virgin! choso who is so confused the first couple times he cums.
he’s not new to the porn-watching scene. in fact, it’s almost all he does. he downloaded twitter for a reason and he has two accounts for whenever he’s out in public.
when he met you in his computer science class, he couldn’t help but realize you looked like his favorite creator on twitter. he swallowed all the courage he had and asked you out, and you said yes with a big grin on your face.
once you took him home for the first time, he cocked his head to the side in curiosity, again, realizing that your room was eerily similar to ‘miss. creamer’ on twitter. after an hour or so of conversing, choso couldn’t help but let his mind wander about. he wanted to plough you into your soft comforter, pull your hair and make you scream for more, but he knew he didn’t have the guts to do so yet. while in his own world, his dick grew almost four inches! you grinned as you looked down at the print in his grey sweatpants.
“something you wanna say, cho?” you giggle, crawling over his legs to seat yourself in his lap. “uhm..” he gulps, placing his hands up defensively. you shake your head and grab choso’s wrists, bringing his hands down to clasp around your hips. “just trust me.” you smile, bringing one of your manicured hands up to card through his jet black hair. choso looks up a you through his rectangular frame glasses and he sighs out, kneading the soft flesh you proposed to him. you lean into him, pressing slow and sultry kisses to his pink lips. he follows suit and brings a hand up to the nape of your neck, as if it was muscle memory. you bring a hand down to peel off choso’s sweatpants and boxers in one swift motion, choso bucking up into you involuntarily.
“i-..” he moans out. you take choso’s, almost painfully, hard dick and slowly sink on top of him, keeping a steady manicured hand on his pecs. “oh-oh my god..” he pants out, his head lolling back in ecstasy. once you sink all the way down onto his pretty, pretty cock, you adjust yourself a bit and slowly start to bounce up and down, small moans escaping past your lips. “you..you’re so beautiful.” choso rasps out. you smile and lean to press tender kisses to his pink, pouty lips. he knows he won’t last long, he can feel the coil in his tummy that’s about to snap, and he doesn’t know how to handle it.
“i-i feel so weird..” he moans, grabbing onto your hips with one hand and bringing another one up to grope one of your breasts. “talk to me..” you coax him with that beautiful, almost siren like, voice of yours. “am i gonna cum? what-what do i do?” he moans out, tears brimming his eyes. he doesn’t wanna hurt you! will his curse like nature compromise your experience? “you are, baby..just let it happen, okay?” you try and calm him down, but your pussy is gripping him like a vice, and he can’t help but wonder if this is what heaven is like. “help..help..” he meeks out tiny moans, the tears finally falling from his eyes. and, before you can get any reassuring words out, choso cums inside of you with a loud moan, bringing your body into his forcefully.
“was that it? oh my god.” he’s shaking now, his toes curling at the sensation. you giggle at his reaction, kissing along his neck.
>the next day, he checks twitter to see little miss.creamer on twitter has posted another video. and, hey, the guy she’s fucking has the same rings on as choso. weird.
You tried to defend your family the same way you always did, confusion tightening your voice.
“I don’t get what you want from me. My dad’s busy — of course I don’t see him a lot. But he provides for me. I have a place to live, food, everything I need. And my siblings? They have their own schedules. I have mine. We don’t have to be glued together to function.”
Your friends didn’t argue. They just stared. Tired and slightly annoyed, something in their expressions dimmed.
Gwen spoke first, barely above a whisper.
“Reader… that’s just the bare minimum. It’s not the same as being cared for.”
Miles nodded slowly, his jaw tightening.
“Yeah. Having your needs met isn’t the same as mattering to someone.”
You blinked at them, completely thrown by how deeply the statement hit. “…But that’s just how families are,” you murmured, defensive. “Mine, at least. We all do our own thing. That’s not strange.”
Their faces shifted again — sharper, more tense — and you still couldn’t see why. The confusion built into irritation, a tired huff forming in your chest.
Sigh. you also feel annoyed now. “This is exhausting,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “I don't know what you want me to say or feel. But, you guys do realize I’m never going to think badly about my family, right? Even after all this. Especially after how they take care of me when i sick!.”
Gwen’s voice trembled with frustration she was trying hard to hide.
“Reader! your bar is so low you don’t even see the difference anymore.”
"so what? its not matter!"
Pavitr leaned in, his brows drawn.
“When you say ‘fine’ or ‘normal,’ what do you actually mean? What does that look like in your head?”
if they couldn’t make you see it…
Then the only path left was to make you question yourself—
to make you doubt the “normal” you’d been surviving on for years.
Maybe that was the first step to learning.
Maybe that was the only way to reach someone who had been blind for so long.
Content : BatSib!Reader x ATSV
You spent the next few days drifting in and out of sleep, your body too heavy to do anything but rest. Most of your hours blurred together—blankets, dim light, and the soft hum of the manor outside your door.
Every time you woke, there was something waiting on the nightstand: medicine, water, and warm food that had only just begun to cool. Someone had been there, quietly, consistently, without asking for thanks.
Sometimes you’d surface from your fever-drowsed haze just long enough to feel the world again. A hand would adjust your blanket, or the chair beside your bed would creak softly as someone stood.
The room always felt cared for in a way you couldn’t explain, as if kindness had been left in small, practical pieces. It never felt intrusive—just steady and impossibly gentle.
Once or twice, you woke because fingers brushed through your hair, slow and careful. The touch wasn’t rushed or awkward, it was practiced, almost rhythmic, like someone soothing a child after a nightmare. But your vision never cleared enough to see the person’s face before sleep pulled you under again. All you caught was the shape of them in the low light.
You noticed their hair—dark, the kind nearly everyone in this family had. Dick, Tim, Jason, Bruce, Duke, Cass, even Damian… any one of them could’ve been standing beside your bed. You tried blinking the blur away, hoping the silhouette would sharpen into someone familiar, but the fever turned everything into shifting watercolor. Before you could form even a single guess, exhaustion pulled you under again.
In those moments between waking and dreaming, you understood only one thing: someone was there, even when you didn’t ask. Someone who stayed long enough to make sure you were okay, even when you wouldn’t have expected it. Someone whose touch didn’t demand anything from you in return. And that, more than the fever, was what left you feeling strangely unmoored.
You never saw the face. Never fully woke for the name. But every time warm fingers brushed your hair, a quiet certainty settled under your ribs. Whoever they were—they cared in a way you hadn’t known to look for. And you fell asleep each time with the same soft, confused thought.
By the fourth morning, the fever had loosened its grip enough for you to stay awake longer. The room looked different—tidier than you remembered, the blankets tucked neatly, your jacket draped over a chair you were sure you hadn’t touched. Someone had been here. More than once.
A small knot tightened in your chest, unfamiliar and fragile.
“…that’s rare,” you whispered to yourself, though the word felt too small for the ache behind it. It had been a long time since anything like this happened. Long enough that it felt foreign in a way you couldn’t name.
It was unfamiliar—like stepping into a room and realizing everything had been rearranged without warning. You pressed a hand to your blanket, grounding yourself as the thought tried to take shape.
Someone checking on you. Someone brushing your hair. Someone staying long enough to make sure you were okay.
All of it felt unfamiliary weird, almost unreal. But then again… Damian’s behavior that day had felt strange, like he was actually worried. Soft. Careful. Present. None of it matched the version of him you thought you knew.
Exhaled slowly, confused by the heaviness settling in your chest. “...Maybe I really was wrong,,” you whispered to yourself, unsure whether you meant it. Because nothing about the last few days fit into any version of normal you understood. And the strangest part was the quiet spark of hope you tried—and failed—to ignore.
_______________________________________
You finally decided to leave your room, the quiet beginning to feel too heavy around you. Your head was still foggy from the fever, a lingering dizziness making every step feel half a beat behind your thoughts. The hallway lights were gentle against your eyes, and for a moment you assumed the manor was empty—it was nearly noon, after all. Everyone had probably already left.
But when you stepped into the main hall, you heard voices.
There were footsteps—several—and Jason’s irritated tone cut sharply through the corridor. Dick, Jason, and Bruce were walking together, speaking in low, urgent murmurs that didn’t match the calm of the late morning. All three of them looked exhausted: dark circles under their eyes, jaws tight, shoulders pulled so stiffly it seemed like they’d been holding themselves that way for days.
Jason’s voice rose just enough for you to catch the tail end of something sharp.
“…last night! I’m telling you, this is exactly why—”
You had no idea what he meant, but the frustration sounded heavy, old, like it had roots stretching far behind the moment you arrived.
Then all three of them turned toward you.
The shift was instant—conversation severed mid-sentence, postures straightened, eyes locking onto you with something tense and unreadable. It wasn’t the silence of surprise. It was the silence of people getting caught talking about something they didn’t want you to hear.
“Ah—Reader!” Dick stepped forward too quickly, almost stumbling over his own words. “Y-you’re out of bed. Are you feeling better?” His smile twitched at the corners, like he wasn’t sure how to hold it. "Do you need anything? Water? Food? I can get it, just… don’t walk around yet.”
You shrugged weakly. “Just wanted to get something from the kitchen.”
