levi ackerman never expected that offhandedly commenting about how much he wanted you to hop in his bed would lead here. in other words, hanji zöe is weird and chaotic and unhinged and adorable and makes a potion to turn you into a sex-crazed bunny.
[sicko fantasies]
levi ackerman is a perverted janitor who pays you special attention at school. he uses his influence to get you in trouble and take charge during detention.
[hopeless]
levi ackerman is an obsessive stalker in your advanced potions class at hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. his cold exterior masks his true intentions and his willness to do anything to feel closer to his favorite ravenclaw. hanji zöe also makes an appearance because they are my everything.
[eat!]
levi ackerman is one of the most influential kids in school, but he has a weird fixation on you. he makes a habit of abusing his authority to get closer and closer, but it's all under the guise of wanting to care for you. will you finally give in?
♱˙𓆩☠︎︎𓆪˙♱ headcanons ♱˙𓆩☠︎︎𓆪˙♱
[toxicity]
this is the one where levi ackerman is just a straight up douche.
♱˙𓆩☠︎︎𓆪˙♱ drabbles ♱˙𓆩☠︎︎𓆪˙♱
[and they were roommates?]
your boyfriend wants to take a break and you want him to realize what he's missing. so you consult your roommate, levi ackerman, and ask him to help make your boyfriend jealous. except levi gets a little too into it.
[tattoo]
levi ackerman has your initials tattooed on his neck. 😖
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen - modern AU
Summary: Aerion and Valarr are your best friends but they want to be more than that. Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, threesome, Aerion x Valarr, Aerion is a little shit, they're still cousins but it's not specified if they're first or second cousins, I didn't realize first cousin incest was legal in so many countries yikes so ig I can't write it as taboo. DNI if you don't like it.
It was a gray Tuesday in October. Valarr Targaryen was leaning against the low stone wall by the philosophy building, dark hair falling across his forehead, laughing at something his cousin said. Aerion Targaryen stood opposite him, silver-gold hair meticulously styled, gesturing with a lit cigarette between his fingers.
You looked away first. You always did. You kept your head down, your headphones in, your coffee order memorized so you wouldn’t have to stammer through it. You sat in the back of lecture halls and left before anyone could try to make small talk. It wasn’t that you disliked people. You just never quite knew what to do with them, and they never quite knew what to do with you. After a while, you stopped trying to bridge that gap. It was easier to be invisible.
So when Aerion Targaryen slid into the seat next to you in the library three weeks later, you assumed it was a mistake. You kept your eyes on your textbook, your highlighter frozen mid-stroke.
“You’re in my lectures,” he declared.
You blinked at him. He was even more striking up close, golden hair swept back from a cruelly symmetrical face, eyes the color of amethysts. Violet. Actually violet. You’d heard the rumors about the Targaryen family. old money, older bloodlines, but you’d assumed the eye color was an exaggeration. It wasn’t.
“I…yes,” you managed.
“You never talk to anyone.”
It wasn’t an accusation. He said it the way someone might note the weather. Still, your face heated. “I talk to people.”
“Do you?” He tilted his head, and the corner of his mouth curved. “Who?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The truth was embarrassingly short. Your roommate, who was never around. Your friends, who were back home, not at your university. The barista who knew your order. Your mother, on Sundays.
Aerion watched you flounder with something that might have been amusement. Then he said, “Come to lunch with me.”
His request didn't sound like you had an option of refusal.
That was how it started.
Lunch became coffee, which became study sessions, which became just hanging out. Valarr joined the second time, sliding into the booth across from you with an apologetic smile that made his mismatched eyes crinkle at the corners. Where Aerion was all needling and provocative, Valarr was soft-spoken and careful. He asked you questions about your classes and remembered your answers. He noticed when you were cold and draped his jacket over your shoulders without making a production of it. He laughed at your jokes, even the ones that weren’t funny.
Aerion noticed things too, but differently. He noticed when you were uncomfortable and pushed anyway, not to be cruel but to see what you’d do. He noticed the way you shrank from attention and made a point of drawing it to you, loudly announcing your arrival when you walked into a room, slinging an arm around your shoulders and declaring you his favorite person. He noticed your silences and filled them with his own voice, rambling about nothing and everything until you forgot to be anxious.
They were strange. The whole family was strange. You learned that the first time they brought you to the Targaryen estate. Valarr’s father was there, a grim-faced man who barely acknowledged your existence. Aerion’s father swept through with cutting remarks about the staff. A small dog wearing a diamond collar yapped at your heels.
Most people, you imagined, would have been overwhelmed. Would have smiled too wide and laughed too loudly and tried too hard to prove they belonged. You just stood there, taking it in with fascination, and when Aerion’s father fixed you with a razor-sharp stare and asked what your family did, exactly, you answered honestly and without flinching.
Valarr had hidden a smile behind his hand. After that, you were invited back. You became a fixture at the estate, then at Valarr’s apartment downtown, then anywhere they happened to be.
“They don't know what to do with you,” Valarr told you one night, the two of you sitting on the balcony of his penthouse while Aerion raided the kitchen inside. The city glittered below you like a spilled jewelry box. “Most people want something from us. Connections. Money. Status.” He said it without bitterness, just a quiet statement of fact. “You don’t.”
“I mean, I do want to have those things, in general. Just not at the expanse of being a leech.” you mused.
Valarr looked at you for a long moment. Then he smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Exactly.”
You didn’t understand what they saw in you. But they kept you close, you let them, and somewhere along the way they stopped being the Targaryen cousins and started being Aerion and Valarr, your best friends, one of the few only people who had ever looked at you and decided you were worth knowing.
Valarr bought you things you mentioned wanting and forgot you’d mentioned. Aerion bought you things you'd never have the audacity to ask. When you tried to refuse, Aerion threatened to return everything and buy something twice as expensive. You learned to accept.
They took you places you’d never have gone on your own. Gallery openings where Aerion got you drunk on champagne and Valarr held your hand so you wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. Weekend trips to the coast, the three of you crammed into Aerion’s obscenely expensive car, windows down and music blasting. Dinner at restaurants with waiting lists months long, where the staff knew them by name and never brought a check.
They listened to you. That was the strangest part. You told them things you’d never told anyone, and they didn’t flinch or pity you or try to fix it. They just listened, and then Aerion made an inappropriate joke to make you laugh, and Valarr squeezed your hand, and the loneliness receded a little. They were lonely too in their own way, you realized. They had each other, but they were polar opposites in so many aspects, you unintentionally ended up in between them in conversations more times than you could count.
It was a Saturday in early spring. You were at Valarr’s apartment, sprawled across his ridiculous sectional sofa with a movie playing. Aerion was on the floor, his head tipped back against the cushions, close enough that you could smell his cologne. Valarr was on your other side, his thigh pressed against yours.
The conversation had drifted, lazy and aimless, touching on relationships and attraction and the mess of it all. Aerion had just ended something with a girl whose name you’d never bothered to learn. Valarr was between relationships, which meant he was quiet in a way that made you want to wrap yourself around him. You, as always, had nothing to contribute.
“What about you?” Aerion asked, tilting his head to look up at you. “Ever been in love?”
You shook your head.
“Ever been kissed?”
Your silence was answer enough. Aerion’s eyebrows rose, his expression flickering from surprise to something hungrier. Valarr went very still beside you.
“Wait,” Aerion said, sitting up. “You’re telling us you’ve never...”
“It’s not a big deal,” you said, too quickly. Your face was burning. “I just never...”
“How is that possible?” Aerion looked genuinely bewildered, as if you’d just announced you’d never eaten a strawberry or seen the ocean. “You’re...”
“Don’t,” you warned. You hated when people tried to reassure you about this, as if your lack of experience was a problem to be solved.
Valarr cut in, his voice gentle. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Of course there isn’t,” Aerion agreed, recovering quickly. “I’m just surprised.” He paused, and you saw something calculating flicker behind his violet eyes. “So you’ve never…done anything? With anyone?”
You shook your head, wishing the couch would swallow you whole.
Aerion exchanged a look with Valarr. It was brief but you caught it. Months of friendship had taught you to read their silent communication, the way they could have whole conversations in a glance.
“We could teach you,” Aerion said, and his voice had dropped, gone lower and smoother. “If you wanted.”
Your heart stuttered. “What?”
“Not like that,” Valarr said quickly, shooting Aerion a look. “He means...we could help you. Explore. Figure out what you like.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was careful. “Only if you wanted to.”
“You’re our best friend,” Aerion added, for once with no mockery in his tone. “We’re not going to be assholes about it. Not going to message you at three in the morning for a quick fuck and pretend you don’t exist the next day. We’re not those guys.”
“We’d treat you well,” Valarr said softly. His eyes held yours, earnest and impossibly gentle. “Better than any boyfriend would.”
The implication hung in the air: not that you have one. It should have stung, but it didn’t. It was just true. You didn’t have a boyfriend. You’d never had a boyfriend. You’d never had anyone look at you the way they were looking at you now.
“You don’t have to decide now,” Valarr added, seeing your hesitation. “Just…think about it.”
You thought about it.
For two weeks, you thought about it. You thought about it during lectures, your pen still against your notebook. You thought about it at night, staring at your ceiling, your stomach flipping with something that wasn’t quite fear. You thought about it every time you saw them, which was often, because they didn’t treat you any differently. They didn’t push or pressure or bring it up again. They were just Aerion and Valarr, your best friends.
It was Valarr who tipped the scales, though you doubted he meant to. You were in his kitchen, helping him cook dinner, or rather, watching him cook while you chopped vegetables badly, when he reached past you for a spice and his arm brushed yours. The touch was nothing. Incidental. But you felt it like an electric shock. When you looked up, he was already looking at you.
“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t move away.
“It’s okay,” you whispered.
He kissed you.
It was soft at first, tentative, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, his lips were warm and careful against yours. You’d imagined first kisses before, clumsy things in the back of cars, quick pecks at school dances, but you’d never imagined this. This slow tenderness that made your knees weak and your heart pound.
You didn’t hear Aerion enter the kitchen, but you felt him. His presence was a sudden heat at your back, and then his hands were on your hips, his mouth at your ear.
“Finally,” he breathed.
Valarr pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. “Is this okay?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Aerion made a sound low in his throat and spun you around to face him. His kiss was nothing like Valarr’s. Where Valarr was gentle, Aerion was demanding, his mouth hot and insistent against yours, his tongue sweeping past your lips before you could think to part them. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, and the other slid down your spine, pressing you against him.
Behind you, Valarr’s hands found your waist again, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. You gasped, and Aerion swallowed the sound, his teeth grazing your lower lip. It was overwhelming, being caught between them like this, heat on every side of you, hands everywhere. You didn’t know where to focus, what to feel, how to process the sensation of Aerion’s tongue in your mouth while Valarr sucked a bruise into the junction of your shoulder.
Then Aerion’s hand slid lower, over your hip, your thigh, and then he was touching you through your jeans, the pressure of his palm making you buck against him. You whimpered, and he laughed against your mouth.
“Bedroom,” Valarr said.
They moved you through the apartment in a tangle of limbs and kisses, pausing every few steps so Aerion could press you against a wall or Valarr could pull your shirt over your head. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were trembling, bare except for your underwear, and Aerion was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.
“Lie down,” he said, and you did, your back hitting the cool sheets of Valarr’s enormous bed.
Valarr stretched out beside you, propped on one elbow, and traced a line from your collarbone to the waistband of your underwear. “You’re beautiful,” he stated it like a fact, like the sky being blue or the sun rising in the east. “We should have told you that sooner.”
Aerion was stripping off his shirt, revealing a torso that belonged on a billboard, all lean muscle and golden skin. “She knows.”
“I really don’t,” you managed, and they both laughed.
Aerion crawled onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. His hands found the waistband of your underwear and paused, his eyes meeting yours. “Okay?”
You nodded, breathless.
He pulled them down slowly, far too slowly, and you had to resist the urge to cover yourself. Aerion’s gaze was heavy, reverent, and when he ran a finger through your slickness, you gasped and grabbed at the sheets.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re soaked.”
Valarr made a sound of appreciation, shifting closer. His hand found your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, and you arched into his touch. “So responsive,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I wondered if you would be.”
“I always wondered,” Aerion agreed, and then his finger was inside you, and you stopped being able to think.
He worked you open slowly, carefully, one finger becoming two, his thumb circling your clit with devastating precision. Valarr continued his lazy exploration of your breasts, his mouth replacing his hand, his tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers teased the other. Every touch sent sparks racing down your spine, building and building until you were writhing between them, making sounds you’d never made before.
“Please,” you gasped, though you weren’t sure what you were asking for.
“Please what?” Aerion’s voice was rough, his control visibly fraying. “Tell us what you want.”
“You,” you managed. “Both of you. Anything. Everything.”
Aerion groaned and reached for his belt. Valarr helped you sit up enough to kiss you again, deep and slow, while Aerion shed the rest of his clothes. When you broke the kiss and looked down, your breath caught. He was beautiful. The sight of his cock, hard and straining, made your mouth go dry.
“You’re sure?” Valarr asked, his hand cradling your face, his eyes searching yours.
“I’m sure.”
Aerion positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against where you were wettest, hottest, most desperate. “This might hurt,” he said without teasing. “Tell me if it does. I’ll stop.”
“Don’t stop,” you said. “I want this.”
He pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, and you felt yourself stretch around him. It was strange at first, the pressure almost too much, and you must have tensed because Valarr’s hand found yours and squeezed.
“Relax,” he murmured against your ear. “Breathe. You’re doing so well.”
His voice, steady and soothing, helped you unclench, and Aerion slid deeper. The discomfort faded, replaced by a fullness that was almost overwhelming. When Aerion began to move, slow and careful, you felt something inside you start to build again.
“Fuck,” Aerion gritted out. “You feel...” He didn’t finish the sentence, just dropped his head to your shoulder and thrust deeper.
Valarr’s mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His hand slipped between your bodies to find your clit, circling in time with Aerion’s thrusts. You cried out, your back arching. Aerion took it as encouragement to move faster.
That was when he found it. A spot deep inside you that made your vision blur and your breath stutter, that sent a shock of pleasure so intense it was almost pain. Aerion felt you clench around him and grinned.
“There it is,” he said, and angled his hips to hit it again and again.
You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could only hold onto Valarr’s hand and take what Aerion was giving you. He was relentless, pounding into that spot until you were whimpering, your inner walls gripping him so tightly he had to pause, breathing hard.
“Fuck,” he gasped. “Do that again.”
You couldn’t help it. Every time he hit that spot, your body clenched around him, and he seemed to take it as a personal challenge to stay there, to bully that spot until you were a writhing mess beneath him.
Valarr made a small, frustrated sound. He’d shifted to kneel beside you, and you saw that he’d freed his own cock from his trousers. He was stroking himself slowly, his darkened eyes fixed on you with an expression that bordered on painful. He looked so beautiful like that, his lips slightly parted, his brow furrowed with need.
“Valarr,” you breathed, reaching for him.
He moved closer, letting your hand wrap around him. He was hot and heavy in your palm, and when you stroked him the way he’d been stroking himself, he made a sound that was almost a whine. A pretty, desperate sound that made your heart clench.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, because Aerion was still buried inside you, still moving in slow, devastating thrusts, and you wanted to give Valarr more than just your hand.
“Don’t be sorry,” Valarr said, his voice strained. He leaned down to kiss you sweetly despite the tension in his body. “You’re perfect. This is perfect.”
But Aerion noticed. Aerion always noticed. He sighed, a put-upon sound, and slowed his thrusts.
“You’re pouting,” he told Valarr.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” Aerion pulled out of you, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. “Come here.”
Aerion flipped you onto your hands and knees, positioning himself behind you. His hand smoothed over your ass appreciatively before he guided himself back inside you with one long, slow thrust. You gasped, your fingers curling into the sheets.
Then he reached for Valarr, pulling him around to kneel in front of you. Valarr’s cock was level with your mouth, flushed and leaking, and you understood what Aerion intended.
“There,” Aerion said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Now we can both have her.”
Valarr’s hand cupped the back of your head, gentle, guiding. “You don’t have to...”
But you wanted to. You leaned forward and took the tip of him into your mouth, tasting salt and skin. Valarr made a sound that was almost a sob. You couldn’t take all of him, Aerion’s thrusts behind you made coordination difficult, but you lapped at the head, suckling gently, while your hand came up to stroke him and cup his balls the way you’d read about, the way you’d imagined in the privacy of your own bed.
“Oh,” Valarr breathed, his voice breaking. “Oh, that’s...please don’t stop.”
You didn’t. You couldn’t. He was so pretty like this, his composure shattered, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his eyes half-lidded and glazed with pleasure. Every little sound he made sent a thrill through you, made you want to give him more, made you want to be the reason he fell apart.
Behind you, Aerion was building his rhythm again, hitting that spot inside you with every thrust. You moaned around Valarr’s cock, and both of them groaned in response. The pleasure was building in you too, coiling tighter and tighter, and you knew you wouldn’t last much longer.
But Valarr was still whining, still trembling. Aerion made another one of his put-upon sighs.
“You’re impossible when you’re needy,” he said. You felt him pull out of you.
You made a sound of protest, but Aerion was already moving. He grabbed Valarr, positioning him on his hands and knees, and you watched, dazed and trembling, as Aerion used your slickness to ease his way into him. Valarr cried out, his back arching, his hands scrabbling at the sheets, and Aerion fucked into him with the same ruthless intensity he’d shown you.
“Better?” Aerion asked, his voice rough.
Valarr nodded frantically, his whines dissolving into moans. Aerion thrust into him a few more times, hard and fast, until Valarr’s sounds turned from desperate to satisfied. Then Aerion pulled out, pressed a kiss to Valarr’s shoulder blade, and delivered a sharp smack to his ass.
“Stop whining now,” he said, and returned to you.
He pushed back inside you, you were so close, so sensitive, that you nearly came right then. Aerion felt it, felt the way your walls fluttered around him, and he drove into you with renewed purpose.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his hand finding your clit. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
You shattered. The orgasm ripped through you, hot and blinding, you cried out as your body convulsed around him. Aerion groaned, thrusting through your climax, and then he was coming too, spilling inside you with a shudder.
For a long moment, the only sound was breathing. Ragged, uneven breathing, and the thrum of your own heartbeat in your ears. Aerion pulled out slowly, you collapsed onto the bed, your limbs refusing to cooperate.
But Valarr was still there, still hard, still waiting. Aerion noticed, and his mouth curved into a smirk.
“Your turn,” he said to Valarr. Then, to you: “He’s been very patient.”
Valarr moved over you, his body covering yours. You opened your arms to welcome him. He kissed you and when he pushed inside you, you were still so wet, so sensitive, that it made you gasp.
“Is this okay?” he asked, always checking, always careful.
“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, Valarr, please.”
He moved differently than Aerion. Where Aerion was demanding, Valarr was worshipful, each touch meant to draw out your pleasure. He murmured praise against your skin and you clung to him, your legs wrapped around his waist, your fingers in his hair.
You weren’t sure you could come again so soon, but Valarr was patient, he knew your body now. His hand slipped between you to touch your clit. You felt the pressure start to build once more. He watched your face, reading every flutter of your eyelids, every catch of your breath, and adjusted his rhythm to match what you needed.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
You came again, softer this time, a wave rather than a crash. Valarr followed you over the edge with a broken moan.
Aerion had stretched out beside you, one hand idly stroking your hip. Valarr was half-draped over you, his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.
Aerion shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes were heavy-lidded with satisfaction.
“Come here,” he beckoned. “Kiss me.”
You leaned up to do as he asked, but he caught your chin with his fingers, redirecting you downward.
“Not there,” he said. “Here.”
He guided your mouth to his softened cock, still slick with your combined release. You understood. Your face felt hot. This was the cock that had taken your virginity. That had stretched you open and filled you and made you come undone. And he wanted you to kiss it. To show it gratitude.
You pressed your lips to him softly, chastely. He was warm and yielding against your mouth. You tasted yourself on his skin. Behind you, Valarr made a small, approving sound.
“Good girl,” Aerion murmured, his hand smoothing over your spine. “That’s my good girl.”
After they’d cleaned you up, they’d bundled you into one of Valarr’s oversized sweaters and settled you between them on the couch.
“Is this going to change things?” you asked, your voice sounded small in the quiet room.
Valarr and Aerion exchanged a look. Another one of those silent conversations, the kind you were still learning to read.
Then Valarr took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “Only if you want it to.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Aerion added. He was sprawled on your other side, his head in your lap, and he tilted his head back to look up at you. “You’re stuck with us.”
“But,” Valarr added, “if you want this to be a one-time thing, that’s okay too. We’ll still be your friends. Nothing will change.”
“I don’t want it to be a one-time thing,” you admitted.
Aerion’s grinned. “Good. Because I’ve got plans for you.”
“Aerion,” Valarr warned, but he was smiling too.
“What?” Aerion said, all false innocence. “I’m just saying. We’ve barely scratched the surface.”
Your face heated, but you were smiling too. Valarr lifted your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles.
It didn’t take long to notice the patterns. Aerion and Valarr had been best friends since before you entered the picture, a unit. Aerion had a reputation. The fuckboy prince, leaving a trail of conquests in his wake. Valarr was quieter about his, but no less active; a string of girlfriends who lasted a respectable amount of time. But they seemed to be more devoted to each other.
Some nights, when you were spent and drowsy, curled on Valarr’s side of the massive bed in his apartment, the apartment that had become the apartment, the one all three of you spent most time in, you’d wake to the sound of low voices and slick, rhythmic movement. You’d blink your eyes open to the dim glow of the city through the windows and find them tangled together at the other side of the bed. Aerion’s hand fisted in Valarr’s dark hair, Valarr’s mismatched eyes, one blue, one brown, half-lidded and hazy. They never shooed you away. Aerion would catch your gaze, his mouth would curve, and he’d ask, “Want to watch, sweetheart?”
Sometimes you did. You’d prop yourself on the pillows, thighs pressed together. Other times you’d roll over and drift back to sleep.
The FaceTime calls started when Aerion was traveling for a week, some family obligation he’d bitched about endlessly. You’d been in Valarr’s bed, of course, because that’s where you slept now even when Aerion wasn’t there. Your phone had buzzed with an incoming video call. Aerion’s face filled the screen and he’d said: “Put me on the nightstand. I want to see.”
He’d watched you ride Valarr with an intensity that made your skin prickle, giving direction in that low, commanding drawl. Slower. Let him feel you. Good girl. After that, it became a thing. Whenever Aerion was away, he’d call. Sometimes you’d prop the phone so he could watch you and Valarr together. Sometimes Valarr would be the one on the phone, watching Aerion fuck you with that quiet, focused expression that made your stomach flip.
You learned quickly that Valarr was the softer of the two, or at least, he played softer. Aerion liked control. He liked pushing Valarr to the edge and keeping him there, liked the way Valarr’s voice cracked when he begged. The first time you’d witnessed it up close, you’d been perched on the edge of the bed while Aerion had Valarr bent over the armchair, driving into him with brutal precision. Valarr’s face was flushed, his mismatched eyes wet at the lashes, and every time Aerion’s hips snapped forward, a desperate little whine escaped his throat.
“Aerion,” you’d said, unable to help yourself, “let him come. Please.”
