Look, pal, when I say "fanfiction does not have the cultural reach to be able to change social perceptions of controversial topics"
what I mean is "if Game of Thrones could not manage to normalize incest, a handful of shipcest fics on AO3 with 50 kudos each sure aren't going to manage to normalize it!"
(A/N: I had a dream last night so yeah... Enjoy this dirty drabble~ 🖤)
ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻
Rating: 18+
Pairing: Multiple Yautja Males x Female Reader
Synopsis/Excerpt: You stopped resisting. Body a canvas of bites and scratches, so close to becoming fully claimed.
⚠️WARNINGS/TAGS: Dark themes, non-con, dubious consent, claiming bites, groping, sexual overstimulation, pain kink, size difference, dacryphilia, interspecies sex, reader is a sex slave.
Yautja males are initially curious about how soft and pudgy a human female can be, prodding and squeezing the pliant flesh of your curves, eyes zeroed in on how it spills through the gaps of their fingers.
Curiosity quickly spirals into lustful anticipation.
Attempting to divert their hands away from your person was near impossible, your strength like that of a butterfly's and holding no real power against theirs. They then held your arms apart, a yautja holding a wrist on either side of you to limit your struggles. You held your breath when the others closed in on you.
The sight of their scarred and battle-hardened hands mapping out every inch of your naked body had you squeezing your thighs together, biting your lower lip hard to suppress your moans and ignore the steady throbbing of your clit as arousal quickly set in.
A whimper escapes your lips when they squeezed at your closed thighs, sharp nails scraping the surface of your skin and creating red welts on your body. The slight pain adds more fuel to the fire, your body jolting forward when one of them boldly squeezes at your heaving chest from behind. The harder he groped, the more beautifully you mewled, unsuccessful in resisting the delicious sensations of his firm hands milking your chest. A stunned croak left you when another squeezed at the pudge layering your tummy, face heating with embarrassment at their audacity for grabbing something you viewed as an imperfection on yourself.
Kicking in retaliation, you tried your hardest to fight them off and shy away from their daring touches. You feared that if you let them continue further, it would only get worse. Already you could feel your body betraying you, the wetness sloshing between your thighs a mutiny against your panicking thoughts and warring mind. You shook your head in denial, refusing to acknowledge the rivulets of cum running down your inner thighs, refusing to feel your nipples hardening into tight buds when tongues slithered to tease them, refusing to hear the gasping moans when hands squeezed hungrily at your ass before striking it again and again to observe it ripple.
It was soon becoming too much. A pathetic sob warbled out of your drooling mouth when several tusked faces clamped down on the fat of your breasts, hips and ass and licked away the blood budding from the wounds. They lapped languidly at the sweat coating your body, purring with pleasure at your taste before finding more areas to mark with their fanged teeth. Tears sprinkled the corners of your eyes the longer the sweet torture continued.
You stopped resisting. Body a canvas of bites and scratches, so close to becoming fully claimed.
The unmistakable scent of your arousal permeated the air around them, your pheromones causing several yautjas eyes to roll to the back of their head while others were quick to disrobe and release their hardened lengths from the confines of their armor.
Hungry growls responded to your body's needs.
Strong hands found your knees and applied pressure, spreading them fully to continue their exploration...
(A/N (again): worst part of the dream was waking up before the real fun could begin *SCREAMING AND TEARING MY HAIR OUT*)
Idk if this will help reassure anyone, but when I was a teen in therapy, I gave my therapist a link to my fanfiction.net account (yes I'm old lmao) and it had all kinds of crazy shit on it, like noncon, monsterfucking, underage, etc.
The amount of concern she showed was zero. She didn't ask if I had been traumatized, she didn't ask why I wrote what I did, she didn't tell me that I was dangerous, a freak, disgusting, etc.
The only thing she cared about was that I was being safe online and not talking to strange adults.
Being into taboo things (yes, even sexually) is perfectly normal and healthy, and actual psychologists do not care.
The only people who are up in arms about this are puritans and terminally online people who are anti-science that haven't looked at the actual literature or talked to experts.
