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prythianpages · 9 months ago

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'Cause It Was Always You | Azriel x Reader

summary: After eavesdropping on multiple conversations, Azriel finally gathers the courage to confess his feelings to you, thinking he's on the verge of losing you.

word count: 1,741

warnings: I guess angst at the beginning? But I promise it ends with fluff!

a/n: Billie Eilish's Birds of a Feather has been on repeat in my head and it prompted this cute little idea. Also shoutout to @nocasdatsgay for helping me with a codename for Az.

“I fear I’ll love Lapis until the day that I die…until the light leaves my eyes…until I’m in the grave, rotting awa–”

“y/n, you’re drunk,” Feyre had giggled.

“Drunk in love,” you sang in response with a giggle of your own.

And when one of Azriel’s shadows reported the silly little smile on your face, the silly little sparkle in your eyes, he shrunk back into the ones that had remained. His heart sank to his stomach, a cold, heavy weight settling there.

Because you were in love.

With someone that wasn’t him.

Azriel told himself that was the last time he’d eavesdrop. And perhaps, that wouldn’t have been a lie, if it wasn’t for the pesky little shadow that followed you around. It enjoyed dancing and flitting around you. Sometimes, it’d make its presence known by weaving through your hair or slithering up your arm. Most times, it’d trail behind you, like a little duckling.

Azriel tried to call the shadow back home but it was unwavering, choosing to linger in your presence instead. The same way he wished to linger by your side. And recently, the inky traitor had gotten into the habit of summoning more of his shadows to your side, weaving an invisible bond between you and him.

Every time a shadow returned to him, it brought whispers of your laughter, the sparkle in your eyes, and the softness in your voice when you spoke of Lapis. Each word you uttered about that male tore him apart, every confession cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

“If you don’t ask Lapis out, Jasper will do it for you and believe me when I say you do not want that to happen.”

“Okay, okay! I’ll ask him out. Tomorrow.”

That was a snippet of a conversation his shadows had reported to him earlier, cutting his morning training short. It lingered with him, haunting him throughout the day. And now, he found himself unable to sleep, constantly turning in his bed.

Azriel’s stomach twists into a tight knot, the storm raging outside echoing his inner turmoil. Tomorrow. He was running out of time. Fear and perhaps, even pride, kept him from telling you how he truly felt about you. But now, he found himself fearing something even worse. Losing you before he even had a chance to say it…

He didn’t want to wake up one day and regret his silence, regret not telling you how he felt because of pride or fear. He needed to do this for himself, to break free from the shadows of his past. He had failed to confess his love twice before, and the thought of a third failure was unbearable. This time, he couldn’t let fear hold him back. The risk of losing you to someone else was a pain he couldn't endure.

With a deep breath, Azriel steeled himself. He needed to find you, to tell you the truth about his feelings. Before anything between you and Lapis could blossom. He couldn’t let another moment pass without you knowing how deeply he loved you.

Which is how he found himself at your doorstep, in the middle of the night, clothes sticking to him like a second skin as the rain pours relentlessly down on him. His shadows stir in excitement, whispering anxiously as they hear your approaching footsteps. His heart is pounding, so fast and hard that he fears it’s going to explode.

“Azriel?”

Your voice is still marred by sleep as you blink up at him. That traitorous shadow hovers behind you, peering at him over your shoulder. He glares at it, and it quickly hides behind your hair. You don’t seem to notice it, either unfazed or truly oblivious to the shadow that had been following you around for so long.

“Did something happen?” You speak again, brows furrowing in concern. You step back into your apartment, a silent gesture for him to follow after you and come inside.

“I–” Azriel begins but he can’t bring himself to finish his sentence. He can’t even bring himself to move as his eyes catch the movement of your arms wrapping around yourself to ward off the chill of the downpour. The nightgown you’re wearing is thin and short. A glimpse of your exposed skin has a warmth rushing to his face and he’s blushing.

"I—" He tries again but when his eyes meet yours, his heart leaps into his throat, choking off his words. Oh gods, he can’t do this. He’s grateful for the rain as it masks the tears beginning to sting at his eyes. He thinks he’s going to be sick and–

“Are you okay?”

His shadows push him forward, wings shuddering in response. It’s now or never. He can do this. He takes a deep breath, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“I love you.”

