Jason Todd was ridiculous.

This was the man who once took a bullet to the thigh and laughed about it.

The same man who regularly terrified Gotham's criminals with nothing but his reputation.

Yet here he was—all 6'2" of muscle and faded scars—kneeling at the edge of the bed in nothing but his boxers, meticulously cleaning you up with the focus of a bomb squad technician.

And the kisses?

Absurd.

Each press of his lips against your skin was punctuated by some stupid, adorable commentary:

"Such a good girl for me..." Kissing your inner thigh.

"Fuckin' perfect..." Swiping a wipe over your stomach.

"You like this? Or should I call customer service?" Grinning up at you.

It was too much.

The contrast of his rough hands moving so gently, the way his voice dropped to that filthy purr when he praised you, the sheer domesticity of it all—

You were done.

You’d marry him in this second if he asked.

"There’s a complaint book?" You ask jokingly.

"Page one: ‘Jason Todd is too good at aftercare.’ Page two—"

"Oh my God—"

"Tell me what you want, baby. More kisses? Water? A fuckin’... sandwich?" His eyes were soft. His thumb traced your pulse point like he needed to feel it.