I think people get the “Bruce dancing like a stripper in the Iceberg Lounge” situation all wrong. The batkids won’t die of embarrassment because that’s their dad. They’ll die of frustration because they will never, ever be able to make Bruce feel embarrassed about it.
Do you really think the man who would strip and bust it down for the secret identity has the capacity to feel shame? Exactly.
What’s a girl supposed to do when her jacked boyfriend is covered in grease because he’s fixing his bike with his bare. fucking. hands?
Tags/CW: 18+ MDNI, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, doggystyle, slight mating press, fingering, oral (f!receiving), cvckdrunk reader, hair pulling, switch dynamics, pvssydrunk Jason Todd, semi!public sex
“If you don’t stop working on that bike im gonna bite you”
That makes Jason look.
Fucking finally.
He lifts his head slowly, helmet thrown somewhere you can’t even begin to care for, grease smeared along his knuckles and the edge of his jaw. There’s a pause—long enough that you think maybe he didn’t hear you, long enough for the hum of the massive Batcycle he drives to fill the garage again.
Then his mouth twitches, right at the corner where his scar begins.
“Y’know,” he says, straightening just enough to roll his shoulders, “most people threaten me with guns.”
His eyes flick to you—sharp, assessing, amused in that dangerous way that makes your stomach dip. He wipes his hands on a rag, not breaking eye contact and walks towards you in slow strides.
“But sure,” he adds, stepping closer, boots heavy against the concrete. “Biting. That’s totally new.”
You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. Of the heat coming off him. The way his triceps flex when he throws the towel to the direction of the bike, the veins on his forearms pumping with each movement. The fact that he’s still half in work mode—leather jacket open, sleeves pushed up, forearms tense, smelling like motor oil and something so unmistakably him — you’d be crazy not to try to demand his attention. Especially when you’ve done nothing but stare at him for a good amount of, what, forty five minutes now?
“I’m threatening you with a good time, actually.”
Oh that line? Yeah, that usually earns you consequences.
He tilts his head at you like a puppy. “You gonna follow through,” he murmurs, “or is that just trash talk?”
There’s a challenge in it. Not loud. Not cocky. Jason is too soft—despite his massive, enormous muscles—to let himself be cocky with you, but he always indulges you with some sass.
Jason stops a half-step away from you. Close enough that the space between your bodies feels intentional, like he measured it. Close enough that the air shifts—hot, metallic, thick with oil and ozone and the faint bite of gunpowder that never really leaves him. Your fingers trap his chin between them, forcing his jaw to your eye level and you hate it— but you bite your lower lip so hard you feel your skin tingle.
The garage hums around you. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one of them flickering just slightly. The Batcycle ticks as it cools, metal settling, protesting. Gotham presses in from outside—sirens somewhere far off, rain threatening but not yet falling.
Jason’s gaze drops. Not all the way. Just enough to register your mouth. The pause is fraction-of-a-second small, but you feel it anyway. He stills after, jaw tightening like he caught himself mid-mistake.
“What is it?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow up instinctively.
And you can’t help it— your hand comes to slap against his ass so you can make him jump a tad closer to you. Because, really, how can you even be expected to behave yourself while watching him screw nails with his fingers instead of screwdrivers? Thinking how he could be using his fingers instead to toy with your clit; one big, plushy thumb coiling tight circles on you while he fucks you with his middle finger instead of working on that stupid bike.
How can you be prompted to ignore how absolute snug his leather jacket fits, ready to burst at the seams when his bulky shoulders threaten to make it explode? When he could be using the same muscle to hold you against his chest while he fucks you from behind just so he can kiss you?
“Jesus—” His hand comes up on instinct, gripping your wrist, not to stop you, just grounding himself. His thumb presses into your pulse as your mouth already has found his “Someone’s horny.”
For a long moment, you let your lips brush his, your teeth softly grazing between your mouths When he finally manages to take a deeper breath though, you pounce, biting his lip into your mouth. And instead of hissing, Jason draws you even closer, his hips slamming against yours through your clothes.
“Your fault.” you whisper against his mouth.
He lets out a sharp laugh that dies halfway in his chest, but he’s smiling. Wide and unguarded. The kind you only get when he’s forgotten to keep the walls up. Not that he usually has his guards up when you’re around.
