odysseus absolutely does present a threat to penelope if he perceives her as at all unfaithful, and i feel the unfairness of this, and i think people tend to undersell how much tension at least potentially exists between odysseus and penelope. but i'm also like. his reaction, all speculation aside, his actual reaction in the odyssey to her flirting with the suitors is delight, because he immediately ascertains that she is running a con. sorry that they're so in-sync in spite of the forces that try to drive a wedge between them, including their own misgiving hearts. sorry that they invented homophrosyne ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
There are hardly any female werewolves because they break all the classic rules of femininity. They force you to confront female violence, strength, size, grotesqueness and uncontrollability. Historically female shapeshifters always shift into something dangerous (snake) or sleek (cat) or dainty (bird) but female werewolves ignore the masculine gaze completely. They're distorted beasts that have no ulterior motive except to destroy. Nothing about them is nurturing or modest. They're the opposite of what a woman "should be." Their omission from pop culture is not an accident.
— 𝜗𝜚⋆ your husband gets clingy and sappy during sex
it always starts heated, hungry, almost borderline feral when you get your hands on each other. the rough yet gentle way his voice echoes in your ear at every promise he tells you he’s gonna do to you: knows it makes your knees weak and pussy wet.
his touch always traveling around your body, knowing it like the back of his hand, knows what you like and don’t like, knows which buttons to press to have you trembling and shaking. whispers the dirtiest things in your ear while he’s got this finger stuffed in your cunt and you can’t do anything but grip his wrist tightly and moan into his mouth when he kisses you.
but there’s also times when it shifts, the entire bedroom becomes soft all of a sudden, like now; sat back on his knees, thumb rubbing the slowest circles on your clit while his can’t take his eyes off the way his cock eases in and out of you with one leg pushed off to the side and the other bent over his shoulder. “baby,” he murmurs, deep and low in his throat, his lips littering wet kisses against your leg. “you’re so pretty, baby.”
your eyes snap open at his words, dazed and confused. “huh?” through tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, you catch sight of him, but he isn’t looking at you. he’s fixated on your pussy. your lips part with another string of soft whines, hand loosely pressed against his chest when he’s slowly grinding into you; the thickness of his cock stretching you out perfectly. “what did you say?”
if he hears you, he choses not to say anything, not yet anyway, too entranced with how he fills you up, eyes hooded and breath stuttering at the warmth of you wrapped around him. doesn’t seem to register the way your nails sink into the skin of his chest each time he pulls out just enough to have you whimpering in protest before pushing right back into you. each thrust knocking your breath out of you.
it’s when his eyes flicker up and meet yours finally, lowering your leg from his shoulder, that he smiles; the lazy and giddy kind, before he’s leaning over you. his body, made up of pure muscle and strength, cages yours beneath him. “you’re pretty too, sweetheart,” his face is instantly tucked into the crook of your neck, hot breath against your skin, causing you to shiver and clench around him. “so pretty, my pretty lady,” he continues, hands running up and down your thighs before he’s wrapping them around his waist for you, body lowering more onto yours.
you gasp into his shoulder, the action of his body pressing down onto you causes his cock to sink deeper. “baby,” you whine, biting his shoulder, hands running up and down his back, moving to his sides just to feel the hotness of his skin before they’re moving back up and around his back; the muscle is hard beneath your touch.
his thrusts are slow and gentle, the thick vein on the underside of his cock throbs against your walls, rough hands slide down your legs and over your hips. his ragged breaths and groans vibrate against your neck and the sharpness of your nails sink into his back. “my pretty baby, so sweet and soft,” he murmurs once more, teeth nipping at your neck. “you’re so perfect, so mine.”
he’s gone, that much you realise, and you also realise he’s not even phased by the way your nails continue to rake up and down his back each time he grinds into you, his mind and body focused on how good you feel wrapped around his cock, how you feel so pliable beneath him. those same hands that make you feel safe no matter what, grip your hips tighter once his pace gets more faster.
“m’yours,” you choked out, the sound a mixture between a moan and a sob; either way it goes straight to his head, panting into your now sweaty neck. “all yours, honey please.”
“you’re so perfect, m’so lucky to have you,” he can’t stop, his fingers sinking deeper into your hips and nose sliding up and down your neck.
the plap plap plap of skin slapping echo the room, your ankles locked tightly around him, heels pressing into his lower back each time he drags his cock out, enough to make you whine, before sliding right back in, the tip of his cock catching onto the spot inside you that has stars behind your ears and toes curling. “feels ‘shoo good,” you moan, hips moving on their own accord to meet his thrusts.
your arm wraps around his neck, holding him close to you and you moan, gasp and whine into his ear softly. his sweaty body sticks to yourself like glue, if anything his grip on your hips tighten, lips attaching to your neck hungrily. “so warm, holy shit” his voice slurs slightly, one hand quickly moving between your bodies where he finds your throbbing clit. “so wet,” his fingers work slowly, drawing figure eights on the bud, groaning each time you clench around his cock. “you’re so fucking perfect, fuck honey.”
his words melt your heart, makes your eyelids flutter closed just for a second; or longer, you can’t tell anymore, basking in his love and affection. “mmm love you,” you gasp, nails sinking into the skin of his shoulder.
“love you more,” he pants, lifting his head from your neck and pressing his forehead to yours, eyes hooded. “love you so much, my best girl, pretty wife.”
you cry out against his cheek, walls fluttering around his cock once again at his words, never fails to make you shy and happy no matter how many times he says it. “more, need more, please, honey—”
“wanna feel you, need to feel you, just for a little linger—ohmygod,” another particular thrust of his hips has your legs tightening around him and a deep rumble from his throat causes his pace to falter for just a split second. “pussy was made for me, you were made for me, baby, hm? yeah? lemme feel you for longer, need to, mmmm, that’s it.”
“can’t, need you to move faster.”
his lips curl up into a smirk and you cling to his shoulder tighter when he moves his head towards your neck again, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “lemme play with you a little longer, baby, yeah?”
cw: bicep biting, teasing, male whimpering, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, talking you through it, hair pulling, he's described as big, back scratching, creampies, not proofread.
ⓘ Featuring how sexy Dick Grayson is for his pretty girl.
boyfriend!dick who muffles your moans with his bicep whenever you're staying over at his father's, cooing, "You need to be quiet" so his family won't find out how dirty you are, as if he isn't the one fucking into you so hard the headboard's slamming against the wall.
+ Bonus points: Whenever you finish, and he pulls back to see drool on his arm along with the teeth marks, he knows he did well.
boyfriend!dick who can spend hours teasing you before getting to work, with light brushes of his fingers up your thigh, light kisses to your lips, and rubbing the tip along your slit, but pulling back once you start begging him to just fuck you already.
Eventually, you wear each other down; you're moaning out his name & he's struggling not to finish in two minutes.
boyfriend!dick loves when you go down on him, fists clenching against the sheets as he struggles not to guide your head, biting down the sweetest moan every time you swirl your tongue around his blushing tip.
After he finishes in your mouth, he'll always wipe your lips clean & whisper how pretty you are in the shakiest, hottest tone known to man.
boyfriend!dick who tends to get a little needy & sometimes ends up dry humping you till he's creamed his boxers instead of just fucking you like he'd originally planned. Noting "it felt too good to stop" while letting out a choked laugh & burying his face in your throat.
He'll always joke about it afterwards. But it's kind of obvious at the moment how embarrassed he feels about it.
boyfriend!dick likes to finger you after a blowjob, scissoring you open on long fingers so he can stare at the wetness pooling on your skin while telling you just how sexy it looks to him & licks you clean after each orgasm.
He likes to give you at least two orgasms per one of his.
boyfriend!dick has grown used to your nails sinking into his back every time he bottoms out; he's even grown to like how every few thrusts bring the sweet sting of your nails scratching at him in sync with sharp moans.
boyfriend!dick who is well aware just how endowed he is & always takes it slow to let you adjust, making sure to whisper sweet little praises in your ear.
boyfriend!dick who has made himself well acquainted with your clit, happily goes down on you every time you're being bratty or not in a good mood, knowing his tongue can be an instant mood booster.
He always moans at the feeling of your nails scratching at his scalp, pulling & begging for more, loving the sensation of feeling your pleasure through the sharp tugs.
boyfriend!dick who has a bad pullout game & ends up accidentally filling you up more often than he'd like to admit. He's so embarrassed when he pulls out and sees his seed spilling out, but your fucked-out expression always makes him feel better about it.
∗ synopsis. post patrol jason todd is desperate and banged up.
warnings. 18+. established relationship. jason todd x fem! reader. clingy jason. porn w/o plot. thigh riding. handjob. soft smut. (kinda all over the place…oops!)
jason comes in through the fire escape window instead of the front door like a normal person.
he tries to play it off, helmet already off, one hand braced against the window frame like he’s fine, totally fine, except he’s breathing wrong and there’s a cut above his eyebrow that hasn’t stopped bleeding.
“sit down,” you tell him.
“m’fine,” he says, but sits down immediately.
you get the first aid kit without being asked. pull up a chair in front of him and start with his face, cleaning the cut above his brow with steady hands while he watches you. he doesn’t flinch. just sits there and lets you work, jaw tight, eyes tracking your expression.
“stop looking at me like that,” he says.
“like what.”
“like you’re mad.”
“i’m not mad.” you press the butterfly strip down carefully. “i’m not mad at you.”
he doesn’t say anything to that.
you move down. his lip, split at the corner. his jaw, bruised deep and purple. you touch each thing gently and he takes it quietly, which is its own kind of alarming.
you get to his chest next, working the catches of his suit until it falls open. he shrugs it off his shoulders without being asked, leaving him in just his boxers, and you keep your face neutral. you do. but your hands still for just a second at the mess of him. bruises blooming across his ribs, a cut low on his side that’s dried but angry looking, the old scars underneath all of it.
you clean the cut without a word. he watches you frown at it.
his hand comes up and cups your face.
“hey,” he says quietly.
you look up.
“m’okay,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “i’m right here.”
when you’re done you cap the antiseptic and sit back. he catches your wrist before you can move away.
he tugs you forward into his lap without asking, arms winding around your waist, and tucks his face into your chest. just. stays there. breathing you in.
you let your fingers move into his hair.
he’s heavy against you. the tension in him slowly, slowly starting to unwind. you can feel it in the way his shoulders drop by degrees, the grip around your waist loosening just slightly.
you card through his hair and say nothing.
after a while he turns his face up.
he kisses you soft at first. careful, like he’s relearning you, mouth moving gentle against yours. but then his hands tighten at your waist and he kisses you again, needier this time, a quiet urgency underneath it like he just needs to feel you. feel that you’re real. that you’re his.
you kiss him back.
his arms pull you closer.
“m’sorry,” he says. kisses you again. “i know i worry you so much.”
his hands slide down to your hips. he shifts you slightly on his lap, repositioning you until you’re sitting across his thigh, the thin fabric of your sleep shorts the only thing between you and his bare skin. you feel the muscle flex deliberately underneath you.
“jason—”
“please,” he murmurs against your mouth. “let me.”
quiet and earnest in a way he rarely lets himself be.
“you’re hurt,” you say.
“i know.” his hands squeeze your hips. “please, baby.”
you look at him. the cut above his brow, the bruised jaw, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s going to settle him tonight.
“you don’t have to do that,” you say softly. “i’m not mad at you.”
“i know.” his forehead drops to yours. “please.”
so you give in.
you start to move and his thigh flexes under you, firm and deliberate, pressing up right where you need it through the thin cotton of your shorts. your breath catches.
his hands guide your hips into a slow rhythm, jaw tight, watching your face with dark eyes. every time you roll forward his thigh meets you and the friction pulls a soft sound out of you that he swallows with his mouth.
“that’s it,” he murmurs. “just like that.”
his ribs expand with a sharp breath when you shift your weight and he winces, barely, but you catch it.
“jason—”
“don’t stop,” he grits out. “please don’t stop.”
you don’t stop.
his hands keep guiding you, unhurried, and he just watches. eyes dark and focused entirely on your face, the way your mouth falls open, the way your fingers curl into his bare shoulders careful of the bruises. this is one of his favourite things, you know. watching you come undone. he’s told you before, low and honest in the dark, that he could do this for hours. just watch you. just this.
his expression right now confirms it. something reverent underneath all that heat.
you reach down between you and palm him through his boxers and he exhales sharp, hips stuttering up.
“hey—” his voice comes out rough.
“let me,” you say, echoing him back at himself.
his jaw works. he nods.
you slip your hand past the waistband and wrap around him properly and the sound he makes is low and punched out, head dropping forward onto your shoulder.
“fuck,” he exhales against your skin.
you keep moving on his thigh. keep stroking him. the dual rhythm finding itself naturally, your hips rolling forward while your hand works, and jason is coming apart underneath you in the quietest, most desperate way. no performance. just him, stripped back, hands gripping your hips like an anchor.
“feel good?” you murmur.
“yeah,” he says, barely voice at all. “yeah, so good.”
his thigh flexes deliberately under you and you gasp and his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, pressing open kisses wherever he can reach, sloppy and uncoordinated and so unlike his usual careful self.
“close,” you breathe.
“i know.” his hand slides from your hip, down, pressing over yours where you’re working him. not taking over. just feeling. “me too. come on.”
his thigh flexes one more time, firm and precise, and you tip over with a soft broken sound, forehead dropping to his shoulder. you feel him follow seconds later, shuddering, a low groan muffled into your hair, hands gripping you through it like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
the room goes quiet.
he holds you there for a long time after. face buried in your neck, breathing slowing degree by degree.
