no rules at the moment! just a loving request to please reblog my work if you enjoyed it :)
requests are also open! thereâs no promise that i will do a request but they are always open if youâd like to ask for a certain thing <3
smut â fluff ⥠angst âĄïž
Redacted Audio fanfics
sam and darlin' imagines
MECHANIC!DARLIN'?
DC fanfics
tim drake x reader
good husband ââĄ
after a drunken facetime accidentally reveals tim drakeâs long-term girlfriend to the rest of the batfamily, one very intoxicated night ends with bathroom floor confessions, a ruined blouse, and a marriage proposal tim barely remembers the next morning. unfortunately for him, he means every word.
dick grayson x reader
after-hours pt1 âĄïž
working your way through med school by dancing at gothamâs most infamous club was never supposed to collide with your personal life â especially not when your best friend is Dick Grayson. but when the batfamily starts investigating your workplace and one bad night leaves bruises you canât explain away, the secret youâve spent years burying begins to unravel faster than you can stop it.
crossfire (after-hours pt2) âĄâĄïž
you thought losing him would be permanent... he thought letting go was impossible. when Dick Grayson comes back to you, it isn't to undo what happened â it's to understand it, to fix what can be fixed, and to finally admit what neither of you had the courage to say earlier.
jason todd x reader
burger run âĄ
working late nights at a Gotham diner wasnât supposed to involve serving Red Hood cheeseburgers and arguing over the bill. but after a failed attempt to undercharge the cityâs most infamous vigilante ends with a hundred-dollar tip shoved into your hoodie pocket, he keeps coming back â and suddenly your quiet little diner feels a lot less ordinary.
burger run: midnight shift âĄ
breaks at a Gotham diner were supposed to mean 45 minutes of silence and a cigarette you didnât have to think too hard about â not a broken lighter and Red Hood stepping out of the shadows to flick a flame into life. you tell yourself itâs nothing. just another late-night coincidence. but Red Hood doesnât really do coincidences, and suddenly your quiet little breaks outside feel a lot less ordinary than your diner ever did.
Imagine Mating season!Eyeless jack who bulks up during the colder months. His shoulders and back get wider, his arms and chest get bulkier, and his voice gets oh so much deeper.
Imagine Mating season!Eyeless Jack whoâs eyes leak more tar the closer to his rut it gets, and it stains everything. Clothes, furniture, the floor, peopleâ
Imagine Mating season!Eyeless Jack who starts to care less and less about personal space. It starts out small, Heâll brush your sides when scooting passed you, hover over you for just a split second longer than usual when reaching into cabinets above your head, sitting in the bathroom while you shower without your knowledge, standing above your bed while you sleep, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, reminding himself that you are humanâ do you see where iâm going with this?
Imagine Mating season!Eyeless Jack who nests like crazy. Blankets, pillows, your clothes, your pillows, your scent, thats ALL his nest consists of. You scent is sacred in it, and he WILL get angry and possessive if someone (outside of you obviously) dares to step foot cross the barrier.
Is there any random thing that can turn the creeps on? Like, something completely casual and not sexual at all but that somehow gets them going when seeing their girlfriends doing it?
Ohhhh absolutely đ€
Non-Sexual Things That Turn the Creeps On
Toby loves when youâre bossy or stern with him. If you tell him to sit down, do something for you, or stop being annoying, heâs instantly folding. Thereâs just something about you ordering him around that gets to him. He also loves when you praise him after he does something right. A simple âyou did goodâ or âyouâre so smartâ will have him hard in seconds.
Tim finds it so hot when you smoke. Since he smokes all the time, seeing you take a cigarette from him or hold eye contact while lighting your own is ridiculously attractive to him. He also loves seeing you in the kitchen. If youâre cooking for him, thatâs wifey material right there, and heâs probably already thinking about bending you over the counter.
Brian finds it insanely attractive when you take care of his truck. Cleaning it for him, grabbing things for it, or just being careful with it makes him weak. He also likes seeing you hold or clean his gun. Another thing that gets him instantly is watching you get ready. Doing your makeup, fixing your hair, putting on a nice dress - heâs dragging you to bed before you even finish.
Ben finds it insanely attractive when you roll his joints for him. Something about seeing you so focused while also taking care of him gets him worked up fast. He also thinks your laugh is stupidly hot. If you laugh too hard at one of his jokes, heâs already thinking about how youâd look naked under him. He also likes when youâre a little mean to him, like calling him dumb or rolling your eyes. He acts offended, but heâs into it.
Jeff thinks itâs extremely attractive when you stretch without thinking about it. Maybe youâre just arching your back after sitting for too long, and heâs immediately following every movement with his eyes, already imagining what youâd look like pinned down like that. He also loves when you wear his clothes. You could be walking around in his shirt or sweatpants, and heâs already looking for an excuse to drag you to bed.
Jack loves how you smell and look right after a shower. Warm skin, flushed cheeks, clean soap, damp hair - it makes him feel almost hungry with how pretty you look. He also thinks you look incredibly attractive when youâre focused on something. Maybe youâre reading and completely lost in the book, barely paying attention to him, and it just makes him want you right there on the spot.
ALL OF THEM!! Literally all of them would be extremely appreciative of a backrub đźâđš
The Creeps Getting a Massage from Their S/O
Toby
Youâre already half-asleep with Toby tucked against you, the room quiet except for the faint hum of the TV and his uneven breathing near your ear.
Heâs curled into you the way he always gets when heâs tired enough to stop pretending he doesnât need it. One arm is thrown over your waist, his face pressed into the side of your neck, his body warm and twitchy under the blanket. Every so often, his shoulder jerks against your chest, or his fingers flex where theyâre bunched in your shirt.
At first, you just hold him.
Then your hand drifts absently up his back, smoothing over his hoodie, and you pause.
