REBEL GIRL - Jason Todd X Reader
•Best friends with Tim Drake since childhood, she practically lives at Wayne Manor—fixing gear, trading jokes, sharing a bed (platonically, of course). But it’s Jason Todd who sets her blood on fire. Brooding, dangerous, and annoyingly irresistible, he sees right through her chaos and bruises. One stolen kiss turns into something deeper, something hotter—and now, sneaking around feels too good to stop. Even if it risks everything.
Part one | part two | part three |
You and Tim Drake had been best friends since elementary school — the kind of bond that formed in lunch lines and science fairs, built up over years of inside jokes, late-night texting marathons, and shared trauma over pop quizzes and crime-fighting tech. Now, you were practically part of the furniture at Wayne Manor. Alfred had a mug with your name on it. You had a toothbrush in one of the guest bathrooms. Hell, Damian even tolerated you.
You and Tim were inseparable. If one of you was around, the other was close by — huddled over a new prototype in the cave, binge-watching the worst reality TV imaginable (“Love Prison: Arctic Edition” was a recent low), or playing co-op games until your eyes ached and the sun came up.
Where Tim was the calm, rational, methodical one — a human chessboard with backup plans for his backup plans — you were… well, not. You were impulsive, loud, chaotic, full of adrenaline-fueled ideas and no patience to wait and see how they’d turn out. Tim was your anchor; you were his hurricane.
Like when you decided at 2:17 a.m. that your hair desperately needed to be cosmic purple. You’d already yanked open the box dye when your phone buzzed.
“Wait. Stop. That’ll fry your hair. I’m on my way.”
He showed up with actual salon-grade stuff, deep conditioner, and gloves, still half in his Red Robin suit. Muttering about split ends and peroxide damage like a grumpy hairstylist with a utility belt.
Or the time you snuck out for a rock concert in some dimly lit garage that definitely violated five fire codes. You were halfway to the subway when Tim called you.
“Alfred’s waiting out front. I told your mom you’re sleeping over. Let’s not get murdered tonight, yeah?”
You rolled your eyes but climbed in the back of the sleek black sedan anyway. Tim always had your back — even when he wasn’t thrilled about what you were doing.
Sure, the security and thoughtfulness were nice. But sometimes? Sometimes you wanted to be stupid and reckless and messy. Life felt more real when it was a little out of control.
Still. No matter how close you and Tim were — no matter how many years you’d known each other, how many sleepovers you’d shared, how many secrets you’d kept — there was one thing you’d never, ever say out loud.
You had a thing for his older brother.
Now listen, it wasn’t what it looked like. You weren’t some cliché, drooling over the guy just because he had a motorcycle and a scowl. You’d never been that kind of girl — the ones who giggled over “dangerous bad boys” like it was a phase in a YA novel. Honestly, the whole aesthetic usually made you roll your eyes.
But Jason? He wasn’t pretending.
The danger wasn’t some rebel phase or leather-jacket cosplay. He didn’t brood for attention — he did it because he was dangerous. There was something real about him. Something sharp and bruised and honest. And you wanted to understand it.
Every jagged edge. Every complicated layer. Every warning sign.
You’d turned eighteen a few months ago. Grown-up enough to vote, enlist, pay taxes — and finally not get treated like a little kid every time you walked through the manor doors. Jason was around twenty now, a couple years older. Enough of a gap to make it slightly forbidden, a little scandalous — but not enough to be a problem.
At least, not unless someone found out.
You hadn’t said a word. Not to Tim. Not to anyone. But that crush? The one that started small — when you caught him laughing at one of your dumb jokes when he thought no one was looking — yeah. It was growing.
And it wasn’t going away.
Tim had invited you to his place for his birthday — nothing crazy, just the usual. Cake, chaos, and the ever-growing circus that was the Wayne family.
You’d finally turned eighteen a few months ago, so this year felt a little different. Most of his siblings were going to be there — Dick would probably bring some godforsaken fruit tray no one would eat, Damian would scowl at you from across the room like always, and if Jason actually showed up? Well… you were not thinking about that part. Not right now.
You packed a bag like usual, tossing in a toothbrush, charger, oversized hoodie, and a few random gadgets you’d promised Tim. You always slept over. — you and Tim shared a bed like siblings, like two puzzle pieces that had just always fit together. There’d been nights you cried yourself to sleep with your back to him, and mornings he’d woken up clinging to your hoodie like it anchored him to this world. It was what it was — solid, safe, constant.
