I think we, as a general community, need to start taking this little moment more seriously.
This, right here? This is asking for consent. It’s a legal necessity, yes, but it is also you, the reader, actively consenting to see adult content; and in doing so, saying that you are of an age to see it, and that you’re emotionally capable of handling it.
You find the content you find behind this warning disgusting, horrifying, upsetting, triggering? You consented. You said you could handle it, and you were able to back out at any time. You take responsibility for yourself when you click through this, and so long as the creator used warnings and tags correctly, you bear full responsibility for its impact on you.
“Children are going to lie about their age” is probably true, but that’s the problem of them and the people who are responsible for them, not the people that they lie to.
If you’re not prepared to see adult content, created by and for adults, don’t fucking click through this. And if you do, for all that’s holy, don’t blame anyone else for it.
thought about the idea of vox releasing one of those fucking cancelled youtuber apology videos after the season 2 finale and started laughing to myself
A Prophet from Vintege Eight stimboard for anon with red/black, eyes, a religious imagery!!!
~ I LOVEEEEEE VINTEGE EIGHT this was a treat to make (running in circles with joys)
Hello dear author, I hope I’m not bothering you, can I request a Jason Todd x Male Reader where the reader has a hyperfixation on Nightwing? The reader doesn’t know that Jason is Red Hood and that Dick is Nightwing, please, I wish you a good evening/day 🫶
HE DOESN'T KNOW (DON'T HOLD IT AGAINST HIM)
PAIRING:
Jason Todd x Male Reader
Jason Todd was not a jealous man.
At least, that’s what he told himself. He’d died, come back, and lived long enough in Gotham’s underbelly to have thicker skin than that. But right now? Watching his boyfriend practically glow while rambling about Nightwing’s latest takedown in Blüdhaven? Jason could feel the anger creeping up his throat like bile.
You were perched on the couch, scrolling through your phone with a look Jason rarely saw you wear for him—eyes wide, grin splitting your face, words spilling out faster than your brain could keep track.
“—and then he just flipped! Like, a triple somersault off the fire escape. Landed like a cat, Jason. You should’ve seen it! And that escrima stick throw? God, he’s so smooth. It’s like watching poetry in motion. Honestly, he might be the coolest vigilante Gotham’s ever had.”
Jason’s jaw ticked.
“Uh huh,” he muttered, eyes on the TV but not seeing a damn thing.
You didn’t notice the storm brewing two feet away. “And his style, Jason. That suit—don’t even get me started on that suit. The blue, the—”
Jason snapped. “Yeah, yeah, Nightwing’s god’s gift to Gotham. Message received loud and clear.”
You blinked, caught off guard by his sharp tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jason finally looked at you, green eyes sharp, a scowl carved into his face. “It means maybe cool it with the Nightwing fanboy act. Kinda weird swooning over another guy when your boyfriend’s sitting right here.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. “I wasn’t swooning! I was just—he’s impressive, Jay. That’s all.”
Jason scoffed, standing up abruptly. “Impressive. Right.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging it on with more force than necessary. “Guess I’ll go brood in an alley until I figure out how to compete with acrobat-boy.”
You frowned, genuinely confused. “What’s gotten into you? It’s not like I know Nightwing personally or something.”
Jason froze at the door, hand tightening around the knob. His throat burned, words clawing to get out—because that’s my brother, because I’ve been in his shadow my whole damn life, because I’m Red Hood and you don’t even see me.
But he swallowed it all down.
“Forget it.” he muttered, slamming the door on the way out.
Later that night, you found him sulking on the rooftop. Sitting on the ledge, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, Jason barely looked at you when you joined him.
You nudged his shoulder. “You’re mad at me.”
“Not mad.” He took a drag. “Just…tired of feeling second best.”
Your brows furrowed. “Second best? Jason, you’re—god, you’re my favorite person in this whole world. Nightwing’s just—he’s a mask. A fantasy. You’re real. You’re mine.”
For a second, Jason let himself believe you. Your hand slid into his, grounding him. You leaned your head against his shoulder, soft and unshaken. He let out a shaky breath, some of the tension bleeding away.
“...You really don’t get it, do you?” he murmured.
“Nope,” you said cheerfully. “But I know this: you’re the one I love, not Nightwing.”
Jason wanted to tell you everything. Wanted to rip off the mask and show you the truth, let you see every jagged edge. But instead, he crushed the cigarette under his boot, wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you closer.
For now, he’d let you keep your illusions, and try not to murder his brother in the meantime.
Everybody knew better than to ask if you and Jason were “together” or “broken up.”
The answer changed depending on the day, sometimes the hour. Your friends stopped asking after a while — if you were single, if you were still living with him, if you were back on his motorcycle in the middle of the night with your skirt riding up your thighs.
One week he was spoiling you with rooftop takeout and new jewelry, kissing your ankle while you lounged across his lap. The next, you were hurling his hoodie out your apartment window while he screamed up at you from the street.
It was toxic. Messy. Impossible. And yet—you always came back. Always.
Because Jason Todd was infuriating, jealous, reckless, and mean when he wanted to be. But he was also the only man who knew how to pamper you like a princess, the only man who grounded you when the world spun too fast, the only man who made you feel alive in ways no one else could touch.
Didn’t matter how loud the fights got, how messy the accusations were. Him glaring at you for being too friendly with some guy at the club, you screaming at him for letting a bartender linger too long with her hand on his arm. It always ended the same.
Words sharp enough to cut, slammed doors, and then—his hands bruising your hips, your nails raking down his back, the taste of blood and lipstick and desperation mixing like poison you both craved.
Tonight was no different.
Your phone buzzed, and you barely glanced at the screen before Jason’s sharp voice cut through your apartment.
“Who the hell is Mark?”
It always started the same way.
Screaming.
You froze mid-sip of wine, turning to see him leaning against the kitchen doorway. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Eyes sharp as gunmetal.
You rolled your eyes, tossing the phone onto the counter like it was nothing. “Oh my god, Jason. He’s just some guy. He asked if I wanted to grab a drink. Friendly.”
Jason’s laugh was harsh, biting. He pushed off the doorframe and stalked closer, boots heavy on the floor. “Friendly? Baby, he’s not trying to be your friend. Guys like that don’t want to talk about your day. They want you spread out on their bed. Yeah, that sounds real friendly.”
Your heels clicked angrily as you crossed the kitchen, meeting him head-on. “And what about you? Flirting with every bartender in Gotham? Letting waitresses give you their number like you’re God’s gift? You think I don’t see the way they look at you?”
His eyes narrowed, teeth gritted. “Difference is, I don’t answer them back.”
You shoved his chest, hard, your glossed lips curling into a bitter smile. “You’re such a hypocrite.”
Jason caught your wrist mid-swing, grip like iron, yanking you closer until your breath tangled with his. His voice dropped, low and dangerous, rough enough to make your thighs clench.
“And you,” he hissed, “are such a brat.”
Your pulse spiked. You tried to tug free, nails digging into his jacket. “Let me go, Jason.”
Instead, he caged you against the counter, his body hot and solid against yours, the tension vibrating between you like a live wire. His hand slid down to your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to make you gasp.
The air between you snapped, electric. You hated him. You loved him. You couldn’t breathe without him. His hand slid lower, to your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.
“You want drinks with him?” he growled, lips brushing your ear. “Or do you want me to bend you over this counter and remind you exactly why you don’t need anyone else?”
You bucked against him, teeth bared. “Fuck you, Todd.”
“That’s the plan, princess.” His hand cracked hard against your ass, the sharp sound echoing in the kitchen.
Pain bloomed hot and immediate, followed by a dizzying rush of heat pooling low in your belly. You cried out, half fury, half filthy want, as he landed another stinging slap. “Always pushing,” he snarled, fingers digging into the tender flesh beneath your skirt. “Always gotta be a brat.”
“Stop—” you gasped moaning almost, writhing, but he pinned you tighter, grinding his erection against your backside. The familiar slide of leather against silk made your knees tremble.
Jason’s free hand dipped into his waistband.
Cold, unforgiving metal pressed against your inner thigh, the barrel of his Glock. You froze, breath hitching. He dragged it upward, tracing the seam of your panties before nudging them aside. The chill of the steel kissed your wetness, a shocking contrast to the fever burning inside you.
“Still wanna go?” His voice was gravel, rough with dark promise. He pushed the gun deeper, the unforgiving edge parting your folds. You whimpered, arching back against him instinctively. “Or you gonna be good?”
The safety clicked off. The sound was obscene. Final.
You shook your head, frantic. Words tangled in your throat, anger, fear, blinding need. He laughed low against your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise. “Didn’t think so.”
He withdrew the gun slowly, leaving you trembling and achingly empty. Then he spun you around, shoving you backward onto the cold granite countertop. Your glass or water shattered on the floor. He didn’t care. His hands ripped your panties down your thighs, fingers hooking behind your knees to spread you wide.
Jason’s eyes burned like hellfire. “Gonna tame this brat,” he vowed, lining himself up. “Gonna fuck you so deep you forget every other name but mine.”
The glock’s barrel pressed against your clit, cold and demanding. You gasped, hips jerking, not away, but toward the unforgiving steel. Jason’s thumb circled the trigger guard, rough leather scraping your inner thigh.
“Beg,” he commanded, voice stripped raw. “Beg me to put it inside you.”
You choked on pride, on fury, on the slick heat pooling between your legs. “Please,” you whispered. The word tasted like surrender. Like salvation.
He pushed the gun inside you slowly, brutally. The metal stretched you, cold against your burning walls. You cried out, nails scraping granite. Jason watched your face, rapt, as he worked the barrel deeper.
