A Love Like Religion

they should invent activities for sleepy people with no energy

This is the Baby Money Yoda, reblog in the next 60 seconds of seeing this to receive a blessing from our green bean prince.

SOAKED

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Words: 12,4k

Plot: Jason comes home bruised and sore, and you do what you do best: take care of him. But one thing leads to another, and soon, you're on your knees, making him fall apart, only to have him return the favor tenfold.

You don't even remember falling asleep. One minute you were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, Jason's hoodie swallowing you whole, and the next, your eyes snap open at the sound of keys jingling just outside the door.

Your heart stumbles over itself as you push up on your elbows, eyes darting to the clock glowing dimly from the wall. 3:26 am.

Not bad. Not great either, but you've seen worse. You rub your face, still heavy with sleep, and the fabric of Jason's hoodie pools around your wrists as you move. It smells like him, sharp leather and gunpowder, something faintly metallic that always clings to his clothes, and underneath all that, the warmth of his skin, like sunshine baked into cotton. You wear it every time he's out late. Sleeping in your bed without him feels wrong—too cold, too empty—so you do this instead, drowning in the closest thing you have to his arms.

Another jingle, then the unmistakable scrape of the deadbolt turning. Your heart gives another sharp little kick, but this time, it's relief flooding in. He's home.

The door swings open, and Jason steps inside. Bloody.

"Fuck."

You're off the couch before you even realize you've moved, bare feet slapping against the floor as you rush to him, wide awake now and already scanning for where he's hurt.

"Oh my God, what happened? Are you okay? Baby—"

He shushes you softly, reaching up to pull off his Red Hood mask. The metal clatters onto the table beside the door, leaving his hair a mess, damp at the edges with sweat.

"Shhh. It's okay, doll. Not my blood."

Your breath catches, but he says it like it's supposed to make you feel better. It doesn't. If anything, it makes your pulse race harder because something happened, something bad enough to coat his chest in sticky red streaks and leave his shoulders locked up so tight you can see it through his jacket.

His jaw ticks, tension riding every inch of his frame, and you know him well enough to know that he's not gonna talk about it yet. Not until you've pried it out of him or worn him down enough to let him breathe again.

So you step closer, hands skimming over his sides, feeling for injuries anyway. He's solid under your touch, all heat and muscle, even through the armor and blood.

"Let's get you cleaned up," you whisper, voice softer.

You don't push for answers, not yet. First, you get him warm. Get his hands on you. Let him remember he's home. Jason exhales like he's been holding his breath since he walked through the door.

"Yeah," he says, voice lower, rougher, already starting to crack at the edges. "Yeah, okay, baby."

He kicks the door shut behind him with a solid thunk, his boots following right after—one, then the other, dropped lazily beside the mat. His jacket hits the table next, heavy with blood and dirt, and before he does anything else, his hand darts out to flip the lock. You watch the muscles in his forearm flex as he checks it twice, then once more, a habit he's never broken no matter how safe this place is.

Then his attention swings back to you, and his expression softens, just barely, at the sight of you standing there all sleepy and worried in his hoodie, the hem brushing your bare thighs. His lips twitch like he's fighting a grin, but he doesn't say a word about it—doesn't have to.

Instead, he steps in close, warm hands catching your waist, tugging you toward him just enough to kiss your forehead. His breath is warm, lips softer than they should be after a night like this, and you feel some of that coiled up tension drain from his body as he stands there holding you, grounded for the first time in hours.

He doesn't pull away until you take his hand, fingers lacing through his like it's second nature, and guide him toward the bathroom. His steps are heavy, the kind of weight that comes from hours of running and fighting, but he follows without a word.

He's too tired to tease, but not too tired to sneak one last glance at your legs, bare and soft beneath his hoodie, and there's that twitch at the corner of his mouth again. The kind that says Fuck, I love seein' my girl in my clothes, even if he's never gonna say it out loud.

In the bathroom, you flick on the light and step past him to turn on the shower, hand testing the temperature until it's hot enough to chase the chill out of his bones. Jason, meanwhile, starts to work the buckles on his gear, fingers moving automatically. One shoulder piece drops to the floor with a clatter, and you whirl around so fast he freezes, brow lifting.

"Jason Peter Todd."

Your voice lands somewhere between a scold and a soft plea, and his head tips to the side, confused. You step right into his space, small hands nudging his out of the way as you reach for his shirt yourself.

"I've got you. You don't have to—just—let me help, okay? You're all stiff, baby, and you're probably bruised to hell, and you're not supposed to—"

His hands settle on your wrists, and for a second you think he's gonna argue, but all he does is huff—this half laugh, half sigh like there she goes again, and fuck if it doesn't make his heart swell. "Ain't no winnin' with you, huh, pretty girl?"

"Not a chance," you smile up at him, sweet and stubborn all at once. "So stand still and let me."

Jason's bigger than you by a mile, but he knows better than to fight you when you've got that look in your eye. So he does what you say, letting his arms hang loose at his sides while you take off the other shoulder piece, fingers careful around the edges of bruises and scrapes. His skin's warm beneath the shirt, all solid muscle and scars you know by heart, and for a minute, all you can think about is how strong he is, and how soft he lets himself be with you.

You work him out of his shirt, fingers gentle but determined, peeling it off like you're unwrapping something precious even though the fabric's half ruined with grime and blood. It lands in the washing machine with a wet plop, and you barely glance at it before you're on to his belt, tugging at the buckle with a frown so serious, Jason can't help himself.

"Y'know," he drawls, voice low and teasing, "never seen someone so goddamn focused on takin' my clothes off and not tryin' to jump me."

"Shut up." Your nose scrunches, mouth set in that determined little pout that drives him crazy. "If you're gonna come home looking like a crime scene, the least you can do is let me clean you up without the peanut gallery commentary."

Jason snorts, arms loose at his sides, just letting you work. "Ain't my fault you're cute when you're bossy. That little face—shit, baby, you could probably scare Bruce if you tried hard enough."

Your glare could cut glass, but your hands stay gentle, popping the button on his pants before sliding them down his legs. "Get in the shower, smartass."

"Yes, ma'am."

He even throws in a sloppy salute, which earns him a playful slap right on his ass. He turns just enough to look over his shoulder, all smirk and dark eyes, like Careful, baby, do that again and I might forget how tired I am.

You flip him off for good measure, which only makes him laugh harder as he steps into the warm spray. For a second, the air fogs up, steam curling around his skin, and he tips his head back, letting the water rinse away the first layer of the night's grime.

The tension in his shoulders melts just a fraction, but only a fraction, because the second he turns back around, you're climbing in after him, hoodie already on the floor, and thank fuck for whoever designed this shower because the cabin's massive and you both fit in it with no problem.

Jason's brows lift, appreciation written all over his face. "Well, shit. Ain't I the lucky one."

The water's hot, steam curling between you, misting the glass walls of the shower. You step closer, bare feet against the slick tile, and when he turns to face you fully, your heart sinks just a little.

Because there they are. The bruises.

Deep, ugly smudges already blooming across his ribs, darker ones wrapping around his bicep like fingerprints, and a nasty scrape high on his shoulder where something must've caught him just right. You sigh softly, fingertips tracing over the damage, careful not to press too hard, and when you lift your eyes to his, they're already waiting for you.

"What happened, Jay?"

Your voice is gentle, but there's an edge underneath, sharpened by hours of waiting and worrying. Jason closes his eyes for a beat, head tipping back under the spray, water trailing down his neck and over the hard lines of his chest.

"Wrong place, wrong fuckin' time," he mutters, voice low and a little rough. "Some poor bastard got jumped by a bunch of goons in the Narrows. Tried to step in, but it was too late."

His mouth twists like he's already thinking about what you're gonna say to that.

"Then what's with the bruises?"

You cross your arms over your chest, trying for stern, but you just look small, standing there naked and wet, water gliding down your skin while your brows knit together in frustration.

Jason rubs the back of his neck, sheepish in a way only you get to see. "Well, I was on patrol, so..."

You scoff, shaking your head as you pinch the bridge of your nose. The steam makes your fingers damp, but it doesn't hide the way your shoulders curl inward, tension wracking your small frame.

You exhale, voice soft, a little wobbly at the edges. "You promised you'd be more careful."

You can't look at him when you say it, so you reach for the body wash instead, hands shaking just enough to make the bottle slip in your grip. Jason's hand is faster, catching your wrist gently before you can turn away completely.

"Hey, it's okay."

His fingers tilt your chin up, guiding you to meet his eyes, and you're not sure if it's the heat from the water or the look on his face that makes you dizzy. He leans down, lips brushing yours, soft at first, a grounding kiss meant to anchor you both. But the second his mouth presses to yours, something inside you buckles.

Your free hand fists in the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss with a soft, desperate sound. Jason groans low in his throat, like you just knocked the air out of his chest, and his other hand slips around your waist, dragging you flush against him. Your bare skin slides against his, slick with water, and the kiss turns messy, hungry, all teeth and tongue and the kind of heat that leaves you lightheaded.

His tongue parts your lips, slow and filthy, licking into your mouth like he's got all the time in the world. He tastes like mint and something darker underneath—copper and smoke—and you take it all, kissing him like you need to memorize the shape of him. Your bodies press so close you can feel the thud of his heart against your ribs, and his fingers tighten at your waist, like he can't quite let you go yet.

When you finally pull back, breathless and flushed, Jason rests his forehead against yours, water running down the bridge of his nose. "I promised I'll always come back to you," he says softly. "And I meant it. I'm still here, doll. Shit like this? It's inevitable. But it's just a few bruises."

Your throat works around a hard swallow, eyes flicking over the marks on his skin. "Yeah," you whisper. "Just bruises."

Your voice cracks a little, but you cover it by squeezing a generous dollop of body wash into your palm, focusing on the feel of the slippery soap instead of the ache in your chest.

You start at his shoulders, fingers gliding over skin and muscle, slow and deliberate, cleaning him up like it's your own body you're tending to. His eyes never leave your face, watching the way your brow furrows in concentration, how your lower lip gets caught between your teeth every time you find another bruise.

You finish washing him with slow, careful hands, fingers mapping over familiar muscle and scar, every touch a quiet promise—you're home, you're safe, you're mine. Jason's eyes stay on you the whole time, half lidded and heavy with exhaustion, but there's something else simmering underneath, something darker.

When you go to grab the soap again, reaching for your own skin, his hands catch your wrists, his grip gentle but firm. "Nuh-uh, sweet girl. My turn."

"Jay, I'm fine and—"

"Don't care," he cuts you off, voice low and rough around the edges. "Lemme take care of my girl."

And really, what are you gonna do? Fight a man built like him, standing naked and wet in a shower that's already fogged up enough to feel like a sauna? You let him, because even though you fuss, you love this part. The way his hands move with purpose, how he touches you like you're the only thing worth slowing down for.

His fingers are slick with soap when they slide up your arms, over your shoulders, down your sides. The water makes everything slippery, his palms gliding over every inch of skin like he's memorizing you all over again.

But it's when he reaches your chest that you feel the shift, the way his breath catches, how his thumb drags deliberately over your nipple, slicking it up with soap and hot water, until the soft bud pebbles under his touch.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, more to himself than you. "Look at you."

You glance down, following his gaze, and yeah, no wonder he's obsessed. The soap drips down the curve of your tits, slow and thick, catching on your nipples and running in slick little trails down your stomach. Jason's hands follow the path, palms curving to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing at the soapy peaks until you gasp, back arching into his touch.

"Jay..."

It's half a scold, half a moan, and all it does is make his grip tighten, fingers kneading like he needs to feel every inch of you. He groans, low and wrecked, watching the way your tits bounce in his hands, slippery and perfect.

"Can't fuckin' help it," he says, voice rough and low, like gravel dragged over silk. "You got these perfect tits, all wet 'n slippery... How the fuck am I not supposed to play with 'em?"

His thumbs roll your nipples again, slow and deliberate, and the heat between your legs flares so fast it's embarrassing. He laughs, low and filthy, dipping his head down to mouth at your throat.

"Bet I could get you off just like this," he murmurs, squeezing just a little firmer. "Just my hands on your pretty tits, workin' you up 'til you're beggin' me to fuck you."

His teeth graze your skin, just enough to make you shiver. "Should I test it, baby?"

