JASON’S GIRL

[starrvine]

FOR MY PART, I KNOW NOTHING WITH ANY CERTAINTY…

jay, 19, black, obsessed with jason todd :]

YAY: jason, dc in general, strawberries, animals <3

YUCK: veggies, batcest, pro-israel, proshippers, racists/homophobes/transphobes/etc, the riddler…

more about me <3

inbox: open !

dc fanfics!!

rules • masterlist •

recent works — jason eating you out and saying i love you

BUT THE SIGHT OF STARS MAKE ME DREAM…

- vincent van gogh

[ivorywrites]

Back in session. [ Jason Todd x Reader]

rating: 18+. mdni. content: bsf!jason, handjobs note: this is for all the jason gooners out there, tysm i feel so loved 😵 sorry for the late post

You tried to focus on the waves lapping against the shore, the salt-thick breeze rolling in from the ocean, and the lazy warmth of the sun pressing into your skin as you lounged under the umbrella. It should’ve been peaceful, idyllic even—a rare day without chaos or bruises or sleepless nights.

But you couldn’t ignore the fact that your best friend was hard. Achingly so.

Jason was sitting back on the beach mat, legs stretched out, trying very hard to look like he wasn’t squirming. His jaw was clenched, his chest rose and fell faster than the situation warranted, and his swim trunks were doing a terrible job of hiding just how turned on he was.

You bit your lip, glancing down at the small scraps of fabric you’d so carefully chosen to wear this morning. Maybe you’d picked the tiniest bikini you owned on purpose. Maybe you’d caught yourself thinking about how he touched you before, how his voice had dropped when you’d gasped his name, how you’d been dreaming about what he’d sound like falling apart for you.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to find out right now.

You rolled onto your knees, flashing him a deliberately sweet smile. “You’re looking a little… red,” you said lightly, reaching for the bottle of sunscreen. “Let me help before you burn.”

Jason groaned, throwing his head back. “I’m fine.”

“Shut up and let me.” You nudged the bottle against his chest, and when he didn’t argue again, you took that as victory. You squeezed lotion onto your palm and crawled forward, settling neatly between his legs, facing him. He was leaning back on his elbows, hair windswept and damp at the ends, and you could feel his eyes tracking your every movement.

You smoothed the sunscreen over his broad chest, deliberately slow, watching how his abs tensed under your touch. He shifted, trying to discreetly adjust himself, but you pretended not to notice. Instead, your hands drifted lower—over his stomach, dipping just a little too far past his navel before pulling back up like nothing had happened.

Jason’s breath caught, his hips twitching involuntarily.

“Relax,” you murmured, almost laughing at his expression. “You’re so tense.”

“Not exactly helping,” he ground out.

You hummed, pretending to be thoughtful, then tilted your head. “Let me sit. Shoulders need it too.”

He sighed but obeyed, sitting up compliantly. You straddled his lap without hesitation, sitting directly over the hard outline pressing into his trunks. Jason went utterly still.

“Oh,” you said innocently, adjusting your weight as if you hadn’t noticed the way he stiffened under you. “I think I’m sitting on something in your pocket.”

Jason let out a strangled noise. “That’s not—”

“Let me check.” Your hand slid down between you, brushing against the obvious bulge. You widened your eyes in mock surprise, fingers curling around him through the thin fabric. “Oh. Definitely not your phone.”

The sound that ripped out of him wasn’t words—it was a guttural groan, deep and raw, as his hips jerked up into your hand. You barely had time to register it before his whole body tensed beneath you. His head tipped back, a low moan escaping from his lips as his cock twitched violently, spilling into his swim trunks almost instantly.

You froze, eyes widening, but then his groan turned needy, desperate, and you realized how hard he still was even after cumming immediately.

“Fuck—sorry—” Jason’s voice broke, his chest heaving.

You tightened your grip instead of letting go. “Don’t apologize.”

And then you began to stroke him.

Slow at first, dragging your hand over the wet, sensitive outline, squeezing him through the fabric until he was panting. His thighs flexed under you, spreading wider, his body straining up into your hand like he couldn’t help it.

“God—” Jason choked, muscles flexing as his eyes fluttered shut. “That—fuck, that feels—”

You pressed kisses along his jaw as you worked him, rubbing him until the damp fabric clung to his shape, until you slid your hand underneath, directly touching his skin. He was groaning openly now, no restraint left, his hips bucking helplessly into your fist.

“Such a mess already,” you teased softly against his ear, picking up the pace.

His answering sound was almost a whimper, guttural and wrecked. His hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard like he needed an anchor.

You tightened your strokes, twisting at the head, dragging your palm down his length until he was shaking. “Come for me again, Jason.”

“F-fuck—” His whole body went rigid as he cried out, voice breaking beautifully. He jerked in your hand, cumming hard a second time, hot and thick, his cock twitching desperately as you stroked him through it.

You didn’t stop until he sagged back against the mat, ruined and gasping, chest heaving as though you’d just wrung every last bit of strength out of him.

Finally, you released him, wiping your slick hand against the towel as you leaned in to kiss his jaw. He was still trembling, but he managed a weak, dazed laugh.

“We’re not going back from this,” he rasped, voice raw.

You grinned, brushing your nose against his. “Glad you think so.”

[martiniluvr]

★ kinktober | day 1

it’s hard being away from you for days at a time when he’s on a mission. between stakeouts and combat, there’s seldom time for him to call you to hear your voice. he’s tired, lonely, and frustrated in his motel room—luckily, dick grayson has a souvenir with him this time.

contents: sex tape, solo masturbation (m), praise

warnings: none

dick grayson’s dark brows are furrowed and his lips are parted as he strokes his cock rhythmically, his eyes glued to the image of you on his phone. you’re on your hands and knees, with your pussy in view and your hips swaying hypnotically in front of the camera. he sees his own hand come into frame to tease your glistening slit, eliciting a quiet gasp from you.

‘anything you wanna say to the fans back home?’ his voice rings out in the video, his tone playful as he circles your clit. in the motel bed, dick’s memory of that night is fresh in his mind, but the anticipation of watching himself fuck you has him more worked up than he’d expected.

‘just that I love them,’ you respond over your shoulder with a giggle. his grip on his phone tightens as he watches you on the screen, your perfect ass in the centre of the frame and your tight holes exposed. he bites his lip harshly seeing himself slide into you, slowly at first, then all at once. the whine you let out makes his chest heave; he remembers exactly how you clenched around him in that moment, and now he can see it in the video, too.

‘fuck, look at that,’ he narrates, bringing the camera closer to your pussy to capture the way you’re gripping him with each thrust. heat pools in dick’s stomach when he realises he can hear and see your wetness as he fucks you—and, shit, you’re soaked. he jerks himself off faster, his pumping getting more irregular as his thrusts on camera get harsher. ‘you look so good on camera, baby.’

the video isn’t even halfway over, but there’s so much he can focus on seeing now that he’s not consumed by the feeling of your cunt around him—your slick coating his pelvis, your soft ass rippling off his hips, your pussy stretching to accomodate his size—that his orgasm creeps up on him faster than it has in years. as if on cue, your pretty face turns to the camera with a sweet grin that makes his skin feel like it’s burning, and that’s all it takes.

“fuck!” he moans, louder than he intended; his abdomen contracts raggedly as hot ropes of cum spill out from his cock, painting his knuckles and dragging out a guttural groan from his lips; his hips buck up into his hand, chasing the ache of his sensitivity and making an even bigger mess of his release.

he can still hear you whimpering on his phone, and his breathing is heavy as his fist finally slows. his blue eyes widen when he focuses back onto the video, where you’re now spreading yourself open for him, begging him not to stop, and his overworked cock twitches at the sight. the progress bar in the video shows he’s not even a third of the way through.

shit, he thinks, his free hand drifting toward his length again. I’m not getting any sleep tonight.

a/n: round of applause for this anon who inspired the very first day of kinktober. you divas keep me young and spry (and bricked)

[starrvine]

wow ik this is like my first actual post in 20 years but my commissions are open and i am indeed a broke college student 😞💔

here is the link to my comms site

[sacrificiallane]

𖥔 ✴️ . ノ His brothers like to crash at your place . . .

with JASON TODD ◜ content ⸝⸝ short n' sweet . i didn't mention the girls :(   !  ୧ head empty just batfamily ♡

It's quiet when you both turn in to sleep ― warm, comfortable ... shielded from the filth of Gotham. His heavy duty and your deep-rooted fears, far from your guys mind. Your face is turned towards his, head nestled comfortably under his chin, and ... Jason breathes softly, in n' out ... It's calm ... quiet ... Maybe even a little too quiet ? You hear the faint noise of the city below your apartment complex and all the way down the streets. Traffic, sirens ― it's all a familiar sound that would usually lull you right to sleep. Even the light rumbling of your partners' chest ― not quite snoring, but something close ― normally has you knocked out in under five minutes. But ...

The doorbell. It's a sharp tone in the otherwise silent apartment, that has your eyes wide open again, and Jason on his last nerve. You hear him sigh. Annoyed, yes, but also in a way that tells you ― he has an idea of who that might be. It's still dark, and you can barely see just what he's really doing, but you feel how he peels his side of the blanket away, muttering something like 'jus' sleep, i'll check' which is barely audible by how sleep drunken he sounds. Then, he's already out of the bedroom, lazily walking towards the door, already dreading which bat will greet him at such an hour ...

When he finally opens it, it's ... Richard Grayson, grinning. The sight has another heavy sigh escape him. "Yeah?" Jason liked to pretend that it was unusual for his brothers to show up ― which it wasn't. He also liked to pretend that he never lets them stay ― but he does. And it ― embarrassingly so ― never even takes that long to convince him. When asked, though, Jason claims it's because he rather gets right back to sleep than argue with any of his brothers.

Everyone believes him. Not.

So, Jason just steps aside and lets a much too triumphal looking Dick crash on the couch.

You hear them talk, hushed, comfortable, and soon enough, Jason is back in your bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him as he crawls back to you and underneath the sheets. "S' he okay?" You ask softly, shifting back into your previous position, flush against his chest as you breathe out, content. You're used to Richard coming over and crashing, so you're more concerned on why. Wouldn't be the first time he came over bloodied and beaten, much more eager to let you patch him up than have the batman give him a lecture. "He's fine. Will be gone in the morning."

'He doesn't want to deal with Bruce today' is what he wants to say, but he doesn't want his father to be the last thing he thinks about before going back to sleep. So he just presses a kiss against your forehead and tells you to go back to sleep.

