#Jason's bookshelf

[glitter-stained]

Let's build Jason a bookshelf !

Pride and Prejudice - homeboy is an Austen fan canonically, we need at least this one.

Hamlet -do I need to say more? Do I?

Water for the elephants: He won't admit it, but the book reminds him of Dick, and he reads it any time he misses him. It's angsty enough to maintain a front while actually being a romance with a satisfying ending.

The Outsiders: It's not just that the story is relatable and really well written; it's the themes of loyalty, grief and heroism, and the imagery and hopefulness shining through, and it's the way Johnny reminds him of Roy and sometimes, after Roy's death, he will close his eyes and picture the two of them together in an abandoned church, in that quiet space safe from the war raging outside, reading Gone With the Wind while Roy provides uncharitable commentary about the characters' decisions.

Under The Whispering Door (TJ Klune): This one was gifted to him by Tim because "the main character is an asshole ghost, I thought you might relate." Of course, these idiots could talk to eachother about emotions and go to therapy, but why do that when you can bait your brother into reading a story that will help him process a bit of his relationship with his own death and the family? The worst part is, it worked great, and Jason is so upset that it became one of his favourite books. (The part about the stages of grief is scientifically inaccurate, though. He would know.)

A compilation of TS Eliot's works: Maybe it's because I'm a big fan of TS Eliot and Jason, but every time I reread one of his poems, I think about Jason and I'm sad. The Hollow Men, in particular about the fallen soldiers from WWI, hits so hard as a Jason poem, especially when you consider he lived through the explosion but died of smoke inhalation.

Flowers for Algernon: After losing Bizarro, Jason rereads it often, sitting on rooftops, every time the sky is bright enough to see the stars. He reads it out loud, and the words burn his tongue and taste bitter every time every time, but he likes to pretend his friend is listening, and feels a little less alone.

The Oresteia: This one belongs to the list Jason has read many times and should probably read less, because he projects the tragedy onto his real life and it's a bad influence that comforts him in the idea that he was doomed from the start and might as well burn the remains of the bridges with his family. Good luck trying to pry it out of his hands though! He also loves the idea of being seen at his worst, in the midst of all his hopelessness, and being loved anyway, cradled with unwavering devotion.

Frankenstein : He's a huge Mary Shelley fan, both as a person and a writer. As for Hamlet and the Oresteia, he definitely projects maybe a little too much of some of the characters, but hey, not everybody can brag that they relate to the Creature on such a visceral level.

What else would you guys add?

[malfiora]

Books that Jason Todd has read

That aren't written by the Brontës or Austen.

Faulkner (Mary Shelley)

Beloved (Toni Morrison)

Parable of the Sower (Octavia Butler)

Their Eyes Were Watching God (Zora Neale Hurston)

Jacob Have I Loved (Katherine Patterson)

Handmaid's Tale (Margaret Atwood)

The Prince (Niccolò Machiavelli)

Lolita (Vladimir Nabokov)

Discipline and Punish (Paul-Michel Foucault)

Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)

The Catcher in the Rye (J. D. Salinger)

Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoevsky)

Non-book Classics

The Color Purple films – he'll never admit that he prefers watching these to reading the book

It's a Wonderful Life – because Bruce and Dick insist on watching this film every Christmas (this is a BTAS joke, iykyk)

This American Life podcast – once he learns what podcasts are

The Matrix trilogy – because of the conversations about savior complexes, religion, and reality. We don't talk about the fourth movie

---

I imagine that Jason would read philosophy books about human nature, society, and governance to inform his opinions about how things should be. He would also read stories about young protagonists who struggle due to being marginalized and/or victimized and develop very nuanced perspectives on the way the world works, and he rereads these for comfort. I wanted to focus on lesser known classics, especially American novels written by women and BIPOC folks, because those don't always come to mind as readily.

[glitter-stained]

Okay so:

> mostly English classics (and other stuff I think? Not clear as to what country every book is from) for Jason, everyone added awesome stuff in the reblogs

> a classic of Brazilian literature for a vindicated Jason with the good old dark humour : The Posthumous memories of Bras Cubas

> some very incomplete pondering on Jason's taste in philosophy

Very interested to check out the stories you just mentioned!

As someone not from an English-speaking country, who did not have to read that many foreign classics in school, I'm desperately trying to figure out what would be good readings of some English/American classics Jason would've read so I'm not parroting total bullshit while writing. Anyway here's also a listing of the classics from my country that I have read:

Seven brothers escape law and want to live as bachelors but eventually learn to be proper citizens. At least one house is burned before the ending

Harships and political commentary for the times when voting became an equal right. The book ends when a bear kills the main character out of nowhere

A perfectly normal young man from a little village who is unnaturally good at everything takes part in Olympics and wins everything, has a kid, and then shoots himself to space with a cannon

Almost 800 pages of weirdly accurate detailed depiction of Ancient Egypt written by a guy who had never been to Egypt

A woman becomes a werewolf

A teenager is sent to help out with his relative's farm over the summer like two hours away from where he lives. Boinks a girl in the forest at the end. None of the tv-adaptations are accurate to the book in a way that only ever bothers me

Moomins.

Anyway I'm going to probably make Jason read at least one of these for shits and giggles.

[puppetmaster13u]

Batman Au where the Waynes are a Gotham-based branch of the Addams family

[glitter-stained]

@timstolejasonscorpseagain *deep sigh*

I have a lot of thoughts about Jason, philosophy and his development, unfortunately those thoughts are very convoluted and I have yet to reach a conclusion, mostly because I'm not that cultured and have yet to find the time to do all the philosophy reading to solidify my positions or question my doubts, which I why I tend to avoid talking about it until I'm confident I won't say something so baffling in its stupidity it will change someone's stance on a completely unrelated subject of out sheer disdain. With that being said, and thanks to the lovely vulgarisation function of our friend wikipedia, I am now fascinated with the idea of Jason reading Kierkegaard and his stance on the "leap of faith".

Now my starting point position on Jason's character in relation to love and as christic symbolism is detailed in this post down there, but the gist of it is that heroes/antiheroes don't have to be motivated by a moral code but can be motivated by love, and that's what makes Jason my favourite comics character, that his development and motivation are based on love, and that we have a nice parallel between Bruce as The Father, the Law, the Lord with a moral code that cannot yield, VS Jason as The Son, Jesus, an approach to christianity based on love (though of course Jason's lost days/utrh arc is a dark retelling, a "dark jesus" if you will).

Note that the interesting thing about philosophy is that not everybody agrees you should base your behaviour on an unyielding code of conduct, things you mustn't do because they are inherently bad: we have deontology, virtue ethics, utilitarism and other types of consequentialism, but also ethics (as understood by Levinas), agape (as per Amélie Nothomb), a lot of shit I'm not smart enough to understand and probably a lot of other stuff I've never heard about because, again, I haven't done my reading. And I wanna see more superheroes living through these stances, and not just deontology or utilitarianism, and I think Jason's stance on love could lead to a fascinating development in that direction.

Now, taking a deep breath,a chill pill and thinking about Jason as a he is right now, as a character, and whether he would have this or that book on his bookshelf. About Kierkegaard's "leap of faith*, Wikipedia tells us:

People who have actually opened a book written by Kierkegaard know more than on the matter so feel free to correct me on the matter but I would say yes, @timstolejasonscorpseagain , to answer your question I think he would love reading Kierkegaard. I'll also highlight that no, despite the theology and judeo-christian culture in which those theories are soaked, I don't hc Jason as christian, and I think the most important part of the leap of faith in regards to Jason is how it relates to love rather than God. However, we can't ignore that context, and that's one of the biggest limits of my analysis of Jason's philosophy, the fact that I was so deeply soaked in it myself growing up that I'm still widely ignorant of the other options and outlooks. One day I'll make a better, more developed post about the potential of Jason's ethics switching from utilitarism to platonic love aka agape (from Compte-Sponsville but mostly Amélie Nothomb), how fascinating it is that one of Kierkegaard's biggest critic is Levinas because of Levinas' ethics vs "christian love" in relation to Cass vs Jason and the potential of reconciliation between the two that Amelie Nothomb suggests, but for now all you get is this very narrow outline. Hope that at least answers the question, and if anyone has suggestions of authors I can read and look up to narrow that view, feel free to share them if you want!

Literature nerd Jason this and that, but no one says that he would become obsessed with the book where the narrator is dead and is reminiscing about his life and whose epigraph is a dedication (of the book) to the worm who first gnawed on the cold flesh of his corpse 💀

[notrobinsomethingworse]

Kid!Tim, showing Robin his room: So we have my photography cubby, not to be confused by my homework cubby. Then my desk, bed, conspiracy wall, wardrobe, other desk for my conspiracy wall-

Robin!Jason, nodding along with a fake smile. Pointing towards a side desk with candles and several framed photos of Batman: And what’s that over there.

Tim: oh that’s just my Batman shrine.

Jason: Ah.

Tim: Anyway! This is the kennel for all four of my stuffed dogs, my bookshelf for my conspiracy wall-

[jellofish-plant]

Proof of Existence

Pairing: Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Reader Summary: You were used to waiting up for Jason after patrol, but you weren’t expecting Robin to be the one to climb through your window instead. Damian Wayne is determined to prove that Jason was lying about having a girlfriend, and unfortunately, that means invading your apartment at an ungodly hour. Things only escalate when he calls in reinforcements, and by the time Jason actually arrives, he finds you in the middle of a full-blown Wayne family interrogation.

Warnings: Fluff, sleep deprivation, Batfamily chaos, Jason being grumpy but soft

[Masterlist]

You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you glanced at the clock. 2:37 AM.

Jason was late. Again.

You weren’t exactly worried he was Red Hood, after all but you hated waiting up for him, exhaustion pulling at your limbs while the city lights flickered outside your window.

You barely had time to close your eyes before you heard a rustling noise near the fire escape. Immediately alert, you tensed, but before you could reach for your phone, the window slid open.

A small, caped figure landed silently in your living room.

You blinked. “You’re not Jason.”

Damian Wayne Robin, Gotham’s tiniest menace straightened up, arms crossed over his chest as he scrutinized you with a critical gaze.

“So you are real,” he muttered.

You stared at him, still half-asleep. “Excuse me?”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Todd claims he has a girlfriend. I assumed it was a delusion. But…” He took a step closer, inspecting you like a rare specimen. “You exist.”

“Uh… yeah?” you said slowly, watching as he started pacing around the apartment.

“This is unfortunate,” he muttered to himself.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “It’s almost three in the morning, Damian. Did you break in just to confirm I’m not imaginary?”

“I could have waited for Todd to bring you to the Manor, but that would’ve taken forever.” Damian wandered over to the bookshelf, tilting his head as he scanned the titles. “Hmph. Your taste in literature is acceptable.”

“Oh, thank God, I was really losing sleep over that one,” you deadpanned.

Damian ignored you, already moving to your kitchen. He opened the fridge, scowled, then closed it again. “You don’t eat enough protein.”

You groaned, flopping onto the couch. “Jason is going to kill you when he finds out you’re here.”

“Tt. I doubt it.”

Unfortunately, before you could kick him out, he pulled a communicator from his belt.

“You’re not—”

Too late.

“Drake, come in. I have urgent news,” Damian said, voice completely serious.

There was a brief static crackle before a groggy voice responded. “Damian, it’s late. What could possibly—”

“She’s real.”

Silence.

Then—“No f**ing way.”*

You groaned loudly, covering your face with a pillow.

A few minutes later, your front door actually opened, this time with a key Tim Drake, still in his Red Robin suit but looking like he regretted every decision that led him here.

“Oh my God,” Tim breathed, staring at you like he’d just seen a ghost. “Jason actually has a girlfriend.”

“Why does everyone think I’m fake?” you demanded.

Tim grinned. “Because Jason refuses to let us meet you. Honestly, I thought you were just an excuse for him to leave family dinners early.”

Damian huffed. “As if Todd would be clever enough for that.”

You sighed. “Okay. Great. Mystery solved. You guys can leave now—”

Knock knock.

Oh, come on.

The door opened again, and in strolled none other than Dick Grayson—Nightwing himself—looking far too excited for this hour.

“Ohhhh, this is fantastic,” he said, beaming as he took in the scene. “We finally have proof! Jason’s not making it up!”

“I hate all of you,” you grumbled, pulling Jason’s discarded hoodie over your head as if that could make them all disappear.

“Are you being held against your will?” Dick asked, only half-joking.

“No, but I will commit a crime if you don’t let me sleep.”

Before Dick could respond, the window slammed open again.

“What the hell is going on?”

Jason stood on the fire escape, mask half-off, hair a mess, and murder in his eyes.

“Oh, hey, Jason,” Tim greeted casually. “Nice place.”

Jason’s eye twitched. “Are you—why—” He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “It is three in the goddamn morning.”

“Yes, I noticed,” you said dryly.

Jason turned to you, taking in the way you looked tired, wrapped in his hoodie, blanket half-falling off the couch. His jaw tightened. “Baby, why are you still up?”

You gestured vaguely to the three idiots in your apartment. “Ask them.”

Jason’s glare could’ve set the building on fire. “What the hell are you all doing here?”

“Confirming she’s real,” Damian said simply.

Jason groaned. “Are you kidding me? You—” He pointed at Damian. “Go home. You—” Now at Tim. “Stop enabling this. And you—” Dick raised his hands before Jason could finish.

“Relax, Jaybird,” Dick said, smirking. “We’re just excited to meet the girl you’ve been hiding.”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate all of you.”

“Are you two really dating?” a new voice cut through.

