Ella

Just a 19 year old girl who loves books, puppies, and hot guys

[johnpricescumrag]

I just found you account yesterday and binged through all of your content lol

Two questions tho

Can I be 🦭 anon

And

Can you write something about cod men(the ones you wrote for) using a portal pussy on fem!reader??

Absolutely!!

~

Buying a portal pussy for your boyfriend, Johnny, was probably one of the worst best ideas you've ever had. He's such a horny little bastard, you should've known that he would share the portal with his teammates.

-

"Go on, lads, my Bonnie's okay with it." Soap laughs, sipping a cold beer.

Gaz lunges forward, yanking the portal pussy up off of the coffee table. He lightly stroked the folds of the portal pussy - your pussy.

"She's already so wet." Gaz laughs, easily plunging two fingers into the portal. It doesn't take much time for him to coax an orgasm from it, your pussy clenching and spasming wildly around his fingers.

Gaz frees himself from his pants, his cheeks warming as his colleagues stare at him. He lines his rock-hard cock up with your entrance, slowly pushing himself into your soft, wet cunt.

It doesn't take long for Gaz to bury himself balls deep, moaning as he fills you with cum. Gaz pants weakly, keeping the portal stuffed with his softening cock.

Price yanks the portal off of Gaz, making him jerk and moan weakly. Your pussy's gaping and leaking cum. "Messy little thing, isn't she?"

Price's fingers press the cum back into you. He teases your opening with his cock, feeling your cunt clench around nothing. Price sinks into you with virtually no resistance, Gaz having loosened you up.

"Fuck, oh fuck." Price groans, forcing your pussy down to the root of his cock. "She's - she's fuckin' squeezin' me."

Price grunts as he fucks into the portal. He curses and gasps under his breath. Price's thrusts are brutal and deep. He can feel himself colliding with your cervix every time he bottoms out.

Price cums with just the tip of his cock sliding inside you, so that his cum immediately oozes out, making the portal even messier. Price wipes his cock off on your opening, smirking when he sees your cunt clench.

Price passes the portal off to Ghost.

Ghost rolls his balaclava up over his nose and brings the portal up to his lips. He laps at your cunt feverishly, sucking at your folds to drink the cum from you. Once Ghost's licked every drop of cum from your puffy, abused pussy, he finally pulls the portal away from his mouth.

"She's fuckin' delicious." Ghost groans, spitting on his cock to lube himself up.

"I know she is." Soap smirks, watching with hazy eyes as Ghost pushes his thick, long cock into the portal.

It doesn't take long for Ghost to cum. Your pussy was squeezing around him so tight it was almost like a vice.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Ghost moans, pulling the portal down to the hilt. "Jesus Christ."

-

When Soap gets home at the end of the night, he finds you on your shared bed, covered in sweat. "Have a nice day, bonnie?"

[verytyphoonfun]

After his first experience with your portal pussy, Clark’s become a bit… attached. It rarely sees the inside of your nightstand now; Clark always has it in his briefcase or backpack. And since you’re always wearing the panties, he can always take it out for a little peek at his pretty pussy. Sometimes, he’ll even take it out in the bathroom stalls. Lick a bit, to sate his thirst for it.

It’s a rare time when Clark is at home, and you’re out. You were busy running errands. Clark’s not used to being home alone. Krypto’s not even here.

With a heavy sigh, he plops right back onto the couch, the familiar blue metal disc in his hands. He unscrews the lid.

Your pretty pearl and folds sit inside, perfect. There’s even a bit of wetness from you and Clark’s early morning sex, cum dribbling from your hole.

After that first session, you and Clark had talked more about consent. Any time you were wearing the panties, Clark could do whatever he wanted. So Clark slides the tip of his cock up and down your seam. It’s warm and slippery. Clark notches the head of his cock right into your fluttering hole, and groans as he slides right in.

You immediately feel it in the middle of the grocery store. That perfect stretching sensation, the heft and fullness that came from Clark. You expect him to move, but he just stays there. It appears it’s a cockwarming sesson. So you go about your day as his cock is nestled perfectly inside, a reminder of how much Clark loves his gift.

[jellyfishsthings]

ur reveal fic (the family knows) is so funny and well written and im such a sucker for identity reveal fic! I have this idea that the batfamily is really closed off with the hero community. Reader and jason is currently on a mission together with the titans, as the advice from bruce about being professional, they decide to have their dynamics more like acquaintance and keep the dating stuff wrapped up. However jason being jason (being hopeless romantic ofc), their other teammates start telling him that he has a crush for the reader and he should go for it! maybe the reveal could be accidentally or reader is hurt, its up to you! and of course if ure willing to have this request🖤

Professional

a/n: i slightly chanced the setting hope you still like it

navigation , dc navigation

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

One: The Briefing (And The Rules)

Bruce had been very clear.

'Professional,' he'd said, in the tone he used when he wanted something to function as a direct order without technically phrasing it as one. 'The Titans are allies. They are not family. They don't need your personal history, they don't need your real names, and they don't need to know anything about your dynamic outside of the mission.'

'Our dynamic,' Jason had repeated.

'Your relationship,' Bruce had said, as if the word cost him something. 'Keep it off the field.'

Jason had looked at you. You had looked at Jason. A whole conversation had passed in approximately three seconds — the kind you had with someone you'd been with long enough that language had become optional for certain exchanges.

The conversation was: this is going to be a disaster, isn't it.

And: probably. But we'll manage.

And: you know he's right.

And: I know. I hate it when he's right.

'Professional,' you'd both said.

Bruce had looked at you the way he looked at things he didn't fully believe but couldn't disprove yet.

'I mean it,' he'd said.

'We know,' Jason had said.

The mission was joint Titans-Batfamily, which happened rarely enough that it felt significant. Something large enough to need more than one team, specific enough that the coordination had to actually work.

You and Jason had been assigned as the Batfamily's two-person contribution, which Bruce had framed as 'operationally efficient' and which everyone in the family had privately understood as 'the two of you are the most functional unit we have for this kind of thing' and also 'Dick was busy.'

You'd packed your gear.

Jason had packed his gear.

You'd met at the Titans Tower at nineteen hundred hours, in full kit, masked, professional.

The Titans had opened the door and Jason had said 'Red Hood, this is —' and said your hero name like you were a colleague he'd been assigned to work with, and you had said 'Hood' in return like you hadn't had breakfast with him that morning.

'Great,' Nightwing — Dick, your Dick, who was absolutely going to be insufferable about this later — had said, with the carefully neutral expression of someone not laughing. 'Good to have you both. Team's inside.'

Professional, you thought.

Absolutely fine.

The team was: Nightwing (Dick, who knew, who was already a problem), Starfire, Cyborg, Raven, and Beast Boy.

You'd worked with Nightwing before. Starfire was warm and immediately kind in a way that made it hard not to like her. Cyborg was efficient and sharp. Raven gave you a long look when you were introduced that felt like she was reading several things about you simultaneously, which was mildly alarming but you filed it under 'deal with later.'

Beast Boy shook your hand and then looked between you and Jason and said, 'wait, are you two — '

'Colleagues,' Jason said, immediately.

'Assigned to this mission together,' you added.

'Right,' Beast Boy said, in the tone of someone who had just been told something they didn't entirely believe. 'Cool. Yeah. Colleagues.'

You and Jason looked at the tactical display and said nothing.

Dick, across the room, was studying a map with great intensity and the very slight shake of someone trying not to laugh.

You made a mental note to deal with him later too.

Two: Day One. Jason Is Fine. Everything Is Fine.

Here is what professional looked like, in practice:

Tactical communication only. Clean. Efficient. 'Hood, northeast corner.' 'Copy. Covering the east exit.' The stuff you'd have said to any teammate.

No names. No jokes. No of the specific shorthand that had developed between two people who knew each other's fighting style well enough to cover each other without looking.

That last part was the problem.

Because the specific shorthand had developed for a reason, which was that it worked, and working with someone you knew at that level while pretending you didn't was like trying to write with your non-dominant hand. Technically possible. Obviously wrong.

You covered him anyway. He covered you anyway. You'd both been doing it long enough that it happened before you'd decided to do it, all muscle memory and the specific awareness of where the other person was in a room without having to look.

Cyborg noticed first.

'You two train together?' he asked, during a debrief after the first day's recon.

'Occasionally,' Jason said.

'Your positioning is really fluid. Like you know where the other one's going to be.'

'We've worked together before,' you said. 'Joint missions.'

'Huh.' Cyborg looked between you with the expression of someone filing things away. 'Makes sense.'

It did not, from the outside, probably make the kind of sense you wanted it to make.

You did not say this.

The safe house was a converted warehouse with six rooms and not quite enough space for seven heroes to avoid each other comfortably.

The sleeping arrangements had been practical: Starfire and Raven in one room, Beast Boy and Cyborg in another, Dick in one, and then the question of you and Jason.

'We can share,' you'd said, before Jason could say anything, because the alternative was one of you taking the couch and that was unnecessary. 'We've done it before on missions. It's fine.'

'Sure,' Jason had said, in his professional voice.

Beast Boy had looked at Cyborg. Cyborg had looked at the ceiling. Dick had vanished into his room with suspicious speed.

The room had one bed.

You both looked at it.

'I'll take the floor,' Jason said.

'Don't be ridiculous,' you said.

'I'm being practical.'

'You're being — it's a double bed, Jason, just — '

He went very still.

You realised what you'd said.

Jason. Not Hood. Not Red Hood. Jason.

In a safe house with five other heroes on the other side of the wall.

You both listened to the silence.

Nothing. No one had been in the corridor. The walls were thick.

'Floor,' Jason said, very quietly.

'Fine,' you said, equally quiet.

'Professional.'

'Professional,' you agreed.

He slept on the floor.

You lay in the bed staring at the ceiling.

Both of you were very professional.

Neither of you slept particularly well.

[ messages: dick 🐦 ]

dick: so you: don't dick: I didn't say anything you: you were about to dick: I was going to ask how the mission is going you: it's going fine dick: and how's the professional dynamic you: professional dick: fascinating you: Dick dick: Cyborg came and found me earlier you: what did Cyborg want dick: to ask if you and Hood had some kind of history you: we said we'd worked together before dick: he said 'they move like they're the same person' you: that's just good teamwork dick: he also said Jason keeps checking where you are when you're not in his line of sight you: situational awareness dick: ... dick: is that what we're calling it you: goodnight Dick dick: how's the room situation you: GOODNIGHT DICK dick: 🙂

Three: The Part Where Jason's Teammates Stage an Intervention

It happened on day three.

You'd been on a solo recon run — the target location had needed one person, and your particular skill set made you the cleaner option — which meant Jason had been at the safe house with the Titans for four hours.

Four hours was, apparently, enough.

You found out what had happened because Beast Boy told you, with the breathless enthusiasm of someone who had witnessed a historic event and needed to report it immediately.

'Okay so,' Beast Boy said, appearing at your shoulder approximately three minutes after you'd walked in the door, 'we had a talk with Hood.'

'About the mission?'

'About you.'

You stopped taking off your gear.

'About me,' you repeated.

'Yeah. Look, Raven picked up on something — she does that, she's empathic, she can't really turn it off — and she told Vic, and Vic told me, and Kory had already said something to Dick, and we all kind of — ' He made a gesture. 'We staged a thing.'

'You staged a thing,' you said. 'On a mission.'

'It was a slow afternoon! And he clearly has a massive crush on you and somebody had to say something.'

The world continued to exist around you. Birds outside. Traffic somewhere distant.

'He has a — ' you started.

'A massive crush. Like genuinely it's very obvious. He watches you all the time, and when you're not in the room he keeps looking at the door, and Raven said — '

'What did Raven say.'

'She said, and I'm quoting, 'that man is not in like with her, he's in love with her, and it's frankly overwhelming to be in the same room as.'

You sat down. On a crate. Because there was a crate nearby and you needed to sit on it.

'And what did he say,' you said. 'When you told him.'

Beast Boy winced. 'He was very calm about it.'

'Beast Boy.'

'He said, very calmly, that you were colleagues and the mission was the priority and he'd appreciate it if we focused on the objective.' He paused. 'And then he went to the roof.'

'He went to the roof.'

'He's been up there for forty minutes. Cyborg took him coffee.'

'Cyborg took him — '

'We feel bad! He looked sad. In a very calm way. It was a very sad calm.'

You rubbed your face with both hands.

'Where is he now?' you asked.

'Still the roof, probably. Cyborg's up there with him. They were talking about — I don't know, guns probably, they bond over mechanical things.'

You stood up.

'Which roof access?' you said.

'East stairwell but — wait, are you going up there?'

'Yes.'

'What are you going to say?'

You were already walking toward the east stairwell. 'I'll figure it out.'

Behind you, Beast Boy said 'oh' in a tone that meant he was updating several things he'd thought he understood about the situation.

Cyborg saw you coming up the stairs and did the most gracious thing anyone had done all week, which was say 'I'm going to go check the perimeter' while already moving past you without making a thing of it.

Jason was sitting on the edge of the roof with his back to the stairwell. Helmet off — which was a choice, out here, but the roof was isolated and he'd have known that. His shoulders were doing the thing they did when he was carrying something he hadn't put down yet.

You sat next to him.

He didn't look at you. 'They told you.'

'Beast Boy told me. With significant enthusiasm.'

'Of course he did.' A beat. 'I'm handling it.'

'I know you are.'

'The mission isn't compromised. I'm — '

'Jason,' you said.

He went still.

Not the flinch-still of the name slipping out in the wrong place. The other kind. The kind that meant he was listening.

'They're not wrong,' you said.

A long pause.

'Which part,' he said.

'The part where Raven said you're not in like with me.'

He turned to look at you. His face was doing the thing it did when he was deciding whether to let something through.

'We're on a mission,' he said.

'I know.'

'Bruce said — '

'I know what Bruce said.'

'Professional.'

'Jason.'

'That's — we agreed.'

'I know we agreed,' you said. 'And I'm not suggesting we blow the whole thing up in the middle of a joint operation. I'm just sitting on a roof with someone I love and telling him that his teammates aren't wrong. Because he spent forty minutes up here and Cyborg brought him coffee and I — '

You stopped.

Jason was staring at you.

'You,' he started.

'I know, we're being professional,' you said. 'This is me being professional about it. This is me professionally confirming that Raven is correct and you can stop looking sad in a calm way because there's nothing to be sad about.'

A beat.

'I wasn't — '

'You were, Jason. Beast Boy described it very specifically.'

'I'm going to have a conversation with Beast Boy.'

'After the mission,' you said. 'Professionally.'

He looked at you for a long moment. The Gotham skyline was doing its thing behind him — all dark and lit and ongoing — and Jason Todd without the helmet was looking at you like he'd forgotten for a second that there were rules.

'After the mission,' he said.

'Yes.'

'We're going to talk about the fact that you just said — '

'After the mission, Jason.'

'Right.' He exhaled. 'Right. Okay.' He looked back at the skyline. His shoulder pressed against yours. 'Professionally.'

'Professionally,' you agreed.

You sat on the roof for another ten minutes.

Neither of you said anything else.

Neither of you needed to.

Four: The Mission Goes Wrong (Naturally)

Day four.

The extraction had gone cleanly for exactly eleven minutes, which was roughly how long clean extractions tended to last before something moved that wasn't supposed to move.

