❤️‍🔥

You've just woken up, my brain still trying to kickstart itself, and he's already in your house talking business and work.

"Does your boss, my father, know that I do not care?" You ask in a tired voice before sipping the warm drink in your hands.

"He does." Jason nods once with his eyes still on his laptop.

You grumble in response before looking at Jason over the rim of your mug. You set it down with a sigh and lean your chin in your palm.

"What is it that you even do on that thing?"

"That's top secret."

You huff with a lazy roll of your eyes. "Of course it is," You mumble. "I'm not allowed in on the secret?" You ask then.

Jason raises a brow as he eyes you before going back to his laptop - like he's surprised you had the audacity to even ask, "Nope." He emphasises the word with a pop of his lips.

"And why not?"

"Because it's on a need to know basis. And you," he looks at you pointedly again, "do not need to know."

"If it pertains to your job, which right now - is me, doesn't that mean I should be on the 'need to know basis'?" You raise a brow.

Jason looks at like you he's actually considering your argument for a change. But then he smiles, smug and knowing.

"Not a chance. Good try, though."

You deadpan at him, obviously not amused with his humor, and then you let out a dramatic sigh and make a show of standing from the chair.

"Do you have any sort of personality or is it all sarcasm and doom and gloom?"

"Doom and gloom, me?" Jason has the nerve to look offended, a hint of a smirk showing through the play act, "I regularly save kittens from trees and puppies from alleys and help old women cross the street."

"Cute, I bet they love that." Your tone is as flat as your expression.

"They do." Jason shoots back, "Some even tip me."

"Wouldn't that make you a prostitute?" You're quick with it, it slips off your tongue before you can even think about it. But the smirk that pulls at your lips makes Jason bark out a laugh.

He leans across the table and the look he gives you almost sends a chill down your spine, a wolf like smirk in his face how. "And what if it does? Is that a problem for you, Princess?" His tone is low, dangerous and playful. Your smile falters as your pulse races.

"No, of course not,"you stand your ground, your hands on your hips, "but you should probably rethink your clientele. You could do so much better than little old ladies with a face like that."

Jason's expression slowly falls into something that almost looks bashful and from the way he doesn't quip back just as quickly, you know you've won this back and forth. With a satisfied smile you walk by him, an air of triumph surrounding you.

You keep the confidence in your steps as you walk out of the kitchen and towards your room. You can feel Jason's eyes on you as you walk away from him but you refuse to let him see just how much he'd affecting you, how the gleam in his eyes when he stares at you like you're the only important thing in his world sets your blood on fire.

Back in the kitchen Jason waits until he hears the click of your bedroom door closing before he slumps in his seat with a sigh. He has a feeling this job is going to kill him one way or another.

You spend the time in your room relaxing, letting your nerves (and emotions) calm down before getting ready for your day. You've been stuck in the house way too long - which calls for a shopping day. After getting ready you head downstairs to find Jason sitting on your couch with his computer on his lap.

"Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" Jason looks around the room, scanning for threats -any surprise you might be trying to throw his way.

"I'm going shopping." You respond plainly.

There's a beat of silence before Jason scoffs a laugh at you.

"No you're not." He says with a shake of his head, ignoring the way you busy yourself with grabbing your last minute things.

You stop and blink at him.

"Um, yes I am." You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "There hasn't been a new threat in like a week, right?"

"Wrong." He crosses his arms over his chest. "There has been. Two days ago. You know this."

"Was it against my dad?"

"…. No. But it was implie-"

"So there's no new threat." You cut him off. "I'm going shopping, so-"

It's Jason's turn to cut you off.

"You're not. It's not safe. You're staying here. Where it is safe. Where I can keep you safe." Each sentence is enunciated with irritation and barely hidden concern lacing his voice.

You've seen him stern before, annoyed, but you've never seen him this adament and upset about something before.

You stare at Jason, a silent challenge. But he doesn't back down. You can tell he's just as stubborn as you are but he's probably dealt with bigger assholes than you'd like to imagine. Finally you bite at the inside of your cheek and let out the most dramatic huff of air that you can muster.

