Hiiiii! I was wondering if you could do a Batboys x female Reader where they notice everything about their girlfriend, like them changing their shampoo or getting a haircut
Something’s… Off
Includes: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Conner Kent, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne
Summary: With your past partners, small changes have never been a problem. You would get a haircut, or change your preferred scent, or change your food schedule and even when you begged them to notice they would ignore it. That was before you decided to date one of the most observant people on the planet.
A/N: Nothing quiet like a 1:30am post. ANYWAY, Anon! Sorry about the wait, I like to ruminate on some requests (so they sit and I stare at them for like.. eons) and wait for the vibe to strike. But, this is one of my favorite genres of headcanons so I knew it was coming. Thank you so much.
TRIGGER WARNING FOR CLARK: Discussion of dieting. No details are mentioned regarding the reader's weight or the type of diet and Clark is… grumpy about it. Read carefully and skip if you need to (You look amazing today btw).
Bruce Wayne:
This man noticed you changed your preferred fragrance the moment you walked out of the bathroom.
And to be totally honest with you, he hates it.
The new bottle could smell like the nectar of the gods themselves, and he wouldn’t like it at the beginning.
Any changes in your relationship, Bruce isn’t overly fond of in the beginning.
Not that he would tell you that.
He would prefer to sit in his own brooding nature than confess something so frivolous.
But, he’s gonna try and make you stop using it in his own way.
His go-to is just buying you the old one.
“Bruce? Did you get me a new perfume?”
His head pops into the bathroom before going on some random tangent about a sale and he saw you were getting low.
You pick up on this pretty quick, and address it (usually before he can piece together a coherent excuse.)
“Dearest?”
He stops his excuse and moves to make direct eye contact as you hold the bottle ajar with a tilt in your head.
“You don’t like the new one do you?”
He shakes his head fervently, “No of course not, its very… expensive-”
“Bruce”
He sighs before glaring at the new bottle like it caused the issue, “It… doesn’t smell like you. I like how you smell. This one is… rich. It smells like everyone at a gala. I just want you.”
You nod your head, “Okay. I can switch back if you want? I just wanted to try and fit in a bit more with your ritzy friends.”
You walk over and sling your hands around his neck, “To be honest, I didn’t like it that much either.”
This sets things in motion.
Bruce (despite his public persona) loves to publicly buy you things.
So a compromise is struck and you are wowed by Bruce’s dedication to thoroughness and research in regards to every part of his life.
Including… this damn perfume hunt.
You figured you would hit one store.
OH NO.
You go to every perfume place in Gotham and then he goes online.
Money isn’t an issue and Bruce wants to find the best.
So he goes… and goes… and goes
Alfred is involved, rooms are filled, and Christmas gifts are handled till the 2050s.
So you start fancy, then average, then niche.
It takes over a year for Bruce to find one that smells like.. You
BUT you found it.
And to be honest? Bruce killed it.
Clark Kent:
Clark knows something different…
But Lord help him… he can’t place it.
You look the same, smell the same, but something.. Off
You don’t notice his confusion or frustration for a while.
Until you realize he keeps squinting at you.
From casual conversations to catching his stare from across the room.
Eventually it pisses you off enough that at dinner you throw a bread roll at him.
“Clark quit it!”
Clark shakes his head like he is trying to knock it out of his brain, “Sorry, honey.”
“What is up with you? It’s like you're trying to figure out an abstract painting.” you ponder stealing the roll back.
“Did you do something different?” Clark asks, leaning forward, obviously fighting the urge to stare.
You laugh, “I need you to be more specific,”
“I don’t know. Something is different.” He gestures over to your whole body.
You look down at yourself, “Um… Nothing overly much. I think I’m more tan, I got a new lunch box at work, and OH I started a new diet?”
Clark's expression changes immediately.
“Diet?”
You nod, “Ya! It’s been going pretty well so far. I’ve been-”
Clark slumps a bit.
You pause, “Hey? What happened?”
Clark straightens back up at your question, “It’s not that… ugh. I don’t want this to come out wrong.”
You both wait as Clark collects his thoughts.
“I love you.” He blurts.
Your eyes widen, “I.. love you too?”
“No..” He shakes his head, “I love you. I don’t want anyone else. Is there a reason you are doing this? A health concern, self-improvement, or a test in human resilience? Because, I love you and I don’t want you to change for a reason that would make you feel worse in the long run.”
You grab his hand from across the table, “Clark, that’s very sweet. But, I’m fully grown. I promise I’m being careful.”
He nods, “Thank you, sorry I can’t turn it off sometimes. Tell me all about it!”
Dick Grayson:
Dick would be the one to feed into this skill.
Everything new he notices… gets a compliment.
Loves the new nail polish
That perfume? Gorgeous.
Your moms new dress? Drop dead.
You love how much he notices everything.
Until you get that haircut.
The haircut to end all haircuts.
You HATE it.
It's too long and too short somehow and it kinda has bangs?
It’s like the hair stylist couldn’t make a decision.
Your coworkers claim it barely noticeable (which does not help)
Your best friend says your being dramatic
You have convinced yourself this is the end of your year.
You've relegated your next 3 months to beanies or just shaving it all off… until
You walk into your boyfriends apartment ready to FUCKING RANT.
And this man, god help him, can’t stop staring at you.
You take his silence as confirmation that its that fucking bad.
But you have to give him a five minute reboot.
He loves it.
Loves it
Which would be more reassuring if he could form a complete sentence other than “your hot”
You're sitting on the couch contemplating the shears in Dick’s bathroom before Dick tilts your head up and kisses you.
It's hard and surprisingly forceful.
He is about to tell you just how much he loves it… for quite a while.
Apparently your tragic haircut has become the greatest thing that's happened to him all week.
Jason Todd:
Despite his avoidant tendencies, Jason is well aware of your schedule and your favorite things.
This includes your favorite necklace.
The one he made for you on your first date.
It was supposed to be a joke.
An old bolt had fallen off his bike.
Poor thing was entirely stripped through and was likely shot through by one of deadshots microscopic bullets.
He placed it in your hand saying, “He’s gotta bolt, but he's expecting that back next time.”
Jason spent the entire time cussing himself out for the pun. Blaming spending too much time with Dick and his “bullshit jokes”
So imagine his surprise when almost a month after you met him for a random coffee break with that damn red bolt on a chain around your neck.
After his retelling of the event you wear it frequently, mostly to piss him off, but also because it's become one of your favorite memories.
So when you stop wearing it, Jason notices.
You come up with various excuses, “Forgot it today”, “had to take it off at the gym” etc.
Until he walks in on your anniversary and finds you under your bed searching like a mad man.
“Doll?”
Your head shoots up.
BUMP
“FUCK” You slide out from under the bed rubbing the back of your head.
You lock eyes with him as he holds your gift and a bundle of flowers, “Jay! You’re early.”
He nods, “Lookin for something under there?”
You blink a few times before your head hangs in shame, “I lost the bolt. I took it of a few weeks ago to shower and poof.”
You run a hand through your hair, “I-I kept hoping it would just show back up if I looked hard enough but…”
You huff, “God. I’m sorry Jay.”
He slides down next to you and delicately hands you the box, “Can you open that for me?”
“Jay-”
He shakes his head, “Just open it… please?”
You sigh before popping off the small ribbon.
Inside stands your old necklace and something new.
“I know this guy who can turn old bullets into studs, but I wanted to make sure they matched. So, I borrowed it”
Inside the small box stands two earrings used bullets morphed into a flower.
You look up at him.
Something in your eyes softens Jay almost immediately.
Ever the adverse to overly happy moments, Jay changes topics, “Do you know how long I had to wait to snipe that thing? You guard it more than the MET-”
You don’t let him finish quickly putting on the bolt and the matching studs and pulling him in for a hug.
“Thank you Jason.”
He pauses before embracing you, “Anytime, doll.”
A/N: For those curious, these are the studs I had in mind (I have no clue about this company btw, as always do research before you buy. Give money to who you support): https://bulletbloom.com/products/380-cal-small-bullet-plume-earrings?variant=30975828361294
Tim Drake:
Tim loves a good routine.
The only thing he loves more than his own is yours.
The perfectly tempered coffee he places on your desk each morning.
The dramatic thump of your keys when you get home at 6:15-6:30pm
And his favorite is your designated Tim cuddling time after dinner but before patrol.
And today?
He is leaning on that schedule of yours hard.
Banking on the dinner conversation and those minutes on the couch.
Today was utter shit.
So he sits on the couch and waits.
Happily thinking about holding you in his arms and ignoring the drama at WE and whatever the Riddler is up to tonight.
Until you sit in the armchair…
On the other side of the living room.
You sit with your hands in your lap smiling that joyful smile of yours and ask, “What do you want to watch tonight?”
“No”
You reel back a bit, “No?”
He taps the couch cushion, “That isn’t your spot.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat, “You were just complaining about someone at work touching you. I figured you wanted space?”
He shakes his head before standing up and lightly dragging you over to the couch, “That, angel, was a 60 year old man I had never met before rubbing my shoulders. You are my favorite person on the plant. Not the same thing.”
You continue your laugh before cuddling into his chest, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how sacred cuddle time was to you.”
He shrugs, “schedules are there for a reason.”
Conner Kent (A/N: Reader as a nose piercing)
You change your shampoo.
It’s not even worth a passing thought.
Just a different shampoo because the store was out of your usual brand.
You don't even mention it.
There isn't really anything to mention.
Then Conner walks into the kitchen the next morning.
And immediately points at you.
"You're different."
You freeze.
"What?"
"Different."
"...How?"
Conner squints.
You watch him mentally sort through possibilities.
Then his eyes widen.
"Oh! Your shampoo."
Silence.
You stare.
He stares.
"What about my shampoo?"
"It smells different."
You laugh.
"Conner, no."
"Conner, yes."
He wanders over and immediately buries his face in your hair.
"Definitely different."
You shove him away.
"Stop sniffing me!"
"I'm investigating!"
"You're being weird!"
"I'm being thorough."
His hands settle on your waist as he leans in again.
"It's coconut." He says
"Coconut and shea butter." He says confirming
You, with little hope in his assessment, check the bottle sitting on the counter.
Coconut and shea butter.
"How did you know that?"
Conner shrugs, "I can hear your heartbeat from three blocks away. Shampoo isn't exactly challenging."
You stare at him.
Then he tilts his head.
"Wait."
"Oh no."
"You changed your conditioner too."
"CONNER."
Then he pauses.
“There’s something else too."
"Oh come on."
His eyes narrow again hiding the growing smirk.
"That's not your usual nose ring either."
You huff and raise your hands in exasperation.
"There it is."
Damian Al-Ghul-Wayne(aged up):
Damian is not vocal about noticing changes.
When directly asked, he'll simply nod or shake his head.
"Did you notice I got my hair cut?"
A glance.
"Yes."
That's it.
After a while, you stop asking.
Not because he doesn't notice, he clearly does, but because getting information out of him feels like interrogating a government agent.
So when you decide to try a new perfume, you don't bother mentioning it.
You spray it on before meeting Damian for lunch and think nothing of it.
Halfway through the afternoon, while the two of you are walking across campus, a guy passing by smiles.
"Hey, your perfume smells really nice."
You blink.
"Oh. Thank you."
The compliment catches you off guard enough that you can't help smiling.
Unfortunately, Damian is standing right there.
The boy leaves.
Damian stares after him.
"...What?"
"Nothing."
You make it about fifteen feet before he starts.
"For the record. The jasmine suits you better than the vanilla one."
You nearly trip.
"What?"
"The vanilla scent lingered longer."
He says it casually.
"As did the citrus one before that."
You stare.
"The one from February was far too sweet."
"February?"
Damian looks confused.
"As in four months ago."
"You remember my perfume from four months ago?"
"Of course."
You stop walking entirely.
Damian sighs.
"The new haircut also frames your face better."
"..."
"The silver earrings are superior to the gold pair."
"..."
"And the nail polish you removed yesterday matched most of your wardrobe."
You can only blink at him.
Because suddenly every tiny change you've made over the past several months is being cataloged and evaluated.
"You noticed all of that?"
Damian's expression softens just slightly.