In this case what moved was a secondary team of hostiles that the initial recon hadn't flagged, appearing from the building's lower level with the specific energy of people who had been waiting.

Things got complicated.

You were covering the east corridor when it happened — a shot that came from an angle you hadn't accounted for, because the angle hadn't existed thirty seconds ago, and you moved but not quite fast enough and something caught your side with the specific burning quality of something you were going to feel properly in about two minutes when the adrenaline thinned.

You didn't go down. You kept moving. You finished the corridor, you secured the exit, you did the job.

But you were slower on the way out than you'd been on the way in, and your hand was pressed to your side, and Jason —

Jason noticed.

Of course he did. He always noticed.

'Hood.' His voice on the comms was flat in the specific way that meant he was holding something back. 'East exit. Now.'

'I'm coming, I'm — '

'Now.'

You made the exit. He was there before you, and the look he gave you when he clocked the hand at your side and the way you were moving was — not professional. Not remotely professional. It was the look of someone who had been maintaining a rule for four days and had just found the precise thing that broke it.

'How bad,' he said.

'Fine,' you said. 'It's fine, it's a graze, I can — '

'Let me see.'

'Jason, we're in the middle of — '

'Let me see.'

There were four other people within earshot.

None of them said anything.

You let him see.

He checked it with quick careful hands, and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was keeping something controlled, and he said 'it's not deep, you'll need it cleaned' in his flat voice, and then he pulled you into a grip that was brisk and professional and getting you moving but also was not — not really — the grip of a colleague.

Raven was watching.

Cyborg was watching.

Beast Boy was watching with huge eyes.

Starfire was watching and then looking at Dick with an expression that was a question.

Dick was watching with the expression of someone who has been waiting for this specific moment for approximately four days and had very complicated feelings about it.

'Extraction,' Jason said to the team, voice back to flat. 'We're moving.'

They moved.

His hand stayed at your back the whole way.

The debrief happened in the safe house, and the wound was cleaned and dressed, and you'd sat on the kitchen table while Jason did it with the focused efficiency of someone who had been doing field medicine for years, and the whole time neither of you said anything.

The team was in the next room.

The wall was not especially thick.

'It's fine,' you said, for the fourth time.

'I know it's fine,' he said. 'I'm making sure it stays fine.'

'I've had worse.'

'I know you have. I was there for some of them.' He taped the last edge of the dressing. Didn't immediately move. His hands stayed where they were, light on your side, and he looked at you from a distance that had gradually become not very much distance at all. 'You scared me.'

'It was a graze.'

'You scared me,' he said again, steady, not moving.

You looked at him. 'Jason — '

'I know,' he said. 'Mission's not over. Professional.' He stepped back. Cleared his throat. 'Get some rest.'

He left the kitchen.

There was a pause.

And then from the next room came Beast Boy's voice, in a loud whisper that was not at all a whisper: 'THEY'RE DEFINITELY TOGETHER.'

Followed by Cyborg: 'We know, Gar.'

Followed by Raven: 'We have known since day one.'

Followed by Starfire: 'I knew on the first evening. The way he checked the door every time it opened.'

Followed by Dick, with the exhausted fondness of someone who has been holding this in for ninety-six hours: 'Yeah. They are.'

Silence.

And then Beast Boy, at a completely normal volume: 'Hood, we know, you can just — you don't have to — '

Jason appeared back in the kitchen doorway.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

'Professional,' you said.

'Mission's almost done,' he said.

'One more day.'

'Yeah.'

He came back in. Sat next to you on the kitchen table. His shoulder against yours.

From the other room, very quietly, came the sound of Beast Boy doing a small celebratory noise that he was clearly trying to suppress.

Cyborg told him to stop.

He did not stop.

Five: Day Five. After The Mission.

The mission wrapped on day five with clean efficiency and zero additional complications, which felt like the universe compensating for day four.

The debrief was good. The objective was completed. Nightwing shook hands with everyone with the professional warmth that Dick Grayson had turned into an art form, and Cyborg ran through the tactical summary, and Raven said approximately four words which was apparently her maximum for formal settings.

Beast Boy hugged you on the way out. He was not subtle about the fact that this was also him communicating something about the last five days.

'You're great,' he said. 'You should come on more joint missions.'

'Maybe,' you said.

'Both of you,' he added, with enormous pointed energy.

'Noted,' you said.

Cyborg shook your hand, then Jason's, then looked between you and said 'for what it's worth, you're a good team,' and left before either of you could respond.

Raven looked at you for a moment on the way past and said, simply, 'it's very loud, being near you two,' and then continued walking.

You chose to take that as a compliment.

Starfire held your hands in both of hers, which felt like being held by something warm and certain, and said 'I hope you have many good years' with such genuine and uncomplicated warmth that you didn't know what to do with it for a second.

'Thank you,' you said.

'Of course,' she said, like it was obvious, and went to find Dick.

Dick was last. He looked at you and Jason standing side by side in the way that you probably always stood, close enough that the gap had its own meaning, and he had the expression he wore when he was genuinely happy but was trying not to make it about himself.

'Good work,' he said. Professional. Nightwing to his teammates.

'You too,' Jason said.

A beat.

'Jay,' Dick said.

'Don't.'

'I'm just — '

'I know what you're just. Don't.'

Dick looked at you. 'Take care of him.'

'Always,' you said.

Jason made a sound. 'I take care of myself.'

'You slept on a floor for two nights for no reason,' you said.

'That was professional boundary — '

'It was a double bed, Jason.'

'We weren't — we had agreed — '

Dick was smiling now. 'I'll leave you to it,' he said, and left, and it was just you and Jason in the corridor of a safe house that smelled like old wood and five days of mission coffee.

'Mission's over,' you said.

'Mission's over,' he confirmed.

'So we can stop being professional.'

'We were never that professional,' he said.

'Beast Boy noticed on day one.'

'Beast Boy notices everything. He's more switched on than he looks.'

'Raven called it overwhelming.'

'Raven is an empath. Everything's overwhelming.'

'Cyborg said we move like we're the same person.'

'...Okay that one's fair.'

You looked at him. He looked at you. Five days of professional distance and one rooftop and one kitchen table, and Jason Todd was looking at you the way he looked at you when there was no one else watching and no rules to follow.

'You said something on the roof,' he said.

'I know what I said.'

'I want to — I want to say it back. Properly. Not on a rooftop in the middle of a mission with four superheroes in the building.'

'Okay,' you said.

'So I'm going to say it now.'

'Okay.'

He stepped forward. Closed the distance that five days of professional had put between you. And in the corridor of a Gotham safe house at the end of a joint mission, Jason Todd put his hand against your face and said it, quietly and without decoration, the way he said things when he meant them completely.

You already knew.

That wasn't the point.

The point was that he said it, and meant it, and you were going to let it matter.

'The floor thing was ridiculous by the way,' you said, when he pulled back.

'I was being respectful.'

'You were being dramatic.'

'Those aren't mutually exclusive.'

'Jason.'

'It was a principle,' he said, with enormous dignity.

'It was a double bed.'

He laughed. The real one. And you thought: there it is. There's the whole five days made worth it.

[ messages: dick 🐦 ]

dick: so jason: drop it dick: I haven't said anything jason: you're about to dick: Kory wants to know if you two want to get dinner dick: with us dick: as a group dick: after the mission jason: ... jason: who's 'us' dick: me. Kory. Vic said he'd come. Beast Boy will inevitably show up. jason: not Raven? dick: Raven said and I quote 'five days of that was enough I need silence' jason: fair jason: ... jason: I'll ask dick: 🙂 jason: stop doing the emoji dick: 🙂🙂 jason: I will leave you on read dick: you won't jason: ... jason: she says yes dick: GREAT dick: also Jay jason: if this is the speech dick: it's not the speech dick: I'm just glad dick: that's all jason: ... jason: yeah jason: me too dick: ❤️ jason: ❤️ dick: also the floor thing was insane jason: GOODNIGHT DICK dick: IT WAS A DOUBLE BED jason: I HAD PRINCIPLES dick: 🙂🙂🙂

[ titans gc — minus nightwing ]

beastboy: okay so beastboy: they're together cyborg: we know Gar beastboy: like TOGETHER together starfire: yes beastboy: I KNEW IT cyborg: you literally said 'are you two together' on day one beastboy: and I was RIGHT raven: yes raven: you were right raven: please stop beastboy: Raven said I was right beastboy: archiving this raven: I will take it back cyborg: so Nightwing knew the whole time starfire: yes starfire: he told me on day two cyborg: he TOLD YOU starfire: I asked starfire: he cannot lie to me cyborg: fair beastboy: wait so when we did the intervention beastboy: and told Hood he should shoot his shot cyborg: yeah beastboy: they were already together raven: yes beastboy: we told a man to ask out his girlfriend cyborg: ... cyborg: yeah beastboy: and he sat there and said 'she's a colleague' raven: he was very committed to the bit starfire: Bruce Wayne told them to be professional cyborg: BATMAN told them to pretend starfire: yes beastboy: BATMAN is the reason we did the intervention cyborg: ... cyborg: I mean raven: yes beastboy: we staged a feelings intervention because of BATMAN cyborg: he does that to people beastboy: are they coming to dinner starfire: yes 🌟 beastboy: NICE beastboy: operation get-hood-to-admit-he's-whipped: success cyborg: that was never the operation name beastboy: it was in my head raven: I know raven: it was very loud beastboy: sorry Raven raven: ... raven: it's fine raven: it worked out starfire: 🌟 cyborg: it really did

[bloomcissa]

Wanna be yours!

pairing Jason Todd x fem! reader

summary You run into your best friend while he's on a date!

content 1.3k words, friends to lovers, love confessions in the rain, jealousy, hurt/comfort, fluff

Jason Todd rarely ever left the confines of the steady rhythm he’d built over the years. It wasn’t as if he had anything to call his own. Even Gotham, with her hard edges, felt more distant at every angled dagger. 

And his heart. He often wondered if it was his own. He liked to think it belonged to you. His best friend who always seeped into his skin like you belonged there. If anyone could give him peace, it would be you. 

So what was he doing sitting in front of a girl who lacked your soothing touch and beaming smile? He should’ve known Dick would’ve tricked him into this shit. 

He nodded occasionally as she spoke. He tried to stay polite when irritation crept over. The lights overhead flickered, and alcohol drifted through the bar. He’d rather be at your place– huddled together and watching that period drama you liked so much. 

He was already coming up with ways he could leave and escape into your warm embrace. It was just his luck, however, that you found him first. 

—

You didn't mean to stop by the bar today. It was raining, the wind howling. The workday’s stress had been gnawing at you all day to take a break. When you saw the cozy bar, unaccompanied by downpour and rowdy men, you rushed in for a quick drink while you waited for the rain to ease. 

At first, you didn’t notice him. You were busy rattling off your order to the bartender. It was only the sound of a girl laughing his name so loud that your head whirled towards Jason. 

Your eyes met familiar hazel ones. You froze, eyes flickering towards the girl. Your heart squeezed in your chest. Was he on a date? You didn't know which was worse. Him not telling you, or him seemingly skipping patrol for this. He never skipped patrol to hang out with you. 

You knew you had no claim to him, knew this was bound to happen. But you were already exhausted, and the sight of Jason sitting across from another girl didn't help. She was just so pretty, sitting there dolled up in a way that made you feel insignificant. It was stupid—this sickening dread was stupid. 

Those were the thoughts that spun around your head as you moved. Before he could get a word in, you were halfway out the door.

You walked through the unrelenting weather, occasionally stumbling as your tears mingled with the rain. 

After a few minutes, a rough hand wrapped around your wrist, dragging you under an umbrella. Your panicked gaze met Jason’s. His anger coiled around you as he glared. 

Of course, the idiot had followed you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” He was drenched alongside you, the umbrella barely helped. He ducked his head down to properly glare. It was hard not to get lost in his eyes. 

“A lot,” you mumbled weakly, hair sticking to your face. He gently pushed them back, his thumb brushing against your cheek. You willed your breath to stay steady. 

“You can’t just run out into Gotham like that!” 

‘M’sorry.” You were not sorry, you thought, as bitterness bubbled up. Would he rather watch as your soul chipped under his obliviousness? 

His hold on your wrist tightened.

“Tell me what's wrong,” he demanded. His breath hovered over your head. You wanted nothing more than to lose yourself in him. 

“Nothing. I’m just sorry for ruining your date.”

“You could never ruin anything,” he said sternly. 

“Jason.”

“Why were you crying?” he asked instead, his arms circling around you. You wanted to punch him. Or maybe yourself. None of this was fair—especially his questions spoken so earnestly. 

“Can’t a girl cry in peace?”

“Not when she has people who care about her.”

“Stop that.” Your voice wobbled. 

He tilted his head. You could see the thin pale scars on his jaw, the ones you frequently thought about pressing kisses to. You swallowed, eyes burning.  

He mumbled your name as his calloused hands ran down your back. The umbrella lay forgotten as your tears escaped. 

“Okay…” he breathed out. “It’s okay… whatever's wrong, it's okay,” He whispered, fingers curling into your plastered shirt like he was afraid you’d run again. 

“It’s not,” you cried into his chest, letting him see you. 

Your heart fluttered when his thumbs wiped away the tears. Every touch brought you comfort and an aching realization of just how deep you were in. 

“Was it ‘cause I went on a date?” he asked calmly. You almost choked on air. Dear lord. 

You slowly looked up. Jason was still watching you for any clues on how you felt. The hazy street lights cast a glow on one side of his face, and rain trickled down from his cheek to his neck.

You wanted to deny it. But for once in your life, you didn't bolt.

“Maybe.” 

His lips twitched up like he’d figured out some secret. 

“So you were jealous?”. The silence stretched on as his lips curled up. He really brought out your more violent tendencies. 

“Is it because you love me?” His eyes softened. You glared at his words, but somehow he already knew.  Neither of you were good at expressing your affections. Most times, it'd be hidden in his angry concern or your jokes laced in comfort. 

You both learned each other's silent love, his knowing smile was proof of that. 

“You look far too happy with yourself, it's disgusting,” you told him. 

His nose bumped yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“Yeah? Then tell me to stop,” he mumbled, his voice low.

You did no such thing as his gaze dipped towards your lips. His scent was all around, suffocating you. 

Your hands drifted over his biceps without thinking. You felt him tense under your touch. He was waiting, you realized. 

“I didn’t say stop,” you said.

That was the right thing to say as he dove in with a force that took your breath away. 

The kiss was messy. His hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head. 

“I love you too,” he mumbled against your lips. A spark of pleasure ran down your spine. His words, his touch, it was all so much and not enough at the same time. You needed to be closer. 

But he pulled back before you could do anything. His cheeks were dusted in pink—from you and the cold. He was dazed, jaw slack, and breathing ragged. 

You couldn’t help but admire his state. 

“You look…good…” You said awkwardly, fingers trailing up his jaw. He huffed out a laugh. 

“nothing compared to you.” 

You swallowed. It was drizzling now, and the specks of rain flew gently in the air. Jason had a stupid grin on his face. You wanted to linger in this moment. 

“I love you,” you said, begrudgingly.

“I know.” 

“And not in a best friend way,” you clarified.

“No shit, sweetheart.” he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Didn’t think there was anything platonic about that kiss.” 

“It could have been, lots of people kiss their friends experimentally.” 

