They are killing people on the streets, in the prisons, in their homes, in their cars they do not fucking care.
Another man was MURDERED today. They shot him 10 fucking times even after the fact he was laying on the ground clearly unmoving they continue to fire into his body.
You cannot sit here and look me in my eyes and tell me these are just people doing their jobs, no these are people who have waited their entire life to commit murder and now they finally have the chance to do so without any repercussions.
And this shit is starting to sound really fucking familiar. I thought we all learned about this in history, did we not?
About the men who would March the street plucking people from their homes and from their businesses and from their cars. About the men who would shoot you fucking dead if you stood in their way for any reason. About the men who would take these random confused humans and shove them into little tight cramped spaces hauling them off to God knows where just so they can torture and kill them then?
This isn't something new, it's not something we just came up with on the spot because frankly Germany got to it first and now we're just copying off their homework.
This is FAR from anything i have EVER posted but am so fucking angry at everything going on and i fear not enough people are angry with me.
We all talk I'm a revolution but nobody actually has the balls to try one, and I'll be honest me included.
I am so sick of sitting on my ass waiting for something to happen or waiting for my life to and so i don't have to deal with this shit. We all have more power than we realized.
You have a voice, so fucking use it.
And to all of my fellow artists out there, start drawing shit that sends a message. Paste it anywhere and everywhere you can find.
It's the type shit you can Mass print and plaster all around your city.
He didn't steal 10 million dollars. They made that number up as a loss, they never fucking had it. Rockstar has spent more than a billion fucking dollars on GTA VI and will likely make billions more when it gets released.
Uber is a fucking shell game of a company designed to leech investor capital and output bootleg cabs.
Nvidia posted a profit in 2023 of $4.37 billion. This is like someone stealing less than a penny from me.
And they lock this kid in a prison hospital for LIFE?
What with GTA VI going up for pre-order i'd just like to remind everyone that rockstar conspired with the UK government to lock an 18-year-old away for life for hacking them.
Contains: slime girl (Marva) x gender neutral reader, meet cute, no dialogue, a short story about becoming a couple, 1.5k words, SFW
✧ Good to know: the title is a reference to “knight in shining armor”, with ‘damsel’ referring to a young woman (often unmarried), a maiden, a girl.
✧ Good to know: Dame is the title equivalent to Sir for a female knight
Dame Marva was the best healer the kingdom had seen in decades. She was highly skilled, had a soothing presence, and looked especially dashing in her shining white armor, twinkling in the sunlight breaking through the leaden clouds of the battlefield like a ray of hope personified. Her presence meant that you would live even when on the brink of death.
The slime knight also had a very nice voice. She spoke with a lilt that became more pronounced when excited, so pleasant to listen to that certain dunces in the knight corps couldn’t help making mistakes just to hear her blow up at them. Until she got so annoyed she just smiled gently and pulled out her sword.
Personally, Marva didn’t like to get angry. She’d rather blather on about swords and armor and medicine, or better yet, read a book about any of these topics in some quiet corner.
Then one day, as she was out on patrol, she encountered a commoner — you.
Both of you were stunned.
Marva because a human had literally fallen from the sky into her arms.
You because you just slipped when picking apples, only to end up in the arms of a damsel in shining armor.
Momentarily dazed by her beautiful light green color and the faint fragrance of sage, you were brought back to reality by the buckles of her vambraces pressing into your back. Blushing with embarrassment, you asked her to set you down, but even with both feet on the ground, you found it difficult to look away.
It was this encounter that led you to eventually becoming Dame Marva’s squire.
In the beginning, she thought you’d be like everyone else. From just one look, she already dreaded having a bumbling idiot red as a ripe tomato following her around and causing trouble to no end. The mere thought made her itch for a fight.
Fortunately, you were different.
You liked hearing her excited voice, but only when she rambled on about her favorite topics or read you a passage from one of her books. Spending time with her made you feel at peace, especially during heavy rain or sunny afternoons, and caring for her armor, sword and shield had a meditative quality to it.
Over time, Marva appreciated you more and more, and seeing you two together became the most normal thing.
You never thought much of it, but your Dame slowly developed other thoughts. Her gaze would inevitably float over to you, her body unconsciously leaning over as she took in your unique scent.
The moment she became conscious of it, she wanted to stop, yet she couldn’t. She was just so happy being with you. If she didn’t have you, she would revert to her previous self, always annoyed and feeling like she was wearing a smiling mask.
Only with you was her smile real.
Only with you could she relax, even in the midst of a war.
But war was blind. By the end, despite only following Marva, you were hurt all over, covered in barely scabbed wounds, scratches and bruises.
When she saw you like this, the always calm and steady knight broke out in tears.
You wanted to tell her not to cry, that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but the words died in your throat at the sight of the fear in her sage green eyes. So you took her hand and asked her to heal you instead. Said you were tired and in pain but seeing her made it better.
Marva quickly pulled you into her tent, had you disrobe, and took off her gauntlets. Still crying, heartbreakingly quiet, she moved her hands over your body, leaving trails of healing slime.
You didn’t know what to say.
You felt so helpless.
Your skin started itching as it began to heal. It was somewhat maddening, urging you to scratch. But compared to that, you rather took Marva into your arms. With the hard edges of her cold armor poking you, you stroked her head and gently kissed her temple.
It was then that she confessed.
The words just spilled out, disordered and clumsy. She had by no means intended or even planned it, especially not now, it just happened…
And then the fear set in.
What if you didn’t like her? What if you were repulsed by her? Maybe you were only interested in humans? If it was due to her gender, she could change it. Whatever you wanted, as long as she could, she wanted to fulfill it.
You were stunned by this revelation. Her liking you actually made you a little happy, but changing her was completely unnecessary. If she tried to fit someone else’s expectations, wouldn’t she cease being the Marva you knew?
So, no need.
Things were good as they were.
Your Dame nervously asked if that meant you accepted her. When you didn’t understand, she had to word it more explicitly, listing the things she wanted to do with you exclusively.
Holding hands, cuddling, sleeping in the same bed, kissing, kissing deeply, kissing until you fell into bed and rolled in the sheets and…
Her sage fragrance intensified as she spoke, and you couldn’t help blushing.
Now you clearly understood; there was no way to play dumb. You had never done anything like what she said and had never wanted to either, but if it was her… if it made her happy… then it seemed… acceptable.
So you shyly agreed. Then you threw a quick warning after, afraid she would be sad when you couldn’t do what she asked of you.
Marva smiled, though tears still shimmered in her eyes, and shook her head.
As long as you were willing to be even a little closer to her, she was the happiest slime alive.
In the tent dimly lit by fire, filled with the scent of metal and blood pressed beneath the soothing fragrance of sage, sitting on the camp bed with Marva kneeling before you, the two of you forged a new relationship.
The following days, as you returned home, the most you did was squeeze into the same bed to sleep. There was no time for anything else as the march was long and tiring, and you even encountered bandits on the way. Finally, after a long journey, you returned to the fortified city, celebrated by everyone present. Many rose in position, taking the places of the dead and those who moved up, and while you were given the same opportunity, you refused.
Just being Marva’s squire was enough for you.
Any higher and you wouldn’t be able to see her every day, much less live with her.
A day later, a big feast was held to honor everyone who participated in the war. Everyone wore ceremonial uniforms, much lighter and simpler to wear than armor, and many knights drank without regard.
Your Dame ended up drinking each one of them under the table. Alcohol couldn’t affect her, automatically eliminated by her innate effect.
You drank a little too much that evening. Marva used this as excuse to go back earlier, taking you back to her little home. The wooden floorboards groaned quietly, and the flickering candle light cast your shadows on the white plaster walls, hers tinted with a hint of pale green. Here, her scent was much stronger, soothing to the point of almost making you fall asleep while still standing.
Marva was quite amused by this. She told you to sit on her bed for a bit while she put a pot of water over the fire. It would take some time for the water to get warm enough to wipe yourselves down with, so she suggested undressing first.
Drunk as you were, you complied and proceeded to struggle. When the situation seemed hopeless and you planned to just fall asleep with your hands tangled in your linen shirt, your Dame came over to save you from your predicament.
Even wearing nothing, she looked like a knight in shining armor.
She chuckled at your dazed expression. Then she leaned down and gently kissed your forehead. Her touch was so soft and tender, it almost made you cry.
Marva was just so unbelievably good.
Your unconsciously spoken words painted a wide smile onto her face. In her opinion, the same went for you. She could compliment everything about you and it still wouldn’t be enough to properly express her fondness.
Marva held your chin and kissed your forehead again, then your temple, your cheek, slowly making her way towards your lips.
Her sage fragrance cleared your head the longer you breathed it in, yet your face was still as hot as if you were drunk. Her touch tingled on your skin, wonderfully warm and soft, a little sleek but dry.
Just before touching your lips, you murmured her name.
She looked up at you, meeting your eyes, your focused gaze.
You leaned forward and gently rubbed your lips against hers in a tentative kiss. The touch produced a warm feeling that gathered in your belly, as comfortable as a full meal after a day of hard work.
After lingering for a moment, you pulled back a little, and smiled.
I feel so trapped. I have to rely on other people for everything. I hate this so fucking much, I hate this I hate it.
It’s so frustrating not being able to do anything on my own. I can’t drive, so I can’t go places unless someone is willing to take me. I’m an inconvenience at best
I can’t live on my own, so I always have to hope that someone is willing to live with me. I hate this. I want to be independent
I’m so scared of driving but I’m gonna start pushing to learn so I can get away from here. Far away and do my own things. By myself.
Synopsis~Your girlfriend brandish goes through great lenghths to please you. (Based off a request from @ev1lhero)
Warning~Breast expansion, teasing, Dom brandish, switch male reader, Breast play, Breast worship, Titfuck, Magic use, multiple orgasm, male/female orgasms, sensitive breast, huge boobs, cow girl, rough sex.
Word Count~ 2.7k
A/N: I've never written anything like this (breast expasion) before. im so happy i got this request. It was so fun to write!!
As you sit on the edge of your bed, Brandish elegantly struts in, closing the distance between you. Her breasts glisten as they bounce with grace. The tight belt around her chest looks like it’ll burst at the seams of her boobs. Her micro shorts are squeezing her in all the right places. Your hands clench your bedsheets at the sight. “Y- you look amazing, babe.” You say, completely entranced. “Well, of course I do, darling.” She smirks. Your dick stiffens as she approaches.
She shoots you a look of impatience and scoffs. “Are you planning on staring at me all day, or can we get these clothes off?” With her words, there is no room for argument. “Okay, love...” You say softly. You hastily try to undo your pants. Suddenly, you pause at the sensing of her body heat. You slowly look up. Taking it all in and savoring this image. She smirks and says, “Keep those eyes on me, okay? I wanna see how turned on you are.”
Your eyes meet hers, soaking in her radiance. You instinctively look down at your pants again. She grasps your chin, tilting your head up. “My eyes are up here, love,” she grins, pointing at her breasts. Her hands are so warm. You love the feeling of her touch. She’s intensely hypnotic without even trying. You admire her beauty as you undress.
As your pants drop to your ankles, she arches over you. Breast swinging back and forth as she creeps her fingers down your chest. Inching closer to your dick. Your body tenses up a bit. In spite of that, you let her take dominion. She looks down at your throbbing cock. Pre-cum is seeping through your underwear. She grins, looking pleased with herself. “I’ve barely done anything, Baby.” You grip her waist and tug her closer.
“I know, but you’re just so sexy.” You chuckle nervously. A faint flush of red grazes her cheeks as you idolize her breasts with your eyes. It catches you off guard a bit. She glances away, clearly trying to hide her coyness. Immediately, she turns back at you, grinning as she rolls her eyes. She lowers down, separating your legs. Looking into your eyes, she settles herself between your thighs.
You glance down further and see that her boobs are spilling out of her barely fitting top. Was her top this tight earlier? You hear a faint struggle from her belt-top. Her hands gently caress your inner thigh, distracting you. You flinch at the feeling. She slightly cups your balls and massages them through your underwear. Your breath hitches. You feel a tingling sensation throughout your entire body.
Her hand leaves your balls as it glides up your shaft. “I just love how turned on you get for me.”
Her words, paired with the sensations of her touch, feel so good. But you're craving much more. Her fingers graze your tip. Your cock twitches at the expectancy of more. She pauses and says, “Not just yet.” She smirks as she stands up.
“You love teasing me, don't you?" She chuckles. “It's easy when I know exactly what you want.” She grins and climbs on top of you. Sitting on your lap with exaggerated movements that rub her pussy against your cock. Soft moans leave both your lips with every motion. You trail your left hand up her thigh, gripping them as she grinds. You hear a groaning coming from her belt again. You glimpse down, noticing that her belt looks like it's squeezing her chest. Her boobs are bright pink, veins peaking through. Is this normal?
Recognizing your concern, she wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you in. Her soft, rounded breasts flatten as they press up against your chest. Her eyes widened. Letting out a weak gasp. They feel so hot and tense. You can feel a faint pulsing as they cushion your chest. You had no clue such a small touch would affect her like this. She takes a breath in to gather herself. Suddenly, you feel her hand on the back of your neck, sneaking up. She draws you as she stares at your lips.
Captivating you with a deep and inebriating kiss. Her lips are so soft compared to the way her lips claim yours. Her hand feels like it's massaging your scalp. You can feel yourself getting harder. Dick is squeezing against her sweet spot. With her other hand, she takes your right hand and slips it into her panties. She doesn't want to show it, but she's dripping with lust.
Your fingers massage her clit as you both shift your hips back and forth. Up and down your eager cock. Her breathing is progressively getting heavier. You hastily start groping her breast with your left hand. The moment you touch her chest, her smug demeanor vanishes. “Mgnhh… S-soo good.” Begging you for more. Her sphere-shaped breasts feel so rigid and slick as her blood vibrates through them.
She pulls her head back as her body quakes beneath your touch. Looking dazed. Feeling nothing but ecstasy. She tilts your head to the side. Her cheeks graze your ear as she licks the curve of your neck. Immediately, she latches onto you. Sucking your neck lustily and leaving small love marks all over you. Her tongue feels warm as it swirls on your flesh. “Haa..Mmm” You let out a frail breath.
Her breath tickles the nape of your neck. The mix of sensations sends a small shiver down your spine. “You know exactly what you're doing to me…” You say, sliding your left hand into the back of her belt-top. You grip and pull it back. Tightening it around her boobs and cramming her nipples. She reflexively pushes you back as her back arches at the abrupt stimulation. Her “Nghh...” Her moans are sensuous to your ears.
Her moans are getting increasingly audible. Mixing with yours. Breasts spasming as she nears an orgasm. Her pussy is getting wetter and wetter. Bathing your fingers. You're not even rubbing it anymore, but her clit is twitching on your fingers as her body shudders. She rips your head back, studying your eyes. “Haa.. Just like that, baby, don’t you dare stop...” she moans. You suck her neck unsparingly. Her breathing quickens. “Mmmf.. I’m close-”
Her massive breasts collide with your face as she squirms. Fixated on her swelling breasts pouring out of her top. You whisper, “I- I need to touch them again..” You instantly loosen your grip on her belt and clutch her globes from under her top. Burying your face in her glory. “Unghh..T-too m-much..” Whimpering and unable to articulate herself. You take your hand from her pants. Grabbing her other breast. You stroke them with precision as your fingers flick her nipples.
Her breasts warm your face as they slosh around. She jerks, hugging your head deeper.. “Hgnhh. .so goood ” The sound escaping her turns into wails and cries. A tremor runs through her body as she squirms, inching closer and closer. “Your boobs are more than perfect.” You exhale, fondling her with pleasure. She lets out an inaudible gasp as your voice sends tingles though her breasts. Her boobs feel like they are smooshing your hand into her belt.
