18+ as i Reblog lots of nasty smut lol Late 20’s Currently obsessed with challengers! Tashi Duncan apologist 💖💖💖💖 Find my other fanfiction, fictionpress Wattpad and ao3 under the same name! reblogging all my fav fan fics , and many other imagines and social media au's here. Main acc : @thehungrybum
Clark’s so sweet, and he’s gonna give you whatever you want. Dates to fancy restaurants? He’ll flash his Daily Planet badge, use Bruce Wayne’s name, anything to get on the list. You to go to a club? He’ll go and dance with her, carry you home after the heels get to much. A lazy Saturday? He'll make sure someone can cover his morning patrol so he can stay inside with you. A horseback ride back on the Kent farm? He's ready, tell him when.
Clark's so good at treating you right. He just wants one thing in return. And recently? He's not been getting it.
After teaching Clark about the wonders of sex and the various positions, he knows to trust you. He knows that you only want what's good for both of you. But after teaching him doggy? It's all you want. Every time things get heated between the two of you, somehow it ends up with your face buried into the bed (or couch, or hay bales, or wall, or whatever). The sex is great. Perfect. Amazing. toe-curling, world shaking, has his vision whiting out still. He loves seeing the fat of your ass jiggle with each thrust, seeing the creamy ring around the base of his cock and how each pull has your pussy desperately clinging to his shaft as if it doesn't want to let go. Clark loves how desperate you get too, in this position. He's already so thick and long, veins throbbing with a fat tip that perfectly hits every spot. Doggy just makes it feel even bigger, that same drooling tip pressing wet kisses right up on your cervix. And the position is the perfect one to press his face into your neck as he rails you, smelling your perfect intoxicating scent. So Clark can't really complain.
But he misses your face. Clark misses your pretty eyes as they roll back from orgasms and his thrusts. He misses hearing your moans and screams unfiltered. Clark misses your breasts too, sucking on the pretty buds as he rearranges your insides. He misses wrapping your legs around his waist, or throwing them over his shoulders to press you into a filthy mating press. He misses everything about missionary.
Clark begins to fantasize about your orgasm face. At work. During patrol. He gets almost delirious with it, acting like it's been years when it's been two weeks at best.
You notice one night. No patrol, so you and Clark eagerly fell into bed. Clark had spent so much time between your thighs. His tongue had retraced the folds of your pussy, gently nudged its way inside. He even suckled your clit, lips soft. It felt like hours of this until Clark was finished down there.
"C'mere baby." You murmur, flipping onto your stomach. You moan as Clark slides in, the familiar heft of his dick soothing the fire just a bit. As always, Clark begins with smooth little thrusts, each one nudging at your cervix. you're moaning and whimpering.
But Clark's... silent. More silent than usual, at least. No whimpers from him, or deep groans. Just huffs and puffs.He was usually so vocal.
"Clark?" You look back at him confused.
Clark's eyes are big and watery, and he has a little dazed pout on his lips. "I miss your face..."
"What?" You say with a small laugh.
Clark pulls out and sits back, unable to hold back the sniffles. "I... I miss your orgasm face! I wanna watch you come and it's been so long since we did missionary and I feel like I haven't seen your boobs in forever, I mean, do you still have them? I love doggy and I trust you but please, please darling, can we please do missionary? I'm gonna go crazy if I can't look into your eyes., darling."
Clark's little rant, paired with the watery eyes and red nose, has your heart flip. You immediately shuffle closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Aw baby... you miss me?"
Clark nods quickly.
"Why didn't you just say so?" You press soft kisses across his face. "You're allowed to want things during sex too, my love. It's not always about me. And if you want to see my face during sex, you can."
"Really?" Clark murmurs. He gently nuzzles your cheek.
You clamber up onto his lap. "C'mon baby. Take what you need."
Clark's face brightens, and soon he has you pressed into the mattress, chest to chest. He enthusiastically pounds into you, moaning and whimpering. Clark's cupped your face with one hand. "Missed your pretty face- oh there it is- hngh- I hit the spot darling, didn't- mmfph- didn't I? Wanna watch you come on me, see your pretty eyes roll back, oh golly-"
He fumbles for your leg, bringing it up around his waist. The position has you moaning, his cock nudging right up against the spongy area against your front walls. Doggy was good, but so was missionary.
And seeing Clark's euphoric face as you come, your expression right there for him to see? That was worth it.
Clark who practices his powers with you, because who else but his lifelong best friend?
Sometimes during the early mornings and late nights, he’s lifting the tractors or haybales. You’re sat on the porch swing, clapping and wow-ing at the appropriate moments. You’re there with a water bucket for when his heat vision sputters to life. You’re there to soothe him when he gets frustrated.
You’re also there when his x-ray vision activates for the first time, and he sees through you. Clark yelps in shock, who wouldn’t after seeing someone’s skeleton. There’s a whole bunch of laughing and screaming as Clark figures it out. And then he blinks.
“Everything back to normal?” You ask. He nods and goes back to practicing.
You don’t notice when he keeps blinking again and again, controlling his x-ray vision. Layer by layer. Metal. Rock. Soil. Bones. Muscles. Skin.
You don’t notice Clark glancing looks at your frilly blue panties and matching bra. You don’t notice his red face when he sees your breasts for the first time, or his eyes trailing down to your core. It becomes a bad habit, something he does when life sucks and he needs a pickmeup.
You do notice five years later when you’re under him, face burrowed into the pillows as he moves from leaning over your back. He’s buried deep in you, cock stretching you wide. You can feel it twitching against your walls, pulsing with need.
When you spare a glance back at Clark, you notice his blue eyes are a bit hazy.
“Clark! Are you using x-ray vision?!”
He turns bright red, babbling at how pretty you look inside, how snug you’re clenching his cock. He emphasizes each word with a small thrust. “There, see? You fluttered. Gosh baby, you’re so wet.” Clark babbles, hips thrusting faster and harder. You can’t protest when he’s fucking you so good you’re drooling, twitching under him. His x-ray vision means he can see every reaction, and nudge his cock against that one spot again and again and again.
It would be your favorite power of Clark’s, if it wasn’t for the flight ;)
Clark Kent is, definitively, absolutely, the best boyfriend you’ve ever had. Keeps a mental list of your usual orders so he can pick you up food if you have a rough day. He remembers little things you say, from coworker drama to anecdotes from your childhood. He always complimets you on new makeup or a haircut or shoes, or if you stepped out of your comfort zone. He’s just a good boyfriend. The best. He prides himself on it.
So of course, as a good boyfriend, he wants to make sure you have the best day you can, every day. Sometimes he’ll get up early to get your clothes ready and breakfast made, pack your lunch. Sometimes he’ll even grab breakfast from your favorite place when he knows you need a pick me up. And they all work of course. Clark gets to see that beautiful smile and bright eyes as a reward.
But there’s one method that works the best.
Most mornings, he’ll wake up first with you in his arms, buried under the covers. He gets to watch the sunlight play across your angelic face, cheeks warm from sleep and soft lips in a little smile. He’s gotta be the best boyfriend he can be. Gotta make sure you have the best day.
So Clark reluctantly unwraps his arms and shuffles downwards under the covers. You’re both naked. Clark’s too enamored with skin to skin contact, and you’re just as needy. He nudges your legs apart just enough to accommodate his shoulders, pressing little kisses on the skin.
Clark gets to work quickly. His tongue licks a wide stripe up your cunt, flat and wet. Sleep had made you smell warm, a bit musky. Perfect. He lets out a groan as his tongue works its way into your hole. Your pussy clenches back like its saying hello, like saying it missed Clark. You let out a sleep-addled whimper as Clark’s tongue begins to move, thrusting in and out, flaring wider, licking at the gummy walls. His thumb rubs at your clit, circles in time with each thrust. He leaves your fluttering hole for a moment just to press a good morning kiss on your engorged clit, give it a few licks and sucks. The sucks have you gasping. You can feel the pull, the pleasure shaking your core.
“Clark-“ You writhe awake, but his free arm is draped like a restraint across your hips.
“No squirming…” Clark mumbles. “Gotta have my breakfast.”
You gush onto his tongue, squirts of arousal as he preps you. When he’s deemed you ready, Clark sits up enough to notch his head. Not all the way, just enough for you to feel the stretch.
“Hngh- Clark!” Your back arches off the bed, hands scrambling at his arms. You feel your pussy throb around the intrusion, a bit sore from the hurried prep. But each pulse tries to pull his cock in.
“You gonna have a good day?” Clark mumbles, pressing kisses across your face.
“Huh- uh huh-“ Your hips jut up, trying to notch him deeper.
“You’re gonna do so good on your presentation, okay?” Clark groans as his cock begins to work deeper into you, stretching you out as his head pops in. You can feel the heaviness of his cock filling you, each throbbing vein matching up deliciously with the walls of your pussy. “You did so good when we- oh, darling- practiced it, yeah?”
“But-“
Clark shakes his head firmly and bottoms out. He throws your legs around his waist. “No buts, darling. You are gonna have a great day, and I’m gonna make sure of it. Just lie there and take it.”
He begins to move. Clark knows exactly how you like it, of course. Deep, slow thrusts that have pleasure shooting up your spine and toes curling. Little plaps as precum and arousal mix in your sloppy hole until it dribbles down his heavy balls. His head nudging your cervix just enough so your breath leaves in little whines and gasps. Hands firm around your waist.
“Are you gonna have a good day?” Clark huffs again between thrusts. His hair is all messy, frizzy from sleep with curls flopping across his furrowed forehead. He has his eyes roaming over your bouncing body. “C’mon baby, tell me, you aren’t already cockdrunk?” His hand gently taps your cheek.
You blink past a hazy vision and nod. “Gonna have the best day…”
Clark grins, relieved. He puts your legs over his shoulders and leans forward to kiss you deeply, tongues intertwined in a messy dance as his hips speed up. Your legs twitch. “Good girl.”
His thrusts have the knot in your stomach tightening fast. The mating press is too much. He’s too big, cock too heavy, the pleasure having you short circuiting and gushing as you cum hard.
Later, you’ll have the best presentation of your career, with praise from your colleagues and your boss being proud. You do have the best day ever. And your puffy sore pussy leaking his cum is evidence of who helped you.
After his first experience with your portal pussy, Clark’s become a bit… attached. It rarely sees the inside of your nightstand now; Clark always has it in his briefcase or backpack. And since you’re always wearing the panties, he can always take it out for a little peek at his pretty pussy. Sometimes, he’ll even take it out in the bathroom stalls. Lick a bit, to sate his thirst for it.
It’s a rare time when Clark is at home, and you’re out. You were busy running errands. Clark’s not used to being home alone. Krypto’s not even here.
With a heavy sigh, he plops right back onto the couch, the familiar blue metal disc in his hands. He unscrews the lid.
Your pretty pearl and folds sit inside, perfect. There’s even a bit of wetness from you and Clark’s early morning sex, cum dribbling from your hole.
After that first session, you and Clark had talked more about consent. Any time you were wearing the panties, Clark could do whatever he wanted. So Clark slides the tip of his cock up and down your seam. It’s warm and slippery. Clark notches the head of his cock right into your fluttering hole, and groans as he slides right in.
You immediately feel it in the middle of the grocery store. That perfect stretching sensation, the heft and fullness that came from Clark. You expect him to move, but he just stays there. It appears it’s a cockwarming sesson. So you go about your day as his cock is nestled perfectly inside, a reminder of how much Clark loves his gift.
you told katsuki you were a virgin much before your relationship started, and thankfully katsuki was actually pretty nervous about that shit anyways, mostly cause he was a little bitch deep down but also because he was terrified of hurting or scaring you off. sooo, you had time to get comfortable around him before you had to start worrying about sex. it didn’t worry katsuki either, not at the start of your relationship atleast. but when the time started to get around three months of dating, he was losing control. the more inlove and consumed he became .. the more harder trying to control the urges he promised he buried down became.
it became so bad nearly everything you did made him hard. you had this natural purity about you, the idea of corrupting and taking your virginity .. being the first to bury himself inside of you. it fucking ruined him.
the kitchen glowed with a soft warmth, sunlight spilling through the windows while the stove filled the room with gentle heat. beside you, katsuki moved around the counter with rolled sleeves and flour-dusted hands, making the whole space feel warmer than it had any right to.
you wanted to help him make dinner, obviously your help consisted of you standing there watching him stir the sauce. “yknow your a great help.” he muttered dryly, sarcasm coating his words as his eyes flicked to you. “you literally won’t even let me help.” his response was an eye roll but the corner of his lips quirked into a smile. mindlessly, he dipped two of his thick fingers into the sauce the consistency thick against his digits. “oo— i wanna try!” you stated, he stood back expecting you to do anything other then grab his hand and wrap your mouth around his fingers, your tongue flattened beneath his fingers gently sucking on the seasoning.
you’d think for katsuki he’d have some cocky reaction, but he just froze. unable to process the blooming feeling in his stomach. he didn’t feel like he was in control of the situation, blush coated his cheeks much more obvious then he’d like to admit, internally he swore he could feel all the blood rush to his cock as the hardening length strained against the fabric of his boxers.
his eyebrows were slightly pulled inwards as a little sound left his throat but the second your eyes met the weakened red ones looking at you, his composure pulled back. you had to manually pull his fingers from your mouth with your hand
watching in real time as his head almost dropped. “i-i uh gotta go to the bathroom. jus- stay here.” he muttered all the usual dry strain in his voice had melted down into a clearer sorta more aware vocality.
you hummed as he walked off, slowly smiling to yourself because it was just so easy to get to katsuki and you knew the second you let him on you he’d be fucking you senseless, you’ve always wondered how long can katsuki bakugo really hold out for?
don’t kill me cause it isn’t jaw droppingly freaky
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 - Y/N jokingly tells Tom they should break up, expecting a reaction. Instead, Tom flatly refuses to believe her. Having seen enough of the future to know they end up together, he treats the idea as completely impossible. To him, a breakup simply doesn't fit reality, making Y/N's prank fail almost immediately.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 -requested by anon: "have you ever written a break up prank fic? i love ur writing and think it would be hilarious"
Y/N had thought it would be funny, that was the problem.
The entire prank had started because Mattheo had laughed and said, “You know what would be hilarious? Pretend to break up with Tom.”
In hindsight, taking relationship advice from Mattheo was always a terrible idea. Because now Y/N was standing in an empty classroom staring at her boyfriend.
Who was staring back. “…What?” Tom asked.
Y/N almost backed out immediately. Almost. Instead she crossed her arms and forced herself to continue. “I think we should break up.”
Silence.
Tom blinked, once, twice. Then, nothing. No anger, no argument, no reaction at all.
For about three seconds.
Then every door in the room slammed shut. The lock clicked. Several wards appeared across the walls.
And Tom stood up.
Y/N immediately regretted everything.“…Tom?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead he started pacing, one end of the room, then the other. Then back again.
Y/N watched him but he kept pacing. “…Tom.”
Still nothing
His hands were folded behind his back now, which somehow made everything worse because that was what he did when he was thinking.
And Tom Riddle thinking was always dangerous.
Finally he stopped. “No.”
Y/N blinked.“…No?”
“No.”
“Tom—”
“No.”
“Thomas.” That got his attention immediately.
He turned toward her, looking genuinely confused. Like she’d suggested something impossible. “My future self didn’t tell me this.”
Y/N froze.
Tom continued pacing.“You and I are supposed to be together forever.”
Y/N stared because Tom was serious. Entirely serious. “I’ve met our children.”
Y/N’s stomach dropped because he had.
Mattheo, Delphini, Marvolo, Albus, The twins and even Aurelia. All of them.
Tom stopped again, his expression tightened. “I’ve met all seven of them.”
Y/N winced as Tom looked genuinely offended by reality itself. “Not one of them mentioned this.”
“…Tom.”
“Not one.”
“Tom.”
“I specifically asked.”
“You specifically interrogated them.”
“Same thing.”
Y/N covered her face. This had gone so much worse than she’d expected.
Tom started pacing again.“You don’t leave.”
Y/N lowered her hands.“What?”
“You don’t.” His voice was firm, he voice was certain. Like he was reciting a fact, like gravity, saying like the sky being blue. “You stay.”
Y/N’s heart hurt a little. Because suddenly this wasn’t funny anymore. “My love, I didn’t mean to hurt you. “
Tom wasn’t angry. He was panicking, trying very hard not to, trying to solve it logically, trying to make reality fit what he’d already seen. “You didn’t hurt me,” he said immediately.
Which meant she absolutely had.
“You didn’t.”
“Tom—”
“I’ve simply identified an inconsistency.”
Y/N nearly laughed. Only Tom Riddle would call heartbreak an inconsistency.
Tom rubbed his forehead. “No.” There was that word again.
Then suddenly he stopped pacing, his eyes narrowed and Y/N watched the exact moment he convinced himself. “It’s a prank.”
“…”
Tom pointed at her. “It’s a prank.”
Y/N blinked.“…Tom.”
“It’s obviously a prank.”
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Tom ignored that. “It’s a prank.” Then he nodded, once. Like he’d solved a difficult equation. “That’s what this is.”
Y/N looked at him. Looked at the boy she loved. The boy who had accidentally seen enough of the future to know she never left.
The boy who looked far too relieved to have found an explanation and suddenly she felt awful.“…It is.”
Tom immediately relaxed, not fully, but enough. “There.”
Y/N laughed weakly. “There?”
“There.” Tom looked pleased with himself, like he’d solved the mystery. “You aren’t leaving.”
Y/N shook her head. “No.”
“Obviously.”
Y/N smiled.
“Obviously.”
Tom looked vindicated, then crossed the room in about three strides. Wrapped his arms around her and refused to let go.
Y/N laughed. “Tom.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“You are staying right here.”
“I’m literally in your arms.”
“Good.”
Y/N buried her face against his shoulder.
Tom tightened his hold slightly, as if making extra sure.
“You know,” she said quietly, “most people would’ve just been upset.”
“I was upset.”
“You locked the door.”
“I was thinking.”
“You warded the room.”
“Precautionary.”
“You paced for ten minutes.”
“I was processing.”
Y/N laughed harder.
Tom looked down at her, then sighed, “You are not allowed to do that again.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “You frightened me.” That made her pause because Tom rarely admitted things like that.
Y/N immediately reached up and cupped his face. “I’m sorry.”
Tom leaned into her hand automatically. “I know.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“I know.” Y/N smiled.
Tom stared at her for another second then finally kissed her forehead, long and lingering.
Still holding her. Still refusing to let go and Y/N suspected he wasn’t planning to let go for several hours.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 - While reading and walking, Aurelia accidentally falls into the portal and meets her younger parents and instantly regrets everything.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 -wanted more portal fics.
Aurelia Riddle had one major advantage over all of her siblings. She never went looking for the portal.
Mattheo had, Delphini had and Marvolo definitely had. The twins had practically lived inside it. But Aurelia? Aurelia had grown up with it.
She'd seen every memory, every conversation, every ridiculous moment of her parents' relationship so many times she could probably perform the entire thing from memory.
Which was why she never bothered anymore.
