Iâm not sure if anyone has already done this before, but here is a redraw of that Uptown Girls scene but with Jason Todd
might animate it later, iâm not sureeee

Kiana Khansmith
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if i look back, i am lost
Show & Tell

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@linkysenclosure
Iâm not sure if anyone has already done this before, but here is a redraw of that Uptown Girls scene but with Jason Todd
might animate it later, iâm not sureeee
happy Valentineâs Day!!!! :D
Me and gang
robin reflex
đđđđđ đđđđđ đđ đđđđđđ đđđđ đđ â đšick grayson ăđ â´ffice au . rivals to lovers .
CHAPTER SYNOPSIS đâ¤ď¸ ÍĄęą Monday. A whistleblower lands on The Meridianâs desk and Chief Morrison has exactly one week and two people who canât stand each other to crack it open.
AUTHORS NOTESâ đť guess whoâs cracking down on a new series !!! yes, it is i !! i am so excited for this one. thereâs already an established main and sub plot alongside cast <3 i hope you guys enjoy reading this !!
WORD COUNTâ đť 4.5k words.
ââĽď¸ĚźĚť Í Í Í Í ă ¤× â â â SERIES MLIST & TAG đâ MAIN MASTERLIST.
Thereâs almost nothing that cracks through your wall of wryness. This is a skill youâve sharpened over and over again non-stop since arriving at the office of The Meridian; a top media outlet in BlĂźdhaven, the main building taking its rightful place in the heart of the cityâs harsh infrastructure. Your own sardonic architecture needs to be as quick and sharp as your co-workers rushing past you or straight up hiding behind corners just to avoid a face-to-face meeting with you.
Some might say your mordant personality pushed others too far instead of just keeping them at a safe distance. Not that you ever understood the importance of shaking hands and pretending you were life-long friends with your colleagues. You werenât. Gossiping in the cafeteria about whoâs on the cutting block for the officeâs instant whispers didnât appeal to you as a satisfactory past-time. As Section Editor, you have more important things to worry about.
Even nowâwalking down from your small office tucked away from the main heart of the buildingâthe whispers bite at your heels.
âIâm doomed,â someoneâs panicked voice reaches your ears from around the corner, âif the Section Ed doesnât see my pitch on their desk in the next 15 minutes Iâll be chewed and spit out by them!â
You donât plan on chewing out anyone, nor spitting them out. But this entire office seems to think that youâve grown teeth to bite into them every time they make a mistake. Youâve noticed that discipline is a word not often found in their vocabulary.
You stop your step just around the turn, tilting your head towards the talking pair. You recognize the panicked tone of one of the Fact-CheckersâMarloweâif you remember correctly. Timid little thing, she runs away every time she spots you in the halls. Though that doesnât excuse her neglecting her responsibilities.
Youâre about to turn the corner and face her. You donât plan on chewing her out, but a firm piece of advice will do the job of bringing her back to earth and make her deliver the scheduled pitch.
âDonât worry too much,â a new voice stops you dead in your tracks; light tone, sing-song levity floating between every syllable, âIâm sure I can help with calming our Section Ed down.â
You can recognize that voice anywhere. Pure unfortunate luck for his annoying voice to grate on your ears. As if Mondays werenât already a punishment.
Dick Grayson. Investigative Reporter. Pride and joy of The Meridian just in the six months heâs been here. Heâs charming, the sources flock to him, people talk non-stop about how kind and easy to talk to he is. while you'd rather not talk to him at all.
You take a step back, pushing your shoulder to the wall. You contemplate breaking up their little conspiracy to âcalm you downâ like youâre a rabid animal that needs to be muzzled, as if youâre not just trying to do your job.
âHow about this?â You hear Dick continue, voice so saccharine it makes you want to gag. âI take care of the pitch and see them myself.â
âOh, thank you.â Marlowe lets a sigh of relief, you can imagine her shoulders dropping as Dick Grayson has dropped by and done her another favour. âAre you sure? Theyâre quite⌠reactive to mishaps like this. I havenât even seen them smile once.â
âDonât let them hear you say that,â Dick laughs off Marloweâs comments, as if it wasnât a slap in your face. âThey run a tight section.â
He sounds as if heâs giving you a crumb of praise, but you know Dick Grayson has never said a single honest word about you since you had the misfortune of meeting him.
You turn on your heel. Enough of listening to them. This is surely eavesdropping and youâre above that. You feel your chest tighten in an uncomfortable hold at the word âreactiveâ and âsmile.â You donât owe them anything, especially your smile. Why does that even matter to them? You try and block out the rest of their conversation as you walk towards your office.
+++
The pitch paperwork feels unusually heavy in Dickâs hand. The manila folder holds a pitch he was piecing together over the entire past month. A sacrifice heâs going to have to make to keep his good reputation running with his colleagues. He imagined Marlowe mentioning his favour to her to the rest of the staff.
Dick canât entirely chalk up this interaction to his need to keep up face. If heâs being honest, the thankful looks fuel something in him. Not exactly honest and chivalrous. He keeps tabs of his collected favours. When needed, heâll ask for them back. Itâs a transactional system; full of two-faced, carefully measured, and neutral comments. Heâs mastered playing it, akin to a chess board.
He stops in front of an office hidden from prying eyes with the curtains drawn and the front door window blurred. A small golden rectangular sign hangs proud and high on the entrance.
Section Editor.
Your name is etched below in smaller letters.
Itâs a curious gameâchess, that isâespecially when youâre playing with someone who looks down on the board in contempt as if itâs dirt under their boot.
Dick knows exactly how you look at him. What you think of him. Or how you view him. Heâs gotten almost every single staff member at The Meridian to open up to him, except for you and a few others. Though you stay a constant reminder that not everyone will play his game. Especially not you.
He remembers meetingâ or, well, hearing about you for the first time. A small welcome party was thrown for him in the office just a few days after his transfer papers were verified. Almost everyone was presentâCopy Interns, Senior Reporters and so onâexcept for you.
âYouâll meet the Section Editor soon.â Chief Morrison reassures him with a steady voice, his calloused hand scratching his neck as if something was pulling at his nerves. âYouâll work with and answer to them.â
âOf course.â Dick answers, responses ready and quick to roll off his tongue. âAny reason they couldnât show up?â
âThe proper wording for it would be âany reason they didnât show up.â Theyâve got a bit of a⌠heavy personality. Youâll get used to it. Or not. Just try not to get snappy with them.â
âNow why would I do that to a colleague?â
Dick realizes that maybe he jinxed himself that day. Chief Morrisonâs words only gave him a small peek into your character and place in the office. Professional but sardonic, competent but averse to group work, fair but quick to jump to conclusions. And utterly isolated from the entirety of the staff.
A hell of your own making. Though heâs never been able to make you see that. So yes, he had gotten snappy with you multiple times, much to the chiefâs dismay.
Itâs not entirely Dickâs fault. Heâd stop if youâd quit ignoring and undermining attempts to build a bridge between your icicle of a heart and the rest of your co-workers.
He taps his foot against the floor. He can imagine what he looks like right nowâ furrowed brows, lips thinned and face twisted in an unpleasant mood, all because heâll knock on your door in a second and meet face-to-face with you. Youâll hide behind your walls of dry wit and heâll try not to sneak in a backhanded remark in the short conversation you two will have. If you could even call them conversations. A fragile peace built on two-faced promises of tolerance is more of a proper description of what you two share.
He doesnât get the chance to knock. Your door opens from the inside. You step in front of Dick. His eyes quickly lock onto yours. The sudden action has him glued to his spot in front of your office. His fingers tighten on the file clutched in his hand.
âWhat is it, Grayson?â
Straight to the point as always. Never any room for small talk.
âYou startled me there, Bossââ
âItâs Section Editor. Not Boss.â
âOf course.â He clicks his tongue, trying to keep his composure. âThough you do have a knack for bossing me around. Not that Iâm complaining.â
âI doubt you would complain about others bossing you around.â You mutter under your breath and Dick doesnât miss the tone of distaste in your voice. âCome in.â
Heâs been in your office dozens of times and the state of the room still makes him question your tastes. Drab walls, no saturation nor colour, no plants and no family pictures. Just clinical white and the faint smellâwhich he canât quite placeâof a cologne that clings to your body. The aroma is unfairly distracting.
The smell is another small detail added to the growing list of mysteries around you that he canât quite solve. âCanât solveâ is not a phrase Dick uses frequently. On the contrary, he prides himself on reading people and guessing their every next move.
But youâ youâve remained a puzzle he could not figure out for quite some time now. A jigsaw with a piece missing. He can imagine the missing puzzle piece sticking out like a sore thumb. He notes that his thoughts draw a parallel to how you âfitâ in the office; standing a respectful distance away from colleagues, staying late or leaving way too early for reasons he doesnât know and the dozens of other habits of yours heâs tried to dissect in his mind.
Dick has heard enough gossip that paints you as a standoffish individual with issues that your co-workers have put their entire creativity to conjure up, but he wonders what the real you is like. What exact buttons he has to push to make you react fully and not only quip back with your dry wit at his every remark.
He hopes that you canât see the way his thoughts translate into his stare that never leaves your frame. He might be staring at you too intently. You might notice and make him feel like the fool he truly is for walking into your trap, knowing that your words can truly bite and not just bark.
But thatâs not what heâs here for. At least not for now.
âI have a pitch for you, Boss.â Dick clicks his tongue and leans back into the chair right in front of your desk. âI thought Iâd come by and drop it off.â
You note how he fits into the seat. How his shoulders fall just slightly to give the impression of him letting his guard down, but the manila folder in his hand remains in a grip thatâs a little too tight.
âTense, Grayson?â The words slip past your lips naturally. You could try to bite your tongue and hold back your unprofessional comments (as the chief puts it).
But the look of surprise that flashes across Graysonâs face for a moment is worth every reprimand you could get from your boss. Dickâs lips curl into a strained smile and you can feel something akin to sweet satisfaction bloom in your chest.
A point for you.
Not that you were keeping track.
âYou wound my heart, Boss,â Dick begins, voice ever so soft and leading, âcouldnât you be a tad bit kinder to me? I thought seniors were supposed to take care of new colleagues.â
You fight back against the urge to roll your eyes. Youâve noticed over the few months of knowing Dick Grayson that he loves the sound of his voice a bit too much. Even when heâs spewing nonsense. Unfortunately, his nonsense has a habit of finding its way to you.
âHeart?â You try to steel the sarcasm in your voice, âI wasnât aware that was something you valued, considering your habit of⌠misconstruing information about your seniors that you seem to respect so much.â
Dick loosens his grip on the folder for a moment, almost letting the contents of it drop from his hand. So you heard him and Marlowe talk about you in the hallway. He didnât notice you were near. He could at least pretend to sputter an apology. Say that he didnât exactly agree with Marlowe. But he didnât stop or disagree with what was being said about you either. But what could you even counter with? Marlowe was right, in a way.
âAnd what exactly have I been misconstruing, Boss?â
âYou know exactly what Iâm talking about, Dick.â
âFinally,â he says, tone half laughing and half tinted with arrogance, âweâre on first name basis now, arenât we?â
âWhile weâre on the topic,â you stop for just a second in the middle of your sentence, the we leaving a strange taste on your tongue, âI am still your superior, you donât get the privilege to call me by name or by any ridiculous nickname youâve come up with, such as Boss.â
Dick puts the manila folder down on your desk with a little bit more force than necessary. He grins at you but instead of seeing the charming smile he shares with others, you see something akin to a wolf baring its teeth to you.
âIâm sorry, did my and little Marloweâs words bother you?ââ
âMarloweâs not little and they donât need you looking down on them by using words like that.â
âI think youâve got it wrong, Boss.â Dick leans closer to your desk and you mirror his movement. âThat kind of condescension is your thing, not mine.â
You both stare at each other for a moment. The air has become more suffocating than it usually is when you two are in the same room. You lean back first, spine straightening and letting out a cough.
Dick blinks, eyes clouded with a moment of confusion before he settles back into his barely professional persona again.
âThe pitch.â He throws a quick look at the folder on your desk.
âRight.â You pick the folder up a bit too quickly, as if youâre waiting for him to get up in your face again and start talking about nonsense again.
âThat was all. Uhm,ââ
âIâll get back to you after tomorrow when Iâve looked the pitch over.â
He opens his mouth, surely another smart comment heâs ready to gift you, but he stops as quickly as he started.
âIâll get going now.â His voice sounds strangely stripped of the confidence he wears around the rest of the office.
âMake it quick.â
âYou donât have to rub salt into the wound, Boss.â He still manages to spit out, but it sounds strained.
âClose the door on your way out, Grayson.â
âOkay, okay.â
Dick closes the door behind him. Just like that heâs gone from your office. The air returns to the room. You can finally breathe in and out. Your eyes find the folder still unopened on your desk. You move it to the side, unable to bring yourself to read his words on paper. Youâve had enough of hearing him, you donât want to continue being irked by Dick Grayson anymore.
How unfortunate that Chief Morrison has made it clear that heâs here to stay. Youâre sure that youâll never get used to Dick Grayson.
+++
Itâs past mid-day when you make your way to the cafeteria. The buzzing conversations between your co-workers bounce off the walls. The air feels heavy with the smell of different aromas all around; perfumes, food, even the faint scent of stationary clings onto some of them. The large windows offer an impressive but not a warm view of BlĂźdhaven.
It all feels too much.
Your feet stay anchored to the floor. Youâre standing in a far away corner of the cafeteria, just a step away from the counter. You donât want to admit to yourself that you feel a bit shaken. Youâre sure the eyes of your colleagues sneak your way once or twice from their seats.
Youâre starting to think you look ridiculous standing alone and not getting anything to eat.
âHey,â you hear a familiar voice call out from behind you, âyouâve got no colour on your face.â
You can recognize that voice anywhere. You turn on your heel and see the one person you can turn to for help in the entirety of The Meridian building â Jo â a features writer whoâs the complete opposite of you, but fits perfectly with you like a puzzle piece.
âYou still havenât answered me.â She moves to your side to hook arms with you. âDid something happen?â
The two of you move right in front of the counter. The freshly baked desserts stare back at you.
âNot something,â you spit out, âmore like someone.â
Jo picks up her regular pastry and coffee along your own regular order.
âCome on,â she begins, voice soft around the edges, the complete opposite of yours, âtell me which unfortunate victim made the mistake of irking you.â
âOh,â you tut, âyou know them very well. Everyone in this godforsaken office does.â
âWe sound like gossiping teenagers right now.â
âOh please,â you groan, âthese vultures do more gossiping everyday than we do every month.â
âTheyâre not so bad.â She looks at you with a sympathetic smile that you donât want to see. âYes, sometimes they get wrapped up rumours but all that could be fixed if you let them know you.â
âBut they do know me.â
âThey know of you, but they donât know you like I do. I imagine more than half of this office wouldnât even believe me if I tell them that you actually can have fun and let loose once in a while. Remember my last birthday?â
âDonât remind me.â
âYou were so drunk! It was amazing! We had so much fun dancing. You even went up to the DJââ
âI said to not remind me!â
Joâs laughs fill the air as you two finally make it to your table. She sips on her coffee while sending you amused looks and you pick at your pastry trying to forget the entirety of today and whatever you did blackout drunk at Joâs birthday.
âYou know what? There is someone whoâd believe that drunk story about you.â
âSomeone as crazy as you, Iâd imagine.â
âTake that back.â she points the soft edge of her fork at you, but the playful tone in her voice lets you know that sheâs finding all of this entertaining.
âWhat are you going to do? Stab me with that?â
âWeâre getting off topic!â She puts her utensil down. âYou could try to make a few more friends here.â
âI think being co-workers is enough for me.â
âSee?â Jo sighs, âthatâs the problem. You need to let people in. Take Dick for exampleââ
âOh, not you too.â
âWhat?â
âHeâs insufferable! I know heâs all talk and charm in front of you guys, but all he can say around me are insults.â
âDidnât you call him a charity case few days ago? After the budget meeting, if I remember correctly.â
âOnly after he laughed with one of the Senior Reporters after they called me a hermit!â
Joâs brows furrow. âYou two arenât civil with each other at all.â
âItâs entirely his faultââ
âIf you want to push the blame onto anyone, it should be the both of you.â
âSeriously?â You pout, knowing how ridiculous all of this sounds like.
