My kid ate to much candy and is now in sugar crash territory, I wanna see your take on all(as many as you can) the Batkids having a sugar crash
I love collecting these little pieces about people on here. You have a kid! (I'm a massive busybody.)
Brucebin - does not shut up yaps about anything and everything at lightning speed. Very very suddenly is exhausted and extremely emotional.
Dickbin - hyperactive. Bouncing off the walls, he is unstoppable, Bruce becomes a climbing frame. When he crashes he goes hard and usually has a bit of a cry.
Jasonbin - you will listen to his current interest and if you try to walk away he will look right into your soul and you slowly sit back down and keep listening. As he crashes, devolves into nonsense, utter gibberish.
Barbarabin - spaced. Like if a kid was high. Jim double checks the brownies he gave her. Cuddle monster during the come down.
Timbin - paranoid. Trusts no one. Catawauling on come down, because he's too tired to stay vigilant.
Cassandrabin - jittery. Restless at the same time, shaking and pacing. Bruce hates seeing it, is worried she's going to keel over because she looks ill. She always ends up keeling over on come down, and just dies where she is standing.
Damianbin - loud. Volume control? Gone. Talia did not warn Bruce. Clingy on come down, so there is a lovely in between where he is clinging to Bruce, but still yelling every word. Bruce puts earplugs in and just nods along to Damian's yap.
Dukebin - a runner. Always one to run, ten times worse on sugar. Will bolt without hesitation, and Elaine and Doug lost count of the times she found Duke because he started bawling at full volume because he suddenly realised he wasn't with them and couldn't find them. Refuses to let go after that.
Stephbin - the most friendly kid imagineable. Crystal had to stop her walking off with strangers. When she crashes, is a little demon. Foul temper, furious mood, you cannot so much as breathe next to her.
Bonus: Alfredbin - gets the giggles. Then gets teary as he crashes.
Jason didn't mean to say it. Not like this. Not now. Not when he's buried deep inside you, holding you like this might be the last time he gets to.
But it happened when he wasn't thinking - just feeling.
You don't even notice it at first. You are lost in the rhythm, the warmth, the way he looks at you like you're the only good thing he's seen all his life.
You don't notice how his hands tremble, how his breath catches every time you sigh his name, when you moan it into his mouth.
He's not rough. Not tonight. He's soft, taking his time, like he's trying to memorize the feel of having you against him.
Jason is all calloused hands and desperate lips, tracing every curve and dip of your body he can reach, worshipping you in ways you didn't think were possible.
When he finally lets go, he trembles, both from exertion and emotion. He's buried in you, breaths coming in stutters because the feeling in his chest has nothing to do with the pleasure he felt. Because it's too much and not enough all at once.
Your eyes are closed, lips parted, and to Jason, you're poetry incarnate. You're someone who sees him, without the mask, without the guns, and you stay.
You see the broken boy who carries too many ghosts, and you still stay.
The feeling in his chest is unconscionable, and then, it slips. Soft, quiet, like someone ripped it out of him.
"God, I love you."
Jason freezes the second it's said, eyes wide, and you feel the panic in the way his body tenses. Like, he could reverse time with sheer will. Like, he wants to pull it back into his throat, but it's too late.
His truth is out there now, raw and naked.
You blink at him, dazed, a little breathless beneath him and his stomach tightens.
"Forget it," he says, voice sharp, not cold. But you can sense the fear underneath.
You know. You always do.
He tries to pull away. Tries to pretend like he didn’t just shatter himself open.
But you grab his face with both hands and force him to look at you.
"Jason," your voice is soft, but it makes him flinch.
Like, he's bracing for another person to tell him there's no love.
Like, he's waiting for you to laugh at him.
Like, he's waiting for you to see him the same way he sees himself.
But you smile. Warm, real, knowing, and it kills him.
"Say it again," you whisper, pressing his forehead to yours.
Jason shakes his head because saying it again makes it real; it means giving meaning to the storm of feelings inside him.
"I can't -"
"Yes, you can."
Your fingers slip into his hair, thumbs brushing the edge of the mask he wears even when it's not on his face.
Your expression softens when you look into his eyes. Scared, shining with tears, and carrying many more emotions than he thought he was capable of.
"Say it again, Jay."
He closes his eyes, and his walls crumble.
"I love you," His voice breaks at the words, and he's barely holding on but the last thing he wants to do is sob into your neck like the pathetic, scared boy he is.
But he also knows that you'll let him, that you'll hold him, and tell him it's okay.
And that terrifies him. Because you treat him like he's worth all the demons he brings along.
You're everything Jason convinced himself he would never deserve.
Jason inhales, blinks away the tears in his eyes, and then; lets go.
"I love you, I love you, I love you."
He buries his face in the curve of your neck and you hold him there.
He repeats the three words like they've been circling inside his chest since he met you (Spoiler: they are).
He says them like it physically hurts not to.
And then, after a few quiet moments, his face still hidden against your skin.
"I didn't mean to say it like that," his voice is soft, slightly shaky, like he's trying not to cry, "not like this. Not until I knew... you felt it too."
You laugh at that, "Of course I do, you idiot."
Jason pulls back at that, a ghost of a smile on his face, and presses his forehead to yours again.
"I love you, Jason."
His smile widens and he closes his eyes like he wants the words to seep into his bones, like he wants to carry them in his heart.
Because he never thought he'd hear them. Not like this, not from someone who truly means it.
"I'd die for you. Again."
He says the words, and suddenly your heart feels too big for your chest.
"I know, but I want you to live for me."
Jason nods and exhales like he's never breathed before. Like nothing made sense until this moment.
Like he could live here forever, and it still won't be enough.
After, he holds you all night. He falls asleep with his arm thrown around your waist and his nose pressed against your collarbone.
He is a big guy. Extremely muscular, but also has body fat. When he first started dating you, he was chiseled muscle. As if carved from stone. But after eating your good, healthy cooking for a long time, he became healthier. He wasn't just a human soldier anymore; he was loved in more ways than he was used to.