You do, for maybe a minute, then there's a loud crash somewhere, and you're obviously wide awake again. This time, Jason doesn't even pretend to 'go check' because it's one of two people ― and he has this vague idea that it must be Tim, by how stupid his landing was. Probably came through the wrong window and fell right into that new Vase you bought.

Great.

You quietly follow behind when he leaves the bedroom again. You carry a blanket and a smaller pillow that you know is more comfortable than whatever pillows you keep in the living room, handing both to a drowsy Dick when he opens one eye ― not even bothering to check what caused such a loud noise in your guys' apartment. He just thanks you, turns around and goes right back to snoring. It's sweet, you think, how he feels more at ease here, than the large Mansion of his father...

"Go home, Tim," You hear your boyfriend mutter and follow his voice to the kitchen. His brows are furrowed as he watches the boy ― still glad in his suit ― try and puzzle the vase back together. "It's fine, we'll clean it tomorrow..." you find yourself saying, offering the kid a reassuring smile when he sheepishly lets it all fall back together. You know why he's here ― Jason knows too... and it goes without saying that he, too, is always allowed to stay. Even when Jay plays the annoyed older brother, grumbling and huffing when you show Tim the foldable sofa in your bedroom ( the one you guys bought specifically for nights like this ... )

He gets the last spare blanket, and a pillow, and he's good to go, bright smile and rosy cheeks when he thanks you so genuinely, you almost tear up a little. Your boyfriend grunts something about it being 'the last damn time' and Tim just nods. It won't be the last time. Jason acts like his brothers are intruding ― you know better.

Then everything slowly settles. It gets quiet again, there is the occasional shifting of blankets and pillows ― but, everyone seems asleep. Jason is cuddled against you, you can hear the faint snoring of Dick, and even Tim smacks his lips in deep content.

Yet, you can't help but feel like something is still not right. And like the universe agrees with you because ― of course, someone is still missing ― you hear the noise of your window being shoved open, with careful, skillful little hands... and soon enough, a smaller body wedges itself right between you and Jason as if it belongs. You don't say anything, and neither does he ― Damian Wayne fits right in the middle, barely three apples, yet he gets comfortable as if he owns the place. And you know Jason is rolling his eyes, deeply annoyed and beyond done with having so many siblings seeking him out when he just wants to spend time at his apartment with his partner. But even he is quiet and settles easy, his arm lazily thrown over his youngest brother and you, shifting the blanket so that all three of you are warm.

It's the sounds of a full apartment that finally lets you find comfortable sleep ― the warmth of two bodies right next to you ( of which the smaller keeps his hand laced with yours, as if you would ever even dare leave during the night ).

When morning comes, your sofa is empty, the vase glued back together and one demon child can't even look at you because he knows you're aware he's been clinging. He's embarrassed, you ruffle his hair, and together with Jason you bring him back to the Manor. You know it won't be the last time... and you honestly don't mind.

someone take " ... " away from me / i wrote this for myself honestly ―

[wonwounds]

꒰ easy life ꒱ jason didn’t expect domestic life to be this simple. and yet, here you were. so simple, yet so sweet.

After what seemed to be the longest night of his life, Jason found refuge—or he usually found refuge, in your comforting arms. Tonight was different. He’d only made it two steps inside your apartment before he grunted, the sharp pain of the corner of a night stand had him halting.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Your apologetic tone coming from the kitchen had his confusion growing.

Eyes alert and scanning the room, Jasons eyebrows knit together. Everything was rearranged? The couch was facing the wall where two recliners used to sit and said recliners were sitting where the couch once was.

Jason didn’t like change. He didn’t like the things he couldn’t predict. That’s why it’d been so hard accumulating to your lifestyle. You were a wrecking ball of change and the unexpected.

And somehow he found himself loving you for it. The very thing he despised somehow became what he cherished

“Jay?” He blinked twice, gaze flickering from the living room, to you.

He exhaled quietly, because no matter how many times he was greeted by your face, he could never quite accept that such a beautiful person had seen him and said; yes. Him. I want him.

Your small frown turned into a lopsided smile. “What?”

“Nothing.” Jason shrugs off his leather jacket, tossing it over the couch and rolls his tense shoulders. “What happened to the living room?”

Grinning as he made his way toward you, you shrug. “Got sick of the old layout.” Your warm, vanilla-y scent flooded his senses as your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his own arms snaking around your waist, hoisting you up.

“Welcome home.” You smile, legs wrapping tight around his hips. “Thought about making dinner… but got caught up cleaning.”

Jason hums, burying his head in your neck, inhaling. “‘Smell good.” He notes, ignoring the comment on food, focusing on the only thing that mattered in the moment; you.

Rolling your eyes playfully, you kiss the top of his head. “So… you gonna shower while I order some Chinese food, or what?”

The grime of a long night out in Gotham wasn’t something that you particularly enjoyed about your boyfriends extra circulars, but you wouldn’t ruin a perfectly good night by bringing up your opinions on that topic.

Jason nods against your shoulder, setting you back onto solid ground. “Do I get a prize?”

Your eyebrows lift shortly before laughter follows. “Get the hell out of here.” Your hands press against his chest, pushing him lightly away from you. “Go!”

Smirking, Jason lifts his hands in surrender, taking a few steps backwards toward the bathroom. “I’ll be quick.”

A total lie, by the way. Ever since Jason partially moved into your apartment, you swore your water bill went up tenfold. But, it made you happy, oddly enough.

Showering meant he was getting used to seeing his scars, perhaps even comfortable with them.

Smiling to yourself, you turn on your heels and head straight for the phone. A nice night of Chinese takeout and your favorite series—which had a new episode airing tonight—meant you got to cuddle up next to your boyfriend. That thought alone made you have an extra pep in your step.

likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future jason or dc posts!! this is my first time publishing a dc - related post on this acc <3 i plan on doing it more, though!!

@halfwayhearted @ickbite @bitterballad @ar4ujos

[francixoxoxo]

grocery runs and guard dogs

frank castle x reader

you catch Frank at a bad time again while delivering some cookies, fresh out of the shower. he offers to come grocery shopping with you when he finds out you’re walking through a rough neighborhood and you work some more details about his bullet wound out of him.

notes; sorry this one took so long I’ve been writing from Italy (forza palermo!!) but I so so so appreciate all the love this series has been getting 💞💞 you’re all so sweet and the tag list is absolutely outrageous I’m grateful that you all like my silly writing 😛 also this chapter we seeeeee frank shirtless yes yes I know, PROTECTIVE frank, r is no better than a man, and domestic fluff so enjoy

word count; 3.4k

part 4 of just across the hall

prev | next

Frank stays on your mind like grains of sand in wood floors, he never quite leaves the deep recesses, even when you have better things to think of. Driving through busy New York streets, waiting for the slower stragglers after the light turns green, your mind replays the exact huff he does when he’s beat. Waiting for your laundry to finish at the laundromat, your ziploc of coins beside you; his shining eyes are plastered on the backs of your own lids. You think you see him, in every bustling crowd on the sidewalk corners and in every coffee store. It’s like he’s worked his way into you, no matter how much you try to keep a safe distance.

Especially considering, he’s a man caught up in nothing that can be good. Surely a bullet to the gut isn’t evidence of somebody who does community service. He’s a widower whose wounds seem pretty fresh, though you don’t know the extent of anything. He’s..

You’re making excuses. You know it. He’s gentle and he’s stern, unbending and pliant, gruff and frustrating and oh-so-sweet— so why are you so scared of finally liking somebody? Somebody good?

It’s easier to think of how creepy it is to come onto a man who just lost his wife than to wonder why you’re ignoring every symptom of a crush. That one, at least, isn’t a hollow excuse as to why he surely, absolutely, positively doesn’t feel the same. You’re a girl across the hall, and a man who’s been married, who’s loved and lost, can’t possibly want to go backwards.

So naturally you react to this information by making him maple sugar cookies. Y’know, like a woman who’s absolutely accepted your place in his life.

Maybe personal baker is as good as girlfriend.

Leaves outside your window are already fiery shades, auburn boughs in the trees lining the New York sidewalk. It’s your favorite season; and, for whatever reason (the reason is across the hall), this specific year’s autumn is turning out to be one of your favorites. A certain crispness hangs in the air, you wear a white knit sweater and dark bootcut jeans. Your designated grocery-run tote bag is slung over your shoulder— you used the last scraps of your pantry to make this batch of cookies, seeing as you already needed to make the trip today.

You rap your knuckles at the wood of his door. Recalling the last time you brought him something sweet, you hope this time wouldn’t follow the same pattern.

No answer. You knock again, leaning and calling with your nose an inch from the door, “Frank? You home?” Silence. You look down at the plate in your hands. Maybe you could leave it at the door. But then anybody could come along and raid the cookies, and then the time you took to pick the best-looking of the batch to share with him would be for nothing. You put your pride aside for the sake of baked goods. “Frank?”

The door cracks open nearly immediately. Like he had been standing behind it already, maybe debating opening it to you. You’d be a little offended if you weren’t a little taken aback. He grunts a hello, but you need a second.

His shirt is off. Gray sweatpants are slung low on his hips, the muscles splayed broad and strong over his chest shift under scarred skin as he reaches up to unhook the chain lock from his door. Frank’s hair is dripping wet, as is his beard, dark curls sticking to his forehead a bit. His dark eyes are a little wide, and— are his ears pink?

“Uhm, I’m sorry, I— were you— geez, I always have bad timing!” You laugh awkwardly, and Frank shrugs one shoulder, gaze drifting to the side as his lips curl downward.

“You uh, you got a knack.” He agrees but not quite meanly. He smiles with his teeth, so subtly charming and so natural that you’re almost instantly put at ease. Squinting at you, then the plate you hold, he grunts, “Cookies?”

“Mhm. Maple syrup and chocolate chips.”

“Christ.” Frank blows the air out his cheeks, pulls the door further open. “Tryna put ten pounds on me, all these gifts. c’mon in.” You hesitate a second— you’ve never seen his apartment. He doesn’t move, doesn’t beckon, doesn’t call you out or insist. He just stares in that stone-cold way of his, standing up straight from where he leaned against the doorjamb. It’s not a big deal, he’s just shirtless, you remind yourself. Guys are shirtless all the time.

You just can’t seem to focus when this specific guy is shirtless. Maybe because he’s fucking chiseled like a Greek statue. You want to pinch yourself for the thought but it’s not like you’re exaggerating. You knew he had been a Marine, of course he was in shape, but this was ridiculous.. He was all hard planes and obvious yet dormant strength, and you should tear your eyes away before you look rude. But his chest, his arms, his abs. you fight to not wonder what it’d be like to sink your teeth into the firm muscle— stop being a perv! you chide yourself. You’re lucky Frank is completely oblivious.

