#jason todd is a mama's boy

[kittykatninja321]

People who write Jason calling Sheila a bitch in his internal monologue don’t understand him I’m sorryyy. I don’t think he’s ever actually said a word against her in canon at the is point. He spent his last moments trying to protect her from the blast even after her betrayal. He is insane in ways you can’t even begin to fathom

[narxcisse]

★ — Mama's boy Jason Todd headcanons

Jason Todd x Mother/Mother figure!Reader

CW: mention of Jason's death (+reader blames Bruce for his death), fluff, I did my best to keep it canon without romanticizing or fanonizing anything. 😭

English isn't my native language

Jason met you before his days as Robin, back when he was still living on the streets. You were one of the rare adults who didn’t look at him with pity or disdain but instead treated him with quiet respect. Maybe you ran a small diner, a shelter, or worked as a social worker with no patience for bureaucracy.

The first time Jason came into your life, he wasn’t looking for help. He was scrappy, full of fire, and incredibly proud, but you saw past the bravado to the hungry, clever kid beneath. You offered him food without strings attached, and from then on, he kept coming back.

When Bruce took him in, you were one of the few people he trusted enough to talk to. He didn’t tell you about being Robin outright, but you noticed he’d sometimes show up with bruises or a limp, his explanations half-hearted at best.

Jason sought your advice on everything—from school troubles to navigating the strange dynamics of the Wayne household. You often found yourself acting as a translator for his emotions when he struggled to articulate them.

He valued your opinion deeply. If you told him to apologize to Bruce for a fight or to take a break when he was pushing himself too hard, he’d grumble but almost always listen.

Even as Robin, Jason was fiercely protective of you. If he thought someone was giving you trouble or you were in any danger, his sharp instincts kicked in. “No one messes with my mom,” he’d mutter, even if you insisted you could handle yourself.

Jason’s growing disillusionment with Bruce often spilled into your conversations. You tried to mediate, understanding both sides but always prioritizing Jason’s feelings.

When he died, it broke you in a way you didn’t think was possible. You immediately blamed Bruce for letting him take on so much danger, not even letting him explain everything that happened. (Over time you apologized to him for what happened and understood that he was just as devastated as you were by Jason's death.)

When Jason came back as Red Hood, he avoided you for a long time. He didn’t think you’d accept him, not after everything he’d done. But when he finally worked up the courage to see you, he was stunned to find you opening your arms to him without hesitation.

“You’ve been through hell, Jason. I’m just glad you’re alive.” Those words stuck with him more than anything else anyone had said since his return.

You didn’t sugarcoat your disappointment in his methods, but you also didn’t try to control him. You understood that his pain and anger needed to run their course. Instead, you focused on reminding him that he still had someone who believed in him.

Jason acts tough, but around you, he’s a little softer. He loves the comfort of having someone who doesn’t expect him to be anything other than himself.

He calls you more than he calls anyone else. Sometimes it’s to rant, sometimes it’s just to check in. “You eat yet?” he’ll ask, even if he’s halfway across the world.

Whenever he’s in Gotham, he always makes time to visit you. He’ll bring little gifts—books he thinks you’ll like, a weird trinket from some mission, or your favorite snack.

Jason craves your approval more than he’d ever admit. When you compliment his growth or tell him you’re proud of him, he practically glows, even if he rolls his eyes and pretends to brush it off.

He’s fiercely protective of you, more so than anyone else. If he even suspects someone’s giving you a hard time, he’ll show up unannounced, ready to “handle” it. You usually have to calm him down before he goes full Red Hood.

You’re one of the few people who can challenge Jason’s darker impulses without him lashing out. “You don’t have to agree with me, but at least think about it,” you’ll say, and he actually does.

When he’s struggling with his identity—whether he’s a hero, an anti-hero, an anti-villain or something else entirely (bro seriously thinks he's Barbie. 😭🙏)—you’re his anchor. You remind him that he’s more than his past, more than his mistakes.

Jason often credits you for keeping him grounded. He’ll never say it outright, but you’re one of the reasons he hasn’t spiraled further.

Jason fixing things around your home without being asked—tightening loose hinges, replacing lightbulbs, and even rebuilding your bookshelves because he “didn’t like the wobble.”

Late-night phone calls where he opens up about his fears and frustrations, his voice quieter and more vulnerable than usual.

Cooking together when he visits, even if he claims he’s “not great in the kitchen.” He loves hearing your stories as you work side by side.

The rare moments when he lets his guard down completely, resting his head on your shoulder or letting you ruffle his hair like he’s still the scrappy kid you first met.

Jason may be a complicated, broken man, but with you, he finds a sense of peace he doesn’t get anywhere else. To him, you’re not just a mother figure—you’re his family, his safe place, and the person who never gave up on him.

The first sign something was wrong was the way Jason entered your apartment—quiet, almost hesitant. He was usually a storm of energy when he visited, slamming the door behind him and announcing his arrival with some sarcastic quip. But today, he just slipped inside, set his helmet down carefully on the counter, and stood there, staring at nothing.

You didn’t need to ask if he was okay. You already knew he wasn’t.

“Jason?” you called softly from the couch, setting down the book you’d been reading.

He didn’t respond right away, just shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a chair. His movements were slower than usual, less precise. It was like the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders, and for once, even his stubbornness couldn’t hold it up.

You stood and approached him carefully, giving him space to come to you if he needed it. “Rough day?”

He let out a low chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “Something like that.”

You waited, not pressing him to elaborate. Jason had always been like this—he’d open up when he was ready, and not a second before.

For a moment, you thought he might brush you off entirely. But then, with a deep sigh, he turned to you, his expression a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. “I don’t know. I just…” He trailed off, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

That admission made your heart ache. Jason, who always acted like he didn’t need anyone, who carried his pain like armor, had come to you because he didn’t know what else to do.

Without a word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. He stiffened for half a second—old habits, you supposed—but then he melted into the embrace, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I’m just so tired,” he muttered, his voice muffled.

“I know, sweetheart,” you murmured, rubbing slow circles on his back. “I know.”

He held onto you like you were a lifeline, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. You didn’t push him to explain, didn’t try to fix it. You just held him, letting him unload the weight he’d been carrying for who-knows-how-long.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours. Time didn’t seem to matter. Eventually, Jason pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red but a little clearer.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He huffed out a small laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Yeah, well, don’t go getting used to this. I’m not turning into a softie or anything.”

