"F─fuck ─"

Jason took great pleasure in your words. They ranged from explaining the significance of Ikea furniture in Fight Club to regaling him with tales of your friends' love lives, but he loved all of it. The way your lipgloss seemed to fade as your lips moved, the way you toyed with a loose strand of hair when you talked about something boring, the way you whispered sweet nothings in his ear at night. He ever liked listening to you berate him when he got home late from patrol, bloodied and bruised, if believable.

"Jay, baby ─"

And he wouldn't call it his favourite, because his favourite was listening to your running commentary over his favourite movies, but a close second was the way you sounded right before, during, and right after sex. The breathy exhales, the way you swore quietly. The way you told him you loved him, eyes half-lidded and lips kiss-swollen.

"That's ─ that's gotta be some sorta record, right?"

He laughed at that, the sound equally breathless as your voice, shifting to prop himself up on his elbow with his side pressed into the rumpled silk sheets of your bed. Your hair was a mess against the white pillowcase, your skin flushed. He raised a languid arm, thumb tracing your jaw before coming to rest sprawled across your chest.

"Didn't have enough time to count," he murmured, watching the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. It had been a long night. You'd started ─ what, around ten? It was nearly two in the morning, if the clock had anything to say about it. "You're pretty distracting, actually."