Content Warning: 18+, Kidnapping, Captivity/Forced Confinement, Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, Yandere Themes, Coercive Control, Psychological Abuse, Intimidation, Punishment, Forced Obedience, Possessive Behavior, Nonconsensual Touching, Sexual Coercion, Forced Nudity, Oral Sexual Assault, Dubious Consent/Nonconsent, Power Imbalance, Humiliation, Dehumanization, Pet Play Undertones, Choking/Throat Grabbing, Restraint, Fear-Based Arousal, Victim Blaming, Stockholm Syndrome Themes, Trauma Bonding, Gaslighting, Isolation, Surveillance, Loss Of Autonomy, Forced Dependency, Explicit Sexual Content, Dark Romance, Romanticized Abuse. DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT
A/N: Highly requested, here you go. Imagine Damian Wayne in his mid to late twenties.
WARNING: Some of the content moving forward may be unsuitable for specific audiences. Please read at your own discretion.
Enjoy, Reader
Compliance Pt. 1 Here
Damian did not drag you away from the door at first.
That was the first cruelty, you realized. Not the grip on your wrist, not the way his fingers closed around the fragile, frantic pulse beneath your skin, not even the fact that he had caught you with your hand hovering over the keypad like a guilty thought made flesh. The cruelty was that he made you stand there, inside the consequence of it. He let the moment breathe. He let your fear ripen. He let the room become aware of you both, the walls humming softly with filtered air, the ceiling lights bathing everything in a warm artificial dusk, the locked door at your back, and him before you, impossibly still, impossibly calm, his body placed between you and every version of the world where you still belonged to yourself.
“You were leaving,” he said.
His voice was quiet, almost gentle, but something raw edged beneath it, darker than anger, older than jealousy. Not the careful boy who once fed you soup and called it comfort. His thumb pressed against your pulse, feeling how your heart kicked against him.
“I was trying to,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours.
That was a mistake.
You saw it the moment his face shifted. Not rage, no, rage would have been human, hot, noisy, something that burned out. What moved through Damian was colder, private, a terrible kind of wonder, as if you had tried to carve out one of his ribs and wear it around your neck.
“You admit it,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “You already knew.”
“I wanted to hear you say it.”
The safehouse shrank around the words. Soap lingered on his skin, metal from the door, clean cotton, something sharp and stormlike clinging to him from wherever he’d been. A dark curl fell across his forehead, making him look younger for a moment, until you met his eyes. Nothing young there. Nothing soft. Nothing uncertain.
He looked devoted.
That was worse than hatred.
“Damian,” you tried, because his name had worked before, because some instinct in you remembered the way he had gone still when you said it, the way the sound had dragged something almost vulnerable through his face. But this time, his fingers tightened around your wrist, and the look he gave you made your throat close.
“No,” he said gently. “You don’t get to say my name like that after this.”
A thin, cold panic slid through you. “Like what?”
“Like you’re asking me to forgive you before you understand what you did.”
“What I did?” Your voice broke higher, incredulous and frightened. “You kidnapped me.”
“I brought you home.”
“This isn’t my home.”
His face softened.
It should not have terrified you, but it did. The softness was wrong; no doubt, no shame, no flicker of recognition that he stood in front of you in an underground room, your phone gone, your shoes hidden, three locks between you and the city. He looked at you like you had misunderstood the weather.
“It will be,” he said. “That is the point.”
You shook your head once, too fast, the motion barely more than a tremor. “You can’t actually believe that.”
“I don’t need belief.” His free hand rose. You flinched, but he only touched your face with two fingers, so lightly the gentleness felt obscene. “I have patience.”
You turned your face away from his hand.
The air shifted.
Damian’s expression went very, very still.
For a moment, there was only the blood in your ears and the low electrical purr of the walls. His hand hovered where your cheek had been, fingers curved, tenderness denied and left to rot. When he spoke, the words came slow, each one placed with surgical care.
“That was the second mistake.”
Your stomach dropped. “Second?”
