Becoming a halfa rendered Danny sterile. When he first found out about this, Danny didn't really care much. I mean, he was a teenager/young adult, so he wasn't exactly thinking about kids. But now, as he's older, he's a bit sad. He knows he has other options, adopting kids, or marrying someone with with kids, he could still be a dad, but a small part of him can't help but still feel sad, can't help but still want a biological kid.
And then he was presented with an opportunity. After crashing a new pop up cloning lab with the rest of the Justice League, Phantom stumbles upon the only stable pod. Inside, is a little baby with sparkling white hair, and a small, stable, baby ghost core. The moment Phantom holds them, hes smitten, chirping and cooing over the delicate little bundle in his arms, all but melted when they reached out to grasp his fingers.
The only problem was, this clone had the DNA of another hero, another hero also had claim to this baby, but Phantom wasn't sure he'd be willing to give the baby up.
Basically: Sterile Phantom wants kids but knows it can't really happen. He works with the Justice League and one day finds a clone made using his and [hero of your choosing]'s DNA, and Phantom fears how the other "parent" will react.
Person Specific Options!
You can choose whoever yoy want but I had some bonus ideas!
Wonder Woman: The baby is a girl and Wonder Woman thinks she should be raised on Themyscira, but Phantom is obviously very against that because he wants to raise her and now there is a full on custody battle happening in the Justice League and heros are picking sides.
Superman: Phantom has heard how Superman treated his other clone and is now being hyper protective over the baby, even though Superman gave Phantom full custody as long as Ma and Pa got visitation to their "grandchild".
Batman: Batman has never gotten to raise any of his kids as babies, so he's excited about this one, and he doesn't want to rip the baby away from Phantom because he knows how important to him this is(hes read Phantom's medical file), so after much back and forth with himself, Batman invited Phantom to raise the baby together in Batman's home. Batman and Phantom would coparent as civilians and smother this baby with so much love.
Green Lanturn(Hal): Hal freaked out at the prospect of having a kid and splits/avoids Phantom for the baby's first few years. Phantom is not impressed when he finally talks to Phantom again and the first thing he does is make a "I came back with milk!" Joke as he hands Phantom a milk box. Phantom smacks him and then introduces him to his kid.
Aquaman(if Ghost King Danny): Aquaman wants to take the baby to Atlantis because the baby is Aquadic Royalty, but Phantom being a King also makes the baby Ghost Royalty(even if the Ghost Monarchy isn't passed through blood), so now we have a Royal Custody Battle.
Martian Manhunter: Martian Manhunter is interested in the growth of the child, but he is okay letting Phantom act as the "main" parent as long as he does get to be in their life to some extent. Phantom is more than happy to welcome Martian Manhunter into his and the baby's life as much as he wants.
Black Canary: Doesn't know how to feel about the baby, and is happy to leave them with Phantom until she figures herself out. Phantom let's her have her space and never forces baby on her, but he's also making it clear Black Canary is welcome around any time.
Captain Marvel: As a child himself, hes freaked out. Phantom finds out hes still a child and boom, Phantom now has two children. Also Marvel's immediately put in therapy.(note, the Clone has Captain Marvel's DNA not Billy's, so any DNA test will Read Danny/Phantom x Marvel NOT Danny/Phantom x Billy)
Supergirl: Supergirl is so excited to have a baby and is looking forward to sharing her culture with her kid, but shes also sees how excited and smitten Phantom is, so she's happy with having split custody with Phantom.
Constantine: Constantine immediately tries to split until Clockwork tells him "I think TF not" and now Constantine has shared custody of a ghost baby with a ghost. A ghost who also worries over Constantine's health. Yay.
Danny's form is hypnotic. Being the king of the afterlife meant that he was the king off all that had once been and all that would never be again. As such, his form would simply enchant the living.
When looking upon his form they would see those that they had loved. Those that had left. They would see the opportunity that died as they never took it, the prey that escaped their clutches because they stepped on a twig, the children that they had lost before they could flourish into the perfect being that they were meant to be.
Those that believed in God, when seeing him would always immediately assume that this simply could be no other then their lord. Those that believed in multiple often thought him the head of the pantheon. Those that held the belief that there was nothing in the after would stare at him, completely enarmoured by the infinite possibilities that was them and everything. The death and birth of stars, the gentle laying to rest of an innocent soul, the love and caresses of their beloved late pet.
However if he was angry people would freeze. Seeing the end of times, people burning to death, entire planets dying heat deaths as their creatures clawed in the drying frying no-longer-mud as their lungs filled with ash and dirt and despair as they watched their imminent doom approach.
Safe to say, Danny almost never tried to go full ghost anymore, always keeping it human friendly and always toning it down, keeping himself small as to not break the minds of beings. He had accidentally melted the minds of so many intelligent creatures in the living realm that he just did not want to risk it anymore.
The problem was, in the peace talks he was holding currently were some very angry magic users. They claimed that he was taking them for a fool. That he was not the king and as per their agreement and had insulted he had insulted their nation by sending a mere recently deceased soul.
He had a choice to make here, and leaving did not feel like the right option.
"Oh, come on! This is totally gonna stain," Nightwing complained as he wiped at the dubious gunk coating his suit.
"Stop whining, it ain't that big a deal," Hood waved a hand in dismissal.
"Says you!" Nightwing snapped, "What, just cause your clothes are leather and don't stain means you have no sympathy for the rest of us?"
"Hate to break it to you Wing, but leather absolutely stains," Hood replied.
"What? Then why are your clothes always spotless even after a fight with Condiment King?" Nightwing demanded.
Hood nonchalantly shrugged a shoulder, "I have a guy."
"A guy?"
"Yeah, a cleaner guy."
"Why do you have a cleaner guy?"
"I run a crime empire," Hood deadpanned with a flat expression, "I take out drug dealers and pedophiles on a daily basis, you think I clean that shit up myself?"
"Maybe! I don't know how crime stuff works!" Nightwing threw his hands up in exasperation.
"Well I don't," Hood replied matter-of-factly, "That's what Danny's for, he cleans up all my major blood baths and biohazards.
"Huh." Nightwing looked down at his suit and the gloop already soaking deep into the fabric. "...Think Danny could clean this for me?"
"What? No, get your own Danny!"
"But you already have a Danny! Can't I just borrow him?"
"No! If I let you borrow Danny then everyone is gonna wanna borrow Danny and, last I checked, I'm the only one who has him on payroll."
"I can pay! I'll pay whatever you want, just name your price!"
cw masturbating on call 🍋🟩 disclaimer this is a tweaked repost from my old account :-)
It started out innocent enough.
Caleb had called you for his well-deserved daily updates; right now, he was chuckling in response to your story of the shiba-inu refusing to leave your side until you ruffled the fur on it's head. Multiple times. "I don't blame 'em. I'd do the same if I was that dog."
You roll your eyes even though he can't see you. "You do it anyways, even though you aren't a dog."
That gets a real laugh out of him. "Do I now, pips? Name one time I've acted like that."
Glaring at your phone, you scoff.
"Oh, please. What about that time you wouldn't let me leave for my mission until I gave you a kiss? Or that time you practically whined at me to give you headpats."
There's movement on his end—the sound of bedsheets rustling, of him taking in a deep breath.
"Y-yeah? Bet those are the only two you can name, though."
Sitting up, you press the phone to your ear hotly, pouting. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the time you almost knocked me over in a tackle the second I came through the door of your house, slobbering me with your kisses. You're like a big ol' golden retriever, you know that?"
Silence.
"Caleb?" You furrow your brows, worried you accidentally hurt his feelings. "You okay?"
"Mmmhm.. yeah, pips, I'm—I'm fine," he grunts. "Keep talkin'. What else did'ya do today?"
You open your mouth to give a retort that he does not, in fact, sound fine, when he lets out a shaky exhale.
And then the gears clink into place.
"Caleb, are you getting off to my voice?"
Caught red-handed, there's a lengthy pause from him—then, he just chuckles, warm and soothing. It crawls through your ear and shoots straight to your gut, settling there and beginning to burn.
"What else am I meant t'do when—ugh, fuck—my perfect girl is talking to me in such a degrading way?"
Your cheeks run hot with shame. Sputtering for an answer, you clench your fists and try to ignore the way your cunt is starting to flutter wildly at his words.
"How long have you been…?"
"Mnnggh… do the specifics really matter, pips?" You can just hear his shit-eating grin through the phone. "Let's jus' say I love listening to my girl talk. That's—haah!—that's all."
Caleb seems to take your lack of response as permission to continue. Now that his secret's out, he seems to let go a little, all rough breaths and throaty groans. Underneath the layer of his melodic sounds is the unmistakable plap, plap, plap of his calloused hand meeting the base of his cock. You wipe away the drool beginning to collect at the corner of your mouth.
"God, pips, why'd'ya have to be so far away?" Caleb's gripes are muffled by his moans as he chases his release. "Fuck, you hear me gettin' off t'ya? Listen to what you do t'me, pretty girl. Just your voice and I'm gone. All f'you, pips, hahh—fuck."
Your fingers are moving without you realizing, slowly starting to circle your clit. Your moans are softer than Caleb's, barely even there, but he notices. He always does. And he revels in it.
"Yeah? You touchin' yourself f'me, pips? Gettin' yourself all nice and wet for me? C'mon, big girl, use your words."
Spurred on by his encouragement, you dip a finger inside yourself, wishing it was his thick fingers instead. You can't get enough of his gruff tone, so close to spilling his cum all over his hands, and fuck—it should be you he's cumming in—
"C-caleb… need you…"
"Dontcha worry, pretty girl, you got me," he groans, your stomach doing backflips at his voice; it's choked up, raw, desperate.
"I'm all yours, 'kay? When I visit you next—ohh, fuckin' hell—I'll remind ya just how much I belong t'you. Like a dog."
tags ⚔︎ soft!damian, adult!damian, p in v sex, he is a bit of a tease, aphrodisiac sex, gentle slightly rough sex, slighlty emotional sex? slight dirty talk, praise, a bit of foreplay, porn with plot??? 18+ MDNI, 7k word count
synopsis ⚔ you, a sword servant sworn to damian wayne got hit by an aphrodisiac drug, desperately you hide this from him and try to take care of it yourself, although lead to failure because he still founds out and takes care of you.
The silk sheets were a torment, torture, and utterly cruel.
You pressed your forehead into the mattress, your breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs against the pillow, and the cool linen had warmed to your body heat minutes ago or was it hours? Time had dissolved into a pulsing, aching fog, like it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, you couldn’t keep track of anything anymore, like your mind was rendered useless all but focused on the sensation crippling inside you right now.
It all happened too fast.
A low, involuntary sound escaped your throat, You bit down on your lip, hard enough to taste copper, and pulled your knees tighter to your chest, the position did nothing to ease the hollow throb between your legs, as it just radiated outward, a deep, insistent ache that coiled through your belly and turned every brush of fabric into a lick of relentless fire.
The blade. You remembered the assassin’s dart slicing past Damian’s shoulder on a mission you accompanied him on as always-you saw through it quick and deflected the follow-up strike with your sword, but the first needle had found its mark, a pinprick below your collarbone, You catalogued the agent in that instant, there was no necrosis, no paralysis. Just heat, and spreading, unbearable heat that you dismissed until your legs had nearly buckled on the walk back to the manor, you didn’t think much of it because since birth you’ve been trained and conditioned to resist even the most lethal toxins, hallucinogens, any drug known to mankind so you can be a better shield and protector, although your body was proven wrong and this drug that was affecting you was merely something else you weren’t exposed to.
