Discover Top Posts Tagged with #(someone please help)

Haiii !! Me again lmao >:3 I dooo have a request I fear - idk how to explain it tho but I have songs that gave me the ideas, hopefully when you /if you listen to then you'll get what I mean !! I just think the way you write would be perfect for this

the songs =

Like real people do, from Eden, Nobody's soilder, cherry wine, it will come back

All by Hozier lol, if I find a proper way to explain it I will!

Thanks again!! ʕ≧ᴥ≦ʔ

IT WILL COME BACK

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

twenty five times jason todd warned you not to love him, and one time he begged you to stay.

this is the first of two! (i'm sorry, but i only have the time to write two of the songs and those two songs were the ones that clicked for me and i just NEED to write about them) i listened to this song first and immediately searched up the meaning of this song. and then i read someone's interpretation of the song and I JUST NEEDED TO WRITE ABOUT IT, especially with emotionally repressed jason who worships reader, who doesn't think that he deserves them but with the way reader teases and encourages him and showers him with love, to let him not be afraid of showing his true feelings, then how could he ever say no? hopefully you enjoyed this one!

taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

jason knows you know. he’s a mess of scar tissue and bad decisions, a boy who clawed his way out of his own grave only to keep dragging the dirt behind him—so why do you look at him like he’s something worth loving? like he’s not just a ghost wearing a man’s skin? you shouldn’t. you know better.

but then you grin at him, all sharp edges and softness, and say, "what’s that face for, jay? thinking too hard again?" like it’s that simple. like he’s not a loaded gun and you’re not pressing your finger to the trigger just to feel the danger of it.

the way you look at him, all mischief and molten affection—you know what it does to him. he’s not stupid. you’re not subtle. (he’s memorized the exact shade of your smile when you tease him, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh at his scowling.) but god, he loves it anyway. loves you anyway. even when he doesn’t think he deserves to.

than to look at it, look at it like that

your eyes drag over him like you’re starving, like he’s something worth devouring—and fuck, maybe he is, the way you touch him like you can’t get enough. fingers tracing the ridges of his abs, nails scraping just to hear his breath hitch. teeth sinking into the curve of his bicep, just hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to make him groan. lips pressing hot and open-mouthed against the back of his neck while your hands slip under his shirt, greedy, needy, like you want to memorize every scar, every shudder you pull from him.

"jason," you sigh, voice dripping with something sweet and sinful, "you’re so tense, baby. let me help."

he should scowl. should shove you away before this goes too far, before he loses what little control he has left. but then your tongue flicks over his pulse point, and his head falls back against your shoulder with a ragged fuck.

he never does push you away. never could.

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

he’s warned you before—voice rough like gravel under tires, that low growl he gets when you’re pushing all his buttons just to watch him unravel. "don’t," he mutters, fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but won’t let himself. "you shouldn’t poke the beast, sweetheart."

but you just tilt your head, all faux innocence, lips quirking into that grin that makes his pulse stutter. "beast?" you echo, stepping closer until your breath ghosts over his jaw. "where? all i see is you, jason." and god, the way you say his name—like it’s something sacred, something yours—it wrecks him.

his hands find your hips on instinct, grip tight enough to bruise, but you don’t flinch. you never do. instead, you press closer, all warm skin and teasing fingers tracing the scars on his knuckles. "see?" you murmur, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "just you."

he should argue. should remind you he’s not something to play with, not something gentle. but the way you look at him—like he’s yours, like you’d fight the whole damn world to keep him—steals the words right from his throat.

than to talk to it, talk to it like that

your voice drops to something slow and syrupy, honey-thick with teasing—the kind of tone that curls under his skin and lingers there, sticky-sweet. "jason," you sigh, dragging out each syllable like you're savoring the taste, and fuck, it's not even his name anymore. it's a blade between his ribs, a match to gasoline, and you wield it with devastating precision.

he tenses, jaw clenching as he pointedly stares at the ceiling instead of you. "don't," he grits out, but there's no heat behind it—just that rough, frayed edge that means he's already losing.