You didn’t know why you kept talking. He was pressing more kisses down the column of your throat. Words were your only defense. 

“We aren't friends,” he murmured against your skin. You closed your eyes, breath catching. 

“Then what are we?”

“Well,” he began, smiling and not bothering to stop as he nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck. “I’m yours.”

“Have been for a while,” he added. He pulled back, eyes latching onto yours. 

“And if I want to be yours?” you asked, cheeks burning. 

“Then you're mine,” he said simply, kissing your cheek. His hand flexed as if he was holding back.

You pulled him in. “I’m yours,” you whispered and pressed your lips to his. 

Masterlist

[ryoride]

ꮼ DON'T YOU WANNA KISS ME MORE !

cw: bicep biting, teasing, male whimpering, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, talking you through it, hair pulling, he's described as big, back scratching, creampies, not proofread.

ⓘ Featuring how sexy Dick Grayson is for his pretty girl.

boyfriend!dick who muffles your moans with his bicep whenever you're staying over at his father's, cooing, "You need to be quiet" so his family won't find out how dirty you are, as if he isn't the one fucking into you so hard the headboard's slamming against the wall.

+ Bonus points: Whenever you finish, and he pulls back to see drool on his arm along with the teeth marks, he knows he did well.

boyfriend!dick who can spend hours teasing you before getting to work, with light brushes of his fingers up your thigh, light kisses to your lips, and rubbing the tip along your slit, but pulling back once you start begging him to just fuck you already.

Eventually, you wear each other down; you're moaning out his name & he's struggling not to finish in two minutes.

boyfriend!dick loves when you go down on him, fists clenching against the sheets as he struggles not to guide your head, biting down the sweetest moan every time you swirl your tongue around his blushing tip.

After he finishes in your mouth, he'll always wipe your lips clean & whisper how pretty you are in the shakiest, hottest tone known to man.

boyfriend!dick who tends to get a little needy & sometimes ends up dry humping you till he's creamed his boxers instead of just fucking you like he'd originally planned. Noting "it felt too good to stop" while letting out a choked laugh & burying his face in your throat.

He'll always joke about it afterwards. But it's kind of obvious at the moment how embarrassed he feels about it.

boyfriend!dick likes to finger you after a blowjob, scissoring you open on long fingers so he can stare at the wetness pooling on your skin while telling you just how sexy it looks to him & licks you clean after each orgasm.

He likes to give you at least two orgasms per one of his.

boyfriend!dick has grown used to your nails sinking into his back every time he bottoms out; he's even grown to like how every few thrusts bring the sweet sting of your nails scratching at him in sync with sharp moans.

boyfriend!dick who is well aware just how endowed he is & always takes it slow to let you adjust, making sure to whisper sweet little praises in your ear.

boyfriend!dick who has made himself well acquainted with your clit, happily goes down on you every time you're being bratty or not in a good mood, knowing his tongue can be an instant mood booster.

He always moans at the feeling of your nails scratching at his scalp, pulling & begging for more, loving the sensation of feeling your pleasure through the sharp tugs.

boyfriend!dick who has a bad pullout game & ends up accidentally filling you up more often than he'd like to admit. He's so embarrassed when he pulls out and sees his seed spilling out, but your fucked-out expression always makes him feel better about it.

[danitcx]

The Problem With Being Superman

Clark Kent x female reader

Sinopsis: Clark Kent has spent months trying to get your attention in the only way he knows how: quietly, sweetly, and awkwardly. But when Superman saves your life and begins visiting your apartment at night, Clark realizes he may have accidentally made things far more complicated for himself.

Warnings: secret identity, near-death experience, bus accident, mild danger, jealousy, emotional confusion

WC: 5,000 words approx.

If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.

That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.

He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.

Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.

Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?

And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.

He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.

Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.

But anyway, that was not the point right now.

The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.

The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.

While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.

“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.

“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.

“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.

“Connections to who?”

“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.

That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.

But that was exactly what happened.

Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.

Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.

But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.

But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.

He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.

When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.

Superman stood in front of you.

Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.

“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.

You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.

“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.

Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.

You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.

No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.

Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.

You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.

You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.

“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.

“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.

You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.

There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.

Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.

It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.

You were just his coworker. Nothing more.

But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.

Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.

After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.

A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.

The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.

He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.

He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.

You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.

You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.

“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.

Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.

Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.

“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.

You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:

“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Of course you were not easy to fool.

She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.

But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.

You only seemed curious.

You only seemed… interested.

“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.

“Really?” you asked skeptically.

“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.

He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.

Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.

He came back.

He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.

“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.

“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”

Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.

You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.

“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”

He took the plate carefully.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”

Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.

And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.

The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.

One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.

“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”

Clark smiled inwardly.

Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.

So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.

After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.

And now you shared that with Clark.

Well… with Superman.

But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.

One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”

“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”

Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”

“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”

“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”

Your eyes widened.

“What?”

“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.

“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”

“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.

“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.

The two of you ended up laughing.

You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.

That became his favorite part of every day.

Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.

But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.

And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.

Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.

Because he had someone waiting for him.

And that someone was you.

That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.

You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.

In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.

And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.

Oh, God, he thought.

He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.

But he still wanted to test it.

He needed to know.

So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.

Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.

“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.

His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.

You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.

“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.

Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.

He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.

Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.

“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.

You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.

“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.

Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.

“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.

He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”

Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.

“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”

Superman lowered his gaze.

He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.

You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.

“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”

That made everything worse.

Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.

Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.

“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.

Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.

You looked at him with a frown, still worried.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.

Superman nodded slowly.

“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.

You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.

Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.

“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.

You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.

“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.

“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”

Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.

“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”

He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.

“I never imagined,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.

“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”

Clark felt his stomach flip.

“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.

You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.

“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.

You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.

Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.

“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”

You let out a short laugh.

“I already know that.”

“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.

He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.

“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.

“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.

Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.

So he simply nodded again, harder this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”

Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.

“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.

Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.

He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.

He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.

He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.

Nothing else mattered.

Only you.

Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.

Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.

He was going to ask you out.

That was a fact.

He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.

Or fly around the world.

Or both.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz@lunaryoongie@hikari-michiko

[lucylockets]

The Bat is in love! … with Mrs. Wayne?

summary: in which the Justice League notice that Batman is infatuated with Bruce Wayne’s wife, and need to help him get over her (impossible)

pairing: husband!bruce wayne/batman x wife!reader

warnings: none? maybe mentions of slight violence. fluff.

a/n: inspired by this fic by @ilianasbruce

dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

MASTERLIST part two!

it started when batman and superman were at the watchtower together.

they were doing their own work silently, at opposite ends of the table.

superman was pretending that he wasn’t secretly writing an article for the daily planet that was due within the week (that he had completely forgotten about), and batman was pretending that he wasn’t secretly texting his wife under the table.

bruce: how is the opera, my love? i’m sorry i couldn’t be there, the league has demands.

a lie. he just had a headache earlier and felt like jumping out of a window at the thought of having to put on a smile for the folk and sit through an opera. he did feel guilty about you being on your own, though.

you: it’s alright. i actually know some people here, and they aren’t all bad, bruce.

bruce: you say that now, but wait until they each give you a rundown on each car in their garage.

you: like how you give me a rundown on each gadget you come up with in the batcave?

bruce: that’s different.

you: of course it is. i actually like listening to you.

the familiar ‘ping!’ of one of batman’s gadgets interrupted the silence.

superman looked up, eager to be doing something other than whatever paper in front of him that he wasn’t even focusing on.

“what is that?” his words came out immediately, and before batman could answer, he was speaking again. “robbery? alien invasion?”

“Poison Ivy in Gotham.” Batman is already standing, beginning his exit of the watchtower. Superman follows him.

“Can I come? Please?”

Batman turns, looking at him. “What?”

“It’s boring in here!” Superman gestures around. “And if I’m on my own it’ll be even more boring. C’mon, Batman, I can help you.”

Batman considers it for a moment before sighing. “Fine. But we’re going in the Batmobile.”

“But I can-“

“You are not flying me there, Superman.”

A few minutes later, they’re in the opera hall. Ivy seems to have taken over the stage, giving a speech on ways for the average person to decrease their carbon footprint.

Batman can see a few different people caught between her weeds. Long, thick plants have people in their grip. He scans the room quickly for you, breathing a silent sigh of relief when he sees that you are not captured, but instead just huddled in the corner with a group of others.

Superman doesn’t notice the way that Batman isn’t looking at Ivy, and begins his attack. Batman quickly follows. After a swift battle (turns out having Superman as an ally cuts down on battle time), Ivy is restrained and authorities arrive. The two start on recovering civilians before they both encounter you.

You’re comforting one of the women that was tangled in the weeds. You’re sitting beside her, nodding as she talked. You recognise the familiar pair of boots coming from the side of you. Your head lifts up slightly as you catch sight of the two men.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Wayne?” Superman speaks first, the familiar concern he has for everyone clear in his voice and expression. He recognises you from articles, and he’s heard enough from Cat Grant at the Daily Planet to know you’re married to Bruce Wayne.

“Yes, I’m fine,” you answer with a small smile. Your eyes move to Batman. “Thank you.”

Superman gives Batman a side glance as he hears Batmans heart skip a beat when you smile at him. He tries to not to make his suspicion obvious. However, he turns a little when he hears that Batmans heartbeat is now quicker than it had been five minutes ago.

However, nothing on Batmans mostly covered face gave away any feelings. He just nodded and said a quick: “Stay safe, ma’am.”

And Superman didn’t bring it up again. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. A heart skip doesn’t always mean feelings of infatuation, right?

The second time is with Flash and Green Lantern.

Batman is a stark contrast to the pair. Barry and Hal are close friends, and joke around when put together. Bruce will sigh, and tell them to be quiet, and then Barry tries to be serious, but Hal will mutter a sarcastic comment that makes him start laughing again and the cycle repeats.

So Batman is already tense from working with the two.

They’re investigating a case together, and encounter you somehow. (sorry that’s so vague i literally cannot think of a specific scenario here to save my life)

Flash asks you a few questions if you’ve seen or heard anything suspicious, and you shake your head and answer. Barry notices Batmans shoulders softening a little beside him.

It isn’t hugely noticeable, but Barry senses it. Batmans shoulders loose some of their tension as he talks to you, this civilian. And when Hal opens his mouth to make an implying comment, he tenses right back up again.

Barry’s eyes narrow. It isn’t often that the Bat actually feels emotions, so when he does, his friends take an interest.

On the way back, Barry nudges Hal.

“Hey, you notice the way Bats was acting around that woman earlier?” He whispers so the third man in front of them doesn’t hear.

“You mean that really hot one? Who wouldn’t act like that around her? Did you see her, Bar?”

Barry gives him a look, “yeah, but this is Batman. Brooding, stays-in-the-shadows, feels-nothing-but-rage-24/7, Batman.”

Hal ponders before shrugging. “I don’t know, maybe Spooky’s changed. Never underestimate the power of a beautiful woman, Barry.”

Barry thinks. “She looked kinda familiar, didn’t she? I can’t think of where I’ve seen her before.”

And when they see that the familiar face they were talking to was Bruce Wayne’s wife, they give each other an alarmed look before looking at Batman from across the room.

The third time was with Oliver goddamn Queen.

A charity gala. Bruce couldn’t go because he had intel that Scarecrow was planning on infiltrating the building while everyone was distracted, something about wanting to ‘test out a new gas’, and he had to be on watch as Batman for the evening.

You, however, decided to go. You had a nice dress and were getting close to some of the women there your age. It was nice to not be a total stranger in the room anymore.

So, as you filtered around the room, you met Oliver Queen. He sometimes teases Bruce on purpose by asking for a dance with you at other galas, but without Bruce he was simply a friend to enjoy a chat with.

When Scarecrow did burst in, you actually had been dancing with Oliver. A friendly turn around the room like the others were doing. By the time Batman had taken him down, and everyone emerged from the corners or hidden rooms, Oliver checked to see if you were okay. Lord knows Bruce would probably blame him if anything happened to you.

You were fine, thank God. Oliver’s sentence was interrupted by the Bat himself.

“Was anybody harmed?” the gruff voice asked, his gaze trying not to linger on you for too long.

“I don’t think so,” you replied. Oliver looked at Batman with a certain questioning that nobody seemed to notice.

“Good.” Batman was silent for a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps you all should start making your ways home. Scarecrow might return, or someone worse.”

You don’t miss a beat. “It’s a good thing we have someone like you to protect us, Batman.”

“Only a fool wouldn’t protect you, ma’am.”

Oliver blinked. Is Batman . . . flirting? With a married woman? Also, was that sentence a sneaky diss on him?

and Oliver could’ve sworn on his entire fortune that Batman’s lips were almost in a grin during his next sentence.

“Your husband is probably waiting on you, Mrs. Wayne.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows at your response. You laughed a little under your breath before speaking, “probably. I wouldn’t want to keep him up.”

Oliver looks between you and Batman. Perhaps he’s imagining things. You turn to him as if you’ve just remembered that he’s still there.

“Oliver, you have a safe way home, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll call my driver.”

He doesn’t bring it up the next time he sees Batman as Green Arrow. Batman doesn’t speak of it either. But his eyes narrow a little at the Bats whenever Bruce Wayne or his wife is mentioned.

Eventually, it comes up in conversation when Batman isn’t there.

They’re in the common room, and Diana is flipping through the newspaper. She’s on a page that features a picture of you at the latest event with a description of your outfit beside it. Beside her, Hal recognises you.

“Hey, Flash,” he begins, stabbing the page with his finger. “Isn’t that who we were talking to a couple days earlier?”

Barry is behind the couch in a second, nodding. “Yeah, we asked her a couple questions with Batman.” He looks up a takes a quick glance to see if anyone’s expression changes. “He seemed . . . different around her.”

Clark closes the book in his hand with a loud snap, looking at the three on the couch.

“You’ve noticed too?”

Hal laughs, “that Bats has the hots for a married woman? Yeah.”

Diana frowns a little. “That is unlike Batman. He’s known for his self-restraint. It doesn’t seem likely he would harbour a liking for someone else’s wife, especially Bruce Wayne’s. Doesn’t Wayne sponsor him or something?”

Oliver joins in. “Wonder Woman, you haven’t seen him with her. I mean, it was only a few seconds but he was a totally different person.”

“How so?” Diana asked curiously.

“He . . . relaxed a little.”

She raised her eyebrows. Barry cut in.

“Wonder, you need to see it to understand it. It’s like no one else even enters his mind when he’s looking at her. I think everything else sorta faded away, you know?”

“Like in those rom-coms I’ve been shown?” She suggests.

“Yeah!”

Clark thinks for a moment, wondering what to do to help his obviously hopeless friend. How do you break the news to an emotionally constipated Bat that he has to squash his feelings before anything terrible happens?

So, they organise an intervention. A very unorganised organised intervention.

Your name gets mentioned during a briefing. About how you could be potential target for a kidnapping due to your status.

Hal’s mouth works quicker than his mind.

“What about Bruce Wayne?”

“What about Bruce Wayne?” Batman asks in his low voice, his back still turned to the team.

“Just saying, he’s probably a potential target too, right?” Green Lantern points out. “He’s her husband, after all.”

Batman turns. They all seem to be looking for his reaction.

“Right, I was just getting to that.” He says stiffly. “So I think until Joker is tracked down again, a pair of eyes should be on them. Since Gotham is my city, I can-“

“Ohhhh, hold on,” Flash says, leaning forward. “Central City has been very quiet lately, so I’m free too.”