Maybe perhaps it was because you had never considered yourself important, or perhaps, somewhere along the way, you had simply convinced yourself that you weren't, you were a shield. A sword. A ward, that was what you had been taught to be from the moment you were nine years old, when your family clan, the Zanes, arranged for you to be sworn as Damian’s protector, you still remembered that day, you remembered entering the League’s compound, the cold mountain air biting at your skin, your small hands clasped behind your back as you were led toward the boy you had been told you would protect.
And then you saw him, Damian, just a child, like you.
His green eyes had been sharp even then, carrying an intensity that seemed far too old for someone his age. His lips were pursed into a thin line, his brows furrowed as though he were already burdened with something he had yet to understand, and you didn’t know him, well not yet, you simply saw a boy who seemed determined to prove something to his family, and then you bent the knee, in a soft, trembling voice, you swore your oath, you would protect him for as long as you lived, as long as you drew breath, the Zane family had always been known as Protectors. Where the League of Assassins conquered from the shadows and eliminated threats before they could rise, your clan existed for the opposite purpose, for you guarded, you shielded, you endured.
Two families with entirely different purposes, yet somehow, fate had intertwined them, you to him.
The Al Ghuls had decided that if Damian was to become their future heir, then he would require a designated shield someone who would stand between him and every blade, bullet, and enemy that sought to bring him down and that someone was you, and, as if your oath alone were not enough, you had eventually been brought into Damian’s life as his betrothed, you never quite understood why.
Perhaps it had been another matter of politics, maybe another arrangement made by people who believed they could dictate the course of your lives yet you had accepted it, you always had, that was why you were here, and perhaps that was why, now, you found yourself thinking about that first day, about the boy with green that was the color of forests, his eyes who had spoken volumes without uttering a single word.
You remembered him so clearly, you remembered wondering what kind of person he would become, and you never could have imagined the answer, because Damian had changed considerably since then.
Especially after he met his father.
Bruce Wayne, you had been thirteen when Damian left the mountains to meet him, and despite his scowl and repeated insistence that you were to remain behind, you had followed anyway, of course you had, you always followed, you remembered the journey away from the mountains, away from the League, and into Gotham, at first the city had been overwhelming.
Loud, unfamiliar, nothing like the secluded compound where you had spent most of your childhood, and then there had been Wayne Manor, for the first time, you and Damian were surrounded by people who lived differently from the world you both had known. People who challenged the beliefs you had both been raised with, people who taught him that not everything had to be predetermined.
That not everything had to be controlled, that sometimes, a person could choose their own path.
Everyone had a destiny, perhaps, but more importantly, everyone had a choice.
And you watched Damian slowly learn how to make his, years passed and somehow, through all of them, you remained betrothed to him , it was strange, sometimes, to think about.
Your engagement should have been annulled years ago, perhaps Damian simply had never bothered to do it or perhaps-you stopped yourself there, because there were some questions you had never dared to ask, maybe he didn’t either, maybe you had both simply grown accustomed to the arrangement, maybe it was easier to leave it untouched than to acknowledge what it had gradually become.
Because somewhere between sworn childhood oaths and years spent side by side, your engagement had begun to feel like something other than an obligation, something warmer, something neither of you had a name for, something more.
You shifted restlessly beneath the sheets, twisting onto your side before turning again moments later, the drug was making everything worse.
Your skin felt unbearably hot, your body restless and hypersensitive, every nerve seeming to scream at you at once. You clenched your jaw and tried to breathe through it, desperately attempting to quell the foreign urge the drug had awakened inside you.
It was useless, your fingers curled into the sheets, you forced your heavy eyes toward the floor, near the bedside was the half open small medical kit you always carried for emergencies-a collection of counter-herbs, antidotes, and other remedies you had learned to keep close after years of training maybe there was something in there.
Something that could help, something that could make this stop, your vision blurred as you searched through the scattered contents, nothing.
Not one herb that could counter whatever had been slipped into your system, a weak breath escaped you, of all the situations you had trained for, all the threats you had prepared to face, you had never considered something this humiliating.
You were supposed to be a Protector, a shield, a sword.
You were supposed to stand between Damian and danger, yet here you were, helpless beneath the effects of a drug you couldn't even identify at all.
And, for the first time in years, you found yourself wondering what would happen if Damian saw you like this, you didn’t want him to see this which is why you were secluding yourself in your room shaking tremendously while your body fights against you.
The antidote was nowhere in the apothecary kit, and the only thing your trained mind that was sharply honed could identify was the specific, humiliating nature of the toxin, perhaps lust agent, potent, unforgiving.
Your armor was shedded on the floor forgotten, as you continued to twist in the bed unbearingly so, your nightgown had been white linen an hour ago. Now it clung translucent to your skin, soaked through in patches, You curled tighter, a fresh wave of cramping need rolling through your lower abdomen, you just cried out in pain and desperation, nothing could quell the burning aching sensation inside you.
You should’ve heard the faint noise and footsteps despite the aching and ringing in your ears but you didn’t.
You didn’t hear the door open, Damian’s footsteps were silent, he’d been trained by the League, after all-but the shift in air pressure, the faint scent of sandalwood and steel, finally pricked at your guardian honed instincts even through the haze, you didn’t look at him.
His name left your lips, and his voice. Low, clipped, carrying that edge of command he’d inherited from his grandfather, but still yet soft for you, still mistakenly Damian, You couldn’t turn to face him at all slightly embarrassed for him seeing you in this state, as if you saw his jaw, the dark fall of his hair, the piercing green of his eyes-you’d fracture.
“Leave… please.” You managed weakly, but it came out a whimper as your fingers fisted in the sheets desperately to ground you, or trying.
You felt the mattress dipped behind you, you slightly flinched as his palm settled on your shoulder, and the contact ripped a gasp from your lungs, your hips bucked against the bed, a mortifying, instinctive grind, and you felt him looking down at you, with an intense gaze.
Damian’s hand didn’t move. “You’re burning up.”
“Poison.” You gritted your teeth. “I’ll handle it.”
“You’re curled in a ball making sounds like a wounded animal, that’s not handling it.” A beat. His thumb traced the damp fabric over your shoulder blade. “The dart, I saw the sheen on the tip when you got hit, I was analyzing the needle, It wasn’t a neurotoxin.”
You shuddered. “No.”
“An aphrodisiac.” The clinical word hung in the air, and you wanted to die, your body, however, responded with a traitorous flood of warmth at the sound of his voice. Your inner thighs were slick. The scent of your own arousal, musky, salt-sweet rose between them.
“Look at me, habibti.” The Arabic slipped out like velvet, a term he’d used only in private since now you both had been old enough to understand the weight of their betrothal. He used it with you, It shattered something in your chest, it felt so intimate and strangely it anchored you and finally you looked at him.
Your turned your head. Damian’s face was now inches from yours, his expression unreadable save for the tightness around his mouth. You could feel him catalogue your dilated pupils, the flush spreading down your throat, the tremor in your lips.
“How long?” he asked quietly.
“Since we returned. It’s escalating.” You swallowed. “Damian, please. I can’t…”
“You can’t what?”
Another cramp seized through your lower belly, as you buried a sharp cry against his knuckles, your hips lifting off the bed. “Can’t keep still, I-I can’t think.”
His free hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up. “Then don’t think, beloved let me take care of you.”
He kissed you. It wasn’t gentle-his mouth slanted over yours with a possession that sparked a direct line between your lips and the molten ache below, you keened into the kiss, your hands flying up to grip his tunic. The fabric was rough under your fingers, you pulled, and seams protested.
Damian pulled back just far enough to speak against your mouth. “Tell me what you need.”
“You.” The word was a sob. “I need you, please.”
He stripped your nightgown with efficient movements, the ruined linen parting like a curtain. Cool air hit your breasts, your stomach, your nipples were already tight, almost painful, and when his gaze dropped to them you felt it like a physical touch.
“Mashallah,” he murmured, reverent, “You’re exquisite.”
His thumb brushed your nipple, and your back arched off the bed, a sharp cry tearing loose. He caught the sound with another kiss meant to soothe, swallowing your moans as he palmed your breast. Each squeeze sent a jolt directly to your clit, which throbbed in answer, your hips rocked against nothing.
“Be patient, ya roohi.” His voice dropped to a husky register, meant for you. “I’ll take care of you.”
His tunic joined your nightgown somewhere on the floor, your vision swam as your hands traced the hard planes of his chest, the scars that told his own story, the life he lived. Then his mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, his tongue tracing the tiny puncture wound where the dart had struck which caused a soft whimper to leave your lips, you turned your head so he can have more access, feeling his tongue slithered on your neck pulse.
“The antidote for this kind of toxin,” he said between kisses, “is release. Multiple releases.” His teeth scraped your pulse point. “It will be intense, do you hear me habibti?” you looked at him, or tried to and your lips pursed softly into a thin line.
“I can handle-” He kissed the protest away. One hand slid down your belly soothingly and cupped your folds, the moment he made contact, the sound you made didn't sound human.
“Soaked,” Damian breathed against your ear. His middle finger traced your slit, gathering slickness, circling your entrance without pressing in. “And you’ve never been touched here, have you? Not like this.” he whispered.
It wasn’t a question. He knew-had known since the contracts were signed that she was his, and he hers, but with formalities, you and him never really became intimate like this at all, until this happened. You shook your head anyway, your thighs falling apart of their own accord.
“Words, my love.” His fingertip teased her opening. “You can always say no.” He was still being considerate of you, it warmed your heart because he knew you were shot with a lustful agent drug but he wanted to hear you say it, that you wanted this, he would never take advantage of your state without hearing you, it did something to you.
“Of course not, I’ve never-” You shakily grabbed his wrist and tried to push his hand harder against your sacred part, but he resisted, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest. “Yes, Damian, please.” he let out a soft tt sound before proceeding, kissing your forehead again.
Then he sank one finger into you, and it happened so fast that you came.
The climax hit like a detonation-no build, no warning, just the sudden, violent clench of your inner muscles around his knuckle and a scream that tore your throat raw, your vision whited out, as your back bowed off the bed, heels digging into the mattress, and Damian held you through it, his thumb pressing deliberately against your clit to draw the spasms longer, harsher.
When you collapsed, gasping, he was already working a second finger inside you.
“No rest yet,” he said, and the soft dominance in his tone made your body tremble. “The toxin requires more than one. You know this.” You did. Even now the ache was rebuilding, the hypersensitivity ratcheting higher, your clit pulsed under his thumb, oversensitive and desperate at once.
“I need you inside me,” your heard yourself say. “Damian, please…I need-”
“Shh.” He withdrew his fingers, glistening, and unfastened his trousers. “I know what you need.”
He was beautiful. There was no other word. The lamplight carved shadows across the ridges of his abdomen, the jut of his hipbones, and lower, your breath caught. He was thick, the head already slick with his own arousal, and the sight sent a fresh bolt of want through your core.
Damian settled between your thighs, the weight of his body grounding you for a moment before the tip of him nudged your entrance, your body tried to pull him in. desperately feeling empty like he was the only one that gave you what you needed, your salvation.
“This will hurt,” he warned, his forehead pressing to yours. “Briefly.”
You hooked your legs around his waist, not caring anymore as you looked up at him with everything you had. “Now.”
He pushed, and you felt it the stretch was immense-a bright, sharp bloom of pressure that stole your air, your nails bit into his shoulders. He stopped halfway, shuddering, a groan dragged from his chest, your name leaving his lips.
“Don’t stop, please…” You whimpered as you lifted your hips, taking him deeper, and the pain dissolved into something else entirely, a fullness that hit a place inside you that you hadn’t known existed. “Oh-”
“Yes.” Damian withdrew and thrust back in, a slow, grinding roll that made you see stars. “Yes, that’s it. Let go for me.”