“P-please- Waait..” Her words are slurring. Swiftly, her breath hitches. Back breaking inwards. Her mouth widens as she flicks her head back with her hand gripping your shoulder. “Nghhh.. F- fffuck..” Her belt bursts as her body loses touch. Ripping at the seams as she cums. Her mountainous breasts slap your face upwards as they oscillate. Leaking. “H-haa- Mgnhh..” She’s near hyperventilating.
Now you’re more than confused. Her chest has a faint magical glow. You feel like you might have an idea of what’s really going on. “Is this her command T..? Can’t be.. Right?” You think to yourself. Keeping that in mind, you continue toying with her orbs. They flinch at each and every motion. You’re overstimulating her. Almost like you’re getting revenge for her teasing you earlier.
She's quivering at your touch as she cries out. “I- I’m begging you..slow doown” Fully submitting as you pinch her nipple. “Not just yet..” You say, mocking her statement from earlier. Twisting her nipples. As two of your fingers enter her clenching pussy, you thrust in and out of her. “Mmmf.. oh my go..” She lets out a faint breath.
You squeeze her enormous breasts as they convulse. “Hgnhh.. W-Wait-” Her voice breaks as the momentum of your fingers gets faster. “Not just yet,” you say, mocking her statement from earlier. Your hand quickly leaves her pussy and moves to her back. Propping her up as she falls backwards. Her cheeks are flushed with red.
Your attention shifts to the feeling of her hand on your arm. Urging you to stop. She’s realized you know her little scheme. She looks at you, weak and panting, “I guess- I you’ve caught me.“ She says, trying to collect herself. Breast expanding as her body is still trembling. “Y-your magic-” She smirks as she interrupts you. “Shh–” Her voice gets muffled as you zone out.
The longer you stare at her breasts, the more entranced you feel. She tries standing up but shudders. Slumping to the floor and snapping you back to reality. “H-huh? I’m sorry.. They’re just so- so beautiful..” She grins at our gawking. “All of this is for you, my love. I need you to stay focused." She’s still a little out of it. “Tell me how perfect I look..”
“I could spend all day tracing every curve.. Every vein.” You say in awe. She leisurely takes off your underwear as your pulsing cock pops out. Finally, kneeling tall, she lifts up her breasts. “Nghh..” Moaning as she drops them onto your lap. You hear a hushed ripping sound from her skin. They feel so heavy on you. You’re completely mesmerized by her perfectly round mounds in spite of the weight. Her aerolos are ballooning her breasts. A bit darker but glossy.
Saliva falls from her mouth. Falling in the cleavage of her throbbing pink tits. Massaging it in. “Haa..Mmmf..” Her body twitches, and her breasts jump from pleasure. She slips your cock between them. Swallowing it with her globe-like tits. You both gasp at the sudden feeling. You can feel her breasts beating, pulsating.
It's like you can sense her blood surging through the veins in her breasts. “Your eyes should never leave my chest?” Her statement feels redundant. You can barely focus on anything else. “I- I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.” She chuckles, “That's a good boy” She says, grabbing her tittes. Squishing them together as she starts sliding them up and down your dick. “S-so heavy..” She breaths weakly. Her warm breasts glide along your cock. Giving you a feeling you sense in your spine.
“Mmmf..” You groan. She licks your tip through her silk-like walls of flesh. Soaking in the flavor of your pre-cum. “You taste so good, baby..” She squooshes your cock harder as she strokes it with her breasts. Sweat dripped all over them from exhaustion. Lubing her tits. “P-Please…Faster..” Your body is thirsting for more.
Her rhythm speeds up gently. “Ngnhh..” She can barely hold her breast properly.“These were- made for me to adore..” You say. Grasping her breasts and taking control. Squeezing and slamming them up and down your twitching cock. “WAI-” She shrieks as her eyes roll back. “J- Just a little harder, baby…” You say, groaning. You can feel pressure boiling at the base of your cock. Coming and going in waves. “I- Ngnh- can feel.. it's twitching..” She says intoxicated with lust.
You’re pounding her ginormous breast on your cock. Feeling it get harder as it pulses and drips pre. “Cum for me..” She squeezes your hands firmly against her. “Mhmm..” You answer just barely. Your mind feels like it's going numb. You can feel that pressure again. Building up intensely. Your body is on fire. The squelching sound of her boobs slumping up and down your dick dances off the walls. You feel like your forearms will cramp up, but you just can’t stop. It feels way too good to pause now.
Your fingers stab her nipples, clenching her breasts as hard as you can. You’re struggling to catch your breath. Ramming yourself through them as you’re about to climax. “Haa- I gonna-” A flood of euphoria washes over you. Squirting cum that glazes her perfect mounds. You’re panting as your thrusts slow down. Loosening your grip on her. “What a good boy you are..” She says, completely satisfied with herself.
She stands up. “Now the real fun can start.” She smiles at you menacingly. You can hear ethernano buzzing through the veins of her chest, mixing with the sound of her skin stretching. Making her growing flesh mounds shimmer as she sweats. “B-babe wait, th-this is too- I don't think i can handle this, Mistress..” You stammer over your words at the view. She scoffs.
Wobbling at the immense weight of her colossal-sized breasts. “I want you inside of me…You should thank me for what I'm doing for you.” She struggles as she crawls on top of you. The weight of her boobs is forcing you down to the mattress. You struggle as you prop yourself up halfway as they crush into your chest. almost absorbing your face. “B-Brandish this is way too-” “Hush.” She snaps at you. You feel every one of her heartbeats through breast.
“Mmm, look at you.. Shaking all 'cause of these huge tits.” she grins. You feel like you’re losing your mind. You both gasp as she suddenly slips your sensitive cock into her soaking wet pussy. Her magically massive tits ripple at her twitches. Resulting in added stimulation “Nngnh..” She braces herself as she squats. Slamming her pussy on your cock. Her breasts flop up, hitting your face and thumping as they land, slapping her stomach. Fucking you with no remorse. “Mmngh..” Your breath weakens.
She laughs as her breast swallows your face. “Look at how big they're getting for you..”
Another big flash of magic appears as her skin extends past her natural limits. Breasts so shiny and pink. Swelling and throbbing as they gleam in the light. Your cock is rubbing on every inch of her slick pussy. “A- all this.. for me..?” You groan, trying to focus. Driven by nothing but lust, you stroke her breast sensually. Hypnotized by them.
She smiles, nodding slowly. “Haa..Mmm I need more. “ She whispers. You wanna taste her tits so badly. You grip and eagerly caress her nipple with your tongue. “Mmmf..” You groan, entirely obsessed, taking her nipple in your mouth and sucking as your tongue swirls. “You’re doing s-sooo good..” She whines, feeling ultimate pleasure.
“Haa..Mmm I need more. “ She whispers. The room lights flicker as she absorbs the ethernano within the air. You’re not even worried about that. Her pussy feels so good, clenching around you. Breasts so hot as they ripple and jiggle like water. Trickling between your fingers. You thrust your hips into her. Using her breasts as leverage and making her jump as you fuck her deeper. Tip punching her cervix. You can feel your dick tensing up. Your toes cramp as your thrusts get sloppy. Pussy gripping you in and out.
Instantly, a sensation of solely euphoria and bliss possesses both of you. Moaning simultaneously and cumming together. “Unghh..Haa..” She cries out. Her breasts suck you in, still extending. You’re merely able to breathe as your cum spurts in and spills out of her. Your body weakly falls onto the mattress. Letting her use you. “I can’t t-take it..” She bucks her hips as you twitch, riding out her orgasm. Slowly, her hips stop.
She slugs onto you. You feel so drained. But you’re so happy that she even thought to do this. Thinking abt what she said earlier, “All of this is for you, my love.” You caress her back as her body goes back. Her breasts reduce as she readjusts. You’re still in awe. “Thank you, my love..You must be so tired.” You say with a smile. You tap her shoulder, but there's nothing. You look further. Her eyes are closed, and you hear a soft snore. You chuckle and relax. “What a day..” You exhale.
Summary: Mahito is meant to supervise your earth-technique training, which would be easier if she didn’t keep testing exactly how much concentration a grown man can lose before the basement gives out. The lesson turns into a filthy little experiment in cursed technique misuse, body manipulation, and how badly you can wreck the room before Geto notices.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content · Adult male reader · Female Mahito · Reader-insert smut · Cursed technique training gone wrong · Inappropriate use of cursed technique · Curse body manipulation · Monsterfucking-adjacent anatomy · Consensual kink · Power play · Femdom undertones · Male switch reader · Dirty talk · Kissing · Hair-pulling · Rough oral sex · Throatfucking · Come swallowing · Biting · Rough sex · Multiple positions · P-in-V Smut · Orgasm · Gratuitous/Shameless smut · Rivals with benefits · Women in power · Aged up · Mahito is her own warning.
A/N: Based on this request. WC: 3K.
The first stone spike split the training floor cleanly in half, and Mahito clapped like you’d performed a party trick.
“Again,” she said, lounging across the broken concrete with her chin in her palm. “That one looked almost scary.”
Your jaw tightened. “You’re supposed to be observing.”
“I am observing.”
Her smile stretched wider than it had any right to.
“What?”
“That you get very tense when someone prettier than Geto tells you what to do.”
Geto had left you in the basement hall with instructions, two cursed tools, and the deeply insulting trust that you could handle one night of supervised training without turning the floor into gravel. He had said Mahito would watch you because she understood the body better than anyone.
Geto had failed to mention that she would arrive barefoot, wearing your concentration down with slow blinks and a dress made of stolen proportions.
You planted your palm against the ground.
Cursed energy sank through your fingers, found the packed soil under the foundation, and pulled.
The concrete hummed beneath your hand.
The room trembled with a rough groan. A second column rose from the floor, thicker than the first, its surface ridged like compressed shale.
Mahito’s foot hooked around your ankle.
The column cracked.
You shot her a glare over your shoulder. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what.”
Mahito’s leg was longer now, stretched lazily across the floor in a pale, impossible line, the arch of her foot tucked around you like a trap. She had not moved from where she was lying with her knee still bent somewhere three meters away.
“I thought sorcerers needed focus.” She flexed her toes against your calf. “I’m helping.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
You breathed in through your nose, counted the shape of the floor, the seams in the concrete, and the pressure points under your boots. Earth techniques punished sloppy emotion. Anger made jagged work. Lust made the ground unstable. Fear hollowed it out.
Mahito knew that too.
She pushed herself upright, and her neck lengthened, vertebrae shifting under smooth skin with a wet little roll that should have disgusted you more than it did. Her head drifted toward you while her body stayed seated on the far side of the room, blue hair spilling over one shoulder, mouth curved in delight.
You held your ground until her face hovered beside yours, her breath brushing your ear.
“You’re hard.”
The stone column trembled.
Mahito laughed against your ear. “Oh, that was fast.”
“Fuck off.”
“Mean.” Her mouth brushed your jaw.
“Geto’s favorite little landscaper has manners when he talks to him.”
“I’m not his favorite.”
“You’re the only one he lets wreck the basement every week.”
Her tongue touched the corner of your mouth.
You closed your eyes for half a second, which was exactly half a second too long.
Her neck coiled loosely around your shoulders, warm and soft and hideously inhuman, holding you in place without actually forcing you. That was the worst part of this: she liked leaving you the option to move, liked watching you choose poorly.
“You said I could make it harder tonight,” she murmured.
“I meant training.”
“I know what you meant.”
Her mouth found yours from the side, upside down and smiling. The kiss was filthy and deep.
She licked into your mouth with curious, lazy pressure, testing where your breath caught, where your jaw loosened, and where your cursed energy stuttered through the floor.
Your fingers flexed against the air, fighting the instinct to grab her hair.
“Oh?” She pulled back, eyes bright. “You want to?”
Your silence gave you away.
Her neck slid against your throat as she tilted her head. “Pull it, then. Be rude.”
You caught a fistful of blue hair and yanked.
Mahito’s laugh broke into a moan so quick it punched heat through your stomach, making your cock twitch.
Her eyes fluttered, mouth parting, lashes lowering with theatrical sweetness.
You pulled again, sharper this time, and the ground under you buckled. A line of stone erupted across the floor, rushing past her real body and slamming into the wall hard enough to shake dust from the pipes.
Mahito’s grin turned mean. “You almost hit me.”
“You’ll live.”
“I’ll do more than live.”
Her torso thinned, arms lengthened next, winding around your chest from behind while her head stayed near your mouth. Her actual body slithered closer across the floor, hips rolling with boneless ease, until she was around you in pieces: arms at your ribs, thighs at your hips, neck over your shoulder, hands sliding down your stomach.
You should have hated the wrongness of it, should have pulled her apart, called the exercise finished, and told Geto his cursed spirit had the attention span of a bored cat with a corpse.
Instead, you dropped your head back against her shoulder when her palm cupped you through your pants.
Mahito hummed. “Focus.”
“I am focused.”
“No, you’re thinking about my mouth.”
Her fingers opened your belt and pushed your trousers aside.
The pressure was real, her hand curling around your cock with a pleased little gasp as if she had discovered something interesting in your pocket.
“You’re warmer here,” she hummed. “Is that a man thing or a you thing?”
“Mahito.”
She bit your neck. “Answer wrong and I’ll test it on someone else.”
You grabbed her hair again and pulled her head back.
The sound she made was shameless. Her fist tightened around you, thumb dragging over the slit until your hips jerked forward.
“Oh, you're jealous.” She sounded delighted. “So ugly. Do it again.”
You ground your teeth, planted one boot, and shoved your cursed energy down.
The floor hummed with a low rumble. Four stone stakes rose around you in a square, clean and controlled despite her hand stroking you with barely enough pressure.
Mahito looked at them. “Pretty.”
“Still focused.”
“For now.”
Her neck unspooled from your shoulders, her head dipping down your chest, past your stomach. Her body stayed behind you, arms still wrapped around your ribs.
Her face lowered until her mouth hovered in front of your cock from an impossible distance, her smile bright and obscene.
You stared down at her. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you my skills.”
Then her lips closed around the wet tip of you.
Your hand slammed against one of the stone stakes, making the whole square shudder.
Mahito’s mouth stretched around you, soft and wet, throat adjusting in small pulses as she took you deeper. Her head floated at your hips, connected to the rest of her by that long pale column of throat and spine, and every part of it moved like it had been made for bad ideas.
She sucked with experimental pressure at first, eyes lifted, watching your face as if she were reading changes in a specimen.
“Fuck,” you breathed.
Her tongue flattened under you as she hollowed her cheeks to suck you in. The stone beneath your boots cracked in a spiderweb pattern.
Mahito pulled off with a messy pop. “You’re leaking.”
“You’re talking too much.”
She smiled with your precum glossing her lower lip. “Then shut me up.”
You held her hair and pushed.
Mahito’s mouth opened eagerly, taking you back in with a low hum that vibrated up your spine.
You fed yourself into her throat by inches, watching her eyes water for show before she decided she liked the look of it and made them water more.
Her throat shifted around you, tightening, relaxing, tightening again in obscene little experiments.
She could make herself anything: soft, narrow, endless.
It made your knees feel unreliable.
Her hands slid under your shirt from behind, nails skimming your chest.
You thrust into her mouth slowly, still pretending you had some authority over yourself.
Mahito let you keep the lie for maybe ten seconds.
Then her throat clenched around you, hard enough to rip a broken groan from your chest, and your hips snapped forward.
The stone square exploded outward.
Dust burst across the room. One column tore free from the floor and hit the far wall. Mahito moaned around you like the damage had done something for her.
“You’re pathetic," you said, voice ruined.
She hummed something sarcastic, but you didn’t give her room to mouth off again.
