Springdaydreams - Sometimes All You Need Is A Hug

kisses

18+ mdni; fem!reader + daddy kink

shoko smoking a cigarette while she's fucking you with her strap.. chuckling at the way you're drooling into the pillow,, she's got a knee on the bed while her other leg is propped up on the mattress, so she can reach even deeper, so she can fuck you even better. her free hand kneads the plush flesh of your ass, slapping it every once in a while just to hear you whimper her name. it's like music to her ears, she fucking loves it.

throwing her hair over her shoulder, she leans forward, her strap now slotted so deep inside you that you feel it in your throat. her tits press against your back and you arch up into her on instinct. she takes the cigarette from her lips and places it onto the ashtray right next to the bed, just so she can get closer to you.

her pace turns into a slower one, simply grinding her hips into yours as she kisses your sweaty temple. "does it feel good, hm?"

your grip on the sheet below you tightens, the flame in your stomach burning brighter at the sudden proximity. your mind is hazy, your thoughts all jumbled inside your head, so you give her a faint nod, hoping that'll be enough.

shoko's lips trace down the side of your face and your body moves all on its own, leaning into her touch like a cat in heat. you feel her smile against your skin. "c'mon, use your words, baby... tell daddy how you feel."

her voice is raspy, the coo trickling from her lips like sticky goo, trapping you under her indefinitely. you're burning all over; the rays of sun that peek from between the curtain cradle your faces, they illuminate the pleasure painted onto your expressions. shoko places another kiss right in the middle of a light patch right on the corner of your lips and it all feels unreal.

she presses you down further into the mattress, the sweat of your bodies mixing together as she continues rocking into you. the words get stuck in your throat and she laughs at your cute, fucked out expression.

the sound makes you want to take a peek at her and you regret the decision to do so immediately, because she's right there, staring down at you with low eyes, her lips swollen from all of the kisses you stole but a mere hour earlier. the makeout session escalalated fast – with you sat on her lap, nipping at her neck and her mouth hungrily, all while whining about her not paying enough attention to you, it was impossible for it not to go from one to a hundred. you asked for this. begged for it.

the marks on her neck are darker now and she looks fucking heavenly. her lipstick is smudged, a droplet of sweat dribbling down her forehead – there's a sick little grin glued to her lips, the kind that lets you know that she's so fucking far from being done with you, despite the numerous orgasms she's pulled from you already.

when you still can't muster up a single word, she slithers a hand into your hair and gives it a tug strong enough for you to raise your head from the bed. you hiss at the faint tinge of pain and she lets out another raspy laugh – she likes seeing you like this, she loves ruining you. with her mouth latched onto your jaw, you feel her wet and warm tongue draw shapes into your skin.

"aw, has daddy fucked you dumb already, baby?"

the coil in your stomach tightens at her words and you don't even try to hold back the filthy moan that spills from your sore throat. she gives your hair another tug and you know she expects a proper answer and that there will be consequences if you don't give her one. so you try to hold her gaze with everything you've got, tears brimming in your lashline from how much everything is starting to become.

"so– so good."

you sound pathetic and you know it. her grin widens.

"who's making you feel so good?"

"you are."

her lips brush over the shell of your ear.

"who is?"

she angles her hips, making the tip of her silicone cock hits the spongy spot inside you that makes your eyes go cross. "i– fuck."

her hot breath fans your face, her fingers still twisted around the strands of your hair as she waits for your answer.

"daddy is."

you bite down onto your lip at the pleased hum she gives you and let your heavy head fall back onto the pillow the second she lets go of your hair. she leans closer once more, pressing a sloppy, haste kiss to your lips before pushing herself into her original position while dragging her nails along your spine. with her thighs flush to yours, she reaches for her cigarette again; she doesn't rush it, she takes her time ashing it, reveling in the way you're trembling on her cock.

her lips wrap around the already stained stick as she stares at where you're connected, the mess of it all – her masterpiece.

"good girl."

IMAGINE ending a love affair with Addam of Hull:

Strong-Targaryen!Reader x Addam of Hull

MDNI

CW: Angst, power imbalance, s-xually suggestive themes, bastard drama, star-crossed lovers.

Addam of Hull had never felt so seen. Not until the day you put your eyes to him. Even Seasmoke hadn’t made him stand as still as your smile had.

An instant draw. Something instant. Powerful.

The mutual passion of two bastards in a place so hallowed as Dragonstone. Almost embarrassing in its predictability.

Your lips trailing his jaw, his palms flat on your back. Laces undone and clothing pooling around your ankles. All is right in the hour of the wolf. All is quiet, all is right. Addam can pretend he is just a man and you are just a woman. Two lovers tangled in a bed too large to sleep alone in.

That was how it started. And for many nights after, it was how it stayed. Alas, night always turned to dawn.

Addam could still feel your fingernails pressing into his back. A sting that made the pleasure of your night together all the more intoxicating.

But as he broke fast, all he felt was guilt.

Your mother had let him sleep where only Princes had laid, gave him a place at her table. He knew that this was wrong of him. It was easier for him to remember this in the daylight, when he awoke alone in a bed of silk and the smell of you still lingering around him. Addam would wash his face and stare into his reflection in the mirror thinking: ‘No good can come of this.’

