synopsis. you missed your first penalty as a Real Madrid player, costing the team a win which ultimately takes a huge toll on you and your already fluctuating confidence. Luckily Jude, being the natural born leader that he is, is there to reassure you that it’s okay to make mistakes.
warnings. soft dom!jude, praise kink, fingering, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, mentions of misogyny, no physical traits described other than jude being taller than reader, not proofread
word count. 2.9k
notes. bad timing? i’ve had this in the drafts for a while since, november 2025, so idk if the writing will be noticeably different or not. either way, i hope you enjoy! (despite the circumstances of today lol)
The second you sent the ball flying right over the goal, you wanted to die.
The game had been tense, tied up 2-2. Until the 87' mark when a player’s hand on the opposing team had come into contact with the ball.
Penalty for Real Madrid.
It was a blessing, and Kylian—god bless his heart—had told you to take it. His confidence in you made your heart swell and you knew that this was it. This was the moment to prove yourself after all the criticism. After each insult sent your way just because you were a woman.
You wanted to prove everyone wrong, but you were too in over your head.
The game ended in a draw, and even with everyone on the team saying that, it was okay, it was part of the game, it happens, it still wasn’t enough to get that ugly feeling of shame out of your chest.
You couldn’t even bear to face the media. You finished washing up and headed back to the hotel with the rest of the team, finding it difficult to even talk.
For the first hour alone in your hotel room, you laid idly on your bed, thinking of all the ways that penalty could’ve gone. You could’ve shot left. You should’ve just let Mbappé shoot it.
A soft knock on your door was what finally broke you out of your trance. Reluctantly, you stood, peering through the peep hole, only to see Jude standing on the other side.
Great. Just what you needed. You contemplated not answering at all, but when he knocked again, you decided it was just best to answer instead of making him worry.
There he stood in all his glory, that look of concern etched onto his face. "You alright?" He asked, eyes flicking over your expression like he was trying to figure you out. "You were quiet on the ride back."
He had to know what that was about, but knowing him, he wanted to hear it come from your mouth.
"Yeah, I’m fine," you replied casually, even though fine was the last word you would have used to describe how you were truly feeling. "Just tired."
"I know that feeling," he mused and stood at the doorway for a few more seconds in silence. You could see the gears turning in his head. Then, “can I come in?”
It was those words that really threw you off. You hadn’t expected them at all. Somehow, you managed to sputter out, “I, uh, don’t… yeah. Yeah, you can come in.”
Your body moved on its own, out of the doorway to give him space to come inside. You could feel the subtle way his body brushed against yours as he stepped forward, subconsciously gripping the doorknob tighter.
"Thanks. I don’t mean to intrude, just…" he sighed, giving you that same look of concern you wished he wouldn’t because it always made something churn in you. "Worried, is all.”
“About?” Like you didn’t already know.
“You missed the penalty and shut down,” he replied bluntly, not bothering to tap-dance around the real reason he’d visited you so late. “I’m not dumb. I can see it on your face. You’re upset.”
“Of course, I’m upset,” you retorted, yet there was no real bite in your words. Just exhaustion. “We were tied and I… I missed the shot that would’ve won us the game. A shot anyone else would’ve made.”
With the frustration always came the inevitable tears. And, as if on cue, you could feel your throat start to close up. Stupid. You couldn’t even handle yourself so what were you doing on a stage as big as Real Madrid?
You turned away, shame and guilt ebbing at you so harshly you couldn’t even look Jude’s way. You weren’t deserving of being in his presence. You let him and the team down.
"Y/n," Jude called with that stupid soft tone that made your heart flip every time. “Come on, look at me.”
You could never deny him so, despite yourself, you turned to face him, tears glazing over your eyes. You could only keep eye contact for so long before your head dipped down. “I’m sorry,” you croaked. “I didn’t mean to miss.”
Jude let out a sigh, no ounce of hesitation in his body as he moved forward to hold you in his arms. He let your head rest against his chest, cradling the back of your head like you were the most precious thing in the world.
“I know. No one does,” he whispered, fingers brushing against yours scalp. “It’s alright. You did nothing wrong. You hear me?”
You nodded even though you still felt like shit because, somehow, only he could get you to calm down like this. You sniffled, hands fisting his shirt.
“Thank you,” you eventually managed to get out.
“Don’t thank me,” he assured you, just as you pulled your head back enough to look up at him through your tear-filled lashes. “It’s what teammates are for.”
For a few seconds, you stood there, gazing into each other’s eyes like it was a normal thing for teammates to do. What wasn’t normal was how hot it got you. The feeling coiled itself in your stomach, running down your body until it reached the area between your legs.
You swallowed hard, and whether he caught it or not was the least of your concerns right then and there.
“You’re tense,” were finally the words to break the excruciating silence. He looked over you—stop doing that—before placing his hand on your shoulder. “You should sit down.”
You were already moving without so much as a second thought, his hand helping guide you until you were sat on the edge of the bed.
Jude towered over you which wasn’t help your brain. Tormenting thoughts of his hands on you began to infiltrate your mind. Unwanted, but ultimately inevitable.
“You okay?” He asked, so concerned, when it was you that was riling yourself up.
“Fine. I’m… fine,” you murmured, hands placed in your lap, absentmindedly messing with your fingers. How much longer would he be in here?
Jude was many things, but blind wasn’t one of them. The subtle shift in your gaze when he was looking at you. The hitch in your breath. The way you were slightly pressing your thighs together now. He saw it all.
"Don't be so hard on yourself," he said. "You can relax around me."
If only he knew he was the one reason why you couldn't find it in you to relax.
When he placed a tentative hand on your shoulder, you shivered. "Is there something else bothering you?"
Yes. You wanted to say. You.
"It's nothing. It's just…" your voice came out a pitch higher. "I'm really sore, that's all. I can't sleep right now." It was the first thing you thought to say.
"It's not that."
You raised your brows, surprised that he managed to call you out so quickly. "Well, it's obviously the game Jude," you said, voice bubbling up with frustration, scared that he'd figure you out, and internally willing him to leave you alone.
He went quiet, as if stunned—hurt, by your outburst, and you regretted your words entirely. He was only trying to make you feel better.
The guilt surged in you, making your stomach cave in, afraid that you had actually hurt his feelings. "I'm sorry," you strained. "I just… I can't think around you."
It was the most honest you'd ever been with him. You hated how you wanted to cry now, a sob lodging itself in your throat. He probably hated you. You ruined it, just like you do everything else.
Instead of walking out like you expected him to, his face softened, gazing down at you like a delicate thing. "Oh, Y/n… I know."
Your gaze shot up at that, looking him in the eye, searching for any sign that he was messing with you, but he wasn't.
"I never said anything because I didn't want to make you uncomfortable," he explained, moving forward to sit next to you on the bed. "And because we're teammates. That would be inappropriate."
Right. Inappropriate. Your thoughts exactly. You were glad he was shutting you down. Someone had to be the mature one.
Even then, what you knew was right only hurt you further. As Jude settled next to you, his scent wafted over, overwhelming your senses to the point where you had to force yourself to stay still, clutching the fabric of your shorts.
"Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing," he scolded softly, no ill intent in his voice. "I see how hard you work—harder than anybody on this team."
He zeroed in on the rise and fall of your chest, finding his own breath quickening. "You deserve a break. Let me lay that stress off of you… just as teammates."
A shaky breath escaped you. You weren't sure what he meant by that—not until he leaned down to gently press his lips against yours.
Your eyes widened in surprise before they fluttered shut, melting against him like you'd dreamed of doing so many times before.
He coaxed you back down against the bed, hovering over your body, licking into your mouth, kissing you in ways you'd never been kissed before. So good it practically turned off your brain.
Jude pulled back, enough to see your face completely. His lips curved up warmly. "Is this okay?"
You nodded, unable to use your words.
"Okay. Just trust me, and I'll make you forget all about today."
He began to pepper kisses along your cheek, trailing them down your neck. Meanwhile, his hand dragged up along your leg, retreating beneath your shirt to get a feel of your boobs, squeezing one between his fingers, enough to make you whimper.
"I want to make you feel good," he whispered, words velvety as he made his way down your body, spreading your legs open. "You deserve it. You deserve so much, you just don't realize it."
His mouth hovered just over your stomach, eyes peering up at you, searching for even the slightest hint of hesitation, but when he found none, he grabbed the waistband of your shorts, peeling them and your panties down simultaneously.
The sight before him made him groan. "You're gorgeous."
He leaned down, lips pressing against your thigh, feeling you tremble beneath him. Then, he took his slender fingers, running a few over your slit, only to find you completely soaked.
"This all for me?" Jude asked. Rhetorical. "You've been waiting for this, haven't you?"
He pinched your clit suddenly, and your hips twitched up involuntarily, eyes going wide. "Jude—"
"Don't worry. I'll give you everything you need."
A part of you knew you shouldn't be doing this, letting him touch you like you were anything other than teammates. You could only imagine the outrage if anyone were to catch you—but Jude's touch was dizzying, enough to dim the logic in your head.
He finally nested his head between your thighs, tongue coming out to lap up the sweetness between your folds.
Your hand shot out to the side, fingers digging fruitlessly into the bed sheets, while the other held onto Jude's hair.
Jude felt you tug at his hair, groaned, yet couldn't be bothered by it as he continued to feast on you, his thumb rubbing over your clit, fucking you with his tongue, before slipping two of his fingers inside you.
You writhed beneath him, trembling with the effort of not cumming because you wanted the moment to last—to have Jude touching you. "Jude, it feels so good."
"Yeah? I know it does sweetheart. Gripping my fingers like this. Need to prepare you before you take my cock."
Your pussy squelched with each stroke he gave it, walls practically refusing to let him go whenever he pulled his fingers out, only to push them right back in a second later.
"Can you cum? I want you to cum all over me, sweetheart."
The combined sensation of his tongue and his fingers, alongside the achingly sweet words falling from his mouth, was enough to break you, body tensing up as you finally came,
"That's it," Jude crooned, not pulling his fingers out yet. "Give me everything."
You attempted to catch your breath as your body went limp against the bed. You whimpered when Jude finally pulled his fingers out of you, missing the feeling already.
Jude eventually sat back up on his knees, your arousal still on his chin, watching you for a minute.
The sight of you like that, for reasons he couldn't explain, had his chest aching with the sudden urge to protect you. To keep you safe from the world and their disgusting words. You were so perfect, and he wanted you to know that.
He wanted you.
"Turn over for me, sweetheart." Jude didn't wait for you to move, taking it upon himself to grab your hips, turning you over softly until your face was perched against the bed.
His thumbs pressed into the dimples of your lower back, urging you to arch just enough so your ass was in the air, on full display for him.
He wanted to take a bite of that skin, but instead, he pressed his palm against your backside, fingers curling inward just to hear you gasp, before loosening his grip, stroking over the sting.
"I'm not—not used to this," you confessed, more embarrassed now that you had said it out loud.
"That's okay," he murmured, voice rough, and he wouldn't admit that hearing you say that—so bashfully, like that would make him change his mind—went straight to his dick. "It'll feel good for you. I'll make sure of it."
Jude was quick to rid himself of his sweatpants, cock springing out, leaking with pre-cum, practically weeping from being untouched.
He gave himself a quick stroke before coming up behind you, his body hovering over yours, making sure not to press all of his weight into you because god, like this, you seemed so fragile.
"I'll go slow," Jude said, but it wasn't a promise.
You trusted him, didn't doubt him for one second. And after only being able to dream of it for months, he finally inched himself in, so torturously slow.
Tears glazed over your eyes, clearly not prepared for the sudden stretch of him, and your hands went grasping for the sheets. "Oh, Jude—"
"I know," he cooed, words tight, trying to keep some semblance, moving forward until he was fully nudged inside you. "Just relax."
Jude let out ragged breaths, chest heaving as he struggled to control himself when he all wanted to do was fuck you senseless. You had him so hard, twitching inside your cunt, that he couldn't even think straight.
"Move, please, move." It sounded so pathetic leaving your mouth, convulsing around him helplessly. "Jude, please."
His control had frayed, and he didn't need to be told twice, pulling out all the way before thrusting back inside with a moan.
"You're so good f'me," he blabbered as he set a rough pace, kissing your insides so well that your toes were curling, barely giving you a second to breath. "You deserve this—deserve it all."
Each thrust was deliberate, as if he were desperate to rewrite the doubt instilled in your brain. "I need you, y'hear me? You'd never let me down. Don't ever forget that."
You couldn't even respond, cheek gliding along the bed with every stroke, pushing your body in ways football never had. Your pussy pulsed around him instead as a thank you, and it boosted Jude's ego, seeing you so fucked out because of him.
He managed to push deeper inside you, impossibly so, his name falling from your open mouth like a litany—Jude, Jude, Jude—the only thing on your mind being him and the way his cock hypnotized you.
"Gonna cum—gonna give you all of it, all of me," he moaned, stuck in a daze until the very end when he could no longer hold back, spilling inside you, spurt after spurt, like you were his girl—and you were. You just didn't know it.
Pleasure flooded your features, cumming right with him. You felt him go still, plugging you up with his cum, your insides now warm and content.
Jude went limp above you, his full body weight pressing down on yours, almost suffocatingly—a feeling you found strangely grounding.
His head curled down to your shoulder, burying his face in your neck as he let himself take a proper breather.
He had yet to pull out. Not on purpose. He just didn't want to.
"Mm… y'were so good f'me," he whispered, voice thick with exhaustion. He planted kisses onto your neck, drawing more shivers from you. "Love you."
Maybe he hadn't realized what he just said, but you were certainly aware enough to catch it. "You—what?"
He just smiled against your skin. "Love you," he repeated. "Made me feel so good. Cuddle?"
Jude didn't wait for your response, his arms tightening around your body as he manhandled you over to your side so he was spooning you from behind, his cock still very-much snug inside you.
He pulled you as close to him as he could, and you couldn't find it in you to complain. Relaxing in his warmth, his scent, was easy, and it was all enough to pull you under, the exhaustion weighing heavily on your limbs.
Your head lulled back against his chest, over the soft thumps of his heart. A smile played on his lips as he watched you sleep, a sight he could get used to.
He sighed, knowing he'd have to settle for calling you his teammate.
masterlist ᯓ★
lo's commentary: hiiii angels it's @purplesectorlew (Lo)!! here with my addition to the jude hype train because i can't stop thinking about his facial expressions and exhausted but clingy jude so here we are. hope you enjoy the fluff-to-spice pipeline as much as i did writing it <3
pairing: bf!jude bellingham x reader
summary: after england’s dramatic quarter-final win over norway, an exhausted Jude just wants his girlfriend close. post-match cuddles (that definitely don’t stay just cuddles) in the team hotel lead to soft, sleepy, and very needy sex. comfort, praise, and tired-boyfriend vibes.
warnings: smut MDNI, handjob, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, tired but horny jude, whimpering + whiny jude, lowkey sub!jude, lots of praise and pet names, slight possessive talk
wc: 4.5k!
