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“And I would like to remind all of you that dinner with Diana and the girls is in two days. I expect all of you to be there and on your best behavior”
That was all Bruce had said on Tuesday night, the low growl of the Batcomputer humming beneath his voice. Behave. And even though he was looking at Dick, the growl was more intended towards Jason. The way his voice lingered when he mentioned ‘the girls’ all stern with a cough that was stuck to the depths of his throat– Jason would be an idiot not to catch it.
Jason had only lifted an eyebrow, slouched back in the chair with his boots crossed at the ankles, arms folded like he was posing for the cover of “I Don’t Give a Damn Weekly.”
“Yeah, sure thing, B,” he’d muttered, half under his breath, but loud enough for the growl to shift a decibel deeper, while Dick had only nodded.
Now it’s Thursday night, and that reminder has aged like spoiled milk.
Jason could already imagine it—polished marble floors, Diana’s patient, diplomatic smile, Donna cracking jokes to keep the peace, Cass pretending not to laugh, and Bruce sitting at the head of the table like he was running a board meeting instead of a family dinner. Dick would show up five minutes early with a bottle of wine he didn’t even drink. Tim would have brushed up on Themysciran customs just to avoid offending anyone. Damian would probably arrive in full formalwear like the miniature assassin he was.
Bruce is tense like he has taken a punch, thirty minutes before Diana’s expected arrival and the rest of the boys, already present by the time Jason gets there, look as concerned as him.
No questions are asked, not even if Artemis would be there, if you would be there, or if both of you would be there at the same time– a disaster, truly, but with Alfred’s playful banter and everyone helping with setting up the dining table, the weird tension in Jason’s chest mellows down for a soothing second too long.
It’s half past nine when the doorbell rings and the second it does Bruce starts acting like a mess again. Any composure he had gathered a while ago is thrown into thin air and the only confirmation Jason needs for that is his gaze that’s set directly on him
“Behave.”
He hadn’t even needed to look at Jason for a moment longer—just that single word, heavy and pointed, rolling off his tongue like a warning shot. Still, when Bruce’s eyes flicked toward Dick, all calm and composed, Jason caught the shift. The kind that said you especially.
And well, truthfully, if you’d ask him by the end of the night Jason would say he did try his very best to behave and if there’s a reason as to why he’s acting the way he is now, the blame is all yours.
Diana and the girls are visibly upset when Alfred opens the door, yet still they’re all grace and composure in their greetings, while they’re waiting for you to catch up with them to enter the manor. You seem too preoccupied with juggling your bag, your phone, and a bottle of wine you’d promised to bring.
“Hello Alfred” you say, bluntly, no expression on your face as you stand hidden behind Diana.
“Well long time no see dear”
“We’re terribly sorry we’re late Bruce. But we were stalled by a lash extension appointment” Diana says gently, though there is something almost regal in the way she adjusts the tray with goodies in her arms. “A warrior never rushes to the battlefield unprepared it seems.”
“Right,” you mumble, dabbing at the wine with a napkin. “Next time I’ll bring a sword instead.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut glass. Bruce buries his face in his palms and mutters that “it’s alright”
Jason swears he isn’t laughing. Not out loud, anyway.
But the slight arch of Diana’s brow, the subtle look exchanged between Donna and Cassie—yeah, that is when the whole night starts going off-script.
You stand there in the doorway like you’ve just walked off the wrong movie set — perfume sharp enough to make Bruce blink, your heels clicking against the marble as you finally step into the manor. The coat you’re wearing is half-slid off one shoulder, your lip gloss catching every drop of light in the foyer. The dress you’re wearing, black, skin tight and short, turtleneck but arms out makes Jason gulp. You look like trouble dressed as —very questionably— good manners.
Jason catches the way Bruce’s jaw tightens. The way Dick shifts uncomfortably beside him, like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion and can’t look away.
Diana greets Alfred again, her voice soft but clipped — that tone she uses when she’s balancing diplomacy and disappointment. “I hope what you made hasn’t grown cold. We weren’t informed about how late we’d be either” she tells him, but she’s looking directly at you.
You just smile, small and defiant. “Didn’t want to track mud on your battlefield.”
There it is again— that crack in the air, that beat of silence where everyone pretends not to react. Alfred clears his throat. Tim coughs into his sleeve.
Jason’s biting the inside of his cheek just to keep from grinning.
You glance past the room, eyes skimming over everyone without lingering. Not even a flicker of recognition when they land on Jason. Not a hello, not a smirk, not even that teasing spark you used to have when you saw him —just blank, plain right indifference as you hand the bottle of wine to Alfred with a careless, “It’s Merlot. Don’t spill it, it stains.”
“Of course, miss,” Alfred replies smoothly, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes that only Jason catches.
Diana’s patience thins by the second, her smile all grace, her eyes all azul steel. “Perhaps you’d like to join us in the dining room now?”
You shrug, finally tucking your phone into your bag. “Sure. I’m starving.”
And that’s how you walk in — chin high, hip cocked, completely unbothered —while Bruce looks like he’s aged five years in thirty seconds and Diana’s aura of divine calm starts to crack just a little around the edges.
Jason watches it all unfold, hands shoved in his pockets, heart doing that stupid thing where it beats too fast for no reason. He tells himself it’s just the tension in the room, but it’s not. It’s you.
Because somehow, in a room full of gods and heroes, you’re the only one who looks untouchable, changed.
Dinner is the kind of formal that only Bruce can host—crystal glasses, polished silver, a centerpiece that looks like it costs more than Jason’s bike. Everyone’s sitting in their assigned civility, pretending this isn’t already a disaster waiting to happen.
You take the seat Diana gestures toward, right across from Jason. Perfect. Of course it’s across from Jason.
He’s in his usual black crewneck shirt, sleeves rolled, trying way too hard to look relaxed. You don’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance as you drink some of your wine.
“Jason,” Diana says pleasantly, “I heard you’ve been keeping busy with the Outlaws.”
Great. Maybe downing the whole glass is going to taste better than the thought of that.
“Something like that,” he answers, but his eyes are already on you. You’re pretending to scroll through your phone under the table, your glossed nails tapping idly on the screen.
“Phones away, please,” Diana adds without looking at you.
You give a slow, sarcastic but syrupy smile. “Oh, sorry. Force of habit. I usually get bored faster.”
That earns a cough from Dick that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Bruce sends him a look sharp enough to wound.
Diana breathes through her nose, serene as a saint. “We value presence here,” she says, tone gentle but carrying the weight of an Amazonian blade.
“Right,” you reply, folding your hands neatly, still not looking at Jason. “Wouldn’t want to disrespect the battlefield.”
Jason nearly chokes on his drink. You don’t look up.
Alfred intervenes, ever the savior. “Miss, would you care for more wine?”
“Please. It’s the only way I’ll behave.”
That line lands like a live grenade. Bruce stares down at his plate. Cassie hides a smile. Diana’s lips tighten.
Jason’s staring at you now, openly, trying to read what’s underneath the act—whether you’re just being difficult or if this is about him. Probably both. You can feel it, his gaze; it prickles against your skin like static. But you keep your chin high, voice light, eyes fixed anywhere but him.
You swirl the last of your second glass of wine in seconds, eyes unfocused, the soft chatter around the table barely reaching you. Alfred is saying something polite about the roast; Dick laughs too loud at something Tim mutters under his breath. Everything sounds muffled, like you’re underwater.
And then Diana sets her glass down.
The crystal barely touches the table, but the silence that follows is deafening.
“So, Bruce,” she begins, voice steady but pulsing with restrained fury, “how exactly did Lex Luthor obtain your anti-superpower injectables, and why did he target my sister specifically?”
Jason’s hand stills halfway to his mouth.
Bruce doesn’t flinch, but something sharp flickers in his eyes. “We’re still tracing the breach,” he says evenly. “Nothing leaves the cave without my authorization.”
Diana leans forward, that Amazonian calm starting to splinter. “Then explain how she ended up in a hospital bed two weeks ago with your tech in her bloodstream.”
You feel the air in the room thicken, every eye sliding toward you.
You smile —that glossy, careless, wrong kind of smile. Lips pressed together in a thin line, tucked tightly underneath your teeth. You look at Alfred with absolute plea in your eyes for more alcohol before speaking “Oh, we’re doing this now?”
“Enough,” Diana warns quietly. “You should rest, not play dress-up and pour wine like nothing happened.”
“I’m fine,” you say, your tone flat, brittle around the edges. “You don’t need to keep telling people I almost died. It’s getting old.”
Diana’s voice lowers, almost trembling with control. “You lost your powers.”
You laugh, too loud. “And? Maybe I want a vacation from divine expectations and saving the world”
That’s when Jason looks up. His gaze catches yours. Hard, searching, a little haunted.
You meet it for half a second, then look right past him, the way someone does when they’ve memorized a face too well to trust themselves with it.
Bruce exhales, rubbing his temples. “Let’s not do this here.”
Diana doesn’t move. “No, Bruce. Let’s. Because my sister was targeted because of your weaponized paranoia against the league—”
“Because of Luthor,” Bruce cuts in sharply. “And because she made herself visible when she shouldn’t have.”
The table jolts. You set your glass down, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me? I made myself visible while tracking down a whole ass human trafficking gang between him and Penguin? With Jason?”
Jason mutters under his breath, “Shit.”
Diana turns to Bruce, horrified. “Don’t you dare blame her for your mistakes.” But Bruce doesn’t answer. The silence that follows feels nuclear.
You push your chair back with a scrape of wood. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to come.”
Diana stands too. “You can’t keep running from accountability.”
“And you can’t keep running my life!”
The words hit the room like a slap.
You grab your coat, ignoring the stunned faces of Donna, Cassie and the boys, and walk out of the dining room— head high, eyes stinging, your throat burns with a lump that’s stuck inside it, pumping white hot pain every time you take a breath.
Jason’s up a second later, mumbling something about “getting air” but everyone knows he’s going after you.
Bruce doesn’t stop him and even gestures to a half standing Dick to sit down. He just looks tired— like he’s seen this exact kind of disaster before. Like He's been expecting this exact moment all night long. Even if he’s never been responsible for a slip up like this. Even if he was the one who allowed you and Jason to work together on this case almost a month ago.
___
Outside, Jason finds you on the balcony, the night pressing close, your breath fogging the air. You don’t turn when you hear him, but you know it’s him —you can feel that quiet weight of his stare everywhere, heavy as regret. Jason has a way of filling a space even when he doesn’t speak.
The night air bites against your skin, sharp enough to sober you. You press your palms to the cold railing, staring down at the glittering sprawl of Gotham on the far edge. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades.
The door closes behind you, hinges whispering. For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches thin. Then,
“You didn’t tell me you lost your powers. I thought you dropped the case”
“Why would I tell you anything?” You hiss “I have other people to parent me”
“Diana’s just worried,” he finally mutters, voice rough. “She doesn’t know how else to show it.”
You snort. “Yeah, well, she can show it without trying to parent me in front of a dinner table full of bats.”
“She’s not wrong, though,” he says quietly. “You should be mad at Bruce, you shouldn’t even be standing out here, not after—”
“After I got lucky?” You glance back at him, lip gloss catching the light. “You don’t get to lecture me. Not when you lied to me about Artemis..”
That lands. He looks away, jaw flexing. “That wasn’t—she and I were done before—”
“Before I woke up in a med bay without powers? Sure. Such convenient timing.”
You turn back to the view of the garden. The wind lifts your hair, carrying the faint smell of smoke and winter.
He takes a step closer; you can feel the heat of him on your shoulder. “You’re angry. I get it. But acting like you don’t give a damn about anyone isn’t helping you or them.”
You laugh softly, bitter. “Says the king of pretending not to care.”
He exhales through his nose, defeated. “Yeah. I’m not exactly the guy who should be giving advice.”
The quiet returns. Just the hum of Gotham in the background and the ache of things neither of you know how to say.
Jason’s voice drops lower. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t come out here to fight.”
“Then why did you?” you ask without turning.
“Because you looked like you were about to disappear,” he says. “And I’ve seen enough people do that.”
Something in you stirs—an old warmth, or maybe a bruise that never healed. You tighten your grip on the railing. “Don’t worry. I’m not running off to die dramatically. That’s your thing.”
Your words sting; a meticulous weave to weaponise anything against him. What hurts him the most, used against him. There’s shame streaming inside your whole body when you mouth them. Immediate regret.
Jason almost laughs, then doesn’t. “Yeah, well. Guess we both have bad habits.”
You finally look at him, the city lights flickering across his face. There’s exhaustion there, and guilt, and something else—something that used to be yours to read.
For a second, you let the silence hold the both of you. Then you say, softer, “You should go back inside. Bruce probably thinks we’re breaking the no-violence rule.”
Jason shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue. He just leans beside you on the railing, close enough that his sleeve and your shoulder brush. Neither of you speak for a second, but the atmosphere between you feels suffocating, heavier than words could describe.
Then, he breaks the silence “If you’re mad about Artemis I should be mad about Dick”
As if, he has a right to be mad about who you dated while mourning him. While he was dead.
You look at him and then, bitterly, you look away. “Then I should be mad about both you and him confessing to Barbara and abandoning me for her?”
