an archive of my hyperfixations

22 yrs old Minors DNI Reblogging whatever I feel like

[fluervie]

GIRL DAD!JASON

A/N: Reblogs and Comments appreciated. Reposted from my old account + some changes (@/luviery), maybe OOC

Girl Dad!Jason who shed tears of joy when he first held his newborn, her tiny palm curling onto his finger. She had been crying incessantly, only ceasing after feeling her father’s touch. His heart filled with so much love at the tiny human gleaming in his arms.

Someone who was so small held a monumental amount of trust in those sparkling blue eyes.

Girl Dad! Jason who reads your daughter books everyday - inculcating from the very start, the importance of education (after all he was an A+ student). She would also have an extensive vocabulary for her age.

Girl Dad!Jason who makes curated bento boxes for his daughter (and for you) filled with adequate nutrition and a little bit of junk that kids could have at that age. He makes sure to always stick a tiny note on top that has something funny written on it.

Girl Dad!Jason who teaches his daughter martial arts. Your daughter would be the kid who could lift weights pretty early on.

Girl Dad!Jason who’d let his daughter color his tattoos. Jason would also get a tattoo dedicated to her (and probably has one for you already).

Girl Dad!Jason who let his daughter to practice makeup on him. Wild pink eyeshadow, dark red lipstick outlining his lips, blush strayed across his cheeks like two pink cotton candy, all accompanied with a smile that reached his eyes.

Girl Dad! Jason who is in a skin-tight black T-shirt that stretches across his beefy biceps and taut muscles, accompanied by a black net tutu and sweatpants. Your daughter’s school had organized a mother–daughter dance segment as part of the ballet recital. Unfortunately, you had a last-minute emergency that caused you to back out. Fret not! Girl Dad! Jason saved the day, wearing a tutu on stage, alongside the other mothers. Not only did he know what to do, he knew the entire routine as if he had been practicing with his daughter everyday. Videos of the dance quickly go viral, even earning an article from Gotham Gazette.

Girl Dad! Jason who writes a journal dedicated to his daughter. Every milestone and every age is documented as she grows up. Jason Todd aims to be the best father he can possible be for his daughter.

Girl Dad! Jason who catalogues every important moment of your daughter's life. There are not many pictures of him to look back on and he wants to change that for his daughter. So, you will see a lot of polaroids, framed photos and numerous photo albums scattered around your home.

Taglist:

For all works: @gglouise23 @qardasngan @brucewayneisavirgin @annibellez @patientofarkhamasylum @yearninglustfully @living-that-chronic-life @turquoiselace @batwngs @athenxt @goonette5 @iloveyou3000morgan

Jason Todd: @angel-achlys-r @superherosdystopiafreak @rhyviier @maxcinthe

[supermanthisho]

Thinking about TATTED UP! JASON.

more from my blog

Jason with so many tattoos and each with their own meaning (or lack of). There’s one of his favourites, the two robins mid-flight and fighting on the back of his neck. The two birds are twisted around one another in a wild bout of movement, spanning the back of his neck and the tips of the wings peeking out from the front of his profile. It used to be one of the ways he coped with Tim being his ‘replacement’. Now, it just makes him laugh.

There’s also a the Monster from Frankenstein’s head on his mid-back. Towards the left side of his back. It’s a bit of a blur if you get too close, the tattoo not done with lines but rows of text. Frankenstein. Descriptions of the monster. A bit obvious to him about how he felt when he came back from the Lazarus Pit.

There’s a few for his heritage. A Taíno mask on his right thigh, rather large about the size of a hand. On his other leg, climbing up the side in a neat row, Taino symbols for animals and the elements. The sun, a coqui, the water.

On his side, between his back and his front, hidden by his arm most of the time, two cars. Crashed into each other. The darker one has lost its tires (they were stolen). The other one is smaller. He won’t admit it’s him and Bruce. The scene is flipped on the vertical line, made to fit in the narrow space of skin.

On his forearm, just below the crook of his elbow, in small are three dates connected. The year he was born. The year he died. The year he got resurrected. Nearby, there’s a small, thin license plate. For Gotham. Accompanied by a little ‘but it helps’ not too far away. A hint to: you don’t have to be crazy to live here but it helps.

The front of his torso has a few too. Not to leave it too bare. There’s the street sign from his childhood home. The one in Crime Alley accompanied by the graffiti and stickers and rust collecting on the metal sheet. It’s just below his chest over his ribs.

Both his arms are nearly covered. Along with the license plate and his three dates. There’s a Cerberus. The three-headed dog of Hades, the god of the Underworld. The three heads are looking away from the direction in which they’re running in, away from death. A thorny crown, like Jesus’ during his crucifixion. While he may no longer be religious and gave up on any notion of the afterlife, it’s another reminder. Blame a guy for coping by finding symbolism and meaning with what he’s been through. It represents the mockery and torture he’s been through. The hope and authority he thought he had as Robin that lead to his downfall. Even if it wasn’t his fault. There’s also a set of teeth, open and angry in an open bite. But they’re fake. Clearly plastic. The violence is a gut reaction for show. The material is fragile and easily damaged.

On his other arm, the hopeless romantic in him. Climbing from his wrist starting in a small vine all the way up to his bicep, a mix of tropical flowers. And flitting between the petals on the outside of his bicep, a hummingbird. Just like the tale from Puerto Rico. Soulmates turned into a flower and a hummingbird, and the bird goes searching for their partner in every flower until they find them.

Then, there’s a few random ones. A Betty Boop face on his knuckle because it was one of the cartoons that passed late at night on the tv that he remembers. Two gymnasts juggling dishes and hoops somewhere on his arm, balancing on a ball. Like that time Dick remembered that he had a younger brother and decided to teach him how to wreak havoc to the manor. A block of dirt from Minecraft because when he came back to life and discovered the game, he had a phase. Now he thinks of the three months where all of his free time was spent rotting on his safe house’s couch and playing it. A pair of socks with holes in it because he spent about six months with drafty socks and constantly forgetting to buy new ones. Hence, a permanent visual reminder. A tattooed rosary around his collarbones and behind his nape, small little pearls and the cross. A memento from his mom that he never got to keep, all of her stuff stolen after her death or taken with her in her final moments (okay this one isn’t random but whatever). A teardrop below his eye to remember the death of his biological father (it’s what he tells himself and strangers who are nosy and rude enough to ask) but in reality it was some stupid street gang who peer pressured him when he was younger. Yes, Bruce and Alfred were both horrified.

The point is, Jason has so many tattoos and is counting on getting a few more as his life evolves. Especially one of your kiss-print right over his heart after the two of you get married. He’s saving that spot just for you.

Inspo pics:

A/N: if it wasn’t obvious, I love the headcanon of Boricuan Jason. Also I’ve been marinating on these tattoo ideas for him for forever. Also just because he’s so sexy with them. Like yess have big and hot and intimidating and mysterious with a backstory of tattoos. I think id actually scream if I saw his arms. Maybe one day I’ll pick up a pencil again and get back into drawing. Until then, this is all I got.

[annaevermore]

18+ mdni

Thinking about how girls nights out always end up with at least one of your girlfriends complaining about their dating lives.

You try to be supportive, humming and agreeing with their complaints, but it never takes long for one of them to jokingly point out that you have no reason to complain: your boyfriend is perfect.

And truth is, yes, Dick Grayson is the perfect boyfriend.

At first you were convinced that he would change overtime, once you both got out of the honeymoon phase. But three years have passed since he officially became your boyfriend, and he never changed. If anything, he only improved.

Take tonight for example. When you mentioned that you would be going out, without even looking up from the dishes he was washing, he offered to drive you to the bar and pick you up. No questions asked.

As you were getting ready, he never hurried you, opting for sitting at a careful distance: enough to give you the space you needed, but still close enough to admire you.

Just as you were about to add your finishing touches, he came up behind you, resting his hands on your hips. His lips traced slowly the side of your neck, making you shiver at the sensation.

"Can I taste you, pretty please?"

The request was nothing unusual. Dick loves eating you out before you have to go out somewhere. Or at any time of the day, for that matter. He insists that it makes you glow. And who are you to deny him?

You didn't have to repeat yourself any further. He draged you to your shared bed and made you lay on top of it, careful not to mess up your hair.

Gently, and with barely concealed eagerness, he lifted your dress and moved your lace panties to the side, before diving in and eating you out like a man starved.

After drawing at least one orgasm out of you — preferably two — he cleaned you up, pulled down your dress and drove you to the bar, making sure you were not even a minute late.

The kiss you gave him — after he asked for one with his puppy dog eyes — tasted faintly of your arousal, but neither of you cared as some of your lipgloss got on his lips.

So when you hear your friend's comment, you can do nothing but agree with her.

Your boyfriend is perfect.

A/N: I once saw a video once of a girl talking about her boyfriend eating her out and driving her to a girls night out immediately after. I haven't been the same since.

[twentytomidnight]

which of the batboys is the best cuddler?

Dick Grayson/Reader, Jason Todd/Reader, Tim Drake/Reader, 2.5K

a/n: a request that I did a DC version for, maybe I’ll do a marvel one for? Let me know and enjoy! :)

cw: reader loves being messy, cuddling, sexual/romantic tension, gn!reader

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

You go forth for the discovery of science and walk away with more than you expected. Batfam/Reader

You are, of course, as the beloved house-cat is inclined to luxuriate in the space between fondness and aggravation, to engage in a dollop of mischief. 

But at the very least, today you can make pretense that you operate in the spirit of scientific exploration. 

That’s what you tell yourself at least, during the onset of your experiment begun at the conclusion of patrol. When you say Tim’s name across the precipice of concrete ledge, your smile coy and coquettish in nature; his eyes gawkish and ogling as they find visual purchase upon yours. 

You’re dedicated to the task of swaying Tim, that you do not take ken of the other pairs of eyes that drag onto the meter of your form. But this will have consequences that you will make dedicated interaction with later. For now, all you do is extend your arms to Red Robin in come-hither appropriation. 

“Tim,” You plead in adjusted, sympathetic pitch—already he is crossing the rubicon to make diligent approach to you, moth to proverbial flame—“—Come cuddle with me.” 

His shoulders broaden, his eyes brighten at the task that you’ve given him, something stalwart takes hold of his frame. Makes him fill the suit in more valiant fashion than prior occasion. Again, you both are ignorant to the glares that are exchanged, the mouthed words that are given credence in conversation you are not party to. 

All you can focus on are those blue eyes in domino-mask that are aching to prove themselves worthy of the task. His arms look to make union between yours, his teeth issuing dissipating fog from the endured chill.

After all, your request was not borne of nothing. You merely needed appropriate instigation to bring him to you.

“You cold right now?” He asks, and when his arms encircle the span of your figure; it is resuscitative balm. He is personal knight in radiating armor, his hands gentlemanly and unyielding down the length of your back—they reside in the prescience of your upper back, gloved fingers darting over your shoulder-blades. 

“Course I am,” You respond, letting your teeth chatter for auditory measure, making jagged interval of the condensation that champs through your teeth. “Figured I could get a two-for-one handling the cold.” 

Tim nods as though you have suggested sage, excellent idea, the tick of his smile smug. The grasp of his arms careful and deliberate in choosing adequate spot to best allocate warmth. 

“Sure—”—He agrees, and his voice darts in lower register of huskiness, making access to heat pooling in junction of your legs—“—Hope you don’t mind my reach.” 

“I don’t.” And to better emphasize your point, you allow your head to rest on the firm plateau of his shoulders, to feel the unyielding armor and firm flesh-and-blood muscle that lies beneath. If he articulates stuttered breath, his heart traitorous in indication of exhalation—then you ignore this as well. 

All you surrender to the nuance of muscle, to better jar the pentameter of his pulse, is a murmured, “You feel good in my arms like this.” 

His chuckle is demarcated in the reverb of the ear cupped to his body, made double in the wintry air that you cling to him for comfort from. And his heart: it thunders with the implacability of a man too nervous to ruin a good thing. 

“Been waiting to hear you say that.” He makes in confidence to you, a secret that he carries with utmost sanctity. Even though the two of you cannot suffer under the illusion that you are alone on this rooftop, at the conclusion of your duties.

The best he may do is keep this to the mutual cradle of each others arms. And his hand palms flat over the span of your back, greedy to memorize the terrain of your body that is immutable under him. 

“Does it compare to what you thought?” You ask, nuzzling the sink of your cheek against him—prompting another treasonous noise to escape him. You can’t help but smile at how easy of a task it is to unmoor this studious vigilante. 

“Even better.” He mutters, and there’s a forlorn yearning that is made nascent in this admission. Something stirs in the housing of your ribs and draws saccharine-sweet, delightfully opalized in the mien of how he holds you. 

“Careful—”—you tease back in lilting cadence—“—I might ask you to keep doing this.” 

And when his arms clutch about you to better maintain the privilege, his voice speaks at odds to the dictation of the request. 