The last notes of Wonderwall had just faded out across the Hard Rock, the lads still buzzing on the pitch with arms slung round each other. Jude was right in the middle of it, singing along like the rest of them, his beautiful smile splitting his face even though you could tell every last inch of him was running on empty.
It had been a grind. The Miami heat and humidity were brutal, thick and sticky, so much so that it had made your lungs burn just watching from the stands. Extra time looked like it nearly broke them, but Jude dragged it through with his second goal in the 93rd minute like something out of a film. Your heart was still hammering, ears ringing, the whole stadium vibrating around you.
Then the fans started up with “Hey Jude” and you had to look away quickly, blinking hard. The pride you feel swells up so huge it doesn’t fit in your chest, it spills over into these stupid tears every single time you hear the song, no matter how many times you see him do something like this.
“He looks exhausted,” Denise says quietly, her arm still hooked through yours, squeezing a little.
“I know. Bless him. I don’t know how he’s still standing out there. He gave that absolutely everything.”
You take some deep breaths with his parents, gushing over his performance as usual and wait for him to finish with everything else he has to do after the final whistle.
Soon enough, you watch him walk over showered and changed into the usual post-match tracksuits, his hood half up already like he’s already trying to shut the world out. Even from a distance you can see the heaviness in his shoulders, the way he’s moving a bit stiffer than usual, his tall frame carrying the weight of a country for ninety-plus minutes. He looks happy though. So, so happy. His dark eyes scan the stands until they find you three, and you can see the sparkle in them as soon as he spots you.
He hugs his mum first, extra tight, murmuring something that makes her laugh and pat his back. All week she’d been saying watch your language, watch your tackles, watch your face so he wouldn’t get booked. You could see how proud she was of him, her eyes closing when they hugged. It almost made your heart burst.
Then his dad, the two of them clapping each other on the shoulder like they always do, that quiet father-son thing that always makes your chest warm. Mark kisses his cheek, and your smile mirrors Jude’s bashful one. Only after that does he turn to you.
“There she is,” he says, voice a little rough from the game, his accent coming through even stronger when he’s tired. He smiles down at you, exhausted but sweet, and you stand up to meet him.
You cup his cheek, thumb brushing his sharp cheekbone, your other arm sliding round his broad back. He’s warm, solid, still carrying the smell of the grass mixed with fresh shower gel. “I’m so proud of you, Jude. That looked so tough out there.”
He leans down and kisses you, soft and quick. He’s never one for big PDA with the cameras hovering, but he never lets you feel unloved. Then his hand comes up, gentle as anything, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear.
His eyes go all soft as he looks at you, the intense match-day fire dialled right down just for you. “Thank you, baby. Yeah… it was hard. Proper hard. But we got there. It was rough though, I’m shattered.”
You sit back down and he drops straight onto the seat next to you, no hesitation. His head finds your shoulder immediately, heavy and trusting, like he’s been waiting for this exact spot the whole night. You slide your hand up to scratch lightly at the back of his neck, the way he likes, and feel him let out a long breath, sinking further into you. The relief in his body is so obvious it makes your heart twist.
His mum and dad chat lightly for a minute — something about the referee, how proud they are, the usual post-match debrief — and Jude mumbles along, half in it, half gone. His hand finds yours in your lap, fingers threading together lazily.
After a bit he turns his head, lips brushing your ear as he lowers his voice. “Are you gonna come visit me tonight?”
You snort, playfully nudging his head away. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus, babe.”
He laughs then, loud and bright, teeth flashing, his eyes lighting up with the loving mischief that always gets you. “What? I can’t get cuddles from my girl? After that?”
You raise an eyebrow, fighting your own smile. “Cuddles?”
His lip twitches, smirk spreading slow and dangerous. “Cuddles,” he repeats, all innocent like. “And a couple of kisses. Just three or four…”
You tilt your head, giving him a look. He’s dead on his feet, shoulders slumped, yet still managing to look at you like that. You ignore the heat pooling in your stomach from the way he's looking at you and try to think logically. The semi-finals are midweek. “You’re gonna cramp up at some point and whatever idea you’ve got of cuddles and kisses is gonna be straight out the window.”
“Can I not enjoy my recovery with my girlfriend? Is that against the law now?” He huffs dramatically, but his hands are already stroking up your sides, warm and familiar.
You huff at him, already giving in. “You’re so spoilt.”
He grins wider, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “You can never say no to me.”
And it’s true. You can’t say no to him. Not when he looks at you like that. Cuddles. Right.
It wasn’t long before you found yourself being led by Jude back to his room in the team hotel in Miami. They’d just had a squad dinner, winding down after the match. As soon as players started to retreat he’d texted you and met you in the lobby. Other England camps weren’t like this in the past, you were so grateful the rules had been changed to let you see him, even if he should be resting.
He’d showered again, you could already tell by the cologne and body wash mix you could smell as you followed him down the quiet corridor. His hand was warm around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles every few steps. He still moved a little stiff from the game, the beautiful body of his carrying the bruises and the exhaustion, but there was this restless energy in him too, the win still buzzing under his skin.
Once the door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t stop talking. He kicked his slides off, flopping back onto the bed as he kept going, voice low and rough but nonstop the way it always gets when he’s over-excited.
“...and then after the equaliser, I swear the pitch felt like it was moving, the humidity was mad out there. But the lads were buzzing, it was so loud on the pitch. Harry pulled me over after and was saying something about the run we’re on now, and I was just thinking the whole time about that last chance, how I nearly messed up the touch but it just fell right. Then extra time, my legs were gone but you just dig deep, don’t you? Mum’s texts were killing me the whole week about watching my face and my language, I nearly got booked just for breathing heavy at the ref at one point—”
He laughed at himself, running a hand over his damp hair, eyes bright even though his shoulders were sinking deeper into the pillows. You perched on the edge of the bed, watching him, the usual warmth spreading in your chest.
He reached out and tugged you closer by the wrist, still mid-story. “—and then I was like, nah, we’re not losing this one. You get me babe? And then I was like—”
“Jude, take a breath, love. I was there and watching the whole thing,” you chuckle, adjusting to lie next to him on the bed. His arm slipped under your head straight away, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb moved slowly across your cheek, warm and a little rough.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he murmured, half-laughing at himself again, voice dropping lower. “I’m just… excited. I don’t know. We left everything out there and…”
He trailed off for a second, eyes half-closed, but his fingers kept moving, tracing your jaw, then down the side of your neck, like he couldn’t quite settle even though his body was heavy with tiredness. Up close like this you could see every little detail: the faint sheen of sweat still at his hairline from how warm it was in Miami, the way his chest rose and fell a bit quicker than normal, a fresh bruise along his jaw starting to darken. You breathed in his warm skin scent that always made your stomach flip.
He shifted closer, leg hooking over yours casually, voice going soft and a little rough with emotion. “It’s mad innit? One minute you’re out there thinking your legs are done, next minute the ball drops and it just… happens. And now we’re in the semis. Semis, babe.”
His grin came back, tired but bright, the one that always made your heart do stupid things. He pressed his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like he needed it more than air. “Couldn’t have done it without knowing you were up there. Makes it all feel different.”
“I love you,” you whisper softly, thumb brushing his cheek, “and I’m so proud of you.”
“How proud?” he beamed, raising an eyebrow, a playful spark lighting up his exhausted face.
“Very proud. Like… prouder than you can even imagine. I think I’ve cried at nearly every game—”
Jude giggles, almost giddy, the sound low and warm in his chest. He loved praise, especially from you, it always turned him soft and a little cocky at the same time. “I know, my little crybaby,” he cooed, voice teasing and fond as he leaned in, pressing little kisses all over your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Each one gentle and sweet, like he was savouring being close after the chaos of the match.
“Shut up,” you laugh quietly, trying to sound stern but failing completely. “You need to calm down, baby. You have to sleep.”
“My body’s tired,” he mumbles against your skin, kissing your cheek again, then lingering lower near your jaw, “but the adrenaline is just making me wired, man.”
You stroke his side, up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, feeling the solid warmth of him under your palm, the faint tremor of leftover energy in his muscles. His tall frame was heavy against you, one leg tangled with yours, but his hands kept wandering. Sliding under the hem of your top to rest against your lower back, thumb tracing lazy circles there.
After a moment he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he’s looking down at you properly. The lamp on the bedside table casts a soft glow over his face, his beautiful brown eyes and pink lips slightly parted. He looks unfairly good for someone who just played extra time in a stadium that felt more like a sauna.
“So…” he starts, a smirk creeping back in. “About those kisses I was promised.”
You raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile again. “I don’t remember promising anything.”
“Oi, don’t lie to me..” He leans in closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your mouth. “I distinctly remember talking about three or four. Minimum.” His hand slides higher under your top, palm flat and warm against your ribs, thumb stroking just under the curve of your breast. “Come on, baby. I earned them, didn’t I? Scored two, dragged us to the semis… least you can do is give your man some proper kisses.”
He’s grinning again now, all cheeky and tired and completely devastating to your self-control . Before you can answer he dips his head and presses one slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another just below your ear, lingering there like he knows exactly what it does to you.
“You’ve just wasted two kisses…and you look like you’re about to fall asleep.”
He groans in joking frustration, eyebrows furrowing to give you a little puppy dog look that always gets him out of trouble. “I just want cuddles and kisses before i sleep-”
He stops as you tilt your head at him, giving him another look.
“I swear, I swear! Baby, please…”
The pleading look on his face already has your stomach flipping, mouth a little dry. He’s so unfairly gorgeous like this. Tired eyes, messy damp curls,his toned body stretched out next to you, still radiating heat from the match. The way his tracksuit top has ridden up to show a sliver of toned stomach… it’s ridiculous how much you want him even when he’s half-dead on his feet.
“Fine,” you say, trying to sound stern but your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, “but you need to try and sleep too…”
He shifts slightly so you’re fully facing each other, one hand moving to your lower back, his leg still draped heavy over yours. “I can fall asleep kissing you.”
The kisses start off sweet and slow. Gentle presses of his lips against yours, his hand stroking your lower back under your top. His other hand in your hair, fingers loose and tired. Then they deepen.
Jude lets out a quiet, relieved sigh into your mouth as his lips part wider, tongue sliding in slow and warm. The kisses turn sloppy fast. Wet, lazy, unhurried in an exhausted way that somehow makes it hotter. His tongue moves heavy and deep, tangling with yours in long, messy strokes, licking into your mouth like he’s too tired to do anything but feel you. Every so often he sucks softly on your tongue or your bottom lip, pulling it between his before going back in deeper, slower, wetter. You can taste the faint mint from his post-dinner toothpaste mixed with the warm, familiar taste that’s just him. His breaths are heavier now, little groans vibrating against your lips as the kisses grow filthier. Your tongues sliding slow and slick, mouths open and messy, spit-slick lips catching every time you pull apart for air only to dive right back in.
He’s genuinely exhausted, you feel it in the heavy weight of his body against yours, the way his movements stay soft and sleepy even as they get more desperate. His hand in your hair tightens slightly, holding you there as he kisses you like he’s trying to melt into you. Deep, lazy swirls of his tongue, slow sucks, the occasional sleepy grind of his hips against your thigh. He’s half-asleep and completely turned on at the same time, and it’s doing dangerous things to you.
Your hand slides under his top to rest on his ribs, and the soft, needy sound he makes against your tongue makes you shiver hard in his arms.
“M’so hard for you,” he whispers against your lips, breathing heavily. He presses his hips forward, grinding slowly so you can feel exactly how turned on he is, the thick, heavy outline of his cock straining against his joggers.
“You need me to help you, baby?” you murmur, letting your hand trail down his stomach until your palm cups the hard bulge. He’s so warm, so fucking hard already, twitching eagerly under your touch.
Jude’s breath hitches, hips jerking up into your hand as he lets out a soft, desperate whimper. “Please…”
“But you’re so tired, Jude.” You stroke him slowly through the fabric, teasing, because you love when he gets like this…all soft, sleepy, and whiny for you.
“Baby—” he whines, the sound high and needy, forehead pressed to yours. His hand moves down to squeeze your ass, fingers digging in just a little. “M’never too tired for you… fuck, please touch me properly. I need it. Need you so bad..”
You push his joggers down just enough to free him and wrap your fingers around him. Jude’s whole body shudders, a broken moan spilling from his lips as you start stroking him. You start slow, firm pulls from base to tip, thumb swirling over the slick head every time. He’s so thick and hot in your hand, veins pulsing, leaking steadily now. You’re transfixed by the sight of him.
“Fuck… yes, just like that,” he whimpers, voice all sleepy. His head tips back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open as soft, desperate little sounds keep falling out of him. “Your hand feels so good, baby… don’t stop, please. I’ve been thinking about this for hours.”
You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he jolts, hips bucking lazily into your fist, chasing the pleasure even though his body is heavy with exhaustion. Every whimper is quieter, needier. He’s almost submissive in the way he lets you take control, thighs trembling, fingers clutching at your waist like you’re the only thing anchoring him.
You lift his shirt higher so you can see his toned stomach, selfishly maybe, but he looked so pretty. You keep going, stroking him faster, tighter, watching the way his abs clench and his chest rises and falls quicker. “So pretty Jude,” you whisper, and Jude lets out a broken whine, biting his bottom lip.
“Baby… I— fuck, I’m so close already,” he pants, voice cracking. “Your hand is gonna make me come if you keep— ah—”
You slide down his body before he can finish, taking him into your mouth in one slow, wet glide. Jude’s back arches off the bed with a loud, guttural moan, one hand flying to your hair, holding on tight as his fingers tremble.
“Oh my god— your mouth, fuck—” He’s losing it completely now, sleepy whimpers turning into desperate, broken sounds as you bob your head, tongue swirling around him, sucking him deep. “So warm… so fucking good. Baby, please— I can’t— you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep sucking like that.”
His hips twitch up gently, like he’s trying so hard to be good and not fuck your mouth, but his control is slipping. Whiny, breathy moans fill the room as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing along the underside. Jude’s thighs shake, hand tightening in your hair, voice hoarse.
“Baby… slow, please, I’m so sensitive— fuck, I love your mouth so much…”
You slow down and look up, making eye contact with him. His eyes are glassy, half-lidded with exhaustion and pure bliss, lips parted, chest heaving. The sight of you between his legs like this seems to ruin him even more.
“You’re so beautiful,” he moans, voice cracking, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “My beautiful girl.”
He keeps watching you with that dazed, adoring look, hips rocking up in tiny, helpless movements as you suck him slow and deep. You swirl your tongue around the head, then take him all the way again, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes his stomach. Jude’s whole body trembles.
