The couch dipped under your weight as you sprawled out, legs stretched across the cushions, your feet landing squarely in Dick’s lap. The fabric of his sweatpants was warm beneath your socks. He didn’t complain. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he let his head loll back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, the picture of exhaustion.
“What are we watching?” he murmured, voice rough with sleepiness. His fingers curled lazily around your shin, thumb tracing idle circles on your soft skin, just enough pressure to make you hyper-aware of his touch.
You took a bite of your sandwich, the crunch of the bread drowning out the low hum of the TV for a second. “The new season of Love Island,” you said around a mouthful, swallowing before adding, “Try to contain your excitement.”
A beat. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hm. Fun,” he drawled, the word dripping with sarcasm. His free hand lifted just enough to gesture vaguely at the screen. “That the one with the British people and their… aesthetic enhancements?” His fingers tapped your leg, mimicking the rhythm of a drumroll. “All the lip filler, the spray tans, the dramatic slow-motion entrances?”
You snorted, nearly choking on your food. “Yup. That’s the one.”
Dick’s grin turned downright wicked as your laughter filled the room. He loved that sound—loved causing it even more. His hand abandoned its innocent perch on your shin, fingers sliding upward with deliberate slowness, inching beneath the hem of your shorts. You could feel the heat of his palm, the callouses from years of gripping batarangs and punching villains, and then—
Smack.
Your hand came down on his, swatting it away before it could go any further. “No,” you said, tearing your gaze from the screen to pin him with a look. “I am watching Love Island.” You popped the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. “If you’re horny, go jerk off.”
Dick’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened, like a blade unsheathed. “It’s more fun with you,” he purred, voice dropping into that register that made your spine tingle. The one that promised trouble and delivered every time.
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, curling up despite your best efforts. “Not happening. I am not moving from here.” You gestured vaguely at the couch, as if that settled it.
For a second, his grin faltered—just a flicker, a crack in the armor. But Dick Grayson didn’t stay down for long. His hand retreated, fingers trailing down your leg in a way that felt intentional, like he was memorizing the path. Then, without warning, his palm settled over your socked foot, pressing it firmly against the growing bulge between his thighs. His hips lifted just enough to make his intentions painfully clear, and a breathy sigh escaped his parted lips, the sound so obscenely pretty that it should’ve been illegal.
“You don’t have to move, just lie there,” he whispered, voice thick with amusement and something far more dangerous. His dark eyes locked onto yours, daring you to call his bluff.
You stared at him. Then at your foot. Then back at him. And then, because you were you, and he was Dick Grayson, and this was just how it always went—you pushed down.
His breath hitched, hips jerking up involuntarily, the couch creaking in protest beneath you. For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the tinny voices from the TV, the rasp of fabric against skin, and the way Dick Grayson’s entire body tensed, like a coiled spring ready to snap. A whimper tore from his throat, soft and needy and so unfairly hot that it sent a jolt straight through you, pooling low in your stomach.
“Fuck,” he muttered, but he was smiling. Of course he was. Always smiling, even as his hips rolled up against your foot, the motion shameless, relentless. Essentially humping your foot like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Dick’s fingers dug into the arch of your foot, his grip desperate, as he held you against his cock. The fabric of his sweatpants did little to hide the way he throbbed against your sole, the rigid outline of him pressing insistently, demanding attention.
A broken moan spilled from his lips, his head tipping back against the couch, throat exposed. The tendons in his neck stood out sharply, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His other hand clawed at the cushion beside him, knuckles white, like he needed something to ground himself—or maybe to restrain himself from doing something somehow even more depraved.
You watched, mesmerized, as his body unraveled. Dick Grayson was a mess before you, his usual poise shattered, his control in tatters. The man who could outmaneuver Gotham’s criminals, who could sweet-talk his way out of anything, was reduced to this: a trembling, needy wreck, fucking your foot like it was the only thing in the universe that could satisfy him.
His cock pulsed against your sole, the heat of him searing even through the layers of fabric, the pressure almost unbearable. You could feel how hard he was, the way his length twitched with every roll of his hips, the way his thighs quivered as he chased the friction, his body begging for more. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his lips parted and glistening.
“You look really pathetic right now,” you murmured, your voice low, laced with amusement and something darker, something that thrummed in your veins as you took in the sight of him. Your toes curled slightly, pressing into the thick ridge of his cock, and the reaction was immediate—his hips stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as his body jerked against you.
“I know,” he breathed out, the words soft and whiny. His voice was wrecked, rough with need, and the sound of it sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes were still shut, but his face was twisted in a way that was half pleasure, half torment, like he was drowning in it and didn’t even care. “Fuck, please—” His hips lifted again, this time with more urgency, his cock rubbing against your foot in a way that was almost too much. The friction was maddening, the pressure building with every desperate roll of his body.
You bit your lip, the taste of copper sharp on your tongue as you watched him fall apart. The way his muscles tensed, the way his breath came in sharp, uneven bursts—it was too much. And not enough at the same time. You shifted slightly, pressing the ball of your foot down harder, grinding it against him in a slow, deliberate circle. The sound he made was filthy. A choked, needy whine that made your stomach clench.
“That’s it,” you taunted, your voice dripping with sin. “Good boy.” The words were a spark to the kindling of his desire, and his hips snapped up, his cock throbbing violently against your sole. His fingers tightened around your ankle, his grip almost bruising as he held you in place, his body moving on instinct, needing the pressure, the friction, the release.
“Fuck—fuck—” His voice was a broken thing, his words dissolving into a string of curses and pleading. His free hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, yanking it up just enough to expose the taut plane of his stomach, the muscles there tensing as his body arched off the couch. The sight of him—wrecked, desperate, yours, sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.
You could see how close he was. The way his cock twitched, the way his breath hitched, the way his entire body coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap. His hips were moving faster now, erratic, sloppy, his control completely unraveled.
“Gonna cum like this?” you asked, your voice a purr, your foot pressing down just a little harder, just where he needed it most. “Gonna cum all over my foot like a good boy?”