Wonder Woman joins in. “I’m interested too. I think the more people, the quicker we could get this done.”

Batman blinks. “Why the sudden interest in Gotham from you two?”

They both shrug, mumbling incoherent words that overlap each other. Something about “new environments” and “change of pace”.

Green Arrow smirks. “I wouldn’t mind accompanying. (Name) and her husband should get all the protection they can get.”

Batman isn’t showing it, but he’s confused. Less members have volunteered themselves for prison breaks. Why are three other members wanting to go to Gotham for an unconfirmed threat? And why do they keep looking at him like that?

“Yes,” Superman clears his throat. “Mrs (Name) is a kind woman who shouldn’t be in danger. And Bruce Wayne is similar in nature. He is valuable to Gotham City.”

Batman prepared his disliking-Bruce-Wayne act with practised ease. “Bruce Wayne is a spoiled idiot.”

“Of course you think that.” Green Lantern mutters with a smug smirk. Flash nudges him.

“What do you mean?” Batman asks, and Hal practically explodes.

“We know you’re attracted to (Name) Wayne!” He says, making Barry cover his eyes with his hands. Not how the conversation was supposed to go.

“Excuse me?” Batman is -frankly- appalled. Hal grimaces, instantly reminded of who exactly he’s talking to.

“You’re, uh . . .” he splutters before quickly mumbling, “you’re in love with (name).” He gains some of his confidence, and straightens up again, “and you were about to let Bruce Wayne get kidnapped, so you could swoop in and seduce her!” He tops it all off with hand gestures of the supposed ‘swooping’.

Batmans gaze sweeps the table. Nobody meets his eye except Diana, who just seems to be staring at him for his response. A few of them have to stop themselves from laughing at the idea of Batman ‘seducing’ someone.

“And what exactly gave you that idea?”

Barry is filled with a newfound confidence. “Oh, c’mon Bats, a blind man would see how you act around her!” He smirked a little. “You went a little . . . soft.”

Green Arrow snorts. “Sometimes I think you’re only protecting Gotham because she’s in it.”

Batman thinks. Has he been that transparent? He’s always careful about his expressions and body reactions. Maybe he is getting soft. He obviously didn’t take enough care.

A fleeting image passes his mind, where he declares his love for you to the team. How could he not show you off? He would love to tell them that you were with him.

But, of course, he doesn’t do that. He just blinks.

“I am not in love with (name), that’s ridiculous.” He scoffs. “Number one, I don’t fall in love with anyone. Number two, she’s married, so I think that means she’s out of the dating pool.”

Not one face looking back at him looks convinced.

However, a cold stare and a swift change of topic ensured that nobody tries to start the conversation again.

They do, however, take a bigger interest in Gotham nowadays. Whenever a mission includes you somehow, there’s always one of them volunteering to go. They all think that distance will make sure Batman goes back to his cold and steely ways of not having a crush on anyone’s wife.

Bruce crawls under the covers with a small groan, shuffling next to you. His arms go around your warm body as he rests his face near yours. He’s desperate to soak up your warmth after being out in the cold all night.

“Long night?” you ask, your voice still quiet from sleep.

“Long day,” he responds, tucking himself into you. You keep your arms around him. “The League accused Batman of being attracted to Bruce Wayne’s wife today.”

It takes you a moment to realise what he’s talking about. You breathe out a laugh. “Is Batman not in love with me?”

Bruce grins against your skin. “He might be.” He murmurs. “Just a little, though.”

You raise your eyebrows, turning to look at Bruce. “Does Batman know I’m married? And that I’m very loyal to my husband?”

“Oh, yes,” he responded, and sits up a little. he pressed his forehead to yours. “and Batman knows that there’s nobody else on this earth that loves you more than I do.”

You smile, your fingers in his hair now. he leans closer to press his lips to yours, an action that you return. Bruce keeps himself against you for a long time. He likes falling asleep with you in his arms. He likes feeling like the protector.

It’s why he needs to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. It’s why he needs to know where you are each night. It’s why he needs to know you’re safe. And if your safety comes along with each League member giving him looks because they think he’s harbouring a crush for another man’s wife, then so be it.

He’d do anything for you, anyway. 

[dmitriene]

cw: daddy issues, age gap mentioned, everything is problematic.

captain john price knows how to take care of his soldiers damn well, baby blue's catching up on any visible sign of distress, the furrow lingering for too long, the tension coiled in sinewy muscles, every frustrated growl or a snarl, there's no one who can hide their distress from his keen eyes, so when you start catching in his peripheral here and there, always with cheeks puffing, lips pouty, eyes searching for something among the other elders, before walking off to hole in your barracks.

you ache for being praised, that's plain to see, for him, at least, with how wide your eyes go as you look around after a training gone well, after being just a bit better than others at something, but a single grunt of approval is not enough for something tiny and hungry that gnarls from inside of your gut, trying to claw out, but turned on to purring sweetly the second you'll get what you need, so john takes it upon himself to make you feel just a little bit more noticed, to take care of your needs, even if it's twisted.

to ruffle at your hair when you're upset, passing by you quick, just for a little pat, and you're already smiling under your breath, eyes gleaming as you watch him go by with his business, then a small word of encouragement, a low, smoky — “you've done good out there”, smiling at you from under his graying brown mustache, crows feet deep at his kind eyes, and you lose any ability to speak, nodding dumbly and stammering a tiny gratitude, young, sweet thing, making something ravenous kindle in his chest, heavy pressing, sating only when he indulges in you.

that's bring you to the sacred confines of his private cabinet, where he usually spent hours, working at some papers, talking with other soldiers, gathering meetings, but now you carved yourself a place there, too, even if he's busy, even if he's tired, john can manage to have you on his thick lap, curled against his beefy chest, tobacco smoke soaked into his uniform, tingling at your nose, as he scratches at the nape of your neck with his calloused fingers, your throat rumbling with small, pleased noises, almost purrs, stretching your neck for him.

then you call him daddy, a passing sound that mingles with a whispered thank you, when he soothed your tears after a hard, annoying day, smoothed salty drops with his scarred thumb, tucked your wet face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the strong smell of him, relishing in the rough rubbing of his hand up and down your sides, your shuddering spine as you sniffed and wiped at your snotty nose, though still nuzzling deeper against him, as if trying to hang off his head at this point, but he never complained, couldn't, when an angel fallen so willingly into his arms, preening under the way his beard scratches at your forehead as he leaves a kiss there, cooing a low — “i'm right here, darlin'”.

other's get more and more confused by how close you two get, too close for him being just your superior, not with the way you cling to him, dainty hands around his burly bicep, not with how you stretch your head up while looking at him, begging silently until he'll sigh heavily, smooth a heavy hand down your head, clearly patting, and then you appear with beard burn traces at the curve of your neck, barely hidden with a hair or a collar, just on display, and none would utter even a word, not with how john holds you close, casting a piercing glance aside when anyone glares for too long, sharp snarl pulling at the edge of his lip.

they won't dare to speak up, to approach and ask their captain what's going on, does he knows what he does, not with you always there, nearly hanging off his elbow, blinking with a dazed look you started wearing too often when around john, and if someone accidentally passes by his cabinet deep at night, despite that they shouldn't, despite that it's already too long into lights out, they'll still shut up about the sounds they heard, the whiny, sobbing keens and heavy, praising grunts mingling in the dead of night, muffled by the wood, a distinct — “doin' so good, such a good girl”

and if that someone will have the balls to crack this door open, spy in through the small slit between the door jamb, there would be no doubt anymore, not with you spread on the harsh wood of shiny work desk, pants dangling at your ankles along with a cottony, ruffly panties almost falling down onto the floor, slipping further with each small jolt of your bouncing body, as john dwarfs your frame entirely, hips rocking forward, chasing the melodious slap of skin against skin, your ass rippling from the repeating pounding, scalding against your tender, warmed up skin, as he grinds in, tilting his hips and making your toes curl.

moaning out with a high pitched, mewly sound, scrabbling at john's shoulders, trying to, but he only tuts, pushing them away, down against the cold table, delivering a short, electrical slap to your engorged, hard little clit, making you howl out, hiccuping a broken string of — “daddydaddydaddy”, going silent immediately when he starts to coo lowly, fat, meaty cock throbbing in the tight clutch of your spasming, gooey cunt, walls rippling and narrowing, keeping him in, john's broad hips withdrawing in steady pace, brushing against your ass as he bends over, your legs stretching up further, hooked around his sweating neck, cock sliding even deeper, bumping into something teeny tiny and spongy that's nestled deep in your squelchy hole, and that's when your eyes roll back sharply, vision whitening.

john will please you in any way possible, in any way you'll ask, leave you sore to walk, with legs quivering, needing him to carry you, scoop and cradle against his body, as if it's never enough, coo in your ear that you did good, such a sweetheart, a darling soldier, taking all of him like a champ, soaking him so well it almost dripped down his heavy balls, so warm and tight he won't be the same man now, imagining how you felt around him day and night, how you called for him, desperate and needy, how you needed him whole, and sure he will never leave you alone now.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[dmitriene]

reader is described as wearing dress with heels, having shaped legs, being shorter than könig and having a manicure. mentioning just in case.

cw: children, minor reader description, baby’s gender not specified.

könig stood outside the army barracks, the sun beating down on the soldiers and their visiting families, some had brought comforts from home while others simply shared a bench, relishing the face to face contact that phone and video calls could never truly replace, but despite the rare moment of personal hours, eyes still drifted toward their colonel, watching him coo at a tiny, chubby infant cradled in the crook of his arm, a babbling babe whose grabby hands reached up to tug at his already rumpled mask.

no one truly knew if a family awaited him elsewhere, brows knit together in intrigue, hushed whispers weaving through the ranks as könig bounced the curly haired little bub in his arms, even from a distance, a soft, unmistakable crinkle touched his baby blue's, rare show of fondness visible through the eye holes in the fabric, the child’s tiny, wandering hands reaching beneath the looming mask, searching for the scruffy chin könig kept hidden, soldiers watching in stunned silence as the fabric tented over a small, rising fist, and when the baby let out a bubbling giggle, they could have sworn they heard the muffled, tender sound of a kiss from their colonel.

“that's yours, colonel?”

someone gathered the courage to call out from a distance, wary of drawing too close, it was one thing to ask a question, but quite another to approach, they watched as his blue eyes shifted, a sharp, piercing glare at the mention of the infant as «that», before softening the moment the child babbled again, every muscle in the colonel’s massive frame seemed to loosen, yet his arms tightened protectively around the small form, baby’s head lolling against the sinewy muscle of his chest, straining against the fabric of tight fitting shirt, and only then did he answer, voice a gravelly, heavy grunt underscored by a surprisingly sweet, whispered tenderness

“ja, das ist mein baby.”

they didn't spend long guessing about the baby's mother, könig's wife, because you appeared as if prompted by the unleashing conversation, the click of your heels accompanied by the graceful flutter of the hem of your dress, dancing just above the creamy supple curve of your thighs, every eye followed the elegant line of exposed shaped legs, as you moved to könig’s side, resting a manicured hand upon the burly breadth of his chest in a possessive, gentle pat, the ring's stone glittering dazzling on your finger.

könig adjusted the baby's position, freeing one arm to coil it tightly around your waist and draw you close, leaning low enough for you to tickle the baby's tummy playfully, until the air filled with joyful, bubbly laughter and your shared coos, your fingertips smoothing the wild, translucent curls of infant's hair while könig buried his masked face into the crown of your head, breathing in, calloused fingertips sweeping reverently along your full hip before kneading in with a desperate need.

when you rose onto your tiptoes to lure his face to yours, sneaking beneath the hem of his mask to steal a little kiss, smiling at the sound of könig's hum, the surrounding soldiers quickly turned away, flushed with embarrassment at the wet, deepening sound of the kiss and your sharp gasp, escalating into something sloppy and heavy grunting, as their colonel’s hand dropped low to knead into your perky asscheek with possessive, heavy grip.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[dmitriene]

cw: perhaps ooc simon.

simon ghost riley as your sugar daddy, a considerate man, all luxury things and expensive gifts just to see your pretty lips splitting wide in a giddy, dazing smile, wrapping your arms around his thick, bent neck and peppering his rough, prickly face with delicate kisses and whispers of little giggles that mirror the joy in your sparkling eyes, as blinding as the new jewelry he picked out for you, falling in beady, gleaming drops down your collarbone.

you are his refuge, with how carefree you behave and cling to him, charming and affectionate like a cat, whiny, as well, all for his attention and barest of touch, accompanying him to various meetings, even when simon insists that you will be bored, sit among a bunch of people and listen to incoherent speech, but you settle over at his muscular lap and tuck against his chest, melting in the warmth of the solid body behind you, letting a calloused hand span over the entire breadth of your waist when something pisses him off.

simon cups the back of your head so you'll hide away in his squaring shoulder, when someone peeps out with amused question at who you are, and instead of answering, he twitches with his hand in the air to mimic for the meeting continuation, except, still leaning over to nose sharply in the sensitive nape of your neck, huffing in the light, fresh scent of the perfume he gifted you just couple of days ago, before planting a tentative kiss there, searing in your skin as you shudder and whine, complaining quietly for teasing you.

he gives you plenty of his time when you get back to the sanctuary of your apartment, greedy, tender touches mapping over every dip and plushness of your wriggling, arching body, not walking further than the living room couch, tugging you over his lap yet again, but now, with teeth biting, spit coated kisses and fevered gasps, calloused, broad fingers tugging and clawing up at your shirt, guttural, unrestrained groan spilling from simon's lips, raw and bruised pink, at just a single sight of your stomach, ribs expanding in hitched, strangled gasp.

simon let's you cling to his face, soft hands cupping the sharp edges of his flushed cheekbones, thumbs stroking over the jagged scars that slice a healed pale against his skin, stubble patchy, and you call him a pretty man, moaning as he licks against your slack mouth with white hot need, dizzy at the feeling of your tight, slick cunt spasming around his rutting cock, at how sweet you are, panting and whimpering his name, bouncing up and down through shallow, small rolls of your hips forward, pressing as close as possible.

his sugar baby, indeed, and he'd swallow you whole.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[dmitriene]

very much old draft.