Stephanie Brown Batgirl was standing by the window now, her blonde hair messy from a night’s patrol. She crossed her arms, raising a brow at you. “I’m sorry, but I had to see for myself. I really thought it was just some weird ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ thing.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m just here for the popcorn,” Duke Thomas The Signal grinned from the doorway, joining the chaos with his own brand of enthusiasm.

Jason stood frozen, arms crossed, looking like he was about to explode. “This is not happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening,” Dick teased, leaning in and nudging Jason. “You can’t hide her anymore.”

Jason groaned, rubbing his face. “I swear to God…”

“Jason, relax,” you said, trying to calm him down, but your voice still laced with amusement. “Your family’s just a little... excited.”

Jason turned to you, his expression softening just a little. “I’m sorry, baby.” He pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I didn’t expect them to turn up like this, but…” He shot his family one last glare before pulling you closer. “I think I need some alone time with my girlfriend now.”

Everyone groaned in unison.

“You know what, fine,” Tim sighed, pushing himself off the wall. “We’ve gotten the proof we need. No more interruptions. You two have a good night.”

“You guys are the worst,” you muttered, laughing as Jason huffed beside you.

And when they finally filed out, leaving you alone with Jason, you sank back into his arms, letting the chaos of the Batfamily fade into the background.

Jason chuckled softly, kissing the top of your head. “Well, at least they like you.”

You smirked. “Yeah, I think I’ve officially been inducted into the Batfamily now.”

Jason snorted. “They’ll never leave us alone again, will they?”

“Not unless we’re really convincing at family dinners,” you teased.

Jason sighed, but there was a fond look in his eyes. “Maybe we’ll make a run for it next time.”

You laughed softly. “Sounds like a plan.”

[literary-dolly]

communication is key

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 3.6k warnings: sexual humour, implied sexual content (non-explicit), mention of insecurities

Jason accidentally leaves a comm behind in your apartment - it would be rude not to have a listen, right?

Part II

It’s safe to say your evening is currently painfully boring.

Make no mistake, scrolling through Netflix is a treasured pastime most days. Somehow, it just wasn’t scratching the itch alone on a Friday night, disappointed and aching for the presence your boyfriend.

Jason had left for patrol roughly an hour ago. It was supposed to be your night together – both of you had made sure to make time in the calendar to go on a long overdue date. Between your work and Jason’s late-night patrols (which often left him fast asleep until at least midday), it was difficult to orchestrate time specifically for the two of you. Yes, you ate dinner together most evenings, often casually basked in each other’s company as you tinkered around your shared apartment, but it wasn’t the same as date night.

Jason had been more than a little pissed when he’d gotten a phone call from Dick asking him to help with the patrol this evening, face falling as soon as the caller ID lit up his phone. Bruce had to rush out of town, he’d claimed, and they needed the extra manpower after a recent Arkham outbreak. You’d known the moment Jason’s shoulders sagged that he would go. It was in his nature as a vigilante. Presenting him with the opportunity to save some poor, unfortunate Gothamites was like dangling a bone in front of a dog and not expecting it to bite.

You tried not to let it sting. When Jason had confessed to you about his alter-ego, you’d known that there would be certain sacrifices in your relationship most would not have to contend with. You doubted there were many people who were jealous of the amount of time their boyfriend spent with the Penguin. It was an unconventional set-up by most standards, but the two of you made it work. It was only on the odd occasion that you truly felt the impact of Jason’s ‘career path’.

The silence in the kitchen had been deafening when he’d hung up the phone. It’s not that you were angry with Jason, or Dick, or anyone for that matter. You were just disappointed. You’d kept your mouth clamped shut as best you could out of fear that if it opened, words would trickle out in the heat of the moment you’d come to regret later on. Clearly, your silence was statement enough, because Jason had only pressed a kiss into your hair with a quiet promise to make it up to you before retreating into the bedroom to get ready for the long night ahead of him. He knew better than to press the issue.

As a result, you were perched on the couch exactly where Jason had left you. The absence of any plans you’d had for the evening left you restless, unable to settle into any particular task. And fucking hell you were bored.

It's just as you go to retreat into the bedroom to try and sleep off your lingering frustrations that you hear the crackling from the bookshelf tucked away in the corner, a short static sound that cuts through the silence of the apartment. It takes a few seconds for you to spot it, the tiny earpiece shoved behind an old, tattered paperback. Jason had been working on his suit earlier in the week, and you’d overheard his curt conversation with Bruce on the phone about needing a new set after breaking his old ones.

Not so broken, clearly.

Your curiosity is piqued enough to venture over to the shelf, plucking the tiny object up carefully to avoid breaking it any further. You’d seen Jason tinker with them before, most likely to scramble the tracking features that came with most of the tech Bruce had given him in recent years. You can hear the muted mumble of conversation, not clear enough to make out any distinct words but enough to know that there was a lengthy talk being had on the line.

It’s not your proudest moment as you slot it into your ear, and definitely, most likely, a severe invasion of privacy. Guilt twangs in the pit of your stomach, but hey – if Jason’s allowed to follow you home from the bodega to make sure you don’t get mugged in the precious fifteen seconds it takes, you can listen to a few minutes of radio chatter, right? You’re just looking out for him. Want to be close to him.

Yeah, right.

It’s uncomfortable, designed to be completely moulded to Jason, and there’s a persistent hum that won’t seem to fade (definitely a little broken) but the voices come to life almost instantly.

“I’m just saying, Empire Strikes Back is by far the superior film, and I won’t hear otherwise.”

“Must you fill our ears with such incessant chatter, Drake.”

“Codenames. And I don’t know, Robin, he’s kind of cooking.”

You recognise the final voice as Dick – the only member of Jason’s family you’d had the pleasure of meeting despite your nearing year-long relationship. It hadn’t been on purpose, naturally, Dick had spotted the pair of you in the window of a coffee shop and rushed over to corner Jason before he could formulate an escape plan that didn’t involve blowing up your favourite date spot. Jason had honest-to-god hissed when he saw his brother approach, and for a split second you were certain he was going to throw his tea over him.

In spite of Jason’s grumbling, you’d taken an instant liking to the elder. He was charismatic, exuberant and kind, and quite frankly it was hard not to bask in the warmth of his presence. As soon as he’d left, however, Jason had sworn that you were never going to meet the rest of his family if he could help it – and thus far he’d kept his promise.

Still, you were aware of the players on the board from the pieces you’d gathered in time spent with your boyfriend. The second voice, you had correctly identified, was Damian – or the Demon Brat as Jason often took to calling him when he came up. You have to stifle a laugh at his bravado. Much like the picture your mind had painted, the kid definitely had an aura about him.

That just left Tim, the first voice. Jason mentioned him the least of all of his siblings, and you found that when his name came up Jason seemed to shrink into himself somewhat, sometimes fading away, seemingly lost in memories he couldn’t quite escape. You knew that Jason had a troubled relationship with most of his family members at one point or another, having been spared the specifics, but your gut told you that there was something about his relationship with Tim that cut a tad deeper than the rest.

It was strange, to finally put voices to names. You can’t help the small smile that curves on your lips.

“Right, fess up, who taught Nightwing about ‘let him cook’,” A female voice rings out.

You filter through your previous conversations with Jason as you try to figure out who it could belong to, rapidly considering the vague descriptions he’d given you of Steph, Cass and Babs. It doesn’t take you long to decide it’s most likely Stephanie.

“Hey – could I not have just, I don’t know, learned about it myself?”

“Not likely, they probably didn’t have the internet until you were, what? Forty?”

“Tough talk coming from a girl who gave The Last Jedi five stars on Letterboxd.”

“You did what?”

“I must admit, Spoiler, that is disappointing.”

“Do any of you ever shut the fuck up?”

Your body thrums at the last one, and a breath tears its way out of your throat. Jason. It throws you off balance to hear him so brusk, a fire in his words that he rarely brought to the conversations you had - in your experience, it was typically reserved for when he stubbed a toe or let the pasta boil over on the stove. His voice sounds somewhat thick, and your stomach churns at the idea that your demeanour from earlier had rattled him so deeply.

You were well acquainted with Jason’s compulsion to work; he was completely and utterly addicted to it. So much so, that you’d failed to consider just how disappointed he might feel about missing your date too.

As if on cue, Tim’s voice rings out, “Aww, Hood’s upset because he was going to wine and dine his girlfriend tonight.”

“Red Robin…”

“I was being polite the first time, now I’m telling you. Shut the fuck up.”

The statement throws you a little, hearing Jason’s family discuss your relationship as though it were a common topic. The scraps of information Jason had given you about them were so few and far in between that you could only assume he had been the same on the other side of it. Quickly, you realise, that he probably had been – you could hazard a guess coming from a family of famed detectives didn’t exactly make it easy to keep secrets.

“I refuse to believe that Red Hood has a partner,” Damian’s words are impossibly snide, “Who could possibly want to spend any more time with him than is absolutely necessary?”

You make out a few giggles after that, namely Tim and Steph, who seem to be basking in the concept of making Jason as miserable as possible. It’s Dick that steps in to shh them, chiding Damian with a measured tone that you’re sure could only have developed from years of dealing with this exact situation. The babble continues back and forth for a few minutes, and you can almost feel yourself beginning to sink into sleep as you listen to them bicker, someone occasionally slipping in some useful intel about a warehouse or rogue sighting. 

The line goes quiet when Jason lets out a harsh, “Oh, fuck!”

A pulse of lightning seems to shoot its way down your spine, and it takes more than you thought yourself capable of to not scream down the comm line.

“Hood?”

“Red Hood?”

“Hood, you okay?”

“Hood, status report, now.”

“I’m fine,” Jason bites out, a little bemused if nothing else, “My hip and knee are just stiff. Getting colder outside, ya’ know.”

The silence is deafening for a few seconds, and you can’t claim to know where everyone’s thoughts sink to, but you could guess it was to do with Jason’s sordid history.

That is, until Tim pipes up dryly, “So, what is that, like, rigor mortis?”

“Oh my god.”

“That’s so not okay, dude.”

“Holy shit.”

You wait eagerly in anticipation to hear Jason’s response. You couldn’t claim to know every detail of Jason’s past – it was something the two of you were slowly working on together. He was understandably cagey at the idea of talking about his experiences, so you never pressed, instead allowing him to offer up bits and pieces of information in his more vulnerable moments. In spite of that, you knew that Jason had died. There wasn’t another plausible explanation for the giant Y-scar that stretched its way across his chest. You’d worked for a long time on getting him to feel comfortable enough to be around you without a shirt on, comfortable enough to know you weren’t going to turn tail and run just at the sight. He hadn’t told you how or why – but the look in his eyes when he stared in the mirror for a second too long was enough to let you know it was certainly no fairytale.

Which is why it’s such a surprise when a deep, rumbling laugh filters through the earpiece, and you’re struck with the image of Jason perched on a rooftop somewhere chuckling to himself as he watches over the city. Within seconds there’s an orchestra of maniacal cackles pouring through the comms, and you’re fairly certain that the only one who isn’t laughing is Damian.

“Hood, does your partner know of your death and resurrection?”

Jeez, Damian, way to soften the blow.

Dick quickly jumps in to chastise his brother, sounding increasingly more exasperated with every word, “Robin, you can’t –”

“Yeah, she does,” Jason’s voice is surprisingly earnest, “Don’t think it bothers her, not really.”

Tim and Steph jump in almost immediately to make outrageous kissing noises, crooning Oh, Hood and I love you, Hood and other slightly more inappropriate comments. You’re certain if you looked in the mirror the colour of your cheeks wouldn’t be far off Jason’s helmet.

“Honestly, you two need to stop behaving like I don’t have your exact coordinates,” Jason huffs out, but you can hear the twinge of humour in his words. He’s not angry, not at all, if anything you’d say he was finding it funny.

“Seriously though, Hood,” Steph’s voice is somewhat strained from laughing, “When are you going to introduce us?”

“Never.”

“Come on, man.”

“Dick got to meet her!”

“I would be interested in assessing the capabilities of this civilian.”

“Yeah, well, she’s more than capable.”

Now that has a little more bite to it, and your chest swells with pride at Jason’s defensiveness. You’d always felt a tad insecure about how you compared to the rest of the people in Jason’s life – surrounded by superheroes, metahumans, and some of the most proficient individuals in the world. You were just a civilian, and in your opinion, nothing all that special. But Jason had always made sure that you felt equal, that the differences in what you did outside the walls of your apartment had no bearing on the fact his world started and ended with you.

 “So… does the mask stay on when you get freaky or –”

“Steph, don’t make me come over there, you know I will.”

“Codenames.” Honestly, you can’t help but respect Dick for his seemingly unwavering patience, although you could guess it might be due to the noticeable absence of Batman himself to rein in his children in his place. “Spoiler, we have a child with us.”

“I don’t understand Spoiler. What is getting freaky–”

“Please,” Dick’s begging now.

“Oh, B is gonna have fun with that when he gets home.”

“Pfft, you think B is going to know what getting freaky means?”

“You know that means he’s going to ask us, right?”

“Shit.”

Your brain starts to feel fried just listening to them. And the most obscene part of it all is that you can hear them fighting, subduing local criminals while simultaneously having one of the weirdest conversations you’ve ever been a party to (well, secretly a party to). You have to place the earpiece on the other side of the room and retreat into the bathroom to let out what could be a laugh or a scream – you can’t be sure.

Unsurprisingly, when you slot the earpiece back in again, the conversation has shifted.

You only catch the end of Tim’s words, but it’s enough to send your entire body into a state of shock, “– when the wedding happens.”

“When the wedding happens,” Jason bites out breathlessly, clearly in the middle of some kind of confrontation, “Your sorry ass isn’t going to be fuckin’ invited.”

And the comm line erupts.