"don't what?" you hum, all false innocence, fingers walking up his chest like you own every inch of him (you do). "i'm just saying your name."

"yeah, like that," he mutters, finally snapping—one hand catching yours mid-taunt, pinning it against his heartbeat. it's racing. you can feel it. "like you fucking mean it."

don’t give it a hand, offer it a soul

he doesn’t want half-measures, doesn’t want the tentative brush of your fingers like you’re afraid he’ll break. if you’re going to touch him, he wants all of you—your laughter tangled in his sheets, your stubborn mouth biting back moans, the way you dig your nails into his shoulders when he fucks you just right. he wants the way you press your cold feet against his calves just to hear him yelp, the way you gasp his name like a prayer when he pins you down.

"jason—" you pant, arching under him as his teeth graze your throat.

"tell me," he growls, hands mapping your skin like he’s memorizing every beauty mark, every scar. "tell me you’re mine."

you laugh, breathless and bright, even as he steals the sound with a kiss. "always," you murmur against his lips, fingers twisting in his hair. "you know you’ve got me."

and he does. he does. your soul is already his—has been since the first time you looked at him like he was worth something. but he’ll still take it again and again, greedy and desperate, until neither of you can remember where he ends and you begin.

honey, make this easy

it should be simple. he should be able to push you away, to stay in the shadows where he belongs—where he can't hurt you. but then he sees you on that rooftop, outnumbered and backed into a corner, and his body moves before his mind can catch up.

the takedown is brutal, efficient. he doesn't let himself linger, already turning to disappear into the night—until your hand catches his wrist.

"jason."

his name on your lips is a punch to the gut. he freezes, heart hammering against his ribs. you shouldn't know. you shouldn't see him.

"you're dead," you whisper, but your fingers tighten like you're afraid he'll vanish. "i watched them bury you."

he should lie. should shake you off and run. but the way you're looking at him—like he's your only salvation, something precious, something real—makes the words stick in his throat.

"make this easy," he rasps, voice rough from disuse. "pretend you didn't see me."

you laugh, sharp and wet, and suddenly your arms are around him, holding on like he's the only solid thing in the world. "never," you breathe against his neck. "you don't get to ask me that."

and god, he's so fucked. because he should pull away. should run. but your warmth, your scent, the way you cling to him like he's worth keeping—it ruins him.

leave it to the land, this is what it knows

he was made for violence—knuckles split on brick walls, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, the way pain sings through his veins like an old friend. survival is coded in his bones, written in every scar. but you—you with your stupid jokes and softer hands, with the way you trace his scars like they're something precious instead of proof of how broken he is—you make him want. want mornings tangled in sheets, want lazy kisses pressed to his shoulder blades, want things he has no right to ask for. it terrifies him.

"stop that," he grumbles when you catch his hand, turning it over to press your lips to his bruised knuckles.

"stop what?" you murmur, all innocence, but your eyes spark with mischief.

"this." he gestures vaguely between you, at the way your thumb rubs circles into his palm. "acting like i'm—"

"like you're what?" you interrupt, leaning in until your breath ghosts over his lips. "worth loving?"

he flinches like you've struck him. "that's not—"

"too bad," you whisper, and kiss him before he can protest further. and god help him, he kisses back, hands clutching at your waist like you're the only thing keeping him grounded.

(he was made for blood and brutality. but maybe—just maybe—he could learn to be made for this too.)

honey, that’s how it sleeps

the nightmares come less often when you’re there—when he can feel the steady rhythm of your breathing against his chest, when your warmth seeps into his bones like sunlight through cracked blinds. he’ll never say it out loud, but he sleeps deeper with your limbs tangled in his, with your head tucked under his chin like you belong there. (you do.)

one night, after a particularly bad mission, you catch him staring at you in the dim light, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip.

“what?” you murmur, voice thick with sleep, blinking up at him.