What are you even talking about? A petty rivalry you have with someone whoâs below you on the corporate ladder and irritates you to no end? You have it all; a successful job, secure savings, a beautiful apartment on the safer side of BlĂźdhaven.
But still you find yourself under scrutinizing eyes of your colleagues, especially Graysonâs. And for whatever reason his stare bothers you the most.
Joâs voice snaps you out of your thoughts again. âYou two fight all the time. And even though it is kind of amusingââ
âWhy thank you, Jo. I thought you were my friend.â
âOf course I am.â She shushes you and pushes your pasty back into your hands, gesturing for you to eat. âThatâs why I am saying at least one of you has to wave a white flag and give up this rivalry you two have.â
âThat wonât be me,â you answer, voice steady and confident, âthatâs for sure.â
âI wouldnât be so sure about that.â Jo remarks with a tone that makes you think that sheâs not telling you everything that she knows.
âWhat arenât you telling me?â
Jo looks at you with widened eyes, before she puts her hands up. âIâm completely innocent.â Though after you donât give it up she sighs and relents. âOkay. So, I was talking to Timââ
âOf course you were.â You tug on your collar, trying to loosen it. âDid he tell you how great Dick is before asking you out on a totally-not-a-date?â
âFirst, Iâd tell you if it was a dateââ
âSure.â
ââSecond, it was a work call. Turns out chief Morrison wants you to handle a new project. You know as a fact-checker he needs to be on top of things.â
âI donât need to know what heâs on top of.â
âDid you just make a joke? Look, youâre a natural!â
âGet on with it, please.â
âItâs a whistle-blower! Can you believe it? And The Meridian has caught it. Morrison is choosing a section editor and probably an investigative reporter. Keeping it small, but capable.â
âAnd you think I might be the section editor chosen?â
Itâs not far fetched. If you were to rank who you had a decent relationship with in this office the chief would come right after Jo. Youâve worked on pieces that need urgency before but nothing as alarming as a whistle-blower.
This could be another step closer to the managing editor position. You cannot let this chance slip from your fingers. You will not let anyone ruin this opportunity for you.
Youâre brought out of your train of thought by a timid sound of footsteps to your right. You and Jo look and find the nervous Marlowe approaching your table.
âSection Editor,â they finally spit out, voice tinted with nervousness. After that they turn to look at Jo and give her a warm Hello.
You donât let the differences between the greetings stay heavy in your chest for long.
âIs there something you needed?â
âRight.â Marlowe straightens up at the sound of your voice. âThe chief sent me.â
At the mention of Morrison you and Jo share a look. You probably wear the look of satisfied ambition a bit too well. Even Marlowe lets their shoulders drop at the sight of the slight smile appearing on your face.
âWhat for?â
âHe didnât mention it. Only for you to come to his office after lunch.â
Hook, line and sinker. Well, you have tricked Morrison in a few ways just to pave ways for yourself professionally. But none of those successful attempts were illegal.
âThank you, Marlowe.â You say, trying to soften your voice. It happens by instinct. You canât tell if you like it.
Marlowe blinks. âOf course, Section Ed. Iâm happy to help.â You only catch a small glimpse of their smile before they turn and walk away.
âYouâre so getting that promotion.â Jo playfully shoves your arm.
âHell yea, I am.â
+++
Dick has noticed that Chief Morrison has a similar taste to you when it comes to decorating. By that he means that you two have a serious lack of imagination. Morrisonâs office is so bland thereâs not even a single plant to add life to the room.
âI could get you a cactus for a birthday gift, sir.â Dick shifts in his seat and throws a bemused look at Morrison. âCactus seems fitting for you, doesnât it?â
âIs that the same bull-crap you told Section Ed before they walked out of their office huffing and puffing?â Morrison raises a brow at Dick, clearly not entertained. âIâd like my employees to put their shitty relationships away and work together for once.â
Dick stops talking for just a moment. He wouldnât even call what the two of you have a work relationship. Too intimate and too distant at the same time. The two of you are always contradicting each other and butting heads.
âWhat do you mean by working together?â
âYouâre quick to catch up.â Morrison pulls out a manila folder out of the drawer thatâs always locked.
Not that Dick needs to know which cabinet his boss locks, but it is helpful for future problems. (If he ever would have one).
Morrison places the folder in front of Dick. The bright and bold Confidential is stamped on in saturated red across the light surface of the folder.
âIs this about that infrastructure firm? What was the name? Itâs on the tip of my tongue.â
âVantage Consolidated,â Morrison begins, âand I need you to investigate. I already know Drake would give you a heads up about the firm, but donât fool yourself into thinking youâve got clearance to write a single word about this without the approval of your superiors.â
Dick straightens in his chair. His smile that he plasters on his face like a mask has probably deteriorated. He doesnât like the fact that this is the second time heâs been talked down to by his superiors. First you and nowâ
Wait.
You.
Morrison has lost it. The old man has truly lost his ability to think clearly if he plans on making Dick answer to you while investigating this.
âYou donât mean that I have toââ
âWork for the section ed? As youâre paid to do, Grayson? Whatâs so difficult for you to get?â
âThey wonât like this.â
âFrankly,â Morrison laughs, a rare sight, âI donât give a shit about what the two of you like or donât like. I want this done by Sunday.â
âA week?â Dick scoffs, âwith all due respectââ
âGrayson, you can stop with the flattery. It wonât help you. And it pisses me off. Very much so. Youâve got a job. Theyâve got a job. Do it. What else do I pay you idiots for?â
Morrison tilts his head back against his chair. He lets out a tired sigh.
âI deal with children like the two of you. Iâd ask for a raise, but what more can I get after becoming Chief? Now shut your mouth and behave. I need to brief the two of you.â
Dickâs eyes trail to the office door. In a few minutes youâll walk in. Maybe you know that youâre being paired with him. Maybe you donât. For some reason Dick finds himself more curious about what expression youâll wear when you walk through that door and lay your eyes on him. Maybe pure irritation and a scoff is all heâll get. Or maybe heâll find what buttons he needs to push to make you spew out anything else other than an insult.
Heâs got a whole week with you. He swallows the heavy feeling down, but it lodges itself in his chest.
Itâs going to be a long seven days.
EXTRA NOTES âżęŤś Readerâs reaction is gonna be like a bomb blowing up in Morrisonâs office. We have a cast in the progress here. Jo was written with my lovely mutual @coffeelovingreader in mind <3 I plan on adding little easter eggs like this more down the road.
i feel like jason todd would be the kind of person who would yearn so hard for someone that he'd start writing letters to them with every intention of burning them but then he can't... is this anything because i've been sitting on an incredibly short draft of a letter for like. a year or 2
hey so like is this anything? never posted any of my writing anywhere so like tell me if it sucks hehe. some context here the reader is jason's childhood friend and also a vigilante. but yeah here's jason's beginning of a downward spiral
11/17
Pain in my ass,
I hope to God you never find this. If you do, please don't tell me. I've already internalized the way I feel about you; Telling me you found this would just make me look like an obsessive stalker.
You confuse me. How can you, someone so light, so perfect, so goddamn beautiful, look at me, mangled and scarred and broken, and see anything other than a man beyond repair? An irredeemable monster? Somehow, you look at me the same way you did when we were kids, running around Gotham with too-big capes and hopes about "our future." Did you know that wording always made my chest hurt? "Our future." Not "futureS." Implying we'd have a future together. Did you mean that, even back then? Did you see yourself having a future with me? Do you still? God, I hope you do.
Tonight, I wanted to kiss you. Hell, I've wanted to kiss you for a long time. But I can't. I can't because you deserve someone who doesn't throw himself into gunfights every night as his job. I can't because I'm a coward who can't tell the person he's been in love with since he was 15 how much he feels for them. I can't because I wouldn't forgive myself if you take one glance at meâstripped down and vulnerable and scared out of my mindâand run the opposite direction.
I can't because if you let me in, on that small chance that I tell you that I love you, I don't think I'll ever leave. And that scares the shit out of me.
Okay, sorry. Back to tonight. God, I'm all over the place here. Tonight was aggressively normal, slow almost, which is pretty much unheard of in Gotham. I was sitting on that rooftop in the Narrows that you like because there's a direct view to the Monarch Theater's Christmas lights, eating the granola bar Dick had all but shoved in my pocket earlier in the evening because "bulking season's upon us, and I'm not doing it alone again." Sue me for not wanting to trash my body just to look better in the summer.
I was (not so) seriously contemplating picking a fight with a GCPD officer I could see in the distance when you all but materialized next to me and said something about how my jaw is set so tight you're surprised it hadn't fallen off yet.
I just rolled my eyes and offered you a bite, like always, and you just scrunched your nose and said you weren't eating anything that had been in my jacket pocket. Which, fair. Then, you just... sat next to me. Like we were normal people with normal lives sitting on a rooftop, just people-watching and looking at the lights down below.
Conversations have always come easy with us. Even after I came back to Gotham and was, admittedly, not in the best headspace, you came and tracked me down just to talk like no time had passed. Tonight, we just talked about music and how Tim and Bernard are doing and you talked about that one movie that you hate so much that you can't help but bring it up in conversation all the tume. You make talking so easy in a profession where it is demonstrably not easy, and I love that about you. I love everything about you. Fuck, I sound insane.
I want to hate you, hate what you've turned me into, but when your hands are on me, always so cold and gentle, even when you're giving stitches, when you look at me like my life isn't a constant shitshow with no end in sight, I can't. Did I hallucinate your eyes looking at my lips? Hallucinate the way you stuttered when I caught you staring? God, probably.
It keeps hitting me how pathetic this is, me writing this down with the intention of burning it the moment I get done. You always tell me that I need to stop bottling up my emotions. Does this count? I can see you calling me a dramatic bastard with that small smile you get when you pretend to be aggravated with me.
If you couldn't tell by this point in the decade (give or take, dead stuff) we've known each other, I'm terrible at communicating my feelings verbally. It always comes out wrong, too mean, too sour.
Writing, though? I've always felt more comfortable here. In books, in stories, in writing down dumb poems that we would laugh at on rooftops until B scolded us over comms. Which is why I'm writing this. To tell you how I feel. Well, you, metaphorically. Obviously. Fuck. I'm burning this immediately.
What have you done to me?
Begrudgingly yours,
J
i feel like jason todd would be the kind of person who would yearn so hard for someone that he'd start writing letters to them with every intention of burning them but then he can't... is this anything because i've been sitting on an incredibly short draft of a letter for like. a year or 2
twice misjudged. jason todd
they warn you about your neighbor jason todd the same way they warn you about black cats. and on halloween, you meet his cat in an alley, see through the superstition, and choose kindness where others always chose fear.
people in the neighborhood donât really talk about jason todd so much as they talk around him. half-sentences, raised brows, little warnings passed along like theyâre being helpful. donât park there. donât get involved. donât expect anything nice.
you hear it through open windows when you walk past, through chain-link fences and over low music, through the way voices dip when heâs mentioned like he might hear them anyway. like heâs listening from the walls.
but jason never does anything that matches the reputation. he keeps his head down, hands in his pockets, fixes things that donât belong to him without asking. youâve seen him patch the broken gate by the alley late at night, quiet and focused, like it matters to get it right even if no one thanks him for it. mean people donât do that.
so when you hear about the cat, you already know not to trust the story.
someone tells you itâs aggressive, feral, unpredictable. says jason dragged it home off the street like that explains everything. someone else adds, offhand, that itâs blackâlike that alone settles the argument. bad luck, they say. bad omen. the kind of thing youâre supposed to keep your distance from. you just hum and keep walking, already guessing how much of that is projection.
itâs halloween when you go looking for him.
the neighborhoodâs louder than usual, porch lights blinking orange, fake cobwebs sagging between railings, kids running in packs with sugar-high laughter that carries a little too far.
people say itâs harmless, say itâs tradition, say itâs just jokes. you hear someone mutter something about bad luck and black cats and you feel that familiar, irritated pull in your chest.
you grab a jacket and your keys and head out before you can overthink it.
you donât have a plan, exactly. just a feeling that sits wrong in your chest, heavy and insistent. the kind youâve learned not to ignore. halloween does that to peopleâgives them permission to be cruel and call it tradition, lets them dress it up in superstition and laugh while they do it.
you cut through the block behind the strip of houses, where the lights thin out and the noise dulls into echoes. trash cans line the alley like a bad idea, lids dented, wheels squeaking when the wind nudges them. one of the dumpsters is tipped slightly open, lid rattling every time a car door slams somewhere nearby.
somethingâs been left behind near itâa kidâs bike tipped on its side, one wheel bent in on itself like it was kicked too hard. a plastic pumpkin is still taped to the handlebars, cracked straight down the middle, grin split and useless now. it feels intentional. like someone decided it was easier to break something than carry it home.
at first you think youâre imagining it.
then you hear itâsoft, panicked, trapped.
you slow to a stop.
thereâs laughter, too. not close, but close enough. you round the corner and catch the tail end of it: a group of kids in cheap masks, one of them kicking the side of the dumpster before darting off. âbad luck,â someone says between laughs, like itâs the punchline.
âhey,â you snap, sharp enough to cut through them. âget out of here.â
they scatter, startled, bravado evaporating the second theyâre noticed. the alley goes quiet again, except for the rattling lid and the small, broken sound coming from inside the metal bin.
you crouch immediately.
âitâs okay,â you say, softer now. âtheyâre gone.â
a hiss answers youâthin, defensive, more fear than threat. you peer inside and see him pressed tight into the corner, fur puffed up, eyes blown wide. black as midnight except for a clean white stripe cutting through his fur, stark and unmistakable, like it was painted there on purpose.
someone wedged the lid down.
your jaw tightens.
âthatâs not superstition,â you mutter. âthatâs just being cruel.â
you donât reach in. instead, you grab a stick from the ground and use it to prop the lid open, slow and careful so it doesnât clang shut again. the sound makes him flinch, body tensing like heâs bracing for another scare.
âhey,â you murmur. âi see you.â
your voice comes out softer than you expect, like youâre talking to something fragile instead of something everyone keeps calling dangerous. you donât move closer. you donât reach in. you just stay right there, knees pressed to the pavement, hands loose in your lap so he can see youâre not a threat.
he only settles when your hands stay where he can see them, fingers still.
his body stays coiled tight, every line of him drawn inward, claws scraping faintly against metal as if heâs deciding whether fear or hunger gets the final say.
the sound is sharper than you expect. harsher. it makes something flicker in your chest, a brief, unwelcome thought slipping in before you can stop itâmaybe theyâre right.
you let him.
you breathe slow on purpose, make yourself small in all the ways that matter. the night air smells like candy wrappers and cold metal and something burnt from down the block. somewhere a car passes, bass rattling windows, and he flinches again, a sharp little shudder that pulls at your chest.
âyouâre okay,â you say gently, like reassurance is something youâre offering, not demanding. âi promise.â
you reach into your pocket carefully, narrating the movement without thinking about it. âiâm just grabbing something, sweetie. thatâs all.â
when you pull out the treat, you donât hold it up like a prize. you set it down instead, just outside the dumpster, sliding it across the pavement with one finger before pulling your hand back into your lap.
then you wait.
it takes time. long enough for your legs to start aching, long enough for another burst of laughter to float down the block and fade again. every sound makes him tense, but he doesnât retreat further. that feels important.
finally, he leans forward. sniffs the air. pauses like heâs waiting for punishment.
none comes.
when he jumps down, itâs clumsy, awkward, like he hasnât trusted his own footing in a while. he eats fast, eyes darting up between bites, waiting for the trick, the grab, the laugh.
you donât give him any of it.
you just sit there, quiet company in a loud world, letting him finish.
when heâs done, he stands there uncertain, tail flicking once, twice. you slowly extend your hand, palm open, stopping well short of him.
âitâs okay if you donât want to,â you say softly. âiâll still stay.â
thatâs what finally breaks something open.
he steps forward and presses his head into your palm like heâs been holding the night up by himself and finally decided to put it down. his purr starts hesitant, like heâs embarrassed by it, then grows steadier when your fingers scratch gently behind his ear.
you smile without realizing it.
