#pleaseeeeeeeeee

like right now, for instance.

"c’mon, hit me."

your breath stutters. the words shouldn’t startle you—jason’s always been like this, all reckless taunts and testing boundaries—but there’s something different in his voice tonight, something raw under the challenge. you blink, before raising an unimpressed eyebrow, fingers twitching after you set the book you were reading aside. "what?"

jason leans back against your couch like he’s trying to melt into it, arms spread wide over the backrest, legs sprawled like he owns the place (and okay, fine, he kinda does—his favorite mug’s in your cupboard, his boots are by your door, and you’ve lost count of how many times he’s crashed here after a bad night). his smirk is all sharp edges, all i dare you, but his eyes—god, his eyes give him away. they’re too bright, too focused, like he’s starving for something and this is the only way he knows how to ask. "you heard me. punch me. right here." he taps his cheek, just below the scar, the one that cuts through his eyebrow and down to his jaw. you’ve traced it with your fingers before, when he let you, when the night was quiet enough for honesty.

your stomach twists, that familiar ache between frustration and affection that only jason can pull from you. you want to shake him until his teeth rattle, until whatever self-destructive impulse he’s clinging to finally cracks. you want to pull him close and tuck his head under your chin the way you used to when he was smaller, when the world hurt him less but he still pretended it didn’t hurt at all. instead, you cross your arms tight over your chest, nails biting crescent moons into your sleeves to anchor yourself. the fabric is soft under your fingertips, worn from too many washes—just like the way jason’s edges have softened over time, even if he’d never admit it. "you’re such an idiot," you say, but your voice betrays you, warm and crumbling at the edges like old brickwork.

"jason," you deadpan, shifting your weight onto one hip, "i’m not punching you in the face for no reason." the words taste like a lie even as you say them—because you would, if he asked right. if he ever just asked for what he needed instead of wrapping it in violence like a gift in barbed wire.

he tilts his head, the picture of innocence if not for the way his fingers drum restless against the couch cushions. the light catches the faded scar along his knuckles, the one he got years ago when he threw a punch for you instead of at you. "who said there’s no reason?" he counters, voice too light. "i’ve been annoying you all night. you’ve gotta be pissed by now."

"you’re always annoying," you shoot back, but your throat feels tight. you know this game—know how he turns himself into a lightning rod, how he’d rather you direct your anger at him than let it fade into silence. you step closer, close enough to see the way his pulse jumps in his neck. "why do you suddenly want me to hit you?"

he shrugs, a lazy roll of his shoulders that doesn’t match the tension in his jaw. his gaze skitters away, fixing on the window behind you like the night sky might have answers. but you catch it—the flicker in his eyes, something hungry and aching, something that makes your chest hurt. it’s the same look he gets when he lingers too long in doorways, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. "just wanna see if you’ve got a good swing," he says, but the smirk doesn’t reach his eyes.

you narrow your eyes, studying the way the dim light catches on his stupidly long lashes, the way his grin stretches just a little too wide to be convincing. "you're so full of shit." your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, the words crumbling at the edges like they always do around him.

jason's grin turns sharp, all white teeth and barely-hidden desperation. "prove it." there's a challenge in his voice, but his fingers are tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh—morse code for 'i don't know how to ask for what I really want'.

you sigh, rubbing your temples where a headache is forming. this is how it always goes with him—pushing until you push back, prodding at bruises he won't admit are there, testing how far he can go before you walk away. you know this dance by now, know the way his breath catches when you call his bluff, know the exact shade of pink that creeps up his neck when he's flustered. you know him, all his jagged edges and soft spots, and that's why you can't help but play along.

so you stand up, stepping into his space like you belong there (you do). his pupils blow wide as you raise your fist, his body tensing like he's bracing for impact—not just from your punch, but from whatever comes after. the air between you crackles with something unspoken, electric and terrifying and beautiful.

at the last second, you flick his forehead instead.

"ow—what the hell?" he scowls, rubbing at the spot with exaggerated indignation, but you don't miss the way his shoulders drop just slightly in relief. "that's not a punch."

