“fuck, you’re perfect” bruce murmurs into your ear, his pelvis hitting against your ass harshly as he fucks you from behind.
“you’re doing so good for me.” bruce praises lazily as if he’s not aware of what he’s doing to you. your body feels on fire, your head dizzy from bruce’s strong arms locking you into a tight headlock. “you’d let me know if it’s too much, right, baby?”
you mange to give him a small nod as his bicep flexes against your jaw, his arm wrapping tighter as he continues his harsh pace.
“feels good.” you slur out dumbly, your hand wrapping around the lower part of his arm.
“yeah?” he questions lazily as he continues to thrust’s into you, slowing down a bit just to tease.
“i’m making you feel good?”
“yes.”
“hm, you’re good for my ego, baby.” bruce mumbles softly into your cheek, his mustache tickling you. his arm unwraps around your neck, just for his hand to grab softly at your jaw to angle your face closer. letting his lips press over your face, kissing you softly.
“you’re so pretty, you know that?” he kisses one more time before he bites into your cheek, making sure not to take a harsh enough bite to leave any mark on your pretty face.
“should keep you for myself.” bruce grumbles, biting your cheek again. “how many?”
“how many what?” you breathe, trying to stay focused on his words, but it’s hard when he’s all over you. you physically can’t pay attention for long, especially while he’s fucking you this good.
“how many boys are you seeing, baby?”
“just you.” you admit, you couldn’t be with any other guys your age after meeting bruce. he raised your expectations. he’s older, he treat’s you with respect, he spoils you rotten, and he knows how to fuck you.
you just couldn’t see yourself with another man.
“good, let’s keep it that way.” he picks up the pace again, thrusting harder as if he’s making a point that no one can make you feel this good. “those boys don’t know how to treat my baby right anyways, hm?”
you nod, stupidly agreeing to whatever he says.
“that’s right, sweetheart.” he grins, letting his arm wrap around you again; trapping you in another headlock.
It's expected for a mansion such as Wayne Manor to have such luxuries, sure, but so many of them sat untouched for years. You didn't even know they existed until Bruce told you to bring a swimsuit.
Your stay at home dates with Bruce often included a bottle of wine and some candles, though the jets whirling bubbles around the sizeable tub are new.
Bruce thinks that you're stunning no matter what, but something about seeing you, half-naked, with the heat swirling around him had your lover itching with a need to you.
"You locked the door when we came in, right?" In all honesty, Bruce doesn't care what your answer is; he's devouring you, right here, right now, whether the door is locked or not. In fact, he's already began releasing your breasts from your swim top.
He licks at your sensitive skin like it's the first thing he's tasted in years, his wet hands coming to rest on your waist. It isn't long before he guides you back and forth to rub on his erection through the fabric of the swimsuits.
"Such a pretty girl..." He whispers between licks on your chest, "My pretty girl."
If Bruce were to be hit with some sort of truth serum and asked what his weakness is, his answer would be you- especially in the warmth of the hot tub with your body pressing so sweetly against his.
You're in for a long night.
Main Master list
A/N: day three of posting consecutively! lets see how long i can make it!
Warnings: praise kink, hand pinning, sex while a literal crime is happening outside, reckless vigilante behavior, inspired by a scene in Narcos, MDNI
a/n: I fear Jason would actually do this in one of his more deranged moods. The others are probably more willing to leave you high and dry, finish the job, and come back later. Jason knows Bruce raised enough children to cover his ass.
Jason Todd is probably one of the few vigilantes who would rather finish what he started with you than rush off to help with the burning building caused by a car explosion a few streets away.
Don't start thinking that Jason doesn't care about Gotham. He loves Gotham, actually. Enough that the city has shaved years off his life and been the reason for his demise more than once. But does he care enough to pull out of the sweet, velvety walls of your pussy?
No, actually.
Bruce raised enough Bat-children for that particular reason.
You tried to get up when the first blast rattled the windows, but Jason was far faster. One broad hand caught both of your wrists and pinned them above your head while the other dragged your ankle to its rightful place over his shoulder, rough fingers curling around your calf as he settled his weight over you again.
"Jason, you have to go. What even was that?"
"Car bomb," he practically purred, pushing the leaky tip of his cock back into your pussy like the explosion had been nothing more than a minor interruption.
You tried to form a protest. Really, you did. But your protest amounted to little more than slapping one of his biceps when he cooed about how wet you were for him. His hips moved in slow, lazy strokes, making it increasingly difficult to remember the rest of the lecture you had prepared for him.
Another siren screamed somewhere outside, followed by the distant crackle of fire and shouting. Red and blue light flashed through the broken blinds of his safehouse, moving over Jason's naked body in restless streaks. It illuminated the sweat running between his pecs and caught in the pale scars scattered across his chest as he folded you deeper beneath him.
His green eyes never left your face, not even when another siren joined the first, while Gotham continued doing what Gotham did best.
Falling apart.
"Y-you need to go, Jay," you insisted, forcing the words between the moans slipping from your lips as he continued hitting that weak spot
"In a minute," he answered with a wink and a firm squeeze around your wrists.
God, Jason could be mean when he wanted to be. Today just happened to be one of those days.
Apparently, a minute meant whenever he was finished pulling every pretty sound he could from your lips, listening to the wet drag of your pussy around his cock whenever he found the spot that curled your toes.
"Couldn't leave you like this. So needy," he muttered against your throat, planting a constellation of kisses along your skin. The scrape of his stubble followed each one, rough enough to leave you warm before his lips soothed over the same spot. "Look at you. So wet for me."
"Jay," you breathed.
His palm pressed against the bulge his cock made low in your stomach, buried so deep inside you that you could barely breathe. You had a perfectly good argument prepared about how wrong it was for him to still be inside you while people were probably panicking in the streets, but then he pushed your leg farther back and rolled his hips again, and suddenly civic responsibility became a very difficult concept to hold on to.
"Gorgeous," he mused against your throat, kissing the hollow beneath your collarbone.
He finally released your hands, only so you could claw at his broad shoulders while he cupped your breasts. Jason muttered under his breath about how soft you were and how perfectly your breasts fit into his palms while you melted beneath him.
"I know, baby." His thumb and forefinger circled your nipple as it budded beneath his touch with a soft tug. "Gotham's falling apart." His teeth grazed your throat, leaving behind a mark that would darken by morning. "It does that every night."
The radio on the floor beside his helmet and your overnight bag had been going off nonstop by then, voices overlapping through bursts of static.
"Red Hood, respond."
Tim.
"Hood, I didn't come to Gotham to pick up after you. Where the hell are you?"
Dick.
Obviously, Jason was far too occupied to turn off the radio or do anything about the situation outside.
His grip around your breast tightened as his thrusts grew harder, matching the desperate movement of your hips. The mattress shifted beneath you while he watched your face with an unbearably smug, yet adoring look.
"Pretty thing," he groaned, eyes falling shut as his dark brows pinched together. He muttered about how close he was before catching your mouth with his. "What if I just let the city burn for you, hm?"
A burst of gunfire cracked through the radio and echoed from two streets down, sharp enough to make you flinch and tighten around his cock. Jason only paused long enough to listen, still toying with your breast as he cocked his head slightly.
"Modified M4," he confirmed against your pout. Another burst followed, as did his hips. "Cheap suppressor, too."
The radio crackled again with several increasingly annoyed demands to know where he was. Jason groaned for an entirely different reason and pressed his forehead against yours. His fingers left your breast and slipped between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease.
Your back arched before you could stop it.
"There you go," he praised, his mouth brushing across your cheek. "That's it, dove. Let me feel you."
His roughened thumb moved in slow circles, cruel and steady.
"You gonna come on my cock?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "That what you need?"
The words kept spilling out between kisses, each one rougher and more desperate than the last.
Then Dick mentioned something about tracking Jason's suit and dragging him out himself.
That finally got a reaction.
Not the reaction Dick wanted, obviously.
Jason hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you upright until you were straddling him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your sides as he guided you down again.
"Then we'd better finish before he gets here."
"Jason, I swear to God - "
"Yeah?" His green eyes glinted beneath lowered lashes. "Tell him how good I make you feel."
You made an offended little noise, but Jason only laughed and caught your lower lip between his teeth before kissing you again.
"That's my baby," he murmured, hands tightening around your waist as his thrusts grew meaner beneath you. Chest pressed against yours. The sound of skin hitting skin and all the lewd noises of your cunt filling the room. "So soft. So perfectly made for me. Don't know how you expect me to leave when you feel this good."
Outside, sirens wailed. The radio kept spitting out his name. Red light slid through the blinds while Gotham tried to tear itself apart a few streets away.
"You are genuinely the worst vigilante in Gotham."
"But I'm your favorite," Jason laughed as he pushed himself impossibly deeper.
You could bite, scratch, curse, and remind him that people were literally depending on him, but he answered every protest with another kiss and harsh thrust.
He was not leaving until both of you came.
And even then, Jason Todd had never been particularly good at stopping after one round.
bsf! jason todd who fucks you after a bad date ughhhh
Going to his apartment after a disastrous date. Full on crying in his arms about how much you hate guys so much and he's just there cooing to you and wipin your tears away. When you are adamant about never dating again, he decides to show you exactly why you won't need to. Gets you into his bed and fuck you in a deep mating press, so deep it was like he was in your tummy. Your legs were on each side of his shoulder, his warm breath against your ankle. He had you locked in place under him, you couldn't run if you wanted to. It was so perfect for you. Jsson knew how bratty his dear friend could be, especially when things didn't go your way, so making you take every fucking stroke was the only way he could make you feel better.
"Don't need another man when m' here baby. I know. Feels so good right? Never knew you were this big of a crybaby. This is what friends are for. What? No. You can't do this with your other friends. This is just for me and you. Because no one else can make you cum like I can. Trust me, I know you way better than they do."
horndog boyfriends jason todd && ck-prime (18+) ₊˚⊹
"guys, you will not believe what happened today—" clark stumbles as he rushes to toe his shoes off, probably eager to rant about the idiots he had to talk to at the comic store.
the couch's squeak gets cut off as jason freezes behind you. his cock manages a single, pathetic throb in your cunt before he grumbles, "can it wait until—i don't know—we're done here?"
you can practically see the way his face pinches, even though he's buried your face halfway into the cushions. clark's mouth opens, then closes, and opens again.
"uh...you're telling me to wait, but you started without me?" he asks, offense clear in his tone.
you flick your eyes up, gaze meeting your boyfriend's sharp, tensed jaw. yeah, you think to yourself, he was definitely about to come.
"well, get over here, genius," you say to your other boyfriend, pushing yourself up onto your forearms. jason takes it a step further and pulls you against his flushed, firm chest, effortlessly taking you with him as he sits up.
"don't waste your time," he teases, hooking your pliant legs over his knees and spreading you for your third to see how deep you're taking him.
you hold your arms out to him while shifting to chide, "don't provoke him, jay."
he presses soft lips to your shoulder, so unlike the way he'd been fucking you before the welcome interruption. "sorry."
clark steps closer, pulling off his shirt in one smooth motion. jason throbs in your pussy again at the shield burned into clark's chest, at the taunting grin on his face. "yeah, jay, stop being an instigator."
you give him an exasperated look and readjust yourself the best you can with seven inches in your pussy. with a grunt, jason's hand flashes out and drags clark to kneel at eyelevel with your joined sexes. your thighs are trembling when he settles between them without a complaint, like second nature.
