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Wayne Manor was too warm.
Not temperature-wise—it was Gotham autumn, crisp and cloudy, with the windows cracked open just enough to let in cool air and the scent of rain. But inside the main briefing room, Tim felt like the oxygen had been siphoned out and replaced with heat.
Jason was talking.
Not that Tim could focus on what he was saying—something about the drug route through the Narrows and the traffic pattern shift that happened after last week’s bust. His voice was low and rough, like gravel over smoke, and his posture was relaxed in a way that made Tim deeply suspicious the man wasn’t even aware of the effect he had on people.
And then he did it.
The thing.
Tongue flicked out, fast and unconscious, dragging across the lower curve of his mouth. Just a swipe. Just a moment. But it lingered—the pink tip skimming the faint line of a scar just left of centre on his bottom lip.
Tim’s stomach dropped like he’d been pushed off a building.
He knew about the scar—of course he did. He noticed it months ago, maybe longer, filed it away as one of the dozens of small things he remembered about Jason without ever meaning to. A pale, clean cut that bisected the fullness of his bottom lip like a quiet insult. Faint now, almost invisible unless you were looking for it.
Tim was always looking for it.
Jason licked across it again, frowning at the maps on the table. “—So if we take out the supplier on Forty-Second, the secondary line collapses. We’ll need to reroute surveillance from—Tim?”
Tim blinked. He had no idea what had just been said.
Dick turned toward him, one eyebrow arched, like he was waiting for this. “You good, Timbo?”
“Fine,” Tim said immediately. Too fast. He cleared his throat and straightened his spine, forcing his gaze anywhere but Jason’s mouth. “Just—thinking.”
Jason smirked, leaning his forearms on the table and making every line of muscle in his biceps flex. “That’d be a first.”
Tim shot him a look that was 40% irritation, 60% damage control. It didn’t help that Jason looked very pleased with himself.
And then, because he’s evil, Jason licked the scar again. Not intentionally seductive—just casual, like he was wetting his lips—but Tim’s brain short-circuited anyway.
Every cell in his body screamed: unfair.
Dick, of course, noticed. He always noticed.
He leaned closer and stage-whispered, “You’re staring again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Tim gritted his teeth. “No, I’m not.”
Dick shot a glance at Jason—who was now flipping through a digital blueprint with absolutely zero idea that he was currently the lead in every single one of Tim’s spiraling intrusive thoughts.
“Okay,” Dick said breezily. “Just saying. If you were, I’d suggest keeping it subtle. Before you start drooling.”
Tim clenched his jaw so tight he gave himself a headache.
Jason stretched, shifting in his chair with a small sigh—and his tongue, again, swept across that damn scar, unthinking and instinctive. Tim felt the moment like a physical impact.
It was so unfair that someone like Jason—armed to the teeth, all deadly grace and casual menace—could also look so utterly unguarded in a moment like that. Like he didn’t even know how magnetic he was. Like he didn’t know Tim had been staring at his mouth during briefings for two months and counting.
Dick elbowed him. “You're sweating.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” Dick whispered. “God, just climb him already.”
Tim hissed, “Shut up,” without moving his lips, face burning.
Jason looked up. “What?”
Dick smiled with perfect innocence. “Nothing. We were just talking about...strategic penetration.”
Tim made a noise that could only be described as a strangled choke and shoved his chair back.
“I need coffee,” he said, standing too fast. “And a new family.”
Jason blinked. “Cool. Can you bring me some of that first one?”
Tim fled the room.
Behind him, he heard Dick’s quiet laugh and Jason muttering, “What’s his problem?”
When Tim hands Jason his coffee (in Tim's favourite mug), Jason licks his lip again.
Tim doesn’t mean to look. He tells himself not to look. But his eyes snap down like there’s a magnet under Jason’s skin, and that scar—that pale, barely-there scar—is glowing like a neon sign.
It’s so stupid. It shouldn’t do this to him. It’s a sliver of tissue. A healed wound. Jason probably got it from a bar fight or a mission or a childhood punch that went too far. He probably doesn’t even remember it.
But Tim does. Tim remembers everything.
He remembers the first time he noticed it—months ago, when Jason was peeling off his helmet after a mission. The sweat had made his hair curl, and the blood on his cheek had already dried into a crusted smear, and Tim—exhausted, bruised, aching—had glanced at him and seen it.
A line. A whisper. Just beneath his bottom lip.
It should have been unremarkable. It wasn’t.
Jason had licked over it without thinking. And that had been it. That was the moment. Like a pin pulled from a grenade.
