I think the most beautiful part is that you weren’t even looking when you found me, but I’m glad that you did and I hope we can write some amazing stories together.
Okay, now that what we got the poetic shit out of the way, I’m Murcy. Not to completely disregard the first sentence because I truly do feel that, I’m just digressing. Apologies.
I currently only write for Jason Todd but wouldn’t be surprised if this becomes a mutlifandom page considering I hyperfixiate on things (*cough* Jason *cough*) and will probably delve into other characters.
If you find you really like a oneshot or a specific au, I might be able to turn it into a series or something to dive into that specific universe I wrote.
If you have any requests, or prompts, or ideas feel free to ask! I’m a full-time student so please bear with me if I don’t get back to you right away.
Thanks,
Murcy
(don’t ask why I just signed off like an email, I’m weirded out too)
She/her
Jason Todd Masterlist
Oneshots:
My Jacket, My Girl: Jason x f! reader
Every Atom: Jason x gn! reader
Not My Hero: Jason x gn! reader
To See you: Jason x gn! reader
Anatomy of a Hug: Jason x gn! reader
Lady Lazarus: Jason angst
Cherries: Jason Todd angst?
Series:
If Snowflakes Were Stars, I’d Wish To See You Again: Jason x f! reader
"Back to the stars. Perhaps I'll find you there"
Part 1
We'll Never Be Those Kids Again: Jason x f!reader
“And believe me, if it is meant for you, it will find you again. No matter how far it goes or how hopeless it seems”
Part 1: Fallen Angels
Murcia's Mind
Just a little corner of my blog where I share a part of me. Becuase what else is there to do in life other than share our thoughts? Enjoy browsing through my letters and diary-like entries haha.
∗ synopsis. post patrol jason todd is desperate and banged up.
warnings. 18+. established relationship. jason todd x fem! reader. clingy jason. porn w/o plot. thigh riding. handjob. soft smut. (kinda all over the place…oops!)
jason comes in through the fire escape window instead of the front door like a normal person.
he tries to play it off, helmet already off, one hand braced against the window frame like he’s fine, totally fine, except he’s breathing wrong and there’s a cut above his eyebrow that hasn’t stopped bleeding.
“sit down,” you tell him.
“m’fine,” he says, but sits down immediately.
you get the first aid kit without being asked. pull up a chair in front of him and start with his face, cleaning the cut above his brow with steady hands while he watches you. he doesn’t flinch. just sits there and lets you work, jaw tight, eyes tracking your expression.
“stop looking at me like that,” he says.
“like what.”
“like you’re mad.”
“i’m not mad.” you press the butterfly strip down carefully. “i’m not mad at you.”
he doesn’t say anything to that.
you move down. his lip, split at the corner. his jaw, bruised deep and purple. you touch each thing gently and he takes it quietly, which is its own kind of alarming.
you get to his chest next, working the catches of his suit until it falls open. he shrugs it off his shoulders without being asked, leaving him in just his boxers, and you keep your face neutral. you do. but your hands still for just a second at the mess of him. bruises blooming across his ribs, a cut low on his side that’s dried but angry looking, the old scars underneath all of it.
you clean the cut without a word. he watches you frown at it.
his hand comes up and cups your face.
“hey,” he says quietly.
you look up.
“m’okay,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “i’m right here.”
when you’re done you cap the antiseptic and sit back. he catches your wrist before you can move away.
he tugs you forward into his lap without asking, arms winding around your waist, and tucks his face into your chest. just. stays there. breathing you in.
you let your fingers move into his hair.
he’s heavy against you. the tension in him slowly, slowly starting to unwind. you can feel it in the way his shoulders drop by degrees, the grip around your waist loosening just slightly.
you card through his hair and say nothing.
after a while he turns his face up.
he kisses you soft at first. careful, like he’s relearning you, mouth moving gentle against yours. but then his hands tighten at your waist and he kisses you again, needier this time, a quiet urgency underneath it like he just needs to feel you. feel that you’re real. that you’re his.
you kiss him back.
his arms pull you closer.