His hands come alive then—one sliding up your side, fingers splaying like he needs the contact, the other tangling briefly in your hair before he remembers himself and settles, sweetly for your shoulder instead. The kiss turns sloppy fast, uncoordinated, mouths chasing each other, teeth knocking, breath shared and uneven.
Your intent is to kiss him silly, until both of your chins are absolutely coated in drool, and you absolutely manage to deliver.
The bike behind him gives an irritated whine as one of the screwdrivers he rested on the seat falls to the ground, like it’s been personally offended.
Jason breaks the kiss just long enough to glance back at it, then at you—eyes dark, pupils blown, lips red and swollen.
“…Guess the bike can wait,” he says.
Jason’s gaze flicks to your mouth again—this time he doesn’t stop himself at all. Doesn’t hide it. His breath shifts, deeper now, slower, like he’s trying to steady something that’s already tipped. He wants you so bad when you’re set on freaking him out, it would be insane to try and fight it.
“Fuck—” he starts, then exhales through his nose, frustrated. “If you’re gonna—”
He doesn’t finish that either.
You close the distance for him.
It’s barely anything—just enough that your breath brushes his cheek, your chest almost touching his. You feel him go still again, like a loaded weapon set on a table. Waiting.
“Stop talking Jay,” you whisper. “I need you naked right now or I'm gonna explode!”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s weighing the risk. Like he knows exactly how badly this could end— someone walking in on you, you are in belfry after all— and he’s choosing it anyway.
Then his hand slides from your wrist to your jaw.
He cups your face with a care that doesn’t match his size at all, thumb resting just under your cheekbone. He hesitates there—one last pause, one last chance to pull away.
He doesn’t take it. Of course.
The kiss he gives you is slow. Hungry, but not rushed to its core. Jason leans in like he’s testing the ground beneath his feet, lips brushing yours first, barely there, a question more than an answer. When you don’t pull back, when you lean in too, shoulders dropping like you're melting in his touch, he exhales against your mouth and deepens it.
Warm. Firm. Careful in a way that feels almost dangerous.
His thumb shifts, tilting your chin up, keeping the angle just right.
The kiss breaks for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. "Naked, huh?" he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that you feel in your own chest. You take it upon yourself to kiss the rough pad of his thumb, the coarse skin on the inside of his palm and then, even more carefully, the inside of his wrist "You have any idea how much gear I'm wearing? It’s a process."
He doesn't wait for an answer. His hands move from your jaw to your waist, his large palms spanning nearly the whole width of you. In one fluid, effortless motion, he hoists you up, seating you on the edge of the metal workbench.
The cold bite of the steel against your thighs is a sharp contrast to his body heat. Tools rattle behind you—wrenches and screwdrivers clattering as you’re shoved back into his workspace. Jason crowds into the space between your knees, his heavy boots locking you in.
"You're gonna get grease on your clothes," he warns, teasingly, though he’s already reaching for the hem of your shirt, his eyes dark with a hunger that says he couldn't care less if the whole place burned down around you.
"That’s even hotter," you breathe, tugging at his leather jacket, pulling it off his shoulders.
He lets out a rough, truncated sound—halfway between a laugh and a growl—and dives back in, his mouth finding the sensitive dip of your neck while his grease stained fingers fumble with the buttons of your pants. When his palms finally make contact with your bare skin, the heat is staggering.
He breaks the kiss just enough to strip off his leather jacket completely, throwing it blindly over the Batcycle. He looks like a storm—hair mussed, eyes dark and blown out until the blue is just a thin, electrified ring around his pupils.
You're just a puddle for him really.
"You being in civilians tonight was supposed to be for easy access?" he laughs, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, you hum in response, casting kisses everywhere around his mouth. "Unfair."
“Unfair?” You tilt your head back as his mouth migrates to your jawline, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. “I think it’s a tactical advantage, Jay. You’re the one who’s over-prepared.”
Jason huffs a breath against your skin, a dry, jagged sound as he kisses your earlobe. “Tactical advantage,” he repeats, the words vibrating against your throat. “Yeah. I’ll show you a tactical advantage.”
