Summary: you come home, very drunk, and see a very hot guy sitting on your couch… so naturally you ask him out!
It starts with a simple, high-pitched gasp in the middle of your living room.
Jason is sitting on the couch in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants, laptop on his knees, mid-snack, when you stumble through the front door. You’re wearing one of his oversized jacket slung over your shoulders, your cheeks flushed red from two too many margaritas with your friends, and your hair a complete, chaotic masterpiece.
He sets his laptop aside immediately, a half-amused, half-concerned smirk already forming on his lips. "Hey, sweetheart. How was girls' night—"
He doesn't get to finish. The moment your eyes land on him, your hands fly to your face, covering your red-hot cheeks. You freeze in place, staring at him through your fingers as if you’ve just spotted a celebrity in a coffee shop.
"Oh," you whisper loud enough for the whole apartment complex to hear. "Oh my god."
Jason blinks, pausing. "What?"
You kick off your shoes—completely missing the rack—and take three deliberate, overly cautious, drunk steps toward the couch. Your eyes are wide, glassy, and completely starstruck.
"Who are you?" you ask, leaning over the back of the couch, resting your chin on your folded hands. You beam at him, giggling softly. "Because you are... so pretty. Like so hot. Has anyone ever told you that? You look like a whole movie star."
Jason slowly looks down at his faded t-shirt, then back up at you. A playful glint flickers in his blue eyes as the reality hits him: You have completely forgotten you're already dating him.
"A movie star, huh?" Jason drawls, leaning back against the cushions and crossing his arms over his chest. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting out laughing. "Can't say I hear that one often. I'm Jason."
"Jason," you sigh, the name rolling off your tongue like a melody. You sway slightly where you stand, blushing down to your collarbone. "That's a nice name. I'm... well, you know. I'm me."
"Nice to meet you, Me," he says softly, his voice dropping into that smooth, low register he knows makes you melt. "What's a girl like you doing flustered in my living room?"
"I live here! I think?" You look around the apartment, thoroughly confused for a split second, before your focus snaps right back to him like a magnet. You lean in closer, whispering conspiratorially, "Listen... I know this is crazy, but... are you single?"
You pause, then giggle, “wanna know a secret? I actually wanna marry you but I think asking you if you’re single is less advanced.”
Jason bites his lower lip, trying—and failing—to hide a massive grin. "Am I single? Well... that's a tough question."
Your face falls instantly into a dramatic, adorable pout, and you genuinely look devastated. "Oh no. You have a girlfriend?"
"I do," Jason says softly, watching your reaction.
"Is she pretty?" you ask, sniffling just a little bit, clearly heartbroken.
"She's gorgeous," Jason says, his voice softening. He reaches out, grabbing your wrist gently, and pulls you over the back of the couch until you tumble right onto his lap. You gasp, your hands landing flat against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. "She’s got this ridiculously cute laugh, gets super giggly when she drinks, and is currently sitting on my lap looking at me like I hung the moon."
You stare at him, your brain slowly churning through the alcoholic fog.
1... 2... 3 seconds pass.
"Wait," you whisper, your eyes going wide. "I just drank and I am fairly giggly."
"You are."
"And I'm on your lap."
"You are."
"...I'm the pretty girlfriend?!"
Jason couldn't hold it back anymore; he threw his head back and laughed, the deep, rumbling sound vibrating through his chest against your palms. "Yes, dummy. You're the pretty girlfriend. We've been together for over a year."
A look of pure, unadulterated triumph washes over your face. You kick your feet up, burying your burning face right into the crook of his neck, muffled giggles spilling out against his skin. "I scored so hard," you mutter into his collar. "He's huge and he's mine."
"Yeah, yeah, you hit the lottery," Jason chuckled, his broad arms wrapping snugly around your waist, pulling you close so you wouldn't slide off. He kissed the top of your head, resting his chin on your hair. "Come on, baby. Let's get you some water and into bed before you try to ask me out again."
"Wait!" You pop your head back up, cheeks still bright red, poking his chest with a single finger. "So... does this mean you won't go on a date with me?"
Jason shook his head, a soft, fond smile softening his rugged features. "I'll take you on a date every single day of the week, sweetie. Now go to sleep."
pairing: boyfriend!jason todd x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
synopsis: the arkham knight has packed on the pounds since settling into the domesticity of a healthy relationship. breakfast runs, takeaway lunch, and dinner dates have him entering his cozy body era, much to your delight, and his dismay.
warnings: not proofread, conversations about weight, fluff, a little suggestive at the end but no smut, lowkey jason body worship
word count: 1.2k
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You loved Jason’s days off. His rest days were the highlight of your week; mostly because he took you out for food, and spent the rest of the day cuddling or clinging to your side. But recently, he’s been giving himself more time off to spend with you, and it’s been showing.
Lounging on your couch, you peeped how his shirt had grown tighter on his form, and the fabric could no longer cover his whole stomach. It was cute; he was filling out and he deserved it after the physical torment he’d endured in the past. It was heartwarming to know he would never have to face another malnourished day ever again.
Strolling over, you climbed over his broad legs and planted yourself between them, so your head was resting on his stomach. He quirked a brow at your position of choice but smiled nonetheless, until you started lifting his top and kissing his stomach.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable,” You hum in response, padding and pinching the fat of your boyfriend’s belly.
“Stop that…” He frowns, suddenly clenching his abdomen in an attempt to harden his abs.
“Hey. Make it go soft.” You chastise and try to push his faint muscles back into his skin like a squishy toy.
“The Arkham Knight is not soft.” You blink up at him before settling your head back down on his plush core.
“Right…” You try to pull his shirt over your head, but the fabric is already stretched to it’s maximum, disallowing you the warm canopy yo hide under. “We need to get you some bigger shirts babe.” That gets his heart racing.
“What? Why?”
“Because you’ve grown out of them. I can’t even fit under them anymore.” You pout from between his thighs, abandoning your attempts to yank the tee down any further. He looks mildly disturbed, like this discovery was completely unexpected for him.
“You think I got fatter?” His intonation is one purely of concern. You sit up to face him properly with your head shaking.
“No no, you’re not fat, Jason,” You start, taking his large, slightly chunkier fingers into your hands. “You’ve just gotten bigger… cuddlier.”
“That means fatter.” He furrows his brows and sits up, suddenly hunching his back and fixing his tight shirt over his body.
“Again, you’re not fat.” You sigh, hands coming to caress his broad shoulders. “You’ve also got more muscle mass. You’re stretching out your clothes, J.” You squeeze his arm in the hopes it’ll cheer him up.
“Yeah right… I haven’t gone to the gym in weeks. Been slacking off lately…” He grumbles, gazing at you with distrust. “You’ve been fattening me up.”
“What? No I haven’t!” You practically laugh in his face. He remains unimpressed. “Are you trying to tell me that spending time together is causing you to put on weight?”
“Well now that I think about it, yeah!” He scoffs. “We keep going out to eat all the damn time. No wonder I’ve been so slow lately…”
“Oh so now you’re blaming me?” Your mood shifts like a light switch, suddenly intolerant of his accusatory attitude. “We don’t need to go out anymore if that’s how you really feel.”
“What? No…” He calms down immediately, leaning into your side by pure instinct, needing to be close to you. “That’s not what I meant.” He tries to wrap his arms around you without scaring you off.
“Then what are you trying to say?” You jut your chin out expectantly.
“I don’t know… maybe I need to make some lifestyle changes? Get back into shape…” He trails off, unable to meet your eyes.
“J, you are in shape. Besides, I like you like this,” You finally reciprocate, hugging him back while mapping out the broad curves of his body. You feel him melt into your embrace.
“Really? Why?” He presses his forehead into your shoulder.
“You feel so good, you look so good. You’ve been so happy lately.” You kiss his head, gaining his attention. “This is my favourite version of you Jason. Happy, healthy.”
He can’t help but pout, but he tries to mask his mushy feelings by scrunching up his face. He fails of course, and you laugh at him. He rolls his eyes until he feels you kissing up on his soft jawline; his feigned annoyance was quickly replaced with a red warmth in his cheeks.
“Tell me you’ve never been happier, J…” You whisper against his stubble.
“I am… Of course I am,” He sighs into you, neck lulling so he’s pressed against you while you sink back down onto the couch together.
“And isn’t cuddling easier?” You slide your hands under his shirt, fingertips sliding over his scarred yet padded torso, while he fixes you over his body so you’re straddling him.
“Maybe… It’s always been easy with you.”
“Well I prefer soft Jason over chiseled Jason. Much more comfortable,” You kiss his face a few more times, and you can see he’s fighting the urge to chase your lips with his own.
“But I like looking good for you…” He practically whines, wiping his hands over his face. “I like looking chiseled and scary.”
“Why would you want to be scary?”
“Is that a rhetorical question? Do you think anyone would listen to me if I was just some slow fat guy?” He gives you an unimpressed stare. All you can do is giggle.
“You know I would…” The suggestive tone in your voice has Jason sucking in the inside of his cheek. “But anywho, you can get really bulky if you just lift more often. And you wouldn’t have to stop eating or going out with me…” Jason can’t help but smile at that. He knows it’s the closest you’ll get to begging him.
“Yeah? You gonna kick my ass back into the gym?” He bites his lip.
“Maybe…” You giggle and lean into him.
“You gonna workout with me princess?” His fingers trail down your back, sending shivers running up your spine. He find the meat of your ass and grasps it in his palms, fingertips digging into your flesh.
“Would you want me to?”
“Hell yeah. Hell, you could be my weights. I’ll just lift you until I’m nice and muscular for you.”
“Jason, you’re already perfectly muscular for me,” You chuckle and kiss up his arm until your teeth find his bicep and you give him a little chomp.
“Hey, you’re the one that said I should bulk. You’re going to have to get used to an even bigger version of me.”
“Aren’t I a lucky gal?” You laugh as he flexes his bicep for you, his bulging arm squeezing your skull. When he releases your head, you lie on top of him properly, pressing kisses to his lips that he graciously accepts.
“My chubby bunny,” You whisper between gentle pecks.
“Do not call me that.” He threatens with a growl, but you know it’s all bark and no bite. Though a love bite from Jason doesn’t sound so bad right now…
“Or what?” You giggle against his swelling lips, lathering them in a sheen of saliva as your tongue teases him.
“Or I’ll put you in your place.” His hands tighten on your ass, holding you in place atop his rigid frame.
“No, please Mr. Knight, spare me!” You gasp and perform, putting on an exaggerated display that gets Jason to laugh.
“I’ll show you chubby bunny,” He grabs you and rolls you under him, pressing his weight on your body so you’re trapped underneath him, but the extra kilos just have you wheezing out a laugh while he adorns your face in kisses.
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a/n: this is kinda gross but i’m too lazy to write smut rn sorry. i love big beefy men and kisses SPARE ME. also arkham jaybin’s face looks totally different to adult jason’s face. what’s up with that?
── jason todd ౨ৎ. jason todd x reader. sweet boy!jason. canon swearing. intimacy (kissing). pet names (sweetheart, ma). minimal mention of jason’s angst (like, once). fluff, once again. 1k words. ⊹ ࣪ ˖
quiet.
such a strange word for jason todd. after sixteen years of sharpened edges and survival, a brief interruption called death, and five more years of something harsher than living, he had decided—almost stubbornly—that he wanted a quiet life. with you.
you met in gotham’s public library, in the aisle that smelled like dust and old paper and soft, forgotten things. classics. of course it was classics. you were reading the same book. jason stood there with a worn copy of pride and prejudice in his hands with such endearment that made your head turn. you noticed the contradiction before anything else—the sheer weight of him, all muscle, scars, and leather and danger, holding that ‘lady book’ like it mattered.
you approached jason first, naturally. he was too unsure to say anything first. being red hood doesn’t come with much social interaction, especially not with captivating people. after making a silly joke about ‘being on the same page’, you two had started talking about books.
now he was twenty-three, and two years into loving you, and somehow that felt more terrifying than anything he had ever survived. today, he was going to ask you to stay. officially.
the apartment felt too small for his pacing. jason placed his fingers against his chin—deep in thought. the ticking sounds of the clock were like mocking beats in his ear as he paced his apartment, waiting for his lover to come over.
“you got this, jason." he tells himself over and over until the front door clicks open.
“hey, sweetheart,” you called, stepping inside. the lock slid into place behind your back. you paused, inhaled, eyes lighting up. “what is that smell? oh my god—what are you making?” you asked with an expression of delight.
he leaned against the kitchen counter, something softer settling into his shoulders at the sight of you. “hey, ma. you like it?” he asked, voice roughened around the edges of a chuckle. “carbonara. figured i’d try something new. thought i owed you something special, since…” damnit! he thought to himself, walking over to the kitchen where the carbonara was simmering on the stove.
“since what?” you stepped closer, already smiling. “c’mere.” your lips curved, expectant, waiting for a welcome kiss.
he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, but his hands found your waist anyway—like they always did. “since i’m about to ask you something real fucking stupid,” he murmured, pulling you in. his kiss lingering a second too long before pulling back with a hesitant smile. “like… very stupid.” he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unsure in a way that didn’t suit him. not anymore. not after a couple years of pulling his guard down. “move in with me.”
it came out more like a demand than a question.
“oh.”
you froze for a moment, surprised by his bluntness. “…straight to the point.” you blinked a few times, still processing his request.
he crossed his arms, defensive instinct snapping into place before he could stop it. “yeah, well, i don’t—” he cut himself off, scoffing under his breath. “i’m nervous. you make me really nervous.” that part slipped out quieter.
he gestured vaguely around the apartment, like the evidence was everywhere. “you’re already here half the time, anyway. your books are mine. your shampoo’s in my shower. your fuckin’ socks are in my laundry, damnit—” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “…just make it official. please.”
“you just caught me off guard,” you said finally, voice gentler than his. “it makes sense. it really does. i just… wasn’t expecting it.” you moved past him, turning off the stove before the carbonara could burn, practical even in the middle of something life-changing. then you looked back at him, something bright and certain settling into your expression.
“…i have one condition.”
his shoulders dropped, just a fraction. “there’s conditions now?” a smirk tugged at his mouth, fragile but real. “what’s the deal?”
you stepped into him again, arms sliding around his neck like you belonged there. “i want a house made for us. built from scratch. architects, engineers—the whole thing. i want something that’s us.”
he blinked once, then twice. then laughed—sharp, surprised, a little disbelieving. “christ, you don’t do small shit, do you, ma?” he shook his head, but the fondness in his voice gave him away. “fine. a house. custom-built. but if you make me live in some pastel nightmare with weird angles and fuckin’ pretentious bullshit—”
you flicked his forehead.
“—i’m out,” he finished, though he was already smiling. he added, knowing you would rather die than live in a monstrosity like that.
“i want a cinema.”
“i want a library.” jason chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a competitive edge.
“deal.” you chuckled lightly, cupping his face and pecking his lips. he leaned into it for a second, just a second, before pulling back with that familiar edge returning to his grin. “i’m picking the colors.”
“black and red,” you guessed easily. “classic red hood.”
“don’t act like you don’t love it—”
“then i want leopard print carpet on the stairs,” you added, entirely serious. “and black lace curtains over red ones.”
he stared at you.
“…i’m reconsidering everything.”
you ignored that. “and we’re getting another cat. mr. darcy will be lonely in a house that big.” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “oh, come on. using our cat against me? that’s dirty.”
you just looked at him.
that look that always won.
“...fine,” he sighed, dramatic, defeated in the way he never was anywhere else. “only because mr. darcy is going to have an existential crisis otherwise. but we’re naming her elizabeth bennet.”
“the perfect pair.” you beamed, tapping his chest lightly. “great talk, sweetheart. now i’m starving—let’s eat.” he rolled his eyes, but the softness stayed. it always stayed with you. “you know, most people say ‘thank you’ when someone cooks for them.”
“i’ll say thank you if the food deserves it.”
he grabbed two plates from the cabinet. served you first anyway. “yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “eat before it gets cold, ma.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ sypnosis — in which jason has gotten used to your affection aka he's spoiled
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ tags — fluff, domesticity, slice of life, puppy jason?, kinda based off my last fic, ooc jason, mild language, reader loves him... even if she denies it, strict reader back at it
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ wc — 1.6k
author's note — thank you guys for all the support my last fic got! i love u guys so much sooo i had this one in my drafts and it's all yours
you were just humming in the kitchen, washing up the big ol’ pile of dishes in the sink. jason wanted to help, but you said no, really because he wasn't super great at it, but hey, you liked that he put in the effort.
your pyjamas were all soft and snug on your skin, thanks to jason throwing them in the dryer before you changed. but you had this sneaky feeling he picked out the tiniest ones on purpose.
the wooden scrubber in your hand was on its last legs, and that garlic parmesan from dinner wasn't helping much. you were scrapping extra hard, making sure there wasn't a crumb left behind.
you finished the dishes with a relieved sigh, drying up your hands on the towel by the sink before you dimmed the amber lights of the kitchen.
after, you grabbed a few matches from the little drawer near the fridge along with a stick of your favorite incense. your steps padded softly towards the dining table. the freshly mopped floors felt cool against your feet.
you set the little stick on the holder and lit it up, quickly blowing on it so the smoke could fill the apartment with its scent. taking a slow exhale, you paused to appreciate the quietness.
jason had left for patrol a little while ago, or so you thought, and you settled into that soft solitude that crept in when he wasn't around. it was nice not to have a two-hundred-pound guy taking up half the space. for the most part.
you decided to head to the living room to clean up the mess from the board games you two played earlier. you’d rather get it done sooner than later, knowing you wouldn't want to get up and clean after getting into bed.
then suddenly, his voice broke the quiet.
“did i do something wrong?”
“sweet baby jesus!” you gasped, hand flying to your chest, your breath heavy as you looked at him through wide eyes.
“what is wrong with you?" you asked, trying to calm your racing heart. he looked kind of intimidating, just a shadow in the corner, barely lit, but you recognized that little pout of his from a mile away. “what do you want, jace?”
“you didn’t say goodbye,” he said, stepping into the light, his frown small but there. he was just standing by the window where he usually went out for patrol, helmet held under his arm, just waiting there so still that it threw you off.
“what are you talking about? i said bye,” you replied, finally letting your hand drop from your chest and mussing your hair.
“nuh uh.”
you lifted your gaze to him, a frown tugging at your eyebrows. “oh yes huh,” you shot back.
“nuh uh.”
“yes huh!”
“nuh uh!” he exclaimed, raising his voice, his fingers clenching into a fist.
you raised an eyebrow, your hand resting on your hip. “is that an attitude i hear?” you asked, taking slow steps towards him. you noticed how his jaw was all tight and his eyes were full of uncertainty.
you watched him bite his lip, words struggling to form. his hands curled into fists, relaxed, then curled again until his helmet slipped from under his arm and clattered onto the floor.
“jason?”
he stared at the wall behind you before mumbling, “you didn’t kiss me goodbye.”
you blinked at him. “excuse me?” that seemed to flip a switch in him. he turned to you, looking worried.
“are you mad at me? what did i do?” he whispered, his hand reaching out to rest on your waist, his fingers curling around it perfectly.
you sighed, your hands momentarily covering your cheeks. you couldn't believe he was serious. “you think I’m mad... because i didn’t give you a goodbye kiss?” you asked slowly, wondering if he was just teasing.
he nodded, his bottom lip poking out a bit as he squeezed your waist for comfort. you rolled your eyes and smacked his hand away.
“you are mad!” he accused.
“am not!” you huffed, “you’re just being silly, and now you’ve lost patrol time!”
“okay, but what if i get hurt without my good luck kiss?” he countered, placing his hand back on your waist while snaking the other around you, completely capturing you against his muscles.
“you are ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath, looking up into his expectant yet pleading eyes. “if i kiss you, will you go?”
he nodded eagerly.
“ugh, fine, but only because i want you to leave,” you said, leaning in for a quick peck on his lips. but that plan went awry as he leaned in for another kiss... and another... and another.
“jason, goddammit, jason!” you said, struggling to squirm away from his grip. his stubble was scratching against your skin, and you could already see your skin breaking out the next morning.
he kept launching his little smooch attack until you felt like a total glob in his arms. your expression blank as his lips planted kisses everywhere, from your chin to your hairline.
after one last big smooch and a loud “mwah,” he finally released you, flashing a toothy grin while you shot him your best annoyed look.
“you leaving now?” you mumbled, glancing at him as he nodded, turning back to the window, gripping the edge, and wiggling a bit before jumping out.
you sighed at the absurdity of it all. “you forgot your helmet!” you said, crouching down to grab the red thing and tossing it out the window. “fucking loser,” you muttered.
“hey!” you heard him yell from outside, but you weren’t sure if he was offended about his helmet getting tossed or if it was because you called him a loser... which he was.
after a few seconds, you took a deep breath in and let it out. finally, he was gone.
you turned around and got back into your rhythm, bending down to pick up the dice and all the scattered uno cards left on the coffee table. you even found one tucked under the couch...where jason conveniently sat before he somehow won. suspicious.
you carefully stacked all the cards into a neat little deck, using one of your hair ties to keep them together before putting them on the bottom shelf and moving on to the dice, placing them inside a wine glass that decorated the tabletop.
with a grunt, you got back up and put your hands on your hips, glancing around the apartment. it was a bit messy, but good enough for you. plus, it was late, and your phone was probably getting paranoid about how long you’d been away from it.
you wandered into your shared bedroom and collapsed onto the bed that sat in the middle of the room.
his cologne still clung to the sheets from when he'd gotten dressed, and you couldn't help but wrap yourself up in a burrito while you dug for your phone beneath the pillows.
"five minutes," that's what you told yourself. just five minutes on social media before you went to sleep. but then five turned into ten, ten into thirty, and before you knew it, you heard the sound of jason climbing back through the bedroom window.
the sound of his kevlar suit echoed as he moved closer to the bed. you heard the soft hiss as he took off the helmet and felt the way the mattress sunk as he placed it near your feet.
you waited for him to climb in, one minute, two minutes... two and a half. until you turned around, looking at him over your shoulder
“dude, are you getting in?” you asked, eyeing him up and down to make sure he wasn’t hurt before you started to scold him. he looked fine, a few scratches here and there, but overall, he was okay. good.
he didn’t say anything, though, and you rolled your eyes. his gaze was locked on you, and he couldn’t help but notice how the blue light from your phone made your eyes shine and defined the slope of your nose.
“i’m not dealing with another one of your tantrums,” you muttered under your breath as you turned back to your mukbangs of the most beautiful desserts in LA.
another half a minute went by, and you grunted as you glanced back at him. you knew what he wanted, of course, but c’mon! he was getting way too spoiled lately. too bratty. you couldn’t just give in to everything.
“if i do it, will you stop staring at me? it’s kind of creepy,” you said as you struggled to untangle yourself from the blankets before sitting up to face him. he just nodded.
“ugh, fine,” you muttered, scooting over and starting to ruffle the sheets on his side of the bed. “c’mon, c'mere handsome,” you cooed, using that soft voice you usually reserved for stray cats in crime alley, but somehow he got to be the exception.
he immediately started yanking off his heavy boots, tossing them who knows where, and then leaped on top of you.
“for fuck’s sake, jason! how many times do i have to tell you—” you were cut off when his lips began to wander over yours and then down to your chin.
“i missed you over there,” he whispered, his hands wrapping around your waist as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him.
“yeah, well, i didn’t,” you mumbled.
“oh yeah? then why are you all cuddled up in these blankets like that?” he shot back with that lazy grin, his face getting way too close to yours. you hated how much you loved those little dimples of his. “is it because i sprayed my cologne?”
cw: sfw, fluff, gn!reader, kissing, mention of redhaired jason.
bf!jason who will risk his life every night checking around your shared apartment because you heard a noise.
bf!jason who always wakes you up with forehead kisses and running his hands through your hair.
bf!jason who lets you rest your head on his bicep and fall asleep with it beneath you — it’ll cut off his circulation at some point, but your happy expression is worth it at the expense of his extremities.
bf!jason who cries into your shoulder when he’s feeling vulnerable. he trusts you enough to know you won’t mind the huge tear stains on your sleeve.
bf!jason who has a hard time letting you go to work. he’ll trap you in his arms and beg you to stay.
bf!jason who ends up taking you to work no matter what, but suffers regardless because he wants you stuck to his hip for eternity.
bf!jason who’ll ask you for help dyeing his hair. he thinks the natural red doesn’t suit him at all and, when his roots grow out a little too long, he’ll complain your ear off about it.
bf!jason who only trusts you with his hair. nobody else can touch that mess except you.
bf!jason who constantly writes you old-fashioned letters in fancy cursive just to show off.
bf!jason who doesn’t know how he got along on earth without you.
bf!jason who always places his hand at the back of your neck when you kiss. it’s the most romantic thing he can think of in the moment.
──── 𑣲𝒿 ────
Every evening after you’d finish with work, before Jason even thought of going out on patrol, he made sure to wait by the door with a big smile and open arms until you’d get through to embrace him.
This night wasn’t any different. The same routine of listening for the jingle of keys and dragging footsteps behind the apartment door had been taken up a long time ago, a sweet gesture formed after watching the sparkles in your eyes during a movie scene with the same premise.
Jason stared down at the broken watch on his wrist, fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater. It was half past six, a tad late for you to come home. I should’ve gone to pick them up, he thinks, shuffling impatiently. The doorknob clicks open, and suddenly he’s attempting to straighten that godawful posture he can’t seem to get rid of anymore.
“There you are,” he smiles, pulling you into a tight hug. You groan into his chest, practically going limp as you absorb the warmth and comfort of home.
His fingers thread through your hair, scratching that spot in your scalp that paralyses you until further notice. It felt so unbelievably right.
“Today was rough, huh?” Habitually, Jason had learnt to ask how your day went, but your face when you crossed past the doorframe was enough for him to know. He squeezes you tight and closes the door for you, using his pinky and ring finger to turn the lock until it clicked.