You smiled, tapping his chest lightly. “Don’t worry. You’re still the toughest guy I know.”

Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned into your touch again, letting his head rest on your shoulder. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to just be—a son needing his mom. And you were more than happy to give him what he needed.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

AN: I wrote this for my bestie, I hope you liked it. 💗🤺

[lionwitch]

Hear me out. Secret magic user Jason Todd, except it's a secret to him too. Like, Nature Witch potential.

When he was little, out on the streets, people died from the elements, left and right. In Gotham, it always rained. It was hard to light a fire when the things you were trying to light were wet. So during the colder months, the homeless population tended to go down— hypothermia's a bitch.

But Jason somehow always managed to light a fire. He gathered newspapers, even if they were wet, rolled them up and made a little campfire, just like other homeless people. Except they took care to gather the dry ones, and Jason just... Didn't care. While others struggled to get it to light, he always got it on the first try.

And see, he should probably notice something's odd there, but this started when he was little and lacked the common sense that, you know, wet things shouldn't light up. It had started when his apartment didn't have heating and it was cold, so he made a makeshift campfire in the sink so he could extinguish the flame later, and somehow his parents didn't bother to question it. And then, well, if it had worked before, it should work now, right? He never realized that it wasn't exactly normal.

And he didn't realize that rain should put it out. Sure, he tried to do it on a covered spot because he didn't particularly enjoy being soaked, but he didn't realize that fire doesn't enjoy being soaked, either, and when he is unable to find a cover, he seeks warmth from his fire. Under the rain, no matter how heavy.

And it's not like he's using gasoline or oil. Nothing special. He's just using newspaper and a cool lighter he found that should've run out ages ago. He's been using the same lighter for years (it did run out— it never lights up for anyone else, but he attributes it to the pressure he's mastered. Not that he lends it much). He jokes that his trusty lighter is picky and loyal. He loves his cool-as-fuck dragon lighter as much as it loves him. It's red, black and gold and he loves it. He keeps it in an inside pocket of his jacket, right above his heart, and on cold nights it seems to heat up wonderfully.

Sometimes when it's snowing, he finds he's not all that bothered by it. Then again, he has no point of reference. Maybe that's how everyone feels? Or maybe he has a damn good jacket, plus his lighter is warm.

He also finds snowballs are too easy to form. He doesn't even need to form them, really, he grabs a fistful and when he throws it, instead of, you know, a fistful of snow, it's a perfectly round snowball. Also, if he intends it as a weapon (say, to escape the police or a criminal), it seems to do far more damage than friendly throws. He attributes it to the strength of the throw (it's not)

This little shit can walk through a storm, or a blizzard, or strong-ass winds from a hurricane, and he's fine. He can walk easily through weather where even Batman stays in for.

There's an apple tree in a park, it's very tall and very hard/impossible to climb. The lower apples may be collected if you have a ladder, but the upper ones are usually just bird food until they fall, hardly ever in one piece. And yet, if Jason is hungry and passes under it, any apple the tree has to offer falls near him, enough to be caught, perfectly ripe and whole.

There's a raven that always steals his lettuce. If he gets a sandwich, the raven comes down and bothers him until he gives her the lettuce. If he gets a salad, she comes down and settles with him and steals the lettuce from his fork, but lets him eat anything else in it. It works, because lettuce makes him itchy (is it supposed to be spicy?) and while he can eat small quantities, he prefers to give them to Lettuce (not very original, but it works) unless he's really starving.

Lettuce wakes him up at dawn every day. No matter where he hides away for the night, she finds him in the morning, and comes and goes throughout the day. They each do their own thing, but she sticks relatively close, and if he's in danger, she protects him. With patience and a lot of boredom, and lots of time together, Jason and Lettuce have developed a call between them, a birdcall they both can mimic and respond to. And if Jason is in danger, he'll call for Lettuce loudly, and it takes no time before she flies in, attacking whoever is threatening him. This is of course more effective during the day, because Ravens are diurnal. However, if she happens to be sleeping close enough to hear him at night, she'll wake up and call back, and Jason will repeat the call and she'll find him. She has blinded many people, including but not limited to cops (it's always creepy afterwards, watching her eat the eyes of his attackers, but he's grown numb to it)

Lettuce is his best friend, his partner in crime. She helps him steal, be it food, money or objects. It's mutually beneficial, see. He couldn't be more unafraid of bugs and rodents. He calls her over and they're being eaten the next moment. And he shares a lot of space with bugs and rodents. It's only at night that he needs to worry about them, once Lettuce goes to sleep. It's much easier to take care of yourself only at night than it is 24/7. Besides, while Lettuce wakes him up early, she lets him take a nap later on if he needs it, while she keeps guard. They're family.

When he got adopted, he worried he'd miss his feathered friend, being unable to spend as much time together. He underestimated her.

He woke up at dawn, habit unbroken, but went right back to sleep, feeling the absence of his loyal friend. And a few hours later, he was woken up again by a pounding on his window and angry croaking. He looked over to find his big-as-fuck bird repeatedly slamming against the window, talons first so she wouldn't get hurt. He rushed to open the window for her immediately, a grin on his face.

"Lettie!" he greeted happily. She greeted him angrily, instead, pecking his shoulder, however careful, and tugging on his hair. She'd been so worried when she couldn't find him! "I know, I know, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to dissappear on you, girl. But hey, I'm safe, promise!"

Now, listen, Ravens can reach a length of up to 66 cm (26 inches) and have a wingspan of more than 1.3 metres (4 feet). These are big birds, ok? So imagine Alfred's surprise when he saw Jason walking down the hallway, all good there, but with a massive raven flying above him.

Naturally, he assumed that the bird got in, at first. He was amazed by the sheer size of the bird, not having seen one so big from this distance. And then the raven descended towards Jason, talons out, and he was about to tell the boy to duck, because he though the bird was about to attack his head, and then the bird just landed on his shoulder.

"Ow! Bitch, mind your talons, they do hurt, you know?" he complained playfully, and the bird croaked back. Even to Alfred's ears it sounded amused. She clicked her beak, Jason clicked his teeth, and they seemed to argue playfully like that, as Alfred watched from behind them, unnoticed. Evidently, the bird won the argument, because Jason looked away and huffed "Ass", and she let out what sounded very much like a laugh.