Unfortunately, the portal apparently took that personally. Because one afternoon, while walking through Hogwarts with her nose buried in a book, Aurelia accidentally walked straight into it.
She didn't even notice at first, she turned a page and kept reading.
Turned another page, walked around a corner, then immediately walked into someone. "Sorry," Aurelia said automatically.
The other person said exactly the same thing.
Aurelia froze, slowly lowered her book and sighed. "...Of course."
Because standing in front of her was her mother. Except this Y/N looked seventeen, still in Hogwarts robes and just like her reading while walking.
Aurelia closed her eyes briefly. "Right."
Y/N blinked then tilted her head. "...Do I know you?"
Aurelia immediately recognised the expression. The same one she made whenever she was confused. "Oh, that's unfortunate."
"What is?"
Before Aurelia could answer, she backed up. Directly into someone else. A solid chest, hitting a prefect badge. And hearing a very familiar voice. "You've walked into two people in less than thirty seconds."
Aurelia looked up and sighed harder. "...Dad."
Young Tom Riddle blinked then frowned. Because apparently his genetics were stronger than expected.
Because the girl standing in front of him looked suspiciously familiar. Same eyes, same expression and same dramatic sigh.
And suddenly everything clicked, Tom closed his eyes. "...I can see that."
Aurelia pointed at him. "Don't."
"I haven't said anything."
"You figured it out."
"You called me Dad."
"Details."
From further down the corridor came another voice. "Love?"
Both Aurelia and Tom looked up as Y/N was walking toward them. One hand resting on her very pregnant stomach while the other balancing three books.
Aurelia immediately smiled because she'd seen this before. Many times.
Y/N stopped beside Tom, then looked at Aurelia. "...Aurelia?"
Aurelia groaned. "Seriously?"
Y/N stared. "You were five yesterday."
Aurelia rubbed her forehead. "That was six years ago."
"For you."
"Yes."
"For me it was yesterday."
"Unfortunately."
Y/N looked delighted while Tom looked resigned and Aurelia looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her. "I wasn't supposed to run into you."
Tom folded his arms. "I gathered that."
"I was trying to leave."
"You walked into us."
"I was reading."
Both parents immediately nodded. "Oh."
"That explains it."
Aurelia pointed. "See?"
Y/N laughed while Tom looked mildly offended pointing to his daughter. "You got that habit from her."
Y/N rolled her eyes, then looked at Aurelia again. Really looked and suddenly her expression softened. Because despite the age difference she knew this was her daughter.
Aurelia immediately recognised the look. The Mum Look, her emotional one. "No."
Y/N laughed. "I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was not."
"You absolutely were."
Tom looked between them, then nodded. "She was."
"Thank you."
"I regret helping."
Aurelia grinned while Y/N shook her head. Then reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Aurelia's ear like it was pure instinct.
Aurelia immediately melted, then remembered she was supposed to be leaving.
She stepped backward. "Well."
Y/N smiled. "Well."
"Nice seeing you again."
Again.
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
Tom sighed. "Don't ask."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
Aurelia leaned forward and kissed her mother on the cheek, then her father. Tom froze still new to all this, while Y/N looked emotional.
Aurelia immediately regretted it. "Right." Then she picked her book back up, turned around and started walking.
Still reading, straight toward the portal. Like none of this had happened.
Y/N watched her go. "That's definitely our daughter."
Tom looked incredibly pleased, unfortunately. "Obviously."
Y/N rubbed her stomach absentmindedly because Mattheo kicked.
And Immediately. Tom's attention snapped downward. His hand moved to her stomach. "You need to sit."
"I'm fine."
"You've been standing."
"I've been standing for five minutes."
"Five dangerous minutes."
Y/N laughed. "You fuss too much."
"You are carrying my child."
"Our child."
"My point stands."
Y/N smiled fondly, then glanced back.
Aurelia was almost at the portal now.
Tom followed her gaze, then quietly murmured, "About thirty years, I think."
Y/N frowned. "What?"
"Nothing." Tom immediately looked innocent.
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
Tom guided her forward. "No questions."
Aurelia was walking while reading again. She turned a page, atepped forward and immediately collided with someone.
The first-year bounced back with a startled yelp. “Oh! Sorry, Riddle.”
Aurelia blinked slowly over her book. “…You should be.”
The boy froze, then slowly looked past her because standing twenty feet away was the actual Y/N Riddle. Very pregnant and very much not Aurelia.
The first-year looked back at Aurelia, then back at Y/N. Then back at Aurelia and somehow became even more confused.
Because now his brain was trying to solve several impossible problems at once.
The girl in front of him looked exactly like Y/N. But she wasn't pregnant. And she wasn't wearing Slytherin robes.
The boy looked at Aurelia wearing the Ravenclaw uniform.
The boy pointed at Y/N. "Lily?"
And she definitely wasn't Lily because Lily was a Hufflepuff.
He squinted. "You're wearing Ravenclaw robes."
Aurelia closed her eyes, briefly. "I am."
His face went completely white. "...I don't get it?"
The first-year looked like he was questioning reality. His brain visibly stopped functioning. "...Wait."
Aurelia sighed.
The first-year suddenly stepped back. “I’m—sorry—I think I’m lost.”
“You are,” Y/N confirmed gently.
“Completely,” Tom added.
Tom turned to his daughter. “Try not to walk into anyone else.”
“I only walked into one person.”
“That’s one too many.”
Aurelia decided she was done, she didn't lower her book. Didn't explain, didn't even look up. She simply sighed and lifted one finger.
The air beside her immediately shimmered and a familiar glowing doorway appeared beside her. The portal.
The first-year screamed. A loud, horrified, absolutely panicked scream.
Y/N immediately doubled over laughing.
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose.
The first-year pointed frantically at the portal, then at Aurelia, then at Y/N. Then at Tom.
His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing came out.
Aurelia turned a page in her book, stepped through the portal and disappeared. The doorway vanished behind her.
Silence.
The first-year made a strangled noise, then another, then a third.
Tom sighed. Slowly withdrew his wand and before the boy could have what was clearly going to be a very unfortunate breakdown. "Obliviate."
The spell hit instantly, the first-year blinked. Looked around and then frowned."...Why am I standing here?"
"Wrong corridor," Tom said smoothly.
"Oh."
The boy nodded, just accepted that immediately and wandered off.
Y/N was still laughing.
Tom watched the student disappear around the corner before tucking his wand away. Then, without missing a beat, his attention returned exactly where it belonged.
To Y/N. more specifically to the hand resting on her stomach.
Mattheo kicked.
Tom immediately noticed. His expression softened instantly. "Did you feel that?"
Y/N smiled."Yes, love."
Tom moved closer automatically. One hand settling carefully against her stomach. The other hovering near her back. Just in case.
Y/N rolled her eyes fondly. "I'm fine."
"You were laughing."
"That's not dangerous."
"You nearly bent in half."
"I was laughing."
Tom looked unconvinced while Y/N laughed again. Which somehow made him more concerned. "Sit down."
"I'm not sitting down."
"You should."
"I'm perfectly fine." Tom was already guiding her toward the common room anyway.
summary: flirting with your hot neighbour comes easy to you, but obviously you're never actually going to make a move. at least, until you find out a little secret.
wc: 1k
cw: both reader and clark are pervs
Clark doesn’t need to know you to know you’re important. He’s learned your lifestyle by looking at you through your apartment windows, directly parallel to his own. You have a standard routine; you get up early in the morning, walking back and forth between your bedroom and the living room many times in different states. The first time you’ll always be in your pyjamas, opening the door to the balcony to let the fresh air into your apartment. When you reappear from your bedroom the second time, you’ll be dressed, placing your work bag onto the couch whilst you prepare everything else for the upcoming day. You’ll return from your kitchen with a tupperware that you shove into your bag, but Clark can tell you often skip breakfast. He sees you walk back home sometimes — either whilst he’s walking to his own place or when he’s enjoying a warm cup of tea on his own balcony, which is much smaller than yours.
Sometimes you bring your dinner out onto the balcony with you. It’s often a home made meal; other times, you’ll have a bag of takeout and lay back on your cushioned chair that you keep covered when you’re inside. A lot of those times Clark will be having his own dinner outside, on the single plastic chair that barely fits between the door and the railing. Eye contact between you isn’t rare, and Clark always raises a hand up to wave at you with a friendly smile, watching as you return the movements with equal companionship.
He wonders if you return this curiosity. Do you sometimes look into Clark’s window, wondering what sort of life he leads, and do you often guess to yourself what his job is and his hobbies are? Does Clark look like a journalist to you or do you think he works in something boring like finance? He doesn’t think he cares, as long as the image you have of him isn’t negative.
But there’s a side to Clark that isn’t so innocently curious about you. Many nights, he wonders what your neighbour on the other side of the building experiences. The side of the building where your bedroom is located, big windows going up and down the wall to offer whoever lives across from you a beautiful view. Clark has seen you in your pyjamas, but he briefly wonders if you walk around in your underwear at night before sleeping. He asks himself if you frequently bring men over, and if you keep the curtains open while you have sex with them.
Do you grant that neighbour such a view? Or are you wary of your surroundings, tightly shutting your curtains the second the sun sets, or grabbing your clothes and changing in the bathroom so no one can get a glimpse of you.
All these thoughts without knowing what goes through your head. He doesn’t know that you wish every night that your bedroom faced his apartment and not the one belonging to the divorced woman in her late forties. He doesn’t know how much you wish you could tease him by stripping your clothes in front of your open window every night, leaving a trail of garments on the floor as you make your way to your closet, finally pulling out your short night gown and pulling it over your body. If only he could be the one you’d get to lay your eyes on at night, wandering around his bedroom shirtless. You bet he has a beautiful set of abs hidden underneath his graphic shirts — you can tell when he strips from his heavy blazers into his comfortable clothing that he has muscles for days. You’re too afraid to take your courage to the living room, even though you know it doesn’t make much difference at all.
Would it hurt to just invite him over? Wave at him from across the street and shout from your balcony for him to join you for dinner? He’d probably say yes. He waves at you from his balcony everyday after all. Maybe you can try a paper airplane. Fly it over to his balcony and have him fall in love with you. Jot your number down in bold on the paper.
Whatever. You can’t complain about not having him when you won’t do anything about it. When you don’t even know his name.
But you never know, maybe a better opportunity will come by than the man who lives across the road from you. Maybe there will be a man in shining armour who’ll fly onto your balcony one day while catching his breath, taking a short break from fighting crime and monsters. Maybe he’ll wear a red cape that will swing back and forth on your balcony, and he’ll hear someone’s breath hitch behind him as they come onto the balcony. Maybe Superman will apologise, hopping off your railing and floating in front of your balcony, and you’ll vigorously shake your head, offering him the glass of water you were taking to enjoy the warm weather on your balcony.
“Please, sit down.” You’ll insist, and he’ll obey your words, gratefully taking the water from you.
“Can I ask why a cape?” You’ll eventually ask after a moment of silence, and that’s when Clark will find out you work in fashion, watching with enticement as you take the fabric of his cape between your fingers, humming at its softness.
And when Clark will leave, maybe he won’t notice you watching from where you’re hidden behind your kitchen counter, your jaw dropping when he flies over into his apartment, just across from yours, letting you find out his biggest secret. But of course, you’ll keep your mouth, deciding in that moment to become friendlier with your neighbour, because fuck, you think he’s hot, and he’s superman.
so uhhh i need more(i think we alllll do) of bucky cumming in his sleep because of the build up. it gets me so hot i just- omg anywayssss
so no pressure, but a thought kinda popped into my mind. maybe reader is buck’s roommate or maybe they share a floor in the tower together(your choice obviously), but reader hears him one night & decides to go check up on him & what she finds is NOT what she expected. he’s soaked in his cum & his body is just glistening with a sheen of sweat. he’s moaning & groaning, gripping onto the pillow his head is on with one hand as he ruts into the bunched up comforter beside him. reader instantly gets horny(of course she does, like who wouldn’t?) but she decides to wake him up.
when she does, he’s fucking embarrassed….& he’s a mess- rambling about how sorry he is that he woke her up. but she just wants to help him because now she’s fucking turned on & cannot sleep with that image of him sewn into her brain.
if you end up doing this/writing something to this, you can decide on how she helps him. i know whatever you come up with will be DEVINE & will make us ALL horny. so i’ll leave you with this🥰
No I swear, this is my favourite thought in the world right now, I can’t stop thinking about it holy shit 🥵 Minors, do not interact
Like even just living on the same floor of the tower as Bucky and one night you’re walking past his room and you hear whimpers and pained groans coming from inside.
You know he’s troubled. You know nighttime is tough on him and you know that if you were having a rough night, he would be straight in to help you so you don’t even think twice about cracking the door open and peeking inside
But this wasn’t the kind of rough night you were expecting at all
No, instead, Bucky’s writhing on the bed totally naked, abs tight, groans strained. His flesh hand is squeezing the pillow beneath his head but his bare chest and abdomen are just dripping cum. It’s everywhere, rolling down his sides onto the perfect white sheets beneath him. His cock is still spurting endlessly, twitching as it pumps thick rivers of fluid from his aching tip, over his own naked body. His face is screwed up in pleasure and it’s absolutely the sexiest sight you’ve ever come across in you life.
But he’s asleep. And not even touching himself.
His hair is stuck to his sweaty forehead and you’re surprised his own grunts haven’t woken him, his hips bucking wildly off the bed as the orgasm finally subsides.
But his face doesn’t relax. While the steady stream of cum has eased, his dick hasn’t softened at all, his balls still painfully full. His metal hand had been fisted up in the duvet and before you know it, he’s rolled over onto his side, bundling the duvet up and humping it, slowly at first.
He can’t stifle his need, the pool of cum now spilling all over the clean duvet cover as he grinds shamelessly against the sheet. His moans are so sweet, dripping with desperation and longing. His hips rut even faster than you could’ve thought possible, chasing another high. After a moment, he reaches it with a little shout, presumably pumping another thick, excessive load of cum into the duvet.
The huge man is a wreck, still fucking the comforter, despite the fact you just saw him finish twice (and who knows how many times before you entered the room).
“Mhm fuck, ‘s good.” His eyes are screwed shut, sheer bliss on his face while he tries to drag himself closer to another release but you can’t let him. He can’t spill any more into the duvet. It’s not fair and it absolutely can’t be giving him the relief he needs. You want to help him and before you can even consider the implications it would have on your friendship, you’ve reached out, touching his back and calling his name to drag him from his sleep.
He looks so startled when he wakes up, rolling over and seeing your face, wondering if he’s still dreaming because he can’t ever admit it to you, but it was a dream about you that got him into this state.
But then he registers the shape he’s in. Naked, lying in a bed that’s flooded with his own cum. How long had you been there? Had he accidentally called your name? His only priority is to cover himself, hiding his shame and the fact he feels absolutely disgusting. He can’t even look at you, he’s so caught up in his own self hatred.
But you whisper his name and he drags his eyes up to yours and your face is so so soft. You’re not disgusted by him. You’re not embarrassed or ashamed like he is.
“I’m so sorry you had to, um…. I haven’t had a night this bad in weeks. Shit, I’m sorry.” His guilt is palpable but you stop him in his tracks.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about Bucky. It’s healthy, you need it and I’m happy to help. Any way I can.” He’s beyond shocked at your suggestion, your hand on his bare skin making him burn up.
“You can’t help me.” He whispers quietly. “The only way to make the ache stop is to cum until I can’t anymore.”
“That’s okay Bucky. If you’d like, I’ll help you take the ache away.” He can hardly believe his own ears, his cock almost answering for his brain. He’s wanted you for so long and now you’ve seen him like this and you’re making it clear that you want him too, despite what you’ve seen.
“Please. Only if you’re okay with it.” He’s nodding ever so slightly, but god, it takes everything in him not to cum again when you pull the sticky comforter back and take your little pyjamas off to straddle his throbbing length.
The moan that leaves his throat when you press your lips together is the sweetest you’ve heard yet, low and hoarse, showing just how badly he needs this.
You can’t tease him either. Neither of you need any foreplay whatsoever so why drag it out? You slide down on him with ease, a cry leaving him when he feels his oversensitive head rub against your velvety walls and he couldn’t even have dreamed you’d feel this good.
“O-oh, please tell me you’re on birth control.” He’s literally about to cum from this one smooth glide, his sweaty head buried in the crook of your neck.
“I am Bucky don’t worry. Can fill me as many times as you like.” It only takes two little rolls of your hips for him to explode with a whimper, his seed leaking from you, mingling with the mess already coating both of your bodies.
“G-god there’s so much cum. Fuck, you’re full already.” He flips you over onto your back to give you the slowest, sweetest thrusts. He does his very best to make sure that you cum as many times as he does after that and a few hours later when his cock finally softens, you have a tender shower together to clean each other up before both of you head up the hall to your room to sleep on some fresh sheets.
So when someone with a penis goes years without releasing, they have something called "nighttime emissions." Aka jizzing in your sleep to get rid of buildup. So bucky would absolutely have constant wet dreams, esp after 80+ years of no ejaculating.. Like if he has any dreams (rather than nightmares or dreamless sleep) theyre wet dreams.
so like......... in the same vein of needy bucky... just waking up to bucky having a wet dream, whimpering & grinding against your ass 😳😳😳🥴
So um… It turns out… You’re my twin? Because I can’t stop thinking about this whole concept omfg, needy!Bucky owns me 😫
Minors, do not interact. Warnings: somnophilia with previously established consent
Tiny little whimpers pulled you from your sleep, the bed practically shaking underneath you and your first thought was absolute panic. Bucky had to be having another nightmare, a violent one. One he couldn’t shake by himself.
“Oh, f-fuck, yes.” Your sleepy brain registered his little ragged cry and then you felt his hard, thick length, rutting against the swell of your ass and oh, he absolutely wasn’t having a nightmare.
Your ass was sticky and wet and there would be no way to tell how many times he’d cum over you already in his sleep but by the look of things, it was a lot, his boxers were practically saturated, helping him glide against you.
His fingers gripped at your hips, pulling his body impossibly closer to yours. You heard him groan, loud and low in his throat, hips stuttering like he was close again
But shit, you couldn’t let him waste one more drop of cum. That’s all should’ve been inside you and you were determined to take anything else he’d be able to give you.
Bucky groaned at the loss of contact when you pulled back, pushing his sopping wet boxers down to free his still hard, aching cock.
Cum smeared everywhere as you started to jerk him slowly, eventually stopping so he could thrust into your hand. You couldn’t wait any longer so instead, you shifted your little spoiled panties to the side, angling him so he was lined up to your soaked entrance.
You’d never forget the groan that left him as he breached your little hole. “Mhm, gonna cum.” He whimpered in his sleep. “Oh, please let me cum.”
He was hardly even inside you and he was ready to cum again. Rather than drag it out though, you pressed your ass down, flush with his body and that finished him. His hips stuttered, a groan left him as he filled you up, eyes fluttering open at the feeling of sheer ecstasy.
