Summary: After a foolish act of bravery nearly gets you killed, you and Steve have the argument of a lifetime. Unfortunately, (or maybe fortunately) your boyfriend happens to be ridiculously hot when he’s angry, and the line between fury and passion has a tendency to stretch very thin when it comes to the two of you.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI; Smut!, Unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, friends), Angry sex, My hand slipped and Steve is dominant as fuck, Dirty talk, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!
Author's Note: We all knew this day would come, and now it’s finally here. In honor of Steve Harrington’s Canonically Huge Dick, I present to you my first full-on smut drabble. Special thanks to @flowersforbucky for proofreading! And as usual, please let me know what you think! If you guys like this, there’s a pretty big chance you can expect more like it in the future!!
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Steve Harrington, your boyfriend and the absolute love of your life, drives you fucking crazy.
He’s overprotective, bossy, always ready with a sarcastic comment, and so fucking cocky sometimes that you want to wring his gorgeous neck.
Perhaps luckily for both of you, you drive him crazy right back.
You’ve spent the last half hour or so shouting at each other. In his car. In his front yard. Through the halls of his empty house. And now in his bedroom, where he’s running a frustrated hand through his hair and pacing back and forth and still just as absolutely furious with you as he was since the fight began.
“What’s the point of a plan if you’re never going to stick to it?! What the fuck did you think was going to-“
“I didn’t think! I didn’t need to think! If I hadn’t gone in there, those fucking monsters would have-“
“They would have ripped you apart if I hadn’t gotten there in time!”
“But they didn’t.”
“But they would have!”
You swear you mean to leave. You mean to turn on your heel and storm out, to shake off the anger and stomp home and wait for the adrenaline and fury and…everything else to wear off on its own.
But Steve catches your wrist, and spins you back toward him, and his face is flushed and his jaw is clenched and his eyes are on fire and…well, he must be having a similar thought process about your current state, because suddenly his mouth is crushed to yours and his hands are moving up to tangle in your hair with a ferocity that steals the breath from your lungs. He backs you into the door of his bedroom, slamming you against it and caging you in with his body so hard that the impact might hurt if it weren’t for his hand catching the back of your head to shield you from the blow.
“You drive me insane.” He growls, low, as his furious hands tug your shirt over your head like the garment is the most offensive thing he’s ever seen. “Never fucking listen. Always talking back.”
“Take this off.” You tug at his own shirt, breathless and growing increasingly more desperate with each layer of clothing remaining between you.
“And bossy.” But he pulls his shirt over his head, ducking back down to bite at your neck hard enough to make your knees buckle.
“Oh, I’m the bossy one now-“ he cuts you off with another bite, hands sliding over your waist as he presses you tighter against the door until there doesn’t seem to be a millimeter of space left between you.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened if I hadn’t been there in time?” His words are dangerously quiet against your jaw, and you think he might be shaking. You pull back, catching his lips with your own as you begin to fumble with his belt. He responds faster than the crack of a whip, snatching your wrists with one hand and pinning them to the wall above your head without once breaking the kiss.
“Never sticking to the fucking plan.” He continues between demanding kisses, the fingers of his free hand working expertly at the button of your jeans. “Never. Fucking. Listen.”
“We didn’t have time to- oh God.” Your defense is cut off with a gasp as his hand dives beneath your waistband, and you hear his breath catch as his skilled fingers find just how desperate you are for him.
“Fuck-“ for just a moment, his composure breaks. You whimper, the sound leaving you before you can remember that you’re trying to sass him, and he crushes his lips to yours again as he begins to work you like a well-loved instrument. Despite his words, and the gravel still lacing his tone, his movements aren’t rough. He holds you still against the wall, completely in control, but his kiss is loving and his fingers are deft as they move in the exact way he knows will make you fall apart faster than you can think.
“Almost lost you, because you can’t stop throwing yourself into danger.” He murmurs, crooking his finger and adding a second in a single smooth movement that makes your toes curl.
“We didn’t have…t-time, fuck. Steve.”
“Still arguing with me.” He almost grumbles, but his voice is so raw and his fingers are speeding up inside of you and his thumb is working in small circles and you’re having trouble remembering to be pissy with him. That’s probably his fucking intention, but you definitely can’t complain right now. “You almost die, and two seconds later you’re arguing with me.” He pulls back, just far enough to let his nose bump against yours, eyes locked on your face like he’s trying to memorize every expression that crosses it.
He’s losing his grip on his anger, too. You can see the fury in his eyes replace itself with something like reverence as they look into yours, as he crooks his fingers again and swallows your gasp of helpless pleasure like it’s a drug. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. Hold onto me.”