Your eyes rolled back as you fucked into her mouth, the tip of you brushing her throat.
She made choked little noises, eyes fixated on you as you took what you wanted.
You pulled her off before you could come.
Her neck shortened with a series of soft clicks, her body gathering itself back into the shape of a woman in front of you.
She rose on her toes, grinning, and kissed you with your own taste on her tongue.
Her hands pushed your open trousers lower. Yours found her waist, then her ass, then the strange give of her flesh as she adjusted under your grip.
Mahito bit your lip hard enough to draw blood. Your nails dug in.
You hissed. She licked the spot at once, pleased with herself.
“Bad concentration,” she whispered.
“Bad supervision.”
“I’m excellent at supervision. Your technique responds beautifully when you’re frustrated.”
“Is that what you’re calling this?”
She pressed her body against yours.
Her clothes slipped into skin, or skin slipped into clothes, the boundary giving up because Mahito had no respect for categories.
One second fabric covered her, the next your hands were on bare hips and the soft heat between her thighs.
Her grin faltered when your fingers slid through her wetness.
You paused.
Mahito stared at you, chin tilted in defiance, breathing just a little faster.
“Oh,” you said, a mean smile crawling on your lips.
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t sound so smug.”
“You can fake anything.”
“I can improve anything.” She rolled her hips into your touch, impatient. “There’s a big difference.”
You pushed two fingers into her, testing.
Her mouth opened.
The room held only the wet slide of your hand and her short, irritated breaths.
She adjusted around your fingers, tight enough to make your wrist slow, then looser, then tight again in a deliberate pulse that made you imagine your cock there instead.
Mahito saw it on your face.
“Want to feel?” she asked.
You curled your fingers.
Her knees buckled. A laugh shook out of her, breathy and sharp. “That’s...”
You leaned in, your teeth catching her earlobe. “You were begging for it.”
She grabbed your wrist, held your hand still inside her, and changed.
Her cunt fluttered around your fingers, then tightened in a slow, rippling squeeze, delicate at first, then vicious enough that your breath caught.
“I can make it so much worse for you,” she said sweetly.
“I can put you through the floor.”
“Promise?”
You shoved her down against the floor.
Mahito hit it laughing.
You kissed the laugh out of her, hand still between her thighs, fingers working harder now.
She hooked one leg around your waist. Then another. Then a third pressure, something that wasn’t quite a leg, curled around your back and dragged you closer.
“Cheating,” you muttered into her mouth.
“I’m a curse.”
You pulled your hand free and gripped her thigh. “Stay still.”
“So bossy.”
The next stone formation rose behind you: a rough waist-high slab, flat enough to make its purpose obvious.
Mahito glanced at it, then at you, delighted down to the marrow she may or may not have had.
“Oh, you’re getting creative.”
You picked her up and bent her over it.
Her palms slapped the stone, her hair falling over one shoulder.
When you pushed into her, she went tight around you, so tight you had to stop with the head of your cock inside her and breathe through your teeth.
Mahito looked back at you. “Too much?”
You laughed once, strained and low. “You want praise for it now?"
“I want lots of things.”
You gripped her hips. “Then take it.”
In one smooth roll of your hips, you pushed in.
The feeling was vulgar, all slick heat and deliberate pressure, her body learning you as you entered her.
When your hips met her ass, Mahito’s head dropped forward, fingers digging grooves into the stone.
For a moment, she was quiet.
You bent over her, mouth at her ear. “Still smug?”
Her cunt clenched around you in answer.
“Fucking brat.”
Mahito moaned, back arching, and you started moving.
The slab scraped under her palms. Your thrusts were rough from the start, dragged out of you by the way she changed around your cock, tightening near the head, relaxing when you pushed deep, then clamping down as you pulled back.
She was using her technique to learn how to destroy you from the inside out.
You bit her shoulder.
Mahito laughed and then cried out when you hit her cervix harder. “Again.”
You gave her teeth, and she gave you pressure, wet heat, and a body that reshaped itself under your hands so every thrust landed exactly where she wanted it, deep enough to hurt because she wanted it that way.
Her hips pushed back to meet you, messy and eager now.
The training floor kept answering you, pebbles lifted and fell, and dust trembled along the broken seams.
Each time she tightened around you, the ground gave way.
Mahito reached back and caught your hair, yanking your head down until your mouth was against her cheek. “You’re going to bring the ceiling down.”
“Then stop squeezing me like that.”
She did it again, instinct taking over before she could do it on purpose.
Your hand slid around her throat. You pulled her upright against your chest and fucked up into her.
Her back arched, your fingers at her jaw, her hair sticking to her damp cheek. Her mouth dropped open on a moan that finally sounded less like a taunt and more like an accident.
“There,” you said. “That’s better.”
Her eyes flashed.
She changed her throat under your palm, pulse fluttering strangely against your fingers. “I like finding out what makes people lose control.”
“And?”
“And you’re easy.”
You pushed her down onto the slab again, shoved one hand between her thighs, and rubbed tight and fast circles over her clit while you fucked her harder.
Mahito’s insult dissolved into a broken gasp.
The smugness went first, her laughter broken into a plea of your name, repeated like an unholy chant.
Then her body forgot which shape it wanted and fluttered around you in unstable waves, hips jerking, thighs trembling, back bowing so strongly that you had to hold her steady.
Her cunt clenched down, slick and pulsing, dragging you dangerously close.
“Mahito.”
She turned her face against the stone, eyes bright and furious with pleasure. “D-don’t stop. Don't—I'll fucking kill you—"
You smirked and did not.
Her orgasm hit hard and fast, cracking the floor under both of you. One of the stone pillars collapsed into rubble.
Mahito’s body tightened around your cock in brutal pulses and ripples that made your vision spot, her nails carving uselessly into rock while she laughed through a moan, wild and breathless.
You pulled out.
Mahito made an offended sound so genuine it almost made you smile.
Then you turned her, pushed her back onto the slab, and put a hand in her hair. “Open your mouth.”
Her pupils widened.
For once in her life, Mahito obeyed without a joke.
You slid your cock past her lips, still slick from her, and she moaned around you as if the taste pleased her. Her hands came up to your thighs.
This time, when you held her hair, she leaned into the grip with open hunger.
“You wanted this,” you said.
Her tongue dragged along the underside of you, lashes lifting.
You fucked her mouth more roughly than before. Her mouth was warm and wet around you.
She took it beautifully, throat changing for you, swallowing around you, spit running down her chin. Her fingers dug into your hips whenever you pulled her hair, urging more. When you hit the back of her throat, she moaned so hard the sound vibrated through your cock.
Her mouth. Her throat. The wrecked floor. The ugly stone slab.
Nothing mattered more than the pleased slant of her mismatched eyes.
The way she stared up at you like she had won because making you cum deep down her throat counted more than she let on.
Your hips stuttered.
She hummed around you.
You groaned, shoved deep, and came.
She swallowed around you, throat muscles working tight, hands holding you in place as your release spilled into her mouth.
Your cursed energy slammed down through your feet. A ring of stone rose around you both like a broken crown, jagged and uneven, scraping the ceiling with a grinding shriek.
Mahito drank you down.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved.
Then she pulled off slowly, smiled, opened her mouth, and showed you her clean tongue.
“Show-off,” you said, breathless.
She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “You destroyed the basement.”
You looked around.
The training hall was ruined—the floor had split in four directions, half the west wall had caved inward, and one cursed tool had vanished under rubble. Even the pipes overhead were groaning like they had witnessed something offensive and wanted legal distance.
From somewhere upstairs, something heavy shifted.
Mahito's eyes flicked toward the ceiling. “Geto’s going to ask.”
You tucked yourself back into your trousers with numb hands. “You supervised.”
“I distracted.”
“So you admitted it.”
She hopped off the slab, body smoothing itself back into a lazy, satisfied shape. Her dress reappeared like an afterthought.
Then she came close, rose on her toes, and kissed the blood at the corner of your mouth again.
“Maybe..."
Footsteps moved overhead.
You stared at the destroyed floor, then at her.
Mahito’s smile went sweetly criminal
“Meet me in my room after dinner?”
You dragged a hand down your face.
You were utterly fucked.
Caution tape dividers by @cafekitsune and rest by @uzmacchiato
content inque x male! reader, nsfw, smut, minors dni, explicit sexual content, p in v (wrap it!), unprotected sex, coming inside, age difference, older woman/younger man, femdom, male switch, teasing, shapeshifting, superpower sex, shapshifting/body manipulation during sex, mild possessive language, consensual dom/sub dynamics, flexibility, body warping, neck kissing, cowgirl position, doggy style, power dynamics, rough sex, restraints, multiple orgasms, aftercare, soft ending, light restraint, “good boy” used
masterlist
wordcount 2.9k
requested by anon!
Inque knew exactly what she looked like when she moved. That was the first problem.
The second problem was that she knew exactly what she did to you when she moved.
The room was dark except for the blue-white bleed of citylight through the tall windows, Gotham—or Neo-Gotham, depending on who was selling the skyline that decade—spilling itself in fractured neon across the floor. Rain crawled down the glass in luminous streaks. Somewhere below, traffic hummed like a beast in its sleep.
And Inque stood in the centre of it all like she’d been poured there.
Black, glossy, impossible.
She watched you from beneath lowered lashes, mouth curved with a smile that had no innocence in it at all.
“You’re staring,” she said.
You swallowed. “You’re making it hard not to.”
Her smile widened. “Good.”
Her body shifted.
Not moved.
Shifted. One moment, she was standing upright, elegant and composed. The next, her spine bowed back in a fluid arc, her torso stretching with boneless grace until she was bent nearly in half, one leg sliding long and sleek across the floor while the other remained planted. Her arms elongated behind her, fingers trailing like ink ribbons, body curving into a pose that looked half dancer, half predator.
Your mouth went dry.
Inque tilted her head upside down to look at you, hair-dark substance spilling toward the floor though it was all her, every shining inch. “Still staring.”
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
She snapped back upright like a rubber band, slow enough to make you feel every inch of the motion. Then she walked toward you, hips swaying with an exaggerated, liquid confidence.
“Younger men,” she murmured, voice smooth as satin over a knife edge. “So easy to fluster.”
You huffed, trying to find your footing. “Older women. So smug.”
Her hand slid up your chest.
Not a hand, not really. Her fingers flattened, spread, became a glossy black ribbon that curled beneath your jaw and tilted your face down toward hers.
“Smug?” she echoed.
“Yeah.”
Her mouth hovered just beneath yours.
“Maybe,” she said, “you should do something about it.”
You kissed her. Or maybe she let you. Either way, the moment your mouth touched hers, she melted against you. Literally. Her body softened, shaped itself to your front, pressing cool and slick and firm in all the right places. Her lips were warm, though. Warm, hungry, amused. She kissed like she was taking inventory of every weakness you had and deciding which ones to exploit first.
You groaned when her tongue slid against yours.
She smiled into it.
“There it is,” she whispered.
Her arms wrapped around your shoulders, then kept wrapping. One loop around your neck. Another around your torso. Then another, lower, sliding around your waist, your hips, binding you to her in a living coil of black gloss.
You stiffened—not from fear, but because your body had no idea what to do with this much sensation at once.
Inque noticed.
She pulled back just enough to look at you. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Use your words.”
“No,” you said, rougher. “Not too much.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Good boy.”
The praise hit harder than expected. Your breath caught, and she laughed softly, wickedly, before leaning in to kiss the side of your throat.
Her mouth found the spot beneath your jaw first. Then lower. She kissed down your neck slowly, each press of lips followed by the slick drag of her tongue, the faint scrape of teeth. Her body remained wrapped around yours, holding you in place, not trapping you so much as making escape feel like the worst idea anyone had ever had.
You slid your hands to her waist. Her waist narrowed beneath your touch. Then widened. Then shifted again, shape teasing your grip like she wanted to remind you she wasn’t something you could hold unless she allowed it.
“You like touching what you can’t control?” she asked against your throat.
“I like touching you.”
That earned you a pause.
A real one.
Then her mouth returned harder, kissing your neck until heat bloomed under your skin.
“Careful,” she murmured. “Sweet answers make me mean.”
“You were already mean.”
“Mmm. True.”
She uncoiled from you just enough to shove you back onto the bed.
You landed with a breathless laugh, barely propped on your elbows before she crawled over you. Crawl wasn’t quite right either. She flowed. One knee planted beside your hip, then the other, her body stretching long over yours as she pinned you with nothing but presence and the promise in her eyes.
“You know,” she said, lowering herself until her lips brushed yours with every word, “I could take my time with you.”
“You have been.”
“No.” Her smile sharpened. “That was me being polite.”
Her mouth claimed yours again, deeper this time. Her body pressed down over you, slick and warm now, adapting to your heat. Your hands moved over her, learning curves that shifted under your palms, thighs that lengthened around your hips, a waist that pulled inward just to make your grip look bigger on her.
She liked that. You could tell.
Her breath hitched when your fingers dug in.
“Oh?” you murmured. “You like that?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
She laughed, and then her hand slid down your stomach.
The teasing stopped being theoretical after that.
She undressed you with efficient, wicked grace, hands becoming ribbons when she wanted speed, fingers when she wanted precision. Your clothes ended up somewhere on the floor, maybe several places on the floor, and then she was above you again, watching your reaction as she rolled her hips against yours.
You cursed.
Inque sighed like the sound pleased her. “Pretty.”
“Don’t call me that when you’re—”
“When I’m what?”
She moved again, slower.
Your head fell back.
She kissed the exposed line of your throat. “Use your words.”
“When you’re trying to ruin me.”
Her mouth curved against your skin. “Trying?”
Then she rose over you.
The citylight painted her in silver. She looked unreal, all dark shine and dangerous softness, thighs bracketing your hips, confidence dripping from every line of her body. She reached between you, guiding you to her with a look that made your pulse stumble.
“Eyes on me,” she said.
You obeyed.
Her expression softened for half a heartbeat—approval, hunger, something almost tender—before she sank down onto you.
Slowly. So slowly it felt like she was doing it to prove a point.
Your hands flew to her thighs. Her body welcomed you with impossible heat, tight and slick, and she watched your face as she took you inch by inch. Her lips parted. Her lashes fluttered. For all her control, for all her smugness, she felt it too.
You could see it.
“Inque,” you breathed.
Her hands pressed to your chest, fingers spreading over your ribs.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “Let me hear you.”
Then she moved.
Cowgirl suited her too well. She rode you like she had invented gravity purely to defy it. Her hips rolled with slow, devastating precision, body shifting minutely around you, adjusting pressure, angle, depth. Every movement was intentional. Every gasp she drew out of you became fuel.
You grabbed her hips harder.
She moaned.
The sound punched straight through you.
“There,” you said, breathless. “You’re not as untouchable as you pretend.”
Her eyes flashed.
Then her body changed.
At first, you thought she was just tightening around you, but then her whole form subtly compressed. Her thighs drew closer against your hips. Her torso shortened by degrees. Her internal grip became tighter, hotter, more intense as she slowly shrank herself down while still taking you.
Your mouth fell open. “Inque—fuck—”
She laughed, but it broke into a moan halfway through.
“Deeper?” she asked, voice velvet-dark and shaking at the edges.
You couldn’t answer. Not properly.
She sank down harder, shrinking another fraction, and the sensation nearly tore the sound from your chest.
“That’s a yes,” she purred.
You pulled her down to kiss her.
She let you, though the angle made her grind down harder, and both of you groaned into each other’s mouths. Her kiss was messy now, less composed. Her control was still there, but it was fraying beautifully.
You chased that.
Your hands slid up her sides. She arched under your touch, body stretching taller for a moment just so you could feel the curve of her spine. Then she compressed again, clenching around you in a way that made your vision spark.
“Don’t stop,” you said.
