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"You ever think about how tap water tastes different depending on where you are?" Jon's voice was muffled, his face half-buried in the pillow.
Damian, lying beside him, didn't answer immediately. The sheets were tangled around them, still warm from the heat of their bodies. The penthouse was too quiet, yet the silence was held at bay by the low hum of the city outside.
"It's the minerals," Damian finally said, staring at the ceiling. "Or the pipes."
Jon laughed, rolling onto his side to face him. "Right, but that's not the point. The point is, you could be drinking the same water, but it feels different. Like, in Metropolis, it tastes like chlorine. Here, it's almost—a pause—metallic."
Damian turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Jon’s profile in the dim light filtering through the blinds. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, though the observation lacked its usual edge. There was something disarming about Jon’s ability to fixate on the mundane, the way he could twist something as simple as water into a metaphor Damian didn’t want to examine too closely.
Jon grinned, unbothered. “Says the guy who once lectured me for fifteen minutes about the structural integrity of grocery bags.” He stretched, the muscles in his arms flexing before he settled again, close enough that Damian could feel the warmth radiating off him. Too close. Always too close, and yet never close enough.
Damian exhaled sharply through his nose. “That was different. You were about to put canned goods on top of bread.”
“And yet, the bread survived.” Damian wanted to throw up.
Jon’s fingers brushed against Damian’s wrist, a casual, thoughtless touch that sent a jolt up his spine. He didn’t pull away. He never did. That was the problem.
Jon’s fingers lingered, tracing idle circles on Damian’s wrist. The touch was light, almost absentminded, as if Jon wasn’t aware of the way Damian’s pulse jumped under his fingertips. Or maybe he was. Maybe that was the worst part, that Jon could be so casually devastating without even trying.
“You’re quiet,” Jon murmured, his thumb pressing just a little harder against the delicate bones of Damian’s wrist. “Thinking about grocery bags again?”
Damian scoffed, but the sound lacked its usual bite. He should pull away. But the warmth of Jon’s skin against his own was a trap he kept walking into, a snare he couldn’t bring himself to resist. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, his voice rough with something he refused to name.
Jon hummed, shifting closer. The sheets rustled, and suddenly, Damian could feel the heat of Jon’s thigh pressing against his own. “Then what?” Jon’s breath ghosted over Damian’s cheek, too intimate, too familiar. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Damian’s breath caught, trapped somewhere between his ribs and Jon’s proximity. He could lie, he should lie but the weight of Jon’s thigh against his, the slow drag of his thumb over Damian’s pulse point, made honesty slither up his throat like a confession. "You," he admitted, the word barely audible. It felt like surrender.
Jon stilled for a heartbeat, Damian thought he’d miscalculated, that this fragile thing between them would shatter under the weight of acknowledgment. But then Jon exhaled, a slow, shuddering breath, and his fingers curled around Damian’s wrist, anchoring him. "Yeah," Jon said, voice rough. "Me too."
The admission hung between them, thick and suffocating. Damian turned his head, finally meeting Jon’s gaze. In the dim light, Jon’s eyes were dark, unreadable, but his mouth was soft and slightly parted, it betrayed him. Damian knew that look, he knew what came next. He’d memorized the sequence like a man studying his own execution: the hitch of Jon’s breath, the way his eyelashes fluttered, the split-second hesitation before he closed the distance.
This time, though, Jon didn’t move. He just looked, his gaze tracing Damian’s face with a focus that bordered on reverence. It was unbearable. Damian wanted to crawl out of his skin. "Stop that," he muttered, turning his face away.
Jon didn’t stop. His fingers tightened around Damian’s wrist, a silent insistence. “No,” he said, so softly it was almost lost in the hum of the city beyond the windows. “I want to look at you.” The words landed like a blow, tender and bruising.
Damian had spent years perfecting the art of being unseen. By his parents, by lovers, by the world and here was Jon, dismantling his defenses with nothing but a gaze.
Damian swallowed, his throat tight. “Why?” The question was raw, stripped of its usual armor. He regretted it instantly.
Jon’s thumb brushed over the jut of Damian’s wristbone, a slow, deliberate stroke. “Because you’re beautiful,” he said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. Not a compliment, not flattery, just a fact.
The air left Damian’s lungs in a rush. He wanted to laugh, to sneer, to deflect, anything to escape the unbearable weight of being seen. Instead, he lay there, paralyzed by the sincerity in Jon’s voice. It was worse than the sex, worse than the frantic, wordless couplings in the dark. Yet it was never enough.