Jason flinches, a quick, involuntary jerk of his head. The name Barbara hangs in the air, sharp and painful. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of panic. “I—”
“Save it.” The words peel off your tongue, thick with acid. You turn, and your eyes aren't just angry anymore—they’re glowing with a searing, white-hot envy that feels corrosive. “I'm not going to be your second to last choice. I’m not your rebound when the better Amazonian warrior leaves, or the safe distraction when the original Batgirl won't choose you.”
“But you're not, i—“
“And I'm not gonna help finish the Penguin and Lex mission. You're on your own”
The wind carries your final words away, leaving a vacuumed hollowness where the tension had been. It isn't a threat, just a flat statement of fact. You are done. Done with the mission, done with the dinner, and done being a secondary consideration in the messy, complicated world of Jason Todd.
Jason doesn't flinch, but the faint light of the city catches the moment his expression fractures. The small, guarded defenses he's put up—the rough voice, the casual lean against the railing—collapse. He knows what it’s like to be powerless, rejected, humiliated. He is very well acquainted with the horrendously green ogre of jealousy. He has come second to last before, hell, he has even come last. And he’s the reason you feel that way now.
Jason hates himself in more ways than you can think of.
He should shut up. Let you go. Rethink of any choice he’s taken that’s condemned you cold and disheartened. But it’s you.
You who he met in the Tower all those years ago when Bruce saw fit Robin accompanied him to a meeting with the league, both looking like fish out of water, even if you surpassed him by two years of age. You who feared Superman just as much as he did. You who let him hide behind your body when the big ‘S’ came to meet you. When he first noticed your bangles were too big for your arms, while his suit fit him perfectly.
A troubled child turned into a soldier. Just like him.
He should shut up. But he simply can't.
“Don’t say that,” he says, his voice dropping from a rough murmur to something quiet and raw, barely loud enough to carry over the city hum. He straightens, turning to face you fully. “You can be mad at me. You should be mad at me. But you can’t walk away from the case because of this, not after what we saw. They’re trafficking. I can’t do this alone”
This time, in his eyes, it’s your first time in the cave and you’re even more scared than you were when meeting Superman. For a kid, your facade of bravery makes you look like an adult.
“Then your little girlfriends should help you”
You meet his gaze, and for the first time since you walk into the manor, the indifference is gone. Only hurt and simmering anger remain. Jason knows what jealousy is— an obsessive notion of care, love. But it’s still you. To let you walk away now, so broken, would be a second death— a final, self-inflicted execution of the best part of a self of his that died once already. That terrified, armored kid he met in the Tower? He’d promised himself he’d always have her six like she did for him. And he shouldn’t be using the mission as a reason to keep you in his life.
“The mission is what gets me stuck here, Jason. It’s what Luthor uses to put a target on my back and it’s what allows Bruce to watch while Diana and my sisters tear me down. I’m not playing Batfamily field agent anymore, especially when I’m just the collateral damage. No one cares about the forgotten Wonder Girl.”
“You’re not collateral damage,” he insists, taking a step closer. His hand lifts, a hesitant, familiar movement, but he drops it before he can touch your arm. He looks so visibly upset “You’re the one who finds the warehouse. You’re the one who gets me the intel on the smuggling routes. We catch them together. If you walk away now, they get off clean. Is that what you want?”
“I want a break from this life,” you retort, your chin lifting stubbornly. “I’m de-powered, Jason. I’m a liability now, not an asset. You don’t need me; you have Dick and Tim and Damian, and Bruce will step in. He always does.”
He laughs, a single, harsh sound devoid of humor. “I don’t want them. I want you.”
The words hang between you—simple, heavy, and too late.
“Well, you should have thought about that before you, what was it, confess your undying love to Barbara?” you shoot back, the bitterness sharp in your tone. “Or before Dick decides to join in. I hear the whole thing. Do you really think I don’t know? You all treat me like an emotional pit stop, somewhere you stop when the main road is closed.”
Jason runs a hand over his jaw, the sound of the stubble rough under his palm. “It’s a mistake. A massive, stupid, cowardly mistake to not just be honest with you. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you. It’s… I’m trying to avoid this exact conversation. Because I know if I say it out loud, I lose you.”
He is looking at you with that open, unguarded intensity that has always been your undoing.
“You’ve already lost me,” you say quietly, your voice cracking only slightly as you turn back to the cityscape. “And you lost the Artemis you loved so much. Right? You try to hedge your bets and end up with nothing. Now I need to figure out how to live a normal life with an Amazonian mom and a god complex sister watching my every move.”
Jason sighs, the sound heavy and tired. He doesn’t try to argue about Artemis, or about Dick, or about Barbara—not anymore.
“Okay,” he finally concedes, his voice barely a breath. “Fine. You want a break? Take it. I’ll finish the case myself. But I’m not going back inside while you’re out here. And I’m not letting you walk out of my life because I mess up. Not when you need me.”
“I don’t need you,” you whisper, but the lie feels flimsy, like spun sugar in the cold air. “I never needed you”
Lies—you needed him every time Diana would get mad at you. When her anger would turn into silence, he was always one phone call away. You needed him to convince Bruce to tell Diana that you should study at Gotham Academy. You needed him on your first day of the last class of middle school. You needed his help with math. You needed him more times than you’ll ever admit.
He moves again, one last step, until he is right behind you. His presence is a solid, undeniable heat against your back. He doesn’t touch you, but the closeness is an invasion.
“Don’t push me away,” he pleads, the low, gravelly sound a ghost of the growl you hear from Bruce earlier. This one is different, though—it’s all need and very little threat. “I’m sorry, goddammit. I’m sorry I’m a selfish idiot. I’m sorry I put my foot down on this case and get you hurt. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings and I’m sorry about Artemis. But right now, you’re in a wonderbat intervention with no powers, talking about abandoning your life’s work. You can be mad at me, but you can’t be reckless.”
“I wanna leave”
He pauses, letting the silence hang.
“Let me take you home. Or at least somewhere warm. We can figure the rest out tomorrow. Just… let’s get you warm. Please.”
“No Jason,” you say, turning sharply, the chill air catching the skin of your biceps, making you wrap your arms around yourself.
You don't get far. His hand flashes out, his grip firm on your forearm—not hurting you, but absolutely stopping you. The heat of his fingers is a shocking contrast to the cold air and your exposed skin.
You whirl back around, your eyes blazing with the same furious defiance you showed Diana inside. “Let go of me.”
His jaw is set, his eyes dark and unwavering. “I told you, I’m not letting you walk out there alone right now.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore!” you hiss, pulling against his grip. The black dress is no match for the Gotham wind, and a sudden shiver races through you, which only infuriates you more. You hate that he can still affect you, that he's still right about you needing warmth. “I can take care of myself. I’ve done it before, and I can sure as hell do it now that I don’t have an arrow and a bow breathing down my neck.”
“You are wearing seven-inch heels, you've had too much wine, and you are radiating fury,” Jason counters, his voice low and dangerous, holding an echo of Bruce’s own protective growl. He doesn't budge. “Let me drive you. Or let Alfred call a car. But you are not walking out the front door and into the city while you’re like this.”
You lean in, your voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You think a ride home is going to fix a night where your whole family watches mine fall apart because of our screw-up?”
He releases your arm, the touch replaced by a sudden, heavy pressure of air as he steps even closer. His shadow engulfs you.
“No,” he admits, the word a weary exhale. “I know it won’t fix it. But it stops you from getting arrested for public intoxication or mugged, which would be a colossal pain in the ass to explain to Diana. Just one good decision, okay? Let me make one good decision tonight if you don’t want to do it yourself.”
He looks completely defeated, his earlier defiance gone, leaving behind only raw fatigue and a stubborn concern.
You yank your arm back completely, the lingering heat from his touch a sharp contrast to the biting cold. "Just because i don’t have my powers doesn’t mean I’m useless," you state flatly. "And I'm not calling anyone. Diana and the girls are leaving soon. I’ll wait."
You turn your back on him and head for the main exit, your heels clicking rapidly on the marble. You move past the foyer, bypassing the dining room where the heated fiction of dinner is still playing out, and walk straight toward the front doors.
Jason watches you go, his body frozen in defeat on the balcony. He doesn't move to follow. He can’t. He knows that line—I don’t need you—even if it was a lie, or something you drunkenly said, was the deepest cut. He stares out at the cold, unfeeling Gotham skyline, thinking he could actually burn the entire city down in what remains of tonight to match the ache in his chest.
___
You stand in the echoing expanse of the manor foyer, your exposed arms now, truly feeling the chill of the marble and the night seeping in from the heavy oak doors. Your coat, half-slid off your shoulder, feels more like a burden than a comfort. You focus on the glossy black of the wine stain on the rug where you spilled the Merlot, counting the seconds until you hear the dining room chairs scrape back.
A moment later, the dining room doors open, and Alfred emerges first. He sees you standing there, a defiant, shivering silhouette in a flimsy mini dress, and his expression softens, a flicker of true worry crossing his normally composed features. He carries a small, empty tray and no seemingly anger for the way you spoke to him earlier.
“Miss,” he says quietly, his voice a low hum that won't carry back to the room. “Perhaps a blanket, or a cup of warm tea while you wait?”
“No, Alfred. I’m fine,” you manage, your voice brittle. You hate that he can see the lie in your posture.
He nods, accepting your prideful refusal, but he pauses before retreating. He meets your gaze, and his eyes, so rarely judgmental, hold an unmistakable depth of compassion. “I believe I heard Miss Diana mention that they would require at least a quarter hour. She is still finishing a rather pointed conversation with Master Bruce.”
You simply nod, grateful for the honesty, but the knowledge that they are still inside, picking through the rotting carcass of your failure, makes your skin crawl.
The conversation eventually breaks. First, you hear the low rumble of Bruce’s voice, heavy with exhaustion. Then, the clear, crystalline authority of Diana’s voice, which cuts through the air like a knife.
Then, they appear.
Diana is first, her posture impeccable but her features drawn tight, the regal calm finally shattered. She doesn’t look at you. Donna and Cassie follow, their expressions mirroring a mixture of discomfort and concern. Donna gives you a brief, apologetic glance, while Cassie, ever perceptive, meets your eyes with a flicker of raw understanding before quickly looking away.
Bruce lags slightly behind Diana, looking exactly as Jason had imagined—like he’d aged five years, his tie loosened, his composure hanging by a thread. He meets your eyes, and his gaze is heavy with accusation, the silent affirmation of the disaster you caused.
Diana stops directly in front of you. Her blue eyes finally lock onto yours, not with anger, but with a profound, terrifying disappointment.
“We are leaving,” she states simply. She glances at your exposed arms, the full eyelash extensions, the nails you've manicured to the most extreme length you possibly could and the too-short dress, and puckers her lips. You look all but ready to entirely give up the hero life and commit to just being pretty.
“I will not discuss this here.” She sighs “You will return to Themyscira with us, immediately. This 'break from divine expectations' ends now. I will not have my sister vulnerable in Gotham.”
“I’m not going back,” you reply, your voice a determined whisper, unwilling to break under her stare. “I don’t belong there right now.”
Bruce finally steps forward, his voice a quiet command aimed squarely at Diana. “She can stay here, Diana. She’s just as protected here as she would be in Themiscyra”
Diana turns on him, her control snapping. “You have already proven your protection is worthless, Bruce! Her vulnerability is because of your paranoia, and your weapons!”
The silence that follows is absolute. The front door of the manor feels miles away, and you are trapped between two warring titans.
Bruce’s face is granite, his eyes heavy with the weight of her truth. He opens his mouth, undoubtedly to double down or apologize with the economy of a CEO, but before he can, another voice slices through the brute tension—bright, easy, and completely out of place.
“Hold up. Everyone take a breath.”
Dick emerges from the dining room, moving with the acrobatic grace of someone determined to prevent a diplomatic crisis. He’s all charm and composure –as usual–, though the strain around his eyes shows he’s ready for a fight. He places himself casually between Diana and Bruce, offering Diana a small, genuinely concerned smile.
“Diana, look, you’re right to be upset. Bruce, you’re… well, you’re Bruce. But this isn’t a divorce court on who gets the kid. Plus she’s cold” Dick says, his gaze sweeping quickly over you and your shivering form. He takes in your defiant posture and the cold marble floor. He seems to understand immediately that what you need least is another debate over your short term future.
He turns to you, his eyes gentle but firm. “You look like you’re about to catch a cold. And you’ve had a night, to put it mildly. I’ve got an extra guest room that is definitely not in a cave, and it’s miles away from any Amazonian or Wayne Enterprises boardroom. How about you crash at my place tonight? No questions, no arguments. Just a solid lock on the door and maybe some really bad takeout.”
Diana’s glare doesn't soften, yours does, at the expense of a friend that you trust. “Richard, she is not a child to be babysat. She needs to be secured.”
“She is family, Diana, and she’s not going to feel ‘secure’ in the middle of a war zone,” Dick counters smoothly, glancing pointedly from Bruce's rigid form to Diana’s tense one. “She needs space. A safe, neutral space. My apartment is the definition of neutral.”
Bruce finally speaks, his voice a low, heavy rumble of reluctant agreement. “It’s acceptable. I need to handle the situation with Luthor and the tech breach, and Dick’s apartment is monitored.”