“m’sorry,” he says. kisses you again. “i know i worry you so much.”
his hands slide down to your hips. he shifts you slightly on his lap, repositioning you until you’re sitting across his thigh, the thin fabric of your sleep shorts the only thing between you and his bare skin. you feel the muscle flex deliberately underneath you.
“jason—”
“please,” he murmurs against your mouth. “let me.”
quiet and earnest in a way he rarely lets himself be.
“you’re hurt,” you say.
“i know.” his hands squeeze your hips. “please, baby.”
you look at him. the cut above his brow, the bruised jaw, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s going to settle him tonight.
“you don’t have to do that,” you say softly. “i’m not mad at you.”
“i know.” his forehead drops to yours. “please.”
so you give in.
you start to move and his thigh flexes under you, firm and deliberate, pressing up right where you need it through the thin cotton of your shorts. your breath catches.
his hands guide your hips into a slow rhythm, jaw tight, watching your face with dark eyes. every time you roll forward his thigh meets you and the friction pulls a soft sound out of you that he swallows with his mouth.
“that’s it,” he murmurs. “just like that.”
his ribs expand with a sharp breath when you shift your weight and he winces, barely, but you catch it.
“jason—”
“don’t stop,” he grits out. “please don’t stop.”
you don’t stop.
his hands keep guiding you, unhurried, and he just watches. eyes dark and focused entirely on your face, the way your mouth falls open, the way your fingers curl into his bare shoulders careful of the bruises. this is one of his favourite things, you know. watching you come undone. he’s told you before, low and honest in the dark, that he could do this for hours. just watch you. just this.
his expression right now confirms it. something reverent underneath all that heat.
you reach down between you and palm him through his boxers and he exhales sharp, hips stuttering up.
“hey—” his voice comes out rough.
“let me,” you say, echoing him back at himself.
his jaw works. he nods.
you slip your hand past the waistband and wrap around him properly and the sound he makes is low and punched out, head dropping forward onto your shoulder.
“fuck,” he exhales against your skin.
you keep moving on his thigh. keep stroking him. the dual rhythm finding itself naturally, your hips rolling forward while your hand works, and jason is coming apart underneath you in the quietest, most desperate way. no performance. just him, stripped back, hands gripping your hips like an anchor.
“feel good?” you murmur.
“yeah,” he says, barely voice at all. “yeah, so good.”
his thigh flexes deliberately under you and you gasp and his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, pressing open kisses wherever he can reach, sloppy and uncoordinated and so unlike his usual careful self.
“close,” you breathe.
“i know.” his hand slides from your hip, down, pressing over yours where you’re working him. not taking over. just feeling. “me too. come on.”
his thigh flexes one more time, firm and precise, and you tip over with a soft broken sound, forehead dropping to his shoulder. you feel him follow seconds later, shuddering, a low groan muffled into your hair, hands gripping you through it like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
the room goes quiet.
he holds you there for a long time after. face buried in your neck, breathing slowing degree by degree.
Finally finished this piece after months of reworking. Far from perfect, but I’m glad it’s done. Inspired by the amazing Bruno Redondo, Dan Mora, and especially Dexter Soy.
hello!! hope you don’t mind my little stay here on your blog, I am also totally normal about Jason Todd and I’m already in love with the poetic way you write omg <3
"It's June after all, and you're young until September" – Ocean Vuong, Because it’s Summer
Jason Todd Angst??
Warnings: angst
Words: <800
Notes: Hello friends! Haven't been on here forever, but thought I'd do a quick fic. It's summer, so obviously I must write summer angst. I was thinking of Bucky trying to buy plums while writing this. To be honest, I hate this and will most likely keep editing it.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Five years ago, on June 24th, I began to hate cherries. There wasn’t anything particular about the fruit, and I hadn’t bit into one so sour that I had damned all the forthcoming seasons with such distaste that I had blocked out the months of June to August when they come to fruition from my memory.
But if I could, I’d gladly skip those months. The sun lit me like a candle, and sweat dripped down my spine like melted wax. And yet, despite that, I had found myself at a farmer’s market in mid-summer, when the sun just began to slip and pour itself over the earth like honey—slow and golden; a bit too sweet, a bit too charming, attracting all of those who find themselves most alive in that hour.