He releases your wrists, and pulls his fingers back so quickly that you nearly sob from the sudden loss. Your arms move to lock around his broad shoulders before you can think, and his hands come down to the backs of your thighs so he can lift you against the wall and kiss you so hard and rough that you forget how to breathe right. His hips rock against yours, and when your nails dig into the warm skin of his back he groans low enough for the sound to vibrate through you.
“Want you.” You murmur, and he moans again as he pulls you back from the door and lowers you onto the bed, still so careful despite his anger.
Once again, your hands move down to tug at his belt, desperate for more of him, and once again, he bats them away.
“Not yet.” He murmurs into the hollow of your throat, trailing searing kisses over your collarbone as he crawls lower. Lower. You whine, arching your back in frustration as your fingers curl against his shoulders in a stubborn attempt to pull him back to you.
“Steve, just-“
He interrupts you with a sharp bite to your hip, hands already working to pull you out of your jeans.
“Do you really think,” his voice is even lower now, dark eyes still burning as he turns them up to you, “that after the shit you pulled tonight, you get to tell me how to fuck you?”
You do your best to glare, even as his words send molten heat through your already burning bloodstream. You can’t find it in yourself to answer, and his satisfied hum only makes you burn hotter. Cocky bastard.
“That’s what I thought.” He murmurs, thumbs hooking in the waistband of your underwear and pulling them down as you squirm with a desperation that makes frustration ignite in your core all over again.
He lifts your knee over his shoulder, ducking back down to drag his blunt teeth along the inside of your thigh, and you try so, so hard not to give in. To stay mad at him. To find the words to tell him that he was being overprotective and you had everything under control and just because you’re about to lose your mind with lust and need doesn’t mean you’re done yelling at him.
And then his mouth is on you, hot and skilled and overwhelming, and anything you might have said is cut off by a near-sob of pleasure.
“That’s it.” He murmurs, the words vibrating through you as your fingers tangle helplessly in his hair. “Lemme hear you.”
The way Steve Harrington can take you apart with his mouth should be studied by science. The way you see stars as he writes sonnets into your body with his tongue, the way his fingers join the machinations of his mouth to make you cry out so loudly you’re worried you might wake half the fucking neighborhood. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, and his hand moves up to push your knee back down onto the bed, moaning into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are and it’s so fucking hot you might die.
Your high approaches like a fucking freight train, barreling towards you almost alarmingly fast. It’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain, but Steve doesn’t stop. Not for a second. His hand leaves your thigh, sliding up your stomach and your ribs until you’re almost mindlessly clawing at the muscled bicep before you, desperate to anchor yourself to anything solid.
His hand catches your fingers instead, threading them through his own, and when you look down, his eyes are dark and starved and possessive and locked right the fuck onto yours, and you fall over the edge with a scream of his name.
When you come to, still struggling to catch your breath, it’s to your boyfriend climbing up your body like a panther poising to attack, lips brushing over any exposed skin he can reach like he’s trying to inhale you into his very lungs.
“So good. You did so good for me…” he murmurs as he reaches the hollow of your throat, and you can only raise a hand to comb your fingers weakly through his hair. Your grip tightens, however, when you feel his own fingers return to where they were aiding his tongue moments ago, making you gasp and squirm beneath him, still oversensitive.
“S-Steve.” You start, only to be cut off by another sharp gasp as he slips two digits inside of you without so much as a warning.
“Shoulda tied you to the fuckin’ headboard.” He growls, breath warm against the shell of your ear. The words make you arch beneath him, and it takes a lot more focus than you would like to admit for you to smirk.
“Still mad, huh?”
He catches the lobe of your ear between his teeth, and speeds up the movement of his hand until you’re writhing.
And once again, his fingers move and curl inside of you, relentlessly massaging your sweet spot until you’re shaking beneath him.
He kisses you, slow and hungry and deep, and whispers soft praise against your lips until he finally builds you slowly back up to the precipice. Works you open until you’re moaning and gasping shamelessly into his mouth.
Just as you’re about to combust, clinging to him like a lifeline, he pulls back.
“No no no-“ you gasp, mindlessly, and almost reach down between you before his hand flies up to catch yours, pressing it back against the sheets by your head.
“Shhh.” He coos, nuzzling into your cheek with a cocky smirk. “Not so quick to talk back now, are ya?”
“Asshole.” You wish you meant it. He laughs, kissing your cheek, and finally reaches down to tug his jeans over his hips.