âhi baby,â you whisper, fond and warm. âthere you are.â
he looks up at you when you say it, really looks, and thatâs when you notice his eyesâgreen, bright even in the low light, sharp in a way that feels more observant than aggressive. they soften a little when your fingers keep moving, slow and steady, like youâre not afraid of what youâll find if you linger.
you smile without thinking.
âwhatâs your name, cutie?â you murmur, like itâs the easiest question in the world.
he blinks at you, purr stuttering for half a second, then continuing like he never meant to stop. you laugh softly and reach for the tag, careful not to tug, reading it by the streetlightâs glow.
ONYX.
you hum. âonyx,â you repeat, trying it out. âyeah. that fits.â
he leans harder into your hand, like he agrees. you think about the way people talked. aggressive. feral. dangerous. you look at the way he lets you cradle his head now, the way his claws stay tucked in, the way his whole body relaxes like heâs been waiting for someone to get it right.
âthey really donât know you at all,â you say quietly, more to yourself than him.
onyx flicks his tail.
you shift closer, careful, and when he doesnât pull away you scoop him up just enough to rest his front paws against your chest. he stiffens for half a second, then melts again when you keep petting him.
âso scary,â you murmur, affectionate and teasing. âso mean. clearly a menace to society.â
he purrs louder, offended on principle.
you laugh, soft and breathy, and before you can second-guess it you lean in and press a kiss right between his ears. your lipstick leaves a bright little mark against black fur, messy and unmistakable.
you already brace for itâthe scramble, the hiss, the way trust evaporates the second itâs asked to stretch too far. you accept the risk as soon as you take it, hands staying open, still, ready to let him bolt if thatâs what he needs.
you stroke his back, slow and soothing, and think about how easy it is for people to mistake silence for hostility. how often stillness gets read as threat. how often something hurt gets called dangerous just because it doesnât beg to be loved.
âyouâre not bad luck,â you tell him softly. âyouâre just⌠misunderstood.â
onyx presses his forehead into your chin like heâs sealing the agreement.
then he pulls back, not startled, not afraidâjust done, the way cats decide a moment has reached its natural end. he hops down from your arms with a little huff of independence, tail flicking once like punctuation.
âhey,â you laugh softly. âokay, okay.â
he pauses a few feet away and looks back at you, green eyes catching the light. calm. like heâs committing you to memory instead of running from it.
he blinks slow.
then he turns and trots off down the alley, quiet and sure, lipstick mark still stamped right on his forehead like a secret only the night knows about. you watch until he disappears between the houses, the sound of his steps fading into the hum of halloween.
you sit there a moment longer, letting the quiet settle back in. thinking about reputations. about how easily people confuse silence for danger, fear for cruelty, scars for intent. about how some things donât need to be fixedâjust seen.
you stand eventually, brushing off your jeans, the feeling in your chest lighter than it was when you left.
and somewhere, not far from here, someone else with the same reputation has no idea that tonightâof all nightsâthe story is already starting to change.
jason comes home late, jacket half-zipped, helmet tucked under his arm, the night still clinging to him in the form of cold air and old exhaust. the neighborhoodâs mostly asleep now, halloween burned out to candy wrappers and sagging decorations, porch lights flicked off one by one like the blockâs finally exhaled.
he sets his keys down. toes off his boots. routine. quiet. the kind of careful movement you learn when you donât want to wake anything that might already be on edge.
âonyx?â he calls, low.
thereâs a pause.
then soft footsteps.
the cat appears in the doorway like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. tail high. eyes bright. whole. he pads over like he owns the place, hops up onto the counter with practiced ease, and sits.
thatâs when jason sees it.
he stops short.
right between onyxâs ears, stamped clear as day against black fur, is a smudged lipstick kiss. unmistakable.
jason just stares.
ââŚwhat,â he says finally, flat and confused, like the word might rearrange itself into an explanation if he waits long enough.
onyx blinks at him. slow.
jason steps closer, squinting like maybe the lightâs playing tricks on him. he reaches out, hesitates, then gently cups the catâs head, thumbs careful, like heâs afraid to break something.
he makes sure his hands stay visible, movements slow and cautious, like heâs learned that some things only relax when they can see you coming.
his chest does something weird.
âsomeone touched you,â he mutters. not angry. not upset. just⌠stunned.
onyx purrs, leaning into the touch like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
jason exhales through his nose and rubs a hand over his face. ââŚyeah,â he says quietly. âguess they didnât think you were so scary after all.â
he scratches under onyxâs chin and the cat melts, trust absolute, like tonight taught him something important about hands and voices and the difference between cruelty and care.
jason leans back against the counter, watching him, the quiet settling in around them. he doesnât know who you are. doesnât know where you found his cat or what made you stop or why you left your mark like a promise instead of a claim.
but he knows this much: someone saw gentleness where everyone else kept insisting on danger.
and for reasons he canât quite explain, that thought stays with him long after the night finally goes still.
he doesnât wipe the mark off right away. later, when the apartmentâs quiet and onyx is curled up warm and safe, jason finds himself standing by the window longer than usual, looking out at the dark like heâs waiting for something he doesnât know how to name yet.
When your LITTLE brother stops being little (relatable)
Audio from Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle
I saw this interview and my mind went immediately: yea. Those are absolutely Dick (đĽ°) and Jason (đŤŠ)
let me into your heart
lowkey inspired by me and your mama by childish gambino
jaysteph doodles
when u fuck bro as a joke but lowkey falls in love with her hehe
SPLIT KNUCKLES YOU KISS
pairing: boxer!jason todd/coach!reader
đŐ. .Ő𦯠â whereas, Jason originally didnât want to become a boxer at first, but a flyer of a tournament offers money that he finds interest in taking home. Now, heâs getting his ass handed to him by his coachâs daughter thatâs his assistant, becoming a rising star while heâs finding hard to resist you while your father laughs at the bruised cheek given by his daughter.
cw: reader is a badass, strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, jason is highkey obsessed with reader, no y/n mentioned (youâll never catch me using y/n), flirting, eventual romance, jealousy, Jason sucks at feelings, slight grinding, blow job, blood and injury mentioned obviously, slight vaginal fingering, rough sex, p n v, orgasm control/slight denial, slight degradation, idfk, he gets down and dirty.
wc: ~18k
Jason had been coming to this gym for a while now.
It was one of those well known chains scattered across the states, but this location sat close enough to his run down apartment to make it convenient. Close enough that he could funnel his frustration somewhere productive, into weights and sweat, into something that bruised his body instead of his pride.
He worked an average nine to five waiting tables at a restaurant, then picked up nights as a bouncer at a club.
Long hours, sore feet, and barely any sleep in between.
It was enough to get him by, enough to keep the lights on and the rent paid, even if it stung knowing how far he was from where he wanted to be.
An education felt like a distant luxury, something meant for other people, not for someone like Jason.
University is a scam, but he chases after it.
FAFSA couldnât help him as much as he wished when it came to securing an acceptance letter to the prestigious Gotham University. The tuition alone was impossible, an expense he could never cover out of pocket, even with a scholarship on top of it.
Rejecting that offer had felt like swallowing glass, a future dangled just close enough for him to see before it was ripped away.
FAFSA had been kind enough to cover the cost of community college, at least. He was stuck with an associateâs degree in Criminal Justice, scraping together whatever money he could in the hopes of pushing his education further someday. Even if that someday felt unreachable, more fantasy than plan.
Jason drove his fist into the heavy boxing bag.
The impact sent it swinging, chains rattling softly as it absorbed the force of his frustration.
Jason ripped the headphones from his ears, the music cutting off abruptly as he let them hang loose around his neck while the world of machinery, grunts, and thumps were heard.
His chest heaved with each breath, lungs burning, sweat slicking his skin and sliding down his temples to drip from his brow. His hands ached, knuckles throbbing beneath worn wraps, but he welcomed the pain.
It was grounding for him, tangible, and easier to deal with than the mess of thoughts pounding through his head.
âYou have one hell of a build, boy.â
Jason quickly flicked his head toward the source of the voice, eyes locking onto a man standing a few feet away. He had dark hair threaded with silver strands, the kind that spoke of years rather than neglect, and warm brown eyes that carried a quiet wisdom. Fine lines crinkled at the corners when he moved, evidence of age and experience, yet his body told a different story.
His build was solid and strong, with toned muscles that were clearly defined without being bulky.
A slight softness around his stomach showed the passage of time but still held undeniable strength. It was the kind of body that carried experience, what some might call a dad bod, balanced between resilience and the natural wear of age, giving him an air of quiet confidence.
âThank youââ
âYour technique sucks.â
The man snorted, a sharp, amused sound that made Jason raise an eyebrow in surprise.
âIâm August. Yeah, like the month. You ever done actual boxing before?â
Jason thinned his lips and shook his head.
âOnly picked up bits from my⌠dad, watched videos, and gained some tips from the other guys around here, but it was never anything permanent.â He shrugged, feeling a tad-bit weird out of this guy that came up to him randomly on a Tuesday.
August picked up on the pause immediately, his expression easing as his voice dropped into something more measured.
âHn. Well, if youâre interested, my partnerâs been looking for people around this time. Heâs recruiting boxers.â He tilted his head slightly, studying Jason with a knowing look. âHeâs got his own gym, proper equipment, the whole deal. And if he sees potential in you,â a faint, confident smile tugged at his mouth, âyou could go further than you think. Big leagues, even.â
Big leagues.
âNot interested.â
Jason replied immediately.
He could already see how this was shaping up, the way August pitched it like a door to door sale, all confidence and promises, as if a few words were enough to change the course of someoneâs life, selling your soul type, controlling over someone and putting them in debt.
It reeked of a scam.
The man sighed, clearly catching the defensive edge in Jasonâs tone.
âYou donât have to own a membership or anything like that,â he points out, adding sugar to his words. âUnless you want to, of course. Just give it a try.â August reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, holding it between two fingers.
The business card was sleek, clearly well kept.
Out of courtesy, Jason took it, deciding to put it into his wallet without bothering to glance at the name or details printed on it to satisfy the weirdo.
August watched him for a moment, then gave a small nod, as if that was all he needed. âNo pressure,â he puts his hands up, giving a simple shrug before stepping away from Jason, moving on to probably find another poor person to recruit.
âYou know where to find me if you change your mind.â
He highly doubts heâll change his mind.
Jason gave a noncommittal hum, erasing the interaction within a second once he had left his vicinity, slipping his headphones back over his ears and flexing his fingers.
Then his fist slams into the bag.
Unfortunately, Jason would have never expected to be swallowed by the life of boxing, to have his motivation and desperation quietly reshape themselves into a career he had never once imagined for himself.
Jason wasnât one to quickly change his mind either.
It took him an entire month and a half.
Why?
First of all, scammers.
Second of all, he genuinely forgot about it.
And third, because it was absolutely, undeniably, one hundred percent screaming scammer alert.
Some random weird lookinâ old guy at the gym finding boxers, offering to train and an opportunity that felt like the opening line to a debt that canât be repaid Mafia style, or trafficking him in the worst way possible.
And Jason was not in the financial position to fuck around and find out.
But how the hell did he end upâ
There was a bulletin board at the club where he worked, cluttered with old flyers curling at the edges, corners yellowed and wrinkled from time and neglect. He had passed it countless times on his way to the bathroom without a second glance.
This time was different.
Mid stride, his eyes snagged on it, the bulletin board. A new flyer pinned among the decaying ones, edges still crisp, ink still dark. He read it, feeling a sense of curiosity and remembering the card August had given him, one that he hesitates to contact, but deeply sighed.
This time, he felt the need to fuck around and find out.
CARNAGE KNOCKOUT !
Boxing Rookie Tournamentâ step into the ring and prove youâve got what it takes!
Win up to $7,000!
The flyer displayed information on the date, six months from now and the location of the fight. The registration displays there, but Jason didnât go on it.
He wasnât even sure if he was serious about it, but the annoying old man had given Jason a card to call, or the location of the gym.
Butâ Jason really needed a new used car.
He's maintained his car for quite some time since junior year of high school, but itâs been wearing down easily and needs new repairs every few months.
7,000 dollars is enough to land him a nice used car on Facebook marketplace if heâs willing to scout.
That night, when Jason got home, he found himself digging through his wallet. His fingers brushed against the smooth card thatâs still intact, pulling it out and turning it over in his hands.
He was surprised to find that Augustâs name wasnât on the business card. Instead, it bore someone elseâs name and a location of the gymnasium.
Curious, Jason quickly looked up the name online, wondering if thereâs public information about the man.
His jaw only dropped in disbelief.
The card belonged to a retired boxerâ a legend who had not only dominated the MMA championship multiple times but had also held countless titles. There were articles of rumors and stories painted him as a notorious lady killer, a man who commanded attention both inside and outside the ring and one of the biggest competitors against Bruce Wayne.
But that was twenty five years ago.
Everything was buried in old Reddit threads, faded articles, and grainy videos dissecting the rise and fall of the fighter and his retirement.
And then, Jason fell into the rabbit hole.
One link led to another.
Fight highlights stitched together with dramatic music, slowed down punches, commentators shouting over roaring crowds. Old forum posts arguing about whether each boxerâs technique was ahead of its time or reckless, possible disqualification. Interviews clipped short, the boxer younger, sharper, cockier, and a different man entirely.
He started digging through the rules, tactics, and techniques. He quite literally fell deep into breakdowns of footwork, positions, and strategy. He watched specific workout routines, rewound clips to catch subtle movements, and even found himself following a few fighters and trainers on social media that caught his interest.
Before he knew it, Jason lost track of time.
Suddenly, heâs standing inside of the gym.
It was definitely interesting, it wasnât a chain like Planet Fitness, VASA, LA, or Anytime Fitness thatâs located in a plaza.
Donât get him wrong, Jason had been aware that gyms that were a small business were sometimes located in basements, junkyards, or units.
But this was Jasonâs first time being at a sketchy fucking location, even if it was broad daylight.
There wasnât a logo, signage, or an indicator that this was a gym unless youâre searching it up on google maps.
It was quite literally a small storage warehouse that crackheads would probably roam around, or a gang would trade weapons.
At first, Jason thought he had the wrong location.
The place looked deserted, quiet enough to make his skin prickle, yet the parking lot was dotted with cars that didnât match the emptiness of the building. His unease grew the more he stood around, his thoughts spiraling into darker possibilities, the kind that made his stomach twist and clutching the strap of his duffle bag.
Yeah, hell no.
He was going to leave.
He did not want to fuck around and find out.
But that's when August spotted him around the corner of the warehouse.
Recognition lit up his face as he let out a full bellied laugh, running up and clapping a heavy hand against Jasonâs back like they were old friends.
âWell, well! Didnât expect you to come!â
Before Jason could question any of this, August glimpsed at the garage door, reached up and hauled the garage open.
The metal screeched as it lifted, and the space beyond was revealed to him.
âYa couldâve used the door on the other side of the building,â August pointed with a grin, gesturing behind him, âbut welcome to our boxing gym.â
Jason barely heard the last part.
His attention had already been stolen by the space beyond the warehouse(?) garage. Equipment all over the place, worn but well loved, steel frames and hanging bags stretching farther than he expected. The air hummed with the steady rhythm of machines, the scrape of weights, the sharp thud of gloves colliding with canvas and padded shields.
Grunts and exhaled breaths echoed off the walls, raw and relentless with instructive yells were heard.
It was expensive.
Way different than the equipment at the gym, although it is niceâ it seemed like it didnât compare to this.
âDonât get too excited, you gotta meet the big man.â
August nudged Jasonâs shoulder and started walking, clearly expecting him to follow. They moved deeper into the warehouse, rounding a corner that revealed the buildingâs L shape and a whole another level that the gym couldnât offer, specializing in its usage.
The ring.
His heart practically jumped at the sight of the ring in all its glory. His palms turned clammy, a rush of excitement crawling under his skin, tangled tightly with nerves.
The man he recognized from the internet stood nearby, arms folded, eyes sharp as he watched a few fighters move around the ring. He barked out commands with authority, voice cutting clean through the noise of the gym. Titles, championships, and decades of reputation carried under his belt in the way he stood alone were no longer just headlines or grainy videos on a screen.
The ex boxer glanced toward August, having caught the sound of approaching footsteps. His gaze then settled on Jason, sweeping over him slowly from head to toe as he let out a low, thoughtful hum.