Because now Tim can’t unsee it. Every time Jason’s mouth moves, every time his tongue drags casually across that scar like it’s nothing—it ruins him. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, in the way his fingers twitch against the table, in the tightening coil of heat that snaps up his spine every time Jason makes that tiny, unconscious gesture.
He’s so fucked.
He knows it. He knows it.
He can track enemy data networks blindfolded, lead four simultaneous surveillance operations across state lines, and name every single toxin used by the League in the last twenty years—but he can’t stop staring at Jason Todd’s fucking mouth.
It’s not even the whole mouth. It’s the scar. The goddamn scar.
The worst part is that it’s not just about how it looks—though that’s bad enough. It’s the idea of it. The texture of it. Tim’s imagined kissing that scar so many times he could probably paint it from memory.
He’s imagined feeling it under his mouth, under his tongue. Imagined what Jason would sound like if Tim bit it. What his breath would do if Tim licked it the way Jason always does—slow, teasing, just enough to make his lips part and his breath catch—
Stop.
Tim clenches his fists under the table. Focus.
Jason is talking. Jason is right there, explaining something. His voice is rough. Deep. And he’s gesturing to a heat map—something about route collapse and blockades—and Tim is trying, really trying, to listen.
But Jason just licked his lip again, and Tim sees it out of the corner of his eye like a trap going off.
Scar. Tongue. Heat.
It feels like a goddamn conditioned response at this point. Pavlov’s dog, but make it horny and desperate and so much worse because Tim can’t even admit it out loud. Can’t even think about what it would mean if he acted on it.
He imagines grabbing Jason by the collar and dragging him forward, sealing his mouth over that scar and hearing Jason’s breath hitch, just a little.
He imagines Jason freezing up, blinking at him like he’s lost his mind, and Tim saying something unhinged like You’ve been driving me insane for months. Either stop licking it or let me do it for you.
Tim exhales. Long. Quiet. Controlled.
Dick is watching him again. He can feel it. That big-brother sense of “you’re being weird and I’m going to enjoy this” is radiating off him like heat off asphalt. Of course Dick’s noticed. Dick notices everything.
He wants to slide under the table and die. Or throw something. Or kiss Jason so hard that scar goes red again.
Tim grits his teeth.
He can survive this. He has to survive this. Jason’s just a guy. A guy with a mouth. A very distracting, rough-mouthed, probably-soft-everywhere-else guy who licks his bottom lip exactly like that while explaining drug routes—
Oh god.
Wayne Manor’s kitchen is usually a safe space.
At least for Tim.
He likes the quiet hum of the fridge, the echo of footsteps across tile, the steady comfort of Alfred’s labels and clean lines. Even now, mid-morning with rain misting against the windows, there’s a kind of peace in the quiet. Order. Control.
Then Jason walks in, shirtless, eating a peach.
And Tim remembers what it feels like to go completely insane.
Jason doesn’t see him at first. He’s barefoot, sweatpants slung so low they should be illegal in at least three states, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck. He opens the fridge, leans in, rummages with one hand—still holding the peach in the other—and Tim stares like a deer caught in an eighteen-wheeler’s headlights.
Jason takes a bite. Loud. Messy. The peach gives way with a soft pop of skin and a squelch of juice, which runs down the side of his wrist, bright and sticky.
Tim swallows hard.
Jason catches the drip before it hits his elbow—tongue out, lapping up the juice in one slow stroke up the underside of his forearm.
Tim makes a sound. A real sound. A soft, startled, wounded exhale that slips through his teeth before he can stop it.
Jason turns.
“Morning,” he says, easy, like he isn’t actively committing war crimes with fruit. “Didn’t know anyone was up.”
Tim’s mouth is dry. “I—yeah. I was, uh. Just. Coffee.”
Jason nods and leans against the counter.
The kitchen light catches him just right—muscle, scars, glinting moisture on his collarbone. The peach glows in his hand like some kind of divine temptation. And then, of course, he lifts it for another bite—lips plush, parting just slightly, tongue curling to taste it.
And he licks the scar.
It’s thoughtless. Automatic. He drags his tongue across the line of that bottom-lip scar, catching the juice before it falls.
Tim nearly blacks out.
Because now it’s glossed, that scar—shiny and golden and glistening with peach nectar. And Tim’s first thought—his first—is what it would taste like if he kissed it right now.
What it would feel like to press his mouth to Jason’s lip and lick that juice clean. What Jason would sound like if Tim sucked on the scar until his knees gave out. What Jason would do if Tim pushed him against the counter and—
“Control yourself, Drake.”