His shoulders are hard.
Not just tense. Knotted and tight enough that when your palm presses into one of them, it barely gives beneath your touch.
âToby,â you murmur.
He hums sleepily against your neck. âMm?â
âYouâre so tense.â
âMânot,â he mumbles, even though his shoulder twitches under your hand again.
You rub your thumb over the place where his neck meets his shoulder, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
You pull back enough to look at him. âYeah. You are.â
His eyes blink open, unfocused and tired. âI d-didnât even⊠didnât even nuh-notice.â
That makes your chest ache a little.
You shift under him and gently pat his side. âRoll onto your stomach.â
He looks at you like his brain needs a second to catch up. âW-what?â
âCome on. Let me help.â
His face flushes faintly, but he listens. Awkwardly, with a few jerky movements and a soft grunt, Toby rolls over onto his stomach, arms folding under the pillow. His hoodie rides up slightly at his waist, his cheek squished against the fabric, curls falling into his eyes.
You climb carefully over him, settling on the backs of his thighs with just enough weight to keep yourself balanced. Your hands return to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the hard muscle there.
The first slow push makes him groan, a rough, surprised sound that slips out of him before he can stop it.
âOh,â he breathes.
You still for a second. âGood?â
His fingers curl into the pillow. âY-yeah. Yeah, baby, thatâsââ His voice catches when you press deeper, working your thumbs in small circles. âF-fuck, that feels s-so good.â
You smile softly and keep going.
His body reacts in pieces. A shiver down his spine. A tic in his shoulder. His hips shifting slightly under you as his muscles start to loosen. He makes little sounds into the pillow, embarrassed at first, trying to swallow them down, but the more you work into the knots, the less he seems able to care.
âI didnât know you were this sore,â you say quietly.
âI d-didnât know either,â he mumbles, voice muffled. âJ-just thought I was⊠tired.â
He groans again when your palms drag down from his shoulders to the middle of his back, pressing warmth into him through his shirt.
The sound is so honest it makes your stomach flutter.
Toby turns his face just enough that one eye peeks back at you, heavy-lidded and soft. âDonât stop,â he whispers.
âIâm not stopping.â
You work slower after that, taking your time with him. Your thumbs press along the ridges beside his spine, then back up toward his neck, careful when his body jerks, patient when he needs a second. The more he relaxes, the heavier he gets beneath you, melting into the mattress like heâs been waiting all day for this.
After a while, his hand reaches back clumsily until his fingers brush your knee.
You cover his hand with yours for a second, squeezing gently.
He lets out a long, shaky breath.
âFeels nice being taken care of, huh?â you murmur.
His face turns red against the pillow.
But after a quiet moment, he nods.
âY-yeah,â he whispers. âFeels r-real nice.â
Tim
Tim comes home looking like the day has wrung him out and left nothing useful behind.
The door shuts heavy behind him. His boots drag across the floor. His jacket comes off one shoulder, then the other, landing over the back of a chair without much care. He smells like cold air, smoke, and exhaustion, his hair a mess, his jaw rough with stubble, his eyes dull and distant in a way that makes your heart sink before he even says a word.
âHey,â you say softly, stepping toward him.
He leans down when you reach for him, but the kiss he gives you is barely there. His mouth brushes yours, warm and tired, but he doesnât really kiss back. Not like he usually does. His hand comes to your waist for half a second, squeezes once, then falls away.
âLong day?â you ask.
He gives a low grunt that sounds almost like a laugh. âSomethinâ like that.â
Then he walks straight to the bedroom.
You follow a moment later and find him already stretched out on the bed, face turned into the pillow, one arm hanging over the side. He hasnât even taken his jeans off. His shoulders look massive and stiff beneath his shirt, the fabric pulling tight across his back every time he breathes.
You crawl onto the bed beside him and rest your hand on his spine.
He doesnât move.
âTim.â
âMhm.â
âRoll over.â
He turns his head just enough to squint at you. âFor what?â
âJust do it.â
He watches you for a second, too tired to argue properly. Then, with a deep sigh, he shifts onto his stomach fully, arms folding under the pillow.
You swing one leg over him and sit carefully across the backs of his thighs.
That gets a faint sound out of him. âGettinâ bossy now, huh?â
âYou need it.â
He doesnât answer, which means youâre right.
You push his shirt up over his back, exposing warm skin and tense muscle. Tim is broad under your hands, solid in that rough, masculine way that always makes him feel larger than the room when heâs close to you. But right now, all that strength is wound tight. His shoulders are like stone beneath your palms.
You start firm because you know he can take it.
The second your thumbs dig into the first knot, he groans low into the pillow.
âJesus Christ.â
You pause. âToo much?â
âNo, sweetheart,â he mutters, voice rough and thick. âKeep goinâ.â
The pet name slips out of him in that tired drawl, all gravel and warmth, and it makes something soft open in your chest.
You lean your weight into your hands and work him slowly, pressing into the hard lines of his shoulders, then down beside his spine. He groans again, deeper this time, his fingers tightening in the sheets.
âYour hands feel so damn good,â he says, barely lifting his face from the pillow.
You smile, rubbing the heel of your palm into the muscle near his shoulder blade. âYeah?â
âMhm.â His voice drops lower. âDonât know what youâre doinâ, but keep doinâ it.â
You keep going.
The room settles around you. The low light. The warmth of him under your thighs. The slow give of muscle beneath your palms as you work out knot after knot. Tim is quiet except for the occasional groan, the soft curse under his breath, the way he exhales your name like itâs the only thing he has energy left to say.
After a while, one of his hands reaches blindly toward the nightstand.
You glance over and see him fumbling for his cigarette pack.
He turns his head enough for one eye to open. âLight one for me?â
You smile. âYouâre being spoiled.â
A tired smirk pulls at his mouth. âAinât that what youâre here for?â
You roll your eyes, but you grab a cigarette and lighter anyway. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you light it, then settles it between his fingers.