His eyes flew open, dark and wild, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath stutter. “Yeah—” The word was a whine. His hips lifted one last time, his body shuddering as his cock pulsed violently against your sole, the heat of his release soaking through the fabric. A broken cry tore from his throat, his back arching as pleasure wracked through him, his body trembling as he spilled.
And then he collapsed back against the couch, his chest heaving, his body boneless. His grip on your foot loosened, but he didn’t let go, his fingers still curled around your ankle, like he was afraid you’d disappear. His eyes were glazed, his lips swollen from biting them, his entire body glowing with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
You pulled your foot back slowly, revealing the now damp fabric of his sweatpants clinging to himself, evidence of his release.
Dick let out a shaky laugh, his voice rough. “Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. “That was…” He trailed off, like he couldn’t even find the words.
You giggled lightly, “You are so pathetic.” And once again, he didn’t deny it.
ᝰ.ᐟ choso begging you to squeeze him with your thighs while eating you out ⸝⸝ 18+ mdni
"ah—cho, please—"
the words broke apart in your throat, dissolving into a ragged, breathless moan that echoed softly in the quiet bedroom. you gripped the damp bedsheets on either side of your head, your knuckles turning white as his tongue traced a slow, agonizingly deep stroke right over your clit.
he was relentless. he had been down there for what felt like hours, his heavy, rhythmic hums vibrating right through your skin every time you cried out his name.
"f-fuck—feels so good," you gasped, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, chasing the friction of his mouth. "right there—please..."
choso didn't speak. he only let out a low, dark growl of approval against your wet cunt, his large hands sliding up the insides of your thighs to hold you open wider. the deliberate, heavy rhythm of his mouth was blurring your vision, driving you past your absolute limit.
every lick was perfectly calculated, heavy and soaked with intention, until a particularly sharp, blinding wave of pleasure rippled straight through your spine.
your body reacted before your mind could register it. seeking an anchor against the overwhelming sensation, your thighs clamped shut instinctively, trapping his head securely between them.
choso let out a muffled, surprised sound against your folds, the sudden restriction cutting off his breath.
panicking, you immediately opened your legs back up, your breath hitching as your face burned with embarrassment. "oh my god, baby, i'm so sorry, i didn't mean to—i wasn't thinking—"
"don't," he cut you off, his voice raspy, deeper, and rougher than you had ever heard it. he looked up, his dark eyes dilated so wide they looked almost entirely black, a faint, dark flush creeping up his neck and dusting his cheekbones.
he gripped the insides of your knees, his fingers digging into your skin with a possessiveness that made your blood run hot. "shit—do it again."
"w-what? but i—"
"please," he begged, the word slipping out with a desperate, breathless edge that made your stomach flip. his chest was heaving. "squeeze me again. oh fuck—just like that, baby. lock your legs."
the raw hunger in his expression made it impossible to refuse. slowly, hesitantly, you brought your thighs back together, locking him in place once more, applying a firm, steady pressure against his neck.
a low, ragged groan escaped him, vibrating directly against your sensitive bud. he buried his face back into you, his tongue working with a newfound, frantic intensity that completely derailed your thought process. "harder," he mumbled against your pussy, his hands sliding up to your hips, fingers bruisingly tight as he anchored you. "squeeze harder, baby."
you complied, tightening your hold, completely overwhelmed by the blinding intensity of it. you were caught so deeply in the throes of your own approaching climax that the world narrowed down to just the pressure of your legs and the wicked, relentless motion of his mouth.
because of the sensory overload, you didn't notice the subtle, rhythmic motion beneath you at first. you didn't realize that with every tight squeeze of your thighs restricting his airflow, choso was heavily, desperately humping his clothed length straight into the mattress. he was completely losing himself in the friction, his hips rolling in a tight, frantic pattern against the sheets, riding the intoxicating sensation of being choked by you.
your climax hit like a freight train, your walls pulsing violently around his tongue as a loud cry left your lips. you squeezed him tight, your thighs locking like a vice as you rode the wave.
right as you peaked, choso let out a choked, broken sound. his whole body went rigid beneath you. his hips gave one last, hard, desperate shove into the mattress, his fingers digging so deeply into your hips it was almost painful. he trembled violently, his breath catching in a long, shuddering gasp as he buried his face entirely in your thigh, hiding himself away as he spent.
as the sparks in your vision began to fade and your breathing slowed, you gradually loosened the grip of your legs. choso slumped forward, resting his forehead against your stomach, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow pants.
it was only then, as the quiet returned to the room, that you noticed the heavy, uneven thumping of his heart against your leg, and the distinct, damp heat pressing through the fabric of his trousers right where he had been pinning himself to the bed.
you blinked down at him, your hand coming up to rest in his dark hair. "cho...?"
he didn't move for a long moment, completely spent, his shoulders still twitching slightly. when he finally looked up, his face was completely flushed, eyes heavy and hooded with a profound, dazed satisfaction. he swallowed hard, a sheepish but utterly dark look in his eyes as he realized you had figured it out. he hadn't even touched himself; he had finished purely from the friction of the bed and the suffocating pressure of your thighs.
"told you," he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper as he leaned up to kiss your jaw, completely unbothered by his own ruined state. "i liked it."
or, you've had a bad day, and your boyfriend ends up taking the brunt of it.
pairings: gojo x reader, geto x reader
warnings: none, fluff
a/n: i have an aot and dc version of this post ready to go, and i'll be uploading them within the week :) i'm very excited to be writing, and i hope you all enjoy my first post!
satoru gojo
"Hey, baby, I'm home~" On normal days, the sweet words falling out of your husband's mouth have you rushing over to greet him, but you stay apathetically bunched up on the couch. There's no indication that you've heard him enter, either. You don't even look at him.
Okay, weird. But weirdness has never stopped Satoru Gojo before, so he makes his way over to you and plops down onto the couch beside you. Of course, instead of you melting into his side like you usually do, you shove him off with a disgusted scoff.