He fucked you with deliberate, rolling strokes, each one bottoming out against your cervix with a jolt of pleasure-pain, your breasts bounced with the rhythm as your moans rose in pitch, tangling with his grunted murmurs-shukran, ya habibti, like that, take it all-and the wet, obscene sound of their joining, and skin against skin.
The second climax built differently. A tightening at the base of your spine. A frantic, climbing tension that made you dig your heels into his thighs and beg.
“Please-faster-please-”
Damian’s control snapped. He drove into you with a force that rattled the headboard, one hand fisting the sheets beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. The roughness shattered something in you, a final barrier you hadn’t known you had, and your orgasm crested with a guttural cry.
Your walls clamped around him, and he groaned, his rhythm stuttering.
“Inside,” You gasped, barely coherent, your eyes slinking to the back of your skull “Please, inside…” you slurred weakly, coming undone.
The tension hadn’t left you,. Even as the waves subsided, the ache was coiling again, sharper, more desperate. Damian saw it in your eyes and smiled- fierce, possessive curve of his mouth, as he kept moving, time blurred as he tried to help ease or flush out the toxin inside you but repeatedly fucking into you.
One moment you were gasping beneath him, ankles locked at the small of his back, pulling him deeper with a desperate flex of your thighs. The next, Damian's hand slipped from your hip to your waist and flipped you.
You landed on your stomach with a soft grunt, cheek pressed into the damp pillow, hair spilling in dark tangles across your face, the sudden emptiness as you withdrew made you cry out-a sharp, bereft sound that would have mortified you maybe an hour ago. Now you just clawed at the sheets, hips lifting instinctively, seeking him.
The silk was cool against your burning skin, your breasts ached where they flattened against the bed, nipples dragging with each shallow breath. Every nerve ending felt stripped raw, exposed to open air, and when his knuckles grazed the curve of your spine you flinched not from pain, but from a sensitivity so acute it bordered on agony.
His weight shifted behind you, his thighs bracketed your hips. The head of his cock dragged through your slick folds, nudging your clit on the pass, and your vision sparked white.
"Look at you." Damian's voice came from somewhere above you, roughened and reverent. "Presenting yourself like this, my sworn servant, aren't you not?"
You tried to form words, your tongue felt thick, uncooperative. "Please…" of course Damian will choose to tease or be unbearable right now, but he just couldn’t help it see you at his disposal, his to use, he still held you dear of course but right now, hunger and his urges to take you and make you his, took over.
"Please what?" He notched himself at your entrance and stayed there, just the tip, stretching your wet folds open without pushing in. The denial was exquisite, and so unbearable you whined weakly.
The word you wanted dissolved before reaching your lips, Your hips pushed back, a mindless seeking motion, and Damian chuckled-a low, dark sound that vibrated through your skin.
"Already losing your words, ya roohi? We've barely started, you know."
He finally sank in, the angle was different-deeper, somehow, a thick invasion that filled spaces inside you hadn't known could be filled, your mouth opened on a silent scream as your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles blanching, and he gave you no time to adjust. One thrust, full-length, until his hips pressed flush against your ass and you could feel him in your throat.
"Oh-Dami-" The syllable broke apart.
"Yes." He withdrew until just the ridge of his head caught on your entrance, then drove back in with a force that pushed your ass up further on the mattress. "Yes, that's it. Take it." you did, you had no choice, your body had surrendered completely to the drug's demands, and your mind-your disciplined, vigilant, carefully ordered mind-was following fast.
The rhythm he set was relentless, not the grinding roll of before, but a driving, possessive beat that filled the room with wet percussion, each stroke punched a sound from your chest, gasps, moans, fragments of words that didn't cohere, your breasts still swayed beneath you as your clit throbbed in counterpoint to his thrusts, untouched and screaming.
Damian's hand left your spine and fisted in your hair, not pulling, just holding it in place as he fucked you, the restraint undid something vital in your brain.
"Count them for me," he said, his voice strained with his own climbing pleasure. "How many times have you come, habibti?"
You blinked. The question seemed to come from very far away, traveling through water to reach you. "T-two." The word slurred, you swallowed, tried again. "Two times."
"And you're going to give me a third." He tugged your hair gently, tilting your head so he could see your flushed face. "Aren't you?"
"Mmhm…" Your eyes rolled. His cock hit a spot inside you, more gush trickling down your thighs. "Yes. Yes, I-"
"That’s my girl." Damian leaned over you, his chest pressing against your sweat-slicked back, and the change in angle drove him even deeper. His lips brushed the shell of your ear.
"Inti mine," he murmured. "You're mine. You've always been mine." more moans and wails left your lips muffled in the sheets as his hips continuing pistoning into you, this could be seen as making love, but it felt rougher than that.
"Say it." His hips never slowed, a piston rhythm that was building something catastrophic at the base of your spine. "Tell me whose you are."
"Yours." The word came out broken, half-sob. "Yours, Damian, I'm yours, always yours." the words left you like a prayer and something that sounded like truth. "Ahsanti." He pressed a kiss to your temple and straightened up again, both hands gripping your hips now, fingers digging into the firm muscle you built through years of training. "Now come for me again, beloved.”
It was too much-the overstimulation had you trembling like a plucked string, your clit so sensitive that even the brush of pubic hair felt like sandpaper. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes, tracking sideways across your nose.
"I-” you gasped. "I can't, it's too-”
"You can." He reached around your hip and found your clit with his two fingers, and softly rubbed the nub in time with his thrusts. "You will,do it for me habibti, only for me."
The touch jolted through you like lightning, your hips bucked, tried to squirm away, but his weight pinned you in place and his cock was still driving into your cunt and his fingers were circling that oversensitive nub with devastating precision, and you came again.
Your scream was muffled by the pillow, as your inner walls clamped down on his cock with a violence that made him grunt, his rhythm faltering for the first time. The pleasure was so intense it blurred into something indistinguishable from pain-a white-hot detonation that erased every thought in your head, your mind felt numb, you weren’t thinking of your name, the league, the poison, the betrothal contracts, You forgot everything except the thick length of him moving inside you and the tears streaming down your face, and all you think of was him, taking you apart and putting you all back together.
When the spasms finally eased, you were sobbing-soft, breathless sounds that hitched in your throat, your thighs were shaking, your fingers had gone numb from gripping the sheets, you orgasmed three times yet the burning sensation hadn’t faded but dulled.
And still he didn't stop.
"Jamil," Damian was saying, pious words falling from his lips in a stream you could barely follow. "So beautiful like this, ya roohi. So perfect. Taking everything I give you."
You turned your head on the pillow, cheek wet, eyes glassy. "Damian-"
He looked down at you and his expression shifted. The possessive hunger was still there, but underneath it something softer flickered-concern, maybe, or the love he rarely voiced directly, He slowed his thrusts, grinding deep instead of pounding inside you, and brushed the damp hair from your face gently as he could, a touch that felt rare from an assassin.
"Too much?" he asked, and the genuine question in his tone made more fresh tears spill over over your flushed cheeks, you wanted to say yes, but you always wanted to say no, your lips moved around syllables that wouldn't form, that felt impossible to, it just felt too much and he knew.
"I know." He cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek. "I know, habibti. But the toxin…you're still flushed. Still burning. One more, and I think it will break, I promise." your body was still clenching weakly around him with each heartbeat, as you shakily exhaled and inhaled, before nodding weakly.
"Can you give me one more?" His hips rocked into your pussy, a shallow, gentle rhythm now. "Can you do that for me?" you nodded, maybe you thought you nodded, your head felt buried in the pillow in something like assent.
"Words." The gentle command was at odds with the way his thumb traced your lower lip. "I need your words, beloved."
"Y-yes." Your voice was wrecked, barely a whisper. "Yes. One more...I can do it..."
“Hadhih hi fatati." He kissed the corner of your mouth, a brief, tender press and then he sat back and began to rock his hips in earnest again, the gentleness was still there, but layered over something more demanding. He gripped your hips with both hands and pulled you into each thrust, the slap of skin on skin filling the room, your overstimulated nerves screamed and sang in equal measure. The tears didn't stop, but they didn't need to. They were just a thing your body was doing, like the trembling in your thighs and the high, keening sounds that leaked from your throat.
There was only sensation, pressure, heat. The wet percussion of their joining, unusually sacred in this moment. His breath, ragged against your throat. His voice, that you understood less and less as words and more as pure sound-rhythm and timbre and the specific roughness that meant he was losing himself in you, too.
"Damian..." His name was the only word you could hold onto, the only thing in your mind, you said it barely above a whisper.
"Yes." He drove deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur again. "Say it again."
"Damian…"
"Good, keep saying it."
You did, your lips echoed his name like it was water that you desperately needed, It became a chant, a prayer, the syllables blurring together until you weren’t sure if speaking his name or breathing it, your thighs were slick with their combined fluids and your clit throbbed so constantly that the sensation had become a baseline, a permanent pulse of pleasure-pain that underlay everything else.
"Look at me."
His command cut through the haze, you slowly forced your eyes open. Damian's face swam above you, green eyes blazing, jaw tight. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your cheek.
"There you are," he breathed. "Stay with me. You're doing so well, ya roohi. So perfect for me."
You tried to respond, but the only sound that emerged was a broken moan, his hand came to cradle behind your hair, "That's it." He dropped to his elbows, bracketing your head, never slowing his rhythm. His forehead pressed to yours. "That's all you need to do. Just feel. Just take it all, take what I give you."
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with the toxin. You were built and conditioned to control and had been forged into one since childhood. Every instinct screamed to manage, to observe, to maintain some shred of composure. But Damian was asking-no, commanding you to let go. And under his weight, with his cock driving into you and his voice wrapping around you like a blanket, you found yourself obeying.
"Look at you taking it, all of it." Damian's voice had gone rough again, reverent and wrecked in the same breath, like he was admiring you like you were just something that came out of a painting, full in awe like you were on pedestal and he was on his knees worshipping your ground, "My disciplined girl, my protector, and here you are-crying on my cock because it feels so good you can't think anymore."
His name was the only word you still had, your mind clung to it like a lifeline, as he rocked you furthered into the mattress with his harsh thrusts.
"I'm here." He leaned over you again, one hand bracing beside your head, the rhythm of his hips growing faster, less controlled. "I'm right here, you're doing so well, habibti. So perfect. So-" A groan cut him off. His forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, the change in his control undid you, because Damian, who measured every action, who carried his grandfather's steel in his spine, his father’s expectations, and him taking on the robin mantle and batman and the ah ghul legacy, the pressure, all of it, He was coming apart above you, his breath hot against your skin, his thrusts losing their precision as his own need took over. The knowledge that you have done this to him, that your willingness, your surrender, your tears had stripped away his composure, god it triggered something primal.
Another orgasm rolled through your body like a wave you couldn't see coming. A slow, deep clench that radiated outward from your core instead of striking like lightning, your mouth opened on a soundless cry, as your vision grayed at the edges.
"That's it," Damian gasped. "That's it, yes, I can feel you-allaena-" His hips finally stilled before he slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he buried himself to the hilt and stayed, you felt the first pulse of his release dragged a guttural moan from his chest-the hot spill of his seed flooding you inside, marking you, claiming you in the most fundamental way. Each throb of his cock sent another rope of warmth into your depths, your own walls milked him through it, clenching in rhythmic aftershocks she couldn't control.