Jason todd and some making out 🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
tags & content: established relationship, superficial injuries, kissing, making out, fluff, very minor nsfw mentions, gn reader
“There,” you beam, the corners of your eyes crinkling with a childish sort of joy as you finish smoothing the edges of the plaster over his nose. “All done.”
Jason’s eyes track you momentarily as you pull back, fingers tentatively tapping his nose to test the little plaster. Satisfied, he lets out an exhausted sigh, one you seem to feel in your own bones.
You don’t like seeing him like this; all bruised and battered after a long night with criminals, but you always looked forward to patching him up afterwards.
It was a strange, conflicting feeling.
You know if he was truly hurt, he would be with Leslie, or treating the wounds himself. These, you knew, were just superficial, easy for your inexperienced, lithe fingers to prod and poke without causing any major injuries.
Plus, looking at the plaster littered with ridiculous, cartoonish bears, you can’t help but let out a little giggle.
Jason immediately cracks one eye open, tilting his head towards you with a feigned look of irritation.
“What?” He grumbles. You know he’s tired, probably looking to catch some shut eye as soon as possible, but you can’t help yourself.
You lean your shoulder against the back of the sofa, pursing your lips in a futile attempt to hide your smile.
“Nothing,” you sing. Jason’s eyes pin you like a bug to a board for a few more seconds, letting out a huff of indignant air. He leans forward to the coffee table, despite the bruising on his ribs, reaching for his phone. The screen is spider-webbed with cracks, but it still works.
“Babe, what did you do—”
“Nothing!” You squeal, launching forward to pinch his wrists. You tug playfully, trying to get him to abandon the pursuit of his phone. “Really, it’s nothing—”
“Is my nose crooked?” He breathes, his lip quirking into a subtle little smirk. He lets you win the fight for just a second, before reaching with his other hand for the target. You yelp, sprawling forward into his lap to try and pin his arms under you.
“Your nose is fine!”
Jason lets out a defeated huff, sliding his arms out from under you. One immediately clings to the soft curve of your waist, turning you so you’re dislodged a little further onto the sofa. You twist, your hands catching his broad shoulders as your back settles against the soft cushions.
You weakly giggle, letting your fingers slide against the nape of his neck, delving into the soft, black hair there.
Jason leans fully over you like this, taking the opportunity to muzzle into the curve of your neck. Your breath hitches as he trails lazy kisses up the muscle, to your jaw, your cheek, and then the corner of your mouth.
“Seriously...” You mutter, not wanting him to replace the cuddly little plaster. His mouth presses over yours for a second before letting you speak. “There’s nothing—” Another kiss. “—on your...” Another, this one broken by you with a slight nudge. “...nose.”
Jason lets out a noise of fake irritation. His voice is low, vibrating your bones just right. “Are you still talking?”
You feel his fingers settle under the hem of your shirt, against your side, the other brushing through the locks of your hair. He leans onto his elbow, allowing him to slowly seal his lips over yours once more.
This time, you two stay there, soaking in each others warmth.
He moves first, his lips coaxing your own open, until you’re kissing him back with just as much passion. You sigh deeply against his mouth, lifting your leg to trail it slowly against his side.
His teeth give your bottom lip an impatient tug, and you part your lips further so his tongue has the room to sweep in. It’s wet, the parting and meeting of your lips between little breaths the only sound filling the drab little apartment.
Jason is heavy and warm against you, pressing right up against the front of your body.
While you’d be more than happy for him to sink his fingers into you, or for you to get him off, you can tell by the gentle, little strokes of his thumb against your hip that he’s too tired for that. That this is okay, and this is enough.
Dreamily, you rest your hands over the expanse of his back, feeling the relaxed muscles there as he minutely shifts over you.
His lips peel from yours for just a second, before he presses a gentler one over yours. His eyes flutter open alongside yours just to take you in, before he kisses you quicky for a final time, and rolls onto his side next to you.
The couch isn’t big enough for both of you, but you make it work with some aggressive wriggling. He tucks his chin over your head with a tired sigh, anchoring you right against his chest.
“It’s the plaster, isn’t it?” Jason rumbles, making you duck your chin.
“Don’t take it off,” you plead, nuzzling your forehead against his chest. “You look so cute.”
He sighs in annoyance, but you know it’s just a show.
“Fine,” he mutters, kissing the top of your head. “Whatever.”
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⤷ 𝓷𝓼𝓯𝔀. 𝟏𝟖+. clit play. p in v. multiple orgasms. 𝟸.𝟷𝓀
“mhm, i don't think s’gonna fit, baby,”
teasing. leon’s teasing. he has to be after he’s spent hours slowly working you open. making you come on his tongue and fingertips, making you drip until your cunt is soaked and puffy, all so you can take him like you want to but he just keeps teasing you and it’s torture
soft sheets stick to your sweaty back where you're laid out in the middle of your bed with your thighs spread and held down by leon’s large hands pressing into the backs of them. he looks huge towering over you, broad shoulders, rippling muscles and his big cock nestled against your aching and very empty pussy
“it will—you said so—please,” you babble mindlessly while you clench around nothing as if that will somehow prove that you’re ready for him. if you aren’t prepared by now then you simply never will be and the latter doesn’t bare thinking about when you need him to fuck you so desperately
leon’s big everywhere, it’s no secret to anyone really, but his cock had to have been crafted by some kind of god. even as he’s grinding along your core, there’s more of him not touching you at any given moment because of his size. he’s long and thick, a double whammy and more than you could have ever dreamt of
“i don’t know,” leon hums, long and drawn out whilst he tips his chin to his chest to look at the spot where your bodies meet. his fingers brush over the backs of your thighs, soothing trembling muscles in a way that only he could manage to do while he’s being so cruel, “don’t want to split you in half, sweetheart,”
you moan wantonly at the idea of it. being fucked full and broken in two on his cock. you want it—no, you need it. writhing against the sheets and begging is getting you nowhere, so you try a slightly different approach instead, “just the tip then, please,” you whimper and tickle your nails against his wrists
for the first time since he spread you wide, leon falters. a groan rumbles through his chest like thunder and his hips buck involuntarily, making his balls slap against your soft skin, “fuck—yeah, okay,” he mumbles under his breath, like you’re not supposed to hear it, and finally starts to pull his hips back
his cock slips down the center of your cunt, aided by the sheer amount of slick that’s coating your skin, and as the fat head of him slots against your hole, you suck in a harsh breath through your teeth. though, when leon still doesn’t give you what you want, you release it in a whiny, “please, please, plea—oh god,”
begs turn into sobs the second leon suddenly presses into you and stretches you around the tip of his cock. it aches in the best way possible and has your back arching away from the mattress as you fight against leon’s hands to squirm and force yourself further down his length
“not god but close enough,” leon grunts as you tighten like a vice, stuck somewhere between trying to pull him closer and push him out at the same time. he’s struggling too and you know it, the urge to sink into you is written in the furrowing of his eyebrows and his cock is twitching with anticipation
it’s not nearly enough to satisfy either of your needs though, just the tip of him was never going to be enough, but as your lips part and a beg for more sits right on the tip of your tongue, you look up at leon and see the smirk spreading across his face and you know exactly what it means straight away, “i can’t,” you pout
leon shrugs, “you can and you will, angel,” he rasps before he leans forwards slightly and spits directly onto your clit. you whine as one of his hands leaves your thigh and then moan when the calloused pad of his thumb spreads his saliva over where you’re very sensitive, “come like this, then i’ll fuck you, promise,”
electricity fizzles up your spine and shudders through your shoulders while you realise that he’s going to drag this out even longer. he’s going to make you come again and there’s nothing that you can do about it—not that you even want to try when you know that he’ll make it feel so good
your eyes pinch shut and your stomach tenses as his rough swipes turn into soft circles, going around and around your bundle of nerves, which causes your cunt to flutter around him. heat erupts in your stomach, a fire that’ll build quickly because it always does when leon’s the firestarter
“you’re just too small sweetheart, need to make sure you can definitely take me,” leon sighs condescendingly and you can feel his eyes on you, studying you, even though yours are still shut and you can’t actually prove that he's looking at you but somehow, you just know
he's good with his hands, he knows what he's doing, so the slide of his thumb over your clit is easy. all you have to do is lay there and take it, focus on the feeling that’s already beginning to coil tight and you’ll come in no time, especially if leon keeps talking filthy whilst burning holes into you
“fuck—wish you could see how tight you are, pretty little hole strugglin’ to take just the head of my cock,” leon murmurs as he ghosts his thumb down the center of your cunt. you huff over the loss of his touch but it’s back within a second and it’s devastating
his fingertip still goes in a circle but this time he’s tracing around the spot where your pussy is squeezing his cock. your delicate skin against his velvety skin, both wet and sticky with your slick and his precome as it leaks out of you. it’s filthy and it makes your head spin
you can’t help but sniffle and rake vicious lines over his wrist, the one that you can still reach and dig your nails into while he teases, and he returns the touch with a bruising hold on your thigh which makes your eyes flutter open, “ruin me, break me—please—just do anything,” you beg up at him
leon’s cock kicks and his jaw clenches, “yeah?” he grunts afterwards and then his thumb is back on your clit and rubbing harsher, uneven, circles, “fuck you full, make you bulge with my cock, mold your cunt to only take me, ruin you for everyone else?” he rambles through deep growls
“yes—fuck yes—you already have!” you wail while your thighs tremble and your clit throbs under his assault. there’s nothing nice in his movements anymore, it’s devolved into a driven need that’s dirty and abrasive and you love it even as it starts to become too much, too fast
everything in your body is screaming no as you hurtle towards another orgasm, the number of which is unknown because you lost the ability to keep count of them hours ago, but you can’t stop and you won’t stop while the ache in your stomach multiplies and your legs try to pull together, though leon won’t let them
“close, angel?” leon asks lowly and you could hear the smirk in his tone even if you couldn’t see it. you nod frantically in response, unable to use any of your words because of him, “yeah? you’re doing so good—fuck, you’re so good, letting me use you like this,” he groans, each word getting you closer
your chest begins to heave, panting in short, desperate breaths as leon’s thumb starts to swipe back and forth quickly over the tip of your twitching clit. you’re right there, teetering on the edge, ready to let bliss take ahold as your brain turns to mush. you just need one final little push and then—
“come baby, come for me,”
it’s such a simple order and yet, your body listens to it before you even have the chance to process it. the coil snaps and you choke on a sob while your entire body tenses and then shudders. your nerve endings burn in every part of your body, a white hot heat that spreads like a wildfire
somewhere distant is leon’s voice is ringing in your ears with a trickle of soft praises, “there you go, that feels better, huh?” he coos and strokes featherlight hearts—you think—into the outside of your thigh. when he let them snap shut, you don’t know, “uh huh—fuck look at you,”
around his cock your cunt has clamped down and pushed him out, leaving your hole empty again but you can’t find it in yourself to care when leon is wringing your orgasm for all that it’s worth by still brushing sporadic circles over your clit until you knock his hand away with a heavy feeling hand
“oh my god,” you whimper and then shiver through the last of the little aftershocks before you wriggle, “you promised,” you whisper, your tone laced with exhaustion while you remind him of the deal that he made and make it known that you do still want him to fuck you properly
leon chuckles as he leans over you and kisses your bottom lip just once before he pulls away. it’s sloppy and probably a little gross but it makes your cheeks flush anyway, “ready, sweet girl?” he asks and nudges his cock against your wet little hole, barely letting himself slip inside before he pulls back
“yes—please!” you blurt, much louder than you meant to but leon is far too focused on pressing into you to realise it. a silent gasp scratches your throat as he gives you back what you already had, the stretch is no longer there but your back still lazily curves away from your sheets over it
he goes slowly, excruciatingly slowly. each centimetre of his length has your jaw dropping further, while you stare up at him with big, wet eyes. every vein that’s strung around his cock drags against your fluttering walls and nothing else could ever compare to that feeling—a feeling that only leon can give you
once he’s half way in, you quickly feel full. it’s like your body simply has nowhere else for him to go because he’s already occupying every space, filling every spot and grinding against it no matter how sensitive it is. that, however, doesn’t stop your pussy from trying to pull him in
“sweeth—fuck—s’like you’re sucking me in,” leon hisses through clenched molars. his muscles are starting to tense and any composure that he had is slipping away rapidly but he’s held on for so long that you can’t blame him, even if it is his own fault, “shit—oh my god, fuck,” he groans
the last inches of his cock seem to sink into you quicker than the first ones did. whether it’s because you really are sucking him in or because he just doesn’t have the capacity to go slowly anymore, you really don’t care whilst your room gets filled with soft whimpers and deep grunts that sound like a song
that is, until leon bottoms out and nails your cervix
everything goes fuzzy. your vision, your nerves, your veins. you’re blindsided and blacking out whilst your pulse pounds against your eardrums and every colour of the rainbow bursts behind your eyes. you’re frozen, stuck in your mind while an orgasm rips through your system like a hurricane
it feels like lightning in every one of your limbs, seizing sore muscles and forcing a wrecked yelp from your lips. you've never felt anything like it and you're not sure you'll ever get close to it ever again. it's like a high that you don't want to chase
“oh—oh, are you coming, again?” leon’s asking but you can’t reply more than a stiff nod and a shove at his hip because he was right, it’s too much and you can’t take him all at once. he goes easily though, pulling out of you carefully whilst he hums a sympathetic, “good girl,”
losing all of his touch at once is horrid but you're too overstimulated for him to risk giving you anything whilst you writhe underneath him and even though you hate feeling empty in the moment, you'll thank him for it later
“too much,” you slur your words after sometime. your heart is still thumping in your chest and your eyelids are too heavy to open but it’s all made better by leon hovering over you and peppering soothing kisses to your burning cheeks, “too much,” you repeat, causing leon to hum and smile against your skin
“i know baby, i’m just far too big for you,”
thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a kiss if you do, mwah ily! send prompts to my ask box!