You seize the lifeline immediately. It’s better than being trapped on Themyscira or in the Batcave. “Fine. I’ll go with Dick.”
Dick offers you a look that says, ‘thank you for not making me argue for another hour’. He turns to Diana. “I’ll bring her back to you when she’s calmed down, Diana. You can have your conversation then, in private, where no one else is listening in.” The final shot is subtle, but it's aimed at the core issue: the public dismantling of your dignity.
Diana stares at Dick, then at Bruce, then finally back at you. She knows when she’s been checkmated by bureaucracy and common sense. She gives a clipped, formal nod. “Very well, Richard. But I expect a full report, and she is to remain inside your sight.”
Donna steps forward and gently puts a hand on your arm. “We will call you tomorrow.”
“I liked the lashes by the way” Cassie gives you a small, genuine smile before following Diana out.
Dick immediately turns and holds out his hand to you, his concern shifting from diplomacy to pure practicality. “Alright, let’s get you out of those heels and into the Nightwing mobile!”
You take his hand and a chuckle roams out of your throat. The touch on his skin is simple, a promise of escape. As you let him lead you out, you steal a glance toward the balcony where you last saw Jason. It’s empty.
As the front door closes behind you with a heavy, final thud, two younger voices drift from the hallway connecting the foyer to the den.
“Todd is gonna freak out,” Damian tells Tim.
“Oh yeah,” Tim agrees, already sounding exhausted by the impending drama. “He is absolutely going to freak out.”
“Wait- You support them together too?”
“Do I support her with Jason or Dick?” Tim asks, puzzled.
“Todd obviously”
“Oh yeah yeah, they’re literally made for eachother”
___
Jason is a gargoyle on the cold marble of the balcony, his jaw clenched so tight he feels a dull ache behind his teeth. He hasn't moved since you yanked your arm away and strode back inside. He watches the light of the foyer from the corner of his eye, listening to the muffled, escalating confrontation between Bruce and Diana.
When Dick’s voice cuts through the argument—calm, collected, and impossibly right—a fresh, horrible wave of possessive anger washes over Jason.
Dick, the golden boy. The one who always knows exactly what to say to disarm a god or diffuse a bomb. The one who knows how to make everything right, the one who is calm and collected, the one you dated after his death. Dick Grayson, the epitome of a big brother, who knows how to slip between cracks, steps in to be the savior once again, offering the neutral ground that Jason couldn't.
He watches Dick emerge, moving with that easy confidence, placing himself between the heavyweights. Jason doesn't hear the exact words, but he doesn't need to. He sees the gesture: Dick’s hand reaching out, not to restrain, but to guide.
He sees you take that hand.
The gesture is simple, but it feels like a punch to Jason's gut, twisting the knot of jealousy he already carried into the past into something sharp and new. Dick gets to be the hero, the protector, the temporary, safe sanctuary. Dick gets to take you home.
Safe, neutral space. That’s what Dick calls his apartment. Jason scoffs under his breath. It's a space free from expectations, free from the Batfamily baggage Jason is currently buried under. A space where you can both talk about shared trauma—the kind that brings people like Dick and Barbara and you closer—while Jason is left out here, alone, smelling the failure and cold air.
He watches until you and Dick are just two dark shapes moving toward the front doors.
"I don't want them. I want you," he'd said. It is too late. Dick is the better choice, the easier escape. The one who hasn't been juggling an Amazonian ex, after confessing love to Batgirl, and generally making a mess of your life– twice.
Jason finally pushes off the railing, the friction of the stone a pointless sensation against his ruined nerves. He doesn't go back toward the dining room. He turns and walks to the far end of the balcony, resting his head against the cold glass of the window, unable to watch anymore. The city lights blur into streaks of indifferent color.
He has just given Dick the ultimate victory: the one night where you will be vulnerable, safe, and most importantly, with him. And how can he be sure Dick and you have nothing going on anymore? That there aren’t any lingering feelings from a teenage love that ended just as fast as it begun?
Jason closes his eyes, the memory of your furiously fuming face the last thing he sees. He loses you not because he isn't strong enough or smart enough, but because he is a cowardly idiot who tries to hedge his bets and ends up with nothing.
___
Outside, the air bites sharper than you expect. Gotham’s winter creeps in through the seams of your dress as you follow Dick down the steps, heels clicking against the wet stone. The manor looms behind you, silent, ancient, and heavy with everything unsaid. You don’t look back.
Dick presses the key fob and his car chirps, headlights washing gold across his face. He opens the passenger door for you without comment—other than a side eye because he knows you hate men that do that—just a faint grin that’s meant to be comforting but lands somewhere closer to tired. You slide in, pulling your coat tighter, watching him circle to the driver’s side.
The city unfolds in streaks of sodium light as he drives. Gotham at night feels like it’s always mid-breath; never asleep, never alive. You rest your head against the cold window, eyes tracing the blurred reflection of your face in the glass. The silence stretches until Dick breaks it, soft but steady.
“I’m sure Jason didn’t mean it,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. “Whatever went down upstairs. He’s just…” He exhales through his nose, searching for the word. “Jason.”
You huff a faint, humorless sound. “You don’t even know what he said. And him being himself's not an excuse.”
“Didn’t say it was,” he replies, tone light but edged with something older. “I just need context.”
The car hums, steady. You don’t answer. You don’t want to talk about Jason—not when his shadow still feels like it’s pressed against your ribs.
Dick glances at you once before turning back to the windshield. “But you know,” he says, voice low, “you’re allowed to be the one who walks away for once.”
The words settle like static. You keep your gaze on the glass, on the city lights flickering like heartbeats.
Soon, Gotham’s black and white has been replaced by Blüdhaven’s blue and purple neon on almost every building.
Inside Dick’s small, aggressively cheerful Blüdhaven apartment, the tension finally begins to bleed away.
You are curled up on his couch, wrapped in one of his soft, oversized college hoodies, with a chunky knit blanket pulled up to your chin. Your elaborate dress and ridiculous heels are forgotten in a pile near the door. Dick sits in his favorite armchair, equally casual in sweats.
In an attempt to earn best friend kudos, he makes you a massive mug of tea—Earl Grey with milk and an obscene amount of honey—and puts on some terrible 90s action-comedy that demands exactly zero attention. The only light in the living room comes from the television and the orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. It feels like a sleepover, a decade too late, and you almost forget that outside this apartment, your entire life is in crisis.
He sips his own tea, the steam warming his hands, and watches the TV for another moment, letting the comfortable quiet settle. Then, he presses the mute button on the remote.
“Okayyyy, the silence is officially driving me crazy,” Dick chirps, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze is gentle but direct, his eyes batting with an annoyingly sweet blink-blink-blink, the big brother concern back in full force. “And I know you’re using that terrible movie to avoid the last three hours of your life.”
You exhale slowly, clutching the mug tighter. “It was a very good terrible movie.”
“It was not. It was just loud. Look, I’m not Bruce, and I’m definitely not Diana. I just want to make sure you’re okay, and maybe get a hint of what the hell happened out there on the balcony.” He pauses, then lowers his voice. “What did you say to Jason? Tim messaged me he’s trying to unscrew his whole bike and screw it back together.”
You look down at the swirling surface of your tea, the honey turning the golden liquid cloudy. “I told him the truth.”
“Which truth? The 'I’m de-powered and scared' truth, or the 'I hate being stuck between two dysfunctional hero families' truth?” Dick asks, hoping it’s at least one of the two.
You lift your head, meeting his eyes. The anger is mostly exhausted, leaving behind a deep, aching vulnerability. “The one about me knowing about Barbara.”
Dick winces, leaning back. The casual posture instantly dissolves. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Ah. He told you that?”
“You both did,” you correct, your voice flat. “I heard everything in the cave when I last visited. The kiss, the letter, the shared trauma, the whole ‘I wanted to be better for her’ mess.” You take a shaky breath. “I told him I’m done being the second choice, the emotional pit stop, or the convenient rebound when Artemis leaves or when you two are too scared to commit to Babs. I told him I’m done with the mission. I told him he lost me.”
Dick runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair. He doesn't try to defend himself or Jason; he simply accepts the accusation. A few years ago, he would have acted defensively regarding his stance when it comes to you. Now, when what’s left behind for him and you is friendship, he only says, “That’s… rough.”
“Well i don’t think he cares anyway”
“Don’t say that” Dick says, playfully shoving your side. You barely move when he nudges you, but the corner of your mouth twitches, betraying the tiniest crack in your armor.
“Come on. Don’t say thaaat,” He repeats, quieter this time. “You know he cares. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it.”
You stare at the muted television, where two badly CGI’d helicopters chase each other through an explosion. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem.”
He exhales, settling back in his chair. “Jason’s whole thing is pushing away the people he doesn’t want to lose. It’s his one consistent talent. That and brooding on rooftops.”
“That makes two of you,” you mutter.
He grins faintly. “Touché.” Then, after a beat, “You know, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you were ever a second choice.”
Dick speaks for himself first, then for Jason. Though it hurt once upon a time, he has accepted your tenderness lies with the latter.
You scoff, half a laugh, half a defense. “Please. You all orbit Barbara like she’s the North Star. I’m just… what? A temporary moon?”
“More like the eclipse that screws up all our schedules,” he says, voice softer than the joke ever deserves. “You came in and changed everything, and Jason—he doesn’t know how to live in the light of that yet.”
Your response is simply a pout.
Dick studies you for a long moment, the playfulness slowly fading. He pauses, then his expression shifts, turning probing, his eyes squinting. “But you wouldn’t have thrown away the Luthor case just over that. Yeah you lost your powers but you’re not that reckless. This is about more than just Jason’s bad decisions, isn't it? You’re punishing him, aren’t you?”
You look away, but the words hit harder than you want to admit. “I’m not.”
He tilts his head. “Then why don’t you just tell him you love him instead of hiding up here and pretending you don’t care?”
“What!?”
His grin snaps back, too wide, too knowing. “Ha! You do love him. You loooove him.”
“Dick, are you five years old?”
He leans back, hands raised in mock defense. “Emotionally? On a good day.”
“Yeah well. I love him. What about it?”
He laughs at his own joke, but the sound fades quickly, leaving only the quiet hum of the city beyond the window. The smile slips. His tone levels out, steady, serious in that rare way he gets when he stops performing.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “I’m not trying to make fun of you. I just… know what it looks like when someone’s scared to admit how deep they’re in.”
You exhale through your nose, eyes fixed on the skyline. “I’m not scared.”
“Yeah, you are,” he says. “Because if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be sitting up here trying to convince yourself that pushing him away is strength. You’d be down there telling him he screwed up and figuring it out together.”
You press your lips together. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Dick agrees. “But the thing about Jason is—he’s a mess, sure, but he’s not a liar. If he’s showing up, it’s because he means it. You scare him, and that’s saying something. The guy died once and came back, and somehow you are what freaks him out.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re the first person he hasn’t been able to out-brood. The first one he’s had to actually face. And now you’re running from him the same way he runs from everyone else.”
You glance at him, sharp. “You think I don’t have a right to walk away?”
“I think you’ve earned the right to stop fighting people who want to love you,” he says quietly. “Especially the ones who don’t know how to say it right.”
Dammit, you hate that Dick knows you too well. He waits patiently, letting the silence hang and meddle about, warm and heavy in the dim apartment.
You stare at Dick, finally unable to sustain the protective indifference you’ve managed to upkeep for so long now. The tears come suddenly, hot and stinging against your cheeks, a shocking betrayal after hours of rigid control. You quickly raise the mug, using the steam to hide your face.
“Aw, hey, come on don't cry”
You lower the mug, your eyes red and glistening with fat, salty tears. "I hate it, Dick. I hate that I care what he does. I hate that the thought of him being happy with someone else, someone safer, makes me feel like I did when I was fourteen and Bruce wouldn't let him talk to me for a week because we tried to drive the batmobile on our own"
Dick slides out of the armchair and moves to sit beside you on the couch. He doesn't hug you; he simply rests his hand firmly on your shoulder, anchoring you.
“You love him,” Dick states like it’s a fact that stings him, not as a question, but as the unavoidable truth of the night.
You stay silent, letting the confession—Dick’s words and the unspoken truth behind them—settle over you like a weight you can’t shrug off. The mug in your hands grows cold, forgotten, steam curling into the dim light above.
He doesn’t push. He doesn’t speak again. Just the quiet press of his hand on your shoulder, steady, unyielding, reminding you that someone sees you, really sees you, and isn’t letting go.
Your tears slow, leaving streaks over flushed cheeks, your breath ragged from hours of holding in more than just frustration. You swallow hard, voice small and raw. “I… I don’t know how to stop myself from feeling like this.”
Dick tilts his head, eyes soft but sharp, tracking every tremor of your body. “You don’t have to stop,” he says. “Not yet. And not alone. You just… need to admit it to yourself first.”
The words prick at something you’ve been keeping buried. You glance at him, half-expecting a smirk, a joke, anything to shield you from the vulnerability. But he’s serious, impossibly steady, and it terrifies you more than you expected.
“I do love him,” you whisper finally, so quiet it almost disappears into the shadows of the apartment. Your chest tightens at the sound, as if saying it aloud makes it irrevocable.
Dick’s hand doesn’t move, but the pressure shifts subtly, just enough to say, I know. And it’s okay.
