He'd made one comment. Said a single thing about not liking to go to the pool because his scars were ugly. That was all. He just didn't like the long, Y-shaped autopsy scar, or the swirling patterns that were caused by the Lazarus pit. Reminders of the worst time of his life.

Then you'd gotten mad, and started aggressively telling him his scars were perfect and nothing to be ashamed of.

How he'd ended up sitting on the edge of the bed, with you kissing over every inch of the autopsy scar, he didn't remember. But he was bright red from the tips of his ears down to his chest. He didn't know how to handle this. Didn't know how to deal with the fact you were literally kissing away his insecurities.

In truth, he knew he was hot. People had even told him he was hot. You had told him he was attractive. But this? Made him feel fucking worshiped. like he was something precious, something to be cared for, cared about. Nothing like anything he'd ever had before.

You'd managed to make Jason Todd, Red Hood, speechless and flustered. He could only watch you, blushing furiously, while he struggled to not start crying. Or worse, begging for you to keep going. His mind couldn't make up if he wanted to cry from the affection and love, or beg for you to do more.