“Dick,” Jason snapped, annoyed, “don’t walk away, we’re not done talking about—”
Dick’s elbow hit Jason’s ribs with practiced precision.
“Not now,” he muttered, then turned back to you with a softness that didn’t match the panic you’d glimpsed a moment earlier.
“You should still be resting, okay? Damian’s going to lose it if he sees you wandering around.”
You blinked at him, thrown off.
Damian? Lose it? Why?
“It’s fine, Dick,” you said gently. “I just want to grab something from the kitchen. I won’t be long.”
You tried to move past them, already stepping toward the hallway.
“You guys keep talking. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You tried to walk past them, but a hand closed around your shoulder—firm, steady, warm. Bruce.
Not harshly—just firm enough to stop you in your tracks. Bruce stepped closer, guiding you to turn so he could see your face properly. His hand rose without hesitation, brushing against your forehead to check your temperature, the gesture instinctive and careful in a way that felt almost parental. The warmth in his touch felt strange—gentle in a way your instincts didn’t know how to process.
Then, with a controlled, almost gentle pressure at your shoulder, he steered you back toward the stairs—toward your room.
“Reader,” he said, voice low and steady, “your fever may have dropped, but your body is still recovering. You need to rest.” His tone softened by a fraction, the kind of softness he rarely let slip.
“If you need anything, message us. Someone will bring it up.”
You stared at him, stunned.
Message us.
The words echoed strangely. You thought of the unread chats, the unanswered calls, the dozens of quiet check-ins you’d stopped sending because no one responded. Since when did they answer messages? Since when did they care if you got up?
Something in your chest tightened—not quite pain, not quite warmth—just something confusing.
You stood there for a heartbeat, thrown off by how easily he said it—how naturally he expected you to ask for help. The hallway felt too still, too warm, too unfamiliar. Sepertinya percuma kalau terus disini..
“…Alright,” you murmured. “If you insist, Father.”
You turned toward the stairs, letting yourself be guided back to your room, not because you were convinced you needed rest—but because resisting suddenly felt too complicated.
You could still feel all of their eyes follow you as you walked away. Their conversation didn’t resume. Their footsteps didn’t move. They just stayed there, watching, silent, until the hall curved and their presence slipped out of sight.
_______________________________________
You walked back to your room with slow, measured steps, the leftover fever still pulling at your balance and making the hallway feel a little too bright around the edges.
The manor’s quiet pressed in gently, the kind of familiar stillness you’d grown up with—no footsteps, no voices, just silence settling over everything like a thin sheet of dust. For a moment, you told yourself the strange tension downstairs must have been your imagination. Fever made everything feel heavier, after all.
Yet something about the way Bruce’s hand had steadied your shoulder, the way Dick’s voice cracked when he insisted you rest, the way Jason’s jaw had locked—none of it matched what you knew about your family.
You reached your room and closed the door softly behind you. The familiar space should’ve grounded you, but instead it only made the memory sharper. Bruce checking your forehead. Dick panicking. Jason cutting himself off mid-argument.
They didn’t act like that—at least, not with you. Not usually. The manor always ran on separate orbits: Bruce buried in paperwork, Dick bouncing between responsibilities, Jason disappearing into his own world.
They didn’t hover. They didn’t fuss. And they certainly didn’t pause conversations just because you walked in.
“Fever-brain,” you whispered, rubbing at your temple. “I’m overthinking.”
But the doubt stayed anyway—small, quiet, sitting somewhere behind your ribs like it belonged there.
You sat on the edge of your bed, pulling the blanket into your lap, trying to explain it all away. They were exhausted. They were arguing about something unrelated. They were surprised to see you up. Simple explanations. Logical, even.
A soft knock nudged the silence, barely loud enough to pull you from the edge of sleep. Before you could answer, the door eased open—slow, cautious, nothing like the usual heavy-footed entrance you expected.
Jason stepped inside with a tray balanced in both hands, his movements strangely careful, almost deliberate, as if he were afraid to wake you fully. Water, medicine, crackers, a small bowl of fruit—more attention than you were used to seeing from him.
You blinked at him, confused by the unfamiliar gentleness. Jason didn’t do quiet entries or soft gestures or anything that required this level of patience.
He stood there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before setting the tray on your nightstand with an unexpected precision. Something in his expression tightened, like he was wrestling with words he wasn’t used to saying.
“Hey,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Brought you stuff.” His gaze flicked away immediately, the apology forming before he seemed ready for it. “I kinda snapped earlier. Thought maybe you felt weird about it. So… yeah. Sorry.” its feel weird.. its look weird..
Jason Todd, apologizing.
To you.
It didn’t fit him at all.
You shook your head, startled by how wrong the apology sounded coming from him. “Jason, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
He exhaled lightly, relieved, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that suggested he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that the tray was no longer there. “You’re sick,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t be walking around like you’re about to pass out. If you need anything, text one of us. Someone will come.”
The words landed heavier than you expected—warm and unfamiliar, stirring something you couldn’t name. You remembered again the unread messages, the calls that never returned, the quiet spaces where your voice usually disappeared.
But Jason looked earnest, grounded, as if this time you were meant to believe him. You offered a small smile. “Okay. Thanks, Jay.”
He hesitated at the door, lingering for a breath as though deciding whether to add something more, but the thought stayed unspoken. With a stiff nod, he slipped out, the soft click of the door returning the room to its quiet stillness.
Slowly, you eased back into your pillows, letting the warmth of the blankets sink into your skin as the earlier tension began to fade.
'See?' you whispered to yourself, letting your eyes drift half-shut. 'Everything’s fine. They’re just tired.' You repeated the thought gently, convincing yourself with each breath that nothing was strange about any of this.
People think differently when they are sick. Stress did odd things. Exhaustion explained the rest.
One by one, the doubts dissolved, softened by the haze of fever and the comfort of believing life was returning to its usual rhythm.
Jason bringing you water wasn’t unusual, not really. Dick fussing wasn’t unusual. Bruce checking your forehead wasn’t unusual.
Your mind smoothed each moment into something ordinary, layering familiar explanations over cracks you refused to look at too closely.
Sleep pulled at you again, warm and heavy, and you let it take you.
The questions that lingered—small, soft, insistent—blurred into the haze.
And by the time your eyes drifted shut, you had almost convinced yourself completely:
And as sleep tugged you under, the explanation settled over you like a blanket—
comfortable, familiar, and entirely unchallenged.
Because believing things were fine
was easier
than asking yourself why they suddenly weren’t.
_______________________________________
You weren’t sure how long you slept—minutes, hours, something in between. Fever made time feel slippery, stretching and shrinking until nothing held its shape.
The room was dim when you blinked awake, afternoon light filtering weakly through the curtains. Your body felt heavy, your breath warm, but the fog in your mind had thinned just enough for you to hear it:
You heard the soft click of your bedroom door opening.
You didn’t move right away—didn’t sit up, didn’t speak—just turned your head slightly on the pillow, eyes half-opening through the haze of lingering sleep.
Damian stood in the doorway, his school bag still slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, hair slightly messy as if he had walked home faster than usual. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes yet. For a moment, he only looked at you—quiet, still—his gaze moving over your flushed cheeks, the blankets tangled around your legs, the untouched glass of water beside you.
A quiet exhale slipped from him, so soft you almost thought you imagined it.
He stepped inside. Slowly. His footsteps were measured, gentler than usual—not the confident, clipped stride he typically carried, but something hesitant, almost careful, as if even the sound of his approach might be too much for you in your state.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, blinking.
“Oh,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. “You’re back.”
Damian froze mid-step, startled by the simple acknowledgment—as if he hadn’t expected you to notice him at all.
“…Yes,” he replied, voice softer than its usual sharp edge. “Alfred informed me you were still unwell.”
“I’m feeling a bit better…” you said, though your voice wavered.
He placed his bag quietly on your desk, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the leg of the chair—something he shouldn’t realistically know, yet somehow did. It struck you as odd. Damian never adjusted himself for others. But now, he moved through your room like someone afraid of disturbing a fragile balance.
“Did you eat?” he asked, organizing your scattered medicine bottles into a neat line. “Or drink anything? Your fever was high this morning.”
You watched him straighten each label with precision.
“…You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware,” he said simply.
But he kept doing it.
The silence that followed was strange—quiet, tense, filled with an awkwardness neither of you knew how to cut through. Eventually, Damian sat at the edge of your bed.
Not too close, not too far. He sat like someone unused to soft furniture, posture stiff, hands resting rigidly on his knees, his fingers curling and uncurling as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
“You look tired,” you said softly.
Damian’s head snapped toward you, caught off guard by the observation.
“…I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t. You could see it—the faint redness under his eyes, the slight slump in his usually perfect posture, the exhaustion clinging to the edges of his expression. You wondered if school had been difficult. Or if something else—something heavier—had kept him awake.
“You didn’t have to come check on me,” you murmured.
And for a fleeting second, something in Damian’s expression cracked.
Not dramatically—just the faintest flicker of hurt, subtle enough to miss if you blinked. He masked it quickly, but the shift lingered in the air.
“I wanted to,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.
You blinked at him, unsure how to respond.
Damian looked away first.