Okay. Really fucking weird. Satoru can be a diva, but he's willing to push it aside for you. Most of the time. When you come at him with a full-on attitude, though, he's only going to turn it up a notch. He reflects your energy right back at you, but it comes off as condescending when he does it.
"Y'know, I'm trying to be nice here, show you some affection. I missed you while I was gone. Didn't you miss me, too?"
"I didn't ask you to smother me the second you walked through the door," you retort.
"Right, well, remind me to keep my distance from now on."
With that, Satoru's picking himself up off the couch and strutting off to take a shower. You watch him disappear down the hallway and hear the water kick on moments later. The hollow in your chest that's been gnawing at you all day only gets wider and wider until you feel a chasmic ache forming from your heart down to your gut.
You don't know why you're upset. You don't know why you reacted the way you did, but the guilt at snapping at Satoru makes you feel worse and worse until you find yourself curled up on your side as you cry into a pillow. Your usual energy has left you, and the tears that have replaced it don't even have the decency to be dramatic. They're silent, quietly streaming down your cheeks as you sniffle and shake.
The absence of the water from Satoru's shower doesn't phase you. The creaking of the bathroom door swinging open doesn't catch your attention. You're lost in your own little world and guilty thoughts until a warm hand finds your cheek.
"Hey…" Satoru's gentle voice coaxes you into looking up, and you're met with a worried, baby blue gaze.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. All the fight has drained out of you, and you have nothing left to offer your husband except yourself, in all your fragile glory.
Satoru shakes his head and climbs onto the couch, pressing your back against the cushions and your front against his chest. "I know. It's been hard recently, hmm?"
Now that you're folded up in the warmth of Satoru's arms, the weight you've been carrying is so much easier to bear. As much as you hate placing your burdens on his already strained shoulders, Satoru's never complained about it. Being there for you is the one thing on this planet that's guaranteed to bring him solace.
"Just relax, sweets," he murmurs, rubbing slow patterns along your back. "Nothing's big enough to take my baby down. You're too strong for that."
suguru geto
Suguru Geto has the patience of a saint and the conflict resolution skills of a licensed therapist, skills you learn awfully quick when your best friend's name is Satoru Gojo. Those very same abilities have been honed and fine-tuned over the years and are currently the only things keeping him from snapping at you.
"Suguru, you're breathing too loud." He was sitting across the room from you, scrolling on his phone.
"Suguru, you're wearing the wrong kind of socks." What's so bad about plain white socks?
"Suguru, you're staring at me."
That one gets him.
"That's my job, pretty girl." He smiles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your hair, only to let out a sharp sigh when you smack his hand away. "You're abusing me."
"That's not what abuse is, you little—"
"What? I'm a little what?" Suguru looks you right in your eyes until you're unable to meet his gaze. "Don't be shy. Tell me what you were going to say."
Suguru tuts and reaches out to tilt your head toward him once more; however, his heart nearly stops in his chest when he sees the shiny tears pooling in your eyes. "Oh no…hey," he whispers.
"I'm sorry, 'guru. I've been feeling off all day, and I just—" Suguru cuts you off by squishing you against his chest. His big hands smooth down a few wayward strands of your hair, and he places a kiss to the top of your head.
"It's okay," he murmurs soothingly, the vibrations of his deep voice soothing your mind and your heart. "I can take it. Your anger, your sadness…if you need to show it someone, I'm right here. Always. Never feel as though you have to hide from me."
all written work and dividers belong to @ackpplepie!! do not plagiarize, feed my work into ai, or translate it. i do not own the characters or images used above.
‧₊˚ ┊this blog is strictly MDNI. i will block any minors i see interacting with me.
‧₊˚ ┊fem!reader only. most of my fluff will be fem!coded gn!reader, and i will not write male!reader.
‧₊˚ ┊nsfw friendly. dom!reader pref, but i'll also write sub! and switch!reader
‧₊˚ ┊kinks i will NOT write for: non-con, age play, incest, stepcest, pseudocest, daddy kink, most foot stuff, scat, vomit, vore + i reserve the right to refuse to engage with any other kink
‧₊˚ ┊my dom!reader fics will tend to be kinkier while my switch! or sub!reader fics will be more vanilla. this is just a personal preference. i may be fine writing a kink for dom!reader and not for sub!reader.
‧₊˚ ┊when requests are open: please be respectful and allow me to work at my own pace. i'm a student with a part-time job, and i enjoy writing as a hobby. please specify in your request whether you'd like nsfw or sfw.
hobbies: writing, reading, listening to music, baking
faves: aot, jjk, dc, the smiths, arctic monkeys, rhcp, david bowie, tame impala, the pixies, joan jett, lady gaga, the metamorphosis, vanilla ice cream, the hunger games
Summary: You're messing around with both Jason and Tim, refusing to commit. Dick corners you about it, asking you to pick him. He's sick of feeling like you love everyone but him. You're messing with his head.
TW: Cheating, fwbs, comitment issues, sex mentioned, messy relationships.
The logistics of dating a Wayne, or more accurately, circulating through the Wayne ecosystem required a spreadsheet that you simply did not have the organizational skills to maintain.
You hadn’t meant to. Well, that was a lie. You had absolutely meant to, but you hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. You were sitting on the edge of his desk in the Nest, the neon green light of his monitors casting shadow across your face. Tim was staring at a line of code, his eyes bloodshot, a half-empty mug of something that smelled like burnt rubber and espresso clutched in his hand.
"Timmy," you said, reaching out to twirl a strand of his wildly overgrown hair around your finger. "You're leg's bouncing pretty hard. Literally. I can feel the desk shaking."
"I'm fine," he muttered, though he didn’t pull away from your touch. In fact, he leaned into it slightly, like a plant tracking the sun. "I just need to finish this routing protocol before Bruce gets back from Berlin."
"Counter-proposal," you whispered, leaning down so your breath brushed his ear. You reached past him, your forearm pressing deliberately against his shoulder, and hit the power button on his main monitor.
The screen went black.