The words spill out in a rush, raw and unguarded. He watches you with bated breath, his shadows whispering every nuance in your expression—from the way your eyebrows raise and your mouth parts as a gasp escapes, to the way your eyes glisten with something he’s too scared to discern.

You’re rendered speechless, the silence that follows feeling like an eternity. Azriel’s wings slump, growing heavy. He clears his throat, averting his gaze. The need to retreat is overpowering what little courage he had gathered moments ago.

“That’s all I had to say. I should, um–I’ll be leaving now,” he stammers, so unsure and so unlike himself.

“Az–” you start, reaching out to him, but he’s already stepping back into the rain. He doesn’t think he can face your rejection, much less witness the look on your face if you don’t feel the same.

“Goodnight.”

His shadows are like a wall of resistance, fighting against him as he turns to make his leave. He asks them—begs them, even– to swallow him whole. To winnow him away and save him from further mortification. But they refuse. Stay, they insist, tugging and weighing his wings down.

It leaves him with no choice but to walk away. Every step feels heavier than the last, the rain soaking him to the bone. Listen, his shadows urge as they continue to tug relentlessly at his wings for him to turn back around and face you.

But he can’t. Not when the Mother has seemed to have cursed him with loving those who could never love him back.

“Azriel!”

His mind screams at him to keep going, to keep walking away. However, the plea echoed in your voice has his chest tightening. His heart overrides his mind, shadows only encouraging him further. He turns around just in time to catch you as you leap into his arms.

Your legs wrap around his waist, arms encircling his neck in a desperate effort to keep him from leaving. His own arms respond immediately, securing you to him.

“Don’t go.”

Your breath is warm against his neck as you tighten your embrace, and his wings curl around your smaller form in response, wanting to shield you from the relentless rain. He feels you shift in his arms, pulling away just enough to look into his eyes. One hand reaches out, tenderly brushing the dark fringe from his forehead. His breath catches, and you must sense his inner turmoil because you gently smooth away the furrow of his brow with your thumb.

“I love you,” you say, your hand caressing his cheek. Despite the cold, harsh downpour, your touch is warm and soft. A balm to his frayed nerves.

His heart swells with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy. He had prepared himself for rejection, for the familiar sting of unrequited love. But here you were, confessing your love to him with the same vulnerability he had shown you.

“Really?” he whispers, voice thick with emotion, eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

“Really.”

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he murmurs, his voice trembling with relief. “I thought I’d never have the chance to tell you.”

“Lose me? Azriel, you’ve always had me.”

“But you said you loved Lapis? You were going to ask him out–”

“So you were spying on me!”

Azriel’s eyes widen, cheeks flushing all over again and he’s glad it’s dark enough to conceal it. “No–I–not intentionally…my shadows, they…,” he trails off, realizing how ridiculous he must sound.

Yes, his shadow refused to come back to him. But he didn’t stop the others from reporting back to him so with a defeated sigh, he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Azriel,” you giggle and he’s frowning at you, not finding the humor in the situation. “You are Lapis.”

“What?”

“You’re Lapis. Cas is Jasper and Rhys is Amethyst.” You explain, lips curling into an amused smile at the sigh of relief that comes from Azriel. How had he not realized that all those names shared one thing in common? And more importantly, that they were color coded to his and Cassian’s siphons?

“I needed a codename for you so I can gush about my feelings for you without, you know,” you tilt your head toward that nosey, barely visible shadow that had been following you around. Sensing the attention, the shadow dips and hides again, curling around the back of your neck.

“I fear it’s yours now,” Azriel replies, almost sheepishly.

“Good,” you smile at him. “I’ve grown rather fond of it. Just as I have over its master.”

His shadows take your words as a welcome invitation, swirling and dancing around you both. Azriel’s arms hook underneath your thighs, pulling you even closer to him. Your arms find their place around his neck again.

Then, you're closing the small distance between you and kissing him. Warmth spreads throughout him, reveling in the sweet sensation of your lips against his. The rain continues to pour, but neither of you care.

When you finally pull away, he leans his forehead against yours, his eyes remaining closed as if in fear that this is all just a dream. You gently kiss his nose, your soft voice reminding him that this moment is real.

“I love you.”

Azriel’s eyes open, looking right into yours. “Until the day that I die,” he tells you, echoing your devotion.