“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s mine. Only mine.” He twisted the grip, grinding the sights against your G-spot. Stars exploded behind your eyelids. Your thighs trembled violently, slickness soaking the counter.
Jason withdrew the gun, glistening with your arousal. He didn’t wipe it off. Just holstered it, then unbuckled his belt. “Now,” he rasped, flipping you onto your stomach against the counter. “Where I want you.” He shoved your skirt up, slapped your ass hard, once, twice, leaving stinging welts.
“Still thinking about Mark?” he taunted, spreading your ass. “Wonder what that prick would say if he saw you like this.” His cock slammed into you without warning, thick and punishing. You screamed into the granite, arching back. “Bet he couldn’t handle you,” Jason growled, hips pistoning. “Bet he’d cry when you scratched his back.” He leaned over, biting your shoulder blade. “But me? I fucking love it.” He pulled out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing.
Cold metal pressed against your entrance again, the glock’s barrel. “Open up,” he ordered, pushing it inside slowly. You whimpered, feeling the unforgiving steel stretch you wider than before. Jason chuckled darkly.
“See? Only I know how to fill you right.” He twisted the grip, grinding against that sweet spot until your legs shook. “Mark ever make you drip like this? Huh?” Another vicious thrust of the gun. “Answer me.”
“N-no,” you gasped, tears mixing with sweat on the countertop. “Just you.”
“Damn right.” His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. “Remember this next time some asshole texts you.” His thrusts turned jagged, possessive. “Remember who owns this cunt.”
The glock withdrew again, slick and gleaming under the kitchen lights. Jason pulled your phone from your discarded purse, unlocking it with your thumbprint. He found Mark’s contact. Held the gun inches from your face.
“Smile, princess.” The flash blinded you. The shutter clicked. The photo captured everything: your tear-streaked cheeks, your swollen lips parted on a silent moan, the obscene glisten coating the barrel resting against your thigh. He sent it.
Just like that. No caption needed.
The notification pinged instantly, a horrified “???” flashing on the screen before Jason tossed the phone aside. “Let him see what he’ll never touch.”
He didn’t give you time to process the violation, the dizzying mix of humiliation and arousal flooding your veins. The cold metal pressed back against your entrance, pushing deep in one brutal shove. You cried out, arching off the counter.
Jason leaned over you, his breath hot on your ear. “Still feel like a brat?” He twisted the grip, grinding the unforgiving steel against your most sensitive spot.
Your hips jerked uncontrollably, a ragged sob tearing from your throat. “N-no!”
“Good girl.” The praise was rough, edged with dark satisfaction. He withdrew the gun slowly, the drag deliberate, making you whimper at the loss.
Before the emptiness could fully register, his cock slammed back into you, thick and searing hot after the gun’s chill. He fucked you with punishing strokes, each thrust punctuated by the sharp crack of his palm landing hard on your ass.
The sting bloomed across your skin, merging with the deep ache inside you. “This,” he snarled, fingers digging into your bruised hip, “is where you belong. Taking my cock. Taking my gun. Me.” He punctuated each word with a thrust that drove the breath from your lungs.
You were unraveling, the lines between pain and pleasure blurring into a white-hot haze. The sting of the spanking, the deep stretch of him, the lingering chill of the gunmetal inside you, it was too much.
Your orgasm ripped through you without warning, violent and consuming. You screamed his name, nails scraping uselessly against the granite, body convulsing around him.
Jason groaned, a raw, guttural sound, hips stuttering as your climax milked his own release. He buried himself deep, pulsing inside you, his breath ragged against your sweat-slicked back.
For a moment, the only sounds were your harsh breathing and the distant wail of a Gotham siren.
Silence settled, thick and charged. Jason didn’t pull out. His weight pressed you harder into the cold counter, his hand still possessively gripping your hip. His breath was hot and uneven against the nape of your neck.
Slowly, sensation returned, the ache in your hips, the sting on your ass, the profound emptiness where he’d been. He finally withdrew, the wet sound obscene in the quiet kitchen. You slumped forward, trembling, forehead resting on the cool stone.
The aftermath was a familiar cocktail: exhaustion, lingering adrenaline, and a bone-deep satisfaction that made your limbs feel heavy. You heard the rustle of leather as Jason buckled his belt, the metallic snick of the Glock being holstered.
Then, footsteps. He leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you gather yourself. His gaze was hooded, assessing.
You pushed yourself upright with shaky arms, wincing at the protest from your hips and thighs. Your skirt was bunched around your waist, your panties long gone.
You met his stare, defiance sparking despite the wreckage. "You're a fucking idiot, Jay," you rasped, voice raw from screaming. There was no heat behind it, just weary acknowledgment. "Absolute fucking psychopath."
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. He didn't argue. Instead, he uncrossed his arms and reached out, rough knuckles brushing a stray tear track from your cheekbone.
Unexpectedly, he dipped his head. His lips pressed lazy, almost chaste kisses along your shoulder, tracing the bite mark he’d left earlier. The tenderness was jarring, incongruous after the brutality. You shivered, but didn't pull away.
"Psychopath who knows how to shut you up," he murmured against your skin, the words vibrating softly. His hand slid down your arm, calloused fingers intertwining loosely with yours on the cold countertop.
It wasn't an apology. It was acceptance. Just another twisted piece of your impossible puzzle.
He straightened, his gaze lingering on your disheveled state, skirt rucked up, thighs trembling, the angry red welts stark against your skin.
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "C'mere," he ordered, voice rough but lacking its earlier edge. He hooked a finger under the waistband of your ruined panties still tangled around one ankle and tugged gently.
You hissed as the delicate fabric scraped over tender flesh. He tossed them aside carelessly, then pulled your skirt down himself, smoothing the fabric over your bruised hips with surprising gentleness. His touch lingered on the curve of your ass, not punishing now, but possessive.
Appreciative.
He straightened, pulling you gently upright. Your legs wobbled, but his arm snaked firmly around your waist, holding you steady against him. His other hand smoothed your crumpled skirt down your thighs with surprising care.
"C'mon," he grunted, nodding towards the door. "Said something about drinks." His tone was gruff, but the underlying command was softened. He bent, effortlessly scooping your discarded panties off the floor.
He didn't hand them to you. Just stuffed them casually into the pocket of his leather jacket. A silent claim. You limped slightly as he guided you towards the apartment door, his arm a solid anchor.
The kitchen lay in ruins behind you, shattered glass glittering on the floor, the lingering scent of sex and gun oil hanging heavy in the air. Jason paused at the threshold, pulling the Glock from its holster.
He ejected the magazine with a practiced flick, checked the chamber was clear, and slid it back home. The metallic clicks were sharp, final punctuation to the scene. He holstered it, then glanced down at you, his gaze lingering on your swollen lips, the fading marks on your neck.
"Next time," he stated, voice low and devoid of its earlier fury, yet thick with dark promise, "you think about grabbing drinks with Mark…" He paused, letting the threat hang. Then, a dry, almost humourless chuckle escaped him. "…remember how much better I am at handling brats." He pulled you closer, his hand landing a sharp, stinging slap on your ass as he pushed you out the door.
"Good girl," he rasped against your ear. "Now let's get that drink. Try flirting with another man, see what happens." The door clicked shut behind you both, locking away the battlefield.
Gotham's grimy air hit your face, cool and damp. You leaned into him, exhausted, aching, utterly claimed. And somehow, impossibly, home.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in which a lonely princess who only has her hands to entertain herself in the night and the knight who shares a bedroom wall with her takes matters into his own hands.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: knight!jason x princess!reader, dub-con, slight medieval writing style (i tried my best), mutual masturbation, somnophilia, cunnilingus. jason’s kinda subby.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: this is part of kinktober on my main! if you haven't seen my pinned post yet, i'll be continuing the rest this account because i’m currently shadowbanned. my inspiration for this fic came from this post.
the castle was silent, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears, heavy and unyielding. the sort of quiet that made every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind through the ancient stones feel like a yell.
you lay in your bed, the baby pink canopy drapes pooling around you like a cocoon of luxury and grandeur. but instead of comfort, they felt like a cage. the nights were the hardest—with nothing but your hands to keep you company, you’d often find yourself tracing patterns on the silk sheets, later intertwining your fingers into your only distraction from the loneliness that crept in like a chill.
on the other side of the wall—thin, ancient, and cruelly inadequate—was sir jason todd, the knight appointed by your father, the king, who had sworn to protect you. you’d never spoken to him, not really. he was essentially a shadow, a presence you felt more than saw. his thunderous footsteps in the corridor, the occasional sound of his sword being sharpened, the low murmur of his prayers—these were the only reminders that he existed. but tonight, as your fingers moved restlessly on top your panties, you couldn’t shake the awareness of him.
you didn’t mean to be loud. you didn’t mean to let the soft sounds of your breath, the faint hitch in your voice carry through the wall. but the night was oh-so-long, and your touch was your only solace. you tried to muffle it, pressing your face into the pillows, but the wall was insufficient, amplifying every noise. it felt like a betrayal, like you were intruding on his space, his peace. but you couldn’t stop. the nights were too empty, too infinite, and your touch was the only anchor you had.
your fingers moved onto your clit slowly at first, your touch gentle, exploratory. you closed your eyes, imagining a world beyond these walls, a world where you weren’t alone. the sounds of your breath quickened, soft, uneven, carrying through the wall despite your efforts to stifle them. you bit your lip, trying to stay quiet, but the pleasure was building.
on the other side of the wall, sir jason lay rigid in his bed, his body tense as a bowstring. he had heard you before—many times actually—the faint sounds of your restlessness, the occasional soft mewls—but tonight was different. tonight, the sounds were unmistakable, intimate, and they cut through him like a sharpened knife. his heart hammered in his chest, skin flushed with heat. he clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms, trying to ground himself in the pain.
his trousers had grown uncomfortably tight, his body reacting despite his desperate attempts to control it. he shifted, trying to ease the pressure, but it was no use. he was hard, achingly hard, and the knowledge made his cheeks burn with shame.
