❤︎ Juju

multifandom + he // she ; 19

[soraanniks]

⋆ . 𐙚 ̊ 𝒥uhi / 𝓝ikki ! 🇵🇰 ———

⪼ I’ll take you to paradise, trust me.

any prns ⟢ 9teen ⟢ ❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎

✒️ ;; dc ⁺ marvel ⁺ invincible ⁺ Jjk ⁺ requests open :)

𑣲 mr. terrific & guy gardner’s wife

𑣲 bucky barnes’ lover

𑣲 Health sci major :)

[soraanniks]

hope everyone is ready for Shane McGuire x ex-wife reader

[soraanniks]

— “Wide, spread so wide.” / Benjamin Poindexter x f!reader ..

ᯓ‎ ♪ Bend your mind — Elysian dreams .

Summary : You’re an ex-vigilante, now a professor, however you also happen to be the ex-lover of one, Benjamin poindexter. Who can’t seem to let you go. So when you call him one night, unstable, drunk off your ass, who is he to deny you?

Disclaimer / cw : Dub-con , mentions stalking , loss of medication , unprotected p in v , titty sucking use of alcohol , dex is a little pathetic, he’s also a little mean tho, manic episode .. (lmk if I missed any)

People seemed to think that the fact you now lived an ordinary life meant suffering stopped affecting you. They looked at the healed scars, the doctorate, the carefully controlled posture, and assumed resilience was permanent. Like surviving one impossible thing somehow made every other hardship easier, more.. inconsequential.

It didn't.

Some weeks the past came back so vividly it felt lodged beneath your skin. Sleep became impossible because every dream dissolved into fragments the past. Some mornings you woke with your jaw aching from grinding your teeth through the night.

Other mornings you woke unable to breathe. This week had been particularly bad.

So you did what you always did when things became unbearable, in your mind, the responsible thing to do. You disappeared.

You ignored calls. Turned your phone onto silent. Emailed the university claiming health complications and took a week off from teaching. Your students would survive without a few lectures. The world would continue spinning. Biochemistry was of little concern to you right now.

Your apartment looked like a nightmare, like hell itself had unleashed into the inner walls of your shitty studio apartment you only when to in times like these.

The place looked less lived in rather than survived in. A mattress occupied one corner without a proper frame. Books covered nearly every available surface, stacked in uneven towers and scattered across the floor. Research papers were strewn across your desk from when you tried to distract yourself, they were in-between coffee mugs, empty energy drink cans, and machine parts you'd promised yourself you'd repair eventually.

It was dirty, neglected. You would’ve hated that. Your life needed order, it kept you sane. Organization and routine kept you in tact.

But you’d slipped into old habits before you even realized it. Too much caffeine. Not enough sleep. Hyper-fixating on projects for days at a time before crashing. Forgetting meals. Spending money impulsively. Letting your thoughts race faster than your body could keep up. Your therapist, well, most people, would have called it a manic episode.

Unfortunately, someone else noticed. Benjamin Poindexter, Dex, as you had once more affectionately known him. That left a bitter taste in your mouth now.

Despite that, you remembered how he’d been exceptionally good at showing up where he wasn't wanted.

Ex-boyfriend didn't quite describe what he was anymore. Neither did stalker. Though that one came closer.

You hadn't spoken properly in months. Maybe longer. But somehow he always seemed to know things he shouldn't. New phone numbers. New addresses. New routines. Occasionally you'd spot him across a street or catch the feeling of being watched for just a second too long.

Nothing concrete enough to report. Nothing harmless enough to ignore. And right now?

You were vulnerable.

To Dex, that translated into opportunity, the opportunity to watch you from outside your hidden studio apartment for weeks on end, searching for an opening. He’d watch lights stay on until four in the morning. Watch delivery drivers come and go because you couldn't be bothered to grocery shop. Watching you stumble home exhausted.

Watching you fall apart.

The worst part was that he genuinely believed he cared. Dex didn't see himself as dangerous. He never had, well, not to you at least. In his mind, he was the only person who understood you.

Yet when you called him he was surprised. Not because he didn't recognize the number. That would have been impossible. But he knew that number was someone who wanted nothing to do with him. Someone who wanted him so buried in their past, they refused to even read or watch the news when it involves him.

Months of silence hadn't changed that. Neither had the blocked messages, the unanswered emails, or the increasingly creative ways you'd found to tell him to stay out of your life. Dex remembered everything about you. Your phone number. Your coffee order. The routes you took to work. Your lesson plans. The names of your students. (Especially the ones who lingered too long during office hours) The dates you hated. The dates you forgot. Some people would have called it obsessive. Benjamin preferred attentive.

Now you were calling him. His fingers shook as he reached for the phone, you answered. Voice drunk, slurred, most defiantly off your meds. Meds he got rid of himself.

His pulse quickened before he could stop it. For a moment he simply stared at the phone like it would magically answer itself. Then he picked up.

"Hello?" He spoke, his voice was rough, raspy. Clear that he hadn’t spoken in quite some time.

Silence greeted him, a long silence. The kind that made most people check whether the call had disconnected.

Dex didn't. He listened to the sound oof breathing on the other end, uneven, shallow, then finally—

"...Dex?"

His entire body went still. It had been months since he'd heard your voice. Your sweet, lovely voice, that was practically like a hymn of heaven itself to him. Like an angel came down and personally spoke into his ear.

But now he could actually hear it, not through old recordings. Not through memories. Not through record lectures he'd stumbled across and watched far longer than he should have.

Actually heard it. His grip tightened around the phone. You sounded drunk. Not tipsy, not a pleasant buzz from wine after a long day… actually, stupidly drunk out of your mind.

The words dragged together slightly, thoughts colliding into one another before they could properly form. Beneath that was something else he recognized immediately. Something that made his stomach sink, but in that oddly pleasant way when something finally good happened in your life and you didn’t know how to handle it.

You sounded unmedicated. Good for him, horrible for you.

He knew how your voice changed when your thoughts started moving too quickly. Knew the way your sentences became longer, less organized. Knew how you struggled to stay on one train of thought before another crashed into it.

He'd spent years learning those differences. Most intentionally, some accidentally. Some because he simply couldn't stop paying attention.

He spoke your name into the phone, to that a small laugh escaped you. The sound of it wasn’t even happy, not even silently amused. It was completely, utterly exhausted. You were doing bad, you were doing bad without him. That somehow convinced him that he was part of the reason your life was going to hell. Convinced him that you needed him, that he would fix whatever was wrong despite being a main cause.

"I hate you." You spoke into the phone, quick, slurred from the alcohol invading your system.

Dex closed his eyes, strangely enough, hearing that made him relax. There you were.

Familiar. Predictable. You only sounded like that when you were emotional enough to call him in the first place. Which wasn’t often.

"Yeah, do you?" he replied, egged on, almost. Wanting, needing you to say more so he could stay in this blissful moment longer.

"You ruined my life." The accusation arrived immediately.

Dex leaned back against the wall behind him, one hand dragging across his face as if he were trying to hide a smile from someone who wasn’t there.

"I didn't ruin your life." He muttered into the phone.

"You absolutely did." You cut him off slightly as you spoke, even when drunk, still sharp as ever.

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched. For several seconds neither of you spoke, but the line remained open.

Then he heard glass clink softly somewhere on your end. A sound that was practically music to his ears. More alcohol made you more vulnerable, more pliable for him to shape and take as he pleased.

"How much have you had to drink?" He asked despite himself.

“Mmn.” You answered in response. You didnt even want to give him the satisfaction of answering that. Deep down, deep inside your drunken mind, you knew he was basically getting off on this. Yet despite that, you couldn’t bring yourself to hang up. He spoke your name again as he could hear you downing another glass, Dex sighed as he didn’t get a response.

After a few beats, maybe another glass, your voice returned. It sounded quieter, but frustrated. "My head won't shut up." You groaned.

Dex could fix that. He could fix that really easily. Yet instead of marching over into your apartment, he spoke again into the phone. "What do you mean?" He asked, soft, almost charming if not for the ill-intent behind it.

“What the hell do you think it means, Dex? It’s loud. My head is loud, louder than usual. God—”

You went on for a while after that, words spilling out faster than you could contain them.

Dex swallowed hard.

Not because of the outburst.

Not because of the anger.

But because of the way you said his name.