Looking around his apartment, you find it.. still in the same state it had probably been before he was a tenant. Barren. Standard-issue furniture, no photographs, and the brightest color is probably the red logo of his coffee machine. You weren’t sure what you expected. Come to think of it, the place is very Frank.

He nods to the kitchen counter, a mirror image of your own, and grunts when you set the plate down, wasting no time in snatching a cookie. Leaning against the counter, you cock an eyebrow as you watch him for a reaction. Which, for such a stone-faced guy, is a fairly good one. He closes his dark eyes with a furrow of the brows, shakes his head and makes a gruff sound. For a second you get scared. “Are they okay? Tell me if they’re bad, you don’t have to eat them, I don’t mind—“ you even start reaching for the plate.

Frank’s hand shoots out, calloused fingertips scratching deliciously at you as he grasps your wrist. “Nah, nah, don’t even think about it. They’re delicious.” He huffs around a bite, shaking his head again and swallowing. Regretfully he lets go. Whistling, he huffs, “Unbelievable. Un-be-fuckin’-lievable, sweetheart.”

You sigh in relief, and also in the hopes that expelling the air from your lungs could also get out the thoughts that Frank’s bare chest, dripping curls and pet names are putting in your head. Spoiler, prayer, much less just breathing can get rid of those.

“Thank god!” You lay a hand over your heart and smile. You almost feel lucky when he smiles back at you, small but real. Frank glances away, in that nervous tick of his, lips falling open and eyes squinting like he’s trying to call something back to mind. After a moment he stands.

“Uh, ‘fore I forget.” He lifts a splayed palm, turning and heading into (what you can only assume is) his bedroom. The door is wide open, you can see him leaning over his bed, then lifting a stack of four or five books. You can’t help going buggy-eyed.

“Frank, don’t say those are—“

“They are.” His tone is even as ever, but one hand is clamped on the back of his neck almost nervously. (shifting the muscle across his chest and popping a vein in his forearm but you seriously need to stop staring at this man!) “Was gonna give you ‘em later, but uh.”

“Oh my god, you’re— you didn’t have to!” You sigh, watching him set the books down. He shrugs simply.

“Got a new bookshelf, better fill it.” Frank grunts, in a tone that isn’t asking if you think he should or shouldn’t have. You shake your head and him and hear his soft snort while you look through the titles; a book of assorted poems by Sylvia Plath, the Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury, a newer translation of The Iliad than the one you own— “How did you know that I like Greek mythology?”

He shrugs again, shaking his head with downturned lips. “You had a copy on your countertop. Greek.” He taps some text under the title. “This one’s the Roman.” As if that’s all there is to it. As if every guy in your life walks into your apartment to build your furniture, takes notes and walks out to buy you a book based on them. He’s already turning when you try to protest again, heading back into the bedroom but this time leaning over and grabbing a towel that was slung over the bed frame. He fists the terry cloth and ruffles it through his hair— if he isn’t looking at you, he can’t tell you’re staring at the flex of his bicep, right?

“You’re way too nice.” You mutter, glancing over the other books. One is baking recipes, and one is a short novel you’ve never heard of, but the cover art is gorgeous. Frank makes a dubious sound at your words, and when you look up at him, he’s drying his beard with eyes narrowed in on your tote bag. You look down at yourself. “Oh, uh. I’m just heading out.”

Frank tosses aside the towel, brows drawn with a hard stare at you. “Where?” Not demanding, but definitely not gonna take a non-answer.

“That little grocery a few blocks from here. The one with the big neon clutch of grapes on the sign? Constantino’s?” He shakes his head a little. You assume it’s because he doesn’t know the place.

“Bad part of town.” Frank grumbles, stepping around his bare-bones bed and fishing a white T-shirt out of a drawer in his nightstand. He throws you a glance over his shoulder, snapping you out of staring at the defined, taut muscles of his back. Christ, he was big.

You shrug, crossing your arms and glancing around his room. He wasn’t a man for possessions, that was obvious. But there’s a photograph leaned up against the other nightstand’s lamp. It looks like a woman, two kids, joy creasing all three of their faces.

Absentmindedly, you squint at the photograph. “I guess. I’ve been going there since I moved in.” Your mind isn’t on some grocery store on the corner. That woman, it must’ve been his wife. And two kids— were they his? Stupid question. They had to be.

So Frank was a father. Every new piece of information you learn about your neighbor just feels like a new freight train rolling over you. Why didn’t he live with them? Where were they? You’ve learned better than to ask questions. And still, you have so many.

But then, you feel this strong pull to meet his eyes, which were already on you and all squinted from his tight brows. You make a note to ask about the kids in the photograph another time. Frank pulls the shirt over his head, tugging the hem down to meet his sweatpants. All the while scowling at you, “Shouldn’t be goin’ alone.” You fight the urge to follow the movement of his fingers, because that would mean facing the waistband of his boxers, Calvin Klein printed all across. Not to mention the fine hair creeping up from under that waistband, that he’s been subtly covering with a hand out of an old-fashioned mix of modesty, and shyness. “I could, uh.. Could come with you. If y’want.”

Your brows lift. Frank goes on a little shyly, puppy dog eyes darting between his own apartment and you. “Y’know. Uh. Just so y’get there safe.” A smile creeps across your lips without your permission.

“..You wanna walk around a shoddy grocery store with me?”

“I mean, sure. I will.” Frank shrugs, lips curling downward as he nods and finally lets his eyes remain on yours. Sure and adamant. It should be an inconvenience to him, shouldn’t it be? But here he is; not quite admitting that he does want to, but saying with that stern, steadfast tone, that he’ll do it whether it’s shoddy or not. Your chest is tight again, twisting in that way that’s becoming increasingly familiar.

You try not to read into it.

With a disbelieving huff of a chuckle you adjust your tote over your shoulder. “Well… okay. So, we’re going grocery shopping.” Totally not a couple activity.

“We’re goin’ grocery shopping.” Frank confirms, crossing the space and stopping just in front of you to reach for the strap of your bag, lifting it off you before you can protest.

Frank, the burly, menacing, particularly-brooding bear has a tote bag with a baby pink, 2014-esque drawing of two Parisian girls drinking espressos tucked under his arm.

This could be very, very dangerous.

——

Maybe, yes, it wasn’t the best part of your borough, but nothing even had the chance to happen. Frank wouldn’t give anybody an open. Though you only realized it later, he kept you on the inside of the sidewalk like it was his job. He let you talk the whole way, and of course he listened diligently, but his eyes darted around, scanning the street often. Never quite relaxing.

When you slip in the door, Frank holding it open, you turn to see that he’s found your grocery list in the tote and is squinting at your handwriting. You were starting to find that scowl.. kind of cute. “what’d’ya think, we knock out the baking aisle first?”

You hum. “Smart.” You pluck the small piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook out of his fingers, and he almost looked wounded for a split second. “You can be the mule.”

“That all I’m good for?” Frank huffs. But he must take up the mantle of your bag-carrier anyway, because he ends up following on your heels when you turn to walk.

It’s not a big store. The lights are ugly fluorescents, the floors need some sweeping, the employees look tired. But it isn’t by any means dead. Apparently plenty of other people had the idea to go grocery shopping after work. You’re noticing that people move out of the way for Frank whether he asks or not. Whether it was that brooding look on his face, or his sturdy-and-frankly-threatening build, or that natural Frank-timidation that rolled off him in droves— whatever it was, worked. Maybe it was convenient, bringing him with you to crowded places.

With a silly, girlish thrill, you wonder if people mistake you two for a couple. If anyone glances at you, and goes, ‘how cute!’ It’s stupid, you know. But it keeps a smile on your face as you walk through the fixer-upper grocery store.

He mostly sticks to the other side of the aisle once you make it, leaving the middle clear for passersby and shoving his hands in his pockets as you squint at labels. Most of the ingredients on the shelf you’ve bought millions of times before, but you were stumped looking for almond flour. Too preoccupied to look over your shoulder and catch Frank’s heavy stare at the back of your head.

You huff after a solid two minutes of searching, pushing your fingers through your hair. “What’re you lookin’ for?” Frank grunts with barely any questioning lilt to his tone, instead he sounds amused. It’s a sad reminder that he’s been behind you the whole time watching you tweak out over flour.

You sigh and turn, brows pinched. “Frank, do you see almond flour anywhere?” With a low hum from his chest he steps forward, you turn and watch him lift a sack about the size as his paw of a hand off one of the upper shelves. You huff in disbelief, a little bugged by how fast he found it. “You didn’t wanna tell me that whole time?”

A smile (weirdly both smug and soft at the same time) tugs at his mouth under his beard. “You didn’t wanna ask.” You try to tamp down your own smile, poorly, and shake your head. He shrugs, lips curling downward, “And, I didn’t know. Barely let me read the damn paper.” He snatches the grocery list from your fingers to mock how you had earlier, lifting his eyebrows at you pointedly, then the list. His dark eyes flicker between the paper and the tote bag as he shifts his arm to look inside, and mutters, “Forgettin’ baking powder.”

“Right!” You spin, scanning up and down the shelves again, hands folded with fingers at your chin in hesitation. “Uhhh.. Should be..”

Frank brushes behind you again, silently retrieving a small container off the shelf a yard away without making you ask him again to find it. He holds it up to you with lifted brows and then throws it in the bag, you give a satisfied little hum.

Next stop, dairy aisle. A comfortable silence falls over the two of you, the quiet leaving you to notice an almost imperceptible wince from Frank as he steps. There’s a very faint feather in his jaw, but its perfectly obvious to you. Your eyes fall to his midsection instinctually. “How’s the.. Y’know.” You gesture vaguely to his side, feeling suddenly shy. he squints at you like he doesn’t follow, then down at himself.

Frank makes an indifferent sound. “Fine. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” You shoot him a particular look. He exhales through his nostrils and shrugs. “Is what it is.”

“‘It is’ a hole in your gut, and there’s no way it’s fine.” You look ahead, though you feel his eyes on you. “Such a guy.”

“Yeah, well.” Frank mutters, gruffly. It’s when you glance over at him that he looks away. To the opposite side, ahead, to his feet. After a moment, he admits, quietly, “S’buggin’ me.” Not much. But it’s something. And you’ll take it.

“You never did tell me how it happened.” You stop, stand side by side, facing the shelves of milk. Playing a weird game of how long one could look at the other without making contact.

