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The tile’s cold under your feet as you pad quietly towards the living room, skin damp enough still that the worn cotton of your pajamas clings awkwardly to it as you walk. Jason’s eyes flick to you once, a sharp glance over the top of his book, but he does not comment on your approach otherwise. He’s laid up across the couch, making a valiant effort at fitting in and mostly achieving it: feet thrown over an armrest, head propped against the other in a painfully odd angle that the little throw pillow he’d shoved under his neck couldn’t possibly alleviate. It’s got to hurt. He’s an old man before his time, tender to discomfort ‘cause it’s an old companion, though it shouldn’t be. You know better than to fight about it. It’s his neck. If he wants it to hurt, let him. At least all his elbows are within perimeter.
Nice and clean, he lies there in the dying light, having taken the first shower. He’s worn his Knights shirt, in their summer colors, and the pair of red shorts he can’t wear outside the apartment without flashing somebody. Not that, you think, everyone would mind. You don’t. Can see the outline of him, a soft swell against his leg. His shirt has ridden up, bunched up at his back where he threw himself on the couch and didn’t bother to adjust for decency. Now you see it all: the hard line of his waist, the jut of his hipbone, the thick hair down the swell of his belly. He’s so big like that, all laid up in soft curves and graceless angles. Nice and clean in his little red shorts, making those poor seams cry at all the straining he puts ‘em through.
Waiting.
You flick the sole of his foot with your middle finger. Bastard doesn’t even flinch. His toes curl up a little, though.
He turns the page. “Nice shower?”
“Your big ass used up all the hot water,” you say, and pinch his ankle in retribution. “Scram.”
“I fucking got here first,” he sneers, but he folds his legs up for you to sit. The hem of his shorts slips down, but only a bit, caught in the thick of his thigh.
You sit, and then gather his legs over your lap. He has to bend his knees up a little, and turn his hips to the side to better accommodate you, but he does it without complaint. You put your feet up over the coffee table, though, and he clicks his tongue at you. Baby, we got this at a flea market. The things he gets all prim and proper about, honestly. Mind you, were this Dick’s table, he’d be lugging his nasty gear boots right on top, muck and all. You ignore him, slide down on the cushion a little until you’re comfortable. Hold onto his calves for support and then rest your hand there, wrapped around the meat of it, hard muscle solid under soft skin.
Throwing your head back over the back of the couch, eyes closed, you start tracing the smattering of scars that litter his legs, following the raised skin here and there, down and back up again. Jason doesn’t protest. The silence stretches, placid and long, sinking into the afternoon with nary an interruption. The clock ticks in the kitchen. The pages drag against one another as he reads on. Your breathing echoes his, clear and steady. In and out. In and out. Fingers on his skin.
Your thumb brushes the back of his knee, and the rhythm breaks with his soft gasp.
“Thought you came here to nap,” he grumbles.
You open your eyes and turn your face towards him without raising your head. “I’m not sleepy,” you say. Not at all, in fact.
He raises an eyebrow at you. “So what? You’re just gonna sit there and play nice in silence?”
A smile slowly unfurls in your face. “I can play with you, baby, I’m just not sure about nice.”
Jason drops his book to his chest and huffs. “I fucking knew it. I saw you stalking towards me from the hallway like some sort of—fuck, I don’t know, a tiger or some shit.”
“It’s not my fault you’re hot,” you laugh, bending over to press a kiss to his knee, fingers curling around the underside. Unable to help yourself, you nip at the flesh of his thigh right above it, gentle. You rest your cheek against his knee, and gaze at him.
Jason runs a hand through his hair, looking conflicted. “We just showered,” he complains. The tuft of white hair pokes out between his fingers. His other hand drums on the spine of the book. “Edgar is about to banish Heathcliff.”
“Fuck Heathcliff.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “All this time and I can’t get you to appreciate the true value of classic literature.”