Her eyes darkened. “You don’t give the orders from underneath me.”
“No?”
“No.”
She braced one hand beside your head and rode you harder.
The bed creaked beneath you. Rain ticked against the window. The whole world narrowed to her weight, her heat, her mouth, the slick slap of her hips meeting yours. You kissed her neck, biting lightly where shoulder met throat, and she shuddered so violently her form rippled.
“Oh, you like that,” you said.
She grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze back to hers. “Do it again.”
You did.
She came with a sharp gasp, body clenching around you so tightly you nearly followed her over the edge. Her head tipped back, throat exposed, mouth open, body losing its clean lines for a moment as pleasure rippled through her like spilled ink.
You watched, stunned.
Beautiful didn’t cover it. Dangerous didn’t either.
She was something else. Something older than mercy and twice as tempting.
Before you could fully recover, she leaned down and kissed you again. Slower this time. Hungrier.
“Again,” she said.
You blinked. “Again?”
Her smile returned, lazy and lethal. “You heard me.”
You flipped her before she could make another smug remark.
Or you tried to.
Inque let herself be moved, which was not the same thing.
She flowed beneath you, laughing as you rolled her onto her back, her legs wrapping around your waist with inhuman flexibility. You thrust into her once, deep and sharp, and her laughter broke into a moan.
“There he is,” she said. “Knew you had it in you.”
“You talk too much.”
“Make me stop.”
So you kissed her.
Hard.
You drove into her while her hands slid over your back, then split and multiplied, several glossy tendrils gripping your shoulders, your waist, your hair. She pulled you closer and closer until there was no space between you, until every thrust pressed her into the mattress and dragged another low, breathy sound from her throat.
Her legs stretched higher along your sides. One ankle hooked behind your shoulder. Then the other, because apparently, physics was just a polite suggestion to her.
You groaned at the new angle.
She smiled like sin. “Better?”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet.”
She clenched around you.
You nearly collapsed.
“Careful,” you warned.
“With you?” Her mouth brushed yours. “Never.”
Her body rippled again, tightening around you in waves. You felt another orgasm building in her before it hit, felt her start to lose rhythm, felt her nails—or something like nails—drag down your back.
You reached between you and touched her.
That shattered her.
Inque arched off the bed, mouth open against your neck as she came again, harder this time, body twisting under yours in beautiful, impossible shapes. Her torso stretched, spine bending back so far it should have hurt. Instead, she used the motion to kiss you upside down, mouth finding yours at an angle no human body could manage.
You moaned into her kiss.
She smiled against your lips.
“Not done,” she whispered.
The words lit something rougher in you.
You pulled out, and she turned before you could ask, sliding onto her hands and knees with deliberate grace. Her back arched. Her hips lifted. She looked over her shoulder, eyes bright with challenge.
“Show me,” she said.
Your hands settled on her hips.
She pushed back against you.
You entered her from behind in one slow stroke, and both of you cursed at once.
The angle was devastating. She was still slick and sensitive from before, still trembling faintly, but she rocked back into you like she wanted more anyway. Like more was the whole point.
You started slow.
She lasted maybe three thrusts before making an impatient sound.
“Harder.”
You bent over her, kissing the back of her shoulder. “Safeword?”
“Obsidian,” she said instantly. Then, with a sharp look back at you: “And I’m not using it.”
A laugh tore out of you, half disbelief, half desire.
Then you gave her what she wanted.
You railed her from behind, hands gripping her hips as your thrusts turned rougher, deeper, more demanding. Inque moaned low and pleased, pushing back to meet you, body absorbing every movement with liquid grace. Her fingers dug into the sheets, then stretched forward, gripping the bedframe with elongated arms.
You caught her wrists.
She looked back.
You pulled her arms behind her.
Her whole body stilled for one charged second.
Then she smiled.
“Oh,” she said. “There you are.”
You held her arms back carefully but firmly, using the leverage to pull her onto you with each thrust. Her torso arched, then bent backwards impossibly, spine curving until her upper body folded toward you while her hips remained lifted.
She turned her head, mouth searching.
You met her halfway.
The kiss was filthy, breathless, almost desperate. Her body was bent backwards beneath you, arms restrained in your grip, hips still taking you deep as you drove into her from behind. The position should have been impossible.
With Inque, impossible was just foreplay wearing a nicer coat.
She moaned into your mouth.
You released one of her wrists to wrap an arm around her middle, holding her back against your chest while you kept thrusting. Her body moulded to yours, slick and hot, her head falling against your shoulder.
“Good?” you asked against her lips.
“Very,” she breathed. Then, sharper: “Don’t you dare stop.”
You didn’t.
The rhythm turned brutal in the best way, rough but controlled, every movement checked by the sounds she made and the way she pressed back for more. Her body tightened around you again. You could feel her nearing the edge, feel her composure dissolving into gasps and broken commands.
“Touch me,” she said.
You did.
Your fingers found her, slick and sensitive, and she cried out.
Her body clenched so hard your own control nearly snapped.
“That’s it,” you murmured, voice rough in her ear. “Come for me.”
She laughed breathlessly. “Listen to you.”
“You like it.”
“I—”
You thrust deep and circled your fingers just right.
Her answer became a moan.
She came again, shaking against you, torso rippling and bending as pleasure rolled through her. Her arms stretched in your grip, then relaxed, trusting you to hold her as she fell apart. The sight, the feel, the sound of her losing control under your hands finally dragged you over with her.
You buried yourself deep and came with a groan against her neck.
For a while, neither of you moved.
Rain whispered down the window. The city kept glowing, careless and bright.
Slowly, Inque softened beneath you—not sexually this time, but in the quiet way bodies do after intensity burns itself down to embers. You eased your grip on her wrists immediately, kissing each one, though you weren’t sure whether the gesture mattered when she could reshape them at will.
It mattered anyway.
Her eyes found yours over her shoulder.
“That was sweet,” she said, voice huskier than before.
You brushed your mouth along her shoulder. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not.” A pause. “Maybe a little.”
You withdrew carefully, and she made a small sound she clearly hadn’t meant to let out. You caught it. She caught you catching it.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
You smiled and helped her settle onto the bed. She stretched out beside you, body returning to something closer to human shape, though still glossy and dark as midnight oil. You grabbed a blanket and drew it over both of you.
Inque arched a brow. “Blanket?”
“Aftercare.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“No,” you said, brushing a strand of dark matter from her cheek like it was hair. “But you’re not getting out of cuddling by acting scary.”
Her expression did something complicated.
Then she scoffed, but she moved closer.
“Bold,” she murmured.
“You like bold.”
“I like obedient.”
“You like both.”
She considered that.
Then one arm slid around your waist—normal length this time, just an arm—and pulled you against her.
“Maybe.”
You kissed her forehead.
She went still.
Not tense. Just quiet.
You almost pulled back, worried you’d done something wrong, but then she tucked her face against your throat. Her voice, when it came, was softer than you expected.
“You did well.”
Warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with sex.
“So did you.”
Her laugh was low. “I always do well.”
“There she is.”
She nipped lightly at your neck, but there was no bite in it now. Not really.
You held her.
She let you.
For a long while, that was enough: the rain, the neon, the slow settling of breath, Inque’s body warm and strange and real against yours. Her fingers traced idle patterns over your ribs, no teasing now, no performance. Just touch.
Eventually, she lifted her head.
“If you tell anyone I cuddle,” she said, “I’ll deny it.”
“Obviously.”
“And then I’ll ruin you.”
You grinned. “Again?”
Her eyes gleamed.
The old wickedness returned, softer around the edges.
“Careful,” Inque said, kissing you slowly. “Sweet answers make me mean.”
Characters: Bruce Wayne x Hurt Musician GN! Reader!
Summary: You were a musician long before you were a hero. Music runs in your blood, in your veins, it puts the air in your lungs. Or, it did.
Warnings: Chronic injury (reader), grief, loss, depression, obvious sadness, talks off feeling useless, cursing.
A/N: This made me cry, I gave up music for STEM bro 😭
You're broken.
Worse.
You're useless.
Your fingers barely move - each bone creaking, letting out the eeriely haunting sound of aching pain instead of the wishless melodies you want them to. The piano rested beneath your grip, silent, desolate, crying out for a master, all of it's potential wasted in your hands.
Your useless, aching, hands.
You were a musician before you were a hero, a prospect most others laughed at when they looked at you now. You were so reckless, so impatient, so quick-witted that no one could ever guess your past. No one could ever guess that you could handle cello strings with such ease, no one could ever guess that you practiced for all those years, waiting, - yearning time and time again, day in and day out, to have your heart filled, your ears tickled, your music drifting through the halls of your home. Filling you. Making you whole. Filling the hearts of others.
You can't do that anymore.
The thought makes you want to cry.
You can't feel a cello's strings verbate under your touch, you can't cringe when a violin right next to your ears goes a prospect too high, you can't laugh when you hit two cymbals too hard together - startling one of your fellow heroes that just decided to wander into your home.
You can't hear the gaggle of the rest of your fellow heroes talking downstairs, deep in the Pitts of Gotham - in a place where bats go to rest, a place villains quake in fear of, a place secrets go to die.
A place you wished you could die, honestly.
You're not even sure if they've noticed you're gone.
Maybe Diana, she was well versed in the arts, and she seemed keen to the panic you felt when J'onn said you wouldn't be able to move your fingers the same ever again.
The panic, the anxiety, the hurt. It must've been clear as day to her. Her words trying to soothe you as you began to silently drown right were you had been standing.
Hal had joked that loosing a finger or two was the least of your worries, laughing languidly in a way you think was meant to cheer you up before he got into a hushed argument with Oliver. The ladder hitting him on the shoulder before dragging him to an ominous corner.
The thought of loosing music hurt much more than loosing the basic motor skills in your fingers.
If you wouldn't write, if you couldn't eat, hell if you couldn't even breathe, it would all be okay - it would all be alright - if you could play again. If you could preform. If you could feel the vibrations traveling through your chest.
It would all be worth it.
A shaky sigh leaves your lips before they purse, laying in wait, trying not to shake as you tried again.
A simple tune.
A simple tune was all you needed.
Something to prove you could still do this, to prove you could still play music, to prove you could still do what you loved, to prove to yourself that there was nothing to worry about. To prove to yourself that the anxiety, the anger you began to felt bubbling in the pitt of your stomach; was nothing more than nonsense.
A simple tune for you.
For no one else.
Your finger snapped down with an eerie click of your bone, barely heard, yet ever prominent. A shot of pain reverberated up your finger, shooting down your spinal cord, shooting down every single nerve that even deserved to exist in your feeble minded body.
White flashed behind your eyes, pain seared in your digit, your bones screamed in agony, a startled gasp leaving you before you cradled the digit. Left gasping for air at the sheer amount of searing pain such a simple movement head put you through.
"O-Oh-" Your voice cracked, the word only whispered as a secret to yourself. Tears pooled out of your eyes all to suddenly, dropping restlessly onto the unplayed keys below, a pathetic sob whimpering from your lips, throat bobbing wetly as you sat there in silence.
You just sat there.
You sat there in your rage, in your regret, in your sadness, in your pity. Because what were you if not pitiful? Not even a single note of music being able to soothe your soul, not even a single pang of noise in the never-ending silence as you sat there.
Sat there in silence.
Sat there in everything but peace.
Sat there letting it all out.
Finally.
Tears rolled restlessly down your cheeks, blubbering up your lip as you didn't even bother to wipe them away.
A small creak in the wooden floors.
Your head snapped back, and Bruce doesn't seem as nearly surprised at you as you see him standing there. Watching, staring.
"Shit-" You barely choked out, trying to hide your tears, trying to wipe them away, trying to hide your face, trying to hide anything really; yet its all fruitless.
You can't even curl your fingers to hide your eyes and that makes you sob that much more harder, a shallow ache coming to your chest, grief, loss.
"Shit I'm s-sorry," You croak, bringing your sleeve up to try and quell the tears - a simple task your fingers couldn't even fathom now, "I-I totally just wandered up to y-your house, huh?"
"It's fine." Bruce answers firmly, his words are unrushed, stiff, cold yet not unkind, something hinged at the end of them, "You left the meeting."
You can't even look at him anymore, a rush of shame creeping up your neck and filthying the tips of your ears. Much more, you're eyes are too red, your voice is too crackly, and you're much too pathetic looking.
Much more than usual right about now.
There's a silence, like he was waiting for you to do something - anything. Like he was letting you stew, not wanting to take over the gears currently swiveling like unhinged motors in your head.
You eventually mutter a small 'sorry', head watching your fingers as they rest useless in your lap.
"It's alright." He answers with the same steadiness, and you can't help but think his tone is somehow helping to keep you calm.
It was the same on missions - always. His voice keeping you grounded even in his anger when you were dazed, even when you were afraid, even when you were keeling over on the ground and into one of your comrades arms.
Its always been the same.
There.
Just there.
His shoes creak in the floor, alarming you of every step he took closer before he stopped beside you, standing tall next to the pianos stool.
A pause.
"May I?"
You blink up at him incredulously - as if you weren't in his house, using his piano without any permission of his own. Somehow forgetting your grief for a moment, you nod; awkwardly shuffling a little aways so he could sit down next to you. His cape as fluid as his movements before he settled.
A tense silence settles over the both of you, and you wish you could be tinkering with your hands right about now, fiddling nervously, cracking every last joint - but you watch them sit limp instead.
Useless.
"I just needed a moment." You murmur finally, apology laced in your tone; you can barely look at him, "I guess I wasn't really thinking."
The house is eerily quiet for a moment before he speaks,
"You weren't. Thinking, that is." And he glances at you from behind the cowl, "But who would in your situation?"
"It's not really a...situation." You murmur, shoulders tight as your shrug them, quaint, "Just me being dramatic, I guess."
"You're grieving something you just lost, something you loved the most. I wouldn't call that being dramatic." Bruce adds, words calm, fluid, "In fact, I'd say you're handling it as well - if not better - than most people."
Your eyes swivel away at those words. Firm, assuring, not leaving any room to second guess them. And you're trying to catch the gaze of anything other to look at but him or the piano. Him or the thing that reminds you most of what you can no longer have.
Your chest burns at the mere thought, aching, longing for something you know you can never have again. Something you know is lost. Something you know is gone yet is somehow still right in front of you.
Your world swiveling, bending, distorting at the tears that threaten to fall again at his words.
Because somehow, you think they're comforting. They feel like a warm blanket on a chilling winter night, a light in your now never ending darkness.
You finally offer a sardonic smile in return, sarcastic "And who's most people? A baby?" You can't deny the words are hiding something deeper, something worse than you'd like to admit, "A child?"
Bruce purses his lips, and you sniffle in silence.
"You'd be surprised how well some children take grief." He paused, as if weighing something in his mind, "Or seem to."
Silence.
You're silent.
He's silent.
You break it, "I feel selfish."
He keeps the silence.
A shaky, incredulous laugh leaves you, empty, and you cave, "It makes me selfish, doesn't it? I wish- Fuck, I wish I had never been a hero now. I wish I had never gone on that mission. I don't wish I hadn't saved those people, but if had meant- if it had meant-..." You hesitate, caging the plump of your bottom lip in your teeth. Squeezing till the skin almost breaks.
"It doesn't." Bruce sighs silently, a hum resonating through his chest, "You're a hero, but you're human first."
"A selfish one."
"Yes." He agrees without a second thought, "We all are. It's in our nature."
You want to snap, hit him, hit yourself, hit anyone, the acid burning through your chest like hot lava, "That doesn't make it right."
"Does it?"
Fuck-
Fuck him and his empty answers, his empty answers that never actually give you anything.
You grit your teeth.
