As the years have passed, she has come to terms with her stubbornness. Nowadays, Helena Bertinelli knows to read the cues that will lead her to one single conclusion: she has lost. More precisely, she has lost against the sight of those pants almost bursting out when they embrace Jason's thighs.
That doesn't mean, though, she will go through the rooftops shouting to the four winds she finds the Red Hood incredibly hot. For one, because people might think she is referring to the other Red Hood, a concept she finds so disgusting she's not going to entertain it. And second, because she's Sicilian, she has her pride, god fucking dammit.
"What's with the face?"
Third, because his breath stinks.
"I bet that's the face you make at Sunday's mass."
Helena takes off the binoculars from her face and looks at him. Really looks at him, or rather, at her reflection on his red helmet. The amount of light pollution Gotham has—especially in the Diamond District, allows her to see just fine at a close distance.
"It's my 'I'm going to shove my bo staff up your ass' face," she replies, each word calculated to the millimeter. It suddenly dawns on her, however, that he has his helmet on, so it is physically impossible for this smell to come out of his mouth.
She looks down, between them. There's a bag of fast food. Chilidogs, of course. With extra onion, of fucking course.
"That's disgusting. We —"
"We ain't fucking tonight?" he asks with a tint of amusement. "Good, that's the idea," he adds, and to make a point he takes off his helmet and grabs a chilidog from the bag.
Oh, so that's how things go.
"Full of ourselves, aren't we?" she looks with disgust at how his teeth sink into the food. "I didn't want to anyway, so it's you and your right hand."
Jason takes out his phone and swipes across his gallery. He shows her the screen.
"I don't know, Hel, you sound fake."
There's a screencap from Tom and Jerry; Nibbles is eating a piece of cheese twice his size, while Jerry looks in bewilderment. The image is captioned as "Helena", "Jason's dick" and "her morals" respectively. It's an old meme—Helena knew of its existence, of course she did—but it stirs an old guilt inside her like it was made yesterday.
"What in tarn—"
Helena huffs and shoves the binoculars into his chest with enough force to throw him off balance. Part of the chilidog's onion topping goes to the rooftop's floor, and they engage in a silly exchange of blows, with Helena throwing punches and Jason parring and dodging while still eating.
"Who the fuck was the asshole," she demands in the end after one last attempt to poke his eyes with her fingers.
"Batgirl," he replies laconically, as if telling her straight away who sent the meme is suddenly his most guarded secret.
"Which one."
"I don't know her number, that depends on if you consider yourself one. The third one, wasn't it?"
Helena has already taken out her crossbow and is pointing at his throat, her nostrils flaring in anger.
"Todd, I swear I'm going to turn you into a pincushion," she says between clenched teeth. She pulls the trigger, switching her target at the last moment to the chilidog. The food falls off the rooftop, hopefully not on someone's head.
There is a pregnant pause as they look at each other. It always unnerves her that she can't see their eyes behind the domino's mask, and it makes Helena wonder what does Jason see in her hazel eyes. It is unfair that she has to rely on how his jaw sets, the arch of his brows, the slight curl of the corner of his lips to gauge his mood—to even get a glimpse at his real intentions.
Not only that, but it just so happens that Helena can't mask her emotions—she's been bad at it since young, and it earned her no small amount of slaps. She just hopes—prays—that she can mask the longing enough for Jason to not pick it up.
"In the mood for punishment, or what? That was a perfect edible chilidog," he says, and it sounds more annoyed than flirty—thank God.
"Oh you were the one asking for it, stop projecting now," Helena drawls, and rolls her eyes for good measure. She wonders, though, if he's more annoyed at her for wasting food or because it was his food. It's always difficult, with Jason.
They are, as a concept, very difficult.
"You are so damn impatient, you decided to skewer my chilidog instead of waiting for my answer." Jason is set in having the last word, like the petulant child he is sometimes. Helena bristles at the blatant lie being told at her face, even though deep down she knows this conversation is stupid—and will be more stupid if it turns into a legit fight between them.
Still, there are things you just don't say to her.
"You keep bringing Batgirl," she spits the word, the title aggravating enough to warrant it, "into our conversations." Helena stills, a thought forming in her head. "You don't have a fetish, do you?"
"And you keep reacting to the title like someone called Batgirl killed your family," Jason says, and Helena is reminded that mincing his words is not one of the things Jason is known for. Neither is she, you see, and this is what makes everything between them all the more thrilling. There's a lack of reaction to her question, though, as if Jason considers it stupid enough to not dignify it with an answer.
"You are a fucking brute," Helena says haughtily with a scoff.