“god, give me strength," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
he was a knight, a man of honor, sworn to protect you, not to desire you. but the sounds coming through the wall were a test he wasn’t sure he could pass. his mind raced, torn between his oath and the primal urge that pulsed through him.
jason knew the consequences of his thoughts. if anyone were to discover his desires, he would be beheaded. his loyalty to the crown, to his code was absolute. yet here he was, struggling against the very nature of his humanity. he closed his eyes, his jaw clenched tight, and tried to focus on his prayers, on the cold, hard facts of his duty.
but it was no use. the sounds continued, soft and tantalizing, and his resolve began to falter. his hand drifted down, resting on the bulge in his trousers. he hesitated, his heart pounding, but the need was too great. with a silent plea for forgiveness, he began to palm himself, his touch slow and desperate. he imagined you—your soft skin, delicate features, the way your hair cascaded like gold in the sunlight. it was extremely wrong, he knew, but he couldn’t stop.
his breaths came in ragged gasps, body moving in rhythm with his imagination. he was careful to keep his sounds muffled and his movements quiet, but the shame only fueled the intensity of his release.
you reached your peak, body arching subtly as a soft cry escaped your lips, muffled by the pillow. the release was freeing, a momentary escape from the loneliness that gripped you. exhausted and spent, you collapsed back onto the bed, your breathing slowly evening out. sleep tugged at you, eventually surrendering to it, your hand falling limp by your side.
the room fell completely silent, but on the other side of the wall, sir jason was far from at peace. his release had left him shaken, his body limp but his mind still racing. he lay there, his hand still resting on his chest, his heart pounding. he had definitely crossed a line, a line he could never uncross. he had violated your trust, his oath, even if only in his mind.
but the guilt did little to quell the storm within him. The image of you—soft, vulnerable, asleep—was burned into his thoughts. His desire, once a flickering flame, had become an all-consuming fire. He knew it was wrong, knew the consequences of his actions could be his death, but the pull was irresistible.
he rose from his bed, movements silent, driven by a force he could no longer control. his hand trembled as he reached for the dagger at his belt, not to harm you, but to pick the lock of your chamber door.
the castle was dark, the corridors empty, and the only sound was the pounding of his heart in his ears. but the guilt did very little to quell the storm within him. the image of you—soft, vulnerable, asleep—was burned into his thoughts.
his desire, once a flickering flame, had become an all-consuming fire. he knew it was wrong, knew the consequences of his actions could be his death, but the pull was irresistible.
the lock gave way with a soft click, and he pushed the door open just enough to slip inside. the room was bathed in moonlight, the air heavy with the scent of pink jasmine and lavender. as you lay in the center of the bed, hair spilling across the pillow, breathing slow and peacefully. you were even more beautiful in sleep, features fully relaxed, lips slightly parted.
jason’s throat went dry as he approached the bed, his steps careful, almost reverent. he stood there for a moment, hovering over your fragile body just looking, torn between his desire and the weight of his conscious. but the urge to touch you… to feel your warmth, was too strong.
he reached out, hand hovering above your skin, hesitating. with a trembling finger, he brushed a strand of hair from your face. your skin was oh-so-soft, cooler than he had imagined, and the contact sent a jolt through him. he closed his eyes, savoring the moment, his heart aching with the knowledge that this was wrong, yet unable to stop.
his hand moved lower, tracing the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. he felt you breath on his fingertips, warm and steady. his thumb now brushing your lips, and he imagined what it would be like to kiss you, to taste you. but he dared not go that far.
not yet.
He let his hand drift down your shoulder, his touch feather-light, as if you were made of glass. his fingers trailed along your arm, then side, his breath coming in shallow gasps. he was acutely aware of you, of every inch of your skin, every rise and fall of your chest.
jason’s hand paused at the hem of your baby pink nightgown, his fingers hovering just above the silk. he knew he should stop, should leave, but he couldn’t. slowly, he let his hand slip beneath the material, his skin brushing against yours.
his heart pounded as he allowed his hand move higher, his fingers tracing the curve of your plush thighs, then the swell of your hip. his touch was gentle, almost reverent, but his intentions were anything but pure.
his fingers drifted closer to your heat, his hand hovering over the lace of your undergarment. he knew he should stop, should turn back, but the temptation was too great. slowly, his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, his touch brushing against the preexisting wetness of your pussy.
you stirred in her sleep, body shifting subtly, your legs parting slightly as if inviting him deeper. his breath caught in his throat. he froze, his heart pounding, but surprisingly, you didn’t wake. your movements were instinctive, a response to his touch, and it only fueled his desire further
jason’s fingers found your clit, and he began to rub your bead gently. your body responded by tilting your hips slightly, your breath quickening in her sleep. he watched you, mesmerized, as your features softened in pleasure, lips parting in a silent sigh.
the sight was his undoing. his trousers had grown unbearably tight once more, his desire a throbbing ache he could no longer ignore. with a trembling hand, he unfastened his trousers, freeing himself from the confines of his clothing. his cock was hard, pulsing with need, and he gripped it firmly, his touch mirroring the rhythm of his fingers on you.
as he continued to rub your clit, his touch growing bolder as your body responded, the movements in your sleep becoming more pronounced—legs parted further, hips rising slightly, your body fully arching into his touch. he watched you, his heart racing, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he stroked himself in time with her movements.
your room was thick with tension, the air heavy with the scent of you and sound of sleepy moans
and then, he felt his own release building, unstoppable and inevitable. with a ragged gasp, he let go, his seed spilling onto the sheets
for a moment, he stood there, body trembling, heart pounding, his mind reeling from what he had done. and slowly, pulling his hand away, his fingers trembling as he adjusted your clothing. looked at you once more, before taking his exit.
“sir jason,” you said, tone soft yet still commanding.
he froze, hand still on the door, his back to you. the room felt suffocatingly small, the air thick with tension.
“you mustn’t go so soon.”
every instinct screamed at him to flee, to escape before he caused more damage. but your words rooted him to the spot, a silent command he couldn’t ignore.
slowly, he turned to face you, his heart pounding in his chest. as you were sitting up in bed, hair cascading over your shoulders, nightgown slipping off one shoulder.
“you’re not finished, are you?”
“don’t,” you cut him off, tone sharp. “don’t pretend you don’t know what i’m talking about. you’ve been watching me, haven’t you? listening to me. touching yourself to the sounds of my pleasure.”
his cheeks burned with shame, but he couldn’t look away. you were right. he had been consumed by you, by the sounds of you, by the thought of you. and now, here he was, in her chamber, having crossed a line he could never undo.
you chuckled, a warm sound that seemed to ease the tension in the air. "it's quite alright," you assured him, your tone now a bit more gentle.
"though, i must admit, i'm flattered. but perhaps... there's a more appropriate way to show your devotion?"
he looked at you, his eyes wide and hopeful. "anything, my lady," he vowed, his voice steady now, filled with sincerity.
"well," you said, your smile growing, "since you seem to appreciate my... beauty, perhaps you could... assist me in a more... personal manner?" you gestured to the bed, your expression inviting.
the knight's eyes darted between you and the bed, his face a mix of nervousness and eagerness. slowly, he knelt before you, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. "i would be honored, m'lady," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
you nodded, pleased by his willingness. "then show me," you said softly, guiding him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
joining you on at the bed, he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, you felt a spark of anticipation. his hands trembled slightly as he rested them on your hips, his touch reverent, as if he were cradling something precious.
you guided his head gently, your fingers threading through his hair, and whispered, "take your time. i want to feel every moment."
he nodded, his cheek brushing against your thigh, and slowly, ever so slowly, his lips parted. his tongue, soft and hesitant at first, flickered out, tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. you shivered, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his touch sent a jolt of warmth through you.
with growing confidence, he kissed his way closer to your cunt, his lips pressing feather-light against your folds. you felt his breath, warm and moist, as he paused, pulling aside your lacy panties and savoring the moment. then, his tongue delved deeper, swirling around your clit, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your body.
he groaned softly, the sound vibrating against you, as he began to lap at you with slow, deliberate strokes. his tongue was firm yet gentle simultaneously, mapping every curve and crease, as if memorizing the landscape of your body. you moaned, your hips instinctively rising to meet his mouth, urging him to continue.
his hands slid up your thighs, holding you gently as he increased the pressure, his tongue flicking and circling with need. you felt the tension building, a coil tightening in your core as his rhythm became more insistent. he sucked and kissed gently, his lips creating a seal around your clit. you cried out, your fingers tightening in his hair.
"mm, that’s it," you murmured, your voice breathy and pleading. "right there."
he hummed in response, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through you. his fingers joined in, one slipping inside you, moving in sync with his tongue. you were drowning in sensation, your body arching off the bed as he explored every inch of you with a devotion that was both tender and fierce.
the room filled with the sounds of your pleasure—your moans, his soft groans, the wetness of his mouth against you. he was relentless, his focus entirely on you, his need to please you evident in every movement.
you felt powerful, cherished, and utterly desired.
you warned him, "’m close," your voice barely a whisper.
he didn’t slow down, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony, driving you higher and higher. your breath came in short gasps as the world narrowed to this moment, to the feel of his mouth on you, to the way he worshipped you with every fiber of his being.
and then, you shattered. your body convulsed as you came, your cries filling the room as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. he held on, his mouth and fingers continuing their rhythm, milking every last drop of your creamy release.
when you finally came down, your body lax and boneless, he gently kissed his way back up, his lips brushing against your stomach, your breasts, until he reached your face. you pulled him up, cradling his head in your hands, and kissed him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips.
