A fic with Dick or Jason. Soulmate au with fluff please!!!! I'm not super picky with Soulmate tropes, but first words are always cute!! 🤭🤭💗💗💗
Out the way, dipshit
Summary: Your soulmate's first words appear on your forearm shortly before you meet them. Unfortunately, yours happen to be, "Out the way, dipshit."
Contents: jason todd x gen!reader, soulmate AU, first words trope, fluff, humor, mild swearing by reader, awkward first meetings, reader had a really bad day and is pissed
1.0k
a/n: I'm personally not a fan of soulmate AUs, so I hope this is still what you were looking for:) I feel like it could've used a little more fluff, but my brain just wasn't cooperating. Also, in this AU everything is the same except that your soulmate's first words appear a few days/hours before you meet. I'm simply too lazy for world-building.
Out the way, dipshit
These were the words permanently etched on your fucking forearm.
You were waiting for the moment that words finally appear there, giving you the certainty that your soulmate wasn't going to make you wait much longer.
But you expected something cuter. Or anything that wasn't a literal insult.
The day was already draining you enough. The weather was shit, work sucked and you got held up by your annoying neighbor downstairs, then these stupid words appeared and - oh god you forgot to buy groceries.
So, you make your way to the nearby grocery store 20 minutes before closing. You get the most important stuff, mainly something to eat for dinner, and go to the checkout.
From inside the brightly lit store you see a guy running down the street, nothing unusual. You just hope it wouldn't inconvenience you.
You step outside again, the cold air hitting your face painfully.
The rain wasn't as harsh anymore, still you wished you brought your umbrella. Whatever. You take a step forward, leaving the protection of the grocery store roof and about to make your way back home when a guy pushed you out the way shouting: "Out the way, dipshit."
What the fuck.
That was Red Hood. You were pretty sure of that.
No, no no no no. That can't be. That was just your luck.
You were still standing in the rain a minute later, your apparent soulmate long gone. And you had so many problems with this.
Not only the stupid words but also, did your soulmate have to be a guy in a mask fighting crime?
When you get home, you're completely soaked and just want to sleep. You don´t even bother with dinner, you take a shower and are knocked out in bed in less than a few minutes.
The next day, you get woken up by the sun painting your bedroom in a gentle golden tone.
You look at your phone. It is 9 am already?
It takes a moment to remember that today was your day off, so you relax a bit more, enjoying the warmth of your bed.
Throughout the morning, you tell yourself that today was going to be your day. You definitely needed a day full of positivity and rainbows. And if you ever meet the guy again, you would tell him to fuck off. If you had to walk around the word dipshit permanently on your body, he had to live with that.
No, you were not petty.
Later that afternoon, you decide to go visit the bookstore around the corner.
It was a cute, small store. Packed with shelves and the shelves overflowing with books. It even had a seating area, inside right in front of the big window that was adorned with the store's name.
When you arrive and step inside, you notice how empty it was today. Often, when you came here, at least a couple of other people were already browsing the shelves.
Oh, this was going to be a good day.
You head to your favorite section first, hidden behind a corner. There you see a guy already browsing through the books.
He was huge, the shirt pulling over his back muscles. When he turned a bit you could see his face. He was unfairly attractive.
The guy noticed your staring and looks up, then down on the book he was holding again.
You've already read the book, just recently for the second time. You gather all your social energy that was left from yesterday.
"It´s good."
His head shoots up. Eyes narrowing.
"What?" His voice is rough, like he didn't sleep enough.
"The book. It´s good." You fiddle with your hands, suddenly feeling very stupid for saying anything.
He just keeps staring, like he is trying to solve some very hard equation. The equation being you.
"Is everything alright?" He still doesn´t say anything. "Okay, sorry I bothered you." You turn to leave this awkward situation, when he clears his throat.
He looks uncertain. "Not to overstep, but did that not ring a bell?"
"What are you talking about?" You have genuinely no idea what he meant by that.
He tried to discreetly show off his forearm. It was covered by his shirt tho, so no luck there.
He notices your confused look and sighs heavily.
"What are your first words?"
"That´s none of your business." What a freak.
You must have looked at him like he was being a weirdo because he defensively shoved up his shirt to reveal the words "It´s good" marking his skin.
You scoff and he looks more confused than before.
"I´m guessing yours match?" He tries a smile but it turned into a frown when you still seemed like you wanted him out of your sight immediately. "I don´t understand what´s wrong."
"What´s wrong? First you shove me out the way and then," you pull up your sleeve, "you call me dipshit? I don´t know, you tell me."
An "oh" is all you got in response.
But before you could turn away again and leave he catches your arm.
"Sorry. Can I buy you a coffee?"
"No."
"Lunch?"
"No."
"A book? Anything?"
You hate to admit it, but he looked genuinely apologetic. "I´ll think about it," you say, waiting for him to let you go.
He does, but follows you when you make your way outside.
"Can I at least get your number?"
You take a deep breath, at least he seemed sorry? Still, you were going to make him work for it.
"What´s your name?" you ask.
"Jason. Yours?"
You give him your name. Then ask for his phone. You type in your number.
"Text me when you planned a real date."
Jason blinks.
"A real date?"
"One that makes up for calling me a dipshit."
He actually laughs.
"For the record, I've definitely called people worse."
You point at him. "Not helping."
A couple of hours later, it is already dark outside, you get a text.
WARNINGS: MINORS do not interact.ᐟ Explicit content, public sex, soft dom Bruce Wayne, mention of oral sex, m reciving.
⋆｡°✩ who insists on buying you jewelry, even if you don’t need it, just because he thinks it would look pretty on you.
⋆｡°✩ who doesn’t let you drive or go anywhere by yourself and insists on making a chauffeur go with you and take you anywhere you need to go.
⋆｡°✩ who praises you with soft spoken words such as “good little girl”, “my nice princess”, “keep going, baby” between moans while you’re sucking his cock.
⋆｡°✩ who makes you nibble on a protein bar and drink a whole glass of water after sex and cuddles you in his arms, kissing your shoulder and reminding you how good you just did.
⋆｡°✩ who would trap you between his arms, kissing your neck and when you giggle and tell him you need to go to work, asks you how much do you earn on a day and suggests to pay you double if you stay. And when you tell him you can’t and that it isn’t about the money, that you’re gonna get fired, tells you that it is impossible, because he had just bought the company.
⋆｡°✩ who possessively grabs your hip during a red carpet interview, his touch not subtle at all, as he notices the way other men are looking at you.
⋆｡°✩ who fucks you silly in the bathroom of said gala, making it impossible for you to hold back your moans, so every man outside that room can hear you scream his name. Making sure that everyone knows that you’re his and that he isn’t sharing.
CONSISTS OF ↬ implied nsfw. inexplicit nsfw. sugar daddy dynamic.
── .✦ Gotham's most eligible bachelor is infatuated with the woman who he said was nothing more than an arrangement. But both you and Bruce Wayne know that's not the case anymore.
| navi. | masterlist. | dc masterlist. |
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who met you at a business dinner. You were across the room, the deep red of your dress caught his eye immediately. With a curt, "Excuse me, something's come up," he made his way to the table you were sitting at.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who slips black cards and thick envelopes into your bag without saying a word, and when you notice, he only smirks and says, “Use it. Don’t argue.”
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who insists on choosing your jewelry before dinners and galas, fastening the clasp himself, his fingers brushing over the back of your neck a little longer than necessary.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who has a habit of pulling you into his lap during late nights in his office, running his hands slowly up your thighs while pretending to keep his attention on paperwork.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who buys you lingerie you’d never pick for yourself. It's delicate, sheer, impossibly expensive, and yet he tells you to “try it on” for him the same night.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who never raises his voice, but his quiet “don’t make me repeat myself” when you try to pay for something makes your knees weak every single time.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who spoils you in public with gifts and luxury, but in private reminds you that all of it belongs to you because you belong to him.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who tilts your chin up with two fingers whenever he wants your attention, his thumb brushing over your lower lip as if testing how soft it feels before kissing you.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who likes taking you shopping himself, watching you try things on in private dressing rooms, leaning back in the chair with a dangerous smirk while his hand rests lazily on his thigh.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who slides a silk box onto the table during dinner, not caring who notices, and murmurs in your ear, “Wear it for me later.”
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who calls you “good girl” in that low gravelly voice whenever you listen, especially when you let him guide your movements.. from guiding your hips into his when you're on top, to crossing your legs the way he wants so your knee brushes his.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who has a habit of pressing you against the penthouse windows late at night, one hand heavy on your hip, reminding you in a hushed growl that "the whole city could look up and see who you belong to."
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who leaves faint marks where no one else can see — your collarbone, the inside of your thighs — his idea of branding that no diamond can outshine.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who is maddeningly patient, dragging out touches until you’re squirming, whispering, “If you want it, you’ll have to ask properly.”
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who keeps a glass of whiskey in one hand while his other rests firmly on the back of your neck, guiding you closer, his lips brushing the rim of the glass before yours.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who always looks perfectly collected in public, but the second the door shuts behind you, his tie is off and he’s tugging you into his lap like he’s been waiting all night.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who twitches against the zipper of his slacks when you call him Brucie with those pretty lips of yours.
sugar daddy!bruce wayne who insisted that this couldn't be labeled as anything specific for "reputation's sake" but after a year of being by his side and living in Wayne Manor, there didn't need to be a label. You both knew what this became.
♯ THE TASTE OF HEAVEN . . . sugar daddy ! batboys x fem ! reader
BRUCE WAYNE
bruce wayne doesn’t need to flaunt his wealth because he is the wealth. he doesn’t call himself your sugar daddy—it’s just implied in every action, every gift, and every moment he spends with you. whether it’s a sleek black card handed to you with no spending limit or a private plane waiting to take you to an exotic destination, bruce makes luxury feel effortless
you can forget off-the-rack anything. bruce ensures you have custom clothing, jewelry, and even furniture. he’ll casually remark, “i had the designer make a few changes for you,” as though commissioning bespoke items for you is just another tuesday
his gifts are never tacky or gaudy—this man has impeccable taste, and everything he gives you reflects that. think diamond necklaces that catch the light just right, limited-edition handbags, or handwritten invitations to exclusive events where you’re his arm candy
you’re the arm candy !!! bruce’s automatic date to every high-profile gala, charity ball, and exclusive event. he wouldn’t even think of bringing anyone else. he makes it clear you’re not just an accessory, you’re the highlight of his night
you have a tab at nearly every high-end establishment in gotham. whether you’re shopping for couture or just stopping by your favorite café, bruce ensures you’re treated like royalty. everyone knows exactly who’s footing the bill
bruce isn’t the type to throw money at you just because—he always wants to make sure it’s something meaningful or useful to you. if you mention wanting to start a business or learn a new skill, he’ll quietly arrange everything you need, from connections to resources
while his gifts are extravagant, his affection shows in quieter ways too. when you’re stressed, he whisks you away for a weekend spa retreat. if you’re cold, he’ll drape his expensive coat over your shoulders without hesitation. every gesture, big or small, is about making your life as comfortable as possible
people know bruce is your sugar daddy, but they’re far too intimidated to say anything. the whispered assumptions only make him smirk. he doesn’t care what anyone thinks—if anything, he enjoys the power it gives him to make it abundantly clear that you’re his
despite the sugar daddy thing between you, bruce’s affection runs far deeper. he doesn’t just give you gifts—he gives you his time, his attention, and his unwavering loyalty. the material luxuries are just an extension of the way he sees you: as someone deserving of nothing but the best
he’ll sometimes joke about the arrangement with a mischievous smile. “you’re lucky i’m rich,” he’ll say, handing you keys to a new car or sliding over a box containing some ridiculously rare jewelry. but his tone is warm, his teasing more affectionate than condescending
DICK GRAYSON
unlike bruce, dick doesn’t shy away from the term “sugar daddy.” in fact, he might jokingly call himself that from time to time, especially when handing you an absurdly expensive gift
( dick ‘what’s the point of having all this money if i can’t spoil my girl?’ grayson )
while he spoils you endlessly, he does it in a way that feels personal and heartfelt. every gift, trip, or gesture reflects how well he knows you. if you casually mention a dream vacation destination or a favorite designer, you can bet it’ll show up in your life sooner rather than later
he is the kind of sugar daddy who makes spoiling you fun. he’ll turn shopping trips into mini-games, daring you to try on the most extravagant pieces in the store just so he can gush over how amazing you look. “if you don’t let me buy that dress, i’ll be personally offended,” he’d tease, but you know he’s serious
dick loves being seen with you. whether it’s walking hand in hand down the streets of blüdhaven or pulling up to a gala with you in tow, he thrives on showing the world just how proud he is to have you by his side. and yes, he does things like carrying your shopping bags with zero shame, flashing that charming grin at anyone who stares
doesn’t wait for a special occasion to surprise you. whether it’s a bouquet of your favorite flowers, a new gadget you’ve been eyeing, or tickets to a concert you love, he’s constantly finding ways to brighten your day
with dick, every vacation feels like a scene from a romance movie. he books private villas, sunset yacht rides, and five-star experiences, all while making it feel like the most casual, natural thing in the world. “i just thought we could use a break,” he’d say, as if flying you out to the maldives was as simple as grabbing coffee
he’s always finding ways to make you laugh, even about the relationship itself. if someone gives you a side-eye for carrying a designer purse, he’ll lean over and whisper, “they’re just jealous, babe. can you blame them?” his lighthearted attitude makes the relationship feel easy and natural
with his good looks and high-profile status, the press is obsessed with you two. headlines like “blüdhaven’s golden boy and his stunning girlfriend” are a constant, but dick takes it in stride, often laughing at the exaggerations
“you deserve the world,” he’d say, his blue eyes sparkling. “let me give it to you.”
JASON TODD
jason didn’t immediately step into the role of “sugar daddy.” in fact, he hesitated because he didn’t want his wealth to define your relationship. but as time passed and he saw how much joy he could bring you by easing your stress, he leaned into it—but only his way
for jason, being your sugar daddy isn’t about flashy displays or media attention—it’s about making sure you’re secure and comfortable in a way no one else could provide. he loves knowing you don’t have to worry about rent, bills, or any other mundane stressors. “if i can fix it, i’m going to,” he says simply, brushing off your thanks like it’s no big deal
he might not shower you with gifts constantly, but when he does, it’s jaw-dropping: a rare first-edition book he remembered you mentioned once, a custom leather jacket, or even a dream vacation to a quiet, secluded spot where you can both relax away from the chaos of gotham
jason is practical when it comes to what he provides. he’ll upgrade your phone, stock your fridge with your favorite snacks, and even surprise you with a car when he notices yours struggling. “i’m not about to let you drive around in that death trap,” he grumbles as he tosses you the keys
and while he’s not the type to parade you through expensive stores, jason shows his affection in quieter, more personal ways. he might take you on a motorcycle ride to a hidden gotham rooftop, where he surprises you with your favorite takeout and a designer bag “he happened to pick up”
despite his tough exterior, he has a serious soft spot for you. if you so much as hint at wanting something, he’s already making plans to get it. he’ll pretend it’s no big deal, but his little smirk always gives him away
jason sometimes pretends to be annoyed by how much he spoils you, but it’s all in good fun. “you’re turning me into one of those rich guys,” he’ll grumble, handing you a sleek gift box. but the way his lips twitch into a smile when you beam at him says otherwise
you’ll come home to find an envelope with tickets to your favorite band’s concert or a designer coat hanging in your closet because he noticed the weather getting colder. “what? you think i didn’t notice you shivering last week?”
he doesn’t like the idea of anyone else stepping in to provide for you. if someone so much as jokes about taking you out or buying you a drink, he’s quick to step in, slinging an arm around your shoulders and shooting them a glare. “she’s taken. move along.”
he makes sure you feel safe, cared for, and endlessly spoiled in his own rough-edged, loving way <3
ADDITIONAL NOTE! if you like my work , please consider reblogging and / or commenting . thank you if you do 🤍
# BEING BRUCE WAYNE’S ❝SUGAR BABY❞ AND FALLING IN LOVE WITH HIM — HCs
warnings — slowburn. brief mentions of sex synopsis — being a broke college student that caught the attention of none other than bruce wayne a/n — this is the fluffy slowburn sfw version… the 18+ one is still in the works
──⟢ fear-is-truth — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.
you were a broke college student in your early twenties, juggling classes, part-time jobs, and an unrelenting mountain of bills. bruce wayne, freshly thirty, was already a household name—gotham’s elusive billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist.
you first crossed paths at a charity gala, where you were working as a server. you’d only seen bruce wayne in tabloids before, so when you caught him leaning against a marble pillar, watching you, you simply froze.