"No, I hate you. So much" Jason scoffed, a blatant lie, his lips twitching into a smile. She cawed, fondly, like saying "no, you don't", and tugged gently on a strand of Jason's hair.

"No, I really do. Bossy bitch" he said, his voice lacking any bite. He leaned in, resting his head against her body carefully. She started preening his hair lovingly, almost motherly, and he let his eyes flutter closed as she pulled him closer with a wing. "Fine, maybe I love you. Just a little bit. Big dumb bird."

When he walked into the dining room, Bruce and Dick stared at him. Or rather, at her, perched on his shoulder, preening his hair and leaving it a mess, a wing around the back of his head. She paused, analyzing them too, but took note of Jason's relaxed demeanor around them. Not a threat, then.

"Jason... That's a big crow." Dick breathed out.

"A raven. Same family, different birds." Jason corrected, and the bird croaked, agreeing.

"Raven or crow, both are wild birds, Jason. That's not a parrot you can keep as a pet." Bruce intervened, eying the bird wearily "it's a predatory bird, that can and will turn on you in the blink of an eye if it wants. It's a dangerous bird. Not to mention it's illegal to keep them as pets"

"Well, good thing she is not a pet, then. She's a friend that chooses to stay by my side because she loves me and it's a beneficial agreement. And I'm aware of her potential. I've watched her eat human eyes—"

"You've what?"

"—but to be fair, they deserved it. She won't hurt you unless you hurt me."

"Hold on, circle back to that about eating human eyes"

"If you see people without eyes near Park Row, or blind former cops, that's us. They tried to attack me, she attacked them. I gave them plenty of warning, mind you."

"Wait, didn't Officer Johnson lose his eyes recently, Bruce? Commissioner Gordon was losing his mind because Johnson took lots of shifts."

"Johnson, Johnson..." Jason ran the most recent officers through his mind, trying to see if he remembered a name, but he didn't exactly stop to chat.

"Blond hair, 5'9, short beard, nasty scar on his—"

"—Right arm! Yes, I remember that one. He beat up another kid and then chased me, I told him to get lost and even decked him, but he wouldn't stop. Nearly crushed my wrist, that bitch. Then Lette flew in and—" Lettuce snapped her beak and puffed her feathers proudly "Yeah, that was us, but I did give him plenty of chances."

That did not make Bruce feel better about having this bird in his house, near his boys. There had been plenty of cops though the years that lost their eyes, it was driving Gordon mad. True, none of them were good cops, but still.

However, he could recognize as he watched his newest son and the bird communicate with various sounds, working as one, with evident years of teamwork, that sending the bird away to a sanctuary was not an option, and nothing short of the death of either of them would separate them, so he compromised. The bird would stay, as long as she proved healthy and didn't attack anyone.

Now on another note, Jason proved undefeatable in a snow fight

Somehow, no matter how good their aim was, or how hard they threw it, the snowballs either missed him, falling a few feet short of reaching him, or they hit him very softly. He never made any noise, like the snow didn't crush under his feet, and he always stayed on top instead of his feet sinking into it. And his snowballs always hit damn hard and accurate— unless he was only intending to get your attention, in which case it barely brushed you.

Patrolling on snowy days also proved easy. Bruce and Dick were in no way noisy, but the snow did slow them down and crushed under their feet, and they left footprints that left them easy to follow.

Jason didn't.

He somehow walked on top of the snow without leaving prints. The snow didn't crush, didn't make any noise at all, and he didn't slip on it either. It was as easy, maybe more so, for him to patrol on heavy snow than normal nights. Same with storms. Batman and Nightwing had to be careful to not slip when it was raining, and extra mindful of their movements so the splashing didn't give them away, while Jason could run or jump without making a sound or slipping even once.

"Practice" he said, "I've lived in the streets, I grew used to it, I guess."

He was a strange Robin.

The first time he met Poison Ivy, she had been particularly aggressive. And then she caught sight of the new Bird. And she stopped. She'd had the upper hand, Batman unconscious and trapped, Nightwing in Blüdhaven. She could've won. And Jason knew that, but he'd be dammed if he went down without a fight.

"Who are you?" she whispered, awe in her voice.

"I'm Robin." he answered simply, standing with a confidence he didn't feel.

"I see that. It's not what I meant. Who are you?"

"What, you think I'll give you my identity so easily? No way!"

"I didn't mean that, either. Who are you?"

"Listen, lady, I don't know what you want. Are you hard of hearing? Do you need me to use ASL? I mean, sure, if you want. I ain't ableist." Jason shrugged and actually started signing his words "I'm gonna need you to let Batman go."

"I am not hard of hearing, but I appreciate the inclusion anyway." Ivy smiled, and carefully laid Batman on the ground, much to Jason's surprise.

"Huh. That was easy."

"Listen, kid. If you ever need a mentor..."

"I'm with the Bat."

"Not what I meant. I can help you in ways he can't."

"I'll pass."

"Very well. The offer is on the table, if you ever change your mind, you can find me. Tomorrow or in twenty years, I don't care. I can guide you. I can help you."

And surprisingly, she handed herself in, giving the new Robin a smile. He kept her words a secret, confused. Weird woman, he thought.

And then, a few months later, he found his mother wasn't who he thought. And he looked for his mother. And he found her and was sold out by her. Bruce searched for him desperately, with Lettuce on his shoulder ("A promise", he'd said as he instructed Lettuce to stay with Bruce, "so you know I'll come back to you. So you know you're my family, even if I still have a mother. I'll be back, Dad"). But Joker had him.

But see, magic tends to wake up when the user is in danger.

So as Joker beat the boy, as fear beat in his heart, so did his magic. Barely conscious, beaten, bruised, but alive, the little Bird was underestimated.

"I'll say hi to your daddy for you." Joker said, planting the bomb.

And Jason realized he wouldn't be coming home. He realized Lettuce would never wake him up at dawn again. He realized Dick would never hug him again. He realized Bruce would never ruffle his hair again. He realized he'd never play with them in the snow again. He realized he'd break his promise.

And he screamed.

The warehouse went up in flames before Joker could leave. Far before the bomb went off. All-consuming flames that rose around him like the depths of hell, but caressed him like the touch of a loving mother, like Sheila never would. He heard the screams of Joker, just like his before. The flames enveloped Jason's broken body and pain overwhelmed him as his most broken bones snapped into place. He sobbed.