"thank you," you whispered.
he smiled, his eyes soft and adoring. "it was my honor, m'lady."
random unimportant side note just wanna say i had a boyfie that called me m'lady and he was a full-time yearner, 100% head over heels for me... they don't make 'em like that anymore. #fumbledthebagsohard #jamescomebackbby
( summary ) when a rant about her disappointing date turned into a challenge, jason realized just how thin the line between best friends and something far messier really was. she asked him to prove it—and jason never did anything halfway.
⤷ ゛eli's thought thoughts ˎˊ˗ last few fics before kinktober :p also my friend proofread this and she's dyslexic so sorry if there’s errors or if it doesn’t make sense 😀 REMEMBER THIS WHEN READING OKAY 😔
Long after patrol had chewed him up and spit him out, Jason found himself standing at the familiar door of Y/n’s apartment. Not Roy’s place—hell no. Roy had some girl over, and the absolute last thing Jason wanted was to sit there pretending he couldn’t hear it through the walls. Y/n’s apartment was different. Safe. Predictable in all the ways he didn’t know he needed. She’d opened the door with that soft smile of hers, pulled him into a hug that lingered, wrinkled her nose at the way he smelled like sweat, smoke, and Gotham’s garbage, then ordered him into the shower like she owned the damn place(well she did). And, because it was her, he’d listened without protest. Afterward, she’d shoved a plate of food into his hands like she was personally responsible for keeping him alive.
Not that he’d ever say it aloud, but he liked the way she fussed over him. Jason Todd, six-foot-whatever, ex-Robin turned Red Hood, could snap a man’s spine in an alley without blinking—but when it came to Y/n scolding him, pushing at his chest, and reminding him to eat like she was his pint-sized general, he let her. There was something addictive about it. Something grounding. She was a whole head shorter and a couple (lot) pounds lighter, yet somehow she managed to boss him around like it was second nature. He liked it more than he should.
Now, sprawled out on her bed, Jason wore the soft cotton pajama shorts she’d bought him after realizing he crashed here more than his own place, paired with the hoodie he’d left behind months ago. It was his in name only—these days, it smelled faintly of her shampoo and whatever perfume clung to her skin. She wore it more than he did, and he pretended not to notice, but the truth was he liked knowing it wrapped around her when he wasn’t here.
She sat cross-legged across from him, balancing a steaming bowl of pasta in her lap. He had his own bowl, but unlike her, who was too busy unloading her disastrous night, Jason was actually eating. Every bite reminded him how freakishly good her cooking always turned out, like she’d cracked some secret recipe to comfort. She kept talking though, oblivious to the way he was hanging on every word, not because of the story, but because it was her voice filling the silence.
“It was terrible. Like, genuinely terrible. I don’t even know what I was thinking, Jay. Sure, he was handsome, but that’s where it ended. He has the personality of a wet rock. No hobbies. Barely a job. It’s like he’s just… existing, floating wherever the world shoves him. And then—oh my god—you’re not going to believe this—when we started talking about sex, which he brought up mind you, he asked what I liked. So I told him. I said I like when guys put my pleasure first. I mean, it’s not crazy, right? Just nice to feel taken care of. And you know what this absolute idiot said?” She set her fork down, eyes widening as though she still couldn’t believe it. “‘Oh, do you mean like eating a girl out? That’s unhygienic, I’d never do that.’” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Are you kidding me?”
Jason snorted around a mouthful of pasta. “Can I have yours?” he asked, already eyeing her bowl after finishing his.
She shoved it at him without hesitation, still too wrapped up in her rant to care, while Jason made quick work of it.
“Unhygienic?” she continued, her voice rising with disbelief. “I’m supposed to just shut up and take his dirty dick—which, let’s be honest, probably hasn’t seen real soap in weeks—in my mouth without complaint, but the second it’s his turn, suddenly it’s unsanitary? What the actual hell?”
Jason couldn’t help it; a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He loved her like this—animated, riled up, utterly unfiltered. He found himself watching the way her lips curved when she swore, the way her hands carved sharp shapes in the air.
“Where’d you find this guy? Sounds like a nut job,” he said, voice muffled around another bite.
She leveled him with a look. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” And then, without missing a beat, she leaned in, thumb swiping at the smear of sauce on the corner of his lips. Before he could even process it, she brought her thumb to her mouth and licked it off, as casual as if she’d done it a hundred times before.
Jason froze, a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. She just breezed past it, twirling noodles from the bowl now balanced on his lap, continuing her story like nothing had happened. But Jason’s chest felt tight, his thoughts spiraling in dangerous directions. He wanted, with a sudden urgency that scared him, to pull her closer and shut her up with his mouth, to show her exactly how “unhygienic” he could get if she gave him half the chance.
Instead, he swallowed hard, pretending his appetite hadn’t just shifted entirely from pasta to something far riskier.
“Honestly, men just find new ways to be disappointing every damn day,” she muttered, tossing her fork onto the nightstand before standing. The silk nightgown she wore caught the dim light from her bedside lamp, swishing against her thighs as she stretched. “You want a drink?”
Jason leaned back against the headboard, watching her with the kind of lazy scrutiny he hoped looked casual. “I’ll just have water,” he answered, his voice low, gravel still lingering from the smoke and city air he’d been inhaling all night. She nodded, padding barefoot across the room toward the kitchen. His eyes betrayed him, dropping without hesitation. The nightgown moved with her hips, smooth and fluid, clinging in places it had no business clinging. Jason squeezed his eyes shut the second she disappeared from sight, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically wipe the thoughts away.
Jesus Christ, Todd. Get a grip. This was Y/n. His best friend. The one person who put up with his crap without flinching, who ordered him into showers and fed him like he was something worth saving. She wasn’t supposed to be someone he looked at like that—wasn’t supposed to be the reason he lost focus, the reason his chest got tight and restless heat coiled in his stomach. He owed her better than that. He knew it. And yet, the image of her walking away lingered behind his eyelids, dangerous and tempting.
By the time she came back, Jason had schooled his expression into something neutral, forcing his shoulders to loosen like he hadn’t just been fighting himself in silence. She carried a tall glass of water in one hand and a small juice box in the other. He blinked at the sight, lips twitching despite his mood.
“What the hell is that?” he asked, nodding toward the juice box.
She plopped back onto the bed with a sigh, tucking her legs beneath her. “I got them for when Dami stays over, but then he looked at me like I’d insulted his ancestors and said he doesn’t drink apple juice. So now I’m stuck with a fridge full of these things.” She stabbed the straw through the foil with exaggerated irritation before taking a sip.
Jason shook his head, huffing out a laugh that was rough but real. “You and your strays,” he muttered, gathering both their empty bowls and setting them neatly on the nightstand. His body eased just a fraction, that familiar comfort sliding back in as he took the glass from her hand. The water was crisp and cold, a relief on his dry throat, and he downed it in two long gulps before realizing he’d emptied the entire thing. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, sighing like a man who’d just tasted heaven.
When he turned back, she was staring at him. Not just staring—judging. One brow arched, lips twitching like she was holding back a comment.
“What?” Jason grumbled, defensive out of habit, though the smirk tugging at her mouth already told him he’d walked right into whatever she was about to throw at him.
“You just drank that entire glass in, like, two seconds flat,” she said, incredulous.
Jason shrugged, leaning back against her pillows, stretching out like a cat that owned the place. “I was thirsty.”
“Jeez,” she muttered, shaking her head before taking another lazy sip of her juice. Then her eyes flicked to him again, “How big is your mouth?”
The comment hung there for a beat too long. Jason raised one eyebrow slowly, the corner of his mouth curving upward with deliberate suggestion. He didn’t even have to say anything—the look alone carried all the weight of the gutter his brain had already fallen into.
Her eyes widened a fraction before she groaned, rolling them dramatically. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Todd.” She laughed, smacking his knee lightly with the back of her hand, but the sound carried that edge of nervous energy, like maybe she realized too late how it sounded.
Jason didn’t push it, not out loud. But the thought stuck, looping in his head with an intensity that made his pulse jump. He forced himself to keep his face relaxed, only the faintest smirk betraying him, while inside his thoughts spiraled. Because yeah—his mouth was "big". And if she ever let him, he’d prove it in ways her useless date couldn’t even imagine.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asked suddenly, tilting her head toward him with that deceptively sweet smile she always used when she was about to stir trouble.
Jason didn’t look up right away, still lazily running his tongue over his teeth, but when he did, his grin came quick and crooked. “You just did.”
She rolled her eyes so hard he thought she might strain something. “Can I ask another one? And if you say ‘you just did,’ I swear I will actually kick you in the crotch.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him, low and warm, curling at the edges like smoke. “Yeah, fine, okay. Shoot.” He turned his head fully now, meeting her eyes with that expectant glint that always made her feel like he was two steps ahead of her.
She hesitated—just a flicker—but then asked, “Do you find it unhygienic?”
Jason blinked. “What?”
“You know…” She shifted a little under his stare, pulling the juice box straw between her lips for courage before repeating herself. “Eating… that.”
Jason’s grin widened, wolfish and unbothered. “Eating pussy?”
Her nose wrinkled. “You’re so vulgar. But yes, Jason.”
He didn’t even flinch. “No. I don’t. I think that’s the one thing as a guy you’re supposed to overachieve in.” His tone was casual, almost offhanded, but his eyes never left hers.
She laughed, a little too high-pitched, trying to make it light. “Is that your philosophy?”