And I was a fool, a being amidst a crowd, following the rest because, for some reason, the chatter that fluttered up like wings of a bird taunted me. Everyone around me, and yet I was alone. But for the first time, I was . . . normal. I was just a man at the farmer’s market.
I was just a man.
Wandering, looking, running my fingers across the fresh vegetables with my scarred hands that were still able to feel how smooth the skin of a zucchini is, the prickles of an English cucumber, and the softness of a peach that was tempting me to bite it.
I had my hat down low then, shadowing my eyes, but they flicked over the stalls, the running children, the bartering mothers, the men who were dragged there by their partners—and I could tell with the way their other half wrapped their hands around the men’s arms, dragging them from one tent to the next. Jewelry glinted in the dying sun, the smell of popcorn wafted into my nose, art from local artists was evidence that passion could become a real thing—tangible, physical, and as real as the money they were selling them for.
But there, on the corner, was a woman selling cherries. She was older, her hair cut in a bob, grey hair curling into her cheeks. A warm smile. And maybe that’s what drew me in. Or maybe it was the weird fascination I had that she was wearing gumboots in the middle of summer.
But, for a moment, I thought that maybe in this slight human interaction of me looking at the fruit she had harvested from her farm, I was just like the rest of them. So I walked over, my fingers reaching out to lightly brush over the fragile, bright red skin of the cherries.
Are you interested in buying them? She had asked me.
I had looked back up at her, pretending to look surprised. But maybe that’s what differentiated me from everyone else. They didn’t have to pretend. They didn’t notice how heavy her stare was behind her brown, kind eyes, how she wheezed when she exhaled, indicating that she had chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder, or the knife she had on the back table next to the freshly made cinnamon rolls she was selling too.
Si, I said, because why the hell not? If I had to pretend to be someone else, why not in a different language?
You know, the darker the cherry, the sweeter it is.
I nodded, picking up a cherry from one of the boxes laid out on the table, half-listening. How much?
$3.50 a pound.
I shook my head, a smile creeping around the corner of my lip. My mother would say you’re stealing from me. How about $2.50?
She laughed, then coughed, and I knew I was right. We were all dying in one way or another.
I popped the cherry that was in my hand into my mouth, the juice dripping onto my fingers, staining them dark red, like I had just killed a man. Sold.
Jason Todd claims he is not a romantic man. He always says it with a soft laugh. “I don’t know how you ended up with me, honey, I’m the least romantic man on the planet.” But when he holds you in his arms as if you were the most fragile thing in the world, you think otherwise. When he makes you sit on your shared bed with so much tenderness and your eyelids close from fatigue, you think that maybe you will marry this man. “Don’t fall asleep yet, princess, hold on a little longer,” he says softly, kneeling down beside you to remove your heels and place them by the bed.
He gets up quickly going to the bathroom and bringing your makeup wipes. “Look this way, pretty” he says, observing your sleepy expression. He takes out a wipe and holds your cheek with one hand, wiping your face with the other. “Mmh” you reply, yawning softly and unconsciously closing your eyes. “No, no, no, love, just a few more moments, okay?” he asks you in a tone that drips honey. Maybe you shouldn’t have drank so much or maybe you shouldn’t have stayed until the end of the party at Wayne Manor.
He laughs softly as he finishes removing your makeup. Jason releases your face and automatically your torso falls sideways on the bed with your eyes closed. Jason quickly gets up to bring your pajamas, he places them on the bed and gently lifts your torso, speaking to you in a tender tone “Honey, I have to put your pajamas on” he says, to which you gently shake your head. “Just take off my dress, please” you mumble opening your tired eyes slightly.
Jason nods gently and unbuttons your elegant dress, taking it off at the top. When he turns around to place it on the floor, you have already crawled into your place on the bed, clad only in your panties and bra. Jason laughs softly, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaving a kiss on your cheek. “Goodnight, baby” he says softly, and you're sure Jason Todd is the most romantic man in the world before sleeping with his hand gently tracing your face.
Morally grey characters always steal my heart @murciafire - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