He reaches back without looking, his large hand sweeping a row of heavy sockets and a torque wrench off the bench. They hit the concrete floor with a series of loud, metallic clangs that echo through the rafters, but Jason doesn't even blink. He uses the cleared space to lean over you, his weight pressing you back into the cold steel until you’re lying flat, your legs naturally hooking around his waist to keep from sliding.
The contrast is dizzying—the freezing metal against your spine and the scorching, solid bulk of him pinning you down.
“You’re gonna be covered in grease,” he mutters again, but this time it’s not a warning—it’s a promise. His hands, rough and calloused, slide under the hem of your sports bra. The moment his palms hit your ribs, you gasp. His skin is searing, and the faint scent of motor oil on him feels strangely right in the middle of this chaos.
He doesn't waste time. With a strength that feels effortless, he tugs the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere toward the darkness of the rafters. His eyes rake over you, dark and possessive, before he drops his head to the valley of your chest, his stubble grazing your skin.
“Jason—” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck.
“I got you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that always makes your toes curl. “Stay right here.”
He pulls back just enough to deal with his own gear. The heavy tactical belt hits the floor with a dull thud, followed by the metallic clack of his holsters. He moves with a frantic sort of efficiency, his movements sharp and hungry. When he finally shoves his shirt off, the flickering fluorescent light overhead catches the map of his body—the jagged lines of scars, the heavy swell of his chest, and the sheer, intimidating breadth of him.
He looks like a wrecking ball in human form, and he’s looking at you with so much tenderness, like he’s more than eager for you to let him do anything to you.
He crowds back into your space, his bare chest slick with a light sheen of sweat as it meets yours. The friction is obliterating—your nipples drag along his chest and for all that’s worth it, you suppress the moan that threatens to spill over. He hooks his hands under your thighs, dragging you to the very edge of the workbench until your hips meet his.
“Now,” he pants, his forehead dropping against yours, his nose brushing yours in the dark. “About that biting threat.”
Jason captures your lower lip between his teeth, pulling just hard enough to make you whine, before his mouth devours yours again. This time, there’s no hesitation. It’s all teeth and tongues fighting and the heavy weight of him trapping you on your spot.
“Yeah?”
“Let’s see.”
One of his hands stays anchored on your hip, his thumb digging into the dip of your waist to hold you still, while the other slides down, shimmying underneath the band of your cotton panties. His fingers, calloused, scarred, tap their way over your mound, teasing just slightly when he feels the hood of your clit on his pads. His whole hand cups you under your underwear, middle finger circling a tight circle at the sopping entrance of your pussy.
When his thumb finds your clit, the contact is electric—a blunt, heavy pressure that makes your back arch off the cold metal.
“Wet already?”
“Forty-five minutes of staring at you screw nails with your hand baby,” you rumbles, his voice dropping into a low, satisfied vibration against your throat. “I almost bust a nut at the sight.”
And fuck, Jason loves what he hears. He loves when you talk so dirty to him.
His thumb hooks under the edge of your panties, dragging the fabric down just enough to get it out of his way, his palm never losing contact with your skin. He’s being so very delicate; Jason always does delicate even when he’s this far gone. He’s being thorough, his fingers slicking with your heat as he maps out exactly how much you want him, teasing the tip of his finger at your entrance ever so occasionally, until your pussy pulses around nothing but thin air.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound that echoes off the metal cabinets.
Jason is pinning you down, though while his fingers do their work, his heavy thighs forcing yours wider until you’re completely open to him.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. It’s not a question. He can feel the fine tremors running through your thighs, the way your muscles jump under his touch.
He leans down, his mouth finding the sensitive curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. He mirrors the threat you gave him earlier, his teeth grazing over your pulse point, trailing down a biting path on his way to one of your nipples, until you’re whimpering his name.
“If you hadn’t responded to my biting threat I would have dropped to my knees and I'd be begging you to put your cock in my mouth.”
“You wanted my attention this badly?” He pulls back just an inch, his eyes dark, hooding with a dangerous kind of intent. “You’ve got it. All of it.”