You’d grown up in Crime Alley — Gotham’s sewage drain where everything bad eventually ended up. The stench was inescapable. A mixture of piss, grease, burnt-out rubber, and something moldy no one ever identified. You were used to the shouting, the occasional gunshot, the broken glass like glitter on the sidewalks. You weren’t scared of it anymore.
Right now, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor of your room, cutting up an old pair of jeans with a rusted fabric blade. You were distressing the thighs and sewing on a few more patches — a safety pin smiley face, a faded anarchy symbol, some random band logo whose name had peeled off years ago. Everything you owned had been spiked or stitched or painted over in Sharpie. Your Converse were duct-taped at the soles and studded with nails. Your backpack had chains and spray paint all over it, like a mobile protest sign.
You loved punk — not just the look, but the heart of it. The rebellion, the rawness, the refusal to lie down and play nice. It felt like armor.
Even if your parents hated it.
Your mom was a ghost on her feet — working back-to-back shifts at the hospital, barely home, barely breathing. She wasn’t cruel. Just exhausted. The kind of burnt-out that turns into silence.
Whenever he was pissed — which was often — he’d come looking for you like a bloodhound. You were a lightning rod for his rage, the freak in eyeliner and ripped jeans he didn’t understand. You’d taken hits. You’d taken worse. But you gave it back now.
Still, stress was stress. Even when you wore it like a badge.
You had black-tinted glasses over your red eyes, the scent of smoke still clinging to your sleeves. You didn’t even pretend anymore — of course you smoked. You and Tim did sometimes, mostly in secret, hidden behind the Manor or out a fire escape. You weren’t exactly trying to become a burnout, but there were nights where being numb felt better than feeling anything at all.
You were spinning in your chair now, rocking your head to the sound of the Sex Pistols blaring from your busted speaker.
“God save the queen!” you belted, legs kicking out as your chair rolled toward the desk. You propped your filthy Converse up on the edge, grinning as you pretended to shred an invisible guitar.
The upload bar on your screen blinked complete. You dropped your feet with a thunk and leaned forward. You were finishing up some modifications for Tim — heat-resistant upgrades for his suit after he came home soaked and freezing two weeks ago. Gotham’s weather didn’t give a damn that he was out saving lives.
You were also working on another project. One that had nothing to do with Tim.
Jason’s helmet sat on your desk, matte red and heavy, already partially opened where you’d unscrewed the plate. You’d been upgrading the HUD interface — improved infrared range, new voice modulation chip, and a tiny emergency data spike hidden behind the earplate. You’d tried it on earlier.
It had felt powerful. Like a secret.
Like you’d touched part of him.
“There’s no future! No future! NO FUTURE FOR YOU!” you shouted along, voice hoarse as you slid the new chip into place, locking it with a precise flick of your wrist.
Your room was chaos — a sanctuary of clutter and creativity. Posters layered over one another like scales, old punk flyers and zine pages overlapping vinyl sleeves and cracked CDs. Red and purple string lights looped across the walls, casting shadows that danced over your tech — scrap-built processors, half-wired EMPs, a soldering iron resting on top of an old Sega Genesis.
Most of it came from the junkyard. You dove into dumpsters like it was a sport, scavenging for forgotten tech with a gleam in your eye and grease on your knuckles. In your mind, you weren’t stealing — you were resurrecting. Reusing. Recycling in the best way possible.
You were halfway through triple-checking the helmet’s backup battery when the banging started.
“TURN THAT FUCKING MUSIC DOWN!”
Your stepfather’s voice was muffled but sharp, slamming against your door like a threat. You didn’t even flinch. You rolled your eyes and turned the knob on the speaker up three notches.
Petty? Absolutely. Worth it? Also yes.
“NO FUTURE! NO FUTURE! NO FUTURE FOR YOU!” the song shouted on even louder than before.
You stuffed the helmet into your bag along with Tim’s gear, careful not to crush anything. You clicked off your system, zipped everything up, and grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair.
Your stepfather was passed out on the couch, one arm hanging off the side, an open beer can leaking into the carpet. You didn’t even look at him twice.
“Grody,” you muttered under your breath, stepping over a pizza box and an ashtray. You didn’t lock the door behind you. Part of you wished someone would come in and drag that sack of shit off into the night. Let the alley have him.