"Fuck," he breathed. Then, in Arabic, a string of words you recognized from prayers, gratitude, reverence, awe murmured against your sweat-damp skin, you finally went limp as the fever broke, and your felt his body collapsed onto you as he wrapped his arms around your bare body like you were something precious to behold, his ragged breaths along with your uneven breathing filled the air, his face buried in the crook of your neck, giving the tender skin a soft wet kiss.
You sighed shakily, your eyes half-lidded with relief as the burning sensation inside you finally faded into something manageable, for now, at least, your arms instinctively wrapped around his broad back, holding him close as a small, grateful smile touched your lips.
“Thank you, Damian.” you tilted your face upward, trying to see him, but all you could make out were the dark tufts of his hair, slowly, he pulled back, just enough to look at you.
“You shouldn’t thank me,” he murmured. “It is my duty to take care of you. You are my betrothed.”
His gaze softened. “And as you are mine, I am yours.”
His emerald eyes remained fixed on yours, unwavering, as though you were the only thing in the room worth looking at, the sharp edge that so often defined him was absent.
The Damian everyone else knew the arrogant, cutting, intimidating man who could make even seasoned assassins hesitate was nowhere to be found, not with you, with you, there was only this quieter version of him a softness he rarely allowed anyone else to see.
You exhaled quietly, your thoughts beginning to wander, Damian noticed.
Of course he did, his brows furrowed, that familiar crease appearing between them whenever he knew something was troubling you. Without asking again, he shifted closer making the mattress beneath both of you rustle and gently pulled you against his side, his arm settling around you.
“What is on your mind?” Silence lingered between you.
Your lips parted, but no words came, then they trembled.
“You never ended the arrangement.”
Damian's expression shifted, faint confusion flickering across his features.
“Why?” for a moment, he simply stared at you, as though the question itself made no sense, hiis gaze dropped before returning to yours. His hand rose to cradle the back of your head, fingers slowly brushing through your hair in a soothing motion.
“Why would I end it?” he asked, you swallowed, you looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
“Because…”
Your voice came out quieter than you intended as you forced yourself to look at him again. “Am I not just a burden to you?” For a moment, Damian said nothing, you paused looking at him, his expression became unreadable, but his hand remained against your hair, his fingers moving slowly through the strands as though the simple motion gave him time to gather his thoughts.
“A burden?” He repeated the word quietly.
There was something almost offended in the way he said it, making you lower your gaze, but you still continued.
“I… have followed you since we were children,” you whispered. “I was assigned to protect you before I even understood what that meant, then time passed and we came here, and everything changed… you found your father and… you found your family, you found a life that was yours to choose.”
Your fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of his shirt.
“And I was still there, something you couldn’t choose, something both… our families had to assign to you.” you put the words carefully on your tongue, as the words filled the air in this room that was just you two, Damian watched you carefully.
“You never asked for me.” Your eyes softened,
His jaw tightened. “No.”
The answer was immediate, you blinked, looking up at him, slightly by surprise, “No,” he repeated, his voice quieter this time. “I did not ask for you.” and your heart sank, feeling as if this what you expected, rejection, despite yourself, but before you could pull away, his hand gently caught your chin, preventing you from turning your face aside.
“I did not ask for you,” Damian continued slowly, “because I was a child. I was given a protector and a betrothal before I was old enough to understand either.” His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek.
“But you seem to have forgotten something.”
Your eyes narrowed and morphed into slight confusion, “What?”
“I was given many things.” His emerald eyes held yours. “Titles. Expectations. Training. A future that had already been decided for me.”
His expression softened. “But you were the only thing I was given that I eventually chose for myself.”
You stared at him, Damian looked almost uncomfortable having said so much, but he did not retract the words. “I could have ended the arrangement,” he said. “I could have told Father. I could have told the League. I could have severed the engagement years ago.”
“Then… why didn't you?” you tilted your face closer, to be closer to him and to just read him maybe, or find what you were looking for, his eyes swept over you as you held in his gaze.
His eyes narrowed slightly, as though the answer should have been obvious. “Because I did not want to.”
Your breath caught. “That simple?”
“Yes.” He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“You speak as though I have been trapped beside you all these years.”
His voice softened. “I have not.” You swallowed, your eyes beginning to slightly sting.
“Then… why did you never say anything?”
Damian fell silent, for once, the man who always seemed to have an answer did not immediately have one, his gaze dropped to your hands.
“I did not know how.”
A tiny, incredulous laugh escaped you. “You?”
His brow twitched. “Yes. Me.”
Despite yourself, you smiled a little, he seemed almost offended by your amusement, though the corner of his mouth threatened to lift.
“You have always been better at understanding me than I have been at explaining myself, more than everyone else.” he murmured, your smile slowly faded. “Damian…”
“I remember you.”
The words came unexpectedly. “You were nine.” your eyes widened.
He continued before you could respond. “You were standing in front of everyone, trying very hard not to tremble.” A faint smile appeared on his lips.
Damian hummed, as he continued, “You thought no one noticed.”
“You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you.” Your heart gave a painful little flutter, Damian's fingers gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“You bent the knee that day and swore that you would protect me until your final breath.”
His eyes softened. “I remember thinking that you were foolish.”
You gave him a small glare. “That is hardly romantic, Damian…”
“I am not finished.”
You fell quiet, as he kept going, “I thought you were foolish,” he repeated, “because you promised your entire life to someone you had only just met.”
His thumb brushed your cheek again. “And yet you kept that promise.”
His voice dropped. “So did I.”
You stared at him. “You don't have to protect me anymore,” he whispered. “Not from everything. Not alone.” His forehead finally rested against yours.
“You are not my shield simply because our families decided you should be, you are not my burden.” His fingers intertwined with yours.
“And you are certainly not someone I intend to lose simply because an arrangement has become inconvenient.”
Your lips parted slowly. “Then… what am I?”
Damian looked at you for a long moment, his expression was still, almost solemn but warm, then he answered.
“My choice.”
The words settled between you, simple, certain, and somehow, more powerful than any oath either of you had spoken as children, your eyes grew misty.
“You really mean that?”
His brows furrowed. “Would I say it if I did not?”
You smiled faintly, “No.”
“Then stop questioning it.” There was the Damian you knew again-the quiet arrogance, the certainty, the slight impatience.
You both stayed like that, entangled with one another in each other’s embrace, as his hand never left yours, then he moved.
Slowly.
You didn't.
You simply stayed there as he leaned closer, his lips meeting yours in a gentle, lingering kiss before he pulled back just enough for your foreheads to rest together. Your noses brushed, your breaths mingling in the quiet space between you, and for a moment, it felt as though there was nowhere else in the world you would rather be than here, safe within his arms.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
You listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, letting its familiar cadence settle something deep within you.
For the first time in years, you wondered if perhaps your oath had never been meant to be a chain.
Perhaps it had been the beginning of something neither of you had known how to name.
Something that had quietly grown between you through childhood, distance, duty, and all the years in between.
And perhaps, after all this time, you were finally allowed to choose it, too.
Not anywhere fate had once decided you belonged.
You wanted to be here.
By his side, because there was nowhere else you would rather be.
• {content} dick only respond to you calling him baby
The apartment was quiet for a Sunday afternoon, save for the rhythmic humming of the washing machine and the faint scent of fresh linen.
You were currently knee-deep in folding the endless mountain of laundry on the bed. You grabbed the next item from the basket, held it up, and instantly stopped, staring at it in absolute disbelief.
It was a pair of Dick’s favorite boxers—or at least, what used to be boxers. At this point, the fabric was so worn down it was almost translucent, and there were two distinct, gaping holes near the seam. They were hanging on by a single thread and sheer willpower.
"Dick, are you serious?" you called out toward the living room, where your boyfriend was currently stretched across the rug doing his afternoon mobility routine. "Dick, come look at these!"
No answer. Not even a rustle of his sweatpants.
"Dick?" you said, a little louder, peeking your head around the bedroom door.
He was flowing smoothly from a deep hamstring stretch into a cobra pose, looking entirely serene and completely oblivious to your existence.
You blinked. You knew for a fact he wasn't deaf—the man had peak-human Bat-family hearing and could spot a footstep on a roof three blocks away. You opened your mouth to yell his name again, but then the realization hit you.
You had called him 'Dick.'
In the three years you’d been together, you almost never called him by his actual name. He was "babe," "baby," "honey," or, on particularly chaotic mornings, "sweetheart." Calling him Dick was practically a foreign language to his subconscious.
A mischievous grin spread across your face. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms.
"Richard?"
Silence. He shifted into a shoulder bridge.
"Grayson?"
He sighed softly, deepening the stretch, completely locked into his own world.
"Officer Grayson?"
Nothing.
You took a slow breath, held up the shredded boxers like evidence in a court trial, and dropped your voice to its usual fond, affectionate tone.
"Hey, baby?"
Dick’s head snapped up instantly. His bright blue eyes locked onto yours, a warm, easy smile instantly spreading across his face.
"Yeah, sweetcheeks? What's up?" he asked, popping off the floor with effortless agility and strolling toward the bedroom. He leaned into your space, instantly tilting his chin down for a kiss.
You held up the holy pair of boxers right between your faces like a shield, staring at him with an amused, disbelieving look. "Are you serious right now?"
Dick paused mid-lean, blinking at the ruined fabric, then up at you like a confused puppy. "What?"
"First of all, these are going in the trash. Second of all, I just called your name four times."
"No, you didn't," he said smoothly, sliding his arms around your waist anyway. "I would've heard you."
"I said Dick."
He flinched subtly, screwing up his nose as if the word tasted weird. "See? Hearing it now, it doesn't even sound like a real word. Who is he? Sounds like a stranger. I don't know him."
"It is literally your legal name!" You laughed, reaching up to tap his cheek.
Dick gently caught your wrist, tugging you a little closer until your chest was resting against his.
"My name," he corrected softly, his voice dropping into that low, warm register he saved just for you, "is baby. Or babe. I also accept 'hey handsome' if you're feeling fancy."
"You're ridiculous," you murmured, though you couldn't stop the smile tugging at your lips.
"I'm a man conditioned by love," he declared heroically, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. "If you start calling me Dick, I'm going to assume I'm in trouble, or that Bruce is standing right behind me. Neither of those options are good for my heart."
"So if I need to save you from a falling building, I just have to yell 'Look out, babe!'?"
"Precisely," Dick grinned, kissing your cheek before eyeing the ruined boxers in your hand. "And for the record, those are vintage. They're aerated. It's tactical."
"They're going in the trash, baby."
"Fair enough," he sighed dramatically, wrapping his arms around you tighter.
heyyy, I usually don't make requests but I really like your style so could I have a bat boys with a reader who's cynical about Love and doesn't trust men easily? they're not like rude about it but maybe they don't take the boys sweet words as genuine, or also they're surprised when the boys actually apologize when they upset the reader :)
Prove It
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Dick Grayson
Dick said "I love you" the way other people said "good morning" — easily, often, like it cost him nothing.
That was the problem.
"You say that to everyone," you told him, the third time he'd said it that week, not unkindly, just stating a fact you'd already made peace with.
"I don't say it to everyone."
"You said it to a barista yesterday."
"She made my coffee perfectly on the first try. That's a love-worthy achievement."
"See, that's exactly my point." You didn't look up from what you were doing. "Words don't mean anything if you spend them on everything. I'm not trying to be difficult. I just don't know how to tell the difference between you meaning it and you being you."
Dick went quiet at that — actually quiet, which was rare enough that you glanced up to check he was still in the room.
"Okay," he said finally. "That's fair. I didn't realize it landed like that."
"It's not a big deal—"
"It is, though. If I've made you feel like the thing I say to you is the same thing I say to a barista, that's on me." He sat down across from you, serious now in a way the easy charm usually covered up. "I'm not going to stop saying it. But I'm going to start showing you the difference, so you don't have to take my word for it."
