wear white at a wedding.

GEN 9: Victorian Goth

The Victorian Goth subculture pays homage to the elegance and refinement of the 19th century. Their fashion sense borrows from the Victorian era, with silhouettes evocative of the era, top hats, lace and corsets. They mix the aesthetic of a bygone era with the ideologies of all goths, that of individualism and self-expression through art and fashion.

Do not own any electronics, lights included.

Master the writing skill.

Own at least one horse, and travel to lots with it.

Paint at least 20 paintings.

GEN 10: Vampire Goth

Inspired by vampire lore and horror, the vampire goth fashion scene includes elegant, intricate designs, corsets, capes, vampire fangs (real or otherwise) and bloody, macabre themes. Like the romantic goths, they find beauty and allure in the dead and the deadly, and would probably love owning a fainting couch.

Master the charisma skill.

Master the vampire lore skill.

Turn at least 5 sims into vampires.

- david watches knife/spear making videos while angel showers. when they finish, without even turning his head to look at them, he’ll open an arm, allowing angel to snuggle in close and watch with him

- every single time angel helps david shave, he kisses their face with shaving cream still on his lips. they eventually learned how to dodge his attacks, forcing him to get creative (which results in full-blown shaving cream fights)

- angel likes to rub their head and face on david’s bicep like a cat

- david will cut angel’s favorite fruit and hand them the plate wordlessly, along with a tiny fork stuck in one of the pieces. if they’re occupied, they’ll let out a demanding “ahh” to instruct david to reluctantly feed them

- when angel picks something off the floor while sitting, david will ALWAYS cover the table’s corner to protect their head as they sit back up

- angel likes to spin david’s wedding ring while playing with his hands. they also enjoy bumping their ring with his just to hear the little *clink*