"Acting so high and mighty as if you didn't tell Stephanie to remember to turn off her stove 'lest you end up like Jason'," Jason volleys back in a dispassionate way, air quotes and all.
This is the thing with them. Jason gives as good as he gets, and so does Helena. There's an idling thought—that maybe their trauma shouldn't be weaponized; at least not more than it already is. That perhaps they should try to meet in the middle instead of pulling the other towards them. Then again, coming undone wouldn't be as exciting if there wasn't a knife twisting in the wound beforehand.
"You weren't supposed to know that. It's hardly my fault privacy is not a known concept in this f—" Helena catches herself before she says the damn word, but it's too late. She does try to deflect, though, with one of the rarest things to come out of her mouth—an apology: "Certainly a douche move, sorry."
Jason cocks an eyebrow at her.
"Making fun of the loss of a life isn't very Christian, nope," he finally says, popping the p for, probably, extra effect. Helena is already forming a retort, the "fuck off, Jason" sitting on her tongue, but he beats her to it, his voice dropping in volume. "Wanna repent, Hel?"
The grip on her crossbow becomes loose, and she hates herself so much for it.
"Don't be blasphemous, Jason," Helena pleads, her voice strangled, and she manages to sound affronted and almost begging at the same time. What's she begging him for, she doesn't know.
It can't be an absolution, can it? Jason can't give her anything, just as Helena can't ask him anything; in that regard they were on the same page when they started this—whatever the fuck this might be.
He scoffs, reaching her face with his gloved hand, and the smell—gunpowder, worn leather and the high spirits he uses to clean his guns—is like a punch in the face. "I just saw your pupils dilating," he says, giving her a cocky smile that's ridiculously boyish. He continues, "Told ya, your mask sucks," words still a whisper like this is a secret between them.
"Shut the fuck up, Todd." And to drive her point home, she grabs him by the lapels of the jacket, smashing their lips together—hoping she wipes that smile off his, too. Far from being a person who judges others based on their appearances, Helena still marvels at how soft his lips are, how gentle Jason can kiss—when he feels like it. Like now, his mouth a velvety caress over hers, and despite the damn onion flavor, Helena feels like losing herself into the moment, a needy whine clawing its wait out her throat.
"Huntress, we have a situation at Cape Carmine."
Helena groans before pushing herself away, panting. She rests her forehead on Jason's shoulder to try to compose herself, ignoring the intrinsic intimacy of the gesture.
"I bet we do," she mutters under her breath, and Jason chuckles above her, but it doesn't sound… right. It takes some time for the fog to clear off her mind, but finally Helena reaches some modicum of clarity. "... Rough night, Oracle?"
There's a pause at the other side of the line, the static almost too loud for her. Helena straightens her back, Jason's face coming into her field of vision again. For just a second, Helena can see the concerned expression, before he shuts it off the moment he realizes she's looking at him.
"Yeah," comes Babs' soft voice. "Landed too hard earlier in the patrol. Had to bail before my L1 popped out."
"Do you need anything?" Helena blinks at Jason, the sudden vulnerability of his voice feeling as if Bane slapped her. She squishes the emotion like a bug, yet a distant voice in her head is reminding her about that time she and Dick made a terrible decision.
"I'm fine," Babara's voice is clipped, but if there's something Helena knows is that there are others listening through the comms. That Dick will probably drop whatever he's doing (perhaps even a criminal chase) to be at her side, only to be swatted away like a mosquito. "An arms deal, guys. I think it's the Galantes?" And Helena doesn't miss the 'guys', like she's supposed to team-up with Jason, nor does she like the mention of the Galante Family. She bristles, ready to retort that she doesn't need babysitting, thank you very much, but Jason's already calling the shots for her:
"You got it."
Helena knows Babs already disconnected the moment Jason accepted the mission, and she jabs her finger into his chest, forcefully.
"Absolutely fucking not."
"Going shy on me or what, Huntress?" Jason grabs her wrist, keeping her hand close to his chest—it feels like a dare.
"This is my damn home turf." Helena tries to yank her arm away, to no avail. "I don't need them seeing me with Red Hood, not after that stunt you pulled with Black Mask."
Jason snorts, like he can't take her seriously, and that pisses her off even more.
"That was a few years ago, Hel."
"And I have been collecting the pieces since then," she furiously whispers, and whatever Jason sees in her face makes him drop her hand. "Congratulations on graduating from the prick academy, but that doesn't mean you get to waltz into my business like you do with… the others." She gets on her feet and grabs her crossbow, refusing to meet his eyes, unnerved at the lack of a reply. And Helena knows she should rein her feelings more, that she should shut up if only by virtue of not doing things like this anymore, but Helena can't help it when she says, "Because I'm not him," a purposeful low blow meant to hurt.