He did. Not in one grand gesture — Dick wasn't built for grand gestures, not really, not the kind that looked good and meant nothing — but in the small relentless proof of someone who remembered what you'd said and decided to spend the next several months answering it.
He showed up to the things he said he'd show up to. He asked about your day and waited for the actual answer instead of the polite one. He stopped saying it so easily to everyone else, not because you'd asked him to, but because — he told you, somewhat embarrassed about it — he'd noticed how much weight he was supposed to be putting behind the words and didn't want to dilute it anymore.
"You don't have to perform it," you told him, months later, half-laughing, after he'd shown up at your door at midnight with soup because you'd mentioned feeling sick in passing, hours ago, to someone else entirely.
"I'm not performing anything. I just heard you weren't feeling good." He set the soup down like it was nothing. "I told you. Proof, not promises."
"You actually meant that."
"I actually meant that." He sat next to you, easy as always, but steadier now, in the way that mattered. "I know you don't trust this kind of thing easily. I'm not in a hurry. I just want you to know I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not going to get tired of proving it."
You let yourself believe him. Slowly. The way you let yourself believe anything now.
It turned out to be the right call.
Jason Todd
Jason had a temper, and you'd known that going in — it wasn't a secret, wasn't something he hid, it sat right there on the surface of him like a warning label. What you hadn't expected was the night it actually came out at you.
It wasn't even about anything that mattered. A canceled plan, a bad day stacked on a worse one, a comment you'd made that landed wrong on a man who was already carrying too much. He snapped. Said something sharp and unfair and immediately regrettable, the kind of thing said in the heat of a moment that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever he hadn't dealt with that day.
You didn't yell back. You just went quiet, the specific quiet of someone recalibrating — okay, so this is who he actually is when it counts — and started gathering your things.
"Don't," Jason said, voice already different. "Don't do the thing where you leave and decide I'm just another guy who doesn't deserve the benefit of the doubt."
"I'm not deciding anything. I'm giving you space."
"You're leaving because I proved a theory you already had." His jaw was tight. "I know that's what this looks like. I know what it looks like when I lose it and someone decides that's the real me and the rest was an act."
"Is it?"
"No." He said it immediately, no hesitation, like the question physically hurt. "And I know I don't get to just say that and have it fix anything. I was out of line. What I said wasn't fair, and it wasn't about you, and I took something out on you that you didn't deserve."
You stopped at the door. Didn't turn around yet.
"People apologize like that all the time," you said. "Doesn't mean it sticks."
"I know." A pause. "So don't take my word for it. Watch what I do instead. I'm not asking you to forgive me right now. I'm asking you to let me show you I meant it."
You turned around. He hadn't moved closer, hadn't tried to close the distance — just stood there, looking like a man bracing for the consequence he thought he'd earned.
"That's the first time anyone's apologized to me like they actually understood what they did," you admitted. "Usually it's just sorry-you're-upset. Not sorry-I-did-it."
"I know the difference." His voice was rough. "I've been on the other end of the fake kind enough times to know exactly how it sounds. I'm not doing that to you."
He didn't fix it that night. He fixed it over the next several weeks — checking in before he let something boil over, telling you when he was having a bad day instead of letting it leak out sideways, actually sitting with the discomfort of being wrong instead of explaining his way out of it.
"You're allowed to still be careful with me," he told you, once, when he caught you watching him a little warily after a tense conversation that hadn't gone anywhere near as badly as it could have. "I earned the caution. I'd rather you trust the pattern than trust a feeling."
"That's a very mature thing to say for a man with as many guns as you own."
"I contain layers."
You believed the pattern, eventually. Not the words — never just the words, not with him, not with anyone. But the pattern didn't lie, and the pattern, slowly, kept saying the same thing: he meant it.
Tim Drake
Tim apologized like he was solving a problem, which made sense, because to Tim, most things were problems with solutions if you were thorough enough about finding them.
The first time he upset you, it was something small — he'd brushed off a concern you'd raised because he was deep in a case and hadn't fully registered you were talking, and you'd gone quiet in the specific way you went quiet when you'd decided not to bother saying it twice.
"You're upset," he said, twenty minutes later, looking up from his laptop like he'd just run the numbers on something and didn't like the result.
"I'm fine."
"You said something fifteen minutes ago and I gave you a one-word answer without looking up. That's not nothing." He closed the laptop, which you noted, because Tim closing the laptop for anything short of an emergency was its own kind of statement. "I wasn't listening. That's on me, not you, and I don't want you deciding it's easier to just stop bringing things to me because I was distracted."
"It's really not that big a deal, Tim."
"It is, though, because if I let it slide now, it becomes a habit, and then in a year you've stopped telling me things because you've learned I won't actually hear them." He said it plainly, no performance to it, just the clear-eyed logic of someone who'd clearly already thought this through before you'd finished being annoyed about it. "So. I'm sorry. Genuinely — not the kind where I say sorry to end the conversation. Tell me again. I'm listening this time."
You told him again. He listened — actually listened, the kind where he asked a follow-up question that proved he'd absorbed it instead of just waited his turn to talk.
"You're surprisingly good at that," you said, after.
"At apologizing?"
"At meaning it instead of just performing it. Most people apologize to get past the moment. You apologize like you're trying to actually fix the thing that caused it."
"That's the only kind of apology that's useful." He shrugged, like it was obvious. "Saying sorry without changing anything is just a more polite way of telling someone their feelings were an inconvenience you'd like to move past quickly. I'd rather actually fix it. Takes longer. Works better."
It became a pattern with him — not flashy, not dramatic, just quietly consistent. He noticed things. He adjusted. When he got something wrong, he didn't get defensive about it; he treated it like data, something to be corrected rather than argued with.
"You really don't get offended when I call you out," you said once, half-testing.
"Being offended doesn't fix anything. It just makes the next conversation harder." He looked at you, steady, a little soft around the edges in the way he only ever was with you. "I'd rather hear it from you than guess wrong and lose you slowly without knowing why."
You hadn't expected to find that kind of safety in someone so methodical about it. But it turned out method was its own kind of devotion, if you paid attention to what it was actually in service of.
Duke Thomas
Duke had a way of making mistakes look like learning opportunities, which should have been annoying and somehow wasn't, because he never used it as an excuse — just as a way of getting somewhere better than where he'd started.
He upset you over something he hadn't realized was sensitive — a joke that landed wrong, brushing past something you'd mentioned once, in passing, that turned out to matter more than he'd registered. You didn't make a thing of it. You'd learned, a long time ago, that making a thing of it rarely got you anywhere good, so you just got quieter, pulled back an inch, the way you always did when something stung more than you wanted to admit.
Duke noticed within the hour.
"I said something," he said. Not a question. "I don't know what, exactly, but I know the look. What'd I get wrong?"
"It's fine."
"It's not, or you wouldn't have that face on." He sat down properly, giving you his full attention in a way that made it hard to keep brushing it off. "I'd rather you just tell me. I can't fix something I didn't know I broke."
So you told him. He listened without interrupting, without getting defensive, without doing the thing some men did where they started building their case for why it wasn't actually that bad before you'd even finished talking.
"Okay," he said, when you were done. "That's on me. I didn't know that mattered to you, but now I do, and I should've been more careful with it regardless. I'm sorry — actually sorry, not sorry-you're-upset sorry."
"You say that like it's a meaningful distinction."
"It is, though. Half the apologies people give are just trying to make the discomfort stop. I want you to actually know I get why it landed wrong, not just that I want the awkward part to be over."
"That's surprisingly self-aware for someone who just stepped on a landmine an hour ago."
"I step on a lot of landmines. Comes with the job of caring about someone who doesn't volunteer information easily." He said it lightly, no judgment in it. "I'd rather learn the hard way than not learn at all. Just means I'll get there eventually. Promise."
He did get there. Not all at once — there were more landmines, more small missteps, the ordinary mess of two people learning each other properly — but every single time, he did the same thing: noticed, asked, listened, adjusted. Never defensive. Never making you do the work of managing his guilt on top of your own hurt.
"You don't flinch when I call you out," you told him, once, genuinely curious about it.
"Why would I? You're not attacking me. You're telling me something true so I can do better. That's a gift, not a problem." He bumped his shoulder against yours. "I know you don't hand out trust easy. I'm not trying to talk you into it. I'm just trying to keep being the kind of person it makes sense to trust, every single time you check."
You checked, often, in the beginning. Quietly, the way you checked everything.
He passed, every time. Eventually, you stopped checking so hard, and just let yourself believe what the pattern had been telling you all along.
cw: NSFW. pet play, catboy!nerdjo, light sub/dom, pussy eating, doggy style, creampie, light breeding kink?, pet names (kitty), soft/playful degradation, established relationship.
♡ this is an extra one-shot from the camboy!nerdjo series, but it can be read as a standalone perfectly! ♡
It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when you came back from hanging out with Shoko and found him already waiting for you.
Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands resting neatly on his thighs. Soft white cat ears sat perfectly on his messy white hair. Around his neck rested a thin plum collar, the small silver bell hanging just below the hollow of his throat, next to the little paw-shaped tag that read “Satoru.” He was already hard in his white boxers, the outline obvious, but he kept his eyes lowered until you stepped closer.
The bell gave a single soft chime when he looked up at you, a pretty flush already spreading across his cheeks.
“Look at you,” you murmured, voice warm. “All dressed up for me.”
You reached out and cupped his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. He leaned into the touch immediately, eyes fluttering half-shut. You tilted his head slightly to the side so the bell shifted and rang once, clear and delicate. Then you tilted it the other way, making it ring again.
“You put everything on by yourself,” you said softly, fingers trailing down the side of his neck until they brushed the collar. You stroked the leather with your fingertips, then rested two fingers against the bell and gave it the lightest push so it chimed again.
“Such a good kitty.”
Satoru made a small, embarrassed sound in the back of his throat. His cock twitched visibly in his boxers.
You smiled and leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his jaw, then one right over the pulse point just above his collarbone. The bell rang softly every time he shivered.
“You’ve been thinking about this since I suggested it, haven’t you?” you whispered against his skin. “Putting the ears on. Fastening the collar… waiting for me to come find you like this.”
He nodded, barely able to speak.
You pulled back just enough to look at him properly. Your hands slid down his bare chest, slow and deliberate, until they reached the waistband of his boxers. You didn’t pull them down yet. Instead you cupped him through the fabric, feeling how hard and warm he already was, and gave him a single, lazy squeeze.
Satoru’s hips jerked forward with a quiet gasp. The bell rang.
“So eager already,” you teased, still stroking him through the cloth. “And I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”
You stepped back and slowly undressed until you were completely naked. Satoru’s hands tightened on the duvet, clearly fighting to stay still and be good.
You cupped your breasts in front of him, watching his breathing grow heavier.
“Please,” he finally whispered.
“Please what, kitty?”
Satoru’s face went painfully red. He looked away for a second, ears burning.
You stepped closer, caught his chin, and turned him back toward you. “Use your words. Or…” Your smile turned playful. “Maybe you should try something else.”
He stared at you, mortified and getting harder by the second.
You raised an eyebrow, still gently rolling the bell between your fingers so it kept chiming.
“…Meow?” he tried, so quietly it was almost inaudible.
You bit your lip to keep from smiling.
“You can touch me, Toru.”
Satoru didn’t hesitate as much this time. His fingers brushed first against the soft skin of your inner thigh. Then he moved higher, and when his fingertips finally found you, already dripping, a soft, pleased sound left his throat.
You exhaled sharply at the contact, hips shifting forward just a little into his touch.
