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*)
$ log - you’re a very disgruntled sheriff, tired of a repeating offender trespassing. so, you decide to give dean winchester a proper reminder of how the heavy the law feels.
$ warn --nsfw --dark --dubcon --older!amab!reader --dom!top!reader --sheriff!reader --mean!reader --sub!bot!dean --bratty!dean --d/s(heavy) --power-dynamics --older-man-younger-man --age-gap --size-diff-kink --bondage(handcuffs) --anal --impact-play(spanking) --rough --overstim --finger-sucking --begging --titles(sir) --authority-abuse --orgasm-denial --sex-tape(hinted) -butt-plug(hinted) --pretty-crier --dirty-talk --praise --degradation(heavy) --no-aftercare
$ wc -w 3.3k
$ cd masterlist / dean-winchester
note = you're practically breeding him. sex on the impala. cum as lube. sleazy!sheriff!r.
The blue and red strobes of your cruiser cut through the heavy darkness of the outskirts, casting long, rhythmic shadows against the rusted chain link fence.
You watch through the windshield, a tired smirk tugging at your lips, as a figure tumbles over the top, landing in a clumsy heap on the dirt. You don't even wait for him to brush the dust off his jacket before you've swung the door open, the heavy crunch of your boots on the gravel sounding like a death knell.
You catch him by the scruff of his jacket before he can even scramble to his feet, your grip iron tight as you wrench his arms behind his back. The harsh, white glare of your headlights hits his face, and you recognise that insufferable, cocky expression immediately.
It’s Winchester. Again.
The tickets haven't worked, the formal warnings have been ignored, and the reports are just piling up on your desk like a testament to his stubbornness. This brat thinks he can just dance around the law, playing the part of the untouchable rebel, but he’s about to learn that the law has a very physical way of enforcing its boundaries.
Without a word of warning, you shove him forward, forcing him down until his chest hits the warm metal of the Impala's bonnet. He stumbles, a startled "Hey!" escaping him, but you don't give him a second to recover.
You pin him there, the weight of your authority pressing down on him, and you know that tonight, the paperwork is done. Tonight, you're going to give him a lesson he won't be able to write off so easily.
Bent over his hood, sirens colouring the bare treeline, and he wasn’t even a tad scared. In fact he was quite proud - this’ll be another grand story to brag about. He glances over his shoulder at your disgruntled look, shaking his hips with a tease.
"What are you gonna do, old man? Arrest me again? Fuck me?" Dean sneers, leaning back against the Impala with that insufferable, cocky grin.
You don't even give him the satisfaction of a smile. You wrench his wrists behind his back, the metal cuffs biting into his skin with a sharp click. As you roughly undo his trousers, you look him dead in the eye, voice flat and dangerous. "That’s exactly what I’m going to do. The ticket machine is broken; this will have to do."
The smugness vanishes instantly. He freezes, eyes wide as he stares at you, the reality of your intent finally sinking in. "Wait are you serious? You're actually — " He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp as you push his face down against the hot metal of the bonnet.
"Hey! Watch the hair, you old bastard!" he yelps, his voice cracking as he tries to regain some semblance of dignity.
You don't let him. You grab a thick fistful of his hair, yanking his head back so he’s forced to look at the dark sky, before shoving his face back down into the paint. "Shut up, Winchester. You've been a very loud, very annoying trespasser. It's time you learned some goddamn respect," you growl, your voice dripping with authority.
Smack!
The heavy sting of your palms against his bare, pale ass makes him jump, a muffled "Fuck!" escaping him.
"You think you're so tough, don't you?" you sneer, leaning over him, your heat radiating against his trembling skin. "But right now, you're just a brat who needs to be put in his place," you growl, your voice thick with a hunger that makes his breath hitch.
You don't wait for a retort.
You're already hard. You’re so goddamn easy, but can you blame yourself? The sight in front of you was gorgeous: Dean bent over his beloved car, fumbling at his cockiness while his cute ass sticks just easy for the taking.
Your cock’s leaking pre-cum that drips onto the metal of the Impala. You wrap your hand around yourself, a few rough, desperate strokes to ease the ache before you do leak, painting his trembling, pale arse in thick, hot streaks of cum.
