Summery: A compassionate doctor and a cynical genius fall into a slow, aching orbit of late nights, sharp banter, and unspoken feelings—until House finally admits the one thing he can’t diagnose: love.
Pairings: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Slow-burn romance/ fluff
2. Warm Hands (Version 1):
Summery: On a cold hospital night, House warms Y/N’s freezing hands in his own teasing, unexpectedly tender way.
Pairing: dr.house x f!reader
Genre: romantic comedy/fluff
3. Warm Hands (Version 2):
Summery: On a cold hospital night, House warms Y/N’s freezing hands in his own teasing, unexpectedly tender way.
Pairings: dr.house x f!reader
Genre: romantic comedy/fluff
4. Thin Walls:
Summery: When an insomniac author moves into the apartment next door to House, sleepless nights turn into late-night conversations through the thin wall they share.
Pairings: Gregory house x neighbour!f!reader
Genre: slow burn · neighbors to lovers · insomnia confessions · melancholy warmth · House learns to listen again
5. Don’t Go Yet:
Summery: As Y/N takes her final breaths, House breaks—confessing the love he’s spent years denying. In a quiet hospital room, the man who never believed in miracles finally loses his own.
Pairing: Dr.house x wife!reader
Genre: Angst • Hurt/Comfort • Tragedy • Death
6. “You Stole My Cane”:
Summery: Y/N hides House’s cane to make him rest, and he dramatically limps around accusing everyone until he finds her cuddled up with it.
Pairing: Dr.house x F!reader
Genre: Fluff ^w^
7. Through The Night:
Summery: When their daughter Vivi falls sick, House’s sarcasm fades as he cares for her, sharing tender, heartfelt moments with Y/N through a long, sleepless night.
Pairing: Dr.house x wife!reader
Genre: Fluff,Contemporary, Family, Hurt/comfort
8. Checkmate:
Summery: A game night at House’s apartment spirals into chaos when he wins at chess—but keeps losing at checkers to his girlfriend, who matches his wit move for move.
Pairing: Dr.house x f!reader
Genre: playful romance, fluff,domestic chaos
9. Not A Puzzle:
Summery: House comes home early and finds Y/N quietly self-harming in his bathroom.
Summery: After House’s breakup with Cuddy, you become the woman who comes after—the one trying to love a man still haunted by the space his ex left behind.
Summery: After a patient’s death, House hides behind sarcasm—until the one person who knows him best reminds him he doesn’t have to be clever to be hurting.
Pairing: Dr.house x f!reader
Genre: Hurt/comfort | established relationship | mentions of death
12. “Something That You Don’t See”:
Summery: When House starts noticing the quiet ways Y/N is fading—missed meals, trembling hands, exhaustion he can’t ignore—he’s forced to confront a truth he can’t diagnose away.
Pairing: Dr.house x f!reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort• Angst• Emotional Healing• Slow Burn• Established Relationship
13. The Thing About Dying:
Summery: When a terminal diagnosis brings Y/N face-to-face with the notoriously detached Dr. Gregory House, neither of them expects the connection that follows.
Summery: You show up at Princeton-Plainsboro, everyone gets shocked to see that she was there for House and not many people understand their surprisingly healthy relationship.
Pairing: Dr.house x Model!f!reader
Genre: Romance | Character Study | Soft House | Established Relationship | Unexpected Pairing
15. Dr.House 2.0:
Summery: House takes their toddler to work, causing hilarious chaos while you finally get a day of peace.
synopsis: Jason Todd dives back into the world of underground fighting after a decade off. He expects to find a way out of the hole he's in, he does not expect to fall in love.
Underground Fighter!Jason Todd x M!Reader
word count: 15.3k
a/n: Guess who's finally fuckin back and with new and improved formatting !! Thank you all so much for you patience, I've had major writers block, but more stuff is coming soon, including part two to Something Blue !!! I really hope you guys enjoy this one, Jason Todd is my #1 man, I've needed to write something about him forever, hope yall enjoy <3
warnings: no vigilante au, mechanic!Jason, underground fighter!Jason, violence, injury, addiction (mentioned), death, back-alley medical care, childhood trauma, absent/bad parents, emotional stuntedness, overthinking, soft sex, porn with feelings, making out, dryhumping, body worship, slight size kink, anal fingering, anal sex, prone bone, slight overstimulation, creampie, no use of y/n
if tumblr ain't your jam read here on ao3 <3
Jason worked honest in the daylight. A mechanic with too many bruises on his face, best in Crime Alley, could get your car or bike working quicker and better than anybody else.
The problem was his heart.
Jason Todd had never once had a problem scamming people with money out of more than they owed. They wouldn’t miss it, but he might. But those sorts don’t live in Crime Alley, and its rampant poverty and violence don’t exactly make it a vacation spot.
The only regular customer he had who was making a comfortable living was Bruce Wayne himself, and Jason’s sure he knew he was being overcharged, he’d settled with the idea that good ol’ Bruce must just have a soft spot for strays.
But for the most part Jason’s customers were working people. The single mother whose sedan bled oil and coolant no matter how many times he fixed or replaced the gaskets. The teenage boy desperately trying to fix the busted motorcycle that was all he had left of his dad. The old man who still worked construction even though his bones creaked too loud for that kind of work now and his truck that Jason had brought off its last legs several times in the past four years.
That sort was Jason’s clientele. And that was the sort that Jason and his too big heart couldn’t bear overcharging, hell he couldn’t even stomach charging them properly.
But Gotham is the sort of city that eats people alive, the sort of city that’s taxes make you understand how the rampant poverty in places like Crime Alley happens, the sort of city that’s citizens breathe paycheck to paycheck, the sort of city that swallows people with big hearts right up.
Three months ago as he stared at the piling up paperwork and bills on the workbench of his garage he made a decision.
Old habits die hard after all.
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Jason had been a scrawny kid. Short and boney, with tufts of dark hair sticking up all over his head, never enough food in his belly and never enough innocence for a little boy.
He shot right up when he was 14 and that was the same year he got approached. Maybe they knew he wasn’t even 16 and simply didn’t care, maybe the worn down look that only someone born and raised in Crime Alley can have made him look older, either way he took the gig as soon as they offered him a hot meal and some extra cash to line his pockets.
And he was good. Really good.
He was fast on his feet, learned quick and bulked up just perfectly.
The golden young and not-so-little fighter of the underbelly.
He lost real bad about a year in.
He was bigger then, just 15 and less scrawny than before. But he was still a child, still just a boy. The man told him he could handle the fight.
He couldn’t.
The guy they pit him against wasn’t all that big, some shifty, lanky fellow that didn’t seem quite right in the head. It was supposed to be easy. Jason was fast, he was strong, fist to fist Jason would’ve had him.
Nobody told Jason there were going to be weapons.
If anyone asked him now, he wouldn’t tell them, but he can still hear the roar of that crowd. He can still hear the first sickening crack of the night, his fist into the man’s nose. He still remembers staggering back when the man started cackling. He had this offputting sort of laugh that made the hair on Jason’s arms stand up, made the adrenaline in his veins roar like a wildfire and the rest of the world slow. He shouldn’t have looked at the cheering crowd, he’d glanced to see if anyone was as confused as he was.
That’s when he struck.
The second sickening crack of the night was against Jason’s ribs, not with a fist, with iron. Jason doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that sound, or forget the way pain bloomed in his side, he never heard his own scream, only the excited roar of the crowd drowning him out as he went down.
That’s what he remembers most. The crowd cheering for a 15 year old boy being beat with a crowbar. No one even tried to stop it till the low light caught the glint of a switchblade. Only with that glint did uneasy murmurs go through the crowd. Jason looked up at that man and his repulsive, too-big grin for just a second, and he laughed so hard in Jason’s face that spit went across it. And Jason thought that was it, that was how it was going to end. But the stab never came, just a slow piercing drag over his cheekbone, across, then down with a hook.
A “J,” he’d carved a “J.”
And then the man stood, laughed and bowed. There was silence for a moment, uneasy and tense, and then the crowd exploded, not into screams of horror at the mangled body of a boy in front of them. Cheering. Cheering for a bloody show.
Jason laid on the mat far past when the last people had walked out, far past when the adrenaline had waned, far past when the pain wracking his entire body had set in so deep that it felt like he was suffocating.
He laid there till footsteps made him flinch, and when the shoes came into his line of sight he recognized them as his coach’s, his handler’s, and when he could finally drag his gaze up he saw that bastard counting money, grinning down at him.
He let out a low whistle, “you won good for us tonight, boy.”
“Wha—” and the sound came low and garbled from Jason’s throat.
And then it struck him, the bastard had bet against him.
“Get up now, he didn’t beat you that bad, be a man.”
And Jason wanted to, not cause he’d been told, but to beat this man as bloody as he was.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t move.
The man scoffed and dropped less than half his normal cut on the floor, “you can have the rest when you get your sorry ass up, you’ve got another match in two weeks.”
He doesn’t remember much of anything after that.
He woke up bandaged and strapped to machines. The doctor told him a woman found him after he blacked out, his heart had given out some time later and she’d been the one to give him CPR, T something was her name, he can’t remember any more than that. She’d footed the bill too, her and some other anonymous donor who he was told had a soft spot for strays.
He didn’t meet for that next fight. Even if he had wanted to, he wouldn't have been able to make it. He was locked into that hospital bed for three weeks. When his time was up and by some miracle he recovered well enough, he lied to the doctors and said his mother was outside to pick him up, like every other hospital in Gotham, they were too swamped to check.
Jason walked home and opened the door to a mother so high she couldn’t even ask where he’d been.
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Three months ago, after almost a decade of not fighting, wrote his name down and bet on himself.
Not out of cockiness or foolishness, but because he knew he’d win.
And he did.
Of course he did.
He’d gotten bigger since his heart stopped when he was 15, that cold mat he’d been resuscitated on had been waiting for him all this time, and somewhere, deep in his bones, he’d been waiting to come home to it too.
So when he placed too much money on his own name he knew he’d get it back.
And so did you.
You half thought you were dreaming when you read his name on the line up sheet, over a decade since you’d seen him and your brain could still conjure that dreary boy you remembered from being 15.
You would’ve recognized him, even without that line up sheet, even without that “J” carved under his eye, even after so long. Jason Todd was not the sort of person you forgot. Even now, big and imposing as he’d become compared to the boy you’d known, you would’ve known him.
So you’d bet on him too.
Anyone knew better than to bet on a rookie, you knew better to bet on a rookie, especially one arrogant enough to bet on himself. The trick up your sleeve, of course, was that Jason was never a rookie. Just out of practice, a couple hits and instinct pulled him back.
Just like he knew he would, just like you predicted he would, and just like you’d both bet on, he won.
He found you after the match, patching up the man who got a beating a helluva lot more intense than he’d signed up for, cold cloth pressed against the man’s swollen eye.
“You bet on me,” it’s not a question when he says it, and his gaze drifts over you, you know he’s sizing you up.
You don’t look back at him, keeping your gaze on the man in front of you, removing the compress from his eye and swapping to another for his split lip.
Your voice comes leveled as his, “I did.”
“Why?” Cautious, but curious.
“Lucky bet.”
Jason watches your every move with quiet calculation, the way you set down the compress rag, how you bandaged that poor sap’s knuckles. He knows you bet on more than luck, people who move with the sort of quiet preciseness you do always bet on more than luck.
“Got time to patch me too?”
You stiffen, hesitate for a moment, patting the other man on the arm before sending him off, you nod and Jason moves to sit in front of you.
He’s not banged up as bad as the other guy, some bruises here and there, his chest still rising and falling unevenly and breath still stuttering as he fully comes down from the high of fighting. There was a nasty bruise on his head, the kind that would swell come morning, that’s the one you decided to tackle first, digging in your cooler for a bag of frozen vegetables to wrap in a towel, pressing it to his head as your eyes scan the rest of him.
“So, why’d you bet on me?”
“So you’re not just after a little patching up?”
“Did you really think I was?”
“No.”
“Figured,” there’s a deep rasp to his voice, that cautious edge lingering in his tone. “If you’re smart enough to bet on me, then you’re smart enough to know better than that.”
You hum softly, removing the ice pack from his head, tossing the towel it was wrapped in over your shoulder and the bag of frozen peas back into your cooler, you rummage till you find a water bottle, smacking it against his bare chest till he takes it, “you’re cocky.”
“I’m smart. I’m trying to see if you are too,” for a moment you think you see the twinge of a smile on his face, quickly hidden by the swig he takes of his water, he glances down at your cooler of makeshift ice packs and the duffle bag of bandages and tylenol. “What kind of back-alley operation are you running here?”
“You think they’d let a real, law-abiding nurse hang around?”
“No.”
“Maybe you are as smart as you say,” and that makes him grin, a soft, barely perceptible curl to his lips as you take his hands in yours, examining his knuckles for splits or bruising, both his and your hands are rough, calloused from work and life, but yours move with the gentleness of someone meant for something else.
“You didn’t answer my question,” his eyes are fixed firmly on you then, like he’d finished his investigation and was just waiting for his suspect to crack.
“Too bad you’re all fixed up, time’s up I’m afraid” you dropped his hands, digging back through your duffle, fishing three advil out of their bottle and pressing them into one of his rough hands. “Take these, they’ll help with your muscles, otherwise they’ll hurt like a sonova bitch tomorrow, and keep icing that bruise."
You see him inspect the pills as you pack up, rolling them around in his hand till he figures they’re real, and then he knocks them back with another gulp of water.
He doesn’t follow after you when you leave or ask you to stick around for another round of questioning. The underbelly is built on the back of secrets, and for whatever reason, why you bet on Jason is one of yours.
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“I had to ask around for your name,” it’s not a dig at you, just an observation he makes.
“And why would you go and do a thing like that?” You’re adjusting the bandage over his knuckle, only his second fight back and he’d split them open on his opponents teeth.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t ask.”
His eyes flick from the bandage up to you then, you’re not meeting them, “would you have even given it to me?”
“It’s not exactly a standard unless you’re fighting.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Curious.”
“Nosy, and why? I’m not who’s name might need to be given to an EMT or a coroner. You a cop or something?”
He scoffs as if that notion offends him, because it does, “you still didn’t answer.” He’s stopped looking at you.
“Maybe,” you try to sound more playful.
“Just maybe?” He’s looking back at you now.
“Yeah, just maybe,” and at least you’re both smiling again.
He leaves first that night, tosses your name over his shoulder alongside a thank you. There’s a rumble to his voice, a gentleness in it that doesn’t match his face but matches his eyes.
For a moment you think you see a flicker of recognition, you brush it off quickly.
Jason would not remember you because you weren’t like him growing up.
Jason wouldn’t remember you because people don’t remember the losers.
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Jason Todd is the reason you left fighting.
To say there isn’t at least some level of staging to fighting would be a lie. Maybe not every hit was planned out, but the winners and losers almost always were.
You knew your role. You weren’t brought into things like Jason was, you weren’t taught to fight. You were taught how to take a hit, how to keep standing, how to know when to go down.
You could do all of that and you could do it well, but all of those teachings fail to prepare you for unknown variables.
Scared and hungry kids are always capable of being unknown variables.
You’d been fighting about six months when you fought Jason, you expected to go home banged up, you always went home banged up, that’s what you were paid to do. Nothing like that night had happened before.
You think half of what happened was bad luck, the same kind of bad luck that had you born into Crime Alley, the same kind that had you roped into the underbelly, that had your name be written down for this particular fight.
You don’t think he meant to do it, even back then you didn’t.
The fight had started off plenty normal, you were losing like you were meant to, taking the hits and punches like you were taught, it was standard, it was easy, it was boring.
Too boring for the crowd of blood hungry onlookers waiting for a teen boy to go down twitching and broken. Boring to the point the ref called time and Jason’s coach pulled him aside, yours just nodded at you, the loser didn’t need to change, the winner did. Whatever Jason’s coach told him, he came back hard and fast, lunging at you the second the ref gave the go ahead.
Instinct took over. If you had braced yourself properly, it wouldn’t have ended up that way. If you had run immediately, it wouldn’t have ended up that way. If you had hit the ground before he tackled you, it wouldn’t have ended up that way.
In that moment you and Jason were both unknown variables, two scared and hungry kids.
You’d frozen when he’d come back at you that quick, and started moving way too late. He’d caught you wrong, too rough, and when you tried to slip out of his grasp you had already been falling. You think you were trying to catch yourself, with only one free arm, twisted at the wrong angle, you fell wrong, and with Jason’s force and weight on top of you, you fell hard.
The same way Jason will never forget the sickening crack of his ribs breaking, you’ll never forget the snapping sound of the bone in your arm when Jason tackled you onto the mat.
You screamed and curled in on yourself, your bone nearly jutting out of your skin. If you remember right Jason jumped off you like someone shocked him, or maybe the ref pulled him off, you’re not really sure, all of it was one big haze of tears and agony. You think you might’ve blacked out till a shoe nudged the mangled wreck of your arm.
Your coach didn’t help you up, didn’t call an ambulance; they never do for kids, people ask even more questions when it’s kids. He dropped your wad of cash on the ground and told you to get on home, walk in the dark, don’t go to cops, don’t tell anybody, and if you’re still here by morning, well you knew your body would’ve been drifting in the water under Gotham bridge come sun up.
It takes you two agonizing hours, but you do it. You drag yourself up with the arm that still works, your body fading in and out of numbness and pain so great you have to stop moving altogether. But you do it, you get up, sniffling and crying, cradling the wreck that was left of your arm the whole way home.
That’s how you met Talia. She found you somewhere on your walk home, wobbling too much, with a face puffy and streaked with tears.
She stopped in front of you, she didn’t look like she was from here; she was too beautiful for it, not the tragic sort of beauty Gotham raised, hers was poised rather than rugged. She didn’t smell like you, like dirt under nails and the iron of blood. She smelled like jasmine and vanilla, she smelled like money.
“Hospital then?” And your body was too close to shutting down for you to argue.
She didn’t ask ask you questions, you didn’t ask her any, when you tried to put a wad of dirty cash in her hand she tucked your good arm away, flashing her card, there was a sleekness to it that made you sure there was more money attached to it than you’d see in your whole life.
There was something ugly that twisted in your gut then. Envy. What would it have been like to live a life where fighting had never even crossed your mind? Where you were the swipe of a card away from anything you could ever want or need?
What would it be like to live that sort of life? That was your last thought before the anesthesia took you under.
You woke with a new scar hidden beneath a cast and Talia waiting for you in a bedside chair. She checked up on you till they discharged you, the last day she came she tucked a phone number against your chest and said: “no more fighting, yeah?”
And you agreed, no more fighting.
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After a short while, you stopped being the only one who bet on Jason.
But you’re still the only one he’s interested in when it comes to why.
So after the match he finds you again, walking in on his opponent screaming as you set his nose.
“With the way he hit you, you’re lucky it didn’t shatter.”
“Gee thanks.”
“It’s set, but you should probably see an actual doctor so it heals properly."
“And what am I supposed to tell them, huh? I got my ass beat in a very illegal, underground fighting ring?! Are you insane—”
The tone in the man’s voice made Jason stiffen, start forward like he might need to intervene, but you didn’t even flinch, just sighed and responded: “we live in Gotham just say you got jumped or something—”
The man stood on wobbly feet, you looked up at him, almost bored, like you’d seen this all before, “and with what fucking money am I gonna pay for a doctor’s visit, I just lost I wasn’t supposed to lose—”
“Go.” And Jason’s stepped in, stuck himself between the two of you, slapping a wad of cash that had to be a good chunk of his winnings from tonight against the man’s chest, and the man takes one look at Jason’s and the money and does just as he says, he goes.
“Wow, my knight in shining armor,” and Jason could hear the feigned adoration in your voice as you pretended to swoon.
“Some people would be grateful,” Jason huffed as he plopped down in front of you, he didn’t even ask and you’re already wrapping frozen vegetables to use as a compress for him. “He looked like he was about to hit you.”
“He wouldn’t have,” and you said it so matter-of-factly that Jason’s dumbfounded. “People don’t hit the nurse, or if they’re smart they don’t.”
“He didn’t seem very smart—”
You were pressing the compress against his eye then, “aww, worried about lil’ ol’ me?” You bat your eyelashes and let your mouth curl into a teasing grin, when he looked visibly annoyed instead of amused you sigh and let yourself fall into a more serious explanation. “You beat him pretty bad, he probably just wanted to seem tough after the ego bruise. Even if he did, good chunk of people would’ve beat his ass if he touched me, people really don’t like it if you scare off the nurse.”
He was quiet for a moment, “would it have? Scared you off, I mean.”
“Nah,” and the grin returned to your face, “I’ve seen much scarier than him.”
“Have you?”
And that makes you snort, “this is Crime Alley, if he’s the worst you’ve seen, you musta just got here or been living under several rocks.”
That at least makes him smile.
“No laugh? You’re a tough crowd, you know that?”
“Be funnier.”
“Ouch,” but you were both smiling, “probably shouldn’t insult the guy who patches you up, might scare him off.”
“Would it?”
And you looked up at him then, really looked into those eyes, they’re different than you thought, bluer, deeper, kinder, “no.”
“Good,” he pauses a little too long after that, in a way that makes your heart beat just a little faster. It’s him who breaks eye contact, “I wouldn’t wanna get jumped for scaring off the nurse.”
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Bills stop burying Jason after a few months, his head is starting to creep above water slowly but surely. He can afford to keep his prices low for his people. But even as his body aches and his knuckles keep a dull thrum of pain beneath them, he keeps going back.
He tells himself he missed the adrenaline rush, heat thrumming through his veins, the feeling of winning, but he knows that’s not all.
He treasures those moments with you, close, grounded and steady, he treasures them more than he probably should.
“Earth to Jason,” you’re snapping in front of his face. “I know you didn’t get hit that hard.”
“I can hear you.”
“Sure as hell weren’t acting like it,” he’s rolling his eyes as you talk, he always is, but he never means it, not really.
“You need stitches,” you tap next to a wound on his arm. The bastard fighting him didn’t take his ring off, sliced his arm clean open when he hit him. “You can get ‘em from me or the hospital, up to you.”
“You.”
“I can’t numb you like a hospital—”
“I trust you.” He says it fast, too fast, and that little rasp at the edge of his words, tired and hoarse, makes you know he means it.
He knows he shouldn’t even trust you. He doesn’t know you, not really. He knows the underbelly’s version of you, god maybe that is the real you. Maybe the underbelly version of him is the real him.
"Little ol’ me,” you accompany the teasing lilt to your words with the dramatic bat of your eyelashes, but don’t linger on the moment too long when red creeps up his ears like he’s actually embarrassed.
Jason watches how you move, that same slow and methodical pace he’s grown used to. He thinks that’s why he trusts you, why a man who’s barely trusted anyone since 15, who still gets nervous at hospitals, trusts you. He watches as you get a clean rag and pour rubbing alcohol against it, so gentle as you clean the wound, how you stop every time his body tenses even a fraction, you're watching that closely and carefully. When it’s clean he watches as you disinfect the needle, once, twice, three times, “just to be sure,” you’d told him. And when you thread the floss and he jokes about it being unprofessional you tell him he made his choice. It’s easy with you, it’s safe with you, in this dimly lit back room of the arena, there’s no harsh fluorescents bringing him back to that night, there’s just you, only you.
“Fuck, you’re okay, you got it, Jason,” he thinks that when he first feels it, that telltale squeeze in his heart as your words wash over him. The needle’s in and he’s slumped his head against one of your shoulders.
You give him a second, you always give people a second when they’re like this, “Jason, I’m sorry, I know that shit hurts, but you have to lean back for me so I can finish, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he tries to make it sound casual, he tries to make it sound easy, but it comes out as a grunt all the same.
You’re trying to be gentler, he can tell by your movements. They’re so practiced, so careful, “talk to me, distract yourself.”
He drags his eyes away from the ceiling back to you. All he can think about for a moment is the threading pain in his arm and the dull ache of muscle strain the rest of him feels, “I feel like I need to soak in a hot bath for months.”
“Well a cold bath might be better, it’ll numb the pain receptors,” when he meets that with a grumble, you meet him with a laugh. “Not a cold bath guy, got it.”
His eyes drag over you again, studying the movement of your hands, his gaze crawls up your arms, lingering on that surgery scar.
“How’d you get that?”
“Distracting yourself from an injury by talking about another injury, really?”
“Shut up,” he huffs. “Just tell me.”
“I fell.”
“That’s it?”
“I fell badly.”
“Secretive, much?”
Your words come out with a laugh, “you do realize where we are, right? This is like the land of secrets.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” stubborn, earnest, full of heart Jason. “Not with you anyway.”
“I’m done,” you cut the remaining floss with a pair of scissors. “Distraction work?”
He’s not stupid enough to miss how you’re changing the subject, but he doesn’t comment on it beyond letting out a sigh all the same, “yeah, it worked.”
“Should heal in about one to two weeks.”
“Got it,” he’s moving quick as he packs up his stuff, he’s not angry, maybe he’s frustrated, maybe he’s embarrassed, but he’s not angry.
“Jason,” you call after him on his way out, and he turns around, blue eyes big and hopeful.
What are you supposed to tell him? That you got that scar when he broke your arm so bad that you had to be hospitalized? That he’s the reason you don’t fight? That he’s the reason you stitch people up?
“Don’t fight till the stitches are healed.”
You can’t tell him any of that.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he’s not a good enough actor to hide the disappointment in his voice.
“Good,” and he’s gone.
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In fairness, Jason doesn’t fight till the stitches are healed.
He doesn’t fight for two months.
He tells himself it’s because he has enough money laying around for now, which is true, he does.
But more than that he’s avoiding the hell out of you.
It’s not about the scar, not really. It’s about this insatiable desire he has to be close to you, and his need to lick his wounds when he figures you probably don’t want the same. It’s petty, childish even, but that mat stunted him at 15. How’re you supposed to deal with the emotions of a grown man if you died as a teenage boy?
Under the hood of people’s cars, hands stuffed between the gore of metal parts and wires, he wonders if he really did die on that mat, if this is some purgatory or limbo. He knows it’s not, he knows this is real life, but it being real doesn’t make it any easier to figure out.
It’s his landlord that sends him back to you in the end.
His landlord is shitty, most are. Says maintenance needs to be done on the whole place’s heating, which means he needs to find another place to sleep, and since his shop is right below, he needs to close up for a week.
He goes back to the underbelly and signs up for a fight that night because he needs to blow off some steam. If he can’t knock his landlord’s lights out, he can knock the lights out of some guy who has no idea what he’s signing up for.
He comes in too angry, too hot, too emotional.
For the first time since he’s been back, Jason loses.