And then night would fall, your shy knocking would sound behind his door and he would let you in. The taste of your kiss and the song of your pleasure would erase all his worries. The cycle continuing on and on… until this night.

You came to him dressed in a robe of blue velvet and nothing else. Love made you bold. Addam could not stop your lips from touching his own. Not because you threw yourself at him, but because of his own selfishness. ‘One last kiss,’ he swore. And then one turned into three, then the tie of your robe came loose. Control found him just before he cupped your bare breasts.

“We cannot carry on like this,” he says as he breaks the kiss “It’s wrong.”

Undeterred, your arms slip over his broad shoulders and you try to pull him closer, “Addam, you say this nearly every night.” His hands feel warm, almost hot, against your hips as he keeps you from pushing yourself flush against him.

Normally, he would laugh and lift you from your feet like a groom to his bride. Not tonight. His expression was tight, jaw tense. Your cheeky grin fell, “Addam?”

Addam closes his eyes as your hand cups his cheek. If he were a stronger man, he could push you away. Perhaps say something cruel to break your heart and end this affair. Addam damns himself as he leans into your touch, “I know I do. What I say is true no matter how many times we ignore it.”

“What we do is only wrong if anyone besides you or I know of it. And nobody has to know,” you coax. Something about his tone, his words, it bothers you. It’s like he’s lecturing you on morality. You get enough of that from your mother.

He finally works up the nerve to take his hands off of you, stepping back from your partially nude form. Addam focuses hard on your face, “You deserve better than to be my secret.”

“I am the one who decides what I deserve, Addam,” you scoff. Your confidence was your most attractive trait in his opinion. He had to remind himself what he was meant to do.

“And what if I don’t want to be a secret either? I’ve lived all my life that way,” he challenged with a tense jaw. “What’s the point in living out another lie? To live in shame, again?”

You step closer, your hands take his. Bastards like him… and like you, all that you are is someone’s secret passions made flesh. “You are not alone in those feelings, Addam. We’ve spoken on this. I don’t want us to be lovers in the shadows for all time. I want you. I... We both—“

“—We are not the same and you know that,” he forces his hands to break your hold on him.

You close your robe tight and reply, “If you want this to end, I will honor that. But not if you are doing this just to protect me. Or the fucking throne. It has to be what you want. We started this as two people. We should end it the same way.”

This was his chance. He could be a better man and set you free. Free to marry a good Lord of a good House. Addam may have a dragon and place at the Queen’s table, but he knew he could never have you. Not like he wanted to. Addam crosses his arms over his chest and says, “You lived all your life as a Princess, the Iron Throne will be yours one day. There is no room for me beside you on the throne, nor in your bed. I will happily bend my knee to you but that is all we can afford.”

Your nostrils flare and you glare into his face, “You’re still just protecting me.”

“I want you to go back to your rooms, and when day breaks, we forget each other’s touch. I want this to end,” he hates the way his voice sounds in his ears. Like Lord Corlys, barking orders as his ship leaves the docks. Prideful, cold.

The anger in your eyes is still burning hot, even as your expression cools. “So it shall be. Goodnight, Addam of Hull.”

You tighten the sash of your robe and leave him to sleep in a bed too big and a room too empty.

“Goodnight, Princess.”

rebirth

Bad Hair Day

[Jason Todd x Reader]

Word Count: 5k

Summary: Five times Jason's hair lets him down. Thankfully you're too gone for him to mind.

A/N: This was supposed to be silly, but I infected myself with Soft Bitch Disease HELP

Divider found here

Jason Todd had very nice hair. Dark and soft and unruly, it suited him well. As did the stubborn streak in the front that resisted any attempts to dye it (he’d tried once, on a day when his self-esteem had taken a nosedive). 

And ever since the first time you ran your fingers through his hair, he’d put significant effort into taking good care of it. Anything to entice you to do it again. 

So, yes, he was proud of it. He was proud of the way his bedhead made you smile. The way you wrapped that stubborn white curl around your finger and pressed a kiss to it. The way you couldn’t resist playing with it when he laid his head in your lap. 

…But that didn’t mean there weren’t mishaps.

Helmet hair was the most common problem, and largely inescapable. In the beginning, when he’d just barely started spending nights in your apartment and long before moving in together was even a thought, he’d rushed from the window to the shower, not even taking his helmet off until the bathroom door was closed behind him. You usually weren’t awake anyway. But he didn’t think you needed that particular image of him. 

Until the night where you got a little too caught up in a new show to go to bed at a reasonable hour. A summer night in the middle of a heat wave that had Jason flinging off his helmet the second his boots touched the living room floor, before he clocked you laying on the couch in the dim light from the TV. 

“Oh, I really got carried away,” you mumbled to yourself, scrambling for the remote as you noted the time on your phone lockscreen. “Yikes.” 

“H-hey,” Jason said awkwardly, not sure how he was supposed to act, at once happy and self-conscious.