âAh,â August said, glancing toward the ring, âyour daughter at it again?â
He bumped his elbow lightly against him, earning a groan from the former boxer as his eyes stayed fixed on the fighters in the ring.
Jasonâs eyes flickered on the ring, noticing a woman up there, panting heavily before you countered a manâs punch easily.
You were absolutelyâŚ
something.
You hauled the man over your shoulder with ease before dropping down on him, driving a rapid series of jabs into his core.
He grunted beneath you, scrambling to recover, managing a desperate jab aimed at your face.
You blocked it without effort, muscle memory taking over.
Your fatherâs voice cut through the noise of the gym as he shouted your name. At that, you withdrew immediately, pulling off your glove with ease before stepping back and offering the fighter a hand up as if nothing had happened.
âThatâs his daughter,â August muttered to Jason, pointing out the obvious. âSheâs his assistant when it comes to training. And trust me, sheâll whoop your ass, a lilâ dirty spitfire, that kid.â August chuckled, shaking his head as you took a long swig from your water bottle, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
Sweat clung to your skin as you wiped your mouth, then your gaze lifted, sharp and curious, landing on the two of them next to your father.
âAye! August, did you drag in another newbie?â You called out, grinning wide, straight perfect teeth flashing as you leaned against the ropes. You grabbed the towel draped there, wiping sweat from your forehead and down your neck like it was nothing.
You were really unfairly attractive.
âI did! Whatâd you think?â August points to him, having a conversation as if he wasnât standing right here.
Jason felt his spine straighten the moment your eyes landed on him. Your gaze dragged over him slowly, openly, leaving a trail of heat crawling up the back of his neck as he suddenly became painfully aware of every inch of himself.
âHm,â you hummed, licking your top lip.
âI could definitely take him.â
A sexual innuendo coming from you definitely provokes an image to his head.
But heâs quick to wipe it away.
You grinned like you knew exactly what youâd just done, like you were fully aware of the provocative thought youâd planted.
âWell, get on up there, boy,â your father grunted, giving Jason a firm slap on the back that nudged him forward toward the ring.
âWaitââ
August barks out a laugh.
âNo point in waiting! She said she could take yaâ!â
Jason furrows his brow, flickering his gaze up at you.
Your grin doesnât disappear, but thereâs a mischievous glint in your eyes. âWe can do it with or without boxing gloves,â you said with a casual shrug. âThough gloves might be better. Gives me an idea of where youâre at,â your brow lifted slightly, deliberately, âespecially since you look pretty new to all of this.â
Your father crossed his arms, eyes sharp as he studied Jason from where he stood.
âGloves on,â he decided. âWeâre not breaking him on day one, August wrap him up and prepare him.â
You rolled your shoulders, still watching Jason like a cat sizing up something interesting. âHear that? Lucky you.â You stepped back, gesturing toward the corner of the ring.
âYouâll stand there when youâre done.â
Jason bit the inside of his cheek, heat still lingering at the back of his neck.
âDonât you think we should talk about thisââ
You laughed, sharp and effortless, cutting him off as you waved your wrapped hand dismissively.
âThatâs for later.â
You turned away from him, already moving toward the center of the ring, confidence rolling off you like it was second nature. The canvas dipped slightly under your steps, familiar territory, owned.
You tugged at your gloves, tightening the straps with practiced ease.
âClockâs running,â your father called out from the side, voice firm.
âNo fancy shit.â
Jason exhaled slowly and followed, stepping into the ring proper and August followed with a smirk, wrapping his fists and helping Jason. The ropes framed his vision, the noise of the gym dulling into a low hum as his focus narrowed to you. Up close, it was worse.
The intensity.
The way you stood relaxed but ready, weight balanced, and your eyes sharp as if you were an animal catching prey.
You tilted your head, studying him. âRelax,â you spoke lightly. âIâm not here to hurt you.â
Then your smile curved.
âUnless you give me a reason.â
Then, your fatherâs voice rings the gym.
âStart!â
You closed the distance the moment your fatherâs voice sounded, footwork smooth and deliberate.
Your hands stayed high, chin tucked, eyes locked on Jason like you were reading him line by line. Jason barely had time to register the sound. Instinct kicked in and he brought his guard up, shoulders tight, and his stance stiff that you immediately note.
You feinted left.
His gloves snapped up in response, exactly where you wanted them. You stepped in and tapped his guard with a quick jab, not hard, almost considerate. It was a test of his experience that brings a tad bit of frustration that he wasnât really trained for this, bringing out the fact he wasnât as experienced as the people youâve fought earlier.
Youâreâ
âYouâre in your head,â you mentioned, snapping his focus back into the ring. âGet out of it, this is a practice match.â
amazing.
He swallowed, nodding at your advice and tried to adjust, in fact, he threw a jab of his own.
There was raw power there, but it sailed past your cheek by inches.
You slipped it easily, close enough that he could feel the rush of air, then answered with two quick short shots to his ribs.
Jason sucked in a breath, a sharp grunt leaving him as he stumbled back a half step. His eyes widened, not from pain, but realization.
August whistled from the sidelines. âYeah,â he muttered. âThatâs about right.â
You circled around him, light on your feet, hopping back and forth to keep your feet moving with your gloves still raised but posture loose.
Jason analyzes your form, matching it to which you grinned with pride.
âWell, thatâs definitely a start.â
Heat flushed up his neck, but something stubborn sparked behind his eyes.
Then, you crushed it.
His weight shifted forward just a second too slow, just a fraction too heavy on his front foot, and you were already gone from where he thought youâd be. A quick pivot, light and effortless, your feet barely making a sound against the canvas. He swung anyway, a wide hook fueled by frustration more than strategy.
You slipped it clean.
The glove cut through empty air as you stepped inside his range, close enough that he could see the focus in your eyes.
You planted your feet just long enough to land a sharp jab to his cheek, followed immediately by another to his shoulder, then a short shot to his ribs.
Jason hissed through his teeth and staggered back, guard scrambling to catch up. His breathing was already off, chest rising too fast, thoughts lagging behind his body. He tried to reset, but you were already circling him, cutting off angles, forcing him to turn instead of advance.
âFeet,â you reminded him calmly. âThey matter.â
He lunged again, stubbornness flaring, throwing another punch that carried real power but no patience.
You ducked under it smoothly, shoulder brushing past his torso, then tapped the back of his head lightly with your glove as you passed. By the time he turned, you were already facing him again, gloves up, balanced, and waiting for him when you couldâve punched again.
âI just realized youâre not much of a talker.â
August laughed under his breath somewhere off to the side. Jason growled and came in harder this time, swinging fast, messy, trying to overwhelm you.
His predictable approach created an opening.
You stepped in and snapped a clean jab into his mouth, not enough to split skin, but enough to sting. Before he could react, you followed with a quick combination to his body, then one final tap to his jaw that sent his head snapping to the side.
Jason stumbled, boots skidding against the canvas as he caught himself on the ropes.
He stayed, breathing heavily.
You stopped, lowering your gloves.
âAlright,â you announced. âIâve seen enough.â
Jason pushed himself off the ropes, swallowing hard, humiliation from your words and awe mixing in his expression, respect in his gaze.
He nodded once, unable to argue your wordsâ knowing you were trained for this, he wasnât.
You studied him for a moment, then cracked a small grin.
âLetâs talk now.â
âAh, thatâs why youâve come. âCarnage Knockoutâ? The rookie tournament.â
August folds his arm, understanding dawns on him before glancing at Jason, who sat on the bench catching his breath, shoulders still tense as he explained his reasons for wanting to box.
Across from him, you and your father listened in.
âWell, we can definitely get you ready for the rookie tournament happening inâŚâ You paused, unlocking your phone and scrolling through the Instagram page for Carnage Knockout. Your eyes scanned the dates until you found the next event. ââŚsix months.â
You looked up, meeting Jasonâs gaze with a small, confident smile.
âIf youâre serious, willing to put in the work, and ready to commit to boxing, then Iâll train you,â you firmly stated, folding your arms as your foot taps against the floor. âBut if you start treating this like childâs play, Iâm kicking you out.â
Your father grunted in agreement, his few words carrying heavy weight, making it clear he didnât tolerate anything less than dedication.
âWould your father also train me?â Jason asked, genuine curiosity, wondering why you were training him, but not in a disrespectful way. He didnât mind, but he simply questioned why your father wasnât going toâ
âHeâs old.â You bluntly told him with a laugh escaping from your lips, your father slaps your back in retaliation, hearing an audible âow!â That still causes you to laugh, pushing your fatherâs bicep to quit it.
August barked out a laugh, shaking his head.
Your father shot you a look, unimpressed but fond. âIâm not old,â he muttered. âIâm experienced.â
You smirked. âThatâs what old people say.â
Another swat came your way, lighter this time, and you leaned away, still grinning. Then your expression shifted, focus snapping back to Jason.
âIâll be the one in the ring with you,â you confidently say, tone more serious now. âIâll push you, correct you, and knock bad habits out of you before they stick. Heââ you jerked your chin toward your father, âwatches, steps in when needed, and makes sure I donât go easy on you and relax if Iâm going overboard.â
Your father nodded once more.
âListen to her, all of your opponents in the ring will most likely be my daughter.â
Jason huffed out a quiet laugh, nerves easing just a little. He straightened on the bench, settling the nerves into his posture before looking at you. âIâm serious,â determination leaning through. âI wonât waste your time.â
You hummed softly, a gentle smile curling at your lips as the usual mischievous spark in your eyes softened.
âI believe it.â
The words landed heavier than he expected.
Something in his chest shifted, unfamiliar and unguarded, catching him off balance.
And you werenât the kind of person who lied.
The certainty on your face, a grin on your face displayed with confidence lingered with Jason in the days that followed.
When the nightclub cut his hours and sales failed to meet quota, his schedule suddenly cracked open, leaving him with more time than heâd had in months. Training slid neatly into those empty spaces, even if it came at a cost. To stay afloat, he picked up more shifts at his serving job.
Thankfully, that part wasnât so bad.
The restaurant was quite popular, the tips were enough, and it was one of the few places that didnât leave him completely drained by the end of the night.
And on the first few days, training himâ
You grilled him.
âYou canât just be stiff,â you snapped, circling him. âYou gotta move, put more energy into your footwork. Loosen up!â
You tapped his shoulder with your glove, then his hip, forcing him to adjust, to think on his feet instead of locking himself in place. Every mistake was called out, every hesitation corrected, until sweat soaked through his shirt and his legs burned from keeping up.
âAgain.â
Hit.
âAgain.â
You hit.
âJason, again.â
Another hit lands.
âYouâre making the same mistake again!â You grumbled, annoyance filled onto your face with a frown.
Jason tried to follow, feet dragging just a second too late as you shifted directions. You cut to his blind side, light and quick, hitting his ribs with your glove to make the point that has him groaning in pain while you snickered.
âI told you, donât do it again! Roll your shoulders and relax, dammit! Youâre not moving those feet!â
He exhaled sharply, nodded, and tried again.
This time he stayed lighter, bouncing just enough to keep momentum and focusing on defense.
After another round of drills, sparring, fixing, and instructing his formâ you finally called a pause. Jason bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard against the ringâs ground.
You crouched down to his level, tilting your head as you studied him. Throughout the entire session, you hadnât even broken a sweat.
âYouâve clearly been relying on strength training,â you point out calmly. âNot cardio. Thatâs the first thing weâre fixing.â You tapped the canvas lightly with your knuckles. âAnd your reflexes are decent. You dodge well when Iâm on the offensive, but the second I start moving and changing pace, your defense falls apart.â
You straightened slightly, eyes sharp but not unkind. âYou donât anticipate my moves and youâre too much in your headââ
Jason grit his teeth, a scoff slipping past his lips.
âThen what do you suggest I do?â
You ignored the sharp edge in his tone, the frustration bleeding through his words. Youâd dealt with this kind of pushback before, and you never took it personally.
Anger was easier than admitting weakness.
And you knew, deep down, that he wasnât lashing out because he didnât care.
He was lashing out because he wanted to get better.
âIâve got a workout plan in mind, if youâre up for it,â you offered, shrugging lightly. âWe need to build your cardio first, thatâs non-negotiable. And I want to do sparring with footwork involved.â
You glanced at him, gauging his reaction. âItâs illegal in the ring, yeah, but this isnât about rules. Itâll force your legs to stay active, keep you moving instead of freezing up. And without the gloves, Iâll get a much clearer read on where youâre really at.â
Your gaze drifted for a moment, distant, like you were turning over an old memory.
âYou wonât be the first in this situation.â
He was grateful to you, more than he ever said out loud.
For the last three monthsâ you provided him with a full workout regimen, including calorie targets, and protein as well. There were even meals youâve recommended including the restaurant if he ever wanted to go out, or a list of ingredients of the meal to make.
You introduced him to other rookie boxers, going up against them.
They werenât you.
Sometimes, he stayed late at the gym with you.
Long after the others filtered out, when the lights hummed softly and the place felt almost calm.
You would often find him staying behind, driving jab after jab into the punching bag. The echoes rang through the gym, sharp and brutal, each impact cracking through the space with a violence that could rival a gunshot.
He was majorly improving.
Jason would shadowbox while you watched from the side, eyes sharp, offering the occasional hum of approval or a quick note of criticism. Sometimes you would join him, adjusting him immediately, muscle memory starting to take shape and hits landing sharper and stronger than before.
Your relationship stayed purely professional.
Jason undeniably found you attractive, but it never tipped into anything reckless or distracting. If anything, it settled into something steadier, teetering on the edge of friendship rather than anything complicated.
Even if youâve teased him way too many times.
Thereâs one night, after the gym had mostly emptied out, Jason sat on the bench with a towel draped over his shoulders, chest still rising and falling as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. The air smelled like rubber and metal, the low hum of the lights filling the silence between rounds.
He hesitated for a moment, then glanced up at you.
âWhat made you become your fatherâs assistant?â He asked, voice casual but curious, like it had been sitting with him for a while.
You folded your arms, one brow lifting as you studied him, surprise written in your expression.
âI was wondering how long itâd take you to ask,â you chuckled, a small smile tugging at your lips. âBelieve it or not, Iâve wanted to do this for a long time, Iâve been trained for years.â
You shifted your weight, arms still folded as you continued, your voice smooth with honesty. âI went to college for an athletic training degree. I wanted to be here, working alongside my dad, learning how to train people the right way and treating injuries.â
A hint of fondness crept into your expression. âAnd I wasnât lying about him getting old,â you added lightly, nudging your elbow against his side. âSomeone has to keep him from running himself into the ground, itâs not a secret how he retired.â
Your gaze drifted downward then, something quieter settling over your features.
âThe old man never learned how to quit,â you laughed, your eyes speaking in a way of a fond memory. âHe loves boxing too much to do that. Even nowâ heâs retired from the scene, but never from life. Itâs the reason why he created this âsketchy assâ gym for people that wanted to become greater.â You shrugged.
âAnd besides,â you added, glancing back up at him with that familiar spark returning, âturns out Iâm good at it, I love it actually. I love teaching, breaking things down, pushing people without snapping them in half.â Your mouth curved upwards. âAt least most of the time.â
The gym hummed around you, the distant sound of the air conditioner and your quiet breathing beside him. Jason nodded, something settling in his chest.
âWhat about you?â You asked, a teasing edge in your voice. âYouâre obviously about the same age as me, and I know you want the money to buy a new car,â you cross your legs, shaking your head. âBut is there anything else? Any real aspirations? Something youâre trying to gain in life?â
You leaned in slightly, tilting your head as you watched his brows furrow in thought and his lips press together briefly before easing into a more relaxed line.
âI wanted to be a lawyer,â Jason simply stated, seeing your eyes widen with surprise. âI had a rough childhood, figured if I could help others in tough spots, maybe itâd mean somethingâ university is expensive, so the money could help a bit.â
You nodded slowly, letting his words hang in the air without pressing for more. After a beat, you offered a small smile.
âWell, donât stress yourself out too much over it. I somehow have a feeling that youâll win and be⌠something greater.â
Those nights at the gym became something more.
In fact, he learned a lot of things that surprised Jason about you.
First, you were obviously a fighter.