He slides two fingers inside you with such blunt pressure that makes your hips jerk upward, seeking more. He’s steady, his rhythm slow and torturous, his thumb never leaving your clit from the moment he finds it, grinding in tight, heavy circles that make your vision go blurry at the edges.
All the while he keeps kissing between your hardened nipples like a man starved.
The garage feels like it’s shrinking; the image of you, on your knees, begging for his cock is enough of a mind game to make him so painfully hard, that he feels his cock throbbing inside his pants. Instead of acting on it though, he’s watching you, his jaw tight, his own breathing coming in jagged, heavy pulls as he watches your face come apart under his hand.
“Jason, please,” you gasp, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his forearms, trying to pull him closer, trying to bridge the last bit of distance.
He lets out a sharp, ragged breath, his forehead dropping against yours again. “Not yet,” he grunts, his fingers curling deeper, hitting a spot that makes your entire body go taut. “I want to see you come on this table before I even think about getting these pants off.”
He increases the pace, his hand moving with almost mechanical precision. And it’s pointless to try to hold it in, he knows every spot that makes you gasp and moan, anyway. Knows when to slow down the pace, or pick it up again. And fuck, he knows that had it been any other day, you would already be pushing his head between your thighs, urging him to suck your clit between his lips.
But the sound your pussy makes for just his fingers tonight?—the wet, rhythmic friction as he fucks them into you—is drowned out only by the blood rushing in his ears and the needy sounds coming from the back of your throat.
Your breath is hitching in short, desperate stabs, your hips stuttering against his hand as the tension coils into a tight, screaming knot in your lower belly, your pussy pulses around his fingers like a vice and then—
Then, abruptly, he stops.
The sudden absence of his touch is like a physical blow beneath the belt. You let out a broken, frustrated sound, your eyes snapping open to find him hovering over you. He’s shaking like you did moments before—not just his hands, but his whole frame. The cool composure he usually wears like armor has completely shattered. His teeth are bared, his jaw worked so tight you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
"Jason—" you gasp, reaching for him, your fingers clawing at the hard muscle of his shoulders. "Don't stop. Please."
"I can't," he rasps, his voice a raw, jagged mess, as his eyes betray his exact words, lowering to where his fingers are toying with your slit. "Fuuuck—I can't just watch you. I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind baby.”
He pushes back from the bench just far enough to deal with the rest of his gear, his movements frantic, almost violent in their urgency. His heavy tactical pants and boxers are shoved down and discarded, hitting the concrete with a heavy thud of fabric and metal buckles.
His cock, free of any restraints and oozing in pre-cum, slaps heavy on his stomach.
When he moves back into your space, he doesn’t wait. He can't. He grabs your thighs, his grip bruisingly firm as he hitches your legs even higher over his shoulders, opening you up completely to the dim light of the garage.
He’s huge, intimidating in size, even, and pulsing with a heat that feels like it could melt the steel beneath you. He settles between your knees, the head of his cock catching against your entrance, slicking itself in and along the mess he already made with his fingers.
"Babe, look at me," he pleads, his voice dropping into a guttural growl. “How do you want it?”
You force your eyes to meet his. “Jason, if you don’t break my back with the meanest backshots right now, I swear to fucking god—”
He stops. The calculation in his eyes dies right then and there, replaced by something dark, jagged, and entirely unhinged.
"Screw this," he rasps, the words catching in his throat.
He doesn't just pull his hand away; he drags you off the edge of the workbench. Your feet hit the concrete for only a split second before he’s spinning you around. He shoves you back down, chest-first this time, your palms skidding across the cold steel of the table. The metal bites into your skin, but you’re barely aware of it because Jason is right there like a wall of scorching heat pressing right into your spine.
He kisses your shoulder, the nape of your neck and trails a series of sloppy pecks down your back, his tongue darting out on every single spot, until he reaches your ass. His broad hands spread you open and you arch onto him, moaning in the brattiest tone you can muster, just to urge him.
It only earns you a hard slap on the ass.
"Stay. Right. There," he whispers, his voice a warning and a plea all at once as he darts out his tongue to lick a clean stripe across your pussy, eager to catch the bead of slick that had been threatening to drip down your thighs.
You gulp in utter heat when he moans at the taste, but before you can arch your back further against his face, you feel him get up from behind you.