“Oh, no, that would be horrible.” He jokes, to better ensure that you don’t realize that you’re already in too deep with one brother made notch on the bedpost. But you won’t realize this until later. 

It’s an unspoken rule that whenever someone is on patrol, the others are set as watchmen to carry the torch for their return. The others have undertaken the expectation, and you yourself are no stranger to the task given you. But it’s always expected, unspoken rule and unwritten custom of tantamount significance. 

You’re not tired as you sprawl across the comfortable chair sequestered in necessary arrangement, in the depths of the cave. The darkness has long since lost frightening quality, and the shadows that keep menacing curvature around recessed walls and low-hanging stalactite have grown to comfort you. 

The cave is a safe haven where all little bats and birds come home safe. And so you sit with your fellow charge for the night, and wait. 

Your gaze meanders away from the territory his broad-shouldered form has taken up, that thatch of white hair that shocks through the dark—to the time that is delineated in artificial bearings on the screen. 

“They’re back late.” You comment, looking at the hours that have continued in irrevocable passage. You don’t let yourself worry. Not until the sunrise returns in cresting arrival to summon the dawn. 

“Better they’re out with company,” Jason reassures you.

His voice is composed with corrugated intonation, amber whiskey and slow-spooned molasses that sinks through the arteries of your veins, the channels of your body. It imparts experience and comfort that you seek with the unspoken question you make. 

“Yeah,” You agree, once again returning your long-reaching gaze to beyond. The light at the end of the tunnel displays pinhole of nighttime sky—and with them, the prodigal children yet to return. “They’ll have each other’s backs.” 

“Better to pass the time,” Jason suggests, his gaze unnoticed in your periphery, the desire unspoken even in prose of his syllables, “If you got someone to keep you warm.” 

You let your worry transition into bewilderment, into curiosity. And then, finally, into sluggish comprehension as you take the way those thighs, housed in grey sweatpants, have spread wider on the chair.

How those abyssal green eyes are watching you, like predator encroaching through the tall grass, awaiting the lowering defenses of prey. 

You recall your interaction with Tim from the previous week, earmarked by the shoal of those warm hands, the oasis of his body in frigid weather. And the cave is no stranger to chill: though you have yet to ever find salve like this. 

“Oh,” You let smile take foundation on your face, let sly, wily approach bleed into your answer. “You’re offering?” 

“Saw you ask Tim.” His face remains impartial of any emotion. But his shoulders school out to make sacrifice of his body, his legs pitch and tilt open. Beckoning you to the temple that he willingly offers shelter in. 

“Thought I’d nominate myself.” He concludes; and then: smile takes crooked posture. Crooked, playful, attractive posture. Those eyes are daring you to play the tête-à-tête he’s brandished as challenge your way. 

“I only asked Tim,” You proper up buttress of defense—after all, you must explain the anthropological aspect of your study, “Because I'm conducting research.” 

“Yeah?” His teeth are given perfect exhibition, canines taking prescience in the pronunciation. “How’s that work?” 

“Trying to ask people to cuddle—”—You return in coy answer, keeping yourself neutral, though your smile is traitorous to a fault—“—And see who’s the best.” 

His smile does not waver. But his body seems to grow in proud stature: you cannot deny yourself a visual glimpse of the testament of anatomy he has become over the years. 

“Well, come on over, sweetheart,” Jason returns, his finger tapping careful metronome on the chair, “Come test me out.” 

The way he offers it is layered in entendre, implicative of further exploration of the body. You try to avoid clotted swallow to regulate the pulse ascending to the nape of your tongue. Try to deny peristalsis that will allow you better means to focus. You rivet your attention on closing the distance instead. 

Your limbs carry so much more gravity, when you are the one that must make consumptive act to walk over to him. To allow your body admission to the cradle of his—to have no more than mere fabric separate the encompassing swathe of his body and yours. 

He’s hot—every square inch of him blazes in heady, sweltering thoroughfare. And his arms, coiled with the task of enfolding around your waist are both protective and ardent. 

“Rest your head on me,” His words carry gentility that the hunger of his body belies, “I don’t mind.” 

And so you do, letting your temple settle into the hollow of his neck, curling up upon the altar of muscle made yours. He feels so good to the touch, his hands of chivalrous navigation. 

“What do you think?” He asks, and his question is a rumble of sensation that makes circuitous route through your body. 

“Think,” You admit with growing smile, “I’m finding my judgment shifting.”

“Good.” His hands settle on the crook of your arm, intent to keep you in his embrace. “Good.” 

You have made yourself comfortable enough that you don’t see the satisfaction inlaid to the spread of his smile. But you don’t realize the dangerous waters you grow deeper into, when Jason is so excellent to hold. 

The eldest of the brothers is made available at more convenient time: when you have been granted reprieve of duties, rotational shift of the team determining that you will not be the one with harboring lantern.

But even then, you both cannot make orbit out of the heavenly body that is Wayne Manor: and so the two of you make residence in the living room, a quiet movie making sedative, somnolent ambience. 

But the two of you are distracted by matters of other things. Your arms have beckoned out to the brother who has yet to be tested, but it is not without him to luxuriate in being smug. A trait he has passed on to all of his siblings. 

And so he leans back, those toned arms spreading about the backing of the couch. His smile cocky and of cavalier clarity as he looks keenly upon you. 

“About time you ask me.” He gloats—and yet in the gloat is an assertion of wounded nature. He smarts at being asked last, at being final rung on the ladder. You will have to earn your way to enjoy the presence of his body. 

You offer initial statement to the tableau, still keeping your arms aloft. “Figured it was perfect because we’re watching a movie.” 

He makes a harrumph, jilted cuddler left standing at the altar. His smile is of roguish cadence, daring you to keep trying. Daring you to seduce him your way. 

“But that’s the only reason?” He retreats to offense—still smiling, still daring. “Am I just convenient eye candy to you?” 

You roll your eyes, though remain steadfast to the cause. As your eyes take exploration over him, he can’t help but proffer out aspects of his body ideal to the cause. Those impressive shoulders. That toned chest, the ample thighs. 

All yours for the taking—should he allow it. Your voice is dry. “You’re being neither convenient nor eye candy right now.”

“Oh,” And here he clasps crumpled fist to the spot his heart takes residence in, “Like an arrow through the heart.” 

“More like duct tape on the mouth.” You grumble, but he’s had his moment to whinge in despair. You clamber over to let yourself take position on the spread of his body, something his hands are eager to guide you along to.

They dare at the very mores of social propriety, lingering on access of thigh, on structure of ribcage—on the small of your back which summons instinctive shiver—

But you’ll give him one thing. He is an excellent cuddler, the shape of his body perfect diameter to yours, the warmth that he exudes of perfect distinction to the cool air of the room itself. And when you rest your weary head upon the slope of his shoulder, you can feel the exulting triumph that radiates off of him. 

“Well?” He asks, keeping a mockery of demure comportment in his voice. Playing the innocent, when he is anything but. “How do I shape up?” 

“Pretty good,” you admit as you match your body in perfect slot against his, “Pretty good.” 

“As I thought.” He returns with subdued glee. And if you are not given opportunity to leave his arms, the abode of his body until the movie has concluded—well, it’s not as if you were making marked effort to leave. 

“I think this will make them mad,” You assert from the support of Bruce’s enfolded arms, “But I think that you’re the best for it.” 

“That’s a surprise,” Bruce says in dry monotone. His heart is careful dirigible that resounds through the carriage of your ear pressed upon it. “Why is that?” 

“Because you’re a dad, Bruce,” You return with abject fondness that you don’t make disguise of. His chuckle, amused notion at this, takes deep root through you as it rumbles by. “Dads always are the best cuddlers.” 

“And because the other three you’ve tested it with have nefarious intentions?” Bruce asks in further wry inquiry—how very like a father—your second father by any means—to get to the arterial heart of the matter.

You dither in silence for a second as he carries you further up the stairs in the clasp of those careful arms. 

“I don’t think they’re nefarious,” You offer carefully. “But they are obvious.” 

“But have any of them won the test?” He asks—and it’s clear he’s not asking about your scientific method. You know what he’s asking about. So the two of you while in this comfortable silence as he continues to be vessel up into the darkness for you. 

“I’ll have to think on it a little more.” You admit to him. “Maybe even do some more testing.” 

“Better do it quick,” Bruce returns in deadpan. “I think they’re going to do something stupid.” 

“When do they not?” You ask—again, another mirthless chuckle. But he doesn’t dispute this. 

“Let me know when you do,” Bruce returns, “So then I can finally reduce my painkiller intake.” 

Your shared, quiet chorus of laughter carries you both up the stairs, and into the quiet of the night retiring into silent repose. 

Divider and banner made by me :)

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[my-love-all-mine]

Don't carry the world upon your shoulder

⊹ drabble

⤷ You always know how to act when Dick can’t reach out for help.

warnings: angst/comfort, non-sexual nudity & intimacy, depressed nightwing for the win

a/n: ughhh I feel like shit idk what this is

You watched as the door unlocked, right when you were about to start getting ready for bed. Dick stepped into the apartment, hair messy, with inky strands clinging to his forehead.

“Hi Dick.” You coaxed out.

He looked at you with pain in his eyes. The kind of pain he didn’t talk dare to acknowledge. “Hey.” Dick mumbled, walking past you.

Your brows furrowed as you watched him walk into the bathroom, hearing the shower turn on immediately.

It pains you to see Dick this way, it would pain anyone.

You trot over to the bathroom door, knocking lightly. “Dick? Can I come in?”

The water rained against his hair as he heard your soft voice from the other side of the door. He felt his chest tighten, gripping the water handle harder.

After a few more seconds of silence, you heard a small sound come from inside the room.

“Yes.” He said. It was barely audible, most people wouldn’t have heard him.

You immediately opened up the door. The first thing you saw was his hunched over figure in the blurry glass of the shower.

“Dick…”

You didn’t say anything further when you heard a small sniffle come from him. It made your heart ache.

“Is… it okay if I come in?” You asked.

His voice cracked as he spoke, “Y-Yes.”

You sighed as you changed out of your clothes, dropping them to the floor one by one.

The glass door slid open as you dipped one foot into the water that accumulated in the shower, then the other.

Dick went to turn to look at you before your arms wrapped around his torso, keeping him in place.

“It’s okay Dick.” You whispered against his muscled back, “It’s okay.”

His shoulders immediately dropped, letting you hold him. Tears started falling down his cheeks as you peppered kisses along his back, whispering praises in between.

“I love you baby.”

“It’s okay, you can let go of your tears. I got you.”

“You mean so much to me, don’t forget that..”

He absolutely snapped at your last sentence, spinning around to hug you tightly and press his face in your chest. You felt fat streaks of tears drip onto your skin as you brought your hands up to thread your fingers through his hair.

“Whatever’s wrong,” you placed a kiss on top of his head, “We can figure it out together.”

taglist: @starl1ghtgr4yson @jtoddsbaby @prettypastelbear @notyouraverageloser-13 @fireriyu

[chubbybuunyy]

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ──── shower time .ᐟ

in which dick hates being left out of shower time!

( dick grayson x fem!reader | fluff | can be tied with this! )

richard grayson was a clinger, you already knew that, you loved that, but sometimes you just needed a moment to yourself and the shower should be that moment—except it never was. he’ll pout when you announce that you’ll be in the shower, alone, he’ll complain that you’ll take forever and leave him bored or he’ll go on a rant about how it saved water if the both of you shower together but you paid him no mind. instead you grabbed your stuff and left.

surprisingly he was good for the first ten minutes but quickly afterwards he found any and every excuse to weasel his way into the bathroom.

“sorry babe, gotta pee”

“sorry sorry i forgot my phone!”

“hey what do you want for dinner? ill order it!”

“did i leave my phone in here again?”

you wanted to be annoyed, you wanted to lock the door after the second time he barged inside with some insane excuse but ultimately you couldn’t bring yourself to do so.

he rushed in again, cheesy smile on his face as he stood there for a moment, watching as you washed your hair, admiring how the bubbles covered parts of your body.

“what is it now?” you sighed out, eyes closed tightly to avoid the shampoo from entering.

“just wanted to say that i love you and you’ve been in here for like an hour and im bored and i miss you and—”

“just get in the shower already” you said, a small smile creeping up on your face as you heard the door slam shut and his pants unzip.

“don’t gotta tell me twice” he muttered as he fought to rush out of the clothes that got in the way of you, him and a warm shower.