“You can keep reading.” You shrug one shoulder. “I just wanted to suck you off.”
Jason groans, throwing his head back over the armrest. “Like hell I can,” he mutters, burying his face in his hands. The book slides down his chest and clatters to the floor unceremoniously. Jason pays it no mind. It’s clear to see why. He’s already half-hard from all the petting, his dick more noticeable under the red fabric. If you craned your head, you could probably see the tip poking out. You poke your tongue at the inside of your mouth, trying not to make it too obvious that your mouth is watering. You fail, and probably miserably, considering Jason’s sharp eyes are turned on you, dark and serious, when you glance back at him.
“C’mere,” he says, reaching out towards you, and you shift on your hips to crawl up his body, slotting yourself between his legs.
Jason catches your mouth halfway, a hand on the back of your head. You brace yourself on his chest and on the slope of the armrest as you kiss him, nip at his lip and eat up the soft sigh he breathes into your mouth. It’s so immediate with him, the way you go from zero to a hundred. He sneaks under your skin, an ache, a hunger to satiate. Kiss him deep, open-mouthed, filthy, pressed against the cushion, heart rabbiting under your hand. Engulf him, eat him. He was correct: for him, you are an animal.
He breaks off the kiss, then turns his face to the side to pant. You press a kiss to his jaw, his hot breath in your ear all you can hear. The hand on your head smooths down your hair, heavy the way all his bones are heavy, and then he catches your mouth again. Softer now, more languid, not a single kiss but a stream of them, one after the other, interrupting the former with the beginning of the next. It’s sweet. He’s sweet.
Jason presses his forehead to yours, holds you there for a moment. You try to catch your breath, but unlike him, you do not close your eyes. He’s too beautiful to miss out on. His eyelashes sweep over blushing cheeks, his lips red and puffy where you bit him. A long scar curves under his left eye, swoops over the cheekbone and ends, crooked, around the corner of his mouth. Your heart throbs inside your ribcage, that stuttering rhythm tinged in dread. Such violence has been wrought upon him. What can you do to help him? How can you touch him so that he knows he can be touched, without the pain, without apology? Where to touch, what to do? How to let his body know it’s not made to be a war zone?
At a loss, all you can do is raise a hand to cup his cheek, brush your fingers against his jaw. He settles into the touch, always starved for it. A soft sigh escapes his lips, content, charged. You kiss his cheek and prop yourself up on your elbow. He thumbs at your waist, and then nods. Another kiss, slow and sweet, grateful, because you can’t help yourself. Jason relaxes into your mouth, underneath your wandering hands. Slides down the couch, neck resting marginally more comfortably on that throw pillow.
You kiss down his jaw, lick at his collarbone. He’s quiet, exhaling slowly. When you push his shirt up and tell him to hold it there, he grasps it with stiff fingers. His chest distends under your mouth and you are suddenly struck with this intimate awareness of his living, his being right there, warm and breathing and alive underneath you. His skin is clean and sweet tasting, and he smells like his big bottle of lotion, milk and honey and wheat. You chance a bite on the side of his pectoral, gentle still, and are regaled with taste and sound and feeling: skin under your teeth, his ribs moving as he shifts, a soft gasp caught in his throat.
Jason’s eyebrows are drawn together, eyes closed, when you glance up at him. A hand fisted in his hair, the other one still holding up his shirt. The first time you did this for him this way—the first time it mattered, when it wasn’t just Red Hood in an alleyway looking for release, but Jason, your Jason, writhing underneath you—he barely looked at you. Couldn’t muster up the courage somehow. Sometimes he gets in this slow mood, caught up in himself, sweet and tender and so willing, and you feel the enormity of your responsibility not to break this fragile trust settle upon you, like a mantle of your own. It must show on your eyes, how you feel about it.