"And for future reference, beloved, I noticed all of those things the day they happened. "
cw: reader wears makeup, fluffy with a capital f, very short
Jason Todd loves to watch you when you do your makeup. He’s in absolute awe with your precision and skill.
He also loves asking you questions every time.
“how’d you do that?” He asks when you apply your eyeliner. “It matches your other eye perfectly.”
you roll your eyes playfully. “Shut up, it does not. They look like inbred cousins and they’re supposed to look like twins.”
he gave you a kiss on the cheek. “You need to stop criticizing yourself.”
he’s also terrified of your eyelash curler. Jason Todd has faced countless criminals and villains, and even death, but watching you use an eyelash curler makes him shiver.
“How does that not rip out your eyelashes?!”
“Lots of practice. Also you don’t pull on it. You keep it in the same spot at all times.”
He watches you in awe every morning as you get ready for work. Of course he thinks you’re gorgeous without makeup, but he knows you enjoy doing it.
“You know you don’t need makeup, right? You’re gorgeous with and without it,” he tells you almost every morning.
“I know,” you reply, your confidence has always amazed him, “but it’s fun. It’s like I’m painting a portrait of myself.”
He gives you kisses after you finish every step. And once you’ve finished your whole routine and you’re about to walk through the door, he stops you for a minute just to murmur “my pretty girl” and give you a kiss.
okay, it’s more like ten kisses but who’s keeping track?
a/n: if you like this please like, reblog, comment, and check out my other works!!
Hii do you think you could ever make smau’s in portuguese? I’m learning portuguese and it would be a really fun way to practice!
Sorry if its a weird ask 😭😭
They're trying to learn your mother tongue!
Featuring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne and Duke Thomas.
Content: Fluff. SMAU. A bunch of words in portuguese.
N/A: OMG YESYES THANK YOU FOR YOUR REQUEST!! i tried to make these in the best way possible but it can get a little confusing, so you might want to write some things down and search it later lol! IM REALLY SORRY IF THIS IS BAD 😭
synopsis : a cute fucking first date involving two cute fucking people
𐙚 you showed up to your and jason’s first date with sunflowers in hand. you'd run into this pretty flower shop on your way to the café and suddenly it felt unacceptable to not bring the man flowers.
𐙚 he was too stunned to speak. you shoved the bouquet into his arms and he held onto them carefully, with reverence. he looked at the flowers and then back at you like a fool again and again. he felt both dumbstruck and awestruck at once.
𐙚 you made a point to tell him that the flowers conveyed your adoration for him. you said there were other options but this felt the closest to how you felt about him.
𐙚 one would assume you were quite the bold one when it came to romance. nope. you ran purely on too much feelings and a hell lot more impulse.
𐙚 this was jason’s first date ever. you didn't know that. he sat opposite you, empty cups and plates between you two, as he asked you too many questions about yourself. most of what you answered really awkwardly because he seemed genuinely interested in the lore of you. the long versions. and you hadn't been prepared for that. why did conversation seemed to be making you wet, dear god-
𐙚 he wasn't the physical type. not on a first date, no. he didn't reach for your hand, that rested on top of the table, when you kept talking. or feel you up under. or make sexual innuendos and weird eye contact. YEAH, WHAT THE FUCK WAS UP WITH MEN MAKING THOSE EYE CONTACTS. he was frustratingly respectful and such a good company. you ran yourself into an internal panic attack wanting to hold his hand and not being able to verbalize it.
𐙚 oh, yeah, those hands. unfair. beautiful. he was unfair, beautiful. you'd never seen someone so ravishing and bite-able. might just be the time to take a "am i a vampire quiz".
𐙚 jason todd was extraordinarily breathtaking.
𐙚 across the cafe, was a crafts store and you absentmindedly mentioned how you loved cute things. jason immediately offered to check the place out together. seeing the bright, excited smile take over your face disarmed him.
𐙚 you two spent almost an hour there, browsing. jason held the sunflower bouquet upright against his chest the whole time because he didn't want them to go bad. it made you flush and you felt warm inside. he was fucking endearing, you just wanted to grab his hand and kiss him stupid on the mouth.
𐙚 you wanted him covered in your lipstick marks and giggling into your mattress.
𐙚 he caught you grinning at him like an idiot, daydreaming, and rolled his eyes with a fond expression on his face. his ears turning pink. he wasn't used to getting stared at like this. with unfiltered admiration and want, like you were down bad.
𐙚 you really liked this clay mug that had a little clay frog inside in the middle; the frog had big round eyes. jason bought it for you. you insisted on him buying one for himself as well, rambling about how what if you felt separation anxiety at his place whenever drinking something and the mug didn't have an adorable frog in it. jason’s brain sort of spontaneously combusted, you were talking about hanging out at his so casually, he had this sudden urge to crush you into the clingiest hug ever, you were fucking cute. he wanted to love you so bad. he thought he might die again if he weren't given the sacred privilege of loving you.
𐙚 he did buy a mug for himself. though he looked his frog dead in those eyes and said : “you look stupid.” you laughed and wheezed until you fell sideways against him.
𐙚 it was quite late when the date came to an end. you two walked around talking for the most of it. jason did hold your hand at one point. a shy, earnest look on his face, slightly apprehensive, as he slipped his fingers through yours and brought your tangled hands into the pocket of his jacket. you right about melted. his other hand was still holding the flowers protectively ; now with the small shopping bag where his clay mug was.
𐙚 you two grabbed only the greasiest cheese burgers and fries for dinner and some vodka cola before calling it a night. jason didn't want you calling a cab or walking home alone. he gave you a ride back to your apartment building on his bike. and yes, he did fuss for ten entire minutes, securing the sunflower bouquet to his motorcycle.
𐙚 you tried politely putting your hands on his shoulders but that had pissed jason off. yeah, nope, ya'll were not doing the thing where he drove himself mad with anxiety over accidentally getting you killed.
𐙚 you rolled your eyes, called him dramatic, and wrapped your arms tightly around his middle. you dropped your cheek against his back, clinging the best you could. his heart was beating so erratically. suddenly jason’s spoke “relax, doll. christ, your heart is beating capriciously.”
𐙚 you froze, listening to his heartbeat you couldn't even feel yours beating equally out of control until he mentioned it. you gathered he couldn't feel his heart going cuckoo bananas either. you decided to spare him the information.
𐙚 in front of your building, you poked his chest and requested him to crouch down. with a furrow of his brows, he did, and you kissed him on the cheek with a starry smile on your face. nervous and enchanted and quick.
𐙚 jason had to look away, flustered but grinning. he mimicked you, leaning down and brushing his lips carefully against your left cheek. and then he seemed to need more and kissed your other cheek as well.
————————
bonus : months later, he noticed a red hood/ fatson keychain attached to your tote bag. he freaked the fuck out and got super paranoid. he was going to tell you about his other life, obviously. he just wasn't ready yet. he somehow managed to ask you about it, trying his best to act normal. you got so giddy that he noticed the accessory.
apparently, you'd noticed that he wore a lot of red. well, black and red. he owned multiple muted red hoodies and exactly three jackets in different shades of that color. and you wanted to match with him but you didn't particularly feel pretty in red. of course, you loved wearing his hoodies and tshirts and borrowing his jackets, but that was different.
so as a subtle touch you got that cute little keychain!!!! now every time you were out together, you matched colors subtly.
A quiet Christmas night in Jason’s cabin safehouse turns anything but gentle when both of you give in to something messy, desperate, and entirely your own—just you, him, and the fire bearing witness.
Tags/CW: 18+, MDNI, Jason x fem!reader, smut, oral (f! receiving), Jason kisses his meal before he eats it, p in v, unprotected sex, making out (too much too sloppy), creampies, cuddling, estab!relationship.
Jason’s arms have always been big. Big enough to wrap around you and blot out the rest of the world, rough enough to feel real when everything else slips. They’ve always made you feel like you could hide there—press your forehead to the crook of his neck and just disappear.
Now that there’s no noise to hear other than the soft cracking noise of wood burning in the flames, you realise, looking back in sprinkles of past thoughts, you’ve always wanted this.
The couches on either side of you remain forgotten, eerily still in the passage of time, they don’t have dents of conjoined body weight that strains their velvety pillows. All the hand woven throws on them, untouched, un-crinkled. No sign of them thrown off in a lazy sprawl.
You and Jason didn’t even look at them when you arrived at his safehouse cabin, having been drawn to the front of the fireplace, like moths to bright light —precious floor time, as you had called it earlier— you drifted fast to create your makeshift fortress.
And now here you are. His shoulder brushed against yours. His thigh warm where it rests beside your knee. The futon he insisted on bringing—because you mentioned, half-laughing, that hardwood floors would murder his spine—unfolded beneath you like he’d known you’d end up here.
Jason shifts beside you, slow and easy, enough that the futon dips and your hip nudges into his. He doesn’t move away—he never does. Instead, his arm settles behind you, brushing your back with that familiar, grounding warmth that always makes your shoulders drop a little.
The fire cracks softly, and the glow spilling over him feels unfair. All warm golds and long shadows, softening a man who spends the rest of the world hard-edged. Here, he’s just Jason. Your Jason. The one who always looks back at you like you’re the only steady thing he’s got.
You lean into him without thinking, letting your head rest against his shoulder. He shifts just the tiniest bit, settling you closer, like he was waiting for you to do exactly that and you coo into his warmth.
His fingers find your thigh in patterns of absentminded, lazy little circles that make it very hard to pretend you’re not melting. Not because it’s new, but because it’s him. Because somehow no amount of time together has made this feeling normal enough so that your heart doesn’t want to jump out of your chest.
The silence between you is thick but silky, like the blanket you’re both wrapped under. Not awkward. Not anticipatory. Just full of everything that doesn’t need to be spoken for you to feel it humming between your ribs.
Your hand drifts toward his on instinct, brushing across his knuckles before you weave your fingers through. Jason’s chest rises in slow, quiet breaths, the kind he only ever takes when he’s fully, privately at ease.
And then he hums, low in his throat—almost a laugh, almost a sigh.
“Y’know…” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough that his cheek grazes your hair, then your temple, “we’ve got two perfectly good couches behind us.”
You smile in his chest without lifting your head. “And?”
Jason’s thumb strokes along your thigh, slow enough to feel intentional.
“And we still end up right here.” He leans down just slightly, voice brushing your ear like a secret. “Pressed up against each other on the floor like teenagers.”
He pauses, warm lips grazing your temple.
“Not that I’m complaining. Just saying… there’s gotta be a reason.”
Jason shifts just enough for his nose to skim your hair, his voice dipping into that gravelly, amused tone he saves for when he’s about to get under your skin.
“‘Cause if I didn’t know any better…” his fingers slide a little higher on your thigh, just enough to make you breathe in, “I’d think you drag me down here on purpose.”
You pull back half an inch to give him a look, but he catches your chin lightly between two fingers, smirking.
“Mmhm,” he hums, eyes half-lidded, way too pleased with himself.
It earns him a chuckle from the depths of your throat.
“Act innocent all you want.” You tell him “Every damn time we’ve got a surface to lay down, a blanket, and five minutes alone? You end up glued to my side.”
He scoffs—mostly because you’re right.
“And what about you?” He mumbles.
“Must you need the confirmation?”
Jason nods, then laughs under his breath, warm and low. He presses his forehead to yours, grin softening into something deeper.
“Baby,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your jaw, “you think I’d sit anywhere else when I could have you right here? Not a chance.”
His lips hover a breath above yours before he adds, teasing but honest enough to crack you open a little
“Besides… you get real cuddly on the floor. Kinda my weakness.”
You don’t even try to hide your smile this time—it just blooms, warm and helpless, because he’s doing that thing again. That thing where he teases you until you’re flustered, then softens at the last second like he can’t help giving you the truth underneath.
“Your weakness, huh?” you whisper, lips brushing his.
Jason’s smirk tilts, lazy and fond. “Mm. Big one.”
And then he kisses you.
Not hungrily. Just slow—achingly slow—like he’s got all night and wants to savor every second of it. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you in, and your fingers curl into the front of his shirt without thinking. The fire pops behind you, sending a warm ripple across your skin, but Jason is warmer, deeper, steadier.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to nudge his nose against yours. “See?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your mouth. “Floor time makes you sweet.”