You bury your face in your hands, the confession shaking you, and Dick finally wraps an arm around you in hopes to hold you through this as tears stream down your eyes and into the palms of your hands. For the first time in hours, you allow yourself to breathe fully, knowing the truth is out—and that someone who understands is sitting right beside you, not judging, not teasing, just being there.
You look at Dick, tears still tracking through the dry anger on your face. "He just ran from me one too many times, Dick. And I am tired of waiting for the day he realizes the risk is worth it."
Dick squeezes your shoulder. “He knows the risk is worth it,” he says quietly, his eyes dark with regret. “He’s just an idiot. And a coward sometimes. And I think he was afraid of losing you by telling you he has feelings for you.”
He shifts, looking toward the hallway. “Look, I can’t fix Jason. I can barely fix my own relationships. But I can tell you this: the jealousy you’re feeling—don’t deny it— is the clearest indicator of where your heart is. And you just gave him the shock he needed to actually look at what he lost. Also… I think we should order burgers.”
“Jason’s favorite?” Your lip quivers. A tear escapes your wide, sadness blown eyes, streaking down your cheek, and you sniffle, trying to pull yourself together.
Dick stands, stretching exaggeratedly. “Shit– I’m going to make you some actual food. For tonight, you’re safe. You’re warm. The lashes are still killing it. The universe hasn’t collapsed. You focus on the fact that you still have a whole Amazonian sisterhood to help you figure out how to be an ass-kicker without the powers. And tomorrow, we figure out how to perhaps confess to Jason before the whole Batfamily ends up without vehicles.”
___
The weeks following the confrontation at the Manor have been a cold war.
You and Jason exist in parallel universes, both working the Luthor and Penguin case—yes the one you dramatically declared you dropped out of— but never, ever meeting. You've become a ghost, working from Dick's secure Blüdhaven apartment or remote safe houses, reporting only to Diana and Bruce.
Jason, meanwhile, has been relentless on the streets, turning his guilt into destructive, high-impact patrols. Last week he sent a singular, unanswered text that just said, "Talk to me."
You ignore it, of course taking the much preferred route, to deal with it in an infinitely more childish way of coping which is whining incessantly to Dick about how utterly immature Jason is, and bubble about it for quite a few days. Something about you taking pride in Jason ‘breaking no contact first’ and being a ‘yearner’
The city feels smaller when you don’t have him on your radar. You can move through Gotham—or Blüdhaven, more often than not—without the pull of his gaze, without the low hum of his judgment lingering in your spine. You can pretend, for weeks at a time, that you don’t care that he’s out there, cracking skulls, raining down vengeance for your stupidity. Spoiler alert– you do care.
Jason won’t let Tim breathe about it. He talks about you non-stop, a continuous, high-volume drone, always, always making it explicitly clear that all the information he’s sharing is strictly confidential and shall not be shared with Grayson or anyone else. Said information usually consists of him absolutely going through the five stages of grief about you. One moment he’s angry, then he wonders where he went wrong, then he says he’s okay with it, that he’s gonna let it go.
Damian happens to be caught in the fire when he finds you asleep before the batcomputer hugging a suspiciously looking, very well known edition of Pride and Prejudice. The one Todd lent him. When he rips it off your hands and wakes you up he swears your eyes well up with tears.
Naturally, the stress is too much for the younger generation and golden boy older brother to bear. So they decide to do something about it.
Thus Dick, Tim, and a begrudging Damian have been meeting covertly in the Manor Gym night after night, the only place where Bruce's eyes and ears can't easily follow them while he’s off with the League on some Darkseid intergalactic business.
After days of conspiring and many mid-day Alfred snacks, they come to a foolproof plan. The one that always works.
Their plan is simple, efficient; They're going to lock you down. Or well, in.
___
Tim calls you late Friday night.
His voice is tight with engineered panic. "It's the final piece of data on the Luthor encryption key and it relates directly to the Penguin case you took on. It's stored locally in the Cave—Bruce never uploads this stuff. Pffft, This guy right? We need you to review it now before the scheduled scrub. Dick is tied up. Can you get here?"
Knowing the Luthor and Penguin files overlap with your current focus, you reluctantly agree despite finding it very hard to believe the comment about Bruce.
A nationwide human trafficking scandal is on the stake anyway.
Dick texts Jason a single, non-descript message: "Warehouse 12. New weapons shipment. Big."
Jason, already on patrol, takes the bait instantly. He speeds to the location only to find a single, cheap plastic toy gun inside. Frustrated, he receives Dick's follow-up text: "Psych. Now meet me at the Cave. Emergency Batcomputer update."
Damian is in charge of actually powering off facial recognition to get you out of the cave. And then, he is forced to fleet under Grayson’s order because the following events might not be very ‘PG-13’
You descend into the Batcave via the elevator, annoyed at Tim's urgency but focused on the screen of your phone.
You step out onto the smooth concrete floor and immediately spot Jason, standing near the main terminal. He's still in his Red Hood gear, helmet resting on the console, his posture coiled and furious.
“Dick? What the hell is going on?” Jason demands, his voice a low growl. "I just wasted an hour chasing a—"
Before he can finish, the heavy steel door of the elevator shaft clangs shut. Simultaneously, the airlock doors on the vehicle bay slide closed. The main power lights flicker, settling into the emergency red glow.
Then, Tim's voice crackles over the loud, unfiltered comms system, echoing throughout the massive cavern.
“Alright, the doors are sealed. Red Hood, she's not leaving until you talk”
You shoot a panicked look at Jason before Tim continues by calling your name, “he's not getting out until he talks. We disabled the auxiliary controls. You have all night. Batman’s off with the League. Don't touch the Batwing.”
Jason whirls toward the Batcomputer, where Dick looks at him through the screen, leaning casually against a gargoyle on the other end of the city, giving a tight, unrepentant shrug. Damian is visible beside him, arms crossed in self-satisfaction. The little brat mocks him– going as far as to shove his tongue out of his mouth and give him a clowning expression.
“You little shits! Open this now, or I swear I will turn this whole cave into a grease fire!” Jason roars, taking a step toward the deck.
“You won't,” Dick counters, his voice calm and clear. "And we know you two are both too stubborn to call a truce on your own. Consider this a mandated therapy session. The only way out is through, Jay. And we're all very tired of the brooding."
The comms click silent. Dick gives you a tiny, apologetic wink before he and the others disappear behind the glitching screen.
“I’m gonna kill him” You mumble, heart stammering inside your chest. The panic is quickly being replaced by a surge of defiant anger—anger at Dick, at Tim, at Damian, and most of all, at the man standing ten feet away who just had to be the reason for this absurd, humiliating trap.
“Texting me is one thing” you say, raising your voice in his direction “But having your brothers trap me here with you? That’s a new low”
Jason turns from the now-silent Batcomputer screen, flipping his helmet off the deck and letting it fall with a deafening clatter onto the concrete floor. His eyes, raw and shadowed by weeks of anger and guilt, bore into yours.
“I ain’t done shit!”
Jason’s chest heaves with the force of it— a short, ugly sound that could be grief if it weren’t so close to anger. The concrete smells like dust and ozone and the cold from the night. He plants his boots, both a challenge and a plea.
“I ain’t done fucking shit!” he repeats, louder, and the words ricochet off steel and glass.
You take a step closer despite everything, because you’re maddened and exhausted and the heat of him is a furnace you can’t help leaning toward. “Then why the hell—” you start, but stop midway when you see the way Jason’s jaw tightens.
He runs a hand through his hair, then looks at you properly, something raw and ragged in his eyes. “Yeah. I texted you.” The admission is too quick to be prideful, too honest to be strategic. You blink in confusion “Said ‘talk to me.’” He swallows. “I didn’t— I didn’t set this up. I just talked to Tim about it”
“Don’t lie to me,” you spit. “Don’t make me the idiot who walked into a fucking playset you staged.” Fury is a blunt instrument and you wield it too well; it keeps the tremor from your hands steady. “If this was a ‘talk to me’ thing, then why the theatrics?”
“So I’m the liar again?”
“You know what? I had regretted calling you a liar during our talk in the balcony but after you not admitting you trapped me here with you, I’m glad I didn’t believe it when Dick said you’re not a liar”
In a quick moment of realisation Dick’s name dies on your tongue. Twice.
“What the hell?” Jason demands, his voice a low, rough growl, skipping past the immediate crisis to the source of his misery. "You've been ignoring me for three weeks. You won't answer my text. What did you tell Dick that convinced him to pull this kind of juvenile bullshit?"
“Me!?”
You cross your arms tighter, refusing to let the panic of him turning this on you show. Your pride—the pride in his single, unanswered text, the pride in being the 'winner' of the no-contact—is the only defense you have left.
You hold his stare, refusing to let him turn this into an attack on your character. The surge of anger, though, is mixed with a chilling, sudden confusion about what Jason is actually denying.
“Yeah you. If you wanna talk to me then answer my text. Don’t involve my brothers”
All the self restraint you’ve got is needed at this moment not to snap again. You look at Jason, really look and decide to believe he probably knows nothing about the fact that his brothers locked you in the cave. You can’t deny the desperate sincerity in his voice, and the possibility that Dick and the boys actually acted on their own initiative is a sudden, dizzying thought.
“Okay Jason,” you start “Let’s say you didn't orchestrate this”
“I didn’t!”
“I’m not blaming you,” you snap, stepping closer, heat crawling up your spine. “I’m just… I’m pissed that my whole life gets invaded by third parties. I don’t need this, Jay!”
His eyes soften, almost imperceptibly, and the fury bleeds into something taut, heavy. “You think I wanted this either?” he mutters, voice lower now, rougher with exhaustion and something closer to hurt. “I’ve been trying to reach you, okay? Three weeks! You vanish, you ghost me, and I’m left here—wondering if you’re okay, wondering if you even care!”
The words hit you harder than his anger. Your chest tightens, and for a moment, the only sound is the echo of your own ragged breathing. You want to argue, to push, to retreat behind the armor of pride, but it’s too raw, too real.
“I do care,” you whisper, almost ashamed of the vulnerability. “But you can’t just—just—fuck okay screw this. I can’t say it”
You push past him, walking towards the Batcomputer terminal, the red light glinting off the tears you refuse to shed.
You gesture vaguely towards the locked doors.
"You and I are locked in here for the night. You're the one with the reputation for solving impossible situations with pure, bloody-minded force.” You turn back to the Batcomputer, your fingers already flying across the keyboard, bringing up the Luthor/Penguin data.
“If we’re going to fix anything. Let’s start with working. I'm fixing the mess we made. I'm not going to sit here and waste the night on your emotional cowardice." you finish, your voice cool and professional.
Jason stands frozen, helmet on the ground, trapped between the walls, your work, and your unforgiving challenge. He has the words, but you’re demanding the action.
Jason’s hands clench into fists, his whole body taut with the impulse to smash something. He could still argue, yell, or simply walk away and find a quiet corner of the cave to brood.
But your words of challenge and a devastating thought that you'd confessed your love to Dick first—have landed too clean. Like the sharp edge of a knife. You’ve taken his pain and turned it into a mission.
He looks at you, hunched over the Batcomputer terminal in the aggressive red light, already focused on the work, already moving on. He sees the flicker of tears in your eyes, but also the resolute set of your jaw. He knows you mean every word. He has to prove he can solve the problem.
He takes a deep breath, forcing the raw anger down, replacing it with a cold, almost detached focus.
“Fine,” he says, his voice low, gravelly, but controlled. He walks toward the Batcomputer, not toward you, but to the equipment bay. He grabs a spare headset and clips it on, accessing the private comms channel.
“You want to work? We work,” he mutters, pulling up a schematic on a secondary monitor. “You said the Luthor key overlaps with the Penguin location data. Let's see if we can find a back-end exploit that lets us override this lock without tripping an alert. Tim and Dick didn't think about the code redundancy loop in the original Batcave schematics.”
He glances at you, his eyes hard but focused entirely on the screen, accepting the truce of work. “But don’t think this means you win, either. You’re working out your pride on a crisis that could actually kill us. Now look at the timestamp on that data scrub. Is it the Penguin’s own timer, or Luthor’s contingency?”
Jason is working with an intense, surgical focus, navigating the complex Batcave network with practiced ease. He pulls up a series of nested code streams related to the Penguin’s use of Luthor’s encryption for shipping. For a few minutes, the only sound is the frantic tapping of keys and the quiet, technical murmur of Jason talking to himself through the headset.
You, meanwhile, are intensely trying to focus on the work, your adrenaline and hurt still raging under your professional exterior. You're analyzing a timestamp, trying to ignore the proximity of his shoulder inches from yours.
Jason hits a sequence of commands and the secondary monitor flashes with a section of compressed code.
"There," he mutters, leaning in, his voice slightly muffled by the headset mic. "See that signature? It's not Penguin. It's a derivative of the code Luthor used in the '09 banking raid. Old school. Why would Penguin use—fuck! Fuck this shit."
He cuts himself off, his frustration spilling over, and he rips the headset off, throwing it back onto the console with a sharp clatter. He turns, planting his hands on the console table, forcing his stare onto the opposite wall, but his anger is still laser-focused on you.
