#batfam fandom

The first one doesn’t even feel real..

You’re talking. Of course you are. You’re always talking.

Something about Alfred’s cookies being better than literally any bakery in Gotham and how that should be illegal, actually, because..

Dick is half-listening, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile he refuses to let win.

“You’re staring,” you say, grinning up at him. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “Annoyance.”

You gasp, dramatic, offended. “Rude. I am a delight.”

He exhales a laugh before he can stop himself. You see it, see the exact moment he loses the internal battle.

And then he’s stepping closer.

Too close.

Before your brain can catch up, he presses a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. Barely there. Soft. Almost casual. Like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before.

Like it means nothing.

You freeze.

He pulls back just as fast, already turning away. “Relax,” he says over his shoulder. “Don’t make it weird.”

You stand there, heart doing parkour in your chest, thinking:

Oh. It’s weird. It’s so weird..

The one where he does it in front of people..

You’re laughing too loud. Again.

Bruce gives you that look. Jason mutters something about earplugs. Dick "traitor" covers his smile with his hand.

“What?” you say. “I bring joy.”

“You bring noise,” Jason corrects.

“You love me.”

“Debatable.”

You’re mid-retort when Dick suddenly hooks a finger in the belt loop of your jeans and pulls you just enough to steal your balance.

“What—”

He kisses you.

Right on the lips this time. Quick. Clean. Unapologetic.

The room goes dead silent.

Dick lets go like nothing happened. “Anyway,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Mission briefing?”

Jason stares at you. Then at Dick. Then back at you. “…What the hell was that?”

Your face is on fire. “I—I don’t know.”

Dick doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t explain. Just keeps talking like he didn’t just short-circuit your brain in front of his entire family.

Later, you corner him in the hallway.

“You can’t just kiss me,” you hiss.

He shrugs. “Sure I can.”

“That’s not how people work!”

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Back up. “Seems to be working fine.”

The almost-gentle one (the most dangerous)

You’re upset. Not crying, just quiet. Which, for you, is alarming.

Dick notices immediately.

He sits next to you on the couch, knees brushing. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t tease.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You shrug. “Yeah. Just…thinking.”

He studies you for a long moment. You can feel it. The weight of his attention.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

Before you can ask what he’s doing, he kisses you again, slow this time. Not rushed. Not playful. His lips linger at the corner of yours, forehead resting against yours after.

It feels…intentional.

Your voice comes out small. “Dick.”

“Mm?”

“Why do you keep doing that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. When he finally pulls back, his smile is gone.

“…You overthink everything,” he says, standing up.

And just like that, he walks away.

You sit there, stunned, realizing this one hurt worse than the others.. Because for half a second, you thought it meant something.

The one that finally breaks you

You’re done pretending it doesn’t bother you.

“So what,” you say, arms crossed, blocking his path. “You just kiss people whenever you feel like it?”

Dick sighs. “You’re making this a thing.”

“It is a thing.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. Something unguarded flashes across his face.

“You’re annoying,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “I know.”

“You’re loud. You get under my skin.”

“Dick—”

“And every time you smile at me,” he continues, voice low, “I want to kiss you just to shut you up.”

Silence.

Your heart is pounding. “That’s not fair.”

He steps closer. “I know.”

“So why—”

He kisses you again, this time full on the mouth, longer than ever before. No audience. No jokes. No escape.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I don’t do this with people I don’t care about,” he admits.

You whisper, “Then what are we?”

His smile is soft. Uncertain. Real.

“…Complicated.”

Steph is knitting a gift for Damian.

Dukes cardigan and cass’ bag are both knitted by Steph

Cass is wearing Kuromi socks, Steph is wearing My Melody socks

Dukes talking about a stranger being awfully nice to him, while Cass and Steph know that they were flirting with him

Edward was… normal. Very normal. Too normal. Was an accountant and 401k normal. He was far from Jason Todd. Maybe that was a good thing. 

Jason Todd was a weird guy to have as an ex-boyfriend. Mainly because, well, was it ever really over with him? On and off, off and on, you two were pretty appalling, far from the poster child of a good, healthy, stable relationship. But, you know… he’s Jason. That’s what you told your friends anyway.

You can’t really be bothered to explain that to Polite Edward, though.

“Ah, okay, that’s good,” Edward smiled, pulling at his well-done windsor knot tie. “You two were together for long?”

You were mentally calculating if you counted the four… no, five breakups as time you were still together because, well, one of you always broke. And did this count the “breaks” or the weeks of non communication/total silence… You just round down.

“About a year, I think.”

“...You think?” Edward chuckled, incredulous.

“Yeah, it was kind of… on and off,” you said, waving a hand like it didn’t matter, like it hadn’t rewritten every part of you.

“Oh right,” Edward nodded, brightening as if he’d just solved an equation. “Rachel mentioned it was, uh—what did she say—‘toxic’? Glad you got out of that. Those things can really mess you up.”

You furrowed your brows at that, not quite caring for his unasked commentary on your ex-boyfriend and your relationship. “Toxic isn’t really the word I’d use for it.”

He laughed — polite again, dismissive. “On and off for a year? Sounds kinda toxic to me.”

“We love each other, it’s like, it’s not as bad as what Rachel said, she’s just dramatic,” You said, shaking your head. “Loved. Past tense. We aren’t together, obviously.” You quickly correct yourself.

“Right… well, uh, what went down for you to break up then?” Edward asked, genuinely curious.

Well, what didn’t? He died a couple times, but that wasn’t actually the kicker. This time it was… something, something, jealous crazy bitch, something something, fuck you.. Ah, yes, I may have also burned his mask that he uses for crime fighting… something, something, don’t talk to me ever again… whatnot…

“Different lifestyles,” You said simply.

Hey, this was your second date with Edward, he didn’t need to know the details.

And you know what, it wasn’t like a lie, either. 

Jason’s idea of a night out had often included you sitting in his apartment patching him up with a med kit while he brushed blood off his knuckles and muttered something about “bad guys who had it coming.” 

He never brought you into it, not really, but he never could quite leave it at the door, either. You didn’t blame him for that. Gotham didn’t let go of people easily. 

If it wasn’t mending him back together, it was going to restaurants neither of you could afford and then complaining about money, complaining about the food, complaining about who chose the place, then fucking like crazy on your kitchen counter, and sleeping like nothing was wrong.

Edward smiled. “Ah, the old ‘different lifestyles.’ Happens to the best of us.”

You returned the smile, though yours didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

Edward was one of six people your friends nominated to be your post-Jason rebound. They’d had the list ready for months—just waiting for the official declaration that you and Jason were done. Properly done. 

They even gave it the standard two-week waiting period before swooping in, since past experience had taught them that your “breakups” often came with fine print. Two weeks used to mean you’d drag Jason along to brunch, all smiles, claiming things were fine now and to please not bring it up.

There was that time in February, when you dumped him for missing the Valentine’s dinner you’d organised.

You’d gone all out — candles, pasta, wine, the good plate set. You’d even worn the black dress he once ate you out in for two hours. He didn’t show.

Not a call. Not even a text.

By the time he finally walked through the door — four hours later, smelling like bad decisions — the candles had burned out, the pasta had gone cold, and your patience had evaporated.

Then you got a whiff of beer. 

“Woah… what’s all this for, baby?” He slurred, scratching his temple, slightly confused, wet shoes dredging through your apartment.

“Jason- take your shoes off, please I cleaned the floors.” You mumbled, just tired now.

He blinked down at you, brows furrowing like you’d just told him a riddle. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure.”

He kicked one shoe off, then forgot the other, stumbling forward a little. You could smell it now — whiskey under the beer, cigarette smoke in his jacket, something metallic and rain-damp clinging to him.

“Jesus, Jason, you reek,” you muttered, moving past him to grab a towel or maybe just to keep from looking at him too long. “Were you smoking again? You promised—”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t me, alright? Um… Roy lit one up after we—”

“Roy?” you snapped, turning. “You were out with Roy? You were supposed to be here. With me. It’s Valentines, you dick.”

He froze, still swaying a little, blinking as though trying to catch up. “Wait, what—oh.” He gestured vaguely at the table, the dead candles, the wine, the dress. Ohhhh… that’s why there was that cupid in the bar. Thought it was like… late Halloween or somethin’.”

You just stared at him.

He gave a crooked, tired grin, like that might fix everything. “C’mon, hon, don’t look at me like that. Let’s talk later, yeah? You look so pretty right now, I don’t wanna fight.”

“Jason.” Your voice cracked a little. “You missed dinner. You missed Valentine’s. You missed me.”

He sighed, stepping closer, reaching for you. You stepped back. “Don’t, Jay. You smell like every bad habit I begged you to quit.”

He dropped his hand, jaw tightening, defensive. “I had a rough night, okay? We took down some psycho with a gun collection, Roy wanted a drink—”

“And you couldn’t text me?” You laughed, hollow. “You couldn’t say, ‘hey, baby, not tonight, I’ll make it up to you’? You couldn’t even remember what day it was? I told you so, so many times about this and you just forget like it’s nothing.”

His temper flared, fast. “Don’t start this—”

“No, you don’t start!” You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrists before you could pull back. “You can take down a dozen men in an alley but you can’t show up for dinner with your girlfriend?”

He let go like he’d been burned, running his hands through his hair again, pacing now. “You think I wanted to miss it? You think I’m out there havin’ fun?”

“I think you chose everything else before me, again!”

The room went still, the only sound the record player playing Marvin Gaye ringing around the room and both of you breathing too hard.

You felt your throat tighten. “We’re done.”

He went quiet then — that awful, dangerous quiet where his jaw set and his eyes dropped to the floor. You thought he might leave. You half-wanted him to.

“...You don’t mean that,” he said finally, voice low, raw.

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

He stepped forward, hand on your jaw before you could move. The anger was still there — so was everything else. The ache, the pull, the addiction that had you both in a chokehold.

You should’ve stopped it there. But you didn’t. You never did. You kicked him out, leaving him to drunkenly stumble back to Roy’s place just around the block. 

That night, you told your friends it was over. They were cautiously happy, thinking maybe you had grown a spine.

You said it like a vow, like maybe saying it enough would make it true. They believed you. Maybe you almost did, too.

Until the next day.

When he showed up at your door with a bruised jaw, a pretty, beautiful bouquet with your favourite flowers that you absolutely know Stephanie helped him pick out, and takeout from your favourite place.

“I figured we could redo Valentine’s,” he said, awkwardly shifting his weight. “Less wine this time, maybe.”