[hauntedhouseofhorrors]

worth the wait ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ jason todd

word count: 1.4k+

warnings: nsfw ― mdni, reader is anatomically female, brief dry humping, female masturbation, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, sexual fantasies, implied penetrative sex, mild language

check out my other work here! | join my taglist here!

it was supposed to be a lazy morning. no work, no elaborate plans, save for a night out with your friends later on. you and jason were simply lying in bed, wrapped up in each other like usual.

his lips found the skin of your neck with ease, slowly dragging the fabric of your t-shirt down your shoulder to kiss the newly exposed flesh. you weren't sure how you ended up on your back with his lips peppering warm kisses across your skin and his hips lazily rutting into your core, but hell, who would dare to complain about this hunk of a man on top of them?

just as he started peppering kisses across your hipbones, ready to drag the thin fabric of your panties down your legs, his phone started buzzing aggressively on the nightstand.

"the hell?"

you sighed as he reluctantly sat up, the heat between your legs growing unbearable. dick's voice came through, ragged and out of breath.

"jay, how fast can you get to the manor?"

he looks at the way your eyebrows knit together; either worried or horny, or perhaps both.

"uh," he hesitates. "i'm a bit b-"

"doing your girlfriend doesn't count, kid," dick presses.

your eyes widen, mortified at the thought of his family knowing anything about your sex life.

"we've got a convoy moving military-grade weapons through the narrows. gcpd isn't making it in time."

jason sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"i'll be there in ten."

"jay," you whine before he even cuts the phone off.

"honey, i'll be back as soon as it's over." he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before finding your lips. "it'll be fast."

he kisses you again, all slow and deep. he knows it drives you crazy, but he feels like a damn monster, leaving you with flushed cheeks and pouty lips. your lips chase his when he moves to pull away, but his hand finds the curve of your jaw, pulling back to gaze down at you.

"don't look at me like that," you mumble, knee bumping his hip as you chew on the inside of your cheek.

"like what, sweetheart?"

his eyes drop, racking your body once over.

"like you wanna put me through the mattress when you know you can't."

he laughs at that, doubling over upon sliding off the mattress. you want to throw a fit, but the city needs him.

"i'll make sure to come through later, honey." he presses one last kiss to your lips before regrettably slipping out of your shared apartment.

you count the seconds, minutes, until it ascends into an hour. an hour becomes two, and then three.

your core is still slick with the afternoon's rendezvous. your mind shifts to images of him out in the field, sweat-slicked skin glistening as he moves skillfully. your thighs clench when you hear his voice in your head, imagining a few deep grunts falling from his lips as he pins someone to a wall nearby, all big and strong.

all yours.

your hand finds its way between your legs, pressing into your core through the lace of your panties. a soft gasp echoes in the quiet space of your bedroom.

a few taut circles to your clit make your knees bump one another, but you need to work five times as hard to make yourself unravel.

your fingers feel so puny, almost equating to nothing when you think of jason deliciously parting your slick walls with his thick digits. they slide home, pumping at a slow pace.

it feels as though you’re forcing yourself to moan. your back lifts off the mattress just barely when your palm bumps your clit, a pained whimper leaving your lips.

you’ve damn near got your fingers stuffed in your cunt up to your knuckles!

between switching endless positions and sliding a pillow beneath your hips, you just can’t seem to find the spot that jason always reaches with zero effort.

you’d been at it for about an hour, your fingers starting to cramp up and the skin beginning to prune. tears of complete frustration kiss your cheeks, lips swollen and pouty after all of your biting from not being able to reach your high.

you can’t be bothered by the faint clatter coming from the living room. the thud of heavy boots and rustling of tactical gear make jason’s presence known, yet your fingers keep weakly moving between your sore walls.

“honey?” his voice is muffled through the door, but it comes husky, laced with exhaustion.

when he pushes your bedroom door open, though, all tiredness is gone from his being.

you’re truly a sight for sore eyes.

legs parted, shirt hiked up your tummy, exposing the soft curves of your breasts, and a gaze that pleads for him to make you feel good. his name falls from your lips in a broken whimper, more tears bubbling over before you can stop them.

he doesn’t think twice, crossing over to the mattress in two long strides before grabbing your ankles, pulling you to the edge of the bed. your hands immediately find his shoulders as he settles on his knees in front of you.

“i need you, baby,” you babble. “please. i c-i can’t, honey. couldn’t wait. tried making myself feel good, but all i need is you.”

he just watches you, shushing you as he rubs a calloused thumb over your cheek, wiping your stray tears.

“‘s okay, baby, i got you.”

he tuts when he looks down at your puffy folds, all irritated from the incessant assault of your fingers. he blows softly, pressing a chaste kiss to your mound before flattening his tongue across your folds.

“should’ve waited for me, pretty girl,” he coos once your back bows off the mattress, instantly seeking out more of him.

he moves slow enough to soothe the ache, but lets his tongue prod at your dripping entrance every few laps, fucking into you so sweetly. his lips purse just right, sucking on your clit. he switches between each move, working you closer to that edge. he hums against you and a wrecked moan shamelessly rips from your chest.

you prop yourself onto your elbows to watch and your suspicions are confirmed: it’s him.

yes, he makes you feel amazing, brings you pleasure you’ve never experienced before. but the sight of this god-sent man alone is enough for you to finally come undone.

your thighs begin to tremble and he wraps his arms around either leg, keeping you in place to make sure you don’t start running when that coil in your tummy starts tightening.

“jay, mmph—fuck, baby,” you babble. “i’m s-so close.”

the last syllable is plundered by a moan, thighs threatening to clamp around his head. just then, one hand drifts toward your heat, pinching your clit while his tongue coaxes itself between your walls expertly.

"let go, doll," he murmurs, pressing impossibly close to your core.

a desperate whimper rolls from your lips, legs shaking as you finally come undone. he doesn’t let up right away, lapping every last drop of your slick like it gives him life.

“jay,” you whine, feebly pushing at his shoulders before he sits back on his heels.

“never gonna try to get yourself off again, right, princess?”

your stomach flips. you want to smack that shit-eating grin off his beautiful face, but you know that you wouldn’t dare to take matters into your own hands again.

“wouldn’t dream of it, honey.”

you toe at his shoulder, playfully nudging him. he catches your ankle, kissing from the soles of your feet, up your legs, up your torso, before pressing his lips to yours. his tongue slides into your mouth like it belongs there, letting you taste your own arousal.

“now,” he starts, fingers tugging at the latches of his gear. “i think i promised you something pretty big earlier, didn’t i, sweet girl?”

your bottom lip tucks itself between your teeth.

“think i agreed to put you through the mattress or somethin’ like that, right?”

his arms find the backs of your knees, nestling them comfortably in the crooks of his arms. your breath catches as you trace every move carefully. his chest fixes itself against yours, pinning you to the mattress.

he hums.

“i always keep my word, sweetheart.”

he kisses your collarbone and in the next half hour alone, you’d have lost count of how many orgasms he pulled from your body.

“you know i do.”

a/n: uhhhh i didn't know how to end this 😭 dk if i love it or not

[strawberry-nugget]

PIXELATED KISSES

What's their favorite intimate spot to be kissed?

⤷ ゛ Pairings: Jason Todd x reader, Dick Grayson x reader, Tim Drake x reader, Bruce Wayne x reader ˎˊ˗

Tags/CW: 18+ MDNI, suggestive (in Jason's and Tim's), fem!reader, established relationship, hurt/comfort, fluff, they're so silly with eachother, soft Jason my beloved, kissing, giving Dick a bath cause he deserves it, Bruce is Bruce, slight crack in Tim’s, canon-typical injuries. (5k words)

Jason Todd—The inside of his knees

Sunday nights have a shape to them, in your apartment: Dimed lights, the subtlety of the particular hush that settles in around 1 a.m, a can of beer that’s too big to not count as a keg being passed between you and your boyfriend like the concept of separate glasses had never been invented, a forgotten movie humming in the background until the soft buzz of Jason’s snoring tears tiny cracks through the sullen air in your apartment.

That's what Sunday is supposed to be.

Foolishly Confidently, you had held tightly onto the hope that tonight would be like that as well.

The hope didn't survive contact with 9 p.m., for it had withered then, when Jason came home from patrol far earlier than planned, favoring one leg and radiating the specific, wounded pride of a man who has just lost an argument with a sewer-dwelling reptile. Killer Croc, apparently, has recently discovered what Jason called "the cruel beauty of a knife," and decided to test the theory out on him.

He had come home victorious, technically. Bleeding, unfortunately. Sulking, definitely.

“I got thrown into a dumpster, babe. A dumpster.”

Twenty minutes of this now. Jason recounts the injury like he took a bullet instead of a knife scrape, wringing every possible drop of sympathy out of a scrape that, if you're being honest, barely broke skin. “You’ve told me. Four times.”

“It smelled like something died in there.”

“And that’s why I let you use my expensive body wash.”

His eyes harden when they land on you, eyebrows drawing so close together his lashes nearly brush them, offended that you're not offended enough on his behalf.

You know this dance. You've known it for a while now; patching him up on the couch while he narrates the injury of the night like it’s a Greek tragedy or a near-death experience, refusing to admit he’s fine. These are all things you’ve grown accustomed to. You know Jason thinks that admitting he’s fine means you stop fussing over him. And you don't stop. You never do. Not because you're fooled —because you know exactly what he's doing— but because some stubborn, soft part of you simply doesn't want to not fuss over him, logic be damned.

So, with an ice pack applied, dramatics acknowledged fully and bruises kissed better in the vague, non-medical way Jason insists actually helps —somehow you end up riiiight where you are right now. 

As of ten minutes ago, the two of you, apparently, stopped being nurse and patient and became this instead: tangled together on the couch in the most anatomically improbable cuddle in recorded history. 

You’re laying over his chest on the opposite side of the couch (the one he insists is the foot side and not the head side), while he has folded himself around you —arms, legs like a koala. The wound on his thigh, you notice, has suspiciously stopped bothering or pulling at him entirely the second it became an excuse to hold on tighter. He’s clinging onto you, like if he somehow lets go and his humongous, tight muscle legs aren’t wrapped around your ribs and arms and head, the knife-dumpster incident might happen all over again and this time he won’t survive it.

You kind of hope someone from his family breaks into your house and walks in on this right now. Dick for example, would never let him live it down.

“Jace, you're huge and you’re going to suffocate me,” you mumble into the soft cotton of his shirt.

“Good. Then you’ll finally understand my pain.” He whines and punctuates it with a kiss to the crown of your head, entirely too pleased with himself.

The TV throws blue light across the ceiling, across both your faces —some Hulu movie you swore was on your watchlist, though at this point you'd both fail a basic quiz on the plot. Under your ear, his heartbeat runs slow. Slower than it ever seems to anywhere else in the world. Slower than it has any right to be, for a man who spent his evening being launched into municipal waste by a seven-foot crocodile man.

You shift, testing the grip of his koala-limbs, and he only tightens them.

“Nuh-uh. Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I just want to check your leg.”

“My leg is fine as long as you don’t move.”

You ignore him, sliding down anyway, working yourself loose from the tangle of his arms —and the increasingly alarming attempt his legs make to get you in a headlock— until you're settled near his knees, running your eyes over the bandage like you don't trust your own patch up handiwork from twenty minutes ago. Jason watches you with exaggerated suspicion, visibly bracing for whatever indignity comes next.

Instead, you rest your head against his stomach. His muscles don't jump the way they usually do when you catch him off guard; he just breathes, slowly, letting you settle. You run your palm along the back of his thigh, over the fabric of his sport shorts, absent and easy, more habit than intention.

"See something you like down there?" he tries, aiming for smug, because, despite all the softness you are alarmingly close to what’s the start of a raging erection. He mostly lands on pink, however—the blush climbing his cheeks giving him away before the sentence even finishes.

“Nah…I’m checking for more injuries.”

Jason clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes before setting them onto yours. “Real romantic, doc.”

You press your thumb lightly behind his knee, testing, and feel him go still.

“Jason?”

“It’s fine. Nothing’s wrong there.”

But his voice has changed. Gone careful. And when you glance up, he’s not looking at you with his big, green eyes anymore and you hate it he’s found something fascinating on the ceiling and he’s looking at it, over your head, cheeks colored cherry red and he's clearly decided there's no point pretending otherwise.

You don't tease. Not with words, anyway. You just lean your head a little and there! You press a kiss to the inside of his thigh, then up, up up, until you reach the soft, thin and ticklish skin just inside his knee. Then, you place another kiss there, soft, unhurried, a little wet, barely anything at all, really.

Jason however, makes a sound like the air’s been knocked clean out of him, which—fair and square—you knew would happen. He’s the most sensitive on spots where his skin is thin and his veins peak blue beneath it. 

Kissing those most sensitive spots, however? That’s exactly what makes him feel loved. It’s the kind of affection that doesn't have to be spoken out loud to exist so soundly.

It’s proof. And Jason likes proof.

"Okay," he says, voice wrecked in the quietest way you've ever heard it. "That's—oookay. Mmh.” You kiss him again, same spot on the other leg. “Baby! That's nice."

“What?”

“Nothing.” He breathes in, slow, and his hand finds your hair; not pulling, not pushing, just resting there, warm and a little unsteady. “Do that again, baby. A little higher maybe?”