“nothing,” he mutters, but his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer.

you smirk against his collarbone. “you’re such a liar.”

he huffs, but doesn’t deny it, just presses his lips to your forehead in a silent confession.

don’t let it in with no intention to keep it

his hands are rough when they grab your wrists, pinning them to the mattress as he hovers over you, breath ragged. "this isn't a game," he grits out, eyes dark with something dangerous. "i'm not some fucking toy you can pick up when it's convenient and toss aside when you're bored."

you tilt your chin up, defiant even as your pulse jumps under his grip. "who said anything about tossing you aside?"

"don't," he warns, voice dropping to that low growl that makes your stomach flip. "don't act like you don't know what you do to me. like you haven't always known."

your smile is all sharp edges and sweetness. "maybe i like what i do to you."

he exhales sharply through his nose, grip tightening just enough to make you gasp. "then you better be prepared to deal with the consequences, sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush your ear. "because if you let me in, i'm not leaving. ever."

(he means it. he'll ruin anyone who tries to take him away from you—including himself.)

"who says i'd let you out?" you answer, voice just as raw, just as wrecked, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you loosen your grip. the look on his face mirrors yours—something desperate, something starving—and for a heartbeat, neither of you moves. "i lost you once before, i'm never losing you again."

jesus christ, don’t be kind to it

your kindness is worse than cruelty. the way you cup his face like he’s something precious, the way you press feather-light kisses to every scar—each one a silent i love you, i love you, i love you—it undoes him completely. he knows how to take a punch, how to bleed and keep fighting, but this? this tenderness? it terrifies him more than any enemy ever could.

"stop," he rasps when you trace the jagged line along his ribs—a souvenir from a fight he barely walked away from. his voice cracks, rough with something too close to vulnerability. "you don’t have to—"

"i know," you interrupt softly, lips brushing the raised skin before you look up at him, eyes warm as sunlight. "i want to."

and that’s the thing that wrecks him most of all—that you choose this, choose him, even when he’s all sharp edges and broken pieces. your fingers card through his hair, gentle as a summer breeze, and he leans into the touch before he can stop himself.

honey, don’t feed it, it will come back

he always comes back. no matter how many times he tells himself this is the last time, no matter how many miles he puts between you, his feet always find their way to your doorstep—bruised, breathless, and aching. tonight is no different. the second you open the door, he’s on you, hands rough as they pin you against the wall, his mouth hot and desperate against yours.

“told you not to let me in,” he growls between kisses, teeth scraping your bottom lip. “told you i’d come back.”

you laugh, breathless, arching into him as his fingers dig into your hips. “like you could stay away,” you taunt, dragging your nails down his back just to hear him groan.

he nips at your throat in retaliation, sucking a bruise into your skin as his hands roam, claiming, possessive. “fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “you ruin me.”

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

you smile at him, all sunshine and sharp edges, and he aches—not just with want, but with something terrifyingly tender that coils tight in his chest. he knows better than to reach for it, knows better than to let himself believe he could have this. but then your fingers brush against his, tentative and warm, and something in him cracks open.

"jason," you murmur, thumb tracing slow circles over his knuckles—the same hands that have done unspeakable things, now trembling under your touch. "you can hold my hand, you know. i won’t break."

he hesitates, breath catching, before his fingers finally—finally—intertwine with yours, clumsy and unsure. "...this okay?" he mutters, voice rough, like he’s bracing for you to pull away.

you squeeze his hand, grinning up at him like he’s just given you the world. "more than okay," you whisper, leaning in until your forehead rests against his. "perfect, actually."

than to smile at me, smile at me like that

like he's something precious. like he's something yours—a secret treasure you found buried in the wreckage and decided to keep. it makes his chest too tight, makes his hands shake with the effort of not reaching for you, not crushing you against him until you can't tell where he ends and you begin. he wants to bite that smile off your lips, wants to swallow it whole so it lives inside him forever.

"quit it," he grits out when you catch him staring, your grin widening like you've won something.