Aerion had paused mid-thrust, turning his head to fix you with an exasperated look. He’d heaved a sigh so fake it could’ve won awards. “Darling. We’ve talked about this.”
But Valarr had blinked at you with those impossible eyes, glassy and pleading, and made a sound so pitiful and pretty that your hand moved before your brain caught up. You reached for him, fingers wrapping around his neglected cock. Valarr’s whole body shuddered with relief.
“See?” you’d said, stroking him gently. “He needs it.”
Aerion had pulled out and physically removed your hand. His fingers circled your wrist and tugged you away. Valarr made a bereft noise that nearly broke your heart. “Stop falling for it,” Aerion said flatly. “He’s playing you. He does this every time.”
“He’s suffering!”
“He’s a brat who knows exactly what he’s doing.” Aerion’s violet eyes narrowed at you. “If you don’t stop interfering, your pretty arse is next. You’ll just be sore and sorry.”
You’d pouted but relented. Valarr had shot you a tiny, conspiratorial smile before Aerion resumed his pace. Brat indeed.
Valarr had once mentioned offhandedly that Aerion rarely let him return the favor. “He’ll bend me over any chance he gets, but try getting him to take it?” Valarr had laughed, low and a little wistful. “Nearly impossible. He’s a tyrant.”
The idea had planted itself in your mind. A few days later, you’d brought it up over breakfast, casual as you could manage. “What if I wore a strap?”
Valarr’s fork had paused halfway to his mouth. Aerion had looked up from his coffee.
“Absolutely not,” Aerion said.
“Not for you, necessarily,” you’d amended. “I just thought…you said you don’t let Valarr top you, so maybe…”
Aerion set his mug down with a decisive clink. “I much prefer your cunt. Or your mouth. A piece of silicone attached to your hips doesn’t change my preferences, love. I want you, not a facsimile.”
But Valarr was watching you with interest in heterochromic eyes. “I’d let you,” he said. “If you wanted to experiment. I’d teach you.” He reached across the table to brush his fingers over your knuckles. “I do prefer your tight wet cunt, but I’m not opposed to trying. We can go slow. I’ll show you how to move, how to read my body. It could be fun.”
Aerion had rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his skull. “Have at it. Don’t come crying to me when she discovers a power trip and you’re the one whining into the mattress.”
You’d grinned at Valarr. He’d winked at you, eyes sparkling.
But Aerion had his own particular tastes. One of them you discovered entirely by accident, or as much of an accident as anything could be with Aerion. You’d fallen asleep sandwiched between them, you always did now, your body a warm line against Valarr’s side while Aerion sprawled on your other flank. Sometime in the deep, quiet hours before dawn, you surfaced from a dream to a strange sensation: a weight, a rhythm that your drowsy brain couldn’t immediately categorize. You made a small, petulant noise, trying to squirm away from whatever was disturbing your sleep, but a hand clamped gently on your hip and held you still.
“Shh.” Aerion’s voice, rough with sleep and want, right by your ear. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
You blinked blearily, the darkness of the room swimming into focus. Aerion was above you, then in you, moving with slow, lazy thrusts that dragged pleasure through your sleep-heavy body despite your confusion. Valarr was still asleep on your other side, his breathing deep and even, undisturbed.
“Aerion,” you mumbled, voice thick. “What’re you...”
“Couldn’t sleep.” He dipped his head to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You looked too pretty. Just relax. Let me take care of it.”
You were too drowsy to argue, too pliant with sleep to do anything but let your eyes flutter shut again. He fucked you like that, slow and unhurried, almost meditative, until you were gasping softly into the pillow, still not fully awake, your orgasm washing over you like a warm tide. He finished with a low groan against your shoulder and pulled out carefully. By the time Valarr stirred a few minutes later, Aerion was already cleaning you up with a warm cloth, utterly unrepentant.
Valarr had blinked awake, taken in the scene and sighed. “Again? Aerion, we talked about this.”
“You talked. I listened. I simply disagreed.” Aerion tossed the cloth toward the hamper and climbed back into bed, insinuating himself against your back. “She doesn’t mind. Do you, darling?”
You’d just burrowed deeper into the pillows and made a vague affirmative noise, already slipping back toward sleep. Valarr had huffed a quiet laugh and pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“You’re spoiled,” he murmured, though you weren’t sure if he meant Aerion or you. Maybe both.
The morning after, Aerion had been in an unusually good mood, making coffee and humming under his breath while Valarr sat at the kitchen island watching him with a fond, exasperated expression. You’d shuffled out of the bedroom wrapped in Valarr’s shirt, still feeling the ghost of Aerion’s midnight attention between your thighs, and accepted the mug Aerion pressed into your hands with a kiss to your temple.
“Sleep well?” he’d asked, eyes glinting.
“You’re a menace.”
“A generous one.”
Valarr had snorted into his coffee.
Part 2: see here
a/n: This was shameless smut but plot and backstories will develop. There will be angst and yearning and complex emotions. I've tried out a new approach idk. Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist! <3
a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶
His love language is acts of service.
He read that somewhere—some stupid quiz you made him take一and he latched onto it like a lifeline because it made him sound normal.
See?
See??
He's not a freak, he just likes doing things for you. It's a legitimate psychological concept. It's on the internet, go look it up. It's real.
He loves it when you want something from him. He lives for it. Thrives on it. Gets dizzy with it the second you so much as look at an empty glass.
You barely have to open your mouth. You just shift on the couch and sigh and he's already upright, already halfway to the kitchen, already aching.
"Water? Snacks? A blanket? Your heating pad? Do you want the kitten mug or the big one? Do you—"
"Just water, baby."
Baby.
His knees almost buckle.
Focus.
Water. You need water. He can do that. He's getting you water. Look at him go一such a good boyfriend, so attentive, so caring, he's fucking nailing this.
He pours the water so carefully. No ice. You don't like it too cold, it hurts your teeth, and he remembered that because he remembers everything about you, every tiny preference, every little sound you make when you're happy.
Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
He hands you the glass with both hands like an offering at an altar. Bouncing a little on his heels. Doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until you take a sip and your throat moves and he's watching the little bob of it and his mouth is dry but that doesn't matter because—
He have to be patient.
Waiting.
Just waiting for it.
Come on. Come on. Say it. Say the words. Give him the thing. He needs it.
"Thank you, love."
Oh.
The words hit his brain like a shot of something warm and syrupy. Thank you. You thanked him. He did good. He did good and you noticed and you said thank you and now he's standing there with his heart doing backflips in his chest.
He wants more. He wants you to say it again. He wants you to pat his head and tell him he did such a good job, that he's so helpful, that you don't know what you'd do without him. He's practically vibrating with it, this desperate, aching need for your approval, and it's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he's a grown man getting high off a thank you like it's a line of coke—
Cute isn't he?
No.
No, he's not cute.
He's a dog. A mangy. panting. desperate dog who just got a pat on the head for fetching.
And he gets hard like a dog in heat too.
Always hard.
Always.
You could ask him to pass the salt and he'd have to adjust himself under the table.
You could ask him to zip up your dress and his hands would shake and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled just to keep from moaning at the brush of his knuckles against your spine.
What a loser, right?
His dick twitches.
Jesus Christ.
He's hard again.
Weirdo.
Disgusting.
Pervert.
He hates himself. He hates himself so fucking much.
Why can't he be normal? Why can't his dick just stay soft like a regular boyfriend instead of twitching every time you say his name? You're gonna hate him, aren't you?
Oh god oh god oh god.
You're gonna find out. You're going to hate him. You're going to leave him. You think he's disgusting. You think he's a creep. You're gonna leave him. You're gonna walkout that door and he'll never feel your eyes on him again and he'll die, he'll actually just curl up on the floor and stop breathing because what's the point—
"Such a good boy."
Huh?
Good boy??
Him???
He freezes.
Did you just一did those words actually come out of your mouth? Good boy.
Good. Boy.
And you're smiling.
You look so beautiful when you smile. Your soft eyes and your softer lips and the way your cheek creases just a little and he wants to lick it, he wants to suck that smile right off your face and swallow it whole so it lives inside him forever—
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
He's so hard he could die on spot.
"Um... excuse me."
The words come out strangled. He's already backing away, hands positioned awkwardly in front of his crotch like a teenager caught watching porn.
Smooth.
Real smooth.
You probably think he's having digestive issues. That's fine. That's better than the truth.
He immediately bolts to the bathroom, lock clicking behind him.
You don't know. You didn't see. You're not going to leave him. He won't let you leave him anyway. He'll lock the doors and he'll nail the windows shut and he'll chain you to bed and he'll chop your pretty legs off if he has to—
no no no no no NO!!!
Don't think that. Don't you ever fucking think that about her. You sick fuck. How can you even imagine hurting her? Chopping off her perfect pretty legs? How dare you?? How fucking dare you???
If you do that you could never feel her thighs wrapped around your head while you suck on her clit. You'd never feel them tremble and clampagainst your ears while she moans your name. You'd never get to press your tongue inside her while her legs are draped over your shoulders, soft and warm and alive.
OH!!!
Okay that's better. He gets it now.
Yeah yeah yeah. See? He's not violent. He just panicked for a second. His brain does that sometimes一throws up these horrible, intrusive images that make him want to vomit but he'd never ever act on them!! He's not a monster!!! He's just... confused. Overwhelmed. He just loves you so much alright??? So much he'd unspool his own intestines into a leash if you asked him to walk himself—
Alright. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
Deep breath.
Okay. Okay, he's fine. He's fine. Just rub one out quick and go back out there. You're waiting. He doesn't want to keep you waiting. That would make him a bad boyfriend, and he's not—he's a good boyfriend, he's so good, you just said so, and if you said so then it must be true—
Shut. Up.
Focus.
His hand is shaking as he pulls down his jeans. He's leaking already, a slick little pearl at the tip, and it smears across his palm when he grips himself. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
First—first, he needs something. Something to make it faster, make it pleasing, make it so he can walk out there and not immediately pop a boner again the second you breathe in his direction.
He opens the cabinet under the sink, behind the toilet paper, behind the bleach, where he hid it.
Your panties.
The ones you thought you lost in the laundry.
The lacy ones, light blue, a little damp in the center from a long day. He found them. He found them, okay? He didn't steal them. Fuck off. He found them. That's different. Stealing is a crime. Stealing is bad. He's not a bad person. He just... found them. On the laundry room floor. He was doing laundry like a good boyfriend, separating your underwears from the regulars because he read somewhere that youre supposed to do that, and they were just... there. In his hands. And then in his pocket. And now they're pressed against his face.
Fuuuck.
The smell hits him like a drug. Musky and sweet and so distinctly you that his knees give up. He inhales deep, pressing the soiled fabric to his nose and mouth, and his dick twitches so hard a bead of pre cum drips onto the bathroom tile.
He's disgusting. He's a creep. He's a freak and a weirdo and a pathetic little lapdog who gets hard from a thank you.
You'd hate him if you knew.
He hopes you never know.
He hopes you find out.
He hopes you walk in right now and see him—cock in hand, your panties stuffed in his mouth, tears streaming down his face—and he hopes you step closer. He hopes you laugh. He hopes you call him a disgusting little mutt and pat his head and tell him he's still your good boy.
Your good boy.
Yours.
He cums so hard he sees stars. Ropes of it, hot and thick, splattering his hand, the floor, the little bathroom rug. He bites down on the panties to muffle the sob that tears out of him, and for a long moment he just kneels there, trembling, fucked, still crying, still hard.
But it's fine.
Everything's fine.
He cleans up. Flushes everything. Hides the panties again and washes his hands twice. Splashes water on his face. Looks in the mirror. Practices his smile.
He looks normal.
He is normal.
He's a good boy.
Then he opens the bathroom door and smiles.
"You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.
And he could say it. He could confess. He could drop to his knees right now and tell you everything and beg for forgiveness or punishment or whatever you wanted to give him.
Instead he just nods. Crawls onto the couch beside you. Rests his head in your lap like the loyal dog he is.
"Just missed you," he mumbles into your thigh.
You stroke his hair.
He almost gets hard again.
He's so fucked up.
But you're still here. Still petting him. Still calling him yours.
summary: your father never liked valarr's family, you never realized why until it was too late
pairings: valarr x reader
warnings: incest, dark!valarr, dub-con, non-con, smut, pinv sex, fem!reader, extreme violence, abusive father, manipulation, slight voyeurism if you squint, mdni, dead dove do not eat
word count: 2.9k
a/n: feel free to shoot me any asks i adore answering any questions about my work!
Your eyes. People always said you and Valarr had the same ones—two pairs of mismatched eyes. It was what first drew you to him. You were neighbours, if you could call it that. In this provincial rural town, houses were sparse and far between. Baelor had been childhood friends with your widowed father, but whatever happened between them before your birth–and your mother’s subsequent passing–seemed to sever that relationship entirely. Your father refused to speak about anything related to their family, but you could hear the hurt and hatred laced in his voice whenever he warned you to stay away from them. That didn’t stop your secret meetings with Valarr.
Valarr was now crawling through the narrow space you allotted through your window sill. He couldn’t help but fall for his kind-natured demeanour, but that night he seemed different. He was rough with you, as if he had just so many pent-up emotions. You didn’t mind him using you like that; he was yours just as much as you were his.
He didn’t bother prepping you at all that night, roughly bullying himself inside you with a groan whilst you yelped into your pillow–a feeble attempt at muffling your whines. His every thrust met the flesh of your ass; he was unrelenting. You could feel the stretch of your walls with every slide of his cock inside you. The growing arousal slowly soothed the dull ache from his harsh penetration, lubricating his shaft. He pushed up against you with his bare chest against your back, sandwiching you between your mattress and his chest as he continued to push himself further into you.
“You belong to me. You’ll always be mine no matter what. Nothing is going to take you away from me,” he groaned into your ear.
His pants tickled your ear as his ministrations became more erratic. He was throbbing and gripping your waist tighter. He was close. He was going to cum inside you.
“Valarr–Wait–Ah! Pull out!”
Your desperate pleas fell on deaf ears as he showed no signs of stopping. He was going to fill you with his essence, and there was nothing you could do about it. Despite your resistance, your cunt clenched violently around him, milking him for all that he was worth.
He pushed you further into the mattress as he made one last sharp thrust, making sure his cock tip pressed tightly against the entrance of your womb. Ropes and ropes of his seed flooded you; there was just so much of him. His panting and the continuous stream of his semen dulled your senses. He was leaking out of you around the sides of his softening cock.
Before you could truly bask in the aftermath, a harsh swing of the door brought both of you to your senses. Your father stood at the doorframe, his face twisted in horror.
“Have you two lost your minds? Get off her!” he lunged forward, grabbing Valarr by the shoulder and yanking him off you.
“Daddy! It’s not what it looks like!” You cried.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face flushed a deep, furious red. You had never seen him like this–never this angry.
“You will stay away from my daughter, do you hear me, boy! If I ever catch you near her again, I will make sure to gauge your eyes out!” He shoved Valarr toward the door, forcing him out, following close behind.
You didn’t know how much time passed. Only the sounds remained–heavy footsteps, shouting, the unmistakable struggle as your father chased Valarr from the house.
Then came the silence. The stairs creaked as he approached your room once more. The door slammed open again.
“Have you taken no heed of my words!? I’ve repeated myself repeatedly, yet you still defy me!” Your father incessantly screamed at you once returning.
You’re sobbing as you clutch the sheets closer to your chest, attempting to protect the little dignity you have left.
“It’s my fault. I should have done more to stop you from seeing him. I should have confined you to this house the moment I saw the way he was eyeing you. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll make everything all right again.”
He grips your face with his hands, his dirt–ridden finger nails digging into your cheeks. You could feel the soot and grime smear on your face. He tosses your face aside, your father abruptly turns to the corner of your room to retrieve your pink baseball bat. You haven’t touched the thing since you were eleven.
“Daddy… what are you doing?” You’re scooting back now, desperately pleading with your eyes as your face stained with your tears.
“This is going to hurt. But it’s for the best, sweetheart.You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
You scream as you try to make a run for it. You barely made it halfway across the room before your father yanked you back by your hair, the strands tucking harshly on your scalp. You let out a pathetic whimper as you toppled to the ground. You’re scrambling backwards as he slowly trudged towards your fallen figure.
“Please, Dad–I won’t do it again. Please,” you plead between sobs, praying he’ll relent.
You let out a terrified scream before he lifted the bat and swung harshly at your leg. A grotesque cracking sound reverberated through the room as you felt unbearable pain radiating all throughout your leg as he swung again, you fell to the ground completely, your hair sticking to your wet face as you went in and out of consciousness. Your leg is nothing but a lingering numbness now as he continued to swing at the limb.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
You weren’t sure how many days it had been since that night. The days came and went, but Valarr never did. You had almost thought he had given up on you. Almost. So when the familiar tapping against your window came, you didn’t think twice before rushing to slide it open.
“You came,” you sighed in relief.
“Of course. I would never leave you here alone.” Valarr climbed into the room before dusting his jeans off. “I missed you.”
Bruises bloomed across his cheek, marring his beautiful previously untouched face. It seems he didn’t leave the incident unscathed either. You slowly brought your hand to his face, cupping his cheek gently. He melted into your touch, bringing his hand to rest over yours.
“You’re hurt,” you state with a crack in your voice.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m much more worried about you,” he stepped back to examine you, “did he touch you anywhere?”
You looked down instinctively, and his gaze followed to see your awfully bruised leg.
“He did this to you,” it came out more like a statement than a question.
He quickly brought you in, embracing you in his arms. His touch consumed you, his face rested between the crook of your neck. He took a deep breath in, making sure to bask in your scent before bringing his lips to your ear.
“Let’s run away together.”
“What?”
You pulled away briefly, not because you didn’t want to, but because the fear from your father’s cruel punishment had laid rest deep within your bones.
“I–I can’t.”
“Why not!? You’re not safe here. Look at what he has done to you,” Valarr motions to your leg.
“I know–I know. I’m just… scared.”
“Don’t be,” he said softer now, “I’ll always be with you. I’ll make sure he never lays a hand on you again.”
He brings you back into his arms to caress.
“Where would we go?” You ask after a long pause.
“My mother had a house down south,” he said. “Before she married my father. We could make it there by tomorrow if we leave tonight. I don’t think anyone’s there anymore.”
You don’t answer. You didn’t have to. Valarr knew in his heart that you would follow him to the end of the world. And he was right. You two left that night.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
It had been a year since you two fled from that place.
You were worried at first, believing that your father would find you two before you could truly settle down. What had come for you two wasn’t your father nor Valarr’s, but a sequence of symptoms. It started small. A feeling you couldn’t shake. Like something was wrong, just beneath the surface. Then came the tremors. The clumsiness. The way your hands wouldn’t quite listen to you. Valarr brushed it off at first–stress, he said. Everything you’d been through. But when it started happening to him too, he stopped dismissing it. He insisted on seeing a doctor. You didn’t want to at first but with some assurance you went.
The town was a small and quiet place. The kind of place people didn’t ask too many questions. The clinic was even smaller–cramped and stuffy. The faint smell of antiseptic clung to everything. Instruments you didn’t recognize gleamed under harsh lighting as the doctor moved around you, poking and prodding with casualness that unnerved you.
“Y’all have beautiful eyes,” the doctor said almost absentmindedly.
You laugh nervously, “We get that a lot.”
“Mhm. Don’t see that too often. Not around here at least.” The doctor scribbled something illegible on his clipboard.
You looked over next to you at Valarr anxiously, something about the doctor’s tone of voice unnerved you.
“Y’all new to town?” The doctor asked.
“Yea, we just moved here from a rural town up north,” Valarr answered smoothly.
The doctor hummed, like that was enough. “Couple, I’m guessing?”
Valarr’s hand found yours, giving it a light squeeze.
“Something like that,” you forced a smile.
“I saw on your chart,” he flipped a page, “you came in about a year ago for a broken leg.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Yes, sir,” Valarr said.
The doctor looked up briefly. “What caused the injury?”
You and Valarr paused neither of you making a move to respond.
“My fiancée’s father didn’t take too kindly to us being together,” Valarr replied.
The doctor studied the two of you for a moment longer than necessary before nodding. “That’s unfortunate, family can be like that.”
Valarr chuckled half heartedly.
“I saw on yer chart that y’all came in here a year ago for a broken leg. Does that have anything to do with it?” He continued to prod.
Valarr was silent for a beat before replying, “My pretty fiance over here’s father didn’t take too kindly to us being together.”
“Ah. I get that. My parents weren’t great people either.”
To hear the doctor put it so plainly was like a punch to the gut. You wanted to scream at him, tell him off, that he doesn’t get it at all. It was as though Valarr could sense your unease, he gently rested his hand over yours on the armrest, giving your hand a little squeeze.
“Alright, the blood work should be back any minute. I’ll take a look and come right back.” The doctor left the patient room after that.
You turned to Valarr whilst letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“I wish you didn’t have to tell him all that.”
“I know, darling. But we don’t have to be ashamed. I’m proud of us. Of you.” He leaned over to give you a quick peck on the lips.
That calmed you down, leaning into his affection. He always knew what to do to make you relax. One of the many things you loved about him. Then, breaking the two of you out of your trance, a knock was heard at the door.
“Come in,” Valarr called out.
The doctor stepped back into the room but something was off. The calmness in his posture no longer. His eyes lingered on the two of you in a way that made your skin prickle.
“The lab results came back.”
“And?” Valarr leaned forward expectantly.
“We’re pretty sure it’s Wilson’s disease. It’s treatable–manageable even, with the right care.” He was obviously still uncomfortable as he shifted on the spot.
“Then what’s wrong,” Valarr sounded agitated now.
“Well… it’s genetic. And with both of you presenting the same symptoms it’s likely you share some lineage.”
You went still.
“With the heterochromia,” he added carefully, “and you both being from the same small rural town… it raises some concerns.”
The room was silent. Your vision started getting blurry, your hearing static. You could see a blur in the corner of your eye of what seems to be Valarr standing up to go. You’re not sure what he’s saying; it was all just a mess.
Everyone always said you two had the same eyes.
Your father’s anger. His hatred for Valarr’s family. The refusal to talk about your mother. That night. The throbbing pain in your leg. Everything came rushing back all at once. He knew. He must have already known you two were related.
Valarr’s grip on your arm snapped you out of your daze.
“Come on. We’re getting out of here.” He’s dragging you out to the protest of the doctor.
“Wait–” the doctor called after you two. “I’m not making any accusations, I just–legally I can’t disclose anything anyway, but you should really–” he’s cut off by the slam of the door.
One moment you’re leaving the clinic and the next you two are home, back in your shared bedroom. The world didn’t seem right. You couldn’t focus on anything. Nothing was real.
“Are you still thinking about it? Don’t listen to him, they just want to separate us,” he’s cupping your face between his hands.
You instinctively flinch away, a look of hurt flashes across Valarr’s face.
“You don’t seriously believe him, do you?”
A beat passes.
“We have the same eyes, Valarr–and there’s my father–you saw how he reacted when he saw us together,” your voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “What if my dad isn’t really my dad? What if–”
You can’t bring yourself to say it.
Valarr doesn’t say anything. You wait patiently, hoping he would say something–to deny it. Laugh it off. Tell you you’re overthinking.
He doesn’t.