“So… were you throwing the fight out there, or did two months off do you that poorly?” You’re wrapping his knuckles after, pressing cold compresses to them, he was hitting way too hard, way too fast, his hands were already bruised and swelling. When he doesn’t respond you continue, “got it, okay, so then what’s got you so pissed?”
“Landlord,” it comes out as a grunt.
“It’s Crime Alley, what else is new?” The joke doesn’t land, he doesn’t even smile. “Tough crowd,” still nothing, you sigh. “You know, I missed my favorite fighter these last couple months.”
Jason’s not above taking that bait, he lets his eyes fall back onto you.
“So, where’ve you been?”
“Working.”
You’ve switched from icing his hands to icing his left cheek, a bag of frozen corn pressed against it, you don’t miss how he winces, “what’s your real job?
“So you can ask questions and I can’t?” His words come out harsher than he means them, it’s a low blow, a petty one, especially in response to trying to distract him from pain, but he’s still too pissed off to care.
“I’m not actually a nurse,” he knows that, but you continue. Your voice is as careful as your movements, he can tell you’re deescalating the situation, he can’t tell if that pisses him off more. “I’m a waiter, that diner off 8th and Amett? I work there.”
He decides your deescalating doesn’t piss him off more, “do you like it?”
Your words come with a chuckle, “like is a strong word, but god, I’ve been there since I was what, 16? And my regulars are nice enough and the tips aren’t bad, can’t complain too much.”
He nods, accepting the olive branch you’ve given him, “I’m a mechanic.”
“Don’t those make good money? Man, what’re you doing here?”
“Can’t charge much in a place like this.”
“You could.”
“I don’t,” and he doesn’t miss how you smile like that pleases you.
“Well, I guess if I ever get myself a car, I know who to take it to if it breaks down.”
He hums softly at that, leans into your touch a little more as you hold the icy bag against his cheek, just like before. The air settles, the simplicity and ease of before returning.
“So, what’d your landlord do that’s got you all riled up?”
“Kick me out,” and he watches how your eyebrows shoot up and he shakes his head, “I didn’t get evicted, nothing like that, fucker decided to repair the heating finally, but is throwing everybody out to do it, so I have to slum it in a motel for a week. Not the worst, just annoying.”
“Could you sleep at your shop?”
“No, I live right above it, so it’s closed too.”
“You could sleep at mine,” it’s your turn to say something a little too quick.
“Why?” His eyes fix on you, intrigued, but skeptical.
You’re removing the ice pack from his face, looking back down at his bruising knuckles, “I can keep an eye on your hands that way, and it’s, well, it’s the right thing to do.”
“I’m basically a stranger.”
“Not true, I know your name and what you do for work, how much closer can people get than that?”
“That’s what people say before they get murdered."
“Well, are you going to murder me?”
“No.”
“Well that settles that problem.”
“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard, I could be lying.”
“Well are you lying?”
“No.”
“Well then we’re good.”
He sighs like he’s exasperated, because he is, but he’s trying, and failing, to fight off an amused grin.
“Come on, I promise my couch is better than Motel 6 mystery stains.”
“You’re really not worried about me murdering you? You literally watch me come and beat other guys’ asses for a living.”
“I also know you work as a mechanic for a living.”
“You just found that out.”
“Okay? And you know I really wasn’t worried about you murdering me, but if you keep bringing it up I might start—”
“I’m not going to murder you!”
“Then quit bringing it up!”
He huffs a little and thinks for a moment.
“For the record, I’m not going to murder you either.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Awww, you have so much faith in me,” your shit-eating grin makes him grumble as he turns away to reach for his duffle bag.
“Are you sure? I mean, I didn’t think, we’re not—”
“I want you there, Jason.”
And that’s just enough to shut him up.
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Jason wakes with a start the next day.
“Sorry, some of us don’t have the week off,” you’re hopping around on one foot, tugging on another shoe. Your uniform startles him, the white short sleeved button up with the diner’s logo stitched to the breast pocket, black slacks and apron tied around your waist are nothing like the sweatshirt and jeans he’s used to.
“What the—”
He watches you quickly tug on a coat that’s a size too big, “it’s only six, you can sleep more, food’s in the fridge and cabinets if you get hungry, spare keys under the mat if you go out. Oh, and ice your knuckles today—” and just like that the door clicks shut behind you and he is completely alone in your apartment.
“I didn’t choose to have the week off,” he grumbles as if you can still hear him.
Jason hadn’t really taken in your apartment last night. He’d been bone tired by the time the two of you arrived, adrenaline having worked its way out of his system, so he did what he does everytime he goes back to his own place after fighting, pass out almost immediately. He has enough dignity to be a little embarrassed he passed out nearly right after arriving at your home. He tosses the blanket you evidently threw over him off and stretches.
Your apartment is small, but lived in. There’s a couple library books tossed on your coffee table and one you own, something about first aid that’s clearly many years old, dog eared pages and sticky note tabs poking out of the well worn paperback cover. There are pictures scattered around, what looks like you and friends, you look younger in most of them, but some look like they could’ve been taken a week ago. Your kitchen is tidy, but not spotless. There’s some dishes drying in a dish rack and a hand towel lazily tossed onto the counter, a box of cereal stacked on top of the microwave and a pot seemingly from yesterday still soaking in the sink. When he checks the freezer he can’t help but laugh, the label “FOR EATING” or “ICE PACK” is clearly scrawled in sharpie across all of the vegetable bags in your freezer. There’s a Gotham University magnet on your fridge holding up your electricity bill that’s due in a few days, but he doesn’t find any evidence that you ever attended the school at all. He doesn’t open the door to your bedroom, or snoop through much else other than your leftovers, popping some, what he’s guessing is, potato soup from the day before in the microwave.
He cleans up after himself, washes your pot too, fills your ice trays after he gets himself a couple of cubes. He tries to be as respectful as possible, disturbing your space so little that a week from now you won’t be able to tell he was ever there.
He ducks out around noon, locks the door behind him with your spare and takes a walk around the block. There’s some kids playing outside on the sidewalk who eye him nervously as he walks by, clearly intimidated by the large stranger with a scarred and bruised face, and red and purple knuckles. He sees what he assumes is their mother peering down from her fire escape, her hair as red as the brick behind her, he gives an awkward smile and polite wave before walking away. He walks across the street to a corner store, buys you a new half gallon of milk and a cartoon of eggs, since he poked around in your fridge enough to know both were getting low. He buys a water bottle and sandwich for the woman standing by the bus stop with a cardboard sign that says “anything helps,” she tells him he has a kind face, and it’s the first time he’s heard it since he got that scar at 15.
He spends the rest of his day quietly, bored, watching some mid afternoon soap opera that he gets only a little invested in on your old tv as he ices his knuckles and waits for you to get home.
He hears the door unlock around 5:30 that evening, the winter sun already starting to drift down for the night, “oh, good, you’re still here,” and he hears the thud of you kicking off your shoes in the entryway.
“Long shift?” He calls from his place on the couch, eyes still glued to the tv. The woman on the soap is finally confronting her husband for cheating.
“Nah, pretty standard one,” he hears the soft padding of your feet as you start to make your way over, leaning over the back of the couch. “There’s no way you’re watching this shit.”
“It was the only thing on.”
“Uh huh, sure buddy.”
“Fuck off,” and there’s that shit eating grin he’s grown so fond of curling onto your lips.
“Rude thing to say to the guy that brought you dinner.” He looks over his shoulder as you hold up a bag of takeout from your job triumphantly, “got you a burger, you like burgers right?”
“I like burgers.”
“Great,” you round the couch and set the bag down on your coffee table, “there’s a box in there for you and a box in there for me, oh and the top box has a slice of apple pie, but don’t eat the whole thing cause I want some too.”
And then you're off again, padding back to your bedroom and returning with a change of clothes before ducking into the bathroom. He hears the shower come on with the soft fall of water and some music he can’t make out over the noise of the shower and tv. You’re in there awhile, long enough for the episode he’s watching to finish and another one to start.
He tears into the burger you brought him while he waits. It's far from the best thing he’s ever had, but it’s greasy and flavorful, and it would definitely cure a hangover if he had one, so it’s good enough in his book.
When you do come out you’re still a little damp from the shower, and your skin is flushed from the heat of it. The steamy air from the bathroom quickly floods the rest of the apartment. You grab your own takeout and microwave it before plopping down on the couch, groaning as you sink into the cushion.
“Okay, so what’s happening?”
“Hm?” He turns to you with a mouthful of burger.
“If we're gonna watch this, I need to know what’s going on,” you smile at him before taking your own bite.
Jason swallows before launching into the story of this soap opera, which is not entirely complete because they were on episode 10 something when he started watching. He tells you about the main character, a woman who’s trying to do it all, balance a career and a family life. In the first episode Jason watched her husband started an affair with another woman, some episodes after that the woman realizes the man is married, she then spent a couple episodes agonizing over telling the main character, which she finally decided to do, the main character then spent an episode agonizing over how to confront her husband, which she just did an episode ago, but in the current episode it was just revealed that both the main character and the affair partner were pregnant.
“That’s so stupid.”
“I know,” Jason pauses for a moment. “We’re gonna keep watching though, right?”
“Absoluetly.”
You make it till ten o’clock and through several more episodes before your head gets hazy, sleep starting to gnaw at your mind. You think you and Jason had forgotten all about the show after three episodes. Your conversation turning away from making fun of it and towards each other. He looks warmer here, in the yellow of your lamp light rather than the sharp white light of an underground locker room.
“What?” He says suddenly and you realize you’ve been staring.
“Sorry, I think I’m falling asleep on you,” and your soft laugh fades into a yawn, “I should go to bed.”
“Yeah,” and as you look over your shoulder on your walk to your bedroom, you find him still looking at you.
It doesn’t take long for sleep to pull you under after you crawl amongst your blankets and sheets, but the last thing you imagine before you fall into the world of dreams is Jason’s face, warm with an easy smile and the soft lighting of your home.
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Leaving for work the next day, you wake Jason again, snickering out apologies as you tug your coat on.
It’s quiet most of your morning, till the Church crowd gets out at least. From 9:30 till 2 you’re weaving through tables of bustling conversation and balancing a tray on each arm. Some are families you recognize that have been a staple every Sunday since you were 16, some are faces you’ve never seen before and likely will never see again.
Paul, a now relatively quiet old man who used up all his voice when he used to talk on the radio, comes in every Sunday at 9:15 on the dot, and has for the past 30 years, asks the same question he has every Sunday since you hit the one year mark of working there.
“Afternoon. Now, when am I gonna stop seeing you?”
And just like every Sunday since the question stopped flustering you, you laugh and tell him, “I don’t know Paul, but if I’m not here who’s gonna get you your coffee just how you like?”
Mary Alice, a grandma to god knows how many, with a friendly smile and lips that could talk your ear right off, comes in every Sunday with her ever-growing family sometime between 10 and 11 after her church gets out, the time depending on how long she chats up the pastor. And just like every Sunday since you started she asks if you’d like to go out with one of her granddaughters or great nieces or any young lady in her family that she thinks might tickle your fancy.
Just like every Sunday before you laugh and tell her, “I’m not looking for anything right now.”
And after nearly ten years of the same response, she shakes her head and exasperatedly asks, “still?”
You laugh and pat her arm, “I’ll get you your sweet tea.”
At 12:30 a couple you’ve never seen before gets sat in your section. They order quietly, but laugh louder with each other. You don’t catch their names and they don’t catch yours, but they tip well and smile on their way out, and that’s enough.
You spend your day like that, popping in and out of people’s lives, some whose paths you’ll cross again and some who won’t remember you an hour from now. You think it used to bother you, the briefness of it all, but there’s a comfort in it now, sharing a meal with friends, acquaintances and strangers alike.
You don’t expect it, but when you get home Jason’s cooking dinner. Nothing fancy, some spaghetti with ingredients you recognize from the corner store across the street.
“You didn’t have to cook,” you say as you shuck your coat off onto a hook in the entryway.
“You’re letting me crash your place, least I can do is make you dinner.”
“I told you I wanted you here.”
“Okay, well I wanna cook.”
That settles it.
The food is good, filling and warm. It’s no Michelin star, but you doubt you’ll ever have the money to know what one tastes like. Maybe it’s no French Landry, but Jason’s corner store spaghetti is just as good in your book.
During a lull Jason asks, “did you go to Gotham University?”
The question catches you off guard, making you nearly choke on the food in your mouth.
“Sorry, just wondering cause of the magnet on your fridge,” you can hear the uneasiness in his tone, like he’s worried the conversation piece will lose him his spot on your couch.
“No, no, it’s fine Jason, I—” for a moment the words get lodged in your throat, “I wanted to, just never did.”
He doesn’t ask why, just nods because he already knows.
“You know it’s funny, they uh,” you push the remaining noodles around on your plate, eyes fixed on them. “They sent an ambassador to my high school when I was a senior. They handed out magnets and this dream that we could go there. I mean it just, it sucks looking back, they knew where they were, knew most of the kids there couldn’t afford a school like that and they still came with this dreamy look in their eyes and promised scholarships and help out of this dump. My grades were good, but not perfect, so there was no harrowing ‘impoverished genius’ story for them. Fuck, I knew it was too good to be true, but I took the magnet anyway.”
“And you still have it,” he doesn’t say it as a call out, just an observation.
“I guess there’s a part of me that’s still dreaming.”
He hums, low in the back of his throat and nods.
“Did you ever want to go to college?”
“I’d have to get my GED first.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” he pauses, looking at you like there’s a debate in his mind before he continues. “I got hurt really bad when I was 15, dropped out after.”
Your breath hitches, remembering his crumpled body on that mat, still, too still.
You know he hears it, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry.”
“S’fine,” he tries to shrug off the weight of the conversation, but you see it still sitting on his shoulders. “Guess we’ve both got our share of shit and scars.”
You laugh then, bittersweet and low, your eyes fixed on the scar on his cheek, his on the one on your arm, “guess we do.”
It’s harder to fall asleep that night, your mind too restless, deciding if you shared a meal with a friend, acquaintance or stranger. Maybe Jason is something else entirely.
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Conversation is lighter the next night. You come home to shower and find that Jason cleaned your apartment. He didn’t move anything from its spot, just wiped things down and tidied a bit.
“You don’t have to clean, you’re a guest.”
“I’m a freeloader,” he says, popping leftovers in the microwave.
“Better than a murderer.”
“Not this shit again—”
“Remmeber who started it.”
And he grumbles and reaches for the drawer where he knows the forks are, and something about that makes your chest tighten.
Like everyone, conversation finds you over a meal. So, over leftover spaghetti on chipped plates, Jason asks you, “if you did go to college, what would you have studied?”
You're almost surprised at how easily you answer him, “nursing, I think.”
“Guess I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”
“Nope, sorry, not many surprises here,” even as you grin at him, you see his eyes drift back down to that scar on your arm, waiting for the shoe to drop. “What would you have studied?”
His eyes flick back up to you, “hm?”
“Say you finished high school and went off to college, what would you have studied?”
“That’s easy,” he grins, “English.”
“No way,” and you feel the corners of your lips curl up, “you’re a mechanic, you wouldn’t study, I don’t know, engineering?”
“Not everyone is as predictable as you.”
“I didn’t even know you liked to read!”
He’s laughing then, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest, “what the fuck do you think I do all day here?”
“I don’t know! Cook? Clean? Watch your soaps?”
“Fuck off, you’re making me sound like I’m your housewife.”
“You’d like that,” he rolls his eyes at your words. “What were you even reading?”
“Your library books,” you think back to the two you have scattered on your coffee table.
“Oh god those are overdue.”
“Did you read them?”
“No.”
He laughs even harder, it’s not even that funny, it’s just you, “at least someone read them—”
“Oh fuck off—” it’s so easy you don’t even remember when you started laughing too. “Okay, English major, imagine this alternate life of yours, how would we have met?”
“You think we still would’ve met?”
“Of course,” and strangely, Jason thinks so too.
“Well,” he takes a second to think, enough time for you to gather your plates to wash. “You would’ve been my annoying roommate.”
Your head whips around from the sink, “annoying?!”
He’s grinning as he nods, “yeah, annoying.”
“How would I be annoying?”
“I’d always be in interesting classes, like, I don’t know, Capitalism in Victorian Literature or Topics in Jane Austen, and you’d be crying over your fourth chemistry class in a semester.”
“I would not be in four chemistry classes in a semester—”
“You never know—”
“Okay, well I think you’d be my annoying roommate.”
He feigns being aghast at your words as he dries your plates to put away, “how would I be annoying?”
“You’d be so pretentious, always going on about some book from 300 years ago that no one had even heard of back then.”
“So I’d be annoying cause I’d be educated? Wow.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“It sounds like we’d make terrible roommates,” he grins back at you as puts your plates away.
You turn the kitchen light off behind him, “sounds like it.” And neither one of you believes it for a second.
He flops down on the couch, comfortable, like he’d been there forever, “you’d spend February whining cause you wouldn’t know how to do your taxes.”
“Well you’d leave your dirty laundry everywhere.”
“I would not, I’m very tidy, you’ve seen that—”
You laugh as you stop leaning over the couch, shoving his legs away so you can sit down. “You never know what happens when people get comfortable.”
He plops his feet in your lap, “I’m very comfortable here.”
When you chuckle, you can almost picture it for a moment, this other life. Little 18 year old you and Jason complaining about professors and homework loads instead of landlords and the cost of living. You can see him hunched over his desk writing his final essay as you pour over a textbook at yours. You can see how all that stress fades into easy bickering and loud laughs that get noise complaints sent to your RA. When you look back at Jason, he’s propped himself up on his elbows to look at you, and you can tell he’s picturing it too.
“For the record,” Jason clears his throat. “In another life, I really would’ve liked arguing over laundry and taxes with you.”
It’s silent for a moment, too real, too vulnerable. When you open your mouth all that comes out is:
“Shit, I should get to bed.”
He doesn’t even get the chance to respond before you’ve padded off to your room. You can feel his eyes on your back even if he doesn’t call out after you, but all of that is almost too much for the beating of your heart to handle. Even the cold of your sheets can’t cool your warm body because over and over again you hear his voice in your head.
“In another life, I really would’ve liked arguing over laundry and taxes with you.”
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Jason’s up when you leave for work, the air feels heavier, just a little tense, just a little quiet.
You say goodbye and so does he.
You think about him all day.
When you pour coffee in the morning. When you balance plates on your arms. When a child spills sickly-sweet, sticky syrup on your shoes. When you carry stacked dishes to the back, when you count your tips for the day before clocking out. All of your thoughts fall back on him, what he said, what he meant.
You aren’t an idiot. You feel it, the soft thrum of something between the two of you. The deepness of his gaze when you press ice to his knuckles, something soft and hard flickering in his irises all at once.
You aren’t an idiot. You know you’re looking back at him the same way. Perhaps you always had. Perhaps even on that mat, aching screams ringing out of your throat as your arm crumpled, perhaps even then, there was a moment in that painful haze when you looked up at him and thought he was an angel, scary, monstrous and beautiful all at once.
But you aren’t an idiot. You couldn’t tell Jason Todd, the man with too big a heart to charge people a normal rate, the man who turned to putting himself on the line instead, that he had been the reason for that scar. You don’t think you could bear it, how his face would crumble, how his voice would creak and ache quietly when he apologized; because what if that look never left his eyes? What if everytime he looked at you all he saw was the scar? What if everytime his eyes met yours he was back there, in the roar of the crowd, too small and too young to change a thing? Or what if he didn’t remember it happening at all, and you became another faceless ghost of his past, the kind that keeps him up at night, adding to that pile of skeletons in his closet, keeping him there on that mat, there in that limbo? And you know it keeps him up at night, you can hear him up too late from just a wall away.
Your neighbor, Callie you think her name is, snaps you out of your thoughts, calling after you as you walk up, cigarette dangling loosely from her fingertips as she watches her sons play.
“Hey, that big friend of yours that’s been staying over, I think he left.”
Your stomach drops, “what?”
“Yeah he ducked out a couple hours ago, I mean, the boys said he left the past couple days, but he’s usually back by now.”
When you step inside, you’re almost embarrassed by how numb you feel, putting water on the stove to make dinner for one. Then the door clicks, and you turn to see Jason standing in your living room, a couple of books under his arm.
Your words fall out in a rush, “you came back?”
His head tilts to the side, confused, like him coming back is the most obvious thing in the world, “yeah?”
“Sorry, I thought you,” and your quiet words trail into nothing as you stare at him, like he’s breathing some sort of life back into your space.
“I returned your library books, got caught up picking out others. Sorry, I was gone longer than I thought.”
“You don’t have to explain, you’re not— I mean— I’m not your keeper—”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be, I’m being, I don’t know. Thanks for returning my books.”
He sets the books he picked out down on the coffee table and moves into the kitchen, and there he is, looking at you, eyes filled with something you don’t dare even think.
“Yeah, it’s no problem.”
You don’t say much else after that, neither of you do, words caught in both of your throats as you force yourselves to swallow food.
There’s some quiet rhythm after dinner, you wash the dishes and he dries and puts them away. You take him into the living room, pressing ice to his knuckles, checking on the healing bruises.
“They’re coming along, but it still might be a week or two.”
“That’s okay.”
Even the couch falls quiet between you, the voices on tv feel like noise as you both stare while the night creeps on.
It’s late when you speak again.
“I would’ve liked it too.”
You don’t have to clarify you mean that other life, those late nights, those silly arguments. He knows.
He looks back at you and gives you a smile, soft and small, but it’s still there.
You think about telling him all of it for a second, but you let the words still in your mind. You won’t break it, this fragile settlement between you, you can’t do it, not yet.
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You wake later in the morning than you’re used to, the sun peeking through the curtains. Your back is stiff, you fell asleep there on the couch, body molded against Jason’s side.
“Shit sorry,” you pull away from Jason’s side, stretching a little, trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes.
“It’s fine, just didn’t wanna wake you,” his hair is still tousled and his eyes are still heavy from sleep, he must not have woken up long before you. "You work today?”
You shake your head, still rubbing your eyes, “no, I always have Wednesday off.”
Jason stands, stretching a little, hints of his toned torso peeking out at you, “well then, what should we do today?”
“Errands,” you groan. “I need to do them today, you don’t have to come.”
But he tags along, of course he does.
He sits and scrolls on his phone in the laundromat while you both wait, he glances up occasionally, looks at where you’re sitting on top of the washer, and just looks.
“What?” You ask him a few times.
And he always just glances back down to his phone and says, “nothing.”
He helps you fold your laundry when it’s done, cheeks only reddening a little when he inadvertently grabs your underwear to fold, he carries your basket on the way out.
He pushes your cart at the grocery store, double checks all your produce to make sure it’s good.
When you grab a couple bags of frozen vegetables he grins down at you, “so are those for eating or ice packs?”
“Eating,” you tell him, like it should be obvious, and he just chuckles.
He carries your grocery bags into your apartment, you pass by your neighbor and Jason nods to her.
“So he came back,” she grins at you.
“I did.” He responds for you, something firm in his voice, like he’s here to stay. Oh, how that makes your ribcage tighten, that trapped heart of yours fluttering against the bars of its cage.
When he stands beside you slicing the meat you bought as you make a marinade, you have to remind yourself that this isn’t forever. He isn’t always coming back. This week exists brief and fleeting. In a couple more days he’ll be back at his own place and this will be some blip in time, a memory, nothing more, nothing less.
“You think very loudly,” Jason comments.
“Oh yeah,” you take the chicken from him and dump it into the bowl to put in your fridge. “Then what am I thinking about?”
“Something stupid, I’m guessing.”
“You’re very rude, I don’t know why I let you stay here.”
“You want me here.”
“I do,” the honest slip surprises you just as much as Jason, but it shuts him up, his focus shifting to an onion to cut.
You put a pot of rice on the stove as Jason pulls the chicken out of the fridge. You’re struck by the ease of it all, the simple harmony of the two of you like this. By the time you're pulling the chicken out of the skillet, he’s dumping the vegetables in the pan, when the vegetables are done and you’re dumping the chicken back in, he’s getting plates out of your cabinet. He moves like he’s been here forever. A part of you, most of you, all of you, wishes he’d stay that long.
You don’t talk much over dinner, but it’s not like before. The quiet is comfortable, the hum of the overhead fan and the softness of breath between bites filling the space. Then the sound of water running as you wash dishes and the cabinets opening and closing as Jason dries and tucks them away keeps that same peace.
It’s over a beer on the couch that he gazes back down at that scar on your arm. You catch him looking.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“You know,” he takes a long sip. “I got hurt pretty bad when I was 15.”
“I know.”
“What?”
And your honesty answers the first question he ever asked you, why would you bet on him.
It takes a moment, a moment of just looking at him before you can force yourself to be honest, it’s time for that you think. With a terrible croak in your voice you say, “I was there.”
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You agreed to Talia’s rule: no more fighting.
You haven’t fought since the night you were hurt, but that didn’t mean you didn’t watch.
Smushed between the warm, sweaty bodies cheering as Jason’s body fell to the ground was you, watching in horror as the boy who’d broken you was broken, a monster no longer, just a boy.
You were there when the people filed out, tucking yourself in a corner, watching how Jason’s breath slowed and stuttered, till Jason’s coach dropped money on the ground and you came running. You think you remember him mumbling “don’t take it,” words mixing with the gurgle of blood.
You remember fumbling as you tried to turn him on his side so he wouldn’t choke on any blood, how your knees dug into the mat as you tried shaking him to keep him awake. You remember stumbling outside grappling onto the nearest payphone as you dialed the number you’d gazed at so many times you had it memorized, voice shaking as you mumbled “Talia,” when the line picked up.
You don’t know how she got there so fast, just that she did.
You started yelling for her the second you heard a car pull up, “help! He’s not breathing! Please!”
“You’re hurting him,” you remember wailing when her CPR cracked more of his ribs, breaking them with a sickening crunch.
“It’s this or he dies.” She was sharp and stern when she said it, a finality in her voice that made your mouth snap shut as you watched them.
It looked like some gritty scene out of a drama, a body broken and bloody, a woman trying desperately to force life back between his ribs, and all you could do was watch powerless, useless and pathetic, like they really were a movie and you were the unwilling audience who couldn’t look away from the train collision.
When Jason took that first first heave of a breath Talia was already trying to manhandle him upright, but his dull eyes were on you, focusing for just a second before fluttering shut again.
“Can you carry him?” Talia had asked you, and you found a way to manage, hauling him on your back to her car, sitting next to him in the back seat as he took shuddering breaths, gripping his hand like that alone would grant him eternal life, pressing a napkin against his carved cheek like you could will away the scar. You saw yourself in his bloodied face, every boy you’d ever watched crumple on that mat, every boy that Crime Alley had beat into gory submission wore his face.
It was there in the back of that car that you decided what you would do with the rest of your life.
No one would ever die on your watch.