You can't tell what's worse, the bubbling anger that threatens to burst out, that threatens to rip you apart bit by bit. Or the sadness, the grief, the emptiness that threatens to leave you wilting on the ground like some sad, mangled, flower.
"I don't know what I'm going to do." You suddenly blurt out, and you can feel the shame of your openness burn your eyes, burn your neck, burn your brain that tells you to run back, to hide, to stop. This is your colleague, your fellow hero, "It's all I had."
"With or without it. You're still the same person you were." Bruce reiterates, "Friends, family, the League they-"
"No-" You choke, and it feels like you're about to puke, "No, you don't understand. Music, it's all I had, it's all I was. My mom, my dad, everyone I ever knew." Your voice cracks, limp, lame, not even trying to wipe away the tears now, "They all left me. But my music? It always, always, stayed it never left, everytime I came home, every time I came back bloody and beaten to a pulp to my empty apartment. I knew it would be there, I knew it wouldn't leave me like everyone else did. And now it has and I'm-"
You pause and Bruce doesn't interrupt, doesn't try to console you, doesn't try to tell you its all going to get better. He doesn't even tell you that the league is there for you, that there will be other things, other hobbies. He doesn't even try to tell you that he's there for you, yet somehow, his Prescence is grounding enough. Keeping you here, keeping you in this room, keeping you at this piano, in this moment, with him.
"I may be the same person." You surmise, swallowing down the graininess, "I may have the same head, and the same brain, and hell, even the same fucking fingers. But I'll never be the best version of me, not again, not after this."
You look at him, and for a moment; you think something clicks. Like there's some sort of connection flowing through you, connecting you together, joining you like two notes in a melody.
"I love music." You murmur, shaking your head; and you can't help but not block the shaky laugh that leaves you, words soft, quiet now, "I love everything about it."
He's silent, dark eyes staring into yours. Observing every speck of grey that filters through the light, observing the redness around your eyes, observing the tears that fall free from them.
"I love the feeling of the strings indenting callouses so deep that they carve into my bones," You squeeze the flesh of your pointer finger, rambling, "I love the music flowing past my ears, wisping into something more than nothing, wisping into something more than myself, wisping into love, into feeling. Traveling into peoples souls and grabbing them by the hearts, ripping their soul out and into whatever feeling my music gives them."
Your shallow breathing is left filling the air, wafting through it, contaminating it after your rambling. Your face should be heating up, warming up in shame, in embarrassment, in anger that you just expressed your feelings to another person.
But for some reason it doesn't.
It never comes.
"Gotham." Bruce starts, not tearing his gaze away from yours. Yet his voice in quiet, comforting, "It's what pulls me through night after night. Every time I come home, sore and exhausted, I'm at peace." He paused, "Because I know its still there, safe and sound."
You shake your head, smiling in understanding, voice cracking, "You couldn't live without it."
"No." He looks forwards, gaze swarming the piano again, "I couldn't."
Silence.
"It's pretty." You murmur softly, eyes earning his gaze again, and something warms in your heart; something new, something that never flipped over and showed you its belly when you played your violin, "I fly over Gotham often, it's very pretty."
"Pretty." Bruce agrees with a curt grunt, "But broken."
"You're fixing it."
"You can too."
You blink at him, a little peeved at the thought of you asking him to protect Gotham when you were just sobbing over a piano two minutes ago.
Muchless, he had like 100 kids to help him protect it.
Bruce must've become keen to your grimace, because clears his throat awkwardly, "Your Gotham, I mean." His hand reaches out between the two of you, gloved one beckoning yours, "You can start to fix it too. It'll take awhile. But, I believe for you, it'll be worth it in the end."
Your Gotham.
The words reverberate through your head.
You stare at his palm, empty, welcoming, beckoning you to something more.
And you swallow.
Because you're scared.
What if you wake up one day and your fingers reject all your work? What if you wake up one day and they require more than simple pain meds? Need amputation, separation, separation from you? What if you wake up after another mission and find them limp, stone-cold, back to base 1.
Some would think you voiced that out loud, some would think you're all too closed off, all too quiet behind that storm filled gaze of yours.
But Bruce hears it, and he sees it.
Sees you.
"We'll do it," He offers, "Together."
You pause, lashes fluttering lighter over your gaze, and you can't help but agree. Your hand is like stone, uncoordinated, restrained, throbbing with pain and something more; but he takes it anyways. Not forcing your fingers to wrap around his when your palms meet. Both of you just looking away in silence.
Looking forwards.
And for once, you can't help but think.
The silence isn't so loud.
________________
Extra!:
"They're cute." Dick grins, peeking over the side of the corner; grinning shitless at the fact that Bruce -The Bruce Wayne- silent, ass kicking, brooder, is holding someone else's hand.
"Maybe..." Tim groans, "In an old people way." He hisses when Stephanie hits his shoulder; Cass just nodding along silently at their words.
"He deserves it." Duke snorts, "Wonder if they make good pancakes."
"Not better than Alfred's." Stephanie whispers.
"Never." Damian grumbles, eyes sharp as he watches the two of you.
"Agreed." They all nod along together, just watching the two of you sit there. In peace. Together.
"Hey asshole," Jason hits Dick hard against the back of the head, earning a hard glare, "The gangle of cunts down there is asking where Bruce isssssss- Holy fuckkkkkk”
"SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" They all snap at him.
——
A/N- the CW Flash edit that inspired this is here :)
Sometimes we have to give up our dreams in pursuit of something higher. I can’t make a living off music, yet music is my life. Super cheesy, but I will always love music.🥲
content batfam & male! reader, absolute wonder woman inspired, magic, circe as a complicated mother figure, you have a skeletal pegasus, amazon reader, demons/monsters, blood, grief themes, references to genocide, abandonment, traumatic upbringing, mild body horror, implied child endangerment in backstory
masterlist
wordcount 4k
when gotham’s sky tears open and demons spill into the streets, the batfamily expects another nightmare—but instead they find you: the last son of the amazons, raised in hell by circe and armed with a sword, a crimson lasso, and a skeletal pegasus. you arrive carrying a grief older than gotham itself, but your power is matched only by your refusal to let cruelty define you. suspicious at first, the bats soon realise you are not there to conquer their city—you are there to protect it, and maybe, against all odds, find a family among its shadows.
The first time Gotham saw you, the sky split open.
Not metaphorically. Gotham had metaphors enough. Gotham was built on gargoyles, grief, and tax fraud. It did not need poetry to be dramatic.
But that night, the clouds above the East End tore apart like black silk under a blade.
A red wound opened in the heavens.
And something fell out.
Barbara saw it first. From the Clocktower, her screens flashed crimson. Satellite feed warped. Street cameras blanked one by one, not from interference, but from fear—as if the machines themselves had looked at what was coming and decided, wisely, to close their eyes.
“Batman,” Oracle said, voice sharp over comms. “We have an atmospheric breach over Park Row.”
Bruce was already moving. “Alien?”
“Magic signature,” Tim cut in, fingers flying across his gauntlet. “Heavy magic signature. Like, we-might-need-Zatanna-heavy.”
“Constantine heavy?” Dick asked.
A pause.
Barbara said, “Worse.”
Jason’s voice crackled in. “Cool. Love that. Always wanted to get eaten by a sky demon on a Tuesday.”
“It’s Thursday,” Damian said.
“In Gotham? Same thing.”
Then the thing hit the ground.
The impact cratered the street and shattered every window for three blocks. Cars screamed. Alarms wailed. Birds launched from rooftops like scraps of night given panic. A wave of heat rolled through the East End, smelling of iron, ash, pomegranate, and something older than language.
Batman landed on a rooftop first, cape snapping behind him.
Nightwing dropped beside him. Red Robin followed, then Spoiler, Signal, Batgirl, Robin, Orphan, and finally Red Hood, who landed with both guns drawn and his whole posture saying absolutely not.
They looked down.
In the middle of the crater stood a horse.
Or what had once been a horse. Its bones were black as volcanic glass. Its wings were enormous, skeletal things threaded with ember-red veins of magic. Its mane burned without smoke. Its eye sockets held twin coals, ancient and patient.
On its back sat you.
You were tall, broad-shouldered, and armoured in black and dark bronze, with red cloth trailing from your waist like a banner soaked in sunset. Your arms were bare except for bracers carved with symbols none of them recognised. Tattoos curled over your skin in gold and ink-black lines—spells, maybe. Warnings, probably.
Across your back rested a sword too large to be reasonable. At your hip hung a lasso, not golden, not bright, but crimson-dark and alive-looking, as though it had been braided from sunset, blood, and old promises.
Your face was hidden beneath a helm shaped like something between a warrior’s crown and a beast’s skull.
For one breath, no one moved.
Then Jason said, “Nope.”
You turned your head toward him.
Jason lifted one gun slightly. “Respectfully.”
The horse snorted flame.
“Very respectfully,” Jason amended.
Batman raised a hand, signalling the others to hold.
You swung one leg over the saddle and dropped to the broken street. The ground cracked beneath your boots.
You looked around Gotham.
Not with disgust. Not with fear.
With grief.
Like you had seen worse places. Like you had loved worse places. Like you were already deciding this one deserved saving.
Bruce hated that most of all.
“Identify yourself,” Batman called.
You looked up at him. The helm folded away from your face like smoke pulled into metal.
You were younger than Bruce expected.
Not a boy. Not quite. But not old enough to carry eyes like that.
Your eyes were dark and luminous, reflecting fire that wasn’t there. There was ash in your hair. Blood on your knuckles. A cut across your cheek already closing.
You opened your mouth.
The first language you spoke made the air scream.
Everyone flinched except Cass, who tilted her head, fascinated.
You frowned, then tried another.
The streetlights flickered.
“Okay,” Steph said, “that one made my fillings feel haunted.”
You tried a third language.
Damian stiffened.
“That is ancient Greek,” he said.
You looked at him with sudden relief.
Then, carefully, like the words were old tools you had not held in years, you said, “I seek the city’s protector.”
Bruce stepped off the roof and dropped into the crater. “I’m here.”
Your gaze moved over him.
The cowl. The cape. The symbol.
Your expression changed.
Not recognition.
Understanding.
“You dress as a nightmare,” you said.
Bruce said nothing.
You stepped closer. “But you stand between the dark and the living.”
Dick’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, I like him.”
Jason muttered, “You would.”
Bruce ignored them. “Why are you here?”
You looked past him, toward the alleyways, the rooftops, the trembling civilians peering from behind broken glass.
Then you looked at the sky.
The red wound had not closed.
Something moved behind it. Something with wings. Something hungry.
You reached over your shoulder and drew your sword.
It came free with a sound like thunder kneeling.
“I am here,” you said, “because Hell has misplaced its teeth.”
And then the first demon fell.
You had been born where no child should have survived.
Not born, exactly.
Made. Stolen. Saved.
The truth depended on who told it.
Circe told it like this: “You were a punishment.”
She told you this while brushing ash from your hair with fingers that had turned kings into swine and monsters into men.
“You were given to me by gods who thought they were clever. A child. A boy-child, no less. The last son of a people they had already broken. They dropped you into Hell and commanded me to let you die.”
You had been six years old, sitting cross-legged beside a pool of black water, watching skeletal fish swim in circles beneath the surface.
“What did you do?” you asked.
Circe’s mouth twisted. “I waited.”
“For me to die?”
“Yes.”
You considered this.
“Rude.”
She laughed then, which was rare. Circe’s laughter was sharp and bright and usually meant someone was about to regret a decision.
“Yes,” she said. “Very rude.”
But you had not died.
The Wild Isle had tried. Serpents came first. You grabbed one by the jaw before you could walk and threw it into a thorn tree.
The bone-wolves came when you were three. You bit one back.
The harpies came when you were five. You cried afterwards because one had a broken wing, and Circe found you trying to splint it with reeds and funeral thread.
That was when she stopped waiting for you to die.
That was when she began teaching you to live.
Not gently. Never gently. Circe was not made of lullabies.
She taught you letters by carving them into stone with a knife. She taught you magic by dropping you into dreams and telling you to find your way out. She taught you swordplay because monsters did not care if your heart was kind.
“Again,” she would say, as you spat blood into black sand.
“I am tired.”
“Then be tired and still dangerous.”
So you became both. You learned the names of stars no mortal world remembered. You learned to bind wounds with spider silk and moon ash. You learned to listen to the dead without letting them crawl into your mouth. You learned that kindness was not softness.
Soft things were crushed in Hell. Kind things grew teeth.
Circe never told you what you were. Only what you must not become.
“Do not become a god,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because gods call cruelty justice when they are bored.”
“Am I a god?”
“No.”
“What am I?”
She looked at you then, and for the first time, her face softened. “You are mine.”
For years, that was enough.
Until you found the word.
Amazon.
It was hidden in a book that screamed when opened. Circe had locked it beneath seven curses and one very dramatic skull. You were fifteen, curious, and stupid in the specific way young warriors with healing factors tended to be.
The moment you read the word, the room went silent. Even Hell seemed to hold its breath.
Circe found you standing over the book.
Her face went white.
You had seen her face covered in demon blood. You had seen her laugh in the court of Hades. You had seen her threaten a mountain until it moved. You had never seen her afraid.
“What is an Amazon?” you asked.
Circe closed the book.
Then she sat down as though her bones had become old all at once.
“Your beginning,” she said.
“Not my mother?”
Her eyes flashed. “I am your mother.”
You looked down. “I know.”
The anger left her. She reached for you, then stopped herself, because affection was still a language both of you spoke badly.
“The Amazons were warriors,” she said. “Scholars. Healers. Builders. A people made of defiance. They lived beneath a sky that did not hate them.”
“Where are they?”
Circe said nothing.
You understood before she answered.
Hell had many languages. Silence was one of them.
You became still. “All of them?”
“Gone,” she said. “Hidden. Banished. Buried. Depends which god is lying.”
“And me?”
“You were taken before you could know them.”
“Why?”
“Because prophecy is a disease gods catch when they fear losing power.”
That night, you walked to the edge of the Wild Isle and screamed until the dead screamed back.
You did not hate Circe for hiding it. That came later.
Then passed.
Love, you learned, could survive betrayal. It just limped afterwards.
When you were grown, you forged yourself into something Hell could not swallow.
You made armour from the shield of a dead tyrant. You carved your bracers from the gates of a prison that had held innocent souls. You won your sword from Athena’s forgotten altar, not because the goddess gifted it, but because you bled for it and asked politely after winning.
Your lasso came from something worse.
A basilisk’s hide. Prometheus’s stolen fire. Demeter’s grief.
Circe’s hands. Your mother braided it in silence while you watched.
“What does it do?” you asked.
“It shows a soul the weight of what it has done.”
“That sounds cruel.”
“It is honest.”
“Those are not always different.”
Circe’s smile was sad. “No. They are not.”
You touched the crimson rope. It pulsed like a second heart.
“I will use it carefully,” you said.
Circe looked at you then with pride so fierce it almost looked like pain.
“That,” she whispered, “is what frightens them most about you.”
In Gotham, demons poured from the sky.
The Bats moved like a single organism with too many knives.
Batman struck first, explosive gel blasting a winged creature off course before it could snatch a civilian. Nightwing flipped across a streetlamp and drove both escrima sticks into a demon’s skull. Red Hood fired blessed rounds—because apparently he did listen to Constantine sometimes—and shouted, “I knew buying these was gonna pay off!”
Spoiler ducked under a claw. “You bought anti-demon bullets and didn’t tell us?”
“They were on sale!”
“There was a sale on holy ammo?”
“This is Gotham!”
You fought differently from all of them.
Not like a vigilante.
Like a myth.
You moved through the street with terrifying grace, sword flashing in arcs of red light. Each spell you cast burned symbols into the air. Your skeletal Pegasus shrieked overhead, trampling demons mid-flight, its wings beating sparks into the rain.