"you didn't specify," you say smugly, biting back a grin when his nose scrunches up in that way you've secretly adored since you were kids.

he growls, all fake annoyance, and suddenly his hand is around your wrist, pulling you forward with just enough force to make you stumble. your free hand flies to his chest to steady yourself, palm flat over the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat. it's racing, and you know it's not just from the scuffle.

"cheater," he mutters, but his voice is rough around the edges, his grip on your wrist alternating between too tight and barely there, like he can't decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

"drama queen," you shoot back, but it comes out breathless. you don't pull away. you never do.

for a second, the world narrows to this: the warmth of his skin under your hand, the hitch in his breathing when your thumb brushes absentmindedly against his collarbone, the way his eyes keep darting to your lips like he's mapping out all the ways this could go wrong. his fingers flex around your wrist, tight then loose then tight again—a silent battle between want and fear, between the part of him that craves contact and the part that's still convinced he doesn't deserve it.

then, so quiet you almost miss it, he says, "...missed this." and oh, the way his voice cracks on the last syllable nearly undoes you—all vulnerable and raw and so painfully jason.

your expression softens without permission, your thumb tracing a gentle arc over his sternum. "me too," you murmur, and you mean it more than he'll ever know. you mean the easy banter, the way he fits against you like a missing puzzle piece, the quiet moments when he forgets to be angry at the world. you mean all of him, even the parts he's still learning to love himself.

his breath stutters when you lean in, just slightly, just enough to make his pulse jump under your fingertips. you can see the war in his eyes—the way he wants to close the distance but can't quite bring himself to, the way he's always been better at taking punches than kindness. so you make the decision for him, resting your forehead against his with a quiet sigh, feeling him melt into the contact like a man starved.

"idiot," you whisper, fondness dripping from every syllable like honey—sweet and slow and sticking to everything it touches. the word hangs between you, softer than the moonlight bleeding through your curtains, warmer than the june air clinging to your skin.

he doesn't argue. for once, jason todd has nothing to say, and that might be the most surprising thing of all. you can practically hear the gears turning in his head, see the way his throat works as he swallows down all the sharp comebacks and defensive quips. his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinks, too fast, like he's trying to clear something from his eyes.

then he exhales—a rough, shaky thing that trembles through his entire frame—and suddenly you're being tugged forward. his arms come around you with all the grace of a collapsing building, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt while the other presses almost too hard between your shoulder blades. it's awkward, all stiff limbs and too much force, his nose bumping against your cheek before he buries it in the crook of your neck. he holds you like he's afraid you'll disappear, like he's twelve years old again and still learning how to ask for comfort without throwing a punch first.

but it's jason. your jason, with his too-big hands and his too-soft hoodie and the familiar scent of gunpowder and cheap shampoo clinging to his skin. so you don't tease him (much), just wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze until you feel some of the tension leak out of his shoulders. his heartbeat thunders against your chest, rapid but steady, a reminder that he's here, he's alive, he's yours in all the ways that matter.

"you could've just asked for a hug, you know," you murmur into the space between his throat and jaw. your lips brush against his pulse point when you speak, and you don't miss the way his breath hitches in response.

"shut up," he mumbles into your shoulder, but there's no heat behind it. his fingers flex against your back, tentative at first, then more sure as he starts tracing idle patterns over your spine. it's such an un-jason-like gesture—soft and unpracticed and so painfully earnest—that something in your chest cracks open like an egg, all yolk-bright warmth spilling through your ribs.

you laugh, quiet and breathless, and feel the exact moment he gives in—the way his body relaxes against yours, the huff of air that ghosts across your neck, the barely-there vibration in his chest when he joins you. it's not the loud, head-tipped-back laughter from when you were kids, but something quieter, more private. just for you. his shoulders shake with it, and you hold him tighter, memorizing the way his joy feels pressed against you after so long only knowing his anger and pain.

and if his lips brush against your skin when he pulls away—just once, just barely—well. neither of you mention it. some things don't need words.