He watched your face carefully as he pressed two fingers against your folds, sliding them slowly through the slickness.
Then he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean without a hint of shame. His tongue dragged slowly between them, thorough and filthy, eyes half-lidded as he tasted you. A low, quiet hum vibrated in his chest while he licked every trace.
Your hand tightened in his hair, fingers curling against the soft strands as you watched him thoroughly clean his fingers like he couldn’t get enough.
“Still hungry, kitty?” you asked, voice low. “Do you want more?”
He nodded quickly, then seemed to remember he was supposed to use his words.
“Please,” he breathed. “Please, I want more… I want to taste you properly.” His voice was rough, almost desperate, the soft white ears still sitting so sweetly on his head while he begged.
You smiled and gave him a gentle push against the chest. He let himself fall back onto the bed without resistance, the bell chiming softly with the movement.
You climbed up his body until your knees framed his head, hovering just above his face. Satoru’s hands slid under your thighs, holding you open, but you didn’t lower yourself yet. His tongue already darted out, stretching desperately toward you, giving short, frantic little licks into the air.
“Please, baby” he breathed against your skin, voice rough and needy. “Let me taste you… fuck— just a little lower baby, please."
You bit down on your lower lip, watching him strain for you.
“So desperate you’re begging for it with your tongue out,” your voice came out rough. “Such a filthy little kitty.”
He only answered with another desperate stretch of his tongue, almost reaching you this time, eyes dark and pleading. His fingers dug into your thighs, trying to pull you closer.
You couldn’t take it anymore. You finally sank down onto his mouth.
The first drag of his tongue made your breath catch. He licked you like he’d been starving for it—long, wet strokes from entrance to clit, then focused suction that made your hips roll. The little bell rang every time he moved his head. You reached down and stroked the ears while he ate you out, murmuring praise between soft moans.
“That’s it… good kitty. Just like that—Fuck—You’re so good with your mouth.”
He whimpered against you and licked deeper, tongue pushing inside before returning to your clit with messy, eager strokes. You rode his face slowly, grinding down against his mouth, but just before the pleasure could tip over, you lifted yourself off his shiny lips. A thin string of saliva and your slick briefly connected his mouth to you before it broke.
Satoru looked up at you with glassy, dazed eyes, chest rising and falling hard. His lips were wet and slightly swollen. He looked wrecked and confused, like he couldn’t understand why you’d stopped.
You moved down his body just enough to kiss him, slow and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue. He made a soft, needy sound into your mouth. When you pulled back, you brushed your thumb over his bottom lip.
“Get up, Toru.”
He obeyed without question, sitting up and then standing beside the bed.
You crawled forward on your hands and knees until you were near the edge of the mattress, arching your back just enough to present yourself. Then you looked at him over your shoulder.
“I want my pathetic pet to fuck me,” you said, voice sweet “Is that what you are, aren’t you, Toru?”
Satoru’s breath hitched. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you on all fours, looking back at him over your shoulder.
“Fuck… yes,” he whimpered. “I am. I’m a pathetic little pet.”
He pushed his boxers down and positioned himself behind you, one hand gripping your hip while the other guided himself between your legs. The head of his cock dragged through your soaked folds, smearing precum and your own wetness.
“Then fuck me like one,” you said. “Come on, Toru. Fuck your owner like the desperate little pet you are.”
He finally pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. Both of you exhaled at the same time. You clenched around him, the familiar stretch making your breath catch. No matter how many times he’d been inside you, he was still fucking huge.
“Shit—” he whimpered, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.
You pushed back against him, moaning.
“That’s it. Stuffing your owner so full already.” You clenched around him on purpose and felt him twitch. “Now fuck me properly. Breed me like the pathetic kitty in heat you are.”
Satoru let out a wrecked sound and started moving, hips snapping forward in deep, eager thrusts.
“Harder,” you ordered, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Come on, Satoru… fill me up. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To pump me full until it’s dripping out of me.”
He moaned loudly, nodding against your skin, fucking you harder, the little silver bell chiming constantly with how roughly he was moving.
“That’s my good pet,” you moaned, dropping to your elbows so he could go even deeper. “Look at you… fucking me with your little ears on and your collar ringing. You sound so pretty.”
Satoru’s rhythm faltered for a second. A broken, needy sound left his throat.
“I love you,” he gasped, almost like he couldn’t help saying it. “I love you so much—”
“I love you too, baby,” you answered immediately, pushing back to meet his next thrust.
He kept going, hips snapping forward harder now, the wet sound of skin meeting skin loud in the room. One of his hands slid around your hip and found your clit, rubbing it in fast, perfect circles while he fucked you deep.
Your whole body jolted. A broken, high-pitched sound tore out of your throat as your arms almost gave out.
“F-fuck— Satoru—!” you choked, hips jerking uncontrollably against his fingers.
The pleasure hit too sharp, too fast. You couldn’t hold it. Within seconds you were coming hard, thighs shaking, cunt clenching tight around him in strong, pulsing waves as a messy cry left your mouth.
His thrusts turned desperate. A high, wrecked moan tore out of him as he came hard, burying himself as deep as he could go, cock pulsing inside you.
Satoru stayed buried inside you, chest pressed to your back, pressing soft, trembling kisses along your spine while his hands stroked gently over your hips. He waited until your breathing started to even out before he slowly pulled out.
You clenched once around nothing, then deliberately relaxed, letting him watch as his cum slowly started to drip out of you.
Satoru made a low, stunned sound.
“…Oh my god.”
You smiled, still a little breathless, clearly pleased with how well your provocation had worked. Slowly, you turned onto your back. Satoru followed immediately, settling over you, careful not to crush you with his weight.
You reached up, hooked two fingers under the thin plum collar, and pulled him down into a kiss. The little silver bell chimed softly as he leaned in. The kiss was slower this time, full of the leftover intensity from what you’d just done. You arched up into him, then slid your arms around his back, palms stroking slowly over the warm skin there while he melted against you.
When he finally pulled back, his cheeks were still flushed.
“…Did you like it?” he asked quietly, almost shy again now that the heat had settled.
You reached up and gently touched one of the soft white ears, stroking it between your fingers with a small smile.
“I loved it,” you murmured. “I told you you’d look even cuter than usual.” You paused, eyes gleaming with mischief. “We should engrave my number on the little tag next time… and take you out for a walk.”
Satoru’s face went bright red. He let out a flustered little sound and dropped his forehead against yours.
“…You’re mean.” he whispered.
You just grinned.
“And you’re still wearing the ears, kitty.”
He pouted, and then, with the dignity of a man who had absolutely none left, he carefully reached up and removed the ears, placing them on the nightstand like they were a dangerous piece of evidence.
But the collar around his neck jingled softly when he moved, and you burst out laughing.
Satoru groaned and pulled the sheets over both of your heads, hiding from your teasing—and apparently from the fact that he had willingly worn the collar in the first place.
SURPRISE!!!!!!! I love him so so much. Not that this is news to anyone by now. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!!
thinking about valko in rut—he stuffs your pussy so full you swear you can feel him in your throat, choking on your own spit as he holds your thighs wide apart and rams into you without mercy. His tongue is busy the whole time—licking, biting, claiming every inch of your neck, leaving dark marks while he groans the same broken words over and over like a prayer.
“Mine… mine… mine…”
God, his cock is huge. Painfully so. Every time he bottoms out it stretches your poor, overworked pussy to the absolute brim. You gasp loudly with every filthy, powerful stroke, feeling every thick vein drag inside you. You don’t even notice when his fingers suddenly press down on the bulge forming in your belly, desperately feeling the shape of himself rearranging your insides.
You’re completely fucked out—too tired to do anything except moan helplessly beneath him.
Valko’s own face is flushed deep red, mind shattered. Then his knot starts to swell, locking him tight inside you. As if that massive cock wasn’t already enough, the newly formed knot nudges hard against your cervix, ready to flood your womb with his pups<3
you've always been careful about how you spend your money. sylus notices this, and to counteract it, he spends his money on you like there's no tomorrow.
when you're out shopping, he'll insist you enter stores you'd never consider yourself because of the price. sylus is ever so patient when you try on dress after dress, and when you can't choose which ones you like the most, he tells the salesperson to wrap them all.
"i'll see you in the red one for dinner," he'll say, swiping his card without so much a glance at the screen. the price is more than your last paycheck.
sylus will deliver things to your apartment. they'll somehow end up on your kitchen island, and he'll call you right as you get home.
"what did you buy this time?" you'll ask him.
sometimes it'll be a pair of shoes you've been eyeing or new gear you've been putting off buying. when you ask how he could've possibly known what you needed, sylus will chuckle, his voice deep and amused over the phone.
"i have my ways," he tells you.
what you don't know is how he religiously monitors the posts you like online... and maybe what you search. irrelevant details. after all, everything is fair game when it comes to providing for his girl, right?
when you do tell sylus you want something, usually food, he navigates to the most expensive places. you want a sweet treat? it's a high-end bakery, and he buys one of each thing for you to try. craving a good meal? you end up in places that have a month-long waiting list. out for drinks? sylus waves his hand and another round appears before you have the chance to finish what's in your hand.
sylus finds it amusing when you tell him to stop. he towers over you, standing around in the living room as you ramble on about being able to afford your own things while sitting on his couch. it's cute, really.
he cuts you off, "oh, kitten."
you look up at him, hands mid-gesture trying to prove your point.
"what?"
"you have no idea how much i hold back."
જ⁀➴ ✉︎ author's note: terrorized by a giant bug while writing this
જ⁀➴ ✉︎ want to be notified for new deliveries? join a taglist!
A weekend stay at his grandmother’s house, a good chunk of his immediate and extended family staying as well. And he still has the audacity to prance around his childhood bedroom is nothing but a pair of low handing gray sweats.
“Val, baby. Please find a shirt.” The house had finally gone quiet for the first time in hours. The pups asleep, the parents finally able to relax, uncle Valko and their new auntie now hiding in uncle Valko’s old room… “It’s just you and me, why do I need a shirt?” Oh, bless him…
You shift under the blankets, thighs pressing together deliciously as you glance over the tanned muscles of his torso. Only for him to shift and remind you that he has model robots collecting dust on some bookshelves behind him with a middle school robotics trophy. “Because.”
It’s all you can muster, and his tail wags slow and steady in honest confusion. “Because why? I always sleep without a shirt, don’t I? My family has seen me like this plenty—“ you roll over, burying your burning face into his pillow and whining. He was totally missing the point, by a mile.
“Ohh, I get it.” He murmurs as he watches your legs kick under the blankets. Nose twitching as he zeroes in on your scent shamelessly. “You’re horny. And my nakedness isn’t helping your cause, right?” You pop up, looking over your shoulder to glare at him with an exaggerated pout.
“You’re so hot, Val. And you’re making it worse with what you’re wearing. Plus we’re in a house full of wolves, not only can we not have sex. Even if we could, I’m not letting you fuck me in your childhood bed.”
That earns a rich, deep rumbling of laughter from his chest, only fanning the flames. “We could always sneak out for some late night snacks? There is a convenient store that’s 24 hours like fifteen minutes…” you’re already rolling out of bed, not bothering to grab your purse.
“You still need a shirt.” You murmur as you make it for the door, eyeing him with wide, needy eyes. “Even if you’re going to rip it off me in 5 minutes?”
Husband!Satoru has been pissing you off all day. Not the usual “ugh, he’s being a little shit again” kind of annoying. No. He has been testing every last bit of your fucking patience. And when you finally call him out on it, the absolute bastard has the audacity to laugh.
You grab the nearest object and throw it at his head. The object stops dead in the air a few inches from his face.