“you seem a little… distracted,” his eyes flicked to the tray you balanced expertly. “nervous, or just tired of all this nonsense?” you gave him a polite, weary smile. “neither. just trying to get through the night without spilling on anyone important. still got a paper to finish.”
his lips twitched in amusement, but he didn’t press further. at the end of the night, though, you found an obscene tip tucked beneath his empty glass—crisp hundred bills folded neatly, more money than you’d made all week.
weeks later, he appeared again—this time at a hole-in-the-wall café near campus where you worked part-time. it wasn’t his scene; he stuck out like a sore thumb in his tailored black coat, looking utterly out of place among the students.
he didn’t say much that first visit, just ordered black coffee and left another ridiculous tip. but he came back. again and again. sometimes he’d stay long enough for a brief conversation, other times he’d sit quietly in a corner, newspaper in hand. it wasn’t just the tips that stuck to you—it was the way he listened. bruce never made you feel small or dismissed your struggles, like so many others did.
when he first offered to help you financially, he did it with tact that left you room to preserve your pride. “you’re working too hard,” he said one evening. “let me take some of the weight off—just until things settle. consider it an investment in your future.” there was a sincerity in his voice that made it sound like a practical solution rather than a handout.
accepting his help wasn’t easy. you’d been so accustomed to clawing your way through life that the idea of someone else shouldering your burden felt unnatural. after days of hesitation, you finally agreed—but only on the condition that you’d pay him back one day. bruce had only nodded, though there was the faintest hint of a smirk, like he knew you never would.
he never made you feel indebted, though. if anything, he treated it like helping you was a privilege.
when your ancient car finally gave up, bruce didn’t even wait for you to ask for help. within the week, a sleek, brand-new model was delivered to your apartment, the keys tucked into an envelope with a simple note: you need something reliable. you tried to thank him, but he just waved it off. “just focus on getting where you need to go.”
your decrepit laptop, with its constant crashing and refusal to load anything on time, was next. one day, you came home to find a pristine, state-of-the-art model sitting on your desk, already set up and ready to use. you didn’t even have to ask.
bruce never demanded anything in return. the closest he came to asking for favours were the occasional lunches or dinners where he’d pick your brain about your studies, your ambitions, your dreams. he always seemed genuinely interested, never letting the conversation veer into anything too personal unless you led it there.
you realized over time that it wasn’t just the money, the gifts, or even the way he treated you like an equal—it was the steady presence he provided. bruce wasn’t there to fix your life or control it; he just wanted to make it a little easier. and somehow, that made all the difference.
when you stayed up late working on papers, bruce would sometimes settle on the couch nearby, a novel in his hands. he never intruded, but his quiet presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone. on particularly rough nights, he’d bring you a cup of tea without saying a word, setting it gently beside you before returning to his book.
on your birthday, he surprised you with a bouquet of your favourite flowers—something you’d mentioned in passing months ago—and a beautifully wrapped box containing a classic hermès birkin. the card attached to it read simply, “something to carry all those books in.”
his gifts were always thoughtful, never ostentatious in a way that would make you feel uneasy. designer coats, shoes, and bags—each impeccably tailored to your taste, yet discreet. the labels were always tucked away, hidden in folds and linings. they were things you could wear without being worried you’d get mugged. nothing about them screamed, “i have a sugar daddy.”
bruce never tried to “buy” your affection. you didn’t owe him anything—not in the transactional way most would expect. he just wanted to see you comfortable, to help you in ways that went beyond financial support. and, over time, you realized you cared for him too—not for what he could give you, but for who he was.
he had an uncanny ability to remember the smallest details about you. the way you took your coffee. the name of the professor whose lectures you dreaded. how the sound of rain on a window always calmed you. those little moments of attentiveness.
at first, bruce kept you at arm’s length emotionally, cautious about pulling you deeper into his complicated world. but as the months went by, as your late-night talks stretched into early mornings, it became clear that bruce didn’t see this as a favour or an obligation. he cared for you in a way that went far beyond surface-level kindness.
when you went through a bad breakup, he didn’t try to fix it or console you with empty platitudes. instead, he just wrapped his arms around you, letting you cry into his chest.
it wasn’t long before the line between benefactor and friend blurred entirely. he was no longer just footing your bills or buying you thoughtful gifts—bruce got greedy. he didn’t just want to take care of you financially; he wanted all of you.
one night, you were venting about your professors, frustration pouring out in a messy jumble of words. bruce listened intently, brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, giving you his undivided attention.
“you’re too nice to me,” you blurted, the words slipping out like a spew of vomit. before doubt could creep in, you leaned forward and kissed him. it was a kiss that changed everything—as you half expected him to gently push you away, his hand came up to cradle your face, deepening it.
the kiss led to one thing, then another, and before you knew it, you were tangled together in his sheets, lost in his kisses, his touch, his quiet attention to your every reaction. bruce wasn’t just passionate; he was thorough in a way that unraveled you completely—it was hands down the best sex you’d ever had.
when you woke up the next morning, still tangled in his arms, a wave of uncertainty hit you. maybe it was nerves or overthinking, but you couldn’t stop wondering if you’d crossed a line you shouldn’t have. sensing your unease, bruce kissed your shoulder, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “i hope you know this changes nothing… we’re fine.”
and just like that, you became his official “sugar baby.” not that the dynamic between you two changed drastically—it simply gave bruce an excuse to really spoil you.
the secrecy was part of the thrill, but also a necessity. bruce wasn’t ready to let the world know, and truthfully, you weren’t either. the thought of being reduced to a tabloid headline or a shallow label like “sugar baby” or “sugar daddy” felt like a betrayal of the genuine connection you’d built.
he started sending you to your favourite spa on weekends, claiming you deserved a break from all the stress. when you protested that it was too much, he just shrugged. “self-care is important,” he said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.
your closet, which had been a collection of fast fashion and thrifted pieces, was slowly replaced with the row, max mara, burberry, and dior.
your jewelry collection grew as well. delicate van cleef & arpels bracelets, tiffany & co. pendants, and diamond-stud earrings from cartier found their way into your life. he gifted you a dainty rolex, understated yet stunning, with a cheeky note: “don’t be late to class.”
despite all of this, bruce was careful to ensure it never looked like you were “living large.” you stayed in your same modest apartment, though it was clear his influence was woven into the details: a state-of-the-art security system, upgrades to your furniture and appliances that made life a little easier.
dinners became a regular occurrence, whether it was a reservation at gotham’s most exclusive restaurant or an extravagant meal in his penthouse.
when you graduated, bruce was there, blending into the crowd in a simple black coat, inconspicuous among the sea of families and friends. you didn’t spot him at first—he wasn’t the type to draw attention when he didn’t want to—but when your eyes finally landed on his, he gave you the smallest of nods. after the ceremony, he approached you quietly, slipping a small velvet box into your hand. you opened it to reveal a key.
“what’s this for?” you asked, already overwhelmed, fingers trembling slightly. “your new apartment,” he replied simply. then, after a pause, “unless… you’d rather move in with me.”
from then on, everything changed. bruce wasn’t just your benefactor; he was your best friend, your confidant, and eventually, your lover.
bruce wayne x sugar baby/trophy wife!reader headcanons!!!
•it starts off as him paying you in exchange for you being his plus one to all of his charity galas but eventually the line between platonic and romantic begins to blur
• you tell him that the strap on your purse broke a few days ago and the next morning a birkin bag shows up on your doorstep with a note
“they didn’t have your favorite color so i got you black. black goes with everything. -B”
• you’re immediately calling him because…
“bruce, do you know how much a birkin is!?!? i mean, don’t you have to have like a purchase history with Hermes to buy one of these??”
“calm down, sweetheart. i have more than enough money to replace one of your old purses. don’t worry about it.”
•finding out your boyfriend was batman was quite the shock
•wdym charming, billionaire, playboy bruce wayne lurks in the shadows of gotham at night, waiting to fight crime? no, definitely not your bruce!!
•the two of you are constantly sneaking away onto rooftops and balconies at galas and other events to get away from the noise and just enjoy each other
“brucie, c’mon!! if you don’t hurry up, mr. johnson and his wife will start talking your ear off again trying to invite you to a round of golf!”
•you last a mere 3 months before bruce gets the official ‘boyfriend’ title and another year before there’s a rock on your finger
the idea that every summer will be as hot if not hotter than this for the rest of my life is unbearable i need to (remembers suicide jokes are bad for my mental health) murder an oil executive
Bruce Wayne is now fully focused on his role as CEO of Wayne Enterprises. With Gotham finally in safer hands, he has been able to step back from the life that once consumed him and devote himself to the company he was always meant to lead. However, persistent rumors about a divorce have made the board question whether he is stable enough to remain in his position, forcing him to ask his ex-wife for a very public favor.
RATING: 18+
WORD COUNT: 6,9k
GENERAL TAGS: divorced couple, ex-spouses to lovers, fake/pretend marriage trope, pining, mutual pining, needy!Bruce, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (DON'T), cunnilingus, fingering,cowgirl, marking/biting, dirty talk, swearing, aftercare, alcohol and food consumption, emotional insecurity and discussion of past marriage neglect, mentions of Batman, happy ending assured, no use of y/n
fic recs.
Every time you walked through the doors of your office building on Miagani Island, you felt the eyes following you. You caught the occasional whisper, but after nearly ten years of this routine, you’d grown used to it. Eleven years ago, when you agreed to go to dinner with Bruce Wayne, you knew exactly what you were getting into. Everyone wanted to know the low-profile lawyer who had snagged Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. But over time, especially after the wedding, Gotham's public gradually lost interest in dissecting your life.
So, you went back to living discreetly. It didn't mean you never had to deal with curious glances or intrusive paparazzi, but it was manageable. Lately, though, things had been feeling just as intense as they were back when Vicki Vale leaked to all of Gotham that you and Bruce were dating.
You figured Bruce might be seeing someone. The thought was bitter, unfortunately, but it would explain why the Gotham media was suddenly tracking your steps again.
"What a way to start the day," you muttered, staring at your reflection in the elevator mirror.
It was going to be a long day. You had anxious clients breathing down your neck, and starting the morning thinking about your ex-husband moving on was definitely not the motivation you needed. You tried not to think about him, but you always failed. Every time you saw a headline about Batman on the news, your mind immediately drifted. Was he okay?
But those thoughts usually hit at more convenient times—especially during those sleepless nights when seeing the damn Bat-Signal lighting up the Gotham sky was enough to keep you awake. Now, your entire day was going to be haunted by the possibility of Bruce moving on. The mere thought made your stomach turn.
"Good morning!" your intern’s voice chirped loudly before the elevator doors could even finish sliding open.
She had a bright, energetic look that, in your opinion, did not belong on the average Gotham City resident. There had to be a very good reason for her to be this excited so early. If you were lucky, some major case had resolved itself while you were out. Unlikely, but a girl could dream.
"Good morning," you replied, heading toward your office with the overly enthusiastic girl trailing close behind. "Any particular reason for all this energy?"
As you neared your door, a familiar, sweet floral scent hit you. It had been a while since you’d received flowers. Bruce had always been an attentive boyfriend and an incredibly romantic husband; his habit of sending massive vases of flowers to your office was common knowledge among your coworkers. But, for obvious reasons, your receptionist hadn't seen a delivery boy in months. You were still surprised that no one outside of family and close friends knew about the divorce.
When you pushed the door open, there they were. An obscenely large bouquet of stargazing lilies. Your favorite.
Bruce always sent flowers, and you loved every kind. But out of all the arrangements he used to buy, lilies were strictly reserved for special occasions.
"They were delivered first thing this morning. It’s been a minute since the florist visited us," your intern said, smiling, clearly impressed by the grand romantic gesture. You approached your desk, searching for a card as if you didn't already know exactly who sent them. "Looks like he’s trying hard... I was actually starting to believe those rumors going around."
Strange.
"What rumors?" you asked.
"People are saying your marriage is on the rocks."
Little does she know, you thought.
If people were starting to notice your absence by Bruce's side at public events, it explained the sudden increase in lingering stares on the street.
Honestly, you were surprised it had taken people this long to suspect anything. You had been separated for nearly a year. The divorce had been finalized nine months ago, and you had asked only one thing of Bruce: to keep it entirely private. It wasn't the most logical decision, sure, but at the time, you were emotionally wrecked. Asking for a divorce was the hardest thing you’d ever done, and you couldn't handle the tabloids turning your life into a living hell again.
"You can't believe everything you read," you lied smoothly, just as you had for the past several months. It was almost comical how Bruce was still your perfect excuse to avoid social commitments.
“I have dinner with my husband.”
Meanwhile, your wedding ring was tucked away in your underwear drawer, and you hadn't seen your husband's face in months.
Ugh.
Bruce and husband in the same thought.
Your dismissive response sent your intern out of the room with a smile. You knew she was a gossip, so the flower story would circulate through the building and hit a tabloid column by afternoon. If people were already suspicious, a little harmless gossip wouldn't hurt. It was times like this that made you realize people would have to find out eventually, especially if you wanted to move on and leave the Wayne name in the past.
Maybe Bruce wanted to start dating again. He was a single man; nothing was stopping him. But what woman would even try to get close? To the rest of the world, Bruce Wayne was still very much married.
Right now, the lilies on your desk felt like they were mocking you.
You leaned in, inhaling their sweet, rich scent.
Tucked between the blooms was a simple white card. You recognized Bruce’s elegant, cursive handwriting immediately:
“Please call me. We need to talk.
– B. Wayne”
On the back, in the same neat script, was his number. As if you didn't have it memorized. As if you could ever forget the moments you shared, no matter how desperately you tried.
When you first read the card two hours ago, you were positive you wouldn't dial his number. But now, your mind was starting to betray you. The flowers staring at you from the corner of the room weren't helping.
What if something had actually happened?
But if it were something serious with Dick or Alfred, he would have called you directly. And if he were physically hurt, Alfred had promised he would let you know.
He was leaving the ball in your court.
The uncertainty was driving you crazy, making it impossible to focus on your work. You had two major hearings for high-profile clients coming up, and yet the only thing occupying your brain was whether or not to call your goddamn ex. For now, you had to push it aside. You had a million things to do.
You spent the entire day completely spaced out. By the time you unlocked the door to your empty apartment, void of any husband with a giant bouquets of lilies, your only real option was to open a bottle of wine.
One thing led to another, and after three glasses, your thoughts were delightfully hazy. You found yourself on your couch with your laptop open, scrolling through the Gotham Gazette's society page.
GOTHAM GAZETTE | SOCIETY & GOSSIP
Where Is Mrs. Wayne? Gotham Begins to Question the City's Most Private Marriage
Screw it.
You grabbed your phone and dialed Bruce’s number. He picked up on the second ring.
"Hello?" His voice sounded heavily out of breath. If you were interrupting something, you were going to throw yourself off a bridge.
"Can you hear me?" he asked when you didn't say anything right away.
"Yes, um... yes, I can." You swallowed hard. Why did he have to answer so fast? You barely had time to chicken out. "I got your flowers this morning... Look, I don't want to interrupt. If you can't talk right now, I can—I'll just hang—"
"No! Please don't hang up," Bruce cut in quickly, a brief silence hanging over the line. "I was just training with Dick. I just... I didn't expect you to call." Honestly, Bruce hadn't expected you to call at all.
"I can call back later."
"Absolutely not. Just give me a second." His voice was soft despite his heavy breathing. You heard the faint rustle of his phone being set down, followed by the soft fabric movement of a shirt being pulled on. Your ex-husband was probably sweaty and shirtless. Great things to picture when you're three glasses of wine deep.
"Thank you for calling, darling," the pet name slipped out, sounding so familiar yet so painfully foreign. It had been months since he, or anyone else, had called you that. "Did you like the flowers?"
"Yes, they're beautiful," you said, looking over at them. You’d put them in a proper vase the second you got home, safely out of reach of your curious cat.
"I'm glad. I... honestly, I don't even know how to talk to you right now." You didn't know either. You two used to be so good at this.
Before replying, you took a breath to make sure your voice didn't sound slurred from the wine. "Yeah, it's been a while since we talked. Is everything okay? Did something happen to you or Dick?"
"No, we're fine. Are you okay?"
"Yes," you lied. The line went quiet again, and you immediately regretted making the call.
On the other end, Bruce was starting to feel incredibly anxious and guilty for sending the flowers in the first place. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable. He would never do anything to hurt you. He desperately needed your help, but he was a coward. Even though Dick and Alfred had urged him to talk to you in person, he hadn't wanted to ambush you at your office, especially not with how fast rumors spread in Gotham. The last time you’d seen each other was on a gloomy afternoon when you came to collect the last of your things from the manor.
So, he sent flowers and left the choice to you. If you called, he’d explain. If you didn't, he wouldn't dare drag you into his mess and would find another way to handle it.
"I need to talk to you. In person, if you're comfortable with it. I don't think it's right to ask this over the phone."
Your mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario. Bruce was seeing someone else and wanted to take the divorce public. Great. Definitely not the kind of conversation you have over the phone.