There’s a knowing spark in your eyes as they search his own for answers. It has his lips lifting into a smile that mirrors yours, confirming that he had been eavesdropping on your drunken confession weeks ago. Your smile widens.

“Until the light leaves my eyes.”

This was a better idea in my head but hey, at least I finished it. I also don't know the logistics of having a conversation in the rain but that's the beauty of fanfic, I guess?lol Anyway, I could not get these lyrics out of my head. They were so Azriel coded for me:

I'll love you 'til the day that I die 'Til the day that I die 'Til the light leaves my eyes 'Til the day that I die I want you to see, hm How you look to me, hm You wouldn't believe if I told ya You would keep the compliments I throw ya

the way I keep fixing these lyrics but I think tumblr is glitching or something uggghh, pls ignore the random mismatched sizing

Also just wanted to point out that if Az hasn’t confessed, reader would’ve done it the next day anyway 💀

general tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel imagine #azriel fluff

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moyazaika · 5 months ago

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tbh jaded lawyer darling trying to save yan crime kingpin from getting his ass thrown into prison for life — yet again.

he’s lingering at the court’s steps, entertaining the news reporters with a dazzling smile, the entire world waiting with bated breath to see whether this is the day his billion dollar criminal empire comes crumbling down—

“the whole world knows you did it!”

“are you ashamed of yourself?”

“do you really think you’ll walk away a free man after today?”

that gets his attention.

“darling, don’t ‘ya worry about me,” he turns to the journalist, and tilts his head to the side, pulling out his lollipop from between those lips, curled in a sly grin. “i ain’t gotta worry ‘bout no fuckin’ laws when i got the world’s best damn lawyer on my side.”

a young man, then. thick glasses and braces on his teeth. far too thin and lanky, for all his balls of steel as he speaks up. “are you implying that your lawyer is an accessory to your crimes? a corrupt lawyer for a guilty man on his way to the gallows?”

he hears you approach before he can think to respond. the familiar, expensive echo of the dress shoes he’d bought you the first time you’d won a case, before you’re there where he thinks you belong; right by his side.

“alleged crimes,” you correct, and your kingpin turns to greet you with a million dollar smile. “now, my client will not be taking any more questions. kindly, fuck off.”

cameras flash instantly and countless more mics are shoved into his pretty face, still mesmerised by you, even when you grab him by the back of his collar (unironed, you notice with absolute dismay) and pull him inside, away from prying eyes.

“you’re being tried for sixteen drug and weapons counts,” you hiss, digging your newly manicured nails into his skin, as you pull the lollipop he’s sucking on right out of his mouth with a wet ‘pop’ and toss it to the side, seething. “when will you fucking get serious!”

he only dumbly stares back at you with a slack jaw, and stars in his eyes. his voice dips an octave lower, deep in his throat when he speaks. “oh, i could get very serious if you wanted to give me a kiss. or, y’know, maybe you could act as a replacement to that sweet lollipop of mine ‘ya just—oh, fuck!”

when you stride into the courtroom later, in your neat, pressed suit and slicked back hair, nobody dares ask why the infamous ‘alleged’ crime lord is following after you with a bruise blossoming on cheeks that flush a deep, deep scarlet.

the judge announces the jury's verdict, and you don’t even look up from the documents you’re perusing when he’s found ‘not guilty’ in a court of law, yet again—

“jesus fuckin’ christ, i knew you were gonna save me!” your kingpin jumps up from where he’s sitting besides you, pressing his face into your shoulder as he breathes you in with an elated, shuddering breath. “can’t even imagine which ditch i’d be rottin’ in without ‘ya, sweet pea.”

“excuse me, sir.” you pry his hands off you with a detached air of reservation you reserve for when the two of you are in public, but the way your knuckles are white when you gather the countless files and papers of yours scattered on your desk tell him everything he needs to know about how pissed you are. “hands off.”

he knows he’s in for it when the two of you get home, and yet, he looks forward to the sight.

it’s always more… exciting than it should be; when you’ve got him shoved right up against a well, going off about how ‘irresponsible’ and ‘immature’ he is, nails leaving his skin bleeding from how deep you sink them into his body, too caught up in your own irritation to notice or, honestly, care.

and maybe, he thinks, as he follows you out, tonight he’ll go pay a visit to someone after you’re done with him.