Jason rolled onto his back, shifting against her pillows, one arm bent behind his head as though he was the picture of ease. Casual on the outside, sure, but inside his pulse was hammering like he’d just sprinted across rooftops. He could feel it in his throat, in his chest, in the way his hand twitched against the sheets like it wanted to move of its own accord.
“Not a philosophy,” he said after a beat, voice softer now, weighted with something he didn’t let out often. “It’s a rule. If you give a damn about someone, you don’t half-ass it. Not in bed, not in life. If you’re in, you’re all in.” His mouth curved, not with his usual cocky smirk, but something darker, steadier—like the words weren’t a joke but a truth carved into him.
Her laugh came again, but this time it was thinner, hesitant. “God, you make it sound like a science project.”
Jason turned his head toward her slowly, eyes narrowing in the low light. That stare of his had weight to it, sharp as a blade and just as dangerous. “Maybe that’s because you’ve only been wasting your time with men who don’t give a shit about women beyond getting themselves off.” His voice wasn’t raised, wasn’t sharp—it was too calm, deliberate, like every word was placed with surgical precision. “That guy you told me about earlier? Calling it unhygienic? That’s not just disappointing. That’s pathetic.”
She opened her mouth, then stopped. The words stalled in her throat under the heat of his gaze. It wasn’t the usual sharp blue she was used to—it was heavier, darker, burning with something unsaid. For a second, it felt like the air between them shifted, humming with a charge she wasn’t sure she wanted to name.
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, forcing a wry smile. “You sound awfully passionate about this. Like you’re giving a TED Talk on cunnilingus.”
Jason’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk surfacing, but it wasn’t playful. It was hungry, edged with something dangerous. “Nah,” he murmured, eyes dipping for just a heartbeat to her mouth before climbing back up. “I don’t do lectures.” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl, intimate in the way it settled between them. “I’m more of a hands-on learner.”
The words hung there, heavy, sparking something she couldn’t laugh away this time. Her fingers tightened around the juice box, the crinkle of the carton loud in the silence. Jason didn’t move, didn’t push—but his eyes told another story entirely. He looked at her like he was daring her to call his bluff.
“So what you’re saying is… you’re the best at it?” she teased, though her voice wavered just enough that Jason caught the slip.
The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a grin, more like a challenge. He gave a lazy shrug, like the answer meant nothing to him. “Never had any complaints.”
Silence followed, but it wasn’t the easy kind they usually fell into. This one crackled. It was alive, buzzing in the narrow space between them, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. The lamp light carved shadows across her face, highlighting the slight tremor in her fingers as they worried the edge of the juice box. Jason’s eyes, sharp and unrelenting, caught the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed. She looked like she was holding on to something, steadying herself against the gravity pulling between them.
Slowly, deliberately, she set the carton aside on the nightstand. When she turned back to him, her expression was different—no playful smile, no easy grin. Just something quiet, charged, and searching. Her gaze locked onto his, unwavering for a long beat, before she whispered so softly it was almost a confession: “Prove it.”
Jason froze. For once, words didn’t come fast, and that alone was telling. “What?” His voice was low, rougher than he meant, like the word had been dragged out of his chest.
Her eyes flickered down, traitorous, lingering on his mouth for a fraction of a second before darting back up. “Prove it,” she repeated, firmer now, though the whisper still clung to her voice like it cost her something to say it aloud. “I want you to prove it.”
Jason’s pulse spiked, slamming through him with the force of a gunshot. For a second, he wondered if he’d misheard her, if his exhaustion and hunger and the thousand unspoken things between them had finally twisted into some cruel trick. But no—her face told the truth. She meant it. And that was dangerous.
He sat up a little straighter, the mattress shifting beneath his weight. “Careful,” he said quietly, his tone stripped of humor, stripped of everything except warning. His eyes, darker now under the low light, burned into her. “You don’t ask me shit like that unless you’re serious. You get that, right? You say ‘prove it,’ and I will. No, half-assing a damn thing. Not with you.”
Her breath hitched, barely audible, but Jason caught it. He caught everything—the way her knees pressed together, the way her hands clenched in her lap, the way her eyes didn’t flinch away from his no matter how intense his stare got.
“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, and there it was—the final push, the spark dropped into the gasoline that had been pooling between them for years.
Jason let out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking his head once like he was trying to clear it. His heart pounded hard enough he swore it echoed in the room. For years, he’d kept this shit buried, stuffed down under banter and late-night pasta and the safety of her fussing over him. She was his anchor. His escape. His best damn friend. And now here she was, asking him to cross a line he’d spent months convincing himself he couldn’t afford to cross.
But when his eyes dragged down to her lips again, when he caught the faint tremor of anticipation in her breath, Jason knew he was already lost.
She barely had time to take a breath before Jason’s mouth was on hers. It wasn’t cautious, wasn’t testing—it was a collision, sudden and consuming, like he’d been holding back for years and finally snapped. The sound that escaped her throat was half-gasp, half-moan, startled but eager, and almost instantly her arms were winding around his neck, clutching him close like she’d been waiting just as long.
The kiss was everything at once: rough enough to bruise, messy enough to taste desperation, but threaded with a sweetness that belonged only to him. Jason kissed like he fought—relentless, unyielding, throwing his whole weight into it—but there was something else too, something tender buried beneath the grit, like he couldn’t stop himself from caring even when it hurt.
He shifted, one hand braced against the mattress, the other curling into her hip as he maneuvered her back onto the pillows. She yielded easily, sinking into the sheets as though she belonged there, her lips never leaving his. Jason kissed her like a starving man, like he’d gone too long without and now couldn’t get enough. His mouth left hers only to drag along the curve of her jaw, the rough scrape of his stubble trailing fire over her skin. He pressed open-mouthed kisses against her throat, tasting her pulse as it thundered beneath his lips, before crashing back to her mouth like he couldn’t decide where he needed her most.
Her legs shifted restlessly, parting beneath him until he fit perfectly in the space she made for him. Jason’s body settled there without hesitation, the weight of him pressing her deeper into the bed. Her thighs curled instinctively around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and when her hips tilted up to meet him, Jason groaned low against her mouth. The sound rumbled through his chest, raw and guttural, betraying just how close to the edge she had him already.
“Christ,” he muttered against her lips, voice rough and breathless, his forehead pressing to hers for half a second like he needed the anchor. His hips shifted again, grinding into her just enough to feel the heat of her through the thin barrier of clothes, and the answering roll of her body nearly undid him.
He kissed her harder, hand sliding from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her tighter against him. Every brush of her body against his was gasoline on an open flame, and Jason Todd had never been the type to back away from fire.
Her hands slid down the hard plane of his chest, greedy now, fingertips tracing over the ridges of muscle and the faint map of scars like she was memorizing every mark. Her nails scratched lightly over his ribs before curling beneath the hem of his hoodie. She broke the kiss only long enough to murmur against his lips, “Take this off.”
Jason didn’t hesitate. He sat back on his knees, eyes still locked on hers, and stripped the hoodie over his head in one fluid motion. The black fabric hit the floor somewhere behind him, forgotten. His chest rose and fell, bare under the low light, broad shoulders gleaming faintly with the sheen of heat. He looked like temptation sculpted in flesh—solid muscle tempered by battle scars, every mark a story she wanted to learn.
Her hands were on him immediately, exploring the new terrain, palms skimming over his collarbones, sliding down to the solid muscle of his abdomen. Her touch was reverent, almost disbelieving, and Jason felt himself shudder under it. For a man who carried himself like nothing could touch him, her hands on his skin made him feel raw, breakable.
He bent back down, reclaiming her mouth with his, kissing her until she gasped against him. His hands found the hem of her silk nightgown, pushing it up slowly, deliberately, fingers grazing her thighs as he dragged it higher. When she sat up to help, Jason tugged the silk over her head and tossed it aside.
What was left, unraveled him.
She lay back against the pillows in nothing but a white lace bra and panties, delicate against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat in her eyes. Jason paused, kneeling above her, his breath catching as he took her in. His gaze swept over every curve, every inch of bare skin revealed to him, and something unholy settled in his chest.
“So fucking pretty,” he whispered, almost to himself, the words reverent and rough in the same breath. His hand smoothed over the flat of her stomach, the warmth of her skin soft under his calloused palm.
When his fingers found the waistband of her panties, he paused, eyes flicking up to hers for silent permission. She didn’t hesitate—just gave the smallest nod, lifting her hips in invitation. That was all he needed. Jason hooked his fingers into the lace, dragging them down over her thighs, slow enough to make her squirm. He balled them up in one hand before shoving them into the pocket of his shorts with a smirk.
Her incredulous laugh broke the heavy silence. “Seriously?”
“Shh,” Jason murmured, eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned closer, his voice dropping low, dark, intimate. “Souvenir.”
Before she could quip back, his mouth was on her again—this time not her lips, but the soft skin of her stomach. He kissed her there, lips warm and lingering, before trailing lower. Each kiss burned hotter than the last as he made his way down, worshipping every inch of skin with a kind of hunger that left her trembling.
Jason shifted, positioning himself between her thighs with the kind of confidence that made her breath hitch. He coaxed her legs apart, guiding them up until they draped easily over his broad shoulders. From here, the view was his and his alone. Her heat glistened in the low light, and Jason’s breath stuttered at the sight, his grip on her thighs tightening unconsciously.
“Fuck,” he rasped, half to himself, half to her. His eyes drank her in like she was the most perfect thing he’d ever laid eyes on. “Look at you. Perfect.”
And then, with a steadying breath, Jason lowered his head and pressed his mouth to her, giving her no chance to prepare for the way he devoured.