And then came the water. As his tear hit the flames, red turned into blue in a flood that put the fire out. Jason saw his blood seep into the water, red dissolving into the clear liquid. His wounds, the most severe at least, closing into scars. Jason saw the body of Joker floating on the water, charred and barely recognizable.

And then he saw hers. Sheila's body, still restrained, at the bottom of the water, skin melted by the fire. And she may have sold him off to Joker, he may never be able to forgive her, but still, he sinked to her, praying for her to be alive.

But Magic protects Her loved ones, and Magic doesn't forgive all that easy. She deemed Sheila unworthy of her favor. She was the reason Her Child was in such a situation, and as such, she earned Her wrath.

Jason reached for his mother, but as he touched her, the water evaporated. He carried her body out of the warehouse, no pulse to be found. He stared, a third parent dead. But was she really ever a mother? He reached down and closed her eyes. And vines sprouted from the ground, covering her body like a coffin. Jason knew this was her burial. His fingers traced over her covered body as he said his goodbyes, and then watched as she sinked down, down, down, into the earth, disappearing six feet under.

Jason looked down at himself, still wounded but not nearly as much. He took off his gloves as he felt his right hand burn, and he watched as the mark of a vine engraved itself into his skin, spiraling from his palm, the back of his hand, his wrist, all the way to his elbow. The mark shone green for a second before it settled with an bright silver color.

He heard a familiar caw and panicked. Because Lettuce meant Bruce, and Bruce meant Batman, and Batman didn't like metas in Gotham. And apparently he was a meta, right? Just like Poison Ivy.

He put his glove back on and searched his utility belt for a bandage, which he wrapped around his forearm, hiding his mark.

And then he called to Lettuce. And he heard her respond, louder, happy, worried, hopeful. He called again, and soon she was flying to him, Bruce running right behind her.

Bruce didn't understand what had happened, what happened to the warehouse, to Joker. To his son. But he didn't care. He was there, he was safe.

He checked his son for injuries, and he was quite hurt, but not as much as he could've been. Broken bones, bleeding wounds. Bruised, broken, scared. But safe.

And Jason let him assume that was as badly as he was hurt, let him believe Joker didn't beat him to death's doorstep. Because if he told him, he'd have to tell him how he healed.

The rest of his injuries healed normally at home, but Jason didn't let them see his right arm.

Dick, Bruce and Jason assumed maybe Joker had marked him. It wasn't uncommon to mark victims in some way. They wanted to help, but if they pressed about it, Jason would run out for an hour or two. So they let him. Jason always wore long sleeves and gloves, or a bandage on his arm, even when he slept. It became part of his style, just like the white stripe on his hair from where his head was split open.

But see, once awakened, his magic refused to lie dormant again. It buzzed and ached for release. And it seeped out of him with his every breath.

And it terrified him.

He lived with the world's greatest detectives. They were bound to notice the flames flaring when he walked into the room, be it candles or the fireplace. They were bound to notice the wind picking up unnaturally indoors. They were bound to notice his glass of water moving with unnatural waves.

So he ran out when he felt the call more active and let it explode. The plants deep into the Wayne Estate wildest part had never been greener. Plants that shouldn't bloom in there were growing. It was as easy as breathing, letting it flow. The problem was controlling it.

Jason felt like a baby learning to use the restroom. Doing it was instinctual, natural. A reflex. But holding it in was a challenge. The thing is, there were no diapers for magic. And he couldn't let anyone find out.

This is part one, I'll come back another day with how Tim comes into the picture, because duh, Jason didn't die

[skecherss]

Can you please draw Talia with a picture of jason and damian, mirroring the one u just posted of batman 👉🏼👈🏼

he just wanted to share his love for his babies. She is Making a Threat

[noassamoas]

when theyre all mamas boys but none of them have mothers

[punkeropercyjackson]

Miles Morales and Hobie Brown give Jason Todd and Percy Jackson so bad i love that

[psychokatrixxxy]

...so, I keep thinking about the Mama's boy song with Jason Todd... and it's honestly so fucking sad... because who he grew up with as his mother is the reason he started stealing tires, to look after her, and she died from an overdose, and then his bio mom, who he runs away from Bruce to find, sells him out to Joker and then dies in the warehouse explosion with him, Jay even tried to save her despite what she did... so in a really sad and fucked up way, Jason is a Mama's boy... doing so much, giving up so much for his moms....

And then there's Talia, who could be interpreted as a sort of mother figure to Jason... Jason saw Talia as a mother, and she used that to manipulate him, fueling his anger against B, Dick, and Tim....

Jason just wants a mom 😭💔

(This is all my interpretation. Don't take it too seriously)

[shittalkerxox]

What really breaks me about Jason's death is that it was his own mother who sold him out.

The very woman Jason had spent weeks tracking down, the last person he had left of his family. Jason, who was so loving and caring and just needed that mother figure in his life. And obviously, after she served her "purpose" to the Joker, he tried to kill her, and Jason - half dead already, beaten to a bloody pulp - still tried to save her! He still tried to save this woman, who sold him out for cash, who fully knew he was hoing to die at fifteen years of age, who only began to regret it when her own life was at risk.

He still tried to save her. Because he was a hero. He was Robin, and he'd be damned if someone died on his watch. He didn't spend his last moments waiting for Batman to show up - he was desperately trying to get his mother out, get her to safety, to do the good right thing.

And he still died.

He did everything right, and it still wasn't good enough.

[lavenderauthor]

Title: Pretty Boy in Red by LavenderAuthor (9.9k)

Rating: Teen

Fandom: Batman

Relationship: Crime Alley | Park Row Residents & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Original Female Character(s), Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Roy Harper & Jason Todd, Batfamily Members & Jason Todd

Summary:  While helping a pair of teenage girls with a creep, Jason is convinced into a makeover after letting it slip that he had (forced) dinner with his family and let himself be all dolled up.

The teens had free-reign of what he will look like which meant he got a new outfit, some makeup(apparently he has a good bone structure for it), and nail polish, even going as far as doing his makeup for him(their aunt does it), painting his nails red, and made sure he couldn't change into something else. He felt…pretty.

He just hoped his siblings wouldn't make fun of him.