A demon lunged at Robin.
Damian raised his katana, ready.
You appeared between them. Your bracer caught the demon’s claws. The impact cracked the asphalt. With your free hand, you seized the creature by the throat and slammed it into the ground hard enough to turn the crater deeper.
Damian stared.
“I had that,” he snapped.
You looked at him. “Yes.”
That seemed to annoy him more.
You kicked the demon away and turned. “But now you have it with all your limbs attached.”
Jason barked a laugh over comms. “Oh, I like him too.”
“I do not,” Damian said instantly.
Cass landed beside you, silent as breath.
You glanced at her. She glanced at your sword.
You glanced at the demon behind her.
She nodded once.
You spun left. She spun right. The demon between you did not get a chance to regret its life choices.
When it fell, Cass looked at you again.
“You dance,” she said.
You blinked, surprised.
Then you smiled. “So do you.”
Cass smiled back, small and pleased.
Bruce saw it from across the street and filed it away under dangerous: has already won Cassandra’s approval.
That list was very short.
Another beast slammed into the road near Tim, its mouth opening wide enough to swallow him whole. Tim threw a disc into its throat. The explosion staggered it, but did not drop it.
A massive shape forced itself through the wound in the sky.
It had too many wings. Too many mouths. Too many human hands.
Duke’s light flared gold as he looked up. “That thing has a core.”
Bruce’s voice cut through comms. “Signal?”
“I can see it,” Duke said. “Centre mass, under the bone plating. It’s not just a demon. It’s a gate anchor.”
“Meaning?” Jason demanded.
Tim answered, grim. “Meaning if we kill everything else but leave that thing alive, the portal stays open.”
You stared up at the creature.
Its shadow covered the block.
Your jaw tightened.
“That is a grief-eater,” you said.
Dick landed beside you. “Sorry, a what-eater?”
“It feeds on sorrow. Fear. Regret. Cities like this are banquets.”
The entirety of the Bats went very quiet.
Because Gotham was many things. A banquet of grief was definitely one of them.
The creature shrieked.
Across the street, civilians collapsed to their knees. A woman began sobbing. A man clutched his chest. A child screamed for a mother who was right beside him.
The sound clawed inside everyone’s skull.
Bruce staggered. Jason went rigid. Dick sucked in a breath like he had been punched. Tim’s hand flew to his bo staff, white-knuckled. Damian’s eyes widened for one terrible second before fury covered whatever memory had surfaced.
The grief-eater was not attacking their bodies.
It was opening doors.
Every loss. Every failure. Every grave.
You saw it happen. And something ancient inside you answered.
You wrapped the crimson lasso around your own wrist.
Circe’s voice echoed in memory.
Do not use it on yourself unless you are prepared to meet everything you are.
You pulled tight.
Pain hit you like a god’s fist.
Hell. The island. The first serpent. Circe turning away so you would not see her cry. The word Amazon burning behind your eyes. The empty history where your people should have been. Every monster you had killed. Every monster you had spared. Every time you wondered whether mercy was just another blade you had not learned to sharpen.
You dropped to one knee.
Jason saw.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Big guy’s down!”
“I am not down,” you snarled.
The lasso burned brighter.
Your Pegasus screamed.
You rose.
The grief-eater turned all its mouths toward you.
You looked up.
“You are hungry?” you asked. Your voice carried through the street, through the storm, through the open wound between worlds. “Then choke.”
You launched yourself upward.
Not jumped.
Launched.
The street shattered beneath you.
Your Pegasus met you halfway, and you landed on its back as it climbed into the storm. Lightning wrapped around your sword. Your armour burned with red sigils.
Below, the Bats moved.
“Red Robin,” Batman said.
“Already on it.” Tim’s voice shook only slightly. “Signal, mark the core.”
“Marked.”
“Oracle?”
Barbara’s voice came through, fierce and clear. “I’m mapping the portal frequency. Spoiler, Batgirl, herd the civilians south. Nightwing, Hood, clear the rooftops.”
Jason reloaded. “With pleasure.”
Dick swung toward a fire escape. “Try not to flirt with death too hard.”
“Death flirts with me.”
“Unfortunately true.”
You heard them. These strange warriors in black and yellow and red. These children of a man who dressed as fear but gathered broken things around him like stars.
You had known many kinds of family.
Blood family stolen before memory. Chosen family built in Hell.
Now this.
A battlefield family. Brief, bright, immediate.
You drove your sword into the grief-eater’s side.
It screamed.
Its memories poured into you.
Not thoughts. Wounds.
You saw gods laughing. Cities burning. Children abandoned. Soldiers dying afraid. Mothers bargaining with empty skies.
You saw Gotham too.
An alley. Pearls. Blood on pavement. A crowbar. A warehouse. A small body in bright colours. A father too late.
You nearly fell.
Then Batman’s grapple hooked onto the creature’s bone plating beside you.
He slammed into its back, cape whipping around him.
“You’re carrying too much,” he said.
You looked at him.
Rain streaked down his cowl.
You laughed once, breathless and bitter. “You would know.”
Bruce did not deny it. Instead, he planted a charge against the creature’s spine. “On my mark.”
You tightened your grip on the sword. “I can hold it.”
“You don’t have to.”
That hit harder than the grief-eater.
For one second, you were a child again, standing on black sand, asking Circe what you were.
You are mine.
Now Batman, impossible man of shadows, stood beside you on the back of a demon and told you without softness, without poetry, without even knowing you: you are not alone in this fight.
Below, Duke fired a beam of light directly into the creature’s chest. The bone plating turned translucent.
“There!” Tim shouted. “Core exposed!”
You and Bruce moved at the same time.
His charge detonated. Your sword came down.
The grief-eater split open in a storm of ash and red lightning. The portal screamed.
You threw the lasso. It caught the edge of the wound in the sky.
Every muscle in your body strained as you pulled.
The portal resisted like a living thing. Hell did not release what belonged to it easily.
Then Jason’s grappling line shot up and wrapped around the lasso.
Another line followed.
Dick. Then Tim. Then Damian.
Steph. Cass. Duke. Bruce.
One by one, the Bats anchored themselves to the street, rooftops, broken cars, and each other.
Jason grunted. “This is the dumbest tug-of-war I’ve ever been part of.”
Steph strained beside him. “You’ve been in multiple?”
“It’s Gotham!”
You pulled. They pulled with you.
The sky stitched itself shut.
When the wound finally sealed, silence fell so hard it felt holy.
You dropped from the sky. Your Pegasus dissolved into embers before reforming behind you, offended but intact.
You landed on one knee.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Damian marched up to you.
He looked furious.
“You are reckless,” he said.
You blinked.
Jason wheezed. “Oh, that’s rich.”
Damian ignored him. “You used an unknown magical weapon on yourself while engaging a superior enemy above a civilian population.”
You stared at him.
Then, slowly, you smiled. “You were worried.”
“I was tactically displeased.”
“Worried.”
“Tt.”
You bowed your head slightly. “Thank you, little warrior.”
Tim nodded. “Damian’s going to pretend to hate it.”
Cass said, “Already is.”
Jason holstered his guns and looked you over. “So. Hell prince. Amazon guy. Demon cowboy. What’s your deal?”
You considered the question.
You told them your name. “I am the last son of a murdered people, raised by a witch in Hell, bound by old laws to return there one month each year. I came to this world because monsters followed a path they should not have found.”
Silence.
Dick blinked. “That is… a very complete answer.”
Jason looked at Bruce. “See? Communication. Wild concept.”
Bruce ignored him again, with the practised strength of a father of many annoying children.
“You said monsters followed a path,” Bruce said. “Who opened it?”
Your expression darkened. “I do not know.”
Barbara spoke into their ears. “I might. The portal signature left residue. It’s not random. Someone in Gotham was calling it.”
Bruce’s mouth tightened.
“Of course they were,” Tim muttered.
You looked toward the city.
Gotham looked back. Broken windows. Sirens. Smoke. People helping strangers stand. A child hugging their mother. A man giving his coat to someone shaking. Night blooming over everything like a bruise.
“This city,” you said softly, “is wounded.”
Bruce followed your gaze. “Yes.”
“But not dead.”
“No.”
You looked at him. “Then I will help.”
Bruce studied you.
Everyone expected suspicion. Interrogation. Contingency planning so loud it could be heard from space.
And yes, Bruce was already thinking of weaknesses. Magic. Lasso. Possible divine origin. Emotional volatility. Loyalty to Circe. Unknown political relationship with Hell.
But he was also looking at the blood on your hands, none of it civilian.
The way you had thrown yourself between Damian and danger. The way Cass stood near you without fear. The way Duke’s light hadn’t recoiled from you.
The way you looked at Gotham, not as a battlefield to conquer, but as a wound to bind.
Batman nodded once. “Then we talk.”
Jason groaned. “Translation: Cave interrogation.”
“Medical evaluation first,” Alfred said over comms.
You froze.
Another voice. Calm. British. Terrifying in a way no demon had ever managed.
“Who is that?” you asked.
Dick grinned. “That’s Alfred.”
“Your king?”
Jason lost it.
Bruce sighed.
Damian looked deeply offended. “Pennyworth is not our king.”
Tim said, “I mean…”
Steph added, “Spiritually…”
Cass nodded.
Duke shrugged. “He does rule.”
Alfred’s voice remained perfectly composed. “I am merely the butler. However, if you are bleeding on Master Bruce’s pavement, I must insist you come inside.”
You stared.
Then whispered, “Your butler commands warriors?”
Jason clapped you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family dynamic, Hellboy.”
You looked at his hand.
Jason immediately removed it. “Sorry. Boundaries.”
But you smiled.
It was small. Tired.
Real.
“I have never met a butler,” you said.
Dick slung an arm around your shoulders like you hadn’t just fallen out of Hell riding a skeletal Pegasus. “Oh, buddy. You’re about to meet the butler.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You are all impossible,” he said.
You glanced at him.
“No,” you said, voice quiet as ash settling after war. “I was told that once.”
The family went still.
Your eyes lifted to the sealed sky.
“Impossible things survive,” you said. “That is why the gods fear them.”
No one had a joke for that.
Not even Jason.
Then your Pegasus nudged Damian with its skull.
Damian stared at it. The horse stared back.
“…Father,” Damian said stiffly.
“No,” Bruce said immediately.
“I have not asked anything yet.”
“No.”
You tilted your head. “The steed likes him.”
“I do not like it,” Damian said.
The Pegasus lowered its flaming skull until its forehead touched Damian’s chest.
Damian went rigid.
Cass smiled.
Steph whispered, “Oh my god, the Hell horse adopted him.”
Jason whispered back, “This night rules.”
Damian, very carefully, touched the Pegasus between the eyes.
The flames did not burn him.
Your smile softened.
Bruce watched the moment with the weary knowledge that his life had just become at least thirty per cent more mythological.
Then he turned toward the Batmobile.
“Everyone, back to the Cave.”
You followed, sword on your back, lasso at your hip, ash in your hair, Gotham’s rain washing Hell from your armour but not from your bones.
You had been raised in a place without stars.
Now you walked among a family made of them.
Broken stars. Angry stars. Lonely stars. Stars that bit.
But stars all the same.
And for the first time since leaving the Wild Isle, you wondered if maybe survival was not the only impossible thing you were meant for.
Ft. 30s Nanami Kento, Baby Yuji and Megumi, and Gojo Satoru. Gojo's married to the reader, who's not home in this.
WC: 700.
Nanami knew Gojo had sent him the wrong address when a child answered the door wearing a cardboard sash that said HELPER TEAM in glitter glue.
The child had pink hair, round cheeks, and a whistle around his neck.
He stared at Nanami’s face.
Then he turned around and screamed, “Gumi! There is an Ojiichan at the door!”
Nanami stood in Gojo Satoru’s entryway with a bottle of wine in one hand, his suitcase in the other, and the kind of facial lines that came from five years abroad, fourteen-hour flights, and quarterly budget meetings with men who used the phrase "we are a family here" without shame.
“I am thirty-five.”
A second child appeared behind the first, black hair pointing in several directions, a dragon clipboard hugged to his chest. He looked Nanami up and down with the cold suspicion of a miniature building inspector.
“Thirty-five is big, I'm Megumi and this is Yuji. We'll help,” the sea urchin said.
“It is adult, not grandpa.”
Yuji stepped carefully down into the entryway and held out both hands. “Can you sit down by yourself?”
Megumi leaned closer to inspect Nanami’s forehead. “Why your face has lines?”
Nanami’s grip tightened around the wine. “Work.”
Yuji’s mouth fell open. “Work did that?”
“Yes.”
Both children looked at each other, horrified.
Megumi whispered, “I don’t want work.”
“Reasonable.”
Yuji grabbed Nanami’s sleeve with sticky fingers. “Do you need water? Papa says old people dry up.”
“I am going to drink wine.”
Megumi looked at the bottle. “That is grown-up grape medicine.”
Nanami took one controlled breath. “Something like that.”
He bent to take off his shoes.
His knee cracked.
Yuji’s hand flew to his whistle.
“Do not,” Nanami said.
Yuji blew it directly into his own panic.
The sound ripped through the entryway.
Megumi shouted toward the stairs, “Dada! His leg made a SNACK sound!”
“My leg did not make a snack sound.”
Yuji was already patting Nanami’s knee through his trousers. “Pain go away. Go to sky. Bye-bye.”
Nanami looked down at him. “Thank you.”
“Did it go?”
Nanami, a grown man with an economics degree and mild caffeine poisoning, said, “It went.”
Yuji beamed. “I fixed grandpa.”
Megumi added a sticker to Nanami’s coat.
It was a cartoon raccoon giving a thumbs-up.
“Brave patient,” Megumi said.
“I am a guest.”
“Guest-patient.”
Yuji tugged his hand. “I help you cross street later.”
“We are inside.”
“After inside.”
“I crossed many streets alone to get here.”
Yuji’s eyes went wide. “Alone-alone? You don’t have grandkids?”
Megumi snapped his crayon in half.
Nanami looked toward the stairs. “Satoru.”
No answer came, just the sound of oil popping, a cupboard slamming, and Gojo singing in the wrong key like he had personally invented single fatherhood.
Yuji held Nanami’s hand with both of his. “When green light comes, you look right-left-right.”
“I know how roads work.”
Megumi frowned. “Then why your face old?”
“Because adults email.”
Yuji gasped again, wounded on Nanami’s behalf. “Mean email?”
“All email is mean.”
Megumi looked down at his clipboard and wrote very slowly.
Adult sickness: email.
Gojo finally appeared at the stairs wearing an apron that said WORLD’S BEST DAD, holding tongs, hair clipped back with two pink barrettes.
He took in Nanami’s coat sticker, Yuji holding his hand like a crossing guard, Megumi’s medical report, the whistle, the wine, and Nanami’s dead, corporate uncle stare.
Then Gojo slid down three stairs, laughing so hard he had to grab the railing.
Nanami pointed at the children. “Explain.”
Gojo wiped his eyes. “They had safety-helper day at preschool. I called them scouts because they looked heroic.”
“You adopted children and forgot to mention it.”
“I didn’t forget, surprise.”
Yuji looked up at Nanami. “Grandpa angry?”
Nanami’s jaw flexed. “I am younger than your father.”
Both children turned to Gojo.
Gojo smiled.
Megumi wrote one final line on his clipboard.
Grandpa has lying sickness too.
Nanami set the wine down very carefully. “I came for drinks.”
Gojo grinned. “Come let’s eat.”
Yuji squeezed Nanami’s hand. “After chicken, I show you stairs.”
Megumi added, “Hold railing.”
Nanami looked at Gojo.