There had been venom in it, sharp and bitter, yet beneath it lurked something far worse, a hurt so deep it bled through every syllable. An old wound, torn open again and again before it ever had the chance to heal.

And Dex knew wounds like that didn’t stay clean forever. Left untreated, they festered. They infected everything around them until there was nothing left to save.

There was a realization that struck him there. You hadn't called him because you missed him. You hadn't called because you wanted anything from him. You hadn't even called because you forgave him, not even close to that.

You'd called because something was wrong.

And somehow, despite everything that had happened between you, he was still the person you thought of. There was a twinge of guilt in his chest from that. Twinge. Not a large amount.

It all led back to your medication, the meds that had mysteriously disappeared. The medication he'd convinced himself you didn't need anymore. The medication he'd thrown away, flushed down your toilet while you were out and he broke into your actual apartment.

You hated taking it. You complained about the side effects. You seemed happier without it. That was what he'd told himself.

While he was deep into his thoughts, he didn’t realize the silence stretching out on the phone. It was too long. Long enough that he wondered if you'd passed out.

Then he heard you shift. A sharp inhale. Then you finally spoke.

"...I don't think I'm doing very good." The confession was so quiet he almost missed it. The words jumbled together and you made a small sound, a hum that sounded like one of distress. Mixed with slightly heavier breathing. “Can you come over, Dex? Come over for me?” You asked into the phone.

If you were sober, if you were medicated, you would never have said that. Not out-loud, at least. It was pathetic, almost humiliating. Especially in that tone, that pouty, almost begging tone.

But by god did it stir something in dex, stir something so deep inside him he felt it low in his stomach. Finally, finally you were giving in. All that shit he did leading up to this would be worth it again. He would be with you. There. In person. Able to touch you, feel you, comfort and hold you.

The line went dead, but Dex didn’t move. He stared at the phone in his hand, the screen dimming, your absence already a hollow ache in his chest. You sounded so broken. So raw. And you’d said his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

He glanced at the clock. It’s past midnight. He knows where you live. Of course he does.

Ten minutes later, he’s knocking on your door. Softly at first, then harder. He hears shuffling inside, a muffled curse, then the lock clicks.

You open the door and the sight of you punches the air out of his lungs. Hair a mess, eyes glassy and bloodshot, wearing an oversized T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. You’re swaying, gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing holding you upright. The dim hallway light catches the tear tracks on your cheeks.

“You actually… came,” you slur, blinking at him like you’re trying to piece together a puzzle that’s all wrong. “…Why?”

“You called me.” His voice comes out softer than he intended. Softer than he deserves. He steps forward, and you don’t step back. That’s a yes. That’s a permission he’s going to read between the lines of until it’s scripture. “You sounded like you needed someone.”

You shake your head, but your hand falls away from the frame. “I didn’t mean to call you…”

“But you did.” He’s inside now, closing the door behind him. Your apartment smells like cheap wine and something sour—the smell of a breakdown. Bottles on the coffee table. A glass tipped over on the rug, soaking into the fibers. He takes it all in, catalogues it like evidence. “Look at you, sweetheart. You’re a mess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He ignores you. He steps closer until he’s right in front of you, close enough to smell the wine on your breath, the salt of your sweat. You’re trembling. From the cold? From him? Probably both.

“Your head’s still loud,” he says, echoing your words from the phone. “I can help. Let me help.”

You scoff, despite your state, you scoff. “Help? You? You’d just make it worse. Always do…”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “But worse would feel better than this, right?”

You don’t answer. You just stare at him with that hollow, desperate look, and he knows he’s already won.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. Your skin is hot, flushed. You flinch, but you don’t pull away. That tiny surrender makes his cock stir in his jeans.

“Tell me to leave,” he says, because he’s a fucking liar and he needs to hear you not say it. “Tell me to go, and I’ll go.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Your eyes well up again. “I can’t—I can’t be alone tonight, Dex. I can’t.”

And there it is. Your permission, even if you don’t know what you’re giving it for.

He leans in and kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s hungry, possessive, tasting of cheap wine and desperation. You make a sound against his mouth, something between a protest and a moan. Your hands come up to push at his chest. Weakly. Sluggishly.

“Wait,” you gasp, turning your head away. “Wait, I didn’t—I don’t—”

“You don’t what?” He trails his lips down your jaw, your throat, feeling your pulse hammer under his tongue. “You don’t want this? Tell me you don’t want this.”

You’re panting, hands still braced against his shoulders. “I’m drunk, Dex. That’s not—that’s not fair.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, hungry, but his voice drops into something almost apologetic. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I just… you called me. You said my name like you needed me. How could I stay away?”

You shake your head, but your grip on his shoulders slackens. The fight is draining out of you, replaced by that heavy, fog of intoxication. You’re sinking, and he’s the only anchor.

“Don’t be sorry,” you murmur, not even sure what you’re saying anymore. “Just…just make it quiet. Please.”

That’s all the invitation he needs.

He guides you backward, you stumble, lean into him, your head lolling against his chest. He helps you onto the matteress, lays you down like something fragile and precious. Then he climbs over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

His hands find the hem of your T-shirt and push it up. You don’t stop him. You don’t say a word as he reveals your breasts, bare in the dim light, nipples already peaked from the cool air. He groans, low in his throat.

“God, look at you. So fucking beautiful. Even when you’re falling apart.”

He dips his head and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you gasp. A sharp, surprised sound that turns into a moan. Your back arches, and your fingers tangle in his hair without you meaning them to.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “That’s it, feel good, just feel good.”

You’re mumbling something now, half-coherent protest that he swallows with another kiss. “Don’t… ah—“

“Shh. Let me take care of you.”

He works his way down your body, kissing, biting, leaving marks he knows you’ll find tomorrow and hate him for. He doesn’t care. He’ll take your hate. He’ll take anything you give him.

When he reaches your panties, he hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls them down, slow, savoring every inch of revealed skin. You’re wet already, he can see it, a slick shine apparent on your thighs. The sight makes his mouth water.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re already so ready for me. Look at you, dripping and drunk and pretending you don’t want this.”

“Stop talking,” you slur, turning your face into the pillow. “Hurry up..”

He laughs, a soft, mean sound. “There you are. Bitchy even when you’re on the verge of blacking out. I love it.”

He doesn’t make you wait longer. He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and pushes in.

You cry out, a broken noise that’s half pain, half relief. Your body clenches around him, tight and hot and perfect. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, but his restraint is thin.

“See?” he whispers, leaning down to mouth at your ear. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels good to be filled up.”

You shake your head, but your hips roll against him, seeking more. The betrayal of your own body makes a sob catch in your throat.

“Don’t cry,” he says, but there’s a mocking edge to his tone now. “You wanted quiet. I’m giving you quiet. Just lie there and take it like a good girl.”

He starts to move. Slow at first, deep, grinding against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You’re so drunk you can barely tell where you end and he begins, every sensation amplified and blurred at once. The protests on your lips turn into incoherent whines, then into moans that you can’t hold back.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans, picking up the pace. “Such a fuckin’ mess. Look at you. Couldn’t even hold it together for one night without calling me. Couldn’t keep yourself from spreading your legs for the guy who ‘ruined your life.’”

You want to tell him to shut up. You want to scratch his eyes out. But your arms are heavy, your mind is cotton, and the only thing you can focus on is the building pressure between your legs, the way he’s fucking you stupid.

“I’m close,” he mutters, voice strained. “God, you feel—tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to fill you up.”

You shake your head. “No, no no no— don’t—don’t come inside—” you protested, quick and breathy.

“Mm.. m’sorry, sweetheart.. I have too..” He murmured, his thrusts harder, faster, chasing his release. “You called me, remember? You wanted my help. This is how I help.”

He slams into you one last time, burying himself deep as he comes, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. You feel the heat flood you, spreading inside, and a shudder wracks your body. Your own orgasm surprises you, ripping through your haze, making your back arch and your cunt clench around him.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then he pulls out, panting, and collapses beside you. His hand finds your waist, pulling you against him.

You don’t have the strength to push him away. Your eyes are already fluttering closed, the alcohol and the release dragging you under.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair, the words hollow, performative. “But you needed that. You know you did.”

You don’t answer. You’re already gone.