(aka Jason is convinced to pull a trademarked Robin move by two teenage girls ie Distract The Enemy with Your Wardrobe)

(There's art at the end of the fic that I made! <3)

(One of the few NOT nsfw gifs for plaid skirts. Why are there so many?)

[kittykatninja321]

The utrh movie and lost days give us the image of Jason watching the bomb’s timer tick down to zero, but in the original death in the family comic, Sheila tells us that Jason tried to protect her from the blast at the last minute, so in my envisioning of his last moments, Jason wouldn’t have actually seen the clock hit zero, because he’d be too busy throwing himself over Sheila beforehand. In fact Sheila was probably the last thing he saw

Last few seconds of the clock show them turned away going towards the door

Sheila says he took the main brunt of the blast. In my mind I imagine he threw himself over her with his back too the bomb, facing the door

[nenehyuuchiha]

Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars

[forgotten-daydreamer]

diego and jason would've been friends

[punkeropercyjackson]

Never seen fanarts of genericized white boys with light eyes and black-sorry,'dark' hair and thought it was Jason Todd or Percy Jackson but i keep thinking fanarts of the blue headphone jacks Hobie Brown concept art is Percy at first and Miles Morales and Robin!Jason are indistinguishable to me.I'm niggapilled,mb people who pretend they don't know Duke Thomas and Hazel Levesque are main characters

[nenehyuuchiha]

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

That can't be happening that can't be happening that can't be happening

No way in hell

No fucking way

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH

[eternallyhauntingthehouseoflove]

Hey, i read the “Bat-boys finding out your pregnant” and may i ask for more? It was sooo cute that i need more of it 😭💕

The Batboys fathers HCs

A/N: this request is long overdue that I’m sure the requester doesn’t even remember it, but I’ve arrived at last. I hope this is what they wanted. The Absolute Power run has restored my love for Nightwing and comics. ❣️

Dick Grayson is a fun dad. At first, Dick suffocated beneath the weight of fatherly duties. He wanted to be better than Bruce. Dick loved him, but he could admit that his boyhood wasn’t a salubrious environment for the young mind. No child should have to carry the weight of Bruce’s mission. Thus, Dick’s mission became ensuring yours and the baby’s lives were secure, safe, and joyous.

Pale beams of sunlight kissed your cheeks good morning. The aroma of maple syrup wafted throughout the house, tickling your nostrils as you carried yourself down the stair steps, footfall by footfall. There Dick stood at the stove, scooting the black spatula beneath a golden pancake and flipping it into the air, causing your baby to burst out into a fit of giggles before the pancake hit the skillet with a sizzle. He was proud of himself for making his baby laugh.

“Well, well, look at mama.” A grin crept across his lips as he spotted you creeping closer, supernovas bursting in his electric blue irises.” You were snoring in a pool of drool when I awoke, so I grabbed the baby and started breakfast.” Vibrant seas of pacifiers, rattles, and toy pianos adorned the house.

Dick attempted to rush the developmental process. Not out of callousness, but sheer excitement to have a child. He had already stocked the baby in dolls, trucks, pacifiers, fruit snacks, apple juice (watered down, of course). He even installed a nightlight that short circuited the house at first, but Bruce helped him fix it. Reading is good for the baby right? Dick is on it. He’s already ordered the best and most classic tales; Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Alice in Wonderland, Dr. Seuss, Little Red Riding Hood.

Dick Grayson has read multiple novels on fatherhood, motherhood, child development, postpartum depression. He hates surprises, and babies are the breeding ground of surprises. He will pack the go-bag full of onesies, pacifiers, diapers, wipes, toys because he doesn’t want you to be in public and not have the materials.

“Give me a few days to install the new changing table. You’ll love it.” Crimson blush adorned his tanned cheeks, a proud grin dawning on his lips, showcasing his pearlescent teeth.” It broke when I weight checked it, thank god. Damian, albeit reluctantly, is coming out here tomorrow to translate the instructions.”

Jason Todd is the protective, paranoid father because he’d placed a bullet in the worst humanity had to offer, witnessed otherworldly horrors done to the little guys, the folks who lack billions of dollars to hole up on secluded islands and cabins. He can’t eradicate all the scum, can’t caulk the fractures villains seem to keep slipping through—and that terrifies him.

Jason never imagined a life worth living to be possible. He’d thought himself a sentient zombie, an unlucky boy yanked from the eternal peace of a cold, soundless grave and forced to enact vengeance on behalf of the common folk who lack the means to undertake the mission themselves. He never considered Red Hood to be a hero; merely a restless phantom with nothing else to bide his time until the sweet release of the afterlife deigned to shatter his manacles to the mortal world. That was until he’d fallen over the sun, offering endless devotion to his goddess, and you’d rewarded his offering with a daughter, a lovely girl. He’d abduct the moon and wrap it in a silken bow if only you’d give him permission.

“Catch, papa,” your daughter had called out, retrieving the little football and sprinting toward him, tiny feet carrying her over the damp and verdant grass of y’all’s backyard. Jason never brought the both of you to parks—an excess of people to watch, different personalities and behaviors; a myriad of possibilities for tragedy. Too much room for error in a vast, leafy expanse.

“You’ve gotta bring it to me first,” Jason called back, outstretching his muscular arms, awaiting her arrival. He was paranoid and distrustful of the world, not a killjoy. Y’all’s daughter’s bedroom was littered with vivid nail polishes, fluffy scarves, glittering tiaras, and Monster High dolls. Your daughter had always adored Frankie Stein and Frankenstein because they reminded her of Jason and herself, the dolls and humans both sharing pale white streaks of hair. He hadn’t known whether to laugh or weep upon hearing those words from her lips, innocent and completely unaware of the accuracies spanning far past hair color.

“Jason, I love you, but we are not cooping ourselves up in the house this summer.” The words were firm and unyielding—but lacking any true bite.

“ I’ve given you grace. I let a lot slide because I understand your background. But we’re just not doing it this summer. Its too hot to not go to waterparks and enjoy ourselves because of possibilities.” A damn good point rested upon your tongue, and he knew it.

“Fine.” He relented with a jocosely petulant huff.” But we take a gun with us.”