The answer is almost immediate, like a Freak's car crashing into Gotham's Bank: "Fuck you, Helena."
"Yeah, that wasn't the plan tonight, was it?" she asks, before dropping from the edge of the building into a light pole, and from there grappling to her bike to head to Cape Carmine.
The speed does nothing to make her feel better; Helena can barely feel the adrenaline, and by the time he reaches her destination, regret gnaws at her chest, threatening to turn her night into a complete nightmare.
"Fuck." Helena takes all her frustration on the kickstand. She doesn't actually have the energy, much less the time, to try to understand her visceral reaction to almost everything involving Jason. She doesn't want to, because this was supposed to be just a quick fuck with the masks on, and now she has this—again, whatever the fuck this is.
Helena doesn't scream herself hoarse in frustration because she's supposed to deal with the arms contract, but it's a near thing. She is even contemplating letting them go, but then thinks, Vinnie is going to be so pissed that this deal went to shit, and the world seems a bit brighter, inner turmoil and all. It frustrates her that she has to remind herself that she is damn good at what she does. That she enjoys it. She takes a deep breath, and perches herself on a pipe with direct vision to the back of the lighting house.
The thing with Gotham's organized crime is as it follows: you need surgical precision to deal with it. It is more than busting drug operations and jailing people; everything boils down to power shifts. Some days you have to let them have the upper hand, just to not tip the scale to the wrong side, and you will have to make up for it at the next raid. They are a pest, and until they (with a clear mind Helena can admit she's part of a group working towards a common goal) manage to get rid of them, this is the game they have to play. Everything to avoid a power vacuum.
Helena has witnessed three of them in the span of her life. She'd rather not deal with another one anytime soon.
Now, tonight's not Vicenzo Galante's lucky night.
"You know? I can excuse some shitty soviet era SMGs, but I draw the line at fucking rocket launchers," Helena says to the night, exasperation dripping off her voice. She folds her binoculars, and takes a deep breath. Why am I here instead of living my best life in Marseille is absolutely beyond me.
Zinda likes to joke that Helena's reasons to do things are between her and God but at this point she's pretty sure God knows some stuff about her she's blissfully unaware of. Maybe that's His… Their thing—knowing stuff.
(By the time Helena finishes with the last mobster, she wishes rocket launchers were accepted in the superhero community, just for once.)
—
Her heart does a flip when she recognizes the man sitting on the fire exit stairs of her building. Waiting for her, perhaps, even if he could break in. Helena tries to not read too much into the gesture—Lovely, says a tiny voice in her head—because this is not what they do; Helena Bertinelli and Jason Todd aren't meant for subtle romance. They crash, and burn, and there is nothing romantic about it, just a void to be filled.
"Trying to blow my cover with my neighbors or what."
Jason raises his head from his phone, an eyebrow lifted at her in silent judgment—he has a cut on it, too, blood glistening under the streetlights. Without the mask on, she can see his calculated gaze boring into her.
"Haven't looked into it, but I bet you own the entire building," he says with a shrug after a few moments. "I can go," Jason offers, in a way that even Helena recognizes as an olive branch. Helena grips the railing of the staircase, still perched on it with one knee digging into the cold metal, until the material of her gloves makes a sound. She's not stupid.
She's just bad at this.
"I can't apologize two times in a row in the same night," she mutters, and jumps into the landing. Helena doesn't even have time to assess how stiff she feels before Jason is on his feet and towering over her.
"Put some effort into that repentance, Helena." Jason leans more into her space, until she can feel the press of the railing against her back. Even then, Helena feels far from cornered, yet she knows when someone is chasing after her. It's enthralling, in a way that leaves her aching. A gloved thumb brushes her split lip, making her wince. "A pity, I had plans for that smart mouth of yours," he says nonchalantly, and his breath is scorching hot in the hairsbreadth between their faces.
"You keep changing your plans for tonight. Some heir to The Bat you are," she mocks, easy as aiming at Clayface's big ass.
In retaliation, Jason pushes her against the railing. Helena's bruised ribs scream in agony, and Jason is off her the moment the pained hiss leaves her lips. She instantly misses his warmth, the realization making her want to scream.
"Yeah, medkit first," she says in a gruff voice, dragging herself lazily towards the kitchen's window. "You too." She barks it like an order before slipping inside the apartment, yet Helena welcomes the excuse to have Jason in her house.
"I'm not going to die from a split eyebrow, you mother hen," Jason protests behind her, and Helena pointedly ignores him, making a beeline to her bathroom and taking off her clothes in the meantime. She turns for a moment to throw her mask at Jason, aiming at his head. Helena snickers when it lands with a thud, and Jason fills the emptiness of her open kitchen with a colorful string of curses.