So damn easy. Long night, sheriff, just been’a long night, and a long week.
"God, damn —" Dean stammers, his snarky bravado fracturing into a series of breathless, incoherent sounds. He tries to pull his head up, to find that defiant glint in his eyes again. "You think — you think a little jizz and — and a few spanks makes you the boss? You're still just an old —"
"An old what, Winchester?" you cut him off, your voice a low, dangerous rumble. You scoop up a handful of your own warm, sticky cum, prodding your fingers into his tight, twitching hole to coat him thoroughly.
The sensation of him clenching around your digits makes your vision swim.
Dean huffs, trying to sound indignant even as his voice trembles and his hips instinctively tilt back toward your touch. "Just — just get on with it! Stop playing with me!"
"Patience, boy," you growl, the sound vibrating deep in your chest as you angle your tip to his hole. You savour the tiny whimpers as you tease — you know damn well he’s fighting against himself to just beg for it.
Slow and steady was the way you’d decided to push in, but perhaps that was the worser option.
"Mmhm, fuck —" he groans languidly into the metal of the bonnet, his eyes rolling to his skull as he's filled to the brim. "God you're — you're too big! You're gonna break me, you crazy ol’ bastard — gah!”
"Shut your mouth and take it," you growl, your voice a low, predatory rumble. You don't give him a second to adjust to the sheer, stretching girth of you. You begin to move, your hips pushing into his ass with a rhythmic, punishing force that makes the entire Impala shudder.
"Oh god," Dean’s snarky bravado is completely gone now, replaced by desperate, high pitched moans that he tries and fails to swallow. "Is this — is this part of the — the fine? You're fuckin’ killing me —"
"Consider it a lifetime subscription to my personal attention, then," you growl, your voice thick with lust as you drive into him again, harder this time, making his entire frame shudder against the Impala.
You reach down, grabbing his chin to force his head up just enough so he has to feel the vibration of your voice against his skin. "You wanted to play rough, Winchester? You wanted to see what an 'old man' could do? Well, here it is. Every inch of me, claiming every inch of you."
"Fuck — fuck —" Dean gasps, his head lulling back as your girth stretches him to the absolute limit. The snark is almost entirely gone, replaced by a raw, desperate need. "You're — you're a goddamn animal —" he manages to choke out, his voice a wrecked, breathless mess. "Just, don't stop — don't you dare stop."
The sound of your hips hitting his arse is a wet, heavy slap that never stops. You aren't being gentle; you're driving that massive, thick cock of yours into him like you're trying to split him in half.
Every time you lunge, your girth wedges itself so deep into his tight, puckered hole that he lets out a choked sound, his whole body jerking forward against the metal of the Impala.
He looks fucking wrecked, his eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth hanging open, completely mindless because his brain can't even handle how much of you is shoved inside him. He’s just a mess of spit and tears, staring at nothing because you’ve stuffed him so full he can’t think.
Jesus, you think, your teeth gritting as you watch your cock slide in and out of him. The sight is fucking hypnotic, the way his skin stretches and pulls around your thick, heavy head with every brutal lunge. If he had a pussy, you'd have knocked him up real quick, you think, a dark, hungry heat blooming in your gut.
That tight little hole of his is making you delirious; you're just as gone as he is, lost in the sheer rhythm of breaking him.
"Look at you, sport," you growl, leaning down to his shoulder. "Fucked so hard you can't even remember your own goddamn name, can you?" You don't wait for an answer. You just drive that thick, heavy length back into him, bottoming out so hard his entire frame lurches.
He’s babbling, an incoherent mess of "sorry, sir — please — sorry," his voice cracking as he fumbled against the bonnet.
"You like trespassing, don't you, boy?" you sneer, your voice dripping with condescension as you pull back almost all the way, letting the cool air hit his stretched, wet hole before driving back in. "You like thinking you can just wander wherever you want, disobeying every little rule? You think you're too big for the law to handle?"
Every lunge is slow, deliberate, and fucking brutal. You aren't rushing; you're making sure he feels every goddamn inch of your heavy self as it slides in, pressing snug against his insides.