You kiss him to shut him up, or at least, that's the excuse you give yourself. But the second your mouth finds his, it turns filthy fast. His tongue slides against yours, tasting like water and heat and something purely Jason, and your hand drops between you without thinking, wrapping around his hard cock in one slick stroke.

He groans, deep and rumbling, but it's when you twist your wrist just right that it happens—that soft, needy moan that punches out of his chest, so unexpected you feel it in your cunt. You swallow it greedily, sucking on his tongue while your hand strokes him slow and firm, the soap making everything glide like silk.

"Jesus—fuck, baby," he mutters, forehead dropping against yours as his hips jerk into your fist. "You know what that shit does to me."

"Mhmm." You pump him again, savoring the way his cock twitches in your grip, thick and hot and already leaking at the tip. "Love your moans, Jay."

Your voice is pure sin, all low and sweet, with that dangerous edge that only comes out when you've got him like this. Raw and open, all that Red Hood bravado stripped away until it's just your man, desperate and wrecked in your hands.

Jason growls, hands sliding down to grab your ass, pulling you hard against him so you can feel exactly what you're doing to him.

"Keep talkin' like that," he warns, voice tight, "and I'm gonna bend you over right fuckin' here."

And God, you're already so wet, you could probably take him just like this, no prep, no nothing, but you're not done teasing him yet.

Your hand works his cock slow and deliberate, fingers snug around the thick shaft, every stroke slick with water and his own leaking precum. He's so fucking hard, heavy in your grip, veins standing out along the length, the head flushed and swollen as it slides against your palm. You twist your wrist at the top, fingers teasing over that sensitive ridge just under the head, and Jason's hips twitch, like he can't help himself.

"Goddamn," he mutters, voice low and frayed at the edges. "Always so fuckin' good to me."

The praise makes you shiver, thighs pressing together for a second, and that's all the invitation Jason needs. His hand slides down, fingers tracing your ass, his palm big enough to spread you open like nothing. You barely have time to gasp before two of his fingers slip between your thighs from behind, sliding through your slick folds like he's been waiting all night to get his hands on you.

"Jesus, baby." he groans. "You're so fuckin' wet already."

His fingers slide lower, not rushing, just exploring, tracing over your clit before dipping back to your entrance, dragging your slickness back up with every stroke. It's teasing, maddening, like he wants to see how worked up he can get you before you snap. And it's working, because you're already trembling, thighs spreading wider, giving him all the access he wants.

"Such a good fuckin' girl," he mutters, fingers finally pressing inside you, two at once, slow and steady. "Takin' me so sweet. Always so fuckin' tight for me."

You moan into his mouth, the sound soft and helpless, and your grip on his cock tightens just a little, enough to make him hiss between his teeth, his fingers curling inside you like a reflex. He's filling you so good, even with just his fingers, and the angle from behind only makes it dirtier, your ass pushed back into his hand while your chest stays flush to his skin, tits pressed against warm, wet muscle.

"Greedy little thing," Jason teases, voice warm and dark. "Jerkin' me off while you fuck yourself on my fingers. You missed me that much, huh?"

You don't even try to deny it, you just kiss him again, harder this time, all tongue and heat, your hand stroking him faster. Water runs down both your bodies, dripping between you, and every movement feels slick and desperate, like you're both already too far gone to slow down. Your palm twists over the head of his cock, smearing precum down the length, and Jason groans into your mouth, fingers fucking into you deeper until you can't help but moan right back.

"Fuckin' love those sounds," he mutters, lips dragging down your jaw. "My girl sounds so fuckin' sweet when she's needy."

His lips find yours again, slower this time, tongue licking into your mouth in lazy, filthy strokes, and you know—you just know—this is only the beginning.

The thought hits you so suddenly it's almost embarrassing. How much you want to get your mouth on him, to taste every inch, to feel his dick sliding down your throat while water beats down your back. You want to swallow every groan, every curse, every helpless little noise that slips past his lips when you've got him too deep, choking on it.

You shift against him, one hand on his chest, the other still stroking his cock as you gently guide him back until his broad shoulders hit the shower wall. The tile is cool against his skin, but the way you look up at him—all wide, needy eyes, water dripping down your face, lips already parted—that's what sends a little shiver down his spine.

"Baby—" he starts, but you're already moving, already tugging his hand from between your thighs, even though your pussy clenches around nothing in protest.

You need him in your mouth more than you need his fingers, and the second you sink to your knees, Jason's head tips back against the wall with a low, wrecked groan.

"Fuckin' hell, doll," he mutters, voice all gravel and heat. "Gonna kill me with those pretty fuckin' eyes."

You smile, sweet and filthy at once, licking up the underside of his cock, tongue tracing that thick vein from base to tip. He's so hot in your mouth, the taste of salt and skin mixed with the faint bitterness of his precum as you swirl your tongue over the head, lapping up every drop like you're starved for it.

"Goddamn," Jason hisses, one hand finding your hair, fingers sliding in to grip the back of your head. "You're so fuckin' pretty down there. Look at you, baby—fuck, lookin' at me like you wanna swallow me whole."

You hum around him, keeping eye contact as you take him deeper, lips stretching around the thick head, your tongue flattening against the underside. He's big—too big, really—but you love the stretch, love the way your jaw aches already, love the way Jason's chest rises and falls faster the deeper you go.

"Such a good girl," he mutters, voice just shy of breaking. "My good girl. Look at you, takin' me so sweet, fuckin' droolin' for it."

You are, slick spit dripping down your chin already, mixing with the water, and you love it. Love how messy it is, how desperate you feel, how Jason's fingers tighten in your hair like he's holding himself back from just thrusting into your mouth.

"Goddamn mouth was made for me," Jason growls, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, gathering up the slick mess and smearing it across your cheek. "Prettiest fuckin' sight I've ever seen."

You take him deeper in response, throat fluttering around the tip, eyes watering as you try to swallow him down, and he groans, low and broken, the sound vibrating all the way down to your cunt.

"Shit, baby, you're gonna make me lose my fuckin' mind."

You pull off him with a wet pop, lips glossy with spit and precum, breathing hard like you just ran a mile. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, slick and shiny, and you look up at him through soaked lashes, eyes dark with need.

"Jay," you whisper, voice a little wrecked already, throat raw from just what you've taken so far. "Wanna feel you deeper." You swallow hard, your tongue darting out to lick your lips. "Wanna feel you fuck my throat."

Jason's whole body tenses, a shudder running through him so hard you feel it under your fingertips. His jaw tightens, water dripping down his face, and you swear you can see him debating it for a split second. Like maybe he's worried he'll get carried away, worried he'll ruin you if he really lets go.

"Baby—" his voice is hoarse, almost strained. "You sure? Don't wanna hurt you."

You fucking melt, because underneath all that roughness, all that unhinged hunger, there's him. Your Jason. Who always asks, always checks. Even when you're on your knees, begging for it.

You nod, so sweet, so sure, giving his cock a slow stroke just to make your point. "I want it, Jay."

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters, voice already breaking. "C'mere."

You grip his thighs, steadying yourself, fingers digging into thick muscle as you let him guide you—both hands cradling your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, so gentle it makes you ache. But the second your lips part and he slides back in, the tenderness shifts, replaced by hunger so sharp it steals your breath.

"Open up, baby," Jason rasps, hips rolling forward slow and steady, letting you adjust around the stretch of him. "That's it, such a good girl, fuck."

His cock slides deeper, the head nudging the back of your throat, and you gag—a wet, helpless sound that makes his hips jerk. His fingers tighten in your hair, his own breath hitching in his chest, like the sound of you choking on him just flipped some feral switch in his brain.

"Shit," he groans, low and guttural. "Takin' me so deep—look at you, baby, fuckin' perfect."

Your nails dig into his thighs for balance, your knees slipping slightly against wet tile, but you don't stop. You want all of him, need to feel him hit the back of your throat again and again until your eyes stream and your pussy drips. Your moan vibrates around him, and Jason's head drops back against the wall with a sharp curse, fingers tightening until your scalp stings.

"Holy fuck, you love this, don't you?" he growls, looking down at you with wild eyes, water running down his chest. "Love gettin' all sloppy and fucked out for me."

You hum around him, too full to answer, tears burning at the corners of your eyes as his cock slides deeper. Your throat spasms around him, gagging again, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin to your tits, mixing with the water like you're just a mess made for him.

Jason moans, a real, broken sound you almost never hear—low and desperate, like the feel of your throat wrapped tight around him is enough to unravel every last shred of control. And fuck, that sound alone makes your pussy ache, slick dripping down your thighs in hot, needy trails.

"You're gonna make me fuckin' lose it," he grits out, voice rough and thin. "You feel that, baby? Feel how hard I am for you?"

You moan again, louder this time, hips shifting like you're searching for friction, desperate to grind against something. Jason's fingers stroke your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, gathering up the spit that's spilled there, and when you glance up at him—all wide, tear bright eyes and swollen lips—his cock twitches hard.

"Fuck, you're so pretty like this," he mutters, voice all low heat and reverence. "My pretty girl... on her knees, lettin' me fuck her throat like the greedy little thing she is."

He thrusts a little deeper, slow but deliberate, and you choke again, body shuddering, tears finally spilling over. But you hold still, nails digging into his thighs, moaning around him like you love the struggle, like you love knowing you're the only one who can make him fall apart like this.

Jason swears under his breath, something low and filthy, and you swear his hips tremble like he's fighting not to lose it right there. He pulls back with a wet pop, his cock slipping from your throat, leaving you coughing softly, spit clinging to your lips and chin, drooling down your neck in glossy trails.

His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, gathering the mess you made, and the way he looks at you—like you're the filthiest, prettiest little thing he's ever seen—makes your thighs squeeze together, your pussy pulsing helplessly.

"Breathe, baby," he rasps, voice raw with need, like he's the one who just had his throat fucked, not you. "Did so good for me. Fuckin' perfect."

You take a shaky breath, chest rising and falling fast, before you flash him that wicked little smile, all slicked with spit and swollen, and you tilt your head, tongue flicking out to lick the tip of his cock.

"Not done yet, Jay," you whisper, voice hoarse from all the choking.

Jason groans, head falling back against the tile as his fingers twitch in your hair, trying not to yank too hard because fuck, you're gonna ruin him. Your throat is already raw from how deep he's been, but that wicked little smile you give him says you don't care.

Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, slick with spit and precum, and you stroke him slow, dragging your thumb over the thick vein that runs along the underside. His hips twitch, a barely there thrust that he immediately stops, like he's trying to be good, trying not to shove himself right back down your throat.

But then you press a kiss to his flushed tip, then another, before dragging your tongue over the slit, tasting him—salty and thick, all Jason—and you hum in approval, sending a shudder through his entire body.

"Shit," he hisses through clenched teeth, his grip in your hair tightening.

His thighs flex, like he wants to spread them wider, give you more room, but he's already backed against the shower wall, nowhere else to go but into your mouth.

And you want him there.

You tilt your head and take him in again, slow at first, sucking him down inch by inch until your lips stretch wide around the thickest part of his cock. Your free hand slides up, resting against his lower stomach for balance as you start to move, bobbing your head, tongue dragging along the underside, tracing every ridge and vein.

He groans low, almost desperate, his breathing ragged as he watches you. "Fuckin' hell, baby—"

And then you take him deeper.

You breathe through your nose and sink down, letting him slide past your tongue, into your throat, until your lips are pressed right against the base. His dick twitches inside your mouth, hot and pulsing, stretching you open in a way that has your pussy clenching around nothing.

Jason curses, head snapping forward to look down at you, his pupils blown wide. "Jesus—" His jaw goes slack as you swallow around him, muscles flexing around the thick length in your throat, and he groans deep, guttural, something torn straight from his chest. "Goddamn it, baby—"

You moan, the vibrations making him jerk, his fingers tangling in your hair as he fights the urge to fuck into your mouth. But you want him to. You need him to.

So you pull back just enough to breathe, spit slicking your lips, his cock shiny and wet from your mouth. You blink up at him, all pretty, wrecked eyes, and whisper, hoarse but teasing, "C'mon, Jay. Give it to me."

His restraint snaps. He cups the back of your head and pushes back in, slow at first, just to watch your lips stretch around him again, just to hear that sweet little gag when he hits the back of your throat. Then he does it again. And again.