“Oh-oh my god, oh no angel I’m so sorry.” Bucky was mortified, taking in the situation in front of him but he just couldn’t stop his hips rutting into you, filling you to the brim. He didn’t think he could possibly be any more embarrassed, cum splattered over you messily while he filled you with even more. The shame burned deep in him, his face buried in the crook of your neck, almost hiding from reality
“Don’t be sorry. Ah, s-so fucking hot.” His eyes went wide at your admission. But then, fuck, he noticed how you were rubbing yourself, playing with your own clit while his sleep addled brain let his body fuck you.
“Y-you’re okay with this?” He whispered, his high subsiding but his cock not softening in the slightest.
“You need this, Bucky. ‘M yours. Use me however you want.”
He thought he’d cum again just hearing that. He really did. But instead he took a second, removing your hand and reaching over your body to replace it with his.
His fingers skimmed over your clit so quickly and efficiently you were clamping down on him in no time, his thrusts never stopping, fucking your through your high.
“Dreamt of you, ya’know? Fuck, no wonder it felt so real. Could fuckin’ smell you. You were beggin’ me for it. S-shit, that’s good. You were b-beggin’ me to fuck you. Begged me for this cock, mhm, nothin’ compares to the real thing, does it baby? No feelin’ in the world as good as cummin’ ‘nside this little body.” It didn’t take long for his thrusts to get sloppy, grunts and breathy sighs letting you know he was so close again. He was holding back though, embarrassed at how little it took for him to cum in the state he was in.
“Oh god Bucky cum for me again.” Your voice gave away how wrecked you were but you didn’t care, sheer relief washing over Bucky because he knew he couldn’t have held on much longer
“Thank you angel. Fuck, made jus’ for me. Take me so well. F-fuck yes, oh god, thank you.” He couldn’t stop himself if he tried, whines leaving him as he pressed you down on his length, filling you with so much cum you knew it was dripping out of you, only adding to the mess between your bodies.
“Jesus Bucky, that’s so hot. Fillin’ me up just like you dreamed. God, don’t stop.” His fingers dragged you into another high and fortunately for you both, his cock still didn’t soften. It was going to be a long night.
please please PLEASE more hyperspermia with joel. maybe a longer fic where he just keeps filling reader over and over and over and talking sooo filthy. maybe sprinkle in some mean joel… 😔
(need this man #raw)
One more
Parings: mean!joel miller x fem!reader
Content warnings: explicit content 18+, overstimulation, breeding kink, hyperspermia, degradation (calling reader 'milkslut', 'cumdump'), praise kink, cock bulge/belly bulge, cum inflation/swollen belly, hair pulling and slapping, possessive and mean!joel, choking (consensual), dirty talk, use of pet names 'babygirl' and 'sweetheart, excessive cum play, potential physical exhaustion/weakness of reader.
Word count: 1000
Your body's already trembling neath him, the sheets ruined, soaked with sweat and slick and cum, but dosent stop.
He can't.
He needs it.
Needs you. Like this.
He mutters something under his breath, something low and filthy and before gripping your hip, hauling you up onto your side. You're pliant, twitching, a gasp trapped in your throat as he rolls you, presses his chest to your back and sinks back inside your slick, aching cunt.
Slow. Deep. Possessive.
"Fuck- joel-"
"Shh. Shh, baby. I know."
His voice is all gravel and heat, right at your ear as he presses his palmdown over your belly. "Just one. Just need one."
But it's never just one with him.
He drives in again. And again.
Thick and hard and dripping wet, dragging the mess of himself lit of you, only to bury it back in with a bruising slap of skin. You're so full, streched wide and trembling as he fucks his cum deeper and deeper inside. "So fuckin' tight," Joel grits out, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your shouler. "You feel that, sweetheart? That's all me. All that mess dripping down your thighs. Fuckin- look at you." He fists your hair and makes you lift your head just enough to see the bulge in your stomach, his cock, thick and swollen, pushing up against the swell in your belly as he pistons inside you.
"Milkslut," He growls.
"That what you wanted? That why you were beggin' earlier, grindin' all needy on meoke some dumb little bitch in heat?"
You whimper, tears spilling. It's too much- but you crave every second of it. "Uh-huh," He smirks, breathing hot filth into your skin.
"You like being red, don't you? Like gettin' filled up, leaking all over the fuckin' sheets like a messy little whore." His voice drops, darker now. The pace is brutal. The sound of your soaked pussy clapping against his hips is loud in the room,arched only by your stuttering moans.
"Mine"
A hard thrust.
"Mine"
Another.
"Say it."
You can't even form the word, not when he's gripping your throat, not when your brain's short circuited from the pleasure, your cunt spasming around him from the fourth orgasm he's wrung our of you in the last hour.
He doesn't care.
"Say it."
"Y-Yours, Joel- oh fuck, I'm yours-"
"That's right, baby."
He slaps your ass, watching it jiggle. Watching you take it.
"Good fuckin' girl, such a good little cum dump for me. Gonna fuck a baby into you, keep you swollen all the fuckin' time."
You clench.
That breaks him.
His thrusts go sloppy as he empties into you again, groaning loud, hips grinding into the mess between your thighs, making sure mome of it leaks out. "Goddamn - take it, sweetheart. Don't spill a drop. You hear me?" Your thighs are shaking. His seed is leaking. And Joel just laughs, low and mean.
"Better get used to this, darlin'. 'Cause I ain't pullin' out ever again."
~~~
You've already lost count.
Maybe it was the third time he came- maybe the fifth. It's impossible to know anymore with how long he's kept you pinned, stuffed full of his cock, held there like a ragdoll while he fucks you into the mattress. His chest is slick with sweat, body heavy and burning against your back as he thrusts up into you, rutting slow and deep. Every movement makes your cunt squelch loud, messy, soaked in his cum and slick and spit and who the fuck knows what else.
"You hear that?"
Joel bites your earlobe as he pushes in to the hilt.
"You fucking hear that, baby? That's me pourin' into you again"
And he is.
You feel it.
Another thick gush floods you as he groans, hips grinding in tight, desperate circles, pumping rope after rope of heat so deep it makes your eyes flutter back. The pressure builds in your belly, a warmth that spreads slow, growing fuller, heavier, deeper.
"Shit- fuck," You whimper, voice shaking. "Its- joel- it's too much, I can't-"
"You can, sweetheart. You will."
He smirks into your neck, teeth grazing skin. "This cunt's made to take it. My messy little milkslut."
Your belly's swollen now, soft and rounded where his cock bulges up through your skin. His hand spreads wide over it, pressing down just enough to feel himself from the inside. "Fuckin' look at this," Be growls, voice dropping filth.
"Can feel my cock through your tummy. You're so fuckin' full, babygirl. Stuffed to the brim and still takin' it. "
He pulls back just an inch only to ram in again.
A squirt of cum spills from between your thighs. It's not the first time. Wont be the last.
"There it is. Can't even hold it anymore."
He watches it leak down your ass, pooling beneath you on the sheets.
"Made my own little cumdump. Look at that mess. So greedy for it. "
Another thrust. You sob into the pillow, overstimulated and burning. Your thighs are shaking, soaked with slick and sweat and his endless release.
"Gotta keep fuckin' it back in"
He shoves deeper, groaning.
"I ain't done. Not 'till I plug you ful. 'till there's no room left in that little pussy of yours."
You're whimpering, clawing weakly at the sheets.
"Say it," He grits out, slapping your plump red ass.
"Say what you are."
"I'm- I'm your- your milkslut," You gasp, breath hitching.
"Fuck Joel- I'm your filthy little milkslut-"
"Good fuckin' girl."
Another load floods you. Thick, hot, endless. Your belly streches a little more beneath his hand and Joel moans sl deep it rumbles against your back. "That's it. Take it. Take every last fuckin' drop." When he finally stops moving, cock still twitching inside you, you feel it. The sheer weight of him isndid. How soaked you are, how ruined.
But Joel just keeps you there. Plugged full, your cunt fluttering weakly around him.
You're shaking.
He laughs softly and strokes your belly.
"Gonna knock you up real good this time, babygirl."
i don't usually take requests, but this was pretty hot 🤭
18+ mdni, smut
the super-soldier serum had its perks when it came to sex. bucky never tired; he could hold you up and easily maneuver your body for his pleasure. but the last thing he ever expected to come with the serum—along with becoming a nuisance—was hyperspermia.
when he climaxed, it was a lot.
it was overwhelming, and frankly, very annoying to clean up.
bucky tried using condoms to avoid practically drowning you in his cum, but most of the time, they'd slip right off because of how quickly he'd pump the rubber full. so, he just gave up and decided he would try to pull out right before he came.
and each time he did, his rough hand would blur over his shaft as he pumped himself to climax, spilling his warm, thick seed all over your belly, shooting high enough to nearly hit your collarbone and chin—making you flinch.
"jesus," he'd rasp, catching his breath. "goddamnit. i did it again. god, look at you. you're covered in cum—i'm so sorry, baby. let me grab a towel and clean you up—"
"bucky," you'd chuckle, trying to sit up, but it only made his release dribble down your navel and onto the sides of your stomach. "it's fine—"
before you could finish, he'd quickly scramble off the bed, face red with embarrassment, to grab a clean towel.
this was the same routine every time you two had sex. and for once, you wanted him to come inside. you wanted to feel all of him, especially since you knew just how much bucky wanted to fill you up too; he was just holding himself back.
the next day, bucky had you pinned to the mattress, the poor bedframe creaking and groaning as he fucked you deep against the soft cushions.
"god, you feel so fucking good, baby," bucky moaned. "fuck."
he was close, you could feel it. he was pulsing, throbbing, and his movements were sloppy and uneven.
he drew his hips back just slightly, and you knew he was going to try and pull out.
but before he could, your legs—trembling and shaking—quickly wrapped around his hips, nudging him back against your pelvis as he slammed into you with one hard thrust.
"oh my god—!" he gasped, his body collapsing and enveloping yours as he lost his balance. "jesus—baby. what are you doing? you know i can't cum inside—it's too much. you won't be able to take it—"
"i can take it," you rasped. "i can take it, bucky! please, let me try taking it all. i want to try."
"shit," he grunted. "this—this is bad, baby. this is dangerous. i'd fill you up so deep, it'll be spilling out of you. i'll make a mess, sweetheart. i can't—fuck, i can't—"
but despite his words, his hips kept grinding sloppily and lazily against yours. it was growing impossible to pull out by the second. how could he? when your breathy moans were filling his ears deliciously, and your soft legs were wrapped tight around his waist, refusing to let him go?
so with one, final hard and deep thrust that made your head spin, he let himself spill inside you.
thick, hot ropes of cum shot deep inside, filling you completely to the brim as his body shook and trembled atop you. it was a lot, and it kept going and going, but even then, your legs refused to drop from around his waist. you told him you were going to take it, and you did.
you felt every pulse, every ridge, and every throb his cock had to give you as he filled you completely until your body couldn't hold it all and it started dripping out of you and onto the mattress.
bucky's face immediately burned hot with embarrassment. he didn't even want to see the damage he'd done to you—he felt it.
"jesus christ," he mumbled into your neck, his body shaking from the aftermath of his intense orgasm that couldn't seem to subside—no matter how much he came.
"i'm sorry. i tried to pull out, but your legs—fuck. they're just so soft, and you felt too good. but you said you could take it, right?"
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Damian doesn't think he's going to understand the care you two have for each other—or him—if its thrown in his face. Too bad for him, Jason thinks, since you will be throwing that care in his face.
word cnt. 5.1k
aka ›››› "Pets count as family, why do you think I keep Jason around?" "Hey!"
There’s a knock on his door — not a polite tap, not a cautious rhythm, but a bright, bounding knock so full of irrepressible cheer that Jason doesn’t even need to breathe to know who it belongs to.
You watch Damian from across the room, elbows propped lightly against the counter as he stares at the construction paper and glue sticks, the colored pencils, crayons, paint, and glitter pens—all laid out before him like some bewildering assortment of relics. His small brow furrows in the deepest, most theatrical confusion a ten-year-old can muster.
“Did I get the wrong stuff?” you ask softly over the running water. You’re doing dishes, sleeves rolled up as you wash the fancy china bowl he insisted on bringing from the manor—declaring solemnly that it was the only vessel worthy of his dinner.
“The assignment was to draw a family tree,” Damian says with great care, as though choosing each word from a shelf. “Not to create a scrapbook.”
“You’re ten,” you remind him gently. “You can’t draw portraits. They’ll think your mother did it for you.”
“Mother is terrible at painting,” Damian mutters.
“Then Bruce.”
“Father has no eye for anything,” he huffs. “Have you seen his past suit designs?”
“Here here!” Jason chimes from the opposite side of the counter, raising a hand in lazy solidarity while tinkering with a broken gun. He hasn’t been listening—of course—but he heard the word Father said in a tone of exasperation, and that alone is enough to summon his agreement.
It’s a rainy evening, the soft kind that taps gently on windows and makes everything feel closer, warmer. Damian has wordlessly decided to stay the night. Your apartment is only one bedroom, but after your… long sleepover, Jason seems perfectly willing to share again. He looks tired, too—though you’re not entirely sure what he’s been doing today. You’ll coax it out of him later, once Damian is tucked away and dreaming.
10:00 p.m.
Only two hours until the little warrior finally begins to droop with sleep.
He doesn’t have jet lag, exactly. But he certainly isn’t like Bruce or Tim, who can fall asleep at odd hours and rise perfectly somewhat functional, and appear fine even to people who don't know them. Damian merely believes he shares that trait—and the delusion is slowly unraveling your sanity.
Jason doesn’t mind. He never does. He simply makes the room quieter and darker as the night deepens, helping guide the boy toward drowsiness simply by being present—solid, dependable, warm in a way he pretends not to be.
Inevitably, Damian always begins to sway with exhaustion. And inevitably, Jason always scoops him up with easy familiarity. And as always, when Jason tries to lay him down, the boy’s small hands cling stubbornly to Jason’s jacket, refusing to let go.
At the moment, the young boy is seated at your kitchen counter, staring down at a pack of glittery pens as though it has personally offended him. The sparkles catch the overhead light and throw tiny flecks across the counter top, but Damian’s expression remains unimpressed, bordering on resentful.
“What do I need that for?” he asks, his tone clipped with mild disgust.
“To make Dick a princess dress,” Jason calls from his stool, not looking up from the disassembled gun parts spread before him. He sounds far too pleased with himself at the quip.
Neither you nor Damian bother to respond to that.
You keep washing dishes at the sink, sleeves rolled up as warm water runs over your hands. “I just grabbed it in case you wanted options,” you say lightly.
“And why would I want this?” Damian repeats, nudging the pack of pens with one cautious finger, as if even touching it might compromise his dignity.
You shrug, glancing back over your shoulder. “You could give Titus a shiny red collar.”
There’s a small pause.
“I… I can add Titus?” Damian asks, sounding more thoughtful than before.
“Pets count as family,” you hum, rinsing off a plate. “Why do you think I keep Jason around?”
“Hey!” Jason’s voice rises in half hearted objection, but the amused edge gives him away. Oh he's going to give you a kiss for that later, hum and ask if you want him to bark just to see how you blush.
Damian crosses his arms, considering this. “I thought pets were supposed to bring joy. I cannot determine what he contributes.”
Jason decides not to mention how Damian fell asleep on him during patrol two weeks ago, curled into his side with complete trust. Jason clearly brings something. Instead, he mutters, “Maybe she likes my personality.”
“She’s certainly not here for your looks—” Damian begins, and is promptly tapped on the side of the head with the broken gun barrel. A gentle tap, more of a nudge than anything.
Damian shoots Jason a flat, unimpressed look—the sort of look only a ten-year-old with far too much dignity can manage. He knows perfectly well that if he strikes back, even with the gentlest flick, you’ll punish the whole lot of you by placing that dreadful body pillow between everyone at bedtime. The one that divides the bed like a peace treaty. The one that exiles him from the prized middle spot.
Over his dead body.
Jason only smirks wider, leaning his elbow on the counter with the confidence of a man who believes he is the most interesting thing in the room. Anywhere else he wouldn't have the audacity. But this is your house. And he is yours. “She thinks I’m hot,” he announces, as though sharing a rare scientific truth.
You don’t have to turn from the sink to know he’s grinning. You can almost feel him turning his whole torso toward you, like one of those animated characters that swivels dramatically whenever they’re fishing for attention.
“Don’t ya, babe?” he adds, far too pleased with himself.
Before you can even open your mouth, Damian swoops in neatly with, “Maybe the Lazarus Pit damaged your vision, and she’s taking pity on you.”
You pause mid-wash, letting the bubbles slip off your hands. Well. At least he didn’t bring up a crowbar and a clown. You’re counting that as growth.
Jason sits up a little straighter, ready to launch into a speech. “Okay, listen here—”
You’re already drying your hands, sensing the storm gathering.
“Jason.”
Your voice isn’t sharp, but it’s coated in that particular tone—the one that makes both men behave for at least thirty seconds. Jason freezes almost immediately, deflating with a faint huff before turning back to his scattered assortment of gun parts. They look like a mechanical jigsaw puzzle with no instructions, but he fiddles with them like they’re beads on a bracelet.
Rain taps softly at the window, a gentle percussion that fills the kitchen’s warm glow. Damian arranges his pencils and crayons with meticulous precision, as if preparing them for a formal review. Jason mutters to himself as he sorts screws into mysterious piles. And you step away from the sink, the cozy quiet settling around you like a blanket.
You step behind Jason, your fingers brushing his shoulders before sliding beneath the warm edges of his jacket. He pauses—not out of surprise, but because he always pauses when you touch him, like he wants to savor every second. When you peel the leather back, he tilts his head, leaning into you instinctively, forehead pressing against the hollow of your neck as if drawn there by gravity.
His hair tickles your skin. His breath warms your collarbone. And when he lifts his eyes to you, the confusion there is soft and almost childlike, threaded with trust. The kind of look he gives only you. As if his body reacts first—move close, lean in, breathe easier—and his brain catches up a beat later.
“Cold,” you murmur, smiling gently.
He doesn’t say a word as you press a small kiss to his forehead, just closing his eyes for the half-second your lips linger there. And when you steal his jacket and wrap it around yourself, he lets out a low, content hum, like you’ve just done something that makes the world right again. Then he bends back over the gun parts, but his shoulders stay relaxed, looser than they were before your touch.
When you glance at Damian, he’s staring in your direction with the strangest expression—wide-eyed, cautious, almost like he’s witnessing a language he hasn’t learned to speak yet. A closeness he recognizes but hasn’t figured out how to handle.
You blink back at him. “…Tea?”
“Green,” Damian says instantly—muscle memory more than thought. “Honey and—”
“Two sugars,” you finish for him. But you pause with your hand on the kettle. “Damian, what about chamomile and lavender instead tonight?”
“I will not be put to bed by tea,” he snaps back, scandalized, as if you’ve accused him of treason.
“Then you should have no problem drinking it now,” you counter in the same patient tone, shifting aside the green tea tin for the sleepy blend.
“But—”
Jason, without even looking up, adds supportively, “No caffeine after nine.”
“This isn’t your home, Todd,” Damian hisses, tiny and fierce, though the venom doesn’t quite stick when it comes from such a small, exhausted body.