You wanted to slam the door. You wanted to forgive him. You did neither. You just stepped aside.

And like always, he walked back in.

There was that other time back in July… Was it July or June? They all kind of blended together, honestly. But that was a whole thing, God. You went to Wayne Manor for a barbecue.

Dick was charming, naturally — doing that polite overcompensating thing, trying too hard to make conversation. Tim kept circling back to work, tossing out lines like, “You must have the patience of a saint dating Jason,” which you tried to laugh at. Damian just stared at you from the far end of the table, the kind of stare that made you feel like you were being silently assessed for weaknesses.

Jason barely said a word. His hand never left you — resting on your thigh, your wrist, the back of your chair — more for his own grounding than yours. He didn’t want to be there, not really. It had been your idea.

You’d only pushed it because you’d seen the group chat on his phone. The invitation said, “Bring whoever you want.” He’d brushed it off, said it was nothing. And you’d taken that as a challenge.

So you both played nice. Good moods, no sharp edges. But then work called — literally. You stepped inside a few times to take calls, quick check-ins that turned into longer ones. When you came back out, Jason had gone quiet in that way that meant trouble was brewing.

His knee bounced. His eyes followed you every time you left your seat. You could feel the tension radiating off him — his safety net walking in and out of the house, leaving him to face his family and their polite curiosity alone.

You thought it was ridiculous, of course. It was work. 

“You alright, dude?” Dick asked, noticing how Jason’s knee had been bouncing for the last five minutes.

Jason barely looked away from where you were pacing near the window, phone in hand. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Sure.” Dick leaned back, sipping his beer. “She’s cool, by the way.”

Jason hummed. “Yeah.”

“Just… she works a lot, huh?”

Jason’s jaw tightened a little. “She’s got stuff to do.”

“Right. I get that. It’s just—Sunday. Thought you two were hanging out.”

“We were. Just… I don’t know, someone fucked up or something,” Jason said, a little too fast.

Tim came in halfway through that, scrolling on his phone. “What are we talking about?”

“Jay’s girl,” Dick said.

Tim looked up. “Oh. Yeah, she’s nice. She came by the Cave the other day to drop something off. Talked to Alfred for like an hour about coffee beans.”

Jason smirked faintly. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

“She’s got opinions,” Tim said. “And she’s the only person I’ve ever seen tell you to shut up and live to tell the tale.”

Dick laughed. “Yeah, that was kinda impressive.”

Jason looked between them. “You two done yet?”

Dick shook his head. “Hey, look, just… checking in. You seem tense lately.”

“I’m always tense,” Jason said simply.

“Understatement of the year. Guy’s literally a walking anxiety ad.” Tim scoffed.

“Shut up, replacement,” Jason shot back.

“Just… you seem a little extra tense. Are you two okay?” Dick wondered.

Jason stared at him. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Maybe because every time we see you guys you always have to leave early and we always hear yelling. And the last time we came over and you guys were arguing about who left a gun in the sink,” Tim said flatly.

Jason groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “That wasn’t a fight. That was—”

“—you going on that she doesn’t ‘respect proper firearm care,’” Dick cut in.

“She doesn’t!” Jason snapped, then caught himself, exhaling. “Look, it’s fine. We’re fine. She’s just… strong-willed.”

Tim nodded slowly. “That’s one word for it.”

Dick gave him a sideways look. “You sure it’s not a bit… too much sometimes?”

Jason’s voice dropped, defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dick shrugged, careful. “Nothing bad. Just—you both go hard. You fight hard, you make up hard. It’s intense. Kinda looks like it wears you both down.”

Tim smirked. “Yeah. Like putting two seagulls in a box and waiting for the noise to stop.”

“Seagulls?” Jason muttered. “The fuck—?”

“Tim, shut up,” Dick said quickly, but he glanced at Jason again. “He’s not wrong, though.”

Jason’s jaw worked, muscle twitching. “I fuck up sometimes, she does too. We’re great. We get each other. That’s all that matters.”

“Hey, no one’s saying you don’t,” Dick said gently. “We’re just saying… if you ever need to talk, you can.”

Jason pushed back from the table. “Don’t need to talk. We’re good. And we’re never talking about this again, yeah?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He stood, brushing his hands on his jeans, and crossed the yard to where you stood by the patio doors, phone pressed to your ear, your expression tight. You were half-arguing, half-listening to whoever was on the other end — a client, maybe. Jason lingered a moment, watching, then reached out and touched your wrist. You sighed, hung up mid-sentence, muttered something about idiots at work, and shoved the phone into his hand.

He said something low that made you roll your eyes, but then you smiled — small, tired, real — and leaned up to kiss him. Just like that, everything smoothed over.

From across the yard, Dick exhaled. “See? They’re fine.”

Tim hummed doubtfully. “For now.”

The drive back to Jason’s apartment was a different story.

“I just… you always do that,” Jason said, voice sharp as the headlights flickered across his face. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale.

“Do what?” you snapped, turning in your seat.

“Disappear. The second something comes up, you’re gone. I’m left sitting there like an idiot trying to pretend that’s not normal.”

You laughed, bitter. “Oh, I’m sorry I had to take a call, Jason. My job doesn’t stop because you need to be babysat through a barbecue.”

“Babysat?” His voice pitched up, incredulous. “You’re the one who wanted to come! I didn’t even care about this lunch thing, you said it’d be good for us. So yeah, excuse me for thinking maybe you’d actually want to be there.”

You shook your head, disbelieving. “You’re unbelievable. I took one call—”

“Five,” he cut in. “You took five calls.”

“Are you keeping a tally now? Jesus.” You looked out the window, forcing your voice steady. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realize needing to pay rent counted as emotional neglect. Not all of us get daddy’s money.”

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, the sound cracking through the silence. “That’s not what this is about and you know it! It’s like—every time we’re supposed to be fine, you find some way to… to leave. You always leave.”

You turned on him, furious. “And you always make it about you! I can’t breathe without you taking it personally. You want to know why I leave? Because I have to. Because you—” you broke off, gesturing helplessly, “—you turn everything into a goddamn test.”

Jason’s eyes flicked up, dark and hard and hurt. “I’m sorry for wanting to spend time with my girlfriend, I guess that’s crazy now.”

“Yeah, wanting to control every second of my life? Super romantic,” you shot back.

His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he tried to choke back whatever sharper words sat behind his teeth. “Y’know what? Forget it,” he muttered.

You stared at him. “That’s what you always do, isn’t it? ‘Forget it.’ You blow up, say something shitty, then act like it never happened.”

“Can we actually talk about anything else?” Jason said, voice flat and tired, like he was hanging by a thread.

“No, let’s finish this for once,” you shot back. “Why does it matter to you so much that I take a few phone calls—”

“—I don’t wanna talk about it! Can we just sit in silence, please, fucking hell,” he snapped, voice rough with exhaustion.

You scoffed. “You’re a grown man, Jason, maybe try acting like one—”

“—We will! We fucking will. Just let me think for five seconds! Why do we have to unpack every little thing right now—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you cut in, your voice trembling from trying not to yell. “I thought communication was supposed to be part of a healthy relationship.”

“Yeah? Then stop treating every argument like a goddamn therapy session,” he bit out.

The car went quiet for half a block, tension so thick it felt like it could snap the wheel in half. You could hear his breathing—uneven, angry. Yours matched it.

“Pull over,” you said finally.

“What?”

“I said pull over, Jason.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, knuckles white on the wheel. “You’re fuckin’ ridiculous, you’re actually—fuckin’ hell.”

You didn’t wait for him to stop properly before you opened the door and slammed it behind you. The echo cracked down the street.

“Sweetheart, get back in the car,” he called, leaning across the seat.

You ignored him, heels clicking against the wet Gotham pavement, the glow of streetlights making the puddles shimmer gold. He rolled the car forward, crawling beside you. A horn blared behind him.

“Get in, you’re not walkin’ home in those heels—get the fu—” he caught himself, took a breath. “Just get in. Please.”

You flipped him off, not even looking at him. “I’m giving you what you wanted. Bit of peace and quiet.”

He huffed a sharp laugh through his nose, bitter and broken. “Yeah… fuckin’ maybe you are. Whatever. Don’t come cryin’ to me later. We’re done.”

He revved the engine, peeled off down the street, tires hissing through a puddle.

“Fuck you!” you yelled after him, both middle fingers in the air.

People were staring. You let out a shaky breath, dropped your hands, adjusted your jacket, and kept walking like it hadn’t happened.

It always happened.

He ended up pulling over just a block away. You recognised the car and climbed back in, sliding into the seat with a quiet resignation. The ride was silent, each of you lost in your own thoughts, the city lights flickering across the dashboard. That was probably your shortest ‘We’re done!’ stint. About an hour, maybe.

When he came back up to your apartment, you just stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, waiting.

“I… um, my brothers,” Jason started, voice low, letting out a scoff that turned into a bitter chuckle. “They got in my head, mentioned me… being tense. I don’t know. Messed with me.”

“You’re always tense,” you said flatly, leaning against the counter.

“Yeah. I know, right.” He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose. “I just… I don’t know. I was on edge. And you—” he hesitated, eyes flicking up to you before darting away again, “I wanted you there, because… I love them ‘n all, but I’m better when you’re around. Calmer. You just—” he trailed off with a shrug, unable to find the right words.

You leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Yeah. Story of my life.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp like before. It just… settled. Heavy, tired. You watched him pull at the skin around his knuckles, the same nervous habit he had when he was trying to stop himself from saying something that mattered too much.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” he said finally, voice softer now. “I just… when you walk away, it feels like you’re walking away from me. And I don’t know how to not take that personally.”

You gave him the best head of his life after that fight. He swore he saw stars — literal, cartoon ones — popping behind his eyes as he came, muttering your name like a prayer. For once, his whole body actually relaxed. Shoulders loose, breathing steady, eyes unfocused and soft.

And then came the part you always secretly loved: post-orgasm Jason — all ramble, no filter. He’d start mumbling, half-slurred from bliss. “You’re unreal, y’know that? Like, no one’s ever— Jesus, I don’t even…” He’d gesture vaguely, like words had just left his vocabulary entirely. “You ruin me. You actually ruin me, sweetheart.”

You’d just smirk, sliding up beside him as he kept going, the words tumbling out of his mouth in that low, sleepy drawl. Something about how you smelled good, how your hair felt soft, how weirdly clean your apartment floors were. It was stupid, and tender, and so him — all talk after the storm, trying to fill the silence with anything that wasn’t an apology.