So you returned to fighting, not in the ring, but in the crowd, with a cooler full of frozen vegetables and a duffle full of painkillers and gauze. You learned CPR and how to set a broken nose. You taught yourself to heal, to fix the broken and needy, so you would never be the unwilling watcher to a horror scene again.
Jason Todd is the reason you left fighting yes, but more than that he’s the reason you returned.
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“I bought it the next morning, right as this bookstore opened,” you point to your first aid book laying on the table, tabbed and tattered now, offering him a weak smile. “Scared the hell out of the clerk, my clothes still had blood all over them.”
He says nothing for a long time, just stares at you and your weak smile, at the man who gave the phone call that saved his life, and then he looks back down at that damned scar on your arm. With a cracked strain to his words he mumbles, “oh my god, it’s you.”
“What,” your own voice is barely a cracked whisper.
“I remember you,” Jason croaked. “I thought I killed you.”
When Jason was 15, nothing more than a broken pile of limbs and ripped flesh he thought of the boy he’d broken on the mat months earlier. The one who he’d never seen again. The one whose arm he wrecked. The one that’d been left on that mat just like he was in that moment. He’d seen the boy’s face that night watching him. In the moment he’d thought he’d killed that boy, he knew what they did to boys when they weren’t useful and here was his ghost to take him to, this was that boy’s revenge. When he woke up in the hospital he dubbed it a guilt filled hallucination. Never had he considered that the boy, you, had been there, had saved him.
“My arm just broke, you couldn’t have—”
“You were left there, you know what they did back then,” his hand is reaching out tentatively, his body crowding you as he reaches to touch your scar. “You’re okay.” And he says it like that alone has relieved him of some mortal sin he carried, “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”
Your own hand reaches out, thumb brushing against that “J” on his cheek.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because now you’re looking at me like that,” his eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes have this cloud of guilt to them that makes your stomach twist.
“You should fucking hate me,” his finger runs along the scar. “They could’ve killed you over it— fuck, they would’ve—”
“It wouldn't have been your fault—"
“Then whose fault would it be?!” You can hear it, anger and guilt bubbling to the surface, spilling out of his throat like tar.
“The coaches, the crowd, the referees, the system,” you don’t know when you got close enough for your forehead to knock against his, but there you are, noses brushing, breaths mixing, eyes boring into each other. “Anyone, everyone, but not yours, not a 15 year old fucking boy.”
“Do you know how long I thought I deserved what happened?” And that feels like a sucker punch to the gut. “How long I’ve been trying to make up for it?”
“I think you’ve done plenty to make up for it.”
He laughs, wet and tearful, he’s pulling you closer and you’re not stopping him, not for a second, not for anything, “think I’ve repented enough?”
You laugh back, both your cheeks are wet, but neither of you say a damn thing, “more than.”
And his lips find yours, crushing, aching, desperate. He holds you there, in that moment, lets your hands tangle into his hair, and he feels you, feels your mouth, feels your lips, his hand pressed against your scar. He holds it until you both need air, knocking your noses together as you pull away, breath intense and ragged.
“I’ve been wanting you—” he starts.
“Me too.” You finish, then you’re clamoring into his lap, pressing your lips against the “J” on his cheek. And unlike that napkin, Jason thinks your kiss might actually heal that scar.
His hands find your hips and squeeze, pulling you closer, pressed so close it doesn’t even feel like there’s air between you. He draws your lips back to his, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip till you open for him. His tongue drags around your mouth slow and languid, like he’s trying to memorize every crevice of you. You moan soft and low into the kiss, and he deepens it, the vibrations of your voice egging him on as he grips your hips firmly.
When he finally pulls away there’s a quick and steady rise and fall to both of your chests, pants filling the air as a string of saliva connects you both. You kiss you quick this time, licking the shared spit off.
“Gross,” he chuckles against your jaw as he starts to leave soft, open mouthed kisses there.
“You just had your tongue down my throat, I don't wanna hear—”
And his lips find yours again, crashing against you as you gasp, deeper than before. Your hands tangle back in his hair, pulling him in as much as possible, the two of you kissing so deeply it’s as if you’re trying to consume one another.
When you pull away this time, he groans, glaring slightly at your action, face immediately turning to kiss you again.
“Stop gripping my hips so hard—”
“Shit sorry—”
“No it’s okay, I just,” when he loosens his grip you sink down more, settling in his lap, both legs thrown over one of his thighs, one of your legs pressed against his crotch.
You’re even closer now, slotted together like a puzzle, and when he kisses you this time, you move. Grinding against his thigh, pressing your leg into his crotch, gasping softly against his lips as he tilts his head back and groans.
You find a rhythm quickly, dragging yourself back and forth across his thigh, panting against his lips in between sloppy kisses. His hands still on your hips again.
“Sorry is that too much—”
“No just—” and with another messy meeting of your lips, he pulls you down harder, grinding his hips up into yours and when he’s met with a moan he goes harder.
“Fuck, Jay—”
His lips latch onto your neck, sucking softly as he drinks in the soft pants and moans your letting out. He’s achingly hard, cock straining in his pants as you hump the thickness of his thigh like a dog.
“Bedroom?” He grunts out, pulling you from your daze, his eyes lidded and pleading as you look at him.
You nod quickly, clamoring off his lap, stumbling a little as you stand. “Yeah, yeah, bedroom,” you say eagerly. When he follows you up you quickly tug him down into another kiss, his hands latch onto your cheeks, kissing you slow and soft before you lead him down the hall.
He watches you, smitten really, following after like a dog, holding your hand like he hopes for nothing else in the world. And when you tug the door open and start to pull your shirt off he’s on you like one. Caressing your skin reverently, trailing kisses and nips as he sinks to his knees, thumbs rubbing at your hip bones. He rests his chin on your abdomen, gazing up at your flushed cheeks and wide eyes.
“Bed’s that way actually, not down there,” you chuckle, trying to tug him up, but he stays planted firm on his knees.
“Shut up and let me hold you for a second,” he mumbles as he presses his face against your abdomen, leaving soft kisses there.
And this is worse than the sloppiness of the makeout session, this is more damning, the tenderness of Jason as he trails kisses against your skin. Your face falls into one hand, trying to hide the flush of your cheeks.
“No,” he mutters against your skin. “Let me look.”
You drag your hand off your face, looking down at him, and there he is, on his knees for you, smiling like there’s no place he’d rather be.
He takes your hand and presses a kiss to your palm, “saved me and saving me still.”
There’s a rawness to you, to the boy that saved him and the man that boy has become, and he will revel in it as long as you let him.
He presses a kiss to the bulge in your pants, watches how your breath stutters and hitches, “I think it’s time I returned the favor for all those times you took care of me, nurse.”
And then he’s standing, tossing you over his shoulder as you squeal before he dumps you amongst the sheets on your stomach.
You can feel him hovering over you, mumbling into your hair, “hey,” he breathes out like it means something.
“Hey,” you breathe back because it does.
And he kisses your hair. One hand holds himself up while the other fiddles with the waistband of your pants, tugging them down, the brush of his warm fingertips against your warmer skin making tension crackle between you like sparked fire, your bed creaking the whole way.
“Your bed frame is a piece of shit,” he murmurs between slow kisses to your neck and shoulders.
Your chuckle is muffled by your pillows, “if you like me enough, you can come back and fix it later.”
He hums into a kiss, before lifting your hips to fully tug down your pants and boxers, leaving you exposed to him. Your cock is pinned to the bed, aching and sensitive for touch at this point.
“You got lube?”
You nod against the pillows, pointing towards your nightstand, he reaches over, rummaging around for a second, when he finds the bottle he cocks an eyebrow at you, “got alotta visitors or something?”
“Why, you jealous?” You tease looking over your shoulder at him, and he grunts and rolls his eyes, you look like a dream, how could he not be jealous?
He sits back on his knees, stripping off his shirt and tossing it away and awkwardly shimming out of his pants as you laugh at him, propped up on your elbows glancing over one shoulder till he shoves you back down.
When you look back again, your eyes widen, Jason is beautiful, sculpted and strong. You’d seen glimpses, hints of this when he sat shirtless in front of you while you patched him up. But here, with you, he’s something else entirely. Your gaze travels along the valleys of his body, tracing every scar, mole and freckle. Jason’s cock shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does, he’s big in every sense of the word, it only makes sense his cock would follow suit, but it makes your throat dry all the same.
“Jesus, I see why you asked for the lube.”
“What?”
“I just—” you gesture with your hands. “Where have you been hiding that thing—”
“My pants.”
“I don’t know how, that’s a goddamn snake—”
He shoves you back down again, “stop.”
“You know most guys would live for that kind of compliment—”
You yelp as two cold and wet fingers trace around your puckered hole, “relax.” His other hand rubs soft circles on one of your thighs. “That’s because I know I’m big, I don't need to be talked up like this is some cheap porno.”
Before you can respond, he rubs two fingers over your hole, tracing it gently, when your breath hitches he leans over you, softly speaking in your ear, “breathe, I’ve got you.”
You breathlessly nod, and then he slips one finger in, you gasp and he goes slow, murmuring softly to you, “there you go.”
He lets you get used to it, then he slowly starts to pump it in and out, after a little he adds another, slowly working you open. He’s got three fingers in you when he finally brushes your prostate, when your back arches and you fist the sheets a low, pleased rumble comes from his throat.
“Feels good, huh?”
And before you can open your mouth to make any sort of cheeky remark he brushes over it again, leaving you writhing beneath him.
“Yeah looks like it feels real good,” he’s chuckling a little, gazing at your form as you rock against the sheets, desperate to get some friction against your cock.
You actually whine when he withdraws his fingers, “poor thing,” he teases as he slowly coats his own cock in lube. For a moment he lets it just rest there against your hole.
“Don’t tease—”
“Oh that’s real rich coming from you,” he drags the heavy weight of his cock between your cheeks.
“I’m sorry, please just—”
And then he’s pushing in, he would never have been able to deny you for long. He’s warm, so insanely warm, and heavy. You’re squirming already, body trying to adjust to the breach of his tip. He presses fleeting kisses to your neck, “so good, just a little more.”
And he repeats that again and again as he slowly splits you open, his breath labored and shaky as he murmurs into your ear, inch after inch sinks into you, one hand on your lower back to keep you steady and in place for him. For awhile it feels like there will be no end to it, that he’ll spear you on his cock till you break. You’re shuddering by the time he reaches his hilt, Jason clenches his teeth, but it doesn’t stop a deep groan from bubbling out of his chest. It takes him a moment to ground and collect himself, but the second he does he leans down to kiss your shuddering body, the hand on your back coming to rub your trembling hip as you adjust, “there we go, all in now.”
Shakily, you grab one of your pillows, cradling it and burying your face in it to ground yourself, your mind and breath trying to catch up to your body, “kept saying it was almost in.”
He kisses your neck again, patting your hip gently before tracing sweet circles there, “it was, baby, took me so good.”
He holds you like that for a few minutes, his arms wrapping around you as he presses his chest to your back, leaning his heavy weight against you. There’s something comforting about it, grounding, like a weighted blanket atop you; well a much heavier, much warmer, slightly sweaty weighted blanket.
When your body stops trembling you can’t fight the feeling of fullness that’s permeating your every thought, “Jason, fuck, move—” you grunt against your pillow.
“Move?”
“Yes, fucking—” and before you can even whine or grumble out the rest of your sentence you feel the slow drag of his hips as he pulls out.
When he thrusts back in you gasp, not because he goes particularly hard, but because that feeling of fullness returns. He sets a steady rhythm, not particularly aggressive, just all consuming. He fills you to the brim each time, bulbous tip brushing against your prostate with even thrust. It’s ruining you, has you holding onto your pillow for dear life, moans and whines rolling out of your lips because you just can’t help it.
“C’mon baby,” he breathes raggedly in your ear. “Don’t bury your sounds, I wanna hear them.”
You turn your head to the side, face no longer buried in your pillow, letting your sounds slip into the air, gifting him one for each thrust.
“Much better,” he slurs against your ear, his own mind melting from the pleasure, he gasps a little when your hole squeezes around him. “So fucking tight, holy shit—”
“Cause you’re too big,” you whimper, hands fisting your pillow as you try to unscramble your thoughts.
“No,” he hugs you tighter, his pace picking up a little as his hips rut against yours, shoving you deeper into the bed, making your sensitive cock twitch at the friction between it and your sheets. “Think we fit together perfect.”
In what few thoughts you can form you can’t help but wonder if Jason is letting you hear him like this. He can be so quiet during fights, not giving his opponent any sign of pain to work with. But here? He’s getting lost in you, ruined as much as you are, every thrust he uses to take you apart he gives a little of himself over to you. And you can hear it, hear him, the grunts and breathy groans he’s reduced to as you squeeze around him.
You squeeze your pillow tighter, your breath ragged as you bury your face back into your pillow, even when Jason complains, you can feel the heat coursing through your body, the thrum in your veins, “close— fuck, Jay— close—”
Jason nods into your neck, he can tell, feel you squeezing tighter with each passing second, your body trying to wring him dry, “let go, let go—”
And when his hand snakes under your body to give a few quick tugs to your weeping cock you do, crying out into your pillow as you cum, spilling out onto your sheets as Jason fucks you through your orgasm, your mind going blank as you swear your vision whites out for a second.
By the time you’re coming down from your high your body is shaking, he’s still going at it, still thrusting, though his movements are less anchored and much more erratic now, rutting into you like an animal, his breath hot and heavy against your ear.
“Jay too much—”
“I know—” he groans unevenly against your ear, “just a little more, baby, just a little more—”
And after just a couple more thrusts he’s slamming himself to the hilt, hugging you tight and moaning against your neck as he spills into you, his cum molten deep inside you. You cry out as he finishes, the feeling of fullness compounding as he fills you.
He pulls out of you after a moment, little dribbles of cum spilling out of you and down your balls onto the bed. Jason lays on his stomach next to you, legs still tangled with yours, one arm tossed over you as he breathes heavily. You stay like that for a few minutes, both of your minds trying to come to some semblance of coherent thought.
It’s ten minutes of listening to you breathe before Jason murmurs against your hair, “I’ll clean up.”
You hum softly in response, too boneless and too tired to form words. You watch him stretch and stand before padding out of the room, something in your heart clenches when you watch him walk out. He returns a few minutes later with a wet rag and a glass of water.
He manhandles you, gently of course, and only a little, into an upright position, handing you the glass of water as he wipes you down with the rag. He must’ve cleaned himself up in the bathroom, but he didn’t bother to fix his hair, slightly damp with sweat and tousled from sex. He moves his hands gently, eyebrows furrowed lightly from focus, he tries to move the same as you do when you’re patching him up, all steady and slow maneuvers.
“Thank you,” you finally say.
And he doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head as he smiles, tossing the rag into your hamper before crawling back into your creaky bed. He pulls you against his warm, broad chest, arms snaking around you while he buries his face in your hair.
“I’ll change your sheets tomorrow,” is the last thing you hear him murmur before you fall into a dreamless sleep.
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You wake the next morning to Jason’s phone buzzing somewhere in the room and him grumbling loudly as he stumbles out of bed to find his pants.
“Shut up,” he barks sleepily without any real bite when he hears you snicker as he rummages through his pants pocket before drawing the phone up to his ear, which he answers with an incredibly unenthusiastic, “hello?”
You watch him talk on the phone, the golden light of a beautiful winter morning spills through your curtains, framing him like an angel. Your cheek is smushed against your pillow, a lopsided and lovesick grin on your face as you watch him grumble into the phone. When he hangs up, he turns to you with an all too serious expression, the kind that makes your smile fade instantly.
“What’s wrong,” you say sitting up immediately, wincing slightly at the dull ache in your lower back.
“Nothing’s wrong, it’s just,” his voice trails off for a second when he looks at you, his hand coming to rub the back of his neck. “That was my landlord, they wrapped up the maintenance early.”
“Oh,” you say and you can already feel the pit in your stomach.
“Yeah,” he shifts awkwardly on his feet. “I should probably get my shop back running then, make sure they didn’t fuck that or my apartment up.”
You nod, mouth hanging open a little, “yeah, yeah you should.”
You spend the rest of the morning quietly, you both shower, separately, and while you take yours he changes your sheets.
“You didn’t need to do that,” you tell him.
“No I didn’t,” he says simply. “But, I wanted to.” And it makes the pit in your stomach worse.
While he showers you sit on your freshly made bed, trying to think of anything to say to him.
You don’t come up with a damn thing.
You help him pack in silence, not tense, but not comfortable. The phone call had shattered the fragile bubble of a fantasy in which the two of you were living in seconds, and with each item he packed away it felt like picking up the pieces of it.
You checked his hands again before he left, bruises still healing nicely, your touch lingered too long, your thumb dragged across his knuckles too tenderly, you both felt it.
“You shouldn’t fight this weekend, they need at least another week, okay?”
“Okay,” he slung his duffle over his shoulder, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I’ll see you then, yeah?”
“Of course,” you give him a playful smile, but it doesn’t put things back together.
And then he’s out the door and you’re alone in your apartment. It doesn’t feel like before Jason came to stay, your quiet little place, it just feels still, it just feels empty. For as hard as Jason tried to make sure there would be no trace of him after he left, all you can see is traces of him.
There’s no mess, he’s just littered every room with memories from the last few days, it’s suffocating, it’s unbearable. You pick up a shift just to get out.
Your heart and mind aren’t in it your whole shift. You space out, you drop a tray, you forget to give a guy his coffee, your boss sends you home early, says they’ll be fine without you, tells you to get some rest. You barely sleep a wink. All you can think about is Jason leaving, looking back at you once in the doorway, what you could’ve said, what you could’ve done. But you let him walk away, let him go back to his world while you fell back into yours. It’s the right thing, you tell yourself, but god it feels so wrong.
You half expect to see him the next night. You half want to, even if it’s just for you to scold him and say you told him not to fight. But, he doesn’t show. You absentmindedly patch up that night’s fighters and get lost in thought. You think what happened between you and Jason is the kind of romance they talk about in the movies, beautiful, all consuming and unforgettable. But, movies end, that kind of love is short lived, the kind you’ll reminisce about when you’re old and gray. Your movie is over, the credits have rolled and now it’s time you go back to your life.
You pay your electricity bill, you go to work, you patch people up and you don’t wait for a call from a number you don’t have. You figure you’ll see Jason in a week or two, and you’ll wonder if he thought about you too, if he can still feel your touch on his skin, if the scar on his cheek burns the same way the one on your arm does. And then that too will fade, you’ll be nothing more than a back alley nurse and him nothing more than a fighter; at least that’s what you tell yourself to feel better.
You’ve just gotten off of work on Sunday when you hear a knock at the door. And something in you knows. You answer, uniform shirt halfway unbuttoned and apron slung over your shoulder.
“Jason?” And you’re right, there he is, smiling awkward and sweet outside your apartment.
“I wanted to come back sooner, but the shop was swamped after my days gone—” he cuts himself off smiling sheepishly when you’re already opening the door for him to step inside. He holds up a red toolbox, “anyway, I’m here to fix that bedframe of yours, if that’s alright with you?”
And you smile too big, too bright, and he wouldn't change it for the world, shutting the door behind him and already drawing him into a kiss you murmur, “yeah Jason, that’s alright.”
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a/n: If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading as always! I hope you enjoyed, and shout out to Everything Everywhere All At Once for the title and for the reference I slipped in. I'm excited to be back and hope to drop some more stuff soon !! <333
Hi!! I saw your requests were open and I read your guidelines. I shall request a Cole x ftm!reader soulmate au 😎 in which at first maybe their both hesitant and kind of don’t believe in soulmate till they get to know each other? If that makes sense
A/N: The soulmate AU I went with is; you have the first words your soulmate says to you engraved somewhere random on your 18th birthday. Hope you enjoy, and don't be afraid to lmk what you think!
Just dont get the Hype- Cole x FtM! Reader
I am the most unluckiest bitch in Ninjago City. Wherever I seem to walk, people flaunt their "Soulmates" like it's a show of who can be the most cringe worthy in their displays of affection.
'Oh, my soulmates such a sweetheart! I got his first thoughts of me!'
'Oh, I got the one where you get the first words, they'd been the sweetest'
bleck. it all makes me want to rip my hair out. No one seems to care about doing anything about life after they get their soulmate identifiers; it's like the world's stopped for them at 18. Obsessing over something so innately mundane, everyone's become incorrigible.
Sucks to be them, because in twenty years, they'll be twenty steps behind me on the ladder to success.
My musing ends when another sharp pain stabs me in the rib, but I've grown accustomed to them. I keep my head down as I continue to briskly walk the path to the bakery. I quickly see the entrance in sight, ducking into the heated dining room of Papa's bakery and escaping the harsh nip of the autumn chill. I breathe out a sigh of relief, loosening my hold on my jacket, before getting nearly knocked over from behind by what feels like a boulder.
I yelp a bit, stumbling, and the man grabs me by my biceps to keep me from falling over like a jenga tower, his voice a rumble of smooth concern;
"Almost Knocked you over there, I didn't even see you, I'm so sorry-"
I freeze where he holds me up, probably looking akin to a wet, feral cat, but he manouvers me with ease to being back to fully standing, off to the side of the entrance. I won't even look at him, not as i feel him move me, and definitely not as I feel the tingle of my hip where the words he'd just spoken casual are engraved into me. I just keep my head down, hoping this will all just dissapear-
"Hey, are you ok? I didn't kill you, right?" His hand moves from my bicep to my face, moving it just so, just enough we can see each other, to lock eyes.
I can feel drool forming at the visage of the man in front of me. Long, shoulder-length curls, black as night, with a tall stature and eyes as deep as the fucking Mariana trench. They're glinting in the evening rays, highlighting the chestnut of his eyes perfectly.
"Holy fuck your hot" I breath out, my heart pounding, my palms sweaty, my chest feeling constricted. Hes handsome, deathly so, but I swear to the gods I won't be like the other fucks who-
He sucks in a breath, breaking me out of my inner monologue.
"..What?" He pulls away as if burned but keeps his left hand still firmly planted on my bicep as if I'll still fall over any moment.
I decide to play it dumb.
"..What what? I didnt say anything?" He glares, and i shrink further into myself than i already had been, his left hand removing itself as well.
"You know exactly what you said"
I shrug. His eyes narrow further.
"So your my soulmate." He huffs the question as a fact, clearly perturbed. I tense up further, probably able to put Dracula's arch to shame.
"To be fair if you hadn't run me over, we wouldn't be here"
He scoffs.
"If you hadn't been standing in front of the door-"
"-Mobile order for Cole. For Cole." Both our heads snap to the counter, and the man in front of me, glances back at me.
"Go sit at a booth. I'll be a second."
I scoff, debating running out the door, but one hard glare sends be to the back right corner, in the farthest booth.
He joins me after a few moments, taking time to chat with the cashier like an old friend, before walking back over to me, sighing as he sits down with his mobile order in tow.
"So.... Soulmate?"
I cringe at the name.
"Just call me Y/N. Fuck you sound awkward." I huff, putting my head in my hand. he scoffs and laughs a bit.
"Y/N. Why are you so...." he gestures vaguely at all of me, and I give him an offended look. "About soulmates?"
I roll my eyes, and decide I find the wallpaper next to me much more appealing than the man in front of me.
"Because they're stupid. And I have better things to do." He snorts a bit, but nods in reluctant agreement.
"That's...true. But why so hostile?"
I raise a brow. "I'm not being hostile, you're just an idiot." He scoffs again. High score!
"You know, for a 'idiot' I do have "Holy Fuck your hot" engraved in my hip, so-" He's smirking, and I flush bright red.
"I didn't think before I spoke!" I vehemently defend but to no avail, as he still has the same shit-eating smirk. I sigh, but get back to the topic "Look, it's not you-"
He scoffs an astounding third time, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. I'm really killing it today.
"-It's me. I just don't get the appeal."
"Seconded, but you don't need to be a dick."
"Well, are you worth not being a dick to?" I counter.
He hums and leans forward with that same grin again. "I think so. But you'd have to know me to find out."
I cringe a bit. This is really going to derail my 10-year plan.
"Give me your phone" I say, holding out my hand.
He raises a brow. "Excuse me?"
"You're excused."
He gives me a deadpan look, before I sigh. "So I can 'get to know you' or whatever. I guess."
He snorts. "Why not give me your phone?"
I huff, thinking it over, before reluctantly opening a new contact for him in my phone, and sliding it across the table.
"I don't have time to stay here and chat, I just need to-"
"Order for Y/N, Order for Y/N-" The cashier drawls out.
I cringe a bit.
"-Pick up my mobile order before heading to Chen's to pick up dinner."
He hums, typing in his information, before handing the phone back to me. He gives me a softer look as I take my phone and go to stand.
"Well, Y/N, I hope I can change your mind about... soulmates. or, you know."
I hum and shrug, but let my gaze linger on him a bit.
"Yeah, sure," I say, my voice quieter, matching his tone unintentionally. Before turning on my heel and heading to the counter to grab my bag, taking one last glance at him on my way out to see him furiously typing on his phone, the smallest blush on his cheeks.
Contents: Fluff, slow burn, secret relationship, mutual pining, first kiss, soft moments, actor x reader
Pt1 -> Pt2 -> Pt3 -> Pt4 -> Pt5 -> Pt6
Part 1
The air on set that night felt charged, like something unspoken had been quietly building between every word, every glance. The lights were low, casting a soft amber glow across the rocky set pieces and the carved wooden huts of our fake Viking village. I was still in costume, heart racing just a little too fast as the director finally called, “Cut.”
But neither of us moved.
My hands were still resting lightly against Mason’s chest — Astrid’s gesture in the scene — and he didn’t step back either. His eyes stayed locked on mine, searching. For what, I wasn’t sure. Or maybe I was.
The world around us seemed to blur for a moment.
Then someone from lighting cleared their throat, and just like that, the spell broke. We stepped away from each other quickly, like nothing had happened. Like our characters hadn’t just accidentally revealed something neither of us had been brave enough to say out loud yet.
“Good work, both of you,” the director called as he walked past, flipping through his clipboard. “You’re wrapped for the night. Back here at nine.”
I nodded, murmured a polite “thanks,” but I barely heard him. My mind was spinning — not because of the scene itself, but because of the way Mason had looked at me. Not in character. Not as Hiccup.
As himself.
I turned and started heading for my trailer, trying to breathe normally again. I wasn’t expecting footsteps to follow, but then I heard them.
“Hey,” Mason said, catching up. “You okay?”
I glanced over at him, heart still annoyingly jumpy. “Yeah. Just… that scene hit harder than I expected.”
He nodded, falling into step beside me. His hoodie was half-zipped over his costume shirt, his hair still a little messy from the wind machine. He looked casual, unbothered. But there was something tight in his posture — something uncertain.