He settles his left hand on your cheek, the right coming to rest at the back of your neck. You can’t help but finally smile back at him, leaning forwards on the tips of your toes to press your lips against his.
Jason pauses, body rigid until it melds against yours, curves and hard edges aligning to make the perfect shape. A laugh escapes his lips as you kiss, pulling away once your tongues swipe one another.
“that’s it, baby. look at the camera.” dick murmurs against your cheek, softly angling your face towards the camera dick set up. “show ‘em that pretty face.”
his thighs slap harshly against your ass, his hard abs against your back. your mind is hazy and your words sound more like gibberish as dick fucks you in front of his camera.
it was a crazy idea. you’ve been seeing dick for a couple of months, after being friends with him for years. it’s nothing serious (yet), just sex. when he asked if he could record you two fucking… it threw you into a shock, but you agreed anyways. the thought of dick watching the video when you weren’t around him was hot. it made your mind buzz.
“you look so pretty, baby.” dick whispers, his eyes flicker to the camera before turning all his attention onto you again. “don’t look away from the camera.” his lips press against your cheek, kissing your face gently.
his hand moves from your face down to your neck, pressing on it firmly. he thrusts his hips harder, causing a small cry from your throat. he always knew what made your body happy, your skin crawl and mind empty. he definitely used it to his advantage. “go on, show how needy my girl can be.” he praises easily, his voice smooth and soft. dick calling you his girl warming your heart.
you moan softy, now moving your hips to match with his. trying to match with his tempo. “good girl, you listen so well.” you know he’s smiling, you can hear his smug voice. “keep moving your hips.”
“move faster,” dick shifts slightly, letting his free hand roam down your body. raising it up, he smacks your ass. “keep going, show off for me, angel.” he murmurs again, continuing to press kisses into your skin. your body shivers, knowing it won’t be over anytime soon.
Jason Todd who knows no personal boundaries with you. Once you moved in together, it just flipped a switch in him. If you thought he was clingy before, that was nothing compared to now.
He trails after you. Follows you around everywhere and somehow despite being one of the smartest men you know, doesn’t always recognize the need for personal space.
Standing too close while you’re cooking breakfast, bowl of batter in hand being splashed all over him when you turn and he’s not even three inches away from you. That’s the least of your worries on the ever-growing list.
You figure if he wasn’t an incredibly stealthy vigilante it wouldn’t be as much of an issue, but when you aren’t expecting him to be up your ass it leads to constant bumping into each other.
~
He follows you into the bathroom one day and you have to pee so bad you can’t even be bothered to stop him. You allow him to stand against the counter facing you and continue the conversation.
When you reach to grab toilet paper you just look at him, “Are you seriously gonna watch me wipe?”
“Yeah.” Jason says it so plainly, as if you asked if he wanted a cup of water.
“You’re such a freak.” You say with a shake of your head, finishing your business.
“It’s literally just pee, babe. I don’t care.” He argues. “Besides, you’re just as much of a freak as me. You’ve got no room to talk.”
“Look at us, a pair of freaks.” You’re beside him at the counter now washing your hands.
Jason doesn’t offer a reply, simply leans over to place a gentle kiss to your cheek.
~
“Jay, I’m plucking my eyebrows. Why are you so close to me.”
Your boyfriend slithered up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist while you leaned into the mirror for a better view.
“‘Cause I wanna be. Can’t I be close to my girl?” His words are muffled in your shoulder blade.
Sighing, truly not that upset, you mumble. “Okay.”
He stays curled up behind you as you finish your mission: making your eyebrows perfect. The entire time his face is either in your back or watching your reflection in the mirror as if you’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen. As if you aren’t making the most egregious faces trying to get the angle you need.
“So pretty, baby.”
~
“Okay, that’s it!” You scream out at Jason one day.
You’d walked into the bathroom 30 minutes ago to give yourself a pedicure. Soaking your feet in a warm bath with fancy products.
Jason has been sitting with you the whole time. Not saying a word, simply providing company while you both do your own thing.
When you’d pulled your feet out and began to dry them off, ready to trims your nails, Jason pulled the tools from your hands and dragged your feet into his lap.
That’s when you’d lost it.
“Why the hell are you trying to cut my fucking toenails, Jason Todd!”
His head whips up to look at you, deer in headlights look at your outrage. He makes no comment, looking confused.
“Doesn’t any of this get to you? Watching me piss and pop pimples and cut my damn ingrowns!” You feel insane. Surely this isn’t normal behavior. Not that you mind it, but why is he doing it?
You refuse to admit that deep down you worry all of this was gonna make him sick of you one day. That he’d see a flaw too closely, something about you that’s too real, and maybe he wouldn’t like it.
“Because it’s you.” His reply comes easy. Simple.
“What?” You’re slightly breathless. Chest previously heaving with bewilderment now struck with a deep wave of love for Jason.
“It’s just you, baby. I don’t care what you’re doing, I just wanna be with you. It’s not gross if it’s you. I want to help you with everything. If you’ll have me, that is.” As if to prove his point, he lifts your still damp foot up and places a kiss to your ankle.
“Jason, that’s- you.” You struggle for words. “That’s actually really fuckin’ sweet.” Tears start to form in your eyes as you take in his admission. “You really feel that way?”
“Remember the first time I opened up to you- the day we moved in together. Told you about how hard it might be to live with me?” Jason’s words are soft. You nod in affirmation.
“You told me, that loving me would never be hard. That no matter how much work it was, you’d never mind it because it was me.” His hands rub gently over your legs.
“It changed something for me, I dunno.” He mumbles, “Made me realize how you’ve never once balked or shied away from anything I ever showed you. How you’ve never made any part of me feel wrong. That’s what it’s like for me, too.”
The tears are falling freely now, warm salt dripping down your cheeks.
“I love you.” There’s nothing else you can think to say.
“I love you.”
“And here I was thinking you’re some freak.” You joke, tears still wetting your shirt.
hihi can I please request Jason Todd x reader hurt/comfort and fluff, where the reader had an awful day and was finally looking forward to falling asleep w Jason after not being able to cuz of constant patrol, but reader snaps at him pretty harshly. So to give her some space Jason stays in the living room while reader gets ready for bed but starts to get upset thinking Jason was gonna sleep on the couch
Hopefully that makes sense!! Thank you so muchhhh
AHHHH thank you for the request! (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤
I am sooo sorry I took this long omg
Ok so, lowk not really good or have that much experience with angst/comfort so might not be that good sorry 😖 but I tried my best, sorry if the ending is kind of rushed!
1/4 fics before my break
___________
Promises
Jason Todd x reader
Jason todd masterlist
Main masterlist
__________
You were sore, every part of your body heavy - like they were chained to a metal ball at the bottom of the ocean.
And worst of all, working at your company was the leading cause for all of this; constantly running out to grab coffees for everyone that you ended up forgetting yours, holding piles of files that you were somehow responsible for. As you walked the darkened streets of Gotham city - street lights painting the concrete in a golden haze - your growing need to rest beside your boyfriend hammered against your chest.
It had been weeks, no, it felt as if it had been months since you last saw him for more than a second. Before he had to head out for patrol, placing a kiss to your forehead and whispering a promise of 'having more time soon'. A promise that turned into another one, then another and another.
Empty promises that you simply answered with a smile.
You knew that it wasn't his fault - maybe it was even selfish to feel this way - but why couldn't he make time for you, when he could make time for a whole city.
Were you not enough?
Were you not as important?
Letting out a shaky breath, you shook your head; inhaling sharply as your gaze fell upon the wooden door in front of you. Hands hovering over the golden handle, condensation forming - before turning the knob with a click.
Like always, the hallway was dark, the smell of the food you cooked last night still lingering. Only this time the kitchen light was on, mud streaked boots toppled beside your sneakers. And then finally, you noticed the shadow of a man spilling onto the door mat.
It was him, actually him.
You should have been happy, overjoyed that he made the effort to finally show up after your work.
That he made time.
Yet, the moment you laid eyes on his shoes - shadow - something didn't feel right.
"Jay? When did you get here?" you called from the hallway, leaning against the wall as you sluggishly took your shoes off.
An awkward chuckle echoed throughout the house, your fingers curling around your sleeve.
"Hey. Just a few minutes ago, didn't expect you to get home so late."
"Oh... I see." you mumbled, slowly making your way to the kitchen.
There he was, standing in that black hoodie you wash at least twice a week, hair damp - slightly ruffled - green eyes focusing on you the moment you walked in.
Holding a plate of overcooked pasta.
He had been cooking, god he was cooking the moment he got back.
You watched as his growing grin faltered, brows pinching together. "You're glaring at me... What did I do this time?" he asked, setting the food down before reaching for you.
You shook your head, holding your hands out to stop him. "Nothing, Jason. I'm fine."
"Really, because for as long as I've known you a) you only call me Jason when I'm in trouble and b) I'm fine translates to you're not actually fine. So," he leaned in, voice lowering into something quieter. Something soft as his calloused hands cupped your cheek. "What's wrong, sweetheart."
"I said I'm fine!" you swallowed hard, surprised at how bitter your voice came out. How fast your heart was beating in your chest.
Jason blinked, lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't move. "Hey..."
"No," you snapped, the words falling out before you got to stop them. "You don't get to 'hey' me... Do you know how long I've waited for you to come back? Spent hours staying up just so I could talk to you - no - see you for more than ten minutes a day?"
"I-"
"Weeks! Weeks Jason, hoping you'd make time for me like the city you protect. At this point, am I even important to you anymore?"
You paused, tears streaming down your face as everything was laid bare right in front of him. "I don't get to talk to you, hear your voice. I'm forced to face everything alone, to stress about work, the safety of you... Aren't we supposed to be partners? Since when did it become a solo game?"
Jason stared at you as if you'd knocked the air from his lungs. His mouth opening once, then closing.
"...I didn't know it got this bad."
You laughed - a brittle, exhausted sound that hurt more than crying.
"How could you? You were never here."
"...I know," he whispered, "You're right, I made so many of those damn promises... Didn't I?"
"Yeah, and I actually believed in them."
Jason flinched, not obviously, but it was enough to notice how his fingers twitched. Gaze falling to the floor as he closed his eyes, holding his breath as if breathing had become difficult.
"I'm sorry... I - you should go to rest... And if you're hungry, pasta's here."
Was that all he was going to say? No excuse, getting upset. That it was hard for him too?
Before you could say anything, Jason turned without meeting your eyes. Exiting the kitchen into the living room, leaving you with the silence again.
-----------------
You stared at the blinking clock by your bedside, its light coloring the sheets in a neon green glow.
It had been an hour since you snapped at him, since he walked into the living room.
You tried to continue on as usual, walking upstairs to brush your teeth, comb your hair - but you just ended up staring at the ceiling; tossing and turning until the clock turned into your sole sense of comfort without him.
Was he really going to stay there all night?
He didn't even bring blankets down with him.
Slowly, you sat up on your bed - grabbing a fistful of blanket - before sliding to the edge and dragging it down to the living room.
-------------------
You found Jason sitting on the couch, head in the palm of his hands - moonlight shining down on his silhouette.
"What are you doing up this late?" he blurted, looking up the moment you shuffled your way through the archway.
"I... I didn't want you to sleep in the cold."
"I wasn't going to sleep."
"Then what were you doing?"
Jason paused, eyes falling to the floor again. "...Thinking."
"Jay," you whispered, exhaling a shaky breath. "I don't want you to distance yourself from... I... I don't want you to sleep on the couch."
"Hey, hey," he murmured, standing up to hold you in his arms before hesitating when he got close. "I promise you, I am not going anywhere ok?"
"Are you hurt? By what I said?" you asked, holding onto the blanket a little tighter.
Jason shook his head. "No. No, you had every right to say what you did. I was the one that hurt you. The patrols kept piling up that at some point I thought that loving you would be enough, but shouldn't have been like that. I should have made time for you, damn it all."
You looked at him for a long moment.
The moonlight caught the exhaustion carved into his face - the bruising beneath his eyes, the fading scrape along his jaw, the way his shoulders remained tense, how he stopped himself from holding you.
For once, he looked less like Red Hood.
More like Jason.
"You know what hurt the most?" you whispered.
He swallowed. "...Tell me."
"I started getting used to you not being here."
His arms stiffened.
"I started only making enough dinner for myself" Your voice cracked. "I'd wake up in the middle of the night and stop reaching for your side of the bed because it was almost always felt cold."
You looked away. "I stopped expecting you."
"So when I walked into the house tonight," you laughed weakly. "I should've been happy... but I ended up snapping, hating you for showing up now."
Silence fell over the both of you, not uncomfortable - heavy.
Slowly, Jason opened his mouth just to close it again - but this time you were the one to reach out first.
Arms wrapping around his waist, face buried into his chest as his body went rigid. Hands hovering, before holding you closely.
You continued, voice muffled by the fabric.
"The truth is Jay, I can't help but get hurt at the thought of missing you, loving you when you're not here," you swallowed, tears streaming down your cheeks - burning a trail across your skin. "And knowing now, that I'm the one that pushed you away when you never meant to hurt me... I'm so sorry."
Jason pulled back just enough to see you, shaking his head, his warm thumb catching the falling tears. "You don't have to apologize, I'm the one who was never able to keep their promises."
He paused. "I thought I knew how to balance everything, but I ended up making everything worse." Jason exhaled sharply through his nose. "Tomorrow turned to the day after that, then next week."
"It's fine," you breathed, "Gotham needed you."
"I know, but that doesn't mean I can't tell you when I'll be late, or swing by when patrol isn't packed."
He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. "No more spending time together soon, no more leaving you alone for a city that doesn't care for my well being. I'm going to stay, for as long as I can, every single fucking day."
"But-"
"Don't worry about the city, I'm sure Alfred and Dick can figure something out."
You chuckled, cupping his face, feeling the slight stubble beneath your palms. Watching as a smiled tugged at the corners of his lips.
"It feels like it's been forever since I heard you laugh," carefully, Jason tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I love it, I love you."
And for the first time in weeks, your heart didn't feel as heavy.
in which, JASON TODD has got a big, fat crush on the neighborhood's bookstore owner; so it's not a surpise when he ends up inside of her, right?
‧₊˚✩彡
includes: jason todd x fem!reader, bookstore-owner!reader, mature content (17+), tw / cw: depictions of blood loss, stab wound, stitches, ... making out, thigh-humping, 'the knee thing,' begging, panty-ripping, oral (f. recieving), fingering, biting, marking, being bent over, mirror-sex, drooling, dirty-talk, sub!reader, creampie, 6.9k words.
‧₊˚✩彡
kinktober masterlist.
FOR ONCE, gotham was sunny. warm rays shone down through the large, floor to ceiling windows of your bookshop-- air tinged with scents like crisp autumn wind and faintly stale coffee. a few individuals traversed between each row of books, fingers running idly down the spine of the few that caught their eyes. it was calming. natural. a welcomed escape from the harsh reality that existed for many outside of the parameters of your humble store; an environment where worries melted off of the shoulders of even the most damned, and where the innocent could flourish.
from the register, you fiddled with a pen-- twirling it absentmindedly between your pointer and middle fingers. the motion was relaxed; practiced, and exuding only contentment.
however, the sound of your shop's door-bell chimed softly as a new civilian entered; and your movements paused, irises tracking down the face of the potential customer. to your slight surprise, (and something deep within your gut eerily similar to relief, or perhaps even giddy), recognition washed over you.
"jason," you called out softly, waving a hand towards one of your regular customers.
greenish-grey eyes flicked upwards to meet yours, and the man echoed your name. it sounded heavy on his tongue-- but not with angst; with care. "i'm back already," he grinned, wooden floorboards creaking with age as he stepped closer to the check-out where you remained.
a smile bloomed across your face. "missed me that much?" you questioned, teasing. "it's barely been a week."
jason shrugged noncommittally, hands raising playfully in surrender, though his freckled cheeks tinged a faint shade of red. "y'know you can't keep me away,"
the sound of your laughter combined, and floated its way to the ceiling of your bookstore. it clung to the wooden beams spanning the roof; seeping into the oak, willing itself into the history of the building.
when the laughter died down, you jutted your chin to the side-- motioning the back of your store. "a new shipment of second-hand books just arrived from metropolis; you know where to find 'em,"
jason saluted, "aye, aye captain," before making his way towards his desired items. the man would be kept occupied for a good little while with the boxes upon boxes of books you hadn't bothered to sort through yet; and you smiled quietly to yourself.
it was easy to recall the first time you had met jason; even easier to lose track of when your friendship had blurred into this slow, thumping heart-beat of comfort and familiarity. he came in at the beginning of each week, would purchase a handful of books, and would return the following week to do the same thing. after a few repeated cycles of this, you and him had begun to chit-chat beyond his payments-- and just like that, you had become acquainted with the large, handsome man.
beyond that, though, you didn't know much about him. as his fingers would dust across yours at the register, your eyes would linger on the collection of scars littered across his skin; but you never pushed. you understood that, while you looked forward to jason's arrival at your store like clock-work, the privacy of his life remained his.
the affairs he found himself tangled within outside of the haven you offered to gothamites alike was none of your business; all you could hope was that jason remained safe in whatever trials he thrust himself into.
especially now-- that thought crossed your mind as he approached a mere ten minutes later, with four books in his hands. dropping them on the counter-top, his cheeks dimpled. "i'm shocked i was able to pick only four, that new shipment is loaded with good shit."
you grinned, totaling the sticker-prices of the books into your register. "the four book only policy doesn't apply to you," you whispered, leaning forward ever so slightly, "take as many as you'd like." the scent of his cologne-- something earthy and inviting-- floated its way into your nose. you shivered.
jason's eyes widened softly, a dark eyebrow arching upwards. "willing to bend the rules just for me? i'm flattered," glancing towards jason's face, you wished for nothing more than to burn the image of his grin into your memory permanently.
"yeah, well," your eyes rolled, fingers typing away at your cash register, "you're a returning customer-- and i'm not worried you'll resell my shit for a lower price."
the sound of jason's laugh sounded nothing short of mesmerizing. "shouldn't judge a book by its cover," he said easily, "i'll put you out of business."
it was your turn to laugh softly as you reached beneath the front-desk, grabbing a re-usable bag for jason's books. the man took out his wallet, and dropped a twenty and a ten on the counter. "please," you scoffed, handing him his books, "the only way you'll put me out of business is by buying all of my fuckin' stock."
"that's right," jason agreed, nodding. black wisps of hair fell into his eyes, and he ran a sturdy hand through his locks. "i'll be back before you know it, pretty."
✩✩✩
night howled against the windows of your book-store, and the silence of after-hours was terribly loud. your keys jangled and clanked against your hip as you made your rounds-- making sure all the doors and windows were secured and locked. up and down each aisle you traversed, the smell of homey paper sticking to your skin as if the library was trying to fuse itself to you.
all the books were where they were supposed to be, and every possible place someone could break into was reinforced properly. you sighed, fingers clutching tightly onto the fabric of your leather coat. despite the familiarity and warmth your shop offered during the day-- there was something uncomfortable about it once night fell onto the city of gotham.
chuckling to yourself, you recalled the previous owner of the building nervously mentioning ghosts living within the walls.
how childish, you thought to yourself, unlocking the register to empty its contents, who believes in ghosts anyways? certainly not me--
a loud series of bangs on the back entrance of your store rattled the entire building, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood in urgency.
you remained in place silently, and in shock, for a few moments; save for a small lamp near the front desk, the rest of the lights in your bookstore were off-- who on earth wanted to be let into a seemingly closed bookstore?
when the banging continued, almost growing desperate, you had closed your eyes-- "fuck," you muttered, reaching into a cabinet within the front desk that held a baseball bat.
(living in gotham, you could have never been too careful.)
it took a few falsely-confident steps to make it to the back of your store, and the metal door that was the entrance from the alley-way at its behind. you swallowed, the pounding of someone's fist unrelenting against the cool metal. you considered yelling, alerting the potential threat to your prescence, but figured you'd lose the upper-hand-- so without much thought, you swung open the door, raising the baseball-bat as if to attack the perpetrator-- until exactly who it was startled you.
"red hood?" you gaped, fingers clutching tightly onto the bat as the vigilante's mask glimmered a cherry red underneath the subtle lighting of the moon. you were no stranger to gotham's silent heros; especially not as someone running a small-business that happened to remain open about an hour past dusk. seeing one in-person, much less face-to-face, was daunting; especially since you knew-- or at least, had heard-- what this one was capable of. shit, you thought idly, did he see me j-walk last night?
red hood raised his hands; or, well, one hand-- the other remained glued to his side, and upon further inspection, he seemed to be leaning heavily to the opposite side of his injury. when he spoke, his helmet had muffled his voice-- and the voice changer you assumed he had implemented, crackled and popped. if he had said anything else-- you were certain you would not have been able to distinguish it underneath the fuzz of his helmet's voice changer-- but you immediately recognized that the man was saying your name.
something ran down your spine, and your face contorted into a mixture of fear and confusion. "what the fuck?" you frowned, fingers itching at the wood of your baseball bat.
you soon realized, however, how useless the weapon was-- red hood pushed past you, barely brushing your figure, and into your book-store. you yelped in surprise, twisting your body to watch the vigilante as he traced, without error (as if he was familiar with the store layout), your bathroom. while you couldn't see him from where you stood anymore, you were able to watch light spill onto the wooden floor of your store-- a harsh, fluorescent glow lighting up the small bathroom.
exhaling deeply through your nose, you entered your store again and closed the back entrance to the door tightly-- locking the deadbolts, preventing anyone from entering or exiting. "hey!" you called out hurriedly, making your way towards where red hood was, "i'd appreciate it if you would tell me what the fuck you're doing in my book-store,"
red hood, very clearly, had made himself comfortable in the bathroom; his own jacket had been discarded and sat messily on the floor, and his black compression shirt was pulled up to just underneath his left pec-- a nasty wound, most likely from a knife, seeped blood onto his pants and onto the tiles of the bathroom floor. you heard the man hiss as he pressed a wad of damp paper-towel to the injury, and you cringed away harshly.
"fuck," you winced, a phantom pain shooting directly into the side of your mid-section.
red blurred your vision softly as red hood turned his head towards you. "do you have a first-aid kit?"
without answering, you moved into the tiny bathroom-- opening a cabinet on the wall to pull out exactly what he was looking for. you placed it onto the small counter-top, and popped it open; red hood immediately reaching for thread and a needle.
"hey," you stopped him, grabbing onto his gloved wrist, "there's a walk-in clinic right down the road-- i can drive you there, it'll take like five seconds--"
"no," red hood answered almost immediately, gently tearing his hand from your grip to continue rifling through your first-aid kit.
"no?" you questioned, eyebrows raising. "what do you mean no? you're bleeding out--"
"i'll be fine." he answered shortly, bringing a spool of thread to his mouth to tear a long string with his teeth. "and i came here for a reason," his voice changer crackled as he spoke.
confusion etched its way deeper onto your face. "what?"
red hood sighed, and the glimmer of his mask caught your eye as his head turned towards you; his stare was harsh, despite the fact that you couldn't even see his face. "you were the closest person i could come to," he answered awkwardly, one hand still holding the paper-towel to his wound, "closest person i know."
you opened your mouth to speak, simply baffled by what he meant; but his next actions stole the words right from your throat.
with his free hand, he dropped the medical supplies onto the counter-top, before gripping his helmet and tearing it off of his head; his vision remained glued to the floor as he shook his hair out, recognizable black locks falling onto his forehead.
"jason?" you gaped. "holy shit," you practically laughed-- because what were the odds the person you had seen less than seven hours ago was one of gotham's most well-known vigilantes. the humour in the situation, though, died out quickly-- as you watched his irises examine his wound closer now, slight panic arising in both of your throats.
moving without a second thought, your palms found jason's biceps, leading him to sit on the counter-top. "sit. let me do it," you said quickly, gesturing to the thread and needle.
jason gave a long exhale, resting his body-weight against the counter with little refusal; "you don't need to do this," he argued weakly.
you rolled your eyes, gently prying the paper-towels from his wound; luckily, with some of the blood cleaned up, was less serious than you had first assumed. "i want to."
"you didn't want to before i took the helmet off," jason laughed softly. the movement made him wince.
"that was because i assumed i didn't know you," you murmurred, tongue-sticking out of the corner of your mouth in deep concentration, "i couldn't have been responsible should anything have happened to a stranger. but now that i do know you, why not put the first-aid course i took four years ago to the test?"
though you didn't bother looking up, you could practically feel jason's face scrunching up. "so i'm your guinea pig?"
you offered the slightest of nods.
"i'm fucked."
"hey," you protested, "i patched up a kid with a scraped knee like last week. you're in great hands,"
"not quite the same thing as a minor stab wound, but still reassuring, i guess,"
jason felt you poke into a non-injured section of his torso gently with the needle, only to laugh. something spurred to life within your ribs.