He’s big. Almost too big. Even with all of the preparation, all of the time he took to work you open for him, the stretch makes you whimper as he pushes in, slow and careful and shaking with restraint.
“You can take it, baby.” He half-whispers, more than a little breathless himself, and squeezes your hand a little tighter as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. “I’ve got you. My girl. So fucking tight. Made for me, yeah? You were fucking made for me…”
He kisses you again, groaning as he sinks all the way into you, and begins to move in a slow, steady rhythm. Like he’s savoring every thrust. Like he’s taking his sweet time making sure each movement hits the deepest, warmest parts of you.
“S-Steve.” His name leaves your lips in a desperate gasp, and the fingers of the hand not holding your own tighten behind your knee as he pulls it up a little higher around his hip.
“What is it, baby?” He asks, teasing and soft as you writhe beneath him. His lips glide over the line of your jaw, and his next thrust is just a little rougher. A little more intense. It sends a shot of pleasure through you, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. You whimper, the fingers of your free hand digging deep into his bicep as you try to match his movements with your own. Try to create just a little bit more friction.
He tsks at you, holding you still as he presses his lips to yours.
“Mm, always such a firecracker.” He purrs, another slow roll of his hips making you keen. “But you get so sweet like this, don’t you?”
“Steve.” You nearly sob his name now, and he still doesn’t pick up speed, but he does slide his tongue between your lips with a rock of his hips that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head.
“Shh,” he coos again , and you can see the restraint in his shoulders. See how difficult it is to keep his slow rhythm in the way sweat beads on his brow. “Be good, and I’ll give you what you want.”
“Y-you…ngh.” The insult dies on your tongue.
“I what?” He whispers, breath warm against your cheek. His hand tightens in yours, still teasing, and your toes curl as your head falls back against the pillows with frustration. More more more. You need more so badly you can’t think straight. You know he does too. You’re going to kill him. “You know what I wanna hear, sweetheart.”
He wants you to beg. You’re definitely gonna kill him.
“This is…you’re…” words are not your friend, it seems.
He thrusts a little harder, just once, and you whine. “C’mon, be sweet for me.”
“Please.” You nearly sob, and he grins as his free hand comes up to smooth over your hair. “Please, please please.”
“Good girl.” He purrs, and finally starts to speed up. Finally angles himself to hit that spot inside of you that has you moaning into his shoulder. “Was that so hard?”
“Steve.”
And even with the way his fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss you so roughly you wonder if your lips might bruise, and the way he snaps his hips so hard against yours you wonder if the headboard is going to dent the wall, his fingers are still tangled in yours by your head. His eyes are still locked on your own, and there’s so much love in his gaze that you think you might drown in it.
You’re drowning in him, and you never want to come up for air.
“I love you.” He whispers, hoarse and hungry and raw. “I love you so much. Doing so good for me. Fuck.” He kisses you again, and you can do nothing but sob out more pleas and broken forms of his name.
You feel like you’re on fire. It’s so good it hurts. You can’t think. You can’t speak. You wonder for a moment if he’s somehow broken your brain, mind almost too empty to even register the sweet words he’s whispering against your skin.
You try to tell him so. Try to express the intensity of what’s building inside of you. The words fail, and you just choke on a whimper of “S’ t-too…”
“I’ve got you.” He kisses your cheek. Your nose. Your lips. “I’ve got you. Let go for me. Wanna feel it.”
And you do. You’re too far gone to even scream anymore, biting down so hard on his shoulder that you’re positive it’s going to leave a bruise and clinging to him with everything you’ve got as your vision goes completely white for the second time tonight.
“So good... Fuck, fuck baby.” His breath is warm against your throat as you slowly fall back to earth. He follows you over the edge, pulling back to press his lips to yours in a surprisingly gentle kiss as he comes apart with a guttural moan of your name.
You’re boneless. Exhausted. Damp with sweat and still trying to remember how to form coherent thought.
Steve seems to be in the same boat, collapsing on top of you and taking a moment to catch his breath. His nose nuzzles into the skin beneath your jaw, hand releasing your leg to slide lovingly up over your waist.
“You okay?” He murmurs, and you can only nod, reaching up to wrap your arms around his shoulders with an exhausted hum.
“Still mad?” You ask, and he finally pulls back to look down at you again, fingers tracing over your still-flushed cheek.
“You can’t do that.” He says, soft and just a little rasped. “You can’t…you have to be more careful. I almost lost you.”
“Well, if that’s how you’re gonna show me that you’re mad-“
“I’m serious.” He turns your face towards him, and his eyes are soft. Vulnerable. The fire and fury from before is gone. “I almost lost you tonight. You almost…” his breath stutters a little, “I can’t lose you. Don’t you get that?”