a man’s got needs, y’know?

he’s high off the rush of his latest win when he walks up the porch steps hours later. it's really only the latest achievement in a long line he attributes solely to you and your efforts.

he’ll make sure to repay you one day, with all you’ve done for him. he’ll take such good care of you; let you do whatever you wanted to him, as a token of his appreciation for how hard you've worked to keep him on the streets he rules and out of the prisons he knows he belongs in.

in fact, his efforts start right here and right now; on the steps of a nice, suburban house, that belongs to the journalist with thick glasses and braces and a wiry frame. the white picket fence and 'keep off the grass' sign do little to deter the man outside. then again, the poor bastard could have had gates of iron, and he still would have found a way to creep inside.

he never knew being a journalist paid so well. shit, maybe he should’ve gone down this path instead of, y’know, running a criminal empire. this bastard's got balls of steel, for what he had the nerve to say about you. but it’s okay! hey! he’s here to take care of it for you!

you don’t ever need to find out what he’s done in your name. ♡

he’s very adamant about this, choosing to see the job to completion all alone, slinking away from your critical, watchful gaze—only once he’s made sure you’re knocked out by watching you sleep, crouched by your bedside, for a few hours—to make sure the problem’s all taken care of.

the kingpin rings the doorbell, and patiently waits for the door to open with his scarred hands held behind his back. there’s a glock in his left back pocket, and a silencer in the right. a swiss army knife curled in his fingers, because he’s always been creative.

yeah, can you believe that? his teachers used to tell him he would make a great artist one day. and he is, he likes to think. only that his canvases are a little less traditional, and not in the banksy way. you know how it is! life imitates art... or some hippie shit like that.

there's no rules in art for what you can paint with, right? or what surfaces you can carve up into pretty shapes...

and so, when the lock clicks open, and the handle turns, it’s exactly like he said; a man’s got needs!

so sue him! really, so what if his needs mean his heavy hands are clamping over the journalist’s mouth, twisted into a silent scream—

so what if he knocks the smaller man back, a fist flying to his face, those wide eyes and all, slack jaw stupidly hanging open in disbelief—

so what if he shoves him inside and kicks the door behind them shut?

your kingpin knows what comes with the life he chose, and sullying his name is one thing—but nobody gets to drag your name through the dirt and live.

he makes sure of that, personally.

“where did you go last night?” you ask, not taking your eyes off the weekly newspaper in your hands. there, on the front page, a greyscale photo of you and your headache of a client, descending the court’s steps after the verdict. “and why didn’t you ask for my permission before you left?”

the headline, in big, bold letters, splashed above the picture; INTERNATIONAL OUTRAGE AS INFAMOUS DRUG LORD EVADES LAW YET AGAIN. SHADY LAWYER TO BLAME?

“just takin’ out the trash, lovely. don’t you worry ‘yer pretty little mind about it.” as he says that, he abandons his own breakfast, suddenly snatching the paper out of your hands and ripping it up, but not before noting the name of the article’s author, tucking it away for later.

shreds of the weekly paper you hadn't even gotten to read yet fall to the floor, fluttering this way and that. you close your eyes and smile. “haha. funny. well, my ‘pretty little mind’ is telling me to throw the coffee in my hands all over you.”

“tryna mark me up?” he purrs, “if you really wanna wake me up, can i suggest somethin’ else ‘ya could throw at me? or on me, really. but—”

“i’m going to kill you in your sleep, one of these days.” you deadpan, turning back to your food. he’s like a little kid, and you’re not about to indulge him by giving him the attention he so desperately wants from you.

“'yer serious??" he grins, hands flying to his face in elation, a curious blush colouring his skin a deep pink. “you mean you actually wanna step into my bedroom— at night— of 'yer own damn will?��

you take another sip of your coffee, fingers trembling around the cup. don’t throw it at him it’s what he wants don’t throw it at him it’s what he wants don’t throw it at him it’s what—

“damn... guess i should start sleeping naked, then.”

extra; what if darling was a prosecutor instead?