“When the wedding happens?”

“WHAT?”

“Guys, fuckin’ hell, I didn’t mean it like –”

“I’m presuming this means you have a ring, yes, Todd?”

If you weren’t already sat, you’re certain your legs would have given way underneath you. The room is spinning, you’re overwhelmed by the feeling of the world shifting on its axis and you can feel your heart vibrating in your throat.

You and Jason had never made any point of talking about marriage. It had come up casually, as it did in the conversations of most couples – but you had never had any particularly serious discussions about the subject. You, for one, had avoided it out of fear of spooking Jason, whom you’d already spent enough time coaxing out of his shell without potentially scaring him back in again. You had no idea that it was something that he was thinking about.

Of course, you wanted to marry him. From the moment he’d asked you to be his girlfriend, you’d known that he was the only option.

“One last time,” Dick’s voice tears you from your thoughts, grating like nails on a chalkboard. It sends a chill through your entire body and for a brief second you can envision what it would be like to be confronted by Nightwing on a bad day. “Codenames. I don’t care if you don’t think anyone is listening –”

“Funny you say that. Someone is listening.”

It’s a woman’s voice. That must be Babs.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Abort. Abort. Abort. Immediately.

If you thought the comm line had exploded before, this was an atomic bomb. It’s a cacophony, instantly. Not the casual chattering over each other of minutes prior, instead it’s angered shouts, concerned whispers and vehement speculations about who it could possibly be.

The last thing you hear when you drop the earpiece into the garbage disposal with a sickening clang is Jason’s concerningly enlightened ‘Oh shit’.

You’ve been lying in bed practicing pretending to be asleep for an hour when Jason finally peels through the bedroom window. It takes everything you can muster to regulate your breathing, steady your heartbeat and lay still enough to feign unconsciousness.

The telltale rustling of Jason pulling off his costume as quietly as possible is enough to make you let out a barely-there sigh of relief. There’s a fleeting sadistic pride that burns in your chest at the thought that you’ve fooled the mighty Red Hood.

“So, where is it?”

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Maybe if you don’t answer, he’ll just lay off –

“I know you’re awake.” You nearly jump up to the ceiling because he says it directly into your ear and you didn’t even hear him move from beside the window. Fucking vigilantes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you borderline whimper, and abruptly realise if you were going to double-down you probably should have done it with a bit more authority.

“Really, sweetheart? That’s what we’re going with.”

You roll over ever so slightly, just enough to pull your face from the pillow. Jason’s eyes are practically glowing in the dark of your bedroom and his face is not even an inch from yours. He’s close enough that you can make out the ever so slight sweaty dampness of his hair, that you could trace the freckles and scars alike that are dotted across his face – you can also make out the unmistakable curve of his lips, upwards ever so slightly at the corner.

“Garbage disposal.” The words come out quicker than you thought was physically possible and could potentially be mistaken for the creaking of a door in a different context given the pitch of them. You’re not sure if you feel like a weight has been lifted off your chest or tied to your foot and subsequently flung into a river.

The silence is painful. Agonising. It’s too dark to completely make out Jason’s expression, his body completely still. You’re not even sure if he’s breathing.

And then he starts to shake, shoulders first, before the rest of his body follows. He collapses onto his side of the bed, jolting the mattress, and the vibrations are enough to confirm your suspicions. He’s laughing his fucking head off.

“You put it in the garbage disposal?” There’s disbelief lacing his words, and his own question only sets him off again. You throw a weak punch at his arm out of fear of him waking the neighbours.

“You’re not mad?” Your disbelief matches his own as you finally flip over to face him, now draped in the moonlight pouring through your bedroom window.

His laughter subdues, and he pauses contemplatively before sighing, “I probably should be. But, no, I’m not. I’d be a liar if I said I wouldn’t do the same fuckin’ thing.”

That’s the only signal you need to traverse the bed at break-neck speed, throwing yourself into Jason’s arms and burying your face into the crook of his neck. Without missing a beat, his arms come around to draw soft patterns up and down your back, and he lets out a relaxed hum of approval.

“I’m sorry about tonight, baby,” he won’t quite look you in the eye as he says it, and you can practically feel the guilt emanating off of him, “I know how much you were looking forward to it. We were looking forward to it.”

“Jay,” you sigh, raking a hand through his hair, “I love you. What you do makes you who you are, if I couldn’t accept that your aggressive vigilantism was going to have to come first sometimes, we wouldn’t be together.”

He presses a chaste kiss to your neck with a soft mumble, “I love you too. Too good f’me.”

“Shut up and go shower,” you giggle, shoving him away, “You stink, pretty boy.”

Jason feigns offense comically, drawing back with a scandalised grin and a shake of his head. You instantly feel the loss as he clambers out of bed, keeping your hands against him for as far as you can reach. There’s a quaint smile on his face as he begins to saunter over to the bathroom. God, you love this man.

“Jay?” You call, just before the bathroom door clicks shut.

“Yeah, princess?”

“I like your family. They seem nice.” You get little more than a grumble in response, and you’re not sure there were any discernible words in there to begin with as he pulls the door to again.

“Oh, and Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that thing Steph said – uh, you know – about the mask?”

You can hear the echo of Jason’s forehead smacking against the doorframe through the wall.

microsoft word giving me italics is like Prometheus stealing fire and giving it to humanity - best believe its a power i'm going to abuse

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don't like it, leave me alone.

[glitter-stained]

Arguments:

Fuck No: Wuthering Heights romantize violence and toxic, abusive relationship and Jason dislikes abusers and would be deeply infuriated by this book. Just the sheer idea of Heathcliff is enough for him to start grinding his jaw so violently it's fucking up his teeth. (The "I was hurt and mistreated so now I get to hurt everyone around me" mentality he also really hates. It's terrifying. He tries not to think about it too deep.)

Hell yeah : Jason loves the tragedy and enjoys how romantic gothic it is, romantic in the sense of how intense and encompassing the emotions are, how nature echoes the violent tides of the heart... And while he's aware that the relationship isn't healthy, he's fascinated and yearning for that idea of loving someone so achingly and wholy, latching onto them with his nails digging in the skin, and being loved wholeheartedly. "Whatever souls are made of his and mine are the same" he wants it so bad...

Critical eye: Jason recognises that the relationship between Catherine and Heathcliff is toxic and unhealthy and hates Heathcliff, but he's also taken by the writing style of the author and the violent tragedy of it all. The intertwining between the themes of life and death, and the persistence of love through ghosts, echo deeply in him, and move him in very intense ways he doesn't necessarily understands but enjoys deeply. "You say you love me, haunt me then" his breath catches every time.

[theredcuyo]

I forgot to tell this before but what if Bruce has redecorated many of the countless rooms in the manor to adjust to whatever thing his kids like

Dick got a training room for gyminastics, there are bars hanging from the roof, equipment Bruce doesn't even know what's for but that it surely entretains his son and the floor was totally replaced by mats

Jason? "Casually" his room has a secret room attached to it that you can only enter trhu a secret door behind a bookshelf in his bedroom, and "just by chance" it's also another library, that has "secret and censored" books for being controversial in their time, it also just happens to have a skylight and one of those one-way windows

Tim? Bruce made him a dark room, of course he did, that's attached to another room, the light is bare there, and it has two boards, one where you can use magnets and a marker and one for the old red string and tack's

Cass? A whole dance studio that she didn't ask for (none of them did, really) but she appreciates it, mostly because she can use it whenever she feels like it, even the middle of the night because its sound proof

Steph? Unnecesary, she appropiated one herself, later Bruce gave her money to do it whatever she felt like

Damian? One for him to paint, and it's clear he likes it because it's messy, Damian's own room isn't, but his one? Even the big window that lights the room is covered in paint and chalk here and there, the supplies might be ordered by color and size, but not a single one is ever totally cleaned

Duke was told he could choose but if it takes too long Bruce is choosing for him

[kthologue]

date crasher — dick grayson

synopsis. dick grayson swears he’s not in love with you. he just happens to find an unreasonable amount of joy in ruining your dates. purely for entertainment, of course.

contents. fluff, lowkey manipulative dick? he’s weird, theyre both whipped but they’re also both equally dense.

notes. inspired by that one smallville scene.

Despite what everyone says, Dick does not have feelings for you. You’re annoying, bossy, and frankly, rude. Definitely the opposite of his type. Or so he tells himself as he trudges to your apartment, cursing every step like it’s some great inconvenience instead of an excuse to see you.

You open the door with a glare so sharp it could cut glass. “You again?”

“Shower’s broken,” he says like it explains everything.

You blink. “And?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Let me use yours.”

A sharp laugh escapes your mouth. “Oh, sure, yeah. Let me just roll out the red carpet for Gotham’s most dramatic orphan.”

“Would it kill you to be nice to me for once?”

“Probably.” You cross your arms. "You literally live in a penthouse, Grayson. Call a plumber like a normal rich person. Or better yet, go use one of Bruce’s fifty extra bathrooms.”

Dick sighs, already tired. “First of all, Alfred’s out of town, and I’m not about to let Bruce nag me about home maintenance. Second, I’d rather take my chances with you than with Jason. You want me dead? Because he definitely does.”

You hum, considering. “Tempting.”

“Oh, come on, it’s just a shower.”

You squint at him, like you’re searching for the catch. “Fine. But you better not take forever. Some of us actually have social lives.”

Dick steps inside with a smirk. “Right, those thrilling Friday night plans of yours. What is it this time? Reorganizing your bookshelf? Watching true crime documentaries and judging people’s bad decisions?”

You scowl. “For your information, I have a date.”

His smirk falters. Just a little. “Date?”

“Yes, Grayson, some of us are desirable. Now hurry up so I don’t have to explain to him why my apartment smells like a stray I let in out of pity.”

Dick rolls his eyes but heads to the bathroom before you can catch the way his jaw clenches.

The bathroom door shuts behind him, and the moment he turns the water on, Dick sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. Being around you is exhausting and the hot water does little to soothe his irritation. You always have something to say about him. His stupid smirk, his messy hair, his tendency to throw on whatever shirt is closest without looking in a mirror.

Fine. If you’re going to be so obsessed with his hair, he’ll just use all of your expensive shampoo out of spite.

He squeezes way too much into his palm and lathers aggressively, enjoying the petty satisfaction. But as the steam fills the air, the scent of you clings to him. Vanilla. Something floral. Something undeniably you.

His nose scrunches.

It’s nauseating.

…Nauseating, he swears.

But he doesn’t stop sniffing.

Damn it.

Dick groans, pressing his forehead against the cold tile, letting the slowly cooling water run down his body in a weak attempt to regain his composure.

"Get a grip," he mutters under his breath. He’s a trained vigilante, a disciplined fighter raised by one of the greatest strategists in history. He’s faced warlords, assassins, and intergalactic threats without breaking a sweat.

So why does his stubborn mind keep circling back to the fact that his shower isn’t actually broken? That he’s here, in your bathroom, standing under your showerhead, using your shampoo, because he was bored enough to come bother you?

Now he sounds like a complete loser.

The thought barely has time to settle before..

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“GRAYSON, YOU BETTER NOT BE RUBBING ONE OUT IN THERE.”

Dick jerks upright so fast he nearly slips. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been in there forever! I can feel the steam coming through the door!” Your voice carries through, laced with that whine. The one where you drag your words out just enough to send shivers down his spine. He hates it. It’s infuriating. It’s…

“Don’t make me send you my water bill,” you huff.

Dick sighs, turning the water off and grabbing a towel. “I’ve been in here for, like, ten minutes. What’s the rush?”

“My date’s here, genius, and I left my purse in the bathroom.”

Dick pauses, towel in hand. His grip tightens around the fabric as an unexpected weight settles in his stomach. His frown is instinctive, but he masks it with a quip before he can dwell on it.

“Purse?” He tuts, stepping out of the shower. “The guy’s making you pay? Wow.” He whistles lowly. “You have awful taste in men.”

Silence.

Then, barely audible through the door.

"Trust me, I know."

Something about your quietness shifts the atmosphere. The usual fire in your voice dims just enough for him to recognize it. Hesitation, maybe. He doesn’t know why it makes his chest tighten.

An idea strikes him. One that he’d know would definitely rile you up.

With his towel slung low around his hips, he heads for the door.

You sigh in relief when he finally exits the bathroom, but the relief is quickly replaced a glare.

“The hell are you doing?” Your voice is suspicious, but he can hear the shuffle of your footsteps behind him.

Dick smirks. “Relax. I just wanna meet the poor guy who’s stuck with you for the night. Give him a warning and all that.”

“Grayson, don’t you dare—”

But he already has his hand on the doorknob. And the way your eyes widen in actual panic makes a sick part of him swell with amusement.

“Are you crazy?!” You lunge for him, but Dick is faster— or maybe you let him be faster. Either way, it’s too late.

The door swings open.

Your date stands frozen on the other side, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head as he takes in the sight of Dick Grayson dripping wet, shirtless, towel hanging just low enough to be scandalous.

“…Uh.”

The poor guy looks from Dick to you, eyes flickering down to where your hand is still gripping Dick’s bicep, peeking out from behind him like some kind of guilty party.

The silence stretches.

“Hey,” Dick says easily, leaning against the doorframe like he’s in his own apartment. “You must be the guy.”

Your date blinks rapidly, clearly struggling to compute the situation.

Dick grins, because this is too easy. “So… you treating them right, or should I be worried?”

But Dick isn’t stupid. He knows the guy isn’t right for you. No, he doesn’t know how you take your coffee in the morning, or that you have this annoying habit of leaning on the nearest person, him, of course, when you’re tired. And he definitely doesn’t know how your voice gets all breathless when you two play fight, like you’re trying not to smile even when you’re pretending to be mad.