He presses a kiss to your temple and holds you tighter, a smile curving against your skin. Tomorrow you’ll hate him. Tomorrow you’ll call him a monster. But tonight, you’re here. Warm. Soft. His.

a/n : sorr if this is out of character… dividers by @/cursed-carmine ! ^^

[soraanniks]

I did not expect this to do so well I thought it was ahh

[soraanniks]

— “Wide, spread so wide.” / Benjamin Poindexter x f!reader ..

ᯓ‎ ♪ Bend your mind — Elysian dreams .

Summary : You’re an ex-vigilante, now a professor, however you also happen to be the ex-lover of one, Benjamin poindexter. Who can’t seem to let you go. So when you call him one night, unstable, drunk off your ass, who is he to deny you?

Disclaimer / cw : Dub-con , mentions stalking , loss of medication , unprotected p in v , titty sucking use of alcohol , dex is a little pathetic, he’s also a little mean tho, manic episode .. (lmk if I missed any)

People seemed to think that the fact you now lived an ordinary life meant suffering stopped affecting you. They looked at the healed scars, the doctorate, the carefully controlled posture, and assumed resilience was permanent. Like surviving one impossible thing somehow made every other hardship easier, more.. inconsequential.

It didn't.

Some weeks the past came back so vividly it felt lodged beneath your skin. Sleep became impossible because every dream dissolved into fragments the past. Some mornings you woke with your jaw aching from grinding your teeth through the night.

Other mornings you woke unable to breathe. This week had been particularly bad.

So you did what you always did when things became unbearable, in your mind, the responsible thing to do. You disappeared.

You ignored calls. Turned your phone onto silent. Emailed the university claiming health complications and took a week off from teaching. Your students would survive without a few lectures. The world would continue spinning. Biochemistry was of little concern to you right now.

Your apartment looked like a nightmare, like hell itself had unleashed into the inner walls of your shitty studio apartment you only when to in times like these.

The place looked less lived in rather than survived in. A mattress occupied one corner without a proper frame. Books covered nearly every available surface, stacked in uneven towers and scattered across the floor. Research papers were strewn across your desk from when you tried to distract yourself, they were in-between coffee mugs, empty energy drink cans, and machine parts you'd promised yourself you'd repair eventually.

It was dirty, neglected. You would’ve hated that. Your life needed order, it kept you sane. Organization and routine kept you in tact.

But you’d slipped into old habits before you even realized it. Too much caffeine. Not enough sleep. Hyper-fixating on projects for days at a time before crashing. Forgetting meals. Spending money impulsively. Letting your thoughts race faster than your body could keep up. Your therapist, well, most people, would have called it a manic episode.

Unfortunately, someone else noticed. Benjamin Poindexter, Dex, as you had once more affectionately known him. That left a bitter taste in your mouth now.

Despite that, you remembered how he’d been exceptionally good at showing up where he wasn't wanted.

Ex-boyfriend didn't quite describe what he was anymore. Neither did stalker. Though that one came closer.

You hadn't spoken properly in months. Maybe longer. But somehow he always seemed to know things he shouldn't. New phone numbers. New addresses. New routines. Occasionally you'd spot him across a street or catch the feeling of being watched for just a second too long.

Nothing concrete enough to report. Nothing harmless enough to ignore. And right now?

You were vulnerable.

To Dex, that translated into opportunity, the opportunity to watch you from outside your hidden studio apartment for weeks on end, searching for an opening. He’d watch lights stay on until four in the morning. Watch delivery drivers come and go because you couldn't be bothered to grocery shop. Watching you stumble home exhausted.

Watching you fall apart.

The worst part was that he genuinely believed he cared. Dex didn't see himself as dangerous. He never had, well, not to you at least. In his mind, he was the only person who understood you.

Yet when you called him he was surprised. Not because he didn't recognize the number. That would have been impossible. But he knew that number was someone who wanted nothing to do with him. Someone who wanted him so buried in their past, they refused to even read or watch the news when it involves him.

Months of silence hadn't changed that. Neither had the blocked messages, the unanswered emails, or the increasingly creative ways you'd found to tell him to stay out of your life. Dex remembered everything about you. Your phone number. Your coffee order. The routes you took to work. Your lesson plans. The names of your students. (Especially the ones who lingered too long during office hours) The dates you hated. The dates you forgot. Some people would have called it obsessive. Benjamin preferred attentive.

Now you were calling him. His fingers shook as he reached for the phone, you answered. Voice drunk, slurred, most defiantly off your meds. Meds he got rid of himself.

His pulse quickened before he could stop it. For a moment he simply stared at the phone like it would magically answer itself. Then he picked up.

"Hello?" He spoke, his voice was rough, raspy. Clear that he hadn’t spoken in quite some time.

Silence greeted him, a long silence. The kind that made most people check whether the call had disconnected.

Dex didn't. He listened to the sound oof breathing on the other end, uneven, shallow, then finally—

"...Dex?"

His entire body went still. It had been months since he'd heard your voice. Your sweet, lovely voice, that was practically like a hymn of heaven itself to him. Like an angel came down and personally spoke into his ear.

But now he could actually hear it, not through old recordings. Not through memories. Not through record lectures he'd stumbled across and watched far longer than he should have.

Actually heard it. His grip tightened around the phone. You sounded drunk. Not tipsy, not a pleasant buzz from wine after a long day… actually, stupidly drunk out of your mind.

The words dragged together slightly, thoughts colliding into one another before they could properly form. Beneath that was something else he recognized immediately. Something that made his stomach sink, but in that oddly pleasant way when something finally good happened in your life and you didn’t know how to handle it.

You sounded unmedicated. Good for him, horrible for you.

He knew how your voice changed when your thoughts started moving too quickly. Knew the way your sentences became longer, less organized. Knew how you struggled to stay on one train of thought before another crashed into it.

He'd spent years learning those differences. Most intentionally, some accidentally. Some because he simply couldn't stop paying attention.

He spoke your name into the phone, to that a small laugh escaped you. The sound of it wasn’t even happy, not even silently amused. It was completely, utterly exhausted. You were doing bad, you were doing bad without him. That somehow convinced him that he was part of the reason your life was going to hell. Convinced him that you needed him, that he would fix whatever was wrong despite being a main cause.

"I hate you." You spoke into the phone, quick, slurred from the alcohol invading your system.

Dex closed his eyes, strangely enough, hearing that made him relax. There you were.

Familiar. Predictable. You only sounded like that when you were emotional enough to call him in the first place. Which wasn’t often.

"Yeah, do you?" he replied, egged on, almost. Wanting, needing you to say more so he could stay in this blissful moment longer.

"You ruined my life." The accusation arrived immediately.

Dex leaned back against the wall behind him, one hand dragging across his face as if he were trying to hide a smile from someone who wasn’t there.

"I didn't ruin your life." He muttered into the phone.

"You absolutely did." You cut him off slightly as you spoke, even when drunk, still sharp as ever.

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched. For several seconds neither of you spoke, but the line remained open.

Then he heard glass clink softly somewhere on your end. A sound that was practically music to his ears. More alcohol made you more vulnerable, more pliable for him to shape and take as he pleased.

"How much have you had to drink?" He asked despite himself.

“Mmn.” You answered in response. You didnt even want to give him the satisfaction of answering that. Deep down, deep inside your drunken mind, you knew he was basically getting off on this. Yet despite that, you couldn’t bring yourself to hang up. He spoke your name again as he could hear you downing another glass, Dex sighed as he didn’t get a response.

After a few beats, maybe another glass, your voice returned. It sounded quieter, but frustrated. "My head won't shut up." You groaned.

Dex could fix that. He could fix that really easily. Yet instead of marching over into your apartment, he spoke again into the phone. "What do you mean?" He asked, soft, almost charming if not for the ill-intent behind it.

“What the hell do you think it means, Dex? It’s loud. My head is loud, louder than usual. God—”

You went on for a while after that, words spilling out faster than you could contain them.

Dex swallowed hard.

Not because of the outburst.

Not because of the anger.

But because of the way you said his name.

There had been venom in it, sharp and bitter, yet beneath it lurked something far worse, a hurt so deep it bled through every syllable. An old wound, torn open again and again before it ever had the chance to heal.

And Dex knew wounds like that didn’t stay clean forever. Left untreated, they festered. They infected everything around them until there was nothing left to save.

There was a realization that struck him there. You hadn't called him because you missed him. You hadn't called because you wanted anything from him. You hadn't even called because you forgave him, not even close to that.

You'd called because something was wrong.