"stop what?" you tease, leaning in until your breath ghosts over his mouth. "smiling at my boyfriend?"

the word—boyfriend—sends a jolt through him. his fingers twitch toward you before he can stop them, catching in the fabric of your shirt. "you know what you're doing," he accuses, voice low.

you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feather-light. "yeah," you admit, laughing when he finally snaps and drags you in. "and you love it."

you know better babe, you know better babe

he’s told you. he’s told you—with rough words and scowls and hands that push you away even when they tremble with the need to pull you closer. but you still curl into him like you belong there, still press your cold nose against the pulse point in his neck like you’re memorizing the rhythm of his heartbeat. and the worst part? he’s starting to let you.

tonight, when you burrow under his arm with a sleepy sigh, he doesn’t stiffen. doesn’t grumble. his breath hitches, just once, before his arm settles around your shoulders, pulling you in like he’s been waiting for this all along.

"...comfortable?" he mutters, voice gruff but lacking its usual edge.

you hum, nuzzling closer. "mhm. you’re warm."

his fingers flex against your side, hesitant, before they start tracing idle patterns on your hip—his version of an apology, a confession, a please don’t let go.

than to hold me just, hold me just like that

your arms around him are a vice, a salvation, the only thing anchoring him to this world when the memories threaten to drag him under. he should pull away—shouldn’t let you cling to something so broken, shouldn’t let himself believe he deserves this. but then your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding tight like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again, and something in him cracks open.

"...you’re gonna suffocate me," he mumbles, but there’s no bite to it, just a rough edge of something tender he’s still learning to name.

you laugh against his collarbone, warm and bright. "liar," you murmur, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. "you love this."

he should deny it. should shove you off and retreat to the shadows where he belongs. but instead, his arms tighten around you—just a fraction, just enough to feel the way your breath hitches—and he ducks his head to press his lips to your hair.

"...shut up," he mutters, but it’s ruined by the way his voice cracks, by the way his hands tremble where they rest against your back.

i know who i am when i’m alone

alone, he’s sharp edges and old blood, the metallic taste of violence thick on his tongue. alone, he’s the red hood—a monster stitched together from Gotham’s rot, a ghost wearing a dead boy’s face. sometimes, in the quiet, he thinks maybe he should’ve stayed buried. maybe the world would’ve been kinder if he’d never clawed his way out of that grave.

but then you’re there, your warmth pressing against his back, your fingers threading through his like you’re trying to pull him out of his own head.

"jay," you murmur, soft but insistent, "come back to me."

his breath hitches. he should shrug you off, should snap that he’s not something you can fix. but instead, he turns his hand over, palm-up, an unspoken invitation. your fingers slot between his like they belong there, and he exhales shakily.

"...’m here," he mutters, rough but honest.

you press a kiss to his knuckles, gentle as dawn light. "good," you whisper. "stay."

(he will. for you, he’ll try.)

i’m something else when i see you

with you, he’s just jason—not the red hood, not the ghost, not the boy who should’ve stayed dead. just jason, who loves too hard with hands that have known too much blood, who wants too much when he deserves so little. it terrifies him, this fragile thing between you, like one wrong move could shatter it all. and you—god, you’re just as broken, just as scarred, always waiting for the day he doesn’t come back, always counting his breaths like each one might be the last.

tonight, he finds you curled into yourself, knees to your chest, staring blankly at the door like you’re already mourning him. his chest aches. he doesn’t know how to fix this—doesn’t know if he can. but he kneels in front of you anyway, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch.

"...hey," he murmurs, voice rough. "i’m here."

you look up, eyes red-rimmed, and your breath stutters. "for how long?" you whisper, the question hanging between you like a guillotine.

he doesn’t have an answer. doesn’t know how to promise something he might not be able to keep. so he does the only thing he can—he pulls you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, holding you so tight it almost hurts. "long as i can," he breathes into your hair.

your fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate. "that’s not enough," you choke out.

he knows. god, he knows. but he presses a kiss to your temple anyway, slow and lingering, trying to pour every unspoken i love you into it. "i know," he admits, voice cracking. "but it’s all i got."

you don’t understand, you should never know

you don’t realize the power you have—how one touch from you could bring him to his knees, how he’d carve out his own ribs if it meant keeping you safe. (he hopes you never find out.) but that night, with your lips on his and your hands tugging at his belt, he’s not thinking about hiding. he’s not thinking at all.