“The first was trying to leave.” His eyes moved over you; bare feet, shaking legs, the shirt he’d given you because your own clothes were gone for washing, inspection, or whatever word he used for stealing pieces of your life and arranging them into obedience. “The second was pulling away when I was deciding to be kind.”
“You call this kind?”
“Yes.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Something inside you curled around the horror of that certainty.
Damian stepped closer. You backed into the door, metal cold through thin fabric at your spine. The keypad beside your shoulder blinked its small red light, useless as a dead star. He didn’t touch you, but caged you anyway, one hand braced against the wall, the other still holding your wrist. He lowered his face until his breath stirred the hair near your temple.
“You are going to learn the difference,” he whispered.
“Between what?”
“Between me being patient and me correcting you.”
Your skin prickled. “You said correction wasn’t pain.”
“It isn’t.” His mouth was close enough to your ear that every syllable felt like a hand sliding under your skin. “Pain is crude. Pain teaches panic. You already know how to panic.”
You hated that. Hated the quiet assessment in his voice. Hated that he had studied you enough to say it like a fact. Hated that your body, stupid frightened animal, had gone rigid and awake beneath his nearness, reading him in heat and breath and proximity while your mind screamed danger.
Worse, beneath the terror, a confused heat flickered low in your belly, shameful and unwanted. Your skin tingled with a response you could not control. Something traitorous in you tightened deep inside, hunger threading through the fear. You despised the way your body answered him, how it ached against your will, leaving you torn between mortification and longing.
“What are you going to do?” you asked.
Damian pulled back only enough to look at you.
There was a strange brightness in his eyes now. Not happiness. Not pleasure in any simple sense. It was a purpose, black and shining.
“I am going to remove the fantasy,” he said.
“What fantasy?”
“That there is anywhere for you to go.”
The words went through you like winter water.
“You are going to learn the difference between kindness and cruelty. You are going to learn the difference between when I am gentle and when I am angry.” His voice was low, almost a purr, but there was an edge to it, a razor’s sharpness that made you freeze.
“And you are going to learn very quickly that right now, I am being very, very kind.”
He pressed closer, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. His free hand came up to cup your chin, fingers wrapping gently around your jaw as he tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his intense gaze.
“Now, listen carefully. I’m only going to explain this once.” His thumb brushed over your lower lip, a soft caress that belied the sternness in his eyes.
"Every time you pull away," he murmured, his thumb still tracing your lip, "I will pull you back twice as hard. Every time you try to run, I will chain you to my bed. Every time you speak against me, I will find a more... creative way to teach you silence."
His voice dropped lower, almost intimate now, a whisper against your ear. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
He made a low sound, almost pleased, as he watched the fear flicker in your eyes. He leaned back just enough to let the moment settle, then his hand slid from your chin to your throat, fingers curling there, careful but unyielding.
"Good girl."
The praise landed cold, empty of warmth. His thumb lingered at your pulse, feeling the frantic beat beneath your skin.
"Now," he said softly, "let's make sure you understand compliance this time around."
His grip tightened, not enough to choke, just enough to remind you of his strength. His other hand found your wrist, steady and sure.
"When I tell you to do something, you do it immediately and without question. If I tell you to kneel, you kneel. If I tell you to strip, you strip. If I tell you to crawl, you crawl." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Have I made myself clear?"
“Damian,” You wheeze out, but his hand stays where it is for a few more seconds, his eyes dark and calculating, searching your face for resistance. Then he releases, his hand falling away from your neck.
The first breaths scraped your throat, sharp as glass.
“Come.”
There was nowhere left but him now.
You followed Damian back to the bed where you first woke, something cold twisting in your stomach.
Your gaze darted to where Damian waited, head tilted, watching.
He’s expecting something.
What?
“Your clothes.” Damian says.
“My what?” You repeat back, hoarsely? Maybe you heard him wrong.
You hope you heard him wrong.
"Your clothes," Damian repeats, his voice flat and unreadable. He takes a step closer, his eyes dark and unwavering. "Take. Them. Off." He makes a small motion with his hand, indicating the shirt you're wearing, the only thing on your body now. "I said I was going to be kind. I am being kind by asking rather than tearing them away from you. Do not mistake my patience for leniency." His gaze drops pointedly to the hem of the shirt. "Now. Undress."