"oh," clark swallows unsteadily, crystal-blue eyes transfixed on your pussy, "i guess i can pipe down for a little."
the stretch in your legs and the pleasure simmering under your skin makes your head hazy, and clark nudging his nose against your clit feels like an afterthought.
“so pretty like this.” his words are warm on your inner thigh, smarting along your tendons. jason hisses when you flutter around him, tipping his hips up in return. your sigh trembles at the nudge of his cockhead against that spot that makes your vision go blurry.
the calluses on jason's fingers trail up beneath your soft camisole, catch on your nipple, the pert bud hitching between his thumb and forefinger. your thighs twitch again, and clark settles his warm, warm hands on your skin. the heat stays even after he moves on.
“can you touch yourself for me, baby?” when clark says it, he laps at the ring of arousal pooling at jason's base, dripping down his balls. the man behind you mutters a quiet fuck into your neck, gripping your waist for dear life.
you’re still so sensitive when you press your fingers to your clit and trace small, jerky circles over it. clark watches you and jason squirm, drinking in every flex in jason’s fingers and every attempt to close your thighs.
you whine, breathy and low, and he must be having enough of it because he dips forward and laps at your fingers as they slide between your labia. you make another pitched noise, gasping in tandem with jason.
jason lets one of his hands inch down, down, down until his fingers twist in clark's curls, until he’s pulling the black haired man closer into where the two of you are joined, until—
“fuck—clark, y’re filthy,” he groans. jason doesn’t wait for his boyfriend to respond, nipping at the tender area under your ear that makes you jerk your fingers just a little faster and moan just a little louder.
clark matches your pace, tongue cleaning the slick off your skin, mouth suckling at your clit when you pull into the apex of the tight circles you’ve been drawing. jason's right; it is fucking filthy.
he can’t stop rutting his hips up into your cunt, chasing the flat of clark's tongue as he swipes it across your fingers again. you shudder when jason moans, and clark just goes straight back to mouthing all over your clit and the hilt of jason's cock.
your stomach is starting to knot up again, neck tightening, shoulder blade drawing together. jason's as wound-up as you are, too caught in the web of your fingers and clark's tongue and the way you’re clamping just right around his cockhead.
your free hand joins jason's in the nest of black curls making a home between both of your thighs; you tug, just a bit, at the base near clark's scalp.
the man makes a low, stomach-deep sound that comes out rumbling around your stretched-out slit. jason's strained fuck goes ricocheting between your ribs, pinging right into your heat.
you coil clark's hair around and pull again; he makes the same choked noise, burying himself deeper into you and jason. you aren’t even sure if he can breathe there or if the cream that’s leaking out of your cunt is all he needs to fucking sustain himself.
clark pulls back and lets his eyes hunt the movement of your fingers slipping in your own wetness and his saliva. jason reels him back in by the back of his neck, muttering dirty nothings into your ear.
and then you swear you see stars, because clark is pressing his touch to your clit too, grazing his teeth over both of your fingers. jason grinds up for the nth time, twitching in in the way he always does when his balls are touched into that spongy spot that has you whining: please, jay, clark, right there, don’t stop—
he cleans yours and jason’s mess; the gothamite’s hips thrust mindlessly when he cums, heat spilling from your spasming cunt as your digits freeze up. clark's fingers don’t, and he keeps tracing shapes that aren’t even circles anymore all over your twitching clit.
you moan, low and spent and fuck, you can’t help but try to slam your legs close again. “cee, s’too much, please, i can’t.”
he just tilts his head to the side, shallowly digging his teeth into the plush of your thigh. clark taps at the junction of jason’s softening cock and balls—he shudders against your back, whimpering.
the freckles on clark’s forehead follow the movement of his brows when they tilt up and his breath goes beady in the humidity at the peak of your sex when he begs:
“can i please, please talk about that dumb fuck at the store while you both suck it?”
home advantage
soccer player!jason todd x fem!reader
summary: watching your boyfriend score the winning goal makes you incredibly proud but also unbearably horny.
tags: athlete au, early but established relationship, reader tries to care about soccer but keeps getting distracted, teasing, fluff, post-game smut (fingering, protected piv, multiple orgasms), soft!jason but he's a tiny bit cocky
wc: 2.3k
before jason, you never would’ve chosen to spend a saturday night watching soccer. now, only a few months into dating him, you’ve already spent several of them in the stands watching him play for gotham.
you’re still not a huge fan of the sport, exactly, but you really like jason, and that’s been enough to make you pick up more than you expected. you don't understand what makes one formation better than another and probably couldn't explain half the rules without jason filling in the gaps, but you're starting to recognize when his team is playing well and when he's definitely going to complain about the referee afterward.
tonight’s an away game, but only about an hour outside the city. you would’ve gone if your shift hadn’t ended too close to kickoff for you to make the drive. before he left, jason told you that you could watch from his apartment if you wanted. “i’ll come straight home after,” he added, trying not to sound too hopeful.
you agreed before you could pretend to think about it, which is how you end up curled into the corner of his couch a few minutes before kickoff, one of his spare jerseys hanging loose over your pajama shorts. the fabric smells faintly of his detergent and cologne, tempting you to pull the collar closer every so often just to breathe it in.
jason appears on-screen during the starting lineup, already slightly flushed from warming up. he shakes out his arms, rolls his neck, and glances toward one of his teammates with an easy smile. then the whistle blows, and it vanishes.
throughout the game, the camera keeps cutting back to jason. he’s shoulder to shoulder with another player one moment and sprinting after the ball the next, waving his teammates forward and shouting things you can’t make out over the crowd. his expression stays focused through all of it, and by halftime, his hair is plastered to his forehead.
you try to follow what's happening—there are passes and penalties and several moments where the commentators become very excited for reasons that escape you—but mostly, you watch jason. you watch the muscles in his legs flex when he sprints and the sweat shining along his throat whenever the camera catches him breathing hard. you watch another player slam into him and stumble sideways from the impact while he barely breaks stride.
at one point, jason lifts the bottom of his jersey to wipe the sweat from his face, exposing his stomach and the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. the camera cuts away way too quickly, and you glare at the wide shot of the field in disbelief.
“oh, come on,” you mutter at the television, offended that the broadcast apparently has no sense of priorities.
the camera finally finds him again with only a few minutes left and the score still tied. a second later, jason sends the ball into the back of the net. you’re on your feet before you even realize it, grinning as the stadium erupts around him. his teammates swarm him, grabbing at his shoulders and shouting into his face while he laughs beneath the stadium lights.
pride swells warm in your chest. you’ve come to know how quickly he starts picking apart his own performance, and you love seeing him celebrate before he can overthink everything he could’ve done better.
when his teammates finally let him go, jason drags both hands through his damp hair and tips his head back, his chest still heaving beneath the jersey clinging to his skin. the sight goes straight between your legs. you shift against the cushions and press your thighs together, but the friction only makes it worse.
the last few minutes of the game barely register after that. gotham holds the lead until the final whistle, making jason’s goal the one that wins them the game. by then, though, you’re mostly wondering how long it’ll take him to get home.
✮⋆˙
the lock turns sometime after midnight, and you’re halfway across the room by the time jason steps inside.
he’s changed out of his uniform into dark athletic shorts and a black v-neck t-shirt, his duffel hanging from one shoulder. a bruise is beginning to darken just above his knee, and exhaustion sits heavily around his eyes, though neither makes him any less attractive.
“hey,” he starts, then his eyes drop to the jersey you're wearing. “is that mine?”
you glance down at it, smoothing a hand over the number as if you need to check. “maybe.”
“i like seeing you wear my number.” his gaze lingers for another second. “looks better on you anyway.”
you answer by wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him, his bag hitting the floor as his hands find your waist. his hair’s still a little wet from the shower, and he smells like soap, but you can’t stop thinking about the way he looked during the game: sweat-soaked and running on adrenaline, his jersey plastered to his stomach tightly enough to show every line of muscle beneath it.
“congratulations,” you tell him when you pull away. “i’m really happy for you.”
a boyish smile crosses his face. “you watched all of it?”
“of course.” your hand slides down his arm, lingering over the thick curve of his bicep before you give it a small squeeze.
he kisses you again, softer this time, then leads you toward the couch. once you’re settled beside him, he stretches one arm along the back behind you. “so, what’d you think about the game?”
you look at him, meaning to give him a real answer, but your eyes drift to the chest hair peeking just above the neckline of his shirt, then lower, where the cotton pulls tight across his chest. by the time you meet his eyes again, you have no idea what you were about to say.
“i thought you...” your eyes dip again. “you looked good.”
jason blinks, amusement creeping into his expression. “you watched the whole game, and that’s all you got?”
“well, you did.”
his smile turns smug. “even all sweaty?”
especially then, you think, and your expression must give you away because jason tilts his head, studying you like he already knows the answer. heat floods your cheeks, and you narrow your eyes at him.
“you’re being annoying,” you mutter.
“that’s not a no.” he leans closer, one hand settling at your waist.
you kiss him before he can tease you again, drawing a low sound from his throat as his grip tightens. when you move closer, he pulls you onto his lap, your knees coming to rest on either side of his hips, hands bracing against his shoulders.
one of his hands slides up your back while the other rests on your thigh, thumb tracing absent circles over your bare skin until goosebumps rise beneath his touch. his lips move to your neck as he adjusts you on his lap, bringing one thigh between yours. when you rock against him, the loose fabric of your pajama shorts slips aside, leaving the damp cotton of your underwear pressed against his leg.
he laughs quietly into the crook of your neck. “you’re already this worked up?”
“since the game,” you admit, a little breathless.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. “seriously?”
you arch an eyebrow. “you thought i was lying when i said you looked good?”
his eyes darken at that, and the hand on your thigh slides higher, stopping right at the line of your panties. “can i?”
"please," you say, guiding his hand the rest of the way. his fingers slip past the fabric, and his breath hitches against your neck.
"oh, fuck," he groans before pressing one finger inside you, then another once you've adjusted. jason curls them slowly, the heel of his palm dragging over your clit with each movement. you grind against his hand, chasing each stroke of his fingers. when he presses even deeper, your next breath breaks into a low moan that he catches in another kiss before his mouth trails back to the hollow of your throat, open-mouthed and messier this time.
your fingers slide into his hair and tug, and his teeth graze your pulse. "jay—"
"i've got you," he murmurs against your skin.
the next curl of his fingers sends you over. you come with a sharp cry, your thighs closing around his wrist as your body trembles against him. he works you through it, slowing only when your hold on his hair begins to loosen.
when he finally draws his fingers from you, he tastes them with a quiet hum. your legs are still shaking, but the sight of him has your hands reaching for the hem of his shirt. "i want this off."
jason leans back without argument, letting you drag it over his head. your hands are on him immediately, palms flat against his chest before sliding down his stomach. every muscle tightens beneath your touch.
you kiss him again and let your hand drift even lower, palming him through his shorts. he stills beneath you for a second before pressing into your touch, one hand slipping beneath his jersey to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple until neither of you has much patience left.