“Fuck— baby, look at you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and reverent. “Taking me so well… even when I’m this tired. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”
His praise comes out soft and broken, each word punctuated by a shaky breath or a little whimper. You can feel how close he is, the way his cock throbs heavier on your tongue, the constant little twitches of his thighs, the way his fingers keep flexing in your hair like he’s fighting not to lose it. But he stays so good for you, letting you control everything, just moaning and whining softly every time you swallow around him or suck a little harder.
“Gonna make me come if you keep doing that…” he pants, eyes fluttering. “Your mouth is too good, love. Too warm and wet and— shit—”
You pull off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock as you stroke him slowly with your hand instead. Jude lets out a wrecked, needy sound at the loss, hips chasing your mouth for a second before he catches himself. Before you can say anything, he’s tugging at you weakly, desperate.
“Too far away… come back up here, please.”
You crawl back up his body and he immediately pulls you in, kissing you deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue with a low groan. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your top, squeezing your waist, your hips, like he needs to feel all of you at the same time. The kiss goes on and on, lazy and filthy, tongues sliding slow while he whimpers softly into your mouth every time you stroke him.
You keep working your hand over his cock, slow and slick, and Jude’s hips rock up to meet every stroke, his breathing getting shakier. He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, panting.
“You don’t want to come yet?” you whisper against his lips, still stroking him lazily.
He shakes his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanna be closer to you baby, wanna make you feel good.. wanna.. wanna— fuck.”
His sentence cuts off into a broken moan. For a long moment he just kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other slides down your body. His palm smooths over your stomach, then lower, teasing along the waistband of your shorts like he’s giving you time to feel the anticipation. His fingers finally slip under the fabric, pushing your shorts and panties down your thighs in one clumsy but eager movement. He helps kick them the rest of the way off, big hands gentle on your skin the whole time.
Once they’re gone he settles between your spread legs, still kissing you slow and deep. His fingers drag through your folds and he curses softly against your mouth.
“You’re so wet for me, fuck…” He circles your clit slowly, almost lazily, but the way his breath catches tells you how much it affects him. “All this for me? After I played like shit for half the game?”
You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips against his hand, and he smiles a tired, crooked grin before leaning in to kiss you again. His fingers keep moving, slow circles on your clit, then dipping inside you just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He’s still so hard against your thigh, twitching every time you moan.
Jude buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking softly while his fingers work you open. “Need to be inside you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Please, baby. Wanna feel you around me. Wanna make you come first… then you can ride me slow while I hold you. I just— I need you close. So fucking close.”
He curls his fingers just right and you arch into him, moaning his name. Jude whimpers in response, pressing his cock against your hip like he can’t help it.
“Please, baby,” he breathes against your neck, voice hoarse and shaky. “I need to be inside you. Can’t wait anymore.”
You nod, pulling him up for another deep kiss as he lines himself up. “If you get tired just say, Jude,” you whisper against his lips. He looked so exhausted — eyes heavy, shoulders slumped — and part of you still felt a pang of guilt that he was going to be the one putting in all the effort tonight.
“You’re such an angel,” he whispers softly, pecking your forehead with heartbreaking tenderness, then leaning down for another deep kiss. “As if I could ever be too tired to fuck you.”
The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and slick, and you both moan into each other’s mouths as he starts pushing in. He’s so slow and careful, even though you can feel how badly he wants to bury himself.
“Fuck… so tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Inch by inch he sinks into you, stretching you open until he’s fully seated, hips flush against yours. The sound he makes is relief mixed with pleasure, a long, broken moan that vibrates through his chest.
For a moment he just stays there, buried deep, breathing hard against your lips. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, desperate for the full body contact. You can feel how tired he is, the way his muscles are trembling from the long match and the effort it’s taking just to hold himself up. “You feel so good,” he groans. “Just for me, yeah? Tell me this pussy belongs to me. ”
“It belongs to you, baby. Only you,” you moan softly, clenching around him. “I belong to you.”
A shaky breath leaves him. He buries his face in your neck, sucking softly on your skin while he gives one slow, grinding roll of his hips. “Good girl… all mine,” he mumbles, the words slurred with tiredness. “I don’t share you with anyone.”
Then he starts moving with slow, lazy rolls of his hips, grinding deep instead of thrusting hard. Every stroke is deliberate, like he’s savouring every second even though exhaustion is weighing on him. His breaths are heavier, his arms shaking slightly as he holds you, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his temple. Still, he doesn’t stop. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, and Jude lets out a soft, whiny sound again that makes you clench harder around him.
“Baby… yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Feels too good. You’re squeezing me so tight— fuck.”
His mouth finds yours again, the kiss sloppy and tired, tongues sliding lazily while he keeps that slow grind going. One hand stays gripping your hip, the other slides up to cup your breast through your t-shirt, thumb brushing your nipple almost absentmindedly, like even his hands are running out of energy but he refuses to stop touching you. He’s so vocal, whimpering your name, telling you how perfect you feel, how much he needs you.
You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts losing their steadiness, becoming a little more desperate. “I’m so close,” he whines against your mouth. “Come with me, baby. Please. Wanna feel you come around me.”
One of his hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow circles. The combination of his cock dragging deep inside you, his fingers, his soft sleepy moans, pushes you over the edge first. You clench around him hard, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you.
Jude follows right after with a broken groan, burying his face in your neck as he comes deep inside you, hips stuttering. “Fuck— love you, love you so much,” he mumbles against your skin, trembling through it.
Afterwards he collapses on top of you, heavy and warm, still buried inside. His arms wrap around you tightly, face tucked into your neck as he catches his breath. Soft kisses press against your shoulder, lazy and sweet.
“Best recovery ever,” he murmurs with a tired little laugh, voice muffled. “But I’m never moving ever again.”
You run your fingers down the muscles of his back, smiling as both of your breathing starts to even out, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion.
You kiss his temple, open your mouth to respond, but he's snoring softly before you can even reply.
summary: your boyfriend scored two goals against norway in the world cup quarterfinals, so you decide to reward him.
notes: first fic and it’s with jude! had to write this after seeing the game with norway 😛
warnings: smut!
you stood in the stands, cheering loudly. your boyfriend was playing against norway in the World Cup quarterfinals, and you were cheering him on. "bellingham 10" was displayed proudly on your back as your eyes scanned the pitch for him.
there he was. he was running down the field, gesturing to his teammate to pass him the ball. you watched in anticipation as he received the ball, then moved forward, dribbling past two defenders and shooting. the keeper lunged to block it, but the ball slipped past his fingers, touching the net.
you jumped up from your seat in excitement and celebrated with the people sitting next to you. this was jude's second goal, and you were beyond proud of him for it. you also knew that he was definitely going to celebrate with you later that night.
the match ended in a 2-1 win for england after extra time. you waited by the player's tunnel as jude exited the pitch, quickly kissing him and whispering a suggestive “see you after the game”, winking at him before he was pulled away by his teammates to celebrate.
you made your way back to you and jude's hotel room, knowing he would be held back for a little by post game interviews and to finish up with his teammates. while you were waiting for jude, you decided to surprise him with a treat once he got back. you had packed a dark red lingerie set with white lace in your suitcase for this exact reason, in england's colors. you put it on thinking of jude, and you couldn't wait for him to come back.
you were scrolling through your Instagram feed when the lock clicked open, signaling Jude’s arrival. you quickly positioned yourself on the bed, waiting for him to make his way towards the bed.
“baby?” jude called out as he dropped his duffel bag near the door.
he stopped straight in his tracks the moment he saw you on the bed, his eyes appreciating every aspect of you before he smiled that devilish grin of his which had always made your heart skip a beat.
“all for me, huh?” he asked, a smirk playing on his lips as he made his way towards you. you stood up from your position on the bed, grabbing the neckline of his shirt to pull him in.
“you did so good today, jude.” is all you said before you started to pepper kisses along his neck, making sure you paid special attention to the spot where his neck meets his jaw, which made him groan slightly. you made a particularly noticeable mark there before breaking away to make eye contact with jude.
his eyes were already hooded, clouded with lust and desire. he swallowed as you sunk to your knees in front of him, hands already going to pull down his shorts.
“baby..” he practically whispered out as you pull down his boxers down, revealing his already rock hard cock.
“shh.” you reassured him as you make eye contact. “you were so amazing today, jude.” you spat on your hand, spreading it around on his cock before you licked the tip, swirling your tongue around it and tasting the pre-cum. jude let out a low moan at your actions, his hands going to grab your hair and pull it into a makeshift ponytail for you.
you opened your mouth wide and took him inside, letting out a tiny whimper once his cock hit the back of your throat. you gagged slightly, but you focused on breathing through your nostrils before you started to work his cock.
jude lets out a guttural moan as you began to bob up and down, swirling your tongue against his tip before licking the underside of his shaft.
“f-fuck, baby. feels s-so good.” are the only words he managed to get out before you took him in again, working him to his climax. his length hit the back of your throat again, and you moan against his cock, the vibration causing jude to curse under his breath before using his grip on your hair to tug you closer.
your right hand squeezed his balls as your left latched onto his thigh, grounding yourself as you took your mouth away. you spat on his length again before enveloping him inside your mouth again, making his eyes roll back.
you looked up through your eyelashes at him while you were working him, and you’ve never seen a prettier sight.
jude bellingham was reduced to pieces, courtesy of your work. his head was thrown back in pleasure as his hips rutted forward, desperate for more.
“please baby, oh fuck.” are the words he kept on repeating as you continued to pleasure him. it’s as if he’s incapable of thinking of any other words to speak. you could tell that he’s close - his cock twitched in your mouth slightly and his legs trembled, signaling he was about to come.
his hand kept your head still. he was completely vocal now, something you love about him during sex. his moans grew louder and he pulled your head off his cock before pushing you back onto it again. you moaned around him again, helping him reach his climax.
“fuck, baby I’m coming” are his only words before he threw his head back again, moaning as thick, hot ropes of cum shot down your mouth. you did your best to swallow it all, making sure to not leave a single drop anywhere.
jude slowly pulled his cock out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting the two. jude’s eyes softened, a look of love and adoration in his eyes before he smiles at you.
“you did so good, baby.” jude said to you before pulling you up to your own feet.
“round two?” he asks you, raising his eyebrows suggestively. you pull him in for a kiss, and you know for sure that you’re not getting any sleep that night.
"keep it down f'me, gorgeous~" (or, bruce wayne and you find a way to... kill time) christian bale!bruce wayne x reader
dc fics ♡ f'(uck) me ♡ christmas masterlist
★word count: 4.1k
★description: gotham's distract attorney, harvey dent, hosts his annual christmas gala. yet between the festivities, people watching and unnecessary extravagance, both yourself and the incredibly sought after prince of gotham find yourselves bored... however will you pass the time?
★content: smut! so much smut - don't like, don't read <3 MDNI balcony sex, definitely unsafe (they're on a balcony.), semi-public sex? (no one catches them, but the thrill is definitely there), soft sex
roe speaks: so. christian bale in the dark knight might've been my first real crush ever - what better way to begin the winter holidays than balcony sex with bruce wayne?
Christmas in Gotham was no joke. This year was no different, as the invitation found its way to your door,
"Christmas at the Dent's:
7:00 pm - late
25052nd Street"
Ah. The usual, then. You roll your eyes and sigh, pains shooting through your heels at just the thought of having to stand around making awkward conversation all night. Still - no one does Christmas quite like Harvey Dent these days, and you weren't about to ruffle feathers by refusing his invitation.
As you walk along the corridor into your penthouse, your doorbell rings. Strange - 8:07 pm wasn't exactly the time for visitors, and you weren't exactly expecting anyone. As you peek through the small window at the top of your door, you see no one out there.
Perhaps a package?
Opening the door, you find your guess validated as a neatly tied box sits in front of your door. Along the sides of the box, the 'Wayne Enterprises' logo sits embellished. Glaring back at you.
What the Hell would Gotham's very own prince - the billionaire playboy himself - want with you?
Naturally, you're wary as you take the package inside, carefully pulling apart each ribbon, one by one. Inside, a small letter addressed to you,
"See you at Dent's Christmas Gala~
P.S. I do hope you'll wear the dress."
The utter nerve! First of all - how on Earth did he know you'd been invited? Second of all - who was he to instruct you to be there? You had half a mind not to attend at all now, as your eyebrows drew together, anger coursing through your veins. Who the Hell was he to be so pushy?
Your eyes now find the cloth, neatly folded into the box. As your hands lift it up, the wine red of the dress rappels down. And despite the anger that had just flooded your soul, you can't help but think just how pretty the dress would look on you.
Gods damn you, Mr Wayne.
On the other side of Gotham, in an awfully comfy (but lonely) bed, Bruce Wayne sat - twiddling his thumbs as he lay there. Thinking. Overthinking.
"I'm sure she'll like the dress, Master Wayne."
"Huh? Oh. Erm. Who, Alfred?"
"Do you think me so dense?"
"Dense? No.."
"I know you better than that."
"..I know, Alfred."
"Now. Dinner?"
Bruce sighed, nodding and groaning as he pushed himself up from his bed, muscles screaming as they ached. Each movement was torture as he pulled over a shirt, trudging down the stairs. Alfred followed behind with a small smile, rolling his eyes as he collected an old mug from the room. Downstairs, the table had already been set. As always, Bruce sat alone, with a beautiful plate of food sat in front of him.
Why did it feel so cold, then?
Cold and lonely?
Time flew by as you tried to ignore both the gala, and the dress that now sat in the corner of your room, still in the Wayne Enterprises box. Everytime you walked into your penthouse, there it was. Taunting you, mocking you and practically begging you to wear it.
So when the day itself came along, you found yourself groaning as you did finally try the dress on.
Dear Gods - how was it that it fit just right? Just perfectly? First of all - how did the Gotham's playboy know your measurements like that? There was no way he had the chance to ever know, considering that you had only really had two conversations together.
Both of which were unfortunately failed conversations, mind you.
In the first, he had accidentally spilled his drink over you - after someone bumped into him. Of course, he wasn't rude about it - but you loved that dress, so very much. You couldn't help the glare you shot at him, before rushing off to the bathroom as you tried you damndest to remove champagne stains from your dress. You had missed the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, or the way they couldn't help but to trail on after you as you rushed away.
And in the second, the two of you found yourselves at the same cafe. What began as a sweet, nice moment quickly became a huge issue, as he had taken your coffee, and you his. So when he ended up at your office, soaked in the rain and very much… unhappy, you were sure that Bruce Wayne hated you.
So why did he have such an interest in you of all people?
With every step in your "getting ready for a silly gala where you'll only stand around looking… well, silly" routine, you couldn't help but smooth your hands over the dress as you stare back at yourself in the mirror.