“You know what the worst part is?” he demands, his voice low and tight with venom, finally snapping the work truce. “The worst part of standing there on that stupid balcony, drowning in my own failure, wasn't Bruce’s face. It was Dick.”
You finally stop typing, your spine rigid. You knew, for better or for worse, that this was coming.
“You looked like you were about to collapse, and Dick—golden boy Dick—he just walks in, calm, collected, with his stupid, gentle grin, and plays the savior. And you just... you took his hand. You walked right out with him.”
His head snaps back to you, his eyes burning with accusation. He doesn't wait for your response. The floodgates are open, and the weeks of internalized humiliation and possessiveness pour out “He gets to be the easy choice, the easy way out. The hero pass”
“I’m the one who has to stand there and watch Bruce and Diana carve you up while I freeze, and Dick gets to be the reward for your pain. Dick gets to put the blanket on you. He gets to comfort you and listen to you confess all the things you won’t even say to me. It’s happened before, when I died.”
He pushes off the console, taking a menacing step toward you. “I knew you were safe, yeah. But you were safe with him. You’ve made your point clear about Artemis. I’ve spent the last three weeks on patrol picturing you in Dick’s apartment, wrapped in his clothes, talking about shared trauma while I was out here losing my mind because I didn’t know how to apologize.”
He finally looks at you, his eyes wide and burning with raw, agonizing jealousy. "Tell me you don't look at him and think, 'Why can't Jason be like this?' Tell me you don't feel a flicker of that old, easy history when he is sitting there, playing the perfect, uncomplicated friend!"
He stops, chest heaving. He has finally said the worst thing: he has admitted his deepest, terrified belief that you choose Dick's comfort over his own complex, frightening love.
You stare at him. The fire of your own anger—the pride, the defense, the calculated indifference—suddenly goes out, leaving behind a profound, aching realization. He isn't lashing out to hurt you; he is tearing himself apart because he truly believes Dick is a better man for you. Just like you thought Barbara and Artemis were better women for him.
This Jason is still the kid you hurled behind you when you first met Superman, muttering something about being discreet. The teenager that Joker tortured and killed and took away from you. The one you mourned before you even turned 18 years old.
The best friend who convinced Bruce to tell Diana to let you enroll at Gotham Academy. He listened to you cry when she would be mad at you because you were a reckless kid with newfound powers or when that girl from your Maths class tried to bully you.
Maybe, in the end, no Barbara, no Artemis, no Dick can come between you.
The frustration of his stupidity is too much. The pain in his eyes is too real. His self-loathing is too close to your own secret fear that he is right. You don't want the easy comfort; you want the hard, chaotic, terrifying truth of him.
You take the one step that closes the distance between you. Your hand, which was steady seconds ago, comes up and cups the side of his jaw, thumb resting gently on the sharp edge of his cheekbone. The other wiggles across your body and entangles your fingers with his, guiding his hand to the small curve of your lower back. His other hand follows respectfully.
“If you’re in love with Dick then give me back the Nirvana shirt I gave you in middle school!” He pouts, petty.
Your eyes widen, shock written all over your face in a matter of seconds. A hiccupy sound of surprise exits your throat "You're taking this too far.”
Jason’s eyes, burning with raw agony moments ago, narrow in genuine confusion. The intensity of his rant shatters. He leans into your touch, the heat of his skin familiar and grounding.
“Am I?” he asks, his voice thick with bewilderment, the earlier roar gone. “I gave it to you because I liked you. And you didn’t even get it”
The words reach an unhealed part of your past. The cut that always bleeds. At sixteen you didn’t want to date a fourteen year old. At eighteen, when Jason dies, Dick’s face is like an endless possibility of what Jason might have looked like when he’d turn twenty. You spend days locked up in Jason’s room, wearing his shirt until Dick convinces you to eat something, drink water. But you keep the shirt as the only relic of Jason you could ever have for the rest of your life.
You wouldn’t give him back that shirt, even if you had to write it off in your will.
Your breath hitches, the tears you’ve been holding back for weeks stinging your eyes. The absurdity of arguing over a moth-eaten tee shirt while trapped in the Batcave by his brothers is devastatingly close to home.
“This is the only thing I’ve got from before you died. You're not taking it from me. I need it.”
A faint, broken smile touches Jason’s lips. It’s not a cruel smile, but one of relieved realization. He’s looking past the fight, straight at the raw, vulnerable heart of your attachment.
The shirt isn't just clothing; it's the physical relic of unrequited history and the tangible proof of your mourning. Your refusal to give it back is the first and most powerful clue that Jason’s fears about Dick are unfounded.
“Ha!” He chuckles, the sound raspy. “I knew you didn’t mean that you never needed me.”
The smile is too much. The relief in his voice is too much. You snap, the three-week dam of fear and anger finally bursting.
“I'm in love with you Jason!” You cry out, your voice echoing off the cavern walls. “Not Dick! I’m keeping the shi—” You clap a hand over your mouth, cutting off the confession too late, your eyes wide with the shocking betrayal of your own protective silence.
Jason freezes.
For once, the constant restless movement that defines him, the pacing, the half-steps, the clenched fists, stops dead. The words hang between you, fragile and burning, like a live wire neither of you can touch without getting hurt.
His eyes go wide, a thousand emotions crossing his face so fast they blur together: disbelief, shock, anger, and something far more dangerous that lies at the end of Pandora’s chest—hope.
He stares at you. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. All the rage, the jealousy, the self-pity—it all evaporates, leaving him stunned. His gaze is desperate, searching your face for any sign that the words weren’t just another angry lie.
He drops his hands from your waist, only to immediately raise them, framing your face with his palms. His thumbs gently wipe the tracks of your glossy tears.
“Say it again,” he demands, his voice a low, rough whisper, barely audible over the hum of the computers. His eyes are shining green now, dark like a forest under a crescent moon and impossibly open. “Look at me. Say you love me. Say it again.”
You shake your head quickly, heart hammering so hard it feels like your ribs might split apart and let the vital organ slime down the floor of the cave.
“No,” you mutter, hand still over your mouth. “Forget it. I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t lie to me now,” he interrupts, surging forward, making you trip a step back towards the computer deck. His voice isn’t angry anymore. It’s raw, stripped of every defense he’s ever built. “You can call me every name in the book, you can hate me, you can ignore me for weeks, but don’t take that back.”
You lower your hand, your breath trembling. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
Jason huffs out a laugh that sounds like it hurts. The corner of his lip twitches “Yeah, well. You’re the one who yelled it.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then another. The kind that feels endless and your heart still wants to split your chest apart.
Jason does the least expected thing in the world at this given moment— he pulls you in. Hugs you. Right into his chest. Enormous biceps trap your back onto him, pressing you close, close, close until you feel like your lungs will collapse.
He’s not thinking in full sentences at that point. It's all static and pulse. Yours? His? He doesn’t even fucking know.
The hug isn’t even a decision that he takes; it’s instinct, a grab at proof that he’s real and that you didn’t mean to wound him and that he understands. The anger that’s been driving him burns out mid-motion, replaced by a kind of stunned quiet. The air in the cave still tastes like gun oil and adrenaline, but what he’s holding isn’t a fight anymore —it’s someone who said the one thing he’s wanted to hear since he crawled out of his own grave.
In his head, it’s chaos. But his body’s language is simpler: hold, breathe, anchor. His chin finds the top of your head, his heart is hammering like it’s still trying to outrun death. He smells the faint detergent on your shirt, your shampoo, the salt from your tears. It’s so small, so human, that it breaks something open in him.
His heart wants to crawl out of his chest too and if it’s a race between your vitals on which is going to give in to failure first, he’s definitely winning.
He pulls back just enough to lean his forehead against yours, both of you gasping for air, but his hands roam on your face, the back of your head, to hold you place. He wants you to look at him in the eyes when he says,
“I’m in love with you too. Have been, forever”
The words land and just… stay there. No thunderclap, no music cue. Just the thrum of the cave’s machines and his breath shaking against your temple.
You don’t move at first. You can’t. You feel the tremor in his chest before you hear it—the uneven rhythm of someone who hasn’t said I’m in love with you out loud in years. Someone who’s been holding it in.
The warmth of his hands on your face doesn’t feel like possession; it feels like someone holding a miracle too tight, afraid it’ll vanish.
Your eyes trace the new softness in him, the way the fight has bled out but left him raw, eyes red-rimmed, mouth parted like he’s still bracing for you to take it all back.
So you don’t say a word. You just breathe, steady, until the static in your head fades enough to find his pulse beneath your fingers. Then you tilt your chin up, slow. His breath catches.
You look at his lips, chapped, a fading powdery pink draft of skin, then that freckle on his left eyelid. The one on the eye bag underneath his right one.
The whole world has shut off for one second.
And then, when you kiss him, the clocks start ticking again.
You’re not giving in to prove him wrong or to make a promise—just an answer.
The kiss doesn’t feel like triumph— it feels like recognition. He freezes for half a heartbeat, then exhales into it, the weight of you lifting just enough for him to kiss you back, slow and trembling. He doesn’t deepen it yet; he just stays there, lips pressed softly to yours like he’s afraid a bigger movement might ruin the fragile truth sitting between you.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his breath warm on your skin. “I love you. I won't run. I swear I won’t run again. I promise.”
The way he kisses you next could only be described as blasphemy. A sin. Unholy.
It is not sweet or tender. It is a desperate, consuming plunge that feels like a violation of the sterile, rule-bound space you inhabit. It is the raw, unedited violence of his resurrection funneled into an act of love. It’s rough, lip-numbing.
You press into him, gasping, your fingers digging into the tough, corded muscles of his neck. This kiss is uneven, and tastes like the salt of old tears and the fierce, bitter copper of an adrenaline spike. It's too fast, too sloppy and too hungry—the emotional equivalent of the Batwing takeoff—and it shatters the last remaining piece of your composure.
It is blasphemy because it makes a mockery of all the 'clean' relationships you're supposed to have: the sisterly Amazonian bonds, the measured partnership of the Justice League kissing the outlaw that’s back from the dead. This is a covenant sealed in stolen moments and self-destruction.
It is a sin because it makes you crave the chaos. You feel the answering darkness in you rise up, matching his hunger, and for a terrifying second, you want nothing more than to burn down the entire world with him.
It is unholy because it feels like two people who have been fighting death finally choosing to fight for life—and choosing the most dangerous, unstable way to do it.
The second Robin. The second Wonder Girl. Pulled together by strings of fate.
He finally pulls away, the urgency of the moment—and the impending elevator doors—forcing him back to reality. His eyes are dark, blown wide with an intensity that matches the sheer, terrifying depth of what just passed between you. He is breathless, and his jaw is clenched.
“God,” he rasps, his voice a low vibration against your ear. He kisses your temple once, quick and hard, a possessive gesture. “We need to go upstairs. Now.”
___
Jason ignores the security system, using his own code for situations just like this one —getting out of the cave during emergency lockdown— and bypasses the main foyer, dragging you up the stairs to the manor and into his old childhood room.
The door slams shut behind you. The room is dark, lit only by the cold, indifferent glow of Gotham's lights filtering through the blinds. It’s barerer than you remember: a bed, a desk buried under old patrol maps, and a tactical rack where his Red Hood armor hangs like a silent, metal sentinel. His mini library that Bruce built.
You are leaning against the door, breath coming in ragged gasps, still shaken by the altitude, the escape, and the kiss. You are suddenly acutely aware of your figure that's trapped inside and in between both of his arms.
Jason fumbles with locking the deadbolt. The adrenaline has not burned out, but it has shifted. His movements are slower now, predatory. He parts from you and crosses the room in three strides, but stops just short of touching you.
He doesn’t ask for permission. He simply reaches you and unzips your compression jacket in one smooth, decisive movement. The fabric sighs open, pooling around your feet. His leather jacket shares the same fate hitting the floor with a soft, dull thud.
Your eyes meet his. In the dim light filtering through the blinds, his gaze is dark, searching, stripped bare of the anger and the excuses.
You could tell him you’re scared.
You won’t.
Since he came back four years ago, you and Jason have had sex twice, maybe thrice if you decide that most recent the time you absolutely nuked each other dry through your clothes on top of his bike matters at all, or even counts. You didn’t look at him for weeks after, never risked seeing what it did to him, or to you.
Now he’s right here, close enough that every breath you take brushes against his. His hands are still on your face, steady but trembling at the edges. The hum in the air fades until it’s just that shared pulse, that quiet between heartbeats where you both realize no one’s running this time.
His eyes search yours, as if waiting for you to flinch, to joke, to find a way out. You don’t. You just hold his gaze until the fear blurs into something heavier.
When you finally move, it’s not a decision—it’s gravity. Your lips find his, slow and sure, and for once there’s no heat or mask to hide behind. Your hands wrap around his neck, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling him down.
The kiss is a blur of need and desperation, a claim staked in the only territory that matters now. Your lips. The patted space between them. He groans, low, guttural, and the sound vibrates against your lips. He breaks the kiss, pulling away just an inch, his eyes locked on yours in the dim light. His pupils are wide, black pools swallowing the faint light of green around them.
“Bed, now” he dictates, his voice rough, heavy with the weight of the last three weeks and the unholy truth of their confession. It isn’t a question; it's a command.
You don’t need to say yes. You answer by hurriedly pulling your tank top over your head, letting it join the growing pile of forgotten clothing on the floor.
