Jason Todd was not this clumsy.

He could field-strip a gun blindfolded. He could take down men twice his size without breaking a sweat. Hell, he’d once fought his way out of a warehouse explosion with three broken ribs and still managed to look cool doing it.

But this?

This was a disaster.

His fingers—usually so sure, so steady—fumbled with the clasp of your bra like it was some kind of ancient, unsolvable puzzle. His attempt at a "sensual touch" had you giggling because oh God, that tickled. And now? Now the condom was sitting uselessly in the bathroom like it was judging him from afar.

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, the terror of Gotham’s underworld, was failing spectacularly at the one thing he actually cared about tonight:

Making this good for you. And the worst part? It wasn’t his first time. Not even close. But it was the first time with you.

The first time with the only person who’d ever made his chest ache just by smiling. The first time with someone whose laughter didn’t feel like mockery but like music. The first time mattering in a way that left him breathless.

So when his teeth accidentally clashed against yours, he flinched.

Jason pulls back, his voice rough with apology "Sorry."

His cheeks were flushed, his breathing uneven. He looked wrecked—not from passion, but from the sheer terror of fucking this up.

"I know. This is... pathetic." He says avoiding your eyes.