⋆˚꩜｡ you and jason are just two teenagers in love that nothing seemed to be able to changs, no bruce, no robin missions. except something does when he dies, though you never stopped loving him
this is long. happy ending. angst. grieving. characters ages aren't really correct or canon, don't mind it.
⋆˙⟡ request
Gotham at night always smelled like rain and smoke, and Jason swore he could tell exactly which part of the city he was in by the taste of the air alone. You learned that only because you walked beside him enough times to hear him mutter something like, “Crime Alley’s close. Smells like piss and disappointment” and even though you’d nudge him and tell him he was dramatic, you secretly loved the way he saw the city, sharp edges, broken glass, and a heart worth saving buried underneath. That was exactly how he saw himself, too, though he’d rather swallow his own cape than admit it. Tonight he walked beside you in his civilian clothes, hood up, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, the sky hanging low with clouds about to break. He should’ve been out on patrol. Bruce had said so, ordered it, actually.
But Jason had blown the order off with that practiced mix of defiance and charm he used too often, and he’d climbed through your bedroom window ten minutes later with a half smirk and a “I missed you. Don’t make it a big deal.” You always made it a big deal, because for you it was one, not the kind that scared him off, but the kind that warmed his face whenever he looked at you long enough to remember he didn’t have to be on guard.
He didn’t have to perform. Not with you.
You reached out, curling your fingers around his, and he pretended not to melt at the contact. “You’re avoiding Bruce” you murmured. Jason snorted, looking anywhere but at you. “He’s avoiding me. I just make it easier by not being around when he’s pissed. It’s a favor, really.” You squeezed his hand, and his jaw tensed, eyes flicking down to where your fingers laced with his. Even with his gloves off, even in the quiet of the empty streetlight glow, you could feel the remnants of tension humming under his skin, the leftover adrenaline of a boy who trained to break bones and catch bullets. But he let you hold him anyway. “He just worries about you” you added softly. “He thinks you’re too reckless.” “I am reckless,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder, “but I’m good at it.”. That was Jason, full honesty delivered like a punchline. You looked at him, really looked, and even in the dim you could pick out the constellation of bruises scattered along his cheekbone, the faint purple at his throat, the line above his eyebrow from last week’s blow that he refused to let Alfred stitch. His hair was messy, wind roughened from the ride over on the bike, a new thing Bruce didn’t know about and would absolutely murder him over. You pushed a bit of his hair back, and Jason swallowed hard, eyes dragging over your face like he was memorizing something he didn’t want to lose. He always looked at you like that when he thought you weren’t noticing, as if each second he got with you was both a miracle and a countdown. He didn’t know how to hold good things without clenching his fists.
The rain began as a soft tapping at first, then steadier, heavier. “Great” he muttered. “Perfect Gotham night.” You laughed because he said it bitterly, but the way he slid his jacket off and draped it over your shoulders was anything but. “You’ll get cold” you began, but he cut you off, “I don’t get cold. I’m built different.”
“You’re built stupid,” you teased. “You love it.” “Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.” Jason blinked, stunned for a fraction of a second, which was cute considering you two had been together for months. You’d said those words before, but every time you did he reacted like you’d knocked the air out of him.
He didn’t say “I love you” lightly, not because he didn’t feel it, but because he felt it so deeply it scared him. He was studying your face now, the rain giving everything a slick sheen, making the world quieter. His voice dropped, lower and rougher than before, the part of him only you ever got to hear. “Hey,” he said, tugging you toward him by the hands still joined. “C’mere.” You stepped into his space, and Jason dipped his head enough for your foreheads to meet. He smelled like leather, smoke from the bike, and that faint clean scent of the Manor’s soap he pretended not to like. “You know I’d pick you every time, right?” he said. “Over the job, over Bruce, over the cape, over all of it.” Your breath hitched. Jason never said things like that outright. Not unless he meant them with a terrifying amount of truth.
“Jason…” “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice cracking with emotion he didn’t know how to carry. “I’m not good at this.” “You’re perfect at this,” you whispered. “You let me in.” “Cause I don’t want you to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Jason rested his mouth against your temple, lips warm despite the cold rain. “Good” he murmured. But the city never let peace last too long. A motorcycle sped past, splashing a wave of dirty water over the sidewalk.
Jason instinctively stepped in front of you, shielding you even though he got hit by every drop. He muttered a curse, flicking water off his hair. “See? Built stupid” you joked. “Built heroic,” he corrected, rolling his eyes. You didn’t miss the way he subtly scanned the rooftops afterward, checking shadows, body tensing in a way that told you he’d heard something, or sensed something, he didn’t like. “Jason.” “It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “Just—look, can we go to your place? I wanna be with you for a bit before I have to deal with Bruce’s latest ‘Jason, you’re grounded from the entire city’ speech.” You smiled, tugging him along by his jacket sleeve.
When you reached your building and slipped inside the stairwell, Jason followed close, one hand on the small of your back, protective without displaying it. He didn’t admit fear, but he had plenty of it. Fear for you. Fear because of you.
Inside your apartment, the world softened. The quiet lit warmly around the edges, rain tapping the window, faint city hum underfoot. Jason always relaxed here, just enough to remind you how young he still was, carrying weight meant for someone far older. He pulled off his soaked shirt, tossing it over a chair, utterly unbothered. You tried not to stare at the bruises, the scars, the toned muscle built from training and survival. Jason caught you anyway. “If you’re checking me out, at least be honest about it.”
“I was checking the bruises.”
“Liar.” He grinned as he said it, stepping forward until the space between you shrank. He didn’t kiss you immediately, he never rushed this part. Instead he let his thumb slide along your jaw, studying you with those storm colored eyes that hid tenderness underneath all the chaos. “You saved me tonight” he whispered. “From what?” you asked. “From being alone in my own head.” And then he kissed you, slow at first, then deeper, fuller, as if he wanted to pour everything he couldn’t say into the press of his mouth against yours. Jason Todd was always intense, always too much, but with you he was soft. With you he didn’t have to be the sharp edged boy Bruce didn’t know how to handle.
He broke the kiss only to lean his forehead against yours again. “If anything ever happens to me” he breathed, voice barely holding “Jason, don’t—” “No, listen,” he insisted gently, lifting your face so you had to meet his eyes. “I need you to know that loving you… it’s the best thing I ever did. The only thing I never regret.” Your chest tightened painfully. “Nothing is going to happen to you.” He gave a crooked smile, the kind of smile that looked like it belonged to someone who knew better. “I like that you believe that” he whispered. “I need you to keep believing it.” You cupped his face. “Stay with me tonight?” “Always.” And he meant it. He always meant it.
You settled together on the couch, his head against your shoulder, your fingers combing through his damp hair. For once he wasn’t tense, wasn’t preparing for a fight or bracing for an argument with Bruce. He was just Jason, warm, tired, human, breathing steadily against your skin. He fell asleep like that, his hand still wrapped in yours, grip soft but certain.
And you didn’t know, couldn’t know, that this was one of the last nights you’d ever get like this. But if Jason did… he didn’t show it. He only held on to you as if you were the one thing anchoring him to the world, the one thing he had chosen for himself, the one thing he loved without fear. And in the quiet of that rain-soaked Gotham night, before fate stole him away, he whispered it in his sleep, so soft you almost thought you imagined it. “I love you.”
Jason never told you everything. He never did. Not because he didn’t trust you, God, he trusted you more than he trusted himself, but because he loved you with that dangerous kind of devotion that made him keep all the sharp edges of his life pointed toward himself instead of you. That’s why when he discovered the truth about his mother, he didn’t open with the whole truth the night before he left.
He sat on your bedroom floor with his back against the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed while you sat behind him on the mattress, fingers slowly threading through his hair like you always did when he wasn’t okay. He’d been quiet all night, eyes far away, expression hardened like someone trying not to give into hope. Hope was dangerous for Jason. You felt him inhale sharply. “Hey,” he said, voice too soft, too shaky. “Can I ask you something?” “Anything.” He turned slightly, looking up at you, and his eyes were a storm.
“If there was something I needed to do… and it was important… would you be mad if I didn’t tell you everything?” You froze. He never talked like that unless he was scared. Really scared. “Jason, what is it?” He swallowed. “I just… I found something out. Something big. Something about my family.” Your heart jumped. Jason never talked about his family unless pressed. He always locked that door tight. “Jason,” you whispered, cupping his cheek. “Tell me.” He leaned into your hand like he needed the grounding. “I think… I think my birth mother might still be alive.” Your breath caught, and your heart clenched, because the hope in his eyes was so fragile you were scared it might break him. “Are you sure?” you asked gently. “I don’t know,” he admitted, voice cracking. “But I have a lead. She’s in Ethiopia.” Ethiopia. Far. Too far. Too far from help, from Bruce, from you. “And you want to go,” you said quietly. He looked down. “I need to know. I need to know where I come from. Who I come from.”
“Did you tell Bruce?” “Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Big surprise, he told me to wait. Told me he’d send someone else to check the lead first. That I wasn’t thinking clearly.” “Were you?” “Doesn’t matter,” Jason muttered. “It’s my life. My past. My mother.” He rubbed his forehead, pacing the small room like a soldier trapped in a cage. “He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know what it’s like—to want to know so badly it hurts.” “Jason…” He stopped in front of you, breathing uneven. “I have to do this.”
“Then let me come with you.” He froze. His whole face twisted, love, fear, guilt, all at once. “No.” “Jason—” “I said no,” he snapped, but his voice broke immediately. “I can’t bring you into this. I won’t.” You stood, reaching for him, and he grabbed your hands like they were the only thing holding him together. “I’ll be back” he said, trying to sound light, trying to sound like the fight with Bruce didn’t matter, like his entire world wasn’t tilting. “I just need to know the truth. Then I come home. To you.”
“Promise me.” He hesitated, and the hesitation alone was the first warning you didn’t notice at the time. Then he whispered, “I promise.”
You kissed him, long and slow, and he kissed you back with a desperation he tried to hide, like a boy terrified he wouldn’t get another moment like this. Later, when he slipped out your window, he looked back. Just once. And that look… that was the second warning you missed. Because it wasn’t a promise. It was a goodbye.
Jason met Bruce at the Manor before he left. You weren’t there to watch it, but you’d hear it later in fragments, the shouting, the accusations, Bruce yelling that Jason was acting out of emotion, Jason yelling that Bruce didn’t trust him, didn’t believe in him, didn’t understand. The last thing Jason said before storming out was, “She’d want me to find her. She’s my mother. You don’t get to take this from me.” And he left.
Bruce tried to stop him, he did, but Jason was too fast, too stubborn, too sure he was finally going to find something in the world that belonged to him.
Except the Joker found him first. Sheila was his mother, she was okay, but she was also compromised, blackmailed by the Joker. Jason walked into a trap wearing Robin’s suit, believing in the kind of hope you give to family even when they haven’t earned it. And the Joker beat him. Beat him with a crowbar until the world went red, then black, then silent. Jason died trying to save her from the bomb Joker left, he died still trying to help.
Bruce didn’t know immediately. That’s the worst part. He lost contact with Jason hours earlier but he had no idea Jason was with the Joker. And you… You only knew Jason wasn’t answering your messages. The first hour you pretended he was busy, the second hour you blamed the time difference, the third hour you felt a cold, horrible tightness in your chest.
When the Batcomputer flagged an emergency alert from Ethiopia, Bruce left alone, he didn’t tell you, he didn’t tell anyone. He raced across a continent trying to get to his son in time, but he was too late. When Bruce found the warehouse, it was smoke and dust and firelight. The bomb had gone off. The building collapsed. He dug through wreckage with his bare hands, screaming Jason’s name through smoke and tears, until he found him. Broken. Still. Already gone. He carried Jason’s body out of the ruins.