Tim Drake is an ambitious father. It’s been said before, but I don’t believe he’s as active as the fandom would believe. Though, his absence isn’t born of malice or indifference, but ambition, a thirst for a legacy. He wants to be a man his significant other and child can be proud of, a father worth bragging about. There’s also a large chamber seated within his mind that knows not how to be a father, for his parents were cold, choosing to throw dollars at his gripes and needs rather than be present.

One of his greatest fears is disappointing the both of you, like he was disappointed by his own parents, so disappointed he couldn’t even despise them. Tragically, the mission to avoid history’s repetition had placed him before a mirror, his parents gazing back at him, a smug smirk curled on their lips because they know that he’ll be on their end of the glass within a few decades.

Can he be blamed? Tim wants the absolute best for his family. The best grades, the best schools, the best scores, the best scholarships. He’s not naïve enough like Dick to believe hard work and persevere can lift a nobody anywhere. There are no bootstraps to be pulled taut. It’s an illusion, a sauce wealthy people spoon over their meals to disguise the taste of nepotism and privilege. Manipulations the rich regurgitate to excuse themselves from having to acknowledge the unfair, biased system they’ve upheld.

The door to his limousine slammed closed, his child seated beside but, but farther than ever. What could be said? Jerking forward, the limousine rolled into drive, coasting beneath autumn streaked clouds, as though her father had gifted her the sky from a florist. Bruce hadn’t prepared Tim for the teenaged terror years. He couldn’t help but wonder if he himself had been this capricious and fickle as a teen, or if he were merely that bad of a father.

“Do. . . do you want a Milkshake? From that one place by the house, like we used to when you were young.” Tim couldn’t help but raise a hopeful raven shaded brow. He could smell the stench of sweat, an anxious perspiration, cleaving to your school uniform. It must’ve been a test day.” I’ll clear the rest of my schedule for us. . . if you want, of course.” He extended an olive branch, granting her the choice to engage and accept, or set the course for the rest her teenage years.

Damian Wayne does not want children. He doesn’t know how far his taint would bleed, and all he can envision are the ways he could disgrace the mind of a child. His village was rotten and evil. Bad fruits bear worse seeds.

Damian’s devotion was love, the purest kind he knew, a primal desire to protect and cherish that of which he adored. You forged suns in his heart, set the butterflies in his belly aflutter. Beneath a weeping of sheet of violet sky, the both of you had sworn to love the other until Earth imploded—and when it did, he would find you in another universe.

He doesn’t hate children. In fact, he would be a decent babysitter for Dick and Jason, and whenever Tim deigned to grace the BatCave with his presence. But, Damian is staunch in his childfree attitude, and you respect it. Truthfully, you weren’t even sure you wanted kids. No, you and Damian battled crime, traveled the world and experienced culture, learned histories outside of the filth pumped into his mind by the Al Ghuls. Bruce was saddened by Damian’s decision against children, but he ultimately respected it—and him.

Damian knew he was poisoned and rotten and always would be, no matter what emblem was sewn over his breast. He was content with the life the both of you had, and knowing Dick, many more children are to come, so he’d never get lonely.” Beloved, what do you make of Italy? Not the tourist parts where the history is washed, but the ripe lands.”

Bruce Wayne is a weary father. He knew the birth of his youngest child was redemption, his last chance at preserving the Wayne name since Damian had sworn off children. But Bruce was aged, hardened, jaded, weary. He had scars to last a lifetime, some worn on his heart, though majority were worn on his skin.

The Wayne brownstone was eerily silent since Alfred’s death. Bruce’s son sat around the oaken table, coloring a picture of Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, and Alfred. Bruce’s heavy lids fell over exhausted, dim blue irises, his brain flitting back to the memories of Alfred, gathered at the stove and learning a recipe. I am. . . old, Master Bruce. My time on this earth is not infinite. You must learn more than the ways of fists, the words echoed in his mind. Reminding him that old age wasn’t even the murderer of Alfred Pennyworth.

He fetched an inhale before pulling himself off of the couch, and padding over toward his son at the dinner table.” What’s that? Oh, a pretty picture. A real artistic talent, like Damian.” Bruce was unsure of his fathering more often than not. He knew how it appeared to his son’s school counselors and the principal—old, washed up playboy Bruce Wayne saddled with another young son. That was far from the case, but the masses will believe anything when they’re given nothing.

Bruce fetched a pot and skillet from the creaking cabinets of the brownstone, far from the elegance and cleanliness of the manor. Alfred would’ve been mortified to see the mess, he almost chuckled, but withheld it. Lest his son raise a question, for the explanation would be too complicated and long-winded for his young mind.” So, what do you see for dinner tonight? What makes that belly growl like a lion? Mac and Cheese? Lasagna? Hamburger Helper?”

Bruce knew exactly what his son would choose. Asking was merely a courtesy. Bruce knew him, raised the boy from the minute he was weaned. He knew what his son would do before his son knew what he himself would do. The Batman wasn’t a slacker, wasn’t lazy.

[cupidsworstcrime]

Jason Todd x dom f!reader

inspo - for the anonnie that asked so nicely

this is a random collection of sub!jason scenes ive written. cause im bored

contains spanking & mommy kink (sub jason is such a mamas boy and im taking that to my grave, you can pry needy boy jason out of my cold dead hands)

He pretended to fight it.

“Don’t you fucking dare—”

But the second you grabbed his wrist and sat on the edge of the bed with that look in your eyes, Jason Todd—the Red Hood himself—stumbled straight into obedience.

Because you weren’t playing. Not really.

You tugged him forward.

He grumbled. Bitched. Rolled his eyes.

But when you bent him over your lap, he didn’t resist.

His face hit the blanket with a sigh he tried to cover as a groan. His hips were tense, his hands fisting the sheets.

“You really think this’ll do something for me?” he muttered.

You smoothed a hand over the curve of his ass—grinning as he twitched.

“You tell me.”

Smack.

The first one was gentle. Barely more than a firm tap.

He jerked anyway.

“You—!”

Smack.

A little harder. You watched his shoulder blades shift, a low breath slipping from his lips.

“Jason,” you cooed. “Still wanna act like this isn’t getting to you?”

He didn’t answer. But his hips shifted just enough for you to see the outline in his sweats. Obvious. Wanting.

So you kept going.

Soft spanks between harder ones. Your hand soothing, then striking. He gasped. Swore under his breath. Gritted his teeth. But never told you to stop.

“Color me surprised,” you murmured, scratching your nails along the reddened skin. “You’re really into this, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled.