Your fingers shook on the hem of the shirt.
Humiliation burned, hot and raw. His hand at your throat lingered in your mind. You hesitated, just long enough for impatience to flicker across his face.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with that stillness, more frightening than any threat. The air pressed in, thick and close.
"If I have to do it myself," Damian said softly, his voice almost gentle, "it won't be kind anymore." His hands flexed slightly at his sides, as if preparing to reach out and grab the shirt himself.
You knew what would happen if you didn’t move. He wouldn’t hesitate. Your heart hammered. Slowly, your shaking hands lifted the shirt, skin bared.
“Sit.” Damian says,
You know this part. The lessons have shaped you more than you’ll admit.
You sit at his feet, eyes lowered, shaking.
You have never felt more humiliated. Bare before a man who treats you like a pet. Like a thing.
A conquest.
Damian stood over you, calm and terrifying. Your nakedness meant nothing to him. You were something to be arranged, a possession finally in place. He reached out, fingers twisting in your hair, tilting your head back until your neck was bared and your eyes met his.
"Good," he murmured, the word devoid of affection, merely a marker of obedience achieved. "Humiliation is a teacher."
Damian's hand found the band of his sweatpants. Your eyes closed, bracing for what came next.
You heard the soft thud of clothes hitting the floor. When you opened your eyes, you saw him, hard beneath black boxers.
He stepped closer, filling your senses with his cologne: sandalwood, amber, oud. Heavy, almost nauseating.
Beneath it all, you caught something else.
Possessiveness.
Tears welled as the truth settled in. This was happening. This was your new reality.
His hand moved, slow and deliberate, and you whimpered. When you hesitated, his grip in your hair tightened, dragging your head back until you had to look up at him. The dominance, the satisfaction, the lack of remorse, something inside you cracked.
He pressed his thumb against your lips, forcing them apart. This was yours now.
Your lips parted, slow and mechanical, your body already learning its new role. Damian’s eyes flashed with approval. His hand left your hair for your jaw, guiding you, the other steady at your shoulder.
"Take me in," he commanded softly, his voice low and hypnotic. "Show me you're mine." His thumb pressed against your bottom lip again, pushing it down further. "All the way."
He watched your face twist, your cheeks hollow as you took him deep. He hit the back of your throat, made you gag, but you didn’t pull away. You took it, learning your place.
"That's it," He breathed out with a shudder, his hand in your hair tightening slightly.
"You're doing so well." He pulled out a little, allowing you to breathe before he pushed back in, hitting that spot that made your eyes water. "Who do you belong to?"
His hand twisted in your hair, forcing your head back. Tears streaked your cheeks, his length filling your mouth.
"Who. Do. You. Belong. To." The words were sharp, demanding an answer. His hips began to move, fucking your face slow and deep, claiming you completely. "Say it with your mouth full." He pushed in harder, holding you there until you choked slightly before pulling out again. "Come on, Hayati. Say it."
You tried to form the words, garbled and wet, muffled by him. "Mmm-yours... Damian..." Saliva dripped down your chin, dignity gone. Damian groaned, the sound vibrating against your lips.
"Good," he murmured, easing his hips forward again, burying himself deeper. "Remember that feeling." He held your head still, taking his time. "Now, swallow."
His release came suddenly and hot, pulsing down your throat. He held your head, making you swallow, not letting anything escape.
The taste was bitter, salty, a reminder you belonged to him now. He groaned above you, emptying himself. When he finally pulled out, your lips were swollen, your mouth messy, your body shaking. He looked down, satisfied.
"Good girl."
He wiped the mess from your mouth with his thumb, cleaning you with a tenderness that chilled.
"Swallow it all," he murmured, watching your throat move. "Every drop belongs inside you." He tucked himself away, the moment gone cold. He looked down at you, naked and trembling. "Stand up."
Damian watched as you stood, his stare harsh and unrelenting.
