Even post Joker, Jason and you struggle in the aftermath of what you've been through. And loving a man consumed with revenge is never easy work.
Warnings: Jason and reader are both heavily traumatized, PTSD, violence, references to torture, Reader is never fully the same after being tortured, sad.
He's probably a bit ooc but look at me and tell me honestly that that man would be mean to reader after everything. Yeah, that's what I thought.
Dividers from here.
The walls of the little room you occupy in Jason's base are drab, but decorated with small signs of being lived in. A photo taken together that he hates because of the scar on his face, a watercolor painting you made of the sky in Venezuela, a little stack of worn through paperbacks on the desk. Enough to keep it from looking like the cell you shared as teenagers.
"Come on baby, you gotta eat something."
He's so tender with you as puts the muffin in your hands, while you sit on the shitty but usable mattress. Hands that have snapped men's necks now gently cradle you.
He knows you aren't the same, will never be. How could you, after everything that's happened?
"...Not hungry. We're watched right now."
"No one's watching."
"But when he comes back-"
"He's not coming back. He's dead. And if he tries I'll send him right back to hell before he ever hurts you again."
You stay in your room mostly. Never leave the compound. He doesn't want to keep you caged but it really isn't safe. You understand. You don't trust yourself either.
Everything is sharper than it should be, and the edges of your mind are all blurry. Smudged, like the mascara you were wearing when the monster first took you, over days before it wore away with the last of your childhood innocence. And hope.
He's coming, you hear in the back of your mind.
No, he's not, you assure yourself. He's not coming because he's dead. He can't hurt you now.
A weak man, who died a weak death. The joker wasn't a supervillain, he was just a man. A man who could be killed, and was.
There was nothing special about him.
And yet he was the worst thing lurking in the shadows.
Maybe Jay's right. The whole city is rotten. And only the holy fire of revenge can burn out the rot in the corners of this shithole you grew up in.
You rest your head on the shoulder of the man you love. You hate how much it hurts him that you've changed so much.
"I'm sorry."
"What the hell are you sorry for?"
"...That I'm different."
"Don't apologize."
"Are you staying tonight?"
He sighs. "You know I can't. Won't be back till dawn."
"...I don't sleep as well when you're not here."
"...I know. Me neither. Eat something or I'll worry and make a mistake."
You take a few bites of the muffin in front of you. And then you lay back down on the worn, creaky mattress and turn away from him.
"...I know. I'll see you later. Don't stay up."
"I won't."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
You're a dirty liar, because he comes back with the first rays of the sun and still awake. But you pretend you've been sleeping.
"Open your eyes, I know you're awake. Your breathing is different when you sleep."
"I couldn't sleep. Worried about you."
"You gotta sleep. You get paranoid when you don't sleep enough. I don't want you to start seeing him again."
He's right. And neither of you can deal with that right now.
"I wish you weren't away every night."
"I need to do this."
You speak again, a moment later. "I hate being back here."
He stiffens. "...I know."
"Being here makes it worse."
"...I know." He sounds so disheartened when he says it.
"We were happier in Venezuela-"
"I know! I know, goddammit! But I need to do this! Bruce needs to pay for he's done." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.
"...I know."
"Are you mad at me?"
"...No, sad."
"That's worse."
"All the shadows look like him."
"It'll be different soon. Better."
"Ok."
"Just hold on a little longer."
He strips out of his armor, and gets in bed beside you. Neither of you are particularly offended by him not showering. Anything is cleaner than the cell.
"Forgive me." He says while he wraps his arms around you.
"Always," you tell him. You always will. Even as the darkness creeps further in the longer you're in gotham. Even when it hurts.
He's your star crossed lover. Your Achilles. And like Patroclus, you'll love him until your dying day, even if the reason is his own stubbornness.
He knows its unfair, knows he's selfish, knows he's dragging you back into your worst nightmares just by being in this godforsaken city, but he's broken too, dammit. And in his mind this will fix things. For both of you.
"Oh baby, Batman's Gotham is gonna burn to the ground for what it did to us. And then I'm gonna piss on the ashes for what it did to you. We're gonna build something better, just as soon as he's gone."
He doesn't see that you don't care about revenge. That the man who hurt you both is dead and you just want to feel safe again. He thinks this will bring peace for the both of you. But your peace is him.
In the dull gray of their concrete home, two broken birds, a robin and his dove, lay in the nest formed depite the cruel hostility of the world. And like any nest formed in inhospitable lands, it is ugly and uncomfortable, but it is home nonetheless. The absence of their predator should let them flourish, but the wounds from its claws scarred too deep.
The robins talons are now sharper than the scalpel that cut so deeply into him and his mate.
And he wants the blood of the man who let this happen to them.
Oh my god?? I genuinely loved “lovebirds” its deserves more attention.. I feel horrible for jay and reader though🥹 Are you planning on a pt2?
I'm so glad you liked it! Yeah they're going through it but hey, at least they're together (this may or may not be making it worse). I am attempting a part two but it's still very much a work in progress. ❤️
Jason and his highschool sweetheart are trapped in their worst nightmare at the hands of the joker.
Warnings: Violence, Torture, angst, explicit language, sad
Dividers from here.
For the third time this week, you are strapped to that god awful table.
It is Monday.
Everything is just a fuzzy, awful mess of pain. It's been that way for a while.
And then there's him.
Jason.
It's kind of sweet in a fucked up kind of way. That he loves you enough that every time the joker hurts you, it hurts him. That he'll scream, and beg and cry for him to stop, for him to let you go.
And you'll do the same for him.
But there's more pain than sweetness, especially when the clown decides that he needs to torment Jay by making him hurt you.
If he doesn't, the joker will hurt you, and him, and whatever it is will be a million times worse than what Jason has to do to you.
But that doesn't mean it does break his heart.
In another life you'd still be in English class scribbling love notes on index cards.
Cuddling and kissing in his bedroom.
Happy.
In another life you wouldn't be able to differentiate his different kinds of screams.
In another life, you wouldn't have to listen to his pleas for forgiveness, his desperate cries as he drags the scalpel down your thigh.
As if it were his fault.
As if somehow he caused this.
As if somehow, he had committed some offense when his only crime was loving you.
You shush his cries, his apologies. You comfort him as though the pain isn't agonizing. As though it's him on the table, and not you.
You'd probably kiss him if that disgusting, death worshipping clown wasn't there.
So you lay there, and hold in as many tears as you can, because it hurts him worse when you cry. And it hurts you worse when he does.
You know what he's cutting into your skin.
A heart.
A heart.
It's always the same. He couldn't bear to pick something else.
It's so fucking cheesy, in the most brutally horrific way.
You'd laugh if you couldn't feel the awful, white hot pain as the metal pierces into your skin.
"I'm sorry." he sobs, as he presses the blade in, as his tears and yours flood your skin. "Princess, I'm so sorry."
You never want him to hurt.
So you comfort him, even when you're hurting.
You play down the pain so it won't become his.
So you grit your teeth and keep your tears from spilling out as you reassure him.
"Don't be. Please."
Later, when the monster is gone for a moment, you lean against him slightly.
He leans into your touch and sobs, the anguish of hurting you cutting his soul in a way his own pain never could.
"I'm sorry. Sweetheart I'm so sorry."
Your heart breaks and the ache of both it and your fresh wounds is unbearable.
But you bear it. For him.
"...I forgive you," you murmur as you ebb into unconsciousness, knowing the same agony awaits you tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next.
Bruce isn't coming to save you. If he was going to, he would have.
This is all there is.
Jason still doesn't believe it. But it's better to let him hope, even if you have none.
At least he's not alone.
Two broken birds lay in a nest of sorrows, sleeping quietly as they await the butcher once more.
And the fact that they're in love only makes it hurt worse, because what sorrow is worse than both knowing that pain and then watching it happen to the person you love.
In another life they'd be in highschool, kissing in the hallway and leaving candy in each other's lockers.
Ex! (?) Jason plays nurse and you both still love each other.
Part 1
The first one got deleted so here it is much later. Sorry for the wait.
Warnings: Healing injury, use of petnames, getting back together with your ex (this might be the most family friendly thing I've ever written)
Almost gender neutral but I use the nickname princess once (could be read sarcastically).
Dividers from here.
The ride back from the hospital is quiet, but not hostile. All the way up to your apartment and then your room, he never lets your feet touch the ground.
"I can walk."
"You just had surgery, sweetheart."
"And they said I could walk short distances."
"Well I said you can't." He places you down on your bed.
When you're finally out of his arms, you realize just how little you changed when he moved out. You hope he doesn't notice, or think about how sad that it is.
He sets you down comfortably on the bed, and puts your pain medication on the bedside table so it's there when you need it.
"I'm gonna go make you some food, ok?"
"Ok."
He goes to the kitchen and cooks up some food for you with the same pot you had when it was his kitchen too.
You lay and wait and worry that he'll leave without a word. And after a few minutes he comes back to check on you.
"How's the princess?"
"In pain."
"Did the medicine help?"
"A bit."
"Will food and then ice cream help?"
You giggle a little. "Yeah. What are you making?"
"Bag of tortellini I found in your freezer. That ok?"
"Yeah," you say quietly. "It's perfect."
When he finishes making the food, the two of you eat it from bowls on your bed. The spacious, typically empty feeling queen mattress is full in a way it hasnt been since he left.
And you notice it.
He sleeps on your couch for the duration of your recovery. Even when you can function on your own. Days turn into weeks, and a fragile comfortabilty forms that neither lf uou address.
He cooks for you. Takes out the trash. Helps you do the things that are too hard with a healing abdominal wound, and the things you could do yourself.
You notice everything. Because you know him. And he knows you. Even after all this time, you're both still fit together like pieces of a puzzle crafted with divine hands.
It's terrifying.
You're both scared of what'll happen when this perfect bubble pops. So you stay in it and ignore how fragile this peace really is. But you're healing, and you can't help but worry about what happens when you're all better.
The two of you fall into a fragile, but comfortable, peace as weeks pass and suddenly your stitches are out and you're bandages follow them away from your skin.
As you lay on the couch with the man who broke your heart, you watch the movie quietly while your heart pounds in your chest because the doctor said that you're nearly fully healed.
"Jason?"
He turns his head to look at you, shifting under the shared blanket to give you his attention. "Yeah?"
"What happens when I'm healed?"
He freezes. He'd been dreading this conversation too, probably. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you've been here all the time because I'm hurt. But we're not together anymore, Jason. So now that I'm almost healed, what happens next?"
He looks down, resigned to whatever fate your next response will dictate for him. "What do you want to happen, (name)?"
"I want you to stay. But I wanted that last time and you still-... I don't want you to leave again, but if you're going to anyway I'd rather it be now, so I don't get too used to having you back."
You look like you're on the verge of tears. And he looks exactly like a man watching the love of his life break apart and knowing its his own fault. He hurt you so badly. And for what? Leaving didn't keep you safe.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. I never meant to hurt you so bad. I was trying to keep you safe, and I didn't even do that right. Give me another chance to make you happy, give us another chance to work. I know I screwed things up but I love you so much and I missed you so badly."
"...Yeah. Yeah I can do that."
He pulls you more tightly toward him and kisses your head. "Yeah?"
If he had known that it wouldn't be worth it to leave he never would have.
You have to believe him. He did it to protect you. And yet all of that is crashing down on him now.
Its 11:36 pm in Gotham City when he sees your name show up on his phone, a month after your breakup. Incoming call from Baby ❤️. He never changed your contact, never stopped loving you.
And like usual, he lets it go to voicemail. Can't open the door back up. Can't give you hope just to break both your hearts again. He's not safe, after all.
But then he listens to the voicemail you leave.
Your voice is shaky. Strained. "Jay, please pick up, I don't know who else to call." Followed by another call.
Something is wrong.
He picks up on the first ring. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
Your voice hitches a little before you answer. "..Yeah."
He doesn't hesitate, just starts getting ready to get you and asks "Where are you?"
"Alley. It's dark. Hold on I'll just send you my location."
He stays on the phone while he gets to his bike. "How bad is it?"
"...Bad. Really bad, Jason."
"Fuck. What kind of wound?"
"....Gunshot," you reply shakily. He can tell that you're crying. Hell, why wouldn't you be?
He tries to keep his voice level, but it comes out so small, so fragile, its clear he's panicking. "....where?"
"...Abdomen-"
"FUCK!" He shouts, then tries to calm down a little. "Just stay where you are and stay with me, angel. ok? Don't close your eyes."
"Ok."
"Talk to me. What happened?"
"There was this man- and he fuck- he looked like he was trying to take some kid. Poor baby, he was calling for his mom." You sob a little. "Jason, it really fucking hurts."
"I know sweetheart. I'm gonna be there soon." He doesn't even realize the nicknames slipping out. He's speeding so fast, trying to race time itself to you. "Where's the kid now?"
"Ran off, hopefully found his mom."
"And the guy?"
You let out a pained sigh. "He got away too, so I might not have helped anyone."
"You did plenty, you helped that kid." And he can't even blame you, can't even call you reckless because what else could you have done? Nothing?
"Yeah but there are other kids, and he's still out there. I didn't even do any real damage."
"Course you didn't. You're a civilian, its my job to fuck them up, not yours. You did good, (name)."
You let out a shaky laugh. "I don't feel good."
"Course, you don't, sweetheart. You got shot."
"Can't be calling me that shit anymore, Jason"
His chest tightens. "...I know."
He finally gets there and nearly falls to his knees at the sight of you, injured and bloody, in the alleyway.
"You got here quick." You note.
"Fastest I've ever ridden." He picks you up easily, something that you used to love. He looks like he might cry. He might. What was the point of leaving if you would still get hurt? "We need to get you to a hospital."
You whimper a little in pain, and he apologizes immediately, trying to shift you into a more comfortable position. He wishes he could just take your pain from you.
"Stay with me baby. I got you. I love you. Don't die on me before I can fix the biggest mistake of my life, ok?"
You manage a feeble "ok" before you start getting too weak to respond to him.
He manages to get you to a hospital and stays in the waiting room as they rush you into surgery. He stays there overnight, waiting for them to let him see you.
Finally, they let him in. And he waits in the chair next to your hospital bed until you wake up.
"....Though you would've left."
"Of course not. Why would you think that?"
"Cuz I'm not your problem anymore."
His heart sinks a little. "You know that's not why I did what I did."
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 — whereas, Jason originally didn’t want to become a boxer at first, but a flyer of a tournament offers money that he finds interest in taking home. Now, he’s getting his ass handed to him by his coach’s daughter that’s his assistant, becoming a rising star while he’s 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 (you’ll 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 couldn’t 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 associate’s 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.
“You have one hell of a build, boy.”
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.
“Thank you—”
“Your technique sucks.”
The man snorted, a sharp, amused sound that made Jason raise an eyebrow in surprise.
“I’m August. Yeah, like the month. You ever done actual boxing before?”
Jason thinned his lips and shook his head.
“Only picked up bits from my… dad, watched videos, and gained some tips from the other guys around here, but it was never anything permanent.” 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.
“Hn. Well, if you’re interested, my partner’s been looking for people around this time. He’s recruiting boxers.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Jason with a knowing look. “He’s got his own gym, proper equipment, the whole deal. And if he sees potential in you,” a faint, confident smile tugged at his mouth, “you could go further than you think. Big leagues, even.”
Big leagues.
“Not interested.”
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 someone’s 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 Jason’s tone.
“You don’t have to own a membership or anything like that,” he points out, adding sugar to his words. “Unless you want to, of course. Just give it a try.” 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. “No pressure,” he puts his hands up, giving a simple shrug before stepping away from Jason, moving on to probably find another poor person to recruit.
“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
He highly doubts he’ll 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 wasn’t 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 lookin’ old guy at the gym finding boxers, offering to train and an opportunity that felt like the opening line to a debt that can’t 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 up—
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 Tournament— step into the ring and prove you’ve 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 didn’t go on it.
He wasn’t 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.
But— Jason really needed a new used car.
He's maintained his car for quite some time since junior year of high school, but it’s 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 he’s willing to scout.
That night, when Jason got home, he found himself digging through his wallet. His fingers brushed against the smooth card that’s still intact, pulling it out and turning it over in his hands.
He was surprised to find that August’s name wasn’t on the business card. Instead, it bore someone else’s name and a location of the gymnasium.
Curious, Jason quickly looked up the name online, wondering if there’s public information about the man.
His jaw only dropped in disbelief.
The card belonged to a retired boxer— 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 boxer’s 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, he’s standing inside of the gym.
It was definitely interesting, it wasn’t a chain like Planet Fitness, VASA, LA, or Anytime Fitness that’s located in a plaza.
Don’t 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 Jason’s first time being at a sketchy fucking location, even if it was broad daylight.
There wasn’t a logo, signage, or an indicator that this was a gym unless you’re 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 didn’t 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 Jason’s back like they were old friends.
“Well, well! Didn’t expect you to come!”
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.
“Ya could’ve used the door on the other side of the building,” August pointed with a grin, gesturing behind him, “but welcome to our boxing gym.”
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 nice— it seemed like it didn’t compare to this.
“Don’t get too excited, you gotta meet the big man.”
August nudged Jason’s shoulder and started walking, clearly expecting him to follow. They moved deeper into the warehouse, rounding a corner that revealed the building’s L shape and a whole another level that the gym couldn’t 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.
“Ah,” August said, glancing toward the ring, “your daughter at it again?”
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.
Jason’s eyes flickered on the ring, noticing a woman up there, panting heavily before you countered a man’s punch easily.
You were absolutely…
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 father’s 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.
“That’s his daughter,” August muttered to Jason, pointing out the obvious. “She’s his assistant when it comes to training. And trust me, she’ll whoop your ass, a lil’ dirty spitfire, that kid.” 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.
“Aye! August, did you drag in another newbie?” 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.