“No,” you agree gently. “But it is mine. And I don't even let Tim drink coffee at all here.”
Damian mutters something that sounds like a curse in several languages mashed together, but he falls silent again, the snip-snip of his scissors returning. Jason’s quiet tinkering fills the air next to it—the rhythm of your little kitchen: soft, domestic, alive.
You take down two china cups with tiny painted robins, the porcelain thin enough that the light shines through them, and call, “Sweetie?”
Damian huffs at the same exact moment Jason hums in acknowledgment.
And then—
Silence.
Jason freezes, a gun spring halfway in his fingers. Damian’s scissors halt in mid-air. All three of you hang in the moment like it’s fragile glass.
Jason is the first to speak. “She meant me,” he informs Damian, smug but quiet, like he doesn’t want to break the spell.
You turn, finally catching the full picture: the boy’s cheeks dusted pink, eyes lowered, jaw tight like he’s embarrassed to have reacted at all. Not angry—no, not even annoyed. Just… shy. Vulnerable in that way he only ever is when affection bumps against him by accident.
“I know…” Damian whispers. Barely audible. A confession disguised as surrender.
Your chest warms. You walk closer, gentling your voice. “He’s Sweetie.” You nod toward Jason, who grins smugly into his hands. Then you point softly toward Damian. “You’re Sweetheart.”
Damian’s flush deepens almost instantly, his ears turning a shade that could only be described as flustered strawberry. He opens his mouth—likely to argue, deny, deflect—but you don’t give him the chance.
“Jason, sweetie,” you say, smiling at the way his shoulders straighten just a little, “hot chocolate?”
“Fuck yeah.” He grins up at you all toothy and happy. He loves your hot chocolate. Adores it actually. He remembers finding one of those cheap 2 dollar hot chocolate powder packets while dumpster diving when he was little. Then, it was brought home with him and he melted a plastic bowl trying to make it. He remembers a face yelling at him for it. Jason ended up eating just the powder from the packet–but back then it tasted so nice he couldn't have cared.
And now he has you.
You who makes hot chocolate from scratch and insists on buying name-brand ingredients for him whenever you go grocery shopping.
You–who even splurges on toppings like whipped creme and tiny marshmallows.
God he loves you.
Its a around fifteen minutes later your done with all three of your drinks, you set down Jason's first, kissing his cheek before moving to pour Damian's tea.
The little boy mumbles a soft thank you, but his gaze lingers on Jason's drink topped with whipped creme and marshmallows–with that drizzle of caramel that Jason weirdly loves.
“Whats that?” He whispers to you even though he has no reason to, Jason can hear everything from where hes sitting on the same kitchen island.
“Hot chocolate.” You respond softly, taking a seat next to Damian and looking down at his work so far.
Hes drawn a small image of Rāʾs al-Ghūl and a little one of a softer lady next to him–one with olive skin and a beauty mark at the corner of her eye like Talia. Its skilled heavily for someone of that age who isn't trying–like those chibis in the mangas you catch him 'borrowing' from your shelf. There is a small line going to Talia, perfectly straight. His mothers box is framed with green and purple colored pencil.
Damian wrote, ‘أم’ mother, under her drawing.
Then he erased it, you can tell from the faint line of it. And on top, he wrote ‘Mom.’ in english.
Your heart pauses for a moment at that, not even seeing the way Damian is still eyeing Jason's hot chocolate.
You tap the construction paper under Talias name, bringing his attention back to it before you say strongly, “Keep it in Arabic.”
Damian blinks at his paper and then back up at you, taking in your gaze for a moment to make sure your anger isn't placed at him. When he realizes for sure it isn't, his gaze traces back to the words ‘Mom.’ on the sheet.
“...We have to hang it up in the classroom.” He mumbles, moving to draw a box for Bruce next to Talia. He doesn't connect their boxes. You think if Bruce saw this, he'd ask him to.
“So?” Jason says—far more gently than you yourself could have managed—from the far end of the kitchen island, watching the two of you with the quiet patience of someone who has learned slowly to tread softly around tender things.
“I’d rather not deal with that,” Damian murmurs, sketching a small rectangle in crayon for Bruce’s face. His voice has grown smaller, softer, yet still carries that guarded edge he uses whenever he feels the first shadow of threat.
You say nothing, but your shoulders fall ever so slightly. Jason notices—of course he notices.
“Write it with it,” he hums at last. “Write it in Arabic, and then put ‘Mom’ next to it.”
Both you and Damian blink at him in perfect synchrony—two startled little fireflies—and the sight nearly draws a smile across Jason’s face. Damian’s eyes sharpen with thought, studying the page before him as though weighing the choice with the precision of a jeweler.
You look down at the boy, at the careful furrow of his brow as he considers the word Mom.
“How about English first…” you suggest softly, tapping the tiny frame he drew, “and you can write it in Arabic inside the frame of the pictures?”
You don’t want to push him. Gotham Academy is hardly a gentle place for a ten-year-old; its halls are full of children raised by cold hands and sharper expectations. No matter how fierce Damian might seem, he is still a child—and he is allowed to be nervous, allowed to avoid scrutiny if he wants. You will not make demands of him, even if you somehow could.
Damian nods at last, slow and deliberate, choosing a slightly darker shade of green than the one he used for Talia’s frame. With careful, practiced strokes, he writes ‘أم’ at the bottom. It is subtle—almost hidden unless one looks closely—but if one does look, truly look—and with his skill, surely anyone with a thoughtful eye will—they will see it clearly.
A warm, fragile hush, soft as the flutter of a sparrow’s wings, settles over the kitchen once more, stretching itself across the quiet space while you finish half your tea, rise from your seat with a slow, weary grace, and drift toward the cabinet as though carried by a small and invisible breeze.
Damian’s eyes remain fixed—almost stubbornly so—upon the little world he is building on the construction paper before him, while Jason’s gaze trails after you with the keen, unwavering watchfulness of someone who has learned to see the smallest changes and read them like secret messages.
You reach up into the cabinet and draw down a small collection of pill bottles—clattering softly like glassy little bells—and as you sort through them, counting with careful fingers, Jason’s brows pull together and his eyes narrow with an expression both puzzled and protective, as though the sight unsettles something deep inside him.
“You’re sick?” he mumbles in a low, uncertain voice, staring at the single pill resting in your palm as though it were a mysterious relic he is not entirely sure he wants to understand.
“It’s nothing,” you tell him in a voice so gentle and light it almost disappears into the air as you swallow the pill with the faintest lingering warmth of your tea.
“It’s not nothing—” he insists, his protest soft but earnest, as if he cannot help himself.
“Cold,” you interrupt with a soft, chiming giggle, the kind of laugh that catches in the throat like a beam of sun through curtains. “Just a cold.”
“You should have told me—” Jason begins, sounding ready to mount a gentle, half-hearted argument, but you cut him off with an ease born from long familiarity.
“Oh, please,” you say with a fond, patient roll of your eyes, closing the pillbox with a quiet click and sliding it back onto its shelf, “because you always tell me the moment you’re hurt, don’t you?”
“That’s different,” he counters, puffing out a stubborn little breath, “I can take it,” though there is no fire behind his words—no sharpness, no spite—only that soft, gruff affection he carries like a second heartbeat.
Between you both, the conversation never swells into anything cruel or bitter; no voices rise, no barbed words are flung, and no silence grows cold and heavy in the corners, for this is not the kind of home that makes storms out of raindrops. It took trial and error to get there, sure, but Jason is a quicker learner then he ever gives himself credit for.
And yet Damian watches it all unfold—the gentleness, the ease, the strange softness of it—as though he is watching a foreign country through a window, uncertain of its customs and unsure whether he would be welcomed if he stepped inside.
He understands why you do not shout, why no accusations spill from your tongue, why there are no venomous echoes following your words, because he has lived long enough to recognize what anger is and what it does.
But what he cannot grasp, not truly, not yet, is how this gentleness is possible, how two people can simply decide to be soft with each other, how they can choose calm where others would choose fire.
He knows Jason is fully capable of sharpness—he has heard him clash loudly, bitterly, fiercely with Bruce—so this must be deliberate, intentional, a conscious choice Jason reserves for you alone, as though you were something fragile and worth protecting.
You.
An adult.
Someone he chose to be soft for.
And Damian, who is only ten and has never known softness without condition or cost, cannot quite imagine anyone choosing such gentleness for him.
“I can handle a cold,” you say again in a voice so soft it feels like a blanket being tucked around a child.
“And I can handle a few punches,” Jason huffs back, though the puff of breath sounds more like a grumble of affection than any true boast, and after a heartbeat of silence he adds a playful flourish by flexing his arm with the theatrical pride of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. “See?”
You do pause—just for a moment—studying the curve of his arm with a look that is half amused and half with coy interest, warm all the same, before remembering that you are not alone and shifting your gaze toward Damian.
The boy’s expression, a masterpiece of royal disgust and unimpressed disdain, is so astonishingly dramatic that laughter bursts out of you all at once, bright and ringing, filling the kitchen with a sudden, gentle warmth that even Damian cannot entirely escape.
It is somewhere around 11:30 at night when Jason finally sets aside the last of his tools—his work on the gun complete—and you finish the assortment of quiet, mindless kitchen chores that keep your hands busy long after your thoughts have grown soft with fatigue, leaving the two of you united in a single, noble purpose: to assist Damian in whatever creative mission he has appointed himself commander of.
“Cut that paper into strips, Todd—no, not like that!” he barks with all the authority of a tiny general, pointing at you as if you were the standard to which all must aspire. “Do it like her!”
“Can you glue that?” comes next, followed by a dramatic sigh as he inspects a watercolor set. “This paint is so cheap…”
“It was twenty-two dollars,” you huff gently, crossing your arms with the tired pride of someone who has, in fact, spent too much money on craft supplies.
Damian looks up at you with eyes wide and unblinking—like a startled deer or perhaps an owl caught mid-thought—and asks, with none of the disdain he usually reserves for his family, but instead with something dangerously close to genuine concern, “Are you… poor?”
The question hangs in the air, ridiculous and sincere all at once.
“Damian,” you say, trying not to laugh as you speak softly, “I make in four hours what Jason makes in an entire week.”
Jason snorts at that, nearly slicing the wrong direction in the paper as he does, and Damian’s attention snaps toward him instantly—because for all his cultivated discipline and assassin-bred composure, once Damian relaxes he truly possesses the attention span of a ten-year-old kitten.
“Hey! You messed it up!” he accuses, scandalized.
“You said one-inch strips!” Jason protests, sputtering a laugh. You glance at the construction-paper strips in his hands and hum—they do look a bit smaller than one inch, though certainly not enough to warrant the impending meltdown.
Damian growls under his breath, a quiet sound like an offended little alley cat, before whipping around to face you with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed into thin, strategic slits. He knows he cannot insult Jason too harshly to his face if he still wishes to retain the sacred privilege of sleeping in the middle of the bed tonight, so instead he aims his weaponized cleverness at you.
“If he’s overestimating these inches,” he says, voice dripping with calculated mischief, “you know what else he’s overestimating in inches?”
You stare down at Damian, taken utterly off guard, fighting—fighting with every ounce of restraint in your body—the overwhelming urge to reply that Jason was, if anything, underestimating rather than overestimating.
Jason immediately smacks him on the back of the head.
A little while later—after the crafts have settled into a quiet rhythm and the room feels wrapped in a soft, late-night stillness—Damian uncaps a red glitter pen with the solemnity of a knight drawing a sword, using it to sketch a small, careful box for Jason beneath Bruce and beside Dick, his tiny brows furrowed in concentration as he overlaps colored pencils to replicate every scar and every fleck in Jason’s eyes with such painstaking tenderness that you have to physically restrain yourself from cooing aloud at the sight.
Your gaze drifts upward to Jason, just for a fleeting moment, and you see him soften instantly—melting like snow on warm stone—as he watches Damian capture his scars while most even struggle looking at them, his eyes warm and dazzled in a way he doesn’t even attempt to hide.
And then Damian draws a box for you—placing it gently, purposefully, right next to Jason’s—and Jason swears that the second Damian isn’t looking, you begin to cry in that small, silent way of someone who feels too much at once, brushing away the delicate tears with the sleeve of Jason’s jacket as though hoping neither of them will notice.
Eventually the night winds down, the exhaustion settling over all three of you like a soft blanket, and you retreat to bed under the unspoken, universally acknowledged rule that everyone will keep their hands and legs respectfully to themselves until Damian, with a theatrical subtlety he believes is flawless, pretends to fall asleep and then “accidentally” rolls toward you—“accidentally” resting his head on your chest and “accidentally” looping those small but surprisingly strong arms around your waist.
He breathes you in with the instinctive tenderness of a child who has finally found a place soft enough to rest, and the sound of his steady, almost-steady breathing fills the space with something warm and fragile.
Jason, in turn, looks you directly in the eyes—bold as the sun, shameless as a spoiled housecat—as he hooks one leg over yours, nudges your arm until you extend it, and then promptly uses it as a pillow with the audacity of a stay-at-home trophy wife requesting a new Chanel bag on a weekday morning. Then a quick fuck.
“Is he sleeping?” you murmur, voice soft and distant, wrapped in that slurry warmth that comes when exhaustion begins tugging at your consciousness, and Jason can tell from the dreamy drift of your words that you have already surrendered half of yourself to sleep, as you always do when you try to rest early for work in the morning.
Jason always makes a point to wake with you—even if he arrived only two hours earlier from patrol—just so he can cook you breakfast and press a kiss to your cheek before you step into the cold Gotham air, a ritual he guards with quiet devotion.
“He’s asleep,” Jason whispers against your bicep, savoring the gentle brush of your hand over the raised curve of his ‘J’ scar, a mark he once despised with every fiber of his being but now finds softened by the way your touch makes it feel less like a wound and more like something that has been claimed by love.
Damian, of course, is not asleep—Jason can tell instantly from the uneven flutter of his breath—but you are far too tired to notice, and he suspects that even if you did, you wouldn’t mind in the slightest.
“He’s so cute,” you whisper, a soft breath against the dark.
Jason has to bury his smile into the crook of your arm when he sees the tips of Damian’s ears turn a deep, betraying red.
“Yeah?” Jason murmurs, sounding drowsy and lovestruck and hopelessly dopey.
“Yeah…” you murmur back, your voice thick with sleep and sweetness, your smile brushing against the night like a warm hand, “you think Mr. Wayne would ever let me keep him? Just tuck him under my arm and pretend he wandered home with me by accident?”
Jason lets out a quiet, breathy laugh—low, warm, and meant only for you—as he adjusts his head on your arm. “Not a chance, sweetheart,” he whispers, amusement curling through every syllable. “Bruce would sooner hand over the stocks to Wayne Enterprises than let you steal his kid.” He pauses, brushing his thumb lightly over your wrist in a slow, affectionate stroke. “Besides… I don’t think he’ll even make it over tomorrow. B said something about a long patrol. One of those nights.”
A small foot thumps weakly against Jason’s thigh in immediate protest—pathetic, sleepy, but undeniably opinionated. It’s most certainty not your foot.
You let out a soft, disappointed “Aw…I was hoping to take him to the art supply store tomorrow,” you whisper, almost dreamily. “One of the good ones in the city center.”
Jason inhales slowly, choosing his next words with the caution of a man defusing a bomb—because he knows the pint-sized assassin on your chest is listening with both ears wide open. “Honey… those places cost a small fortune,” he murmurs gently, brushing his knuckles against your arm as if to soften the truth.
“He deserves it. I think I can go tomorrow after work even if he can't.” you mumble, voice warm as a blanket, sure as a heartbeat.
“He can buy his own stuff,” Jason counters in a whisper that is firm but fond, knowing Damian won’t take offense. “Bruce gives him more allowance than most ever see in a years salary.”
“Well, allowance isn’t a gift,” you protest softly, and Jason can hear the smile tugging at your words. “And he’s been so good lately, hasn’t he? So thoughtful. So patient.” Your fingers stroke Damian’s hair without thinking, feather-light. You would have stroked his cheek if you weren't scared of waking him.“How about a nice sketchbook? A real one. The fancy kinds with the leather covers? If I cut out ice cream and fast food next month I think I can afford to get his name engraved on it too.”
Jason doesn’t need to look to know what happens next—he can feel it in the way Damian’s small body curls closer to your chest, in the tight little squeeze of his arms around your waist, in the shaky breath he tries and fails to make sound like sleep.
You don't even notice because of how tired you are.
But Damian holds on to you—quiet, fierce, grateful—because he doesn’t quite know how else to say thank you.
The next morning, during the drive to school, Damian reaches into his backpack and pulls out the glitter pens he stole from you—pens you watched him take while he thought you were asleep, too proud of his stealth to notice your half-lidded gaze following him.
He uncaps a dark green glitter pen, his heart pounding against his ribs as though trying to escape, and with a single decisive stroke he draws a line connecting both you and Jason to himself, using the same steadfast green to connect Dick to him as well, each line shimmering faintly in the morning light like enchanted thread binding you all together. It's not like the solid red marker lines he uses to connect himself to Bruce or Talia, but to him it's not any less important.
When the other children at school point out the strange glittery lines or ask about the Arabic word nestled in the frames, he doesn’t even bother to glare at them, because why should he explain his intent to imbeciles who couldn’t possibly understand what those names and lines mean?
The only people who deserve the privilege of witnessing his explanations at all—of earning even the smallest glimpse of his fiercely guarded contents—are the ones drawn on the paper before him.
"glitter pens and hot chocolate." master list !
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← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Damian is too scared to go home like this, so Jason calls you to them. His home that makes good soup, his home with soft hands, his home that Damian is about to steal the heart of.
word cnt. 9.6k
aka ›››› "Father...?" "Yeah bud?" Jason replies so casually you want to strangle him.
To say Jason was pissed didn’t even begin to cover it. The anger sat low and molten in his chest, a constant burn he couldn’t shake no matter how carefully he replayed the night in his head.
The mission was supposed to be nothing. A quick, forgettable errand before something that actually mattered. Before you. He’d timed it down to the minute, even swallowed his pride long enough to loop Bruce in, asking—reluctantly, irritably—for advice on evidence collection. In and out. Clean. Efficient. Four hours, max.
He’d planned it like a promise.
Seven o’clock: cuffs, charges, done.
Eight: showered, blood washed from his hands, the city scrubbed off his skin.
Nine: knocking on your door, pretending he hadn’t been counting down the hours since morning.
Damian hadn’t factored into any of it.
That was the problem.
Jason could have handled anyone else. He always did. Dick would’ve laughed it off later, bruised and dramatic. Tim would’ve brushed past it with that tight little smile, already turning the pain into data, into something useful he could throw back at Jason. Jason could’ve dumped either of them back at the warhouse—bloody, scowling, alive—and walked away without looking back.
But Damian—
Damian is a kid.
And that truth claws at him now, sharp and relentless. Because this time, the weight doesn’t slide off his shoulders. It settles. It presses down until his ribs ache with it. A kid got hurt, and Jason was there, and suddenly the mission isn’t clean anymore. It isn’t forgettable. It follows him, sticky and stubborn, refusing to wash away.