The atmosphere shifted into something delicate and uncertain. Damian kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye, as though making sure you were still breathing, still conscious, still there.
You weren’t used to this kind of attention, and he wasn’t used to giving it, yet neither of you seemed willing to break the moment. It felt unfamiliar, fragile, like touching the air around a candle flame.
“Is it… really that bad?” you asked, brushing your warm cheek. “The fever?”
Damian turned fully this time, his gaze sharp but trembling around the edges.
“You nearly collapsed at school,” he said softly. “And you told no one. Not me. Not Father. No one.”
Your breath caught, but the confusion in your chest outweighed the embarrassment. “…I didn’t know who to tell,” you admitted quietly.
Damian lowered his eyes to his hands, his jaw tightening.
“Before I arrive at Gotham,” he asked, the words quieter than you’d ever heard from him, “who took care of you when you were sick?”
The answer slipped out before you could think.
“No one. I took care of myself. I’m used to it.”
The moment the words left your mouth, Damian’s posture stiffened as though something inside him had gone quiet all at once.
He drew a sharp breath, not loud, but deep enough to betray how deeply your answer landed. The stillness around him changed—tightened—like he was holding together a reaction you weren't meant to see. When he finally spoke, his voice was steadier than his expression, but the tremor beneath it was impossible to miss.
“If you’re sick,” he said carefully, each word deliberate, “you should call someone.”
He paused, swallowing once, his gaze fixed on the floor as if the next sentence required effort simply to exist.
“You should call me.”
The air in the room seemed to stop moving, caught on the weight of that single, fragile admission. You stared at him, stunned, unsure if you were supposed to feel relieved, confused, or unsettled by how much his voice softened around those words. Something tightened inside your chest, not painful, but unfamiliar enough to make you sit perfectly still.
You wanted to ask him 'why he cared, why he sounded like he meant it, why hearing him say call me felt like it scraped at a part of you you'd never acknowledged before.'
The questions formed and dissolved too quickly, leaving only a warm, aching confusion behind. You didn’t know if this feeling was happiness, or sadness, or simply the fever playing tricks on your heart.
Damian kept his gaze lowered, hands curled loosely against his knees, as if afraid the moment would shatter if he met your eyes. He looked prepared for rejection, prepared for you to brush it off the way you brushed off most things you didn’t know how to feel.
And for the first time, you felt something shift—soft and tremoring—like a thin crack forming in the certainty you’d built your entire life around.
You watched him, breath caught, unsure how to respond.
Damian’s ears flushed a faint pink, barely visible under his hair, and he turned his head sharply to the side, hiding the expression that had almost surfaced. His voice stayed trapped in his throat, as though he instantly regretted letting you see even a fragment of whatever he had been holding back.
He rose to stand, his movements stiff and too controlled, like he was afraid any softness might undo him. “I’ll bring you soup,” he muttered, already walking toward the door. “And water. And—whatever else you require.” The words sounded practical, but everything beneath them felt raw.
“Damian, wait—”
You didn’t even know what you meant to say until he stopped. He didn’t turn around, just stood there, shoulders squared, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. Something warm and heavy pressed against your ribs, a feeling you couldn’t name even if you tried.
“…Thank you,” you whispered, the words slipping out quieter than you intended.
His shoulders lifted with the smallest breath—barely noticeable, but enough to tell you he heard it. Enough to tell you it reached him.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said at last.
But his voice betrayed him.
It shook—just slightly, just enough for you to catch the tremor tucked beneath the edges.
And then he left your room, closing the door with a gentleness that felt almost impossible coming from him. The latch clicked softly, a sound too careful, too protective, lingering long after he was gone.
_______________________________________
You sat quietly on the bed, the room dim and still, unsure how long Damian had been gone. Fever made time stretch and fold in strange ways, turning minutes into something soft and slippery. Yet his words lingered with perfect clarity, looping in your mind with a sweetness that felt both comforting and unbearably sharp.
You tried to brush it off, to blame the warmth in your chest on the fever, but the feeling didn’t fade. It sat there—strange, heavy, and impossible to decipher—leaving you unsure whether you were relieved, confused, or something in between. You were half-asleep again when the door clicked open, quiet but certain.
Damian stepped inside carrying a tray. Not Alfred. Not Dick. Damian. His presence filled the doorway with that familiar stillness he carried everywhere, though something gentler threaded through it now, softening the edges you were used to.
He walked toward you with careful steps, the tray balanced and neat, as if he had planned every part of this moment. Soup, water, medicine—arranged with precision you weren’t sure he’d ever used for himself. You pushed yourself up slowly, blinking at him in disbelief.
“Why didn’t you ask someone else to bring that?” you murmured. “Isn’t it… heavy?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, his posture tightening in a way you almost missed. He shifted the tray slightly, not out of strain but out of hesitation, as if choosing his words mattered more than the weight he carried.
“I didn’t want anyone else to do it,” he said, voice low and steady.
The simplicity of it hit harder than anything dramatic could have. He set the tray down beside you with quiet precision, making sure nothing rattled or spilled. Even then, he didn’t step back immediately; he lingered near the edge of the bed, close enough that you could feel his warmth.
And in the small, trembling space between you, something shifted again—subtle but undeniable.
A crack in the familiar.
A warmth you didn’t know how to hold.
A feeling you weren’t sure you were meant to have.
He balanced the bowl of soup with one hand and a glass of water with the other, moving more carefully than you had ever seen him move. For someone trained to leap across rooftops, the sight of him walking slowly so the broth wouldn’t spill felt strangely… tender.
He set the tray on your nightstand, adjusting it twice until it sat perfectly straight. Then he turned to you.
“Sit up,” Damian said quietly. The words didn’t land like an order this time—they hovered somewhere softer, as if he wasn’t sure how to phrase concern without disguising it. You pushed yourself upright, muscles tightening in protest, and Damian’s hand moved toward your back before he could stop himself. It hovered there—warm, steady, almost touching—until he realized what he was doing and pulled away sharply.
“You’re still weak,” he muttered, trying to force annoyance into his voice but failing to hide the tremor underneath.
You tried a small smile. “Maybe. I thought I was fine this morning, though. I tried going to the kitchen, but Dick, Jason, and Father practically jumped like I set off an alarm. They stopped talking the second they saw me. It felt… strange.”
Damian’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp and searching, the tension in his jaw tightening. “What were they talking about?” he asked, but the question sounded less like curiosity and more like suspicion—like he was checking a wound he already expected to find.
You shrugged. “I don’t know. Work, I guess. Jason was upset about something, but he apologized later. He didn’t need to.”
Damian didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he picked up the bowl of soup, blew across the surface with more gentleness than he would ever admit to, then handed it to you carefully—both hands, palms steady, as if he were passing you something fragile. Your breath caught for a moment, not because of the soup, but because it was him.
“Eat,” he said, sitting on the edge of your bed—not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that you could feel his presence like a quiet, controlled storm. His posture remained rigid, knees together, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles paled.
You lifted the spoon slowly, still drowsy. The first swallow warmed your throat, settling heavily in your stomach. Damian watched every movement, jaw tight, shoulders tense, as if each breath you took had to be measured and verified.
“You should have told someone,” he said suddenly.
The spoon froze halfway to your mouth. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the quiet with frightening precision.
“About what?” you asked.
“That you were sick,” he replied. “That you were dizzy. That you were alone.”
You frowned, unsure why he kept circling back to this conversation. “You’re talking about it again. Calm down. I wasn’t really alone. I had Miles and Gwen, remember?”
“That’s not the same,” he snapped—sharp, immediate, almost instinctive.
You blinked at him, startled by the intensity that flared in his eyes.
Damian exhaled slowly, as if forcing himself to breathe through something he didn’t dare let slip. When he spoke again, his voice was lower—thin around the edges, frayed in a way that didn’t match the Damian you knew.
“You almost collapsed,” he said quietly. “You didn’t eat properly. You didn’t sleep properly. And you didn’t tell us.”
His hand curled on his knee. “You didn’t tell me.”
It was strange hearing him like this—honest and unguarded, the vulnerability barely hidden beneath his control. You weren’t sure how to respond, because you had never imagined Damian caring enough to sound like this.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you said softly. “I get sick sometimes. It’s normal.”
Damian’s eyes snapped to yours—sharp, startled, wounded.
“Stop saying that.”
The sentence wasn’t cold or angry. It sounded afraid, like each time you called it normal, something in him pulled a little tighter and threatened to snap.
You stilled, unsure what part of your words had set him off.
“Stop calling it normal,” he repeated, this time quieter, like the word itself tasted bitter to him. His gaze didn’t leave your face, and the rawness in it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t understand.
You looked down at the bowl, trying to find something steady to anchor yourself. “I just mean… it happens. People get sick. I can handle it.”
Damian shook his head once—small, disbelieving, almost pained. “Not like this. Not until you can’t stand. Not until you nearly faint. Not without anyone noticing. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
Your throat tightened, though you still couldn’t explain why. His tone pressed against something you didn’t usually let yourself feel, a soft corner of your chest you rarely touched.
You wanted to ask 'why he cared, why he sounded afraid, why this felt strangely warm.' But the questions tangled before they reached your mouth.