And somehow, despite everything that had happened between you, he was still the person you thought of. There was a twinge of guilt in his chest from that. Twinge. Not a large amount.

It all led back to your medication, the meds that had mysteriously disappeared. The medication he'd convinced himself you didn't need anymore. The medication he'd thrown away, flushed down your toilet while you were out and he broke into your actual apartment.

You hated taking it. You complained about the side effects. You seemed happier without it. That was what he'd told himself.

While he was deep into his thoughts, he didn’t realize the silence stretching out on the phone. It was too long. Long enough that he wondered if you'd passed out.

Then he heard you shift. A sharp inhale. Then you finally spoke.

"...I don't think I'm doing very good." The confession was so quiet he almost missed it. The words jumbled together and you made a small sound, a hum that sounded like one of distress. Mixed with slightly heavier breathing. “Can you come over, Dex? Come over for me?” You asked into the phone.

If you were sober, if you were medicated, you would never have said that. Not out-loud, at least. It was pathetic, almost humiliating. Especially in that tone, that pouty, almost begging tone.

But by god did it stir something in dex, stir something so deep inside him he felt it low in his stomach. Finally, finally you were giving in. All that shit he did leading up to this would be worth it again. He would be with you. There. In person. Able to touch you, feel you, comfort and hold you.

The line went dead, but Dex didn’t move. He stared at the phone in his hand, the screen dimming, your absence already a hollow ache in his chest. You sounded so broken. So raw. And you’d said his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

He glanced at the clock. It’s past midnight. He knows where you live. Of course he does.

Ten minutes later, he’s knocking on your door. Softly at first, then harder. He hears shuffling inside, a muffled curse, then the lock clicks.

You open the door and the sight of you punches the air out of his lungs. Hair a mess, eyes glassy and bloodshot, wearing an oversized T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. You’re swaying, gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing holding you upright. The dim hallway light catches the tear tracks on your cheeks.

“You actually… came,” you slur, blinking at him like you’re trying to piece together a puzzle that’s all wrong. “…Why?”

“You called me.” His voice comes out softer than he intended. Softer than he deserves. He steps forward, and you don’t step back. That’s a yes. That’s a permission he’s going to read between the lines of until it’s scripture. “You sounded like you needed someone.”

You shake your head, but your hand falls away from the frame. “I didn’t mean to call you…”

“But you did.” He’s inside now, closing the door behind him. Your apartment smells like cheap wine and something sour—the smell of a breakdown. Bottles on the coffee table. A glass tipped over on the rug, soaking into the fibers. He takes it all in, catalogues it like evidence. “Look at you, sweetheart. You’re a mess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He ignores you. He steps closer until he’s right in front of you, close enough to smell the wine on your breath, the salt of your sweat. You’re trembling. From the cold? From him? Probably both.

“Your head’s still loud,” he says, echoing your words from the phone. “I can help. Let me help.”

You scoff, despite your state, you scoff. “Help? You? You’d just make it worse. Always do…”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “But worse would feel better than this, right?”

You don’t answer. You just stare at him with that hollow, desperate look, and he knows he’s already won.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. Your skin is hot, flushed. You flinch, but you don’t pull away. That tiny surrender makes his cock stir in his jeans.

“Tell me to leave,” he says, because he’s a fucking liar and he needs to hear you not say it. “Tell me to go, and I’ll go.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Your eyes well up again. “I can’t—I can’t be alone tonight, Dex. I can’t.”

And there it is. Your permission, even if you don’t know what you’re giving it for.

He leans in and kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s hungry, possessive, tasting of cheap wine and desperation. You make a sound against his mouth, something between a protest and a moan. Your hands come up to push at his chest. Weakly. Sluggishly.

“Wait,” you gasp, turning your head away. “Wait, I didn’t—I don’t—”

“You don’t what?” He trails his lips down your jaw, your throat, feeling your pulse hammer under his tongue. “You don’t want this? Tell me you don’t want this.”

You’re panting, hands still braced against his shoulders. “I’m drunk, Dex. That’s not—that’s not fair.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, hungry, but his voice drops into something almost apologetic. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I just… you called me. You said my name like you needed me. How could I stay away?”

You shake your head, but your grip on his shoulders slackens. The fight is draining out of you, replaced by that heavy, fog of intoxication. You’re sinking, and he’s the only anchor.

“Don’t be sorry,” you murmur, not even sure what you’re saying anymore. “Just…just make it quiet. Please.”

That’s all the invitation he needs.

He guides you backward, you stumble, lean into him, your head lolling against his chest. He helps you onto the matteress, lays you down like something fragile and precious. Then he climbs over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

His hands find the hem of your T-shirt and push it up. You don’t stop him. You don’t say a word as he reveals your breasts, bare in the dim light, nipples already peaked from the cool air. He groans, low in his throat.

“God, look at you. So fucking beautiful. Even when you’re falling apart.”

He dips his head and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you gasp. A sharp, surprised sound that turns into a moan. Your back arches, and your fingers tangle in his hair without you meaning them to.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “That’s it, feel good, just feel good.”

You’re mumbling something now, half-coherent protest that he swallows with another kiss. “Don’t… ah—“

“Shh. Let me take care of you.”

He works his way down your body, kissing, biting, leaving marks he knows you’ll find tomorrow and hate him for. He doesn’t care. He’ll take your hate. He’ll take anything you give him.

When he reaches your panties, he hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls them down, slow, savoring every inch of revealed skin. You’re wet already, he can see it, a slick shine apparent on your thighs. The sight makes his mouth water.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re already so ready for me. Look at you, dripping and drunk and pretending you don’t want this.”

“Stop talking,” you slur, turning your face into the pillow. “Hurry up..”

He laughs, a soft, mean sound. “There you are. Bitchy even when you’re on the verge of blacking out. I love it.”

He doesn’t make you wait longer. He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and pushes in.

You cry out, a broken noise that’s half pain, half relief. Your body clenches around him, tight and hot and perfect. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, but his restraint is thin.

“See?” he whispers, leaning down to mouth at your ear. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels good to be filled up.”

You shake your head, but your hips roll against him, seeking more. The betrayal of your own body makes a sob catch in your throat.

“Don’t cry,” he says, but there’s a mocking edge to his tone now. “You wanted quiet. I’m giving you quiet. Just lie there and take it like a good girl.”

He starts to move. Slow at first, deep, grinding against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You’re so drunk you can barely tell where you end and he begins, every sensation amplified and blurred at once. The protests on your lips turn into incoherent whines, then into moans that you can’t hold back.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans, picking up the pace. “Such a fuckin’ mess. Look at you. Couldn’t even hold it together for one night without calling me. Couldn’t keep yourself from spreading your legs for the guy who ‘ruined your life.’”

You want to tell him to shut up. You want to scratch his eyes out. But your arms are heavy, your mind is cotton, and the only thing you can focus on is the building pressure between your legs, the way he’s fucking you stupid.

“I’m close,” he mutters, voice strained. “God, you feel—tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to fill you up.”

You shake your head. “No, no no no— don’t—don’t come inside—” you protested, quick and breathy.

“Mm.. m’sorry, sweetheart.. I have too..” He murmured, his thrusts harder, faster, chasing his release. “You called me, remember? You wanted my help. This is how I help.”

He slams into you one last time, burying himself deep as he comes, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. You feel the heat flood you, spreading inside, and a shudder wracks your body. Your own orgasm surprises you, ripping through your haze, making your back arch and your cunt clench around him.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then he pulls out, panting, and collapses beside you. His hand finds your waist, pulling you against him.

You don’t have the strength to push him away. Your eyes are already fluttering closed, the alcohol and the release dragging you under.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair, the words hollow, performative. “But you needed that. You know you did.”

You don’t answer. You’re already gone.

He presses a kiss to your temple and holds you tighter, a smile curving against your skin. Tomorrow you’ll hate him. Tomorrow you’ll call him a monster. But tonight, you’re here. Warm. Soft. His.

a/n : sorr if this is out of character… dividers by @/cursed-carmine ! ^^

[soraanniks]

— “I’m giving into you again…” Bruce Wayne x f!reader

— ♪ Out on a limb , Teena Maria

Summary: You’re a private investigator, uou haven’t spoken to Bruce Wayne in five years. But a difficult case on his end changed things.

cw : p in v, unprotected (wrap it before you tap it), making out, lmk if I forgot any ..

a/n: yeah I just finished Jessica Jones. so what.