“i’m taking you to bed,” he says, his voice rough. “i want more room.”
you nod, and jason rises from the couch with you still wrapped around him. one hand grips beneath your thigh while the other presses flat against your lower back as he carries you down the hallway.
he kicks the bedroom door open and sets you near the edge of the mattress, kissing you until you fall back against it. the jersey comes off first, followed by your shorts and underwear, all of it left somewhere near the foot of the bed.
jason pauses between your knees, his hands resting on your thighs as his gaze drags slowly over you until you can feel it like a touch. you hook your fingers into the waistband of his shorts, and he helps you tug them down before kicking them aside. his cock slips free, the weight of it settling against his stomach.
your teeth catch your bottom lip as your legs fall open wider, and before you can reach for him, he dips down and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "hang on," he murmurs, reaching into the nightstand for a condom.
once he’s rolled it on, he settles between your legs and braces one hand beside you. the other wraps around himself, dragging his head through the slick between your thighs. you’re still sensitive from his fingers, and the contact makes your hips jerk beneath him.
his eyes meet yours as he lines himself up at your entrance. you curl a hand around the back of his neck and draw him down into a kiss as he pushes inside. the stretch draws a shaky breath from you, your hands sliding to his shoulders, nails digging in as he fills you. once his hips meet yours, he pauses, his mouth brushing the corner of yours.
“tell me you’re okay,” he whispers.
“i am.” you wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him close. “keep going.”
he draws almost all the way out before easing back inside, slow enough to let you feel every inch. the initial tightness begins to ease as he moves again, replaced by warmth spreading through you with each thrust. your hands travel down his back, fingertips tracing the raised scars scattered there before gripping his ass and pulling him closer.
jason groans and picks up the pace, each movement harder than the last, his breathing ragged in your ear. his free hand grips your hip and tilts you upward, and the change in angle makes your heels press harder into his back.
“right there,” you gasp, your head falling back against the pillow.
jason keeps the angle and drives into you, hitting the same spot with every roll of his hips. his chest presses heavy against yours as you bury your face in his neck, the pleasure building again. he kisses your temple and doesn't let up, each movement pushing you closer.
you come again with his name spilling from your lips, clenching hard around him. jason curses under his breath, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge.
he buries himself fully inside you, shuddering against you as his weight settles carefully over your body. his breathing gradually slows against your shoulder while your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck.
eventually, jason shifts just enough to meet your eyes. he looks spent, his expression softer than usual. "this might be the best part," he murmurs.
you cup his cheek. "better than winning?"
“yeah.” his arms tighten around you. “i could get used to coming home to you.”
he pauses after saying it, like the thought slipped out before he could stop it. before he can take it back, you pull him down into a slow, sleepy kiss and feel him smile against your mouth.
he doesn't move for a while after that. just stays pressed against you, his heartbeat steady against yours until he nudges his nose against your cheek. "c'mon, let's clean up."
when he starts to get up, you catch his arm. "wait."
he turns to you. "what?"
you press your teeth gently into his bicep. he looks down at his arm, then back at you, and the confusion on his face melts into a tired, helpless laugh. "did you just bite me?"
"i've been thinking about doing that all night too."
he shakes his head, still laughing as he leans down to kiss your forehead. "yeah. definitely the best part of my night."
a/n: watched two world cup games and immediately had to make it about jason todd bc i'm annoying <3 also if any of the soccer stuff is wrong... no it isn't!
clark usually radiates heavy narcissism, his ego far too inflated for his own good. except for now, of course.
his demeanor is much different when you're sitting behind him on the bed, your arm wrapped around his waist and fisting his flushed, leaking cock.
"oh– oh fuuuuck–" he's a wiggling, mewling mess, totally at your mercy. your stroking remains a constant, agonizingly slow movement on his dick, despite his incessant pleading.
"baby, please, i– shit!–" he's cut off when your hand stops and tightens around him painfully, "clark, not yet" you can feel him throbbing in your palm, glistening beads of precum slide down his shaft to coat your fist as you resume.
he's squirming uncomfortably, grasping at the sheets next to him and whimpering. "i've been– i've been good!" he tries to convince you, and it's not that he hasn't been good, but it's just too much fun seeing him so needy while you edge him.
"i know, you've been such a good boy, huh?" you're being plain cruel now, you know the praise will fly straight to his dick. "yes!" he gasps, suddenly bucking his hips "yeah- mommy–" you could laugh at just how fucking pathetic he sounds like this, his dick twitching violently from being treated like a dog.
"convince me, baby" you tut, speeding up your strokes until theres a lewd squelching sound, his legs shaking everytime your thumb runs along the slit on his pretty pink tip. he moans pornographically when you fist him quicker, his abs flexing with his restraint.
"oh, god" he whimpers, his balls are heavy with cum, right on the edge. "pleasepleaseplease mommy– i've been a g'boy, your g'boy!" his pleading is nothing short of an ego-booster for you, this big strong alien all putty in your arms.
once you finally give him the release his body's been aching for, he's hiccuping thank you's and shooting his warm, sticky release all over the front of his shirt and your hand in globs.
panting and recovering from his orgasm, he situates himself to lay his head fully in between your clothed tits, not caring to clean up the cum coating his front. "thank y'mommy" he mumbles out, eyes half-lidded. he lets you card your fingers through his hair soothingly and coo at him, melting into you.
it's perfectly fine to blow some steam with the so-called 'detective' you hate. it's also perfectly fine to turn around and talk shit about him to your best friend.
— wc 4.3k, suggestive content, menaces/bffs to luvs, making out, identity silliness, 2-timing but also not really, banter, fluff and cuteness
— title from bad habit by steve lacy, im crazy for the jimenez/rpat bat but u can imagine him as any version tbh!!
BATMAN WOULD BE YOUR FAVORITE CRIME, apart from the fact that you, in no way, are a criminal.
Every day before you slip that Gazette badge into your pocket, you tell yourself that he's just a guy in a suit. A six-two, totally ripped, and infuriatingly genius guy who has a penchant for out-scooping you.
Mysterious sounds in the sewers? The Bat's already got that solved, and spoiler alert—it's Killer Croc, again.
Local gang war? Oh, don't worry about it. There won't be much reporting needed, because the leaders have been strung up above Main Street with Bat-rope.
Journalists always have some paranoid, skeptical chip in their shoulders. You're worried that this could be some sort of telepathic link or something. Why else would Batman be haunting your headlines like he does every pitch-black alleyway in this damned city?
So, naturally, you find ways to take out your frustration.
"God, how many compartments do you need?" you grit, fingers scrabbling for the right seam in his suit. You aren't a stranger to wrestling his cowl off, but it's hard in complete darkness, and you've almost cut yourself on a hidden blade more than once.
But that's how it always is with Batman. Darkness, danger, a knife's edge between will he, won't he. Schrodinger's Bat, if you will.
The alley you're crammed in isn't really one. It's a side-street, tucked between a condo and a rowhouse. Clean and quiet, in a way that would be surprising if you weren't in the nicer part of the city that lines the financial district.
You suppose the night is why he even lets you touch him at all. The myth turned man, right at your fingertips. He sows a line of kisses from the right corner of your mouth to your ear, squirming out of your grip on purpose because last time, he admitted to finding you cute when you were frustrated.
You had half the mind to gag, and the other half you buried deep into the meat of your brain, where it will rot and follow you forever. The thought comes back now, that maybe he's not that bad of a bad guy.
(It’s not like you hate him. It’s just…you wish he’d leave some of the fun for you—after all, there’s nothing exhilarating in simple reporting. You want excitement, the thrill of the chase.)
At least he knows how to push your buttons.
"Not that hard," he mumbles, lips mouthing at the space behind your earlobe. He's somewhere between chapped and baby-soft, like he sometimes peels the skin off his mouth with his teeth as a nervous habit.
"It is," you respond, swallowing a sound when he bites. Just lightly, not hard enough to bloom, but enough to remind you.
It's this cat-and-mouse game you play. The PD gets the whole story before the press can jump because of Batman. Therefore, you're justified in your duty as a journalist—a pillar of democracy—to try unmasking him, no?
The mission may have run awry, but you're here, and you're close.
Finally, you find the small flap where his mask detaches from his cape. He helps you with it, considerate for once, fingers joining yours in sliding under the cowl and wrestling it off.
You still can't see him, but you can feel him. The day-old stubble clinging to his jaw. How his nose has that slightly crooked angle, one you couldn't feel if he had his mask on. The way his jaw works, the way his hair is shorter at the nape and soft at the crown.
You wonder what color his eyes are, if they sparkle in the light.
He's never taken his suit all the way off with you. How many scars does he have? Does the suit bulk him up? Is he really that tall without boots?
And then, quieter in your head...does he have cold feet? You know someone who does, and he always presses them to your warmer thighs.
You grimace. It's one thing to have a covert, inappropriate relationship with the most wanted man in Gotham, but it's another thing entirely to think about your best friend while participating in said relationship.
"What are you doing." Not a question, but not a demand either. His voice echoes in the narrow side-street.
"Feeling your face?"
"That defeats the purpose of being a mystery," he says, low. Then you hear the rasp of his glove sliding off, and the palm of his hand meets your hip, burning as he nudges the hem of your cardigan.
(You're again reminded of him. Probably dead in that stupidly large bed in his mansion, snuggling silk sheets and the whole works, completely unaware of what you're doing. He'd chastise you if he found out.)
Humming, your fingers tangle in his hair. "I have a mystery for you: where's Karate Kid?"
"Taking a break."
"Can you respond in more than ten words?"
"Depends on if we're off the record."
You hate him. Still, you don't stop him from kissing you again, eyelashes fluttering on the apple of your cheek as he moves back down to your jaw.
A soft sigh burns through you when Batman's bare fingers find the sliver of skin beneath the hem of your rucked-up shirt, then dip into your waistband—myth and man, all at once.
Face numb with heat, you just hope no one can hear the night’s silence shattering with your quiet whine of want.
—
"Thanks, Alfred."
You know the tight grin you flash looks more like a grimace, but you have to make do with your thighs that scream with every sore step.
“He’ll be in his room,” Alfred says, and every muscle in his face stays perfectly still as he folds your jacket over his forearm, giving no indication that he’s picked up on your stiffness.
But knowing the butler, he probably has—he just doesn’t feel the need to comment.
The halls, however grand and spacious as they are, have never made you feel small. Though your steps echo as you drag yourself up the darkly lacquered stairs, and the grim paintings on the walls regard you with intimidating glares, the Wayne residence has always felt like a second home.
It’s awfully drafty, though. You know Bruce runs hot (save for his freakishly frigid feet), but the breeze drifting along the ornate walls is making concern for that poor kid itch at your nape.
You turn right, go straight until the floorboards make a particularly loud creak, then take a left. It’s a path you could follow by feeling alone, by counting the precise seconds until you can see your best friend again.
You knock on the bedroom door with firm knuckles and resolve.