His eyes darken–something ugly flashing over his usually pristine eyes, before he took a step closer to you.
“You need to rest.”
“No!”
He takes another step forward. You’re getting a bit nervous now, taking a step back. This continues until you hit the edge of the bed.
“You’re hurting me, love,” Valarr wore a pained expression.
He pushes you onto the bed, moving himself atop of you before you can push him away.
“You know I love you, right?”
“Valarr–stop–” you’re pawing at his chest, but it’s no use. “You’re scaring me.”
He’s bunching your dress up your hips then, making a move to undo his belt.
“I’ll make everything all right again. Promise.”
He shuts up your protests by harshly kissing you. It’s rough and intense. You’re instinctively leaning into his touch, your body remembers him before you can fight it. You’re ashamed that you’re slowly soaking your panties. Despite your horror of it all, you can’t help but be aroused.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he’s lining himself up with your entrance.
Your eyes widen in horror at that, “You knew–”
You’re cut off by him thrusting himself fully to the hilt. You’re slick, making it easier for him to slide in. You’re gasping for air, both from the pain and the shock of it all.
“Ngh—I knew… that night—when he caught us. I found my father’s album… your mother—she was in every photo,” he grunted between thrusts.
You’re a mewling mess as he continues his assault on your unsuspecting cunt.
“She looks just like you, you know.”
You’re disgusted. By it all. By your half–brother lover and by the conversation at hand whilst he pistoned his hips to meet yours.
“Don’t–” It’s all you can force out before you moan from another one of his thrusts.
“Even if you’re my sister–I still love you. Is that wrong? Do I make you feel sick?” He moves his hand up your abdomen to your breast, giving it a quick squeeze.
You can only whine in protest.
He leans down to place kisses on your breasts.
“Valarr–” you can’t stay upset at him, as much as it disgusts you, he’s still your Valarr.
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You’re mine to love. Mine to fuck. Mine to hold. Nothing in the world could change that.”
You let out a deep, guttural sob. You still love him. You love your brother in a way sisters shouldn’t, and yet deep down you knew it never mattered.
“You are everything to me,” he whispers into your ear, his hand moving down to your clit, stroking it gently, a great juxtaposition to his relentless pace.
“Valarr–I’m going to cum,” you gasp out between half sobs and half moans.
“I know. I know, darling, let yourself go,” Valarr presses his forehead against yours as you come apart around his cock.
He thrusts into you faster, his breath becoming uneven as you grip around him.
“I love you.”
He makes eye contact with you as he pushes his cock to your cervix. He’s cumming inside you. He doesn’t bother pulling out despite being spent, using his girth to plug all the cum inside.
the part where aerion slaps valarr in do i wanna know got me thinking of him slapping valarr while riding him 🙏 submissive top valarr >>>
hehe i am forever a promoter of both submissive top Valarr and service top Valarr that man needs to please his boy
maybe if i wrote another chapter we would have to see how Aerion’s first time being fucked would be like… epecially if Maekar is in the house when it happens… 👀
thinking about aerion with his bratty wife and they just hate each other. genuinely completely despise the other. constant arguing and name calling and everyone also hates being around them because it’s just never quiet. it’s always so loud. so so loud. thinking about the only time they’re quiet is when they’re in bed. everyone expects (including them) that it would be rough and biting and hateful. but they get …shy? like hands are shaking and they’re trembling and while they’re fucking they’re literally both just grasping at each other and hugging and whining and teary eyed because it feels so good. wet gasps and shallow thrusts and they both finish in record time which they want to make fun of the other for but they both just finished in less than 30 seconds so they can’t. then the next morning it’s back to literal physical fights.
I need to read something about Valarr being obsessed with pussy but in a way that's both very gentle and attentive, whispering sweet little things and that he desperately needs it 😢
I JUST 😢 CANT
oh he is soooo pussywhipped… also i am a firm believer that Valarr loves a bush
𑣲⋆｡˚ prince Valarr Targaryen did not stand as a prince should. in fact, he rarely did when his wife was present. he knelt on the cold stone floor, his tunic discarded. you reclined on the massive bed, legs draped carelessly over the side, thighs spread wide to invite in his gaze.
“you look desperate, Valarr,” you murmured, lips upturned, voice a low and teasing drawl.
“i am,” he said simply, honest as always. his eyes were locked in on the glistening slit between your legs, “i can’t think of anything else. i can’t breathe without the scent of you filling my lungs.”
you laughed at him—fondly, of course. you often wondered if he would be happier as a poet than a prince. undoubtedly though, the general public wouldn’t enjoy his erotic musings. “is that so?” you said, “the great Targaryen prince, reduced to a begging dog for a bit of wetness?”
“i am whatever you want me to be, as long as you let me taste you,” he groaned, leaning forward.
“then prove it.”
Valarr came to the call. he dove forward, his nose pressing into the soft, damp curls of your mound. it smelled of musk and honey and the slight tang of your arousal. he let out a shaky moan and parted the outer lips with his tongue, tasting the first salty drop of you. “gods… you’re so wet.” he mumbled.
“shh, less talking, more licking.” you commanded, hips giving a small yet demanding twitch.
he buried his face deep, tongue sweeping upward in one long, slow stroke from your perineum to the very top of your cunt. a loud, wet sound echoed in the quiet room as he slurped at your folds. he found the swollen pearl of your clit and began to flick at it with his tongue.
“ah… yes, right there,” you gasped, toes curling into the sheets. “suck it, Valarr.”
he obeyed, taking the small nub into his mouth and pulling it in with a vacuum like force. Valarr felt a pathetic sort of pride in his submission, in the way his jaw ached and his tongue grew tired while you remained at the centre of his universe. he licked deeper, pushing past your entrance of your pussy, tasting the thick, hot nectar inside.
“i love you,” he moaned, the words muffled by your skin, “i love your cunt more than the… than anything…”
you only moaned in response, a growl low in your throat, but it pushed the man forward, redoubling his efforts. he swirled his tongue in rapid circles around your clit while sucking your lips inward. you suddenly stiffened, your back arching off the bed as a violent tremor shook your thighs. they clamped down on Valarr’s face, holding him there as he continued to drink you in, swallowing every drop of your slick gratefully while shuddered under his mouth.
he remained there for a long moment, panting as if it was him that had been brought to release, face wet.
“such a good boy…” you whispered, patting his cheek, “such a good job.”
+18, DARK THEMES, DUBCON/CNC, obsessive behavior and stalking (initially digital, then in-person), home invasion, degradation kink, praise and oral sex (f receiving), rough fingering, p in v, spit kink, livestream sex, dead dove: do not eat, (breeding vibes in part 3 guysss) ᥫ᭡
you stared at the message, your heart hammering against your ribs. your apartment, your sanctuary, suddenly felt like a glass box, and he was standing right outside, able to see everything.
you scrambled off your bed and crept to the window, peeking through the blinds. down below, under the flickering streetlamp, stood his figure.
even from this distance, even with the distortion of the glass, you knew it was him. he was just standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, looking up at the building with an unnerving stillness.
panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. how? how did he find you? you were always so careful. you never used your real name, never showed the outside of your building, never gave away any identifying details. but he'd used your name in the message. a name you couldn't even remember sharing. a cold dread settled in your stomach.
your phone buzzed again, the sound making you jump.
aeri0n_t: i know you're in there. please just talk to me.
you didn't answer. you couldn't. you just stood there, frozen, watching him as he pulled out his phone and typed. a moment later, a new message appeared.
aeri0n_t: i'm coming up.
no. no, no, no. you backed away from the window, your mind racing. you could lock the door and hide in the bathroom. you could-
the knock echoed through your apartment, loud and insistent.
you held your breath, praying he'd think you weren't home, that he'd just leave.
"i know you're in there," his voice called through the door, muffled but clear. it was deeper than it was through your speakers, rougher around the edges with an emotion you couldn't quite place. maybe frustration? desperation?
"i can see your light is on. please, just open the door sweetheart."
you stayed silent, your back pressed against the wall, your entire body trembling.
"please," he said again, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "i'm not going to hurt you. i just...i need to know you're okay. you ignored me for four days. i was worried."
his words should have been reassuring, but they weren't. he was worried…he was so worried he'd tracked you down and was now standing at your door, demanding entry. this wasn't the sweet, reverent "silver dragon" from your chat room.
another knock, harder this time. "open the door, or i swear to god, i'll wake up every single person on this floor until someone lets me in."
the thought of causing a scene, of your neighbors seeing him, of them finding out what you did for a living, was more horrifying than facing him yourself. with a shaking hand, you reached for the deadbolt and turned it. the chain was still on, a flimsy last line of defense. you peered through the crack.
he was even more striking in person. with the lean, athletic build you'd only seen in glimpses on screen. his hair was a shock of silver-white, messy and sticking up slightly, he was dressed in dark, expensive-looking clothes, but they were rumpled, as if he'd been wearing them for days. and his face…his face was a storm of emotion. anger, yes, but also a deep, unsettling distress that made him look younger, more vulnerable, and infinitely more dangerous.
"oh fuck," he breathed, his eyes finding yours in the narrow opening. relief washed over his features, quickly replaced by a simmering fury. "why didn't you answer me?"
you swallowed hard, your throat dry. "aerion... you can't be here. how did you find me?"
he didn't answer. instead, he simply put his shoulder to the door. the chain snapped with a loud crack, and he was inside your apartment, pushing past you before you could even react. he kicked the door shut behind him, the sound of it clicking into place echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
he stood in the middle of your living room, his gaze sweeping over your space—over the soft glow of your ring light, the scattered lingerie, the laptop still open on your bed. his jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. he looked like a caged predator.
"four days," he said, his voice low and dangerously quiet. he turned his full attention to you, and you took an involuntary step back. "you ignored me for four fucking days. with no fucking explanation. i thought something happened to you…"
"you shouldn't have come here," you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself, a pathetic attempt at a barrier. "you're scaring me."
his expression softened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. he took a step toward you, and you flinched. he stopped, his hands coming up in a gesture of surrender.
"i'm not going to hurt you," he said, his voice gentler now, but the intensity was still there, burning beneath the surface. "i just...i needed to see you."
he closed the remaining distance between you, his movements slow and deliberate. he didn't touch you, not at first. he just stood there, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne mixed with something else, something metallic and sharp, like ozone before a storm.
"why were you ignoring me?" he asked again, his voice barely a whisper. he reached out, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. his touch was surprisingly soft, but it made your heart pound with fear. "was it something i said? something i did?"
"this... this isn't a good time," you stammered, your mind racing for an excuse, any excuse. "i was... i'm in the middle of something."
he glanced over at your laptop, then back at you, a knowing, almost bitter smile playing on his lips. "a show? were you about to go live for them? for the faceless masses who tip you in tokens and don't give a shit about you?"
he stepped even closer, his body now even closer against yours. his face was inches from yours, his eyes searching yours, desperate and demanding. "i gave you a shit ton of tokens. i gave you my name. i thought...i thought we had something."
"we don't have anything," you said, your voice trembling but firm. "this is my job. you're a client. that's all."
"don't say that," he growled, “i'm not just some client. i'm the one who tells you you're beautiful when everyone else is just telling you to spread your legs. i'm the one who respects you!"
"respect?" you laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "you tracked me down, aerion. you broke into my apartment. that's not respect. that's borderline obsession."
"it's not obsession," he insisted, his voice rising with frustration. "it's... it's devotion. i care about you. i've never cared this much about anyone…it hurts."
you were trapped. trapped between his body and the wall, trapped by his desperation and your own fear. you could feel the hard lines of his body against yours, could feel the frantic beating of his heart against your chest.
"you're not scared now, are you?" he murmured, his hand tracing the line of your jaw.
you nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of your head. it was the truth. you were terrified. but the nod, in his eyes, was a betrayal.
his face changed. the desperate, pleading boy vanished, replaced by something cold and hard. "oh," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "you're scared. you want something to be afraid of?"
a bitter laugh escaped his lips. "fine. you want to treat me like a client? then i'll fucking behave like one."
before you could even process his words, one arm wrapped around your waist, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, trying to push him away, but it was like shoving against a statue. with a grunt, he hoisted you over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
the world tilted, your hair hanging down in a curtain as you stared at your apartment floor. "no! put me down!" you screamed, your voice raw with panic.
you thrashed wildly, kicking your legs, pounding your fists against his back, but he was immovable. it was like hitting brick. his grip on you was like iron, pinning you in place. he stopped beside your bed, and with a careless shove, he dumped you onto the mattress. you bounced, the air knocked from your lungs, scrambling to get away, but he was on you in an instant, one hand pressing down on the center of your chest, holding you flat.
"stay fucking still," he commanded, his voice a low growl.
you didn't stop. you couldn't. you bucked and twisted, trying to squirm out from under his weight, your screams muffled by the room. he just watched you, a look of detached annoyance on his face, as if you were nothing more than a fly buzzing around his head. with his free hand, he reached over and adjusted your laptop.
"no, no, no," you sobbed, realizing what he was doing. he angled the screen, tilting the camera until it pointed directly at the bed, at you, trapped and struggling beneath him. the little green light was on. it was still live. your audience, your faceless masses, were watching everything.
"there," he said, a sickeningly satisfied smile on his face. "now everyone can see."
he shifted his weight, grabbing your chin in a punishing grip, forcing your head to turn toward the camera. you whimpered, tears streaming down your cheeks, blurring the view of the little green light. you squeezed your eyes shut, you wouldn't look. you wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"open your eyes," he commanded. "look at the camera.”
you blinked them open slightly as his grip on your chin tightened, and with his other hand, he brought two fingers up to your tightly sealed lips. "open up," he ordered.
you shook your head, a muffled whimper escaping your throat.
smack.
the sharp, stinging crack of his hand against your cheek was so unexpected it made you gasp. it wasn't hard enough to truly hurt, but the shock, the humiliation, was something that shot red hot through you.
"i said, open up," he repeated, his voice utterly devoid of warmth. "or the next one will be a lot harder."
defeated, your body trembling with a mixture of fear and a strange, unwelcome thrill, you slowly parted your lips. he didn't hesitate, pushing his two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. the taste of his skin was salty, clean.
"get them nice and wet," he instructed, his eyes locked on yours through the camera video. "show them how good you are at following orders, sweetheart."
you hesitated, your mind screaming at you to bite down, to do anything. but the look in his eyes, the promise of pain, held you captive. you closed your lips around his fingers, your tongue moving tentatively, coating them with your saliva.
"that's it," he murmured, a flicker of that old approval in his voice, twisted now into something darker. "such a good girl when you want to be. you know how to use that mouth, don't you? it's all you're good for, really. talking to them, taking their money...and now, taking my fingers."
he began to slowly pump his fingers in and out of your mouth, fucking your mouth with his hand. "suck," he commanded, his voice a husky whisper. "show everyone how much you like it."
the degradation burned through you, but a sick part of you, the part that craved his attention, obeyed. you hollowed your cheeks, sucking on his fingers as he'd instructed, your eyes locked on his.
just then, a sound pierced the tense silence, a cheerful, electronic chime from your laptop.
ding!
unknown443: [tip: 100 tokens]
another chime followed, then another, a cascade of notifications lighting up the screen from other usernames.
aerion smiled, a cruel, triumphant curve of his lips. he pulled his fingers from your mouth with a wet, obscene pop. a string of saliva connected your bottom lip to his fingertips before breaking. the sound, the sight, was utterly humiliating, and a fresh wave of heat washed over your face.
"good girl," he purred, the praise a poison dart. he shifted his weight, the hand that had been pinning you down moving to your waist. with a rough tug, he yanked you further down the bed, positioning you exactly how he wanted, your body pliant under his strength. his free hand trailed down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the delicate lace of your panties.
"let's see what we have here," he murmured, more to the camera than to you. "let's see if the rest of you is as obedient as your mouth."
you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself, but you couldn't stop the helpless whimper that escaped your lips as he pushed the fabric aside. his fingers found your folds, and you froze. you expected pain, expected roughness. but his touch was exploratory, almost clinical, for a split second. then he stilled.
you felt him tense above you. you dared to open your eyes, and the look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated triumph. a slow, predatory smile spread across his lips.
"well, well," he breathed, his voice thick with smug satisfaction. he looked from your face to the laptop, making sure the camera had a perfect view. "she's fucking soaked."
he slid one long finger through your slick folds, and you cried out, a strangled sound of shame and unwilling arousal. it was true. despite your terror, despite your disgust, your body had betrayed you.
"you can scream all you want," he said, his voice a low, taunting rumble. he pushed that single finger inside you, sinking it knuckle-deep with a slow, deliberate thrust. "but your body doesn't lie. it wants this. it wants me."
your back arched off the bed, a desperate, involuntary reaction to the invasion. you thrashed your head from side to side, but it was useless. he was too strong, his hold too absolute. he began to move his finger, pumping it in and out of you.
"so fucking tight," he groaned, his eyes closing for a moment as if savoring the sensation. then he opened them, his gaze burning into yours. "and so fucking wet. all this for me? or for them?"
he added a second finger, stretching you, filling you. the sensation was overwhelming, a mixture of pleasure and pain that short-circuited your brain. your screams turned to ragged, panting sobs.
"answer me, baby" he demanded, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in a tight, cruel circle. "who is this for?"
"you!" you sobbed, the word torn from you. "it's for you!"
"yeah that's what i thought," he suddenly withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling achingly empty. he brought his hand up to his face, his eyes never leaving yours as he looked at his glistening fingers. then, holding your gaze, he slowly, deliberately, licked them clean.
a guttural sound of pure satisfaction rumbled in his chest. "fucking delicious," he breathed. he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that you knew the camera's microphone would pick up perfectly. "i think i'm going to start by eating your pretty little pussy."
he didn't wait for a response. he pushed himself up and leaned over you to your laptop. you flinched away, but he wasn't interested in you right now. his long fingers tapped at the keyboard, and you heard the soft whir of the camera's motor as he adjusted its position. he angled it down, capturing the entire length of your body on the rumpled bedsheets.
he returned his attention to you, his eyes dark with intent. he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, the only barrier left between you and complete exposure. with one sharp, decisive tug, he ripped them. the delicate lace gave way with a tear, and he tossed the ruined fabric aside as if it were nothing.
"much better," he said, his gaze raking over your naked cunt.
he shifted down the bed, his body a heavy, commanding presence. he settled between your legs, his shoulders pushing your thighs apart, forcing them wide. there was no escape. you were completely open, completely vulnerable to him. you could feel his warm breath on your most sensitive flesh, and you squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body tensing in anticipation.
then his mouth was on you.
it wasn't gentle. it wasn't exploratory. it was a hungry, possessive assault. he licked a long, wet stripe up your slit, stealing a choked gasp tore from your throat.
he didn't stop. he sealed his lips over your clit and sucked, hard, sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure-pain through you. your hips bucked involuntarily, but his hands came up to grip your thighs, holding you down, pinning you in place.
he ate you out with a messy, single-minded intensity. it was all wet sounds and desperate lapping, his tongue delving into your entrance, his teeth scraping lightly against your folds. he was devouring you, and the sounds he made were obscene, slurping and groaning as if he were a starving man and you were his feast.
"look at her," he panted, pulling back for just a second, his chin glistening with your wetness. he wasn't looking at you. he was looking at your pussy, his expression one of pure adoration. "she's so pretty. so fucking pretty."
he dove back in, his tongue swirling around your clit in tight, relentless circles. your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the silver strands, but whether you meant to push him away or pull him closer, you couldn't say.
"she behaves so well," he murmured against your flesh, the vibrations of his words sending shivers through you. "she never ignores me. not like you do."
he punctuated his words with a sharp thrust of his tongue, fucking you with it, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
"no," he continued, his voice a dark, worshipful chant. "she always gets so wet for her owner, huh? she knows who she belongs to, even if you don't."
he increased his pace, his mouth working you with a ferocity that bordered on violence. one of his hands left your thigh, and you felt two fingers slide easily inside you, curling upward to find that spot that made your vision blur. he pumped his fingers in time with his tongue, a perfect, devastating rhythm.
"that's it," he groaned, his voice muffled by your flesh. "give it to me. give me what's mine."
the coil in your stomach tightened to an impossible degree. the pleasure was overwhelming, humiliating, undeniable. you could feel the audience watching, could hear the distant chime of more tips, but it all faded into the background. there was only the weight of his body holding you down, the relentless movement of his tongue and fingers, and his voice, claiming you, body and soul.
the coil inside you snapped. a blinding, pulsing wave of pleasure ripped through you, so intense it was almost painful. your body went rigid, a choked cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. your thighs trembled, your pussy clamping down around his fingers as wave after wave of release washed through you.
he didn't stop. if anything, he intensified his efforts, his tongue flicking mercilessly against your oversensitive clit as he worked you through every last spasm. he drank you in, his groans of satisfaction vibrating against your flesh as he lapped up every drop of your release, not letting a single bit go to waste.
when you finally collapsed back against the sheets, boneless and gasping, he slowly pulled away. he didn't wipe his mouth. he just leaned back over you, his face hovering inches above yours, his chin and lips slick and shining with your cum. the scent of your own arousal filled the air between you, musky and intimate.
"taste yourself, baby" he commanded, his voice a low growl. "taste what you gave me."
he didn't wait for an answer. he crushed his mouth to yours, a messy, possessive kiss. you could feel the sticky wetness of your own release on his lips, taste yourself on his tongue as he forced it into your mouth. it was a humiliating, intimate act, and the camera captured it all. through the haze of your own pleasure, you were acutely aware of the hard, thick length of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants, pressing insistently against your thigh.
he finally pulled back, his chest heaving, his indigo eyes burning into yours. "have you ever taken a dildo?" he asked, his voice rough, conversational, as if he were asking about the weather.
your mind, still foggy from your orgasm, struggled to process the question. you shook your head, a small, hesitant movement.
a slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "no? just your fingers?"
you nodded again,
"good," he breathed, the word a puff of air against your lips. "then i get to be your first."
he pushed himself up, kneeling between your legs. his eyes never left yours as his hands went to his belt. the metallic clink of the buckle was loud in the quiet room. he undid his pants, pushing them down just enough to free himself.
and there it was.
his cock sprang free, hard and heavy. it was just as perfect as it had been on the laptop screen, but seeing it in person, feeling the heat radiating from it, was something else entirely. long and thick, with a satisfying heft, the skin was pale against his dark clothes, but the head was a flushed, angry pink, already beading with precum. prominent veins mapped a path up the shaft, and it jutted out from his body, a testament to his undeniable arousal.
he wrapped a hand around it, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke. "this is what you do to me," he said, his voice thick with lust. "this is what ignoring me for four days did."
he leaned down again, his face so close his features blurred. his free hand came up to grip your jaw, his thumb pressing on your chin, forcing your mouth open. "open up," he whispered, his voice a dark, intimate command.
you obeyed, your body too overwhelmed, too wrecked to fight back. he hovered over you, his gaze locked on your open mouth, and then he spat. a warm, wet string of his saliva landed on your tongue. it was a primal, claiming act, and a fresh wave of humiliation washed over you.
before you could react, his mouth was on yours again. this kiss was different, deeper, more possessive. he swirled his tongue with yours, mixing his spit with yours, a messy, intimate exchange that left you breathless and dizzy.
when he finally pulled away, a string of saliva connected your lips. his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust. "my turn," he said, his voice rough and gravelly.
he held his hand out, palm up, in front of your face. "spit."
you hesitated for only a second before obeying, spitting into his waiting palm. he gave a low, appreciative hum. he brought his hand to his cock, using the combined slickness of your saliva and his to coat his length. he pumped himself slowly, his fist gliding over the rigid shaft, the wet sounds filling the room. he watched you the entire time, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your stomach clench.