The little bitch just turned on Infinity.
He looks at the object floating in front of his face, then at you. And because Satoru Gojo has apparently decided that today is a great day to die, he grins and says:
“Was that supposed to scare me?”
You take a step toward him.
He immediately takes one back, and his grin slowly disappears.
“Baby, let’s not do anything we’re going to regret.”
You keep walking. He takes another step back, hands slightly raised like he’s dealing with a wild animal.
“Sweetheart.”
Another step.
“Love of my life.”
You stop right in front of him.
“Turn off Infinity, Gojo.”
“...I’m actually going to say no to that.”
Your eyes narrow.
“Turn. It. Off.”
He stares at you for a long second, blue eyes flicking over your face like he’s calculating the risk.
“...Are you going to hit me?”
You don’t answer.
“Oh, fuck.”
You take another step forward and he immediately backs away.
“Nope. We’re keeping Infinity on.”
“Satoru.”
“No.”
“You’re a coward.”
“A living one, thank you very much.”
And that is how the strongest spends the rest of the day with Infinity permanently activated in his own house because his wife threw something at him once.
He doesn’t even turn it off when he goes to sleep.
Instead of sex pollen, what if a Wanderer sprayed you with pervert slime, giving you the ability to see people’s dirty thoughts about you?
Sure, you get the occasional gross deviant, but isn’t it a surprise to see what the LIs imagine… who you are NOT currently romantically involved with.
Part 2! Where having dirty thoughts about you really really pays off.
For Context: Part 1
NSFW 18+
CW: ♡ Straddling ♡ Riding ♡ Oral (giving & receiving) ♡ Groping ♡ Neck Kissing ♡ Making Out ♡ Wall Sex ♡ On The Floor ♡ Nipple Play ♡ Rough Sex ♡ Mentions of Spanking ♡ Unprotected Sex ♡ Mating Press ♡ Body Licking ♡ Mild Teasing/Banter ♡ and probably more, sorry if I've forgotten anything.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
Valko
The conference has just finished, the attendees now networking, but all you can think about is getting fucked. For two hours, the man next to you has been relentless in his fantasy, and it’s left you a sticky, aching mess. Speaking of, the mystery pervert is still sitting next to you, twisted away and thoroughly intrigued by his phone.
You know better, because as of right now, he’s imagining sucking on your nipples, blouse ripped right off.
It’s almost impressive, knowing he’s been rock hard for two hours. For you, a stranger. You eye him properly now, and damn, he’s gorgeous. Slutty little glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, delicious broad shoulders, and that jaw…
You’d come here to learn and to meet people… fuckign them counted too, right? Absolutely it did
You lean toward him, holding out your hand as you introduce yourself. “Hi there.”
His amber gaze flickers to your hand, back to your face. Clearing his throat, he says, “Oh, hey. Yeah! Nice to meet you, I’m Valko.”
You initiate boring small talk, asking why he’s here, clenching around nothing as more slick comes to pool between your legs. What you wished you could say was ‘So, last week I got attacked by a new Wanderer, and now I can see people’s dirty thoughts. I can see your fantasy, and I’m very happy to make that a reality.’
Valko is chatting away, mentioning something about insights and protocores… until you lean in even closer, desperate to try and feel some of his warmth, but instead your scent washes over him… his words stutter.
The fantasy explodes with more desperation, more sweat, more everything. You’re on the floor now, the chair hindering his ability to fuck up into you the way he needs. With you on top, he can grasp your hips, guide you along his thick length. He slips a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits, fingers trailing back down in admiration of your body… You’re a panting mess, moaning and gasping as he pushes you closer to the edge of oblivion. He wants to help. He begins to rub your clit, and from this angle, he can lean up and lap at your perked nipple, bite it even, needing you to make an absolute mess of him—
You fidget, rubbing your knees together, rolling your hips into the seat, needing friction. Needing release. You can’t take it anymore.
“Basically, I just think that—”
“There’s a supply room down the hall,” you cut Valko off.
“Pardon?”
You swallow, blinking at him a few times. Were you really going to do this?
Your throbbing cunt is screaming yes.
“Don’t get me wrong, the chair and the floor are hot, but there are too many people here.”
Valko’s jaw drops, entire face growing crimson. “Um. Sorry? Wait… What do you mean—”
“It’s a long story. But that doesn’t matter; what does matter is that you want to fuck me, and I want to fuck you. Let’s not make it difficult. You can ask for my number after, ok? But after two hours of that, I can’t take it anymore. Please.” You plead with your eyes, purring the please.
Valko swallows, brain short-circuiting. “Um.”
Impatient, you seize his wrist and rise. He glances to the dark patch left on your chair, then your face, a lustful haze taking over his pretty amber gaze.
You were so sure the Wanderer side-effect was a curse… But now you’re pinned against the storage room wall, legs shackled around Valko’s waist as his cock slams into you at a ridiculous pace. He's rasping sweet praises, breath hot against your temple… fuck you're tight, holy shit you're beautiful, don't even know me and you're so good… His palm is rough against your open mouth, trying to dampen your unabashed moans as he consistently hits that sweet spot so deep within you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, holding on for dear life… yeah, you couldn’t be more thrilled.
Sylus
If Sylus is going to have the audacity to bid on that old thing as some kind of token, a tribute to his dirty fantasy, you’re going to make him work for it.
“Sixty,” you counter, flashing your paddle.
Sylus makes an amused sound, something between a snicker and a snort, raising it again. You strike back, making it eighty. And so the war begins, the price soaring high, until you feel the tickle of hot breath against your ear. “Do you think you can outbid me?”
You twist in your chair, flashing him an innocent smile. “Of course not, but I can make you spend a stupid amount of money for an old desk.” You turn back to the front. “One-fifty!”
You’re not seated on that desk anymore, but bent over it, struggling to take his monstrous cock. He’s used your blazer sleeves as restraints, hands tied behind your back as he pins you down, one large hand on your waist while the other spanks your ass with the bidding paddle. You clench around him, new spurts of slick coming to coat his thighs as he thrusts into you—
You inhale, crossing your legs so you don’t twitch. So now he wants to punish you? Yeah, ok… let’s see how high you can hike the price.
Eventually, Sylus ends up paying a million for the old thing. Your mission might have been a dud, but you did learn some interesting intel.
“Congratulations on your new desk,” you greet him afterward.
He smirks down at you. “Cute.”
“It’s a lovely piece of furniture,” you continue, nodding along to your own compliment. “Very sturdy. Very reliable. Worth every penny, I’d say. Where are you going to put it?”
“I think it would look remarkable in your apartment,” he casually returns.
Sylus has never seen your apartment… well, not from inside. But he knows that it would look great in the corner, so when you’re lying across it with your legs slung over his shoulders, you’ve got nowhere to escape. He pummels into your soaked cunt, chuckling as your eyes roll to the back of your head, then when you go to cry out, he can shove two fingers into your panting mouth—
You need that desk in your home NOW!!!!!
“Oh, that’s so kind of you, Sylus. Are you going to help me move it into my apartment? It looks a little heavy.”
“Of course, sweetie.”
Sylus is a man of his word, the desk now sitting nicely in your home. You inspect the wood, running your hand along the surface, then decide to sit on it. Seems sturdy enough, despite its apparent age…
Sylus, shrugging his jacket back on to leave, tsks at you. “That’s not what it’s designed for, sweetie.”
“Didn’t stop you from imagining me in all sorts of positions on it though, did it?” You counter with a mocking sigh.
Sylus pauses, arching a brow at you.
You swing your legs, feet unable to touch the ground from the desk’s height. With a sweet smile, you continue. “I’ve been so patient, you know. Aren’t you going to bend me over, spank me with the paddle? Did you even bring it?”
There are very few moments—if any, really—where you catch Sylus off guard. His brows shoot up, lips parting ever so slightly… But he is Sylus. And, of course, he recovers. The man chuckles, a darkness taking hold in his gaze.
“You certainly deserve it, for thinking you could rile me up during the auction.”
This man… Can't you just have one victory? One? (Well, at least you know you’ll be getting more than one orgasm.)
His rich laugh has you clench your fists—and your pussy. Never have you loved such a sound, only for it to fill you with inexplicable irritation, and the only way to be rid of it was to touch yourself.
“Did you forget, sweetie?” He motions to his eye—the aethercore. “What’s a true surprise is that I had no idea you could see mine.” Despite his smug casualness, his gaze drops to your mouth. “I’d have been more… tasteful with my imagination if I’d known.”
Speaking of taste…
You shuffle back on the desk a smidge, spreading your legs as an invitation. “Oh, don’t worry, Sy. I'm not complaining.”
And so, the leader of Onychinus is kneeling before you, tugging at your suit pants down so he can devour you. He’s an absolute fiend (haha), and true to his dirty thoughts at the auction, Sylus has you shatter on his tongue several times before you shove him away, overstimulated tears prickling. Your mind is completely gone by the time he sinks his cock into you. You’re laid back on the surface, ankles hanging up over his shoulders, his thick arms wrapped around your thighs to keep you steady. Vision permanently blurred, drool slipping down your cheek to pool onto the wood, Sylus doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Your hands grip the edge of the desk, ignoring how it creaks with each punishing thrust, because all you can really focus on is how his cock throbs, how it kisses your cervix so perfectly… You want him to fill you up, until the warmth of him seeps into your very soul.
(If you want more Sylus desk fucking and spanking ~ here.)
Xavier
“Will you walk me home?”
He shares a gentle conversation with you the entire way, all while his mind replays that one scene over and over with slight alterations. Like he’s trying to find which one would be the best for you. Face and tits smushed against the glass? Hot, but probably a little uncomfortable for you. Back against the tile, one leg hooked up over his shoulder, basically doing a split on him… also hot, but again, probably uncomfortable. He’s really caught up on it, actually. Like, the more he replays them, the more you have to remember that it’s a fantasy and not reality.
At least, not yet.
Because once you get to your front door, you take a shaky breath, knowing you’re about to cross a boundary you can never take back.
“Want to come inside?”
(Oh, he’ll be coming inside alright).
He cocks his head, a little confused. “Aren’t you going to shower?”
You feel your face flush, but you manage to hold his eye this time. “Um, yeah. I thought… maybe… um, like—I mean—”
Fuck. You’re fumbling. C’mon, now! You can do this! Don't you want to know how it feels getting railed in the shower? By Xavier?
Damn straight.
You compose yourself and, with complete control, announce, “I thought you’d like to join me.”
Xavier goes red. Like, really red. It would be cute if you didn’t already know how dirty this pervert was.
He’s in genuine shock. “You want… wait. Is this a trick?”
Your heart is pounding like crazy, but you seize his forearm and pull him inside.
You’re both standing in your living room, the silence piercing, but not uncomfortable. Xavier wants to rush forward and rip your clothes off—and you know this because you can see it in your mind—the only reason he hesitates is that he also wants more than just sex. He’s going to let you lead, until you say otherwise.
You grip the hem of your shirt, and with tantalising slowness, pull it over your head. He is quivering, trying to keep his gaze on your face, but he can’t help it… Those pretty blue eyes drop to admire your tits in your bra.
You turn around, murmuring, “Can you help me?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, and you feel goosebumps ripple across your body as his warm fingertips brush your skin. He unclasps you with ease, and the bra drops to the floor. Reaching back, you find his hands, leading them up to cup your boobs.
“It’s ok, Xavier,” you whisper, grinding your rear into him. “Whatever you want, take it.”