“What.” The word comes out as a low, gravelly rasp, devoid of inflection.
You scoff, wry. “Did Alfred not bring you coffee?”
The latch twists with a snick, and the heavy, darkly lacquered door parts from the frame to reveal a scruffy jaw and broad ink-strokes of messy hair falling over an angled brow.
Bruce glares at you, but there’s no trace of annoyance in those clear blue eyes. Only tiredness; slight relief softens the heavy bags beneath his enviously thick bottom lashes.
“Woah,” you blurt, instinctively taking a step toward him. “Sheepless night?”
He just makes this…little rough, careless sound in the back of his throat, letting you in as he sneaks one hand beneath his black silk shirt to scratch his stomach. “Not punny.”
Ignoring the insult, you pad into his room. It hasn’t changed since the last time you’ve been here—which was last week, as always.
His absurdly massive bed sits in the middle, more rumpled than usual. It’s a shame that he rarely sleeps here anymore, and you almost feel bad that he prefers to spend his nights in his office (or wherever he wants you to believe).
Like second nature, you choose the silky cushions of the chaise lounge beside the bed to unceremoniously stretch out across. You won’t disturb that sacred mattress with your outside clothes.
The curtains are drawn tight, forming a thick armor of velvet over the windows, but Gotham’s pale sunlight still wriggles into the room from above the curtain bar.
The thousand-threaded sheets seem to shimmer in the dim light, rippling as Bruce collapses onto the bed with a sleepy groan.
“I take it we’re having brunch at home then,” you say, arranging your limbs so that you’re starfished on the lounge. “Shame…Dick seemed like he was looking forward to soufflé pancakes.”
“Mhm,” he rumbles, dragging a pillow into his chest. Nuzzles into it, and something in your chest loosens like the first bloom of spring.
Lately, you've noticed that his typically rigid composure has been loosening. Though the ghosts of his parents' deaths still hang over his exhausted head, he's warmed up in small increments—like now, choosing to lean into his sleepiness rather than pushing past the need to maintain his image.
But perhaps that's because you've known him for too long. You can see through most of his farces, especially the one he insists on displaying to the wider public.
You almost scoff to yourself. Playboy billionaire. Who's going to tell the paparazzi that he broke into a cold sweat when you joked about setting him up on a blind date?
He sighs, all rough edges, tinged with the sweet relief of abandoning pretense. “You can blame Dick for keeping me up last night.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that to him.”
Gazing at you with sleep-softened eyes, Bruce says with a tinge of earnest affection, "I was helping Alfred tend to him. Wouldn't have happened if he dressed warmer like I told him to.”
“What should we do instead?” you muse, absently running your fingers over the smooth, nearly invisible stitches in the chaise’s upholstery. You’ve probably worn a path along the seam with that habit.
“Tell me about your week,” Bruce murmurs, voice dipping into gravel. His languid words pour over you, soothing. “Any scoops? See the Batman again?”
At the reminder, irritation and something akin to embarrassment (though you won’t assign an official name to it) flares in your stomach. The ache in your thighs and a few tender points along your collarbone decide to flare up, which only serves to fuel your annoyance.
You exhale hard—not so much a scoff than a careless grunt—and choke back the burning urge to roll your eyes. “Alright, that's just provoking, Bruce.”
A lazy, almost blasé, hum is your answer. “I thought you liked complaining about him. Beating the dead horse much?”
"Oh, that horse is rotting," you grit, sitting up so quickly that your vision spins with the elaborate detailing on his dark ceiling. Now that it's come to your attention, you're slowly noticing how the Gothic-reminiscent ornamentation resembles the skeletal wings of a bat, stretching above you in desperate flight. Huh.
"Do tell."
You cross your arms and glare at him, but he just lets an amused smirk play at the corner of his chapped lips (though still partially concealed by his stupidly fluffy pillow, which you are suddenly thankful for, as you'd probably just suffocate him remorselessly if you'd been exposed to the full power of his smugness).
"Remember the gang war lead?"
"Tied above Main Street with Bat-rope," is the confirmation, followed by a couple of nods that are too solemn to not be teasing.
"And the whole Joker thing—which, by the way, I think he should investigate why the clown keeps escaping—"
"—it's ninety percent Arkham Asylum's fault—"
"—plus when I was actively investigating the Riddler's latest puzzle, but he must've stolen my notes because I swear I was this," you pinch your index and thumb together, muscles tensed for emphasis, "this close to solving it."
To your ire, Bruce chuckles wryly, and if you didn't know better, you'd say he's dangerously toeing the line of self-satisfied. But that would be crazy...unless...
No, that's just crazy.
Right?
"Well, Batman is the world's greatest detective," he says, following the statement with a smooth card of fingers through his inky mess of hair.
The motion shifts the collar of his expensive pajamas, making the silk dip to reveal a small circular bruise on his collarbone. It's still reddish and stark against his pale skin, so it must be fresh. Weirdly, you distinctly remember the hard press of the Batman's clavicle against your teeth last night.
Your own bites pulse faintly again beneath your clothing.
"There's a reason why Commissioner Gordon—"
"Is that a hickey?" you interject, your pointer finger flicking out to zero onto it. You scoot to the edge of the chaise, frowning; secretly, you're elated at the chance to pivot away from the subject of Batman.
Your voice takes a teasing tone as you chuckle. "C'mon, you didn't have to lie about Dick's antics keeping you up. Bruce Thomas Wayne, are you finally becoming the playboy they say you are?"
You bite back the bitter tang of regret the moment those words escape your mouth. Your best friend can have anyone he wants—he's rich, handsome, generous, caring, and despite what the tabloids spew about him, all of Gotham knows that his intellect is damn near genius.
And yet the discovery stings. Deep down, you chide yourself for being a hypocrite, for feeling the slight betrayal that Bruce had someone in his bed while you were fucking Gotham's protector (you'll use the word loosely) practically every week.
But still. Maybe he isn't loosening up. Maybe he's still the same guarded boy he's been for over two decades.
He huffs softly, the white of his canines flashing at you for a moment. "It's nothing."
"Nothing," you repeat, incredulous. "You don't think—maybe—that this is a significant milestone?"
"Pssh, you're acting like I'm some fair maiden."
Doubling down, you slide off the chaise and kneel by his bedside, folding your arms along the edge of the mattress with a pleading look in your eyes and a sharp grin on your face. "Come on, I'm just curious. I tell you everything, down to my leads and sources."
Eyeing you from behind the soft armor of his pillow, he responds, "Alright. Why were you limping?"
Shit. The gleeful journalist in you drops dead on the floor, replaced by the anxious secret-bearer, whose knees are knocking together like the erratic tick of your heart.
"Almost everything," you correct, grin beginning to wilt into a grimace.
Bruce just regards you with a stare that is almost cold while exasperation weighs heavily on the thick lines of his angular eyebrows. That damn disapproval lances straight through your heart. Jaw tight, you concede and rest your cheek against your arm, frowning slightly.
"Fine. Sorry. I shouldn't push," you say with a softer voice. "I'm limping because I hooked up with a guy."
He...doesn't seem fazed, which throws you off. You've always known him to be protective, even possessive at times; even before his parents were murdered, he kept watchful tabs on his belongings, and he'd know if you shifted one of his toys by an inch.
Naturally, you'd expect him to show some sliver of alarm between his brows—because if you were limping after sex, that would imply that your partner may have been rough enough to affect your gait—but those faint 11 lines haven't budged.
In fact, he almost looks smug. Or maybe he’s just gotten better at caring more than he lets on.
"Your turn," you mumble as an afterthought, cheeks burning hot. If this room were colder, you'd be radiating white coils of steam.
"I also…was intimate. With a girl," he admits, though he works through his choice of words with a faint wrinkle by the corner of his mouth, like they taste bitter. "She’s nosy for a living."
Sounds like someone you know very well.
“You could’ve just told the truth,” you mumble, feeling redundant in your disappointment.
Flashes of your clandestine meetups with Gotham’s favorite vigilante unwittingly resurface, from the softness of his maybe-black hair to the way you’d know the elegant structure of his cheekbones by touch alone.
You’ve always wondered what he looked like, yes, but you suppose that imagining it with all the parts you have already memorized is different. But if you could hold up a man to the myth…
…you might raise Bruce.
Which is—fucking insane! It’s crazy, and stupid, and a terrible thing for him to do.
Yet.
Yet the small, needling voice of journalism rises from the dead. Whispers echo in the caverns of your chest: just follow the hunch, wouldn’t it explain a lot?
A beat of silence follows as Bruce determines his next words.
“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” he says, low and earnest. “I thought I had a good thing going. For the first time, I don’t want things to change.”
Somehow, you get the feeling that he isn’t just talking about his hookup.
“Plus,” he tacks on, like some afterthought he finds vaguely humorous, “you get all flustered when you need the truth. It’s cute.”
He admits that in the same tone the Bat admitted it, kissing the side of your neck.
The world shifts just a few degrees. Like the Earth has been spinning on its axis a little wrong, and you sitting up has made the planet right again.
It fits so fucking neatly that it’s infuriating. The intricate gadgets. The sleek car, with all its sharp edges and plush Italian leather cushions. The way he always seems to be two steps ahead of you.
They’re both six-two, ridiculously smart, and muscular. You know Bruce had trained in martial arts overseas; you’re realizing with horror that Dick is about the same age as Robin, and the cold would explain the sidekick's absence last night.
You deal in facts. In hard, concrete truths and testimonies sworn against perjury. Yet, if you wanted to stick with only the cold facts, you would’ve become a lawyer.
And there’s the subject of his hickey. The thought of it being you twists something around your ribs, ugly and vindictive and satisfied all at once.
You should be pissed—no, you should be furious.
Bruce lied, hid, copied off half of your investigations like a bad high school cheater, and fucked you so good that you’d forget about it.
Yet the truth just settles deep inside the pit of your stomach, like you’ve known all along but never wanted to believe it.
Because maybe you’re just as possessive. Maybe you do feel ugly and messy and proud that you’re the one that keeps him coming back.
“Yeah,” you say after a swallow, gluing your gaze onto him to gauge any reaction. “My guy’s pretty nosy too. A lot more annoying than your girl, probably. Tends to hide important information.”
“It seems like they’ve got their bad habits in common,” Bruce responds. To any other person, he’d seem unfazed, but you know.
You know that slight downward twitch of his sharp eyebrows. You know the understated purse of his lips by touch in the dark and visual study in the light. He doesn't quite blink, but his long, dark eyelashes flutter like he's making a conscious effort to keep his mask up.
“That changes a lot, doesn’t it?” It leaves your mouth less like a question and more like a statement. “Does she mean anything?”
You lean closer to him, eyes flicking all over the planes of his face until he twitches, one hand curling gingerly around your nape, as if deciding between holding fast or not at all.
“Everything.” He lets it tumble out, just like that, lets the weighty admission bounce off the mattress like a hand grenade. Too easy, too loaded. “She means everything. I think you know that too.”
The last syllables are breathed softly against your lips, and his lashes tremble as he searches your gaze with a deceptive calm brewing in his glassy eyes. Like the stillness before a storm, except there's a sort of acceptance thrown haphazardly into the blue swirling around his pupils.