Jason’s hands return to you with vengeance. He hooks his fingers deep into the soft flesh of your hips, his grip so bruisingly firm it anchors you to the spot and you eel the throbbing tip of his cock pressing against your pulsing pussy. He’s trembling, you’re trembling and you just can’t take it anymore. You just want to cum on his cock for fuck’s sake.
"You want 'mean'?" he rasps, his voice a low rumble right against your ear as his thumbs tug your soaking folds open. "Fine by me.."
He lunges forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, staggering surge.
All air leaves your lungs in a broken, high-pitched cry. He bottoms out instantly, the sheer force of the impact sending a shockwave through your body that makes your elbows buckle against the steel. You barely have time to register the fullness before he’s pulling back—only to drive back in even harder.
He starts with brutal, almost mechanical rhythm. Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound of his heavy boots scuffing the concrete and the rhythmic thud of his hips hitting yours echoes off the rafters. The workbench, heavy-duty as it is, begins to protest. It groans, sliding an inch, then two, across the floor as Jason pours every ounce of him into every hit.
"Jason—!" you sob, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the surface underneath you, knocking over a tray of copper washers that scatter like metallic rain.
"Fuck— you’re so fucking tight, so wet,” he moans, his voice thick with unhinged hunger. “Perfect fucking pussy baby.”
He reaches forward, one hand leaving your hip to coil into the hair at the base of your skull, tugging your head back. He wants to see the way your eyes roll back, the way your mouth hangs open in a silent scream. "I was just... trying to work… And you’ve only been thinking about my dick."
“Yeah, yeah i have. And i still want it in my mouth Jay.”
The workbench screeches against the concrete, harsh and metallic as Jason’s weight and momentum force it back another few inches. He doesn't care about the floor, the tools, or the damage to the shop. He’s focused entirely on the way you’re taking him, on how your pussy squelches and floods around him, on the way your body is being jolted forward with every rhythmic, punishing hit of his hips, every yelp you let out that comes from the back of your throat.
"You want it in your mouth?" he rasps, his voice jagged, unadulterated. He leans down, his chest crushing against your back, his sweat-slicked skin sticking to yours. "Greedy. You’re so fucking greedy."
He doesn't stop. If anything, the pace turns more brutal. He’s delivering on every bit of your 'break my back' request, his hips slamming into yours with a sound like a physical collision. Plop, plop, plop. Every backshot is calculated to bottom out, one gradually harder, faster than the other..
He’s hitting you so bone-deep that your vision is going hazy at the edges, your forehead bumping against the cold steel of the bench with every fuck of his cock into you from behind.
“Please, Jay—please—”
“Please what sweetheart?” he whines, his voice dropping into a guttural, dark register.
He adjusts his grip, both hands now bracketing your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of your belly to anchor you as he pulls back nearly all the way—before slamming home again. “You want me to stop? Or you want me to finish what you started?”
He doesn’t give you time to answer. He’s a storm of muscle and heat behind you, his breathing coming in jagged, desperate hitches. Every time he bottoms out, you feel the vibration of it even in your teeth. Your pussy slick, a swollen mess working around him, begging for the release that’s coiling tighter and tighter in your gut.
“I’m gonna cum.”
“Yeah baby, come on my cock,” Jason kisses the back of your neck “just like you wanted.”
Jason lets out a sound that’s close to a groan, his fingers bruising your hips as he delivers three final, punishing thrusts—each one deeper, meaner, until he’s buried to the hilt. He stalls there, his entire frame going rigid, a choked-off shout tearing from his throat as he finally spills into you, his weight collapsing onto your back.
The garage is silent for a heartbeat, save for the hum of the lights and your shared, ragged gasps. Then, Jason pulls out with a wet, lingering sound of ‘plop’ that makes you whimper, the sudden loss of him feeling just a little overbearing right now.
Before you can even try to catch your breath, his hands are under your armpits, hauling you up and spinning you around. He doesn’t let your feet touch the ground; he just hitches your thighs over his shoulders and settles himself between your knees, his length still hard, still weeping, and looking absolutely lethal under the flickering fluorescent light.