After that fight — and the make-up sex that somehow patched up the tension for a while — Tim had texted you, half-joking, half-serious: “Couples with pets statistically do better. Just saying.” You’d rolled your eyes… until you saw Marbles.

A tiny stray with wide, innocent green eyes and a tail that curled like a question mark when he was happy. You’d picked her up outside the deli, shivering in the cold, and somehow she’d wormed her way into your apartment — and your heart.

Jason acted like it was weird at first. He held Marbles like she was some fragile bomb, one paw awkwardly draped over his hand, muttering, “I don’t know if she likes me…” Marbles purred anyway, curling into his chest, and Jason’s scowl softened into something like… pride. He wasn’t exactly a “pet person,” but he was weirdly protective.

Mostly, you were the one feeding him, brushing his fur, coaxing him onto laps, and doling out the cuddles. Jason’s hands were rough, a little clumsy with him, but somehow Marbles had a favorite — you — and Jason didn’t mind. Not really. He’d hover nearby, watching you fuss over the cat, occasionally murmuring, “He’s plotting something…”

And Marbles, of course, was completely unimpressed by Jason’s awkward affection, preferring you almost obsessively. You didn’t mind. Watching Jason try, fumbling and muttering, while Marbles purred against you, became its own weird kind of post-fight therapy. You don’t really know if it helped you two that much, since you pretty much took care of him exclusively.

It’s exhausting, loving someone like Jason. Not because he’s cruel, exactly—not always—but because every fight, every sharp word, every impossibly tense silence feeds off you just as much as it does him. You don’t even mean to; you think you’re protecting yourself, keeping a little space, standing your ground—but it’s like throwing gasoline on a fire you both secretly want to burn. 

He’s reckless with his words, but so are you. He’s impatient, hot-headed, and full of hurt you can’t quite touch; and you—well, you’re jealous, stubborn, and needy in ways you hate about yourself. 

And yet, every time you hurt each other, you also pull closer, desperate for the relief of connection, the rush of knowing someone still wants you, even after all the mess. It’s vicious, it’s chaotic, and it’s maddening—and you’re trapped in it because the highs are just too intoxicating to let go.

But this time, THIS breakup, a month passed. No calls. No late-night texts. No half-hearted apologies. Nothing. That’s basically half a year for you and Jason.

So your friends took it as a sign from God and assembled their best recruits—friends of friends, coworkers, anyone with a pulse and a savings account—to help you… gosh, what were the words they used to describe him again… oh, right, “move on from that self-loathing loser with no sense of commitment, unresolved trauma, and exactly zero dollars to his name.”

Was that harsh? Maybe. Inaccurate? Not exactly.

Five weeks. That’s how long it’s been since you really ended things—what you’re trying to convince yourself is the last time. You told your friends it was final. Technically, it was mutual. 

You just left out a few details, like the part where you torched his red mask in a fit of rage. Not your proudest moment. Especially after your several spies on communication and all that. But what were you supposed to say? That your ex moonlights as Gotham’s most emotionally constipated vigilante?

It started like most of your fights — casual, small, almost funny. You’d made an offhand comment about feeling like you were the only one keeping this thing alive. You meant it as a joke. He didn’t take it that way.

Jason was already in one of his moods — something about Dick, some moral bullshit, the “code.” With him, trying to figure out how you ended up here was like trying to track shrapnel mid-blast.

“No, Jason! That’s not what I said!” you snapped, voice cracking against the walls. You could feel your pulse in your teeth.

He stood dead still, jaw locked, eyes flat under the low light. Not yelling yet — the quiet before the storm. You knew that look.

“Yeah?” he finally said, voice low, almost calm. “Then what’d you mean when you said you were tired of this?”

You rubbed your temples, pacing, trying to keep your voice level. “I meant I’m tired of worrying. Every time you walk out that damn door, I don’t know if you’re coming back. You think that’s easy?”

He scoffed, pacing like a caged animal. “You think it’s easy for me? Knowing you’re sittin’ here, actin’ like everything’s fine while I’m out there—”

“Out there what?!” you cut in. “Killing people? Disappearing for nights? You come home reeking of blood and smoke and think a half-assed sorry fixes it?”

He raked a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “I’m trying to keep you out of it.”

“Too late!” you shot back. “You already dragged me in, Jay!”

That softened him for half a second. Then his voice dropped, quieter, dangerous. “You don’t get it, alright? If you knew half the shit I’ve done—”

“I’d run?” you barked out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, maybe I should’ve. A long time ago.” You took a shaky breath.

He froze, then let out a slow, disbelieving laugh. “Wanna know something? You’re a fuckin’ poison, sweetheart. You walk in, rip everything up, then act like you’re the one bleeding.”

“Don’t twist it,” you warned, stepping closer. “You can’t stand that I see you. You’re not some tragic hero, Jason. You’re a mess who thinks he’s better than the people he kills. You’re a goddamn freak.”

That got him. His eyes flared, voice dropping to that cold, gravelly register. “You think you’re better than me. Always have. Sitting up here like you’re so clean, so stable—”

“I just figured out the world doesn’t revolve around your temper tantrums!” you bit back. “You can’t hold a job, can’t move in, can’t even feed the damn cat when I ask—”

He barked a humorless laugh. “Ohhh, God…”

“You think this is funny?” you hissed, pacing, voice sharp as broken glass. “You come home smelling like someone else’s perfume, with your bullshit excuses, disappearing for days—God, I don’t even know what the hell you’re doing half the time!”

That hit him. His head snapped up, jaw tight, shoulders coiled like a spring. “You’re—You’re actually fuckin’ insane!” he barked, voice raw, nearly trembling. “I’ve got shit to handle, and you—” He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “—you invent monsters that aren’t even there! You make up scenarios in your head while I’m just trying to live my life, and then you yell at me like I signed up for this circus!”

“Oh, I’m insane?” you shouted. “Maybe I am! But maybe I’ve got a reason! You haven’t touched me in two weeks, like I’m made of stone!”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pacing again, hand dragging down his face. “Maybe because you don’t wanna touch me! You really think I’m cheating? You’re a crazy, jealous bitch, you know that? Fuckin’ hell.”

You froze. It stung because he meant it.

He saw it land, so he pushed further — typical Jason. “What about you and Tom, huh?”

You blinked. “Tom? The neighbour? Are you outta your goddamn mind?”

“I see how you looked at him,” Jason said, voice tight, eyes darting away like even he didn’t believe it.

“He’s 70 and he moved out six months ago, you prick!” you yelled. “I haven’t seen him since! You—Jesus, you’re such an asshole.”

Silence. Just the rain on the windows and both your chests heaving.

Then you turned, grabbed the small trash bin by your desk, and started tearing old newspapers. Jason frowned. “What the hell are you doin’?”

You didn’t answer. You just went to the kitchen, came back with a bottle of cheap vodka and a pack of matches. He watched, confusion flickering into unease.

And then you pulled his Red Hood mask from behind your back.

Jason froze. He looked at it — the one that actually mattered, the one he’d left here because he trusted you. The room felt smaller.

“…What are you doin’ with that?” His voice dropped, like he already knew.

You poured the vodka. It soaked through the paper, sharp fumes cutting through the tension. Then you let it drip over the mask.

Jason stepped forward. “Hey—”

You struck the match. For a split second, the flame reflected in his eyes — wild, scared, small — before you dropped it in.

The mask went up fast. Fire licked the air, devouring red and metal, swallowing every apology you’d both choked on.

“Get out,” you said. “I mean it. I’m done, Jason.”

He didn’t move right away. Just stared at the fire, breathing heavy. Then he scoffed — half laugh, half sigh — and grabbed his jacket.

“Yeah, fuck this,” he muttered.

“Don’t call me,” you said as he shoved on his boots.

“I won’t, sweetheart. We’re done.” He glanced back at you, eyes bloodshot, lips twitching. “Don’t call me either, alright?”

“Oh, I won’t!” you snapped.

He lingered just long enough for you to think he might turn around. But he didn’t. He just left — door closing with a dull, final click.

And that was it.

Kind of. Rachel caught you red-handed trying to call him the very next day.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” she said, voice sharp, as you hovered over his contact.

You jumped, caught off guard, and she shook her head, sitting beside you on the park bench and handing you your drink.

“I wasn’t…” you started, but the words died on your tongue. “…Whatever. I can do what I want.”

“Yes, and you did what you wanted when you dumped him,” Rachel shot back, snatching your phone out of your hands. She squinted at the screen. “Seriously?”

“…Shut up.”

“BROKE UP LAST NIGHT, GIVE IT THREE DAYS,” She read aloud. “You can’t even give yourself a week?” 

You groaned, leaning back against the bench, knowing you were pathetic.

“Look,” she said, dropping her voice, “I get it. He’s… complicated. He’s a mess. You love the mess. But that doesn’t mean you need to jump back in before you even catch your breath. You’re gonna hurt yourself. Again. Try dating literally anybody else.”

You glanced at her, guilt twisting your stomach. “It’s not just that. It’s… I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s… he’s always there.”

Rachel rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Yeah, because he’s like a fucking emotional landmine, and you keep dancing around it barefoot.”

You flopped back, staring at the clouds above. “I guess. But you don’t get it. It’s Jason.”

“That’s exactly the problem. He’s Jason. You’re you. You’re… stuck in a cycle, dude. You just feed off each other, and it always ends.”

“I know. I know, it’s just… different when it’s just us. When he’s not angry, when he’s just—” You trailed off, unable to find the right word. Jason was never just one thing. He was quiet mornings and loud nights, tenderness and tension and a thousand things you couldn’t untangle. “—he’s like. He’s so human, and tangible, I could just… feel everything with him.”

Your friend softened a little, sighing. “Have you thought of trying to date, like… A metahuman or something? Like one of those Green Lanterns.”

You snorted. “At least they glow before they blow up your life.”

But now, as you sit here with Edward on your second date, you have to face the fact that he is not Jason Todd.

And maybe… maybe that’s okay.

You exhale slowly, letting your shoulders drop. Edward is smiling at you. Calm. Gentle. Polite. Normal. The kind of normal that feels almost alien after Jason. Easy to talk to, steady, unshakable, the kind of guy who remembers your coffee order without making it a game, who listens without an edge in his voice. He probably wouldn’t be four hours late to your Valentine's dinner. He wouldn’t forget your one year anniversary. He’d probably try to feed your cat.

You catch yourself tugging at the hem of your dress, suddenly aware of how much effort you put into looking perfect, your hair just right, your makeup flawless. And Edward… he doesn’t notice. Not really. 