Jason didn’t ease her in—he buried himself between her thighs like a man starved, his tongue dragging through her folds with slow, deliberate precision before sealing his mouth over her clit. The gasp that ripped from her chest went straight to his cock, punching the air from his lungs. He groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, and then he was lost.
One of his hands gripped her thigh, thumb pressing hard enough to leave a mark, while the other flattened over her stomach to keep her pinned to the bed when her hips tried to buck up. He licked, sucked, teased like he had nothing else in the world to do, like his sole purpose in life was unraveling her.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he growled against her, his voice muffled but raw. He pulled back just enough to drag his tongue slowly up her slit, leaving her shaking. “Knew you would. Sweet as fuck.”
Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard when his tongue circled her clit again, and Jason groaned low in his throat, rutting his hips against the mattress. He didn’t even realize he was doing it at first—grinding down into the bed for friction, the thick ache in his cock unbearable. The sheets beneath him grew damp with precum as he rolled his hips, desperate, every thrust fueled by the way she gasped his name above him.
The more he rutted, the harder he worked her—tongue flicking, lips sucking, the sloppy wet sounds filling the room as he lost himself in it. Every time her thighs clenched around his head, his cock throbbed harder, pressing into the bed like he could fuck his release out just from eating her.
“Jason—” she gasped, breathless, hips arching off the mattress only to be shoved back down by his hand.
“Stay still, baby,” he rasped, voice dark and commanding against her cunt. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, gaze blown wide with hunger, hair messy from her grip. “You wanted me to prove it, yeah? Let me. Let me prove it.”
And then he dove back in, sucking her clit so hard her back bowed off the pillows. His hips rutted harder into the bed now, his breath coming ragged as he fucked against the sheets, lost in the rhythm of tasting her, of needing her, of claiming every inch of her until she broke apart in his mouth.
Her thighs trembled against his shoulders, toes curling as she tried to twist away from the overwhelming pace of his tongue. Jason wasn’t having it. His hand flattened harder against her stomach, pinning her down like she was going nowhere. Every time she tried to wriggle, he followed, dragging her right back into his mouth.
“Uh-uh,” he muttered against her, tongue flicking mercilessly. “Don’t you dare. You asked for this, sweetheart. You’re gonna take every second of it.”
Her head fell back into the pillow, fingers clutching his hair so tightly it made his scalp sting, but Jason only moaned at the pain. The sound rolled through her, deep and guttural, vibrating against her clit until she cried out.
He was rutting into the mattress harder now, every grind of his hips sloppy, desperate, his cock aching against the friction. The bed creaked beneath him with the force of it, the sheets damp under his shorts where he’d been leaking like a damn teenager. He didn’t care. All he cared about was the taste of her, the way her body writhed for him, the way she gasped his name like it meant something.
“Jesus fuck, you’re dripping,” he growled, pulling back just enough to drag two fingers through her folds before pushing them into his mouth. His eyes rolled back at the taste. “Goddamn, I could live here.”
“J-Jason, I—” Her voice cracked, high and pleading, and he knew she was close. He felt it in the way her thighs tightened around his head, the way her stomach trembled under his palm.
He grinned against her, feral, before sucking her clit back into his mouth and flicking his tongue over it in quick, ruthless strokes. His hips bucked into the bed in time with every flick, chasing his own edge, lost in the rhythm of her falling apart.
“Cum for me,” he demanded, his voice rough and wrecked between licks. “C’mon, baby, let me taste it.”
Her cry broke free, sharp and breathless, as her whole body arched off the bed. The orgasm hit her like a wave, thighs clamping around his head, hips grinding desperately into his mouth. Jason groaned loud and shameless, rutting into the sheets with abandon as he drank her down, tongue lapping up everything she gave him.
The sound of her breaking apart under him pushed him over the edge too. He ground his cock hard against the mattress, panting into her cunt as the wet heat spread through his shorts, spilling for her like he had no control left to give. He stayed there, mouth locked on her, coaxing every last shudder from her body while grinding through his own high like a man possessed.
When she finally went limp against the pillows, trembling and breathless, Jason dragged his mouth off her slowly, his lips and chin glistening. He kissed the inside of her thigh, then her hip, then crawled back up over her body, bracing himself on shaking arms. His breath came ragged, his hair a wild mess, his shorts soaked.
He pressed his forehead to hers, lips brushing against hers as he murmured, low and rough, “Still think I need to prove it?”
She let out a small, breathless laugh, the kind that shook through her chest even as she was still trembling from the aftershocks. Her arms curled tight around his neck, dragging him closer until his weight pressed fully into her. Jason let it happen, lowering himself slowly, then tilting his head just enough to capture her lips again.
This kiss was different. Softer. Careful in a way Jason never was when it came to anything else in his life. No urgency, no sharp edge—just warmth and the steady press of his mouth against hers, like he was reminding her that for all his roughness, he could give her this too. She kissed him back without hesitation, not caring about the faint taste of herself on his lips, if anything pulling him deeper into it.
Minutes bled together, the rhythm of their mouths slow and sweet, before they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together as they caught their breath. Jason’s tongue darted out to swipe across his bottom lip, chasing the last trace of her, and he let out a quiet hum like he was savoring it.
Her grin spread slowly, mischievous and warm all at once, as she brought her hands up to cup his scarred face. Her thumbs stroked the rough stubble along his jaw, grounding him even as she teased. “You didn’t get anything,” she whispered, voice low and knowing.
Jason’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a smirk—something heavier, like the weight of her words pressed deeper than she realized. “Well,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp, before flicking his eyes downward.
She followed his gaze. That’s when she saw it: the dark grey patch spread across the front of his shorts, stark against the fabric, undeniable in what it meant.
Her lips parted in a small “oh,” the sound half-giggle, half-shock.
Jason shot her a look, sharp but flushed at the edges, his usual composure cracked just enough to betray him. “We aren’t going to talk about that,” he said flatly, the words half-threat, half-plea, before he ducked his head and buried his face into the curve of her neck.
She couldn’t help it—the laughter bubbled out of her anyway, muffled against his shoulder as her fingers threaded into his messy hair. He groaned into her skin, his voice vibrating against her throat, “I’m serious, y/n. Not. A. Word.”
Her grin only widened, even as she stroked the back of his head gently. “Sure, sure,” she teased, still chuckling softly. “Your secret’s safe with me, tough guy.”
Jason exhaled, a huff against her collarbone, but the arms wrapping tighter around her betrayed him. For all his embarrassment, for all his gruff denials, he wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he was holding on harder, anchoring himself in her warmth.
notes: explicit, mdni; male and female terms used to describe trans genitalia, also Jason ignores the reader when they ask him to wait 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
tags: figging, minor medical kink(?), restraints, fingering, humiliation, punishment, brat taming (?), ftm!reader, wc: 600 words
(also figging involves inserting a piece of ginger root for a burning sensation, hope that helps!)
“I’m sorry,” you cried out as you squirmed, attempting to push your legs closed despite the spreader bar between them.
You didn’t even understand how you’d made it here—it was such a dumb thing.
You wanted attention.
Jason wanted to finish reading his report.
And okay, you may have been a bit of a brat. But you didn’t understand how that got you spread out on your bed, at the mercy of Jason with a speculum.
“It’s too late to be sorry,” he chided softly, pressing the cool, unforgiving metal against your swollen lips, narrowly avoiding your small dick. He dipped it down again before pressing it in softly.
You keened but forced yourself to relax—it didn’t hurt, it was just uncomfortable. You kept as still and silent as possible. All up until Jason turned the speculum and began to push it open.
You whimpered, humiliation burning down your neck into your chest. You’d never felt so vulnerable and exposed, turned inside out and seen.
Jason didn’t ever bother, gliding two fingers in, rubbing your walls softly.
“I’m sorry,” you hiccuped. “I’m sorry, I-I won’t-”
Jason clicked his tongue but didn’t answer. Your heart clenched as you watched him stand and wipe his fingers on your ass. You were still wide open and exposed as he walked out of the room.
Leaving you.
Alone.
You called for him, near desperate, pleading all while listening to him rifle around the fridge like he was looking for dinner.
You almost sobbed in relief as he walked back into the bedroom but your breath got caught in your throat.
A peeled ginger root sat in his left hand.
“Ready?” he smirked.
You shook your head vigorously, “Wait, wait, wait, please, I’m-“
He didn’t care for your apologies and pleading. He slid the ginger in deep before collapsing the speculum and pulling it out.
It took a second for it to hit.
You moaned and squirmed, clenching down around the root which only made you struggle more.
Jason pressed his fingers into your burning cunt, his clean hand stroking your dick, all to watch you struggle and writhe.
“You know what happens when you misbehave,” Jason said as his fingers found the ginger deep inside your pussy. He tugged it a little before pushing it back in deeper, making you sob. “If only you didn’t insist.”
“Ja-son,” you hiccuped, as your back arched into his touch, rutting your cock against his hand. Your cunny struggled to push the root out of your tight canal but you couldn’t help it, clenching down over and over again.
“Next time you’ll wait,” he flicked the tip of your dick, making you yelp but nod eagerly. “Good.”
“Thank you,” you cried, “Thank you, thank-“
You cried out soundlessly as your orgasm crashed down over you, your cunny squirting as you milked the ginger root still nestled deep inside you, your swollen clit twitching in his grasp too as you soaked him.
He hummed softly as he watched you fall still but still shivering.
“That’s it,” he cooed softly, “Good boy.”
His thick fingers found the root again—and he pulled it out slowly, so slowly, letting it burn along its way out.
You didn’t breathe properly until it plopped out of your cunny and Jason’s gentle fingers were spreading your lips, exposing your puffy and abused cunt.