“You were really good,” he said suddenly. “Like, really good.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, looking down. “I couldn’t tell if I was overdoing it.”
“No. Not even close,” he said, and his voice was softer this time. “It was intense. But in a good way.”
We reached my trailer, and I paused on the steps. My hand rested on the railing, but I didn’t open the door yet.
Mason hovered behind me for a second, then said, “Can I come in? Just for a minute?”
I looked at him — really looked at him — and felt something twist in my stomach. Not fear. Not worry. Just that quiet realization that everything was about to change.
I nodded and stepped inside.
The air in the trailer was warm. Familiar. My costume jacket was thrown over the back of the couch, and my script was still open on the coffee table where I’d left it earlier. I sat down on the edge of the bench seat, nerves buzzing.
Mason stayed near the door for a beat before finally joining me, leaving just enough space between us to feel like a question.
“I, um…” He exhaled, hands fidgeting a little in his lap. “I know we’ve been spending a lot of time together. On set, off set, press stuff. And I kept trying to tell myself it was nothing. Just chemistry. Acting.”
He looked up at me.
“But I don’t think it’s nothing. Not anymore.”
My heart jumped. “Mason…”
“I like you,” he said. “I don’t know when it started. Maybe at the chemistry read. Or when we stayed up all night in the hotel hallway running lines. I’ve tried not to let it matter, but it does.”
I felt like I was floating and grounded all at once. “It’s not just you,” I said softly. “I’ve been trying not to let it matter, too.”
His face relaxed. “So I’m not totally insane.”
I laughed, my nerves easing just slightly. “Not totally.”
He reached out, brushing his fingers gently against mine. The contact sent a wave of warmth up my arm. I turned my hand over, lacing our fingers together like I’d done it a thousand times before.
It felt so natural. Scarily natural.
“I want this,” I admitted, barely louder than a whisper. “But I also don’t want it to ruin everything. Not with how closely everyone’s watching us. Not while the movie’s still filming.”
“I know.” He looked down at our hands. “We can’t tell anyone. Not yet.”
“The studio would freak. PR would probably lecture us for hours.”
“And the internet would do its thing,” he added with a small smile. “So we keep it between us. Just for now.”
I nodded, heart full and fluttering. “Just us.”
He leaned in slowly — giving me time, waiting for a sign. I met him halfway.
The kiss was soft. Testing. But everything I hadn’t let myself want until now spilled into that moment — relief, adrenaline, warmth.
When we pulled away, my forehead rested lightly against his shoulder. I felt his chest rise with a quiet exhale.
“Just us,” he repeated, voice barely audible.
And I smiled, because somehow, it already felt like a promise.
sum: mirror mirror on the wall, maybe you can show us how we fuck? in which you find yourself in front of a mirror getting a brief look at how your husband fucks you.
pairing: timeskip husband! katsuki bakugou x wife! reader
content: 18+ mdni. p in v, slight teasing, dirty talk, marking, multiple/implied multiple orgasms, mirror sex, creampie, reader gets called princess/baby/good girl, general NSFW content, aftercare. slight anime/manga spoilers for new fans/not caught up on anime/manga.
a/n: on a roll with another post - this time an old work that was part of kinktober. padded out to feel better. feels like this is one of the better things i've wrote to date. hope you all enjoy! as always, likes, comments and re-blogs are deeply appreciated!
word count: 2.2k
links: bnha/mha masterlist | masterlist
To everyone out there in the world, you and your husband looked like the perfect couple, despite being polar opposites in appearance; you gelled together perfectly. Everyone comments on how perfectly you complement each other.
Anyone who was anyone wanted to be like you and your pro-hero husband, even if he had a temper to rival some of the villains he fought. A temper you'd never be on the receiving end of. The perfect married couple living in a cliché house in the middle of a rural area.
Your life was full of clichés, from waking him up to a nutritious breakfast with his hero suit ready to go, to the sweet kisses you gave him as he left the house, ready to keep the streets of Japan safe for another day.
With a sweet life, everyone had the foolish thought of every aspect of your life being vanilla, even when it came to your sex life. With how tired your husband must be from working all day, sometimes weeks at a time, he wouldn't have the energy for anything other than soft missionary.
Oh, how wrong they were - if they could see the inside of your mind, then they'd rethink their assumptions.
"Hah, Kat, so full". Letting out a whine, you gripped the sheets beneath you as your knuckles turned white. With your face pressed into the mattress, you tried desperately to anchor yourself to something as you felt yet another orgasm creeping up from your toes.
Your thighs were already numb, slowly reddening from the harsh thrusts of the man responsible for having you in this position. You could feel the numbness from the pleasure spreading down your legs; no doubt you'd have trouble walking when he'd eventually let up.
"Fuck, does that feel good princess? Does getting fucked by my cock feel like heaven? Like you were fucking made just f'me". The obvious smugness in your husband's voice, paired with the way he was slamming his hips against you, had your jaw slack. The mushroom tip of his cock repeatedly thumping against that spongy spot deep inside had your eyes rolling into the back of your head, whimpers slipping past your swollen lips.
On a normal night, the sound of the bedframe squeaking would have blended in with the sounds both you and he made, but tonight, after a rather long day with a villain that tested him to his limits, it was nothing more than white noise compared to the noises coming from you both. "I know you're close darling, let me feel that pretty pussy milk me before I even think about filling you with my cum".
The weight on top of you shifted as you felt Bakugou's chest press against your back, large hand finding its way between your legs before the pad of his thumb pressed against your clit. Whining out again, you felt him rub circles in time with his thrusts, helping to coax you to your nth orgasm of the night.
"Please, Kats, fuck, I can't take much more". Trying your best to look at him from the corner of your eye, you managed to make out the mass of ash-blonde hair belonging to him.
"Then let go f'me okay? I know you want to". As if on cue, you felt your legs stiffen as your fingers gripped the sheets harder, a broken cry of Bakugou's name leaving your throat as you felt that hot pleasure zap throughout your body. That one the strongest orgasm you felt of the night so far, or so you thought.
Your cunt was overly sensitive, so paired with the way Bakugou toyed with your clit, of course you were going to feel whatever you body wanted you to feel. Not that you cared, you were too drunk on pleasure to think about anything other than the cock thrusting into you at what felt like inhumane speed.
The squelching of your sopping wet cunt only added fuel to his desire for you as he pinned you down under his weight, hips rutting faster as he drew horse sobs of pleasure from your throat. You really were amazing in his eyes; you took everything he gave and more, never giving up when it became too much pleasure for you to bear.
Not long after, a moan of disappointment left your throat as you became hyper-aware of the empty feeling deep within. Letting out a shaky sigh, you began to turn before finding your movements halted, your body becoming weightless as you were picked up in strong arms.
Humming out, you looked at Bakugou with glassy eyes, tilting your head as he smiled softly at you. Opening your mouth, you tried to question what he was doing, only to be silenced by a gentle kiss that took you by surprise as he moved off towards a corner of your bedroom.
Just what was he planning?
The few steps he had taken halted, causing you to turn your head, eyes widening slightly. There staring back at you was not only your fucked out expression but your body decorated with bites and scratches from your husband. Your skin was covered with a soft sheen, making you look ethereal. "Kat, what are you doing?".
Casting your gaze at the mirror to the side slightly, you looked at the man who now stood behind you, head tilting as you observed him. A proud smirk tugged at his lips as he placed a hand on your body, fingers rolling the perky bud of your breast as you moaned softly, leaning back into his chest.
You were usually so good at reading the expressions your husband wore, but this time, he wore one you couldn't quite read.
Before you had time to register what was happening, you felt your body being hoisted, legs spread open for not only yourself, but your husband to see. To see the way your pussy clenched around nothing as some of your husband cum began to seep out. "You know, princess, I've always wanted to do this...".
Before Bakugou continued what he as going to say, you felt the mushroom tip of his cock poke at your cunt again. The way it dragged across your already sensitive folds had your head lolling back slightly, breath catching in your throat once more as he thrust up into you.
The sinful moan that slipped past your lips had him chuckling, hips thrusting up into you as he helped to bounce you on his cock. "...I've always wanted to watch every single part of you while I fuck you senseless".
Chewing on your lip, you let your head fall back against his shoulder, eyes focusing on the ceiling as he continued to thrust against the spongy spot deep inside - the new angle a welcome feeling. "Fuck, baby girl, you need to watch as well". Opening your mouth to protest, you felt your head being moved, forced to look at the image in the mirror in front of you.
Casting your eyes down, you sucked in a moan as you focused on the part where the two of you were connected as one. Where his cock was buried deep inside your pussy with every thrust he made. The sight made you tingle, heat spreading across your body as newfound confidence took over, your walls squeezing him tighter.
The new sensation around his cock had Bakugou growling out, head dropping onto your shoulder as he began to bite at the already sensitive skin on your neck. Moaning out, you tried to look away from where he was disappearing into you, tried to look a few inches to the side to your husband's figure, but you couldn't. You were entranced by the sight of his cock pumping in and out of you. The way your combined essence dripped down his cock, being driven deeper into your very being. "That's a good girl, baby, watch how I fuck you".
The words and praise caused you to moan out, that all too familiar feeling beginning to creep over you once more. The feeling that caused your cunt to tighten relentlessly around your husband. "Hah, Kat, I'm gonna...".
Letting out an almost guttural moan, Bakugou gripped your chin and turned your face as he thrusted into your tightening cunt. Rough kisses were placed against your lips, desperate and needy as you kissed back with what you could muster, messily pouring out your love.
You could tell he was close to coming; thrusts becoming not only sloppier and needier but harder as well. The mushroom tip of his cock pressing more against the entrance to your womb. Pulling apart, you looked through glassy eyes once more, a string of saliva connecting you both. "Fuck, hah, that's it, squeeze me tighter, baby. Let me feel it while I stuff you full again".
After a few sloppy thrusts, you felt his hips press against your ass as that all too familiar warm feeling of his cum filled you. The spam of your pussy squeezed around him, milking him through his orgasm. Loud moans of pleasure sounded around the room as you arched your back, pressing yourself further into him.
Letting out a soft sigh, you turned your head and rested your forehead against Bakugou's as best you could, chests rising and falling as you panted. Lazily bringing your hand up, you ran your fingers over his cheek, humming slightly. "Look in the mirror, darling, I want you to see this".
Letting your head fall, you looked towards the mirror, down at the place where you connected just in time to see Bakugou pull his cock out of you. Still semi-hard, he twitched slightly as ropes of come connected you both briefly before breaking a few seconds later. A breathy moan of relief and tiredness sounded from you both as you felt yourself being carried back to your shared bed.
Looking up at your husband, you smiled softly and placed your hand back on his cheek. Thumb rubbed over the smooth skin as you looked into his eyes. You never failed to feel so much love for him, no matter what he was doing. The fact that he wasn't just a pro hero, but your husband, made your heart swell with pride and love.
"You know, we should do that more often, I love watching everything, and I mean everything". Your sudden response caught Bakugou by surprise, a soft smile tugged at his lips as he cupped your cheek, eyes taking in your tired and flustered face.
He didn't think you would be up for doing that again, ashamed to admit he might have been a bit selfish in wanting to do something he had wanted for a while. He had a hard time expressing himself, especially when it came to his sex life with you. Not that you weren’t adventurous enough when you were in the throes of pleasure. Still, despite being patient enough with him, he still felt that guilt from time to time.
"You read my mind, princess, but you know I won't do anything you're not comfortable with". His eyes softened as you nodded your head, letting a tired yawn escape. "Let me get you cleaned up, then we'll cuddle".
Placing a soft kiss on your forehead, you felt the weight on the mattress shift as Bakugou left you for a moment, returning with a cloth, bowl and towel. Dipping the material into the water, he moved your legs apart slowly, dabbing the cloth across your swollen pussy to remove the bodily fluids that were starting to dry.
Despite the rough exterior, your husband was as gentle as can be when it mattered the most. When you were cleaned up enough, you felt the mattress dip with his weight once more, a tired smile tugging at your lips and you found yourself wrapped up in strong arms as the bed sheets.
Moving closer to your husband, you cuddle into him and placed your hand on his chest, resting it just above his heart. Your fingers resting gently on the scar he had from his teenage years. When a fight against a villain went wrong. Where his heart stopped before he was brought back to life in front of your eyes.
A sight that still haunted you every now and then to this day. "I love you, Katsuki, I'm so glad I chose you".
Red eyes glanced down at your now sleeping form. A soft smile staying on his lips as he leaned over, placing a soft kiss on the top of your head. Of course, he knew how much you loved him, it was obvious to him, and everyone out there just how much you'd fallen for him.
From the shy, timid girl he first met in the hero course at U.A High, to the confident woman who was now in his arms, he never stopped loving you. Even when he thought his life had ended, even when you gripped him tightly when he was revived, not tight enough to hurt him, though. Even on the day you got married, it had always been you.
He was forever grateful that you chose him because no one else would ever get to see him like this. To see him vulnerable in such a raw way. And no one else would ever get to see this side of you, too for as long as he lived.
Tonight is Halloween night. About two hours ago, you finished passing out candy to the neighborhood kids. A big thunderstorm swept Haddonfield, making most retreat indoors. You’re now lying back on your couch. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre plays on your small TV set. Screams from the movie fill the quiet living room as you unwrap and eat the remaining candy. Your eyes stay locked on the screen, too engrossed in the film playing before you to hear the back door ever so slowly opening.
You're snapped right out of the movie when you hear a loud crash, head whipping around to see what exactly happened, except the kitchen is pitch black, all the lights are off in your house, and the only light is emitted from the small TV screen. Your anxious mind blames it on the cat; they've knocked over various items plenty of times before. Thunder booms ominously from outside, rattling the old house. You grip your mug of cocoa tightly.
A long, drawn-out sigh slips from your lips as you stretch, bones quietly cracking after release. After pausing the movie, you walk over to the kitchen., You can't see anything, and shivers crawl up your spine as you stare into the void. Curtains are closed, and not even the streetlamps' light filters in. “Kitty Kitty Kitty,” you call out softly for your cat, the silence after feels like it stretches on for eternity, the only sound heard is the rain and thunder. You reach over, hands hovering over the light switch.
A harsh, resounding boom of bright white lightning cracks through the air, penetrating the lace curtains and lighting up the room for only a brief moment, but it's enough time to show you what is in your kitchen. A large man stands tall in the center of the room, his figure dark compared to everything else. He wears a white latex mask and mechanic coveralls. You let out a loud yelp of surprise, dropping your ceramic mug onto the tile, pieces of it flying everywhere.
You're quick to move, turning on your heel and running out quickly. You slip on the living room rug as you run, but are quick to rise back up as the adrenaline in your veins pumps through your body. Barely seen in the dark room, your cat is lying on the ground. You grab them, keeping them close to your chest as you now run to the door. Hope fills your body as you can now get away from the creep because you acted fast.
Your throat is grabbed, your body halted, and thrown against the wall. The cat hisses and jumps out of your arms, quickly padding down the hall and shooting up the stairs. You cough and sputter as he keeps your body still, tilting his head and studying you. From the TV screen, you can ever so faintly see his face, except it's not his, a whit, emotionless mask in its place, the eyes black, hollow pits. Your hands reach up to scratch and claw, desperately trying to get out of his hold, only for him to tighten his grasp.
Black harsh dots fill your vision as you soon start to slip away from consciousness. With a last-ditch effort, you reach the end table, picking it and smashing it against his head. He barely makes a sound as it shatters, a muffled groan slips through his lips, and his breathing gets heavier. He stumbles back, blocking the door to your freedom, so instead, while he's momentarily distracted, you bolt up the stairs. You cough, trying to suck air back in to your lungs.
You're at the top of the stairs, but he quickly follows behind. His recovery was quick, but his strides up the stairway are quicker. You run to your bedroom, slamming the door shut hands shakily attempting to lock the door. Everything goes quiet, your eyes locked onto the doorway, thunder rattles the foundation of your house. He hasn't tried to enter. A long sigh passes through your lips, and you move to the end table, picking up the rotary phone and dialing 911.
It’s dead silent, no off-hook tone, nothing. You dial again, and again, and again. Still, there is nothing. “Fuck fuck fuck!” Dread fills you as you come to realize that it won't work; the raging storm must have caused a power outage, you were just watching a movie, and it must have gone off when you were getting chased. A resounding crack comes from the door, your head whips around, and you see the wood of the door splintered.
You flinch when he does it again, this time his hand breaches through, wood shatters, and falls against the carpet, a fist-sized hole in the doorway. His hands reach for the metal handle, unlocking the door. Panic falls over you once again, you have no weapon, no defense against this dangerous man who's entered your home. His hand retreats, time falls to a stop, and movement happens; you wait anxiously for him to continue forcibly coming into your room.
It’s barely noticeable, he door slowly opens, you can't see anything, the storm slows, the sudden bolts of lightning that had allowed you to see briefly have vanished, leaving you in a pit of darkness that seems to envelope your very being, swallowing you whole. You can't see anything as you back away, gasping as your back hits the cold sheetrock wall. You can't see him, you can only strain your ears as you listen, listening as the door creaks on the rusty hinges as it opens, your entire mind feels like it stops when his breathing can be heard.
You start to scream when he roughly grabs you, this time shoving you face-first into the bed. You try to flail your arms back and hit him, but his calloused hands catch hold of your wrists, pinning them above your head and your other hand on the back of your neck. Desperately, you try to kick at his legs, he pushes his pelvis against your lower half to stop you from hurting him more, your backside pushing and rubbing against his front.
Almost instantly, the force keeping your hands locked lessens, his grip on your neck loosening. Hope fills you. Taking this as a chance, you push back against him to attempt to break free once more, except this time his hand shoots towards your hip, gripping it tightly, and under the latex mask, a moan is released from his lips. His breathing deepens, grip tightening once more, his hips mimicking the movement from before.
Embarrassment fills your body, heat rising to your cheeks as you realize what he's doing, his hips experimentally roll, pushing his pelvis against your ass before doing it once again, harder this time. He audibly sucks in his breath, letting out quiet moans as he rubs himself on you. His inexperience shows, hips sloppily thrusting and twitching, his rapidly quickening pace, and his unashamed moans that fill the empty room. Shame fills you next as heat fills your core, your lace panties soon begin to dampen.
Maybe if you let him continue his lustful ministrations, he will spare your life. You don't make any moves to object as he grabs your hips with both hands, moving your body with his as he sets a hard, punishing pace. His cock throbs angrily, the rough fabric creating a delicious friction each roll of his hips, his head lolls to the side as he quickly starts to reach his peak. Reluctantly, you begin to enjoy the bolts of pleasure that crackle through your body like the very lightning outside. You decide to help him, putting a hand against his stomach.
He huffs loudly, clearly not pleased that you're trying to stop him. A nightlight turns on at the power outlet on the other side of the room, illuminating his latex features. The power is finally back on, but there isn't much you can do now. There is no stopping his lust fueled actions. You continue, pulling down your shorts, your underwear quickly follows. His head tilts to the side as he watches curiously. He's eager to do the same and quickly pulls his zipper down, pushing off his boots carelessly, then shrugging off the mechanics' overalls. The mask stays on, he makes no move to remove it.
Your gaze lowers and your eyes are met with his large cock, you’re not surprised to see that he’s commando under his clothes, but surprised at the fact of his dick so huge. He’s thick, his cock bobbing down from its weight of itself, but what shocks you is his length. You can't make an exact estimate, but you can see he's around seven inches, prominent veins pulse along his shaft like a heartbeat, with a deep pink tip. He grabs and hoists you up, his grip like steel as he tosses your body on the bed like a rag doll, and he follows quickly after.
He hovers over you, bracing himself on his forearms as he studies your face, looking at how you try to hide the fact that you're enjoying it. He scooches closer, his meaty cock now pressed against your stomach. He reaches down and holds it in his hand, unaware of what he needs to do. You take it upon your self to guide him, anf with an eager touch you guide his cock against your entrance. Slicking his cock up against your pussy, you lube him up so you can easily take him. You know that it will be a challenge taking his cock.
He gets impatient, swatting your hand away and thrusting against your pussy. Humping through your folds, his tip nudges against your engorged clit each pump of his hips. He lets out a breathy whimper, head resting against your chest. He finally manages to catch against your entrance, the tip sliding in. He's panting, body wracked with pleasure as he uncontrollably shakes against you. You can't help but join him in letting out drawn-out moans when he pushes in deeper. He’s barely two inches in your pussy and he already needs to stop to breathe. His chest rising and falling rapidly each shaky breath he sucks in. His body is so unused to this feeling, never once has he felt something so pleasurable in his life, and he's like putty in your hands.
His body glistens with sweat, rubbing against your front as he pushes down on you. The air feels hot and heavy as he pants like a mutt in your ear, hes as eager as one. The mask is a hindrance to him in this moment, the white latex rubbing against his sweat-slicked face, the air damp and humid in the mask. Annoyed, he tugs and rips the mask off to breathe, sweat beads down his forehead and drips off his nose. you gasp at his handsome features. Your hands reach up and latch onto his short brown tresses, the umber colored curls soft in your hands. His eyes clamp tightly shut as he pushes another inch in. his adam apple bobs in his throat, breath hitching and heart pounding in his chest, pushing in deeper and deeper.
Your pained whimpers do nothing to deter him from pushing in all the way, his cock parting your gummy walls that seem to clamp on to him like a vice, your pussy gushing around his cock, slick dribbling down his penis and into the thatch of curly dark pubes. Sharp teeth clamp down on the crook of your neck, he tries desperately to keep his moans quiet. Soon his dick is speared all the way in your pussy, the muscle clinging tightly to his cock in a way that punches the air straight out of his and your lungs.
He braces himself up on his forearms, positioning himself so that he can hump in to you. Your pussy clings tightly on his cock as he starts to take it out, massaging and rubbing against his tip like a lovers embrace. “Please” you beg, he’s unsure of what you mean, but eager to do what you say in this moment. Before his cock can fully slip out hes pushing it back in, his hips jerk and twitch, his inexperience shows in the way he sloppily uses your pussy like a cocksleave.
After he gets used to the first couple of thrusts in your pussy, he’s like a wild beast. No longer taking his time, he pumps himself deep each thrust, battering against your cervix rapidly. “Sl..Slow down!” You whimper out, your poor cunt wasn’t prepped enough for the way he’s practically abusing it. His teeth that had been sunken into your neck release from it, strings of saliva and blood connecting his mouth to the bite mark. The feeling of his meaty cock pummeling your gooey walls. Saliva drips from his mouth and on to your tits that bounce from the way he fucks you.
His nose nudges against yours, your eyes open, wondering what he’s doing, you watch as he licks and nibbles against your face. You can barely tell what he’s doing through the haze of pleasure and the feeling of his giant dick. His tongue, slick and wet with globs of saliva lick all over your tits, your neck, and your mouth. His mouth on yours in a primal kiss of raw unbridled passion. Teeth clash against yours, his moans and whimpers like low vibrations against your skin. Your hands trail down the soft skin of his back, fingers running along his spine. Shaking as you try to find purchase on him, trying to keep ahold of him and your mental as you get fucked into rapture beyond your comprehension.
Your release is approached rapidly, building up in your core and in the pit of your stomach. You can’t help but cling desperately on to him. the way he fucks you like a damn wild animal, dick jamming in to your pussy over and over, it has you seeing stars. You babble incoherently, your pussy over sensitive from your first orgasam, and yet he keeps going until he will inevitably cum. He fucks you like he owns you, and maybe after this he does. “Oh fuck!” Light trails of white cream slick his cock even more, making his thrusts into your slippery pussy even easier. Your eyes clamp shut once more, nails scraping down his bare back. The pleasure is white-hot and searing and it ripples through your body. Your nails have left red welts along his back, leaving crescent shapes on his shoulders as they dig into his skin. It doesn’t deter him, in fact it sounds as if he gets pleasure from the pain. Low whiny moans and whimpers escape from his throat. His hands move and paw at each dip and curve of your body, trying to anchor himself, to gain some control back, but your pussy has him whipped.
It’s not much longer before his hips and jerk sporadically, his body shivering from the pleasure that builds from his cock, deep into the base of his spine and shoots through every nerve of his body. He can’t keep himself up anymore, body collapsed on yours. His eyes, once blank, controlled with no ounce of emotion breaking through, look deep into yours, glossy with tears he won’t let fall, brows raised as he looks down at you with pleasure written all over his face. He shudders as he shoves his dick as deep as it can go, tip nudging against your sweet spot. Your eyes widen, hand on his chest to push him back but it’s too late. “Wait-“
You gasp when you feel hot, thick cum filling the deepest depths of your wet cunt, teeth gritting together at the pressure of his load fills you up. Rope after rope, it’s unending, like he’s been keeping it in all his life and everything is coming crashing down on him, his grip on your hips sure to leave bruises long after this moment. His body tremors and shakes from the weight of his first orgasam, the room smells of the heady scent of sex, your sweaty bodies rub against another. After what feels like forever you both come down, breathing back to normal. Your eyelids slowly start to close, after getting fucked so thoroughly, you can’t stay awake any longer, the same goes for him.
His head lays on your chest, the beast within him stated. Through half lidded eyes you look down at the man before you, his breathing has slowed, his hands which once were on your hips now wrapped around your torso. You’ve awakened something inside him that he can never forget. As you both start to sleep, you realize allowing him to fuck you might have saved your life and many more. The boogeyman’s plan to kill tonight halted, instead he’s now balls deep in your pussy, cock plugging and keeping his spend in your deepest depths. Unknowingly your pussy had saved the lives of many tonight. You are undoubtedly his.
Hi! Could you do teen wolf boys reacting to an unexpected teen pregnancy set just after Season 6B? Thank you! I love your writing!
hi babe! i hope you know i only write for liam and theo but here you are!
contains: angst/fluff/comfort
liam dunbar x fem!reader, theo raeken x fem!reader
liam dunbar - he laughs.
not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only sound his body can make as the world crashes around him. a sharp, shocked breath of disbelief as he sits back on the edge of your bed and whispers, “you’re pregnant?”
you nod. your voice barely breaks through. “i just found out.”
liam scrubs his hands over his face. “oh my god.”
then he looks at you - and something softens. completely.
because you look just as scared as he feels. and he loves you. god, he loves you.
“okay,” he says, suddenly serious, standing again to reach for you. “okay. it’s gonna be okay.”
you search his face. “are you sure?”