You were pacing your apartment, staring at your phone, waiting for a message that never came. When midnight passed, you put on your jacket and went to the Manor. Alfred’s face when he opened the door was the third warning, the one that shattered you. “Miss,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Something’s happened.”
“Where’s Jason?” you asked. Silence. Thick, suffocating silence. “Where is he?” Alfred’s eyes filled. “Master Bruce… he’s bringing him home.” You felt your knees weaken. “He’s hurt?”
“Miss…” Alfred’s voice cracked. “He’s gone.” The world stopped.
Everything inside you ruptured.
You didn’t scream, not at first. You went silent, chest heaving, mind blank, everything inside you collapsing inward like a dying star. And when Bruce arrived… When he stepped into the Manor carrying Jason’s body in his arms… You broke. You screamed then, raw, ripping, unforgettable, because no part of you could accept that the boy who left your room last night with a promise on his lips would never walk back through your window again.
Bruce blamed himself. You blamed yourself. Gotham mourned a Robin who never got to grow up. But your grief was different, sharper, deeper, because you loved him before he died, because you knew the warmth of his heartbeat, the softness of his laugh, the weight of his head on your shoulder when he fell asleep. And now all you had left was the memory of the way he said “I’ll be back” and the awful truth that he meant it… he just never got the chance. You never found peace in the answers. Because the only answer you ever wanted was impossible, why didn’t he stay with you just a little longer? Why did he go alone? Why did the world take him? Why him?
But in the end, one thing became clear: Jason didn’t die angry. He didn’t die reckless. He didn’t die as the violent, furious boy Gotham misunderstood. He died trying to save someone, because that’s who he was, because that’s who you loved.
And because even at the very end, he kept the promise he made on your bedroom floor, he never stopped trying to do the right thing. Even when it cost him everything.
The world didn’t end the day Jason died… but it stopped making sense. Sounds still existed, but they came through muffled, like you were underwater. People still spoke, but their voices felt a thousand miles away. The city still moved, taxis, sirens, neon signs flickering in puddles, but none of it reached you.
The first three days were the worst. You didn’t leave the Manor. Alfred barely left your side, hovering with tea you couldn’t drink, blankets you didn’t feel, quiet touches on your shoulder when you shook without realizing it.
Bruce was a ghost, walking the halls silently, not eating, not sleeping, disappearing into the cave for hours at a time, coming back covered in dust and blood that wasn’t his. Dick returned from Blüdhaven the same night Bruce brought Jason’s body home. You remembered the moment he saw you standing in the Manor foyer, hands trembling, face wet with days-old tears you no longer felt. He didn’t say a word, he just crossed the room and pulled you into his arms, and you collapsed.
You cried so hard your lungs burned, so hard you thought you might tear something inside yourself. Dick held you through all of it, jaw clenched, tears running down his own face and dripping into your hair. “I’m sorry” he whispered over and over, voice breaking. “I am so… so sorry.” But grief isn’t kind. It isn’t gentle. And it doesn’t take turns. It comes in waves, violent, suffocating, cruel. At night you couldn’t sleep because every time you shut your eyes, you saw Jason, smiling, laughing, kissing you with that ridiculous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and then the image snapped to the reality Bruce brought home, the horrific contrast that made your stomach twist until you couldn’t breathe.
The nightmares started next.
You saw him trapped under rubble, calling for help, calling for you. You saw the Joker’s face in flashes, too white, too wide, too red, and woke up screaming. Dick was always the one who ran to your room first. Sometimes he sat on the floor beside your bed until dawn, making sure you slept again. Sometimes you didn’t sleep at all and just stared out the window while he talked quietly, stories about Jason, memories from their time as brothers. You needed those stories, you needed to remember him as alive. But grief does something else, too, it sharpens into obsession.
And yours sharpened into investigation.
You started going downstairs to the Batcave. The first time, Bruce didn’t acknowledge you. He stood over the computer, face blank, staring at mission logs and satellite scans from Ethiopia long after the point where they held no answers. You stepped beside him quietly. “I want to see the footage” you said. Bruce didn’t move, Alfred turned from the medical table, eyes widening. “Miss, I don’t think—”
“I need to see it.” Bruce finally spoke, voice hollow. “No.”
Your throat tightened. “He was my boyfriend.” Bruce’s jaw clenched. “He was my son.” The silence that followed was deadening. You could see it all over him, the guilt, the pain, the self-hatred, but you weren’t thinking about his grief, only your own. “Show me” you whispered, begging without pride. “Please.” Bruce closed his eyes. “I can’t.”
You left the cave shaking, furious through the tears. That night, Dick found you sitting on the Manor roof in the cold, staring out at the city Jason loved to patrol. “You know he’s trying to protect you” Dick said softly behind you. “I don’t need protection” you muttered. “I need answers.”
He sat beside you, legs dangling over the ledge. “I know. I do too.” You took a shaky breath. “Why did he go alone?” Dick swallowed hard.
“Because Jason was stubborn. Because he was hurting. Because… because he cared too much about everyone except himself.” “He promised me he’d come back.” Your voice cracked and the tears came again. Dick turned to you gently, eyes soft in the moonlight. “He wanted to. I know he did.” But that wasn’t enough, mourning wasn’t enough. You needed to do something.
The next morning, you walked into the cave again. Bruce wasn’t there. Dick was. Sitting in front of the computer. He swiveled when he heard your steps. “I thought you might come back” he said. “I need anything you have” you said. “Notes. Maps. Reports. Names.”
“You’re not going after the Joker,” Dick said firmly. “I’m not stupid,” you snapped. “I know I’d die.” Dick flinched faintly, the mention of death was still raw. “Then what do you want?”
“I want the truth.” Dick looked at you for a long moment, jaw ticking as he weighed his loyalty to Bruce against his loyalty to Jason… and to you. Then he turned back to the console and pulled up files Bruce hadn’t given you access to. “This is everything we have” he said quietly. You didn’t breathe. He handed you a tablet, GPS coordinates, timestamps, last movement signatures from Jason’s tracker, medical summaries, details about the remains of the bomb, the confirmed presence of the Joker in the region. And then… photos. Dick hesitated. “Maybe don’t—” “Give them to me.” He did. Your hands shook as you scrolled, the warehouse, the rubble, the shattered pieces of metal and concrete, the blood. You couldn’t look long. You dropped the tablet, pressing both hands to your mouth as a choked sound ripped out of you. Dick caught you before you slid to the floor, pulling you against him. “I know” he whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I know. I miss him too.”
“I can’t… I can’t do this,” you sobbed. “I loved him. I loved him so much.” “He loved you,” Dick said fiercely. “He talked about you all the time. He thought he didn’t deserve you.”
That broke you even harder. Because of course Jason thought that, of course he did, and now he would never hear you tell him how wrong he was. You spent the next week studying the files, desperate for something Bruce missed, any clue, any detail. You didn’t sleep, barely ate. Alfred worried. Dick hovered. Bruce avoided you, not cruelly, but because he looked at you and saw his own failure reflected back. You learned everything: the Joker’s movements, the supply shipments Sheila Haywood signed off on, the blackmail documents, the timing of the detonator, the exact minute Jason’s heartbeat stopped on the tracker.
One night, your ninth day of sleepless grief, Dick came into the cave and found you sitting on the floor, surrounded by printouts and maps, eyes red, hands trembling. “You need to rest” he murmured. “If I rest, I’ll fall apart” you whispered. “You’re already falling apart” he said gently, sitting beside you. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, exhausted beyond tears. “Nothing makes sense without him.” Dick rested his cheek against your hair. “I know,” he whispered. “I know, because he was my brother. And you were the only person who made him feel like he wasn’t broken.”
“Then why did he leave me?” Dick exhaled shakily. “He didn’t leave you. He left a question he needed answered. It just… cost him everything.” You closed your eyes, the ache unbearable. “I hate the Joker.” “We all do.”
“I hate Bruce too,” you whispered. “Is that wrong?” Dick shook his head. “No. It’s human.” Silence settled, heavy and suffocating. Then Dick’s voice softened. “You know… he would want you to live. Jason. He’d want you to eat, to sleep, to yell at him for being reckless.” You let out a broken, humorless laugh. “He’d make fun of me for crying this much.”
“He’d pretend to,” Dick corrected softly. “But he’d hold you until you stopped.” You looked up at Dick, eyes blurred. “Who’s going to hold me now?” Dick’s face twisted, grief, sympathy, helplessness. “I will” he whispered. “As long as you need.”
And he did. For weeks. He carried you through every breakdown, every nightmare, every moment your knees gave out because grief was heavier than your body could bear. You never forgot Jason, you never stopped missing him, you never stopped loving him. But slowly, painfully, reluctantly, inch by inch, you started breathing again. Grief doesn’t end, it just changes shape.
Some days it felt like a bruise. Some days like a stab wound. Some days like an empty space beside you where Jason should have been. But every day, you carried him. In your memory. In your heart. In the ache that would never fully heal. And Dick walked beside you, the only person who understood the exact shape of your pain, helping you survive the love that ended too soon.
Jason wouldn’t have wanted your life to end with his. He loved you too much for that. And somehow, unbearably, beautifully… that love is what kept you alive.
It had been exactly one month since Jason died. One month of waking up every day with your heart in shards, one month of Bruce retreating into the cave like a ghost, one month of Dick trying to hold both himself and you together, one month of Alfred quietly crying in the kitchen when he thought no one could hear, one month of Gotham losing a Robin and gaining a wound. And then you heard it. The whisper. The rumor. The thing so unthinkable you refused to believe it until your shaking hands forced open the front doors of Wayne Manor and carried you inside, you heard there was a new Robin. You didn’t want it to be true. You didn’t want to believe Bruce could possibly, possibly replace Jason like that, like a uniform, like a mask, like a role to fill rather than a son he buried with his own hands. But the moment you stepped into the foyer, you felt it. A shift. Something unfamiliar. Someone unfamiliar. Voices echoed down the hall, Bruce’s low, quiet tone, and a boy’s voice. Young. Younger than Jason. You froze at the corner, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Bruce stood in the training room doorway, arms crossed, talking to… him. A boy, black hair, bright eyes, nervous posture, wearing practice gear with faint green and red accents, like a costume not yet complete. He looked so small. So innocent. So painfully misplaced in a home soaked in grief. Bruce noticed you first. His expression didn’t changed, it was carved from stone these days, but you saw his shoulders tighten.
“You shouldn’t be here” he said quietly. “The hell I shouldn’t” you almost hissed. The boy turned, startled. He looked at you with wide, open eyes, the kind of eyes that didn’t yet understand death the way you did. “Hi,” he said, voice soft, hopeful. “I’m—” “Don’t.” The word came out sharp enough to cut. He blinked. “I… I’m Tim,” he tried again, awkwardly stepping forward. “Tim Drake.” You stared at him like he was a ghost wearing Jason’s colors. Your hands shook, your throat tightened, your heart cracked open all over again. Tim swallowed, clearly trying to be friendly, polite, normal. “I’m… um… I’m the new Rob—” Your vision went red. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault. But grief is rarely rational, and nothing about this, this child standing where Jason should be, felt fair. “No” you whispered. Then louder “No. You’re not.” Tim froze mid sentence. Bruce exhaled slowly, like he’d been dreading this moment. “Bruce” you breathed, staring at him with betrayal burning under your skin, “tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t replace him.” “It’s not like that” Bruce tried. “He needed help. Gotham needed—” “I DON’T CARE WHAT GOTHAM NEEDED” you screamed, voice splintering. “JASON NEEDED YOU!” Tim flinched at the name. Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.” Your throat burned. Your chest dug inward. “Your son died. And one month later you found another one to put in his suit.” Tim looked horrified. “Wait—no— I’m not trying to replace— I just wanted to help, I swear, I—”
“Shut up.” The boy’s face crumpled in confusion. “I… I didn’t mean—” “I SAID SHUT UP!” You stepped toward him without realizing it, grief fueling your body like fire. Dick’s voice echoed distantly down the hall, “Hey, what’s happening—?” But he was too far away. Tim opened his mouth to explain again, something soft, something kind, and something inside you snapped. The same way it used to snap inside Jason when he felt cornered, overwhelmed, hurting too much to contain it. Before you processed it, your fist flew. A clean, sharp hook, the one Jason drilled into you a hundred times when you sparred in alleys after school, laughing breathlessly between hits. The same punch that always made him grin and say, “Atta girl.”