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ofbatsandballads · 12 days ago

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as the heavens set fire

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 2.7k

warnings: smut MDNI, virgin!Jason and virgin!reader, grinding, thigh riding, non-penetrative fingering, implications of Jason being demisexual.

a/n: I wrote this ages ago and just now found it in my drafts. I love the idea that in between being brought back from the dead and his revenge plot and dealing with the trauma of both that Jay never had the time to find his hopeless romantic love for the ages. I also hc him as demisexual, so both of these things combined make him a virgin in my head. Also inspired by @sanguineterrain and @sunnie-angel and their magnificent writings of virgin!jason. This is directly related to my other two fics, and it’s all quickly becoming a little universe that I’m affectionately labeling as “Jason gets the girl”. so yes, please enjoy some very soft, sweet smut of two blushing virgins!

divider credit: saradika

Jason Todd has never felt desire before. Not really. Sure, he had his fair share of kisses and frenzied touches when he first came back to Gotham, but it had never gone farther than that. Not with Rose, not with Artemis. Any time it started to go further, a harsh flinch and the recoil of his body would cut off any hope of more. And before? In his first life? He was a child, and then his teenage years were absolutely consumed with Robin. So, yeah, Jason was a little inexperienced. A virgin, if you wanted to get definitive about things. At first he thought maybe he couldn’t feel that way at all. The idea of letting someone he doesn’t trust touch him like that is unfathomable. And the idea of trusting someone enough to allow them access to his body isn’t even a thought in his mind. So all of his pleasure comes from harsh, slick strokes just to get the job done and the vague notions of the classic romance novels he loves so much.

Until now. Until you. It’s been two months since he came to you bruised and beaten worse than he’d ever been. Two months since you had tended to him, bathed him, clothed him, told him you loved him. Two months since he’d finally steeled his nerve and kissed you as both thanks and confession. You’ve been delicately together ever since. He’s dropped by your apartment every night, and he’s kissed you on more of those nights than he hasn’t. He’s felt an unfamiliar warmth stir in his belly on most of those occasions but he’s kept it in check. Well, he’s kept it in check until he gets home and throws himself into the shower, fist tight around his cock as he thinks of your sweet face smiling at him, your pretty mouth telling him you love him. But he’s got impeccable self control around you. Or he thought he did.

Tonight he dropped in injured for the first time in a while. One of Riddler’s goons had smashed a bottle against his forehead, the shattered glass leaving him with a cut and a blossoming headache. Jason is starting to regret his style change from helmet to domino mask and muzzle. His first instinct was to come to you. He figured it would be the same old song and dance you two had done for over a year now, except maybe with some kisses included. It fails to be the same song and dance the second he sees you in the tiny satin pajama shorts and cropped spaghetti strap pajama top. The set is a deep wine red color that looks so pretty against your skin. His head starts to feel a little fuzzy, but he thinks maybe that’s from the hit. He lets himself in through your window, loud and obvious so as not to startle you.

And, oh, you’re so kind to him. Always so kind to him. You guide him to your sofa and push him down onto the soft cushions (and his mind goes fuzzier). You kneel next to him, leaning slightly into his body while trying to reach the jagged cut on his head. But all Jason can see is red, red, red against your plush exposed skin. A groan of frustration pulls him from his trance.

“I can’t reach you like this, Jay,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Can I sit on your lap?” you ask, and your face has so much concern on it.

Jason ceases to think. Maybe the hit has concussed him, made him stupid. He doesn’t even think he heard you right. But as you go to apologize for suggesting it, for pushing him into uncomfortable territory, he knows he did hear you correctly. And somehow your concern over his boundaries just makes his body burn hotter. He’d laid out ground rules when you two started this. He wasn’t familiar with physical contact without the intention to cause harm, so he needed time to adjust. And you’ve so diligently allowed him that time. You always ask if it’s okay to hold his hand, to rest against him, to kiss him. Even now you’re asking if he’s okay with you getting closer. He can’t bring himself to tell you just how much closer he wants you. So he simply raises his hand to cut off your apologies and nods.

The warm weight of you on his lap is heavenly. He’s keyed up, acutely aware of your body resting atop his. He tries to reign in his thoughts. The sensitivity of his body, however, can’t be controlled. You lean forward to apply the dermabond to his cut and he has to grip the sofa cushions as he feels your body press flush against his. He hopes you think it’s from the pain. You let out a soft sigh as you soothingly stroke his hair while the surgical glue cures.

“I’m so sorry, Jason. You’re doing so well, angel,” you coo at him.