You shove him. “Grayson, I swear to—”

But the way your date’s expression shifts, how he suddenly looks a little less sure tells Dick everything he needs to know.

And if that knowledge makes his smirk widen? Well.

He’ll chalk it up as a win.

thank you for reading! :3

[lemoniia]

Damian: [storming into the kitchen] WHO ate the last of my imported Belgian dark chocolate?

Jason: [casually leaning on the counter] Not me. Why would I touch your weird rich kid snacks?

Tim: Chocolate has caffeine. If I wanted that, I’d just IV drip coffee directly into my bloodstream.

Dick: [offended] I don’t even like dark chocolate. It’s like candy that forgot how to be fun.

Bruce: [sipping coffee] I don’t snack. Snacks are inefficient.

Damian: That’s a lie. I saw you eat a granola bar last week.

Bruce: [quietly] It was for research.

Damian: [squinting at him] …suspicious.

Tim: Did you check Titus?

Damian: Titus would never.

—

[Everyone turns to Alfred, who’s calmly dusting a bookshelf.]

—

Damian: That leaves… you.

Alfred: [setting down the duster, unfazed] Indeed, Master Damian. I ate it.

Damian: [horrified] You didn’t..

Alfred: [leaning closer] And I’d do it again.

—

[Stunned silence. Jason starts wheezing with laughter. Tim is Googling “how to survive without butlers.”]

—

Damian: [gripping the counter] You’re supposed to be my ally!

Alfred: [calmly walking away] Consider it a lesson in sharing.

[killerplink]

MELTDOWN

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: A rare sunny day in Gotham, the perfect excuse to lounge around and pick out a book. But with Jason Todd as your man? Yeah, reading was never really in the cards.

The AC hums in the background, cool air washing over your skin, but the heat outside is thick, the kind that clings to your body even indoors. It's rare to get a day this sunny, so you're making the most of it, already daydreaming about curling up in your favorite spot by the window with a book.

Jason, on the other hand, is trying to watch TV. Trying being the keyword.

Because there you are, standing in front of the bookshelf, back to him, wearing the shortest fucking shorts he's ever seen. And you, completely oblivious to the effect you're having on him, are bent over just slightly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you skim through the titles.

You don't even notice how you wiggle your ass when you move, how the fabric of your little shorts rides up with every shift. His eyes track every motion, his fingers twitching against his thigh. He should look away, should focus on the screen, but how the fuck is he supposed to do that when you're standing there looking like that?

You hum softly, fingers trailing along the spines of your books, lost in your own little world. The sunlight streams through the window, catching the smooth line of your legs, the soft curves of your thighs, and Jason's mouth goes dry.

You reach a little higher, stretching, standing on your tiptoes, and the bottom of your shorts rides up more, revealing the curve of your ass, just barely peeking out. Jason groans, low and deep in his chest, shifting on the couch.

He knows you're not doing it on purpose. You're not teasing him, not intentionally torturing him, but that somehow makes it worse. You're just existing, just being, completely unaware of how easy it is to drive him fucking crazy.

His dick throbs in his sweats, already hard, already aching, and he grits his teeth.

You finally find the book you were looking for, pulling it from the shelf with a pleased little noise, completely unaware of the way Jason is sitting behind you, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes dark and hungry, dick hard and throbbing.

And then you move again, wiggling your hips just slightly as you straighten up, and he inhales sharply through his nose. He leans back against the couch, spreading his legs a little, voice low and lazy when he finally calls you over.

"C'mere, doll."

You blink, looking up from your book, and when you turn, he's already watching you. His eyes are darker than before, hooded, and there's something about the way he's sitting—his arms draped over the back of the couch, his legs spread wide—that makes your stomach flutter.

You don't think much of it when you walk over, don't even question it when his hands grip your waist and pull. But instead of landing in his lap like you expect, you land on his thigh, the firm muscle pressing right between your legs.

You giggle, adjusting yourself, setting your book down next to him on the couch before wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Was that on purpose?" you tease.

His hands slide down, gripping your ass, squeezing firmly, pulling you closer. "What do you think?"

And then his mouth is on yours. The kiss is slow at first, but deep, his tongue sliding against yours, teasing, coaxing. He kisses like he fucks—dominant, unrelenting, thorough, and you love it. His fingers flex against your ass as he tilts his head, kissing you deeper, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he's trying to devour you.

A little moan slips from your lips, swallowed up by his mouth, but he hears it. Knows exactly what it means. Knows how easily you fall apart for him, how just kissing him makes you wet. You break the kiss with a breathless little gasp, flustered, and as you try to steady yourself, you accidentally shift, grinding against his thigh.

God. The thick muscle beneath you is so firm, so solid. The fabric of his sweats is a bit rough against your soft little shorts, and it's... good. Jason watches as your breath stutters, as your lashes flutter, as your fingers curl a little tighter into his shoulders.

He knows. His lips curl, his hands gripping your waist as he starts to move you, guiding you back and forth.

"Feel good, baby?"

Your face burns, and you know he can see it—how you're blushing, how flustered you are. You've done plenty of filthy shit with Jason, tried all sorts of things, but this? You've never tried this before. You never even thought about trying this before. And now you don't even understand why because it feels amazing.

His hands keep moving you, dragging you against the hard muscle of his thigh, setting a rhythm. It's effortless for him, his strength making you feel weightless as he rocks you against him, your clit pressing right against the firm muscle every time he pulls you forward. Your arousal already soaks through your panties, the thin lace already damp, and each grind leaves a little wet spot behind, darkening his sweats.

Jason groans, voice rough. "Look at you."

You try to, but your lashes flutter, head tilting back, lost in the slow friction, the way he's making you ride him. His eyes drop lower, watching the way your slick is soaking through, watching the growing wet patch you're leaving behind.

"Fuck," he rasps, "you're drippin', baby."

Your face burns hotter, a little whimper escaping your lips, and then... he stops. You blink, eyes flying open, dazed, confused. Your hips twitch, trying to move yourself, but it's not the same. Not as smooth, not as good.

Jason smirks. "Oh, what's wrong, doll?"

His voice is all teasing, all smug amusement. You pout, shifting, trying again, but you need him to move you, to help you. He just grins, leans back, makes a show of looking completely unbothered.

"You were havin' such a good time," he muses, cocking his head. "What happened?"

You whine softly, squirming, but he doesn't give in, just watches, entertained as you get more and more flustered.

"You want me to help you again?" he murmurs, voice low, gravelly. "Want me to make you cum just from grindin' on my fuckin' thigh?"

You squeeze your thighs, biting your lip, nodding. Jason hums, gripping your ass again, his fingers squeezing, dragging you just once against him. And then he stops again. Your breath hitches, frustration clear in your expression, and he just chuckles, tilting his head.

"Gotta ask real nice, doll."

He smirks, still so damn smug as he grips your hips, keeping you right where he wants you. Not grinding, not moving, just sitting on his thigh, aching and needy. Your whole body is thrumming, restless, desperate for more, and he knows it.

And then he starts bouncing his leg. It's slight, just a subtle movement, but holy fuck, the little jolts send shocks of friction straight to your clit, making you gasp, making you dig your nails into his shoulders.

"Oh?" he taunts, voice thick with amusement. "That feel good?"

Your breath catches, your pussy throbbing as he keeps doing it, that little bounce making your clit rub against his sweatpants over and over, teasing and torturous.

It's too much and not enough at the same time, your slick spreading, soaking into his pants, making your clit extra sensitive with every grind of fabric against your swollen little bud. Your thighs tremble, and he notices, one hand sliding up to grip your waist again, his fingers digging in.

"God, baby," he groans, "you're drippin'. So fuckin' messy."

His thigh is soaked, your slick spreading, making the fabric stick damply to his skin. And you can feel it, the way your folds are all swollen and slick, the way your pussy clenches down every time your clit gets that perfect little jolt of friction.

Your nipples are visible through your thin tank top, pressing against the fabric, aching to be touched, and Jason notices that too.

His other hand moves up, fingers slipping under your top, and before you can even react, he yanks it down. Your tits spill free, nipples pebbling instantly in the cool air, and he groans, his eyes dropping straight to them, dark and hungry.

"Fuck," he rasps, fingers skimming over the swell of your tits before he pinches one stiff nipple between his fingers.

Your body jerks at the contact, the sharp pinch sending another jolt of arousal straight to your clit. Jason chuckles low, dragging his thumb over the tight peak, teasing.

"So fuckin' pretty," he murmurs, squeezing one full, soft breast in his big hand, groaning at the way it fills his palm.

Your breathing is ragged, your head spinning, your whole body hyperaware of everything—his hands, his thigh, the way his fingers are rolling your nipple, making it throb, making your pussy clench.

And the fucker is still bouncing his leg. It's steady, relentless, those little jolts against your clit making you tremble, making your slick spread even more. Your pussy clenches again, a fresh wave of slick drenching your folds, and Jason feels it.

His grip on your waist tightens, his eyes flicking back up to yours. "Shit, pretty girl," he mutters, voice rough, "you're so fuckin' wet."

His thigh is so firm beneath you, strong, all solid muscle, and every bounce rubs your clit just right, sending a little pulse of pleasure through you. You can feel how swollen you are, how slick, your folds puffy and aching as you throb against his thigh. Every movement makes your pussy clench around nothing, makes your clit twitch, needy, so sensitive.

Jason groans, dragging his other hand back to your ass, squeezing, pulling you just a little closer. "You like this, huh?" he murmurs, voice teasing, smug. "Lettin' me use you like this? Rubbin' your sweet little pussy all over me?"

Your whole body burns, your clit pulsing. Jason fucking knows it, and of course, he stops bouncing his leg. You whimper immediately, hips twitching, chasing the friction, but he holds you still, his grip firm, fingers digging in.

"What's wrong, baby?" Jason coos, mock sympathy dripping from his tone, his voice rough with amusement. His thumb brushes over your hip, deceptively gentle, but his grip stays firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you. "Missin' it already?"

You pout, squirming just a little, testing him, but his hands tighten, unmoving, unyielding. Heat prickles along your skin, frustration bubbling up, and you don't even try to hide the needy whimper that escapes your lips.

He smirks, head tilting, dark eyes gleaming as he watches you struggle. "You want more?"

Your nod is immediate, quick, eager, desperate. Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers flex, just enough to remind you who's in charge, just enough to make you crave the pressure of his touch, but not giving it to you.

His voice drops lower, teasing, taunting. "Then beg, doll."

Your breath catches, eyes widening in disbelief. Beg? Like hell you would beg right now. You shake your head, lips parting as if to argue, but instead, your body moves on its own—hips shifting, rolling down against him, dragging your soaked cunt over the firm muscle of his thigh. If he isn't gonna help, fine. You'll take what you needed yourself.

Heat crawls up your neck, your cheeks burning. You know you probably look clumsy, your movements not as fluid as you'd like, but it doesn't fucking matter. Not when the friction makes you shudder, makes your clit throb, makes pleasure lick up your spine.

Jason chuckles, low and amused, his hands resting lazily at his sides like he's got all the time in the world. "Shit, look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with something smug, something downright filthy. "That desperate, huh? Thought you had more pride than this, baby."

"Shut up," you pant, biting down on your lip, refusing to meet his gaze even as your thighs tremble.

He hums, eyes flicking down to where you're grinding against him, slow and messy, his sweats glistening with your slick. "Nah, I don't think I will. You're fuckin' adorable like this. All worked up, gettin' yourself off on my thigh like a needy little thing. Thought you wanted my help?"

Your hands fist in his shirt, and you glare at him, though it holds no real heat, not when your body is already betraying you. "I don't need your help," you shoot back, hips pressing down harder just to prove your point.

He laughs, shaking his head. "Sure you don't."

He watches you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with hunger, his jaw tight as you shift in his lap, your hips rolling down against his thigh harder. He can feel how wet you are, how every little movement leaves more of your slick smeared against his sweats, soaking through the fabric. And you're not even thinking anymore, not strategizing or teasing like you usually do.

No, you're needy, lost in it, panting softly, rocking against him like you need it to fucking breathe. His dick twitches, straining against his sweats, already leaking, the pressure fucking unbearable.

You always make him hard fast, but this? Watching you fuck yourself on his thigh, your tits bouncing, your face all flushed and desperate? He should make you beg. You always beg. That pretty little voice of yours, whining, pleading, desperate. But you don't this time.

You just keep grinding down, moaning, completely fucking lost, your hands clutching at his shoulders like you can't even think beyond how good it feels. Your tank top is still shoved down, tits spilling free, bouncing with every desperate little roll of your hips, your nipples stiff and aching.

Jason drags his hands over your thighs, his fingers curling into your soft flesh, his cock throbbing as he watches you lose yourself.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice rough, strained, "look at you."

You whimper, eyes fluttering shut, grinding harder, dragging your clit over the firm muscle of his thigh, soaking his sweats.

He groans, hands gripping you tighter. "You're makin' a fuckin' mess, baby," he mutters, voice thick with hunger. "So fuckin' sloppy."

Your body trembles, your cunt clenching down on nothing, the heat coiling low in your stomach, your orgasm already close.

You know he's watching, can feel the weight of his stare, can feel the way his fingers twitch against your thighs, like he's barely holding himself back.

You whimper again, shifting forward, arching your back, your tits angling toward his face, practically fucking presenting yourself to him. Jason groans, a low, needy sound, his hands flexing against your skin, his control slipping.

And then you moan, breathless, desperate, so fucking turned on you don't even realize you just said—"Feels so good, Jay—gonna cum—"

He snaps. His hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging in, holding you still, tearing you away from the edge, making you groan in frustration.