“nope. not even a little bit,” he breathes out with a shaky smile. “but i know one thing. i’m not going anywhere. you’re stuck with me, remember?”
he presses a kiss to your temple, both of you a little broken, a little brave.
it’s not what either of you planned. but it’s yours now.
and liam’s ready to fight for it.
theo raeken - he doesn’t say anything at first - not because he’s angry, but because he’s never had something this real to lose.
he just stares at the test in your hand - two pink lines, shaking fingers - and then back at you, like if he blinks, maybe it’ll disappear. maybe this is one of your shared nightmares, the ones that wake you both in cold sweats.
you’re sitting on his bed, legs tucked under you, test still clenched in your hand like if you let go, it might all spill out.
you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “say something.”
his jaw flexes. hard. too hard. “are you okay?” he asks instead.
you nod, tearfully. “i don’t know.”
he’s across the room in a second, he kneels in front of you, eyes flicking between your face and the test, like he’s trying to read a language he’s never studied.
you wait for him to pull away, to shut down. he doesn’t. instead, he exhales shakily and rests a hand on your knee.
“if this is happening,” he says, voice low, “you’re not doing it alone. not for a second.”
you blink, and tears spill. “are you sure?”
he nods. “i’ve survived being dragged to hell. i can survive this.”
you snort through your tears. and he smiles, like maybe this is terrifying, but maybe it’s also the start of something he never thought he’d get to have.
It was nearly midnight when Tenya Iida’s door creaked open.
He blinked in disbelief, hand still on the knob, gaze flickering rapidly between the digital clock on his nightstand—11:58 p.m.—and the sight standing right in front of him.
You. Wearing nothing but fuzzy slippers, a pair of cotton shorts that barely clung to the tops of your thighs, and an oversized t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder. You looked sleepy, cozy, soft—utterly dangerous.
“Hi” you whispered, smiling up at him with that innocent tilt of your head.
Tenya’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, then closed. He glanced down the hallway—left, right, even toward the security camera near the ceiling—like you’d brought a bomb to his front door instead of yourself.
“D-Do you have any idea what time it is?” he stammered. “This is entirely inappropriate. If someone were to see—if a teacher or even a classmate—”
“No one’s around,” you interrupted calmly, stepping closer. “And we don’t have class tomorrow.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that this is a direct violation of—of the student handbook! Visitors aren’t allowed after curfew and—” You placed a gentle hand on his chest. “Tenya,” you said, quietly, “it’s just one night.”
His mouth trembled around a protest, but your hand curled around his wrist and you stepped inside his room before he could finish. He backed up, heartbeat hammering in his chest like he’d just broken the law. You shut the door softly behind you.
Walking toward his bed. “I just wanna sleep next to my boyfriend.” He stood frozen in the middle of the room, face flushed, glasses fogged. His striped pajamas clung to his long frame—the shirt buttoned all the way up to his collarbone. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides as you climbed into his bed like it was yours.
He joined you after a long pause, his movements stiff and unsure. He laid flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to recite the U.A. rulebook in his head to stop thinking about the warmth of your thigh brushing his.
You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as your eyes wandered to the way the soft cotton of his pajama shirt pulled over his broad chest. Slowly, you swung a leg over his waist and straddled him.
He went still.
“W-What are you doing?” His voice cracked. “Th-this is not proper. This—”
“It’s just so hot in here,” you said softly, tracing your fingers along the edge of his shirt. “Aren’t you hot, Iida baby?”
His hips jerked slightly—barely noticeable, but it was enough.
Your fingers dipped down, slowly undoing the first button of his shirt. He swallowed hard.
“sorta—please, you shouldn’t…”
Another button undone. His chest began to show—hard lines of muscle, smooth skin, warmth rising under your touch.
“Please…” he whispered again, but it was weak now, breathy.
You unbuttoned another. Then another. The shirt parted, revealing the full expanse of his toned torso—taut abs, the curve of his obliques, that perfect divot leading down beneath the waistband of his pajama pants.
You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone, then down the center of his chest. His hands clutched the sheets at his sides, his head tipping back into the pillow.
“Y-You have to stop,” he whispered.
But his hips bucked up into you. His cock was already hard beneath you—thick, twitching beneath the fabric, pressing against your core through your shorts.
“it doesn’t feel like you want me to stop tenya”
You rolled your hips down gently, letting the friction spark between your bodies. He gasped.
“You’re already so hard,” you murmured. “I thought this was inappropriate”
He groaned, face flushed red to the tips of his ears. “I-I can’t… I can’t think straight when you—”
“Then stop thinking,” you whispered against his neck. “Just feel.”
His hands finally rose—slow, trembling—and landed on your hips. His grip was firm. Desperate.
His hands stayed on your hips, trembling slightly as you rocked against him. You could feel him now—really feel him. Hard, hot, twitching beneath you, straining against the thin fabric of his pajama pants.
His chest heaved with every shallow breath. His eyes met yours—wide, pleading, conflicted.
“I-I should stop you.” he whispered.
“You don’t want to.”
He exhaled, shaky and soft. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”
You kissed him.
He gasped into your mouth like he’d never been kissed like that before—like he hadn’t let himself want it until now. Your lips moved slowly over his, guiding him, coaxing his control apart with every brush and tug. And when you ground your hips down again, he groaned into your mouth—loudly, head tipping back into the pillow, breath completely stolen.
You pulled back just enough to murmur, “Can I take this off you?” He nodded—quick, breathless.
You pushed the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, finally exposing all of him. He was beautiful—broad chest, sculpted abs, and strong arms you’d only imagined holding you like this. Your fingers slid over the planes of his torso, and you felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch, like he was barely holding himself back.
Then your hands moved lower. Over his waistband. Beneath the hem. slipped your hand into his pants and wrapped your fingers around him.
He was big—thick and flushed and so painfully hard it made him whimper when you stroked him for the first time. His hips bucked up again, completely unintentional, and his head fell back against the pillow with a deep groan.
“Oh my god—” His voice cracked. “I-It feels… I don’t even have words—”
“Good?” you teased softly, brushing your thumb over the leaking tip. He nodded furiously, mouth falling open.
You leaned down and kissed down his chest again as you stroked him—slow, steady, watching how quickly he unraveled beneath you. His hips had a mind of their own now, chasing your hand, desperate for more friction. His hands gripped your thighs like a lifeline.
“Iida,” you whispered against his neck, “you’re so sensitive. You’re gonna come like this, aren’t you?”
You could still feel him twitching against your palm, his breath shaky and uneven beneath you. His face was flushed, chest rising and falling in soft, stunned waves. You started to lean down to kiss him again—but then Tenya surprised you.
He grabbed your hips suddenly, strong and sure, and flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion. You let out a surprised gasp as you landed on your elbows, your shorts riding up to expose the curve of your ass.
“Tenya—?”
He didn’t answer.
His hands slid over your hips like he was memorizing them. His breath was ragged behind you as he pushed your oversized shirt up your back, exposing the soft skin beneath. You looked over your shoulder at him—he’d taken his glasses off, hair slightly messy now, the pajama shirt tossed to the floor.
His eyes were dark now. Heavy-lidded. Starving. “W-We shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice breaking. “We’ve never…”
“But you want to,” you said softly.
His hands gripped tighter. His thumbs dug into the flesh of your hips as he groaned, so low it barely escaped his throat. “I want to,” he admitted, his voice strained, “so badly, I can’t wait anymore.”
He tugged your shorts down slowly—pausing when they reached your thighs, like he was giving you one last chance to stop him.
You didn’t.
So he pushed them down fully, his palm sliding over your bare ass. He let out a shuddering breath. “You’re… perfect.”
You smiled into the pillow. “Then do something about it, Tenya—show me how perfect I am to you.”
That broke something in him.
You heard the rustle of fabric behind you—his pants being shoved down just a little more. The thick, hard press of him against your entrance, rubbing along your folds. He wasn’t inside yet, just teasing. Coating himself in your slick.
You whimpered and pushed your hips back. “Please, baby…” Tenya exhaled hard through his nose, leaning over your back and whispering near your ear, “You have to be quiet.”
“I will,” you promised, already trembling with need. “Please, fuck me I need you.”
And then he pushed in. You bit into the pillow as he filled you—slow, careful, but so deep. He gasped behind you, like your body had knocked the air right out of his lungs.
“F-Fuck,” he whispered, and the curse in his mouth sounded forbidden. “You feel… oh god, you feel amazing…”
He stayed still for a moment, trembling, holding your hips like if he let go he might fall apart completely.
Then he started to move. Slow at first—controlled, deep thrusts that made you moan against the sheets. His grip was bruising, his breath hot against your back. He groaned every time he pushed in, fighting the urge to get rougher.
But your hips kept meeting him. Rolling back. Begging for more.
“Stop doing that,” he rasped.
“Doing what?” you asked innocently.
“Pushing back like that. I can’t— I can’t keep it quiet if—”
You did it again. And that was it.
His hand slid up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to arch your spine for him. His hips snapped forward faster, harder—deep and filthy. The sound of skin against skin filled the room in soft, rhythmic slaps, and even though you were trying to stay quiet, little gasps and whimpers kept slipping out of your mouth.
Tenya leaned forward, chest against your back, lips brushing your ear. “Be quiet,” he whispered. “You’re going to get us caught.”
But the way he fucked you said something else entirely.
“I-i can’t when your dick is literally h-hitting my fuc-fucking organs”
His hand reached down and rubbed slow circles over your clit, and your whole body tensed. “Tenya—!” He groaned, biting down softly on your shoulder to muffle his own moan as you clenched around him.
“Come for me,” he begged. “Please—please let me feel you—”
You came with a soft, broken cry, your body shaking beneath him. Your thighs trembled, your back arched, and Tenya’s pace turned sloppy, frantic. His hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself, and with one last, deep thrust, he came inside you—his whole body shuddering with the force of it.
He collapsed gently over your back, breathing hard, lips brushing your skin as he whispered your name like a prayer.
For a long moment, the room was nothing but silence and the hum of your heartbeats, tangled together in a mess of sweat and soft gasps.
“…This was so against the rules,” he whispered.
You smiled into the pillow. “And you loved every second.”
He let out a shaky laugh. “I think I might love you.”
Summary - The favorite positions of some of Middle-Earth's finest royals...
Warnings - Smut, language, fem!reader, afab!reader, mention of male genitalia (characters), mention of female genitalia (reader), missionary sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (reader receiving, Fili and Legolas give), facesitting, implied squirting, mention of bodily fluids, cowgirl position, mention of breasts (reader), sub/dom dynamics, implied dom!Reader, implied sub!Kili (he finds a way), praise kink (Kili), slight dirty talk (various characters), slight sensation play, doggystyle position/bent over, voyeurism (Thranduil stop fucking the reader in front of guards), slight dark!Thranduil, slight dom!Thranduil, slight sub!Reader, kneeling, slight dark!Legolas, dom!Legolas, lowkey mean!Legolas, implied brat!Reader, oral sex (Legolas receiving), fingering (reader receiving), slight powerplay (if you squint), possible dumbification (if you squint), implied punishing, cum eating, and maybe more (I might have missed some).
Pronouns & POV - She/Her, third-person
Pairings - Thorin x Reader, Fili x Reader, Kili x Reader, Thranduil x Reader, Legolas x Reader
Word Count - 3,800+ (I got carried away at some parts)
A/N - This is from my suggestion box which I had posted on Instagram (I will add the suggestion box here too eventually), the person who sent in this suggestion requested to not be tagged but I still wanted to thank them for their suggestion! This is more headcanon-like, so it varies a bit in length each section. I did attempt to give some plot based roughly around the suggestion given! There is only the header image in this post because Tumblr would not save the draft with the gifs I attempted to add, so I apologize for that! Reader is implied to have tits and an ass large enough to jiggle, soft hair, and I believe plump lips. Smut below!
Read on AO3 Read on Wattpad
-thorin
Missionary. The dwarven king of Erebor is a man of routine. Whether intentional or nonintentional routines, they are a part of the raven-haired man's life.
He was a simple dwarf, viewing routines and structure as the utmost importance as it was there to prevent chaos—or as much chaos that was preventable within Middle-Earth, which appeared to be close to none.
The dwarven king's love for routine touched all aspects of his life, including the more intimate aspects of his bed.
It was not an intentional routine, but rather a formed one caused by stressors—something he often cursed, but in this instance would thank as it had led him to many pleasurable nights.
It was made gradually, the first few nights of the king's reign after the battle were particularly stressful. He found himself restless, tossing and turning within the fur bedding as his beloved lay beside him—lacking an equal amount of rest due to how the bed shook with each toss of his sturdy form.
So, to settle the king's mind—and to make the bed creak with something other than displeasure—the queen motioned for him to crawl onto her. It was a mere tired curl of a finger, yet the king knew what she was requesting; and what his beloved wanted, she got.
The thickness of his cock slowly split open her tired, wet walls. The weight upon his shoulders eased as the weight of his cock eased into her, a mixture of relief and exhaustion danced upon his face as his hips began to rock at a steady speed. The toned flesh of his hips met against the plumpness of her arse as he slowly wrapped her legs around his waist, allowing his tired cock to carve deeper into her walls.
An act which slowly drifted into nothingness, as the dwarven king soon fell asleep with his head in the crook of her neck after the heat of his seed flooded into her drenched core—coating the walls of her womb with a fresh painting of white.
As the stressors of the crown became more frequent, so did the nights of the queen's comfort. Though, at times that comfort extended into the daytime during particularly frustrating elven visits.
The all too familiar sight of the dwarven king climbing on you filled your view, yet the shade of his sapphire-colored eyes had dimmed with darkness reserved for the elven king of Mirkwood. You were aware of how much the pair despised one another, how their feud over who was owed what had led to death and devastation—yet, you had little time to dwell upon the past as the thickness of the king's cock pushed into your core.
The weight of your head fell back against the smoothness of the pillows, as the weight of your chest lifted upwards slightly, allowing your back to arch and your dwarven lover to gain further access within the warmth of your walls as he pushed into you. The bones of his hips snapped against the flesh of your arse with a rough fury, the slapping of skin meeting each other echoing throughout the room as his darkened eyes peered into yours.
The dwarven king would never vocalize it, but he loved watching the subtle reactions your eyes held as he pounded into you. He loved the ways your eyelids would flutter when he grazed your most sensitive spot, how you would go slightly cross-eyed when you neared your peak, and the way your eyes glistened with tears when he had pushed you to the breaking point one too many times.
Your reactions were routine, and the dwarven king needed routine just like a fish needed water or a wolf needed to hunt. You were his routine, and he needed you like he needed air to live.
──────
-fili
Facesitting. The golden-haired prince was far more free when it came to routines, unlike his uncle. The prince found routines constrictive.
Though he was the heir to the throne, the eldest prince of Erebor preferred to have freedom in his life. He wanted to joust with fellow warriors, to drink ale and dance, and to be free to slip away to breathe whenever he desired.
Yet, his yearning for breath seemed far distant within the realms of his quarters. As much as the dwarven prince enjoyed his pleasures, he favored pleasuring his beloved above receiving his own.
A fact that left you taken aback when the prince had confided in you that he found giving pleasure far more rewarding than receiving it; you had stood there for what had felt like ages to the poor golden-haired dwarf as you blinked mindlessly at him. Had you been dreaming? A man who wished to pleasure another rather than receive it?
"Are you jesting?" The question was quickly met with an amused snort from the prince; the corners of his lips curved into a lopsided grin as his thick, calloused hand cradled the side of your face. "I'll have you know that I take eating cunt very seriously, my love." The dwarven prince promised you.
A promise he showed swiftly.
It was not exactly perfect the first time—though, no first time truly was perfect—but it was unlike anything you had experienced prior. You were not a pure maiden, you had your fair share of lovers before the golden prince, and he had some prior flings as well, yet none of your previous lovers had ever been so eager to feast upon you before.
The prickle of his bearded face sent shivers down your spine as his lips hungrily sucked upon the wetness of your cunt. His hands tightly gripped your thighs, keeping you steady upon his face as his thick tongue lapped up the entirety of your cunt as he devoured you like a starved man with a meal.
Your thighs quivered around the sides of his head as you attempted to hover above him, worried he was not receiving enough air as he drowned himself in the wetness of your core. His skilled tongue delved into your crevices, lapping up every drop of your sweet, pure nectar as he snarled in pleasure.
"Sit on me." The heat of his words caressed your throbbing cunt, making it twitch from the arousing sensation. "But—" Before you could begin your protests, the golden-haired prince tugged you down upon his face.
A surprised gasp fell from your lips as the prince dipped his tongue into your core, happily spelling his name upon the walls of your core as his hairy face ground into you—drenching his beard and mustache with your essence.
The soft prick of his nails would dig into the plump flesh of your arse as his calloused hands held you steady, ensuring that the fullness of your weight would not leave his face until he made it so.
He would continue to feast at you, rocking your hips as he continued to swirl his tongue around your walls. Occasionally, he would slip his tongue out of you, allowing his lips to encase your pretty little bundle of nerves—hungrily sucking upon your throbbing clit until your sweet squirt gushed down upon his face, soaking his beard with your juices before he delved his tongue back your twitching core.
He would drink you like water—and if he had it his way, he would drink you more than he drank water.
──────
-kili
Cowgirl. The youngest prince of the Misty Mountains, Prince Kili, was not the most presentable royal of the line of Durin.
It was not a matter of his looks, though many would claim he was prettier to elves than he was to dwarves: it was a matter of his maturity. The younger prince was reckless, finding pranks and training far more entertaining than the duties of the dwarven courts.
Or, that is what he would claim when asked of his wavering sense of duty. The truth was that the young prince required guidance.
He yearned to be told what to do. The brunette prince despised how he had to ponder decisions, wondering if he would make the proper one or if he would make a fool of himself in the process; he preferred being told what to do and when to do it.
A yearning that had trickled into his nights of passion as well.
You were a breath of fresh air for the dwarven prince. The hopeless romantic of a dwarf thanked his lucky stars each night with you, as you were always to the point and told him verbatim what you wanted from him—and he was more than happy to oblige.
When you had first told Kili of your preference to be on top during sex, it was like a whole other world had opened up for him. He was not necessarily a virgin, but he was not the most experienced of his kin either. He had a few messy encounters that left him feeling less than satisfied and embarrassed.
Regardless of how hard the dwarven prince had tried, sex never felt right to him before his first night with you.
His honey-colored eyes bore up into your gemstone-colored ones, pupils dilated with affection as he watched you climb on him. The roughness of his calloused hands would encase the softness of your hips, lightly holding onto them as you lowered yourself onto his throbbing cock. The sensation was new to him, the warmth of your walls gripped him in all directions as the wetness coated him entirely as you began to glide on his length.
The bed creaked and groaned with each motion of your hips, his gaze falling from your eyes and onto the flesh of your chest which bounced and jiggled with each motion you made. He was utterly entranced.
A soft slew of moans would fall from his lips, the weight of his head tilting back against pillows beneath him as you continued to pleasure yourself upon the thickness of his cock.
"Fuck, please thrust up, Kili." A request the dwarven prince would eagerly comply to, his hips thrusting up to meet the plumpness of your ass each time you lowered it down upon him. "Just like that. Good boy."
Good boy. A simple name that further fueled the dwarven prince into abiding by your commands, doing everything within his power to please you in and out of his bed in the hopes of being called that delicious name once more.
And a good boy he was.
The dwarven prince was more than eager to please you. Never touched himself without your approval, nor did he touch you without approval—even now as he stared at your pretty breasts as they jiggled in front of his face, bouncing tauntingly as you bounced upon his aching cock.
His balls were filled to the brim with seed, becoming nearly painful from their fullness yet he did not dare release a single droplet without approval from his beloved. He simply lay there, allowing his cock to be used as a device of pleasure for the woman he loved most as she continued to coat the throbbing, aching length with her essence.
"Fuck...that's a good boy." The purred praise of your pleasure would cause the dwarf's cock to stir within your walls, desperately twitching for release. "Alright, alright. You've waited long enough." Your chuckled words would quickly turn to moans as the prince's hips began to thrust up.
His aching cock carved its way deep into your walls, hitting the most special spongy spot within your core in a repeated pattern—as if he was trained to give you pleasure even as he chased after his own. The prince would manage to milk a final orgasm out of you, the essence of your pleasure dripping down and coating his filled balls before he emptied his seed deep inside of you.
The weight of his body sank back into the plush bedding beneath him, as the corners of his lips would curve into a lopsided grin as your soft hands caressed the roughness of his stubbled face while you cooed soft praises to him.
He needed guidance, but he sought it most from you.
──────
-thranduil
Doggystyle. Unlike his dwarven counterparts, the elven king of Mirkwood found solace in his busy schedule.
Where some found stressors in royal life, the elven king found peace and comfort. He would never vocalize it, but he found the hustle and bustle within his daily duties as king soothing.
Perhaps it was how quickly everything transpired, never allowing him a moment to dwell upon the past and all the mistakes that lay dormant within it. Or he sought the chaos of life while others shrunk away in fear of it. Regardless of what it was, the elven king found himself entranced by things done quickly—and this extended into the realms of his chambers.
Though many elves were romantic by nature, playing sonatas of their love for one another, writing endless poems, and spending a tedious amount of time courting, the king of Mirkwood was rather forward.
He saw no point in the pleasantries of courting. After all, he was king of Mirkwood—in his mind, he had done more than enough just by holding that title. However, the king was wise enough to never vocalize his opinions on the matter, as he bit back any snide remark he had on the matter with a bitter grin as he focused on what was important: you were his.
A fact that was well-known to all within the woodland kingdom, as the sounds of your pleasure were ever-playing throughout the twisted halls. Morning, noon, and night. A tune that none could forget, one which the elven king seemed to orchestrate whenever he caught a guard's gaze lingering upon you for a moment too long.
The position was like second nature to you, engraved in the very cells of your body after so much time together with the elven king. Your arse was up in the air as your chest was pressed firmly against the smoothness of the silk sheets under you while the elven king slowly entered you. His thickness parted your wet walls, wetness you were ever thankful for, as the elven king did not seem to give you a moment of breath before his hips snapped forth, meeting the plumpness of your flesh.
His motions were sharp yet poised and precise.
The thickness of his length would delve deep inside of you, as his slender hands would grasp upon the plumpness of your rear. A grasp tight enough to hold you in place, ensuring that your hips never dropped as his thickened length continued to carve into your inner walls, yet loose enough to allow your ass to jiggle as his hips bounced off of it.
The elven king loved watching your ass bounce, it was something that left him hypnotized. The sight of your sweet, plump flesh reacting to his possessive thrusts allowed the weight of his days to melt away—as well as the anger he held towards that damn guard.
The cries of your pleasure would be muffled, either by a pillow or the very sheets you laid upon, as the elven king would lean forward—adding more of his weight into each harsh thrust of his hips.
Yet, there were times when you could not muffle the sounds of your pleasure—even when you desperately yearned to.
At times, the elven king enjoyed proving a point to those he caught with lingering gazes towards you. He would instruct they fetch you from your shared quarters, insisting they bring you to his throne room for something of urgency. And like a good servant to the king, they would.
Within the blink of an eye, you were bent over the twisted throne—your hands desperately clawing at the variously curved wooden throne as the elven king hoisted up your skirts; your dripping cunt on display for all to see, including that damn guard.
The elven king's motions would be swift and fluid, his cock buried deep within your wet, welcoming walls, yet his gaze would not be upon the plumpness of your arse. Instead, his cold, pale sapphire gaze would be locked upon the armored man who dared gaze upon you for too long.
His gaze would be piercing, never leaving the other man as the bones of his hips would snap against the plumpness of your ass, making each thrust sharper than the last—ensuring the swollen tip of his cock would hit against the most pleasurable spongy spot within you.
As your cries of pleasure danced throughout the air, it carried a weight throughout the woodland halls. A reminder to all those who inhabited them that the elven king moved swiftly, and could have you just as swiftly.
──────
-legolas
Kneeling. Due to the ever-changing nature of Middle-Earth, there were very few within it that gave the elven prince a sense of control.
Perhaps it was the nature of irony: a prince who believed he lacked control, heir to a throne yet yearning for more. His logical mind reasoned with this sensation, rationalizing it as nothing more than a search for stability amongst the most recent chaos within Middle-Earth. Yet, the emotional sphere of his mind yelled that it was for something more.
It was a thirst that the elf could not quench nor ignore.
The yearning within him was further than matters of the mind; it felt as if it was in his blood and bones. An unspoken birthright, one burned deep into the very essence of his being—he craved, no, he needed control.
And he found that control in you.
You were one, if not the only, consistency in the elven prince's life. Regardless of what transpired within the woodland realms—or realms outside of it—you were always there, waiting within the secure walls of his chambers, eagerly awaiting him upon the plush bed.
To him, you were a beautiful little doll. His perfect little plaything, the one he adored and showered with affection and treasures. He ensured that you were never left yearning—unless you had been bad that is.
On the days you were good, the elven prince would pull you to the edge of the bed, kneeling between the plushness of your thighs before he buried his smooth face between them. The wetness of his tongue would caress the outerness of your entrance, as the fullness of his slender fingers delved inside of your core.
As the fullness of his fingers would stretch your inner walls, carving and curving into the most pleasurable spots within your textured core, his eager tongue would lap up any droplet of your sweet nectar his fingers would push out. The squelching click of your damped cunt would echo throughout the air, accompanied by your soft mewls of pleasure as the elven prince took his time pleasuring you.
He was precise and calculated with each stroke of his fingers: he knew the inner workings of your cunt better than he knew the back of his hand—knowing exactly which sensitive, spongy spot to press into to make your sweet thighs tighten around the sides of his head. How fast to pump his fingers within you to make your breath hitch from pleasure, and when his lips needed to wrap around that sweet little clit of yours to make you drench his hand—and forearm—with your juices.
But on days when you were bad, or life merely felt bad to the prince: it was you who knelt.
His slender fingers, the ones that once gave you such immense pleasure, would be tangled within the softness of your hair. The grasp he held upon your head depended upon the circumstances of the day—but more often than not, it was firm.
The fullness of his cock would push into your mouth, tainting it with the bitter, salty tang of his precum as he would sink in as far as your throat would allow him—stopping when the vibrations of your gag would echo on his thickened length. Slowly, he would puppet your head upon his cock, making it bob back and forth as he slowly sunk more of his cock into your throat until the plumpness of your lips met the flesh of his abdomen.
"That's it, pretty girl." The elven prince would coo, his sapphire gaze boring down upon you, watching as the thickness of him forced the saliva out of your mouth—stained the faintest hue of white from the mixture of his precum—watching as it rolled out of the inner corners of your mouth and down your chin. "Such a messy little thing." He would continue to puppet your head at an increasing speed, the bones of his hips meeting the flesh of your face as he jutted his hips into your mouth; ensuring he was as deep as he could be within it.
If you had been particularly bad, then he would hold your head firmly in place—thrusting in your mouth at a quickened pace, allowing the weight of his balls to bounce upon your chin, coating them with the sticky mixture his cock forced out of that pretty mouth of yours. As you would cough and gag at the sensation, the elven prince would simply shush you. "Ah, ah, ah," He'd taunt, a purposefully harsh thrust making his balls slap against your chin as he held you steady. "you had such a nasty mouth earlier, why not keep it nasty?" He'd coo, one filled with fake care and compassion—a taunt at your previous actions as he continued to fuck your throat until he painted it white with his seed.