Jon’s fingers traced up Damian’s forearm, slow and deliberate, mapping the tension coiled beneath his skin. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, and Damian hated the way his voice softened around the observation, as if fragility deserved gentleness.
“I’m not,” Damian lied, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him. Jon’s touch lingered, not retreating, not pressing further but present just there, a constant, like the hum of the city outside. Damian wanted to recoil, to snap something cutting, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he found himself leaning into the contact, a silent admission.
Jon exhaled, a quiet, measured sound. “You don’t have to be okay all the time, you know,” he said, his thumb brushing the hollow of Damian’s elbow. “Rao, You don’t have to be anything right now with me.”
The permission was a trap. Damian knew it. If he let himself unravel here, in this bed, with Jon’s eyes on him, there would be no stitching himself back together when morning came. But Jon’s fingers were warm, his gaze unwavering, and Damian was so tired of pretending.
Jon shifted closer, his forehead pressing against Damian’s temple, his breath warm and uneven. “Tell me,” he murmured, his lips brushing Damian’s cheekbone. “Tell me what you want.”
Damian’s throat worked silently. He could lie but the words clawed their way out anyway. “You,” he rasped, the admission like glass in his throat. “Just you.”
Jon exhaled shakily, a shadow of smile dancing on his face, his fingers tightening around Damian’s wrist. “Okay,” he said, simple and devastating. He kissed Damian then, slow and deliberate, his mouth soft against Damian’s trembling lips. It was nothing like their usual frantic couplings, no desperation, no pretense. Just Jon, kissing him like he had all the time in the world, like Damian was something precious.
Damian’s hands fisted in the sheets. He wanted to push Jon away, to hide, to run, but Jon’s palm slid up his arm, fingers curling around the back of his neck, holding him in place. “Look at me,” Jon murmured against his lips.
Damian couldn’t. His eyelids fluttered shut, lashes brushing against Jon’s cheek as he turned his face away—a reflex, a habit so ingrained it was muscle memory. He didn’t let people look. Not like this. Not when he was bare, not when his pulse thundered in his throat like a trapped thing.
Jon’s grip on his neck gentled but didn’t relent. His thumb stroked the hinge of Damian’s jaw, slow and patient. “Hey,” he murmured, lips grazing Damian’s temple. “It’s just me.”
That’s the problem, Damian wanted to say. Instead, he dug his fingers deeper into the sheets, the fabric straining under his grip. Jon exhaled, warm and quiet, and then his mouth was on Damian’s throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the taut line of his tendons. Each touch was deliberate, unhurried, as if Jon had all night to map the places where Damian’s skin was thinnest, most vulnerable.
Damian shuddered. He hated this. He hated how Jon could dismantle him with nothing but his mouth and his hands and his unbearable, unflinching attention. Hated how his body betrayed him, arching into the touch, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. “Stop,” he managed, though it sounded more plea than command.
Jon didn’t stop. His lips lingered against Damian’s throat, his breath hot and uneven. “No,” he murmured, the word vibrating against Damian’s skin. “Not until you look at me.” His fingers tightened slightly at the nape of Damian’s neck, insistent and painful enough. A demand disguised as a request.
Damian’s chest tightened, his ribs pressing inwards like a cage. He wanted to argue, to snap something sharp enough to make Jon recoil, but the words dissolved in his throat. Instead, he let out a ragged exhale, his fingers uncurling from the sheets as if surrendering. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned his head back towards Jon.
Jon’s eyes met his, dark and unwavering. There was no pity in his gaze, no mocking amusement, just a quiet intensity that made Damian’s stomach twist. “There you are,” Jon murmured, his thumb brushing the corner of Damian’s mouth. The touch was unbearably gentle.
Damian flinched, but Jon didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to Damian’s forehead, then the bridge of his nose, then the hollow of his cheek, each kiss deliberate, unhurried. Damian’s breath hitched, his hands trembling where they lay limp at his sides. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like this, as if he were worth savoring.
Jon’s lips lingered near Damian’s temple, his breath warm against the shell of his ear. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, but the words were a challenge, not a concession. His fingers traced the line of Damian’s collarbone, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of him. Damian’s pulse thundered beneath his skin, a wild, trapped thing. He should tell Jon to stop, should shove him away, should retreat behind the familiar walls of sarcasm and deflection. But the words tangled in his throat, useless and heavy.
