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campingwiththecharmings · 1 year ago

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Some Like it Hot (2)

AN: HIIIII. Right. So. Part one is here. This...diverted quite a bit from what I had originally intended but, I can't say that I'm too mad about it. 🤭 This has very little to no plot, negl.

(Un-beta’d)

Poe is your muse and you can't help but see the beauty in everything he does.

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?) Words: 1,481 Pairing: Firefighter!Poe Dameron x Photographer!F!Reader Warnings: PWP, smuffy af, p in v, idiots in love, morning sex, please let me know if i missed anything. AO3

——————

You wake gently, the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains, filling the room with its glow. You smile, eyes fluttering as you stretch, allowing yourself to sink into the mattress a little. The sheets rustle beside you as Poe shifts, drawing your gaze. You take a moment to study him, splayed on his belly, your eyes tracing the soft curve of his lips, the sharp cut of his jaw, smooth brow, and stubbled cheeks. He’s a work of art, really. Just…stunning. Every inch of him is perfect, as if he’d been chiseled from a block of marble by the gods themselves. And if that wasn’t enough, he also had a heart of gold. Never in your life have you met someone so kind and caring, so ready and willing to help others.

You’d started dating almost immediately after your encounter at your studio (quite literally that same evening), and now here you are, months later waking up with him in your bed. Maybe it’s strange but you love watching him sleep, love to watch the light from the windows play over his bare skin, love to study the way his short curls fall across his forehead. The artist in you longs to capture this moment, and you can’t help but give in. Silently, you reach over to the bedside table and grab your phone, quickly swiping the camera app open and pointing it at him. You take a few moments to get the angle just right, then click the shutter button.

He knows, of course, knows your gallery is full of photos of him (and occasionally, him and you). That’s not to say that he really gets it though, how inspired you are by him. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just a regular guy. He’s supportive though, indulging your fascination.

Unable to help yourself, you roll toward him, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his lips. He stirs almost immediately, his full lashes fluttering as he opens his warm, brown eyes. You smile at him, pushing your fingers through his mussed curls.

“Morning,” you greet, your voice soft as you rouse him from sleep.

He returns your smile, eyelids heavy as he shifts and rolls onto his side to face you.

“Morning,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.

His eyes drop to the phone still in your hand and his lips quirk in amusement. “Taking creeper shots of me again?”

You chuckle at his teasing, your cheeks warming. “Guilty.”

He grunts, reaching over and plucking the device from your grasp. “My turn.”

“No, stop,” you laugh, covering your face with your hands. “I haven’t even washed my face yet, come on.”

He tsks, grabbing your hands and playfully pushing them away. “You got me, only fair that I get you.”

You groan theatrically, pouting at him as he sits up and quickly your phone into position. “Yeah but, I’m not you.”

He snorts, the click of your shutter reaching your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Suddenly, you lunge, kicking the blankets away to free your legs and arms. He chuckles, moving the phone out of your reach.

“Not all of us are as photogenic as you, Poe, just—give it back.”

He rolls onto his back laughing, your phone still clutched in his hand. “A photographer who doesn’t like getting their picture taken. Aren’t you a cliche?”

You growl, crawling over and up his torso, arm outstretched as you reach again for your phone. “Shut up.”

His laughter becomes muffled as your chest presses against his face, the vibration sending a tiny shiver down your spine. You rise up slightly on your knees, the hand not reaching for your phone braced on his muscled shoulder. His free hand comes to rest on your lower back, steadying you as you reach.

When you finally manage to take your phone back, he doesn't put up much of a fight, instead taking the opportunity to pull you even closer with his other hand. He nuzzles your breasts through your t-shirt, your breath hitching when his nose bumps against your nipple.

“You had ulterior motives, I see,” you breathe, the fingers of your free hand tangling in his hair as his hands slip down and underneath your shirt.

He chuckles, moving his face back from your chest as he pulls your shirt up and over your head. His hands slide up to your shoulders once you’re bared to him, his eyes meeting yours as he leans in to take your nipple in his mouth. Your lips part in a gasp, your fingers tightening in his curls, and he groans at the slight sting of his scalp. The vibration makes your hips jolt against him, your body instinctively seeking friction as desire quickly wells inside you.