Once again, the thought of Bruce with another woman made you feel sick. And with three glasses of wine in your system and a fourth currently being poured, that sickness was quickly morphing into…
Jealousy?
During your marriage, you had never been the jealous type. Despite what the media claimed, Bruce was never a womanizer, and he’d never given you a single reason to doubt him. It was deeply ironic that you were starting to feel possessive of him only after you’d divorced.
Well, you certainly didn't envy whatever hypothetical woman it was. Imagine being interested in a man whom everyone still believed belonged to someone else.
To you.
It was selfish, but the thought managed to quiet the green-eyed monster clawing at your chest.
"Can I pick you up for lunch tomorrow?" he asked.
You hesitated for a full minute, weighing the pros and cons. But you couldn't deny how much you missed him. A simple lunch wouldn't hurt.
"Okay," you finally whispered. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
The next morning dragged on at a snail's pace. Your firm was swamped with cases, and the interns and clients had endless questions. The slight headache from last night's wine combined with your usual work stress was still lingering by lunchtime. You made a mental note to avoid drinking a bottle of wine mid-week in the future. That would be an easy promise to keep if you didn't have to hear about your ex-husband every five minutes, which, in Gotham, was practically impossible.
Speaking of your ex, he was currently leaning against the hood of his incredibly conspicuous sports car, parked illegally in a tow zone right in front of your office building.
Some things never changed. He always waited for you like this. Whenever you had lunch together, he always insisted on driving himself, even though calling his chauffeur would have been much more practical. Lunch had always been your time.
Another thing that hadn't changed was his looks. His jawline was still sharp and perfectly defined, his eyes held that same intense, brooding gaze, and his dark hair was impeccably styled without a single strand out of place. Gotham's gloomy, grey backdrop always did a spectacular job of highlighting his beauty; even just standing there, leaning against his car, he was unfairly handsome. He wore a dark, three-piece suit that hugged his broad shoulders and chest perfectly.
As you approached, Bruce straightened up, a soft, almost shy smile touching his lips. The moment you got close enough, his scent hit you like a wave,that rich, woody cologne. You couldn't even pretend you hadn't smelled it in months, considering you had kept about five of his old shirts to sleep in during your first few months apart. In fact, you’d slept in one last night. But nothing compared to the real thing, emanating from his warm body right in front of you.
There was no way you were getting through this lunch unscathed.
The warm weight of his hand settled on your lower back, guiding you toward the passenger side as he opened the door for you, just like he always did. He walked around the front of the Aston Martin and slipped into the driver's seat. The air inside the car was thick with tension, but Bruce broke the silence gently.
"Can we go to our usual spot?"
"Yes," you replied, your voice a little shaky, already thrown off by how familiar and comfortable this felt.
Bruce started the engine, and you tried your best not to stare at him. But what else were you supposed to look at? Your eyes scanned the dashboard before settling on his hands gripping the steering wheel. That was when you noticed the gold band still resting on his left ring finger.
It threw you completely.
Your own ring was buried deep in your drawer, far out of sight. It had taken you months to finally slide it off. The fact that he was still wearing his did something to you. The jealousy quieted down instantly; if he was still wearing his wedding ring, he probably wasn't seeing anyone. Or maybe he just wore it to avoid questions. Either way, you were still jealous of your own ex-husband.
"Are you okay?" he asked when the silence stretched too long.
You didn't know what to say. Yes, I'm fine. Aside from missing you terribly and realizing I probably wanted to hide our divorce because, deep down, I was still holding onto some selfish hope that we’d fix this. But other than that, great.
You forced a smile. "Yes, I'm fine. I got a cat now."
The traffic light turned green just as Bruce let out a quiet, amused huff. He wasn't much of a cat person, but his soft laugh made your heart flutter. "That's very unlike you."
"I'm trying to change."
"Me too."
Getting better for his next girlfriend.
The restaurant wasn't far from your office, so the drive didn't last much longer. The moment Bruce parked, a valet appeared to take the keys. Once again, his hand settled on the small of your back, guiding you inside. The hostess, who recognized you immediately, led you to the exact same table where you and Bruce had shared years of laughter, romance, and good memories.
"Do you want the usual, sweetheart?" Bruce’s question was so soft it caught you off guard.
"Yes, honey." The old pet name slipped out before you could stop it.
Bruce's eyes flared, and his lips curved into that smug, arrogant grin that could light up an entire room. Bastard.
"Honey, huh?" Bruce teased, leaning in slightly after the waitress took your orders. "I was expecting a bit more resistance."
"Bruce, get to the point."
He rested his elbows on the table, bringing himself closer. Up close, you could see every detail of his face. He hadn't changed, but there was something different in his expression. He still had those faint tired lines around his eyes that suited him so well, but it was a different kind of exhaustion. It wasn't the heavy, dark toll that Batman took on him. He actually looked... lighter.
Gotham’s best detective was watching you with undivided attention, too. Your hair looked a little lighter, and the cut was different. You looked breathtakingly beautiful, and it had been distracting him since the moment you stepped out of your office building.
Keeping his eyes on you, trying to commit every detail of your face to memory, Bruce began to speak in a quiet, low voice. "A few months ago, I asked the board to let me step back in as CEO so Lucius could focus on other projects." You knew exactly what kind of "projects" he meant.
"So I'm back in the office, going to meetings, attending the galas I always should have been attending." How did he even have time for this? Gotham was safer than it had been in years, but how was he balancing this with Batman? No major rogues had caused trouble in months, which usually meant Batman was working overtime.
"But some of the board members think I'm too unstable for the position. They're talking about voting me out if they don't see some stability in my personal life. Especially now, with the construction of the new charity hospital."
"Why do they think you're unstable?"
"Because of you, darling," he said simply. "I will always respect your decision to keep our divorce private until you tell me otherwise. But we haven't been seen together in a long time, and people are starting to suspect a crisis. I really hate to ask you this, but—"
Before he could finish, you cut him off. "Do you want to go public with the divorce?"
"No, that's not what I want," Bruce said quickly, reaching across the table to gently brush his fingers against yours. "I hate asking this of you. You must be so tired of being associated with my name, and I have absolutely no right to ask you for anything. But... would you be willing to pretend to be my wife a little longer?"
You let out a sudden, genuine laugh.
"I know it's ridiculous. Please don't laugh at me." Even though you were mocking him, the sound of your laugh was too good to ignore. A soft, relieved smile broke across his face. "I know it might be time to make it public if that's what you want. I'll make the announcement tomorrow if you say the word." He swallowed hard.
"I don't want to, Bruce," you replied, calming down.
You knew you were being selfish. You had asked for the divorce because you were miserable, but that didn't mean you had stopped loving him. Quite the opposite. You just couldn't stand watching the man you loved slowly kill himself for a city that didn't care. It was destroying you, and Bruce loved you too much to keep you trapped in a life that made you suffer.
Playing along with this little fantasy for a few hours wouldn't cure the heartbreak, but it would be enough to ease the ache of missing him.
"I'll help you."
"Thank you, darling."
You shared a soft, lingering smile.
As the food arrived, Bruce began telling you about the charity gala he was hosting in two weeks to raise funds for the Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital. The project wasn't new, but Bruce had never had the time to truly dedicate himself to it before. He explained the details with an excitement you hadn't seen in him in years.
He told you the gala would be held at a luxury estate hotel just outside the city, and that a custom dress would be sent to your apartment.
In a few days, you would be playing the role of Mrs. Bruce Wayne again.
Those two weeks flew by. You and Bruce spoke on the phone a few times, supposedly to go over the details of the event, but the conversations quickly drifted to other things. During one of those late-night calls, Bruce casually mentioned that he hadn't put on the cowl in months. Dick, Jason, and Barbara were handling the streets now. Bruce was only helping with investigations, tech upgrades, and training.
You didn't know how to process that information. It was bittersweet. It was amazing news because it meant Bruce was finally safe, but at the same time, a painful question lingered: Why couldn't he have made this choice when you were still there?
Bruce was asking himself the same thing. Why did he have to lose the love of his life to finally wake up? He felt like an absolute idiot.
But his months of isolation had actually done him some good. He was taking care of himself, keeping a normal routine, and fully committing to his role as CEO. In his free time, he boxed with Dick, played golf with business partners, and spent actual quality time with Alfred. The only thing missing was you.
He was trying to build a life without Batman. He didn't want to get his hopes up about getting you back, but if he could just have you in his life, even as a friend, he would be content.
You were finally nearing the hotel where the gala was being held. Bruce had insisted on sending his driver to pick you up, even though you’d argued that you could easily drive the hour-long trip yourself. It was so easy to fall back into the routine of being his wife. Even from a distance, he always made sure you were taken care of.
The Bentley pulled up to the magnificent hotel entrance. You walked into the stunning lobby, heading straight to the front desk to retrieve your key.
"Good afternoon, I have a reservation under my name." You smiled at the receptionist.
The girl offered a warm, professional smile the moment she saw the name. "Of course, Mrs. Wayne. We've been expecting you." She handed you a gold keycard.
You thanked her and headed to the elevator. A few moments later, you were walking down a quiet, elegantly decorated hallway. When you unlocked the door to the suite, you had to stop and take a breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a gorgeous skyline view. There was a massive living room, a private bar, and a spacious bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed.
Wow.
The bathroom featured a massive soaking tub. The temptation of a hot bath with the complimentary bath oils was too good to pass up, so you immediately started running the water. You didn't bother fully exploring the rest of the suite; you just stripped off your clothes and slid into the warm water.
The bath was so relaxing that you didn't hear the main suite door open or the quiet footsteps moving around the bedroom. Assuming you were completely alone, you eventually stood up, wrapped yourself in the plush hotel bathrobe, and opened the door, only to gasp in shock as you ran directly into Bruce, who was wearing nothing but his underwear, clearly preparing to take a shower himself.
"Oh my God!" you gasped, stepping back. "How did you get in here?"
"This is my room too, sweetheart." Right. Of course his team wouldn't book separate rooms for a married couple.
That was when the reality of your mutual lack of clothing set in. A flush immediately rushed to your cheeks. Your eyes involuntarily drifted down his muscular chest, mapping the familiar, heavy lines of his body before you forced yourself to look away. He was watching you with a look of pure, unadulterated longing.
You quickly pulled the lapels of your robe tighter, tying the belt into a secure knot. Bruce let out a low, amused chuckle. It was probably a good idea you tied it tight before he lost his mind and did it for you.
"Um... I was just taking a bath," you stammered, completely flustered.
"Yes, I can see that, darling." He had that smug, teasing look on his face. "I was planning on doing the same."
He took a step toward the bathroom, but you both tried to dodge in the same direction, resulting in you bumping right into his chest. His large hands immediately shot out to catch your waist, steadying you.
You were entirely too close. Bruce’s gaze dropped slowly from your eyes to your lips. You bit your bottom lip, trying to catch your breath. His gaze was intense, heavy, and completely hypnotizing. After months of empty space, his lips were only inches away from yours.
Despite the hot bath, a shiver ran down your spine. Your heart was beating so hard you were certain he could feel it pressing against his chest.
With a monumental effort of self-control, Bruce managed to break the spell. If he stayed this close for another second, he was going to ruin everything and kiss you. He cleared his throat, but his fingers lingered on your waist for a fraction of a second, squeezing gently before letting go.
"Your dress is in the closet. You should find everything you need to get ready in there."
"Thank you, Bruce."
He slipped into the bathroom, and the sound of the shower soon filled the room.
The black dress hanging in the closet was breathtaking. You slipped it on, and it hugged your curves perfectly, the built-in corset cinching your waist. You stared at your reflection, admiring how the fabric draped over your hips before eventually taking it off so you could blow-dry your hair and do your makeup.
Just as you were finishing, the bathroom door clicked open, releasing a thick cloud of warm steam. Bruce stepped out, damp and gorgeous. His dark hair was pushed back, water droplets still tracing the ridges of his chest. The white towel slung low on his hips did absolutely nothing to hide the heavy, impressive ridge of his erection.
Your eyes slowly traveled up to meet his. He held your gaze for a second, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his lips, before he quietly disappeared into the closet.
It was going to be a very long night.
The grand ballroom was glowing under the light of massive crystal chandeliers. Gotham's elite mingled with glasses of champagne, and Bruce didn't leave your side for a single second. Together, you greeted the board members. You laughed at their jokes, accepted their compliments, and played the part of the doting wife flawlessly. Years of being Mrs. Wayne had trained you well.
To the rest of the world, you were still the perfect, enviable couple.
Bruce's hand remained firmly anchored on your waist, occasionally squeezing your hip just to remind you he was there. During a quiet moment when he thought you might be overwhelmed by all the prying questions, he leaned in and murmured a soft thank-you. To everyone watching, he was the picture of a devoted, hopelessly in love husband.
The champagne was doing its job, and you were feeling delightfully relaxed. Bruce, who had matched you glass for glass, seemed calmer too.
"Would you do me the honor of this dance?"
The sheer formality of his question made you smile. You arched an eyebrow. "You don't have to ask, Bruce. We probably *should* be dancing. They think we're married, remember?"
"I know," he murmured. His eyes searched yours, that familiar little crease appearing between his brows—the one that only showed up when he was genuinely nervous. "But I'm not asking for the board, or for the cameras. I want to dance with you."
The noise of the ballroom seemed to fade into static. In that moment, all you could see was Bruce. This was the man you had fallen in love with, not the vigilante, not the billionaire. Just Bruce. The gentle, romantic man who had spent the entire night trying not to show how nervous he was just to be near you.
"I'd love to," you whispered.
A beautiful smile broke across his face. He took your left hand, raising it to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your heart skipped a beat.
He led you to the dance floor, his hand sliding smoothly to your waist while yours rested on his broad shoulder. Having your fingers laced with his felt so incredibly right.
"Still remember how?" you teased, looking up at him.
Bruce let out a soft laugh. "Of course I do."
Years ago, when you were first dating, you discovered Bruce couldn't dance to save his life. But before the wedding, he had secretly taken private lessons just to surprise you on your big day. Despite the divorce, that memory remained one of the sweetest moments of your life.
"Even with the lessons, you stepped on my feet so many times during our first dance I thought you were doing it on purpose."
"Never on purpose."
"Mm, tell me more."
He held your gaze, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper near your ear. "I think I just wanted an excuse to hold you close for a little longer."
You were supposed to be here to convince the board that Bruce was stable and to keep the press at bay. But it felt like you were slipping right back into a relationship that had ended long before the actual divorce. And you were enjoying it far more than you should.
"Careful, Bruce," you murmured, keeping a playful smile on your face. "People might think you're flirting."
"I thought that was the whole point of tonight," he whispered, leaning in so close you could feel the warm, champagne-scented breath against your cheek. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling your bodies together until there wasn't an inch of space between you.
"To show everyone how completely, hopelessly in love with you I still am," he finished.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head to hide how wildly your heart was racing. "You are definitely flirting."
"And you are stunning."
A faint blush crept up your cheeks, and you looked away, pretending to watch the other couples. "You don't look too bad yourself, Wayne."
He smirked, pleased with your answer, his thumb caressing your hip. "Mm, who's flirting now?"
"That wasn't a flirt, Bruce. It was a simple compliment."
"Oh? Please, enlighten me on the difference."
"A flirt has an intention behind it."
"Ah. Well, I definitely have an intention."
"Then you need to be more direct, sweetheart. Lay your cards on the table."
You were definitely flirting now.
"More direct, you say?"
You let out a quiet, teased hum, nodding in agreement. You knew exactly what he wanted, but he was going to have to beg for it.
He chuckled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I was wondering if we could take this happy couple act back to our room, darling. I know you remember how good it is. I want to make sure the board really believes our performance."
"Is the board going to be in our room?"
"No," he murmured, his voice sending a delicious shiver straight down to your thighs. "But I'm positive I can make you scream loud enough for them to hear you from here."
Your breath hitched, your panties instantly growing damp at his words.
"That's me being direct, sweetheart."
"I think we should go upstairs, Bruce."
That single sentence shattered whatever was left of Bruce's self-control. He grabbed your wrist, guiding you out of the ballroom with hurried steps toward the lobby and the elevators.
Bruce pressed the elevator button with an almost childish impatience, as if the repetitive motion would force the elevator to descend faster.
The moment the steel doors opened to the empty cabin, he pulled you inside. Before the doors even clicked shut, he was all over you. The kiss was hot, desperate, and filled with a agonizing slowness, the heavy weight of months of built-up longing.
Your hands tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer. Bruce let out a needy, ruined groan against your lips, pressing you back against the wall.
"God, I missed you so much," he panted, pulling back just enough to breathe, his dark eyes searching yours.
With a heavy, deliberate movement, he ground his hips against yours. A needy sigh escaped your lips as you felt the thick, rock-hard length of his erection pressing against you through his suit. He wanted you to know exactly what you did to him.