Gojo, the worst man alive, blew him a kiss. “Welcome home, Nanamin.”
content batfam x gn! reader, references to human trafficking/attempted kidnapping, references to organ selling/illegal organ harvesting, medical trauma (hospitals/clinics/body part loss), mentions of fear toxin (hallucinations, panic, near-death experiences), references to cults (blood oaths, religious manipulation), mentions of homelessness/running away from home, implied childhood neglect/poverty/debt-related exploitation, violence, threats, dark humour as a coping mechanism for trauma, implied exploitation of minors
masterlist
characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne, duke thomas, stephanie brown, cassandra cain
wordcount 3.4k
bruce wayne
Bruce is used to Gotham horror. He has files. Statistics. Case histories. The names of victims carved into the back of his skull.
He is not used to you saying, very casually over dinner:
“Oh, I hate lemon antiseptic smell. Reminds me of the clinic where they bought my kidney. Anyway, pass the rolls?”
Bruce freezes.
Not dramatically. Not outwardly.
But everyone who knows him sees it. His hand stills on his fork. His jaw tightens. His eyes go cold in that dangerous, quiet way that usually means someone in Gotham is about to discover why billionaires can afford lawyers and surveillance satellites.
He asks, very softly, “Who bought it?”
You blink at him. “My kidney?”
“Yes.”
“Bruce, this was years ago.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Bruce becomes almost painfully gentle with you afterwards. Not pitying, because you would probably bite him for that, but attentive.
He starts noticing things.
How you sit with your back to walls. How you always check exits. How you flinch at hospital scenes in movies but laugh it off before anyone can notice. How you know which streets to avoid, which churches aren’t churches, which clinics don’t ask questions, which “charity vans” are not charity vans.
He asks if you want help.
You shrug. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”
Bruce hates that answer.
Because it sounds too much like Jason. Like Dick after pretending the circus didn’t haunt him. Like Tim after losing too much sleep to feel real. Like every Gotham child who learned survival before multiplication tables.
If you’re dating him, he becomes deeply protective in a way that is both tender and terrifying.
He does not cage you. He knows better.
But Gotham quietly shifts around you.
The clinic that hurt you? Shut down.
The men your mother owed? Suddenly under investigation for tax fraud, smuggling, kidnapping, and six other crimes they absolutely committed.
The street where you were nearly trafficked? A new Wayne Foundation shelter opens two blocks away with security, food, transportation, and counsellors who actually know what they’re doing.
You catch on eventually.
“Bruce.”
“Yes?”
“Did you emotionally cope with my trauma by restructuring an entire neighbourhood?”
A pause.
“…No.”
“Bruce.”
“A little.”
His care is quiet but enormous. He does not always know how to hold you, but he knows how to build a world where what happened to you becomes harder to repeat.
And when you make jokes like, “It’s fine, I only have one kidney, but I have twice the personality,” he doesn’t laugh at first.
Eventually, though, when he knows you want him to, he gives you the smallest, saddest smile.
“You do have an alarming amount of personality.”
“Thank you. It’s where my second kidney would’ve gone.”
He sighs like he’s suffering.
But his hand finds yours under the table.
dick grayson
Dick’s first instinct is to laugh because you said it like a joke.
Then the words actually process.
“Yeah, I don’t go near that alley anymore. Almost got grabbed there when I was sixteen. Super embarrassing. I dropped my fries.”
Dick’s smile dies so fast it practically leaves a chalk outline.
“You almost got what?”
You wave him off. “It’s fine. I stabbed the guy with a broken umbrella and ran.”
Dick looks like he has just been shot, resurrected, and shot again. “You were sixteen?”
“Maybe fifteen. Gotham birthdays are more of a vibe than a record.”
Dick gets emotional. Like, visibly.
He’s the one who says your name in that soft, careful way that makes your defences go up immediately.
You try to dodge.
“Don’t do the concerned forehead wrinkle thing.”
“I’m not doing a forehead wrinkle.”
“You’re literally making the face nurses make before telling you insurance doesn’t cover anaesthesia.”
That makes him look worse.
Dick is a fixer, a hugger, a bleeding-heart acrobat with too much love and not enough self-preservation. He wants to wrap you in blankets and personally suplex Gotham into the sun.
But he learns quickly that you don’t want to be treated like glass.
So instead, he matches your energy—but gently.
You say, “Fun fact, don’t talk to those guys on 9th. They’re a cult. They tried to get me to marry a sewer prophet once.”
Dick, without missing a beat, says, “Was the sewer prophet cute?”
You grin. “Honestly? Great bone structure. Terrible theology.”
He laughs, but his eyes stay sharp. Later, Nightwing absolutely checks out the “cult guys on 9th.”
If you’re together, Dick becomes your safe place in a very physical way.
Not smothering. Not controlling. But he always offers his hand before crossing certain streets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk. He texts you when Scarecrow escapes Arkham, even before the news breaks.
When fear toxin gets mentioned, his whole demeanour changes.
You once say “I hope Scarecrow chokes on his own gas. Last time I hallucinated my dead neighbour crawling out of my sink for six hours.”
Dick goes quiet.
Then, carefully, “You went through a Scarecrow attack alone?”
“Mostly. A raccoon was there.”
“A raccoon?”
“Emotionally, he did his best.”
Dick does not know whether to cry or kiss you.
Possibly both.
He is the one who helps you relearn joy without making it feel like homework. Rooftop picnics. Bad movies. Trips outside Gotham where the air doesn’t taste like rainwater and crime.
He loves your humour. He just wishes it didn’t have teeth marks in it.
jason todd
Jason gets it. That’s the problem.
The first time you casually drop something horrifying, he doesn’t freeze like Bruce or panic like Dick.
He goes still.
Deeply, dangerously still.
“Hospitals are gross. Last time I was in one, they removed an organ and paid me like it was a pawn shop transaction.”
Jason’s eyes lift to yours. “What organ?”
You shrug. “Kidney.”
“Who?”
“Jay, this is not a murder quest.”
“I didn’t say murder.”
“You thought it very loudly.”
Jason understands dark humour as a survival language. He speaks it fluently. So when you joke, he doesn’t immediately tell you to stop. He knows sometimes joking is the only way to pick up the memory without it burning your hands.
But later, when you’re alone, he says, “You know that was messed up, right?”
You snort. “No, really?”
“I mean it.”
And that’s when his voice changes. Rougher. Lower. Not angry at you. Never at you.
“You shouldn’t have had to make that normal.”
That gets you.
Because Jason doesn’t say it like pity. He says it like someone who knows exactly what it means to survive something and then get treated like the survival was proof it didn’t hurt.
If you’re dating Jason, he is fiercely protective, but he respects your autonomy more than anyone expects.
He won’t baby you. He won’t tell you that you can’t go somewhere.
But if you say, “Don’t walk down that street after eleven,” Jason hears an entire case file in one sentence.
The next week, that street has Red Hood presence.
Not flashy. Not obvious.
But people vanish from corners. Traffickers get nervous. Cult recruiters stop loitering. Predatory clinics discover that someone has burned their records and mailed copies to every law enforcement office, journalist, and victim advocacy group in the city.
You look at him over breakfast. “Did you threaten a cult for me?”
Jason sips his coffee. “No.”
“Jason.”
“I threatened a cult for Gotham. You just inspired civic engagement.”
He’s also the one who can sit with your worst stories without flinching. He might look like he wants to tear the city open brick by brick, but he won’t make you comfort him for your pain.
When fear toxin comes up, though?
Oof.
You say, “Yeah, Scarecrow gas got me once. Saw my own body hanging from the ceiling. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”
Jason’s face goes blank.
He has nightmares that night.
Not because he thinks you’re weak.
Because he can imagine too well what it did to you.
He holds you differently afterwards. Like you’re not fragile, but precious.
And when you make some awful joke like, “At least Scarecrow helped me discover I’m creative under pressure,” Jason mutters, “You’re sick.”
“You love me.”
“Yeah,” he says, too fast. Too honest. “I do.”
Both of you freeze.
Then you whisper, “That was grossly sincere.”
Jason groans into his hands. “Forget I said it.”
“Never. I’m putting it on a mug.”
tim drake
Tim’s reaction is delayed because his brain immediately starts building a conspiracy board.
You say, “Oh, avoid the blue-door clinic near Sheldon Park. They buy organs, but only if you’re desperate enough not to ask for paperwork.”
Tim looks up from his laptop. “…What?”
You keep eating cereal. “Yeah, sketchy. Bad magazines in the waiting room, too.”
Tim slowly closes his laptop.
That is how everyone knows something terrible has happened.
“Can you repeat that?”
“The magazine thing?”
“The organ thing.”
Tim is horrified, but his horror is very analytical. His eyes sharpen. His voice gets careful. He asks specific questions. Dates. Locations. Names. Descriptions.
You eventually squint at him. “Are you making a mental spreadsheet?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“It’s more of a relational database.”
“Tim.”
“I’m coping.”
Tim does not do well with the randomness of your trauma. Not because he judges you, but because he can’t stand unsolved harm.
Someone hurt you. Someone profited. Someone built a system that made it possible.
And Tim wants names.
If you’re dating him, he becomes quietly obsessive about making sure you are safe in ways you might not even notice at first.
Your phone mysteriously gets better security.
Your routes home become “accidentally” optimised away from dangerous areas. A WayneTech-funded investigation into illegal clinics begins after Tim “just happens” to mention some suspicious data to the right person.
He does not push you to talk unless he thinks you’re in current danger. But when you do talk, he listens like he is taking testimony from the last surviving witness of a buried city.
He remembers everything.
You once say “Oh, those guys? Yeah, they’re a cult. Don’t make eye contact. They love eye contact. That’s how they got Marcus.”
Tim pauses. “Who’s Marcus?”
“Guy from my old building. Nice. Bad at boundaries. Accidentally joined a basement religion.”
“Did he get out?”
“Physically? Yeah. Emotionally? Unclear.”
Tim does not sleep that night.
The next day, he has a file labelled Basement Religion???
Steph sees it and goes, “What the hell?”
Tim says, “Gotham has patterns.”
Tim’s care is practical and almost invisible. He’ll leave food near you when you’re spiralling. He’ll stay awake when fear toxin incidents are on the news. He’ll sit beside you in silence because he knows questions can feel like knives.
But sometimes your casual delivery cracks him open.
You joke, “Honestly, selling a kidney was easier than applying for college aid.”
Tim stares at you.
Then he says, very softly, “I’m sorry no one helped you.”
And that one lands.
Because beneath all the caffeine and case files, Tim knows what it is to be alone in a mansion-sized life with no adults looking closely enough.
He loves you like a promise he’s terrified to break.
damian wayne
Damian does not understand casual trauma at first.
Not because he lacks trauma.
Because in the League, pain was either weakness or instruction. You did not joke about it. You endured it. You became sharper. You buried the body and the feeling beside it.
So when you say, “Oh, I know that symbol. Cult. Big cult. Super into blood oaths and soup kitchens. Weird combo.”
Damian stares. “You were involved with them?”
“Nah. Almost. They tried recruiting me when I was homeless for a bit.”
“You were homeless?”
“Yeah, but only in the normal Gotham way.”
His face darkens. “There is no normal way to be homeless.”
You blink because, wow, okay, that was unexpectedly compassionate and now you’re emotionally cornered.
Damian gets angry.
Not loud angry. Not tantrum angry.
Cold, princely, sword-edge angry.
He sees your trauma as an insult to your dignity. He is furious that Gotham took pieces of you and then expected you to keep walking around like nothing happened.
If you’re dating him, his protectiveness is intense but awkward.
He’ll say things like, “You will inform me if anyone attempts to harvest your organs again.”
And you’re like, “Dami, babe, that is not usually a recurring social appointment.”
He scowls. “Do not deflect.”
He struggles with your humour the most.
You say, “Scarecrow gas gave me hallucinations so bad I apologised to a vending machine for being born.”
Damian looks genuinely stricken. “That is not amusing.”
“It’s a little amusing. The vending machine forgave me.”
“It did not.”
“You weren’t there.”
He has to learn that sometimes your jokes are pressure valves. If he tries to shut them down, the whole room gets heavier.
Eventually, he develops his own dry responses.
You: “I almost got trafficked on that street.”
Damian: “Then we shall not use that street.”
You: “I mean, it was years ago.”
Damian: “Then the street has had years to repent and failed.”
That one makes you laugh so hard you almost choke. Damian looks proud for three days.
His care shows up in strange, beautiful ways. He trains you—not because he thinks you’re helpless, but because he believes you deserve the confidence of knowing exactly where to strike if someone touches you wrong.
He walks with you through the city and quietly asks about landmarks.
“Bad memory?”
“Neutral.”
“And that one?”
“Cult-adjacent.”
“Noted.”
God help anyone Damian notes.
When he loves you, he loves like a blade placed between you and the world.
Still learning softness. Still learning jokes. Still learning that your survival is not a battlefield report.
But trying.
So hard.
duke thomas
Duke understands Gotham from the civilian side more than most of them. He knows what it means to be a regular person in a city where monsters make headlines and ordinary cruelty hides in the footnotes.
So when you casually say, “Yeah, I avoid that block. There was this guy offering runaway kids ‘jobs.’ Translation: bad news with a van.”
Duke’s whole expression shifts.
Not shock, exactly.
Recognition.
He says, “Yeah. I know the type.”
That makes you pause.
Because Duke does not react like you’ve revealed some impossible darkness. He reacts like Gotham has names for this kind of thing and he hates that you know them too.
Duke is steady. He does not overwhelm you. He does not interrogate you. He just steps closer in a way that makes the world feel less tilted.
If you’re dating him, he becomes your grounding force.
When your jokes get too sharp, he notices.
You say, “Fear toxin? Been there. Screamed so hard I lost my voice. Kind of peaceful afterwards, honestly.”
Duke doesn’t laugh. He gently says, “That sounds terrifying.”
You shrug. “It was Tuesday.”
He nods. “Still terrifying.”
That’s his gift. He doesn’t let Gotham normalise what happened to you. But he also doesn’t make you feel weird for having normalised it yourself.
He’ll walk with you through places that scare you if you ask. He’ll avoid them completely if you don’t. He’ll bring snacks, because Duke believes snacks are a valid emotional support system and honestly? Correct.
He also gets quietly furious. Especially about cults.
You tell him about a group that targets kids after school, offering food and shelter and “family.”
Duke’s eyes go hard. “They’re still active?”
“Probably. Gotham’s like mould. You think you cleaned it, then boom. Basement prophet.”
Duke exhales. “I’m checking it out.”
“Please don’t get culted.”
“I’m not getting culted.”
“That’s what Marcus said.”
“Who’s Marcus?”
“Exactly.”
Duke has the best balance of humour and care. He can joke with you without letting the joke erase the wound.
And when you wake up from nightmares, he doesn’t demand details. He just turns on a soft light and says, “You’re here. I’m here. Nothing from back then gets to touch you tonight.”
Simple. True. Solid as sunrise.
Duke loves like morning after a city-long blackout.
Not blinding. Just enough light to remember the world is still there.
stephanie brown
Steph’s reaction is loud because Steph’s heart is loud.
You say “Hospitals freak me out. Sold my tonsils once. Long story. Very weird Craigslist energy.”
Stephanie drops whatever she’s holding. “YOU SOLD YOUR WHAT?”
“My tonsils.”
“Can you even sell tonsils?”
“Gotham finds a way.”
“That is the worst sentence anyone has ever said.”
Steph is horrified. Furious. On the verge of tears. Also, immediately making a joke because she, too, has the sacred Gotham coping mechanism: clownery over collapse.
She points at you and says, “Okay, first of all, no more selling body parts without me.”
You grin. “You want commission?”
“I want to commit arson.”
“That’s illegal.”
“So is organ theft, babe. Keep up.”