You sigh his name as he releases your nipple, mouthing his way over to your other breast to lavish the same attention.

“So beautiful,” he mumbles, flicking the tip of his tongue against the pebbled flesh before sucking it into the molten heat of his mouth.

Your head falls back with a moan, your phone slipping from between your fingers and landing on the plush comforter of your bed. Poe’s hands slide down to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he encourages you to keep grinding against him. You can feel the hardness of his cock even through the thick fabric of his pajama pants, your need for him growing. He groans as you move, pulling back from your chest, the absence of his mouth dragging your gaze back to his. You swallow hard, the combination of lust and awe in his eyes making goosebumps rise on your skin.

He pulls your mouth back to his then, licking into it languidly, as if he has all the time in the world. You melt into him, your bare chests pressing together as you wind your arms around his neck. You let yourself get lost in his kiss, in the soft, wet slide of his lips as they brush against yours. It feels like you’re drowning, drowning in a sea of bliss, a sea where Poe is your only lifeline.

Poe slips his fingers beneath the edge of your panties, his thumb briefly circling your clit as he slips the others lower. He works you open gently, your cries of pleasure muffled by his lips and tongue. He brings you to your peak quickly, drawing out your pleasure with each pump and flick of his fingers.

You share a moan when you finally sink down onto his length, your slick heat welcoming him, engulfing him. He pulls your mouth back to his as you begin to ride him, your body rising and falling shallowly at first. His hand on your hip helps to steady you as you gradually increase your pace, your hands braced on his shoulders.

“Poe,” you whine, throwing your head back as you chase the pleasure racing through you. “Feels so good—fuck, so good.”

He groans as he watches you, his eyes almost black with desire. “You feel like a dream, sweetheart. So beautiful like this.”

A shiver races through you at his words, at his attention. He’s always like this, so present, making you feel so desired, like there’s no one else he’s ever wanted so badly as you. He pulls you close, pressing his forehead against yours as you race toward your release, groaning as you move and clench around him. You moan when his thumb finds your clit, his touch bringing you even closer to the edge.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes, pushing his hips up from the bed every time you sink down onto him again. “Take what you need.”

A few more thrusts and you’re there, body going taught, mouth slack, as you sail over the edge. His moan is broken as you fall apart around him, your body squeezing him, trying to take him with you. He spills himself deep inside you with a groan moments later, his hips stuttering with the force of his release.

You stay like that for a while, just wrapped around each other, his softening cock still sheathed inside you. It’s comforting, having him this close, feeling this connected to him. Poe strokes your back soothingly, leaning in to press a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth. You smile, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your skin as he melts into you.

“You working today?” you ask, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair.

He makes a noise, then shakes his head. “Nope. I’m all yours today, baby.”

You chuckle, eyelashes fluttering as he presses a hot kiss against the side of your neck. “Mmm, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

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harbours-lighthouse · 6 months ago

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this might be very self indulgent, but what about Jason with a reader who has terrible period cramps. like so bad they pass out from the pain. they just go to the toilet and suddenly it gets so bad they tumble to the floor, moaning in pain until their body just gives out. (yes this is me, no i am not okay)

HE WON'T LET ME BREAK APART

— PAIRING: Jason Todd x F!Reader

— SUMMARY: Period cramps are extreme for you, and in the middle of the night, the one thing you need more than a damn painkiller, is your boyfriend.

— AN: Hi, love :) Thank you for sending in your request. I really hope your cramps have eased since you sent this in; mine can get quite brutal too so you're definietly not alone in the experience. Make sure to drink lots of water and get some rest, and a hot water-bottle or shower does wonders. I hope I did this justice, and that you enjoy! Hopefully Jaybird brings you some comfort <3

cw: emi-graphic description of period cramps; mentioning of painkillers (panadol is the same as tylenol); general bodily discomfort (if your cramps are this severe and/or worse, please go to a doctor!) wc: 2.5k

YOU CAN'T BREATHE, and it’s three in the morning. Seated on the edge of your bed, you hug your stomach tightly. The pain is bright and bursting, stabbing through your abdomen with a ferocity that leaves you sucking in sharp breaths. But your lungs feel clenched, as if your body is inwardly bracing for each punch of pain.