âThank you, sweetheart,â he murmurs.
You go back to rubbing his shoulders, slower now, your hands smoothing down his back. He takes a drag, exhales away from you, and sinks even heavier into the mattress.
A few minutes pass before he speaks again.
âGotta ask,â he says, voice lazy and mildly amused, âdo I get a happy endinâ?â
Your hands still, and you can't help but giggle at the ridiculous question.
âOh my God, Tim!â
His shoulders shake with a low, tired chuckle.
âWhat?â he mutters, smirking into the pillow. âJust checkin'â.â
You press your thumb deliberately into a knot near his neck.
He groans hard, cigarette hand dropping safely away from the bed. âShitâ alright, alright.â
You lean down, kissing the warm skin between his shoulders. âBehave.â
His smirk softens, eyes closing again.
âYes, maâam.â
Brian
Brian is sitting on the couch when you find him, quiet in that way that means the tiredness has gone deeper than his bones.
The TV is on, but he isnât watching it. His elbows rest on his knees, hands loosely clasped, head slightly bowed. The glow of the screen moves over his face in pale flashes, catching the hard line of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the strain sitting heavy across his shoulders.
He looks composed, he always does. But you know him well enough to see the tension underneath it.
You come around behind the couch without saying anything at first. Your hands settle gently on his shoulders, thumbs resting near the base of his neck.
Brianâs head tilts slightly, just enough to acknowledge you.
âYouâre tense,â you murmur.
He exhales softly through his nose. âAm I?â
âVery.â
His mouth twitches faintly, but he doesnât answer.
You begin slowly, rubbing over the tops of his shoulders through his shirt. At first, he stays exactly as he is, elbows on his knees, posture controlled. His muscles are hard beneath your palms, knotted from holding himself steady for too long.
You press your thumbs in deeper.
His eyes close.
There it is.
You work carefully, moving in small, firm circles, following the tension from his neck to his shoulders and back again. Brianâs breathing changes first. It slows and deepens. His head lowers a little more. His hands unclasp, fingers spreading against his thighs.
You lean over the back of the couch to get a better angle, your chest lightly brushing his shoulder as your thumbs find a stubborn knot near the base of his neck.
He groans under his breath.
Itâs soft, restrained, almost like he didnât mean for you to hear it.
You smile and keep your pressure steady.
âRight there?â you ask.
He nods once. âYeah.â
You work that spot patiently, feeling the muscle resist you at first, then finally begin to give. Brianâs shoulders drop inch by inch under your hands. The careful stillness leaves him slowly, replaced by something heavier, warmer, safer.
âThat feels heavenly,â he murmurs.
The words are quiet, but they make your cheeks warm.
You bend down and kiss the top of his head, your lips brushing his hair.
He reaches up then, taking one of your hands before you can return it fully to his shoulder. His fingers wrap around yours, calloused and warm, and he brings your hand to his mouth.
The kiss he presses to your knuckles is gentle.
You donât say anything, just let him hold you there for a second.
Then he lowers your hand back to his shoulder, still holding it lightly, like he doesnât want to let go too quickly.
You resume the massage with your free hand first, then both when he finally releases you. You rub down over his shoulder blades, then back up to his neck, your movements unhurried and sure.
Brian leans back a little, just enough for the back of his head to rest briefly against your stomach.
You kiss his hair again.
He lets his eyes stay closed.
And you keep going until the tension in him loosens enough that his breathing nearly matches yours.
Ben
Ben has been complaining for twenty minutes.
At first, it was background noise. A dramatic groan from his desk. A muttered curse at his screen. A long, theatrical sigh as he shifted in his chair for the tenth time. But now heâs sitting hunched in front of his computer, one hand on the mouse, the other reaching behind him to rub uselessly at his own back.
âMy spine is actually betraying me,â he says.
You look over from the bed. âMaybe because you sit like a shrimp.â
He glances at you over his shoulder, offended. âI am suffering.â
âYouâre folded in half.â
âIâm gaming.â
âYouâre shaped like a question mark.â
He opens his mouth to argue, then winces when he turns too far.
You sit up. âC'mon, Ben. Bed. Now.â
His brows lift. âDamn, buy me dinner first.â
âBen.â
âOkay, okay.â
He gets up with all the drama of a man heading to execution, then flops face-down onto the bed. His hoodie rides up slightly, hair spilling across the pillow, one cheek squished against the sheets.
You climb on beside him and settle close, pushing the back of his hoodie up enough to get your hands on him through his thin shirt.
He grins into the pillow. âBe gentle with me. Iâm delicate.â
âYouâre so annoying.â
Then your thumbs press into his shoulders.
His joking dies instantly.
For a second, thereâs only silence.
Then Ben lets out a long, low groan that sounds so relieved you almost laugh.
âOh my God,â he mumbles.
You smile. âStill delicate?â
âShut up. Donât stop.â
You start working his shoulders properly, pressing into the tight muscle with slow, steady pressure. Heâs tense from sitting too long, from hunching over his keyboard, from acting like his body can run forever on weed, energy drinks, and bad posture.
At first, he keeps trying to make comments.
Something about your âmagic hands.â Something about how he should have asked for this sooner. Something about how heâs definitely dying and this is his final wish.
But the deeper you work into his back, the quieter he gets.
His hands curl into the pillow. His legs go loose. Every time you find another knot, he groans like itâs being pulled out of him against his will.
âFuck,â he breathes. âThat feels so good.â
You rub along either side of his spine, then back up to his shoulders. âYou really were sore.â
âI told you I was suffering.â
âYou always say youâre suffering.â
âThis time it was real.â
You laugh softly, but your hands stay gentle. The room glows blue from his abandoned computer screen, the game still running, his character probably standing somewhere unsafe and unattended. Ben doesnât seem to care. His whole attention has narrowed down to your palms on his back and the slow relief spreading through him.