Instead, his hands found Jon’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. A surrender. A plea. Jon exhaled sharply, as if he’d been holding his breath, and then his mouth was on Damian’s again, even softer this time, almost tentative. It was unbearable. Damian kissed him back, clumsily, his teeth catching Jon’s lower lip in a way that should have been painful but only made Jon groan, low and ragged. The sound vibrated through Damian’s chest, settling somewhere behind his ribs like a second heartbeat.
Jon pulled back just far enough to speak, his forehead resting against Damian’s. “Look at me,” he repeated, his voice rough. Damian’s eyelids fluttered, resisting, but Jon’s thumb brushed the arch of his cheekbone, coaxing. Reluctantly, Damian opened his eyes. Jon’s gaze was dark, pupils blown wide, but there was no mockery there, no pity, just an intensity that made Damian’s stomach twist. Jon hummed, caressing Damian's cheek.
The moment stretched, fragile and humming. Then Jon shifted, his knee sliding between Damian’s thighs, and the spell shattered. Damian gasped, his hips jerking forward instinctively, seeking friction. Jon’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening in Damian’s hair. “Fuck,” he muttered, and then he was kissing Damian again, harder this time, his tongue sliding against Damian’s with a hunger that bordered on desperation. Damian arched into him, his nails biting into Jon’s shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. It was too much. It wasn’t enough.
Jon’s fingers tangled in Damian’s hair, tugging just enough to make his breath stutter. The sharp sting grounded him, a counterpoint to the dizzying heat of Jon’s mouth. Damian’s hands scrabbled at Jon’s back, nails catching on fabric, desperate for purchase. He wanted to claw his way inside Jon’s skin, to burrow into the warmth and safety of him and never resurface. The thought was terrifying, too much, too vulnerable, so he bit down on Jon’s lower lip instead, sharp enough to draw a startled gasp.
Jon laughed against his mouth, breathless and bright. “Fuck, Damian,” he muttered, his hips rolling forward in a slow, deliberate grind that made Damian’s vision blur. The friction was maddening, teasing, and Damian snarled, bucking up against him. Jon caught his hips, pinning him to the mattress with infuriating ease. “Patience,” he chided, though his voice was ragged, his pupils blown wide.
Damian hated him. Hated the way Jon could reduce him to this: a trembling, gasping mess with a single touch. Hated how easily Jon unraveled him, as if Damian’s defenses were nothing more than tissue paper. “Don’t” Damian started, but the protest died in his throat as Jon’s lips trailed down his neck, teeth scraping over his pulse. A shudder wracked his body, his fingers twisting in Jon’s hair. “Don’t tease me,” he managed, though it came out more plea than command.
Jon hummed, the vibration sending sparks down Damian’s spine. “Not teasing,” he murmured, his mouth hot against Damian’s collarbone. “Just taking my time.” His hands slid under Damian’s shirt, calloused palms skimming up his ribs, mapping the planes of his chest with a reverence that made Damian’s skin prickle. It was unbearable. Damian wanted to squirm away, to hide from the unbearable tenderness of Jon’s touch, but Jon held him fast, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Jon breathed, his thumbs brushing over Damian’s nipples, light as a whisper.
Damian couldn't breathe, Jon spoke to Damian like the words were a revelation instead of a line. His fingers flexed against Jon's scalp, caught between pushing him away and dragging him closer. “Please" he choked out, but Jon's hands were already pulling Damian's fingers twitching against his wrist.
He should extricate himself. Should slide from the bed and retreat to the shower, the balcony, anywhere but here, trapped in the circle of Jon’s arms like something precious. Instead, he found himself counting the spaces between Jon’s breaths, syncing his own to match. The rhythm soothed something jagged in his chest.
A streetlight flickered outside, casting amber stripes across the rumpled sheets. Damian traced one with his gaze, following its path over Jon’s forearm, over the faint, silvery scar from when Jon almost lost his arm from a kryptonite dagger. The memory tightened his ribs like a vice.
Jon shifted in his sleep, nosing clumsily into the space between Damian’s shoulder blades. His exhale was warm, dampening the fine hairs at Damian’s nape. Something in Damian’s stomach clenched, sharp and sweet.
Jon’s fingers twitched against Damian’s hip, his grip tightening just slightly, possessively. Damian exhaled slowly through his nose, the air leaving him in a controlled stream, as if releasing too much at once might shatter the fragile truce of this moment.
The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 3:17 AM in lurid red. Gotham’s perpetual hum of traffic and distant sirens filtered through the glass, a dissonant lullaby. Jon’s breath warmed the back of Damian’s neck, his lips parted slightly against Damian’s spine, almost unbearable, and not being able to take it anymore, Damian finally gives in. After all, he had lifetime to feel guilt over her.