He’s too busy explaining something about his favourite sports team, some ridiculous bear-lizard hybrid mascot that ran onto the field last season. His enthusiasm is charming, but it hits you with a pang of melancholy. 

Edward is… solid. And solid is safe. And safe is so, so boring compared to Jason.

“Oh, Ed,” you interrupt softly, reaching across the table, your thumb brushing against his knuckles, “I’m so sorry, but I’ve got work early tomorrow morning. Would you mind if we wrapped this up a little early?”

He nods, a polite flash of disappointment in his eyes. He drives you home in his pristine white Nissan, careful and cautious, hands at ten and two on the wheel. 

The drive back is quiet, the streets slick with rain. Miserable Gotham. 

He drops you at your door, says he’ll call you soon. His voice is soft, hopeful, maybe a little too controlled. 

Code for: let’s pretend this never happened.

You went up to your apartment, heels clicking across the floor, and went straight to your bedroom — tired, bummed out, and more than a little mad at yourself. You’d ruined another date because of freakin’ Jason Todd. 

Stupid Jason Todd.

Stupid, stupid Jason Todd and his stupid face and stupid hair and stupid body and stupid smile and stu—

Your phone rang.

You closed your eyes and sighed. Maybe it was Rachel checking in about the Perfectly Polite Edward. But somehow, you already knew it wasn’t.

When you opened your eyes, the screen read: ‘DO NOT ANSWER THIS SERIOUSLY OR ELSE YOU ARE MAKING A MISTAKE LET IT BE DONE AND JUST-’ 

The contact name was too long to finish, but the message came across loud and clear.

You stared at it for a moment. Read your own warning label.

Thought about it.

For a good three seconds, anyway.

“Hey,” Jason’s voice rumbled through the line — low, gravelly, that lazy drawl that used to make your stomach twist. “You answered.”

You sat down on the edge of your bed, staring at your reflection in the dark window. “You called.”

“...Or Rachel wasn’t there to stop you from answering?” Jason guessed, and you could hear that smirk in his tone.

You couldn’t help but kind of smile at that, letting out a breath. “...Yeah, well… Guess I was a bit bored of normal tonight. Who knows.”

A beat of quiet goes by between you both. This should be routine at this point. Something was a bit different about this one though. 

“What do you want, Jason?” You asked, softly.

He was quiet for a moment, a shaky breath before clearing his throat. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Jason always had sleep problems. Always nightmares. You always felt bad some mornings when you’d had a rough fight and forced him to sleep on the couch or kicked him out entirely to sleep on Dick’s couch. 

“You try that breathing thing?” You asked, taking off your earrings and lying down onto your bed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Worked for a bit, but uh… didn’t last. Dick’s place is right next to, like, a family of raccoons or somethin’. They’re loud as hell and kind of scarin’ me.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Raccoons.”

“Yeah, I swear — they’re freaky. I think one of them was watchin’ me through the window.”

You laughed then — quietly at first, then full out. It felt strange, almost nostalgic. The idea of Jason Todd — the Red Hood, gun-toting, death-defying, vigilante Jason Todd — being haunted by raccoons.

“You’re laughing at me,” he said, voice low but teasing, roughened by that half-smile you could still picture perfectly.

“Maybe I am,” you admitted, tugging the blanket higher. “But come on… Jason Todd. Terrified of raccoons. Didn’t think that was possible.”

“Hey,” he drawled, “they’ve got little hands, alright? Creepy as hell. Tiny little freakin’ ninjas.” He groaned, like he was exasperated but also secretly enjoying the moment. “You weren’t supposed to laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” you teased. “Just… laughing with you. Kind of. Maybe.”

“Mm, sure, sweetheart,” He sighed.

You winced a bit at the petname. He felt the shift immediately. “Jason—”

“You know, I had that… that gala thing a few weeks ago, I don’t know if you remember me tellin’ you about it ‘n all, but it was… you woulda liked it, actually. Surprisingly not… that bad, there was a jazz band,” He said, changing the topic, quick. “Bruce asked ‘bout you.”

Ah yes, Bruce Wayne. Someone Jason had vented about at length. A somewhat cold man, but filled with more smiles than you’d expect. You met him by accident right as you and Jason started to first date. Bruce had needed to come by and give Jason some sort of belated birthday gift, you distinctly remember him being surprised he remembered at all. 

“Who’s the girl?” Bruce had asked, somewhat quietly to Jason, nodding over to you as you sat on the couch, pretending not to be eavesdropping as you pretended as if theTV remote was so interesting.

“She’s um… nobody,” Jason had responded, even more quietly. “Thanks for the gift. See you at Thanksgiving.”

“I-” Bruce began before Jason had closed the door.

That was your first fight, actually.

“Nobody? Not what you said last night. What was it… oh, right, you could see us… getting married? Right. Right. Fuck you, actually.” You had gone off about.

“You’re overreacting, he’s just-”

That fight was not something you wanted to revisit. So you brushed it under the rug, as you tended to with Jason Todd and focused on him right now, on this phone call. 

“Jazz band sounds super cool,” you sighed into the phone, twirling a strand of hair around your finger.

“Jazz band was… very cool, yeah,” Jason said, voice rough but weirdly soft. “How uh, how’ve you been?”

You waited. Just for a second.

“You seein’ anyone?” he asked immediately after that second, like the pause burned a hole in him.

You exhaled, not quite rolling your eyes, but turning over onto your stomach, feet kicking lazily in the air. “Are you?”

Silence. Which made you stop kicking your legs.

You scoffed. “Are you kidding?”

Yes. Yes, you were a hypocrite. And yes, you could unpack that later with your therapist.

“I didn’t say anything!” Jason immediately defended, his voice crackling through the receiver. “You didn’t answer either—are you seeing anybody?”

“You prick! We break up for like, what, a few weeks—”

“—more than a month—”

“—and you think it’s just, like, fine to stick your dick into some other girl? God! And you have the audacity to call me?”

“I haven’t! Alright? Fuckin’ hell,” Jason swore, tone flaring.

You sat up now, indignant. “And you’re being honest?”

“Yeah, I’m bein’ fuckin’ for real, okay? I… went on some date Dick set me up on, didn’t work out… made out with some girl a couple days ago, or whatever, but it’s nothin’. Means nothin’. She means nothin’ to me.” His voice dropped low. “Now fuckin’… your turn.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough to see stars, but your chest tightened at the image anyway — Jason, in some dimly lit alley, his stupid big hands gripping someone else’s waist, his mouth on hers. You wanted to kill her. And him.

Still, under his interrogation, you hesitated. You had your own list — a few coffees, a few drinks, a few maybe’s — and one definite mistake.

“...Are YOU kidding me?!” Jason exploded at your silence.

“I didn’t say anything either, okay? Shut up! Look—you made out with a girl, I went on a date or two, whatever. We’re even.”

“What’s a ‘date or two’?” he pressed. “How even are we talkin’?”

“I mean…” you fiddled with a tassel on your pillow, clearing your throat. “A date or two.” A pause. “...or six.”

“SIX DATES?!”

“Oh, please,” you snapped. “When we broke up in August, you and that girl Wendy got real close, okay?”

“That wasn’t real! You made that up in your head, oh my god, I can’t believe—” He cut himself off, groaning.

“Six first dates,” you corrected, quickly. “Nobody… I made out with one or two, didn’t do a whole lot more with any of them. I just got back from a second one with one of them, actually.”

Jason went quiet for a moment. The sound of him breathing on the other end filled the space.

“What’s his name?”

“Jason, you don’t—”

“—Yeah, I do, actually.”

You hesitated. Jason wouldn’t kill a civilian. He wasn’t Bruce. But he wasn’t exactly stable either.

“Edward,” you said finally.

Jason hummed again, low and deliberate. “Edward,” he repeated.

“Edward,” you echoed, your tone almost mocking, matching the lazy drawl in his voice.

He let out a short huff, the kind that sounded like a half-laugh. “You didn’t fuck him though.”

You paused, incredulous. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m just askin’ a question.”

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, phone balanced on your chest. “No, Jason. I didn’t fuck Edward.”

A beat. Then: “Why not?”

You scoffed. “Because I didn’t feel like it. Not everyone you date ends up with a concussion, you know.”

“Ha-ha,” he said dryly, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “So, what—you just didn’t like him?”

“He was fine,” you admitted. “Polite. Boring. He listens to Tame Impala and files taxes for fun. You’d hate him.”

“Sounds like a real thrill,” Jason muttered. “Bet he doesn’t forget anniversaries though.”

You frowned, the small jab hitting closer than you wanted it to. “Yeah, well, he’s never died and come back to life, so his calendar’s pretty open.”

Jason actually laughed at that — the real kind, low and scratchy, the sound that always made your stomach twist. “There she is. Knew you missed me.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you love me for it.” 

You went quiet. You could hear him breathing on the other end — slow, tired.

You could picture him — sprawled on some shitty couch, hoodie half-on, probably a gun on the table beside him. Eyes ringed with sleeplessness. Lonely. The same image that had cracked you open a hundred times before. 

He was always lonely. Even with his family, with his couple of friends, sometimes with you, you always felt he was harbouring this loneliness you could never get to. 

“I think I should go to sleep now, Jason. Hopefully the raccoons have stopped bothering you now.” You tried.

Jason stopped you, his voice quick now. “No, hey, sweetheart, come on. I just uh… come on, keep talkin’ to me, yeah? Helping me sleep. We can talk about somethin’ else.”

“Jason, I can’t… We can’t. We shouldn’t.”

“Yes we- we can. Okay? We won’t after this. Just… help me go to sleep. Please, hon, I just…” He trailed off. 

Silence settled again — long enough for the ache in your chest to grow. He coughed lightly, trying for a change of subject. “You got Marbles with you?”

You hesitated, but caved. You always did with him. “Mm-hm. She misses you. Keeps scratching the closet door where you used to throw down your jacket.”

He chuckled softly. “Smart cat.”

“Smarter than you.”

“Debatable,” he teased, then, after a beat: “...She’s not the only one who misses me, huh?”

You groaned. “You really don’t know when to stop talking, do you?”

“Not when it’s you.”

That one lingered. Too long. You shifted, eyes flicking to the window — dark, raining softly, your reflection faint in the glass. You wanted to say something sensible, something strong. 

But all you can imagine is a lonely Jason Todd and feel how goddamn lonely you feel in your own empty apartment he barely lived in.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant.

“You still at Dick’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Rain’s coming down pretty hard.”

“Mhm.”

“...You could, um—” you trailed off, hearing yourself before you could stop.

Jason’s tone changed, low, cautious. “What was that?”