Who are you to say no?

Dick Grayson—The back of his neck/his traps

Dick is the one who takes care of you. That’s just how it’s always gone, since the very beginning.

He’s the one who notices you haven’t eaten before you do, he’s the one who has a bandaid produced from some pocket dimension in his jacket before you’ve even finished saying ‘ow,’ and he’s the one who somehow always knows which version of ‘I’m fine’ you actually mean and which one he needs to push back on.

You’ve never really had to learn how to do it back, he’s never given you the opening. It is a rare thing for Dick Grayson to let the role of the caregiver slip from his hands, it’s even rarer that he finds himself in a position where he needs to be taken care of.

Which is maybe why it takes you three days too long to notice that Dick Grayson —the most relentlessly, exhaustingly, perfectly fine person you have ever met— has stopped sleeping entirely.

It’s small at first. He’s a little slower getting out of bed. A little quicker to laugh at something that isn’t that funny, like he’s testing whether the sound still works right. Gone are his power-naps throughout the day. Coffee at 2 p.m., which never used to happen, followed by coffee at 6 p.m, which really never used to happen.

Bludhaven’s been ugly lately; you know that much. You’ve seen the new set of bruises and wounds he tries to angle away from you in the bathroom mirror— but Dick doesn’t come home tired the way other people come home tired. He usually shakes it off by the time he’s through the door, replaces it with that easy grin like he’s swapped costumes rather than just taken one off.

Tonight he doesn’t manage the swap. He just stands in the kitchen doorway for a second too long, staring at the kettle like he’s forgotten what it’s for.

You don’t ask him what’s wrong. Not yet. You’ve learned that with Dick, straight questions get you straight deflection —a joke, a subject change, an ‘I’m good,’ promise delivered with enough charm that you almost believe it every single time, even now. So instead, you do something you’ve never really done before: you decide to take care of him first.

You run the bath before he can talk you out of it. Water hot enough to actually do something for the knot you can see sitting between his shoulder blades, the lights low, the ridiculous lavender thing his sister-in-arms-slash-honorary-sister got him as a joke gift finally getting used for its intended purpose. When you come back to find him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, chin in his palms, staring at nothing in the specific way that means he’s a thousand miles away and hasn’t noticed yet that his feet have stopped thudding on the floor.

“Hey,” you say, quiet, and watch him startle back into his body. “C’mon. Something’s ready for youu.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” You take his hand, slowly lacing his fingers with yours. “Get up.”

He doesn’t fight you on it, which tells you more than anything he’s said out loud in the last three days. Dick always has a comeback loaded, a joke to buy himself room to wriggle out of being looked after and yet, tonight he just follows you, quietly sighing, into the bathroom, and lets you peel his shirt off like something in him has finally run out of the energy it takes to perform being okay.

You settle him into the water and kneel by the tub, sleeves shoved up, lathering shampoo in your hands before running your fingers through his damp curls, rubbing soothing circles all over his head and working the tension out of his shoulders with your hands the way he’s done for you more times than you can count. He exhales, slow, head tipping forward, and for a second the exhaustion in his face isn’t hidden behind anything at all.

It’s just there, plain, the way he never lets you see it.

His neck is where you always end up, working the pads of your thumbs into the muscle where his traps meet his upper spine, the one spot that undoes him faster than anywhere else on his whole ridiculously overworked body. You feel it the second you find it —the shudder that runs down through his shoulders, the way his breath goes long and unsteady, like something’s finally been let out of a room it’s been locked in for days.

You lean down and press a kiss right there, at the slope of the back of his neck, soft, lingering half a second longer than the ones before it.

He makes a small sound, almost startled, like he wasn’t expecting to feel that at all after everything else, and his hand comes up out of the water to find your wrist, holding on like an anchor.

“Dick.” You keep your voice as gentle as you can make it, mouth still close to his skin. “What’s wrong?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer as much as he won’t even look at you. You can feel him working through it though— probably thinking about the joke he could make, the deflection sitting right there, ready to go, easy as breathing. You watch him choose not to reach for it.

“I don’t know how to say it without it sounding stupid,” he finally says, voice rougher than you’ve heard it in a long time.

“Try anyway?”

His shoulders drop another inch under your hands, like just being asked —really asked, and meant and kissed to absolute persuasion— has already taken some of the weight off. “It’s Damian, Jason, Bruce, Tim, Steph—just…everyone. I feel like I have to substitute for all of them.”

You don’t let go of him nonetheless. You stay right there, thumbs still working slow circles into his shoulders, and for a while neither of you says anything else, you just listen to the water lapping faintly against the edge of the tub, his breathing evening out under your hands one long exhale at a time.

Then, of course, because he’s Dick Grayson and staying vulnerable for longer than four consecutive minutes seems to be physically painful for him, he turns his head just enough to catch your eye, and you can already see the grin rebuilding itself.

“Okay, my turn.”

“Your turn for what?”

“You’ve been standing there hunched over a bathtub for ten minutes.” He twists further, water sloshing, and catches your wrist properly this time, tugging you down so your face is level with his. “That’s a crime against your own back. I should know, I know all about backs.”

“Dick—”

He kisses you before you can finish the sentence —unhurried, easy, tasting faintly of lavender bath stuff he’ll never admit to liking and it’s a genuinely excellent distraction technique, you’ll give him that. When he finally pulls back an inch, his voice has dropped into the low, warm register he uses when he’s trying to talk you into something.

“C’mon. Get in. I give a great massage, ask literally anyone I’ve ever met.” He says between kisses.

“That’s not a real reference.”

“It’s a very real reference. Everyone would vouch for me.”

“No one would not vouch for you right now, they’d tell you to go to bed.”

“Semantics.” He’s already shifting, making room in the water, doing his best impression of a man who is definitely not one bad night’s sleep away from falling asleep sitting up. “Come on. Let me take care of you too babyyyyyy. I’m very good at iiiiit. It’s, like, my whole thing.”

You almost laugh, because he is doing the thing—the classic Dick Grayson maneuver, charm first, deflection built in, hand it back to you before you can look too closely at him. It’s smooth. It’s always smooth. And it would probably work, if you hadn’t spent the last ten minutes with your hands on his shoulders, close enough to see exactly what’s sitting under his eyes.

So instead of getting in, you kneel back down at the side of the tub, take his face in both hands, squeeze his cheeks between your fingers and just look at him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” you say, gentle, echoing something that sounds suspiciously like a line he’s used on you before. “Not tonight.”

“I’m serious, I’m an excellent masseuse, I have—”

“Dick.” You press your thumb lightly under one eye, where the tiredness has gone faintly purple, soft as a bruise. “Look at you. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I can absolutely keep my eyes open, I am extremely awake, I—” He punctuates this by yawning, spectacularly, mid-sentence, which rather undercuts the argument.

You just raise an eyebrow at him.

“Okay, that was bad timing,” he admits, and finally, finally, some of the performance drops out of his voice, leaving something quieter underneath. “I just don’t love the idea of you doing all the work tonight.”

“I know.” You kiss his forehead, then, soft, right where the tension always shows up in small wrinkles. “That’s kind of the point of tonight, though. Let me have this one sweetheart.”

He studies you for a second, some last flicker of protest sitting behind his eyes, and then it goes out of him all at once, shoulders dropping back into the water.

“Fine,” he mutters, but he’s smiling through his pout when he says it, “But can I eat you out later?”

“No, you’re gonna sleep later!”

“I’d sleep better if my girlfriend loved me, though!”

Bruce Wayne—The middle of his chest

You have stopped waiting up on the couch since a long time ago. Nowadays, you just leave the bedside lamp on low and let sleep take you when it wants to, trusting the soft click of the study's hidden door, then the shower running two floors down, to eventually end with the mattress dipping under a weight far too careful for a man his size.

Tonight, it takes longer than usual and you know better than to ask. Pressing Bruce for an answer he doesn’t carry within him has only proven to be futile, anxiety inducing even, and you’ve long exchanged your worry for the sake of his nirvana.

You're half into a dream when the door finally opens, and Bruce —no cowl, no cape, no careful mask of ‘fine’ on his face either, for once— comes to a stop at the foot of the bed like he's not sure he's allowed to be tired yet.

"You're late tonight honey," you murmur, not really awake enough to make it sound like an accusation.

"Traffic." His voice is low, wry, worn thin at the edges. "Terrible this time of night."

You don't call him on the lie. You never really have to. The new bruise darkening along his ribs when he finally peels his shirt off does that for you, blooming an ugly constellation of yellow, green and purple over what you're fairly sure used to be a much worse midnight-blue, days-old and reopened.

"Sit down," you say, already reaching for the little tin of arnica cream on the nightstand that has, over the years, become as much a fixture of this room as the lamp.

He sits.

Bruce doesn't narrate his injuries the way some of his kids do. He doesn't perform pain, doesn't dramatize a scrape into a saga. If anything, he goes the other way; quiet, frozen body, giving you nothing, because admitting it hurts and hurt overall are a tactical disadvantage he can't simply afford. You've learned to read him in the small things instead: the too-careful way he lowers himself onto the mattress, the exhale he thinks he's hiding, the fact that he lets you touch him at all instead of waving you off with some line about a five-minute recovery in the cave.

You press your palm flat over the worst of the bruising, feather-light, and watch something in his shoulders finally loosen. Your hand there, on that specific spot, is doing more for him than the mask ever could.

"Why didn’t you call Alfred?"

"Alfred's asleep."

"Alfred's never asleep."

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, gone as fast as it came. He's watching you work with the same unreadable focus he gives everything —case files, nightly cityscapes, you when he knows fairly well you’re not looking at him— there's something in the careful movement of your hands in the dimmed light, he's trying to memorize.

He hopes, faintly, because hope has proven to be a poisonous, dangerous thing for someone like him to have, that he never has to spend a night where this is not in his routine anymore.

And then, as he’s watching you a little more, he wonders if you’re sick of him. If this is something you really want to do, if allowing himself the novelty of letting you take care of him is a thing that is pushing you away and you refuse to speak of it so as to not hurt him. 

He fears, on a basis that borderlines casually, that you have grown scared of his reactions, thus the reason you have mellowed down from how worried you used to be when he first met you.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, mind flowing with every thought imaginable and contingency plans that involve even you, he has to admit, that for the worst part of it—it’s easier to be Bruce like this, with his face half lit, and someone who loves him enough to offer him something that counts as mundane with the life he’s chosen to lead. 

You finish applying the last of the cream and don't pull your hand back right away. Instead, you let it rest, flat, right over the center of his sternum, over the place where, absurdly, for a man built out of scar tissue and armor plating, he seems to feel things the most.

He goes so still under your palm, stiller than the bruised ribs. Stiller than you've ever managed to make him with the stethoscope of a worried question.

"Bruce."

"Hm."

"You're allowed to just be tired, you know. Just here. With me."

He doesn't answer, not right away, he has to sigh first, long and deep like that will clear his lungs out of every horror he’s had to fight tonight. When he does answer, though, his voice has dropped into something quieter than the Batman voice he ever lets anyone hear, it’s something that belongs only to this room, this lamp, this hour, you.

"I know."

And you know, that despite what he says, he feels the opposite. 

But you care too much for him to press further.

You care so much, in fact, that you decide to ignore the inanimate pain that settles inside your ribs at the thought of ever hurting him, just to throw yourself onto his lap, ever so softly. Or, perhaps, as soft as you can manage.

“You okay?”

“More than,” he says, and means it as much as a man like him can mean anything spoken out loud at two in the morning, ribs taped, guard down for maybe the only ten minutes of this week.

“You get quiet like that and I never know if it’s a case, or the ribs, or—” You don’t finish it. You don’t have to. Some sentences he’d rather answer with silence than a lie, and you’ve learned not to make him choose between the two.

“It’s not you,” he says instead, low, like the words cost him something to hand over. “It’s never you.”

Again, you don’t ask him to explain further. Bruce hands things over in pieces, on his own schedule, and pressing for the rest of it only sends him further back behind his own eyes. 

So you just nod, and let your palm stay where it is, warm against his sternum, over the drum of a heartbeat that hasn’t slowed down since you settled in his warmth.

“I love you.”

Something shifts in his face — small, almost nothing, it’s not relief, exactly, as much as it hurts. It’s closer to disbelief that the offer’s still on the table to say he loves you back, after everything.

“I know,” he says “I love you too.”

And although it doesn’t sound like he fully believes it but rather like he wants to, you know how much he means it.

It’s in his eyes, doe and kind, despite the way his eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and it’s in the way his hand has found the small of your back, just so he holds you steady onto him.

You slowly lean closer, pressing your lips to the soft skin at the center of his chest —right where your hand had been, right over that too-fast heartbeat, right in between a four clawed scar. 

It’s not a stitch, or a bandage, or even the muscle ache balm, but it’s just what it is.