His thumb smooths over your cheek, like he’s savoring the feeling of your skin, and you can’t blame your exhaustion for the way your heart melts.
“Okay.” You turn your face, kiss the skin of his palm. “Okay, I’m sorry.”
He nods, and leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet and soft.
And as he gathers you into his arms, lips barely leaving your skin for more than a second as he shifts to wiggle you both beneath the covers, you completely forget that you were ever upset with him in the first place. Something about him being overprotective. Or bossy. Or both.
You’ll try to remember that you’re mad in the morning. Or not. Or you’ll just hold him, and remind him how much you love him in the dim light of his bedroom, and wait until you can feel your legs again.
Steve Harrington, the love of your life, drives you absolutely fucking crazy.
I'm SICK and TIRED of the Kento Nanami mischaracterization.
(Now playing, "Sweet" - Cigarettes After Sex)
(MDNI! Lots of nsfw/sex talk, Husband!Nanami, fluff, comfort(?), smut, short drabble, Reader is heavily implied fem, pregnancy talk, I suppose? Just soft sex with Nanami.)
Kento Nanami does not fuck.
This man is not coming home after a hard day at work and "fucking the shit out of you." Half the time, he can barely get the dinner you made him in his stomach before he's crashing.
This man is not getting off on being called daddy. Or spanking you while calling you his "good little girl."
Nanami views the idea of coming home to you as the only good thing about leaving in the first place. So when he does come back home to you, he expects softness. Comfort. Not lust.
Nanami isn't a lustful man. This isn't to say he doesn't like sex. He adores it. With the right person, of course. But it's not something he does for his own greed. Kento does not fuck. He makes love.
As cheesy as he knows he'd sound if he ever said it out loud, it's the only descriptive that's ever felt right to him. Nanami doesn't want to grab you by your legs and pin you to the wall and "fuck" you. That sounds aggressive, degrading. As if his spouse, his love, his reason for coming home at all, was something to be used.
Nanami pours all of his love into having sex with you. (Literally and figuratively)
He's not grabbing your chin and spitting into your mouth. He's interlocking your fingers, his lips ghosting over yours as his forehead rests against your own.
He's not saying "look at this pretty fuckin' thing..." while admiring the way your cunt clenches around him. He's saying, "You're so pretty... my angel.." while looking into your teary eyes.
Yes, Nanami is Cumming inside of you. But it's not because he wants to "claim" you or prove he "owns" you. But because he wishes to one day start a family with you. A real family. With the love of his life.
This man isn't rolling over and falling asleep on the opposite side of the bed after sex. Nanami cleans you up as if the touch of water on its own will make you disintegrate like cotton candy. He wraps you up in his big arms, knowing there's not a single place on earth you could be safer. He's kissing the top of your head and rubbing your back as you both fall asleep.
《A/N: stop headcannoning Nanami as some weird lowk abusive freaky BDSM husband 🙏 SUKUNA IS RIGHT THERE.》
⋮ ⌗ ┆ overview: waking up on stevie’s chest has you noticing things when you didn’t think you could love him more
⋮ ⌗ ┆ tropes: pre-established relationship, steve’s chest hair and happy trail being my fav thing ever, just tooth rotting fluff, no plot mentioned, gender neutral reader!, soft soft soft lover boy steve and reader, reader loving on steve
⌗ ┆ warnings: allusions to smut the previous night, a bit suggestive at times
⋮ ⌗ ┆ a/n: i have been thinking of this scenario non stop for weeks but i was afraid i wouldn’t do it justice. i hope i did
⋮ ⌗ ┆ word count: 1676
The room is quiet and dim in that early morning way that feels earned, delicate, not accidental. Light slips in through the edge of the curtain instead of barging through it, dust motes floating lazily where it lands. Everything smells faintly like Steve, clean laundry, soap, (probably due to the laundry you both got too distracted to finish last night) but there is also something warmer underneath that you don’t have a word for yet. Something smoky, something him. The world outside the bedroom feels distant, unreal, like it’s been muted on purpose.
You’re tucked against him, pressed against his side and half sprawled across his chest, your cheek resting just below his collarbone and above his heart. His arm is heavy around your back, it wasn’t pinning you down, God, Steve never pinned you down. He held you, his arm was just there solid, warm, grounding.
Your body still feels loose in that post-sleep, post-everything haze, limbs uncoordinated, thoughts slow and drifting. There’s a faint ache in your limbs, not unpleasant, just the quiet reminder that you’re real, that last night actually happened.