"jason," you gasp as he pins you to the mattress, his body covering yours like a shield, like a prayer. "are you sure—?"

his answer is a growl against your throat, teeth scraping your pulse point as his hands map every inch of you, desperate and reverent. "shut up," he breathes, but there’s no heat in it, just a raw ache. "just—fuck, just let me have this."

you arch into him, nails dragging down his back, and he swears he sees stars. "you have me," you whisper, voice breaking as he finally, finally sinks into you. "all of me."

(and that’s the thing—he doesn’t have you. you have him, heart and soul, and he’s too far gone to even care.)

how easy you are to need

it’s pathetic, really. the way he craves you—not just in the heat of battle or the dark of night, but in the quiet moments too. the way you hum off-key while making coffee, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh, the way you sigh in your sleep like the world can’t touch you here. it’s too much. it’s not enough.

tonight, he watches you bathed in moonlight, fingers tracing the slope of your shoulder like he’s memorizing his favourite verse of a poem. you stir under his touch, blinking up at him with sleep-soft eyes.

"why’re you staring?" you murmur, voice thick with drowsiness.

his thumb brushes your cheekbone, reverent. "just thinking," he admits, quieter than the rustle of sheets.

you turn into his palm, pressing a kiss to his pulse point. "about?"

he swallows. "how you’re like sunlight," he starts, haltingly, "even when you’re not trying to be." it’s clumsy, poetic in a way that makes his ears burn, but it’s true—you warm him from the inside out, melt the frost in his veins until he’s just a man, just jason, just yours.

your smile is slow, sweet. "say that again," you tease, but your eyes are shining.

"shut up," he grumbles, pulling you closer until your laughter vibrates against his chest.

(he’ll never tell you how easy it is to need you. but he’ll show you, every day, in every touch, for as long as you let him.)

don’t let me in with no intention to keep me

he’s not asking. he’s warning—voice rough like gravel, hands trembling where they frame your face. if you let him in, if you peel back his armor and see the broken thing beneath, he’s not leaving. he’ll carve a place between your ribs and make a home there, ruin you for anyone else, love you until it hurts.

"you sure about this?" he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky. "i’m not—i don’t know how to do this right."

you kiss him anyway, slow and sweet, fingers carding through his hair like he’s something precious. "good thing i don’t need you to be perfect," you whisper against his lips. "just yours."

his breath hitches. he kisses you back like he’s drowning, like you’re air, hands sliding down to grip your waist—gentler now, but no less desperate. "...mine," he repeats, testing the word, and it sounds so right.

jesus christ, don’t be kind to me

your kindness is a knife, twisting deeper every time you look at him like he’s worth something. your love is a live wire, sparking through his veins until he’s breathless with it. he can’t take it—the way you reach for him first, fingers lacing through his without hesitation, the way you press kisses to his scars like they’re something holy. but god, he’ll take anything you give him.

tonight, it’s him who initiates, catching your wrist as you pass by and pulling you into his lap with a quiet grunt. you yelp, then melt against him instantly, laughter bubbling up as his arms tighten around you.

"missed me?" you tease, tilting your head to nuzzle against his jaw.

his nose brushes your temple, inhaling the scent of your shampoo like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. "shut up," he mumbles, but there’s no heat in it—just a rough tenderness that makes your chest ache.

you pull back just enough to cup his face, thumbs brushing the dark circles under his eyes. "you’re so pretty," you murmur, hopelessly, helplessly in love.

he flushes, scowling, but leans into your touch anyway. "you’re such a sap," he mutters, before kissing you—soft, slow, and so painfully sweet it steals your breath. as if he hasn't said cheesier things in his head about you.

honey, don’t feed me, i will come back

he always does. no matter how many times he grumbles about needing space, no matter how dramatically he flops onto the couch complaining about your terrible taste in movies, he always circles back—drawn to you like gravity, like his bones know they belong wherever you are. and now? now he doesn’t even pretend to resist.

today, he catches you mid-eyeroll as you reorganize his haphazard stack of books (alphabetized by color, what the hell—), and before you can protest, he’s lifting you clear off the ground, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"jason!" you shriek, kicking halfheartedly as he carries you toward the bedroom. "i was fixing your chaos!"