He needs reassurance like air. He wasn't big on physical contact, but once he was lying on top of you on the couch while shirtless, and you were tracing shapes on his back. Your fingers traced over a scar on his shoulder, and he froze up. Completely stopped breathing for a second. "You alright, baby?" You asked. You stopped touching him to give him space if he needed it. "Yeah... that just spooked me." He mumbled. "Is it okay if I keep going?" He thought for a long while. "You don't think they're ugly?" You paused. How could he think you thought he was ugly in any way? "Not one slightest bit. It's beautiful." He almost cried at that. There are more examples of this, but that was the one that explained his need for reassurance of his body.
He hates metal music. From how he looks, he looks like the absolute loud music worshipper. But he actually hates it. He is a Weyes Blood fan at heart. Loves the song Andromeda. But he will deny it all the way and say he listens to Custer on repeat.
He will never ask, but he loves being the little spoon. It makes him feel wanted. The feeling of your arms around him after a long day = absolute heaven. When he came through the fire escape to you reading on the couch. He didn't need to say anything; you just opened your arms, and he fell in. Just soaking in all the love from you. The feeling of your nails running up and down his back while he rambled about his day made every bad thing seem not so bad if it led to this moment with you.
He is very emotional. Especially when he's tired. He didn't show it until 7 months into the relationship. You both were watching a movie; he was curled into your side. You were about to fall asleep when you heard a quiet sniffle. You looked down and then at the TV; it wasn't even that sad of a moment. You both had watched this movie multiple times before, one of your favorites. He had never reacted like this before. "Baby... hey, what happened?" He looked at you and just broke down. You had never seen this side of him before. He blamed it on the movie scene, but with how much he was crying and how tired he was before the movie started, you could tell he was just emotional from how long the day was.
He loves being called pet names. Baby, honey, baby boy- hell, even babygirl if you're trying to be funny. He'll laugh and say "fuck off," but even babygirl gets his heart racing. It's rooted in when Bruce called him baby for the first time after patrol. His parents never called him anything other than "boy" or "Jason". After Jason's first bad patrol, Bruce took him to Batburgers and said, "What kind do you want, baby?" That changed something in him forever. That little boy felt so loved. That little boy continues to feel loved every time you call him something remotely close to that.
He has always had panic or anxiety attacks, but it got worse after The Pit. Every now and then you'll find him in the bathroom or on the fire escape trying to get some fresh air. If it's a panic attack, he needs reassurance badly on whatever he's scared of. If it's an anxiety attack, he needs contact. Simply holding your hand or leaning his head on your shoulder makes it better.
You were his first time. He never told you, and you never knew that you were the one he lost his virginity to. Until you two actually did it. Because of The Pit, he became a soldier and never had time for love. After he felt free enough to have his own life, of course he watched porn, but his hand wasn't the same. He wanted to feel the warmth and the weight of a loved one. He wanted the intimacy and the vulnerability of being with someone that close. He wanted to feel what it was like to be loved, no matter how torn up and scarred his body was. (I won't be going into detail now; I'll be writing a fic about it later.)
He didn't have facial hair until he was 25. He had hair everywhere else, except his face, up until he was 25 years old. I got this idea from someone I can't remember now, but I have a fic of it reposted to my acc. All credit for that headcanon goes to them; it's so cute. You should read it.
Loves loves loves showering together with you. The first time you two showered together, he was so nervous. He thought you were too cold and got too scared to tell you he was cold. But after you stepped out of the spray of the shower head, moved behind him to wrap your arms around his waist, and rested your hands on his stomach; he swore he almost ascended to heaven on the spot. And when you pressed a slow kiss to his shoulder blade, he passed away right then and there. He leaned into you as if he knew in that moment you would always be there to hold him. To make him feel warm, to make sure he was always full and never hungry, to protect him when he let his guard down enough to fall asleep on you. After that moment, he loved showering with you. He loved when you scrubbed his back with the soap, the feeling of your nails in his scalp, the scent of the shampoo and soap. He loved every bit of it.
Jason was always a loose cannon. Showing up unannounced at your apartment past midnight, never returned your calls or texts for days at a time, and you never had a problem with it.
That was until it became a problem.
You remember everything. August 22th. He had just turned 27 a week ago. He showed up at your apartment at 3:42 AM.
"Honey..." He slipped through the window of your fire escape. You were asleep on the couch. You had been reading Little Women for the upteenth time, waiting for Jason with his weighted blanket wrapped around your torso and legs.
He took his helmet off and placed it on the coffee table, and pressed a kiss to your temple. Your eyes fluttered open, and a small smile spread across your face.
"Hey, Jaybird..." You stretched your arms before wrapping him in a hug. He hated when his friends and family would call him that, but it always tasted sweeter with you. "When will you use the door like a normal person?" You said while pressing a kiss to the back of his ear.
"Mmm... never." He hugged you back, flopping down onto the couch and putting all his weight on you. You laughed at his clinginess. He pressed deep kisses all over your face and neck.
You could tell his patrol was annoying by how he held you like it was his last time. He buried his face in your neck, hands trailing up from underneath your shirt.
"Need this off..." Whenever he had a bad day, patrol, or mood, you always made it better. He would come home, smoke a cigarette, eat a burger, and pleasure you like his life depended on it.
You keep coming back to this moment. The bed. The kisses. His sticky fingers from your own residue. The shower you both shared after. The way you held him.
You relished it.
Then, a week later, he stopped showing up. He stopped responding to your calls and texts completely. You hadn't heard from him in four days, when his usual ghosting was only 1-2.
In a fit of panic, you called Stephanie. She assured you that he was alive and that she had seen him only a few hours ago. That made you confused.
Nothing bad had happened. He was normal the last time you saw him. No arguments.
That was about a year ago.
You and Jason never discussed what happened, and you just tore things off after three weeks of this random decision to ghost you.
"Do you remember?" Cass signed to you the last time you talked about him to anyone.
You remembered how he used to breathe so loud when he kissed you.
Do you remember?
You remembered the taste of his tongue and the sound he made when he finished in your hand. It sounded so damn good. And it tasted just like it should.
But then you remembered that you'll never have that again.
"Yeah. We don't talk about it. We didn't talk about it." You told her. "We don't have the time."