"Fine!" You throw your hands up in defeat. "I'll just stay locked in my room, forever, without doing anything fun ever again like some stupid princess!" Angry, frustrated tears sting at your eyes as you turn your back on Jason.

He's still standing there with his eyes narrowed, arms crossed. "Fine with me! At least you're finally listening."

"You're an asshole!" You shout back over your shoulder.

"I might be an asshole but you're still alive. A 'thank you' goes a long way, you know."

"Oh, go fuck yourself!"

This time there isn't a quiet click of your door closing. This time your door slams so violently that it rattles the frames on your walls.

Jason yells something at you, probably scolding you for acting out - like you're a child - but you can't hear him over your blood rushing in your ears.

"What a dick!" You pace your room. "I'm an adult! I can handle myself! This is so stupid, it's just shopping!"

You stew. For hours. Going back and forth between muttering to yourself and texting all of your friends about the "wannabe protective services asshole who's ruining my life". All the respond with is that they'd do anything he asked of them, "perverts" is what you called them before turning your phone off.

Sitting in front of your mirror you tell yourself that even if Jason insists he knows everything about you, he doesn't know everything about you. Like how even though he himself is stubborn, you can go toe to toe with him. You come up with a plan to use Jason's punctuality against him. He leaves at ten pm? Fine, you're leaving at ten fifteen pm. Even with the cameras now set up around your house, there aren't any in your room. And it really can't be that hard climbing out of your window.

Right?

Jason leaves that night at ten sharp without his usual reminder of "six am, princess", which means he's still as pissed off as you are. Whatever, you tell yourself, he can be mad all he wants. At least he isn't being held prisoner in his own home. But that ends tonight. Because in fifteen minutes you're going to be breaking out of your prison to go downtown to your favorite club.

You're dressed in your best club outfit, your Uber is already ordered, and you're sitting on your bed with sweating palms. You've never had to sneak out before, your mom and dad never told you no. You rationalize with yourself that you're not "sneaking out" because you're not a teenager. You're a god damn adult! You're simply leaving for the night.

So why is your stomach twisting into knots at the thought of being caught?

You listen for his clunker of a car to start and head down the street before even thinking about climbing out of your window. But when the low rumble of his engine is long gone you steel your nerves and slip out of your window. Your leg gets stuck at an awkward angle and hiss in pain as you shimmy the rest of the way down, trying your best to ignore the sting in your skin.

"Ah, shit shit shit-" Once you're finally on solid ground you look down and notice the cut on your calf. It's not bad, but it is bleeding.

"Ugh, of course." You scoff before digging in your purse. You grab out a napkin and wipe at the blood as best as you can before tossing the dirtied napkin in the bush next to your window. Satisfied enough with your work you shrug and sneak down the sidewalk, opposite of Jason's rental, towards your Uber - towards freedom.

The Glacier Lounge is already starting to fill when you show up, you can hear the thump of the music from outside. Your favorite bouncer, Marcus, greets you as you saunter up to the door, ignoring the crowded line.

"It's been a minute," His deep voice thrums, the sound familiar and inviting. "Where've you been, trouble?"

"House arrest." You pout before smiling.

"Stop playing with me." Marcus laughs before he's holding the door open for you.

You step into the club, a few patrons outside voice their annoyance which only makes your smile grow.

The club is packed for how early in the night it is. Bodies sway together under the dark neon lights, the music pulses through your veins. The air is warm, almost humid, but you revel in it. It hardly feels suffocating compared to the constant vigilance you've been subjected to over the last two weeks.

You spend the night dancing without a care in the world. Your phone has been turned off for hours and each time you itch to reach for it, you scratch the itch with another drink in your hand instead. Eventually you find yourself slumping against the bar, a warm flush to your sweat slick skin, a buzz beneath your skin.

Something feels off. Like something is missing. Despite the loud music and the clubbers yelling over the music, even the group of girls laughing at a table in the corner, it still feels… quiet.

Even in your haze you know exactly why it feels quiet. The realization hits that you miss Jason.

Fuck.

Even if his conversation skills are on par with a mime's, and the fact that he could be a huge asshole half the time, he was starting to grow on you.

With a pout, you pull your phone from your purse and turn it on. It powers on and you're immediately overloaded with notifications of texts, missed calls, and voicemails from Jason.