Your knuckles connected with Tim. Hard. Harder than you intended. The boy gasped, stumbling backward, hand flying to his chest as shock flooded his features. He hadn’t even lifted a guard. He didn’t know he needed one but the suit protected him enough that it didn't hurt him.
Bruce stepped forward instantly, grabbing your wrist mid-swing when you almost hit him again. “Enough” Bruce snapped, voice low and dangerous, but beneath it, beneath everything, you heard it: shame.
But you weren’t ashamed. Not yet. You ripped your hand out of his grip. “He’s a child, Bruce” you spat. “You put a child in Jason’s suit.” “I didn’t—” “YES YOU DID.” You turned on Tim again, tears blurring your vision. “Do you know what happened to him?” “I…” Tim looked terrified but didn’t run. “I know he died. I know he was Robin before me. I know he—” “You don’t know anything.” Your voice trembled violently. “You don’t know how he laughed. How he fought. How he hated mornings but always showed up anyway. How he never walked away from someone who needed help. How he died alone in a warehouse because he wanted to save his mother.” Your breath cracked. “You don’t know how it feels to see the boy you love lowered into the ground and then watch another kid try on his colors like a Halloween costume.” Tim’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m not trying to replace him” he whispered. “I just… I thought maybe I could help. Batman needed help. I thought…” He swallowed, voice tiny. “I thought Jason would want someone to help Batman.” The words sliced you open. Because part of you knew it was true, Jason would have wanted Batman to have backup. He would have wanted Bruce to have support. He would have wanted Gotham to have a Robin.
But right now, none of that mattered. Because Jason should have been here. He should have been alive. He should have been wearing that suit, not this trembling boy in front of you. Dick’s voice finally reached you as he ran into the room. “Stop!” He rushed to Tim, putting an arm between you. “What the hell happened— Tim— you okay?” Tim nodded shakily. Dick turned to you, eyes wide with shock and pain. “Why did you—?” “He said he’s Robin. You knew that dinner you?” you choked. Dick’s face softened instantly. “Oh… oh god.” You shook your head, backing away, chest tight and breath shaking. “I can’t do this. I can’t watch him— I can’t see anyone— I can’t—” Dick reached out for you. You flinched back like his touch was fire. “Don’t” you whispered. “Please don’t. I’ll break.” Dick’s eyes filled. “You’re already breaking.” Your knees buckled. Breath shuddered. Tears blurred the world into watercolor. Tim stood small and silent behind Dick, not angry, not defensive, just hurt, scared, and heartbreakingly compassionate for someone who didn’t even know you. Bruce stepped closer, voice quiet. “I never meant to replace him.”
“But you did.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t deny it. His silence said everything. “I can’t be here,” you whispered, voice collapsing. “Not with— not with a new Robin walking these halls.” Tim looked like you’d stabbed him. Dick took a step toward you again, slower this time. “Please,” he murmured, “don’t go. Not like this.” You wiped at your face with shaking hands. “I loved him” you whispered. “I loved him, and he’s not even cold in the ground before everything moves on.” “No one is moving on,” Dick whispered. “We’re surviving. Barely.” But it didn’t matter.
The room was shrinking, the walls felt too tight, the grief too big. You turned and left without looking back, the Manor echoing behind you, Bruce frozen in guilt, Dick torn between two hurting kids, and Tim standing bruised and trembling with a single whispered apology on his lips that you weren’t there to hear. “I’m sorry,” Tim whispered to the empty doorway. “I’m so, so sorry.”
And for the first time since Jason died… you weren’t sure who you were angrier at: Bruce, for moving on, or the universe, for taking Jason in the first place.
But one thing was certain, the grief wasn’t done with you. Not even close.
The cemetery always felt colder than Gotham proper, as if the air around Crime Alley’s dead knew exactly who they were burying and refused to get any warmer out of respect.
You stood where you always did, boots half sunk in the patch of grass you'd slowly carved by returning every single day since the funeral. The months after Jason’s death had blurred into a single long scream, too hoarse, too exhausted to sound out loud anymore. Now it was just silence. Silence and paper.
You knelt, the way you always did, your knees clicking against the stone path as you opened your bag, fingers trembling in the repetitive muscle memory of heartbreak. Jason Todd, a Good Soldier.
Beloved Son. Beloved Brother. A Robin Who Fell. They’d written that last part small, almost hidden, because Bruce had refused for weeks to choose wording and in the end Dick stepped in and handled the stone, shoulders shaking the entire time. You remembered him apologizing over and over that day, voice cracking, saying, “I’m sorry. I’m trying.” You had been too numb to answer.
You swallowed as you placed today’s letter down. The envelope was soft, edges slightly bent from being held too tight. And like always, before you could stop yourself, yoy whispered “Hey, Jay”
Your voice broke halfway through his name. It always did.
You sat beside the headstone, pulling your knees to your chest like he used to sit on rooftops, elbows on them, chin tucked down, waiting for danger with that cocky little smirk that drove you crazy. The fall wind cut through your coat, you barely felt it anymore.
You opened the envelope and reread today’s letter before leaving it. You always reread them, as if making sure your words were worthy of him.
Jason, I had another dream last night. You were laughing, not loudly, just under your breath the way you did when you were trying to be quiet but couldn’t help yourself. You asked me why I was crying, and I told you, “Because you’re dead.” You punched my shoulder and said, “Not dead enough to be rid of you.” I woke up smiling. Then it hit me again. I miss you. I miss you every single second. Gotham doesn’t sound right without you yelling at Bruce. My apartment doesn’t feel real without your jacket on the floor. Nothing feels real at all. If there’s anything after this, I hope you’re not alone. I hope it doesn’t hurt anymore. I hope you know I loved you. I still do.
—Yours, always.
Your handwriting wavered near the end, you remembered your vision blurring while you wrote it the night before, but you never rewrote them. He deserved the truth, even if the ink shook.
You exhaled slowly, folded the letter, tucked it beneath the small smooth stone you always used to weigh it down.
And then you froze.
Because the space beneath that small stone, the space where the letter you left yesterday should have been, was empty.
Completely empty. The letter was gone.
Your brain immediately tried to explain it logically, desperately, violently: the wind, a stray animal., rain, someone visiting another grave stepped on it, a cleaner picked it up.
But you had been coming here for years.
Nothing ever touched the letters.
Nothing moved them. Nothing disturbed them. Nothing took them.
Your breath hitched sharply, but you swallowed it down, forcing yourself not to spiral. You hated hope. Hope was cruel, hope was what Jason had the day he ran after the possibility of his mother, hope got him murdered.
And yet, you couldn’t stop staring at the empty patch of grass like it had bitten you.
“No,” you whispered, to yourself, to the empty air. “No. Don’t… don’t start that.”
But your hands were shaking.
You left another letter the next day. A simple one, shorter.
If someone took yesterday’s letter, please put it back. That’s all. Please.
You checked it eleven times that night in your memory before finally sleeping.
And the next day, you returned early, wearing the same coat, same boots, breath fogging. You walked the stone path automatically, because your body already knew the way.
Your knees hit the ground before your mind caught up.
The letter was gone again.
No wind. No rain. No footprints. No disturbance. Just gone.
And something in your chest, something you had been keeping buried deeper than Jason himself, struck like a fist to your ribs.
“No” you whispered again, this time almost a plea. “Jason’s dead. They… they buried him. I saw… I saw…”
But you couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t say out loud what you saw in that warehouse. What Bruce dragged out of there, what they put in the coffin.
You pressed your fists to your mouth and shook until your shoulders hurt.
You knew about resurrection, in theory. Ra’s al Ghul. The Lazarus Pit. The League. Jason had ranted once about how Bruce didn’t care enough to use that pit on anyone, not even Jason’s biological father. You remembered Jason calling it “a crock of mystical green shit” but also admitting, very quietly, that “if it’s real, B would never let anyone he loves near it.”
Your mind began spinning through every detail you knew. Every possibility. Every impossibility. Your breath quickened. You curled over the grass until your forehead nearly touched his name carved in stone.
“Jason,” you whispered, “if you’re alive… if you’re alive, why aren’t you coming home?”
It hurt to even speak it.
And even worse, a horrifying new fear curled inside you.
Because if Jason was alive…
And not coming home…
Then something was keeping him from it.
Or someone was.
And you knew Gotham well enough to know what that meant.
You stayed until the sun set and the cemetery turned blue purple, numb fingers tracing the carved letters of his name like you could memorize them into your bones. Your breath came uneven, the cold air scraping your lungs.
Finally, you pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. Your hands trembled as you wrote:
If this is you, Jay… please… just give me something. Anything. I don’t care what you look like. I don’t care what happened to you. I don’t care what’s wrong or what hurts or what changed. I just want you. I’ll take you any way you are. Please. Please come home.
You folded the letter carefully, placed it under the familiar stone.
You stayed for an hour. Two.
Three.
Nothing happened.
You finally walked away, shoulders caved, every step heavy with grief sharpened into a new, unbearable shape: what if.
Behind you, five minutes after you left, the branches near the grave stirred, part wind, part something heavier, something that breathed.
A gloved hand slipped from the shadows.
Scarred. Calloused. Shaking.
Jason Todd, older, angrier, alive in the wrong way, stepped close enough that the toe of his boot brushed the grass you had knelt on.
He reached down, picked up your letter with slow, trembling fingers, his breath broke in his chest as he read your handwriting, his name written the way only you wrote it. A cracked sound escaped him, half choke, half something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.
He touched the stone marking his own grave, then he disappeared back into the darkness before anyone could see him, letter crumpled in his fist, your voice echoing through him like a ghost he didn’t know how to fight.
And you, miles away, felt the faintest hollow echo in your ribs, like something familiar had shifted in the world, but you couldn’t name it yet.
The night you finally saw him again didn’t feel special at first.
It was one of those Gotham nights where the air tasted like smoke and rain, where the sky pressed low as if trying to suffocate the city into silence. You'd been out late, too late, following a lead on a gunrunner you suspected might be connected to the same network that had once spread Joker’s weapons.
You weren't part of the Batfamily, not anymore, not since the day you punched Tim. Bruce hadn’t banned you, exactly, but he didn’t reach out. Dick checked on you from time to time, but even that had slowly faded, swallowed by grief and time and the kind of pain people don’t know how to touch.
You walked the rooftops like Jason used to, boots scuffing the ledges in that same restless pattern, the one he taught you when you were fifteen and bulletproof with love. Your breath fogged as you scanned Crime Alley. The place always felt like an open wound. His wound. Yours too.
The rain had started, faint, misty droplets gathering in your hair. You took a breath, ready to move but froze.
Someone else was in the alley.
Someone tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a leather jacket darkened by rain, combat boots planted steady on the cracked concrete, and a helmet, a red one, glossy, sharp-lined, entirely out of place in the dark.
Red Hood.
The guy Gotham’s criminals whispered about. The one who left bodies where Batman left bruises. The one whose voice on police scanners sounded exactly like a ghost learning how to breathe again.
He stood with his back to you, tense, head tilted slightly as if he’d known you were following him long before you realized you were doing it.