Your strength or your experience as one was not something to be underestimated, honed through years of discipline across taekwondo, Muay Thai, boxing, and judo. It showed in everything you did. The way you moved with purpose, the way your body seemed to know what to do before your mind ever had to think about it.
You were always busy whenever Jason found you in the gym, rotating between drills, sparring partners, and corrections without ever looking winded. Especially that first day heâd walked in, when he watched you take a man twice your size and put him on the mat with effortless precision, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That image had stuck with him.
Second, you werenât cruel about it.
You corrected without belittling, pushed without breaking. Even when you were sharp with your words, there was intent behind them, not ego.
Every command, every adjustment, was meant to make him better, not smaller.
And then there was the way you watched him.
Not like he was weak, or wasting your time, but like he was a problem you were determined to solve. As if his rough edges and bad habits werenât annoyances, but potential waiting to be shaped under your hands.
Third, you were sharp around the edges, all bite and precision when it mattered, yet after hours your words softened especially when you found a cut on his cheek.
You chuckled softly. âDid Alejandro rough you up again?â You asked as you carefully cleaned the wound and slid a bandage on the cut.
Jason rubbed the back of his neck, grumbling under his breath.
âHeâs good.â
âNot better than me I would assume?â
Jason scoffed, rolling his eyes.
âHe could never be better than you.â
For a moment, you fell silent, and Jason caught the way you inhaled just a little sharper at his words and the pause.
Jason didnât know when he had fallen so, so hard for you.
Maybe it was the nights you both spent closer than before, sharing takeout at the park, sitting side by side under the whisper of rustling trees and the soft chorus of crickets. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you, and the close proximity between you
Maybe it was the time you were too tired to make it home yourself, and Jason offered you a ride in his beat-up car, nothing flashy, far from your own, but it didnât matter. You didnât judge him, not once of his background, the state of his car, or his current job of being a waitress/server at a restaurant.
Maybe it was the time you found yourself scolding him for pushing too hardâ when heâd ended up with a fever from overtraining. You showed up at his run-down apartment with medicine in hand, but somehow, you ended up gently pressing a damp, thin towel to his forehead, trying to cool the heat.
You made him eat the soup youâd cooked as a remedy, sitting by his side quietly, the usual sharp edge in your voice softened by concern.
You would plant your arm against his bed, leaning against your arm and nearly falling asleep.
Jason didnât know how long youâd been there, but when the towel on his forehead warmed from the cold, he shifted to replace it.
Before he could move, you stirred awake, a soft protest slipping from your lips. âHey, lay back down,â you murmured, âIâll go change itââ You pushed yourself up too fast, failing to notice your legs falling asleep from sitting so long.
Before you could steady yourself, a sudden weakness made you lose your balance, and you tumbled forward, landing right on top of Jason.
He caught you instinctively, steadying your weight as you both froze for a moment, the unexpected closeness filling the quiet room with a new, electric tension.
For someone usually so bold, you were completely flustered in that compromising positionâ your eyes snapping wide, suddenly fully awake. Your faces hovered mere inches apart, each breath shared in the stillness between you.
Jason swore you could feel and hear his heart racing in his chest.
âAhâ um, uh, my legs are numb,â you stammered, quickly pulling yourself off him.
You quickly grabbed the small towel and moved away awkwardly, wincing as the sharp tingles from your still-asleep legs shot through you while Jason watched you, feeling his heart beat with craze and his cheeks heat up with such overwhelming warmth.
He knew it wasnât the fever.
Maybe it was after that first time he lost a spar against you, the sting of each hit still fresh, or the way youâd effortlessly pinned him to the ground more times than he could count.
It was one of those moments.
Jason would circle cautiously, eyes locked on yours, trying to read your movements. You mirrored him, light on your feet, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Without warning, Jason lunged, aiming a quick jab toward your face. You ducked low, sliding to the side and catching his arm mid-swing. With a swift twist, you swept his leg out from under him. He hit the mat with a grunt but rolled immediately, pulling himself up to his knees.
Jason came at you again, this time feinting a punch before shooting a low kick. You caught his ankle, yanking him off balance. He stumbled, but you didnât give him a moment to recoverâ you closed the distance fast, driving your shoulder into his ribs, pushing him back.
He gasped but countered with a knee strike to your side. The wind knocked out of you for a second, but you twisted away, grabbing his wrist and locking it behind his back in a quick armbar.
Jason gritted his teeth, struggling but finally tapping out.
You released him, both of you panting, sweat dripping down your faces.
You extended a hand to help him up, and he took it, pulling himself to his feet with a tired smile.
This time, Jason looked at you.
Fully.
He thought about all the times youâd pushed him harder than he thought possible, how you moved with a strength and precision that seemed almost effortless.
Then there was the way you lookedâ tired sweat glistening on your skin, your hair pulled back but still escaping in wild strands around your face, eyes fierce and focused.
Oh fucking god, he admittingly couldnât look at you for a few days one time, having you in his spank bank for how much youâre on his mind, for how much you tease him, and the way your eyes would stay glued on him.
He wants your eyes to stay on him.
You are magnetic to Jasonâ irresistibly compelling in the way you carry yourself with effortless strength, quiet beauty, and unshakable resilience.
Thereâs something about you that pulls at him, drawing him closer even when he tries to keep his distance. His heart aches in ways he canât ignore, bleeding quietly for you, tethered to every glance, every moment you share with him.
It's so utterly painful when his thoughts are kept to himself.
He admired how you never backed down from a challenge, how you held yourself with a quiet confidence that could fill a room without needing to say a word. You had this fireâ this fierce, unbreakable spirit, that inspired him to keep going, even on days when he wanted to give up and leave the gym in frustration.
Yet, heâs standing here.
It had been exactly six months since the day he first stepped into your gym. Six months of bruises, sweat, and relentless training under your watch and alongside the others. Six months of you pushing him past limits he never knew he had.
He felt different now.
Stronger, sharper, and more relaxed. His body had changed, yes, but so had something deeper. The way he moved, the way he thought, and the way he carried himself.
âYou ready, champ?â
You asked, leaning lazily into the ropes, eyes dragging over him in a slow, deliberate sweep. There was a glint in your gaze, playful and knowing, the corner of your mouth curling as if you already liked the answer.
By all means, your eyes on Jason made him feel goosebumps linger on his arms.
He wore lightweight red boxing shorts matching his gloves, satin catching the light every time he moved. They were a gift from you, a quiet reward for surviving everything youâd put him through, hell and back included.
You hadnât realized how different it would feel seeing him like this. All those months of training, heâd always been in undershirts clinging to broad shoulders, fabric stretched over bulging biceps, or worn graphic tees that did nothing to hide the veins running along his forearms.
Now, stripped down to just the essentials, there was nothing to soften the reality of how much heâd changed.
And your eyes lingered, unashamed and instinctive, tracing the hard lines of his chest down to the cut definition of his abs, then back to the strength packed into his arms. Sweat glinted on his skin from the warm-up, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.
It was almost predatory, the way your gaze followed him, slow and deliberate, like a hunter appreciating the power of what stood in front of them.
For someone usually so composed, you felt it then, the heat crawling up your spine, the sudden awareness of how close you were standing, how much heâd filled out under your hands over months of training and how the heat in your eyes slowly travels down to your panties.
âYeah, Iâm ready,â Jason mumbled, his voice husky, betraying more than nerves. His gaze dipped, just briefly, catching on your lips before he dragged it back to your eyes like heâd been caught doing something dangerous.
You notice, biting onto your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning but you fail to cover it, looking away briefly as if to compose yourself.
Jason couldnât help but smirk at that, erasing it quickly so you donât catch it.
You cleared your throat, running a hand through your hair as if to steady yourself. âThereâs going to be people here,â you stated, voice settling back into something calm and assured. âRecruiters, patrons, and watchers. They might try to get in your head.â
Your eyes softened as you looked at him, more sincere now. âIf anyone bothers you, find my dad. Or find me.â A pause, then a grin curved across your lips, confident and fox-like.
âI know youâll win this tournament.â
And you werenât wrong.
When youâre watching from one of the cracked metal seats in the small junk warehouse hosting the tournament, the lights dim and the low hum of the crowd swells. About a hundred people pack the space shoulder to shoulder, voices overlapping, anticipation thick in the air.
The place smells like sweat, metal, and adrenaline.
Your eyes never leave the ring, watching him put on the mouth guard before August helps him wrap his hands, and putting on his boxing gloves, tightening them.
The match begins.
Youâre on your feet before you even realize it, hands cupped around your mouth as you call his name, your voice cutting through the noise. You cheer without restraint, sharp and fierce, every movement of his answered with a nod, a shout, a grin he doesnât see but somehow feels.
You track him instinctively, reading his footwork, his breathing, the way his shoulders settle when he finds his rhythm. When he lands a clean hit, you punch the air. When he stumbles, your heart lurches, your voice rising louder, steadier.
Jason rolled his shoulders, breath steady, eyes locked on the man across from him. The crowd blurred into a low roar, lights glaring overhead, heat clinging to his skin. All he could hear was his own breathing and, faintly, your voice somewhere out there.
His opponent came out aggressive, swinging heavy and wide, trying to overwhelm him early. Jason slipped the first punch, just barely, feeling the rush of air graze his cheek.
He pivoted, light on his toes, letting the next punch sail past him before snapping back with a quick jab to the ribs. The man grunted, surprise flashing across his face.
He remembered you barking at him to loosen up, to stop muscling everything, to let his body do the work. His arms felt lighter now, his movements cleaner. When the other fighter tried to corner him, Jason ducked low, slipping out along the ropes instead of backing straight up.
The crowd erupted when he landed a clean hook to the jaw.
His opponent staggered, recovered fast, and came back swinging harder, frustration bleeding into every punch. One caught Jason on the shoulder, another clipped his cheekbone, sending a sharp jolt through his head.
He tasted metal for a second and welcomed it.
The opponent growled and came back harder, swinging wild. Jason ducked under a looping hook, countering with a sharp cross that snapped the manâs head back. The crowd surged, sound crashing over him in a wave. He caught a glimpse of movement beyond the ropes and imagined your grin.
He cut Jason off, backing him toward the ropes.
Jason slipped along the ropes, narrowly avoiding being trapped, and came out the other side with a quick combination.
Each punch flowed into the next, his body loose, his strikes efficient.
The man stumbled.
He heard your voice in his head, sharp and calm.
Donât get greedy, let it come to you.
His opponent tried to recover, swinging in desperation now, to balance off.
Jason waited for the mistake.
It came.
Jason stepped in, driving a clean jab straight down the center, followed immediately by a heavy cross. The impact echoed through his arm. The man staggered backward, crashing into the corner.
The referee edged closer.
Jason closed the distance, cutting off escape, forcing the man to stay put. Another combination, itâs controlled, ruthless and lethal. One final punch landed square, and the man dropped to a knee, glove pressed against the canvas as the referee rushed in.
The count rang out over the roar of the crowd.
Jason backed away, chest heaving, fists still raised as sweat dripped down his spine. His legs shook, not from weakness, but from adrenaline. When the count hit ten, the bell rang again, loud and final.
Jason stood there for a moment, stunned, heart pounding, hands trembling as the realization settled deep into his bones.
The noise of the crowd washed over him, distant and unreal, but inside, everything felt achingly clear.
He didnât think he could quit boxing.
And when he found you in the crowd, screaming his name, pride and fire written all over your face as you celebrated his first win like it was your own.
Something in his chest broke open.
Jason realized that he didnât think he could quit you either.
Seven thousand dollars was a lot to Jason.
At least, it was when he was twenty years old, having a criminal justice degree, dreaming about becoming a lawyer at Gothamâs University, imagining a future where he stands for Justice that felt distant but possible.
He hadnât planned on ending up in the boxing gym of a legend. Hadnât planned on being trained and rebuilt by the manâs daughter, his coachâs assistant, the woman he had slowly and hopelessly fallen in love with.
Now, he is twenty-four.
Jason Todd is an MMA fighter now.
Heâs earned more trophies, more belts, more gold, silver, and bronze than he ever did in high school or any life he imagined for himself back then. Each one is proof of how far heâs come, victories carved from sweat, blood, and stubborn refusal to quit.
Heâs stronger than he has ever been, carved by discipline and hunger. His name is rising fast, climbing the ranks with every fight and every win. Word spreads quickly, faster than he ever expected. Clips of his matches flood social media, his face, his name, donations heâs poured into shelters, charities, and hospitals and his story plastered across screens he once scrolled through in silence.
Meanwhile, you were always in the crowd.
Always.
You cheered louder than anyone in the room, louder than August, louder even than your father, the former champion whose name had once ruled the scene.
Your voice cut through the noise without hesitation, raw and full of pride. Your name had always existed on the edges of the boxing, MMA, and JLC (Justice League Championship) world, familiar because of your father, because of the legacy he left behind. But now, it was different.
Your name was inseparable from Jasonâs now, listed beside him in headlines and fight cards as his assistant, his coach. There were clips, photos, and everything between the both of you.
It was purely professional.
Thatâs what he likes to say himself.
Oh, who is he really kidding?
A clip blew up when you straddled his thigh without a second thought, fingers careful and steady as you cleaned the swelling beneath his eye and tended to the cuts on his face like it was second nature.
Your brows were furrowed, a small frown set in concentration as your foreheads touched, close enough to blur the rest of the world out. The cameras never caught your words, the audio lost beneath the roar of the crowd, but Jason knew exactly what youâd said.
He heard it anyway, clear as day, etched into him just as deeply as the bruises, cuts, and scratches you were so careful to mend.
You had your hands on his cheeks, thumbs pressing in just enough to ground him, to make sure he was looking at you and no one else. Your grip was steady, intimate, almost reverent, yet there was nothing gentle in your eyes. You searched his face like you were carving the moment into memory, breath close enough that he could feel it. Jasonâs heart stuttered in his chest, lungs pulling in a deep, shaky breath as the world narrowed to just the two of you.
âJay,â you murmured, voice low and lethal, âknock him the fuck out.â
Those clips went viral, edits, screenshots frozen and replayed a thousand times over.
And safe to say, the image lives rent-free in Jasonâs mind.
It stayed there, uninvited and permanent, replaying in the spaces between fights, between breaths, reminding him just how impossible it was to separate the ring from you.
Yet, he was still a wimp to actually be more than⌠whatever you guys are.
Is this a situationship? He doesnât know.
And people still have the nerve to ask to be his coach.
âDonât you think itâs time to switchââ
âHow do you feel about your assistant!?â
âJason, have you thought of Hal Jordanâs offer!?!â
âWhatâs your thoughts on Lady Shiva AKA Sandra Wu-Sanâs offer?!â
âAre you datingâ!?â
âIs your assistant planning to recruitâ!?â
Jason snorted, the barrage of questions more amusing than tempting as he pushed through the flashing cameras and microphones shoved in his face as he walked through the red carpet, his hands tucked into his dress pants. The noise blurred together, names thrown at him like bait, legacies dangled as if loyalty were something to be traded.
âExcuse me! Iâm Lois Lane from the Daily Planet,â a voice cut through the chaos. âCould you share your thoughts on declining the offer from the former MMA champion, holder of the most titles in history, Bruce Wayne?â
Jasonâs head snapped toward the name.
Not Wayneâsâ hers, Lois Lane.
âLois Lane,â he repeated, already moving in her direction. âCongratulations on your tenth anniversary with Clark Kent. Howâs retirement looking for him?â Lois laughed into the microphone, genuine and warm, clearly at ease. âDoing well. Heâs on dad duty right now, taking care of our son. Now,â she added, lifting the mic again, âback to the question? The offer rejected by Bruce Wayne?â
The cameras went wild at that, shutters popping faster as he stopped just short of the barrier separating them. He didnât blink at the lights, didnât flinch at the microphones crowding his face, anticipating his answer.
âWhy would I downgrade?â
A crooked, unapologetic smirk pulled at his lips as the lights bore down on him, blinding and relentless. A beat of silence followed before scandalized gasps rippled through the crowd, sharp and hungry.
He could already picture the headlines forming in real time, the outrage, the dirt people would swear heâd just thrown at Bruce Wayne.
Youâre going to kill him.
Lois only smirked, a soft chuckle slipping out as she adjusted her grip on the microphone.