✩✩✩
after about ten minutes of stitching, you finally finished-- tying off the last suture, your fingertips grazed his abdomen. they lingered, as if his body was pulling you in-- like something couldn't keep you from stepping away. jason's breath hitched.
you cleared you throat, reeling your hands back towards your body, remaining medical supplies tossed haphazardly onto the counter. "sorry," you breathed.
jason's hands brushed over the newly bandaged wound, examining carefully, before greenish-grey irises met yours in the small cracked mirror of your tiny bathroom. "don't be." he said simply, holding your gaze.
you had so many questions. they were burning at your throat, clawing at your tongue-- fighting you, willing themselves to be released. but the longer your eyes stayed trained on each-other's within the shitty little mirror, the less they wanted to escape.
it was odd; you had had this idea of jason, in the back of your mind-- every-time he stepped through your bookstore's doors, you wondered what kind of life he led. perhaps he was a teacher, or maybe a fire-fighter, you had day-dreamed once; he seemed like the kind of man that knew the real grit that covered every surface within gotham, and he seemed like the kind of man who wanted to erase it all. you had been right, in a way; because wasn't that what red hood stood for? nonetheless, the vigilante's identity had made your fingers quiver against his skin as you tended to his wound, and you knew jason was pointedly ignoring the tremor in your palms as you patched him up. you considered the fact that, he too, most likely knew it wasn't from who the version of himself he had hidden from you, but rather the one you thought you knew all too well.
the silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. no, it was charged. the air between the two of you practically vibrated with what was once fear, now morphed into understanding, anxiousness; a yearning of sorts. it wasn't quite fear, but it was not quite relief either. now you had seen jason for what he truly was, and that was a scary thing to have admitted on both of your ends. you swallowed, eyes tracing downwards on jason's form in the mirror-- down the bridge of his nose, down to his lips (where they lingered for longer than what you wanted), and down to his jaw. examining him so closely, you could see the way his pulse jumped in his throat.
your reflection looked back at you—wide-eyed, flushed, and unsteady. naked, in some sort of sense. jason’s gaze dropped from the mirror to you, slow and deliberate, and you realized with a start that he wasn’t the only one feeling bare.
"why did you come here?" you asked, words so quiet on your lips you were certain jason had not heard you. when he answered, something spiked lowly in your gut.
"i told you," jason whispered back, "you were the closest person i trust."
"you trust me?"
"more than i'd like to admit." jason dragged a calloused hand through his hair. a nervous tick. "do you trust me?"
"yes." the answer was immediate, and the lack of hesitation made the corner of jason's eyes crinkle with the slightest hint of amusement.
the sound of his laugh sent sparks up your spine. "you shouldn't."
tilting your head to look at him, one of your eyebrows arched upwards. "you haven't shot me or anything yet, so i think i'm okay,"
jason laughed again. the sound was low, from the back of his throat. shamefully, your cunt throbbed. "you never know,"
"right," you agreed, "i think i'll take that risk."
jason watched your eyes flicker down to his lips, and took that as a sign-- crashing his mouth onto yours, he kissed you like his life depended on it.
there was nothing sweet about it, nothing gentle; nothing like the man jason was when he let his guard down around you, nothing like the man you thought you knew. his hands fumbled clumsily along your body, as if he didn't know what to do with them, until one of them cupped the back of your head and the other found your hip. using his strength, he kept you glued to his body; crooking your head to the side, you deepened the kiss.
jason groaned into your mouth once he felt your tongue drag against the fat of his bottom lip. he opened wider to allow you access into his mouth, and you grinned. it was messy-- spit dribbled down both of your faces, and your fingers had found themselves at jason's scalp-- pulling, tugging, willing him as close to you as he could get. the sounds of your breathing, laboured, shallow-- coupled with the wet noises coming from your kissing was obscene, and it echoed within the tiny bathroom of yours.
you began to suck on jason's tongue, and another pretty noise fell from his throat. using his hips, he shoved you backwards and onto the edge of the counter-top-- your ass digging into it's end. you whined, once you understood what he doing; jason used one of his knees to separate your legs, before he shoved his thigh right between your own.
the heat of your cunt, even through your jeans, was embarrassing. having jason's leg pushed up against your pussy, barely moving, barely giving you what you wanted-- he broke the kiss, voice raw and lips plump. "'s this okay?" he asked.
to his surprise, you laughed. "if it wasn't, i would have slapped you like.. five minutes ago,"
the man shrugged, bringing one of his hands to the side of your cheek-- his thumb idly playing with your bottom lip. "i was just making sure," he swallowed, "i didn't know if you wanted this."
"i mean," you started, eyes locking on the way his thumb lingered near the entrance of your mouth, "i would have preferred it if it didn't happen because you were stabbed."
jason nodded, corners of his mouth lifting upwards in the ghost of a smile, although there was little humor in his voice as he spoke, "me too."
"yeah?" you asked, voice teasing.
jason's voice was not teasing. "yeah."
something in your gut swirled, and you couldn't help but grind your hips-- your aching cunt-- down onto jason's thigh. he hummed, content at your action, finally shoving his thumb past your lips and into your mouth. he felt your tongue swirl around the pad of his thumb, lazily sucking as if you just needed something inside of your mouth.
when he spoke again, jason's voice had gone impossibly low. "i've always thought you were so gorgeous," jason began, "always thought you were way too pretty and too smart to be running a cute lil' shop like this, in this fuckin' city,"
without much thought, you nodded at his words-- the feeling of the seam of your jeans rubbing against his flexed thigh and knee, and onto your clit, far too intoxicating.
"i've been wanting to ask you out for forever, but every-time, i chickened out," he confessed, pushing his thumb deeper into your mouth, "that's it baby, grind that pussy onto my leg-- jus' like that,"
the sweetness of his confession combined with the filth of his praise made you moan around his digit-- hips quickening along his leg.
"i've thought about taking you out, maybe to see a nice lil' movie. maybe then-- oh, i know, feel's good, huh?-- maybe then we'd get dinner, there's a real nice place near china town i think you'd like,"
jason's words were becoming mush within your mind; nonetheless, they spurred you on, your clit pulsing and pussy sopping beneath the fabric of your ruined jeans and panties.
"then," he started, leaning forward to pepper kisses along your jaw, leading all the way to the shell of your ear, "then i'd take you home, and i'd make love to you so good, you'd never be able to fuck anyone else."
you moaned whorishly at his words, spit dribbling down your chin as his thigh brushed against your cunt again and again and again-- pleasure becoming all-consuming, and lust fogging every rational thought in your mind. "jason," you gasped out, words muffled by the man's thumb still in your mouth, "please." you begged.
"please what, sweetheart?" he questioned, pulling his finger from your mouth to let you speak, "tell me what you want."
all that consumed your mind was jason-- so that's exactly what you said. "you," you exasperated, fingers digging into his shoulders, "please i need you."
"mm," the sound of jason humming vibrated against your skin, his lips searing marks down your throat all the way to your collarbone. "keep begging, pretty girl. maybe then i'll give you what you want,"
grinding your cunt back and forth on his leg, your eyes welled up with tears of frustration; god, you needed him so badly. "jay," it fell from your lips in a gasp as jason began sucking harshly on your pulse-point, "please. please, anything you give me i- i'll take it, your fingers, your mouth, your dick--"
"m'giving you my thigh to grind on right now," you felt him smile against your skin, "isn't that enough?"
"more," you practically sobbed, other incoherent words flying from your throat at an embarrassing rate. back and forth and back again, humping jason's leg like a dog in heat. "please, jason."
pulling off of your neck with a pop, jason's lips glistened with saliva; the way he ran his tongue against the plump fat of his bottom lip, you'd think he was still able to taste you. "alright," he conceded finally, hooking two fingers into the waistband of your jeans to shrug them down your hips. when they had fallen to the floor, the man wasted no time in holding you tightly by the waist and propping you up onto the counter-top. the granite was cold against your bare bottom; you shivered.
before you could question what he was going to do next, jason sunk to his knees. it was tender, the way he studied the ruined fabric of your panties-- now on display right in front of his face. soft irises flicked upwards to meet yours, and your cunt throbbed with need. "please." jason paid your final plea no mind, lips connected to the plush of your thighs with a mission.
he kissed and he sucked and his bit-- teeth sinking into your leg just enough to make you moan, but not enough to hurt. darting his tongue outwards to soothe the blooming mark along your skin, he'd brush forward-- closer to your pussy-- to leave another violent hickey.
you began to squirm on the counter-top; hips involuntarily bucking towards jason's face-- seeking out any pleasure you could find. it was pathetic-- and if you hadn't been so drunk on fore-play, perhaps you would have cared about being so desperate in front of the man you liked. but the way your pussy was leaking down onto the granite, and the way your nipples had stiffened despite no attention being allotted to either of them-- you didn't give a fuck.
"patience," jason murmured, sucking deeply on your left thigh.
"i don't have much of it left."
at your snarky remark, jason's teeth bit into you-- the tiniest bit harder than his previous nips. you yelped, and he smiled against your skin.
opening your mouth to say something-- maybe beg, maybe cry, maybe snap-- jason cut you off when he reached two large hands forwards to grasp the edges of your panties. you face scrunched up, as if to say why not just pull them to the side? before a loud rip bounced off the walls of your bathroom.
within jason's hands-- the remains of your panties looked measley and useless; torn into two, jason tossed them onto the floor haphazardly.
"hey!" you gasped.
jason shrugged. "what? did you want me to keep them on you? not give you what you want?"
your face flushed, heat crawling up your neck. "well no,"
"exactly." jason leaned forward, lips pursing, and blew a cold gust of air onto your clit.
you couldn't fight the loud whine that escaped you at his actions, and jason's laugh rumbled deeply; his eyes danced upwards to your face again, and he made no effort to break the eye-contact as he pressed his mouth to your cunt.
the man licked a long stripe, flattening his tongue along your folds, slowly from your hole to your clit. you moaned, back arching away from the counter. 'jason!" you cried, fists clenching at the edge of the counter-top as he repeated his actions at a faster pace.
he moaned in response, reveling in the taste of you on his tongue, before his lips latched onto your clit. he sucked and sucked and sucked-- the sensation maddening. "i know," he cooed against your pussy, "you taste as good as you feel, baby,"
his tongue was unrelenting against your cunt-- jason lapping at your slick like a starved man. when he tilted his head downwards to lick and prod at your entrance-- the bridge of his nose brushed against your clit, and your hips stuttered along his face. "oh, jay," you moaned, body running hot at his actions.
jason's hands left your hips momentarily, reaching closer to your thighs-- only to hike them along his shoulders and back, inadvertently driving your cunt closer to his face. at the newfound angle, you both moaned in sync.
"god--" your breath hitched, "deeper, jason, c'mon,"
jason wasted no time in listening to your orders-- sticking his tongue past your sopping hole to tongue-fuck you with vigor. in and out and in again, his tongue practically curled and massaged your insides.
the man only pulled back for a second, to spit onto your aching cunt, before diving right back in. his tongue flattened against your folds again, his hands finding your hips. "this feel good, baby?" he asked.
you nodded, sweat beading at your temple.
jason's movements ceased, though his tongue remained connected to your pussy. "then fuck yourself on my tongue-- make yourself feel good, sweetheart,"
jason did not have to tell you twice-- your hips immediately began rocking along the man's appendage, the friction causing your lower stomach to coil with pressure.
you were, shamefully, lifting yourself off of the counter to grind against the vigilante's face now-- your own contorted and washed over by a myriad of pleasure and ecstasy. "jay," you moaned loudly, "please, i wanna cum,"
at your confession, jason's movements restarted again-- this time, with a renewed sense of purpose. he moaned into your cunt, vibrations only adding to the ever-growing sensation of your orgasm within your lower belly. "yeah?" he asked, voice muffled by your pussy.
"m-mhm!"
two of jason's fingers poked at your hole as his mouth re-attached to your clit-- and sunk in with ease. "shit, baby," he peeled himself off of you to mumble, "so fuckin' soaked for me-- this pussy's squeezing my fingers so good,"
you nodded, before your head lolled backwards as jason began sucking on your clit, his fingers curling and uncurling against your g-spot rapidly. there was no rhythm, no pattern; just jason chasing your orgasm as if it was his own.
the sound of your pussy squelching around his fingers was nothing short of obscene; your bathroom mirror was fogging up, and you hips tilted to meet the thrusts of jason's hand within you. greenish-grey irises blinked upwards to meet your own, and the intimacy your eye-contact sent you over the edge.
"jason," you gasped, jaw going slack, "m'cumming,"
jason smiled against your pussy, tongue and fingers working in tandem to keep you riding the high of your orgasm-- even as it dripped down his wrist and his chin.
your cunt pulsed and throbbed and squeezed like there was no tomorrow-- hips stuttering and shaking along jason's face, legs wrapping around his head in an effort to shut.
"i know," he praised, voice warm and low, dripping with arousal, as he continued to drag out your orgasm. "bet you feel so good, this wet fuckin' pussy painting my face," he whispered, delivering a final lick to your cunt, looong and slow, before he pulled away. "don't you, pretty?"
you nodded, chest heaving greatly. the aftershocks of your orgasm rocked your core, sending shivers from the tip of your spine all the way to your toes.
you couldn't remember the last time a man made you cum that hard. you can't remember the last time you made yourself cum that hard.
"well," he said, standing, "imagine how good my dick will feel."
you whined softly, bracing your hands along jason's chest when he finally stood in-between your legs. leaning forward, you connected your lips. the taste of your cunt on his lips was intoxicating.
lazily, jason kissed you back-- your tongues hadn't hesitated to be stuck down each other's throats, and your nails dragged down jason's torso. only when your fingertips met the bandages you had put on his wound earlier, did you stop.
"oh," you said lightly, "maybe we shouldn't; i don't want you to get even more hurt--"
jason cut you off with a roll of his eyes, his lips dancing across the bottom half of your face with ease. "baby," he mumbled between kisses, "a little cut won't stop me from makin' you feel good,"
"a little cut?" you laughed, slightly in shock. "you were stabbed."
"and? i'm a grown man, i can handle it."
his palms found your waist again, picking you up only to lower you onto the floor. when your feet met the tiles of the bathroom, he spun you around so you were facing the mirror. "don't come crawlin' back to me when your stitches are fucked, then, 'cause i won't redo them."
jason chuckled against your neck, his breath warm as you heard his belt buckle come un-done. "liar," he whispered. something flipped within your core. "we both know that if it'll end with me paying this," he reached a hand forward and around, to give your bare cunt several taps, "pretty pussy any attention, you won't say shit."
...
you hated that he was right. especially now knowing he could give you an orgasm that made you see god.
you rolled your eyes, your silence saying everything you couldn't. jason laughed again, before reaching into his boxers to pull out his throbbing cock.
"you made me so hard," he whispered along the shell of your ear. "see?"
his question, though, was not meant for you to literally see-- no, at his words, jason pressed his aching dick to your cunt, grinding his length along your folds at an infuriatingly slow pace.
you moaned. couldn't help it-- not at the sensation of every vein, every ridge, every bump along his cock skating over your pussy. "yeah," you nodded, bottom lip getting caught in between your teeth, "put it in me."
jason stilled for a moment at your words, before one of his hands flew from you hip and to the back of your neck-- pressing you firmly onto the counter-top. your torso was flush to the granite, and jason successfully had you bent. "i thought we established that you could beg better than that," his voice was low. serious. "with some manners."
shame flooded your system-- but the sensation of your pussy practically drooling onto jason's cock was far too enamouring for you to ignore. "please," you exhaled, "please, baby, put your cock in me-- i need it so badly,"
"that's better," jason hummed, beginning to grind his tip against your clit again. the sound of a low moan from the back of his throat fell onto your ears, and instinctively, you arched backwards and into the man.
"jay, please," you sobbed. jason's hand had travelled from the back of your neck to your head-- keeping you pressed securely to the counter-top. your irises met his, and your entire body tingled with need.
"please what? say what you want." he mocked, hips slowing as he continued to grind against your weeping pussy.
"please--!" you were growing desperate beyond coherent words. "please, jason, please just fuck me."
in the mirror, you watched jason grin. his cheeks dimpled and your stomach flipped. "atta girl," he lined himself up with your hole with ease, before slooowly pressing into you.
you both moaned as his cock began to fill you out-- inch by inch, the further he moved within your pussy, the more you both became drunk on one another.
your jaw had gone slack against the counter, cheek pressed to the cool surface by jason's sturdy hand as he finally bottomed out inside of you. his balls gently rocked against your clit, and he held you there-- unmoving, save for the occasional twitch of his cock.
"holy shit," he breathed out your name heavily, voice coated in a seductive euphoria. "you feel-- god, you feel like you were made for me,"
you whined at his words, arousal dripping onto his length crudely as the visceral need for jason to move enveloped you. "mhm," you hummed dumbly, "made for this fat fuckin' cock,"
the man moaned at your words, hips finally beginning to pace against your ass. it was steady, after a few thrusts-- his cock stretching your pussy out.
"yes," you cried, hands bracing the edge of the counter-top as his tip began to abuse your g-spot. "feels s'good, jay,"
"oh, i know, princess," he gasped, each plap, plap, plap! of his hips meeting your ass becoming more obscene than the last. your cunt pulsed as it surrounded his cock, sucking him in-- holding him, keeping you both impossibly close.
jason grunted and moaned loudly, in tandem with your cries of pleasure, and it spurred you on. without thinking, you began to back yourself up onto him-- meeting each thrust with a bounce of your ass on his cock.
to your surprise, jason's hand snaked its way between your throat and the counter, choking gently, before he yanked you upwards. his thrusts didn't stop-- in fact, his pace only quickened, cock moving in and out and in again at a brutal pace. "no," he said sharply, forcing your jaw upwards to make you look at him through the mirror's reflection, "let me do it. let me fuck you how i want, how you deserve to be fucked,"
your pussy was dripping-- soaking jason's cock as you observed in the mirror (through clouded, tear filled eyes), as he fucked you.
"see?" he questioned, grasp tightening ever so slightly around your throat, "such a good girl when you let me fuck you like this-- when you watch yourself take this cock,"
"yes, jay," you moaned, hands still gripping the counter. every single syllable that fell from his mouth went straight to your pussy, which fluttered whorishly around jason's dick as if it was the only thing it needed.
you had said other things, too; you babbled mindlessly as his dick drove in and out of you, punishing your aching and needy pussy. your feet kicked upwards as jason pushed your hips along the counter's edge, the weight of his hips slamming into your ass keeping you folded.
"haah," he moaned, grinding his cock impossibly deeper into your cunt. "shoulda done this sooner," he said, "shoulda stuffed this pretty little pussy so deep such a long time ago, i've been needin' it so bad,"
his words went straight to your cunt, and it squelched loudly around him in response. wordlessly, you were begging for more.
"oh, what's that? you been-- shiit-- needing it too, sweet girl?" he questioned, cock pistoning your pussy passionately.
"yes--! yes, yesyesyes, i needed this so badly," you agree, far too cock-drunk on the man to say anything else. your toes and fingertips tingled, pleasure bleeding into every sensation you had.
"now you've got it, s'okay, i'll take-- fuck-- i'll take care of you," jason tried his best, really, to keep his sentences together-- but the way your cunt was strangling his cock was starting to get the better of him.
his thrusts grew erratic-- out of time, sloppy-- as he bit down onto your shoulder, eyes still on yours in the mirror.
"i'm goin' to cum," you announced, his teeth sinking into your body only spurring on your second orgasm of the night. "i-- oh god, jason, i'm not going to be able to hold it--"
"then don't," he breathed out, his hand leaving your throat to travel to your clothed chest. despite the fabric of your shirt, jason still groped and molded your tits; he moaned into your neck, giving your right breast a hearty squeeze. "cum all over this fuckin' cock, baby,"
at his words, you obeyed. the corners of your vision went spotty as you head tilted backwards onto jason's shoulder-- your orgasm causing your entire body to twitch. your legs vibrated, and cunt spasmed along jason's dick-- to which you felt him throb inside of you in response.
"c-can i fill you up? inside?" he asked suddenly, thrusts impossibly random as he chased his own orgasm.
you were nodding your head before you could even think about it-- your pussy still beating intensely at his actions, clit pulsating and dripping with need. "holy shit-- yeah, jay, cum inside me,"
jason groaned again-- teeth biting into your shoulder and remaining there as he started to cum. hot, thick ropes, spurting into your pussy-- being stuffed deeper and deeper and deeper with every half-thrust that followed. the moans of the man seeped into your skin, jason drooling all over your body as he continued to pump himself deep inside of your womb.
the sensation of his cock inside you quickly became overstimulating-- but there wasn't anything you could do except moan as jason continued to fuck into you. "jay--!"
"fuck-- i know, sweet girl, i just-- haah-- just let me milk every last drop," and you were certain, as well, that jason was becoming overwhelmed in your pussy as well; hisses followed his moans now, and only when hot tears streamed down your cheeks, did jason pull out. you fell forward and onto the counter-top, the cold surface a harsh contrast to the heat that radiated off of both of your bodies in waves.
jason's body bent in half as he copied you-- except his chest was flush to your back. sweat dripped from his hairline and temple, and you felt a sloppy, warm kiss being pressed to the nape of your neck.
"mm," he hummed, eyes fluttering shut.
you mirrored him, the fluorescent lighting of your bookstore’s bathroom suddenly far too harsh against everything you were feeling. “jason?”
he grunted in response, the sound low and amused at the croak in your voice.
“if you liked me, you could’ve just said so,” you muttered. “no need to get yourself stabbed over it.”
his laughter vibrated softly against your skin. “you think I got stabbed because I couldn’t figure out how to confess to you?”
“the last book you bought from me was Romeo and Juliet,” you reminded him.
that earned a louder laugh, though he offered no defense. the sound was warm, almost boyish — and for a moment, it made you forget the blood still drying on his ribs; made you forget that his cum was seeping out of you.
“hey,” he murmured after a pause, “at least I didn’t die for it. been there, done that. wouldn’t recommend.”
you frowned, half-confused, half-concerned — but before you could ask, he leaned in, the smell of gunpowder and cologne and something entirely him pressing close.
“Thus with a kiss…” he whispered against your forehead, his lips ghosting over your skin, “I will not die again.”
for a heartbeat, neither of you moved. the line hung between you — tragic words rewritten into something fragile and defiant, something that belonged to him. to you.
and as his breath lingered against your temple, you realized there was far more to jason todd than the man who haunted your bookstore shelves. there was a story still being written — and somehow, you’d just found yourself in the middle of it.
PLUVOiA 25’ ® - masterlist
loren's thots: heyyy... how yall doing......... lmfao sorry this took a minute the universe threw an evil evil situationship at me w a man whos 6 ( S I X !!) whole yrs older than me.... god i love older men...... anyways its been consuming my mind and uh anything to do w sex has made me terribly emotional as a result but I POWERED THRU for yall i hope u like it.. n ya ik it wasnt the next one planned for kinktober no i didnt skip the eve and kyle pieces i js wanted to write for someone that i think yall would eat upppp so.. i love u all and omg freakin talk to me? omg cobwebs in my inbox damnnnn....
𝟏𝟖+ 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 | he sends you a voice message while he’s away.
“hey sweet thing. missing ya’.”
his voice erupted, you could only hear the sound of his breathing, imagining the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“how have you been, mm? eating well? hydrating? you best be taking care of yourself while ’m gone.” he laughed, that squeaky one where you could tell his throat was tight from holding something in.
“wish you could feel how much i’m missing you.” you heard his breath shake at the last syllable, then the tell-tale sound of his zipper slipping down rang out. a loud zzziipp like he wasn’t even trying to hide it.
a moment of silence then a harsh hiss came from his side as he wrapped a hand around his aching member, stroking it to full mast. “shit baby, i’m so hard just thinkin’ about you.” he groaned, then a rustle of clothes came as he shoved his pants down to his ankles.
he shifted his phone so that it was placed right beneath his cock, you could hear it slap against his phone screen, hot and heavy. “listen to it. listen to what you do to me.” he panted, beginning to pump himself, every tug of his length drawing a throaty sigh from him.
“wish you were here. y’know, sucking me off.” he paused to breath, stifling a whine as he imagined the scene in his head. “gosh, you’d look so pretty, mouth full of me. choking on me.” he continued.
“or you could just sit on it. let me hump you ‘til you pass out, all dumbed out on my dick.” he rasped, voice dropping a milky octave. you could hear him spit down on his cock, smearing the glob of saliva over his length.
“if you were here, i’d bend you right over this desk and fuck—” he sped up his strokes, you could tell he was close with how whiny he got. “i’d do so much to you darling, but you’re just not here. and it’s killing me.”
“miss you, so fuckin’ bad.” his voice cracked, you could hear the lewd fap-fap-fap of him fisting his cock ruthlessly, teetering on the edge of release.
“bet you’re touching yourself too, huh?” you could hear his smirk through the phone, “bet you’re getting off at seeing me so desperate and needy. you’re evil.” he grunted.
“shit, i’m close.” he cursed through gritted teeth, you could hear his chair creak under his weight as he pumped his cock, chasing his orgasm.
“this one’s for you.” he panted, the sounds of his fist becoming slicker. after a couple more strokes, he came all over himself with a muffled groan, making a mess everywhere.
“it’s so much.” he grumbled, already regretting what he did knowing he would have to get up and clean off. “and i blame it on you.” he chuckled, you could hear him tucking himself back into his pants.
“anyway. i’ll be back soon. love you, byee.” he spoke before blowing an obnoxious kiss to the phone and cutting the voice message.
Summary: Superman keeps running into this… supposedly “villain”. Your powers, for some reason, have never affected him, no matter how hard you try.
Tags/warnings: Angst. Loads of angst. Full of angst. Comfort. Fighting. Superman vs Reader. Reader doesn’t know Superman’s identity. No physical descriptions of reader. Superman is a softie. Really soft. Softer than cotton. Reader really hates Superman. No use of y/n. Original company invented by me and my powerful brain. (wc: 2.8k)
This wasn’t the first time you were trying to boycott Vanderbilt Industries. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time this week. Being an environmentalist was exhausting when the media called you a terrorist and didn’t see Vanderbilt Industries for the evil that it truly was. Even worse, every time you did anything against their CEO, Georgiana Vanderbilt, Superman came and rescued the evil corporation. Instead of helping you? The only person who supported you in that double-faced city was a random ass journalist on the Daily Planet. He always called out what Vanderbilt Industries was doing when you allegedly “attacked” them —and for legal reasons, we’re using quotes—. You would totally give Clark Kent an exclusive if he asked you to. He was the only one who even bothered to look at this fucking Industries.
Huh, and somehow you were the bad guy.
So it became your mission not only to destroy Vanderbilt Industries, but also to kill Superman. C’mon, he wasn’t immortal. You knew you just had to end him. Finish him, C’est fini! You’re tired of the big blue always ruining your plans and he doesn’t even take you to the Phantom Zone. Does he not take you seriously?