“I did! What’d you think?” August points to him, having a conversation as if he wasn’t 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.
“Hm,” you hummed, licking your top lip.
“I could definitely take him.”
A sexual innuendo coming from you definitely provokes an image to his head.
But he’s quick to wipe it away.
You grinned like you knew exactly what you’d just done, like you were fully aware of the provocative thought you’d planted.
“Well, get on up there, boy,” your father grunted, giving Jason a firm slap on the back that nudged him forward toward the ring.
“Wait—”
August barks out a laugh.
“No point in waiting! She said she could take ya’!”
Jason furrows his brow, flickering his gaze up at you.
Your grin doesn’t disappear, but there’s a mischievous glint in your eyes. “We can do it with or without boxing gloves,” you said with a casual shrug. “Though gloves might be better. Gives me an idea of where you’re at,” your brow lifted slightly, deliberately, “especially since you look pretty new to all of this.”
Your father crossed his arms, eyes sharp as he studied Jason from where he stood.
“Gloves on,” he decided. “We’re not breaking him on day one, August wrap him up and prepare him.”
You rolled your shoulders, still watching Jason like a cat sizing up something interesting. “Hear that? Lucky you.” You stepped back, gesturing toward the corner of the ring.
“You’ll stand there when you’re done.”
Jason bit the inside of his cheek, heat still lingering at the back of his neck.
“Don’t you think we should talk about this—”
You laughed, sharp and effortless, cutting him off as you waved your wrapped hand dismissively.
“That’s for later.”
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.
“Clock’s running,” your father called out from the side, voice firm.
“No fancy shit.”
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. “Relax,” you spoke lightly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Then your smile curved.
“Unless you give me a reason.”
Then, your father’s voice rings the gym.
“Start!”
You closed the distance the moment your father’s 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 wasn’t really trained for this, bringing out the fact he wasn’t as experienced as the people you’ve fought earlier.
You’re—
“You’re in your head,” you mentioned, snapping his focus back into the ring. “Get out of it, this is a practice match.”
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. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s about right.”
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.
“Well, that’s definitely a start.”
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 you’d 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.
“Feet,” you reminded him calmly. “They matter.”
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 could’ve punched again.
“I just realized you’re not much of a talker.”
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.
“Alright,” you announced. “I’ve seen enough.”
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 words— knowing you were trained for this, he wasn’t.
You studied him for a moment, then cracked a small grin.
“Let’s talk now.”
“Ah, that’s why you’ve come. ‘Carnage Knockout’? The rookie tournament.”
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.
“Well, we can definitely get you ready for the rookie tournament happening in…” 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. “…six months.”
You looked up, meeting Jason’s gaze with a small, confident smile.
“If you’re serious, willing to put in the work, and ready to commit to boxing, then I’ll train you,” you firmly stated, folding your arms as your foot taps against the floor. “But if you start treating this like child’s play, I’m kicking you out.”
Your father grunted in agreement, his few words carrying heavy weight, making it clear he didn’t tolerate anything less than dedication.
“Would your father also train me?” Jason asked, genuine curiosity, wondering why you were training him, but not in a disrespectful way. He didn’t mind, but he simply questioned why your father wasn’t going to—
“He’s old.” You bluntly told him with a laugh escaping from your lips, your father slaps your back in retaliation, hearing an audible ‘ow!’ That still causes you to laugh, pushing your father’s bicep to quit it.
August barked out a laugh, shaking his head.
Your father shot you a look, unimpressed but fond. “I’m not old,” he muttered. “I’m experienced.”
You smirked. “That’s what old people say.”
Another swat came your way, lighter this time, and you leaned away, still grinning. Then your expression shifted, focus snapping back to Jason.
“I’ll be the one in the ring with you,” you confidently say, tone more serious now. “I’ll push you, correct you, and knock bad habits out of you before they stick. He—” you jerked your chin toward your father, “watches, steps in when needed, and makes sure I don’t go easy on you and relax if I’m going overboard.”
Your father nodded once more.
“Listen to her, all of your opponents in the ring will most likely be my daughter.”
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. “I’m serious,” determination leaning through. “I won’t waste your time.”
You hummed softly, a gentle smile curling at your lips as the usual mischievous spark in your eyes softened.
“I believe it.”
The words landed heavier than he expected.
Something in his chest shifted, unfamiliar and unguarded, catching him off balance.
And you weren’t 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 he’d 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 wasn’t so bad.
The restaurant was quite popular, the tips were enough, and it was one of the few places that didn’t leave him completely drained by the end of the night.
And on the first few days, training him—
You grilled him.
“You can’t just be stiff,” you snapped, circling him. “You gotta move, put more energy into your footwork. Loosen up!”
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.
“Again.”
Hit.
“Again.”
You hit.
“Jason, again.”
Another hit lands.
“You’re making the same mistake again!” 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.
“I told you, don’t do it again! Roll your shoulders and relax, dammit! You’re not moving those feet!”
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 form— you finally called a pause. Jason bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard against the ring’s ground.
You crouched down to his level, tilting your head as you studied him. Throughout the entire session, you hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“You’ve clearly been relying on strength training,” you point out calmly. “Not cardio. That’s the first thing we’re fixing.” You tapped the canvas lightly with your knuckles. “And your reflexes are decent. You dodge well when I’m on the offensive, but the second I start moving and changing pace, your defense falls apart.”
You straightened slightly, eyes sharp but not unkind. “You don’t anticipate my moves and you’re too much in your head—”
Jason grit his teeth, a scoff slipping past his lips.
“Then what do you suggest I do?”
You ignored the sharp edge in his tone, the frustration bleeding through his words. You’d 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 wasn’t lashing out because he didn’t care.
He was lashing out because he wanted to get better.
“I’ve got a workout plan in mind, if you’re up for it,” you offered, shrugging lightly. “We need to build your cardio first, that’s non-negotiable. And I want to do sparring with footwork involved.”
You glanced at him, gauging his reaction. “It’s illegal in the ring, yeah, but this isn’t about rules. It’ll force your legs to stay active, keep you moving instead of freezing up. And without the gloves, I’ll get a much clearer read on where you’re really at.”
Your gaze drifted for a moment, distant, like you were turning over an old memory.
“You won’t be the first in this situation.”
He was grateful to you, more than he ever said out loud.
For the last three months— you provided him with a full workout regimen, including calorie targets, and protein as well. There were even meals you’ve 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 weren’t 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 you’ve teased him way too many times.
There’s 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.
“What made you become your father’s assistant?” 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.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you to ask,” you chuckled, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Believe it or not, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, I’ve been trained for years.”
You shifted your weight, arms still folded as you continued, your voice smooth with honesty. “I 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.”
A hint of fondness crept into your expression. “And I wasn’t lying about him getting old,” you added lightly, nudging your elbow against his side. “Someone has to keep him from running himself into the ground, it’s not a secret how he retired.”
Your gaze drifted downward then, something quieter settling over your features.
“The old man never learned how to quit,” you laughed, your eyes speaking in a way of a fond memory. “He loves boxing too much to do that. Even now— he’s retired from the scene, but never from life. It’s the reason why he created this ‘sketchy ass’ gym for people that wanted to become greater.” You shrugged.
“And besides,” you added, glancing back up at him with that familiar spark returning, “turns out I’m good at it, I love it actually. I love teaching, breaking things down, pushing people without snapping them in half.” Your mouth curved upwards. “At least most of the time.”
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.
“What about you?” You asked, a teasing edge in your voice. “You’re obviously about the same age as me, and I know you want the money to buy a new car,” you cross your legs, shaking your head. “But is there anything else? Any real aspirations? Something you’re trying to gain in life?”
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.
“I wanted to be a lawyer,” Jason simply stated, seeing your eyes widen with surprise. “I had a rough childhood, figured if I could help others in tough spots, maybe it’d mean something— university is expensive, so the money could help a bit.”
You nodded slowly, letting his words hang in the air without pressing for more. After a beat, you offered a small smile.
“Well, don’t stress yourself out too much over it. I somehow have a feeling that you’ll win and be… something greater.”
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 he’d 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 weren’t 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 weren’t 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. “Did Alejandro rough you up again?” 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.
“He’s good.”
“Not better than me I would assume?”
Jason scoffed, rolling his eyes.
“He could never be better than you.”
For a moment, you fell silent, and Jason caught the way you inhaled just a little sharper at his words and the pause.
Jason didn’t 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 didn’t matter. You didn’t 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 hard— when he’d 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 you’d 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 didn’t know how long you’d 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. “Hey, lay back down,” you murmured, “I’ll go change it—” 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 position— 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.
“Ah— um, uh, my legs are numb,” 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 wasn’t 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 you’d 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 didn’t give him a moment to recover— 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 you’d 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 looked— 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 couldn’t look at you for a few days one time, having you in his spank bank for how much you’re 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 Jason— irresistibly compelling in the way you carry yourself with effortless strength, quiet beauty, and unshakable resilience.
There’s something about you that pulls at him, drawing him closer even when he tries to keep his distance. His heart aches in ways he can’t 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 fire— 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, he’s 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.
“You ready, champ?”
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 you’d put him through, hell and back included.
You hadn’t realized how different it would feel seeing him like this. All those months of training, he’d 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 he’d 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 he’d filled out under your hands over months of training and how the heat in your eyes slowly travels down to your panties.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” 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 he’d 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 couldn’t help but smirk at that, erasing it quickly so you don’t catch it.
You cleared your throat, running a hand through your hair as if to steady yourself. “There’s going to be people here,” you stated, voice settling back into something calm and assured. “Recruiters, patrons, and watchers. They might try to get in your head.”
Your eyes softened as you looked at him, more sincere now. “If anyone bothers you, find my dad. Or find me.” A pause, then a grin curved across your lips, confident and fox-like.
“I know you’ll win this tournament.”
And you weren’t wrong.
When you’re 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.
You’re 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 doesn’t 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 man’s 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.
Don’t 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, it’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 Gotham’s University, imagining a future where he stands for Justice that felt distant but possible.
He hadn’t planned on ending up in the boxing gym of a legend. Hadn’t planned on being trained and rebuilt by the man’s daughter, his coach’s assistant, the woman he had slowly and hopelessly fallen in love with.
Now, he is twenty-four.
Jason Todd is an MMA fighter now.
He’s 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 he’s come, victories carved from sweat, blood, and stubborn refusal to quit.
He’s 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 he’s 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 Jason’s 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.
That’s 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 you’d 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. Jason’s heart stuttered in his chest, lungs pulling in a deep, shaky breath as the world narrowed to just the two of you.
“Jay,” you murmured, voice low and lethal, “knock him the fuck out.”
Those clips went viral, edits, screenshots frozen and replayed a thousand times over.
And safe to say, the image lives rent-free in Jason’s 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 doesn’t know.
And people still have the nerve to ask to be his coach.
“Don’t you think it’s time to switch—”
“How do you feel about your assistant!?”
“Jason, have you thought of Hal Jordan’s offer!?!”
“What’s your thoughts on Lady Shiva AKA Sandra Wu-San’s offer?!”
“Are you dating—!?”
“Is your assistant planning to recruit—!?”
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.
“Excuse me! I’m Lois Lane from the Daily Planet,” a voice cut through the chaos. “Could you share your thoughts on declining the offer from the former MMA champion, holder of the most titles in history, Bruce Wayne?”
Jason’s head snapped toward the name.
Not Wayne’s— hers, Lois Lane.
“Lois Lane,” he repeated, already moving in her direction. “Congratulations on your tenth anniversary with Clark Kent. How’s retirement looking for him?” Lois laughed into the microphone, genuine and warm, clearly at ease. “Doing well. He’s on dad duty right now, taking care of our son. Now,” she added, lifting the mic again, “back to the question? The offer rejected by Bruce Wayne?”
The cameras went wild at that, shutters popping faster as he stopped just short of the barrier separating them. He didn’t blink at the lights, didn’t flinch at the microphones crowding his face, anticipating his answer.
“Why would I downgrade?”
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 he’d just thrown at Bruce Wayne.
You’re going to kill him.
Lois only smirked, a soft chuckle slipping out as she adjusted her grip on the microphone.
“I don’t think Bruce is going to like hearing that,” she dragged a note, amused, before smoothly shifting gears. “But you are competing in the JLC! For the new viewers, it’s short for Justice League Championship, and you’ve been absolutely crushing it! Your next match is against Roy Harper. What do you expect after that match?”
Jason rolled his eyes, a slow, amused scoff leaving him as if the answer were obvious.
“After that match?” Jason planted his hands on his hips, tilting his head like he actually had to think about it.
He didn’t.
Roy Harper wasn’t worth the mental effort.
“Hm,” he hummed, lips tipping into a slow, dangerous grin. “Dick Grayson should start getting real comfortable with second place.” 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.
“Because I’m bringing the title home,” he went on, voice smooth but edged with promise, ego worn without apology, “and I already cleared a space for it.”
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.
“Confidence aside,” she pitched her tone higher, a teasing edge slipping into her voice, “a lot of people credit your rapid rise to the team behind you, specifically your coach. How much of tonight’s performance belongs to you, and how much belongs to her?”
The crowd stirred at that, cameras immediately angling for his reaction.
“And speaking of her,” Lois continued smoothly, “what are your thoughts on the relationship between your coach assistant and Dick Grayson? Bruce’s protégé, currently having the most belts in—“
Huh???
“Wowowow—“ he stops Lois Lane, a clear furrow of his brow. “What do you mean relationship with MY assistant? I am not aware of my assistant’s dating history, but I assure you that Dickhead hasn’t been with—”
Lois burst out laughing before he could finish, the sound bright and uncontrollable as she lowered the microphone for a second.
“Whoa, easy, tiger,” she grins, still chuckling. “Not that kind of relationship.”
Cameras snapped faster the second Jason’s 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. “…Then what the hell are you talking about?”
Lois wiped at the corner of her eye, composing herself before lifting the mic again to herself. “Then you must be unaware,” she explained smoothly, slipping back into reporter mode, “that Dick Grayson was trained by your coach assistant long before Bruce Wayne recruited him. It was early in his career, formative years.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Lois continued. “By 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.”
Jason’s jaw tightened, slow and deliberate.
“Oh,” he flatly replied.
Lois watched his reaction with interest, smirking as if she could read his thoughts. “So,” she pressed, “knowing that your possible opponent was once trained by the same coach who trains you now… does that change how you see the match?”
Jason’s lips curled, sharp and dangerous.
“If anything,” he began, voice dipping lower, edged with something dark and certain, “it just means she knows exactly how to take him apart.”
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, he’d won his match against Roy Harper. It’s 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 he— 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.
“Now, in what world was it a good idea to provoke Roy Harper?”
Jason frowned, irritation flashing across his swollen lip.
“Provoke? Please. I was speaking the truth.”
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.
“Hey—”
“Don’t grab,” you warned lightly, though your mouth curved into a smirk when his expression pulled into a small, offended pout. “That’s what happens when you let your ego do the talking.”
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.
“Still won,” he simply whispered with a bit of attitude. You huffed, shaking your head as you reached for another wipe.
“Which I’m really happy you did, but you kiddin’? That was a close call.”
A brief pause followed, Jason's shoulder slumping, furrowing his brows together at the way you’ve been frustratingly been so…
So damn annoying.
A pain in the ass, and yet somehow he had still found a way to like you. No, that wasn’t 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.
He’d 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 you’ve found yourself on a date, or talking to someone.
Ughhhh.
I mean, it was obvious, wasn’t it?
He brought you flowers on Valentine’s 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 you’ve liked as if they were your pretty nails that HE HAS PAID FOR.
And if there’s one thing that he will never ever admit?
Whenever he’s injured, he looks forward to your hands.
He really likes your hands all over him in any sort of way.
He’d loved your hands since the first time you’d 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 he’d 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 he’s 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.
“You trained with Dick Grayson.”
The question— 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.
“What about it?”
Jason lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, his jaw tightening as heat crawls up his neck.
“What about it?” he echoes, incredulous. “You 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 didn’t think that was relevant?”
This time, you really look at him.
Your brows lift slightly, eyes searching his face with quiet precision, like you’re peeling back layers he hasn’t even admitted are there. The room feels smaller under your gaze, heavier, and Jason suddenly wishes he’d chosen his words more carefully.
“Is that what this is about, relevancy?”
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.
“I just—” he exhaled through his nose, voice low and raw. “Feels like something I should’ve known.”
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.
“Why?” 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 tightened— a mix of longing and vulnerability he couldn’t 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 Grayson’s name attached to you made something ugly and possessive twist in his gut.
Because he didn’t like how much it bothered him.
Because he didn’t want to imagine your hands belonging to someone else.
Jason stayed quiet.
“I didn’t tell you,” you begin after a moment, voice low and even, “because it wasn’t about you, or him. It was about work— training, boxing, and MMA. We’re friends, acquaintances, but it wasn’t anything more.” He nodded, but the motion was shallow, unconvincing.
His eyes stayed on yours, searching, like he was bracing for a hit he wasn’t sure was coming.
“I know,” he murmured. “Doesn’t make it better that I had to find out through them… well, Lois.”
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.
“Why am I not surprised you found out through Lois?” You chuckled softly. “Working with Dick wasn’t exactly a secret, but it also wasn’t something people cared to dig into.” Your smile turned a little wry. “Guess that’s changed now.”
Your thumbs brushed his skin again, absent but intimate, as if you were smoothing the moment itself.
“Fans love a narrative,” you continued. “They connect dots that don’t exist, twist history into drama. It makes for good headlines.” You shrugged easily, as if it doesn’t bother you of what people say on Twitter, Tiktok, or any social media platform.
“You should get some rest, Jason,” you commented, the edge of authority slipping back into your tone like armor. “I’ll see you later. You’ll have a month to recover before your final match.”
Your hands finally fell away, the sudden absence making the air feel colder.
“Oh, I forgot one thing—”
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 hadn’t 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.