Understanding.
“I can forgive the lying,” you murmur, tilting your head just so, nose brushing against his. “And the hiding. But out-scooping me? That’s fucked up.”
“You’re not even mentioning last night, and all the other ones?” A faint laugh colors the question, blooming in the infinitesimal space between your lips.
It’s then that you realize you can never be mad at him for too long. He’ll just pull some puppy-eyed shit like this, irresistible charm woven into his forever lingering smirk, and you’ll turn the world just because he’d do the same.
“Those have been forgiven for a long time.”
Bantering like this, impossibly close yet too far, comes as second nature. You fall into place like the pieces of his two identities, all neat and simple.
“Can I make it up to you?”
You flick your eyes to his Gothic ceiling, where the spiny wings of the bats seem to flutter in excitement. “Since you asked so nicely…”
Bruce presses his gentle, apologetic lips to the corner of your mouth, then traces your bottom lip with a callused thumb. “Can I kiss you here?”
“Will that stop making you ask questions like a journalist?”
A soft puff of air leaves him, half incredulous and all endeared. The thought of that being so enamoring, so magnetic flashes through your mind before he softly places his lips over yours—slightly chapped, warm, and completely familiar.
You've figured the Batman out and solved the mystery of the century. The victory doesn't taste as sweet as Bruce Wayne.
Without breaking, he draws you up to him as he shifts onto his back, a rough yet cautious hand on your waist guiding you to shuffle across the mattress on your knees and sit over his hips.
Your head spins, eyes refusing to open out of fear that this is a dream. You feel the gradual slide of his tongue in your mouth, so unlike the feverish way he kisses you in alleyways.
A quiet moan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, and it strikes you in the chest, how he seems to be just the same, yet so different. Or maybe it's because he knows this is tentative, precarious, that it's not as certain as you and his alter-ego.
You shiver—pliant and wanting in a way you didn't expect from yourself—when he diverts his attention, kissing reverently across your cheek, then expertly down your neck.
Palms and fingers on your waist, surer this time and dragging your weight against...is he serious?
You sigh against his hair, putting a little firmness behind the occasional rock of your hips against the growing heat tenting his pajama pants. "Really?"
He groans at the stimulation, cheeks flushing as he ducks his head down.
"Ignore it. Just want to stay like this," he mumbles, voice rough.
You slide a hand into his hair, which is prickly at the nape and soft at the crown (yes, yes, yes), and run the other down from the scruff still clinging on his jaw, to his softly heaving chest, to the hem of his shirt.
You sneak your touch beneath the warm silk, splaying your hand over the burning skin above his hip. This feels like a blessing, to feel the subtle ripple of muscle instead of a toolbelt and a suit.
Bruce’s sharp canines nip at your fresh hickeys from last night, to which you wince at the twinge of tenderness and slip your fingers higher to fit into the dips between his ribs—he's a little ticklish there, though you know he lies badly about it.
Paying you back in double, his hands travel beneath the hem of your own shirt, rucking the fabric up to expose your spine to his exploring touch. Another soft sigh burns through you, though the latter half is swallowed by his lips, all lazy and savoring.
And this might be better than what you've been doing. There's no more dancing, no more cat-and-mouse.
There's just you and him, sharing breaths in a sliver of air you're hesitant to widen, learning to orbit each other again with the weight of Batman altering your gravities.
He rolls both of you onto your sides, wasting little time tangling your legs. He traces shapes into your back, weaving around your spine.
The world smudges around you. Time swims by languidly as he just…caresses your skin, humming against your lips, bent on appreciation rather than stress relief.
You’ve never wanted something to stretch on forever so badly.
Unfortunately, impermanence calls when Alfred—and you know it’s him before he speaks—primly raps his knuckles three times against the door. “Master Dick is stirring. His temperature has dropped.”
“Finally,” Bruce grumbles. He attempts to pull away but can’t resist another two (or five) quick pecks. “Breakfast for lunch?”
You smooth your fingers over his head, pressing down the strands that stick out at odd angles from your grip. “Weird, but okay.”
He calls out, “Alfred, order from that French toast place Dick likes.”
“Will do, sir.”
You can practically see the way the butler bows slightly and marches down the hall. Never change, Alfred.
Bruce glances back at you with glimmering eyes, and his faint smile is too tender to be anything but hopeful, "Stay for dinner, too?"
You twist your lips, faking pensiveness. “Only if you promise to leave something for me to write about.”
Wrinkling his nose, he scoffs but makes a point of avoiding your gaze. “When have I ever done that…”
“Don’t even start.”
“I'm not,” he chuckles against your lips. It’s signed and sealed with a sweet, chaste kiss.
Oh, your heart sighs in wistful recognition. It’s always been him.
— soft tease bruce my shayla.... part of the much ado about luv event <33
bruce wayne x wife!reader ⸝⸝⸝ bruce is really, really in love w you <3 fluff, suggestive-ish (wc: 531)
bruce wayne has known you for a long time now. he’s memorized you in every light, every season, every quiet little state of being. still, sometimes, you hit him like something brand new.
one morning, you’re sitting at the kitchen island in one of his shirts, half awake, eating strawberries straight from the carton. bruce stops in the doorway.
you glance up eventually. “what?”
“nothing,” he says.
“you’ve been standing there forever.”
he walks over, bends down, and kisses your temple like that explains anything.
you watch him suspiciously as he pulls away to pour his coffee. “you’re being weird.”
“you’re very beautiful.”
the way he says it is so solemn that you nearly laugh. “you’re just now figuring that out?”
“no.” he looks at you again, softer this time. “but knowing and getting used to it are apparently two very different things.”
you have to look away before he catches your shy smile. which is ridiculous, really. you’re capable of facing gotham’s worst and keeping its best-kept secret, but one painfully sincere compliment from your husband is enough to crack your composure.
♡⸝⸝
at galas, he’s somehow worse.
he’s already seen you get ready. he was the one who zipped up the dress while you fastened your earrings in the mirror. yet halfway through the evening, without fail, he looks up from an important conversation and finds you across the room.
you’re laughing at something he can’t hear, and his attention drifts further from the person in front of him with every second he watches. then your eyes meet his, and he doesn’t stand a chance.
his expression betrays him just enough for you to catch the exact moment he loses the thread of what he’s saying. you give him a second to recover, but he never quite does. taking pity on him, you cross the floor to put him out of his misery.
when you reach him, you adjust his tie. “close your mouth, handsome.”
“it’s not—”
“it was a little,” you correct, entirely too pleased with yourself.
he lets it go, too distracted by your perfume and how close you’re standing to remember whatever excuse he was about to give anyway.
♡⸝⸝
but it’s in bed, with all of his attention fixed on you, that you undo him completely.
you’re tangled together, everything warm and unhurried, when bruce stops mid-breath, his hands going still against your skin.
you open your eyes. “what’s wrong?”
he doesn’t answer. instead, his thumb finds your jaw, tracing it slowly, and the question dies between you. your heart does something stupid because he’s forgotten to be careful with his face. he’s looking at you like he still can’t believe the world made someone like you and then, for reasons he may never understand, let him keep you.
his thumb lingers at the curve of your face before he leans down and presses his mouth to the place where your neck meets your shoulder. you breathe his name into the dark and pull him closer.
afterward, he stays there, his forehead resting against yours while you both catch your breath. when his eyes open again, he’s still looking at you with that same wonder.
roommate best friend Clark who reader convinced to suck on her pussy when he’s home sick as she’s his new mommy . Best friend Clark who wants to have his face pressed on her pussy when he sleeps. Best friend Clark who has to suck on her pussy to fall asleep and feel safe . Best friend Clark who has to at least suck in it for a good hour in the morning to even think straight.
warning(s): explicit 18+ mommy kink, panic attacks, clark has separation anxiety and finds relief between his mommy’s legs
clark rubs his arm as he anxiously paces back and forth in the night, careful to try and keep his impending panic attack quiet as to not wake his roommate who was only a few feet and a thin wall away. a noisy owl had sat in the tree just outside his bedroom window, echoing a call over and over and not adding anything positive to his vulnerable headspace. not to mention the frequent nightmares lately have frightened him right out of bed, trying his best to somehow calm himself down with an ice pack to his forehead and a few desperate gulps of tap water from the sink in their kitchen.
he feels lonely at times like this, homesick for the farm he was raised in, for his parents that had always checked in on his night terrors like these with soothing back rubs and a warm glass of milk for all his ails. now he’s states away from them with stacks of bills and responsibilities, and being away from his safe, trusted loved ones and only main support system has been the biggest mental battle he’s ever fought.
with a plain frown, he scratches his back before throwing his blanket over his body and tip toeing downstairs, hoping some fresh air might do something for his nervous system. every step is carefully placed as to not creek the floor, every move so methodically planned. he hugs himself as he grabs the carton from the fridge and fills a glass up with milk and microwaves it until it’s warm. careful not to let the alarming beep go off before he hugs it to his chest and takes a thick sip as he slowly slides the back door open and steps out.
the air is crisp, with a subtle wind blowing and shaking some of the leaves off the trees in the distance. clark makes a point to keep the main light turned off as to not be noticed and takes thoughtful sips of his milk, looking up at the stars. it could’ve been ten, twenty minutes for all he knew that he’d stayed like that outside. trying to get ahold of his racing thoughts and anxieties manifesting from his fear of being so far away from home. his ma and pa still call to check in on him every now and then and check in to see if his nightmares are still as bad as they were when he was a child. clark is always assuring them that he’s doing just fine even if he’s lying through his teeth. they care enough to notice the dip in his voice while he lies, but they don’t prod any further if he wasn’t opening the door to talking himself through it. they figure he has new friends of his own in his life that he can confide in.
a helpless tear rolls down from his left eye before he can stop it, an unexpected sob rushing from his throat after he finishes his glass of milk and sets it down on the side table. in a quick, anxious attempt to conceal the noise of his sobs he covers his mouth and shields his face with the blanket, knowing that the tears were still coming and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop them. all’s he could do was let them out and hope for the best that he isn’t making noise, that this is just going to be one bad night and that tomorrow night will be better.
his eyes are red and exhausted from his hands angrily scrubbing over them. since he’s in the dark he thinks he’s in the clear.
when he thinks the worst wave of it is over, he tries to swallow the lump in his throat and gets up to head back to the kitchen for another glass of milk, and gets stopped in his tracks from the kitchen light turning on.
like a vampire in the sun, he flinches and covers his face, head going down in shame while he sniffles and tries acting like he wasn’t just crying his heart out like a pathetic loner on the back porch. his roommate, squinting with her own glass of milk in hand, scratches her bird’s nest of bed head and lazily smiles at clark.
“oh. hey! I didn’t know you were out there. I was about to lock you out,” she says casually, yawning and sipping her glass before she notices the great lengths he’s going to avoid her gaze. “woah. are you—hey, are you okay?”
all clark can muster is a piss poor excuse for a blatant lie of “yeah.” his voice even cracks too, adding a cherry on top of a very pathetic cake.
she doesn’t blink or even think for a second before she’s rushing over. the sweetheart that she is. her warm hands felt like a hot stove up against his cool cheeks, pushing her thumbs up his chin so his face can’t hide from her anymore, and she sees it. she sees it all. the tear stained cheeks, the red, puffy eyes, the snot probably still stuck in his nose.