You exhaled. “You could come over. If you wanted.”

There was silence — then a short, disbelieving laugh. “You sure? Last time I saw you, you were burning my mask in your kitchen.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. I’ll, uh… I’ll keep the matches in the drawer this time.”

Another pause, softer now. “Alright,” he said finally. “I’m on my way.”

Jason showed up faster than you expected. From Dick’s, it was usually a twenty-minute ride on his bike; with this rain, you’d figured thirty. He made it in ten.

No knock. Of course not. He still had your keys. You heard the door open, the soft scrape of shoes against the mat before he kicked them off. You stood from the bed, still in the dress you’d worn on that stupid, stupid date.

Jason peeled off his jacket, hair wet and messy, before he pushed it back, white streak still landing on his forehead, and draped the jacket over the coatrack like he owned the place. He turned to face you, and for a moment, the thunder outside was just background noise to his gaze.

Seeing him, you got a wash of the last time you had seen him.

“You’re fucking poison.”

“You’re a goddamn freak.” 

Oh god. 

Jason Todd. Stupid, infuriating, beautiful Jason Todd.

His eyes roamed over you — your face, your hair, the dress hugging your curves in all the right places — before resting on yours as you tilted your head, daring him to look back.

“You wore that for Edwin?” he muttered, voice low.

You glanced down at the dress, then back up. “Edward,” you corrected. “And yeah, I did.”

He nodded once, shrugging out of his button-up to reveal a simple black t-shirt underneath, already making himself at home, scanning your apartment with that casual, infuriating familiarity. “I don’t really care,” he said, but there was a twitch in his jaw.

He started walking toward you, slow, measured steps.

“‘Course you don’t. That’s why you’re here,” you said, stopping him—three steps out and already too close.

The air between you was heavy. You both knew why he’d called. You both knew why you’d told him to come. And somehow, in the rain and the thunder, that familiarity—dangerous, magnetic—pulled you closer anyway.

“Six dates, huh?”

“Six dates.” You repeated.

“You bring any of ‘em here?”

You can’t help the tiny, pissed off smile at that, before shifting gears. “Thought you said you were tired.”

“I was. Now I’m not. Tell me about them.” Jason asked, taking another step.

You scoffed, turning and walking into your bedroom, heading for your dresser — unintentionally inviting Jason in as he followed.

“C’mon. We ain’t together anymore, you can tell me,” he said, tone half-teasing, half-testing. “I won’t get jealous. Unlike you.”

You were tempted to argue, to deny it — but that would’ve been a lie. You were jealous when it came to him. Always had been. He may have had his own girl or two to talk about but, even you can admit, your run count was a bit “worse.”

“They were nice,” you muttered instead, rummaging through the drawer for your pajamas.

“Nice…” he echoed, like the word tasted foreign in his mouth. “Nice? That’s all you got?”

“Yeah, ‘nice,’ believe it or not,” you said, finding your old tee. “And employed. With regular paychecks. Stable lives. Crazy, huh?”

“I’m employed,” he shot back.

“Doing hit jobs for CEOs doesn’t count as salaried work, Jason. Neither do daddy’s checks.” You grabbed your pajama shorts, shaking your head.

There was a beat of quiet. Then— “You look beautiful,” he said, voice dropping softer, more careful. “Edwin tell you that?”

You thought about correcting him — Edward, not Edwin — but couldn’t be bothered. Edward had already faded from your mind. “He did, yeah.”

“Then why didn’t you bring him up here?”

“I had work in the morning,” you lied, tugging at your zipper. “Needed sleep.”

“Bullshit,” he said, closer now. You didn’t even hear him move, but he was right behind you — a shadow you’d accidentally invited back in. His hand brushed the zipper. You froze.

His fingers were cool, deliberate, dragging it down slow. Your breath hitched, skin prickling where the air hit. You could smell him again — smoke, leather, that damn cologne you bought him for his birthday.

He leaned in, his voice rough at your ear. “I think you couldn’t stop thinkin’ about me.”

You turned, chest brushing his. “You needed sleep,” you said, sharp, breathless. “Couch is ready.”

He smiled — that dangerous, familiar one that always meant trouble. “Right. The couch. We always said we’d get a new one. ‘Member? IKEA trip, meatballs, the works. I always liked your bed better, though.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t.”

“Liar,” he said, grinning, taking another step.

You crossed your arms, trying to hold some kind of line. “We’re not doing this.”

“Yeah, we are.” His voice dropped. “You picked up. You knew what’d happen. You always do.”

You blinked, jaw tight. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you liked me that way.”

You huffed a short, bitter laugh. “Edward smelled better than you.”

Jason’s mouth twitched. “Yeah? Bet he couldn’t make you cum the way I did.”

“Jesus, Jason—” You tried to push past him, but his hand caught your wrist. Not rough — just firm enough to remind you of all the nights you’d wanted this, hated this, wanted him.

The silence sat between you like a bruise. Your pulse was in your ears. His thumb stroked your wrist once, absently, like he was calming himself down instead of you.

“I miss you,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “You know that, right?”

You rolled your eyes, or tried to. “You miss having someone who answers when you call.”

“Sweetheart, I miss you.

“Jason,” you said, tired. “You just can’t be alone.”

He laughed once — ugly, humorless. “Yeah? Well neither can you.”

You glared at him, but your throat felt tight. He took that as permission. “C’mon now… You want me to beg? Is that it?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “You don’t beg.”

He tilted his head. “No? You sure?”

He was still towering, even from across the room — all rain, muscle, and regret, looking too big for the space and too small inside it at the same time. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“Please,” Jason said. Once, then again, lower. “Please.”

You just stared at him, arms crossed, and he gave this broken little laugh — half disbelief, half something else. “Jesus. Can’t believe I’m doing this right now,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

And then he sank. Literally.

A dull thud as his knees hit the floorboards. Six-two, broad, armed to the teeth most nights, now looking up at you like you could give him the world or burn it down just by deciding which way to blink.

“Jason—”

“No.” His voice cracked. “Not till you say yes. Not till you give me one more chance. Please, baby. Please.”

You blinked at him. “You’re really doing this?”

“Apparently,” he said, a humorless huff of a laugh. “Guess dignity’s not really my thing tonight.”

You froze. It was pathetic — watching him kneel like that, hair dripping onto your floor, chest rising too fast. But your heart still tripped over itself in your chest. Dignity wasn’t really yours either.

He smiled then, small and wrecked. “You’re… you’re the only one who ever stayed, you know that?  “You’ve seen all of me. At my worst, at-at my…. My best. You’ve seen me at my sickest, and angriest, and… stupidest — and you still stayed. I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t want to.”

He took your hands and kissed them, like that might erase everything. You sighed, freeing one and brushing your thumb over his cheek — scarred, familiar, real. His eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into it like a man trying to memorize the feeling.

“Please,” he said again, quieter this time, almost boyish. “I need you.”

You had broken up with Jason Todd many different times. Never like this. 

He took your other hand in his hands, kissing the backs of both of them, looking up at you like you could literally end his world in that moment.

You sighed, took one of your hands from his grasp and caressed his cheek gently before cupping his face, watching as he let himself sag for a moment, lids flickering at your touch, hugging himself into your palm as your thumb brushed over his scarred cheek.

Your hand was gentle as it moved through the white streak in his hair, thumb tracing the curve of his brow before gliding back down to his cheek. You tilted his jaw up, your thumb brushing over his chin, then ghosting across his plush lower lip.

You barely realized what you were doing — only that you were caught in the way he looked at you, the way he parted his lips and drew your thumb into his mouth. His tongue moved slow, deliberate, the heat of it making your breath catch as he stared up at you. When he let go, your skin was slick, and your pulse was a drumbeat in your throat.

You already knew how this would end. 

You gave it a month before you broke up again.

“Get up, Jason.” You whispered.

He rose slowly, obediently, eyes dragging over you like he hadn’t seen you in years. You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, pulse fluttering beneath your skin. He was waiting now, still as a held breath, like he needed permission. 

“Go ahead,” you murmured.

His jaw flexed, something like relief — or surrender — flickering across his face. Wordlessly, he reached for you, fingers brushing your shoulders first, then finding the thin straps of your dress. They slipped down your arms, slow and deliberate, the soft drag of fabric whispering across your skin. You raised your arms, letting him pull it lower, until it fell to the floor in a muted sigh.

For a moment, he just stared. His breath caught; his hands hesitated at his sides. The sight of you — the lace, the shape of you, the defiance still etched in your eyes — seemed to knock the air right out of him. 

“Missed you…” he muttered, the word slipping out like a confession. His eyes trailed over you with that same wrecked intensity, like he was trying to memorise every inch in case this was the last time.

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “You done staring?”

He huffed a shaky breath, half a laugh, half a plea. “Never. I’ll never get used to you.”

His hands moved back up, slow and unsure, like he was touching something he’d lost the right to. His fingertips hovered at your waist, tracing the faint dip of your stomach before catching on the lace of your underwear — cream-colored, delicate, too sweet for a night like this. He fidgeted with it for a second, thumb brushing over the fabric like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“You wear this for ‘im?” he asked, voice low, rough — but not mean. Not really. Just tired. Wounded.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

His hand came up to your bra, the lace soft under his calloused palm. You felt the tremor in his fingers as he touched you — hesitant, reverent, hungry all at once. His thumb toyed with the strap of your bra before letting it snap lightly back into place. 

He tried for a smirk, but it faltered halfway through. “He didn’t deserve this,” Jason muttered, voice quiet now, eyes still locked on yours. “Bet he didn’t even notice what you were wearin’.”

You swallowed hard, but stayed still.

“Poor guy,” he went on, more to himself this time. “You put all this on for him, but…” His hand lingered at your side, thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. “…it’s all for me, isn’t it?”

You didn’t know how to respond, so you just nodded, weakly, caught somewhere between humiliation and desperate need. Your hands went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle as your tongue darted to your bottom lip, soft pout in place, eyes flicking up to his, catching the way he never once looked away from your face.

His hands didn’t stop moving, tracing the curve of your waist, brushing over the lace of your underwear, skimming the tops of your thighs as you shivered under his touch. You didn’t pull away—not really—not while your fingers worked to free him slowly.

“Figured,” he murmured, voice low, raw, almost breathless. “You know… after this, I’m gonna take you out. Real nice place. You remember that restaurant down on… where was it? Near Chinatown? We went there for your mom’s birthday, and… you loved the, uh, the dumplings or somethin’…” He rambled, words tumbling over each other.