“Congratulations, Jay.”
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 you’d 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 you’d kissed him, your voice replaying on a loop in his head only differently.
The kiss on his cheek still felt like an imprint, one you’d 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t face you, tried to wipe those thoughts, but he’s given up too many times, looking on pornhub, Twitter, and had one or two hookups that had him accidentally imagining what you’d 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 isn’t usually dramatic.
He isn’t big on theatrics, doesn’t care much for putting on a show. Though, if he were being honest, he’s 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 he’s 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.
It’s 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.
That’s not only the worst part: he’s 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.
Jason’s 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 father’s gym. As if it’s 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.
“I fold,” you whispered into the quiet.
Dick laughed immediately, bright and easy, like he’d 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 hadn’t 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. “Well,” Dick realized a new figure in the gym, clapping his hands together once, “been a while since I’ve seen ya’! You did great in your match against Harper last month!”
Jason didn’t return the smile. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking briefly to where Dick’s hands had been on you before settling back on his face.
The air between them went taut, stretched thin with something unspoken and ugly.
“Didn’t know you were comin’ here.” 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.
“He’s here to briefly visit,” you explained. “It's been a while since we’ve 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!” 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.
“You sure you don’t wanna take up on my offer?”
Jason scoffed, “disrespecting my coach in front of me? In your dreams, you’ve heard my answer in the interview.” You glanced at him, your lips curving upwards, knowing exactly what he’s referring to.
“Well, all due respects to your coach.” Dick winks at you playfully, coming up to your other side. “You could learn some tricks from Bruce and maybe I can catch up with—”
“Not a fat chance in hell.”
Jason rolls his eyes.
You raised a pointed brow at him, wondering what’s with the attitude against your former teammate, or whatever the fuck.
“Oi’! Be nice, Todd.” Your father sways a finger at him, knowing he’s half-joking, but Bruce could only laugh at Jason’s 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. “Didn’t realize I’d walked into your gym with your name on it,” he pokes at his response, his voice filled with sarcasm. “You always this friendly, Todd?”
Jason stepped closer, tension rolling off his shoulders.
“Only when necessary.”
You insert yourself between them before it could escalate further, noting down Jason’s hostile attitude.
“Both of you,” you dryly cut their conversation. “Save it in the cage, tomorrow.”
Dick lifted his hands in surrender, a grin still lingering on his face, showing off the pearly whites.
“Relax, coach. We’re just talking.”
Jason’s jaw ticked.
“Sure.”
Bruce observed the exchange like it was a chess match unfolding. Your father, meanwhile, looked one smirk away from enjoying this far too much.
“Unless yall wanna fight it out now.” Your father suggests, hearing Dick laugh, waving his hand around.
“Nah, let’s save that for the match tomorrow!” 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. “Hey, do you mind if we get dinner—”
Jason clicks his tongue.
“She’s busy tonight.”
Dick slowly side-eyed him. “Oookay…” he drawled, clearly amused. “Do you mind if we grab some friendly coffee?”
He emphasized on friendly.
Your brow twitched, glaring at Jason behind Dick’s 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. “Yeah, I’m down.”
And that was that.
And Jason— Jason’s 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.
“Do you want me to get you anything—” you called after him, noticing the tension radiating off his back.
“I’m good,” he replied, loud enough to cut the air between you.
He didn’t look at you.
He just pulled the headphones from around his neck up over his ears, sealing himself off. The music wasn’t 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 Jason’s regular order— 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.
“Hey, where’s Todd?” you asked casually.
Your father glanced up from his conversation with Bruce.
“Left.”
You blinked. “Left?”
“An hour in,” he added, mildly confused himself. “Didn’t say much when he left except talked with August about tomorrow.”
That didn’t make sense.
Jason never left early.
Left immediately after the first hour which was highly unusual of him— 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 you’ve had, leaning into him for a selfie that he had pretended to hate.
It had quieted down after 2:00 PM.
“I think you should really tell her how ya’ feel.”
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 Jason’s soul.
Jason choked.
“Did you even listen to what I said for last four hours!?”
Artemis groaned, dragging a hand down her face like she was the one exhausted. “Oh my god, I’ve been listening since day one of this whole situation,” she snapped. “And I can’t help but say you’re blind as a damn bat!”
“I am not blind,” Jason shot back.
“You are catastrophically blind and we truly didn’t need this debrief and your internal crisis,” she corrected. “You think she memorizes your coffee order, patches you up like you’re something fragile, and looks at you the way she does because you’re 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?”
Jason opened his mouth, then he closed it.
Artemis pointed at him. “Exactly.”
He stood abruptly, pacing now, agitation crawling under his skin.
“You didn’t see her with him!”
“With Grayson?” Artemis scoffed. “Please. I’ve seen that man flirt with a mirror. That literally means nothing.”
“It didn’t look like anything?!”
“And what did it look like?” she challenged, folding her arms.
Jason hesitated, jaw tight.
“She looked comfortable with him.”
Artemis’ expression shifted from exasperated to something almost pitying. “Jason. She’s comfortable with him because they’ve trained together. History doesn’t equal romance and I thought she cleared that up from the last conversation we had when y'all were in the locker room.”
And Artemis once again— had a point.
“She’s not choosing between you and him,” Artemis sighs quietly. “She doesn’t even know there’s a competition, because you’re the only one fighting it, dumbass.” Jason shouts a ‘hey!’ Before he frowns.
“You gotta stop being a wimp and just— I don’t know, take her out on a date for once!”
“I am not doing that!”
“Holy fuckin’ shit! Man UP, dude. Do you want to see her with Dick Grayson, then!?”
The fuck!?
“I thought you were on my side!”
Jason stares at her in disbelief.
“I am literally on your side!” Artemis annoyingly says. “Don’t drag this out any longer.”
“I—”
Jason’s door starts banging.
Artemis swears she saw Jason become ten-times paler.
“I know you’re in there, Jason! You better explain yourself!”
Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.
“What the fuck do I do—!?”
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.
“Jason!”
He drags both hands down his face.
“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Okay. You can absolutely tell her— you fight grown men for a living. You can open a door and confess.”
Another bang.
He flinches.
“JASON TODD.”
“Alright! Give me a second, woman!” 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.
“Hi,” he says weakly.
And like every other time that he had pissed you off—
You do not look amused.
You’re standing there in a plain graphic t-shirt wearing comfortable sleep shorts, arms crossed, eyes blazing with anger, hurt, and worry.
“You left,” you state.
“Yes.”
“You ignored my calls.”
“…Also yes.”
Your eyes narrow. “Are you five?”
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “In my defense, I was having a crisis.”
“A crisis,” you repeat flatly.
“An internal one.”
You stare at him for a long second.
“Jason,” you say slowly, dangerously calm, “did you really leave training early, ignore me for hours, and spiral because Dick asked me to get coffee?”
He freezes.
You blink.
His silence answers him.
“Oh my god,” you breathe.
He winces. “It sounds worse when you say it out loud.”
“It is worse out loud!”
He steps aside automatically when you push past him into the apartment, pacing once like you’re trying to process the level of stupidity before he closes the door.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.
“I know,” he says immediately.
You turn on him.
“Why?”
“Tell me, Jason,” you step closer until his back hits the door with a dull thud. “What exactly happened? Why were you so pissed at Dick? I’ve told you before we’re just friends! We’re old acquaintances!”
Something in him snaps.
“I know that!” He fires back, louder than he means to.
“You think I don’t know that?” he continues, running a hand through his hair. “You think I’m stupid?”
“I think you’re being absolutely ridiculous,” you shoot back.
“Yeah?” he laughs, sharp and bitter. “You wanna know why I’m being ridiculous?”
You stare at him, jaw set.
“Enlighten me.”
“Because I absolutely hate how I feel.”
And he seethes, watching the way your eyes widen, your face written in confusion while he continues. “I hate that he pinned you when I couldn’t and that I haven’t. I hate that he’s got history with you, I hate that you light up when you talk about old training stories with him—”
His chest heaves. “I 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 aren’t anything more than friends, and I hate that I don’t get to say anything about it because technically I have no right!”
He steps closer now, frustration radiating off him.
“I hate being friends. I hate the fact you don’t realize how much— how much I feel for you and I hate that we label the times we go out together ‘hangouts’ when I want it to be a date, or whenever you’re with someone else!”
The anger fractures, bleeding into something raw.
“I 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 it’s the only time you touch me without thinking and when you drop off medicine when I’m sick.” His voice breaks slightly at the edges. “And I don’t say anything because I don’t want to fuck this up!”
You stand there, taking it all in.
You watch the way his chest rises and falls like he’s just gone twelve rounds. The way his fists are still clenched at his sides, knuckles pale, like he’s bracing for impact that never comes. The anger is still there, but it’s 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 hadn’t decided yet.
His gaze dipped before he could stop it.
To your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered under his breath, voice lower now, rougher.
“Like what?” You asked, though your voice had lost its earlier edge.
“Like you wanna fuck me.”
You didn’t 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.
“You’re really funny, you know that?” 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.
“You’re not the only one that has feelings, Jay.”
And suddenly, your mouth crashes against his, teeth grazing, breath stolen. Jason makes a startled sound against your lips before he’s kissing you back just as hard, hands gripping your waist like he needs something solid to hold onto.
There’s 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.
“You’re—”
“Shut up,” you murmured against his mouth.
Fuckin’ 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 chest— warm, solid, and real.
He’s 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 doesn’t take long for your shirt to also be thrown somewhere in the living room, which unsurprisingly, you’re 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 you’re 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.
He’s imagined this, too many times.
Jason doesn’t know what to do with you, especially with the way you’re 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.
“Mm,” you hum against him, clearly pleased with the reaction. “You’ve thought about this before?”
Shit, did he say that out loud?
You nip gently at the side of his neck, it wasn’t hard, but it was enough to make him let out a small, involuntary sound that vibrates through his chest.
“Don’t—” 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 you’ve claimed and the other red spots that linger all over his collarbone.
Jason’s eyes are dark, blown wide, chest rising a little faster now.
“Answer me,” you murmur, lips ghosting over his pulse point. “How many times?”
His hands tighten at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to steady himself.
“You don’t wanna know,” he says hoarsely.
“Oh,” you whisper, pressing another deliberate kiss to his throat, “I think I do.”
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 you’re mapping him out from memory.
“Once?” you press.
A huff of breath leaves him— half laugh, half disbelief.
His dick twitching.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
You drag your nails lightly down his chest in response, watching the way his stomach tightens under your touch.
“It’s okay if you don’t wanna answer.”
Then, your hand drags down till you’ve grasped onto his cock, feeling it slightly twitch beneath your palms even through the cloth.
“Oh f—“
You softly chuckled.
“I’ve thought of sucking your dick before, ya’ know?”
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 Jason’s eyes, he watches you stick out your tongue, placing it on his chest—
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 you’re 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 don’t waste any time on Jason.
You lean in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head, tasting the bead of pre-cum that’s gathered there. Jason’s 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.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands resting on top of your head. “Don’t fuckin’ stop.”
You take him deeper, inch by inch, until he’s 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 can’t take.
His hands tangle in your hair, his grip tight but not painful. He’s 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 don’t 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.
“That’s—fucking hell,” 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.
“Fuck, take all of it.”
Jason finds himself encased in a wet heat that holds him hostage, shutting his eyelids from the pure bliss you’ve 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.
“God, I’m gonna—” 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 it’s fucking worth it when he quivers under you, knowing he’s 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 it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
You don’t know how long you’ve been having sex with Jason last night.
You can’t remember when you’ve found yourself in his bed, having multiple rounds with one another but you know you’ve come onto Jason’s 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 is— 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.
“Knew you could take it,” 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 faster—”
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 can’t 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 there’s 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, it’s 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.
“Jason… I'm gonna—"
"No," he cuts you off, his voice firm. "Don’t 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.
“Please—”
“No.”
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.
“Jay!”
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.
“Not really a good listener, are you?”
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. "Ts’ 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."
There’s 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 that— pulling him into you before he stills, cumming within you while your name leaves his lips.
There’s 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 he’s back within seconds.
The mattress dips beside you, and there’s a soft touch against your thigh— gentle and careful. You blink lazily and see him with a small towel in hand, damp and warm.
“Hey,” he murmurs quietly, brushing your hair back from your face. “Stay with me a second.”
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.
“You okay?” he asks, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.
You nod faintly. “Yeah.”
A small, proud smile tugs at his swollen lip.
“You were incredible,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “Did so good for me.”
When he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and slides back under the covers immediately. You instinctively roll toward him, pressing into his chest like it’s 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.
“Got you,” 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.
“You need water?” he asks quietly. “Pain anywhere?”You shake your head again, sleep already pulling at you.
“Good,” 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.
“And welcome back, ladies, gentlemen, and nonbinary folks— if you’re just tuning in, you chose one hell of a night to do it!”
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.
“Tonight’s main event is one we’ve been anticipating since Roy’s match!” The announcer says, voice rising over the roar of the crowd. “Isn’t that right, Clark?”
The arena responds instantly— loud, sharp, and multiple voicing his name when they recognize who’s 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.
“For once,” Clark replies smoothly, “I’m glad I’m on the ringside and not in the middle of it. These two?” He laughs, shaking his head. “This has been building for such little time!”
The other commentator lets out a low chuckle. “That’s putting it lightly.” He gestures toward the massive screens overhead as highlight reels flash— Dick’s acrobatic knockouts and Jason’s brutal finishes.
“On one side, the golden prodigy of Bruce Wayne— Richard Grayson.” The crowd cheers at the mention of his name. “And on the other— the so-called underdog who refused to stay one. Jason Todd!” Clark whistles low, the commentators letting the crowd’s cheer bypass, but he can’t help but swear he’s never heard a crowd this loud since his own match against Bruce Wayne, ages ago.
“He’s the man who fights like he’s got something to prove every single time he steps into a ring!”
The camera cuts briefly to Bruce Wayne seated close to the ring, waiting for the show to go on.
“And here’s the kicker!” The commentator continues, leaning into it. “They’re both molded under the same coach!” The camera pans to the person next to Bruce Wayne, your father before it flickers to you.
“To be specific, the assistant coach of the former boxing champion! They’re two fighters forged in the same fire— who took very different paths once they stepped out on their own!”
“And tonight,” the announcer finishes, as the bell official steps forward, “we find out which path leads to gold.”
“Give it up… for DICK GRAYSON!”
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 grin— 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 Dick’s entrance when the lights suddenly cut to black.
A low, distorted bass hum rolls through the speakers— slow, heavy, and almost predatory. It vibrates through the floor, through the barricades, through the ribs of everyone in attendance.
“And now…” the announcer’s voice drops, stretching the anticipation tight. “His opponent.”
A single spotlight snaps on at the mouth of the tunnel.
“Fighting out of Gotham City… weighing in at—”
The music hits.
“Give it up for… JASON TODD!”
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 slightly— 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 entirely—gasps 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 Jason’s 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 visible— deep plum and fading crimson against flushed, fight-warmed skin.
The crowd noise swells into something chaotic— 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.
“Well,” the other commentator manages, clearing his throat as he tries— and fails— to suppress the grin bleeding into his voice, “it appears Mr. Todd had a very… thorough preparation phase.”
Clark exhales softly beside him, professional but clearly aware of the moment. “That is certainly one way to make a statement before the opening bell.”
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.
“And here we go!”
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 Jason’s 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 someone’s lips, or wiping away the corner of their mouth.
“This is dead even,” the commentator says, voice tight, sweating profusely from the last few matches exchanged between the two men. “You could make a case either way.”
Dick moves first, snapping a jab that splits Jason’s guard, followed with a quick cross that forces Jason back half a step. The crowd surges at the shift.
“Grayson finding rhythm!”
Jason pivots.
“Look at the way he moves!”
“Dear god, is Jason simply going to take that brutality!?”
“And oh my god, here comes Dick Grayson!”
“And Jason strikes again him!”
“Holy crap! Look at him!”
Then, it was silent.
A left hook comes from tight and brutal, compact and devastating.
It lands clean against Dick’s jaw.
The arena goes silent for half a heartbeat.
Dick’s 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.
“That’s it! It’s over!”
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.
“And your winner— by knockout— JASON TODD!”
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.
“Oh— hold on,” the commentator says, voice rising. “He’s heading somewhere.”
Jason doesn’t wait for the post-fight interview.
He doesn’t 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.
“He’s not going to the panel— he’s not—”
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 what’s 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.
“Oh my—!” the announcer laughs in disbelief. “He just sealed the victory with that!”
Clark exhales a quiet, almost amused breath. “Well… that will be replayed for a while.”
“Doesn’t it remind you of that time with Lois, winning that match against Lex Luthor?”
“Huh, it quite does.”
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.
They’re close enough now that the overhead screen fills with the two of you— 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 something— 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.
“Hey, kiss it better?” 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!! it’s been a while!!! this quite literally took a month and a half to write? I was on hiatus for a bit! Don’t expect me to stick long haha, I’m doing slow updates, so any work from now on will take a fat minute to write out. But I’m 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!!
content warnings ♡ virgin!reader, both are in 20s, established relationship, multiple orgasms (r receiving), fingering, corruption kink if you squint, unprotected p in v sex, fingering, creampie, degradation and praise.
ⓘ requests / ask box info ◡̈
Ah. You’ve done it now. you really should’ve kept your mouth shut. Who in their right mind would ever confess to their friend that they cannot ever get off unless it’s to porn? Why did you mention it so casually like it’s something you can tell strangers? Suddenly your light clothes feel so stuffy. Too stuffy. Your cheeks are heating up, your brows furrowing as you violently avoid Jason’s eyes. You can feel his gaze on you—warm, calculating, and you know that he’s thinking from how he’s suddenly fallen silent. This man is never quiet. With what is left of your crumbling dignity, you laugh nervously and shake it off with a wave of your hand.