You were using your powers to make the plants grow and invade the office. Something you loved the most about your powers was that they came from the sun, so actually making the plants grow to tremendous sizes… they did it healthily. And it was amazing to see the vines breaking the windows and getting the people inside. But of course, Superman came right in. Of course, they were screaming terrified… despite you not actually doing anything to them, you were looking only for fucking Georgiana to make her pay or something, you weren’t really sure of what the plan was here. You just wanted Superman.
He smiles at you and waves softly as he sees you. Is he fucking making fun of you?
“The fuck you want now?” you ask bluntly, still moving your vines around the office to kick everyone out. Superman shakes his head.
“What are you doing this time?” he asks, amused. So he is making fun of you! You groan as you throw a vine at him, surrounding him entirely. But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t struggle to escape. You furrow your eyebrows. “It feels… tingly.”
“Oh for fuck’s-” you don’t finish, using your vines to start choking him. You really can’t stand him anymore. A smile tugs at your lips as you see him finally struggling, actually choking. He uses his x-rays to shoot down your vine and you furrow your eyebrows again. “Hey! Careful!” you yell at him. He’s quick to fly to you, taking you in his arms to pull you away from the building itself and from your vines. He’s taking you to fight.
The wind instantly whips your hair into your face as the ground falls away, the shattering glass and panicked corporate shrieks of Vanderbilt Industries fading into a distant buzz.
Finally. Fucking finally.
Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a wild, jagged rush of adrenaline lighting up your veins. He’s actually taking you away from the crowd. He’s taking you to a real battlefield. No more hovering out of reach, no more patronizing sighs, no more treating you like a minor zoning ordinance violation. You are a threat. You are the apex predator of the solar system, and the Man of Steel has finally recognized that it is time to throw down.
You brace yourself, channeling the bright, burning energy hummed deep within your core. The afternoon sun is beating down on the city, perfectly fueling you. You’re ready to blast him. You’re ready to melt that stupid, perfect "S" right off his chest.
Except... his grip isn't crushing.
In fact, as he carries you up past the skyline, flying in a smooth, gentle arc toward the roof of a nearby skyscraper, you realize he’s holding you like a fragile piece of fine china. Or a particularly grumpy cat. His massive hand is securely supporting your lower back, and his other arm is practically cradling your legs to make sure you don't slip.
He lands on the empty, gravel-strewn rooftop with a soft thud, his red boots settling gracefully. He doesn't slam you down. He doesn't pin your arms behind your back. He just sets you onto your feet, keeping a steadying hand on your shoulder for a split second until he’s sure you have your balance.
You instantly tear yourself away from his touch, stumbling back a few paces, your hands already igniting with a bright, golden, solar heat. "Get the hell off me!" you snap, your fingers twitching as vines from the rooftop's decorative planters begin to aggressively snap toward him like angry snakes. "You think you're so smart? You think you can just kidnap me from my own crime scene?!"
Superman just stands there. He doesn't drop into a fighting stance. He doesn't puff out his chest. Instead, he lets out a breath that is dangerously close to a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry," he says, and god, his voice is so infuriatingly sincere it makes your teeth ache. "I didn't mean to startle you. But those vines were getting dangerously close to the main power grid on the floor below, and if you accidentally severed the high-voltage lines, you could have been seriously shocked. I couldn't just stand by and let you get hurt."
You freeze, your jaw dropping slightly. Your golden, sun-flared eyes blink in utter disbelief.
"I was strangling you," you hiss, gesturing wildly to the green residue still sticking to his indestructible cape. "I was trying to crush your windpipe! I am trying to kill you, you overgrown blue jay!"
"And you're putting a lot of heart into it," Clark says softly, offering you a warm, encouraging smile that completely shatters your villainous aura. He takes a step closer, completely ignoring the fact that your hands are literal conduits of raw solar plasma. "But really, those plants you grow... they emit the purest UV spectrum I've ever felt. When you wrapped me up, it felt like sitting under a sunlamp after a double shift. It actually cured a headache I've had since Tuesday."
He reaches out, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to punch you. Instead, his large hand falls to your shoulder, but he’s quick to pull away as if you had burned him. "Look, I know Georgiana Vanderbilt is running a terrible operation. I've read... uh, some articles. By that Daily Planet reporter you mentioned. Kent, right? He makes some really good points about their carbon footprint."
Your powers are currently at 100% capacity, fueled by the midday sun, radiating enough thermal energy to melt a tank—and this man is trying to strike up a conversation about Clark Kent's journalistic integrity.
"Are you.. are you agreeing with my manifesto right now?" you ask, your voice dangerously low, a mix of profound confusion and intense irritation.
"I'm agreeing that the planet needs protecting," Superman corrects gently, floating just an inch off the gravel, looking down at you like you're the most fascinating thing he's seen all day. "Just... maybe with fewer property damage lawsuits? Come on. Let's get you away from the ledge. You're shaking. Did you skip lunch to plan this?"
You’re so confused right now. Overly taken aback by this man who looks either like a human version of hot cocoa after a bad day or a golden retriever with maybe too much energy. You shake your head, making the grass below his feet grow to make him fall on his rear end. And you throw your pollen cloud at him. Confused, kinda overwhelmed if you’re being honest. Was he worried about you having lunch? what the fuck was wrong with him!
He sneezes, and that definitely makes you smile. You’re starting to get him. You overgrown roots to keep him down, and you get it from your necklace. It’s small and protected and was super hard to get. But you knew people who knew people and so on and on. The kryptonite. You put it right on his chest, where he’s being held down, and it’s painful to watch. He’s screaming and groaning as if it’s burning him.
No one had ever seen how kryptonite made him react. But this was it. The roots are tight on his wrists, and they start bruising his skin. You didn’t even know he could be bruised.
You take it off, tightening the roots a bit more, and he’s still panting, still groaning. He asked for this! You close your eyes for a second and immediately use the sun beam in your chest towards him. It’s either that and kill him fast or wait for him to die on his own. You’re being merciful.
He screams, and he’s loud. And, if you gotta be honest, you’re regretting it. You’re a low-class villain that no one would call a villain, honestly, and you’re the one killing Superman. He screams, and you stop. You cut the beam, you pull away the roots, and you look at him.
He’s no longer bruised, and he even looks… better? You’re confused. You kneel down beside him.
“You saved me…” he whispered barely, looking up at you with soft eyes. Your eyes widened. You WHAT?!
“I was trying to kill you,” you murmur barely. You’re frustrated, confused, and honestly? so fucking tired. He’s staring at your face, the pinch of his eyebrows is hard.
“But… the sun beam…” He’s just as confused as you are. “The Sun helps me.”
“Oh, for fuck’s-” you cut yourself with a frustrated huff. If you could just kill yourself right now, right here, you fucking would. Is that why he doesn’t care about your superpowers? Because the Sun fucking helps him! Oh for crying out loud.
“Do you really want to kill me?” he asks as he stares at you like a kicked puppy. That was it. He was an oversize, overexcited puppy. You nod. “Really? What for?” You chuckle.
“Umh, cause you always stop me?” he blinks at you slowly, trying to understand. “You don’t let me kill Georgiana Vanderbilt…”
“Oh,” he simply responds. Furrowing his eyebrows deeper. “I thought you just wanted to draw attention to Vanderbilt Industries, get the media involved or something like that.” You want to punch him.
“No! I’ve been trying to kill Georgiana for months now!” you’re screaming, standing up now as you wanna grip your hair and tear it all apart because of how dumb you were on Superman’s mind. You were simply trying to get attention to the company itself… unbelievable! While you were actually trying to kill their CEO!
He smiled, despite it all. “Well. They are getting audited.” your head snapped back at him.
“They are?” he nodded.
“You don’t need to kill Georgiana after all, she’s probably going to jail anytime soon.” You cross your arms. You feel like a little kid having a tantrum. But it’s so fucking unfair! You stare at him, your jaw tight, your arms locked so hard against your chest you’re practically cutting off your own circulation.
An audit.
Months of tracking Georgiana Vanderbilt’s corporate schedule, weeks of cultivating localized tropical microclimates in your apartment, sleepless nights spent drafting radical eco-manifestos—all of it pushed aside because the IRS or the SEC or whatever three-letter agency finally decided to look at a spreadsheet.
"An audit," you repeat, your voice completely flat, drained of all the dramatic, villainous fury you’d spent the morning psyching yourself up for. "You're telling me that while I was breaking triple-paned reinforced glass with solar-powered bamboo, some guy in a beige cubicle was defeating my archenemy with a calculator?"
Superman—the literal god of Metropolis—actually looks a little sheepish. He pushes himself up from the gravel, completely unbothered by the fact that you had just exposed him to the ultimate cosmic poison and tried to incinerate him with a death beam. The green tint from the kryptonite is entirely gone, wiped away by the accidental solar spa treatment you’d blasted directly into his chest. His skin is flawless again. No bruises. Not even a smudge of soot on his suit.
"Well," he says, dusting off his knees with a casual, sweeping motion. "Clark—the journalist from the Planet—he actually managed to track down their offshore shell companies. Turns out Vanderbilt Industries wasn't just illegally dumping chemical runoff into the reservoir; they were also aggressively laundering money to avoid federal green taxes. Once the paper published the financial logs this morning, the federal government froze their assets. Georgiana is facing up to twenty years."
He steps closer, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots. He looks down at you, his blue eyes entirely devoid of judgment, reflecting nothing but that soft, infuriating, golden-retriever earnestness.
"So, technically," he adds, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "you won. You brought them down. Kent's article wouldn't have gained nearly as much traction if your... uh, 'alleged attacks' hadn't kept Vanderbilt Industries in the headlines all week. You forced the public to look at them."
"I didn't want to force them to look at a spreadsheet, you blue-suited Boy Scout! I wanted to drag her out by her expensive highlights!" You throw your hands in the air, spinning around to pace across the roof. The grass beneath your feet grows a frantic three inches with every angry step you take, responding to the sheer, volatile frustration vibrating through your body. "And don't look at me like that! Stop smiling! I literally had you on the ropes! I had the rock! The glowing, painful, deadly rock!"
"You did," he concedes instantly, nodding with immense gravity, though his eyes are still dancing with amusement. "It was very effective. The vine restraint technique was excellent, too. If you hadn't used the solar beam to save me, I would have been in serious trouble."
"I WASN'T TRYING TO SAVE YOU!" you yell at the sky, your face burning hotter than the midday sun. "I was trying to vaporize you! I didn't know your stupid alien cells drank sunlight like a high-end smoothie! I thought I was delivering the final blow!"
Superman lets out a soft, low laugh—not a mocking one, but the kind of laugh someone gives when they're genuinely charmed. He walks over to the edge of the roof, looking out over the Metropolis skyline where, a few blocks away, police sirens are finally wailing around the Vanderbilt building. Not to arrest a terrorist, but to escort corporate executives out in handcuffs.
"Well, whatever your intentions were," he says softly, turning back to look at you, "thank you. For the sun beam. And... for not letting the kryptonite kill me. Even if it was an accident."
You let out a long, defeated whine, burying your face in your hands. The solar energy radiating from your palms feels warm against your skin. The entire dynamic of your life has been completely upended in the span of ten minutes. You aren't a high-profile eco-terrorist. You're a catalyst for investigative journalism and a walking, talking battery pack for the city's greatest hero.
"I'm going to kill Clark Kent," you mumble into your hands, your voice muffled. "I'm going to find that nerdy reporter, track him down at his little desk, and give him the worst exclusive of his life."
Superman's posture stiffens just a fraction, a sudden, comical look of mild panic crossing his face before he quickly masks it with another gentle smile. "Oh, I don't know about that. Clark's a pretty nice guy. He'd probably just offer to buy you a coffee and listen to your thoughts on corporate restructuring."
You drop your hands, glaring at him through your hair. "Are you two best friends or something? Why do you keep defending him?"
"We... have a lot in common," he says smoothly, floating an inch off the ground again, extending a hand toward you. "Come on. The police are downstairs, and technically, you still caused a lot of broken glass. Let me fly you away before they come up here. Have you thought any more about that lunch?"
“Fucking Superman,” you mutter, but take his hand anyway. The kryptonite is long forgotten, and his palm is warm against yours. “You’re paying,” you say, eyebrows furrowed, and he nods.
“Might be a date. Or is that pushing it too much?”
A/N: Saw a post about this prompt here on tumblr but I'm to shy to tag them out of nowhere. HELP. credits to them for the idea honestly.
in the afterglow
jason todd x reader ⋆˚࿔ fluff, suggestive
You barely finish stretching before Jason’s arm hooks around your waist and drags you back against his chest. He’s six feet tall and built like he could break you in half (and he basically just did), but right now he’s all slow kisses and sleepy weight, his body warm and heavy behind you.
"Where d'you think you're going?" His voice is rough, still catching on the edges of breathlessness.
"To the bathroom," you laugh. "I need to pee."
He shifts his weight more fully on top of you, tangling his legs with yours. One hand splays possessively across your ribs, right where he can feel you breathe. “In a minute.” His fingers wander, lazy and unhurried, tracing patterns along your hip, your stomach—anywhere he can reach—as if committing you to memory all over again.
When you finally manage to slip free, Jason's quick to raid the kitchen. He beats you back to bed, and you return to find him waiting with your favorite snacks spread around him, sharp eyes gone hazy and fond as they follow you. He's all lean muscle and messy dark hair, scars mapping stories across his skin. The shadowed line of hair from his navel disappears beneath the sheets, and your gaze lingers there long enough for warmth to pool low in your belly all over again.
The second you're within reach, he pulls you into his lap and lights up. He feeds you a bite, then presses the warm joint to your lips. The rhythm comes easy between you: his thumb brushes crumbs from your cheek before he steals smoky kisses between drags—your neck, your shoulder, the soft spot behind your ear—like restraint simply isn’t an option.
"Clingy," you tease.
“Yeah.” His arm tightens instinctively around you. “Problem?”
You shake your head. Of course there isn’t one. Not when he’s close and yours like this, his fingers in your hair and his heartbeat under your palm. Not when he murmurs sweet nothings against your skin about how good you are, how perfect, how he’s never letting you go. Not when he's settled in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
The rest of the night blurs soft—snacks forgotten, smoke dissipating—and he keeps you close as you both grow drowsy and sated, wrapped up so completely in each other that you can't tell where you end and he begins.
During a black out in Gotham's Midtown, you have to tend to a stab wound at home, exhausted and alone. Jason, sent by Dick to check on you, kinda breaks in. And you kinda have very romantic candlelit make up sex. Oopsie Daisy
Tags/ CW: smut, 18+ mdni, ex! jason x fem! reader, porn with plot, hurt/ comfort, p in v sex, oral (freceiving), fingering, overstimulation, slight angst if you squint, yearning jason yay, creampie, rough sex, loads (i mean it,loaaads) of kissing, descriptions of blood / injury.
Tonight, Midtown Gotham suffers from a power shutdown; On your way home, while passing through Coventry you watch as streetlights flicker once, then die, one by one, until the whole skyline looks swallowed by shadow. The Fashion district isn’t spared. A hum of silence replaces the constant mechanical heartbeat of the town and soon enough, most citizens have emptied the streets and are naturally swathed into their apartments, locked, safe.
Everyone knows what it means when Gotham by night gets eaten by black skies.
The city goes completely dark before you manage to reach your apartment. The only glow left comes from the occasional passing car or the blue pulse of emergency lights in the distance. The rain that started earlier hasn't stopped—if anything, it’s heavier now, slanting sideways against your umbrella as you unlock the front door to the complex.
You’d love it if things were easier for you tonight.
It’s your first month without your superpowers and you’ve already managed to get stabbed at Crime Alley tonight, in civilian clothing in an attempt for a sorry excuse of a petty criminal to rob you. Then the rain has to be pouring while you’re left to walk home with blood pouring from your side. And now, with all the lights gone in your district you're left to wonder how you’re gonna patch yourself up.
The universe profoundly hates you.
By the time you reach the second floor, the stairwell smells like damp concrete and cigarette smoke from whoever’s been sneaking up here between shifts. The emergency lights along the walls are dead too—nothing but the occasional flash of lightning through the stairwell window to guide you.
You press your palm against your side as you climb, feeling the dull throb of the wound under your coat. The bleeding’s slowed, but every step still sends a spark of pain through your ribs.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve had worse. You’ve had way worse.
Just… not like this.
Not without backup. Not without powers.
When you finally reach your door, you have to fumble twice with the keys before the lock clicks. Inside, the apartment is pitch black except for the faint orange glow reflecting on stormy clouds from the city’s uptown part lighting. You drop your umbrella against the wall and listen—to the rain, to your own heartbeat, to the emptiness that feels louder than both.
The quiet is so absolute it hums. No neon, no chatter from the corner diner. Just Gotham breathing slow in the dark, like the whole city’s holding its breath.
Your apartment feels foreign in the blackout. The usual hum of the fridge is gone, the digital clock blank, the air oddly still. You drop your keys on the counter, the sound too loud in the quiet.
The place smells faintly of motor oil and takeout. You left the TV remote on the coffee table this morning, and somehow the sight of it when lightning flares outside makes you want to laugh. It’s the only thing that looks remotely normal.
It’s almost peaceful—if it didn’t feel so much like an ending.
You set your phone on the counter in flashlight mode and stomp through the kitchen in search for the bag of tea lights you've bought for situations just like this.
You find a candle in the drawer next to the sink, light it with shaking fingers and a lighter that makes you curse any higher being in the process of trying to work, and then a second later the little flame from the candle throws shadows across your walls. The light flickers, in one, overly bright flame, given the darkness surrounding it, over half-unpacked boxes, a pile of files from the League, the empty coffee mug you left out this morning before everything went to hell.
When you finally find the courage to try and peel your jacket off through hisses and curses, when fabric sticks to the cut—you set it on one of the chairs, neatly as you can and take a look at the side of your ribs where the cut is. Blood’s already soaked through your shirt and the hole in the fabric is big enough to be concerning.
At the thought that you’ll have to do stitches on yourself when you can barely see, you limp.
Fine. One breath in. A choked breath out. You refuse to let yourself cry over such a minority.
You make your way to the bathroom, find the first-aid kit under the sink.
The candlelight catches your reflection in the mirror. You look wrecked. Hair plastered to your face, eyes bruised with exhaustion, skin slick with rain and sweat. You’ve looked worse, but not by much.
You dab antiseptic against the wound and bite back another evil curse. “Okay,” you mutter. “Just a scratch. Just another night in paradise.”
The power outage hums through the city—distant sirens, the faint echo of something crashing blocks away. Gotham always sounds different when the lights go out. Like it’s remembering what it really is.
For a moment, you think about calling Jason.
You don’t even know why. Maybe because the power’s out and it feels like the rules have changed. Like the world’s given you a pause you don’t deserve. Because he’s helped you stitch yourself up a thousand times, because at a time he wouldn’t lecture you like Dick would.
If your phone’s battery died halfway home, it’d be a good excuse not to rampage through your contacts for his name. Maybe that’d have been for the best.
You hold the phone in your hand for a long time before you actually decide to do it.
The screen’s light is too bright against the dark—your own face caught in reflection, frail and tired, with rain still sliding down your jaw. The signal icon flickers between one bar and none. Gotham’s blackout has eaten the grid alive, and your building is on the edge of that nothingness.
You scroll past Jason’s name once. Twice. Your thumb hovers over it, long enough that the screen goes dim again, and for a second you let it stay that way. You imagine his voice—gruff, half-grunting, but the kind that softens when he realizes it’s you.
You close your eyes. The last exchange of words between the two of you tastes like eating wet ash from the forgotten ashtray in your balcony now that you’re alone.
Rain taps against the window, slow and steady. Somewhere across the city, you imagine him still standing on a rooftop, soaked through and stubborn as always. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing. Maybe he isn’t.
It shouldn’t matter.
You end up calling Dick anyway.
You’d rather his lecture wound your pride and not a potential rejection from Jason.
It rings thrice before he answers, voice too alert for this hour, too polite to sound real. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“Define okay.” You laugh, but it comes out thin through a cough “Got stabbed earlier at Crime Alley in an attempt to get robbed. And power’s out in Midtown so I can’t see shit to stitch myself up. So, you know. Thursday.”
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end. “You what—? Where are you right now?”
“At home. It’s fine. I just wanted to ask if you know when the power will be back..”
“Bruce is on that” He exhales like someone who’s been holding his breath too long. “And! You can’t keep saying that every time you get hurt.”
“I can if it keeps being true.” You press a palm over your bandaged side, flinching when it twinges. “I’m just calling to make sure you’re not out patrolling. The blackout’s making everyone stupid.”
“Everyone includes you,” he says gently. There’s a pause. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
You stare at the flickering candle, the wax dripping down one side like a clock running out of seconds. “I’m used to it.”
Your reflection in the mirror remains bloody, tired. You wish you could patch yourself as soon as possible.
“I could—” he starts, and you can almost hear him standing up, ready to play savior.
“No.” You cut him off, firm. “Stay where you are. You can’t fix this. I just wanna get this over with”
He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then, softly, “This isn’t about me fixing anything.”
You smile without meaning to. “Sure it’s not.”
“I don’t want you to bleed out”
Lightning flashes outside, and for a second the city glows again—wet streets, distant silhouettes, all swallowed by blackness just as fast. You feel the loneliness slip under your ribs, sharper than the cut on your side.
“I’ll be fine if the power comes back”
Dick sighs. “You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Then put pressure on the wound with a cloth and lay down! Lock the doors. I’ll check in when the power’s back.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, even though you both know you won’t.
When the call ends, the silence hits harder. The rain’s still there, the sirens, the hum of a dying generator somewhere below—but none of it fills the space.
You set the phone face down on the counter. For a moment, you think you see the faintest flicker of movement in the glass reflection of your window—someone’s shadow, or maybe just the rain bending the light wrong.
You tell yourself it’s nothing.
You tell yourself you’re fine.
You’ll just…. take the blackout as a chance to have a candlelit shower, clean the wound and then try to stitch it together with said candlelight. If nothing works in your favor you're going to at least try to romanticise the situations that you’re in.
Thus, you light another candle, balancing it on the bathroom counter beside the sink. The flame bends and steadies, painting the tiles in slow-moving gold. The rain outside keeps whispering against the glass, like the city’s trying to lull you into forgetting where you are.
The weather app on your phone doesn't say anything about the rain stopping anytime soon, no matter how much you check; albeit the angrily enlaced clouds reflecting light from uptown Gotham serve as your only steady light source beside the candles.
You strip down carefully, your tank top sticking to the dried blood at your side. When you peel it away, the wound pulls with it like it did with the jacket—raw, red, ugly. Not too deep, but bad enough that it won’t heal clean. The flame's light makes the red wound look almost black, deep in the shadows it cast on your skin. You have to brace your elbow on the counter and practically put your side in the flame's glow just to see the edges of the cut clearly.
You run the tap, but the water comes out in short, coughing spurts before settling into a steady trickle.
Great.
Rembrandts of warm water hit your fingers first, then your side, before turning to lukewarm ultimately, washing the crusted red away in ribbons. The sting that comes with it makes your breath catch in your throat.
“Romantic, mmmmh” you mutter to yourself as shivers start shaking your body from deep in your core the colder the water gets “Just how I pictured my perfect Thursday night.”
You reach for the soap, lathering what’s left of your good arm, watching bubbles cling to your wrist like small, intact galaxies. You let yourself drift—let your mind blur around the rhythm of the rain and the smell of the candle wax melting down too fast.
For a few minutes, there’s peace in that . The kind that’s thin and borrowed, doomed to vanish. But peace all the same.
You try not to think about Jason. Or how you were about to call him out of all people to tell him about your injury. Like he would care or even pick up after the way you fought last time you saw each other.
You finish cleaning the wound as best as you can, begrudgingly towel off, and grab the needle and thread from your first aid kit. The flame on the counter dances as you hold the needle over it, metal glinting orange. It’s an old habit—sterilize, stitch, survive. It doesn’t matter anymore if you can’t see well enough. You don’t have enough time to stay waiting for the lights to return at the cost of bleeding out.
You thread the hooked needle and bite down on your lip as you bring it to your skin, the lightning flashes one more time,almost sympathetically, making your reflection in the mirror look like a ghost preparing to pierce their own body. You close their eyes and try to push the needle through, only to have your hand tremble violently—not from fear of the pain, but from the fear of doing it wrong and getting an infection they can no longer shrug off. No metahuman abilities can help you heal at this time.
You focus on the glow instead of the pain, counting the loops and ties like you used to count heartbeats in the field.
It’s messy work, but when it’s done, you sit back against the wall, sweat sticking to your collarbone, the night world humming faintly beyond the walls.
You close your eyes, listening. There’s something about the blackout—the way it strips everything down to breath and sound. Gotham feels closer in the dark, like it’s watching.
You almost laugh at yourself for thinking this is poetic in any way.
The sound of your limping fills your apartment soon and it’s louder than any siren in the distance. A desperate attempt to find something warm to wear goes in vain. All your warm clothes sit in an unwashed pile on top of the washing machine including your pajamas and so, the only available piece of clothing you have that won’t rub onto your wound and irritate it, is a summery leopard print nightgown. The one you had bought only to have something nice to wear to sleep when Jason would come over.
“Fuck meee” you sigh
And for all that’s worth, you pick out the matching robe to throw over your shoulders.
Now, back into the bathroom, you're wrapping gauze around the cut again when you hear it—a low creak, the sound of a window shifting open somewhere in the apartment.
Your head snaps up. Candlelight trembles against the wall.
Probably the wind. You hope it’s the wind.
No other sound reaches your ears, so, you settle for dressing as quickly as you possibly can without causing too much strain onto your wound.
You end up sinking onto the couch and exhale, finally letting the adrenaline drain out, just like Dick said. Your hands still smell faintly of antiseptic and hydrogen peroxide. Your throat burns from holding back too much for too long.