Tim froze. For a second, you thought he might actually code-blue right there in his chair. Then he turned his head to look at you with desperation.
"You're a demon," he argued.
"I'm a delight," you corrected, sliding off the desk and directly onto his lap. He caught you by the waist out of pure reflex, his hands digging into your hips. You reached into the collar of his shirt, your fingers tracing his collarbone, feeling his pulse leaping like a trapped bird. "And you need to sleep. Or, at least, do something that doesn't involve a keyboard..." you trailed off suggestively.
When you kissed him, it was messy. He made a ridiculously desperate sound when you pulled him closer by his belt loops. You left him twenty minutes later, all flushed, dazed, and completely incapable of remembering his own passwords. Mission accomplished.
The problem was that Jason found out by Friday.
Jason didn't do "subtle" which was ironic considering you had the worst on and off since Bruce and Selina. When Jason was pissed, the entire zip code knew about it.
You were walking back to your apartment through a particularly sketchy alley in Crime Alley (mostly because you would rather take that shortcut than get in public transport) when a heavy weight dropped from the fire escape right in front of you.
"We need to talk," Jason growled. He didn't have the helmet on, just the domino mask. He looked massive, very pissed off you wondered why, and entirely too attractive for someone who spent his nights punching people in the face.
"Jay!" you chirped, stepping right into his space. "Did you bring me those kiwi tarts from the place on 5th?" If not, you were okay with getting dicked down by Jason Todd either way.
Jason put a hand flat against your chest, stopping you in your tracks. His palm was warm, even through his glove. "Don't play cute. What the hell were you doing in Drake’s safehouse on Wednesday?"
"Helping him with his… data entry," you said innocently.
Jason’s jaw clenched so hard you heard the click. He stepped forward, forcing you back until your spine hit the brick wall of the alley. he crowded you, his chest pressing against yours, trapping you entirely within his shadow. He smelled like leather, and that expensive cologne Dick had clearly bought him for Christmas that he pretended to hate.
"Data entry," Jason echoed. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot. "Is that what we're calling fucking my brother now? Because last week, you were in my kitchen, wearing my t-shirt, telling me nobody else knew how to handle you."
"You do know how to handle me, Jay," you murmured, reaching up to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down that extra inch. "You're so… loud about it. I love it, love you" you said casually, but it meant everything to him.
He swore under his breath, and then his mouth was on yours. It wasn't nearly as gentle as Tim had been with you. Jason kissed like hell. He hooked a leg behind your knee, pulling you flush against his thigh, his hands gripping your hair so tightly it pulled you liked it too much to protest. It was angry and messy which was exactly what you wanted.
You stayed with him that night in his bed, let him think he’d won.
And then, on Sunday, you texted Tim a selfie from Jason’s bathroom, wearing nothing but one of Jason's oversized flannel shirts, with the caption 'Found your favorite coffee mug. Jay says hi.'
You knew you were pushing your luck, the Batcomputer probably had a dedicated file on your psychological warfare tactics by now. But you hadn't expected the firstborn to get involved.
You were sitting on the roof of an abandoned clock tower, eating cold Chinese food out of a cardboard container, when you felt someone behind you.
"You know, Bruce is genuinely considering putting a tracker on you," a voice said from the darkness.
You didn't even look up as Dick Grayson stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't in uniform, not completely. He had the tactical pants on, the heavy boots, but he was wearing a tight black compression shirt instead of the full Nightwing suit. His jacket was swung over one shoulder. He looked infuriatingly relaxed.
"Bruce won't put a tracker on me," you said, taking a bite of a crab rangoon. "He's too afraid I'll find a way to stick it on Clark instead."
Dick laughed a little as he walked over and stood right over you, blocking out the light from the Gotham moon. "Probably. But that doesn't mean you get a free pass for what you're doing."
"And what am I doing, Grayson?"
"You're running a demolition derby through my family," Dick said. He dropped his jacket to the gravel and knelt down in front of you, bringing himself eye-to-eye with you. Up close, the ridiculous symmetry of his face was offensive. He looked tired, but under the fatigue there was a sharp intensity that he usually kept hidden behind his golden-retriever smile. "Jason hasn't slept in three days because he's too busy pacing his floor trying to figure out if you're doing that thing with your tongue on Tim too, and Tim spent six hours yesterday trying to hack into Jason's security cameras to see if you actually enjoyed him."
"They're men, Dick. They like to compete," you said, offering him a dumpling.
Dick didn't take it. Instead, he reached out with his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip was surprisingly gentle but still hard. He forced you to set the container down.
"It's not a game," Dick said, his voice dropping into a serious tone that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "They're falling apart over you. And you're just sitting up here watching the fireworks."
"Are you going to tell me to stop?" you challenged, tilting your chin up. "Going to give me the big hero speech about feelings and responsibility?"
"No," Dick whispered. He leaned in closer, his blue eyes darkening in the shadows of the roof. He didn't look like the nice brother anymore. He looked like the boy who grew up in a circus, comfortable with heights and completely unafraid of a fall. "I'm not going to tell you to stop. I'm going to tell you to change targets."
You blinked, your brain momentarily stalling. "What?"
"You heard me," Dick said. He slid his hand up from your wrist, his fingers tracing the soft skin of your inner arm, his thumb pressing against the quickening pulse at your elbow. "You want to play with fire? You want someone who can actually keep up with you without crying to a therapist? Pick me."
"Dick, you're their brother," you laughed, though it sounded a little breathless. Fuck you'd bang that. "That's… incredibly messed up, even for me." It absolutely wasn't. You'd smash him anyday
"I don't care," he murmured. He leaned in until his lips were a mere fraction of an inch from yours, his breath hot and smelling faintly of mint. "I am so tired of hearing your name in the Cave. I am so tired of watching them lose their minds over you. If you want to break someone, come break me. I promise you, I'm a lot harder to shatter than they are."
He stayed there hovering in that excruciatingly tight space, his fingers tightening on your arm, his eyes locked onto yours with a terrifyingly suggestive weight.