Oh. Right. You start to sober up when you remember that you went MIA without a trace. But the more you look at your screen, the more you see your inbox full of forty-seven unread messages - know they're from Jason? You bite at your bottom lip and stumble your way out of the club.

The cold night air bites harshly at your skin, you bump into someone walking towards the club, and you tap Jason's contact with a pout on your lips.

Maybe in the morning you'll blame it on the alcohol, or the way your life has been flipped upside down because some moron is threatening to blow up a bunch of stupid politicians. Either way, right now all you want is Jason.

"Where are you? It is three in the morning. I went by your place and you were gone. There was blood on your window." He sounds tired, like he's been worrying about you for fwr too long.

You'd completely forgotten about the cut and you subconsciously rub at your leg.

"I'm at- I'm at the Glacier Lounge…" you mumble into your phone.

"The-? Are you seri-?" Jason growls under his breath. He's pissed but he's trying to keep himself composed. "Stay. There. I'll be there in ten minutes."

And with that the call ends.

True to his word, Jason makes it to the club in ten minutes with a few seconds to spare. You pout again, this time at the clunker that sputters to a stop in front of you. You barely make it to the curb before Jason's rounding the car to open the door for you. You look over at him to say thank you but he's not even looking at you. There's a nasty guilty feeling deep in your stomach.

The car ride is sickeningly quiet. You can't handle it another second.

"Are you mad at me?" You whisper. Your warm forehead is pressed against the cold window and that helps to bring some much needed cognitive development back to you.

Jason's knuckles turn white around the wheel before he answers you.

"Yes."

Your bottom lip trembles briefly at the answer. You have a hard time thinking up an excuse but Jason starts speaking again before you even have a chance to explain yourself.

"What were you thinking? Just leaving like that? When there are threats out there! Are you insane or stupid?"

"I'm not-"

"Calling an Uber? Turning your phone off?"

"How did you know I called an Uber?" You question. Jason huffs with a shake of his head.

"I was able to hack into your phone, just to see the last few apps you used before shutting the whole thing off."

"Oh, so what? You're a hacker now? On top of being-"

"This isn't the time for fucking jokes! And I'm damn well whatever I need to be to keep your spoiled ass safe!" Jason finally snaps.

You're not used to being yelled at, to have so much anger directed at you.

"You can be mad all you want," you sniffle, "but there's no reason to call me names." You turn away from him in the car, angling your body as far away from him as possible.

He's quiet before he scoffs, "That's rich coming from you. Calling me an asshole earlier today? Telling me to go fuck myself?" He shakes his head.

Now it's your turn to have your words thrown back at you, and it doesn't feel good. You didn't even realize earlier how your words could have hurt him. Surely he's had worse thrown at him, right?

But you shake off that guilty feeling because you're not going down that easily.

"Sorry you got stuck with such a shitty job." You bite back. Your voice is laced with venom. "Hopefully for you, your next one isn't a stupid, spoiled pain in the ass for you."

The streetlights blur by you as Jason focuses on the road ahead of him. All you can hear is the rough hum of the engine and the road.

"Yeah," Jason scoffs a sardonic laugh, "Hopefully for me."

It's when Jason finally pulls onto your street that he asks, "How's your leg?"

"What do you care?" You ask in return.

Jason clenches his jaw, tight, to keep from snapping at you.

"I don't." It sounds halfhearted at best. "But if you need stitches your parents will want to know."

"So you're just covering your ass?" Your snippy reply has him gripping the steering wheel again.

"Yes." He lies through his teeth.

"It's fine. I don't need stitches."

"Good."

"Thankful you don't have to do paperwork? Fill out an incident report?" You keep digging the knife deeper into your own chest.

"That's all I care about." It sounds too forced when he says it.

Your inhibitions had dissipated hours ago. By now, all that remained was a floating feeling that carried you in conversation. The desire for body heat brought on by being adorned in nothing but a swimsuit as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. While the other guests, miraculously avoided drunkness; either by the metahuman blood pumping through their veins or sheer heavy weight willpower alone. They had evaded the descent into drunkeness, where you were at the very bottom of the hole—currently in the sweet spot between sharing every thought on your mind and overwhelming nausea.