"That's enough, baby," he growls, his voice low and rough like a warning.

His cock throbs hard, leaking precum into his sweats, so fucking hard it's painful, his control gone. He can feel your pussy dripping through your shorts, through his pants, sticky and hot and so much, and he fucking needs you now.

"Get on my dick," he orders, breathless, his grip tightening.

Your whole body jolts, a sharp whine spilling from your lips as you try to keep moving, try to grind down against him just a little more. You're right there, pleasure coiling tight, your cunt throbbing, so close you can almost taste it.

"Jay, b-but I'm s-so close—"

Your voice stutters, breaking on a desperate little sob, but before you can chase that high, his hand is on your jaw, firm but not forceful, tilting your face until your wide, glassy eyes meet his. His fingers press just enough to make you gasp, to make your lips part, and you barely have a second to register the dark hunger in his gaze before his other hand grips your ass, squeezing rough and possessive.

"You're gonna cum on my dick," he mutters, voice thick with heat, "or not at all."

A needy whimper slips from your throat, your thighs twitching as you try—fucking try—to move against him, but his grip is iron. Unyielding. Holding you still when all you want to do is grind, rub, anything to get yourself off. The frustration, the desperation, it makes you dizzy.

And then he's kissing you.

No, kissing isn't the right word for it. Jason crashes his mouth against yours, taking, devouring, a mess of tongue and teeth and heat. He licks into your mouth, deep and filthy, groaning when you suck on his tongue like you can't get enough, like you're starving for him.

Your fingers tremble as you reach between you, finding the thick length of his cock through his sweats, and he's so fucking hard, the heat of him searing even through the fabric. You palm him, rubbing slow, teasing, smearing his precum into the soft cotton. His breath shudders against your lips, his grip tightening on your ass before he slaps it.

The sharp sting shoots through you, a gasp ripping from your throat as his palm cracks against your ass, hard enough to make you jolt, make you keen, make you feel it even through your shorts. You shudder, fingers tightening around his cock, clenching around nothing, so fucking needy it hurts.

Jason pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice dark and thick with authority. "Get up."

You obey without thinking, your body moving before your brain catches up, legs shaky as you push yourself up, and then your eyes drop to his lap.

His sweatpants are ruined, absolutely fucking soaked, the gray fabric darkened with your arousal, clinging to his thigh. The sight sends a fresh wave of heat flooding through you, makes your pussy clench so hard it's damn near painful.

Jason smirks, fingers ghosting up your thigh, teasing. "Look what you did, pretty girl."

Your whole body burns, heat rushing up your neck, cheeks going pink as you stare at the mess you made of his sweatpants. You're always like this—shy, blushing even after all this time—but Jason fucking loves it. Loves how you can be so desperate one second and so bashful the next, like you don't know exactly what you do to him.

Before you can even stammer out a word, his fingers hook into the waistband of his sweats, and he pulls them down just enough to free his cock. Your breath catches, your thighs pressing together as he fists himself, slow and lazy, his hand gliding over the thick length, smearing precum along his flushed tip.

"C'mere, baby."

The rough rasp of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you step between his spread legs without hesitation. His hands move instantly, gripping both your shorts and panties in one swift motion, yanking them down your legs until they pool at your ankles. You step out of them, your bare skin prickling at the sudden exposure, your cunt so wet you can feel the slick coating your inner thighs.

Jason leans in, hands settling on your ass, pulling you closer until his mouth is right there, his breath hot against your needy, aching pussy. And then, his tongue darts out. Just the very tip, flicking against your clit in a teasing little stroke that has you gasping, hands flying into his hair as your knees threaten to buckle.

"Jay—fuck—"

He hums against you, the vibration making your whole body shudder, his fingers squeezing, kneading your ass as he licks you again, still light, still teasing, knowing it's not nearly enough. And then, a smack.

You whimper, your grip tightening in his hair as his palm lands on your ass again, the sharp sting making you jolt, making your clit throb. You're so fucking wet, so desperate, you can feel your slick dripping, smearing against his lips, his chin. But then he pulls away, leaving you panting, trembling.

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and hungry. "C'mere. Sit on it."

There's no hesitation. You straddle him in an instant, legs spreading wide over his lap, your drenched cunt dragging against his cock, smearing your slick over the hot, thick length of him. He groans low in his throat, his hands gripping your waist as you grind against him, needy and restless, your clit catching on the swollen head of his cock.

Your breath hitches, a sharp little gasp spilling from your lips at the sudden jolt of pleasure, your body tensing, shivering at the sensation of his slick, leaking tip rubbing against your throbbing clit.

Jason curses under his breath, his grip tightening. "Fuck... look at you, baby," he mutters, voice rough, almost strained. "You feel that? How fuckin' wet you are? Shit, you're gonna make a mess all over me before I even get my dick in you."

Your breath is shaky, your whole body trembling as you murmur, "Jay..."

The way you say his name—soft, needy, dripping with desperation—has him hissing through his teeth, his hands flexing against your waist as you grind down against him, your soaked pussy dragging over the length of his cock.

"Yeah, I know," he rasps, voice rough, barely holding onto his control. "I've got you, doll."

One of his hands slides to your thigh, gripping tight, and the other moves to your hip as he lifts you just a little, just enough to position himself right at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against your slick, throbbing cunt. And before he can even think, even process anything, you're sinking down.

Slow, because he's big—so fucking big—but you're so goddamn wet, so fucking ready for him, that he slides in with almost no resistance. The stretch has you gasping, your walls molding around him, clinging, gripping, dragging against every inch as he fills you up. It's too much, not enough, the ache deep and delicious as you take him, inch by inch, your pussy opening up for him like it was fucking made for this.

Jason groans, his head tipping back against the couch, his fingers tightening on your hips. "Shit, baby—fuck, you feel so good," he mutters, his voice all rough edges, thick with heat.

You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders, but you don't stop. Don't hesitate. You don't even bother taking him all the way before you start to move, lifting your hips just enough to slide back down, taking more of him every time, forcing yourself to stretch around him until you take him to the hilt, his cock bottoming out inside you, the thick head pressing right up against your cervix. The feeling knocks the breath from your lungs, your pussy clamping down on him hard, pulsing, squeezing, making his dick twitch deep inside you.

Jason lets out a low, guttural groan, his fingers digging into your flesh. He shifts just a little, adjusting beneath you, settling into the perfect position, the one that lets him thrust up into you if he wants, fucking you deeper. But you don't wait for him to take over.

You start moving again, rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his cock, letting the stretch turn into pure, dizzying pleasure as you take him over and over, your pussy gripping him tightly. Every drag of his thick length against your walls sends shivers through you, every little shift making your clit throb, making your breath come in soft little pants.

Jason watches you, eyes dark, half lidded, completely fucking wrecked. "Look at you," he mutters, his grip tightening. "Fuckin' yourself on my dick like a desperate little thing."

You whimper, rocking against him harder, needing more, needing everything. And then he leans in, his mouth latching onto your breast, licking, sucking, his tongue swirling around your nipple before he closes his lips around it and sucks.

A broken moan rips from your throat, your head falling back as pleasure slams into you, your walls clenching down around him tighter. The room is filled with the obscene, wet sounds of your slick pussy taking him over and over, every roll of your hips making his cock glisten, coated in your arousal.

Each time you lift yourself, it's slow, dragging, your walls clenching as if trying to keep him inside, and when you drop back down, taking him to the hilt, there's a soft, messy squelch that makes Jason groan, his fingers flexing against your hips.

"Shit," he mutters, his voice thick, nearly slurred. "You're so fuckin' wet, baby. Listen to that—fuckin' dripping all over my dick."

And you are. There's a mess where your bodies meet, slick smeared across his lap, the base of his cock absolutely drenched. Your clit throbs each time you grind down, catching against his pubic bone, making your breath hitch, making your thighs shake.

Jason doesn't stop sucking on your tits, his mouth hot and hungry, his tongue swirling around your nipple before his teeth graze it, making you gasp. He latches on again, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, his other hand coming up to squeeze the soft flesh, thumb swiping over your pebbled nipple before he moves to the next, biting, licking, leaving messy, dark little bruises all over your skin.

You're fucking yourself stupid on his cock, chasing your high, using him like a toy, grinding, bouncing, moaning with every slick, filthy movement. The pleasure is overwhelming, building too fast, too much, your cunt gripping him, pulsing around his cock, squeezing so tight you can feel every ridge, every vein, the heavy, thick weight of him inside you making you delirious.

And then it hits you. Your moan is sharp, breathless, your whole body going tense as your orgasm crashes over you. Your walls spasm around his cock, clenching and fluttering, squeezing him in rhythmic waves as pleasure washes through you, hot and dizzying, so intense it almost hurts. Your thighs shake, your hands fisting in his hair, your whole body trembling as you cry out, completely undone.

Jason groans, his jaw going tight, his fingers bruising against your skin as he holds you still, pinning you in place. "That's it, baby—fuck, that's it," he rasps, watching you fall apart. "Look at you. Feels good, huh? That's what you needed?"

But he's not done with you. Before you can even catch your breath, his grip tightens, and then he fucks up into you. Hard. Fast. Deep.

The force of it knocks the air from your lungs, your body jolting with every brutal thrust. He's relentless, slamming his dick into you, dragging it against your sensitive, still clenching walls, punching soft little gasps from your throat as he fills you over and over. The stretch, the heat, the way his cock pounds into that sweet spot inside you—it's almost too much, almost overwhelming, your legs trembling from the sheer intensity of it.

"Fuck, baby," Jason growls, his voice rough, nearly wrecked. "You wanted this, yeah? Fuckin' taking me so good—so goddamn tight, still squeezin' me."

Your head tilts back, your body limp in his grip, letting him use you, letting him fuck you the way he wants, the way you both need. Every thrust is deep, hard, his dick splitting you open, dragging against your slick walls, sending aftershocks of pleasure through your overstimulated body.

Jason keeps fucking into you, deep and relentless, his grip firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you. His cock drags against your slick walls, sliding in and out with ease, each thrust forcing little, choked moans from your throat, every slam of his hips making your tits bounce, making the couch creak beneath you. And he fucking teases, the bastard.

"What were you thinkin', pretty girl?" he rasps, breathless but still in control, still completely focused on ruining you. "Wearin' those fuckin' shorts... bendin' over like that..."

You try to respond, you really do, but all that comes out is a whimper, a breathless, desperate moan. Your head is spinning, your body burning, every roll of his hips shoving you further into that heady, fucked out haze.

"Yeah?" Jason huffs out a low chuckle, his thumb stroking over your hip. "That what you wanted, baby? You wanted me to fuck you stupid?"

"Yes—fuck," you gasp, a sharp moan cutting through your words when he shifts, angling his thrusts just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your whole body shudder. "There—baby, please—fuck—"

Your thoughts are scrambled, your brain a mess of heat and pleasure and Jason, Jason, Jason.

Every time his dick sinks into you, you're done for. Because no matter how long you've been together, no matter how many times he's had you like this—wrecked and dripping and stuffed so full of him—it never gets old. He never gets old.

The way he touches you, the way he moves inside you, the way he always makes sure to shift his weight to his elbows, to keep you pinned beneath him without ever crushing you, even when he's fucking you into the mattress like he's losing his goddamn mind. It's never been like this before.

Not for you, and not for him.

He looks down, watches how your pussy swallows his cock, how your greedy little cunt clings to him, sucking him in deep, creaming all over his dick, leaving a messy, wet sheen every time he pulls back. He groans, his grip tightening, his jaw clenching as he watches himself fuck into you, watches the way you take it.

Jason's had his fair share of girls. A past he never tries to hide, never lies about. Before you, he took what he needed from anyone willing, let them warm his bed and spent all his frustration and loneliness inside them, over and over again, until he could pretend for a second that it meant something. And it never did. It never could.

Not until you. Maybe it's the way you let him manhandle you, let him be rough, let him fuck you exactly how he wants, because you know he'd never hurt you. Maybe it's the way your pussy takes him so perfectly, like you were made for him. Or maybe, maybe it's because it's you.

Because he loves you, and it's annoying sometimes, how much he actually loves you, how much he needs you, but it's also the best fucking thing in his life. Jason groans, deep and low, his hips snapping harder, his control slipping. And fuck, that sound drives you insane.

The way he moans, rough and wrecked and desperate, makes your cunt squeeze him tighter, makes you whimper, makes your body move against his without thinking. Your tits bounce with every thrust, your moans getting higher, sharper, and he just keeps fucking into you, deep, filthy, perfect.

You lean in, desperate, catching his mouth in a kiss that's justr as messy, just as filthy as the way he's fucking you. It's all moans and gasps and tongues, wet and hungry, your mouths moving together with the same frenzied rhythm as your bodies. His lips are hot, insistent, his tongue sliding against yours, sucking, licking, groaning into you.

Your breath hitches when his teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging, a sharp little sting before he soothes it with his tongue. It's all so sloppy—spit slick and desperate, barely audible over the wet, obscene sounds of his cock splitting you open.

Because he's still fucking you. Still rolling his hips up into you, still dragging that thick, heavy cock in and out of your dripping cunt, his hands gripping your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And you're so close.

Your body is thrumming, tight with heat, every thrust pushing you closer and closer to that edge again. Your pussy clenches around him, gripping him, sucking him in, your walls pulsing around his dick. You can feel perfectly the way he stretches you, the way he fills you, the way he drags against every sensitive spot inside you, pushing deep, so fucking deep.

His breathing is ragged, his rhythm faltering just slightly, his hips jerking up into you with more urgency, more need. His fingers tighten, digging into your skin, his control slipping, his groans rough and wrecked as he watches the way your greedy little cunt keeps sucking him in, taking him, milking him.