The elevator stopped. The hallway was completely deserted. You pushed him back against your room door, your hands sliding over his damp chest, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. Your lips traced his jaw down to the sensitive spot on his neck. Bruce let out a shaky sigh, completely surrendering to your touch.
Your hand slid down his waist, tracing his firm thigh before cupping him through his trousers. Bruce gasped, his entire body locking up under your touch.
"Do you want me to beg for it out here, sweetheart? Do you want me to beg to bury myself inside your wet little cunt, hm?" he whimpered, his voice incredibly thick, his forehead resting against yours as his eyes practically pleaded. "Because I swear to God, I'm already on my knees."
With a quick swipe of the keycard, the door clicked open.
Bruce guided you back until the edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees. You sat down, and he immediately dropped to his knees before you.
There was no rush. He took off your heels, pressing devoued kisses along your calves as he slowly bunched up the fabric of your dress. When your panties were discarded, leaving you bare under the moonlight, Bruce looked up. He didn't move; he just waited, his eyes shining with a quiet, desperate need, begging for your permission. You swallowed hard and nodded.
His first lick was agonizingly slow, tracing up your seam before centering directly on your clit. Bruce touched you like you were holy. You arched off the bed, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling his head closer.
"Do you like this? Do you like having me down here like this?" he mumbled against your wet skin.
"Fuck, Bruce... it's so good," you gasped, your head tossing back.
He alternated between heavy, sucking wet kisses on your clit and sliding two fingers deep inside you. The sensation was overwhelming. Your hips rolled against his face, completely out of your control. Bruce rubbed his hard length against the sheets to ease the ache of his untouched erection, completely dedicated to your pleasure.
Feeling your body tense, he picked up the pace, his tongue working over you while his fingers stretched you out. You hit your climax hard, crying out as you came directly against his mouth, your body shivering.
Bruce pulled back slowly, his face wet with your slick, a dazed, incredibly satisfied smile on his lips.
"I missed eating you out so much, baby," he breathed.
He kept his fingers inside you, feeling the tight, desperate pulses of your aftershocks, enjoying the wet, needy sounds your body was making. His erection looked like it was going to tear through his trousers.
You pulled yourself up to kneel on the bed, bringing yourself to his height. Your fingers began undoing his shirt buttons, one by one, kissing every inch of exposed skin. His broad chest, his sensitive nipples... every touch drew ragged, needy whimpers from his chest. When you finally unzipped his pants and freed his length, Bruce let out a long, broken sigh of relief.
A few seconds later, the rest of your clothes were discarded on the floor. You were both completely bare, vulnerable, and absolutely desperate.
You pushed him down, straddling his thick thighs. Bruce held his breath, his large hands anchoring on your waist, his eyes dark and blown-wide as he stared up at your body. He tilted his head back, giving you total control.
When you slowly slid down his length, burying him inside you, Bruce arched his hips with a long, drawn-out groan.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his hands holding your thighs firmly but gently. "Take it all, sweetheart. I'm yours... I'm all yours."
You started to move slowly, setting the pace. Seeing Bruce Wayne completely undone beneath you, whimpering with eyes wet with pleasure, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever experienced.
"Please, faster... don't stop," he pleaded, his chest heaving.
"What do you want, Bruce?" you teased, slowing your pace on purpose.
"You can use me, darling," he gasped, his eyes rolling back slightly. "Please, fuck, I'm yours."
The surrender in his voice lit a fire in you. You slammed down on him, riding him hard, your nails digging into his broad shoulders. Bruce groaned loudly, completely lost to the feeling. His hand came up to squeeze your breast while the other held your hip, helping you drive the pace.
The wet, slapping sound of your bodies and his loud groans filled the quiet room. He met every downward stroke, creating a perfect, heavy friction. Bruce buried his face in your neck, biting and leaving dark, bruising marks on your skin.
"I'm gonna come..." he whimpered against your ear, his voice completely wrecked.
Your climax hit you first, your tight walls clamping down on his length, and Bruce let out a low, primal roar as he came deep inside you, filling you with thick, hot waves. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he lay there, still trembling beneath you, his hands clutching your hips as if you were his lifeline.
"Fuck...", he muttered under his breath, looking down at where your bodies were still joined.
"Oh my God," you panted, slowly sliding off him. The hot slick immediately began to drip down your inner thighs.
Still shaking, Bruce immediately got out of bed and went to the bathroom, returning a few seconds later with a warm, damp cloth. He knelt between your legs, gently and meticulously wiping you clean with an almost shy tenderness.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his blue eyes filled with soft concern.
You let out a weak laugh, still trying to catch your breath. "I just had sex with my ex-husband. What do you think, Wayne?"
"I hope that means yes." Bruce smiled warmly, climbing onto the bed beside you. You immediately rested your head against his bare chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.
"Since you left... I promised myself I wouldn't ask you to come back. Because that's what you asked of me."
"Bruce..."
"But I'm doing everything I can to be a better man. I was a terrible partner to you in the end. You didn't deserve that. I let Batman consume my entire life, and I only realized how much it was destroying you when you actually walked away. I don't know if I deserve your forgiveness, and I know I have no right to ask you to be mine again. But I miss you so much it physically hurts. I feel like a piece of my chest was ripped out. I'm trying to fill my life with other things, but it's completely empty without you."
Bruce’s voice was low, slightly rushed, his heart hammering against your ear. But his eyes looked lighter, relieved to finally confess the heavy truth.
And you felt the exact same way. You had felt that emptiness long before you actually left, back when Batman had swallowed your husband whole.
"I know how you feel, Bruce," you whispered.
Bruce pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. His hand slid to your chin, gently tilting your face up until your eyes met. He leaned down, and your lips finally found his in a soft, familiar kiss.
"And I still love you so much. I don't think I'll ever stop. But... our last year of marriage really hurt me. And I think I needed space to figure things out too."
"I know it's not right to ask you to be my wife again right now. But I need you in my life. I love you so much it hurts."
"It shouldn't hurt, Bruce."
"I know, but I need you." His voice sounded thick, almost tearful. "I'm so sorry for making you suffer. I never wanted to hurt you, sweetheart."
"It's okay, Bruce. It's in the past. I think... we can start seeing each other again. Slowly."
For a long moment, he just lay there, silently stroking your hair, letting your words sink in. Then, a small, genuine smile broke across his face.
"Slowly?"
You nodded. "No rush. No impossible promises. Just... one step at a time."
"Okay," Bruce whispered, pulling you closer against his chest. "I'll wait as long as it takes."
One thing about Obsession (2026) that I enjoyed was that it almost asks you to feel empathy for the entity possessing Nikki as well as the real one. Like, obviously the things she's doing are horrific and fucked up, but I think the scene where Bear is asking her to "just be Nikki!" and she eventually just desperatly screams "I can't be Nikki!" does a really good job of showcasing the entity's inner feelings. She's been created with the sole purpose of loving this guy more than anyone else but no matter how perfect it is or how much he claims to love her, its not her that he loves, its Nikki. And any time she stops pretending to be Nikki, he reacts (albeit rightfully) with disgust and horror. She can't be Nikki because Nikki would never love Bear, and so Bear will never love her.
⤿ JASON TODD ended up in a build-a-bear, per your request. Little did he know he'd end up having so much fun with it.
!! fluff. gf!reader. established relationship. this is so cute. no real warnings. silly date. i'd kill to go on a build a bear date. THIS IS SUCH A CUTIE REQUEST. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
Jason hadn’t looked convinced when you suggested it. Yet, here he was, standing just outside the mall entrance with his helmet tucked under his arm like he was ready to bolt if things went south. On top of that, his shoulders already tense in a way you recognized.. he bracing for embarrassment more than danger.
“You’re serious,” he said, eyes flicking toward the brightly lit storefront with the red sign and the open doorway full of laughter and music. You simply nodded, already smiling because you knew this was the exact point where he would pretend not to care and follow you anyway.
“Completely,” you nodded oh-so seriously. “You promised.”
He sighed like he was doing you a favor, which was his default move when he cared more than he wanted to admit, and followed you inside with the air of someone walking into enemy territory. As two little kids ran past you, his hand found the small of your back, like that part was an automatic reflex.
The place smelled like clean fabric and vanilla, and the sound was a little overwhelming at first, but you watched Jason adjust quickly. His eyes scanning out of habit before settling on you again, like you were the thing anchoring him in a space that didn’t make sense to him.
“This is,” he started, then stopped, glancing around at the rows of unstuffed toys lined up against the wall, all identical and empty in a way that felt oddly upsetting. “This is definitely not my usual scene.”
“You don’t say,” you drawled teasingly, a huge smile pulling at your lips as you were already reaching for one of the bears and holding it up between you. “This one looks like you.”
He snorted, which felt like a win, and took it from you, inspecting it with a seriousness that made you bite back a smile.
“I don’t look this friendly,” he said, his eyes not focused on you however, he was sizing up the bears behind you. With an amused quirk coming to his eyebrow, he leaned past you and held up a deflated bear that was fluffier than the rest.
"This one looks like you." He shrugged, though the small smirk tugging at his lips made you realize that he was beginning to enjoy this.
“Give it time, and you might look just as jolly as him,” you teased, gently taking the bear from his hands, giving it a brief 'inspection,' before nodding in satisfaction.
You watched as his eyes darted toward the door, and so, without wasting any more time, you were nudging him toward the stuffing station before he could overthink it, and he let himself be guided over. Though, he did roll his eyes in your direction as the employee explained the process like he wasn't a fully capable man.
Still, you noticed the way his hands were careful when he held the bear, steady and precise, like he treated even this silly little thing with a kind of respect he didn’t offer most people.
When it was your turn, he watched you just as closely, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, the corner of his mouth tilted up like he was trying not to enjoy this too much.
“You’re taking this very seriously,” he muttered playfully, as you adjusted the stuffing, pressing it here and there until it felt right.
“I want it to be perfect,” you said sternly and playfully all at once. You hadn't looked up at him, since you had a more important task at hand, but you felt his gaze linger a little longer at that. Like he had found a hidden meaning in those words.
The heart ceremony made him visibly uncomfortable at first, his brows knitting together as the employee handed him the tiny fabric heart, but when you nudged him gently and held yours out too, something in his expression softened.
You followed the instructions, pressing the heart to your own chest, making a wish you didn’t say out loud because it felt too private, too close to something real, and when you placed it inside the bear oh so delicately. Jason mirrored the motion more quietly, his jaw set like he was focusing on not making a joke.
Afterward, he cleared his throat. “You’re not allowed to tell anyone about this.”
You smiled. “I already told Alfred.”
He groaned, but there was no real heat in it, just the kind of reaction that meant he’d expected nothing less.
The customization station was where things shifted, where the joking eased into something warmer and more personal without either of you naming it.
Jason picked out clothes with a surprising amount of care, holding tiny jackets up against his bear and muttering under his breath about color coordination, while you watched from across the table, feeling that familiar pull in your chest that came from seeing him unguarded.
“What about this,” you asked, holding up a small leather vest, and he glanced at it, then at you, then smiled in a way that felt quieter than usual.
“Yeah,” he nodded, taking it from you with a new level of delicacy. “That works.”
Eventually, just as you two were about to leave, your big, pouty eyes made him sigh, check the time, and then turn on his heels.
"Fine. Fine, we can make one for each other." He grumbled under his breath like he didn't just have a blast.
Jason took his time choosing yours, his movements slower now, thoughtful, and when you asked what he was doing, he just shook his head.
“You’ll see,” he swatted you away when you tried to peek over his shoulders.
You did the same for him, trying to capture something that felt like him without turning it into a little joke, and when you finished, you handed it over with a small flutter of nerves you hadn’t expected.
Jason looked at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then he swallowed, his grip tightening just slightly.
“You made it look like me,” he muttered, quietly.
“You said you didn’t look friendly,” you replied. “I disagree.”
He huffed a laugh, but his eyes didn’t leave the bear, and when he finally looked back at you, there was something open there, something raw that he didn’t bother to hide.
“You did good,” he said, and your heart fluttered a bit, just like it did when you first started dating.
His bear for you was so precisely made. The stuffing was perfect, it was dressed in clothes that didn't resemble yours, but instead were ones you had pointed out earlier.
That's when your eyes got misty, and your nose tingled. Right there, outside of the build a bear, you threw your arms around him. Your head pressed into the crook of his neck.
"It's perfect, Jay." You mumbled against his skin. He had no clue that something so silly and simple, in the most charming way, could get you so emotional. But he wasn't complaining. It was one of the things he loved about you.
I need to see it again to pinpoint the details but I really like how the opening scene of obsession (2026) is Bear practicing his confession with a diner waitress... like already you have a woman (who is not Nikki) fulfilling the role for her, saying the response she thinks Bear would like to hear, but the moment this woman gives her own opinion, offering genuine advice to Bear (something along the lines of buying Nikki something she likes, like her favorite candy, flowers, etc)... Bear disregards it... but then ends up using Ian's recommendation from this same conversation (calling Nikki "Freaky Nikki")... like god its all already right there
jason todd is the type of man to try and match his partner’s size as she grows their child.
he indulges you in all your cravings, and encourages you to keep eating until you’re sufficiently full.
he claims there’s no such thing as dieting when you’re eating for two.
his favourite pregnancy craving of yours was dipping pickles into vanilla ice cream.
part of you thinks he’s excited to have someone who can eat as much as he can without restraint or concern.
and so he gets big with you, without the obvious pregnancy excuse. but he will still use the pregnancy as a reason for his weight gain to family.
“we’re pregnant. together.” he explains while rubbing his own stomach.
he takes time off the streets of gotham to prepare for the baby’s arrival and to take care of you. his lack of intensive movement causes his body to expand deliciously. arms, legs, backside. you take great pleasure in squishing his chub.
he tries to act too mighty for your squeezes, but he quickly grew fond of your attention, going as far as to put your hands over his ass to play with it.
but you know he loves to reciprocate. and he just cannot get enough of how pregnancy is making you glow. he’s obsessed with your plump body, and will take any opportunity to touch, kneed and love on your new form.
every stretch mark is adored, hyperpigmentation kissed, and swollen skin massaged. he’s almost annoyingly attentive; knows exactly what you need before you get the chance to complain.
his hard abs get cushioned by a soft layer of fat, a layer he’s proud to have.
“soft for the baby. don’t want her to cut herself on these bad boys,” he rubs his hand over his squishy abs when regarding you with a wink.
and he wholeheartedly believes it’ll be a girl.
a girl would be a dream. he could be gentle, soft, affectionate; learn how to braid hair and play tea parties. protect her from the evil of the world.
but a boy? jason wouldn’t know what to do. he’d want the kid to grow up tough, a protector, but what if he ended up like him? he wouldn’t want his son growing up with a father like his. what if he abandons him, dies when he’s just a kid, or puts him in harms way? he couldn’t bare the thought of repeating the cycle. so he prays for a girl.
his favourite part of your nightly routine includes rubbing your feet while you read in bed. he makes you read aloud, some classic he’d picked out for you to read to the baby.
at first, jason was terrified of becoming a father. after everything he’d been through, he couldn’t see himself doing a good job. but he was never the running type.
he was going to stick by you and the baby the way no one ever stuck beside him.
and when it’s finally time for the baby to arrive, he’s more afraid than you are. he goes eerily quiet, eyes scanning every hospital room you’re moved to. he doesn’t want anyone to touch you unless absolutely necessary, and stands watch at the door like a guard dog.
when it’s go time, he’s sooo involved. fully decked out in scrubs and a bouffant cap. he had held your hand until you just about crushed it while pushing. that’s when he decided to move closer to the action.
the doctors had him right between your legs, arms braced to catch your child. jason had seen men sliced and torn apart, but nothing had horrified him more than watching your body tear as you birthed your baby. that had him questioning ever sleeping with you again if it meant putting you through that kind of pain once more.
he guided their little head out of the canal and placed them right atop your bosom while the nurses rubbed their back until it finally breathed in life.
hearing those first cries, he was a mess. you both were. but seeing giant, hardened jason todd crying over a newborn was a sobering, and somewhat hilarious sight for you. you know he’s all mush under all his makeshift walls, but this was a whole other level.
jason has never experienced the kind of love he felt in that moment. he knew he could never go back to the life he used to lead. no. his whole world now revolves around you and that tiny, wriggly human being covered in goop.
he’s tries not to cry during the first bath. baby wails the whole time while he rinses their little body. he hates making them upset so much it makes his chest ache.
but he loves skin-to-skin. he’s very happy to let you sleep and lay the bub on his bare chest, puffing out his belly to support their weight. and the little thing finally quietens down when they’re being held by daddy.
jason lugs the carrycot out of the hospital with equal amounts of pride and protectiveness. you eat it up, recording him from behind when you’re finally discharged.
and when you get home, he refuses to sleep. which is great for you; you’re happy to entrust jason with the baby to catch up on some much needed rest. but jason is wired like never before, watching the baby breathe as it sleeps like a hawk, and rushing to soothe every cry.
it takes a few days to convince him the baby won’t choke in their sleep, and he finally relents, cuddling up to you lovingly, so grateful for everything you’ve done to get to this point. he gets you heat packs and medicine for the recovery pain, never pushing you or expecting anything from you. and he loves to rub your deflating belly as you fall asleep.
but sleep cycles are short, and jason jumps every time the baby wakes. he’s quick to ready bottles for feeding, and is a pro at changing nappies in the first week home.
he doesn’t even mind if the baby spits up on him, just happy to hold them over his shoulder and rub their back until they feel better. he never knew how much fatherhood suited him. he couldn’t imagine a life without his baby and lover.
he’s everything he thought he wouldn’t be. the ultimate father, partner and human being.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, canon-typical violence, guns, blood and injury, references to Jason’s death and resurrection trauma, mutual pining, oral sex, vaginal sex
Summary:
Jason Todd only visits the archive when he needs something translated, restored, or buried.