You had been chatting to Ted about some doomed-to-fail endeavour with Booster until he excused himself to talk logistics with the same blonde. Really, what you should have done was find Dinah or Diana, or even a long lounge chair to pass out on, but in your inebriated state, you followed the first thing, or rather person, that your eyes landed on.

You treaded over rather ungracefully to where John and Guy were lost in conversation. Guy had been splayed out on one of the many couches— arms stretched across the back and legs manspreading wide like an open invitation to be touched— and you flopped down right beside him, your hair tickling his open arms as you did.

"Had enough t'drink yet, honey?" Guy asked, swapping his beer to the other hand so he could rest his open arm comfortably around you. "Don’t worry. Ol’ Guy will take care of you. Can't believe that rust bucket didn't cut you off."

"Mmmm no," you hummed, smushing your face against Guy's shoulder. "M'not even drunk."

Your lips pursed from where your cheeks laid squished against his skin.

Guy would never admit it— far too adamant about his nonexistent romantic prowess— but he felt his freckled cheeks inflame from your touch. As much as he 'flirted' with every member of the team, he had always had his eye on you. You were kind, funny and relatively untouched by a godlike ego that could easily take any full-time League member into its clutches. For all that you made fun of Guy or became just as exasperated as anyone else, you had always recognised his loyalty and goodness that laid beneath his brash mannerisms.

He admired you. Truly. And watching you cozy up to him so comfortably, your cold fingers splaying out against the expanse of his chest absentmindedly, he couldn't help but feel like both of you were exactly where you belonged. It made his stomach sink.

"You sure?" John asked you with a smile.

"Mhm," you assured him, nodding as you unconsciously curled into Guy's side. "I could have, like, seven more drinks."

Guy laughed, taking another swig from his beer.

"Sure about that, babe?"

Normally you would have grimaced and told him off for that. But the jovial tone of conversation and the way Guy had so easily accepted responsibility for you in your admittedly drunk state, left you feeling too warmed and cared for to mind.

"Positive."

With the buzz of alcohol quickly taking control, you nuzzled your face into the crook of Guy's neck and closed your eyes.

As your breathing slowed, Guy's quickened— shocked still for a moment from the feeling of your lips brushing his neck. You were in his arms, touching him as if you had a right to and Guy knew then that he wouldn't be able to go back to the way things were. Whether you remembered it or not when the alcohol finally left your system, drunk actions were sober thoughts, and you had now been officially solidified as Guy Gardner's girl.

As this fact registered in Guy's brain, he relaxed into your touch. In the morning he would have to worry about the logistics of it all— proving to you that he deserved to call you his, for instance— but right now, he allowed himself to focus on your warmth and affection as you breathing evened and your eyes fluttered shut.

"Go ahead and sleep, honey." Guy said wrapping his arm around your frame. "I'll take you t'bed. Don't gotta worry your pretty little head about it."

Unbeknownst to you, two of your teammates watched on from afar in a healthy mixture of amusement and disgust.

“Do you think she’s going to regret this in the morning?” Ted asked.

Dinah snorted.

“Oh one hundred percent.” Dinah assured him. “If she remembers it, anyway.”

And maybe you did wake up to a photo of you passed out, wrapped around Guy Gardner like a koala. But when you zoomed in and saw his proud, cooked smile? You couldn't find it in yourself to care.

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BRUCE WAYNE

“So,” you said, making your way down to where a familiar brunette sat on the beach. “Does Matches Malone drink?”

The party continued to thrum on behind you. The farther you got, the more the sound of splashing and your teammates' chanted dares faded, replaced instead with the soothing waves of the ocean as the sun hung low in the sky. Framed by the sunset, Bruce squinted as he looked up at you.

He smiled softly.

“He can be convinced."

You took your place by Bruce's side in the sand, offering him your second mojito.

"I think I like Matches," you said with a smile. "He's a lot more fun than this other guy I know."

As Bruce accepted the spare glass from your hands, his fingers brushed yours.