Despite your initial thoughts, you look hot. Incredibly hot. Your hair falls just right, your make up so perfect and your dres…
How on earth Mr Wayne had gotten such a perfect dress for you - without ever having a proper conversation with you? It must be a trap, you think. Yes, a trap! For what - you have no idea, nor do you have the time to try to understand what it could be, as your doorbell rings. You furrow your eyebrows as you approach the door, carefully opening it to…
"Hey sweetheart. Well aren't you lookin' pretty f'me tonight?"
…well, Bruce Wayne himself - who else would it be?
Your mouth drops for a moment as you try to collect yourself - to no avail. He looked… well, he looked fine as all hell, stood in your doorway. Your last meeting at the cafe must've left quite an impression on him, given how he styles his hair tonight. Gone is the neatly stuck together, slicked back hair that everyone expects of Bruce Wayne. Instead, here he stands. Hair still put together, but not quite as… corporate as usual. It's really nice, actually. And his suit and tie - they're not the usual, horribly business-like suit Mr Wayne often possesses. It's classy, black blazer, white shirt and a deep red tie - matching your dress.
You miss how he practically mirrors your expression, his eyes trailing around your hair. How it falls across your shoulders (how he barely keeps himself from brushing it aside, peppering kisses across your collarbone). The way the dress fits you just perfectly, hugging your curves as he cannot stop himself from imagining just how gorgeous you look underneath. The way your lips fall apart, separating as he imagines just how pretty they'd taste, under his own.
Killer Croc himself could come tumbling through your apartment, and neither you nor him would be any the wiser.
"You look.."
"Wow…"
"…human."
"Human? I look human? Gee, sweetheart, I'd hope so-"
"You know what I meant! You wanna explain what all this is about? I can get to Dent's on my own, you know."
"I know."
"So…?"
"Come on… where's the fun in us showin' up alone, huh? We're both gonna be bored there anyway.. Plus, Harvey'll finally stop tryna shove his weird friend on you.."
"I gue- Wait, what? How did you-?"
"I'm literally Bruce Wayne, sweetheart."
"There it is."
"Come on! I wanna be there before they roll out the appetizers! They're no fun all cold, y'know…"
Which is how you found yourself, decked out in your finest, sat in Bruce's finest. As impressive as the Rolls Royce was on the outside, it was even better on the inside. Smooth, arctic white leather cushioning you as Bruce helps you inside (you note how carefully he tucks your dress in). It's not cold, like other cars usually are. It's weirdly… nice. Yeah, nice. Warm and comfortable as the heating doesn't blast at you, but snakes around you. Welcoming you. He waits patiently for you to adjust yourself, flashing that perfect grin back at you as he closes the door. And once he does, you're given a moment to look up at the roof of the car above you. A beautiful sky of stars sits right above and you can't help but reach a hand out, gently tracing your nails over it. It's a car truly befitting of its owner.
The ride there is smooth. No unnecessary rushing, no joyriding. Bruce drives slow and smooth, letting you enjoy the ride as you find yourself fixed on how pretty Gotham looks at night. The Christmas decorations are already out, glimmering back at you as you both make your way to Harvey Dent's god awful Christmas gala. You don't notice how Bruce steals looks as he drives, using the regular mirror checks as an excuse to drink in the look in your eyes as you stare out of the windows. Nor do you notice the smile creeping onto his face, or how he takes the longer, scenic route to Harvey's gala.
Anything to keep you there just a little longer, huh? But a drive can only go on for so long, and the two of you find yourselves outside Dent's place sooner than later.
"Well.. someone's gone all out this year, huh?"
"He does this every year, Bruce."
"First name basis now?"
"In your dreams, Wayne."
He only chuckles and shakes his head, following you along the red carpet laid out in front of you, within a man made "Winter Wonderland". It seemed Dent really had gone above and beyond this time, somehow even replicating the rosy, warming cold that only snow created. Bruce found himself trailing after you with ease - not even stopping for the cameras and their judgemental flashes, as journalists screamed their questions.
Yet the only thing he could care about was you.
You, and how you commanded their attention with such ease and confidence, as though they were loyal soldiers and you their queen. You and how your giggles tickled his ears, bouncing around in his brain as he attempted to collect himself once more (because how bad would it look - Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, down bad at the annual Dent Christmas Gala?). You and how you turned to him, playfully blowing him a kiss as you sauntered inside, leaving him to shake his head and follow behind you.
He could already imagine the morning's headlines.
The gala was… well, like any other gala. Busy, stifling and awfully boring. Initially, Bruce and you had managed to stick through three conversations together. Easily evading awkward topics, and munching through appetizers as you finally thought you'd be able to actually enjoy a gala, for once.
Until you had been tugged away by one person, and Bruce by another. It was almost poetic, how the two of you searched for one another across the large - shockingly large - building. Unbeknownst to the two of you, there was a moment where you were searching for him (and he for you), stuck on either side of a very large Christmas tree.
Which is how you now find yourself up above. On an old balcony, abandoned and quiet. Where others would probably turn back and rejoin the festivities - busying themselves in conversations and gossips - you much preferred the slight chill in the air for company. Plus, there was something nice about just being alone in the quiet.
Well, actually.
It sure would have been nice to have a… certain playboy up here with you. But who am I kidding, it's not like Bruce Wayne is about to appear out of nowh-
"Well, ain't that a nice surprise, huh?"
My God. Bruce Wayne has appeared out of nowhere. And next they'll be saying he's Batman! Yeahhhh right!
Bruce walks up to you, a hand quickly finding the small of your back - warm, but not uncomfortable - and pulling you slightly closer to him. You let him, resting a hand on his shoulder as you peer back over the balcony. He follows your gaze, looking over the view with you. There's truly something beautiful about how the city lights up at night - especially during Christmas time, as the warm bright golden light only radiates around the streets.
"For all its flaws… Gotham has its own beauty, does it not?"
He can only hum in response, as his eyes break away to find you again. There's something he can't quite put a finger on, a feeling. An emotion. A need for you. When he finally realises it, he's practically kicking himself in the balls in disappointment. How could he not have realised sooner? As his mind races, another idea swims through his brain. Sure, he could just ask you. But where's the fun in that?
"Bored, sweetheart?"
"I suppose… Why? Does the great Bruce Wayne have any suggestions? Cure my boredom f'me?"
Your hand moves up from the balcony railing, as you now position yourself in front of him, your back against the balcony. Your fingers dance up his arm, finding his face as they slowly trace down, and he finally sees That Look in your eyes. Hunger, need and perhaps a secret, third thing. One that he can't quite put his finger on yet,
"There is one idea…"
"Go on..?"
He leans in, and his lips barely brush your ear as his hands begin to move along your body - securing you against him, and against the railing behind you. You let out a soft gasp at his touch, only to snake your own arms around his head - tugging him closer.
"Tell me to stop, sweet girl. Tell me to stop."
Something about the thrill of it all sent an exciting shiver down your spine as you found yourself grinning back at him,
"…I don't think so, Mr Way-"
"No, no. Bruce. None of that Mr Wayne bullshit."
"My, my- first name basis, huh?"
"Somethin' like that."
His lips trail down your neck as his hands slowly pull your dress up higher and higher. One hand hikes your leg up around his waist as his fingers massage the flesh underneath (almost begging for forgiveness from the harsh cold that hits you first). All as his lips dance across your body - warming the flesh they touch and leaving the slightest reddening mark as he builds in confidence, sucking along your skin. When he's pleased, he finally lets go of your leg, unbuckling his pants with a practiced ease as he opens himself up to the harsh airs of the night.
"Do you do this often, then? Find girls on balconies and fuck 'em over Gotham? What will people say...?"
"Only the one's I really like. And you? You seduce billionaires on the balconies of Gotham often?"
"As a noble scholar once said, 'Only the one's I really like,' Bruce.."
That earns a laugh out of him, and a giggle out of you, as he pulls you closer to him. He mutters a soft apology and presses a kiss to your neck as he slowly enters you - the two of you savouring each inch that fills you as you arch your body into his. Soft strings of curses leave your mouth, and he only kisses them away, tutting as he does,
"Tsk, tsk… and you call yourself a Lady, hmm?"
"Oh, you piece of-! Bruce! F-fuck, that's… oh, that's perf-ect-!"
He only chuckles back, shaking his head as he speaks back into your skin,
"Need ya to keep it down f'me, gorgeous... wouldn't wanna be caught so soon, hmm?"
Each and anytime you attempt a retort back at him, he only snaps his hips up into you, thrusting harder (somehow). You learn pretty quick, letting your body fall into his arms as your moans echo around him. His head falls into your neck, peppering kisses along it again as you find your hands tangled in the back of his hair - easily scuffing up the once somewhat neatened hair he had put together.
When he looks back up at you, eyes softened as the warmed Christmas lights reflect back at you, you can't help how your heart tugs for him. Nor can you help the words that tumble out of your mouth, trickling around him as he continues to thrust in and out of you - slowing ever so slightly (just enough to be able to enjoy the moment the two of you share. For if this is your one and only encounter together, he'd much sooner remember it all, than hold on to mere flickers of memories),
"B-Bruce… Fuck, Bruce, I love yo-"
You stop just short of finishing the word, as Bruce slows to a stop, looking back up at you again. It's only then that you realise exactly what it is that you've said out loud, to the cold Gotham (K)night around you, and your eyes widen, your mouth dropping open.
What do you say? You usually don't really fall in love with people after… getting fucked on a balcony?
"Say it again."
"Say what?"
So we play dumb now, do we?
"You know what, sweetheart."
"I don't know what you're on about, Bruc-! Oh, fu-ck! That's just mean-!"
Each thrust is punctuated by your sharp gasps and moans, and for a moment you think he's let you off. Surely he understands it was just a slip of the tongue, right? Except he slows down again, sighing as his hands find your face, angling it to look up at him.
Dear Gods is he a sight to take in. Hair tossed about, suit crumpled and a look of determination scrawled across his face as he collects himself, small pants huffing out into the air,
"Need ya to say it, gorgeous."
"You cannot be serious, Bruce."
"Oh, I am."
"Really?"
"Really. You think I buy dresses for anyone? Drive slow for anyone? Sweetheart…"
And the pieces slowly put themselves together, a jigsaw puzzle coming together in your mind as your eyes widen again. He can't help the smile on his face as you splutter over your words, only to sigh and smile back at him,
"So what - you were gonna ask me out midway through fu-"
"No, no. Not at all. I.. fuck, it sounds stupid as all hell, now. But I was.. I was gonna ask you out quietly. Didn't wanna make a huge deal of it, y'know?"
"Who even are you? Billionaire Bruce Wayne would never!"
"Right. Except I'm just Bruce Wayne here, with you. No fancy titles, no stupid shit. Just Bruce Wayne."
You think it over for a moment - because what do you actually say? Sure, you can't deny the feelings that have risen in your heart, stirring and begging for him, nor can you ignore how you need him - so very much. But you are still at Dent's stupid gala, and you-
Oh, fuck it all! You pull him closer, mouths finally meeting as he melts into your kiss. Tongues swiping against each other as his hands settle around your hips again. Only this time, there's real, recognised emotion behind it all. Behind each and every movement, touch and breath is another sweet confession to one another. When you finally pull away from each other, he only grins back at you, slowly moving himself out of you and redressing the two of you. When you give him a puzzled look in response, he pulls you in for another kiss, before whispering,
"Wanna get back to mine? Much more.. comfortable, I can assure you that."
"Only if I'm not just another one of your flings, Wayne."
"Never, baby. Never just a fling."
He pulls you back through the gala, sneaking through the backdoor of the function and swiftly back into his car. Only this time, the two of you can't hide the giddying excitement between you - grins and chuckles and giggles flying around you as Bruce drives the two of you back to the Manor.
He's never driven this fast, nor with such purpose.
This time, he carries you in his arms, ignoring your giggly protests as he throws you onto his bed. His oh, so soft bed, with the silks and fluffiness that you can only have dreamed of. You kick off your heels, only for him to catch them in his hands, tossing them behind him as he undresses himself once more for you. This time, you get to see all of him, gulping as your eyes drag lazily across his skin. You can't help but to drink it all in under the soft, amber candle light that barely surrounds the room. It's warm and intimate, and has you reaching up to him.
He takes the opportunity to remove your own dress from your body, zipper lowering slowly as his lips find your skin once more. As he undresses you, peeling each layer off you with a reverence rarely found in this corner of the world, you can't help but attempt to cover yourself.
Only for him to hold your arms away from your body, before cradling you up in his own arms,
"No more hiding from me, c'mere.."
He pulls you in, kisses trailing down your neck once more. Except this time, they quickly become bites and nips, tugging and sucking at your skin as he finds your breasts. Each bite accompanied with a soothing kiss, until he wraps his tongue around one bud, with two fingers working on the other.
And as his mouth and hand work on your breasts, teasing each nipple and moving left to right, his other hand presses your thighs open - giving himself space to thrust his cock back into you. Given your risqué rendezvous earlier in the night, you're already soaking wet when he enters - your walls welcoming him back in as they mould themselves around him once more. Each inch that moves within you already has you seeing stars, let alone when he finally speeds up, thrusting faster and harder as your moans tangle with his groans.
The sounds of your skin meeting his, as your walls wrap around him with each thrust and your head falls back onto the pillow, only have you blushing under his body. It's a good thing it's only the two of you around, as you struggle to hold back your cries.
You can feel yourself edging closer and closer to release, as your stomach tightens in on itself, and your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders. He only gasps back in response, before somehow pulling your legs out wider - letting him in deeper. Angles that you had never even felt before suddenly find themselves full with him. Hell's, neither you nor he can pull together a coherent sentence - both drunken on one another as you chase each other's release,
"F-fuck! Bruce, oh, Bru-!"
"Perfect! Fuck, you're so perf-ect f'me, baby, m'gonna cu-!"
And what a release it is. The two of you come crashing together, crying out at the same time as you gush out on him, and he cums over your gummy walls, that only seem to suck him in more. You can feel him everywhere, even as he slows his pace and looks back down at you, lowering his head to press a kiss to your cheek before slowly pulling out. As you whine and protest him leaving you so empty, he moves the two of you around, before lifting your body and lowering you back onto his cock, kisses pressed along your shoulder. He doesn't move this time, letting you come down from your release.
Instead, he lowers the two of you into his bed, wrapping his arms around you, securing you as you fall asleep,
"I've got ya.. get some sleep now, yeah?"
You barely feel a soft kiss pressed to your forehead as you finally drift off.
The morning comes much sooner than you'd want it to. You can barely make out the glimmerings of Gotham's first snow of the year, as birds twitter and tweet their sweet morning song. The Winter Sun's harsh light basks over the room, and you blink away your sleepy haziness as Bruce stirs with you, once again pressing kisses along your skin, before whispering into your ear,
"Mornin' gorgeous."