When a stolen manuscript puts its conservator in danger, protecting her should be another job he can finish and walk away from. The problem is that she keeps giving him reasons to return.
Author’s Note:
written for this anonymous ask
this fic is a spiritual successor to Signal Bleed, one of my Roy Harper x reader fics. Relay is the reader character from that fic :)
The man Relay had warned you about arrived at your archive eleven minutes before closing with blood on his collar and a book wrapped in a stolen tablecloth. The embroidered crest belonged to the Gotham Museum of Antiquities, which had reported a break-in less than three hours earlier. The blood was probably not his; it had dried in a thin spray rather than soaked through the fabric, though the dark jacket made certainty difficult. Relay’s message had arrived ten minutes earlier: A large, unhappy man is coming to see you. Please resist the urge to antagonize him until he has put down the historical object.
You looked from your phone to the man standing beyond the glass partition of the conservation room. Large was accurate. Unhappy seemed insufficient. He wore civilian clothes in the technical sense, if one considered a black leather jacket, heavy boots, and a holster visible beneath his shirt an attempt at blending in. A white streak cut through the dark hair above his forehead, and his expression had the patient severity of someone accustomed to being obeyed by armed people and increasingly offended by the absence of immediate cooperation.
He lifted the wrapped book. “You the conservator?”
You remained seated at the worktable. “You the large, unhappy man?”
His mouth flattened as Relay sent another message: He has the emotional range of a locked door, but he usually uses the handle. You turned your phone face down. “I’m closed.”
“I was told you’d help.”
“You were told I could help. Those are different statements.”
His eyes narrowed, though something shifted behind the irritation—not amusement exactly, but a reluctant adjustment of his initial assessment. He glanced at the clock. “You close in eleven minutes.”
“You have blood on a museum tablecloth.”
“It was available.”
“That is not generally considered a defense.”
“Are you going to look at the book?”
You considered telling him to leave. The reinforced glass and security system meant you were not frightened of him, only curious, which was arguably worse. “Put it on the examination table. Do not unwrap it.”
He entered when you released the lock, bringing cold evening air and the faint smell of smoke with him. The bundle looked small in his hands, and he set it down more gently than you expected. When you pulled on nitrile gloves, his gaze dropped to your hands.
He watched without interfering as you unfolded the cloth. Beneath it lay a leather-bound manuscript roughly the size of your hand, swollen from moisture and blackened along one edge. The binding had partially separated from the text block, several raised bands had split across the spine, and the brass clasp hung from one rivet. A dark stain spread through the lower corner of the cover.
The book was old—older than the tablecloth and the museum whose property had been used to conceal it—and you forgot the man for several seconds. The leather bore no title, but concentric circles intersected by lines that appeared decorative until you noticed the spacing between them. The pattern was not ornament but a cipher, or perhaps a map. The remaining clasp carried an altered symbol you recognized from medieval Levantine trade records.
You leaned closer without touching it. “Where did you get this?”
“You don’t need to know that either.”
You looked up. “Then take it somewhere else.”
He stared at you while you explained that the manuscript had structural damage, possible water exposure, biological contamination, fire damage, and a binding that might have been intentionally altered. Without provenance, you could neither treat it safely nor determine whether opening it would destroy whatever evidence he expected to find.
His jaw flexed, but he eventually answered. “Private collection in Bristol. The owner bought it through an intermediary six years ago. The collection changed hands last month after an estate sale, but this book wasn’t listed in the inventory.”
“Because it was stolen?”
“Because the owner collected things that couldn’t be listed.”
“Antiquities?”
“Among other things.”
That explained the museum break-in imperfectly. You examined the charred edge. “And tonight?”
“The new owner moved it through Gotham. Someone else intercepted the shipment. We intercepted them.”
We. Relay worked with the Outlaws, though she rejected any suggestion that she belonged to the team. She spoke of Red Hood with the fond irritation usually reserved for a useful malfunction.
“Do you know what language it contains?” you asked.
You studied the warped pages visible through the damaged fore-edge. Someone had written across prepared parchment, scraped away the original text, and reused it. That was not uncommon, but faint lines had begun emerging beneath the later ink where heat and moisture disturbed the surface. The fire might have damaged the manuscript, but it might also have revealed what someone had tried to erase.
“How quickly do you need it?”
“Tonight.”
You laughed, and Red Hood looked offended by the concept. “You brought me a manuscript that may be eight hundred years old, subjected it to water, heat, blood, and gunfire, and want it restored tonight.”
“I need to know what’s inside.”
“That is not the same as restoration.”
“How long to make it readable?”
“Weeks.”
“No.”
You rested both hands on the edge of the examination table. “That was not an opening offer.”
“We don’t have weeks.”
“The manuscript does.”
“People might not.”
The words ended the argument more effectively than his size or weapons could have. He had not raised his voice or attempted to intimidate you, but the tension in his body sharpened until he resembled a held blade.
“I can stabilize the exterior damage tonight,” you said. “After that, I can begin imaging the exposed pages. Heat may have brought some of the erased writing forward, but I need multispectral equipment to separate the layers properly.”
“Can you identify anything before then?”
“Possibly.”
“How long?”
“Several hours.”
“I’ll stay.”
You blinked. “That wasn’t an invitation.”
“You said several hours.”
“And you interpreted that as permission to occupy my workplace?”
“I’m staying until you’re finished.”
“You could take the manuscript and return tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Because you don’t trust me with it?”
“Because people were shooting at each other over that book three hours ago, and now it’s sitting in your archive.”
That was considerably more reasonable than you wanted it to be. “I have security.”
His attention moved toward the glass partition and the camera mounted in the corner. “Your eastern sensor is misaligned. It leaves a blind strip beside the loading entrance. The staff-door lock is commercial grade, and the glass is reinforced, but the frame isn’t.”
“You have been here for less than ten minutes.”
“Long enough.”
“I dislike you.”
“That’s fine.”
“You say that as though it happens frequently.”
“It does.”
You believed him.
You carried the manuscript into the humidity chamber while Jason—because Relay eventually sent his name after deciding you had earned it—stood with his back against the wall and watched the archive empty around you. He did not speak unless you asked a question, touch anything, or complain when you explained that the leather needed to acclimate before you could separate the cover from the text block. The silence he produced afterward still contained a detailed opinion on the passage of time.
You worked past midnight. The blood belonged to Felix Ward, an antiquities broker who had been shot during the transfer. Jason said Ward was alive, which was the only reason you continued asking questions. Ward maintained accounts for a network trafficking stolen objects, weapons, and occasionally people, and the manuscript had passed through that network for decades.
Jason believed it contained records.
“Financial?” you asked.
“Locations. Names.”
“You said the visible text is religious.”
“It is. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
He stood opposite you with his arms crossed, having removed the leather jacket after you noticed a tear near his shoulder. The black shirt beneath it did little to make him less imposing.
“There are references to resurrection,” he said.
The word entered the room differently from the others. His expression closed when you looked at him.
“Metaphorical resurrection?” you asked carefully.
“No.”
You could have pushed, but the controlled emptiness in his face warned you away more effectively than anger would have. Whatever the manuscript contained, the subject was not academic to him.
You returned to the warped binding. “Hand me the small spatula. The one with the ivory handle.”
He selected it and offered it across the table.
“Not by the tip.”
He adjusted his grip.
“Thank you,” you said, taking the spatula.
His fingers released it before yours could touch. The movement was so slight you might have missed it if you had not spent years studying fragile surfaces for signs of tension. Jason did not like accidental contact, and you filed the observation away without examining why it interested you.
At two in the morning, you found writing hidden inside the binding. Moisture had loosened the rear pastedown enough to reveal a narrow sheet folded between the leather and the board, much newer than the manuscript and covered in compact handwriting and rows of numbers.
Jason moved to your side before you spoke. “Can you read it?”
“Some.”
The writing was Arabic, though several entries shifted into an unfamiliar shorthand. Dates ran down the left margin beside coordinates, initials, and symbols matching those tooled into the cover. You photographed the sheet before unfolding it fully.
Jason leaned over the table, close enough for his presence to change the air beside your shoulder but careful not to touch you. “That one,” he said, pointing. “Al-Kharrat.”
“A place?”
“A family name. Maybe a title.”
His Arabic carried the easy familiarity of someone who had used it in situations where people expected an immediate answer, rather than having learned it through carefully paced lessons. You turned your head and found him closer than you had realized.
Jason stepped back first. “What?”
“I was wondering where you learned Arabic.”
“Places.”
“That is barely a noun, let alone an answer.”
“It’s what you’re getting.”
You looked back at the sheet. “You are very committed to being difficult.”
“I’m not difficult. I’m private.”
“There is a difference?”
“Yes.”
“Explain it.”
“No.”
You smiled despite yourself. Jason noticed, and his expression suggested he did not approve of being entertaining.
The manuscript remained with you for twenty-six days. Jason came back for twenty-three of them.
During the first week, he always had a reason: new intelligence from Ward’s accounts, a translation of one of the symbols, or a list of names that might match the initials hidden inside the binding. He arrived after closing and stayed until you stopped working, usually positioned near the door with a book he did not read or a tablet displaying files he checked too often.
Jason did not fidget. Restlessness made him still, watchful of reflections and footsteps beyond the glass until his attention began including you as thoroughly as the doors.
On the fourth night, he placed a paper bag beside your elbow.
“What’s this?”
“Food. You haven’t eaten.”
“You’ve been here for forty minutes.”
“You threw away your lunch when I came in.”
You had not noticed him watching. The bag held two sandwiches.
“You bought enough for both of us.”
“I was hungry.”
The answer came too quickly. You handed him one, and he accepted it without argument. The next night, he brought food again.
By the second week, his excuses had become thinner. He needed to confirm dates already listed in the shared case file or inspect images he could access remotely. On other nights, he claimed to have been nearby despite arriving from the opposite direction of his usual territory. You did not point any of that out. Instead, you began leaving the chair across from your worktable clear.
Jason did not sit in it during the first ten days.
On the eleventh, he arrived with a paperback tucked inside his jacket. The cover showed a dark-haired woman standing before a ruined manor beneath a dramatic sky.
The bookstore receipt remained between the first two pages. You picked up the book. “You bought me a gothic romance novel.”
“You mentioned it.”
“Thank you,” you said.
“Don’t.”
“For the book?”
“For whatever you’re about to make it mean.”
“I was going to make it mean that you listened to something I said.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“For you?”
“For me.”
The words were blunt enough to stop you. Jason met your eyes without humor, stating it as fact rather than as flirtation. He listened. He remembered. The world might not associate those qualities with him because most people were too distracted by the helmet and guns, but he seemed faintly offended that you might not have noticed.
You ran your thumb across the edge of the paperback. “I’ll read it.”
Jason looked toward the chair.
Then he sat down.
The manuscript revealed itself reluctantly. Multispectral imaging separated the visible religious text from the erased material beneath it, revealing a medical treatise whose anatomy deviated from anything human and marginal notes added across centuries. The newest entries recorded locations, shipments, and subjects, the last word appearing repeatedly beside numbers and abbreviated outcomes.
Jason grew quieter as you translated. The records described attempts to replicate the effects of chemical pools beneath sites controlled by an unnamed organization, their language shifting over time from reverence to experimentation: restoration, renewal, reanimation. You did not ask whether the organization was the League of Assassins. Jason did not offer the name, and you did not need him to.
The subjects were identified only by age, physical condition, and blood type, followed by results: failure, deterioration, aggression, memory loss. Successful revival appeared twice. Both entries had been crossed out.
Jason stood beside the imaging monitor with his shoulders rigid.
“They were experimenting on people,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“Trying to reproduce whatever the pools do.”
“Yeah.”
“Did the owners of the manuscript conduct the experiments?”
“Some of them.”
“And the current network?”
“Selling access. Samples. Information.”
You swiped to another image. “There are recent coordinates. The final entry is six months old.”
“I saw it.”
His voice had sharpened. When you turned from the monitor, his face had emptied in the same way it had on the first night, but you recognized more now: anger in the set of his jaw, fear tightening the skin around his eyes, and something deeper that he seemed to be containing with every muscle in his body.
“You knew this was about Lazarus Pits,” you said.
His gaze snapped to yours. The name had appeared in one of the translated notes, and your research afterward had uncovered little beyond myths and unreliable references.
“You should stop researching beyond the manuscript,” he said.
“That is not a reasonable instruction.”
“It is if the information can get you killed.”
“The manuscript has already placed me in danger.”
“That doesn’t mean you should keep digging.”
“You brought it here.”
“I needed a conservator.”
“You needed someone competent enough to uncover the text but incurious enough not to understand it?”
“I needed you to do the job.”
“I am doing it.”
“Then do the pages and leave the rest to us.”
You stared at him. The severity that had once been almost entertaining had become cold and authoritative, designed to end the conversation.
It did not.
“Get out,” you said.
Jason went still.
“You don’t get to bring this into my workplace, sit across from me for three weeks, and then speak to me as though I am a tool you rented.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Get out.”
His mouth closed. For a moment, you thought he might refuse, not because he wanted to intimidate you but because he could not bear to leave the manuscript and its danger behind. Then he collected his jacket.
“I’ll have someone else come.”
“I don’t need a guard.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“It is my archive.”
“It’s your life.”
“Yes,” you said. “Which is why it remains my decision.”
The anger in his face lost its edge as recognition interrupted it. Jason knew what it was to have control taken from him, and he hated realizing that he had tried to take yours.
“I’ll be outside,” he said.
“I told you to leave.”
“You told me to get out.”
You glanced toward the windows, feeling the dry correction waiting between you. “You are infuriating.”
“I’ve heard.”
He left the conservation room, and the glass door closed behind him.
The sidewalk remained empty, which irritated you more than his refusal to leave should have. An hour later, you shut down the imaging station and discovered that the archive felt larger without him in it.
When you stepped outside, the eastern security sensor had been realigned, and the staff door had a new lock. Jason sat across the street on his motorcycle, helmet resting on the fuel tank as he watched the building. You folded your arms. Jason looked tired beneath the streetlights; the anger from earlier burned away, leaving something rougher behind.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” he said.
The apology came without qualification or excuse, unsettling you more than an argument would have.
“No,” you said. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I’m not good at this part.”
“What part?”
His eyes moved toward the archive windows. “People. Civilians.”
“That is a category, not an answer.”
“It’s the answer I have.”
You waited.
Jason dragged a hand over the back of his neck, the first nervous gesture you had seen from him. “When I know where the danger is, I can deal with it. When it spreads to someone who didn’t sign up for it, I start making decisions.”
“For them.”
“Yeah.”
“That isn’t protection.”
“I know.”
The admission was quiet. Remaining still seemed to require more effort from him than leaving.
“You could have told me why the subject mattered,” you said.
“No.”
The answer was immediate, but not angry.
You almost laughed. “That was a very short attempt at emotional growth.”
“I said I knew I was wrong. I didn’t say I was ready to tell you everything.”
“Fair. You are allowed to have boundaries. You are not allowed to use them as weapons against everyone standing nearby.”
Jason looked down at his gloves. “Relay says things like that,” he muttered.
“She is very intelligent.”
“She’s a menace.”
“Those qualities overlap.”
He glanced at you again. The corner of his mouth moved. “Need a ride?” he asked.
Jason put on his helmet and held out a spare without comment.
Your apartment was twenty minutes away. The ride took thirty-five minutes because he chose wider streets and avoided every pothole he could. By the time you realized what he was doing, your arms were already settled comfortably around his waist.
The first intruder entered the archive through the staff door at 1:17 in the morning, three hours after you had left. The alarm woke you, and the security feed showed a masked man moving through the corridor outside the conservation room with the replacement lock hanging broken from the frame. You sat upright and called Jason. He answered before the first ring finished.