After a while, he turns his head enough to look at you with one half-lidded eye.
âYouâre getting a reward for this,â he mumbles.
âOh yeah?â
âMhm.â His grin is lazy, crooked, and deeply pleased with itself. âEating your ass tonight.â
You stop for half a second.
âBen!â
âWhat?â His eyes widen with fake innocence, though his face is still smushed into the pillow. âIâm grateful.â
You shake your head, laughing despite yourself, and press your thumbs into his shoulders again.
Jeff
Jeff is sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to you, toying with his lighter.
Click.
Flame.
Click.
Dark.
He does it over and over, shoulders hunched slightly, elbows resting on his knees. Youâre lying behind him, half under the blanket, watching the orange flicker of fire catch against his fingers, then disappear again. He hasnât said much since he came in. Just kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the mattress, and started messing with the lighter like it might burn the tension out of him if he stared long enough.
His back is tight beneath his shirt. You can see it in the line of his shoulders, the stiffness in his neck, the way he keeps rolling one shoulder like something there wonât loosen.
You quietly sit up.
The mattress shifts under your weight as you scoot closer, moving until youâre right behind him. Jeff turns his head slightly, sensing you, but he doesnât look all the way back.
Your hands settle on his shoulders.
He stiffens.
âWhatâre you doin'?â
You start rubbing before you answer, thumbs pressing into the muscle near his neck.
âYouâre tense.â
âI donât need a massage.â
His voice is rough and grumpy.
You just hum softly and keep going.
For a minute, he acts like heâs tolerating it. Like this is something youâre doing to amuse yourself and heâs simply allowing it because he has nothing better to do. The lighter stays in his hand, though he stops flicking it. His head remains angled forward, hair falling around his face.
Then your thumbs find the first real knot.
His fingers tighten around the lighter.
You press slow circles into the spot, firm and patient.
Jeffâs shoulders rise with an inhale.
Then drop as he exhales.
Little by little, the resistance leaves him. His back softens beneath your hands. His head dips forward. The lighter hangs loose between his fingers now, forgotten. When your palms drag down along his shoulder blades and then back up again, he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a groan.
You move closer, your knees bracketing him from behind, your chest brushing his back as you lean in to work deeper into his shoulders. Heâs warm through his shirt. Solid. Still tense, but giving way under your touch.
âRight there?â you murmur.
Heâs quiet for a second.
Then, barely audible, âYeah.â
So you stay there.
You knead the knot until it loosens under your thumbs, then smooth your palms over the area afterward, gentler now. Jeffâs head lowers more, exposing the back of his neck. For all his sharpness, all his teeth and blood and cruel little smiles, he looks almost vulnerable like this. Held still by something softer than force.
After several minutes, your hands slow.
You think maybe heâs had enough.
But the second your palms lift, his hand reaches back and catches your wrist.
âDid I ask you to stop?â
You look at the back of his head, then chuckle under your breath.
âNo.â
âThen donât.â
Thereâs no real bite in it.
You settle behind him again, your hands returning to his shoulders. He releases your wrist as soon as you touch him, like that was all he needed.
You lean forward and press a kiss between his shoulder blades.
Jeff goes still.
For one quiet second, he doesnât move at all.
Then his chin dips, and he lets out a low breath.
You kiss him there again, softer, before going back to working the tension from his back.
He doesnât need to thank you, the way he stays, relaxed and silent under your hands, says enough.
Jack
You find Jack in the infirmary long after he should have stopped working.
The room is dim except for the cold overhead light above the counter. Supplies are lined up with his usual precision, instruments cleaned and set aside, bloodied gauze already sealed away for disposal. He stands at the sink, sleeves pushed up, washing his hands even though they already look clean.
His posture gives him away.
Jack is usually still, but this is different. His shoulders sit too high. His neck is tense. Every movement is controlled, but slower than usual, worn down by hours of work and focus.
You lean against the doorway, watching him.
âYouâre overdoing it.â
His head tilts slightly, acknowledging you without turning around. âI am almost finished.â
âYou said that an hour ago.â
He dries his hands carefully. âThere was more to do.â
âThereâs always more to do.â
That makes him pause.
You cross the room and nod toward the cot against the wall. âSit down.â
He turns his head toward you, dark sockets unreadable.
You lift your brows. âC'mon, doctorâs orders.â
For a second, he only stares.
Then your mouth twitches into a small giggle, and something in him softens. Itâs subtle, barely there, but you catch it. The faintest shift of his mouth. The smallest suggestion of a smile.
âYou are not a doctor,â he says.
âIâm acting physician of making-you-sit-down.â
Another pause.
Then Jack obeys.
He moves to the cot and sits, tall and quiet, hands resting loosely on his thighs. You step behind him, close enough that your knees brush the edge of the cot, and place your hands on his shoulders.
His body goes very still under your touch.
âYouâre tense,â you say softly.
âI know.â
The honesty surprises you a little.
You begin gently, rubbing over the tops of his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscle near his neck. Jack doesnât make a sound at first. He sits perfectly upright, head slightly bowed, accepting the care in silence like heâs still trying to understand what to do with it.
You take your time.
His skin is cool beneath the fabric of his scrubs, but the tension in him is unmistakable, deep and stubborn. You work slowly, pressing in with steady circles, then smoothing your palms outward along his shoulders.
After a while, his shoulders lower.
You smile and lean closer. âDoes that feel good?â
Jack is quiet for a moment.
Then he says, low and simple, âYes.â
Your hands keep moving, warmer now, more confident. You rub down toward his shoulder blades, then back up, fingers slipping carefully along the base of his neck. His head dips forward, and the tension begins to leave him in slow, reluctant layers.