"that's better," he groaned, giving himself one last, tight squeeze.
then, without warning, his hands were on you again. he grabbed your hips, his grip bruising, and with a rough, effortless movement, he flipped you over. you landed on your stomach with a soft "oomph," the air knocked from your lungs. he was on you instantly, his weight settling over you, his knees pushing your legs apart.
you felt the hot, heavy length of his cock press against the curve of your ass. he shifted, dragging it down until the swollen, flushed head was nestled right against your entrance. you were still so wet, so open from your orgasm and his earlier assault.
he didn't push in. not yet. he just held himself there, the tip of his cock teasing your slick folds. he moved his hips in a slow, maddening circle, using your wetness to coat himself, getting the head of his cock "super wet" as he'd intended. the friction was delicious, torturous. you could feel every contour of him, every vein, as he slid against you, teasing your clit with every pass.
"feel that baby?" he breathed in your ear, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "this is what you've been waiting for..."
"...this is what you were made for."
and then he pushed in.
there was no gentleness, no slow acclimatization. he drove into you in one long, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. the stretch was immense, a burning, overwhelming fullness that stole your breath. a sharp, guttural cry was torn from your lips, muffled by the sheets beneath your cheek. he was bigger than anything you'd ever taken, bigger than you'd imagined, and he filled you completely.
he didn't give you time to adjust. he set a punishing rhythm from the very beginning, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, his hips slapping against your ass with a loud, wet smack.
the camera, positioned perfectly, captured everything: the glistening sheen of your combined wetness coating his thick shaft as it pistoned in and out of you, the way your flesh clung to him on every retreat, the slick drip of your arousal running down your inner thighs to soak the sheets.
your face was smushed into the bedding, your mouth open in a silent scream as moans were forced from your body with every powerful thrust. you felt like an animal, a bitch in heat, being taken and used, and the shame of it was mixed with a dark, thrilling pleasure you couldn't deny.
"that's it," he grunted, his voice a low, rhythmic pant. "take it. take all of it. take all of this fuckin’ cock…you're so fuckin’ tight, baby."
he brought his hand down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap. the sound echoed in the room, followed by your yelp. "such a good girl for me. taking my big cock so good..."
his hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back slightly, forcing your arch deeper. he panted, his words punctuated by the relentless slap of his skin against yours. "remember our first private show? you said you didn't know how you'd ever take all of me." he laughed, a dark, triumphant sound. "look at you now. taking every inch."
he slowed his pace for a moment, grinding into you, his cock pressing deep, making you whimper. "it makes me wonder, though..." he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper he knew the mic would pick up. "if this pretty little pussy is this tight... i wonder how that cute, tight asshole would feel."
panic, cold and sharp, lanced through the haze of pleasure. he was looking at the camera, a speculative smirk on his face. "what do you think, chat? should i find out?"
"no!" you screamed, the word tearing from your throat. "no! please!"
you started to thrash weakly beneath him, trying to squirm away, but his grip on your hip was like iron. your pathetic struggles only seemed to amuse him.
he laughed, a deep, cruel rumble that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "shhh shh calm down, honey" he soothed, his tone mockingly gentle. "don't worry. this time, i'll just enjoy the cunny i came for."
he released your hair and grabbed your hips with both hands, his grip bruising. he resumed his brutal pace, fucking you harder, deeper, chasing his own release. your protests died in your throat, replaced by the mindless, desperate moans of a body completely overwhelmed.
one of his hands left your hip, snaking around your body to find your clit. he began to rub it in tight, fast circles, his touch knowing, exact. the additional stimulation was electric, shooting through you like a lightning bolt.
your body, already pushed to its limit, spasmed in response. the sounds of your slick wetness grew louder, a filthy, rhythmic squelching that mingled with the slap of his skin against yours and the distant, cheerful chime of tips flooding in.
"that's my girl," he grunted, his rhythm never faltering.
he leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing against your ear. "this is the last time you'll ever go live for them," he panted, his voice a low, possessive growl. "you understand? after tonight, i promise to take goood care of you.”
your mind, a haze of pleasure and pain, could barely process his words. you just wanted it to stop but you wanted it to never end. you nodded dumbly against the sheets.
a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "yeah, you do," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "fuck, you're so pretty when you get cock dumb…"
that was it. the coil inside you snapped again, harder this time. your vision went white, your body convulsing as a powerful orgasm tore through you.
a long, broken moan was ripped from your throat, your pussy clamping down around his thick cock like a vise. you could feel your release gush out of you, soaking the sheets beneath you, a final, humiliating surrender.
he groaned as your walls clenched around him, his pace faltering for a moment as he savored the feeling. he rode out your orgasm, his strokes slowing as you trembled and whimpered beneath him.
he leaned back up, his hand still resting possessively on your ass, and looked directly at the camera, a triumphant smirk on his face. he gave your ass a light pat.
"and that's cum number two," he announced to the live audience, his voice clear and full of arrogant pride. he watched the comments fly by, the tips pouring in. "how many do you think we should go for, huh?" he asked, his tone casual, as if he were taking requests.
"how many times do i have to make her cum before she decides to forgive me and stop fucking ignoring me?"
Pairing: Yan!Dick Grayson x Reader x Yan!Barbara Gordon (DC).
Commissioned by the very lovely @saturnalya <3
Word Count: 10.0k.
TW: Non/Con, Dub/Con (Revoked Consent), Fem!Reader, Long Term Stalking, Breeding Kink, Pregnancy, Wildly Codependent Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, and Slight Infantlization. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
You hated Gotham.
This was an old loathing, so deeply buried that you hadn’t been entirely aware of it before you stepped off the underground and realized just how far you’d wandered from the shining towers and spotless streets of Metropolis. Now, as you waded through crowds of lowered heads, you could only wonder how you’d spent so long ignoring something so obvious. Gotham was a terrible place to live. Gotham was the worst place to live. The air was more smog than oxygen. The people were cruel and jaded from years of dealing with killer clowns and rampant corruption. No matter how much money tender-hearted billionaires funneled into public welfare programs, half the city always seemed to be starving. Of course you hated it. Of course you’d left. Anyone with half a brain would do the same.
The only question, really, was why you would ever come back. At least you could answer that easily enough.
You hated Gotham, but Barbara and Dick loved it.
They’d chosen the cafe. A cute place in midtown, just outside of the business district. You’d circled it twice out of caution and once out of nerves — snagging an expensive-looking gold watch off a distracted salary worker during the final lap just to calm yourself down. You spent twenty minutes watching the doors from a measured distance, as if trafficked weapons or prohibited substances would be carted through the front doors. You checked your phone twenty-seven times.
Finally, you forced yourself to actually enter the building you now knew better than your own apartment. You considered counting exits or scoping the perimeter, but at that point, further distractions were useless. Your eyes found them as soon as you crossed the threshold, which might’ve been more impressive if Dick hadn’t already been looking directly at you.
It was a testament to your self-restraint that you didn’t turn around and run immediately. He was smiling that big, golden-boy smile — the one that used to be reserved for reporters and police detectives and Bruce, after the two of you had broken something expensive. He was sitting in a corner booth on the far side of the cafe and waved you over with a level of excitement only a touch too suppressed to be called childish. Barbara sat across from him, her wheelchair pulled up to the quarter of the table the rounded bench didn’t occupy. He didn’t have a drink, but she was nursing two separate cups of coffee. A binder-thick laptop sat closed to her left, which hurt to see. You couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself leave the house with less than three disparate pieces of technology.
Dick greeted you with a bone-crushing hug. Barbara, a pursed-lip frown.
“Where is it?” she asked.
You laughed. “What are you talking about?”
She didn’t respond, only holding out an open palm to you. Dick nudged your side, pointing to your bulging pocket. “She’s been watching you reached your station,” he explained, his grin taking on a more sheepish note. “To make sure you didn’t get lost.”
You glowered, but fished out your stolen watch and handed it to Barbara, who turned it over in her hand analytically. “I’ll get it back to the owner tonight,” Dick went on, already playing damage-control. “Babs already has their details, and you can come with me to say—”
“Don’t bother,” Barbara cut in. She drew her nail along the back of the timepiece. The gold flaked away like nail polish — the cheapest gilding you’d even seen. “It’s worthless.”
Dick grinned. “Should’ve guessed. No one would be—”
“—stupid enough to wear real gold in Gotham,” you finished, leaning forward to snag one of Barbara’s mugs. “Not with people like me in town.”
You and Dick broke into obnoxious, irrational laughter. Barbara scoffed — her equivalent to your hysteria.
And just like that, you were home again.
The afternoon passed quickly. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t stay for long — one, two hours tops — but the sun sank low in the sky and suddenly, getting out of the city before dark didn’t seem to matter. Dick prattled on about Bludhaven’s many woes and the newest job on his every-expanding carousel of careers. Barbara buried her face in her arms as she complained about Bruce’s newest fledglings and swore that three of you had never been so incompetent. When it was your turn, you made up a pleasing, if not entirely true story about a young woman in the big city with a steady office job and only the occasional bout of kleptomania. It was hard to tell if either of them really believed you, but they were kind enough to let you pretend.
When you were done, Dick moved to the edge of his seat, laying his hand over Barbara’s. Somehow, you’d failed to notice the matching silver bands on either of their ring fingers before then. The sight alone was enough to make you choke on your coffee. You spent a few humiliating seconds hacking into your elbow before managing to spit out something halfway intelligent. “You’re married?”
“Two years ago,” Dick explained. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. There wasn’t really time to send out invites.”
“He got me drunk and carried me to a courthouse.” Her tone was chiding, but she was smiling more brightly than she had all day. “Didn’t even get a honeymoon.”
She leaned back, pecking her husband’s cheek. The word seemed incomprehensible. Husband. The last time you’d seen Dick and Barbara in the same room, they’d been half an inch away from tearing out each other’s throats. The time before that, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off of each other long enough to tell you whether or not they gotten back together. ‘Marriage’ seemed like an ill-suited title for their on-again-off-again, love-to-hate-and-back-again relationship. You’d never pictured them falling into such a permanent state of being. You’d never pictured them doing something you so clearly weren’t a part of.
But they were happy. They looked happy, at least. Dick pulled Barbara into a more substantial kiss and you stared at your drink, desperate to focus on anything else. Finally, they separated, both giggling like teenagers. You rolled your eyes. “Okay, I get it. You invited me back to bask in your matrimonial happiness. Can I go home now?”
They exchanged a glance. Dick’s grin took on a softer undertone. “We, uh— There was something we wanted to ask you for, actually. A favor."
You hummed. “A threesome?”
“Well, that’s not far—”
“Shut up, both of you.” She looked to you, resting both elbows on the table and propping her chin on her clasped hands. “We’re looking for a surrogate.”
It abruptly seemed much, much later. You really should’ve gone home when you had the chance.
Twelve years ago, you would’ve climbed over the table to hug them. Ten years ago, you would’ve still been overjoyed, if a little more skeptical. Five years ago, part of you might’ve been flattered. Now, though, after so many years of so little contact, the only thing you could seem to dredge up was ice-cold dread. You did what you could to hide it behind a sheepish smile, a light drumming of your fingertips against the tabletop. “A baby’s a lot of work. Especially for two parents on the night shift.”
Dick was almost too fast. “You don’t have to worry about that. Turned in my resignation last week. Barbara’s too valuable to lose so suddenly, but I made her promise to slow down before the baby gets here.” Your disbelief must’ve been apparent. He shrugged and added, “What can I say? You set a good example.”
The dread deepened into a frigid, bottomless pit. You shook your head and began to stand up, but Barbara caught you by the wrist before you could so much as get your feet underneath you. “Look, we’ve been taking it over, and neither of us can picture it being anyone but you. We want a family, obviously, but—” She paused, letting out an unsteady breath. “—not unless you’re part of it.”
It was unfair, really. In all your time apart, you’d forgotten how cruel she could be. Of course you were going to say yes, if she pulled that card.
The only thing you’d ever wanted to be was a part of their lives.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you didn’t try to. You nodded wordlessly, and Dick laughed — the sound like wedding bells and sunshine and cloudless sky. To your surprise, Barbara reacted just as strongly. She hauled you closer, dragging you into a bone-crushing hug. It squeezed the air out of your lungs and bruised your ribs, but a quiet, selfish part of you hoped that she would never let go again.
~
Dick insisted that the three of you go about the insemination in the traditional way. You and Barbara spent the better part of an hour berating him for being a filthy pervert before she admitted that it would save you all a lot of time (and you, in particular, a mountain of paperwork) and the idea began to seem much more reasonable.
Arrangements were made swiftly. They wanted you close, but you made it clear that you wouldn’t be spending the worst nine months of your life in the hallowed, haunted halls of Wayne Manor or moving back to Gotham. A travel schedule was made, a small fleet of doctors assembled using Bruce’s name, and about a week after your initial conversation, Dick and Barbara invited you over to their uptown apartment for dinner and a few drinks. What would follow was left implied.
Your anxiety was mitigated by Dick’s surprisingly edible cooking and Barbara’s insistence that your wine glass never be less than half full, even if you could’ve done without the muttered reminders that this was the last drink you’d have in a long, long time that accompanied every refill. You could only be glad you’d quit smoking when you were sixteen. All it’d taken was Selina mentioning that she’d been able to smell it on your clothes from a block away and you’d kicked the habit overnight. You doubted having to store your best friends’ baby for a few short months would have served as such powerful motivation.
As you savored your last drops of freedom, Dick and Barbara celebrated the beginning of theirs. They’d been pawing at each other all night, too giddy to remember how to act like adults, but it was only as dinner wrapped up and you sipped your nth glass of wine that their too-bright eyes turned to you. Dick pushed forward, more brazen in his eagerness. Barbara, as always, was more than happy to sit back and watch the love of her life make yours that much more difficult.
“It really hasn’t been the same since you left.” His words were slurred at the edges, blending together at the breaks. You hadn’t seen him drink anything, but he must’ve been drunk. You had to believe he was drunk.
You nodded sagely. “You wear pants now, for one.”
“Hey. The robin shorts were sick as fuck.” He sighed heavily, his head dipping low. “I just mean— I miss having you on the field. Barbara’s in my ear, which is great, but since Jason—”
He caught himself, breaking off immediately. Barbara grit her teeth. You let your eyes fall to your lap. You loved Dick. You loved Barbara. But there were some things you just couldn’t stand to talk about, even with them. Jason Todd would always be at the very top of that short, terrible list.
It was a small mercy that Dick, for all of his failings, knew when to change the subject. He forced a smile, letting out a breath of a laugh. “It’s probably for the best. You must be so out of practice — you probably couldn’t even keep up with us, now.”
This topic, you liked. You offered a demure shrug, emptying your glass with one more long swig. “I don’t know. Ten years isn’t that long.”
“It’s long enough.”
“Wanna test that out?”
Barbara sighed. “If you two do this in my dining room, I swear to—”
But it was too late. Dick was already vaulting himself over the table and into you. You let him take you to the floor, locking your arms to the side with an iron-clad bear-hold around your midriff. Once you’d landed, you jerked back and drove your knee into his stomach. Dick let you go on reflex, and you rolled to the side, using the momentum to spring yourself into handstand then cartwheel onto your feet. Your back ached from the rough landing, your muscles throbbing from disuse, but that was fine. If Selina had taught you anything, it was how to ignore the parts of you that valued comfort over survival.
Dick was stammering to his feet. He was acrobatic compared to the average civilian, sure, but years of training under a man more muscle than not had left him your inferior in all-but raw strength. You pounced on him before he could fully regain his balance, catching him under the shoulder and swinging upward so that your thighs locked around his head. You twisted and, sure enough, Dick went down hard. You unlatched at the last second, pulling away just far enough to land with a knee planted on either shoulder — pinning him underneath you. He grunted as he hit the floor, only just managing to keep his head from cracking against the tile. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, then another, both panting shallowly. Then, you cracked a smile. Dick grinned back, and a second later, both of you had dissolved into drunken laughter.
The room spun. You shut your eyes, letting your head dip low as you tried to catch your breath. At the same time, Dick reached up, grazing over your cheek and cupping the back of your head. Before you could brace yourself, he pulled you down, his mouth crashing into yours.
It wasn’t that you’d never kissed him before. No, you and him and Barbara had spent too much time together as hormone-addled teenagers not to have awkwardly pecked each other during rounds of truth-or-dare once or twice. But he’d never kissed you like this. Hungry and messy and deep. His tongue was in your mouth before you could think to draw back, his nails digging into your scalp when you flinched away on instinct. He was warm against you — too warm. Suddenly, their sprawling apartment felt too small, too stiffing. You would’ve given anything to be somewhere. Outside, walking the empty city streets at night, or better yet, on a rooftop, safe in the knowledge that you were the only person around for miles.
Except, you weren’t somewhere else. You were kissing Dick Grayson. And you were supposed to be enjoying it.
You glanced towards Barbara through your eyelashes. If she was jealous, you couldn’t tell. Her shoulders were relaxed, her smile fond and self-satisfied. With her unspoken blessing, you melted against Dick, moaning absently as his lips moved against yours. You let your knees slip off of his shoulders and a moment later, he was sitting up, looping an arm under your thighs and hauling you against his chest. Barbara was hauled onto his free shoulder with the same easy strength, laughing as she batted at his back. You let the world around you blur and fade as he began to move.
You really were drunk. Reality only came back into focus as your back hit a cloud-soft mattress. You moved reflexively to burrow into the sheets, but a pair of delicate hands corrected you — Barbara’s, taking you by the underarms and hauling you towards her. She was sitting against the headboard, drawing you close so that your back rested against her chest. Your head lulled to the side, but she caught your chin, tilting it up so that you faced her properly. She kissed you as Dick settled between your open legs. Your panties were torn off at the waist, your dress irreparably wrinkled as he pushed it up to your waist. Two minor inconveniences, better off discarded quickly.
Your vision swam. Blearily, with no real understanding of what was going on, you watched a head of dark hair dip low, felt warmth and wetness drag over your cunt. It took you a long moment to realize it was Dick’s tongue and even longer to realize that your best friend (and your best friend’s husband) was eating you out. You tried to close your legs on reflex, but Barbara caught your knee. “Calm down,” she whispered, her voice as strict as it was patronizing. “You have no idea how long he’s been waiting to do this.”
Dick moaned in agreement. The vibration shot straight to your core, drawing a warbling noise up from the base of your throat. The pleasure was there, but it was hot, alien. You’d never quite lived up to your mentor’s femme fatale reputation. Taking off your clothes around anyone, ally or enemy, had never come naturally to you. Somehow, even with the two people you trusted most in the world, it still didn’t feel right.
If Dick sensed your discomfort, he didn’t seem to care. His tongue traced aimless patterns over your pussy, always finding its way back to your clit. You shut your eyes, burying your face in Barbara’s shoulder as his attention dipped lower, his tongue slipping inside of you and curling. You writhed, bucking into his face, and she cooed, running a hand over your hair. You had the brief and nauseating thought that, one day, she really would make a good mother. The only tragedy here was that she needed your help to be one.
The flat of Dick’s nose ground into your clit, and suddenly, it was all you could do not to think at all. Your vision burnt white. Your legs twitched by means beyond your control, your hands finding his hair and tearing. Dick only groaned, leaning into your touch. That was fair. It wasn’t like you could hurt him, not now, not like this. That kind of strength — the resolve it took to do real, lasting damage to another living thing — was beyond you. And that scared you more than anything.
You forced yourself to blink, to breathe. Barbara was still cooing at you, stealing kisses from unresponsive lips. Dick heaved himself up to your height, catching your chin and pulling away from Barbara. There was a long, shallow kiss, and then he kneeling in-between your legs, dragging his shirt over his head and shrugging his pants low on his hips. It hadn’t occurred to you that both of them were still fully dressed. You were the only one exposed.
“Can’t wait any longer,” Dick said, as he pulled away from you. Barbara clicked her tongue, but he only grinned. You could feel the head of his cock pressing into your entrance, his breath on your skin. “Can’t wait to knock you up, kitty.”
Your skin crawled. He shouldn’t call you that, not here. He should say he was going to—
Oh, god.
What were you doing?
The panic set in all at once. You kicked and thrashed, trying to get away, but your body felt so weak and Barbara’s arms were so strong and Dick was so heavy on top of you. He hummed, beginning to ease into you, and you shook your head violently. “No, no, I changed my mind, I don’t want to—”
“Hey, now, we don’t need to do that.” Dick’s voice, smooth and easy. You could feel him inside of you, now, spreading you open. It hurt. “We’re taking it slow, alright? We’re— fuck—” His hips stuttered, thrusting too far too quickly. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Barbara’s hand fell past your stomach, rubbing quick circles into your clit by way of apology. “We’ve been needing you for years. Can’t make it without you. So you’ll be good for us, right?”
“Don’t talk to her like an animal.” Barbara let out a huff of a laugh. “An animal would be able to respond.”
“Aw, now you’re just being mean.” With a groan, Dick bottomed out. He was too deep, too big, filling in parts of you that you hadn’t known were empty. You felt his cock twitch inside of you as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. The gesture might’ve been sweeter — nostalgic, even — if you hadn’t wanted him to get away so badly. “You want this, don’t you, kitty? Go on — that’s all you have to say.”
You didn’t. You didn’t want to be pregnant. You didn’t want to ruin your body. You didn’t want this.
But Barbara was so warm against you and Dick’s smile was so wide where it cut into your lips. They were so happy. And you wanted them to be happy more than anything.
You could barely nod. Your head hardly moved. But Barbara kissed your temple and Dick began to move — pulling away from you as far as he could without slipping out of you cunt entirely.
You could only be thankful that you were far, far away by the time he thrust back in.
~
You took your first pregnancy test three weeks later. In their apartment, again, with the most expensive kit you and Dick could find at the nearest twenty-four-hour pharmacy. They waited outside the bathroom door while you struggled to stop crying long enough to piss on the goddamn stick.
Selfishly, you didn’t run back to them as soon as you were finished. Instead, you sat in a corner and counted out the seconds until the test had processed your results. Even then, you spent another precious minute hyperventilating before you could bring yourself to pick up that stupid plastic wand and find what you knew you would: two thin red lines, terrible and feeble and certain.
You were pregnant.
It went without saying that Dick and Barbara were overjoyed.
~
The first three months were the worst of your life.
You’d been beaten, broken, burnt, drowned, electrocuted, forced to go to a karaoke night with Dick and Titans, and yet, no form of torture you’d ever endured compared to morning sickness. You gained ten pounds, then lost fifteen. Your boobs hurt. You were tired all the time. All food smelled terrible, and you weren’t even allowed to eat half of it anymore. Your boobs really fucking hurt.