You’re not fully awake, you are not fully anything. Not tired, just in between dream and reality where everything feels a little better. Or maybe that's just Steve.
Steve breathes beneath you, steady and deep. Every inhale lifts you slightly and every exhale lets you settle back into him. You can hear his heart if you focus, the quiet rhythm of it, the proof that he’s really here. That this isn’t something you imagined in the half-dream state where reality and want blur together. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was.
You shift just a little, careful not to wake him, though part of you isn’t sure whether you want to or not. The sheet slides down his chest as you move, pooling at his waist. Your fingers rest there absentmindedly, tracing nothing in particular, just following the rise and fall beneath your palm.
Your fingers splay idly across his chest, the soft rasp of hair beneath your palm. It’s darker there, thicker toward the center, not perfectly even, curling slightly in places and there’s something grounding about it, the way it makes his chest feel lived-in rather than polished. Your fingers drift lower without thinking, following the faint line that disappears beneath the sheet, that narrow trail like an arrow pointing somewhere you consciously do not follow. Still, the knowledge of it sits warm in your chest, intimate in a way that has nothing to do with urgency or lust. You press your lips briefly into the space just above it instead, breathing him in, feeling absurdly fond of the fact that he’s real like this, hair and all, uncurated, unguarded, entirely himself.
That’s when you really notice them.
His beauty marks. They’re scattered across his skin in a way that feels intentional, like someone dotted them there thoughtfully and then stepped back to admire the work, but they are also something so simple that they look like they were there by pure happenstance, a reverent thing. He was so beautiful.
There were a few near his shoulder, one just above his sternum, another lower, closer to where your hand rests now. You’ve seen them before, noticed them without really seeing them, but now, in the quiet soft cushion of your shared bedroom, they feel important. Like something you want to learn, something you want to worship and appreciate.
You lift yourself slightly, just enough to look at him properly. Steve’s face is turned toward you, lashes resting dark against his cheeks, mouth relaxed in sleep. He looks younger like this. Softer. Nothing like the version of him the world usually sees, the confident one, the joking one, the one who fills space without trying. This Steve feels like a secret, and you are so, so lucky you get to see him like this. Your sweet, sweet boyfriend.
You don’t think about it before you do it. You just lean down, press a gentle kiss to the first beauty mark near his shoulder. It’s barely there, more intention than pressure, your lips lingering for half a second longer than necessary.
Steve shifts beneath you, brow twitching faintly, a quiet sound leaving him, somewhere between a sigh and a breath. You smile to yourself, small and private, and move to the next one.
You kiss another.
And another.
Your kisses are slow, deliberate. Not rushed. Not playful. Each one feels like punctuation, soft markers of attention, of care. You follow them the way your eyes want to, tracing a lazy path downward and then back up, your lips warm against his skin. There’s something grounding about it, about following these tiny markers across his skin, about paying attention in a way that feels almost devout. Each kiss is gentle, unhurried, like you’re afraid of breaking the moment if you rush it. You’re aware, distantly, of how intimate it is. Not in a way that makes your heart race, but in the quieter way that makes your chest feel full. Like this, this is something sacred in its own right.
You move slowly, your lips tracing an uneven path upward. Steve breathes in deeper when you kiss just below his neck, his arm tightening slightly around you, instinctive. His fingers curl into the fabric of his your shirt at your back, grounding himself as he wakes.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough and barely there.
You freeze, lifting your head just enough to see his eyes flutter open. He looks at you for a second like he’s still deciding which reality he’s in. Then his mouth curves into a lazy, familiar smile.
“Morning,” you whisper.
He hums in response, eyes closing again as if that’s all the confirmation he needs, basking in the warmth of your love. “You’re very quiet,” he says, words slurring slightly.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Too late,” he mumbles, but there’s no complaint in it. His hand slips under the shirt where his thumb rubs slow circles against your back. “What’re you doing?”
You hesitate, suddenly self-aware, heat creeping up your neck at the intimacy, taking its place and settling on your cheeks. Steve’s mouth parts, you’re just so gorgeous, he loves waking up to you.
You shrug lightly and hum. “Noticing things.”
He opens one eye, squinting at you. “That sounds ominous.”
You huff softly and lean back down, pressing another kiss to his chest. “You have a lot of beauty marks.” you say simply.
Steve lets out a quiet laugh, chest vibrating beneath your cheek. “Wow. Thank you. I was really hoping you’d bring that up.”