Fucking your mouth with slow, deep thrusts, his dick hot and heavy on your tongue, your jaw aching, your throat stretched wide to take him. Spit drips down your chin, strings of it connecting your lips to his cock every time he pulls back, only to snap when he shoves in again.

"Fuck, baby—look at you." His voice is hoarse, full of raw need as he watches you swallow him down like you were made for it. "Takin' me so fuckin' good—my perfect girl, so fuckin' greedy—"

You moan in response, your fingers digging into his flexing thighs for balance, your eyes locked onto his as you let him use your mouth just the way he likes. It's filthy, messy, raw, the wet, slick sounds of your mouth working him filling the steamy bathroom, and when his abs tighten, his breathing turning ragged, you know he's close.

But not yet.

You pull off of him with a gasp, a string of spit still connecting your lips to his cock, and you tilt your head back, mouth open, tongue out, voice wrecked as you murmur, "Cum on my tongue, Jay."

His moan is broken as his cock jerks in your grip, his fingers twitching like he wants to grab your face and wreck you all over again. Instead, he lets you set the pace, his back pressing to the shower wall as you stroke him slow and deliberate, your slick hand working over his cock, all the way from the base to the leaking tip.

"Shit, baby, fuck," he mutters, head thunking back against the tile. "You're gonna—fuckin' hell—gonna make me blow just like that, lookin' at me with that dirty little smile."

You keep your eyes locked on his, wide and dark and utterly shameless, your tongue peeking out like an invitation. And when he curses again, hips bucking into your grip, you pull him right to the edge of your mouth—lips parted, tongue out, waiting, just like his fucking dream girl.

"Gonna cum for me, Jay?" you whisper, all soft and sweet, hand twisting at the head of his cock, smearing precum all over your tongue.

His whole body tenses, abs flexing hard, his dick jerking in your hand as his breath stutters out in a ragged groan. "Fuck, baby, fuck—gonna cum—shit—"

It hits fast and messy, the first thick spurt of cum painting your tongue, hot and salty and so much of it. His cock throbs in your grip, pulsing with every ragged heartbeat, more cum spilling over your tongue, dripping down your lip in messy streaks. Jason watches, jaw slack, eyes heavy-lidded with pure wrecked hunger, like the sight of his cum all over your tongue could send him spiraling right into a second orgasm.

"Fuckin' beautiful," he mutters, voice rough and almost reverent.

You tilt your head back, sticking your tongue out just enough to show him, his cum glistening on your tongue, a filthy little pool of him. His fingers cradle your jaw, thumb tugging at your bottom lip as he groans, low and guttural, like the sight alone is enough to knock the air out of his lungs.

"Swallow, baby," he whispers, dark and sweet all at once. "C'mon, swallow my cum like the perfect little thing you are."

You obey without hesitation, tongue curling back as you swallow every drop, throat working around it. Then you open your mouth again, all pretty and empty, just to show him you took it all, and he swears under his breath, dragging you up onto your feet so fast your head spins.

Jason pulls you up, kissing you hard and deep, not even caring that you still taste like him. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers tangling into your wet hair as his tongue slides over yours, messy and hungry, all low moans and deep groans vibrating against your lips.

His other hand grips your hip, holding you flush to him, his cock still heavy and slick between you, smearing precum against your belly as the two of you kiss like neither of you is fully in control anymore.

"Fuck, baby," he mutters against your mouth, thumb tracing your jaw, "gonna taste you, wanna fuckin' drown in that sweet pussy."

Before you can respond, Jason sinks to his knees right there in the shower, water dripping off his hair, running in rivulets down his broad shoulders and sculpted chest. His hands grip the backs of your thighs, urging you to spread them just enough for him to fit between, and then he throws one of your legs over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, opening you up for his hungry mouth.

"Goddamn," he mutters, mouth so close to your slick cunt that you can feel his breath ghosting over your clit, "this fuckin' pussy, baby."

And then he's on you, tongue flat and wide, dragging up your slit, slow and filthy, groaning like the taste of you just knocked the air out of his chest. His nose bumps against your clit as his tongue flicks lower, dipping right into your entrance, fucking you open with deep, sloppy strokes.

You cry out, hand flying to his hair, fingers fisting in the dark strands as you try to keep yourself steady, but it's useless. His tongue is relentless, devouring you like he's starving.

You try to close your thighs around his head, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue dragging against your sensitive walls, but Jason's grip tightens, holding you open just for him.

"Uh-uh," he mutters, voice muffled against your cunt, "stay open for me, baby, let me see how fuckin' wet you are."

His tongue moves back up to your clit, circling it in slow, torturous patterns before wrapping his lips around it and sucking hard, and you damn near scream, hips jerking into his face.

"Jason, fuck—oh my God—"

He hums against your clit, tongue flicking faster, and the vibration sends shivers all through you, your knees threatening to buckle. Then you feel his fingers—one thick finger sliding into your soaked pussy, sinking all the way down to the knuckle, curling just right, pressing against that spot that makes your vision go white.

"So fuckin' tight, baby," he mutters, adding a second finger without warning, your walls fluttering around him. "Gonna stretch you open nice and good for me."

He fucks you with his fingers, slow at first, dragging them out until you're whining, desperate, then slamming them back in, curling every time, fucking you open while his tongue stays glued to your clit. The combination is too much, the perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you just right while his tongue flicks and circles and sucks, and you can feel your orgasm building too fast, that sweet heat curling in your belly like a molten knot about to snap.

"Jason—gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, baby, cum for me," he groans, fingers speeding up, tongue licking harder.

And you do—you cum hard, soaking his fingers, your cunt fluttering around them as your clit throbs under his tongue. Your whole body shudders, thighs shaking so hard Jason has to hold you up, his free hand gripping your ass, keeping you steady while he licks you through it, sucking every last drop of your wetness onto his tongue like he can't bear to waste a single drop.

"Fuckin' beautiful," he mutters, lips shiny with you, kissing your trembling inner thigh, fingers still buried deep inside your pulsing cunt. "Always so fuckin' pretty when you cum for me."

You're still trembling when you tug at Jason's hair, urging him up from his knees, and he follows without hesitation, his broad frame rising above you, all wet skin and slick muscles and that hungry look in his eyes that makes your stomach flip. You crash your mouth onto his the second he's close enough, kissing him messy and wet, tasting yourself on his tongue as he groans into you.

There's no finesse, just raw, desperate hunger, teeth knocking together, tongues tangling, water running between you while his hands slide down to grip your hips, pulling you flush to his still achingly hard dick.

"Fuck me," you murmur against his mouth, breathless, lips swollen, and Jason gasps like the air got punched out of his lungs, eyes going dark with that primal heat you know so well.

"C'mere, pretty girl," he rasps, guiding you toward the built in shower bench, and really, bless whoever designed this apartment.

Jason grabs a folded towel from the shelf, laying it over the bench to cushion your knees, always thinking of you even when his mind is spinning off its axis with lust.

"Bend over for me," he says, voice low and rough, and you don't need to be told twice.

You turn, hands bracing against the tiles as you arch your back, sticking your ass out for him, knowing damn well how much he loves the view.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he groans behind you, big hands grabbing your ass, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. "This fuckin' pussy, always so goddamn pretty."

He spreads you open with his thumbs, watching the way your slick glistens under the water, watching how your hole clenches, already desperate to be filled.

"You're gonna fuckin' ruin me, baby," he mutters, more to himself than to you, voice full of awe and heat and hunger.

And God, his thoughts are a fucking mess—his body aches, every muscle burning from tonight's patrol, but none of it matters. Not when you're like this, bent over and dripping for him, all soft skin and curves and that sweet little arch of your back, presenting yourself like the perfect gift.

He feels wrecked, destroyed by how much he wants you, like his skin might split open if he doesn't get inside you right now. You're his remedy, his fucking salvation, and the only way to ease the tension coiled inside him is to bury himself so deep in you that he forgets why his knuckles are bruised in the first place.

He fists his dick, pumping it slow, spreading the slick of his precum along his shaft, hissing between his teeth because he's so fucking sensitive already.

"Goddamn, baby," he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, teasing your swollen clit just to make you whimper. "You're so fuckin' wet. This all for me, huh?"

"All for you," you breathe, pressing back into him, desperate for more, for all of him.

He slides the tip just barely inside, groaning at the way your tight heat immediately tries to suck him in, and fuck, you'll never get used to this—to the stretch, the way his cock splits you open every single time. He's so thick, so perfect, and it burns just a little, but it's the best fucking burn, the kind that leaves you dizzy and drooling, the kind that makes your toes curl because you know what's coming, you know how good it's gonna be.

No one's ever fucked you like Jason does, no one's ever filled you like this, made you ache and crave and beg, and you're already gone, already clenching around nothing, desperate to have him deeper.

"Jay, please," you whimper, and that's all it takes for him to sink in, slow but unrelenting, inch by thick inch until his hips are flush to your ass, until you're stuffed full, stretched wide, pussy fluttering around him.

"Fuckin' perfect," he groans, hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. "Always so fuckin' perfect for me, baby."

Jason stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, his big hands smoothing over your hips and up your spine, grounding you in his touch. You're stretched so wide around him it's almost too much—almost—but your pussy flutters around his dick like you're trying to pull him in even deeper. Your knees are already weak, breath hitching in your throat as the dull ache blooms into molten pleasure, and then, he moves.

A slow, careful pull back, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, so thick you can feel every ridge and vein, and then he sinks back in, deeper this time, hips meeting the curve of your ass with a soft, wet slap. It makes you whimper, the sound high and needy, and Jason's thumbs stroke soothing circles into your skin, his voice low and tender.

"Shhh, pretty girl," he murmurs, eyes fixed on where his cock disappears inside you, mesmerized. "You're takin' me so good, baby. Look at this perfect fuckin' pussy, stretchin' just for me."

His gaze is glued to the way your slick coats his cock, creamy arousal clinging to him every time he pulls back, webbing between your thighs. "Goddamn," he groans, almost to himself, dragging his fingers down to spread you open just a little more so he can see even better. "You're so fuckin' wet. You missed me this much, huh?"

"Yes," you breathe, voice soft and sweet, trembling around the edges as he sinks in again, slow and deep.

And Jason? Jason's brain is barely functional at this point. All he can think about is how warm and tight you are, how your walls squeeze him like a fucking vice every time he moves. He's aching all over, bruised knuckles and sore muscles, but none of that matters when he's buried inside you.

This is his peace, his salvation, and there's nothing in the whole goddamn world that feels better than this. Your soft little moans, the way you arch your back for him, the way you take him so fucking deep—it's enough to make him lose his goddamn mind.

He fucks you slow, deep, each thrust deliberate, giving you every inch, savoring the way your cunt stretches around him, how your walls welcome him like you were made just for him. The slick sounds of your soaked pussy echo through the shower, mixing with the gentle slap of his hips against your ass, obscene and filthy and so fucking good.

Your thoughts are a mess—all you can think about is him, how deep he is, how good he fills you. The stretch burns just a little, but it's the kind of burn you crave, the kind that leaves you shaking and desperate for more.

No one's ever fucked you like this, like they're worshiping you and ruining you at the same time. Jason's hands are so big on your skin, holding you steady like you're fragile and precious, even though he's splitting you open with every slow thrust.

"Jay," you whimper, head dropping between your arms, face hot, body trembling. "Feels so good—"

"I know, baby," he murmurs, leaning over you, his chest flush to your back, lips brushing your ear. "Love this pussy so much. My good girl. Always so fuckin' good for me."

He kisses the back of your neck, slow thrusts never faltering, and you shiver at the feel of his lips and the filthy praise dripping from his tongue. Your pussy clenches around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans, low and broken.

"Fuck," he mutters, barely holding on, "You're gonna kill me, baby."

Jason's grip tightens on your waist, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you feel it, to remind you he's there, holding you steady as he picks up the pace. His thrusts grow just a little faster, a little rougher, each stroke punching soft, breathy moans from your lips.

And fuck, it's everything. His dick feels so good inside you, stretching you just right, dragging against every sensitive spot with every deep roll of his hips. The veins, the ridges, you can feel them all, rubbing against your walls, splitting you open over and over again.