"ruining my system, you mean," he counters, giving your thigh a light smack just to hear you squawk. "besides, you’re way more fun when you’re not judging my life choices."

you pinch his side in retaliation, grinning when he yelps. "oh, so now you admit i’m fun?"

he dumps you onto the mattress, looming over you with a smirk. "shut up," he mutters, but he’s already leaning down to kiss you, swallowing your laughter like it’s his favorite flavor.

it can’t be unlearned

he’s tasted your mouth, your skin, your laughter—memorized the way you arch beneath him, the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze that spot just below your ear. he’s ruined for anything else, addicted to the way you fall apart in his hands, and now? now he doesn’t hesitate to take what he wants.

tonight, he pins you to the sheets with a hunger that borders on desperation, hands roaming like he’s mapping a religion he’ll never stop worshipping. “mine,” he growls against your throat, and the way you shudder—like the word alone is enough to undo you—sends a thrill down his spine.

afterward, when the air is thick with sweat and the scent of you, he surprises even himself by pulling you close, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

“...okay?” he murmurs, voice rough but softer now, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip.

you hum, nuzzling into his chest with a contented sigh. "more than okay," you mumble, already half-asleep. "you?"

he huffs a laugh, tucking the blanket around you both. "could go for a few more rounds," jason teases, voice thick with exhaustion but still grinning as he presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

you laugh—soft and breathless, the sound curling warm in his chest. "oh my god, jay."

"alright, fine," he concedes, already pulling you closer as his breathing evens out. "sleep it is." but the way his arms lock around you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish by morning, says everything his voice won’t.

i’ve known the warmth of your doorways

your home is his—the creak of the floorboards, the way your sheets smell like that cheap lavender detergent you swear by, the half-empty coffee mugs left scattered on the counter because neither of you can be bothered to clean up properly. your bed is his, with its too-soft pillows and the way you always steal the blankets, leaving him to grumble and pull you closer just to steal your warmth instead. your heart is his, beating steady under his palm when he wakes from nightmares to find you already watching him, fingers carding through his hair before he even has to ask. (he’s not giving it back. he couldn’t if he tried.)

tonight, it’s him who reaches for you first once more, catching your wrist as you walk by and tugging you into his lap with a quiet "c’mere." you go willingly, laughing as he nuzzles into the curve of your neck, his arms locking around your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

"since when do you initiate cuddles?" you tease, but your hands are already sliding into his hair, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck the way he likes.

he hums, low and content, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "since you ruined me," he mumbles, like it’s a confession, like it’s the easiest truth he’s ever spoken.

(he has. you have. and neither of you would change a thing.)

through the cold, i’ll find my way back to you

no matter how far he goes, no matter how lost he gets in the blood and the noise and the weight of his own ghosts, he’ll always come back. you’re his north star, his fixed point—the only thing that makes sense in this godforsaken city. tonight, he watches you from the rooftops, silhouetted against the neon glow of gotham’s skyline as you move through the fight below. you’re beautiful like this, all sharp edges and fluid motion, but his stomach twists when he sees you take a hit, when blood blooms dark against your sleeve.

he’s there before you can stumble, his hands steady as he hauls you into the shadows of an alleyway. "hold still," he mutters, voice rough with worry as he presses a gloved hand to the wound. you hiss but don’t pull away, your breath warm against his jaw as he works.