You shove him lightly in the chest, mostly to hide the way your heart just stuttered, but he only laughs, low and amused, and pulls you straight back into him. This time he lies back on the futon, tugging you with him until you end up half sprawled across his chest.
“‘M always sweet you asshole.”
“Aha, indeed.”
His arm wraps around your waist. Solid muscle, heat, that quiet strength you never have to ask for. You settle into him, your cheek pressed to the spot just over his heartbeat, and he exhales like you’ve put him exactly where he’s meant to be.
The firelight dances across the room. His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down your spine.
After a minute, he speaks again—soft, teasing, but quieter, like he’s letting his guard slip a little.
“Gotta admit…” he murmurs into your hair, “I like when you curl up on me like this.”
You tilt your head up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”
He looks down at you, eyes warm enough to ruin you.
“Yeah,” he says, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Makes me feel like I’m… I don’t know, needed!? Yours...”
Your breath catches—so subtle you’re not sure he noticed.
But he did. And his hand stills on your back, fingertips sinking in just slightly.
“Jay..”
“’Cause I am,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, right?”
Jason’s words are still hanging in the air when you shift on him—slowly, like you’re sliding into a better position without any particular intention.
But he knows better.
Your leg drapes across his waist. Just a little weight. Just enough to make his breath catch. Barely.
You pretend not to notice.
Instead, you nuzzle into the warm column of his throat, lips brushing the skin there like an accident. A soft, lingering accident. Jason’s hand on your back flexes, fingertips digging in for half a second before he catches himself.
Good.
You let your nose trail up the line of his neck, lazy, innocent, torturously tender. His pulse jumps under your mouth—fast, but ever so contained. He’s trying so hard to be unbothered.
You’re not done with him however.
Your palm slides across his chest, slow enough that you can feel each breath he’s trying to regulate. He’s solid under your hand, warm, muscles going tight one at a time like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to admit he wants.
Still you say nothing.
You just shift again. Just enough that your hips settle a little closer over his. Not grinding. Not obvious. Just aligned. A feather-light tease that sends a hot, invisible jolt through him. You feel it. You feel everything.
Jason exhales, a quiet, shaky thing he tries to turn into a laugh.
It does not sound like a laugh.
You bite back a smile and press your lips to his stubbled jaw—soft, slow, completely devastating. He tilts into it instinctively before he forces himself still.
His fingers slide lower on your back.
You don’t give him what he wants.
Instead, you kiss the corner of his mouth—barely there, a whisper of warmth—and pull back before he can quite chase you. His eyes crack open, dark and unfocused, a little ruined around the edges.
You settle your head back on his chest like nothing happened at all.
He makes a noise in his throat. Frustrated. Fond. Helpless. His heartbeat is thunder under your ear now.
“I know you’re mine,” you whisper.
You shift one last time, just a tiny roll of your hips as you get ‘comfortable,’ and Jason’s arm tightens around you—reflexive, full-body, soft growl stuck in his chest.
He mutters something incoherent into your hair.
You smile smugly into his shirt.
Jason is officially in hell and he’s loving every second of it.
“And I’m yours.”
Jason lasts all of—what—another eight seconds? Maybe ten, if you’re too generous.
Because you stay exactly where you are, pretending to be oh-so-innocently settled on top of him, and then you do it—that move. That tiny, absentminded roll of your hips like you’re just adjusting your weight.
It’s not even a grind. It’s not even purposeful.
But Jason’s whole body reacts—hips jerk the slightest bit under you, all blood rushing suddenly to his cock, breath punching out of him like you knocked it loose. His hand, the one resting on your lower back, spasms and grabs a handful of your shirt.
“Jesus—” he breathes, barely audible.
You smile into his chest wickedly. He knows you do. He feels it.
And that’s the moment he officially cracks.
One second you’re lying on him, all soft and innocent, the next—
His hands slide down to your hips, grip tightening, and he flips you onto your back in one fluid, pissed-off-but-turned-on-as-hell motion. The futon dips beneath the sudden shift, and you gasp more from the shock than the force.
Jason hovers above you, breath unsteady, hair falling into his eyes like he lost it somewhere in the movement.
And he looks beautifully wrecked.
Flushed pink. Jaw tight. Pupils blown wide. The thin veneer of “I can handle this” absolutely torched in flames.
He braces one forearm beside your head, the other still clamped around your hip like he’s anchoring himself. It slips away only for a moment’s time, to adjust his bulge inside his pants.
“You think you’re funny,” he growls—quiet, deep, breath warm against your lips.
You grin up at him, soft and taunting. “A little.”
Jason’s eyes flick down your body, then back to your smile, and he huffs out a broken laugh.
His lips pepper kisses across your face and jawline, each one of them sloppy and slow.
“Yeah?” He says between kisses. His thumb strokes along your hip, possessive, hungry, already losing any attempt at patience. “You’re lucky I love you.”
You tug lightly on the collar of his shirt. “Do something about it then.”
That’s it. That’s the actual kill shot.
Jason lets out a sound—somewhere between a groan and a surrender—and crashes his mouth directly to yours, all heat and pent-up frustration and relief. His hand grips your thigh and pulls you flush against him, no space left, no guessing.
Jason’s kiss is hot enough to dizzy you—deep, and hungry, coating the skin around your mouth with saliva, like he’s been trying not to do this for the past thirty minutes and you finally snapped the last thread holding him together. His hand slides under your thigh as his tongue touches yours, tugging you up to meet his hips and the low sound he makes when your bodies line up is downright sinful.
He bucks his hips directly into yours eliciting a small moan out of you when your clit rubs perfectly on the seam of your pants.
You pull him closer by the front of his shirt, kissing him back just as fiercely—teeth catching his bottom lip and pulling it into your mouth, fingers threading into his hair. You can feel him melt into it, lose the last scraps of restraint, push his weight down over you like he wants you under him, wrapped around him, nowhere else.
But there’s no way you’re letting him win that easily.
Mid-kiss, you twist your grip in his shirt and roll your hips slow and steady, with cocky intention this time. Jason’s breath stutters; he breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale right against your mouth.
“Oh, you’re—” he starts, but you don’t give him the chance.
You use his moment of shock to flip him.
You hook your leg around his waist, shift your weight, and suddenly he’s the one on his back and you’re straddling his hips. The futon dips under you both, the fire crackles, and Jason just freezes.
Not in fear, but in awe.
His hands fall to your thighs like gravity dragged them there, fingers spreading over your skin, squeezing like he needs the reassurance you’re real.
You lean down, kiss him slow—slow enough to make him chase the end of it when you pull back half an inch.
He exhales shakily.
“Baby,” he warns, voice shredded down to something deep and ruined, “don’t start something you can’t finish.”
You smirk, shifting your weight deliberately over him, drawing a curse out of his throat.
“Who says I’m not finishing it?”
Jason’s head falls back with a low groan, his hands tightening on your hips—possessive, helpless, gone.
That’s when he moves.
One sharp thrust of his hips up into yours—enough to knock a gasp out of you and make your hands slap against his chest for balance. He grins up at you, wild and triumphant.
“Got you.”
You glare at him, breath uneven. “Cheater.”
“Survivor,” he counters, grabbing your waist and dragging you down again so your faces nearly touch. “And if you keep teasing me—”
He flips you back.
Fast.
Effortless.
Like you weigh nothing.
Your back hits the futon again and he cages you in with his body, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. His lips ghost along your jaw, down to your neck, warm and maddeningly slow.
“You gonna behave now?” he murmurs against your skin, voice barely holding together.
You curl your fingers into his hair and tug just enough to make him curse under his breath.
“No.”
Jason laughs—breathless, disbelieving, insanely turned on.
“Good,” he growls, dragging your hips up against his again, “’cause neither am I.”
He kisses you again—deeper, dirtier, more desperate—and this time neither of you hold back. Smooching sounds fill the room and Jason’s scent mingles with your own, so much, you don’t know where he starts and you begin.
His hands fly to the button of your jeans, the pads of his fingers fiddling with it.
The button pops with a sharp, silver click, but Jason doesn't rush to strip you. Instead, he pauses, his large hand splayed flat against the heat of your stomach, his thumb hooked just inside the waistband. He’s looking at you with such intensity that feels heavier than his actual weight.
Jason’s kisses turn hungry fast — the kind that steals the air from your lungs and gives it back to you warmer. You arch up into him, not consciously, not even teasing this time, just responding to the heat of him pressed fully against you.
He moans, low and helpless, the sound punching out of his chest like he’s been holding it back for weeks.
Your fingers tangle in his shirt. You tug hard and he jerks a little, hips pressing into yours with absolutely zero finesse. He bites down on a laugh, breath hot against the wet patches his lips have left on your throat.
“That’s… not fair,” he manages when you palm him through his pants, voice tight, breath shaking.
You drag your nails lightly down the back of his neck.
“Who said I was playing fair?”
He loses it for a second. His hand grips your thigh, hauling it up around his waist like he needs you anchored there or he’ll come apart. His body settles deeper against yours, chest to chest, hips locked to your hips, the futon creasing under the weight of both of you pressing together like there’s not a single inch you can spare.
Your shirt rides up, you don’t even know when, and his hand slides under the fabric, warm, broad, rough in that way that makes your breath catch. He strokes up your side slowly, until his fingers shimmy inside your bra from the front and begin to flick at one of your nipples.
Your own hands slip beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of him, the solid muscle, the way he tenses the second your fingertips skim the edge of his ribs. He shudders and you feel it all the way down to your pussy.
“That’s it,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours, eyes blown wide and dark. “God, you drive me—”
His voice breaks.
You kiss him before he can recover.
It gets messier than before, very very fast.
His mouth is open against yours, desperate, almost clumsy in the way he chases you. He drags you up into him, half-guided, half-grabbed, bodies tangling as hands roam and clothing shifts, little gasps slipping between kisses. You’re barely aware of what’s moving where or how clothes are stripped messily off you — just skin, heat, the wet drag of his breath against your cheek, the way he sounds when you touch him just right through his pants.
He pulls back only long enough to look at you — really look at how beautiful you look with just your underwear— chest heaving, lips red from kissing you stupid, a string of saliva connecting your faces.
“You’re not getting away from me tonight,” you murmur, voice like spice and honey all at once.
You wrap your arms around his neck, tug him down on you again.
“Didn’t plan on it, princess” he mumbles, the word vibrating against your collarbone. His smile is downright sinful.
He pulls back just enough to meet your half lidded gaze, his eyes roaming over your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of you.
His hand slides up, disappearing beneath the curve of your back, his rough palms dragging over your scorching skin. He finds the strap of your bra and undoes it with a soft click. He lets his thumb trace the curve of you, over and over, until you’re arching off the futon just to meet the pressure.
“Jason,” you breathe, half-plea and half-complaint.
“What—I’m just lookin’,” he grunts, a slow, predatory smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I’m takin’ my time. You’re the one who wanted to play games, baby. Now you gotta sit with the consequences.”
He leans down, but he doesn't kiss you. Instead, he brushes his lips against the sensitive hollow behind your ear, inhaling deeply. His beard scruff burns against your skin, a delicious friction that makes you shiver. He moves lower, his tongue darting out to lick a slow, wet stripe down the side of your neck, stopping right where your pulse is thrumming like a trapped bird.
His other hand finds your inner thigh, fingers digging into the soft skin there. He doesn't go for the center—not yet. He just kneads the muscle, his touch possessive and grounding, reminding you of exactly how much stronger he is than you.
Jason knows how much you love it when he pins you down just like this.
“You’re shaking,” he observes when your legs decide to give out, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that vibrates right through your chest.
He shifts, dragging his body up yours until his nose nudges yours. He stays there, breathing your air, his hand finally sliding up, up, until the heel of his palm brushes against the damp patch of your underwear. He doesn't move. He just applies pressure on your clit with his pointer finger—steady, delicious pressure—and watches your eyes blow wide in pleasure.
Before he moves further, he gives your clit a fast flick.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice a rough velvet when he circles a finger at your entrance, feeling how sticky you are. “Me making a mess of you on the floor?”
You can’t even answer; you just nod, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, trying to pull him lower.
Jason chuckles, a dark, low sound. He finally relents, his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, finding you already slick and hot and achingly pulsing for him. He doesn't rush. He circles the hood of your clit with agonizing slowness, his touch light as a feather one second and firm the next, mocking the way you’ve been teasing him all night.