You think about calling Jason again. Texting, leaving a voicemail. Anything to reach out and make amends.
You glance toward your phone, still lying face down on the counter where you left it earlier. The screen is black, your reflection warped across the glass.
You almost get up to grab it. Almost.
But then the power flickers again—just once, a faint hum in the walls before everything goes quiet.
No light. No sound. Only the rain.
You reason with yourself— instead of contacting Jason you should just smoke a cigarette.That’s right. Seems reasonable enough.
You get up, even if the balcony seems yards away in your painful state.
The chilly air of the night makes you pull your robe tighter, the thin fabric doing nothing against the draft of air crawling in through it. The city is still dead; even the faint glow from the Uptown part is now gone, swallowed by the storm.
You sit there for a while, just breathing. Listening to the rain drum against the railing.
Maybe if you stay still long enough, the ache in your ribs will dull, the weight in your chest will fade. Maybe the blackout can take the noise in your head, too. Surprise—it doesn’t.
When the next gust of wind pushes the curtains behind you inward, you hear it again. A soft scrape. Not the wind this time. Heavier. Intentional.
You freeze. The sound comes from right next to you on the balcony. Metal on concrete.
You move before you can think, pushing yourself up with one hand pressed to your side. The robe slides off your shoulder, and the candlelight catches the faint shimmer of rainwater tracking in from the balcony door.
And then a shadow moves through it.
Instinctively your leg moves up high in a kicking motion that only makes you flinch in pain. The figure, now visible in all his bat-on-the-chest glory, dodges successfully. You open your mouth to speak—to tell whoever it is to get the hell out—but the words die the second you see the red glow catch against the wet metal of a helmet.
Then, he speaks “I was wondering when you’d notice. Took you long enough!”
“Jason!? Are you insane?” You wince, moving away in a swift motion.
Jason steps in without asking, boots leaving dark prints on the floor of your balcony, rain still dripping from his jacket. His voice rough—filtered through the modulator—cuts through the silence.
“Grayson called.”
You stare at him, half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. “Of course he did.”
Jason’s voice softens just enough to sound human again. “Said you got stabbed.”
You blink, still caught halfway between relief and anger. “He—he what? I told him not to send anyone.”
Jason tilts his head slightly. “And you thought that meant he’d listen?”
The white eyes of the helmet turn toward you, scanning you as your face grows sour. You can tell he’s taking in the details—the candlelight, the blood-streaked gauze staining fabric, the nightgown.
He stops at the robe sleeve that’s fallen off your shoulder.
“You look like hell,” he says with finality, voice low, still too distorted. It’s better that you can’t see his face right now.
“Wow,” you mutter. “You really know how to make a girl feel better.”
He exhales through the modulator, the faintest sound of amusement beneath it. “You shouldn’t be moving around.”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be breaking into my apartment during a citywide blackout, but here we are.” You limp toward him, arms crossed. “You could’ve knocked. No mask”
Jason takes a step closer, rainwater dripping onto the ground between you. “You would’ve told me to go home.”
“I am telling you to go home.”
He shakes his head. “Not happening.”
“You’re not my keeper, Jason.”
“I’m not trying to be,” he says quietly. “But you got stabbed, and you didn’t even call me.”
Your throat tightens. “Didn’t think you’d want me to.”
For a second, neither of you move. Just the sound of rain and your pulse thudding in your ears in a loud, erratic manner.
Jason finally reaches up, removing his helmet. His hair’s damp and plastered to his forehead, eyes darker than usual in the reflection of the candlelight. The sharp edges of his expression soften, but only ever barely. There’s something hollow under it—an exhaustion that no amount of bravado can mask.
“You really thought I’d ignore that?”
You look away. “You’ve been ignoring worse.”
That lands between you like a live wire. He doesn’t argue. Just studies you, taking in the scene—your pout, the stubbornness behind it, the way you keep looking between his chest, lips, and eyes, the way that black lace trim of your nightgown sits perfectly on your chest.
He thinks about how much he wants to reach his hand out and cup your face, and in his mind, he does. But in the flesh, he doesn’t. He never does. Because every time he tries to fix something, it breaks worse. Every time he reaches, someone pulls away. So instead, his expression softens.
“You really know how to make a guy worry, you know that?”
His heart is hammering in his chest, even at the mere delusion that you would respond with kindness to such touch—but the reality of your response hits him harder than a brass knuckle punch.
“Then stop worrying,” you mutter, grabbing for the belt of your robe and pressing it tighter against your ribs. “It’s nothing I haven’t handled before.”
He exhales through his nose, quiet but bitter. Handled before. Yeah. He knows what that sounds like. What kind of people say that. He’s one of them too.
He leans against the wall, helmet tilting in his arms. “Yeah, well, forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”
A moment bleeds into silence for far too long.
“Let me see it,” he says finally, nodding to your side.
You clutch your robe tighter. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll decide that.”
You let out a dry laugh. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice quiet. “You usually love that about me.”
And just like that, the air shifts—closer, heavier. He steps toward you, and you don’t step back.
The distance between you disappears until the hem of his jacket brushes your arm, until you can smell the rain on him, the faint bite of gunpowder and wet leather. His presence is overwhelming—too close, too charged—and it pulls at something in you that you’ve both tried to bury alive months ago. It’s electric and painful; both at a time.
His eyes drop to your lips for half a second—half a second too long—and you feel something stir deep in your chest, unwelcome and familiar.
When his gaze lingers on your mouth, you bite down on your lip and accidentally make the cut on your side throb in response, grounding you in reality.
You breathe in, shaky. “Don’t.”
Jason’s voice is rough when he answers. “Wasn’t gonna.”
But he doesn’t move away. Neither do you. The leopard print of the thin nightgown suddenly feels less like a garment and more like a second skin, exposing every raw nerve to the heavy air between you.
The candle flickers inside. The blackout lingers through the city. And for a heartbeat, you both just stand there—caught somewhere between anger and something that feels too close to longing.
Jason gulps and bites his lip.
His pulse stutters, and he hates that you can probably hear it. He hates that he’s still this easy to read—that one look from you can undo the armor he’s built. He tells himself it’s just the storm. The tension. The way you always look when you’re trying not to care.
Then you turn first.
“Go inside and dry off,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “You’re dripping.”
Jason doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, watching you, rain still sliding down the curve of his jaw and dripping from his hair. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head—the same stubborn, reckless rhythm that’s always gotten both of you into trouble.
Then, he tilts his head in a motion that is pure, stubborn Jason. He sees the path you’re offering—a tactical retreat—and chooses to exploit it.
“Yeah,” he rasps, taking a step toward the apartment's interior. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your, uh… nice pajamas.”
He still considers what you said ‘go inside and dry off’ like it would be a bad choice. Because it feels like stepping over a line he’s drawn for himself again and again.
When he decided to come check on you it was because he didn’t want Dick to do it, because he wanted to be the one to have an excuse to see you. He hadn’t thought of any of his following actions. But maybe spontaneous is for the better.
Maybe you wanted to see him too. Maybe you want him to stay.
Finally, when he steps past you and inside the threshold, his heavy, wet boot prints marking the rug just inside your balcony door echoing against the floor as he walks inside, you follow. He turns his back to you just long enough to slide the door shut with a soft, final clack. The sound seals the two of you in—you, him, and the timid awkwardness. The shift of air follows him, carrying the scent of rain and cold metal. He sets the helmet down on your counter, slowly, like he’s staking a claim.
“You got any towels?” he asks.
You blink, thrown off by how casual he sounds. “You break into my place and now you want towels?”
He glances over his shoulder, that infuriating half-smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. How am I supposed to dry off? And maybe I’d like a shower too, if I’m lucky. Power’s out—I’ve been patrolling out in this storm for hours.”
You cross your arms, the robe tugging tighter against your ribs. “A shower.”
“Unless you’d rather I drip all over your couch.”
You roll your eyes, hating that he’s right. “Fine. Knock yourself out. You know where the bathroom is.”
Jason pauses the grin that’s creeping up on his features, eyes flicking to your side again—the blood starting to seep faintly through the gauze. “I’ll shower after I look at that. I’m not going anywhere until I see that wound,” he states, his voice now lower, carrying only the natural rumble of his chest. He takes a step toward the bathroom light. “Where’s the kit?”
You feel the surge of anger, but you’re too tired for it to be effective. “I already stitched it.”
“I know what your stitching looks like when you’re bleeding out and can’t see the thread, so don’t lie to me.” He walks past the couch where you had been resting, and his eyes catch the phone still face-down on the counter. He paused, looking from the phone to you. “You called Dick. And you stitched yourself up. But you didn’t call me.”
He doesn't make it a question; it is an observation, heavy with hurt.
You look away, unable to meet the direct gaze. “It wasn’t your problem.”
He doesn’t need to know how much you wanted to call him but opted not to in the end
He finally reaches the bathroom and peers in, the candlelight illuminating the haphazard pile of gauze and the bloody towel you used. He lets out a slow, heavy sigh that seems to deflate some of the tension.
“Every damn thing you do is my problem,” he murmurs, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide and a clean gauze pad. He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning back to you with the items. “Let’s go to the couch. Lean back. I’m just looking.”
“No couch” You groan. “Jesus, are you always this persistent?”
“Only when people I care about try to bleed out in their apartments alone.”
You freeze at that—care about—but you cover it fast with a sharp breath and a pouty glance away. “You don’t get to say that, Jason.”
He steps closer again, voice low. “Yeah, I do.”
“Don’t,” you warn, quieter now. “Not tonight.”
He closes his eyes for a beat, his shoulders visibly tightening before he lets the breath go.
He doesn’t push it anymore. Just sighs, dragging a gloved hand through his wet hair. “Then let me see the damn wound so I can stop hovering. I’ll drop it after that.”
You know he’s lying. He won’t drop it. But you’re too tired and faint to argue, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—steady, unflinching, pupils blown wide when he takes off his gloves and hovers his arms over your hips to ground himself as he kneels before you—that makes resistance feel like a waste of energy.
You tug the robe open and lift your nightgown just enough to show the edge of the bandage. The candlelight from the bathroom flickers across both of you, throwing soft gold along the sharp planes of his face. He leans closer, close enough that the heat from his body cuts through the chill still clinging to your skin. You can feel his breath onto your stomach and it makes your skin crawl.
His gaze lingers on the bruising, the uneven stitches. “Christ. You did this yourself?”
You snort faintly. “Who else was gonna do it?”
Jason’s jaw tightens. He reaches out, hesitates just before touching you. “Can I?”
You nod, but your pulse kicks up anyway when his fingers brush your side, rough but careful, not to touch the wound. The warmth of his touch contrasts too sharply with the cold air.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment—just looks, assessing, breathing a little too close to your skin again for your liking. You catch the faint hitch in his chest, the sound of rain still dripping off him onto your floor. Your core gives a warning pulse that you hope he doesn’t notice— he comes any closer, and you’re off the deep end. Well, assuming that him breathing into your stomach isn't close enough.
“It’s not infected,” he mutters finally, his thumb ghosting near the bandage. “You’ll live.”
“Glad I have your medical expertise,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.
Jason looks up then, and the space between you narrows again. “You still should’ve called me,” he says, his thumb finally, barely, tracing the hem of the dirty bandage.
You swallow. “Wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“It would’ve changed where I was,” he shoots back.
The silence that follows feels heavier than the blackout outside. You both stand there, soaked and stubborn, the distance between you practically humming.
Finally, Jason steps back, voice low again. “Fine. I’m taking that shower before you pass out just to spite me.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
He smirks, already slipping his jacket off. “You let me in. That’s on you.”
You shake your head and sink back onto the couch as he disappears down the hallway, boots leaving a wet trail behind him. The sound of running water starts a moment later, echoing faintly through the dark apartment.
For a while, you just sit there, listening—to the rain, the pipes, the low hum of your typical Gotham outside and you try not to think about the fact that Jason Todd is in your shower, dripping with rainwater and tension you can’t seem to wash away. All muscle and handsomeness.
____
By the time the water shuts off, the rain outside has softened to a steadier rhythm—less of a storm, more of a whisper against the balcony glass. The candle on the coffee table has nearly burned itself down, a waxy crater around a trembling wick; in simpler words, a pain to clean up.
You’re half slouched on the couch, fighting to stay awake, when you hear the bathroom door open.
Jason’s footsteps are quieter this time. Bare, damp against the wood. When you look up, he’s standing in the doorway with a towel draped around his shoulders, steam still clinging to his skin. He’s pulled on an old metal band t-shirt which used to be his that he found in a drawer. You remember how big it used to look on him then, though now it clings to him, darker from water. His hair is pushed back, messy, but his eyes are clearer.
“You still awake?” he asks, voice lower now, raw around the edges.
You hum. “Barely.”
He glances around, taking in the dim apartment, the candle, the bottle of antiseptic left open on the table. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
You snort softly. “Where was I gonna go? Out to dance in the blackout?”
Jason gives a quiet, almost reluctant laugh. “To avoid me? You would.”
You shrug, pretending you don’t like that he said it. “As if I’d leave my house because of you.”
He crosses the room and sits down, cross legged, across from you on the floor leaving a respectful distance—but close enough that you can feel the weight of him, the quiet he carries. His hands rest on his knees, still damp, the veins on his fore arms raised under the candlelight.
The sight alone makes you gulp.
“You eat anything?” he asks.
“I’m not hungry.”
He studies your expression for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re lying. “You should eat something.”
“Don’t start.”
Jason leans back, sighing more than exhaling. “I wasn’t starting. Just—”
“I know,” you interrupt quietly. “I know.”
The room goes still again. The kind of silence that isn’t comfortable, but isn’t quite cruel either. It’s the kind that only comes after you’ve both said too much in the past and have nothing left to throw now.
Jason looks down, rubbing a hand over his face, sighing. “I hate when you do that,” he mutters.
“Do what?”
“Act like I don’t get to care.”
You look away. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” he says, his tone sharper than before, though it cracks halfway through. “You get hurt, I worry. That’s not complicated.”
“It’s complicated because you left,” you say quietly.
Jason flinches. Just barely, but really, it’s more than enough. The air thickens. You don’t mean for the words to hang the way they do, but they do. Heavy. True.
He swallows hard, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I did.”
The honesty in his voice stings more than you expect.
He meets your gaze again, something green naked from emotion in his eyes now. “You think I don’t regret that?”
You blink slowly, exhaustion dulling everything but the ache in your chest. “Regret doesn’t change anything.”
Jason’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a bitter smile. “No. But it still keeps me up.”
You want to say something back—something sharp, something to even the scales—but your throat burns too much to form the words.
Instead, you just whisper, “You shouldn’t have come tonight.”
Jason looks at you for a long time. “Yeah. I probably shouldn’t have.”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand.
The storm outside growls low and distant again. The candle sputters, almost dying, before flaring back to life.
Jason leans forward, resting his arms on his thighs, and for the first time all night, his voice softens. “You know, every time you get hurt, I think—maybe next time it’s gonna be worse. Maybe I don’t get to show up in time.”
You sigh, pressing a hand against your side. “Jason…”
He shakes his head. “Don’t. I’m not looking for forgiveness. I just—I don’t know what to do when I’m not there.”
The words hit you somewhere you’ve kept sealed for too long. You feel your eyes sting, but you blink hard, refusing to let it spill.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you murmur. “Showing up only when everything’s already broken.”
Jason nods, slow. “I know.”
And somehow, you believe him.
Neither of you say anything after that but the silence feels softer this time. The candlelight flickers across his face, the scar at his temple, the small lines that weren’t there the last time you were this close.
You reach for the blanket draped over the couch and toss it toward him without looking. “Don’t catch pneumonia on my floor.”
Jason catches it midair. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t push it.”
He chuckles under his breath, the sound small, almost fond. “Still bossy.”
You lie back against the couch, closing your eyes. “Still reckless.”
He hums in quiet agreement, pulling the blanket over himself. “Guess we deserve each other, then.”
You don’t answer—not because you disagree, but because you can’t bring yourself to admit how much that thought hurts.
You close your eyes, taking in a breath you don’t expect to last for as long as it does. Jason keeps quiet too, but the shaking in your chest refuses to leave. It lingers, like words are bubbling inside the more you think about his last line.
Saying something you don’t mean is the only option to make it feel better.
“I didn’t want you to come. Dick shouldn’t have told you about this.” you mutter, leaning against the couch frame, staring at the dark ceiling like it’s interesting. “You two gossip like old ladies.”
“Yeah, well, one of the old ladies said you got stabbed and were bleeding out in the dark.”
You roll your eyes. “He exaggerates and you know that”
“Yeah, well, that’s never stopped me before.”
You look at him—really look—and for a second, it’s quiet again. The rain’s softening to a hiss again, but the lighting that strikes, illuminates Jason's frame in a dangerous manner. You hate that something about it feels familiar. Comforting, even.
“You should be lying down, not arguing about something that won’t happen.”
“I’m fine”
Jason exhales through his nose. “You always say that when you’re not.”
You look back at him, your voice softer this time. “And you always show up when you shouldn’t.”
That lands somewhere deep. For a moment, neither of you move. He’s close enough now that the barrier of the distance between you feels like it’s nothing. You pat the edge of the couch like it’s instinct. Jason shakes his head, a quiet, humorless chuckle escaping him. “You’re an impossible idiot”
You lean back, resting your head against the couch. “Takes one to know one.”
Something soft flickers in his expression at that. The corner of his mouth tugs, barely visible. He gets up without a word, moving slow, cautious, like he’s afraid to spook you. The blanket slips off his shoulders as he does.You watch him circle around, expecting him to sit at the other end where you gestured—but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers himself beside you, the couch dipping under his weight. The proximity is sudden, and somehow not at all.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice slurred with fatigue.
“Getting comfortable,” he mutters. His hand twitches like he wants to touch you—your shoulder, your wrist, something—but he doesn’t.
Instead, his voice lowers. “You can keep pretending you don’t need anyone. But one of these days, you’re gonna bleed out like this, you’re not gonna call Grayson and no one’s gonna find you in time.”
“Then maybe that’s what I deserve,” you say quietly.
He flinches—barely, but you see it. The silence between you goes taut, humming with something that feels dangerous. He slugs closer again, slow, careful.
“You don’t mean that,” he says.
You turn your head to look at him, the distance between you dissolving until there’s barely an inch left. “Don’t I?”
You don’t move away. You’re too tired, too cold, too unwilling to start something you’ll only regret stopping. He sits still for a moment, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to go. You don’t. And maybe that’s all the permission he needs. No matter how fast his eyes move to scan your body language for any discomfort, he finds none. Only your words, the one you don’t mean, stand between you like a wall.
Jason's determined to break it. Head first.
You feel him shift closer, the warmth of him bleeding into the space between. One arm comes up behind you, not quite around you—just there, a quiet anchor.
Then your head tilts, almost by accident, brushing his shoulder. Jason goes still. You can swear you hear him hold his breath. You don’t lift your head, though; opting to coo into his side like you want to be cradled. It’s easier to stay here—to pretend this is just a temporary truce, something small and quiet to get through the night.
A moment later, he moves again, barely. His arm slips lower, settling around you properly this time, the edge of the blanket tugged over both of you. The shift is natural, unplanned. Like gravity doing what it does best.
You don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your fingers brush against his chest—until the steady rhythm of his heartbeat starts to match the soft pull of your breathing.
Something aches deep in your chest, heavier than pain. You shift just enough to look up at him. He’s already looking down at you—tired eyes, rain-damp hair, mouth set like he’s trying not to say more than he should.
For a heartbeat, it feels like everything stops—the storm, the city, the noise in your head. It’s just him. Just this.
You could pull away. You don’t.
Jason hesitates, a flicker of something raw crossing his face, a battle fought and lost in an instant, then brushes a loose strand of hair from your face with the back of his fingers. His hand lingers by your jaw, thumb tracing the faint line where the candlelight hits your skin. You lean into it before you can stop yourself. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up again. For a heartbeat, you think he’s going to close the gap. The hope is a sudden, sharp ache in your chest. You even want him to.
But he doesn’t.
He just exhales, long and shaky, like he’s fighting himself. It sounds less like a breath and more like a surrender of a deep-seated wish.
“Don’t,” you whisper.
“I’m not,” he murmurs.
He isn’t. Neither of you are doing anything—and yet somehow, you are. The air feels heavier now, filled with everything you won’t say. all the unacknowledged history and the terrifying possibility still hanging between you.
“Not like this,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on some point over your shoulder, like he can't trust himself to look at you anymore.
You force a smile. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning to kiss you either.”
A lie, of course. One that hurts worse than your wound. It’s a deliberate little cruelty aimed at yourself for wanting this so badly.
Jason’s breath hitches at that, just barely—like he almost believes you. A shadow of self-reproach darkens his eyes, a familiar doubt about his own appeal. But his hand doesn’t move. It stays there, warm and steady against your jaw, his thumb ghosting along the edge of your throat. You feel your pulse kick under it, sharp and traitorous.
He notices. You know he does, because something flickers in his eyes—something between longing and regret. Then, as if realizing how dangerous the silence’s gotten, he drops his hand, leaning back a fraction. The sudden loss of heat is a physical sting, sharp and immediate.
“Get some sleep,” he says, voice low. “You’re gonna need it.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, one that sounds more like a displeased sigh. “You’re staying?”
Jason shrugs carefully, eyes on the candle’s flickering light instead of you. He shifts uncomfortably, a familiar shield of nonchalance settling over him. “’Til morning. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t rip your stitches open trying to prove you’re fine.” His voice carries a practiced lightness, but the tension in his shoulders betrays the lie.
Jason shifts again, careful not to jostle you. His shoulder brushes yours. “Go to sleep,” he says, quieter now. “Before you start trying to pick a fight.”
“I wasn’t gonna.”
“You were.”
You let out a small noise—somewhere between annoyance and surrender—and close your eyes. “You think you know me so well.”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is almost too soft to catch.
“Used to.”
You open your eyes again, but he’s already leaned back, head tipped against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. His expression’s unreadable in the dim light, all shadow and exhaustion and something else you can’t name.
You want to say something—ask what used to means, if he misses that version of you, if he still thinks she exists—but your throat tightens around the words.
Instead, you whisper, “Jason?”
He hums in response.
“If you leave before I wake up…” You hesitate, the sentence half-built, breaking apart on your tongue. “I won’t forgive you” The quiet finality of the threat is meant to wound him, to anchor him here with guilt.
Jason’s chest hitches. The words hang between you, quiet but sharp, like they’ve cut through the last bit of distance he was hiding behind. His jaw tightens, locks. You can almost see the instinct—the urge to deflect, to joke, to turn the weight of what you just said into something lighter. The habitual, self-deprecating joke about how little his presence matters is right there on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. He doesn’t. Not this time.
“I wasn’t planning to,” he says finally, voice rougher than before.
You nod once, slow. “You always say that. You always leave.”
He looks at you then, really looks—eyes tired, regret heavy in them. “Yeah,” he says softly. “But this time, I mean it.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. The room feels smaller now, the rain outside thinning into a faint, steady rhythm. Jason shifts closer, his shoulder brushing yours again, careful but deliberate.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost breaking around the edges. His next words come quieter, careful. “You scared the hell outta me tonight.”
This time, you’re the one who hums in response.
_____
The candle’s melted halfway down by the time the room settles into that strange, humming quiet that comes after too much adrenaline. The storm’s still whispering against the glass, but it feels far away now—like it’s somewhere else entirely.
Jason’s weight is still solid beside you. He hasn’t moved in a while. You’ve lost track of whose arm ended up where, how the blanket tangled the both of you. His chest rises slow and steady under your cheek, the fabric of his shirt warm against your skin.
Every now and then, you feel his breath in your hair.
You should move. You should get up, at least check the locks or blow out the candle. But you don’t. You just breathe him in—leather, rain, something faintly metallic and familiar. It feels like home in a way that hurts.
Jason murmurs something you can’t catch. His voice is rough from exhaustion.
You hum a quiet “hm?” against him, but he doesn’t answer. Just shifts slightly, tightening his hold, fingers brushing the curve of your hip through the robe as if to make sure you’re still there.
Your eyes are already half-closed when he speaks again, softly, as loud as a whisper in a soundly room can sound. “Your skin’s soft”
You tilt your face up toward him, lazy, barely awake. “You think?”
“Yeah,” he breathes.
His eyes flick down. It’s barely a movement—half-lidded, uncertain—but enough for your breath to catch. For a moment, you’re both hovering in that space between sleep and something else, where words don’t mean anything and distance doesn’t either.
The shift happens so quietly it almost doesn’t. A brush, feather-light, the faintest touch of his lips against yours. More breath than kiss, a sleepy mistake or maybe a memory of one.
He freezes, so still you can feel the hesitation tremble through him. You don’t pull back. You don’t do anything. The world feels too fragile for sudden movements.
When he finally exhales, it ghosts against your mouth.
“Sorry,” he whispers, voice thick with sleep.
“Don’t be,” you murmur back.
But his chest burns the closer your lips get. You both fumble your movements underneath the blanket, kicking it softly, merging into each other’s arms, eyes lazed out and sleepy. Until your lips are brushing and your noses touch, both of your breaths hitch, entangled.
You could pull away. You don’t.
Instead, your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt and hold it, and his trace lines in the back of your neck. That’s all it takes.
The space between you folds in, quiet and inevitable. His breath catches, yours follows, and before either of you decide anything, the kiss simply happens —soft at first, almost clumsy from how tired you both are. His lips are warm, dry from the rain, and they press to yours like a question he’s been too afraid to ask for months.
You breathe into it, slow and trembling, and Jason makes a sound low in his throat —part relief, part disbelief. The hand at your neck shifts, his thumb brushing the line of your jaw as if to steady himself there. You taste the storm on his mouth, smoke and something faintly sweet that lingers when you tilt your head just enough to kiss him back.