She thought for a moment. "Maybe this is a good thing."
"But... but we thought love was something. He made me think that, and I thought I helped him think that. I guess we weren't meant to find it." You looked down at your coffee mug.
"I still think this is good. New beginnings, new life. You just opened that library you always wanted. It's good that you're now a stranger."
It's true. That last part stuck out to you.
But now you're a stranger.
"I'm stuck in the past. I need to get over him. I keep thinking back to it. It's like everyone's moved on, and I'm still July of last year." You explained.
---
You've finally moved on. It was July now, July 18th. You had been sweeping the floor of the library after a customer accidentally shattered a vase.
"Don't cut yourself." Jason was leaning against the wall with a look you remembered far too well. You paused before looking up, hoping it was just your imagination. You hadn't been sleeping well recently, especially after Damian's 12th birthday, and you remembered how much time had passed, so you hoped it was just an illusion.
It wasn't. He was there. You were looking at him.
You decided slowly to just look back down and pretend he wasn't standing in front of you. He wasn't your love, Jason Todd. He was just a customer.
A customer who used to love you like air. A customer who moved your mattress and couch in and out of your apartment when you first moved in. A customer who would smoke on your fire escape in just his boxers when he couldn't sleep. A customer who broke your heart in two a year ago.
He took the broom from your hands. The scarred hands you loved to hold had leather gloves on them. You looked out the window to see his motorcycle parked in the lot. You didn't even see him walk in.
You couldn't believe he was here. After a whole year. It was just short of a year ago that he left. August was so long ago.
August, honey, you were mine. You thought.
"This is a nice place." He placed the broom against a nearby table. "When did it open?"
Was he really trying to make small talk?
You just stared at him with every possible emotion. He didn't know how you could fit so many on one face.
"I'm not having this conversation with you. You can't just leave for a year and then come back like it was nothing." You said with the calmest tone you could muster.
"I fucked up. I got scared and ran away. It was wrong of me; let me apologize."
"No, I don't want to hear it. It's too late; I've moved on." That was one of the biggest lies you have ever told.
"I'm not. I'm sorry I hurt you- you have every right to be mad."
"I'm on the clock. This is unprofessional, and I can't talk now."
"Bullshit, what're you gonna do? Fire yourself?" He took a breath. "Fine. I understand. Let me come by later to talk?"
"You left me. All by myself, no note, no text, no call back to make sure you were alive. I had to call Stephanie, and do you know how much it hurt when she said you were completely fine? I thought you loved me like you said. I guess you didn't." Every word of hurt and hatred of the moment spilled out before you even realized how emotional you sounded.
"I did! I've loved you from the start." He sounded hurt, which is a lot less than what you felt.
"And I loved you from the start. But you left, remember?"
"Yes, yes, I remember. Let me explain."
"I don't want to talk, get out of my store."
"You're kicking me out?" He said, slightly frustrated.
"I have a security guard." You warned.
He grabbed his jacket that you got him for his birthday last year off a nearby chair, and stormed out of the library.
---
He stopped by like he said he would that night. This time at 8 PM instead of after midnight. He crawled through the window slowly.
You were waiting on the couch, reading Little Women with your own weighted blanket wrapped around your torso and legs. He stood uncomfortably against the window.
"This is quite the parallel..." He said quietly. You sighed softly and put the book down.
"What did you want to explain?" You tried to sound irritated, but your tone delivery made it sound more hurt.
"We had been dating for two years. That last night we had, I never forgot it. Patrol was terrible, there was a guy who got to me. He told me that he knew everything about us, and that he would hurt you if I didn't comply. I didn't know if he was bluffing, and I didn't care. I shot him right then and there. I didn't care if he was lying or if he was telling the truth; I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk you. So that night I decided that it was best to leave." He was rushing his words out, as if he didn't have time to tell me everything before it was too late.
"I wanted to kiss you one last time. I don't think you noticed because you had just woken up, but I cried into your shoulder before we kissed. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you, so I worshipped you one last time before leaving. I should have told you. I know I should have, but at the time I thought it was best to just leave everything behind then. Please, please, baby, forgive me."
You just stared as you took everything in.
"You were mine... my partner, my love...." He looked on the verge of tears.
"And you were mine..." You replied. You were quiet for a long time.
"Please forgive me..." He whispered so quietly you barely heard him.
"You should have told me. I understand why you didn't. But I don't think I can just get back together with you after everything that happened. Why now? After all this time."
"I can't live without you."
"I forgive you. But this will be the last chance I ever give you. I can't handle something like that again. You need to communicate things more."
He fell to his knees in front of you. He rested his head on your thighs, arms wrapped around your waist, and the top of his head touching your stomach.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, angel... I will, I'll do anything." You froze. Slowly, you ran your fingers through his curly hair; the white streak ruffled over his face.
August, honey, you were mine. Finally.
----------------------
I found out recently that Jason's birthday is August 16th and immediately thought of the breakup song August by Flipturn. I don't know who owns the art, but credit goes to them. This is my first fic, so be nice.
They had the nerve not to remember the title But the thought of a chubby Jason Todd makes me want to get said headcanon more popular because we all know that that man would eat when he can and he’ll probably eat anything because of his childhood,I simp for this genre of Jason and this one only as muscle is defo not comfy to cuddle with. give that man sum chub and I’ll let him lay on me like a blanket.(…this to much simpin?) I can Never forgive that anons memory and I need that fic, I need chubby Jason Todd.
I also want to ask for your Jason Todd headcanons, I need more to feed on because I love that man(I wanna chew on him)
-t.o.m.a🏰
I KNOWWW!!! I'm not mad at you simping for Jason Anon, but MAN am I disappointed TT~TT I hope they find it and send it in, because I want to sink my teeth into chubby Jason so badly!! You might as well call me a cannibal, because I NEED to eat this up!
As for my own personal Headcannons for Jason~!