Your office looked like the sort of place respectable people avoided.

Dimly lit, crowded, heavy with the scent of old paper, coffee gone cold, and rain carried in from Gotham’s perpetually leaking streets. Filing cabinets lined the walls like exhausted sentries, their drawers overstuffed with reports, photographs, loose notes, and secrets people paid generously to keep buried. Bookshelves bowed slightly beneath the weight of law books, forensic journals, old case records, and dog-eared detective novels you swore you did not enjoy as much as you actually did.

To anyone else, it would have appeared catastrophic.

To you, it was meticulous.

Every stack had purpose. Every loose page belonged somewhere in the labyrinth of your mind. Even the clutter resting atop the client chair—a camera, two unopened letters, a half-disassembled handgun, and yesterday’s newspaper, had been left there intentionally.

Or mostly intentionally.

A vinyl record spun lazily nearby, low jazz crackling softly through the office and melting into the steady percussion of rain against the windows. The warm amber glow of your desk lamp carved sharp shadows across the room while cigarette smoke curled slowly toward the ceiling in thin, ghostlike ribbons.

You sat behind your desk with your sleeves rolled carelessly to your elbows, one leg crossed over the other as you flipped through a case file abandoned at your office door earlier that evening. Missing persons. Young woman. Twenty-three. Last seen near the Narrows. Weeks without a trace of her, warning signs filled your head.

Your pen tapped idly against the paper as you skimmed witness statements, unimpressed.

Then—

Three knocks against the office door.

Slow, calculated, measured.

You hated how familiar it was. The fact it made your hand stopped moving instantly. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the record player humming low beneath the rain.

Five years. That’s what you thought of.

Five entire years, and somehow you still recognized the rhythm of his knock.

You leaned back in your chair slowly, gaze lifting toward the frosted glass door at the front of the office.

“Well,” you said flatly, voice carrying easily through the room, “that’s either Gothams most annoying pest or I’m being haunted.”

Silence lingered briefly from the other side.

Then came the low, unmistakable voice you had spent half a decade trying not to remember too fondly.

“…Can I come in?”

Bruce Wayne.

Or rather—

Batman. It was modulated.

Your jaw tightened before you could stop it.

God, you hated that voice.

You hated the calm restraint in it. The impossible steadiness. The way it always sounded like he was carrying the weight of the city in his throat and refusing to let anyone help him with it.

More importantly, you hated the fact that some deeply pathetic part of you still recognized it instantly.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, tossing the file onto your desk with deliberate carelessness.

“The door’s unlocked,” you replied, mentally preparing yourself for his bullshit.

A beat passed before the handle finally turned.

And there he was. Bruce filled the doorway like something pulled from Gotham itself—his tactical Batman attire dampened by rain, broad shoulders still carrying that same impossible gravity he always had. Age suited him unfairly well. It sharpened him rather than softened him.

More dangerous.

Your eyes dragged over him once before you looked away first.

A mistake. A stupid, small mistake.

Bruce stepped inside slowly, gaze sweeping across the office with quiet familiarity. Not judgmental. Never that. But observant in the way only he could be.

“You’re still listening to records,” he noted quietly.

“You’re still showing up uninvited.” You scoffed in return, cocking an eyebrow up at him.

His eyes returned to yours then. There it was.

The tension that never left.

Old and unresolved and heavy enough to choke on.

Five years ago, the two of you had detonated spectacularly. Not one singular fight, but dozens of smaller fractures finally splitting something neither of you had known how to salvage. Bruce kept secrets like breathing. You asked questions like warfare. Eventually, one of you was always going to bleed for it.

You just had not expected it to be both of you. Your pestering and constant need to be right frustrated him. His recklessness and illusiveness to your questions only made you push harder.

“You look tired,” you said coolly.

Bruce’s mouth twitched faintly. “You always say that.”

“You always are.”

Another silence settled between you, thick with everything you both never said, never will say.

Then Bruce reached slowly into his coat and placed a thin case file onto your already cluttered desk.

Not a social visit, then.

Of course not. What did you expect?

You glanced down at the folder but didn’t move to touch it.

“…You came all the way here because you need something,” you observed.

Bruce held your gaze evenly.

“Mhm.” He nodded, completely unashamed.

You laughed softly at that. Dry. Disbelieving. Already irritated.

“God,” you murmured, leaning back into your chair. “You really must be desperate.” You tilted your head, refusing to touch the file.

Bruce removed the cowl with the same deliberate composure he did everything else, peeling it back slowly until the face beneath finally emerged from the shadows.

That face.

You had grown to hate it in a very particular way over the years. Not merely because it belonged to him, but because Gotham adored it so blindly. It stared down from billboards and magazine covers with polished perfection—‘Bruce Wayne, beloved philanthropist, billionaire playboy’. The city spoke his name with admiration so unwavering it bordered on worship.

If only they knew.

If only they knew what existed beneath the expensive suits and practiced charm. The man who lied as naturally as other people breathed. The man who carried entire wars behind his teeth and called it protection. The man whose perfect mouth you had split open with your fist more than once.

And, irritatingly enough, he still looked unfairly beautiful afterward.

Now, however, he looked exhausted.

Not ordinary exhaustion, not the sort cured by sleep or a long weekend away from Gotham. No, this was something older. The kind of weariness that rooted itself into bone marrow and remained there until it became inseparable from the person themselves. Seeping into every crevice of who they are. It lingered in the faint shadows beneath his eyes, in the tension carved permanently between his brows, in the slight heaviness pulling at his posture despite all his efforts to hide it.

Bruce Wayne was tired in the way dying stars probably were.

“I wouldn’t have come to you if it wasn’t important,” Bruce said at last, exhaling quietly.

Without the modulator, his voice filled the office differently. Smooth. Deep. Familiar in ways you refused to examine too closely. Hearing it again after all this time made your hands tighten instinctively against the arms of your chair.

You masked it with irritation. Well, partially masked. Most of it was real.

Raising an unimpressed brow, you leaned back slightly. “Don’t you have an abundance of…” You paused, searching for a word charitable enough not to betray your annoyance. “Acquaintances for this sort of thing?”

You refused to say children.

Or worse—family.

Absolutely not. The fact that this man had a.. semi-functioning support system? Perish the thought.

Bruce noticed the omission anyway. Of course he did.

His gaze lingered on you for half a second too long before shifting away again. “They’re occupied.”

You laughed softly under your breath. “Right. Of course they are.”

God, they were impossible to avoid.

Everywhere you turned in Gotham, one of them appeared eventually. A blur some hideous colour combination dropping onto rooftops uninvited. Someone hacking into your files “for safety reasons.” One of them lurking around your crime scenes.

Bruce’s strange little bat-cult irritated you almost as profoundly as he did. They meddled constantly.

Interfered with investigations. Tampered with evidence. Asked invasive questions while pretending they were subtle about it.

To their credit, they had never seriously harmed you.

To your credit, you had absolutely no issue harming them.

Not fatally, obviously.

But you distinctly remembered breaking one’s nose after he attempted to handcuff you during an investigation three years ago.

In your defense, the boy had started it.

“…The red one still hates me, by the way,” you remarked casually.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose immediately.

“You stabbed him.”

“He was being condescending.” You scoffed. Waving your hand in dismissal.

“You stabbed him with your letter opener.”

“Tell him to respect his elders.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, as though physically restraining himself from responding.

You smiled faintly into your cigarette smoke. God, you had missed irritating him.

Which was pathetic. The realization soured almost immediately in your chest.

Because despite everything, despite the anger still curling between your ribs every time you looked at him, despite the years apart, despite every ugly thing left unresolved.. Bruce still carried that same terrible gravity about him. The sort that pulled people inward whether they wanted it to or not.

You hated that it still worked on you.

Bruce stepped further into the office at last, rainwater still clinging darkly to the shoulders of his coat. His gaze drifted briefly across the room before settling back onto you with unnerving steadiness.

“You haven’t changed much,” he observed quietly.

“Neither have you,” you replied. “Still breaking into places dramatically. Still pretending you know best.”

Something flickered across his face then. Brief enough most people would have missed it.

Regret, perhaps. Or exhaustion. With Bruce, the two often looked identical.

“You stopped answering my calls,” he said eventually. “Didn’t want to resolve things?”