"So," Dick whispered, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, teasing little contact that made you ache. "Are you going to keep playing in the sandbox, or are you ready for the real thing?"
A/n: Guys part 2's js straight smut so idk if I'm writing it yet 😭
dick grayson x green lantern!reader
SUMMARY: after being around space for five years, you finally come back to reunite with your former team, only to find out that the boy you used to make fun of had the biggest glow up ever. ╱ suggestive, reader is a little shit, repost of what i accidentally deleted a while ago, do not expect a part two ˚.✦
Five years. That’s how long you’ve been gone. Patrolling galaxies, keeping order, fighting things that don’t even have names in Earth’s languages. You’d convinced yourself Earth wouldn’t feel familiar anymore, but when you push open the door to the little bar Donna picked for the Titans reunion, there’s something painfully nostalgic about it.
Wally’s the first to spot you, shooting up from his stool with a grin so big it looks cartoonish. “No way! Look who finally decided to come back from space!” He barrels into you with a hug that nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs.
Roy’s right behind him, smirking with his boyish grin you’ve missed at the same time he slaps your shoulder. “Took you long enough, Lantern. Thought you forgot about us.”
“I’d never forget about you, man. Y’know space needed me.”
Donna waves from the booth, regal as ever. Garth gives a little salute with his beer. It’s warm and chaotic, it’s perfect.
And then your eyes fall on the guy sitting at the end of the booth, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, strong jawline. Hair longer and perfectly styled, legs that go on forever. He looks up at you with piercing blue eyes, and your first thought is, who the hell invited Superman’s model cousin?
You blink, pointing rudely. “Uh. Who’s this?”
The whole table goes quiet, then Roy bursts out laughing so hard he chokes on his drink. Donna rolls her eyes like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. Wally leans across the table, grinning wickedly. “You don’t recognize him?”
You stare harder. “Am I supposed to?”
The guy tilts his head, lips curving in the faintest smirk. “Wow. Five years in space and you still can’t see what’s right in front of you.”
That voice is weirdly familiar. Your stomach drops.
“…Dick?”
The table explodes, Roy’s wheezing while Donna’s hiding a smile behind her glass. Wally actually points at you like you’ve just lost a bet.
“Holy shit,” you mutter. “That’s Dick Grayson?”
Because the last time you saw him, he was shorter than you, hair hacked into that tragic little bowl cut, parading around in that ridiculous pixie-boot pantless suit, chirping out corny one-liners like Gotham’s answer to Peter Pan. You lived to roast him. His catchphrases, his hair, his height, nothing was off limits. He’d get all red and sputtery, which only made it funnier.
But this? This isn’t the same kid. This is a man who grew into every inch of himself while you were gone, and now he’s taller than you. Hotter. So much hotter.
Your jaw actually goes slack. “What the fuck happened to you?”
Dick just raises an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his drink, not even giving you the satisfaction of a smile. “I grew up. Some of us do that.”
Ouch.
You slide into the booth, still staring at him like he’s an alien. “Don’t get me wrong, you look...” you catch yourself, smirking, “way less tragic than before. But, uh… wow. I leave for five years and suddenly you’re on magazine covers?”
“Not really your business, is it?” he says coolly, turning back to his beer.
That hits you like a slap. You’re used to Dick sputtering when you teased him, snapping back, rising to the bait. But this version of him? He doesn’t bite, doesn’t give you anything.
And suddenly, you want him.
Desperately.
Because nothing makes you hungrier than a challenge. And Dick Grayson, the boy you once mocked mercilessly, just became the man who won’t even look your way. You lean across the table, grin sharp. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re still mad I made fun of your haircut. That was years ago. Ancient history.”
Donna coughs pointedly into her drink, Wally kicks Roy under the table, and you sit back, smirking wider.
You’ve never been good at letting something go, especially when it’s standing right in front of you with broad shoulders and arms that look carved out of marble. So the rest of the night at the bar becomes a mission —not galactic peacekeeping, not saving a planet from collapse— no, this one is personal: win Dick Grayson back.
He’s sitting across from you, arms folded, half-listening to Wally ramble about some speedster escapade. You wait for your moment, leaning forward with that easy, reckless grin you perfected over five years of charming aliens out of blowing your ship up.
“So, Dick…” you drawl, deliberately using the name like a hook, “what’s your workout routine these days? Asking for a friend. And by friend, I mean me. Because,” you wave a hand vaguely at his chest, his arms, his everything, “this didn’t exist before. I would’ve remembered.”
Roy groans. “Oh my god.”
But Donna smirks into her glass, watching. Dick doesn’t even flinch. “Lots of training,” he says evenly, eyes not leaving his drink.
“Mm.” You rest your chin on your hand, studying him. “Well, it paid off. Glow-up of the century. You went from Robin Hood Jr. to…” you pause, biting back a laugh, “okay, actually, you kind of look like if James Bond and a Men’s Health cover had a baby.”
That gets Roy choking on his beer again.
Dick finally looks at you, brows raised. “Is this your way of apologizing for being an ass all those years?”
“Apologizing?” you echo, feigning offense. “I was motivating you. Clearly it worked, you’re welcome.”
The table bursts into laughter, but Dick just shakes his head, smirking despite himself. You see it, the tiniest crack in the armor. And you pounce. You slide out of the booth, slipping into the empty space beside him before he can stop you. He stiffens instantly, but you’re already draping an arm along the back of the booth, leaning in close.
“Don’t look so tense,” you murmur, low enough that only he hears. “I missed you. Even when you were short and tragic.”
His head whips toward you, glare sharp. “You don’t get to say that.”
You grin, unbothered, leaning in closer so your shoulder brushes his. “You’re right. I don’t. Not anymore. Now I just get to say,” your eyes flick down, shameless, “damn, Dick.”
Wally whistles. Roy mutters, “She's insane.”
Dick moves just slightly far from you and that causes you a hard chuckle. “Oh, Dickie, I see I still make you nervous.”