“Hi,” you greeted with a smile, reaching to turn on a lamp before shutting off the TV. “You okay? I heard a lot of sirens tonight.” 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Heat wave makes people fucking crazy, though.” 

You nodded, giving a sleepy little stretch before vacating the couch and moving towards him. 

“Are you fine, though? I assume body armor isn’t exactly… breathable.” You poked at the thick padding covering his stomach.

“You’re right about that. I took way too many breaks.”

You frowned, unconvinced, as you took in his flushed face, the hair plastered to his forehead in damp swirls. 

“Not enough breaks,” you corrected decisively. “Strip and sit.”

“Uh, w- ” 

But you were already busying yourself with the tower fan in the corner, dragging it closer to the couch and turning it to its highest setting.

You looked back at him expectantly, gesturing towards his gear with an impatient hand.

“I’m serious. You need to cool down. And have you been drinking water? You need to drink water. I’m getting you water.” 

You were hurrying away again before he could respond, and a tiny smile stole over his face at your brusk insistence. You couldn’t be bothered with awkwardness when you were convinced he needed caring for. It was… nice. 

New. And nice.

So he was quick about following your orders, leaving all that heavy kevlar and plating in a messy heap by the window and dropping onto your couch cushions in just his boxers. The cool air of the fan offered immediate relief, soothing his overheated skin. 

You were back seconds later, a damp rag in one hand and your largest water bottle in the other, ice clinking against the sides in time with your steps. 

You opened it for him before shoving it into his hands, tossing the lid over your shoulder with a severe look that made him laugh. Drink it all. Message received. 

You dropped onto your knees on the couch cushion beside him, swiping the cold cloth over his forehead, his neck, behind his ears. 

Jason sighed contentedly at the sensation, lifting the bottle to take a long drink, the water inside so cold it almost made his teeth hurt. He drained a third of it in one go. 

“Good boy,” you said approvingly, brushing a kiss to his cheekbone and effectively undoing all your hard work as Jason’s skin warmed again from the praise. 

Still, he dodged back from your hands when you reached for his hair.

“I’m still really sweaty.” 

“I know,” you said with a laugh. “I can handle sweat, Jason.”

“It’s not gonna feel nice,” he said, eying you uncertainly.

“It will feel nice to you, which is the point.” 

And, well, he couldn’t really argue with that. When you reached for him again, he stayed still, sighing as you slowly swept damp and flattened curls back from his forehead. Your fingers worked carefully through the sweaty tangles, gently restoring order and lifting the strands away from his scalp, giving the cool air from the fan an opportunity to ruffle through them. 

“Good?” you asked after a few minutes, your voice almost a whisper.

Jason hummed appreciatively, his eyes half-closed. 

“Good. Keep drinking your water, honey.” 

Hair gel was only a problem once before he learned his lesson. 

And really, technically, it was actually your fault. Your fault entirely for leaving him to fend off the vultures alone. 

You’d promised. Looked him in the eyes, kissed his pouting lips, and promised to attend this charity dinner with him. 

Jason had begrudgingly agreed to attend four Wayne events per year, and the dinners, at least, had a clear and predictable end time. Not that it mattered as much when you were with him. You made an unbelievably charming party guest, skilled at pulling focus off of Jason exactly when he needed, unparalleled in your ability to set him at ease when the endless stream of self-important rich Gothamites started to get to him like an itch under the skin. 

But the universe decided to play with him that day, sending its opening move in the form of a frantic, heartbroken call from your close friend who needed you right that very second. Jason heard the crying from the other side of the room, and looked to you with alarm, hands freezing in the process of buttoning his shirt. 

You were making soft, soothing sounds, moving to slip the cocktail dress back off your shoulders, reaching for your sweatpants where they sat neatly folded beside Jason’s. 

“How long ago did he leave?” you asked.

Jason caught your eyes, raised his brow in question.

Fight with boyfriend, you mouthed to him. He sighed, head tipping back in defeat. 

And he did feel a little bad for the resentment that bubbled up at the realization that you were backing out of the event. Your friend was upset, and she had every right to seek you out. But that didn’t mean he was happy about it.

Jason finished getting ready glumly, smoothing his hair into a more gentlemanly shape and using more gel than usual since you wouldn’t be there to fix it for him if it fell out of place. 

By the time he was ready to leave, you were finished with your call, waiting by the door in unfairly comfortable clothes and an empty tote bag for the snacks you’d pick up on your way. You started pouting before Jason could say anything, shuffling up to him to plant consoling little kisses over his face.

“So handsome,” you said, smoothing your hands over his shoulders. “Sorry, baby. I know you hate these things.”

“It’s gonna be so much worse without you.” 

“Maybe you’ll make a new friend,” you suggested hopefully, breaking into a giggle at the flat look he fixed you with. “Fine, probably not. Is Dick going?”

“Yeah…” 

“Well, that’s good then. Just shove him at anyone who gets too close to you.”

Jason snorted, failing to hide the smile the image inspired. 

“I’ll see you when I get home, okay?” 