But it was weak* Shaky. His ears were pink. His thighs tensed with every slow touch between swats.

You leaned close to his ear.

“Say ‘please.’”

He groaned, full-body, low and wrecked. His pride dangled by a thread, and when he finally whispered:

“Please…”

"Please what, baby?"

"...Please ma'am...."

You swore you felt his cock twitch against your thigh.

You let him up when he was panting—chest rising, face flushed, lips parted.

He couldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t. Just flopped beside you and buried his face in the blanket.

“Shut up,” he mumbled again.

You didn’t say a word.

Just ran your fingers through his hair while he came down from it—melting under your touch, his ego scattered in the sheets behind him.

And he’d never admit it.

But he hoped you'd do it again.

Maybe harder.

Maybe next time… he'd call you something filthier than “ma’am.”

He starts off strong. Confident. Pushes you down on the bed with a smirk like he didn’t melt over your lap last time.

“Yeah? You like being bossy, sweetheart?” he grins. “Let’s see how you like it when I take the reins.”

He climbs over you, muscles tense, eyes dark—but not angry. Hungry. His hands skim your waist, his voice drops.

“Gonna make you beg, baby.”

But two minutes in?

Your fingers dig into his hips, your mouth brushes his throat, and he shudders. His pace stutters. You roll your hips just right and suddenly—

“Fuck—wait—don’t—ah—”

His words are breathy. Loose. Falling apart.

And then you're teasing again.

“You sure you’re the one in charge, baby?”

He growls. Tries to flip the script. Tightens his grip on your wrists like it helps.

But then you say:

“You gonna beg again, pretty boy?”

And his whole body reacts.

His breath catches. His eyes flutter. He whines—actually whines—and buries his face in your neck.

You grin.

“Poor thing,” you whisper. “You’re so easy to ruin now.”

And he is. Because when you wrap your legs around him and pull, his strength is nothing next to how bad he wants it—how much he craves you. Not just the sex, but the way you see him, the way you touch him like he's precious and yours.

“Fuck—please,” he pants, rutting into you, voice high, desperate. “Don’t stop, just—please—"

He doesn't even realize he's begging until it's too late.

And he hates how much he loves it.

Afterward, he lays there—boneless, panting, wrecked—his forehead against your chest and his ego shattered into stardust.

You run your nails up his spine and kiss his hairline.

“Still think you’re the one in control?”

He groans.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

No. No, you’re not.

And he’s never been more in love.

It started as a joke. A throwaway comment.

“What’s the matter, baby? Need Mommy to take care of you?”

He froze.

A beat. A shiver. Then the quietest:

“…yeah.”

And that was it.

At first, he’s holding on—tense arms, furrowed brow, trying to act like he’s in control. But the second you start cooing at him, fingers tight in his hair, praising him just so sweetly?

He’s done.

“Such a good boy, my sweet boy,”

“Look at you, taking Mommy so well,”

“You don’t need to think, baby, let me do it for you.”

And he whimpers.

He’s not speaking in sentences anymore. Just broken little sounds—gasps and moans, half-formed pleas.

He says “Mommy” once with a sob in his voice and it flips something in you. So you lean down and purr it back.

“That’s right, baby. Say it again.”

And he does. Again and again—until it’s not even full words anymore.

“M-Ma—Mama—please, I can’t—”

You stroke his flushed cheeks with your knuckles, praise spilling from your lips like holy water while his eyes glass over. He’s trembling—beautiful and desperate, hips rocking mindlessly as you guide him toward the edge.

“Shh, shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s got you. You’re perfect, you’re doing so good—such a good boy.”

Tears slip down his face. He’s not even embarrassed. Just holding you tight, breathing you in like air, nodding with wide eyes and wet lashes.

"Love you, love you, need you, Mama—”

And when he finally breaks? It’s with your name in a gasp and a sob, clinging to you like you’re the only thing holding him together.

Later, when he’s curled up against you, totally wrecked, you whisper:

“Didn’t know you were such a little Mommy’s boy.”

He grumbles, hiding his face in your chest. But his hips twitch.

“…fuck you.”

“You did, baby. So well.”

And he melts again.

He tries to pretend it’s fine. That it was a one-time thing. That he didn’t come undone in your hands, babbling and begging with tears in his eyes.

But the minute you scratch the back of his neck or kiss the hinge of his jaw just right? His whole body tenses.

And he goes quiet.

Not brooding Jason quiet—bratty, needy Jason quiet.

The kind where his eyes are heavy, cheeks pink, and you know he’s already spiraling.

“You okay, baby?”

“…m’fine.”

Liar.

The second you tug him into your lap—yes, lap, this man is heavy but obedient—and whisper a soft “Good boy,” he melts. One hand in his hair and the other stroking his thigh, and he’s sinking into it like a fucking prayer.

He doesn’t even notice he’s whispering it until it slips out again—

“…Mama…”

You feel him freeze against you, like he could claw his soul back into his body if he tries hard enough.

“You said it again.”

“…no I didn’t.”

“Oh, baby. You did.”

You tilt his chin up, and he whines. Pink all the way to his ears.

You could ruin him right there again, and he knows it.

Later, when you're tangled together in bed, he’s curled up in your chest, hands possessively clutching your hips.

“Didn’t even know I could feel like that,” he mumbles. “Didn’t know I wanted to.”

And you just stroke his hair, murmuring,

“That’s okay, baby. Mama knows what you need.”

He shivers. Bites his lip.

But he doesn’t deny it this time.

You’re lying together, the soft glow of moonlight spilling over the bed, the hum of the city just outside your window. He’s been asleep for about an hour, still tangled in your sheets, body pressed up against yours.

At first, he’s calm—silent in his slumber. But then, in the stillness of the night, you hear it. Just a whisper.

“Mama…”

Your breath catches. He’s not awake, not fully. It’s just a soft, murmured confession, but it’s so full of need, so full of him, that you can’t ignore it.

You smile softly, rubbing your hand through his hair, playing with the ends. You could ruin him again, could wake him up and pull him back into that desperate little boy he’s trying to deny, but instead, you let him sleep.

But you can’t help yourself. You press a kiss to his forehead.

“I’ve got you, baby.”

