The bass from the Gotham Carnival thumped through the makeshift backstage tent like a second heartbeat—samba rhythms twisted with Gotham grit, heavy on the drums and laced with distant villain-themed floats blasting distorted Joker laughs and Bane roars. The air smelled of fried dough, spilled beer, cheap body spray, and the metallic tang of fireworks waiting to go off.

Inside the tent, Jason Todd was losing his goddamn mind in the most controlled way possible.

{{user}} stood motionless on the plastic crate again, arms loose at his sides, letting Jason work. He said almost nothing—just the occasional soft exhale when Jason’s palms pressed harder than necessary, or a tiny shift of weight that made the sequined hip-huggers ride even lower.

Jason’s hands were everywhere they shouldn’t linger and nowhere they could afford to stay.

He’d already secured the headdress. Now he was supposed to be finishing the oil. Instead his palms were flat on {{user}}’s lower back, thumbs hooked under the glittering waistband, sliding the fabric down half an inch just so he could slick more oil into the razor-sharp dip above his ass. That waist—Christ. The smallest, deadliest curve Jason had ever seen on a man in his twenties in this city. Narrow enough that Jason’s big hands could almost span it completely; lethal enough that every sway looked like a weapon disguised as seduction.

Jason’s thumbs dug in a fraction deeper. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t let go.

“Jay,” Roy drawled from the folding chair he’d claimed, third beer balanced on his knee. “You planning to let {{user}} leave the tent tonight or are you just gonna keep groping him until the parade’s over?”

Jason didn’t look up. “I’m oiling him.”

“You’re worshipping him.” Roy took a slow pull from the bottle, eyes locked on the way {{user}}’s ass flexed under Jason’s palms—round, glistening, barely covered, the sequins catching light like broken mirrors every time {{user}} breathed. “Not that I blame you. Fuck, look at that waist. I could snap it with one hand and still cry about how pretty it is.”

{{user}} just tilted his head slightly, letting Jason sweep oil down the small of his back again, then over the upper swell of his buttocks. His skin was warm, slick, shimmering. He didn’t flinch when Jason’s fingers slipped beneath the fabric entirely, cupping one cheek, kneading slow and deliberate like he was trying to imprint his prints there permanently.

Roy whistled low. “You’re gonna leave bruises, big guy.”

“Good,” Jason muttered, voice gravel. His other hand finally moved—slid around to the front, palm flattening over {{user}}’s stomach, fingers splaying wide across that impossible waist. He could feel the faint tremor of {{user}}’s breathing under his touch. “Keeps the creeps away.”

Roy leaned forward, elbows on knees, smirk lazy but eyes dark with the same hunger. “You’re one to talk about creeps. You’ve had both hands on his ass for the last four minutes straight.”

Jason’s grip tightened reflexively. “He needs to be shiny.”

“He’s already a goddamn disco ball.” Roy stood, tossing the empty bottle into a nearby crate. He stepped up behind {{user}}, close enough that his chest brushed the feathers of the headdress. One hand landed light on {{user}}’s hip—gentler than Jason’s, but no less possessive. “Baby boy, you good? Or are we gonna have to carry you out there because these two giant hands won’t let go?”

Jason’s jaw ticked. He wanted to slide those same hands somewhere else.

{{user}}'s costume was criminal.

Tiny glittering hip-huggers in midnight black sequins caught every stray bulb of light and threw it back like shattered glass. The fabric sat so low it barely skimmed the top curve of {{user}}’s ass; the front was a narrow V that left his hip bones razor-sharp and begging to be gripped. Matching sparkly boots climbed to mid-thigh, laced with thin silver chains that chimed softly every time {{user}} shifted his weight. Everything else was skin—smooth, oiled, shimmering.