With anyone else, it would have been an accident. But you knew him both on and off the field and recognised that 'accident' and 'Bruce Wayne' rarely belonged in the same sentence. With him, everything was purposeful… calculated. The fact that the two of you had even been sitting on this beach was likely a result of his own, careful planning to get you alone.

Rather than say anything, though— a part of you always too intimidated by Batman even when the cowl was off— you watched as he took a sip from the glass. His adam's apple, coated in a sheen of sweat from the day's events, bobbed as he swallowed and against all reason, you found yourself lost in the sight. That was, until, the uncomfortable heat of Bruce's gaze caught you staring.

"Sorry," you coughed out, turning back to stare at the ocean.

Bruce's eyes, however, didn't leave your form.

"Don't apologize," he said. "You're allowed to look."

Whatever air of casualty that you had attempted to display, dissipated as you went still as stone.

Bruce Wayne always knew how to surprise you. Sure, the relationship that the two of you had always bordered on flirtatious and other members had gone as far to comment on Batman's suspiciously indulgent nature when it came to you, but Bruce had yet to ever cross the boundary so boldly. To some extent, you assumed you had imagined the longing stares and rare laughs shared because he had never given you more.

But now, there was no doubt. Bruce made decisions, not accidental inferences. He decided that you were allowed to look; and you knew him well enough to understand what that really meant: he was allowing himself to be yours.

A part of you felt ridiculous at the way you unconsciously batted your eyelashes as you smiled up at him, but who could blame you? The big, bad Batman, called 'spooky' by some of the same men who made intergalactic threats shake in their boots, was flirting with you.

Taking a page from his own playfulness, you feigned nonchalance.

"Thanks, Matches," you said. "But my heart belongs to someone else."

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Yeah?" He asked.

The last glimmers of sunlight were reflected in his eyes as he stared down at you.

"Yeah."

Bruce nodded, a smirk grazing his lips as he stared back at the ocean.

"He's a lucky man, then."

You took only a moment to consider your response.

"Bruce?" You asked.

"Yes?"

You realised then that during the time you had spoken, your bodies had gravitated towards each other. As he turned his attention back towards you, away from the sea, his nose brushed against your own.

You cleared your throat, feeling his warm breath against your lips.

"Just kiss me."

A part of you had expected him to reach over like a man starved, but you should have known Bruce better than that. The hand that had been supporting his weight, trailed up your arm— leaving goosebumps in its wake— until he reached your cheek. His thumb laid against your chin, teasing the edges of your lip before he tilted your face upwards and met your mouth with his.

Bruce Wayne smelt like cologne more expensive than your car and kissed like a man who didn't worship at an altar, but at the feet of the woman he loved. For all his tenderness, Bruce was quick to deepen the kiss, slipping his free hand around you until his palm rested against your back, pulling you towards him. The movement made you gasp and he swallowed the breath eagerly.

It was moments until your hands had found the way to his hair, tugging at its ends as Bruce's tongue massaged yours in a way that was heinous for a man who looked, and frankly was, so good. It was only mere seconds later, that his hands had gravitated from your waist to your thighs, pulling you into his lap.

At the same time, across the beach and desperate for a moment to catch his breath, Clark stumbled onto the sand. Unfortunately for Clark, that breath was not caught when instead of a rejuvenating conversation with his friend, he was met with the sight of Bruce palming your breast beneath your shirt as you left sucked on the tender skin of his neck.

Red in the face and covering his eyes like a repentant child, Clark turned back towards the pool party, but not without shooting his friend a hesitant thumbs up.

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CLARK KENT

"Really, Clark," you assured him. "I can carry my own stuff. It's no big deal."

Despite the fact that you were both guests on the island, Clark had been nothing but a thoughtful host.

The moment that your jet landed, Clark had been waiting on the tarmac to greet you. He held the keys to a borrowed SUV in his hands and had pulled your luggage from the cargo hold before you even had a chance to ask for help. Even the drive to the house had honestly been too short for your liking. The windows had been rolled down— only after Clark had asked, of course— and what had seemed to be a playlist of your favourite songs were ringing out over the radio.

Not to mention that there were moments you turned to look at Clark, only to be met with his soft, blue eyes already on yours. You couldn't help but smile, then, at the blush that coated his cheeks as he bashfully turned his attention back to the road.