But on the days when you were good and the world was bad, he was far more tender.
Though his grasp remained firm and his thrusts a bit rough, the elven prince was not punishing you. With each gag, cough, or whimper that vibrated upon his cock—he would pull back until the throbbing tip rested upon your plump lips. "That's my pretty girl, such a good girl for me." He'd praise, a hand dropping from the back of your head to softly caress the side of your face until you gave the okay to continue.
A slew of pleased praises would fall from his lips as he fucked your mouth, the weight of his head tilting backward as his grasp remained firm on the back of your head. "I'm going to fill your mouth." He'd gasp out, the tips of his nails digging into the back of your head as his hips stuttered into your mouth. "Swallow it and I'll give you anything you want, my pretty girl." And he did, the warming rush of his salty seed would flood your mouth—making you down it with a choked gag, yet it was still done.
The elven prince would continue to praise you for being a good girl, his good girl, as he pulled his cock from your mouth. The tightness of his grasp dropped from the back of your head, one hand meeting the side of your face to return to the earlier caress as the other wiped away the remnants of his previous actions from your lips—giving him a sense of control as he came down from the highs of his pleasure, the same control he had once sought after.
──────
Want to read one part at a time? Read separately on AO3
Thorin, Fili, Kili, Thranduil, Legolas
Want to read it as book chapters? Read separately on Wattpad
Summary: You're in a secret relationship with the dwarf prince, one full of nothing but love.
Warnings: kind of angsty? Idk forbidden love, soft kili, unprotected sex
Kíli had never truly been in love before - sure, he’s had his little crushes here and there. But never something so serious, with his blood almost burning as he thought of your face, his heart skipping every other beat when you were near.
After several long months of secretly sneaking off with you, always behind his uncle’s back, he approached you with the biggest smile, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into a tight hug. “I’ve been waiting all day for you, darling.”
“My love…” you murmur against his neck, cuddling into his embrace.
Kíli tightens his arms around you, burying his nose in your hair with a deep inhale. Your sweet, flowery scent makes his mind hazy - it is all he can think of besides how much he adores you.
“Do you know how hard it is to wait for you?” he murmurs, pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “I dream of you all the time, and all day, all I want to do is see your beautiful face again…”
He pulls back just so he can cup your face in his hands. “You’re all I ever think about…”
His gaze drifts down to your mouth, and his own lips curl into a smirk. “I've been wanting to do this all day…” he murmurs, leaning down and tilting your chin up to press a firm, lingering kiss onto your lips.
Your lips reply eagerly, your hands gripping his sides as you press against him. “I have missed you as well. It has been far too long since I’ve been in your embrace.”
Kíli closes his eyes gently as he savors the taste of your kiss, a low hum of approval rumbling in the back of his throat.
“Mm… you’re so perfect…” he says softly, rubbing his thumbs along your jawline. “And it really has been too long. I can’t go another day without you in my arms.”
He gives another tight squeeze and pulls your body flush against his, as though he can’t get you close enough.
He moves one of his hands behind your head, burying his fingers in your hair and tilting your head back so he can bury his mouth against your neck.
“I need you…” he breathes, pressing hot kisses and soft bites along the length of your neck, leaving the skin red. “More than I need air. How am I supposed to get through days without you here with me…?”
“Lover…” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut with the contact. “I do not wish to sneak around any longer..” your hand cradles the back of his head.
Kíli’s face buries into the crook of your neck, inhaling the soothing scent of your skin as he tries to calm his aching heart at your words.
“I… I don’t either,” he whispers back, pulling away from your neck to nuzzle his face against your ear. “But my uncle… he won’t understand. You know how Dwarves feel towards Elves…”
“My heart belongs to you until the day I take my last breath.” Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I wish to stay with you, in your arms.”
Kíli lets out a small sigh as your hand slides through his hair. He lifts his head again, looking down into your eyes longingly.
“You’re mine… you’re all mine,” he murmurs, tracing the pads of his fingers over your jaw. “And if I could, I would never let you leave my arms again. But…”
His mouth twists into a tight frown. “My uncle would have my head if he found out about you. He’s a stubborn old Dwarf who holds his grudges with a burning fire.”
“My love,” your gaze meets his, tears falling down your face. “I cannot make you choose, but I wish you would.” You breathe out.
Kíli’s heart feels as though it might break right there. He closes the distance between you, his hands immediately reaching up to cradle your face gingerly between them, his thumbs wiping at the tears on your face.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, his own voice thick with emotion. “I can’t lose you. But he’s my family… the only family I have left… if I defy him and lose his support…”
He lets out a shaky sigh, letting his hands slide downwards until they’re clutching at your wrists.
“I know..” you murmur softly. You bring your hand to his face, fingers dancing over his tanned skin.
Kíli lets his eyes fall closed as you touch his face, leaning into the touch like a starved dwarf.
“You make it sound so easy… defying my family, my kin, my brother…” he mutters, pressing his forehead against yours gently.
“I do not wish for you to defy them.” You sigh, desperately trying to find the words. “But loving me is the problem.. for it is against his will.”
Kíli’s face twists at your words. He knows that what you’re saying is true - it was against Thorin’s will. Thorin would never accept an Elf for Kíli to love.
“But I do love you,” he says back fiercely, leaning back to look into your eyes desperately. “I love you so much… I can’t just stop loving you… I *never* could…”
You press a gentle kiss to his closed eyes, your touch soft and almost ghostly.
Kíli’s breath catches in his throat as your lips press to his eyes, gently squeezing your wrists gently. He feels as though you’re a dream - too beautiful to be real. How could he ever let you go?
“Please,” he whispers, opening his eyes again to look at you desperately. “Please, don’t leave. I can’t live without you…”
“Love..” you breathe out, at a loss for words. In all of your endless wisdom, you still cannot find the solution to your predicament.
“Do not cry, my dear.” You wipe the warm tears from his cheeks, your own threatening to fall.
Kíli’s breath shakes as you touch his face again, and he swallows thickly, trying in vain to halt the flow of tears.
“How am I supposed to *not* cry when you’re about to leave me…?” he mutters shakily, his hands gripping your wrists desperately, as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go of you.
You wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a comforting embrace. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you bite back your despair. “Kili..” you sigh his name, voice barely above a whisper.
Kíli lets out a small whimper as you pull him into your embrace, burying his face into the crook of your neck quickly as if to hide the tears that continue to run down his face.
He grips at your back, holding onto you like a drowning man gripping for a lifeline. He’s never felt so vulnerable, so broken - so weak - before.
“You can’t leave…” he mutters again, his fingers digging into your back as he speaks. “Please… don’t leave me…”
“Kili..” Every time you repeat his name, Kíli’s heart aches fiercely. His fingers dig into your back more desperately, pulling you as close to him as he can.
“Please…” he mutters, his voice muffled as he buries his mouth against your shoulder, his breaths coming in short gasps. “Please don’t leave… don’t go… I’ll die without you…”
You pull back from his embrace ever so slightly, guiding his hand to your chest. “My heart beats for you, only you.” Your other hand traces soft patterns into his back comforting him.
Kíli closes his eyes as your hand leads his to rest against your chest, feeling the steady thumping of your heart against his palm. It’s an almost soothing sensation, reminding him that he’s *not* dreaming - you’re really here with him, in his arms where you should be.
He lets out a shaky breath as your fingers work their way across his back, and he finally raises his head again to look into your eyes.
“Don’t…” he whispers back, his voice thick with the sound of tears. “Don’t go…
“I will stay by your side, as long as you wish me to.” Your resolve drifts away, your desire for him outweighs the desperation for more than a secret relationship.
Kíli lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes widening slightly as his heart starts to thump against his rib cage. You’ve just said exactly the words he craved to hear, his shoulders sagging with pure relief.
“I will always want you by my side…”
His hands move to your hips, his thumbs massaging gently into the bare skin just below your shirt. He swallows thickly, his eyes darkening as he suddenly drops onto his knees in front of you.
His hands slide up your side, his lips immediately finding your stomach and leaving a line of soft kisses there.
“Meleth nîn..” you gasp, his kisses leaving you breathless and craving more.
Kíli’s hands slide under your shirt, his fingers gently tracing up your abdomen as his lips continue to press against your skin. He lets out a small moan as your soft gasp reaches his ears, the sound adding to his growing desire.
“Say it again…” he breathes, pressing a kiss against your bare skin just below your ribs. “My darling… say that again…”
“Meleth nîn, your touch undoes me.” You moan, head falling back in pleasure.
A shiver of pure lust runs through Kíli’s body as you moan for him again, and his lips pull into a smirk against your skin. His hands slide higher up your body, his fingers dancing across your stomach, up towards your chest.
“I want to undo you… I want to drive you wild, love…” he mutters, leaning in to press his lips to the bare skin between your breasts. “I want to *break* you…”
You let out soft noises, your body trembles with his touch. “Such lewd words my prince.”
Kíli lets your words encourage him further, his tongue darting out to lave against the bare skin of your stomach before his mouth wanders higher. He bites down on your skin gently, his teeth just barely breaking the surface.
“Filthy prince, aren’t I?” he mutters, giving another bite against the skin of your belly. “And you love me for it.”
You lower yourself down, capturing his lips in a hungry kiss. Kíli immediately leans into the kiss, his tongue darting into your mouth to dance with yours. He groans with pleasure at the sudden shift in position, lowering himself against you on the grass until his hips press against yours.
He pulls back from the kiss to catch his breath, his eyes raking over your body as he moves to press kisses against the side of your neck. “I want to make you mine… I want to take you here… now…” he whispers against your ear.
“My love..” you moan, feeling his hand slide between your thighs.
Kíli groans as he hears the sound of your moan, and can already feel himself starting to harden at the sound. He moves so that he can press his hips even more into yours, rubbing against you needily.
His hand slides further between your thighs, his fingers tracing along the skin that’s not being covered by your clothing.
Kíli’s hand reaches the apex of your thighs, feeling the heat emanating from your core. He whispers, “I need to feel all of you, my love. Tell me you want this, tell me you’re mine.” His voice is filled with urgency, his desire for you burning like wildfire within.
"Yours," you pant into his mouth, your body arching towards his touch. "Forever yours, Kili." His hand slides into your pants, his fingers seeking your warmth eagerly.
The words are like a key unlocking his restraint, and he responds by kissing you with a passion that feels as though it could set the entire world ablaze. His hand slides further into your folds, his fingers now coated in your slickness as he explores your most sensitive areas with a gentle, yet insistent touch.
His movements are tender but firm, as though he's afraid you might vanish from his grasp at any moment. His thumb finds your clit and begins to rub it in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure increasing as your breaths turn into soft whimpers of pleasure.
"Mm," he groans against your mouth, his arousal growing as he feels you react to his touch. "You're so wet for me, so beautiful... I can't wait to taste you."
With a final, lingering kiss, he pulls away from your lips and moves his mouth down the side of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he goes.
His hand continues to work between your legs, his fingers teasing and exploring as he goes lower, his eyes never leaving yours as he watches the pleasure build on your face.
His other hand moves to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up and over your head in one swift movement, leaving you bare before him.
His gaze devours your body, his eyes dark with need as he kisses his way down your chest, pausing to suck on your nipples before his mouth reaches the waistband of your pants.
With a growl of desire, he unbuckles the belt and unbuttons the fly, pulling the fabric down to expose your quivering stomach. He kisses and licks his way down, his hand still playing with your wetness as his tongue darts out to taste you.
You moan deeply as he finally brings his mouth to your sex, his tongue sliding over your clit in a way that makes your legs shake. His kisses are now replaced with the feeling of his mouth and tongue, his movements growing more urgent as he brings you closer and closer to the edge of release.
Kíli groans into your heat, his mouth never leaving the sweetness of your folds as your thighs tighten around his head. His tongue laps at your clit with fervent strokes, the sound of your moans echoing in the quiet glade like a siren’s call to his soul.
The pressure of your legs only fuels his hunger, his hands gripping your hips to keep you still as he worships your body with his mouth. The scent of your desire fills the air, making his arousal ache painfully in his breeches.
His movements become more feverish, his tongue flicking and suckling, as he tastes the sweet nectar of your passion. Your body tenses, and he knows you’re close. He doubles his efforts, his teeth grazing your sensitive bud as he pushes you towards the precipice.
"Kili, I..." Your voice trails off into a keening cry as the orgasm sweeps through you, your back arching and your nails digging into the dirt. He continues to lick and suck, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure as your legs quiver around his head.
Finally, when you collapse against the cool grass, boneless and panting, Kíli pulls back, his mouth glistening with your essence. He smirks up at you, eyes dark with satisfaction and desire. "Mine," he whispers, his voice thick with lust, "Always mine."
Kíli slides himself between your trembling thighs, his eyes never leaving yours as he admires the flushed beauty of your post-orgasmic state. He fumbles with the ties of his own breeches, finally freeing his erection which juts out proudly, aching for the warm embrace of your body.
The anticipation is almost unbearable as he lines himself up with your entrance, his hand gripping the base of his shaft as he gives it a slow, firm stroke. He leans in to kiss you again, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he starts to press forward, the blunt tip of his cock parting your folds.
You moan into the kiss, your body instinctively responding to his touch as he pushes in, filling you inch by inch with his thick, hard length. His movements are slow and deliberate, savoring every moment of your union as if it could be the last.
Kíli's eyes never leave yours as he pushes deeper, his cock stretching and filling you completely. His movements are slow and tender as if he's afraid of breaking the spell that's wound tight around the both of you.
Each inch feels like an eternity, his passion building like a crescendo in his chest. He whispers sweet nothings into your mouth, his tongue dancing with yours as he starts to move with a rhythm that matches the beating of your heart.
His hips rock into yours, the friction causing sparks of pleasure to ignite within you. Each thrust is a declaration of love, a silent promise that no matter the cost, you belong to him, and he to you.
The world outside the glade fades away, leaving only the two of you, entwined in a dance as old as time itself. With every stroke, Kíli claims you more thoroughly, his love and desire a physical force that resonates through every fiber of your being.
Your bodies move together in perfect harmony, the slick sounds of your union the only music playing in the symphony of passion.
With the intensity of his love and desire driving him, Kíli's movements become slightly more erratic, his orgasm approaching like a storm on the horizon. Despite his best efforts to prolong the moment, the passion overwhelms him, his body shaking with the effort to maintain his control.
He whispers your name like a prayer, his hips thrusting faster, his cock sliding in and out of you with a passionate fervor that speaks louder than any words could. His eyes never leave yours, the connection between you as palpable as the heat of your bodies pressed together.
The slick sound of your union fills the quiet glade, punctuated by your breathless moans and his grunts of pleasure. His hands tighten around your hips, guiding you to meet his every thrust, his body demanding release.
The sensation of his hardness pounding into you sends waves of pleasure crashing through you, your climax threatening to build again. Kíli knows he's close, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your skin, his eyes dark with a primal need to claim you, to make you his in every way possible.
He whispers sweet promises and dirty confessions against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he fights to hold back his release, not wanting this stolen moment of pure ecstasy to end.
But the need is too strong, and with a final, desperate moan, he buries himself deep within you, his orgasm ripping through him like lightning through the sky, his warmth filling you as he surrenders to the overwhelming love that consumes him.
"Forgive me, my love," Kíli murmurs against your neck, his voice heavy with passion and regret as he realizes his own climax has come first. "I wanted to make you feel good first, to give you pleasure before I took mine."
His hips slow their rhythm, his cock still pulsing deep inside you as his orgasm subsides. He kisses the tender skin of your throat, his grip loosening slightly. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his eyes searching yours for any trace of disappointment.
"No, no, Kili," you whisper breathlessly, shaking your head. "You never need to apologize for loving me like this." Your voice is a soft caress against his ear, sending shivers down his spine. You feel his cock thicken within you, his passion not yet sated.
"Take what you need," you encourage him, your hips rocking gently against his to show you're ready for more. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, and Kíli's eyes flare with renewed desire.
He groans, his hips moving with more urgency, his love for you a potent elixir that fuels his need. He kisses you deeply, his tongue mimicking the movements of his hips as he starts to thrust again, his hands tightening on your hips.
Your bodies move in perfect harmony, a silent conversation of love and need. Your desire builds once more, coiling tight in your core. "Again, my love," you breathe into his ear. "Take me again." The words are a catalyst, igniting a fresh wave of passion in Kíli.
Kíli feels your muscles tightening around him, your body's sweet embrace urging him closer to the edge as well. He can't help but groan into your ear, his breath hot and ragged as he picks up the pace.
His strokes become more deliberate, aimed to hit that spot deep within you that makes your eyes roll back in your head and your toes curl. His own climax builds the pleasure from your tightness around him almost too much to bear.
His hand slides back up to find your clit, his thumb circling the sensitive bud as he continues to thrust, his other hand digging into the soft flesh of your hip to hold you in place. "Cum for me," he whispers, his voice low and demanding, "I need to feel you cum around me, my love."
The intensity of his words sends a bolt of pleasure shooting through you, and you can't help but let out a sharp cry as your body obeys his command. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your inner walls contracting around his cock as you ride the peak of ecstasy.
Kíli's eyes widen in amazement as he watches your face contort with pleasure, feeling the tremors of your release through your entire body. His orgasm follows swiftly, his cock pulsing as he releases himself deep within you, his love and passion a physical force that resonates through the both of you.
His movements slow, his chest heaving with each ragged breath as he leans in to kiss you gently, his love for you shining in his eyes like the stars above. "Always and forever, you're mine," he whispers against your swollen lips.
The Hobbit Characters + Pregnant Reader (Wife!Reader)
I just love fluff ok and, say it with me, I did this for LoTR 😁 (you can think of the older characters’ as being set when you guys are younger, not during book/film events 😊)
Warnings: conception mentions, some implications of infertility, pregnancy-related illness and symptoms, very long post 😂
Balin
✧ Five years. For five years you had tried. Six you and Balin had been married, happily as anything, but children never came. Your struggles had broken you down, leading you to try all the remedies well-meaning elders and healers alike recommended. Eat more good, strong foods, less of that greasy stuff. Drink this tea, it’s great for women! It’s only a bunch of tiny needles- the pain of birth will be worse anyway. Don’t be so active, let yourself relax for Mahal’s sake, girl! Remedy after remedy, you put your body through it all and put your hands up and prayed. Weeks passed and you had taken ill, attending the healers’ just to get something to ease your nausea, and that was when the questions began. Illness forgotten, you wandered in a grinning daze out of that hall and straight into your husband’s arms. When he chuckled and asked what this was all about, all you could do was snuggle into his chest deeper and whisper “It’s finally happened.”
✧ Such years leant of course to Balin being a bit extra protective of you. You often chastised him, good-naturedly of course, that he hovered so over you, and every time he would simply kiss you and say "That's right".
✧ It brought you both to tears when you began showing, when your condition had persisted long enough to be real, to last beyond the known months of danger. Forehead pressed against yours, your husband held you tightly and warmly for some amount of minutes you did not know, but minded not at all. Balin's words of love and reassurance were as music to your ears.
✧ Hormones confound you some days, pulling you from peace to ruin in mere moments, but Balin is always there with warm arms and wise words, reminding you that whatever you may think, you will never be alone.
✧ The one time during your entire pregnancy that you saw Balin cry was the day you brought home a tiny red coat that looked just like his and showed it to him with pride glowing in your eyes.
✧ He is so calm during all the worst sides of your condition, standing right by you through the good, the bad, and the ugly and dusting and cleaning you off each and every time. "We fought hard for this," he reminds you, "And I'll keep fighting with you every step of the way."
Dwalin
✧ You had wanted children all your life, certainly, and you'd seen Dwalin around them a few times, but what would he say? Your husband was a renowned warrior, hardened in the face of blood and steel and tolerant of no foolishness. But still he went soft as clay when his beloved wife fell into his arms. Thus that night you softened him up but good with all the great food and affection you could muster, so much that you had him remarking what a wonderful home he'd been blessed with. "And would you be willing to share it?" At that, your husband rose from his chair, hands tensing at his sides. "You don't mean-" "I do," you nodded. Without warning, you were swept up into Dwalin's arms, hoisted gently into the air with a giggle. "Just when I thought Mahal couldn't bless me any more! My beautiful wife, with child."
✧ Cue the two of you bickering back and forth like, well, a married couple, about who the child is going to look like. "I'll have 'em look just like you, thanks." "I for one relish in the thought of toting around a miniature Dwalin." "Come now," your husband teases back, running a hand over his shaven, tattooed head, "If they look like you they'll have better hair!"
✧ Dwalin has tiny wooden swords and axes made in time for your little arrivals, ensuring the axes match his to a tee.
✧ He sleeps flush against you now, head leaned against your growing belly and one hand firmly atop it like a lovely little line of defense.
✧ You have him absolutely wrapped around your finger, even more so now. Bat your eyelashes at him and make any request and he melts like butter. You’ll never want long for anything you crave!
✧ Admittedly he knows very little of a woman’s workings, but the moment he hears all your explanations he dubs you as great a warrior as he! “Beautiful as the stars and strong as the mountains to boot! That’s my girl.”
Thorin
✧ He has waited so long for this. So many years of this hanging pressure and yet when he has you by his side, all the feeling of necessity behind trying fades away. You two can simply enjoy life. So when you return to Thorin's side one day, eyes brimming with tears, all you say to him is "It's happened". And with that you see your king, your husband, collapse as if his whole body is sighing, pulling you into him like he needs you to breathe. One hand reaches up to hold the back of your head, gently caressing your hair.
✧ Vows every day that he will protect you both, be the father and husband you deserve, taking your hands in his and then leaning down to address both his queen and your child.
✧ Thorin also assures you that despite what any members of the court say, your new addition will be equally loved and equally worthy of the throne whether you welcome a son or a daughter. "All I wish is a healthy child with their mother's heart." "And their father's good looks," you tease in response, pulling your husband in for a kiss.
✧ You begin stealing his clothes, stating that his tunics are so much more comfortable than your dresses with an innocent bat of your eyelashes that has Thorin relenting every single time, heart rent at the way they begin fitting you tighter.
✧ You see a different side of Thorin in this stage of your marriage, one you’ll never complain about, not when he softens so, gazes down upon you with such love as he hovers over you, kissing your lips, your neck, your belly.
✧ There is no denying that you both glow during this time, pride and joy illuminating Thorin’s features right alongside the radiance of your childbearing state. Everyone stops you to say what a beautiful couple you are and you cannot help the flush of heat that rises to your face as Thorin thanks them and guides you away from the crowd, a protective hand on the small of your back
Oin
✧ Predicts it before you even realize because you’re exhibiting all the telltale symptoms; annoyed as you may be by his insistence that you are with child, what do you know? Oin is right. Oin is, unfortunately, also quite smug about this. Once the initial triumph wears off, though, he’s shouting for joy and crushing you with a hug!
✧ The absolute dream husband to have when you're with child, for he has worked taking care of countless dwarrowdams in your condition. He knows what you need. He understands. And most importantly, he does not judge.
✧ In fact, you two get a kick out of poking fun at the other husbands who roll their eyes at their wives' demands or take shots at their cravings because, frankly, that could never be you. "He doesn't know her body needs more iron!" "I bet he moans and groans about grabbing her a pillow, too."
✧ Having married such a well-known dwarrow, you’ll have all manner of strangers approaching you with congratulations that you reluctantly just accept, correctly assuming they’re patients of Oin’s that he’s proudly blabbed to.
✧ He’s always asking you to guess if you’re having a boy or a girl, insisting that “‘tis the mother’s intuition, after all.”
✧ You insist on remaining on your feet as long as possible, and your husband does not protest, knowing that exercise is good for the baby. That doesn’t mean he won’t be right behind you to catch you if you fall or check on your precious little bump, though, of course.
Gloin
✧ Not so subtle in his so-called 'baby fever', your husband has been going on and on about how his child will be his little flame, the apple of his eye, his world. You have no fear, then, sharing the news, in fact you amuse yourself by dropping your state in conversation like the plainest fact. "I'm glad you've got those new blankets, dear, what with the baby coming in winter and all," you told Gloin, taking a sip of your tea. Deafening is the only word you can use to describe the roar of celebration he gives, wonderfully bone-crushing and teeth-rattling your embrace and kiss.
✧ Tackles you to bed almost every night the first week, covering your cheeks and belly alike with kisses.
✧ Spends that very same time period sharing with absolutely any soul who even remotely listens that he’s going to be a father!
✧ Gloin is very insistent upon your care, even taking it upon himself to make your meals by hand. Which, suffice it to say, is a bit disastrous the first few times but he emerges triumphant in the end and succeeds in filling you with all the hearty things your budding dwarrowling needs!
✧ Being married to a dwarf means you have a husband who absolutely adores the extra pounds you put on and has no qualms about showing you in and out of the bedroom! Even just stopping by the market he’ll be wrapped around you.
✧ Encourages the baby every time they kick, shouting out praise of their strength while you tell him to cool it, all those kicks are going to you!
Bifur
✧ A large part of him thought that he would never be able to experience fatherhood. Not since the injury, and that had happened at such a young age. You cut right through that fear, assured Bifur that he would be an amazing father regardless of if he did some things differently. And that he would soon see, for your family would be growing early the next year.
✧ In all honesty, you feel blessed to have a husband who signs, for your baby will likely be able to communicate early! When you tell Bifur this he breaks out into tears, for what an angel you are to see the beauty in him. Every side of him. He promises to do the same.
✧ And make good on that does he! You will never want for love for even on your illest days Bifur is right by your side, his caresses gentle and speaking volumes of adoration.
✧ Absolutely adores jumping into the bath with you! His excuse being he has to help you and may as well rinse his beard off, but you can see how eager he is to run his hands over your hair and see the way your body relaxes at his cleansing touch. He wants nothing more than to feel useful, needed, and you assure him you cannot do this without him.
✧ Again and again, in fact, on the days when he stands behind you, holding up your burden and cheering you with little jokes and flirtation in Khuzdul even as you are overcome with exhaustion.
✧ Proudly tells everyone who will listen that he’s got a little warrior in there whenever the baby kicks!
Bofur
✧ You hadn’t exactly been trying. You hadn’t exactly been not trying, either. The news comes to you through a haze, muffled by the great rush of other thoughts bombarding your mind and sending your heart beating, but at their heart comes the image of Bofur holding a little one and bouncing them upon his knee and your chest flutters and soars. Your visit is completed all in smiles, and upon returning him to your husband’s questioning about the flu you’ve gone in for, you tell him it likely will not go away until the end of the year. “The end of the year? Why ever that long? I’ve never heard of a flu like that, not even-” “‘tisn’t a flu, my darling,” you smirk at him, “it’s a baby.” “A- you’re- we’re gonna have a-” Bofur is all agape, stepping closer and hovering his hands over your middle like he doesn’t want to grip you in a way that breaks you. “That all right?” You ask, half-teasing, for he has recently confided in you his envy of Bombur’s family. “All right? Song of my heart, I could kiss you!” “Well, what’s stopping you?”