“What?”
“Someone’s in the archive.”
Fabric shifted sharply on his end of the line. “Are you there?”
“No. I’m home.”
“Stay there. Lock everything.”
“The manuscript—”
“Stay home.”
The call ended. You were still staring at the screen when a second figure entered the camera frame. Then the conservation room feed died.
You locked the bedroom window, checked the front door, and retrieved the pepper spray beside your bed. It felt painfully inadequate. Your phone rang again.
“Jason called,” Relay said without greeting. “He asked me to monitor your building.”
“You sound delighted.”
“He didn’t phrase it as a request, which is how I know he is panicking.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know. I’m still sending Kori.”
“That seems excessive.”
A soft thump came from the living room, stopping your breath.
Relay’s voice changed immediately. “What was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bedroom door?”
“Closed.”
“Locked?”
You looked at the small privacy latch. “Technically.”
“Move something in front of it.”
You slid out of bed with the phone pressed to your ear and pushed the dresser in front of the bedroom door. Another sound came from the living room—glass being carefully moved rather than broken.
“They’re inside,” you whispered.
“I see one heat signature near the fire escape. Kori is thirty seconds out.”
The bedroom doorknob turned. The latch held through two tests before the wood around it splintered, and the door struck the dresser hard enough to shift it. A gloved arm reached through the gap. You sprayed until the man swore and recoiled, then swung the bedside lamp into his wrist. His gun fell inside the room, and you kicked it beneath your bed.
The man threw his weight against the door again. Relay was speaking rapidly, but the blood rushing in your ears swallowed the words as you braced both hands against the dresser. Then the window behind you exploded inward.
Koriand’r floated through the shattered frame with green energy burning around her hands, beautiful, furious, and deeply reassuring. “Please move away from the door,” she said.
You obeyed. Her next strike sent the man and the dresser into the hallway, and she crossed the room before he could stand. Green light flashed, something heavy struck the floor, and silence followed.
You remained beside the bed with the empty pepper spray canister clutched in your hand.
Kori looked toward the broken window. “Red Hood will be upset.”
“About the assassin?”
“The window.”
“He can join the queue.”
Her smile softened. “Are you injured?”
“I don’t think so.”
The apartment door burst open before she could respond. Red Hood entered with a gun in each hand, his helmet turning from the broken window to the unconscious man in the hallway and finally to you.
“What happened?” His voice had gone low and flat, every word scraped clean of emotion because whatever lay beneath it was too violent to show safely.
“He came through the front,” Kori said. “Another remained outside. I stopped him before entering.”
He crossed the room and stopped directly in front of you, rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket as his gaze moved across your face, throat, arms, and bare legs.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”
“Did he—”
“I’m all right.”
His shoulders tightened. You reached for his wrist before remembering his aversion to unexpected contact, but your fingers had already closed around the edge of his glove.
He froze.
“I’m all right,” you repeated.
The helmet dipped toward your hand. You began to release him, but Jason turned his wrist and caught your fingers. The contact lasted only a moment, firm pressure around your hand that might have been grounding or confirmation. Perhaps both.
Then he let go. “We’re leaving.”
“Where?”
“Safehouse.”
“My apartment—”
“Compromised.”
“The archive?”
“Roy’s handling it.”
“The manuscript?”
“Secure.”
You glanced at the unconscious man. “Who are they?”
“People who knew Ward talked.”
“Hood.”
“Later.”
“You do not get to turn me into luggage because you’re frightened.”
His posture sharpened while Kori looked politely out the ruined window.
“I’m not frightened,” Jason said.
“You have two guns in your hands and are staring at an unconscious man as though death is an administrative decision.”
“He broke into your home.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re coming with us.”
“That is not the same as giving me a choice.”
He fell silent. Rain tapped against the glass remaining in the window frame, and somewhere in the hallway, a neighbor opened a door before immediately closing it again.
Jason holstered one gun. “The people behind the manuscript know who you are. They know where you live and work. We caught the two here, but there may be more, and I can’t secure this building before they try again.”
His tone remained hard, but the words had changed from command to information.
“I have a safehouse outside the city,” he continued. “We’ll take you there while we identify everyone involved. If you don’t want to stay at one of mine, Relay can arrange something else. You can choose, but you can’t stay here tonight.”
It was not a perfect choice. The danger had already narrowed your options, but the effort still mattered.
“I need clothes,” you said.
Jason exhaled, and the sound might have been relief. “Five minutes.”
“You are not timing me.”
“Ten.”
“Get out of my bedroom.”
He looked at the broken door. “Door’s gone.”
“Jason.”
He turned and walked into the living room. Kori remained beside you.
“He is trying,” she said.
“I know.”
“He was moving very quickly.”
“I know.”
“He may have frightened several drivers.”
“Kori.”
“I will help you pack.”
Jason’s safehouse had the warmth of an abandoned police station: concrete walls, battered furniture, locked weapons cabinets, and a kitchen with one chair at a table built for four. The only signs of personality were books stacked across mismatched shelves, several old enough to interest you professionally. Jason removed his helmet and set it on the scarred coffee table before placing your bag beside the couch, while Roy carried the manuscript into the kitchen.
“You live here?”
“Sometimes.”
“He means whenever he wants to feel imprisoned by his own decorating choices,” Roy said.
“You can leave.”
Relay entered behind him, recognizable from encrypted video calls, and immediately pulled up the footage of Jason’s replacement lock failing. “Hinge-side bypass. It delayed them for twelve seconds.”
“It was available.”
“That is what he said about the tablecloth,” you said.
Relay looked delighted. “I knew I liked you.”
Kori arrived with food while Roy complained about being assigned to check the archive and your apartment.
“You’re going because I don’t trust you alone with the motorcycle,” Relay said.
“One motorcycle caught fire.”
“After you improved it.”
Their argument continued toward the door. Kori paused beside you. “Call if he becomes emotionally unreasonable.”
“Kori.”
“I believe that differs from his usual behavior.”
Then the others were gone, leaving the safehouse abruptly silent. Jason stood near the kitchen table with the manuscript case in one hand, seeming larger without the others filling the room, his presence touching every exit.
He set the case down. “There are two bedrooms. Take the one at the end of the hall. Bathroom’s across from it. Towels are clean.”
“Where are you sleeping?”
“Couch.”
“That couch appears to have survived an explosion.”
“It’s fine.”
“Your standards for furniture concern me.”
“Add it to the list.”
You looked around the room. “How long am I staying?”
“Until I find March.”
“Who is March?”
Jason’s mouth tightened before he answered. “Gideon March. He brokered the sale, inherited Ward’s client list, and started moving material from old League sites.”
“Is he responsible for the experiments?”
“No. He sells what’s left of them.”
“Samples?”
“Records. Chemicals. People who survived.”
Your stomach turned. “The recent coordinates in the manuscript belong to him.”
“We think so.”
“And you intend to find him tonight.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Jason looked at you.
“You are bleeding.”
He glanced down as though the dark stain beneath his shirt had only just become relevant. “Not badly.”
“You were shot?”
“Grazed.”
“Sit down.”
“I have to go.”
“Then you can leave after I determine whether you are going to bleed through your clothes and collapse dramatically in an alley.”
“I don’t collapse dramatically.”
“You arrived at my workplace covered in blood and carrying a medieval manuscript in a tablecloth.”
“Wasn’t my blood.”
“This is.”
He looked toward the door, and you stepped between him and it.
Jason stared down at you. “Move.”
“No.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Correct. Sit down.”
His expression darkened, but you held his gaze. Something strange passed between you, a contest that was not entirely about authority. Jason could have moved you easily. He could have stepped around you, lifted you aside, or simply left through another exit. He did none of those things.
“Five minutes,” he said.
“You are very fond of invented deadlines.”
“Ten.”
“Sit.”
He sat at the kitchen table.
The medical kit beneath the sink was organized with the rigid precision of frequent use. Jason reached for the hem of his shirt, but you stopped him before he could lift it.
“Wait.”
He did.
Treating the wound required access. That did not explain your sudden awareness of the body beneath the bloodied fabric.
“You can take it off.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “Thanks.”
“Do not sound so amused.”
He pulled the shirt over his head. Scars crossed his chest and abdomen, including a pale Y-shaped line that disappeared beneath his waistband. You forced your attention to the graze along his ribs.
“You should still have this checked.”
“I just did.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“You sound disappointed.”
You pressed antiseptic to the wound. Jason did not flinch, though the muscles beneath your hand tightened.
“You can react.”
“Moving makes your job harder.”
The answer was so entirely him that you paused before continuing. “Why didn’t you tell me March knew my address?”
“We confirmed it two minutes before you called.”
That explained why Jason had already been six blocks away, checking your building because the archive had been watched for three days.
“So you followed me.”
“I made sure nobody else did.”
You taped gauze over the wound with more pressure than necessary. His hand closed around your wrist, startling both of you, then released it immediately.
“Sorry.”
“You dislike being surprised that way.”
His gaze shifted to yours. “Sometimes.”
You nodded and closed the kit without asking him to explain.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“You should not go after March alone.”
“I won’t be alone.”
“Roy?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Kori?”
“Yeah.”
“Relay?”
“Remote.”
“And you’re leaving me here.”
“The safehouse is secure.”
“Your archive lock was secure.”
“That was one lock.”
“Comforting.”
Jason stood and pulled a clean shirt from a cabinet near the refrigerator, wincing slightly as he put it on. “I’ll be back before morning.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“No.”
The honesty settled heavily between you.
You looked toward the manuscript case. “I’ll keep working.”
“No.”
“I brought my imaging drive.”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“I’m not the one who got attacked in her bedroom.”
“That does not make you indestructible.”
Jason’s face closed again, but not before you saw the confusion beneath it, as though concern directed toward him was a language he understood only when spoken about someone else.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
Then he left.
You did not sleep. Instead, you worked at the kitchen table until the safehouse windows began to pale, processing the final multispectral files copied from the archive while the manuscript remained closed in its case. As the layers separated across the screen, the hidden text became coherent enough to reveal that March’s network was moving three survivors from a facility outside Thessaloniki. Their ship was scheduled to leave just after midnight local time. There was still time to intercept it, but not much.
The safehouse door opened at 5:42. Jason entered first with blood on one sleeve, split knuckles, and a bruise darkening his jaw. Roy followed with soot in his hair, while Kori appeared unharmed.
Jason saw the translated entries on your screen. “What did I say?”
“Good morning.”
“I told you not to work.”
“You were not here to supervise me.”
His reprimand disappeared as he read over your shoulder, his chest brushing your back before he stepped away. “Thessaloniki.”
“Three survivors are being moved through a port facility. The remaining numbers identify the ship.”
Relay entered with coffee and opened her laptop. “I can search the registry.”
“We leave in twenty,” Jason said.
“You leave after someone cleans your hand.”
Roy made a sympathetic sound. “You walked into that one.”
Jason glared at him and sat while Kori placed breakfast on the table. “We should eat first.”
“We don’t have time.”
“You have twenty minutes,” you reminded him.
Relay found the ship while you cleaned Jason’s knuckles. When he objected that the survivors had not technically been missed, you met his gaze.
“You would have missed them if I had followed instructions.”
“You also would have slept.”
“I can sleep when people are not being sold.”
Jason stopped arguing.
The Thessaloniki operation lasted eleven hours. You remained at the safehouse with Relay, listening through encrypted comms as the Outlaws stopped the ship before it left port. The three survivors were alive. March escaped.
Jason returned to Gotham two days later and began keeping his distance. He still came back after midnight to check the locks, change clothes, and sleep in fragments on the couch, but he no longer sat across from you while you worked. The manuscript was nearly stable, though returning to the archive remained unsafe, and from Jason’s kitchen table you watched his domestic habits contradict the bleak room around him. He cooked with quiet competence, removed the ingredient you left uneaten, repaired the bedroom lamp, replaced the thin blanket, and found a cushion for your chair without mentioning any of it. Jason performed care as though it had to remain anonymous to count.
On the fifth night after Thessaloniki, you woke to the sound of breaking glass. Jason stood in the kitchen with one hand gripping the counter, dressed only in sweatpants, sweat darkening his hair at the temples. A shattered tumbler lay near his bare feet, but he looked at you without recognition, every scar pulled tight over rigid muscle.
“Jason.”
His hand moved toward the knife block.
You stopped several feet away. “It’s me.”
His eyes focused slowly, and the hand lowered. “What are you doing up?”
“You broke a glass.”
He looked down and noticed the blood welling beneath his foot. “Shit.”
“Sit.”
“I can clean it.”
“I know.”
He remained standing until you asked, “Nightmare?”
His face closed. “Forget it.”
“You almost reached for a knife.”
“I knew where I was.”
“Not immediately.”
“I said forget it.”
The words struck hard enough to end the conversation, but when you folded your arms, Jason looked away first.
“You don’t have to tell me what you dreamed,” you said. “You also don’t get to pretend it didn’t happen while standing in broken glass.”
He exhaled through his nose and sat.
You swept the glass aside before kneeling in front of him with the medical kit. The cut was small, and you cleaned it in silence beneath the weight of his gaze.
“This is backward,” he said.
“What is?”
“You keep patching me up.”
“You keep bleeding near my workspaces.”
“That sounds like blame.”
“It is.”
You bandaged his foot and sat back on your heels. Fading bruises from Thessaloniki marked one hand, while a fresh cut crossed the opposite palm.
“You went out again tonight,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“Looking for March.”
“Yeah.”
“Alone.”
He did not answer.
You closed the kit. “You’re preparing to leave.”
His gaze sharpened. “What?”
“The safehouse. The archive. Me.”
“That’s not—”
“You found the survivors. The manuscript is nearly finished, and March is the only remaining problem. You’ve decided that once he is gone, there will be no reason to come back.”
Jason went completely still, confirming that you had guessed correctly. The knowledge hurt more than it should have.
“You’ll be safe,” he said.
“That was not what I asked.”
“You didn’t ask anything.”
“Fine. Are you planning to disappear?”
His jaw flexed.
“I was never supposed to become part of your life,” you continued. “I was someone Relay recommended for a job.”
“You are part of the job.”
“That is a cruel thing to say.”
His expression changed immediately. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. You’re trying to reduce this to something you understand.”
Jason stood, and you rose with him.
“This isn’t a conversation we’re having at four in the morning,” he said.
“Because you’re tired or because I noticed?”
“Because you’re reading into things.”
“You bought me a book because I paused in front of it. You learned what I eat, replaced my bedroom blanket, and drove thirty-five minutes to avoid potholes on a twenty-minute route.”
His eyes widened slightly. “You noticed that?”
“Of course I noticed.”
“Then you should’ve noticed I do things for people.”
“You do. You protect Roy. You listen to Relay even when you argue. You look at Kori as though the sun decided to become your friend and you still cannot understand why.”
Jason looked faintly appalled. “Do not say that to her.”
“I’m not discussing them. I’m discussing you.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“You only know how to stay when you can make yourself useful.”
The words landed. Jason’s face emptied, but this time you saw the wound beneath it. You should have stopped, but you did not.
“You repair locks, cook dinner, stand between people and bullets, and make yourself necessary before anyone can decide whether they simply want you there.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think I do.”
“You know me from a month in an archive.”
“I know you came back twenty-three nights out of twenty-six.”
“For the manuscript.”
“You had digital copies.”
“They weren’t enough.”
“For what?”
His mouth closed. The safehouse suddenly felt too small as you stood close enough to see his pulse beating at the base of his throat. Jason’s gaze moved across your face, frustrated and searching, as though the right answer existed somewhere he could reach without exposing anything vital.
“You should go back to bed,” he said.
You laughed once, without humor. “There it is.”
“What?”
“The locked door.”
“Don’t.”
“You want me to stop noticing because you don’t know what happens after.”
“I said don’t.”
His voice dropped, but you stepped closer. Jason did not retreat.
“What happens when no one needs saving?” you asked. “What happens when the manuscript is finished and March is gone?”
His face was inches from yours now. “I leave.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s when people realize.”
“Realize what?”
His eyes burned beneath the dim kitchen light. “That they liked the part where I was useful more than they like me.”
The honesty hollowed the room around you. Jason regretted it almost immediately, his shoulders tightening as every defense returned at once.
You touched the scar near his jaw slowly enough to let him turn away. He froze but remained beneath your hand.
“I liked you when you sat in my archive insulting the furniture.”
“I didn’t insult it.”
“You stared judgmentally at the chairs.”
“They were bad chairs.”
“I liked you when you brought me food and pretended it was accidental. I liked you when you were difficult, when you apologized, and when you sat outside after I told you to leave because you could not make yourself go home.”
His breathing had changed.
“You don’t know all of it,” he said.
“No.”
“You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“No.”
“You should.”
“Eventually.”