He tries to work on your jeans but his fingers tremble slightly as they brush against the button of them, hesitating before completely undoing it.
The sound is loud in the tense silence between you both. He doesn’t look up at you—doesn’t meet your eyes—as he works on pulling down the zipper. He grins, leaning back just an inch, a breath of space, before yanking your pants off in a single motion.
Jason’s gaze burns over you, an inventory of everything he nearly lost. At the cost of it not happening again, he doesn't waste another second. He lifts you, not gently, but with a sudden, powerful surge, trapping your legs around his waist and grabbing the plush skin of your ass so violently that you know it’s going to bruise.
He carries you toward the bed, stumbling slightly on his way—a reminder that he is not the golden, graceful crispy ironed duvet, shifting you so you are pinned beneath him. The cold metal of the buckles on his belt presses into your hip when he rolls his hips into yours experimentally, a tangible reminder that his cock is pulsing through his cargos, just for you.
His hands are everywhere—possessive, reassuring, demanding.
You lay there in your underwear, your body trembling slightly from the cold of the room, the adrenaline, and the consuming pull of his presence.
Just as the kiss deepens, just as the last barrier of composure threatens to shatter, Jason draws back. It’s a deliberate, agonizing retreat that leaves you suspended in need. He doesn't move off of you, though, even if you moan in protest; he just props himself up on his elbow above you, his chest heaving, his eyes heavy with a teasing, wicked hunger.
He pushes a strand of your bangs away from your forehead and lets you brush your lips to his before flinching his head back, denying you another kiss
“This reminds me,” he starts. An evil chuckle escapes his mouth “the other time, you said you never needed me”
“Jace”
“Uh-ah” he shushes you, bringing a finger to your lips that you threaten to suck into your mouth “I’m gonna need you to take it back. And beg.”
A soft, sudden growl escapes him. He grabs the back of your thighs, effortlessly pinning you to the bed beneath his body in one swift, fluid motion, your legs over his shoulders, locked.
He doesn't kiss you. He doesn't move. He simply lets out a slow, satisfied exhale that brushes your ear, a sound of absolute, predatory triumph.
You refuse to look away, the burning heat in his eyes mirroring the consuming need in your own chest. The position he’s put you in is undeniably worse than a headlock, leaving you entirely open, entirely his. He's asking you to admit defeat, but your pride is the last thing you have left.
You swallow, the tremor in your voice betraying your composure. “I won’t beg,” you whisper, the words an act of final, desperate resistance. You grab his wrist, your fingers digging into the strong pulse point there.
You dig your fingernails in, but he barely flinches. The pressure doesn't bother him; he just leans in closer, his smirk turning sharp.
You grit your teeth, the effort to hold back a sob making your jaw ache. His victory is palpable, the cruel warmth of his bulge pressing down on your cunt.
“Really?”
“I bet, you can't make me say please.”
He snorts, reaching down to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes hold a dangerous look of pure lust.
"Oh, trust me, princess. I haven't even begun, yet. I think I should play with you a little longer, hm? Until you're begging me to give you what you really want. Then, and only then, will I decide to give in. And when I do, it'll be so worth it."
A malevolent laugh escapes him. He leans in to nip at your sensitive throat, finally relenting with a smirk.
His hand leaves your thigh and rises, the movement slow and deliberate. You track it, helpless, as his fingers hook beneath the strap of your bra where it meets your shoulder.
He doesn't tug or rip. He simply pulls the strap down your arm, exposing the side of your breast to the cool air, leaving the fragile fabric bunched up at your elbow. His eyes never leave yours, waiting for the capitulation.
His free hand wiggles underneath your back—hot, too hot—and moves to the center of your back, his fingers deftly finding the clasp of your bra. A quiet, metallic click, and the garment goes slack. He slides the now unfastened fabric from beneath you, discarding it with a casual flick of his wrist onto the floor.
The predatory triumph in his eyes is back, intensified, and he finally lowers his head, not to kiss, but to claim.
He nips at your earlobe, a promise and a threat. "You have no idea what I've been imagining doing to you."
“Like what?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He growls, his voice dropping to a husky whisper right against your ear "Like teasing you until you’re begging me to cum. Like marking every inch of this perfect body as mine."
He bites down gently on your shoulder, then continues in a darker tone "And like making sure that when I finally give in and let myself have what we both want so damn badly? You’ll never forget who owns you."
He bites at your earlobe again, his voice husky, hands groping your ass to adjust you better against him as he grinds against you. "Maybe I'll start with some of the, ah... less intense things, first. That way you won't be overwhelmed all at once. I know how sensitive you are."
Jason doesn't wait. The second the admission is out, the second the bra is gone, his mouth descends.
He doesn't attack with fury, but with a calculated, devastating hunger. His lips and teeth find the tip of your exposed breast first, a harsh, possessive tug that makes your entire body arch up impossibly into his. A moan rips from your throat, swallowed instantly by the charged air between you.
He sucks hard, using his tongue and teeth to work a tight circle around the nipple, drawing the heat and blood to the surface. The deep, wet sound of his mouth against your skin is deafening in the silence of the room. Your hands tighten around his shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle, trying to anchor yourself as a wave of intense, focused sensation washes over you.
He pulls back to look at his handiwork—your breast is perked, the nipple rigid and glistening. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, burn with satisfaction. Your clit gives you a warning pulse when he grinds you against the seam of his pants again.
"God. You’re so damn beautiful." His eyes rake over you. "Seeing you all spread out beneath me like this... I could stare for hours."
“Jason come on—”
“Sssht—Now let’s see,” Then he nips at your throat, his voice dropping to a low purr. "That pretty little spot on your hip... maybe I'll give that special attention. Or that sensitive bit on your inner thigh. I can’t tell you how many times I've imagined it."
You’re… speechless to say the least. The very few times the two of you have had sex have been normal. Almost talkless. The much needed foreplay and an exchange of words that could boil down to not even sweet nothings.
What’s happening now is feral. An instance that’s making you embarrassed and flustered in all the wrong ways. Telling him how much you want him, begging him—it feels stupid, embarrassing, it’s making you—
“You're making me—“
Jason growls against your skin, smirking as he feels the undeniable shiver that runs through you.
"Making you what, sweetheart? Finish your sentence. Tell me what I'm doing to you." His teeth graze your collarbone, a gravelly whisper.
“Nghhh” you moan
"Come on…Tell me how badly you want it, princess. Tell me just how badly you crave it— We both know it. You want it. It's just a matter of when you'll beg for me."
“You're making me wet, Jay.”
He laughs, immediately satisfied. His fingers trail down your side before suddenly gripping the inside of your thigh and squeezing possessively.
He presses open mouthed kisses down your body, trailing his tongue on every spot his lips wrap around and each kiss makes you jolt, cunt squeezing around nothing.
"Oh? Really now? Thought so,” He bites the soft skin of your hip with a smirk when he reaches the band of your cotton underwear. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear, babe. And we haven't even gotten started yet."
Then, with an abrupt change of focus, he begins to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses across your sternum, up the soft dip between your breasts, and up the other side. His tongue sweeps up to the second peak he left untouched before, and he takes it into his mouth with the same intensity, demanding the same raw, breathless response.
You stop fighting. Your body is a nerve pulled taut, trembling under his focus. The demanding pull, the wet heat—it’s too much. Your head falls back against the mattress, your defense completely shattered.
The second Jason brings his hand to your clothed slit, pressing two fat pads of his fingers right oover your aching clit, your whole body shivers.
“Ready to say please?” He waits, letting the silence and the proximity do the rest of the work.
You shake your head in denial and his fingers press onto your clit harder in one, two, three, four swirls before he shifts. He removes his hand entirely, sitting up slightly. He leans forward, right next to your ear
“Maybe I could use my mouth on you,” Jason whispers.
The words are soft, a sudden break in the harsh tension. The quiet invitation—the shift from his aggressive challenge to a devastatingly intimate offer—slams through your last bit of composure.
He watches you, a smug triumph flashing in his dark gaze.
He trails his fingers back down your body, slowly, before his hand settles on the inside of your thigh. His head follows as he leans in close, his mouth hovering just over the inside of your thigh, claiming his generosity.
“See, I can be nice,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he begins to trace the sensitive skin near the edge of your underwear close to your center. "But nice doesn't mean patient. It just means I'll make sure you're damn near screaming for me before I even bother with those pretty little panties."
He shifts, his eyes never leaving yours, watching for the exact moment the resistance breaks. You expect him to move slowly, to prolong the agony of the hover, but Jason is done with subtlety.
"Fine," he grits out, the word raw. "You want to know what I risk for a sound? Here."
He pushes your hips down, his leg weight heavy and commanding. He lowers his head, and the cold air is immediately displaced by his hot, broken breath against your soaking wet cotton.
His tongue is a sudden, scorching press against your inner thigh—a sharp, wet line drawn right up to the edge of your underwear. He doesn’t go over the fabric. Instead, he uses his teeth, tugging the damp cotton down just enough to expose the slick, sensitive skin beneath.
The pressure is agonizing. You gasp, arching your back against the mattress, your fingers sinking into the duvet.
"Don't you dare bite that pretty lip, princess," he dictates, his voice muffled, a low vibration against your hip bone. "I want to hear every sound I pull out of you."
Then, he commits. He sweeps his tongue over the pulsing, aching nub of your clit. It's a possessive demand, and the shock is so intense that your entire body snaps taut, your hips lifting into the air without conscious thought.
He pulls back an inch, his eyes flashing up to your face, triumph and a dark, raw need burning in his gaze. He smiles, a savage, satisfied curve of his lips.
The sound that tears from you—that high, desperate, broken whimper—is only half the admission he’d been waiting for. You didn't even know you were capable of making it.
The pleasure, the shame, the sheer overwhelming focus of it all snaps your control completely. You don't try to speak. You don't dare challenge him again.
Instead, your hands shoot out, gripping the sides of his head, your fingers burying themselves in the dark, damp strands of his hair. You pull him down—hard—a wordless, frantic plea for him to return, for him to finish what he started.
He groans, the low, guttural sound rattling against the mattress. The savagery in his eyes doesn't fade; it sharpens. He doesn't go back to your throbbing center, not yet. Instead, he settles his mouth against the wet heat he created on your inner thigh, taking a possessive, teeth-grazing bite of the sensitive skin.
"Beg for it, sweetheart," he dictates, his voice muffled against your flesh, heavy with the promise of more. "Tell me what you want me to do next."
"Take my panties off, Jason, please."
The demand is strained, not the begging whimper he wanted, but close enough to shatter the last barrier. He grunts, a raw sound of satisfaction tearing from his throat.
He pulls back an inch, his eyes flashing up to your face, triumph and a dark, raw need burning in his gaze. He smiles, a savage, satisfied curve of his lips.
"That was a damn good first attempt, but you’re gonna have to do better than that, sweetheart,” he says, his fingers already working on the cotton band of your underwear.
He doesn't bother with finesse. With a sharp, possessive yank, he tears the uselessly wet fabric down your thighs and kicks them off the end of the bed.
“I’ll still reward you” He doesn't pause, doesn't wait. He immediately replaces the cotton with his mouth. The cold air hits your slick skin for one agonizing second before his hot, wet tongue takes a slow lick from the bottom of your pussy to the tip of your clit.
He starts with a devastating pressure right over the source of the ache, then uses the rough pad of his tongue to rake across your core.
A genuine scream—raw, broken, and utterly involuntary—tears from your lungs, muffled only by the worn duvet beneath your head. Your hips surge off the mattress, seeking the relentless pressure.
He stops, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with the finality of victory.
"There it is," he breathes, his voice thick with triumph. “Do we like?”
“Yes!”
“Mhhhm” He grunts in satisfied acknowledgment against your pussy, his eyes staring right into yours, still heavy with that raw, victorious lust. He doesn't pull back again. He dives back down, relentless, using his tongue, rubbing it in figure eights over and over on your puffy clit.
You’re only gasping and sobbing against the mattress. A slurry mess is what you’ve become, with fat tears gathering at the corners of your tightly shut eyes
The sounds you make are primal, unedited, and for better or for worse, belong only to Jason. You can only pray, amidst your mind that’s already turning into goo, that Alfred is not anywhere near this wing of the manor.
Jason doesn't move off your pussy, not wanting to shake the immense wave of pleasure he's creating. His tongue is suddenly everywhere—slick, insistent—pushing you past the final point of thought, past the edge of control. The rhythmic pressure of his groaning every time he dips his tongue into your syrupy hole, is forcing a continuous, broken whine from your throat.
You are completely lost to the sensation, clinging to the fabric of his duvet, your hips bucking instinctively. The world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the rough pad of his tongue, and the shocking sound of his satisfied moans against your clit. Every muscle in your body locks, tightening against the consuming force of his attention.
He shifts his head once, a slight movement that changes the angle and pressure, and the world shatters. Your chest heaves with short breaths and Jason bullies a thick finger inside you with vigilance.
He twists it once, thrice, twice –you don’t even know how words work and in which order right now– and your legs start shaking, locking around his neck, urging him to put his mouth on you immediately.
And fuck, if that’s not the hottest thing Jason has ever seen. Fuck being told he has the best thighs in the world on the regular; It’s your thighs he wants to die in between of.