But Barbara and Dick’s legion of doctors had assured you that your symptoms, while unbearable, were completely run-of-the-mill. Most of your time was spent in Gotham, letting Barbara take you to obstetric appointments or helping Dick set up the nursery or generally trying to keep your head while they both fawned over you like a blue-ribbon breeding sow. You insisted on staying in Metropolis, but after your bump started to show, Dick made it clear that you wouldn’t be using public transit after dark. You tried to laugh off his paranoia, but for once, he wasn’t joking.
“You’re giving us everything we’ve ever wanted,” he told you, waving to Barbara as he grabbed his coat and started for the door. “Let us give something back, every now and then.”
Of course, you’d given in. As if you’d even stood a chance against him.
The drive was long and quiet. You stared pointedly at your lap as he passed through the sparkling sky-scrappers and shining storefronts of downtown, past the tranquil sprawl of uptown and midtown, and into the decaying residential district that didn’t get featured on tourist-trap billboards and brochures. Shame formed a knot in your throat as Dick’s shiny new sports car idled in front of the crumbling concrete corpse that was your apartment complex. He eyed the bars over the front door wearily, then asked, “You said you were on the top floor, right? Do you want me to walk you up?”
You shook your head. “I’m good, I just— The outside makes it look worse than it is. Thanks for the ride.”
“It’s no trouble.” He was already throwing the gear shift into park, easing his key out of the ignition. “Like I said, we want to—”
You didn’t stay long enough to hear the rest. You were out of your seat and rushing towards your building before he could convince you to make any more bad decisions for his sake.
The inside was, in fact, not a lot nicer than the outside. Cheap grey paint peeled off cheaper grey walls. The lobby stunk of cigarette smoke and mold, and the elevator had been broken since the day after you moved in. You had long, agonizing minutes to contemplate the depths of your embarrassment as you hiked up the stairs, even longer to wallow in your own self-loathing as you undid the three rusted deadbolts on your apartment door (none of which had been installed by the landlord). By the time you stepped into your flat and found Dick riffling through a drawer in your kitchenette, you almost didn’t have it in you to feel betrayed. Almost.
It was pointless to ask how he’d gotten in. The window on the far wall was cracked open and Dick had always been a good climber. Besides, even if you wanted to play detective, he was faster. Angrier.
“You don’t have an office job.”
“I’m on maternity—”
He pulled the drawer out of its socket, letting its contents scatter across the tile floor. It was jewelry, mostly. Pearl chains, diamond rings, earrings studded with gems that would’ve paid your rent twice-over for the next year — if only the money you’d get for selling them to your broker was clean enough to use so recklessly. “Stolen art in the closet, antiques under the bathroom sink…” He exhaled shallowly. “What happened, kitty? You used to fight crime.”
Only so there’d be less competition for you and Selina. Protecting Gotham’s innocents had never been as important to you as it had been to the Bat’s fledglings. You’d only ever really cared about yourself.
Well, yourself, Dick, and Barbara. But they didn’t need anything you could give.
“I don’t have a lot of other options,” you said, eventually. “I was raised in Crime Alley, Dick. I’m a middle school dropout. I had a record longer than Selina’s by the time I was seventeen. I don’t know if I’d even be able to get a real job, if I wanted one.”
“That’s not the problem.” Of course it wasn’t. Not from his perspective. He’d never had to work a day in his life. “If you were going to stay active, you could’ve been active in Gotham. Bruce would’ve helped. You could have—”
“And end up like Jason?”
His expression hardened, then broke open into raw hurt. It was a low blow, but it was true.
Things had already been getting bad, but Jason’s death had been the final nail in the coffin. Dick and Bruce had always argued, but at the time, they couldn’t say two words to each other without getting into a screaming match. A bullet to the base of her spine had paralyzed Barbara from the waist down less than a year before, and she was still swinging wildly between fits of mania that saw her locked in her clocktower for days at a time and depressive episodes so intense, she might as well have been comatose. Jason reminded you of yourself — pulled out of a bad neighborhood, dressed up in a costume he’d never quite grown into, and made to feel as if he could earn the love he was suddenly being drowned in. You used to beg Dick to let him patrol with the two of you, sneak him candy under the table while Barbara lectured you both about the importance of an upcoming mission. Jason was a balm. Jason was the light at the end of the tunnel, just bright enough to make you actually believe it might all get better for your little family.
And then, Jason was dead and the world was dark again. You got out of Gotham about a week later — permanently, this time. Between Barbara’s frustration, Dick’s anger, and your own grief, there just hadn’t been room left for anything else. Anything worth living for.
The wound was a decade old, but time had done little to heal it. The pain on Dick’s face was proof enough of that. He held onto it for a long moment, then another before letting his shoulders drop and stepping towards you, resting a hand on your arm.
“I can’t do anything to bring back Jason,” he said, squeezing gently. “But I can make sure we don’t lose you again.”
A knot formed at the base of your throat. You did your best to speak around it. “I’m doing fine on my—”
“Please, kitty,” he cut in. “You promised to let us take care of you.” And then, letting his hand slip from your bicep to the curve of your stomach, “Besides, you’re not exactly on your own anymore, are you?”
You swallowed dryly. “I can’t promise I’ll stay.”
Dick’s smile was too quick, too wide. “That’s alright. Just stick around for the next few months. Until the baby’s here.”
“Just until the baby’s here.”
By the time you got back to their apartment, Barbara had set up the guest room. She pulled you down to her height for a lung-flattening hug as soon as you stepped through the door, the few possessions you had worth keeping in a duffle bag on your shoulder. Dick stood behind you all the while, his smile bright enough to blind.
~
Living with Dick and Barbara was, admittedly, comfortable. You perched on their marble counters while Dick cooked and argued with Barbara about reality dating shows. You went shopping in a real, honest-to-God grocery store and didn’t mug anyone in the parking lot on your way out. One night, about five months in, you fell asleep on the couch while Dick was at work and Barbara was in her clocktower, and woke up in Dick’s arms as he carried you to the master bedroom. The next morning, you woke up tucked between the two of them, safer and happier than you’d ever been before.
At seven months, you were no better than a spoiled housewife. It felt like your stomach was ten times the size of the rest of you. It’d been weeks since you’d last cooked, cleaned, stole, or done anything remotely productive. On a particularly hospitable Gotham evening, half out of boredom and half out of domestic delirium, you decided to visit Barbara’s favorite coffee shop and waddle down to the clocktower to surprise her. Dick was working late that night, so there was no one home to talk you out of it. Had there been, you might have been able to save yourself a lifetime’s worth of devastation.
You arrived about an hour or so after sunset, carrying a tray of four black coffees with three shots of espresso each. Her workroom was a testament to the Bat Clan’s paranoia. Monitors formed grids of static and surveillance footage across three out of four walls. A holographic map of Gotham was projected into the center of the room, color-coordinated dots of light tracking the active vigilantes in the area and their movements — whether or not they knew they were under Bruce’s management. Barbara sat in front of one of two dozen keyboards, glaring at a black screen filled with incomprehensible code. Her headset was pulled down to her neck, but you could hear voices buzzing faintly on the other side. She nodded by way of greeting as you stepped out of the elevator, gesturing to a relatively empty patch of desk next to her. You did as you were told and leaned onto the back of her chair. “Slow night?”
“It’s not about to be.” She sighed, leaning back. “There’s an arms shipment coming into the port in a couple hours. Tim thinks he can handle it alone, but Damian—”
You chuckled. She pursed her lips.
“And you aren’t taking this seriously.”
“It’s not that,” you assured her. “I just can’t wait to be out there again. I haven’t done a backflip in, like, three months.”
Her frown deepened. “That number should really be—”
“An eternity, Babs.” You sighed dramatically, bowing your head low. “It’s too bad. I was thinking about staying in town for a little while after the baby’s taken care of, but B probably won’t even want the help. Not when I’m so out of practice.”
She grinned. “You’re already thinking about how to leave us?”
“Oh, absolutely. You should tell your kid that I went out for cigarettes and never came back. It’ll be kinder than the truth — that I died trying to jump between rooftops three days post-natal.”
Barbara threw her head back as she laughed, and you were abruptly aware of just how close her face was to yours. If the proximity made her uncomfortable, the way her smile widened as she stared up at you did very little to communicate it. “You don’t have to make excuses, you know,” she said, reaching up and tracing a thumb over your cheek. “You could just stay.”
You hummed. “And what? Live in your guestroom for the rest of my life?”
Something moved across Barbara’s expression — not amusement, but close. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
You opened your mouth to ask what she meant, but it was already too late. Barbara tugged you down another inch, pressing her lips softly against yours. You froze on reflex, but this wasn’t anything like Dick drunkenly shoving his tongue in your mouth, wasn’t at all like the way either of them had touched that night. She was being gentle. She was being loving.
It almost hurt more.
The moment was mercifully cut short. Something chimed on one of her many screens and Barbara pulled away, sending you an apologetic smile as she pulled on her headset and began to bark orders. Wasps stung the inside of your stomach, their wings beating against the inside of your throat. She loved you. Dick loved you. That was all you’d ever wanted. You were a part of their family and they loved you.
Why, then, did it feel so wrong?
In a daze, you retreated back to the elevator. On your way, you passed a monitor unlike the others — set to a passcode rather than left blank or idle. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You tapped Dick’s birthday into the nearest keyboard, only half-expecting it to work, and when that failed, another date. The day the three of you met. You used to celebrate it annually with gas station ice cream, then later on, cheap drinks at whatever dive bar was open late enough to hit up after patrol. To your surprise, the code was accepted and the monitor flickered to life. After a moment of squinting at the grainy security camera feed, you realized you were looking at Dick.
Except, that wasn’t right.
You were looking at Nightwing.
He was in an alleyway, his suit torn. Several unmoving bodies littered the ground around him. He was bleeding, but that wasn’t the part you were worried about. You’d been told that he was at his office. You’d been told that Nightwing had retired.
Come to think of it, you’d been told that they were both retiring. Another glance towards Barbara, as deep into the Oracle as she’d ever been, was enough to prove that on its own.
The inside of your mouth was abruptly dry. The parasite in your stomach suddenly felt a great deal heavier than it had before.
You hauled yourself into the elevator without saying goodbye to Barbara. Panic formed a thick fog over your mind, blurring your vision and softening the edges of your conscious thoughts. A single, desperate idea clawed its way to the surface, rooting itself at the forefront of your mind. Try as you might, you couldn’t seem to stamp it back down.
You needed to get to Wayne Manor.
~
Your initial plan was to vault the wrought-iron gate, scale the west-facing side of the main house, and let yourself in through a balcony door on the third floor. After realizing Bruce’s security measures might’ve changed in the past ten years, you briefly entertained the idea of tracking down one of the tunnels littered across Gotham and hiking back to the Bat Cave on foot. Finally, you looked down at your incredibly pregnant body, bit the bullet, and called Selina.
Half an hour later, you were in the passenger seat of her violently red convertible, watching the lights of Gotham fade as the distant specter that was Wayne Manor grew ever-taller. Beyond the initial pleasantries, you both had yet to speak. It wasn’t until you were out of the city that she looked at you and sighed.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, her lips pursed in the smallest possible pout. She looked older, but not by much. It was hard to imagine Selina as anything other than what she was — selfish, sharp and beautiful. It was hard to imagine anything in Gotham ever changing, no matter how much time you spent away. “What have they done to you?”
You sank into the leather of your seat. “I’m just the surrogate.”
“The acrobat and the ginger?”
You nodded. She clicked her tongue. '
“Those two were always so clingy. Don’t you remember how many times I told you to make better friends?”
“I remember you ditching me mid-heist to seduce their father.”
“Oh, no, I forgot that they’re practically siblings. No wonder adoption was off the table.” She batted her hand against the wheel in mock-frustration. Another time, you might’ve laughed. Now, you only bit your cheek and glared into your lap.
Selina, for all of her many flaws, was not one to rub salt in the wound. Her shoulders fell, her voice taking on a more somber note as she went on. “I didn’t raise you to sulk.”
“You didn’t raise me at all.”
“Now you’re just being hurtful.”
“I think I’m being lied to,” you admitted, finally. “They keep talking about— about what it’d be like if I stayed. I just don’t know if that’s what I want.”
Her answer came automatically. “Then leave.”
“I want to, but I just—” You broke off, shaking your head. “I couldn’t do that to them. Not after Jason.”
Selina cocked her head to the side. The manor’s gates came into view. They opened automatically while you were still a mile away. She didn’t even have to slow down.
You watched the tangled gardens of your childhood drift past. Too quickly, you arrived at the end of the driveway — a flight of white marble steps looming cold and callous in front of you. Selina held her tongue as you fumbled with the handle and hauled yourself onto your feet. She only bothered to say anything once you were out of the car and no longer her problem.
“East wing, third story, first bedroom on the left,” she dictated. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, kitten.”
You couldn’t be sure what she meant, but her tone was warm, affectionate. You found yourself smiling despite yourself. “I always do, thanks to you.”
She spared you a glance, a barely-there smile, then peeled off — disappearing in a cloud of dust and diesel. You were still beating the gravel out of your coat when you made it to the top of the steps and, against your better judgment, rang the bell.
The door swung open in less than a full minute. Bruce Wayne stood on the threshold, dark eyes wide and mouth open. He blinked at you several times, then seemed to recover. “(Y/n),” he managed, clearing his throat and stepping aside. “Please, come in.”
You did as you were told — following him silently down the long, narrow entryway. The manor was just as you remembered it, all bare stone and cathedral ceilings and strange, ebbing shadows. As a child, you’d been in awe of it, still too happy to be anywhere but Selina’s crowded apartment to mind the cobwebs. As a teenager, you’d found it mysterious. Romantic, even. The perfect place to spend your downtime whispering secrets into Barbara’s ear or hiding from Dick in the rafters. Now, it was hard to feel anything but caged-in.
Eventually, you reached the parlor where you had spent more hours than you could possibly count playing terrible board games and stitching up wounds and watching Dick and Barbara do their homework, pretending all the while that you were grateful not to have the obligation. Bruce helped you into an overly plush lounge, then retreated to an armchair on the other side of the room, never one to hover over what he would rather keep at arm’s length.
Once settled, you spared a glance in either direction. Bruce nodded sympathetically.
“Alfred passed last year. Natural causes,” he tacked on, because you were both unfortunate people who led unfortunate lives. And then, more delicately, “I didn’t expect to see you.”
You paid him your best sheepish smile. “Why’s that, Mr. Wayne?”
It seemed to catch him off-guard — being asked so directly. But Bruce wasn’t the type to lie, not in his own home, not to the woman pregnant with his son’s child. “Dick let me know early on that you wouldn’t feel comfortable at the estate. Of course, I asked him to make it clear that you were always welcome here, but—” He laughed, shrugged. “Admittedly, I wasn’t ecstatic to find out that you’d taken up Selina’s line of business. I suppose it would be hypocritical to get all high and mighty about a little petty theft at this point, though.”
So Dick and Barbara had known you were still stealing. Early enough to warn Bruce away before he could reach out, at that.
“He’s been a little sensitive. They both have.” You rested a hand modestly over your bump. “It’s restlessness, I think. Now that he’s given up the mantle and all.”
Now, there was a lapse. Not a long one — half a second at most — but long enough. You could see him doing the math, weighing the options, before finally coming to the sum you knew he would. “Of course,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “The restlessness. Gotham needs protection, but I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go.”
Right. Because Bruce Wayne would never lie to the woman pregnant with his son’s child.
Not unless he was doing it to help his son.
You opened your mouth as if about to speak, then closed it again, letting your expression fall as your head lolled forward. Bruce was at your side in a moment — a calloused hand on your back and the other braced against the arm of your chair. You rallied with a ragged inhale, waving him off. “I’m sorry, it’s the dizzy spells — They’ve been getting worse, lately.”
Panic flashed across his expression — there and then gone in the space between seconds. Of course. You were the vessel carrying his grandchild. Had that not been the case, he likely would’ve watched you collapse and left you there to suffer. As a lesson in discipline, if not merely out of petty spite.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, instead. Like you knew he would.
You smiled softly, feigning bashfulness, before wincing, shutting your eyes, and performing surrender. “Water, please,” you mumbled. “If that’s alright.”
There were a few words of muttered assurance, and then he was off — disappearing into the endless halls of his labyrinthine home. You waited five more excruciating seconds, then pushed yourself out of your seat and started for the east wing.
You followed Selina’s directions like your own misplaced north star. Up four flights of stairs and down the third hall. Recognition sparked as you made your way through the manor — slowly, then all at once. Even before you reached the first room on the left, you recognized the furniture, the carpeting, the tear in the wallpaper where you and Dick had once gotten too confident while juggling pocket knives. You knew where you were going.
Jason’s room.
Anger overshadowed horror. Why was she doing this to you? You knew what you would find — a shine, a tomb, the remnants of a boy who had been dead longer than he’d ever been alive. Or worse, there might be nothing at all. Four blank walls and a bed Jason had never slept in. Emptiness where Bruce’s resolve hadn’t left room for grief. Your chest was tight by the time you reached the door, your vision fogged with tears as you took up the handle. With the last of your loyalty to Selina, the last of your love for Dick and Barbara, the last of your patience with Gotham, you took a deep breath and shoved inward, stumbling across the threshold and finding—
Finding Jason.
All the warmth, all the fight left you at once. Jason — except, this wasn’t your Jason. This was a grown man, mid-to-late twenties, more scars than not. His bare chest was covered with bandages, and he sprawled across not the Wonder Woman-themed twin cot of your memories or the white-sheeted placeholder of your nightmares, but some terrible, unknown middle-ground. There was a shock of white in his dark hair, and his nose looked as if it had been broken, healed, and broken again. Still, reality was undeniable. You were looking at Jason Todd, all grown up and very much alive.
He must’ve heard your footsteps. He was propped on his side, facing the door, his jagged features contorted in horror and disbelief and so, so much pain. You could only assume that you were mirroring the same expression back at him.
There was a long beat of silence, then another. Somehow, he was the one to break it — his voice deeper but agonizingly familiar. “(Y/n).”
“Jason,” you echoed back. “Shit, man. You’re alive.”
He coughed out a laugh. “And you’re—” His eyes slid from your face to your stomach, and any levity there might’ve been drained out of his tone. “Jesus Christ. They actually fucking did it.”
Your heart dropped. You opened your mouth, started to ask what he meant by that, what everyone except you seemed to know, but his eyes widened and a second too late, you heard those padded footsteps, remembered just how many security cameras Bruce kept in every corner of his home. You lurched forward, but a hand caught the collar of your jacket and hauled you back against a broad chest. There was a flash of silver in your peripheral, a prick to the curve of your throat, and then you were gone.
~
You woke up to Dick’s mouth on your chest and a bluebird mobile spinning slowly above your head.
Somehow, in your confused state, the latter seemed like more of a concern. You couldn’t seem to turn your head, but you could make out the baby blue walls of the nursery — the room you deliberately hadn’t stepped foot in since starting to show. Stuffed birds and plush bats filled the empty crib in the far corner. A rug you didn’t recognize dominated most of the floor space — toting a pattern of black cats chasing balls of yarn in a series of concentric rings. It was that last part that turned your stomach — the break in motif, the implication that you had anything to do with this. That you were anything more than the host of an obligation you would abandon as soon as it no longer needed you.
…as if you could really do that. With your luck, Dick and Barbara would be as good of parents as they were older siblings. In another decade, you’d still be in Gotham and there’d be a new Jason to—
Jason.
The thought of him was sobering. Slowly, you started to come back to yourself. You were on a bed, which was strange because you couldn’t think of a single reason why a nursery would need a bed, or why that bed would have a pair of handcuffs draped neatly over its headboard. Dick was behind you, holding your body in his lap, his head bowed to better latch onto your nipple while his free hand massaged your other breast. He’d hauled your shirt up to your neck and shoved your bra down below your tits, clearly prioritizing efficiency over elegance. You could feel something shifting inside of you — not lactation, it was too early for that, but not far from it, either. The same pressure, the same rhythm, the same suction. He was trying to nurse.
Barbara, at least, had a little more dignity in her perversion. She was lying on her side next to you, her face half-hidden in a mess of red curls as her hand skirted over the curve of your distended stomach. Her palm pressed against the taut skin above your naval, a smile spreading across her lips. “I felt a kick,” she whispered, looking toward Dick. “She gets that from you. Probably won’t sit still a day in her life.”
You felt Dick’s grin bite into your chest, then the reverberation of his voice as he spoke into your skin. “Me or kitty.”
“Or both.” Her hand drew back. Through your eyelashes, you saw her check her watch, then heard a sigh. “Elevated heartrate. Abnormal breathing pattern. You awake, sleeping beauty?”
You didn’t move. You didn’t want to move. You didn’t want any of this. But then Dick was pulling away and nestling into the side of your neck, his hand drifting from your chest to your stomach to the space between you—
You jerked away, gasping. The inside of your lungs suddenly felt solid, as if you were trying to suck air into a concrete block. You might’ve scrambled off the bed and found some tight, dark space to hide in had it not been for the strong arm barred across your midriff, the lead weight that was Dick’s body underneath yours. He groaned as you writhed on top of him. Barbara clicked her tongue, reaching past you and flicking Dick’s forehead. “Give it an hour, at least. The poor thing’s still in shock.”
“But she’s so sweet like this,” he whined, rolling his hips against your ass. You could feel his cock pressing into, already hard. Shockingly, the sudden awareness did little to calm your panic, not that Dick seemed to care. “You didn’t see her in the manor. She was so cute — storming around, sulking like she used to when we caught her cheating at hide n’ seek. She even lied to Bruce. I didn’t know she knew how to do that!”
“You don’t think he actually bought it, do you?”
“Hell if I know. Alfred always used to—” You felt him tense. “Hey, what if we named the baby—”
“Stay focused.” Barbara sat up, propping herself on her elbows and coming to sit at eye-level with you. You tried to look away, but she brought a hand to your chin, gently easing you back in her direction. As always, you melted into her palm in an instant. “I’m sure you have questions,” she started, slowly, as if talking to a very young and very poorly behaved child. “This wasn’t how I thought we would have to do—”
“How long?”
Your voice was hoarse, frail. Barbara’s smile broadened. “More specific, please.”
“How long have you known that Jason was alive?”
“Oh.” She seemed unimpressed. “He came back six years ago. We’ve known it was him for five.”
Five years. The timeline was sickening. You’d been letting guilt over nothing eat you alive for half a decade when a phone call, a text, god-forbid a visit could’ve put an end to your self-inflicted penance. Your devastation must’ve shown through. Dick cooed, rubbing his cheek against the crown of your head. “Don’t be mad, kitty. If you’d known, you wouldn’t have felt so bad for us. You wouldn’t have come back.” He paused, laughed. “And you definitely wouldn’t have let us knock you up.”
“That’s not—”
“—fair?” Barbara finished. She let out a breath of a laugh, leaning towards and pecking your lips. You felt Dick’s cock twitch against your ass. “We didn’t have another choice, baby. We had to bring you home.”
“I would’ve come—”
“For a while, maybe.” She was barely listening to you. Her eyes fell to your exposed chest, to the way her husband’s saliva glistened on your skin. “But you would’ve left again. Found an excuse, caught a bus, moved onto another town where you could rob museums and steal jewelry from single mothers. We had to wait a little longer, sure, but—” Her gaze settled on your stomach. You braced yourself for another platitude on family, on how much she and Dick both loved you — even it could never be the same way they love one another. Somehow, what actually made it off of her tongue was so, so much worse.