Period cramps aren’t uncommon to you, but this feels different. This feels like someone is thrusting a knife straight through your gut over and over, viciously.

The thought of getting Panadol briefly strikes you, and you slowly stand on unsteady legs. The gritty wool of the carpet feels rough against your feet, and you shuffle through the inky darkness of your room.

“Oh, geez…” your hand smacks against the doorframe to your bedroom, your body halfway out into the hallway. The black and white tiles are cold, gleaming under pale light from the singular window at the end of the hallway.

Sucking in a shattered breath, you squeeze your eyes shut and let the sharpness of the pain fade back into a steady, pulsing ache. You don’t bother turning on the hallway light, knowing that the dull pain in your temple will erupt into a piercing headache.

Reaching the small, dim bathroom feels like an eternity, your feet sluggish and your eyes bleary. The thought of a warm shower flickers in your mind, and you feel as if your skin is begging for heat, for something to soothe the agony.

Dropping to your knees in front of the square cabinet beneath the sink, you pull the doors open and hear the hinges squeak in protest. Blinking, you try to make out the shape of the box of Panadol, and just as you do and reach out for it, your abdomen twists violently.

Gasping, your hand drops to slap against the tiles, and you let out an audible whine, the sound broken inside the cramped bathroom. If it weren’t for the long, rectangular window above the shower, you would have thought the sound made the shower curtains quiver, and not the wisp of wind drifting through a crack in the glass.

Your breathing feels rushed, erratic as you try to focus on the chill of the floor beneath your palm, the biting edge of the grout lines against your knees. But the ebbing of pain doesn’t come, and instead, a wave of nausea floods over you.

Scrambling, your hands fly towards the rim of the toilet, fingers shaking as you curl over the porcelain. Bile bubbles in the back of your throat, your stomach churns. Though you’re ready to double over and vomit what little you were able to eat before bed, nothing comes. Frustration burns inside you.

Tears spring to your eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re angry or because of the pain—perhaps both. Gritting your teeth, it feels as if the pain is compressing down on you, enveloping you in a tight grip that you can’t escape from. You’re so focused on the sting in your throat and the throb in your gut that you don’t hear the window in your living room sliding open, nor the soft thud of boots hitting the bare floors.

Everything is too hot and too cold at the same time. Your stomach unclenches for a brief, respiteful moment, and you suck in a rattling breath. The corners of your eyes are blurred by warm tears.

“Sweetheart?”

You shriek, your body jerking and nearly slamming into the side of the bathtub. The rapid movement of your body and the painful flutter of your heart sends your abdomen spasming with hot pain. Your chin dips and your teeth ache, and a croaked whimper escapes past your cracked lips.

“J-Jason?”

Heat vibrates from Jason’s body as he crouches beside you in a swift flash of movement, and large, warm hands reach for you before flinching back, unsure if he should touch you.

“(Name)? What’s wrong?” Jason’s voice is hushed, but there’s a sharp edge to it. Worry bounces inside his chest, his fingers feel suddenly cold. He’s never seen you like this—bent and curled inward like a dying animal, eyes misty as they lift upward and find him.

You want to feel humiliated, disgusted by the state you’re in and the fact that Jason is seeing you like this—but you can’t. The sight of his blue eyes dark with confusion and concern sends relief surging through you. You hadn’t realised how much you were craving him. How much you needed him.

“Jay…” the word is choked around another spasm of pain, and your hands shake as you reach for him. Jason doesn’t stop himself this time, and his hands bring you to him.

“Sweetheart, tell me what’s wrong, please—”

“Cramps,” you gasp out into his shoulder, fingers gripping tightly onto the creases of his leather jacket. He smells like gunpowder and ash, dried blood and soap—your soap. Jason’s eyes flutter closed as he breathes a sigh of relief against your scalp; he hates that you’re hurting, he can’t bear the sight of you in pain, but at least it’s something natural, and not something someone had done to you, or something you had done to yourself.