"And I'm not cleaning your blood off my sheets." Helena drops the medkit on the kitchen aisle, taking a seat on one of the high chairs while Jason takes off his body armor. That statement is made with the assumption that Jason stays the night—it's rich on her part, but tonight Helena is past the point of caring.
"Prissy princess." Helena almost wishes the fondness in his voice was as real as she has imagined.
He seats in the chair besides hers, and turns towards Helena, the atmosphere shifting towards something more familiar, comfortable even. Helena realizes this might be a bad idea the moment she dips the cotton pad into alcohol and sets to clean Jason's wound while his hands rest on her naked thighs. She feels exposed, not because of the fuchsia bright panties, but because there's something intrinsically intimate and vulnerable in the act of tending to someone's wounds.
At some point, cut sealed by a stitch band-aid, Helena's fingers ghost over Jason's scar, the one that goes from the corner of his mouth and fades into his hairline. In the meantime, Jason's hands drift up, until they reach her hips, thumb brushing over the marred tissue—irregular, and even rougher than it should be for a bullet wound. His touch is tender, making Helena shiver despite her best attempt at controlling it.
"It took you three bullets and almost dying to get his approval, huh," Jason comments, and closes his eyes for a moment as Helena runs her hand through his hair.
"I had to play house with Barbara too, among a few other things," Helena says with derision, a smile dancing on her lips. "That's why I have to laugh when everyone says the Powers Club is difficult to get into."
"Shows what they know." Jason shrugs, his hands now cupping her ribcage right under her breasts. It makes Helena feel cared for, if not a tad fragile in his arms. If she looks down, she is sure she's going to see purple already blooming on her tanned skin. "That's why you hate being called Batgirl."
That is a wild guess, and a fair assumption. Helena has to give him that. She averts her gaze from Jason's white streak of hair, searching for his eyes. The way he holds her gaze never fails to make her crave more, compels her to talk just to keep those baby blues focussed on her.
"I wasn't subbing for Batgirl during the Martial Law. I was subbing for him," Helena explains, and somehow those two sentences open the flood gates. "I kept the gangs in their damn place, both as Huntress and The Bat. Fuck, Huntress still does it, because that's my place, that's why I'm here in this fucking city and not drinking Chardonnay in Marseille." To emphasize her words, Helena thumps his shoulder weakly, feeling she has said more than she intended. "What's with the dead Robins and fucking with Black Mask anyways?"
"Steph hardly counts as dead, 'Lena." She inhales sharply at the new nickname, and winces at the pain flaring in her ribs. "What the fuck did you do?" Jason is asking impatiently, but Helena doesn't have the time to swat his hands away before he gently probs at her ribs. "I bet you fractured at least one."
"Took a pipe to the chest, that's what I did," she answers through gritted teeth, nails leaving crescent moons in the skin of his shoulder.
Jason clicks his tongue.
"Wish I was there. You look good when you kick ass," he murmurs. For a moment, it seems he's talking to himself.
His words are a novelty, and Helena surprises even herself when she lets her body fall towards him, Jason's hands pressing on her battered ribs the only thing stopping her from colliding with him. The pain is grounding, in a way—after all, she needs a clear head in situations like these. Helena gasps, but she's still smiling playfully when his gaze focuses on her.
The light of her kitchen plays with the blue of his eyes, and the brief flash of green reminds Helena of Sicily's beaches.
"Only when kicking ass, I see," she tuts, resting her hands on his chest. It's an ugly scar, the one from the autopsy; Helena sometimes wonders if it serves as a grim reminder, just like the one crossing his face. It doesn't diminish Jason's attractiveness in her eyes; he's tall, has a jaw chiseled by Michelangelo himself—which it's not something out of the realm of possibility in their field of work—and the things Helena likes about him can fill at least a page if not more.
What Helena feels for Jason isn't pretty. It is all-consuming, dangerous, like a sharpened blade on which edge she walks every time she lets him touch her.
"C'mere," he says, grabbing Helena by her ass and hauling her up and towards him until she's sitting on his lap, legs dangling at each side of the chair. "You are such a pain in the ass, Helena," as he says this, Jason dips his head in the crook of her neck, leaving a chaste kiss.
"Don't get any ideas," Helena lies, as if she isn't running scenarios in her head.
"You fucking wish. I want answers, the other stuff can be arranged later."
Maybe this is punishment for all the broken ribs I've left in my wake? she thinks, as if tonight is the night Helena might start pitying all the criminals she has subjected to interrogations through her tenure as a hero, or whatever she's supposed to be.
"About…?"