"since when do you play medic?" you tease, though your voice is tight with pain.

he doesn’t answer, just peels back the fabric of your suit with careful fingers, his touch reverent as he cleans the cut. when he’s done, he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—soft, clumsy, lingering—before lifting your hand to his mouth and brushing his lips over your bruised knuckles. "don’t do that again," he murmurs, but it’s not an order. it’s a plea.

you smile, thumb stroking the stubble along his jaw. "make me," you whisper, and the way he leans into your touch says everything he won’t.

(he’ll always come back. and you’ll always be there, waiting.)

oh, please, give me mercy no more

"apologise, and maybe i'll think about going easy on you."

you laugh, bright and teasing, when he pins you to the mattress, his hips pressing yours deep into the sheets. "offering me mercy, jay?" you gasp, like the concept is foreign, back arching as he drags his teeth down your throat. "since when do you believe in mercy?"

he doesn’t answer—not with words, anyway. instead, he sinks into you in one slow, deliberate thrust, the stretch so perfect it punches the air from your lungs. he groans, forehead dropping to yours as he bottoms out, the heat of you clenching around him like you were made to take him. "fuck," he grits out, voice wrecked already. "you feel—" but he can’t finish, too lost in the way your nails dig into his shoulders, the way your thighs tremble around his waist.

he sets a punishing pace, each snap of his hips dragging a broken sound from your lips. "jason—" you whimper, fingers twisting in the sheets.

"look at me," he demands, voice rough, and when you do—when your eyes meet his, hazy with pleasure—something in his chest cracks open. suddenly, he’s imagining more than just this: lazy mornings tangled in your limbs, a house with too many windows, maybe even a tiny human with your sense of humour and his temper. the thought is so terrifyingly sweet it makes him falter, his rhythm stuttering.

you notice, of course. "where’d you go?" you pant, hips rolling to meet his.

he shakes his head, thrusts deeper, harder, until you’re gasping. "nowhere," he lies, but the way his hands cradle your face, the way his lips brush yours like a promise, says otherwise.

(he wants it all. and one day, he’ll tell you.)

that’s a kindness you can’t afford

he’s not kind—not in the way that matters, not when his hands are stained and his heart’s been carved out too many times to count. but you, with your stupid, stubborn hope, keep offering it anyway. tonight, it’s in the way you press a kiss to his scarred knuckles, like he’s something fragile, something worth gentleness. it makes his chest ache.

“stop,” he rasps, fingers twitching in your grip. “i told you this before, you don’t gotta—”

“i know,” you interrupt, lips quirking. “i want to.”

your thumb traces the ridge of his knuckles, slow and deliberate, and he should pull away. should remind you he’s not built for softness. but then you lean in, close enough that your breath ghosts over his jaw, and whisper, “guess you’re just stuck with me being nice.”

he huffs, but his hand turns under yours, palm-up, fingers curling to catch yours before you can retreat. “...reckless,” he mutters, but the way his thumb brushes your wrist is tender, almost apologetic.

(you are. and he’s not sorry at all.)

i warn you, babe, each night, as sure as you’re born

he tells you. every time. don’t start what you can’t finish. you never listen.

(like that first night he came back—really came back—when he appeared outside your window like some half-feral ghost, all sharp edges and haunted eyes. the fire escape creaked under his weight, the cold metal biting through his gloves as he hesitated, knuckles hovering just shy of the glass. he shouldn’t be here. shouldn’t let you see him like this, still smelling of blood and gotham’s rot. but god, he missed you.)

then the curtain twitched, and there you were—sleep-rumpled and wide-eyed, your breath fogging the pane as you stared at him like he was the answer to a prayer you’d never said out loud.

“...jason?” your voice was barely a whisper, cracked open with something like hope.

he swallowed hard, fingers curling into fists. “go back to bed,” he muttered, rough as gravel. “this ain’t—you don’t want this.”

but you were already unlatching the window, already reaching for him with hands that didn’t shake. “shut up,” you breathed, and then you were pulling him inside, your arms wrapping around him so tight he couldn’t tell where his trembling ended and yours began.