If you’re dating her, she becomes fiercely, messily protective.
Steph knows what it’s like to have people underestimate your pain because you’re funny. Because you’re pretty. Because you’re loud. Because you keep moving.
So your casual trauma dumps hit her hard. Especially when she realises you’re not trying to shock anyone. You genuinely think these are normal anecdotes.
You say “Oh, don’t go into that community centre after dark. Cult. Very smiley. Bad vibes. They once tried to convince me my blood had moon debt.”
Steph stares. “Moon debt?”
“Yeah.”
“Your blood?”
“Apparently.”
“I hate this city.”
“Valid.”
She starts a note in her phone called Your Horrible Gotham Yelp Reviews.
Entries include:
“Blue door clinic: illegal organs, bad magazines.”
“9th Street cult: moon debt???”
“Corner near Sheldon: trafficking, avoid.”
“Scarecrow: little freak, kill on sight emotionally.”
Steph is the one who validates your anger.
When you say, “I hope Scarecrow chokes,” she says, “Same. I hope he steps on a Lego first.”
When you say, “It wasn’t that bad,” she says, “Liar, but cute.”
When you say, “I survived,” she says, “Yeah, and you deserved better than survival.”
That one shuts you up.
Steph will hold your hand in public and swing it between you both like you are just two normal people in a normal city, even if Gotham is rotting around the edges.
She makes you laugh without making you feel like your pain is the punchline.
And if someone from your past shows up?
Stephanie Brown goes full glitter-covered vengeance.
No hesitation. No mercy.
cassandra cain
Cass notices before you say anything. She sees the way your shoulders tense near certain streets. The way your breathing changes around medical equipment. The way your smile turns too bright when people talk about Gotham “resilience.”
So when you finally say something casually, Cass is not surprised.
But she is hurt.
Quietly. Deeply.
“Oh, yeah, I hate that smell. Fear toxin residue smells kind of sweet before it ruins your life.”
Cass looks at you. Really looks.
You smile like it’s nothing.
Cass reaches for your hand.
That’s it. No interrogation. No dramatic gasp. No “why didn’t you tell me?” Just her fingers around yours, warm and steady.
Cass understands bodies better than words. She reads the story your mouth tries to turn into a joke.
If you’re dating her, she becomes the safest silence in your life.
You can tell her things badly. Out of order. With humour. With no emotion. With too much emotion. With your eyes fixed on the wall.
She accepts every version.
You say “Almost got taken on that street once. Running away from home. Rookie mistake.”
Cass’s face changes. “Not mistake.”
You blink.
She says, firmer, “Not yours.”
It is four words, and somehow they hit harder than anyone else’s paragraphs.
Cass is careful with touch. She always asks without asking: a hand held out, a pause before stepping closer, a look that gives you room to say no.
If you flinch, she does not take it personally. If you joke, she lets you.
Sometimes she even jokes back, very softly.
You: “Cult guys. Smile and nod, then run.”
Cass: “I can scare them.”
You: “You can scare everyone.”
Cass, tiny smile: “Good.”
Cass is terrifying when protective.
Not loud. Not showy.
One day, the people who made you feel hunted simply begin avoiding you.
You do not know what Cass did. No one knows what Cass did.
Cass brings you tea and looks deeply innocent, which is how you know she absolutely did something.
Her love is not about fixing your past. It is about teaching your body that not every hand reaching for you is a threat.
With Cass, healing feels less like confession and more like breathing.
content madame rouge x m!reader, smut, oral (m! recieving), oral fixation, rough oral sex, deepthroating, throatfucking, hair pulling, eye contact, come swallowing, multiple orgasms, elasticity kink (?), power dynamics, porn wo plot, mild edging
masterlist
word count 2.4k
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Madame Rouge did not kneel. She chose the floor.
There was a difference, and she made certain you understood it from the way she smiled up at you—red mouth curved, eyes bright with wicked patience, gloved hands resting on your thighs like she was claiming territory.
The room was dim except for the city lights bleeding through the penthouse windows; Gotham sprawled beneath you like a bruise. She had led you there after the gala, after hours of circling you in silk and perfume and dangerous little glances, after whispering against your ear that she had uses for her gifts no hero had ever imagined.
Now her red hair spilled over one shoulder, her dress pooled around her hips, and she looked up at you as if you were both the prize and the meal.
“Before I begin,” she murmured, her accent curling around every syllable, “you will tell me if it is too much.”
Your hand slid into her hair.
Her lashes lowered.
“Good,” she breathed. “I prefer enthusiasm.”
You barely had time to answer before her fingers opened your trousers with effortless precision. She watched herself free you, watched the way you went from half-hard to fully hardened in one touch of her hand, and her smile turned sharp enough to cut glass.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Pretty.”
The word hit you harder than it should have, and she noticed this with a smirk.
Madame Rouge noticed everything.
Her thumb swept over the head of your cock, smearing the bead of wetness there, and she brought it to her tongue with theatrical slowness. Her eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time as the slightest brush of her tongue made your hips jerk up, and a whimper escaped your lips.
“Sensitive already,” she teased. “This will be fun.”
Then her mouth was on you.
Warm. Wet. Perfect.
She took the head between her lips first, sucking gently, almost sweetly, while her hand stroked the rest of you in a slow, twisting rhythm. Her tongue circled under the ridge, delicate enough to make your hips jerk again, and she laughed around you when your fingers tightened in her hair.
“Careful,” she purred, pulling off just enough to speak. “Or I may think you want it rough.”
“I do.”
Her pupils darkened at your words, though she didn’t seem all that surprised.
For one heartbeat, the air went still.
Then she opened her mouth and swallowed you down.
Not halfway. Not carefully. Fully down.
Your breath punched out of you. Her throat took you deep, impossibly deep, her neck lengthening with a subtle, unnatural grace as she adjusted around you. There was no gagging, no hesitation—only the slick, obscene glide of her mouth and throat moulding to your cock like she had been made for it.
Her eyes stayed on yours.
That was the worst part.
The best part.
She watched your face while she held you buried in her throat, watched you unravel in real time, one hand braced on your thigh, the other sliding up to your hip to pull you closer.
You groaned her name.
She hummed around your cock. The vibration rolled through you like lightning.
“Fuck—Rouge.”
She pulled back slowly, dragging her throat along every inch of you, lips sealing around the tip before she let you slip free with a wet, filthy sound.
“Again,” she said.
It was not a request.
Your grip tightened in her hair, and you pushed forward.
She welcomed it. Her throat opened for you, velvet and heat, and this time when you thrust, she adjusted—her neck stretching just enough to meet you halfway, her mouth staying perfectly sealed while the rest of her body remained kneeling between your legs. It was obscene in a way that made your brain short-circuit. Her face stayed close, then farther, then close again, elastic flesh moving with impossible control as she let you use her mouth from angles that should not have worked.
She pulled off again, lips flushed and wet.
“Do you like that?” she asked, voice husky. “That I can take you from anywhere?”
You nodded, ruined.
“Words.”
“Yes.”
Her smile turned cruelly pleased. “Good boy.”
Before you could recover, she leaned back—farther than human anatomy allowed—her neck stretching, spine arching, mouth still near your cock while the rest of her body reclined several feet away against the chaise. Her hands remained on your thighs, arms lengthening too, fingers digging in.
The image alone nearly ended you.
Madame Rouge, lounging like a queen, her mouth still wrapped around you from across the room.
She sucked.
Hard.
Your knees almost buckled.
She laughed around you again, then began moving—not with her head, exactly, but with her entire elastic body. Her throat tightened and relaxed in deliberate pulses, squeezing you as she slid back and forth. It was like being stroked, swallowed, and milked all at once.
“Jesus—”
She pulled off with a pop.
“No,” she corrected. “Rouge.”
Then she took you again.
This time, she made it rough. Her throat constricted around you as you thrust, controlled pressure tightening just enough to make every stroke feel devastating. You tangled both hands in her hair, and when you pulled, her eyes fluttered.
There.
So she liked that.
You pulled harder.
Her moan was low and hungry.
She surged forward, taking you to the base, nose pressed against your pelvis, throat clamped tight around you. Her hands slid up your hips, urging you on, nails biting through your shirt where she grabbed at your waist.
You started fucking her mouth in earnest.
Slow at first, hesitant.
Then not slow at all.
The rhythm turned brutal, wet, and desperate. Your hips snapped forward, and she took every inch, throat flexing around you like she was actively trying to pull you deeper. Her eyes watered, but she never looked away. She wanted you to see it. Wanted you to watch her ruin herself on you and still remain completely in control.
That was Madame Rouge’s real talent.
She could make surrender look like domination.
Her neck stretched farther, letting you thrust while she remained poised at a distance, her lips red and glossy around your cock, cheeks hollowing with every pull. Her tongue pressed flat against you. Her throat squeezed in rhythmic waves, tighter, looser, tighter again, until your head fell back and a broken sound left your chest.
She pulled off suddenly.
You cursed at the loss.
“Not yet,” she said.
Her hand replaced her mouth, stroking you slick and fast while she stood in one fluid motion. Her body elongated, unfolding like red silk, until she was eye level with you despite having been on her knees a breath ago.
Her mouth hovered just beneath yours.
“Look at me when you come,” she whispered. “I want to see what I do to you.”
Then she sank back down, but not all the way.
Her neck stretched instead, serpentine and elegant, mouth descending while her face remained tilted up. She took you deep again, eyes locked with yours from an impossible angle. Her throat tightened so fiercely that your vision went white at the edges.
You grabbed her hair.
She moaned.
You thrust.
Her throat accepted you.
Every stroke dragged a new sound from you, each one rougher than the last. She adjusted the pressure constantly—tight enough to make you shake, soft enough to keep you from tipping over too quickly, then cruelly tight again when she wanted to hear you beg without words.
You were close. Too close.
She knew before you said anything.
Her fingers dug into your thighs.
She swallowed around you.
Once. Twice.
Your body seized.
“Rouge—fuck, I’m gonna—”
She didn’t pull off.
She pushed deeper.
Her throat locked around you, and you came hard, spilling down her throat while she held you there and swallowed every pulse. Her eyes stayed open, fixed on yours, bright with triumph as she drank you down. You felt every contraction, every deliberate swallow, every greedy little motion of her mouth as she milked you through it.
It went on too long.
Or not long enough.
When she finally released you, you were shaking.
She sat back on her heels, lips swollen, chin wet, gaze molten. Then she licked her mouth clean with slow, deliberate satisfaction.
“Beautiful,” she said.
You laughed breathlessly. “You’re insane.”
“Obviously.” She rose smoothly, wiping the corner of her mouth with one gloved finger. “But you are not finished.”
Your cock twitched despite yourself.
Her eyes dropped.
Her smile returned.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Ambitious.”
You should have said something clever. Something composed. Something less wrecked.
Instead, all you managed was, “Come here.”
She did.
This time, she climbed into your lap on the chaise, straddling one of your thighs, her dress riding
up around her hips. She kissed you hard enough that you tasted yourself on her tongue. It should have embarrassed you. It didn’t. It made you grab her waist and pull her down, grinding her against your thigh.
She gasped into your mouth.
There it was: her composure cracking.
You dragged your hands down her sides, feeling the strange give of her body beneath your palms, warm and pliant and powerful. She rolled her hips once, then again, breath hitching as she used your thigh with growing urgency.
“You liked that,” you said against her mouth. “Taking me like that.”
Her nails scraped your shoulders.
“I liked watching you lose control.”
You pulled her hair back, exposing her throat.
Her eyes flashed.
“And you?” she challenged.
You thrust two fingers into her mouth.
She went still.
Then she sucked them.
Slowly. Obediently.
Your stomach clenched.
“Careful,” she whispered around your fingers, echoing herself from earlier. “Or I may think you want me desperate.”
“Do I look careful?”
Her answering laugh became a moan as you flexed your thigh beneath her.
She rode you harder, eyes half-lidded, mouth still wet around your fingers. Her hips moved in sharp, needy little rolls now, silk whispering, breath breaking. For all her impossible control, all her elegance, she was getting off on this—on your hands in her hair, your fingers in her mouth, your thigh between her legs, your cock hardening again against her stomach.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” you said.
She bit lightly at your fingers. “You say that as if you are not.”
You pulled your fingers free, grabbed her jaw, and kissed her. She melted into it for exactly one second before biting your lower lip and dragging a groan out of you.
Then she slid down your body again.
“Again?” you asked, voice rough.
“Again,” she confirmed, eyes glittering. “But this time, I want you seated.”
You obeyed before you could pretend not to.
She loved that.
You sat back against the chaise, thighs spread, still breathing hard from the first orgasm. Rouge settled between your legs, hands smoothing up your knees with mock tenderness.
“Poor thing,” she murmured. “So sensitive.”
“You’re enjoying that too.”
“Immensely.”
She bent, kissed the inside of your thigh, then your hip, then the base of your cock. Her tongue traced upward with lazy cruelty until you hissed and grabbed the upholstery.
“Hands in my hair,” she ordered.
You did it.
Her eyes softened with satisfaction.
“Good.”
Then she swallowed you again.
Your head dropped back against the chaise.
The second time was worse because you were oh so sensitive. Every slide of her tongue felt electric. Every hollow of her cheeks bordered on unbearable. She knew exactly when to slow down, exactly when to tighten her throat, exactly when to pull back and tease the head with fluttering little licks until your thighs trembled.
You tried to hold still.
She did not allow it.
One of her arms stretched up, wrapping around your waist from an impossible angle, pulling your hips forward. Her other hand pressed flat to your stomach, holding you down as her mouth worked you with devastating focus.
She took you deeper. Her throat tightened.
You cursed and bucked.
She hummed approvingly, then began bobbing faster, neck elongating and contracting with unnatural precision. It made every motion smoother, deeper, filthier. She could draw back until only her lips held the tip, then surge forward and swallow you to the base without strain. She could tighten in the middle of a thrust and make you lose your rhythm entirely.
And she kept looking at you.
God, those eyes. Half-lidded. Wet. Mocking. Hungry. Like she knew you were hers the moment your hand tightened in her hair.
You pulled hard.
Her lashes fluttered again.
So you did it harder.
She moaned around you, and the sound nearly made you come on the spot.
“You like that,” you said, breath ragged. “You like when I pull your hair.”
She pulled off just enough to answer, lips brushing the head of your cock.
“I like when you forget to be polite.”
Then she opened her throat and let you fuck it.
No careful rhythm this time. No slow build. She held your thighs, stretched her neck to match every thrust, and took it rough. Wet sounds filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, mingling with your broken groans and her muffled moans.
You watched your cock disappear between her lips again and again.
Watched her throat flex.
Watched her eyes shine.
Your orgasm built faster this time, brutal and hot at the base of your spine.
“Rouge—”
She tightened.
“Fuck, I’m close again.”
She tightened more.
You tried to pull back, not sure if it was too much, but her hands locked around your hips with inhuman strength.
No.
She wanted it.
She swallowed you to the base and held you there.
Your second orgasm ripped through you hard enough to make you see stars. You came down her throat again, hips jerking, hands fisted in her red hair. She swallowed every drop, throat working around you until you were shaking and oversensitive and gasping her name like a prayer to a very dangerous god.
When she finally let you go, she kissed the tip once.
A final little cruelty.
You flinched.
She laughed softly.
Then she crawled up your body, lips glossy, eyes wicked, and stretched herself over you like a living ribbon of heat.
“Multiple orgasms,” she said, pleased. “I did promise.”
“You did not promise.”
“No?” Her mouth brushed yours. “Then consider it a threat fulfilled.”
You laughed, ruined and breathless, and she kissed the sound out of you.
Outside, Gotham glittered in the dark.
Inside, Madame Rouge smiled against your mouth like she had discovered a new art form—and intended to master it.
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