You mouth down his torso, sliding down the couch as you go along. The smell of him grows thicker the further down you go and your mouth waters just thinking about him in it. You dig your fingers on the waistband of his shorts, pulling them down a little, so you can nose at the thick hair poking out, suck a bruise where the swell of his belly connects to his groin. Jason groans, and he squirms, seeking friction, but you hold him steady with a hand. The armrest bumps into your butt way before you expect it to, and you just get down on the floor instead of trying to arrange Jason’s legs to fit you in. The tile’s hard under your knees, and Jason cracks open an eye when he hears you hit the hard surface, but you pay him no mind, hands on his thighs, spreading them apart.
“Look at you,” you say reverently.
Jason throws an arm over his face, muttering something against the crook of his elbow.
“What was that?” You say, sliding a hand up his inner thigh. It’s so hot between his legs. You push the legs of his shorts up as far as they’ll go, and watch his cock caught in the fabric, thick as anything and already soaking through the layers. Jason shifts his hips, trying to press himself against the side of your hand, and you take pity on him, start palming him over the fabric. His cock jumps at the contact, the little patch on his shorts growing darker as you slide your palm over him. He’s so wet, Jason, every time you touch him, leaking almost as soon as you set hands on him, spurts so much cum it’s a little astounding. It didn’t always used to be so, he says, but it must’ve changed after he came back to life. You make it worse, he’d accused once, like you’d ever feel bad about that.
“I said,” he huffs, "you don’t have to look so damn excited.”
“But I am,” you say, feeling an emptiness in your gut that can only be called hunger. You meant to be slower, take your time prying him apart, but—“I just want you so much.”
You lean over to suck at the wet patch on his shorts, lips catching the head of his cock through the layers of fabric, and Jason curses up a storm in surprise.
“Baby,” he whines, which might as well be hurry.
You hook your fingers on the waistband of his shorts and pull them down, dragging the underwear along. Jason snorts when you slide them off his legs entirely, but he moves where you want him to move, stretches one leg long over the couch at the tap of a knee, calf hooked around the swoop of the armrest, the other leg braced on the floor beside you. His cock bobs up when he repositions himself on the couch, smacks against the side of his leg, and you lick your lips in anticipation.
“I love those shorts, you know,” you say, conversationally, kissing down the inside of his thigh. The hardy muscle flexes when your teeth scrape the skin and a thrill rushes through you. You bite down, harder than usual, and Jason’s groan turns into a moan as you lick the wound, tongue flat against the mark of teeth. I’ll eat you whole, Jason, you think. Watch out.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbles in response, breath shaking as you get closer to his dick, sucking and biting and kissing the reddened skin better as you go. He shivers, drags a hand up his abdomen and rests it over his heart. Bet he can feel your hot breath ghosting over his balls, brushing up his shaft.
God, and it’s a good cock too. Thicker than any you’ve seen before, looking plump and full and ready. It sits straight between strong legs, in a bed of dark hair, waiting for you. You’ve had it in your mouth several times before and it’s still as thrilling as the first time you knelt before him, looking up through your eyelashes as you nuzzled up against his leg, hot breath clouding the sharp midnight air. Pre-cum beads on the tip, and you dip your head forward to catch a taste, wrapping a hand on the base.
“Yes,” you groan. Just what you wanted.
“Ah, fuck,” he curses, squirming again.
“Jason,” you chastise, pushing down on his hips, but it comes out garbled on account of the dick in your mouth.
Jason makes a little noise which could possibly be another curse or an aborted moan, but he keeps himself valiantly still even when you swirl the head of his cock in your mouth, enjoying the taste. Your hand strokes up the shaft, not too firmly just yet. Getting reacquainted. Jason’s dick’s not the sort you can just take into your mouth without a little adjusting, not unless you wanna choke, and you’re not there just yet. You pop off just to lick where your hand is stroking, and let go of his hips to fondle his balls. Jason exhales harshly, hips buckling, and his dick slides across your cheek, trailing pre-cum as it goes.
“Shit,” he breathes. “Sorry.”