He drags a hand over his face, exhales hard through his teeth, and thinks of you—how he was supposed to be with you right now, how you were supposed to be the thing that grounded him at the end of the night.
Instead, he’s left standing in the wreckage, anger curdling into something uglier.
Guilt.
And Jason hates that most of all.
And now he’s fumbling with his cracked phone, thumb slipping against the spiderwebbed glass as Damian Wayne clings to his back, breath coming shorter, rougher by the second. The kid’s forehead presses into Jason’s shoulder, voice thin and stubborn even as his grip tightens.
“Not the manor,” Damian mutters. Again. Like a plea. Like a command. “Not the manor.”
Jason clenches his jaw.
He wants to grab the kid by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Wants to sit him down, shove him into a metaphorical time-out until he’s Bruce’s age and then go find Bruce himself and shove him into the same corner for good measure. Wants to scream about contingency plans and backup and the fact that he thought he agreed that children should not be bleeding in alleyways while pretending they’re indestructible. How the fuck did he get past the security system?
Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose.
“Screw you,” Jason huffs, shifting his grip, hooking his arms under Damian’s knees and hauling him higher, more secure against his back. The kid’s weight settles there—too light, too fragile for someone who carries a sword like it’s an extension of his spine. “You’re going home. Fuck—do you know how much trouble you’re in, kid?”
Damian doesn’t answer. Just breathes. Too fast. Too shallow.
The night bites at them, cold even by Gotham’s standards. An ugly, cutting wind snakes through the alley, carrying smog thick enough to taste, clinging to the back of Jason’s throat. The city feels especially mean tonight, all sharp edges and dim lights, like it’s watching to see what breaks first.
They’re wedged between a burger joint and a narrow antique shop—the kind that smells like dust and old paper and forgotten things. Jason recognizes it with a jolt of something unwanted. One of the places you dragged him into after a date night once, all soft laughter and teasing commentary about cursed objects and ugly lamps. He shoves the memory away before it can root itself.
Now he’s crouched between two dented dumpsters, knees protesting, Damian pressed against his back, and his phone trembling slightly in his hand. The screen flickers when he taps it, the crack splitting light in the worst possible way.
Jason swallows, anger buzzing beneath his skin, tangled tight with fear he refuses to name.
He doesn’t drop Damian.
He never would.
But God—he’s going to have words for Bruce.There are no trackers. Not on either of them. Nothing Oracle can latch onto, no quiet safety net humming in the background. For one, Barbara was never looped in—this wasn’t supposed to be that kind of mission. For another, Jason and Damian had both taken the same unspoken ‘precaution’, stripping themselves clean of anything the family could use to find them.
Independence, they’d called it. Control.
Now it just feels like a mistake.
“Your either going to B or you’re going to Dick,” Jason hisses, the words sharp as he adjusts his footing. The stench of stagnant alley water crawls up his nose, mixing with the copper tang of Damian’s blood until it makes his stomach roll.
“No— no, no, Dick.” Damian’s protest is weaker than it was about Bruce, but the conviction is still there, stubborn even as his voice slips, fraying at the edges.
Jason stops short. “What the fuck is your problem now?”
“Father will know,” Damian coughs, the sound wet and wrong. “If I go to Dick.”
The words land heavier than Jason expects.
He tightens his grip without thinking, fingers curling beneath Damian’s knees, anchoring him there. Of course Bruce would know. Of course it would get back to him, echo through the manor halls, sharpened into disappointment and anger and whatever passes for concern in that family.
Jason exhales through his teeth, staring down at the glowing fracture in his phone screen.
Great.
Jason is two seconds away from popping a blood vessel.
From yelling at the kid that this is his own damn fault for following him in the first place. From telling him he’s dragging him—by the ankle if he has to—straight to Dick and Kori’s apartment whether he likes it or not. From letting the fear burn off into something loud and ugly and easier to carry.
And then—
“Father will be angry.”
Damian’s voice comes out small. Not sharp. Not defiant. Just… thin. Frayed.
“I— not today,” he whispers, breath hitching. “Just— just leave me here. I’ll find a drugstore in the morning and—”
Whatever argument Damian is trying to build collapses before it reaches Jason. The words blur together, fading into static.
Father will be angry.
Jason freezes. Because that’s it, isn’t it? Not the pain. Not the blood soaking through Damian’s clothes. Not the fact that his breathing is still wrong, still too shallow. It’s that disappointment—Bruce’s particular brand of it, sharp-edged and suffocating, wrapped in concern that feels a lot like judgment.
The kid would rather bleed out in an alley than face it
Jason swallows hard, throat tight, hands curling reflexively where they hold Damian in place. The anger drains out of him all at once, leaving something heavier behind.
Yeah, he thinks grimly.
Yeah. He would too.
And that realization settles deep in his chest, ugly and familiar, as the city hums on around them like it doesn’t care at all.
Damian’s argument cuts off abruptly when Jason lets out a long, frustrated groan, scrubbing a hand down his face.
“Fuck—my phone’s broken,” he mutters, staring at the shattered screen like it personally betrayed him. “Couldn’t—god, you’re fucking annoying. I can’t even take you to Dick if I wanted to.”
The lie stutters where it leaves his mouth, uneven and rushed, but Damian’s already too far gone to catch it. His weight slumps heavier against Jason’s back, breath hitching once, twice.
“You better be—” Jason swallows, jaw tightening. “Fuck. You better not say a damn word to her. You got that?”
There’s no answer.
Damian goes limp, consciousness slipping away before the warning can reach him. Jason feels it immediately—the shift, the sudden dead weight—and his heart kicks hard against his ribs.
“Shit,” he breathes, softer now.
The alley feels colder. Narrower. Like it’s closing in.
Jason shifts his grip, careful now, but every movement sets fire through his muscles, tendon and bone screaming in protest. The anger is gone, replaced by something sharper, something primal—a protective rage that doesn’t care about pride, or rules, or consequences. Only survival.
He hauls himself up the side of the antique shop, scraping against rough brick, the ache in his left leg a screaming reminder of the bullet that tore through him. Blood seeps past the torn fabric of his pants, warm and sticky against the cold bite of the night. Fantastic. Perfect. Wonderful.
A few blocks later, he reaches a rooftop and finds the water tower looming like a dead sentinel. He collapses on his side against it, letting the world tilt and sway around him. Damian is still draped across his back, pale and trembling, a thin line of blood seeping from a cut near his temple, matting strands of hair to his forehead.
Jason lowers him into his lap, careful but clumsy, hands slick with his own blood and Damian’s, pressing him against his chest to stop him from sliding off. He peels off his jacket and wraps it around the kid, ignoring the wet patches that cling like a second skin. His cape already wraps around him, but the darkness has its own weight, and Jason tucks the jacket over Damian’s small frame wherever the fabric of the cape won’t reach, shielding him from the cold—but unable to shield him from the horror still clinging to them both.
The city smells of smoke and rot tonight, alleyway blood and smog curling up through the night air. Every distant siren, every echoing footstep feels like it’s coming for them, and Jason presses his forehead against the top of Damian’s hair, whispering words he doesn’t trust to carry weight.
Safe, he tells him. For now, you’re safe.
And yet, beneath it all, the taste of iron is on his tongue, and he knows—knows—that the night isn’t finished with them yet.
Jason pulls his phone out with hands that tremble just enough to make the cracked screen wobble under his grip. Each movement feels jagged, raw, as though the cold has leeched into his bones, sharpening every ache, every burn in his muscles. He positions the phone near his ear, thumb hovering over your name.
“Pick up… pick up… pick up…” he mumbles, each repetition ragged, desperate, a whisper swallowed by the bitter wind that curls under his helmet. The chill isn’t just outside—it snakes through the lining of his armor, seeps into his chest, into his fingers, into the taut, coiled terror of his gut.
Every second stretches, unbearable. The night presses in from all sides, black and cold and smelling faintly of iron and smoke. He can feel Damian’s small weight against him, limp and bleeding, the blood warm but thin beneath his hands, and the city hums like a predator circling, waiting.
Jason bites back a curse, pressing the phone closer, willing it to connect. Pick up, pick up, pick up.
Because if you don’t answer… he doesn’t even want to think what comes next. He has only expired antiseptic and old and opened gauze that is probably half of Damian’s age. His apartment doesn’t even have heating. It works for him but he doubts it’s what the kid needs right now.
So he breaks his rule to never contact you when he’s hurt.
The ringing stops.
“…Jason.”
Fuck. You sound mad. You should be. He was supposed to pick you up five hours ago, roses in hand, pretending the world hadn’t tired to chew him up first.
“I— I’m sorry,” he blurts, the words tumbling over each other. “I need— I can’t walk, babe—”
He hears movement immediately, fabric shifting, something clattering as you scramble to your feet. “Hey—what—where are you? Jason, what’s wrong?”
“I need blankets. Water—” His gaze drops to Damian, slack and frighteningly still in his lap, blood darkening the fabric beneath him. Jason’s voice accelerates, tripping over itself until his throat burns. “Medical supplies. A heater, maybe? There should be an outlet up—”
“Jason—”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats, the apology coming apart at the seams. “I can’t go into a drugstore like this with the kid, anyone could be there and—and they could— I don’t know—do something? I could fight back but— but I don’t want him hurt more in a tumble and I can’t just leave him here to get supplies so—”
“JASON!”
Your voice cracks through the night like a gunshot.
He jerks, yanking the phone away from his helmet, wincing as the sound rings through his skull. The city seems to pause with him—sirens distant, wind howling low, Gotham holding its breath.
“Send me your location!” you snap, sharp and steady and terrifyingly competent.
Jason swallows, chest heaving, fingers slick as they fumble across the screen. Relief hits him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t apologize again.
He sends it.
And then he looks back down at Damian, tightening his grip just a little, bracing himself against the water tower as the cold creeps closer—counting every second until you arrive, because right now, you’re the only thing standing between them and the night swallowing them whole.
“How—how bad is he hurt?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to, fraying at the edges. “Is it—wait, is it Tim or Damian—”
There’s a pause, thin and awful, stretching just long enough for your stomach to drop.
“I need to know if I’m buying painkillers since they make adult and kid—”
“It’s Damian,” Jason exhales into the line, the sound tired and wrecked and heavy with things he isn’t saying. “It’s the kid.”
Your breath catches.
You’ve never even spoken to Damian before. Not once. He’s always been a name—sharp-edged and distant, orbiting Jason’s life like something dangerous and untouchable. Tim, at least, is familiar in passing: the accidental mall run-in, Stephanie’s laughter, Cassandra’s quiet smile, Jason trying—and failing—to tug you into a store like proximity alone might shield you from the madness of his family. Dick you met once, briefly, waiting outside Wayne Manor, polite and warm and watching Jason like he was something fragile.
But Damian—
Damian is a child you don’t know, bleeding somewhere in Gotham’s dark, clutched in Jason’s arms.
“Oh,” you whisper, the word hollow. “Okay.”
You don’t ask why. You don’t ask how this happened. There will be time for that later—when the night isn’t pressing in, when no one’s breath is shallow and wrong.
“Stay with him,” you say instead, steadier now, resolve snapping into place like a blade locking open. “Don’t let him fall asleep if you can help it. I’m on my way.”
Jason closes his eyes at that, forehead tipping briefly against the cool metal of the water tower. The city groans beneath them, sounds of people bleeding into the distance, but your voice cuts through it all—real, solid, terrifying in its calm.
“He’s already unconscious,” Jason says, voice flat, distant, like he’s reading it off a report instead of holding a bleeding kid together with sheer stubbornness. “But he won’t die. Won’t have any major injuries either.”
There’s a beat of silence on the line.
“…Jason,” you hiss, sharp and furious, and for a second he thinks—dimly—that if laughing wouldn’t crack his ribs clean through, he might’ve tried.
“Honey,” he answers instead, soft and stupid and dopey, because his head feels like it’s splitting open and the world keeps tilting sideways.
And somehow—somehow—you still melt at that. He can hear it in the way your breath stutters, the way the anger doesn’t quite stick. Maybe that means he’s not a lost cause yet.
“…How bad are you?”
Jason drops his gaze to his leg. To the two bullet wounds, ugly and swollen. To the slash at his knee, raw and half-congealed. He’s still using that leg to brace Damian in his lap, muscles screaming every second he asks them to hold.
“I’m okay.”
“Jason.”
He hears it then—the click of a car door, the rush of movement, your breathing going too fast, too tight. For a second, the thought of your fear scares him more than the blood.
“I’ll be okay,” he repeats, quieter now. He sets the phone down beside him and fumbles with the clasps of his helmet, fingers clumsy and slick. When it comes free, the Gotham night slams into his skin, cold and wet and real. He hesitates only a second before lowering it over Damian’s head instead—too big, swallowing his small face whole, ridiculous and wrong and necessary all at once if it means shielding him from the cold slightly better then the kid’s hood could do.
“I just need ya to kiss the boo-boo,” he adds weakly, because deflection is easier than admitting how bad it hurts.
“I hate you,” you say, exasperation thick in your voice, edged with fear.
Jason smiles.
Then winces immediately, sharp pain blooming across his mouth. He lifts a hand, comes away with red. Ah. Right. Of course.
“Give me twenty,” you snap, and now he can hear the engine, the unmistakable sound of you driving like the city owes you something. “We are not doing this on a rooftop. Stay on the line.”
Jason leans back against the water tower, exhales slow and shaky, and tightens his hold on Damian just a fraction more.
Twenty minutes.
He can do twenty minutes.
“What if someone breaks into the car?” he asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He lets his temple rest against the cool metal of the water tower, the chill seeping into his skull like a weak attempt at relief.
“You have a gun,” your voice cuts back immediately, sharp and unyielding. “Use it.”
The blunt certainty in your tone lands harder than reassurance ever could.
Jason huffs out something like a laugh, breath scraping. Yeah. Right. Of course he does. He adjusts his grip on Damian, fingers tightening reflexively.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes sliding shut for half a second. “Yeah. I know.”
The city groans beneath them, distant and uncaring, but your voice stays in his ear—firm, present, real—keeping him upright when his body is more than ready to fold.
“Mm… sorry about our date,” he murmurs after a moment, the words slow and slurred at the edges, half apology, half anchor—something to keep himself awake, to keep the dark from creeping in too close.
“You should be,” you answer after a beat. Softer now. The edge dulled, worn down by worry.
“I— I’ll take you to the botanical garden?” he offers, grasping for normalcy like it’s a lifeline.
There’s a pause.
“The last one you took me to, they had litteral poison ivy next to the lilies because the tulips died and that was all they had.”
“She was hiding from Catwoman,” Jason says, forcing the joke out past the ache in his jaw, past the copper taste pooling in his mouth. “G-Get it? Cuz Poison Ivy? You know the villain and…cats and…”
“Jason.”
The joke doesn't land.
“Babe…” he starts, slow and heavy, like each syllable has to be dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest. “I— I think I’m gonna take a nap, okay?”
“Jason—” Your voice cuts in immediately, sharp now, edged with panic. “Hey—no. Stay awake.”
“Just… just a quick one,” he murmurs, eyelids fluttering despite himself. The city feels distant, muffled, like he’s sinking underwater with every breath. Damian’s weight in his lap is warm and real, but even that is starting to blur at the edges.
“Jason?” you say again, louder this time. “Hey—Jason!”
He tries to answer. He really does. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His tongue feels thick, useless. His head slips further against the cold metal, the chill no longer biting—just dull, just quiet.
“Jason!” you shout, his name breaking over the line, fractured and scared.
The phone slips slightly against the rooftop concrete, your voice echoing tinny and distorted through the speaker as the night closes in. Jason exhales, long and shallow, and lets his eyes fall shut—not because he wants to, but because his body finally stops asking his permission.
–
Your fingers are brushing blood from his brow by the time Jason drifts back into something like awareness. Consciousness comes in pieces—warmth first, then sound, then the steady hum of an engine fighting the cold. His body aches in places he hasn’t catalogued yet, but he’s not on a rooftop anymore.
That’s something.
The car is parked crooked in some narrow alley, illegally close to a dumpster, the heater blasting like it’s trying to resurrect him through sheer spite. The passenger seat is laid all the way back, giving him just enough room to exist without hurting worse. Every breath fogs faintly in the air before the heat catches up.
Damian is in the back seat.
Jason’s eyes slide toward him slowly. The kid’s bundled in lightweight throw blankets—yours, he realizes dimly—the kind that usually live folded over the arm of your couch. Clean bandages peek out where blood used to be. You must’ve patched him up somewhere in the blur between panic and movement, hands steady even when your heart clearly wasn’t.
The back seat light is on. Just one.
It casts a soft glow over your face, turns your eyes glassy, makes your skin look unreal and warm in the dim car. Jason smiles, stupid and unguarded, because even through half-lidded vision and a pounding skull, you look perfect.
“Prince Charming saved me,” he murmurs.
You sniff.
It’s small. Broken.
Oh.
You’re crying.
Jason’s brows knit together slowly as he notices the way your hand shakes, the way you dab gently at the corner of his mouth, wiping away blood like it offends you personally. Your thumb trembles, betraying everything you’ve been holding in since you heard his voice crack through the phone.
“Idiot,” you whisper, voice thick.
Jason exhales something close to a laugh, then thinks better of it. He reaches—slow, clumsy—and lets his fingers curl weakly around your wrist, grounding himself there.
“Hey,” he mutters, softer now. “I’m okay. You're okay.”
It’s a lie.
But you’re here. Damian’s breathing. The heater’s on. And for the first time tonight, the fear loosens its grip just enough for him to stay awake.
“He’s so tiny,” you whisper, the words barely louder than the hum of the engine. The alley presses in around the car—brick walls slick with old rain, shadows pooling thick and oily where the streetlight can’t quite reach. Somewhere nearby, water drips steadily, each plink echoing like a countdown. “Who would do that to a baby?”
Jason doesn’t respond how that ‘baby’ almost put those men six feet under if they even landed one hit. Torture to the line of honoring Bruce’s wishes to not kill. That honoring of Bruce’s wish is the only reason that ‘baby’ is passed out right now.
“He’s okay,” Jason says softly instead. His head rings like it’s been struck with a bell, sound warping at the edges. He shifts slightly and pain lances up his leg, bright and nauseating. The bandages you wrapped are already blooming dark again—blood seeping through in slow, stubborn stains. Beneath them, his flesh aches where bullets tore through muscle, where you dug metal out with shaking hands and grim determination. There’s a deep, angry slash at his knee too, stitched tight but swollen and raw, skin pulled red and uneven like it might split if he moves wrong. Much better stitching than he’s ever done on himself.
Jason glances down, jaw tightening. “You got the bullets out,” he murmurs, half impressed, half stunned. “Didn’t think you’d be so good at that.”
“I’m dating you,” you say quietly. “Gotta be.”
Your voice sounds scraped raw, like the alley itself has clawed at it. Jason’s chest tightens when he realizes—again—that you’ve been crying this whole time. Not loud. Not hysterical. Just silently falling apart while you worked, while the dark watched.