𐔌 cw: size kink. .ᐟ

simon's riley cock so big you can take just a tip, he's aware of his own size, the thick, veiny girth with mushroom tip that no one could take before at all. even sucking him off is a real struggle, making your lips stretch uncomfortably, sensitive skin left torn in the corners, aching and stinging. so you found another way to make you both enjoy this.

not just with your palm, although he enjoys the feel of your smooth, tight fist stroking his warm cock, length pulsing and throbbing, beading precum down your fingers and knuckles. the sight is enough to make him near his orgasm, abdominal muscles tensing, rippling as simon grunts and moans. biting at his pale lip, hips bucking up to fuck in the tight squeeze.

rudy crown of his cock coated with beading, glistening drops of precum, as simon slaps his still hard shaft against the puffy, slick folds of your pussy. your hips squirming at the feeling, moaning short and sweet, and he shudders at both the feeling and the sight of you. spreading your pretty cunt, showing your pulsing, wet hole that waits for him, as he rubs down, smearing the tacky liquid from his length against your fluttering lips.

making you arch up into the feeling, grasp onto his forearm that is braced next to your head, nails sinking into the ink tattooed over his pale skin. his leaky tip breaches your hole, sinking along the snug, warm walls of your pussy, feeling every pulse and clamp that is already makes simon tremble. thighs tensing as they pump forward, sheathing in as much of his gorged girth as he can.

simon ruts in messily, unstoppable in his sloppy, frantic thrusts, groaning and grunting at the feeling, sweat dripping down his rippling back as he tenses against the tingling sensation. lightheaded to the point where his eyes turn opaque, pupils dilated, drunk at the fast approaching orgasm that pools low in his stomach. your mewling gasps a tumbling background to the rising, slick squelch of your cunt.

you both cling to this sparkling feeling, how good it feels, being so close to sink fully into your tiny, needy hole that clenches in rapid pulses around him. but simon has to hold back, calloused palm splaying across at your fattened clit, brushing a thumb over, rolling. it's enough to make your tight gummy walls clench down harshly, gushing unexpectedly, bringing him to his release faster than ever.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[lettersunderthecrypt]

Compliance Pt. 2

Pairing: AgedUp!Damian Wayne x AFAB!Reader

Words: 3.1k

Content Warning: 18+, Kidnapping, Captivity/Forced Confinement, Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, Yandere Themes, Coercive Control, Psychological Abuse, Intimidation, Punishment, Forced Obedience, Possessive Behavior, Nonconsensual Touching, Sexual Coercion, Forced Nudity, Oral Sexual Assault, Dubious Consent/Nonconsent, Power Imbalance, Humiliation, Dehumanization, Pet Play Undertones, Choking/Throat Grabbing, Restraint, Fear-Based Arousal, Victim Blaming, Stockholm Syndrome Themes, Trauma Bonding, Gaslighting, Isolation, Surveillance, Loss Of Autonomy, Forced Dependency, Explicit Sexual Content, Dark Romance, Romanticized Abuse. DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT

A/N: Highly requested, here you go. Imagine Damian Wayne in his mid to late twenties.

WARNING: Some of the content moving forward may be unsuitable for specific audiences. Please read at your own discretion.

Enjoy, Reader

Compliance Pt. 1 Here

Damian did not drag you away from the door at first.

That was the first cruelty, you realized. Not the grip on your wrist, not the way his fingers closed around the fragile, frantic pulse beneath your skin, not even the fact that he had caught you with your hand hovering over the keypad like a guilty thought made flesh. The cruelty was that he made you stand there, inside the consequence of it. He let the moment breathe. He let your fear ripen. He let the room become aware of you both, the walls humming softly with filtered air, the ceiling lights bathing everything in a warm artificial dusk, the locked door at your back, and him before you, impossibly still, impossibly calm, his body placed between you and every version of the world where you still belonged to yourself.

“You were leaving,” he said.

His voice was quiet, almost gentle, but something raw edged beneath it, darker than anger, older than jealousy. Not the careful boy who once fed you soup and called it comfort. His thumb pressed against your pulse, feeling how your heart kicked against him.

“I was trying to,” you whispered.

His eyes lifted to yours.

That was a mistake.

You saw it the moment his face shifted. Not rage, no, rage would have been human, hot, noisy, something that burned out. What moved through Damian was colder, private, a terrible kind of wonder, as if you had tried to carve out one of his ribs and wear it around your neck.

“You admit it,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “You already knew.”

“I wanted to hear you say it.”

The safehouse shrank around the words. Soap lingered on his skin, metal from the door, clean cotton, something sharp and stormlike clinging to him from wherever he’d been. A dark curl fell across his forehead, making him look younger for a moment, until you met his eyes. Nothing young there. Nothing soft. Nothing uncertain.

He looked devoted.

That was worse than hatred.

“Damian,” you tried, because his name had worked before, because some instinct in you remembered the way he had gone still when you said it, the way the sound had dragged something almost vulnerable through his face. But this time, his fingers tightened around your wrist, and the look he gave you made your throat close.

“No,” he said gently. “You don’t get to say my name like that after this.”

A thin, cold panic slid through you. “Like what?”

“Like you’re asking me to forgive you before you understand what you did.”

“What I did?” Your voice broke higher, incredulous and frightened. “You kidnapped me.”

“I brought you home.”

“This isn’t my home.”

His face softened.

It should not have terrified you, but it did. The softness was wrong; no doubt, no shame, no flicker of recognition that he stood in front of you in an underground room, your phone gone, your shoes hidden, three locks between you and the city. He looked at you like you had misunderstood the weather.

“It will be,” he said. “That is the point.”

You shook your head once, too fast, the motion barely more than a tremor. “You can’t actually believe that.”

“I don’t need belief.” His free hand rose. You flinched, but he only touched your face with two fingers, so lightly the gentleness felt obscene. “I have patience.”

You turned your face away from his hand.

The air shifted.

Damian’s expression went very, very still.

For a moment, there was only the blood in your ears and the low electrical purr of the walls. His hand hovered where your cheek had been, fingers curved, tenderness denied and left to rot. When he spoke, the words came slow, each one placed with surgical care.

“That was the second mistake.”

Your stomach dropped. “Second?”

“The first was trying to leave.” His eyes moved over you; bare feet, shaking legs, the shirt he’d given you because your own clothes were gone for washing, inspection, or whatever word he used for stealing pieces of your life and arranging them into obedience. “The second was pulling away when I was deciding to be kind.”

“You call this kind?”

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation.

Something inside you curled around the horror of that certainty.

Damian stepped closer. You backed into the door, metal cold through thin fabric at your spine. The keypad beside your shoulder blinked its small red light, useless as a dead star. He didn’t touch you, but caged you anyway, one hand braced against the wall, the other still holding your wrist. He lowered his face until his breath stirred the hair near your temple.

“You are going to learn the difference,” he whispered.

“Between what?”

“Between me being patient and me correcting you.”

Your skin prickled. “You said correction wasn’t pain.”

“It isn’t.” His mouth was close enough to your ear that every syllable felt like a hand sliding under your skin. “Pain is crude. Pain teaches panic. You already know how to panic.”

You hated that. Hated the quiet assessment in his voice. Hated that he had studied you enough to say it like a fact. Hated that your body, stupid frightened animal, had gone rigid and awake beneath his nearness, reading him in heat and breath and proximity while your mind screamed danger.

Worse, beneath the terror, a confused heat flickered low in your belly, shameful and unwanted. Your skin tingled with a response you could not control. Something traitorous in you tightened deep inside, hunger threading through the fear. You despised the way your body answered him, how it ached against your will, leaving you torn between mortification and longing.

“What are you going to do?” you asked.

Damian pulled back only enough to look at you.

There was a strange brightness in his eyes now. Not happiness. Not pleasure in any simple sense. It was a purpose, black and shining.

“I am going to remove the fantasy,” he said.

“What fantasy?”

“That there is anywhere for you to go.”

The words went through you like winter water.

“You are going to learn the difference between kindness and cruelty. You are going to learn the difference between when I am gentle and when I am angry.” His voice was low, almost a purr, but there was an edge to it, a razor’s sharpness that made you freeze.

“And you are going to learn very quickly that right now, I am being very, very kind.”

He pressed closer, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. His free hand came up to cup your chin, fingers wrapping gently around your jaw as he tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his intense gaze.

“Now, listen carefully. I’m only going to explain this once.” His thumb brushed over your lower lip, a soft caress that belied the sternness in his eyes.

"Every time you pull away," he murmured, his thumb still tracing your lip, "I will pull you back twice as hard. Every time you try to run, I will chain you to my bed. Every time you speak against me, I will find a more... creative way to teach you silence."

His voice dropped lower, almost intimate now, a whisper against your ear. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

He made a low sound, almost pleased, as he watched the fear flicker in your eyes. He leaned back just enough to let the moment settle, then his hand slid from your chin to your throat, fingers curling there, careful but unyielding.

"Good girl." 

The praise landed cold, empty of warmth. His thumb lingered at your pulse, feeling the frantic beat beneath your skin.

"Now," he said softly, "let's make sure you understand compliance this time around."

His grip tightened, not enough to choke, just enough to remind you of his strength. His other hand found your wrist, steady and sure.

"When I tell you to do something, you do it immediately and without question. If I tell you to kneel, you kneel. If I tell you to strip, you strip. If I tell you to crawl, you crawl." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Have I made myself clear?"

“Damian,” You wheeze out, but his hand stays where it is for a few more seconds, his eyes dark and calculating, searching your face for resistance. Then he releases, his hand falling away from your neck. 

The first breaths scraped your throat, sharp as glass.

“Come.”

There was nowhere left but him now.

You followed Damian back to the bed where you first woke, something cold twisting in your stomach.

Your gaze darted to where Damian waited, head tilted, watching.

He’s expecting something.

What?

“Your clothes.” Damian says.

“My what?” You repeat back, hoarsely? Maybe you heard him wrong. 

You hope you heard him wrong.

"Your clothes," Damian repeats, his voice flat and unreadable. He takes a step closer, his eyes dark and unwavering. "Take. Them. Off." He makes a small motion with his hand, indicating the shirt you're wearing, the only thing on your body now. "I said I was going to be kind. I am being kind by asking rather than tearing them away from you. Do not mistake my patience for leniency." His gaze drops pointedly to the hem of the shirt. "Now. Undress."

Your fingers shook on the hem of the shirt.

Humiliation burned, hot and raw. His hand at your throat lingered in your mind. You hesitated, just long enough for impatience to flicker across his face.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with that stillness, more frightening than any threat. The air pressed in, thick and close.

"If I have to do it myself," Damian said softly, his voice almost gentle, "it won't be kind anymore." His hands flexed slightly at his sides, as if preparing to reach out and grab the shirt himself. 

You knew what would happen if you didn’t move. He wouldn’t hesitate. Your heart hammered. Slowly, your shaking hands lifted the shirt, skin bared.

“Sit.” Damian says,

You know this part. The lessons have shaped you more than you’ll admit.

You sit at his feet, eyes lowered, shaking.

You have never felt more humiliated. Bare before a man who treats you like a pet. Like a thing.

A conquest.

Damian stood over you, calm and terrifying. Your nakedness meant nothing to him. You were something to be arranged, a possession finally in place. He reached out, fingers twisting in your hair, tilting your head back until your neck was bared and your eyes met his.

"Good," he murmured, the word devoid of affection, merely a marker of obedience achieved. "Humiliation is a teacher."

Damian's hand found the band of his sweatpants. Your eyes closed, bracing for what came next.

You heard the soft thud of clothes hitting the floor. When you opened your eyes, you saw him, hard beneath black boxers.

He stepped closer, filling your senses with his cologne: sandalwood, amber, oud. Heavy, almost nauseating.

Beneath it all, you caught something else.

Possessiveness.

Tears welled as the truth settled in. This was happening. This was your new reality.

His hand moved, slow and deliberate, and you whimpered. When you hesitated, his grip in your hair tightened, dragging your head back until you had to look up at him. The dominance, the satisfaction, the lack of remorse, something inside you cracked.

He pressed his thumb against your lips, forcing them apart. This was yours now.

Your lips parted, slow and mechanical, your body already learning its new role. Damian’s eyes flashed with approval. His hand left your hair for your jaw, guiding you, the other steady at your shoulder.

"Take me in," he commanded softly, his voice low and hypnotic. "Show me you're mine." His thumb pressed against your bottom lip again, pushing it down further. "All the way."

He watched your face twist, your cheeks hollow as you took him deep. He hit the back of your throat, made you gag, but you didn’t pull away. You took it, learning your place.

"That's it," He breathed out with a shudder, his hand in your hair tightening slightly. 

"You're doing so well." He pulled out a little, allowing you to breathe before he pushed back in, hitting that spot that made your eyes water. "Who do you belong to?"

His hand twisted in your hair, forcing your head back. Tears streaked your cheeks, his length filling your mouth.

"Who. Do. You. Belong. To." The words were sharp, demanding an answer. His hips began to move, fucking your face slow and deep, claiming you completely. "Say it with your mouth full." He pushed in harder, holding you there until you choked slightly before pulling out again. "Come on, Hayati. Say it."

You tried to form the words, garbled and wet, muffled by him. "Mmm-yours... Damian..." Saliva dripped down your chin, dignity gone. Damian groaned, the sound vibrating against your lips.

"Good," he murmured, easing his hips forward again, burying himself deeper. "Remember that feeling." He held your head still, taking his time. "Now, swallow."

His release came suddenly and hot, pulsing down your throat. He held your head, making you swallow, not letting anything escape.

The taste was bitter, salty, a reminder you belonged to him now. He groaned above you, emptying himself. When he finally pulled out, your lips were swollen, your mouth messy, your body shaking. He looked down, satisfied.

"Good girl."

He wiped the mess from your mouth with his thumb, cleaning you with a tenderness that chilled.

"Swallow it all," he murmured, watching your throat move. "Every drop belongs inside you." He tucked himself away, the moment gone cold. He looked down at you, naked and trembling. "Stand up."

Damian watched as you stood, his stare harsh and unrelenting.

“I hope this lesson has been enough for you to understand.” Damian says.

“This isn’t love, Damian,” you whisper out.

“You mistake me then,” Damian responds. You look up at him as your eyes meet.

“If not me, then someone else. If not here, then somewhere else. Gotham can’t have you. Gotham doesn’t deserve you.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Damian spoke again.

“I love you too much for this place to corrupt you.” Damian finishes, the words sitting heavy in your chest.

The words hung, heavy and close. Damian stepped in, eyes dark with something almost like pain.

"Don't confuse my methods with a lack of feeling," he said quietly, his voice dangerously soft. "This is protection. This is preservation. I am carving out a space for you where the city cannot touch what matters." His hand cupped your face, thumb brushing away fresh tears. "Gotham would eat you alive, turn your softness into something jagged and cruel."

“Perhaps I have been too harsh in my devotion.” Damian’s chest met your face, and you stumbled back, confused, but he kept walking you back until your knees hit the bed. You fell, landing hard on the mattress, the comforter soft beneath you. A stark contrast to the man who put it there.

“Open.” Damian says.

You open your mouth.

“No,” Damian corrects, pushing your thighs apart. Your heart drums in your ears, blood rushing everywhere, to your head, across your body, humiliatingly, down there.

Damian kneels, sinking to the floor as if he is about to begin prayer, kissing the inner parts of your upper thighs.

“I love you.” His voice is strained, as if the words were too much and not enough.

His lips trailed up your thigh, his hands pushing your legs wider. He was gentle now, nothing like he was a minute ago.

"I love you," he repeated, his voice muffled against your skin. His tongue flicked out, tasting you slowly, reverently, like he was worshipping something precious instead of taking it. 

Each kiss felt like an apology, each lick a promise. Love twisted into obsession."

Damian's mouth found your center, his tongue parting your folds and delving inside.

He was slow, deliberate, arms wrapped around your legs to keep you open.

He licked you slowly, tongue curling against your clit with gentle pressure.

"Stay because I love you," he murmured between licks, "Not because I'm keeping you captive." His fingers joined his mouth, sliding into you with ease, proving just how ready he'd made you earlier.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, his eyes filled with a raw intensity that was almost vulnerable. "I want you to choose me," he whispered against your sensitive flesh, his fingers curling inside you gently. "Not out of fear or obligation, but because you know I would burn Gotham down for you." His tongue circled your clit slowly, deliberately building pleasure instead of demanding it. "Stay with me willingly," he pleaded softly, almost breaking character in his desperation for genuine affection.