“They’re pretty,” you add, frowning slightly because his tone sounded awfully like self-abasement, and because you are trying to find the right word for how deeply the affection for them runs in you. “You’re pretty, Stevie”
His laughter fades into something softer. You feel him shift beneath you, adjusting so you’re more comfortable, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck.
“I love you,” he says gently.
“I know,” you reply just as softly. “I love you too.”
There's a moment of just appreciation, looking at him and being so permeated with love. The pause is long, long enough that you wonder if he’s going to fall back asleep. He watches you lean down again, watches you kiss another small mark near his collarbone like it’s something precious. His throat bobs when you move higher, when your lips brush the skin just below his neck again.
Steve’s breathing changes, still calm, but deeper now, more aware. His fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against you, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. You don’t notice at first. You’re focused on the next small mark, on the warmth beneath your lips. It’s only when his fingers brush the side of your neck, gentle, grounding, that you look up meeting his eyes. He’s watching you like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the feeling.
“What?” you ask softly.
He shakes his head, barely perceptible. “Nothing.”
He goes quiet after that, eyes slipping closed again, trusting you not to disappear. You kiss your way slowly upward, pausing occasionally just to rest your cheek against him, to feel his warmth seep into you. There’s no urgency. No need to prove anything. Just the quiet certainty of being wanted and wanting in return.
When you reach near his lip, you hesitate, pressing a kiss there that lingers. Steve exhales shakily. You kiss the last beauty mark on his cheek and then pause, deciding to rest your cheek against his chest again. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. Fast enough to be noticeable.
A minute passes. Maybe more.
“You’re awake now.” you say quietly.
“Mm,” he hums. “Was anyway.”
Your chest tightens, uncomfortable with sudden shyness and warm all at once. You don’t respond right away, there’s another stretch of silence. Comfortable. Real. The kind that doesn’t need filling. So instead, you press one last kiss just below his jaw, then settle back against him, tucking yourself into the space you seem to fit perfectly.
You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”
Steve shifts slightly, adjusting so you’re more comfortable, his arm tightening fully around you now. He presses his chin briefly against the top of your head, not quite a kiss, just contact, breathing you in.
“You okay?” he asks.
You think about it. Really think. Because you realise that this is all you’ve ever wanted.
“Yeah,” you say. Then, after a moment, “I love you.”
“Good. Because I love you too.”
Outside, a car passes. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks. The world starts to wake up again. But for now, you stay exactly where you are, neither of you move, for once, you don’t feel the need to go anywhere else. You stay there, listening to him breathe, feeling the warmth of him seep into you. You are so loved, and you love him so much in return, and that feels like enough.
ꨄ︎ likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated!
ꨄ︎ do not copy, translate, plagiarise, or feed any of my work into ai
potentially doggy with dick? like he’s manoeuvring you and all that jazz and its deep and ugh
God, anon, I love that man. What a great idea
Dick Grayson/ Fem!Reader
cw: smut, doggy style, p in v sex, dirty talk, slight condescension kink, slight man handling, established relationship, hair pulling (reader!receiving), after care
Dick Grayson is, by far, the sweetest man you've ever dated. Attentive and charming. Funny and sensitive. Empathetic in a way that's both his strongest and, sometimes, weakest trait. He always makes you laugh and smile and even if you're having a bad day, he always seems to find a way to turn it around. He treats you like you're the best thing that ever happened to him, always endlessly pleased to spoil you rotten if he can.
That being said, Dick Grayson fucks you with none of that usual sweetness. It's hot and heavy and rough in a way that always leaves you sore and exhausted after. Not that you mind, of course. And he knows that.
Which is why he doesn't stop fucking you after your first orgasm, a shiver running down his spine as he pants softly, watching as you struggle to catch your breath beneath him. You know that look on his face, the one that tells you you’ll be boneless and fucked stupid by the end of the night. It’s exactly what you want and he knows it as he smirks down at you, his cock still achingly hard inside of you as your still sensitive pussy flutters around it.
“You look so pretty, baby,” He breathes, lower lip caught between his teeth for a moment as he looks down at you, one hand stroking along your still trembling thigh. He meets your gaze, smirking a bit wider as he gives a small little roll of his hips, forcing a sharp whine out of you. “We’re not done yet. You can give me another one, Pretty. I know you can.”
You let out a shaky little whimper as he pulls out of you, your pussy clenching around nothing. But you don’t have time to mourn the loss of his cock, don’t have time to pretend to argue that you couldn’t possibly come again after that. His strong hands grip your hips and he flips you over onto your stomach, a gasp spilling out of you as he yanks your hips up the way he likes them. God, he loves you like this; face down and ass up, thighs trembling and messy cunt so fucking ready for him still. He groans softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your lower back, smiling against your skin at the soft and pleased little sound you let out.