“It’s better this way. You were never really going to make it on your own.”
Dick’s head lulled forward, his cheek pressing into your temple. He let out a long, pitchy whine, only partially muffled by his closeness. “You’re killing me here, Babs.”
She sighed. “Can you believe what I have to do with?” The question was directed to you, but clearly rhetorical. Even had it not been, your only answer was a wide-eyed look, a pleasing shake of your head. Barbara drank down your panic, then shot Dick a brilliant smile. “Be gentle. And keep her off her stomach.”
You felt him pout into your scalp. “I’m not stupid.”
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
“You’re both insane.” Whatever sense of defeated resignation you might’ve been overwhelmed by was immediately replaced with raw, jagged panic. You dug your nails into Dick’s forearm, thrashed your legs in a clumsy effort to kick Barbara away, but his arm was an iron bar across your torso and all she did was laugh — placing her hand on your knee and pinning you down with as much effort as she might’ve used to swat a fly or brush the hair out of her eyes.
Any other time, you would’ve been able to think of a million ways to escape. Any other time, you would’ve driven your heel into her nose, twisted around, and scratched his eyes out. Any other time, you wouldn’t have let yourself fall into this trap at all, but you were so groggy and so fucking pregnant and so scared of the lunatics that you used to think of as friends that it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut and choke back a mangled sob as Dick lifted you just high enough to turn you in his lap and slot your hips against his. Barbara was behind you in a moment, a pair of toned arms wrapping around your midsection as her forehead came to rest against the nape of your neck. Like her husband, her hand gravitated to your chest on instinct, cupping and groping at your swollen breasts. Enjoying the fruits of her labor.
Dick’s satisfaction was not so meditative. He grinned up at you, messy hair partially obscuring his bright, burning eyes. You realized with a wave of revulsion that he was still wearing his Nightwing suit — or most of it, at least. The mask and gloves had been removed, the upper half unzipped and allowed to pool around his waist. Dick and Barbara’s betrayal, you could process. Nightwing and Oracle’s, Robin and Batgirl’s — that was more difficult to grapple with.
But it was happening. He ground into you once, twice before freeing his cock, already stiff and leaking underneath layers of Kevlar and vinyl. Barbara took care of your skirt — dragging it up and out of the way before slipping a hand into your panties. Her clever fingers rubbed quick, repetitive circles into your clit until your self-control lapsed and your hips jutted into her hand. She let out a breath of a laugh and drifted, dipping lower to drag the seat of your panties to the side. Immediately, Dick was there, dragging the fat head of his cock over the length of your slit, smearing arousal over your entrance. Even now, you couldn’t help but admire how fluidly they worked together. You’d always assumed that you were the odd one out, the unnecessary competent, the self-aware third wheel to their otherwise claustrophobic relationship. Now, it seemed glaringly obvious that they’d never mistaken you for a part of their double act at all. The only reason Barbara and Dick had ever kept you around was to fill the role of victim.
And yet, Dick was cruel enough to look at you like something more precious than a scared, bloodied thing they’d found in an alleyway and decided to take home. He held your stare as he thrust into you — moving slowly, drawing it out for seconds longer than it would’ve been kind to. Once again, your body betrayed you. The combination of your wrecked hormones and the sudden overdose of smothering affection had left you wet and malleable, too needy not to welcome their abuse. Warmth you didn’t want flooded your system, pooling in your core and eating away at the inside of your throat like acid. The only mercy was that you were already too far gone to moan.
Dick wasn’t suffering from the same malady, though. He let his head roll back, groaning as he bottomed out inside of you. The wrongness — of seeing him this way, of hearing him make that kind of noise, of finding yourself in this situation at all — was sickening, but your disgust alone wasn’t enough to stop it. There was a moment of stillness, and then Barbara’s hands were cupping his on your waist. It was less an attempt to guide you and more a feat of puppeteering. Your body was unable, your spirit was unwilling, but for all that you lacked, she was there to make up for it. She pressed open-mouthed kisses into your neck as she bounced you on Dick’s cock, muttering nearly incoherent praise every time some small, pathetic noise slipped past the veil of your dissociation. When she bothered to speak out loud, it was to him. Of course. As if you would be worth the effort.
“Maybe we should retire,” she said, nipping at the tender flesh above your jugular. “Imagine spending every day of the rest of our lives like this.”
Dick laughed. “‘d be easier for you than for me. The way it feels to be inside of her— I can’t even—” His voice broke off. His eyes never left you. “Promise, Babs. At least for a few months. At least until the baby gets here.”
You could feel her hesitation. She stilled for a second, but no longer. There was a shallow sigh, a loose smile pressing into your skin. Acquiescence and fond exasperation. This was not a new request. “Of course,” she whispered. And then, squeezing your hip, “We have a new housecat to train.”
Her voice was low, the words barely audible, but Dick moaned and bucked into you. He bit down hard on his lower lip, then reached up and dragged you towards him. Flush against you, he came hard, filling you to bursting. Barbara’s hand fell back to your clit, forcing you to the same end seconds later. There was a blissful moment of detachment, exhaustion and over-stimulation blending together to form a perfectly thoughtless climax, but it was only a moment. When you recovered, you found yourself still trapped between them just as inescapably as you’d been before.
Even in your own mind, your voice was despondent — far away and badly faded. “After the baby comes,” you started. Barbara all-but purred behind you. “Do I get to leave?”
Barbara cooed, but Dick answered. “Oh, kitty,” he sighed, the pity in his voice thick enough to choke.
summary: breaking up with your boyfriend is one thing, but his ego’s another, leave him now and you’ll suffer forever.
content warnings: 18+, smut (p in v), just straight porn and no plot, rough sex, breeding, peter baby traps you, cursing, ooc peter( he’s kinda, what, mean here? ), my grammar.
notes: YO, i just saw a person’s post abt peter baby trapping, this is kind of inspired by that anonymous post, omfg, i hope this goes well, i’m not pretty good at writing smut. guys, i’m REALLY sorry if this fic is like, not that great, i don’t usually write smut, and i try my best, really.
═════════════════════════
“Ah! Shit… Peter, fuck!”
Loud sounds of skin against skin are echoing inside of the room as Peter held you down on a open missionary, his hands pinning your knees against the mattress as he pistons his hips against your pelvis.
You were beginning to whine as Peter kept his punishing pace, his eyes stuck to your entrance where the both of you meet, he let out a guttural moan as he leaned down to press kisses on your neck.
“Hah… ah!”
Peter lets go of your knees, reaching over to lock his arms around your head, he now sucks on the side of your neck, which results to you clenching around him.
“You’re really sensitive here, love.” He muttered against your skin as he pressed his lips against your soft spot, gasping out from pleasure, your hands tighten against his hair, holding the back of his head.
“And here,” He nips at your collarbone, you let out a small whine, “Peter…” His thrusts soon slowed as he pecked around your body, knowing where each of your soft, sensitive spots were.
“Really, I still have some work to finish, we aren’t supposed to be doing this when I was breaking up with you twenty minutes ago.” You huff as he now looks up at you, his mouth closed around your nipple.
His eyes almost darkened before he delivered a sharp thrust, gasping out a moan, clenching around his length again, placing a hand on his bicep— you slap it.
“Peter!”
Peter nuzzled his face in your neck as his pace was beginning to increase faster, holding onto him, you were a whining mess, Peter was never this rough in bed, except times when you piss him off, and he was definitely pissed off about this one.
“Leaving me? For what, love? I didn’t do anything, did I?”
He leaned to kiss your cheek, while you had your eyes closed tightly, mouth forming an O.
“You’re just…” Your voice falters from Peter’s restless pace, you moan out while he nips at your jaw.
“Agh… too busy with— shit! Everything.” Struggling to form words from the way he delivers his thrusts and the way he touches you.
“You were leaving me because I spend half my time at the station? Thought we had this conversation before, love.” Peter spoke lowly as he delivered another hard thrust.
You cry out his name once more, hands scrambling to hold onto something. You were close, Peter could feel that, “P-pete… hah, close… close—!”
His hips stopped moving.
You snap your eyes open to stare at him, is he serious?
Peter only grins down at you, before he went on to angle his hips, giving shallow thrusts as if his dick was measuring, no—reaching for something in you.
You let out soft whimpers, “Uhn… what the fuck are you doing—”
He hit it, that spot. He always liked how you squeeze down tight on him when he finds it, you go dazed because of how overstimulating it feels, because when Peter finds that spot in you, he doesn’t stop until he’s nearly cumming.
“Fuck— fuck! Peter, wait!” You mewl, holding onto his bicep as he sped up his pace again, his eyes stuck to where you two meet, where his cock disappears in you.
Takes a few minutes of you moaning and squeezing him until he finally leans down to you, “I’ll get you full with my cum that you won’t need to feel the need to leave me, baby.”
“Imagine little Peters and yous running around the house, wouldn’t that feel so good?” He grins at you, talking about the possible future as if he wasn’t balls deep and digging his way into your womb.
“Peterrrr… fuck, yes!” You’re going crazy, little ah ah ahs escaping your mouth as he drills his cock into you, with more force this time that you feel every inch of him, every vein his cock has.
“You want that, baby?” He leaned forward, nipping at your shoulder, “M’not ready for that… please, Peter—”
“F’course not, baby, not now, yeah?” He reassures, reaching down to rub at your clit, which makes you jolt even more, crying out his name.
“Hah… shit, I’m cumming.” He kisses your cheek, quickening his thrusts as if it was even more possible with how fast he’s moving.
You let out a loud cry, finally reaching your climax as Peter continued his pace, your body shook hard, Peter held you tight.
Not long before Peter buried himself to the hilt, you gasp, feeling how deep he was in you, still holding onto his biceps as your nails dig on them, crescents shaped on his skin from how hard you’re holding him.
Feeling the hot spurts of his cum made you weakly look up at him with confusion, “Pete? …Didn’t you put a condom earlier?”
Summary: Your marriage to your much older husband has faired far better than you ever thought it would. Though, sometimes you wish there was less...cleaning involved
Pairings: Hyperspermia!Baelor Targaryen x Reader
Warnings/Tags: Unspecified age gap (big and girthy), smut (light spit kink)
Word Count: 2.1K
Notes: blame eve and the brainworms for this
Prince Baelor was hesitant to remarry. In fact, he was perfectly content to be on his own after his wife's passing. He already had an heir, there was no rush. But then your father had offered your hand and when he'd laid eyes on you he couldn't refuse.
Your inital fears had vanished soon after your wedding. He was older, yes, but he was kind. Stories of cruel kings becoming crueler husbands were common to to noble born girls. Hushed lessons taught by worried mothers in an attempt to save their daughters from a shared fate.
Your wedding day was full of nerves, stomach turning as your maid from childhood dressed you for the last time. You were conscious of each footstep down the aisle, desperately trying to make your way to the alter without fumbling on your dress or your own two feet. Everything had occurred exactly how you imagined it.
Your wedding night? That was completely different that you had been told. Your mother had sat you down the night before and told you everything to expect. She also reiterated that it would hurt, but it was important to smile while you performed your wifely duties. You were not to make too much noise, not to move unless he instructed and to be patient until it was over. Your heart hammered in your chest as Baelor undressed you,
But after your down had slipped to the floor, he'd kissed your shoulder and lain you on the bed. Your whole body stiffened as he spread your legs. But instead of the head of his….member stretching you open his fingers gently pressed into the sensitive skin of your thighs, holding you open as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive bud between your legs. You could feel his smirk against your skin as his tongue ravished your body.
When he did finally push into your entrance, you were pleasantly surprised that it actually felt good instead of the searing pain your mother described. You body was pleasantly loose from Baelor's earlier actions, which helped your body accomodate him.
And after you'd gotten a taste of this new activity, it was hard for Baelor to deny you. There was just one problem-
"Lady Dyanna," your sister in law turns to you as you call out for her. The two of you are enjoying your tea on the balcony overlooking Kings Landing, "Because of my union to Baelor we are now sisters, correct."
"Yes, princess."
"May I ask you a question then? One that may be considered too…vulgar for me to ask another," your face warms.
An amused smile unfolds on her face, "Of course, princess. Though it was a while was many moons ago, I remeber what it was like to be newly married to the son of a king. What plagues your mind?"
"When you are finshed with your relations," you look at the foor unable to meet her eye, "How are you meant to deal with the mess afterwards."
Dyanna chuckles, "A simple cloth will suffice. You may ask your maids to warm the water as well. It well help soothe the ache that sometimes occurs. Though you want to be careful not to wipe away too much or you may be preventing the future heir from settling in your womb."
"This I know," you pause, unsure of how to say your true intention, "I mean moreso - when you are walking around afterwards. How do you manage the…leaking."
The older woman tilts her head, confused, "Well I remain in bed for the rest of the night so that is not as much of an issue."
"You've never had morning relations?"
"Not never," she says, a bit nostalgic as she thinks back to her youth, "Though I can't say I recall not being able to solve that issue with a cloth before I left my chambers."
"W-well I do," you sputter, "But sometimes it's quite a lot and it's uncomfortable when I walk. Especially if we've also had relations the evening before as well-"
"Relations in the evening and the morning? I didn't realize Baelor was quite so ravenous."
"It's not always him who initiates," you murmur, stirring your spoon in your tea, "In fact it's usually not him who initiates."
Dyanna laughs, "Oh, how I miss my youth. Though, I do not blame you. They are a handsome set of brothers are they not?"
Baelor has been busy this past week. He doesn't call you into your chambers until early the next morning. He's sitting at the desk in his room when you arrive. He smiles at you when the squeak of the door on its hinges announces your prescence.
"My prince," you say in greeting.
"My love, I am sorry to wake you so early. I missed your presence while I was away," he beckons you over with one hand as he stands, silver rings glinting in the light, "Did you sleep well?"
Your body follows easily, drawn to him. You shake your head as you fall into his embrace, "My chambers are far too cold without the blood of a dragon near."
"My apologies, my princess," he chuckles tipping your head up, and gently pressing his lips to yours, "The hunt lasted longer than inteded, but I am rested now."
His hands grip your waist firmly to pull you closer before reaching back to peel you out of your night clothes. You hesitate, stepping back.
"My lord, perhaps we should wait until this evening for those activities."
"What's wrong, my love?" he frowns, emphasizing the lines between his brows that you adore.
"Nothing," you shake your head, "I may have embarassed myself during my meeting with Dyanna and I need time to heal my pride, my lord."
"What happened?"
Your face warms, "I'm not sure I should discuss these matters with you."
"I am your husband, and the prince of the realms, you can discuss anything with me, my love," he tucks a stray curl behind your ear.
You sigh, "I had a question for her about…relations and now I fear she may believe me to be too enamoured with it."
Baelor chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling you along with him.
"You are aware that Dyanna and Maekar have six children. There is nothing we are doing that they haven't done already."
"I know that," you say with a groan, buried your face in your husbands neck, "You should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her of my problem.
Your husband tilts his head, "Problem? You did not speak to me of any problems. Pray tell, I have not been hurting you have I?"
"No, no," you shake your head, reassuring him, "I have no complaints of our relations itself, husband. It's afterwards that I am sometimes I encounter a nuisance is all."
"I see," he nods, "Care to elaborate on this nuisance?"
You avert your gaze to the wall behind him, "It doesn't concern you, husband."
He smiles, "If it concerns my queen, then it concerns me."
"After we finish," you sigh, "Sometimes when I walk about the castle, I can feel you dripping down my leg. I simply asked Dyanna what she does, but it seems as though she does not have this same issue."
Your husband nods. He's had his suspicions about his condition. He may be king but he has taken part in his share of celebrations after a particularly well won tournament.More than a few of his past acquiantences have brought this very same topic to his attention before.
"My love, I believe I have a solution to your nuisance."
He stands to undo his robes. You lean back on your elbows watching his clothes fall to the floor. You bite your lip in anticipation, pulling his body on top of yours.
Your legs fall open for your husnband, your mouths moving languidly against each other as he his fingers reach the coarse hairs at the apex of your thighs. You sigh when his long fingers skim across your folds, diping into your entrance to spread your slick. He teases your sensitive bud with a light touch.
"Baelor," you whine which makes your husband smile as he kisses your neck, "Do not make me wait."
"I thought you were prepared to wait until nightfall, my love," the heel of his hand stays pushed up against that spot that drives you mad while his fingers slip inside you.
"Changed my mind," you pant, pulling him closer you you, "You would keep your wife waiting, my lord?"
"Never, my love."
Your back arches off the bed as Baelor pushes into you. He grips your leg, hooking it over his shoulder as your hips meet. His nose nuzzles along your jaw making his beard hairs tickle your neck.
"How's that feel, my love?" he murmurs planting a kiss on your collar bone.
"G-gods, Baelor," you groan, "So good."
He moves slowly, watching the way your face contorts in pleasure as he drags his cock inside you. His hand slips between your bodies to slow circles that drive make you moan.
He knows your body well, works it like like an instrument tuntil you're clawing at his back and shouting his name. He manages to stave of his own release but only for a few moments, just enough to drive into you once more filling you to the brim.
Though he tried his best, some of spend starts to leak out of you once more.
"Shh, my love," he coos, as he stands, trying to doge your attempt to keep him close, "I'm not going anywhere."
He sinks to the floor, grateful for the rug cushioning his aging knees. He wraps his arms around your legs, tugging you towards him.
"Baelor!" you gasp out, "What are you-"
"Why do you act as though I have not done this before," he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your mound, "This is my favourite place to be while unwind at the end of the day."
"But you've already...finished."
"I am quite aware, darling, worry not about me."
He spreads your legs apart, groaning at the sight of his seed leaking out of you.
"Wish you could see how we look together, my princess," he teases, leaning forward kiss your inner thigh, "Perhaps we should move the mirror to the bedroom."
He doesn't wait for your response, too entranced by the sight of you. He licks broadly, moaning at the taste your joined mess. You squirm in his arms, still sensitive from your release. He chuckles, digging his fingers into your thighs, holding you in place.
"We're divine together my love," he groans, licking at your entrance, "Want a taste?"
He meets your eye, grinning when you nod hesitantly at his words. He uses his tongue to scrape at your walls, collecting your shared juices with an obscene slurp and gently holding your ankle in the air to keep you from kicking his head.
He crawls up the bed to where you await with wide eyes, anticipating his neck move. He holds your head in place and forces your jaw open his thumb.
You don't even flinch when he spits into your mouth. You close your eyes, licking your lips with a moan when you swallow.
You're summoned into the Princes chamber later that night once more. Baelor is already in his bedclothes atop of the covers. You rush over, settling yourself on his lap.
"How was your day, my prince," you greet with a smile, running your fingers through his hair.
He preens, "Much better now that you're here, my love. How was yours?"
"Much better now that you're here," you laugh, repeating his words.
"And tell me, how was my solution to your nuisance today?" he chuckles. His hands start to lift your night dress, exposing more of your tanned skin.
"It worked," you smile, toying with the hem of his shirt, "Though I must admit I missed the reminder of you."
"Oh?" he quirks a brow, "How so?"
"I felt…" you pause, tilting your head trying to think of the right word, "empty today."
"Empty,?" Baelor repeats. You giggle, feeling the start of his interest poke you in the thigh.
You nod, "I missed the feel of my prince leaking down my leg during the day. Though I did enjoy what we did this morning-oh!"
Your yelp turns into a moan when Baelor flips you over and your back hits the mattress.
"Careful now," his voice is husky in your ear, "keep speaking like that and I'll have no choice but to put another heir in you, princess."
Imagine you're dating Dick Grayson and you haven't seen him for a few days. Texts go unread, calls are straight to voice mail. You even go so far to call Bruce one day but he hasn't seen him either. That night you decide to go out to get him off your mind. But alas on your way home from the club you're mugged, but saved but none other than blüdhaven's own Nightwing. That's how you ended up here. Your pants along with the panties you had been wearing pushed down to your ankles, Nightwing has you pushed against the alley wall, balls deep in you. "Fuck baby." He moans out. It's too familiar but you can't place it quite. All you know is you love this dick and can't get enough. Is it really cheating if it's the hero of the city?
no because he does it on purpose. makes u drink water alll day, eats you out for over an hour too. he keeps you in a mating press while he fucks you, absolutely bruising your cervix. you've been whining and creaming around him and it's just not enough "c'mon baby... give me what i want and then you get a break" he laughs when you shake your head, voice breaking a little, "i cant!" and he sounds like he's genuinely being motivational "oh sure you can baby... c'mon" and he lifts your hips slightly, slamming against your g-spot over and over. sure, the whole compound can probably hear you, and you won't be able to walk tomorrow, but when you feel the wetness drenching the small space between you two and head jasons little "that's it... that's my fuckin' girl. make a mess f'me" over the fog of it all, it seems worth it.
Sum: There is a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and unfortunately, only one of those things is about to become your biggest problem.
Inspired by the Webtoon I Dare You and this little blurb.
Yandere! Dick Grayson x Reader // 5.4k
Warnings: Yandere, fem!reader, paranoid/unreliable reader, stalking, murder/corpse disposal, dead body in freezer, minor character death, memory loss/traumatic brain injury, medical abuse, forced medication, restraints, captivity themes, gaslighting, unhealthy relationships/hella toxic dynamics, corrupt police, abuse of power, blood, attempted violence, non-con touching, coercion, reader is definitely not okay, Dick is extremely not okay but we should all expect that, Dick is a cop, MDNI.
There’s a dead body in the freezer.
That is all you can think about as you stare at the dark-haired vigilante standing on the doorstep of your shabby apartment in downtown Blüdhaven. The hallway light flickers behind him as he stares down at you with startling blue eyes. His easy expression falters the moment he sees you, his gaze widening as though the past has opened the door wearing your face.
He is one of those masked bats. Birds. A hero from television who could take you away and lock you in a cold cell where the lights never turn off, and you have to pee in front of prison guards.
What if they have a piss fetish?
Okay so, there's a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and a very real possibility that your future involves forever-turned-on lights, communal toilets, and a prison guard with suspicious interests. School does not prepare you for situations like these.
You don't quite remember much of school, only that you passed enough classes to secure a nine-to-five and afford an apartment with electricity. Electricity keeps the freezer running. The freezer keeps the body cold. Until tonight, that has been enough to prevent situations like this.
The vigilante seems far more concerned about your well-being than whatever crimes might be waiting inside your apartment. He keeps trying to peer past you, tilting his pretty face toward the narrow gap you have left between the door and its rotting frame.
Your fingers blanch on the knob.
“Is anyone else home?” the vigilante asks. His tone is easy, almost careless, but his gaze keeps moving over your face. The way his eyes move makes you uneasy. Does he know? Is he going to take you to prison? Are you going to end up on death row?
“I was expecting somebody else.” He laughs softly, then adds on quickly, “Not that finding you instead is a bad thing. It’s just…” His eyes flick past your shoulder toward the apartment. “Could I come inside for a minute? I need to check something.”
The door is open exactly six inches. Any narrower is rude; any wider, he’ll see the kitchen. Then he might ask about the deep freezer.
You certainly don't care about a man dressed like a bum with a hero suit underneath: joggers, an unzipped jacket, and the dark blue bird stretched across his chest. He does seem familiar.
But everyone does when you lose your memory.