And Jason—Jason's brain is fried. Every squeeze of your pussy around his dick makes his stomach clench, his jaw tighten. You're so fucking tight, so warm, so wet, each stroke is like heaven and hell at the same time. The soft, filthy sounds of your pussy sucking him in are enough to make his abs tense, his muscles coil.

"Shit," he rasps, voice wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fucks into you, his hips snapping forward just a little harder, enough to make you whimper. "You're fuckin' squeezin' me so goddamn good, baby. Feels so fuckin' good—"

And then—his hand. Big, warm, calloused fingers sliding down between your thighs, finding your swollen clit with ease. The moment he touches it, a sharp little gasp rips from your lips, your legs trembling, and Jason groans against your skin, pressing messy, open mouthed kisses to the back of your neck.

"Yeah, you like that, huh?" His voice is pure sin, thick with lust, dripping with heat. "Like havin' me buried deep in this pretty little pussy while I play with your clit?"

His fingers move in slow, deliberate circles, rubbing soft and steady, teasing you, making your cunt throb around his cock. The pressure is perfect, just enough to make your whole body tighten, your breath hitch.

"Jay—"

Your voice is high, needy, desperate, and Jason feels it, the way you're spiraling, the way your walls start fluttering around him.

"That's it, baby," he mutters, rolling your clit a little faster now, keeping the pressure steady, his thrusts still deep and strong. "C'mon, pretty girl, wanna feel this pussy fuckin' cum on my dick."

And fuck, you're so close. Your whole body tenses, your toes curling, your arms shaking as the pleasure builds, hot and fucking overwhelming. His cock fills you so good, the stretch, the drag, the way he works your clit—it's all too much, too good, and then, you shatter.

A high, broken moan leaves your lips as your orgasm hits, crashing over you in thick, pulsing waves. Your pussy clenches around his cock, gripping him tight, rippling around him, milking him as your whole body shakes. Your head drops forward, forehead pressed against the cool tile, breath stolen from your lungs.

Jason groans, deep and wrecked, feeling every flutter of your walls, every wet squeeze of your cunt around his cock. It's almost too much, the way you keep pulling him in, and he has to force himself not to cum right then and there, has to grip your hips tighter, anchoring himself.

"Fuck, baby," he growls, still rubbing your clit, helping you ride it out, dragging out every last pulse of pleasure. "That's my good girl—fuckin' squeezin' me so good, baby—"

Your legs nearly give out, and Jason feels it, catches you, wraps an arm around your waist and holds you up, still buried deep inside you, still pulsing, still aching.

Jason's still inside you, cock nestled deep in your soaked cunt, and you turn your head just enough, voice soft and hazy as you murmur, "Jay..."

His lips brush over your shoulder, warm and tender, a sweet contrast to the heavy stretch of his dick still buried in you.

"Yeah, baby?"

You hesitate for a second, just a little sheepish, then whisper, "I wanna sit on you."

Fuck. His dick twitches inside you, a sharp little pulse that makes your spent pussy clench in response, and Jason groans quietly, forehead pressing against your shoulder.

"Yeah? You wanna ride me, pretty girl?"

"Yeah..."

And who the fuck is he to say no to that?

He pulls out slow, both of you hissing softly at the wet, messy slide of his dick leaving your cunt. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the center of your back before helping you shift around, easing you off the bench.

But before either of you can move any further, you tug him down into a kiss, just because you need to.

It's slow and lazy, all warm tongues and soft lips, your mouth still tasting faintly like him, like salt and sweat and something purely Jason. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking gently, and you're already squirming closer, knees a little shaky as you lean into him, deepening the kiss.

When you finally pull back, you're both panting softly, and you flash him that sweet, cheeky little smile before you push at his chest and say, "Sit."

He arches a brow, but there's nothing but pure heat in his gaze when he murmurs, "Yes ma'am."

He sits back, water streaming down over his broad shoulders, and you climb into his lap, knees bracketing his thick thighs. Your arms loop around his neck, fingers sliding into the damp hair at the nape, and you roll your hips slowly, grinding your swollen, slick pussy against his hard, heavy cock.

Jason's hands grab your ass immediately, fingers digging in, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Fuck, baby... look at you," he mutters, watching the way your puffy folds spread over the length of his dick, your clit catching on the head with every slow drag. "So fuckin' wet, you're leakin' all over me."

You moan softly, hips stuttering when he thrusts up just a little, the fat head of his cock catching perfectly against your sensitive clit.

The jolt of pleasure makes you cling to him tighter, biting your lip as you whisper, "Need you."

"Yeah, baby?" His voice is low and rough, all fucked out warmth. "Go on then. Take it."

And you do.

Your hand wraps around his dick, guiding him to your entrance, and you both groan when the fat tip pushes inside, the stretch still just as dizzying as the first time. You sink down slowly, inch by inch, your cunt spreading to fit him again, walls hugging him so tight he swears he could feel your pulse.

Jason leans back against the cool tile, the contrast of heat and cold making his skin prickle. His muscles are aching, body worn from patrol, but none of that matters when you're sitting on his cock, dripping wet, your face all soft and flushed as you look at him like you need him just to breathe.

"God, baby," he groans, fingers digging into your hips, helping you ease down until you're fully seated, your thighs trembling slightly against his. "Fuckin' love watchin' you take my dick. Look so goddamn pretty stuffed full like this."

You cup his face, leaning in to kiss him again, slow and deep, tongues sliding together, tasting each other, your soft moans caught between his lips. His hands never leave your ass, gripping, kneading, helping you rock against him, grinding down so your clit rubs against the skin at the base of his cock.

It's filthy, wet sounds filling the steamy air, your slick coating his thighs, his fingers digging into your skin, the messy press of your tongues as you lose yourself in the kiss. His cock pulses deep inside you, so thick, so fucking full, and you already know that you're not gonna last long. Neither is he.

But that's the best part.

Your hands brace against his broad shoulders, nails digging into the thick muscle as you start to move, lifting your hips just enough before sinking back down, grinding in his lap when he's buried all the way inside.

Jason groans, a deep, wrecked sound, and his fingers tighten on your ass, gripping hard, as if he can barely handle how fucking good you feel around him. Your tits press against his chest with every slow, wet slide down his cock, the slick heat of your cunt clenching around him, making his breath hitch.

"Fuck, baby," he rasps, lips brushing over your jaw. "You're so goddamn tight—feel like you're tryna choke my dick."

You whimper at his words, the praise making you throb around him. Your pace quickens, thighs trembling as you bounce on his cock, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the steamy shower. Every time you take him to the hilt, you roll your hips, grinding down just right, making him groan beneath you.

Jason's teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging before he mutters, "Fuck, look at you—so needy for it, huh? Bouncin' on my dick like a desperate little thing."

You are desperate. Every slow, deep thrust of his cock makes you shiver, makes your pussy clench, makes heat coil tight in your belly. You can barely think, barely breathe—there's only Jason, his thick hands gripping your ass, his rough voice in your ear, his dick stretching you open over and over again.

Your moans turn breathy, high-pitched, every gasp punched from your throat as your thighs start to burn, but you don't stop. You can't. Not when Jason's looking at you like that, all hooded eyes and flushed cheeks, sweat beading along his temples despite the warm spray of the shower.

"Fuck, Jay," you moan, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses against his jaw, his throat. "Feels so good—I love your dick."

"Yeah?" His voice is a low growl, hands sliding up your back, holding you close as he thrusts up into you, meeting your movements. The new angle makes you cry out, burying your face against his neck as he fucks up into your dripping pussy, harder, deeper. "Love takin' my dick, huh, pretty girl? Love gettin' stretched open like this?"

You nod frantically, unable to do anything but whimper and take it, the slap of his thighs against your ass getting filthier, wetter, each bounce sending little shivers through your overstimulated body. Your clit drags against his lower abs, sparking white-hot pleasure every time you grind down, making your legs shake around him.

He growls against your ear, his breath hot, voice rough. "Shit, baby—you're fuckin' squeezin' me so tight—gonna make me lose my goddamn mind."

Your fingers tangle in his damp hair, tugging slightly as your lips brush against his, voice barely above a whisper. "Then lose it."

Jason groans into your mouth as you pick up the pace, fucking yourself down onto his cock harder, faster, each wet, messy bounce making his grip on your ass tighten. The steam in the shower is thick, curling around both of you, heat clinging to your skin as the slap of your bodies echoes in the tiled space.

You're whimpering, moaning, head tipping back as you ride him, thighs burning, overstimulated and aching but too fucking needy to stop. His cock feels too good—thick and deep, stretching you open, hitting that spot inside you that makes you whine every single time.

Jason's hands move, one gripping your hip, guiding your movements as the other slides up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, tugging you until your foreheads touch. His breath is hot, uneven, every exhale heavy as his mouth brushes yours, his words breaking apart with each thrust up into you.

"Fuck, baby—just like that—" His voice is a growl, all low and rough, shaking slightly as he fucks up into you. "God, you're gonna make me fuckin' cum—you feel so fuckin' good—"

Your pussy tightens at his words, a shuddering moan spilling from your lips as you brace your hands against his chest, moving even faster, grinding harder, the wet drag of his dick inside you making you dizzy.

"I'm close," you gasp, mouth brushing his, hands fisting in his damp hair as his own grip tightens on your hips. "Jason—fuck, I'm—"

"I know, baby," he rasps, and suddenly, he snaps his hips up into you, thrusting hard, dragging a gasping, wrecked sound from your throat. "C'mon, cum for me. Wanna feel you—"

And that's all it takes.

Pleasure slams into you, intense and overwhelming, your whole body shuddering as your pussy clenches tight around him. It's too much, too good, a sobbing cry ripping from your lips as your orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of raw, blinding pleasure.

Your walls flutter around his cock, squeezing him like you're trying to pull him deeper, and Jason feels it. He groans against your throat, voice wrecked and shaking, like you're undoing him right alongside yourself.

"Jesus fuck," he grits out, but he doesn't stop.

If anything, he fucks you harder.

His hips snap up in fast, brutal thrusts, thick cock driving into you again and again, forcing out these soft, desperate little whimpers as overstimulation starts to creep in. You twitch against him, body trembling, but he just grins, biting down on your neck like he likes how fucked out you're getting.

"Sensitive, baby?" His voice is all teasing, but there's something dark underneath, something hungry.

His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you pinned, making sure you take it. His cock drags against your swollen, overstimulated walls, pushing you closer and closer to that sharp, unbearable edge again. He can feel it, the way your cunt flutters around him, the way you're already slipping into another orgasm before you can even catch your breath.

"Yeah," he groans, rough and deep, pressing a messy, open mouthed kiss to your jaw. "That's my girl."

Jason doesn't let up. Not even for a second. His hands grip your hips, holding you down as he fucks into you, hard and deep, each wet slap of skin against skin echoing through the shower.

You're still trembling from your last orgasm, body twitching with every thick drag of his cock, but he just grins. Watching you, watching the way your tits bounce, watching the way your pretty little cunt stretches around him, all wet and swollen and so fucking perfect.

"Gonna give me another one," he murmurs, rough and dark, like it's not even a question. Like it's just fact.

You try to say something—anything—but all that comes out is a breathless whimper, because fuck, every time he thrusts up, your clit drags against his skin, the friction hot and slick and just right. The pressure builds too fast, too intense, your body already wound up so tight you feel like you might snap.

Jason feels it, the way your walls squeeze around him, the way your thighs start to shake. He groans, dropping his head to your throat, teeth grazing over sensitive skin.

"Yeah, there it is," he rasps, voice thick with satisfaction. "Fuck, you get so tight when you're close. You gonna cum for me again, baby? Gonna let me feel you squeeze my dick all over again?"

And then he grinds up into you, slow and deep, making sure your clit drags right against him, making sure you feel every inch of him rubbing you just right. It's too much, sharp and unbearable, your pussy clenching around him as the orgasm slams into you, so hard and overwhelming you swear you stop breathing for a second.

Jason groans, almost pained, his grip on you tightening as he forces himself to keep fucking you through it, his cock dragging against your overstimulated walls with each deep, filthy thrust.

"There we go," he grits out, watching the way you shudder, the way your body reacts to him. "That's my good fuckin' girl."

He's so close it's unbearable. Every thrust has his cock throbbing, sensitive to the point of pain, but he can't stop. Can't stop chasing that high, can't stop fucking into you, hips snapping up in desperate, stuttering thrusts as he buries himself as deep as he can go.