When he whispered, “I should’ve noticed,” you stiffened.
The words were so gentle they felt like they weren’t meant for you at all, like he’d slipped and revealed something he usually kept buried. It didn’t make sense, 'how could he regret something that was never his responsibility in the first place?'
“You barely know me,” you said, trying to laugh but failing halfway. “I’m not your responsibility.” Your voice cracked in a way you hoped he didn’t hear. “Damian, why are you acting like this?”
He didn’t look away this time. “You’re my sibling.”
It wasn’t dramatic, or emotional, or loud. But the quiet certainty felt heavier than anything he could’ve yelled.
The word sibling curled strangely inside you, not painful, just unfamiliar, like wearing someone else’s sweater. You’d always had siblings before him, so why did it feel different when he said it? Why did it echo the same heaviness you’d seen on Miles and Gwen’s faces when they said your life didn’t make sense?
You held the bowl a little tighter, steadying yourself with the warmth in your hands. Something inside you fluttered—uneasy but not unpleasant. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe the fever was still making everything feel softer than it should.
“Damian… listen,” you said slowly. “I’m grateful. Really. But you don’t have to act like this. I’m sick—of course everyone’s being extra nice. Once I’m better, it’ll go back to how things always are.”
His jaw flexed.
There it was again—the word that always seemed to hurt him more than anything else you said.
Normal.
Damian drew a controlled breath, shoulders lifting then falling with quiet resignation. “If that’s what you believe,” he murmured, “then… fine.” His voice didn’t match the word. It sounded like someone giving up on an argument they weren’t ready to lose.
You weren’t sure why it made your chest ache. Maybe because he suddenly looked younger. Maybe because you couldn’t understand why he cared. Or maybe because—just for a moment—you wondered if normal was supposed to feel like this.
But you shook the thought away quickly.
No.
This was simply how families reacted when someone was sick. Anyone would do the same. You’d seen it in movies and books—siblings checking on each other, parents hovering. It wasn’t strange. You were the strange one for not being used to it.
You forced a smile, grounding yourself back into the narrative that made sense. “Damian… do you care about me?” The question slipped out before you could pull it back, sounding small and foolish.
Damian stood abruptly, masking whatever emotion had flickered across his face. “Finish your food,” he said, steadier now, slipping back behind a wall he knew well. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I told you,” you whispered, “I don’t want to bother you. Aren’t you busy?”
He paused in the doorway, frozen mid-step as though the question rooted him in place. Slowly, he lowered his hand from the doorknob, and when he spoke again, the words came out softer than anything you’d ever heard from him.
“You never bother me,” he murmured. “I always have time.”
The gentleness didn’t suit him, yet it wrapped around you with a warmth more disarming than the fever itself. Then he slipped out, closing the door with a care that made your heart stutter in your chest. Silence settled in the room again, but it didn’t feel empty this time—only full of things you weren’t sure how to name.
You stared at the door long after he left, trying to steady your breathing around the unfamiliar warmth spreading through you. A part of you wanted to question the softness in his voice, the way he watched you, the quiet tension in his eyes. But you forced the thoughts down, reassuring yourself that nothing was out of the ordinary.
Families acted like this when one of them was sick.
If it felt strange, then maybe the strangeness belonged to you—not them.
The ache in your chest loosened as you leaned into that familiar logic. Everything was normal. Everything had always been normal. And for the first time in a long while, you felt… genuinely cared for.
When the door clicked shut behind Damian, the room didn’t feel cold the way it usually did. It felt warmer, as if his presence had left something behind—an echo of care, a small imprint in the air, something soft and steady. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d missed that feeling until it found you again.
You looked down at the bowl in your hands, letting the heat soak into your palms. A quiet fullness bloomed in your chest, gentle and unexpected, easing the heaviness that had lingered through the fever. It didn’t feel overwhelming anymore; it simply felt good.
You told yourself there was nothing unusual happening here. Your family was attentive because you were sick. That was natural. That was expected. It wasn’t something to analyze or question. It was just… nice. Comfortably, beautifully nice.
And for once, you allowed yourself to believe it without resistance.
You weren’t ignored.
You weren’t overlooked.
You were wanted here—plainly, clearly, undeniably.
Damian’s earlier words settled softly over you, no longer sharp or confusing.
“Stop calling it normal.”
“You’re my sibling.”
“You never bother me.”
Instead of tightening your chest, the phrases soothed something old and hidden inside you. Maybe this was what care looked like. Maybe this was what closeness felt like. Maybe this was normal—your normal.
A quiet certainty wrapped around you as you sank deeper into the pillows. Everything was fine. Your family cared. There was nothing left to question.
This warmth—your family gave it to you.
This attention—meant you mattered.
This softness—felt like something you were finally allowed to have.
You set the bowl aside and closed your eyes, a small, genuine smile touching your lips.
For the first time in a long, long while, you didn’t have to convince yourself.
You believed it.
They loved you.
You were safe.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
_______________________________________
You woke up that morning feeling lighter than you had in days. The fever was gone, your body finally steady, and the moment you stepped outside the manor, the world felt clearer—brighter, even. For the first time in a long while, you felt almost… whole.
Seeing your friends only strengthened that feeling. They greeted you with warm smiles and relieved laughs, Gwen tugging you into a careful hug while Miles hovered like he might catch you if your balance wavered. You basked in it—the ease, the warmth, the sense that people wanted you near.
And beneath it all was a quiet certainty:
My family took care of me. My friends are here. Everything is finally good.
Pavitr spotted you first and practically teleported into your space.
“Oh thank the multi—, you’re alive!” he declared, thrusting a small wrapped bundle into your hands. “I brought you get-well candy. I sorted them by color. The purple ones have healing properties—emotionally, I mean.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Pavitr, these are Skittles.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding gravely. “Emotional medicine.”
Peni circled you once, inspecting you like a malfunctioning machine.
“You look alive today,” she declared with mock seriousness. “Much better than ‘cryptid half-dying in the hallway’ yesterday.”
Her deadpan tone made you snort, and she grinned in triumph.
Then Miles turned to you—soft smile, warm eyes—and lightly flicked your forehead.
“Look at you,” he said, “walking on your own. I was ready to turn into a full-time nurse yesterday. Nearly carried you down the hallway again.”
You groaned into your hands. “Miles, stop reminding me.”
“Hey, in my defense, you were basically melting. I thought I’d have to drag you like a sack of potatoes.”
You groaned, covering your face. “Miles, please—never bring that up again.”
He laughed softly, the sound light and steady, nothing like the strained tension of the day before.
Gwen arrived last—quiet smile, soft laugh, the kind that pulled tension out of your shoulders.
Without a word, she took your hands and flipped them over, checking your fingers for any sign of tremor.
“You look way better today,” she said gently. “No fever. Good breathing. And you’re not swaying like a sad little tree branch.”
“I don’t sway,” you protested weakly.
“Yes, you do,” she said, and Miles, Pavitr, Peni, and even someone in the back of the hallway all nodded.
But the shift came gradually—soft at first, familiar in a way you wished you didn’t recognize.
It began with Gwen’s smile dipping for just a fraction too long, the kind of hesitation people have when they’re trying to choose the right words. Pavitr kept glancing at you between sentences, as if checking for something beneath the surface. Miles’s laugh thinned out mid-way, leaving a quiet he didn’t intend. Peni fidgeted with her sleeves, her usual brightness pulled inward like a dimmed light.
You felt the atmosphere change before anyone spoke, but you pretended not to notice.
Then Gwen finally broke the silence, her voice gentler than normal.
“So… how are things at home? After you got sick, I mean.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Good. Really good. They helped me a lot.” Warmth crept into your voice without you meaning it to—Damian’s careful movements, Jason’s apology, Bruce checking your forehead. “It felt… nice. Different, but good.”
Miles exchanged a glance with Pavitr—quick, subtle, but obvious enough that you caught it this time.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah? Different how?”
You shrugged, smiling a little. “I mean… they were really attentive. It was… comforting, I guess. I didn’t know they could be like that.”
Peni’s expression softened, but something in her eyes tightened.
“And you’re sure that’s… normal for them?”
The question brushed past your ear like a cool breeze—light, but enough to raise goosebumps.
“Of course,” you said quickly. “People get worried when someone’s sick. It happens.”
Gwen nodded, though slowly, like she wasn’t fully convinced.
“It sounds like you really needed that,” she murmured. “Being taken care of.”
Your shoulders stiffened—for a moment, brief enough that you hoped they hadn’t noticed.
“I didn’t need it,” you insisted. “It was just… nice. That’s all.”
Miles stepped a little closer, lowering his voice.
“And before this? When you weren’t sick?”
You hesitated—not long, not loudly, but long enough that the silence around you sharpened.
You forced a laugh. “Guys, seriously, it’s fine. Everything’s fine now. My family was there when it mattered. Isn’t that what counts?”
The silence that followed wasn’t angry; just heavy in a way that pressed against your ribs. Pavitr tapped the toe of his shoe against the floor. Gwen folded her arms lightly across her chest. Miles watched you with a softness that felt too direct. Peni pressed her lips together like she was trying not to say something.