The room went still.

Then there it was. Not the case. Not Batman.

The pain beneath it all.

Your expression cooled immediately. “You survived, didn’t you?” You shrugged.

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“No,” you said softly, voice sharpening like a blade dragged slowly across silk, “it wasn’t.”

Silence swallowed the office whole after that.

The vinyl crackled softly somewhere behind you while rain battered against the windows hard enough to sound almost violent.

Bruce looked at you the way people looked at old scars, carefully. Like he remembered exactly how they were made.

You drew in a long, measured breath through your nose, the sort that carried the weight of deep reluctance. It left you slowly a second later as you straightened in your chair, one hand dragging back through your hair before falling heavily against the desk again.

“…What’s the case?” you asked at last.

Bruce said nothing immediately. Dramatic bastard.

You reached forward before he could begin one of his agonizing explanations, pulling the thin file toward yourself and flipping it open with visible impatience.

Your irritation faded almost instantly into concentration.

The victim was a twenty-six-year-old investigative journalist named Yvaine Mercier. Missing for eight days. Last seen leaving her apartment in the Financial District shortly after midnight. No signs of forced entry. No ransom. No body.

Ordinarily, Gotham swallowed people whole every day.

But this woman had been working on something before she disappeared.

You scanned further down the report.

Wayne Biotech.

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

“Cute,” you murmured dryly. “Nothing says healthy work environment quite like a missing reporter connected to one of your companies.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened faintly. “It isn’t one of my companies anymore.”

“Mm. Right. One of your companies with a different logo now. Massive distinction.”

“She was investigating illegal human testing.”

That made you pause.

You flipped through several attached photographs—financial transfers, employee disappearances, medical records partially blacked out. Then finally—

A symbol.

Small, but repeated throughout the file.

Your expression shifted immediately.

Bruce noticed.

“You recognize it,” he said quietly.

You leaned back slowly in your chair, cigarette lowering from your mouth.

“…I wish I didn’t.”

The symbol belonged to a Gotham trafficking ring dismantled nearly seven years ago. Experimental drugs. Human testing. Disappearances buried beneath corporate funding and political silence.

You had worked that case.

So had Bruce.

It was also the case that ruined whatever existed between you.

How fitting.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered softly. Running a hand over your face.

The office fell quiet after that.

Rain battered steadily against the windows while the record player spun low jazz into the room, the warm crackle of vinyl softening the silence between you into something almost dangerous.

You kept reading.

Bruce kept watching you. That irritated you most of all.

“You could stop staring holes through my skull,” you said eventually without looking up.

“You still read too fast when you’re annoyed.”

“And you still sound insufferably observant.”

A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face.

Gone almost instantly.

—

Hours passed without either of you noticing.

The city outside darkened fully into night while files accumulated across your desk in uneven piles. Coffee turned cold. Cigarettes burned down into crowded ashtrays. At some point you removed your coat and draped it silently across the back of the client chair buried beneath your clutter.

The office grew warmer the later it became.

Smaller, somehow.

You sat beside each other eventually—not intentionally, merely out of necessity while comparing reports and photographs beneath the weak amber desk lamp. Bruce’s shoulder brushed yours once accidentally.

Neither of you moved away afterward.

“You missed this,” He said quietly at some point.

You glanced over. “Missed what?”

“This.” A vague gesture toward the desk. The files. The tension threaded through the room like wire. “Working with me.”

Silence lingered.

Then:

“You make things move faster.” You hummed.

The honesty startled you more than it should have.

You looked down too quickly afterward, pretending sudden interest in a witness statement. That was a mistake, because Bruce leaned closer at that exact moment.

Close enough now that you could feel warmth radiating from him. Close enough to catch the faint scent of rainwater, leather, and smoke still clinging to him after patrol.

Your pulse betrayed you immediately.

Bruce noticed.

Of course he noticed. When does he not?

“You’re nervous,” he murmured.

You scoffed softly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” He had to hold back a smug smile. You could hear it in his voice, it lowered slightly.

God.

That voice.

You finally turned your head fully toward him then—and immediately regretted it. Too close. Far too close.

The years between you suddenly felt dangerously thin.

Bruce’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning upward, restrained enough that most people would have missed it entirely.

You didn’t.

The room felt unbearably quiet.

“You’re still a terrible idea,” you said softly.

Something in Bruce’s expression shifted at that. Tired. Wanting. Almost pained.

“You think I don’t know that?”

The tension snapped taut between you both after that.

Not anger anymore.

Something infinitely worse.

Your hand moved before your better judgment could stop it, fingers brushing briefly against his wrist where it rested beside the file. The contact was light—barely there—but Bruce went perfectly still beneath it.

Like a man standing too close to fire.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved away.

And for one terrible moment, with Gotham roaring outside and the office dim around you, it felt painfully possible to ruin yourselves with each other all over again.

Bruce moved first.

Not abruptly, not recklessly, Bruce Wayne had never done anything without intention, but with the sort of careful inevitability that made it impossible to look away. His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing against your jaw with startling gentleness, as though he expected you to pull away at any second.

he definitely expected you to hit him.

It would not have been unprecedented.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” you murmured, though your voice lacked any real conviction.

Bruce’s thumb paused lightly beneath your chin. “And how am I looking at you?”

You laughed softly under your breath, strained around the edges. “Like you miss me.”

Something flickered across his face then—brief and unguarded enough to hurt.

“I do,” he admitted quietly.

The honesty settled heavily between you.

You had spent five years trying to bury whatever still existed between you beneath anger, pride, resentment, anything sharp enough to make it easier to carry. Yet here Bruce was, sitting close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, looking at you like he remembered every version of you all at once.

And worse—

You remembered him too.

Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself.

Bruce noticed. Of course he noticed.

The tension in the room shifted instantly, tightening low and dangerous like a wire pulled too taut. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere over Gotham, rain continuing to lash against the windows hard enough to blur the city lights beyond them.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

When Bruce kissed you, it was restrained for all of three seconds.

Soft at first. Careful. Almost hesitant in a way that felt deeply unfair coming from him. His hand slid fully against your jaw as though grounding himself there, the familiar weight of it sending something aching through your chest.

Then you kissed him back.

And suddenly five years of unresolved anger collapsed inward all at once.

The restraint vanished quickly after that.

Your hand caught against the front of his suit, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened into something bruising with old want and worse history. Bruce exhaled sharply against your mouth, the sound low and rough enough to make heat coil embarrassingly fast beneath your ribs.

God.

You hated how familiar this felt.

Bruce leaned into you instinctively, one hand bracing against the edge of the desk while the other remained at your face, fingers slipping briefly into your hair. The files scattered beneath your elbow as you shifted closer without thinking, papers sliding carelessly onto the floor.

Neither of you cared.

The record player crackled softly somewhere behind you, jazz still humming low beneath the storm outside while the office seemed to shrink impossibly smaller around the two of you.

You pulled back first. Just to catch your breath.

Bruce’s forehead rested briefly against yours, both of you quieter now, though the tension between you had only sharpened into something infinitely more dangerous.

“We shouldn’t,” you said softly, slightly breathless despite yourself, “bad idea..”

Bruce’s eyes remained fixed on you. He let out a small huff of something — amusement? Finally letting his guard down? Hard to tell.

The rain hadn’t let up. It hammered against the windowpanes in sheets, mingling with the crackle of the vinyl still spinning—low horns and a lazy bassline. The jazz melted into the dark, threaded through the smoke that still hung in ribbons near the ceiling.

Bruce’s mouth found yours again, harder this time. Less tentative. The kind of kiss that stripped away the five years of silence and left nothing but raw nerve beneath. His hand slid from your jaw down your throat, past your collarbone, fingers dragging against the fabric of your shirt until he reached the first button.

You didn’t wait.

Your hands went to his belt before you could talk yourself out of it, working the buckle with practiced, impatient movements. The leather slid through the loops, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.

Bruce exhaled a low sound—half groan, half warning—against your mouth. “This isn’t—”

“Shut up, Bruce.” Your voice came out rougher than you intended. “Just shut up.”

He did.

And then his hands were beneath your thighs, lifting you, setting you back on the edge of the desk. Papers scattered beneath your weight—witness statements, case files, the report you’d been pretending to read. The lamp wobbled, casting wild shadows across the room as his body pressed between your knees.