a/n i proofread this badly because i’m so exhausted so if there’s any mistakes, please ignore them, thank yew, i love you !!!! 𑣲
munch!jason who starts every act of intimacy with some form of teasing, whether it's ghosting his fingertips over your skin, whispering in your ear, or breathing heavily on your panties to see how worked up he can get you before undressing.
munch!jason who sucks light hickeys on your inner thighs first to "appreciate his meal" & will gently bite down on your flesh whenever you start moaning before he "even does anything real."
munch!jason who plucks the elastic of your panties and feigns shock at the sight of you already dripping for him, cooing that his pretty girl is "just so happy to see me!" Before giving a teasing lick over your clit.
munch!jason who always groans when he latches his lips onto you, falling into place, sucking and slurping like his life depends on making you cum.
munch!jason who drives himself crazy trying to draw out the little moans & gasps you make, hooking his arms around your thighs and moaning against you whenever you tangle your fingers in his hair.
munch!jason who tends to intertwine one of your hands with his when you start moaning his name, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he rolls his tongue over your clit, almost teasingly slow, attempting to coax out his name again.
munch!jason who loves watching your face twist in pleasure, moaning against you every few minutes to see you shudder & feel your thighs tighten around his head.
munch!jason whose hips roll against the mattress whenever you start pulling his hair, begging him to keep going, eyes fluttering as he struggles to focus on anything but your touch.
munch!jason goes crazy when he feels you start tensing up, tongue flicking your nub relentlessly, pressing his face flush against your trembling cunt, & he almost creams his boxers at the feeling of you releasing all over his face.
munch!jason who licks you clean after you cum, almost driving you to a second orgasm before pulling back to show off the juices clinging to his lips and chin, wiping them off slowly while maintaining eye contact.
munch!jason kisses you quickly. Letting you taste yourself on his lips before rolling you on top of him and whispering how he'd love it if you let him eat it again, with you on top this time.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : go read bae's muncher tim fic fr. Nora's smut fics should be required reading.
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ After a few weeks apart, pirate!dick is missing his favorite mermaid. Unfortunately the fishie comes to him with a new wound and a demand for food.
word cnt. 4.3k
aka ›››› “…Men give birth?” “…Why wouldn’t they?”
“Heyyy, pretty. Miss me?”
His voice cut through your sleep like a jolt of lightning, pulling you upright so abruptly that your tail thrashed in the seaweed bed beneath you. You fumbled, startled, instinctively diving deeper, slipping entirely beneath the surface before you were even fully awake from where you were ironically–waiting for him.
“Hey—it’s just me!” he called again. But down below, the sound came through distorted and distant, smothered by water and pain—your ear fins still tender, still healing from the careless fishing hook that had torn through them days ago. The ocean swallowed his voice whole, leaving only the echo of vibrations you couldn’t decipher.
Up on deck, Dick exhaled hard, a mixture of concern and exasperation fogging the cold air. The ship rocked gently beneath him, the wooden planks groaning with each slow rise and fall of the tide. Lanterns swung from their hooks, casting loose golden light through the early fog, and the wind salted the air so strongly he could taste it at the back of his tongue.
Dick scanned the water, searching for even a ripple of you.
By now—by the second hello—he should have at least seen the faintest sign of you surfacing. Normally, you’d appear with a sleepy little splash, drawn by his voice as if tethered to it. But the waves only rolled in their quiet rhythm, moonlight dying across their crests.
His chest tightened.
Dick pushed away from the railing and strode across the deck. The crew was already stirring with the dawn—a clatter of boots, a mutter of greetings, the smell of coffee someone always brewed too strongly. A few sailors saluted him as he passed, and though he smiled in return, it was a distracted, flickering thing.
He reached the side of the ship and began undoing the canvas that shielded the rope ladder, fingers moving fast despite the morning chill. The storm earlier that week had left everything damp—ropes swollen with seawater, wooden rails slick beneath his palms. Dick tossed the canvas aside and immediately started stripping down: coat first, belt next, then boots, each movement sharper than the last.
“Keep the anchor down until I return! We leave at noon.” He called out.
“CAPTAIN?!” the new crew member squeaked behind him, borderline horrified. “S-Sir—these waters are MERMAID-INFESTED!”
A low thud of footsteps. Then Raven’s voice, as dry as sand: “He knows.”
Dick barked a quiet, breathless laugh as he swung over the rail and grabbed the ladder.
Of course he knew.
The ocean down here was different—heavy with salt and mystery, thrumming with currents that weren’t entirely natural. Even from above, he could feel the water pulling at him, whispering with the strange, magnetic hum he’d grown to recognize.
Every time Dick came to this part of the sea, his pulse changed rhythm.
Not because of the glowing water or creatures that seem like they're from fairy tales, but the fairy tale that he might get a glimpse of. You.
Maybe it was the way you moved—like you were everything good about the sea made into form. Or the way you listened, with a patience deeper than any tide if it meant a reward from him.
Years on the ocean had taught him to fear things that pulled men overboard.
But you had never pulled him.
Dick always jumped in willingly.
He started down the ladder, boots dangling from one hand, cold metal scraping under his grip. The wind whipped against him, carrying the smell of brine and storms past, curling through his hair. Below him, the water churned with gentle, restless motion—dark blue, deep, alive and glowing.
It had been weeks since he last saw her.
Weeks of empty water and rough nights.
Weeks of reaching instinctively over the rail, expecting her to rise.
Weeks of that strange ache he didn’t know how to name.
He had missed her.
Missed the calm she brought him, missed the way his thoughts settled in her presence like silt sinking to the ocean floor.
Dick descended the rope ladder the way one might climb down from a dream—with careful hands and a heart already racing ahead of him. The morning was clear but restless, the moon a pale coin trembling in the sky, the waves shimmering in silver ripples that almost seemed to beckon him closer. From above, the ship creaked and hummed with its usual morning music, but to Dick, it all sounded far away, muffled beneath the pulse of anticipation in his veins.
The third foothold from the end, worn smooth by years of salt and sun, met his boot—and that was far enough.
With a breath that tasted of brine and courage, he pushed himself off the ladder and let gravity take him in one sweeping fall. The sea rose to meet him like an old friend, its arms thrown wide, as he slipped beneath its skin the world softened into blue and quiet.
And you saw him.
Of course you did.
You always did—no matter the storm, the darkness, or the thousand distractions of the deep, somehow you felt him enter the water the way others sensed a passing breeze. Your body startled with that endearing, shimmering flinch, your tail giving a joyous snap that turned the water bright with scales. Then you were gone in a silver streak, cutting through the sea with a grace no sailor could name and no artist could paint.
In mere heartbeats you reached him—your hands curling around his waist with instinctive certainty, your body halting its swift momentum so gently that he didn’t even rock. Dick floated there, arms drifting upward, his dark hair fanning like ink in the water. And when his eyes found yours, he smiled, soft and bright, like he always did for you.
“Richard.” you breathed, your voice rippling through the water like a melody. But then your expression faltered, filled with sudden alarm. Your favorite food source just risked its life. “You leapt from the ship?! What if I hadn’t been watching? You would have struck the rocks!”
He laughed at that—quiet and bubbling, the sound scattering into the water like pearls. With one finger, he tapped his throat, then the surface far above, a gentle reminder of his own limits beneath the waves.
“Oh!” you gasped, as though the thought had slipped your mind entirely. In an instant your touch shifted—protective, guiding—turning him upright, the long sweep of your tail steadying him as his legs instinctively wrapped around your hips. You kept one hand firm at the small of his back, the other warm at his side, your hold practiced from countless other stolen hours beneath the tides.
He braced himself—eyes scrunching, lips pursed in anticipation—and you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bright and tinkling like seashell chimes.
With a gentle kick, you carried him away from the hull of the ship, the current drifting between you like silk. The deeper water welcomed you both in slow rolls, as if bowing to the familiar pair gliding across its surface.
You swam toward your little island—your shared secret—no bigger than the captain’s cabin on his floating home. A shy ring of sand and rock, shaped like a crescent moon fallen from the sky, cradled by tide pools that shone like crystal bowls. You had shown it to him on a night not so different from this one, when he first dared to reach for you in the dark.
Now it was yours.
The place where the ships could not dock, his crew could not follow, and your people could not see.
Where Dicks’s calloused human hands could trace every shining scale along your waist without fear or hesitation. Where you could bite his fingers in retaliation, harsh enough to draw blood. Where he would just smile and ask you to lick it off.
As you carried him there—his weight cradled easily against your body, his forehead nearly resting against your temple—he felt the sea hum around you both. As if the ocean itself knew your story and was eager to see it play out once more.
The moonlight danced along your tail, lighting it in soft ribbons of silver and blue. Dick reached out, brushing his fingers over the shimmering arc of scales that disappear along your waist, the touch tender and reverent. You flushed at the gesture, warmth blooming even beneath the cold press of the water. You were going to smack him for that later, at making your body that's typically as cold as ice any other temperature.
Dick couldn’t speak here—not yet—but he hoped you could feel it: how he’d jump ten thousand times if it meant falling into your arms like this. How every plunge into the water felt like leaping into the very heart of a fairy tale.
You do feel it, but frankly you'd appreciate some fish as a snack more.
When you finally broke the surface, the small island rose around you like a secret carved from the sea itself, bathed in the pale silver of moonlight spilling across the waves.
Dick coughed, the water lodged stubbornly in his lungs, and you reached instinctively, gentle fingers brushing his back in steady, repeated pats as though the motion alone could coax the ocean from him. He leaned into your touch without a word, letting you guide him to sit on the warm sand at the edge of the tide, the two of you already slipping into the quiet rhythm you had perfected over weeks of stolen moments like this.
Even without speech, the world felt far away, a distant hum beneath the waves and stars, leaving only the steady rise and fall of his chest against your hands and the soft lapping of water around your tail.
You adjusted the angle of his body with the ease of familiarity, letting him cough over and over while your eyes shimmered faintly in the early moonlight, full of anger. This island, tiny and secret, belonged only to the two of you in these moments, a sanctuary from the roar of wind and salt and ship.
Now a little hell you could raise just for him.
“I told you not to jump when I’m not looking!” you scold, your voice carrying that musical trill unique to mer-folk scolding—the kind that sounds oddly like a harp string plucked too sharply. Your nose scrunches adorably, fins flicking in agitation like a startled school of minnows.
Dick, still coughing up seawater in undignified spurts, tries to reply, “Since when do I ever—” another cough, another spray of glittering droplets,“—listen to you?”
You smack his back with the flat of your hand, a firm and strong thwack that is light for mer-folk but harsh for humans and echoes through the patch of land. “This is why you have no mate!” you declare, as though announcing the final verdict of an ancient undersea tribunal.
Dick sputters a laugh and rubs the water from his chin. “I’m young,” he argues, trying for suave but sounding more like a drowned cat. “Give me a few more years.”
“You’ll be too old by then.” You huff, crossing your arms. “No good woman would take you.”
“Women,” he says slyly, rolling onto his side and tugging you gently up the sand with him—placing you on his legs, not quite his lap, under his knees and close enough for the tide to still kiss your tail—“are different than mermaids.” His voice lowers into that charming, mischievous note that always makes your gills flutter. Would have if it wasn’t for the next thing he said.
“They like older men.”
Your nose wrinkles again, skeptical and unimpressed. “I cannot imagine why.”
Dick lets out a tired sigh and falls back into the damp sand, the moon crowning him like some accidental sea prince. “What? Do merfolk think older men look… terrible or something?”
“No,” you answer instantly, as though the very idea is absurd. “Our kind barely ages at all—not in appearance, not the way humans do.”
He glances up at you, eyebrows raised, temporarily distracted from his still-racing pulse from that swim. “Then what’s the problem with older men?”
“It’s more painful for them to carry.” You say with a casual shrug, flicking your tail as though this is common knowledge. “Why force your mate to endure greater pain when child-rearing is already life-or-death at times?”
Dick’s head snaps off the sand so quickly he nearly knocks into you. His eyes go wide—oceans-wide—and his mouth drops open like he’s been struck by lightning from a clear sky.
You think—maybe—you see a faint pink bloom across his cheeks.
“…What,” he breathes, not as a question, but as a complete existential collapse.
You tilt your head, your sea-silk hair drifting in the breeze like kelp caught in a gentle tide. You speak cautiously, as though approaching a skittish seahorse.
“…When a mermaid and a merman love each other very much—”
“I know that,” Dick blurts, cheeks flushing a color warmer than the dawn. He hushes you with a frantic gesture, embarrassed, still coughing up the last remnants of seawater like the ocean refuses to release him fully.
Dick absolutely does not know how mer-folk do anything behind closed reefs, but he is not about to receive a mermaid version of the birds and the bees while still tasting salt.
You blink at him owlishly, baffled by his interruption—as if he is the one missing something obvious.
“Then what is it?” you ask, utterly earnest. The moon catches on your scales and they shimmer like a secret treasure. “What confuses you?”
“…Men give birth?” he finally sputters, blinking at you as though you’ve just told him the sea is actually made of soup.
“…Why wouldn’t they?” you counter immediately, brow arching with genuine curiosity.