Your stomach plummeted. Something ancient and instinctive in your bones twisted hard.
You didn’t know why, you only knew you couldn’t breathe.
You voice cracked out before you could stop it.
“Why are you taking them?”
He didn’t move.
Your heart thrashed against your ribs, painful and wild. You took a shaking step closer.
“The letters” you whispered, each word like peeling back your own ribs. “Why are you taking the letters from Jason’s grave?”
His shoulders stiffened, a violent, involuntary reaction.
You had spent years watching Jason Todd’s body language.
You knew that flinch, you knew that breath, the sharp inhale he tried to hide, you knew that stillness, the kind he used when he was lying or scared or both.
You didn’t breathe, couldn’t.
“It’s you.”
Barely a sound, but it broke the world open.
Red Hood didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Rain slid over the helmet in quiet streaks, like tears the metal couldn’t feel.
You stepped closer, boots echoing on wet pavement. Your chest hurt so badly you thought you might collapse from it.
“Turn around” you whispered. “Please.”
Nothing.
You swallowed, voice cracking, “Jason.”
It was like you’d shot him.
His breath punched out of him in a sound you felt in your bones, raw, choked, the noise of a man who had avoided his own name for years. His shoulders curled inward, his hand lifting to the side of his helmet like it hurt him.
Slowly, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough.
The red helmet caught the streetlight, a distorted reflection of the boy you once loved.
He didn’t move again.
You took the last few steps until you were right in front of him, close enough to touch him but too terrified that if you reached out, he’d vanish like all your nightmares of him.
Your voice was barely breath.
“Take it off.”
He shook his head once, a tiny, tight movement. Fear. Shame. Guilt. You read all of it. He was the same and not the same. Taller. Broader. Harder. The leather jacket strained against his shoulders. His stance was older, weighted by something heavy and violent.
You stepped closer until you could see your own reflection warped in the helmet.
“Take it off” you repeated, softer this time. Not a demand. A plea.
His breath stuttered.
Then, with a slow, shaking hand, he lifted the helmet. The hiss of the seal breaking echoed strangely loud in the alley.
He held it at his side.
And the world dropped open beneath your feet.
Jason Todd stood in front of you. Alive.
Older, scarred, hair a little longer and messier, jaw sharper, shoulders wider. His skin was pale like he hadn’t seen sunlight in years. There were faint scars along his cheekbone, another crossing his eyebrow. He looked like someone had rebuilt him from broken glass and rage.
But the thing that froze you, the thing that stole your breath entirely, were his eyes.
Eyes that had seen death and that now had the faintest green in them, probably an effect from the pit.
You choked on your own breath. "Your eyes…”
He looked away immediately, jaw clenching, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.
“I know” he muttered, voice rough, deeper, damaged. “They changed.”
You stepped even closer, so close their boots nearly touched. “It is you.”
He flinched again. He still wouldn’t look at you.
You reached out, slowly, like approaching a wild animal, and touched the edge of his jacket sleeve. His arm tensed like he was made of live wire.
"You took my letters.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
You continued, voice trembling, “All those years. All those letters. You were reading them.”
His breath broke. A sharp exhale through his nose, like he was trying not to fall apart.
“Yeah” he whispered. “I— I tried to stop. I told myself to stop. But… it was the only thing that…” He swallowed hard. “The only thing that still felt like… like I was human.”
Your throat tightened so violently you tasted blood.
“Why didn’t you come home?” you whispered.
He finally looked at you.
And the pain in his eyes, haunted, bottomless, almost knocked you backwards.
“Because I’m not him anymore” he said, voice low, cracked. “The Jason you loved… the kid you waited for… he died in that warehouse. What came back—” He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to see this.”
You stepped forward and grabbed his jacket, not gently, yanking him closer until you were chest to chest.
“I waited for you” you whispered, fury and heartbreak bleeding into each word. “Every day. Every night. I brought letters to your grave like an idiot because I couldn’t stop loving you. You think I wouldn’t want you just because you’ve changed?”
His breath caught, completely caught, frozen in his throat.
“I killed people” he whispered, like a confession. “I kill people. I’m not what you wanted. I’m not what you—”
You cut him off by grabbing his face in both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes.
“I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care what’s broken. I don’t care how you came back. You’re here. You’re alive. And if you think for a second I’m scared of you, you really never knew me at all.”
He stared at you like you had hit him, something cracking wide inside him, disbelief, grief, yearning, guilt, love he thought he’d killed years ago.
His hands hovered near your waist, not touching, trembling as if he didn’t dare.
“You shouldn’t love me” he whispered.
You leaned your forehead to his. Your breaths mingled, shaky, uneven.
“I never stopped.”
Jason’s breath shattered in his chest, he sucked in a ragged inhale, eyes squeezing shut, jaw trembling. He was fighting tears so hard it shook his whole body. He pulled back half an inch, looking at you like he was memorizing your face for the first time and the second time and the last time all at once.
“It was me” he whispered. “All the letters. I kept every single one. I couldn’t let them get ruined by the rain and disappear"
Your knees went weak.
You pressed your forehead to his shoulder, overwhelming relief crashing into you like a tidal wave.
Jason hesitated for one fractured heartbeat, then his arms wrapped around you, crushing, desperate, trembling so hard he nearly dropped the helmet. He buried his face in your hair and exhaled a broken sound that was half sob, half laugh, half prayer.
The moment you finally felt his arms around you, solid, warm, trembling, something inside your chest snapped open so violently you thought you might collapse against him and never get up again. It wasn’t just relief. It was grief, resurrected. It was years of begging stone and air for something that could never answer. It was hope yoj had buried with your own hands clawing its way back to life.
And Jason felt it.
He froze for half a second, startled by the way you clung to him, fists buried in the back of his jacket, arms locked around him like you werrified that if you blinked, he’d vanish. Then, slowly, everything in him softened. His shoulders lowered. His jaw unclenched. The violent tension that lived in his spine, the constant readiness to kill or die, melted under your touch.
His chin dropped onto your shoulder, and he inhaled like he’d been drowning for years and finally found air.
You started crying first.
It was the grief she’d held in for years, years of writing to a grave, years of nightmares, years of blaming herself and Bruce and fate and the entire world. It came out in a sound so raw it made Jason flinch as if he wasn’t sure he deserved to hear you cry for him.
Your fingers curled tighter into his jacket until the leather creaked.
“You’re alive” you sobbed into his shoulder.
His breath stuttered. And then you felt it, the tiniest tremor in the muscles of his back. Jason Todd, who had been rebuilt out of rage and vengeance, who killed men with his bare hands, who hadn’t cried since the day he woke up in a coffin, he was shaking.
“Don’t cry” he whispered hoarsely, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him. “Doll, please don’t… I can’t— I can’t take that.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face.
Tears were clinging to his lashes.
Jason Todd was crying.
But what broke you wasn’t the tears, it was the way he tried to hide them, turning his head away, swallowing hard, blinking fast like he had to force each one back down his throat.
“No,” you whispered, holding his face gently, “look at me.”
He resisted. you didn’t let go.
“Jason.”
Slowly, painfully, he met your eyes.
He looked at you like he was starving. Like he had spent years imagining your face and now couldn’t bear how real you were. His bottom lip trembled, just barely.
You cupped his cheeks, your thumbs brushing the wet tracks under his eyes.
He moved before he could think, his hands came up to cradle your head, fingers sliding into your hair, pulling you close like he needed the contact to stay upright. His forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling, both of you shaking so hard it felt like the world was trembling with you.
“You still smell the same” he whispered, voice shattering, as if that was the one detail that killed him most. “You still… you still sound like you.”
You cried harder at that, because that was the kind of thing Jason noticed, the kind of thing Jason loved in the quiet, secret ways he was never good at saying out loud.
“You came back to me” you whispered.
“I didn’t mean to.” His voice was thick, ruined. “I didn’t plan any of this. I wasn’t— I wasn’t supposed to see you. I told myself I wouldn’t. I told myself you’d moved on, or— I don’t know— that you deserved someone actually good.”
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
“Don’t you ever say that” you whispered fiercely. “You hear me? Don’t you ever say that again.”
He sucked in a sharp breath, chest heaving.
“But I’m not him anymore” he said, trembling. “I’m not— I’m not soft. I’m not good. I’m—”
“You’re Jason” you said. “That’s all I ever wanted. That’s all I ever needed.”
Something inside his eyes cracked wide at that, something he had built like armor, something he had needed to survive. It broke cleanly, beautifully, painfully.
He kissed your forehead.
It wasn’t a romantic kiss.
It wasn’t heated or passionate.
It was desperate.
A prayer.
A plea.
A homecoming.
He pressed his lips there and stayed perfectly still, like if he moved too fast he’d shatter into pieces you couldn’t put back together.
You collapsed against him again, arms wrapped tight around his torso.
He wrapped both arms around your waist and held you the way a dying man would hold a lifeline, strong, shaking, terrified to let go.
“Don’t leave” you whispered.
His breath hitched, and he buried his face in your neck.
“I never wanted to leave” he whispered, voice tearing. “They took me from you. I swear, they took me from you.”
You cried again, fresh, violent tears and he held you through all of it.
No Red Hood, just Jason, your Jason.
Alive. Terrified. Soft only for you.
Minutes passed, or hours, neither of you caring about traffic or sirens or the fact that Gotham was still dangerous. The world shrank until it was just you, holding onto each other like you could rewrite fate itself.
Finally, when the rain softened to a drizzle, Jason pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, slow and tender.
His voice was barely audible.
“Say my name again.”
You swallowed, breath trembling as you did it.
His eyes closed, as if the sound itself hurt him and healed him at the same time.
He leaned his forehead to you again.
“Only you,” he whispered. “Only you get to call me that.”
Your breath caught. “Why?”
“Because you’re the only person left who loved me before I died.” His voice broke. “And the only one who still wants me now.”
You kissed his cheek, soft, trembling, a promise. “I never stopped wanting you.”
He didn’t breathe for a moment.
Then his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you against him again, and he let out a soft, broken laugh, half relief, half disbelief, half a sob.
“It’s really you,” he whispered into your shoulder. “I… I can’t believe you’re real.”
You shook your head against him. “I could say the same.”
He held you tighter.
The city could have exploded around you and neither would’ve noticed.
You had each other again, nothing else mattered, nothing else ever would.
Jason doesn’t let go of your hand even once on the way to his place.
He keeps you tucked under his arm while you move across rooftops, slower than his usual rooftop run because he keeps glancing at you like he still needs proof you're real, alive, warm. The city is loud beneath you, Gotham’s heartbeat pounding in sirens and wind and neon, but around you it’s oddly quiet, like the world is holding its breath.
You don't ask where you're going. You don't care, you’d follow him anywhere and you already proved that, years ago, when you walked into war zones with a teenage Robin who had a grin too sharp and a heartbeat too fast.
He lands on a roof next to a worn-down warehouse, kicks open a rusted door, and leads you inside. It’s one big loft, half weapons-cache, half home. A couch that’s seen too many nights. A mattress thrown in the corner. A kitchenette with mismatched mugs. A helmet on the table, red and gleaming like something alive.
It’s messy, cold, lonely.
You look around as he watches you the whole time.
“…This is you now?” you ask quietly.
He shrugs one shoulder, suddenly awkward. “It’s temporary.”
“It looks like you’ve been here for years.”
“Yeah, well. Temporary for me is… different.”
You step closer, fingers brushing the edge of his jacket, grounding him. He exhales shakily, something heavy in his chest slowly unclenching. He doesn’t kiss you yet, he looks like he wants to, like he’s starving for it, but he’s giving her room, letting you choose.
You choose by stepping into him completely.
Jason’s arms go around you instantly.