And Jason clung to that promise for the whole night. When he saw Dick’s name card placed on the other side of the room. When he caught sight of the menu that listed twelve courses in excruciating detail. When the lady who was seated next to him at dinner wouldn’t stop trying to touch him. By the time the insultingly tiny slivers of cake were placed in front of each guest, Jason had a splitting headache, a thoroughly depleted social battery, and a recurring daydream about strangling himself with his own bowtie.

He inhaled his dessert at a concerning speed, made a show of shaking Bruce’s hand, and fled the venue like a bat out of hell. 

The shower was running when he got home, but all Jason could manage was kicking off his shoes, ditching his jacket, and half unbuttoning his shirt before faceplanting on the bed in a flawless starfish formation. 

There was no energy left anywhere in his body or mind. Give him a night on the rooftops and alleys, kicking ass and getting shot at, over a night with the Gotham elite any night of the week. 

He was half-asleep when you climbed over him on the bed.

“What have they done to you?” you whispered, amusement clear in your voice. 

Jason let out a wordless groan, and you laughed.

“All that, huh? You want a bubble bath?”

He shook his head, face never lifting from the sheets.

“Let me rinse this gel out of your hair before you pass out completely, then. We can use the kitchen sink.” 

He gave the most pitiful sigh you’d ever heard, and you shook your head with a knowing smile, nudging his heavy limbs over until you had enough space to crawl into bed.

When he woke the next morning, it was to the sound of your soft giggles, syrupy sweet and undeniable. Jason opened his eyes, already smiling at the sound. 

“What’s funny?” he asked sleepily, hands automatically seeking you across the sheets, latching onto your thigh, your waist.

You bit your lip, handing him your phone with the forward-facing camera open.

He looked like an electrocuted cartoon character, hair bound together in chaotic spikes sticking out in all directions. God damn hair gel. The look on his face had you laughing again, but you softened it with a fond stroke to his cheek.

“My little dandelion.” 

Occasionally, Gotham’s weather liked to toy with Jason too, sending him home to you looking every bit the sad, miserable wet cat.

He refused to carry an umbrella. Umbrellas were for old people and tourists. His hoods suited him just fine and allowed the added benefit of leaving both hands free. And mostly it was fine. Unless Gotham was in a Mood. 

Rain fell in hard, heavy sheets, large cold drops that landed with all the force of hailstones and bit at exposed skin without mercy. It was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of you, the effect only made worse by the blanket of dark, angry clouds overhead. Even that, Jason may have made it through relatively unscathed. But the wind was determined to have its fun too, running through the city in heavy gusts that made windows rattle and buildings creak and groan. Sending torrents of rain nearly horizontal, battering any unlucky pedestrians it caught wandering the sidewalk.

Unlucky pedestrians like Jason, whose hood had been blown off his head three blocks back. Whose eyes were nearly shut against the constant onslaught of wind and rain. Who had shoved a bouquet of flowers up his shirt ten minutes ago and was pretty certain he’d been leaving a trail of soaked flower petals behind him ever since. 

By the time he made it back to the apartment you shared, he was soaked to the bone and shivering, hair plastered to his face and down over his eyes from the weight and force of the water.

At the sound of the door, you came running, skidding to an unsteady stop in your fuzzy socks as Jason reached to catch you. He held you carefully away from his drenched body, frowning an apology at the wet handprint he left behind on your sweatshirt. 

“Are you okay? I was hoping you were camped out in a shop somewhere waiting for this storm to pass.”

“It’ll go all night,” Jason said, still out of breath and feeling half-drowned as he dripped all over the kitchen floor.

Your thoughtful frown shifted into something more concerned as you noticed the way he was keeping one hand tucked beneath his jacket. 

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

Before he could answer, you had his jacket unzipped and were pushing his sweatshirt up in search of an injury.

Jason cringed as several waterlogged flowers tumbled onto the floor, shifting self-consciously as you stared blankly at the sight before you. His palm was still pressing a handful of stems to his stomach, where several leaves and even more petals had plastered themselves to his skin rather than falling free.

“Oh.”

“Sorry, baby, I tried to keep them safe, but I think I just made it worse.”

“Jason…” you said slowly, reaching with gentle fingers to sweep aside the hair that was still dripping rainwater in his eyes. “Did you go out in a thunderstorm just to buy me flowers?” 

“N- It’s… It was barely raining when I left.” 

“Only you would try to downplay a romantic gesture,” you said, shaking your head with a fond smile.

Jason shrugged, the movement bringing your attention backed to his soaked clothing and prompting you to help him out of his jacket. 

He took advantage of your distraction, still finding it easier to say vulnerable things when you weren’t looking into his eyes.

“I had to get you something today. It’s our anniversary.”

Your face scrunched a little, turning to study the calendar stuck to the fridge with a goofy souvenir magnet. 

“Help me out, darling,” you said apologetically. “Anniversary of what?”

“Um…” Jason gave up on the rest of the flowers, letting them fall to the floor and brushing the clingy petals away from his skin. He wasn’t even looking at you now, but he didn’t seem offended. Just… embarrassed.

You gave him some space, taking your time grabbing extra towels and clean, dry clothes for him to change into. And you wanted to linger, to help peel wet fabric from cold skin, rub warmth back into numb fingers, kiss rosy color back into pale lips. But he still looked shy, eyes diverted and distracted, so you left him with the stack and a soft kiss to his cheek before moving to make him a cup of tea. 