"You get pissy when it's about me and the Bats, or me joining you. Tonight wasn't an exception, it's a damn pattern and I deserve at least to know why."
She supposes he does have the right to know all the fucked up thoughts that plague Helena's waking hours. She wants to be difficult about it, though—enjoys it, even.
"Why does it matter to you what one of your fucks thinks about you?"
Her wall clock ticks, loud and clear in the deafening silence.
"What if you are more than a fuck?"
"Jason." A warning, for herself. "Don't."
"Your teacher voice is hot, but it's not going to work on me." Jason keeps tracing the outline of her clavicle with his nose, his hot breath making Helena all hot and bothered. Helena knows he will get away with this, just like she knows she will die in Gotham.
"You know about the Seven Deadly Sins, Jason?" Helena asks, trembling, her voice very low. She is so close to start drifting away, she would've if not for her stubbornness to finish the conversation like a normal person.
"Oh I know them right. Intimately, even." Helena feels his smile on her skin. Ah, right, the Titans.
Helena traces the outline of the autopsy scar with her index. Jason sucks a breath somewhere close to her jugular, and she feels his fingers twitching over the exposed skin of her lower back.
"Everyone tried so damn hard to reach out to you, time and time again. He tried." Her other hand traces letters on his shoulder, ring finger caressing his skin longingly. She starts with an 'e'. "And I was okay with it, you know,—" follows with an 'n',"—but I can't help feeling jealous—" now there's a 'v', "—that my journey was so lonely, compared to yours." She finishes with an 'y'.
Helena shushes him before his lips part to form a rebuttal, shutting him down faster than she would shut down a drug operation. She needs to say her piece, and then Jason can fuck off and never see her again if that's what he wants. "It's such an ugly feeling, that one," she continues, absentmindedly, goosebumps forming on her skin due to the cold air of the apartment. "If only that was the only one, hah."
"I will need you to elaborate on that one," he utters in a calm and controlled voice. Helena gasps when Jason's tongue finds the cross pendant sitting close to her sternum.
"Greed, and lust." Helena clings to the back of Jason's neck, keeping him in place and refusing to elaborate further.
When silence stretches too much, Jason chuckles mockingly and says, "Pride," before biting her collarbone playfully. "And you doubt your place in the Batfamily, when you have a pride that rivals Bruce's?" Jason's question is rhetorical in nature, yet Helena has to bite her bottom lip, splitting it open again, to not answer right away. His hands map her back, warm and calloused, and Helena doesn't want anything more than to be taken apart by Jason and do the same to him.
"A part of me knows that it will take more than a resurrected six feet-tall hunk with anger management issues and godly thighs to displace me from my rightful place," she runs her mouth, because she has no filter when it comes to hot guys, but especially if said hot guy is named Jason Todd.
This time Jason laughs, and Helena feels the carefree cackle making his chest vibrate more than she hears it. Her hands fall slack over his back.
"Damn right, babe," he says, extricating himself from her embrace to look at her. "You look good on your throne." Jason bounces her a bit on his lap to further prove his point, smirking and looking so full of himself. "What about the other part?"
It's such a Jason thing to do, Helena realizes with clarity. Maybe it's just this easy, she finds herself thinking. If Jason finds it funny that she's looking at him with eyes wide as saucers, he doesn't comment on it.
In hindsight, Jason never asked for her help; he remains to this day an honorable exception to all the men she's let into her life, just like he's the only Bat who hasn't broken into her house. The irony isn't lost on Helena. Jason has also never lied to her, brutal honesty being his chosen method to deal with Helena's unapproachable demeanor.
"That part," she starts, then stops almost immediately. "That part is always waiting for the other shoe to drop." Helena shrugs, feeling suddenly exposed. "Thinks that at some point you will try to decide what's good for me. That I am not enough for Gotham, nor what the city needs."
A surprising act of sincerity, even to Helena. She feels proud of herself, because hiding the information from him would have been safer, for both of them. Because her words can have so many readings.
And of course Jason jumps straight to the worst of them.
"I already told you I wasn't in the best place when I tried to wipe you out and take the mantle," Jason is basically growling, his fingers almost bruising the flesh of her hips. It takes Helena a great show of restraint to not throw him across the room. She settles for squeezing his trapezes with all her might, pinched brows matching Jason's.
"This is not about the fucking cowl, it's about you and me." Helena prides herself in the restrained voice she manages to keep, in the way her petulant gaze keeps a pulse with Jason's hot one. "Some nights, I feel that a crossbow bolt through someone's brain would solve so many problems. If anyone can understand how I feel, it's you. I want to believe that, but what if you don't." When Jason doesn't reply, Helena takes the plunge: "If anything makes me truly irredeemable, it's that. You don't need that kind of person around you."