“It’s too late to let strangers in,” you say rather flatly. You wouldn’t want a bum like him in your apartment anyway. Dead body or not.
His brows pinch, disappointment sliding across that perfect face.
Wrong answer.
Adjust.
A practical thought clicks into place: if he sees the freezer, punishment follows. A pre-emptive correction would be simply killing him. But there is no physical room beside the meal prep. Shifting him to the fridge would evict five days of carefully portioned meals, and the power bill is already stripping your bank account. Spoiled food means no food. No food means starving.
You can’t afford to get stupid.
A gentle tap-tap on the doorframe pulls your eyes back up. He smiles, soft and warm, igniting an unwelcome heat in your cheeks. To your surprise, his cheeks are pink as well.
“I’ll just… call her,” he murmurs, fingers drifting toward his pocket.
“She’s on vacation,” you blurt, too loud and way too quick to be considered normal. Another wrong answer, if the brief, puzzled tilt of his brow means anything.
But then he smiles, thinner this time, as though he is masking a bruise of disappointment. Either he is already suspicious and plans to alert the authorities, or he will try again on some quieter night. For the moment, you survive the encounter.
Still, a problem remains: there’s no freezer space for a second corpse, not unless you ditch the meal prep.
You watch him retreat down the dim hallway, one hand lifted in a genial wave before he disappears into the rattling elevator cage at the far end. Only when the doors slide shut do you slam the deadbolt, shove the chain back in place, and glance at the freezer.
Preparations will have to begin tonight.
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The week passes without sirens, arrests, or freezer re-arrangements. You almost believe the vigilante was a fever dream - until a new voice slides through the paper-thin wall.
The building has been hollow for two years; anyone with sense either fled or wrapped themselves in the same caretaker-cocoon that once shielded you. Six months ago that cocoon tore, and routine became sedative: clock-in, clock-out, corpse check, reheated meal prep. The caregiver’s old tablet still pings PAID each month, money shrinking in an account you can’t access. Don’t think about investigations. Investigations ask questions.
The scrape-and-thud of furniture next door means fresh eyes. You crouch on cracked linoleum, snapping dry ramen into crooked shapes beside the chained freezer, and listen to a mid-twenties male voice on speaker: boxes, deliveries, parking permits - ordinary words that grate because ordinary people notice smells and knock on management’s door when your apartment is too loud. You swallow brittle noodles and run tonight’s checklist: finish the last stir-fry, rewrap the feet - frostburn is creeping, drain the drip tray, and smile if the newcomer says hello.
Caregiver’s Rule #12: smiles disarm.
Across the wall, you hear a door close. His front door. Footsteps echo down the hall, unless it’s only your heartbeat. It’s difficult to tell. The sound seems to move through the floorboards instead of over them, each step pressing closer, until the apartment feels too small to hold you, the freezer, and all the terrible inside it.
Is he going to introduce himself now?
You click the lock shut on the freezer. The faint sound of safekeeping does nothing to stop the dread that fills you with every step outside your door. Then comes a light tap against the wood, just like before.
You slowly ease yourself up, trying to seem neither too willing to open the door nor too afraid of what waits behind it.
Afraid people invite questions.
You force a smile onto your face. Do you look normal? Does the body smell, and have you simply gotten used to it?
The math is getting ugly: one freezer, one body, two possible problems.
Play smart.
Unlocking the door proves to be more difficult than it was a week ago. Your hands shake as they slide the lock out of place, and you do your best attempt at a cheerful smile. “You must be the new neighbor,” you force out.
Unease settles low in your stomach as you glance up at him. Same height as the vigilante who came by last week. Less of a bum, however. He wears a cardigan over a white shirt, with nice-looking pants that seem dry-cleaned, which is odd for a resident in this slum of a building. Same blue eyes that pin you in place and the same familiar dimpled smile that reminds you of your nightmares from the other night.
It would be easier if they were the same person. Then you would only have one body to worry about, but the chances of them being the same are awfully slim, and you are not one to take chances. Especially when there’s a cell waiting for you.
“I am,” he says, voice coated in honey. “Thin walls, huh?”
He’s friendlier than the vigilante from last week, though that does nothing to comfort you. His voice is nothing but warm, neighborly, and harmless. Suspicion builds in your stomach. Or maybe you’re just hungry. However, you don’t quite enjoy the caged-animal feeling that licks up your spine when his arm comes to rest against the wall, blocking your view of the hallway and any possible exits.
Nice guys - those are the ones you worry about.
“Dick Grayson,” he offers, extending a hand you refuse. Too risky to exchange DNA when there’s a felony cooling five feet away. “Blüdhaven PD. Anything you need…”
Shit. Sirens begin to scream inside your skull. The freezer rattles awake behind you. Your sins are already mocking you.
You manage that it must be “nice” - wrong adjective.
His smile slices: “Nice isn’t the word.”
You scramble for “safe,” tack on “for you” as if that helps. Since cops get wrist-slaps for killing, your brain mutters - you choke the thought down.
He softens, coaxing: “It’s not always safe.” Bait. Your gaze returns to his hands - broad, sure, the sort that could pry a freezer lid or close over a throat. Your stomach tightens. He keeps the patter light, claims he didn’t want to be rude, asks if you’re always like this.
“Yes,” you say, which somehow amuses him. You don’t really get the social cue behind it all. Then the real kicker, delivered with a wink: “Have a good night - and don’t forget your medication.”
Your smile turns to ice. You never mentioned the pills.
You should really kill him.
First plan: poison - too slow. Second: ceramic vase - probably shatters. Third: push him down the stairs - lobby cameras.
Should’ve checked the cameras.
Sirens howl in your head; even the freezer seems to vibrate with them. He knows you’re unmedicated. Worse - he knows you’re alone.
This is still normal, you insist, bolting the door a second time now. The padlock’s click echoes louder than his footsteps retreating down the hall.
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You’ve been hiding ever since Dick Grayson moved in two weeks ago. Since then, he has learned your schedule like the back of his own hand. He knows when you leave, hears the tardy shuffle in your step, counts the key fumbles when you chase the bus. He even indulges himself by stopping at the same coffee shop every morning, just to say hello before you scamper off to your pitiful nine-to-five. On Fridays, you return late with plastic bags full of discount groceries, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of marked-down items.
You used to leave the apartment more. Not much, but enough. A trip to the mailbox before work. A stop at the corner store after. Sometimes you would linger outside the laundromat with your tote bag pressed to your side, watching people through the glass like you were trying to remember how normal worked. But now that he has moved in beside you, your schedule has changed, and so have the dark circles under your eyes. You avoid him more often than not. You keep your curtains drawn shut, the cheap fabric pulled tight even in the middle of the afternoon. You only access the mailbox when he leaves for work, even if the morning paper you are so insistent on grabbing is already a day behind.
A sigh escapes him as he lies on his bed, shoulder pressed against the shared wall, listening for any sound from your apartment.
Nothing.
That bothers him more than noise would. The breaker tripped a few hours ago. He heard the electricity die through the wall, that low mechanical hum in your apartment cutting out all at once, leaving behind a flat, ugly quiet. It would be easy to climb onto your patio, pick the lock, and flip the switch back on for you. An easier option would be to check whether the caregiver he hired took the money and left you all alone.
His jaw tightens. You shouldn’t be working in your condition.
He groans into the hands resting over his face, dragging his palms down until the heels press against his eyes. Then he turns, burying his face into your old pillow. It barely smells like you anymore, but he still keeps it tucked beneath his head every night like a comfort plush.
How long have you been alone? It has to be at least six months. Maybe seven. You were fine when he left for Gotham. Or fine enough. The accident had left you different, sure. More numb. A little damaged in a way even the best doctors could not fully smooth over. But you had been alive and mostly manageable.
It has been two years now since the accident. Two years since the ring box sat heavy on the car’s center console, black velvet catching the passing streetlights every time the vehicle moved beneath them. He had asked you too soon. He knows that. You knew that. The two of you had been fighting more. He had been getting rougher with you, quicker to grab, to corner, to tell himself it was only because you scared him when you talked about leaving. You had threatened to leave. He had started acting too much like Bruce, all paranoia.
He has always been too hasty. Asking for your hand in marriage was never the mistake. Just the timing of it. You had stared at him with tears in your eyes as you tried to set boundaries, your face losing color as he promised he would keep you safe. No matter how badly you misunderstood him. Your fingers had curled around the seat belt, pressed hard against the buckle.
He had thought you were overwhelmed. Even tried the calming techniques first, using a low voice that typically worked with your outbursts. His hand open. Breathe with me, princess. You’re okay. But you kept shaking your head and reaching for the door, so he had started reaching for the tranquilizer dart in the back seat, just to get you quiet until he could bring you home and keep you safe until the wedding.
You were probably just afraid of happiness. Maybe that’s why you did it.
You were quick to unlock the car door. Quicker than his hand as he lunged across the console. Even faster than the desperate grip of his fingers against your sleeve before you slipped through them and threw yourself out of the vehicle.
Did you have to jump?
The question is as familiar as the guilt that ate him alive when he saw you in the hospital, your head wrapped in white, tubes taped to your skin and down your throat, machines clicking and breathing around you. Severe brain damage, they said. A long recovery. But money fixed enough of it. Bruce’s money. The best doctors the area could offer, even some who flew in. Bruce’s hand clamped heavy on his shoulder as the old man told him, “Don’t let it get to you. There are plenty of fish out there.”
But you were the only one he wanted to catch.
Did you have to throw yourself out of a moving car to get away from him? Was life with him that hellish?
He hates that word. Hellish. It doesn’t belong in his memories with you. Not in the kitchen, where he cooked meals and set bowls in front of you even when you glared at him as if he had poisoned them. Sure, you threw one at his face once. Called him a pervert. A fake hero. But you were simply cranky some days. Overwhelmed. Easy to brush off, the same way you brushed away the blankets he laid over your shoulders when you pretended not to be cold.
It doesn’t belong with the little doodles and notes he left on the fridge either, even if some of them came back shredded into death notes. Or with the scissors he had to pry from your hands while you threatened to slit your throat if he didn’t let you leave.
Of course, there were nights when you slow-danced with him in the living room to old love songs, your cheek resting against his chest as you finally got tired of fighting. Or even the mornings when you woke soft and quiet, blinking up at him like you forgot why you were angry. The afternoons when you asked so prettily for fresh air after he had kept you locked in the bedroom for too long, voice hoarse, fingers curled into his shirt.
Sure, spanking worked when you got too difficult, but so did a good timeout from time to time. You always melted against him after being alone long enough.
You could be sweet when you wanted to be. That was love. It had to be love.
He had loved you enough to try to move on with Barbara back in Gotham. It worked for a couple of weeks. Better than sitting at your bedside, loving you through recovery while you could barely remember who he was, watching your confused, frightened eyes fill with fear when he leaned too close. The times when he needed to remind you with a hand pinching your air tube that he was still the person you were supposed to kiss back.
His hand curls against the bedsheet where you would have slept.
If the Joker had not been loose for six months, Dick would have come back to you sooner. He would have continued his weekly checkups while you were drugged and less observant. Your caregiver was always good at giving you more than you needed to help with the nightmares she claimed were about him.
They’re just dreams. He’s not your monster.
You slept deeply enough then that he could sit beside your bed, brush the hair from your face, adjust your blanket, and pretend the quiet between you was peace instead of punishment. You never flinched in your sleep.
He cut things off with Barbara when he came back here. Watched her cry as he held her, her face tucked against his shoulder, her fingers twisting in the back of his shirt. He felt bad. Of course he felt bad. But her tears didn’t make him want to choke sense into her. They didn’t make him want to kiss her until she stopped making that awful, broken sound.
Yours did, however.
You’re not the same as before. He expected that. Certainly much healthier than you were in the hospital, at least. Your social skills are lacking, but that is expected when a lamb first learns how to walk again. If anything, it works out for the best. You’re more relaxed around him now. You don’t keep the lock in place like you used to when the two of you were first seeing each other. You don’t insult him. You stopped crying. The list could go on and on about how oddly perfect things would be between you two.
Finally, he hears your footsteps down the hall. Should he greet you? No. That would be too eager. He shouldn’t frighten such a delicate creature after work.
Your front door unlocks. He listens to the stumble of your shoes against the floor, the rustle of a plastic bag, the small irritated sound you make when something bumps into the wall. After a handful of minutes, the breaker clicks back on. The apartment gives a faint electric shudder through the wall, and the hum returns. You must have noticed by now that it has been off for a couple of hours. It’s a heatwave, after all. You probably have too many appliances plugged in.
Maybe he could offer to cook for you tonight. Something simple. Pasta, maybe. Open that fresh bottle of wine he got from a buddy. He can show up at your door with a friendly neighbor smile, pretend he hasn’t spent the last few hours listening for proof you are still breathing. You might let him in if he plays his cards right. He can pour you a glass, make you laugh, kiss you before walking you back to your door like the old days.
Then he hears it.
Your door opens again.
Are you leaving?
Dick pushes himself upright, head tilting toward the wall. Your footsteps are quick this time. Frantic. You mutter under your breath, the same word over and over.
Ice.
You must be going to the convenience store. All your food must have spoiled, or at least enough of it to scare you. That refrigerator was never the greatest. It was never his idea to keep you here for two years. You were supposed to move in with him after one, but work got busy. Gotham got loud. People kept needing him, and you had been safe enough. Or he thought you were.
He’s already moving before he finishes the thought, tugging his work uniform back into place, smoothing a hand over his glossy dark hair in the mirror by the door. The uniform helps. A good excuse for running into you at the convenience store down the road.
A friendly neighbor coming home after a long night of police work.
Not a man following you into the night.
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If Dick had known you could make such a horrified expression and still look so painfully cute, he might have pulled a stunt like this sooner. The convenience store is nearly empty at this hour. Outside, the heatwave fogs the beer-ad glass; inside, you stand in front of the ice chest with both arms full, eight plastic bags stacked awkwardly against your chest, as if you’re trying to carry a body instead of save one. He taps your shoulder; you nearly drop everything.
“Throwing a party?” he teases, bright and harmless, as though meeting here were a coincidence either of you should believe. His gaze flicks from the bags to your face - eight is a lot of ice for someone with no friends in any file he’s pulled, no emergency contacts who call more than once, no coworkers who walk you home. You’re usually alone.
That has always made things easier.
Your eyes jump to his uniform, then his badge, before Dick lifts a hand in an open-palm wave.
“Easy,” he says. “Just me.” Your grip only tightens; water runs from a corner of one bag and slides down your wrist. You don’t seem to notice. You're so much stranger and more calculated - so unlike the version of you who once snapped at him for thrills and shoved him away after too many kisses. Different isn’t ruined; it’s just leverage.
Your reply is lost to the freezer hum and the cashier’s squeaking stool.
“What was that?” he prompts. You glance at the bored clerk, then back at him, and repeat too loudly: “It’s for coffee meal prep.” He nearly laughs. Eight bags for morning coffee? Adorable. He props a shoulder against the glass, frost blooming behind him. “You need eight for one cup?” A beat. “Tired of seeing me in the mornings?”
You look away, try to brush past. “It’s melting - I won’t have any to practice with if it melts.”
Practice? Before you can retreat, he lifts six bags off your pile. You jerk for them, a small startled sound, but he’s always been stronger. For an instant he sees the old fury in your eyes, enough to make his heart kick before he reins in the teasing.
“How about I help?” he offers gently.
You huff and push toward the register while meltwater stipples the floor. Dick follows, shifts the bags against his hip, and - before you can fish out your wallet - taps his card: beep. You freeze mid-reach.
“I had it,” you mutter.
“I know,” he smiles. “And now you still have it.”
Tension moves between you, louder than the compressor rattle; the cashier pretends not to listen.
Why eight bags? Maybe the breaker scare sent you spiraling, food spoiling after the caregiver vanished. No reason for you to budget groceries or lug ice through Blüdhaven at night when he’s right here. He’ll audit the caregiver’s spending, see where the money went.
The bell jingles as you step into wet heat. Sidewalk puddles shine under streetlights; a distant siren wails and fades. You walk too fast - shoes slapping pavement in a nervous tempo - bags swinging hard against your legs. Each time you edge toward the curb, Dick glides between you and traffic. “Careful,” he says. You flinch. “I’m careful.” Twice you reach for the ice he’s carrying; twice he shifts it easily away.
“They’ll melt faster if we stop to argue,” he reminds you. That quiets you, though your eyes keep darting: his hands, the street, the apartment looming ahead. Plastic crackles whenever your grip flexes, leaving a thin trail of meltwater. When you veer to the curb again, he blocks you.
“Walking on the outside,” he explains - seat-belt muscle memory, sleeve slipping from his grasp.
“That’s not necessary,” you protest.
“Humor me,” he smiles, and you swallow the argument.
The lobby smells of old mail and cherry-lemon cleaner that never makes the place look clean. But it does take the smell of mold out. Elevator’s Under Construction - crooked sign over the button - so you climb the stairs. Halfway up, you freeze, alarmed to find him behind you.
“Go on. I’m not in a rush.” He motions ahead.
You don’t like his eyes on your back; good to know. He takes the next flight first, listening to your uneven breathing and the ice shifting in your arms.
Hallway air is thicker than outside, trapped under flickering bulbs. Your door waits - paint chipped, peephole cloudy, chain probably dangling because you left in a hurry. His door is beside it, close enough to hear everything. You whirl, blocking your knob.
“I can take them now.” Your smile appears a beat late - the wrong mask worn the wrong way. Dick’s chest warms.
“Should I help you get these inside?” he asks, voice honey-soft. Helping is love; love lets him in.
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You have gotten yourself into a spectacular pickle.
Bargaining at the threshold proves useless: your arms are full of melting ice, his arms are full of melting ice, and technically all of it belongs to you. You assure him - politely, firmly, repeatedly - that he doesn’t need to come inside, the bags aren’t heavy, it’s late, he must be tired, you’d hate to be a bother. Normal words for normal people. Dick Grayson only smiles and hoists the bags higher as they start to sink again.
Nice people are harder to shake; your caregiver warned you about that. They treat no like an invitation to try harder. Eight bags were a mistake. Four would have meant coffee prep or a broken fridge - anything ordinary. Eight screams emergency. Eight screams hidden freezer. Eight screams a smell you’re praying belongs to yesterday’s trash.
Behind the door, the apartment waits. So does the smell.
Sweet, damp, wrong - probably already leaking from the freezer seams after hours without power in a heatwave. Please be trash, please be trash. Maybe it isn’t bad yet. Maybe the chain kept the lid sealed. Maybe the trash under the sink reeks worse. You have never hoped for trash before, but there’s a first time for everything when a corpse is thawing in your kitchen.
Open the door and risk the odor. Refuse and risk the neighbor’s suspicions. Stand here and the ice keeps melting, the body keeps warming, the officer eventually calls someone. The officer is someone.
Slower disaster is better than fast. Keys slip in your wet fingers; metal clinks too loudly. Laugh. Harmless people laugh. You laugh like a woman you’ve seen in movies over misplaced keys, not like a woman calculating whether she can drop a policeman before he draws his gun. Dick doesn’t laugh back - he only watches.
Finally the lock turns. You step in first; he follows, gently shuts the door - then locks it. Fine, be creepy. Warm, stale air greets you, carrying a faint, rotting sweetness. Trash. Just trash. You clutch the ice, march past the chained chest freezer, swear you won’t look - then look anyway. Chain still tight. Good. Bad.
“Should I put these in the freezer?” he asks, kindness itself. For one absurd beat, you almost answer yes, right beside the dead woman. Then you see where he’s staring: not at you, but at the chain around the lid.
“Do you have a key?”
Words jam in your throat. A lock for sleep-eating? A safety latch? All terrible.
Your gaze darts to the ceramic vase by the door- heavy, blue-flowered, dusty. It has held receipts, dead pens, a spare button. It could hold blood. You edge one bag against your hip, freeing a hand. His head is turned. His hands are full. You might have a second. Handle’s chipped - won’t slip. Good.
Aim for his perfect face. If he falls, the entry rug is dark, good for soaking. Ice buys time. Boxes in his apartment for the body parts. One problem at a time.
He starts to turn.
You grip the vase and swing with all your might.
Sorry, officer.
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Dick should have expected it. Your fire never truly burned away - no amount of medication or brain damage could smother that stubborn spark. Of course you fought him: manic smile at the door, polite excuses stacking. Of course you lunged for the vase. You were a frightened animal that didn’t know what was good for you.
He whistles low as he crouches by the chest freezer, one knee sinking into damp flooring, bobby pin clamped between his teeth. Picking the padlock feels crude but easier than ripping off the chain or searching for a key. The apartment smells off - wrong, even by your standards. Beside him, the ice bags sweat into widening puddles. He glances over.
You glare from the floor - cheek pressed to the fake tile, hair pasted to your face, both wrists cuffed to the radiator pipe because you refused to sit, to stop kicking, practically refused every warning he gave you. Pride props your hips at an uncomfortable angle; muffled sobs stutter as you try to swallow them. Stubborn thing. Makes him nostalgic for every time you mistook courage for good odds.
“You’re in trouble!” you shout, yanking the cuff. Metal rattles; skin scrapes raw, a thin red line blooming toward your palm. His smile fades. “Careful,” he murmurs.
You ignore him. “There’s a vigilante around here.”
Bobby pin pauses. He meets your eyes, smiles. “I know, baby. If only he were here.” Fury and panic twist your features - here you are. Not healed, but flickering under fear: sharp mouth, wounded pride, fight that proves you need someone stronger.
Click. Chain slithers to the wet floor like a dropped leash. You go still. Breath hitches in tiny bursts; his palm rests on the lid, not lifting yet, enjoying the desperate set of your face. Beg me not to.
“What’s in here?” he asks, voice low. Your lips tremble. Silence. “Baby, what did you do?” Thumb stroking the lip, he waits.
“A body.” The words leak out - tiny, broken.
He studies your face first: eyes wet, cheek glued to tile, wrist bleeding. Embarrassed, not remorseful - cornered, not guilty. Pulse steadies.
“A body,” he repeats, then lifts the lid. Cold sighs out, followed by sweetness gone sour. Plastic-wrapped limbs, frost-blurred features - the caregiver, tucked in with practical care. His gaze traces corpse, chain, puddled ice, then you: still glaring, still calculating whether biting helps. Optimistic.
“Well,” he breathes. Lid stays open; smell dulls. A cop should radio this in. Nightwing should. Instead he thinks: six months alone, one corpse, no help until now.
“You’re going to need someone, aren’t you, princess?”
“Don’t call me that.” Sharp even now.
He smiles with a fond look in his eyes. “I can make this disappear - body, payments, reports.” You stop struggling to listen. Good. “But you’ll do something for me.” He crouches close. Hard not to kiss your tears away.
“You’ll stop hiding. Take meds when I say. Eat real food.” His thumb grazes your torn wrist, voice softening, while his other hand trails down your spine. “And you’ll quit hurting yourself trying to escape the only man trying to help.”
A strangled sound escapes as his palm settles over your heat, giving you two soft, almost patronizing pats. His smile widens as you look over at him, cheeks warmed and dewy. His fingers find their way between your legs and glide along your slit, earning such pretty sounds from your lips. You probably haven't been touched for months. Years, even. So loyal, aren't you? Willing to do anything to cover up your little mistake, huh?