Frank huffs softly and shakes his head. “Pushin’ it.”

“Already?” You step forward to grab a carton of a cheaper kind of almond milk, and he moves just as quickly to hold the freezer door ajar for you. He grunts in the affirmative. When you look up and meet his eyes, they’re not as hard as you expected them to be. And you’re much closer than you realized before. Practically pinned to the freezer by his looming frame, but he doesn’t move to free you. Brief seconds feel like stretching minutes where you think you should say something, but what would you, and does it really matter, but you two are really fucking close to be so quiet. So quiet that though you might be imagining it, you can hear each of his soft exhales, his broad chest is a handful of inches away from yours, you can smell faded cologne and musk from his neck—

He clears his throat and lifts his arm. It takes you a moment to get it and gently put the carton in the tote he’s holding open to you. He nods, tight. “That it?”

“Uhm, yeah. That’s it.” You confirm in a mutter, ducking out from where you’re stuck between Frank and the freezer. You hope the warmth rushing to your face doesn’t show on your cheeks. He falls into step with you easily, pushing his large hands into his jacket pockets.

This was gonna drive you crazy. It already was, for fucks sake. And you’re beginning to want it— want him— so badly that it doesn’t seem like so much of a risk. There was no way in hell he didn’t feel that, didn’t realize what he was doing. Right? But then, maybe he honestly didn’t. Maybe you’re just grasping at straws, and it doesn’t mean anything past friends. You don’t need a lover anyway. Friends.

Friends who build each others furniture. Friends who go grocery shopping together. And that’s devoid of anything even a little intimate, for sure.

You hear him clear his throat from beside you, his head hung and eyes squinting at the ground when you look over. His nose twitches, scrunches just barely and you’re a little worried at how you noticed such a little thing. “Was, uh.. in some alley.” Frank grumbles, grimacing at the linoleum tiles under your feet.

“What?” Your brows pinch, he lifts his face, eyes grave. The bullet wound. “Oh.” You don’t push, though. Frank presses his lips and throws you this little nod before looking away. You mirror him.

“..Some— y’know, some scumbag, followin’ this lady, and..” Frank squints at the checkout line a few yards ahead, voice quieter and, naturally then, deeper. You share another look, this time something on his face makes you think he’s silently begging you to just read his mind. Well. You can’t, and especially not with the hard shell Frank wears like second skin. You shake your head.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Frank shrugs his shoulders, eyes darting between you and just about anywhere else. You get in line to check out. “Yeah, well.” Yeah, well, what? yeah, well, I can’t anyway. yeah, well, I did already. yeah, well, I want to. Such a stupid rollercoaster.

You guess you aren’t getting any more explanation as to why he’s talking at all. And apparently no more explanation of what happened, either, he starts to quietly unload the tote bag onto the conveyer belt. You’re left wondering, what kind of man gets in the way of a gun to help some stranger in an alley? What kind of man gets out otherwise unscathed? What did he do to the other guy? You can’t even picture it. All you’ve ever known of Frank is, though maybe behind his immovable, stern and silent walls, is warmth and kindness. He was undeniably generous, a gentle giant— but, well, you squint at the square of his shoulders as he sets down a sack of flour; gentle or not, he’s a giant. You wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of whatever he did to the alley creep.

Is it wrong that it’s somewhat.. attractive? You could already tell he had a protective streak. He was almost personally upset that you were going to walk alone through a rough neighborhood, and you’re not even.. Whatever. Point is, it’s just another thing tacked onto the list of things frustratingly drawing you to Frank.

By the time you pay and go, it’s dark out. Where you might’ve felt on edge walking around the city at night, you’re completely at ease next to Frank. Instead of being hyper tuned to every sound and movement around you, the only thing you need to worry about is where you’re putting your feet. “Y’know, they opened a new record shop where that crappy kabob place used to be. I think I want to check it out.” You think out loud, looking up at Frank. He hums in agreement, but it’s clearly absentminded— his eyes are over your head, hard, almost challenging.

You follow his look to a man standing tight to the wall, staring right at you with an expression that reminds you that whether you have a personal guard dog or not, you have reasons to be afraid. You avert your eyes on instinct, looking at your feet then Frank. He hasn’t waver, looking over his shoulder even after you pass him.

“Fuckin’ weirdo.” Frank grunts, finally turning his face away. You huff, humorless. “Ain’t comin’ down here alone again.” He says it in a stern mutter, like it’s not up for debate.

“You can’t walk with me every time I need sugar, Frank.”

“‘Kay, well. Y’gotta find a new grocery store. Or carry.. I don’t know, carry some kinda spray. Maybe a pocketknife.” Frank scowls, furrowing his brows down at you and punctuating his works with dips of his chin. You give him a ‘do-you-hear-yourself’ smile. “M’serious. Scumbags everywhere.”

You turn a corner, crossing your arms against the crisp air. “Okay, dad.” He shoots you a lethal look, bearded jaw all tight and you laugh despite it. “Okay, okay, sorry. You’re right. I’ll buy some pepper spray.”

“Good.” Frank narrows his eyes at you like he doesn’t quite trust that you aren’t still teasing, watching your smile grow ever so slightly.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re dramatic?”

“Nobody who lived t’tell ‘bout it.” You can’t resist another easy laugh, about 90% sure it was a joke. When you look up at him, he’s smiling. Carefully, softly, but honest, down at his feet as he adjusts the tote bag over his shoulder.

You almost forget that you aren’t a couple, getting the week’s groceries for a shared apartment, things to make for dinner. Absentmindedly, you think that you don’t mind playing pretend with Frank. Maybe you could get used to this.

taglist; @starrvine , @macenotclub , @castawayclub , @thuul-box , @dungeons-bat , @chompwoman , @demiebarnes, @pleasantducktimetravel , @dude-its-hannah , @ilovehyperfixating, @anonymouse1807 , @marcysbear , @ellabellabunny123 , @rapturousfrog @nonyabusinesswhatmynameis , @lotsa-juicy-shit , @avengersbabe13 , @gimmethatfuckinmic , @seenthroughmia , @cj-theyoungling , @escapefromrealitylol @jeonzll , @mrsdarcyinlovewithbuckybarnes , @scarredtarts , @wstelandbby , @stars4birdie

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[goblin-jr]

everything's growing in our garden

jason todd x wife! reader

synopsis: Jason comes back from patrol with a baby and soot in his hair. He never thought he deserved anything good, but you build something soft anyway.

words: 3.8k

warnings: crying baby. no use of y/n

---

The building is coming down around him.

Smoke curls like claws through the stairwell, the air thick with heat and sirens and screaming — but none of it matters. Not really. Not since he heard the crying.

He kicks down the last door on the left. Inside: scorched drywall, a mattress half on fire, and—

There.

Curled in the corner like a forgotten blanket. No older than a few weeks, swaddled in soot, mouth open and wailing. Eyes wild. Reaching.

Jason doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe.

Just moves.

He’s across the room in three steps. Drops to his knees. Checks the baby over with hands he can’t make stop shaking. No visible burns. Still breathing. Covered in ash.

The moment he lifts him, the baby latches onto his flak vest with tiny, furious fingers.

Won’t let go.

Jason’s heart punches his ribs.

"Hey, hey," he rasps, trying to make his voice gentle. “Got you. I got you.”

A beam groans above them. He doesn’t wait. Tugs his jacket off and wraps it around the baby like armor. One hand under the neck. One against his chest. Head down. Go.

Out the hall. Down the fire escape. Through the smoke.

The baby doesn’t cry anymore. Just holds on.

And Jason?

Jason runs like hell.

—

You are not expecting a baby tonight.

In fact, the only things on your to-do list are:

Recharge.

Hydrate.

Kiss your hot husband when he gets home from his nightly war on Gotham’s crime statistics.

You are currently achieving two out of three. Your AirPods hum low-fi jazz into your ears, and the cucumbers on your eyelids are starting to slip down your cheekbones. Somewhere across the apartment, your diffuser is puffing lavender-scented clouds into the air like a sleepy little train. You smell like a coconut-sugar candle and your nails are drying. Life is good.

You’re just starting to doze off when the window clicks open.

Of course. Jason never uses the damn door.

You expect the usual: a grunt, a dropped helmet, maybe a kiss pressed to your forehead before he stumbles into the shower.

Instead, what you get is smoke. Soot. A strangled cry.

You sit up.

Cucumber slices slide down your cheeks and onto your hoodie. One AirPod clatters to the couch cushion. Your husband is standing in the middle of the living room, soot-streaked and wide-eyed, holding a bundled shape in his arms like it might vanish if he so much as blinks.

You stare at him.

Then at the bundle.

Then at him again.

“…Jason,” you say slowly. “That is a baby.”

“I know,” he blurts. “I know. I just—I didn’t think, okay? I saw him and I—”

“Jason.”

He takes two steps forward, the bundle squirming weakly in his arms. There’s a tiny, high-pitched hiccup. The shape shifts and reveals a round, red-blotched face, mouth open in the start of another wail. Soot clings to chubby cheeks. 

Jason looks wrecked. More than usual. Helmet hair, bruised, a tear down the seam of his jacket. His arms are trembling.

“There was a fire. A ring. The bastards were running kids out of Crime Alley and I—he was just there. Crying. Everyone else gone. And he grabbed me. Grabbed my glove like he wasn’t letting go, and I just—” His voice breaks. “I saw myself for a second. Just. I moved. I didn’t think. I couldn’t leave him.”

You blink. A slow breath leaves your lungs.

“Come here,” you say, voice soft.

Jason hesitates. “Sweetheart—”

“I said come here.”

He obeys, like he always does when your voice dips into that tone.

You reach for the baby.

Your fingers graze the edge of the jacket and pause. The baby’s eyes flutter up. Red, watery, still in panic mode, but he looks at you. Just for a second.

You smile. “Hi there,” you whisper, more breath than words.

And then, gently, you ease the baby out of Jason’s arms.

He goes without a fight. The baby whimpers, grabbing your shirt with one sooty fist, and tucks himself into your chest with the kind of blind trust that makes your throat ache.

You sway a little, automatically. Muscle memory from a life you never thought you’d need.

“You did the right thing,” you say.

Jason’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His chest rises like he’s about to sob and collapse all at once.

“Breathe, Jay,” you tell him. “In. Out. Again.”

He listens.

One breath. Then another. Then a shuddering sigh.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he whispers.

“You brought him home,” you say simply. “That’s what you did.”

He swallows.