It makes his breath falter and audibly loosen inside his lungs. His other hand comes up to rest against the back of your head, guiding you just a finger’s worth of space back, so he can look you in the eyes—the light glittering little specks and sparks over your irises. 

He knows his have none; he often wonders why you want to hold eye-contact with him in spite of it, but when you kiss the same spot from a moment ago again, even slower this time and he gets no warning but the goosebumps that run up his back, he thinks, maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to think of an emotionally exit plan in case nights like this cease to exist.

Tim Drake—The side of his ribs

Tim has exactly one weakness, and you find it completely by accident on a Tuesday.

He’s stretched out on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, three different browser windows open —and those are the ones on Safari only— that are probably three different crimes he’s solving simultaneously, and you’re just trying to steal the spot next to him without making him move. You climb over his legs, lose your balance slightly, and catch yourself with a hand flat against his side to keep from faceplanting into the cushions.

Tim makes a sound you have never, in the entire time you’ve known him, ever, heard him make.

It’s somewhere between a yelp and a laugh, high and startled, and his whole body jackknifes sideways so fast the laptop nearly goes sliding off his knees. He catches it on reflex (Batfamily reflexes don’t clock out just because you’ve been tickled) but his face has gone a genuinely spectacular shade of red.

In hindsight, you should’ve seen it coming, but this is the moment when it clicks in your head!

Tim is… ticklish?!

You stare at him, one eyebrow raised, lips slightly thrown open as you’re clocking his whole face. He simply stares back, betrayed, blushing harder than before.

“Timothyyyyyy, did you just squeak?”

“No.” He squints for a second, suspiciously studying your face for any sign of sudden realization, or the early and immediate construction of an evil masterplan against him. He shrugs, too casually when he finds neither.

“Tim.”

“I did not squeak. That was a completely normal, dignified reaction to being startled.”

“You squeaked.”

Hmmm… something in him isn’t fully convinced you are not plotting against him.

“I have never squeaked in my life.” He’s already shifting the laptop further away from you, arm coming down defensively over his side like you’re a known threat now, which is fair, considering. “This conversation is over. We’re not doing this.”

And he’s right, okay? You, as in the two of you, are not doing anything! You, as a person on your own though? Oh you are absolutely doing this.

It takes you the better part of a week and some forced silent treatment that probably hurts you more than him, maybe, to actually get him to admit the specific location of his ticklishness and its overall existence; Tim treats personal weaknesses with the same operational security he treats safehouse addresses, and for a while your only intel is a single data point: somewhere along his ribs, left side, and a truly wounded look every time you bring it up. He starts flinching preemptively whenever you reach for anything near him, which honestly gives you more information than he probably means to.

Tonight, though, he’s not thinking about defense. He’s curled up against you on the couch, laptop finally, blessedly closed, head tucked against your shoulder and cheek squeezed perfectly over your tits in the exact way he likes it. Ah, yes, the rare unguarded quiet that only shows up after he’s been awake so long and he’s stopped pretending he isn’t exhausted. His guard’s down. His arm isn’t over his side. He’s just there, warm, half-asleep against you, breathing slow.

You’ve never been able to resist a soft target.

And while you’d love to start tickling him until he feels absolutely tortured, you don’t exactly want to risk a fight or flight response that will end up with you having a broken nose caused by instant reflexes. Because one! You should never, ever, creep up on one of the bats when they’re half asleep (they have ninja starts in their fucking underwear for all you know and you have watched Tim throw one to the TV when he got jumpscared by a loud sound once) and two! You’re pretty sure you can’t actually trigger a response from Tim, because no matter how soft he pretends he is, he is guarded around you, has been for like—a week— and he will play-wrestle you until you tap out!

Which you will, because you love it and it kinda was the reason you fell so hard for him in the first place?! Yeah yeah, I know.

So, plan ‘B’ for how to torture tickle Tim Drake, includes something even more sinister than just jumping him in his sleep. Something he will not be able to resist.

Once you have secured he is a little softer, but not entirely out like a light, you shift and bend carefully, until your mouth is level with the strip of skin where his shirt’s ridden up slightly at his side, and you press a slow kiss right there, against his ribs. To make it overkill you flick out your tongue and run it on him, while trying to sink your teeth into the skin you’re sucking into your mouth.

Aaaaaaaand Bingo!!! Tim comes alive like he’s been electrocuted.

“No—” It comes out somewhere between a laugh and a shriek, and a moan and he’s twisting away, curling in on himself, all long limbs and zero coordination, trying to simultaneously escape and swat you off with uncoordinated flailing and have his free hand cup his shorts, because you know and he knows, he’s instantly hard. “That’s—come ooooon—that’s cheating!”

“Don’t care.”

You kiss him again, same spot, then everywhere around it, blowing air out of your throat to make farting sounds and he collapses into helpless laughter, breathless and pink-faced and utterly undone, batting weakly at your shoulder with a hand that has zero actual follow-through behind it.

“Okay —okay, truce, truce, I surrender—”

“You can’t surrender on this, Tim.”

“No no, I can.” He’s still laughing, gasping around it, curled half into your lap now like the only way to survive is to make himself a smaller target, and when he finally goes still again, it’s with his face tucked against your collarbone, ears still pink, glaring up at you with absolutely no actual heat behind it.

“You’re the worst,” he informs you.

“Hehehe. You love it.”

“I really, deeply do not.”

But he doesn’t move away. If anything, he settles in closer, arm looping loosely at first, then securely around your waist, guard fully down now that the ambush is apparently over, kissing the middle of your chest and the expanse of your breasts hungrily even over your tank top, bucking his hips right over your thigh—and you file that reaction away for future reference, the exact spot, the exact sound, filed right next to all the other things about him you’ve slowly learned nobody else gets to see.

Your shirt is off before you even finish thinking about it, however. 

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work // Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

A/N: Batboys headcanons except i know ball lmaooooo if i get completely deranged and include alfred in pt2 what are you going to do about it huh?

uhhh let me know if you could catch the parallels in this, it would make me really really happy, also if you want me to give you more headcanons my askbox is open!

Dividers by @/cursed-carmine

[bijouxmisu]

❥ Dick Grayson likes to make you cum because you're adorable when you do ── .✦ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ written quickly & for fun◞ lightly proofread◞ MDNI◞ wc 800 ✦ cw: piv◞ no protection mentioned ꒱

୨୧ admittedly, he was a bit of a nervous wreck when you finally let him in. there had been so much tension between the two of you for months (much to the eyerolling and teasing from your friends), but it hit a boiling point after you had invited him over for a late night wine and paint session. just the two of you

the bed frame creaks underneath each rock of his hips, his damp hair stuck to his forehead, beads of sweat racing like bullets down his flushed cheeks. your mewling and heavy pants fills his ears like his favorite melody as he watches your face screw up in pure hedonism underneath him. your soaked, lacey, baby blue panties are held hostage between his clenched teeth while he cages your head between his down-turned palms pressed into the sheets

"i'm cummin', i-i'm cumm-mm-mm," you babble quietly with drool trickling out of the corner of your mouth. you turn your head to the side, attempting to bury it in the pillow your head is propped up on ノ

he reaches up to pull the fabric out of his mouth and says "yeah? you gonna be good 'n cum for me? you're gonna be so so sooo good for me, baby? hm?"

"yes fuck yes yes yes," you hiss with desperation breathlessly, and he takes that as his cue to sink deeper, slowly, into your wet heat. you still for a moment. both of you do. he lets out a deep groan, his body buckling as you writhe beneath him, your eyes rolling so hard you can almost damn near see your brain. he leans up to push your knees to your chest, adjusting comfortably inside of you as you pulse and clench around his length. your hands shoot up and your nails dig into his shoulders as he begins to grind, rolling his hips painfully slow. he throws his head back, moaning and gripping onto your legs for support

you feel the pressure blooming in sporadic waves and you begin to wiggle erratically, pure little giggles escaping between breathy moans and swears. one of his hands strokes the plush of your hip as he grinds into you faster, a sloppy grin stretching across his face. "come on, angelface," he rasps, "gimme some more of those adorable sounds while i fuck the shit out of you." he peppers kisses allll over your face — not a single bit of surface left un-affectioned. "you're so pretty, baby, i'm losing my fucking mind, i can't believe i get to make you cum like this, you have no idea how long, baby, please cum please cum please pretty baby —"

his stern dirty-talk dissolves into heady whines as you tighten around him

"i can't take it 'nymore, 's toom - 's too muh —"

"fuck. fuck —" he adjusts your bodies so that you're flush up against each other, your leg hooked over his waist, arms linked around his neck, your foreheads and breaths touching and intermingling. he catches your chin between his thumb and knuckle of his pointer finger, firmly swiping away at the trail of spit. "look at me. look at me when you cum. don't stop. remember who made you fuckin' cum like this"

"dick .... nn —" you feel absolutely weightless as your body gives in, hands and feet clenching almost painfully as his thrusts become more shallow with his release that follows shortly after. you feel his fingertips delicately trailing up and down the middle of your stomach, and you can't help but giggle and shake your head

"hm?" he coos, exhaling quite laboriously from his nostrils as he tilts his head and guides a lock of hair out of your face. "no? no what, goofball?"

he doesn't quite get an answer, just your head snuggling up into the crook under his chin as you come down from your orgasm after a while. the room falls silent, and he starts to pull away to start the aftercare

"no —" you fuss, snatching him back towards you while another drunken giggle bubbles out of you

he laughs, his blissful smile pressing dimples into the brackets of his lips. "alright, alright. little while longer. just 'cause you're so fucking cute right now. then i'm gonna clean you up, wait 'til the room stops spinning like this and prepare for round two because i just gotta make you giggle like that again"

you shush him then mumble something that sounds like "not cute" or "cuddle me". something like that, he supposes

after he makes you take a couple of sips of cool water, you feel the tips of his fingers lightly rake over your scalp as he holds you close in your soft bed, sheets long abandoned on the hardwood floor. you close your eyes momentarily, letting your breath regulate as you absentmindedly trace loops onto his heaving, muscular back

[afictionalwhor3]

Fresh Start

Based on this ask

Summary: Dick thinks his diminishing sex drive is a result of age until you come into his life.

Warnings: Dick has a dick problem. Implied sexual themes. Written on my phone.

Dick has accepted he was getting older. Not that he was anywhere near B’s age, thirties is still young. His body still moved well and he arguably fought criminals better now than in his youth. Experience combined with an older physique making him a better vigilante. One thing Dick did notice was that as he got better at crime fighting, his sex drive tanked.

That is not to say he couldn’t get hard anymore because that was not the case at all. Every now and then Dick rubbed one out when he felt the situation called for. After failed relationships with Kori and Babs, Dick focused his mind on superhero business. In his 20’s his apartment would’ve been a revolving door of women to satisfy his physical urges. Now, he rarely felt that way towards a women at all. Maybe it was because women became less of a priority in his life, maybe it’s because he was getting older. Regardless, Dick accepted it as his new way of life. That was until he met you.

You, you, you. After mentioning the pretty woman he met at the dog park with Haley, Wally convinced Dick to ask you on a date. His apprehension wasn’t because of you at all because you were without a doubt one of the most stunning women he’s ever seen, and he used to date an alien. But dating and love weren’t a priority to Dick anymore. He asked you out thinking it wouldn’t be more than a nice dinner with a pretty lady, but you changed everything.

Dick knew you were gorgeous, but he also found out how funny, smart, down to earth, and passionate about your career you were. You were everything Dick was looking for in a partner. Dick never expected himself to be here in his thirties in a new relationship but here he was. Dating you has been a dream. You make him feel things he hasn’t felt in years. Every time he was with you he got these butterflies that he hasn’t felt since his first crush. Dick felt what could only be described as child-like joy when he was around you.

Speaking of feeling like a kid again, Dick could not keep his dick (pun intended) down around you. After your second date he walked you back to your apartment where you pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek before retreating inside. It was innocent and quick, yet, Dick stood at your door with the goofiest smile on his face… and a raging hard on.

He thought his problem would get better the longer you two dated. It was his first time being involved with a women in a long time and his body was excited is all. It’ll adjust after a few weeks to a month and everything would be normal. He was wrong. The longer you dated the worse it got. It didn’t matter what you two were doing. You wanted to try the new coffee place that just opened up, boner. You had errands to run and Dick tagged along with you, boner. He was at your apartment and the two of you were playing board games, boner. All you had to do was look in Dick’s direction and he felt all the blood rushing to his pants. He felt like he was going through puberty a second time. It got to the point where even jacking off was not cutting it anymore. Dick would lay on his back trying to catch his breath after blowing a loud onto his stomach, just for his cock to still stand at full attention. Hard and wanting more.

As if his situation couldn’t get worse, you were completely oblivious to the effect you had on Dick. He would have much preferred if you knew your power over him and used it to your advantage. But you didn’t. So, everytime Dick got hard around you he felt like a pervert. Knowing you were innocently living your life while he spent a majority of his time around you with a rock hard boner.