You can't quite manage a full response back, humming in return as you let your eyes close again. He finally pulls himself out of you, hissing as you whine in return. You take the opportunity to finally turn around, burying your face into his chest and letting yourself fall asleep again,
"Sweetheart.."
"M'sure breakfast can wait.. right, B?"
"For you? The whole world can wait, sweet girl.."
And so as journalists furiously tapped away their headlines ("Billionaire Playboy Bruce Wayne Caught With CEO! Read more on Page 5", "Bruce Wayne Finally Spotted With New Lover!" "Batman: Fact, or Fiction?") in the usual speedy fashion that Gotham is so very used to, the two of you lie lazily, savouring and basking in a slowed warmth rarely found in such a corner of the world.
jason shows up at your apartment looking like he stepped out of one of those cliché dark romance novels he pretends not to read, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, hair messy, scars peeking from the collar of his shirt. you’ve been seeing each other for weeks now—stolen kisses turning heated, hands wandering but never quite there.
tonight you finally drag him to your bed, convinced jason’s done this dance before. he talks a big game, after all.
“been thinking about this,” he mutters against your mouth as you pull him down on top of you, voice already rough. “fuck, you have no idea.”
clothes come off fast. he’s hard and thick and trembling just a little when you guide him between your legs. you wrap your hand around him, stroking a few times, and he hisses through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut like he’s concentrating hard—probably thinking of whatever isn’t how his tip’s right up against your cunt. “easy, princess. don’t—shit.”
you think it’s just the heat of the moment. you line him up and he pushes in slow, groaning low and broken as your walls squeeze around him. he wasn’t lying about being big, his size stretching you just right, and for a second it feels perfect. then his hips jerk once, twice, and he buries himself deep with a wrecked sound, coming hard before you even get a chance to adjust.
the silence hits for a moment. you feel the warm rush inside you and blink up at him. “jason… did you just—”
“shut up,” he grunts, face burning red under the scars, but he doesn’t pull out right away. he’s still half-hard, breathing like he ran across rooftops. “it’s been a minute, alright? don’t make it a thing.”
you start laughing, soft and playful, hooking your legs around his waist to keep him close. “a minute? jay, be honest. was that your first time? you lied to me, you cocky bastard.”
he tries to play it off, smirking even as embarrassment floods his cheeks. “what? no. i’ve done this. plenty. you’re just… really fucking tight, okay? caught me off guard.” his voice cracks a little on the last word and it only makes you grin wider.
“plenty, huh?” you tease, rolling your hips experimentally and feeling him twitch inside you. “could’ve fooled me with that two-pump chump performance. my big tough red hood, coming the second he gets it in. that’s adorable.”
jason groans, burying his face in your neck, but you feel him starting to harden again already. interesting. you press further, voice sweet and mean all at once. “aw, poor virgin boy. all that talk about ‘handling’ me and you blow your load before i even moan your name. how embarrassing.”
“fuck you,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. he lifts his head, green eyes dark and a little glassy, hips shifting like he just can’t fucking help it. “i’m not—okay, fine. maybe i haven’t. happy now? still gonna bust my balls about it or are you gonna let me make it up to you?”
you laugh again and squeeze around him on purpose. “oh i’m definitely busting your balls. look at you, getting hard again and all i’m doing is making fun of you. does the big bad vigilante have a little humiliation kink? that’s pathetic, todd. my virgin big mean boyfriend coming untouched basically.”
his breath hitches hard. fuck, your bullying’s getting him all riled up. he doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it. both. definitely both. “goddamn it, princess,” he rasps, voice gravel and shame and heat all mixed together. he rolls his hips experimentally, slower this time, hoping he won’t humiliate himself for a second time tonight. “keep running your mouth like that and i won’t last a second time either. you gonna keep bullying me or help me fix this?”
“both,” you say sweetly, dragging your nails down his back. “because it’s cute watching you try to act cocky while your dick’s betraying you. came so fast for me, baby. first time and you couldn’t even hold it together. how many times did you jerk off thinking about this and still fold instantly, hmm?”
jason curses under his breath, thrusting shallow and careful now, face flushed but eyes locked on yours with that stubborn defiance. “keep talking shit and i’ll make sure the second round actually lasts long enough to shut you up. virgin or not, i learn fast. and you,” he leans in, biting your shoulder lightly, “love having the big scary red hood embarrassed and leaking for you. don’t you?”
you do. and the way he’s getting harder with every teasing word tells you he loves it even more.
the grip he has on your hips seconds later tells you he’s about to redeem himself as best as he could. because he’s right, virgin or not, the guy learns fast.
hooking up with best friend!roy harper goes incredibly wrong ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
like, terrible, guys
cw: mdni, mostly crack, grinding, tit play?
The alcohol is running so nicely through your veins, everything makes you laugh and everything sounds like a good idea. For example, hooking up with your best friend, Roy Harper. He’s been dancing with you all night, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you closer and swaying with the music. Going out with him is always wonderful, he pays for all the beers you want and never gets tired.
It’s past 3 a.m when you two decide to leave the club together. You arrive at your apartment half an hour later and that’s when both of you have the same idea, at the same time. We should fuck.
Roy’s breath stinks, but yours do too so you can’t really complain. And the motherfucker knows how to kiss, grabbing you by the waist and sitting you on your kitchen counter. He presses his thigh between your legs as he kisses your neck, leaving a trail of saliva in it. He praises your cute moans and whimpers while he lifts your top, letting your boobs spring free.
“Fuuuuck, girl, why did you keep them hidden from me?” Roy comments, pulling back to stare at them, taking one on each hand like he’s inspecting them.
You giggle, everything feels so warm and silly right now. “I was saving the best for you,” you tease, pressing a finger to his chest and tugging at his shirt until he tanks it off over his head. His skin is hot under your palms, feeling the muscles from all his training sessions. “C’mon, Roy, I wanna see you too.”
He grins and kisses you again, all sloppy and eager. His hands are everywhere, squeezing your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you're arching into him. He laughs against your mouth. “So bossy,” he mumbles, nipping at your bottom lip. “But fine, you win.”
You slide off the counter, a little wobbly from all the drinks, and push him back toward the couch. He flops down easy, pulling you on top of him so you’re straddling his lap. The kissing turns hotter, your hips grinding down on him while his fingers dig into your ass. You wait to feel his cock harden against your hot cunt. And you wait a little longer, getting bored of all the kissing.
You tug his pants open, slipping your hand inside his boxers and wrap your fingers around him. But nothing, he’s soft, not even twitching no matter how you stroke him. You try again, twisting your wrist the way you know guys like, but nope. You can’t help but burst out laughing.
“Roy,” you say, pulling back to look at his face. His gaze is lost in your bare tits and you have to grab his cheeks with your free hand to make him look at you. “You’re not getting hard, bitch.”
His cheeks flush bright red, even in the dim light from the kitchen, and he groans, covering his face with one arm. “What the fuck?” He was so lost in his drunkenness and in you that he hadn’t realized about the lack of business between his legs. “Shit, I think I hah drank too much.”
“Yeah, no shit.” You laugh again, leaning forward to press your forehead against his shoulder, your boobs squishing against his chest
“Stop! Don’t fucking laugh, this is embarrassing!” He peeks out from under his arm, eyes sparkling with that mix of embarrassment and amusement.
But your laugh doesn’t cease, you stopped pumping his dick because it’s completely pointless and you wiped your hand in his pants before coming back to leave a kiss in his face. “My poor baby can’t even get it hard, you’re going to miss your first chance to get laid in six months.”
You’re hugging him now by the neck, pressing your bare tits to his face as you scratch his head with a fake pout. He audibly groans and rolls his eyes, grabbing you by the waist and trying to peel you off him.
“Shut the fuck up,” he groans, turning his head away from your boobs even though he’s clearly fighting the urge to stare. He pushes at your hips, but not hard enough to actually move you. “You’re the worst. This is your fault for dragging me to that last round of shots.”
You laugh right in his ear, loud and obnoxious and wiggle your hips against his soft cock just to be extra annoying. “Buddy, you’re the one who kept buying them. Now look at you, all limp and useless. It’s so tragic, do you think it will ever work again?”
Roy makes this frustrated noise in the back of his throat and finally shoves you off his lap, but you just tumble onto the couch next to him, still cracking up. He sits there with his pants open, dick just chilling soft in his boxers and runs a hand through his messy hair. “You’re being unnecessarily mean. I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” you sing-song, poking his side. “You love me. That’s why you’re here trying to fuck me and failing so hard. Come on, big guy, maybe if I call you a pathetic little bitch it’ll wake him up?” You reach over and give his soft dick a couple lazy taps with your fingers
He swats your hand away instantly, cheeks burning even redder. “Don’t touch it if you’re just gonna bully it! Jesus Christ.” But he’s laughing too now. “
You grin as you crawl back into his space and straddle one of his thighs instead. You grind down slowly against the firm muscle there, letting out an exaggerated moan just to mess with him. “Mmm, at least your leg still works. Guess I’ll just ride your thigh while your dick takes a nap. Poor thing must be exhausted from all that... not performing.”
Roy rolls his eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. “You’re such a brat. I should kick your ass out of your own apartment.” He grabs your hips again, guiding you to rock against him a little harder, even while he’s muttering, “This is so fucking stupid. I’m never drinking with you again.”
“Yeah right,” you tease, leaning in to bite his neck. “You’d miss me too much, it’s not like we have any more friends.”
He groans again, turned on by how ridiculous it all is and pulls you in for another sloppy kiss just to shut you up. But you can feel him smiling against your mouth, already plotting how he’s gonna get you back once the alcohol wears off.
a/n: type shit your unemployed friends are doing on a tuesday night
synopsis: you are alone at home, missing your husband who was in Blüdhaven to meet his brother for a week. you decided to call him which led to.. lots of interesting things.
tags: smut, phone sex, fem!reader, guided masturbation, degarding, praising, tim being extra daddy material (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)
a.n: again lwk inspired by a bl manhwa i read (the new recruit).
mdni credits: @cafekitsune
you jus walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush towel. you had tried to distract yourself since you missed your husband so much.
the feeling of being this desperate for him made you feel bad, even though it's pretty valid because he has been away for the past five days now. tim wanted to meet dick for a while, finally he made the plan and left. mostly it was for discussing work, even though you knew they needed their brotherly bonding time.
tim did ask you to come along, you were the one who politely declined.
so now you are here, stubborn and missing your man.
you unwrapped yourself and headed out the kitchen. it was a habit you started to follow two days before, it is an odd habit.. but who cares. no one could see you bare so its fine.
you grabbed yourself a drink and sat on the counter, taking sips while scrolling through your phone.
ring ring
your eyes sparkled at the pop-up, you quickly picked up the call.
"hi baby!" you chirped.
you heard a soft chuckle form the other side, it made your heart flutter.
"hi my love. missing me?"
tim replied, his voice was calm and loving. tim has no idea how big of a sucker are you for his voice.
before getting married, there were times when his voice made you lose your mind. you would tell him to keep on rambling about anything, even though it was just coding and whatever big boy stuff he did. you just needed his voice, thats it.
you hummed in reply, subtly shifting your leg together. you felt a sudden warmth blooming in your abdomen.
he hummed back. "dick is out for a bit."
"so..?" you asked, slightly tempted to ask him to.. help you with something.
the last time you guys fucked was six days back, since that night you havent touched yourself even worse. the urge was killing you.
"i think.. you are hiding something for me."
you cursed under your breath, hating how he caught you.
"just.. needy for you." your murmered, pressing your thighs tightly over the marble counter you sat on. the cold surface and warmth in you? lethal.
"mhm, i figured that out." his voice changed, now more raspy. if he was in front of you right now? you would have been on your knees and suck his fucking coc--
"will you be a good girl and listen to me?"
your thoughts paused. did.. he really just say that?
"yes."
the line went quiet, you just sat there, waiting for his response. suddenly, you could hear a soft hum, was.. he in a car?
"babe? i thought you were at home?" you asked him, genuinely confused. "i am at home love" he replied, then added, "go to the front door for me."
you sat there in double confusion, though you didnt question and walked up to the front door.
"what are you wearing?"
you bit your lip, thinking what to reply since you were naked already. "uh.. i am wearing your old tee"
tim hummed, then asked you to remove it and sit on the floor, which you did.
the coldness of the wooden floor gave you goosebumps. you just lied to your husband.. but its not like he needs to know. its not like he will come and check it..
right?
"now.. tell me how wet are you."
you slid your fingers between your folds, it was dripping. every inch of it aching to be touched.
"s'wet.. need you so bad.." you moaned.
"mhm, come on now, rub your clit for me. just like the way i do. slow and sweetly." tim murmered.
you did as he told you, circling your bud slowly, your eyes flutter shut. all your senses were at there highest. you could imagine him touching you, hear his breathing and praising hums, you could weirdly taste his saliva in your mouth-- probably because you memorized it for the past years, you could even smell his cologne-- which was.. even more weird because it felt like he was right there, in front of the door. however you shrugged it off, you had sprayed some in your shared bedroom, just to feel his presence.
your eyes fluttered open, locking at the front door. you felt a shiver run down your spine.
"you know.. i feel like you are gonna walk in any second.." you spoke softly, still rubbing yourself.
"yea? i wished i could.. just two more days." he replied. "stop rubbing yourself now."
you paused.
"now lick your finger, and then put it in you."
you pouted, he knew that you didn't like tasting yourself.
"i dont want to though.." you replied.
"oh? you are not gonna take your husband's orders now?"
you let out a pathetic whine, the way he spoke to you like that made wetter. "be a fucking good girl and lick your damn fingers, you cockslut."
you let out another whine, the degradation worked. you took your fingers in your mouth, whimpering and licking it.
"thats right, you are such a good girl."
..
the call went slient. you didnt notice it yet, you were too busy imaging it was his fingers instead.
when you finally snapped out, you glanced at your phone. "tim?"
no reply.
"babe?" you spoke slightly louder. still no response, you waited for two minutes more, though before you could hang up--
"wait, fuck.. finger yourself" tim responded, although why was he slightly breathless?
you hummed, slipping in your middle and ring finger in. "ngh- timothy-"
"say it again." he groaned.
"ah... timothy- timothy..!"
you threw your head back, increasing the pace. your moans echoed in the empty penthouse.
it was just you, looking like a mess, fingering yourself for your husband right in front of the main door. the fact anyone could just break in.. yet, the fear mingled with the pleasure, increasing your arousal.
your brain stopped the thoughts when you heard your husband mutter something.
"fuck.."
the way he said that sparked your nerves, you were now desperately calling out for him.
"Tim- ba--baby! fuc- Timothyyy!~"
all of a sudden--
you heard something outside, as if someone is running towards the door. you didn't stop, you couldn't. even tim went quie--
CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK
the aggressive clicking made you flinch, before you even reacted, the door swung open. your heart stopped beating, fingers froze between your throbbing opening.
either.. you were seeing things, or it was actually..