He deepens it once, tentative, before stopping — like he’s afraid to break whatever spell this is. Your foreheads rest together, breaths uneven, hearts out of sync but trying and the hand at your neck tightens just enough to make your pulse stutter. Every heartbeat seems to ask for more, but he doesn’t move to kiss you again—not yet. It’s worse that way.
Your fingers twist in his shirt, knuckles brushing the solid warmth of his chest underneath. He’s still damp from the shower, still but like smoke and city air, and it hits you how close he really is—how much space he’s taken up in your head even when you swore you’d stop letting him.
“Jason…” The way you say his name barely sounds like a word; it’s more like an exhale.
He looks down at you—eyes dark, expression caught somewhere between restraint and want. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, though it sounds more like a warning to himself than to you.
“Yeah,” you breathe, “I do.”
“But—“
“I thought about calling you. I was about to, twice. Before I ended up calling Dick”
That’s what breaks him.
Something inside him just folds.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind that starts careful and turns into something else entirely—hungry, tired, aching. You feel it in the way his hand cups the back of your neck, the way he exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding that breath for months.
You pull him closer, the blanket slipping lower, the world narrowing down to the weight of him, the sound of rain, the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin. There’s nothing careful about it anymore, not when his fingers slide up your arm, not when your lips part under his.
It’s messy, a little desperate, all the things you never said tonight spilling out between the spaces where breath should be. When he finally breaks the kiss, his lips hover against yours, both of you catching air like you’ve just surfaced from something deep.
Jason’s hands come up to cradle your face, palms warm against your skin, thumbs drawing slow, steady circles on the hollow of your cheeks. His touch is deliberate, grounding, as if he’s reminding himself that you’re really kissing him again, that he's kissing you back too. His nose brushes yours—a light, almost shy movement—and you can feel the air shift again, thick with everything you both keep trying not to say but don’t really need to.
You exhale softly, your lips grazing his when you speak. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
His voice comes out rough. “Can’t help it.”
He tilts his head slightly, the tip of his nose trailing along your jaw before settling near your temple. The gesture isn’t about claiming—it’s about remembering. About wanting to stay.
Your hands move without thinking, tracing the edge of his collar, feeling the quiet tension still held in his shoulders. He relaxes under your touch, eyes closing as if the world outside doesn’t exist.
It’s in the next, unfortunate, instance that all your self-refrain vanishes. When his breathing turns into panting. When your hands slip with a tortuous pace against his chest until they rest under his shirt.
The pain that sits on your ribs is nothing when he’s making you this helpless.
His shirt goes flying in a pitch black corner of the room and it’s indifferent to you when you throw it, if it lands on a candle and lights on fire. You couldn’t care less when you go and pull him into your face feverishly, panting in a rhythm that matches his.
When you bring your lips to his to kiss him again, you only manage to peck, before he pulls away and pushes you back, green eyes searching yours in order to speak.
“—can’t,” he rasps, pressing a palm to your cheek. “You’re still hurt.”
“That’s never stopped us before” you whisper back, voice trembling, bold and dangerous at the same time.
The look he gives you then is pure conflict—fire and ache tangled together. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw once, like a warning, and then he gives in. He groans low in the back of his throat and the kiss that follows isn’t gentle. It’s desperate, rough around the edges, the kind that swallows all the noise and leaves only heartbeat.
Jason’s hands stay at your sides, heavy and insistent, but careful where they rest. His lips brush yours again—this time slower, teasing, and all the rest of the world fades into candlelight and shadow.
You arch against him, breath hitching, fingers tangled in his damp hair, but just as the moment threatens to tip over, a sharp inhale breaks the spell.
“Help me take your clothes off” he whispers against your lips.
Your hands freeze on his chest for a heartbeat, heart hammering as you meet his gaze. The candlelight flickers across his face, highlighting the storm behind his eyes—want, restraint, and something deeper you can’t quite name.
Waiting for your response lasts seconds in reality, but to Jason, it’s an eternity. He takes it as a chance to bury his face in your neck and catch your skin between his lips, shaking as he feels your heartbeat racing against his nose.
“I… okay,” you moan, voice trembling just enough to make him growl softly against your neck.
The belt of your robe is undone and the garment itself is slipped off so fast, it feels as if it was never there to begin with.
Jason’s hands move, warm and steady, sliding the lacy strap of your nightgown down your shoulder, where he places a kiss, then tenderly along your sides as he leans you back slightly, guiding you with a precision that feels both tender and demanding. Every touch leaves a trail of heat across your skin. You can feel the tension in his shoulders, the careful control he fights to maintain, and it makes your chest tighten in anticipation.
Between hot, sternum kisses, he finds your hips, fingers shimming underneath fabric, bunching it against his wrists and fists and you slug your body ever so slowly against his, until the dress is over your head and thrown where his shirt must have landed.
Your breasts perk, nipples puckering angrily at the cold air that hits them, but Jason’s got his palms on them before he manages to even take a breath.
He pulls away, ever so slightly, but just enough to look at you, eyes dark and hooded with want, lips slightly swollen from the chase. The pause is torturous, and you shiver under the weight of his stare. His thumbs trace slow, teasing circles over your nipples, dragging every nerve alive as he measures your reaction.
“You’re driving me insane,” he growls, voice rough, low, vibrating through his chest into yours. His hands roam with intention now, exploring the familiar yet electrifying territory as your body arches instinctively toward him. The world has narrowed again—just the two of you, the rhythm of your breathing, the soft scrape of candlelight across skin, the scent of him clinging to your senses.
Your back arches instinctively, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “Ffffuck Jay–” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing and the rain outside.
He hums against your skin, a sound so approving, before lowering his mouth to your collarbone. Each kiss down your chest is so pretentiously exploratory—hungry but careful, a balance of restraint and release. His hands glide down your sides, fingertips brushing the curve of your hips, tracing the line on the inside of your thighs. Every inch of him pressed against you sends fire up your spine, making it impossible to think, impossible to stop wanting.
He pats your thighs slightly; a silent command to part them. When you do, he slips between them, his body almost crawling into yours. He lines his hips with yours and ruts once, experimentally, but it only makes him bite his lip and throw his head back as all blood rushes to his cock.
Your fingers wander along the edges of his biceps, tracing the familiar contours, while he presses closer again, bucking against you in ways that make it impossible to think.
“Fuck,” he mutters, under his breath, as if the word can scrub you from the inside of his mouth.
He runs a hand down his face and feels the twitch of his eye, the split in his lip that’s healing from when it was inflicted on him a few nights ago on patrol. He looks down at his own body and where the last garments of clothing divide you from merging completely. Both of his arms come to rest on each side of your head and he bends his back in impossible ways to be able to get his mouth around one of your nipples again.
He knows he should wait when he hears you wince in the tiniest tint of pain, he knows he should be patient. Take his time with you like he’s never done before, but it feels impossible–his tongue comes out to lick a circle, then another one and only then, when your wince is replaced by a moan, is he content enough with himself.
He takes a second to breathe against your saliva coated breast, shaky, unsteady. Every part of him feels strung too tight—like if he doesn’t touch you, he’ll snap. The air between you hums, warm and electric, filled with the small, helpless noises that escape between breaths and then, his mouth is on you again, softly alternating between sucking at your nipple and worrying it between his teeth.
His gaze drops, fixating on the angry red line stitched across your ribs—the reminder that brought him to this agonizing halt in the first place. He reaches out, fingers hovering an inch above the bandage, an unspoken apology in the tremble of his touch.
“I’m not gonna let you feel any pain,” he whispers, the admission tasting like ash on his tongue.
The look on his face is pure devastation—the kind that makes you want to pull him back down and kiss away every single dark thought. But you know this is real, this concern. This is the part of him that would sooner break himself than hurt you.
You lift a hand, letting your palm rest flat against the curve of his throat, feeling the erratic drum of his pulse beneath your skin. "I know Jay" you tell him, your voice soft, cutting through the noise of sirens somewhere in the background. “‘M not in pain”
You pull gently, a silent invitation, and this time, he lets you guide him. He lowers his head until his forehead rests against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your cheek. He pants a kiss on the apple of your cheek, and then, he moves back down again, trailing short kisses on your sternum.
The moment he reaches your belly button, he pulls back an inch, and his gaze searches yours, looking for permission for the next, inevitable step. You give him a small, fierce nod, brows furrowed..
Jason finally allows his control to break, but only halfway. He still doesn't plunge back into the feverish pace from before. Instead, he drops a kiss right over your belly button—a promise, a grounding touch—before letting his lips drift down to the corner of your mouth.
He nudges you gently onto your side, easing you into a position that puts no pressure on your injury, just to be able to hook his thumbs under the trim of your panties. His body follows, pressing close from behind, his bare chest a warm anchor against your thighs. He nips at the edge of your hip and your core trembles.
“Move it Jay”
The command makes him smirk.
"Ask me nicely, princess." He nips at your hip again, the smirk on his face almost feral now
“Don’t tease”
Jason kisses playfully at your lower belly before continuing in a dark tone "Here's where you usually say 'Yes, Jason. I'll do anything you ask. I'll be good for you.'"
You raise your brow at him, sporting a look that's too amused to contrast your previous sleepiness. The amusement on your face is genuine, a spark of defiance against the tidal wave of desire he's orchestrating. You don't take the bait.
Instead of the submissive words he’s fishing for, you use the only weapon you have left– touch.
You sit up carefully, bending your torso as far as your fresh wound allows you to and trap his chin between your fingers. His response is silent, only a kiss to the pad of your thumb that rests on his lower lip.
He smirks again, deviously.
“I’m not supposed to be good, Jason,” you whisper, your voice a low, throaty rasp, utterly devoid of the trembling compliance he expects. The words are meant to be a direct counterpoint to his challenge, but then, you add “But for you i might as well be”
“I like the sound of that…”
"I'll do anything," you murmur, your voice dropping to a low, husky register, "if you stop talking and show me."
His breath hitches, the smirk dissolving instantly into a look of startled, raw heat. He understands the shift in power.
His fingers, which had been gently hooked on your panties, suddenly become taut and insistent. He stops the slow tease and, with a swift, decisive move, he hooks his thumbs deeper, pulling the thin material down and off your body in one fluid motion. The lace barely brushes your knees before it’s gone, discarded somewhere in the shadows.
He nips at your inner thigh again, still teasingly close to your center, the back of his knuckles stroking over your sensitive slit slowly.
“You’re going to get your wish, then,” he vows, the words a promise and a warning.
And then, finally, in one agonisingly slow movement. His mouth is on you.
His lips lock around your clit, placing the faintest kiss, before his tongue darts out to run an exploring, tentative lick on you.
"Easy, baby," he rasps “I’ll just get you nice and wet for me”
Your back arches, a low, involuntary sound of shock and immediate pleasure tearing from your throat. Your fingers clutch frantically between the locks of his hair, trying to anchor yourself as the world tilts. The soft weight of his breath against your skin, the humid heat of his mouth, and the slow, precise movement of his tongue are a focused, singular assault on your senses.
“Still fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, lips pressed to the slick heat of your folds. “Can’t believe how much I missed this pussy.”
“Fuck, fuuuck Jason” you moan out “just like that.”
He groans against your clit like it’s a goddamn relief to hear you say his name like that.
You’re sprawled out on your back, thighs spread, ribs emitting a dull ache as you pull on your stitches—and yet, every nerve ending sparks like you’ve never felt Jason eating you out before.
He licks with slow, practiced precision, dragging the flat of his tongue up your center before sucking softly around your clit. His arms are wrapped under your thighs, keeping you pinned open, completely exposed. You squirm, but it only makes him moan deeper, nose nudging where you’re soaked and twitching.
“Fuckin’ taste of you,” he mutters, “I could live on it.”
Jason shifts slightly, his hand resting heavy on your hip, pressing you lightly against the couch as if to keep you pinned down. He hums against your pussy—a deep, satisfied vibration that sends a fresh wave of need straight to your hot core. He ignores your attempt at a challenge when you try to buck into his mouth, already too consumed by the task at hand.
The exploration of his mouth stops being tentative.
His tongue becomes firm, confident, working with a relentless precision that knows exactly where to hit and how long to linger. Every lick that makes a sound, makes your clit ache for more to the point it burns.
You are helpless under him. The words you want to say—the ones about not wanting him to stop—are lost to a rising tide of pleasure. Your hips buck forward again instinctively, pressing against his mouth, begging for more, for faster.
Had it been any other time, he would force your hips down with his palms to work at the pace he wants, but the fact that you’re hurt is always in the back of his mind, not letting him get cocky with his movements.
He gives you a moment of blissful pressure before slowing again, tormenting you with a return to the languid, worshipping pace. He looks up when he pulls away with a smooching sound—those green eyes of his, dark, hooded, and triumphant—and he knows he’s winning.
“M gonna put a finger in, ‘kay?” he slurs, chin wet with your sleek.
He lands a kiss on your puffy clit when your eyes fully blow into his, fingers digging into the skin of your hips.
You manage a shaky nod, the motion small and weak when every muscle in your body is strung too tight to allow for a full movement. His question is more of a courtesy; the deep, hungry look in his eyes tells you he’s already committed. The small, wet smooching sound as he pulls away is immediately replaced by the rough, welcoming friction of his chin against your slick skin.
He dips his head, placing another promised kiss—a possessive, lingering weight that sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. His fingers, which had been anchoring your hips until now, press down hard enough to leave faint bruises, giving you something physical to brace against as the sensation intensifies.
The first finger slides inside you, slow and deliberate, a precise invasion that makes you gasp. It's an exquisitely agonizing stretch, a sudden pressure that perfectly fills the void left by his mouth. You taste the sharp inhale of air, a thin, desperate sound that cracks in your throat.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a dark, encouraging counterpoint to the rush of blood in your ears.
He groans, grinding his hips into the couch, rutting against nothing like he's so hard it hurts. His finger pumps harder, tongue flicking rapid-fire across your clit like he’s chasing your orgasm for himself.
He withdraws slightly, then pushes back in, finding a deeper, more sensitive spot. The movement is steady, controlled, a stark contrast to the wildness you feel inside. He watches your face, his gaze fixed on the sharp tilt of your jaw, the tight closure of your eyes, measuring the effect of every fraction of an inch he takes.
When the second finger follows, it’s not an accident. It’s a deliberate filling, an attempt to take you to the edge again, slowly, but definitely. Your body accepts the pressure with a shuddering moan as your cunt swallows both of his fingers– a sound that starts low in your chest and escapes as a choked “Oh my God”
The words, coupled with the slow, internal stretch and the focused friction of his tongue returning to your clit—softly at first, then firming into a quick, demanding rhythm—shatter the last pieces of the coil that has been gathering in your abdomen. The tension that has been building since he walked into the room, the fear and the want, breaks like glass the more he fucks his fingers into you while still licking your clit in a circular motion.
The sensation becomes too intense to process. It’s a ringing in your ears, then a blinding white heat behind your eyes, and a convulsive tightening deep in your core. The muscles in your legs tremble violently, in a manner that makes you want to hide your face away from him and your back arches one final, painful time off the mattress.
The sound that tears from your throat is not a word or a gasp, but a single, loud, and sustained scream—a raw, helpless cry of pure release.
Your body is shaking violently, locked in a series of deep, shuddering spasms. Your hands, still tangled in Jason’s hair, tighten into desperate fists as you cling to him through the aftershock.
Then, just as abruptly as the orgasm began, it ends. Your body goes slack, collapsing onto the couch in a heap of exhausted, damp limbs. All that’s left is ragged, heavy breathing and the faint, rhythmic drumming of your heart trying to beat out of your chest.
Jason slows his movements easing back into a gentle pressure. He doesn't pull away immediately; he lingers ever so slightly, ensuring you’re fully grounded, letting the friction fade into a soft glide. He gives you one last, open-mouthed kiss before finally lifting his head, a thin line of your sleekness visible at the corner of his mouth and onto his chin.
He looks utterly spent, his chest heaving, his own control only now fully catching up to yours.
He lowers his forehead back to the mattress beside your thigh, resting there for a long moment, simply breathing. He doesn’t speak, allowing the silence to be filled only by the fading echo of your pleasure.
Finally, he pushes himself up to climb up your body, his eyes softening as he takes in the sight of your face—flush, glistening, and completely, utterly undone. He reaches out a trembling hand and gently brushes the damp strands of hair from your cheek.
“See?” he whispers, his voice is thick and rough with profound satisfaction. “Good for me. You’re always good for me.”
He pulls you tight against his chest, careful to support your body in a way that avoids your ribs, tucking your head securely under his chin. His body is a hot, heavy weight against you.
He closes his eyes, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling deeply, a long, shaky breath that seems to finally settle the storm in his own soul. He rests his cheek against your temple, and you can feel the low, fast thump-thump-thump of his heart beat gradually start to slow beneath your ear.
“Jay” You whisper, kissing his cheek “I’m okay we can continue”
“Good,” He kisses the top of your head, a soft, deliberate touch. “I’m not done with you, not even close,” he murmurs, his tone a husky promise
He leans in, breath stuttering, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin over your collarbone. “If you're sure you’re okay with that, princess” he murmurs, the words an agreement, a surrender, a warning–all rolled into one husky growl.
The smirk is back, sharp and knowing, but the vulnerability in his eyes doesn't quite fade. He knows this surrender is a lie; he knows you're challenging him to break. And that's exactly what he's going to do—but on his own terms. He needs this to be slow, he wants to be remembered.
He dips his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that is deep, immediate, and utterly possessive, yet still measured. It’s a thorough kiss that demands a response, and you give it freely, your hands sliding up his chest to tangle in the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
It’s a mess. Sloppy and slow. Lips sliding, tongues tangling, your taste smeared between his jaw and yours. You moan into it, not from need but from overwhelm, from the unbearable tenderness in the way he holds your face like he can’t even believe you’re real.
You don’t even know where his hands go after that. It’s all just a blurry vertigo—your hair, your neck, your chest, as if he needs to touch every inch of you. His body slots over yours, big and casually bruised and burning, hips cradled between your thighs like they were made for him. He shifts his weight again, his movements becoming slow and so undeniably sensual. He uses his knees to gently widen your thighs, pushing his body fully into the space between your legs.
While his mouth is busy claiming yours, his hips make a subtle, precise shift. He settles the heavy, insistent heat of his pelvis right against your entrance. The thin, rough material of his boxers is the only thing separating you, and the slow, grinding friction instantly steals the breath from your lungs.
He breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch your eyes roll back slightly. He’s deliberately maximizing the sensation without crossing the final threshold. The coarse cotton of his boxers brushes against your slick, the bare skin where your thighs conjunct with your core, the friction immediately drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.
“I need to feel you,” he murmurs, his gaze burning into yours.
“Then take them off,” you command, your voice low, steady, and utterly demanding. There is no defiance left, only honest need. “Now, Jason.”
You look up at him, locking your forehead with his as a string of saliva connects your mouths, the need in your eyes giving him all the power he craves. You can only manage two, barely gullible, broken syllables.
“Please...”
The single, broken word hangs in the air between you—"Please"—a complete and utter surrender that thrills him more than any impatient cry for pleasure. He cups your face, brushing your swollen lips with his thumb.
If you said his name like a breath before, now you exhale it like it’s your last.
Jason doesn't move to undress in order to enter. Not yet. He accepts the plea, absorbs the heat of your demand, and then, slowly, deviously, he pushes the boundary.
His thumb peels away from your lower lip and dips slightly into the corner of your mouth. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your head back, urging your lips open again. He leans down and begins to kiss you once more, but this time it’s softer, more tender—an orchestrated contrast to the raw pressure building below.
While his mouth is gentle, his hips are merciless.
He moves his body just slightly, shifting his angle, and uses the rough seam of his boxer briefs to rub with an agonizingly slow pressure right across your clit. He works in small, lazy arcs, maximizing the intense, localizing the friction. He keeps the full, aching weight of his length pressed against your thighs, letting you feel the pulsing promise of him, but denying the finality of entering you.
Your soft gasp is swallowed by his kiss, the sound vibrating between your lips. Your hands, still tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, pull him closer, desperate to ground yourself against the exquisite torment. You try to shift your hips, instinctively bucking against the friction, but the weight of his body and his controlling hand on your jaw keep you perfectly pinned.
"No," he murmurs against your mouth, his voice low, vibrating through your core “Stay still, or you’re gonna be in pain. I’ll do the work”
He finally breaks his control entirely. With a sharp, sudden exhale, Jason reaches down and hooks his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. He doesn't look away from your eyes as he tugs the material down. The sound of the elastic band of his underwear rasping down his thighs and off his feet is muffled and quick, and the garment is tossed carelessly toward the floor.
The instant his hot, bare skin presses against your own—hip to hip, thigh to thigh, the hard, veiny length of him settling precisely at your slick, aching entrance—you arch violently, a sharp, choked gasp tearing from your throat. His cock is finally free and its hot, hard, and undeniably heavy against you. He pauses for a split second, allowing you to feel the reality of him pressed against your folds. The contact sends a violent spike of need through your body. His eyes darken to a dangerous, predatory shade of green.
He dips his fingers into you, coating his hand in your sleek and then his fist wraps round his cock, and he gives himself a few pumps, smearing wetness along his veiny length. The slick, slow movement is a direct provocation, a counted cruelty that makes your vision blur with anticipation. You moan at the sight, biting your lip at the way his forearm flexes..
"No more holding back, i gotchu" he states, the finality of the words.
He finds your mouth, and the kiss that follows is a complete, total consumption. It’s deep and messy, filled with every ounce of frustration, fear, and desperate affection that had been bottled up between you. He swallows your moan, your breath, your very will.
While his mouth devours yours, his hips make a single, decisive move. He bucks slightly, then uses his hands to pull your hips up just enough to allow him to align himself perfectly.
He doesn't ask again. He simply drives forward.
The initial thrust is slow, deep, stretching you in ways that make you cry out—a sound muffled against his shoulder as he pushes his face into the soft curve of your neck. Your nails dig into his back when he fills you completely, sinking in until his hips are flush against yours, merging your bodies into one single, shuddering unit.
He stays perfectly still for one long, suspended moment, allowing the overwhelming sensation of your fluttering walls tighten impossibly around him to make him cry out.
Then, he pulls out– only an inch, just enough to break the connection and heighten the tension. He hovers there, barely withdrawn, the friction of the withdrawal sending a violent tremor through your core.
His hands trail down your sides, still burning with that possessive heat as he positions himself between your legs again. You can feel the weight of him, both physically and emotionally. The way his gaze burns through you, the way his cock presses against your thigh, so close, but he’s still holding back. The tip of him teases your entrance, a molten press against your slick folds, sending sharp, delicious spikes of anticipation through your lower belly.
His lips hover over yours for a beat, just breathing you in. The quiet intimacy of the moment makes your heart race—this isn't just a need for physical release. It's something heavier. Something more. And you can feel it in the way his hands are gentle now, caressing you rather than gripping.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”
You feel it again—that ache, that tenderness that splits you open wider than any knife wound could. Because it’s not just make up sex like any other time. Not when he kisses your sternum like it’s sacred. Not when he moves down your body with a hunger laced in awe.
“You good?” he asks and you nod in response
“Good,” he murmurs, and in one swift motion, he’s inside you again, sliding deep with a single thrust that makes you gasp.
The familiar stretch, the familiar burn, but this time it's different. This time, it's mathematically controlled. He keeps pulling out almost entirely, and then pushes back in, dragging out the sensation so you feel every inch of him. Every pulsing vein on his cock rubbing into your throbbing walls.
His lips find your neck, sucking lightly at the bruises he's left there, biting down just enough to remind you of the marks he’s claimed on you.
“You feel so fuckin' good,” he growls against your skin, his voice rough and thick with desire. “Squeezing me so damn tight... can’t get enough of you.”
You moan, fingers digging into his back, urging him closer, deeper. Every inch of him fills you, makes you forget the outside world, makes you forget everything but him. The feeling of him inside you, the heat, the pressure building with every slow, dragged-out thrust.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand finding yours and pinning it beside your head. His thumb traces over the back of your hand like he's marking you, claiming you. You reach up, your fingers curling into his hair, tugging him closer until your lips crash together in a messy, desperate kiss.
Your body moves in sync with his now, hips rocking against him, each thrust deeper than the last, building tension between you until it feels like you're both on the edge of something dangerous, something overwhelming.
“Fuck—just like that,” you whisper, your voice breathless. "I can’t—"
He pulls his face from your neck, his head tilting back as he stares up at the shadowy ceiling, his jaw clenched, riding the intensity of that initial, deep connection. Sweat glistens on his temples, illuminated by the guttering candlelight.
You don't need to be told what to do. The long, agonizing wait, the deliberate entry, and the fierce, consuming heat of him finally inside you ignites a desperate, instinctive reaction.
Your hips rise sharply off the mattress, a sudden, fierce thrust upwards into his body, initiating the rhythm you both crave. It’s a primal movement—an urgent demand for him to move, to continue stretching you out until you finally let loose.
The motion pulls his attention instantly back to you. His green eyes snap down, meeting yours—wild, dark, and momentarily surprised by your sudden aggression. The pain from your ribs is a distant, forgotten memory, completely eclipsed by the profound chase of release.
“Dont stop Jay, ‘m gonna cum–ah fuck”
He answers your challenge with a low, hungry growl that rumbles deep in his chest. His hand that had been steadying your hips, now grips your thighs firmly, lifting and angling them over his shoulder to take him even deeper. Only then does he lower his thumb between your legs, pressing onto your clit.
At this new angle, he begins to move, slowly at first, but with a crushing force. Each retreat is agonizingly slow, and each drive forward is a profound, earth-shaking penetration. He pushes in, finding the deepest, most sensitive point with ruthless accuracy, then pulls back just enough to gather momentum for the next powerful stroke.