He is muscular, but also has a nice, thick layer of fat. Jason and his relationship with food is something that I like to think about. I can't imagine Jason having an "it's fuel for my body" relationship with food. I think that Jason is someone who has a deep emotional connection when it comes to eating. He eats a specific Batburger every time he is upset with Bruce because it reminds him of when he was having a bad day at school and Bruce came to pick him up early and take him to Batburger to cheer him up. He drinks a specific blend of tea that Alfred would make for him when he and Bruce would come back to the manor after a long night that would calm Jason's nerves and warm him up.
I also believe Jason overindulges when it comes to eating. He eats big portions, not just because he is a big guy who lives an extremely active lifestyle (i.e., drug lord and antihero), but because he remembers what it was like to be malnourished and starving. He remembers being on the street and worrying about how he would get his next meal. He isn't as bad as he used to be, back when he was first brought to the manor, but if he is eating a meal, he likes to get a little more than needed.
With the reasons above, I imagine Jason with a strong, rugby player body, but with a nice layer of fat on top, along with a belly that you can knead like dough. His belly is also an amazing hand warmer (he shrieks every time your cold hands touch him though).
He's hairy af, but can't grow a beard. I can't imagine Jason having a waxed chest, it feels weird and unnatural, like a white Damian. I imagine Jason having a hairy chest, arms, and belly. He keeps himself well groomed, but he doesn't shave his body hair. He does shave his facial hair though. He can't grow a full beard, its patchy and looks weird on him, plus he doesn't like how his stubble feels when he's wearing his helmet, so he keeps his face clean shaven.
Likes sleeping with a weighted blanket, but has a complex about it. I think Jason likes sleeping with a weighted blanket because the weight feels nice, but then one day he had an intrusive thought where he wondered if this is what it feels like being buried without a coffin, which made him spiral for a week remembering how he died and how some of the warehouse fell on him during the explosion and then he started thinking about how he is technically dead. So now he can't sleep with a weighted blanket on, if he does, he has to be sitting up to remind himself that he is not dead or in that warehouse.
He has moles. I headcanon that Jason has a few hidden moles. One on the back of his shoulder, a small one on the inside of his elbow and one on his chest. When he's depressed and alone, he likes to trace his fingers over them and imagine that in a past life, those were the places he was kissed the most.
He has stretch marks. Jason started growing really fast once Bruce and Alfred got him to a healthy weight, and due to the crime fighting he was doing at the time, he also started to bulk up. I think Jason has stretch marks primarily on his hips+thighs, stomach, back and arms. He has them on his back as well, but because they are on his back, he's never really noticed them.
He doesn't mind them either, they are just scars, like the other ones on his body, except they are more painful in a way. They remind him of tree rings and that makes him wonder which ones were made during his time with Bruce and which ones were made during his time with the League of Assassins. Which one started with Jaylad and ended with Red Hood?
He's decently flexible. He's not as flexible as Dick (no one is, that blue bendy straw looking-), but while he was training with Talia, she taught him how to do some yoga and exercises that helped him keep his body flexible. He still does them to this day.
Has cold hands and feet, but a warm torso. I think Jason was still a little warm when Ra Al Ghul and Talia put him in the Lazarus Pit. I think that they were racing against the clock and put Jason in the pit as fast as they could because they weren't sure if the pit would revive him if they didn't. His hands and feet were cold, but he still had a little warmth still in his torso area. So, in other words, he has a nice warm chest to lay on, but watch out for those ice blocks he dares to call hands and feet.
He can tell if someone has been dunked in the Lazarus Pit. Its like a new sense he developed when he was revived. He can just look at someone and immediately tell if they have ever been in contact with that pit and to which degree. (this lead to my other headcanon that those who have been revived by the pit end up with a streak of white hair, but that's for another time). If he can tell that you have been in contact with the Lazarus pit, he becomes fixated on you and tries to figure out how and why you got near one.
He hates modern spicy romance novels, BUT he does love the ones on AO3. Jason gives me the vibe that he is a quality over quantity type of guy when it comes to reading, I also get the vibe that he loves monster romances because they are comforting to him, however, he doesn't really care for the mainstream, smutty ones. The romance feels shallow and he hates how sexualized the monster in the books is often betrayed, to him it feels like a "for a ___, you're pretty attractive." He prefers the ones that are slowburns, that show how the characters deepen their connection, the yearning and the eventual feeling of fulfillment when they actually get together. As for Jason's AO3 reading preferences, I feel like he loves reading the "everyone lives", "found family that stays together", and I'm not sure if this is a tag (haven't been on ao3 in a hot minute) but one of those aus where the author fixes a TV show and its ending.
He plays visual novels. This might be me projecting, but I like to imagine Jason playing visual novels and getting obsessed with the story and world building, to the point that he becomes a game backer. I can't quite decide whether or not he would play a vn that lets you insert yourself/an oc, but if he does play those types of vns, he's criticizing the love interests so much. I also imagine him playing these vns and avoiding the bad ends as much as he can because he doesn't like how they made him feel. (In this house we stan sensitive Jason)
He has a friend who runs a food truck near crime alley that gives him free food. That's it, that's the headcanon. But if you want details, the owner of the food truck is well known in that area for giving the kids in that area food, however, one night while closing up, some drunk assholes were messing with the food truck, breaking the register and trying to take the money inside, slashing one of the tires and more. Thankfully, Red Hood was there to save the day and gave the owner a hand by delivering the messed up truck to a shop he is in control over. After that, the owner was never messed with again (they have a thing on their truck that signals to everyone that its under the Red Hood's protection) and the owner now gives Red Hood free food every time he stops by.
Jason knits. Harley suggested that he give it a try after witnessing one of his PTSD episodes. He resisted for a little while, but after he tried it out, he kinda loved it. He doesn't have any finished projects, but he kinda just likes the rhythm of knitting and pearling, as well as the feeling of the soft yarn on his fingers. He also ended up taking more of Harley's advice and joined a knitting group under an alias. The old ladies there adore him and dote on him constantly. (he nearly cried the first time one of the old ladies called him "baby" and gave him the scarf she just finished).