“i told you—” he started, but his voice broke, his face buried in your hair like he could memorize the scent of you.

“i know,” you interrupted, fingers gripping the back of his jacket like you were afraid he’d vanish. “i don’t care.”

you’ll hear me howling outside your door

you always let him in.

(like today, when the two of you are walking along the beach, barefoot and carefree, the golden hour sun painting everything in warm hues. the sand is soft under your toes, the waves lapping at your ankles as you laugh over some stupid childhood memory—that time he tried to bake cookies and nearly set the kitchen on fire, or when you tripped over your own feet trying to impress him with a skateboard trick. his laughter is rough but bright, unfiltered in a way it rarely is, and it makes your chest ache with how much you love him.)

then, because you’ve never been able to resist, you shove him playfully, sending him stumbling into the surf with a yelp. “oh, you’re dead,” he growls, but there’s no real threat in it, just that fond exasperation he reserves only for you. he lunges, catching you around the waist, and the two of you go down in a tangle of limbs and saltwater, the waves swallowing your shrieks of laughter.

you come up sputtering, coughing as you accidentally swallow a mouthful of the ocean. “tastes like shit,” you wheeze, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

he’s no better, blinking furiously as the water stings his eyes. “serves you right,” he mutters, but he’s already reaching for you, his hands gentle as they brush the wet hair from your face.

“worth it,” you grin, leaning into his touch.

he rolls his eyes, but the way his thumb traces your cheekbone is achingly tender. “idiot,” he murmurs, and it sounds like i love you.

don’t you hear me howling, babe?

you always will.

bullets ping off the metal crates you’re crouched behind, the sharp scent of gunpowder thick in the air. jason’s pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with you, his breath warm against your ear as he grins, wild and bright. "told you this was a bad idea," he says, like he’s not having the time of his life.

"you love my bad ideas," you shoot back, peeking over the crate just long enough to return fire. a man yelps as your shot grazes his arm, and jason barks out a laugh, loud enough to startle the goons into hesitating.

"showoff," he mutters, but there’s pride in his voice as he leans around the corner and takes down two men with precise shots. you cover him without missing a beat, your movements synced like you share the same pulse.

when the last thug hits the ground, the warehouse falls silent except for your shared, ragged breathing. jason turns to you, blood smeared across his cheekbone, and you reach out, thumb brushing it away. "messy," you tease.

"you love it," he counters, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your palm, right over the bruise forming from where you’d punched someone too hard.

the walk back to his bike is slow, the adrenaline fading into something softer. you bump his shoulder, grinning. "can’t wait to deal with this bullshit every day when we’re married."

his heart stutters in his chest, so loud he's half-afraid you'll hear it. his right hand curls instinctively in his pocket, thumb brushing against gold—the same way it has every day for weeks, checking, reassuring. the weight of what he's about to do tightens his throat, makes your casual words echo like church bells in his skull. when we're married. like it's inevitable. like he hasn't been lying awake rehearsing this moment for months. "yeah?" he manages, voice rougher than the gunfight warranted. the smile that tugs at his lips is helpless, unbearably soft. "...me neither."

(he looks at you then—really looks. the way the streetlights halo your hair, the way your smile cuts through the grime and exhaustion like sunlight. he wants to memorize this, wants to carve it into his ribs so he never forgets the way you love him, reckless and relentless.

"c’mon," he murmurs, nodding toward a quieter street. "let’s go somewhere else first."

you raise a brow but follow, because you always do.

and tonight, he’ll kneel on the rooftop where you first kissed—where the city lights painted your face in gold and he realized he’d never love anything as much as he loves you—ring in hand, voice trembling just once as he asks you to keep following. forever.)

WOAH this one was a long one—6.5k words??? i'm literally crying right now as i wrote this last part cause like AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH it took me 4 hours... 4 FUCKING HOURS TO WRITE THIS AND AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I LOVE IT I NEED MORE I NEED MORE OF JASON (as if i don't have the ability to write more of this.......)

#(someone please help)

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#(someone please help)