“We’ve learned our lesson now, haven’t we?”
You couldn’t even struggle or cover yourself as Jason pulled out his phone to capture your debauched figure.
“Ready to clean out that pussy?”
my friend told me if I put this much energy into my dissertation I would be done by now
if you’re curious about the rest of my Kinktober prompts check out my post here⋆˚꩜｡
if you just want more from me my masterlist is here (masterlist + wips list ❀˖°)
No, please don't kill me, Mr. Ghostface, I wanna be in the sequel .ᐟ.ᐟ
MINORS DNI 18+ | Kinktober Day Ten ☆
Kinks: stalking, cheating, costume/mask, manipulation, knife play
The neighbourhood never really felt safe anymore.
Not since the first body.
At first, Gotham Heights had felt untouchable, one of those pretty, quiet suburbs that sat just far enough from the city to pretend it wasn’t Gotham. The lawns stayed trimmed, the streetlights actually worked, and the worst thing you used to worry about was whether your boyfriend would actually text you back after practice.
But then Chloe died.
Chloe, always wearing cherry lip gloss and flirting with the entire football team. You’d known her since middle school and always wore glitter on her cheeks, was found in her kitchen with the phone line cut, the details whispered in bathrooms and over text threads that never stayed private for long.
A week later, Adam, the loudest, cockiest guy in your friend group, always the first to dare someone to sneak out at night, didn’t show up to class. They found him in the woods behind the high school.
Then came Jamie. And Lex. And Hannah.
All within weeks of each other. All people who had stood in your group photos, passed you drinks at parties, laughed too loud in the middle of the street at midnight. One by one, they started disappearing.
And with every body, the fear bled deeper into Gotham Heights.
Cops sat in parked cars at intersections now, engines idling through the night. News vans crowded the block. Porch lights stayed on until sunrise. The quiet, too-perfect suburb had turned into a crime scene. And yet somehow, everyone still acted like life was going on as normal. Homework. Football games. Parties.
The police said it was the same killer. The news called him “Ghostface.”
But to you, it didn’t feel like some distant monster. It felt personal.
You tried to follow their lead, keep moving, keep smiling, keep pretending the world wasn’t crumbling. You didn’t watch the coverage, didn’t linger when reporters shoved cameras in your face because you knew them. You didn’t look too long at the faces flashing on the TV screen.
But the calls?
Those, you couldn’t ignore.
Your phone started ringing at night around the third murder. Always between midnight and one. Always the same static-laced breath, the faintest whisper of your name. Then a click.
No number. No trace.
You told yourself it was nothing. A prank. Gotham kids could be cruel, and fear made people stupid.
But then the roses started.
The first appeared on your porch the morning after Jamie’s funeral, a single, long-stemmed crimson rose, petals dewy, tied with black ribbon.
No note. No explanation. You tried to laugh it off, told yourself it was someone’s bad idea of comforting you.
But then another showed up in your locker.
Then another under your windshield wiper after cheer practice, folded note tucked beneath the stem.
For my angel.
The handwriting was elegant, deliberate. Too careful to be random. You started checking your windows twice a night.
Your boyfriend, predictably, thought it was funny. “Some creep with a florist discount. Probably one of those wannabe horror nerds,” he’d said, slinging an arm around you like the world couldn’t touch him. He tossed the note in the trash and kissed your temple. “C’mon, you’re safe. You’ve got me.”
But Jason Todd didn’t laugh.
Jason had been your next-door neighbour since freshman year.
Older by a couple years, rough around the edges, the kind of boy who looked like he belonged on the back of a motorcycle at midnight. Tattoos crept up his forearms, and he always smelled faintly of smoke and leather. He was the kind of boy you tried not to stare at through your bedroom window… and failed miserably.
He was also the one who found you sitting on the front steps one evening, a rose clutched so tightly in your hand the thorn pricked your thumb.
“Maybe you should start locking your windows,” he’d said, leaning against the railing like he owned it. His voice was low, steady, too steady. His eyes, shadowed under the porch light, skimmed the flower in your grip before flicking up to yours.
And you had locked them. Every single one. You even left the hallway light on, which you hadn’t done since you were a kid.
But locking the windows didn’t stop the roses. Or the calls.
Every other night, without fail, another one appeared. Sometimes on your doorstep. Sometimes on your windowsill, inside the screen.
And maybe the worst part was… whoever was doing it wasn’t just watching. They knew you.
They knew your favourite shade of lipstick. They knew your route home from school. They even left one rose with a tiny scrap of lace tied around the stem, the same lace that trimmed your favourite dress.
And somewhere between fear and fascination, a truth you didn’t want to name started to bloom quietly inside you: the killer wasn’t just hunting.
He was courting you.
Now it’s Halloween.
The whole neighbourhood feels restless, too loud, too bright, everyone pretending not to be afraid. Porch lights burn like watchful eyes, and fake cobwebs hang beside the real crime scene tape that still flutters at the end of the block.
Your house hums with music and nerves as your friends pile into cars, glitter and fake blood smeared on their cheeks, plastic fangs clacking as they laugh too hard. “Safety in numbers,” someone had said. “If we’re all together, Ghostface won’t come for us.”
Right. Because serial killers definitely respect party invitations.
You’d wanted to stay home, every instinct told you to. But the silence of your room, the empty windows, the thought of being alone felt worse.
So you gave in. You dressed up like your friends begged you to. An angel, all soft white fabric, feathered wings, shimmery gloss. A halo that tilted no matter how many times you fixed it.
When you arrive, the house is packed. The bass trembles through the floor, fog machines breathe ghostly smoke, and coloured lights spin lazily through the crowd. There are a dozen people in Ghostface masks, maybe more, laughing, dancing, bumping into one another with fake knives that catch the light.
Including your boyfriend.
He finds you near the kitchen, mask already on, voice muffled but playful. “Relax,” he says, looping an arm around your waist. “If the real killer shows up, he’ll be the one running.”
You roll your eyes, forcing a laugh, but the uneasy feeling doesn’t fade. Even surrounded by noise, something about the night feels wrong, a little too electric, like static building before a storm.
Your boyfriend drifts off into the crowd a few minutes later, saying he’s going to grab drinks or find his friends, and you let him. You mingle, you dance, you pretend you’re fine. The wings tug awkwardly at your shoulders; the room feels too warm.
You turn toward the makeshift bar, and freeze.
Across the room, near the stairs, stands another Ghostface.
Same black robe. Same glossy mask. Same plastic knife dangling lazily from a gloved hand.
He’s still. Watching.
Through the flashing lights and moving bodies, the mask tilts, just slightly. The head cocks in that strange, familiar way, almost curious. Almost knowing.
You smile uncertainly, assuming it’s your boyfriend being weird, trying to freak you out. You shake your head, roll your eyes, and lift your drink in mock salute before turning away.
When you glance back a second later, he’s gone.
You tell yourself he’s just moved deeper into the crowd. You tell yourself it’s fine.
But still, you can’t shake the feeling that, somewhere behind you, someone in that same black mask hasn’t stopped watching.
The night only gets louder.
Music throbs through the walls, bass rattling the windows, laughter spilling like smoke from the open front door. The air outside feels cooler, thinner, you can finally breathe again as you step into the yard.
You need air.
One drink. One deep breath. Then you’ll go back inside and pretend the fear twisting in your gut doesn’t exist
The garage light flickers when you open the door.
A harsh fluorescent buzz fills the space, painting everything in washed-out yellow. The faint smell of oil and beer lingers in the air. There’s a half-deflated air mattress in the corner, a couple of folding chairs, and the mini fridge humming steadily beside a shelf of dusty paint cans.
You kneel to open it, the cold air spilling over your knees. Your reflection glints in the silver door for a split second before you pull out a bottle.
Cold condensation sticks to your fingers, and you press it to your cheek, relishing the coolness against your flushed skin. For a second, it’s just you, the hum of the fridge, the far-off echo of the party.
It’s quiet. The first real silence you’ve had all night.
And then the sound. A creak, slow, deliberate, from behind you.
You freeze.
You don’t turn at first. Just stare at the rows of soda and beer cans like if you pretend hard enough, you didn’t hear anything. But then the door clicks shut.
You turn.
A figure stands in the centre of the garage.
The mask, white, warped, that long drooping mouth, catches the fluorescent light. The robe drapes heavy and black, pooling at his boots. A knife glints in his right hand.
Ghostface.
The long black robe. The pale, warped mask grinning in the dim light. The cheap plastic knife glinting in one gloved hand.
Your heart skips. And then you laugh, because of course.
Of course it’s your boyfriend. The same stupid costume he’s been wearing all night. The same half-drunk grin you’re sure is hidden beneath the mask.
“Seriously?” you say, voice wobbling with nervous laughter. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He doesn’t answer.
You wave the beer at him, teasing. “You’re really milking this Ghostface thing, huh?”
He tilts his head. Slowly.
You can’t see his eyes, but somehow you feel them on you. The flickering light buzzes above, stuttering.
You try to fill the silence. “Okay, fine. You win. I’m terrified.” You lift your hands dramatically, beer still in one, and mock-swoon against the wall.
“No, please don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface! I wanna be in the sequel!” It echoes, playful, breathy, but the laugh dies as soon as it leaves your lips.
Because he doesn’t laugh back. For a beat, nothing happens.
Then the figure steps forward. Then another.
You lower your hands, confusion starting to creep into your chest. “Babe?”
The plastic knife in his hand catches the light, except it’s not plastic. The glint is too sharp, too real. He keeps coming until your back hits the wall, the cold seeping through your costume wings.
Your throat tightens. “Okay,” you say carefully, still clinging to the idea that this is a joke. “That’s… not funny anymore.” He keeps coming. You back up until the cold cinderblock wall presses against your spine. The beer bottle in your hand trembles.