“Go shower. You’re bleeding. You smell like fire.”

“I can help—”

“You will. But after you shower.”

Jason hesitates. “We don’t even have wipes or—”

“Are you kidding me? You’re the Red Hood. You own three brands of baby wipes. You said they’re the only thing that gets the powder residue off your guns.”

He squints. “You said you wouldn't make fun of that anymore”

“Go. Shower. We’ll be here.” Jason shoots you a grateful look and then turns to go to the washroom after promising the baby he’ll be back. 

You settle onto the floor with the baby curled against your chest, sitting cross-legged by the coffee table like this is any other Tuesday night and not a total deviation from reality. Your fingers are already moving before your brain catches up, brushing soot from his forehead, rocking him in slow, instinctual sways.

He’s hiccuping. Sharp little spasms that jolt through his tiny body, each one punctuated by a shaky breath and a soft, broken sound from the back of his throat.

Your heart squeezes.

“Shhh,” you whisper, rocking a little more. “I know. I know, sweetheart. We’re gonna fix it, okay? You’re safe now.”

The baby wipes, Jason’s fancy, unscented ones, sit in the middle of the table like some cosmic joke. You grab them with one hand and ease the little boy into your lap with the other.

He blinks up at you, lashes crusted with ash, lips trembling. You think he’s trying to cry again, but he’s too tired. Instead, he lets out a low, wheezy whimper that turns into another hiccup, and you feel it all the way through you.

“I know,” you murmur. “Big day, huh?”

You unwrap Jason’s jacket that's been wrapped around the baby slowly, piece by piece. It’s warm from his body heat, and the baby makes a small sound of protest as the cooler air hits his skin.

“Oh, I know, I know,” you croon, voice going higher and softer without you meaning to. “Almost done. Let’s get you all cleaned up, little guy.”

What’s left of his onesie is charred at the edges, barely clinging to one shoulder. You tug at it carefully, apologizing every time the fabric catches. He doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are curled into little fists, still clutching invisible threads.

You grab the first wipe and start gently, his forehead, soft and warm, dotted with grime. You trace along his eyebrows, then sweep carefully down the bridge of his nose. Each stroke is featherlight, the kind you might use for glass.

He hiccups again, but it’s quieter this time.

“There you go,” you whisper. “See? Not so bad.”

You work your way down. Cheeks, chin, neck. There’s a smudge of blood near his ear that you clean with extra care. Not his, thankfully. His arms are sticky, tiny fingers coated in smoke and something that might have been applesauce at some point.

You talk the whole time.

Not because he understands, but because you need it. Because it keeps your hands steady. Because if this baby is going to live in your world now, then he deserves to hear words that are soft and steady and safe.

“You’re doing so good,” you say as you clean under his chin. “Brave little man. Bet you didn’t think you’d end up in a vigilante’s living room tonight, huh?”

He blinks, hiccups again. Then lets out a slow, shuddery sigh.

That’s the first time he really settles.

Not asleep, not yet. But no longer vibrating with fear. His hands uncoil a little. One of them smacks softly against your chest, fingers opening and closing. Grabbing. Seeking.

You let him wrap them around the drawstring of your hoodie.

“Got me?” you whisper. “Yeah. I’ve got you too.”

You work your way down to his belly, where there’s more ash than baby skin, and clean it in little circles. His legs twitch when you get to his feet. He lets out a hiccuping noise that might almost be a laugh.

You smile, watery and wide.

“Ticklish, huh? I’ll remember that.”

Once he’s clean, or as clean as he can be, you reach behind you for the towel you spotted earlier, fresh and fluffy from laundry day. You lay it out on your lap and ease him into it slowly, like wrapping a present made of porcelain.

He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t protest.

Just lets you fold the corners around him and pull him close.

You lift him again, now swaddled and warm and smelling like Jason’s baby wipes. His cheek presses to your shoulder. One final hiccup rattles out of him, soft and damp.

Then stillness.

You stroke a hand down his back and feel his breathing even out, the rhythm finally syncing with yours.

“See?” you whisper. “We’re okay.”

You hold him like that for a long time, rocking gently, chin resting atop his head. His grip on your hoodie string tightens once more, like he knows this is something new, something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he wants to keep it.

You kiss the top of his head, right over a little fuzz of hair.

“Welcome to the world, baby boy,” you murmur. “Let’s make it better than the one you came from.”

You hear the bathroom door creak open before you see him. He appears in the doorway, soft footsteps, damp hair dripping onto his shirt, a slight limp that he’s trying (and failing) to hide. He’s in one of his plain black tees and a pair of sweats that hang low on his hips, clean for the first time in hours.

But he looks older.

Not just tired, aged. Like whatever he saw in that warehouse tonight carved something new into his bones. His shoulders are hunched. His hands tremble at his sides. He’s blinking too much, like the light hurts.

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

You’re still on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, and the baby, your baby now apparently, is curled into your chest, wrapped in the fluffy towel, finally calm. One chubby fist clings to your hoodie drawstring. His little mouth hangs open slightly, breath puffing soft and warm against your collarbone.

Jason sees the two of you and stops like he’s been gut-punched.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

You meet his eyes.

“Well,” you say softly, “you missed bath time.”

He swallows. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse. “You look…natural.”

“Do not make a MILF joke right now,” you warn him.

His lip twitches. Not quite a smile. But almost.

He crosses the room slowly, barefoot and silent, and sinks onto the coffee table across from you, elbows on his knees. His eyes don’t leave the baby. You watch his fingers flex, twitch, then curl into fists against his thighs.

He’s still shaking.

You shift the baby slightly so he’s more visible. “He’s clean now,” you murmur. “Mostly soot. One scratch. Nothing serious.”

Jason nods, jaw clenched tight.

“Want to hold him?”

He blinks. “I—I’ll drop him.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I’m not—he’s so small. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You look at him. Really look at him. The man who faced death a hundred times, the man who ran into fire tonight without flinching. He’s more afraid of this baby than he ever was of a bullet.

“You okay, Ma?” he asks, voice low.

“Jay,” you say gently. “Meet your son.”

Jason sucks in a breath.

You shift the baby carefully, transferring the little bundle into his arms. Jason’s muscles go taut. You guide his hands. One behind the neck. One under the towel. The baby stirs a little, but does not wake.

Jason just stares.

“Our son,” he says quietly. Then, softer, like it costs him something: “You’re already better at this than me, Ma.”

“Not a competition.”

“If it was, you’d be winning.”

You smile. “Let me know when you’re ready for diaper duty.”

He doesn’t laugh. His throat bobs.

“He held onto me,” Jason says. “When I picked him up. Like he was already used to me. Like he knew.”

“He probably did,” you reply. “You’re loud.”

“Sweetheart.”

You glance at him, lips twitching.

He looks back, eyes full of something you don’t have a name for, and murmurs, “You’re killing me here.”

You grin. “Good.”

He snorts, and the sound breaks something in both of you.

You pull a small notepad from the coffee table and hand it to him. Folded. Torn out with care. You made the list while he was in the shower, one-handed, with the baby hiccuping on your chest.

Jason takes it with one hand, still awkwardly cradling the baby in the other.

He unfolds it.

Formula (small can to test for allergies) Bottles (with the little slow-flow nipple things) Diapers (Get all from size newborn to size 3 just to be sure) Wipes (unscented, non-alcohol) Pacifier (whatever brand looks trustworthy) Blanket

He stares at it for a second.

Then he says, “You’re terrifying when you’re calm.”

“You said that already.”

“Still true.”

He glances up. “You sure you’ll be okay here?”

You raise a brow. “I just cleaned a crime scene off a one-month-old with gun wipes and wrapped him in a bath towel. I think I’ve earned your trust.”

Jason exhales, slow and shaky. He leans down, presses the gentlest kiss to the baby’s forehead. Then one to your temple.

“I’ll be back in ten,” he says, voice gruff. “Don’t let him grow up without me.”

“No promises,” you say, already pulling the baby back into your arms. “He’s learning fast. Got a strong grip.”

He grabs his keys and is halfway out the window before you call out, “Hey!”

He pauses.

“You’re doing good,” you tell him.

He looks over his shoulder, silhouetted by the streetlight behind him.

“Only ‘cause I’ve got you” he says.

Then he disappears into the night.

You look down at the baby, who is still fast asleep, tiny chest rising and falling like the most fragile promise.

“Well,” you whisper. “That went okay.”

The baby grunts.

You take that as agreement.

–

You and the baby were doing okay for a while.

After Jason left, you wrapped the baby a little tighter in the towel and curled up on the couch with him tucked against your chest. The apartment was warm, quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle of the blanket nest you’d made. You could feel the baby’s little breaths on your collarbone: slow, sleepy, steady.

You thought maybe you’d both doze off.

But then he shifted.

Just a little.

His head tilted back, eyes blinking open. Still a little glazed from fatigue, but alert now. Searching.

And you watched him look around the room.

His gaze skipped past the shelves, the ceiling, the lamp. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t newborn twitchy nonsense. He was looking.

Your chest squeezed.

“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing a thumb along his cheek. “I miss him too.”

The baby let out a soft sound. Not quite a cry. Just a broken little whimper, like something in his tiny chest had snapped loose.

And then came the tears.

Big, hiccupy sobs, full of confusion and exhaustion and something too big for his little body to hold. His face scrunched. His fists clenched in the towel. He started wailing like his heart was breaking.

And somehow, that was the thing that undid you.

You tried. You really did. You held him, rocked him, whispered, “Shh, baby, shh, he’ll be back soon,” over and over again.

But your voice wobbled. Your throat tightened. And somewhere between one sob and the next, your own tears started falling.

You’re still crying when the window opens.

You don’t look up at first. You just whisper, “Jay?” like maybe you’ve imagined him, like maybe you’ve gone soft with shock and longing.

But then—

That’s when the window bangs open again.

You jump, clutching the baby tighter, but then—

“Sweetheart,” Jason breathes, breathless and wind-chapped and bag-laden, “I’m back. I got it all. I—holy shit, are you crying?”

“No,” you sniff, snuggling the baby closer. “We’re both crying.”

Jason’s face crumples. He’s across the room in two strides, bags thunking to the floor.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, crouching in front of you. “It was ten minutes. What happened?”

“He missed you,” you whisper, gesturing at the baby. “I missed you.”

Jason leans forward and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your temple, like he’s trying to seal the cracks. “I’m here now. Okay? You’re not doing this alone.”

The baby lets out one last watery squeak before going quiet, little fists still clinging to your hoodie strings like they’re lifelines.