So he complies with you, only because he’s so close to actually breaking you; His lips find your clit again and suck subtly. Your fingers leave the duvet and claw uselessly at his hair. You can't breathe, can't think. Every muscle is pulled like a rope, your thighs trembling as you try to press yourself harder into his face. The pressure builds, a tight, coil of pure hedonism winding tighter and tighter in your core.
He uses his thumb—the same thumb that had been teasing you earlier—and presses down hard on your swollen, sensitive clit, even as his mouth continues its ruthless, focused assault.
The contrast is dizzying. The soft kitten licks of his combined with the mixture of wetness of you and his tongue versus the roughness of his thumb. He is just everywhere, missing nothing, taking everything.
You shutter. Or, you’re going to shutter. Very soon and very suddenly. And you can't even shut up about it.
“It’s coming– I’m gonna come Jay– fuckfuckfuck” You repeat, over and over, like a mantra.
Jason pulls away in one swift move and at first you don’t realise he’s not just taking a breath. You try to push his head back onto you, hips bucking, missing the warmth of his mouth on you, his fingers not even anywhere close to being enough for you.
You look at him, panicked, eyes surging to search his face for a reason as to why he’s not mouth to mouth with your pussy yet, only to see him smiling at you with his eyes squinted, wiping the string of wetness connecting him to you.
He sniffles, then wipes his nose, lips parting with cockiness, despite the fucked out expression on his face, as he swipes his thumb over your clit one final time, only to trace a line of slickness up your thigh, his eyes locked on yours.
Your whine of his name could only be described as a scream, really. Not Jace or Jason, but a sound closer to a wounded animal's cry.
“I told you,” He rasps “Good things come to those who beg”
Your legs kick, your body bows. You’re only left wondering– Where the fuck did Jason learn how to eat pussy like this?
The rush of his words, the conceited, arrogant confidence of his claim, cuts through the haze of your pleasure. He leans back, expecting you to simply concede, to fall silent under the weight of his control. His fingers trap your chin, forcing your face into his.
“What do you say, pretty?”
“Fuck” You start mumbling “’m sorry, i need yah Jay, please– Please–”
He swallows the sound you both make ,with his lips on yours and only pulls back once the shudders begin to subside. He rises, his chest heaving. He looks down at you—limp, spent, glistening—and his eyes are dark with victory.
“Please what ‘Jay’?” He asks, mockingly.
"Please, fuck me!" The word tears from your throat, raw and broken, a sound that finally holds the deep, true desperation he’s been hunting for. "Please, Jason. Don't stop. I need you inside me, now. Please. Please. Please, I need you."
You don't just say the word; you choke on it multiple times. Your hips are bucking again, frantically trying to bridge the small, agonizing distance between his body and yours. The sound is ragged, humiliating, and just perfect. Giving in feels so. fucking. good.
Jason goes utterly still.
His eyes widen, the triumphant smirk freezing on his face before it melts into an expression of pure, unadulterated shock and yearning. He stares at you, absorbing the sound of the word he earned.
"God," he growls, the sound thick and final. “Look at you.”
He doesn't waste another second. He yanks his boots off, kicking them carelessly onto the floor. With one fluid motion, he strips off his own cargos, the kevlar under armour and boxers, tossing them aside. The cold metal of his belt buckles finally clatters away, leaving him fully exposed, completely vulnerable, just like you.
His body is hot, hard of sculpted muscle and littered with scars that vary in size, and so very immediately pressed between your legs. He braces his hands on the mattress beside your head, leaning over you, his gaze intense as he slaps the eight of his dick on your pussy and finally, lines himself up with your entrance.
But instead of slipping inside, like he could have done sooo easily, he pushes himself to tease you a little more, even if his bulge is begging him not to.
He slugs his body over yours, his weight heavy and intoxicating. His cock drags, slowly, excruciatingly, from your throbbing, squelching hole to your clit, smearing slickness across your hypersensitive core. He goes to repeat the motion, twice, the rough texture of him drawing a sharp, frustrated gasp from your throat.
"Fuck," he rasps, his hips pushing into the friction again. “Can I put it in?”
You nod frantically in response, saying yes, yes, yes, yes, like it’s the only word you know how to say.
He moves once more, his cock sliding just past the swollen entrance, riding the delicate ridge of your sex. The friction is unbearable, building the pressure you thought had already peaked.
Your hand reaches over his tip, fast. Pressing it down against your clit in heated need, desperate for some more friction and Jason’s just taking it, shimming his hips back and forth until he slips, once, inside your velvety pussy.
Jason groans. A long, trembling broken whine of a sound that lasts as long as it takes for him to bottom out inside you. Your pussy splits around him, pulling him in tight, clenching impossibly. Nothing has ever felt this good in his entire life.
Your breath is punched out of your lungs. The other wise sound of an “ooof” escapes you once your walls stretch just enough to accommodate him.
The silence that follows Jason's groan is only broken by the frantic, heavy rhythm of his own pulse hammering where your bodies meet. The way his chest stutters by his broken breathing.
He waits, not moving, savoring the feeling of being completely sheathed inside your throbbing walls. His hands slide from the mattress to your waist, gripping you hard enough to bruise.
"Mine–ffffuck," he rasps, the word a vibration that starts deep in his chest and echoes through your core.
Then, he moves. It’s not a graceful rhythm, but a hard, punishing thrust that forces another gasp from your lips. He pulls back almost completely, then slams home again, deep and desperate, seeking friction where you are already raw and sensitive.
You can't do anything but cling to him, your back arching off the bed with every collision. The intensity is immediate, sharp, overriding the lingering exhaustion of how badly he’s teased you prior. You feel the familiar, dizzying spiral starting again—faster this time, rougher, fueled by the desperation of his entry and how snug every ridge of his cock fits inside you.
"Look at me," he commands, his hips pausing, his fingers digging into your flesh. “How long has it been since we did this?”
The pleading in his eyes could actually, irrevocably destroy you.
“One year. Four months” you slur the words strained, the numbers sounding immense and tragic as they exit your mouth.
He doesn't let the emotion interrupt the act. He takes your answer and weaponizes it.
"Too damn long," he growls, shoving his hips forward with bone-jarring force. He starts the relentless tempo again, faster, heavier, each deep thrust punishing the long separation.
He pulls back, his hips rotating sharply, then fucks forward with piston-like thrusts. The headboard behind you thuds against the wall, a heavy, rhythmic declaration of their collision.
He is all angles and power, driving into your core with extreme speed. Your arms wrap automatically around his torso, holding on for dear life.
Jason doesn't slow, even when your nails dig into the skin of his back –he only hisses– maintaining the depth and impact of fucking into you, aiming to smash the lingering haze of your previously ruined release and rebuild the climax with his sheer force.
Your hips rise to meet him, an involuntary response to the violence of his tempo. Your thighs lock around his waist, trying to anchor the sensation, but you are just along for the ride. Moaning his name over and over, trying to be louder than the wet sounds of skin on skin that fill the room a hundred times a second.
He shifts his grip, one hand flattening against your stomach, pushing down slightly, forcing him deeper into the curve of your body. The pressure is intense, focused entirely on the friction. And then, he leans his weight down, grinding his chest against your already sensitive breasts.
He pulls back, again his jaw tight with effort, and delivers three sharp, stuttering thrusts, so deep they make your vision swim.
He’s lost all his ability to speak. All of his cockiness and authority, gone, to the sound of his own moans. He leans down, taking your mouth with a bruising, desperate kiss that swallows your ragged gasps. It's a claim, meant to silence everything but the collision of your bodies, the drop drip drip watery sound of him fucking into you. His tongue sweeps inside your mouth, mirroring the invasion below, giving you not a spec of space to hide.
The way his hips rock you make your ass lift with each movement, each roll of his waist and hips inside you. Everything condemns him impossibly deeper– your sugary walls keep clamping around him so intensely that you feel every vein, every curve of his dick molding you to his shape completely.
The sensation is too much, too fast. Your lungs lock, your chest heavs in short, broken gasps “Please touch me” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper
“Where baby?”
“My p-pussy-”
He half-laughs, amused at your sudden stammering, but he doesn't even use the mocking princess title. He breaks the kiss, only to drop his head and press his mouth against your ear. At the same moment, his hips shift slightly, and he brings his free hand down. His thumb finds your swollen, sensitive clit, pressing down hard and working it in a tight, merciless circle while he drives deeper inside you.
The simultaneous pressure—the internal crushing force of his thrusts combined with the external, focused torture of his thumb—sends you spinning.
You feel the familiar tightening deep in your belly, the warning signs of a secondary peak that is rougher, more demanding than the first and find solace in the fact that this time, you’re going to get your release.
You try to move your hand to his shoulder, to slow him down, but he simply catches your wrist and pins it above your head with his other hand, maintaining the relentless drive.
He delivers a broken series of hard, long and shattering thrusts and the world dissolves into noise and pressure. Your climax is explosive, a violent, full-body surrender that makes your back bow and your legs lock around his waist with uncontrollable force. You scream his name, the sound muffled against his skin giving him the final victory he demanded.
Jason collapses on top of you for a moment heavy, spent, his breath sawing raggedly against your neck. The intensity of the climax still pulses all around him, and you're left limp and boneless beneath his weight.
He rocks mindlessly into you as you buck your hips against him too, riding your orgasm into a sweet prolonging that feels like eternity.
"On your knees," he commands, pulling out of your slick core in one agonizing, slow withdrawal. He gives your face a playful pat on the cheek.
He doesn't move far though, just rising enough to help you stand as you wobble and shuffle, to bring his pulsing length to your face, his gaze burning into your own. "I wanna cum in your mouth."
You open your mouth, looking up at him, wordless. Your body is still shaking and the sudden vertical shift makes your head swim, but the ingrained obedience to his command is absolute. You are too spent to argue, too raw to refuse.
Jason watches you for a beat, his expression a complicated mix of being utterly spent and yearning for what you’re about to do to him, and grabs his cock at the base to rub it back and forth onto your swollen lips.
The motion is slow, possessive, smearing the remnants of your own release across your mouth. The contact is an intimate claim, a shared secret between the two of you in the dark, quiet of his room.
You remain kneeling, your eyes locked on his, accepting the gesture entirely. The heat is intoxicating, the taste a visceral reminder of the pleasure he just surrendered in and the absolute dominance he exerted only moments ago.
You reach up, one hand circling his hard wrist, holding him steady, keeping the friction exactly where he put it. You use your tongue, flicking out to clean a path along the underside of his length.
He groans, a low sound pulled deep from his chest, and his eyes briefly slip shut.
He leans forward, gripping the back of your head firmly but ever so gently, guiding you to his rigid length. You tuck your lips over your teeth and suck, taking him fully into your mouth.
Your tongue dances over every vein, every single rigid of dick that you can reach without breaking the suction you’re creating.
The first buck of his hips into your face is slow, his hands tangling through your head to come and cup your jaw tenderly. The action alone sends you into frenzy— you bob your head and hollow your cheeks out until he fills your mouth completely.
You’re making sounds you never thought you could possibly make. Lewd slurping and the occasional smooching whenever he makes a move that slightly breaks the suction of your mouth around him.
Jason allows you to pull away for air just once, your hand coming to form a ring over the base of his cock and his balls. You let the weight of it slap your cheek as you take both balls onto your mouth and lick.
He hisses, utterly spent, but his eyes refuse to leave yours for a second.
Popping his balls of your mouth, you gather enough spit to pool it at the edge of your parted lips before rubbing his swollen tip over them again.
“Fucking hell,” he moans “You’re pure sin.”
Jason stops you from teasing him any more– He brings his hands up, gripping the back of your head with a sudden, powerful grip and thrusts forward, driving deep into your throat. The move is so forceful, it makes you choke. He sets a hard, desperate rhythm, pushing himself to the edge quick, quick, quickly.
His breathing turns into sharp, broken gasps. He is focused entirely on the explosive feeling building inside him, his eyes squeezed shut against the sensory overload.
"That's it, babe," he chokes out, his voice thick with struggle "I'm cumming—God!"
He empties into your mouth—a thick surge of hot white that lasts agonizingly long. You feel him shudder violently above you, his whole body locking as he spends himself completely, every muscle straining. You swallow, obediently, to the very last drop.
Jason finally leans back in an arch of his back, and you downright ogle at the way his abs flex. Then, he pulls out of your mouth with a thick, shuddering gasp. He doesn't move far, though, just standing there, spent, sweaty and out of breath, watching you. His eyes blink open, irises blown with exhausted satisfaction.
He holds you for a moment, his hand tight in your hair.
"Stay," he rasps.
Then, with a rough, sudden move, he shifts. He uses the hand gripping your hair to pivot your head sharply, then your hips, while his body weight executes a rapid turn. He manhandles you on your chest, moving you in one fluid motion so you are now pressed onto your stomach, flat on the mattress beneath him.
“I’m not done,” Jason rasps against your back, placing a kiss onto the middle of it.
You can only groan as you brace yourself against the mattress, heart hammering, your sex immediately slick and open for him.
Jason’s hands both land on your ass, making you hiss, then, he uses his thumbs to spread your cheeks open, making a loud hissing sound at the sight of your wet and already ruined pussy.