"Tim?"
yup, it was one and only timothy drake, the love of your life, your husband. he stood there panting, hair all messed up, cheeks rosy and his oceanic eyes burned with desire and affection.
he stepped inside further and closed the door behind him.
"Huh.. so you were naked this whole time?" tim crossed his arms, looking at you. all the words died in your throat, his appearance still took time to process. you didnt even realise when he crouched down and grabbed your jaw.
"aren't you a shameless little slut? you really listened to me and fucked yourself in front of the door like a needy little thing?"
those made you whimper pathetically. it's true, it was a risky thing to do. however you couldnt control yourself when it comes to him.
"how are you even.. here?" you mumbled, taking his other hand and guiding it down.
tim hummed, clearly stalling. his calloused fingertips brushed over your swollen clit. reminding you of all the times he touched you.
he leaned forward and kissed you hard, so hard that you almost forgot your own name. his fingers begin to rub you, slowly and with enough pressure to make you moan in his mouth.
his other hand moves down to your throat and choke you softly, he pulls back and glares at you.
"gonna' punish you for lying."
you looked at him all dazed, the next thing you knew that he tugged down his sweats, and had his cock fully erect, barely few inches away from you enterance.
"b-but-"
he shoved it in you, thankfully you had loosened yourself up enough. he positioned himself on top you and started thrusting in deep. almost rearranging your guts. (something which you been missing for so long)
"so.. you are telling me that you have been hearing since last night?"
the two of you were now in your shared bedroom now, cuddling, easing your bodies after that intense sesh. you looked up from his chest after commenting that.
"yea. dick wanted to meet bruce so.. decided to come back early." he kissed your forehead. "i didnt tell you anything cuz' i wanted to surprise you.."
your cheeks burned, you ducked your head down and smushed your face in his chest. lowkey frustrated and embarrassed by the situation.
"still cant believe you were roaming naked around the house while i was away."
your head shot up again, ready to defend yourself. "firstly, its comfortable. even when you are around i prefer to wear only my inners. secondly? i was technically wearing your tee but you called me after i came out of the shower.."
that excuse really didnt help, in fact it just made tim more amused. "Uh huh. Of course, my darling."
his voice dripped with playful mockery, making you even more irritated.
well you couldn't really do anything, since he was your husband and you love him madly, even though at times he can get on your nerves.
"hmph.. love you" you peered up from his chest.
he chuckled, replying back with a warm smile.
"love you more, my wifey."
a/n (2): istg i am so fucking tired- my uni is abt to start so my brain is malfunctioning. i think i will be posting fics one or twice a week. anyways this a bit rushed and i speedran the proofreading part, ignore any grammatical mistakes :p. enjoy and see ya on the next one!
i think bsf!tim would love grinding his tip against your clit until both of you are soaked (♡⸃ ◡ ⸂♡)
he’d have you lie on your back, guiding the flush pink of his glistening tip through your folds with an agonizing slowness, smearing pre-cum against your slick. every firm nudge against your puffy clit has both of you whimpering.
“fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he mutters, voice wrecked as he catches on your clenching entrance for the umpteenth time.
“j-just the tip, okay? i promise. i just need to feel you for a second.”
famous last words.
because the second your tight heat takes the first few inches of the head of his cock, his abs flex, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as a pathetic moan escapes him.
“i-i’m sorry—“ and he slides all the way in in one go until he’s buried to the hilt inside you, pelvis pressed firm against your clit. “shit, i’m sorry— i didn’t mean— you just feel so good.”
he doesn’t immediately start fucking you hard, just starts off with slow grinds. enough to make you claw at his shoulders and beg for him to go deeper <3
every time you don’t reblog you’re discouraging writers!! reblog and support us!!
the back of your thighs were bruised. deep, burning pain that was caused by the slap of his strong, muscled legs against yours.
your lips were parted, but there was no sound, except for small whimpers and gasps when his tip punched your cervix.
"so fucking wet for me," he groaned, chest pressing your back further into the bed.
bruce had your hips meanly arched, the curve of your back dipped low enough that your spine threatened to crack.
it was so fucking good.
he pushed his hips as far as he could go, holding himself there. a sharp whine shot out of your lungs. you attempted to crawl away. push yourself up to get reprieve from the pressure. he was everywhere. your walls struggled to accommodate his size, even after all the time you have spent together, even after how well your body knew his.
"yeah? awe, you like that don't you, huh, sweetheart?" he cooed. you could feel the smugness in his words painting your back. he gave you another harsh trust, pressing himself impossibly deeper. "take it for me — yeahhhh — just like that, such a good girl for me."
his words were filth in your ear.
"just needed some cock, huh, baby?"
"so perfect for me, can feel you sucking me in,"
"taking it so fucking good for me, honey, god — fuck,"
your face was mushed in the pillow, fingers clenched around his silk sheets. his fingers wrapped into the back of your head, releasing your muffled cries from the fabric.
"nuh uh, wanna hear you, hear how good i'm making you feel," his chest pressed you further into the matress, lips dragging against the shell of your ear.
"come for me," he whispered, lips curving into a satisfied as you tensed and shook underneath him. he pushed himself up, hands shoving your upper body back down as he began to slam back into you and chase his own release.
because, even though bruce loved to show you how much he cared for you, he always loved to see how much he could ruin you more.
an: first attempt at practicing drabbles, sowwy to inignia for using you as my test dummy
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Thomas Shelby x fem!reader
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ MDNI. smut, unprotected sex, smoking, mentions of violence, knife threat, possessive/protective behavior, stalking-ish behavior, power imbalance, angst, and Tommy Shelby being terrible at asking for what he wants. word count: 7.6k
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽
Time passed.
Not enough for Birmingham to change. It never did. The same smoke still sat low over the rooftops, turning the morning light grey before it ever had the chance to be gold. The same men walked home from factories with black beneath their nails and tiredness in their shoulders. The same women stood in doorways with aprons tied too tight, calling children in before the streets turned mean after dark.
But enough time passed for you to convince yourself Thomas Shelby had become nothing more than a strange, violent interruption. A man who had bled on your floor. A man you had helped because leaving someone to die was not in your nature, no matter how dangerous his name was. A man you had sent on his way.
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
The first thing came three days later. An envelope pushed beneath your door with no name written across the front. You had known who it was from before you even touched it. There were not many men in Birmingham who sent money without a word and still somehow made it feel like a command.
You opened it, counted it, then walked it straight back to one of his men standing on the corner like he had been placed there by God himself.
“Give that back to him,” you said.
The man blinked at you. “Mr. Shelby said—”
“I don’t care what Mr. Shelby said.”
His mouth closed.
You shoved the envelope against his chest hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “Tell him I’m not one of his horses. He doesn’t get to throw money at me because I was useful.”
The man looked as if he would rather have been shot than repeat that.
Good.
Then came coal.
A small delivery left near your back door, enough to keep the place warm for a while. No note. No explanation. You stared at it for a long moment, arms folded, jaw tight, before cursing under your breath because you needed it.
That annoyed you most of all.
The next week, it was medicine. Proper medicine too, not the cheap sort that tasted like poison and did very little else. The sort you would have had to count coins for. The sort you would have walked past in a shop and pretended you had no use for.
It sat on your table for half the afternoon while you glared at it, as if glaring could turn it into something less thoughtful.
As if thoughtful was not somehow worse.
Thomas Shelby did not send flowers. Not at first. You almost respected him for that. Flowers would have been too easy. Too obvious. Too insulting.
But then one morning, there they were. Dark red ones, tied with black ribbon, left in a glass jar by the door like someone had known better than to knock. You stared at them. They stared back.
You left them there until the petals curled at the edges.
By the second week, you knew what he was doing. Or maybe you didn’t, and that was the worst of it. Thomas Shelby had a way of making even silence feel deliberate. Every little thing seemed placed in your path to remind you of him. The coal. The money. The medicine. The flowers. The man who suddenly stopped bothering you outside the bakery after you had told him no three times and he had laughed each time.
He didn’t laugh after that.
You never asked what happened. You told yourself you didn’t care.
Then, one evening, walking home with your coat pulled tight and your fingers wrapped around the little knife you had started carrying in your pocket, you felt it. That horrible prickle at the back of your neck. The feeling of being watched.
You stopped.
The street was narrow, damp from earlier rain, the stones shining beneath the weak glow of the lamps. Somewhere in the distance, men shouted outside a pub, their voices slurred with drink. A horse shifted in its harness. A door shut. A woman laughed too loudly, then not at all.
You turned the corner, and there he was.
Thomas Shelby stood beneath the shadow of a brick wall, cigarette glowing between his fingers, cap low over his eyes like he had grown out of the dark itself.
You jerked back so sharply your heel slipped on the wet stone. “Jesus Christ!”
His eyes lifted to yours.
Calm.
Of course he was calm.
“You shouldn’t walk home alone.”
Your heart was still trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Are you trying to get yourself stabbed?”
A flicker passed over his mouth, not quite a smile. “You wouldn’t stab me.”
You pulled the knife from your pocket before you could think better of it, the little blade catching the lamplight. Thomas looked at it, then at you. His expression barely changed, but something in his eyes sharpened with interest.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” you said.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Smoke curled from his cigarette, drifting between you like a warning. He looked too clean for the street and somehow still made for it. Dark coat. Sharp cheekbones. Mouth set like it had forgotten softness on purpose.
Then he took one slow step forward.
You lifted the knife.
He stopped.
That, more than anything, made your pulse jump.
Thomas Shelby stopped because you told him to without saying a word.
“Put it away,” he said quietly.
“Stop appearing out of corners like a ghost, and I might.”
“I was waiting.”
“That is worse.”
His brow shifted slightly.
“You think that makes it better?” you asked. “Standing in the dark where I can’t see you?”
“I didn’t want to frighten you.”
A laugh left you before you could stop it. Short. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“You are very bad at not frightening people, Mr. Shelby.”
Something about that seemed to land differently than you expected. Not enough to wound him. Thomas Shelby did not look like a man easily wounded. But enough to make his eyes move over your face with a quieter sort of attention.
“I had a man watching the street,” he said.
Your grip tightened around the knife.
His gaze dropped to your hand, then rose again. “For your safety.”
“My safety.”
“Yes.”
“So the man standing outside my work all afternoon was yours?”
His silence answered.
You stepped closer before fear could talk you out of it. “And the man outside my door yesterday?”
Another silence.
“Thomas.”
His name came out harder than you meant it to. His cigarette paused halfway to his mouth.
“You don’t get to frighten me and call it keeping me safe.”
For the first time, he looked away. Only briefly, but you saw it. The smallest crack in that carefully made face. Then it was gone.
“I have enemies,” he said.
“I know.”
“You helped me.”
“I know that too.”
“That makes you part of it.”
“No,” you snapped. “That makes me a person who didn’t let you bleed out on my floor. It does not make me yours to guard. It does not make my life another thing for you to manage.”
His jaw tightened.
You should have stopped there, but you didn’t. “And you don’t know how to ask for something, do you?”
That did it.
The stillness around him changed. Not much. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe. But you noticed. You had been noticing too much about him lately. The way his eyes went flat when he was angry. The way his voice softened before it grew dangerous. The way he watched you as if every word out of your mouth was a card he had not expected you to play.
“I ask when I need to,” he said.
“No. You order. You pay. You send men. You leave things at my door and expect me to understand whatever it is you refuse to say.”
He took a drag from his cigarette, slow enough to irritate you.
You hated that your eyes went to his mouth. Hated even more that he noticed.
“I’m making sure you’re looked after,” he said.
“No.” His gaze fixed on you. “You’re making sure I remember you.”
The street seemed to go quieter. Even the distant noise from the pub dulled, swallowed by the space between you. Thomas did not answer, and that was how you knew you were right.
You tucked the knife back into your pocket, but your hand stayed there, fingers still curled around it. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? The coal. The money. The flowers. The men.”
He watched you through the smoke.
“You wanted to stay in my life, but you couldn’t lower yourself enough to knock on the door and say it.”
His mouth twitched.
Not amusement this time.
Something darker. Something almost honest.
“You think you know me?”
“I know enough.”
“No,” he said, voice lower now. “You know what people say.”
“And you know what people say about me?”
His eyes moved over you again, slower this time. “No.”
“Then we’re even.”
For a moment, you thought he might smile. Properly, this time. He didn’t.
Instead, he dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his shoe. “I came back because I wanted to.”
The words were plain. Too plain. They struck harder because of it. No poetry. No charm. No clever turn of phrase to hide behind. Just the truth, standing there between the two of you with smoke still in its mouth.
You swallowed. “That all?”
His eyes darkened. “No.”
The air changed.
You felt it before either of you moved. A shift so small it should not have mattered. His hand flexing once at his side. Your breath catching before you could stop it. The wet street shining beneath the lamps. His gaze dropping, briefly, to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“Then say what you want,” you said.
He stepped closer. Only one step. You should have stepped back. You didn’t.
For once, Thomas Shelby did not reach for you first. He stood there with his cap low in one hand now, the other hanging at his side, fingers slightly curled as if keeping them still required effort. He looked at you like he had finally understood there were some doors even he could not force open.
“You,” he said.
Your stomach tightened.
One word. That was all.
It should not have been enough to make warmth flicker beneath your ribs. It should not have made your anger stumble. It should not have made the space between you feel suddenly too small and too charged and too full of everything neither of you had said.
But it did.
You hated him a little for that too.
“You think wanting me is enough?” you asked.
“No.”
He answered too quickly for it to be a lie.
Your fingers loosened around the knife in your pocket. “Then what are you doing here?”
His gaze held yours. “Waiting for you to tell me to leave.”
There it was. The thing you had not expected. Not from him. Not from a man who entered rooms like they belonged to him before he ever crossed the threshold. Not from a man who sent money and men and medicine like the whole world was a board and everyone on it a piece he could move.
Waiting.
Thomas Shelby was waiting.
For you.
The thought should not have softened you. It didn’t, exactly. It did something worse.
It made you want.
You took a breath, but it shook on the way in.
His eyes caught it. Of course they did.
“I should,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You deserve it.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been unbearable.”
Something almost warm moved across his face. “I’ve been told.”
“Not enough, clearly.”
His gaze dropped again. Mouth. Throat. The little space where your coat had shifted open at the collar. Then back up.
“You still carrying that knife?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
That startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
A real one.
Small, but real.
His face changed when he heard it. Not dramatically. Thomas did nothing dramatically unless violence was involved. But something in him eased, as if the sound had reached a place in him that had been locked for a very long time.
You hated that you saw it.
Hated that it made you feel softer than you wanted to be.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you said.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve won something.”
“I haven’t.”
“No?”
“No.”
He stepped closer again.