“I’m fine—“ he tries to squeal, the sniffling not helping his case. she looks at him with deep, sincere concern in her eyes, doesn’t speak for a long moment before bringing him in a long, warm bear hug. and clark’s water works begin all over again. sobs wreck his throat, tears gush out to his cheeks and down his jaw, tickling him. he says he’s sorry, says he doesn’t know why he’s acting like this, says he didn’t mean to wake her up and that he’ll make it up to her if he did.
“clark, don’t apologize. don’t apologize.”
she brushes the back of his hair and rubs along his back over his blanket still shielding him. clark says sorry again anyway, desperate to assure her that nothing is wrong, nothing happened, he just ‘gets like this sometimes.’
“I know we don’t talk a lot about things beyond the surface level bullshit, but you’re seriously breaking my heart right now. you can absolutely talk to me, get off whatever is heavy on your mind,” she murmurs. rocks him back and forth in her arms while he towers over her with his stature.
he chuckles through a sob at that, ducking into her shoulder and lets himself get rocked like a baby. can’t help himself but to relish in the warm, inviting embrace, nuzzling himself into her like she’s his lifeline.
“I uh, I just get… I get real homesick. and lonely. I miss my parents, it’s been h—hard to adjust being away from them, they’re all I had for so long,” clark musters to speak, voice quivering through more than half of his words. she offers him her glass of milk with a raised brow, to which he smiles and graciously takes the glass, hesitating at first but ultimately giving in and taking a sip. it did wonders for his throat, thickly swallowing and carefully going in for another before he sets it down on the counter and sheepishly goes back in for another hug, bending his neck down to shove his face back in her shoulder. of course she smells so comforting, and it was addicting already to sniff her hair that was graced with the fresh scent of that shampoo that sat in their shower. it really soothed him to be held, to be held by her, specifically — his beautiful, patient, kind and understanding roommate of three months that hasn’t made a single complaint about living with him, and on paper really hasn’t given clark a single reason to not feel like he could open himself up to her like this. he supposed his nerves always got in the way.
“what do you miss about home the most?”
clark pulls back and looks at her, turning red when she wipes a stray tear away and holds onto his face. “I um, I miss… I miss getting physical touch, physical touch like this,” he admits. “I miss my ma’s homemade bread. I miss both my parents helping me with—with my nightmares,” he swallows, averting his eyes to the floor with a bite of his lower lip. “they’d stay up with me, warm me up some milk, tell me that I’m not alone. I can’t… I just can’t seem to get any sleep when I’m alone,” he breathes out.
she nods her head slowly in understanding. gets up on her tippy toes to give his cheek a kiss, and clark reels from the contact, clenching his jaw and rapidly blinking his eyes while he wonders if what just happened really just happened.
“let’s get you some more warm milk, then I’m taking you up to my room. sound good?”
. . .
clark cluelessly follows her back upstairs to her bedroom, awkwardly stepping as he’s led by her hand in his. she took it to heart when he said he missed physical affection, and her hands have stayed on him since.
her room has always looked cooler than clark’s. posters decked out on the walls, bohemian plants strung out and framing along her window. she has a diffuser that makes the room smell soft and almost tropical. used bras and panties strung along her full hamper, and the sight makes him try to stifle a smile, rubbing his lips together.
“come here,” she guides. laying on one side of her bed, leaving plenty of room for him to get in right beside her. she expectedly holds her hand out for him, watching intently as he carefully sets his full glass of milk down and shuffles into the empty side of the bed, unsure of where his long limbs should really go.
“you can spread out you know. don’t have to stay crumbled up in a ball all night.”
it could have come out snarky, sarcastic, witty — but it comes out sincere instead, like she didn’t want to just watch him remain so uncomfortable.
with a thoughtful sigh, he gives in and spreads his legs out, grazing hers in the process and holds onto his blanket with his other hand that wasn’t grasped in hers. of course it dawned on him how intimate this really was, how she saw him cry and her first actions were to hold him, talk to him, give him more milk. it strangely makes his lower belly start to tingle almost with what felt like butterflies while he works himself up about how maternal his roommate really was towards him. the rocking back and forth in their hug, the gentle reassurance, the open ears that didn’t judge him for a split second.
it fills him with another burst of emotion, enough to make him get on his knees and start to cry again.
he turns towards her, finding she was already looking at him, wondering what the hell he was probably thinking so loud about.
“thank you,” he licks his lips. “thank you for doing this. for being kind to me. I don’t really cry in front of people except my family. I don’t mean to dump all of my problems on you.”
she shakes her head and scoots closer, slowly reaching an arm over his chest, testing to see if it’s boundary crossing or if it comforts him. clark scoots further into her, rushing to answer the quiet question: how close can they really get?
“you’re not dumping anything if I wanna hear it,” she replies. “hate to see a face this pretty cry like that.”
clark’s lip wiggles as if on queue, still chuckling through another little sob wrecking through him while he scrambles to wipe an incoming tear.
“no, no baby, let it out. don’t hold any of it in anymore.”
and with that, clark lets the floodgates open.
he cries again, less soft and quiet as his meltdown outside. this one is thundering, takes over his whole being while his head closes in on her touch while she shushes him and hugs him to her, kissing his wet cheeks while he lets everything else he’s held in come to the forefront.
she hands him a tissue after a minute, letting him blow his nose and drain his mucus, balling up the tissue into his fist to not dirty her side table with any of his germs even if they were bunched up in a napkin.
“does that feel a little better? drink your milk, baby. don’t forget about it.”
he nods and stutters to grab the glass and chug, finishing most of it in one foul swoop before wiping the corners of his lips for stray drips.
she gently fusses with his hair, brushing it in different directions so he never misses out on any physical contact. her leg even crosses over his lap, cooing in his ear that he’s never gonna be alone, not ever again.
clark curls in on her, looking smaller than he ever has even with his frame and build. he lets out hurried little boyish uh-huh’s when she repeats to him over and over, you are safe. and you are not alone.
when he’s floating in a post-cry haze, eyes so swollen he feels like he could’ve gotten punched, a name falls from his lips without his upstairs brain’s full knowledge like it was instinctual.
“mommy…”
the pets never stop. not a single inch of her body reacts, no limb even moving to push him off of her bed. if anything she gets even closer, if that was even possible.
while he nuzzles his nose into her neck, she caresses his back and hums. not giving any indication that he’s said anything out of line.
so he surrenders and says it yet again.
“mommy, mommy I need you so much,” clark whimpers. tries to hold in more of the seemingly endless supply of pathetic tears he’s held back and bottled up for far too long, all his jumbled emotions coming in a whirlwind at the first feeling of someone touching him, someone seeing him and his pain and not running away or letting him go to bed scared and alone.
“you’ve got me. I know. and you’ve got me,” she affirms. kisses the top of his head, never stopping the circles on his back. “you’ve got mommy.”
clark’s tone is hopeful when he looks up at her face to read her as best he can in the dim light, leaning in to her as she cups his cheek.
“I… I do?”
“of course you do. mommy’s right here.”
. . .
this had become a nightly ritual.
a strict, no nonsense break of their curated routine. if clark had a troublesome day and marched up to his room after work, she let him sit it out alone for no more than twenty minutes before she was knocking on his door, crawling on his lap, asking him to let it all out for mommy once again.
if clark had a good day, he would tell her about it too. how he didn’t get any bad feedback by his supervisor on his report, how he got to pet one of the stray cats in their neighborhood that were notorious for running away at the sight of any people.
she praised him when he needed it, smothered him when he needed it. held him too of course whenever he looked hungry for her affection.
she mothered him in a way that made him feel a way he truly hadn’t felt before, and that alone brought up another string of anxieties. about not being enough, about being too much. too needy. too much of a little boy. too much of a momma’s boy.
there were even times she’d have to ring it out of him, what he was feeling. she could read every facial expression that passed over his face like the back of her hand. and it was always taken in a stride. she tells him he’s silly for overthinking like that, but that it’s okay to tell her these things, and that he shouldn’t let thoughts like those start to even fester. because she’s all in.
after one particularly treacherous nightmare he wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily and trying to self soothe with his blanket. in a fit of frustration he kicks off the comforter and of course, in turn, wakes her right up.
“baby boy,” she reaches up for him. knows what’s wrong from the second he stares up at the ceiling, stubborn with a frown stuck on his face. “is it too hot for you?”
clark breathes in deep, fights the thoughts in his head that tell him he’s a freak for needing so much love and so much attention, and leans in to kiss her right on the lips, whimpering in her mouth when she automatically reciprocates.
“mommy,” he smacks his lips against hers, smelling the natural scent coming off of her from her neck. “mommy please. please.”
“tell mommy what you need.”
“I need your kisses,” clark full on whines. doesn’t hold anything back, doesn’t minimize his needs. gives it to her straight. she’s never punished him for telling his truth before, and she wouldn’t start now.
“I wanna touch you, mommy,” he swallows. “can I please…”
his hand shakily trails down her side, feeling goosebumps make way on her skin. it makes him lick and bite his lips, leaning in for another warm, needy kiss that threatens to grow even deeper while he preciously tries to glide his tongue in her mouth and lick along hers.
“you can touch mommy. I know what you need.”
clark’s cock shamefully fills and rolls up against his belly at her words, aching for some stimulation as he trails more kisses from her face, to her jaw, to her neck. hands exploring lower than anywhere his hands have ever explored before. they drift down to her hip, to her waistband, to her stomach and breasts.
“take care of me so good, mommy, always…. I just wanna be a good boy to you. wanna be a good boy for you,” he hums. she beams from his complete one-eighty change in disposition, from his sulking, shivering ball of anxiety into this flourishing, outspoken, touchy boy that knows to voice what he needs.
“can I… I wanna—“
his words are cut off by an unabashed groan when her hand grabs his and stuffs it down her panties, letting his fingers feel the pearly skin of her naked pussy, no layers in between.
“momma you’re so soft,” he whispers. doesn’t let himself tighten his hand over her mound too hard, gently pressing his palm in and applying a slow, easy pressure. his fingers have already started to get a little wet, and that did things to him that he won’t ever be moving on from. “pussy’s so warm. feels so perfect, mommy.”
she grinds into his touch subtly, hips raising up in heated figure eights while he kisses her and swallows up the moans she lets out too, mirroring his to a T.
“I need it. I need to.”
she doesn’t fight or protest anything as he ducks his head and crawled down the bed until his face was right between her open legs.