“It was the Dim Sum,” you corrected, pulling the belt free as his hands moved up to cup your breasts, teasing them out of the lace cups.

“Right… whatever,” he muttered, though it was obvious he wasn’t really listening. His focus was everywhere but the words, fixated entirely on you, on the way your skin felt under his hands, the way you were trembling under him, skin hot beneath him. 

“You hated that place,” you murmured, pressing him back against the edge of your bed, sliding along him until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. “You walked home ‘cause… we fought over the fucking eels and how well-cooked they were. And my mom—” You scoffed, a short, bitter laugh escaping as you stood, positioning yourself between his legs, half-revealed breasts in his line of sight. His hands drifted down to your ass, lingering, not too rough but enough to make every nerve scream in response.

“She told me… ‘you better break up with him, he’s bad news, he won’t give you the life you want, I know it.’ I told her she was crazy.”

Jason’s hands clutched you, thumb pressing into the curve of your ass, eyes never leaving yours. He traced, assessed, desperate, infatuated—all at once. “She actually said that?” he murmured, low, incredulous.

“Everyone did,” you said quietly, almost tiredly. “They were right.”

“‘Bout me being bad news?” His voice cracked slightly as he pulled you closer, head sliding beneath your breasts, lips brushing over your sternum. He lingered there, eyes burning into yours even as he closed them briefly against your skin, soaking in the warmth, the feel, the impossibility of it all.

“That you can’t give me the life I want,” you said.

He stiffened, forehead pressing against your ribs, and for a moment the bravado was gone. Weakness peeked through in the smallest ways—the tilt of his shoulders, the quiver in his jaw.

“Just… give me what I want now, though, okay?” you whispered, tilting his head up, fingers threading through his hair, holding his gaze. 

You could have sworn you saw tiny pools of wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes, whether from the grip of your fingers in his hair, the ache in his chest, or the knowledge that he would never truly be enough for you.

He nodded, weakly, mirroring you in a silent, mutual surrender.

You pressed him closer, leaning down until your lips met, hot, wet, urgent. His hands slipped beneath your thighs, cupping, lifting, pulling you impossibly close. 

You broke the kiss reluctantly, hands trailing down his back to the hem of his shirt. His eyes followed your movements like a predator, half-lidded, and with a small, crooked smirk. 

You tugged at his shirt, dragging the soaked fabric up and over his shoulders. It clung for a moment, fighting you before giving way, leaving his chest bare and warm under your palms. His skin radiated heat — taut muscle, a million or so old and new scars, the solid weight of him pressing into you like he belonged there. When the shirt hit the floor with a soft, wet sound, he flexed unconsciously, just enough to make your stomach twist. Just enough to remind you of every place he’d ever touched you.

For a second, you just looked at him. Breathed him in. Nobody else was him. That was the worst part.

Your eyes caught a darker patch of bruising along his lower abdomen, a mix of purple and yellow hues, the nearly healed stitches under his left rib cage drawing your attention. Gently, almost reverently, you traced your fingers over them, feeling him wince.

“Who did these?” you asked softly, nodding toward the stitches. “Went back to Alfred?”

“...No, uh, I did, actually,” he admitted, voice low. “Not as pretty as yours.”

Here, under the low city light and the hush of rain against your windows, he looked almost unreal — all shadow and sinew, the streaks of white in his hair catching flashes of lightning. Always so goddamn pretty, Jason Todd. Always.

You pressed your palms against his chest and pushed lightly, wordlessly guiding him back. He went easily, lowering himself onto your bed, bracing on his elbows as he looked up at you. Then he crooked two fingers — a lazy, silent beckon.

You were already gone.

You’d been gone the second you heard his voice on the phone, rough and low in your ear. Now, the heat between your thighs was unbearable, your panties damp and sticking to your skin as his gaze tracked you — slow and unhurried — from your face to your breasts to the little bow right on the hem of your panties.

He looked huge on your bed. Too big for the space, for you, for this moment. Broad shoulders, long legs in the jeans you’d bought him months ago, the denim straining just enough to make your pulse trip.

You climbed over him, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your thighs bracketed his hips, your body finding its old rhythm against his like it never forgot how. He tilted his head slightly, that almost-hidden smirk tugging at his mouth — the one that said he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And of course he did. He always did.

“Jesus… you’re beautiful,” he muttered, voice low and almost breathless, like you were some prize he’d won all over again. His hands found your waist, gripping your hips as he watched your core press against the rough denim of his jeans. Without hesitation, he slid his hand beneath your underwear, cupping you, groaning as your wetness instantly coated his fingers.

“All this for me? Yeah… always is, right? Hm?” He murmured.

You nodded, eager, not hiding your own desire anymore as you rocked your hips into his hand, desperate for friction.

“You want me to touch you, yeah? Make you feel good?” He hummed, finger gently coaxing your wetness, thumb brushing over your clit.

You nodded. 

“Come on, baby, speak up,” He told, taking his hand out just to rip off the lace of your panties quickly, the tear surprising you as you watched him crumple the material and toss it to the side, without looking away from your core.

“Yes, yes, please,” You cleared your throat.

“Please? So polite. Looks like we’re both beggin’ tonight, huh?” He teased, fingers returning to your slick folds, sliding two fingers along your slit before pushing them inside your pussy with a slow, deliberate thrust. 

The stretch makes you gasp, your walls clenching around the intrusion as he curls his fingers upward, seeking that spot that always makes your legs tremble. He knew you, literally, inside and out, taking just another second before hitting that spot, again and again, hearing your whimpers and soft moans, riding his fingers, hiding your face into his neck, hands gripping his back.

"That's it…" he whispered, his voice low and rough, into your ear, free hand holding you hips down, keeping you solid against him. 

He pumps his fingers in and out, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the room, slick coating his knuckles as he works you deeper. 

“You want more?” He murmured.

You nodded quickly, desperate as you moved your hips back and forth against his fingers, feeling as they moved roughly in and out of you, thumb still brushing over your clit, catching you off guard as you moaned into his shoulder.

“You’re so good for me, baby, I love you so much,” He kissed the side of your head.

Your pussy grips him tight, pulsing with every stroke, and he adds a third finger, stretching you further, the burn mixing with the building pleasure that shoots up your spine.

“You love me too, yeah?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough, breath hot in your ear.

You could only whimper in response, nodding frantically, nails dragging down the muscles of his back.

“No— no, look at me,” he said, his tone firm now, the low command curling through you. His pace grew rougher, deliberate. His thumb circled your clit faster, the other hand coming up to catch your chin, palm squeezing your cheeks until your lips parted, forcing your gaze to his.

“Say it,” he urged. “C’mon, sweetheart. Say it. I wanna see you when you do.”

You gasped, moaned, body arching under him as the sharp pressure of his fingers drove you closer.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, voice a low rasp. “Right here. Look at me when you come on my fingers. Just for me.”

“I love you too,” You said between moans, chasing a high he wasn’t giving you just yet. “Shit- Jason, fuckin’.... Love you so much. Fucking missed you. Missed your fingers, missed your… fuck… right there,” Your eyes fluttered shut as he kept moving, slowly down his pace, keeping you on your toes.

“Yeah… fuckin’ knew it,” He said. “Can’t give you the life you want my ass,” He murmured. 

“Shut up,” You groaned.

He complies, focused on getting you off now, his fingers delving deeper into your pussy with measured strokes, twisting slightly to graze every sensitive inch of your inner walls. The added pressure from the third finger makes your thighs tense, your body instinctively arching toward him as the heat coils tighter in your belly. 

He withdrew briefly, making you wince at the sudden absence of pressure, then shoved those same fingers—coated with your taste—toward your lips. “Open.”

You whimpered, grinding harder onto his jeans as your mouth parted instinctively. Tongue wrapping around his fingers, you licked him clean, watching him groan at the sight—your cheeks hollowing slightly with every stroke of your tongue.

“That’s right… just like that… shit… always so good,” he murmured.

You let go with a soft pop, lip gloss smudged, bra barely in place as you pressed yourself into him again, desperate for more. He spat on his fingers before returning them to your pussy, thumb pressing firmer against your clit in slow, grinding circles. Jolts of electricity raced through your nerves with each motion, your breaths coming in ragged bursts as hips rolled to meet him, slick friction building an unbearable ache that clenched you around him.

He leans closer, his free hand sliding up to cup your breast, pinching your nipple between his fingers in time with the rhythm below, drawing out a sharp cry from your lips as the sensations layer and intensify, pushing you right to the brink without mercy. 

“There it is… come on, baby, let go f’me…” He said, smirking as his gaze flickered between your scrunched up face of pleasure and where your pussy clenched over his fingers.

You let go, thighs trembling slightly. “Jay, I need to…” You gulped. “I’m sorr—”

“Shh, no, mm.. Not now. Let me just… need to make you feel good.” He interrupted. “You’re gonna let me taste you now, yeah? You can do that for me, please? On your back.”

The raw need in his voice hit something deep, sending a shiver down your spine. You whimpered again, nodding frantically, as he flipped you over without hesitation. Hands gripped your hips hard, digging in, forcing your legs open as his lips skimmed down your abdomen. You squirmed under him, the slick heat of yourself pooling, anticipation electric in your veins.

He lowered his head between them, nose brushing your clit first—a soft puff of hot breath that made you jerk and gasp—before his tongue swept up your slit in slow, deliberate strokes.

And then his fingers slid inside you, just one at first, gliding deep while his tongue licked across your entrance. The combination had you arching, letting out a high, sharp cry that he hummed in approval at. He knew. He fucking knew exactly how to angle, exactly how to stretch and press to make you sound like that, make your back bow, make every nerve coil tighter.

He added a second finger, curling them expertly inside you, twisting slightly to graze every hypersensitive inch, while his tongue teased and plunged into your entrance. Your hips bucked against his mouth, trembling as your body tried to chase the waves he was building. The hand on your stomach pressed firmly, holding you down, anchoring you while he worked, a predator and worshipper all at once.

“Jason… Fuckin’ hell, oh, right there…” You moaned out.

Your hands moved down to his hair, tugging at the ends of it as a way to keep him right at that angle, hearing him groan at that, vibrating against you. Your whines, the sharp, high-pitched noises you made, made him smirk against you, fingers moving with precision, teasing spots he knew would make your toes curl. 

The taste of you, slick and warm, filled his mouth, while the fingers inside worked relentlessly, bringing you to a fever pitch you couldn’t control. Every flick of his tongue, every curl and stroke of his fingers, was tuned to your body—he knew you, knew every reaction, every angle that made your back arch just so, the way your hands dug into his scalp.