Jason has been a friend of yours for a little longer than you’d expect. In the beginning, he’s as tolerable as walking barefoot on a ground blazing with fire. Over time you’ve grown to take a liking to him and now you’re both thick as thieves. You trust him with personal information as he does, sometimes even tossing a little precious sliver of a secret his way. You never expect him to reciprocate or react, which is why his response that comes after throws you off immediately.
“Do you want me to show you the touch of another person?” Your eyes snap up to look at him. Not once would you ever expect that a simple catch up session with a round of drinks in Jason's apartment could come to such a conclusion. “You don’t have to say yes. I'm just offering you a solution and teaching you that it’s different with someone else’s hands on you.”
If you didn’t know any better, it’s just a fancy way of Jason saying that he’s thought about this before. That he’s thought of you in such an indecent, obscene way, but it makes your thighs clench together and your heart race faster than it should.
“I . . Are you sure about this?” your voice is a bare whisper against the fog of inadvertent tension in his living room. When he leans back against his couch, the silver of his necklace chain twinkles so teasingly before your eyes fall back onto his face. There’s a small smirk playing on the corners of his lips and you feel reassured that he’s assuming his cavalier charm for your own sake.
“I am. So, what’s your answer? I promise I'll be gentle . . . or rough, if you like it like that.” There’s the mocking and insufferable Jason that you know.
Despite the roll of your eyes, you know that the unbearable warmth on your cheeks and neck tells you otherwise. You just hope he doesn’t pick up on your flustered state. taking a deep breath, you look him in the eye and nod firmly.
“No can do, birdy. You have to give me a verbal answer or I'm staying put here.” You know that he’s an assertive character. You’ve seen, witnessed, and experienced this countless times before so why does it leave you chasing for a little bit more oxygen in your system?
The glass in your hand has already been drained of its alcohol long ago. You are sober enough to make your own decisions and you know that the same goes for him. Placing it on the table right in front of you, you unknowingly glance at the distance between both of your bodies at different ends of the worn leather couch. Your eyes finally rest on his face, gentle and observing.
Has he always been this attractive?
“Yes, I'm sure. Please, Jace. I . . . I want to know.”
“That's all I need to hear,” he chuckles. Jason shifts his position so that he’s properly supported. His leather jacket has been discarded long ago, leaving him in his compression shirt and sweatpants.
Upon spreading his legs, he pats his lap with both his hands as though inviting you to sit on them.
Oh.
He is making you sit on his lap.
“C’mere and sit on my lap, pretty. The pace is yours to set.” You get up and obediently make your way over to him but you just stand there with a frown that screams a lack of experience and he boisterously laughs at your reaction.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me, dick for brains!” You grumble with a faux sense of anger. You huff, glaring at him before taking a step forward and then back. Then you inch to the side but ultimately you’re stuck in your original position because you just don’t know how you should even be sitting down on his lap. You've seen it countless times in multimedia but for some reason it feels foreign when experiencing it firsthand. “Are you done?” You deadpan him as you cock an eyebrow upward. There’s still some giggles that are leaving him but eventually it stops with a long sigh.
“Alright, alright. Let me give you a hand.” Jason grins and his calloused hands reach forward to settle on your waist. Carefully he guides you towards him and you’re taking meek, timid steps before you’re descending lower, lower, and lower until you are finally sitting down on his lap. You can feel the cool metal of his necklace with his chest pressing up against yours.
His body is warm and you feel safe in his care—as you always do. Both of your hands fall onto his firm shoulders. His muscles are much broader than you last recall, and when did he get so muscular?
Swallowing thickly, you slowly raise your head to look at Jason. Your faces are inches apart, his warm breath stained with red wine fanning against your cheek, and only then did you notice that there’s a hint of a darker blue in the irises of his icy eyes . . . which are on your lips.
The heavy thump thump thumping of your heart is making you feel a little queasy in fear he’ll hear it and his quiet chuckle breaks the brief moment of silence.
“Comfortable?” His thumbs massage the flesh of your sides through the fabric of your top, something to keep you focused on him while also relaxing. The last thing that he ever needs is for you to be uncomfortable with him. You murmur quietly in agreement. Jason’s lips tug into a wide smile at your answer. “That's a good birdy. I'm going to kiss you now, okay?”
Taking a deep breath, you nod.
Before you know it, his warm lips are on yours, moving against them gently and you mirror his movements. The quick, chaste pecks lets you get used to the feeling before he gets a little bolder and slides his tongue along your bottom lip. A soft gasp of surprise follows and his tongue is exploring the taste of your favourite alcohol on you, your grip on his shoulders growing a little tighter and he’s pulling you a little closer to eliminate any minuscule space between. Your body is starting to heat up and there’s a warmth stirring deep in your belly with every kiss and every passing second and it’s embarrassing how easily you’re getting turned on by just a few kisses. Eventually you have to pull away for breath and while he lets you recuperate, he dives into the crook of your neck instead.
Your body's a canvas that he’s littering in kisses full of adoration, humming as he tries to find the spots that will make you unfold and loosen up into a mess in his lap. There’s this image of you, so innocent and pliant, coming apart by his hands, his mouth, his cock, his everything; and it’s sending him into a feral frenzy. He knows he has to take it slow for your sake so he’ll do everything that he can to make you beg for more of him.
Sparks are igniting through your body when he latches onto a spot that is suspiciously sensitive and a loud moan of his name escapes your throat before you even register it coming. You feel him smile in pride against your skin and it’s a sign of trouble you know all too well. He's going to find all of your weaknesses and he’s going to make you crumble by his own hands.
Your hands venture up the back of his neck and into the tresses of his dark hair, fingers curling gently into his locks and tugging as you buck your hips against his desperately. His hardening erection is rubbing against where your clothed heat is and you need more.
“Damn, is someone getting impatient already?” Jason brings his mouth right next to your ear. The baritone of his voice sends shivers down your spine and it pulls a small whimper out of you. “You’re gonna have to wait a little longer, birdy. Let me show you how good it feels to have someone touching you.” If you weren’t so hot and bothered you would’ve retorted back with something smart.
Curse him and his stupidly handsome face. A brief chuckle escapes his lips at your lack of a proper reply.
His hands that are on your waist slide down to grab the back of your thighs and wrap your legs around his frame. Without a warning, he hoists the both of you up and you wrap your arms around his neck in alarm but the heat and wetness staining your underwear is starting to get uncomfortable. His erection is pressing right against your core and you had to bite down on your lip to prevent yourself from moaning out loud. Despite a makeout session so tender that lasted an eternity yet too short at the same time, you’re already caught in a daze from his intoxicating touch.
“Wha– what are you . . .” Your voice falls into a breathy whisper, a byproduct of his mind-numbing effect on you, and he squeezes your ass in response. “J-Jason!”
“Can’t have your first time on a couch, silly. It’s going to be on a comfortable bed, it’s going to blow your mind, and you, my pretty little thing, are going to scream my name,” he nonchalantly continues the conversation as he makes his way to his room.
A vulgar image of him rutting his hips against yours, reaching the deepest parts of you and making you cum more than you can count has you flustered and speechless. Before you can even think of saying any more, you’re in the far too familiar territory of his room. Jason places you gently on his bed, crawling over you with icy flames of lust in his eyes as he licks his plump lips. It’s the same look that a predator would give its prey after a successful hunt and it sends shivers down your spine and a perpetual ache in your needy, throbbing cunt. Your thighs clench together desperately. “Now, where were we?”
His strong hands pull your legs apart so he can settle himself in between your thighs. He gives you a kiss so saccharine that it has you yearning for more and he allows his hands to wander further down. Nimble, calloused fingers work away at undoing your top and taking away any constraints on your body before they’re fondling your chest so lovingly. His lips travel down the expanse of your neck, down your décolletage, until they’re wrapping around your nipple.
The warmth of his tongue swipes over your bud while his fingers roll and gently pinch at the other. His touch is electrifying and you hate to admit it but he is right. When it’s him who touches you, it’s making your body keen into him and pleasure is overtaking your senses. Your eyes are snapping shut and your body is reacting on its own accord—your fingers fist at his bedsheets underneath you, back arching into his touch, hips bucking into the air helplessly to the point that he has to use his left hand to pin your body down. Heat rushes to your core and you know that your underwear is ruined beyond salvation. Slick is already seeping through the fabric and you can already tell it’s going to bleed through your bottoms.
“Don’t get impatient or I'll leave you needy like this,” his tone lilts upwards mockingly and all you can do is hit his shoulders weakly. “Hmm, or should I let you show me how you play with yourself? I am a little curious about how your toys look, birdy.”
“What? No!” Your eyes immediately snap open to look at him, hot, breathy pants tumbling from your mouth, only to see his smug smirk that you want to wipe off of his stupid face so much. “Please– fuck, please I need you. If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear to god I will–”
“You’ll what?” He challenges, lifting himself from your body to hover over you. “Or you’ll cum without me? An adorable thing like you wouldn’t know the euphoria of a real orgasm, so you better behave or I'll leave you on your own. You know better than anyone that I keep my word.” Something that he has learned from being around you for so long is that silence from you is a form of acquiescence because you’re too proud to verbally declare that you obey. It’s not at all something that he would ever complain about. the corners of his lips are tugging upwards into a wide smirk with lust burning menacingly in his eyes. “I want you to tell me that you'll behave, birdy. Loud and clear.”
Chewing the insides of your cheek, you maintain eye contact with him and ponder over your options for half a second. Eventually your need for a release triumphs your pride and your gaze meekly falls to his lips, swallowing thickly when they pull into a grin.
Upon your realisation that you’ve been caught, you grump and revert your attention back to his face. His warm breath is puffing against your cheek heavily. Cocking an eyebrow, he pulls himself back. Underneath the fluorescent lighting over your heads and bodies in his room, you can clearly see the muscled planes of his body outlined by a warm halo. There are some healed scars from battles and fights that he’s both won and lost that litter his abdomen, muscles so strong and defined yet soft enough to give you the best hugs. Your eyes travel over the expanse of his chest and chiseled abs, over the dips and curves of his biceps, down to the dark tuft of hair that leads to his erect cock hiding underneath his sweats.
His right hand finds its way down to your heated core and cups it, face morphing into an expression of pleasant surprise. Your eyes fall back to his face in alarm. Now he’s got your attention. He bucks the heel of his palm against your throbbing clit. Before you can even control yourself, you’re whining at his touch and your hips are moving on their own accord to get more of him.
“I'm done playing games. Beg for it.” The sudden drop in Jason’s voice has you frozen in your spot. There’s a dark shadow looming ominously over his features when your eyes snap up to look at him. You don’t know whether you should be scared. His large hands—calloused, warm, and inviting—are making quick work of his belt and trousers. Within the blink of an eye, he’s fully bare in front of you and the sight of his cock has you salivating.
Everything about him is huge. He's thick and girthy, with pretty veins lining the sides of his cock. The tip is swollen and nearly purple from the lack of attention given. You don’t know whether he’s too long or not, but one thing you do know is that he won’t fit at all. Yet the thought of struggling to fit all of him inside your cunt has your walls pulsating and clenching around nothing.
“P-Please,” you whisper softly. He wraps his fingers around his cock, pumping it back and forth at a languid speed. Veins are bulging in his arms and biceps at his movements while he closes back in on you, free hand grabbing at the remaining of your clothing and ripping them off of your body. Now, you’re completely bare to him. Your slick is drooling all over your inner thighs and you clamp them together out of reflex. You’re throbbing, you’re needy, and good god do you need his cock inside of you right now. “Please, Jason, I need your cock. I need you inside of me, I need you to tear me apart and ruin me until I'm crying and begging for more, please! I can't take it anymore!”
Both of his hands effortlessly grab the back of your knees and spread your legs apart. Your juices are spilling down onto his bedsheets and they glisten so tantalisingly. You’re repeatedly mumbling “Please, Jason, I need you,” over and over again like a broken record, tears starting to spring from your eyes from your lack of stimulation.
“I wanted to taste you, but I guess that’ll have to wait,” he grunts quietly. Your begs are too pure and sweet, just as they should be from someone who’s never been touched like he touches you. Your voice is so precious that it’s making his cock harder from the thought of destroying you for everyone else and having you for himself. Maybe it’s selfish of him, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to take care of you and breed you full of his cum. “Or maybe not. Shit, I need to prep you. Gotta get you nice and warmed up for my cock, yeah, pretty?”
You weakly nod, not trusting yourself to speak or make a sound.
As much as he wants to be selfish, taking your virginity is something that he intends to honour as one of your closest friends. He doesn’t want to hurt you and above all, he wants to prove just how good it feels with someone that you trust compared to when you do it alone.
With that in mind, Jason teases your clenching hole with the tip of his middle finger. He watches with nothing short of amusement and glee when you try to catch him, desperation overruling your senses completely. You’re so adorable like this, he thinks.
He eases his finger into your gummy walls and he’s rewarded with a soft sigh of pleasure. Your eyelids flutter at the relief of a stretch, no matter how small it is compared to the actual girth of his dick. You’ve most likely only ever used your fingers or a small dildo, he assumes, so he needs to warm you up and stretch you out.
“That feel nice, birdy?” He hums, nosing at your jawline. Your hands find purchase on his broad shoulders as if bracing yourself for impact. Blunt nails dig into the muscles, eyes rolling back as he curls his finger into a gentle hook. After a few experimental thrusts he manages to find just the right spot hidden in the roof of your walls the second you’re gasping in surprise. He notices the way your thighs twitch, the way your nails are digging in a little harder, and by god is he enamoured with the way your back arches so beautifully into him. “That’s it, baby. Just relax and let me take care of you.”
He slowly drags his finger in and out of your warm, tight cunt, whispering praises into your ears. He gives a gentle warning when he slips in his ring finger but he doesn’t bite back the smile on his face when he watches you relax into the pillow underneath you.
Jason’s lips find yours and he kisses you so tenderly that you’re getting butterflies in your stomach. He doesn’t rush it, letting you get used to the rhythm while he continues to pump his digits into you. He swallows every single moan from your throat when he successfully stimulates the roof of your walls, and it doesn’t take you long until you’re whining and begging for more.
“C’mon baby, say it for me,” he urges. His broad shoulders keep you wide open as he hooks your knees over them, settling himself by the edge of the bed as he descends to his knees. Warm breath puffs against your swollen clit and you whimper.
“Fuck, feels good, Jay.” You’ve resorted to gripping the sheets underneath, pulses of heat sending shockwaves through your body. It’s a known fact to you that sex is supposed to feel good. It’s not something that you’d do for a one night stand; you’d save it for someone special. For someone you trust to make your body feel good in a way you might not even know how to achieve. “D-Does it– Can we try– your mouth, please?”
“You’re so damn cute when you’re flustered.” He chuckles lowly.
The constant pressure against your G-spot is already edging you ridiculously closer to your orgasm. You can taste it by the skin of your teeth, starting to pull you under with his constant ministrations.
“Jason, fuck– don’t be a dick! I’m so close– shit.” One of your hands shoots out to grip onto his dark hair and push his head down. He lets you.
And oh, how sinful your moans sound when he wraps his lips around your clit and starts to suckle. He doesn’t care that his forearm is beginning to ache, doesn’t care that he has to recall his deep breathing techniques while you’re using his face to cum. Hell, he doesn’t even give a fuck that he’s so hard that it’s painful—as long as you’re cumming for him.
Your orgasm pulls you under with a satisfying wave throughout your body. The familiar knot snaps in your lower belly until you’re gushing around his mouth and fingers. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches into the air and the long whine of his name that comes from your lips goes straight to his cock.
He continues to fuck his fingers up into you through your orgasm, only slowing down when you eventually relax and come down from your high. He raises his head, the corners of his slick-stained lips curling into a smirk.
“God, you’re so goddamn hot when you cum for me.” Jason plants a soft kiss to your throbbing clit, then another one to the inside of your thighs. You watch him with half-lidded eyes as he rises to his feet, licking and lapping at your juices and cum on his fingers like it’s the last of his favourite sweet treat—all whilst maintaining eye contact with you.
You bite down on your bottom lip but it doesn’t hide your moan all too well.
“You taste so perfect, birdy.” He leans down and gives you another kiss on your forehead. Butterflies erupt in your stomach from the tender gesture. “Y’know I’ll always help you, don’t you? Wish you’d come to me sooner with this curiosity of yours.”
His voice is low and husky as he wraps your thighs around his waist. One hand grips the base of his cock while the other supports his body as he holds himself up above you. The biceps in his left arm bulge, the veins in his forearm protruding from the strength needed. He takes his time to gently caress his cockhead along your labia, catching it against your entrance only to slide it up to your throbbing clit.
He does this again, over and over as you whine and move your hips with him in a feeble attempt to catch him.
“Jason, don’t tease,” you whimper out loud, your hips rolling forward. You gasp when the tip suddenly presses into your entrance. He slowly inches himself in and you know that he’s being patient for your sake from the bruising grip that he has on your thighs. You can feel the throbbing of the veins running along his girth, stretching you out and sending your head spinning from the overwhelming sensations. Sparks ignite all over your body as your lips part for a silent cry of his name. The coil in your belly is starting to wound itself from the sheer size of him alone. “Y-You’re too big– too big, you won’t– ‘s not gonna . . . you’re not gonna fit!”
“Oh, you silly little thing,” Jason croons darkly with a grunt. “I’ll make it fit.” He pushes himself in further and further until he’s buried balls deep inside your throbbing cunt. He’s reaching so far in that you’re sure he’s barely brushing against your cervix and you’re moaning around him, clenching tightly at the delicious stretch of his cock in your cunt. Carefully he takes your knees and hooks them over his shoulders so that he’s able to align himself up properly to be able to reach the spot that’ll have you seeing stars behind your eyelids. After making sure that your neck is supported with his pillows, he starts at a slow pace. He drags his cock back and forth along your insides, groaning and grunting as he lets you get used to his size. “Fuck you’re so fucking tight. Perfect little cunt made for my cock, huh?”