He came back to you in his own time, bundled in his coziest clothes and wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Six months ago you told me you loved me for the first time,” he said softly. 

“Oh…” You leaned back into his arms a little more. “I should have remembered that. I’m sorry.”

You felt him shake his head, still resting against your shoulder. 

“S’okay… We had a night in. You made pancakes for dinner.”

“I remember the moment, just not the date…” you said, wiggling around in his hold to face him. His hair was still dripping onto the towel he had draped over his shoulders. 

“I put it in my phone the night it happened. When you were in the bathroom,” Jason confessed, pink creeping up in his cheeks. 

“I felt it a long time before I said it,” you confessed in turn, reaching for the towel and running it over his hair. “It took a while for me to build up the nerve to say it to your face.”

A face that was currently scrunched in boyish protest as you continued ruffling his hair with the towel, soaking up the extra water. 

“Yep, that one,” you laughed, dropping the towel back to his shoulders and giving his hair a little extra tousle. 

He kissed you twice. Once with a playful nip, then softer, slow and sweet like he’d quite like to stay there all night. 

“Thank you. For saying it.”

“Thanks for saying it back.”

You would never convince Jason that The Unicorn wasn’t a brilliant stroke of innovation.

His hair was getting too long, constantly falling in his eyes, tugging uncomfortably in his helmet, hanging out of his hood when he opted for the mask instead.  But he hadn’t been in the mood to get it cut, and you certainly never complained. It just gave you more to play with.

When you were home together, it was heaven. You couldn’t stay away from it, passing your fingers through it when you walked by, coming up behind him when he sat on the couch or at the table to press kisses into the unruly curls, playing with it idly any time you were cuddled up together. You had turned the Red Hood into a cuddly house cat, constantly placing himself near you and feigning indifference, only to melt at the first brush of your fingertips. 

He’d spill all his secrets for one of your scalp massages. Credit card number. Social security number. Terrible teenage poetry. Anything you wanted to know, as long as you kept touching his hair.

But when you weren’t around, his perspective shifted rather dramatically. 

Reading a book became incredibly frustrating, unless it was done with perfect posture and the book held at eye level or flat on his back. This graduated from annoying to fucking impossible the third time he dropped a book on his face. 

And cleaning his guns? Absolute bullshit. Grease that took two washes to get out of his hair from constantly trying to push it out of his face. Uncharacteristic clumsiness when taking them apart because he couldn’t see. 

So he came up with a… creative solution. 

Which is how you came home to find Jason lounging comfortably, tucked into the corner of the couch with a blanket, a book, and an absurd hairstyle, the front of his hair gathered into a little bun on the crown of his head. 

“Oh, hello,” you called with a surprised laugh, kicking your shoes off and dropping your purse onto the table by the door. 

He hummed distractedly, eyes still fixed on the pages. 

You plopped down on the cushion beside him, watching him read with an amused little grin until he finished his chapter.

“Hey baby,” he finally greeted you, placing his book on the side table. 

“Hi…” you said, eyes flickering back up to the tiny bun at the top of his head. “Who’s your friend?”

“A masterclass in ingenuity,” Jason said as he gave the bun a satisfied little pat. “Which lets me read without breaking my nose.” 

“I see.” You bit your lip, hard, trying not to laugh as you stared at it.

“Stop lookin at it!”

He grabbed your chin, forcing you to make eye contact. 

“Sorry,” you laughed. “It makes you look like a baby unicorn.”

“That better be a compliment.”

“Oh, of course. You’re a very dashing unicorn.” 

He scowled at you, but despite his best efforts it was entirely without malice. Disappointing, given glaring was one of his most natural talents. But he’d never been very good at glaring at you.

“It’s actually very cute,” you said through a smile, reaching up to squeeze the little bun before Jason batted your hand away. “Can I put a bow on it?”

“No.” 

He wouldn’t stop you if you actually tried. But you didn’t need to know that. 

“You could just cut it, you know. If it’s bothering you this much.”

“It’s fine,” he sighed. “I know you like it.”

“You know what I like even more?”

“Mmm?” He leaned his head back against the cushions.

“Your comfort and safety.”

“Lame,” he said solemnly.

You broke first, falling into a fit of giggles that dragged a laugh out of him too. 

“Seriously though,” you said, leaning into his side, a smile still on your face as he wrapped an arm around you automatically. “Why don’t you get it cut? I’ll come with you if you want.”

He shifted a little, let out a sigh that sounded more serious than the last. 

“I um… I’m not really in the mood to let a stranger with sharp objects near my face right now.”

“Oh,” you said softly, subconsciously snuggling a little closer. “Okay.”

“It… It comes and goes. That… feeling.” 

You nodded, gave a little space in case he wanted to say more. He didn’t.

“Could you? Trim it? I could buy you some salon scissors. And one of those trimmers with the different settings. If you want.”

“Yeah, maybe… Probably wouldn’t look very good though.”

“We could watch tutorials. Besides, you could pull off just about anything with that face.” 