“…He’s patched up fully?” Jason squints as a flicker from outside—the passing headlights of some distant car—cuts through the windshield, making his skull throb. The alley smells like rust, oil, and old blood that doesn’t belong to him, it seeps into the car even as your car freshener tries to fight it. “How long was I out?”
You swallow. The sound is loud in the confined space.
“An hour and forty-two minutes,” you say softly.
The number settles between you like something alive.
Jason exhales, slow and shaky, the sound rattling in his chest. Too long. Long enough for the alley to feel like it could have swallowed all three of you whole. Long enough for the blood to cool and the fear to sink its teeth in.
Said exact enough that he knows he’s going to owe you for a life time.
“Do you need help with him?” Jason asks gently.
You shake your head on instinct, shoulders tightening, but Jason is already moving—gritting through it as he forces his body to turn, muscles screaming, wounds pulling wet and hot beneath the bandages.
“Jason, I said no—”
“I’m here,” he cuts in, voice low, deliberate, stripped of humor. He’s breathing harder now, jaw clenched, but his tone stays careful, steady. “I can help. Just tell me what to do.”
You stare at him.
The car feels impossibly small, the alley outside pressing close like it’s listening. The heater rattles softly, fighting the cold that seeps in through rusted metal and cracked seals. Somewhere beyond the brick walls, something skitters loudly—rats, maybe. Or just the city settling around its secrets.
Your eyes shine in the dim backseat light, tears gathered but not falling, and Jason hates that look more than any gunshot wound. He’d take another bullet before seeing it again.
Your gaze shifts—not to him, but to Damian. Like the kid is safer to talk to. Like if you speak toward him, your voice won’t break.
“…I patched him up as best as I could,” you say quietly. “It was… a lot of blood loss.” Your throat tightens. “He has a fever. We—I need to buy medicine. I didn’t go to the drugstore. Once you passed out, I just… I came straight to your location, so—”
Jason nods once, rough and immediate, cutting you off before the guilt can finish forming.
“I’ll go.”
The words are simple. Certain.
Your body snaps toward him so fast it’s almost violent. Fear flashes across your face, sharp and immediate, like you’ve just watched him step back toward a cliff’s edge. Jason can feel blood sliding warm down his leg again where the bandage’s loosened, can feel the deep ache in his ribs grinding with every breath—but none of that matters.
He’s already reaching for the door.
“Are you an idiot?!”
Your hands snap up to grab his shoulders before you can stop yourself, and Jason lets out a sharp groan, pain flaring bright and nauseating. Immediately, you recoil—hands flying away like you’ve been burned—only to settle again at his sides, grip gentler now but no less firm.
“You can barely walk,” you hiss.
“I’ll be fine,” Jason grunts, breath hitching as he steadies himself. “The kid— the damn brat needs the fever gone by morning or B is gonna—”
“I will kill Bruce Wayne myself if he is the reason you’re getting up right now,” you snap, voice low and lethal as you tug uselessly at him.
Jason actually pauses at that.
Raises a brow. Even now. Even bleeding.
“You think you can kill Bruce Wayne?”
“I have two of his bleeding sons hostage,” you say plainly, pinching hard at his side until he jerks and lets out a small, involuntary, “Ouch—!” “What do you think?”
Despite everything, something like a breathy laugh escapes him—cuts off immediately when his ribs protest.
“Look—” Jason starts, slower now, choosing his words carefully. “The… the kid doesn’t want Bruce to be mad at him.” His jaw tightens. “So it’s best we at least try to get him back to something normal by tomorrow morning. So B doesn’t notice.”
The alley outside seems to lean closer at that, darkness pressing against the windows like it’s listening. Damian shifts faintly in the back seat, blankets rustling, a small sound slipping from his throat.
Jason’s hand curls against the door frame, knuckles white. Blood seeps again through the bandage at his thigh, slow and inevitable, but his eyes stay fixed on Damian in the rearview mirror.
“This isn’t about me,” he adds quietly, glancing back at you. “I…I don't want the kid to be scared to go home.”
“You—” You start, then stop, exhaling hard through your nose. Because this is how all of Jason’s worst ideas are born—not from recklessness, but from care twisted into something self-sacrificial and stupid. You still try, though. You always do. “Why can’t I go?”
Jason’s smile is stiff, pulled tight at the edges like it hurts to hold. “Babe, I— I’d rather have you in a locked car where you’re safe,” he says gently. “Not out in Gotham at three in the morning.”
You scoff, sharp and disbelieving. “I can protect myself. I dragged you and Damian off a fucking water tower.”
“I know…” Jason murmurs, nodding even though the motion makes his face pinch, pain flaring behind his eyes. “But that was when I was unconscious.” He pauses, breath shallow. “And I wasn’t able to worry about you.”
The words settle heavy between you.
Outside, the alley exhales—trash shifting, a distant siren wailing and then cutting off too abruptly. The shadows beyond the windshield feel thick, hungry. Gotham at its most honest.
Jason looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s committing your face to memory in case this is the last quiet moment he gets. His voice drops, rough around the edges.
“If something happened to you while I was awake,” Jason continues, slowly, like he thinks it sounds stupid but says anyways. “I wouldn’t survive it.”
Not the night. Not the guilt. Not himself.
The heater hums on, Damian breathes softly in the back seat, fevered and alive. You stare at Jason, jaw tight, eyes shining again despite your best efforts.
He reaches for one of the guns you left on the driver’s seat—careful, deliberate, like his hands don’t entirely trust themselves anymore. The keys are still in the ignition. You’re in the back seat. Another reason he doesn’t exactly trust you loose in Gotham at two in the morning, because what the fuck, babe. Yeah—leave guns in a car with the key in and drivers seat empty.
Jason moves slowly, almost hunched as he opens the door, the cold knifing in immediately. His leg protests viciously when he puts weight on it, blood tugging warm and sticky beneath the bandage. Jason locks his jaw, breathes through his teeth, and forces himself upright anyway.
Before he closes the door, he turns his head just enough to look back at you. His neck is stiff, movement jerky—like it still remembers the way it hung uselessly while he was out cold.
“Just medicine?” he asks, voice low, roughened by pain and exhaustion.
“And more gauze if you can,” you reply softly. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t rush him. Like you’re afraid sudden sound might shatter him. “And get a change of clothes if they have any… I know that store. It’s full of random shit.” A beat. “Buy some soup from the 24/7 place next to it.”
Jason nods once, committing the list to memory. Antibiotics. Fever reducers. Gauze. Clothes. Soup. Simple things. Normal things. Things that feel unreal against the blood still crusted under his nails.
“I’ll be quick,” he says, though neither of you believe it.
The door closes with a soft, final thud. The lock clicks.
You watch through the window as he limps away into the alley, silhouette swallowed piece by piece by shadow. The brick walls loom tall and damp, graffiti bleeding into darkness, trash bags shifting in the wind like something breathing. A flickering streetlight buzzes overhead, casting Jason in and out of existence as he goes.
He keeps one hand near the gun. Keeps the other tight against his side, pressing where it hurts the worst.
Behind you, Damian stirs faintly, fevered breath fogging the blanket.
Ahead of you, Gotham opens its mouth.
And Jason steps into it anyway.
You watch him disappear into the alley, figure swallowed by shadow, then slowly shift your gaze to Damian’s sleeping form. His chest rises and falls unevenly, breaths shallow and rattled. You murmur softly, almost to yourself, “I guess it’s just you and me now, huh, bud? This wasn’t exactly how I thought I’d meet you.”
The boy stirs, a faint twitch in his head, eyelids flickering, as if the pain in his sleep is clawing at him from the inside. You let out a quiet sigh and reach to lower the window, the cold biting your fingers even through the glove. Carefully, you lift Damian’s small body, resting his head outside the frame. His brow scrunches at the chill, but your hands move quickly, smoothing and adjusting, trying to steal comfort from the night itself.
You had two thermoses of hot water with you. Even cooled slightly, steam curls upward in lazy spirals as you unscrew the lid. One hand steadies the boy; the other pours, careful not to scald, letting the warmth seep into his hair. Dirt, grime, and streaks of blood run down in small rivulets, slipping through your fingers like a cruel reminder of the alley’s violence.
And for the first time all night, Damian’s shoulders sag—not fully awake, not fully conscious, but somehow lighter. Relief seeps slowly into his small form as you run your fingers through the dark strands, gentle, deliberate, trying to scrub away the horror of the night with nothing more than warmth, water, and your touch.
“You’re so tiny,” you murmur again, in the dark, for what has to be the twentieth time that night.
Because he is. So small. Too small for burns across his ribs, too small for deep slashes on his arms. Too small for the cut on his lip, the scrape on his temple, the blood matted into his dark hair.
You hope whoever did this to him is dead. If not… this might be the first time in your life you actually encourage Jason to kill.
“So stupid,” you whisper softly, letting your wet fingers brush the blood from his brow. “So small and so stupid… who do you think you’re fighting, hm? Elmo? You think Joker is Elmo?”
Your voice is ridiculous. Maternal, soft, broken—but it’s the only thing you have that feels safe.
Maybe that’s why Damian’s eyes flicker open, just barely, through the haze of steam and heat you’ve conjured around him. They’re so slight you almost don’t notice—he doesn’t look conscious, not really.
Not until a soft, hoarse whisper escapes, barely audible over the faint hiss of the water and the heater.
“…Mother?”
The word lands in your chest like a punch you didn’t expect. Small, trembling, impossibly young. And you realize your heart has been holding its breath this entire night—and now it doesn’t know how to stop.
You don’t say anything. Nothing. Words feel wrong here—clumsy and insufficient. You don’t know this boy, and he doesn’t know you. And yet… if you were ten, alone, hurt, and cold, you would have called for your mother too.
Maybe that’s why your hands move almost on instinct. You snap the thermos closed, slide the window up, and gently lower him fully onto the back seat again. Carefully, like he might shatter, you settle on the floor of the car beside him. One hand tugs the blanket higher over his small frame, the other brushing his damp hair in slow, patient circles, using Jason’s jacket to dry it.
The alley outside presses against the glass, dark and hungry, but inside, it’s quiet. Only the heater hums. Only the distant thrum of the city filters in.
“Sleep…” you murmur, voice low, soft, steady. “You’re safe.”
“It’s not my fault,” Damian mutters, voice hoarse, eyelids fluttering as he finally closes them fully again. “…M… it’s all Todd’s fault.”
“I know,” you whisper, fingers brushing lightly over his brow, gentle and deliberate. “A true idiot he is.”
He exhales slowly, a tiny weight leaving his body, like he had been bracing to defend himself from more blame than the words could carry. “…M’not sorry,” he mumbles, stubborn even in exhaustion.
You can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. What a brat. Of course this little boy is Jason’s brother. Who else could be like this?
“Sleep,” you murmur again, voice soft as velvet, wrapping around him like the blankets, like the warmth you’ve coaxed into him, trying to shield him from the dark waiting outside the car.
“Will… will you be here when I wake up?”
The words hang in the air, soft and fragile, and before you can even start to answer, Damian is asleep again—his breathing shallow but steady, chest rising and falling beneath the blanket.
You let yourself focus on something else, anything else, and continue to dry his hair, tracing the dark strands with the soft interior of Jason’s leather jacket. Each stroke is careful, slow, a small ritual to keep yourself from spinning.
Your arms ache from holding them, dragging them down from the roof. Your feet throb from the rush of movement, your head pounds from the fear. But your fingers can’t stop themselves, and they move over every feature like memorizing a map you’re terrified of losing.
Brows just like Jason’s, dark and expressive. The small bump along the bridge of his nose—you hesitate, heart tightening, because it’s swollen and red and he winces whenever your fingers graze it. You pray it’s not fractured, that he just took a hit there, that the world hasn’t carved him up any further.
His lashes are impossibly long, dark and silky, catching the dim glow of the backseat light in a way that makes you pinch your own face in envy, just like you do with Jason’s.
You trace every line that belongs to the love of your life—small echoes in Damian, the same stubborn, defiant, beautiful bloodline that somehow betrays the laws of adoption—because it’s the only thing keeping your body still, keeping you from spinning apart while you wait, counting the seconds until Jason comes back through the alley, bruised, bleeding, alive.
And you’re crying again after five minutes of silence.
Because your life is never this quiet. Not like this. No sirens bleeding through the walls, no voice in your ear, no weight shifting beside you. Just the low hum of the heater and the soft, fevered rhythm of a child’s breathing. Maybe the tears are your body’s way of filling the space—something small and controlled, something only you can hear. You keep them silent, careful, so gentle that Damian doesn’t even stir.
You’re not scared.
That surprises you, a little.
You knew what you were signing up for the moment you watched Jason fire a gun with such effortless precision it was almost disarming. The ease of it. The familiarity. The way violence sat on him like a second skin he never bothered to shrug off for you—only softened, reshaped, made gentler where he could.
You knew this life came with blood. With nights like this. With waiting.
So you cry anyway. Quietly. Practiced. Letting it leak out without letting it take you apart. Your fingers keep tracing Damian’s features, grounding yourself in something real and warm and breathing, while the alley presses close outside the car and Gotham holds its breath with you.
You wipe your face with the back of your hand, inhale slowly, and stay right where you are.
Waiting.
There’s a sharp knock on the window about twenty minutes later. You jump, heart hammering, and almost fly off the floor when you see Jason standing there, smiling stiffly despite the blood, sweat, and grime clinging to him. When you lean over the passenger seat, he gestures for you to open the door.
The moment you slide it open and help him inside, he crawls toward you, still unsteady, and presses a firm, grounding kiss to your forehead.
“There’s my Penelope,” he murmurs, voice rough but warm.
“I’m not waiting twenty years for your ass,” you whisper, voice cracking as he carefully wipes away the tears still streaking your cheeks. “You’re broke as fuck. At least Odysseus was a king.”
“Well…” Jason hums, brushing his lips across your cheek where he just wiped your tears, “the Gods made you stuck with me.”
You can’t help the small laugh that bubbles up through the tension and exhaustion. He’s bleeding, bruised, and exhausted beyond reason—and still somehow grounding you in the middle of the chaos, a tiny sun in a Gotham night that refuses to stay quiet.
The plastic bag full of supplies crinkles between you as you share a slow, lingering kiss, the sound pulling you both out of the moment. You break away, fumbling for the contents inside.
“Put on this hoodie,” you instruct, tossing it toward him.
Jason blinks, holding it awkwardly. “I bought this for you.”
You pause, staring at the fabric in his hands. “Baby… it’s a men’s large.”
“Is this… not the size you like?” he asks, genuinely confused.
You blink at him, letting your disbelief settle.
“You steal all of my hoodies that are this size,” he reminds you.
You snort, shaking your head. “Yeah, babe, because they’re yours. Wear it. Make it smell like you. Then I’ll wear it, hm? How about that?”
Jason opens his mouth to protest, but whatever argument he’s forming dies when he notices you reaching into the bag for the plastic container of soup. It’s not gourmet, but it’s hot and exactly what you need right now.
“Isn’t he still out?” Jason asks softly, glancing toward the back seat where Damian is bundled in your blankets and Jason’s jacket. His eyes flicker to the faint stains of blood on the fabric, and his chest tightens. Fuck. He’s going to have to buy you new ones. And a hundred more things you’ve patched together in this ridiculous, exhausting night.
“It’s not for him,” you say softly, popping open the center armrest box to fish out a packet of mild chilli oil and a tiny sesame seed packet from past fast food runs. One goes into the soup, along with the seeds for the vegetables. “I’ll make the kid real good soup at home. This? This is for you.”
Jason snorts, shaking his head, still leaning against the seatbelt. “Babe, it’s fine, I’m—”
You glare at him.
The first time all night.
Because of course. Of course you wouldn’t be mad at Jason for calling in the middle of the night, bloodied and panicked, after missing your date. Of course you wouldn’t be mad at him for passing out in the alley, forcing you to drag him and Damian down from a water tower with nothing but sheer will and a handful of blankets.
No. You’d only be mad if he refused to eat shitty soup.
“And don’t even think about saying no,” you hiss, poking him lightly with your elbow. “You will eat it. I don’t care. Otherwise, no sex for a month.”
Jason groans, but there’s a flicker of a smile, tired and bloody, as he finally takes the soup from you.
“Go to the back with Damian,” you murmur softly, eyes on the road. “I need to make sure the kid doesn’t roll off the seat—the seatbelt would hurt too much if I strapped him in.”
Jason nods, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the backseat at the same time you crawl into the driver’s seat.
He settles carefully, broad back brushing against Damian’s small frame, right arm stretched to keep the boy from slipping, left hand cradling the soup bowl. Small sips escape his lips every now and then, careful, deliberate, like the weight of the night isn’t enough without this little ritual.
A few minutes in, Damian shifts, sliding until he’s resting fully against Jason. The older boy doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t mind. Not at all.
And then the little boy’s eyes flicker open again, hesitant, small. “Father…?”
Your hands tighten on the wheel. Heart pinching painfully, even as your eyes stay fixed on the road.
Jason, as usual, doesn’t care about shame. He leans a little closer, voice low, measured, coaxing the small flicker of life from Damian.
“Yeah, kiddo?”
“Why are you here?”
“Mm… always here,” Jason replies, and you notice the subtle change—the slow, deep cadence, the careful inflection he borrows, unintentionally echoing Bruce’s tone. “M’Batman. You’re my son.”
Damian blinks once, eyes heavy but curious, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the dark Gotham streets outside fade into quiet. The backseat becomes its own small world—blood, fear, and all.
“You’re… you’re warmer today,” Damian mutters softly, his voice matching his age for once.
“Yeah,” Jason shrugs, shifting slightly so he’s closer to where Damian’s head rests. Steam rises from the soup, curling around the boy’s face. “Probably the soup.”
“Did… did Mother cook that…? Can I have some?”
Jason glances down at the soup—bought with your card, warmed in a hastily scavenged container—and then at Damian. Talia wasn’t exactly known for her cooking. He suppresses a smirk, letting the boy take a small sip from the corner of the bowl. One hand steadies Damian’s neck, careful, protective.
A sharp cough escapes Damian as a streak of chili oil hits him wrong.
Jason glances toward you, catching your hands twitching at the steering wheel like you want to jump in and help.
The sight makes him smile, quiet and fond, even as the Gotham’s shadows press close outside the windows.
By the time the apartment building comes into view, Damian has fallen completely asleep against Jason. His small body is impossibly light, yet heavy in all the wrong ways—slumped, warm, limp against the older boy’s chest.
“I’ve got him,” Jason mutters automatically as you reach the car door, moving to help.
“No,” you cut him off sharply, eyes narrowing. “You’re not carrying him yourself.”
Jason frowns, just a fraction, confusion and pride clashing. “I can—he’s not that heavy.”
“Jason,” you snap, voice firm enough to make him pause, “your leg.”
He shifts slightly, the wound at his thigh protesting sharply. He swallows, eyes flicking to Damian’s sleeping face and back to you. “I can manage—”
“Nope. I’m helping. And you’re not arguing,” you insist, sliding your arms beneath Damian’s small torso and legs, careful not to jar the boy. His head lolls slightly against your shoulder, warm and soft, hair damp and smelling faintly of the soup and Jason’s jacket.