The first time you noticed it was when you were spending the night at Dick’s. The two of you were cuddled together getting ready before bed, and your ass was pressed right against him. It was taking insane levels of will power for Dick not excuse himself to take care of his boner in the bathroom. Then you attempted to kill him. You were shifting against him, causing your ass to run against his front. His sweatpants did nothing to hide how hard he was as he righted his arm around your waist. You looked up at him in confusion “You okay dickie?” You asked innocently looking at him with those big eyes. Dick had to take a deep breath and start thinking about five things he could see, four things he could touch. He gave what he thought was a reassuring smile, but it only made you more concerned.

“Yeah babe, I’m okay. I just need you to stop moving so much” he responded his voice hoarse. You go to argue that you were trying to get comfortable when suddenly you notice the flush crawling up Dick’s neck and something pressing into your ass. It took a minute but your lips formed an O shape in understanding before you rolled back over quickly, halting your movements.

In seriousness, Dick’s biggest fear was that his boner problem would make you feel pressure to be intimate with him because that is not what he wanted. He didn’t want you to feel like you had to move any quicker than your were ready to. If his bodily reactions weren’t a good enough indication, he cared deeply and was crazy about you. The feelings were not entirely one sided. You too thought about what sex with Dick would be like. But this was the first man you’d dated in years and you did not want to rush anything.

The first time you initiated anything physical with him, Dick felt like a virgin all over again. You had went on a great date to the new Thai place that opened by your apartment. The movie you two were watching was quickly forgotten when you kissed Dick and got in his lap. Of course Dick had been hard all night. When he picked you up you were on this new blue dress you had bought recently and from that moment on he knew he was gone. He spent most of the night admiring and letting you know how beautiful he thought you looked.

The minute you started kissing Dick he thought he was going to explode. Then you started to rock your hips into his. Soft pants left your swollen lips at the feeling of his boner pressing against your core. Dick had to squeeze your waist tightly and bury his head in your neck. His warm breaths coated your neck while he tried to slow his heartbeat down. He was genuinely seconds creaming his pants like he was 13 all over again.

“Baby,” he voices “you’re gonna be the death of me”. You stop immediately, suddenly concerned you did something to hurt him.

“Is it me dick? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” You ask in quick succession. Of course the first time you try to initiate anything physical you are about to kill your boyfriend. This kind of thing would only happen to you. Dick laughs breathlessly against your skin closing his eyes.

“You didn’t hurt me pretty girl… you truly have no idea what you do to me do you?” He asks but he already knows the answer as you shake your head no. “If you keep grinding on me like that I’m gonna cream my pants like some pre pubescent boy with a playboy magazine” he admits feeling his cheeks get warm at the confession. You sit with what he said before a smile takes over your face. You begin to grind down on Dick again and looks at you gripping your hips to ground himself. He stares at you, baby blue eyes glassy like he’s about to start crying. You tug softly at his hair which elicits a broken moan from his lips. You watch as he comes undone below you, holding your soft body to his.

When you two finally do have sex, it’s as amazing as both of you imagined. It does little however to curb Dick’s issues. And you still have no clue how much of an effect you have on him.

[megumiisbunni]

cw: ୨୧ nsfw / 18+, cream pie, morning sex, unprotected sex, character consents half asleep, hair pulling ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

(not proofread) fem! reader || 701 words ||

Dick Grayson & his morning needs (you).

It was early in the morning when the sun started to peek slowly through the clouds. dick had his arms wrapped around your waist, gently stroking your hips. your back had been pressed against his chest and his nose nuzzled against your shoulder, his warm breath tickling your nerves.

dick had been up for a few minutes now. god, how he tried to keep his dignity in check, but the way your ass pressed against him involuntarily in your sleep made him so needy. the fact that you’d already been bare from last night added the fuel to his fire. his cock grew impatient and needy, growing against his boxers, his bulge becoming increasingly harder to ignore.

at first he tried to wake you.

“baby..” he whispered against your ear, gently grinding himself against your lower back. his fingers gently pinching your sides.

“mm..” you mumbled in your sleep, struggling to wake up.

“c’mon wake up.. i really really need you ma.” he’d groan. his cock pressed right against the curve of your ass, his hands covered your hips as his own gave small humps against you.

when you wouldn’t budge, he’d whine, kissing your shoulder.

“babyyy.. wake up will ya?” he groaned, pinching at your sides a bit more, one of his hands moving up to cup your breast and fondle it gently.

“mmn.. but baby ‘s too early..” you grumbled, your hand reached up and gently stroked his chiseled jaw, still having your back facing him.

dick nuzzled against your hand, like a puppy wanting attention, whimpering as he kissed your cheek.

“then s’okay if i keep goin.. please?” he mumbled, one of his hands moved to hover over his boxers, waiting for your response impatiently.

“mm fine..” you sighed lazily, shifting yourself to accommodate him.

dick took your response as a green light, his hips shifted as he pulled his boxers down his muscular thighs.

“fuck.. i need y’ so bad baby..” he practically cries into your shoulder, his hands holding your hips as he lined himself up with your entrance. the tip of his cock red and shining with pre, finding your pussy already soaked, he let out another groan.

dick bottomed out quickly in a single thrust, slipping in easily from your wetness. a loud, lengthy moan emitting from his throat, he tilted his back, hair disheveled from his sleep.

“ah-hah.. fuck.. this pussy’s sucking me in so well baby.. knew i wasn’t the only one feelin’ worked up..” he moaned, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, his cock drove in and out of you slowly, before slamming back in to hit your cervix.

“mmn.. dick.. feels ‘s good” you moaned tiredly, back arching towards him, your pussy making lewd squelching noises from his cock.

“yeah pretty baby? you feel good, hm?” he asks, his arm moving over your side to play with your clit, his breath hitting your cheek as he continued to push into you.

“y-yes dick..! so good.. so fucking good” you whined, your head lolling forward, fingers digging into his arms that rested on your hips.

“y’re so pretty baby.. t-taking me so good. can i cum inside you, please..?” he groaned, his thrusts picking up pace as he panted against your shoulder, one of his hands lifted to grab a fistful of your hair, tilting your head so he could kiss you.

“mmmph— y-yes.. inside—“ you moaned in between the kiss, your back arched against his chest, legs shaking as you came, your orgasm hitting you like a truck.

“fuckkk baby— just like that.. milk me dry” he says, kissing your neck as his own orgasm hit and his seed pulsed inside you, driving in and out of you slowly, making a ring of cum around his cock.

dick goes limp, stroking your sides as his kissed your cheek.

“sorry for waking you up, princess. just couldn’t help myself.” he sighs, letting out a small chuckle.

“‘s okay.. next time you don’t have to wake me.” you smiled, turning to face him, moving the strands of hair covering his eyes.

“oh? is that right? then don’t complain when i’m balls deep inside you in your sleep.” he challenges you with a cocky smirk and a pinch to your hips.

“who said im complaining grayson?” you retort, smiling as you kissed his nose, making him go red.

an: sorry guys i’ve been dead. making smut is harder than i thought LMAOO. came back cause he’s been in my head too much, i need ideas for him.

[patientofarkhamasylum]

after a long night on patrol, your boobs are dick grayson's favorite pillows ❤︎ fluff

Dick barely lets you settle onto the bed before collapsing on top of you and burying his face between your breasts.

"Dick."

He answers with a muffled hum, turning his head until his cheek settles comfortably against the curve of one. His arms wind around your waist, one leg thrown over both of yours.

"You're crushing me."

"No." His hair is still damp from the shower, cold against the skin above your neckline. "I'm holding you. There's a difference."

You look down at him. Only his eyes and the top of his head remain visible, the rest of his face thoroughly cushioned against you. Three new bruises darken the arm slung across your waist, and he keeps shifting weight off one shoulder every time he adjusts. None of that, apparently, warrants any real medical attention when cuddling you is an option instead.

"Do you plan on moving?"

"Eventually."

"When?"

"You ask a lot of questions for a pillow."

You give the back of his head a gentle flick, and Dick responds with an exaggerated groan, lifting his head just enough to show you the deeply offended look on his face.

"Ow. I'm injured," he reminds you.

"You barely felt that," you say, trying not to laugh.

He drops his head and presses his face against your chest again with a wounded little huff, and your fingers slip into his hair anyway. Dick falls quiet the moment your nails begin scratching lightly against his scalp, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing.

After a moment, he shifts, dragging his cheek from one breast to the other as though carefully comparing them before wedging his face comfortably between both.

"There," he murmurs. "Best pillows I've ever had."

"You're unbelievable."

"Soft. Warm. Supportive."

You tug lightly at his hair. "You sound like you're reviewing a mattress."

"Five stars."

You tell him you're going to throw him off the bed. That only makes Dick hook his leg more firmly over yours and turn his face deeper into your boobs, ensuring that removing him would now require considerably more effort than you're willing to make.

Gradually, his breathing begins to deepen, each exhale warm against your skin.

"You okay, baby?" you ask softly.

He nods against you.

"And your shoulder?"

"A little sore."

You offer to get him something for it—an ice pack, painkillers—but Dick only gives a small shake of his head and pulls himself closer.

"M'comfortable," he says, eyes slipping closed. "Seriously, these are so much better than the pillows at the manor."

You raise an eyebrow. "Alfred buys absurdly expensive pillows."

Dick turns his head, pressing his ear to your chest. "So? None of them have a heartbeat."

Your fingers slow. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

"I like hearing yours," he says eventually. There's no teasing in his voice now. Only exhaustion and quiet sincerity. "It's nice. After patrol."

You've always suspected this is part of why he reaches for you on nights like these, but hearing him finally admit it softens you more than you expect.

You run your thumb along his cheekbone. "You could have just said so."

"And where's the fun in that?"

He presses a drowsy kiss against your skin, barely more than a brush of his lips, then nestles into you again. Your hand slides to his back, tracing slow circles there. As he drifts off, his hold on you loosens, his palm resting warm against your bare stomach while his cheek grows heavier against your chest.

"Dick?"

Nothing.

A careful nudge to his side earns only a quiet sound as he burrows deeper into the softness beneath him without opening his eyes. With a sigh, you reach around the entire acrobat sprawled across you and pull the blanket over both of you.

He's annoying, clingy, and completely ridiculous. By morning, your back will ache and at least one of your limbs will be numb. Still, your arms close around him, ready to hold him there all night.

navi | m.list | © 2026 patientofarkhamasylum. all rights reserved.

taglist: @vianawaits @arkhamknightmares @luviery @gemmawritess @cinnam0ngirlxo @batwngs - comment here if you'd like to be added to the list!

[velvetground-6]

Oh Clark def likes a finger or two up the butt and anal trains for u <33

I was able to fit two fingers today, Clark texted one day. He has a wild blush staining his face and cheeks while he continues typing with a meek smile. It didn’t hurt. I think I can take even more.

He palms his own cheeks and lets his hand wander back down to his exhausted hole with a sigh, remembering how much he came while pressing in hard on his prostate without even needing to merely graze his dick. It made him so excited, proud, and ready to stretch himself out to fit more and hopefully be able to ride one of the toys bought specifically for the occasion.

He still humps the toys sometimes, pretends he’s frotting with a real cock while he reaches back and rubs his finger over his rim, closing his eyes, letting his body let go and feel. He forgets his worries, forgets his to-do list, forgets anything that lived outside of this moment while he rides the tip of his fingers and splatters cum all over his own stomach.

She didn’t judge him, she encouraged him. She always voiced her compliments on his ass, how perky and squeezable it was, how he’d look pretty bouncing up and down on a toy. She was able to wring the subby side out of him without any protest, any hesitation. Clark was on board to fully explore the depths of his body, how much pleasure he could find from touching areas he didn’t usually touch.

And his ass was tight. Too tight at first. Had to slather a skinny finger in lube and go at snail speed to ease him in without it hurting him. Clark would duck his head and whimper, plead to go slow, that he was fine, but most importantly to keep going. It was nothing short of adorable, the sight of him surrendering, loosening up. A sight to cherish while he got more brave to steadily ride the finger inside him, hump his ass back and grind in little experimental circles. He gasped when the angle was just right, that he found the money spot while he rolled his hips around. Spurts of pre-cum would easily start dribbling out, sweat starting to gather on his forehead and his neck. Makes a fist with his knuckles and breathes out, warns her that he could bust if she crooks her fingers that way again and this could all be over too soon. She laughs and kisses the side of his neck, assures him it’s okay and that she’s delighted that he’s feeling so good.

She decides he’s loosened up plenty for her to go deeper, knuckle deep, and Clark whines when she pulls the digit all the way out all to slip it all the way back in again. The slide felt delicious, filling, satisfying — it was everything Clark needed.