Then you hear it - a low vibration in his chest.
You pause for half a second, your smile softening.
Jack doesnât comment on it, and neither do you.
You simply keep massaging his shoulders as the purr deepens, quiet at first, then steadier. It fills the small space between you, low and soothing, like his body is answering for him in a language more honest than words.
You lean down and press a kiss to the side of his head.
âI love taking care of you,â you whisper.
The purring stutters for a second.
Then Jack tilts his head, slowly, until the side of his face rests against your hand.
The gesture is careful.
You still your palm against him, letting him lean into it.
His eyes close, and one of his hands rises to touch your wrist.
âThank you,â he says quietly.
You bend closer, brushing your lips to his temple.
âAlways.â
And when your hands return to his shoulders, Jack leans into every movement, silent except for that low, steady purr, letting you ease the ache from him piece by piece.
sorry if you've already done this but could you do something where we call the creeps pretty and how they react?
Wait this is soooo cute đ
Creeps' Reaction to Their S/O Calling Them Pretty
Toby
The room was dark and quiet, only the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. You and Toby were tangled together under the covers, his arms wrapped tightly around you. His chin rested on top of your head, his breath warm against your hair. Every so often his body would twitch, a sharp neck crack or a violent hitch of his shoulders, but you had grown so used to it that it felt almost comforting now.
You tilted your head back slightly so you could look at him. In the soft silver light, his messy brown hair fell across his forehead in chaotic strands. The thick, jagged scar that ran across his cheek and mouth looked softer in the darkness, less like a wound and more like a part of the beautiful, chaotic boy lying beside you.
âYouâre so pretty, Toby,â you whispered, unable to hold the words back any longer.
He blinked slowly, his dark eyes widening a fraction. His neck twitched hard to the side.
âP-pretty?â he repeated with a soft, flustered chuckle, like the idea genuinely confused him. âMe?â
You nodded, smiling as you reached up to gently stroke his hair. Your fingers threaded through the messy brown strands, pushing them back from his face with care.
âYeah. Youâre such a pretty boy.â
Tobyâs cheeks flushed a deep pink beneath his scars. He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering half-closed as he savored the affection. For a moment he just stayed there, letting you pet him, his breathing uneven from both the tics and the sudden rush of warmth in his chest.
âYouâre s-so pretty too,â he mumbled eventually, voice thick and sincere. âThe prettiest girl Iâve e-ever seen. Prettiest ever.â
You kept stroking his hair, smiling.
He buried his face in your neck, holding you tighter as another tic jerked through him. You could feel him smiling against your skin.
Tim
The TV cast a soft blue glow across the living room as you lounged on the couch, your legs stretched across Timâs lap. His big, rough hands moved mindlessly up and down your calves, thumbs pressing into the muscle in slow, soothing strokes. He wasnât really watching the movie anymore, just staring at the screen with that tired, distant look he sometimes got.
You watched him instead. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair fell slightly messy across his forehead, the subtle scars and stubble that made him look so real. So handsome in a rugged, lived-in way.
You leaned forward and gently ran your fingers through his hair.
âYouâre pretty, Tim,â you said softly.
He turned his head slowly, one eyebrow raised in surprise. A low, amused chuckle left him.
âYou callinâ me pretty now?â he asked, voice teasing but genuinely caught off guard. âThatâs a new one.â
You giggled, continuing to play with his hair. âYeah. You have such nice features. Strong jaw, pretty eyes⊠I like looking at you.â
Tim huffed another laugh and shook his head.
âI wouldâve preferred handsome. Or attractive. Not pretty,â he muttered, though there was no real bite to it.
You rolled your eyes playfully and scooted forward, climbing into his lap so you were straddling him. âWell, I think youâre pretty, so deal with it.â
Before he could protest again, you leaned in and kissed him, soft and teasing. Tim laughed against your mouth, his hands settling firmly on your waist as he pulled you closer.
âAlright, fine,â he murmured when you pulled back, a real smile tugging at his lips. âWell I think youâre a beautiful lady, so deal with that.â
He kissed you again, deeper this time, hands sliding up your back as the movie continued to play forgotten in the background.
Brian
Brian was driving you home, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting comfortably on your thigh. The evening light hit his face perfectly - sharp jawline, cute nose, short dark blonde hair slightly tousled from the day. You couldnât stop staring.
A soft giggle escaped you.
He glanced over from the corner of his eye. âWhat?â
âNothing,â you said, smiling. âYouâre just so pretty.â
Brian did a double take, eyebrows raising slightly. âHuh?â
You leaned across the console and kissed his cheek. âYouâre the prettiest guy Iâve ever seen.â
He scoffed gently, fighting back a smile as he kept his eyes on the road. âPretty? Ainât that for girls?â
You shook your head, undeterred. âNo. You have such pretty features. Your jaw is really nice, your eyes are beautiful, even your nose is cuteâŠâ
Brian stayed quiet for a moment, then muttered, âAlright, whatever you say, baby,â but you caught the small, pleased smile he couldnât quite hide.
Ben
You were both in Benâs bed, you leaning against the wall with your phone while he lay sprawled beside you, lazily smoking a joint. His long blonde hair framed his face beautifully, falling softly around his shoulders. His eyes were soft and half-lidded from the weed, lips full and pink as he exhaled slow clouds of smoke.
You put your phone down.
âYouâre so pretty, Ben,â you said sincerely.
He blew out another puff of smoke and raised his eyebrows, a lazy, delighted grin spreading across his face instantly.
âYou think?â he asked, clearly loving the attention.
âMhm. The prettiest boy.â
Ben immediately scooted over and laid his head in your lap, looking up at you through those long lashes with a soft, affectionate expression. You smiled down at him and started gently petting his face, tracing his cheekbones and jaw.