“If you’re lucky,” he whispers, “maybe I’ll marry a cruel thing like you.” He kisses the tear-damp cheek, tasting salt, watching your lips purse back. Pulling his hand away just to watch the frustration on your face. Maybe he'll save such things for marriage. Shouldn't get too hasty. Especially not after last time.
Jason puts you in a headlock if you get too fussy on his lap me thinks. You’re squirming and bucking against him too much so he locks one of your legs under his and wraps his arm around your neck to immobilize you…just stay put when his hand slips between your legs, you’re acting like he’s going to hurt you 😔
how many times a week does pa clark have sex with you...
How many times he makes you come vs. how many times he has sex with you are two very different answers.
He’s making you come daily at minimum, multiple times preferably. It’s in your bedtime routine to be finger fucked before he tucks you into bed with him for the night so you’re tired out and get a good nights sleep. I like to think when he changes your clothes in the morning, he gets on his knees in front of you when he changes your panties and eats you out before putting a fresh pair on. If his day has been particularly long and hard, he decompresses by having you sit on his face or kiss him in his lap – it depends on how tired he is. He’s got an itch he just can’t seem to scratch with you.
Full on sex is probably around 3 or 4 times a week just because of time constraints. I imagine he likes to save it for his days off so he can really give you the attention that you deserve without worrying about being called away suddenly. It’s a good way to fully unwind and relax with you too after he’s fucked you until you practically pass out. So much less fussy and so much more snuggly when that’s all he really needs to recharge.
summary: Just as he suspected, Valarr's fascination with you has become a problem. It finally catches up with him when he gets caught but to his surprise, it's not exactly your anger he has to endure.
tags/warnings: smut, Summer Camp AU, Counselor/stalker!Valarr, sub!Valarr, dom!reader, fem!reader implied but nothing specified, voyeurism, masturbation (Valarr), did i mention voyeurism, thigh riding, regular ole penetrative riding, filming/taking pictures, overstimulation (Valarr receiving), begging omg so much begging, freak4freak <3
wc: 4.3k
A/N: WE MADE IT...today drained me...but it's ok bc we're here we made it family. it was so worth it bc i lurrrrve it now and totally hated it before so it's late but, it's #awesome. i actually don't have that much to say. Tanselle week next who's exciteddd! anyway, enjoy kiss kiss thank u for reading. also ok we r officially doing playlists now, here's Valarr's | Summer Camp AU masterlist
Before you notice Valarr, you barely even notice you’re sweating. It sounds crazy when you try explaining it to any of your non-camp friends, but it is genuinely easy to forget about the heat out here. The first forty-two hours of camp leave everyone sweat-slicked, shiny and squinting against the sun. By the end of the first week, that perpetual gummy feeling between your fingers and the dampness in all your creases becomes mere background noise.
The other thing: Valarr’s staring. You catch him at it constantly, always somewhere in your periphery and watching, head-on with an indecipherable expression. Out of politeness, and maybe something else, you’ve never pulled him up on it. Honestly, that’s become a bit of background noise, too. Which is why, on yet another stifling day at camp, you don’t realise you’ve sweat through every thread of the clothes on your body, until you look up to find Valarr loitering at the lake’s edge.
As always, he’s snapping away with the creaky little film camera he refers to as his ‘old lady’. As you lead your group of kids closer to the shore, he lifts it to his face, presumably to take a candid snap of you mid-row. It’s hard to tell if he caught you catching him, but you keep your eyes ahead and your posture as elegant as the violent heat will allow. For the sake of the photo, of course.
“Looking good,” he calls down to you, before helping you out onto the lake’s short pier. You accept the compliment, even though you’re sure you look anything but.
He sticks around to help you haul kids out of kayaks and make small talk. His voice stays measured and his expression errs on the side of slightly bored, though when the last few campers are wandering off to archery with Aerion, he’s still there. Still there, even as you trudge in the direction of your cabin, in desperate need of a change of clothes. He sticks by your side the whole way, talking less now because ‘by your side’ actually means a few paces behind, probably still with his camera glued to his face.
“You alright back there?”
“Yep,” he answers too fast, voice cracking. You chuckle, then almost as quickly, all humour dissolves as the simmering temperature of your blood rises to a boil. The sweat lathering between your thighs has brought you past the point of chafing and now your legs are just sliding together as you walk. Back on the lake, you’d run out of bottled water and had to resort to Mother Nature herself to cool yourself down. Probably, your underwear is visible through your shorts, soaked both in sweat and a few sloshes of lake water.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. Valarr hurries to catch up, nudging your shoulder with his and fidgeting with the buttons on his camera.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, uh–” You press the heel of your hand to your forehead, casting a frown around the camp. Towards the woods, the shade, or back to your cabin to change? “Just thinking.”
Valarr nods, not quite following. “Do you…want me to go?”
“What? No, no you’re fine.” You start walking again, hopeful that our body will pick whichever option gets you out of the dry, raging sun quickest. “Oh, hey. Do you know if they still have those fans in storage?”
Valarr’s lips quirk. “The ones with all the rust?”
Still walking, you grab his shoulder and shake. “I would kill for a breeze right now. A little rust doesn’t scare me.”
For a split second, you notice his mouth agape as if he’s in the middle of saying something. Then, nothing. His mouth clamps shut and he wrangles his face back into mild and aloof. You jostle his shoulder again.
“Are you with me, or are you with me?”
You just about manage to knock him out of his head. He chuckles, nods, runs his finger along the leather strap keeping his camera around his neck. “Yeah. Let’s go and get you your breeze.”
Inside the storage shed, it’s fucking baking. Dust swirls with every step and trickles down your throat. You break out into a coughing fit, wafting your hand in front of your face and hanging back as Valarr treads deeper. Shovels, pliers, hammers and wrenches hang from a far wall, casting long, slanting shadows over a workbench. Tiny windows permit only thin slats of light, otherwise among the maze of shelves, it’s simply more shadows.
After only a few minutes of aimless wandering, you’re leaning on the workbench and trying to fan air in through your vest, to little avail. Something about the shadows feels heavy, ever-tightening and only adding to the muggy viscidity swirling around under your clothes. It’s all you can focus on, along with the faint wooziness humming in the back of our head. You should’ve had a bigger breakfast, you should’ve brought out an extra bottle of water.
Valarr hefts a fan onto the counter, panting and leaning on it while he looks at you expectantly. He’s standing so close you can feel his breath fanning warm on your skin. Just as you suspected, it’s covered in coppery blots that will absolutely slow it down, yet you still react as if a miracle has occurred.
“You must really need to cool down, huh?”
“God, you have no idea.” You lift your vest to wipe away sweat and notice Valarr’s eyes flit downwards. “I could use your help bringing that to my room, too.”
Valarr falters, damn near drops the fan on his feet. “O–Of course. Yes. Yeah, I’ll–I should probably keep an eye on you, yeah.”
His phrasing only strikes you as odd for a split second, because as soon as you try standing, your heat-stricken legs start shaking. Instinctively, you lean on Valarr and he has to balance both you and the fan the entire walk back to your cabin.
You do try helping him, but the second you get indoors, Valarr will barely let you stand up.
“It’s too hot,” he insists. If the sweat seeping through his t-shirt in patches is any indication, he’s right. Still, you argue, it doesn’t seem right to let him do all the work.
He waves it off. “I like doing things for you. It’s fun.”
“Fun?”
He huffs out a laugh and busies himself with the fan. As its blades cut through the air, wafting a mild but welcome coolness from the corner of the room, you sprawl out on the bed, sighing with relief. His gaze trails towards you, nervous at first, then unabashed. You don’t trust your judgement in this heat but you struggle to think of a word to describe the look on his face, other than longing.
“Valarr,” you whisper, flashing him a taunting smile. “You’re staring.”
He steps towards the door, then doubles back, mouth flapping open and closed. “Sorry.”
You shake your head. “You’re good.”
Just as he’s about to walk out, you shift in bed, beginning what you know is about to be a painstaking changing process by peeling your vest up from the bottom. Only enough to let a sliver of torso breathe, but apparently enough to stop Valarr in his tracks.
“What,” you joke, “do you still wanna keep an eye on me?”
His jaw ticks but he manages to keep his expression stoic, at least relatively. For a moment he remains stationary, one hand on the doorknob. He stares into space with his jaw ajar, eyes vacant as if he’s sleepwalking. When you snicker at his sudden stillness, he blinks rapidly, suddenly awoken.
“No,” he says. Too abrupt for the long silence he just let pass and oddly defensive. Even he seems to notice this, tries brushing it off with nervous laughter. “Sorry, I just mean–I should probably give you a minute. I don’t want…You know, I should–If you’re gonna change…”
You’re laughing again. Brazen this time, giddy in the heat and at his nerves.
“Oh, uh–Sorry,” he says again. “You were kidding.”
“I was,” you say, smile at once broadening and softening as you gesture to the fan. “But all jokes aside, thank you. You’re the best, I owe you one.”
He’s in the middle of dismissing your thanks, promising it was nothing and that he’d do it any time, when you blow him a kiss. Already pulling your vest higher as he pulls the door open, you’re laughing again. You don’t notice the manic glint in his eyes as he smiles back at you, or that when the door shuts behind him, a shadow flits past your window soon after. As you peel off your clothes and stand directly in the fan’s measly breeze, you don’t notice anything going on outside this room at all.
You kissed him. From a distance, through the air. As a joke, probably. But you kissed him.
Towering pines line the entire perimeter of camp, thinning as they get closer to the centre of camp. Outside the senior cabins, the trees have been allowed to remain, imposing and casting vast blots of shade. Probably, it’s because these cabins are the oldest, the smallest and least tended to throughout the year. An Ashford of years long passed seems to exist among these cabins, something almost haunted about the way they’re cloaked in shadow.
Valarr is only trying to catch some shade back here. It is, he swears, entirely a coincidence that the coolest, most consistent patch of greenery is directly parallel to your cabin’s back window. He’s not going to climb in again; it’s the middle of the day. So really, what harm is there in just–hanging out? Just looking. None, he decides, sliding down the trunk with the most lush array of branches.
You’re taking your time changing. By now, there’s music playing and you’re still half-naked, twirling and bopping in front of the fan, singing along with a faint smile on your face. Valarr doesn’t think about lifting his camera, it just happens. He doesn’t think about it when his index finger is click, click, clicking the camera’s shutter button, his ears so accustomed to the minute, explosive sound that signals yet another photo that it doesn’t register.
When you start actually changing, his brain just about slips from his skull and starts oozing out of his ears. Your back, the expanse of skin as you peer into the closet and pull out a new shirt. Legs, underwear riding up your ass as you pull down your shorts. Your bare chest–God. His camera stays glued to his face and his mouth stays agape. It’s almost as if he can taste you, the air’s thick heat as good as your warm, perfect body pressed against his lips, his tongue.
Busy drooling over you, he still isn’t really thinking about the fact that you’re practically naked and that he’s capturing it from damn near every angle, totally without your knowledge. Eventually though, he has no choice but to pay it attention, when he blinks and realises he’s wandered right into the light.
Both of you freeze. Valarr’s fingers instinctively tighten around the camera, pulling it to his chest as if it might shield him from vision. Yours fly over your chest, eyes wide and then instantly narrowing.
“What the fuck?”
“I–”
You give him no time to respond, repeating yourself with a more vicious hiss in your tone. “Valarr, what the fuck?”
Finally, he lets the camera drop. Its weight at the end of the leather strap tugs his neck forward, makes his head dip in a way that he hopes comes across as deferential. Eyes still narrowed and one hand still covering your chest, you reach for the window. Before slamming it shut, you poke your head out and hiss at him again.
“Get in.”
He does as he’s told and once inside, stands shifting from foot to foot with his back against the door. When he opens his mouth to speak, you shush him and gesture to the camera. With a flannel acting as a robe, you no longer seem at all self conscious about how scantily clad you are. Valarr, of course, can be conscious of absolutely nothing else.
“Show me,” you bark. He blinks, busy gawking. What’s left of his brain only congeals into something solid enough to croak out a desperate, pained sound. He means for it to communicate guilt. It just sounds like he’s moaning.
You scoff and reach for him, wrangling the camera from around his neck without any more words. Valarr is half-certain you’re about to beat him over the head with it but instead, all he can do is watch as you fiddle with its buttons, scowling.
“How the fuck do you work this thing?”
“You–” He flinches when your searing gaze meets his. “You can’t, uh–It’s film.”
“So?”
“The, uh–” His breath catches and he has to wipe his palms off on his t-shirt. “There’s kind of a whole process, it–”
“Whatever,” you snap. Sidling over to the bed, you gesture in its direction, still messing with his camera. “Alright, it’s your turn. Sit down.”
Valarr’s eyebrows raise. “What–”
“Get on the bed.” Your tone hasn’t gotten any friendlier, so Valarr scrambles to sit, pushing back towards the headboard on his hands. “Clothes off.”
He follows your orders more immediately this time, tossing his t-shirt, shoes and jeans to the floor in a careless heap. In just his boxers and socks, he looks up at you with wide, awe-filled eyes. His mouth hasn’t stayed totally shut since he got inside and when he closes it now, it’s only so he can swallow deeply and wet his lips.
You circle around him like a shark surrounding its prey, continuing to frown down at the camera in your hands. “Were you touching yourself?”
Despite himself, his nerves instantly dissolve. His posture straightens against the headboard and he struggles to keep the look on his face sane. “No ma’am, I haven’t. Not ever.”
“Ever?” You look down your nose at him with disdain. “But you wanted to, right?”
He shakes his head. You don’t buy it for a second.
“So you were just gonna, what? Take these pictures and look at them?”
To Valarr, this seems like the greatest gift in the world. It’s hard to imagine how much more he could hope to want. Chest still puffed, he shakes his head again.
“I wanted to wait. For you.”
“For us to fuck?”
He flinches, perhaps at the vulgarity, in both your words and tone. You cross your arms over yourself and half-heartedly fight through a smirk.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“We don’t have to–”
“No shit, we don’t have to. From what I recall, I’m in charge.”
“Yes ma’am.” His response is immediate, shaky and hoarse. “Anything you want, I’ll do.”
“Yeah?”
“Anything.”
Your expression remains unimpressed but you kneel on the opposite end of the bed and hold the camera to your face. “Alright,” you mutter again, “your turn.”
Valarr is suddenly hyperaware of the bulge in his boxers that glaringly outlines is dick, straining with need against the waistband. “Are–Are you sure?”
All you give him is a nod, and then a flinch backwards as you take a practice shot and the flash catches you off-guard. Giggling, you line up for another one, biting on your bottom lip and tilting your head. The rest of Valarr’s brain turns to mush and of its own accord, his hand runs up his thigh.
He’s still braindead as he toys with the waistband of his boxers, watching you study him through the lens, just like he’s been doing to you for weeks. With his head leaned back against the headboard, he rubs a hand over his crotch slowly. He lets out a low moan of relief and closes his eyes, hips rolling forwards to gain him more friction. You sit back and watch, enthralled, as he palms himself as languidly as if he was giving a massage, letting out long, breathy moans. His lips are twitching into a satisfied smile when, eyes still closed, he speaks again.
“Ah, God, can I look?”
“Hm?”
“Can I–Mm–Can I look at you?”
You giggle. “Of course, what?”
His hand slips beneath the waistband and his eyes crack open, just enough to see you. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“I had no idea you were so…”
“Devoted,” he gets out through a stuttering moan.
“Obsessive.”
“I–Oh my God.” His hand moves quicker and his hips jut further upwards. It may have something to do with the way you’ve slipped off the flannel, and are now slowly running your fingers lightly across your chest, nipples hardening under your own touch. You pretend not to notice what it’s doing to him and another click-flash startles his senses.
Eyes squeezed shut again, he swears the overwhelm might just make him pass out. “Shit, shit, oh shit.”
“Everything okay there?”
“Can I taste you? Please?”
“Taste what?”
He whines. “Anything. Anything, please. A kiss. Your–Anything. God, I wanna put you in my mouth, please.”
“You think you’ve earned it?”
“I–uh,” he whines. Probably not, but he keeps begging anyway, spurred on by the giggles bubbling out of you and the flash that goes off every time he bucks up into his hand.
“Hang on, hang on,” you interrupt. When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of you crawling forwards, straddling his leg with your flannel in tow. You lean forward to tie it around his head, making sure the sleeves are wrapped tight over his eyes. Then, he doesn’t really know what you’re doing.
Your warmth on his leg disappears and returns changed. Wetter, warmer. A bundle of fabric is pushed into his palm.
“Alright,” you whisper, tugging lightly on his new makeshift blindfold. “You gonna be good and keep this on for me?”
“I will,” he answers in a rush, chest heaving. He brings the bundle in his hand up to his face, shoving his nose into it and inhaling, only to let out a moan so obscene, his whole body erupts with heat. Your smell, straight from the core of your body, pressed flush against his face. Before he can help it, he’s tangling his tongue into the fabric, swirling your panties between his teeth to suck. He’s still sniffing, cupping his balls with his other hand and gyrating against the torturously empty air. Every cell in his body is static with desire; he hums with it. Figuratively, then literally, deep longing purrs coming from the back of his throat.
The flash goes off again, though all he can really interpret is the button clicking and the rush of the shutter opening and closing. Much closer to his face this time, as your seeping warmth stays on his thigh. He whines into your panties and lets his longing come out ragged, shredding his throat to pieces.
“Please.”
“Mm,” you moan. “What’s that?”
“Your–Ah–On my thigh. Can I see? Please, let me watch you.”
This time, your laugh isn’t coy and giggling. It’s a dark chuckle, breathed right into his ear. The vibration and your warm, sudden breath sends a shiver through him. “Oh, I think you’ve done plenty of that.”
He whines and strains his hips forwards, though there’s only so far he can do that now that you’re on top of him.
“Ngh, God, baby.” Beneath his boxers, his hand pumps faster. “Can I–Ah–More. Please? More.”
“Getting a perfect view of my tits through the window isn’t enough?” You tease, leaning forward so your lips brush his neck. “You need to see them up close, too?”
He groans and then whimpers, letting his voice drop low. “Please, baby. Please, please, please.”
You can absolutely understand how Valarr ended up like this. It’s addictive. Index finger on the shutter button, eye squinting through the viewfinder. Up close and in his lap, you probably have a better view of Valarr right now than he’s ever had of you, and the thought has you dripping all over his thigh.
“God,” you whisper, “you look so good like this.”
His face flushes as he bites down on his lips, which are rosy pink and puffy with how much his tongue and teeth have been swiping at them. He’s rubbing your panties against his cheek and whining mindlessly while you grind against him and pretty soon, the camera isn’t doing your real view nearly enough justice. As you rub yourself on his clenched, shaking muscles, one of your hands slips down to circle your clit.
“Fuck, Valarr.” A moan hums sweetly from the back of your throat and Valarr lets out a groan so pained it turns into a growl. He says your name and bucks his hips, thigh clenching deliciously under you with the strain.
“Please, let me see you. Please, I’ll–Ah–I’ll make it worth it, I’ll–” he gasps, “fuck you so good, be so good for you. I’ll be good, feels so good, baby, please.”
You let him keep babbling, periodically humming, “yeah?” just to spur him on. Eventually, you’ve teased him so long that it’s even starting to drive you crazy, so you lift off him for just a second, cradling his face before padding away from the bed. After rifling through your clothes piled together on the floor, you set your phone up on the bedside table. With the front facing camera, it’s angled just right to watch yourself climb back into Valarr’s lap, this time taking his dick in your hand to slide onto it, nice and slow while he whines for you.
“Baby, oh my God,” he splutters. “So good, oh–So good, fuck.” Likely to avoid gripping you without permission, he tangles his fists into the sheets, biting his lip and moaning in short, desperate bursts. He can’t steady his breathing the entire time you ride him, and you can’t help but reach for your phone to train the camera on him.
You pan down his body to capture his heaving chest, squirming torso and the dark, swirling happy trail that rises and falls just as desperately with each breath. For a moment, your hips still so you can steady yourself, to take two fingers and trace them over the spritz of white hair that streaks through said happy trail. Of course, Valarr responds with a sudden upwards thrust and a broken moan, his dick burying deeper into you and hitting a spot that has you gasping into his mouth.
You hold the phone out to film you making out, tongues sliding against each other as you work up a sweat in his lap. Finally, he seems to have built up the bravery to touch you, and his hands squeeze your hips with a pinching pressure.
“Baby,” he moans into your mouth. “Please, I–Oh my God.”
“What?”
“I’m–I’m gonna–”
You lower the phone to cradle his face in both hands, holding him tenderly as he rambles his way into orgasm. “It’s okay, honey. Go ahead.”
“Can I–”
“Uh uh, baby. You’re gonna cum just like this,” you taunt. “Surely you’ve seen me enough times to remember what it looks like.”
You expect more arguing but he wails and bucks upwards again, nodding as a spurt of warmth fills you. He keeps pulling you down, fucking himself through it until all he can do is twitch inside you. Already, his breaths are slowing in anticipation of a gentle, permissive come down. But that’s not what you’re here to give him.
While he’s gasping and pawing at your body, you untie the flannel from his face. He looks up at you with downturned brows and a faint, exhausted smile.
“Thank you,” he whispers, letting his head fall back on the headboard.
“That was good?” you ask, tilting your head.
“So good.”
“So, we’re gonna go again, right?”
“Uh–”
Hips rising and falling to make lewd slapping sounds when your bodies meet, you lean in. This time, it’s not to mutter into his ear, but to be inescapable in his line of vision. You clutch his jaw for good measure, smirking when the downward turn of his eyebrows only gets more pronounced. “This isn’t what you wanted?”
“I–” he gasps. “Baby–I can’t.”
“Oh, but you can.”
“I can’t, I–Oh, shit. It’s–God, it feels…” Once again, his words devolve into moans and you taunt him further, insisting he be good, that he’s earned this, that if he can take it, maybe next time you’ll be nicer to him. Phone forgotten in the messy sheets, you ride him ragged yet again, this time purely chasing your own pleasure. His pained, broken moans fill your ears as his weeping, sensitive cock pumps you full, and you cum around him so hard that your bitten lip starts to bleed.
On the come down, with your sweaty bodies pressed together, you’re already thinking about watching the video back tonight. About the embarrassed flush he’s sure to greet you with, the next time you see each other around camp. Of course, you keep the video a secret. Seems only fair and besides, you start opening the window extra wide when you change in the mornings, take your time bending to pick things up when you know Valarr’s around, and even when it seems certain that he couldn’t be.
What you keep totally secret is the folder in your phone full of camp photos. That night, after watching the video with your legs pressed together and your bottom lip between your teeth, you scroll through a seemingly innocuous array of memories. Wildlife and selfies, group lake pics and sunsets. It just so happens, that in the background of every other picture, you can catch a glimpse of Valarr’s lean arm raised candidly in the distance, or him in profile, jaw sharp and right behind Tanselle striking a peace sign. Or the most recent, of his shirtless back at a campfire, pretending he might join in as all the boys took turns jumping over the flames.
You drift off to sleep with a faint smile on your face and a fresh sprout of lustful sweat across your whole body. At one point you might’ve called yourself crazy, but after this afternoon, how much of an issue could a few candid photos really be? You’re just looking.