“Could keep you just like this all day,” He breathes out, sitting back up as one of his thumbs stroke along one of your hips. “All pretty and waiting for me. Ready to let me make you scream for me all over again. You’d let me too. You’d just let me take whatever I want from you.”
His every touch is fire against your skin in the best way. You’re so hyper aware of every touch, of every time he shifts behind you. You love when he gets like this. Love the way he can walk the line between mean and sweet in the way that always has you wet and squirming for him without fail. It’s a skill he knows he excels at and one he takes far too much pride in during moments like this. Anything that he can do that makes you wet and needy is a skill he’ll always take advantage of.
You wonder, for a second, if he’ll play with you a little. Shove his fingers into your cunt and fuck you like that until you’re crying and begging for his cock again. But it doesn’t seem like he has the patience for that right now; he’s already lining up the head of his thick cock against your hole and you shiver hard in anticipation, fists clenching in the sheets. “Please-”
He cuts you off with a laugh, mean sounding despite the warmth in his voice when he says, “Don’t even gotta ask me, Pretty.” Then he’s pressing into you with one rough, deep thrust that has a groan tumbling out of his mouth as he bottoms out. “Fuck, still feel so fucking tight and perfect.”
The sound that leaves you when he thrusts into you is nothing short of a sob of pleasure, your pussy clenching around him as you pant softly against the sheets, trying to muffle the sounds that fall from your lips as he starts fucking into you without much hesitation. Sharp, quick thrusts that have him reaching deep inside of you, the new angle making him feel like his stupidly big cock is in your stomach every time. “Haah…D-Dick, fuck fuck fuck-”
You have to press your mouth into one of the pillows, trying to muffle the needy and desperate little noises his cock keeps fucking out of you. Oh, but Dick’s never really liked when you tried to keep quiet, now has he?
“None of that,” He breathes, one of his hands trailing away from your hip and up your spine until he can fist it in your hair, yanking your head back just enough so that your back has to arch a bit. And god, when you moan long and loud, like that grip on your hair is a fucking godsend in the moment, his cock twitches hard inside of you. His hips snap faster, the sharp sound of skin slapping against skin nearly enough to make you dizzy with arousal. “Don’t hide those pretty noises from me. Wanna hear everything. Wanna know how good I make you feel.”
He leans a little closer, chest pressing against your arched back for a moment as his lips find your ear, “Tell me, baby. You feel good?” Another sharp thrust, his cock slamming into you and making your entire body jolt with pleasure, a shattered gasp tearing from your lips. “Like when I fuck you like this? On your knees with nowhere to go? Like when I fuck you over and over ‘till you can’t think straight?”
“Yes…!” The word seems to rip itself from your trembling lips. You feel his grip tighten just a bit in your hair, walking that fine line between pain and pleasure you both love so much as you try to press your hips back to meet his every thrust. “F-feels good-ahh-so good. S-so deep like this, I-fuck-I’m gonna come…”
“Already?” He laughs against your ear before he sits up, hand still in your hair. His other hand tightens around your hip, yanking you back onto his every thrust. “My sensitive girl. Always come so fast when I fuck you like this.”
But his own breathing has turned ragged again, his eyes drifting down to watch, almost hypnotized, by the way his cock fucks in and out of you. Another groan escapes him as he rolls his hips harder, grunting with every thrust into your tight, wet heat. He’s not far behind, either, but he’ll be damned if you don’t come first.
The hand in your hair loosens a bit before sliding free, trailing down and around until his fingers find your clit. The contact makes you jerk but his hand on your hip keeps you still as he rubs fast, mean circles into your clit as he keeps fucking you. The noises spilling from your lips turn from needy little gasps to full on sobs of pleasure and you can’t squirm away from the sensation, can’t do anything but let him hold you there and take it. The pleasure coils hot and tight in your gut and you press your mouth into a pillow just as the tight knot of heat finally snaps. You muffle your scream of pleasure as you shake through your orgasm, cunt clenching around his cock as your hands fist in the sheets, tears welling up in your eyes from the sheer overload of pleasure.
“Fuck, baby, squeezin’ me so good,” Dick’s own gasp his higher, breathier. The way your cock clenches around him nearly makes his eyes roll back for a second. He manages three more of those devastating, deep thrusts before he’s spilling into your still clenching pussy, a groan of your name passing his lips. You can feel the way his cock jerks with every spurt of cum inside of you and it makes you whine softly again and god, if he didn’t still have such a tight grip on your hip, you know you’d have probably fallen over by now, spent.