He buries his face in your hair, inhaling like he hasn’t breathed since he died.
“You read all the letters” you whisper into his neck.
He nods.
“I memorized them,” he corrects softly, voice cracking. “Every single one. I… I needed them more than oxygen.”
Your throat tightens. You squeeze his jacket in your fists.
“So…You didn’t stop loving me” he says quietly, like he still doesn’t understand it.
“Not for one day.”
He swallows hard. His hand comes up, slow, hesitant, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. Like he’s afraid you'll vanish. Like he doesn’t trust the universe anymore.
He whispers, “Then stay with me tonight. Just—stay.”
You nod.
He leads you to the worn couch, sits, and gently tugs you into his lap, like it’s instinct, like he needs your weight to convince him he’s not dreaming. You curl against him, head under his chin, legs pulled up sideways, his arms a cage around you, protective, desperate, reverent.
For a long time, you don’t talk. The silence isn’t empty, it’s full, overflowing.
You run your fingers along his jaw, tracing the faint scar near his mouth, the one you don't recognize. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch like a cat starved for warmth.
“You’re bigger,” you murmur, half teasing, half stunned. “Broader.”
“Yeah well,” he huffs softly, “death is a great bulking program.”
You smile weakly. “Jason.”
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Old habits.”
You continue tracing him, the lines of his neck, the curve of his shoulder, the calluses on his hands. Every inch you memorize again, relearns, reclaims. He watches you do it, eyes half-lidded, expression soft in a way he’s never shown anyone else.
“You always did this” he says quietly.
“What?”
“Touched me like I was something worth… holding.”
“You are.”
He kisses your forehead. Just that. A soft, lingering press. The kind that says more than words ever could.
“Lie down with me” he murmurs.
He shifts, bringing you with him, until you're stretched across the couch together, bodies fitting in that old, familiar way you used to when you were teenagers sneaking naps between patrols. Except now there’s more muscle, more height, more scars, and more ache underneath all of it.
You rest your head on his chest. He strokes your back in gentle, slow lines, like he’s counting your breaths.
“You scared me” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I thought you left me.”
He tightens his arms around you until you melt into him completely. “Never you. I never left you. Even when I was gone, I came back to you. All I did was come back to you.”
Your eyes sting. You nuzzle into his shirt, gripping the fabric.
He tilts your chin up with two fingers.
And finally he kisses you.
It’s slow. Tender. A confession and an apology and a resurrection all at once. His lips are warm and soft and trembling just a little. He kisses you like he’s afraid to ruin you, like he’s relearning how to be gentle.
You kiss him back, hands sliding to his jaw, holding his face as if to say you’re real, you’re here, you came back to me.
When you part, he rests his forehead against yours.
“You’re the only thing that makes me feel human” he admits, voice raw.
He exhales shakily and pulls you back down into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head like you're the most precious thing he’s ever held.
You fall asleep tangled together, fully clothed, fully wrapped around each other, legs intertwined, his chin atop your hair, your hand fisted in his shirt, your breaths syncing.
untitled drabble inspired by this picture . . . ❤︎
“keep talking,” you sneer, gloved hand fisted tight in his hair. “you were so smug ten minutes ago.”
now he’s up against the glass—his suit half-zipped, flushed chest rising and falling fast, back to the city skyline as the light of passing helicopters flickers across his skin. the window is cold. his body is warm and his head is tipped back in your grip like he’s offering up his throat on purpose.
dick gasps when you pull harder. his hands twitch at his sides—he wants to grab you, wants to flip this around, take control, but he doesn’t. he stays still.
“not so mouthy now,” you murmur, licking a stripe up his neck. “what happened to all that attitude?”
you grind your thigh against the hard line of his cock, and fuck—the noise he makes, like you’ve just hit a nerve deep in his spine. he chokes on it and tries to suck in air. your grip tightens in his hair. your other hand slips down, palming him through the suit. his hips jerk.
“you like that?” you whisper. “being handled like this?”
he moans. nods. can’t bring himself to look you in the eye.
“say it.”
“i—” he pants. “i like it.”
“like what, baby?”
he swallows hard, cheeks flushed red. “like when you’re rough with me.”
“good boy.”
then you drop to your knees.
his hand instantly goes to your shoulder, fingers trembling, eyes wide. “fuck—wait—”
you ignore him. pull the zipper down the rest of the way. his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. needy. twitching against his stomach like it’s been aching for you all day. you look up at him through your lashes.
“still want to act cocky?” you murmur, tongue flicking over the tip, gathering up that bead of precum.
his head thuds back against the glass.
“no,” he gasps. “fuck—please just—”
you take him into your mouth slow, all the way to the back of your throat, and his knees buckle. he whimpers. you moan. your hands are back in his hair. this time, he’s the one falling apart under your grip—his perfect jaw slack, his breath fogging up the window, his cock pulsing between your lips while you suck him like he belongs to you.
and maybe he does. because when he finally cums—your name ripped from his throat—he doesn’t even pretend to pull away. he just melts against the glass. shivering. fucked-out. panting. you wipe your mouth. tilt his chin up again.
“there’s my good boy,” you whisper.
he grins—weakly. but the look in his eyes says: next time, he’s the one grabbing your hair.
Heyyyy I was the wally west anon from last time but I totally forgor I sent an ask I'm soooooo sorry request are probably closed so feel free to respond at your own pace no pressure buh just walk with me for a bit wally giving head because WE(yes we me and u) all know he's a munch at the same time using his fingers but vibrating them with his superspeed like a fucking vibrator imagine how overwhelmingly sexy that would be
hope this wasn't a full fic lol
wally west x fem!reader
cw: nsfw (18+), smut, oral, inappropriate use of super speed 😔
you shriek when you feel it for the first time. that... you don't even know what to call it. it's like a vibrator, but there's no buzzing noise. there's no smooth silicone slotted between your folds.
and it's gone before you can contemplate on it any further. all you can feel now is the familiar warmth of your boyfriend's fingers rubbing gently on your clit. for a moment, you think you imagined it. maybe your brain glitched or something. but then it happens again.
"wally!" you squeal. your thighs clamp shut, trapping both his fingers and his head down there.
he just laughs. his free hand nudges your legs apart again. those pretty green eyes glance up at you.
"what, babe? something wrong?" he asks in a sing-song voice. the smile playing at his lips tells you his curiosity is feigned.
your chest heaves up and down. you narrow your eyes slightly. "what... what was that?"
another laugh echoes from him. he tugs you closer with a firm grasp around your thigh.
"it's just me, baby," he teases. and then he starts up again. you watch with widened eyes as his hand becomes a blur. you toss your head back as that blur sends jolts of pleasure through you.
he plants a kiss on your inner thigh. "it's all me."
his tongue meets your cunt once more, lapping at your entrance while his digits vibrate against your clit at an inhuman speed. your back arches off of the bed. you just lie there, hips rolling into it all. your fingers claw at the sheets at first before migrating to the silken strands of red atop his head.
he groans against your pussy, something he does anytime you tug on his hair. his fingers move even faster -- something you didn't think was even possible.
you moan loudly, but it's nowhere near as obscene as the sounds coming from between your legs. you're so fucking wet, and wally's saliva is only making that more true. slick noises of arousal click every time his fingertips swipe across your little bundle of nerves.
"you're so pretty, sweetheart. you make it too hard to hold back, too hard to take it slow," he murmurs between kisses to your folds. they're so gentle, a sharp contrast to the speed of his fingers.
your body trembles, and you know the end is near. release washes over you. your lashes flutter as you crest that high. your heels dig into wally's back, but you can't help it. he hasn't slowed down any. that silent vibration stays steady against your core until your whimpers turn desperate in the face of overstimulation.
only then does he slow down. he lays a few more kisses on your cunt before withdrawing and crawling up your body. you feel his hard length against your thigh as he kisses you.
you know what's coming next, and in the back of your mind, you wonder how good his hips would be with that super speed of his.
degredation kink, masochism.. he honestly doesn't give enough fucks to find out what it is or how to explain it, but he loves how mean you are to him sometimes. in texts, playful jabs when you're around other people- always challenging him somehow. he never gets mad obviously- always laughs it off because it's never that serious.
what he enjoys the most is fucking you after you've been particularly mean to him, and he doesn't even do it to prove a point, he just loves how much you praise him when he's balls deep inside of you.
loves how you moan and drool around his fingers, eyes rolled back as you whimper out how much you love him- and his cock. how good he is to you, how big, how strong, how hot, and the list goes on and on and on.
you just can't shut the fuck up when he's fucking you and he lives for it.
꒰꒰﹒﹒𝒑ulling wallywest's mullet .ᐟ ꔠ﹐𝒩AVYHAZE ∿ ⸝⸝ all rights reserved. ୧ ⚟
⤷﹒ⵌ┆ 17+. MDNI. ⓘ hair pulling, pussy eating, dirty talk, big egoed-wally. first post w the new theme wooop .ᐟ.ᐟ
wally west looked like a total tool with his freshly cut mullet. the thing was immaculate—too immaculate. the sides were short and clean, the back feathered just enough to scream “regrettable summer phase.” he stood in front of you, fussing with it in the mirror like it was some complicated piece of machinery instead of a questionable haircut. his fingers raked through the fiery strands, pushing them back and forth as it there were a certain way to style a mullet.
“man, it’s so cool,” he said to himself, angling his head, squinting like a guy about to convince himself he’s hot no matter what.
to you, though, he looked like a ginger frat boy who got lost on the way to his own tailgate. then again, you supposed frat boys could be ginger.
he turned to you with that wide, boyish grin that always made it hard to stay serious. “what’dya think? mullet time, baby!” he announced, the words practically bursting out of him. before you could even answer, he grabbed your face with both hands, squishing the fat of your cheek as he pressed a loud, exaggerated kiss to the other. “does it look cool?”
you tilted your head, pretending to think hard. “hmm. you look like a rich golfing prick.”
his smile faltered instantly. “wha—seriously? just because i have a mullet?”
“yeah. only rednecks or frat guys have mullets. you look like my brother.”
“babe— we look nothing alike! c’monnn, do you really think so?” his arms slipped around your waist, warm and annoyingly clingy. he lifted you off the ground a few feet before setting you back down, pressing a rapid series of small kisses to your cheeks and nose as if that might soften your verdict.
“mmm. i don’t know,” you hummed, lips twitching up despite yourself. “it’s cute though, wally.”
his grin came back full force, bright and smug, the kind that always spelled trouble. “knew it. you think i’m irresistible now, huh?”
“now i wouldn’t say that…”
“i would. i’ll prove it.”
you quirked an eyebrow, half-amused, half-curious, but didn’t bother asking what he meant—because you already knew that look on his face.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
“i dunno babe, mmf thinkin’ mfhm pretty irresistible,” his voice is muffled by the circling of his tongue, sound halfway drowned out from between your thighs. there’s a faint clicking sound emitting from the wetness of your cunt against his mouth, but neither of you focus too much on it.
your back is curled into an arch, fidgeting fingers laced into wally’s freshly cut hair. you’re not exactly pulling it — not yet, atleast. it’s more of a guidance to the all-too-eager-boy.
you gasp — sharp and helpless — as that teasing pressure circles just where you need it most.
his hands are everywhere: one braced on your hip like an anchor, the other sneaking up your thigh to grip the curve of your ass and pull you deeper into his mouth.
his mullet is ruined now — flat on one side from how you'd shoved it when he first plopped down onto the mattress — but he doesn’t care. wally west has never been more in his element.
"y'feel that?" he murmurs suddenly, pulling back just enough to drag a wicked grin along your inner thigh before looking up at you through those stupidly thick lashes. "that’s world-class technique right there, babe."
you huff a breathy laugh, trembling fingers tightening slightly in his hair — still not quite punishing yet, but getting there.