The rhythm quickly accelerates. He’s no longer thinking about gentleness; he's only focused on the pure, raw release. You meet every thrust, your hips driving up to meet his, your low moans swallowed by the frantic, wet sound of skin slapping against skin and the bang of the couch against the wall.
The combination of him fucking his hips into yours so deeply and the focused pressure from his thumb rubbing circles against you is too much. You gasp, and the sound is a sharp, broken intake of air– your whole body locks up.
You are completely at his mercy. Probed and open, all limbs gooey and unable to move if he doesn’t show them how.
You arch your back, your nails digging deeper into the muscle of his shoulders, needing the pain to ground you against the intensity of his rutting. He leans down, not to kiss you gently, but to bury his face in the curve of your neck, his teeth gently nipping the sensitive skin.
"Look at me," he commands, hand tracing the line of your jaw slightly, and your eyes, wide and glassy with tears that threaten to slip, snap open to meet his.
In that moment, the world narrows to just his face: the harsh lines of his jaw clenched with restraint, the way his eyes have narrowed into yours, the soft parting of his lips before he bitens onto them– just the sheer intensity of his focus. You are utterly consumed, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.
The only word that escapes is the one that acknowledges the profanity of the situation.The word that recognizes this specific kind of gut consuming feeling. A deformed effort at speaking his name. And then.
A sharp, ragged cry of "Im gonna come" tears from your throat, followed by a series of helpless, high-pitched moans.
The sounds seems to fuel him. His expression twists into a dangerous, dark triumph. He takes your command—your reaction—and uses it as leverage. His grip on your thighs tightens, and he drives into you with three crushing, piston-like thrusts that completely steal your breath. The force sends shockwaves through your hips, making the couch hit the wall with another resounding thud.
The world dissolves into a blinding cascade of sensation. Your body arcs violently against his, your toes curling, your muscles seizing as the first, powerful wave of climax hits you in waves. You clench around him, your internal walls tightening and seizing until you feel him shudder, his entire body going rigid above you.
He lets out a choked, half-bitten snarl deep in his throat as your muscles clench him, and he drives home one final, agonizingly deep thrust, before he cock pulses inside you, painting your walls in ropes of white.
His body collapses onto yours, his chest heaving, sleek with beads of sweat as his cum starts pouring out of your cunt slowly, with each movement he makes without pulling out. He buries his face back in your neck, not moving, simply holding you into him as you’re both riding this moment.
He doesn't move for a long moment, simply resting his forehead against the damp curve of your neck, his breathing coming in thick, ragged gasps right against your ear. The low, frantic beat of his heart begins its slow, arduous descent back toward a normal rhythm.
When he finally shifts, it's slow, agonizingly careful. He doesn't pull out immediately; instead, he eases his weight off your torso, moving to support himself on his elbows. He keeps himself deep inside you, the conjunction of your bodies heavy, still intensely present, but removes the pressure from your chest and ribs.
Your thighs, still lifted and draped over his shoulders, feel like lead. You keep your eyes closed, listening to the only sounds left in the apartment: his uneven breathing, the faint, wet sound of skin separating as he began to move, and the almost silent hiss of the rain outside.
He lifts his head, and the candlelight catches his face. He looks utterly spent, slick with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. The dangerous, predatory look is gone, replaced by a quiet, searching tenderness—the one that always resurfaces when the adrenaline fades.
His eyes, dark with satiation, drop instantly to your ribs. He checks the bandage with a quick, worried glance, as if expecting to see blood seeping through. He reaches out a hand, not to touch your injury, but to gently cup the side of your torso, his fingers spreading wide across your skin, checking for any sign of a flinch or a wince.
"Are you okay?" he whispers, his voice raw, throat tight. It's the first coherent question he's asked since this insane mutual seduction began. It’s not a check on the pleasure, but a genuine, terrified assessment of your pain.
He waits, his own body entirely suspended on his elbows, unwilling to move, unwilling to breathe until he has your answer. The quiet intimacy of the question, posed while he still hasn't pulled out, still physically desperate to be one with you, feels infinitely more vulnerable than any demand for surrender.
You look up at him, your breath still catching in shallow, rapid spurts. His face is so close, framed by the shadows and candlelight, raw fear lurking beneath the exhaustion in his eyes. He’s utterly defenseless at this moment, held captive only by his concern for you.
You manage a shaky, breathless smile. It’s a genuine smile, the kind that reaches your eyes and bunches their outer corners in absolute contentment.
You lift a hand, your fingers finding the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb resting over the pulse hammering wildly beneath his skin. You gently rub the spot,in a comforting gesture.
“I’m better than okay, Jay,” you whisper, your voice thick and heavy with the aftermath of release. You want to take the worry off him, to show him that he didn't hurt you.
You shift slightly beneath him, a small movement that tightens the internal connection between your bodies. The subtle pressure makes him suck in a quick, sharp breath.
A ragged sigh of pure relief breaks from Jason’s lips. His eyes flutter shut for a second, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. When he opens them again, the searching look returns, but it’s softer now, tinged with a deep, private sadness.
“God, I was so scared I messed this up,” he murmurs, the admission behind it too heavy. He moves his left hand from your side, trailing his fingers up your collarbone, then hooking them lightly around the back of your neck. He leans down, resting his forehead against yours, the damp skin-to-skin contact grounding you both.
He pulls back just an inch, his hips still connected to yours, and lowers his mouth to yours for a kiss that is nothing like the frantic hunger of moments before. This one is slow, open-mouthed, and tasting of sweat, desperation. It is a kiss of thanks, forgiveness, possession. His way of saying that he missed you too.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours again. The deep, heavy connection keeps the world simplified, focused only on the pulse of two bodies joined together.
“Please,” Jason whines, the sound small and broken, “Don’t push me away,” he pleads, the words rough, a confession whispered against your lips. “Not this time. I won’t push you away either”
The last part is the true admission of his terror, a promise he's never successfully kept.
Your eyes spark and you blink. Unsteadily and in disbelief. The reality of what you did hasn’t sunk in until now. It’s out of place and awkward to ask what this makes you, how and if this changes the trajectory of the bad aftertaste after your last breakup.
You’re too scared of the inevitability of him and you. It always ends in tears. Either Jason feeling drowned, or you feeling abandoned, or vice versa. There’s never been even the slightest effort to understand. Both of you always just let feelings consume you until they burn down your bridges.
But if you’re scared, Jason must be terrified. You realize that every panicked breath he’s taken since he came here tonight has been in anticipation of the crash, and his need for either of you to find the strength to stop it is what keeps him trapped here, vulnerable, in your arms.
You let your fingers trail from his jaw, down his throat, and rest on the damp, solid muscle of his chest, right over his pounding heart. "Right here," you insist, pressing your fingers slightly. "This is exactly where I always needed you to be."
His expression softens, the harsh lines of worry in between his brows smoothing out as your words finally register. He gives a deep, shuddering sigh of pure relief, and his eyes drop closed for a long moment.
"God," he murmurs, the word weary like a prayer. He reluctantly begins to withdraw from you, pausing the motion several times, whining as if the separation is a genuine, physical pain. He settles beside you on the bed, immediately pulling you back into his embrace, folding your body against the familiar, solid contours of his side.
He strokes your hair slowly, rhythmically, his entire focus now dedicated to quietly comforting you. His thumb moves in small circles at the back of your head, every motion deliberate, almost meditative. It’s the kind of touch that speaks without words, a quiet I’m here threaded through each stroke.
For a while, neither of you speak. The city hums faintly in the distance, the faint pulse of emergency lights flashing far below. Jason’s heartbeat is steady against your palm, a rhythm that feels achingly human in a night that’s been anything but.
When he finally does speak, it’s low and hoarse. “You know, I hate how easy it is to lose you.”
It’s the part of Jason that’s tired of losing—his parents, Bruce, his own life. Everything he’s ever cared about seems to get ripped away just when he starts to believe it’s safe to hold on. And tonight, when he got the call from Dick about your condition, it must’ve felt like the same old story replaying in a crueler tone.
You can feel that weight in his voice. It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly against your shoulder, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
You shift slightly, turning your face toward his chest. “You didn’t lose me.”
Jason exhales shakily, the sound breaking somewhere deep in his chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “For now.”
You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes. “Don’t do that,” you say softly. “Don’t act like I’m already gone.”
He lets out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “You say that like you weren’t halfway gone when I got here.”
You want to argue, to insist that you were fine, that you’ve always been fine—but the words catch somewhere between pride and exhaustion. So instead, you just mumble, “You worry too much.”
Jason’s hand stills for a second in your hair. “Yeah,” he admits softly. “I do.”
The honesty in it makes you look up. His gaze meets yours—open, stripped of the armor he always wears, even when he’s half-asleep. There’s no smirk, no teasing retort. Just Jason, tired and real and right here.
Jason presses a hand over yours on his chest, his grip rough but trembling. “You make it really hard not to care, you know that?”
You smile faintly. “Good.”
The smallest laugh escapes him, low and tired. “Yeah. Good.”
“You should sleep,” you whisper, tracing the edge of his jaw with your thumb.
“Not tired,” he lies.
You smile faintly. “You will be.”
He doesn’t argue this time. He just nods, eyes softening, and lets his forehead fall lightly against yours. The warmth between you feels fragile, the kind of peace that could shatter if either of you breathe too loudly. But for now, it holds.
Neither of you notice when the lights flicker back on.
Okay, well maybe the universe doesn’t exactly hate you. Or, or– Dick Grayson is a really good wingman.
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.
Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally
A quiet Christmas night in Jason’s cabin safehouse turns anything but gentle when both of you give in to something messy, desperate, and entirely your own—just you, him, and the fire bearing witness.
Tags/CW: 18+, MDNI, Jason x fem!reader, smut, oral (f! receiving), Jason kisses his meal before he eats it, p in v, unprotected sex, making out (too much too sloppy), creampies, cuddling, estab!relationship.
Jason’s arms have always been big. Big enough to wrap around you and blot out the rest of the world, rough enough to feel real when everything else slips. They’ve always made you feel like you could hide there—press your forehead to the crook of his neck and just disappear.
Now that there’s no noise to hear other than the soft cracking noise of wood burning in the flames, you realise, looking back in sprinkles of past thoughts, you’ve always wanted this.
The couches on either side of you remain forgotten, eerily still in the passage of time, they don’t have dents of conjoined body weight that strains their velvety pillows. All the hand woven throws on them, untouched, un-crinkled. No sign of them thrown off in a lazy sprawl.
You and Jason didn’t even look at them when you arrived at his safehouse cabin, having been drawn to the front of the fireplace, like moths to bright light —precious floor time, as you had called it earlier— you drifted fast to create your makeshift fortress.
And now here you are. His shoulder brushed against yours. His thigh warm where it rests beside your knee. The futon he insisted on bringing—because you mentioned, half-laughing, that hardwood floors would murder his spine—unfolded beneath you like he’d known you’d end up here.
Jason shifts beside you, slow and easy, enough that the futon dips and your hip nudges into his. He doesn’t move away—he never does. Instead, his arm settles behind you, brushing your back with that familiar, grounding warmth that always makes your shoulders drop a little.
The fire cracks softly, and the glow spilling over him feels unfair. All warm golds and long shadows, softening a man who spends the rest of the world hard-edged. Here, he’s just Jason. Your Jason. The one who always looks back at you like you’re the only steady thing he’s got.
You lean into him without thinking, letting your head rest against his shoulder. He shifts just the tiniest bit, settling you closer, like he was waiting for you to do exactly that and you coo into his warmth.
His fingers find your thigh in patterns of absentminded, lazy little circles that make it very hard to pretend you’re not melting. Not because it’s new, but because it’s him. Because somehow no amount of time together has made this feeling normal enough so that your heart doesn’t want to jump out of your chest.
The silence between you is thick but silky, like the blanket you’re both wrapped under. Not awkward. Not anticipatory. Just full of everything that doesn’t need to be spoken for you to feel it humming between your ribs.
Your hand drifts toward his on instinct, brushing across his knuckles before you weave your fingers through. Jason’s chest rises in slow, quiet breaths, the kind he only ever takes when he’s fully, privately at ease.
And then he hums, low in his throat—almost a laugh, almost a sigh.
“Y’know…” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough that his cheek grazes your hair, then your temple, “we’ve got two perfectly good couches behind us.”
You smile in his chest without lifting your head. “And?”
Jason’s thumb strokes along your thigh, slow enough to feel intentional.
“And we still end up right here.” He leans down just slightly, voice brushing your ear like a secret. “Pressed up against each other on the floor like teenagers.”
He pauses, warm lips grazing your temple.
“Not that I’m complaining. Just saying… there’s gotta be a reason.”
Jason shifts just enough for his nose to skim your hair, his voice dipping into that gravelly, amused tone he saves for when he’s about to get under your skin.
“‘Cause if I didn’t know any better…” his fingers slide a little higher on your thigh, just enough to make you breathe in, “I’d think you drag me down here on purpose.”
You pull back half an inch to give him a look, but he catches your chin lightly between two fingers, smirking.
“Mmhm,” he hums, eyes half-lidded, way too pleased with himself.
It earns him a chuckle from the depths of your throat.
“Act innocent all you want.” You tell him “Every damn time we’ve got a surface to lay down, a blanket, and five minutes alone? You end up glued to my side.”
He scoffs—mostly because you’re right.
“And what about you?” He mumbles.
“Must you need the confirmation?”
Jason nods, then laughs under his breath, warm and low. He presses his forehead to yours, grin softening into something deeper.
“Baby,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your jaw, “you think I’d sit anywhere else when I could have you right here? Not a chance.”
His lips hover a breath above yours before he adds, teasing but honest enough to crack you open a little
“Besides… you get real cuddly on the floor. Kinda my weakness.”
You don’t even try to hide your smile this time—it just blooms, warm and helpless, because he’s doing that thing again. That thing where he teases you until you’re flustered, then softens at the last second like he can’t help giving you the truth underneath.
“Your weakness, huh?” you whisper, lips brushing his.
Jason’s smirk tilts, lazy and fond. “Mm. Big one.”
And then he kisses you.
Not hungrily. Just slow—achingly slow—like he’s got all night and wants to savor every second of it. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you in, and your fingers curl into the front of his shirt without thinking. The fire pops behind you, sending a warm ripple across your skin, but Jason is warmer, deeper, steadier.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to nudge his nose against yours. “See?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your mouth. “Floor time makes you sweet.”
You shove him lightly in the chest, mostly to hide the way your heart just stuttered, but he only laughs, low and amused, and pulls you straight back into him. This time he lies back on the futon, tugging you with him until you end up half sprawled across his chest.
“‘M always sweet you asshole.”
“Aha, indeed.”
His arm wraps around your waist. Solid muscle, heat, that quiet strength you never have to ask for. You settle into him, your cheek pressed to the spot just over his heartbeat, and he exhales like you’ve put him exactly where he’s meant to be.
The firelight dances across the room. His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down your spine.
After a minute, he speaks again—soft, teasing, but quieter, like he’s letting his guard slip a little.
“Gotta admit…” he murmurs into your hair, “I like when you curl up on me like this.”
You tilt your head up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”
He looks down at you, eyes warm enough to ruin you.
“Yeah,” he says, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Makes me feel like I’m… I don’t know, needed!? Yours...”
Your breath catches—so subtle you’re not sure he noticed.
But he did. And his hand stills on your back, fingertips sinking in just slightly.
“Jay..”
“’Cause I am,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, right?”
Jason’s words are still hanging in the air when you shift on him—slowly, like you’re sliding into a better position without any particular intention.
But he knows better.
Your leg drapes across his waist. Just a little weight. Just enough to make his breath catch. Barely.
You pretend not to notice.
Instead, you nuzzle into the warm column of his throat, lips brushing the skin there like an accident. A soft, lingering accident. Jason’s hand on your back flexes, fingertips digging in for half a second before he catches himself.
Good.
You let your nose trail up the line of his neck, lazy, innocent, torturously tender. His pulse jumps under your mouth—fast, but ever so contained. He’s trying so hard to be unbothered.
You’re not done with him however.
Your palm slides across his chest, slow enough that you can feel each breath he’s trying to regulate. He’s solid under your hand, warm, muscles going tight one at a time like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to admit he wants.
Still you say nothing.
You just shift again. Just enough that your hips settle a little closer over his. Not grinding. Not obvious. Just aligned. A feather-light tease that sends a hot, invisible jolt through him. You feel it. You feel everything.
Jason exhales, a quiet, shaky thing he tries to turn into a laugh.
It does not sound like a laugh.
You bite back a smile and press your lips to his stubbled jaw—soft, slow, completely devastating. He tilts into it instinctively before he forces himself still.
His fingers slide lower on your back.
You don’t give him what he wants.
Instead, you kiss the corner of his mouth—barely there, a whisper of warmth—and pull back before he can quite chase you. His eyes crack open, dark and unfocused, a little ruined around the edges.
You settle your head back on his chest like nothing happened at all.
He makes a noise in his throat. Frustrated. Fond. Helpless. His heartbeat is thunder under your ear now.
“I know you’re mine,” you whisper.
You shift one last time, just a tiny roll of your hips as you get ‘comfortable,’ and Jason’s arm tightens around you—reflexive, full-body, soft growl stuck in his chest.
He mutters something incoherent into your hair.
You smile smugly into his shirt.
Jason is officially in hell and he’s loving every second of it.
“And I’m yours.”
Jason lasts all of—what—another eight seconds? Maybe ten, if you’re too generous.
Because you stay exactly where you are, pretending to be oh-so-innocently settled on top of him, and then you do it—that move. That tiny, absentminded roll of your hips like you’re just adjusting your weight.
It’s not even a grind. It’s not even purposeful.
But Jason’s whole body reacts—hips jerk the slightest bit under you, all blood rushing suddenly to his cock, breath punching out of him like you knocked it loose. His hand, the one resting on your lower back, spasms and grabs a handful of your shirt.
“Jesus—” he breathes, barely audible.
You smile into his chest wickedly. He knows you do. He feels it.
And that’s the moment he officially cracks.
One second you’re lying on him, all soft and innocent, the next—
His hands slide down to your hips, grip tightening, and he flips you onto your back in one fluid, pissed-off-but-turned-on-as-hell motion. The futon dips beneath the sudden shift, and you gasp more from the shock than the force.
Jason hovers above you, breath unsteady, hair falling into his eyes like he lost it somewhere in the movement.
And he looks beautifully wrecked.
Flushed pink. Jaw tight. Pupils blown wide. The thin veneer of “I can handle this” absolutely torched in flames.
He braces one forearm beside your head, the other still clamped around your hip like he’s anchoring himself. It slips away only for a moment’s time, to adjust his bulge inside his pants.
“You think you’re funny,” he growls—quiet, deep, breath warm against your lips.
You grin up at him, soft and taunting. “A little.”
Jason’s eyes flick down your body, then back to your smile, and he huffs out a broken laugh.
His lips pepper kisses across your face and jawline, each one of them sloppy and slow.
“Yeah?” He says between kisses. His thumb strokes along your hip, possessive, hungry, already losing any attempt at patience. “You’re lucky I love you.”
You tug lightly on the collar of his shirt. “Do something about it then.”
That’s it. That’s the actual kill shot.
Jason lets out a sound—somewhere between a groan and a surrender—and crashes his mouth directly to yours, all heat and pent-up frustration and relief. His hand grips your thigh and pulls you flush against him, no space left, no guessing.
Jason’s kiss is hot enough to dizzy you—deep, and hungry, coating the skin around your mouth with saliva, like he’s been trying not to do this for the past thirty minutes and you finally snapped the last thread holding him together. His hand slides under your thigh as his tongue touches yours, tugging you up to meet his hips and the low sound he makes when your bodies line up is downright sinful.
He bucks his hips directly into yours eliciting a small moan out of you when your clit rubs perfectly on the seam of your pants.
You pull him closer by the front of his shirt, kissing him back just as fiercely—teeth catching his bottom lip and pulling it into your mouth, fingers threading into his hair. You can feel him melt into it, lose the last scraps of restraint, push his weight down over you like he wants you under him, wrapped around him, nowhere else.
But there’s no way you’re letting him win that easily.
Mid-kiss, you twist your grip in his shirt and roll your hips slow and steady, with cocky intention this time. Jason’s breath stutters; he breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale right against your mouth.
“Oh, you’re—” he starts, but you don’t give him the chance.
You use his moment of shock to flip him.
You hook your leg around his waist, shift your weight, and suddenly he’s the one on his back and you’re straddling his hips. The futon dips under you both, the fire crackles, and Jason just freezes.
Not in fear, but in awe.
His hands fall to your thighs like gravity dragged them there, fingers spreading over your skin, squeezing like he needs the reassurance you’re real.
You lean down, kiss him slow—slow enough to make him chase the end of it when you pull back half an inch.
He exhales shakily.
“Baby,” he warns, voice shredded down to something deep and ruined, “don’t start something you can’t finish.”
You smirk, shifting your weight deliberately over him, drawing a curse out of his throat.
“Who says I’m not finishing it?”
Jason’s head falls back with a low groan, his hands tightening on your hips—possessive, helpless, gone.
That’s when he moves.
One sharp thrust of his hips up into yours—enough to knock a gasp out of you and make your hands slap against his chest for balance. He grins up at you, wild and triumphant.
“Got you.”
You glare at him, breath uneven. “Cheater.”
“Survivor,” he counters, grabbing your waist and dragging you down again so your faces nearly touch. “And if you keep teasing me—”
He flips you back.
Fast.
Effortless.
Like you weigh nothing.
Your back hits the futon again and he cages you in with his body, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. His lips ghost along your jaw, down to your neck, warm and maddeningly slow.
“You gonna behave now?” he murmurs against your skin, voice barely holding together.
You curl your fingers into his hair and tug just enough to make him curse under his breath.
“No.”
Jason laughs—breathless, disbelieving, insanely turned on.
“Good,” he growls, dragging your hips up against his again, “’cause neither am I.”
He kisses you again—deeper, dirtier, more desperate—and this time neither of you hold back. Smooching sounds fill the room and Jason’s scent mingles with your own, so much, you don’t know where he starts and you begin.
His hands fly to the button of your jeans, the pads of his fingers fiddling with it.
The button pops with a sharp, silver click, but Jason doesn't rush to strip you. Instead, he pauses, his large hand splayed flat against the heat of your stomach, his thumb hooked just inside the waistband. He’s looking at you with such intensity that feels heavier than his actual weight.
Jason’s kisses turn hungry fast — the kind that steals the air from your lungs and gives it back to you warmer. You arch up into him, not consciously, not even teasing this time, just responding to the heat of him pressed fully against you.
He moans, low and helpless, the sound punching out of his chest like he’s been holding it back for weeks.
Your fingers tangle in his shirt. You tug hard and he jerks a little, hips pressing into yours with absolutely zero finesse. He bites down on a laugh, breath hot against the wet patches his lips have left on your throat.
“That’s… not fair,” he manages when you palm him through his pants, voice tight, breath shaking.
You drag your nails lightly down the back of his neck.
“Who said I was playing fair?”
He loses it for a second. His hand grips your thigh, hauling it up around his waist like he needs you anchored there or he’ll come apart. His body settles deeper against yours, chest to chest, hips locked to your hips, the futon creasing under the weight of both of you pressing together like there’s not a single inch you can spare.
Your shirt rides up, you don’t even know when, and his hand slides under the fabric, warm, broad, rough in that way that makes your breath catch. He strokes up your side slowly, until his fingers shimmy inside your bra from the front and begin to flick at one of your nipples.
Your own hands slip beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of him, the solid muscle, the way he tenses the second your fingertips skim the edge of his ribs. He shudders and you feel it all the way down to your pussy.
“That’s it,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours, eyes blown wide and dark. “God, you drive me—”
His voice breaks.
You kiss him before he can recover.
It gets messier than before, very very fast.
His mouth is open against yours, desperate, almost clumsy in the way he chases you. He drags you up into him, half-guided, half-grabbed, bodies tangling as hands roam and clothing shifts, little gasps slipping between kisses. You’re barely aware of what’s moving where or how clothes are stripped messily off you — just skin, heat, the wet drag of his breath against your cheek, the way he sounds when you touch him just right through his pants.
He pulls back only long enough to look at you — really look at how beautiful you look with just your underwear— chest heaving, lips red from kissing you stupid, a string of saliva connecting your faces.
“You’re not getting away from me tonight,” you murmur, voice like spice and honey all at once.
You wrap your arms around his neck, tug him down on you again.
“Didn’t plan on it, princess” he mumbles, the word vibrating against your collarbone. His smile is downright sinful.
He pulls back just enough to meet your half lidded gaze, his eyes roaming over your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of you.
His hand slides up, disappearing beneath the curve of your back, his rough palms dragging over your scorching skin. He finds the strap of your bra and undoes it with a soft click. He lets his thumb trace the curve of you, over and over, until you’re arching off the futon just to meet the pressure.
“Jason,” you breathe, half-plea and half-complaint.
“What—I’m just lookin’,” he grunts, a slow, predatory smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I’m takin’ my time. You’re the one who wanted to play games, baby. Now you gotta sit with the consequences.”
He leans down, but he doesn't kiss you. Instead, he brushes his lips against the sensitive hollow behind your ear, inhaling deeply. His beard scruff burns against your skin, a delicious friction that makes you shiver. He moves lower, his tongue darting out to lick a slow, wet stripe down the side of your neck, stopping right where your pulse is thrumming like a trapped bird.
His other hand finds your inner thigh, fingers digging into the soft skin there. He doesn't go for the center—not yet. He just kneads the muscle, his touch possessive and grounding, reminding you of exactly how much stronger he is than you.
Jason knows how much you love it when he pins you down just like this.
“You’re shaking,” he observes when your legs decide to give out, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that vibrates right through your chest.
He shifts, dragging his body up yours until his nose nudges yours. He stays there, breathing your air, his hand finally sliding up, up, until the heel of his palm brushes against the damp patch of your underwear. He doesn't move. He just applies pressure on your clit with his pointer finger—steady, delicious pressure—and watches your eyes blow wide in pleasure.