✧ If you thought Bofur was affectionate before, well Mahal be with you, for you haven't seen anything yet! He falls even more in love with your body knowing it's carrying his and your child, hands nearly always holding or roaming you. When you're out and about, your husband usually has a hand at the small of your back, supporting the weight you carry as you walk and running soothingly up and down. Kisses all over your belly in private.
✧ This lends to how quick your husband is to reassure you on days you don't feel so friendly with your body, those times when you'd like nothing more than to shatter the looking-glass. "All I see," Bofur tells you one day, a hand on each of your shoulders as you peer together, "Is the most beautiful thing I've ever laid my lucky eyes upon, and she's not got an easy job. If I were her, I'd be proud of myself. Proud of making a comfortable home for our little one. And if I was her husband, why, I'd take her as she is right here and now! Right nice for me I am her husband, eh?"
✧ “Imagine havin’ a little girl.” Lying side by side, you heard Bofur’s wistful tone and felt a small smile creep onto your lips. “I’ll do her hair up in braids and tie them with ribbons. She’ll have all the pretty things she wants, because I have mine right here,” he adds, turning over to caress your belly and pull your lips into his.
✧ Marrying a toymaker comes with distinct perks: your husband crafts the most magnificent little wheeled contraptions and carven animals for your new addition! He spends hours carving and glazing them, and sometimes you catch him having fallen asleep at his workbench when you struggle to stay in dreamland, covering him up with a spare blanket.
✧ You worry because the baby doesn’t seem to move much, but Oin confirms everything seems to be going fine. “Your wee bairn just got this one’s personality, it seems!” He jokes, stabbing a mock-accusatory finger Bofur’s way.
Bombur
✧ A baker's dozen. For as long as you've known him, that's how many wee ones Bombur purported wanting. Thirteen more than most dwarves have, you always tease him, but in reality every time you see your sweet husband with children and hear him dream of a family your heart leaps. That is why the moment you take his hands and tell him it's come true is special, intimate, a quiet draw in and out of breath that has him sobbing joyously and nuzzling into your embrace with so much love your chest bursts from the flight of it.
✧ Sixth senses never seemed real to you until you became pregnant and it was like Bombur knew what you were craving and was making it before you could even say anything!
✧ Cannot keep away from you. Always wants to be kissing you and cupping your cheeks and holding your hands, just so so sweet!
✧ Bombur is so much more good-natured than you, for all the jokes about how you'll be as big as him soon have you swinging, but he just holds you back and laughs alongside them, saying he's looking forward to it with a twinkle in his eye.
✧ Literally baffled if you ever feel bad about your body; his legitimate confusion alone halfway snaps you out of the sad reverie, and all the following words about your beauty and your husband's appreciation of every inch does the rest.
✧ "You know I'll keep you safe, right? Both of you," he tells you one day, a hand resting upon your bump, "I may not be some great warrior, but Mahal help anyone who comes between us."
Dori
✧ From even before you were actually wed you knew that Dori would be an excellent father. Having taken care of his younger brothers from quite an early age, he had knowledge atop a naturally caring personality you fell for. Gentlemanly Dori waited with you, keeping chaste until after your wedding, but once it is official you know your news could come at any time and you accept that. On your one-year anniversary, in fact, your first gift to Dori is the tiniest bracelet of fine amber beads. “Does this mean…?” As soon as he sees you nod, Dori is taking you in his arms, cradling you gently as if you were made of fine porcelain and thrice as precious.
✧ Caring father-to-be. A little too caring. "If those are too heavy for you, I can carry them!" "They're just books, I'll be alright, Dori." "Oh, don't eat that, you got sick last time." "I haven't been sick in a month!" "That's a lot of steps, should I carry you?" "...Actually, sure."
✧ Always sleeps with his arm wrapped around your middle. No exceptions.
✧ Has every manner of tea and remedy you could desire on hand or otherwise purchases it. Same goes for supplies- Dori even found a ring-shaped cushion for you to lay on! He has your back for any ailment and is often there to make or apply your cure himself. After all, he wouldn't trust anyone else to do it!
✧ You love this dwarf with all your heart. He takes it upon himself to find dwarrowdams willing to let him practice changing diapers on their wee bairns and surprises you with this newfound skill when you return home one day!
✧ Dori’s love of the finer things absolutely carries over into his future fatherhood, as he has the loveliest little velvet clothes made and procures the dearest little bejeweled hairbrush. All in all, both of you amass far more than you need because any time you go out it inevitably devolves into you two clasping your joined hands between each other, gushing over all the wee things, and taking them home!
Nori
✧ He never thought he would get married at all, let alone have a family, but as time goes on the desire to continue his lineage and finally settle down takes hold. Then suddenly there he is desperately trying to seduce you into trying for a little one! It doesn't take long, not with his charm, until the day comes when you teasingly tell him that he got his way. Smirking until the realization takes hold of him, his arms are then snaking around your waist to pull you close.
✧ Always talking about how he's going to teach his little one everything he knows. When pressed about it, responds with such things as fighting and picking locks. His defense? "What if 'e gets stuck somewhere, or-"
✧ Impatient! "When am I gonna be able to feel 'em?" He asks, a hand upon your belly, which has yet to display any changes. "Not for another few months, Nori! I haven't even begun to show!"
✧ Hides things sometimes or puts them up places you can't go just so he can swoop in and help you, saving your day and pressing a kiss to your cheek as he tells you he can handle it, don't you worry your pretty little head.
✧ Nori always teases you when he pours himself a drink. "Bet you'd like some of this, huh? Not for three more months!" He chuckles. Your brows furrow. "Three months? What about when I'm feeding?" "What does tha- oh. Does that really-" "Yes, yes it does." "By the stars, I could have got my baby drunk!"
✧ Talks to the baby quite a bit, especially when he finally can feel the kicks. "Where you running off to, huh?" He chuckles, feeling the flutters against his hand pick up. "That's 'cause of me, isn't it? You hear me? That's right, it's your da. Can you believe it? Me, your da! I'll take good care of you, you hear?"
Ori
✧ "Ori, dear," you implored your husband, "Might you knit something for me?" Looking up from the scarf he'd just finished, Ori's eyes fell upon you and he gave that smile, the special one reserved just for you. "Of course. What would you like?" "A wee pair of booties," you replied, hands clasped and expression dreamy. "Who needs booties?" He asked, head cocked. "We will in the fall," you answered, stepping closer and resting a hand upon his. Ori's jaw dropped. "You... I... We-" Smile widening, you nodded. "I. You. We," you agreed.
✧ Nearly from the first day you know you are with child, Ori is rattling off names. After tossing out a great deal, he finally pauses and gives a sheepish apology. "I'm sorry, I suppose I've thought about this a lot," he confesses with a grin, "I just can't believe it's happening." Your hand joins with his, resting over your little bump. "Neither can I. It's like a dream."
✧ "So," you ask Ori one day, leaning your chin upon the couch where you'd lain, "What should our plan be for when my water breaks?" Your husband's brows furrow. "When your what?" "Oh, no," you mutter. Cue Ori spending his afternoon receiving a great multitude of lessons. What he got for being raised by other dwarf men, you suppose. "That really all happens to you?" He asks, gaping at you as though you came of the Valar themselves. "Yes, it does. Birth is a great deal of work. They don't just run on out, you know!" "Yes, I know. Of course I know." Ori's voice is faint; he excuses himself and you assume it's to faint or be sick, but about an hour later he returns bearing gifts. "I'm sorry I'm putting you through all that." "Sweetheart," you chuckle, cupping his cheek, "You know it takes two, right?" Your sweet husband reddened, but he nodded.
✧ Ori takes on almost all the cleaning himself- you haven't even asked! Finally curiosity gets the better of you and you inquire as to why he's gotten so into housekeeping. "Well, aren't you tired?" He asks simply, innocently, and you wonder how you got so lucky.
✧ He also knits far more than that pair of booties you requested- all three of you will have matching sweaters before your little one has arrived!
✧ Ori's favorite thing in the world is sitting with you in his lap, one hand cradling your growing bump and the other holding a book as you two take turns reading aloud, filling your cozy hollow with the sounds of voices your little one will come to love. The books are hand-drawn, written, and bound by him, of course!
Fili
✧ You two speak of little ones so much it borderline infuriates the others, Kili himself even bursting out in frustration one day at yet another interruption about tiny clothes, "Just get her pregnant already!" "Good idea. See you later," Fili replies, scooping you up and carrying you off bridal-style. "Wait, I- Damn, brother..." In reality, Fili just carried you around the corner and set you down while you two burst out laughing, but about a month later your tries were in fact successful!
✧ Honeyed words were no trouble for your husband before, but now? Praise falls endlessly from his lips. "Never did I think you could get more beautiful, and yet each day you succeed beyond my wildest dreams."
✧ Fili has a near-magical sense for your new struggles of coordination, all but flying to your side to catch your hand or waist whenever you trip or even whenever you must rise up again from your seat!
✧ He loves to tease you, asking what disgusting thing you'll think of him to fix next or joke that he can finally beat you in a fight in this state, but every joke is punctuated by the most loving eyes and gestures that they cannot do a thing but warm your heart and make you chuckle.
✧ Your baby is very active, kicking all the time! "We've definitely got a little Fili in here!" Your husband exclaims with a grin, hand resting atop your belly to feel your little one's exuberant motions. "A strong babe for sure," you sigh, "Much to the pity of my ribs!" "Too bad we aren't having a Kili. Nice and lazy for you." "Hey, I heard that!"
✧ He turns his head, peering over his shoulder at you as you waddle after him, golden hair cascading down. "Care for me to slow down a little?" "I care for you to shut up," you shoot back, crossing your arms and fighting your smile.
Kili
✧ The thought crossed your mind far before it did your husband's. Not that Kili had no desire for children, it was simply that the possibility was all the more yours to consider. It took a visit from your young cousin, who had Kili wrapped around your finger, for the fire to light in your husband's head as well, a smile lighting up his face. "We- we could..." "I know, Kili." You could and you certainly did but a few months later.
✧ "I hope they look just like you." "Me too." Kili pulls his head out of the crook of your neck. "Hey, that is the part where you say 'no, I hope they look like you'!" "I'm doing the work of carrying for how long again? Nine, ten months? Least they can do is resemble me a little," you shoot back with a smirk.
✧ It was Oin who brought the news: "Both babies seem healthy as far as I can tell!" "Both?" You gape. "Both babies?" "'s right," Oin replies, "I know I can't always hear the best, but I haven't been wrong on a heartbeat yet. You can feel 'em." "Guess we did pretty good, eh love?" Kili teases, earning him an elbow to the ribs, but he just shakes his head and tugs you closer against his chest. "Should we make their names confusing as well?" "Don't you think it might get old for them?" "Fili and I switched names plenty of times and we aren't even identical!" You should have known.
✧ Kili takes to sleeping facing you, close enough that sometimes your cheeks brush. Others he slips down lower and you awake with your husband cuddled up to the bump of your belly.
✧ Will come running from any room, anywhere, to feel the babies kick, and also loves tugging along any of his family he can take, too. Childlike wonder fills your husband's eyes every time and pride glistens in his dark eyes when he's brought along his mother, his brother, even his uncle the king!
✧ Never once do you doubt yourself or have one moment of room for insecurity, for Kili still flirts with you as if you were tweens and sneaks all sorts of touches, pecks, and affectionate hands in your hair wherever he can find it! The notion of a baby destroying the romance of your relationship is laughable to you, who married a dwarf that has no shame telling you you're the most gorgeous creature to walk the earth and warm his-and the baby's in a different way-body.
Bilbo
✧ Bilbo's a perceptive hobbit. He knows something's off with you. You don't usually scurry around the way you are like everything has to be perfect. That's his job. "Something the matter? Are you... expecting someone?" Your husband follows you down Bag End's hall as he gives his inquiry, eyebrows shooting up at the look on your face when you turn around. Consternation, resignation, finally a smile. "I was going to tell you after dinner," you answered, "But since you asked it like that, yes I am expecting someone. Our child this spring." At that, it was Bilbo's turn to shift through expressions. Shock, realization, finally a smile.
✧ Nursery shopping has become Bilbo's favorite pastime. Baby Baggins isn't arriving for months and yet your husband is returning from market with all manner of trinkets for the shelves and paper for the walls. You cannot help giggling at his armfuls of supplies and kissing his cheek as you relieve as much of his burden as he allows you to.
✧ So sweet, always helping you dress, pulling on every garment with the utmost of care and even avoiding your reflection on days you feel bad. Quickly kissing each part of your body before he covers it with something he knows will be comfortable.
✧ You'll be eating well whether you like it or not! Bilbo will make you anything under the sun if it means you and Baby Baggins are getting nourishment and he certainly will not have you skimping! Anything that makes you sick simply is not allowed in Bag End at all, end of discussion.
✧ One night, you awake to soft whispers and your heart melts at the sight of Bilbo resting his chin on your growing bump talking to the baby. Not uttering a word, you simply watch, taking in the moment beneath the sheen of tears in your eyes.
✧ "Careful, careful," Bilbo is always telling you, holding your hand and guiding you over the smallest of obstacles, even little puddles and rocks.
Thranduil
✧ He has talked about getting you pregnant before, but speaking of it and doing it are two entirely different things, especially with...well, words of such nature. Thus, you find yourself nervously wringing your hands before your husband as he strokes your face, asking whatever is the matter. At Thranduil's touch, his intense gaze, you fin yourself melting and admitting all, confessing that you are expecting his child. You are certainly not expecting the way his confident smile utterly falters, dissipating in favor of the look of a man near tears. "Truly? A little one of our own?" "Yes," you whisper, finally able to smile as the tension melts from your body, which is soon pulled against the Woodland King's. "Long have I dreamed of this day, my love."
✧ One of his favorite new activities is commissioning you new maternity dresses; you will certainly have plenty to wear if Thranduil has any say about it! In addition, when the time comes of course he requests that you model them for him.
✧ Thranduil loves to sneak up behind you, lightly wrapping his hands about your waist and laying them atop yours, his head resting in the crook of your neck and breathy, pleased laughter warming the skin there.
✧ When you start showing, oh, he loves it. One more sign that you are his, utterly and truly his queen, his beloved, claimed by Thranduil in every sense. He follows your lead, a hand around your waist, letting you shine like the gem he knows you to be. Rarely will you two be seen apart, not when the king can bask in your glow, relish the eyes upon your beautiful form, heavy with his child.
✧ There is one day he catches you in tears and heart tearing he steps to scoop you up against him, cheeks held gently in his elegant hands, which begin to glitter with your tears. "My rings no longer fit," you sob, head falling to his chest. Thranduil holds you close, grip loose as though you might break. "That is not your fault, meleth nîn." "I feel so... so massive." "Who wishes a small dwelling, hm? Piteous thing not to have any comforts. Your body is a host of life, the vessel of a bloodline. Beautiful in all its forms. Never forget that, oh dearest one."
✧ Thranduil is experienced; he knows many little tricks to help you feel better, be they massages or ways to bear your weight. He impresses you with the knowledge he has of the ways of women, understanding your water breaking, dilation, and every complication the healers warn you about and telling you before they even do!
Feren
✧ First to know was neither you nor your husband, but rather your cat, for she had suddenly become your little shadow, following you about your home and taking rest upon your lap as often as she could. "I wonder what it is that got into her," you commented one afternoon, smiling and stroking her back. "Growing up, ours got like this when my mother was carrying my younger sisters. Both times. It was like he could sense it," Feren replied. You both sat in smiling silence for a moment longer before simultaneously straightening, looking each other right in the widening eyes.
✧ Gets a little flustered, frankly. Not so much at your news itself, simply the realization sinking in that he is to be a father. He, Feren, will have a child. He says this out loud several times before suddenly breaking out into a smile. You tease him for going through half his emotions at once, but now the wave of joy has swept him up!
✧ Playfully rolls his eyes and mock-complains every time you remind him that he has to clean up after the cat now! Subsequently adds that he would fetch you the moon if you asked it.
✧ Loves helping you bathe the more difficult your condition makes it, scrubbing your hair with such care and gently massaging your sore feet and ankles as you wash up. Despite your husband's skill in battle, Feren's hands are the most loving and delicate you could ask for.
✧ Your husband has a natural tendency to rise early, so now that your sleep has become more fitful you do find that you have more time to spend together. Your head falling to his shoulder as you whisper to each other, seated as you are upon your bed with blankets draped over your shoulders.
✧ Feren wins your heart time and time again, like the day he lowered you down gently onto the grass of a sunny meadow, basking with you and weaving flowers. He made you a ring, crowned you with a wreath of flowers atop your head, and made another little one to place gently on the curve of your belly, bringing your heart to soar.
Bard
✧ Uncertainty wracks your heart and wrings your hands at the would-be-cheerful news. In fact, you yourself do feel joy, have since your suspicions were confirmed, but would Bard see it the same way? He already has three mouths to feed, three children all old enough to take care of themselves. Will he wish to start it all over so? "What's wrong, love? Your lip is bleeding." So it is. You've practically gnawed the poor thing off in all your stewing. A sigh escapes you. Bard is your husband. No sense in delaying a very necessary conversation. "I know we should have spoken more about it..." You begin, trailing off. At once, Bard senses your reservation and rises to your side, taking hold of your arms; the love in his dark eyes brings a small smile to your lips and relaxes you slightly. "I'm with child, Bard." Almost childlike is the wonder and joy spreading across your face, and before you can say another word you are being pulled into Bard's chest, face snuggling into the fur of his coat.
✧ He knows what to expect, naturally, so Bard is definitely not the type of husband to gripe about your requests, though he does smirk and poke fun if you’re especially outrageous with it or have a funny enough delivery. Then kisses you if you pout about it before fetching what you seek.
✧ Caution overtakes you and your husband as you make to tell his older children the news, particularly you, but your wringing hands relax when you can see the joy in their eyes, particularly the girls! They hope the baby is another girl, hugging you so tight you almost cannot breathe, but you complain not.
✧ Happy is Bard to take on assistance cooking; he knows it can make you sick sometimes and besides, it's a nice excuse to make sure you get all the nutrients you need! You are certainly very lucky in the skill and domesticity of your spouse.
✧ Stands behind you and reaches his arms around you, lifting up the weight you carry and smiling, kissing your neck and cheeks as you relax from your burden.
✧ He also has no qualms about making you rest, down even to physically lifting you up and carrying you to bed if he must!
Beorn
✧ Hesitant as he always would have claimed to be about bringing more Skin-Changers into a world so cruel to them, Beorn feels his nesting instincts kick in very quickly after you become his wife. You see it in the things he gathers, the way your husband moves things such as your blades to higher, safer locations. He is anticipating something. Something you cannot help pulling him aside and asking about, and when your feelings on the subject are made known, well, it is entirely possible you conceived that very night.
✧ Beorn has an almost eerie sense for all the changes taking place in your body. You feel a sharp pain in your back, and without a word your husband is behind you, ushering you down for a massage with some of the oils he's pressed.
✧ The aforementioned nesting instincts manifest early on, your husband carefully blunting corners and tucking away the best blankets so the little one-or ones!- will be nothing but safe and comfortable.
✧ Withdrawn as he could be, Beorn's affection is drawn out by your condition, his big brown eyes soft upon you as he pulls you into his lap, large hands secure about your waist and sliding gently up and down your growing belly.
✧ And grow it does! It seems to get heavier by the day, but that is explained thanks to your husband's exceptional hearing. "Four heartbeats. One is yours. A litter- three are coming!" Spots dance in your vision at that news, but Beorn's smile as he grips your hand brings you back to the light. You could do it with him by your side. "Our little litter."
✧ He attempts to reassure you anytime your anxiety grows. "My dearest flower, I have delivered hundreds of calves and piglets in my day! You will see this through." Reassuring? Perhaps not so much. But in your heightened emotion, that does break you into a wild laughter that does indeed relax you nonetheless.
Want to meet the little ones? Perhaps there will be a Part 2 😉
bad boy x smarter girl | detention glances & rooftop secrets | don’t fall for him, don’t fall for him, don’t—"he kissed her like a dare. she kissed him like it was the last mistake she'd ever make. and neither of them stopped."
masterlist
Chapter 5
The universe, in its infinite cruelty, has decided that you deserve suffering.
Because this morning, on a perfectly normal Thursday, your AP Lit teacher says the words that will ruin your entire week:
“For this unit, you’ll all be working in pairs for the final presentation on modern themes in romantic tragedy. I’ve already assigned partners.”
You already know.
You already know.
And sure enough—
“Todd and (Y/L/N).”
You snap your head toward him across the classroom. Jason’s already looking at you. Smirking. Like he expected this. Like he manifested it with his criminal energy and cocky eyebrows.
You want to fling your annotated Wuthering Heights across the room.
You work in the school library during lunch that day. Or at least, you try to.
Jason, on the other hand, keeps talking.
Loudly.
“Okay, so I was thinking we do something easy. Like Romeo + Juliet. Baz Luhrmann style. I’ll grow sideburns, you get a gold gun. We’ll make out in a fish tank.”
You give him a look so deadpan it could bury him.
“No.”
“Come on. People love doomed love stories.”
“And I love not failing.”
Jason sprawls in the chair across from you, hands behind his head. The size difference between you is laughable—he takes up so much space without even trying. Meanwhile, your legs are crossed, your arms are folded, and your entire body is coiled like a trap every time he says something flirty.
He leans in. “What do you want to do? Something nerdy and depressing?”
You raise a brow. “Why, yes. How did you know?”
“Because you scream, ‘I wrote a college essay on Euripides for fun.’”
“And you scream, ‘I passed English because someone paid off the school board.’”
“Not wrong.”
You sigh and flip open your notes. “We’re doing A Streetcar Named Desire.”
Jason frowns. “That’s the one with the screaming guy, right?”
You blink. “You mean Stanley?”
Jason cups his hands to his mouth: “STELLA—”
You slap your hand over his mouth before the entire library kicks you out.
“Geez,” you hiss. “Shut up.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief under your palm. His mouth lingers a beat too long on your skin. You yank your hand back like it burns.
Jason’s smile fades a little.
And in the silence that follows, there’s something… charged.
Too quiet. Too heavy. Too real.
Over the next few days, things get strange.
Not bad.
Not good.
Just strange.
You and Jason actually work well together—annoyingly well. He listens more than you expect. When you bring up feminist theory and how Blanche Dubois is a symbol of post-war fragility and toxic femininity, he nods. He asks questions.
You almost forget who he used to be. Or maybe… you’re just seeing who he is now.
Sometimes your hands brush when you both reach for the same note card.
Sometimes you look up and find him already watching you.
Sometimes he says things like, “You’re a lot, you know that?” in this soft voice that doesn’t feel like an insult. Just a truth. One that he likes.
And sometimes—like today—it all goes to hell.
You're outside school after rehearsal, sitting on a bench, still in your uniform shirt and jeans, flipping through your notebook. Jason's late. Of course.
He finally shows up ten minutes before the bell rings for sixth period, wearing a black hoodie, jaw tight.
“You’re late,” you say, not looking up.
He sits beside you but doesn’t respond.
You glance at him.
His knuckles are bruised again. Fresh. His expression is locked down.
“What happened?” you ask carefully.
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Jason—”
“I said it’s nothing.”
You blink at the tone—sharp, cold. Not like him. Not like how he's been with you.
Your stomach knots.
“Don’t take it out on me,” you say tightly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I never said you did.”
You snap your notebook shut. “You’re acting like I’m the one who ruined your day.”
“Maybe I’m just realizing this was a mistake.”
The words hit harder than they should.
You go still.
He exhales, dragging his hands through his hair. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Too late.”
Silence coils between you again—but this time, it hurts.
You stand up, arms crossed. “You don’t get to play sweet one second and snap the next like nothing matters.”
Jason rises, too. “I’m not playing anything.”
“Then what is this, Jason? What are we doing?”
He hesitates.
And that’s the worst part.
He doesn’t say nothing. He just doesn’t say anything.
You scoff under your breath and grab your bag.
“I’ll finish the project myself.”
You walk away before he can stop you.
He doesn’t.
[JASON]: I’m sorry.
That night, he texts.
And then…
[JASON]: Things are messy right now.
[JASON]: It’s not about you. It’s just stuff. With my family.
[JASON]: I didn’t mean to take it out on you.
You stare at your phone for a long time.
[YOU]: That’s not good enough.
You don’t expect him to show up to class the next day.
After all, Jason Todd is nothing if not consistent—consistently late, consistently charming, consistently someone who burns bridges just to see if you’ll still meet him in the smoke.
But when you walk into AP Lit, he’s already there.
At your table.
With the project folder in front of him.
His head is down like he’s reading something, but his eyes flick up the moment you approach.
You hesitate. You’re not ready to forgive him. You’re not even sure you want to. But there’s something about the way he’s sitting—shoulders drawn in, not trying to take up space like he usually does—that makes your chest ache in that slow, reluctant way.
You sit.
Silently.
Jason clears his throat. “Hey.”
You don’t answer.
He pushes the folder toward you. “I, um. I rewrote our scene breakdown. It was bothering me.”
You glance down, confused. Your last draft had been solid. You’d worked hard on it. Even stayed up editing it line by line. But when you start skimming his notes… your breath catches.
He didn’t rewrite it to erase you.
He rewrote it for you.
It’s neater. Clearer. Your analysis is still there, word for word—but now it’s supported by new sources. New formatting. Your scattered bullet points have been organized, with a clean structure that matches the rubric to a T. And in the margins—tiny, cramped handwriting in blue pen—are Jason’s own notes.
Blanche uses femininity like armor here. (Just like you said—v smart.)
I don’t think Stanley’s the villain exactly? But I like how you framed it—maybe he’s society’s consequence?
Added that thing you said about mirrors & fragility from class — good point.
You freeze.
This is… thoughtful.
Embarrassingly thoughtful.
It’s not flashy. It’s not public. It’s not a “look at me” performance with a marching band.
It’s just him. Quietly trying.
He watches you read, picking at a frayed thread on his hoodie sleeve. When you finally lift your eyes, his voice is low.
“I know you said that wasn’t good enough. My apology.”
You don’t say anything.
He licks his lips. “But I didn’t want to let the project die just because I suck at talking.”
You set the folder down carefully.
“You didn’t suck at talking,” you say, voice even. “You just sucked at not shutting me out.”
Jason exhales—half a breath, maybe even relief.