Your fingers found the waistband of his suit pants, shoving them down over his hips. The black tactical fabric pooled around his thighs. Beneath it, he was already hard—the heavy shape of his cock pressing against the thin cotton of his boxer briefs.

You hooked your thumb into the waistband and pulled them down.

He sprang free, thick and flushed, the head slick against the dim amber light. You didn’t look away. Neither did he.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice sandpaper rough.

You answered by reaching down and wrapping your hand around the base, stroking once, slow. Bruce’s jaw tightened. His breath hitched.

“Does that answer your question?”

He didn’t need another.

His hands found the hem of your slacks, having the fabric up slide down to your feet as you kicked it off. His fingers pressed against the damp heat between your legs through your underwear. A single thumb dragged over your clit through the fabric, and you bit down on the sound that wanted to escape.

“Christ,” he breathed. “You’re already soaked.”

“Five years is a long time,” you said, voice tight. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

Bruce pulled your underwear aside. The cool air hit your wet cunt for a moment before he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, just barely pushing in before stopping.

Your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Bruce.”

He pushed.

The stretch was immediate, deep, almost punishing—filling you in a way that made your thighs tremble and your spine arch. He buried himself to the hilt in one slow, deliberate thrust, and the sound that left your throat was raw, unguarded.

Bruce held still for a second, forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged. “Fuck. I forgot how good you feel.”

“Don’t. Stop.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. “Move.”

“Bossy.” He muttered.

His hips pulled back and slammed forward, the desk shuddering beneath you. A coffee cup tipped and rolled, spilling cold dregs across a stack of file folders. Neither of you gave a shit. The lamp flickered once before steadying, casting the rhythm of his body against yours in sharp, unsteady light.

He fucked you hard—deep, driving thrusts that knocked the air from your lungs and pushed your head back against the scattered papers. One of his hands found your hip, gripping tight enough to bruise, while the other pressed flat against the desk beside your head, knuckles white.

You matched his pace, rolling your hips into every stroke, taking him deeper. The wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, drowning out the jazz, the rain, everything but the heat and the friction and the ache.

“Look at me.” His voice was a command roughened by need.

You did.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, jaw set. He looked like he was holding onto control by a thread.

You almost came right there.

He angled his hips and drove into you again, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. Your mouth fell open, and the sound that came out was broken, desperate.

“That’s it.” Bruce’s voice dropped lower. “Give it to me.”

His thumb found your clit, pressing hard, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation pushed you over the edge—your climax crashed through you like a wave, your body clenching around him, pulling him deeper, your cry swallowed by the rain and the static of the record.

Bruce cursed under his breath. He drove into you once, twice more, then buried himself deep and came, hot and thick, spilling inside you. His hips stuttered against yours, his breath ragged and uneven against your neck.

Neither of you moved for a long moment.

The rain kept falling. The record clicked softly as it reached the end of its side.

Bruce pulled back slowly, his softening cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. A slick thread of his cum trailed down your thigh as you sat up, your body aching and satisfied.

He looked at you. At the mess of papers, the knocked-over mug, the sheen of sweat on your skin as you caught your breath, and he his.

The stillness after the first round hung thick between them, the only sounds the rain hammering the grimy window and the soft crackle of the vinyl winding down. You could feel his heartbeat hammering against your sternum, still fast, still furious. And his cock, still half-hard, still slick with the mess of their shared orgasm, was twitching against your thigh.

You didn't get a chance to catch your breath.

[soraanniks]

— ❤︎ Cream coloured couch | Jason Todd x F!Reader .ᐟ

♪ — Le Voyage De Pènènlope - air

Summary — > You’re a constantly tired, third year medical student. Sadly, your roommate doesn’t make your life any easier. This only amplifies when you come home and he’s bleeding on your nice vintage couch, and you put that almost medical degree to work.

cw — Mentions of blood and injury, no explicit sexual content. Fem!reader, reader is in med school.

a/n — > Might be a little ooc.. haven’t read any Jason in awhile sorr .. ! super rushed as well ..

Your head ached in that dull, relentless way that only came after fourteen hours beneath fluorescent hospital lights. You were dead on your feet, your attending in the ER seemingly determined to make your clinical years of medical school a living nightmare. You didn’t even want to go into emergency medicine—this week alone had cemented that fact in a way that was honestly sad. Three more weeks, you reminded yourself as you climbed the stairs to your apartment. Then surgery. Something cleaner. More precise. Less chaotic. The entire reason you doing med school.

You unlocked the apartment door, already expecting the familiar creak that usually announced either you or your roommate to the entire floor. As you prepared for it, it didn’t happen. Not a sound.

Your eyes narrowed slightly when you stepped inside. Jason must have fixed it. You had mentioned it weeks ago and then promptly forgotten, buried beneath exams and overnight shifts. That sounded like him, quietly taking care of things without bothering to mention it afterward.

Jason Todd was, strangely enough, an easy person to live with.

Quiet. Self-contained. Never invasive.

And thankfully, so were you.

The two of you co-existed beside one another more than together, bonded mostly through shared space and occasional conversations about books or cars. Sometimes you’d find leftovers waiting in the fridge after brutal shifts, portions set aside with no note attached because he understood unpredictable hours better than most. You weren’t friends, but you were friendly. That seemed to be enough for the both of you.

You knew little about him besides what you’ve observed, and what he’s said. He liked classic literature, drank coffee black, slept irregularly, and disappeared at odd hours. You also knew, entirely by accident, that he was the Red Hood. That discovery had come one night when he stumbled through the apartment door in full tactical gear and that signature red domino mask while you were cramming for an exam. He stumbled over words, tried to explain himself. Sure, you were freaked out at first.. but you got used to it.

You kicked off your shoes by the door, pulling your headphones from over your ears to rest around your neck. Exhaustion weighed heavily on your shoulders as you looked up—

Blood.

A horrifying amount of blood soaked into your cream-coloured couch. The blood itself did not alarm you nearly as much as the fact that it was your nice, vintage couch. The one you had specifically bought because it made the apartment feel less depressing and more homey.

And currently, all one hundred and ninety pounds of Jason Todd was sat up, hunched over on it, trying and failing to patch himself up one-handed. His dominant arm appeared occupied with keeping pressure against his side while his other hand awkwardly fumbled through the medkit beside him.

“Didn’t get my text?” Jason rasped out. Voice much more rougher than usual. You glanced toward your bag, realizing your phone had died somewhere during hour nine of your shift.

“…No,” you muttered. Your eyes flicked from the blood on the couch to the mess beside him. Gauze wrappers torn open. Alcohol wipes scattered everywhere. Tactical and vigilante gear scattered across your apartment floor.

You clicked your tongue softly. Right. This was happening. Awesome. Cool. Put that almost-medical degree to work.

“Move your hand,” you said, already tying your hair back into a quick, severe ponytail.

You didn’t bother asking ‘what happened.’ You, honestly, didn’t care. Even if you did, Jason would never answer properly. The arrangement worked specifically because neither of you pried.

To your surprise, he obeyed immediately.

The second he lifted his hand away from his side, blood welled sluggishly from the wound again and Jason hissed through his teeth, shoulders tightening.

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath. Not even wanting to imagine what got him here in the first place.

“Not that bad,” he said automatically. Trying to down play his situation. You had a feeling he did that a lot. “You should see the other guy.” He added on.

“It’s actively bleeding onto my couch.” You paused. “..And I’m good on that.” A blunt response to his attempt at humour.

“…Fair enough.” He was seemingly struggling to keep conscious.

You crouched beside him, pushing the ruined medkit closer with your knee. The supplies inside looked like he’d attacked them blindly. Gauze half-unrolled, tape stuck to itself, antiseptic nearly tipped over.

“You’d think after this many injuries you’d get better at first aid,” you muttered, a dry joke and jab at his many scars and old stitches. Most notably an autopsy one across his chest.

Jason gave a weak shrug. “I’m not usually the one needing first aid.”

You ignored him.

The wound itself sat low along his abdomen, ugly but manageable. Not arterial. Thank god for small mercies. The bleeding was steady though, and from the look of the torn suit and bruising already forming around it, he’d probably been fighting for longer than he should have before coming home.

“You clean it at all?” You asked, glancing up at him.

“Tried.” He groaned.

“That explains why it looks infected already.” You critiqued.

He just rolled his eyes and stayed quiet after that one. Thank god.