For a moment, you were caught between the ache he drew from your body and the chaos in your chest. Confusion warred with longing, a stubborn part of you resisting the comfort of his touch even as something deeper wanted to give in. Was it real, this tenderness? Or just another shape his devotion took to bind you tighter? You tried to catch your breath, furious at the tremor of need that moved through you alongside fear.

Your back arched, a broken moan escaping as his tongue worked you. Damian watched your face, grip tightening on your thighs. "Your body knows," he murmured, mouth sliding lower. "Even when your mind resists, this," two fingers pushed deeper, curling, "remembers who it belongs to." He bit your inner thigh, leaving a mark, then returned to you, focused and intent.

"Say my name when you come."

The orgasm hit, sudden and overwhelming.

You cried out his name, hips bucking against his mouth as you broke apart. Damian drank you in, licking through your climax, not missing a drop.

When you finally stilled, trembling, he crawled up your body, kissing every inch of skin. He hovered above you, eyes dark. "See?" he whispered. "You chose me even now." His lips brushed yours.

"You came apart calling my name," he breathed against your lips, his chest pressed warm against yours. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, an anchor, not a restraint. 

"That's what love sounds like." He kissed you softly, letting you taste yourself on his lips, and closed his eyes. "Stay with me, and I'll give you everything. Every cruel thing I've done in your name, every sin I carry, it will be worth it." His forehead rested against yours. "But leave me, and I'll follow.”

“Learn this if you learn nothing else, hayati: love is not freedom. Love is knowing when to obey the person who would burn the world before letting it touch you. ”

[rawme-price]

Thinking about mer!reader who was born in captivity meeting mer!ghost who was born wild...

You both meet in a mer sanctuary, you having been rescued from an aquarium going bankrupt and ghost under treatment for a boating strike. You've never seen another mer before, but the strange creature in your tank undeniably is one, that much you instincts tell you.

But....but he's so big, bigger than anything you've seen before! You doubt he could ever comfortably fit in your tank! Just looking at him makes your fins flutter nervously, hiding in the rocks on the shelf built into the pool.

He keeps peeking into your cave, chirping and churring in a way that makes your instincts perk but you don't really understand. Safety? Pod? You don't know.

Meanwhile, ghost is losing his mind.

This strange mer is too damn small, and he keeps trying to ask "are you okay? I'm safe, did they hurt you?" But all it does is squeak like a pup and hide!

Ghost can't fit into the tiny cave with the mer, and his instincts are already freaking out because he's separated from his pod! He needs to protect the weird pup!

....how the hell the workers intend to care for you when ghost is at risk of drowning anyone who tries, they have no idea.

Request fill for nonny who wanted captive vs wild mer!!!

[lettersunderthecrypt]

hiiii cutie!! may i request a batfamily x batmom!reader where theyre on a plane (i know he has his own but for story’s sake he uses public airlines) and encounter a really mean old lady who finds discomfort with the family for some reason or other and makes it reader’s problem until bruce comes back from talking with the pilot or restroom or wtv and the old lady sees this and immediately goes hush. i just think thatd be so funny

Please Secure Your Attitude for Takeoff

Pairing: Batfamily x Batmom!AFAB!Reader

Words: 4k

Content Warning: None!

A/N: Hiiii!! Finally getting through my request inbox, yay!

Enjoy, Reader

This was going to be a shitshow.

You knew it the moment you arrived with Bruce Wayne at the public airport with seven children, two garment bags, far too many carry-ons, and the serene, devastating confidence of a man who had never once been personally humbled by boarding group numbers, overhead bin politics, or the particular little purgatory of removing shoes while an entire security line breathed down the back of his neck.

He had said it would be fine, because Bruce always said things would be fine in that low, steady voice that made disaster sound like an administrative inconvenience waiting for his signature. 

The private jet was unavailable, which you strongly suspected meant one of the children had broken something expensive, another had attempted to hide the evidence badly, and Alfred had decided, with all the silent cruelty of a man who polished silverware like a verdict, that commercial air travel was the natural consequence. 

So Bruce had bought first-class tickets, guided everyone through the airport with one warm hand at the small of your back, and said, “It will be good for them.”

You had looked up at him beneath the harsh airport lights, surrounded by travelers, rolling luggage, crying toddlers, and the smell of burnt coffee. “For them?”

“For all of us,” Bruce had said, which was much worse.

“That sounds like something said immediately before a tragedy.”

“It’s only a few hours.”

That was only an hour ago. Now the plane hums around you, that strange hush that only happens in the air, all of you sealed inside a narrow metal body above the clouds, breathing the same cold, recycled air. The engines drone low and steady, interrupted by the occasional soft chime overhead. Sunlight presses in through the oval windows, pale and bright, turning the leather seats glossy and catching on the plastic cups scattered across tray tables. 

The cabin smells faintly of coffee, expensive perfume, warm electronics, and the sharp, artificial chill of pressurized air. Dick sits across the aisle, already adored by two flight attendants and a toddler with a dinosaur backpack. Dick Grayson could make polite eye contact with a vending machine and leave it feeling understood. 

Jason has a paperback open in one hand, but he looks less like he’s reading and more like he’s daring the entire concept of literature to pick a fight. Your heart pulls a little when you catch him checking, just once, to see if you noticed the title; one of the stray, silent ways he still asks for approval, as if old habits might let him believe he is only visiting home. 

Tim is behind you, laptop open, soul halfway gone, fighting sleep with the tragic dignity of a vigilante fighting bedtime. You remember the year you learned to make strong tea just the way he prefers, so he wouldn’t fade during finals. 

Cass has already taken the laptop before it can slide off the tray table, moving so quietly that Tim just blinks at his empty hands like a magician stole his future. She gives you a fleeting, conspiratorial smile, the kind she reserves only for family. 

Duke wears a travel pillow and watches the cabin with the mild amusement of someone waiting for the plot to thicken. On mornings when the world feels heavy, you still call him your little sun. 

Damian sits beside you, sketchbook open in his lap, drawing Titus in what looks like a cape and a small, deeply judgmental cowl. He leans a little into your shoulder as he draws, a closeness he pretends is absent, but you know is his version of trust.

Bruce had been seated on your other side until ten minutes after takeoff, when a flight attendant leaned down and murmured something about the captain wanting a word. His eyes had shifted in that subtle way you recognized, attention sharpening behind the mask of a polite billionaire, and he had touched your wrist before standing.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

“You said that once and came back with a child.”

Jason coughed into his fist, and Dick suddenly became very interested in the safety card.

Bruce’s mouth barely twitched. “No more children.”

“Do you promise?”

“For the rest of the flight.”

“Romantic,” you said, and he brushed his thumb once over the inside of your wrist before disappearing toward the front galley, broad shoulders making the aisle look unfairly narrow as he moved past the curtain.

For approximately thirty seconds, there was peace.

Then the woman in 3C cleared her throat.

It was not an ordinary throat clear. It was a declaration of war wearing pearls, the sort of sound produced by someone who had been storing disapproval in her chest since boarding and had finally decided the cabin deserved access to it. You looked up and found her turned just enough in her seat to face you without fully committing to the indignity of twisting around.

 She was elderly, elegant, and stiff-backed, with a silver bob sprayed into submission, coral lipstick, a cream cardigan buttoned over a pale blouse, and a handbag resting in her lap like a judgmental pet. Her eyes swept across Damian’s sketchbook, Jason’s jacket, Tim’s half-dead posture, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s watchful amusement, Dick’s easy charm, and finally settled on you with the hard little satisfaction of a woman who had found the person she intended to make responsible for her discomfort.

You knew that look. You had seen versions of it in school offices, charity events, grocery stores, hospital waiting rooms, and once in a museum where Damian had been accused of “lurking with intent” beside a Monet. It was the look people gave when they saw your family and decided love had exceeded the legal occupancy limit.

You gave her your politest smile. “Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” she said.

Damian’s pencil paused against the page.

Dick leaned slightly into the aisle with that bright, well-meaning expression that made strangers believe diplomacy might survive the century. “Is something wrong, ma’am?”

The woman glanced at him, seemed briefly inconvenienced by the power of his face, then recovered. “I was speaking to the mother.”

Jason turned a page without looking up. “Which one? We rotate emotional support adults.”

“Jason,” you murmured.

The woman’s lips pinched. “That is exactly what I mean.”

You folded your hands in your lap because if you gave them nothing respectable to do, one might drift toward Damian’s wrist in warning or Jason’s shoulder in preemptive damage control. “What do you mean?”

“The noise,” she said. “The whispering, the constant shifting, the atmosphere.”

Duke blinked. “The atmosphere?”

“Yes,” she said, as if he had personally released a weather system into first class.

The bleakest part is that no one had been loud. The Wayne children in public could be many things, but when they needed to, they went quiet. Not normal quiet. Dangerous quiet. Rooftop quiet. The kind of quiet that makes sensible people check the exits and wonder why their instincts have started ringing little silver bells.

“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” you said. “We’ll be mindful.”

“Mindful would have been arranging yourselves properly before boarding,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Children should not be scattered across the cabin like loose change.”

Jason’s eyes lifted over the top of his book.

The air changed almost imperceptibly, and a silk thread pulled tight. Dick’s smile stayed in place, but the warmth thinned at the edges. Cass’s gaze moved to the woman with calm precision. Duke straightened a little. Damian lowered his pencil, his mouth flattening into the expression he wore when deciding whether a person deserved mercy or a footnote.

“They’re in assigned seats,” you said.

“They’re practically surrounding people.”

“We do that,” Tim mumbled, still half-asleep. “Family tradition.”

Cass gently shut his laptop the rest of the way.

The woman stared at him. “Is he ill?”

“Sleep deprived,” Duke said. “Very tragic. Very Gotham.”

“Then perhaps he shouldn’t travel.”

Tim opened one eye. “I suggested cargo. Nobody listened.”

“Tim,” you said softly.

The woman seized on that tiny crack of chaos with visible satisfaction. “You see? Disrespectful. Dramatic. And that one looks as if he is about to start a fight.”

She pointed at Jason.

Jason looked down at himself, then around the cabin, as if searching for whatever violent criminal she could possibly mean. “Me?”

“You know it’s you,” Dick said quietly.

Jason placed one hand over his heart. “I’m reading Austen.”

“That does not comfort people the way you think it does,” Duke murmured.

The woman turned toward Damian next, apparently determined to catalog every offense by row and blood pressure. “And that one has been staring at me.”

Damian looked up slowly, and the temperature of the cabin seemed to drop by several degrees. “I have not. I have been drawing my dog.”

“You looked at me twice.”

“You were in my line of sight.”

“Damian,” you said.

His jaw tightened, but he looked back down. “Apologies.”

It sounded less like an apology and more like a royal pardon delivered under protest.

The woman clearly mistook your restraint for permission. Some people did that. They saw courtesy and decided it was an unlocked door; they saw motherhood and mistook softness for a public utility. “Large families like this always think the world should accommodate them,” she said, loudly enough now for the nearest passengers to hear, but not quite loudly enough to admit she wanted an audience.

“We paid for our seats too,” you replied.

“Yes, but you chose to bring this entire… assembly.”

Dick’s smile vanished.

It did not vanish dramatically. It simply left his face like a light being switched off.

“Assembly?” he repeated.

“Dick,” you murmured.

“I’m just checking the vocabulary.”

The woman looked at him, perhaps sensing for half a second that she had stepped onto a floorboard with teeth beneath it, but then her attention returned to you. You were always the safer battlefield. Bruce was too imposing, Jason too visibly unpleasant when provoked, Damian too sharp, Cass too unreadable, Tim too dangerous in proximity to electronics, Duke too watchful, and Dick too charming until he was suddenly not charming at all. 

But you looked like the mother, the soft one, the one expected to absorb the blow and turn it into an apology. And in truth, you were their stepmother. It was a title that knew how to wear armor and softness at the same time, and you had learned to hold both, whether the world recognized the difference or not.

“I understand wanting to give children opportunities,” she said, her voice sweet in the way spoiled milk might be sweet if it learned manners. “But some children simply aren’t suited for public spaces.”

Jason’s book closed.

Not loud. Loud would have been less threatening. He closes it with one finger still marking his place, slow and deliberate, and lifts his eyes.

“Careful,” he said.

The woman recoiled, one hand fluttering to her pearls. “Excuse me?”

You looked at him. “Jason.”

“What?” he said. “It’s good advice. Lots of sudden drops on planes.”

“We are not doing this.”

A flight attendant named Maribel appeared in the aisle with the cautious smile of a woman who had smelled smoke before the alarm had started screaming. “Is everything alright here?”

The old woman turned to her immediately. “I’m being harassed.”

Jason made a sound like his soul had tripped over furniture.

Dick leaned forward. “No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Tim murmured. “Being disagreed with.”

“Not helpful,” Duke whispered.

Maribel looked between all of you with admirable professionalism. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I asked this woman to control her children, and they became rude and threatening.”

“Threatening?” Dick asked, and the word came out quieter than before.

“That one told me to be careful.” She pointed at Jason again.

Jason lifted a hand. “General safety reminder.”

“Please stop helping,” you told him.

“I have never helped once in my life.”

“That’s true,” Dick said.

“Do not defend my character right now.”

The woman turned back to you. “Are you going to allow this?”

Your smile thinned. “I’ve allowed a lot less than you think.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry if you feel disturbed,” you said, and though your voice stayed calm, you could feel your patience fraying beneath it, thread by thread. “But my children have done nothing to you.”

The words changed the cabin.

My children.

They were simple words, but they settled over the rows with a weight that made several of the kids go quiet in a different way. Dick’s expression softened for half a second, unguarded and young despite everything he had survived. Jason looked away, jaw working once as if the sentence had struck somewhere too private to acknowledge. Tim stared at his closed laptop. Cass’s gaze warmed with a softness that was nearly invisible unless you knew how to read her. Duke’s smile tucked itself away into something careful and touched. Damian’s pencil hovered above the page, unmoving.

The woman missed all of it, naturally.

“They’re not children,” she said. “Half of them are grown men.”

“Then stop tattling on them like they stole your crayons,” Jason muttered.

“Jason Peter Todd,” you said.

He winced. “That was unnecessary.”

The woman lifted her chin. “In my day, young people respected their elders.”

“In your day, planes had smoking sections,” Tim said, then looked immediately betrayed by his own mouth.

Duke covered his face with one hand.

Cass patted Tim’s arm.

The woman gasped. “Are you going to allow that?”

Tim looked at you with the doomed expression of a man who had wandered barefoot into a courtroom. “I may have over-participated.”

“You think?”

“Statistically, yes.”

The woman leaned back, offended dignity gathering around her like a shawl. “I don’t know what kind of household you run, but clearly these children have been given too much freedom.”

Your anger always arrives quietly. It isn’t fire, an explosion, or something that cracks through a room and demands attention. It gathers like weather over dark water, slow and heavy, giving people too many chances to mistake the horizon for peace.

“You can complain about the seats,” you said, voice low enough that the nearby rows had to fall silent to catch it. “You can complain about whispering, or atmosphere, or whatever else you’ve decided is unbearable about sitting near my family. But you will not talk about my children like they are burdens someone dragged onto this plane.”