âYour hair is so pretty and soft,â you murmured. âYour eyes, your lips⊠everything about you is just really pretty.â
Benâs grin widened. He nuzzled into your touch like an affectionate cat, wrapping his arms around your waist and cuddling closer.
âKeep going,â he mumbled happily.
You laughed softly and continued complimenting him, watching as he melted completely under the praise.
âYouâre the prettiest girl ever,â he said eventually, voice muffled against your stomach. âAnd Iâm your pretty boy.â
You giggled at how fast and easily he folded.
Jeff
You had finally convinced Jeff to let you braid his hair. He was sitting on the floor between your legs while you sat on the bed, carefully brushing through his long black hair before twisting it into a neat little braid.
When you were done, he stood up and stretched, turning to face you with a grunt.
You giggled at the sight. âYou look so pretty with your hair like that.â
Jeff immediately rolled his eyes. âWhat, you tellinâ me I look like a girl? Man, take that shit offââ
You laughed and quickly stood up, grabbing his arms before he could undo the braid. You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him, cutting off his protest.
âI meant it as a compliment,â you said, smiling up at him. âYou really are such a pretty boy.â
He huffed, clearly trying to look annoyed, but didnât pull away. You wrapped your arms around his neck.
Jeff looked down at you for a moment, then asked, âYou think Iâm pretty even with the scars on my face?â
You nodded, taking him in fully. âYouâre the prettiest.â
He hummed, trying to look careless, but you could see the way his shoulders relaxed just a little. Suddenly he scooped you up, carrying you over to the bed.
âYouâre not so bad yourself,â he muttered, making you giggle as you held onto him and gently bit his shoulder.
Jack
Jack sat eerily still on the couch, listening intently while you read aloud from a light adventure book. His head was slightly tilted, clearly immersed in both the story and the sound of your voice.
You paused your reading for a moment, glancing at him - the pale blue skin, the soft brown hair, the black voids where his eyes should be. He looked strangely beautiful in the dim light.
âYouâre really pretty, Jack,â you said softly.
He perked up, turning his head toward you with polite surprise.
âWhat makes you say that?â he asked, voice calm and curious.
You scooted closer and gently touched his cheek. âYou just are. I love your cheeks, your mouth, the color of your skin⊠your eyes. Youâre the prettiest boy Iâve ever seen.â
Jack gently purred at your touch, leaning into it. You knew he didnât like how he looked - saw it as a curse more than anything - but you loved every part of him.
He reached up and touched your cheek in return, voice soft and sincere. âYou are the most beautiful creature I have ever known.â
You giggled quietly. He nudged your hand with his head, silently asking you to continue reading. You smiled and picked the book back up, his hand staying gently on your cheek as your voice filled the quiet room once more.
Referring to the the 141 guys as your boyfriend for the first time - how they would react
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish
He's sitting on the couch, sketchbook in his lap and a pencil resting in his hand. He's been working on a new sketch of you for the last hour.
Meanwhile, you're across from him, scrolling on your phone.
All of a sudden, you nudge his foot with yours, "Babe, babe, babe." You launch yourself on top of him, shoving your phone in his face, "Look at this."
He has to squint to see what you're trying to show him. The text on the screen says 'Show this to your boyfriend-' but he's too busy completely ignoring the second part of the meme, instead focusing on the 'boyfriend' part.
"Boyfriend?" He grins and pulls you into him, letting his sketchbook and pencil drop off to the side.
"What?" You frown and look back at your phone, then back at him.
"Ye called me boyfriend." He skims his hand up and down your back, "Ye've never called me it before." He nuzzles your head, "Ah'm yer boyfriend." He coos happily.
"Yes, yes you are." You roll your eyes, but snuggle into him, happy that he's happy.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Kyle and you are at a bar on a date. It's not his typical choice for a date night but your dates always tended to be pretty spur of the moment, just like your relationship.
"Sorry, I have a boyfriend." Kyle could hear you talking to the bartender, "That's him, right over there." You point your finger over your shoulder. When you see his eyes on you, you smile and wave.
Immediately, he's out of his seat and next to you. He wraps his arm slightly around your waist, leaning into you, "Hey, dove." He smiles. The bartender quickly and thankfully slips away.
You turn into him, "Was that necessary?"
"Yup." He kisses your cheek, "They were flirting with you."
"Yeah, they were. You worried?"
"Mmm." He pretends to think about it for a moment then shakes his head with a grin, "Why would I be worried? You called me your boyfriend. No guy could be worried after that."
"Don't be so smug, Kyle." You slip out from under his arm.
He grabs the drinks off the bar and follows after you, "Bit hard not to be after that show!"
You flip him off and he can only grin in response.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Not once in his life had Simon ever expected to be called 'boyfriend'. It was a totally new experience for him.
"M'home." He calls out as he slips through the front door of your shared flat. Your cat immediately comes to greet him by weaving in through and around his ankles.
"Hey! There's my handsome boyfriend!" You pop your head into the entrance hall with a grin. You slip your arms around him, "Hi."
He swears he feels his heart actually skip a beat at your words as he struggles to process them properly, "Hi," He mumbles.
"How was your day?" You tug him further into the flat, apparently not having noticed what you said.
He blinks slowly, then shrugs, "Was good, I guess." He rubs a hand on the back of his neck, then decides to just broach the subject, "your...boyfriend?" He feels like he's shouting and whispering all at the same time.
"That's you. My boyfriend." You coo, even as you lean down and pick up the cat at your feet, waving the cat's paws around. You stop when you finally see his face, "Something wrong, Si?"
He forces himself to shake his head, swallowing, "No- Not a thing." He ducks his head to hide the flush he knows is spreading down his neck and walks off. He doesn't want to let you see how much you affect him. You'll never let him live it down.
But at the same time, he hopes he'll never forget your face when you greeted him. He'll die happy if he only gets to see that look every day for the rest of his life.
