thank u bb i love u and just wanna eat u up !

headcanons

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oneshots

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series

keep me where the light falls - pt. 1, 2, 3

smaus

...nothing yet!

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.

✮⋆˙

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.

summary: falling asleep on facetime with him when he’s away on a mission <3 soft, but a tiny bit angsty because jason is emotionally constipated (affectionate) and reader misses him a lot.

Your phone lights up at 2:47 AM with a FaceTime call. Jason.

You were already awake. You've been awake for hours, lying in the dark with the fan on, doing that thing where your mind won’t settle, but sleep won’t come either. Just existing in the gap between. You haven’t heard from him in days, and your thumb hits accept before the first ring is done.

It takes a second for the call to connect, for the black screen to resolve into a dark room—a safehouse, maybe, or a motel. The only light is the glow of a joint between his fingers, flickering softly against his face. 

His eyes are low and glassy from the smoke. They’re pretty in a way he'd hate you for noticing, lashes casting long shadows down his cheeks.

"Hi,” he says. His voice is rough, scratching raw against your ear through the shitty phone speaker.

“Hey.” You pull the blanket up over your shoulders and tuck yourself against the headboard. You’re mirror images of each other now, propped up in separate beds in separate cities. “You okay?”

It's a stupid question. You know it the second it leaves your mouth. He looks exhausted. It shows in his shoulders, in how stiff he is. Every muscle is locked in place because letting go means maybe not being able to pull himself back together.

Whatever this job is, it’s clearly eating him alive.

His jaw shifts. For a second, it looks like he might say something sharp. Instead, he takes a hit, holds it, then lets it go slow.

"Yeah," he says through the exhale, smoke curling up past his face. “No. I don't know."

He pauses, and all you can hear is his breathing. It’s deliberate, measured. A pattern you’ve come to recognize: him trying to manually override his own nervous system. He does it after nightmares, after patrol, after those long silences that mean he went somewhere in his head that he can’t easily get back from.

“Can’t sleep,” he adds eventually, like a concession. 

You don’t push or ask why. He won’t give you that. Not yet anyway.

The line goes quiet, and usually you can sit with it. But after the last few days, it’s harder, and a quiet me neither slips out before you can swallow it back.

That’s when he really looks at you. His gaze catches on the old shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, then drifts over the rest of you: messy hair, bitten lips, the dullness of your skin.

A frown pulls his brows together, the edge in his voice softening. “What’s going on?”

You hesitate. You didn’t want to tell him this stuff; you tried to tuck it away for a reason. Because how do you tell him you’re having a hard time without him when he’s out there risking his life every day? It feels like adding weight to someone already carrying too much. It feels ridiculous.

But those hazy, steady eyes stay on you, patient, waiting, and they pull the truth right out.

"It's just a lot right now," you finish after a while, sounding more vulnerable than you meant to.

"Yeah." He taps ash off the joint somewhere offscreen. "I know exactly what you mean."

And the knot in your chest finally starts to loosen. You can’t believe you almost didn’t tell him. Of course he didn’t dismiss you or downplay your feelings. He never has. For all his stubbornness, all the pulling away and going quiet, he’s never once made you feel small for needing him, even when you’d convinced yourself he would.

The next drag he takes is slower. Not so desperate.

"That helping?" you ask.

He glances at the joint, then back at you. "Not really."

He holds your gaze for a long moment. You can almost see him deciding whether to say it. When he does, it’s quiet, almost boyish: “Keep talking.”

The weight of that settles beneath your ribs, steady. Jason Todd, who would rather bleed out in an alley than admit he needs someone, is asking you to keep talking because maybe your voice is doing what the smoke can’t.

So you do.

You tell him about the book you've been trying to finish, how you keep rereading the same page because your brain won't hold the sentences. You tell him about the rain earlier, how it smelled. You tell him about the stupid thing that made you laugh three days ago that you saved to tell him and then forgot until right now.

He doesn't interrupt. The joint burns down between his fingers, forgotten, and his blinks start getting longer. He sinks lower against the pillows without seeming to realize it, the camera tilting with him until he's on his side with one hand resting on the mattress. Close to the phone, close to you.

You keep going. You tell him you miss him. You tell him the bed's too big without him.

His eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows, deepens, losing that tight, controlled edge. He doesn’t open them again.

You smile, small and soft. He’s finally asleep. Truly asleep—the kind that doesn’t come easy, the kind that never seems to stay.

You don't hang up, just turn the brightness down, set the phone on the pillow beside you, and close your eyes to the sound of him breathing. It’s not the same as having him here. Not his weight on the mattress, not his arm heavy across your waist, not his heartbeat under your ear.

But it’s him, alive and still yours, even from miles away.