"Now look who's deciding what's good for me, huh?" Jason mutters, his frown smoothing into an arched eyebrow.
Helena swats his left pectoral with the back of her hand, her anger finally flaring up. Her next words are spoken through gritted teeth, "Don't twist my words, as if you care about me the way I care about you."
That seems to give Jason pause.
"Helena." It's the way he says her name, almost like a prayer, and Helena, who partakes in blasphemy but has her limits, feels herself wanting more. Wants him to put her image on a stained-glass, worship her, and never stop. "I would die for a few people, but you are the one I would face another Lazarus Pit for." His next words are barely a whisper, like a nursery rhyme meant to scare a child to death. "If only to see you again."
It does scare Helena, the power he can wield over her, that is. It terrifies her that she hasn't looked away in time, leaving little to Jason's imagination—right now she's nothing but an open book to him. A Bible, perhaps. Their own brand of a Crime Bible, even.
"I am not repeating that one, by the way."
Now it's her turn to bark a laugh; it has just the right amount of meanness, the rest it's pure, unadulterated bliss.
"I bet you won't, that was so embarrassing," Helena teases him, with her words and with a roll of her hips. She leans to whisper into his ear, teeth grazing his earlobe, "You should fuck me like you meant what you just said."
"As if you aren't embarrassing yourself," Jason all but chokes on his words, something Helena takes pride in. "If only they knew…" Smartass, Helena thinks, as Jason's hips thrust up, his erection a reminder of what's yet to come. "I doubt you can take it, though."
Oh, that won't do it.
Helena locks her ankles behind his back, Jason's hands flying to her ass again to support her. His touch is searing hot through the flimsy material of her underwear. Jason comments on them ("Nice panties, by the way") because that's the kind of imbecile he is. Because he's good at deflecting.
"They are just plain hot pink panties," Helena says to him like he's a child who just failed his test. Then, for good measure, she rolls her eyes. "Not all of us are commando adepts like Dick."
Jason snorts, his hands slipping under her underwear nevertheless.
"You are disgusting," he says with a fondness that doesn't match his words.
Too preoccupied with the feeling of Jason's rough skin skating over hers to form an elaborated rebuttal, Helena tries nevertheless: "No complaints when I go down on you, though."
Jason squeezes her asschecks and, were she a different kind of person, the way he looks at her—completely enraptured, hunger dilating his pupils—would make Helena feel small. Yet, the only thing she feels is her chest expanding with each excited inhale and forced exhale—a staccato played by Jason's dexterous hands.
"Precisely because it's not in tonight's plan is that I get to complain," he says as his breath ghosts over her lips.
Helena grins, pressing herself flush against him until there's no space between their bodies, her hard nipples dragging over his pectorals in a way that she is well aware makes Jason's control slip further away.
"Fret not, for I can be good for you in other ways," Helena recites in a mocking voice, testing the waters. She's not too preoccupied with what will be on the menu tonight—Jason always makes it worth her while, one way or another—but she's curious nonetheless.
After muttering something that sounds similar to "so damn ridiculous", Helena gets an answer from Jason—the kind of answer that makes her add some more Hail Marys to tomorrow's schedule.
"You don't want to be good for me, Helena," he tells her, like he's talking about the fucking weather and not about something more private, more vulnerable. Helena makes an effort and spares some seconds to think with her brain instead of her pussy. No I don't, she says to herself, in a twisted form of reassurance.
Helena stays silent as she presses her fingers into Jason's upper traps, eyes focussed on her task. Like the difficult man he is, he doesn't relent at first. That is, until he seems to catch on to her intentions; then the tension bleeds from his muscles almost immediately, and Helena rewards him with one of her softest smiles—even if he doesn't see her.
"I can be good to you, though," she says in a low voice, and Jason's eyelashes flutter when he opens his eyes to look at her. His gaze is a bit hazy, in a good way that Helena hasn't seen in months. "Take me to bed, will you? I'm freezing."
Jason hums as he picks her up, but that's the extent of his compliance.
The third time she's being pressed against a wall of her apartment, Jason's lips attached to her neck like he's starving, Helena can't help but taunt him, "Rich boy from Wayne Manor doesn't know his way in a tiny apartment, thinks big hallways are a staple."
What that earns her is a roll of Jason's hips, his cock pressing against her wet pussy through their clothes. Helena moans as he arches her back, self-hatred be damned for being so easy, and grabs a fist of Jason's hair.
"'Rich boy', says the mob princess turned into a teacher driving a Lambo," Jason murmurs against her wet skin. Helena takes the pause to map his back with her hands, feeling the ripple of his muscles at each shift of position. She's hit by a wave of possessiveness, one that makes her sink her nails into Jason's back.