“take off mommy’s panties. go on, don’t have to be my shy boy. indulge yourself, baby.”
clark nods his head again, eager to follow orders when he pulls them down in a swift motion, dropping them to the floor off the edge of the bed. nothing could stop him from going in, from taking that last final step. he hums like he’s just found the most decadent meal to eat as he stuffs his face into her pussy, wiggling his tongue over her clit, gliding the flat of it down her lips and her hole. it weeps and clenches down and makes squelchy noises the more he sucks, and it’s so juicy and ripe that clark can feel his own dick pulsing even if he’s still completely untouched.
he moans and keeps scarfing down, sheepish voice muffled, only the words please and mommy able to be deciphered.
that tongue proves itself to become a dangerous addiction while she humps against his face, grinding her clit up to his nose while he fucks his tongue up to breach her g-spot and thrust it in and out like his face only existed at her leisure. it was rejuvenating, it was astonishing, how close to another human being he’s felt since he first cried in her arms and showed her sides of himself he never wanted to claim as his own. he hopes his tongue can do the talking, can tell her how much he appreciates her and hopes to give her as much as he takes.
she curses and slams her hips upwards when he curls his tongue so right, nudging her clit with the bridge of his nose with the right pressure and humming in a way that felt divine. clark continues his feast and stares up at her to watch her fall apart, to watch her feel good. her mouth is wide open and her eyes squeeze shut while her pussy walls quiver and gush against his mouth. it felt heavenly, like a religious experience to feel her cumming against his mouth. to get to suckle on her clit and watch his mommy lose it.
when he licks her clean she laughs and pulls his face away, too overstimulated to allow him to keep going. as he gives in despite wanting to stay right where he was, he switches gears to her inner thighs and lays the wettest kisses all over her, cum still smeared all over his lips and chin.
“you taste so good mommy. you fed me so well,” he mutters, licking her spend off his face with his outstretched tongue, leaning in to her hold on his pink cheeks.
“you all full? don’t wanna leave my baby boy hungry,” she whispers. plays with his hair again, one of his favorite forms of her attention and affection.
he closes his eyes and hums, says he’s all full now and ready to go back to sleep. doesn’t care that he ends up faceplanting right between her thighs, cheek laying directly on her naked pussy as he snoozed away with no night terrors getting in the way of his peaceful rest.
she was the antidote. to all his homesick worries, to all of his outside failures and personal interior failures, she was always there to put a lid on all of his troubles again whenever the lid flies off.
the habit became a habit because the high never seemed to wear off, soothing himself by getting his head between her thighs and kissing her pussy or licking her pussy until he was slowly falling asleep. he’s been out like a light with his airways nearly blocked by her crotch, nearly dead to the world in a deep sleep that he couldn’t ever have on his own.
the nightmares eased down the more he gave in to his desires, humping her leg and shamelessly screaming mommy when he cums. eating her out for a good hour at the very least every night so he feels high and buzzed off of pleasing her. taking care of her. thanking her.
“mommy, mommy you’re the best. you’re so beautiful. m’so lucky I have you.”
“I’m so lucky to have you, baby boy. and if you ever need to eat before bed, just eat. you need to be fed.”
so clark eats. he eats to think straight before work, he eats for a good several hours in bed after dark to feel the rush of her cum sticking to his lips. he lives to come home and make his mommy feel good, to make himself feel good. even eats to make himself feel safe again.
she never downplays the affect it has on him, the way it’s comforted him like never before. she knows it’s more than just a bedtime treat for him.
a couple nights in a row he even has her sit down on his face and ride, gladly licking up everything that drips out of her and having her cum against his nose at least three times before they both pass out, her legs still trapped over his face with her head shoved in the pillow.
after several months of their ritual he officially moves into her bedroom, hardly ever going into his old one unless he went for a new change of clothes, still preferring to go straight back to their shared room to change.
once in a while in public he’s let it quietly slip, his little voice uttering a helpless mommy if he’s on the verge of a panic attack. she of course identifies when he needs her touch more than ever to ground him back to reality and step out of the anxieties that plagued his head. and sometimes, only sometimes does he end up dragging her to the nearest family restroom and make his mommy take off her panties so he can soothe himself with his mouth back on her clit to suck.
. . .
I got so carried away with him being sad and homesick and how lonely poor baby would feel, and how he needs a mom-like figure to worship and get love and attention from.
anyways let me know how this was I love a sub mommy kink clark so much and he has angst inside him I know it
thinking about jason todd waking you with the soft press of his lips against your neck, trailing slow, lingering kisses down to your collarbone. he whispers sweet words and reassurances between each one, his warm hand gliding over your arm before settling at your waist, tugging you closer until your bodies are flush. he presses his morning wood against your thigh in a quiet invitation, patient and content whether you take it or leave it. but if you do? his hand slips beneath the sheets and into your panties, a thick finger sliding through your folds while his thumb circles your clit with lazy affection, making sure you’re slick and ready. “such a sleepy princess,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep as his fingers explore you deeper. “you’re so pretty like this,” he breathes against your ear, hips slowly grinding against your thigh. and when you’re finally wet enough, he pushes into you with a deep, sexy groan, burying his face in the curve of your neck as his slow, sleepy and lazy thrusts take you both over the edge.
Summary: Jason’s on a sex ban— or quite literally, a complete touch ban!
warnings: whiny, pathetic Jason.
Jason Todd was an absolute idiot, there was no denying that. But he was a very desperate idiot. And he was willing to do anything if it meant you’d touch him again. You see, you’d put him on a complete sex/touch ban for three entire weeks, and well? Jason was not taking it well.
By day twelve of the three-week sentence, the fearsome Red Hood had effectively ceased to exist. In his place was a six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-fifteen-pound disaster who was entirely losing his grip on reality.
Jason didn’t do things by halves. When he was a crime lord, he took over the East End. When he was an Outlaw, he traveled through space and time. And when he was put on a strict ban by the only person who held his entire heart in her hands, he turned into this absolute menace of compliance.
The apartment had never been cleaner. It was, quite frankly, terrifying.
When you walked through the front door after an exhausting shift, you didn't just smell the familiar scent of Gotham rain and Jason’s expensive cologne. You smelled lemon verbena. You smelled freshly bleached tile
You stepped into the kitchen and paused. The countertops were sparkling so intensely they practically caught the light. Every single dish was not only washed, dried, and put away, but the spice rack had been meticulously alphabetized. Even the labels on the canned goods were facing perfectly forward.
And there, standing by the stove, was Jason.
He was wearing a pair of dark sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a tight, sleeveless black compression shirt that showed off every single rigid muscle, and scar, across his broad back. And the sight normally should’ve been enough for you to jump onto him, He was currently plate-stacking three different Tupperware containers of custom-marinated chicken breasts, a batch of freshly roasted vegetables, and a pot of handmade gnocchi.
The moment the lock clicked, Jason didn’t just look up. His entire body snapped to attention. His dark eyes locked onto yours with this frantic, high-alert energy that reminded you of a stray puppy.
He didn't break the rules. His large, heavily calloused hands clamped firmly onto the edge of the kitchen island to physically anchor himself in place, but his broad shoulders slouched instantly into a pathetic, pleading posture.
"Hey," he said. His voice was incredibly rough, a deep, gravelly rumble that sounded completely worn out, like he hadn't slept in a week— which he hasn’t. How could he without your hugs and kisses?. "I made dinner. I made the gnocchi from scratch. The way your grandma does it, with the potato-to-flour ratio you like. And I prepped your lunches for the next four days."
You set your bag down, looking at the sheer volume of food, then at the pristine kitchen. "Jason... did you scrub the baseboards?"
"Yes," he blurted out, shifting his weight from one heavy foot to the other, his eyes tracking your every movement with an agonizing level of pining. "And I ran the vacuum over the carpet three times to get the lines perfectly straight. And I picked up Lily’s toys and sanitized every single block with baby-safe wipes so she doesn't ingest any rogue bacteria. I did it all."
"Wow," you murmured, leaning against the counter. "You've been busy."
"I'm losing my mind," Jason confessed, his voice dropping into a soft, intensely whiny pitch that would have shocked anyone who had ever seen him pull a trigger. He let go of the counter, taking one agonizingly slow step toward you, but stopping exactly two feet away to respect the boundary. He looked down at you from under his dark lashes, his jaw tight, his white streak of hair falling messily across his forehead. "Babe. Sweetheart. Light of my life. Look at me. I am literally vibrating. I haven't slept in forty-eight hours because every time I close my eyes, I just think about how I'm not allowed to hold you."
"It's only been twelve days, Jay," you teased, crossing your arms and fighting the massive smirk tugging at your lips.
"Twelve days is two hundred and eighty-eight hours!" Jason groaned, a loud, muffled sound of pure misery escaping his throat as he dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Do you know what I did last night? On patrol? I didn't even break any noses. A guy tried to mug a tourist in an alley, and instead of hurting him I settled on throwing him into a dumpster. I'm broken. You've broken the Red Hood."
He dropped his gaze back to you, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, desperate exhale. He slowly sunk downward, dropping his massive, muscular frame right onto his knees on your kitchen tile. He looked up at you from the floor, his hands resting on his own thighs, completely and utterly humbled.
"Please," Jason pleaded, his gravelly voice cracking slightly as he looked up at you with wide, desperate eyes. "Look at me. I'm on my knees. I'm saying the words. I'll be a good boy, sweetheart. I swear to God, I'll be the best boy you’ve ever had. I’ll never let Roy inside a three-block radius of this building again. I’ll make him sign a legal waiver. I’ll personally rewrite Lily’s vocabulary list. I will literally do anything.”
You looked down at him, your heart melting just a little bit at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of Gotham’s most dangerous vigilante begging for his life on your kitchen floor.
"Are you begging, Jason Todd?" you murmured, stepping half an inch closer.
"Yes! Yes, I am absolutely begging, I have zero shame left," he whispered frantically, his dark eyes instantly tracking your movement, glowing with a sudden, fierce spark of hope. He leaned forward slightly, though he kept his hands firmly on his knees. "I don't even need the whole thing. Just a deal. Let me negotiate. A partial payout. Five minutes of cuddles on the couch. You don't even have to move. I will just lie there like a giant, silent weighted blanket. I won't use my hands. I'll tuck them under my chest. Just let me smell your hair, babe. Please."
"Just cuddles?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
"A kiss," he corrected instantly, his voice taking on a thick, desperate edge as he looked at your lips. "One kiss. Short. Sweet. Clean. Well, maybe not entirely clean, but just *something*. My lips are falling off, sweetheart. They’re dying. I'm a dying man."
You let out a soft laugh, finally breaking your resolve. The sight of him on his knees, completely devoted, utterly whiny, and entirely yours was too much to resist. You reached out, your fingers gently sliding into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.
Jason practically shuddered at the touch, a low, ragged sigh breaking from his chest as he immediately leaned his face into your palm, his eyes closing in pure, unadulterated relief.
"Alright," you whispered, running your thumb over his sharp jawline. "The ban is suspended. Just for tonight."
Jason didn't even wait for you to finish the sentence. He surged up from the floor, his large, powerful arms instantly wrapping around your waist and lifting you completely off your feet. He pulled you flush against his broad chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck with a deep, shaky inhale.
"Oh, thank God," he mumbled against your skin
He didn't waste a second moving you to the living room, collapsing onto the couch and pulling you down on top of him. He was a man possessed by pure, desperate compliance, his massive frame sinking deep into the cushions until he was completely flat on his back, using his own chest as a platform for you.