The laugh dies around you like someone cut the power. For a beat you think you misread it, that maybe the room’s heat, the beer and the reunion glow made the moment bigger than it was. Then Dick stands, a clean, clipped motion, the chair whispers back, his shoulders set like stone and the joke you just lobbed slams into something that’s not laughing.
“You always were terrible at reading a room,” he says, voice flat. He doesn’t look at you on his way out, he glances at the rest of the table with an economy of disdain that makes Wally shut up mid-quip.
You do not like being dismissed. You do not like the way his back looks when he leaves, the line of his shoulders pulling away is an insult you refuse to swallow.
“Dick,” you call as you get up, the same half-laugh you’d used when you were trying to make him blush. People are watching, the bar’s hum knitting itself into the space between you two, but it feels irrelevant. You follow him into the hallway where the light is harsher and the music softer.
He’s half through the back door before you catch the handle and push it open. The alley smells like fried food and rain and the city’s tired. It’s quieter, the bar’s laughter is a muffled echo. He leans against the brick, arms crossed, jaw working. When he turns at last, his eyes are hard and cold, very much not the playful glare you remember.
“Hey, what the fuck happened?” You blinked.
“You’re insufferable, you know that?,” he says. “You come back and you treat this like a show. You parade around with cosmic stories and then you parade right through me like I'm a fucking prop.”
“Woah, hey. I just got back, Dick. I don’t know how things have changed, alright? Y’all have been through a lot during these years. I’m just vibing.”
“No, you’re not!” He’s pacing the length of the alley now, hands cutting through the air like knives while his voice ricochets off the brick.
“You don’t get it! You walk in here like some goddamn space cowboy, cracking jokes, flirting with everyone, and then you sit there and objectify me like I’m some… some…”
“Calendar model?” you supply, smug grin sharp as a blade. “Honestly, you’d sell out the second those went to print.”
His head snaps toward you, furious. “Shut the hell up!”
You cross your arms, leaning against the wall, unbothered. “Not my fault you went from pint-sized Peter Pan to Batman’s hottest son. I’m just appreciating the glow-up.”
“You don’t appreciate anything!” he shouts, jabbing a finger at you. “You mock, you provoke, you treat people like toys in your comedy routine. And now you’re doing it to me again. I’m not your punchline anymore. I’m not your damn entertainment!”
“You’re right,” you say, in a deceptively solemn way. “You’re not my punchline. You’re my type.”
That does it. He storms forward so fast you barely register it until you’re pinned against the wall, his hand slamming next to your head with a crack that makes your chest jolt. His face is inches from yours, eyes blazing.
“You are infuriating,” he growls.
“And you’re gorgeous when you’re mad,” you purr, leaning into it, refusing to flinch. “Go on. Tell me more about how much you hate me. Maybe flex a little while you’re at it–”
He cuts you off with his mouth. No warning, just lips crashing into yours, all teeth and fury, stealing the air from your lungs. It’s not gentle. It’s punishment, possession and five years of unspoken tension detonating all at once.
You groan into it, half-laughing, half-dizzy, grabbing his shirt to yank him closer because if he’s going to shut you up, he damn well better commit. His teeth scrape your lip, and you nip back, the kiss turning messy. He tastes like beer and rage. When he finally rips back, almost pushing you against the wall, both of you are breathing hard. His voice is ragged, like he’s regretting kissing you.
“Not. Another. Word.”
You grin, recollecting some of his saliva from your lip with your tongue. “Mmph. Best silencing technique I’ve ever experienced.”
His glare deepens, but his hand is still fisted in your shirt, he’s not ready to let go. “You drive me insane,” he mutters.
“And you kiss like you’re trying to kill me,” you shoot back, smug even through your racing pulse. “I like it.”
He curses under his breath, then crushes his mouth back to yours, rougher, like he’s decided that if he can’t argue with you, he’ll just burn the words out of your throat instead. And God, you let him. Because it feels like war, and you’ve never been more eager to lose.
“You're mean,” he mutters against your mouth, his hands finding your ass to pull you as close as he could.
“I am.” you breath, biting his lip before sliding your tongue deeper in him.
“You treated me like shit when we were young. You practically bullied me.” He kept going, kneading your ass, almost brushing his fingers in your center, but he never really did.
“I did.” You respond breathless, finally feeling all his muscles tight, not letting you go even if you wanted. “But you kiss me like you want me to stay.”
His mouth never leaves yours long enough for air to make sense. Between ragged kisses he drags breath into you like confession and then, impossibly, says it.
“I missed you,” he breathes against your lips, each word a strike. “God, I missed you.”
You freeze for half a heartbeat, the world narrowing to the scrape of his voice and the press of him. Then you laugh and answer with your own foolish honesty pressed to his mouth. “Of course you did. I’m irresistible.”
“Don’t make a fucking joke out of it,” he growls, and it’s not the stern, clipped anger from the alley anymore; it’s something threaded through with ache. He reclaims your mouth like he’s trying to stitch time closed, pressing harder, as if the force of it could erase the five years between you.
You wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling at the nape where his hair is softer than you expected. His hands go lower, possessive at your hips, thumbs digging into your waist as if to keep you from floating away. Every movement is an accusation and an apology braided together.
“I don’t want apologies,” he says into the kiss, words muffled, urgent. “I wanted you. Even when you were a fucking bully, I wanted you. Do you know how maddening that was? To hate that I wanted you?”
He doesn't give you time to think about his confession because he starts kissing your neck, sucking skin right there at the alley. You tilt your head back, saying a soft Mmh, as his hands press your sides.
You arch into him, lips parting in a gasp as he grinds closer, and the tension between you explodes into heat. “Fuck, Dick. You really learnt how to kiss these past years.”
He licks your earlobe before going back to your mouth. “Yeah, I had practice.”
You chuckle into his mouth. “You sure did.” You tease, voice breathless, letting your hands roam his back, memorizing every curve, every muscle that’s grown while you were gone.