In your expression there is no jest, no exaggeration—only the serene, unflappable certainty of someone who grew up believing this was the natural order of the universe.
Dick opens his mouth once, shuts it, opens it again. He looks like a fish you might rescue from a net—wide-eyed, stunned, and very out of his element.
“Where…” He swallows, staring at you, then at your tail, then back at you, as if the answer might appear carved in coral across your cheekbones.
“Where does the baby come out from?”
You inhale to answer—calmly, scientifically, like you’re about to give the most straightforward explanation in the world—but Dick’s hand shoots out immediately, warm and calloused, covering your mouth before a single syllable escapes.
His eyes are wide. Fearful. Regretful.
Haunted.
“Forget I asked,” he pleads, voice barely above a whisper.
You blink slowly, lips squishing slightly beneath his palm, the picture of innocent confusion—like a sea kitten scolded for the very first time.
His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, the corners tugging into a crooked, awkward smile that makes your chest ache and your instincts want to coo like you do whenever your prey starts to run. You almost do—almost let the soft, musical note escape your lips—until his gaze drifts, sharp and unwavering, to the small, fragile fin.
You had tried to hide it, braiding strands of seaweed into your hair as if the ocean itself could disguise your wound. A clever trick, perhaps, but not clever enough for Dick’s eyes. You suppose you started to underestimate him, maybe the seaweed in his brain is finally starting to become unlodged.
Wounded mer-folk, far from the shelter of their kin, were always the most vulnerable. Even the smallest tear, the tiniest puncture, could disrupt everything: balance, hearing, the delicate coordination of head and neck. Without your fins, every movement stutters; every sound above the surface becomes a muted whisper.
“What happened?” Dick's voice cuts through the soft lull of the waves, strong but tethered with concern.
Before you can answer fully, his fingers move, skilled and insistent, undoing the seaweed braid with a practiced, impatient urgency. You sigh, a soft bubble of exasperation and relief.
“A fisherman came too close to our territory. I didn’t see his hook,” you explain, your tone casual, almost careless, though your eyes follow every flicker of his reaction. “It’s alright. Some of my people already dealt with him.”
Dick’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of conflict passing through the blue storm of his eyes, but he does not protest. Any fisherman with sense—or respect for his own life—should have known those waters were off-limits. Even now, the island where you’ve made refuge lies at least a mile from the border of your waters.
His calloused fingers lift to your jaw, tilting your head gently, examining the puncture with precise care. The wound sits just behind your ear, a narrow, cruel line that drags upward through the fin, small but dangerous. The tenderness in his touch contrasts sharply with the cold knowledge of what could have happened, his thumb brushing lightly along the curve of your skin as if measuring both the damage and your resilience.
You let him, because you know him. You know that if he could not see it—if he could not inspect it, touch it, trace it with his eyes and hands—he would go mad. And you...well you'll allow it if it means you get your marinated fish.
The wound behind your ear gaped like a cruel slit in fragile silk, the cartilage torn ragged, fins shredded in jagged lines, and dark, briny blood oozed steadily, mixing with the saltwater that clung to your skin in sticky rivulets. Tiny shards of flesh that is usually bellow your scales clung to the wound, glistening and raw, pulsing with each heartbeat as if the injury itself throbbed in protest.
The tear dragged upward, slicing through tissue and leaving a thin trail of coagulated blood along the delicate curve of your neck. Every subtle movement of your head made the fin shiver violently, sending sharp, stabbing jolts of pain that radiated deep into your skull. The sight alone was enough to make stomachs turn—a vivid, relentless reminder of how dangerously close the hook had been to cutting nerves or severing veins that no mer-folk could survive losing.
But you had more important matters to deal with right now.
Such as the fish you can smell coming from his pocket.
“You… you should have told me right away—” Dick’s voice trembles, a mixture of desperation and restraint as he struggles to keep it soft, almost reverent. “I have antiseptic, bandages—I could have—”
“They would not have worked on me,” you reply gently, lifting a webbed hand to rest lightly atop the warm skin of his hand. The touch is soft, grounding, a quiet begrudging reassurance. “I am not like your kind. We have our own medicines—they were already applied to the seaweed, see?”
Dick’s gaze drops to the tangled long strands of seaweed in his hand, noting the way they shimmer with a golden-orange oil, now streaked with your dark red-purple blood. The sight sends a flicker of awe and unease through him, a silent admission of the vast, unbridgeable differences between your worlds—differences he both marvels at and quietly resents having to acknowledge.
“I…” He starts slowly, swallowing hard, eyes closing for a brief moment as if to steady his racing heart. When he speaks again, his tone is hushed, almost solemn, a careful mixture of humility and frustration. “I… apologize for taking it off.”
He keeps his hand hovering, caught in the quiet space between instinct and awe, unsure whether to withdraw or press closer, suspended in the helpless wonder of the strange, potent magic that is simply you.
“There’s no need for apologies,” you murmur softly, letting your tail flick involuntarily in the water. “Do you… think you could braid it back on for me?”
Dick hesitates, gaze dropping to the wound, uncertainty threading his voice. “I don’t… I don’t understand how it works if it’s not wrapping the wound…”
You smile, teasing and patient, like your dealing with a child. Your hands reach for a strand of hair in front of and behind your ear. “The ocean’s water at the center of our territory heals more than any medicine could. Braiding the strands across the front and back simply provides protection from infection. The medicine seeps from the seaweed into our blood instead of the water—merfolk blood is mostly oil, not water.”
Dick blinks at that, a faint, awkward smile tugging at his lips as he reaches forward, fingers steadying as he begins to braid with surprising skill. “How ironic,” he mutters.
“Yes, I do envy your kind,” you coo lightly, feeling the warmth of his hands near your sensitive scalp, “always looking so majestic even as you bleed out. Our blood… it just floats to the surface. Not very pretty I fear.”
Dick blinks again, then smiles, unfazed, continuing the braid with careful fingers.
“Your hair is like silk,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes trying not to linger too long on the faint wound along your shoulder—a wound you know he’s already trying to forget, trying to distract from with words soft as sea foam.
“As is yours,” you reply, letting a webbed hand drift upward, fingertips brushing delicately along the strands at his scalp. Even the gentlest touch could sting, could pierce—but he leans in closer without a hint of hesitation, as though your warning were the merest suggestion.
“Do you think I could take some?” you whisper, a teasing lilt to your tone. “I should be able to exchange a few pearls for this.”
“Can I have a few of your scales?” Dick replies, dripping with that newly acquired sarcasm of his—a sharp, human wit that only recently has begun to make sense to you.
Your eyes narrow, shimmering like twin moons in the dark water. “Human hair cannot be spoken of on the same level as scales.”
“Your hair then,” he hums, undeterred, tilting his head with the faintest smirk.
You ignore him, letting your gaze drift to the gentle waves lapping against the sand. “My fish,” you murmur, the word soft, reverent. Holding your open hand out, your tail flicking in the water with this being the only time you're nice and pliant. Acting all sweet like a cat asking for food.
Dick pauses, brow furrowing slightly, and with practiced hands he finishes tying off your last braid with a strand of seaweed, the salty scent clinging to his fingers. Then he reaches into the small pocket of his shirt for the familiar little bribe—the tiny trinket, the sweet incentive he always brings to coax you close.
Only it isn’t there.
His eyes widened.
A curse passes his lips, silent and sharp.
It must have fallen when you swam so fast to reach the island, carried away by the current, leaving him empty-handed—and, somehow, a little more helpless than usual.
Dick looks up at you slowly—too slowly—like a man trying to stall his own execution.
“Richard Grayson.” Your voice sharpens like a spear glinting under moonlight. “Where is my fish?”
He swallows. Hard. “You know, babe…” he begins, easing the word out as if it might slide past you unnoticed—except your brow twitches, your fins flare, and the water behind you ripples like something preparing to strike.
“Fish are friends. Not food.”
“You are a pirate.” You jab a long, curved nail at his chest—close enough that the fabric of his shirt sighs beneath the threat of it. “You eat fish for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Your people are merciless with your hunt.”
Dick lifts one brow, sea‑salt confidence returning far quicker than his sanity should allow.
“Oh? And how do you decide which fish are friends and which are prey? Your folk can talk to them. Isn’t that less humane than what I’m doing? Or…” His mouth twitches. “Mer‑mane?”
You blink. Slowly. Like a leviathan considering whether to swallow a sailor whole.
“I tell them I am going to eat them.” You say this with a solemnity usually reserved for sacred rituals. “The fish that laugh are friends. The fish that swim away are prey.”
Dick’s face contorts into something between horror, disbelief, and a betrayed fondness.
“Is this why you told me you’d eat me when we first met?”
“Yes.” You nod once, gravely. “Unfortunately, you did not run.”
“Babe, I thought you were hitting on me.”
Your eyes widen—not in innocence, but in outrage at the insult to your logic. “Hitting you? Sweetheart I had a piece of glass to your throat”
“No, no—” he runs a hand down his wet face, half drowning in your sincerity, half drowning from the actual ocean. “It means flirting.”
You tilt your head.
The tide tugs at your hair like curious fingers.
“…why would threatening to devour you be flirting?”
“Sweetheart,” he says, leaning in with a grin that should not be allowed on a man whose life depends on your mood, “you grabbed my ankle, yanked me under a wave, and told me you’d decide my fate based on how fast I swam.”
“I was hungry.”
“You kissed me an hour later.”
“I was still hungry and you tasted dreadful.”
He stares.
You stare.
The sea hushes around the two of you like it’s eavesdropping.
Then your tail flicks, sending a spray of silver droplets across his chest. “Where,” you repeat, voice dangerously soft, “is my fish, Richard Grayson?”
Dick exhales, defeated laughter slipping from him. “…I think the ocean ate it.”
You gasp—not a human gasp, but a mermaid type gasp, sharp enough to cut. “The ocean cannot eat my offering! That fish was for me!”
“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “and I was for you too, apparently.”
You study him for a moment, eyes narrowing with regal disdain. “Well… you will do for tonight.”
“Do what—?”
But you’re already hauling him by the collar back toward the surf, muttering something about useless pirates and clumsy humans and how he should hope he tastes better this time.
replies and reblogs are always appreciated! please lmk what you think it helps me release new work sm faster!
Anyway here's something I drew a while back instead of paying attention during lectures 🙂↕️ Don't mind if the anatomy is kinda rough, haven't drawn a human for months but the obsession is strong.
Jason Todd is for the ones who never got to experience teen love.
the ones who never got a gift “just because”, never went to parties, never got promposed to, never even skipped class because you were always the good kid.
because he didn’t get that either.
he never got football games, riding his motorcyle to school, or that messy teenage rebellion that you look back on and cringe.
none of that sweet, stupid, carefree stuff that everyone takes for granted
so you figure it out together.
he shows up to your first date nervous, trying not to act like he's not blushing so hard he's combusting, and you take his hand anyway, both of you pretending not to notice how sweaty your palms are as you try to subtly wipe them on your pants when you think he's not looking
a mission goes awry when you're infected with a fever virus...and there's only one way to cure you.
warnings: smut, fem!reader, sometime after re4!leon, sex pollen (kind of), possible dubious consent 'cause it's fuck or die but really everyone here wants to be there and consents heartily, feelings realization, confessions, desperate sex turned tender sex, dry humping, fingering, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), leon kennedy one liners, canon-typical violence, a few sneaky references to other re games/movies, fake science i made up
a/n: picture your favorite leon for this. it was just sex pollen but became lots of plot with sex pollen and mush in the second half. what can i say, i'm a lover at heart. just like leon!
--
It starts with bad intel.
The facility is supposed to be abandoned. No bio signatures on the initial recon scan, no movement from hostiles after an extended stakeout, nothing. An abandoned underground lab for an experimental arm of Umbrella, potentially full of important documents on bioweapons research.
Your mission is to gather as much information as possible, should any of the viruses created there pop up on the black market or worse.
Easy, compared to the shit you're usually assigned.
Leon agrees.
Well, you think he agrees. He treats every mission as seriously as the last. You've grown to appreciate his consistency. It makes him easy to trust, which is essential in this line of work.
He's the best partner you've ever had. Thorough, direct, and smart. He never questions your abilities and relies on you just as much as you rely on him.
And, god. He's kind. Funny, too, when he wants to be. One time on a weeklong stakeout in the middle of nowhere, Argentina, he explained to you, in detail, the plot of The Count of Monte Cristo, all because you said you'd never read it. You hadn't even known he liked to read.
He's hard to crack, though. Professional to a fault, more dedicated to the cause than anyone you've ever met. And he's handsome.
How could you not fall in love with him?
You keep your ever-growing feelings to yourself. Asking him if he feels the same isn't worth ruining your partnership, isn't worth being someone else who wants something from him that he maybe can't give. Not when you can have him this way -- at your side with your life in his hands, his in yours.
In some ways, this is more intimate than any regular relationship you've ever had.
You'd spent the chopper ride here watching him as he looked out the window, even though you knew he felt your gaze. He's always doing that, always taking in everything around him with militant attention. You wonder what he sees that most people don't. Connections, patterns, maybe even beauty. You've never asked. Whatever it is has kept him alive this long. It's kept you alive, too.
And so, the mission.
You drop from a very long hatch into dark, stale air. The ladder leaves your hands aching and your shoulders tight, but there's no time for recovery.
Training takes over. Leon leads, with you at his right flank. Flashlights on, service weapon at the ready.
"Stay sharp," he says.
Sometimes you tease him about it, his constant readiness for a threat. But you feel it this time. Something's not right here, scans be damned.