Now at the house you'd both be staying at the next few days, Clark had yet again took it upon himself to carry your luggage: an ever dutiful knight in a linen button-down.

"Don't be silly!" Clark argued, "I'm happy to help."

And with the bright smile he flashed you, you had a difficult time denying him.

Later that afternoon as the backyard— if you could even call four acres of land that— came alive with the arrival of more guests, the party was officially in full swing. The chlorinated water of the pool thrashed with the playfulness of its inhabitants and the thrum of the speakers reverberated through the tiled floors surrounding it. In the corner just beyond the patio of the house, Clark stood at the grill, using his laser vision to cook burgers to perfection.

"And to think we were wasting your powers on saving cities," you joked.

Clark smiled at the sound of your voice; although when he turned to meet your eyes, he froze.

Between now and the last time he saw you, you had changed into your swimsuit— a one piece that managed to accentuate all your best features while leaving just enough to the imagination. You had been friends, you had always been friends, but he rarely saw you out of uniform. To lay his eyes on you dressed so casually felt like a gift. Like you had crossed the borders of formality into familiarity in a way that made his cheeks burn.

"Are you going into the pool?" He asked.

With a spare glance at the pool, you shrugged.

"I don't know," you said. "I was thinking some place quieter."

Clark let out a strangled cough.

"Quieter. I like quieter." He agreed before waving down a nearby member to take control of the grill. "Lead the way."

The hot tub had been tucked away from the noise party. Ever the gentleman, Clark was the first to step inside, but was quick to hold out his hand for yours to steady your own descent into the water.

He stripped himself of his shirt, folding it neatly against the railing like a boy-raised-right, but it grew more and more difficult to focus on his manners as he turned around. People often commented that Superman was the most muscular man in the world, and although that may have been true to a certain extent, they had failed to realize how soft their man of steel really was. You couldn't help but admire the view— the small bit of tummy over his swimshorts, a stretch of curly hair over his chest, the way his arms flexed to make them look even larger than when he had held up an entire building.

You were oggling. And as much as Clark would never admit it, ever the polite man his mother raised him to be, he knew. He could hear the way your heart rate accelerated as your eyes raked over him, and honestly? He loved it.

"I like the quiet," Clark said, sliding onto the tub's bench beside you. "It reminds me of home."

"Only you could be on a billionaire's private island and be thinking of Smallville," you joked. "I'd love to see it someday."

"Ma would love that."

He hadn't considered the implication of what he said until the words had already tumbled from his lips.

"Why's that?" You asked.

Clark weighed his options. He could fib. He could tell you that his mother was just happy to host or a fan of his team members. However, as he looked back at you— at the way that you stared up at him with nothing but fondness and a warmth that seeped into the limited space between you— he decided that he didn't have to. You would accept Clark as he is.

"Well, she asks about you a lot," he replied. "She uh… she thinks you're my girlfriend."

If he thought your heart rate was fast before, it now rivaled a speedster's.

"Why?"

Clark considered the pep talk he had received from a particular playboy earlier in the day, and despite all alarms warning him that it was too forward… unwanted… he stretched his arm along the length of the hot tub's rim to brush your hand.

"Because I talk about you a lot," he said. You felt your heart skip a beat, knowing the strongest man on earth spent his phone calls with his mother talking about you of all things. "About how smart you are… and funny. How you're brave and kind… and beautiful."

Clark shyly stared off to where his hand met yours.

"You think I'm beautiful?"

Clark nodded. "You are beautiful."

You weren't sure if it was because of Clark's own bashful demeanor or because he had just confessed in his own way how he felt about you, but a surge of confidence ran through you. You slipped your hand out from underneath his and squeezed it fully. Your free hand that had until this moment been gripping your thigh to ground you, reached out to hold his stubbled cheek.

His blue eyes, pupils blown, met yours and you smiled.

"Why don't we get out of here and have our first date?" You asked.

You watched as Clark's brain slowly registered what you had just said. A slew of mismatched syllables flew out of his mouth as he stumbled over his words. Once he composed himself with a cough, the cheesiest smile you had ever seen spread across his cheeks.

"I thought you'd never ask."

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