This time, you let him.
“You’re still angry,” he said.
“I am.”
“Still afraid?”
You thought about lying. It would have been easier. It would have given you the upper hand, or at least the illusion of one. Instead, you looked at him. Really looked. At the sharpness of him. The calm danger. The pale blue eyes and the mouth that rarely gave away anything kind. The man every story in Birmingham had turned into something half human, half shadow.
“I was,” you said.
His face went still. “And now?”
Your heart beat once. Twice.
“Now I’m angry.”
That almost-smile came back. Low. Dangerous. Barely there.
“That I can work with.”
You should have told him to go then. You really should have. Instead, you stepped in close enough that the front of your coat brushed his.
The air between you disappeared.
Thomas did not touch you. He only looked down at you, his breath slow, his eyes not so controlled now. There was want there, finally stripped of strategy. Want with nowhere to hide. Want that had stopped sending parcels and men and money and had come to stand in front of you, quiet and bare and waiting to be refused.
Your fingers caught the lapel of his coat. “You break into my life again,” you said softly, “and I will stab you.”
“I believe you.”
“You should.”
“I do.”
The words settled warmly in your chest before you could defend yourself against them.
Your grip tightened on his coat. He noticed.
His voice lowered. “Y/n.”
It was unfair, the way he said your name. Like it was not just a name at all. Like it had been sitting in his mouth for weeks. Like he had thought it more times than he would ever admit, in offices filled with smoke and betting slips, in cars cutting through Birmingham fog, in rooms where men spoke and he heard none of it.
Your breath caught.
His eyes flickered.
“Tell me to go,” he said.
You should have. You had every reason to.
Instead, you pulled him down by the front of his coat and kissed him.
For half a second, Thomas did not move. Not because he didn’t want it. Because it had surprised him.
That made something hot and victorious flare in your chest.
Then his mouth answered yours.
Slow at first. Controlled. Of course it was controlled. Thomas Shelby kissed like a man still trying to keep one hand on the reins, like desire was another thing he could master if he only held himself still enough. His lips were warm, firmer than you expected, the faint taste of smoke lingering between you. He did not grab. He did not push. He let you set the pace, and somehow that made the kiss feel more dangerous than if he had taken it outright.
Because now you knew he was holding back.
You could feel it in the tension of his shoulders beneath your hands. In the slow breath he dragged in through his nose when your fingers slid higher, brushing the edge of his collar. In the way his hand lifted, hovered near your waist, and stopped.
You broke the kiss just enough to speak against his mouth. “You can touch me, Thomas.”
His eyes opened. Dark. Focused.
“Can I?”
The question was quiet. Rough. It sent heat straight through you because you knew what it cost him to ask. Not much to a decent man, maybe. But to Thomas Shelby, it was surrender in its smallest form.
Your grip softened at his collar. “Yes.”
His hand came to your waist.
Careful at first.
So careful it almost hurt.
His palm was warm through your coat, fingers steady, but you felt the restraint in them. He held you like he was memorizing the fact that he had been allowed. Like permission was a strange thing in his hands and he did not quite know what to do with it yet.
You kissed him again because if you thought about that too long, you might do something foolish. Like forgive him.
This kiss was different. Deeper. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, and your body went willingly before your pride could protest. The damp brick wall was behind you. Thomas was in front of you. The whole street seemed to narrow down to the pressure of his mouth, the scent of smoke and rain in his coat, the controlled hunger in the way he tilted his head and kissed you like he had been starving quietly.
When your back touched the wall, you gasped into his mouth.
He stilled immediately.
Your eyes opened.
His were already on you.
“Alright?” he asked.
There it was again. That unexpected carefulness. That little crack in the dangerous shape of him.
You nodded, but that wasn’t enough for him.
“Say it.”
Your chest rose against his. “I’m alright.”
Only then did he kiss you again.
And God, that did something to you.
Because he was still Thomas. Still smoke and blood and command. Still the man who had frightened you half to death in the dark like an idiot. But now his thumb was brushing once, lightly, against your waist like he could not help himself. Like there was some part of him, buried beneath all that cold machinery, that knew how to be gentle and hated being caught at it.
You pulled back before the kiss could swallow your sense completely.
His forehead nearly touched yours, both of you breathing harder now.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” you said.
“No.”
“You don’t own me.”
His thumb stilled. “I know.”
“Do you?”
A pause.
Then his eyes lifted to yours. “I’m learning.”
The words were so soft you almost didn’t hear them over the rain beginning again, light and steady against the stones.
You stared at him.
For once, he looked like he did not know what you would do next.
Good.
You liked him better that way.
Your fingers moved from his coat to his tie, not pulling yet. Just holding. Feeling the silk beneath your fingertips. His gaze dropped to the movement, and the look that passed through his eyes made your stomach dip.
“You are trouble,” you whispered.
“So I’ve been told.”
“By women smarter than me, probably.”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
You looked up.
His mouth was close enough to yours that each word felt like a touch.
“No?” you asked.
“No.”
There was something terribly serious in his face now. “You’re the smartest one so far.”
You hated the way that landed. Hated the little rush it sent through you. Hated the way your anger curled into something warmer, something softer around the edges. He should not have been able to do that with one sentence. He should not have been able to stand there in the rain and make you feel seen when all he had done for weeks was irritate you into madness.
But he did.
And he knew it.
Not smugly. Not quite. More like he had discovered a new way to touch you without using his hands.
“Thomas,” you warned.
His gaze darkened at the sound of his name. “What?”
“You’re looking at me again.”
“How?”
“Like that.”
This time, he did smile. Barely.
“Can’t help it.”
“You can.”
“I don’t want to.”
Your fingers tightened around his tie. The smile disappeared.
The air shifted again, hotter now despite the cold rain and the damp stone at your back. His hand remained at your waist, but his body had moved closer, close enough that you could feel the line of him through layers of clothing. Close enough that your anger had nowhere to stand without brushing against desire.
“You should go,” you said.
He nodded once. “Yes.”
Neither of you moved.
“You’re not going,” you said.
“No.”
“Why?”
His eyes held yours. “Because you’re still holding my tie.”
You looked down.
You were.
Worse, you had no intention of letting go.
Slowly, deliberately, you pulled him closer by it. Not much. Just enough.
Thomas’s breath changed.
So did yours.
He let you do it. Let you bring him down until his mouth hovered over yours again, until all that careful control of his looked less like power and more like restraint worn thin.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” you whispered.
“No,” he said. “Not with you.”
That was the one that ruined you.
Not the money. Not the flowers. Not the way he looked in the lamplight, all sharp lines and dangerous quiet.
That.
The honesty of it.
The admission sitting rough and low in his voice, like it had been dragged out of him against his will.
Your mouth softened before you could stop it.
He saw.
Of course he saw.
Thomas lifted his free hand slowly, giving you every chance to move away. When you didn’t, his fingers brushed the side of your face, not even fully touching at first. Just the backs of his knuckles skimming your cheek, light enough to be mistaken for rain if your whole body had not gone still beneath it.
“You don’t get to be sweet now,” you said, but it came out weaker than you wanted.
His thumb touched the corner of your mouth.
“I’m not sweet.”
“No,” you agreed, breathless despite yourself. “You’re not.”
His eyes dropped to your lips.
“But you’re trying.”
A beat.
Then, quietly, “Yes.”
Your heart did something stupid. Something dangerous. Something that felt far too much like opening a door.
You kissed him again, harder this time, because you did not want to look at him while he was being honest. It was easier when his mouth was on yours. Easier when his hand slid from your waist to your back, gathering you closer. Easier when he made that low sound in his throat, half restraint and half want, and you felt it through your own chest.
The rain picked up around you.
Neither of you cared.
Your fingers moved beneath his coat, finding the hard line of his waistcoat, the warmth of him under all that expensive fabric. He shivered once. Only once.
But you felt it.
You smiled against his mouth.
Thomas caught it.
“Something funny?”
“You.”
His brow lowered.
“You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
His hand tightened at your back. “No?”
“No.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, just because you wanted to see what he would do.
He went very still.
That pleased you more than it should have.
“Y/n,” he said again, and this time your name sounded like both warning and plea.
You leaned back enough to look at him.
The rain had gathered on the brim of his cap, darkened the shoulders of his coat. A strand of hair had fallen loose against his forehead. His eyes were fixed on you with such intensity that your throat tightened.
Not cold now. Not distant. Not the man who sent others to do what he was too proud to ask for.
Just Thomas.
Wanting.
Waiting.
Trying.
Badly, maybe.
But trying.
Your thumb brushed the knot of his tie. “I’m still angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I might be angry tomorrow.”
“I expect you will be.”
“And the day after.”
“That too.”
“You’ll deserve it.”
“Yes.”
The corner of your mouth lifted. “You’re agreeing too much. It’s unsettling.”
“I can stop.”
“Don’t.”
His eyes warmed in that quiet, almost invisible way again.
Then he leaned in, but did not kiss you. His mouth brushed your cheek instead, close to your ear, his voice low enough to make the world fall away.
“Tell me what you want, then.”
Your breath caught.
He stayed there, not touching you anywhere new, not moving until you answered.
That was the worst part. The best part. The part that made heat gather low in your stomach because he was still giving you the choice, and you were beginning to understand how badly he wanted you to make one.
You turned your face slightly, just enough that your lips brushed his.
“You first.”
His breath left him slowly. Then his hand slid up your back, firm and warm, and he kissed you with the last of his restraint breaking between you.
This time, there was nothing careful about the hunger in it.
Still, he waited for you in the places that mattered. Waited when your fingers trembled at his collar. Waited when you pulled at his tie. Waited when your back pressed harder against the wall and you made a small sound you wished he hadn’t heard.
But he had.
And the way he kissed you after told you he would remember it.
You broke apart only when the cold finally bit through your coat and made you shiver.
Thomas noticed immediately.
“Come inside,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed. “With you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
He nodded toward the building behind you. “Yours.”
“You are not coming into my house after stalking me in an alley.”
“I wasn’t stalking you.”
“You were standing in the dark like a murderer.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Not helping.”
His mouth twitched again.
You hated that you liked it.
Then his expression sobered. “You’re cold.”
“I’ll live.”
“I know.”
The way he said it made your chest tighten. Like he had never doubted that you would. Like your toughness was not something he wanted to tame, but something he had noticed and respected, even when he was being unbearable.
You looked at him for a long moment, then sighed, angry at yourself before you even spoke.
“If you try anything I don’t like, I still have the knife.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
You gave him a look.
He had the sense not to smile.
You turned and walked toward your door, refusing to check whether he followed. You knew he did. You could feel him behind you, close but not crowding, his presence filling the narrow path like smoke.
When you reached your door, your hands were steadier than you felt. You unlocked it, stepped inside, and turned before he could cross the threshold.
Thomas stopped.
Waiting again.
The lamp inside threw warm light across his face, softening nothing and somehow making him more beautiful in the most irritating way. Rain clung to his lashes. His coat was dark with it. His mouth was still slightly swollen from yours.
You swallowed.
“This does not mean you get to keep appearing whenever you like.”
“No.”
“You knock.”
“Yes.”
“And no more men following me.”
His pause was too long.
“Thomas.”
His eyes flicked to yours. “No more men close enough for you to see.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“That is not what I said.”
“No.”
“You are impossible.”
“Yes.”
You should have shut the door.
Instead, you stepped back.
Thomas entered slowly, removing his cap as he did.
The room felt smaller with him in it. Warmer too, though that might have been your own body betraying you. He looked around once, taking in the details without appearing to: the table, the chair, the fire burning low, the flowers he had sent still not inside because they had been left to die out front like a warning.
His gaze returned to you.
“You kept the medicine,” he said.
You closed the door. “I needed the medicine.”
“And the coal.”
“I needed the coal.”
“The flowers?”
“I let them die.”
“I saw.”
“Good.”
His eyes moved over your face, and this time there was no arrogance in it. Only something quieter. “I’ll do better next time.”
Your heart gave another stupid pull.
You turned away from him. “There may not be a next time.”
Behind you, his voice came low. “There will be.”
You looked back.
The confidence should have annoyed you. It did. But there was something else beneath it now. Not ownership. Not command.
Hope, maybe.
Thomas Shelby did not wear hope well. It sat strangely on him, too fragile for a man made of sharp edges.
You walked back toward him slowly.
His eyes followed every step.
“You’re very sure for a man who was nearly threatened with a kitchen knife.”
“You said nearly.”
“I can change my mind.”
“I know.”
Your hand rose before you could think better of it, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. It was a small thing. Too small to mean as much as it did.
Thomas went still beneath your touch. Not frozen. Not uncomfortable. Still in the way a man becomes when something gentle has caught him unprepared.
Your voice softened despite yourself. “You really don’t know how to ask, do you?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “No.”
The answer was barely louder than a breath.
Your fingers lingered near his temple. “What would you have said?”
“If I did?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, with the kind of difficulty most men reserved for confession, he said, “I would’ve asked if I could see you again.”
Your throat tightened. “And if I said no?”
“I would’ve come back anyway.”
You rolled your eyes and stepped away. “Thomas.”
“But I would’ve knocked.”
The laugh escaped before you could stop it.
He smiled then. Not much, but enough.
Enough to make him look younger for half a second. Less like the man Birmingham feared and more like the man he might have been if the war, and the smoke, and the blood had not gotten to him first.
That little glimpse was dangerous.
You moved toward him again, slower this time. “Ask me now.”
His smile faded.
The room went quiet. Rain tapped at the window. The fire shifted in the grate. Somewhere far off, Birmingham carried on being Birmingham, cruel and loud and careless.
But inside, Thomas Shelby looked at you like the whole city had narrowed down to your answer.
“Can I see you again?” he asked.
Your chest warmed.
You tilted your head. “You’re seeing me now.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“You’re presumptuous.”
“Yes.”
“And annoying.”
“Yes.”
“And a terrible gift giver.”
“The coal was useful.”
“That’s not the point.”
His eyes softened again. “Can I see you tomorrow, Y/n?”
There was your name again.
Quiet. Rough. Nearly tender.
You stepped close enough that your skirt brushed his coat.
“Yes,” you said.
Something in him eased. Only a little.
But you felt it.
Then your fingers caught his tie again.
“But right now, Thomas…”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
You pulled him closer.
“I don’t want to talk about tomorrow.”
His hand found your waist, no hesitation this time.
Still waiting.
Still asking, in his own silent way.
Your lips brushed his once, light enough to make him follow.
And when he did, when Thomas Shelby finally kissed you inside the quiet warmth of your little room, with rain on his coat and your hand twisted in his tie, it felt less like surrender and more like choosing the danger with your eyes open.
His mouth moved against yours, slow and deep, and the whole world outside seemed to fall away.
The coal burned low.
The rain kept coming.
And Thomas, for once in his life, did not take.