Flecks of dust and grime float through your bright beams. The corridor ends maybe 15 meters in front of you in a set of metal doors, no windows. The security pad on the left side blinks a dull red.
"Emergency power," you say.
It was in the brief as a possibility but not a guarantee. Leon approaches, and you follow, digging into one of your belt pockets for the access card some other agent had to steal last week for this purpose.
"You want to do the honors?" you ask.
Leon shakes his head. "Be my guest."
The red light blinks green with a hover of your hand, and the unlocking mechanisms creak to life. The doors open slowly with a hiss. You're greeted with a dark lobby, dull yellowish lights lining the base of the walls.
"Must be on throughout," Leon says. Sometimes these places are zoned, or some other needlessly complicated system of power distribution. "Hopefully that means doors will keep opening."
He's still tense, arms outstretched to shine his light into the new space, shoulders taut. You feel it too, a prickle at the base of your neck.
"If not, I'm sure the power systems will be super easy to find with no issues," you say lightly.
He huffs, as close to a laugh as you can hope for at the start of a mission, but it's a win.
"Ready?" he asks.
You dip your chin. He glides into the room, clearing one side as you clear the other. There aren't any signs of disturbance, but that's how it goes with these places. The closer you get to the exit, the more normal it seems -- because all of the horrible things happen behind closed doors.
And no one makes it out.
"Clear," Leon calls. You echo it.
There are two single doors that reveal a bathroom hallway and the security office, as well as a set of double doors that resemble the locked entrance, another keypad glowing red at one side. Leon finds a map of the facility in the office and spreads it on the desk.
"That locked door will take us to an elevator that goes down to the labs," he says, tracing the path with a finger under the beam of his flashlight. "Three of them, all on different levels, connected by staircases instead of the elevator shaft, only accessible by keycard and on the other side of an anti-contamination corridor."
"Isolated," you observe. "In case of an outbreak?"
"It's bare bones compared to the other Umbrella stuff we've seen. This must be really out-there shit. Less resources, less of a footprint, less of an issue when it goes wrong."
You try to commit the map to memory. Leon will undoubtedly fold it into one of his pockets, but it's hard to consult a piece of paper when you're running from a B.O.W..
"Greek," Leon mutters. "More creative than T-virus, that's for sure."
This is just like him, surprising you after countless missions as your partner.
"Do you speak Greek, Leon?"
He shrugs.
"Not really." He tightens the strap on his glove, a cue that he's frustrated. You know most of his tells by now. "I don't know the last one. Fire, maybe?"
"Not really, he says," you tease. "What else are you hiding, Kennedy?"
He rolls his eyes at you, but if the lights were on, you're sure you'd see some pink in his cheeks. Battle-hardened agent he may be, Leon S. Kennedy still blushes for you.
If only...
No. You swallow the pang in your chest and roll your shoulders. "Start with B1 and go down, then loop back up?"
It wouldn't be out of the question to divide and conquer, but the slimy unease dripping down your spine prevents you from suggesting it.
He grunts his agreement, eyes still on the map, frowning.
As a pair, you work so well together because of your communication. It took practice, sure, but now you know each other across a crowded room, through the heat of a fight, in the dark. You don't let things go unsaid.
Well, most things, your traitorous heart says.
"Leon," you say. "It feels off, right? We're missing something."
Blue eyes meet yours. He sighs.
"Yeah," he says. "Guess we just have to find out what."
You can't help it -- you put your hand on his bicep and squeeze just a little, holding his gaze. His fringe hangs in his eyes. In another life, you'd push it back.
"Be careful, okay?" you ask him, faces so close you can feel his breath.
Leon got shot on your second ever mission together. It was a clean wound, through and through, except for the fact that he'd already been shot in that shoulder back in Raccoon City. The bullet fucked up the already fragile joint, so he needed surgery and was benched for six weeks (he was back at your side in four).
There was nothing you could have done. It was nobody's fault. But you felt responsible for waylaying your new partner, who was one of the most well-known agents in the whole damn place, so you went to see him in the hospital to alleviate your guilt.
"They have you with anyone while I'm out?" he asked you.
They did, actually, but hadn't told you who. Leon was troubled by it.
"Well, be careful," he said, as if he didn't trust anyone else to watch your back, even then.
"Only as careful as you," you replied, pointing at his shoulder.
That was the first time you made Leon Kennedy laugh.
Now, it's something you say to each other in the field. A mantra, a reminder, a promise.
Leon gives you a small smile.
"Only as careful as you," he replies, like he always does. We keep each other safe.
You release him and busy your hand at your belt immediately, god forbid you touch him more.
He rolls his shoulders back and checks the chamber of his sidearm.
"Into the depths, huh?"
"Into the depths."
--
Level B1: MENIS
The elevator opens to a dead contamination chamber. Nothing happens as you walk through the three zones where you'd expect to be scanned, doused, and dried. Another set of metal doors opens with a hiss when you tap the keycard. The smell of death hits your nose and makes your eyes water.
There are at least 10 bodies piled on the other side, most of them in pieces.
"Fuck," you curse, sidestepping a caved-in head.
"Looks like the party started without us," Leon says quietly.
"Great," you mutter. "God, that's nasty."
There aren't any claw marks or avid stains or other tell-tale signs of B.O.W.'s you see with this caliber of violence. One look at Leon and you know he's realized the same thing. You tilt your head down the hall. He nods, following your lead deeper into the floor.
Red emergency lights pulse along the base of the walls, illuminating the blood splattered pretty much everywhere. You pass the occasional corpse, most of them so horribly disfigured it's hard to tell if they were staff or test subjects or something else.
There are so many things you want to say, but you keep them to yourself until Leon leads you to the floor's main office. You slide in but don't relax.
"They look like they were torn apart," you say as soon as the door is closed. Leon frowns at you, since you didn't clear the room first, but it's a square office. You can see all the corners from where you're standing.
"I know," he replies. "But no sign of what did it."
You sigh. "So, are you going to tell Hunnigan the location survey was wrong, or should I?"
"I think I've run out of my 'bad news' calls for the year," he says. "That one's all yours once we get topside."
"How generous of you."
Leon smirks. "I'm a giver."
The office is small and the computers are dead. There are papers scattered around, so you divide and conquer.
You find an official logbook. Mostly in-the-weeds science stuff, but you skim until you find a change in handwriting.
LOG #57:
Development continues under new staff. Blood transmission remains the only method that carries enough sample to infect a host; airborne tests were unsuccessful. Vaccine/suppressant formulas abandoned for the time being after we were told that our subject supply would be steady. B2 wants to set one of theirs against one of ours, which seems pointless because any B1 subject will win that fight. B3 is a joke, but they're insistent that it'll work.
No vaccine...that's not good news. But what were they actually testing here? Infecting people with what?
You flip more pages until you find something that makes your blood run cold.
LOG #63:
We've finally gotten a host to survive. B2 and B3 are nowhere near this. We won't be sharing. Their subjects die within hours. B3 is practically useless, anyway. What use is controlling people if they die on you in an hour? But here, we've cracked it. I managed to figure out how to get the virus to work with the host's adrenaline production, stabilizing it into a constant state of fight or flight without short-circuiting the nervous system. If this batch survives the week, we'll ask permission to start on the suppressant. Once we have that, we'll be able to control the whole herd. The future of hostile takeover is here! Now, if only they'd let us out of this fucking dungeon more often…
Holy shit. They were making viruses to infect large populations, to control them. But using what? Changing their brain chemicals, making them reliant on suppressants? Leon told you about this kind of manipulation, how it infiltrated a military unit and even made its way to the White House a few years ago. Who knows how far they got this time?
"Leon," you call, turning with the folder in your hands. "You should look at this --"
You make eye contact and fall silent. He's got his finger over his lips and his gun at the ready.
You toss the papers aside and take your place on the other side of the door.
That's when you hear it.
Groans, grunts, screams. Footsteps -- a lot of them.
He holds your gaze.
Clear the chokepoint, get into the lab rooms down the hall around the corner, make for the stairwell on the other side of the floor.
That's what you'd do, so you know it's what he's thinking, too. No confirmation needed.
The door bursts open. You duck, missing the arms reaching for your neck. It's dark in here, but you rely on muscle memory and gravity to sweep the zombie's legs out from under it and stomp on its head while you fire at the next one.
The attackers are -- well, they look mostly human. But their eyes are wild, blood running down their faces like tears, pink foam and spit dripping from their mouths.
Leon's movements are sharp and decisive. Headshot, parry, twist. Uppercut, knee sweep, headshot. He occupies the air around you like he's magnetized to your movements, always filling the space where you aren't, ceding room when you need it. After hours upon hours of mat practice between the two of you and hundreds of field opportunities to master it, you work together like a well-oiled machine.
It's exhilarating.
You're forced back from the door, but you keep firing, slicing, covering each other. It's essential that you get into the hall sooner rather than later to avoid being trapped in this room.
A zombie rips the arm off another in its attempt to get to you. That's new.
"What the fuck were they doing with this shit?" Leon grunts. He's splattered with blood now. No doubt you are too.
"That's what I was going to tell you before our party of two got crashed," you say between shots.
"They wanted to control people."
"Yeah, this sure looks like control to me!"
"We have to clear it or we'll have to fight through on our way back up."
Leon grunts his agreement. "They're not biting." His aim is true, as always. He downs two, three, four infected. "They just want to rip us apart!"
"We need to go into the hall. Cover me," you say, dodging bloody fingers and sliding through the door. "Switching weapons!"
Your assault rifle is strapped to your back. You holster your pistol and reach around for it, but something catches your jacket and pulls.
The fabric tears. For a split second, you worry your flesh will be next, but then the tug disappears. Leon grunts and he breaks the neck of whatever had you.
You keep your gaze on the approaching pack, maybe 10 or 15 strong. Leon keeps taking them down while you holster your pistol and check the new cartridge.
"Gonna need to reload in a second here," he calls. "Six left. Five. Four --"
"Ready," you shout. Leon stabs a zombie in the neck and walks behind it, using it as a wall against reaching fingers until he's at your side again. He tears his knife free and slides beside you, solid, ready.
You open fire.
That's all it takes. The hallway is soon empty and bloodier than before. All you can hear is your combined panting.
Leon lowers his gun. "Nice job," he says.
You drop yours, too. "What was this floor called again? Menace?"
"Basically," he says, slamming in a new clip. "Divine wrath or anger."
"No shit." You look down at the tear in your jacket. "God damnit, this is my favorite."
Leon checks his chamber. "I'll get you a new one," he says.
You laugh. He almost smiles, like that was his goal all along.
The rest of the floor is mostly clear. A few stragglers here and there, but they're no match for the two of you. The containment chambers seem to be where the infected gathered in the months since this facility went dark -- the walls are covered in scratch marks.
"I can't believe they didn't kill each other," Leon says with mild disgust. "Not having control of yourself like that...I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
You've read the report from Spain. He knows how it feels.
"Do you think they're aware?" you wonder aloud.
He looks so sad for a moment that you almost reach for him. "I hope not."
--
Level B2: KAMATOS
The stairwell is a mess. The door to B2 is barricaded, but you manage to get through after slamming your shoulders against it over and over.
This floor is quiet, but in a different way than upstairs. Years of field-trained instincts tell you there's nothing left alive on this floor. That, and it made a hell of a lot of noise getting the door open, and nothing popped out.
It's dustier down here, like things have been still for longer.
"What's this one mean?" you ask. "This virus."
"Extreme fatigue," Leon tells you.
"So if they controlled adrenaline levels on the first floor to make them angry, they're depriving people of sleep on this floor?"
He shrugs. "Maybe they found a way to keep the brain awake without killing it."
They did not.
The documents you find suggest the virus was a failure. The bodies you find confirm it. Hosts died from heart failure, self-inflicted wounds, a number of things, no matter what the scientists did to keep the mind from giving up. All by depriving them of sleep.
Being so tired that you see no other way out…
The horror of it all rises in your throat. You leave Leon with the corpses so you can press your forehead to the cool hallway wall.
This job asks a lot of you. Your time, your well-being. Your security, your personal relationships, your hobbies. It's overwhelming and can bury a person. The things you see, the things you do -- it gets to you. It’s easy to shove it down, to pretend like you're untouchable, but that's no way to live, either.
Sometimes you just have to feel it.
These poor people.
Leon's hand is light on your shoulder. Not patronizing, not rushing, just there. Warm, solid.
You take a deep breath, then stand up straight.
"Let's take a quick break before the last floor," Leon says.
"I'm fine."
You turn to face him, but he's already crouching, back against the wall.
He grins, a real smile this time. It makes him look younger. "Who said it was for you?"
It's like he's giving you permission to put it all down for a second. To forget where you are, why you're there, what you're doing. Leon's guard is rarely fully down, and right now he's telling you that he's got you. Rest for a second, I'll take care of us.
He's proven to you over and over that he will.
So you smile back, shaky but genuine. "Getting old, Kennedy?"
"Something like that." He looks up at you, grin softening into something fond. "Do you remember Greece?"
You slide down the wall to his level. "Do I remember Greece? Be serious. How could I forget --"
"All those stairs," Leon finishes. "Exactly."
It was last year in the height of summer. A small, sleepy cliffside town, except for the fact that a scummy billionaire moved into the monastery and started developing B.O.W.'s in the catacombs.
The town was evacuated. You were sent in to apprehend the guy and secure whatever virus he was using. It turned into three days of running up and down stone staircases away from bats with tentacles and lizards with thousands of teeth where you wouldn't expect teeth to be.