He watches your face the whole time, tracking every hitch in your breath, every little broken sound that leaves your throat, looking entirely too smug for a man whose own heart is trying to beat out of his ribs.
Jason’s fingers continue that torturous slow-motion circling, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s reading you like a map, noting the exact second your pupils dilate or the way your hips stutter upward when his thumb find a specific, sensitive ridge.
You don’t even have time to whine at the loss of friction when he moves to completely take off your panties, because he’s back to you inhumanly fast.
His fingers spread your puffy folds apart and he rubs from your sopping hole to your poor clit, with two of his fingers, up and down again and again, so achingly slow that you can’t help but chase it with your hips.
He’s being deliberate. It’s his revenge for the way you played him earlier—an undoing that leaves you grasping at the fabric of his shirt just to stay tethered to the room.
“You’re so loud for me,” he says, his voice thick with a dark sort of pride. “Even when you’re trying to be quiet, your body’s fucking screaming.”
He dips a finger inside you, shallow and testing, and the sound that breaks out of you is high and thin. He swallows it with a kiss, his tongue mimicking the slow intrusion of his hand. It’s too much—the heat of the fire on your side on your skin, the weight of him on your chest, and the slick, sliding friction of his fingers fucking themselves inside your squelching pussy.
Just as he adds a second finger, stretching you open with a scissoring motion a groan of his own, a loud —crack— echoes through the room.
A cedar log in the fireplace decides to give up, snapping in half and sending a violent spray of orange sparks against the mesh screen. The sudden noise is like a bucket of cold water in the middle of a fever dream.
You jump, your back arching off the futon, and Jason’s head snaps toward the hearth, his shoulders tensing instinctively as if his bodyguard reflex kicks in for a split second.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the frantic thumping of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again, pulsing in both of your ears.
Jason looks back at you, a single stray spark reflected in his dark eyes. He’s still hovering over you, his fingers still buried in you, but the spell of the ‘perfect moment’ has a tiny, jagged crack in it.
Bent on not letting this destroy the moment completely, Jason takes a beat and continues sliding his fingers inside you ever so slowly.
He huffs out a breath when you mewl, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead.
“Scared the hell outta me, shit” he whispers, though he doesn’t move an inch away.
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your hands sliding from his hair to his cheeks. “The ah—floor is a dangerous place, Jay. Hazards everywhere.”
Jason’s gaze teasingly drops to your lips, then down to where his hand is still hidden away between your thighs, feeling the way you’re pulsing around him. The smirk from earlier returns, slower this time, more dangerous.
“Right. Hazards,” he repeats, his voice dropping an octave. He leans back in, his nose brushing yours, the playful banter dying a quick death as he replaces it with raw intent. “In that case, I better finish this quick before the house burns down, huh?”
Your lips purse in dissatisfaction at that, your eyes squinting. Solemnly, you shake your head at him.
“What?” Jason teases, smirking ever so slightly “want me to take my time instead?”
He doesn't wait for a comeback, for he knows your answer. He just hooks his other hand under your knee, dragging your leg up and over his shoulder, exposing you completely to the firelight and his hungrily wrecked expression.
Jason watches you for a heartbeat, his chest heaving as he takes in the sight of you—disheveled, legs draped over him, skin glowing with a sheer coat of sweat like polished amber in the firelight, your pussy glistening in need for him. His playfulness is still there, dancing in the corners of his mouth, but it’s being rapidly overtaken by a hunger that looks almost painful.
“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than you, patting down his body. “Clothes. These have gotta go.”
He sits back on his heels, a move that feels like a physical loss the moment his heat leaves your skin. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he reaches for the hem of his shirt, his knuckles grazing the jacked ridges of his stomach. In one fluid, impatient motion, he yanks the fabric over his head and tosses it somewhere toward the dark kitchen on the left.
The firelight catches on the broad expanse of his chest; the scars that map out his life of vigilance, the heavy, tensed muscles of his arms. Seeing him like this—bare and braced for you—always makes the air feel a little too thin to breathe.
Fuck—even every vein that props over his muscles sent you into a frenzy.
He makes quick work of his belt, the leather creaking in the quiet room. When he finally shucks his pants, the futon groans under his shifting weight. He’s back over you in nanoseconds, but he doesn't go for the kill. Not yet.
He settles between your knees, his large hands sliding up your inner thighs, spreading you wider until you feel the cool air of the room hit your skin—and then the scorching heat of his gaze.
“Jason…” you murmur, reaching for him, but he catches your wrists and pins them gently above your head.
“Uh-uh,” he rumbles, his voice a low, warning vibration. “You spent all that time teasing me. Now you’re gonna stay right there and take it.”
He leans down, but instead of kissing your mouth, he starts at your knee. His tongue traces a slow, wet line up the sensitive skin of your thigh as his lips wrap around patches of your skin, his beard scruff nuzzling to you sending fresh jolts of electricity through your nerves. You writhe under him, but his grip on your wrists is like iron—steady and grounding.
And fuck, you love it when he bends you in half like this. Even if by the time he reaches the glossy center of you, you’re breathless and your head is tossing back against the futon.
Jason pauses, his hot breath ghosting over your folds, making you shiver. He looks up at you, a wicked, ruined sort of grin on his face.
“You wanted floor time,” he whispers against your throbbing slit. “I’m gonna give you floor time you’re never gonna forget.”
Then, he dips his head.
The first lick of his tongue on your slit is broad and slow, catching every bit of your sticky slick. You let out a broken, jagged sound, your hips jerking upward instinctively. He groans into you at the taste, his tongue finding your clit and swirling around it with a rhythmic pressure with the tip of his tongue that makes your vision go white at the edges.
He’s not rushing. He’s savoring you, his fingers letting go of your wrists only to dive into the futon on either side of your hips, bracing himself as he drinks you in. Every time you try to close your legs, his shoulders act as a wedge, keeping you open, keeping you vulnerable, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
The sound of the fire is a distant hum compared to the rushing blood in your ears. Every muscle in your body is wound tight, vibrating like a live wire snapped in half as Jason continues eating you out.
He’s using his tongue with a terrifying level of focus, swirling, flicking, and then applying the flat of it all over your slit, before his lips lock around your clit and suck, ever so gently. It makes your heels dig into the futon and your hands find his hair, pulling him closer even as you try to escape the sheer intensity of it.
“Jay—please,” you gasp, the words breaking apart as he finds that one specific spot that makes you see stars and keeps abusing it with his tongue.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets more aggressive with it, his hands sliding under your glutes to tilt you further up, until you’re bent upwards, meeting every one of his wet laps with a desperate tilt of your hips.
The friction is perfect, agonizingly so. It’s a building pressure behind your ribs, a tightening in your stomach that feels like a spring being coiled tighter and tighter until something has to snap.
“Baby…Look at me,” he pleads against your skin, eyes all soft when he pulls back for air, his voice muffled as he leaves open mother kisses all over your pussy, then some smaller, more focused in your clit. His tongue is darting out to place small kitten licks on your sensitive bundle of nerves.
His hand plucks one of yours away from his hair and comes to interlace with it onto your stomach tenderly.
You force your eyes open, your breath coming in short hitches. You see the top of his head, his dark hair messy and wild between your fingers, and the way his broad shoulders are bunched with the effort of holding himself back. The dimples on his biceps flex when his palms force your legs open, so he can keep licking, keep sucking.
Then, he does it. He uses his thumb to pin your clit in place while his tongue sweeps over it in long, firm strokes.
That’s it for you.
Your world narrows down to a single, blinding white light. You cry out, a raw, high pitched sound that is lost in the crackle of the wood, as the first wave of your orgasm slams into you.
Your walls clench desperately around nothing, pulsing in a frantic rhythm that matches the thumping of your heart. Jason doesn’t pull away; he drinks in every shutter, every twitch of your thighs, his own breathing ragged and harsh.
He stays there, giving your clit small and pointed licks and tiny kisses until the last of the tremors fade into a heavy, boneless warmth.
You’re floating, your limbs feeling like lead, your chest heaving as you try to remember how to breathe. Jason finally lifts his head, his chin, dripping, slick with your juices and cheeks red, looking like he’s just survived a fight.
He doesn't give you a second to recover, however.
He crawls up your body, his skin sliding against yours in a delicious, heavy drag of heat. He hovers over you, bracing his weight on his forearms, his eyes dark with a hunger that hasn't been even slightly sated by your release.
“Love it when you come on my tongue. Oh shiiit.” he rasps, his voice a ruined growl.
He reaches down, guiding his hand across his length, giving it a few twisted jerks before lining it up to your entrance—still wet and sensitive from his tongue—and pushes inside.
He goes slow at first, catching all your wetness with the fat tip of his cock, letting you stretch and flutter around him, a guttural moan escaping his throat as he feels how tight you still are, how much you're still humming from your climax.
He sinks in until he’s buried to the hilt and you’re molded perfectly to shape of his dick, his forehead dropping to yours as he just breathes you in for a second, his heart hammering against your chest.
Your pussy clenches desperately around him, sopping all around his entire length.
“God, you’re… you’re perfect,” he murmurs.
His hips begin slow; a soul-crushing grind that tells you the real ‘floor time’ you so desperately wanted, has only just begun.
The hardwood floor groans beneath the futon, a rhythmic creak that underscores every heavy thrust Jason makes to drill into you.
He isn't rushing either; he’s taking his sweet time and up all the space you gave him, fucking you with a slow, agonizing friction that feels like it’s peeling back every intimate layer of you.
The heat from the fireplace is a constant presence against your side, scorching you with kisses of fire’s warmth, but it’s still nothing compared to the furnace of Jason’s skin and the pace of his hips.
He’s solid, crushing weight above you, his arm muscles roping and snapping under your touch as he anchors himself. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning them to the floor beside your head. Because he has to, and because he wants to feel the way your knuckles knock against the wood when he hits the right depth inside you. When he hits all the spots that make your eyes roll back.
“Floor’s too hard, huh?” he grunts, his jaw tight as he pulls back almost entirely before sinking in again, faster this time, hips stuttering with bullet like strength. The friction is excruciatingly good and you’re feeling so full that your eyes water.
The way he’s picking up the pace makes your toes curl into the folds of the throw blanket before you wrap them around his waist to guide him into you further.
You remember to shake your head in response to him, your hair fanning out across the futon like a halo. “Don't... don't stop. Go harder. Jason puhleasee.”
“Wasn't plannin' on it,” he breaths out, a jagged, broken sound.
He shifts his angle, his hips tilting for his cock to catch that spongy spot his fingers had already teased into a raw, pulsing ache.
The impact sends a jolt through you that feels like a spark from the fire—sharp, hot, and impossible to ignore. Every time his weight comes down so he can fuck his mushroom tip inside you, the futon dips, your skin slaps frantically and the shadows of your joined bodies dance wildly against the ceiling in the orange glow.
He starts to pick up the pave even more, the movements turning from a grind into something more urgent, even more primal. The sound of his thighs slapping against your ass is wet and rhythmic, a counterpoint to the messy mewls you’re making into the crook of his neck or into his mouth.
It’s a sticky mess, really. Spit everywhere, your thighs and his coated with your sleek.
Jason’s breathing is a series of harsh hitches now. He’s already losing that "hard-edged" control he prides himself on on his best days, his movements becoming less calculated and even more desperate to chase his own release. He buries his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that’s just shy of a bite.
“You’re so wet,” he mutters, the words nearly lost to the friction. “So damn wet for me. I keep sliding out.”
It’s like he’s going insane afterwards; he’s kissing you one second and the other he’s got a nipple in his mouth to lick and suck onto, and the next one he’s biting down the flesh of your chest, like he could chomp a piece of you and eat you.
In a frenzy of touches, he releases your hands, his palms sliding down to grip the edges of the futon, his arms caging you in as he drives into you with everything he has. The floor vibrates and creaks with the force of it, a dull thudding that resonates in your very bones.
It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s perfectly, quintessentially him—taking the rough, unyielding reality of the world and turning it into something that belongs only to the two of you.
Suddenly you are so glad the two of you came to this random safehouse of his in the middle of the snowy woods for Christmas. You get to have him all to yourself like this, anywhere, anytime.
Just the two of you and no one else, trying to swallow each other’s tongues.