You want him to feel the exact moment your head wedges deep into his gut.
"Look at me when you're getting handled like this," you bark, grabbing his chin to force his tear streaked face toward yours. "Don't you dare look away. You're a delinquent, and it's time you learned some respect for your elders."
He can barely keep his eyes open, his head lolling as he lets out a broken, high pitched mewl. "No, sir — please — so big," he whimpers, the words barely intelligible through the sheer sensation of you filling him.
You cum deep inside him, a hot, thick flood of seed pumping into his core, filling him to the absolute brim. You can feel his insides spasming, clenching around your girth in a desperate, attempt to milk every last drop.
"There," you grunt, your voice thick with satisfaction as you hold yourself deep inside him, letting him feel the heavy, warm weight of your release. "Now you've got a real reason to remember the law, you little brat."
You aren't done with him. You're going to milk every last drop of submission out of that brat.
Even as your seed floods his insides, you don't pull out. You keep your hips moving, a heavy, relentless rhythm that forces him to endure the sensation of your thick, leaking cock sliding through your own warm release inside his tight, aching walls. The wet, slapping sound of your pelvis hitting his ass is constant, a rhythmic reminder of who owns him.
You glance down and see his cock, neglected and twitching, leaking a mess of pre cum all over the hood of the Impala. He lets out a desperate, choked sound, his hips bucking instinctively, trying to find some friction, some relief.
"Look at that," you growl, watching the thick, white cream overflow from his puckered, overstretched hole and drip down his trembling thighs, staining the rim of his own goddamn car. "You're leaking all over your own ride, you little delinquent. Can't even hold a single drop of the law inside you, can you?"
You don't slow down.
If anything, the slickness of the cum makes you even more aggressive. You're fucking him with a wet, slapping intensity, the sound of your cock sliding through the overflow making a disgusting, slurping noise that echoes in the quiet night. Every time you bottom out, you can feel the excess fluid being forced back in, only to squirt back out the second you pull back for the next lunge.
He's a total wreck, his voice nothing but a series of broken, high pitched whimpers and pathetic, wet sobs. "Please, sir, it's too much — so much —" he gasps.
He's completely at your mercy, his body reacting to the sheer, unyielding weight of you even as he begs for a break he isn't going to get.
"Too much?" you chuckle, a low, mean sound that vibrates through his spine. "You haven't seen anything yet, brat. You wanted to play in the wrong territory, now you're gonna take every goddamn bit of what comes with it."
You don't stop. You keep thrusting into him, the sound of your cock sliding through the thick, white mess of his own leaking insides making a disgusting, slurping noise. You reach down, your fingers slick and heavy with the overflow, and you scoop up a handful of your own warm cum from where it's dripping off his thighs.
With a mean smirk, you bring your hand up to his face. He looks up at you, eyes glazed and pathetic, and you shove your fingers, coated in that thick cream, straight past his trembling lips. Dean doesn't even fight it; he just opens up like a hungry, desperate puppy, his tongue swirling around your fingers, suckling at the taste of you with a mindless need.
"That's it, attaboy. Clean it all up," you murmur, watching him desperately try to swallow every drop of your essence. The sight of him, so broken and submissive, makes your blood boil with a fresh wave of lust. You can't help yourself; you want to see just how much of him you can dominate.
You pull your fingers from his mouth, leaving him gasping and dripping, and then you shove them into his throat.
He's so small compared to you, his throat constricting around your thick digits as he chokes, his eyes watering as he struggles to breathe.
You love the way he looks completely overwhelmed, his body reacting to the sheer size of your palm as it wraps around his throat, making him feel like he's being swallowed whole.
"You're just a little thing, aren't you?" you growl, your thumb pressing hard to force a choked, desperate sound from his lungs.
You can feel the frantic pulse in his neck thrumming against your skin, a rhythmic, terrified beat that only makes you want to squeeze harder. He's gagging on your fingers, his eyes rolling back as he tries to reconcile the sensation of being choked with the heavy, rhythmic pounding still happening in his arse.
He's caught between two kinds of ruin, and he's taking every bit of it like the good, obedient little delinquent he is.