Over the course of your partnership, you've seen each other in all states, but you've never seen Leon as exhausted as he was after that mission.
"I thought I was going to have to carry you to the rendezvous point," you remind him. "You fell down so many stairs."
Leon rubs his knees as if remembering the way they smacked stone over and over.
"And you would have," he says.
He catches your gaze and holds it. He's reminding you that you're in this together. That he trusts you, something you do not take lightly. It's hard to know who you can trust in this job, even your very own employer, but he never doubts you. You never doubt him.
The familiar ache of everything you feel for him sits warm and heavy on your chest. He's the best man you've ever known.
"I would have," you say.
Leon dips his chin, his mouth curling into a smaller smile than before, but this one is just as fond.
"We should go back," you say without meaning to.
It surprises him, but he hides it well.
"That would be nice," he muses. "I don't know the last time I took a vacation."
"We could go to the beach," you continue. It's scarily easy to imagine -- Leon in swim trunks, cheeks pink from the sun. "Stay at the bottom of the stairs and not walk up a single one."
"But you liked the monastery," he reminds you. "We'd have to go back up to see the windows."
Of course he remembers how you'd looked up in awe at the stained glass, gun in your hand and blood on your face.
"I'll climb up by myself. You can relax."
Leon sighs. "Relax," he says. "I don't even know if I know how to do that."
"You're good at everything," you say. "You'll pick it up in no time."
Whatever game this is, you're having too much fun playing it. Leon doesn't lie to you, so while he might be indulging you, there's a part of him that means all of this. He has to know that you mean it, too.
He stands and offers you his hand.
"One more floor," he says. "Then we can go to Greece."
--
Level B3: PYRETOS
The hit comes out of nowhere.
Maybe you're distracted by talk of vacation, or your guard is down after the silence of B2, but you don't see it coming. One second you're rounding the corner, the next you're flying backwards through glass, back slamming against a cabinet. You land heavily on the ground, more glass and something wet raining down on you.
Leon yells your name.
You try to catch your breath, but it's stuck in your chest. He's still calling for you in between gunshots.
"Fuck," you croak, finally finding air. You roll onto your side. Glass crunches under your weight as you try to figure out what the hell just happened.
Everything hurts, but you try to shake it off and push up to standing. Leon hauls himself through the broken window. He begins to clear the room after he sees you on your feet.
"Clear. That was one ugly son of a bitch," he says. "Must have gotten down here from upstairs."
You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat.
Something isn't right.
Your skin feels tight, like you already went on vacation and got burned to a crisp. Your pulse won't slow. Deep breaths feel impossible. Strangest of all, it's almost like –
Well, your core is buzzing. You press your legs together and try not to panic.
In the early days, after Leon got shot but well before Greece, you hid an injury from him.
You took a knife to the ribs during a fight. It wasn't too deep, but it was wide and bleeding steadily. Adrenaline allowed you to get through it. You figured you could patch yourself up the next time you slowed. But Leon pushed on ahead, and you followed without saying anything.
That is, until you left a bloody handprint on a door. He stopped immediately.
"Is that yours?" he said. "Where are you hurt?"
"It's nothing," you protested. But Leon S. Kennedy does not give up easily.
"Show me," he said, pulling out bandages from his hip pouch. "When did this happen?"
"I'm not compromised," you said, even as you lifted your jacket to show him.
"I know you aren't," he said. "I want to know when you're hurt so I can make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine," you said weakly. He patched you up quickly and thoroughly.
"We're partners," he told you. "We have to help each other."
Here, now, you don’t hide from him.
"Leon," you croak. "Something's wrong. I think I --"
He's at your side in an instant, so close your breath hitches. Why are you so affected by him? Why are you so warm?
"The rip in your jacket," Leon says. "Your arm is bleeding."
"Liquid," you gasp. "It felt wet when I hit the cabinet."
The pieces come together. Shattered vials at your feet, an empty cabinet behind you. The dull red emergency lights make it hard to tell what color the puddle is, but you know it can't be good.
"They wouldn't keep a virus out in the open, would they?" you ask weakly. You're shaking now, shivering even though you don't feel cold.
"Fever," he breathes. "Pyretos. It means fever."
You've rarely seen Leon afraid. He's human, so it happens, but normally he faces things head-on without complaint.
Right now, he looks terrified. That scares you more than anything.
"Leon," you whisper. "What do we do?"
He snaps into action. He hands you a roll of bandages.
"Wrap it," he says. He presses a few buttons on his watch until it beeps. Setting a timer, no doubt. Just in case. "How do you feel? Describe it to me."
"Feverish," you say. "But not dizzy. I can think clearly."
Leon starts to dig around the lab, tearing open drawers and rifling through what he finds. The office on this floor wasn't in the same place as the other two, so any information must be in here, right?
"What else?"
You follow his lead, desperately searching for anything helpful. How do you explain the fact that your entire body is pulsing with a very specific kind of need? It scares you, feeling this out of control physically while also being in your right mind.
You land on achey. The buzzing under your skin gets worse every minute you spend looking and finding fuck all.
"There's nothing here," he says, frustrated. "Shit."
You're thinking the same thing: no vaccines. Any hope for you is in this lab.
But then -- your eye catches on a cabinet sitting on deep grooves in the floor.
"There's a door," you tell him, already heading for it. A wave of need hits you so suddenly that you have to brace yourself on the wall to catch your breath. Leon brushes by you. The slight contact has you swallowing a moan.
Jesus Christ.
He shoves the cabinet aside. Behind it is a door that opens into the lab office, as dark as the others.
You follow him in and start searching the shelves. Leon drags a table into the perfect place to effectively barricade you in.
"We don't have time to be interrupted right now," he says. He starts searching the desk.
You're sweating now. If this thing is going to turn you, Leon can't be here for it. You don't want him to see it. "Maybe you should go back to the surface --"
"I'm not leaving you," he interrupts. It's sharp, final.
"But if I turn--"
Leon whirls around. "I'm not leaving you," he says again.
Your nose stings. It's not the rational choice, but it's the Leon Kennedy choice. You can't help but be grateful for it.
He returns to the papers. Everywhere your clothing touches your skin feels heavy, almost painful. Your skin is sensitive, your throat dry, breath still fast.
You're so turned on, you think you might explode. It's all you can do to just stand there and try to keep it together.
"I found something," Leon says. He says nothing else. It's hard to see his expression in the dark without being close to him. You don't know if you can handle that right now.
"Bad news, doc?"
He swallows and begins to read.
"In an effort to bend the subject to commands, a fever is introduced via the bloodstream that increases testosterone and dopamine to near-unbearable levels of arousal. We have successfully altered the balance to allow the mind to be unaffected, making the reaction purely physical. The fever, if detected and combated within 1 hour, can be reduced by repeated bursts of oxytocin until the subject's internal temperature returns to normal. Required oxytocin levels seem to vary by subject; no pattern discernible at this time."
"What the fuck does that mean?" you pant. Your skin feels too tight. You still can't take a full breath. Control is becoming a missed opportunity. "Do I have a sex fever?"
No answer.
"Leon."
He exhales sharply.
"I think you need to be touched," he says. "To release the chemical that will help you fight this on your own."
Your responding laugh edges on hysterical.
"I do have a sex fever. So, what, you're going to hug me and hope I don't die?"
"I could," he says. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "I just don't think it'll be enough. This says bursts, and a lot of them. The best way to trigger that kind of response is --"
It clicks in your mind.
"Orgasm," you whisper. "Oh, god."
Leon closes his eyes for a second too long.
"I don't know what to do," he admits. He looks at his watch. "It's been 10 minutes. I don't know what--"
"I'm so sorry," you breathe. The gravity of your situation is like a bucket of cold water. If only it actually made you feel cold. You have to fuck your partner or die. What kind of sick joke is this? "Leon, I'm so sorry. You don't have to do anything, this is my fault --"
He tosses the file onto the table.
"I'm not going to let you die," he says with all his usual conviction. He really believes it, and it makes it easier for you to believe it, too. "Not when there's something I can do about it."
"But not like this," you croak. "This is --"
"I know."
God, you wish the lights were on. You want to see every detail of his face to discern what he's feeling. Can you ask him to do this? Will it ruin everything forever?
A tremor wracks through you. You have to brace yourself on the desk.
He yanks open drawers until he finds a thermometer. It beeps alive, somehow, and he holds it up to your forehead.
"Shit," he mutters.
"What?"
Leon flips the device to show you the screen. 103.2.
"Shit," you echo.
Your brain is going to cook in your skull sooner rather than later. You swallow frustrated tears along with your pride.
"I'm so wet," you whisper. It's the lewdest thing you've ever said to him. "I can feel it."
Leon inhales sharply, standing ever-so-still just next to you, just out of reach.
The pain radiates through you, molten lava in your veins. It's strange to be able to think so clearly. You want Leon as badly as you always do. That's bearable. But the pain. The heat. It's something else, something all-consuming.
You need him to touch you.
"Please don't make me beg," you whimper, turning towards him.
"Jesus," he mutters, filling the space you make for him. His hands find your face. You groan. The contact is like a balm, even through his gloves.
"Oh god."
You nuzzle into his palms. It's like you can feel the battle in your blood, the virus doing its best to cook you from the inside out, but Leon's touch is giving you a foothold, a reprieve.
If it wasn't so awful, you'd laugh at the idea that you're so horny you might die.
"Whatever you need, I'll do," he says. His voice is already hoarse. "But just -- you have to tell me if it's not okay. And I'll stop. We'll figure something else out."
You lean back on the desk and grab his elbows. You've touched plenty, but never like this. Never loaded with all of the unspoken things between you, never with such desperation.
"It's okay," you tell him. "Whatever it takes, it's okay. I trust you."
His thigh slides between your legs.
"Can you forgive me? If I do this?" he whispers, lips so close to yours. You lean forward on instinct, pulled to him by more than just the fire in your core.
"There's nothing to forgive," you say, and then you're kissing.
What you need is an orgasm, but this is something you've wondered about for a long time. Something you've wanted. It almost feels selfish to take it now.
But, fuck, it's good.
He's not shy. You trace the seam of his lips with your tongue. He opens for you immediately, licking into your mouth as he pulls you forward and onto his thigh.
His kisses are desperate, exposing his worry, but also tender, exposing his care. You're in good hands, hands you love.
Even through your pants, the pressure of your cunt on his thigh is enough to steal your breath.
"God," you gasp.
"Not quite," Leon says, kissing a path from your mouth down your neck. "Does that help?"
You grind down on him in reply. His palms have made their way to your hips, aiding you in your quest for pressure on your core.
It's too much. It's not enough. But still, the coil tightens. "Sorry, I just need --"
You chase it, grinding down on his thigh even harder, panting into his neck. You're close, you can feel it. You're chasing it, that snap, that reward. Leon just lets you take and take and take.
You thread your fingers through his hair, panting into his neck. When you tug just a little, he bounces his leg and you keen.
"More, please."
It only takes three more bounces before you're coming, shudders ripping through you, his name on your lips.
When you return to your body, Leon is dragging his palm up and down your back.
"Did you just--"
You're becoming very familiar with the fabric of his shoulder, his leather harness pressing into your cheek.
"Mhm," you manage.
There's a world where you're embarrassed. In that world, you asked Leon out for dinner and then up to your place after. In that world, you made out on the couch and ground down on his thigh until you came. In that world, he laughed with you, utterly charmed, and it was the beginning of something wonderful.
In this one, he gently tilts you back so he can check your temperature with the thermometer.
"Holy shit," he breathes. "102.1. It worked."
You don't feel that different, but the number doesn't lie.
Leon is panting, too. "More?"
You nod. Your cunt aches like you didn't have an orgasm at all.
He tugs off a glove with his teeth, dropping it god knows where.
"Don't know how clean my hands are," he says.
A laugh bursts out of you, but it sounds close to a sob.
Two fingers go in his mouth faster than you can open yours. He doesn't waste too much time wetting them, given how turned on you already are, but he gives them a good suck. A trail of spit hangs from his lip when he finishes.
You work at the buttons of your pants, unbuckling your tactical belt. It clangs onto the desk behind you. Leon slides his hand down under the waistband of your panties. You collapse into him with a guttural moan.
"Leon," you gasp. He holds you up, no problem, even as you go utterly boneless at just his fingers in your folds.
"You weren't kidding," he says, breathy. "You are wet."
"I'm sorry," you pant into his shoulder.
"Please don't say sorry again," he groans. "I can't take it."
"Can I say thank you?"
"That's worse," he says, sliding two fingers into you at the same time. "I just wish it wasn't like this, is all."
The absurdity of the whole thing makes it hard to keep your emotional walls high. What's the point? You're having sex with your partner to save your life in an underground Umbrella laboratory. You're way past keeping your emotions from him.
So you hear his words for what they are. For what he's not saying.
"Oh, yeah?" He curls his fingers and you groan, arching into him. "You have something you want to tell me, Kennedy?"
"Little late for that."
He presses his lips to your jaw, but you pull back so you can see his eyes. He's flushed, his pupils taking over almost all of the blue you love so dearly.
"I always want to know how you feel," you tell him. It's honest, raw, perhaps out of place when he's knuckle deep in your cunt.
"Fuck," he breathes, like eye contact is enough to undo him.
"I just want to help you," he says. "I always want to help you when you need it." He picks up the pace with his fingers. "I like being the guy who has your back."
His thumb circles your clit. It’s all you can do to hang onto his shoulders and ride it out as he keeps talking.