You fall asleep twenty minutes later, and the call runs until morning.

love u icon

summary: aftercare with dick after a long night that leaves you a little out of it and him very smug (wc: 0.9k).

Dick says something, and you know this because his mouth moves, sound comes out, and he's looking at you with that patient little tilt of his head. The words themselves, however, fail to make it through the pleasant static filling your skull.

"Hm?" you manage.

"Do you want water?"

You blink at him. This time, the question filters through the haze in scrambled pieces, but you decide you’ve got the general idea and answer with complete sincerity.

"Tomorrow."

There’s a beat of silence, and Dick goes very still.

You frown. Something about his expression isn't right. He's staring at you with his mouth pressed shut and eyes wide, like he's holding something in. You can't figure out what, because your brain is still running at half speed and—

Dick breaks. He folds forward laughing, one hand braced on the mattress, the other covering his mouth, trying and failing to be kind about this. His shoulders shake helplessly, head dropping as the sound spills out of him bright and full and impossible not to love.

Then it clicks.

Oh no.

"No, because I meant yes," you say quickly. "I meant yes now. Right now."

"Right now?" he asks. "You sure? Don't want to sleep on it?"

“Stop,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

He’s still laughing when he gently pulls them away, eyes shining.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m never letting that go.”

"That was a vulnerable moment for me."

"It was a historic moment for me."

You glare at him, but it isn't as intimidating as you think, because his grin only sharpens.

"Okay, okay," he says, holding up three fingers. "How many?"

You stare at him. "You're not serious."

"I asked you a yes or no question and you said tomorrow. I'm doing my due diligence.”

"Three, you absolute—"

"Good. What's your name?"

You tell him, flatly.

"What year is it?"

"The year I become single if you keep this up."

He ignores that completely. "Who's the mayor of Blüdhaven?"

You open your mouth, but pause for just a fraction too long.

Dick doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to.

"I know the answer," you insist. "I was going to say it."

"Sure you were."

"You did this to me." You point at him, accusatory. "This is your fault."

"I accept full responsibility." He bites down on his lip, voice strained with the effort of keeping a straight face. "I am genuinely so proud right now."

You exhale, sinking deeper into the mattress, and your exhaustion must show, because he quiets at once and his expression softens.

He leans in close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “C’mere, beautiful.”

His hand slides behind your neck as he helps you sit up against him. The movement makes your limbs feel like wet sand, heavy and uncooperative.

"Easy," he murmurs.

He steadies you, one arm around your waist while the other reaches for the water bottle already waiting on the nightstand and brings it to your lips, and you drink obediently. The cold water hits your tongue and you actually sigh.

"There you go,” he says quietly, thumb brushing once at the base of your neck. 

You hum, barely, and he presses a kiss to your temple. He reaches for the nightstand again and grabs a granola bar, unwrapping it and breaking off a piece before holding it up expectantly.

"I can feed myself."

"Can you?"

You open your mouth, and he places the bite on your tongue with a small smirk.

"That's what I thought," he says, but it's gentle.

You lightly flick at his bicep, and he only feeds you another piece.

The room glows amber from the bedside lamp. The sheets are tangled around your legs, the air still warm, the mattress dipping where he sits close beside you. Your body feels pleasantly overused, every muscle loose and humming.

Dick watches your face as you chew slowly, then swallow.

"Sore?" he asks, voice low.

You shake your head. "Just sleepy.”

He studies you for another second anyway, checking for anything you're not saying.

“You sure?”

"Promise," you reply with a little smile.

His expression eases. He sets the granola bar aside and shifts behind you, drawing you fully into him until your back rests against his chest. The blanket comes up around both of you, tucked under your arms with absent practice.

"Proud of you," he murmurs.

You huff out a laugh. "For what?"

"Persevering through adversity."

"You're unbearable."

"And yet," he says, "still your favorite."

You're too tired to deny it properly. His hand slips beneath the blanket to rest on your stomach, palm warm and grounding. The other traces slow shapes against your arm: circles, lines, little absent patterns that make your eyelids heavier by the second.

Beneath your ear, his heartbeat knocks steady and sure.

"You know," you mumble, words starting to slur, "if you tell anyone about this, I'll deny everything."

"Wouldn't dream of it. I'll just treasure the memory forever."

"That's somehow worse."

He tucks his head over yours, and you let your heavy lids fall over your eyes, body sinking deeper into him. His fingers keep moving soothingly over your skin.

Just before sleep takes you, he speaks into your hair.

"Tomorrow," he repeats fondly.

You groan weakly, and his soft laugh follows you under.

meow 🐈‍⬛

I LOVE OH MY GOODNESS ITS SO PEAK

THANK YOU ANA!!!!! 😋