Jason groans, rubbing the back of his neck as he steps forward to help support Damian’s upper body, but you turn away to get him off. “You’re hurt. You need to let me do this.”
He huffs, half exasperated, half defeated, and lets you take the lead.
Together, you maneuver Damian securely on you, careful not to wake him. His small hands twitch in his sleep, one brushing lightly against Jason’s chest, and you notice the way the older boy stiffens, heart twisting with worry that the kid might stir.
Once you’re inside the apartment, you guide Damian carefully to the couch, laying him down beneath fresh blankets. Jason flops onto the floor beside the couch, groaning in pain as he stretches his leg out, still leaning close to Damian.
“See?” you murmur softly, brushing a strand of damp hair from the boy’s forehead. “Much easier when you’re not trying to kill yourself doing it.”
Jason mutters something under his breath, but there’s no bite to it—just the tired resignation of someone who’s been through too much in the last few hours and knows you’re right.
Damian shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft whimper escaping him, and both of you freeze, watching, hearts tight.
It shouldn't surprise Jason, the way you rush to the little boy's side and stroke his brow to get him to calm in his sleep. But it does. Because he's never seen someone able to care for Damian that easily.
“Okay,” you say after a long, careful minute of settling Damian, “you’re filthy. You need a bath before you pass out on the couch like some injured soldier in a cheap war movie.”
Jason groans, flopping back against the wall like the weight of the night is finally catching up to him. “Im…not that stinky.”
“No arguments,” you say, voice soft but firm. “You can’t stay like this. Your hair and skin is wet with puddle water that was on that rooftop. You’re going to freeze, you smell like alley and smoke and it might help your muscles stop aching so… no. Just get in the bath.”
He drags himself to the bathroom slowly, every movement careful, deliberate, like each step reminds him of the bullet holes in his leg, the ache in his ribs.
“Dont use my bodywash.” You whisper yell before Jason closes the door.
He does use your bodywash.
—----
Damian wakes while Jason is still in the tub, the sound of water muffled behind the closed door. His eyes flutter open, heavy and slow, but a familiar scent draws his attention immediately—a faint, soft sweetness clinging in the air, like perfume he vaguely recognizes, like a memory tugging at the edges of his mind.
His lips quiver involuntarily as he forces his eyes to focus, muscles stiff from sleep and fever. And there, in the dim glow of the lamp, they land on you.
You’re asleep on the coffee table, curled slightly, a precarious stack of books tucked under you as a makeshift pillow. The blanket you’d thrown over yourself barely covers the curve of your shoulders. Every breath you take is soft, measured, steady—a quiet, human rhythm that Damian realizes he’s been holding his own breath against for hours without noticing.
Then it hits him. Dumbly, slowly, as if the world outside could wait: You’re Jason’s.
The image clicks into place like a puzzle he hadn’t known he was assembling. The photo in Jason’s wallet—one that had fallen out after a mission, grabbed by Stephanie, tossed to Tim, and then laughed at mercilessly by all of them—your face had been there. Now, here you are. Real. Alive.
Damian’s gaze drifts to the small chaos surrounding you: a newly opened package of gauze, a tiny cup of fever medicine, half-empty and sitting just beside your hand. You must have given it to him while he was asleep. Every careful, impossible movement you made to tend to him without waking him floods through Damian’s mind, and for the first time that night, his tense body relaxes a fraction.
He shifts slightly on the sofa, still bundled in blankets and Jason’s jacket, staring at you with wide, dark eyes, his small chest rising and falling unevenly.
“She’s almost as good as Alfred,” Jason’s voice cuts through the quiet, and Damian’s head snaps toward the sound despite the ache in his neck. Every muscle tenses as he listens, wary but curious.
“Patched us up in no time,” Jason continues, wet hair plastered to his forehead, a towel wrapped around his waist, another in his hands as he methodically dries his hair. The casual ease of it makes the room feel warmer somehow, less like the chaos of the alley outside.
“Does—” Damian starts, his voice small and strained, throat catching unexpectedly, raw and fragile.
“Don’t talk,” Jason interrupts softly, a quiet authority threading through his words. His gaze flickers to Damian only for a fraction of a second before he leans down, careful and deliberate, and scoops you up from the coffee table. Your body is light in his arms, limp from exhaustion, and he moves like he’s balancing both a feather and a brick at the same time.
He lays you gently on the opposite end of the sofa from Damian, tucking the blankets around you with the precision of someone who has done this a thousand times, though this is the first time it’s been you.
“No one knows what happened,” Jason murmurs, voice low, almost intimate, as he straightens. “I texted B that you’re sleeping over at Jon’s.”
Damian blinks at him, the words and the quiet authority sinking in despite the fever and fatigue. His small chest rises and falls unevenly, shoulders slackening just a fraction as Jason steps back, towel in hand, keeping watch like a silent sentinel.
“Im not going to yell at you right now.” Jason says after a moment, grabbing a throw and tucking it around you. “Ill do it in the morning.”
Damian’s brows furrow in frustration, sharp and tiny, and Jason mirrors the expression instantly, leaning into it like a seasoned older brother that he isn't.
“Damian,” he says, voice low but firm, “you scared her half to death. You’re staying until morning and thanking her at the very least.”
“I didn’t ask her to do anything,” Damian hisses back, words brittle with fever and pride. “I told you to leave me there. You didn’t listen. That’s not my fault.”
Jason blinks at him, momentarily caught between exasperation and something softer, then mutters under his breath, moving toward the kitchen. “Kid… she cried her eyes out at the sight of you. You can think it’s dumb all you want, but I’m asking you to stay until morning so she at least gets the peace of knowing you’re okay.”
Damian’s small chest rises and falls, voice cracking despite the bravado. “I didn’t say it’s dumb.”
Jason pauses mid-step, eyebrows raising in mock surprise. “Oh? Really?”
“I said you’re dumb,” Damian snaps, words sharper than intended, honesty raw and jagged, fever and frustration threading through each syllable. “You could have spared her all of this if you just left me there like I asked. I get it. You love her, but this isn’t my fault—”
“I’m not blaming you for her, Damian!” Jason blurts, voice rising to be firm but still a whisper in fear of waking you. “I didn’t bring you here because she told me to, I brought you because—…”
There’s a long moment of silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the apartment and the faint rhythm of your breathing from the coffee table. Jason exhales, hanging his head and rubbing the back of his neck, voice tired.
“I’m going to make pasta,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.
“I hate pasta,” Damian whispers under his breath, small, resentful, almost pained.
“I know,” Jason grumbles without turning back, the scrape of his steps fading as he moves into the kitchen.
The apartment settles into a different kind of quiet. Damian’s gaze drifts back to you, to the way you’re sleeping, curled slightly on the coffee table beneath the thin throw blanket. Every blink, every soft inhale reminds him painfully of Talia—the same warmth, the same scent clinging faintly in his memory, the same question if hes even going to be able to feel this again in a day.
His small hands fidget with the blanket around him, tightening it slightly as if to anchor himself to something solid and human. The fever still weighs him down, every movement a little sharp, a little slow, but he can’t pull his eyes from you.
You blink your eyes open softly, and Damian almost jolts, caught off guard by the sudden warmth of your gaze. With the way Todd had been barking orders and how exhausted you looked last night, Damian had been sure you wouldn’t stir for hours.
“Damian,” you murmur gently, voice low and even, carrying the weight of calm and care.
“...Hello,” he replies, voice hoarse and small, pulling the blanket closer without thinking, as if the fabric alone could shield him from the world.
You study him in that way—the way his mother used to, scanning for bruises or scratches, checking for injuries with a practiced tenderness—and it tightens something in his chest. He flinches slightly, half-expecting the sharp reprimand he deserves for getting blood on your sofa, for all the chaos he’s caused.
Instead, your voice remains soft, elegant in a way he’s only ever glimpsed in Talia during rare quiet moments.
“Would you like me to make you some soup?” you ask, each word deliberate and gentle, a soft anchor in the dim apartment.
Damian hesitates, small, fevered fingers tightening around the blanket, eyes flicking between you and the sofa cushions. Something in the way you hold yourself—steady, patient, unshakably calm—makes him feel like it’s safe to nod, safe to accept, even if it’s just a little.
“…Yes,” he whispers finally, voice barely above a breath, and you can see him relax fractionally, the tension in his shoulders easing as the promise of warmth, of care, settles around him.
— cw: smut, bestfriend!tsukki x fem reader, penetration, unprotected sex, requited feelings (if you squint) | MINORS DNI
— word count: 0.9k
— a/n: here's part 2 of platonic cockwarming bsf!tsukki ♥︎ thank you for enjoying part 1 and for wanting more !! this can still be read as a stand alone drabble though ! enjoyed doing this mini series sm, let's end this year with a bang *winks*
“you think it’s funny?”
tsukishima’s balls deep inside you, still resisting the urge to move. it’s a game he already lost the moment he asked for you to sit on his cock. he sees you giggling at his question, almost laughing at how he easily broke with your tight pussy.
how come your calm and collected best friend's lost his mind when you already bottomed out on his throbbing length?
“knowing you, i should be the one more affected by this, kei,” you snide a remark, playing into his current state: brows furrowing, chest heaving more erratically, hands gripping your waist tighter than earlier.
honestly, tsukishima’s enamored and he doesn’t want to admit it. he likes the way you look good on top of him. he’s observing every strand of hair falling perfectly into place on your face, and how your plump lips curl into a smirk everytime he makes eye contact. he’s getting frustrated at how you’re hardly breaking now, after almost losing your mind earlier as he slowly entered his cock into you, when an idea briefly crossed his mind.
tsukishima lowers his hands to grip your ass and thrusts up.
“ah!” you moan at his sudden action, putting your hands on the wall to leverage on something, just anything, to snap you back to reality. you squeeze your eyes shut and whine at the sensation.
“you liked that?” he chuckles, biting his lip while pressing one hand on your back.
you grab the hair behind his head as you slowly nod.
it’s happening. he’s doing it. what’s supposed to be just cockwarming turned into full-blown sex.
you’re actually being fucked by your best friend tsukishima.
and it feels so fucking good that he's hitting the right spots inside you, the slick of your pussy slowly pooling down his balls as you start to fuck up and down his cock.
it’s sensual and filthy, it almost feels illegal. you look like lovers making love right now; his lips kissing your neck, his hands exploring every inch of your body, your pretty sighs egging him to risk everything.
tsukishima groans as he thrusts more, pulling out to tease your entrance then bottoming out again to kiss the deepest parts of your pussy.
“o-oh my god,” you elicit pretty moans as his living room is filled up with sounds of skin and slick and of you. “feels good, kei.”
“fuck, say it again,” he grabs your face, fucking you harder. “i like when you say my name like that.”
“you feel good in me, kei.”
tsukishima almost growls at how he moaned so deeply. he grabs his shirt and throws it on the floor. he grabs your clothes next, signaling for you to take them off. and you do, throwing your clothes and panties on the floor, then unhooking your bra and throwing it beside the pile of clothes.
he’s speechless, looking at all of you, and it’s harder now that his glasses are all fogged up from the heat between the two of you. so you remove his glasses like you read his mind, placing it on his table before bouncing on his cock faster, his hand cupping your face to kiss you, tongues swirling against each other as you moan in his mouth.
tsukishima breathes you in as you ride him, lips smacking against each other as his cock massages your insides, as if he’s perfectly made for you.
“you- fuck,” he briefly breaks the kiss, lifting you up and placing your back flat on the couch. “you’re driving me crazy.”
tsukishima pins your legs up and quickly rubs his tip on your entrance. you want to complain, for him to satisfy your needs, to keep fucking you.
“kei, please-”
he puts it in, thrusting into you rapidly. you scream as he covers your mouth with his hand, his other massaging your chest.
“more?” tsukishima encloses his lips on your tits as he grinds into you, hips moving harder and rougher.
“yes,” you grab onto his blonde hair. “please, make me cum.”
your pleas drove him insane, pulling you closer, his forehead now pressed onto yours as he fucks you, hitting your sweet spot again and again and again, more than determined to ride your high.
and you feel a sudden knot on your stomach, you grip his arms, back arching, feeling the waves of orgasm about to crash, “‘m gonna cum, kei, fuck-”
“yeah?” tsukishima rubs your clit while fucking into you, “cum for me.”
your legs shake as your slick gushes out, cumming as your sweet nectar wraps around his cock. you moan his name over and over again, eyes tearing up at how good it feels finally cumming around him, and tsukishima’s so captivated at your fucked out state, him bottoming out one last time before pulling out.
“shit,” tsukishima pumps his load on your stomach, cock throbbing at the mess he made on you.
heavy breaths echo his living room, both your clothes messy on his floor, your bodies now intertwined on his couch.
tsukishima lets out a chuckled sigh before looking at you, reaching for his glasses and grabbing tissues to help clean the mess he made on you.
you clear your throat. “so," he looks up at you as you let out a giggle. “you’re good.”
“shut up,” tsukishima avoids eye contact, his cheeks growing a shade darker. you don’t know if it’s humiliation or flattery, probably a mixture of both, at how your mostly stoic ‘best friend’ that barely shows emotion suddenly becomes more passionate at something aside from volleyball.
for you.
tsukishima plants a kiss on your forehead before grabbing your clothes, helping you get dressed.
and you’re not one to complain.
after all, nothing’s platonic with tsukishima anymore.
ᯓ➤ "Just us two..." "Oh, that would be wonderful!" "…Three?"
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Jason loves your alone time. Jason also loves Damian. Jason does not want to share your alone time. Damian loves you both. Damian will make him share your alone time.
aka ›››› "You can’t force me to participate in no-nut November." word cnt. 3.4k
You never quite understood why Jason was upset, even if you tried with all the patience you possessed. Most of your “dates” were not dates in the usual sense at all, but small, tender things done quietly within the four soft walls of home. They were evenings stitched together from the ordinary: the rhythmic sound of Jason’s knife against a cutting board while you perched on the counter, watching him cook and finding new, shameless ways to distract him; the slow comfort of cleaning together, your shared music low in the background as sunlight drifted across the floorboards; laundry dates that ended in laughter, with soap bubbles clinging to Jason’s hair; and movie nights, his favorites—the kind where you both ended up asleep before the film even reached its second act. Or...occupied with something else.
Movie nights without his little brother, that is. Because when Damian was there, movie nights somehow stopped belonging to Jason at all. They became something else entirely—soft, conspiratorial things between you and the boy. The two of you would sit wrapped in the same blanket, heads bent close, whispering about the film’s inaccuracies.
Laundry days became a battlefield when Damian joined in. He would stand beside you, arms crossed and unimpressed, as he scrutinized every item of Jason’s wardrobe like a disapproving tailor. “You wear this?” he’d ask, his voice flat with disbelief.
Cooking nights weren’t much better. You found yourself giving too much of your attention to Damian’s questions, explaining measurements and flavors and medical nutrition while Jason sighed and stirred and watched from a distance, half-amused and half-wounded.
Jason could never quite tell when it happened—when you and Damian stopped being polite strangers and somehow became… something else. Something closer.
All he knew was that one night, both of them were bloodied bone-tired, and he’d broken his own rule: no family in the apartment. But Damian needed help, and he trusted you. You had training, steady hands, and the kind of gentle patience that could coax a frightened little robin to rest.
You patched them both up that night. Bandages and soft voices, soup after that. It was supposed to end there.
It didn’t.
Somehow, after that night, the boy who once hissed at anyone who dared to touch him began to let you close. Damian—the child with the wary eyes and the spine made of quiet pride—let you ruffle his hair without complaint. He let you mend the tear in his sleeve, let you fuss over his meals, let you feed him soup when he was too tired to lift his arm.
Jason watched it all with a strange mix of awe and jealousy.
Damian even began to compliment you—though always hidden in insults aimed at Jason.
“I don’t know how you tolerate Todd,” he’d say airily. “You’d think you’d prefer someone who matches you intellectually.”
Jason would groan and roll his eyes. You’d only laugh.
There were other things, too. The tutoring sessions that had somehow become part of your week—Damian’s new interest in medicine, his newfound fascination with anatomy and physiology. You were his favorite teacher, though he’d never admit it outright.
You were also, much to Jason’s dismay, his doctor.
And Damian liked his “patient room”—your shared bedroom—kept quiet as a cathedral. No chatter, no movement, no sound but the clink of teacups and the rustle of papers.
Damian liked your apartment. Truly liked it. Liked the calm that hung in the air like a soft blanket. Liked that you didn’t speak unless you had something to say. Liked that you covered every window with those translucent suncatchers that painted colors across the floorboards when the light came through. Not the gaudy sort found in tourist shops—yours were delicate, old, a little imperfect, like melted drops of glass. Your home reminded him of a place he once called home.
Damian liked the kittens you fostered. He liked feeding them, brushing them, pretending he didn’t enjoy either. He liked making tea with you because you brewed it properly, just as it was made when he was small with the old servants, with patient hands and quiet dignity.
He did not like your choice in company.
And he told you so, in his usual unflinching way.
“I can find you a more adequate match,” he whispered one afternoon, low and confidential, though Jason heard every word from across the room.
You were kneeling beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, bathing a litter of kittens in a metal bucket from the hardware store. The poor things had fleas and ringworm, and your fingers were red from the warm water and soap. Damian crouched beside you, sleeves just as damp, as if he’d been born to this small ritual of care.
“I think he’s quite adequate,” you whispered back, soft enough not to wound his pride.
That was another thing Damian liked: the way you spoke to him. You matched his tone, measured and deliberate, the way someone might match a heartbeat. He knew it wasn’t how you spoke to everyone—he’d seen you with delivery men, with Jason—but with him, you were precise. Thoughtful. Gentle.
You spoke like he did.
And for a boy who’d spent years surrounded by voices that stumbled over his accent, who had grown used to repeating himself until the words felt wrong in his mouth, that meant more than he’d ever say aloud.
“Yeah, I think he’s adequate too!” Jason called suddenly from the doorway, grinning as he tightened a hinge on the bathroom door. You turned to glance at him, smiling despite yourself.
He was dressed in that white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off—his arms smudged with grease and his hair far too long, hanging just above his eyes. His clothes bore the familiar stains of oil and paint and everything else he’d fixed that week. His sneakers were worn down to their last thread, and yet somehow, standing there with a screwdriver in one hand and a crooked grin on his face, he looked steady.
His skin had color again, no longer the pale gray of sleepless nights. His back wasn’t as stiff as it used to be, his shoulders at ease. And though he grumbled endlessly about Damian’s visits, he looked softer when the boy was around. A little more human. A little more home.
Perfect, as always. Yours as always.
“You look like a turd,” Damian said flatly, scowling in Jason’s direction.
Jason didn’t even flinch. “Bro, you smell like a turd.”
“I wonder why,” Damian muttered, holding up a dripping kitten by the scruff, water trailing from its tiny paws.
Jason dropped the screwdriver and spun, pointing accusingly. “Damian, I swear to God—if you drip that medicine on the rug again, I’ll—”
Before he could finish, you reached forward, gently guiding Damian’s small hands back toward the bucket. “Let’s not test him,” you murmured, the edge of laughter in your tone. Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, his pride intact.