His face twitches, a sigh slipping from his lips, and his hand instinctively wraps around you tighter, like he’s afraid you might disappear. It’s adorable—your tough, broken Red Hood, shivering in his sleep at the thought of losing you. You think, maybe, if he did wake up, he’d be too ashamed to admit it.

But right now, he’s safe. And that’s all that matters.

The next day, it’s like nothing happened. He’s still the same, stubborn, cocky Jason Todd you know—sarcastic quips and teasing jabs thrown in your direction like they’re second nature. He’s acting all tough again, but there’s a subtle edge to it.

He can’t hide the way he’s looking at you—his eyes softer, not quite as guarded, as if he knows he doesn’t have to pretend. And you notice—his hand keeps brushing against yours whenever you’re near, like he’s testing the waters, waiting for you to remind him who’s really in charge.

He doesn’t expect it when you tease him.

“You’re acting so bratty today,” you murmur with a sly grin, catching his eyes.

He smirks back, though there’s a nervous edge to his smile.

“I’m not—what are you talking about?”

But you can tell by the way his hands are fidgeting, by the way his jaw clenches, that he’s not as calm as he wants you to think.

So you step forward, so close he can feel the heat of your body.

“Do I need to put my good boy in his place?” you purr, your voice low, teasing.

His whole body freezes. His eyes flicker to yours, and for a moment, you can see that war raging inside him—half of him wants to throw a smart comment back, but the other half? The other half is aching, desperate for you to take control again.

His hands ball into fists, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even try.

“You’re—goddammit,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. He’s already gone, undone by just a few words.

You can see the tension coil in him, his breath hitching slightly. You’ve got him right where you want him. But you decide to push a little further.

“You need me to remind you who’s in charge, baby?”

He breathes out slowly, eyes dark, but this time, he doesn’t pull away. He swallows hard.

“…Yeah,” he whispers.

And that’s all you need. You step closer, running your hand over his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath your touch. You lean in, just a breath away from his lips, and whisper one last thing:

“Good boy.”

And just like that? He’s lost again. You’ve undone him—completely.

That night, when he’s curled against you, you hear it again.

“Mama…”

But this time, it’s not a whisper. He’s awake now, groggy, blinking at you through the dark, eyes glazed over with sleep and want.

You press your lips to his forehead, your thumb tracing over his cheek.

“I’ve got you, baby,” you murmur, soothing him back to sleep.

And this time, he doesn’t fight it. He nuzzles against your chest, his hand wrapped tightly around you as if you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He’s not even embarrassed anymore. It’s just you and him.

“I love you, Mama,” he mumbles softly, his voice thick with sleep.

Your heart swells. He’s yours. Completely.

You press one last kiss to his head and whisper softly, “I love you too, baby.”

And as he drifts back into sleep, you both know it’s only a matter of time before the cycle starts again. The teasing, the control, the sweet surrender.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

He was quiet at first—staring at you with that unreadable expression, hands fisted in the sheets.

But his body? His body betrayed him.

You could feel the tension in his shoulders. The heat in his chest. He wasn’t fighting anymore. He wanted this, needed this.

You watched him closely. His movements slower now, like he was afraid that one wrong move would have you pulling away.

“You’re going to follow every single command I give you tonight, aren’t you?” you asked softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

He didn’t hesitate this time.

“Yes,” he breathed. Quiet. Almost too quiet, like the confession itself was a secret, something too intimate to voice.

You smiled. That’s what you wanted to hear. So you slid closer to him, brushing your fingers along his jawline, letting the weight of your touch sink in.

“Good boy.”

He exhaled sharply—like he couldn’t believe it was happening. Like he’d been dying for you to say those words for far too long.

But you weren’t done yet.

You placed your hand on his chest, making sure he was looking right at you. His gaze met yours, intense, vulnerable.

“Take off your shirt. Slowly.”

Jason swallowed, a slight tremor in his hands as he obeyed. His body was perfect—strong, scarred, but perfect. He was so fucking beautiful, and the way he took his time, like he was savoring every second of your attention, made you ache with the need to claim him.

He never once looked away, not even when his hands fumbled at the waistband of his pants. He wanted you to guide him. To tell him how to do it. How to strip for you.

You whispered, “Good boy, Jason. Now. Pants off. All the way.”

And like the obedient puppy he’d become, he did exactly what you said. He took off his jeans, laid out before you, chest heaving as his face flushed. His cock was already hard, his body responding eagerly to your commands.

You smirked at him, that familiar power creeping back, the knowledge that you had him exactly where you wanted him.

He couldn’t even look you in the eyes anymore. His gaze drifted to the floor, face burning with embarrassment, but his cock stayed hard, aching for your touch.

“Touch yourself,” you ordered, voice low and controlled. “I want to see you touch yourself.”

He hesitated just a moment—his usual resistance slipping away.

Then, with a shaky breath, Jason obeyed. His hand wrapped around his cock, starting slow. His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop.

You watched him carefully, every twitch in his body making your pulse race.

“Good boy,” you whispered. “Just like that.”

He shuddered, his hand speeding up, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

He was desperate.

And you were the one who had broken him. Completely.

“Please, mama,” he gasped, eyes searching yours. “Tell me what to do next.”

Your heart skipped a beat. This was the side of Jason that he never let anyone see—the side of him that was completely at your mercy.

“Don’t stop,” you commanded gently. “Make yourself cum for me. Don’t hold back.”

The words were barely out of your mouth when his body stiffened. His breath caught, and his hips bucked involuntarily, his hand moving in a blur as he got closer.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’m—”

But you cut him off with a firm command.

“Cum for me, baby.”

That was all it took.

His back arched, a deep groan escaping his lips as he came undone. You could see the way his whole body trembled, his fingers gripping the sheets beneath him for stability.

And even after he was done, his breathing ragged and shaky, he didn't stop.

He looked at you—desperate. That familiar cocky grin was long gone, replaced with nothing but adoration. He wanted to please you more. Wanted to feel you take control, wanted to hear more of your voice, more of your praise.

“Good boy,” you murmured, brushing a hand through his hair as he collapsed against the pillows, completely undone.

Jason didn’t say anything for a while—just let the feeling wash over him.

He didn’t need to say it. You could see it in the way he held you after. The way he kissed you slow and deep, like he was claiming you in the quiet moments afterward.

And you both knew—it wasn’t over.

He wanted more. More of you. More of your control. More of being broken and put back together, piece by desperate piece.