He scoffed, but you could see a tiny spark of pride in his eyes, the inclination of a smile at the corner of his lips. 

“Could… Would you do it for me?” he asked hesitantly, glancing down at you.

Something fluttered in your chest at the gentle request.

“I can try. Do you think… I mean would that be okay? When you’re feeling like this?”

“Yes,” he said simply, no trace of doubt in his voice.

“Okay,” you answered, smiling at the sweet kiss it earned you. 

“Not too short,” he requested, barely moving his lips from yours. “Make sure there’s enough for you to play with.” 

Your stomach gave a little flip, and you kissed him back a little harder. 

“You’ve got it.”

Slicked back wasn’t a go-to hairstyle for Jason, in any context. And he was still adamantly anti hair gel since “The Dandelion Incident.” 

But fresh out of the shower, all it took was a comb. It would keep his hair out of his eyes for a little while, at least. And give him an excuse to seek you out, not that he needed one these days.

He found you in the living room, sorting through a basket of clean laundry in search of matching socks. You did a double take when you saw him, smiling as he dragged you closer by the hips. 

“Look at you,” you giggled, holding his face in your hands.

“What do we think?” he asked, moving easily with your touch as you tilted his chin to either side, looking him over with overplayed seriousness.

“Hmm. Very handsome,” you decided.

“Yeah?” 

“You’re always handsome,” you said, kissing his cheek. “This is just a different kind of handsome.”

Jason hummed thoughtfully, fighting a smile and squeezing you closer, a warm feeling fluttering in his chest.

“What kind of handsome?”

“Distinguished. Debonair.”

“I’ve never been debonair in my life,” he laughed.

You stepped back, forming a little frame with your hands as you continued to study him.

“This guy’s got a favorite jeweler. A permanently reserved table at a restaurant in case he feels like dropping by.”

Jason rolled his eyes, but didn’t stop you, watching you with a fond smile.

“He slips people their tip during a handshake. Orders a martini like James Bond. He - ” You broke off suddenly, pressing your lips together, eyes widening slightly.

“What?” Jason prompted, poking at your side. 

“Nothing.”

“Well now you have to tell me.” He caught your hands as they dropped, pulling you back into his arms.

“It was just a fleeting thought. Nothing important.”

“Great. Tell me anyway.” 

You sighed, grabbed at his shirt as if to brace yourself.

“This hairstyle might… maybe… make you look the tiniest bit like… Bruce.” 

The reaction was immediate and exactly what you expected, Jason jolting back as if slapped, his expression entirely horrified. 

“Just a little,” you insisted. “And only because this is usually how he does his -”

But he was already scrambling back to the bathroom.

“Nope, nope, nope, nope.”

“Jason, it doesn’t mean -”

The door slammed, and you bit at your lip, trying not to laugh at his dramatics. Your humor didn’t last long, however, as you caught the buzz of an electric  razor.

“Absolutely fucking not!” you yelled, bursting through the door and snatching the razor out of his hand. “Jason!”

“It has to be done.”

“No, it really doesn’t.” You turned it off, tossing it back under the sink. 

“Can’t believe you said that to me,” he groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face as if to wipe away the comparison.  

“Temporary insanity. Didn’t mean it,” you said, taking both of his hands in yours. 

He stared at you doubtfully  but followed without question as you started backing out of the bathroom, towing him along with you.

“I can fix it. Without shaving your head.”

Jason gave a fussy sigh, but you didn’t falter, pulling him into the bedroom.

“Sit,” you said, pushing lightly on his shoulders until he dropped down onto the foot of the bed, looking up at you expectantly. 

You placed a knee on either side of his hips, settling comfortably on his lap and cradling his face in your hands.

“Jason,” you said sweetly. 

“Hmm?” His eyes were locked curiously on yours, giving you his undivided attention, pout already beginning to fade.

“You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”

He looked mildly unconvinced. You continued on your course, pressing gentle kisses over his face until he gave a slow, heavy exhale.

“And I’ll keep thinking so no matter what. But I think we both like your natural hair better than this,” you whispered against his skin. “Can I fix it for you?” 

“Yes,” he whispered back, eyelids already beginning to droop as your fingers worked their way into his hair. 

You could fix this problem with a quick little ruffle. That’s all it would take. But that’s not how Jason liked to be touched. 

You started slow and gentle, your fingertips moving in little circles against his scalp starting at his hairline and moving back, pressure slightly increasing with every pass. Your nails scraped gently over the back of his neck, sending a pleased little shiver through his body as his head dropped to rest against your chest. 

“There we go,” you said softly, moving your hands to the sides of his head and working upwards to accommodate his new position. His arms wrapped around you as he gave another sigh, a much softer sound this time. Contented.

You got no words from him for a while after that, just the feeling of his slow, steady breaths and the warm sweep of his hand as it snuck under the back of your shirt. 

He loved it when you did this, always, had stopped trying to be coy about it a long time ago. Told you how sweet you were. Talked about how much you spoiled him. But you’d honestly never thought about it that way. 