Dick is acting like a man possessed at this point, hands touching you everywhere over the clothes, wet kissing marking every piece of exposed skin. You force yourself to catch a long breath, tugging his hair in your hands.
“Hey.” You say softly, smirking a little and breathing harshly.
He arches an eyebrow, hands down in your ass and laughs when he understands why you stop. “Really? Fucking Green Lantern wants to take things slow?”
“Oh, no. Don’t be mistaken, Dickie. But we are in the middle of a fucking street in fucking Blüdhaven, with the fucking Titans waiting for us inside.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.” You offer him a kind but sarcastic smile.
Dick groans, pressing a forehead to yours, letting the energy between you simmer instead of combusting. “Yeah, we can’t exactly… finish this out here,” he mutters.
You grin, leaning into him just enough to feel the warmth of his chest. His hand slides to yours, fingers intertwining like nothing ever changed. You grin, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand.
“Truce?” you offer, voice teasing but warm.
“For now,” he says, voice low, brushing his lips over your temple in a soft, lingering kiss. “But you owe me, Lantern.”
“Oh, I intend to pay up,” you murmur, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, then glancing down the alley with a smirk. “Let’s just… not tell anyone about the fireworks outside the bar.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, Titans might actually kill us if they saw.”
You take his hand firmly, letting him pull you back toward the bar, walking with a synchronized rhythm, hips brushing, fingers still locked together. There’s laughter now, quiet and easy, the tension easing into something softer. He drops your hand when you two approach the booth and you don't mind it, because you would've done the same.
By the time you slip back inside, the others are mid-conversation, oblivious. Dick slides into the booth beside you. You don't tease him for the rest of the night, you knew he was gonna walk you home, invent any excuse to come up to your hotel room, and there you'd have enough time to tease him about everything.
a/n: luckily i had this saved in my laptop because this was one of my favorite fics that i've ever written
“They’re like two seconds away from fucking, Dick,” you say.
“We could be like two seconds away from fucking in real life if you would just look at me,” he huffs.
or the one where you pay attention to your book more than him.
content: suggestive, mentions of an erection, dick trying oh so hard to get frisky
masterlist
You’re so zoned in on your book you barely hear the window snap shut when Dick enters. You do, though. Your eyes fluttering over to him for that brief second tells him you had heard him come in and were electively choosing to ignore his return.
Your book was just getting to the good bit. The male lead had just confessed his feelings, his desires, buttons were coming undone, lips were locked. Zippers were undone.
Dick’s first mistake was trying to take the book from you by force. One hand around the spine of the book, slowly threatening to snap it shut as he attempts to inch it out of your grasp.
“I’m reading, Dick,” you hum, eyes still skimming over the words half-mindedly as you tug the book further from his fingertips. His head tips forward with a groan, falling until it’s pressed against your navel above the covers. He’s still half-standing, half-kneeling at the edge of the bed. Ready to snatch your book away and stow it on the dresser where you can’t grab it from the bed.
He noses his way up your sheet-covered sternum until he’s headbutting the paperback. Another grunt.
“Baby,” he purrs, low and silken. His lips have now replaced his nose in his trail despite the roadblock. You decide to placate him with a hand in his hair, the other spread wide to keep your pages from fluttering shut. Not yet deterred, he crawls further on the bed to attack you from the side this time. Kissing and nipping his way up your shoulder until you have to tilt your neck to look around him to see the pages.
“I have like ten pages left of this chapter,” you say as you try to shove his forehead out of the way.
“You know, once upon a time you would’ve jumped me the second I crawled through the window,” he grumbles. “Does the suit do nothing to you now? Are you immune to my charms?”
“The suit is great,” you say.
“Real convincing.”
“Just go take a shower. I’m sure I’ll be done by the time you get back and you can have me all to yourself,” you say. Shit. You lost your place. Your eyes quickly skim back across the paragraphs to find the last bit you remember actually reading.
“We both know that you’re going to start the next chapter while I’m in there,” he says. His teeth find purchase just below your ear. “Pay attention to me, baby.”
“I will.” You flip a page. “In eight pages.”
A louder groan as he presses his face further into your neck.
“They’re like two seconds away from fucking, Dick,” you say.
“We could be like two seconds away from fucking in real life if you would just look at me,” he huffs, though his seduction attempts have settled. If he weren’t still suited up for crime-fighting, you figure he might have fallen asleep where he was. He settles for draping an arm over your waist and fiddling with the shirt you’d stolen from him as his gaze skims over the various erotic phrases in your book.
“Did he just bite her? Is she bleeding?” he asks. “Is she into that… Scratch that, are you into that?”
“He’s a vampire,” you snort.
“So you’re definitely into that then,” he says in the absence of your no.
“No- well, I mean… It’s hot in theory,” you hum.
“You want me to bite you is what I’m hearing,” he says. His hips shift and you can feel the stirring of his dick against your thigh.
“I feel like you want to bite me, mister,” you laugh.
“I wanna do whatever you want me to do,” he laughs, too, but you can tell he means it all the while. His teeth graze the junction of where your shoulder meets your neck and you know he can feel the shiver it shot down your spine when he grins against your skin. “You do like that. Is that all it takes, sweetheart? A little bit of teeth and you finally give me a reaction.”
Harder, this time, he bites down on your exposed flesh. Not even to harm, or even really to mark, but enough for you to feel. Fingers dance along your naval as he tugs your shirt up just enough to find bare flesh. The pads of his gloved fingers press into your skin and it’s nearly enough to pull you from your book. Nearly. You can’t fight the nagging voice in your head that urges you to keep going. To see if the characters will just finally-
“Oh,” you gasp when Dick nips at your pulse point. Your eyes grow lidded when he begins to suck and your head tilts to give him more room. Finally, when your brain’s gone mushy enough to stop even trying to move your eyes across the inky blob of words, Dick’s hand swiftly comes up to pluck the book from your grasp and snap the book shut. He tosses it towards the edge of the bed, immediately shifting to fill the space above you it had previously been occupying. Knees bracketing your hips, lips moving along your jaw, your cheeks, then finally, your lips.