Jason exhales hard. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

He scoops the bags off the floor and starts unloading: bottles, formula, wipes, a six-pack of tiny diapers, a giraffe pacifier, and, somehow, a stuffed penguin wearing a bowtie.

“I panicked,” he says when you lift an eyebrow at the penguin. “He looked trustworthy.”

You laugh, a little teary still, and set the baby down gently on the blanket-nest you made on the couch. “Okay. You want bottle or diaper?”

Jason eyes the baby warily. “I’ll take diaper. Can’t mess that up too bad, right?”

You make a noise that is not confirmation and head to the kitchen to figure out formula.

Behind you, Jason crouches over the baby like he’s defusing a bomb. “Alright, little man. Let’s not make this weird.”

You’re measuring formula powder into the bottle when you hear a yelp.

“Did he pee on you?”

“Direct hit.”

You bite back a snort. “Wipes are next to you.”

Jason mutters a prayer to whatever gods govern newborn hygiene and starts cleaning up. You screw the bottle lid on and flick the kettle on to heat a little water.

A minute later, you yelp and yank your hand back.

“Babe?” Jason says, halfway through taping the diaper.

“Burned my finger,” you say, holding it under cool water. “He better appreciate this. Formula smells like wet chalk.”

Jason is quiet for a second. You look over and shout out, “You okay?”

“I’m fine. You?”

You glance down at your finger, still under cool water, then over at him, on the floor in front of the couch, legs splayed awkwardly, baby wrapped in a blanket in his lap like something sacred and possibly radioactive.

“I’ve never been better,” you say.

You mean it.

Jason searches your face, like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. But you watch the tension in his shoulders loosen, just a little. The kind of shift that says okay, we can breathe now. Just for a minute.

You dry your hands on your hoodie and grab the warm bottle from the counter. “Alright, Jay,” you say gently, “feeding time.”

He adjusts the baby in his arms slowly, carefully. Like he’s still convinced one wrong move will make the kid detonate. But the baby just blinks up at him, quiet now, eyes big and glassy.

You lean in, helping Jason guide the bottle toward the baby’s mouth. “Remember what the video said? Just enough tilt to keep the nipple full.”

“Like a fuel injector,” he mutters, which is a sentence that absolutely does not belong here and yet somehow fits perfectly.

Then softly, hesitantly the baby latches.

Jason freezes.

And then the baby starts drinking.

A tiny sound, halfway between a slurp and a sigh, escapes his mouth as he settles in, hands curled against Jason’s shirt like he’s staking a claim.

Jason’s voice is barely audible. “He’s eating.”

You press your shoulder against his. “You’re feeding him.”

“Holy shit.”

You laugh. “Exactly what the baby was thinking, I’m sure.”

The room is so still. Gotham hums beyond the windows with distant sirens, the occasional horn, but inside, it’s just the three of you. Just this quiet miracle.

The baby drinks slowly, pausing now and then to blink up at Jason. There’s something so trusting in that look, like he already knows this is his person. Like he knew the moment soot-covered arms scooped him from the wreckage.

You rest your head on Jason’s shoulder. He leans into you instinctively.

“I thought I broke everything I touched,” he says quietly.

“You didn’t break him.”

He looks down again, awe softening the edges of his face. “No. I didn’t.”

When the bottle’s almost empty, you pull back gently. “Okay. Now for part two.”

Jason squints at you. “Part two?”

“Burping. Remember the video?”

Jason blinks. “Oh God.”

You laugh. “Don’t panic. We’ve got this.”

You lift the baby from his arms and place him carefully against your shoulder, one hand supporting the back of his head, the other patting his back in slow, rhythmic taps.

Jason watches like it’s surgery.

“Not too hard,” he murmurs. “Not too soft. Just right.”

“What is he, a porridge?”

“I swear—”

And then the baby lets out a very small, very proper burp.

You both freeze.

Jason’s mouth drops open. “That was—he—he did it.”

You beam. “He did it.”

“No you did it. You’re the baby whisperer.”

You lower the baby back down, curled against your chest now, heavy with milk and sleep and trust.

Jason reaches out and brushes a single finger down the baby’s back. His hand is so big next to that tiny body, but the touch is impossibly gentle.

“He looks like he’s already dreaming,” Jason whispers.

You nod, watching the baby’s eyelids flutter. “I hope it’s something soft.”

A pause. Then:

“What do you think he dreams about?” Jason asks.

You smile. “Right now? Probably warm bottles. And maybe you.”

Jason’s quiet for a beat too long.

You glance over.

He’s staring at you.

Like the world just narrowed down to you and the sleeping baby and the way your voice wraps around both of them like a blanket.

“I really love you,” he says softly.

You blink.

“Say it again.”

“I love you”

You smile. You tilt your head until your temple touches his.

“Back at you.”

The baby lets out one last sigh and goes completely still.

You and Jason don’t move. You just sit there, watching the baby sleep, your arms wrapped around the beginning of something new. Something that still smells like formula and burnt fingers and trust.

And the thing is?

You’re not scared.

Not even a little.

[tubeon-deactivated20260110]

This is my “if dick casually mentioned he did a little ballet in the circus so Bruce buys him some choes nd he’s instantly hooked on them forever” au

[tetzoro]

☆ 4:32 AM. bruce wayne x f!reader. alcohol use, kissing. bruce comes home to you after patrol. — WC : 860

The shadowy streets of Gotham begin to burn from memory as the glow of the flickering fireplace washes over Bruce’s face. The night had been long, grueling. The familiarity of home wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak, far warmer than the one he wore when he was the bat.

One hand rests on the mantle, eyes boring into the flames that lick along the brick, the other hand swirling around the glass of whiskey he was nursing – neat, aged, and probably more expensive than he’d care to think about.

Gulping down another sip, he’s not surprised it doesn’t burn as it scratches down his throat, the sting faded long ago as he’s found there are far more painful things in the world. The sensation is almost a reprieve – a spark, a whisper that tells him he’s still alive. Bruce lets out a tired exhale through his nose, turning away from the fireplace and back to you.

You always tried to stay up for him no matter how many times he’s pleaded with you not to. There’s never any telling when he’d make it home, anywhere from looming dusk to the murmur of dawn. No matter the time, he’d always find you fast asleep and curled up on the couch, under a mountain of blankets that Alfred no doubt draped over you.

“There you are.” Your voice is soft as you sit up on the couch and you gently rub your eyes. The shirt you’re wearing, or rather his shirt, slips down your shoulder as you readjust yourself, his gaze traveling along the bare skin. He tosses back the rest of his drink, placing the glass on the table next to the bottle that whispers for more.

“I thought I told you not to wait up.” He tries to match your gentle tone, but it comes out as a low rumble, gravelly from the hours of using the Batman voice. Bruce’s fingers ghost over your bare shoulder before sliding the fabric back up, placing a soft kiss as if to keep it in place.

“You smell like whiskey,” you hum, curling deeper into him. Your head rests against his broad chest, synching with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Guilty.” He murmurs, brushing a kiss atop your head.

“Can I taste?” The question makes his body lurch, one so sweet and innocent like you weren’t asking for something that was meant to numb all of it away. Bruce looks at you for a moment, ever assessing.

“Just a taste,” He says, more to himself than to you. His hand finds your jaw, easing your face closer to his with a tenderness that all of Gotham would never see. But with you, the armor unbinds and the mask slips off, revealing a man who loves you with all of his heart.

Bruce kisses you, deeply, slowly. Every languid press of his lips leaves you melting into the touch. The faint burn of whiskey coats your mouth – smoky, bitter, laced with an addicting heat. But the simple glide of his tongue overpowers all of it with a taste so distinctly him.

“Well?” he asks curiously.

“It's strong, but good.” You look up at him, love and affection swimming in your eyes. It tugs at his heartstrings. “Just like you.”

Bruce's breath hitches, your words punching him far harder than anything else had tonight. He all but melts into a smile, leaning in to capture your lips with his once again.

The kiss was different than before. The heat died down in lieu of everything else he longed to say. Yet the words escape him, leaving his suave mouth rendered powerless as it yields to yours. All he can hope is that the feelings push through – relief, gratitude, love. Things he never thought he’d have the privilege of experiencing so deeply, so intensely.

He pulls away, a little out of breath as his forehead presses against yours. The faint aroma of whiskey lingers in the air along with the unsaid words. The three little words that he hasn’t had the courage to say yet, knowing that with his lifestyle they can become a curse more than a blessing.

Gently, he caresses your cheek. The fire fights to stay bright, a dull glow overshadowed by the promise of dawn peeking through the window. The dual lighting swirls across your features, making you shine.

“We should get to bed.” There’s nothing he wants more than to lay down in the luxury of his bed, wrap you up tightly in his arms, and peacefully slumber the better half of the morning away. The ghosts of Gotham disperse as your love floods in and drowns it all away.

Hand in hand, you retire to your shared bedroom, a cozy little sanctuary to hide from the world. Everything else begins to fade away, leaving you in each other's wake.

They say the sun never rises in Gotham, but as Bruce’s eyes begin to shut, he knows that’s far from the truth. The love that beats in his heart is the one that falls steady with your breaths knowing that as long as you’re together, he’ll always see the hope of a new day.

thank you for reading ᰔ

[fragrantvilra]

┆ DATING J.TODD HEADCANONS ˊˎ-

Word count: 1k+

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Content: My headcanons of what dating Jason Todd would include!

Warnings: no warnings! Just slight mentions of Jason’s trauma.

Vilra’s notes: this man is unpredictable, like I actually had a little hard time coming up with realistic Headcanons for him . . Good lord my thumbs hurt . . enjoy!

Jason Peter Todd.

A man with a life of chaotic ballet on rooftops, distinctive smell of gunsmoke, halfway finished bad coffee, and the perpetual ache of old wounds.

He’d died, came back spitting rage, built a life (if you can call it that) out of defiance and semi-legal operations.

Yeah, that’s him.

But underneath all that stealth layers, there was another fragile layer. One he hadn’t anticipated, one that felt terrifyingly frangible and mulishly solid : Being in a relationship.

Jason? The man who exists in the shadows of the Crime alley? The man who was was built to destroy anything in his path? A man of vengeance? The whole concept felt alien to him, like wearing a second skin that’s not his.

He was a walking, talking paradox wrapped in Kevlar and a death wish. Yet here he is, the resurrected delinquent, the one who'd been branded a monster, a failure, too violent, too angry – having a little girlfriend.