It was a privilege to give Jason these moments of tenderness, to feel the tension drain out of him the longer you went on touching him this way. To see the way his face went serene, eyes soft and a little glossy. You’d do anything he asked to keep earning those content smiles, keep hearing those happy little sighs. You wondered if he knew that.

His hair was dry by the time you stopped, pulling him away from your chest with a gentle tug that had him releasing a low hum. He looked up at you, eyes half-closed and dreamy, his hair a sweet riot of messy waves and loose curls.

“There’s my Jason.” You stroked his cheek, feather light.  

“Still handsome?” he asked quietly.

“Devastating, my darling,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll never recover.”

He believed you this time, with a sleepy slow smile.

“Good,” he said, collapsing lazily back onto the blankets, dragging you down with him as he kept you tucked tightly against his chest. “Don’t want you to.”

A/n: Say something before I lose my mind

Who Needs Heaven? : Safe & Sound

jason todd x fem!reader

aka your daughters learn what happened to jason

warnings: nonspecific discussions on how jason died

(1) the drop-in

The sound of water splashing under toy boats and fish fills the small room.

You ring the washcloth out over the suds, Rory’s idle hands scooping up the excess. She entertains herself with the slowly dissolving bubbles between her fingers as you fill up your cup.

“Put your head back,” you tell her, nudging her forehead.

She does, squeezing her eyes shut.

You pour the cup of water over her head, combing through her hair. You refill the cup again as she pipes up. 

“Mommy,” she says with a casual lull in her voice. 

You pour it out again, making sure to rinse the shampoo at her roots, “Hm?”

Her hand comes up to wipe the stream from off her forehead, “How did daddy get that scar?” 

“Well, daddy has lots of scars,” you say carefully. “You know that.”

She shakes her head, “Littler scars. He has a big one though, right here.” 

She points up and down her torso. 

“What happened?”

You take a breath, eyes focused on the dissolving suds. “What happened…”

She continues on, “He said scars come from when you get hurt and the bigger ones are bigger hurts. How did he get such a big hurt?”

“Um...” She’s quite young to hear that story, especially coming from you. Your older daughters have an awareness of what happened, though it’s never been formally discussed. You think Mia knows what the autopsy scar is and the twins definitely know he died at the very least. You’ve been made aware that there’s been…discussions at school about who their dad is and how he one day died and then years later magically reappeared. You and Jason had decided that you would talk to them about it eventually, but only when they were old enough to not be completely traumatized hearing it.

You just hadn’t assumed that day would creep up on you like this.

You sit back, tense. “Did you ask him that?”

“No…” she says gravely. “I don’t wanna make him sad.”

You nod, trying to collect your thoughts. How can you steer away from this without attracting more questions? 

“Do you know what happened?” she asks, scanning your face.

You do your best to reset your expression to neutral.

You start without really knowing where the sentence is going, “We…we can talk about it later…”

Rory tilts her head, “Not now?”

You shake yours, “Not right now.”

That’s enough to appease her curiosity for the rest of the bath, but you know with that one, it won’t last long.

You’d gotten her dressed and sent her on her way, but your mind stayed heavy the whole time.

You walk downstairs slowly, hands still damp from the bath. As you turn the corner from the stairs you find Jason, reading contentedly by himself in the living room.

You cross the room without hesitation, climbing into the spot next to him on the couch. He doesn’t need to look up, only adjusts the position of his arm so its draped over you, pulling you into his side.

“So…” you start, “Rory was asking about your scar..”

He turns away from the book, looking at you with serious eyes. “What did she say?”

“She wants to know how you got it,” you tell him. “I didn’t tell her, but she didn’t want to ask you either.”

“Why not?” He asks quickly, face brimming with anxiety.

You shake your head, calming his worries. “She said she didn’t want to make you sad.”

He relaxes a bit at that, taking in the information.

You break the silence after a minute, quietly telling him, “I think it might be time to talk about it.”

He looks dejected, eyes on the floor. “They’re still little..”

“I’m not saying tell them everything right now, just…acknowledge it.”

“I don’t—” He sighs, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell them that.”

You think for a moment, nodding. 

“Tell them how you told me. Just…more kid words.”

He still looks resigned at the idea so you continue, “You know how to talk to them. Just tell them what you want them to hear. They’ll listen.”

He nods, eyes low. “Okay…”

You stand up, and he grabs your hand as you rise, pulling himself up too.

You give each other one more confirming look before calling up the stairs, “Girls? Come here.”

There’s a ten second delay before a scuttle of footsteps starts down the staircase, arriving with a low-liveliness, nearly bedtime energy amongst them.

The second you’re within sight of them, they’re keen that something’s not right.

“What’s going on?” 

“Is—”

“Everything’s alright. Nothing’s wrong,” you tell them. “We just want to talk to you for a minute.”

Your words don’t do much to ease their minds, but after a moment they slowly gather onto a single couch. They’re all squished in together and Rory’s half on top of Anna and Laine, the latter of which can barely move. Still, there’s no complaints to be heard, only an air of seriousness throughout the room. 

Jason clears his throat, though he has trouble looking at them, the easier option seeming to be the carpeted floor. 