Only the fire can hear your squealing moans tonight, and if you made a hole through the floor right now with the force Jason is fucking into you, it wouldn't even matter.
You’d love it, even in the afterglow.
Just the thought of it makes you even wetter.
Jason’s movements slowly lose their drilling edge, replaced by a desperate series of bucks that tell you he’s right on the brink of coming too.
His pace slows down, a fraction of what it was before, his face pulling away from yours so he can look at you with those lust blown green eyes. His hips buck upwards, hitting the spot that makes you lose it—
“Yeah, that’s right,” he tries to say, though he slurs his words out of gritted teeth and hisses of pleasure “yeah baby I’ll give it to you slow, shh—fuck—I gotchu.”
His fingers dig into the padding of the futon, then your hips, just to make you match his own rhythm, knuckles white. He drives into you with bruising force that it doesn’t even matter if he’s been pretending to go slow.
You’re both spent, moving with hurried twitches, chasing each other’s release; you by locking your feet behind Jason’s ass and forcing him to be rougher, maybe a little faster too since his pace is downright torture. Him by slamming your hips into his while his hands leave bruises on you.
Every swallow thrust is pure collision, a shatter wreck of skin and friction. You can feel the tension coiling in his thighs as they go taut, the way his entire body has gone rigid like a bowstring about to snap.
“Baby,” he chokes out, his voice completely shredded and high pitched. He lifts his head, and for a second, the mask of lust is totally gone.
His eyes are blown wide, dark and vulnerable and so glossy, searching yours for that one final bit of permission to let go. His lips are parted perfectly, with that beautiful crease down the middle of the bottom one, his jawline sharp as the light hits him. “Look at me—can I come inside? Y’r pussy feels like heaven.”
You wrap your legs tighter around him, pulling him in, your heels hooking into the small of his back to bridge the last microscopic gap between you. His fucking stutters in a white-hot roar now, eclipsing the crackle of the wood, a building pressure that demands everything you have left in you to give him.
“Dun’ wanna pull out.”
“Fuck yeah, Jas—Jason,” you sob against his lips. “Make ah—a mess.”
He lets out a sound that is half-growl, half-shatter. His hips jerk in a final, deep surge, burying himself to the hilt as his own climax slams into him. He goes still, his head falling back, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief under the firelight. You’re right there with him, your body clenching around him in a frantic pulsing that feels like it’s shaking your very soul loose, your inner walls are painted in streaks of white, hot cum, and he bucks his hips devastatingly into yours so he can fuck his own release even deeper into you.
For a long, suspended moment, the only sound in the room is the overlapping gasps of two spent bodies who have run out of all air.
Jason collapses forward, his weight pinning you deep into the futon, his heart thundering against your ribs like a captured drum.
He’s truly shaking; his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck as he tries to regulate a breath that still won’t come. He feels massive, heavy and so very tender in your arms. You coo into him too, wrapping your arms completely around his back to pull him in closer into you.
He can’t suffocate you if you’ve already run out of breath, but even if he did, you’d adore him still.
Slowly, the world starts to bleed back in again; the smell of woodsmoke, the fading warmth of the embers, and the dull ache of the floorboards on your back that Jason warned you about earlier.
Jason makes a low, tired noise in his throat—a sound of pure contentment—and nuzzles his nose into your skin, his hair, damp with beads of sweat sticking to your temple.
“Told you,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly ghost of itself. “Floor time... dangerous.”
You let out a weak, shaky laugh, your fingers tracing the dip of his spine. “Shut up, Jason.”
“Make me,” he huffs against your lips, sucking your bottom one into his mouth, but he doesn't move. He just settles deeper into you, his arm wrapping around your waist to anchor you both to the spot, right there in the glow of the fireplace.
You feel him harden up inside you again and oh fuck— it’s time to have him on his back.
You’re gonna show him just how bad hardwood is for his back.
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //
A/N: hiii, merry Christmas everyone! This is my gift for all of you, I know it took me so long to get this out but work is kicking my butt. Also this is SO self indulgent, im so sorry I just need him like this right now😭
Taglist: @starfiremylove @vanillacici
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
I imagine Jason after a day wandering around his house, with no patrols or things to solve.
Jason would call you on a video call to show you the new book he bought and after that he would take his cell phone to the kitchen where he would make something to eat and talk to you about random things.
probably the conversation you would have would generally be related to anything, from death, criminal expertise, justice, Gotham, parks, it doesn't matter, he would do everything just to hear your voice for hours and you the same.
To the world, he was the Red Hood - brutal, sarcastic, carrying the weight of death and resurrection like armor. He snapped at his brothers, glared at criminals, and kept everyone at arm’s length with sharp words and sharper knives.
But with you?
He was the biggest lover boy in Gotham.
He remembers everything.
You mentioned once, months ago, that you loved the way the first spring flowers smelled after rain. Now, every time it rained in early spring, Jason would disappear for an hour and come back with a small bouquet of fresh flowers - never store-bought, always ones he’d picked himself from quiet corners of the city where no one would see the big, scary Red Hood playing gardener.
Tonight was no different. He walked through the door of your shared apartment, rain still clinging to his leather jacket, and handed you a small bunch of pale purple flowers wrapped in brown paper.
“They smelled like you,” he said gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought you’d like them.”
You took them, heart swelling, and kissed his cheek. “You’re such a sap.”
He huffed, but his ears went pink. “Only for you. Don’t tell anyone.”
He takes care of you without being asked.
You came home from a long day at work exhausted, shoulders aching, feet sore. Jason was already there - apron on, sleeves rolled up, cooking your favourite meal. The apartment smelled like garlic and herbs and home.
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the couch. “Dinner’s almost done.”
You tried to protest. “I can help—”
“No.” He crossed the room in two strides, gently pushing you down onto the cushions. Then he knelt, unlaced your shoes, and massaged your feet with careful, strong hands. “You worked hard today. Let me take care of you.”
His touch was firm but gentle, thumbs pressing into the arches of your feet until the tension melted away. You sighed, leaning back, watching him with soft eyes.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you murmured.
“I want to.” He looked up at you, green eyes warm. “You take care of everyone else. Let me take care of you.”
Later, after dinner, he pulled you into his lap on the couch, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. His hands stroked slow circles on your stomach under your shirt - warm, comforting, with just a hint of heat in the way his fingers occasionally dipped lower.
“You’re too good to me,” you whispered.
He kissed the side of your neck. “You deserve it. All of it.”
He’s protective in the quiet ways.
You were walking home from the library late one night when a group of guys started catcalling. Before you could even react, Jason was there - stepping out of the shadows like he’d been waiting, tall and broad and radiating danger.
The guys scattered.
He walked you the rest of the way home, hand on your lower back, silent but steady. When you got inside, he pulled you into a hug, arms wrapping around you like a shield.
“I hate when they look at you like that,” he muttered into your hair. “Like you’re not mine.”
You hugged him back, smiling against his chest. “I am yours.”
He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then your lips - slow and deep, hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss grew warmer, his fingers pressing into your sides, but he never pushed. He just held you, grounding himself in the feel of you safe in his arms.
He leaves little notes.
You found them everywhere.
A sticky note on the coffee maker: “Made this for you. Don’t work too hard today. Love you.”
A scribbled message in your favourite book: “This part reminded me of you. You’re stronger than any character in here.”
A note taped to the bathroom mirror after a rough night: “You looked beautiful even when you cried. I’ve got you. Always.”
Each one was written in his messy, hurried handwriting, like he was embarrassed to be caught being romantic. You kept every single one in a small box under your bed.
One morning you woke up to find a note on his pillow next to yours:
“Gone to handle some shit. Be back before you miss me too much.
P.S. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.
— J”
You smiled, pressing the note to your chest, heart full.
He’s soft when the world isn’t watching.
Late at night, after patrols, Jason would crawl into bed behind you, still smelling like leather and gun oil. He’d wrap his arms around your waist, pulling your back against his chest, legs tangling with yours.
“Missed you,” he’d murmur against your neck, voice rough from the night’s work. His hand would slide under your shirt, resting warm and possessive on your stomach, thumb stroking lazy circles.
You’d turn in his arms, kissing him softly. He’d kiss you back - slow and deep, hands roaming your body with gentle reverence. He’d pull you closer, hips pressing against yours, the heat between you building but never rushing.
“I love you,” he’d whisper between kisses. “More than anything.”
You’d fall asleep like that - wrapped up in each other, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his arms a shield against the world.
One quiet evening, you were reading on the couch when Jason came home early. He didn’t say anything. Just kicked off his boots, crossed the room, and pulled you into his lap.
You laughed softly, setting your book aside. “Rough day?”
He buried his face in your neck, arms wrapping around you tightly. “Better now.”
His hands slid under your shirt again, stroking your skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. The touch was comforting, but there was heat in it too - a quiet promise of more when you were ready.
“You’re my favourite person,” he murmured. “My safe place. My home.”
You cupped his face, kissing him softly. “You’re mine too.”
He held you like that for hours - kissing you slow and deep, hands exploring with gentle affection, whispering how much he loved you between every touch.
Jason Todd was not a soft man.
But for you?
He was the biggest lover boy in the world.
And you wouldn’t have him any other way.
a/n : for the lovely @blueberrycandymuffin !! reqs open, and pls follow <3
ᴄᴡ : jason todd x fem! reader , fluffノcomfort , a little angsty -> near death experience , straight haired reader , possible inaccuracies about jason and medical stuff , probably ooc , first fic i've written in a few weeks so it may be a lil rusty , art by @/ciricearts on insta , ᴡᴄ : 𝟷.𝟻ᴋ
"baby? hey— hey, don't fall asleep— no no, stay with me,"
how on earth did jason let this happen? it was a normal day, as ever, you never truly see these things coming, especially when you live in gotham: the crime hub of the country. but this time, it wasn't that, it wasn't something he could have prevented, yet he can't help but feel responsible.
it was his idea. he packed your bags the night before while you slept, and woke you to a surprise trip to metropolis. leaving gotham is always difficult for jason, he always feels like he's letting the criminals of gotham run free. at least batman is still in gotham — their ideologies may clash, but at least someone is helping gotham. jason just thought you needed a break; a break from your job that overworks and underpays you, a break from jason coming home deep into the night while you sleep, not being able to catch you before you go to work. you just needed some time off of life, and as much as he hated to admit it himself, the thought of spending one night enjoying himself with his beloved girlfriend over beating criminals and taking down drug rings sounded pretty nice.
but he never expected this.
a whole alien invasion. it's almost comical when he thinks about it, why on earth would he be allowed to have a day off, even in a different city? the justice league was on the job, superman zoomed around in the sky while flashes of red and yellow zoom past, green flickering in his peripherals.
but all his attention was on you.
he couldn't get you out in time; the hotel's top floors were smashed to smitherines before anyone even knew it. luckily the two of you were staying in the middle floors, but the impact wasn't just left upstairs. ceilings were caving in, glass shattering, walls collapsing. superman did his best to help evacuate the hotel guests, but he could only be so quick in such a small amount of time.
the ceiling fell in just as he was leading you out the hallway. you were holding his hand as tight as you could, letting him pull you along as he ran as fast as he could. but the speed was too much for you and you tripped flat onto your front. jason turned around, leaning down to get you back up, but at the last second the ceiling crashed down onto you, trapping you and crushing you underneath.
the sharp cry you let out will haunt him for eternity, he thinks, he's never heard you make such a pained noise before, the memory of your bones crunching under the concrete nearly made him gag. when he pulled you out, blood was dripping down your forehead while the rest of your body was covered in scrapes, cuts, and bruises.
jason got you away from the danger as quickly as he could, laying you in his lap as he now waits for the ambulance to arrive. it's taking longer than usual of course, most ambulances are trying to make their way through the catastrophe. he just has to keep you going until the ambulance arrives.
"c'mon— hey, it's okay… it's okay…"
his voice trembles nearly as much as his hands do as he presses a piece of his ripped tshirt to your wounded forehead, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. your lids flutter, lashes caked in tears and dust from the crumbling building you were in. your lids feel so heavy, eyes straining from the daylight still shining despite the otherwordly invasion just a few blocks away. he can't have you falling asleep just yet though, you might not wake up again.