The promise contained in the word struck him differently. Jason’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and for one suspended second, you thought he would kiss you. He wanted to; you saw it in the tension of his body and the slight angle of his head toward your touch.
Then his comm unit chirped from the table.
Jason stepped away, and the loss of his warmth felt immediate. He picked up the device.
Relay’s voice came through. “I found March.”
Every softness in him vanished. “Where?”
“Private auction tomorrow night. Old courthouse near the river. He’s selling an original Lazarus sample and the remaining records.”
Jason looked at you.
The locked door had returned, but this time you understood what waited behind it.
March held the auction in an abandoned courthouse, routing buyers through underground service tunnels and confiscating electronics at the entrance. His records required the manuscript’s authentication key, making you the only person who could verify them.
Jason hated the plan. He expressed this by saying very little as he checked your protective vest for the third time.
“It still fits,” you said.
“The side strap is loose.”
“You adjusted it five minutes ago.”
“It moved.”
“You’re pulling it.”
Jason released the strap.
You stood in a small equipment room beneath the courthouse, dressed as a private archivist employed by one of the prospective buyers. Relay had built the credentials. Roy waited in the service corridor wearing a suit and an expression of delighted criminal respectability. Kori would enter from the roof once the auction began.
Jason wore black tactical clothing stripped of anything that would identify him as Red Hood, with a fitted black mask that concealed his hair, leaving only his eyes visible. It was enough to hide the man beneath it from the buyers, even if nothing could make him look like an ordinary hired security guard.
“I stay beside you,” he said.
“You are supposed to be Mr. Halden’s security.”
“I am security.”
“Halden does not exist.”
“The other buyers do not know that.”
“They won’t be watching me.”
Roy leaned through the doorway. “They will absolutely be watching him. He looks like he wants to kill the concept of commerce.”
Jason ignored him.
Relay’s voice sounded through the concealed earpiece beneath your hair. “March’s guards are cycling positions. You have twelve minutes before the eastern entrance is clear.”
Jason checked the weapon at his side. You touched his forearm, and his attention shifted immediately.
“We are finishing this,” you said.
“You’re identifying the ledger. Then Roy gets you out.”
“That’s the plan.”
“If anything changes—”
“I leave.”
“If you see March—”
“I do not approach him.”
“If the room locks down—”
“Jason.”
He stopped.
“I know the plan.”
His eyes searched your face. The conversation in the kitchen remained unresolved between you, and Jason had spent every hour since Relay’s call preparing with brutal efficiency, as though careful planning could erase the moment his mouth had almost touched yours.
“You are allowed to want to keep me safe,” you said quietly. “You are not allowed to make fear the only thing we discuss.”
“This isn’t the time.”
“I know.”
You released his arm. “After.”
Jason held your gaze for a long moment.
“After,” he agreed.
The auction began at midnight. You entered the courtroom beside Roy, who had transformed himself into the careless heir to a shipping fortune through a tailored suit, several borrowed rings, and a change in posture. He kept one hand at your back while loudly complaining about the lack of heat. Jason followed three steps behind, looking nothing like hired security and very much like the reason hired security existed.
March stood near the judge’s bench speaking with a woman in silver. He was younger than you expected, perhaps forty, dressed in a dark suit without a tie and carrying the polished neutrality of someone who had built a career from making atrocities sound like transactions. His attention found you within seconds, and his slight, knowing smile told you when he recognized your face. Jason saw it too; every muscle in his body shifted.
Roy leaned closer to you. “Please remind our friend that public murder complicates auctions.”
“Easy.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
“You are staring at March’s throat.”
“Occupational habit.”
“Find another occupation.”
March approached.
“Mr. Halden,” he said to Roy. “I had not expected you personally.”
Roy smiled with expensive boredom. “I enjoy seeing where my money goes.”
March’s gaze moved to you. “And your companion?”
“My conservator.”
“An unusual precaution.”
“I’ve been disappointed before.”
“You won’t be tonight.”
March looked at Jason last, his attention lingering as recognition gradually sharpened. The disguise concealed Jason Todd, but March had spent too long tracking Red Hood not to recognize the particular stillness of a man accustomed to violence. “Your guard may wait outside during authentication.”
“No,” Roy replied.
“The materials are delicate.”
“So is my disposition.”
March smiled without warmth. “Those are the rules.”
Jason stepped forward, but you placed one hand lightly against his chest and stopped him. The contact could have appeared practical to anyone watching, a reminder from an employer’s archivist to remain calm. Beneath your palm, his heart beat hard and steady.
“I will be fine,” you said.
His gaze remained on March. “Three minutes,” he said.
March’s eyebrows rose.
“To authenticate the records,” you clarified. “After that, my employer leaves.”
“Efficient.”
“I value my time.”
March gestured toward a door behind the judge’s bench. You removed your hand from Jason, and his eyes met yours.
After.
You followed March into the adjoining chamber. The room had once belonged to the judge, with dark wooden shelves covering the walls and a leather-topped desk beneath boarded windows. A metal case waited on top of it. March closed the door behind you, and the lock engaged.
“The famous conservator,” he said.
“I doubt that.”
“You have caused considerable inconvenience.”
“You sent armed men into my apartment.”
“They were instructed to retrieve the manuscript.”
“One came through my bedroom door.”
“Employees often exceed their authority when frightened.”
“You should hire better people.”
March laughed softly. “I see why Hood likes you.”
Your pulse jumped, but you kept the reaction from your face. “You know who he is.”
“I know what he is.”
March opened the case. Inside lay three sheets of parchment, a glass vial filled with green liquid, and a stack of modern records bound with black cord. The parchment matched the manuscript in its ruling pattern, discoloration, and ink composition.
“Authentication?” March asked.
“I need light.”
He switched on the desk lamp. You examined the first sheet and found fresh ink obscuring sections of the earliest known site. March had not merely preserved the records. He had rewritten them.
“These are incomplete,” you said.
“They are what remains.”
“They have been edited.”
“History is always edited.”
“Usually by people less obvious about it.”
His smile faded. You turned the page and found faint marks beneath the visible text, continuing the erased layer from the original manuscript. The symbols corresponded to the map tooled into its cover.
The final location was not Thessaloniki. It was Gotham.
March watched your face. “You found it.”
“The original site beneath the city,” he continued when you looked up. “The League abandoned it decades ago. The sample is weak, but enough remains to interest buyers.”
“You have been taking people there.”
“Testing compatibility.”
Your stomach turned. “How many?”
“Enough to understand the limitations.”
The earpiece remained silent; the room’s shielding had blocked Relay’s signal. Three minutes had already passed when March reached inside his jacket and removed a small pistol fitted with a suppressor.
“Hood will come through that door soon,” he said. “I need him angry enough to stop being cautious.”
“You think threatening me makes him careless.”
“I watched him at the archive. At your apartment. Men like him are predictable when they find something they believe belongs to them.”
“I do not belong to him.”
“No,” March agreed. “That is what makes it interesting.”
The first impact struck the locked door, and March smiled. The second cracked the frame. You grabbed the desk lamp and swung it into his gun hand, sending the shot into the shelves. March struck you across the face, and you fell against the desk as the vial rolled toward the edge. Then the door exploded inward.
Jason came through the splintered wood and shot March through the shoulder before he could aim. The pistol hit the floor. Jason crossed the room with terrifying speed, seized March by the shirt, and drove him into the wall hard enough to shake the shelves and send books falling around them.
March laughed through the pain. “Ask her what she found.”
Jason hit him, spraying blood across the wood.
“Hood.”
He hit March again, snapping his head sideways.
“Hood!”
This time, Jason heard you. His fist remained drawn back while March sagged in his grip, conscious only through spite. Then Jason looked at you and saw the red mark spreading across your cheek. Something in his eyes broke loose.
March smiled. “I was right. Predictable.”
Jason turned back, but you caught his arm. He could have pulled free easily. He did not.
“Do not give him this,” you said.
“He touched you.”
“And I am standing here.”
“He sent men into your home.”
“I know.”
“He used people as test subjects.”
“I know.”
Jason’s entire body shook with restrained violence. Roy appeared in the ruined doorway with his bow drawn.
“Hood.”
March laughed again. Jason released him, and March dropped to the floor. Roy crossed the room and secured his hands.
“Look at that,” Roy said. “Growth.”
“Shut up.”
Kori entered behind him, green light illuminating the wrecked office. “The buyers are contained.”
Jason turned toward you. His hands rose to your face but stopped just short of contact, so you closed the distance yourself and rested your palms against his wrists. He touched you then, carefully examining the mark on your cheek, the cut near your mouth, and the place your shoulder had struck the desk.
“Anything broken?”
“No.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“He hit you.”
“I noticed.”
Jason’s gaze hardened, but you looked toward the case. “The original site is beneath Gotham.”
“We heard the last part through the door,” Roy said.
“March rewrote the records to hide it. He has been taking people there.”
Kori’s expression hardened as Roy hauled March upright. “We’ll get the location.”
“No need.” You pointed to the parchment. “It is mapped there.”
Jason followed your gesture. There were victims to find, buyers to identify, and a Lazarus site beneath the city that needed to be sealed or destroyed, but his attention returned to you anyway.
“Roy will take you to the safehouse.”
You almost argued, then saw the strain in his eyes. “Come back.”
Jason went still. The request was more intimate than be careful. It assumed there would be somewhere—and someone—for him to return to.
His gaze held yours. “I will.”
This time, he did not pretend it was a certainty. It was a choice.
The Gotham site contained fourteen people, all alive. March’s records led the Outlaws to two additional facilities and enough evidence to dismantle most of the trafficking network. Kori secured the Lazarus sample somewhere beyond human greed, while March survived his wounds and entered federal custody under a name intended to keep his associates from finding him before he testified.
The archive reopened six weeks later with a replaced staff door and a security system designed by Relay. Roy attempted to contribute an automated defense mechanism but was banned from the installation after his prototype launched a rubber projectile through a light fixture. Jason repaired the frame around the eastern window himself, though he did not come inside.
You saw him twice during the first week after reopening: once across the street near his motorcycle and once reflected in the glass of the neighboring building. Both times, he disappeared before you reached the door. The manuscript had been transferred to a secure collection, its records preserved in encrypted copies, and your involvement was officially over. Jason had no reason to return, and you hated that he had been right about that part.
On the ninth evening, you finished closing the archive and found a first edition of the gothic novel on the reception desk. This cover used a painting from the correct century. A note tucked inside read: Better?
You carried the book outside and found Jason beneath the eastern light with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking as though he had been considering leaving.
“You broke into my archive to deliver a book,” you said.
“Relay gave me the new code.”
“She absolutely did not.”
“She might’ve left it somewhere visible.”
“On an encrypted server?”
“Very visible.”
You approached him. The bruise along his jaw had faded, and the narrow cut above one eyebrow had nearly healed.
“You’ve been outside twice.”
“Checking the new system.”
“Relay can check it remotely.”
“I don’t trust Relay’s systems.”
“She built most of yours.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He had no answer.
You held up the book. “This is an expensive edition.”
“Found it.”
“At a rare-book dealer.”
“Still found it.”
“You bought it.”
“Allegedly.”
“Why?”
His gaze moved toward the archive windows. Traffic passed at the end of the street, and the evening air carried rain that had not yet begun to fall.
“I don’t know how to come back without an excuse,” he said, the words quiet enough that the city nearly swallowed them.
You stepped closer. “You could knock.”
“I’ve had bad experiences with doors.”
“That is not funny.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
“You could call.”
“I don’t like phones.”
“You call Relay.”
“Work.”
“You call Roy.”
“He calls me.”
“Kori?”
“She shows up.”
“You could bring food.”
His mouth moved slightly. “That’s an excuse.”
“You are allowed to have one.”
His expression tightened.
“What if I don’t want you here for the book?” you asked.
Jason looked at you as though the question frightened him more than March’s gun. “What do you want?”
“You.”
He stopped breathing.
The answer had been waiting for weeks, perhaps since the first night he stayed in the archive rather than leave you alone with a damaged manuscript.
“You do not have to repair anything,” you said. “You do not need to protect the building or translate a page or stand outside all night. I want you to come inside because I like you there.”
His gaze dropped to the book in your hands. “You don’t know everything.”
“We discussed this.”
“Not enough.”
“Then tell me when you can.”
“What if it changes things?”
“It will.”
His eyes lifted.
“Knowing someone changes things,” you continued. “That is not the same as ruining them.”
“You make that sound easy.”
“It’s not easy.”
“Then why are you standing here?”
“Because you came back.”
Something in his face gave way. Jason raised one hand and touched your face, his fingers rough and warm, the contact careful without being uncertain.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He kissed you.
Jason kissed like someone opening a locked room after years of keeping the key hidden, deliberate at first and then suddenly hungry when he realized you intended to stay. His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, and the book pressed between you until you shifted it aside and gripped his jacket instead.
The restraint you had watched him carry for weeks became heat without becoming careless. Every movement remained controlled, but the control had changed from distance into intention. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You’re at work.”
“The archive is closed.”
“There are cameras.”
“Relay designed the system.”
“That makes it worse.”
You smiled against his mouth. “Come inside.”
Jason looked through the glass doors. “For the book?”
“For me.”
He followed you in.
Jason began returning without excuses badly. The first time, he arrived with dinner and claimed the restaurant had doubled his order by mistake, despite the containers holding two entirely different meals. The second time, he said he was checking the window repair even though he had checked it three days earlier.
“Could’ve shifted,” he said.
“The building has not moved.”
“Gotham.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“It usually is.”
By the fourth visit, he stopped pretending. He sat across from your worktable with a novel while you repaired a nineteenth-century atlas, sometimes speaking but more often sharing a silence filled by turning pages and the soft sounds of your tools. Comfortable silence came slowly to Jason, and you watched him learn that nothing was required of him inside it.
He still mapped the exits and sat where he could see the door. Sudden sounds tightened his shoulders, and some nights exhaustion darkened his face enough that you knew sleep had become dangerous again. You did not demand explanations, but Jason began offering pieces anyway: a sentence about training abroad, a name he did not elaborate upon, the admission that the Lazarus Pit had not brought him back whole, and later the quieter confession that he no longer knew whether he had been whole before it. He told you about dying in fragments, and you listened without turning his pain into a test he had to pass.
In return, you let him see the less flattering pieces of your own life. Your impatience. Your tendency to work until your hands cramped. The collection of failed repair attempts you kept in a drawer because destroying something accidentally did not mean it had never deserved care.
Jason found the drawer on his seventh visit and examined a torn page you had badly mended during your first year of training. “You kept this?”
“It reminds me that expertise is mostly surviving your earlier decisions.”
He looked at the uneven repair. “Looks solid.”
“That does not make it good.”
“Didn’t say good.” His thumb traced the edge of the mended paper without touching it. “Said it’s fine.”
You kissed him beside the open drawer.
After that, kissing Jason became part of the archive’s unofficial closing procedure. Sometimes it remained brief, a touch of his mouth before patrol. Other nights, he backed you carefully against the conservation-room door, one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head while he kissed you until your knees felt unreliable.
He rarely spoke during those moments, making every sound more intimate: the rough breath against your throat, your name spoken low when your fingers entered his hair, and the quiet curse when you kissed beneath his jaw and felt his control slip. He always stopped before you moved beyond what the archive could reasonably contain, and you began to suspect the restraint was deliberate self-punishment.
Two months after the auction, Jason arrived at your apartment carrying takeout, a toolbox, and a duffel bag.
You opened the door. “Which is the excuse?”
“Your window sticks.”
“You have never opened my bedroom window.”
He stared at you while you smiled, then looked down the hallway as though checking for witnesses before stepping inside.
The apartment had been repaired after the attack, though one crack remained near the bedroom doorframe. Jason noticed it every time he visited. He placed the food and toolbox on the kitchen counter, the duffel still hanging from one shoulder.
“You brought clothes.”
“Patrol later.”
“You usually start patrol from your own apartment.”
“Could leave.”
“You could.”
Jason watched you as you closed the door.
“Or you could stay.”
His expression changed slowly. Dinner remained on the counter for twenty minutes.
Jason kissed you against your front door, his hands framing your waist as though he had imagined the position too many times to waste it now. Your fingers caught in his jacket, and he shrugged it off without breaking the kiss, letting it fall beside the toolbox. He tasted faintly of coffee and mint. When you slid your hands beneath his shirt, his breath caught and the muscles beneath your palms tightened around the scars along his back. He had allowed you to touch them gradually over the past weeks, sometimes going still beneath your hand. Tonight, he leaned into it.
You drew the shirt up, and Jason pulled back far enough to remove it. He stood before you without armor or fabric obscuring the scars across his body, watching your face as you traced the pale line along the center of his chest, the one he had explained three nights earlier in incomplete but sufficient detail. You pressed your mouth to it. His hand came to the back of your head on an unsteady breath. You kissed the scar again and moved lower, lips crossing the hard line of his stomach as his fingers tightened gently in your hair.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I know.”