Jason Todd, who secretly loves that you love his family. Never in a million years will you get him to admit that though, no sir. He would deny until the day he died (again) that his eyes soften whenever he catches sight of you draping a blanket over Damian on your couch whenever the young boy crashes there after a long night of patrol. And his heart does not nearly melt in his chest when he watches Alfred lovingly scoop you into an embrace after the monthly family dinners that you always drag your boyfriend to. There’s no way he begins to smile when nobody is looking as he sees you and Dick teasingly throwing popcorn at one another from across the couch as you argue about your opinions on whatever movie you’re watching. He never notices when you go out of your way to buy the tea that you know Cass likes and always just happen to have it ready in her favorite mug the moment she gets to your apartment. No, you and Tim bonding over whatever nerdy hacker stuff you guys are both into has nothing to do with the way his brain momentarily short circuited. And don’t even get him started on the time he watched Bruce squeeze your hand and gently thank you for looking after his son, he did not hear that conversation and he was not teary eyed afterwards.
jason todd, who moans like a pornstar. first they're raspy and deep, the kind you'd expect from a burly man who drives a motorcycle. but as he gets closer to the sweet taste of release, the noises become pitchy, almost whining. he's embarrassed by how easy he sounds; the way a well placed nip of your teeth can pull a broken, whiny noise from the man's throat, no matter the length he goes to hide it.
jason todd, who can't shut the fuck up when he's inside you. it's like his brain shuts down; he's unable to stop himself from saying "you look so pretty like this, ma," when he's folding you in half, his lips between his teeth like it'll keep the sound of low, broken whimpers from leaving his throat. it never does.
jason todd, who underestimated how much he'd end up liking the feeling of your hands wrapped around his neck, just barely providing a hint of pressure. something about it just makes his mind feel fuzzy with pleasure, like nothing matters but the feeling of your fingers on his skin and the feeling of being inside you.
jason todd, who wants you to smack him around a little during sex. you're riding him, hips slamming down over his in a sweet rhythm. yet it's not enough; he's perilously close to the edge, but jason just needs... needs... "hit me," he babbles from beneath you, his brows furrowed in flustered frustration, "hit me, ma."
your hips stutter as you cock your head, murmuring a low, "what?"
"hit me, i... i need--" he groans in quiet frustration, "smack me, baby, please."
and ever one to please, you do.
the moan jason lets out is sinful. its a broken, needy thing; the kind of sound you want to keep for yourself alone, like a treasured secret.
okay, so maybe jason likes fucking you at a nice angle. and maybe, for all intents and purposes, that angle ends up being reverse cowgirl — especially when he's in one of those moods. don't get him wrong, jason loves a good doggy or missionary, but you in reverse cowgirl? while he's trying his hardest not to cum inside?
his bicep rests over his eyes, free hand set lazily on your hip for the sake of saying he held onto something the entire time.
"yeah, that's it," he groans, sinking into the mattress. his cockhead presses against that particular spot inside that makes you see stars, each bounce drawing out an embarrassing moan from your lips. "that's my pretty," he praises, breathing hard enough for your to hear. the tremble in his voice lets you know more than enough: he's been holding in the urge to cum for less than a minute, sweating to keep the edge off his voice. fingers barely digging into your skin, he holds your hips down with both hands, stopping your movements. a whine nearly erupts from you.
jason's struggling. he's one good thrust away from cumming inside, your name at his lips in weak pants. "jay?" "just a second, sweetheart." you turn your head to nab a quick glimpse, finding the sweetest closed-eyed and bitten lip expression. his eyebrows are knitted together so perfectly, a mess of sweat at his forehead. he’s trying his hardest for you.
“jason, baby,” you start, chest heaving as you catch your breath, “it’s okay if you cum.” it isn’t like he doesn’t know that, but reassurance gives the man a sense of peace. he squeezes your side and brings you into a slower pace, shuddering with every soft bounce, head thrown back. your thighs are shaking, most likely due to the sudden stop brought back into movement, but jason’s twice - if not thrice - as wrecked beneath you.
his breathing turns erratic, cock jumping at any stimulation when your folds flutter around him. red in the face with an utterly pathetic moan, his hips jolt upwards, mind going blank. you feel it seep between your legs, warm and thick, and he quite literally writhes. the view from behind is delectable, a beautifully arched back whilst he paints your insides, all on display for his eyes.
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Jason starts growing facial hair again and he doubts he's young enough to go through a teenage phase. Good thing you know how to shave.
pls read a/n at the end before replying !!
aka ›››› “Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.” “Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
Jason has started growing facial hair again.
It’s such a stupid, ordinary sentence that it almost feels like it belongs to someone else’s life. Some other twenty-two-year-old who wakes up in a cramped apartment with morning light slipping through crooked blinds and worries about things like razors and bad lighting and whether stubble makes him look older than he is.
Not him.
His face is a map of healed disasters—thin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.
The Joker had called it “light acid.”
As if acid could ever be light.
As if anything about it had been.
After that, hair just… didn’t grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.
Jason never got that stage.
He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.
Until now.
At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.
There is hair there.
Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.
Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.
It doesn’t.
The memory surfaces uninvited—your voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadn’t eaten in days. You’d swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.
It hadn’t been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.
Not that time.
“Oh, god,” he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.
He looks dreadful.
That’s the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hair—thick, black, unruly—is sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t bother winning.
He leans closer.
At least his skin looks better.
That part softens something in him.
You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated again—too tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadn’t teased him. You just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.
He grumbled the whole time.
You ignored him the whole time.
In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his face—gentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. You’d murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.
Jason had fallen asleep like that.
Just like that.
He doesn’t remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.
“I knew it was hair!”
Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.
He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.
You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.
Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. You’re wearing one of his old shirts—swallowed by it—and a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they don’t drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.
Like you belong here.
You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.
“Jason, baby…” you murmur, studying him in the mirror like he’s something precious and slightly ridiculous.
He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where they’re clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.
“You loooove it,” he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though there’s something almost hopeful beneath it.
You hum, pretending to consider it.
One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.
“Hmm,” you decide, lips twitching. “It's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.”
Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.
Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.
“I don’t have a razor,” he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like he’s something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. “And it’s a holiday… stores won’t be open.”
The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning way—sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest.
Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.
