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𓆸 he/it. 20. southern syrian-american. somewhere between thought daughter and slut son. i write sometimes, and i also post my tattoos :3
“daddy, better pass the dough,”
MINORS DNI 18+ !!!
now playing: “ make a wish ” - (ayesha erotica.) 𓆦
now thinking: jason todd calling me ma… god im unwell
requests: PRETTYY PLEASSEE
02.03.25
“i’m tryna get high, give you ass and throat”
Imagine hating on me but i spend my free time maladaptive daydreaming about getting raw dogged by fictional men
you were staring. very unabashedly so, too. just… oogling your boyfriend, watching as he lounged on your couch, his black shirt fitted around bulging arms, the hem riding up around his tummy to reveal that line of thick black hair that dipped below his plaid pants.
oh my god, those stupid plaid pants. they made you wonder what the hell the hype was about grey sweats, when those existed.
and it’s not like you had anything to be ashamed about, either. he was your boyfriend, all six foot something of him, for fucks sake. all the thick muscles, and short cropped hair, and scars, and fuck, those eyes. you could look if you damn well wanted to.
you’d tried very hard to convince yourself all morning that you were fine, and definitely not ovulating, and fine.
but in that moment, watching your boyfriend literally just sit there, eyes shut and head tipped back, this was not you. it was some evil entity, possessing you and in full swing. you were ready to jump him, and it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet.
your gaze kept dropping lower, toward those pecs, all soft and plush beneath the fabric of his tee, and you could feel yourself start to salivate.
it wasn’t even anything provocative either, but the sight of his tits in a black shirt, tight over the unflexed muscle, was driving you up a god damned wall.
you curled your legs up beneath you, arm perching you against the back of the couch, the other pressed between the low of your thighs to physically retrain yourself from grabbing him like a deranged person.
because, no matter what you did, it was almost impossible to stop imagining just throwing yourself at him, and doing some entirely unspeakable things. things you know you’d never do unless it was this god forsaken time of month.
“you good, ma?” Jason asked, finally breaking the tense silence, and drawing your attention away from his torso. he was staring back now, one brow raised quizzically, and his scared lip curled up in questioning.
“your eyes are dilatin’ and shit.”
yeah. you got up, wordlessly, and walked toward the kitchen.
PLEASE I need a part 2 with the smut for this omgggg, like I want reader to pounce on him and get so heated and dominate Jason just has to go with it hehehehehe
HMMM….
reblog to tell your mutuals they’re lovely af.
✨♡♡✨♡♡✨♡♡✨♡♡✨
Based on that little blurb you reblogged can I request the batfamily finding out that Jason has a girlfriend by him rummaging through the stuff in his pockets?
They're like dang dude what do you have in there? and it's all hair ties, lip stick, and a recipe for two 💕
-🍬
oh I love a good “Jason hides his lover from his family only for it to get revealed dramatically” fic and now thanks to you, nonnie, I get to write one!
jason todd x f!reader. warnings include canon typical injuries, sibling violence, and slight hints at the batfam’s more traumatic interactions. this is mostly a good ol’ batfam fic, because reader is only alluded to, but I really like it. sorry I made it angsty for a sec there, I just can’t resist the Dynamics™️.
Jason should’ve known better. Really, he should’ve. Taking on Killer Croc alone? A fool’s mistake, but he was just too stubborn to say yes when Bruce asked if he’d like some backup. So now here he is, loopy in the Batcave after Waylon absolutely rocked his shit.
“‘S not even that bad,” he slurs.
The fact that he trips on his own feet and nearly faceplants before Bruce catches him says otherwise.
“Sure it’s not, Jaylad. Let’s get you to the medbay,” Bruce grumbles, worry creeping into that stone cold exterior.
you were staring. very unabashedly so, too. just… oogling your boyfriend, watching as he lounged on your couch, his black shirt fitted around bulging arms, the hem riding up around his tummy to reveal that line of thick black hair that dipped below his plaid pants.
oh my god, those stupid plaid pants. they made you wonder what the hell the hype was about grey sweats, when those existed.
and it’s not like you had anything to be ashamed about, either. he was your boyfriend, all six foot something of him, for fucks sake. all the thick muscles, and short cropped hair, and scars, and fuck, those eyes. you could look if you damn well wanted to.
you’d tried very hard to convince yourself all morning that you were fine, and definitely not ovulating, and fine.
but in that moment, watching your boyfriend literally just sit there, eyes shut and head tipped back, this was not you. it was some evil entity, possessing you and in full swing. you were ready to jump him, and it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet.
your gaze kept dropping lower, toward those pecs, all soft and plush beneath the fabric of his tee, and you could feel yourself start to salivate.
it wasn’t even anything provocative either, but the sight of his tits in a black shirt, tight over the unflexed muscle, was driving you up a god damned wall.
you curled your legs up beneath you, arm perching you against the back of the couch, the other pressed between the low of your thighs to physically retrain yourself from grabbing him like a deranged person.
because, no matter what you did, it was almost impossible to stop imagining just throwing yourself at him, and doing some entirely unspeakable things. things you know you’d never do unless it was this god forsaken time of month.
“you good, ma?” Jason asked, finally breaking the tense silence, and drawing your attention away from his torso. he was staring back now, one brow raised quizzically, and his scared lip curled up in questioning.
“your eyes are dilatin’ and shit.”
yeah. you got up, wordlessly, and walked toward the kitchen.
Jason Todd isn’t soft. He swears he isn’t. But when you shiver, even a little, his jacket is on your shoulders before you can say a word.
Jason Todd rolls his eyes when you cuddle up to him on the couch, but his arm always finds its way around you. Always.
Jason Todd grunts when you trace lazy shapes on his arm, like it annoys him to no end, but you feel his muscles go slack. He lets you. Doesn’t even notice when his head tips against yours.
Jason Todd will never admit he likes holding your hand, but when you let go, he notices. Glances down. Threads his fingers back through yours without a word.
Jason Todd looks at you like you've hung the stars, even if all you said was his name.
Jason Todd doesn’t do flowers or chocolates, but your favorite snacks show up in the kitchen, like magic.
Jason Todd always has something of yours in his pockets — hair ties, lip balm, a receipt from that store you love.
Jason Todd isn’t soft. God, he swears he isn’t. But when you look up at him and smile like that — like he’s something good, something worth loving — he just sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. Pretends he’s not blushing.