“I’ve got some stuff going on. With my brothers. And Bruce. And school, and—” he stops himself, shakes his head. “No excuse. I was just angry, and I didn’t want to feel like I had to explain myself. But you didn’t deserve that.”
You nod slowly.
The classroom is loud around you—papers shuffling, chairs scraping, someone whispering about the math quiz in third period—but none of it registers.
Not when he’s looking at you like that.
“I’m not gonna grovel,” Jason says softly. “But I’ll keep showing up. You can ignore me, yell at me, punch me in the face—”
“I’ve considered it.”
He smirks a little, but his eyes are serious.
“—but I’m not gonna stop trying.”
That shouldn't sound as good as it does.
Jason’s grin falters, turns crooked. “Yeah, well. Maybe I want to be more than ‘not a complete asshole.’”
You shift in your seat. “You shouldn’t have to try this hard just to convince me you’re not a complete asshole.”
He pauses. “At least to you.”
You hate the way your pulse jumps.
Hate the way it means something.
Your fingers brush the edge of the folder. “You really highlighted my points in blue.”
“Only the brilliant ones.”
“You wrote jokes in the margins.”
“You laughed at like two of them.”
“I snorted.”
Jason leans forward slightly. “Best sound I’ve heard all week.”
You shoot him a dry look.
“I’m still mad,” you say.
“I know.”
“I’m not ready to forgive you.”
“I can wait.”
There it is again—that damn patience of his. Like he’s not in a rush. Like you’re the only thing he’s willing to take slow.
You exhale and open the folder again. “If we’re going to survive this presentation, you’re annotating the second half of the text.”
Jason raises a brow. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, and you have to print it.”
“God, you’re ruthless.”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you live.”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it any other way.”
You don’t smile.
But your lips twitch. Just a little.
And Jason sees it.
—
The classroom lights are dimmed.
The chalkboard reads:
STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE — FINAL PRESENTATIONS TODAY
Group 3: Todd + [Your Last Name]
You pace in the hallway just outside the door, holding the stapled script like it might bite you. You’ve highlighted your lines, annotated everything, even color-coded your cue notes—but your stomach still turns.
This isn’t nerves. It’s something else.
It’s him.
Because ever since that damn apology, Jason’s been different.
He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t push. He listens.
And worst of all—he’s… good at this.
You thought you’d be dragging him through this scene like dead weight, but Jason’s performance during rehearsal was tight. Tense. Devastatingly aware of you.
You hated it.
You kind of loved it.
The door creaks open.
“Hey.” Jason’s voice is low. “You ready?”
He’s in a plain gray tee and jeans—nothing flashy. Just that stupid leather jacket slung over one shoulder and the kind of look in his eyes that says he’s not just playing Stanley—he understands him.
You exhale sharply.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He tilts his head. “You sure?”
“Why? Scared I’ll outshine you?”
Jason grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
—
The class is quiet when you step inside.
Your teacher sits at the front, a clipboard in her lap.
You and Jason take your places at the front of the room. No costumes, no props—just raw scene work. The moment you face him, everything else disappears.
He opens his mouth and begins the scene.
“You come in here and sprinkle the place with powder and spray perfume—” Jason’s voice is low, controlled, heat simmering beneath the surface, “—and cover the lightbulb with a paper lantern, and lo and behold the place has turned into Egypt and you are the Queen of the Nile!”
He’s staring at you.
No—through you.
Your reply snaps out like a whip. “That’s not fair.”
Your breath catches. You weren't supposed to feel this.
But Jason’s voice softens—just slightly. “I’m not sayin’ you’re lying. I’m sayin’ you’ve got to be realistic.”
His eyes lock with yours. And that’s when it happens
The scene bleeds. The lines fade.
It’s no longer just Stanley talking to Blanche. It’s Jason, voice laced with something quieter—something raw.
“And I’m not gonna let you lie to me,” he murmurs.
That line wasn’t in the script.
You blink.
Jason’s lips part like he hadn’t meant to say it that way. Like maybe he’s not sure what just happened either. But he doesn’t drop your gaze. He holds it, steady.
The room doesn’t exist.
Just your heartbeat. Loud. Wild.
You go off script too. “Then stop pretending you know who I am.”
Your teacher clears her throat from the front. You both flinch.
Jason breaks eye contact, dragging a hand through his hair. You turn sharply back to the script and finish the last lines in a rush—something about light and shadows—but your voice shakes.
The moment you say the final word, your teacher claps.
“Well done,” she says. “That was… heated.”
The class titters.
Jason gives a tight nod. His ears are red.
You grab your folder and head back to your desk, heart pounding.
Jason catches up with you just before you sit.
He leans down, voice quiet. “That wasn’t… I didn’t mean to—”
You cut him off, refusing to look up. “Don’t explain.”
“I’m not.”
You finally glance up.
His face is too honest. His voice is too gentle.
“I’m just saying,” he adds, “maybe it wasn’t just Stanley talking.”
You open your mouth—but no words come out.
You hate that he’s right. You hate that you wish he wasn’t.
You hate that your chest is still burning where his eyes were. Jason backs off slowly. “I’ll… see you tomorrow.”
You nod.
But you don’t look away until he’s gone.
—
After the Streetcar presentation, you think maybe he’ll back off again. But he doesn’t.
Jason doesn’t try to kiss you. Doesn’t crack a joke or send a text at 2 a.m. saying “so what was that?” He doesn’t even sit beside you in class. Instead, he lets the moment settle like dust—quiet, slow.
You find yourself watching him when you shouldn’t.
The way he leans back in his chair like he’s too big for the room. The way he mouths along with poetry under his breath, like he already knows the ending. The way his eyes flick to you whenever someone mentions the word love—like he’s waiting for your scoff, like he wants to hear what you really think.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because for once, you don’t know.
You don’t believe in love. Not the big, cinematic kind. Not the kind that makes people forget themselves. But the look he gave you during the scene? The line that wasn’t in the script?
It felt like something you shouldn’t touch.
So you do what you always do: you write it down. Three days before prom, your class gets a final creative writing assignment:
Poetry Slam Presentation.
Write a piece that explores a personal theme. Share aloud.
You pretend it’s stupid.
You pretend you don’t care. And then you go home and write until 2 a.m., your pen slicing across the page like it’s angry too.
Presentation Day.
You stand at the front of the room with your notebook. Jason’s in the back row, chewing the cap of a pen, legs stretched out like he’s not ready for this. You glance down at the title.
“Kill Me.”
You inhale.
Then begin:
kill me.
by [Your Name]
kill me with your stupid voice
your deep, careless, silver-tongued voice
that drips charm like oil on fire
too loud for a library
too soft when it counts.
kill me with your hands
that always hovered near mine
never touching
but never gone.
like you wanted to hold me
but didn’t think you deserved to.
kill me with the way you say my name
like it’s a dare
or a secret
or both.
kill me with your eyes—
kind and cruel,
like they want to read me
like they already have.
kill me because you don’t make sense.
because you’re the boy who made a bet
and then stopped smiling when i got hurt.
the boy who sang like a joke
and meant every note.
the boy who annotated my rage in blue pen
and said i was brilliant
like it was a fact, not a flirt.
kill me because you waited.
and i don’t know what to do with that.
no one’s ever waited.
kill me because i don’t believe in love,
but i’m starting to believe in
you.
Silence.
You close the notebook.
The room is silent.
Your teacher opens her mouth like she wants to say something profound, but even she is caught off guard.
Jason?
Jason’s just… staring. No smirk. No quip. Just his eyes on you. Locked.
You walk back to your seat like nothing happened. Like your heart isn’t about to cave in on itself. When you pass him, he whispers:
“…Was that about me?”
You don’t look at him.
You just say:
“If you have to ask, it wasn’t.”
And keep walking.
The day after you read “Kill Me,” Jason doesn’t show up to first period.
Or second.
He’s not in the cafeteria. He doesn’t text. And for someone who’s made a career out of being everywhere all the time, it feels… wrong.
The classroom feels colder without him slouched in the back row.
So when he finally shows up in English—five minutes late, hood pulled low—you don’t know what to expect. He doesn’t look at you. Not once.
But when your teacher calls his name for the Poetry Slam presentation, he stands.
And for the first time in forever, Jason Todd looks nervous.
He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket, walks to the front, then pauses—eyes sweeping the room, landing on you.
“This is… uh.” His voice is lower than usual. “This is for someone. You’ll know who.”
He doesn’t wink.
He doesn’t smirk.
He just begins.
kiss me.
by jason todd
kiss me like you hate me.
because i know you want to.
i saw it in the way your hands shook
when you dropped your pen and didn’t want me to see.
i saw it when you called me a walking cliché
but still let me walk you home.
kiss me like it’s the only time.
because i’ll take it.
i’ll take scraps, i’ll take seconds,
i’ll take whatever you think you can give me—
and treat it like it’s everything.
kiss me when you're angry.
when your voice gets sharp,
when your eyes flash like fire alarms,
when you say you don’t believe in love
and still look at me like i might be
the first thing to change your mind.
kiss me because you wrote about me.
because every line in your poem was a bullet
and i still wanted more.
because even when you said you hated me,
you knew i’d be listening.
kiss me like it’s a bet.
kiss me like it’s revenge.
kiss me because if you don’t,
i’ll keep waiting.
and waiting.
and waiting.
because that’s the thing, isn’t it?
i’d wait a lifetime for a girl like you
to believe in something as stupid as
me.
The class is silent again.
But this time, your throat is.
Jason folds the paper once. Twice. Tucks it into his jacket and walks back to his seat. When he passes your desk, his hand brushes the edge—just once—and he doesn’t say anything.
You want to. God, you want to. But the words don’t come. Instead, you just watch him sit. And you realize—somewhere deep and awful—that maybe he was always telling the truth.
He was just waiting for you to believe it.
—
Two days before prom.
You find the note during detention.
The kind that shouldn’t exist anymore, passed like secrets in ruled paper, folded sharp and thin, slipped under your elbow as the teacher’s back is turned.
You uncrumple it without thinking. The handwriting is jagged. Familiar.
I wasn’t gonna ask.
Didn’t think I deserved to.
But you in that poem? You looked at me like I was already yours.So if you show up, I’ll be waiting.
If you don’t… I’ll still wait.
There’s no name. But there doesn’t have to be.
You press your lips together so you don’t smile.
And you fold the paper back up like it’s something you might want to read again later.
Prom night.
You don’t have a date.
You said no to everyone who asked, which wasn’t many—most too scared, a few too stupid. You told your mom you didn’t feel like it, that it was dumb, that you’d rather stay home and rewatch Little Women and scream about feminist rage.
But she made you the dress anyway.
It’s soft. The color is nothing like what you’d normally wear—something too pretty, too kind for the girl who argues with teachers and makes boys cry. But it fits. And it’s yours.
So you show up. For her.
Not for him.
That’s what you tell yourself.
The gym looks exactly how you expect: gold streamers, mismatched lights, a disco ball that spins like it’s trying to hypnotize you. There are too many people. Too many dresses. Too much laughter.
You hate it.
Until you see him.
Jason Todd, in a wrinkled black button-up and boots he didn’t bother to polish, leaning against the far wall like he belongs there. Not trying. Not performing.
Just waiting. Like he said he would. And when his eyes meet yours? He freezes. Like he didn’t think you’d actually come.
Like he can’t believe you look like that.
The song changes.
And suddenly, you hear it.
A slow, pulsing beat. Familiar.
Soft, dangerous, quiet at first—
But growing.
I wanna be your vacuum cleaner
Breathing in your dust…
Jason straightens. You take a step forward.
Neither of you says anything. Not yet.
And if you like your coffee hot
Let me be your coffee pot…
The room blurs. The music swells.
He’s standing in front of you now.
And you swear—for one breathless second—he’s going to say something stupid. Something like "I told you so,” or "You clean up okay.”
But he doesn’t.
He just holds out his hand.
You hesitate.
And then take it.
Because of course you do.
You don’t speak as he pulls you into the middle of the dance floor.
You don’t argue when his hands settle on your waist, unsure.
And you definitely don’t make a joke when you let your head rest lightly on his shoulder.
You just move with him. Breathe with him. Like maybe you’d been waiting too.
Let me be your 'leccy meter
And I'll never run out…
The words are ridiculous. You’d laugh, normally.
But Jason sways with you like he means every syllable. And suddenly, it’s not funny.
It’s terrifying.
Because if you look up now, you’ll say it.
All of it.
But then his voice—barely a whisper—cuts through the music.
“Why’d you really come?”
You lift your head.
And the truth spills out, small and brutal:
“Because you waited.”
Jason breathes in—sharp.
You expect him to kiss you.
But he doesn’t.
Not yet.
He just pulls you closer, like he’s memorizing the weight of you in his arms.
you find yourself cuddling under a blanket in hobie's lap at a crowded party, seemingly innocent. at least... at first. (a/n: just a lil drabble i wrote while i work on other things!!)
hobie x reader | 477 words
warnings: fingering, almost caught, slight voyeurism??
The bass of the music pulsed through the room, masking the subtle sounds of your uneven breathing. You sat on Hobie’s lap, a blanket draped over the both of you, hiding the way his hand was moving beneath it. His fingers were in your panties, teasing, pushing you closer to the edge as you tried desperately to keep your composure. To anyone else, it just looked like two people cuddling for warmth.
“Hobie,” you whispered through clenched teeth, your hands gripping his jacket. “Someone’s gonna see.”
He smirked against your ear, his voice low and smug. “Nah, love. They’re all too busy. Just you and me back here. Relax.” His other hand rested loosely on your waist, keeping you from moving too much.
But before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name.
“There you are!” Karl approached, his arrogant swagger already making Hobie stiffen beneath you. You froze, your eyes widening as Karl stopped in front of you both. He barely seemed to acknowledge your boyfriend, and you saw Hobie's jaw clench from the corner of your eye. He wasn't the type to get jealous, but Karl was...well, Karl. He had the sort of audacity that makes you wanna punch him in the face.
“H-hey,” you muttered under your breath, but Hobie’s fingers didn’t stop. If anything, they sped up, the deliberate movement making you gasp softly. You quickly turned it into a cough, hoping Karl didn’t notice.
“You alright?” Karl asked, frowning slightly. “You sound... off.”
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, your voice shaky and uneven. You tried to sit still, to act normal, but Hobie’s fingers curled just right, and your breath hitched audibly. Karl’s brow furrowed, his gaze flicking between you and Hobie.
Hobie, of course, looked completely unbothered. He leaned back against the chair, his arm casually draped around your waist as he smirked at Karl. “She’s fine, mate. Probably just tired. You know how it is.”
Karl hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he suspected something. But Hobie’s confident, almost lazy demeanor seemed to throw him off. After a moment, Karl cleared his throat. “Right. Well, uh, have you seen Gwen around?”
You tried to answer, but Hobie’s fingers moved faster, and the words caught in your throat. “I—I think she’s—” Another movement, sharper this time, and your voice faltered completely. You bit your lip hard, your nails digging into Hobie’s arm as you tried to hold it together.
“She’s probably by the bar,” Hobie said smoothly, saving you. “Maybe you should check there, yeah?”
Karl nodded slowly, clearly uncomfortable now. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.” He turned on his heel and walked away quickly, leaving you alone with Hobie once again.
The second Karl was gone, you turned to Hobie, glaring at him through your flushed cheeks. “You’re insane,” you hissed, your voice a mix of frustration and arousal. “He definitely noticed!”
Hobie just laughed, his fingers still working under the blanket. “Good. Maybe now he’ll take the hint and piss off.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your jaw as you squirmed in his lap. “C’mon, angel. Don’t stop now. You were doin’ so good.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but a moan slipped out instead, and Hobie’s grin widened. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.
the night was dragging on, the group arguing over whether a wormhole could technically allow for time travel, but you weren’t paying attention. your focus was on sheldon’s hand creeping higher up your thigh under the blanket.
he leaned in, voice low against your ear. “we should relocate to my room.”
“now?” you whispered, heart thudding.
“yes, now,” he said simply.
the next second, you were under him, legs hooked over his hips, sheldon thrusting into you deep and steady. the bed creaked in protest, the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall.
your fingers dug into his back, your mouth dropping open with every delicious snap of his hips. sheldon watched you carefully, scientific even now, gauging your reactions like data points. his thrusts were precise, methodical, hitting the spot that made you whimper.
outside, the group still sat in the living room, pretending not to hear the unmistakable sounds coming from sheldon’s bedroom.
“are we seriously just… letting this happen?” leonard asked, looking around helplessly.
“what can we do?” howard shrugged. “interrupt them mid-coitus? you know she’d probably kill us.”
penny grimaced. “i don’t think i can ever drink wine in that apartment again without hearing that noise.”
raj just chugged his beer.
in the room, sheldon leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck, never once losing his rhythm. every thrust filled you so completely you thought you might lose your mind.
“sheldon,” you gasped, nails scraping his shoulders.
“yes?” he answered, as if you’d just asked him about quantum physics.
“don’t stop,” you whispered, clenching around him.
he kissed you sweetly, the contrast between his soft mouth and the relentless roll of his hips sending you spiraling.
back outside, penny set down her drink with a loud clunk.
“okay, that’s it,” she said, standing up.
“penny, don’t,” leonard pleaded.
“i can’t not,” she hissed. “this is indecent.”
“they’re adults,” howard said with a smirk. “very noisy adults.”
“i’m going,” penny said, marching down the hallway.
“this is a bad idea,” leonard muttered, hurrying after her.
in the bedroom, you were right at the edge, back arching off the mattress as sheldon adjusted his angle, thrusting harder, faster. you clung to him desperately.
the door banged.
“sheldon! open up!” penny’s voice rang through.
he didn’t even pause.
you sobbed out his name, the humiliation burning hotter than the orgasm building in your gut.
“one moment, please,” sheldon called out politely, hips still snapping into you.
the door swung open.
penny and leonard froze, wide-eyed, at the sight of sheldon calmly fucking you into the mattress, sweat-slick skin gleaming, your body trembling underneath him.
“oh my god!” penny shrieked.
you cried out, trying to twist away, but sheldon just kept going, looking over his shoulder like he was answering a math question.
“hello, penny. leonard,” he said evenly. “do you require something?”
“you’re—you’re having sex!” penny stammered.
“correct,” sheldon said, thrusting deep, making you mewl.
leonard slapped a hand over his eyes. “we’re leaving! we’re leaving!”
penny grabbed the doorknob with a strangled noise and yanked it shut behind her.
you slapped sheldon’s arm, mortified. “you didn’t even stop!”
“why would i?” he asked logically, still working inside you, each thrust now more erratic. “their observation is irrelevant to our activity.”
you buried your face in the pillow, completely undone.
back in the living room, howard and raj exploded into laughter.
“what happened?!” raj asked.
“they’re going at it!” penny cried, pouring herself another drink.
“and talking to us like it’s a conference call,” leonard added weakly.
“oh my god, i can’t even imagine sheldon—” raj shuddered.
“he’s a machine,” penny said, wide-eyed.
“good for him,” howard said, nudging raj. “and good for her.”
meanwhile, sheldon’s hips stuttered as he felt you tighten around him.
“come for me,” he said lowly, a rare crack of heat in his voice.
you shattered, clenching around him, crying out as pleasure ripped through you. sheldon followed seconds later, pressing deep and spilling inside you with a shudder.
he finally stilled, breathing hard, forehead dropping to yours.
“successful copulation,” he murmured with a small, satisfied smile.
you let out a hysterical laugh, slapping his chest.
“you’re insane,” you gasped.
“no,” he corrected primly. “merely efficient.”
outside, penny flopped onto the couch.
“i need bleach for my brain,” she muttered.
“nope, i’m happy for them,” howard said smugly. “they’re gonna be at it all night, too. listen.”
the faint creak-creak-creak of sheldon’s bedframe started up again.
☆ SYNOPSIS : When you sit on their lap and shave their face.
☆ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Stephanie Brown, Male Cassandra Cain, Terry McGinnis.
☆ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆
“Is this necessary?” he asks, voice low, gravely.
“You haven’t shaved in two weeks. You’re starting to look like Alfred let you go feral.”
He huffs — not quite a laugh. “He made a comment.”
“I’m not surprised.”
You dip your fingers in warm water, lather the shaving cream over his jaw. Bruce doesn’t flinch. He never does. But his hands settle on your waist, grounding himself.
“You could let me do this more often,” you murmur, tilting his face.
His eyes stay on yours, soft in a way he rarely lets anyone see. “You could ask more often.”
You work in silence, every stroke of the razor slow and careful. He watches your face more than the blade. When you’re done, he grabs your wrist, pulls your hand down, and rests his forehead against yours.
"Stay here," he says quietly.
And you do.
— DICK GRAYSON ⋆
Dick’s sprawled on the worn leather armchair in your apartment, stubble dusting his jaw, hair damp from the shower. He raises an eyebrow when you straddle his lap with a towel and razor in hand.
"Should I be nervous?" he teases, blue eyes sparkling.
"You should be honored," you smirk, spreading shaving cream over his jaw. "Most men would kill to have me in their lap right now."
His hands rest lightly on your hips, thumbs brushing your sides. “Trust me, I know how lucky I am.”
You start with his jawline, the razor sliding smoothly. He closes his eyes, letting you tilt his face this way and that, completely at ease in your touch. The soft scrape of blade against skin is the only sound between you.
"You’re way too comfortable," you mutter as you angle his chin.
He opens one eye lazily. “You sitting on me like this. Yeah, I’m living the dream.”
— JASON TODD ⋆
"Jason," you say, standing between his knees, razor in hand. "Sit. Now."
He grunts, arms crossed, a eyebrow raised. “I’m not letting you near my face with a blade, sweetheart.”
You straddle him anyway.
He stiffens, mouth opening in protest, but your legs are already bracketing his hips and you’re smearing shaving cream onto his scowl.
“You shave like a barbarian,” you mutter.
“Takes one to—hey!”
You press a finger to his lips, then run the razor down the edge of his jaw. He goes quiet, watching you with eyes dark and unreadable. One of his hands settles on your thigh.
“…Y’know,” he murmurs after a while, voice lower, “you do that too good. Like, real good.”
You lean in, your lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “Told you to trust me.”
He swallows. “…Not sure if I’m touched or turned on.”
You smile. “Both is good.”
— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆
"This is undignified."
"Stop squirming."
Damian sits rigid in his desk chair, glaring up at you. His arms are crossed and his scowl is deep enough to rival his father. You’re settled neatly on his lap, holding his chin between two fingers while you apply the shaving cream with slow movements.
“Just because I allowed this doesn’t mean I approve,” he mutters.
You hum. “Noted.”
He doesn’t move, even when the razor glides across his jaw. His pulse jumps under your fingers.
“…You are far too close to my throat,” he mumbles, eyes flicking away.
“I’m always close to your throat. You just don’t usually sit still for it.”
There’s a pause. His cheeks color slightly, though he hides it well.
“I tolerate you more than most.”
You smile. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me all week."
"...Do not tell Grayson."
— BARRY GORDON ⋆
You're straddling his lap in the middle of his kitchen, the morning sunlight casting gold through the blinds. His glasses are off, his face tilted up, the red stubble along his jaw just waiting for your touch.
"You sure you trust me with this?" you ask, fingers curled around the razor.
He chuckles. “You’ve held my heart. Think I can handle it.”
You roll your eyes but your smile betrays you. You press the shaving cream to his face, slow and deliberate, and he doesn't look away once. He watches you—like you’re the sun.
"I like this angle," he says softly. "You on top, me powerless. It's... refreshing."
"Shut up or I’ll 'accidentally' nick you."
He raises his hands in surrender but keeps that smile, the one that makes you weak in the knees.
You start shaving him, and he doesn't move a muscle. “You're scarily good at this,” he murmurs. “Should I be worried you’ve done this for someone else?”
You lean in, eyes locked on his. “Only you.”
His breath hitches. And for once, Barry Gordon is speechless.
— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆
“Okay, but like… what if I sneeze?” Stephen blurts out, wide-eyed as you lower yourself onto his lap, shaving cream in one hand, razor in the other.
You raise a brow. “If you sneeze and I cut your face open, it’s your fault.”
He clutches your waist dramatically. “This is how I die. Death by sexy girlfriend and fucking shaving cream.”
“You’re so annoying.”
He grins like a dork. “And yet, here you are.”
You start lathering the shaving cream onto his face, and he squirms a little under you. “Why is this so intimate?” he whispers.
"Because it is," you mutter, carefully angling his chin.
“Oh my god,” he whispers again, deadly serious now. “You gonna kill me, don't ya?”
You press the razor to his jaw.
Silence.
He blinks. “Okay, I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m calm.”
You shave him in quiet for a few moments, and then—
“You really like my face, huh?” he says suddenly.
You smirk. “I like having it smooth when I kiss you.”
He flushes. “I am now extremely motivated to survive this.”
— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆
Cassian doesn’t say anything when you take the razor from his hand.
You just climb onto his lap and cradle his face like something sacred, and he lets you. His eyes stay on yours—those dark, storm-deep eyes that always feel like they’re seeing more than they should.
You smear the cream along his jaw in soft circles. He doesn't flinch. He’s steady beneath you, but his hands are gripping your hips tightly, like if he lets go, he might lose something.
“You don’t have to be scared,” you whisper.
“I’m not scared of you.” he signs
You tilt his chin. “Then what?”
He doesn’t answer.
You start shaving him—silent, patient—and he breathes carefully beneath your touch, like he's afraid of ruining the moment. His muscles are tense under your thighs, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
It doesn’t.
You finish, wipe the cream away gently, and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth.
He exhales slowly.
“Thank you,” he signs, like it costs him something. And maybe it does.
But you smile. “Anytime, angel.”
And you swear—just for a second—he smiles back.
— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆
“I can do it myself,” Terry says, chin tilted, lips curled in that smartass smirk of his.
You just raise an eyebrow. “But then I don’t get to sit on your lap.”
He pauses.
"...Okay, you make a compelling argument."
You climb on, straddling him in his beat-up apartment chair, and he automatically grips your hips to steady you. His skin smells like aftershave, and there’s a faint bruise on his jaw—someone got a lucky hit.
You run your fingers over it gently. “You okay?”
“Been through worse.” His tone is casual, but you can hear the tension behind it.
You apply the shaving cream slowly, your touch deliberate, and he goes still under you. He’s quiet like this. It’s like he forgets how to breathe.
"Have anyone else ever done it for you?" you murmur.
He exhales through his nose, long and low. “…No.”
You shave him in silence. His hands stay on your waist, holding you like you’re something he doesn’t know what to do with—but doesn’t want to lose.
When you finish, you lean forward, pressing your lips to his newly-smooth cheek.
He closes his eyes.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice soft now. "Next time… maybe you shave me and yell at me less for reckless flying."