He looks wrecked. His hair is a mess, his eyes are blown out to black, and he’s looking at your mouth with a terrifying sort of focus.
“You said you wanted it,” he rasps, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip to pull it down. “Show me.”
He doesn't wait. He crowds into you, his leaking tip pressing against your lips while you’re literally folded in half. He watches you, his jaw tight, waiting for you to wrap your tongue around his pulsing cock.
He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek before sliding down to trace your lower lip—the one he’d bitten earlier. It’s swollen, pulsing, and parted as you pant for air.
"You said you wanted it," he rumbles, his gaze dropping to your mouth. He isn't asking, like he usually does; he’s giving you exactly what you literally begged for.
Jason looks down at you, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair once more—not to pull, but to guide.
"Well?" he murmurs, a new challenge sparking in those blue eyes. "I'm not gonna be the only one who's distracted. I want you thinking about the taste of us all fucking day."
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.
A/N: if you liked this just know this is GK!Jason, give than man some love UGH I love him.
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but comments are the fuel my heart needs to keep pumping fics like this
He was the star defenseman for the Gotham University Knights , all broad shoulders, sharp jaw, scarred knuckles that told stories of fights both on and off the ice. He played dirty when he needed to, smiled like sin when he scored, and had a reputation for leaving girls breathless in the stands and heartbroken in the parking lot.
You were the coach’s daughter. Team manager. The one who kept the roster organized, made sure the equipment was ready, and spent far too many late nights in the rink office doing paperwork while the rest of campus partied.
Publicly, you and Jason were oil and water.
He’d smirk at you during practice, calling you “princess” loud enough for the whole team to hear. You’d fire back with a clipboard smack to his shoulder and a sweet “Try not to break your face again, Todd. Dad’s tired of replacing visors.”
The team loved the banter. Coach tolerated it with a long-suffering sigh. No one suspected that behind the sharp words and eye-rolls, something entirely different was simmering.
It started with small things.
Jason always made sure your travel mug was filled with fresh coffee before morning skates. You always left extra protein bars in his locker after he took particularly brutal hits. He’d walk you to your car after late games when the parking lot felt too dark. You’d patch up his split lip in the trainer’s room with gentle hands and softer words than you ever let anyone else hear.
The tension built slowly, like ice forming over a lake; thin at first, then thicker, until one wrong step could send everything crashing through.
Tonight was the championship game.
The Knights had won in overtime, Jason scoring the game-winner with a slapshot that left the entire arena roaring. The celebration in the locker room was loud and chaotic - helmets flying, music blasting, half-naked hockey players shouting and spraying each other with water bottles.
You stayed in the hallway outside, clipboard in hand, trying to pretend you weren’t waiting for him.
The door banged open and there he was - hair damp from the shower, wearing only grey sweatpants and his team hoodie slightly unzipped over a bare chest. Water droplets still clung to his collarbones. He looked like every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make.
His eyes found you immediately. The cocky grin he wore for the cameras softened into something warmer, more private.
“Waiting for me, princess?” he drawled, voice low enough that only you could hear.
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. “Someone has to make sure you don’t forget your gear again. Last time you left your lucky socks in the visiting locker room and sulked for three days.”
He stepped closer, crowding you gently against the wall without actually touching you. The scent of his body wash - something clean and woodsy - wrapped around you.
“I only sulk when you’re not around to yell at me,” he murmured. His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. “You coming to the victory party at the house?”
You hesitated. The hockey house parties were legendary - loud, chaotic, full of puck bunnies and too much cheap beer. As the coach’s kid, you usually avoided them.
Jason noticed your pause. His expression shifted, that protective softness creeping in. “I’ll keep the idiots away from you. Promise. Just… come. For a little while. I want you there.”
The way he said it — quiet, almost vulnerable — made your stomach flutter.
“Fine,” you said, trying to sound annoyed and failing. “But if anyone spills beer on my notes, I’m blaming you.”
He grinned, bright and boyish. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The party was exactly what you expected: loud music, crowded rooms, the sharp smell of spilled alcohol and victory sweat. Jason stayed close the whole time, one big hand occasionally resting on the small of your back as he guided you through the chaos. Every time someone got too rowdy near you, he’d level them with a single look that sent them scurrying.