"jay—…"
the way your voice cracks just breaks his heart, he can't bear to see how scared you are — he knows exactly how that feels. he shushes you gently, petting a hand over your hair in a poor attempt to soothe the pain that wreaks havoc on your body.
"i—it's gonna be okay… just— just hang in there…"
his lungs tighten with each word, the lump in the back of his throat growing more and more. he can't lose you, not like this, not ever. he'd be so lost, just wandering the earth mindlessly without your guidance. he tucks a bloodied lock of hair behind your ear, thumbing away the dirt speckling your cheeks. so pretty, even like this…
the wail of sirens approaches, and jason let's out a breath he never realised he was holding. while he can patch up some casual injuries, but he can only do so much with little supplies and shaky hands. the EMTs pack you up into the ambulance faster than jason could blink, quickly following into the vehicle to sit next to you, holding your hand on the ride over as you're hooked up to the equipment.
۶ৎ
a few hours of surgery and examinations later, you're asleep in the metropolis hospital bed, an iv in your arm, a cast wrapped around your leg, and a bandage covering the gash on your forehead. a broken leg, a few cracked ribs, a fractured hip, and a concussion. that's what the doctors told him just before you went into surgery, not to mention all the surface level injuries you have. but the surgery went well, you're safe, and the danger has been dealt with thanks to the justice league.
jason sits on a chair next to you, thumb rubbing soothing circles against the palm of your hand. the sky outside is much darker than before, the moon hanging high in the sky, reflecting light down onto the city of metropolis. you were supposed to be home tonight, back in your cosy, little, shared apartment. safe — or as safe as you can be in gotham. but you'll have to stay in the hospital for at least a week, maybe more. even after that, you'll have to have close care to help you recover.
maybe he should take you to the mansion.
his thoughts are interupted by a small noise coming from your parted, chapped lips, your lids fluttering open as your eyes dart around the room.
"hey sweetheart…"
your boyfriend perks up, a soft smile curling on his lips as he leans closer, brushing his hand over your matted hair once again. he lets out a second relieved breath for today. you look all woozy, lids blinking heavily, nose scrunching as your eyes adjust to the bright, florecent lights of the hospital room. his hands still tremble as he gazes down at you, eyes full of love.
"mm— jay…"
you slur, vision foggy and head feeling like it weighs a thousand tonnes. you're still all drugged up, barely able to feel anything but your boyfriend's soothing touches, his thumb massaging circles into your stiff neck, grounding you.
"i know… you're all loopy, huh?"
the warm smile on his face doesn't reach his eyes, his voice quivers as he talks, trying to keep a brave face for you the best he can, but it's only natural that he can't. he almost lost you; the thought that haunts his dreams and most anxious nights nearly came true.
"mh… yeah…"
you don't seem to notice his emotional display, not until the tears well up in his eyes as he leans closer. you hand raises, uncoordinated — the drugs leaving your fine motor skills depleated — attempting to stroke his cheek, but you end up just hitting him weakly. jason understands though, letting out an amused huff as he holds your hand to his cheek, nuzzling into it.
"fuck— thought i was gonna lose you…"
he chuckles, fingers tracing the bandage around your head, eyeing the bump where the gauze is held to your stitched up wound. his poor baby… if only he was quicker, if only the two of you just stayed in gotham… none of this would have happened. you're clearly still a bit too drugged up to understand what's going on, or what happened, or why tears are running down your boyfriends cheeks, so you just coax him forwards, letting him lay his head on your chest — careful to avoid your injuries — as you card your fingers through his hair clumsily. despite the occassional pull and tug, the affection helps relieve his rapid, pounding heart.
he may not have been able to prevent this, but he's going to be the best caretaker he possibly can be in your recovery. taking you to wayne manor is the last place he'd like to go, but for you, he'll do it. he'll do anything to make sure you're okay, even if that means living with bruce once again.
it doesn't take long for you to fall back asleep and he lets you, admiring how your lids flutter and your lips pout, admiring what he nearly lost, who he can't be more happier to still have in his arms, warm and breathing, and still oh so pretty.
ᴀɴ : not super proud of this... but i might write a part 2, no promises :p ( do not ask for one )
He was the star defenseman for the Gotham University Knights , all broad shoulders, sharp jaw, scarred knuckles that told stories of fights both on and off the ice. He played dirty when he needed to, smiled like sin when he scored, and had a reputation for leaving girls breathless in the stands and heartbroken in the parking lot.
You were the coach’s daughter. Team manager. The one who kept the roster organized, made sure the equipment was ready, and spent far too many late nights in the rink office doing paperwork while the rest of campus partied.
Publicly, you and Jason were oil and water.
He’d smirk at you during practice, calling you “princess” loud enough for the whole team to hear. You’d fire back with a clipboard smack to his shoulder and a sweet “Try not to break your face again, Todd. Dad’s tired of replacing visors.”
The team loved the banter. Coach tolerated it with a long-suffering sigh. No one suspected that behind the sharp words and eye-rolls, something entirely different was simmering.
It started with small things.
Jason always made sure your travel mug was filled with fresh coffee before morning skates. You always left extra protein bars in his locker after he took particularly brutal hits. He’d walk you to your car after late games when the parking lot felt too dark. You’d patch up his split lip in the trainer’s room with gentle hands and softer words than you ever let anyone else hear.
The tension built slowly, like ice forming over a lake; thin at first, then thicker, until one wrong step could send everything crashing through.
Tonight was the championship game.
The Knights had won in overtime, Jason scoring the game-winner with a slapshot that left the entire arena roaring. The celebration in the locker room was loud and chaotic - helmets flying, music blasting, half-naked hockey players shouting and spraying each other with water bottles.
You stayed in the hallway outside, clipboard in hand, trying to pretend you weren’t waiting for him.
The door banged open and there he was - hair damp from the shower, wearing only grey sweatpants and his team hoodie slightly unzipped over a bare chest. Water droplets still clung to his collarbones. He looked like every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make.
His eyes found you immediately. The cocky grin he wore for the cameras softened into something warmer, more private.
“Waiting for me, princess?” he drawled, voice low enough that only you could hear.
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. “Someone has to make sure you don’t forget your gear again. Last time you left your lucky socks in the visiting locker room and sulked for three days.”
He stepped closer, crowding you gently against the wall without actually touching you. The scent of his body wash - something clean and woodsy - wrapped around you.
“I only sulk when you’re not around to yell at me,” he murmured. His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. “You coming to the victory party at the house?”
You hesitated. The hockey house parties were legendary - loud, chaotic, full of puck bunnies and too much cheap beer. As the coach’s kid, you usually avoided them.
Jason noticed your pause. His expression shifted, that protective softness creeping in. “I’ll keep the idiots away from you. Promise. Just… come. For a little while. I want you there.”
The way he said it — quiet, almost vulnerable — made your stomach flutter.
“Fine,” you said, trying to sound annoyed and failing. “But if anyone spills beer on my notes, I’m blaming you.”
He grinned, bright and boyish. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The party was exactly what you expected: loud music, crowded rooms, the sharp smell of spilled alcohol and victory sweat. Jason stayed close the whole time, one big hand occasionally resting on the small of your back as he guided you through the chaos. Every time someone got too rowdy near you, he’d level them with a single look that sent them scurrying.
You ended up in the quieter back sunroom, away from the worst of the noise. Jason had somehow procured a bottle of decent whiskey and two plastic cups. He poured a small amount for each of you and handed you one.
“To not breaking my face tonight,” he toasted, clinking his cup against yours.
You laughed softly. “To not having to fill out another injury report because you decided to check someone into the boards like a wrecking ball.”
He leaned against the wall beside you, shoulders brushing. The contact sent warmth spreading through your arm.
“You know,” he said after a moment, voice lower, “I play better when you’re watching. Always have. Even when you’re yelling at me from the bench about my penalty minutes.”
Your heart stuttered. You took a sip of whiskey to steady yourself. “You’re imagining things, Todd.”
“Am I?” He turned toward you fully, green eyes dark in the low light. “Because every time I look up during warm-ups and see you in that cute little manager hoodie with my number on the back - yeah, I notice. Makes me want to show off. Makes me want to win so you’ll smile at me like I hung the moon.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. You set your cup down before you dropped it. “Jason…”
He stepped closer, backing you gently against the wall. Not trapping you, you could move if you wanted, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Tired of the whole ‘coach’s daughter, can’t touch her’ bullshit. I know you feel it too. The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. The way your breath catches when I get too close after games.”
Your hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath warm skin and hard muscle. “My dad would kill you.”
“Let him try.” Jason’s hand lifted, knuckles brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness. “I’d take the suspension. Hell, I’d take the benching. Worth it if I get to do this.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.
You didn’t.
The kiss started soft - almost careful - like he was still afraid you’d pull away. Then you made a small sound against his mouth and he groaned, deepening the kiss as one hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb stroking gently.
He tasted like whiskey and victory and something that was purely Jason - warm, a little dangerous, and entirely addictive.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing harder, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Been wanting to do that since the first time you yelled at me for leaving my tape on the bus,” he admitted, voice husky.
You laughed breathlessly, fingers curling into the open edges of his hoodie. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but I’m your impossible.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear that made your knees weak. “Tell me to stop and I will. But if you want this… if you want me… I’m all in. No more pretending in public. No more acting like I don’t lose my mind every time you walk into the rink wearing my number.”
Your heart felt too big for your chest. You tilted your head, giving him better access as he pressed another slow kiss to your neck.
“I want you,” you whispered. “Even when you’re being an arrogant pain in the ass on the ice. Even when my dad glares at you like he wants to bench you for life. I want this.”
Jason made a low, relieved sound and kissed you again - slower this time, deeper, like he was savoring every second. His hands stayed respectful but possessive, one on your waist, the other tangled in your hair. The kiss grew heated, suggestive tension crackling between you as his thigh pressed gently between yours, not pushing, just offering pressure that made heat pool low in your belly.
He pulled back just enough to speak against your lips. “Not here. Not with half the team downstairs. When I finally get you alone, I want to take my time. Want to hear every little sound you make when I touch you. Want to show you exactly how long I’ve been thinking about this.”
Your breath hitched. The promise in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.
“Tomorrow?” you asked, voice barely steady.
“Tomorrow,” he agreed, pressing one last soft kiss to your forehead. “After practice. My place. I’ll cook you dinner first. Then…” His thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip. “Then I’ll show you how good it can be when I’m not pretending I don’t want you more than anything.”
You smiled, leaning up to kiss him once more — quick and sweet this time. “Deal. But if you burn the dinner, I’m making you run suicides.”
He laughed, bright and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Worth every sprint if it ends with you in my arms.”
The party continued raging downstairs, but up here in the quiet sunroom it felt like the rest of the world had faded away. Jason held you close, arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go, chin resting on top of your head.
For the first time, the line between enemies and pure want didn’t feel like a lie.
It felt like the start of something real.
And as Jason’s hand stroked slowly up and down your back, warm and steady, you let yourself believe that maybe - just maybe - the arrogant hockey player with the sharp tongue and softer heart was exactly who you’d been waiting for all along.
a/n : just a drabble while I work on some other things :) follow for more hehe. comment for tag list ! Follow so I can do a 500 follower event hehe
Medieval knight!Jason Todd who's a long-lost son of the Wayne earldom. He took up a crusade when he was younger but was believed to be dead. Only to reveal himself several years later during the swordsmanship tournament hosted by Wayne family. Just as Dick was lying in the sand coughing up blood next to his discarded sword, his unknown challenger took off his scarlet helmet and the entire court erupted in chaos.
That was years ago now. Since then, Sir Todd made amends with his family, but they are by no means close. Jason managed to gain a title and a fief on his own, independent of his family and he takes no small pride in that. These days he and his merry group of loyal warriors take up mercenary work and guardianship if the person has enough coin.
When the local baron hired him to be a personal guard for his daughter, Jason was sure that would be an easy job for a good amount of gold. The red knight soon found out that being your bodyguard is not as easy as he thought. You were quite the escape artist. Whenever a banquet or an audience was too boring for your liking, you simply vanished, and Jason had to search for you high and low to drag you back. It made him grind his jaw and caused his temper to flare more than once.