After a few more minutes of her repeating the motion, leaving him empty all to fill him right up to the hilt again, he stutters a warning and his ass clenches and tightens on her finger, balls scrunching up to prepare for release. She steadily sped up and he welcomed the new speed, moaning and humping back until his face screwed up in a tense state of concentration before his eyes roll back and cum starts to spurt out from his untouched cock all over his belly, their sheets, even thicker stripes landing up to his nipple. He whines long, breathy, and heavy as he humps his dick into nothing besides air and is sure to fuck his ass back on that finger, feeling the tip graze his prostate and making him shiver all over again, enough to milk out another shy little spurt.

“I wanna ride the toy soon,” Clark breathes. Eyes still closed as she takes a finger from her other hand that’s not inside him to glide through the sticky milky mess, licking the cum off that was gathered. Clark remains out of breath, almost cross eyed but stays sitting right on that finger. “Want you to bend me over and fuck me with it.”

“We’ll keep stretching you out. You’ll get there, honey. Just need patience and more practice is all,” she assures.

“It feels — it feels so good.”

“I know,” she chuckles, wrapping her arms around him after carefully pulling out, leaving his hole empty again while she graces him in kisses and aftercare. “You can practice with your fingers too. Yours are nice and thick, longer than mine.”

“Could you get us more lube, please?”

“Of course baby.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles sheepishly. Tumbles face down on the bed, lazily allowing his eyes to fall closed and sticking his ass out, almost showing off on purpose. She devilishly grins and leans over to playfully smack his ass, watch his cheeks jiggle, how he worms around and whines with a smile.

“You like it. I know you do,” she teases, grabbing a cheek and tightening her fingers to give him a nice grip. He hums and pushes his ass further into her hand, body blatantly agreeing with her. How he really, really likes it.

. . .

sub boy Clark sub boy Clark subby baby Clark

[bucksplum]

❝ 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 ❞

corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Clark desired a respite, and it was a wish you easily granted.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬: 18+ mdni; smut :p!!; bondage; handjob; brief use of vibrator; needy!clark; kinda soft dom!reader; lemme know if I missed any!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 1.4k 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲: this was requested by the lovely @silentlynecroticmuse !! i hope i did ur request justice :,D please enjoy and tell me what you think!

He’d been a good boy, your Clark, waiting oh so patiently for your return. 

The dining room chair he’d pulled out adorned with ropes on each leg sat parallel to the dining table that held only a toy atop a placemat, leaving him and it engulfed in the glow of the overhead lamp, stripped to his bare skin with tied wrists.

The ropes he could easily escape, but the sound of your breathy laugh as you entered his apartment had his cock throbbing in the air.

You took your time stripping off your work clothes, leaving you in just your underwear that had him gulping audibly amidst the silence at the sight. Clark’s cock stood proud against his belly, red and hot to the touch, leaking slick that slowly dripped down taint.

You watch as your every step in his direction caused his dick to jump, twitching in anticipation while Clark looked up at you—desperate without shame.

“Hi, honey…” your words caused a whimper from his throat, mouth parting when your hand cupped his cheek. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

You knelt in front of him, flesh coming on contact with the soft fabric he’d laid for you, disregarding his arousal before you and smiling up at him softly. Your good boy, you thought. So willing and eager for you, and in desperate need to rid of the weight that sat heavy on his shoulders.

Clark, an extraterrestrial being forged of steel and muscle, as sweet and as soft as the hands that raised him, was familiar being the strongest one in the room—the one that commanded everybody’s attention.

Never has he felt this helpless, small. This needy.

Rough fibers irritate the sensitive skin of his wrist, the pale skin burning from the insistent rubbing of flesh against fibrous cordage though his hide barely flushes before the color fades back to a light pink.

And, at that second, he wished the glow of the sun couldn’t heal his flesh—wished that the sun had been a harsh red, if only to feel the pain for longer than a few seconds.

Thankful, however, that the gold glow hadn’t taken away the pleasure from your hands that caused his skin to pink. You left featherlight kisses from his knees, trailing up to the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, biting softly and fitfully.

The touch sent small pricklings climbing his arms, his skin erupting with goosebumps. Sweat beads from his temple the closer your lips drew to his crotch, hyper aware to your distance when he felt your breath brush his balls.

A soft whimper left him when you pouted up at him, faux pity lining your beautiful face before you took him in your hand. He was leaking like a faucet, coating every ridge and vein that drew helpless gasps from the man above you. 

Your hand pulls at him, squeezing his tip just right to cause a gush of arousal from the hole, and squeezing tight at his base to help him prolong his pleasure.

“Mmmph—” he huffed, hips jerking up to follow your touch before he forced it back down. Clark, who’s head had already felt fuzzy at the thought of being bound and at your mercy, could feel his head grow lighter with your every stroke.

Baby blues hide behind hooded lids, unable to hold them open when you brought your lips to his tip, the skin so red it looked painful. “hah—!” he breathed when you hummed around him, tongue peeking out to lave at his slit.

You hummed contently against him, the salty bitter taste of his arousal drove you with need to have him further in your mouth, releasing his entirety in your belly—but your focus was his pleasure.

So, you kept your tastebuds against his slit, kitten-licking the hole that oozed pre-cum like he was already coming. Clark whimpered and gasped in the air, loud and shameless. 

He lapped at the empty space to prevent his saliva from dripping down his chin, only for his efforts to fail and the sticky slop to drip down his sternum, slowly gathering on his navel and clinging to the hairs that led to his cock.

You tsked at the sight, pulling away to watch him squirm and jerk, hips rising to follow you. “Hmm…” you hummed. “Makin’ a mess baby.”

Clark apologized, words muddled in his tongue. “‘s alright, honey.” you whispered, leaving a fleeting kiss on his thigh while plucking the vibrator from where it sat atop the table. A jolt of excitement ran down your spine when your fingers switched it on, and it seemed as though you weren’t the only one.

The sound that emitted from the toy had a choked gasp escaping Clark, hips lifting and thrusting in the air looking for friction. One that you gladly grant by pressing the head of the toy against the head of his cock.

A cute yelp sounded from his throat, glasses foggy and skewed and barely hanging on the tip of his nose.

His chest, flushed, freckled and covered with a sheen of sweat, was heaving rapidly and without restraint—arching and bowing the longer you held the vibrating toy against him throbbing tip.

His hips jolt before he cursed lowly. He could feel his resolve fraying, softly spurting pre against the tremulous toy and whimpering when you held his base firm, painfully halting his release before it softly caressed his quivering thighs and cupping his tightened balls.

Clark babbled and babbled soft apologies to the air as you petted him, only to cut himself off with a groan when you slapped the scrunched skin and pulled the toy away. 

His spine bowed forward, almost toppling over you—and he would’ve. He could’ve ripped the rope off of his wrists and freed himself to finish the job—but he didn’t.

He wanted you to take care of him. To lose himself in the arms of his lover, succumb to your touch and feel his brain melt out of his ears.

And he was almost there.

“Doin’ so good, baby.” You knew he was almost there when his jaw dropped, his mouth forming a soft permanent ‘O’ that he felt no shame releasing his constant needy mewls from. You feel yourself gush at the sight, needy hole clenching around nothing.

Your fingers reach for his reddened tip then, the poor thing still spurting sticky fluid when you toyed with his frenulum, pulling back and rubbing at the exposed skin rapidly. 

He trembled violently against his bounds. Clark doubted he could keep it together any longer, especially when you reached up, fingers toying with his pert nipple with slick fingers. You thumbed the sensitive peak until you heard his breath hitch—a quiet indication of his release—and you pulled away before he could gush against your palm.

His freckled chest gleamed with sweat, gasping violently toward the ceiling at the loss. You let his cock fall limp, tapping occasionally as though it was a toy and not attached to your extremely expressive boyfriend. The one who let unabashed cute noises fall from his lips.

And just as he catches his breath, you go back and toy with his tip again, drawing out his orgasm further.

“Honey!” he panted, pleading for nothing and everything at the same time. And once his body curled over, his breath falling raspy at the end of his pleas, you knew he’d earned his reward.

Your hand cups his cheek, the contact he sought after immediately granted with a touch so soft, he couldn’t believe it was the same one that held his cock in a chokehold. 

You pressed you forehead against his, just as eager to watch him fall apart in your hands as he was finally reach his peak.

And he does so when he peeked his eyes open. Blues held contact with your own for only a few seconds before they disappeared behind his lids, falling apart and convulsing in your touch as uncontrollable spurts of warm spend covers your hand and reaches your heaving chest.

You held him there, one hand against the warm skin of his cheek as the other kept stroking his length, prolonging his release. You didn’t care for the mess that dripped to the floor nor the ones that marked your chest.

You only focused on the way he further leaned into your hands, seeking your warmth in his most vulnerable. 

Clark felt as though his brain was melting out of his ears with how leaden his limbs became, unable to fight even the weak fibers that held his balance, and only seeking the grounding nature of your touch.

You stayed there, holding this fatigued god-like figure in your arms, and give him the respite he so sweetly requested and earned.

💌 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞: this was supposed to be posted a couple hours ago and i just found out it didnt....my eye's twitching. . .

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

©𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐦 — DO NOT translate, steal or post my work anywhere else without my permission.𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐈 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐈 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘.

[waltzingphantoms]

landed right on your lap physical touch headcanons including | dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne & roy harper playing | crushed- the neighbourhood

dick grayson

Unbearably touchy. Like, if he’s near you, he HAS to have a hand on your body, mostly for personal comfort and grounding. His go to spot is the small of your back, using it to guide you through places softly and when he wants to show your relationship to others when he gets a tinge of jealousy.

PDA fein. Doesn’t know how to keep it cool and nonchalant, but he made sure it wasn’t something that made you uncomfortable too. This lead to having a golden retriever wrapped around your shoulders in public 75% of the time.

Do not let his charm and confidence fool you, he isn’t above pleading to cuddle with you even if its 37 ºC outside and the AC is broken.

Dick’s willing to do anything to feel your hands glide across his body, doesn’t matter the circumstances (he’s a man in love, hat can he say)

jason todd

Used to love hugs as a kid and would giggle with the BIGGEST smile when grandmas pulled at his cheeks or people petted his head when he did a great job as robin. When he got resurrected all of that changed completely and got actually repulsed and disgusted with the idea of feeling other’s hands or presence near his. Took a lot of therapy to regain the feeling of tolerating a person’s body near his.

He’s now tolerably clingy. He’s not likely to initiate a full-blown cuddle session but he also will never in his life back away when you spread your hands across his shoulders to greet him with a gentle caress.

Nevertheless, when you arrive home after a long day, he is the first one to pull you into his body to completely shield you from the world, tangling his fingers in your hair to bring you some sort of comfort.

Absolutely adores nonsexual intimacy as a whole. Being right beside one another just touching each other without a hint of lust is pretty much his dream. LOVES feeling your weight on top of him, one of the most comfortable things ever.

He’s also quite shy with his scars, so when you trail your hands across the ridge of one, he has the involuntary tendency to back away for a bit, habit that changed after years together and lots of reassurance.

tim drake

Cheek kisser. In his mind, the cheek is where he can kiss you anywhere without it being considered very public or outward. It’s very personal for him, okay? Just let him kiss your cheek and kiss his in return.

Loves having your legs placed on his lap while he’s working away at whatever. His hands will absentmindedly start drawing circles on your muscles, bringing comfort for the both of you in an easy, calming way.

His dream date with you is just hanging out with the other, sharing soft touches and having private conversations about everything and nothing at all. He likes feeling your body near his, warm limbs stretching over his body.

His all-time favourite cuddling position is having your head on top of his chest, either laying there and tracing patterns on his body or you looking up at him, just staring in each other eyes fondly (he still believes the eyes are the entrance to the soul).

He’s pretty open to PDA, really, really chill with it. Hand on your waist, clasping your hands together, he likes both being touchy-feely and not being touched at all. He goes with the flow.

damian wayne

Will absolutely refuse to touch you except the occasional graze until the two of you are dating and have had a long conversation about boundaries and how you feel about certain things. After he gets the green lights, he’ll be like a stray kitten, slowly but surely experimenting with what the both of you enjoy and find relaxing and reassuring.

FOREHEAD KISSES. Whenever you two see each other, automatically you tilt your head in a way that he has learnt that is an indicator for him to press his lips to the top of your head. Will also be content with a kiss to the back of your hand, but he reserves that for more intimate moments for the two of you.

Nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck is his love language at this point. The second you step inside the safety of your home, he steps away from what he’s doing to greet you properly and exhale deeply into your neck, using the opportunity to press a kiss there too.

Loves cuddling while each one is doing their own thing; is definitely more of a quality time guy but gets clingy regularly (refuses to admit it).

roy harper

He’s a MAN: if you are in the vicinities, you WILL have his hand splayed either on your thighs or your waist, depending on how it’s more comfortable to you.