"Rules," he breathed out, his voice a rough, scraped-raw whisper against your hair. He immediately tucked both of his massive, scarred hands flat underneath his own chest, pinning them between his body and the sofa cushions. He looked up at you from the pillows, his jaw open slightly, his eyes wide and completely glazed over with absolute devotion. "Look. Hands are away. I’m not moving 'em. See? Good boy."
You couldn't help the soft laugh that bubbled out of you, leaning your weight fully against his chest. Even stripped of his weapons and armor, Jason was a solid wall of muscle, but right now, he felt completely pliable beneath you, his entire body relaxing into a soft, heavy puddle the second your warmth pressed into him.
"Very good boy, Jay," you murmured, tracing a slow line down his cheekbone.
Jason practically whimpered at the touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his face aggressively into your palm, chasing the friction of your skin like a man dying of thirst. "More," he pleaded, his voice cracking, entirely unbothered by how pathetic he sounded. "Babe, please. Just keep doing that. Left side of my jaw. Right there. Oh, God."
You smiled, leaning down slowly until your lips were just a fraction of an inch away from his. You could feel the frantic, heavy thump of his heart hammering against your ribs, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The fearsome Red Hood was completely paralyzed under your gaze, his chest rising and falling beneath you as he waited for permission.
"Can I?" he whispered, his dark eyes snapping open, staring at your mouth with a hunger that was almost frightening, yet he didn't move a single muscle to take it. "Please, sweetheart. Just a little bit. I’ve been so good for you."
"Go ahead, Jay."
The second the words left your mouth, Jason didn't lunge—he just reached up with his face, his lips meeting yours with a soft, trembling reverence that completely dismantled the tough-guy persona. It was a deep, heavy, agonizingly slow kiss, full of the built-up tension of the last twelve days. He drank you in like oxygen, a low, needy vibration rumbling deep in his chest as his lips parted against yours, begging for more without his hands ever leaving their pinned position beneath him.
Hunhbknhjnkk oh my goodness this man he’s so fine wtf
꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ drunk!jason todd x fem!reader, fluff, talks of pregnancies, art by ciricearts
“Sweetheart, we’re gonna have a baby?” he mumbles, lifting your shirt to press messy kisses up your stomach. You’re not sure where he got this idea from. The two of you have never talked about kids, mostly because you’ve been afraid to bring it up.
You learned early on that the future was something you didn’t mention around him. Every time you made an offhand comment about a ring, or how cute babies were, you’d see his shoulders tense, his throat bobbing.
Now, at his words, your heart beats wildly in your chest. “Uh…”
“I hope she has your eyes and your nose and your pretty smile,” he slurs.
“Jay, what are you—”
He cuts you off when his nose brushes your stomach softly. “Our baby,” he adds.
When he looks up at you, his blue eyes are glassy, cheeks dusted in pink.
You can’t bring yourself to shatter the moment. Especially not when he’s looking at you like that.
“That’s…nice, honey,” you hum, fingers threading through his black curls, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
He sighs like a puppy. “You feel nicer.”
Your lips curve up at that. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you whisper as you try to pull him up.
But the man's too stubborn. He stays rooted and grunts in disapproval.
"Not done talkin' to her," he tells you, arms wrapping around your hips.
“her?” you repeat softly. “How do you know it’s a her?”
"Father's intuition," he says like it should be obvious.
You laugh and he pouts when he feels your shoulders shaking. "You really want a baby?" you ask him.
He tilts his head. And he's never looked so unguarded before.
"Wanna give you everything."
Maybe in the morning you'll find the courage to ask him again. But for now, your expression softens. You don't know what to say, so you kneel with him and throw your arms around his neck. He smells like gunpowder and leather, and this time a tang of alcohol clings to him.
he’s always smelled like home.
"Princess?" he whispers.
"Yeah?
"what're we naming her?"
Instead of replying, you just hug him tighter.
masterlist
have this while i work on better stuff lmao. i’m soooo excited for my knight bruce fic it’s all i’ve been thinking abt
becoming jason’s roommate ends with you being wayyyy more than just roommates.
# headcanons.ᐟ⸝⸝ fwb roommate!jason todd ⸝⸝ smutty ⸝⸝ oral ⸝⸝ p in v ⸝⸝ nsfw mdni ⸝⸝
fwb roommate!jason todd who’s never really looked twice at you when you first moved in due to trouble with your rent. he’s red hood—always out there doing god knows what, coming home late, too buried in his own shit to notice the roommate who pays rent on time and keeps the fridge stocked.
fwb roommate!jason todd who comes home one night bleeding from a nasty gash across his ribs, helmet off, leather jacket somewhat torn, insisting he’s fine even as he leaves bloody footprints on the same floor you just cleaned. you force him onto the couch anyway, hands shaking as you press gauze to his side, and for the first time he’s wondering if you were always this pretty.
fwb roommate!jason todd who bites his cheek and tells you not to fuss, because getting you involved in his shit is the last thing he wants. but you don’t listen. you clean him up and his eyes linger on the way you bite your lip when you’re focused, your fingers gentle over old scars and fresh bruises.
fwb roommate!jason todd who starts leaving you portions of whatever he cooks at 3am after patrol—chili, pasta, breakfast for dinner, he always gets creative as cooking is pretty much a downtime for him—with sticky notes in his messy handwriting that say “eat, don’t wait up.” he tells himself it’s just practical, but he catches himself looking for the leftovers the next day to see if you’d actually eaten them.
fwb roommate!jason todd who steals your knitted blankets because they smell like you and the fabric is soft against his skin. he walks around shirtless with the blanket hanging over his shoulders, the waistband of his sweats hanging low enough to show the deep v of his hips and the heavy outline of his thick cock when he stretches, pretending he doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger. he does. he definitely notices.
fwb roommate!jason todd who teaches you self-defense in the living room after you ask for his help one night, his hands firm on your waist, his body pressed close everytime he corrects your stance. there’s tension and it’s visibly building until suddenly you end up pinned on your back over the arm of the couch, his hips pressing in between your legs, both of you breathing hard for reasons that have quite literally nothing to do with training.
fwb roommate!jason todd who finally breaks after a brutal patrol a few nights later. the built-up tension comes to a boiling point when he backs you against the kitchen counter still half in his gear, kissing you like he’s starving. like he’s wanted this since that night you took care of him. he lifts you onto the counter, pulls your shorts down, strokes himself, and pushes into you with a deep, desperate groan, giving you a moment to adjust before thrusting harder. “fuck—been thinking about this for weeks,” he growls against your neck, fucking you with raw need until your legs shake, until you’re moaning into his neck, and until his cum is dripping down your thighs when he finally pulls out.
fwb roommate!jason todd who pretends it didn’t happen the next morning but makes your coffee exactly how you like it and avoids eye contact until you grab his chin and kiss him. that’s when the dam breaks for a second time—he bends you over the counter again, this time slow and deep. “so fucking good for me, princess. take every inch like you were made for it.” his cock grinds against your g-spot while he whispers filthy praise.
fwb roommate!jason todd who turns into the most annoying, possessive roommate/friend with benefits after that. he gets territorial when your dates text you, waiting on the couch for you to get home and he wastes no time the second you walk in. he yanks your dress up, sinks you down on his cock right there, and makes you ride him until you’re crying his name and apologizing for even looking at anyone else, filling you up until his cum leaks out of you as he holds you close and praises you afterward.
fwb roommate!jason todd who wakes you up on lazy mornings with his head between your legs, tongue buried in your pussy, sucking your clit and fingering you open until you’re grinding against his face and cumming hard on his mouth. then he slides into you while you’re still fluttering, fucking you slow and lazy, hips rolling deep while he murmurs how perfect you feel wrapped around him, warm and wet and … his.
fwb roommate!jason todd who eats you out until you’re a trembling, blissed-out mess and then slips out of bed to make you breakfast in bed—bringing coffee exactly how you like it along with pancakes or eggs and toast on a tray, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants and a rare, soft smirk as he watches you eat. pleased that he can take care of you like this even if there’s no label on it.
fwb roommate!jason todd who still crashes on the couch some nights because the quiet in his room gets too loud and his nightmares creep in, but now you crawl in with him without an invite, curled against his chest as his big hand strokes your back until he falls asleep. without you ever asking, he started to secretly restocks your drawer with period stuff, lotion, lube, and the toys he’s bought for you, never mentioning it, because taking care of you has become his favorite part of coming home.
fwb roommate!jason todd who reads his smutty romance novels on the couch and leaves them open to the dirtiest pages with notes like “we’re trying this tonight” scribbled in the margins. he tries his best not to distract you when he sees you working even though it’s all he wants to do, then rewards you later for finishing everything by pinning you to the bed and fucking you until the only thing you can utter is his name.
fwb roommate!jason todd who still insists he’s fine when he comes home injured, but now he lets you patch him up on the couch without as much complaint as before. after he pulls you down beside him, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck while his fingers work patterns on your arms or your back.
fwb roommate!jason todd who starts leaving little notes around the apartment that aren’t just about food anymore—“lock the window after I leave,” “you looked pretty today,” “don’t wait up, but I’ll be back”—because he’s shit at saying how he feels or how he cares out loud but needs you to know you’re on his mind even when he’s out.
fwb roommate!jason todd who catches himself smiling like an idiot when he hears your laugh from the other room or smells you on his pillows, realizing this apartment stopped feeling like a temporary hideout and started feeling like home the moment you forced your way into his walls. honestly, he’s scared of it—of how much he needs you safe and happy—but he’s even more scared of losing it.
fwb roommate!jason todd who, late one night after patching him up again, holds you tighter than usual on the bed and admits that you’re the only person who makes the pit in his chest feel quieter, the only one who sees the man under the hood and doesn’t flinch in fear of getting hurt. he doesn’t say “I love you” yet, but he doesn’t really need to since the way he kisses your forehead and falls asleep almost immediately with his face buried in your neck says it for him.
fwb roommate!jason todd who knows he’s a mess but keeps choosing to come home to you anyway, because somewhere between the patching him up, the sex, the shared coffee mugs, the late-night talks, and the way you take every part of him—this gruff, broken vigilante realized the best thing in his shitty fucked up life was the roommate he never meant to fall so damn hard for.
i think bsf!tim would love grinding his tip against your clit until both of you are soaked (♡⸃ ◡ ⸂♡)
he’d have you lie on your back, guiding the flush pink of his glistening tip through your folds with an agonizing slowness, smearing pre-cum against your slick. every firm nudge against your puffy clit has both of you whimpering.
“fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he mutters, voice wrecked as he catches on your clenching entrance for the umpteenth time.
“j-just the tip, okay? i promise. i just need to feel you for a second.”
famous last words.
because the second your tight heat takes the first few inches of the head of his cock, his abs flex, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as a pathetic moan escapes him.
“i-i’m sorry—“ and he slides all the way in in one go until he’s buried to the hilt inside you, pelvis pressed firm against your clit. “shit, i’m sorry— i didn’t mean— you just feel so good.”
he doesn’t immediately start fucking you hard, just starts off with slow grinds. enough to make you claw at his shoulders and beg for him to go deeper <3
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