“world-class ego, maybe,” you shoot back weakly.
he grins like lightning about to strike twice — and then dives back in with renewed purpose.
lips seal over you — sucking gently as his tongue flicks faster now — inexperienced? no way. overconfident? absolutely — but damn if the results don’t speak for themselves.
your hips twitch forward instinctively and he groans around you— a deep sound that resonates straight through every nerve ending, and god help you because hearing him lose control sends a fresh pulse of heat between your legs.
"wally—" you arch harder into him this time; "don't — don’t go fast until I say so."
he lifts his head slowly — with effort — the glisten on his lips making them look unfairly kissable under harsh bedroom lighting. "but I wanna see you shake," he says innocently… then ruins it with a wink. “my bad. must’ve forgot that you think i’m ugly now.”
“i never — oh,”
your cut off mid sentence and mid eye roll — given he’s now sucking you faster and obscenely loud.
one hand slips toward you while still keeping eye contact, two fingers pressing carefully inside without warning with a torturously slow speed.
a broken whimper erupts through your throat, followed by your thighs beginning to tense up around his head. a particularly loud moan of his name has him smiling mid swirl of his name on your clit.
"there she is," he whispers smugly — but there's something soft underneath all that arrogance too now. the kind that only ever comes out when it’s just the two of you alone, a warmth beneath green eyes flecked gold in lamplight. “gonna take real good care of my girl."
you give a harsh tug on his hair to get him to shut up, but it just makes his grin larger. it only falters when he slurps your clit back into his drooling mouth. his fingers curl just right, your hips stuttering toward him subconsciously. he hums, satisfied, adding to the vibrating stimulations being sent through your core.
because (of course) he’s using friction. a tiny bit of super-speed tremor humming through every movement like a built-in vibrator no mortal man could ever compete with.
“wally!” you yelp as white-hot sensation rips through you like lightning across dry sky. your back arches off the bed completely this time; spine bowing so hard one shoulder lifts until only half-your-body touches mattress now; toes claw at sheets like they’re trying to run away from what’s happening. your nails scratch at the scalp of his head, as if to deter him.
albeit, he doesn’t stop.
one hand grips both wrists and pins them above your head with zero effort — a one-handed capture for a boy who once caught bullets between teeth — and suddenly you’re feeling a lot more exposed. chest rising fast beneath a thin tank top; lips parted mid-gasp; wetness glistening down inner thigh where pleasure escaped faster than thought itself can track.
and still — uncaring, he works you harder.
his thumb presses tighter against sensitive bundle of nerves, while tongue darts relentless under fluttering eyelids. he’s desperately trying not to miss any detail, any flushed look on your panting face.
“‘re you close?” wally murmurs — voice deeper than before —with actual breath shaking behind syllables.
"wally—!" you scream as it hits you; a sharp, blinding crest of pleasure so intense it feels like your spine has turned to liquid.
the sound echoes off the walls of your dimly lit bedroom — reckless and loud, absolutely unfiltered; because there’s no point pretending with wally. he lives for this. lives for the way you fall apart under his touch like gravity doesn’t apply anymore.
your thighs clamp around his head instinctively — not to push him away, but to anchor yourself, like if he lets go now you might float right out of your skin and vanish into stardust. your fingers are twisted deep in his hair again — that stupid mullet long past salvation now: crushed flat on one side, damp with sweat from where your legs were squeezing him too hard not to leave a mark.
even as you tremble through the aftershocks, gasping out broken syllables between breaths, he keeps going — gentler now — just soft flicks of his tongue dragging over swollen nerves while those same clever fingers slowly pull out before pressing back in with lazy precision. “wallace —”
"shhh," he murmurs against your clit, voice rougher than before but laced with laughter. "i know 'm good. no need to beg."
"what? i wasnt—” another jolt cuts through at the curl of his fingertips and all argument dies on your lips, in favor of a high-pitched whimper instead.
“I mean,” he smirks down , dimples cutting into freckled cheeks , “if I didn’t make ya scream loud enough—I can always let you sit on my face this time.”
Childhood best friend Wally West asking to cop a feel cause he’s never seen a pair of tits before (lying) and fucks Virgin best friend 🧍
ᴅɪʀᴛʏ, ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ sᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ ┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° ᴡᴀʟʟʏ ᴡᴇsᴛ
ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｔｙｐｅ ┊ standalone / request
ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｗａｒｎｉｎｇｓ ┊ smut ( minors dni ), fem!bff!reader, dubcon, manipulation kinda, titty worship, tit fucking, spit kink, facial, virgin!reader ( shy ), all characters featured are aged 18+
ｉｍｐｏｒｔａｎｔ ┊please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3
you should feel so guilty.
she trusts you, ya know.
and you’re betraying that trust.
just what the hell are you doing, Wallace?
his own voice, or perhaps his inner conscience, echoes in Wally’s mind as he watches you squirm in front of him. you were uncomfortable, bashful, that much was obvious by the way you wriggled about in your spot on the couch like a worm on a hook. his hook. why had he asked, again? it was dastardly of him— borderlining on wicked— to manipulate his best friend like this. to lie to your face, and act like some innocent virgin who just wanted to see what a pair of tits looked like. when, in reality, he was far more experienced than you. he’d seen tits, he’d held them in his hands, sucked on them until he heard squeals and sighs of pleasure. so, why exactly had he lied to your face?
well, because you had the best pair he’d ever seen. he could tell, even in your t-shirts. even when you wore his hoodies, by the way the swells strained against whatever fabric intended to swaddle them. when you hugged him, or leaned in real close for selfies, he could feel the subtle give of your pillowy flesh against the taunt muscles of his own chest, and it drove him crazy. you drove him crazy. and you didn’t even know it.
“I’ll just look, I swear.” he’d lied, making good use of his big, green eyes and a trusty puppy dog pout. “Come on, don’t make me say ‘pretty please’,” he teased, quietly, offering a forced, sheepish grin, “it’s already kinda embarrassing that I’m asking at all. Don’t make me feel like even more of a dork.”
“O…kay?” you’d been so shy, so timid that it had made his hands shake in his lap, so he’d stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans as you pulled your shirt up just enough to expose your bra. “Is this good?” his gaze devoured the heaving mounds, the deep valley of your cleavage, and his mouth began to water. but it wasn’t enough.
“Almost.” he uttered, distracted, as his hands acted on their own accord. abandoning his pockets to reach for the swells. he heard your breath hitch, and he paused for a moment, fingers inches away from the front clasp of your bra, itching to unsnap it. but he hesitates, his eyes meeting yours. “‘S okay,” he whispers, offering you yet another smile. one to melt your inhibitions. “I’m just gonna take this off, so I can see you better. You’re okay. You’re with me.”
damn it all, he was acting so scummy. a dirtbag. a liar.
but he couldn’t help it.
he needed to see this through.
the bulge pressing almost painfully within the confines of his pants demanded it.
you were too shy to even hold eye contact with him, caught in this strange position, the fabric of your graphic tee wadded up beneath your chin and his fingers tracing the delicate clasp of your bra. so, you averted your eyes, glanced away, but gave him a little nod.
the green light.
Wally wills his fingers to work as slowly as possible ( which, of course, was still lightning fast ), unclasping the lingerie. each cup sags as it falls to your sides, hanging limp from your shoulders, your breasts jiggling free, and he was forced to suppress a low moan at the sight of your chest bared so beautifully to him. your nipples were already stiffening in the cool air and beneath his scrutinizing gaze, and he didn’t bother resisting the urge to swipe his thumbs over them to help them along, even sinking his teeth into his lower lip to keep a smirk at bay when he heard a quiet breath escape your lips.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, almost in a soothing tone, “gorgeous, gorgeous girl. Your tits are amazing.”
your fingers gripped wrinkles into the folds of your shirt, but you didn’t try to cover yourself back up. instead, Wally noticed that your back even arched a bit. it was subtle, and subconscious, but it happened. you’d wanted, without even realizing it, to present your tits to him. like a delicious offering.
one he would happily accept.
“Bet you’re soft too.”
he was murmuring it as his palms curved to cradle the undersides of your breasts.
“And warm.”
“Wally,” you breathed out, stupefied. “I— I thought you just wanted to look…”
he didn’t want to tell you the truth. that he never planned on just looking.
Wally tilted his head, eyes flitting up to catch yours when you looked his way. and his expression softened. “What’s wrong? Doesn’t it feel good?”
“I— I dunno,” you muttered, bashfully glancing down. only then you got an eyeful of the obscene visage of your best friend’s hands cradling your tits. the way your nipples jutted out from between his fingers, and the way your flesh overflowed in his palms when he enveloped them completely, and you swallowed a lump in your throat, leaning back slightly. one of your hands fled to press into the cushion beneath you, working as a kickstand to keep you upright. “I— I think so… it’s just—“
“You feel good,” he cut you off, kneading your breasts, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm, “and you feel good in my hands. Just relax, yeah? Let yourself feel good for a while.”
you would try your best, though your heart rattled against your ribcage like a trapped bird slamming into the bars of its enclosure, and the sounds that spilled from your uncertain mouth were whiny and broken.
Wally was only emboldened by the way you submitted to him so easily, he began to paw and grope at your tits, pushing them together, whilst his thumbs dialed your hard, little nubs, until he was all but frothing at the mouth. “Fuck, I love your titties,” he practically growled, his hips threatening to buck in place. his cock was hard. raging hard. desperate to escape the confines of his jeans and fuck something. his balls were swollen, feeling tighter. he needed some kind of release. and before he knew it, he was saying it out loud. “Wanna put my cock between them.”
you blinked.
did you hear that correctly?
did he just say…?
but then, he kept going. “Whaddya think?” he asked, his fingers twitching slightly. he was becoming restless. eager. “Do you wanna see my dick sliding in between your perfect tits? Say you’ll let me fuck these pretty titties.”
you were at a loss for words, so tongue tied by the vulgar words spilling from his mouth that you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to form a coherent sentence ever again. “I— Wally, I—“ you wrestled with the English language in your mind, trying to come up with some semblance of an answer for him.
but you were way out of your depth here.
everything was new for you. his eyes on your skin. his hands on your tits.
and now he wanted to take you even further.
you should slow it down. ease him off. tell him you’re too nervous.
but why did you want him to keep going?
why did you want to see his cock rubbing between your breasts?
Wally read your conflicted countenance, and responded, by rising to his feet. his hands abandoned your breasts, leaving what felt like the sensation of his groping burned into your skin, and instead went to his own zipper. he had his fly undone and his jeans and underwear slid down to his thighs before you could even blink, with a thick, hard cock springing free. it bobbed in front of you for a moment, the tip already swollen and deep pink, beads of pre bubbling up from the slit. “Wally, I don’t know what I’m doing—“ you blurted out, looking up to his face to stop yourself from staring, open mouthed, at his cock.
he was smiling again. it was enough to soothe some of your nerves, but not all of them. “I know,” he replied, tilting his head as he propped one foot up on the cushion beside your knee, “it’s not hard, just hold those sweet tits together for me. I’ll do the rest.”
you did as instructed, despite yourself. despite the fact that your face was burning like an oven cranked way too high, and despite the fact that your mind was blanking. you reached down with both hands, gathered up your breasts, and smushed them together.