“J-Jason, that’s- that’s embarrassing . . .” You can barely even form proper words from the sheer size and weight of him inside you, tip bumping against your cervix with every slow push and pull of his hips. Before the words click in your brain, you’re begging for more as your ankles are digging into his muscular back.
“We've barely begun and you already want more? Something tells me that you’re just a little whore who just wants my cock in the first place.” Without a warning, he withdraws himself until his tip is poking at your entrance before slamming his hips back down until he’s buried to the hilt. The sheer force and power of his thrusts makes your toes curl and your back arch gently into his chest.
“J-Jason!” His name is ripped from your lungs in a loud, piercing cry that sends a pulsating throb straight to his cock. He’s thrusting into you relentlessly with brute strength that you don’t recognise. Every harsh upward stroke of his cock into your cunt, he pulls you down to amplify the pleasure and you’re seeing constellations in thin air. There's not a single coherent thought in your brain, rattled from his reckless speed and strength but it’s lighting up every vein in your body with adrenaline and a lustful fire. The wooden frame of his bed is squeaking and groaning in tandem with him as you’re babbling incoherent nonsense.
“Jason, Jason, Jason, fuck, ‘s too much, you’re too big, I– I can’t, you’re so—haah—fuck, feels so– so good!” Fat crystals are dancing down your soft cheeks, glimmering, telling him that it’s too much, and he’s too big, yet you’re taking all of him in so easily. You’re so tight; your cunt is wrapping around him like a vice and sucking him back in every time.
“What? It’s too much? Baby, I’ve barely even started,” he gruffly grunts right into your ear, groaning and hissing as he continues abusing your hole. Your body feels so hot. You’re burning up and you’re sobbing from how his cock is drilling against the roof of your cervix so effortlessly.
Everything is too much for your body to handle and you quiver under his ministrations. where his large hands are positioned at your hips, pulling you in to meet him in the middle with every single thrust upwards. The sudden increase of intensity in the pressure against your G-spot only makes the familiar coil in your belly tighten.
“Look at you, pretty birdy. Who knew such an innocent little one like yourself could go ‘round makin’ such lewd sounds and faces. All ‘cause my cock’s buried in your tight cunt. But lucky me, your tight cunt’s all mine, ain’t that right? Perfect cunt made for my cock.”
His name is bouncing off of the walls of his room, cries of pleasure filling his ears and stroking his ego as the melody of obscene skin slapping falls to a steady, fast rhythm. Every push and pull of his hips and yours is edging you closer and closer to an orgasm that you know will never compare to all of the past ones that you’ve had on your own. Your thighs are quivering and shaking and he tuts mockingly, shaking his head while chuckling.
Oh, what now? One of his warm hands slides down between where your bodies are messily meeting in a flurry of impatient thrusts. His thumb starts rolling at your swollen clit, hard and throbbing, as he does his best to stimulate the neglected nub in figure eights as accurately as he can.
Your gaze shakily lifts up to his face and you’re caught with one of the most stunning sights you’ve ever seen. Dark black locks are sticking to the sides of his face, his plump lips are parted as he pants heavily over you, whispering, grunting, moaning your name and how good you feel wrapped so tightly around his cock. His muscles are flexing and relaxing with every heavy, precise thrust into you and you’re melting in his hold as the coil inside of you snaps without warning.
“I'm cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumm– Jason! Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” A sharp, hot white flame spreads across your belly and you cream around his cock with a choked cry of his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head and your body convulsing and twitching underneath him. Jason, however, is not stopping at all. His eyebrows are furrowed deeply as his thrusts increase in speed and strength. his hips are pistoning in and out of you mercilessly sends your senses into overdrive.
“You've already cum before me, birdy?” He pants hotly, encouraged by how you’re chanting his name, body shivering from the warm temperature of his hands against your burning skin and the overstimulation. His thrusts have long rid itself of a rhythm and a steady pace. He's rutting into you like he’s in heat, desperate as he chases his high. Blunt fingernails dig into the plush flesh of your waist and thighs so strong that you know it’s going to leave bruises for days upon weeks to come. “Fuck, you’re gonna take all of my cum inside of your cunt like a good birdy, aren’t ya? You’re gonna milk my cock dry ‘til you’re leakin’ cum.”
Curses are falling from his lips until his shoulders are shuddering and he falls to a standstill.
Jason buries his cock deep inside of you one last time and he spills his hot load. Your name, dripping with lust and a mind-spinning orgasm, is dragged from his lips with a loud, guttural moan. Ropes of thick cum paint your pink walls white, filling you up to the brim as his cock throbs whilst resting in your convulsing cunt.
“I'll get you some water,” he whispers, leaning forward to plant a sweet kiss on your lips. He stays still like that for a moment, not wanting to overstimulate you too much. His gaze softens as he looks at you. “Then we’re continuing. I've got so much more to teach you, darlin’.”
When he withdraws to get a good look at your flustered, fucked out face, he smiles to himself.
He sure is lucky. You’re not exactly innocent or a prude before this, but you’re so sweet with the right kind of sharpness for a tongue. But now, with his cock buried so deep in your aching cunt and struggling to even form coherent words, it’s something that he’ll forever hold to his heart.
After all, he’s the one who has you screaming for his entire neighbourhood to know how good his cock is stretching you.
── .✦ summary: in the whispers of gotham's vampire problem, you befriend a regular of the bookshop you work at -- jason todd, son of bruce wayne. the closer the two of you get, the more you realize that the vampire is closer than you think.
tags: mdni, afab!reader, oral (f!receiving), aftercare, drinking blood, mentions of blood, mentions of violence and deceased criminals, but nothing explicit. pleasure from vampire bite, not canon compliant bc it is an au, probably ooc jason, let's ignore the twilight comparisons?, I went crazy with descriptions pertaining to being supernatural
wc: 9113
the sun in gotham was a rare occurrence.
you forgot what it felt like to be warmed by the rays of the sun — to feel them penetrate your skin and bring colour back into your world. although, you didn't mind the sheet of gray that loomed over the city. the constant clouds hung like a dome, like a sever to the sun that brightened the world outside of gotham.
the gloom wasn't new to you, nor was it something you detested. you embraced it, found the beauty in it. you were the beauty. you weren't ignorant or innocent, no. you couldn't be — couldn't afford to be in a place like gotham. you grew up facing the ugly that gotham had to offer and learned to accept it, learned how to protect yourself. your skin turned thick and calloused where it used to be smooth and vulnerable. that didn't mean you weren't soft, quiet, kind. in a city that was known for it's cruelty, you were the one thing it hadn't been able to corrupt.
the whispers of supernatural inhabitants were hard to ignore, even if you had never seen one. many gothamites were convinced that there were more than most people had thought. recent whispers had began to state that the only vampire in the city was the batman himself — a figure that had risen in the past couple of years and that was the reason for his nocturnal lifestyle.
the lingering fear of the supernatural that was inherently spread through the city had kept your circle small, allowing you to keep only a few friends that you had since you were a child. that was all you had needed for a long time.when you had started taking classes at gotham university, your circle widened slightly. halfway through your first semester in university, you found a job in a small bookstore not far from campus. being so close to the university, it was in a relatively safer neighbourhood for you to commute to on your own when the sun was down.
residents of gotham knew: do not go out alone past 10 pm.
that unspoken rule was not just due to the supernatural beings that lurked in the shadows. gotham was notorious for crime. the human residents were just as dangerous as the unknown vampire.
the job at the bookshop became your sanctuary, a place where you knew you were safe no matter what. you were constantly surrounded by books and people who shared a passion for literature. you circle expanded more — only this time, you had met someone who infiltrated your life in ways you had not anticipated.
jason todd. the son of bruce wayne.
jason was a ghost in the bookshop, at first. he barely made a sound, sat in the back corner of the shop for hours with his eyes glued to the book. he never bought them, only read for as long as he could then quietly slipped out of the shop.
one evening, when the shop was slow, you had quietly approached from under the guise of simply restocking books. when you neared his spot against the back wall — where you had set up a chair for him when you had realized what he had been doing — you quietly held a book out for him. Pride and Prejudice.
he blinked at you silently, analytically, as if you were holding a book concealed as a weapon that was intended to hurt him.
"you read this last week," you blurted out gently, the first words you had spoken to him. "and you picked it up the first day you came here. this is my own copy. take it, keep it. it's yours now."
he continued to blink up at you blankly, though you could tell from his body language that he was guarded — a sight you had grown accustomed to recognizing in residents of this city. your arm didn't waver despite how much you wanted to pull back and hide behind the front desk. he reached up and quietly took the book from you, pulling it into his lap. his fingers pulled back from the smooth cover instantly, as if touching the cover was burning through his flesh. quickly. so quick that you barely processed the actions before he was turning back to what he was reading. his mouth tightened, the muscles around his lips tensed around unspoken words that were fighting to break through.
you introduced yourself to him just as quietly, a soft whisper of your name, as you chose to ignore his reaction. you didn't push any further than that — didn't ask him to introduce himself, you already knew who he was. everyone did. instead, you forced yourself to move on with your maintenance tasks to keep yourself busy under the crushing weight of that interaction. you weren't sure when he had slipped out of the bookshop either. he suddenly disappeared from view like his presence had never existed in the shop to begin with, yet the silence that followed was suffocating. despite jason's intentional silence, his presence was tangible. comforting. a steady weight in the room that quelled your heart, your mind.
you liked to think that you had the same effect on him, that you could provide him the same amount of solace that he had managed to do for you, that the whispers of gotham's violence could be forgotten in the safety of the bookshop.
your answer came a week later.
a book. jason's own book. he strayed from his usual routine, he came in through the front door. loud, almost intentionally so, drawing attention. he made sure you heard him coming this time. thudding footsteps from the door towards the front desk, steady and consistent. thump, thump, thump, in rhythm with your pounding heart. your eyes followed him, focused on his form as he made his way closer to you.
theatrics weren't his style. grand gestures were unnecessary. he brought you an exchange. it was simple. you gifted him a book. he gifted you one of his. he needed to give you reciprocity. this barter was quiet. swift. almost transactional. as if he was unaccustomed to these slow interactions.
"jason," he mumbled simply after the surface of the book thudded on the desk. his voice was smooth in a way that you hadn't expected. rough around the edges, around certain syllables that molded in his mouth that he spat out harsher than needed — but smooth in the middle. it was a soothing melody that you were embarrassed to admit had affected you to the depths of your bones.
"hi," you greeted softly in the return. the corners of your lips quirked up in a shy attempt of a smile.
"for you," there was roughness, low. a grumble full of annoyance that masked the tenderness threatening to rise to the surface. his head nodded towards the novel before he turned and disappeared silently between the shelves to his corner in the back. quietly. natural. his footsteps light and practiced.
your eyes flickered down to the book he left on the desk, worn and tattered. loved. Pride and Prejudice. only, this wasn't your copy that he was returning. the cover was different, pocket sized, molded to fit the curve of the human body. his body. his copy.
you flipped the cover to the first page, his name scribbled in a skinny scrawl. jason's copy. written in the top right corner messily. underneath, was your name, written in the same skinny letters that made up jason's. your copy. you swallowed that down and flipped a few pages ahead. annotations. pencil markings filling the margins of his thoughts, observations, doodles.
you smiled at the sight.
you gazed into the dimly lit walkway between the shelves in front of you, letting the weight of his actions gloss over your mind for a moment. his intentionally loud entrance so you would know he was coming. the book that sat in front of you to the right in your peripheral vision, daunting. the stone look you had been met with previously had slowly turned into something softer, still grey and clouded, but with light threatening to peek through. suddenly, the quiet boy that was a silent entity in the shop became something more. something closer. tender.
‿‿‿‿
the shift was subtle.
Jason started coming in through the front door. always when you were distracted behind the counter. he watched, timed, perfected his entrances. he knew. he had observed you, your quirks, reactions, your routine. he had it catalogued in his mind, imprinted in the groves like a permanent stain. he would walk in when your brows would begin to scrunch, eyes focused on the screen, or the papers, so far away from reality that you needed him to pull you back in. he relished in the distracted greeting you would give, a small 'welcome in!' paired with a flash of your teeth. his satisfaction lay in the way you would double take when you noticed it was him, a slower greeting, one that lacked the plastic rigidity of your customer service voice. he would barely nod in return, pushing down the lurch in his stomach at the sight of your smile, as he disappeared between the shelves and to his spot at the back. he couldn't let you see how it affected him. how you made him feel alive, more human than he had in years, how you made his heart feel like it could beat again.
he didn't need this library, he didn't need this bookshop. but he needed you. you, who was safe, steady, oblivious to him and his nightly endeavours. the shop was quiet, always dimly lit, the perfect place for him to to waste time before he began his nightly patrols.
this time, however, this time was different.
he disappeared to the back, you watched the way the shadows invited him in, breathed in tandem with his movements like they were familiar with him. they were familiar, inseparable. except, he came back — book in one hand, the armchair in the other. he pretended not to notice your lingering gaze, the questions swirling in your irises that he refused to acknowledge. he set the chair down in the corner beside your front desk, a soft thud rattling the floor. the cushion exhaled under his weight, deflating and settling around him.
there were a million thoughts, questions, scenarios on the tip of your tongue that you fought to swallow down. they burned your tongue, sizzling onto the backs of your teeth instead. he sat next to you. next to your space. reading. you turned back to the monitor, the spreadsheet of inventory pulled up. the numbers no longer make sense, blurring and mixing together.
you could see him from the corner of your eye, hands cradling the paperback spine, head tipped down in comfortable focus. you didn't miss the way his shoulders remained tense, his chest deliberately moving up and down in steady intervals. perfect, almost too perfect. his legs were spread, thighs pressed to the cushions, and feet planted firmly on the floor, ready to flee — or fight.
you weren't surprised. everyone had to be prepared in gotham. the attacks were steady, consistent, unmistakable. targeted attacks. bodies drained of colour and blood left in the streets for people to find. a message. the signs continued to point towards the batman — gotham's protector, the nighttime vigilante. it made sense, it did. the victims were dangerous men, men who stuck to gotham's shadows and preyed on the innocent. batman's targets.
a comfortable silence settled between the two of you, charged with an undercurrent of electricity that both of you refused to acknowledge in fear that it would dissipate beneath you. he kept coming back, however. through the front door, disappearing to find his book before settling in the chair planted next to the front desk.
he pretended not to notice your glances, lingering looks that stopped on his hands, his face, and you pretended not to notice the glares he would give to customers who stood too close to you, too close to the desk, loitering in your space and striking up conversation. conversation that was quickly silenced when the weight of his gaze would cut into the customers chest, slicing uncomfortably and driving them out of the shop.
lingering looks turned into moments spent in close proximity during the long stretches when no one was in the store. you would plant on top of the desk, legs dangling beside him, dangerously close to brushing against his but not quite. never enough to calm the itch that ignited flames under your skin.
having him in close proximity was tantalizing. he was an enigma that you were unable to decipher. he had seemed normal, despite how private he was. he was the son of gotham's richest man, a man that had thrust into the spotlight and scrutinized by every voice imaginable. his image was curated, and he never seemed to stray from it, from what you could tell. but you noticed the inconsistencies, the minor details — something jason hadn't accounted for.
it wasn't that he underestimated you, no. he recognized your intelligence upon the first moments of meeting you. he just didn't expect you to be so analytical in your gaze. it unnerved him, kept him feeling scrutinized. he loved it.
he loved seeing the gears turn in your head, the tightening of your eyes when your thoughts consumed you. it was for that reason that he had to keep you distracted. he had to keep you off his trail. he knew your body reacted to his presence, it was meant to. it was instinctual for your atoms to crave him, to want to be pulled in by the very scent of him. he avoided touching you through calculated movements. he wasn't warm, hadn't been in years. the chill of his skin would cut into yours without permission. the kind of cold that covered his body didn't have the undercurrent of blood ready to heat him back up. no, this cold was ghastly. uncomfortable. a sickening chill that caused bile to rise up people's throats. because despite how alluring he was to a human, it never stopped the weariness from prickling through their clouded senses.
but not yours. he heard the way your heart skipped a beat, faltering in your chest as if he was someone kind. someone with a soul. someone who wasn't a monster.
"there's… jason, are you bleeding?" you had asked, so concerned for his well being. you pinched the sleeve of his shirt between your fingers, attempting to pull it up to inspect the source of the blood.
he knew exactly what you had been looking at. it was dried. not human, but animal blood. he needed to eat something before he saw you, otherwise the monster in him would claw up his throat, rip his flesh from the inside out to get to you. he never wanted you to know that side of him, to meet the side of him that could smell the agonizingly sweet scent of your blood thrumming through your veins.
"it's nothing," he pulled his sleeve back down and over his hands, away from you, away from your touch. he desperately wanted to feel your skin. taste it. know it, but he couldn't.
"you're gonna bleed all over the fucking books," you grumbled, attempting to keep the tone light. despite the pout on your lips, the concern was still evident through the shine of your teeth, something you were unable to hide.
"then, it's a good thing i'm not bleeding then, isn't it, angel?" he grumbled back, his hands finding his hips. the nickname never failed to hit you square in the chest, like a force that left you gasping for air each time. angel. he raised his brow as he tilted his head down to look at you. one thing that you had learned about jason todd was that he was a diva. those who met him described him as brooding, rude, volatile. the accusations of his character were taken as truth, stated as fact before his heart could be uncovered. no. he was a diva. no one had sassed you more than he did.
you grabbed the book beside you and swung it at the arm that didn't have blood on it. there wasn't enough force behind your swing to hurt him, you knew that. the book smacked his arm with a solid thud ricocheting off and back towards you. you didn't want to think about how solid his arm felt under the book; how the muscle was cement, an impenetrable wall that provided the book no cushioning. he didn't flinch, the amusement in his eyes only seemed to burn brighter in the flickering of the overhead light. he would have been able to move if he wanted to. his reflexes were unparalleled — supernatural speed that the human eye would never be able to comprehend. he wanted you to hit him, wanted to feel something from you. have you close, even if it hurt him inside.