Half an hour later, the kittens were washed and dry, bundled in towels that smelled faintly of lavender. They lay in the wicker basket you used for your farmer’s market trips—the same one Damian sometimes carried with a reluctant sort of pride. The three of you sat together in the aftermath of the small chaos: Jason kneeling by the repaired door, you perched on the rug with a kitten in your lap, Damian cross-legged beside the basket, his expression unusually serene.
“What do you want for dinner?” Jason asked finally, testing the hinge one last time.
“Biryani,” Damian said immediately, still rubbing a towel over a kitten’s ears.
Jason didn’t look up. “I was asking my girlfriend.”
The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then both of them turned to look at you—Jason with a weary sort of amusement, Damian with scandalized indignation.
You sighed, stroking a kitten’s damp fur. “I’d like biryani too.”
“Vegetable,” Damian added.
You paused, glanced down at him, then back up at Jason. “…Yes, vegetable.”
Jason blinked. For a long moment, there was silence. Then he muttered, “Lost to a vegan,” and wandered out of the bathroom, the sound of his boots fading down the hall.
When you looked back, Damian was smiling—just a small, quiet smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but softened them all the same. You felt warmth bloom in your chest.
By the time dinner is ready, the kittens are all asleep, little bodies curled into soft commas in their basket. The faint hum of the radiator fills the silence between your breaths, and the apartment smells rich and warm—spices blooming in the air like memory.
The biryani sits steaming in the center of the low coffee table, bowls placed in an uneven triangle around it. Damian is already criticizing between bites.
“There’s too much cardamom,” he says with all the dignity of a food critic, squinting at his plate. “And the star anise—how am I supposed to chew on this?”
Jason looks like he’s aged five years in the span of the meal.
“Don’t eat it then,” he grumbles, though there’s no real bite to it.
Damian ignores him, of course, muttering something about “culinary atrocities” and “unsuitable textures” as he gets up to fetch salt from the kitchen. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving a kind of hush behind him.
Jason exhales hard, running a hand over his face. “Gods, I—” He stops himself, then huffs again and reaches over to scoop a few extra vegetables into your plate. “I love the kid. I mean it, I do. But does he always have to be around?”
His voice drops low, almost conspiratorial. The firelight flickers against his face, softening the hard line of his jaw.
You smile, trying to keep your voice light, teasing. “Are you jealous?”
You hope to draw that familiar flush to his cheeks, to make him sputter and deflect because you don't want the risk of Damian hearing all of this and drawing back into himself.
But Jason doesn’t take the bait—at least not the way you expect.
“No,” he says, too quickly. Then, quieter, “Yes. No—I don’t know. I…” His gaze drops to his food, then to the floor. “I like having you to myself.”
There’s something naked in that confession. Something fragile, almost boyish. Jason, for all his rough edges and sharp words, has never learned how to admit loneliness without looking away.
He doesn’t need to pretend with you—not like he does with his family. Around them, he wears armor made of sarcasm and silence. Even now, years after coming back, Jason doubts he’ll ever fully relax in their company.
Especially not around Damian.
It isn’t the boy’s fault. Jason knows that. But every time he looks at Damian, he remembers.
Remembers standing in the League’s training yard, watching the child run until his small body trembled, his tutors shouting that failure was death. Remembers the look in Damian’s eyes when they handed him a knife and pointed to a chained dog. Remembers him crying—choking on his own breath, spitting his mother’s name like a curse—and then, finally, going still. Blade down.
Jason had watched from a distance, powerless to intervene. That memory lives in his bones.
He can’t relax around that kid. Not really. And yet Damian has learned to relax around you—and Jason knows how rare that is.
So it feels selfish, maybe, to resent it. But he does.
He misses you.
Misses you kissing his neck without warning, standing on tiptoe instead of asking him to lean down. Misses the way you’d curl into his lap whenever he finally sat down, the solid comfort of your weight grounding him in a world that never stops spinning.
He misses you walking around half-dressed and unbothered, so at ease in your skin that he felt human just watching you. Misses you sneaking up behind him while he cooks, arms slipping around his waist, the low hum of your laughter against his back.
Misses the smack you’d give him whenever he teased you about your inability to ever survive as a celibate.
Apparently, you could.
Apparently, you could rival a monk.
And Jason’s pretty sure you’d win, too.
Apparently he's the one who'd die if he was ever made celibate.
“…He needs a space,” you murmur finally, your voice as soft as the fire crackling in the grate. Your hand drifts to his thigh, a gentle anchor.
Jason sighs, leaning into the touch like it’s the first warm thing he’s felt all day. “I need a space,” he grumbles, sounding more like a sulking teenager than a grown man. He pokes at his food. “And I need meat.”
You roll your eyes, amused. “The chicken biryani you made last week tasted wonderful.”
“Yeah, well, apparently chickens are birds,” he mutters.
You blink, looking up at him. “Huh?”
“I always thought they were like… fat fish,” Jason says. “That’s what Dick told me when I was, like, ten.”
You stare for a second before laughter spills out of you, helpless and bright. “And you believed him?”
Jason just shrugs, reaching for another spoonful of biryani. “I believed everything my brother told me at that age.” He scoops some of his food into your mouth, shoveling most of his vegetables your way.
You chew, smiling around the bite. “You know who else believes everything his brother tells him?” you ask, voice sly.
Jason pauses mid-bite, suspicious. “…Damian calls me an idiot daily.”
“Yeah,” you hum. “But he still listens when you talk. He doesn’t do that with Tim.”
“That’s because no one can stand Tim talking.”
You groan, rolling your eyes again. “He does it with Dick, and no one can stand Dick talking either.”
Jason snorts. “He does not like me as much as Dick.”
“Me either,” you admit easily, your tone warm. “But he likes us as much as Dick. You don’t see him going to his apartment.”
“Yeah, because Kori brings out his worst habit,” Jason mutters, though there’s fondness hiding under his words. “All that god-awful rambling.”
You laugh quietly. “I think they’re sweet.”
He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Tim and Kon, too,” you continue, ignoring it. “No matter how much you complain.”
“They need to learn how to get a room,” Jason groans, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “And I love Kori and Dick, I do, they’re just—”
“Loud,” you finish for him, gentle and knowing.
He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah. Loud.”
You both sit in the quiet that follows, the kind of quiet that’s easy, lived-in. The kind where every sound feels magnified—the slow ticking of the wall clock, the faint purrs of sleeping kittens, the crackle of birch wood in the fireplace.
Jason stares into the flames for a long time before muttering, “It’s not just them. The manor’s always so damn loud. Steph and—”
“Hm.” You hum softly, eyes thoughtful. “Yeah. So if I were Damian, I’d want to come here, too. To my brother’s quiet home. The one with tea, kittens, a bed for Titus, and a sweet older brother who actually makes ethnic food.”
Jason snorts. “Alfred can make him biryani.”
“Jason,” you say, laughter slipping into your tone, “I know you love him, but…”
You trail off, because you don’t need to finish it.
Jason already knows.
And somewhere in the kitchen, Damian’s voice drifts faintly back:
“You’re both eating without me—uncivilized.”
You and Jason exchange a look, trying not to smile too wide.
The kiddo comes back, and Jason immediately feels the loss of your hand on his thigh. The warmth that had anchored him to the moment is gone, and he notices it before he even thinks. Damian strides in, shoulders stiff, grinding salt onto his onion raita with a small scowl.
“Honey,” you murmur quietly, all knowing, “that’s your third bowl.”
Jason can’t help the small smirk that tugs at his mouth. He folds his arms in faux pride, chest puffed out like a rooster, though his eyes linger on your face and your hand brushing lightly over Damian’s, quietly correcting his angle with the spoon. You glance at him briefly, then pull back to focus on Damian, who has paused mid-grind, frowning at his food as though it’s betrayed him.
“You people will make me fat like Jason,” Damian declares, voice sharp, accusation hanging in the air.
“I am not fat!” Jason huffs immediately, scandal written across his features. He glances at you, eyes wide and pleading. “You’re the doctor! Tell him, babe!”
You pause for a moment, tilting your head thoughtfully. Technically, according to textbooks and clinical standards, someone of Jason’s size could be considered slightly overweight—but he carries it like armor, and your instinct is to reassure rather than lecture.
Damian’s grin grows impossibly wide at your pause. Jason’s jaw drops.
“HA! Told you! Fatson Todd over here is in denial!” Damian exclaims, triumphant, waving the onion raita spoon like a sword.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, handing Damian a stack of empty dishes with a soft, indulgent smile. Begrudgingly, he gets up to collect them, still muttering, still scowling, but your quiet smile seems to soften him just enough.
“God, sometimes I think you play mom,” Jason mutters, leaning back slightly. He watches your expression—the soft, gentle tilt of your lips, the quiet care in your movements as you help Damian balance the plates—and he feels the warmth of it wrap around him. “You really want someone like him as a kid? Hey, if we had a kid like him, I’d toss it right back to Grandpa Bruce.”
Damian’s huff echoes faintly from the kitchen, scowling and stomping as he disappears from view.
You turn to Jason, your voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’d love a kid like Damian.”
He looks at you, hesitant, unsure, because the concept of children has never been simple for him. And yet… the softness in your eyes, the gentle calm you exude, makes him pause.
“Yeah,” he mumbles finally, uncertain but open. “Sure.”
You lean closer, brushing a fingertip over his hand. “He looks like you,” you murmur, “your eyebrows and cheekbones.”
“Bruce’s eyebrows and cheekbones,” Jason corrects softly, then glances at your face, his eyes lingering. “Your eyes would suit them.”
You hum, leaning forward to kiss the side of his neck briefly, warm and comforting, and then you hear the faint rush of water as Damian starts washing dishes. Jason freezes slightly under the gesture.
“Oh, so now you kiss me?” he huffs, mock-indignant, a childish edge to his voice. “Go kiss his cheeks like I know you want to.”
You pinch the cheek unmarked by his scar gently. “I love him too, because he reminds me of you. Don’t forget that.”
“You also think raccoons remind you of me.” Jason says, smirk creeping in.
“Raccoons are adorable!” you reply, cheerful and soft.
“Well, this raccoon wants attention,” he huffs, mock-sulking.
You glance toward the kitchen, checking Damian’s progress, then lean in, pressing a quick kiss along the bicep you’ve been eyeing since he came back from fixing the door. “…Damian mentioned he has a sleepover with Jon on Friday. I can call off work too and…”
Your voice trails, hypnotic, and Jason lifts his gaze, caught in the light of your lashes and the quiet intensity of your expression. “…we can—”
“Have a sleepover?” Jason murmurs, small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, there won’t be any sleeping,” you whisper back, eyes sparkling with mischief.
He blinks, and a slow smirk spreads across his face, soft and fond, the apartment feeling warmer somehow. The smell of biryani, the faint crackle of the fire, the distant splash of water from Damian’s dishwashing—everything settles into a rhythm that feels like home.
Jason leans back slightly, still mesmerized by the faint glow of your eyes and the way your lips curl at the edges.
please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)
I miss you guys so much omg, life is just way too busy. I’m trying to get some stuff out but I had this tucked away in my notes, it’s short but good. It’s lokey one on one Bernard, Tim is just a side character atp lol
Warnings!: MDNI!, Smut, oral (m! Receiving), kissing, public sex, pet names, praise, degradation, face fucking, Bernard takes dirty photos of you, free use, crying, possessiveness
Watching Tim walk around, an air of confidence as he greets shareholders in a perfect three piece suit, gets you hotter than you’d like to admit.
From the way Bernard’s hand tightens around your waist, the prettiest blush covering his freckles, you’re sure he’s hot and bothered too.
You’ve both been ogling him from your table, he had wondered off some time ago promising to be back after a few rounds of greetings.
Bernard isn’t helping that tight feeling in your stomach either, not with the way he’s holding you against him, his cologne fogs your senses and makes you squirm.
“Hey Bern?” You lean further into him, having to look up to see his pretty green eyes. “Yeah pretty?”
The way his dim voice, already dark and warm, sounds around the compliment makes you lean in further.
“Wanna go to the bathroom? Really want to suck you off.”
The soft blush on his cheeks spreads all over, you can feel him practically shaking from the suggestion. He’s so flustered, almost like he wasn’t just eye fucking Tim from across the room.
“Wow baby, did watching Tim strut around really get you that hot and bothered? Or was it just me looking way too handsome tonight”
“Oh shut it, do you want a blowjob or not?” You love Bernard’s taunting but you need him in your mouth now.
“Fuck yeah baby, you go first and I’ll meet you in five.”
He kisses the pout of your face, five minutes is way too long. He sends you off with a soft lingering kiss to your forehead, so sweet like always, and a small tap to your hip.
It feels like an eternity before you hear three soft taps to the door. You’re on top of him as soon as you let him in, practically yanking him inside.
Your teeth clang together uncomfortably, you push yourself as close as you can, hands already trying to tug his pants off.
His hands grab your hips, pushing you back until you hit the sink. The kiss stays hungry, like he’s trying to take everything from you before you even start.
You whine when he bites your lip, pulling away slightly to look at you with dark hazel eyes. “Fuck, I need you.”
He’s pulling you back in before you can respond, turning you both around so his back is to the sink.
A small squeeze to your hips has you bending down, knees hitting the cold tile floor, sending a shiver up your spine.
Bernard stares down at you as he unbuttons his pants, slipping his pretty cock out. He looks so good from this angle, looking down at you like your all his, delicate hand holding his perfect cock to your lips.
Your manicured hand folds over his, taking him into your palm. You press small kisses along the length, feeling him twitch against you. Licking up the side, taking in the slight curve, his veins feeling good against your tongue.
You lick at his sweet slit before taking his flushed tip between your pouty lips. He’s heavy against your tongue, the familiar feeling making your stomach settle.
You breathe heavy through your nose as you take him in further, your eyes watering as you adjust to his length. You take him in inch by inch, his huge cock practically carving out its spot in your throat.
Your mind blanks when your nose finally meets soft blond curls, his tip nuzzled into the back of your throat.
“There we go baby, just like that. Taking me perfectly.”
His eyebrows are furrowed when you glance up through your eyelashes, his hips slightly bucking as he tries not to fuck into your mouth. His soft plump lips hang open with small pants.
When you swallow slightly, he lets out a deep groan, hand traveling to pull at your hair.
“Fuck sweet girl, can I fuck your mouth? You feel so good.”
You moan at the thought, slightly nodding before moving your hands to grip at the hem of your dress.
His hand tightens in your hair before he yanks you back right before pulling you forward, gaging you on his length.
He’s rough, tip abusing the back of your throat. Your thighs clench, panties already soaked from the way he’s man handling you.
His stomach dips as he moans, his head falling backwards until you can’t see it anymore. He’s beautiful, his throat shining with sweat, his slim hips fucking forward into your mouth.
“Oh fuck- so good baby. Throats squeezing around me like she wants more.” You whine around him, trying to focus on opening up for him.
Your sure you looked fucked already, eyes blank and full of tears, hair messy as Bernard pulls on it. You cant even bring yourself to care when he’s taking complete control over you, mind blissfully blank.
“Tim’s gonna wanna know where we are sweet girl. Shit- maybe I’ll send a picture so he knows just how much of a slut you are. Couldn’t even go one party without a cock in your mouth”
You can’t even argue, he’s not letting you have a break, hand still pressing you down into his pelvis. You whine again too, the thought of Tim pulling out his phone and seeing you slobbering around Bernard makes you clench around nothing.
You can hear him scrabble around for his phone, hips shaking as they move. He barely finds it in his pocket, pulling it out with shaky hands.
“Of course you’d like that baby. Here we go, look up for me, smile for the camera pretty.”
Peering up, all you see is the camera of his phone, his snarky smile taunting you behind it. You can’t even adjust as he presses your head down harder, his hips getting faster.
All you can do is look up with teary eyes as he snaps pictures of your lips wrapped around him.
“Look at you, so fucked out already. Bet you like this, being used and taken photos of. You probably want Tim to open it in front of everyone, so they all know exactly what we’re doing in here.”
He’s rambling as he sends the pics to Tim, setting his phone down again to grab your head in both hands and ramming his hips harder into your mouth.
You gag around him, trying hard to keep your teeth guarded. Your tongue laps around his length, feeling his veins twitch.
He’s leaking so much pre, it’s sweet and salty, the taste making you suck harder, wanting more of that sweet taste.
“Oh fuck I’m close baby, keep going, been so good for me.”
His hips are getting sloppy, his moans getting loud. His unfocused eyes stare into yours as he moans out praises.
You’re sucking him off wet and sloppy, the sound of his flushed tip hitting the back of your throat echo. Spit and pre mix as it drips down your chin, getting worse with every pump of your mouth.
It’s not long before warmth seeps down your throat, the sweet taste making you swallow immediately. You gag and whine, pressing your nose further against him so he doesn’t pull out.
His knees shake as he leans back on the sink, body curling in over itself to keep himself up.
“Oh fuck. Thank you. So good, looked so pretty with your lips wrapped around me. All fucking mine, my needy girl.”
You sit with him softening in your mouth, the weight easing your mind while he soothes the ache in your scalp with his fingers.
You both jump when the door clicks open, Bernard’s hand tensing and pushing you in to shield you. You almost tense before you feel him relax again.
“Fuck Tim, you scared the shit out of me.”
You relax too, mind going blank again knowing they’re both here now, body slouching into Bernard when his fingers soothe you softly.
“Not my fault you guys forgot to lock the door, be grateful it’s me and not some random.”
You feel his warmth as he steps in close, his fingers coming to curl around your jaw, pulling it up slightly to have you look at him.
“You’ve been good for Bern sweet girl? God, she looks so fucked out, what’d you do to my poor baby?”
You’re too dumb to make any kind of response, only whimpering when his thumb traces around your stretched lips.
“I didn’t do anything, she’s the one that dragged me in here and begged to deep throat me.”
You whimper when Tim’s hand travels to your scalp and pulls until Bernard’s cock slips out, only leaving a trail of spit connecting you.
“That true, sweet girl? You were too needy to wait until we got home?”
“No, I-“
You’re cut off by Tim shoving his fingers down your throat, smiling down at you as he chokes you.
He coos as you gag before completely shifting his attention to Bernard, leaning forward to kiss him.
They make out above you, the sounds of their lips meeting harshly echos, tangling with your gags as Tim shoves his fingers in further.
All you can do is stare, they kiss like they’re starving, like they’re both pressuring the other to take control. They glow in the dim dingy light, both of them having complete control over you.
When they split, they both look down at you with dark eyes, sharing a look that you know means they have a long night planned for you.
“Since you’re such a slut that you needed to drag Bernard to a dirty bathroom to suck off, surely you’d be fine with me bending you over the sink right? Need more pics of you taking me anyway.”
“Yeah baby, maybe you need the both of us putting you in your place.”
Fuck, you can’t even argue with Tim’s fingers still shoved down your throat. You’re sure that by the time they’re done, you’re not even going to be able to walk out of here.
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