“That’s perfect.”
it was only two words, but they were uttered with such a thickness, so heavily laden with lust that it made your head spin.
in an instant, he’d leaned in. close enough that the musky scent of the pheromones that oozed from his sex engulfed your senses, and overtook your mind.
it took a little shimmying, but Wally wormed the thick, heavily veined and curved shaft of his cock between your mounds, moaning out loud as the warmth enveloped him like a pillowy sleeve. “Oh, fuck.” he tilted his head back for a moment, just feeling the canal your tits created, the embrace of them against him. his Adam’s Apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed back more sounds. “Stay still for me.” it was nearly a beg, as his hips started to move. as slowly as he could manage at first, dragging and catching on your skin. the friction was too much, he realized, and loomed forward for a moment, opening his mouth to drizzle saliva over your swells. you cringed; the feeling of the globs of spit running into your cleavage. you opened your mouth, preparing to ask him what the hell he’d done that for, but before you could get the words out, you felt the friction give. the head of his cock was shiny, driving through the gap a little faster now, as the spit slicked a path for it to glide easier. “You feel so nice,” Wally purred, his green eyes heavily lidded as he braces himself more insistently against the edge of the couch. his hand rests palm down on the crown of your head, more for purchase and stability than anything else, as he fucks into the valley provided. “Hugging my cock so good. Oh, damn, baby, your titties were made to jerk me off.”
it was the way he said it.
so shameless. so vulgar.
it made something click in your mind. the pieces fell into place, and you had a revelation.
this was not Wally’s first time.
he was too comfortable with groping, with fucking your tits, that you felt silly for ever believing him when he said he was still inexperienced. of course he’d been with other girls. it was so obvious from the very beginning, but you’d been too naive to pick up on it. until now. until you were too far gone, with his cock throbbing between your breasts with each rock of his hips.
you didn’t say anything; you couldn’t. because, when you looked up at him and saw the way a perfectly pinkie blush had bloomed on his cheeks, the way he bit down on his lower lip and smiled as your eyes met, you melted into it. you let out a whine, and it sounded meek and obedient and utterly embarrassing. green eyes blown out with desire, but they stayed on your face the whole time, his gaze locked with yours for as long as you would allow it. “You wanna make me cum?” he asked, a mischievous twinkle in his heavily lidded eyes.
you couldn’t even believe yourself when you nodded. or when you whimpered, “Uhhuh…”
Wally’s brows knitted up, ginger tendrils stuck to his forehead with sweat as he chased his own undoing, driving his cock in between your tits over and over, showing you just how aggressively he might treat your pussy, if you ever gave that up to him, too. your name was on his tongue the whole time. through ragged breaths and broken moans, even when his eyes closed, and his fingers tightened in your hair. you were still the only thing on his mind. the only thing getting him off. his nails bit lightly at your scalp, but his grip was not hard enough to hurt, just firm enough to keep him from buckling under the weight of his own climax. to keep him righted. “Feel like I’m gonna explode,” he whined, and it was a sound you’d never heard his voice make. “Gonna fucking drench you.”
it was really the only warning that you had, before ropes of creamy, white release erupted from his swollen tip. the first couple splattered against your chin, dripping down to dapple the sleek tops of your tits with his mark, while he stilled himself against you for the more deliberate cum shots— the side of your cheek, your lips, your forehead. you squinted one eye to keep from being blinded as Wally emptied himself on to your face. at first, your lips were tightly pursed, until the curiosity got the better of you. the urge to know what he tasted like. and only then did they part. your tongue hid against the weakened seal and gathered a small sample. the raw, heady taste of his cum exploded over your taste buds, leaving you sucking on your own tongue long after you’d swiped your lips clean to savor it, moaning in delight.
it was a taste that you knew you would soon crave. hell, you were already wishing he had more to give you.
panting, satiated, and falling back on to the couch beside you, Wally threw his hands behind his head, splaying himself there lazily. “I guess I should come clean, huh?” he asked, guilt seeping into his words. “Maybe I wasn’t entirely truthful—“
you ignored his confession, turning to face him. “Wally!” you exclaim, bracing both palms on his knee as you lean in close. you were a mess, cum drying on your cheeks and in your hair, your tits bobbing with every move, shiny with a cocktail of jizz and spit, but there was an innocence in the way that you called his name that only you possessed, and the sound of it went straight to his flaccid cock, that twitched to life against his thigh. “What else haven't you done?”
it was an eager, hopeful question.
Wally hesitated.
were you serious? did you really not get that he had lied?
no… that wasn’t it.
you knew. but you didn’t care.
he chuckled, before snaking both strong arms around the dip of your lower back, hauling you on to his lap with a low murmur. “How’s about I show ya?”
「 tags 」・:三 nsfw, smut, hal jordan x f!reader, green lantern ring play, restraints, light bondage, orgasm control, fingering, overstimulation, dirty talk, begging, power play, teasing, aftercare implied
The knock at the door was barely there before you yanked it open. You didn’t care that your hair was a mess, or that you were wearing nothing more than one of Hal’s old t-shirts that barely hit mid-thigh. All you cared about was that he was finally back.
Hal grinned, leaning against the doorframe like he wasn’t still in uniform, dust and faint singe marks across his suit. His eyes swept over you in one lazy, appreciative glance. “God, you make it hard to play it cool.”
You didn’t let him finish. Your hands fisted in his collar, dragging him down into a kiss that left you both gasping. He stepped inside without protest, kicking the door shut, his hands already on your waist, sliding beneath the shirt to feel bare skin.
When you pulled back, breathless, you grabbed his wrist, deliberately holding up his fist. The ring glowed faintly, humming against your palm. “The ring stays on,” you said, voice low, certain.
That cocky Hal Jordan smirk curved his lips instantly. “I figured you’d say that.” His voice dropped as he leaned close, his breath brushing your ear. “Been thinking about wrecking you with it the entire flight home.”
The emerald glow flared, and before you could reply, your wrists were yanked above your head, bound together by glowing restraints. They tugged you back toward the bedroom as Hal guided you with his free hand, lips never leaving yours. By the time your knees hit the mattress, you were already panting, your arms pinned above you in shimmering green light.
“God, you look good like this,” Hal muttered, climbing onto the bed, his weight pressing you into the sheets. His mouth trailed along your jaw, hot and impatient. “Can’t believe I ever thought about sleeping tonight.”
You wriggled under him, tugging at the bonds with a breathy laugh. “Show me what else it can do, flyboy.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping into that dangerously smooth tone that made your pulse trip. “You’re in for it.”
The glow shifted, and suddenly something cool and electric brushed your inner thigh. You gasped, thighs twitching as the construct traced lazy circles up toward the hem of your shirt. It teased, retreating every time it neared the heat between your legs, until you were whimpering.
“Hal…” You squirmed, but the green bonds held firm, leaving you completely open to his pacing.
“Patience,” he crooned, his lips closing around a nipple through the thin cotton of the shirt. His teeth scraped lightly, enough to make you arch into his mouth. “You know I love making you beg.”
The construct finally pressed against your panties, stroking slowly, deliberately. The friction had you moaning, hips jerking against the phantom touch. Hal lifted his head, eyes fixed on your face, drinking in every twitch and gasp.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Take it. Don’t hold back.”
The green light seeped beneath the fabric, slipping against your slick folds, circling your clit in maddeningly perfect strokes. It felt almost too good—hot and smooth, stroking with inhuman precision. You bucked up helplessly, a cry spilling from your lips.
“Already so wet,” Hal groaned, his free hand palming himself through his suit. “And I haven’t even put my hands on you yet.”
The construct curled, slipping two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust. Your head fell back against the pillow, a strangled moan tearing out of your throat. The sensation was unlike anything else—the heat, the exact pressure, the way the phantom fingers flexed and curled inside you like they knew your body better than you did.
“Fuck, Hal—”
He shifted closer, grinding his hard cock against your thigh as he kissed you again, swallowing the sound. “That’s it. Ride it out. Let me feel you lose it on my ring.”
The pace quickened, thrusts deep and relentless, the phantom thumb flicking your clit in perfect rhythm. You writhed against the bonds, unable to move, forced to take every precise stroke. The coil in your belly tightened fast, too fast.
Hal pulled back just enough to watch you, his pupils blown wide, his jaw clenched. “You look so fucking hot like this,” he rasped. “Gonna come just from my ring, aren’t you?”
“Yes—oh my god, yes—”
The construct pulsed, pressing harder, curling just right, and you shattered with a scream, your orgasm ripping through you like lightning. Your body convulsed, clenching tight around the phantom fingers as tears pricked your eyes from the sheer intensity.
Hal groaned, nearly undone just from the sight. He kept the construct moving, working you through every wave until you were sobbing, thighs shaking.
Only then did the green light fade, leaving you limp and panting against the sheets. Hal kissed you softly, his thumb stroking your cheek.
Okay, listen, this came to my head in a dream (and also bc of the Bart smut you wrote)
But just hear me out on this idea: Bart or Wally using super speed during the deed.
Like it could be with their fingers, tongue, cock, idc just thinking about them using their powers during sex.
GOTTA GET THE DUST OFF THIS ONE!
"SPEED DEMON"
Bio: They never slow down around you, never!
Wally
He's a freak, and you both know it. He just loves to tease you with his superspeed to watch you break and overstimulate under him. His tongue would glide against your cockhead with speed; his head bobs on your cock with such vigor and speed. He'll look up at you with big, pleading green eyes, begging for a taste of you, and all you can do is comply. He gets really pissed when you use vibrators. I mean, he's right there—why would you need a vibrator stimulating your pretty little pussy when he's only a call or a text away? Once, he caught you mid-climax with one of your favorite toys. The vibrations were on high, but you still couldn't cum. "You really couldn't wait for me, huh?" Wally's voice was low and dangerous, the kind that could make a villain buckle to their knees. But that's the voice that makes you quiver in feverish delight. He'll have your head on his chest, two fingers doing devilish circles around your clit while your vibrator is in the other hand. He'll switch between the vibrator and his fingers just to ask which one is better, and don't try to be cocky either, saying the vibrator, because you'll hear the thrum of his fingers at a completely different speed that's enough to leave you crying and begging for mercy. "Is the vibrator better, baby? "Be honest," he whispered into your ear, nose pushing back your braids. "W-Wally..." He goes even faster. "You didn't answer the question." God, he's evil.
Bart
Everything is a joke to Bart, one big game to him if we're being honest, especially when it comes to sex. He gets so competitive with you about who could fuck the other into submission or who can make the other moan the loudest (he can't keep his mouth shut on nothing, so obviously loses at that) and who can make the other cum the hardest . One of his favorite games (because he always wins). But just because he's competitive doesn't mean he ignores your pleasure ; he takes it very seriously. In these little competitions, his full attention is entirely on you. The two of you are both in the 69 position, Bart's head leaned up against the headboard as his left hand spreads you wide open , and his other hand, with two vibrating fingers in your pussy, moves at a speed that leaves you crying and begging for mercy. His cock is hard against your face, slick with your saliva, and you feel his fingers curl right up into your gummy walls . "Come, babe, you came twice already. Put your back into it and suck," he chuckles with a bratty and arrogant tease that manages to piss you off, but you can hardly focus on anything when he licks from your folds to your clit. "G-gonna make you sing-fuck-" The wet, filthy noise of him eating you out is downright obscene, but fucking him is worse, 'cause he'll fuck back like a man possessed. He's cuffed to the headboard with your cock inside him , thrusting painfully slow. Nothing stops him from bucking his hips right into you like a needy bunny in heat . Moral of the story is, don't fuck a speedster, not unless you're ready for round five.