"what the fuck was that for?" he grumbled, the dip in his cheek threatening to crack through with the curve of his lip. your eyes softened slightly at the sight of him unguarded. happy. softer. there was fire on your tongue, retorts that could burn him and keep the banter going, but they all fizzled out when you saw the hidden glee in his eyes.
"let me grab the first aid kit," you whispered softly. you made no move to stand up yet, continuing to gaze down at him from your spot on the desk. his gaze was just as intense, dark eyes boring into yours, softening, lacking intensity. you lifted the book again and swung it at the same arm. he let the hit land, letting scent of your happiness fill his lungs and ease his hunger, yet simultaneously made him ravenous. you were a conundrum for his instincts. he yearned to be good for you, to cradle you delicately in the soft silence of the bookshop. but the primal part of him, the monster within longed for a taste. a taste he would never allow himself to have.
you slipped off the top of the desk, stepping around and kneeling down onto the floor to grab the handle of the first aid kit. your head ducked from view to pull it free, the hefty weight of the kit pulling you down with it.
"you owe me one for-" you stood up, heaving the kit onto the desk where you had been previously sitting, only to be met with emptiness. no sign of jason. words had failed you momentarily, trailing up your throat and dying on your tongue. how did you not hear him leave? you had been ducked out of view for less than five seconds. his swift disappearance cause an ache in your heart that you chose to ignore.
you didn't know the extent of your relationship with jason. you were friends, yes, but there was a pull towards him that rooted so deeply in your heart. except, he refused to go close to you. he had just proved that once again by leaving when you offered to tend to his wound. that clearly showed you that your relationship was strictly superficial, so it shouldn't mean anything to you. the two of you were friends. something that was hard to find in gotham. you should have been grateful that you had a friend. just friends.
but then, your relationship changed again.
it was nearing the end of your shift, quiet in the shop, had been for hours. normal for a weeknight. jason was in his seat. a new book was pressed to his fingertips, his pointer finger gently slipped behind the page and slid down to curl around the thin sheet of paper to flip to the next one. you suppressed a shudder at the sight of his veiny hand working the pages of the book. a fucking book. god, you needed to get a grip on yourself.
the gotham gazette sat in front of you, covering the keyboard and your mug as you read the front page article.
LATEST VICTIM IDENTIFIED WITH TIES TO THE PENGUIN, COULD HE BE NEXT?
by Vicki Vale
The body of a John Doe was found last Saturday at Port Adams at 5:53 am, according to police records. He has now been identified with ties to The Penguin. Coroner's report shows cause of death to be several lacerations to the…
you flipped cover over, folding the paper and shoving it to the side. fear was a uncontainable wildfire that blazed through the city. every crevice had messaging of the vampire that spilled — or drank — blood from gotham's residents, every mouth whispered accusations, rumours, so-called factual information about the assailant terrorizing the city. news outlets refused to connect the string of murders to a supernatural force, omitting anything that could send the public into a spiral.
but that couldn't stop the panic, the precautions that people believed would keep them safe: don't wear strong scents, he'll be able to smell you. don't invite anyone you don't know into your house, he can't come in without permission. wear silver, it'll burn his skin. don't-
it was beginning to get out of hand. you didn't necessarily believe you were safe, but you recognized the pattern. never the public, never the innocent residents of gotham.
"what did it say?" he murmured out, a question that broke you out of your bubble. his tone wasn't inquisitive and he barely spared you a glance as he spoke. you almost missed it, would have missed it if your body wasn't painfully aware of his every move. the two of you had shared small conversations before, of course. though, they were always short, restrained like he was forcing himself to keep his head down, like being in your presence was already too much for him to handle.
"they're classifying it as a homicide," your voice was breathy, distracted as your eyes read the rest of the article. targeted. drained. a crime committed by another human being — allegedly.
his jaw ticked, a subtle clench in the muscle that worked near his ear. he could sense the subtleties in your tone, the implications of the rumours that spread through the city.
"then it's a homicide,"
"the body was drained," you argued back, raising a brow at him. the newspaper crinkled as you swivled in your chair to face him.
"bled out," his gaze didn't lift from the pages of the book. his tone would have sounded rude, bored to anyone who didn't know him. you knew him now, had picked up on enough cues to tell. he would not have entertained this conversation with you if he did not want to.
"where did all the blood go? wasn't on the ground,"
"were you there, sherlock? should we get you on the case?"
you let out a soft huff, shooting him a playful glare, and — there it was. the lift of his lip, a hint of white peeking through the crack. he was smiling, if you could call it that, but nonetheless a jason todd smile.
"there are no vampires in gotham," he muttered, his eyes rolling. they were clear lately, his eyes. less guarded, softer, calmer.
"i'm just saying, if the batman did come out as a vampire, people wouldn't be upset. or if it was robin? maybe red hood," you mused softly, a soft breath of concession before your lips pressed together. a soft choking sound exited out of jason before he quickly cleared his throat.
"batman doesn't kill people, neither does robin," jason's tone was simple, his throat working up and down as he cleared it for the second time. your eyes trailed the bob of his throat, listening to the vibrations as he cleared his airways. he shifted in his seat, almost uncomfortably, as if something was eating him from the inside.
"so, red hood? could be him? i wonder what he looks like under that-"
"what if it's you?" he turned the question back on you, his brows raising in accusation.
"what if it is?" you added back, your tone low with conspiracy. the two of you were well aware that you were painfully human, lacking any qualities that would raise you as a suspect of supernatural tendencies.
you, however, got lost in observing him. there was so much about him that you longed to understand deeply, to feel personally, intimately. the skin on his face was pale, and you wondered if it would be warm or cold to the touch. you wondered how the smooth expanse of skin would feel under the gentle trace of your fingertip. his hair was jet black, except for the streak of white in the front that was as pale as his skin. the tendrils looked soft, effortlessly so, always falling over his eyes and covering the feature you desired to see the most.
"you're wearing a new perfume today," he broke you out of your reverie once again. embarrassingly so. it paralyzed you, left you frozen in your spot as you tried to process his words, let them into your mind and form a coherent response in return. he knew it too — that piece of shit. the amusement was evident in the way his finger came up to rest on his chin, and in the way his tongue poked into his cheek.
"yeah," you cringed, turning your face away in embarrassment at the crack in your voice. stupid. you cleared your throat with a sharp exhale as you faced him again. you handed him a book from the pile beside you, his fingers brushed against yours, innocently, of course. though, this was the first time the two of you had been in contact, the first time your skin had touched his. from a simple exchange of books, your fingers to his. his hands were freezing, like frigid waters crashing over your hands and paralyzing you. he heard the way your lungs caught in your chest, restricting momentarily at the shock of his marble limbs. this was what he had been trying to avoid. he didn't have warmth inside of him.
he couldn't help but pause as well, refusing to pull away for a moment, then pulled the book from your grip and back down to his lap, reminiscent of the way he had done the first time you had handed him a paperback. it was embarrassing how a simple brush of his fingers could cause your brain to short-circuit. to explode your synapses so ferociously that your eyes melted out of your head.
the same guarded look slid over his eyes, his barriers raising back up in an instant. another vicious swallow sliced down his throat. his fingers clenched and unclenched on the novel, sliding against the cover with a force that threatened to rip it off.
"might have been too generous with the sprays," you added cautiously. your brows furrowing at his reactions.
"i like the old one more, it mixes with your skin better," he closed the book he was reading. you swore you could hear the deliberate breath he took after finishing his sentence. a deep inhale that expanded his lungs to maximum capacity and held them there to settle. then, he was disappearing again to place the back on the shelf. it was almost as if he floated as he walked, an elegance that was unnatural for a man of his stature. he was gone from your view, hidden in some back corner of the store.
wait, mixes with my what? your brows furrowed as you stood up. there was a soft crash, a shaking of the shelf, and you were instantly on alert. your feet automatically followed him into the shelves, faltering at the sudden silence in the shop.
did he leave? your skin prickled in fear? anticipation? the temperature in the room dropped several degrees and froze your fingertips. but then you saw him, hunched over a shelf, his body weight relying on the ledge to support him. his entire body was tense, muscles threatening to rip out of his skin, the cords twitching underneath his shirt.
"jason?" you were panicked, immediately stepping beside him. your hands hovered over his arm — his deathly frozen arm — concern clouding your eyes, your judgement. "what happened? are you-"
he shuddered through an aggressive inhale, ripping himself up and stepping back. you stepped back as well, giving him space to breathe. he was pale, dark swirls peeking through the collar of his shirt and curling up his neck. the only sound coming out of him were ragged, choking gasps getting caught in his throat.
you moved closer, your hands raising placatingly. he could see the apprehension on your features, the way your fingers trembled as you held them up. for him. all of this was for him. your scent moved with you, potent in the hair and sticking to his nose. it was everywhere. consuming. suffocating. he wanted more. he needed more. needed to taste, to—
"i'm fine, stay away," he choked out again, his body flung back against the shelf behind him. the spines rattled on the shelves, a quiet crack rippled through the air and fell upon deaf ears. your heart was pounding at the sudden change. the two of you had been getting somewhere, getting somewhere good. he was talking to you. the twitch of his lips that threatened to reveal a smile was becoming more and more common, something you had been steadily uncovering from him layer by layer until he would feel comfortable enough to show you a real one. now, he looked like he was physically pained by the sight of you.
"let me help? i can call-" you were practically pleading with him. you were confused. panicked. way out of your element. you were scared to touch him again. his reaction from a brush of your fingers was enough. had you done this to him?
you stopped, your voice cracking. your vocal cords shaking around your words,"j-jason? your eyes are red?"
"i have to go," the words ripped out of his throat. spat out with venom and disgust, slamming into your chest and knocking you back. he was gone in an instant, in the blink of an eye, before you could take air in your lungs to protest his departure. the only sign of his presence was the sound of the backdoor slamming with the force of his exit.
you were shaking in the silence. worried, anxious, scared. confused. you were fucking confused.
your legs were shaky, your knees cracking as you kneeled down to gather the books that had dropped in his panic, the ones that had been knocked off the shelf when his back collided with the wood. in the quiet of the aftermath, you began to re-shelve the novels, handling them with the same care you watched jason handle them with.
ice flowed through your blood as your gaze leveled with the shelf he was gripping. your breath caught in your throat, the book slipping from your grasp and thudding on the floor again. your fingers shakily came up and pressed into the indented wood, smooth and still warm, shaped like fingers. molded to a hand that burned hotter than the sun. you swore his finger prints were branded into the wood, sizzled like they had every right to be there, like they deserved to be permanently etched into the place that had become his sanctuary. yet, the wood was ice cold when your fingers smoothed over the indents. temperatures that reflected frostbite seeped from the wood and into your finger, forcing you to pull back and attempt to sooth the ache that was caused instead.
all you were left with was the puzzling sight of his red eyes, lacking the usual stormy blue that would warm the back of your neck when he thought you were too distracted to notice him. you always noticed him.
the haunting red. vibrant and angry. like blood.
‿‿‿‿
after that incident, he had become a literal ghost in your life. he was one with the darkness. the shadows that clung to him swallowed him whole, enveloping him like an old friend. he always had been, you realized. there was a magnetic pull that centered jason, everything in his vicinity orbited in his galaxy. the tether was almost unbreakable, though you questioned whether you wanted to be released from his grasp.
you missed him.
shame was a lump in your throat that you struggled to swallow. your routine was disrupted. tilted off its axis. what once felt like a steady comfort in your life, now left you reeling. every gust of wind that passed through the door as it swung open held the ghost of him. there were traces of him everywhere — in the chair that remained planted beside your desk that you refused to move; in the pile of books that accumulated beside the chair, his chair, that reminded you of him; in the wood that had bended to his will on the shelf in the back corner of the store.
another shift passed with jason's absence. agonizingly slow. dull. the crack in your chest carving deeper with each day passing.
you wanted answers. you deserved answers.
he had looked at you as if you were the one hurting him. his eyes had turned red. or did they? you didn't know anymore. it was a blur in your mind, a dream. you had ran through those moments so many times in your mind that you couldn't distinguish between what was reality, and what was fantasy — rationalizations of your mind attempting to fill in the gaps of what you couldn't comprehend.
unfortunately for you, the shift was far from over. you had inventory and stock to complete before you were allowed to go home. normally, the shipments would come at the beginning of the shift, allowing whoever was working plenty of time to complete the actions and make it somewhere safe before hitting the danger zone — or 10pm in gotham.
the truck was delayed, held up due to multiple blocked streets that were covered in layers of ice from an attack by Mr. Freeze. the chill was noticeable, despite the attack being on the other side of the city. unfortunately, Mr. Freeze making an appearance didn't mean you could go home, it was just another day in gotham.
by the time the truck did arrive, your shift was nearing it's end — meaning that nightfall was quickly approaching. stock never took long though, you believed you could finish it quickly and make it home safely, in a timely manner. you could do it. everything would be fine.
everything was not fine.
there was more inventory than you had accounted for, double than usual. granted, the past couple of times the inventory had arrived during your shift, jason was with you and offered assistance. but this time, jason wasn't with you. hadn't been with you for weeks now.
and it was late, dangerously late. you were getting increasingly more worried with each minute that passed. you were nearing the end of the pile, though that didn't bring you any solace. you still had to make your way home.
from behind you, the back door crashed open, the steel hinges screeching under the force of the impact. the knob slammed into the wall, cracking into the wood with a sickening split. your heart lurched into your throat as a frightened scream tore out of you. you were back against the wall in an instant, looking around for an escape.
a body fell through the door, landing on their knees through heaving breaths. a red helmet, a large body under a fitted black suit. red boots caked in mud. red hood.
you could hear his heaving breaths through the helmet, his arms barely holding up his body.
"red hood?" you choked out weakly, the adrenaline continuing to pump through your body. you were dizzy with panic.
his head snapped up with force to meet your gaze. he crawled closer, forcing himself in front of you.
"angel, i-" red hood spoke, his words continuing to be choked out. you legs pulled up your chest, keeping some space. red fucking hood was at your knees. the familiar pet name hung in the air and only deepened your confusion. he reached up, his fingers pressing into a button on the side of his helmet. a soft click echoed between the sound of his breaths before he ripped the helmet off his head. he kept his face angled down, but the familiar strands of black hair with a tuft of white were the first thing you noticed. jason. jason was red hood, and kneeling in front of you.
his head dropped further as a pained groaned exited his mouth. there they were again, peeking out from the collar of his armoured plates. dark swirls, curling up his neck, blackening his veins and causing them to protrude against his milky skin. they looked identical to the first time you saw them, like the shadows in the corners that enveloped him. that's why they were familiar. they lived inside of him.
you were speechless, lips parted in shock as you gazed down at him. there was grime covering his hands, his suit, his hair. his back tensed again, writhing under the pain that you couldn't see. he inhaled deeply through a staggering choke. his head leaned up, his eyes, half lidded, meeting yours. red.
"forgive me," he choked out before his heavy weight settled on top of you. his face shoved into the crook of your head, nose nuzzling into your jugular. the scent of your blood up close was better than he had ever imagined. one of his hands cradled the back of your head gently, the cold of his hands seeping into your skull. his other arm slid around your waist, supporting your body against the hard shelves behind you.
you froze in your position. you had never been this close to jason before, and now he was on you, his arms around you. he was inhaling deeply against your neck, aggressively. no matter how much he took, it was never enough. it would never be enough to quell the hunger that consumed him.
"smell so fucking good," he growled softly, pulling you closer into him. you could feel every inch of his body, feeling the way his lungs expanded in his chest with every intake of air. his head lifted slightly, enough that you could feel the brush of his lips against your skin as his nose moved up towards your ear before back down to it's original spot on your neck. his shoulders began to shake with restraint.
"fuck," he gritted out again, his breath fanning across your skin. you felt the soft press of his pillowy lips to your neck before he was gone from your body. his body flew back across the room, a loud woosh of air accompanying his shaking body. it was as if he was shoved by an invisible worse, hitting the shelf so hard that it cracked, forming a jason-shaped crater into the wall.
you tried to ignore the way it felt when his lips touched your neck, how gentle he was despite his vicious tremors.
his face scrunched in pain, eyes pinching shut. with that, his lips curled up and your heart stopped. fangs. two sharp, pointed fangs in his mouth, venomous. lethal. vampire. jason todd was a vampire. the vampire. gotham's vampire.
this entire time. the entire time you had known him. all that time you had spent together, coexisting in silence. the lingering glances, the nights he drove you home after your shift to ensure you got back safely. the — oh, god — the bodies. all the bodies, the blood spilled in gotham. it was him. it was him the whole time.
and despite knowing this, you loved him. you were in love with him. the sight of him in pain was agonizing to view.
another invisible punch landed on jason's ribs, his body jolting and writhing. a soft whimper escaped his lips. a fucking whimper.
you sat up on your knees, crawling closer. another choke left his mouth at the action. he was shaking his head before he could gather his words. "no," a beat and a heavy breath, "no, stay back. you can't… you can't come any closer,"
"let me help you, please," you whispered. pleading. you felt helpless, scared. you were out of your depth, in over your head. "tell me what to do, jason"
"you can't fucking help me, angel, i shouldn't have come here," he heaved.