He can feel you shaking in his hold, and he splays his hand against your back. He can feel the knobs of your spine as he rubs up and down, and even through the thin fabric of your sleep-shirt, he can feel how cold you are.

“You should have called me,” he says quietly, his voice rumbling inside the bathroom. He tightens his hold on you, caging you inside his warmth.

The thought had occurred to you before, to call his burner phone and ask him to come over, but you had buried that thought away just as quickly as it had come. You were not going to tear Jason away from his nightly duty, the work he does out on Gotham’s dirtiest streets. This city needs him, and you’ve handled period cramps like this before.

“Jason,” you push your face into his neck, ignoring his comment, “can you—I’m sorry—can you bring me Panadol?”

Jason glances at the open cabinet, and then the scratched lightswitch on the wall next to the door. For a moment, he thinks to switch on the light in order to find the painkillers, but your strained breathing dashes that thought away.

Shifting with one arm still curled around you, he stretches his other arm out and fumbles around for the box of Panadol inside the cabinet. It’s hard to find it, the bathroom still dark, but the pale light from the window is enough for him to make out the shape of the box.

He brings his arm back, snaking it around you, and his hands work at the small of your back, fingers pulling out a foil sheet and pushing two pills out into his gloved palm.

You bite back another whine as a burst of pain skewers through you, shoulders hunching forward. The urge to cry grows stronger, and you want to bury yourself into Jason, drown in his warmth.

A finger lightly taps close to your ear, which isn’t the nicest feeling as a headache threatens to cross the line of bearable to down-right splitting. Lifting your head away from the shelter of his neck, you take the gleaming white pills laid out on display in Jason’s palm. Your fingertips graze the thick, tightly-woven fabric of his gloves, and even that radiates heat.

Bracing yourself, you tip your head back and down the pills raw, feeling Jason’s gaze resting heavily on the dark shadows of your face. You mutter a small, ‘thank you’, your voice cutting out and dropping to a whisper.

Jason’s fingers deftly reach upwards, and brush away the strands of hair that have fallen across your face.

“Baby,” he murmurs, the gruffness of his voice subdued and gentle, “what else do you need?”

Jason doesn’t know how to handle this—he’s never been forced into this situation before. But you’re you, and he knows he’ll do anything, you just need to point him in the right direction.

Inhaling sharply, you feel the dregs of nausea begin to ease away, like dirt disappearing down a drain. Jason’s hands are heavy, warm. The ache in your abdomen throbs, and you want to simply fall into Jason and close your eyes. You want to wake up again when the pain is gone.

“Just hold me,” you whisper, and Jason’s heart splits open. The desperation in your voice is subtle, but intense. You sound like you’re battling demons and not just agonising cramps.

The muscles beneath Jason’s jacket flex as he scoops you up, and the jostling of your body has you whimpering softly, though you try to bite back the sound.

“M’sorry, sweetheart—sorry,” Jason soothes beneath his breath, his large frame moving out of the doorway and down the hall. It’s still dark, not even dawn has reached its pale fingers into the sky yet. You hold onto Jason tighter, not bothering to keep track of where he’s taking you.

Your body is softly dropped onto the cream cushions of your couch, and for a moment, you feel Jason pull away from you. Your hands shoot out against your will, fingers grasping for purchase on his jacket as your stomach churns.

“Jason—”

“It’s okay,” Jason reassures, his body pausing in movement. His fingers move to wrap around your wrist, and he can feel your pulse beneath his thumb. It’s erratic, like the violent beating of a bird’s wings.

“I’m just getting a blanket, okay?”

You stare at Jason’s face, gaze flickering across his strong features—but it’s his eyes you’re truly studying in the pale light that barely filters into your living room.

“I’ll be back,” he whispers softly, his free hand reaching to the back of your head and pulling you forward lightly. He presses his lips firmly to your forehead, though it’s achingly soft at the same time. You visibly relax, and you let Jason’s touch slip away from you.

You shift to lay comfortably on the couch, wincing as your abdomen clenches. You can hear Jason’s footsteps along the floorboards, the thud of his boots, and the sound of a cupboard door groaning open. Most of the hinges in your apartment are old, grimey and loud.