You don’t even care that he didn’t put a bookmark in.
calm!reader and her loud and dramatic boyfriend, tengen uzui ˚.✦
“I am NOT going,” Tengen comes back from his wardrobe still in just boxers and half painted eyeliner. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed over his chest and a pout.
“Mm?” you lift your head from your book, you finish getting ready for this party about twenty minutes ago, full make up, hair and outfit, everything ready. “What happened, my love?”
He looks at you from over his shoulder, the pout growing bigger (definitely not to pity him). “I can’t find a good outfit. Nothing worthy of standing beside you tonight. Nothing!”
You tilt your head, pressing your lips in a kind smile and scooting over behind him. You rub his chest, your nails raking through it and him melting into it. “Go search a little more, c’mon. You have a lot of clothes.”
“Hm…” He pretends to think about it, although he’s just trying to keep himself in your arms, when you pat his chest, he gets up instantly. “Okay, I’ll go!”
A few moments later he finds the perfect purple shirt for his outfit and asks you to help him finish his make up only to have you in his lap, as close as possible.
You and him always arrive to parties late (his fault) and leave parties early (your fault). He’s the center of attention every goddamn time, telling stories to people he just met, his arms slash through the air, people crowd around him, laughing, gasping at every exaggerated detail.
But when he sees you sitting on a couch not too far away from him (for him it feels like miles away), sipping on your drink while you stare at his ass, he shushes all the people, announcing that he has to go back to his partner because he can’t function well without you.
“Oh my god, Tengen,” you say, with a flustered laugh because you could hear him perfectly. He’s already sat by your side, arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“But I want to,” he says, close to your ear as he leaves kisses on your cheek. “I love the look on your face when I talk about you.”
“You scream about me,” you remind him, squeezing his arm and laying your cheek on his shoulder.
He notices your little sigh and how your body relaxes when he’s pressed to you. He draws little patterns on your arm, letting you a few moments of physical contact before saying: “Do you wanna go home? These people are boring.”
You lift your gaze, blinking slowly. “You were laughing a few moments ago, Tengen.”
“I was laughing at my own jokes, let’s get out of here.” He grabs your hand, lifting you easily and pulling you across the dancefloor.
He always knows when you’re done for the night, and when you’re done, he is too.
Tengen has this burst of love and intensity where he lays on top of you, purposefully trapping you below his body because he’s way taller and stronger that you and makes you look straight into his eyes while he tells you:
“I would die for you,” he declares. “I would burn down entire cities, shatter the heavens themselves if it meant keeping you safe. You are my goddess, my everything. Without you, I am nothing but noise in an empty world.”
You lie there beneath him, used to these sudden storms of his affection. Your hands rest calmly on his back, fingers tracing slow circles over his muscles as he keeps talking, eyes never leaving yours.
“Every breath I take is for you,” he continues, voice rising with passion. “I worship the ground you walk on. You calm the chaos inside me. I would kneel for you, fight for you, live every second like it is my last just to see you smile. My love, my partner, my only peace. Tell me you know how deeply I adore you. Say it.”
A warm flush creeps up your neck and across your cheeks, he is so intense, so extra, turning a simple moment on the couch into something epic and overwhelming. Yet you cannot help but adore him for it.
You meet his eyes without looking away, your voice soft and even. “I know, Tengen. You tell me every day.”
He groans dramatically, burying his face in your neck for a second before pulling back to trap you with his stare again. “Not enough! Words are never enough for what I feel. I want to shout it from the rooftops until the whole city knows you own me completely. You are the silence I crave after every battle. I would lay down my swords, my pride, my life for one more moment like this with you.”
You smile quietly, sliding your fingers up into his silver hair and tugging gently to settle him. Even pinned under his massive frame, you feel safe, loved in the loud, all-consuming way only he can give. “I love you too, by the way,” you whisper into his hair. “Even when you’re loud as fuck.”
He lifts his head fast, gasping and leaning to fill your face with kisses. You burst out laughing because it tickles, “Tengen!”
“Mm, I love you tooooo,” he sings, now licking your cheeks between kisses.
“Ew! Tengen, you’re gross!” You try to push his face away except you’re not really applying any force, you’re just giggling as he hugs you tighter and kisses you slower, now trapping your lips in a soft and wet kiss.
It's been six months since Yuji was born and so it's been six months since he's had a good night's sleep. The smell of fresh brewed espresso is the only thing giving Choso hope that this will be over soon. He's next in line to order when he looks down at the baby strapped to his chest - vision bleary from another long night - just to find Yuji staring back up at him with those big brown eyes, still wide awake.
He orders mindlessly - the biggest, strongest cup of coffee he could find on the menu, no extras, no changes, just please put him out of his misery.
"Your son is cute," the person behind the counter says to Choso, handing him his change.
"You too," he responds without thinking, cheeks burning hot when he realizes his slip up. They are cute, but that's not how he would have told them, if he worked up the courage to tell them at all. "I mean- uh- thanks, he's my little brother. I'm so sorry."
"You don't have to apologize." They try to hold back their smile at his fumble, a near impossible task, considering the early hour and it's not everyday someone this handsome calls them cute, even if accidentally. They slip over to the espresso machine to make his order, thank god, giving Choso a second to close his eyes and scrunch his face in embarrassment.
He's still mentally kicking himself when his name is called. He takes the paper cup from them, an apologetic smile on his face, nerves a little calmer as he apologizes again.
"Still don't have to apologize," they smile, turning the cup in his hand to reveal their number scrawled onto the paper. "You too."
Choso leaves the coffee shop with a little extra pep in his step, it's been ages since someone gave him their number. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he says to Yuji, kissing the top of his pink little head of hair. "Good job, little brother."
Yuji just blinks sleepily at him and is asleep before they make it home.
an: wanted to try something a lil different, especially with ✨pride month✨ upon us and because i hc cho with a nb partner. reader insert is still intended, just you’re them now. happy pride my loves 🫶
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