“I use a men’s razor,” you mumble thoughtfully, as if you’re offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. “Wanna use that? I can disinfect it.”
He stills.
It’s subtle—the way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wrist—but you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that aren’t empty; they’re crowded. This is one of them.
“I…” he starts, and the word drags.
Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.
“I don’t know how to shave,” he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Even… before… uh. It didn’t really grow.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t have to.
The space after before is heavy, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.
“Why now?” you murmur, mostly to yourself.
The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if you’ve already decided the answer to that question doesn’t matter nearly as much as what you’re going to do next.
Jason watches you through the mirror.
Why now?
It’s the same reason he’s gained weight—real weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didn’t force himself to finish out of obligation. There’s a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like it’s bracing for impact every second.
He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.
Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.
Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.
He doesn’t say that.
“Maybe it’s because you’re always slathering me in your fancy stuff,” he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. “It probably shocked my face back to life.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.
Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.
The light doesn’t hide anything. It travels openly across him—over the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.
But you didn’t run.
The first time you saw him like this, you hadn’t looked horrified or pitying. You’d looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always did—no hesitation, no recalibration.
If you didn’t run from that, he doubts you’ll run from stubble.
You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like you’re about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink you’ve just run warm water into.
“C’mere,” you murmur.
You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.
“This feels like a trap,” Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.
You smile down at him—slow, fond, almost reverent—and press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.
“Relax,” you say softly. “I’ll take care of you.”
The words aren’t dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.
He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if you’re handling something both fragile and fierce.
You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything that’s going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scent—clean, subtle, faintly medicinal—mixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.
Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.
“Hold still,” you murmur.
He huffs softly. “I am holding still.”
“You’re flexing.”
“I am not—”
“You are,” you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.
He forces his shoulders to drop.
Jason isn’t used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correction—forceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, it’s impact—bruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.
But this?
This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him.
You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. You’re meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.
Your touch changes when you reach the scars.
Not hesitant. Not afraid.
Just attentive.
You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when you’re trying to get something exactly right.
“You don’t have to look at me like I’m hurt and you need to patch me up,” he mutters.
You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.”
He snorts quietly despite himself.
The razor touches his skin for the first time.
It’s a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.
Jason feels it more than he expected to.
Not pain—just awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time.
That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.
The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.
He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.
“You trust me?” you ask lightly, but there’s something real beneath it.
He doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Yeah.”
The answer is simple. Immediate.
Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek.
His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.
You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jaw—the place where the skin never quite grew back the same.
“Does this one still feel tight?” you ask softly.
“Sometimes,” he admits.
You don’t comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.
Jason’s eyes close for a second.
He lets them.
There’s something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like you’re not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. I’m not afraid of any of it.
When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.
“Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.”
“Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
You grin. “Sure, baby.”
You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.
He watches you again.
The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you don’t seem to notice how intimate this is—how your hands cradle his face like something precious.
When you’re done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.
“There,” you whisper.
You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.
“Much better.”
Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.
The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.
He looks at himself in the mirror again.
The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.
But there’s something different in the way he’s sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isn’t waiting for the mirror to betray him.
He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.
“You’re gonna make me soft,” he mutters against your skin.
Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
“Thats the goal,” you say.
And for once, the idea doesn’t sound like a threat.
Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too
Sebastian Sallow, your boyfriend— Needs you before and after the game. Sebastian needs your reassurance before... and you always make sure to reward him after.
Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader
Warnings: NSFW! MDNI!, Aged-up Characters / Seventh Year, Oral smut, Fluff, A lil switch Sebby moment
Word Count: 2.6k
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More often than not; Sebastian Sallow needs his lucky charm before every game.
By often, it meant every game.
Every game, Sebastian would take his time to visit you, take a little of your charm to boost his confidence for his upcoming match.
Despite being the captain and a beater— He isn't always sure of his skills or maybe... He just needed his girl's cheer.
Whatever it may be, you were always there, hours before every match— You two would simply sit on the fresh patch of grass in the Quidditch Pitch. You would hype him up, tell Sebastian how you believed in him.
Assure him he's the best.
Every word from you filled him— And he'd always crush it up in the air.
Today was no exception, before his match, Sebastian held your hand— Leading you to the edge of the pitch. It was still early in the morning, only a few students were present, preparing for the match of Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw.
Sebastian's got a few moments before he and his team would gather up, have some final words before the game itself.
Sebastian's eyes followed yours as you sat down between his legs, "Alright, hit me with it."
You chuckled as you finally settled, "Know what? I think you're just doing this now to boost your ego."
"Maybe..." Sebastian smiled cheekily before pausing, his eyes turning soft.* "But also... Well... You're my lucky charm, you know that– Don't you, sweetheart?"
Your own lips curled into a smile, absolutely appreciative of the way Sebastian would always include you into everything. You loved it— His need for your assurances, knowing somehow... You're able to help him in your own way.
Moments passed and you've practically fed your lover every compliment to ever exist in the Wizarding World. Sebastian simply watched you with love in his eyes, his heart fluttering at every word you uttered.
Lastly, you tilted your head, your smile gentling down. "You'll win this, Sebastian."
Sebastian immediately felt at ease— If you believed in him, what couldn't he do?
It may be bloody corny— Needing your cheer for every game, but it was his passion and pride. He ought to bring that among his fellow Slytherins, no matter how small it may be for some.
Sebastian took your hands, his thumb brushing against your knuckles before he brought them up to his lips— Placing a featherlight kiss, to show how thankful he was for having you, always. "Thank you, sweetheart. I needed that."
Sebastian may often joke about his ego, may often pretend to be cocky... But he truly just needs encouragement sometimes.
"Always." You whispered, your own fingers gripping his. "Now go, they won't fly without their captain, no?"
Sebastian lets out a chuckle, placing another kiss before releasing your hands— Standing up and offering you a hand.
"I'll see you later, I love you." He said, giving you a peck before running towards his team to do final preparations for the match later.
Afternoon came, the Quidditch Pitch now filled with students eager to witness the match.
Introductions were made, and soon enough— You're watching an intense game between Slytherin and Ravenclaw. It was a blur, quite literally as brooms went zoomed in the air— Yet you tried your best to lock your eyes on Sebastian.