"I want to give you everything you've ever wanted," he says. "I miss you when you leave the room. I trust you more than anyone I've ever met."
"Oh, Leon," you gasp, grinding down onto his hand. "Me too. Me too."
He scrapes his teeth along your neck. "Yeah?"
"Yes, yes, yes --"
The orgasm washes over you. You clench around him over and over. He carefully pulls his hand from your panties and licks his fingers. Good god.
Something has shifted between you. It's still about the mission, about breaking your fever, but now it's more. It's more, because you both want it.
Leon leans in for a kiss. You meet him halfway, tasting yourself on his lips.
Beep.
"101.3," he says.
You push his hair back from his forehead. "Is that low enough?"
This time, you do feel a bit different. Maybe it's the confirmation that Leon has feelings for you, but your muscles feel more relaxed, your skin less taut. The need still burns, though.
"There's no way to say this without sounding like a creep," he says wryly. "But I think you should have a few more."
You drag your hands up and down his torso, but your gaze lands on his makeshift barricade.
"Do we think we have time?"
Even as you ask, you're toeing off your boots and shoving your pants down. Leon is quick to help you.
"If anything comes through that door," he says, fingers hooked in your underwear, "I can kill it with my eyes closed."
He hooks his hand under your thighs and helps you up onto the desk fully, sweeping everything onto the ground.
"So could you," he adds. You hum in agreement. Your hand returns to his torso, trailing it down to the front of his pants.
He's hard.
It's not entirely a surprise, but you're pleased.
"I know, I'm sorry, it's kind of fucked up --" he tries. You don't let it get very far.
"Don't you apologize," you say. "You're allowed to want, Leon. I promise you, whatever you want, you can have. You already do."
His answer to that is a kiss, not searing and heated like before, but soft and slow. Like he's memorizing you, learning every inch of your mouth just because he can.
A wave of heat rolls through you, so intense and unexpected that you have to close your eyes and grit your teeth against the pain.
Leon rubs your back and tells you to breathe, it's okay, you're going to be okay.
The heat dulls. "How long has it been?" you ask through gritted teeth, eyes still shut.
"26 minutes."
His thumbs stroke your cheeks, helping you come back to yourself.
"Are you okay to keep going?" he asks. "I'll do whatever you want."
You reach for his belt with shaking hands. Not because you don't want him, or because you're scared, but because you need him. You need him to survive. This was just as true before you got infected as it is now. And you have him.
He has you.
Leon lets you unbuckle his pants as he undoes his harness and his tactical pouches. They both fall to the ground.
You take him in hand and he hisses. His cock is warm, another layer of heat against your already burning skin. His hips jerk when you stroke him root to tip.
His fingers circle your wrist to stop you.
"Another time," he says. He kisses your chin. "Okay?"
There will be another time. Leon doesn't say things he doesn't mean, so you take it to heart. This will happen again.
It's not exactly romantic, the way you lean back on some long-dead bioterrorist's desk naked from the waist down, Leon's pants shoved down his thighs and his cock in his hand. But it's what you've got, and it's what you'll take.
You spread your legs for him. He sucks in air like a man just saved from drowning.
"Ready?" he asks. You feel his tip at your entrance and can't swallow the moan that rips from your throat in the shape of his name. He wastes no more time sinking into you in one stroke.
You come immediately, legs wrapped around his hips. You might scream, it's hard to tell. But you're so full and it finally feels right. Like you've been missing something all along and finally found it.
Leon says your name over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer.
"I wish I could see you properly," he says, voice breaking. "I wish –
His hips jerk forward even though he's bottomed out. He leans forward until he's bracing his forearms on either side of your head, brushing your nose with his. He's right. It's hard to see him fully in the red-washed office.
"You know what I look like," you tell him.
"Not like this," he shakes his head. "Not like this."
"You're doing so good," you say, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Leon, it feels so good --"
It's a strange sensation to feel your blood cooling while he's inside you, to regain control of your body just as you surrender your heart.
Leon starts to move his hips, a slow drag at first, but it quickly becomes a snap. You dig your fingers into his biceps and hold on. You can hear how wet you are as he fucks you.
The coil in your core tightens again. "Leon," you moan. "I'm gonna--"
He kisses you, hips slowing to a grind. He reaches between you with one hand to find your clit and give it some messy circles.
"Go ahead," he says against your mouth. "I can take it."
Your cunt clenches around him. Tears prick in your eyes not from overstimulation but from everything else -- the heat in your veins, the tenderness of his hold, the way he's kissing you as you fall apart, swallowing your gasps.
"So beautiful," he says. And god, it sounds like he means it. Half-dressed, sweaty and bandaged, he means it.
Leon goes back to shallow thrusts, but they're becoming more erratic.
"How many is that?"
"Four," Leon says.
"Are you..."
He nods. "I'm close."
His forehead is damp from the effort. You wipe it with the heel of your hand.
"It's okay," you tell him. "It's okay, Leon. You can --"
You tighten your legs around him to hold him inside.
His breath hitches, but he picks up the pace without argument.
The smack of your flesh fills the room. The only thing on your mind is Leon Leon Leon.
The noise he makes just before he comes inside you is a punched-out whine of your name. He stills above you entirely, eyes screwed shut in pleasure.
"So beautiful," you echo. "So beautiful, Leon."
He keeps his weight off you but presses his face into your neck as he catches his breath.
"Fuck," he says. "How do you feel?"
You need to check your temperature, but remarkably better. The heat in your veins is an expected one. You can feel sweat cooling on your skin. The incessant need in your cunt has dulled to a satiated ache.
"Still alive." You kiss him chastely, considering he's still inside you.
"Let me check -- where the hell did that thing go?"
He pulls out. You both hiss just a bit, but he finds the thermometer on the ground.
Beep.
"98.3," Leon says. "That's normal."
You feel boneless and make no move to get up from the desk. If you did, you'd surely make a mess.
"Finally, something normal about today."
Leon tucks his cock back into his briefs, buttons his pants. He drags his hands up and down your thighs.
"Can I clean you up?" he asks.
Even though you now know how he feels, know that he wants you just as much as you want him, he's done so much for you today. Your temperature is back to normal. You still need to make it back to the surface.
"You don't need to," you say. "Just...give me a clean bandage, or something --"
"Let me do this for you," he interrupts. Begs, really, already getting on his knees between your legs. "One more. Just to be safe."
The heat that builds is nothing like the wild, uncontrollable fire of before. This is all you, all Leon.
The fact that he wants his mouth on you, wants to lick his own come from your cunt.
"Okay," you breathe. You thread your fingers through his hair. He preens.
He kisses the inside of your thigh and pushes your legs wider.
Maybe you should feel exposed, but you don't. You feel wanted. You feel safe.
Leon pulls your folds open with his thumbs. He starts with long licks with the flat of his tongue along your seam, flicking your clit when he reaches the top. But your entrance quickly becomes his focus, and suddenly he's a man possessed.
He laps up his own release as it drips from you, humming when you tug on his hair. He hardly comes up for air, but you know he's paying attention to your reactions based on the way he moves his mouth. He sucks on your clit. Your hips buck, so he does it again.
"Leon," you gasp. How is it possible that you're going to come again? But you feel it, the rising tide in your core. All it takes is a glance down to find him watching you, soaking in whatever he can see in the dim light.
He keeps his mouth on you through your final orgasm. This time, a few tears leak from your eyes. Your breath evens out and your heartbeat actually slows the way you expect it to. The fever is broken, you're certain of it.
"Just to be safe," you say to the ceiling. "You just wanted to show me how good you were at that."
Leon wipes his face with the back of his hand.
"I like to be thorough," he replies. He stands, drags your underwear and pants up with him.
"Are you okay? How are the symptoms?"
"I think so." You scoot forward on the table so he can pull your clothes over your hips. "It doesn't feel like a fever anymore."
"What does it feel like?"
Your legs are a little shaky, but you stand and wrap your arms around him. You've just had sex to save your life, but you don't know if you've ever hugged Leon before.
"It feels like you," you tell him, cheek pressed to his shoulder.
Leon stills, but you can hear his heartbeat pick up. He envelops you in his embrace, lips pressed against your temple, his inhale shaky.
"I'm glad," he whispers. "I'm so fucking glad."
He's hidden his fear from you so well this whole time, but you saw the look on his face when he realized you were infected. You hug him tighter, willing the fear to leave him. You're okay. You're here, in his arms. He saved you.
"What now?" you ask. You turn in his arms. He releases you so you can reach for your tactical belt.
"We get out of here in one piece," he says. "We get you to medical."
"Fucking medical," you mutter. You shove your foot back in your discarded boot.
"I won't leave you there," Leon says. They could keep you for days, but you know he means it. "Then I'll take you home. And we'll sleep for days."
You almost forget that you don't have to keep your feelings from him. You let the joy take over your face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he says, a little sheepish. "If you want to."
"I want to," you assure him. "I want to."
You'll have to talk about this, surely. The way it changes your partnership, how to navigate field work. There is so much to learn about him. What he's like on a quiet morning at home instead of a stakeout. The noises you can pull from him in a real bedroom. His face when you tell him you love him.
The future is bright.
Leon buckles his harness. He laughs to himself, tearing you from your thoughts.
"What?"
He straightens your belt and grins crookedly, boyish and lovely.
"Are you writing this into the mission report, or am I?"
.ᐟ.ᐟ ATTENTION re4!leon, car sex, p in v, fem!reader, slapping, asphyxiation, dacryphilia, breeding, orgasm denial, mean leon if you squint (you really don’t have to squint), ‘daddy’ mention, 00’s
─ LEON knows the trouble that could arise from being caught with you in such a compromising position in the back seat of his car.
he just doesn’t give a fuck.
the windows are tinted, it’s all too dark outside and the way you flutter around his aching cock makes it hard to think about anything else. he’s too entranced to guide you; jaw slacked, piercing eyes staring down at the sloppy action under his chin. he watches as he spreads you open each thrust and is almost brought to tears every time he sees your swollen heat ache for him when he backs away. his chest rises and falls heavily at his own lazy pace, abs contracting with each breath, moonlight pouring over his damp skin.
“leon–” you muster up in a broken coo. when he told you to wear something comfortable, what you imagined was only half of what you’re being fed. it was just supposed to be a late night drive so he could tell you about his mission in spain, but his hands had other plans. it wasn’t even twenty miles until you two ducked off in what is supposed to be a closed forest preserve, hidden in an empty camp site. you feel the pressure swelling you open with each thrust, arms wrapped around his neck.
“spread your legs for me,” he disregards your call out, using a hand to carefully push one of your thighs open. the force of his push was enough to send your thigh back in its original position and with leon being so lust drunk over you, he shoved your thigh back, pushing your knee into your chest with a low, “wider.” he really misses his girl.
damp locks of blond bounce over the man's forehead before diving face first into your hair. he breathes in your scent, with his other hand wrapping its fingers around your neck. he practically shoves your head into the back of the seat as he takes you from above, one knee pressed into the seats. his movements slightly shift the car with reckless abandon, too occupied with his own pleasure to be mindful. your sweet smell fills his nose, exhaling almost feeling orgasmic as his eyes roll back simply because you’re all his.
“le–on,” you try again between thrusts, watching an intense gaze flicker towards your eyes with fluster. leon doesn’t have it in him to speak; all of the words he wants to say would be the wrong ones. instead, he pulls your head in by the neck, dropping a messy kiss on your lips. his hips ease into yours slower, the smack of your flesh making him grunt through his kiss as he twitches inside of you.
the air around him is encapsulating, wrapping him in heat. it sends electricity down his spine to see your body reaching on for air through his hand, watching your shut eyes shift under their lids. your breath isn’t completely taken, but restricted enough to be shallow. he notices the way tears brim your waterline, causing him to lick your bottom lip before trapping your kiss once more between his teeth. “come on, i’ve got ya,” he growls against your cheek, breathing in like you’re his lifesource. “you look at me and only me, got it? eyes on me." his demand comes after pulling away from your face, vision training yours.
“‘s so big, daddy.” your eyes grow wide in focus, though they try to close from the stimulation.
leon’s body nearly does a hard reset, hips stuttering as he releases an exhale filled with shake. “what did you say?” he actually has the audacity to shift his posture, straightening his back as if that would help him hear you correctly.
“you’re so big,” you try again, too lost in your own pleasure to realize that he’s talking about the new nickname. no one had ever referred to him as ‘daddy’ in all twenty seven years of his life, feeling the shiver run over the front of his body, stinging at his toes.
as if to grab intel from you using intimidation, his face grows closer to yours, gripping your neck tighter. “you know damn well what i’m talking about,” the tip of his nose brushes against yours, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. the hand that kept your thigh back guided your leg to rest over his shoulder, sweeping his free hand to your face. it grips your lax jaw before he has a change of heart, lightly tapping your cheek with the tips of his fingers as if to slap you. “say it again.”
a rush runs through his body watching you gasp, quickly biting your lip. “fill me up, daddy.”
another ‘slap’, “again.”
“please daddy.”