"Fuck—" he growls, the sound vibrating against your lips. "You feel that, baby? Feel how fuckin' deep I am?"

You whimper into his mouth, nodding, gasping against his lips when he slams up into you, harder, faster, fucking you like he's losing it. And good God, he is. He's so fucking close, and so are you, and he's gonna make you cum with him.

Every time he bottoms out, his skin slaps against your clit, that little jolt of pressure making you cry out, making your whole body tremble. His dick fucks into you so good, stretching you, filling you, rubbing against every perfect, sensitive spot inside you. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing him, soaking him, every thrust dragging wet, filthy sounds from your slick, messy cunt.

And you're right there, right on the edge, so fucking close you can taste it.

You moan against his lips, panting, whimpering, "Baby, I'm so close—"

Jason groans, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot, uneven. "I know, doll," he rasps, hips snapping up into you, deep and relentless. "C'mon, lemme feel it."

And you do. The moment he slams in again, hitting that perfect spot, his cock stuffing you full, you break. Your orgasm slams into you, so hard it knocks the air from your lungs, your whole body locking up, shuddering, a long, wrecked moan spilling from your lips. Your cunt pulses around him, gripping him, milking him, your slick dripping down his dick, coating his sweats, making a messy, soaked patch right where you're riding him.

And Jason—fuck, Jason's right there with you. The second your pussy clenches down on him, his control shatters. A deep, wrecked groan rumbles from his chest, his arms tightening around you as he fucks up into you, hard, deep, sloppy. His cock twitches, throbbing, and then he's spilling, hot and thick, his cum shooting deep inside you, filling you up, so much it's already leaking out around his cock, smearing between your thighs, dripping down onto his sweats.

He grits his teeth, his hips jerking, his breath ragged as he rides it out, grinding you down onto him, making sure you take every last drop. And you feel the warmth spreading inside you, feel the way his cum drips from your messy, wrecked cunt, mixing with your slick, sticky and obscene.

You shudder, your body weak, legs shaking, a soft whimper slipping from your lips as you lean in, catching his mouth in another kiss. It's slow and deep and lazy, both of you gasping into each other's mouth, completely spent, completely ruined.

Jason loves it. Loves the way you feel, loves the way you taste, loves the way you're still clinging to him, still keeping him deep inside.

Your lips stay on his, slow, lazy in a way that only comes when you're completely wrecked, bodies still tangled together. His cock is still inside you, still so fucking hard, twitching every time your walls flutter around him, overstimulated and messy.

You sigh into his mouth, your body melting, boneless against him, and Jason groans low, his hands dragging up your sides, squeezing at your waist before moving higher, cupping your tits, thumbing at your sensitive nipples. He drinks in the way you whimper against his lips, his tongue flicking against yours, his cock giving a slow, thick throb inside you.

And before you can even process it, he moves. His grip tightens, his muscles flex, and suddenly, your back hits the cushions, a surprised gasp slipping from your lips. Jason just grins, that fucking smirk playing on his lips as he spreads you open, settling between your thighs, his hands gripping the backs of your knees.

"Fuck," he mutters, dark eyes locked on your pussy. "Look at that."

You can feel his cum, warm and sticky, leaking out of you, dripping onto the couch, so much of it, messy and wet. Jason watches, jaw tightening, nostrils flaring, and then his fingers are there, spreading your folds, teasing, dipping into the slick mess between your thighs.

"You tryna waste it, baby?" he murmurs, voice low, rough, teasing. "Nah. Can't have that."

And before you can even think of a response, he pushes back in. Slow, deep, fucking deliberate, his dick stretching you open again, filling you up all over, pushing everything right back where it belongs. You moan, your back arching, your legs trembling, and Jason grins, watching the way your body reacts, watching the way your messy, used pussy takes him.

He stays there for a second, buried to the hilt, letting you feel the way he throbs inside you, and then, he yanks his shirt off. Because he needs you closer. Needs to feel your tits against him, your soft, warm skin pressed to his, your hard nipples dragging against his chest.

His hands slip beneath you, gripping your ass, pulling you even tighter against him, his breath hot against your ear as he groans, "That's better, doll."

It's so different from earlier. Not fast like before, not rough, just deep, slow, deliberate thrusts that sink his thick, still hard cock all the way in, filling you to the fucking brim, stretching you open over and over like he's savoring every second.

Like he's feeling every clench of your walls, the heat of you wrapped around him, sucking him in so greedily that he has to take a breath through his teeth, has to focus just to hold onto his self control.

Your hands clutch at his back, nails digging in, scratching at the muscle there as he sinks in again, slow, pushing deep, stretching you open all over again. His hips press flush against yours, burying himself all the way, his cock twitching inside you before he pulls back, so fucking slow it makes you whimper. He almost slips out completely, just the thick, leaking head inside you, before he pushes in again, making sure you feel every inch of him, making sure you take him.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, his voice low, smug, dripping with satisfaction as he watches you tremble beneath him. "You feel that? Feels good, huh?"

Your moan is shaky, your body arching up into him, desperate for more friction. "So good," you breathe, your fingers tightening against his back, dragging down, leaving marks.

Jason groans, loving the sting of it, the way you claw at him, completely at his mercy, wrecked and desperate and so fucking perfect.

"Yeah, I know," he breathes, his lips brushing over your temple, down your cheek, his voice warm and teasing. "So fuckin' needy, huh? Never get enough of this dick, do you?"

You shake your head, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, but he doesn't let you rush it. He moves at his own pace, slow, steady, dragging it out, making you feel every stretch, every slide, every inch of his thick, leaking dick splitting you open.

And God, this is rare because he rarely fucks you like this, taking his time, making it last. Usually, Jason loses it the second he's inside you, fucking you rough, desperate, starving. But when he does this? When he fucks you slow, deep, teasing? It's a different kind of ruin.

Your thoughts are a mess, a hazy, fucked out spiral of Yes, more, please, and Fuck, I love this man, because you do. You love everything about him—his mouth, his hands, his fucking dick, the way he's so big compared to you, muscles hard under your fingertips, his broad frame caging you in.

But no matter how big he is, how strong, he never crushes you, always mindful of his weight, of the way he holds you, of how he makes you feel. Even when he's wrecking you, fucking you into the mattress or bending you over the nearest surface, he always makes sure you can take it, always makes sure you're okay.

And Jason? Jason is fucking losing it.

You're so fucking tight, so wet, so warm, clenching around him with every slow thrust, dragging him deeper, sucking him back in every time he pulls out. He watches your face, the way your lips part, the way your brows furrow, the way your cheeks are flushed with heat. You're so fucking pretty, all messy and sweaty, pupils blown wide, wrecked just for him.

"Fuck," he breathes, gripping your waist, his thumbs pressing into your hips. "Look at you. Always so fuckin' perfect, huh?"

His eyes drop down, watching the way your pussy takes him, greedy and desperate, stretched wide around his thick cock. Watching how every slow, deep thrust makes more cum spill out, soaking his dick, his thighs, the couch.

He groans, low and deep, his jaw clenching as he pulls out again, until just his tip is inside, teasing your entrance, and then he gives it to you. All of it. One long, slow thrust, sinking in deep, filling you up, making you feel it.

And you do.

Jason's hips roll, smooth and slow, fucking you deep, stretching you all over again. His cum makes everything wetter, messier, and every time he sinks in, you feel it—hot, thick, dripping out around his cock, probably soaking into the couch, but it's not like it's the first time.

And then he kisses you. Deep, sloppy, tongues sliding together, hot and wet and desperate, little moans spilling into his mouth as he fucks into your soaked, puffy cunt, never stopping, never slowing, making you feel every inch, every drag of his thick cock against your walls.

You whimper against his lips when he bottoms out, when his hips press flush against yours, grinding his pelvis against your clit, forcing another moan from your throat.

"Yeah," he murmurs against your mouth, his voice low, satisfied, loving the way you react to him, the way your pussy flutters around his dick, your moans getting higher, needier. "That's the spot, huh? Feel good, baby?"

You nod, words escaping you, lost in the slow, steady grind of his cock, the deep, intense pleasure that builds every time he presses in, presses deep, rubbing against every sensitive spot inside you.

Jason groans, pulling back, sitting upright, needing to watch because he's obsessed with you, but your pussy? That's a close second.

His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open wider, watching his dick slide in and out, coated in slick and cum, so wet it makes little squelching sounds every time he thrusts in, so slow, so deep.

"Fuck," he breathes, eyes heavy-lidded, watching the mess between your legs. "Look at you. Such a pretty little pussy, baby. Always takes me so well."

His thumb drags across the base of his cock, catching some of the cum that's leaking out, and then he smears it onto your puffy, sensitive clit, making you gasp, your whole body jerking as your pussy clenches down on him.

"Jay, no," you whimper, head thrashing against the couch cushions, overstimulated, heat prickling up your spine.

But Jason just shushes you, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your clit as he keeps fucking you, deep, torturous, his voice a warm, teasing hum.

"Shhh," he murmurs, eyes flicking up to your face, drinking in the way your lips part, the way your brows furrow, the way your whole body trembles underneath him. "I know you can handle more."

His thrusts stay slow, controlled, but his thumb doesn't stop, teasing your clit, drawing soft little circles, every touch making your cunt flutter around him, dragging him deeper, making him groan.

"There you go, baby," he coaxes, his voice thick with praise, low and warm. "That's my good girl."

And fuck, you want to protest, want to tell him you can't, that it's too much, but you can't speak, can't do anything but moan, your whole body trembling as he works you open all over again, coaxing another orgasm out of you.

Jason keeps it slow, steady, every deep stroke making you feel every thick inch of him, every drag of his cock against your swollen, sensitive walls. And his thumb? Torturous. Pressing, rubbing, working your clit in those teasing little circles that keep you right there, trembling, on the edge of something intense, something overwhelming.

Your hands claw at his arms, his shoulders, needing something to hold onto, nails biting into his skin as your breath stutters. "J—Jay, fuck—"

He groans, loving the way you stutter, the way you whimper as your cunt flutters around him, trying so hard to pull him even deeper.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, low and rough, watching you with that sharp, hungry gaze, his thumb never stopping. "Take it. Lemme feel you cum again."

"I—I can't—" your voice is high, desperate, your body trembling beneath him, pinned open and at his mercy.

Jason chuckles, breathless, because he knows you can. He can feel the way your thighs twitch, the way your pussy squeezes him, the way your moans turn into little gasps, little pleas.

"Yeah, you can," he coaxes, voice dark with satisfaction, with praise. "You're my good girl, aren't you? Always take my dick so fuckin' good, baby."

Your head tips back, mouth open on a silent moan as your whole body locks up, that heat in your belly snapping, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, so intense you can't breathe.

Your pussy clamps down, hard, pulsing around him, and Jason grits his teeth, a sharp groan tearing from his throat as he feels it, as you milk his cock, your walls squeezing him in a tight, rhythmic pulse.

"Fuck, there you go," he groans, his hands tightening on your thighs, pinning you in place as you writhe, as your legs shake, as your back arches. "Fuck, baby, just like that—God, you're so tight when you cum—"

Your moans are high, whimpering, breathless, your whole body shuddering as the pleasure crashes over you in waves, rolling through your limbs, leaving you shaking, wrecked, soaking his cock in your release, dripping down between your thighs, making an absolute mess on him, on the couch, on everything.

Jason groans, head tipping back for a second, jaw clenched, trying to hold onto his own control, because you feel too good, too tight, too perfect around him.

"Fuck," he grits out, a shudder rolling down his spine as you shift your hips, still fluttering around him, still riding that high, oversensitive, overstimulated, but still wanting more.

"Greedy little thing," he huffs, pressing a hand to your lower belly, pinning you down as he pulls back just enough, then thrusts in again, slow, deep, making sure you feel every thick inch of him pressing back into your still pulsing cunt.

"Jay—" your voice is a gasp, back arching, nails digging deeper into his arms, his back.

"You like that?" he teases, voice rough, teasing, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. "Thought you were done, baby. Thought you couldn't take anymore."

Your answer is a whimper, your hips rolling, pussy desperate, still throbbing around him. And Jason grins, dark and satisfied, watching you, taking in the way you squirm, the way your messy, fucked out expression makes his dick twitch deep inside you.

"Nah," he murmurs, deep, his thumb slipping back down to your clit, making you jerk against him. "We're not done yet, pretty girl."

And he starts moving again. Jason keeps it slow, keeps it deep, never really pulling out, just grinding into you with those shallow, teasing thrusts that have your whole body shaking, that make your toes curl every time the thick head of his cock drags right against that spot that makes your vision go white.

And his thumb? Fucking lazy, the slowest little circles on your swollen clit, just enough to keep you moaning, to keep your body locked in that unbearable, delicious tension, just on the edge of something that keeps slipping away.

"Jay—" you whimper, thighs trembling, voice barely above a gasp. "Kiss me—"

And he doesn't hesitate. His hand leaves your clit, gives you a second of relief, but his dick? That's still fucking into you, thick and hot, every inch of him stretching you open, keeping you full.

Jason braces himself on his elbows, pressing down, caging you beneath him, his chest flush against yours, his skin hot, damp, his weight pinning you in place. Your arms wrap around his neck, one hand fisting into his hair, tugging him down, and when your lips crash together, it's not even a kiss. It's a mess.

All tongue, all heat, all desperation. His mouth moves rough against yours, teeth catching your bottom lip, pulling, making you gasp, and he growls into it before licking into your mouth, deep, filthy, hungry.

You whimper, clutching at him, hips rolling up, meeting his slow, shallow thrusts with your own, and he moans into your mouth, deep and gritty, swallowing every little sound you make, like he can't get enough of them.