And you? You meet him halfway, taking every inch, riding him through it, moaning as his cock grinds right against your swollen, overstimulated walls. You're just as desperate as he is, clenching down around him, pulling him deeper, body made for him, and fuck, Jason's brain short circuits.

"Jesus fuck, baby," he groans, voice wrecked, forehead pressing against yours like he's struggling to hold himself together.

But he isn't. Not really. Not when your pretty little pussy is milking his cock, not when you're squeezing him so tight he can feel every flutter, every slick, wet drag of your walls around him.

He needs it. Needs to cum. Needs to fill you up. Needs to fucking ruin you.

Until he grits out your name through clenched teeth, his cock throbbing inside you as he cums, a choked, broken groan rumbling in his chest as he spills inside you, thick and hot, filling you up as his hips jerk up into yours. He's moaning into your mouth as he pulls you in for a kiss, soft and lazy, tongues sliding together as he pumps you full, hot ropes of cum flooding your tight, clenching pussy.

"Fuck, baby—" he mutters, hips stuttering, because your pussy is gripping him, sucking him in so tight, so fucking wet as you tremble in his lap.

Your lips brush against his, softer, lazy and slow, little whimpers still spilling from your throat as he keeps fucking into you, each thrust pushing his cum deeper, until his pace stutters and he finally still.

The bathroom is all foggy, warm steam wrapping around both of you as you come down slowly, still tangled together, his dick still buried inside your messy, puffy cunt. His hands slide up your back, holding you close as you press kisses to his jaw, his neck, still catching your breath, still feeling fucked out and hazy and warm.

He exhales, tilting his head slightly as his lips brush the top of your head, his fingers splayed against your back, keeping you tucked close.

"You okay, baby?"

"Mmhmm," you hum softly, arms wrapping around him, hugging him tight, but not tight enough to hurt his bruises.

Jason sighs, low and warm, his hands smoothing up your back, keeping you close, his body still loose, relaxed from his orgasm. The heat of the shower clings to both of you, water still running, steam curling around you in thick ribbons, sealing you into this little moment—this quiet, safe moment.

But it doesn't last.

Because your throat feels tight, your chest aching, a little sniffle slipping out before you can stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut, fuck, you don't want to cry, not now, but...

You love him. You love him so much it hurts.

And you know, you know how important he is to Gotham. You know the good he does. But sometimes, when you see him like this, when you see the bruises blooming across his body, when you think about what could have happened, you wish he'd just stop.

The thought of losing him scares you. It grips your chest in a tight, suffocating hold, twists your stomach, makes your pulse jump into your throat. You need him. You can't imagine waking up without him. You can't imagine getting a call. You can't.

Jason feels your shoulders tremble, hears the soft, shaky sniffle you try to smother against his neck. His stomach twists, his heart aches, and he holds you tighter, even as his own throat goes tight, even as something in his chest breaks.

He hates this. He hates making you feel like this.

And sometimes—when he sees the way you look at him, eyes big and wet and scared—he wonders if he should've never gotten into a relationship with you at all.

Not because he doesn't love you. God, no.

But because he knows how hard this is for you. He knows how much it hurts you. And tonight? Tonight isn't even bad.

But one day—one day it will be. One day, he won't just come home with bruises. One day, he might not come home at all.

And fuck, if that ever happened...

Jason presses his lips to the side of your head, closing his eyes. He doesn't know what the fuck he'd do.

"Hey, shhh, shhh," he soothes, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. It's not dismissive, not even close. He just wants to calm you down, to ease the weight pressing against your ribs. "C'mon, baby, don't cry. You're gonna make me look like a real asshole."

He tries to joke, his voice light, teasing, because sometimes that works. Sometimes, he can get you to roll your eyes, to huff a laugh, to shake your head and kiss him instead.

But when you pull back just enough to look at him, your eyes red, your cheeks wet with tears that he put there, and his throat closes up, and the joke dies on his tongue.

Because Jason Todd might be a fucking idiot, but he's not that insensitive.

His chest aches as he cups your face, brushing his thumbs over your damp cheeks, his lips following the path of your tears, kissing them away one by one.

His nose brushes against yours, warm and soft, and your lashes flutter, another sniffle slipping from your lips as you murmur, "I'm sorry."

Jason shakes his head, his hands still cradling your face, his lips pressing to the corner of your mouth, lingering there for a beat.

"Nah, doll," he says softly, voice low and gentle. "It's okay. I know."

You nod, a little sheepish, because you know he doesn't like seeing you like this. And truth be told? You hate crying in front of him like this. You try not to. Because even if Jason never says it out loud, even if he'd rather die than admit it, you know it hurts him.

You see it in his eyes every single time. And if you can't handle seeing him like this, then you know he feels the same way about you.

Jason exhales softly, his forehead still pressed to yours, and his voice is softer when he murmurs, "I love you, pretty girl. I'll always come back, yeah?"

Your chest tightens, your lips parting, but you don't say anything, even though you want to, even though every part of you wants to argue, wants to tell him he doesn't know that. Because Gotham is cruel, because he's already died once, because one night, one mistake, one bad fucking second, and he might be gone.

But Jason? Jason is not a liar. Not with you. Never with you.

So you swallow back the lump in your throat, push those thoughts away, and nod again, voice barely above a whisper as you murmur, "I love you too, baby. So much."

And when Jason smiles, soft and tender, pressing another kiss to your lips before murmuring, "I know."

Your chest still aches, but you let yourself believe him. Jason exhales softly, pressing another kiss to your lips before murmuring, "C'mon, let's finish in here, yeah? Otherwise, your pretty little toes will get all wrinkled."

A laugh bursts from your lips, breaking the last of the tension in your chest, and you shake your head with a sniffly little giggle. "My toes?"

"Yes, yours," Jason says, grinning as he runs his hands down your back, easing you off his lap. "I don't make the rules, baby. I just enforce them."

You roll your eyes, but you let him help you, gasping softly as his dick slips free, thick and spent, his cum painting his own skin as it drips from your pussy, streaking down your thighs. And when he glances down, catching sight of it, then catches the way your cheeks turn bright pink, and he barks out a laugh.

"Still shy, huh?" His voice is teasing, but his eyes are soft, warm, adoring as he reaches up to cup your cheek. He grins as he rubs his thumb against the heat of your blush. "Almost two years, baby. And you still get all flustered."

You groan, slapping a hand over your face, and Jason laughs again, tucking you against his side as he reaches for the showerhead to rinse you both off. He washes away the remnants of slick and sweat and cum, running warm, soothing hands over your skin, making sure you're comfortable before finally shutting off the water.

He grabs a towel and wraps it around you, rubbing it over your damp skin before gently squeezing the excess water from your hair. You could dry it properly, but honestly? You're so blissed out, and your limbs feel heavy.

Jason dries himself off quickly before helping you into a pair of panties and one of his shirts, the fabric warm and soft against your skin.

Then he kneels, pulling fuzzy socks over your feet, shaking his head as he mutters, "Your feet are always cold."

You grin, nudging his chest lightly with your toes. "That's why you're here. To warm them up."

He huffs out a laugh, tugging on a pair of sweats before standing. "Oh, so I'm just a personal heater, huh?"

"Mhmm," you smile sweetly, looping your arms around his neck." That, and my personal bodyguard, my punching bag, my—"

Jason kisses you before you can keep going, swallowing the rest of your words with a slow, lingering brush of his lips. You hum into it, melting into him before he pulls away, squeezing your hip gently.

"Come on," you murmur, taking his hand, guiding him back toward the living room. "Sit with me."

Jason chuckles, but follows easily, letting you tug him along. "Aren't you tired, baby?"

You shake your head, and Jason sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright," he relents, squeezing your fingers. "I'll make some tea for your throat, okay?"

You nod, but when he tries to step away, you follow, staying close, pressing yourself against his side. Jason doesn't say anything, just kisses the top of your head, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek as he leads you into the kitchen. He pulls out a chair, urging you to sit before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Two seconds, baby."

He makes the tea quickly, moving through the familiar motions with ease, filling the quiet with soft clinks of mugs and teaspoons. When it's done, he sets it in front of you, crouching beside your chair as you take a careful sip.

"Good?" he murmurs.

You nod, your fingers curling in his hair as you take another sip, humming softly when his hand rubs up and down your thigh, warm and solid. Neither of you sleeps until the early hours of the morning.

You just exist in the quiet together, curled up on the couch, snuggled as close as possible, warm and drowsy and safe in the dim glow of the living room lamp.

He lets you cling to him, lets you need him, lets himself need you just as much.

You talk about nothing and everything—lazy conversations and soft laughter and sleepy, lingering kisses pressed to cheeks and lips and jaw between bites of snacks.

At some point, your words start to slur, your voice growing soft and drowsy, and Jason knows you're fighting it, but you don't stand a chance. Not when you're warm and full and safe, wrapped up in his arms like you belong there.

Jason shifts, scooping you up easily, carrying you toward the bedroom. "Sleep, baby," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I've got you."

And you do.

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

—

11:33 p.m

—

You found him curled up in bed, unmoving for quite some time.

He arrived home, but said nothing. He shuffled out of uniform, carelessly abandoning piece by piece of his gear on various surfaces, carelessly draping his jacket over the closest chair.

He had enough mind to at least settle his utility belt and weapons on the desk in your shared bedroom before shuffling to bed, climbing into the mattress with so much as a slow, heavy exhale.

You had witnessed this since the moment he came home, feeling the tension shroud your shoulders before he even as entered through the door. Along with his angry episodes, which he kept out of your way around ninety percent of the time, every once in a while, you’d be witness to a violent slip up.

You followed behind the giant man like a scared puppy, stopping at the bedroom doorway just in time for him to turn on his side, his back now facing you.

He hasn’t moved for a fair hour, rendering you nervous rather than relieved he wasn’t angry. An hour full of checking up on him, wondering if he was ready to eat or talk. Anything.

He said nothing, as per usual, but answered your concerned question via raising his arm out, extending his hand out with an open palm. Would you like me to stay with you?

You settle your arms around him from behind as best you could once you slip into bed, enjoying the warmth that radiated off his back when you held him.

Just like before, Jason said nothing, broad shoulders rising and falling as his heavy lidded gaze nearly caged his eyes behind long lashes, vision long since unfocused after hours of reckless thoughts and dangerous intentions he’s always battled with after patrol.

His eyes close fully, a short, defeated exhale leaving his nose. Still, he doesn’t move, not even when he feels your soft, small hands cradle along his sides, caressing him in a largely limited embrace.

You’re always worried when he gets like this, but your options in soothing his pain were limited.

Your vigilante, your hero, your Red Hood, who refused to acknowledge your presence. Never intentionally.

You wanted nothing more than the man who stole your heart and gave it back but promised to hold it.

Jason Todd; your boyfriend, your big, red cuddly bear, your gentle giant sweetheart.

You wanted to be a strong shoulder for him to cry on, but in this case, you blamed your tensed up morning shortly followed by a series of severely unlucky events.

A short tremor of his shoulders caught you by surprise, making your head raise in question after settling behind Jason for nearly eight minutes. After a moment of waiting, to your dismay, you hear a small shudder from the exhausted man you held in your arms.

It broke your heart once you pinpointed those signs all together, realizing what Jason had been doing this entire time since he arrived home.

A ball of tension grew hotter in your throat, your eyes flushed so full with tears.

His teary, glistening eyes opened upon hearing your tiny hiccup, his head shifting up from its concave perch along your pillow to meet your gaze. His own heart ripped into two at the pitiful little attempt to stop yourself from crying, but you couldn’t help it.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whimper, small fingers involuntarily clasping along the hem of his grey shirt for a second or two.

When Jason approached the border of tears, his mouth didn’t curl with a strong lip quiver. Instead, his brows furrowed, his eyes nearly squinting in a pitiful attempt to make the tears halt and retreat.

All will to fight left him once he got home, himself included.

Now, all that flooded his heart was an overwhelming, bitter guilt, forcing him out of his melancholy to register the woman who’s bed he laid on for nearly two hours.

He shifts completely, encasing you in his warm, heavy arms, stroking back wisps of stray hair to peer down at you with worried, furrowed expression.