Jason forces a harsh exhale through his nose. You’re killing him. He’s half hard in his pants now and the prospect of hiding his desire behind pain is dwindling by the second. He’s taking controlled breaths, willing himself to just get through this so he can go home and take care of his growing problem. But then a series of things all happen at once: you shift in his lap as you lean back to grab bandages, your eyes go wide as you feel him against you, and Jason whimpers at the feeling of you accidentally grinding on him.

His seafoam eyes shoot open, face red as his muzzle.

“S-sorry, ‘m sorry. You’re just really warm and so nice to me and I didn’t mean to–” Jason stutters, tripping over his own tongue.

He’s embarrassed. Humiliated even. One, he got hard when you were just trying to fix his head wound. Two, he’s been reduced to a bumbling fucking idiot over it. He’s about to pick you up off of him and go before he has to see the disgust on your face. But then he feels the press of your hands on his chest pushing him back into your sofa. He could easily stop you, but you’re looking at him in a way you never have before and Jason feels himself crumbling like a house of cards.

“Don’t apologize. You never have to apologize for wanting anything, not with me,” you tell him, hands back in his hair.

“How do you want to go about this?” you ask him gently.

Jason should say he wants to stop. Should tell you to get off him so he can cool down and you can pass the remainder of your time together peacefully. Maybe he should even tell you he wants to leave, that he’ll see you tomorrow. But your hands are playing with his hair so softly and your body is so warm and you’re looking at him like he’s something worth looking at.

“Kiss me,” he begs. “Please.”

So you do. You slot your soft lips against his and kiss him with everything you’re worth. Jason moans into it, the sound falling from his mouth to yours. He wraps both of his strong arms around you, pulling you tight against his body. He wrestles all of his self control to not rut up into you when doing so drags your hips against his. He’s licking at your plush bottom lip before he can stop himself and he groans when you immediately open your mouth for him. The slick slide of your tongues clashing makes you sigh against him. Your fingers tighten in his hair and your hips grind down of their own accord, eliciting whines from both of you.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Jay,” you gasp as you pull back from him.

“No. You got nothin’ to be sorry for. It’s fine. It’s good,” he reassures you.

Just in case you don’t believe him, he brings his hands to your hips and squeezes as he finds the confidence to rock up into you. You moan as your eyes flutter shut and Jason swears this may be the closest to heaven he’s ever gotten.

“I’ve never–” you choke on your own gasp as he rocks his hips at a steady pace against you. “Never done anything like this before.”

“Me either,” Jason pants through strained inhales.

“I want this. I want you. Can we…can we keep doing this?” you ask against his mouth as you start to follow his rhythm.

Any worries or doubts that Jason had about your willingness in this fly out the window. He’s rambling mindlessly in response. Yes, yes, we can keep doing this, that sounds perfect, please don’t stop. His grip is hard on your hips, bunching the waistband of your shorts and pulling them tighter against you. The moan you let out fucking levels him. He never thought it could be this good. It seems to happen all too soon, that white hot coil curling in his belly. He’s just so sensitive and you feel so good grinding on his covered cock. You’re so kind to him and he loves you, he loves you, he loves you. He babbles it like a broken record as he cums harder than he ever has in his life, soaking his boxers and leaving his tactical pants damp.

He’s whimpering from overstimulation at the hot, wet drag of fabric against his sensitive tip as your hips slow to a stop. He can feel tears of relief and humiliation pooling in the corners of his eyes. He came fast. Embarrassingly fast from such little stimulation. And he may be a virgin but he damn well knows women’s anatomy, so he knows you haven’t gotten off yet. His face is buried in the crook of your neck and you can feel the hot tears that fall from his pretty seafoam eyes.

“Oh, Jason, you did so well, baby. I’m so proud of you,” you breathe out.

Jason lets out a choked noise. You’re proud of him. Proud of him for cumming in his pants like a horny teenager. But there’s such sincerity to your voice that even his self loathing can’t overpower it. He feels your praise in his chest, warm and bright like a healing light. He wants to make you proud. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in so long–the desire for someone else to be happy because of him, proud because of him. It’s what gives him the nerve to manhandle you onto one of his muscular thighs. He starts guiding your hips back and forth, smiles when your head tips back and you grip his shoulders.

“Jay, ah, angel, we can stop,” you protest weakly.