Your tongues slide together, wet and messy, lips parting just enough for breathless little gasps, for soft, slick noises, the sound of your desperate, open mouthed kisses barely audible over the steady slap of his cock driving into you.

Jason sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, nipping, soothing it with his tongue before diving back in, kissing you stupid, like he's starving for you, like he needs to be as deep inside your mouth as he is inside your cunt.

His hips stutter, just a little, just enough for him to groan, and he pulls back just enough to mutter against your lips, voice wrecked, rough, low.

"Fuck, baby," he pants. "You kiss me like that, and I'm gonna fuckin' lose it."

And then he fucks into you again. But this time, it's harder. Jason grips your thigh, fingers digging in as he wrenches it up, spinning it against his side, forcing you open, spreading you wide so he can fuck you deeper.

And fuck, he does. The next thrust has you crying out, his cock slamming into you, thick and hot and so fucking deep it feels like he's in your gut.

"Yes, baby," you moan, voice breathless, needy, "please—fuck, Jay, harder, please—"

And something in him just fucking snaps.

"Shit—" Jason groans, hips snapping forward, grip tightening on your thigh as he pounds into you, fast, hard, fucking relentless, grinding deep with every thrust, forcing your body to take it.

And you do, pussy gripping him so fucking tight, so fucking wet, squeezing down every time he drags out, making it harder for him to fucking breathe, let alone think.

You yank him down, kissing him again, sucking on his tongue, gasping into his mouth, swallowing every moan he can't fucking hold back, because he never means to make noise, but you always fucking drag it out of him.

And the sounds, God, the sounds. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy, soaking fucking wet, clenching around his cock, mixed with the deep, rhythmic slap of skin against skin as he wrecks you. It's fucking obscene.

And Jason? He's gone.

Every time you beg for it like that, every time you moan his name in that breathy, fucked out little voice, his whole fucking brain goes feral. Like he has to give it to you. Like he has to fuck you harder, deeper, until you can't think, until you're just a whimpering, moaning mess beneath him, gripping onto him like you need him.

And the way you take it, the way your body just gives under him, the way your pussy stretches around his dick, milking him every time he pulls back, the way you're already so fucking soaked he can see your slick smeared all over his cock, dripping down onto the fucking couch. It's perfect.

And you? You never thought rough sex was for you. Because your exes? Fucking awful at it. Too rough in the wrong ways, not even caring if it hurt, just chasing their own pleasure with no fucking clue how to make it feel good for you.

But Jason? Jason ruined you. Because with him, it's never too much, it's never bad, it's just fucking perfect. Every fucking time. Because he knows exactly what you need, exactly how to fuck you, exactly how to make you soaking wet with just his fucking kisses.

And when he fucks you like this? When he's all rough edges and barely contained hunger, obsessed with making you fall apart on his dick, making you moan for him? You can't help but fucking love it.

You can't stop kissing him. It's desperate, messy, all open mouths and tangling tongues, gasps and moans swallowed between the obscene slap of his hips against yours.

Jason's fucking you hard, sweat slicking his skin, dripping down his chest, his arms, his forehead, but he doesn't slow down. Not for a second. His hand cups the top of your head, fingers slipping into your damp hair, tilting you up, controlling the kiss as he moves.

And fuck, every time he thrusts into you, your tits rub against his chest, nipples aching, so fucking sensitive, making you whimper against his mouth.

Jason groans—deep, guttural—because he feels it. Feels your hard little nipples dragging against his sweaty skin, feels the way your whole fucking body responds to him, the way you arch, the way you fucking shake every time he grinds deep.

His lips move slower, deeper, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, biting, making you fucking whimper before licking back into you, wet and messy, all slick tongues and panting gasps, completely fucking filthy.

And his dick—fuck, his dick. It's fucking throbbing inside you, fucking into your swollen, wrecked little cunt, stretching you out over and over again, grinding in so deep. And he loves it. Loves how fucking ruined you are beneath him.

Loves how wet, how hot, how fucking tight your pussy is, squeezing down on him every time he moves, milking his cock, making it so much fucking harder to keep from cumming, but he's not stopping until you're a fucking mess for him. Not until you can't stop moaning his name, not until you're completely fucking gone for him.

Jason breaks the kiss, lips wet and swollen, a string of spit still connecting your mouths before it snaps, breaking over your chin as he groans against your cheek.

And then, his mouth is on you again. Licking a hot, wet stripe down your jaw, sucking just beneath it, dragging his teeth across your pulse, biting, hard enough to make you whimper, make you shudder beneath him, make your cunt squeeze down around his thick cock so tight that he fucking moans against your skin.

"Yeah, that's my girl," he mutters, voice rough, heavy, wrecked, his tongue soothing over the bruise blooming beneath your skin before moving lower, kissing over your throat, your collarbone, sucking little red and purple marks into every inch of bare skin he can find. "My pretty fuckin' girl."

His hands grip your thighs, his breath hot against your sweat slick skin as he fucks you deep, thick cock stretching your swollen, puffy cunt open, slick and hot and dripping around him as he thrusts in hard, fast, grinding deep enough that his swollen tip kisses your cervix, sending sharp little sparks of pleasure up your spine every time his hips snap forward.

And it's so much. Too much. Your legs start to shake, and you try to push at his arms, whimpering, a little gasp of, "J-Jay—s'too—too much—" slipping past your lips, but Jason just shushes you, one big palm pressing flat against your belly, pushing down, making you feel every inch of his dick as he grinds deeper.

"Nah, baby, you can take it," he murmurs, lips dragging along the shell of your ear, his voice all syrupy sweet, like he isn't fucking you brainless. "You're my good girl, right?"

A particularly hard thrust makes you jolt, your tits bouncing, and Jason moans again, snapping his hips forward again just to watch them move. "Yeah, you are. You're my good fuckin' girl, lettin' me fuck this pretty little pussy the way I need—"

And then you're gone. A broken little cry catches in your throat, your back arching as heat bursts through you, rolling, intense, so fucking deep that it makes your eyes sting, makes your chest shake, makes you sniffle and whimper and tremble beneath him as your cunt clamps down on his cock, gushing all over him, his thighs, the couch, soaking everything, completely fucking ruining him.

"Ohh, fuck, baby—"

He moans, voice deep, guttural, and then his hips stutter, his fingers dig into your thighs, his cock twitches, and he fucking spills.

Hot, thick spurts of cum fill you up, pump into you as he thrusts, slow and deep, like he wants to make sure you feel every drop, like he needs to make sure it stays, and he shudders, breath catching as he moans against your throat, pressing sloppy little kisses there as he fucks it all back into you, slow and deep, completely fucking wrecking your swollen, sensitive little pussy.

"Jesus, baby," he gasps, voice all rough, shaky, as he grinds deep, like he just can't stop, like he needs to fuck you soft, sweet, long after you've both cum, just to feel it, just to keep it there. "So fuckin' good for me. So fuckin' perfect."

And even when he stops moving, when he just stays there, buried deep inside you, keeping his cum warm in your soaked, wrecked little cunt, he still doesn't pull out.

You're both panting, bodies slick with sweat, chests rising and falling against each other as you try to catch your breath. Jason is still inside you, cock still buried balls deep, his last few slow pulses spilling the very last of his cum into you.

And he stays there. Just stays, his hands smoothing over your sides, rubbing slow, lazy circles into your heated skin, so gentle despite his rough hands, despite the way he'd been fucking you minutes ago, like he wanted to fuck you apart.

But now? Now he's soft. Tender. Sweet.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, your nose, your jaw, anywhere his lips can reach, whispering a soft, "Jesus, pretty girl," as he trails his mouth over your skin.

And then he kisses you. Slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world, like he wants to savor you, taste you, keep you, his lips moving against yours. Easy, affectionate, his tongue slipping past your parted lips to lick into your mouth, coaxing little moans from your throat as you kiss him back.

It's deep, wet, warm, every little sound you make swallowed up by him, every shaky breath shared between you, his hands still rubbing over your sides, grounding you, keeping you close.

But of course he can't help himself.

His mouth drags down your jaw, down the column of your throat, over your collarbone, kissing over every bruise he left behind, soothing each one with his tongue, before he moves lower, down to your tits.

And fuck, he's always been obsessed with your tits.

He groans, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue swirling over the pebbled flesh, dragging slow, wet circles around it before he bites, sharp enough to make you gasp, make you arch into his mouth, make your cunt pulse around his cock, still warm and thick inside you.

"Fuck, baby," Jason groans, voice wrecked.

One hand palming your other breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks at the other, pulling deep little gasps from your lips, from your chest.

A little moan of "Jay—" slips out, making him shiver against you.

And as his mouth moves lower, down the swell of your breast, sucking little bruises along the soft flesh, marking you up all over again.

You whimper when he shifts, his cock still deep inside you, still hard, still filling you up, and Jason shushes you softly, cupping your cheek with one large, calloused hand, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he leans in, pressing the softest kiss to the tip of your nose.

"You did so good, baby," he murmurs, voice all warm and low, lips trailing down to your cheek, kissing you there, too. "So fuckin' good for me."

You sigh, utterly blissed out, your body heavy and warm and hazy with pleasure as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, pressing tiny, sleepy kisses against his lips, one after the other. Soft. Sweet.

Jason laughs against your mouth, lips curling against yours, and you murmur, "I love you so much, baby."

And God, he really feels it. Feels it like a punch to the gut, feels it like it's branding him, like it's sinking into his bones.

"I love you too, doll," he rasps, breath warm against your lips, his heart pounding in his chest.

And then you kiss him again because you can't help yourself. Sloppy, hungry, all wet heat and messy tongues, every little moan and gasp swallowed up, shared between you, your lips moving against his in lazy, needy little licks, your fingers tugging at his hair, keeping him there, making him groan into your mouth.

Jason tilts his head, deepening it, licking into you slow, teasing, his teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging, making you whimper before he soothes the sting with his tongue, one hand sliding down side, gripping you like he needs you.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Jason pulls back, breaking the kiss, and your lips chase his on instinct, a whimper escaping as he starts to pull out.

"Jay..."

You barely recognize your own voice, raw and sweet, your body still humming from the aftershocks.

He grins, all lazy and smug, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands hold your hips still. "Shhh, baby, just relax."

His dick drags against your swollen walls, the slow, steady drag making your thighs twitch as he pulls out, his thick head slipping free with an obscene, wet sound.

And then his gaze drops. Jesus Christ. There's a few views Jason loves. You, at any hour, any day. Sleepy, sweet, wrapping yourself around him in bed like a feral little gremlin. You, grinning at him, teasing him, saying you love him, with that look in your eyes like he's your whole world.

And then there's this. You, fucked out. All messy and wrecked, thighs spread open, your flushed, sweaty body still trembling under him, your swollen, puffy little cunt all soaked with his cum.

His jaw tightens, chest heaving, his cock twitching where it rests between your legs, gleaming with your slick and his release. You're so fucking pretty, all flushed and warm and his, your pussy still trying to clench around something that isn't there. It makes him want to spread you open, push every single drop of cum back inside just to watch it spill out again, to hear the little sounds you'd make.

Jason hums, dragging his fingers down your thigh, slow, teasing, before bringing them between your legs.

You whimper, hips twitching as he spreads you open, his thick fingers pressing into your puffy, swollen folds, gathering up the mess he made, his own cum sticky and wet as he smears it back against your pussy, dragging his fingers over your puffy clit, making your entire body jolt.

"Jay—"

Your breath hitches, the overstimulation making your back arch. His fingers stroke over your clit again, lazy, teasing, watching how you drip for him, his cum mixed with yours making everything wetter, sliding down the cleft of your ass. He loves the way your lips tremble, the way your tiny hand suddenly wraps around his wrist, a weak little grip as you try to stop him.

"Jay—it's too much—"

Your voice is all breathless, barely even there, but he hears it, and fuck if it doesn't make him harder. Jason chuckles, deep and satisfied, his fingers slipping down, spreading you apart with both thumbs just to watch as even more of his cum drips out, pearly and thick.

"Shit," he mutters, watching mesmerized, obsessed. "Fuckin' look at you, pretty girl. So messy for me, huh? Can't keep a single drop in that tight little pussy, can you?"

You whimper, pressing your thighs together, trying to hide, but Jason just tsks, shaking his head as he swipes two fingers through your folds again, smearing his release up and around your puffy clit.

"Jay—" you gasp, hips jerking when he strokes you just right, but your hand snaps out, catching his wrist before he can do it again, your fingers curling weakly around him. "Jay, no—it's too much—"

He fucking loves when you get like this, when you're so far gone, so sensitive and spent and desperate all at once, your poor little pussy still clenching around nothing as your voice shakes.

Jason just chuckles, rubbing your clit in slow, maddening circles as he leans down, lips ghosting over yours. "Sorry, doll," he rasps, though he doesn't sound sorry at all, his lips curling into a smirk as he smears more of his cum over you. "I can't help it."

"Jason—" you squirm, hips twitching, body shuddering as he gives one last teasing swirl over your swollen clit before he finally relents, drawing his hand away.

He smirks, bringing his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean, groaning at the taste, before he shifts back, pushing up onto his knees, the heat of him leaving you. You watch through half lidded eyes as he strips off his sweatpants and boxers, the fabric sticking to his thighs from how messy you both got, and he makes a face at the mess before letting them drop to the floor.

"Gotta toss these in the wash anyway," he mutters.

Before you can even think to say anything, he's scooping you up, arms warm and strong around you, and you gasp, then giggle as you snuggle into his chest.

"Jay—" you smile against his skin, pressing your lips to his jaw, your nose nuzzling against his cheek. "you're so warm..."