He grips your hips—hard—his fingers digging into your flesh to anchor you to the bed. He pulls back slightly, then plunges.
His shimmies inside you, with a force that makes your knees slip slightly on the bed and an uncontrollable gasp is knocked out of you by the motion alone.
He drives into you, hard and fast. The angle is brutal, leveraging his full weight, and the sensation is a squelching friction, the peak you thought you could only reach once tonight starts coiling again deep and low inside your tummy.
Jason pulls your hair, this time to keep your neck arched and exposed, and repeatedly growls against your ear, "all mine." Each syllable punctuated by a deep, relentless thrust, your neck coated with saliva from his open mouthed is kissed on every spot he can latch onto.
“Jay..” you interrupt him with a slur
“Yeah baby?”
“Jay, pillow…ah— hips”
Jason gasps, too keen to follow the rhythm of his hips fucking into yours, too focused on how tight your pussy feels around him. He doesn’t even have the energy to tell you how solid his cock pumps with blood at the though of having already fucked you stupid. How much his chest shudders at the feeling.
He does the only thing he can— he shows you.
Instead of grabbing a pillow, he bends his back, lifts your hips and snuggles one thick forearm under your hips to support you, while the other drives your hips onto him repeatedly.
You claw at the covers underneath you, the fabric bunching in your fists. You're unable to maintain any thought outside of the explosion point, your mind finally a puddle of goo. The pressure of this new angle builds sharply, vibrating all focus at your core, right where his hips meet yours again and again.
He feels like heaven inside you. Too thick, too hard. Each thrust bruises your sugary walls and makes you scream almost exactly like a pornstar.
Then— he slides the hand from your hip, reaches forward, and finds your clit, pressing his middle finger down hard against the slick, sensitive nub. He keeps up his rhythm, achingly slow, trapping you between the mattress and himself.
The sensation is too much, too immediate. Too everywhere. Your hips buck backward, desperate to find the bottom of his thrusts, and a high, uncontrolled moan rips from your throat as his tip finds and violates that one spongy spot inside you that feels just right.
He lets out a series of thick, guttural grunts as he unleashes a final, shattering barrage of strokes. He feels the inevitable clenching deep inside you, hits it over and over again.
He just loves how your pussy clamps around him when you come, how you just gush so perfectly for him. How slippery and hot you feel, just for him. How—
“Fuck, fucking shit I’m gonna cum again” JJason throws his head back, all muscles locking, his body pitching forward as he spends himself entirely inside your tight core.
The climax is almost simultaneous and that to him is devastating on its own.
You both scream, the sound swallowed by the mattress and the dark walls of his room. The world dissolves into white noise and pulsing, and his body collapses, heavy and spent, trapping you beneath his sweaty weight.
The only movement left now is the shaking release of his muscles and the pulsing aftermath in the form of sticky, white cum deep within you. He rests his head against the crook of your neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps. The silence is finally complete.
He places a kiss underneath your chin and groans when you start shaking.
Fuck— As he watches you twitch, he realises, he completely forgot you don’t have the stamina that comes with your powers anymore.
“‘M sorry” he apologises, trying to make you turn your head to him, but you're limp, breathless. Shaking against him, like you’ve been hit by a tidal wave and barely survived.
“‘S‘Kay” you manage to say.
Jason shifts, his cock pulling out of you with a slow, gentle withdrawal that is the opposite of everything that just occurred.
He rolls slightly to the side, his cum immediately dripping out of you when he pulls you close to him, spooning your exhausted body tightly against his chest.
His arms wrap securely around you, one hand coming up to stroke your hair, pushing the damp strands back from your face. His breathing is slowing, evening out. He doesn't speak; he just holds you, anchoring you to the present.
The only exchange between you that could be considered a conversation is the kiss you seek when you shove your face right into his.
He doesn’t deny it. He needs it as much as you.
He hasn’t felt this safe and sound with you in years.
___
You don’t know how long you sit there, laying in each other’s arms, but at one point you manage to get inside the covers. Eventually, the chill of the room on your sweaty skin forces the move. Jason shuffles, pulling the duvet up over your shoulders, his movements now slow and meticulously careful.
He lies there for a long moment, completely still, letting the moment settle around the ruins of where you both stood contrary to each other when the night started.
His breathing is slow, evened out. Yet— he wants to do the unfathomable right now.
"Come on," he murmurs, his voice raw, finally breaking the silence. “Let’s go clean up”
In your sleepy state you protest. Your muscles ache all over in dull little spasms. You want to sleep and stay asleep in Jason’s arms for at least a week.
Your eyes keep shutting, sweet sleep enlacing you under his warm blanket. Jason’s chest is warm, his skin is soft like a feathery pillow and you sink deeper into him as your eyelids finally betray you and shut completely. Sure, cleaning up can wait. Right?
Just fiiiive more minutes.
When your eyes open again Jason is leading you into the adjoined private bath of his bedroom and is already turning on the hot water in the shower. He doesn't bother with the harsh main light, in fear of ruining your sleepiness, relying instead on the soft, dim glow from the hall as steam fills the small space.
He guides you into the stall, stepping in behind you. He finds a bottle of body wash, one that smells so much like him, but is still better on his skin than inside the bottle, working it into a rich lather on a washcloth between his big hands. He takes a moment, simply running the scalding water over your back, letting the heat seep into your tight muscles, softening you up.
You sheepishly moan at the sensation
He starts with your back, washing the sweat and tension from your shoulders and spine, his movements slow and mesmerizing. He works down your body, meticulously cleaning your legs, thighs, and finally, reaching between your legs.
He cups you gently, even if you tremor through it, running the washcloth over the raw, sensitive skin he has so savagely claimed. His eyes are kind as he rinses the last remnants of hot, sweaty sex away from your body, meeting yours briefly—a moment of profound intimacy, acknowledging the space you just shared.
Your lips form a sleepy pout as you go to hold onto his beefy shoulders. A silent plea to get back under warm covers soon.
A dangerous thought crosses him— he loves ruining you on his cock, he’s sure now, but he absolutely hates seeing you this weak.
He takes care of himself quickly, then helps you step out, wrapping you in a thick and very very soft, fuzzy bath towel. He pulls on a pair of loose boxers, ignoring the rest of the discarded tactical gear littering the floor.
He dresses you accordingly. A pair of tighter boxers and a tee that’s just too big for you.
He doesn't let go of your hand until he's settled you back into the warmth of the bed. He climbs in beside you, pulling the covers up to your chin, and immediately gathers your shivering body back into his embrace, pulling you over his chest.
You settle into the familiar contours of his body. The scent of him—smoke, leather has vanished and is replaced now with clean, damp skin, and that ridiculously cheap axe cookie smelling body wash and deodorant—it’s the only anchor you need, really.
He runs his fingers along your spine, tracing lazy, possessive patterns, his movements mesmerizing. His lips find your forehead, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your skin.
You cling to him, burying your face against the hollow of his neck, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart beneath your ear. He is no longer the aggressive dom, but the man holding onto the one thing he feared losing most.
He squeezes you tight, then loosens his grip just enough to tilt your chin up with one finger. He kisses you again, soft this time, a slow exploration that holds all the tenderness the last hour lacked.
___
The light is the first thing that changes. Not the cold, indifferent glow of Gotham filtering through the blinds, but a weak, pale morning sun attempting to break through the perpetual glooming clouds that loom over the city.
You wake slowly, your exhaustion still deep. Your body is a map of all sensations—a dull ache in your hips, a lingering throb in your inner thighs, and the profound, comforting weight of Jason’s arm thrown intimately across your stomach. His head lays perfectly onto your chest, eyes closed still and you hold out a breath as not to wake him.
You shift slightly, testing the security of his hold. His arm tightens instinctively, a low, incoherent rumble vibrating from his chest.
He's not letting go.
You bow your head just enough to study his face. The tension and savage hunger that defined him last night are gone, replaced by a rare, almost startling softness. His expression is too peaceful, his upper lip, bunched and tucked underneath his lower one, his brows smooth, looking closer to the boy you remembered than the brutal man who drove you to your knees hours ago.
Your heart pulls at your chest.
You trace the sharp line of his jaw with one finger, then move to gently brush the hair back from his forehead. The duvet is tangled around your legs, and the cool air hits your bare skin, but the heat emanating from his body is that of a fireplace.
He stirs, his eyes fluttering open.
He doesn't smile, but his hand moves from your stomach to cup the side of your face. He pulls you gently forward and presses a long, slow, sleepy to your lips.
You slightly smile against his lips.
And Jason? Jason doesn't need words right now. No. He tightens his arm around you, burying his face deeper into your chest with a low, satisfied sound. He's clearly drifting back to sleep, content in the knowledge that you are pinned exactly where he wants you. And that he’s the small spoon.
The peace lasts all but thirty seconds.
Then, a loud, rhythmic knocking starts on the bedroom door—heavy, insistent, and totally unapologetic.
Jason’s body instantly tenses beneath you. The peace vanishes, replaced by the familiar, coiled alertness of a predator disturbed. His eyes snap open, cold and annoyed.
"Are you serious," he mutters, the sound is a low, murderous growl from the depths of his chest.
You shift, and Jason immediately tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you back against him.
“Five more minutes,” he growls into your skin, his voice heavy with sleep.
He ignores the knocking completely, settling his chin on you and pulling you even closer, his leg hooking over yours.
“Jayyyyybird”
A cheerful, far-too-loud voice calls through the thick wood of the door “We brought coffee and the good doughnut stuff—the raspberry jelly ones!"
That's Dick.
Seriously, who lets him be in charge when Bruce is out of town?
Jason lets out a long, slow breath—the sight of someone contemplating homicide, while you run your nails in soothing lines across his scalp. He looks up at you, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and resigned apology. He is completely naked, you are completely naked –after a very sleepy, very five am round of sex that got you to remove all clothing he worked so hard to get you in last night– and two of his brothers are standing on the other side of the door.
This is exactly why he hates sleeping at the manor.
“Go away,” he growls, pressing himself further into your chest
“We’re not going away,” Tim speaks from the other side of the door.
"They're not going away," Jason confirms to you, rubbing his thumb along your jaw. He sniffles, pulling the duvet over your shoulders like a fortress wall. "Stay here. Don't move."
He throws himself out of bed, grabbing the first piece of messy, discarded fabric he finds—one of his own boxer briefs—and yanks them on with aggressive speed and a jump. He glances pointedly at the tactical rack where a spare Red Hood helmet hangs, looking like he wants to solve this problem with ballistic speed and force.
He stomps to the door, unlocking the heavy deadbolt with a dramatic, resentful thunk. He yanks the door open, blocking the entryway with his wide, muscular frame. He's shirtless, sweaty, one eye is still drifting with sleep and he’s radiating pure, lethal irritation.
Dick is standing there, bright-eyed and entirely too cheerful, holding a tray with two large coffees and a box of pastries. Tim is beside him, looking perpetually tired and carrying a tablet.
"Good morning, Sunshine," Dick chirps, immediately trying to step sideways to peer past Jason’s hip.
"Don't," Jason growls, his voice low and dangerous. He plants his foot, making himself a solid, immovable barrier between the two idiots and the inside of his room. "The door stays open an inch, and you talk fast."
Tim, ever the detective, ignores the threat and leans around and under Dick's shoulder, eyes narrowed as he tries to scan the interior. He catches sight of the rumpled duvet and the pile of discarded tactical pants near the desk.
"Woah, wait a minute," Tim starts, a tired smirk playing on his lips. "The plan actually worked? Did we interrupt—"
Jason doesn't let him finish, although the confirmation that they set last night up is something he is going to circle back around later. He reaches out, grabs both brothers by the scruffs of their shirts, and physically shoves them back into the hallway.
"The coffee, the food, and then you get the hell out of this wing for the rest of the day" Jason snarls, snatching the tray from Dick's hands before the former Robin can even protest. He sets the tray just inside the doorframe, still blocking the view of the bed. "Take your damn selves away and go debrief Bruce."
“Whoah, a simple thank you wouldn’t hurt” Tim broods, fixing the collar of his shirt. “If Bruce comes back and finds his security protocols compromised and his cave locked, we’re dead. Be glad I set everything back to normal.”
“Fuck oooooffffffff” Jason whines.
"Come on Dick, they had hate sex and are now dead from exhaustion!"
“Scram Drake. We’re busy doing it again.”
Dick laughs, utterly unapologetic. "Okay, okay! Message received! Just needed to confirm the trajectory of the mission!" He winks hugely at the obscured room.
Jason’s face darkens. He slams the door, the deadbolt locking with a decisive, final clack, cutting off the rest of their smug laughter.
He leans against the wood for a moment, letting out a heavy sigh that holds the weight of his irritating family lurking around the worst moments. He turns around, looking back at the safe harbor of the rumpled bed and your still resting form. Yeah, that sets him back on track.
He picks up the tray, grabbing both mugs of coffee but pointedly ignoring the box of jelly doughnuts. He stomps back to the bed and climbs under the covers, pulling the thick duvet covers back over both of you.
He shoves one mug into your hand, settling his large body comfortably against the pillows. He looks supremely annoyed, but the hand he rests on your hip is loose, possessive.
You kiss his collarbone in hopes of softening him a little.
He shrugs and you look at him with big, blown eyes, "At least we have breakfast."