"You still owe me the upholstery's dry cleaning," Helena says petulantly, ignoring his pained protest from earlier. She doubles down by stretching against the wall like a lazy cat, looking down at him while she still cans. Jason tries to dive for her breasts, and Helena stops him with her index finger on his forehead. "Bed, now."
After that, Helena hears their path of destruction (they knock down a lamp and a framed painting of Milan's Duomo before they even reach the bedroom) in the back of her head, too busy kissing Jason until her lips are sore and she's sure the pinprick of pain from the split won't go away soon. In the bedroom, Jason manages to get his foot caught in one of the rugs, hurling them both onto the bed. Their teeth clash middle-kiss, and Helena grunts in pain at the added pressure on her already bruised ribs.
Helena feels Jason's breathing on the side of her neck. She swats at his shoulder in annoyance. "Move, asshole."
His face appears on her field of vision, white streak clashing beautifully with his raven hair under the moonlight. "You say the nicest things, Hel," he says with a low timbre that betrays his arousal and makes Helena tilt her hips towards him on instinct.
"Only the best for my favorite Wayne bo—," Helena lets out a breathy moan when Jason's fingers rub her over the underwear. He is looking at her with rapt attention, a playful smirk on his lips that Helena needsto wipe out for the sake of her mental sanity.
Zinda once had given her good advice for situations like these, so Helena does as the Alabamian wisdom mandates: she goes to rodeo, taking a hold of Jason's shoulder, and uses her whole body to flip their positions. The look on Jason's face makes it all the more worth it.
"If this is what you want," he says with a shrug, putting his arms behind his head. Helena trails with her gaze the corded muscles of his neck, his biceps. She smiles mischievously, placing her hands on his chest and rolling her hips over his clothed erection, and from the way Jason chokes on a moan, he isn't exactly immune to the friction.
Helena wants him inside, like, yesterday.
She skates her fingertips over the expanse of his abdomen, until she reaches his pants. "Who have you been fucking, Jason?" She asks, grabbing the waistband.
"That's none of your fucking bus—" Helena scoots lower, and drags them down, underwear and everything. Jason whistles. "Really desperate tonight," he says flatly, yet he manages to get rid of his clothes while Helena goes back to sitting on his lap.
"I don't have the patience to search for the condoms," Helena deadpans, before getting at undressing herself hastily to avoid looking at him. She doesn't need Jason looking so smug at her; she doesn't need more humiliation, catching feelings is enough of one.
Jason is on her face as soon as she throws her panties behind her. Helena places a hand on his shoulder for stability, but otherwise remains very still.
"No one," he says, and it takes Helena a moment to realize this is an answer to her question. Jason grabs her ass, hiking her up a bit—until Helena can swear there is no space between their bodies. It's awfully intimate for what's usually their routine. Jason's fingers brush against her cunt, killing any possibility for a witty comment from her. "I should make you beg a little," Jason whispers, ducking to kiss the juncture of her shoulder and her neck.
Helena half-groans, half-moans. "Shut up and fuck me already."
Jason slides into her (not before sparing some seconds to laugh at her and play with her nipples) and it's glorious.
"Fuck," she breathes out when he bottoms out. Zinda might have a point in favor of the existence of dickdrawals if the way Helena feels—that is, pleasantly full—is something to go by. Jason's reply comes in the form of a very eloquent grunt. Helena circles her hips; in the non-existent space that exists between them, her clit rubs against Jason's pelvis, making her moan.
She forces Jason to look at her by tugging at his hair. There is no verdant blue on his eyes, just pitch black lust that would look way better if he was moaning. That is probably the only thing Helena would change about him in bed: for all he likes to run his mouth on the streets, he's way too quiet even when he is railing Helena into the mattress.
For some reason or another, that won't cut it tonight.
Helena rises on his lap, and drops on his cock, reveling in the desperate grip Jason has on her ass, how he licks his lips before diving to mouth at her collarbone and the top of her breasts. This will leave marks, which is not as bad as entering class with a hickey on her neck like some highschooler. Helena does it again, and again, building a rhythm that makes her break the third-fucking-commandment with a moan.
In the end Jason's walls crack, a breathy, "Helena," moaned in desperation and muffled by her breasts. Helena pushes Jason by the shoulders, and she follows his fall until she is bracketing his head with her arms. The kiss that follows is utterly filthy, it doesn't matter that Helena bites his lower lip, Jason takes it upon himself to push his tongue past the seal of her lips, licking into her mouth and making Helena keen when he adds a calculated thrust to the equation.