Tim startles so hard he almost spills his coffee.
Damian is in the doorway, arms crossed, expression equal parts disgust and mild alarm, like he’s walked in on a nature documentary gone feral.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Damian says flatly. “You’ve been staring at Todd’s mouth like it owes you money. Or a blowjob.”
Jason chokes on his peach.
Tim wants to die.
“Jesus,” Jason coughs, thumping his chest. “What?”
Tim covers his face with his hand.
Damian looks utterly unfazed. “You are not subtle. And you haven’t been for weeks.”
“Okay, first of all,” Jason says, regaining composure and wiping peach juice off his mouth with the back of his hand—not helping—“what are we talking about?”
Tim opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I need to leave.”
Damian makes a face like he’s been vindicated and betrayed all at once. “Finally.”
Jason looks between them, still confused, scarred lip shining. “Did I miss something?”
Tim mutters something about patrol, books it from the kitchen like it’s on fire, and doesn’t stop until he’s locked in his room, forehead pressed to the wall, breathing like he just ran a marathon.
His hands are shaking.
He presses his thumb to his own bottom lip.
Not the same.
Not even close.
He groans softly, banging his head against the wall.
Jason fucking Todd is going to kill him. Or he’s going to die trying not to kiss the goddamn scar that’s driving him out of his mind.
The warehouse is supposed to be quiet.
Simple recon. In. Out. No fireworks.
But Gotham is allergic to simple.
Tim hisses through his teeth as a bullet grazes his shoulder—more surprise than damage, but enough to jolt him sideways behind a rusted shipping container. He lands hard, shoulder screaming, comms crackling.
“Red?” Jason’s voice. Sharp. Low. Concern wrapped in steel.
“I’m hit. Just grazed.” Tim breathes through it. “South wall. Three hostiles left.”
“I’m coming to you.”
“Negative—”
But Jason is already moving.
Seconds later, Jason slides in beside him like a force of nature, gun in one hand, the other arm bracing him. His mask is off—of course it is, because Red Hood’s whole brand is dramatic posturing and visible jawlines—and his eyes sweep over Tim like he’s checking for holes.
“Let me see,” Jason says, already pulling back the torn fabric.
Tim swallows. Nods.
It’s nothing. Skin split, blood trailing, but nothing urgent. Jason presses gauze to it, steady and efficient, brows drawn. His hands are warm, even through gloves.
“Not deep,” Jason mutters. “You’ll live.”
“Lucky me,” Tim says, a little breathless. “Again.”
Jason snorts softly and glances up, exasperated—and then, without thinking, his tongue flicks across his lip.
Tim watches it happen in slow motion.
The scar. That soft, pale scar. Jason licks it—once, quick, automatic—like he always does when he’s thinking too fast or not at all.
And Tim breaks.
A sound slips out. Guttural. Barely a moan, but not not a moan.
Jason freezes.
His gaze snaps to Tim’s face, eyes sharp and wide.
“…What was that?”
Tim’s mouth opens. Closes. The pain, the adrenaline, the heat, it all coils together, and he can’t stop it now.
“It’s your scar.”
Jason blinks. “What?”
“Your—” Tim drags a shaky hand through his hair, eyes locked on Jason’s mouth. “The scar. On your lip. You keep licking it and I can’t—I can’t.”
Jason is silent.
Tim wants the floor to swallow him whole. He wants to backpedal, laugh it off, get up and run into enemy fire if it means escaping this moment.
But Jason’s still staring.
Slowly—so slowly—Jason raises two fingers and touches the scar. His expression goes unreadable.
“This?” he says, voice low. He drags his thumb across it. Licks it again. “This is what’s been driving you crazy?”
Tim’s pulse pounds in his ears. He nods once. Shaky.
Jason’s eyes darken.
“Well,” Jason says, voice suddenly rougher. “Shit.”
Two days.
It’s been two days since the mission.
Two days since Jason licked that scar, and Tim moaned like it meant something. Since Jason touched his mouth and looked at him like he knew.
And now Jason’s at Tim’s apartment. Uninvited. Standing in the doorway like sin incarnate—leaning in the frame, leather jacket open over a plain black shirt, rain in his hair, and that scar just barely visible under the dim light.
Tim feels the tension snap in his jaw.
“I could’ve been busy,” Tim says, sharp and brittle.
Jason shrugs. “Thought I’d take the risk.”
He steps inside, closes the door behind him, and gives Tim a long look—half challenge, half invitation.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.