“Alright,” he starts with a deep breath. “So my, uh, my Y scar…”

The air in the room drops the second the words are out, the girls all quiet and listening closely. You can tell this is something they’d been wondering about for a long time.

“When I was younger and I’d just started doing the, uh, special job my brothers and Bruce do…” He takes another breath, “Some things happened that shouldn’t have and I got hurt..”

“What things?” Ryan asks.

“I…I got tricked by a bad guy and…I just got hurt.”

It’s uncharacteristic for the girls to all look so dejected and serious like this. Goes to show that you were right—they do have an understanding of what happened.

Anna is the first to pipe up. 

“Did you die?”

“Anna—”

“It’s alright,” Jason interrupts. He collects himself before eking out, “Um…yeah, I-I did.”

He’s still stuck on those words and you have to silently push for him to keep talking, so as to not give their imaginations time to run wild.

He takes the hint, stuttering, “But, um, it’s complicated, but I came back and—”

Laine interrupts this time, almost teary-eyed.

“Are you going to die again?”

Jason shakes his head quickly, “No. No, honey, not for a long time.”

It’s quiet for a moment as they process, sorting through the details into something their minds can understand.

Rory looks on edge, wide-eyed, as she asks, “Are you a ghost?”

“No, sweetheart,” Jason answers calmly with a shake of his head. 

That seems to calm her anxiety more than anything else.

“Are you better now?” Laine asks. 

Jason nods, “Yeah, I’m a lot better now.”

Ryan looks skeptical at the choice of words. “How did you…get better?”

He takes a shaky breath, “Well…your mommy helped me a lot. And then you helped me some more. And now…now I’m all healed.”

None of them seem to really understand, but they accept the answer anyways.

The next question is from Anna. 

“Is the bad guy in jail now?” 

Jason only momentarily stutters in his response, but pulls it together nicely. 

“It’s not something you need to be worried about. I promise. Nothing like that’s going to happen again to me or you or anyone.” 

This appears to appease most of the concerns flying around in their heads. 

He continues, “We can talk about it more when you get older, but…

You take the queue, nodding Rory and Lainey your way. 

“Let’s go get ready for bed, okay?”

You nudge the younger two upstairs, who, to your surprise, go without resistance.

You give Jason one last glance before heading up the stairs, happy to see him much more relaxed than he was at the start of this conversation.

He’s left downstairs with his eldest three girls, each nearly bursting at the seams full of their thoughts and questions. 

Jason thumps down on the couch between them, a heavy breath following.

The trio watch him quietly for a moment before Anna speaks.   

“I know what it is,” she tells him somberly. He looks at her with more melancholia than he would’ve hoped for.

She continues, “There’s autopsies on my show sometimes.”

Right, her show. The X-Files.

Jason nods, a bit remiss at the idea that she knows.

From his other side, Ryan pipes up. 

“Did it hurt?”

He shakes his head, “No, I-I wasn’t…” 

Wasn’t alive. He doesn’t want to say that, though. 

Ryan nods, understanding anyways. “Did it hurt when you died?”

He hesitates before answering, wavering between lying to protect their minds and telling them the truth. In the end, he decides that you’re right, they can handle it in small measures. 

“Yeah. It did, a little,” he confesses. ”But like I said, that’s not going to happen again.”

From behind Ryan, Mia speaks so softly Jason almost misses her words. 

“I’m sorry.”

He looks at her, brow furrowed. “For what?” 

“That that happened to you,” she says. Her eyes are filled with an equal sadness to his and it breaks his heart. Even more so that her words are so clearly meant sincerely.

“Oh.”

It’s all he can manage to say.

He was only a little older than Mia when his life had been taken away from him and he’d been forced to reset everything he ever knew. And now, all these years later, he sits here surrounded by his children, his world that he was given a second chance to create. His children that don’t see a monster when they look at him, don’t see the scarred giant that he sees. They just see their dad. 

When they were still young they’d started getting almost excited whenever they got a scar from playing too hard because it made them more like him. It took Jason years to just bear the thought of his scars, but his girls look at them like art. Even when they know he got them in bad ways, they pour out nothing but affection. No disgust, no fear, no hate. Just love.

His eyes close and his face falls in his hands, overwhelmed by the idea of his children being such angels, despite being products of him.

“Dad? Are you okay?” 

He nods, face still covered. His voice is muffled as he says, “Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, I just, um…” 

His words die off with little fight, and when his hands drop his eyes are red. 

Anna, who’s usually compulsed to only touch emotion with a ten-foot pole, is the first to wrap her arms around him, holding him tight. The gesture takes him by surprise, especially from her, and he tenses briefly before deflating like a balloon. Mia and Ryan are quick to follow suit, basically dog-piling over his opposite shoulder.

“It’s okay, dad. We love you. And your scars,” Ryan tells him. 

Oh, they think he’s sad.

Hell, thirteen years ago he would’ve thought he was sad. He only started to understand his feelings after his first daughter was born. He doesn’t tell them he’s not sad, doesn’t tell them that he’s crying because life slapped him around and then gave him everything he could ever want five times over. 

Instead, he just nods, pulling them impossibly closer.

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