He shakes his head fiercely. There’s a determined glint in his green eyes that leaves no room for argument.

“Keep goin’. I want you—need you to feel good too,” he insists.

You nod your head and let your body fall against his. He guides your hips over his thigh again and again and again. Each pass rewards him with little mewls and sighs that Jason thinks he could get addicted to. Your hands are gripping his biceps hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck. He notices you getting antsy, whinier than before and a lightbulb clicks on above his head.

“Wanna take these off?” he asks you, tugging at the waistband of your pretty red shorts.

You mutter a weak uh huh and Jason’s standing you up to drag the slippery satin down your legs. He feels his cock twitch when he sees your black panties. They sit high just above your hip bones and the thin mesh leaves very little to the imagination. He can’t take his eyes off you as he pulls you back down on his thigh. He angles your hips forward and the high pitched moan that spills from your mouth assures him that he’s positioned you just right to grind your clit against him.

“There we go. Just like that, doll,” Jason says as you start to rock your hips at your own pace.

“Oh God, Jason,” you keen, the pet name going straight to your cunt.

Jason catalogs the knowledge of just how much you like him calling you doll. If his brain weren’t so hazy and fucked out, he might be embarrassed by just how much he likes calling you doll. But he can’t be bothered to care, not when you look so pretty riding his thigh.

“More. I want more, angel,” you whine, grabbing at his hand and slowly guiding it up your thigh.

You don’t push him further than the waistband of your panties. Even in your own desperate pursuit of pleasure, you’re still worried about his boundaries. Jason’s never wanted anything in his life as much as he wants to make you cum for him. He dips his hand under the black mesh, fingers brushing against soft hair before landing home on your cunt.

And, fuck, you’re so wet it makes him dizzy. The idea that he’s caused this, that all of this is for him? It doesn’t compute in his brain. It goes against everything he’s ever thought about himself. But the proof is slick and warm on his fingertips. He can be a source of pleasure, of desire, of something good. So he drags his fingers up and down your slit, reveling in the high pitched keens you let out. When he starts to draw circles around your clit, he’s rewarded with you calling his name in the prettiest whimper he could possibly imagine.

“‘S this good? Tell me what you need,” he rasps out, looking for your reassurance, your approval.

You frantically nod your head, quiet whines slipping from your mouth.

“Mmmf, it’s so good, Jay. Please don’t stop,” you moan.

Jason, ever the quick learner, does just as you ask. He keeps rubbing your clit with the exact pace and direction that has you crying out above him. Every now and then he’ll dip his fingers down to collect more of the slick that drips from you, bring it back up to your aching clit and shudder at the noises you make from the stimulation. He’s taking in your body language, studying you like you’re the finest piece of art he’s ever laid his eyes on. Your hips start to jerk erratically under his free hand and your moans turn to breathy whimpers, and he knows before you even tell him.

“Jason–ah–s’too much. I can’t I can’t I can’t,” you babble.

“Don’t fight it, sweetheart. Just let go f’me. I’m right here with you,” he encourages you gently.

And maybe it’s how sweet he’s being, or maybe it’s the way his free hand starts comfortingly stroking along your spine, or most likely it’s the unrelenting swirls he’s making on your swollen clit, but you’re tumbling over the edge before you even realize what’s happening. It’s burning, white hot and alive. It’s new and it’s consuming and it’s all Jason. You don’t think you’ll be able to live without him after this. You know you won’t want to.

You’re both breathing heavily as you come down, your body limp against his. All that surrounds you is each other. Touch, scent, sight–only the two of you exist in the warmth of the afterglow.

“I love you,” you whisper, face buried in his neck.

He holds you tight, nuzzles into your mussed up hair.

“I love you too.”

Jason realizes that’s all that was missing. Love. That love and want are inextricably tied up for him, that the latter can’t exist without the former. Because he loves you, and for the first time ever, he knows what that aching hunger feels like, knows what it’s like to have fire lick across his veins. And he’s so grateful to you, so grateful for yet another gift you’ve given him. Kindness, tenderness, love, desire. He’d known none of it before you dragged him through your window. And maybe he doesn’t really believe in God anymore, but he’s positive that you’re nothing short of a miracle he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to deserve.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd smut #red hood x reader #red hood x you #remy writes 🖋️#jason gets the girl universe #<- so that’s a thing now ig

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