It was visible he was becoming tense, his bat hitting bludgers left and right; creating echoes on the field.
You cheered your heart out, although it was nearly impossible for Sebastian to hear you amongst the screams of many Hogwarts students.
Brooms sped, bats hit harder, quaffles were thrown, the golden snitch chased.
End of the game.
Silence in the pitch, followed by the loud cheers and whistles.
Much to Sebastian's disappointment, it was for Ravenclaw.
Slytherin lost.
Your face immediately fell as you saw Sebastian's look of disappointment, not for his team— but for himself. Being the captain, he surely put a lot of pressure on himself. Which ultimately affected the way he reacted to losing.
You watched as Sebastian mumbled something under his breath, putting on a fake smile to congratulate Ravenclaw's team and to console his own.
Students began clearing the seats, going down to celebrate the win or to simply go back to their own common rooms because they had hoped for the snakes' victory.
You would've ran down to Sebastian, if only you hadn't lost sight of him through hundreds of students in the pitch.
The sun was already setting, casting a golden glow in the area. You tried to look for him, only to notice a lone broom flying towards one of Slytherin's stands.
Of course it was Sebastian.
You knew how down he could be when losing. So without a second thought, you summoned your own broom— Riding slowly towards him.
Sebastian had his hand on his hair, combing through his locks, looking down at the old creaky wooden floor.
You landed beside him, causing his head to snap towards your direction. Although you could see his clear disappointment, he smiled seeing you. "There you are... Hello, love."
"Hi... You disappeared back there." You replied gently, taking a seat next to your lover— immediately reaching an arm to rest on his back.
Sebastian replied with a sigh, his head slumping down your shoulder. "I know, I'm sorry... You know how awful I am dealing with these."
"I know, love. It's okay..." You murmured, scratching his head affectionately for comfort. "You were amazing, Sebastian."
"Was I though?... We lost."
"Love, that doesn't mean you're not good at it, okay? You always put so much pressure on yourself..."
"I suppose being a captain does that." Sebastian mumbled, nuzzling his nose on your neck before pulling back slightly to look up to you.
You turned your own head towards him, offering a soft smile as your other hand cupped his cheek. "You're doing a great job at it. Stop doubting yourself, you're one of the best beaters I know. Dare I say the top one."
He lets out a soft chuckle, leaning into your touch. "Now, you've got a bit of favoritism there, sweetheart."
"A little. But you know I'm no liar."
"Mhm... You aren't." He whispered, leaning closely to peck your lips. "Thank you..."
You hummed in response, your turn to kiss him this time.
The kiss was soft, comforting— It certainly brought Sebastian's heart warmth. You attempted to pull back after a moment, but Sebastian immediately pulled you back in— Needing more of this comfort.
Sebastian felt your smile against his lips, his own turning into a smirk. His hand traveled down your waist, tugging you closer.
The moonlight painted both of your faces as your lips danced together. It went from being a simple act of comfort into a heated make out session in the stands. Not that any of you could ever complain.
He felt lighter now, finding peace of mind into feeling you against him. Before Sebastian could take it further, you beat him to it— Wanting him to feel better despite today's loss.
Your lips traveled down his neck, kissing specks of his freckles. Your hands began roaming his chest through his Quidditch shirt, your touch itself conveyed how proud you were of him. Words weren't needed when you're slowly worshiping him like this, no.
"Sweetheart, you don't have to..." Sebastian's voice was low, yet his neck tilted to the side to give you better access. You gently shushed him, pulling back to stand up and shift your position.
Sebastian's eyes widened slightly when you placed yourself between his legs, dropping to your knees with your pretty eyes looking up to him. "After that game today? I'd like to reward my boyfriend please..."
Sebastian swallowed hard, leaning back on the bench with his hands planted on either side of him for support. He may have lost today's game... But his girlfriend was sure to reward him still, making his heart race.
It wasn't a simple lustful action, rather— It was a moment to appreciate him and his hard work. His determination to always put his best out there. "Okay..." He could only whisper.
Your lips twitched, hands trailing up on his thighs until they reached the waistband of his pants. Sebastian swallowed once more in anticipation.
Forgotten it was that you two were in the Quidditch stand. Although, the sky was already dark and surely— there's still that ongoing celebration for Ravenclaw's victory that students would fuss about. You two were completely alone, hidden by the shadows.
You tugged on his pants, to which he lifted his hips up for you to easily drag it down. You wasted no time pulling down his pants along with his boxers.
There, his length stood hard, already eager for whatever you had planned for him. You reached to gently wrap your hand around his shaft and given that you were kneeling while he sat— your face was close, breath fanning against him.
His cock twitched at the contact, Sebastian's eyes never left you. You began stroking him, earning a groan from your lover. He lets out a soft sigh, his head momentarily tilting back as your hand offers pleasure.
Feeling more confident at his reaction, you leaned your face closer, giving his tip a kiss. Sebastian held his breath, his cheeks becoming red. Fuck— That little kiss alone already made him forgot about his team's earlier loss.
Even more when you licked his cock in one long stroke. "You did so good today, love..." You complimented him, reminding him once more— Although this time, instead of disappointment's return... He thanked Merlin, inappropriately by the way— That his girlfriend still willingly wanted to reward him, whatever the result of the match was.
That seemed to only make his cock harder, his veins very much deliciously obvious. Then— Sebastian suddenly lets out a gasp when your lips finally wrapped around his dick, his hips instinctively thrusting up so you'd take him deeper.
Being the good girlfriend that you always have been, you obliged his non-verbal request— Swirling your tongue around all while taking him deeper in your warm mouth. "Fuck... Fuck..." He panted out.
His arms extended back behind him, clutching the bench oh so tightly— you'd think he's already nearing his release. But no, you just started, and Sebastian wouldn't let that end right away.
You felt his cock twitch inside your mouth, almost making you smile if your lips weren't sealed tight around him. Instead, you chose to look up, seeing how his breath kept hitching every time you slowly bobbed your head.