“You’re so… shit, you’re so good to me, Jay, I don’t–” Your breath hitched as he hit that spongy spot. “...Mm, fuck… I missed you. Oh, shit- I missed you so badly.”

He moaned a bit at hearing that, quickening his pace with his fingers as he feels you tighten beneath him, thighs threatening to close over the side of his head.

“Too long, way too long without you– just don’t stop, yeah? God- shit…” You rambled off.

He continued, sucking a moan out of you as he pinched your thighs lightly to pull you tighter against his face. He murmured something soft against you, “There… that’s it… come on, give it all to me…”

You trembled, your body writhing, legs clamping over him instinctively, and he groaned, repeating himself as he added that third finger again in to match the rhythm of his tongue. The dual pressure, the exact curves he traced, had you crying out again, a guttural, desperate sound that made him smile against you, low and vicious, loving every quivering arch of your spine.

“There you are, come on, one more…” he breathed, voice thick, teeth grazing lightly over the tender skin of your inner thigh as his mouth and fingers never slowed. 

You come with another hard wave, back arching violently off the mattress, and he held you firm, tongue and fingers moving in tandem to prolong every tremor, every pulsing wave, until you weaken, spent, slick covering his lips and chin. He lingered there, nuzzling weakly against your stomach, one hand still possessive on your hip, fingers sticky with your wetness.

You tightened your fingers in his hair again, tugging him closer, a loose, lazy smile on your lips as you pressed him against you. His hot breath fanned over your skin, mixing with the faint taste of yourself still on his mouth. 

You studied him for a moment—his hair a mess, eyes glazed, and the evidence of your pleasure smeared across his chin. He let out a low, uneven chuckle, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“Didn’t mean a word of anythin’. Swear it, alright?” he murmured, voice rough but soft.

Your bliss made it impossible to focus on anything else; you just nodded lazily, fingers tracing through his hair, memorizing the way he relaxed under your touch. His lids flickered, and you savored the small, silent acknowledgment of your attention.

“It’s okay… me too,” you whispered, voice thick with warmth.

You drew him down again, lips meeting his in a slow, lingering kiss at first, tasting him fully—warm, slightly salty, and impossibly familiar. Your tongue traced the seam of his mouth, teasing, coaxing, exploring, while his lips pressed harder against yours in response. The kiss deepened, urgent now, his hands moving to your waist, gripping and pulling you flush against him. 

Teeth scraped accidentally over each other, tongues tangled in a heated dance, lips parting and clashing. He growled against your mouth, and you moaned, a sharp, broken sound, tugging at his hair as he pressed harder, hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t let go.

When he finally pulled back enough to gasp against you, your foreheads pressed together, chests heaving, hair plastered and sweat-slicked, his voice was hoarse, ragged, almost pathetic in its need:

“Need… Need to feel you now. Stomach down. Go.” Jason’s voice was low, rough, commanding. His hand cupped the side of your face, wiping the gloss from your lips, thumb brushing gently over your jaw, fingers threading into your hair.

You nodded, watching as he moved away from you, kissing your neck and stomach again as he stood at the end of the bed, eyes dark, body coiled with anticipation, while you shifted onto your hands and knees, ass raised, soaking wet and trembling. 

Jason undid his fly with one smooth motion, pulling off jeans and boxers in tandem, his cock springing free, leaking pre-cum at the tip. He paused, taking in the sight of you—pussy glistening from your orgasm, lips swollen and parted, ass curved in the air like it was made to be taken. His hand came up to stroke himself slowly, eyes raking over every inch of you, veins pulsing under his grip, enjoying the way your core ached and clenched helplessly without him.

Your gaze flicked back over your shoulder, catching him in the act, dark and hungry, still fixated on your slick folds. It sent a shiver down your spine, pushing you to need friction, relief. One hand slid between your legs, fingers tracing your wetness, circling your clit with small, insistent motions, hips rocking back instinctively as you chased that spark, biting your lip to stifle a moan.

Jason groaned at the sight, quickening his strokes. “Mm, couldn’t wait a second, huh?” His free hand gripped your hip, pinning you lightly as he watched you touch yourself. “Always so goddamn needy.”

He pulled your hand away, pressing it gently back down, and then cupped the back of your head, pushing you forward into the mattress. In one smooth motion, he lined up with your entrance, the thick head nudging against your folds, teasing, before sliding in deep, all at once.

You cried out, the fullness stretching you, every inch of him consuming you, thicker and longer than his fingers ever dared. He paused, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust to the burn, hand stroking slow, firm circles on your lower back.

“Never leaving this pussy again, baby, I promise, holy…. Shit, you just… she knows me so well, y’know?” He scoffed a chuckle, amazed with just how good you felt. Walls so perfectly warm, so perfectly knowing every vein, every inch, able to take all of it and then some.

You moaned at his words, waiting impatient, till you tried moving your hips against his. He stilled you immediately, hands hard on your hips they could leave bruises. 

“Can’t- Damn it, just wait, baby… needy, needy, sweetheart, I-” He chuckled. “You gotta be good, yeah? I’ll move, promise…”

He just savoured this stillness for a moment, feeling your pussy flutter and clench around him, impatient. You whimpered, waiting. 

Then he started moving, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, setting a steady rhythm. It’s like his dick just knew exactly where to find the most warm, sweet spot, the spot that had you moaning loudly into your mattress, fingers clutching onto the sheets.

Each thrust hit deep, his balls slapping against your clit with every drive, the wet sounds of him fucking you echoing through the room as he gripped your hips harder, pulling you back onto his cock to take him even deeper. Your body rocked with his pace, pleasure spiking sharp and hot as he pounded into you from behind, one hand reaching around to rub your clit in firm circles, matching his thrusts. 

He pulled you by your hair, one hand helping your torso up, bringing your back to his chest, hearing your whimper, feeling your body shift beneath him.

The angle let him grind against that sensitive spot inside, building the tension fast, your walls fluttering around his thick shaft as you pushed back to meet him, lost in the raw intensity of him claiming you completely, jaw fluttered open as you looked back at him, watching as he looked down between you both, infatuated by how you took him in and out. 

Mesmerised by the sight below: the obscene glisten of your combined arousal coating his shaft with every shallow withdrawal, the way your stretched pink flesh clung to him as he pushed back in. 

"Look at you," he growled, admiration laced with possession. "Taking me so deep. Taking it all." 

Your back arched against him, your head lolling against his shoulder as a broken cry escaped you. "Holy- fuckin’ hell, sweetheart, so good ‘n perfect…" he breathed harshly in your ear, his free hand sliding up to roughly cup your breast, thumb scraping over your nipple. "My favourite in the world. Best fuckin’.... Best fuckin’ pussy in the world, y’know that, right? God…damn…" 

He punctuated his words with sharp, upward grinds of his hips rather than long strokes. The head of his cock dragged mercilessly over that spongy spot inside you with each movement. The dual assault – the deep grind inside and the relentless pressure on your clit – had pleasure coiling tight and white-hot in your belly. 

Your legs trembled where they were spread beneath you, knees digging into the mattress for purchase. He tilted his head, watching your face in the dim light – your parted lips, fluttering eyelids, the desperate hitch in your breath. 

His rhythm became focused and brutal – short, deep pumps designed to grind that spot relentlessly combined with the insistent pressure on your clit. The pressure built impossibly fast, a supernova gathering in your core. 

Your internal muscles began to spasm erratically around his thick invasion, the telltale flutter signaling your impending undoing. He felt it too, a harsh groan tearing from his throat as your walls started to desperately milk him. 

That’s when you smelled something off of him, off his breath.

“You’re smoking again,” You told him, taking him for all he’s worth as he pounded into you and you moved yourself back onto him, wearing him down.

He furrowed his brows, confused, eagerly still moving into you. “Wh- Huh?”

“You’re smoking, ah," You repeated yourself. “That’s… That’s why you smell weird.”

“Are you fuckin-” He couldn’t help but have his pace interrupted. “Yeah, and?”

“Thought you quit- oh shit,” You whimpered, moaning as you fell back onto your stomach, letting him fuck you again from behind.

You whined as he pulled out, his scoff pissing you off now as he mahandled you till you laid on your back in front of him, legs spread, a mess, mascara smudged on your face. “I say a lotta things, sweetheart.” 

You set your ankle onto his shoulder, bring him closer to you as he rested his knees onto the mattress, climbing over you, both of you panting now, hot, sweaty.

“Smoking kills, you know that.” You tried. 

“Been there, done that,” He muttered and realigned himself, one hand holding himself up beside you, the other holding your leg up onto his shoulder before pushing himself back in, watching as your eyes rolled back a bit into the back of your head.

“Right there… oh, fuck,” You whimpered, hands coming up behind his neck, tugging on his hair, hearing him groan as he tucked himself into your neck, focused on moving his hips right into yours. 

He kissed you beneath your ear, hot and wet as he left a trail of spots and hickeys across your neck, sucking your skin till it was purple, leaving his spit over you as he dropped the hand holding your leg, moving it to your tits, trying to rip of the lace, the underwire interrupting him. 

The sharp gasp tore from your lips as he ripped away the ruined lace, cool air hitting sweat-slicked skin before his mouth descended. Not gentle. Not worshipful. Needy. His lips sealed hot and wet around your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you arch off the mattress with a choked cry. 

His tongue lashed the stiff peak, teeth grazing just shy of pain – a sensation that blurred the line between too much and not enough, sending electric jolts straight to your throbbing core. He groaned against your breast, the vibration echoing through you as he suckled fiercely, one hand roughly kneading your other breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh. 

His assault on your breasts was relentless, pulling desperate whimpers from you, your fingers tangling frantically in his sweat-damp hair, holding him there, demanding more. He finally released your nipple with a wet pop, leaving it reddened and glistening, immediately shifting his mouth to its twin. But his hips never stopped. They drove into you with deep, powerful thrusts, the angle afforded by your ankle hooked over his shoulder allowing him impossibly deep penetration. 

Each plunge hammered that spot inside you with unerring accuracy. Your head thrashed against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, lost in the overwhelming sensations – the sharp pull of his mouth, the deep, stretching fullness, the wet slap of his pelvis against your ass. 

"Look at me," he growled against your skin, his voice thick and ragged. The command cut through the haze. 

Your eyelids fluttered open, meeting his intense gaze. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust, but beneath it simmered something else – that flicker of raw emotion your earlier confession had ignited. He didn't slow his thrusts, maintaining that deep, driving rhythm that made your vision blur. 