Heat crept up your neck—annoyance, embarrassment, something mix of both.
“We don’t have to talk about this again. Really. My family is great. I’m great. Everything is… perfect.”
They nodded, but the gesture wasn’t agreement—it was resignation.
Gwen offered a thin smile, the edges tired.
“If you say so.”
Miles added quietly, “We’re just glad you’re okay.”
There was something in his voice—gentle, strained—that made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You pushed it away, plastering on a brighter smile.
See? Everything was fine. Your family cared. Your friends cared.
What more were they looking for?
Yet as you walked beside them, listening to half-hearted jokes and the small sighs they tried to hide, a faint thought slipped into your mind—uninvited and unwelcome:
If everything was truly perfect…
why did they still look at you like something was broken?
Your chest tightened, irritation and confusion tangling together.
“What is that supposed to mean? They helped me when I needed it. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that what matters?”
Miles’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer.
“We’re not saying they’re bad,” he said softly. “We’re saying you deserve more than being noticed only when you’re burning up with fever.”
Your stomach dropped a little.
There it was again—that doubt they kept pushing, those little cracks they kept trying to widen.
You steadied your breath.
“What else am I supposed to think? They were there. They cared. That means they love me.”
Your voice trembled just slightly, but you hoped no one heard.
“I don’t get what you want from me,” you continued. “My dad’s busy—of course I don’t see him much. But he provides for me. I have a home, food, everything I need. And my siblings have their own schedules. I have mine. We don’t need to be attached at the hip to function.”
Your friends didn’t argue.
They just stared—quiet, tired, a little defeated.
Finally, Gwen spoke, barely above a whisper.
“Reader… that’s the bare minimum. It’s not the same as being cared for.”
Miles nodded slowly, his jaw tightening with a quiet frustration he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Having your needs met isn’t the same as mattering to someone.”
The sentence hit harder than you expected.
You blinked at him, caught between confusion and a faint sting you didn’t want to acknowledge. “…But that’s just how families are,” you murmured, defensive curling into every word. “Mine, at least. We all do our own thing. That’s not strange.”
But their faces shifted again—sharper now, their concern folding into something heavier. Gwen’s lips pressed thin, Pavitr’s brows dipped, Miles’s shoulders sagged like he was bracing for impact. Even Peni had gone still, her hands twisting nervously.
You didn’t understand any of it.
And the confusion building inside you twisted—slowly, painfully—into irritation.
You let out a tired huff. Sigh.
“This is exhausting,” you muttered, rubbing your temple as if the conversation itself was giving you a headache. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Or feel. But you do realize I’m never going to think badly about my family, right? Even after all this.” Your voice rose, thin and strained. “Especially after how they took care of me when I was sick.”
That did it.
Gwen’s breath hitched. Her voice trembled—not weak, but strained, like holding back too much emotion at once.
“Reader,” she said, shaking her head slightly, “your bar is so low you don’t even see the difference anymore.”
You stared at her, hurt flickering through your chest—sharp, unwanted, defensive.
“So what?” you snapped quietly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” Miles said, stepping in before Gwen could speak again. His voice cracked with a frustration that was more fear than anger. “You’re acting like one moment of care erases years of them not being there for you.”
Peni’s voice joined in—soft, hesitant, but trembling with urgency.
“You’re… forgetting everything they didn’t do. Just because they showed up once.”
Your mouth opened, then closed again. A strange pressure tightened around your ribs.
Gwen swallowed hard, looking like she hated the words she was about to say.
“This is harsh, I know,” she whispered, “but your family only notices you when you’re sick. And now you’re treating that like it’s enough. Like it’s love.”
It felt like someone had pulled the floor out from under you.
But before you could speak—before you could reject it or defend it—Pavitr leaned in, expression gentle but painfully earnest.
“When you say things are ‘fine’ or ‘normal,’” he asked quietly, “what do you actually mean? What does that look like in your head?”
The question lingered between you—quiet, careful, but uncomfortably precise. It settled somewhere under your ribs, not painful at first, just strange, like brushing against a bruise you hadn’t realized was there. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
You looked between them slowly, searching their faces for something sharp or accusing, but found none. They weren’t angry. They weren’t frustrated. If anything, they looked… worried. Too worried, in a way that made something inside you tense.
You swallowed, your voice slipping out before you fully understood what you were saying.
“I… don’t know,” you murmured. “I don’t really think about it. Things are just… the way they are.” The words felt thin even to your own ears, and for a moment you froze—caught between confusion and a denial you couldn’t quite hold onto.
The silence that followed made your chest tighten. You didn’t know why. Maybe because you suddenly felt exposed. Maybe because the question had struck deeper than you expected. Maybe because a part of you realized you didn’t have an answer—and that scared you more than you wanted to admit.
Pavitr’s question hung in the air like something too gentle to hurt and yet somehow heavy enough to make your breath falter. The moment your eyes dropped, he seemed to realize it instantly. His expression softened in panic, and he leaned forward with both hands raised as if trying to catch the words before they hit you. “Wait—Reader, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound harsh.”
Gwen stepped closer, her voice dropping into something careful and warm. “Yeah… we came on too strong,” she murmured, rubbing her arm as guilt flickered across her face. “We’re not trying to overwhelm you. We just care more than we know how to handle sometimes.”
Miles let out a slow exhale, the tension draining from his posture. “I thought we were helping,” he said quietly, eyes lowering as if he didn’t trust himself to meet yours. “But I think we ended up pushing too hard. We didn’t mean to make things confusing or painful.”
Peni tugged gently at your sleeve, her usual brightness dimmed into something small and earnest. “You don’t have to answer everything right now,” she said softly. “We can slow down. You can take your time understanding all of this.” She offered a shy smile. “We’re not going anywhere.”
From his place against the wall, Hobie finally lifted his head. He pushed off the surface with a lazy grace, his hands tucked into his pockets as he approached the group. “Oi,” he muttered, clicking his tongue lightly. “We’re bein’ right idiots, yeah?”
He tilted his chin toward you, eyes steady but warmer than his tone suggested. “You lot can’t expect someone to unlearn their whole worldview in one afternoon,” he said, the words blunt but softened by the gentleness beneath them. “Let ’em breathe. Let ’em feel safe first.”
Hobie stopped just close enough that you could sense his presence without feeling crowded. His voice lowered into a rare, steady sincerity. “We’re not here to judge you, luv. We’re just worried. That’s all.” He shrugged lightly, the motion small but genuine. “Sorry if we made it feel like somethin’ else.”
The others nodded almost immediately, like the apology gained weight once Hobie voiced it. Pavitr offered you a small, hopeful smile. “We’re really sorry, Reader. We’ll be more careful.” Gwen touched your elbow, her expression soft and open. “You don’t owe us answers. Not today.”
Miles stepped closer, his gaze steady again, though the softness in it held far more restraint than before. “Take your time,” he said simply. “We’ll figure things out together… whenever you’re ready.” Peni bobbed her head in agreement, whispering another quiet apology that felt more like a promise than a regret.
Their faces held no frustration now—only tenderness and a kind of earnest concern that made your chest ache in a gentler way than before. They weren’t pulling away. They were stepping back just enough to make space for you. And somehow, that hurt and comforted you all at once.
Their apologies drifted toward you one by one—gentle, honest, careful—and yet they only made your heart twist tighter. You stood there for a beat too long, torn between wanting to accept their comfort and wanting to retreat into the solid safety of nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine.
“…It’s okay,” you managed, though your voice shook. “Really. I just… didn’t expect that question.”
You tried to smile, but it wavered. The denial rose quietly in your chest like a shield you hadn’t realized you’d built.
And still—every one of them watched you with the kind of worry that made you wonder, for the first time, if maybe they saw something you didn’t.
Their reassurance wrapped around you like a warm coat you weren’t sure you could wear yet.
And even in your denial, even in your confusion…
you didn’t feel alone.
Not today.
_______________________________________
note: Honestly, Chapter 3 took forever. I wanted the emotional shift to land: the reader feeling loved, cared for, protected—only to be confronted a moment later by a question that shakes everything loose again. Getting that balance right was harder than I thought.
And wrapping it up was even trickier. I don’t want anyone to be the “bad guy” here. at the end of the day, i decided to not check and just post this.
Earth 42!Miles somehow getting transported to earth 1610 and pretending to be the regular Miles. Going as far to take out his braids and tone down his Spanish accent in order to pass.
Earth 42!Miles who paused at the first time he saw what could have been his life if his dad had never died. If he hadn’t followed in the steps of his uncle.
Earth 42!Miles who sees you for the first time in almost a year. Freezing in place when he sees your familiar smile like nothing had ever happened to you.
Earth 42!Miles who comes to resent 1610!Miles because of his perfect life.
Earth 42!Miles who pretended to be your Miles a lot longer than he anticipated all to see you. Constantly fixing his act whenever you pointed out something was different about him.
Earth 42!Miles who treated you like the angel you are because he never got to back in his home.
Earth 42!Miles who dies a little inside every time he sees you, just like how you died in his arms all those months ago.
Earth 42!Miles who generally feels fear for the first time when he starts to glitch because he’s in a different dimension.