“fuck,” leon lowers his head, feeling his orgasm attempt to be pulled from him. he can feel how tight you are, begging for him to send you over the edge right along with him, and he doesn’t hesitate. “that’s a good girl. my fuckin’ girl.”
a nod suffices while leon rips one last kiss from you before his face hides in your bosom, hand leaving your face for his thumb to fiddle with the throbbing bud between your thighs. if he was going to fill you up, he’s gonna have to make sure his girl is getting her fix.
your hands fall from his neck only to cling to the wrist holding your neck against the seat. your hips wiggle under the touch of his thumb, cunt devouring him. and as you reach your breaking point, your whole body throbs as leon’s hips stutter, soon climax ripping from him in the back of his blacked out 2003 bmw. he shudders inside of you, jumping, filling your womb with hot ropes of white. his face begs for refuge, brows knit and jaw quivering as groans leave his mauve toned lips. his thumb loses its original rhythm, slowing down before he feels your hands in his hair.
heavy hands fall to your waist, anchoring himself. you watch his chest rise and fall, an unreadable look littered all over his face until he speaks. “you wanna cum?” he asks you bluntly, eyes shifting between yours. of course you do; you’re not spread out on his seats for nothing. so as you nod once more, he understands, but it’s not enough.
again, his fingertips slap the flesh of your cheek, his bottom lip hostage between his teeth before he speaks, “talk to me like a big girl.”
“yes.”
leon takes this moment to stare at you, smile wavering on the edge of something truly deviant. “mm mm,” he denies, kissing your forehead. “get dressed. when we get home, you're mine.”
though now you’re soft as dough. too tired to function and too turned on to wait any longer. shaking your head, leon nods, his forehead glued to yours.
“no,” you whine.
“yes,” he mocks you. “when we make it home, we can go all night if ya want, i promise. i just— shit,” he releases his final tired breath, “really missed you.” you’re just so pretty to him at this moment he couldn’t fathom seeing you in any other way. he watches the sheen on your skin glisten under the natural light pouring into the car, watching your clothed chest rise and fall.
“that is so selfish,” you hiss, pouting, hands running over his hips. “i want you now.” your body lies limp on the backseat, hearing him chuckle shamelessly, zipping up his jeans.
“my girl, my rules. you’re gonna pull that skirt down and wait till we make it home, beautiful.”
leon s. kennedy as your mission partner, and all he wants to do is kiss you but there's never any time & it's just not the right time - so he has to make do with pecking your temple or cheek.
he needs to check something? okay, but wait! he has to leave a quick and tender kiss on your cheek before running off. you've both just narrowly avoided certain death and are hiding in a corner to catch your breaths? yeah, leon's cupping the back of your head to press a swift kiss to your forehead.
the only time he's ever kissed you on the lips during a mission was after a particularly gruelling fight with too many close calls to count. that's when he decides that, screw it, an extra second to kiss you properly is worth it, so he does :)
but also, also. these small kisses aren't overly common, so when he does leave behind those small pecks on your face, it's basically like having the reclusive & slightly gruff neighbourhood cat decide that it likes you and bumping its head into your leg to show affection.
you wake him when the baby’s being fussy d. grayson
fem!reader wc ! 2.2k warnings ! fluff but suggestive, mentions of unprotected sex, dickiebird is sleepy, bad humor, some talks of parenthood jokingly idk? 🗒️ very rare dada dickie feature i lit adore him. reblog and i’ll give u a kiss 😋 now playing ! babyfather — sade 🎧
The hum of the air conditioning unit permeated the darkness of the apartment.
Snickering to yourself for the upteenth time, you hugged your baby close. You were a new parent afterall, so you had to check to make sure you were holding them correctly, peeking beneath the folds of the blanket as you shifted your weight on the mattress. What a cute baby.
That is, if a baby could be one of the many plushies your ever-doting boyfriend Dick bought you last Valentines’ weekend.
It was doll-like and small, fitting in your arms perfectly for this great scheme. With a deep inhale to compose yourself, you clicked play on the Youtube video on your phone, teasing the volume button up, up, up, every few seconds.
Next to you there was a sleeping Dick Grayson, Blüdhaven’s finest — figuratively and literally — and Gotham’s resident heartthrob. He laid on his stomach, dark hair spread out over the pillow beneath him in thick curls and a strong arm thrown overhead. His right leg hung half off the bed from where it strayed out of the comforter as his fingers twitched softly in his sleep.
The sound of an infant’s wail came from your phone’s speaker, softer, then louder and even louder again. Your boyfriend did not so much as flinch. Desperate, you clutched the swaddled plushie to your chest with one hand and nudged him with the other.
“Dick,” you called out to him. He shifted only slightly. “Baaabe…” you murmured, pushing at his shoulder. “Wake up.”
With a groggy grumble in the back of his throat, he turned on his side, facing away from you. You scoffed, pressing the volume button harder as you bounced your sweet bundle of joy against your bosom.
You heard him groan and you nudged at him with your leg under the comforter, giving a small kick to his muscled thigh. “Hm?” came muffled into the pillow.
“She keeps crying,” you sighed sadly. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
At the sound of your voice, he turned to face you, his eyes barely opened and a sliver of shiny drool at the corner of his mouth. You almost laughed in his face. Oh, poor baby.
“Did you try feeding her?” He slurred with a yawn, loud and wide-mouthed like it hurt him to not be asleep right now. The noise made his brows furrow tightly.
“What do you think I’ve been doing while you were snoring?” You scoffed. “She just won’t sleep and I don’t know what else to do.”
“M’sorry,” he whispered, scooting closer to where you were until your shoulders pressed together. “I’ll take her.” Dick slid his hands under yours and retrieved the swaddled faux newborn, his eyelashes fluttering with exhaustion.
“You’re tired, you don’t have to.” Came your attempt at intervention, but he relented, his nose brushing the side of your cheek — his version of a kiss when he was between dreamland and reality — and he hummed, attempting to soothe the baby in his arms with a few soft rocks from side to side.
You pressed your lips together to hold your composure. No, you couldn’t laugh yet.
“Shh,” he cooed to the bundle in his arms, clutching it closer to his chest with another long yawn. “C’mon, let’s... let’s go beddy bye—”
“Don’t fall asleep,” you warned, nudging him with your shoulder. “You’ll drop her.” A weak hum was his response as his eyelashes fluttered downwards again, his head drooping ever so slightly.
“Dick.”
“M’ awake,” he inhaled deeply, shifting to pull his upper body up the slightest bit while his fingers strummed sweet little taps and absentminded traces of shapes over the swell of the swaddle where the plushie’s back was covered. “I’m awake, honest.”
A snort escaped you. “You sure about that, baby?”
“Baby....” he repeated, sweet and low. A huh sound was your response as you turned the volume down on the cries, the softest little hiccups lingering until you finally shut them off. He shook his head and murmured it again. “...baby,” but not Baby as in you, baby as in...
“Jus’ needed her Dad,” he hummed, his eyes sinking closed again. “Dada’s got you...” Your heart stuttered in your chest. You watched him rock the little bundle as sleep began to carry him away again, his shoulders slumping slowly and his head falling back against the pillow top.
You shifted closer to him, your face heating up just the slightest the longer you stared at him with the pretend baby in his arms and his face relaxed with sleep. He was so beautiful.
Carefully, you reached a hand out and brushed aside the thick curls curtaining his forehead. The corner of his lips curved upwards and you stifled a giggle.
He looked so peaceful drifting off, one of his arms secured around the swaddled plushie, both legs out of the comforter now. “Dick,” you whispered, your fingertips trailing his hairline then down his jaw, across the line of it then back up to his cheekbone. “You’re losing the covers.”
His fingers twitched against the blanket hugged to his chest and you smiled. “Hey, sleepyhead...” you teased, planting a brief peck on the corner of his lips. His feet shuffled back under the comforter, one slotted between your thighs. You felt him smile.
“Wha....time ’s it?” He slurred grogilly, eyes still closed.
“Early,” you hummed. He made a sound of acknowledgment in the back of his throat and you leaned down to kiss him properly like you always do when you wake him up. “You can go back to sleep.”
“Nuh uh.” Dopey, he smiled lazy and wide. “Kiss me more.”
“Yes huh, Sleepy Wing,” you laughed. “I just didn’t want you to wake up with cold feet—” his other hand snaked around your waist and you squealed, trying (or pretending to) wiggle away from him to no avail as he yanked you into his chest, nose burrowing into to your hair to steal kisses along your temple.
He smooshed his cheek against yours. “Ah! Quit it, you big baby—”
“Yeah, baby?” Dick teased, but the chuckle died in his throat the moment the last syllable left him. His eyes snapped open in a startle and he nearly shoved you away from him out of shock. “Baby!” he exclaimed, hoarse.
“The baby— she—” he shakily propped himself up on his elbows, eyes squinted half shut from the heaviness of sleep. When the swaddled plushie slid down his chest, he caught it in a delirious panic. When he looked down and realized what he was holding, he looked back at you, then to the plushie again.
It was quiet for several moments, and his brows knitted in half-asleep confusion. “Surprise?” You nudged his thigh with your foot. “Richard Grayson, you are the father.”
He ran a slow and deliberate palm across his face, then exhaled long and heavy. “I’m not awake enough for this.”
You burst out laughing. “Oh, my poor baby—”
“No, nope, mm-mm.” He shook his head firmly. “Not another b-word in this house.” All the while, he scooped up the swaddled plushie and carefully set it down on the other side of the bed.
With a grasp of his bicep, you pulled him back down next to you. His head hit the pillow with a soft thud, his thick curls fanning out. “Wow, I’m suing for child support—”
“Enough,” he groaned, faux frustration overpowered by a warm laugh tickling the palm you had cradling his face, moving his hair away from his forehead and bringing it back. “I really thought we had a baby. It was jarring. But kinda... kinda nice.”
Your fingers ceased. “You want a baby with me, D?”
There was a slight twitch in his shoulders as they tensed then relaxed again. “I mean... do you wanna have a baby with me?”
With a scoff, you shoved his arm. “Say it again, you didn’t sound unconvincing enough the first time.” He whined in protest only to pull you closer to him, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck.
“...I’ve thought about it,” he murmured, barely audible.
“What?” You turned your head with a swift lean back to catch any sort of glimpse of his face. The pounding of your heart swelled in your ears. “Dick, I was just teasing you—”
“But, do you?” He tilted his head to look up at you. You swallowed. “I mean, really.” His hand found yours where it lazed drooped against his shoulder and he brought it to rest against the side of his face.
You closed your eyes momentarily in thought. “Maybe,” you whispered, eyes searching his face as your thumb traced the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, maybe I do.”
He laughed, hearty and warm. “Yeah?” His arms banded around your waist as he rolled over onto you, dwarfing you with the bulk of his body. Your legs opened to make room for his hips between your thighs while you laughed— a sweet sound he stole from you with a kiss that was soft and wanton, like you’d been married for half a decade already and this was just the Monday after a reenacted honeymoon.
“I could give you one right now,” he said, the words melded together against your lips. He tasted like toothpaste with a side of cookies before bed and all the flavors of missing you. “Or just for practice—”
“Funny. I hope comedy pays well when the triplets come.” You chided as your fingers sifted through his hair.
You sighed, his palm grasping hold of one of your thighs to lift it up and there your ankle went, hooked over his hipbone. “Dick—” your lips chased him and he ground you into the mattress further, clothed pelvis flush against yours while you whined for relief.
“That’s usually the tool required, yeah,” his grin was wolfish against your skin. His lips travelled down the bottom side of your jaw, then down the line of your neck, down it went and your fingers seized his hair harder when the prick of a canine had you keening.
“Asshole.”
“Baby,” he moaned, hips involuntarily bucking forward, harder than he intended but when you’re Nightwing and trained in the art of overpowering, there’s not much you can do to curb your strength. So you were pushed further up the bed and onto your phone, which you didn’t mind until it shoved at your shoulder blade.
“Dick—” you called out.
“Someone’s eager... been calling out for it what, three times now?”
“No, Dick Dastardly, my phone—” you arched upwards, twisting your body a little to the side to try and grab you phone. He moved your hand away and slid one large arm under your hips, lifting you with ease. You grabbed the phone and with his other hand he immediately snatched it away.
“Hey!” you complained.
He kissed you again, a little harder this time and you moaned into his mouth, barely hearing the soft impact of your phone being tossed somewhere on the bed. His hands went to your hips with a soft squeeze and you could feel the length of him hardened against your inner thigh.
“I love you,” he rasped out against your mouth. You exhaled a breathy whimper and his eyes glazed over with need. But just ust as you were about to say it back—
There came the familiar wailing of an infant on a perfect loop, piercing the quiet of your shared bedroom with hiccups and needy sobs. Both yours and Dick’s heads shot to the direction of your phone where it lay face down, the light of the screen peeking from the space between it and the sheets.
He looked to you incredulously and you shrugged with a shake of your head. “Nope, this is all you.”
He huffed like he’d been slapped. “Jesus christ,” he reached for the phone with one arm as he stayed hovered over you, the over planted firmly under you to keep you flush against him.
“Baby wants her dada, it can’t be helped,” you snickered into the palm of your hand. “Afterall, it’s good practice.” You felt his grip on you tighten a fraction, and he glanced over at you from the corner of his eye.
Once he’d fought and won against the virtual infant — and by winning, it meant he shut your phone off completely and chucked it onto the nightstand — he dived onto you like a beast on the prowl.
“Let’s have a baby,” Dick said in the middle of grinding against your thigh, your eyelashes fluttering from the heat of his body on yours. “You know, some practice.”
“Oh my God,” you howled with laughter at the way his face had even flushed at his own admission. “You’re insane.”
“Why?” he nipped at your bottom lip playfully. “Doesn’t baby need her dada?” You shoved at his shoulders with a fit of giggles that made him hang his head low, forehead pressed against your sternum in shame.
“I love you,” you whispered and he nodded, smitten, pressing soft kisses into your skin. “Yeah,” he chuckled breathlessly. “Don’t ever let me have cookies before bed again.”