You pulled on gloves anyway, peeling back the torn material carefully enough not to aggravate the injury further. Jason went rigid beneath your hands at the pressure, jaw clenching hard enough to visibly tick.

“Relax,” you murmured absentmindedly.

“Easy for you to say.” He shot back.

You soaked gauze with saline first, cleaning away enough blood to properly inspect the wound. Your movements were efficient despite the exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Precise muscle memory built from too many hours in hospitals and simulation labs.

Flush the wound. Check depth. Watch for continued bleeding. The instructions replayed in your head.

Jason watched you quietly the entire time. Not tense exactly. Just… attentive.

“Yknow,” he started. “Most people would be freaking out right about now.”

You pressed fresh gauze against his side a little harder than necessary.

“Most people don’t repeatedly bleed on seven-hundred-dollar furniture, either.” You muttered, butthurt about your couch.

“Christ, I’ll get you a new— fuck,” Jason groaned, his hand clenching hard against the arm of the couch as you dragged antiseptic over the wound.

“That’s what happens when you get stabbed,” you replied flatly, not even glancing up from your work. Pausing before you spoke. “Repeatedly.” You bit back a grin.

Jason shot you a look somewhere between offended and exhausted, his head falling back against the couch cushion with a dull thud. “You always such a joy with patients, or am I just special?”

“With patients? No.” You pressed the gauze down again, watching him tense immediately. “With idiots who try stitching themselves together one-handed on expensive furniture? Absolutely.”

A rough laugh escaped him despite himself, though it quickly dissolved into a hiss when you cleaned deeper into the cut. The wound wasn’t catastrophic, but it was nasty enough to need proper stitches eventually. For now, stopping the bleeding and keeping it clean would do.

“You’re lucky,” you muttered, peeling off your bloodied gloves. “Another inch and you’d be in actual trouble.”

“Feels like actual trouble.”

“That’s because you apparently have the pain tolerance of a concussed raccoon.” You scoffed.

Jason stared at you for a long moment after that. “You say the sweetest things to me.”

You ignored him, already reaching for fresh gauze and tape. Your movements had slowed slightly now that the urgency and adrenaline had passed, exhaustion settling back into your bones in heavy waves. The apartment was quiet beyond the occasional rustle of medical wrappers and Jason’s uneven breathing. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed faintly before fading into the distance.

You secured the dressing carefully against his side before finally leaning back with a sigh. “There. Try not to tear it open again doing whatever the hell you people do at night.”

“You people?”

“You know.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “Vigilantes with… martyr complexes.” You shrugged, stretching out the word ‘vigilantes’, like it was a particularly dirty secret.

Jason barked out another laugh at that, lower this time, rough around the edges. It suited him more than silence did.

You stood, stretching your aching back with a grimace before surveying the disaster around the living room. Bloodied gauze littered the coffee table. The medkit looked gutted. Your poor couch might never emotionally recover. Or physically.

“Don’t move,” you warned as you disappeared briefly toward the bathroom. “I’m getting towels before you bleed somewhere else.”

“Yes, doctor.” He leaned his head back and looked up at you.

“…I’m not a doctor yet.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He stretched his arms a little while sat down. Wincing and immediately stopping.

You returned a minute later with damp towels and disinfectant spray, tossing one directly at his chest. Jason caught it lazily with his good hand, watching as you began cleaning the streaks of blood from the floor with the sort of resigned irritation usually reserved for terrible roommates and minor natural disasters.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

It was strangely domestic in the most absurd way possible—you cleaning blood off hardwood floors at nearly two in the morning while Jason sat shirtless on the couch trying not to reopen his stitches.

When you finally glanced up, you noticed he’d gone quiet.

Not his usual quiet, either. Focused quiet. His eyes were fixed on you in a way that made something in your chest tighten.

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Jason blinked once, as though you’d interrupted a thought.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something annoying.”

A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth then, crooked and tired and unfairly attractive despite the blood loss.

“Can’t a guy admire a nice view?” he said, voice rough with exhaustion.

You rolled your eyes immediately, looking back down at the towel in your hands. “You’re concussed.”

“Mhm.” He hummed.

“And bleeding.”

“Only a bit now, thanks to you.” Jason’s grin widened faintly. There was genuine appreciation in his words.

You stared at him for exactly two seconds before tossing the bloody towel directly at his face.

“Go to sleep, Jason.” You sighed. He did a mock salute.

Tomorrow was about to be exhausting.

[soraanniks]

Express yourself, don’t repress yourself.

summary — how they eat you out !

Ft: Roy Harper, Wally West & Mr Terrific !

cw: AFAB! Reader , mentions of toy use, overstim, fingering..

a/n: first post not very good… I don’t really write smut soooo lmk ^^

ROY HARPER

Roy Harper, he is NASTY, his need for you is basically an unquenchable thirst for the sweetness of your cunt, eating you out with a certain type of fervour that knows neither time nor decorum. He is a connoisseur of need, his tongue a devotee to the wet of your cunt or even the curve of your ass, not a picky man by any means. Honestly it’s a little concerning how much he enjoys going down on you.

He likes having you on top, riding his face, your hips swaying back and foruth, grinding upon his eager mouth as if it were your throne. His fingers, always strong and unyielding, clasp your thighs, parting them like the leaves of some forbidden tome, he’s under any skirt you have, any table. When he’s under you, of course his own arousal stirs, half hard cock grinding down on the mattress, a testament to his own exquisite torment as he goes down. He always starts with languid, teasing strokes, his tongue traces long, deliberate paths along your folds, only to yield to impatience's sharp spur—plunging deeper, a single digit invading your warmth to speed up your orgasm. And you can bet that he love a squirter, lapping at the flood with the desperation of a man parched in the desert, as if your release was the cure to some uncurable illness.

And the audacity he has wity his words! He talks to your pussy as one might with a muse—'She's fuckin’ dripping for me, isn't she, sweetheart?' he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. 'There, that's my good girl, come for me..’

WALLY WEST

Wally west ever the overstimulator, even as your going through your second climax, one which causes your whole body to shake and shudder, through you, he lifts his gaze, those wide, adoring eyes drunk on the sight and taste of your pussy, and dives once more into you, undeterred by your quivering body. When you, no doubt, come again, he persists, his tongue delving ever deeper into your core, a hand splayed upon your abdomen to anchor you as your back arches impossibly. He loves the hold your fingers have in his hair, the instinctive grind of your hips seeking more, drawing him somehow closer.

His thumb, basically a vibrator, is honestly glued to your clit. He always has one or two fingers curling within you, He adores the look on your face—eyes glazed, lips parted in silent pleas. His favourite position? Your legs draped over his shoulders, pulling him into an intimacy that defies reason, your words dissolving incoherent babbles, your body betrays you completely. Such desperation, such raw need, ignites something primal within him.

MICHEAL HOLT

In the world of Michael Holt's meticulous existence, control and precision are things he thrives on. They both extend to the most intimate subject parts of his life. Unlike his counterparts, who might succumb to the abandon of impulse, Micheal approaches the act of eating you out with a type of calculated grace. Each flick and delve a deliberate tick in the science of all this. He wastes no time, he sees no need to, he plunges into the silken folds of your cunt, savouring every drop of you.

Yet, at times he’ll indulge in the cruelty that is edging. He is basically the epitome of self-control, his own sexual desires leashed with iron discipline, even as he coaxes you, almost mocking in nature. 'You can take a little more,' he murmurs, his voice a velvet lash, laced with that insidious sweetness. 'Just hold it a little longer, baby, I know you can.' And the true kicker: 'Surely you can hold on just a little longer?’ Delivered with such nonchalance, as if your unraveling was just a particularly hard formula.

And no, despite popular belief, the sterile confines of his laboratory hold no place for such activities; Our wonderful Mr Terrific isn’t one for the stigma of publicity, preferring the shadowed intimacy of your shared home, where the world fades to nothing. There, in the veil of domestic comfort, he arranges you upon the bed like a Renaissance painting, limbs splayed in an intimatly vulnerable way, your pussy laid bare as an offering to his discerning gaze. Simplicity is his creed—his mouth upon you, unrelenting and profound—though on occasion, he likes to introduce toys, to keep things interesting, a slender vibrator humming incessantly, its vibrations syncing with his rhythmic assaults to amplify what he can get out of you, drawing forth whimpers that echo throughout the room.