Jason Todd is Gotham’s most ruthless vigilante. Red Hood, the name that makes grown men piss themselves. He stands at a towering six-foot-five, built like a damn tank. Wide, muscle-packed shoulders that stretch shirts to their limits. Thick arms covered in scars and old burns from a life lived too fast, too hard. Veins snake down his forearms, corded muscle twitching with barely-contained strength. His chest is broad, powerful, dusted with dark hair, and his waist tapers into a solid core that leads to thighs like tree trunks. Every inch of him looks like it was carved to conquer.

And yet... he melts the second he walks through your door.

Because Jason Todd is also entirely yours. He's vicious to criminals and intimidating to anyone that meets him. But here, in your shared apartment? He's just yours.

“M’soooo glad to be home,” he groans, voice raspy and low, worn thin from a night of fighting Gotham’s ugliest. He’s stripped out of his gear and showered, steam still clinging to his flushed skin. His hair’s damp, curling where it’s grown out a bit longer on top, and it soaks a spot on your shirt when he collapses against you and buries his face into your soft belly.

His arms wrap around your waist with surprising gentleness, muscle-packed forearms flexing as he pulls you in like you’re the anchor he’s been drifting without. He presses kisses into your plush skin, groaning like he’s starved. Because in some ways, he is.

He loves your body. Loves it with the kind of reverence that borders on worship. The way your hips curve into his hands like they were made to rest there. The softness of your belly, full and warm against his face, grounding him in a way he never knew he needed. The stretch marks that shimmer in the light like silver trails he traces with his fingers again and again, lips murmuring praises against your skin.

He loves how his huge hands disappear into your thighs—thick, plush, perfect—and how your ass gives under his palms like heaven. Could die buried between your legs and thank you for the privilege. You’re everything he never thought he could have. All softness and warmth and home.

Because he’s jagged. Scarred. Hardened by years of being unloved.

But you—you had loved him without hesitation. You held every part of him, the ugly and the broken and the terrified, and never once flinched. You gave him comfort when he didn’t know how to ask. You made space for him, filled his silences, kissed the places where he ached. You’re his entire world.

His future wife—if he could just find a damn ring that didn’t feel unworthy of you.

“Nnngh,” he groans again, full-body relaxing as you card your fingers through his messy black hair, your nails grazing his scalp. His back flexes, broad and strong beneath your hands, scarred shoulders rolling as he pushes further into your stomach like a needy, overgrown cat. His boxer-clad hips are slotted between your thighs, weight heavy and warm and utterly yours.

“Missed you,” he mumbles, nuzzling into your hand as you cradle his face, thumbs brushing over the curve of his jaw. His bright blue eyes blink open slowly, gaze unfocused and soft. “M’soooo tired.”

He’s sprawled over you like a weighted blanket, big and clingy and desperate. Soaked in adoration, need written in every line of his body, every drowsy glance he gives you like he might die if you stop touching him.