The woman’s face stiffened. “I never said burdens.”

“You implied it.”

“I only meant,” she said, wearing a small, ugly smile now, “that it is generous of you to take on so many complicated young people. Though generosity does have limits.”

For a moment, no one moved.

The engines hummed beneath the floor. Sunlight flashed on the woman’s pearls. Damian went rigid beside you, and you felt the barely contained fury in him like a blade heating under cloth. Jason’s stare flattened into something cold. Dick’s hand tightened around the armrest. Tim was fully awake now, which was rarely a good sign. Cass became too still. Duke’s expression lost every trace of humor.

You reached over without looking and touched two fingers to Damian’s wrist.

“No,” you said softly. “It does not.”

Before the woman could answer, the cabin shifted.

You saw him first.

Bruce came through the curtain at the front of the plane with his dark hair slightly mussed, his suit jacket folded over one arm, his white shirt fitted across his shoulders in a way that made the aisle seem narrower by personal insult. He thanked the flight attendant near the galley, then walked back toward you with that quiet, controlled presence that made the world appear to straighten itself as he passed. No music swelled, no cape unfurled, no dramatic shadow fell across the cabin, though Jason would have paid actual money for all three. Bruce simply returned.

The woman turned because everyone else did.

Then she saw him.

And immediately went silent.

Not quiet. Silent.

It was the kind of silence that happened when someone realized the thunderstorm had a name, a jawline known to every gossip magazine in Gotham, and a very expensive watch.

Bruce stopped beside your row. His eyes moved over you first, always you first, and then over the children with a swift, practiced precision that missed nothing: Jason’s closed book, Damian’s clenched hands, Dick’s missing smile, Tim’s awake stare, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s sharpened expression, Maribel standing in the aisle with the fragile composure of a woman praying no one committed a felony at cruising altitude. Finally, he looked at the woman.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

His voice was polite, even, and dangerous as a locked door.

The woman swallowed. “Mr. Wayne.”

Jason leaned back in his seat, delighted in the way only Jason could be when consequences arrived wearing cufflinks. “You were asking where our father was, right?”

“Jason,” Dick whispered.

“No, I’m helping.”

Bruce did not look away from the woman. “Were you?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “There was a small misunderstanding.”

“A small misunderstanding,” Bruce repeated.

He glanced at you. You lifted one shoulder in a tiny motion that told him both nothing and everything. You could handle it. You had handled it. But Bruce looked at the children again, and something in his expression cooled.

“My wife,” he said, “is usually the most patient person in any room.”

The woman tried to smile. “Yes, well…”

“So if she became impatient,” Bruce continued, “I assume there was a reason.”

The smile died.

Maribel looked down, clearly fighting for her life somewhere behind her professional expression.

The woman clutched her handbag. “I didn’t realize this was your family.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “That should not have mattered.”

Jason looked as if Christmas had arrived early and brought legal counsel.

Damian looked like justice had descended in human form and found the seating satisfactory.

The woman stared at her lap. “Of course.”

Bruce turned slightly to Maribel. “Has my family caused any disruption?”

“No, Mr. Wayne,” Maribel said. “They’ve been respectful.”

Bruce looked back at the woman. “Then I trust there won’t be further issues.”

It sounded like trust.

It was not trust.

“No,” the woman said stiffly. “There won’t be.”

“Thank you.”

Bruce sat down beside you and took your hand as if he had not just folded the entire argument into a neat little coffin and slid it beneath the seat in front of him.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Then Jason whispered, “Dad voice still works.”

Dick exhaled a laugh, shaky with relief. “That wasn’t even full dad voice.”

Tim leaned back in his seat. “Full dad voice requires a first and middle name.”

Damian sniffed. “Father did not need volume. His disappointment was sufficient.”

Duke nodded solemnly. “Artisanal disappointment.”

Cass signed something with one hand that you couldn’t see fully from your seat.

Dick choked.

“What did she say?” you asked.

Dick grinned. “She said Bruce has resting principal face.”

Bruce looked at Cass.

Cass looked back, serene and merciless.

His mouth twitched. “Not inaccurate.”

You finally let out a breath, only then noticing how much tension had settled in your shoulders, tucked there like a smuggled knife. Bruce’s thumb moves slowly over your knuckles, hidden beneath the armrest where only you can feel it.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

“She had opinions,” you said.

“About?”

“Our atmosphere.”

Bruce glanced around the cabin. “Our atmosphere.”

“Yes. Apparently we travel with a weather system.”

Jason muttered, “Accurate.”

You lowered your voice. “She said generosity has limits.”

Bruce’s hand stilled.

Damian looked up, his chin lifting with sharp, wounded dignity. “She implied we were burdens.”

“Damian,” you said softly.

“It is relevant.”

Bruce went very quiet.

Then he looked at them one by one. Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, Damian. His expression did not transform dramatically, because Bruce’s face had always been a locked house with only a few windows lit, but something deeper moved beneath it, something heavy and certain and fiercely held.

“None of you are burdens,” he said.

The sentence landed gently, and somehow that made it heavier.

Tim looked down. Cass’s eyes warmed. Duke swallowed. Jason’s jaw tightened as he stared hard at his book. Damian glared at his sketchbook with ferocious concentration. Dick smiled faintly, the kind of smile that looked like it had been stitched out of old hurt and gratitude.

Bruce’s voice stayed low. “Not to me. Not to your mother. Not ever.”

Your throat tightened before you could stop it, because even when a truth was known, there were moments when hearing it aloud made it real in a new place.

The woman in 3C sat so still she seemed to be trying to become upholstery.

Maribel returned with drinks a moment later, giving you a quiet look of solidarity as she stopped beside your row. “More water, Mrs. Wayne?”

“Yes, please.”

“Anything else?”

“Coffee,” Tim said at once.

“No,” you, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Damian said together.

Tim looked betrayed. “I need it to live.”

“You need sleep to live,” you said.

“I’ve tried sleep. We’re incompatible, swiped left.”

Cass accepted the coffee Maribel had already poured and placed it on her own tray table, far from Tim’s reach.

Tim stared at her with hollow despair. “Cruelty from the quietest corner.”

Jason reopened his book. “This family hates innovation.”

“This family hates whatever happens when you drink airplane coffee after thirty hours awake,” Duke said.

“Thirty-one,” Tim corrected.

Bruce looked at him.

Tim closed his eyes. “Allegedly.”

Slowly, your family settles back into its shape. Dick makes Maribel laugh with something kind and easy. Cass watches the clouds like they’re speaking a language she almost understands. Duke quietly guesses which passengers are afraid of flying and keeps being right every time. Tim actually falls asleep, mouth slightly open, protected from caffeine by Cass and whatever higher power is on duty. Jason goes back to reading Austen with the grim focus of a man determined to win an argument with a woman who will never know she’s part of it. Damian finishes his drawing and, after a small hesitation, tears it carefully from the sketchbook and hands it to you.

You took it with both hands. Titus stood in the center of the page wearing a cape and a tiny cowl, one paw planted on a defeated vacuum cleaner.

“He looks brave,” you said.

“He is brave,” Damian replied.

“Is the vacuum cleaner dead?”

“Subdued.”

“Of course.”

Jason leaned over. “Can Titus have a gritty reboot?”

“No,” Damian said.

“I’m seeing rain, vengeance, tragic kibble trauma.”

“Titus already has depth.”

“He eats socks.”

“That is a layered flaw.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Bruce’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing once over your skin like punctuation.

The old woman did not turn around again.

After a while, when the cabin had settled into that soft middle-of-flight hush and the clouds beyond the windows stretched white and endless beneath the wing, you leaned forward just enough for your voice to reach her. “I hope the rest of the flight is more comfortable for you.”

She turned slightly, embarrassed and stiff, no longer sharp enough to cut with. “Thank you.”

You sat back.

Jason stared at you. “You’re too nice.”

“No,” you said. “I’m exactly nice enough.”

Bruce’s gaze warmed. “Yes, you are.”

Damian frowned. “She did not deserve courtesy.”

“Courtesy isn’t always about deserve,” you said, watching the clouds glow like pale silk beyond the window. “Sometimes it’s about who you want to be when someone else is small.”

Damian absorbed that with the deep displeasure of someone who had asked for ammunition and received a philosophy lesson.

Jason groaned softly. “Great. Moral improvement at thirty thousand feet.”

“Hydrate,” you told him. “It’ll pass.”

Bruce lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, the gesture hidden from most of the cabin by the angle of his body, but not from you. His lips were warm against your skin, brief and old-fashioned and tender in a way that made your heart ache.

“You were magnificent,” he murmured.

“I was irritated.”

“Magnificently irritated.”

You smile despite yourself and look around at your family, scattered across the cabin just like the woman said. Loose change, she called them, or close enough. But she was wrong, the way people are always wrong when they mistake what they can count for what they can understand.

Not loose change, you thought.

A constellation.

Bright, stubborn, impossible stars, scattered across the dark and still belonging to the same sky.

[kumasakka]

𝓢𝐔𝐀𝐕𝐄

─── ❨ 𝐚𝐝𝐣. ❩ smoothly charming and confident , often in a polished or sophisticated way :: you secretly love the way he attracts you and he knows too well !

content ⸝⸝ aged up . damian al ghul-wayne x fem . reader , oneshot , suggestive , shorter . reader , 1.47wc , this was a request 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒

　It's not like you are dirty-minded or anything — after all, you are a grown woman and capable of controlling yourself for some decorum, someone you should pay your high respect to and as well honour.

People and the world in general shall never know of that one dark side of you, including your fiancé. You are in denial yourself, claiming that this side does not belong to you.

No, never. No one should know. No one shall face.

(Still, no one is surprised when he knows.)

But you couldn't help but feel a little guilty whenever you watch your fiancé do his things — stuff that is considered normal and part of his daily life yet there is this intimate ring around it that you quite weren't able to figure out.

I. — PRETTY RINGS AND PRETTY FINGERS ,

Damian was doing it again, after adjusting it numerous times already. You counted and it actually has been a handful of times. It's not like you minded that much — it was just a little distracting for you.

"Especially because the Wayne foundation is such a great funder for those charity events and..."

The longer you listened to their words, the more you wanted to bury yourself into the ground. You blocked out their voices from your mind, a polite smile playing on your face while nodding.

And then — your gaze fell short on your fiancé, how he was barely listening. His attention solely fixated on his hands, pulling his pretty ring off his slender fingers before pushing it back on.

It's shamelessly shining into your eye, the ring around his finger and how he was rubbing against it so slowly.

Wow, I need some alone time right now—

"Focus." he murmured under his breath, blank expression written all over his face as he caught you staring.

You bit back a loud, exasperated groan from leaving your lips and threw your head back, feeling a tinge of anxiety and also partially exposed as soon as he caught you staring at his hands.

This couldn't get more embarrassing, right?

"Is everything alright, Mrs. Wayne?"

"O-Of course... Everything is fine."

Everything was fine. You tried to cover your own flinch the second Damian's hand rested on top of your thigh under the table, fingers tapping a soft rhythm before it slid further.

Stop playing you breathed out shakily, hand grasping his wrist.

Make me he chuckled at your weak grip.

II. — SHIRTLESS SPARRING ,

It was actually part of your life now after you spent so many years being together with Damian Wayne, or sometimes, in moments like these, you preferred to call him Damian Al Ghul instead.

Not to forget, you don't even understand when it started to bug you so much. Because the first time you watched him sparr without a shirt, you were only grinning and cheering him on. And now it was bugging you immensely.

Bug you in not a necessarily bad way.

You are staring once again, watching how his body moved with fluidity and flawlessly within the air, manoeuvring in the silence and without breaking the rhythm.

Every step is a careful and planned out approach.

Every skill is polished throughout day and night since his childhood days.

He does not hesitate to move like the wind, lets himself get carried and follows it like a lifeline.

It takes a while until he breaks into sweat, the first droplets of them forming on his neck — gliding down his collarbone before it reached his chest. And you noticed that the entirety of him is well built.

His body is not a symbol of beauty but rather one of dedication and hard work, reaching the extreme and fulfilling the best someone can.

Your gaze wander from his toned chest to his arms, seeing the muscles flexing through his movements. His golden brown skin started to glisten under the trail of sweat that accompanied his body like a true companion.

"—Careful now before your eyes end up at the wrong place." he paused his training, gaze set on you.

The heat immediately rushed up to your neck as you got caught another time. "Is that so..?" you trailed off awkwardly and threw a towel into his direction that he caught in ease.

"I would be more than happy if you sparred with me." he wiped off the excess sweat with the towel, "I figured you might want to join."

Wrong, wrong buddy. You don't want to join in his sparring at all.

"You are always free to leave if this bores you."

Very wrong.

III. — INTIMIDATING HEIGHT DIFFERENCE ,

You do remember the days when you were the same height as him. Or hell, when you were a few centimetres taller than you. You remember how you were teasing the shit out of him.

Truth to be told? It was fun, seeing how he narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in annoyance. It was adorable to see him inwardly fuming, while telling you that you will see in the future.

It was nice while it lasted. The moment he was taller than you by an inch? You knew it was over for you. And he grew taller than you both had anticipated, standing almost a head taller than you. You have to crane your neck to meet his gaze — crane your fucking neck. It's the biggest humiliation of your whole life, entire existence but it's a loss you will forever cheer for since it makes you feel certain things.

"Hayati, you seem lost." you don't seem lost, you are lost — lost in the way the endearing term rolled off his tongue so easily, lost how he stares down at you. "Shall we move out of the busy hall?"

"No wait—I'm right where I want to be."  you choked out, almost tripping over your words.

Even if the room was filled with socialites and high rich people. But they didn't matter as you stood in the very corner of the room, all noises and background sounds.

The proximity draws you in unbearably hot, the way he gazes at you is making you sweat, he makes you nervous — makes you feel sixteen again when your crush has first developed. It was unfair, it was killing you.

Your lips formed a thin line as you suppressed a groan from leaving your throat, head falling forward and your forehead leaned against his shoulder, your grip around the glass tight.

"It's unfair. You are unfair, I hate it."

It enticed a chuckle out of him, voice low and rich — god, it made your knees weak.

Actually, you do know he doesn't do it intentionally. He doesn't even know what effect he has on you and this makes you tweak. You are so sure that you could bet your life on it.

He doesn’t do it intentionally.

Right, keep telling yourself that.

Yet the way he eyes you tells a different tale. It’s not the possessive and selfish kind of eyeing — but the one that forces you to tell the truth, that makes your heart stutter and your breath hitch.

“Stop.” you avert your gaze from him, heat leisurely crawling up to your head.

“Hmm?” there’s this underlying smugness under that hum, breaking you. “With what?”

“Staring—obviously.” you hissed before covering your face with both of your hands. “It’s so unfair!”

“Pray tell, what makes anything so unfair? You’ve been mentioning it since the very start.” he titled his head slightly.

“You—! You, you…”

“Lost your words? Poor you." the mock sympathy.

Silence settled, your eyes set on his fingers for a while, then drifting to the shirt that barely covered anything (it covered him whole) before they landed on his eyes.

“I noticed.” he whispered.

“N-Noticed what?” you played dumb.

Damian grasped your wrist before you could make an attempt to flee, fingers curling around your wrist and raising your hand towards his lips — leans close to your hands and sharp breath fanning against your skin.