Were you scared? Were you scared of him getting angry and violent? Images of your terrified face after such an episode were burned into his mind, and a face full of tears was at the top of that crude list.

“No, no,” Jason insists as he puts up a battle once more, fighting back what tears he could. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t.. I— Shit, I didn’t mean to—“

His voice fails, his tone trembling in seconds. His own attempt at rebuilding his crumbled walls failed, leaving cascades of fluttery dust over piles of pebbles.

“M’sorry,” Jason mutters to you, sniffling noses brushing against each other. “Didn’t mean to make you sad. Don’t.. Don’t cry, babygirl. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” your whimpering tone persists, feeling his fingers cradle the back of your head, smoothing down your hair while yours cling to his shirt collar, insisting that you could handle his pain, shoulder it with him.

His mood swings were never his fault. His death was never his fault. His moments where he shut down entirely, leaving you completely powerless to aid him from the shadows, any of it, all of it, wasn’t his pain to shoulder in general.

You wished you could take it all away, but you believed you could only do so much.

“I don’t know how to help you,” you tremble as you admit to him, watching his brows curl downwards in further distress to your confession, your eyes glassy with grief bordering on defeat.

“I want to help you, Jason. I do. Please, tell me how.”

You only knew what he shared with you in the past, so you understood enough. His complications with himself, the curse of hyper individualism rendering him towards a plethora of self doubt, no matter how much he wanted to defy it. He just didn’t know how.

You wanted to be strong for him, but feared you weren’t as tough as you wanted to be.

Jason didn’t want strong, even though he knew you were. he wanted permanence, superglued stability on both of your behalf.

His hand cradled your head against his shoulder, taking in the sweetness of your hair, the warmth of your body dressed in one of his loose fitting shirts, curtesy of you stealing his clothes every evening.

The echo of your heartbeat keeping you alive long enough for you to adore him, to cherish him, to love him like no other he had ever felt before. This returns him towards his quiet tears, but unlike before, he allows himself the freedom to express himself more.

Grief included.

“You just being here… helps, okay?” Jason whispers, cradling your face in his warm palm. “That’s it. That’s all you need to do. Just… don’t leave. Please.”

Please, don’t leave me alone.

Your fingers instantly trail up towards his cheeks, catching his tears in the cradle of your palms. For a moment, your guilty, defeated expression shifted towards one he recognized instantly.

Strong, filled with a temporary determination he recognized many times before when you refused to give up. You refused to give him up.

Those were the eyes he fell in love with, belonging to the woman who desired to help him. His sore heart ached at your persistence, craving that just as much as your eagerly awaiting love.

His shoulders shake, his breathing grows raggedy, shortly cut and uneven. A few of his tears caught along the strands of your hair, the rest seeping down onto the very same pillowcase that harbored most of tonight’s anger and frustration.

His head settled against your chest, relying on your strong heartbeat to keep him submerged in pure sleep. His heavily scarred hands remained stagnant around your waist, thumbs lightly swirling along bare skin while yours settled to comb through his inky, tussled locks.

For the next hour or so, you held one another, cradling each other as the tears long since run dry, leaving two tender bodies submerged in a thin veil of slumber.

Crying together was the last thing on both of your minds tonight, but it’s the most Jason had ever felt accidentally understood, especially now as he refuses to let go of his anchor.

Seen, heard, recognized, loved.

Alive.

Oh, He’s Big Big 18+

Thinking about Jason Todd just being big. Big hands, big cock, even bigger heart. Practically pawing at you, able to hold the plush softness of your thighs when you’re sitting on his face, hands large enough to encircle your entire wrists. Cock the size of a monster can, splitting you open so that you feel in it your throat when he’s fucking you into the bed. Being sore for days after a quickie. Jason who cares so much. Will be there any time of day or night if you need him and will break a few noses along the way.

That’s it. Send tweet.

Chapter Four: Darker Than Death

Summary: Jason chases the past and sets fire to the future

Pairing: Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Words: 6,274

Content/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, Jason's self-destructive tendencies

SERIES MASTERPOST | PREV

Four months pass like lightning streaking the sky. Suddenly, you’re a staple in Jason’s life.

Soft kisses on biceps in the middle of the night. Mornings spent eating breakfast over your small kitchen table. Lunches in his station at the shop. The scowl on your face when Jason pulls out a dictionary to prove the word he played in Scrabble is real.

He didn’t think he could be happy again. After everything—the things he’d seen; the things he’d felt—it didn’t seem possible.

You gave him back something he thought he’d lost forever. You’re hope and future. Something to fuck up. Something to lose.

Jason knows what he looks like to the people on the street. It’s hard not to when he’s jarred by himself in the mirror sometimes. A big, brooding mass of man when once he was just a boy. He didn’t get a say in his dip in the Lazarus Pit, but the skin is still his own, adorned with in he chose and scars that he earned.

But no amount of ink nor callous nor scowling can actually protect him from the wounds that still have never healed. His never ending anger got the better of him today. A close call with Batman and Nightwing left him feeling bolder than ever. He went to visit the Joker.

Beating the Joker bloody with a crowbar didn’t have the cathartic impact he’d been hoping it would. The sight just made his stomach churn. He buried the flurry inside of him as he tied the Joker up, leaving him to sit in a closet for a few days. Until it’s time to bring him into play.

The rising sickness, cold and burning all at once, doesn’t go away. Distance doesn’t help. He still feels trapped there even when he’d been the one in control.

He doesn’t remember going to his apartment and changing. When he comes back to himself at your doorstep, he isn’t Red Hood. Just a boy in a soaked t-shirt shivering in the rain.

The door to your apartment building is inches away from his face. His hand is on the doorknob. It’s locked; he realizes now that’s what pulled him out of his head.

Rain falls down around him. It lands heavily on the shoulders of his jacket. The sound hammers on rooftops, onto the rusted cars parked out in front of your building. It splashes on the already soaked sidewalk, rushing into the sewers Jason knew so well. It’s always fucking raining. He would hate this city if he didn’t love it so much. If this city wasn’t in his blood just as much as Sheila’s.

Tears slick his face. That feeling in his stomach is still there, and he feels like he’s buried beneath earth all over again. The world is pressing down against him. He can hardly breathe.

His feet carry him to the back door of the building. The memory of picking the lock open is shoved into a corner at the very back of his mind. Safe memories fail to see the light of day now, yet he seeks safety just by being here. He needs you, though he hasn’t yet fully put it together yet.

Jason fiddles with the lock with less grace than usual. His hands tremble as he works, but even filled with tears, he’s focused. Maybe a little more so than necessary. He’s overly aware of the weight of his gun. Just as aware as he is he shouldn’t have brought it here. His mind is such a mess. What if he hurt you?

Part of him itches to turn back. The laughter echoing in his ears pushes him forward.

The wood floors creak beneath his feet as he moves through the otherwise silent halls. He pauses in front of your door. His nails bite into the palm of his fisted hands, trying to find the bravery to knock.

Bravery.

Once upon a time ago, he ran across the rooftops of this city fighting goons twice his size, reassured by his mentor, a less than perfect man who demanded perfection. He thought his bravery made him untouchable.

So much for that.

He knocks. You don’t answer.

It’s 3 AM; of course you’re going to be asleep.

He should have never come here. He hasn’t even thought about what he would say when you ask why he’s such a wreck. Just like anything real in his life, it’s not like he can tell you the truth. You wouldn’t know what to do with the truth; he kidnapped the guy who killed him back when he was just a little robin. His mind feels too syrupy to come up with a good lie.

He realizes with sudden clarity he never should have gotten this close to you. Sure, he’s been planning his takeover of Gotham’s underground for years, but plans go sideways. What if the Joker gets out and finds out a connection between Red Hood and you? He can’t even stomach the thought of you with a single scratch on you, let alone in the sort of condition Joker would leave you in.

The lock clicks on your door.

Undoubtedly, you’d spotted him through your peephole standing there. When the door opens, your tired eyes are swimming with concern.

“Jason? Is everything okay?” Your voice is thick with sleep as you blink him into focus.

He feels terrible. He wants to say he’s drunk. Tell you he wasn’t thinking. Free you of his bullshit. Instead, he sniffles pathetically.

The door creaks softly as you hold it open more. You’re a lifeline for him now, the one thing that’s keeping him from sinking back into that bottomless grave, and he pulls you against him. His grip is tighter than it probably should be, but if you have a problem with it, you don’t say.

You hold him like something precious.

He hates himself.

“Come on. Come inside.” Your voice is soft as you gently usher him in. “You’re soaked.”

Streetlight from outside diffuses through the raindrops on your window. It’s the only light offered in your darkened apartment.

He stands in the doorway of your bedroom, watching you rummage around the clothes piled on top of the old floral wingback chair in the corner. You pull out one of Jason’s t-shirts, the material washed and worn until the fabric was soft.

Cotton clings to his skin as he peels his shirt off.

He hears a soft gasp as his vision is obscured.

“What happened to you?” you ask, horror cutting through your exhaustion like a knife.

Bruises—fresh ones—scatter across his skin. He hasn’t seen them yet, but he feels them there. Normally, he’s pretty good. Keeping his clothes on when he knows there’s damning evidence. The less he has to explain, the fewer lies he has to keep track of. Tonight isn’t a normal night. His head is barely on straight.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. He tugs the shirt down, obscuring whatever injuries you see.

“What do you mean, don’t worry about it? Did someone hurt you?”

God, you’re so sweet. You care about him, and you really shouldn’t. Right now, there’s a fire in your voice; you’d go up to bat for him against anyone. All the more reason to keep you out of the line of fire.

“It’s nothing,” he snaps.

“The hell it is. Jason, what is going on?” Your voice is demanding as you take another step closer. Your reach out to touch him, but you stop as if you would hurt him. You are afraid to hurt him.

He huffs and goes out to your living room, his large frame hunching in on itself as he falls into your couch. His head hangs for a minute before he looks around. He’s always found your apartment peaceful. Blankets tossed over the arm of your threadbare secondhand couch. Bookshelves stuffed with crumbling paperbacks. Feels more like a home than his place ever has, but it’s still no home of his.

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you,” he sniffles.

You follow him out, pausing a few feet away from him. “We don’t have to cover everything tonight.”

The certainty in your voice is too brilliant, too forgiving; some things feel like they can never be spoken about. Should never be allowed to see the light of day.

“I dug up a lot of past today.”

He hopes you never understand him because that means you understand how it feels to die. What it means to come back from that. And what worse fate could he curse someone to? He never wants that cold to find you in the middle of the night and shock you awake just to confirm your heart is still beating.

“What do you need?”

The couch dips as you sit beside him. His arm winds over your shoulders, pulling you to his chest so he can feel the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. “Just this,” he says.

So you stay that way. He cries, and he thinks about how he shouldn’t be doing this to you. He feels better because you’re here. No matter how hard he tries not to, he can’t stop thinking about how fucked up it is that he gets to feel better while making everything worse for you. He’s going to ruin your life, and he hasn’t even given you the opportunity to know that.

A few more minutes pass. Your apartment is silent apart from his sniffles, but those, too, die down eventually. Just the rain remains, pattering against the glass.

“Shouldn’t have woken you up,” he says when he’s finally composed himself. There’s a resolution in his voice that had been lacking before. He hopes you don’t ask how he managed to make it to your door.

You shake of your head pull away from him to look into his eyes. “Don’t say that. You didn’t want to be alone. That’s a good enough reason to wake me up.” Your voice is just as firm.

Doubt crosses Jason’s face. You wouldn’t be saying any of this if he wasn’t selfishly withholding the truth from you. You’d already met Red Hood, and you didn’t want him inside of your apartment. He shouldn’t be here, and he knows it. He has no right to wake you up when you’re safe and asleep in your bed. He doesn’t deserve to seek your comfort just because he can’t face his ghosts.

Your palms are warm as you gently hold his face. The pad of your thumb wipes off his tears. “I care about you,” you say. “You aren’t burdening me by letting me help you.”

For one single second, it crosses his mind to open up. You’d think he would have totally lost it, but he could open up. At this point, it almost feels as if it doesn’t matter; he’s decided this won’t be able to last.

Even now, you know very little about him. Neither of you have put a label on what you have, but there’s a bind between of you. You’ve become a feature in his life, as often as he can allow such a thing. He’s gotten comfortable with your presence, and comfort can always be taken away from him. There’s benefit in staying unattached.