When you looked up, desire had darkened his face, tangled with the old disbelief that remained whenever you chose him without asking for anything in return. You unfastened his belt, but his hand caught yours.
“Bedroom.”
It was not a question.
You led him there, and the repaired door closed behind you.
Jason remained near the foot of the bed while you removed your shirt, his attention following every inch of exposed skin with a seriousness that gathered heat beneath it.
“You can touch me,” you said.
“I know.”
He crossed the space between you. His hands settled on your waist before moving upward, palms following the shape of your ribs. He kissed you while unfastening your bra, the clasp giving way beneath fingers more accustomed to weapons and motorcycle engines. The fabric fell.
Jason looked at you. You had seen desire in his face before. This was different. Unshielded. Almost angry in its intensity, though none of that anger was directed toward you.
“You’re staring,” you murmured.
“Yeah.”
His bluntness made you laugh softly. Jason’s mouth curved, then lowered to your throat. He kissed along your collarbone, one hand spreading across your back while the other cupped your breast. His thumb moved over your nipple, and when your breath caught, his eyes lifted to watch the reaction. Then his mouth replaced his hand.
You caught his hair as his tongue moved over you, his other hand learning what changed your breathing. Jason listened with his entire body. When you pulled him closer, he followed. When your thighs pressed together, his hand slipped between them, and when you opened beneath his touch, he accepted the invitation.
Your remaining clothes disappeared in stages. Jason knelt to pull your underwear down your legs, broad shoulders and scarred chest framed between your knees.
He kissed the inside of one thigh, then higher.
“Jason.”
His eyes lifted. You opened your legs, and his hands settled firmly against your thighs before he pressed one kiss directly over your clit.
Your breath broke.
His mouth returned with purpose. He did not tease or retreat whenever pleasure began to build. He found what made your hips lift and stayed there, tongue moving with steady pressure while his fingers held you open.
You gripped his hair. He groaned against you, the vibration sharpening the pleasure as two fingers circled your entrance and pressed inside.
Your head fell back.
Jason watched you from between your legs as his fingers curled and his tongue returned to your clit. The combined rhythm narrowed the room to his mouth, his hand, and the rough sound of your name when your body tightened around him.
You came hard enough to pull his hair. He continued until your thighs trembled against his shoulders and you pushed weakly at his head, finally drawing back to press a kiss against your inner thigh.
His mouth glistened. The uncertainty had vanished from his face, leaving only satisfaction.
You reached for him, and Jason stood to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You pulled him between your knees and reached for his pants.
His forehead rested briefly against yours. “Condoms?”
“Nightstand.”
He glanced toward the drawer. “You got some?”
“I am capable of planning.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
“You sounded surprised.”
“I’m impressed.”
You pushed his pants and underwear down. Jason’s eyes closed when your hand wrapped around him, his breath leaving sharply as you stroked upward.
You kissed his stomach, feeling the muscles flex beneath your mouth, then lowered yourself from the mattress. His hand slid into your hair as you took him between your lips.
Jason swore softly.
You worked him deeper, circling what you could not take with one hand. His control remained until your tongue moved beneath the head and you looked up at him.
His hips shifted before he immediately forced himself still. You tightened your hand around his thigh, encouraging him, and the next movement was shallow and careful. He watched your face, restraint held taut through every muscle as you took more of him.
Your name left his mouth, spoken like it mattered.
Jason pulled you away before he came, breathing hard.
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Stopping.”
His thumb moved across your lower lip. “Want to be inside you.”
The directness sent fresh heat through your body.
You stood and kissed him. Jason guided you onto the bed and retrieved a condom from the nightstand, rolling it on with hands that remained steady despite the tension throughout the rest of him.
He settled over you, his weight supported carefully on his forearms as his body fit between your thighs. For a moment, neither of you moved.
“You still with me?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
You wrapped your legs around his hips, and Jason entered you slowly. The stretch caught your breath, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a low groan left him. When he was fully inside, his body trembled once.
“Jason.”
He lifted his head.
You touched his face. “Move.”
His first thrust was controlled, nearly cautious. The second went deeper. By the third, he had found the angle that made pleasure spark low in your stomach, and he noticed the change in your breathing immediately.
His pace built. The bed shifted beneath you as one hand slid beneath your knee and lifted your leg higher. He watched your face with the same concentration he brought to everything, though desire had stripped the severity into something rawer.
“You feel—” His voice broke off when you tightened around him.
Jason swore and buried his face against your throat.
His rhythm changed, harder now without becoming careless. His hips drove into yours with enough force to push you higher against the sheets, one hand gripping your thigh while the other remained planted beside your head.
You dragged your nails down his back.
He groaned into your skin. “That. Again.”
You did, and his control slipped further.
The sound of his body meeting yours filled the room, pleasure gathering with every thrust and the sight of Jason surrendering the distance he guarded so fiercely everywhere else. He kissed you hard, and when you caught his lower lip between your teeth, his hips stuttered.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“You don’t want careful.”
His eyes darkened. “No.”
Jason shifted, one hand sliding between your bodies. His fingers found your clit, moving in firm circles that matched the pace of his hips.
Pleasure tightened rapidly. You clung to his shoulders.
“Jason.”
“I know.” His voice had gone low and rough.
He watched you come apart beneath him. Your orgasm struck hard, your body tightening around his cock as his fingers continued moving. His expression broke, mouth opening on a sound he failed to contain as he thrust twice more and came.
Jason remained above you afterward, breathing heavily. You stroked a hand through his hair until he lowered himself carefully, resting against you without crushing you, his face settling into the curve of your neck.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
Eventually, he shifted to deal with the condom. When he returned, he lay on his side facing you rather than retreating to the edge of the bed.
You traced the scar near his shoulder. Jason caught your hand and kissed your palm, the unexpected tenderness tightening something in your chest.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, but the old worry remained around the edges of his expression, as though he expected regret to appear by morning.
You moved closer and rested your head against his chest. Jason’s arm came around your waist.
“You can stay.”
His hand tightened slightly against your back. “Tonight?”
“Tomorrow too. And the night after that, although you may eventually need additional clothes.”
“I brought a bag.”
“I noticed.”
“Could’ve been for patrol.”
“It contained sweatpants.”
“Tactical sweatpants.”
You laughed into his chest, and his arm tightened around you. You listened to his heartbeat beneath your ear, slow and steady now.
“I meant what I said,” you murmured.
“Which part?”
“You don’t need an excuse.”
His fingers moved along your spine. “I might still bring one.”
“That’s allowed.”
“Food?”
“Acceptable.”
“Books?”
“Encouraged.”
“Security assessments?”
“Limited to one per week.”
“That’s irresponsible.”
“You may negotiate for two.”
“Three.”
“You are taking advantage of my weakened state.”
“You seem fine.”
“You were very thorough.”
Jason went quiet.
You lifted your head and found a faint flush across his cheeks.
“Are you embarrassed?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m reconsidering staying.”
“You brought tactical sweatpants.”
His hand moved down and squeezed your hip.
You smiled. “I want you to stay.”
The humor faded from Jason’s face, leaving something quieter behind. He looked at you for a long moment before kissing your forehead.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m here.”
Three months later, Jason entered the archive through the front door carrying dinner, a damaged eighteenth-century atlas, and absolutely no blood.
You looked up from the conservation table. “What happened to breaking in?”
“Door was open.”
“The public entrance is generally designed that way.”
He placed the atlas beside your tools. Its binding had separated completely, several pages were singed, and a bullet had passed through the lower corner.
“Jason.”
“Found it.”
“Where?”
“Warehouse.”
“Why was it in a warehouse?”
“Crime.”
“That is not provenance.”
“It’s all I have.”
While you examined the pages, Jason set the dinner bag beside your elbow.
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I had lunch.”
“At eleven.”
“You were not here at eleven.”
“Relay.”
“Traitor.”
“She says you get mean when you skip meals.”
“Relay does not understand professional focus.”
“She understands mean.”
You looked at him. Jason stood across the table with his jacket unzipped and the white streak falling over his forehead. He had begun leaving pieces of himself in your apartment—a toothbrush, two shirts, three novels, and a gun locked beneath the bed after an argument that ended with another reinforced lock and an agreement to store the ammunition elsewhere.
He still kept his safehouses and disappeared on nights when Gotham demanded pieces of him daylight could not hold, but he came back. Sometimes injured, sometimes angry, and sometimes quiet enough that all he could offer was his weight beside you on the bed.
He came back anyway.
You touched the hole through the atlas. “This will take weeks.”
“No.”
You looked up. Jason’s face remained completely serious.
“You have learned nothing,” you said.
“I learned you like difficult projects.”
“The atlas is the project?”
His gaze held yours. “Mostly.”
You smiled.
Jason walked around the table and bent to kiss you, one hand settling at the back of your neck. The kiss was brief, warm, and familiar enough to make something in your chest ache pleasantly.
When he straightened, you caught the front of his jacket. “You can stay.”
“Was planning to.”
“No excuse?”
He glanced toward the damaged atlas. “Brought one anyway.”
You looked at the scorched leather, the bullet hole, and the pages waiting to be restored. Then you looked at Jason.
“That is a terrible excuse.”
His mouth curved. “Worked anyway.”
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Red Hood divider ❤️💛
summary: a drunk night out brings the clingiest sides of Jason to life.
cw: sfw, fluff, jason todd x reader, sub!jason, gn!reader, jason is drunk asf and soooo whipped for reader.
a/n: my first req.!! brought to you by this lovely person here.
wc: 817
──── 𑣲𝒿 ────
It was far too late and you were far too exhausted to give enough of a damn to look at the clock. Jason had just shuffled into the room, the buckles on his boots jingling with each heavy step. The wood creaked beneath his feet, unevenly, and his steps dragged, scraping the floor. He sits beside you on the bed, staring at the silhouette beneath the covers, fingers running over the cool fabric that rippled under his touch.
“Jason?” You murmur, eyes struggling to open when there’s no answer other than a lazy groan.
His face is absolutely flushed, an extremely shy demeanour written over his movements. He’s slow, much more methodical than usual when his fingers work the bedsheets off of your figure, pressing his face into the soft of your stomach over the top of your shirt. He nudges his nose into the covered skin, heavy and incoherent mumbles on his lips. You freeze, eyes widening as the scent of alcohol assaults your senses.
Naturally, Jason would go out for drinks with Dick every Friday night as a well-deserved wind-down time for both vigilantes — and you’d forgotten this was one of those nights. Your boyfriend, currently preoccupied with burying his face into your stomach, was shitfaced with booze and what smelled like strawberry syrup.
“Missed you,” he slurs out with that signature Crime Alley accent, albeit barely understandable.
“I missed you too, Jay.” The tone came out sour, tiredness on your tongue dragging far longer than you’d wished. He absolutely melts at the sound of your voice regardless, eyes lighting up at the sight of his partner awake and talking.
── .✦
You’d somehow made it to the kitchen with a man twice your body weight clinging to your back, arms around your waist restricting any proper movement below the torso. “You need to drink water,” you tell, earning a soft puff of air to your neck as Jason hides himself away in the smooth skin.
“Need you.”
“Jason.”
He pulls his head back, giving you those puppy dog eyes he knew would allow him a gateway to avoid a scolding. You point a finger at his face, only to be met with an incessant horde of kisses along the length of your neck, sloppy and incalculable. Lips drawn into a thin line, you hold back a laugh as best as you can, the soft skin of Jason’s lips tickling and nipping at the horribly sensitive area.
One thing leads to another between his insistence, and he spins you around, the curve of your back pressed into the counter. “I missed you so much,” he whispers, those half-lidded eyes clinging onto drunken tears and the absolute of a hangover. His fingers carefully thread through the strands at the back of your neck, bottom lip pushed out to a pout you’d almost think is teasing if he weren’t drunk off his rocker.
Your gaze softens, palms finding their way to his cheeks, thumbs tracing the faded freckles over his skin. The scent of alcohol on Jason’s breath makes you double-take before leaning in, earning one of the most tasteful noises you’d ever heard from your boyfriend — a dragged-out whine that compares to that of a needy Labrador.
“Baby,” he folds onto his knees before you, hugging the backs of your knees and resting his chin at the dip of your stomach, “baby, please.”
It’s a pathetic sight to catch Jason in, one you wish you could photograph and keep in a locket for the rest of your life. A heavy gulp makes its way down your throat — he’s staring up like you’re a lifeline for his stability, droplets lining his eyes.
“Just one kiss.”
Your heart sinks, a warmth forming in the depths of your body at the pleading in his voice. “Jay,” his fingers clutch the skin of your calf, begging in silence to be allowed a singular moment of your affection. You hesitate, but eventually find yourself sitting on the floor before him, pecking Jason’s lips. “You need to drink water, sweetheart.”
He chases after your lips, unprepared to leave your mouth alone when he’d just gotten the smallest of tastes. Your index finger presses against Jason’s jaw, pushing his face away gently as you reach for the fridge from your position on the floor — it takes you much longer to find a water bottle than you’d like to admit. Unscrewing the bottle cap, you press the rim of the bottle to his semi-chapped lips, earning a groan from the man in front of you.
“Let’s get you to bed, silly,” you insist, peppering kisses over the left side of his face. He follows along your command, albeit reluctantly, and steps lazily across the floor, feet unsteady and held up miraculously by you. “You’re so strong,” he praises, smiling lopsidedly to himself.
jason was a complex guy, there was no question or doubt about that. he was too much or too little most of the time. too quiet and too loud. you often had a hard time figuring out what was going on in his head or getting a proper peek through the walls he surrounded himself with.
but. when it came to you, and when it came to other things he liked by extension, he was an open book.
such as now, for instance, as he tried to pretend he was very uninterested in the baby clothes you were shifting through.
"what about this one?" you asked, holding up a yellow dress with a decorative bee.
jason pulled his thoughts and fingers from a small leather jacket with red detailing. "uh, it's cute."
"you've said that about everything i've shown you."
"because they've all been cute."
you chuckled at his response, "yes, jay, but i can't buy them all."
"i don't know, it's your friend's baby shower–" he trailed off at the look you gave him. "okay. maybe you should get that one with the bee and the first sleep suit?"
"maybe," you hummed in response, handing off the options he selected for him to hold. "i just want to look a bit longer."
jason groaned at the sound of that–he knew your "bit"s and "longer"s. he held what you handed him without complaint anyways, glancing around the store.
his gaze lingered on a little boy the aisle over, playing peekaboo with a baby sitting in the cart as his parents shopped. his heart gave a clench at the baby's giggles, and he found himself glancing over at you before he even realized.
only to discover you were already looking at him, with a puzzled yet amused look.
"what?" you asked, your eyes trailing to the children and back.
"nothing." jason answered too quickly.
jesus. get it together, todd.
jason had an odd fixation with your stomach right now. you noticed immediately; the hands resting on it rather than your hips, the random grazes, him cuddled into your lap with his cheek pressed against it. it was obvious and almost sudden.
you had one hand in jason's hair, the other wrapped around a particularly uninteresting work file. his head was in your lap as he traced small shapes under your shirt, staring blankly into the wall across from him. or, more of, staring at the pink bag screaming "congratulations" in bold letters resting against that wall.
“y/n,” he called out finally. “do you want kids?”
you paused, looking from your file to the head now refusing to meet your eyes. “i mean, i don’t know? we talked about this, didn’t we?”
“we did.”
“..and?”
“and i don’t know either.”
you smiled a bit. “jason, i thought you said you don’t want any?”
“i didn’t.” he replied, definitely. “but now, i..i don’t know. i guess it doesn’t sound so bad.” jason trailed off, his voice turning into a small mumble. a whisper of the truth he felt embarrassed to admit. “a little us…like, you know. a family.”
oh. your chest warmed at his words, your heart fluttering just a bit more than it usually did around him.
“you want a family?”
“if it’s with you.”
jasons words echoed off the walls, bouncing around in your mind as you processed their weight more than their meaning.
“and that’s not just the baby fever talking?”
“i don’t have–“ jason paused. “no. no, it’s not.”
“it’s not?”
jason rolled his head over, keeping it on your lap but now looking up to face you, “no. i’ve been second guessing my answer ever since that first conversation about kids. i don’t mind the thought as much as i should.”
you let out a small “huh”, comprehending his words slowly and surely.
so jason todd did want a kid–or kids?–with not just anyone, but you. it was something that he’d spent a lot of time thinking about and not a rushed decision based on too much exposure to too many cute baby-related things.
“only if you want obviously.” he added a bit hastily. “which, do you…want a family?”
you smiled at the expectant eyes. “with you? yeah.”
jason’s head perked at that. “yeah?”
“yeah. maybe a mini football team.”
jason blinked at you for a moment before he let through a small chuckle.