Her breath stutters, before she starts demanding, "More." Helena falls on top of Jason with the next thrust, her thighs burning pleasantly from the exertion.
The sex is as good as ever, Helena thinks, perhaps even better than last time after their brief stunt at actual communication. There are still things they need to discuss, but this is as far as two people like them will get in one night. It's enough, she says to herself through the fog of pleasure, as Jason wraps his arms around her torso, keeping her still while he thrusts up relentlessly.
The sounds of skin on skin, the way she has to spread herself over Jason's thighs, the drag of his cock in and out of her pussy, or his labored breathing and grunts, are not, in fact, enough. Helena licks a stripe on Jason's neck, reaching his earlobe and tugging on it with a whimper when she tilts her hips and Jason's cock hits just the right way.
"Christ, Jason."
"What would they say if they saw you like—this?" He punctuates his question with a hard thrust that makes Helena choke on a moan. "Want me to say it, Hel?"
She's been thinking about this on the regular. Whether she's less for choosing to bound herself to Jason like this. Whether he truly thinks less of her because she's a good fuck. Maybe it's the conversation from before, maybe it's been a long time since their last tryst, but Helena takes the plunge, because she at least deserves to hold the power.
"That I'm such a slut for your cock," she says with a lascivious moan.
Jason's hips stutter, before she feels his cock pulsate inside of her, the warm sensation of cum filling her. Paired with a roll of her hips, it's enough to send her careening over the edge with a silent scream. She barely registers Jason biting her lower lip, too focussed on how her pussy milks his cock, but she ends up letting out a pleased hum when the intensity of her orgasm comes down a bit. There's a word, on the tip of her tongue, one she won't say. Starts with an 'M', has four letters, ends with an 'E', and it's used to denote possession over something, she would say to her class.
The featherlike touches on her back are nice. Too bad they won't last long.
Helena rolls off Jason, landing face first on her mattress. The pain of her ribs is a distant thrum, not actually that important that it would stop her from falling asleep, not with her brain filled with cotton. She hears Jason getting up, then a whistle, because he's the type of degenerate to admire his work.
She flips the bird at him, and then, for good measure, she adds, "Vaffanculo!"
"You say that like you didn't make me do all the work," Jason says somewhere at the foot of the bed. Helena groans, and reaches for her pillow to hug it.
After all, Jason knows where the fucking door is.
—
Helena wakes up to the smell of coffee, completely unused to it. She blinks a few times, and yawns, stretching out. The sheet covering her falls to the floor with the motion. That seems to finally give her pause. She stops mid-stretch, her ears picking up the sounds from the kitchen.
What's more improbable? That someone decided to break into her house at dawn to make coffee, or that Jason is staying?
In any case, that's an authentic Italian moka pot. She curses under her breath, and gets up from bed faster than she's ever done. Her panties are conveniently hanging by the doorknob, so Helena puts then on for the sake of modicum. Not that she expects Jason to be in her open kitchen cooking breakfast.
Jason is, in fact, cooking breakfast in her kitchen. Helena gives herself a moment to process the utter domesticity of it, down to the ridiculous Wonder Woman apron not even she uses. It's too soon to call this affection that swells in her chest 'love', but she would love if this became a recurrent ritual.
"What the fuck?"
He throws a cursory glance at her from over his shoulder, and snorts.
"Put something on, I don't want hot bacon landing on those tits," he says, his gaze going to a pile of clothes, before averting his eyes rapidly to the stove.
Helena cocks an eyebrow, and smirks, strutting to the pile and fishing Jason's undershirt from it. After she puts it on, she turns to look at him. Jason gives her a once-over, pan still in his hand. He frowns.
"I'm not sure how Bruce finds Selina attractive when she wears his undershirt," he says, finally. "It looks weird," he adds, sparing her a last glance before platting the bacon next to some eggs.
"Moron." Helena takes the hem of the shirt and twists it in a knot, further exposing her underwear, and rolls the sleeves up to her elbows. She ignores him all the way to the central aisle, where she takes a sit on one of the high chairs.
If he's going to be insufferable, he could at least skip the part of playing house. Helena is twirling her fork in her hand, thinking, when a cold hand lands on her thigh. One second later, Jason is leaning over the space that separates the two chairs, leaving a chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth.
"How does 'your moron' sound?"
"Awful," she says through gritted teeth. Then, she grabs the apron and tugs him closer. "Zuccareddu is way better."
"As awful as the sight of you in my undershirt," says Jason before sealing his lips with hers. Helena savors the Italian coffee on his lips, feels the way the sun starts to warm her skin, her eyelashes fluttering closed in utter bliss. It's different, and it's good, and for now, in the break of dawn, it's enough.