âI donât think Bruce is going to like hearing that,â she dragged a note, amused, before smoothly shifting gears. âBut you are competing in the JLC! For the new viewers, itâs short for Justice League Championship, and youâve been absolutely crushing it! Your next match is against Roy Harper. What do you expect after that match?â
Jason rolled his eyes, a slow, amused scoff leaving him as if the answer were obvious.
âAfter that match?â Jason planted his hands on his hips, tilting his head like he actually had to think about it.
He didnât.
Roy Harper wasnât worth the mental effort.
âHm,â he hummed, lips tipping into a slow, dangerous grin. âDick Grayson should start getting real comfortable with second place.â The shrug that followed was careless, almost bored, like the result had been written long before anyone stepped into the cage.
The roar of the crowd only fed it, the screams bouncing off him like fuel on a fire.
âBecause Iâm bringing the title home,â he went on, voice smooth but edged with promise, ego worn without apology, âand I already cleared a space for it.â
Lois shook her head, laughing softly into the microphone, the kind of laugh that came when confidence crossed into something sharper, something inevitable.
Lois lifted the microphone again, eyes sharp with curiosity, clearly enjoying herself now.
âConfidence aside,â she pitched her tone higher, a teasing edge slipping into her voice, âa lot of people credit your rapid rise to the team behind you, specifically your coach. How much of tonightâs performance belongs to you, and how much belongs to her?â
The crowd stirred at that, cameras immediately angling for his reaction.
âAnd speaking of her,â Lois continued smoothly, âwhat are your thoughts on the relationship between your coach assistant and Dick Grayson? Bruceâs protĂŠgĂŠ, currently having the most belts inââ
Huh???
âWowowowââ he stops Lois Lane, a clear furrow of his brow. âWhat do you mean relationship with MY assistant? I am not aware of my assistantâs dating history, but I assure you that Dickhead hasnât been withââ
Lois burst out laughing before he could finish, the sound bright and uncontrollable as she lowered the microphone for a second.
âWhoa, easy, tiger,â she grins, still chuckling. âNot that kind of relationship.â
Cameras snapped faster the second Jasonâs expression changed, shutters clicking in rapid fire as photographers caught the way his jaw set and his eyes darkened.
A few of the paparazzi leaned toward one another, voices hushed but urgent.
Jason froze, scowl faltering into open confusion. ââŚThen what the hell are you talking about?â
Lois wiped at the corner of her eye, composing herself before lifting the mic again to herself. âThen you must be unaware,â she explained smoothly, slipping back into reporter mode, âthat Dick Grayson was trained by your coach assistant long before Bruce Wayne recruited him. It was early in his career, formative years.â
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Lois continued. âBy most accounts, she helped build the foundation of his fighting style. Footwork, defense, and adaptability when he was nineteen and she was seventeen. The very things that earned him those belts.â
Jasonâs jaw tightened, slow and deliberate.
âOh,â he flatly replied.
Lois watched his reaction with interest, smirking as if she could read his thoughts. âSo,â she pressed, âknowing that your possible opponent was once trained by the same coach who trains you now⌠does that change how you see the match?â
Jasonâs lips curled, sharp and dangerous.
âIf anything,â he began, voice dipping lower, edged with something dark and certain, âit just means she knows exactly how to take him apart.â
The TV flickered, then cut to black.
Jason sat back against the worn couch cushions, the room suddenly too quiet without the crowd, the cameras, and the noise.
The glow from the screen faded, leaving only his reflection staring back at him for a split second before it disappeared completely. He let out a slow breath through his nose, jaw tight, replaying his own words in his head instead.
The interview looped in his mind anyway.
As expected, heâd won his match against Roy Harper. Itâs been two weeks, Roy Harper, respectfully was a name checked off the list, another highlight reel already circulating online.
His knuckles still ached faintly, a dull reminder of the fight, but it barely registered.
What lingered was you.
The thought of you standing cage-side, sharp-eyed and unflinching. The way your voice cut through the noise when it mattered. The certainty in your hands, the confidence in your touch.
Dear god, the way heâ Jason groans, tilting his head back until he looks at the high-rise ceiling of his penthouse.
The way his head rewinds two weeks ago.
Two weeks.
After winning his match.
âNow, in what world was it a good idea to provoke Roy Harper?â
Jason frowned, irritation flashing across his swollen lip.
âProvoke? Please. I was speaking the truth.â
You rolled your eyes, unimpressed, and pressed deliberately into a darkening bruise along his ribs. He hissed sharply, fingers snapping around your wrist on instinct.
âHeyââ
âDonât grab,â you warned lightly, though your mouth curved into a smirk when his expression pulled into a small, offended pout. âThatâs what happens when you let your ego do the talking.â
Jason released your wrist, muttering under his breath, but there was no real bite to it. Not when you were this close. Not when your hands were already back on him, methodical and careful, tending to him like it was routine.
âStill won,â he simply whispered with a bit of attitude. You huffed, shaking your head as you reached for another wipe.
âWhich Iâm really happy you did, but you kiddinâ? That was a close call.â
A brief pause followed, Jason's shoulder slumping, furrowing his brows together at the way youâve been frustratingly been soâŚ
So damn annoying.
A pain in the ass, and yet somehow he had still found a way to like you. No, that wasnât even accurate. There were too many things about you to like, too many moments that had piled up quietly over time. Enough that it startled him when he realized the truth.
Heâd been pining over you for three years.
He dragged his hands through his face, closing his eyes in disappointment of the lack of courage to ask, to just ask you officially instead of interfering the way youâve found yourself on a date, or talking to someone.
Ughhhh.
I mean, it was obvious, wasnât it?
He brought you flowers on Valentineâs Day and brushed it off like it was nothing. He paid every time you went out to eat without even asking. Tuesdays somehow turned into movie nights at his place, him cooking while you hovered nearby, stealing bites and commentary. He drove you everywhere in his new car, never once complaining, and when your car broke down, he fixed it himself, wrapped your car in a color youâve liked as if they were your pretty nails that HE HAS PAID FOR.
And if thereâs one thing that he will never ever admit?
Whenever heâs injured, he looks forward to your hands.
He really likes your hands all over him in any sort of way.
Heâd loved your hands since the first time youâd slipped on your boxing gloves and proved him wrong, ever since the sharp crack of leather against skin and the bruise blooming on his cheek from your own hand, your unapologetic smile while your father pointed and laughed from the ringside at his cocky assumption that heâd had the upper hand.
August had gotten a good chuckle out of the fifth fight of the week with you, losing once more with a hope that heâs able to turn the tables against you, having you pinned underneath Jason.
The imagery of your wrists pinned beneath his palms, the mat cold against your back, his control effortless and precise. It was something he wished to happen once.
Yet, the thought crept in uninvited and unwelcome, settling like a bruise he could not ignore.
The way your hand kisses any bruises he has, healing them under your touch.
The thought of those hands ever belonging to anyone else, or pinned underneath anyone else.
He hates it.
âYou trained with Dick Grayson.â
The questionâ no, the statement slipped out sharper than he intended.
Your hands stilled for half a second.
You glanced up at him, expression unreadable, then went back to cleaning the cut along his cheek like nothing had changed.
âWhat about it?â
Jason lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, his jaw tightening as heat crawls up his neck.
âWhat about it?â he echoes, incredulous. âYou trained one of the biggest names in the MMA world. One of the biggest names in the JLC. And it just⌠never came up? You didnât think that was relevant?â
This time, you really look at him.
Your brows lift slightly, eyes searching his face with quiet precision, like youâre peeling back layers he hasnât even admitted are there. The room feels smaller under your gaze, heavier, and Jason suddenly wishes heâd chosen his words more carefully.
âIs that what this is about, relevancy?â
He hesitated.
The locker room felt smaller all of a sudden, the hum of fluorescent lights louder, the sting on his cheek forgotten.
He opened his mouth, then shut it again, fingers curling against the bench.
âI justââ he exhaled through his nose, voice low and raw. âFeels like something I shouldâve known.â
Your hands, the same ones that had been there to put him back together more times than he could count, found their way to his jaw, gently tilting his face upward.
Your touch was steady, unwavering, like a silent question lingering between you.
âWhy?â You asked softly.
Jason swallowed hard, caught in the weight of that simple word and the way your eyes held him so completely.
From this angle, looking up into your calm, steady gaze, something deep inside him tightenedâ a mix of longing and vulnerability he couldnât fully voice.
He wanted to pour everything out, to lay bare the ache and the hope and the quiet desperation in his chest, but the words caught, tangled in his throat.
Because the idea of someone else standing where he stood made his chest burn.
Because hearing Dick Graysonâs name attached to you made something ugly and possessive twist in his gut.
Because he didnât like how much it bothered him.
Because he didnât want to imagine your hands belonging to someone else.
Jason stayed quiet.
âI didnât tell you,â you begin after a moment, voice low and even, âbecause it wasnât about you, or him. It was about workâ training, boxing, and MMA. Weâre friends, acquaintances, but it wasnât anything more.â He nodded, but the motion was shallow, unconvincing.
His eyes stayed on yours, searching, like he was bracing for a hit he wasnât sure was coming.
âI know,â he murmured. âDoesnât make it better that I had to find out through them⌠well, Lois.â
The complaint slipped out in a low grumble, all the fight finally draining from his voice. His shoulders loosened, tension easing as he let himself lean into you, his face turning pliant in your hands like he trusted you not to drop him.
For someone who fought for a living, Jason went oddly still when you touched him like this.
Your fingers remained steady against his jaw, thumbs warm, and grounding. He exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before opening again to look at you.
You were smiling.
Quiet amusement at the familiar name.
âWhy am I not surprised you found out through Lois?â You chuckled softly. âWorking with Dick wasnât exactly a secret, but it also wasnât something people cared to dig into.â Your smile turned a little wry. âGuess thatâs changed now.â
Your thumbs brushed his skin again, absent but intimate, as if you were smoothing the moment itself.
âFans love a narrative,â you continued. âThey connect dots that donât exist, twist history into drama. It makes for good headlines.â You shrugged easily, as if it doesnât bother you of what people say on Twitter, Tiktok, or any social media platform.
âYou should get some rest, Jason,â you commented, the edge of authority slipping back into your tone like armor. âIâll see you later. Youâll have a month to recover before your final match.â
Your hands finally fell away, the sudden absence making the air feel colder.
âOh, I forgot one thingââ
Then, before his brain could catch up to his body, you leaned in.
A brief kiss pressed to his cheek, warm and unguarded, lingering just long enough to leave him stunned.
You turned away immediately after, already heading for the door like you hadnât just rearranged his entire nervous system.
But just before you stepped out, you paused.
You glanced back over your shoulder, a slow, knowing smirk curling at your lips, eyes glinting with something dangerously unreadable.
âCongratulations, Jay.â
Then you were gone.
Jason sat there, frozen on the bench, like the world had stalled mid-breath. His pulse thundered in his ears, cheek still warm where youâd kissed him, your voice replaying on a loop in his head.
Congratulations, Jay.
Jason sat there, frozen on the couch of his living room. His pulse thundered in his ears, cheek still warm where youâd kissed him, your voice replaying on a loop in his head only differently.
The kiss on his cheek still felt like an imprint, one youâd left behind even two weeks later, he wondered how it would feel if your kisses were possessive.
If your lips lingered instead of retreating, if they traced the line of his neck with intention, leaving behind nothing visible but everything felt. The kind of closeness that didnât need marks to claim him, only the quiet certainty that he was yours in a way that mattered.
The kind that leaves him panting for more, his hands tightening on your naked hips, watching your tits bounce from every lift that comes down onto his pelvis, and your hands trailing from his shoulders to his chest, running through his pecs before they settle on his abs, flexing under your hands while your pussy clenches around him.
He had always felt guilty of these dirty thoughts, avoiding your gaze at one point two years ago, where you licked your lips, flipped him onto his back, caging him while you stared down on him while he tried to control his dick from twitching.
He really couldnât face you, tried to wipe those thoughts, but heâs given up too many times, looking on pornhub, Twitter, and had one or two hookups that had him accidentally imagining what youâd be like.
The pure imagery of your voice, pitched pornographic moans echoing in his mind, his hands stroking his cock as he calls out your name under his muffled breath, his arm thrown across his eyes, his head tilted to the ceiling from his couch, biting onto the hem of his shirt that he bunched up from the wet dream that has been on his mind for days, uncontrollably moaning, feeling his cock twitch and the sound of his slick echoing his living room.
How he would love to see your lips around his cock, pressing a kiss onto his tip before spitting onto it, running your tongue all over the base to the tip that leaks pre-cum.
Filthy.
Jason isnât usually dramatic.
He isnât big on theatrics, doesnât care much for putting on a show. Though, if he were being honest, heâs always had a soft spot for musicals. The way actors exaggerate emotion, how they lean fully into feeling without shame, how everything is bigger and louder, trying to fight for the spotlight.
He pretends to scoff at it, calling it ridiculous.
Yet, here he is.
Jason feels like heâs been hurled through a glass window, the impact sudden and merciless. The world fractures on contact, splintering into a thousand sharp reflections as he falls, helpless, watching everything he thought was solid shatter around him.
Itâs slow motion and absolutely disgusting to see.
Richard Grayson has no business having his hands on your wrists, staring down onto you with a fucking grin on his face.
Thatâs not only the worst part: heâs pinning you down into the floor mats, something Jason has never been able to achieve, breathing harshly as you glared up at him, pinned underneath him.
At 6 in the damn morning.
It was the night before the match, facing Dick Grayson.
Jasonâs hands curl at his sides, nails biting into his palms as something ugly and heated coils in his chest. Jealousy, yes, but tangled with something worse.
Your father stands off to the side like this is just another Tuesday, arms crossed over his chest. Meanwhile, Bruce fucking Wayne is in the gym. In your fatherâs gym. As if itâs not absolutely insane to have a former world champion, global icon, philanthropist with a reputation built on charity fights and clean victories, just casually observing sparring sessions on scuffed mats.
The contrast is jarring.
âI fold,â you whispered into the quiet.
Dick laughed immediately, bright and easy, like heâd won something harmless. He released your wrists and stood, offering you a hand to pull you up, that same grin still firmly in place. You took it without ceremony, brushing yourself off as if you hadnât just been pinned in front of an audience that mattered far too much.
And then Dick looked past you.
Straight at Jason.
The grin shifted. âWell,â Dick realized a new figure in the gym, clapping his hands together once, âbeen a while since Iâve seen yaâ! You did great in your match against Harper last month!â
Jason didnât return the smile. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking briefly to where Dickâs hands had been on you before settling back on his face.
The air between them went taut, stretched thin with something unspoken and ugly.
âDidnât know you were cominâ here.â Jason grunted, pulling his headphones out of his equipment bag before throwing his equipment bag to the side, passing Dick to your side.
You turned to him as he wrapped the headphones around his neck.
âHeâs here to briefly visit,â you explained. âIt's been a while since weâve seen each other, especially since the championship is going to be in New Jersey, the home of the well-respected boxers: Jason Todd and Dick Grayson!â You flung your arms out as if you were an announcer, hearing the roar of a nonexistent crowd.
Bruce chuckled at that, landing his gaze onto Jason.
âYou sure you donât wanna take up on my offer?â
Jason scoffed, âdisrespecting my coach in front of me? In your dreams, youâve heard my answer in the interview.â You glanced at him, your lips curving upwards, knowing exactly what heâs referring to.
âWell, all due respects to your coach.â Dick winks at you playfully, coming up to your other side. âYou could learn some tricks from Bruce and maybe I can catch up withââ
âNot a fat chance in hell.â
Jason rolls his eyes.
You raised a pointed brow at him, wondering whatâs with the attitude against your former teammate, or whatever the fuck.
âOiâ! Be nice, Todd.â Your father sways a finger at him, knowing heâs half-joking, but Bruce could only laugh at Jasonâs intimidation.
Yuck.
Dick, of course, looked delighted. He walks over to a towel hanging off a bench, slinging it over his shoulder, entirely too relaxed for someone standing in the middle of a territorial standoff. âDidnât realize Iâd walked into your gym with your name on it,â he pokes at his response, his voice filled with sarcasm. âYou always this friendly, Todd?â
Jason stepped closer, tension rolling off his shoulders.