You end up forfeiting the shower… well, for a good while, at least. You end up stumbling into your room, where you discover what he liked to fantasise about in bed late at night. Xavier has you in the meanest mating press, mouth permanently attached to yours, absolutely drunk, groaning low in his throat. You have long melted away, Xavier swallowing your whimpers and moans as he fucks you so deeply, so entirely full you can barely breathe. He wants to praise you for taking him so well, that you’re such a good girl, how he’s fantasised about this for the longest time… but kissing you is addictive. Every second he wastes by talking is another second he’s missed out on.
Rafayel
“Fishing for compliments? C’mon, cutie. You’re always ravishing,” he returns, that cheeky smirk of his so charming and playful.
Everyone has headed into the gallery, leaving you alone with Raf. Folding your arms, you glower up at him, still feigning annoyance. “Oh, really?”
He mirrors you, crossing his arms, brow furrowing. “You—”
“Prove it.”
Everything goes silent, save for the few crickets chirping and the music gently trailing out from the building. Rafayel opens his mouth to speak, only to clamp it shut again.
“Cat got your tongue?” You drawl, leaning closer, resting your hand on his arm. “I sure hope not. I’ve never had every inch of my body licked before.”
He snaps upright, utterly startled, his frozen spell broken. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Look, I don’t know how…”
You can’t help but feel giddy, relishing his flustered reaction. You want to keep taunting him. “Are you saying that you don’t want to?”
His face is the perfect shade of scarlet. “I’m so confused right now.”
You glance down, the artist fully tented. “Not all of you.”
He turns away, shielding his face with a hand so you can’t stare at him. “Stop that! How did you..."
“Don’t be embarrassed, Raf,” you coo, stepping forward to chase him, reaching up to grasp his wrist. You lower his hand-shield, meeting his eye. He’s still bright red, breathing shallowly, and at your touch, his throat bobs.
“I’m sorry for teasing,” you whisper, almost purring. Your eyes suggest you’re anything but.
But honestly, you should have been meaner about it. Should have teased him until he cried.
Because now you’re fucked.
Literally.
Forget the gallery; the second Rafayel realised that this was real, that you wanted him, he drove you to his studio. Now you’re sprawled naked on his ‘muse’ chair—a velvet chaise that he’d bought for you so he could do your portraits… and not the clothed kind.
His tongue runs up the length of your calf, his warm hands holding you open so he can climb higher. He’s planting soft wet kisses along the inner of your knee, licking and nipping higher and higher, until he’s right where you need him most… except he doesn’t indulge. He skips your slick pussy, ignores your throbbing clit, and bites your hip bone… licks up your navel, kisses your torso while his fingertips skim your ribcage, until finally he’s at your breasts. And the cruel bastard does it again; he ignores your nipples, the tip of his tongue circling them but never flicking. Once he’s on your neck, you thread your fingers through his hair, arching your body into his, chasing the delicious, unbearable heat of him. He’s naked too, his hard length digging into your side as he suckles on your pulsepoint, licking a stripe up the column of your throat so his teeth can graze your ear.
He’s told you again and again, ever since you first whined and begged for him to kiss you, to touch you where you needed him most, for him to fuck you already… “You think I’m going to rush this, cutie? No, no, no. You don’t get to have me until I’m satisfied.”
Zayne
You can't stop thinking about what you saw.
You’ve had a crush on Zayne for the longest time… but you’d never let yourself indulge. But now that he had a dirty thought about you, it was essentially permission. So now you’re imagining straddling him on that office chair, sinking onto his cock, especially when he murmurs, “Breathe deeply for me.”
Except that’s not what’s happening, unfortunately. He has a stethoscope pressed in the middle of your back, listening to your lungs—and your racing heart.
You glance to the space beneath his desk, throat bobbing, mouth watering. If that’s what Zayne imagined for stress relief, well… what kind of friend would you be not to offer, right?
“What’s got you so stressed?” You probe him, watching as he puts the instrument away. “Just standard doctor stuff?”
His smile is soft, that green gaze flickering to you. “Yes. And I have some reports that are due soon. I haven’t had time to complete them.”
“Poor Doctor Zayne,” you sympathise for him, giving him a big lower lip. “So stressed he’s gorging on cupcakes. You know if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”
He averts his gaze, likely out of guilt, because in that moment he imagines—
You’re on the examination bed, knees together and pressed into your chest as he tastes you (still in his medical coat, mind you). The position makes your pussy more prominent, a little tighter, so he really has to work for it as he thrusts his tongue into you—
DOCTOR ZAYNE! That is not professional.
“Thank you, but I’ll manage,” he says instead, so casual about it you’re in genuine disbelief. You always thought he was a terrible liar, but here he is, imagining you in compromising positions without so much as breaking a blush.
“Are you sure?” You say, almost accusing, raising a brow.
He stumbles on the way back to his chair, clearing his throat out of mild embarrassment. Finally meeting your stare, he gives you a subtle nod.
“Are you sure?” You lift your chin, glancing down to the space beneath his desk. “I’d definitely fit under there.”
“Pardon?” Zayne frowns, and bless his soul, genuinely confused. At least, for the few seconds, until it clicks.
Hehe, there it is… red blooms across his face, right up to the tips of his ears. He’s speechless, but to your surprise, manages to hold your eye.
“I’ll take it that you haven’t read my report from this morning, with the new Wanderer I fought.”
He’s paralysed, but eventually shakes his head. “I… I was going to look at it before you came—I mean, for the appointment.” He's so quick to add that, you can’t help but snicker a little.
Zayne is regaining some composure, perhaps convincing himself that what he just heard was, in fact, a hallucination. Until you do it again.
“You can read it while I help you,” you suggest with a shrug. “But I’ll make sure to lock the door. You’re right, Doctor. It would be mortifying to have someone walk in.”
And so, with the door locked and the blinds drawn, you’re kneeling beneath Doctor Zayne’s desk, licking up his throbbing length as he tries to read your report under his breath. You’d told him to speak out loud, so he can really absorb the information, you know? Your knee actually is quite sore, but who the fuck cares? You swirl your tongue around his tip before finally taking him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks so you can take all of him—but he’s fucking huge, and you fail. That’s ok, you wanted to make him suffer, anyway. You bob up and down with agonising slowness, letting your tongue taste every thick inch, feel every vein. You pop off, hand gripping his base to keep him close.
“I can’t hear you, Doctor,” you warn.
He groans, throaty and pained. “S-sorry…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you say, your breath warm and teasing, lips brushing against his tip as you speak. “Now start again, I missed the first part.”
Caleb
Caleb finishes his drink, eyes darting around the room. “Alright, I dare you to… let me text someone from your phone.”
You frown. Um, hello? Wasn’t he going to whisk you into a cupboard and shove his tongue down your throat?
When he holds out his hand, you roll your eyes. Wow, how exciting. You pass your phone with an annoyed huff, but for an entirely different reason than he thinks.
“Relax, Pipsqueak. I won’t be too embarrassing,” he laughs, giving you a playful shove on the shoulder.
A few more people have their turns, until finally it’s yours. If Caleb were going to be a coward about this dare, you wouldn’t.
“Truth or dare, Caleb?” You turn to him, giving him a mischievous stare, willing him to choose dare with your mind. He laughs at you, unbothered and understanding your expression.
“You don’t scare me, Pips. Dare.”
Without a beat, you say, “Kiss the prettiest girl in the room.” (Sorry for the Perks of Being a Wallflower trauma.)
He goes completely still, eyebrows nearly shooting off his face as his jaw drops a little.
You are so smug, settling back as you narrow your eyes, teasing. “Go on, Caleb. Choose wisely.”
Everyone, utterly drunk and juvenile, is enjoying the game too much. All of the girls immediately straighten up, a little excited and hopeful.
Caleb stares right at you, refusing to even glance at everyone watching him, content in holding your gaze, a million thoughts whirring inside his head. He wants to kiss you so bad, wants to crawl atop of you, peel your clothes off, sink into you slowly… He doesn’t want to fuck you here, but like hell will he pass up the opportunity to finally have you.
“Well? Have you made your choice?” You murmur, licking your lips.
“I’ve made my choice for a long time,” he whispers, only to you. He leans forward, confident, lips pressing against yours sweetly… It starts as a cute confession, but you’re both hungry. You kiss him back, palm cupping his cheek, holding him close as you lick across his bottom lip.
“Alright now, c’mon! Tara calls out. “Get a room or something!”
She stands up, shooing at you both. Everyone laughs in agreement, and before you know it, you’re shoved into the darkness with Caleb, the closet door clicking closed.
You’re in his clutches, hands gliding down your sides to grab your ass. You arch into him, swallowing his moans, needing more. Caleb whimpers low as you grasp his hand, guiding him lower, until he cups your needy cunt through your shorts. His thumb manages to find your clit, fingers rubbing along your clothed slit, the perfect amount of pressure…
You return the favour, rubbing his bulge, the pair of you twitching and grinding with your clothes on like horny teenagers. You supposed you were long overdue for this, surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, to be perfectly honest. It doesn’t take long for the pair of you to cum, Caleb making a mess in his pants while you slump against him, trembling, legs threatening to turn to jelly as your orgasm crashes over you.
“Let’s go home,” Caleb rasps into your ear, planting a suggestive kiss. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
★—ryomen sukuna who falls for the pretty girl he spots for at the gym—★
you had always had the ability to make heads turn.
from your pretty face, to your strong but feminine body, long legs and the faint smell of vanilla that accompanied your presence, it was more often than not that men lined up for your number.
but ryomen sukuna refused to be like other men . not that he was immune to your charms , but because you seemed so....comfortable around him.
that day in the gym, almost a year ago, you had approached him after noticing his indifference to you, to spot for you.
sukuna thought it was that you trusted him to not be like the other men who just wanted to get into your pants. and it killed him every day because at the end of your gym sessions, when you would smile at him and thank him, his heart would treacherously speed up.
he would always look around for you , first thing after entering the gym. somehow his daily dose of happiness had become interlinked with you.
his misty mornings had come to become associated with your home made protein cookies and the smell of cocoa and vanilla.
he would eagerly look forward to hearing your laugh after his sarcastic remark about wrongly using one of the equipments or watching your face light up with a satisfied smile after breaking a new record or increasing your load.
even worse were the nights where he would wake up with a boner, pants strained and cock rock hard and aching. and he would jerk off to the memory of your ass as you did your weighted bulgarian squats. your name spilling from his lips as he imagined how tight your cunt would feel around his girth. how your skin would feel under his fingers. if his sheets would smell like vanilla the next morning. if you would taste like the cookies yo—
gods help him. he was a goner.
he couldn't even meet your gaze on the days following after those nights. but then you would give him that smile and say a stupid joke to make him laugh, mistaking his silences for a shit day and he would fall for you all over again.
so he did the things he could. things which he kinda had control over.
linger a little longer after the sessions.
lean down a little lower when you spoke to him.
smile a little longer at your jokes.
eat your cookies a little slower to savour the taste.
walk you to your car in an attempt to bask a little longer in your presence.
yet he had never been able to ask you for your number. you trusted him to respect you and your boundaries. and he would rather die than break that.
so that was how a lonely Sunday night found him—sitting at his kitchen counter and staring morosely at the protein cookie of the day.
you were going to be gone on a family vacation. which meant an entire week without you. your smiles. your laughs. your jokes.
your fucking protein biscuits which he had come to love so much.
he brought over his knife to divide it into seven pieces. yes, it was pathetic and sad and depressing and a few other adjectives. but that was exactly how sukuna was feeling.
but then a note slipped out from inside it . and sukuna's heart stopped.
'' xx xxx xxx xxxx ~ i made a few more flavours and slipped them into your gym bag. lmk if they taste alright :) ''
Something to Catch My Fancy @aurora9607 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