BEING AN UNSUBTLE PROTECTOR

Now Jason, isn’t a man of subtle. This is applied doubly to protection. While on a mission, it’s painfully obvious — taking hits, dodging bullets, delivering punches, covering flank, laying down suppressing fire. But in a civilian life? It was almost comical if you think about it, IF it wasn't so intensely ingrained.

Walking down a busy street was a tactical exercise. He’d naturally place himself between you and the road and have you closer to him and away from any potential threat – an off looking guy, a group of loud drunks, even just someone walking too fast behind you . . His arm wouldn't necessarily be around your waist in a romantic gesture, but his hand might rest lightly on the small of your back, a grounding weight, or his body would simply shift, inserting himself as a physical buffer.

He would notice EVERYTHING. I kid you not. He’d notice when a guy’s gaze lingered on you for too long, or a car that slowed down just a tiny bit, or someone who would lowly whistle your way. He noticed. He’d tense and keep his guard up as his eyes scans over the area like second nature. Probably would murmur something non-committal like “stick close.”

He knows your routine better than you do. what time you usually left for work, which coffee shop you go to, the routes you took.

Not in a creepy stalking way (mostly), but in a 'knowing the vulnerable points of a target' way that had been repurposed, clumsily, for care. If you were ever late, his texts would start, deceptively casual at first -"Traffic bad?"- escalating quickly to the kind of blunt concern that made it clear he was ready to mobilize the League of Assassins himself if you didn't answer.

There was this one time where you’ve had been startled by a noise outside his safe house – just a black cat that sprinted from underneath a car and between your legs. You jumped and a tiny noise leaving your lips, and he was INSTANTLY between you and the car, gun half-drawn from its ankle holster within a second, body rigid, eyes narrowed. The transition from relaxed to coiled predator was terrifyingly fast. It took him a good agonizing moment to register it was just a damn black cat that’s scurried away now, another moment to visibly force himself to relax, holstering the weapon, and then, awkwardly, he’d just . . . put his arms around you, holding you tight for a second, burying his face in your hair, a silent apology for the scare his own reaction caused, and a reassurance of safety.

His protection isn’t just about external threats; it’s about trying to create a bubble of safety around you, even from the danger and echos of his violent world.

AWKWARD ACTION-ORIENTED AFFECTION

Words of sugary affection? Forget it. ALL of it. That man will utter the phrase “I love you.” Once or even twice if you’re lucky. perhaps in a moment of extreme vulnerability or after something near-fatal happened. It wasn't his primary language really.

His affection would be showed through actions. He would make sure you ate, even if it meant swinging by your work with a suspicious-looking bag of tacos from a food truck he vetted for poison and general sketchiness. He’d fix things that were broken in your apartment with surprising competence, muttering curses the whole time but getting the job done either way. If you were cold, he’d wordlessly drape his (usually slightly-too-big, worn and engulfed in gunpowder) jacket around your shoulders with his arm securely curled around you.

Physical touch is a key language. But then again, He isn’t exactly a traditionally-romantic guy. Less hand holding (unless it was to pull you out of danger) and more a heavy arm slung around your shoulders. when you were sitting on the couch, leaning his weight into you, Standing next to him, walking beside him. His arm will always find its way around your shoulder.

Along with sleeping together, it often involves him holding you tightly, almost possessively, one arm wrapped around your waist, his face tucked into your hair or the back of your neck. It felt less like a tender embrace and more like anchoring himself to something real and warm in the dark. Sometimes you’d wake up and he’d just be watching you sleep, a strangely soft, unguarded look on his face that vanished the second he saw your eyes open.

And when he gifts you things? Oh my god.

His "gifts" were either intensely practical for survival or incredibly thoughtful in a way that bypassed conventional romance entirely.

He brought you a sturdy lock for your door, mumbling about “more safety if I’m not here to protect you.” A surprisingly well-made (and maybe slightly weaponized) keychain he’d probably modified himself.

A high quality first aid kit that’s ridiculously expensive (you never asked where he got it from, he just did.) Or, conversely, something deeply specific and personal that showed he actually listened, a rare comic issue, a specific type of obscure tea, a beat-up copy of a book you mentioned ONCE. where can I find a man like him in this economy🥀

THE DOMESTIC ANIMAL (reluctantly)

Jason Todd wasn't built for domesticity. His apartments/safe houses were usually functional, spartan, and often smelled faintly of gunpowder and old pizza. Yet, having you changed some things, even if he resisted it.

He’d start noticing things — like maybe you needed more than one mug, or that having actual food in the fridge (beyond expired milk and questionable leftovers that had you concerned over his health) was a good idea. He might also grudgingly allow you to bring plants in, pretending to be annoyed by them but secretly finding the splash of green calming, even takes care of them gently when you’re not around. He’d clear a space for your things, maybe even buy a cheap dresser or shelf just for you, a small, almost invisible gesture of permanence.

Cooking wasn't his thing. Since all he was used to was cheap takeouts or a quick dry cereal with bitter black coffee, but he could manage basic, survival-oriented meals. Expect a lot of grilled cheese, pasta with jarred sauce, or whatever he could nuke when you’re with him. But sometimes – just sometimes, on a quiet night when he was feeling particularly grounded, he might attempt something more ambitious, following a recipe with intense from a cookbook, focused concentration, the results usually edible but slightly chaotic. He’d be absolutely proud of it, in his own gruff way of course. More often, domesticity meant ordering takeout together, sprawled on a worn couch, watching a terrible action movie, his head resting on your lap or yours on his chest. These quiet, mundane moments were islands of peace for him.

He found comfort in the simple rhythm of sharing a space – the sound of you moving around, the way you smelled, the shared silence after a long day. It was a quiet anchor in a world full of noise and violence. He’d pretend he preferred being alone, complain about your habits (lightly), but the truth was, having you there was a quiet hum of reassurance he hadn't realized he needed. It makes him warm in the heart that definitely got him questioning if you were slowly cursing him or not.

NAVIGATING HIS TRAUMA MINEFIELD

This was the hardest part. Jason is a literal walking bundle of trauma responses. Sleep wasn't always restful. Nightmares were frequent and vivid – the Joker, the crowbar, the Pit, dying, failing. He might wake up silently shaking, covered in sweat, eyes wide and seeing things that weren't there.

His reaction varied. Sometimes he’d bolt upright, ready to fight, taking a moment to re-orient himself while breathing heavily. Sometimes he’d just go completely still and quiet, staring at the ceiling, lost in the loop of memory. Initially, he'd probably hate being seen like that, vulnerable and scared. He might even push you away if you tried to comfort him, or snap, telling you to mind your own business with a tone he definitely didn’t mean to let out. But you know he means nothing bad.

You had learned his tells. Learned when to offer a quiet presence, a hand to hold without pressure, and when to give him space. Learned that sometimes the best comfort wasn't words, but just being there, a solid, warm weight beside him until the tremors subsided and his breathing evened out.

Over time, he might lean into it – turning into your embrace, burying his face against you, using your presence to ground him back in the present. It was a slow, fragile process of learning to accept comfort, something he hadn't done in years, maybe ever.

His past also meant certain common triggers. Loud, unexpected noises could make him flinch violently. Confined spaces, depending on the day, could be difficult. Anything resembling chemical manipulation or torture would send him into a dark, quiet fury.

You had to navigate these unseen edges, learning what sent him spiraling and how to help him find his way back, or at least how to avoid making it worse. Patience, understanding, and a willingness to sit with uncomfortable silences were essential. He appreciated every single moment of you trying, trying to understand him, see him, willing to just be there for him. but he wouldn’t dare to voice it out loud, just would reply with a tight squeeze of your hand or a huff while tugging you closer.

UNEXPECTED SOFTNESS

Beneath the leather, the helmet, the rage, and the cynicism, there were layers of unexpected softness. These weren't things he'd show just anyone.

He might read to you. Not Shakespeare, probably some trashy sci-fi novel or a historical account of something grisly, but his voice, usually rough and sardonic, would smooth out, taking on a different rhythm. He had a surprisingly good reading voice when he wasn’t actively trying to sound like he was chewing glass.

He’d remember tiny details you’d forgotten you even told him – the name of your childhood pet, your favorite obscure band, the way you took your coffee. And he’d reference them later, casually, a small, quiet demonstration that he saw and heard you, distinguishing you from the blur of faces in his often-violent life.

He might sing along, quietly and off-key, to a song on the radio that he secretly liked but would mock relentlessly if anyone pointed it out. He’d have moments of absolute, uncharacteristic gentleness – brushing hair out of your eyes, tracing the line of your jaw with a calloused thumb, his touch surprisingly light. These moments were rare, fleeting glimpses behind the reinforced facade, and they were precious because of it.

He found genuine, uncomplicated joy in your happiness. Seeing you laugh, seeing you relaxed and safe, was a quiet victory in his internal war. He wouldn't say it, but the expression on his face, the slight softening of his eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed – those were his declarations of affection.

[dhazefawn]

‘You need your beauty sleep, pretty.’ The message is straightforward, direct and to the point. JASON never complicates any topic when it comes to you. Especially when it comes to taking care of yourself. Getting proper sleep, eating and resting—all of it is his top priority.

You try and get him to understand that staying up and waiting for him to get back from patrol is a detrimental part of taking care of yourself. Even a text from him has your body preening for his presence, even if you’re frowning at the message—you’ve been caught.

‘How do you even know I’m awake?’ You send him a message back. The fact he knows does something to you. There’s a mist flying over your body and consuming you. You feel yourself getting even more restless. The sheets feel somehow heavy on your body.

‘I can tell.’ He replies. Plus, he adds something about knowing you inside-out—habits and all that. You can’t even argue with that, because he is telling the truth. You can imagine the grin that dances on his stupidly handsome face right now.

You send some sarcastic quip back, annoyed about his rather ‘cocky attitude’—or so you tell him. But he knows it’s all just talk.

He knows when he returns and climbs into bed with you it will only take a second until your body seeks him out. It’s an instinct. You’ll wrap your arms around him and so will he. In your sleepy haze you’ll mumble his name and he swears that’s what heaven is and feels like.

You know he misses you just as much as you miss him. It’s proven by the voice note he sends you. A small gift, a blessing to your tired mind so needy for him.

“Sleep, pretty. I’ll be back before you even know it. Then you’ll have me all to yourself—night and morning.”

[killakalx]

18+ content, roleplay (technically), slight breeding kink, short n sweet srry… buttt it’s inspired by this twt link :)

You aren't sure what you expected when you asked to fuck your boyfriend in his suit. at first, the appeal was his looks; somehow, Dick Grayson's perfect physic looks better in skin tight elastic than with nothing at all. but he's different. meaner. almost as if you're nothing more than another delinquient for him to deal with.