âOnly when necessary.â
You insert yourself between them before it could escalate further, noting down Jasonâs hostile attitude.
âBoth of you,â you dryly cut their conversation. âSave it in the cage, tomorrow.â
Dick lifted his hands in surrender, a grin still lingering on his face, showing off the pearly whites.
âRelax, coach. Weâre just talking.â
Jasonâs jaw ticked.
âSure.â
Bruce observed the exchange like it was a chess match unfolding. Your father, meanwhile, looked one smirk away from enjoying this far too much.
âUnless yall wanna fight it out now.â Your father suggests, hearing Dick laugh, waving his hand around.
âNah, letâs save that for the match tomorrow!â Dick shot back easily, clapping Jason once on the shoulder.
Then his gaze slowly trails off to you, dragging the towel through his hair, grin still shamelessly intact. âHey, do you mind if we get dinnerââ
Jason clicks his tongue.
âSheâs busy tonight.â
Dick slowly side-eyed him. âOookayâŚâ he drawled, clearly amused. âDo you mind if we grab some friendly coffee?â
He emphasized on friendly.
Your brow twitched, glaring at Jason behind Dickâs shoulder when his mouth opens before it shuts. Your gaze clearly tells him that you can answer yourself.
Jason internally grumbled, jaw flexing.
You crossed your arms, looking at Dick with a polite smile. âYeah, Iâm down.â
And that was that.
And Jasonâ Jasonâs fist tightens, his teeth clenching before he walks away from the conversation to start his warm-up, annoyed with Dick Grayson and his punchable face.
âDo you want me to get you anythingââ you called after him, noticing the tension radiating off his back.
âIâm good,â he replied, loud enough to cut the air between you.
He didnât look at you.
He just pulled the headphones from around his neck up over his ears, sealing himself off. The music wasnât even playing yet, but he needed the barrier. Jason could already hear and see the furrow between your brows, your snark of his behavior, and the sigh filled with frustration that makes Jason wanna bite down on his tongue and die from being the reason for your frustration.
There was just something aggravating about Dick Grayson.
And he knew it was going to bite him in the ass later.
It always happens.
And today was no different, except the fact when you came back to the gym with Jasonâs regular orderâ he had left already.
You expected to see him at the heavy bag, or in the corner stretching, or arguing with someone about footwork.
Instead, his space was empty.
âHey, whereâs Todd?â you asked casually.
Your father glanced up from his conversation with Bruce.
âLeft.â
You blinked. âLeft?â
âAn hour in,â he added, mildly confused himself. âDidnât say much when he left except talked with August about tomorrow.â
That didnât make sense.
Jason never left early.
Left immediately after the first hour which was highly unusual of himâ Jason had never left the boxing gym, he would at least stay for four hours, yet he had left.
You were left with confusion.
And Dick simply sips his coffee.
While Jason is in a turmoil of feelings.
After multiple messages left on read by him, your name flashing with a vibration of his phone that automatically went through voicemail while he begrudgingly ignored the flash of a picture of him and you together, ridiculous face masks on, fluffy headbands with bows, a night of self-care of one of the movie nights youâve had, leaning into him for a selfie that he had pretended to hate.
It had quieted down after 2:00 PM.
âI think you should really tell her how yaâ feel.â
And like every other time, he has to consult with Artemis on FaceTime, her fiery red hair is down, brushing through it with a pointed gaze, piercing through the device into Jasonâs soul.
Jason choked.
âDid you even listen to what I said for last four hours!?â
Artemis groaned, dragging a hand down her face like she was the one exhausted. âOh my god, Iâve been listening since day one of this whole situation,â she snapped. âAnd I canât help but say youâre blind as a damn bat!â
âI am not blind,â Jason shot back.
âYou are catastrophically blind and we truly didnât need this debrief and your internal crisis,â she corrected. âYou think she memorizes your coffee order, patches you up like youâre something fragile, and looks at you the way she does because youâre just another fighter? The fact she motivates you every single time? Or the kiss on your cheek? Or have that viral clip go everywhere and not say a word of what yall are?â
Jason opened his mouth, then he closed it.
Artemis pointed at him. âExactly.â
He stood abruptly, pacing now, agitation crawling under his skin.
âYou didnât see her with him!â
âWith Grayson?â Artemis scoffed. âPlease. Iâve seen that man flirt with a mirror. That literally means nothing.â
âIt didnât look like anything?!â
âAnd what did it look like?â she challenged, folding her arms.
Jason hesitated, jaw tight.
âShe looked comfortable with him.â
Artemisâ expression shifted from exasperated to something almost pitying. âJason. Sheâs comfortable with him because theyâve trained together. History doesnât equal romance and I thought she cleared that up from the last conversation we had when y'all were in the locker room.â
And Artemis once againâ had a point.
âSheâs not choosing between you and him,â Artemis sighs quietly. âShe doesnât even know thereâs a competition, because youâre the only one fighting it, dumbass.â Jason shouts a âhey!â Before he frowns.
âYou gotta stop being a wimp and justâ I donât know, take her out on a date for once!â
âI am not doing that!â
âHoly fuckinâ shit! Man UP, dude. Do you want to see her with Dick Grayson, then!?â
The fuck!?
âI thought you were on my side!â
Jason stares at her in disbelief.
âI am literally on your side!â Artemis annoyingly says. âDonât drag this out any longer.â
âIââ
Jasonâs door starts banging.
Artemis swears she saw Jason become ten-times paler.
âI know youâre in there, Jason! You better explain yourself!â
Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.
âWhat the fuck do I doâ!?â
He hisses into his phone.
The call disconnects.
The last thing he sees is Artemis smirking at him before she hangs up.
Oh, what the absolute fuck, bruh.
The banging continues.
âJason!â
He drags both hands down his face.
âOkay,â he mutters to himself. âOkay. You can absolutely tell herâ you fight grown men for a living. You can open a door and confess.â
Another bang.
He flinches.
âJASON TODD.â
âAlright! Give me a second, woman!â He shouts back automatically, then winces from the annoyance in his tone.
He takes a deep breath, praying mentally to himself, and opens the door.
He leans against the doorframe like that might steady him.
âHi,â he says weakly.
And like every other time that he had pissed you offâ
You do not look amused.
Youâre standing there in a plain graphic t-shirt wearing comfortable sleep shorts, arms crossed, eyes blazing with anger, hurt, and worry.
âYou left,â you state.
âYes.â
âYou ignored my calls.â
ââŚAlso yes.â
Your eyes narrow. âAre you five?â
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. âIn my defense, I was having a crisis.â
âA crisis,â you repeat flatly.
âAn internal one.â
You stare at him for a long second.
âJason,â you say slowly, dangerously calm, âdid you really leave training early, ignore me for hours, and spiral because Dick asked me to get coffee?â
He freezes.
You blink.
His silence answers him.
âOh my god,â you breathe.
He winces. âIt sounds worse when you say it out loud.â
âIt is worse out loud!â
He steps aside automatically when you push past him into the apartment, pacing once like youâre trying to process the level of stupidity before he closes the door.
âYouâre unbelievable,â you mutter.
âI know,â he says immediately.
You turn on him.
âWhy?â
âTell me, Jason,â you step closer until his back hits the door with a dull thud. âWhat exactly happened? Why were you so pissed at Dick? Iâve told you before weâre just friends! Weâre old acquaintances!â
Something in him snaps.
âI know that!â He fires back, louder than he means to.
âYou think I donât know that?â he continues, running a hand through his hair. âYou think Iâm stupid?â
âI think youâre being absolutely ridiculous,â you shoot back.
âYeah?â he laughs, sharp and bitter. âYou wanna know why Iâm being ridiculous?â
You stare at him, jaw set.
âEnlighten me.â
âBecause I absolutely hate how I feel.â
And he seethes, watching the way your eyes widen, your face written in confusion while he continues. âI hate that he pinned you when I couldnât and that I havenât. I hate that heâs got history with you, I hate that you light up when you talk about old training stories with himââ
His chest heaves. âI hate the fact that the media has this narrative between the two of you the last few weeks as if I am not there, I hate the fact we arenât anything more than friends, and I hate that I donât get to say anything about it because technically I have no right!â
He steps closer now, frustration radiating off him.
âI hate being friends. I hate the fact you donât realize how muchâ how much I feel for you and I hate that we label the times we go out together âhangoutsâ when I want it to be a date, or whenever youâre with someone else!â
The anger fractures, bleeding into something raw.
âI buy you flowers. I fix your damn car. I let you come over every Tuesday. I let you yell at me. I let you patch me up every round because itâs the only time you touch me without thinking and when you drop off medicine when Iâm sick.â His voice breaks slightly at the edges. âAnd I donât say anything because I donât want to fuck this up!â
You stand there, taking it all in.
You watch the way his chest rises and falls like heâs just gone twelve rounds. The way his fists are still clenched at his sides, knuckles pale, like heâs bracing for impact that never comes. The anger is still there, but itâs fraying at the edges now, splitting open to reveal something far more vulnerable underneath.
Then, as if a switch flipped, the air changed.
And then he caught the subtle way you wet your lips, almost unconsciously, like you were thinking too hard about something you hadnât decided yet.
His gaze dipped before he could stop it.
To your mouth, then back to your eyes.
âDonât look at me like that,â he muttered under his breath, voice lower now, rougher.
âLike what?â You asked, though your voice had lost its earlier edge.
âLike you wanna fuck me.â
You didnât flinch.
Instead, you hummed lightly, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your knuckles and all the blood rushes to his dick.
âYouâre really funny, you know that?â You murmured.
And then you leaned in, not to kiss him, but enough that your lips hovered near his ear, your breath warm against his skin.
âYouâre not the only one that has feelings, Jay.â
And suddenly, your mouth crashes against his, teeth grazing, breath stolen. Jason makes a startled sound against your lips before heâs kissing you back just as hard, hands gripping your waist like he needs something solid to hold onto.
Thereâs nothing tentative about it.
Your fingers slide from to the hem of his shirt in one decisive motion.
He barely pulls back long enough to breathe.
âYouâreââ
âShut up,â you murmured against his mouth.
Fuckinâ crazy hot.
You drag his shirt up and over his head in one swift pull, tossing it somewhere behind you without looking.
His hands automatically find your hips again, tightening them as a low sound rumbling from his chest as your palms press flat against the bare skin of his chestâ warm, solid, and real.
Heâs basically grinding against your core, the imprint of his dick on his sweatpants rubs against your shorts that hugs your thighs, and every time he lifts you every few seconds, he catches your clit through the thin piece of a poor excuse of shorts, hearing you moan from the slight pleasure.
It doesnât take long for your shirt to also be thrown somewhere in the living room, which unsurprisingly, youâre not wearing a bra that leaves him in a daze, staring at your tits that makes his head spin from how perfect they are.
Your hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, and then youâre pulling him down again, mouth finding his skin with the same confidence you dragged him into that first kiss. He exhales sharply when your lips press to his jaw, then lower and slower.
Heâs imagined this, too many times.
Jason doesnât know what to do with you, especially with the way youâre not afraid to be the one directing the pace, being the bold one to pull the first move, to have your lips marking him up everywhere.
Your teeth graze lightly over his skin.
He sucks in a breath.
âMm,â you hum against him, clearly pleased with the reaction. âYouâve thought about this before?â
Shit, did he say that out loud?
You nip gently at the side of his neck, it wasnât hard, but it was enough to make him let out a small, involuntary sound that vibrates through his chest.
âDonâtââ he starts, but it dissolves into a breath when you press another slow kiss just below it, knowing full well the faint flush of red will linger.
You pull back slightly to admire your work, fingers brushing over the spot youâve claimed and the other red spots that linger all over his collarbone.
Jasonâs eyes are dark, blown wide, chest rising a little faster now.
âAnswer me,â you murmur, lips ghosting over his pulse point. âHow many times?â
His hands tighten at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to steady himself.
âYou donât wanna know,â he says hoarsely.
âOh,â you whisper, pressing another deliberate kiss to his throat, âI think I do.â
Your hand moves slowly, unhurried, sliding from his shoulder down over the firm plane of his chest. Your pretty manicured hand drags lightly over warm skin, fingers splaying as if youâre mapping him out from memory.
âOnce?â you press.
A huff of breath leaves himâ half laugh, half disbelief.
His dick twitching.
âYouâre enjoying this way too much.â
You drag your nails lightly down his chest in response, watching the way his stomach tightens under your touch.
âItâs okay if you donât wanna answer.â
Then, your hand drags down till youâve grasped onto his cock, feeling it slightly twitch beneath your palms even through the cloth.
âOh fââ
You softly chuckled.
âIâve thought of sucking your dick before, yaâ know?â
With that, you squeeze him a tad-bit, fueling the fire in his stomach when you watch his facial expression twisting into pure pleasure, closing his eyes in bliss, releasing a sharp moan from your words, his cheeks flushing in a pretty red color before he slowly opens them to face your devilish smile.
Without a single thought behind Jasonâs eyes, he watches you stick out your tongue, placing it on his chestâ
And dragged it down.
His mind focused on the pink muscle, everything thrown out the window, gliding your tongue lower, tracing the defined line of his abs, feeling it clench when you run the ridges between them, tasting the salt on his skin as you go.
His breath hitches, a ragged sound that vibrates through his chest and into your mouth. You pause just above the waistband of his sweatpants, looking up at him through your lashes.
His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust, fixed on you as if youâre the only thing that exists in the world, mouthing the imprint.
And it feels heavenly, the intensity of the heat, the wet mouth of yours sucking him through the cloth for a second.
With a slow, deliberate movement, you hook your fingers into the elastic of his sweatpants and boxers, pulling them down together. The fabric catches for a moment on his erection before you free it, and his cock springs out, hard and flushed.
The sight makes your own arousal spike, a wet heat pooling between your thighs and your fingers dragging to your core providing relief when you rub yourself.
You donât waste any time on Jason.
You lean in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head, tasting the bead of pre-cum thatâs gathered there. Jasonâs hips jerk, a choked gasp escaping his lips. You smile against him, then part your lips wider, taking just the tip into your mouth.
Your tongue swirls around the sensitive ridge, teasing him, savoring the way he trembles under your touch and when you follow a particular vein that nearly makes him lose it all.
âFuck,â he breathes, his hands resting on top of your head. âDonât fuckinâ stop.â
You take him deeper, inch by inch, until heâs hitting the back of your throat. You relax your muscles, letting him slide even further, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at his base. The guttural moan he lets out is raw, unrestrained, and it sends a thrill straight through you. You start to move, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm, your other hand stroking what your mouth canât take.
His hands tangle in your hair, his grip tight but not painful. Heâs trying to hold back, you can feel it in the tension of his thighs, the way his breaths come in short, sharp bursts.
But you donât want him to hold back.
You want to break him, to make him lose all control. You pick up the pace, sucking harder, your tongue flicking against the underside of his shaft with every pass.
His hips start to move, thrusting forward to meet your mouth, moving your head slowly to follow and you let him, taking him deeper each time.
And the way your eye rolls to the back of your head.
âThatâsâfucking hell,â To hear the broken thoughts of the man stuffed in your mouth only encourages you to repeat the entire process of pulling yourself to the tip of his cock before taking him all-over again to the back of your throat.
âFuck, take all of it.â
Jason finds himself encased in a wet heat that holds him hostage, shutting his eyelids from the pure bliss youâve given him from your lethal tongue of yours.
The room fills with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth on him, his ragged moans as he starts to lose himself. His groans were becoming a higher pitch now, bordering on whimpers as he grew more daring with moving his hips against your face. His excitement was only spurring you on, a desperate little moan rumbling in your throat as you watched his face contort.
You greedily licked as he fucked your throat, your fingers repeatedly circle your clit as his cock twitched against your palate.
âGod, Iâm gonnaââ he chokes out, his grip tightening in your hair.
The head pushes against the back of your throat when you try to fit as much of him as you can. You struggle to breathe, airways blocked by the thickness of his cock. But itâs fucking worth it when he quivers under you, knowing heâs so close, the back of your skull reveling in the pressure of his palm.
You hum around him, the vibration pushing him closer to the edge and with a final, broken cry, he comes, his release hot and bitter on your tongue.
You swallow it all, milking him for every last drop before slowly pulling back.