To make him feel even more worshipped, your hands slowly traveled up to his waist— snaking inside his shirt. Ragged breaths you could hear from him, a shiver running down his spine. Sebastian bit his lip, looking down at you, his lovely girl, looking up at him with those piercing eyes. You gently tugged on his shirt, indicating that you wanted that thing off— To which he frantically got rid off.
You took him even deeper as a reward, your hands traveling even higher until they rested on his chest, the gelid breeze of the night sending him goosebumps.
You loved him like this, absolutely at your mercy. So... It'll only be right for you to mark what's yours. Without a warning, you scratch his chest— Leaving red vertical lines that clearly stated your dominance right now.
And what did Sebastian do?
He whimpered.
And gods did you love his little whimpers.
The sound was melodic, music to your ears. His hand snapped to grip your other tightly, hips bucking up in desperate need for you to go faster. His lips parted as he moaned out— Nails digging on your palm.
You took your eyes off of him so you'd be able to take him even deeper until your lips touched his base. "Oh fuck– Fuck... Yes..." His voice cracked in pleasure while his head threw back with his mouth agape. You could feel yourself getting wet, hearing every pathetic sound that erupted from him.
Sebastian took this as an opportunity to hold your head down, thrusting his hips up. You might think you're fully in charge, but you're not. He might be whimpering and moaning, but you knew then that you'd let him control you for his own pleasure.
His grip on your hair tightened the moment his pace quickened. Sebastian tilted his head down, needing to look at your teary eyes while having his cock deep inside your mouth.
His eyes were half-lidded, brows furrowed, and his lips parted. He gently pulled your hair back, making you look at him. And just like that— The tables turned so fast. His face was of a submissive, but his actions said otherwise. You looked up to him, your eyes watering and you were choking.
"Now when you look up to me like that... I'm sure I've already won, sweetheart." His deepened voice cut through his moans. His words... It was a reply to what you had said to him earlier before the match. 'You'll win.'
Which didn't happen.
But when his cock touched the back of your throat... Sebastian could feel like he already won everything in life. Especially in the girlfriend department.
Needless to say, fuck that game. How could he even care about that now when you're drooling all over his cock, taking him like the good girl that you are.
You let him guide your head, use your mouth. You could tell he was nearing release by the way his cock kept twitching inside. He bobbed your head as he's thrusting his hips, low groans escaping his throat. Wanting him to feel every sensation, you yourself moan around his cock the best you could— Sebastian gasped, "Yes... Just like that... Gods- Keep doing that. You're rewarding me so well, love..."
You did it again. His hips thrusted with an eager speed— Needing to shoot his hot cum inside your mouth.
"Fuck! Fuck-... Fuck- I'm cumming- I'm fucking cumming." He managed to say. Sebastian thrusted his hips up one more time before halting in that position— his cock shooting his seed in your mouth. "Shit-... Drink every drop, sweetheart."
You drank his release just like he requested, some dripped seeped out from your lips. His eyes never left yours, admiring how beautiful you looked— With the moonlight lighting a part of your face, to his cum and your drool glistening under it.
It was a sight to see. One of his favorite ones, in fact.
Sebastian gently thrusted his hips a few more times before pulling your hair again— His cock coming out of your mouth with a wet pop.
Both of you panted, taking your time to catch your breath. You look absolutely disheveled.
He found himself chuckling softly, his hand hooking a strand of your hair behind your ear. Your tears were wiped by his thumb gently before it went to your lips. His finger brushed your bottom lip, wiping the mixed fluids of his cum and your drool.
He smiles down on you. "You okay?"
You nodded, still finding your voice after deep throating his cock.
Another chuckle came out of him, finding you adorable. He leaned down instead, placing a kiss on your forehead. "Thank you, sweetheart. You always know how to make me feel better, hm?"
You smiled back up at him, feeling glad you were successful in distracting him from his earlier turmoil. That's all you wanted after all.
"Oh— And I hope you know we aren't done yet. Need you in my bed soon, love." He smirked, knowing you well enough to know you’re probably drenched.
Besides, you need your own reward too.
For being his lucky charm.
It goes without saying— You’ll be spending an awful lot of time in his dorm tonight.
I swear this was better in my head ✊😔 This wasn't as proofread, I apologize for the mistakes! I'm still not used to writing fast so I fear they're a little... Bland? YO, anyway— I still hope this was enjoyable! ♥️ (Also, an additional photo from You'll Win shoot~)
To see full NSFW pictures, join my +18 ONLY Discord Server. If you're a minor, what are you doing here? Please don't join. https://discord.gg/wfDfEStQ
-thinking about sebastian and ominis who are so protective and almost possessive over you. they'd never tell you what to do, with the exception of ominis worrying over your connection with the dark arts, but they will watch carefully. they'd try to stop the harm before getting to you.
-sebastian and ominis who glare at any other person who tries to talk with you or get close to you. there's a few vetted people, but they're few and far in between. when someone calls your name, it's not just your head turning to see who it is, but it's three.
-sebastian and ominis who don't feel complete without you in the middle of them. they'd been friends for a while, but having you in a trio settled it. now they had someone to settle arguments. someone to laugh with. someone to share secrets with. and when you're gone, it's like there's a void.
-sebastian and ominis who would both die for you and kill for you. in a dangerous situation, they're in front of you, taking the hits despite the abnormally strong power resting in your veins. if someone were to wrong you or hurt you, it's over for them very shortly after.
-sebastian and ominis who both want you, but find a peace in sharing you a little more than platonically. drinks at the three broomsticks often lead to messy kisses in the undercroft that aren't brought up again in the morning. you like to lay your head on sebastian's lap as he reads while your feet lay in ominis's lap, his hands subconsciously massaging your skin.
-sebastian and ominis who seek out your touch and attention unashamedly. sebastian wraps his arms around your waist in a tight hug on bad days. ominis enjoys your fingers twirling through his hair, gently undoing knots and tangles.
-sebastian and ominis who want to spend their lives by your side. sebastian becomes an auror and ominis begins work in the ministry of magic. they've gotten better at sharing. you come home from work with two adoring men, wide eyed and half in love with you, ready to please you.
-sebastian and ominis who you wouldn't trade for the world.