"well you did," you snapped back, crawling closer and settling down in front of him. just as he had done to you. the wood bit into your knees, grounding you through the intensity of his gasps. "so tell me what you fucking need,"
"you. okay? i fucking need you. it's only ever been you, and i can't—" he cut himself off to catch his breath. "i wasn't going to make it in time, i need… i need to eat, but i can't—"
your hands came up, gently moving to cradle his face. he groaned instantly, the weight of his head dropping into your palm. "eat? will it help you? if you… you need to drink blood, right?"
he forced a weak nod, his eyes drooping. "you have to go, far away from me, angel, please, i'll be okay,"
you ignored him, inhaling a shaky breath. you crawled closer between his legs, angling your neck to the side. "then drink,"
"no," he gritted out. forced. leaning his head further back into the wall.
"yes, you can, let me help you," you whispered. your chest met his, keeping your neck on display for him. it was taunting him.
"i can't, angel, you don't understand, i won't be able to stop,"
"i trust you,"
"well, don't. i'm a fucking monster. i've been haunted by your scent for months. by the sound of your blood pumping out of your heart and through your veins. all i want is a taste," his teeth were clenched so hard you were sure they were going to crack. the light caught on his fang, taunting you with the prospect of sinking into your flesh.
"it's okay, jase, i promise. i want to help you," your fingers curled into the back of his back as you brought him closer to your neck. he let out a shuddering breath, his nose pressing into the skin again. his arm curled around the back of your waist, lifting you up and settling you on his thighs. he pressed another shaking kiss to the skin before letting out a weak groan.
"just a taste, and i'll stop. i promise, angel, i don't want to hurt you, would never hurt you, i—" he muttered out weakly, seemingly hit under delirium. he waited a moment, giving you second to back away.
you had expected pain. you had expected piercing pain. you hadn't expected the rush of pleasure that tingled your fingers. you couldn't control the sharp gasp that escaped from your mouth as your hands tightened in his hair. his grip on you tightened in return, pulling you closer.
he moaned into your neck as he lapped up the blood. you were exploding on his tongue, curing him. the sweetest libation he had ever experienced. he was ruined. your blood was pure of sin, strong, addicting.
"fucking shit, angel, you taste so good," he groaned into your neck, sinking his teeth back in. he could feel his strength restoring, the effects immediate. the darkness in his veins slowly disappeared, his luminous skin smooth and unblemished once again. he should stop. he knew he should stop. but you tasted too good, too good to stop. he needed more, wanted—
your eyes were drooping in pleasure, slowly going limp in his arms. your mind was hazy, though you didn't know if it was from the blood loss or how good it felt. there was a soothing warmth settling over your skin, like the rays of sun that had once illuminated gotham. the rays that you never saw outside anymore. the rays that you saw deep in jason's soul.
jason forced his head back from your neck, his veins thrumming with the high of your blood. he was full. full of you, full of your life. it was different than drinking the blood of gotham's lowlifes, he didn't know how he would be able to go back. your head lolled forward without the support of jason's fangs in your neck, immediately falling onto his shoulder. he kissed up your neck, towards your mouth. you gazed up at him and desire surged, raw and invasive, up your throat, restricting your voice momentarily. you wanted him. needed him.
this was not how you had imagined your first kiss with jason to be: rough, devouring, twinged with the coppery taste of your blood. but perfect.
a whimper rumbled deep from his chest and into your mouth, thickening the fog that continued to cloud your mind. his lips were slippery with your blood, tangy, mixed with the addictive taste of him — a taste that was meant to trap you, hook you into his web with no room for escape. you were his now. his.
"hmmm, my angel, so sweet," he licked into your mouth to emphasize his words, his fangs retracted now that his hunger for blood was satiated. his hands held your hips down against his, and he ground his hips up against yours to punctuate your words, "wonder if you taste good everywhere."
his words sent fire straight down your spine, desire pooling in the heat of your underwear. you practically whined into his mouth with want, words failed you. he lifted you in his arms, laying you on the floor and covering you with his weight again. you arms immediately pulled him closer. his frigid body seemed to be warmed by the desire blazing between the two of you.
your mouths clashed again, your tongue dragging over his teeth to catch his fang again. he smirked into your mouth before trailing kisses back down to your neck. his hand gripped your chin, exposing the bite marks in your neck that he had left moments prior. he gently pressed his mouth to the wound, eliciting a gentle whimper from you at the sensitivity. his tongue licked over both of the holes, letting his saliva pool into the bite marks. jason's venom had healing properties, ones that he never had to use often, ones that you obviously didn't know that he had.
he trailed down your body, lifting your shirt to stop just under your bra. there were too many layers between you, he longed to feel your skin against his, feel every crevice of your body on his, feel you. your heart beating under his palm, steady, warm, alive. another time. he would get that another time.
but he was impatient. he longed for a taste. not for your blood, no. the monster inside was calm. asleep. this hunger was different. this was jason. and he needed it more than he needed the taste of your blood.
"tell me to stop, and i will," he mumbled against your stomach, licking and sucking every inch of skin he could find. you were here with him, it would be enough if that was all you wanted.
"don't you dare," the thought of jason stopping, his mouth leaving your skin sent a flare of panic up your ribs. he popped open the button of your bottoms, pulling them down with a fever. the fabric was tossed behind him, discarded like it had personally offended him for simply being on your body, for keeping him away from the bare skin of your inner thighs.
heaven. he was in a heaven he didn't deserve. he couldn't die, condemned to immortal life of suffering, but the space between your thighs made him feel alive.
he dipped his nose into the crease between your hip and thigh, filling his lungs once again. you writhed on the ground slightly, attempting to nudge him to where you wanted him, needed him to be.
"i know, i know," he cooed softly, his hands gripping your inner thighs and pushing them open. his half-lidded eyes landed on you, exposed, spread for him to see. "gonna give you what you need,"
he leaned down, his tongue tracing a line through your folds. your back arched immediately at the action, the wetness of his tongue. he dove in immediately after, his lips circling around your nub and sucking. his tongue circled your clit with precision, like he knew your body, like he had memorized every single thing about you.
you were at his mercy, held still under his grip as he got his second fill of you. as he drank from you again, though this time it wasn't blood that he was craving. mind-numbing. it was mind-numbing. your hands gripped onto his hair, steadying yourself from the onslaught of his mouth.
he moved down to your entrance, tasting your walls. he moaned into your pussy, pushing his face further into you. his tongue slid back up before sealing over your clit again. your hips slowly ground into his face, chasing the pleasure that he was giving you. your teeth were threatening to tear through your bottom lip with how hard you were biting into the flesh.
"jason, please, please, please," you babbled softly, tugging on his hair. tugging him closer. to give you more, give you everything. and jason wanted to oblige. he was greedy. the darkness inside of him was screaming for you, to trap you in his grip. he leaned back to gaze up at your appearance. wrecked. panting. fucking ruined.
he parted his lips, flashing his fangs extending out of his gums. a twisted smirk spread across his face at your hazy eyes locked into his fangs. he dropped his head back down, his tongue flattening against you with a new intensity. you choked on a scream with the force of his tongue flicking against your sensitive clit. the sharp points of his fangs dragged against your folds, causing a wave of slick to drip down you. he didn't let it waste, leaning down to lap back at your entrance.
you could feel the pressure building up, between his tongue, his fangs dragging against your skin, begging to dip in for another drink. you were putty in his grasp. it was too much. electrifying, setting your veins on fire with every drag of his tongue.
his hand left your thigh to settle his thumb on your clit, rubbing tight circles while he continued to lick into your. your body jerked, a soft shriek exiting your mouth as your body shook with the force of your release. your muscles tensed, your fingers tightening in his hair, keeping him in place as you rode out your orgasm on his face.
his hand left your clit and smoothed up your stomach, keeping you pressed down as he continued to slowly drag his tongue along you, cleaning you up, leaving nothing of your release to go to waste. he groaned in satisfaction, releasing your clit with a soft pop, pressing one last soft kiss to the jumping muscle before gathering you back in his arms.
you were limp against him through the shock of the aftermath of both events.
his fingers gently carded through your hair, cradling you against his body.
"you're so perfect, my angel, did so good for me," he whispered into your head. he shut his eyes, letting out another ragged breath, though this one wasn't due to insatiable hunger — but out of love. he loved you. he fucking loved you. he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he had fallen in love with you, though he knew from the moment he had laid eyes on you that he was consumed forever.
it took a little bit for you to regain your strength, for the shock to dissipate from your system. jason's gentle words of encouragement brought you back, the feel of his hands running up and down the expanse of your back. you lifted your eyes to gaze up at him, your eyes checking his well being, calculating.
"good?" your voice was small and breathless, but not weak. there was hunger beneath your tone. there was blood around his mouth, dried, staining. your blood. trickling down his lips and towards his chin. red stained his teeth, stuck in the crevices of his incisors. his eyes were blue again, the familiar colour that you had loved so dearly. no trace of red, no trace of the dark swirls that littered his skin. he looked beautiful. utterly destroyed, but beautiful.
his dishevelled appearance paralleled your own. you were shattered. eyes barely open as you inspected him, but he could see your senses returning back to you with each breath. you shuffled closer on his lap, ignoring the groan he bit back at the action.
"hey, hey, don't move to fast, angel, i'm right here," he whispered, supporting your body in his arms. "just breathe with me for a second, yeah? that was a lot."
"so it was you," you whispered softly in return with a slow blink.
he nodded in confirmation, his eyes flickering over your features. memorizing each crevice. he wanted to keep you away from this side of him, to keep you safe. guilt pooled in his stomach at the thought.
"just you?"
"my family… we all are," his soft revelation hung in the air between you. you took a moment to consider the implications of his words. his family.
"you said it wasn't batman,"
"i said batman doesn't kill people, not that it wasn't him,"
"now is not the time for semantics, jason, you said-"
"you're so beautiful," he whispered, cutting off your words with his own reverence. his thumb traced the skin of your cheek. soft. his eyes were softer than you had ever seen them. his thumb moved from your cheek to press into your bottom lip.
"thank you," he added softly after. you could feel the gratitude, not for letting him feed from you. for trusting him. For seeing beyond the monster he thought he was and just seeing jason.
because that was what he was. he wasn't gotham's tyrant. the vampire that caused fear in the inhabitants of a city.
he was just jason.
your jason.
an: i need him so bad it's insane. I feel like this is all over the place, but I'm very proud of it. please like, comment, reblog, send me your thoughts! I would love to know how people feel about this one. the thought of this has been eating at me for a while now, now enjoy!
special shoutout to @moonologyy for matching my freak. that's my goat. idk what i'd do if you didn't listen to every single one of my thoughts! i owe you
and shoutout to @athenxt for being my first (and continued) supporter!!! you're special to me, queen.
i too am consumed with thoughts of hockey femjay and reader going at it like rabbits 😔 ohhhhh big strong hockey woman manhandle (womanhandle?) me PLEASE
womanhandling ftw!! takes place after prev part but feel free to read this on its own as hot hockey woman really needs to touch you <3 | fem hockey jason todd x fem reader. smut. fingering. sex against a wall. weight mentioned (positive). i had a bigger reader in mind, but body desc isn't too in-depth. jay has NOT forgotten your ass in that red dress.
****
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Jay's unlacing her sneakers. She just returned from her first practice since her injury. The doctor gave her the okay to play three days ago. You've been a nervous wreck, and though you've been trying to keep your anxiety under wraps, it's spilled out.
It took Jay six weeks to recover from her injuries. Her doctor made her rest an extra week, just in case. But you know that athletic injuries can flare up, weaken bones and muscles. You don't want Jay to return to the hospital in even worse shape.
"'M sure. Drills were a breeze today. Coach said my form's great." She looks up at you, where you're hovering. Jay slips a hand on your hip, kneading reassuringly. "Hey. I'm fine, sweetheart. I wouldn't go out there if I wasn't."
Which you don't entirely believe. Jay has been itching with cabin fever. That was only compounded by the fact that she couldn't touch you after you confessed your feelings.
It wasn't that Jay was unwilling. You had firmly told her no, and that she needed to wait until the doctor said she was okay. Jay tried to cajole you into doing more than kissing, but each time, you pulled away. Not that you didn't crave her touch, because you do. This new dynamic takes getting used to, but that hasn't stopped your body from flaring with heat whenever you see Jay partially undressed, or looking after you.
She's insisted on cooking every night, now that she's moving around. You've stayed in her apartment with the excuse that you want to make sure she's okay, but really, it's because you'd much rather be with her than at home.
You chew a cuticle. "I just feel like it wouldn't be so bad if you rested a little longer."
"I'll go crazy if I wait any longer, I really will," she says, finally standing. "What'll make you believe me, hm?"
"I don't know. I guess I'll be worried for a while. Nothing you can do."
Jay clicks her teeth, gently nudging you to the wall behind you. She leans in to kiss you, and you let her. You've missed her touch. Before you confessed your feelings, before Jay's injury, you were able to hug her whenever you wanted. Touch her just for the sake of touching her. These past six weeks forced you to be careful, hesitant, and to touch only with the intention to help or heal.
Out of habit, you avoid her left side, keeping your weight off of her. You only hold her face as she kisses you, even while Jay wraps her arms around your body and pulls you flush against her.
"C'mon, touch me," she murmurs against your mouth.
"What are we doing right now?" you ask, smiling.
She grunts. "You're holdin' back. I can tell. Not gonna break."
You sigh, head resting against the wall as Jay kisses your neck. "I'm not holding back, J—"
And quick as anything, you're off the ground. Your legs are around Jay's waist, knees on her hips. She holds you by the backs of your thighs, creeping up your ass. Your face immediately goes hot.
"This proof enough?" she asks, watching you. "Hm? Look at me. No shakin' or strainin'. No sweat. Could touch you all night like this if y'let me."
It still startles you, the contrast between your best friend and your girlfriend. Not that there's much of a difference to begin with. Jay has always loved you, and whether you make out or not doesn't change how she loves you for the most part.
But there's times like these where you let yourself completely feel the reality of your relationship. Jay is a very attractive woman, who's muscular and strong from hockey, and who has fucked women before. And she's been dying to fuck you too. She hasn't complained or pressured you, but she's been restless, clingy. She's been waiting, you realize, for an opportunity.
"Please don't touch me all night like this," you say, flustered and scrambling for some control. You were just lecturing her, weren't you? What about?
"'Cause you don't want me to? Or y'think I can't handle it?"
Jay nuzzles your jaw with her nose and presses a kiss there. Your resolve is slipping. She's just so intense. You hadn't realized how much Jay was holding back until you told her how you feel. Suddenly, every interaction between you was magnified by a thousand.
"I know you can handle it, I just don't want you to try. You might hurt something."
Jay sighs, like her arm is being pulled for having to fuck you. "Doesn't sound like you believe in me. I guess I have to restore your faith."
You roll your eyes. "Please don't take this as a challenge, Jay."
She shifts your weight to one arm so she can push your shirt up, revealing your bare breasts. Your nipples are already hard, cool air searing your skin.
"Challenge makes it sound like it's difficult," she says, unbelievably cocky. Normally, you'd tell her off when she gets like this, cheeky and full of herself. Sometimes it happens after games, when she's high off adrenaline and she's scored plenty. You wonder how she'll be after her first game with you in the stands, no longer just her best friend, but as hers, in every sense of the word.
Unfortunately, you can't form a coherent thought right now to put her in her place.
You stare at her face on your chest. She pulls one breast into her mouth and flicks her tongue around your nipple. Your mouth falls open at the sight.
"Jay," you say, whimper. "W-we can go on the bed."
"I know," she says against your skin. "Right now, I wanna suck my beautiful girl's tits. Gonna give me what I want?"
You moan, squirming. "I'm too heavy for y—"
"Oh, don't you dare finish that sentence. Worryin' 'bout your weight. Wanted to tear that dress off you at the charity event. 'Is this too tight?'" She mimics you and pushes you harder against the wall. "Couldn't believe you were serious. Prettiest woman I know with hips I'd die in. Hope they bury me right here." She presses into the crease where your thighs join your hips, fat bunching from the angle she has you.
You unzip her sweater, just enough to pull her sports bra up, her breasts soft and warm. You're frantic, needing to touch her. Jay immediately returns to sucking your nipples, her free hand slipping into your pants. Down goes the waistband, then your panties, just enough for her to slip her two middle fingers in. She doesn't push into you yet, taking her time by playing with your folds.
"You got so wet so fast," she says against your breast, awed. She finds your clit and rubs, which makes you clench. "Little clit's so hard, huh? How long have you been waiting for me to touch you?"
She's desperate to know, you can tell. Desperate for you to say how long you've been wanting her. Your clit throbs.
"So long," you say, grunting when she pushes her fingers into your pussy. It makes a wet sound, and pleasure tightens your belly. "I-I almost touched myself a few weeks ago when you were asleep. I felt bad, though. F-felt like—ah, Jay, Jay—"
"Felt like what?" she asks, thrusting her fingers. "Tell me, c'mon."
"Felt dirty to do it without you knowing. I kept thinking about you on top of me, f-fingering me till I cried." Your ears burn at the confession, but your embarrassment is forgotten at the expression on Jay's face. She's hungry.
She laughs like she can't believe what you're saying, almost a growl. "Oh, fuck. Yeah? You want me on top a' you? You're so pretty. I love you so much. Can't believe you love me. I'll do anything y'want, sweetheart. Loved you for years."
The confession makes you wetter. Jay's loved you, desired you, wished you were hers alone for years?
"I'm yours, Jay," you say, which makes her moan. "No one else's. Only you get to touch me."
"Oh God," she says, and it sounds wet, like she's tearing up. She kisses you hard, fingering and rubbing your clit like she'll die if she stops. "Want you to cum, baby, c'mon, lemme feel it."
You tighten around her. "Close, Jay, so fucking close. You feel so good."
Your orgasm washes over you with Jay still inside, your pussy pulsing around her fingers. She peppers your face and neck with kisses.
"Thank you," she says in between kisses. "Thank you, thank you. Fuck, that was so good. Was it good?"