You were thrilled and appalled that someone spoke to you so crassly and brazenly. Other soldiers your father assigned to you treated you with the utmost respect and gave up after a few months. Not the red knight. He proved himself to be just as stubborn as you, if not more. At this point, it wasn't about money anymore. He just couldn't stand the thought of some spoiled daughter of a noble getting the better of him. Jason had no qualms about throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you back to the castle, while the plate of his armor dug uncomfortably into your stomach.
After six months of this, Jason was fed up with your nonsense and was ready to collect his gold and disappear for good. You were hiding from the baroness, some nonsense about dress fitting or a dance lesson. Jason was just returning from the training grounds when he saw you sitting on the ground near the barn, playing with a fresh litter of kittens. You knew the cat and the kittens well, and judging how other animals treated you it wasn't your first time there. You met his gaze and winked at him, placing a finger to your lips. Your first shared secret.
After that day, your personal guard Jason somehow became your partner in crime. He looked the other way sometimes or followed in a safe distance. You fascinated him, and somehow, before he even knew it, he started to fall for you. He wanted to deny it. Jason reminded himself time and time again why it was a horrible idea. However, he couldn't keep himself from falling more and more for you.
Another day, another one of your daring escapes. This time was, different, though. You took some of your belongings and your horse while leaving a letter to say your goodbyes. Jason did not care for exploring the feelings of absolute horror that grasped his heart at the thought of you disappearing from his life. He immediately set out to search for you. You couldn't escape too far and he knew where to go. He knew you better than anyone.
When he caught up with you, you were residing in a tavern in a small cozy village near the edge of your father's land. You were always annoyed and scathing whenever he came to bring you back home, but this time, you were just sad, almost tearful. Jason demanded an explanation for your unusual disappearance, and the one he received almost made him shatter the pitcher in his hand. The courting season was swiftly approaching.
He knew of your fear and unwillingness to get pawned off for alliance and title. He was also aware that your parents were adamant in marrying you off before grow out of marrigable age.
Which is why your loyal guardian made you an offer. You stay in the village for its upcoming festival, relishing in last days of freedom without responsibility, before returning home. This offer served not only you, but Jason as well. He wanted to revel in your presence before returning to your old life where he was the knight and you were the noble.
In hinsight, he should've realized that was a mistake, because in these last few days he became aware of how smitten he'd become. It was all too easy to forget his duties when you were pretending to be a simple village girl.
You peroused the stalls, gawking at everything you saw and chatting his ear off. He watched you trying to eat the commoner food with your bare hands, hilariously failing. When they arrived in the square where the dance was held, you haven't hesitated before grabbing his hand and pulling him for a dance. Jason wanted to protest, but your bright smile convinced him. He twirled you amongst the townsfolk before he noticed familiar faces heading your way. The baron's soldiers, no doubt they were looking for you.
Quicker than you could react, Jason pulled you into a darkened corner, covering your body with his, pressing your lips together. He kissed you until he knew the guards were gone. He pulled away to apologize but before he could say anything you grabbed him by the lapels of his cloak and pressed your lips together again. You kissed him with sweetness and desperation that stole breath from his lungs, and Jason had no choice but to melt into you. He wrapped his arms around you, pressing you impossibly close to him, your hands slipped from his cheeks to his hair.
He indulged little longer before letting voice of reason win, pulling away. Jason reminded you that you shouldn't be doing this, reminded you of your respective postitions. You didn't listened, instead, you uttered words Jason both wished and dreaded to hear.
You loved him.
He asked of you to never say these words to him again, and without another word he took your hand and led you back home as he tried to ignore your quiet sobs.
Despite your promises, he catches you trying to climb out over one of the garden walls during your courting ball. Jason wanted to strangle you, not that he enjoyed watching you dance with all those idiot nobles while all he wanted to do was to take you and carry you somewhere where there only be the two of you. This can't go on much longer, he has to end things tonight. Jason takes on a quest, to slay creatures in the southern forest. Surely you'll understand eventually...that the distance is good for both of you.
Months go by, and the pain the red knight felt when leaving you felt bearable. The other soldiers in his unit were curious as to why the infamous red knight left such prestigious position. Some speculated it was because the position was too peaceful and the dead son of Wayne was hungry for blood. If only they knew the true reason he left, but it was for the better. No one needs to know. One day, a messenger arrived, bearing a letter that stated there was an attack on the baron's family. The baron and his wife were badly injured and you were missing.
How was this possible?! You were supposed to be safe here! Without missing even a single second, Jason rode his horse tirelessly to the city. He will find you, and whoever took you will pay for every scratch he finds on you with their life. When he rescues you from your kidnappers, you're barely conscious. Gently, he pics up your weakened body and carefully carries you over the dead bodies lying everywhere. When he brings you back home, as he always done, he is adamant to never leave your side, no matter what takes. With heart full of determination, he asks, no, demands your hand in marriage. His name, his fief, his sword and his hearth, all of it is yours.
The baron is wise enough to give Sir Jason his blessings. After all, who's better for his daughter than a man who is able to set the world ablaze to safe her?
i think we should discuss more soft jason, more lovey-dovey jason, more obsessed with his girlfriend jason, cutesy only soft in front of his girlfriend, adorable, kicking my feet against my bed jason, ... basically i need more jason todd....
do you understand how im feeling?
-🍨
i'm picking up what you're putting down alright! jason todd x gn!reader. short fluffy established relationship blurb. reader paints their nails and uses a vanity.
****
"This one is for rejuvenation," you say, sliding the sheet mask out of its packaging. "It has aloe vera and sea minerals."
"What the hell are sea minerals?" Jason asks as you smooth the mask onto his face.
"Dunno, but they're good for you. Stop moving your mouth."
You're atop him, legs straddling his thighs. Jason drums a silent pattern on your hip. You smooth the nose flap and his nose twitches. The flap curls out of place. You sigh.
"Dude."
"Tickles," he says, the word muffled from trying not to move the mask.
"Okay, I'm done. You can talk now."
"I feel rejuvenated already," Jason says, pink lips even pinker in contrast to the ghostly mask.
"You look rejuvenated to me," you say happily.
He grins. Jason always seems to smile more around you.
"So what're we doin' tonight? Besides putting sea minerals on my face."
"Um?" You point to your face, with its own mask. "Not just you. Soon, we'll both be rejuvenated."
"Sorry, sweetheart," Jason says, looking at you like you're the best thing on earth. "After we both get sea-mineralized, are we ordering in?"
"Yeah. I have a coupon for Vinnie's. Can I paint your nails?"
"Sure, baby."
"Yippee!" You leap off the couch and sprint to your and Jason's shared room. You dig through the vanity Jason hand-built and painted for your birthday last year. It's Robin's egg blue, with white accents. He admitted shyly, later, that he'd built it in the hopes that it'd make you want to move in permanently with him.
So a bribe? you'd asked, grinning.
I like to think of it as motivation.
And, well, it worked. You've been living together for almost a year now.
You take out the dark red, almost black polish and return, jumping on the couch. Jason's on the phone, ordering pizza. He gives you his left hand and you tuck yourself against him, opening the polish and starting to paint his nails with the focus of a brain surgeon.
"Uh-huh, yeah, for delivery. Twenty minutes? Alright, thanks." He hangs up. "Ooh, my favorite."
"You better believe it, handsome. Only the best for my favorite boyfriend."
"Favorite?"
You shrug. "Yeah. Don't tell the others."
Jason gently takes the polish and sets it on the coffee table. You're confused—you've only painted two fingers.
"What're you—"
He cuts you off by grabbing your waist with his unpainted hand, pulling you against him and kissing your neck. You squeal in laughter, grasping at his shoulders.
"Jason!"
"I'll show you favorite," he says, pressing ticklish kisses down your throat. He has his painted hand in the air, away from his antics, because he knows you'll pout if the polish gets messed up.
"Uncle, uncle! Please." You pant, delighted, as Jason lets up. You're lying on his lap, and he pulls you in for a real kiss. You pull away from his mouth enough to say, "You know you're the only one for me, Jay."
He hums and kisses you again, rubbing your shoulder. You slacken in his grip, running your fingers through his hair. You twirl one of the silver curls around your finger.
"Much better," Jason says when you break for air.
"I'd never upset my meal ticket," you say, gleeful when he rolls his eyes.
"You're on thin ice, baby."
You lean in for another kiss, ready to make it up to him.
You’ve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do. idkk confessing to something you think is asleep but they aren’t is one of my fav tropes. wrote this at 5 am w no sleep idk what this is.
I love you.
The phrase has been stuck at the tip of your tongue for the past week. When you woke up to a full cooked breakfast in bed, you smiled at Jason and thanked him and those words almost slipped out. Or when he was leaving for patrol late two nights ago, as you were pulling him down for one last kiss before he puts on his mask, the urge was there yet again.
Even simply when he looked at you from across the couch, book nuzzled into his chest and smiled that infuriatingly addicting soft grin at you, you wanted to tell him, that you loved him, how much and how deeply.
It wasn’t even that your relationship was new. It’d been 6 months since you guys took on the label of girlfriend and boyfriend officially, seven and a half months since your first date and nine months since you met. Oh, and three months since he told you he was the red vigilante in the hood.
Maybe you didn’t even have to say the words. Jason didn’t say them to you either but you felt it. You felt it every morning you woke up in his arms, you felt it with every flower bouquet and every silly joke that he’d make just to hear you laugh unrestrained. You felt it in passing, and in the moment, you felt it hidden in the worry you harbour when he’s not by your side, and you feel it in every reassurance that he gives you.
But you still want to say it. Maybe it’s insecurity that you aren’t making him feel the way that he makes you feel and you want to vocalise it. Or maybe it’s selfish in nature. That you want to tell him that you love him repeatedly, everyday and multiple times everyday. To spoil him with those words till he’s exhausted of them.
At first you try to find a ‘right’ moment. Something romantic, something that suits the words. But the only thing that is perfect in your world in that you both are perfect for each other. The ‘right’ moment, whatever it may be, will probably never come.
So you settle for something a little safer. For the dead of a rare night that he’s actually in bed with you when the sun is under the horizon. It didn’t take much for you to get him to skip patrol, a small pout and a ‘can’t a girl get her boyfriend for one night’. And Jason is a weak, weak man for you.
So here he is, tucked into the cocoon of blankets to battle the Gotham cold, your boyfriend substituting for a furnace as he sleeps on his back and you curl into his side. With one had tucked under your head and one resting on his chest, tracing illegible shapes, you whisper.
“Jason?” You call out softly, voice not above a whisper. A sleepy hum leaves his mouth, barely conscious. You’d been rambling to him about random things for a good twenty minutes, something he’d told you helps him cool down, just hearing your voice lets him relax properly. “I love you, Jay.”
The confession sits in the silence of the room, nothing but commotion from outside is heard dully and you’re convinced he fell fully asleep before he heard you say it but—“I was supposed to say it first.”
The words startle you, his voice rough with sleep. You lift your head up, to squint as his face in the dark and he’s turning towards you, eyes barely cracked open and a soft sleepy smile tipping his lips. “Hm?” You question with slightly raised eyebrows, sleep pulling at your own features.
After stifling a yawn, he continues. “That book you were looking forward to comes out today. I thought i’d surprise you with a copy and write a little note in the book for you. Telling that I love you.” He turns onto his side as he speaks, his arm going around you waist and pulling you closer, close enough for him to press a kiss against your forehead.
The smile that tugs at your lips if undeniable, heart heart tugging at the strings, feeling loved. “You could still do it.” You murmur jokingly, your giddiness leaking into your words. “Oh, you bet I will.” Jason teases back, even thigh he means it, you’ll wake up to it.
You nuzzle into his warm body, and the smile doesn’t leave your lips still, even as sleep begins to take your mind. Just as you’re about to succumb to the darkness, you hear his words too.
“I love you too.”
ᯓ★'s P.S. if you see any typos or grammatical errors, no you don’t
don't forget to comment and reblog if you enjoyed!
← ゛masterlist ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆
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omg I loved that AK!Jason writing you did!! if youre open to writing more of him, would it be okay to request a scenario where the reader actually manages to save Jason during his time with the Joker?