“I hope this lesson has been enough for you to understand.” Damian says.
“This isn’t love, Damian,” you whisper out.
“You mistake me then,” Damian responds. You look up at him as your eyes meet.
“If not me, then someone else. If not here, then somewhere else. Gotham can’t have you. Gotham doesn’t deserve you.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Damian spoke again.
“I love you too much for this place to corrupt you.” Damian finishes, the words sitting heavy in your chest.
The words hung, heavy and close. Damian stepped in, eyes dark with something almost like pain.
"Don't confuse my methods with a lack of feeling," he said quietly, his voice dangerously soft. "This is protection. This is preservation. I am carving out a space for you where the city cannot touch what matters." His hand cupped your face, thumb brushing away fresh tears. "Gotham would eat you alive, turn your softness into something jagged and cruel."
“Perhaps I have been too harsh in my devotion.” Damian’s chest met your face, and you stumbled back, confused, but he kept walking you back until your knees hit the bed. You fell, landing hard on the mattress, the comforter soft beneath you. A stark contrast to the man who put it there.
“Open.” Damian says.
You open your mouth.
“No,” Damian corrects, pushing your thighs apart. Your heart drums in your ears, blood rushing everywhere, to your head, across your body, humiliatingly, down there.
Damian kneels, sinking to the floor as if he is about to begin prayer, kissing the inner parts of your upper thighs.
“I love you.” His voice is strained, as if the words were too much and not enough.
His lips trailed up your thigh, his hands pushing your legs wider. He was gentle now, nothing like he was a minute ago.
"I love you," he repeated, his voice muffled against your skin. His tongue flicked out, tasting you slowly, reverently, like he was worshipping something precious instead of taking it.
Each kiss felt like an apology, each lick a promise. Love twisted into obsession."
Damian's mouth found your center, his tongue parting your folds and delving inside.
He was slow, deliberate, arms wrapped around your legs to keep you open.
He licked you slowly, tongue curling against your clit with gentle pressure.
"Stay because I love you," he murmured between licks, "Not because I'm keeping you captive." His fingers joined his mouth, sliding into you with ease, proving just how ready he'd made you earlier.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, his eyes filled with a raw intensity that was almost vulnerable. "I want you to choose me," he whispered against your sensitive flesh, his fingers curling inside you gently. "Not out of fear or obligation, but because you know I would burn Gotham down for you." His tongue circled your clit slowly, deliberately building pleasure instead of demanding it. "Stay with me willingly," he pleaded softly, almost breaking character in his desperation for genuine affection.
For a moment, you were caught between the ache he drew from your body and the chaos in your chest. Confusion warred with longing, a stubborn part of you resisting the comfort of his touch even as something deeper wanted to give in. Was it real, this tenderness? Or just another shape his devotion took to bind you tighter? You tried to catch your breath, furious at the tremor of need that moved through you alongside fear.
Your back arched, a broken moan escaping as his tongue worked you. Damian watched your face, grip tightening on your thighs. "Your body knows," he murmured, mouth sliding lower. "Even when your mind resists, this," two fingers pushed deeper, curling, "remembers who it belongs to." He bit your inner thigh, leaving a mark, then returned to you, focused and intent.
"Say my name when you come."
The orgasm hit, sudden and overwhelming.
You cried out his name, hips bucking against his mouth as you broke apart. Damian drank you in, licking through your climax, not missing a drop.
When you finally stilled, trembling, he crawled up your body, kissing every inch of skin. He hovered above you, eyes dark. "See?" he whispered. "You chose me even now." His lips brushed yours.
"You came apart calling my name," he breathed against your lips, his chest pressed warm against yours. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, an anchor, not a restraint.
"That's what love sounds like." He kissed you softly, letting you taste yourself on his lips, and closed his eyes. "Stay with me, and I'll give you everything. Every cruel thing I've done in your name, every sin I carry, it will be worth it." His forehead rested against yours. "But leave me, and I'll follow.”
“Learn this if you learn nothing else, hayati: love is not freedom. Love is knowing when to obey the person who would burn the world before letting it touch you. ”