You look up at him, his chest heaving, his face flushed and glistening with sweat.
He looks completely wrecked, and itâs the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen.
You donât know how long youâve been having sex with Jason last night.
You canât remember when youâve found yourself in his bed, having multiple rounds with one another but you know youâve come onto Jasonâs tongue multiple times, and Jason has only come a few times, still wanting to continue, even though there was the final match the next day.
You goddamn nearly blacked out from how good he was eating you off the damn bone.
And he still isâ except all you feel and remember is the divine stretch, a full, aching pressure that steals the air from your lungs. You can feel every thick inch of him pulsing inside you, a hot, heavy presence that makes your head spin. Your arms snake around his shoulders, nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back as you pull him down, crushing his chest to yours.
âKnew you could take it,â he rumbles, his voice a low, smug vibration against your ear.
You clench around him deliberately, a tight, wet squeeze that makes his breath hitch. A smug little smirk plays on your lips. "Yeah? Well, you gonna just sit there and admire the view, or are you actually gonna fuck me?"
He lets out a low groan, a sound of pure annoyance that only makes you wetter. He pulls out, a slow, agonizing drag that leaves you feeling empty, before sinking back in just as slowly that feels tortuous.
A slight pull out, and then back in.
"Is that all you've got? I'm bored." You let your forearm fall over your eyes, a dramatic gesture you know will piss him off. "Wake me up when you're done."
You hear the sharp grind of his teeth. "You've got a smart mouth on you suddenly," he mentions, his voice dangerously low. "Keep talking and I'll make you choke on my dick from earlier."
You peek out from under your arm, a defiant glare in your eyes. "Then, move fasterââ
A sharp, forceful thrust punches the air from your lungs, choking off your next smart-ass remark. Your eyes fly wide, a gasp tearing from your throat as he hits a spot so deep you see stars.
"What was that?" he snarls, doing it again, harder this time, hooking one of your legs around his waist to change the angle. "Fuck you," you spit, but there's no heat in it, only desperate, needy pleasure.
"Oh, I am," he snorts, a wicked, cocky laugh escapes that makes your stomach flip. "I'm fucking a goddamn slut that canât keep her legs shut." He sets a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the room.
Each thrust is deep, powerful, designed to punish, to overwhelm, grasping onto your hips to pull you into him further, reaching deeper that has blubbering moans uncontrollably while your hands, your pretty nails drags his back, knowing thereâs going to be marks tomorrow imprinted on his skin.
"Still bored?" He grunts, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you in place, a possessive brand that makes you dizzy.
"Look at me when I'm fucking you."
Your vision snaps to his gaze, itâs blurry with unshed tears of pleasure coming from the corner of your eyes. His eyes are dark, burning with a fire that matches the one building in your core.
"You're such an asshole," you moan loudly, your voice breaking as he drives into you relentlessly.
"And you love it," he counters, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Take what I'm giving you."
The coil in your stomach tightens, your muscles tensing as the pleasure builds to an impossible peak.
âJason⌠I'm gonnaâ"
"No," he cuts you off, his voice firm. "Donât cum yet. Not until I say so." He slows his pace, rolling his hips in a way that drags his cock against your clit every second with every stroke, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall.
âPleaseââ
âNo.â
Then, without listening to a damn word Jason had told you, the coil in your stomach snaps, his thumb rolling just once against your clit and your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave.
âJay!â
A strangled cry tears from your lips as your walls clamp down on him, a series of violent, rhythmic spasms that milk his cock. Your vision whites out, your body arching off the bed as wave after wave of intense pleasure wracks you.
âNot really a good listener, are you?â
Jason groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction as he feels you come apart around him.
He doesn't stop, his thrusts becoming erratic, chasing his own release as you ride out the last tremors of yours. "Tsâ okay, you feel so good when you come on me anyway," he pants, his forehead pressed against yours, his thumb still rolling on your overstimulated clit. "So fucking tight around me."
Thereâs a certain slight burn to it that feels so fucking good, allowing him to continue to chase his orgasm while your own continues to crash like a continuous tidal wave.
Jason grunts melt into desperate mewls and whines with each rut of his hips.
He sounds so needy.
And there's a raging urge within you to hold him as he reaches his climax. To wrap your arms around his head and cradle him when he makes noises like that. And without a second thought, you did thatâ pulling him into you before he stills, cumming within you while your name leaves his lips.
Thereâs nothing in the room except the smell of sex, heat in the room and two bodies.
Your body becomes limp, exhausted and completely spent. You barely register the moment Jason slips out of bed.
But heâs back within seconds.
The mattress dips beside you, and thereâs a soft touch against your thighâ gentle and careful. You blink lazily and see him with a small towel in hand, damp and warm.
âHey,â he murmurs quietly, brushing your hair back from your face. âStay with me a second.â
You hum in response, too tired to form words.
He cleans you up slowly, respectfully, checking in without making it clinical. His thumb strokes along your hip in between, grounding, reassuring.
âYou okay?â he asks, voice softer than youâve ever heard it.
You nod faintly. âYeah.â
A small, proud smile tugs at his swollen lip.
âYou were incredible,â he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder. âDid so good for me.â
When heâs done, he tosses the towel aside and slides back under the covers immediately. You instinctively roll toward him, pressing into his chest like itâs the only place that makes sense.
Your skin sticks slightly from the heat of the room, but neither of you cares. Jason wraps his arms around you automatically, pulling you flush against him. One hand settles at the small of your back, the other cradles the back of your head, fingers threading lazily through your hair.
He exhales like something in him finally unclenched.
âGot you,â he murmurs, almost to himself.
You tangle your leg with his, forehead resting against his collarbone, his heartbeat steady. Every so often, his thumb traces absent patterns against your spine.
His lips brush your temple.
âYou need water?â he asks quietly. âPain anywhere?âYou shake your head again, sleep already pulling at you.
âGood,â he whispers.
He presses one last soft kiss into your hair before his body fully relaxes, holding you close like he has no intention of letting go anytime soon.
âAnd welcome back, ladies, gentlemen, and nonbinary folksâ if youâre just tuning in, you chose one hell of a night to do it!â
The arena is shaking.
The noise of the arena vibrates through bone and steel, rattling camera rigs and makes the commentators lean closer to their headsets just to hear themselves think. Spotlights sweep across a sold-out crowd, catching handmade signs, painted faces, phones already recording before the first punch has even been thrown.
âTonightâs main event is one weâve been anticipating since Royâs match!â The announcer says, voice rising over the roar of the crowd. âIsnât that right, Clark?â
The arena responds instantlyâ loud, sharp, and multiple voicing his name when they recognize whoâs seated at the commentary table.
Clark Kent adjusts his headset, offering that modest, almost sheepish smile to the camera as the crowd continues to cheer.
âFor once,â Clark replies smoothly, âIâm glad Iâm on the ringside and not in the middle of it. These two?â He laughs, shaking his head. âThis has been building for such little time!â
The other commentator lets out a low chuckle. âThatâs putting it lightly.â He gestures toward the massive screens overhead as highlight reels flashâ Dickâs acrobatic knockouts and Jasonâs brutal finishes.
âOn one side, the golden prodigy of Bruce Wayneâ Richard Grayson.â The crowd cheers at the mention of his name. âAnd on the otherâ the so-called underdog who refused to stay one. Jason Todd!â Clark whistles low, the commentators letting the crowdâs cheer bypass, but he canât help but swear heâs never heard a crowd this loud since his own match against Bruce Wayne, ages ago.
âHeâs the man who fights like heâs got something to prove every single time he steps into a ring!â
The camera cuts briefly to Bruce Wayne seated close to the ring, waiting for the show to go on.
âAnd hereâs the kicker!â The commentator continues, leaning into it. âTheyâre both molded under the same coach!â The camera pans to the person next to Bruce Wayne, your father before it flickers to you.
âTo be specific, the assistant coach of the former boxing champion! Theyâre two fighters forged in the same fireâ who took very different paths once they stepped out on their own!â
âAnd tonight,â the announcer finishes, as the bell official steps forward, âwe find out which path leads to gold.â
âGive it up⌠for DICK GRAYSON!â
His music slams through the speakers again, louder this time, bass thundering through the floor. The crowd leaps to its feet in a wave of sound that feels almost physical.
Dick Grayson bursts through the tunnel like he owns it. All easy confidence and loose limbs, he jogs down the ramp with that signature grinâ playful, effortless, like this is just another rookie fight.
He shadowboxes toward the ring, light on his feet, tossing sharp combinations into the air for the cameras. A wink to the front row. A quick spin just to hear the crowd react louder. He slaps hands with fans leaning over the barricade, soaking in the cheers like sunlight on bare skin.
The arena is still buzzing from Dickâs entrance when the lights suddenly cut to black.
A low, distorted bass hum rolls through the speakersâ slow, heavy, and almost predatory. It vibrates through the floor, through the barricades, through the ribs of everyone in attendance.
âAnd nowâŚâ the announcerâs voice drops, stretching the anticipation tight. âHis opponent.â
A single spotlight snaps on at the mouth of the tunnel.
âFighting out of Gotham City⌠weighing in atââ
The music hits.
âGive it up for⌠JASON TODD!â
A mix of roaring support, sharp boos, and that electric kind of chaos that only follows someone unpredictable.
Jason steps into the light.
He wears a simple black robe, the hood up with his fingerless gloves already on. His shoulders are broader than they look on screen, posture heavy with controlled tension.
Jason rolls one shoulder as he walks, loosening it. Cracks his neck once, sharp and audible even through the music.
He steps into the center of the ring and finally reaches for the tie at his waist.
The arena feels like it collectively leans forward.
He unties it slowly.
He lets the robe fall open just slightlyâ revealing his ribs, defined muscle, the faint outline of old scars earned the hard way.
Then he shrugs it off completely.
And the reaction shifts instantly. What begins as admiration fractures into something else entirelyâgasps ripple outward in a visible wave, followed by scattered, disbelieving laughter and sharp, scandalized shouts from the lower rows close enough to catch the screen in full detail.
The production team, bold or messy, lets the camera linger half a second too long as it pans across Jasonâs back. Under the harsh white arena lights, the marks are unmistakable.
Darkened impressions bloom against his skin, scattered along the broad plane of his shoulders, trailing down between his shoulder blades and curling up toward the side of his neck.
Some are half-hidden beneath athletic tape, peeking out like secrets that were never meant to stay private. Others are fully visibleâ deep plum and fading crimson against flushed, fight-warmed skin.
The crowd noise swells into something chaoticâ half shock and the other half in delight. Someone wolf-whistles from the upper rows, he nearly hears a chant almost start before dissolving into laughter.
The camera zooms instinctively, catching the curve of muscle and the unmistakable shape of one darker mark near his shoulder, before snapping back to a wide shot as if remembering this is, technically, a sanctioned sporting event.
âWell,â the other commentator manages, clearing his throat as he triesâ and failsâ to suppress the grin bleeding into his voice, âit appears Mr. Todd had a very⌠thorough preparation phase.â
Clark exhales softly beside him, professional but clearly aware of the moment. âThat is certainly one way to make a statement before the opening bell.â
Jason rolls his shoulders once, slow and deliberate, like the noise is nothing more than background static. The referee steps between them. Dick bounces lightly on his toes across the ring, grin sharpened now into something competitive.
The bell rings.
âAnd here we go!â
Dick comes out fast, testing range with quick jabs, light on his feet. He circles left, then right, throwing a clean combination that snaps against Jasonâs guard.
JLC matches tend to take forever.
They average at least an hour or two, so it was no different that two experienced fighters would drag on the match with split knuckles, bruises, a spit of blood escaping someoneâs lips, or wiping away the corner of their mouth.
âThis is dead even,â the commentator says, voice tight, sweating profusely from the last few matches exchanged between the two men. âYou could make a case either way.â
Dick moves first, snapping a jab that splits Jasonâs guard, followed with a quick cross that forces Jason back half a step. The crowd surges at the shift.
âGrayson finding rhythm!â
Jason pivots.
âLook at the way he moves!â
âDear god, is Jason simply going to take that brutality!?â
âAnd oh my god, here comes Dick Grayson!â
âAnd Jason strikes again him!â
âHoly crap! Look at him!â
Then, it was silent.
A left hook comes from tight and brutal, compact and devastating.
It lands clean against Dickâs jaw.
The arena goes silent for half a heartbeat.
Dickâs body stutters mid-motion, balance unraveling in slow, terrible clarity. His knees give. He hits the canvas hard, the impact echoing through the ring.
The crowd explodes.
Jason steps back immediately, chest heaving, eyes still locked on his opponent as the referee dives in.
The count begins.
Dick rolls to his side, blinking, trying to orient himself. He pushes to one knee at six.
The crowd counts with the ref.
The referee looks into his eyes.
Hesitates.
And waves it off.
âThatâs it! Itâs over!â
The arena detonates into chaos.
Jason exhales slowly, tension draining from his shoulders all at once, blood streaked down his temple. Chest rising and falling like he just outran a storm.
The referee grabs his wrist and raises it high.
âAnd your winnerâ by knockoutâ JASON TODD!â
Dick steadies himself against the ropes, one glove hooked over the top strand as he regains his balance. His jaw is tight, chest rising and falling hard, but when he looks across the ring at Jason, he gives a single nod.
In the center of the ring, Jason stands still as the official approaches with the JLC belt. Blood continues to slip from the cut above his brow, trailing down the side of his face and along his jaw before dripping onto his shoulder.
The belt is fastened around his waist briefly before he shrugs it off and slings it over his shoulder instead. It rests there heavy and earned, gold catching the lights as flashbulbs explode around him.
He grins.
âOhâ hold on,â the commentator says, voice rising. âHeâs heading somewhere.â
Jason doesnât wait for the post-fight interview.
He doesnât pause for the cameras.
He hops down from the ring apron in one fluid movement, belt still hooked over his shoulder, ignoring a handler trying to steer him back toward center ring.
âHeâs not going to the panelâ heâs notââ
The camera scrambles to follow as he pushes through some individuals that try to interrupt his path.
Straight to you.
The crowd begins to realize whatâs happening before the commentators do.
His hands find your waist first, firm and grounding, pulling you flush against him as the belt nearly slips from his shoulder.
And then he kisses you.
A full, claiming kiss right there under the arena lights. The crowd gasps, audible and scandalized, before the sound erupts into cheers so loud it nearly drowns out commentary.
âOh myâ!â the announcer laughs in disbelief. âHe just sealed the victory with that!â
Clark exhales a quiet, almost amused breath. âWell⌠that will be replayed for a while.â
âDoesnât it remind you of that time with Lois, winning that match against Lex Luthor?â
âHuh, it quite does.â
Jason pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath still heavy, grin spreading wider: feral, victorious, and entirely unapologetic. The belt hangs loose against his shoulder, gold catching the lights while a thin line of blood slips from the cut above his brow and tracks down his cheek.
Theyâre close enough now that the overhead screen fills with the two of youâ your hands fisted in the front of his wraps, his fingers still firm at your waist. The arena noise swells again, cheers rolling like thunder.
But in that small pocket of space between your foreheads, it feels quieter.
His lips brush near your ear as he says somethingâ too low for the microphones, too close for anyone else to catch. From the outside, it looks like nothing more than a breathless murmur, a champion whispering something triumphant after a win.
âHey, kiss it better?â He murmurs softly, almost shy beneath the swagger.
And he feels your breath hitch into a quiet laughter, nodding your head before he drags you away.
Behind close doors with not a single eye of media, you kiss the split knuckles dedicated for you.
a/n: HELLO EVERYONE!! itâs been a while!!! this quite literally took a month and a half to write? I was on hiatus for a bit! Donât expect me to stick long haha, Iâm doing slow updates, so any work from now on will take a fat minute to write out. But Iâm glad I was able able to push this fic out!! Let me know your thoughts on boxer!jason winkwink b/c holy cow. Never in my life have I ever wanted to suck the living soul out of jason todd⌠PLUS be sure to reblog, comment, and like!!! It means the world if you interact, especially if you comment or reblog your thoughts!!
taglist: @jasontodd2whatt
trying so bad to be nonchalant
my kittys
last thing i finished in 2025 before i got hit by massive art block... my boy who i still think about in the back of my head all the time đ˘