Your face still throbbed a little — the bruise on your jaw was starting to turn yellow around the edges, and the cut under your eye was a dark slash of purple-red. Tim had seen it before. He always knew. You told him it wasn’t his problem. That it didn’t concern him.
Didn’t stop you from swinging back, though. The bastard was missing a front tooth now — your personal trophy. You’d knocked it clean out with a lead pipe when he got too close. The memory still made you smile.
But the smile didn’t last long. Not when you thought about Tim’s reaction.
He was going to freak out. Last time your face was clean. This time? Not so much.
You unlocked your bike — the shitty, rusted fixie you’d patched together from six different frames. The chain always squeaked. The tires were uneven. But she got you where you needed to go.
The ride to Wayne Manor was familiar, even in the dark. Gotham passed you in a blur of streetlights and graffiti, neon signs flickering above alley mouths. You reached the gate, punched in the code, and pedaled up the winding driveway lined with trees older than your entire neighborhood.
You didn’t even hesitate at the steps.
You dropped the bike with a clatter, tossed your bag over your shoulder, and let yourself in through the front door without knocking.
It was practically home anyway.
“Yo, loser! I’m here!” you yelled as soon as you stepped inside Wayne Manor, your voice echoing off the high ceilings and polished marble like you were performing at Carnegie Hall.
You paused, lifting your chin slightly.
Good acoustics, you thought with a smirk, tugging your backpack higher on your shoulder.
Footsteps thundered on the grand staircase above, and then Tim appeared — practically flying down the steps with frantic energy, his hair ruffled and his eyes already filled with exasperation. His socked feet skidded slightly on the polished floors as he rushed to meet you like a mom late to pick up her kid from soccer practice.
“Did you bike here at dawn?!” he half-shrieked, already scanning you head to toe for signs of frostbite or another bad decision.
“Relax, Mom,” you teased, rolling your eyes as you let your bag drop onto the foyer floor. “I’m here, and I’m alive. Isn’t that what matters?” You held your arms out dramatically like you were Jesus returning from the desert.
Tim just sighed, long and drawn out like he was already regretting inviting you. “You’re hopeless.”
“You love it,” you grinned, leaning in to kiss his cheek before sauntering toward the kitchen like you owned the place.
But Tim wasn’t letting you go that easy.
He reached out, catching your wrist gently but firmly. You turned back to him, brows raised, only for his fingers to tilt your chin slightly up — exposing the healing bruise on your jaw and the dull red-and-purple under your eye. He slid your black glasses off your face, eyes narrowing as he got a better look.
You yanked them back and shoved them on. “Dude,” you muttered, voice guarded.
“He’s doing it again,” Tim said tightly, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked beneath his skin.
“Yeah,” you said with a careless shrug. “Don’t worry about it, Bat Boy, I’ve got it under control.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” His voice dropped low, controlled, but barely. The way his fists curled told you he was itching to call Bruce or — worse — go down there himself.
“How long are you gonna let him do this to you?” he asked, voice rough and quiet.
Before you could answer, the air shifted — a low thump from the stairs.
You turned your head slightly to see Jason Todd descending the staircase, boots heavy on the steps, hands in the pockets of a worn leather jacket that matched his permanent scowl. His presence filled the room like smoke — slow, confident, and hard to ignore.
You leaned in to Tim quickly. “We’ll talk later, okay?” you whispered under your breath.
Tim gave you a reluctant nod, worry still etched across his face.
Jason smirked as he reached the bottom, his eyes flicking between you two before settling on his younger brother with that classic brand of older sibling mockery.
“Hey there, Replacement.”
You bit your lip to hold in a laugh. Tim flipped him off behind your back.
Jason’s eyes landed on you then, and the look he gave you made your stomach flip. It wasn’t just the smirk, or the sharp green eyes that cut into you like glass — it was the way he said your name:
“Y/N.” Smooth, confident, sinful.
Your name rolled off his tongue like it was his favorite curse word. And god, you wanted to hear it again. Maybe in the dark. Maybe up against a wall.
“What’s up, Jay?” you said, keeping it cool as you reached into your backpack. You tossed him his helmet, the one you’d been upgrading.