Roy’s more subtle with his clinginess, so cuddle sessions are a bit rarer but very welcome either way.

Doesn’t shy away from PDA. If you two are dating, everybody knows it not because of how you two are always together on some random side quest, but rather by the knowing smile on his face and a firmer hold on you.

Likes to carry you around, doesn’t matter if the activity is a one-person task, you are either in his back, his shoulders or his arms. Also uses the opportunity to make a subtle display of his strength, but don’t tell him you are very much aware of that.

He’s an ass man WHAT WHO SAID THAT

[milkingtonthethird]

i need this ginger man so so bad im going insane

MDNI, filthy filthy headcanons, AFAB leaning

- roy harper is a slut for tramp stamps and really any back tattoo and he’s also a slut period because i said so and im always right

- his favorite position is doggy regardless (cowgirl very, very close second), but knowing you have a pretty design on your skin means he’ll bend you over whenever and basically wherever. or if he comes home late at night after a mission and sees you sleeping on your stomach, that’ll work too

- he will let you tie him up and he WILL whine if you tease him enough. binding his wrists behind his back while he sits in a chair and edging him until all he can do is beg and whimper 🤤

- on the contrary, he will do the same to you and in my opinion, worse. he’d be so condescending and yet so soft with you it’s crazy. he would use toys 100%.

- “too much? do you want me to stop?” in a disingenuous tone while he has a vibrator on your clit and all you can do is mewl and squirm. you’re too desperate to remember he’s a cocky bastard and isn’t being serious so when you agree, he’d hum softly and turn the toy up higher. that’s not the safe word, silly

- will fuck your ass if you let him, or the very least toy with your hole when he has you bent over. will also eat your ass

- if you aren’t a vigilante like he is, he’ll teach you how to fight. it is in good faith but he’s a dog so it’s also an excuse to toy with you and give you praise if you earn it or whisper whorish things in your ear while he digs his hard-on against you.

- if you are a vigilante, when he asks you to spar it’s literally just foreplay. he’d be painfully hard the entire time. ugh especially if you both are worked up/mad at each other so it’s semi-genuine. biting his bicep after he gets you in a headlock so he can call you a whore and fuck you reallll good 🤤🤤 or pinning him so you can ride him painfully slow while you tell him he needs to shut the fuck up if he wants to cum 🤤🤤

- he actually loves doing missions with you because fighting alongside you is just as good as sex. usually tries to find some place private so he can touch you and drop to his knees to eat you out.

- one of the best things ever is a sloppy make-out with him. no rush, slow and unhurried. dry humping and panting in each other’s mouths. mmm

- convinces you to let him record his cock in your mouth because missions can be long and hard and he misses you. turns into literally every other time he fucks you because it’s fun. loveeeeesss to capture your face as you cum and shiver on his cock because you’re so fucking pretty.

- he does adore making love to you, because obviously there’s a difference. holding you close while he pumps into you at a steady pace and kissing your forehead and nose. putting you in a mating press and murmuring sweet things he means with his entire soul and bites out an “i love you” when he fills you up.

i am going insane.

[1nsignia]

boobs or ass? 18+ mdni, multi hc

—————————————————————————

BRUCE WAYNE — boobs

SUCH a boobs man i’ll literally fight to the ends of the earth to prove you wrong. 

bruce is sooo old fashioned that whenever you’re wearing a push up dress for a gala, his gaze would shamelessly lower to your boobs with his hands practically itching to cup and fondle them. to his defense, they were staring at him first

like i swearrrrrr his hands would be where your ribs were so he can press his thumbs on the lower part of your boobs

im also a firm believer that whenever this man would fuck you via doggy, the first thing his hands would be grabbing onto would be your boobs. his large hands would be groping them and pushing your body back on his over and over by your boobs, his thrusts rougher and burying his cock deeper in you

it would do nothing but make you gape your lips more and arch your back more into his cock with a moan. bruce let out a groan from your pussy walls clenching more as a response to his hands, his blue eyes darkened with desire and pinned on how his hips snapped at your ass repeatedly 

bruce’s lips would trail kisses on your neck until he reached the back of your ear, lightly biting it before whispering filthy things in your ear 

“fuck, look at my girls go” yes, he was talking about your boobs. “so warm—" thrust. “and soft--" thrust. “all for me”

—

DICK GRAYSON — both

dick grayson is a greedy man, he wants anything that he could grab

and YES, his hands would grip on your ass and push your pussy more to his length while you’re riding him, burying his face in your cleavage and letting out muffled moans absorbed by your skin from how good you were taking him

“attagirl” dick panted on your chest, his lips glistening with saliva and smeared all over your skin. “just like that— fuuuck, make this dick yours” 

you couldn’t say anything. all you could do was mindlessly moan with your head knocked back and lips fully parted, your head dizzy from how his cock was hitting all the right angles in you and how big he was in you

you arched your back and buried his face even more to your chest, making dick moan and push another deep thrust in you. the depth made your hips jerk a bit, but his grip on your ass made sure you stayed on his lap as he slowly took over your boobs were bouncing in dick’s face from how fast and deep he was dragging you in and out of his twitching cock.

 “cmon gorgeous” dick murmured, licking a clean stripe on your cleavage before moaning from your pussy clamping around him. “let me see you make a mess f' me”

—

JASON TODD — ass

now dont get me wrong, jason todd loves every part and curve of your body. but if he had to choose, it would be your ass a million percent— bonus point for thighs too

honestly, he loves when there is something for him to grab on. yes, his hands would slither down your ass whenever you were sitting on his lap and talking to him about your day. yes, his hands would just rest between your thighs when sleeping

and yes, he would bend you anywhere just to see that back of yours arch and press your ass to his hips

a moan of jason’s name left your lips when you felt his cock give you another slow yet deep thrust, your walls fluttering from his size and arching your back to press your ass more for his length

when i meant he would bend you anywhere, i meant anywhere— including the kitchen counter

he would purposely send slow yet deep thrusts just to admire your ass, mesmerized by the way it kept making contact with his hips. it was enough for him to let out sounds of his own

“that’s it, sweetheart” jason grunted with another roll of his hips to send to your pussy, gripping your thighs to keep them spread and pinning his eyes on your ass. “just keep that ass up for me”

—

TIM DRAKE — boobs

timothy jackson wayne-drake is a boobs man, no argument needed 

i mean, let’s be for real. it’s no stranger that tim was a workaholic and was often stressed from juggling his two secret lives as tim drake and red robin

but all it took to relieve himself off that stress was to have you sit on his lap and fondle your boob with one hand like a stress toy while the other was mindlessly clicking his mouse 

“tim” you whined to get his attention, making him hum back a response without looking away from the monitor and still fondling your boob.  the fact that he’s not paying attention to you made the heat between your legs unbearable

so unbearable you would start to slowly grind your clothed cunt on his thigh, biting your bottom lip to conceal your sounds as your eyes stayed focused on tim— blue eyes concentrated on the monitors, blue light reflecting the features of his face and lips pressed into a thin line from how focused he was

“tim please” you panted before a small moan left your lips, arching your back to press your boob more into his hand and trying everything you can to satisfy the aching heat in your core. “need you so bad”

you realized you finally caught his attention when his hand squeezed your boob a bit more, making you let out a whimper and place a hand on his cheek, wanting him to look at you and do something about your urge

“i know, love. i know” tim murmured softly, clicking another piece of evidence with his mouse and circling your nipple with his thumb. “im almost done with work. slide a finger in for me in the meantime, yeah?”

—

CLARK KENT — ass

guys, he’s a farmer’s boy. what else did you expect?

everytime you walked away from him to get or do something, clark’s eyes would always and i mean always trail down to your ass and how it swayed with your walk. and everytime, he would immediately fluster under his glasses and look away, pushing his glasses up as a nervous habit

but when you two were in bed and you were sitting on his face, the last thing this man would be was nervous

“more” clark blabbered on your cunt, gripping and squeezing your ass with your large hands as his mouth. only to bury your cunt more into his mouth and suffocate his face in the best way possible. “moremoremoremore—“

clark could be asking more for two things. more for your delicious pussy that he could never get over or more for his hands to continue fondling and squeezing your ass— knowing him, its both

you moaned from his nose now nudging your clit, tightening your grip on his hair and arching your back more on his mouth. “c-clark… oh my god”

your ass was spread more by clark’s hands that refused to let go and the angle his tongue reached in you made a loud moan of his name leave your lips, now grinding your clit on his nose for more

poor man couldn’t get enough that his hands on your ass kept pushing your soaked pussy more into his mouth, so much so that you thought he was gonna suffocate between your thighs

“taste so good, honey” this man was so pussy drunk it was pathetic. “wanna stay here forever”

—

SUPERBOY PRIME — boobs

clark kent may be superboy but he was still a #loser at heart, which was why he almost never let go of your boobs when he could. 

when clark came back home after his shift at the comic store? he let out a tired sigh and immediately walked towards you, already lifting your shirt up and murmuring about his tired day with his face shoved in your boobs

when he would hug you from behind? his hands would slide under your shirt and trail up to cup your boobs. and he’d let out a small whine whenever you’d take his hands off

it’s safe to say that clark kent was obsessed with your boobs. so much so that when your legs were around his waist and his cock was disappearing in and out of you, his hands were groping your boobs. gripping them and playing with your nipples between his fingers as your soft sounds were entering his ears like a melody “you’re so hot, babe” clark moaned with another thrust to keep up with his pace and depth. “feelin’ amazing, in and out” he gave your boobs another squeeze to make his point

the sounds were quick ‘clap!clap!clap!’ sounds repeating over and over and over in the room

his touch, his words, it was sending you into a frenzy. all you could do was moan and pant endlessly, arching your back and pressing your boobs more into his hands with a whine of his name leaving your lips, throwing your head back into the pillows with a pornographic expression on your pretty face

the new angle made him whimper out “shitshitshitshiiiit” and thrust his cock deeper in your pussy, feeling your pussy suck him in more and his cock already twitching. “im gonna cum already, baby”

—

ROY HARPER — ass

abosutely LOVES your ass its almost unhealthy

roy tries to keep his hands to himself whenever lian is in the same room as him (because he doesn’t play about his babygirl). 

but when he looks over her shoulder during their pretend tea time and sees you bending down while rummaging through a cabinet… don’t get me started on that

his eyes would go to your ass and he quietly bites his bottom lip to hold back a grin and those dirty thoughts of his— before lian would make him snap out of it by reminding him to finish his ‘tea’, innocently oblivious from how distracted her dad was

but the minute lian left for a sleepover, the first thing roy made sure to do was to drag you in the bedroom and have you do reverse cowgirl

“uh huh, just like that” he panted, hands gripping on your waist t and watching your ass bouncing back and forth on his cock. a groan slipped out of his lips. “fuuuck, i love this ass. could stare at her all day”

the drag roy’s cock was giving you felt so good it was making you arch your back and moan for more, the wet sounds so filthy and loud it made you thank god lian wasn’t home

“royyy” you whined, feeling the pace of your hips falter despite your orgam just starting to build up in you. “c-cant… need you to t-take over” you didn’t have to ask him twice. immediately, roy’s hands on your waist took over by dragging your warm walls more onto his length. you felt so warm that he couldn’t help but move his hips back on your ass and knock his head back onto the headboard with a moan

“attagirl” he let out a breathless chuckle from your sounds, lowering his head to admire the view one more time. “just sit there with that pretty ass and let roy do the work, yeah?”

—

WALLY WEST — boobs

if there wasn’t a day where wally west didn’t show love to your boobs, i can assure you that is not him

he loved your boobs. the warmth, the softness, the size, everything. burying his face in your chest with a lopsided grin was wally’s favorite thing to do in the world; nothing sensual, just him absorbing your body warmth and keeping you close to him

can we say he loved them too much? .. maybe

“w-wally! fuck!” you moaned, knocking your head back and burying your hands more into his ginger locks. wally’s mouth was full with the swell of your boob, sucking it while using his super speed to flick your hard nipple with his tongue. his hand gave your other boob attention by fondling it

you can feel your boob practically drenched with his saliva, the sensation of his warm tongue going at such a fast pace driving you crazy. 

wally let out a muffled moan when you arched your back and pressed your boob more into his mouth, sliding another hand down to rub a slow circle on your clit with his thumb and hearing a breathless gasp leave you. 

“fuck, you’re soaked” he said on your boob. “and i didn’t even touch you properly.” the vibrations of his voice making your clit throb in anticipation. and of course, wally just had to grin from that

“wally…” you panted, bringing your head up to look down at him with pleading eyes. “please.. i need you...” “shh i know, beautiful” his fingers was tracing your entrance, feeling your folds pulse from how you need him in you. “let me finish giving my girls more attention and ill get back to her later”

—

—————————————————————————

(@patientofarkhamasylum enjoy <3) okay why tf did this take me three days to write bruh.. bring back the olden days where i would have finished this in one go

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