The mask fills your vision now, the long mouth grinning inches from your face. His breathing isn’t laboured, it’s slow, measured. Controlled. Not your boyfriend’s. Not anyone you recognise.
You press your palms against his chest, meaning to push him away, and freeze. The body under the robe is solid. Broader. Heavier. Not your boyfriend’s lean frame.
“Who—” Your voice cracks. “Who are you?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts the knife until the cold tip hovers at your collarbone. The blade gleams, and you see your own reflection, tiny and terrified, trembling in the steel.
A low, muffled sound escapes him, almost a hum, deep and amused.
And then you see them. Through the mesh of the mask’s eyeholes.
Blue eyes. Cold, piercing blue.
You don’t know who they belong to, but they burn right through you. You realise, all at once, that this isn’t your boyfriend.
Whoever it is, he’s been closer than you ever thought.
The knife tip presses against your collarbone, a cold, insistent point that makes your breath hitch. It’s not plastic. The steel bites through the thin fabric of your costume, a whisper away from skin.
Those blue eyes behind the mask, sharp, unnervingly familiar, hold yours. They’re not frantic like a killer’s should be. They’re amused. Calculating.
Like he’s savouring this.
The garage light flickers again, casting jagged shadows across his robe, and the scent of motor oil mixes with something else: leather and gunpowder, faint but unmistakable.
Jason Todd always smelled like that after working on his bike.
"You," you whisper, the word barely audible over the fridge’s hum. His head tilts, a slow, deliberate acknowledgment. The knife traces a line up your throat, feather-light but terrifyingly precise.
It stops beneath your chin, tilting your head back. Your pulse thrums against the blade. His free hand lifts, gloved fingers brushing a stray curl from your forehead. The touch is almost gentle, a mockery of tenderness.
"My angel," he murmurs, voice distorted by the mask but low, intimate. You flinch. He’d written those words. Left them with the roses. The realisation coils in your stomach, cold, slick fear. He’d watched you find them.
Watched you lock your windows. Watched you pretend not to see him in the shadows.
The knife slides down, resting over your racing heart. You feel its weight, its promise. "Why?" The question tears from you, raw.
A low chuckle vibrates through the mask. "You knew." The blade presses harder, not enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp. "Every rose. Every call. You wanted to see me." His other hand grips your waist, pulling you flush against him. The robe is rough, but beneath it, his body is hard muscle, unyielding. "Admit it." His breath ghosts hot over your ear. "You liked being chased."
You shake your head, denial trembling on your lips, but he laughs again, dark, knowing. The knife slips lower, tracing the curve of your hip through the white fabric.
Outside, the party’s bass still pounds, a frantic heartbeat mocking your isolation.
He leans in, the mask’s empty grin inches from yours. "Let’s play," he whispers. The blade flicks, and a thin line of red blooms on your thigh. Sharp pain. Warmth trickling down. Your knees buckle, but he holds you up, his grip like iron. "Just you and me."
His free hand slides beneath your angel wing, fingers digging into your shoulder blade. Rough. Possessive. The knife returns, cold steel pressed flat against your throat.
"Tell me you feel it," he breathes, voice thick with twisted reverence. "The thrill." You whimper, tears blurring the mask’s hollow eyes. He wipes one away with a gloved thumb. "Don’t cry. You’re perfect." The knife drifts lower, teasing the lace edge of your costume bodice. "Perfect prey." You flinch as the blade catches fabric, slicing downward.
Cool air hits your stomach. "Jason—" The name escapes, choked. Recognition flashes in those icy blues, sharp, predatory. He rips the mask off.
Jason Todd. Your neighbour. Your secret crush for many years. His jaw is clenched, dark hair damp with sweat, eyes burning with feverish intensity. He looks terrifyingly alive. "Say it again," he demands, pressing closer. "Say my name."
The knife tip traces your ribs. You shudder. "Jason."
A satisfied growl rumbles in his chest. "Always watching you." His thumb brushes your lower lip, smearing your gloss. "Your little crush… cute." He leans in, lips brushing your ear. "I knew. Every time you stared from your window." The blade flicks, another sting, your hip this time.
Blood beads, warm against cold skin. "You liked my roses." It’s not a question. His hand fists in your hair, forcing your head back. "You liked being hunted."
The kiss is brutal, claiming. Teeth scrape your lip. You taste copper. When he pulls back, his smile is feral. "Good girl." The knife slides up your inner thigh, stopping high.
"Now scream for me." Outside, the party roars. No one hears. No one comes. His eyes lock onto yours, blue fire in the flickering garage light. "Scream like you mean it."
He presses the cold blade flat against your panties. The fabric parts with a soft tear. You gasp as the knife handle, hard plastic, ridged, replaces the blade, grinding against your clit through the ruined lace.
Pressure. Insistent. Humiliating. Your hips jerk involuntarily. A choked sound escapes you. Not a scream. Something weaker.
Jason laughs, low and dark. "Chloe screamed." His thumb circles the knife handle, pressing harder. You bite back a whimper. "Loud. Desperate. Thought her cherry lip gloss would save her, when I sliced her stomach." He leans close, breath hot on your ear.
"Adam screamed too. Cocky bastard begged when the knife went in his neck." The handle grinds. A jolt of unwanted sensation shoots through you. "Jamie. Lex. Hannah." Each name is a punch. "They all screamed."
His free hand fists in your hair again, yanking your head back. "But you?" The knife handle rotates. Slow. Deliberate. "You just tremble." His lips brush your throat, right above the blade still resting there.
"Why kill them?" You force the words out, voice shredded. "They were… my friends."
"Necessary." He nips your earlobe. Sharp. Painful.
"Chloe saw me watching you. Adam bragged about fucking you." The knife handle thrusts once, hard. You cry out. "Couldn't have that." His chuckle vibrates against your skin.
"Then… it got fun." The pressure eases slightly, becomes a torturous rhythm. "Seeing you jump at shadows. Checking your locks. Those pretty eyes wide with fear…" He groans, hips pressing his erection against your thigh. "Addictive."
He pulls the knife handle away suddenly.
Cold air stings your exposed skin. Before you can react, the blade is back, icy steel tracing the wet seam of your panties, slicing the remaining fabric cleanly away.
"Needed you scared," he rasps, tossing the ruined lace aside. "Needed you alone." The blade tip dips lower, tracing your entrance.
Not cutting. Teasing. "Needed you… mine." His gaze burns into yours, triumphant. "Ready for the real game, angel?" The knife presses inward, just a fraction. A promise. A threat. "Scream."
You gasp. Not from pain.
From the brutal intimacy of it, the cold steel parting you, the rough press of his leather glove gripping your thigh, the scent of gunpowder and sweat overwhelming the stale garage air.
The knife handle slides back in, harder this time, grinding against your clit with cruel precision. A ragged moan tears from your throat, his name, "Jason!" as your fingers claw into the leather of his shoulder pad, seeking purchase.
He growls, low and feral. Approval. Possession. "Louder." His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back against the cinderblock. The blade tip presses into the soft skin beside your hip bone.
A sharp sting. Warmth wells. You feel the slow trickle of blood mingling with the slickness between your thighs. The knife handle pistons relentlessly, the plastic ridges catching, dragging.
Each thrust sends sparks of agonised pleasure through your core. Your hips buck against him, a traitorous rhythm you can’t control.
Tears blur Jason’s face, the hard line of his jaw, the fevered gleam in his blue eyes, the sweat beading on his temple. He’s terrifying. Beautiful. Your stalker. Your killer. Your secret obsession made flesh and fury.
"Know why I wore the mask?" His voice is ragged breath against your ear. The knife handle twists. You cry out, arching. "So you'd look at me like this." He presses his forehead to yours. His breath is hot, frantic.
"Look at me. Not him." The knife handle thrusts deep, hitting a spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. "Scream for me." You do.
A raw, guttural sound ripped from your chest, echoing off the garage walls, swallowed by the distant thump of the party. Jason’s answering groan is pure, dark satisfaction. He rips the knife handle out.
Before you can collapse, his gloved hand replaces it, fingers plunging inside you, rough and demanding.
"Your boyfriend…" Jason pants, fingers curling, stretching you. "…thinks he's got you." He thrusts deep, knuckles grinding against your inner walls.
You gasp, legs trembling. "Thinks he protects you." A harsh laugh. "Fool." His thumb finds your clit, circling hard. "Couldn't even see me watching." He leans closer, teeth scraping your jaw. "Watching you. Every night." His fingers piston faster. "He'll scream too."
The promise hangs heavy in the air, thick with violence. "After he sees what I do to you." His thumb presses down brutally. "After he knows he failed." White heat coils in your belly, shame and terror twisting with the relentless friction. "He dies knowing he lost you… to me."
Jason’s fingers twist, pulling a choked sob from you. His other hand grips your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his burning blue gaze. "See me now?" His voice drops to a guttural rasp. "See who owns you?" His fingers curl again, hitting that deep, forbidden spot.
Pleasure spikes, sharp and terrifying. Your hips buck wildly against his hand. "That's it," he breathes, watching your face unravel. "Come for me. Come for your Ghostface." The command, the twisted intimacy, shatters you.
A ragged scream tears free as you convulse against him, waves of agonising release crashing through you, leaving you trembling and slick against the cold wall. Jason watches, rapt, fingers still buried deep, milking every last tremor.
"Perfect prey," he murmurs, pulling his gloved fingers out slowly, glistening. He licks them clean, eyes locked on yours. "Now… let's go find your fool." The knife flashes, cold steel pressed back against your throat. "I'll be back."
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