Chapter Text
You've only been on the team for six months, but you've proven useful enough to earn your place here. Though you don't have much use for arrows or guns, you've been sneaking around and throwing knives since you were a kid…and doing it well enough that Dick Grayson had asked you to think about joining the Titans, just after you'd been turned.
To be fair, you did think about it…just not very long, or positively. While the idea of stopping the worst of the worst without killing them sounds great in theory, some people need to die - not because they deserve death, but because their victims deserve to live. When you'd said as much during debriefing after your trial mission with the Outlaws, Jason had almost smiled at you; prompting a sly grin, an offered hand, and a drawled "looks like you're in, kid" from Roy. Kory had looked between you and Hood with amusement, though her thoughts on the manner were anyone's guess.
Because Roy and Kory can't keep their hands off each other, it's been like this when you travel: they get a room with one bed, you and Jason get a room with two beds. This way, everyone has someone watching their back.
For the most part, rooming with Jay is easy enough - you stay out of each other's way and off of each other's nerves. Sometimes, you oil and clean your weapons together, but you don't talk much. He still hasn't fully smiled at you, and though Roy swears up and down that "he likes having you around, he just takes awhile to warm up to people", you really don't want to test that theory. Better to keep the quiet camaraderie you have now, and stay on his good side , you think.
You try very hard not to remember how deceptively nimble Jason's fingers look when he takes apart his pistols; how he sticks out his tongue just a bit when concentrating; or how his eyes crinkle just so when he laughs at Roy's jokes. Whenever he's shirtless, you're quick to avert your gaze - otherwise, you can feel your cheeks burning as you fight not to ogle the man. Quiet camaraderie, maybe even acquaintances, that's the plan, you remind yourself. Don't rock the goddamn boat.
However, your plan failed to account for coming back to the room after a night out as Roy and Kory's third wheel to hear a strangled moan from inside before you could open the door. Cautious, you settle against the doorframe to listen for context clues with a knife in hand.
Pressing your ear to the door (and praying that no one decides to come down this hallway), you can just barely make out the rustle of sheets - either this is the tamest struggle you've ever heard, someone's tranq'd Jason before he could do any damage, or there's something a lot less violent happening. There's a hiss followed by a bitten-off whine and something slick.
You frown, freezing. Did he bring someone back here? Surely he'd never compromise the mission like that - for all his anger issues from the Pit, Jason has better impulse control than your other two teammates by a mile. He's also not only not a fucking idiot; he's a solid tactician. Nothing about this makes any sense, unless…
"Fuck, yes, [your name]" he rumbles. "Cut me more, make me yours."
You experience the mental equivalent of a record scratch and almost choke on your own spit, t-dick so hard it could cut glass. Does he know you're out here, or is this only happening because he thinks you aren't here to hear it?!
Clenching your jaw, you weigh your options - or try to, anyway. The whimpering behind the door has you more than a little distracted, as does the way Jason whines your name. It makes you want to kick down the door and take him apart, has you wondering how pretty he'd look underneath you with the blood of a dozen shallow cuts pooling in the toned valleys of his torso. But, like any storybook vampire, you need an invitation…even if it's a shared room, it's the principle of the thing.
There's another wet sound, almost like ripping, and a gasp - you're biting your fist to muffle a groan, thighs squeezing together as if to try to contain your arousal. The throbbing in your clit only intensifies when you hear him growl, "I know you're out there, [your name]. If you've ever wanted a taste, and you're as filthy as I think you are, get your ass in here and take me - blood's still warm from this one, did it fresh just for you."
There's no coming back from this, but you can smell his honesty in the copper-wine scent of freshly opened wounds…and fuck, it's been years since you had anything besides a bloodbag. Licking your lips, you cave to your baser impulses, and open the door.