Like, they knew he was missing and never stopped searching for him before ending up finding him in the Asylum being tortured by the Joker. insert reader kicking a lot of butt, but also getting rlly hurt but that doesn't matter because they need to save their man! 😭
THIS IS SO ANGSTY ANONNIE I LOVE IT!!!! im so glad you enjoyed the ak jason fic i wrote!!! i'm so sorry it took so long to get out!!! i lost the plot a little bit, but i still hope it's good :)
crawling home - j. todd
dcu masterlist | main masterlist | song-based fics
gn!reader x (pre?) ak!jason todd
summary: you find jason being tortured by the joker after his supposed death.
warnings: blood, scars, descriptions of burns, mentions of torture, brief mentions of needles, prepare to get whacked with a crowbar a couple of times yk
UNEDITED!!!
the chaos around you dwindles. your entire world slows. the stinging cuts along your cheeks, the limp you've gained along the way, the screaming and the flames licking up the walls.
the entire world fizzles into nothing as your eyes settle upon him—jason peter todd. tied to a chair, his back hunched, bruises littering every patch of exposed skin.
you expect an eruption of tears. to fall to your knees, tip your head to the sky and thank the stars, hands clasped together in prayer. you expect to sob into his lap, but you don't.
instead, you stand there, drinking in the horrific sight. you can barely think of his wounds, let alone your own as you tremble. all you can think of is that you were right.
you were right. everyone else had convinced you he was dead. everyone had told you to stop looking, that you'd drive yourself insane hunting for a ghost.
but you knew you'd feel his death.
you would've felt the world shift, felt the very earth beneath your feet sink as he was returned to the dirt. but that feeling never came, and so you'd known—you'd hoped beyond reason—that jason was alive.
and there he was, half-awake, beaten to a bloody pulp.
when your trance snaps, you race towards him, arms outstretched. the world comes rushing back in a wave of anarchy. fire, screams, fighting.
you didn't intend for it to go like this.
"jason?" you breathe. "jason! jason, it's me! it's me, i'm here!" i found you, you want to tell him. you'll be okay. but looking at the surrounding chaos, you weren't sure how true your promise could be.
you take his chin, tilting his cheek upwards as he mumbles some half-conscious nonesense. his left cheek was marred by a grotesque J.
your eyes water with sympathy. "i'm so sorry i didn't find you sooner, jason."
he whispers something. you lean in, trying to listen as your hands fumble with his restraints.
"what?" you say absent-mindedly. "what are you saying, jason?"
"here," he whispers.
"i know, i'm here. i'm not going anywhere. i'm going to get you out of here, 'kay? i promise."
"here," he repeats.
"yes, jason. i know. save your strength."
"no..."
"what?"
"he's still here."
you whip around only to feel the wind knocked from you. pain explodes across your face. you feel a trickle from your nose, and the irony taste of blood floods your mouth. pain clouds your vision, and when it clears, a smear of purple and green come into view. joker.
you're on your feet, wobbling from side-to-side.
"what's this? another plaything?" he cackles, white makeup caked across his face. you can barely see the man beneath it, and wonder if there ever was one to begin with.
"how foolish of you to try and spoil my fun!" in his hand is a crowbar. he swings it like it's a cane made for dancing. "you could never ruin this for me—you've become a part of the show!"
you weren't going to be his damn prisoner. you refused to let him torture another soul.
blindly, your legs pump forward. you charge at him, head spinning, blood still flowing from your nose. joker, however, was never much of a fighter.
just a man who thought he could be, which was dangerous enough.
he swings at you. the crowbar narrowly misses your head as you duck. orange flames smear around you like an oil painting. you sweep a leg under his, watching him collapse.
you're just about ready to stomp on his throat when you hear your name.
though the doorway is half-consumed by flames, a man steps through, utterly fearless.
"batman," you whisper.
beneath the mask, you see bruce's face is pinched with concern. he gazes upon jason, upon you and the man you intend to kill.
you finally take in the damage you've done: the flames, the screaming, the undiluted chaos.
"i didn't mean for it to go like this," you mutter.
if you'd known your hesitation would cost you, you would've killed him right then and there.
all you see is a crowbar swinging towards you. you feel an eruption of pain across your face once more, and the world snaps into utter blackness.
you wake to beeping.
slow.
steady.
promising.
everything hurts. as your vision smooths over, as your body's senses come alive, you see and feel everything that's been done to you.
seared patches of skin burn and itch under bandages. one eye is swollen shut, and you can only breathe through one nostril. despite the agony, your first thought is of jason.
the memories flood your mind like a tide.
the raid, your foolishness, your hesitation.
and, at the center of it all, jason peter todd. the man you've been looking for.
it'd been hard to count the days, you preferred not to. you didn't like remember how long he'd been missing for. from what you can recall, he'd only looked a bit older. it was hard to tell beyond the scars.
"hey," a voice calls from beside you.
"t-tim?"
tim rests a hand on the side of your bed. "don't move too much, okay?"
"is...he okay? what happened? where's bruce? where's jason?"
"don't worry, they're both fine."
"i need to see jason."
tim shakes his head. "you need to heal—"
"please," you beg. "please let me see him. i need to know he's okay." every word is less than a croak. your lungs are fried from all the smoke you must've inhaled. it's all anguish.
before tim can stop you, you use your remaining strength to heave your body up. he's not sure where to touch you, not sure if it's okay to push you down.
he calls after you, but you limp down the hall anyway.
"jason?" you call, though your voice barely echoes. "jason?"
no reply, and you didn't expect one to come.
you stumble to through the halls until you're quite literally crawling on your hands and knees, bandages wrinkling around your body. tim attempts to help you up; somewhere along the line, alfred comes running in and so does dick. bruce eventually joins, plucking you up to return you to bed.
desperately, you scratch and claw at him. he winces as your drag your jagged nails across his skin.
"jason," you beg. "i need to see jason."
with the last bits of your strength, you wrestle from his grasp and fall to the ground with a grunt. you're quite sure something in your body is broken. but it's not your legs, so you'll keep walking.
and when your legs falter, you crawl again.
finally, you reach jason's room.
he's there, hooked up to monitors and stuck with needles like a ragdoll.
you lift your body onto his bed, curling into the sheets.
he grunts, still unconscious. you snuggle next to him, weeping like a child. "jason..."
"he's asleep," bruce affirms, his voice bordering on disciplinary. "let him rest."
you don't listen.
you only sob harder into jason's shoulder and pray that he'll wake up.
"i never stopped looking for you," you whisper. "i promise...i promise i never stopped looking for you." your breathing comes in scattered hiccups. "i never forgot you."
your family stands in a circle around his bed.
please, you beg. please wake up, jay. i need to talk to you, i need you here, we have so many adventures left to go on. please, come back to me. i came back for you.
"i never stopped." your tears soak the blankets.
you feel a tiny shuffle, and jason's eyes flutter open.
Sometimes, I like to think about Jason getting a big boy job. One that requires him to put on a suit and tie.
And he absolutely hates it.
He hates that he has to slick back his curls every morning, hates that there’s a stubborn strand that never sits right. He despises it. He hates the early mornings, the endless cups of caffeine, the routine, the office cubicle, god he’s hates it all.
But what he wasn’t prepared for was the fact that you would love seeing him like this every morning. His rushed figure running around the room trying to find a tie that matched his dull dress shirt, his frustrated groaning and endless mumbles of jumbled up cuss words. Because amidst his cloud of controlled chaos, he was annoyingly beautiful.
Jason was like a storm, an orchestra of disgruntled rain. He was rushed, messy, but utterly breathtaking.
There was something comforting about seeing him suit up for something other than patrol. It brought a sense of relief that he would be home tonight, untouched and unharmed.
These morning were nothing, but ordinary and mundane, you often found yourself running your fingers along his forearm as he tied his shoelaces. A gentle touch to calm his exasperated self. He’d smile softly, a smile so small any normal person would’ve mistaken it for his usual stoic expression. But the slight curve at the edge of his scar was all you needed to know that despite his irritated attitude, he was happy with this new life too.
He’d reach over to cup your hands in his and place a delicate kiss on your knuckles and then, another one on your forehead—a sweet good bye, a promise to be home in time for dinner.
its just something about mechanic jason that feels so right…
fix it up! - j. todd
dcu masterlist | main masterlist | song-based fics
gn!reader x mechanic!jason todd
summary: your car keeps breaking down, and the mechanic that keeps fixing it is slowly falling in love with you.
warnings: none! but lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: ANON you're soooo right hehe...i'm sorry this one took a while to get out!!!! enjoy my love!
UNEDITED!!!
mechanic!jason todd needs you to convince him that you actually want to go out with him. he's fixed your ratty old car more times than he can count. he honestly thinks you should just buy a new one, but you're supposedly sentimental about this one.
mechanic!jason todd who rolled out from underneath a car the first time you saw him, covered from grease. stains along his shirt, smears in the creases of his hands. as soon as he laid eyes on you, he desperately wished he'd been wearing something else.
mechanic!jason todd who's a reformed criminal. he served a couple years in prison for beating a guy who got too handsy with a woman jason saw at the bar. the only person willing to employ him was his old high school friend. so now he works full-time at roy's autobody shop & repairs.
mechanic!jason todd starts giving you discounts, because you just come in so damn often. he's sweaty, he's always covered in grease, but for some reason, you're always able to look him in the eye. whenever you walk through that door, his heart pounds and he starts breaking out in an even bigger sweat than before.
mechanic!jason todd struggles to focus when you decide to hang around one day. you're there all the time, after all. so you decide to watch him fix your car. all of a sudden, he's tripping over everything, and his thick, calloused fingers turn clumsy and fumble everything he touches. he blushes furiously when you giggle and say, "is this why it takes so long to get my car fixed?" that's not true! if only you knew how fast jason worked when he wasn't flustered!.
mechanic!jason todd who is just so big. he's such a gentle giant, however, but speaks harshly in that brooklyn-esque accent of his. all the parts of your car look so tiny in his hands. one day, you jokingly ask to help out. with his own hands trembling, he guides yours steadling, hovering behind you. you giggle and laugh as he moves you around, and jason finds himself smiling too.
mechanic!jason todd who gets humiliated by roy. "hey, are you two gonna go out or...what?" jason turns beet-red. almost as red as the worn down paint of your car. jason tries to deny it, says that would be so unprofessional, but you scribble your number on a scrap piece of paper and he finds it a day later.
mechanic!jason todd who's parking his motorcycle as he sees you walking down the street. he tries to ignore his butterflies. you'd never want to go out with a guy like him...right? ah, he thinks. better to find out. nervously works up the courage to run to you. he's panting, not because he's out of breath, but because he's so damn nervous. you're just so pretty.
"hey," he says. "remember me?"
smiling with recognition, you say, "of course i do!"
"your uh, your car is almost fixed up."
you scoff playfully, and the sound sends chills rolling up his spine. "thank you! i know it's probably a pain in the ass for you to keep—"
"no. it's...nothing." he stands there awkwardly. "um, i actually...i just wanted to ask for your...number."
you blink. "you want my number?"
"it's fine if not. i just thought i'd try and ask. i just thought you were...i dunno, cute and all? not like, average-cute. i think you're...nicer than that."
you give him a cheeky grin. "you think i'm beautiful?"
his cheeks go beet-red. "i—"
"here. gimme your phone."
and jason's heart soars to the moon, like he's a little boy all over again.
mechanic!jason todd who finally works up the courage to text you. you changed your contact name to a single red heart. he doesn't know what it means, but it probably insinuates that you like him back, right?
so he finally works up the courage to shoot you a text. hey, it reads.
hii!!, you reply.
oh, gosh. what should he say next? ask you on a date? does it happen so...quickly? would you want to take it slow?
how'd you feel knowing he was in prison? and why would you want to hang out with a guy like him? there are many other men out there with much more...noble professions. at least, that's what he thinks. he doesn't know you admire how hard he works. how good he is at his job.
he's already got your number. might as well shoot straight. let's go on a date? please?
mechanic!jason todd who keeps talking to you. nonstop. you begin calling each other on your lunch breaks, and soon he's yapping with you on the phone as he's fixing up someone else's car. soon, the two of you have planned out a first date and his calloused hands are picking out roses and chocolates before he drives to pick you up (because obviously, your car is at the shop).
mechanic!jason todd who feels himself falling, and falling hard. he's been living quitely, but his heart is beating loud. because he's so in love, and secretly, he's grateful your car breaks down as frequently as it does.