When Jason returns, there’s a bundle of wool in his hands, and you recognise it as the blanket you bought while you were both out shopping in Gotham’s Upper Districts. The colour looks nearly black in the darkness, but you know that it’s a rich green, reminiscent of moss.

Jason fans the blanket across you, and you thank him quietly. The fabric isn’t warm yet, but it feels soft against your chilled skin.

“Jay?” you crane your neck upward, and Jason’s already moving before you ask him to. Gently nudging you further against the back of the couch, Jason maneuvers himself to slot against you. He’s taken off all of his holsters and guns already, getting rid of any hard ridges that might dig into your skin painfully.

“You wanna try and get some sleep?” Jason asks, voice lowered. You’ve nestled into his side, and you hum with a small nod.

For a moment, all you can hear is Jason’s breathing, the way each exhalation of air brushes against your temple. His fingertips graze against your arm, the touch fleeting like butterfly wings. You can feel the ache in your abdomen pulse, and you glance down at his hands. Gently, you bring one of them up to you, pinching the fabric between your thumb and pointer finger, and you tug his glove off. Jason doesn’t say anything, though his eyes follow your movements, his brows pulled inward.

Then realisation dawns on him as you drop his hand against your stomach. Pulling you tighter against him, he dips his hand under your shirt, and presses his palm against your abdomen. His skin is warm, rough. Calluses live under his skin, but the feeling is comforting to you.

“Feel okay?” Jason asks, and you nod.

“Yeah. You’re warm.”

Satisfaction bubbles inside him, and he hums quietly. The rise and fall of his chest is steady, consistent. His arms are caged around you, trapping you in a cocoon of heat. Though pain prickles under your skin, shooting through your abdomen as if something were piercing through your intestines, you let yourself surrender to the feeling of Jason, rather than the ache inside you.

You hear Jason murmur your name, and you shift just enough to tilt your head up to him, your cheek resting on his breastbone.

“Hm?”

There’s something hard inside his eyes, like he’s thinking about something troubling—something that hurts. It sends your chest clenching this time, rather than your stomach, and you wonder if you’ve done something wrong, if he’s uncomfortable with helping you like this.

You’re about to open your mouth and utter some sort of apology, but he beats you to it.

“Call me next time, okay?”

There’s nothing in his tone that offers the chance of refusal or protest. His brows pinch forward, the frown lines between them deepened. It dawns on you that you’ve hurt him by not calling, by not reaching for him when you needed his comfort.

Guilt gnaws against you, and tears spring to your eyes because it all feels like too much. The pain, the shame and humiliation of being seen like this, the guilt that’s flooded through you. It's too much.

“I’m sorry—”

“No,” Jason cuts you off, his free hand, the one not pressing against your stomach, curls around your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek. The touch sends your skin prickling, your heart jumping.

“I’m not asking you to be sorry,” he says, “I’m just asking you to call me next time, okay? I—(Name)—I want to help you.”

The first tear falls, and it’s hot against your skin. It’s not given the chance to linger though, as Jason brushes it away swiftly, as if the sight of you crying personally offends him.

You feel him bend a little, neck stretched forward to place another sweet kiss against your forehead. That does linger, the warmth of his mouth, and you sink further into him.

“I promise—” you croak out, “I promise I’ll call you next time.”

There’s a deep inhale from Jason. His lips then move against your skin, his breath warm.

“Good.”

His fingers flex against your stomach, and the room dives into silence. It doesn’t weigh down on either of you, and it’s broken by the inner groans of the apartment, the outside noise of the city—cars cruising down streets, shouts floating along the wind, sirens wailing distantly.

You don’t fall asleep instantly, nor does Jason. You both lay with your eyes hooded, open and watchful of the shadows that drift across the room, but your skin feels warm, and the pain starts to ebb away as time passes, like a scar softly closing over.

Thank you for reading, God bless <3

top divider credit: @/saradika-graphics

#i'm not sure if i'm 100% happy with this - but i never am with the stuff i write #so hopefully you enjoy anyways #apologies if there's any typos #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd/reader #jason todd/you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood/reader #red hood/you #jason todd #red hood #jason todd fanfiction #red hood fanfiction #harbour's writing #𐦍 harbour's writing

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