You're nearly boneless, bordering on overstimulation with her fingers still inside. She could probably keep going and pull another one out of you, making you cry from pleasure nearly becoming pain.
"Yeah," you say, head light. You wiggle out of her hold and try to stand, but your knees wobble. Jay quickly picks you up in a bridal carry, laughing a little.
"Sorry, sweetheart," she says, not sounding very sorry at all. "I gotcha."
She carries you to her bed, laying you down.
"Believe me now?" she asks, helping you pull off your pants.
You sigh, splayed on her pillows, watching her take care of you. "I believed you from the beginning, Jay."
She crawls up the bed, bracing herself over you. "No, you definitely had some doubts. Hope we cleared that up. Can't have ya thinkin' I'm a bad lay."
"You so don't have to worry about that."
She grins, leaning in to kiss you again. She rubs your arm. "Wanna love on you properly. Take you out someplace nice. Should've waited, but I wanted to touch you so bad. Forgive me?"
"Forgive you for that?" You laugh. "Sure. You can ask for forgiveness as many times as you want."
boyfriend!jasontodd is such a yapper, he can’t do secrets.
short | fluff | smut | masterlist
there is no secret to be kept between the two of you because he tells you everything. jason thinks secrets are pointless so when he finds something out, you’re the first one to know.
he loves to talk and he always wants to tell you everything. you would never feel insecure about it either because that boy makes his opinion loud and proud, declaring it before anyone even asks him.
when you get up in the morning, he’s already up, staring right at you. it’s kinda creepy honestly, seeing that smile plastered on his face when you just wake up, but jason is so sweet about it, kissing the top of your nose and talking about the slope of your neck that he loves so dearly. he says that the sun hits your face perfectly and he apologizes for leaving the blinds open only to admit seconds later that he just couldn’t resist.
jason speaks most poetically in the morning, claiming that you were his muse.
you’re visiting the manor for the weekend and sitting at the table with tim and barbara. the heavy footsteps told you of his presence before he even enters the room. jason walks in with dick after patrol and beelines right over to you.
striking gleam in his eyes that greet you like something sacred when your eyes meet. he smiles before he coos your name,
tossing his mask in the table and biting his glove off of one hand to cup your cheek. drawing you a little closer to him so he can kiss you, sliding beside you with his strong arms pulling you in tight.
tim makes a face at dick when he sits next to him.
they’re conversing about something that’s probably important but you’re busy watching jason. his pretty eyes steady while he starts telling you about his night.
he opens his mouth, “y’know dick stuffs his suit.”
the table goes silent.
“—are you kidding me?” barbara stiffles a laugh while tim is hysterically laughing and pointing at dick who nudges him hard.
dick stammers, trying desperately to defend himself, “hey that’s confidential! and only sometimes because the suit is so tight it outlines everything!”
but it’s too late and the damage was done, even after barbara confirms that dick was telling the truth.
jason didn’t have a secretive bone in his body. at least not with you.
you knew jason could never cheat on you, not that you ever doubted him, but he just didn’t have that in him.
he asks to run your errands with you and will sit with you while you do your skincare routine, yapping about something he just discovered. jason bookmarks papers and websites to talk to you about later. he texts you about his thoughts when hes not around you to just blurt them out.
he sends cryptic messages sometimes, or just a photo of something he liked. often not even explaining himself before sending it. on patrol one night, he sends you a photo of two birds, sitting near him like he wasn’t armed.
you could practically hear the snicker in his text, his voice rang through your ears, as if you were there next to him,
“that’s us. i’m the uglier one btw.”
he might struggle with admitting he needs help,
but with you?
it comes easier than with anyone else.
he’s open and be honest because he’s seen how far communication goes with his gorgeous girlfriend. he’s gone far too long with miscommunication from family and literally spent years suppressing that down.
but he’s also observant when heaviness grows in the air and you seem to be less yourself than usual.
maybe he’s seen it from your daily tasks, noting a slouch in your shoulders or a hint of annoyance on your face. when you have a hard day and he chooses to be softer.
he knows when you want to be alone, but he’ll also follow you to your room anyway just to run his fingers through your hair and tell you all the reasons why he loves you.
jason’s the most vocal when you’re in bed.
when the world goes silent and you can really be with him, he looks at you as though you could be the answer to all his prayers. he is the most gentle lover you’d ever had and he’s so careful with you.
he literally cannot stop praising you. soft moans escaping while he chants your name so easily. praise isn’t even enough to describe how he is. deliberate, practiced, disciplined love is what he gives and you take it down because it’s everything that matters.
his warm palms slid up the back of your thighs while he drops his head against the pillow. panting hard and hips stuttering against restraint, jason groans your name while he watches you move. beautiful, he looks horribly delicious from up on your throne that was seated in his lap. sweat wicks down his temple when he praises,
“mmhf— you look so pretty from down here,” he pants, “y’re taking me so well.”
it’s a mess of soft moans spilling out of you, little jumps when it felt like he was reaching deep. using his chest as stability even when your hands shook. you know it must be testing his restraint, because he was so close, edging off that peak but stopping when you got tired again. he wants you to let go first.
he babbles on as you start getting restless again.
“that’s it pretty baby, ride me,” you’re trying to, holding his shoulders, leaning on his chest, crying out, “come on, it’s all yours. take your time.”
like he sees it, knows that you can’t keep going at this pace, he leans forward and captures your lips. he’s breathing heavily into your mouth as he guides your hips, nudging you to the right direction. whispering how good you’re doing,
“should reward you for doing so well, whatchu want hmm? can i eat you out after this?”
but you’re babbling a little, too lost in the sauce while he’s glimmering with sweat beneath you. the thought of him eating you out after sounds great but he’s distracting you from the task at hand. moaning when he bucks his hips up to meet yours.
“there she is,” to which will spur you on to go faster, making him breathless again in the way that he can’t speak.
bouncing a little faster on him, enough so that he’s gasping and trying to slow you down.
but he’s still trying to talk to you.
“i’m thinking i—ah, i give you a good scrub after this, maybe lotion your body—fuck—wait, slower,” he pants, grabbing at your waist to slow you.
“you talk too much, just feel me jay,” you smile down at him like you’re not breaking yourself at this point, working in tireless effort now.
you were on a mission—shutting your boyfriend up.
but he knows what you’re doing, he’s not letting you keep control like this. your hips start to slow, the sting present. muscles aching while you desperately try to match your earlier pace. but his face untangles itself and he breathes a harsh breath.
he coos at you, “can’t?” he smiles up at you when your pace falters, “don’t worry sweets, i’ll do it,” and when you can’t speak, he drills in perfect, angled thrusts, smiling harder than ever, “there’s my girl.”
soft chants of profanities, mewling how fuckin’ good you feel. he watches the contort of your face, then nibbles up your neck, whimpering by your ear, yes baby yes.
by the time you’re both coming down from your highs, jason’s perched on his side already, hand tucked under his head while he watches you catch your breath.
“did i tell you i started that bridgerton show? well actually, i started the queen charlotte one first on accident but it was pretty good. anyways—”
you’re dozing off to the sound of his voice, smiling fondly while he keeps going on. somewhere along his speech, he pulls you closer and you curl into him.
the hum of his voice vibrating as slumber takes over you.
the boy could tell you about the history of socks and you’d be attentively listening, glued to how focused he is. you knew if he went to school, like really studied, he’d do so well. at times you wanted to encourage him to go back to school, go try getting into it since he’s so passionate about so many things.
but jason shrugs it off. he always says that chapter is closed for him, and that he wants to protect the things around him more.
he says that his world was already full of everything he needed—you.
jason todd, who was already big… but somehow, has gotten way bigger, borderline massive. scarred and ripped muscles that have doubled in size just from being in a calorie surplus, from meal prepping and lifting heavy at the gym. and honestly, it’s driving you completely crazy.
jason todd, whose food portions are twice yours. you’re eating a cup of rice? he’s demolishing two and a half. his food intake has increased so much that you have to go grocery shopping two times a week. all your fridge is stacked full of eggs, ground beef, salmon, broccoli, potatoes, and those silly protein shakes he insists on keeping there.
jason todd, who that one time you went to the gym with him, he couldn’t— for christ’s sake, keep his hands to himself. even though he was at the other side of the room, already working on bicep curls (with those ridiculous 140 lbs dumbbells in each hand), his eyes just wouldn’t stop staring at you. at the way you got ready for your workout, stretching gracefully; your hips, those legs that drove him feral.
jason todd, who in between sets would hover over you, stealing a kiss or two (earning both of you a few glances), and whenever it was time for you to resume your rdl’s or squats, he’d give a small ‘smack’ to the plump flesh of your ass before saying playfully “get to work, baby.”
jason todd, whose whole upper body is... insane, and fortunately, you get to see it every day. whether that’s in the morning, when he makes tea for the both of you, his bare back on full display as you admire the way the toned muscles flex whenever he moves around the kitchen. or at night, when he’s putting on his red hood undersuit, grunting and muttering low ‘fuck’s’ under his breath whenever the black fabric felt too tight around his now thicker frame, making his whole body tense up, the veins on his forearms bulging and screaming.
jason todd, who agrees to play fight like it’s a fair match. he lets you shove him first, enjoying the way you laugh when he stumbles back a little, but your smile dies the moment he pushes you against the bed, with a strength that’s barely even there. the soft mattress dips under his heavy weight as he follows you down, caging you in between the bed and his warmth muscle. “guess the victory is mine this time.” he snorts, seeing how you rolls your eyes at him.
jason todd, whose stamina skyrocketed when he bulked, so he just couldn’t get enough.
his abs flexed hard under your palms with each rise and fall of your hips, the deep cuts on his ripped chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat. his massive shoulders rolled back as he braced himself, letting you set the pace as he easily matched your movements from below. his hips snapping up to meet yours every time you came down, deeper, harder.
one of his hands left your hip and slid up. big, calloused palm cupping the side of your face, the rough pad of his thumb brushing your cheekbone tenderly. then, right as you slammed down on him, your puffy clit rubbing against his pelvis, your nails digging crescent moons over the lean muscle of his chest, his hand landed across your cheek with a loud ‘smack’ that echoed through the room.
“fuck, jason.” you gasp, loud and breathy as a new wave of pleasure crushed down your body.
he grunts, deep and low, his jaw tight as he feels you tensing around him. “christ, baby, keep going.”
the sting lingered, the heat blooming over your skin mixing with a filthy rush of adrenaline, making you ride him faster. his other hand gripped the fat of your ass, lifting it slightly so he could thrust up harder, following every roll of your hips. now, the mushroom tip of his cock bruised repeatedly that soft, sensitive spot inside you. your walls gripped him tightly, keeping him buried despite how soaking wet you were. your slick mixed with his, spread over his abs, coating the new hard ridges of muscle.
jason todd, who manhandles your body into a whole different position, with an ease that’s overwhelming. your back hits the mattress with a heavy ‘thump’, jason’s already got your knees shoved up toward your tits, his big palms pressing the back of your thighs until your pussy is completely exposed: puffy, its swollen hole clenching around absolutely nothing, and just waiting to be stuffed full of him, again and again.
// hold me like you love me, baby, it’s all i need. your arms are my cage and your heartbeat the only balm to my chaos. // Part I //
Jason Todd x f!reader
notes: this is like sooooooo bad guys im sorry idk what this is i just needed to get it out of my system. bye. there’s a part 2 to this btw. let’s hope it’s better than this one.
warnings: none. just Jason having self doubts and hating himself. yk the usual. some fluff. mostly angst.
Jason never imagined he could have a life like this.
Even now, as he rests his head in your lap and your fingers rake though his hair and the only sound in the room is your breathing and the pages of your book turning one after another—he cannot believe it.
Jason Todd is made of filth. He’s made of anger and pain and horrors—he’s made of all the awful things that grow in the darkest corners of Gotham.
He doesn’t deserve this. How could he?
He has hands dipped in blood soaking from the bodies he’s dropped in his path, in his revenge, in his anger. He’s a terrible man. He’s a murderer—full of guilt and confusion and regret. He cannot change that. He cannot rewrite his history or trauma and he most definitely cannot replace the choices he has made.
His hands are soiled in the blood of others, it cannot simply be wiped off. It won’t disappear, it won’t be licked clean with love. He will stay how he was born—stained and unworthy.
Yet here you are—not refusing to see those parts of him, but choosing to see the man he is past them. Jason doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t understand how you look at him and not see a monster. Or a mistake—that’s all his family sees, at least they make it easier.
But you? You stand beyond his understanding. He cannot comprehend what goes through your mind when he walks into your house, covered in Gotham’s dirt and crime, covered in blood that he doesn’t have in him to wipe off.
He can’t comprehend what you see when you sit him on the closed toilet lid and deal with his torn skin and blood soaked knuckles. He doesn’t know why you kiss his forehead afterwards, why you tell him to take a bath and heat up the water for him and hold his hand to your chest because you know exactly what grounds him. Because you care enough to notice.
He doesn’t understand why you love him.
Because Jason Todd is a lot of things but loveable is not one of them. Or that’s what his unshakeable belief was before he met you.
Jason can’t even ask you why. It feels too… stupid. Too childish. Too dumb.
“Why do you love me?” He’d say, probably at a moment like this one, when every demon in his head seems to quiet down simply because you’re near.
“Why not?” You’d probably reply, smiling in the way that almost makes him think that he’s not as doomed as he believes himself to be.
But Jason doesn’t ask. Not when it comes to you. He just listens—after a long time in his life, he wants to follow someone and it’s you. It’s always you. He follows your words, your ideas, even your orders.
Like he did the first day he met you. It was raining too hard and both of you were waiting on the bus stop—except the bus never came. And you decided to take matters into your own hands. You’d laughed when you stepped into the rain, “cmon, stranger!” you’d yelled, waving your hand at him. And he’d followed. Like an awe-struck, hypnotised man. It was at that moment a part of him realised he’d do about anything you asked him to. He never knew it was that easy to want to follow someone’s lead and never look back again.
But there are ghosts clinging to Jason’s skin, ghosts that whisper in his ear when things get too good, too easy, too calm.
Like right now.
You inhale deeply, turning another page and he can feel your heart beating near his ear, he can feel the movement of your chest with every breath, the little—almost unnoticeable noises you make when you’re just existing, the sound of your hands soothing through his hair.
And he loves it. He loves every part of it, he notices every little thing and he melts a bit more every-time you do them. And that terrifies him in a way bullets and wounds and bombs never could and never will.
So Jason just holds on tighter, buries his face into your stomach. The soft fabric of your clothes tickles his skin and he closes his eyes against the smell of you.
He could die right here and he would die happy.
With you, he feels something dangerously close to peace—the kind of peace people like him cannot have, the kind of peace people like him do not deserve.
His life with you is a dream he never let himself have. You’re a dream. He is a nightmare.
If there’s anything that scares Jason more than his love for you, it’s his fear of staining you with his past, his mistakes, with him.
Even touching you is a mercy and a gift. Being with you feels like god’s apology for everything he has been through. You bring him every good thing this world has to offer—but can he ever be good enough for you?
You give him life. You’re the air he breathes. You’re the feeling in his chest, reminding him that he has left the grave behind and has a beating, human heart sitting inside of him. That maybe, just maybe there’s still hope, even for someone like him.
You make him feel alive. You—
“Jay?” Your voice reaches him through a fog. Jason lifts his head to look at you, eyes heavy lidded and tired.
“Yeah?” His voice is rough from being silent too long. You’re smiling at him—you’re smiling at him in that way you do when you think he’s looking adorable. Jason almost rolls his eyes. It’s bizarre to him that you could find him adorable—that you could even look at him and not be disgusted.
He notices that you’ve put your book aside and now both your hands are in his hair, rubbing slow circles against his scalp. God, you’re too good to him.
“I’m sleepy now,” you mumble, taking off your glasses to rub your eyes.
And Jason smiles—despite every ghost, every bad memory, every uninvited, terrible thought—you always make him smile.
“Alright, princess,” he mutters, “we should sleep then.”
You nod, but you don’t move. You just stare at him; as if committing every little detail to memory. As if you could look at him forever. It makes Jason’s heart beat painfully in his chest.
How can you love him? How can you look at him and not see all the terrible things—
“Are you okay?”
Jason blinks, caught off guard once again. Something sharp and spiky rises in his throat. The obvious reply sitting heavy on his tongue. “I’m fine” or “of course” or “why won’t I be?”
But he can’t bring himself to say any of those words. Instead, he moves his hands up and down your sides—grounding himself, reminding his undead heart that you’re still here, letting him hold you. “Just… feels like I don’t appreciate you enough.” There’s a quiet scoff attached to his words to make them sound less vulnerable than they feel.
You stare at him for a beat before smiling wide. Jason’s throat dries up—is this when you finally realise how pathetic he truly is? How dumb he is? Is this when you laugh at him? He tenses up like he could somehow pull the words back in his mouth. And then—you giggle.
You lean down and nudge his nose with yours. “You appreciate me too much already.” You say, still giggling. He swallows. Jesus, what’s wrong with him?
Jason nods, trying to muster up a smile despite the knot that tightens itself in his chest every single time his emotions threaten to take over. He’s going to cry. He can feel the lodging in his throat, the sting in his eyes.
He doesn’t want to cry. Not over something like this. Not now.
“Let’s sleep now, okay?” You say, shifting to lay down with him. Jason nods again, not trusting his voice.
You lay down beside him and you let him rest his head on your chest. You hold him—the infamous red hood, the violent antihero with a kill count, the man with an unsteady conscience and too much guilt in his bones—you run your fingers through his hair and you fall asleep next to him without a care in the world.
You trust him. You treat him like he’s something special. Like he’s not just a replaceable soldier or a ghost mourned by no one.
And Jason holds onto that. He presses himself against you, craving the warmth that was stolen from him along with life. He wraps his calloused palm over your softer, smaller one and closes his eyes, letting a single tear fall free.