Before he moves further, he gives your clit a fast flick.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice a rough velvet when he circles a finger at your entrance, feeling how sticky you are. “Me making a mess of you on the floor?”
You can’t even answer; you just nod, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, trying to pull him lower.
Jason chuckles, a dark, low sound. He finally relents, his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, finding you already slick and hot and achingly pulsing for him. He doesn't rush. He circles the hood of your clit with agonizing slowness, his touch light as a feather one second and firm the next, mocking the way you’ve been teasing him all night.
He watches your face the whole time, tracking every hitch in your breath, every little broken sound that leaves your throat, looking entirely too smug for a man whose own heart is trying to beat out of his ribs.
Jason’s fingers continue that torturous slow-motion circling, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s reading you like a map, noting the exact second your pupils dilate or the way your hips stutter upward when his thumb find a specific, sensitive ridge.
You don’t even have time to whine at the loss of friction when he moves to completely take off your panties, because he’s back to you inhumanly fast.
His fingers spread your puffy folds apart and he rubs from your sopping hole to your poor clit, with two of his fingers, up and down again and again, so achingly slow that you can’t help but chase it with your hips.
He’s being deliberate. It’s his revenge for the way you played him earlier—an undoing that leaves you grasping at the fabric of his shirt just to stay tethered to the room.
“You’re so loud for me,” he says, his voice thick with a dark sort of pride. “Even when you’re trying to be quiet, your body’s fucking screaming.”
He dips a finger inside you, shallow and testing, and the sound that breaks out of you is high and thin. He swallows it with a kiss, his tongue mimicking the slow intrusion of his hand. It’s too much—the heat of the fire on your side on your skin, the weight of him on your chest, and the slick, sliding friction of his fingers fucking themselves inside your squelching pussy.
Just as he adds a second finger, stretching you open with a scissoring motion a groan of his own, a loud —crack— echoes through the room.
A cedar log in the fireplace decides to give up, snapping in half and sending a violent spray of orange sparks against the mesh screen. The sudden noise is like a bucket of cold water in the middle of a fever dream.
You jump, your back arching off the futon, and Jason’s head snaps toward the hearth, his shoulders tensing instinctively as if his bodyguard reflex kicks in for a split second.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the frantic thumping of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again, pulsing in both of your ears.
Jason looks back at you, a single stray spark reflected in his dark eyes. He’s still hovering over you, his fingers still buried in you, but the spell of the ‘perfect moment’ has a tiny, jagged crack in it.
Bent on not letting this destroy the moment completely, Jason takes a beat and continues sliding his fingers inside you ever so slowly.
He huffs out a breath when you mewl, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead.
“Scared the hell outta me, shit” he whispers, though he doesn’t move an inch away.
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your hands sliding from his hair to his cheeks. “The ah—floor is a dangerous place, Jay. Hazards everywhere.”
Jason’s gaze teasingly drops to your lips, then down to where his hand is still hidden away between your thighs, feeling the way you’re pulsing around him. The smirk from earlier returns, slower this time, more dangerous.
“Right. Hazards,” he repeats, his voice dropping an octave. He leans back in, his nose brushing yours, the playful banter dying a quick death as he replaces it with raw intent. “In that case, I better finish this quick before the house burns down, huh?”
Your lips purse in dissatisfaction at that, your eyes squinting. Solemnly, you shake your head at him.
“What?” Jason teases, smirking ever so slightly “want me to take my time instead?”
He doesn't wait for a comeback, for he knows your answer. He just hooks his other hand under your knee, dragging your leg up and over his shoulder, exposing you completely to the firelight and his hungrily wrecked expression.
Jason watches you for a heartbeat, his chest heaving as he takes in the sight of you—disheveled, legs draped over him, skin glowing with a sheer coat of sweat like polished amber in the firelight, your pussy glistening in need for him. His playfulness is still there, dancing in the corners of his mouth, but it’s being rapidly overtaken by a hunger that looks almost painful.
“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than you, patting down his body. “Clothes. These have gotta go.”
He sits back on his heels, a move that feels like a physical loss the moment his heat leaves your skin. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he reaches for the hem of his shirt, his knuckles grazing the jacked ridges of his stomach. In one fluid, impatient motion, he yanks the fabric over his head and tosses it somewhere toward the dark kitchen on the left.
The firelight catches on the broad expanse of his chest; the scars that map out his life of vigilance, the heavy, tensed muscles of his arms. Seeing him like this—bare and braced for you—always makes the air feel a little too thin to breathe.
Fuck—even every vein that props over his muscles sent you into a frenzy.
He makes quick work of his belt, the leather creaking in the quiet room. When he finally shucks his pants, the futon groans under his shifting weight. He’s back over you in nanoseconds, but he doesn't go for the kill. Not yet.
He settles between your knees, his large hands sliding up your inner thighs, spreading you wider until you feel the cool air of the room hit your skin—and then the scorching heat of his gaze.
“Jason…” you murmur, reaching for him, but he catches your wrists and pins them gently above your head.
“Uh-uh,” he rumbles, his voice a low, warning vibration. “You spent all that time teasing me. Now you’re gonna stay right there and take it.”
He leans down, but instead of kissing your mouth, he starts at your knee. His tongue traces a slow, wet line up the sensitive skin of your thigh as his lips wrap around patches of your skin, his beard scruff nuzzling to you sending fresh jolts of electricity through your nerves. You writhe under him, but his grip on your wrists is like iron—steady and grounding.
And fuck, you love it when he bends you in half like this. Even if by the time he reaches the glossy center of you, you’re breathless and your head is tossing back against the futon.
Jason pauses, his hot breath ghosting over your folds, making you shiver. He looks up at you, a wicked, ruined sort of grin on his face.
“You wanted floor time,” he whispers against your throbbing slit. “I’m gonna give you floor time you’re never gonna forget.”
Then, he dips his head.
The first lick of his tongue on your slit is broad and slow, catching every bit of your sticky slick. You let out a broken, jagged sound, your hips jerking upward instinctively. He groans into you at the taste, his tongue finding your clit and swirling around it with a rhythmic pressure with the tip of his tongue that makes your vision go white at the edges.
He’s not rushing. He’s savoring you, his fingers letting go of your wrists only to dive into the futon on either side of your hips, bracing himself as he drinks you in. Every time you try to close your legs, his shoulders act as a wedge, keeping you open, keeping you vulnerable, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
The sound of the fire is a distant hum compared to the rushing blood in your ears. Every muscle in your body is wound tight, vibrating like a live wire snapped in half as Jason continues eating you out.
He’s using his tongue with a terrifying level of focus, swirling, flicking, and then applying the flat of it all over your slit, before his lips lock around your clit and suck, ever so gently. It makes your heels dig into the futon and your hands find his hair, pulling him closer even as you try to escape the sheer intensity of it.
“Jay—please,” you gasp, the words breaking apart as he finds that one specific spot that makes you see stars and keeps abusing it with his tongue.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets more aggressive with it, his hands sliding under your glutes to tilt you further up, until you’re bent upwards, meeting every one of his wet laps with a desperate tilt of your hips.
The friction is perfect, agonizingly so. It’s a building pressure behind your ribs, a tightening in your stomach that feels like a spring being coiled tighter and tighter until something has to snap.
“Baby…Look at me,” he pleads against your skin, eyes all soft when he pulls back for air, his voice muffled as he leaves open mother kisses all over your pussy, then some smaller, more focused in your clit. His tongue is darting out to place small kitten licks on your sensitive bundle of nerves.
His hand plucks one of yours away from his hair and comes to interlace with it onto your stomach tenderly.
You force your eyes open, your breath coming in short hitches. You see the top of his head, his dark hair messy and wild between your fingers, and the way his broad shoulders are bunched with the effort of holding himself back. The dimples on his biceps flex when his palms force your legs open, so he can keep licking, keep sucking.
Then, he does it. He uses his thumb to pin your clit in place while his tongue sweeps over it in long, firm strokes.
That’s it for you.
Your world narrows down to a single, blinding white light. You cry out, a raw, high pitched sound that is lost in the crackle of the wood, as the first wave of your orgasm slams into you.
Your walls clench desperately around nothing, pulsing in a frantic rhythm that matches the thumping of your heart. Jason doesn’t pull away; he drinks in every shutter, every twitch of your thighs, his own breathing ragged and harsh.
He stays there, giving your clit small and pointed licks and tiny kisses until the last of the tremors fade into a heavy, boneless warmth.
You’re floating, your limbs feeling like lead, your chest heaving as you try to remember how to breathe. Jason finally lifts his head, his chin, dripping, slick with your juices and cheeks red, looking like he’s just survived a fight.
He doesn't give you a second to recover, however.
He crawls up your body, his skin sliding against yours in a delicious, heavy drag of heat. He hovers over you, bracing his weight on his forearms, his eyes dark with a hunger that hasn't been even slightly sated by your release.
“Love it when you come on my tongue. Oh shiiit.” he rasps, his voice a ruined growl.
He reaches down, guiding his hand across his length, giving it a few twisted jerks before lining it up to your entrance—still wet and sensitive from his tongue—and pushes inside.
He goes slow at first, catching all your wetness with the fat tip of his cock, letting you stretch and flutter around him, a guttural moan escaping his throat as he feels how tight you still are, how much you're still humming from your climax.
He sinks in until he’s buried to the hilt and you’re molded perfectly to shape of his dick, his forehead dropping to yours as he just breathes you in for a second, his heart hammering against your chest.
Your pussy clenches desperately around him, sopping all around his entire length.
“God, you’re… you’re perfect,” he murmurs.
His hips begin slow; a soul-crushing grind that tells you the real ‘floor time’ you so desperately wanted, has only just begun.
The hardwood floor groans beneath the futon, a rhythmic creak that underscores every heavy thrust Jason makes to drill into you.
He isn't rushing either; he’s taking his sweet time and up all the space you gave him, fucking you with a slow, agonizing friction that feels like it’s peeling back every intimate layer of you.
The heat from the fireplace is a constant presence against your side, scorching you with kisses of fire’s warmth, but it’s still nothing compared to the furnace of Jason’s skin and the pace of his hips.
He’s solid, crushing weight above you, his arm muscles roping and snapping under your touch as he anchors himself. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning them to the floor beside your head. Because he has to, and because he wants to feel the way your knuckles knock against the wood when he hits the right depth inside you. When he hits all the spots that make your eyes roll back.
“Floor’s too hard, huh?” he grunts, his jaw tight as he pulls back almost entirely before sinking in again, faster this time, hips stuttering with bullet like strength. The friction is excruciatingly good and you’re feeling so full that your eyes water.
The way he’s picking up the pace makes your toes curl into the folds of the throw blanket before you wrap them around his waist to guide him into you further.
You remember to shake your head in response to him, your hair fanning out across the futon like a halo. “Don't... don't stop. Go harder. Jason puhleasee.”
“Wasn't plannin' on it,” he breaths out, a jagged, broken sound.
He shifts his angle, his hips tilting for his cock to catch that spongy spot his fingers had already teased into a raw, pulsing ache.
The impact sends a jolt through you that feels like a spark from the fire—sharp, hot, and impossible to ignore. Every time his weight comes down so he can fuck his mushroom tip inside you, the futon dips, your skin slaps frantically and the shadows of your joined bodies dance wildly against the ceiling in the orange glow.
He starts to pick up the pave even more, the movements turning from a grind into something more urgent, even more primal. The sound of his thighs slapping against your ass is wet and rhythmic, a counterpoint to the messy mewls you’re making into the crook of his neck or into his mouth.
It’s a sticky mess, really. Spit everywhere, your thighs and his coated with your sleek.
Jason’s breathing is a series of harsh hitches now. He’s already losing that "hard-edged" control he prides himself on on his best days, his movements becoming less calculated and even more desperate to chase his own release. He buries his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that’s just shy of a bite.
“You’re so wet,” he mutters, the words nearly lost to the friction. “So damn wet for me. I keep sliding out.”
It’s like he’s going insane afterwards; he’s kissing you one second and the other he’s got a nipple in his mouth to lick and suck onto, and the next one he’s biting down the flesh of your chest, like he could chomp a piece of you and eat you.
In a frenzy of touches, he releases your hands, his palms sliding down to grip the edges of the futon, his arms caging you in as he drives into you with everything he has. The floor vibrates and creaks with the force of it, a dull thudding that resonates in your very bones.
It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s perfectly, quintessentially him—taking the rough, unyielding reality of the world and turning it into something that belongs only to the two of you.
Suddenly you are so glad the two of you came to this random safehouse of his in the middle of the snowy woods for Christmas. You get to have him all to yourself like this, anywhere, anytime.
Just the two of you and no one else, trying to swallow each other’s tongues.
Only the fire can hear your squealing moans tonight, and if you made a hole through the floor right now with the force Jason is fucking into you, it wouldn't even matter.
You’d love it, even in the afterglow.
Just the thought of it makes you even wetter.
Jason’s movements slowly lose their drilling edge, replaced by a desperate series of bucks that tell you he’s right on the brink of coming too.
His pace slows down, a fraction of what it was before, his face pulling away from yours so he can look at you with those lust blown green eyes. His hips buck upwards, hitting the spot that makes you lose it—
“Yeah, that’s right,” he tries to say, though he slurs his words out of gritted teeth and hisses of pleasure “yeah baby I’ll give it to you slow, shh—fuck—I gotchu.”
His fingers dig into the padding of the futon, then your hips, just to make you match his own rhythm, knuckles white. He drives into you with bruising force that it doesn’t even matter if he’s been pretending to go slow.
You’re both spent, moving with hurried twitches, chasing each other’s release; you by locking your feet behind Jason’s ass and forcing him to be rougher, maybe a little faster too since his pace is downright torture. Him by slamming your hips into his while his hands leave bruises on you.
Every swallow thrust is pure collision, a shatter wreck of skin and friction. You can feel the tension coiling in his thighs as they go taut, the way his entire body has gone rigid like a bowstring about to snap.
“Baby,” he chokes out, his voice completely shredded and high pitched. He lifts his head, and for a second, the mask of lust is totally gone.
His eyes are blown wide, dark and vulnerable and so glossy, searching yours for that one final bit of permission to let go. His lips are parted perfectly, with that beautiful crease down the middle of the bottom one, his jawline sharp as the light hits him. “Look at me—can I come inside? Y’r pussy feels like heaven.”
You wrap your legs tighter around him, pulling him in, your heels hooking into the small of his back to bridge the last microscopic gap between you. His fucking stutters in a white-hot roar now, eclipsing the crackle of the wood, a building pressure that demands everything you have left in you to give him.
“Dun’ wanna pull out.”
“Fuck yeah, Jas—Jason,” you sob against his lips. “Make ah—a mess.”
He lets out a sound that is half-growl, half-shatter. His hips jerk in a final, deep surge, burying himself to the hilt as his own climax slams into him. He goes still, his head falling back, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief under the firelight. You’re right there with him, your body clenching around him in a frantic pulsing that feels like it’s shaking your very soul loose, your inner walls are painted in streaks of white, hot cum, and he bucks his hips devastatingly into yours so he can fuck his own release even deeper into you.
For a long, suspended moment, the only sound in the room is the overlapping gasps of two spent bodies who have run out of all air.
Jason collapses forward, his weight pinning you deep into the futon, his heart thundering against your ribs like a captured drum.
He’s truly shaking; his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck as he tries to regulate a breath that still won’t come. He feels massive, heavy and so very tender in your arms. You coo into him too, wrapping your arms completely around his back to pull him in closer into you.
He can’t suffocate you if you’ve already run out of breath, but even if he did, you’d adore him still.
Slowly, the world starts to bleed back in again; the smell of woodsmoke, the fading warmth of the embers, and the dull ache of the floorboards on your back that Jason warned you about earlier.
Jason makes a low, tired noise in his throat—a sound of pure contentment—and nuzzles his nose into your skin, his hair, damp with beads of sweat sticking to your temple.
“Told you,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly ghost of itself. “Floor time... dangerous.”
You let out a weak, shaky laugh, your fingers tracing the dip of his spine. “Shut up, Jason.”
“Make me,” he huffs against your lips, sucking your bottom one into his mouth, but he doesn't move. He just settles deeper into you, his arm wrapping around your waist to anchor you both to the spot, right there in the glow of the fireplace.
You feel him harden up inside you again and oh fuck— it’s time to have him on his back.
You’re gonna show him just how bad hardwood is for his back.
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //
A/N: hiii, merry Christmas everyone! This is my gift for all of you, I know it took me so long to get this out but work is kicking my butt. Also this is SO self indulgent, im so sorry I just need him like this right now😭
Taglist: @starfiremylove @vanillacici
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
riding superboy prime while he reads his comics and pretends like he isn't about to cum in you. you cling to him like a helpless koala while you bounce, and yet he doesn't falter. if you couldn't feel how heavy his breathing was getting and the way he twitches inside of you, you'd think he didnt care at all. he sucks in a sharp breath every time you clench or cum around him and he's barely comprehending the words now, being stoic always spurs you on, and you always fall apart and tire yourself out before he breaks. only then does he set the book down and finally begin to move his hips to match your pace "you had fun baby? y'look a little tired." its laced with fake sympathy, he knows you're exhausted, you're shaking and almost in tears against his chest. "i know baby... fuck, i'm almost there."
18+ | tw - somno (implied consent)
━ Men who love indulging in their sleeping girlfriend. ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
He slips into the bedroom late at night, eyes immediately drawn to you lying on your stomach, fast asleep in nothing but his oversized t-shirt. The hem has ridden up, exposing your bare ass and the soft, glistening lips of your pussy. Just the sight of you like this — warm, relaxed, and completely vulnerable — makes him throb.
He quietly undresses and climbs onto the bed. He spreads your legs gently and leans down, dragging his tongue slowly through your folds. You’re already wet. He groans quietly against your pussy, licking deeper, tasting you while you stay lost in sleep.
When he’s nice and hard, he kneels behind you, lines himself up, and slowly pushes inside. Your pussy stretches around him beautifully, hot and silky even while you’re sleeping. You let out a soft, unconscious moan as he bottoms out, clenching around him.
“Fuck, baby… so greedy even when you’re sleeping,” he whispers filthily, starting to thrust slowly. He fucks you with long, lazy strokes, savoring how wet and warm you feel wrapped around him.
Your body reacts on instinct — pussy fluttering and dripping around him with every thrust. He leans over you, pressing his chest to your back as he starts fucking you a little harder, the wet sounds of his entire ltngth sliding in and out of your soaked pussy filling the quiet room.
He reaches around to rub your clit in slow circles while he pounds into you. You whimper and push back against him in your sleep, making him groan. “That’s my good girl,” he rasps, hips snapping faster. “Taking me so well even when you’re out cold.”
When he finally gets close, he buries himself deep and cums hard, flooding your pussy with thick, hot ropes of cum. He stays inside you for a while, gently grinding through the aftershocks, pushing his load deeper.
Only then does he carefully pull out, clean you up, and cuddle up behind you, kissing your shoulder softly. You always sleep better after he fills you up.
summary: clark cancels on you again for ‘work’ but it was a lie..
warnings: angst, emotional distress
notes: i have so many drafts to post!!
wc: 750
the rain went from a drizzle to a downpour, matching the sinking feeling in your chest. for the third time this month, your phone had buzzed with a rushed, apologetic text from clark.
“something came up at the planet, sweetie. a breaking story. i'm so, so sorry. i’ll make it up to you, i promise.”
you didn't reply. you just stared at the two plates of dinner cooling on the counter, the candles you’d lit mocking you in the dim light of your apartment
you couldn't stay in your apartment, you were going to lose your mind if you did.
you needed to talk to the one person who truly understood. someone who understood him.
you grabbed your coat, slipped out into the wet metropolis streets, and hailed a cab and gave the driver lois lane’s address.
you and lois had become incredibly close over the past year. you had joined the planet as a features writer a couple of years after clark and lois had officially ended their relationship.
because they were long broken up, there was no awkwardness... lois had taken you under her wing, becoming your mentor, your loudest cheerleader in the bullpen, and your closest friend.
by the time the cab pulled up to lois’s apartment building, you were blinking back furious, hurt tears. you took the elevator up, practically throwing yourself at her front door and knocking aggressively.
you heard footsteps inside, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.
lois stood there, dressed in a comfortable oversized sweater, a half empty glass of red wine in her hand. "y/n? what are you doing here? it's pouring-"
"i can't do it anymore, lois," you burst out, the words tumbling out of you in a sobbing rush before she could even invite you inside. you stepped past her into the entryway, too consumed by your own heartbreak to notice her sudden, tense posture.
"he canceled again," you cried, hugging your wet jacket tighter on you, shivering. "it’s always the same excuse. 'something came up at the office,' 'a late breaking lead.' i know he cares about his work, but i feel like a ghost in my own relationship! i'm sick of being the one who always gets left behind. i'm sick of competing with a job, and honestly... sometimes i feel like i'm competing with you."
you finally paused to catch your breath, wiping a tear from your cheek. "i just really needed a friend tonight. can i please just crash on your couch?"
usually by now lois would've said something, she would've made a joke or immediately handed you tissues or started calling clark an idiot, but there was nothing... no response.
"lois..?" your eyebrows pulled in.
"what?" she asked, her voice a little too high.
"why are you looking at me like that?"
"...like what?" lois muttered, she gripped the stem of her wine glass so tightly you thought the glass might shatter right in her hand.
"like..." you frowned harder. "like something's wrong."
"no, nothing's wrong."
but her eyes weren't on you, they were staring straight past your shoulder at the hall behind you.
"lois?" you whispered, stepping further into the hall. "is someone here? did i interrupt a date? i'm so sorry, i should have called-"
"no! no, wait.. " Lois reached out, her hand catching your wet sleeve, but she was a second too late.
you walked through the short hall and into the living room, the words of apology dying on your tongue.
a figure stepped into the dim light of the living room, drying his hair with a towel. he was wearing a gray t-shirt and sweatpants.. home clothes. comfort clothes.
he didn't have his glasses on. and as he looked up, his bright blue eyes met yours, freezing him entirely in his tracks.
it was Clark.
the towel slipped from his hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud.
“something came up at the planet, sweetie. a breaking story. i'm so, so sorry.”
the words of his text message flashed in your mind, your eyes darted from clark’s damp hair, to his relaxed clothes, to the second glass of wine sitting on lois's coffee table, and finally back to lois, who was now looking down at the floor, unable to meet your gaze.
"baby," clark breathed, his voice entirely stripped of its usual warmth. he took a panicked step forward, his hands reaching out instinctively. "baby, wait. It’s... it’s not what you think."
the sheer cliché of the phrase made a hysterical, breathless laugh bubble up in your throat. "not what i think? clark, you texted me an hour ago saying you were stuck at your desk. you’ve canceled our last three dates because of 'deadlines.' and you’re here? in your sweats?"
"you canceled on me," you said, your voice barely a whisper, "for three weeks, you’ve been too busy. you were too busy tonight. to have dinner with me. in our apartment."
"we were talking," lois interjected quickly, her voice trembling. she stepped between you and clark, trying desperately to play defense, to be the fixer. "just talking. he was stressed, he came over to vent about a case, and he got caught in the storm. i told him to dry off. that's it. I swear to you, that's all this is."
"and you couldn't tell me that?" you looked at lois, the tears you had been fighting finally falling. " i came here crying because i felt invisible in my own relationship, and you let me walk through that door knowing he was in your bedroom?"
"sweetheart, no," Clark choked out, stepping closer. "please. i love you. i would never- "
"don't call me that," you snapped, anger finally bursting through the sadness. a single, hot tear spilled over your cheek. you looked at lois, the woman you had trusted with your insecurities, the mentor you practically worshiped.
"i thought you were my friend. i thought you were the one person who understood how hard it was to love him."
a terrible, suffocating realization washed over you. lois did understand. she understood perfectly. because she hadn't actually let him go. and he hadn't let go of her. you were just a temporary detour in their romance.
"please, let me explain," clark pleaded, taking another step forward, his hands raised in defense. "lois is right. it’s not a date. i didn't plan this. it’s just… things have been so heavy lately, and i didn't want to bring that stress home to you."
the words left his mouth, and a suffocating silence fell over the room.
you stared at him, your breath hitching as you inhaled. "you didn't want to bring it home to me?" you muttered. "so you brought it to your ex girlfriend instead?"
"no, that's not what I meant...."
"you lied to me," you said. "you told me you were working. you told there was a breaking story, but the truth is you just didn't want to be around me. you left me sitting alone at a table with dinner i spent hours cooking, because you'd rather vent to lois?"
"listen to me," clark rushed out, his voice cracking as he scrambled to fix the damage, only to dig the hole deeper. "you don't understand the pressure I'm under. lois just... she already knows everything about my life.... she knows how i think. with her, i don't have to explain myself or ease into things. it’s just easier."
it’s just easier.
you let out a laugh. "easier," you repeated, backing away from him until your spine hit the wall of the hallway. "right. because i'm work. i'm the person you have to try for, and she's the one you actually want to unwind with."
"no! sweetie, please, no," clark choked out, looking completely undone. he reached for your arm, his touch gentle, but you yanked yourself away.
"don't touch me," you snapped again.
you gripped the fabric of your wet coat, looking at clark one last time. "have a nice night at the office, clark." you scoffed, turning around.
"sweetheart, please," clark begged, his voice breaking, "let's go home. let's just go back to the apartment and talk about this. please." he said as he made a move to follow you.
"if you come near me, clark, i swear to god i will never speak to you again," you spat, your voice harsh, that actually made him freeze in his tracks.
you didn't wait to see if he listened. you lunged out the front door, and practically sprinted down the hallway toward the elevator, the sound of your own ragged sobbing drowning out the faint, desperate echoes of your name being called from the apartment behind you.