“Cool,” Jason said, catching it effortlessly. He held it up in acknowledgment, flashing you a lopsided grin before turning and strolling off down the hallway, his boots echoing behind him.
You forced yourself to breathe.
“Do you have my new suit?” Tim asked, face lighting up with barely contained excitement like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Oh boy,” you grinned, recovering quickly. “You’re in for a surprise.”
You were in the Batcave now, seated at the main terminal as glowing monitors flickered around you. The cool, dim air buzzed with the hum of electricity and the faint smell of engine grease. Your fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out a run-through of every upgrade you’d installed in Tim’s new suit: heat dampeners, new kinetic sensors, water-wicking lining, and a deployable cloak for gliding.
Tim geeked out beside you, practically vibrating as he scrolled through the specs.
Jason was nearby — off to the side, no shirt, working on one of his motorcycles with a wrench in hand. Grease smeared his forearms, and his silver chain glinted in the cave’s low light as it swung from his neck. Every muscle on his back flexed and shifted with each turn of the bolt.
You really tried not to stare.
But it was impossible. He was just… there. Unapologetically built, all rough edges and cool indifference. The streak of white in his otherwise black hair made him look even more unreal — like something out of a dream with a violent past.
You didn’t notice you were gawking until Jason caught you. He looked up and locked eyes with you — then winked.
Your brain short-circuited.
You snapped your gaze back to the screen, cheeks blazing red. You typed furiously just to hide your face, praying Tim didn’t—
“Dude,” Tim said, leaning slightly toward you. “You good?”
“Peachy,” you said, voice a bit too high.
Tim didn’t press it. He just stood up and stretched.
“I’m gonna go clean my room. It looks like a bomb went off. I’ll be back in a sec?” He held his fist out.
You bumped it without looking away from the monitor. “Yeah. See you in a sec.”
You were typing new commands into the Batcomputer when you felt someone behind you. The air changed. The warmth of a body leaning just a little too close. A shadow fell over your screen.
Then a voice — low, rough, and far too close to your ear.
“Cool. How do you build this stuff again?”
Your hands froze mid-keystroke.
You turned slowly, and there he was — Jason — bent over you, chain swaying gently as it brushed your shoulder, warm breath ghosting along your cheek. His chest was inches from your back, his face close enough to kiss. You swore you could smell his cologne — something smoky and leather-sweet.
Your mouth was dry. Your brain screamed at you to play it cool.
“I, uh—” you cleared your throat. “I dive through the junkyard. The one next to that shitty gas station in Crime Alley? Yeah, I just find the parts I need and… get to work.”
Jason gave a low whistle, impressed. “Damn. Scrap-built genius.”
You shrugged, cocky now. “Gotta make do.”
He glanced down, eyes narrowing as he studied your face.
His voice turned serious.
“Holy shit. Who fucked you up?” he asked, nodding toward the bruises on your face and the split in your lip.
You laughed it off, leaning back a little in your chair. “You should see the other guy. Missing a tooth and crying blood.”
Because he’d heard it earlier — your whispered argument with Tim in the foyer. He knew. Knew your stepfather had laid hands on you again. Knew exactly how dangerous that made him in Jason’s eyes.
But instead of calling it out, instead of making you flinch with pity, he looked at you like you were made of steel and fire.
“Badass,” Jason said finally, locking eyes with you. “For real.”
For a long, suspended moment, it was just the two of you — locked in each other’s gaze in the low hum of the Batcave. The flicker of the monitor screens cast soft blue light across Jason’s face, shadowing the sharp line of his jaw and catching in his pale eyes. The warm press of his body hovering behind you still lingered on your skin.
In the deep silence of Gotham’s most secure cave…
You forgot how to breathe.
“Master Bruce demands your presence. Both of you.”
Alfred’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.
You jumped, quite literally — heart lurching like it tried to crawl out of your chest. It was like your soul left your body and slammed back in on impact.
“Jesus, Alfred!” you wheezed, hand flying to your chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”
The butler stood coolly at the top of the platform stairs, back straight, gaze calm — but you could feel the judgment radiating off him. The way his eyes flicked between you and Jason?
You’d never felt so thoroughly casted in your life. Like his stare could read your entire internet search history and your unspoken Jason Todd fantasies in 0.3 seconds.
Jason raised a brow at Alfred’s look but didn’t comment. He just muttered, “Tch,” under his breath and turned to head upstairs — still in all his shirtless, broad-shouldered, casually devastating glory.