A shiver ran down your spine at the cooling sensation.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t smirk — nothing to feed your suspicions.

“Do not play coy now.” the gentle pressure of a touch, lips ghosting over your wrist.

“What…” you were looking everywhere but him.

“To be frank, I did not expect you to enjoy me in such an intimate way.”

“I do not..!”

“No need to be shy now.”

Suddenly — he pulled you close with one swift and steady movement, pressing your body close to his while his free hand snaked its way behind the small of your back, burying his face deep against your neck.

“Ack—!” you yelped out in surprise, hyperaware of every touch now.

The way he interlocked your fingers, the way he breathed down against your shoulder, the way he refused to let go.

“Shall we take it to secluded place, Habibti?”

© 2026 kumasakka — do not plagiarize , copy , modify , translate our work ⸝⸝

divider source — @cursed-carmine , @uzmacchiato ⸝⸝

author’s note — what if i open a taglist is someone interested erm or never mind haha also PLS i’ve been on a writing trip recently but only post short ass boring drabbles . yet lately? those damian wayne requests bring the longer fics out DAMN (sobs in i could never write a +5k wc fic) vro I wanna write about cass so bad she makes me giggle ⸝⸝

[arachnidseyes]

「🌺」 +18

I don't think you'd even notice if Damian got sex pollened.

Like maybe he'd stumble a little when sneaking through your apartment window but who are you to critique an assassin’s stealth skills?

Maybe his breathing is a little ragged but you'd probably just assume the mission he came back from was a real work out.

It's not weird that he's looking at you like you’re an oasis and he's been roaming the desert for days. He always kinda looks at you like that so that wouldn't really tip you off either.

Sure, his post-mission kiss is more of a make out but he's never really been one for fleeting kisses, always more of a deep and lasting touches kinda guy. That's probably why he can't seem to stop his hands from roaming your body and slipping under your pj's.

Maybe you'd notice he's running a little hotter than usual but Damian always runs hot so it wouldn't be that strange.

He probably had a rough day at work and a rough night too so who are you to stop him from placing hot kisses all down your neck. Especially when he mumbles such sweet words against the skin.

“Ya Hayati, I missed you. Say you missed me too.”

Sure, maybe the way he undresses is a little more rushed than normal. Sure, maybe the look in his eyes when he undresses you is more desperate than usual but he's got a lot of feelings pent up in that tall, muscular body and sometimes he can only let them out in times like these so who are you to question it? Maybe you just conveniently ignore the fact that he's already hard and leaking.

Who are you to question the emphatic way he tastes you, how his hands trace your hips and thighs like they're sacred? Or how his sweet talk is especially chatty that night, breathlessly waxing poetic about how you're so good to him and how much he needs you.

"I need you so deeply it hurts me. It burns, Beloved."

Now, It's not odd how he stares into your eyes, hands intertwined while he pushes inside you. What is odd is just how vocal he is. Usually, he's the one teasing you for being loud but not tonight. You don't really notice though since his moans are still mostly drowned out by yours.

Ok, maybe after the third round (and counting) you should've suspected something was off but by that point you barely have the brain capacity to form a full sentence. He's hitting all the right spots, your hands are intertwined and he's looking at you with eyes fill of pure love.

It's only the next morning, when you wake up sweaty and aching all over, do you actually consider that maybe Damian wasn't acting completely himself.

Only to be confirmed when the man in question mumbles into your neck, thick with sleep and rough from the night before.

“You should thank Ivy yourself.”

「🌺 After」

[arachnidseyes]

We're Moving Out.

A compilation of Reader and Damian being horny nineteen year olds much to the detriment of everyone around them.

🕷️--- Smut. MDNI. Same reader as this series but can be read as a standalone ---🕸️

Everyone noticed the shift.

They expected it much earlier actually but after you and Damian started dating nothing really changed about the way you interacted in public. You just acted like close friends, like you had since you were kids.

Then, all of a sudden, touches between you seemed to linger, conversations were being whispered into each others ears instead of just spoken, even eye contact seemed more intimate.

And the worst part was that Damian's siblings were forced to watch it all. It's not that they weren't happy for him, it was just weird seeing their moody, stick-up-the-ass baby brother be soft and even…loving?

It didn't take a house full of detectives to know why this sudden change could've occurred.

“They're fucking."

Multiple heads turn to Jason and he clarifies, “That's why they're acting so weird all of a sudden."

None of them have to ask who he's talking about.

“They’re just acting like a couple."

Duke comes to your defence. “Even though it really is... weird."

Everyone in the room sounds their agreements.

“It's getting worse than weird. It's getting disturbing. I caught them in the library." Jason grumbles, cringing at the memory.

It was a quiet, peaceful evening. You'd both spent a good two hours in comfortable silence until you got to a lull in your book and began to find staring at your boyfriend more interesting.

You shuffle closer on the comfy couch, gauging just how engrossed Damian is in his book. Without looking up, he slips an arm around your waist to bring you closer and you take that as a hint.

“What are you reading?" Damian flips the book closed to show you the cover.

“Poetry?"

He nods, his thumb rubbing at your side as you shuffle even closer.

“What are these?"

You point to the little sticky notes he has in some of the pages. Instead of answering, he turns to one of the pages and reads it out loud.

"هرگز نمیرد آن که دلش زنده شد به عشق ثبت است بر جریده عالم دوام ما"

"One whose heart has been revived by love can never die. Our everlastingness is engraved upon the cosmic scroll."

- Hafez

As he mutters the last word, you don't even try to hide the way you stare at him and he's just as subtle himself. You carefully lean in, so close you can feel his breath and you close the gap. He slides the book away to pull you onto his lap as the kiss grows deeper. Your hand on his cheek keeps him close as he pushes you down on the couch.

A sly whistle makes you both jump apart, turning to see Jason standing in the middle of the library.

“Well that's everlastingly engraved into my skull, thanks."

You avert your gaze, face hot and palms suddenly sweaty. Damian clicks his tongue and sneers,

“Always where you're not wanted, Todd."

Jason, not fazed at all by the harsh words, just shrugs his ridiculously large shoulders.

“I didn't say it wasn't romantic, little man. I just didn't need to see it."

Damian's so mad he just picks his book up, grabs your hand and storms out of the room.

“The library!" Jason emphasizes again.

Tim scoffs, “Please, we caught them in the theatre room."

“No way." Cass voices in amused disbelief and only gets a solemn nod from Steph.

You weren't trying to start something, you were just so warm and cozy in his arms. So content as the movie played on in front of you. You really didn't mean any harm when you just turned your head to the side and lightly kissed his neck.

But the way he tensed up a little at the touch, the way his breath hitched softly and his arm around you flexed at just the little kiss. You just had to do it again, and again and again. Your hand sliding up his chest to feel his heartbeat, your lips feeling his pulse right under his warm skin.

“Ya Hayati." He warned.

“I’m not doing anything.” Your words are muffled against his skin. "And if I was, no one ever comes in here anyway."

Apparently, that was all the convincing he needed. He brings your thigh over his waist, feeling up the fat there as he moves higher until his hand cups your ass. Whatever scene plays on the projector is forgotten as you suck love bites onto his neck, making him let out addicting sighs you just have to hear again. He pulls your hips closer, one hand on your ass, the other around your waist.

Just when Damian slips a hand up your shirt, the doors swing open and you hear a high-pitched screech.

“Is this what you do in here all the time!?”

Stephanie shouts and Tim makes a disgusted groaning sound from behind her.

Damian sighs, reluctantly letting you shuffle out of his hold and sit next to him, staring straight ahead with a guilty expression like you're being scolded by a parent.

“Get a room! You literally have a room!”

“Do you think they do that a lot in there?"

The others all make various faces of horror at Cass’s genuine question.

“Alfred, you've probably caught them more times than any of us have, right?"

The old man doesn't falter as he transfers more cookies and cakes from his silver tray to the table. He doesn't say anything for a while, he probably wanted to stay out of this particular conversation.

“While I am very happy for Master Damian and his lady…" The butler sets the last cupcake down. "I am also glad that they have chosen to journey out to the lady's dorm today for some…alone time, I presume.“

Your roommate said she'd be out all night at a party and you weren't going to let that once in a blue moon opportunity slip past.

So now you've got your boyfriend, sitting on the end of your bed with your thighs on either side of his and his face buried in your neck, sweetly kissing the bruises he leaves in his wake.

Your fingers lightly, card up from the base of his head into his dark hair. You feel him shiver, feel him let out a shaky breath against your skin, his fingers flexing on your hips.

It was so fascinating seeing how he reacted to you. It was like seeing him for the first time again, a whole new side of him. You've known each other since you were kids but suddenly there's so many new things to explore. What would happen if you touched here? Is he sensitive there? What sounds does he make when you touch there?

You gently push him down so he leans back with his elbows on the bed. Your hand swiftly slips under his shirt to drag your nails up his toned torso. His half lidded eyes watch as his abs flex under the soft touch and he tries not to move his hips too much. You start dragging your nails back down to the waistband of his pants, tracing his v-line.

And then a knock on the door frightens you so much, you would've fallen off the bed if Damian hadn't caught you.

“Hey, I know you said you'd be…busy but the function got cancelled so…"

You both heave a sorrowful sigh and you wordlessly shuffle off your bed.

“I have an idea."

Is all Damian mumbles while slipping his shoes on and plucking his keys from his pocket.

“So…what do we do about it?"

“The same thing we did with Master Bruce and Miss Kyle. We ignore it."

Steph and Tim give pained groans.

“Or we convince them to move out." Jason throws out into the room.

“You think Damian would ever live in a house that isn't a mansion?" Tim turns to Alfred to ask, "Didn't he call this place a hovel when he first came here?"

The older man hums. “He also said my cooking was atrocious."

Multiple gasps ring throughout the room.

You've been driving for about fifteen minutes when he brings the car to a stop. You sit up to get a good look at the incredible view in front of you and then realise where you are.

“A makeout point?"

You smugly ask, as if you aren't kicking your shoes off as you speak.

“There's no one here. The windows are tinted." He says, while pushing his seat back. “Unless you'd like to try the manor again?"

He barely gets to finish before you're clambering out of your seat and onto his lap. Your lips are on his once again and he pulls you closer so your hips meet through way too many layers of clothes and leans forward to press your back against the steering wheel.

The smell of leather is strong and the space is awkwardly tight but neither of you seem to mind that much, lost in the way the other tastes.

After some effort you push him back down on the seat and pull your sweatshirt off. You're not trying to waste anymore time and neither is he.

His hands clutch at your hips as he takes in the sight of you in the darkly lit car with only the city lights behind you. The look in his eyes matched with the dim lighting may be your new favourite thing. You unbutton his jeans and unzip them until there's nothing but his boxers keeping him away from you.

He sits up, trailing light kisses on the swell of your breast just above your bra as his fingers unbutton your jeans and pull them down so you can grind your heat against him with nothing but the thin material of your underwear between you.

You wonder if he can feel your wetness as you circle your hips, catching his every little noise and reaction. You just need to feel him, need to feel your bare skin against his, his hot, hard-

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

You both jump as the sound plays from the car's speakers. Looking towards the screen on the dash you both groan when you read,

“Father”

He sinks into the car seat, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.

“Maybe he's just checking in?" You mumble into his shoulder with false hope. Damian sighs and answers the call.

“I'm busy."

“I need you in the cave. Now."

You try not to sigh to loudly or move too much, convinced Bruce would somehow know exactly what you're doing by just the sound alone.

Damian squeezes your hip in a little apology and you nod into his neck as a show of understanding.

“I'll be there."

He hangs up the call and you awkwardly shuffle off his lap and into the passenger seat. Buttoning up your jeans as he does the same.

He starts the car and pulls away a little less skillfully than usual. You try not to think about the clear wet patch you saw on his boxers or the state of your panties as you slip your sweatshirt back on.

You stare at your lap instead, where your hands are clasped above your clenched thighs. He'll have to take a cold shower to get rid of his…problem, maybe you could use one too.

You gasp out loud at the brilliant idea and Damian looks over with confusion and a little worry.

“What?"

“Master Damian? Dinner is ready."

Everyone just got done with an important meeting in the cave and the dinner table is being set already. All participants are accounted for except two.

Alfred knocks on the door again and waits a moment before easing it open. He scans the empty room for the two missing guests and notices the closed bathroom door.

He then hears the shower running and some other noises he'd rather not have heard.

The old man slips out of the room rather quickly, making his way to the dining room.

“I suspect Master Damian and his lady will be late for dinner.”

Water drips down in-between where your naked bodies are pressed together.

Your back arches against the cold tile as he finally gives you everything you've been craving.

“The only thing worse than being away from you is having you constantly ripped right from my hands, Rouhi"

Your moans meld together and echo around you in the small space. You tip your head back, letting out a groan as he gives a particularly deep thrust. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders just to keep you grounded.

You push back against his thrusts, taking him as deep as you possibly can as his pace increases. Wet slapping sounds get drowned out by the shower stream as you pull him into a deep, messy kiss. Your legs hook around his hips to keep him close as you finally release all that pent up tension, your heat clenching down, taking everything he gives you and more. His hips stutter and his grip eases slightly, still keeping you as close as possible as you both come down. 

Once he's caught his breath, he leans back just enough to see your face, your head tipped back against the white tiles. His hands rubbing circles on your back and thigh where he holds you against the shower wall. 

“I found a place. In the city." He pauses, taking a breath while you process what he's saying.

"Do you want to move in with me?" You blink at him, stunned for a moment by how pretty he looks with his hair soaked, wet eyelashes batting at darker than usual cheeks.

You then realise he's waiting for an answer, as if it wasn't obvious. You give him a breathy, “Yeah, of course." and laugh a little, pushing up a strand of hair from his forehead as a relieved smile plays on his face.

The site makes your hips twitch and he sucks in a breath. You can feel him getting hard again inside you so you bring him into a wet kiss.

Your bodies start to slowly grind against each other, finding a new rhythm. You separate to mumble against his lips,

“Can we check it out tomorrow?”

That's how you got here, walking into the dining room twenty minutes late for dinner, hair still damp, cheeks still hot.

You take your seat and quietly thank Alfred for the food before digging in. There's an awkward silence that follows and you desperately try to ignore it. You feel Damian's foot nudge yours and can't help a little smile show through.

Damian clears his throat.

“We're moving out."

He announces to the table, as blunt as ever. There's a moment of silence before everyone reacts.

Stephanie, Tim, Jason and Duke all give various groans of “Thank God." and "Finally!“ while Alfred and Bruce share knowing looks with each other.

You'd be embarrassed if you weren't so very excited at the idea of living together with Damian, who doesn't react at all to his families dramatics, quietly eating his food in peace.

You smile down at your plate, chancing a glance up only to make eye contact with Cass, who quickly looks away, her cheeks a shade of pink you've never seen on her before.

It's then that you realise that Cass’s room is right next to Damian's which means her room shares a wall with his bathroom.

You give a pained sigh, looking back down at your food, you'll have to apologize to her later? Or maybe never bother her with your presence ever again?

You nudge Damian's foot with yours and he gives the slightest little smile. You vaguely hear Tim yell something like, “It's just weird!" but you're too busy staring at your boyfriend to really pay attention.

🕷️---Not tagging anyone cus it's smut and idk who's okay with that and who's not and it's not part of the main story anyway ---🕸️