"Look at you," you mutter, watching a string of saliva and cum stretch between his lips as he tries to catch his breath. "Completely owned. From your mouth to your ass. You're a fucking mess, Winchester."
You don't let him recover. While your fingers are busy stretching his throat and making him gag, you drive your hips forward in a devastating lunge. The impact is so heavy it makes the whole Impala rock on its suspension.
Heavy-hitter.
You bottom out with a force that feels like it's bruising his very soul, your massive cock burying itself so deep in his leaking, cum filled hole that there's no space left between you.
He lets out a muffled, strangled cry against your hand, a sound of pure, unadulterated ruin, as he's caught between the choking pressure in his throat and the overwhelming fullness in his gut.
"Don't you dare get greedy," you growl, your voice a low, commanding rasp. You reach down, not to stroke him, but to firmly press his hips down harder against the metal. "I'm not touching your cock, sport. You take it like a champ and you cum like one. You don't need a hand when you've got me filling you up like this, do you?"
Dean lets out a broken, high pitched sob, the sound of a man completely undone.
Pretty, shimmering tears track down his cheeks, smearing against the hot paint of the car as he whimpers, "Please, sir, please, just — sir —" He’s practically begging, his body trembling with the unfulfilled ache of his ignored cock and the overwhelming sensation of you continuing to hammer into him.
Smack! Smack!
Two heavy, stinging spanks to his reddened arse cut his pleas short, forcing a startled gasp from his lungs. You lean down, your mouth hovering just inches from his ear, your breath hot and smelling of lust.
"Hush now," you cooed, lowly. "Only need those pretty sounds outta you. Keep the whining for when you're actually in trouble. Right now, you're just being a good, quiet boy for me, aren't you?"
You watch with dark satisfaction as Dean tries to swallow his sobs, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches, his body forced into a state of pure, mindless receptivity.
He’s completely at your mercy, a broken, beautiful mess of a man, and as you continue to fuck into him, you know he won't be thinking about trespassing for a long, long time. He'll only be thinking about the weight of your hand, the heat of your cock, and the way you made him beg.
The morning sun bleeds through the dusty windows of the Impala, stinging Dean’s eyes as he groans, his consciousness returning in heavy, painful waves. His first sensation is the ache a deep, throbbing soreness in his hips and a raw, stinging heat in his arse that makes every slight movement feel like a monumental task.
He tries to roll over, but his body feels heavy, uncoordinated, and utterly spent. As he shifts, he realises with a jolt of disorientation that he’s lying face down in the backseat, his hips propped up at an awkward, vulnerable angle, his trousers pooled around his ankles.
The reality of the night before hits him like a physical blow. He remembers the heat of the bonnet, the heavy, rhythmic thrusting of your hips, the way you’d gripped his throat, and the sheer, overwhelming weight of you claiming him.
His eyes wander blindly to the seat pocket beside his face, finding a crumpled citation and a small, plastic tape reel. The label on the tape is written in your sharp, authoritative scrawl:
How the Law Works.
It’s a mockery, a dirty piece of evidence that turns his humiliation into a public record, a grim sex tape disguised as official body cam footage.
Beside it, the citation sits, but it's not just a list of infractions. There's a handwritten note scrawled in the margin, the ink dark and mocking:
Consider the plug a memoir, Winchester.
A little something to keep you full of me, and of the law until you learn to behave.
The realisation of the note sends a fresh wave of heat rushing to his face, a mix of shame and a terrifying, involuntary arousal. He reaches back, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold, hard base of the plug still slotted deep inside him.
He stares at the tape reel, the thought of anyone anyone at all watching the footage of him being broken, of him whimpering "yes, sir" while you fucked him into the metal of his own car, making his head spin.
It wasn't just a punishment; it was a total deconstruction of everything he thought he was. He wasn't the rebel, the hunter just a messy, overstimulated boy who couldn't keep his hands off the wrong things.
He tries to shift his weight to sit up, but the movement causes the heavy plug to shift deep within his bruised walls, sending a jolt of unbidden pleasure and sharp ache straight to his core. He lets out a choked, pathetic sound, his forehead dropping back onto the leather seat.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
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. ”
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.