You shake your head in quiet apology, and brace yourself on his knee to actually take him in your mouth properly. Working your jaw, you slide down his cock, slowly, trying to adjust to the girth of him. If he wasn’t so burly, you could be faster, but as it is, you breath through your nose and take him as far as you can go, little by little, until your nose hits the wiry hair at the base. Spit gathers at the edges of your mouth, dribbling. He sits far enough down your throat that it skirts the edge of uncomfortable, and when you swallow involuntarily, throat working around him, you feel him throb.
“Shit,” he repeats. His hand buries in your hair, but his touch is featherlight.“Shit.”
Slowly, you come back up, the drag of him out of your mouth an incomparable experience. Nothing else measures up to the weight of him in your mouth, the smell of him so strong, his thighs around your head. Except maybe getting fucked by him. That you like a lot.
Jason’s dick is not the sort you can deep throat like that so suddenly, not without hurting your throat, so you go back to lavishing the head with attention, and stroking him with your hand. Take him back in your mouth halfway, bobbing up and down, setting a punishing rhythm while he writhes underneath you. In the silence of the living room, all you can hear is the squelching of your spit and his ragged breathing.
He falls apart so beautifully, deep shivers that wrack his whole body, groans that turn into moans. He makes you wanna want him forever, more and more and more. Every sound he makes you want to hear it again, draw it out, make him sob. You spread his legs further apart and get a hand between his asscheeks. The lube—there’s no lube here, it’s on the other room, and you’re not prying yourself off his dick to come get it, not when you’ve managed to get him moaning so beautifully, pulsing in your throat when you sink down all the way, his hand fisted on your hair. So you just circle the rim of muscle, finger wet on the mix of your spit and his pre dribbling down your chin, and rub at it. Jason cries out, and clenches around nothing, and you feel heady with the want, thinking soon, soon, in just a minute. I’ll give you want you want, baby, anything you want.
He’s coming forward, bending over your head, driving his cock deeper down your throat, and you think, yes, that’s fine, I can take it. Don’t know if you whisper it, if you try, if it sounds like anything at all, because then Jason’s hand closes around your shoulder and he’s pushing you off him, and you think, dazed, no, I wasn’t done. I want more as his cock slips out of your mouth and hot cum spurts out right on your face. Some of it lands on your shirt, but most of it’s on your cheeks, your mouth. God, he cums so much. Jason pants above you, hand on the base of his cock, and he only hisses when you go back and suckle out the last bit of cum that spurts out.
“Stop,” he slurs, drawing in big breaths. “‘s too much.”
You pull away, blinking. Jason hangs his head over you, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath. You rest your forehead against his knee, lift a hand to wipe the cum off your brow before it can get in your eye. Glancing up at him to make sure his eyes are still closed, you smear it surreptitiously on his red shorts. The tile is still hard and cold underneath you, and your knees are already hurting, but you sit back in your haunches with a beating heart and a great amount of satisfaction.
Jason opens his eyes slowly and observes you for a moment. His hand comes up your throat, stroking gently, feeling the way it moves as you swallow. Then his fingers come up to grab your chin, index and thumb. You gaze back expectantly, waiting for what he has to say, feeling your belly thrum with excitement when his eyes flick all over your face, still dark, still hungry. He likes this, you can tell. His cum drying on your face, beginning to itch. His tongue slips out to wet his lips, and you wonder if begging for a kiss is too pathetic.
“You just washed your face,” he chastises, stroking at your chin, though there’s no real reproach. You shrug a shoulder haughtily, and he shakes his head, smiling. “C’mon,” he says, patting your dirty cheek. “Let’s see if you can make it to the bedroom for round two.”
Your eyes flick to the discarded book on the floor, eyebrows up in disdain. “What about Heathcliff?”
Jason leans over to press a kiss on your mouth. “Baby,” he says against your lips, “fuck Heathcliff.”