SUMMARY: you know spending money on the internet is a bad idea, especially money on a pornstar out of all things... but this redhead that's on your screen is too hot not to spend a little money on!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: day eight, the speedster himself! slightly inspired by an old jj maybank camboy au because in my humble opinion? camboy au > camgirl au. anyway, hope u enjoyyyyy!
the laptop in front of you glowed as you scrolled through the website.
were you ashamed that you had no physical relief for your pussy? a little, but were you going to go to sleep high, dry, and in a needy head space that you couldn’t go back to sleep with? hell no. you were going to figure this out, find a quick video to relieve your needy pussy with, and go to sleep… but damn this website’s content is ass.
it’s all the run of the mill porn videos with stereotypes upon stereotypes and common tropes that are overdone so much. you’re not so sure why you’re so critical of porn videos but like, c’mon, make something at least half way decent.
it’s gotten so bad that you go to the ‘livestreams!’ tab, your fingers clicking the mouse on the laptop as your cursor hovered over it.
spiking for a few seconds, all the pages loaded up with all sorts of damn names on there with pictures of shirtless men and topless women, some with their cocks or boobs in hands, others with a simple selfie. some of them had a little too close to their real names, others had over the top names. you groan as you look at the page, your mind trying to guess how each of them would be based off of their appearance.
dale_cummings2005? “you look way too young to be on this platform.” you whisper to the screen as you look at dale’s page. he definitely didn’t look of age, it grossed you out. “but some people do have babyfaces.” you tell yourself as you keep scrolling.
mila_mommy? “probably going to be dudes cumming at a woman being mean to them.” you groan under your breath as you lazily move your fingers downwards, watching the page disappear and a new one appear.
longjohnlarry? “jesus christ, talk ‘bout originality.” your words fill the empty room as you moan, defeated, it seems like you’re going to have to finger yourself to some weird ass shit. not even your favorite can get yourself off tonight-- it’s annoying and it’s pathetic in a way.
it’s not until your cursor lands on one… a specific one… a boy with red hair and green eyes and a grin that just… lures you in.
speed_stroker69. jesus. christ.
with a chuckle that nearly breaks off into a moan… your fingers act before your mind (which has been fogged with need ever since your three knuckles deep session failed). you can’t stop yourself, your fingers were already in your panties, your tongue was subconsciously licking your bottom lip as you pressed the livestream.
it took a few seconds for it to fully load, but it did eventually. your eyes adjusted to the sight… he looked exactly the same as the photo; red hair that tickled into a mullet with shaved sides that are clearly growing back, green eyes that had a glint in them that was too sexy for their own good, and some more… additional features. like his abs, he wasn’t the most muscular of guys but he sure wasn’t skinny (there was something about his collarbones that made you want to take a chunk out of them), his v-line was curved just right as he laid on his back, head against the headboard.
then, his cock.
his right hand was stroking it lazily, his thumb rubbing the tip of it as the large vein on the side view of his cock was prominent. the skin stretched and pulled as his hands made methodically moves up and down, his balls sat heavy. you noticed the happy trail, it was messy, but not out of control, it was in line but the curls were going and rubbing up against each other. he wasn’t small by any means… but he was long. he had a good chunk of thickness to his dick, but it was clear that inches mattered more than width.
he didn’t have too large of an audience, 175 live viewers in the twenty minutes he’s been recording, compared to some of the other ones with 2,000-6,000, hell someone had over 10k. trying to imagine 10,000 people watching you intimately ruin yourself for a $30 tip still shocks you… but are you any better to participate in it?
the guy speaks, his voice light and seductive, yet full of charisma and energy. “well since we got a few new viewers coming in, ‘lemme just say welcome, you can call me wally, full name i will not disclose unless you pay enough.” he jokes, putting his head in his right hand as he stares into his own laptop, watching as it records his every move.
you swallow a breath, your fingers brushing against your own folds as you watch him. the way his hand strokes his own cock is too damn good. you’re already wet, your finger picking up some of said wetness.
wally smiles towards the camera. he knows that porn was definitely not the first option barry suggested when he told the youngster to go get a job (and his parents ten thousand times before) but no one would find out… hopefully no one important. no one has figured it out yet and he’s been doing this stuff for nearly nine months now. he chose a popular yet discreet site for a reason-- more bang for his buck all while keeping himself on the down low.
it’s not like he’s filming his face in his actual jerk off videos, that he keeps his face hidden, but he only shows his face for live streams-- because turns out? his face is a money winner. (girls apparently just really like seeing his eyes roll back when he cums)
the job is the job, and no one has found him out yet-- or that he knows of, he hasn’t seen anything on the internet about this so he thinks he’s in the clear, for now.
“so… if there is a certain thing you want me to do for you, tip me and i will do whatever you ask of me.” wally says, hand still stroking from top to bottom. he adds on. “it doesn’t matter; one dollar, five dollars, ten dollars…”
you think for a second, and before your hand can even stop itself, you’re tapping the ‘requests!’ button on the right corner of his stream. a box suddenly appears on the screen, and you type in faster than you think.
name: ur favorite
amount: $5 dollars
request: can you say mommy as you jerk urself off???
sent!
the message takes a little bit for wally to get, but when he does, it appears on his side of the stream. a grin appears on his face as he speaks. “thank you for the five dollars… you want me to feed into your mommy kink? i can do that… just for you.”
his tone is sly, his voice is slow and it makes your pussy flutter as your fingers begin to rub tight circles, your wrist slow as you keep your eyes on him. you’re not so sure why you’re so fucking horny that you’re willing to pay for sex… but you need it so damn bad.
his hand begins to go faster, a smirk on his face as his left hand sits behind his head. “oh yeah… love your hand, mommy… love you stroking me.” he moans out, imagining it was another woman’s hand on his cock, his most desired woman in his mind. he closes his eyes, leaning his head back.
you moan at his words, it’s exactly what you wanted. your fingers seemingly go faster on your pussy as he continues to stroke, his words falling in the background as your fingers work in your folds. you couldn’t help yourself from separating your fingers and allow your middle finger to push into your pussy.
you moan under your breath, biting your lip as you keep your eyes on the screen, watching wally stroke his cock, murmuring ‘mommy’ as his hand continues to work on himself. you can feel tears prick from how good everything feels.
then, your free hand reaches to the laptop again, fingers sprawling across the keypad again, ignoring how shitty some of your spelling is and definitely committing several grammar mistakes. you had enough money, why not spend it a little.
name: ur favorite
amount: $7 dollars
request: can youu dirty talk up a storm? like u don’t shut up. i like thatt kind of shit.
sent!
once again, like previous, the message takes a little bit to transfer over from your screen to his, the hand working on his cock continuing as his groans fill your laptop’s speakers. when the message and the donation appears on the screen for wally, a panted grin fills his face. “my favorite, again… you want me to dirty talk you? mhm? want me to talk you through it? cause i certainly can…”
you can’t respond, your only type of response is a moan, louder than the other ones. your finger continues to push in and out of your cunt, taking a few moments to curl it as wally begins to speak, his voice pushing through your laptop speaker.
“you’re so good for me, mommy… love your gorgeous face and your good hand on my dick… mhm…” he moans, his left hand continuing to stroke himself, imagining a woman straddling him, ready for his dick. “ride me please, mommy, i’ll suck your tits, let you pull my hair, i’ll do anything you want, baby… as long as you keep your beautiful pussy on me.”
his words enter your mind, it’s downright pathetic how much of an affect he has on you, and he doesn’t even know you exist. you move another finger down, pushing it in alongside the other finger, beginning to push two fingers in and out of your sobbing cunt as your teeth bite down on your other hand’s knuckles.
your head leans back, a moan of wally’s name leaving your mouth as you find yourself closer and closer to the edge of your orgasm. your eyes remained on the screen, watching in awe and slight jealousy that you aren’t there with him to jerk him off, he looks so handsome with his orange hair and matching orange happy trail, his veiny hands and his thicker thighs.
teeth marks appear on your knuckles as you stop biting down on them, putting your fingers back on the keyboard and sloppily pressing down on them.
name: ur favvoritee/
amount: $10 dollars
request: tell me ti cuum pleasse
sent!
you don’t even care for the spelling mistakes or just the amount of shame you should have for asking a guy you don’t even know, who you’re paying to make you cum, but you could care less. he’s the camboy here, he’s the one who’s supposed to be following orders so you didn’t even care to have the tiniest bit of shame here.
the message is sent, and it appears on wally’s screen in a matter of seconds, and when he reads it, his smile widens. he loves that not only are you consistent-- which turns him on, the idea that someone wants him this bad, but also the requests are so hot to him, and your misspellings are hinting at him that you’re possibly masturbating to him… and that’s even hotter to him than any other thing.
“oh, princess…” he moans out, imagining the sight of you rubbing yourself in front of him. “you’re going to cum? going to cum for me, mommy? cum for me, baby, do it, you’re just so fucking gorgeous.” his words are encouraged, his own hand going faster as his words continue to flow through your speaker.
you can’t stop pumping your fingers faster and faster as you bring yourself over the edge, hitting your orgasm as his words continue to flow through your mind.
“cum all over yourself, mommy, do it f’me.”
“such a good girl for me, princess, love making mommy cum.”
“you taste so good, i just know you do.”
his words only push you further and further into stimulation, into the pleasure that your own fingers brought to you, but mainly wally’s words of encouragement. your toes curl in the bedsheets, your back arches as your wrist yanking your own fingers upwards in your walls to extend your orgasm, moaning out wally’s name.
your head falls back, your fingers stop themselves as your mind becomes fuzzy, your back coming back to the bed and your arms feel numb. you lift your right hand up and clean up the drool that fell from your chin…
your eyes don’t notice the notifications on your screen until you pull out your fingers, feeling the squelching of your pussy while your free hand grabs a random piece of clothing off the floor and wipes the wetness and cum off your fingers.
moving your head to close the tab and laptop, seeing the notifications on the screen…
new message!
speed_stroker69: heyyyyy
speed_stroker69: so… i guess ur my favorite
speed_stroker69: i’m glad, hope to know u better <3
main masterlist | kinktober masterlist
my goddddd, he's so fucking fine, I need him asap. honestly, camboy! wally might become a full au because I luv writing his pathetic ass.
Head empty only thoughts of yan!Wally accidentally making his fingers vibrate with excitement when he’s fingering you causing you to almost instantly orgasm and squirt all over his hand. Cue Wally gaining an obsession for vibrating his fingers in you and eating you out like you’re his last meal on earth. All those panties he stole come nowhere close to the source
Anyway, sorry i need to go to bed now 😅 Seriously though I love your writing SM!!! You have a genuine talent and I consume everything you write even when I have absolutely no idea who those people are 😂
I AM TWEAKING RIGHT NOW ANON YOU ARE A GENIUS. May have been gotten off board, this is NASTY AND MESSY (Minors DNI)
When Wally did it, he didn't mean to, and can you blame him? After all this time, he had you underneath him at last. Using your panties to get off, rubbing them on his cock, using pictures when you weren't looking, and humping himself against your pillow as he breathed in your scent. Wally realizes he no longer needs them and it's the biggest relief. His lips are on yours, sighing at how intoxicating you taste and his fingers can finally caress the skin he long wanted to touch.
He's giddy with excitement when he opens your legs; almost seeming more pleasurable to him than you. When his mouth is on your core, you can feel his groan vibrating against your pussy. He's mumbling words as he laps at your pussy as if it's the last meal on earth, muffled words like 'so good' and 'perfect baby just perfect'. All while moving and grinding his hips against the edge of the bed, it makes him moan more against your clit as his tongue draws messy circles around it.
And then it happens.
Wally just wanted to help you reach your orgasm. But in all his excitement, your pussy is so drenched that he easily shoves his two fingers in. He didn't know his fingers were vibrating. Until you came with a loud moan (waking all the neighbors) squirting all over his hand and face. Wally pulls back, his lower face drenched in your wetness. As you try to catch your breath, you hear him let out a little laugh and a 'wow'.
It quickly awakes something within him. Countless instances in which tears are streaming down your face as you tell Wally that you can't take it anymore. And him shushing you, telling you to give him just one more (but it's never enough). Wally wonders if he can vibrate his tongue too, nothing satisfies him more than seeing you make that face you make when he does it.
theartofmadeline
discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
dailybridgerton
gracieabrams