You had to look away or combust.
“Right! On my way,” you said quickly, snapping yourself back into motion. You spun around in your chair, fingers flying across the keyboard as you finished inputting the last line of code. With a quick keystroke, you activated Tim’s suit, the screen lighting up in confirmation.
The Batcave hummed. Task complete.
The rest of the day blurred into chaotic fun — and miraculously, nothing exploded. No villains crashed the party, no citywide emergencies, no rooftop trauma bonding. Just… actual celebration.
Tim’s birthday? A genuine success.
You now lounged on the living room couch, one of several pizza boxes balancing on the edge of the coffee table, the room dimly lit and cozy. The rain outside beat a steady rhythm against the high windows, and inside, the glow from the TV illuminated the lazy chaos of the manor’s den.
Tim sat beside you, hunched forward, fingers furiously mashing buttons on the controller in his hands. You were curled into the corner of the couch with your legs draped over his lap, comfortably smug.
“You’re a fucking cheater!” Tim grumbled, eyes wide in disbelief as you once again absolutely annihilated him in Mortal Kombat.
“What can I say?” you shrugged, a grin tugging at your lips. “Get better, punk.”
On screen, Rain was finishing his gruesome fatality move on Sub-Zero, and you mimed a little victory dance, flipping your middle fingers up at the sky.
The sliding door creaked open and you glanced up to see Jason walk in. Your smirk almost faltered.
Unfortunately, he’d put on a black t-shirt. And grey joggers. Which somehow made things worse.
Tim scoffed dramatically and shoved your legs off his lap like you’d committed a war crime. “I’m done playing with a cheater anyway.”
You rolled your eyes and shoved his arm. “Whatever, you big baby.”
Jason, like a man who took opportunities when they were handed to him, casually dropped into the space next to you — not too close, but enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him.
He stretched an arm over the back of the couch. You tried not to notice. You failed.
“Let me get a round in,” he said, taking Tim’s controller like he owned the place. Which, arguably, he kind of did.
You raised a brow, your smile turning competitive. “Step right up to get your ass kicked, Todd.”
Jason leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something low and cocky.
“Oh, I doubt it, princess.”
You bit your lip at the nickname, hoping the scream that erupted in your soul didn’t show on your face. Princess? From him? Oh, you were going to need oxygen and possibly a priest.
You cleared your throat and focused hard on the character select screen. You were dying to win.
Jason stared at the screen with a deadpan expression as your character landed the final blow — another brutal fatality that made Tim shout gleefully from the sidelines.
Jason narrowed his eyes at you, jaw ticking. “You’re so cheating.”
“Finally, something we agree on,” Tim chimed in, arms crossed.
You laughed, kicking your feet up onto the table. “Just say y’all are ass and got beat by a superior gamer.”
Jason gave you a side-eye that could’ve curdled milk. You grinned wider.
“Whatever,” Tim groaned, stretching his arms overhead before standing. “I’m going to the bathroom. Don’t corrupt my controller with your loser energy while I’m gone.”
“No promises!” you called after him as he ascended the stairs.
He was still sitting beside you, long legs stretched out, controller loose in his hands. His expression was neutral — almost unreadable — but there was a spark of challenge in his eyes.
And you felt it. That same tension from earlier, simmering just under the surface.
Only now, there was no Alfred. No Tim.
Just you and him… and a long, rainy night.
“You seem to be a tech nerd,” Jason said, breaking the comfortable silence between you. His voice had a teasing lilt, that boyish smugness he wore like armor. “You know how to put together a bike?”
He had that small, crooked smirk on his lips — the kind that, under the right light, made him look effortlessly charming. It was a rare look when he wasn’t brooding or pissed off at the world. But tonight, he was… soft around the edges.
You leaned back a little, stretching your legs out along the couch, feeling his gaze follow you. “Of course I do,” you said casually. “My father taught me before he died. Some things stuck.”
Your voice dipped slightly at the end — not sad, just honest.
“But I’d be rusty,” you added with a shrug, brushing your fingers through your hair like you were shaking off old memories.
Jason nodded, something subtle shifting in his eyes. It was respect, you thought. A quiet kind. Then that signature glint of mischief returned.
“So…” he said slowly, letting the word hang between you like bait. He tilted his head a bit, studying you with curiosity and maybe something more. “You and Tim?”