He laughs bitterly. “I don’t wanting you biting off more than you can chew, sweetheart,” he says. His thick fingers wrap around your wrist, keeping your hand against his cheek.

Your lips quirk up into a weak smile, but your visible concern doesn’t wane. “I’m pretty tough,” you reply.

Jason turns his head and presses his lips into the palm of your hand. “I know you are.”

But tough isn’t always enough against the people who come after him. Not even when you sign up for it. And you sure as shit didn’t sign up for this.

Most days, you make him feel like he’s soaring. When he takes you out on the bike—Gotham blurring around both of you as your chest presses into his back—he sometimes feels like he’s too giddy to drive.

That feeling, he thinks it’s love, but he can’t accept that. He’s been telling himself he doesn’t need love. He doesn’t need family. But he can’t convince himself he doesn’t need you right now.

One day, Batman is going to catch up to Red Hood. Jason is planning on as much. But if that plan somehow backfires, he could lead Batman right to you. He can’t curse you to a fate where your path intersects with Bruce Wayne. Jason doesn’t want your life any more tainted than he’s already made it.

He can handle losing you if he’s the one that calls it quits. He can handle losing you if you hate him over whatever lies he has to tell to make you slam the door in his face. But he can’t handle losing you over the truth, especially if it’s Bruce’s version of the truth. The very idea of you siding with Bruce in all of this makes his skin crawl.

“I care about you, too, you know,” he finally says. He looks at you in your pajamas, the softness of sleep still etched onto your features. His voice feels to gruff to be speaking to you. He takes your hand between both of his, lowering it down into his lap. He doesn’t want you to hear the finality in his voice.

You smile, though your face is sad. “I know.”

“Why’re you so nice to me?” he asks. You were supposed to just be some client. He was supposed to tattoo a dead bird onto your arm and say goodbye. He did everything right; he was a detached asshole. And yet, something about you broke him open, like playing the right notes on the piano to get into the Batcave.

Like a soft breeze, your laugh brushes across his lips. You’re close to him now.

“Didn’t we just establish that?” you ask, looking up at him with an even softer expression than before.

“I’m serious,” Jason says. “Why did you even bother giving me a chance?”

What makes me worth saving?

There’s a beat of silence. Your eyes study his. He doesn’t doubt you can see the tears still lingering, threatening to spill at the first kind thing you have to say to him.

“I mean, you were a dick for a little bit, but I could tell you felt bad about it.” You look him over carefully, your lips still tugged into that meager smile. “I don’t think you’re as bad as you think you are.”

He sighs and hangs his head. His grip on your hands loosens, like he’s offering you freedom. “You’re giving me too much credit,” he says. His voice rumbles up from his chest. He has to speak quietly or else he’d be yelling. All he can imagine is the Joker getting his hands on you. The thought alone makes him feel so sick he can’t stand to look at you.

As hard as he tries to stay with the kindness in your eyes, his mind starts to wander.

The floor had been so cold; he remembers it now. He acts like he’s not afraid of dying—maybe he isn’t—but he remembers how it feels to die. He remembers how dark it is. How bitter. Laughter rings in his ears. Blood in his mouth, bile stinging at his throat. There was nothing peaceful about it. Nothing peaceful about choking on his own blood. There was no ‘slipping off’; there was only a flash, the rush of heat, a deafening blast, and the screams of the mother who had sold him out.

“Why would I stick around this long if you weren’t worth it?” you ask.

“It doesn’t count when you’re used to fucked up relationships.” He breathes a bitter laugh like it doesn’t feel like acid. Like it’s effortless to put you down. If you believe it is, maybe you’ll ask him to leave.

He’s good at this, sabotaging relationships. Even though he thinks the world of you, he can summon up the words to make you question everything about the last four months. Doesn’t matter if Jason admires how much cruelty you’ve faced. Doesn’t matter if he finds wonder by the fact you still somehow stayed kind after that. He knows just what to say to plant a seed of doubt that will only continue to fester from here.

There’s a long silence. You’re not looking at him anymore. He wants to take it back, but he knows he can’t. That’s why he said it.

“Why are you trying to push me away right now?” Your voice is soft. He can barely hear it over the rain beating on the pane of glass behind you.

“I’m not pushing you away. That’s just the truth.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say. Your voice is low, but volume does nothing to lessen the severity of the chill. He’s used to your warmth. “You’re not that much of an asshole.”

The deeper he sinks into this character, the more he wants to to run out of the room. He’s ruining the one good thing he’s had since he came back to Gotham. He’s throwing away his one actual shot at happiness.

When he looks at you, he’s looking at a future he’ll never know. Baking cookies just because you mentioned in passing you wanted some. Slipping apology notes underneath your door when he pisses you off so much you won’t respond to his texts. Telling you he loves you; whispering it in your ear when he holds you on bad days. Telling the truth because he could finally fully surrender himself to you.

The truth, Jason likes to imagine, feels like the gentle release everyone likes to describe death as. Peace. A boy blown up isn’t at peace; he’s a poltergeist. But a man who can surrender and accept the death of a life he’d taken up, like a crab molting its shell to find something more comfortable, can rest. If he was brave enough, he could adapt again. Maybe make a life that offered a truce between him and this world.

“Ever consider maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do?” he asks. He buries the thoughts of your warm embrace. So many graves in his mind, all smelling of petrichor and freshly turned earth.

It rained the night he clawed up to the surface of Gotham. He doesn’t remember much about that night—doesn’t remember much before Talia got to him—but he remembers the smell. Dirt was everywhere, until suddenly, he smelled the rain. Drops fell into his parched mouth as he gasped for air.

His eyes squeeze shut, overly aware of the sheets hitting your window. Your silence doesn’t help.

“Please,” you scoff. “Do you think I just conveniently haven’t noticed you dodging topics the past four months? Just because I’m the only one who’s been open about my fucked up past doesn’t mean I’m the only one with it.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know you’ve got more going on then you’re telling me. The fact that you have secrets isn’t a secret to me. You can have things you don’t want to talk about, but don’t show up at my doorstep looking for help and snap at me when I give it to you.”

Jason doesn’t want it to end. He wishes he was just a little bit more selfish so he could will himself to hold onto you. He wishes his path wasn’t paved with blood so he could guarantee your safety.

But he can hold onto you for one more night.

He lays his head down in his hand and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. It’s not a lie, but tomorrow he’ll tell you it was. His fingers tangle in his hair, and he finally looks up at you. You don’t look happy, that’s for sure, but you don’t hate him.

Tomorrow, he’s going to have to do this for real. Tonight, he just wants you.

Your eyes are fixed on him for a while before you respond. “Thank you for the apology,” you say. “You’re right. You can be a dick sometimes. But I think that shows you how intentionally I choose to be around you,” you say.

If you knew the truth, he imagines you poking fun at him for saying you were the one with fucked up relationships. You’d call him a hypocrite if he ever gave you the chance to.

“Let’s go to bed.” The words are clipped. You don’t look at him. “You’ve had a long day.”

“You’re gonna let me stay?” There’s hope in his voice when there shouldn’t be. You should turn him out, send him back into the rain; he deserves it more than the comfort of your bed.

You give him a look. “People usually say the worst stuff when they need someone the most,” you say. “Something you learn when you’re used to fucked up relationships.” You stand up and offer out your hand for him.

He follows as you lead him into your darkened bedroom. Sheets are rustled and tossed back. His stomach twists at the display of your rush to his aid. There’s so much more out in the world for you, even if he wants to sink into you until there’s no more him left.

Before you, he’d grown comfortable in harshness. The darkness didn’t feel unique because it was everything he had for years. And then there was you.

He’s going to know what life without you is like. But not getting to see you sat at your kitchen table, grinning at him sleepily over a cup of coffee in the morning is better than never seeing you again because someone got their filthy hands on you.

You guide him towards your bed. One last night to lie next to you and share your body heat.

Jason shrugs off his leather jacket. He misses the soft rustling of it hitting the floor; his eyes are fixed to the sight of your skin as you get into bed. The yellowish glow of city light slips in through a crack in your curtains.

The sheets rustle as you climb in. Jason still stands at the bedside for a minute more. You won’t look at him, and he’s glad. Goodbyes he’s not yet ready to say are written all over his face.

After a beat, your eyes do seek him out in the darkness. The sheets are pulled up to your chin, and Jason is trying to remember it all, even if he can tell you’re still upset.

The bed shifts with his weight as he lays down beside you. You face him. He doesn’t look away. He shifts a little closer, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulls you to his chest. If he were a better man, he would apologize right now. A real one. But if he means it too much, you’ll never believe him in the morning. He can’t afford to not be convincing.

Jason holds you. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and shuts his eyes. More than anything, he wishes he could enjoy this moment.

In another life, he wonders if maybe this is how things are all the time with you. He can hold you without worrying about what dangers he’s putting you in. Guilt might not gnaw at him. Jason curses him even if he doesn’t even exist because who else can he blame? Fuck that guy. Fuck his happiness.

You fall asleep in his arms. He feels like he’s taking advantage of your trust by even holding you right now, but he can’t will himself to let you go. He has hours left of this, and he can’t imagine wasting those moments by sleeping on the far side of the bed.

You have a strange dream, the kind that fades from memory the more you try to chase them.

In the shadows of what you remember, you see a red helmet, one like your dangerous friend wears. You found it laying on the ground in an alley. You searched out in the darkness for a face—his face—only to realize you were all alone, standing in a green mist.

Weeks had passed since your masked friend picked the lock to your apartment so you could get inside. Weeks since he’d sat on your fire escape only to never be seen again, but for some reason, he’s visited you in your dreams.

Your dream dissolves, but fresh worry blooms in your chest as you look at the empty spot on the other side of the bed where Jason had been only hours earlier. His words come back to you.

He was grieving something last night. Thinking of the loss in his voice leaves a chalky, bitter taste in your mouth. Instinctively, your hand smooths over the rumpled sheets where he’d been when you fell asleep. They’re cold.

Sunlight spills through the crack in your curtains. A rarity for Gotham. Last night’s downpour has been reduced to puddles in the dips of the sidewalk. You naively choose to believe that maybe this brand new morning has changed things. The finality in the air last night has been swept away like a shadow by the brightness of the day.

Even if it ends up hurting your feelings, you hold onto this hope like a wilting flower. It gets you out of bed.

The smell of something sweet fills the air as you poke your head out of your bedroom. Jason stands at your stove. His broad shoulders curl over a skillet, spatula in hand. Dark curls stick up in every direction. His t-shirt from last night is rumpled with fitful sleep. He looks up from the pan, his eyes straying on you as you approach.

“Smells good,” you say, stepping out.

“I made coffee,” he says, nudging his chin to the percolator on your counter top.

He carries his sleep deprivation well; you’ve heard about the sleepless nights he spent in Europe while he was traveling. You know some nights he stays up late with his friends you’ve never met. They’re a bad influence, he told you once. You asked him if he thought he was a good influence.

You kiss his shoulder as you walk by, your hand ghosting over his tattooed bicep. “Thank you, honey,” you say, still trying to get a handle on the situation. Still clinging to hope that this is a new day.

Except you see Jason tense out of the corner of your eye.

Instantaneously, your mouth goes dry. Today might be a new day, but nothing has changed. There’s still tension in the air. Jason’s mind is elsewhere, and wherever that is, you don’t seem entirely welcome.

Your body feels rigid as you try to pour your coffee, playing pretend like nothing’s wrong.

You like Jason; woozy, youthful joy swells in your chest when he holds you. He keeps you warm from all manner of coldness Gotham offers. Being around him is secure, safe in a way that goes just beyond the fact no one even gives you a second look when you’re next to him.

It feels like the day you met, but far worse. Because being pushed away some tattoo artist is one thing, but that’s not Jason anymore. He’s not just some guy who gave you a tattoo. You’ve spent more nights with him the past month than without him. He came to you sobbing last night because he needed someone, and you answered the call. So what changed?

Cup of coffee in hand, you sit at the small kitchen table pushed up against your wall. You watch him as he cooks; his mossy eyes are always decidedly fixed down.

Your finger traces along the deep divot in the table. Sunlight spills across the scarred wood; you can’t help but feel like you’re being mocked. Miraculous sunlight in Gotham at the moment where the light feels like it’s being sucked out of the room.

