Work Text:
HIS FAVOURITE DISTRACTION
Jason was stretched out on the couch in nothing but a soft black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower and curling a little at the ends. One long leg was bent, the other stretched out, a worn paperback open in his big hands. The late-afternoon light caught the strong line of his shoulders and the way the fabric clung to his chest. He looked completely at peace—quiet, focused, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turned a page.
You stood in the bedroom doorway for a long second, still warm and soft from your nap, and felt every single innocent thought in your head evaporate.
God, he was unfair. Freshly showered, smelling like clean soap and that faint cedar cologne he only wore at home, glasses sliding down his nose a little because he’d been too lazy to put his contacts back in. The feared Red Hood reduced to a soft, nerdy, ridiculously built man who just wanted to read in peace.
Your thoughts were anything but peaceful.
You padded over barefoot, voice carefully light. “Whatcha reading?”
Jason looked up immediately, eyes brightening the second they landed on you. That soft, genuine smile he saved only for home spread across his face.
“Hey, sleeping beauty.” He shifted a little, making space without even thinking about it. “It’s this old mystery series I’ve been meaning to finish. The detective’s kind of an asshole, but the way the author builds the clues is—here, look—”
He started explaining, voice low and warm, getting that little excited edge he always got when he talked about books. You hummed like you were listening carefully, then carefully, innocently, climbed into his lap, settling sideways at first before slowly turning so your back pressed against his chest.
Jason’s free arm came around you on pure instinct, hand settling warm and steady on your hip to keep you comfortable. He kept talking, still pointing at the page with the other hand.
“…and then the twist with the sister is actually set up in chapter three if you—”
You shifted. Slow. Deliberate. Grinding back against the soft bulk of him through the thin sweatpants.
Jason’s voice cut off on a strangled little noise. The book trembled in his hand.
You pressed back harder, tilting your head so your lips brushed the shell of his ear, and gave the softest, sweetest little lick followed by a tiny nibble.
“Fuck—” The word left him on a rough breath. His hips twitched under you before he locked them down. “Baby—”
You kept the innocent tilt of your head, still “listening,” still rolling your hips in the tiniest, most devastating circles. Jason’s arm tightened around your waist. His face was already starting to flush, the tips of his ears going pink.
It took him a few more seconds—poor thing was still trying to finish his sentence about narrative structure—before it finally clicked. He went very still. Then he slowly lowered the book, turned his head, and looked at you properly.
Whatever he saw on your face made him huff out a short, disbelieving laugh. His cheeks went even redder.
“…You little shit,” he muttered, voice wrecked and fond and so flustered it was almost unfair. “You planned that. You sat there looking all sweet while I talked about plot devices and you were just—”
He cut himself off, burying his burning face against the side of your neck for a second like he could hide. You felt the heat of his skin, the way his breath shook.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and soft and completely undone.
“Horny jail,” he declared, scooping you up like you weighed nothing and dumping you onto the other end of the couch with exaggerated care. “You’re going straight to horny jail. No parole.”
You just smiled at him, shameless and bright, watching the feared Red Hood sit there flushed to the roots of his hair, glasses crooked, trying (and failing) to look stern while his face and body did absolutely nothing to hide how affected he was.
He pointed a finger at you. “Stay. I’m finishing this chapter. Then you’re in so much trouble.”
You bit your lip, still smiling.
Jason groaned, dropped his head back against the couch, and muttered to the ceiling, “I’m never reading in front of you again.”
(He absolutely would. And you’d absolutely do it again.)
Jason lasted exactly four pages.
You watched him from the other end of the couch, legs tucked under you, still wearing that shameless little smile. Every few seconds his eyes flicked up from the book, landed on you, then darted away again like he’d been burned. The flush hadn’t left his cheeks. If anything it had settled deeper, a soft pink across the tops of his cheekbones that made him look younger and somehow even more unfairly handsome.
He turned another page with unnecessary force.
You shifted, letting one of your feet slide along the cushion until your toes brushed his thigh.
Jason’s jaw flexed. “Horny jail,” he reminded you, voice low. “You’re still serving time.”
“I’m being so good,” you said innocently. “I’m not even touching you.”
“Your foot is on me.”
“Barely.”
He exhaled through his nose, set the book down with a quiet thump, and finally looked at you properly. The soft living-room light caught the still-damp strands of his hair and the way his black t-shirt clung to his chest. His sweatpants did nothing to hide the situation you’d created earlier. He didn’t even try to adjust them. Just sat there, big and flushed and trying very hard to look stern.
“Come here,” he said.
You tilted your head. “I thought I was in jail.”
“Parole. Temporary.” His voice dropped, rough and warm. “Get over here before I change my mind.”
You crawled back into his lap without further prompting, straddling him this time. Jason’s hands settled on your hips immediately, thumbs stroking slow circles over the soft fabric of your sleep shorts like he couldn’t help himself. He leaned back against the couch cushions, looking up at you with those dark green eyes gone soft and a little wrecked.
“You know what you do to me?” he murmured. “Sitting there looking all sweet while I’m trying to read about murder and moral ambiguity. Unfair.”
You rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate, and watched his lashes flutter.
“Jason—”
“I know.” He pulled you closer until your chests pressed together, until you could feel the heat of him through both layers of clothing. One hand slid up your back, under your shirt, warm and calloused against bare skin. The other stayed firm on your hip, guiding the next slow grind. “I know exactly what you want.”
He kissed you then—deep and unhurried, the kind of kiss that tasted like apology and promise and I can’t believe I get to have this. You melted into it, fingers sliding into his damp hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your mouth. The sound went straight through you.
When he pulled back it was only far enough to speak, lips brushing yours with every word.
“You always do this,” he said, half-laughing, half-breathless.
“Act all innocent. Ask about my books. Climb into my lap like you just want to cuddle. And then—” He punctuated the sentence with another slow roll of his hips up against you, letting you feel exactly how hard he was. “Then you look at me like that and I forget how to be the guy who scares half of Gotham.”
You smiled against his mouth. “I like this version better.”
Jason’s answering laugh was quiet and fond. He nosed along your jaw, pressed a soft kiss just under your ear, then nipped the same spot in gentle revenge.
“Yeah?” he whispered. “The version that gets completely flustered because his girlfriend decided to turn reading time into… this?”
“Especially that version.”
He huffed, cheeks still pink, and tightened his arms around you until there was no space left between your bodies. For a long moment he just held you there, forehead resting against yours, breathing you in. The book lay forgotten on the cushion beside you. Outside, Gotham kept doing whatever Gotham did. In here it was only the two of you—Jason, soft and warm and a little embarrassed, and you, still smiling like you’d won something precious.
Eventually he spoke again, voice low and rough against your lips.
“I’m finishing that chapter later.”
“Okay.”
“And you’re still in trouble.”
“Okay.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, one hand sliding down to squeeze the back of your thigh.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ve been thinking about all the ways I’m gonna make you pay for interrupting my very important literary analysis.”
You laughed softly, rocking against him just to hear that quiet, helpless sound catch in his throat again.
Jason’s eyes fluttered shut.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear the same way you had earlier, and whispered,
“But what a way to go.”
His answering groan was pure surrender.
The book never got finished that afternoon.
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