He pursed his lips after the question, suppressing a smirk. Testing you.
You let out a laugh, the kind that came from your chest, unbothered and amused. You shook your head and grinned. “Hell no. That’s my best friend ‘til I die — that’s all we’ll ever be.”
You smiled softer then, thinking of Tim with a kind of fondness that came from a thousand shared late nights, caffeine-fueled coding sessions, and childhood trauma bonding. “He’s like my little brother.”
Jason watched you with a quiet smile, the tension in his shoulders easing.
He liked your answer. You could tell.
“So how ‘bout you, Todd?” you asked, turning the question around with a little smirk. “Any lucky ladies in your life?”
You leaned in slightly, propping your elbow on the back of the couch and resting your chin in your palm, studying him with playful intent. You tilted your head, watching the way his jaw tensed, how he subtly turned his body toward you.
His presence was magnetic.
Jason glanced away for a moment, a short breath escaping through his nose like a laugh. Then he looked back at you — direct, deliberate. “Nah,” he murmured, voice dropping.
You felt it, that shift in the air. Like the weight of the room was pulled toward him.
His eyes dropped to your lips — not a flicker, not a passing glance, but a slow drag. He looked at them, then met your eyes again. It wasn’t a mistake. He wanted you to notice.
“I’m too complicated to settle down with,” he said, voice low, almost a murmur. There was something in it — not self-pity, not arrogance, but a raw truth he didn’t often share. “I wouldn’t want to put anyone in that type of danger.”
The words hung there between you, heavier than you expected. And still… your gaze didn’t falter.
“Every problem has a solution,” you said softly, your voice both teasing and honest. Your pulse was thudding now. You couldn’t look away.
Jason’s eyes darkened just slightly — not with anger, but with something unspoken and molten and dangerously sincere.
“Yeah…” he whispered, and the word trembled across the space between you.
Your heart stilled. The moment slowed — the distance between your faces vanishing with every breath.
He rested his forehead against yours, the tip of his nose brushing yours. His lips hovered a breath away from yours — so close they almost touched. You could feel the warmth of him, the soft exhale from his mouth. The anticipation was electric, and your lungs had forgotten their job.
“Maybe you’re my solution.”
And you didn’t hold back.
You kissed him hard — like you’d been waiting too long for this. Like you were both tired of dancing around it.
Jason brought a hand up to cup your jaw, his touch rough and tender all at once. His fingers curled behind your ear, thumb tracing the curve beneath your chin. He deepened the kiss, slow but intense, like he needed you to feel every second of it.
The kiss deepened with every passing second — slow at first, then growing hotter, more desperate, like a match finally caught flame. Jason’s hands found your waist, tugging you closer with a firm grip that made your breath hitch.
You shifted, crawling into his lap without a word, straddling him easily as your knees bracketed his thighs. The warmth of his body met yours in a rush. Your arms looped around his shoulders, fingers sliding into the thick, dark strands of his hair — tugging, twisting gently as you kissed him harder. He groaned low in his throat, the sound sending a pulse between your legs that made your stomach flip.
His hands moved with purpose now, rough palms gliding over the curve of your waist before settling on the soft plump of your hips. His fingers curled, holding tight like he was trying to ground himself. The pads of his thumbs pressed just under the hem of your shirt, brushing bare skin.
You rocked your hips against him instinctively — slow, deliberate, your breath catching when you felt him harden beneath you. The friction made Jason grunt, sharp and throaty, his jaw clenching.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth.
His hands flexed, digging into your sides as he suddenly reached up and tangled his fingers in your hair. With a firm tug, he pulled your head back, baring your throat to him. A gasp left your lips at the sudden motion — not from pain, but from how easily he took control.
Jason didn’t waste a second.
He leaned in, his mouth hot and hungry against the underside of your jaw. He pressed open-mouthed kisses down your neck, slow and possessive, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you tremble. He lingered there — along your pulse point, then lower — as his hand in your hair kept your head tilted back for him, completely exposed.
You felt like you were burning alive — every nerve on fire, every inch of your body aware of him. The couch, the room, the world — all of it blurred around the edges. Nothing mattered but his mouth on your skin and the low, satisfied growl that rumbled in his chest when you rolled your hips again.
You were caught in it — heat and hunger and something far more dangerous.