Captain John Price
As always, John is an old man. It doesn't even occur to him to call himself your boyfriend because it feels like something a lovesick teenager would label their first relationship. That's probably why it surprises him so much when you do it.
You're in the living room when you say it while you're on the phone with one of your friends. John is in his office doing paperwork when he hears it.
"Yeah, John, my boyfriend-"
At first, he swears he misheard you, so he ignores it.
Then you laugh and say it again, "Yeah, he's the best boyfriend I think I've ever had. I might marry him actually." You must think he's not listening. Or you do and you just don't care.
He almost chokes on his tea from the shock. Then he starts looking for engagement rings.
If you're gonna marry him, he might as well be on the same page.
John "6 ft on tinder" Mactavish who has always gotten the short end of the stick from the rest of the 141 for being 5'11". who has seen and heard beautiful women excuse all kinds of behavior just because they have to look up at Ghost or Price. who has had Gaz pat his shoulder one too many times and tell the bird he's chatting up, "man's lying about his height." and who is frankly, fucking tired of it. watching with barely disguised malice as Gaz (who is barely over 6'!! the nerve of that man!!) hits on you at the bar, strikes out. and is immediately replaced by Price, then Ghost, each man taller than the last. each one gauranteed the lay if only because of his height, sulking back to their seat after less than a minutes conversation with you.
"the height not workin' out fer ya, ya deciduous bastards?" Soap grumbles.
"bird doesnt date horses," Ghost grunts.
"they what?" Soap's mouth twitches.
"don't date horses," Price grumbles, his lighter sparking pathetically as he tries to light his cigar.
"and that means?"
"Anyone over 6 foot," Gaz slumps, tipping the last dregs of his pint back and forth in the glass.
Soap nearly vaults the table, scrambling to spin you from the bar and announce,
"Ahm 5' 11"!"
you bite your lip hard against your grin, its the sweetest thing he's ever seen.
"could wear tall heels around me and ah won't complain," he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, "the horses have me well trained lookin' up."
"how about from your knees?" you laugh, reaching to hook a finger in his belt loops.
ê° content ê± .đ„ Ę Ë drunk!jason todd x fem!reader, fluff, talks of pregnancies, art by ciricearts
âSweetheart, weâre gonna have a baby?â he mumbles, lifting your shirt to press messy kisses up your stomach. Youâre not sure where he got this idea from. The two of you have never talked about kids, mostly because youâve been afraid to bring it up.
You learned early on that the future was something you didnât mention around him. Every time you made an offhand comment about a ring, or how cute babies were, youâd see his shoulders tense, his throat bobbing.
Now, at his words, your heart speeds up. âUhâŠâ
âI hope she has your eyes and your nose and your pretty smile,â he slurs.
âJay, what are youââ
He cuts you off when his nose brushes your stomach softly. âOur baby,â he adds.Â
When he looks up at you, his blue eyes are glassy, cheeks dusted in pink.
You canât bring yourself to shatter the moment. Especially not when heâs looking at you like that.
âThatâsâŠnice, honey,â you hum, fingers threading through his black curls, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
He sighs like a puppy. âYou feel nicer.â
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.Â
"Not done talkin' to her," he tells you, arms wrapping around your hips.
âher?â you repeat softly. âHow do you know itâs a her?â
"Father's intuition," he says it like it should be obvious.Â
You laugh and he pouts when he feels your shoulders shaking. "You really want a baby?" you ask him.Â
He tilts his head. And he's never looked so unguarded before.Â
"Wanna give you everything."Â
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.Â
though heâd never admit it, you know that deep, deep down he loves the slow roll of your hips over his cock, the way your velvet walls squeeze him perfectly, the slowwww torture when you lift yourself off him.
âoh, pâplease,â his voice cracks with a broken whimper of your name, hands digging into your waist and eyes watery. his bottom lip trembles slightly, glasses askew, cock twitching in desperation as he watches, waits to feel you again.
âi said not to cum yet,â you murmur, and he nods frantically, trying to distract himself from how much heâs achingâhis tipâs flushed an angry red, the shaft slick with precum and your own arousal.
âi wonât, i swear,â he babbles, eyes rolling back when you sink back down onto him, his hands secured on the plush of your thighs as you start lifting your hips in a languid rhythm.
the sound is so lewd, tooâwet, insistent slapping that makes choso bite down on his lip harder, nearly drawing blood. his eyes draw to where you meet his base, frothed and drenched already. and when heâs close for the nth timeâhe squeezes his eyes shut and whines, and you feel his cock tense inside youâyou just pull off. again and again.
the sweetest joy, perhaps, is watching choso force himself to hold his release in when you climax over his cock, pussy clenching him so hard it hurts him to have restraint. he has to watch you moan, watch your face contort in pleasure as you use his cock to push you over the edge.
youâre panting, coming off your high, and every part of chosoâs tensed up, holding, waiting for his precious girl to give him permission. the split second you whisper a soft, âokay, you can cum now,â heâs falling back against his pillows with a shattered cry, tears streaming down his face.âthankyouthankyouthankyou,â he sobs, melting even more when you coo his name gently, kissing his cheeks with a little smile.
chosoâs mind is gone, still catching his breath, his cock still snug between your walls, and his heart skips a beat at the thought that maybe tomorrow, youâll edge him with your mouth.
Ghost who starts dating you and almost immediately stops showing up to pub nights- a sacred ritual for the 141, and causes raised eyebrows by the third time he grunts âcanâtâ over the phone.