"Yeah?" he grins, squeezing you just a little, holding you tighter as he stands. "C'mon, I'll clean you up real quick so you can enjoy your book while it's still sunny."

You huff a soft little sound against his skin, burying your nose into his neck. "Will you stay with me?"

Jason chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "On your armchair?"

"Mhmm," you nod against him, arms curling around his neck as you murmur, "I wanna snuggle with you."

"Deal, baby."

He presses a kiss to your hair, voice all soft, so damn fond as he carries you toward the bathroom.

Half an hour later, as promised—though barely, because Jason was this close to fucking you again in the shower—you're curled up with him in your favorite armchair, a place that feels just as much like home as the man holding you.

The chair is big, oversized and plush, made for stretching out, perfect for long reading sessions and lazy afternoons. A fluffy blanket is draped over the back, the same one you always pull over yourself when you get lost in a book, and Jason—huge, warm, always taking up too much space—somehow manages to fit in it with you. Barely. But neither of you care.

Your legs dangle lazily over one armrest, stretched out and relaxed, while your body is snugly pressed against him, your ass perfectly nestled against his dick, because of course it is.

Jason's arms are wrapped around you, holding you close, his large, rough palm resting against your thigh, fingers idly stroking over your bare skin, while his other arm is draped around your back, hand rubbing slow, soothing circles along your arm.

Your head rests against his shoulder, your body practically melting into him, warm and soft and content, your book open in your lap as your eyes lazily scan the pages.

And Jason... well, Jason doesn't even fucking care about the damn book.

Not when you're curled up against him like this, all warm and sweet, your fingers tracing absent little shapes over his forearm. Not when he can smell the faint traces of your body wash and shampoo, his scent lingering on your skin, on his clothes. Not when your soft little ass is pressed right against his lap, snug and perfect against his dick, the heat of you seeping through his sweats.

You sigh against him, shifting slightly to get comfortable, and Jason grits his teeth, his hand squeezing your thigh a little tighter.

Fuck. If you keep squirming like that, he's gonna fuck around and start something again.

He exhales through his nose, forcing himself to focus on anything else, not on how soft your skin is beneath his fingers, or how easily he could slip his hand higher.

"You good, baby?"

You don't even look up from your book, voice soft, teasing, and he can practically hear the smirk in it.

Jason huffs a laugh, shifting slightly, adjusting his grip on your thigh. "M'good, doll."

Liar. Your fingers trace up his arm, slow, lazy, curling around his wrist as you nuzzle into him, your lips brushing against his neck.

"Mhmm," you hum, voice light, mischievous. "You sure?"

"Baby—" Jason groans, low and warning, but you just giggle, pressing another kiss to his skin, and he knows you're about to start trouble.

As you turn another page, your fingers absentmindedly trace over the veins in his forearm, nails grazing over his skin in slow, delicate strokes. He hums, squeezing your thigh in response, the warmth of his palm sinking into you. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath you, but there's that telltale shift—the way his thumb starts rubbing a little slower, a little more deliberately.

He leans in, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and when you tilt your head just a little, giving him access, his lips find yours. It starts soft, just the slightest brush, the kind that makes your stomach flutter, but then he deepens it, lazy and teasing, tongue sliding against yours with that same slow, deliberate pace he fucked you with earlier.

You sigh into his mouth, melting further against him, and his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly close. "Love you," he murmurs against your lips, voice low and raspy.

Your heart clenches in that way it always does when he says it. Like this. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. You press another kiss to his lips, and another, and another, soft and fleeting, making him huff out a quiet laugh.

"You're really tryna start somethin' again, huh?"

His voice is rough, teasing, but there's already that edge to it, that heat beneath his tone. His hand squeezes your thigh, fingers twitching like he's already thinking about flipping you over, spreading you open, pumping you full.

You giggle, nuzzling into his neck instead, pressing a kiss right over his pulse. "Nope," you lie, knowing damn well that if he really wanted to, you'd let him do whatever the fuck he wanted to you, again.

[ofbatsandballads]

have this thing I wrote in a flash of pure, unadulterated love for Jason that I felt while doing my hair routine after my shower. never needed a fictional guy more in all my life and honestly this may be my personal favorite thing I’ve ever written.

Thinking about domesticity with Jason Todd. Building a home with him, a life. How ever so gradually mine and yours becomes ours.

You’re brushing your teeth one morning and decide to try out his toothpaste, the one he always buys from the bodega down the block owned by the little abuelita that loves him to death. It’s fresh and it’s minty and you swear it leaves your teeth whiter than the brand name stuff you buy, so you let your tube get used up and never buy toothpaste again. Jason, without question, simply starts buying it twice as often as usual.

You’re fresh from the shower together after a night off for both of you. You’re warm and you’re happy and you’re both so in love it almost hurts. You watch enraptured as he towel dries his hair, roughly scrunching the water from his inky curls. You don’t like how he lacks gentleness with himself, so you take the towel from him and gesture for him to lean down. Ever obedient to you, Jason complies and smiles softly as you dry his hair for him. You think suddenly that while his curls are always soft to the touch, they could do with being a bit more defined. They tend to get really frizzy and poofy by the end of the day. So you grab your curl cream and gel and just absentmindedly do your own routine on him. He raises his eyebrow in question only to quickly relent when he realizes it means you’re playing with his hair for longer. Your hunch is right; once his hair dries, his curls are so pretty you think you could get lost in the waves of them. Jason’s just happy cause now his hair smells like you.

The only clothes Jason has that are his now is his Red Hood gear. The rest of his closet has quickly become co-owned by you. His brain never fails to short circuit when you walk out in his hoodies, or his sweatpants, or his t-shirts, or his boxers. There’s not one piece of his civilian clothing that hasn’t been on both of your bodies at this point. Sometimes seeing you in his clothes has Jason blushing and his heart pounding with how much he loves you, how grateful he is to have this life with you. Other times seeing you in his clothes has him calculating the fastest way he can get them all off of you. You’re just disappointed that it can’t go both ways. But, alas, the struggles of having a massive boyfriend are that he’ll never be able to fit in your clothes. Whatever; it still does something for you when he finally wears the old Gotham Knights shirt that you’d stolen for months.

It’s also kind of funny sometimes. You two own a set of old, dark gray towels affectionately labeled “The Blood Towels”. The Blood Towels are only brought out after a really rough patrol or post-showering when you’re on your period. They came about after you’d nearly slipped while soaking wet from how quickly you’d tried to dry off to avoid bleeding on his good, fluffy towels. Jason just looked at you like you were a little ditzy, a flat “Do ya know how many times I’ve bled on these towels?” coming from his mouth. “I don’t care! I still don’t wanna ruin them!” you’d insisted. And thus, The Blood Towels were born.

Your bookshelf is never going to stop growing. You’ve actually had to go to IKEA more than once to get a larger one with how often you and Jay visit the old bookstore two blocks away from your apartment. Neither of you can resist a pretty cover, or a new annotated edition, or, heaven forbid, those rare, expensive first edition copies. At this point you’re not really sure which of the five copies of Pride and Prejudice first belonged to who, but really what does it matter when you’re both reading them anyways? And it’s always funny when you have to drag home a bigger bookshelf. You can never hold your laughter when Jason inevitably shouts “What the fuck! This wouldn’t be so goddamn hard if they actually gave you coherent instructions!” It’s also always nice to drag the old bookshelves to the apartment of the single mom downstairs whose kid loves reading. You both know she can barely afford the second hand books she gets him, so the shelves are happily given. You’re actually thinking of asking Jay if he’s willing to part with one of your first edition copies of Frankenstein for Christmas; the kid would freak.

All of this comes to a head with a cat. A big, fat, black cat that crawls up on your fire escape one night. You’d both been a little distracted–okay, a lot distracted by the feeling of being lost in each other's touch. You’d been making out for over an hour, just relishing in the intimacy of being together. It was definitely going to go somewhere until you heard the caterwauling of an animal outside your window. “The fuck is that?” Jason had asked as he pulled away from kissing bruises into your neck. “Sounds like a cat.” You’d begged, actually begged, Jason to let him stay. The next morning you came home with a grocery bag full of cat toys and bowls while Jason hauled a value-sized 40 pound bag of cat food on his shoulder. Atticus sits with you both while you watch TV now. Atticus still sometimes ruins the mood when he sees Jason sink his teeth into you and immediately swats his dad on the cheek. But Atticus is also undeniably your boy. And whatever, maybe you do start thinking about what Jason would look like with an actual baby in his arms when he’s cradling Atty as he shuffles around your home. But there’s time for that yet. You both know that. You know that beyond anything else, you’ll always have this life, this home together. It’s the best gift either of you have ever been given.

[yourplaceinaugust]

dude if you walked into my apartment youd literally not know that im terrified of bugs. i have a doormat and throw pillow with a cute design of beetles on it (at least i think they're beetles idk i dont know bugs) and then i have a little mosquito figurine (he is absolutely adorable and i named him Edison)

[pomegranatelifethis]

I think I'm dying

The Wayne Manor library was your sanctuary, a labyrinth of leather-bound tomes and soft lamplight where you could lose yourself for hours. At sixteen, you’d carved out a place among the Batfamily, not as a vigilante but as a quiet anchor, someone who patched up their wounds—emotional and physical—when Gotham’s shadows spit them back out. Tonight, though, the library’s warmth couldn’t shield you from the sharp, unfamiliar pain clawing at your abdomen. You curled tighter into the armchair, a copy of *Jane Eyre* forgotten on your lap, your breath hitching as another cramp twisted through you.

You’d never felt anything like this. A dull ache had started that morning, easy to ignore, but by evening it was a relentless vise, squeezing your insides with no mercy. Then there was the blood. You’d stared at the red stain in your underwear, heart pounding, before piecing it together. Your first period. You’d read about it, heard friends whisper about it, but no one warned you it would *hurt* like this. Embarrassment burned hotter than the pain—you couldn’t tell *them*. The Batfamily was a pack of overprotective, mostly male vigilantes. How do you explain this to people who dodge bullets for a living?

The library door creaked open, and you stiffened. Dick Grayson poked his head in, his perpetual grin faltering when he saw you hunched over, face pale. “Hey, kiddo, you okay? You look like you just fought Bane and lost.”

You forced a weak smile, clutching *Jane Eyre* like a shield. “I’m fine, Dick. Just… stomachache.”

He stepped inside, all easy grace, but his eyes—sharp, trained to catch lies—narrowed. “Uh-huh. That’s not a stomachache face. That’s a ‘something’s seriously wrong’ face. Spill.”

Before you could deflect, another cramp hit, and you couldn’t stop the whimper that slipped out. Dick was at your side in an instant, crouching to meet your eyes. “Whoa, hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Your cheeks flamed. “It’s nothing. Really. Just… girl stuff.” The words felt like broken glass in your throat.

Dick’s expression softened, understanding dawning. “Oh. *Oh*. First time?” When you nodded, barely meeting his gaze, he didn’t laugh or make it weird. Instead, he squeezed your shoulder. “Okay, stay put. I’m calling in reinforcements.”

“Dick, no—” But he was already gone, leaving you to curse your luck. Reinforcements in Wayne Manor meant chaos.

Ten minutes later, the library was a battlefield of Batfamily concern. Dick returned with Tim Drake, who clutched a laptop like it held the secrets to curing periods. “I’ve got articles,” Tim announced, scrolling furiously. “Cramps are caused by prostaglandins, which trigger uterine contractions. Heat helps. Also, hydration. And maybe ibuprofen?”

“Tim, chill with the WebMD,” Jason Todd drawled, leaning against a bookshelf. He’d shown up with a heating pad—where he’d found it, you didn’t ask—and tossed it onto your lap. “Here. Crank that bad boy up. Works wonders.”

You blinked at the heating pad, then at Jason. “You… know about this?”

He shrugged, a rare softness in his green eyes. “Grew up around women. Picked up a thing or two. Don’t make it a big deal.”

Damian Wayne, perched on a ladder with a scowl, muttered, “This is absurd. If the pain is this severe, perhaps a medical evaluation is warranted.”

“Damian, it’s just a period,” Dick said, ruffling his hair, which earned him a glare. “She’s not dying.”

Bruce entered last, silent as ever, carrying a tray with a steaming mug of chamomile tea and a bottle of painkillers. He set it on the side table, his presence grounding the room’s chaos. “Take two,” he said, nodding at the ibuprofen. “And drink the tea. Alfred swears by it.”

You stared at the tray, then at the five vigilantes circling you like overzealous nurses. The embarrassment was still there, but it was drowned out by something warmer—something like belonging. “You guys are ridiculous,” you mumbled, popping the pills and sipping the tea. The heating pad was already dulling the cramps, and the tea soothed the knot in your chest.

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with us,” Jason said, smirking. “No suffering alone in this family.”

Tim piped up, still scrolling. “There’s also this yoga pose that’s supposed to—”

“Drake, enough,” Damian snapped, but there was no venom in it. He hopped off the ladder and, in a rare moment of gentleness, draped a blanket over your shoulders. “Rest. We’ll handle patrol tonight.”

Bruce’s hand rested briefly on your head, a quiet gesture of reassurance. “If you need anything, you tell us. No shame in it.”

You nodded, throat tight. As they filtered out—Dick with a final wink, Tim muttering about anti-inflammatory diets, Jason tossing you a salute—you sank into the armchair, the pain easing under the heat and care. The library was quiet again, but it didn’t feel empty. Not with them.

For the first time that night, you smiled. Being part of the Batfamily was messy, chaotic, and occasionally mortifying. But it was also this: a room full of heroes who’d drop everything because you were hurting. And that? That was worth every cramp in the world