Tim turns away, pacing toward the living room. “I’ve been working.”
“You moaned.”
Tim freezes.
Jason’s voice is quieter now, almost amused. “On patrol. When I licked my lip. You moaned, Tim. Then ran. I feel like we should talk about that.”
“I don’t want to talk,” Tim says, turning back—and Jason’s still too calm, still standing there like this isn’t driving him insane.
Tim steps closer. Then closer.
Jason watches him, but doesn’t move.
Tim’s voice drops. “You don’t get it, do you?”
Jason raises a brow. “Try me.”
Tim breathes in. His hands flex at his sides. “You’ve been walking around for months licking that scar like it’s nothing. Like it’s just—just a reflex. You have no idea what it does to me.”
Jason’s breath hitches. Just slightly.
“You want to know what I see?” Tim says, stepping in until there’s barely a foot of space between them. “I see your mouth. All the time. I see your tongue drag across that line like you’re trying to kill me. I dream about it. I fantasise about it.”
He leans in, lips just shy of Jason’s ear. “I think about pinning you down and tasting it until you beg.”
Jason shudders.
“You want to tease me, Jason?” Tim growls. “Then I hope you’re ready for what happens when I stop holding back.”
Jason barely breathes, voice rough. “Then stop.”
That’s all Tim needs.
The kiss is instant and feral.
Tim shoves Jason against the wall, hands on his jaw, mouth crashing down—target locked. Jason gasps, and Tim doesn’t hesitate. He licks across the scar once, deliberately, then bites it, just enough to make Jason’s hips jerk forward.
Jason groans. “Holy fuck—”
“You’ve been begging for this,” Tim mutters, lips trailing fire along Jason’s jaw. “You just didn’t know it.”
“I—I knew,” Jason pants. “God, I knew something—Tim—fuck—”
Tim grabs his wrists, pins them above his head. Jason goes pliant instantly, eyes wide and stunned, and so into it.
“Keep your hands there,” Tim says.
Jason nods fast. “Yes.”
Tim kisses him again, slower now but no less intense—tongue tracing the edge of that scar with reverence and hunger all tangled together. Jason moans into it, thighs pressing together, every muscle trembling.
“You look so good like this,” Tim says hoarsely. “Letting me have you.”
Jason whimpers.
Tim lifts him onto the kitchen counter like he weighs nothing. Jason’s legs wrap around his waist automatically. Tim slides his hands under Jason’s shirt, rough palms dragging over warm, scarred skin.
“You’re mine tonight,” Tim whispers. “That okay?”
Jason nods, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck. Yes.”
What follows is heat, sweat, breathless desperation.
Tim fucks him like he’s making a point.
Every kiss goes back to that scar. Every touch is a demand: You wanted this. You licked your lip, and now you’re mine. Jason takes it with a kind of wild surrender—hands gripping the counter, head thrown back, begging without words.
And when Tim comes, it’s with his mouth on that scar, licking it clean like it’s the last tether to reality.
Later, Jason’s limp and flushed and laughing softly.
“I’m never eating fruit in your presence again.”
Tim groans. “Don’t say that.”
Jason grins, and slowly, lazily, licks the scar.
Tim tackles him back onto the couch.
Tim walks into the manor kitchen like nothing’s changed.
Which is stupid. Everything’s changed.
His skin still smells like Jason. His knees are a little shaky. His mouth is sore from kissing, biting, licking—that scar. His shirt is inside-out. He realises this just as he rounds the corner and sees everyone.
Jason, of course, is already there.
Seated at the counter, coffee in one hand, smugness practically radiating off him. He’s got a fresh hickey blooming under his jaw, and his bottom lip is visibly swollen.
The scar is glossier than usual.
He licked it before Tim walked in.
Bastard.
Dick is the first to react.
“Morning, lovebirds.”
Tim freezes. “What—”
Cass signs from the corner, expression innocent: Congratulations. You finally bit it.
“Won it,” Steph corrects, grinning like a maniac and holding out her hand. “Pay up, suckers.”
Duke groans and tosses her a twenty. “You said it would happen in the kitchen. That’s cheating.”
“I said it would happen because of the kitchen,” she counters. “That peach was a turning point.”
Damian looks up from the kitchen table, revolted. “You’re all disgusting.”
“You’re just mad I was right,” Steph says sweetly.
“I’m mad he moaned on patrol,” Damian mutters. “Do you know how hard it is to ignore a teammate’s orgasmic outburst while trying to snipe a drug dealer?”