Earth 42!Miles who goes through hell and back to find a way for him to stay and be with you and his family.
Earth 42!Miles who eventually has to decide whether to sacrifice himself or his happiness because of his predicament.
hello goat ! Maychance could I get a hobbie brown mention 🙏🏾
"SO NOT PUNK ROCK"
Spider-Punk!Hobie Brown x neglected WB!reader
It’s safe to say your father doesn’t like your boyfriend at all. His reasons sound valid to everyone else in the house, but to you, they’re just a bunch of jibber-jabber.
“He’s always causing mayhem,” Bruce says, like he doesn’t do that almost all the time himself running around in that ginormous bat suit while hiring orphaned children to do his bidding.
“His methods are a bit too much,” Dick adds, which isn’t even an answer. You’ve seen the kind of crap he pulled in Blüdhaven stuff that would make the most seasoned criminals repent, swear off crime, and check into rehab.
“The kid seems fine to me,” Jason thinks, but he can’t say that out loud. Instead, he mutters, “He’s… not muscular?” You know he said it with that questioning look while everyone else at the table glared at him.
And so what if your boyfriend’s a bit on the skinny side? He still has muscles just a sleeper build. One time, after coming out of an underground punk show, a villain attacked, and Hobie picked up a Ford F-150 with his webs, slamming it into the vandalizer. So yeah, your boyfriend is anything but weak. Hobie’s the strongest man you know.
“I mean, he’s a rockstar. Wouldn’t he, like, cheat on you with some broad from who knows where?” Tim asks. Typical. He’d know a thing or two about cheating. But every girl knows to stay away from your man. Why? Because on his spider suit, he painted it with your favorite colors his way of telling the world he’s already taken. Even when he’s far away, he’s still repping you.
“He’s a threat to everyday society,” Damian mutters, like he has any room to talk. You can count on both hands how many times he’s bitten a socialite at a gala. And when he first came into the manor, he was on his John Wick murder spree. But Hobie smashes a couple of dumbasses’ heads in with his guitar, and suddenly he’s a public threat? Come on.
“I don’t know, [Name]. A guy like him just seems like a player,” Duke says. You want to glare at him so badly maybe even wring his neck for that nonsense. Because Hobie? He would never.
Sure, he’s not consistent he’s happily inconsistent. He DIYs his favorite shirts twice, but inconsistency doesn’t mean complacency. It doesn’t mean he’s uncaring. He’s just a little ADHD, and that’s exactly how you like him. Just because his schedule doesn’t always line up doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t. You two are one and the same if not more.
And yeah, he might look like a player, but that man is a total lover boy. He literally stopped by the manor with roses beat-up ones, sure, because he had to stop mid-mugging but still, roses.
He literally has three songs named after you. If that isn't love or commitment, I don't know what is. Also, why are you getting romance advice and romantic comments from these dweebs?
Bruce likes to date mentally deranged women who like to steal from museums, or whose fathers want to literally destroy and reshape the entire world.
Dick hasn't been in a stable relationship since the 90s, and no, Barbara does not count that's basically a work relationship if anything.
Jason's probably just forever celibate, either by choice or by his face. Not only that, but in his words, "romance books are better than the real thing." Can't wait to see him catch a girlfriend.
Tim has not been in stable relationships and Steph? Even then, he shouldn't be talking. He literally fumbled too many baddies. He should not be speaking on your love life.
Duke says anything about his relationships. He keeps things under tight wraps and lock and key. You wouldn't be surprised if he has an entire family all the way up in Calabasas that he doesn't even speak about.
Damian? Well, he's just like Bruce. He's into women who like to kill him, who are also very much into leather and fishnets and dark eyeliner. Need I say more?
"I'm still going to date him."
And all you hear from the room is exasperated sighs. That's what they get.
CW — gay, gay-sex, soft top Miguel O’Hara, bottom male reader, blowjob (Miguel and reader receiving), handjob (Miguel and reader receiving), cum swallowing, praise kink, anal sex, anal fingering, Miguel has a big dick, soft sex (i think), soft Miguel O’Hara, breeding, size difference, size kink, porn without a plot, and marking.
Word count — 4.5k
Summary — Miguel takes his boyfriend’s virginity and guides him through the throes of sex.
Read before continuing — if you are younger than 18 or any of the warnings make you uncomfortable, this is your chance to turn around and leave. If there are no problems, you may continue.
Creator of the art
“I wanna have sex.”
Those four words slipped out of your mouth, directly stating what you want from your boyfriend. You rolled over from your current position, nuzzling and resting on Miguel’s side and arms, to straddle his thick thighs; your hands resting on his expansive, hairy pectorals.
The bed groaned and squeaked under the newly added weight, a soft grunt escaping Miguel’s lips—his large hands instinctively jumping to hold your thighs. Your ass was pressing and grinding on his clothed bulge.
«¿En serio, amor? I thought you wanted to rest? Pero no me importa».” Miguel chuckles, rubbing circles into your thighs with his thumbs and rolling his hips in response to your grinding—pushing his growing bulge in between your cheeks; letting you feel what was coming.
Searing heat flooded your face, prickling underneath the layer of skin; a soft moan escaped your lips, gasping from feeling the once soft, flaccid cock slowly hardening into a massive thing. You couldn’t help but arch your back, your plump ass pushing outward—increasing the friction between your bodies.
Your dick was hardened, already throbbing and sensitive from the mere interaction. It was chubbing in your underwear when you begged Miguel to come to bed with you. That was when you deemed it was time to give your sacred virginity to the man. There was an uneasy feeling, a tight knot in your stomach, but it was overshadowed by the anticipation building up and your dick.
A part of you expected Miguel to grumble something about staying glued to his monitors, observing the wide multiverse and calculating his next moves—waiting for any threats that would throw everything off balance. To your satisfaction, he agreed, saying that he’ll pass the workload onto one of the other Spider-Mans or LYLA. You eagerly watched the man peel off what little clothing he had—leering at his massive, hulking physique.
Everything about Miguel was massive. His broad shoulders and back tapering sharply down to his taut, coiled waist; hefty pectorals that looked like they needed a bra to be supported; and two massive, hairy thighs that could crush a watermelon.
And you couldn’t forget about his impressive equipment. You'd never seen it, maybe heard some rumors from the other Spider-Men about how massive and thick it was. You never saw it, given that he was the only Spider-Man to possess a hard-light hologram instead of the traditional fabrics. Now, you had an idea of what it was—the massive, thick piece of meat grinding against your ass, pushing your cheeks apart. Soft whimpers under your breath as the realization was setting in, but it made your hole twitch—aching to have your cherry popped by Miguel’s massive, thick cock.
“Yeah, I did say that, but I wanted to take initiative. I want you to be the one,” you whined, biting your bottom lip and nail digging into the flesh of Miguel’s pectorals. The Mexican man is aware that you’re a virgin, keeping your cherry unplucked for a man worthy enough. He felt his pride swell from the declaration—a bright bloom in his stomach. He was going to make sure you enjoyed your first time. Give you the taste and feel the throes and ecstasy of sex and pleasure.
Plus his dick cheered and jumped, pumping with blood to full erection from the thought of being the one to take your virginity.
“I’m honored, mi príncipe.” Miguel purrs, moving his hands to your hips, gripping the flesh before grounding you on his crotch—halting your needy grinding and teasing. Soft grunts and moans filled the space. You could feel the Mexican man’s meaty, rough hand groping and pulling at your hips, then transitioning to kneading your plump cheeks.
“Let’s begin, mi príncipe.”
Lesson one — Blowjob
Your knees dug into the carpet-covered floor with Miguel sitting on the edge of the bed. Miguel’s meaty, thick thighs spread open, giving entrance and space between them. Your eyes zeroed in on the prize, a massive one at that. Your breathing deepened, hitching and choking. You could see the massive thing twitching underneath the soft fabric—you noticed a dampened spot near the front. Your dick and hole twitched; this was it.
“Go on, mi príncipe. Es todo tuyo.” Miguel spoke, cupping your cheek and lifting your head to face him. You nuzzled your head into his palm, whining softly as he pulled away. You gulped, grabbing onto the waistband, slowly pulling the drawls down—Miguel lifting himself off the mattress. The moment you’ve been waiting for happened, ever since you announced that you were dating the leader of the Spider-Society. Your eyes widened, and your pupils dilated, expanding like the smile spreading across your face.
Miguel’s massive, thick cock and heavy balls that looked egg-shaped plopped out of their imprisonment. As mentioned before, everything about Miguel is massive. You surmised the meaty piece of flesh to be nine inches—the immense shaft standing tall and proud. The thickness made your mouth dry. You could see veins pulsating and pumping on the sides and undersides. The flustered, pink cockhead peeked through the foreskin guarding the head.
You were practically salivating at the sight; your mouth felt empty and needed filling. The massive shaft twitched, the vein pumping. A heady, overwhelming scent invaded your nose, clouding your train of thought. It was rich and intoxicating—you were getting drunk off the musky scent. Was this what other men enjoyed and experienced? You read books and watched videos, but never understood the buzz—now you do. Yet, you were still intimidated.