Soap corners him after the fifth time he cancelled, all crooked grin and too bright eyes, leaning into Ghostâs space. âYeâre skippinâ again, LT. Whatâs the matter? Bird got ye on a curfew?â
Ghost doesnât answer at first. Just shoulders his bag higher and keeps walking. But Soap follows, wheedling in that relentless way of his. âCâmon, Simon. Yeâve not bought a round in weeks. Ye skint? Need a loan? Or is it her? Ye spendinâ all yer money on that pretty thing yeâve been seeinâ?â
Ghost stops, turns just enough for Soap to see the flat line of his mouth beneath the mask. âMoneyâs tight.â
âTight?â Soap barks a laugh, but it dies quick when he clocks the look in Ghostâs eyes. âYou? The fuckâre ye spendinâ it on, then?â
Ghost doesnât elaborate, just walks away. Soap watches him go, brow furrowed, and later- when itâs just the three of them and a half empty bottle- he tells the others what little he got.
âSheâs draininâ him,â Soap says. âHeâs cuttinâ back on everythinâ else. Wonât even split a pizza. Says heâs savinâ.â
Price swirls whatâs left in his glass. âSeen it before. Good men go soft for the right pair of legs and a sweet smile. Ghostâs got discipline, aye, but heâs still a man. And men like that⊠theyâve got bank. No one to spend it on before. Makes âem easy marks.â
âGold digger,â Gaz mutters, not quite under his breath, shaking his head at another brother lost. âBetter menâve fallen for less.â
They keep this to themselves, where Ghost canât hear them. Wouldnât matter if they did. Heâs already gone- head, heart, and wallet- in a way none of them have ever seen. They think heâs blind to it. That heâs being played.
What they donât see is the way Ghostâs cock twitches, thickening in the grey confines of his pants, every time he pushes his tongue past the sticky-sweet barrier of your sixty dollar lipstick until it smears, thumb dragging across your lower lip, deliberate, spreading the color onto your chin.
Doesnât see how hard he gets until heâs dizzy with it, one fist buried tight in your blown out hair, gripping at the roots and ruining the careful- expensive- work the stylist did until damp strands stick to your skin.
Blunt head already drooling a thick pool of pre, balls aching as he watches the mascara run down your flushed cheeks, lashes clumping, while he feeds his cock into your perfect warm mouth until the flared head gags the back of your throat.
And maybe he is just a man- a weak, greedy, obsessed man- as he swipes his card on yet another several-hundred-dollar clothing purchase despite your soft protests, already half hard at the thought of how heâs going to rip those pretty new things off your body the second the door closes behind you both, bullying his cock into your cunt around the remains of yet another tattered pair of fifty dollar lacy panties.
You always say something about the cost, about how he canât keep doing this, but Ghost just shakes his head once, sharp and final. âCan. Will. Shut up anâ let me see what I bought.â
The lads can think what they want. Let them whisper about gold diggers and better men falling. They donât see how turned on Ghost gets spoiling you rotten, just so he can see you all soft and wrecked, expensive clothes twisted and stained, hair a mess, face streaked with him after he fucks you stupid.
Johnny grabbed your arm right as he threw the grenade. Dragging you around the corner so the blast wouldn't hit you. But still covering you with his whole body anyway.
After the explosion you glanced up, confused to see the eager grin on his face. Out of breath and excited as he took your hand in his. Sliding the grenade pin onto your finger.
"Marry me..."
You giggled. Tilting your hand so the oversized ring clinked against the gold already adorning your finger.
"We're already married, baby."
He cursed softly. Cupping your cheeks to kiss you gently.
Imagine having a crush on your lieutenant and friend, ghost, right?
You never planned on confessing, of course. You know ghost has no interest in you, not sure if he has any interest in men, really. You know so much about him, know the foods he loves and the ones he doesn't realize he hates, know his favorite war tactics and the music he plays in his earbuds on every occasion.
He is somehow fully realized inside your palms yet impossible to grasp. Yet he's still your friend.
"For you, sergeant. Looks like you need it." Ghost huffs, tossing you a cold water bottle after a brutal workout. His body haloed by the gym lights, eyes crinkled in a smile under the plain balaclava.
You down it, cold shocking your system. Maybe the rush is why you don't think before saying "thanks. I love you, ghost."
Dead silence. For a horrible moment, you pray it reads more like a joke than a confession.
But you glance up with a wince, and ghosts face is twisted in disgust. You know the look well, plain as day. "Don't joke like that, sergeant. 'S not fuckin' funny. "
Right. Of course. The hottest guy you've met and he's probably homophobic.
"Uhâ yeah. Right. My bad, sir." You rush, standing up to fast and stumbling away from ghost instead of steadying yourself on him. "I need to go wash up, meeting with captain later."
You leave ghost stood in the middle of the gym, skin still smelling faintly of your sparring match where your cologne rubbed off onto him. He breathes it in, cones to terms with it like it's the first time all over again.
Ghost doesn't dwell on your joke, on how the words made his heart flutter. He doesn't need to see the disgust on your face when he reveals something too-close to the chest.
He finishes off the last of your water and tosses it in the bin.
simon likes when you smile-- thinks it's a damn ray of sunshine in a shitty, dark world ( cheeky, he knows. soap gives him enough grief over such sentiments, even if he never voices them out loud. the eyes say enough, LT, and you're bein' real loud-- or whatever bloody shit he says ). it's a reminder of what's worth protecting, of what's meant for him to return to, of what's worth bearing his heart to.
simon, however, doesn't like when you smile at him like that. means you're up to no good. means he better be on alert for whatever you're about to say next.
in theory, yes, simon riley is intimidating : rough voice, a personality with jagged edges, that cold stare-- but to you? forget any of that. strange how you always manage to humble him whenever he tries to stare you down.
"...you called me dove."
he pauses. it's a habit by now, just a mere nickname ; no reason for you to be looking at him like he's some kind of saint.
"and i'll do it again."
"don't threaten me with a good time, si."
that look of feign indifference-- one you always see through, your laughter, and a brush of your lips against his in quiet adoration.