A few minutes later, Jason brings a plate of pancakes, a bowl of diced strawberries, and syrup to the table, setting them down in front of you. You’ve always believed Jason makes food in place of the things he’s never told you. You wonder what unspoken words your breakfast is supposed to represent.

“Looks great,” you say. Your forced cheerfulness sounds like exactly that, but Jason doesn’t make any indication that he noticed. He acknowledges you as he takes the seat on the opposite side of your table.

You stare at the plate in front of you, forcing yourself to eat even though your appetite has dissipated. It gives you something to do. Without a task, you’d just sit there, trying to figure out what went wrong.

There’s silence. Sunshine doesn’t fill the void the way Gotham’s rain does. The tension makes the pancakes less sweet. Or at least you imagine it would, but you haven’t actually tasted a single bite.

More than anything, you want to ask about last night.

Jason’s bloodshot eyes, the desperation with which he held you, is stuck to you in a way you don’t know you can brush away. Jason, who keeps himself so well guarded behind the walls he built up, was exposed last night. You saw something in him, something you’d never seen before, and wanted so badly to understand it.

You want to say something, but you don’t know how without maybe making things worse. Don’t want to dig up skeletons any more than he’s admitted he already has.

The truth is you do know so little about Jason’s past. Any number of things could have sent him to your door last night. You’d been so exhausted, you hadn’t even thought to question how he’d gotten inside. You content yourself to thinking he’d followed in after someone.

“I think we should call it,” Jason says. He doesn’t even look up from his untouched food.

You look up from your pancakes, red strawberry juice smeared all along your plate. “Call what?” you ask. You know exactly what he’s saying, but you’re hoping your willful ignorance will maybe somehow change his mind.

“This.”

This. The undefined thing going on between the two of you for the past four months. The thing that has made home feel like home again. Someone who gave a little more sense to the Gotham you’d once known so well that had been destroyed, uprooted, just when your life was.

You feel your jaw muscles tense, your teeth clenching together to try to lessen the emotional blow. It doesn’t work—you knew it wouldn’t—but you figured you would try. “Is this about last night?” you ask.

“No.” His response is quick. If your head wasn’t reeling, you would maybe pick up on how rushed it really was, but you don’t.

You’re silent, waiting for an explanation you know isn’t coming. So you do what you know to do; you grasp at straws, hoping maybe you can fix this. Hoping maybe there’s a problem you can solved that will keep Jason here.

“Okay, then what’s it about?” you ask.

The kitchen chair creaks as Jason leans back. His skin is golden with the light crossing over your table. You see the rosemary and lilies on his arm and think of his work permanently etched into your body.

You will carry a piece of him with you forever, no matter where either of you goes.

“It’s not about anything. This wasn’t supposed to be serious.”

“I deserve more than that.” The words are clipped and harsh. More than you really mean them to be, but you’re still trying to make sense of all of this.

Things had been good. Really good. You laughed with him and relished every time you heard his clandestine laughter in return. He comes over when you’ve had a rough day and are fed up from work. You’ve cried in front of him, and while you’re sure saying he was happy to do it is a stretch, he did it without complaint. There may not have been a label on what you have together, but Jason is right; you don’t feel casual.

You love him.

The realization crawls up your throat like bile, like you might say the words at the absolute wrong time and make everything worse.

“Fine.” He looks up at you, his face hardened in a way you don’t recognize. His eyes are hardened. Not guarded like when he wouldn’t talk to you during your first appointment; they’re cold. He’s never looked at you like that before. “I’m sick of this shit. The monotony. You don’t want to live the same goddamn day over and over again.”

You stiffen. Somewhere a few blocks away, a siren wails. His gaze doesn’t waver. You’ve never wished for him to look away so badly. Under his gaze, you feel trapped. Uneasiness creeps up your spine.

For some reason, your first date comes to mind. You think of Jason at the arcade machine, the way he’d held the plastic gun so steadily.

“So why’d you come here last night then?” You struggle to keep your voice steady, but now feels like the wrong time to show any weakness.

Once, you thought Jason looked at you like a prey animal. In the tattoo shop, when he first came out thirty-five minutes late,he stared you down like he was trying to making sure you weren’t going to run in the direction. But even then, he was studying you more than anything, a habit of his you’d grown to recognize.

This is something else entirely.

“Because I’m a lonely, fucked up guy. Is that what you want to here? The warmth of your bed was better than none at all.”

Anger and agony stir in your chest. Muscles taught, jaw hardened. You can’t even stand to look at him for a minute. “So, what? We’re just done? We’re broken up?”

“We’re not broken up because we were never together,” Jason snaps.

Another silence settles between the two of you, this one charged.

“I guess that makes things more simple,” you reply, your voice low. You feel your face burning. What had you been thinking? You knew from the start he was bad news. You’d known it, and you ignored every sign anyway.

Silence settles between the two of you again. Jason doesn’t look up at you, but you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

God, you should have seen this coming, and yet it still doesn’t make sense. Things were good. Things were working. Until they weren’t. Until you ended up here. Now you’re at a total loss for words.

“Alright,” you say when he doesn’t speak. “Well, thanks for breakfast.” There’s no point in hiding the bitterness in your voice. What do you have to lose, right? He wants nothing to do with you, and you’ve just wasted months of your life stupidly, childishly believing that this was something that could actually work.

Jason doesn’t move right away. His dark brows are knitted close, but it doesn’t quite look like anger. The scar running through the brow makes him look more severe. You can’t imagine what kind of harsh truths he’s withholding. But you can’t look away. You think about running your fingers through his hair. You think about tracing the ink on his skin. You think about how empty your lunchtime will feel now because you’re not going to be swinging by the shop, a bag of takeout in hand.

This whole time, you’d just been a phase to him. Just another passing name he would forget in a month when he meets someone new. Someone better. Someone less acquainted with fucked up relationships, maybe. The point being, they aren’t going to be you.

And why should it matter so much? What’s four months? You barely know each other, right? Besides all of the times he listened to you spill your guts and probably kept waiting anxiously for you to shut up. All the while, you had managed to convince yourself this was actually going to be anything. You were mortified.

“I think your jacket is still in the bedroom,” you add pointedly as he keeps staring at you. Hopefully he’ll get the hint because you don’t think you have it in you to actually tell him to leave.

He stands, the chair sliding against the wooden floors of your apartment. Silently, he walks to the other room. It takes a few minutes for him to come back out. You’re so busy trying to make sense of all of this, you don’t notice.

When he reemerges, jacket in hand, Jason lingers by the front door. His eyes are fixed to the floor before he finally looks up at you.

“Bye,” he says.

Not see you later because he won’t. He doesn’t plan to. He’s done with you.

His eyes linger on you. He looks sad; you’ve gone and made him feel guilty because you thought you had more of a place in your life than you really did.

“Bye,” you say back, your voice rough.

Not it’s been nice knowing you because you can’t bring yourself to say the words. Not I think meeting you changed my life because you don’t have the right to that claim.

Jason doesn’t look back as he closes the door behind him.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider giving this a reblog 💛

the only way to win at chess ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)👌

I present: Topaz being jealous because she thinks that numby likes ratio but numby is actually just an aventio fan

「scowls to smiles」 : ̗̀➛ you drive them crazier in love...

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ sfw, gn reader (mentions of makeup [kyle]), unedited, mdni !!

john price

"you're definitely the only person i would do this for..."

john grumbles, his arms crossed and his body slumped in the seat. you roll your eyes at him, snatching the remote next to him from behind the couch to change the television channel. the boisterous cheers get cut off, switching from your boyfriend's weekly football channel to the horror documentaries you oh-so love. you walk around to slide next to john, leaning into the arm he reaches out to you. it wraps around you out of instinct, pulling you in closer.

"you promised me we could watch tonight's episode," you remind him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "besides, you know kyle's recording it for you tomorrow.."

a deep sigh (closer to a groan, really) escapes his lips, knowing garrick and the other two are out together watching the game at their local pub. still, he settles in, pressing a kiss to your temple, trying to ignore the spam of texts he's getting from the others about who scored what.

simon riley

the bedframe creaks aggressively at the way you're shaking simon's burly body, echoing throughout your shared loft. he's usually so good at waking up without a second thought back at base -- his body sensing the slightest movement meters away. but now? now his body's facing away from you, snoring loudly, almost as if he's mocking you.

oh, bring it on.

you are so going to get noise complaints for the wrong ideas, but you don't care at the moment. you're wide awake, and he's not.

it's so pretty outside, you nearly fell out of bed once you saw the slightest bit of golden light peeking into the room, glowing on the walls. looking past the curtains, the sky is painted in soft lavenders and ceruleans -- the sun just barely peeping out from behind the layers of old buildings.

"simon- wake up!! the sunrise is so pretty today, and the whole city's all pretty and there's no people out and its nice 'n cool so we can go out and get coffee and tea and breakfast-!!"

you yelp as he rolls over, nearly knocking you back. he's now laying on his back, eyes still shut, hair poking out and around in tufts, one big hand lazily grasping onto yours.

"y'know what else is pretty, love? sleep."

he tugs you slightly towards him, you legs knocking into the mattress. you let out a loud huff.

"no way, si'. i want a cute morning date with you, and if you're not up in the next 5 seconds i'm so going by mysel-"

a loud groan interrupts you, the bear of a man beneath you slowly rising to sit, rubbing at his eyes before sending a teasing glare your way.

"go grab my hoodie."

kyle garrick

kyle wakes up with a groan, stretching his stiff limbs out from the couch. the sun was still beaming through the cracks of the shades, illuminating the living room. he remembers falling asleep while waiting for you to finish your digital meeting in the other room, your muffled voice luring him into sleep. swinging his legs over the cushion to stand, he lets out a satisfied hum as his knees pop, before heading to the bathroom.

just before he could make it to the toilet, his head snaps back to the mirror. your giggles echo from behind kyle, as he tiredly rubs a hand down his face.

his perfectly contoured, flushed, powder-set face.

"really, love?"

"i dunno, kyle, this is a reallllly good look on you..."

you peek over his shoulder, a wide grin stretching your face. his eyes (outlined and enamored in glittery eyeshadow, keep in mind) glared at you through the mirror, letting out a deep sigh as you walk past him to take out the hidden cosmetics from the cabinet, showing them off to him. you rambled about how hard to was to find his exact shade so you bought 5 different foundations just in case (with his money...), that he kept twitching his eyes and messing up the eyeliner, how he almost woke up because the tutorial video blasted an ad midway through-

"you're so annoying, good god... i love you so much, c'mere-"

he was quick to turn around and cup your face with both hands, cutting off your squeals with a sticky kiss. one on the mouth, then the apples of your cheeks, then your chin, until your entire face was covered in cherry red silhouettes of his lips.

you wore his marks with beaming pride for the rest of the day.

john mactavish

johnny comes out of the kitchen with his eyebrows knit together and a frown creasing his lips. he swore up and down he saw it in the cabinets last, maybe it was in his bag? the bedroom? hell, he even checked the pockets of his jeans sitting in the laundry.

he rounds the corner of the hallway to where you were. you probably knew best, always the one to reorganize the shelves and put away the groceries. he grins as he sees you, lazing on the couch, watching the television,

"birdie, where's mah-"

and apparently snacking on the chocolate bar he's been searching for.

"...chocolate."

you two stare at each other, the voiceover from the luminous screen taking up the silence. johnny watches you chew very slowly, as if he wouldn't notice so long as you did it carefully enough. you look so cute like this, he thinks, looking up at him so innocently, seeming so happy with your treat. a perfectly disguised criminal he would've dismissed without a second thought. with an agonizingly slow swallow, you cleared your throat before speaking up,

"sorry, babe.."

oh, how could he ever be mad at you?

he lets out an amused huff, pushing himself off the wall to walk over to you. expecting some sort of punishment, you squeeze your eyes shut.

instead, you feel a firm kiss press on your chocolate-stained lips. with a surprised gasp, you invite him in to prod his tongue past your teeth. and after an awfully messy few seconds, he peels back, a satisfied smirk on his lips. another peck is delivered to your lips, before he settles into the couch beside you.

you may be a wanted criminal, but he's already had his heart stolen by you. and he's too damn smitten to turn you in.

@ tacticoal do not repost !!