“No tengas miedo, mi príncipe. Go slow, and I’ll guide you.” Miguel said with a soft voice, gliding his hand through strands of your hair.
You nodded, inching closer to the massive, intimidating shaft. The musky scent was getting stronger and more potent, further shutting down and fogging your head with lust. You reluctantly touched it, wrapping your fingers around the massive, thick shaft. Your fingers barely touched each other, a testament to the thickness. Miguel’s dick felt heavy in your palm, almost like someone lifting weights for the first time.
“¡D-dios mío…!” Miguel moaned, stuttering and choking as he felt the warmth of your palm wrapping around his sensitive dick. His hips involuntarily thrusted, eager for more, but he grounded himself. It's been weeks since he’s last relieved himself; his dick throbbed and ached for an immediate climax.
The heat in your cheeks grew as you slowly started to stroke, gently gripping the heavy, thick shaft—starting at the top, you moved Miguel’s foreskin up and down, exposing the flustered, pink cockhead. Thick strings and beads of precum gathered at the slit. Miguel gave his approval with low grunts and groans, tilting his head back. You could not help yourself and buried your nose in the area between the base and sack, inhaling the overwhelming, masculine scent straight from the source.
Then, you pressed your tongue against the massive dick, starting at the base and tracing it towards the pink cockhead. The flavors hit your taste buds as you licked the cockhead and foreskin. It was salty and bitter, but rich—uniquely Miguel. You paired your flicking tongue and stroking together, moving with rhythm to impress the Mexican man.
“Eso es, cariño. Keep it up,” Miguel says, letting out throaty moans. His hand stroking your head as he feels your tongue flicking and licking his sensitive cockhead, toying the spongy tip like it was candy. Your hand gently stroking the remaining inches. Your dick oozed more precum from the praise. A warm feeling flooded your body from hearing Miguel’s praise and approval. This is what you wanted, and you need more of it.
Taking a deep breath and internally coaching yourself, you took the throbbing cockhead into your mouth. Your lips widened and tightened around the cockhead, securing it in your mouth. You slowly and nervously bobbed your head, only sucking the tip. Your tongue continued to toy with the sensitive thing, swirling and flicking—even playing with Miguel’s foreskin. Your soft whine and moans muffled, but added further stimulation—earning muttered grumbles and praises.
“¡Ah, carajo!” Miguel screeched, his grip on your head tightening. His teeth clenched with a pained expression.
Your teeth accidentally grazed and bit down; the sensitive head sent pain signals through Miguel’s body, causing him to shudder and yelp in pain. You pulled back; a wet pop echoed. Globs and strings of saliva and precum combined to make a web, connecting your mouth to the tip. You looked up to see Miguel panting, eyebrows furrowed, and nose wrinkled—his heavily muscular body glistening in the low light from the sweat accumulating.
“Sorry about that…” You mumbled, embarrassed for the mishap. You proceeded to use two hands to lather the rest of Miguel’s cock with your saliva and precum. It could be interpreted as a sorry for accidentally biting his dick. Your wrist moved in a circular motion, moving up and down until every crevice was covered.
“It's okay, amor. Just watch your teeth next time, okay? You can do that for me?” Miguel replied, reassuring you, which calmed the embarrassment and anxiety filling your nerves. He patted your head, playing with the strands of hair, his fingers dancing and prancing through your scalp. Not hearing any opposition, you continued to stroke—spitting and lathering, repeating this pattern until Miguel’s massive dick was shining. With each spit, the squelching noise became more prominent.
Testing another technique, you flattened one hand with the other continuing to stroke the rest. You rubbed your flattened palm on the sensitive tip, swishing it back and forward. Miguel gave praise with choked groans and grunts, his eyes rolled back and mouth agape from the sensation. Where did you learn this from? Probably from the internet and its various sites. You had Miguel digging his claws into the mattress, tearing through the thin layer and into the plush filling. He needs to feel the warm, wet velvety interior of your mouth.
“Necesito esa boca otra vez, amor. Why not try taking more? Go slowly, take what you can. Don’t forget to breathe through your nose.” Miguel advised, his breathing heavy and chipped, failing to mask his needy desire to have your mouth wrapped around his cock.
You removed your palm from the glistening pink tip, resting it on Miguel’s thick, muscular thigh. With some guidance, your lips returned to the tip. The taste of precum was more prominent than before—most likely because you smeared and coated the spongy tip with the fluid. The bitter, salty taste triggered another muffled moan. Your lips widened to accommodate the massive dick entering, taking as much as you could—with each inch swallowed, Miguel’s throaty growls got louder. You were huffing and puffing, stuttering breath as you stopped halfway.
Stilling your movements and tightening your lips around the desired point, you let the heavy piece of meat rest on your tongue. Doing well so far, your teeth hadn’t scratched the sensitive head or veins running across the massive thing.
“Lo estás haciendo genial, cariño.” Miguel moans. With the words of encouragement, you slowly started to bob your head up and down—soft and slow deepthroat, taking a few more inches with each swallow. “Relax your throat… yeah, just like that, cariño.” The Mexican man’s groans grew more audible, both of his hands holding your head—pushing you softly on his dick. You started to incorporate your tongue, bobbing up and down and flicking the appendage—teasing the spongy head, tracing the veins, and swirling around the massive thickness.
There were a few hiccups, gagging and choking as the cockhead rammed into your gag reflex. Tears prickled your eyes from the sudden ramming, Miguel gently pulling your head back to let you breathe and recuperate. After a couple, you returned to servicing the massive dick—now delightful and eager to have it in your mouth, slurping and slobbering all over it. You could see thick globs of precum and saliva accumulating around the base with some bubbles littering the length.
“T-that’s it, cariño. Don’t forget my balls.” Miguel says, letting out guttural groan after groan. You didn’t hesitate to follow, pulling back and latching onto his heavy, hanging sack. They were hefty, filled with weeks worth of cum sloshing around in them. You gargled and slurped on both sacks while stroking the shaft—switching between the two roles with ease. “You deserve a reward.”
Your ears perked at the mention of a reward. Your head was gently pulled back and turned to face Miguel. His ruby red eyes met yours, satisfaction and adoration mixed with lust while you were in a daze—eyes half-lidded as you waited for more. Your breathing was soft and hitched, saliva coating your mouth. Your hair was disheveled, messy strands sticking to your sweaty forehead.
There wasn’t any resistance when Miguel manhandled you, picking you up from the scratchy carpet and laying you on the bed once again—displaying every part of your body to him. Your knees ached and cracked from the sudden lift, and your dick flopped as if in the wind. Soft breaths escaped as your body melded with the plush mattress and fluffy sheets—nuzzling and cozying into them. Your eyes, once again, met the same polished, ruby red eyes—this time, he was positioned between your legs, your dick lying on his sharp cheekbone. There was something in his eyes, but you didn’t have time to think.
“Your turn,” Miguel purred, a smile stretched across his face before taking your dick into his mouth.
This was your first blowjob and it had your back arched, hands desperately holding the sheets or running through Miguel’s slicked-back hair. Your thighs clapped around Miguel’s head—burying him between your plush flesh. A slew of cries and moans slipped out, your body spasming and shaking from the sensation, but it felt euphoric.
It felt like the oxygen and soul were being sucked out of your being. Your eyes widened, shuddering panting oozed from your lips as Miguel’s warm, wet mouth swallowed your dick—deep throating and taking every inch without a sweat; no gagging. His tongue focused on your tip, pressing the appendage into the tiny slit. Your dick was a throbbing mess, gushing precum like it was a fountain, and Miguel drank every drop.
“M-Miguel…” You whined. The burning heat that started in your groin swiftly spread to every corner of your being—thanks to Miguel. This electricity is flowing through every vein and flooding your brain.
“Shhh, cariño. This is all for you. Has sido un niño muy bueno, mi amor. You deserve this.” Your dick plopped out of Miguel’s mouth, letting the man speak. You whimpered and whined at the loss of the moist warmth. Your dick twitched from the brushes of air gliding on it. You watched as Miguel tapped the tip against his tongue—repeating this while stroking your saliva-coated shaft, making direct eye contact.
With this being your first, you didn’t expect it to last long, especially since it looked like Miguel wasn’t stopping anytime. He continued to slurp and slobber, adding another stimulant by fondling your balls with his hand—rubbing his thumb into them and gently massaging them. The edge came not long after, your breath heavy and body shaking with the force of an earthquake. Your dick throbbed and your balls pulled back before spurting its load into Miguel’s mouth—gushing a wave as the Mexican man eagerly sucked and drained every drop of your seed down his gullet. He gulped it like it was precious nectar.
You were left drained, dozing off, staring at the ceiling. Miguel released your dick, licking off any remaining cum from the tip and his lips. The once squelching, slobbering, noise-filled room was reduced to soft panting and quiet creaks.
“Sabes a gloria, mi amor. Hasta la última gota.” Miguel moaned, his lips pressed against your thighs, leaving a trail of wet kisses, slowly moving up your body. He gave your dick a few kisses, then on your pubic region and chest until he halted at your neck. Your body tingled from the ministrations.