He looked like a man who had just been handed everything he wanted — and planned to take it slow, so he could savor every second
“F-Fuck, Jason…” you breathed out, voice barely above a whisper, but thick with need. Your brow was furrowed, eyes half-lidded as pleasure pulsed through every inch of your body. His mouth was still warm on your neck, his hands locked tight around your hips like he didn’t want to let go.
Jason froze for half a second — the way you said his name, raw and shaky, made something dark flicker behind his green eyes. He looked up at you like you were a lit fuse and he was all too happy to explode.
“Say my name like that again, princess,” he growled low, voice rough with restraint. “And I won’t be able to stop.”
There was nothing cocky in the way he said it — it was a warning. A plea. The barely controlled hunger in his voice was all-consuming. You could feel how much he wanted you — the way his fingers flexed on your hips, the way his chest rose and fell faster with every second, how tight his jaw was clenched to hold himself back.
And maybe you were about to say it again. Maybe you wanted to see what would happen if he didn’t stop.
“Fuck.” Jason groans out. You continue grinding down on his bulge, both chasing your orgasms.
“Princess s-slow down.” Jason groans trying not to be loud in the middle of the living room. He knew how risky this was. Being caught humping his little brothers eighteen year old best friend wasn’t really on his bucket list.
“Can’t gonna cum.” You moan out as your body finally lets go. You squeal as your body convulses on his lap, the strong orgasm hit you like a giant wave, burning white and hot down your spine.
Jason groans in your ear as he reaches his own orgasm. Slowly continuing to grind your hips down on him, Riding out his organs in pure bliss unbothered by who catches him anymore.
then — the faint but unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing echoed down the hall.
Your eyes widened, and in a blur of limbs and whispered curses, you scrambled off Jason’s lap, nearly tripping over your own feet as you dove back into your corner of the couch. You grabbed a throw pillow, clutching it to your chest to hide your pounding heart and flaming face. Jason stayed frozen for a second longer, like his body hadn’t caught up to the panic yet.
Then, with a sharp exhale, he shifted forward, adjusting the front of his black jeans with a swift, almost irritated motion. His fingers raked through his hair as he cleared his throat, trying to look casual — like he hadn’t just been seconds away from devouring you whole.
Your cheeks burned as you avoided looking at him, your chest still heaving as you tried to slow your racing heartbeat.
Footsteps creaked on the stairs.
You both sat still, barely breathing — two guilty teenagers caught on the edge of something you couldn’t take back.
The door to the hallway opened, and Tim’s voice rang out behind you:
“Hey, did I miss anything?”
Jason leaned back, arm draped across the back of the couch like he’d been lounging the whole time.
“Not a damn thing,” he said smoothly, voice steady.
But when you dared to glance sideways at him, his eyes met yours — and the heat in them hadn’t gone anywhere.
Tim came casually waltzing back down the stairs, blissfully unaware of the storm he’d just missed by seconds. He flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic huff, grabbing a nearby pillow and wedging it behind his back like it was just any other lazy afternoon.
“We should watch the new Spider-Man movie,” he said brightly, reaching for the remote on the coffee table and tossing you a grin, completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had just shifted on its axis.
“Sounds good to me,” you replied, voice a little too soft. Your lips still tingled, your breath still hadn’t quite evened out, and you could feel the blush burning hot under your cheeks. But you forced the smile, forced the normalcy — because if Tim noticed anything off, you’d never hear the end of it.
You heard Jason stand before you saw him. The slight creak of the couch. The sudden tension in the air.
“I’mma head out,” Jason mumbled, his voice low and gruff. “Have fun.”
He didn’t look at you, not directly — but his eyes flicked your way for the briefest second, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. And then, just like that, he turned and bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time, his footsteps disappearing into the upper hallway like a vanishing spell.
Only when he was fully gone did you reach up, fingers ghosting across your lips. They still felt warm, still felt slightly swollen from the kiss. You touched them like they weren’t yours — like maybe if you pressed hard enough, it would make it real. Or maybe it would prove it didn’t happen.
You would’ve never seen that coming. Not in a million years.
Jason Todd — Jason Fucking Todd — had kissed you. And for one wild moment, you kissed him right back.
You sat back against the couch in a daze, watching Tim flip through movie titles on the screen with carefree ease.
And you weren’t sure what the hell you were going to do about it.