He waited for you to pull him closer.
So you did.
His mouth was still on yours when your back hit the door.
You hadn’t meant to lead him there. Hadn’t meant to let the kiss deepen until your spine pressed against the wood and his body followed, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at your waist like he needed permission to keep it there.
Thomas kissed like a man who had been thinking about it too long.
Slow, at first. Controlled. His lips moved against yours with that infuriating restraint, as if he could will himself to be patient even now, even with your fingers twisted in his tie and your breath going ragged between kisses.
You pulled back just enough to speak. “You’re still holding back.”
His eyes opened. Blue. Dark. Focused. “Yes.”
“Why?”
The hand at your waist flexed once. “Because I don’t know what you want.”
That caught you off guard. Thomas Shelby, who commanded rooms and men and whole streets of Birmingham with a look, standing in your narrow hallway admitting he did not know something.
Your grip on his tie loosened. “You could ask.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not good at asking.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The almost-smile returned, there and gone. His thumb moved against your waist, a small circle through the fabric of your dress. Even that slight pressure sent warmth spreading beneath your skin.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, “and I’ll do it.”
Your heart kicked. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
The word landed low in your stomach. Not because he meant it as submission, exactly. Thomas was not a man who submitted. But he was a man who had decided, somewhere between the alley and your door, that you were worth the effort of restraint.
You released his tie and let your hand slide up to his jaw. Stubble rough against your palm. His breath slowed. His eyes stayed on yours.
“Kiss me like you mean it,” you said.
Something shifted behind his gaze. “I’ve been meaning it since the night you stitched me up.”
Then his mouth was on yours again, and this time there was nothing careful about it.
The kiss deepened fast. His hand left the door and came to your face, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you harder, deeper, his body pressing you against the wood until there was no space left between you. The cold from outside still clung to his coat, but beneath it he was warm, solid, real in a way the rumors never captured.
Your hands found the front of his coat and pushed.
He let you.
Let the heavy wool slide from his shoulders and hit the floor. Let you work at the buttons of his waistcoat while his mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, trailing heat down the side of your throat. When his lips found the place where your pulse beat hardest, you made a sound you could not swallow back.
He stopped.
“Alright?”
You nearly laughed. Nearly. “Stop asking if I’m alright every time I make a noise.”
“No.”
“Thomas.”
His mouth brushed your collarbone. “I’ll stop asking when I’m sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That you’re not going to change your mind.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. His waistcoat hung open now, shirt beneath it still buttoned, collar slightly askew from your fingers. His hair had fallen loose across his forehead. His mouth was red from kissing you.
He looked wrecked already.
The sight of it made your voice come out rougher than you intended. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
His eyes searched yours. Whatever he found there made his shoulders drop a fraction, some final tension leaving him.
“Good,” he said.
Then he kissed you again, and his hands began to move.
The one in your hair stayed, cradling your skull with surprising gentleness. But the other slid from your waist to your hip, then lower, gathering the fabric of your skirt in slow increments. His knuckles brushed your thigh through your stocking and you inhaled sharply.
He paused.
This time, before he could ask, you said, “Don’t stop.”
His forehead touched yours. “Tell me if you want me to.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
The words were quiet. Almost rough. Not a command. A request.
You looked at him, at the sharp lines of his face and the deeper thing behind his careful control, and understood that Thomas Shelby was not used to wanting things he was afraid of breaking.
“I promise,” you said.
Something in him loosened. Then his hand moved higher, pushing your skirt up past your knee, past your garter, until his fingers met bare skin above your stocking. They were callused, his fingers. Rough from reins and triggers and God knew what else. The contrast of that roughness against the soft inside of your thigh made your breath stutter.
His mouth found yours again as his hand climbed higher.
When his fingers brushed the damp fabric between your legs, you gasped into his mouth.
He went still.
Not frozen. Still in the way a man goes when he is committing something to memory. The feel of you through cotton. The heat of you. The way your hips shifted without your permission, seeking more pressure.
“Christ,” he breathed.
You might have felt embarrassed if his voice had not sounded so undone.
His fingers pressed, just barely, and your head fell back against the door. He watched you. Watched the way your mouth opened. Watched the way your chest rose and fell beneath your dress. His gaze was so intent it felt like another kind of touch.
“You’re wet,” he said.
Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a fact, spoken low and rough, like he needed to say it aloud to believe it.
Your hand tightened on his shoulder. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” His thumb moved in a slow circle and your hips jerked. “Every time you let me touch you, I’m surprised.”
The honesty of it cut through you. You pulled him down by his open collar and kissed him hard, because if he kept talking like that you were going to do something stupid like tell him you had thought about this too. About him. About his hands and his mouth and the way he looked at you like you were a door he had never expected to open.
His fingers found the edge of your underwear and paused.
Not asking with words this time. Just waiting.
You answered by reaching between you and undoing the buttons of his trousers yourself.
His breath caught.
Your fingers brushed the hard length of him through his shorts and he made a sound low in his throat, half groan and half something softer. His forehead dropped to yours. His hips pressed forward into your hand before he could stop them.
“You’re not the only one who’s been thinking about this,” you said.
His eyes closed. “Y/n.”
“Tell me you haven’t.”
A beat of silence. Then, roughly, “I haven’t stopped.”
Your hand tightened around him through the fabric. His breath hissed out.
“Since when?”
“Since you aggressively repaired me.”
The memory surfaced between you. Him, bleeding and pale. You, stitching him up with steady hands while he watched you like you were something he had never encountered before.
“You were half-dead,” you said.
“I noticed you anyway.”
The words were simple. Too simple. They hit you in the chest and spread warmth downward, until the ache between your legs became impossible to ignore.
You pulled your hand free and pushed his down instead, guiding his fingers back to where you needed them. This time he did not pause. He pushed the damp fabric aside and touched you bare, and the sound you made was loud enough that he kissed you to swallow it.
One finger slid inside you.
Then two.
Slow. So slow. His thumb found your clit and circled once, twice, a rhythm that made your thighs tremble and your grip on his shoulders turn desperate. He was watching your face again, cataloging every flicker of pleasure, adjusting the angle of his fingers when your breath caught, pressing deeper when your nails dug into his shirt.
“Like that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Here?”
His fingers curled and you cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. Your hips rolled into his hand. You were past pride now. Past anger. Past everything except the heat building low in your stomach and the man who was watching you fall apart with something like reverence in his eyes.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
His gaze held yours as his fingers moved faster, thumb pressing harder, and the intensity of being watched while he touched you was almost too much. Your mouth opened. No sound came out. The tension wound tighter, sharper, until—
You came with a broken sound, your body clenching around his fingers, your face pressed to his neck. He held you through it. His free arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you upright, while his other hand stayed exactly where it was, drawing out every last pulse until you were shaking against him.
The hallway was quiet except for your breathing.
Then, softly, his mouth against your hair: “Alright?”
You laughed. Weakly. Breathlessly. “If you ask me that one more time—”
“I’ll stop eventually.”
“When?”
“When I’m dead.”
You lifted your head. His expression was serious, but his eyes were warm. Warm in a way you suspected very few people had ever seen.
Your hand found the front of his trousers again. He was still hard. Still straining against the fabric.
“Take these off,” you said.
He obeyed without hesitation.
Trousers. Shorts. Shoes kicked aside. His shirt stayed on, half-unbuttoned, and something about that was worse than if he had been fully bare. The glimpse of his chest beneath the white linen. The way the sleeves clung to his arms. The dishevelment of him, Thomas Shelby undone by you.
You reached for him.
He caught your wrist.
“Wait.”
You stared at him. “For what?”
His jaw worked. “I want— I need to be inside you. But I don’t have anything. For prevention.”
The pause that followed was not reluctance. It was consideration. You saw him weighing it, turning the problem over like a bet he was calculating odds on.
You touched his face. “I have something. In the bedroom.”
His eyes met yours. “You’re sure?”
“I bought it a week ago.”
You arched against him, fingers tightening in his hair. "I don't care about that right now."
His breath hitched. "Fuck."
"Unless you—"
Thomas cut you off with a kiss, hot and desperate, his hands already moving to lift your skirt again. "Tell me you're sure."
Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. "I wouldn't have pulled you inside if I wasn't."
Something dark and possessive flashed in his eyes. Then he was turning you, pressing you back against the door, his mouth on your throat as his hands found your thighs.
"Then stop talking," he growled.
You laughed, breathless, as he hitched your leg over his hip. "Make me."
He did.
Something flickered across his face. Not quite a smile. Not quite surprise. Something closer to wonder.
“You planned for this.”
“I hoped for it,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”
He kissed you then. Not hard. Not urgent. Just his mouth against yours, soft and certain, like gratitude translated into touch.
Then you took his hand and led him to the bedroom.
The fire in here had burned lower, casting long shadows across the bed. You found the small tin in your nightstand drawer and handed it to him. He opened it, coated his fingers, and reached down to stroke himself once, twice. You watched. His eyes stayed on you the whole time.
When he moved toward you, you stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“On the bed,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve been giving orders all week,” you said. “Now you take one.”
For a moment, he looked like he might argue.
Then he lay back against your pillows, still in his half-open shirt, still watching you with those pale eyes that missed nothing.
You climbed over him, your skirt pooling around your hips, and positioned yourself above him. His hands found your thighs immediately. Not guiding. Just holding.
“Ready?” you asked.
His voice was rough. “Yes.”
You sank down onto him slowly.
The stretch of it made you gasp. He filled you completely, inch by inch, until you were seated fully against his hips and both of you were breathing hard. His hands tightened on your thighs. His head pressed back into the pillow. His throat moved as he swallowed.
“Look at me,” you said, throwing his own words back at him.
His eyes opened.
Whatever he saw in your face made his composure crack.
You began to move. Slow at first. A roll of your hips that made him groan, low and rough, his fingers digging into your skin. Then faster, finding a rhythm that made the bed frame creak and your breath come in short, sharp gasps. He met every movement, thrusting up into you with a control that was fraying at the edges. His mouth was open. His eyes never left yours.
“Y/n,” he said, and your name was a plea.
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the change in angle made you both moan. His hand slid from your thigh to where you were joined, his thumb finding your clit again. You were still sensitive from before. The dual sensation of him inside you and his fingers circling that tender spot made your rhythm falter.
“Don’t stop,” he said. “Come for me again. I want to feel it.”
The words tipped you over.
Your orgasm hit harder than the first, wrenching a cry from your throat as your body clenched around him. He followed a moment later, his hips driving up into you once, twice, then holding deep as he spilled inside, your name breaking apart on his lips.
You collapsed against his chest.
For a while, neither of you moved.
You stayed against his chest, listening to the rough, uneven sound of his breathing as the room slowly settled around you. The rain tapped against the window. The fire had burned low. His hand rested on your back, warm and still, like even Thomas Shelby had finally run out of ways to pretend he was unaffected.
Eventually, he reached for his cigarettes on the bedside table.
You lifted your head as he placed one between his lips and struck the lighter. The flame lit his face for half a second, catching on his cheekbones, his tired eyes, the mess you had made of his hair.
He took a drag, then looked down at you.
You took the cigarette from him anyway, letting him watch as you inhaled. Smoke burned warm in your chest before you handed it back.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Thomas glanced at you, quieter now. “Will this happen again?”
You looked at him for a beat, pretending to think it over just to watch his patience thin.
“We’ll see.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “We’ll see?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is. Just not the one you wanted.”
A soft breath left him, almost a laugh. “You enjoy making things difficult.”
“I enjoy making you ask properly.”
He held your gaze, the cigarette resting between his fingers.
Then, lower this time, “Can I come back?”
Your chest warmed despite yourself.
You reached for the cigarette again, took one slow drag, then gave it back. “You can knock.”
“And if you answer?”
You settled back against him, your cheek resting over his heart. “Then we’ll see.”
This time, he did laugh. Quietly. Barely.
His arm came around you after a moment, not pulling too hard, not trapping you there. Just holding you close enough that you could feel him breathe.
Outside, Birmingham stayed dark and wet.
Inside, Thomas Shelby stayed until the cigarette burned low between his fingers, and when he put it out, he didn’t reach for his clothes.
MARRIED TO THOMAS SHELBY is never simple, even when he tries to make it soft. The world doesn’t get quieter just because he loves you—but he does change in the spaces where it matters.
Thomas Shelby isn’t the kind of man who is openly tender in front of others. He doesn’t perform affection. But with you, it slips through in ways people only notice if they’re paying very close attention.
⸻
How he kisses you
He doesn’t kiss you casually.
Most of the time, it’s controlled at first—like he’s holding something back even as he leans in. A hand at your jaw, thumb brushing once like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re real and here.
Then he softens.
When it’s just the two of you, his kisses lose that sharp edge he gives the world. They become slower, heavier with meaning rather than urgency. He’ll pause against your lips like he’s thinking about staying there longer than he planned. Like he forgets, for a second, whatever war is happening outside the room.
Sometimes he kisses you like he’s apologising without words. Other times like he’s trying to memorise you.
And when he’s exhausted—truly worn down—he’ll press one quiet kiss to your forehead instead of your mouth. That’s when it means the most.
⸻
How he is soft for you (in his way)
He doesn’t suddenly become a different man. He just lets you see what’s underneath the armour.
He listens when you talk, even when he’s pretending to read papers or pour a drink. He remembers small things you mention once—things he acts like he didn’t store away, but did.
If you’re cold, he’ll wordlessly drape his coat over your shoulders. If you’re stressed, he won’t ask questions at first—he’ll just sit near you until you start speaking on your own.
And when he does speak gently to you, it’s almost always when no one else is around. His voice drops lower, less sharp, like he’s saving a version of himself that doesn’t exist anywhere else.
He doesn’t say “I miss you” often.
Instead, he’ll just appear in the doorway where you are.
⸻
How he spoils you (Thomas Shelby style)
He doesn’t spoil you in loud, showy ways. It’s controlled. Intentional. Almost like he’s correcting a world that has been unkind to you.
~ If you admire something once—a dress in a window, a piece of fabric, a perfume—it has a way of quietly appearing later without explanation.
~ Your home becomes warmer over time. Better heating. Better food brought in. Better protection around the house, even if you don’t ask for it.
~ He has people “look into things” for you, but never tells you unless it matters. He likes making life easier without making you feel dependent.
And if anyone treats you with disrespect?
You never even have to ask.
It’s already handled.
Not violently in front of you—he’s too controlled for that—but decisively, quietly, like removing a problem from existence.
⸻
In private moments
The real softness is in the stillness.
Late at night, when the weight of his mind won’t let him sleep, he’ll come find you. He doesn’t always talk. Sometimes he just lies beside you fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while your hand eventually finds his.
And he doesn’t pull away.
That’s the thing about Thomas Shelby—he trusts very few things in the world.
But when he’s married to you, one of them becomes your hand in his.