Dick—Nightwing—has you pinned on your back, legs closed and folded effortlessly against your chest, gloved hands gripping your thighs. by now tears have welled in your eyes as you weakly paw at his grasp for the third time. "D—ick," you choke out and gasp when his momentum fails to falter, "Dick, I wanna..”

“not my name, doll,” he almost snickers before groaning when you pulse at the name. and without a second to spare, his weight is pressed into you while keeping himself elevated, then he’s pummeling into your sore pussy— if you could hear yourself you’d think you were in a damn porno.

“oh, my god- Nightwing!” your own cry rings out through your body as you curl into yourself, turning away from his almost condescending in humiliation. a wave of pride pangs through his entire being and Dick moans, raven black hair hanging over his cowl when his gaze falls to your cunt.

God, he could keep you here forever. it’s not his usual thing; limiting the closeness between you two, making you beg and cry for a little kiss, not smothering you against his own body. but it’s hard for you not to be shy when you realize your boyfriend is the Nightwing, the same one that bludhaven women just wish were in their bed right now—and that alone makes it much harder for him to not feed is insatiable ego. “little louder and i just might give it to ya,” Dick teases, “c’mon, tell Nightwing what you need.”

“…cum,” you whine pathetically, “wan’ be filled up..” your tummy tightens again when his thumb massages your clit, smooth latex material of his glove making you flinch in pleasure. his fingers dig into your soft thighs as his pace quickens and you sigh, all dreamy and drawn out and debauched. Dick groans when slick gushes out your cunt and around his cock, and his free hand kneads your bouncing tits together before he can even think rationally of it.

“dirty girl,” Dick comments from deep within his throat, “fucking you nice and full isn’t enough? tell me you need it, my pretty slut.” your body shivers and you follow through with no thought. who are you to deny your protector?

“I need it, baby,” you beg, “need you to cum so bad.” your nimble hands wrap around his wrist and you keen at him, pouting and whimpering like you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself without him. “please, Nightwing? ‘been a good girl, just for you.”

“fuckin’ hell,” Dick groans, “take it then, pretty baby.”

[wingfleur]

# — breath play with jason todd.

the jason todd brainrot won out in the end. and what's a better way to celebrate than to post the filthiest draft i have for him lying around? | wc: 1.3k words.

cw: nsfw mdni (18+), afab!reader, porn no plot, explicit sex (p in v), undernegotiated kinks, breath play, dirty talk (jason's got a mouth on him), creampie, i rlly have no excuse for this so pls enjoy <3

thinking about breath play with jason todd. 

jason fucks like he’s trying to carve himself a place out inside of you— like he wants to mold you to the shape of him so that when he pulls out, you’re still sore and throbbing around a phantom of what he’s shaped like. one of his favorite ways to do that is to fuck you from behind with your back glued to his chest, nails scratching fruitlessly at the wall as he bullies his cock into you with filthy, measured thrusts. 

each roll of his hips is deep— so much so that it actually paralyzes you for a few moments with pure, unadulterated pleasure. you’ve tried to tell him to knock it off once before, saying that him grinding his hips into you like this makes you feel like a bitch in heat and causes your head to fill with static, but each time, he’s met you back with a half smirk and a raspy utterance of “is that so bad?” 

yes, you would argue. it is that bad, because right now, as jason todd fucks you with those slow, disarming strokes that send an endless stream of tingles down your spine, you let out the most pathetic noise you have ever made in your life. you can tell that jason’s lips quirk up at this– only because you know him so well and he has a reputation for being a smug piece of shit– but before you can scrape enough brain cells together to slur out something resembling a defense of your honor, he’s rubbing salt in the wound by using one of his big, calloused hands to cover your mouth. you’d be less irritated about how sexy all of this is if jason had the decency to act like he cared about smearing your lip gloss all over your chin, but he doesn’t. instead, he busies himself with peppering wet kisses up the side of your neck and face, pausing to hover his lips right over your ear.

“quiet,” he says lowly, his tongue poking out to run over the shell of your ear. “quiet, and i’ll make you feel real fuckin’ good. think y’can do that?”

delirious and disoriented from pleasure, you quickly nod, desperate and wanton against jason’s palm. he rewards your pliancy with a kiss– something soft and chaste against your temple, which, to you, is so incredibly out of place considering the way he currently has you speared on his cock. jason seems to know it, too, if the wicked grin he’s sporting is anything to go by, but even if you had the wherewithal to chew him out for it, you couldn’t; jason chooses that exact moment to duck his face into your neck and snap his hips against you at a bruising pace. 

your brain doesn’t last long before it starts melting out of your ears.

a garbled sound escapes you at the feeling— a cough, a choke, a mixture of both, you aren’t sure— and your eyes are rolling back into your head before you’re aware it’s even happening. it’s pathetic how you don’t even get a chance to try before your body chooses to disobey the very clear set of orders jason laid out for you, but it must be your lucky day, because your benevolent boyfriends seems to understand. you just can’t help it— his dick is too big, each thrust is too deep, and your head is far too empty to comply the way you usually do– so, clearly, your insubordination is not on purpose, and jason chooses to mostly let it slide. he won’t reprimand you like usual, or sink his cock to the hilt and stay there to make you squirm as you feel him in your stomach, but disobedience is disobedience. 

he has to punish you somehow.

“deep breath, baby,” jason mumbles, his palm moving to hover over your lips. he adjusts his hand over your mouth so he can position his pointer and index fingers over each side of your nose, and the moment you feel your lungs fill with air is the same moment you find yourself inhaling fruitlessly against jason’s palm.

his hand has formed a seal over your half-open mouth, and, if that wasn’t bad already, his fingers make it worse by pinching your nostrils shut. 

“there y’go,” jason grunts, feeling your weight stiffen, then relax against him. your cunt flutters around his cock and he sucks in a shaky breath, head swimming from how damp your slick has made his lower stomach and thighs. “that’s it, baby, relax. you got it. take it.”

if it were anyone else, you might have the urge to panic— to seize up and squirm in this grasp, desperate to get another gulp of air. it’s not anyone else, though– the person behind you is jason– and because you completely and utterly trust the fact that he would never cause you harm, you slump into it; jason lets you.

jason lets his grip on your nose go for a moment, enabling you to take a welcome break from the asphyxiation and a big breath to prepare for more. when he hears you inhale deeply, chest burning as your lungs fill with air, jason closes your nose back up right before you exhale. he punctuates it by pressing his lips to the side of your head. 

“jus’ a little more,” jason whispers, the weight of his chest practically crushing you against the wall. your chest sticks with sweat to the plaster, your stomach digging into the headboard. “gotcha all wet and messy f’me,” he says, the hand that’s not over your mouth coming to rub tight circles into your clit. “she’s gonna cum ‘round me real soon, huh? i can feel it.”

if you were any further out of your right mind, you would’ve considered jason a messiah from the way he’s reading your body language. he’s right: you are gonna cum around him soon— right now, actually, which is a realization that makes him laugh– and the way it washes over you has you seizing in his grip, then subsequently turning into a pile of mush. 

everything about your orgasm is making you feel lightheaded. mostly, it’s the lack of oxygen, but the pleasure you’re currently drowning in intersects with it in a way that would threaten to leave you addicted if jason didn’t drop his hand when he did. he slides that very same hand down to your neck, cradling your jaw with his fingers as his calloused palm sits against your throat. then, those same fingers— long, thick, and covered in a mix of your lip gloss and saliva from before— press into the bone of your jaw and force your head back onto his shoulder.

“fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect,” jason grunts, and his thrusts become sloppy as he allows himself to chase his pleasure. you ripple around him as the aftershocks of your orgasm wrack your body, and out of jason’s mouth comes a throat “fuck,” followed by a filthy admission of how you “feel so fuckin’ good” around him and that he’s “gon’ fill you up, just how y’like it.”

you whimper softly in reply— a sad sound punched out from the depths of your chest— and jason maniacally grins, turning his head so his canines can nip at your skin. he sucks and bites marks into you until he cums, handling you like a cherished sex doll as his body melts you the wall. jason’s hips twitch sporadically until he’s finished, and when he finally comes down, he stops, fixing his lips to kiss you softly across all the marks he’s left on your skin. 

“thank you,” jason mumbles quietly, wrapping his arms around you and falling back. he takes you down to the bed with him, where he slips out of you and lies on his back, positioning you carefully so you can rest your head on his chest. 

“love you,” you softly say in reply, letting your leg drape across his and your eyes fall shut. jason’s warm hand finds your head and fiddles with strands of your hair, kneading them between his fingers before letting them fall back to your head. 

“love you too, baby. g’night.”

# — navigation

[ahmad-ziyad]

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Voting ended onMay 16, 2025

[fromdove-deactivated20251112]

Jason’s always lived like he’s bracing for something to fall apart.

He doesn’t mean to — it’s just instinct by now. Keep things at a distance. Don’t get too soft. Don’t name anything you don’t want to lose.

But then you came along. Quiet at first, patient in a way that didn’t ask anything from him. You didn’t try to fix him. You just sat beside him when the nights stretched too long. Let him ramble about books you hadn't read just to hear him talk. Listened, actually listened, when the silences got heavy.

And now, here he is. Sitting on the kitchen counter of the manor in the middle of the night, his hoodie pulled over his broad frame — sleeves pushed up — texting you back with a half-smile he doesn’t bother to hide.

The message is simple. You still awake? I miss you.

He’s barely set the phone down when Bruce walks in, looking like he hasn’t slept since the Cold War. Jason freezes, then relaxes. It’s just Bruce. Not that that makes things less complicated.

Bruce gives him a long, unreadable look, then glances down at the phone Jason tried and failed to shove under his thigh.

“Do they know who you are?” Bruce asks — not in a threatening way.

Jason’s quiet for a beat. “Yeah,” he says finally. “they know.”

“And they stayed?”

Jason lifts his eyes. “Yeah,” he says again. “they stayed.”

Bruce just nods, like that’s enough of an answer. Maybe it is.

Later, when Jason’s back in his apartment, boots kicked off and your arms tucked around his waist under the blankets, he presses a kiss to your temple. You shift sleepily, murmuring something against his chest. He doesn’t catch the words. Doesn’t need to.

He lies awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, his fingers brushing soft circles against your shoulder.

And for the first time in a long time, he’s not bracing for impact. He’s just… here. With you.

Maybe some things don’t have to fall apart. Maybe some things stay.

[nyukaart]

My two babies