"Yeah, that’s my girl… c’mon, tell me… tell me why you didn’t try to call me, huh?" he demanded, punctuating each word with a hard snap of his hips that punched a gasp from your lungs. "Thought you missed me."

His question, flung at you amidst the brutal intimacy, felt like a violation deeper than his cock. Tears pricked your burning eyes again, stubbornly refusing to fall. "Thought you hated me," you gasped out, trying to buck against him, to wrest back some control, but he pinned your leg firmly with his shoulder, holding you open and taking exactly what he wanted. "You said I was… fucking hell, right there… that I was… a crazed jealous bitch." You moaned loudly as he hit that spot again, your internal muscles fluttering wildly around him.

“You are. You’re my crazed jealous bitch, yeah?” He chuckled, kissing your neck harshly, hot breath against the slowly blossoming hickeys. “‘N I’m yours. I already slashed Edward’s tires.”

You felt that coil about to snap, moaning.

“Thank God you answered your phone, holy shit– you’re… You close?” He murmured. 

You nod, pathetic, eager as he rubbed your clit and pounded into you, sore, harshly. The bedframe slammed rhythmically against the wall. The wet, obscene sounds of him fucking you filled the small space between your panting breaths and choked whimpers. One of his hands slid down your trembling flank, fingers biting into the flesh of your hip to anchor you for his relentless pounding. 

The other hand found its way back between your bodies, his thumb immediately finding your swollen clit again. The contact was electric, direct and demanding against the oversensitized nub. 

His thumb pressed down harder, circling with brutal precision. White-hot light seared behind your eyelids. A raw, ragged scream tore from your throat. You clenched around him with near-painful intensity, milking his cock as if trying to draw his soul out through it. 

“Goddamn it, sweetheart, so fuckin’...” He trailed off, groaning as his thrusts turned wild and uncoordinated as he buried himself to the hilt and held there. 

You felt the hot pulse deep inside you, thick and seemingly endless as he ground against you, his entire body rigid and trembling. His groan vibrated through your chest where he lay collapsed partially on top of you, his face buried in your neck again. 

For long moments, there was only the sound of harsh panting and the frantic hammering of two hearts against each other. Sweat glued your bodies together. He was heavy, utterly spent, still sheathed deep within you as the last tremors of your climax subsided into exhausted shudders. His breath was hot and damp against your neck. 

Slowly, carefully, he shifted his weight off you just enough to pull out with a soft, wet sound that made you both gasp. He collapsed onto his back beside you with a deep groan, one arm flung over his eyes. Silence stretched, thick and charged with the aftermath. The air tasted of salt and sex. 

You counted it down… 3… 2…

“I could never hate you, that’s… that’s ridiculous, baby,” Jason began.

He sometimes got rambly after he came. He’s all ‘not now, not now’, till he’s filling you up, apparently.

“You didn’t call me either,” You reminded.

“That’s because you burned my fuckin’ mask and told me not to call,” He chuckled. “Shit, what was… remember that time you cut up my entire wardrobe. Didn’t wanna know what you’d do if I did call.” 

You snickered at that memory. “Why’d I do that again?”

Jason tried to think for a moment, shaking his head. “Uh… I uh… left for India with Clark for some… crime-syndicate thing for the week. Might’ve forgotten to tell you.”

You recalled it now, smile fading. “Jay, that was the weekend of my birthday.”

“...Right…” He murmured, now regretting bringing it up.

You both kind of laid there for a moment, panting. 

Your body felt liquefied, every nerve ending buzzing and oversensitive. You stared at the ceiling, your mind blanking except for–

“I fucking hate cigarettes,” You muttered.

Jason huffed a laugh beside you, the sound rough, half a groan. “Yeah, I know.”

You turned your head, studying his face in the dim light, this time wanting to restart this conversation you started at the wrong time. “So, you started smoking again.”

He didn’t meet your eyes. He sat up on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. “Guess I did.”

You frowned, still sprawled naked across the sheets, still full of him. “You were like, three months clean.”

He gave a dry, humourless laugh as he tugged on his boxers. “Yeah, well. That was all you.”

That stung more than you wanted it to. You pushed up on an elbow, staring at him, watching as he picked up his jeans, looking for something, till he picked out this cigarette packet. “So you picked it back up the second I left?”

Jason’s jaw flexed. “Wasn’t the second. Took a couple days.” He finally looked over his shoulder at you — eyes half-soft, half-defensive. He picked up a battered packet of Marlboros from the pockets of his jeans. “Couldn’t stop thinking ‘bout you. Thought it was over for real this time and… I just needed to feel bad about something else, I guess.” He pulled one out and let it hang between his teeth. “I’ll quit again soon.”

You watched as he let the cigarette hang from his lips, now looking for the lighter. He murmured a swear under his breath. “In my jacket. One second, baby.”

You didn’t respond, but your chest felt tight in that way it always did with him — equal parts frustration and fondness. When he walked out, you took the chance to drag yourself into the ensuite. You were sore in the best way, skin still humming. You cleaned up, splashed your face, found an old pair of soft pajamas from your drawer.

When Jason came back, the smell hit first — faint smoke, that sharp chemical tang you’d once hated enough to make him quit. He had a lit cigarette hanging from his lips and a warm towel in his hand.

“Lay down,” he said gently. “I’ll clean you up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already guiding you back by your arm, the pad of his thumb brushing your wrist.

“Just let me,” he murmured, voice low.

You did.

Jason knelt beside the bed, one knee on the carpet, the other braced up. He moved carefully, almost reverent. He wiped you down with the damp towel, pausing every so often to blow smoke away from your face. His hair was still damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead; the cigarette glowed faintly in the dim light, a small, stubborn ember between his teeth.

“You look ridiculous,” you said softly. “Like an anti-smoking PSA. You know — sad puppy eyes, cigarette, bad decisions.”

He cracked a small grin. “Shut up. I look cool as hell.”

“You look like you peaked in high school.”

“Wow,” he muttered, smoke curling as he smirked. “Since when were you mean after sex?”

You smiled faintly.

He chuckled, tapping ash into an empty mug on your nightstand. “C’mon, you want some?”

“No,” you said, wrinkling your nose. “I like clean lungs.”

“Boring,” he sighed, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

When he finished, he set the towel aside and reached for the clothes you’d laid out — your pajama shorts, then your shirt. His fingers brushed the inside of your thigh when he lifted your leg slightly, sliding the fabric up with careful precision, the kind that made you ache a little more.

“Jason, you don’t need to—”

“I want to,” he said quietly, helping you into your shirt, his voice losing the teasing edge. “Least I can do after… you know. Calling you a crazy, jealous bitch.”

You let out a small, tired laugh. “I kind of am, though.”

He exhaled through his nose, smiling faintly. “Yeah. You kind of are.”

He adjusted your shirt over your shoulder, his knuckles brushing your collarbone. Then he leaned back slightly, cigarette still hanging loose from his lips, smoke tracing lazy spirals toward the ceiling.

“C’mon,” he said, holding it out to you between two fingers. “Just one hit. I promise your lungs’ll stay shiny.”

You bit your lip, smiling despite yourself. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Maybe. But I’m your idiot, right?”

You rolled your eyes but leaned in anyway, taking the cigarette from him. The paper crackled as you inhaled — bitter, burning — and you coughed immediately, eyes watering. Jason laughed, taking it back from you before you could choke.

“See? Cool as hell,” he teased, taking another drag, smoke drifting between you both.

You laughed weakly, the sound breaking halfway. And for a fleeting second — through the haze of smoke and sweat and softness — it almost felt like you hadn’t lost each other at all.

“Did you actually slash Ed’s tires?” You wondered, quiet.

“He does drive a white Nissan, right?” Jason nodded.

“How’d you know?”

Jason shrugged. “Friends in high places.”

“Barbara?”

“Barbara.”

You both laid down for a while, not quite able to sleep, just kind of watching one another, and then the rain, then one another.

You both lay there for a while, the silence stretching thin between you. The rain hadn’t stopped, its steady rhythm against the window filling the space that words couldn’t. You watched him. Then the rain. Then him again.

His arm was heavy around your waist, fingers tracing slow, thoughtless circles against your spine. You could feel the pulse under his wrist, steady, real — a reminder that he was actually here, warm and breathing, after weeks of nothing but silence and static in your head.

“I’m sorry I called you a freak,” you whispered finally, voice small, barely audible over the rain.

Jason turned his head a little, meeting your eyes in the dim light. There was something unreadable there — something almost tender, but worn down at the edges. He exhaled, brushing a few strands of hair behind your ear with the softest touch. “Not too far off from the truth,” he said quietly. “You were always the only one who saw all of me anyway.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “...Jay, I don’t— I think I’m bad for you,” you murmured. “You make me crazy.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just kept tracing his fingers along your jaw, his eyes fixed somewhere on your face like he was trying to memorize it again.

“You make me jealous,” you continued, voice cracking slightly. “And stupid. And mean. I don’t like who I am with you.”

Jason’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a frown. His thumb brushed along your cheek, catching the faint salt of tears you hadn’t realized had formed. “Yeah,” he murmured after a long pause. “I know.”

He shifted closer, his body enveloping yours as he pulled you against his chest. “Come ‘ere.”

You didn’t resist. Couldn’t. You pressed your face into the curve of his neck, inhaling that familiar scent — smoke, leather, rain. His heart thudded against your ear, steady and grounding, even as your thoughts spiraled. His fingers tangled lazily in your hair, his other arm a solid band around your waist, holding you like you might vanish if he let go.

“I don’t know how to stop missing you,” you whispered into his skin.

He pressed a soft kiss to your hairline, his breath trembling. “Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Me neither.”

Fine.

You give it two months.

note: guys i cannot be bothered to edit this rn if there's any big fucks dont u dare mention it i will cry x

hello!! we’re so back!! oh god i hope this is okay — i kind of just locked in for the last, like, three days and went all in on this. this was supposed to be like 5k words but then i got carried away with context… sue me, i like writing conflict.

sorry if they come off too mean or whatever, i just think… people are mean! i don’t think jason is some perfectly well-spoken, easy-to-handle guy. if you give him a rough time, he’d just flail and fight back, y’know? to me, it just feels very human not to always be nice in these situations.

also — i don’t encourage sticking with people like this. this is just a fun, safe way to explore messy dynamics. as someone who has friends like this who stick around for loser men… it’s just never worth it. booo men!!

anyway, i’m baaad at writing smut, so if anyone knows how the fuuuck i can improve that, please tell me. i feel okay with everything around it, but the actual acts? i’m just a loser.