Miguel’s overly massive body overshadowed you, his hands now pinning you down on the mattress as he rested on top of you. The hard, defined planes and crevices pressed against yours as he littered your neck with bites, hickies, and marks. His sharp canines dug into your skin, drawing some blood to seep through the puncture wounds—he eagerly lapped up the thick, metallic substance.
He made sure not to inject you with his venom. That was for later down the line if you were up for it.
Everything felt hot in a good way. You yelped every time Miguel sank his teeth into your flesh, your arms coming to wrap around his neck, authorizing and encouraging him to continue. The screams and cries of pleasure muted to soft panting again. Your dick was flaccid but was chubbing from the various markings.
“I got this from here, mi amor. Let me show you what you’ve been missing out on. Just lay here.”
Lesson two — foreplay and sex.
You withered away in the comfort of yours and Miguel’s bed. The Mexican man repositioned himself to the side, pulling you closer to him as he dealt his magic. He lathered three thick, long fingers with his saliva and moved them to the tight ring of your sphincter. Choked gasps slipped past your lips, your back arching as you felt them teasing the rim—circling the tight muscles and teasingly pretending to penetrate. Your flaccid, chubbing dick shot back to an erection as shaky moans and whines escaped from the sudden intrusion of Miguel’s thick fingers pushing past the tight rim.
“You’re so tight, boy. Sucking my fingers deep into your ass.” Miguel groans, his hot breathing brushing against your shoulder blades. He didn’t move far to bite your earlobes, letting you hear his throaty growls and groans. There was some resistance; your ass spasmed and clenched around the intruders, attempting to push it out but instead pulled the thick fingers deeper. The pain spread shivers down your spine and body, but the saliva alleviated the discomfort.
Your jaw remained dropped as two more fingers pushed in, filling your crowded hole with more thick appendages. At the same time, Miguel latched his mouth onto your pectoral, sucking and nibbling—using the same tactics he used to drain your dick of cum. Loud moans and cries of pleasure filled the room as the three fingers worked in unison—drawing out more shaky noises from probing a sensitive bundle of nerves in your ass—and Miguel devoured your nipple.
The squelching sound coming from your ass and the slobbering, sucking sound mixed with your moans to create a symphony of sex and lust. This was more intense than you anticipated, but your dick was bobbing and leaking another flood of precum from the tip. Your head tilted back, your body trembling from the sensation—hips thrusting into the air and ass clenching around the thick fingers.
“That’s it, mi amor. I think you’re ready, are you?” Miguel asks, pulling back from your pectoral with an audible, wet pop. He pulled his three fingers out of your stretched, prepared ass. Soft whines left your lips from the emptiness that was left behind—the hunger to experience and feel the real thing was becoming unbearable. Some doubts and fears filled your guts, like how were you gonna take that massive thing? Would it even fit?
“Yes, yes, I am.” You replied. There was an undertone of hesitation and fear—wanting to flake out at the last minute. There was still lust in your eyes, but it masked the growing hesitation. The reality was setting in. Miguel picked up on this; of course, he would.
“We can stop here, if you want—”
“N-no, I’m ready!”
“Are you 100%?” You nodded in confirmation, biting your bottom lip. “Okay, tell me when to stop or if it hurts too much,” Miguel said, flipping you over onto your stomach. Your plush, plump rear was on full display for him—Miguel licking his lips at the sight, a delectable meal.
You grabbed the nearest pillow, gripping the fluffy thing with an iron grip and biting down on it—your saliva soaking the sheet. Your dick ground against the mattress before you arched your back to give Miguel a better vantage, presenting yourself to the hungry man who was gonna pop your cherry—your dick throbbed in anticipation, ready to feel the real deal. A shaky gasp slipped out as Miguel’s large, calloused hand pulled your cheek apart, exposing the tight bud that was buried. His massive dick twitched from seeing the rose bud winking at him.
Grabbing his dick and positioning it towards your entrance, Miguel slowly pushed forward. The Mexican man snarled, gritting his teeth as your hole was putting up resistance. You clenched the pillow tighter as whimpers filled the space. The hyper tension and blunt force pressing against the rim was sending pain signals throughout your body, the searing electricity coursing through your veins.
A symphony of moans and throaty grunts bounced off the walls as Miguel’s dick pierced the rim—officially popping your cherry. The blunt cockhead pressed deeper, slowly dragging along your inner, tight walls. The pillow muffled your moans and twinges of pain. Miguel gripped your hips, throwing his head back and letting out guttural groans as he felt your warm, tight ass clenching—almost suffocating his dick like it was about to be ripped off.
You were squeezing too tight.
«¿Estás bien, cariño? Do you need me to stop?” Miguel inquired, his breathing heavy and hitched as he halted his movement, not wanting to bring you harm or ruin your first experience. His massive dick wasn’t halfway in.
“Y-yes, please.” You replied, whimpering and holding the pillow tighter. Your hips faltered and collapsed back to the mattress, squishing your throbbing dick in the process.
“Okay, cariño. Take deep breaths and relax. Tell me when I can continue.” Miguel said, leaning down to litter kisses and soothe the pain.
Following Miguel’s advice, you breathed in and out, calming your muscles and releasing the tension. The pain was still there, but it was quickly subsiding, and Miguel could feel your muscles relaxing—the chokehold on his dick being lifted. Taking a few minutes of recollection and breathing, you gave Miguel consent to push forward.
Hushed moans and grunts grew louder with each inch. Your ass was being split open and filled to the brim with cock. You could feel the various veins rubbing against your walls, the cockhead hitting depths you didn’t think would be met. It wasn’t long until Miguel’s massive dick rested fully inside you—his pelvis pressed against your cheeks and heavy balls mashed against yours.
“So deep… cariño. So tight.” Miguel groans, collapsing and squishing you underneath his massive body—his sweaty torso melded against your back.
You let out small whimpers, trying to get used to the feeling of Miguel’s dick. Your walls clamp around the massive thing, massaging and sucking it. You could feel everything, especially Miguel’s dick twitching and oozing precum—the veins pulsating like it was alive. Pleasure shoots up your spine as your dick twitched underneath, already on the verge of a second climax. Miguel allowed you to adjust appropriately.
After another period of readjustment, Miguel started pulling his hips back, dragging his massive dick out before gently thrusting back into your tight warmth. It was a slow pace, one to ease you into the sex escapades of the future.
Everything in your body was turning into mush. Your body trembled underneath, and a flurry of moans drowned out Miguel’s own groans. Miguel’s heavy balls clapped against yours, and the wet, squelching noise mixed with skin slamming against skin.
“So good… So beautiful for me, cariño… todo esto para mí,” Miguel groans into your ear, nibbling the lobe. “Let me hear your voice.” You sense the desire and hunger in his tone, a man turning feral over his boyfriend. The pillow you were clenching was tossed aside and replaced with Miguel’s hands intertwining with yours—his hands tightening.
Without your pillow, more pathetic whimpers and moans were pulled out. Your hands gripped Miguel’s tighter as the man’s cockhead rammed into the same bundle of nerves—the same one his fingers assaulted.
Your eyes rolled back, jaw hung open, as that was the tipping point. It was obvious to Miguel that your orgasm was fast approaching. The way your body was trembling and your ass clenching and unclenching around his massive dick were clear signs.
“Cum for me, cariño,” Miguel commands, sucking on your skin. Your dick grinding against the bed, combined with your prostate being toyed, and Miguel sucked on that special spot, caused it to spurt. You choked out cries of pleasure as hot, thick ropes of cum painted the sheets and your abdomen—Miguel’s thrusts causing it to smear and stain. Your balls churned and throbbed until every drop was squirted out.
Miguel continued his pace, but it was becoming sloppy as he was reaching the end of his rope. Your body went lax and surrendered. He continued to rut into your ass sloppily. His heavy balls mashed and clapped against your ass, but they were pulling back as a massive load was flowing to the tip.
“I-I’m cumming, cariño!” Miguel says with a low moan. You couldn’t respond, stuck in a post-orgasm haze—only with a hushed whine. After thrusting for the last time, Miguel slams completely inside you. His body shuddered, and his teeth sank into your flesh—blocking his guttural growl. Your ass tightened from the sudden flood.
Miguel’s massive dick throbbed and painted your insides white, unleashing a week’s worth of cum like it was a biblical flood. Your moans and his groans mixed. Extreme amounts of euphoria and adrenaline flooded Miguel’s system as he pumped more cum until you were filled to the brim with his seed.
You could feel every twitch and pulse, the massive thing throbbing as it unloaded its contents deep inside your ass. You could feel the thick warmth filling your bowels, feel the cockhead’s slit opening to gush. So much cum was dumped that it started to seep around Miguel’s dick, plugging your entrance and sliding down to your balls.
“You were amazing, cariño,” Miguel said breathlessly, pulling his teeth from your skin. You were out of it—acknowledging what he said by squeezing his hands. He smiled, tilting your head to face him before pressing his lips against yours. What an experience. You definitely wanted more, but your body was screaming to rest and sleep.
THE END
Author’s note: Hello, my strawberries! First fic for Pride Month! I hope this was good, and my birthday is approaching soon… turning 20 (dying on the inside).
Special thanks to my proofreader — @sagethegaywitch
