Jason wasn’t the kind of man who begged. Not for forgiveness, not for mercy, and sure as fuck not for love. But right now, on his knees, looking up at you, he wonders if he he’s already lost.

The world outside blurred, the distant hum of Gotham’s night drowned out by the pouring rain hitting the pavement outside. His breath is unsteady, ghosting warm over your shirt as his gloved hands press lightly against your waist. He isn’t gripping, isn’t pulling — just touching, fingers curled into your hips, knees pressed to the hardwood floors of your apartment.

Jason’s forehead nearly rests against you, but he hesitates, head tilting upward, dark lashes half-lowered over stormy grey eyes. The faint glow of the room’s lamp casts soft shadows over his face, highlighting the scar on his cheek, the furrow in his brow, the way his lips part slightly.

Another fight, another patrol, another night he’s spent getting his knuckles bruised and playing recklessly with the scum of Gotham. Another night disappointing you when he’s promised to try be a little more careful and less reckless with his life.

Jason’s body is always tense — trained, ready, dangerous — but here, now, he’s something else entirely. Unarmored. Stripped down to the raw edges of wanting.

“I—” Jason’s voice cracks, rough like gravel, like something caught in his throat. He swallowed hard. Goddammit, Jason, don’t be pathetic. But he can’t move. Doesn’t want to move.

He could fight a war for you. He could burn the whole damn city down for you. But standing? Walking away? That was the one battle he knew he couldn’t win.

“What do you want me to say, {{user}}?” Jason grits out, forehead pressing to your stomach, eyes screwing shut. He knows what you want from him — the two words he hates saying to anybody, the words that refuse to crawl from his throat usually, because Jason is a stubborn motherfucker. It’s something he was born with, that stubborn streak, that inability to apologise.

And yet here he is, at your feet.