You ended up in the quieter back sunroom, away from the worst of the noise. Jason had somehow procured a bottle of decent whiskey and two plastic cups. He poured a small amount for each of you and handed you one.
“To not breaking my face tonight,” he toasted, clinking his cup against yours.
You laughed softly. “To not having to fill out another injury report because you decided to check someone into the boards like a wrecking ball.”
He leaned against the wall beside you, shoulders brushing. The contact sent warmth spreading through your arm.
“You know,” he said after a moment, voice lower, “I play better when you’re watching. Always have. Even when you’re yelling at me from the bench about my penalty minutes.”
Your heart stuttered. You took a sip of whiskey to steady yourself. “You’re imagining things, Todd.”
“Am I?” He turned toward you fully, green eyes dark in the low light. “Because every time I look up during warm-ups and see you in that cute little manager hoodie with my number on the back - yeah, I notice. Makes me want to show off. Makes me want to win so you’ll smile at me like I hung the moon.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. You set your cup down before you dropped it. “Jason…”
He stepped closer, backing you gently against the wall. Not trapping you, you could move if you wanted, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Tired of the whole ‘coach’s daughter, can’t touch her’ bullshit. I know you feel it too. The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. The way your breath catches when I get too close after games.”
Your hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath warm skin and hard muscle. “My dad would kill you.”
“Let him try.” Jason’s hand lifted, knuckles brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness. “I’d take the suspension. Hell, I’d take the benching. Worth it if I get to do this.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.
You didn’t.
The kiss started soft - almost careful - like he was still afraid you’d pull away. Then you made a small sound against his mouth and he groaned, deepening the kiss as one hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb stroking gently.
He tasted like whiskey and victory and something that was purely Jason - warm, a little dangerous, and entirely addictive.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing harder, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Been wanting to do that since the first time you yelled at me for leaving my tape on the bus,” he admitted, voice husky.
You laughed breathlessly, fingers curling into the open edges of his hoodie. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but I’m your impossible.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear that made your knees weak. “Tell me to stop and I will. But if you want this… if you want me… I’m all in. No more pretending in public. No more acting like I don’t lose my mind every time you walk into the rink wearing my number.”
Your heart felt too big for your chest. You tilted your head, giving him better access as he pressed another slow kiss to your neck.
“I want you,” you whispered. “Even when you’re being an arrogant pain in the ass on the ice. Even when my dad glares at you like he wants to bench you for life. I want this.”
Jason made a low, relieved sound and kissed you again - slower this time, deeper, like he was savoring every second. His hands stayed respectful but possessive, one on your waist, the other tangled in your hair. The kiss grew heated, suggestive tension crackling between you as his thigh pressed gently between yours, not pushing, just offering pressure that made heat pool low in your belly.
He pulled back just enough to speak against your lips. “Not here. Not with half the team downstairs. When I finally get you alone, I want to take my time. Want to hear every little sound you make when I touch you. Want to show you exactly how long I’ve been thinking about this.”
Your breath hitched. The promise in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.
“Tomorrow?” you asked, voice barely steady.
“Tomorrow,” he agreed, pressing one last soft kiss to your forehead. “After practice. My place. I’ll cook you dinner first. Then…” His thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip. “Then I’ll show you how good it can be when I’m not pretending I don’t want you more than anything.”
You smiled, leaning up to kiss him once more — quick and sweet this time. “Deal. But if you burn the dinner, I’m making you run suicides.”
He laughed, bright and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Worth every sprint if it ends with you in my arms.”
The party continued raging downstairs, but up here in the quiet sunroom it felt like the rest of the world had faded away. Jason held you close, arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go, chin resting on top of your head.
For the first time, the line between enemies and pure want didn’t feel like a lie.
It felt like the start of something real.
And as Jason’s hand stroked slowly up and down your back, warm and steady, you let yourself believe that maybe - just maybe - the arrogant hockey player with the sharp tongue and softer heart was exactly who you’d been waiting for all along.
a/n : just a drabble while I work on some other things :) follow for more hehe. comment for tag list ! Follow so I can do a 500 follower event hehe || ac : @/ciricearts