Jason chokes on his coffee.
Tim turns scarlet.
“You moaned?” Steph says, eyes wide. “Like—out loud?”
“It wasn’t—” Tim glares at Jason. “It was his fault.”
“I did nothing,” Jason says, completely unconvincing, licking his bottom lip again and letting his tongue linger.
Tim nearly short-circuits.
“See?” Steph crows. “That. That right there. That’s the scar thing!”
“What scar thing?” Duke asks.
“Oh my god,” Steph says, spinning around and dragging Duke in by the sleeve. “Zoom. Enhance. Look at his mouth.”
Duke squints. “Wait. Is that a scar?”
“Yes!” Steph says triumphantly. “And Tim has been obsessed with it for like three months. Every time Jason licked it, he got this look on his face—like someone just punched him in the spine and kissed his neck at the same time.”
Cass nods solemnly.
“I hate you all,” Tim says weakly.
“You’re welcome,” Dick says. “We’re just happy you’re finally getting laid.”
“I am not,” Damian mutters.
Jason stretches and yawns—purposefully, Tim is sure—tongue curling across that goddamn scar as he speaks. “Anyway, Red, you coming with me on tonight’s patrol, or are you too distracted by my mouth?”
Tim makes a strangled noise.
Duke bursts out laughing. “Oh my god. He’s weaponising it.”
“Yup,” Steph says proudly. “ScarPlay™. Live and in the kitchen.”
Jason winks. “It’s a power move.”
Tim turns, face red, and says only, “We’re leaving. Now.”
Jason hops off the stool, slaps Tim’s ass on the way out, and licks the scar again over his shoulder with deliberate slowness.
Tim follows him out like a man walking to his own execution.
Behind them, Steph claps her hands.
“I love love.”
Midnight over the Bowery.
The air smells like gasoline and wet concrete, and the wind cuts hard across the rooftop, snapping Tim’s cape behind him. Below, a gang exchange is unfolding—sloppy, loud, and so, so easy to manipulate. A distraction op. Routine.
Or it should be.
Tim is crouched behind a rusted vent, binoculars up, earpiece live. Focused. Professional. Until he glances sideways and sees Jason watching the scene with a relaxed lean and a glint in his eye.
He’s got the helmet off.
The hood is still up, shadows his face just enough to blur the edges of his mouth—but not enough to hide what he does next.
Jason licks his lip.
No. No, not just the lip.
The scar.
The fucking scar.
Tim’s pupils dilate so fast it makes him dizzy.
It’s a slow drag of tongue, thoughtful and unhurried. Jason’s watching the gang leader gesture wildly, but his tongue swipes across that pale slash like it’s a nervous habit—except it’s not. Not now.
Because Jason turns his head just slightly and smirks.
He’s doing it on purpose.
Tim’s brain short-circuits.
“Don’t,” he hisses into the comm.
Jason turns off his mic.
Tim lunges.
They crash into the gravel soundlessly—Red Hood pinned flat beneath Red Robin, both of them shadowed by the low moon and the edge of a broken billboard. Jason’s breath escapes him in a quiet grunt, but he doesn’t fight it. His hands go up in mock surrender.
“Well,” he whispers. “Didn’t know you were that close.”
“Don’t test me,” Tim growls, nose brushing Jason’s. “I am one scar-lick away from unzipping this suit with my teeth.”
Jason’s eyes darken. “You say that like it’s a threat.”
“I’m serious.”
“I hope you’re serious.”
Tim straddles his hips, presses down just enough to make Jason gasp. “We’re on a rooftop,” he hisses. “You are in full gear. I’m in full gear. You’re not even wearing a damn undershirt under that kevlar, are you?”
Jason grins. “Would it help if I said no?”
Tim exhales slowly, shuddering.
Then Jason does it again—just a flick of his tongue over the scar, subtle, maddening.
Tim kisses him.
Hard.
Rough.
No comms. No masks. Just fury and heat and two breaths slamming together like they’ve been waiting all night to break.
“Five minutes,” Jason pants against his mouth.
Tim growls. “You’re lucky we’re not directly above a crime scene right now.”
Jason bites back a laugh. “Gotta keep things interesting.”
Tim stares at the scar. Then his lips. Then the scar again.
He gets up with a curse. “Stay on comms. Don’t lick your mouth.”
Jason sighs and sits up, still smug. “Gonna be a long mission.”
Tim adjusts his belt, glares at him, and disappears back into the shadows.
From behind him, Jason whispers into the comm:
“Still tasted like peach.”