For a couple of moments neither of you move, the only sounds in the room being both of your heavy breathing as the two of you struggle to regulate yourselves. Hell, you’re floating in that nice, buzzy feeling of pleasure right now and Dick gives a soft little laugh when he sees it, stroking a hand gently along your side. “You good, Pretty?”
“Mmm,” You barely manage a hum, giving an almost lazy, slow nod.
He chuckles softly again, raking a hand through his sweaty hair. “Yeah, I thought so. I’m gonna pull out, okay?” His voice is softer now; the same soft tone he always uses with you. Warm and caring and affectionate all at once, despite fucking you half stupid like he just did.
He’s slow when he does it but it doesn’t stop you from whining anyways, both at the loss and at the sensitivity of your poor used pussy. The second he pulls out and steps away from the bed you sort of just…flop over onto your side. You ache in the best way and you know you’ll feel him deep in your core tomorrow, every time you move or bend over or anything else. But you always like that part a little too much, so you wouldn’t complain. You’re vaguely aware of his hand stroking your hair back before you hear him walking off towards the bathroom and, for a moment or two, you’re content to just exist in the post-orgasmic haze that settles over you.
You couldn’t really say how long you laid there, just existing, but you know Dick well enough to know that it wasn’t long at all. When he comes back and you open your eyes again, he’s got a damp washcloth in his hand as he settles on the bed, gently rolling you over onto your back. He looks at you, that boyish smile you love so much tugging at his lips as he gently parts your legs.
“Gonna clean you up real quick, then get some water in you,” He murmurs softly. It’s the same routine as usual but he’s always sure to tell you what’s going to happen regardless. You give a soft hum of agreement and he lets out a tiny chuckle, gentle as he uses the washcloth to wipe up the worst of the mess between your legs. He’ll sweet talk you into the shower in a little while once you’ve remembered how to walk again but for now, you’re content to let him wipe you up. Content to let him grab your water bottle from your nightstand and slide into the bed beside you, urging you to sit up just enough to get a few mouthfuls of water in you before you snuggle into him.
He’s content to let you lay there against him for as long as you need, his fingers tracing along every bruise and mark he left on you tonight. Marks and bruises the both of you will admire tomorrow, surely.
Summary: Gwayne notices early on in the marriage that his shy wife is rather quiet in bed, and decides to encourage her to let out those noises she's been keeping in, or as in his much kinder words, make her sing like a song bird.
Contents/Possible Warnings: PIV Sex, Unprotected sex, Breeding kink, Cunnilingus, era-typical misogyny (kinda?), Creampie, Fem!Reader, Established relationship, Reader's a Targaryen but physical description/features are not specified or described, SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, MDNI
The very first thing Ser Gwayne Hightower had ever noticed about you, all those many moons ago, was your quiet nature, a gentle shyness rarely seen within the other members of your house. While the other Targaryens burnt with the flame of fire and blood, you held yourself more with the patience of the cool, still waters he'd grown with and cherished back at Oldtown. How'd you been bred from a line of blood that hosted fearless conquerors and madmen alike, he'd never truly grasp, but not a day passed where he didn't give thanks to The Seven for blessing him with you in the world, and by extension, your marriage.
On the rare occasion when you'd speak and make yourself known, Gwayne found himself growing weak with a warm infatuation for you, a feat no other he had met before could achieve. Your voice was like the sweetest honey to him, the kind he could never get enough of, and he yearned desperately to hear it more, especially during your most intimate moments. Yet, you remained silent during your shared displays of passion. It was humorous, almost, to Gwayne the lengths to which you'd go to prevent yourself from letting out a sound as he drove into you. Bearing down on the pillow with a strong bite, digging your fingers into the sheets or even his arms, and clamping a hand over your mouth when neither was an option.
"What a most wondrous voice my wife has, doesn't she?" Gwayne asked aloud to no one in particular upon finding you in your shared bedchambers, sitting on the bed as you worked away at a piece of embroidery in your hands, absentmindedly singing a small song to yourself as you concentrated.
"Gwayne!" You squeaked, jumping slightly at his voice, not having heard him come into the room. "Please, do not scare me like that again!" You scolded with a frown, your voice still soft despite the nature of your words. Gwayne smiled in response, moving to sit beside you.
"You sing beautifully, my love," Gwayne complimented. "Just as if you were a little songbird. Mayhaps the Gods will bless me with more of your heavenly voice if I speak enough prayer." His hands slipped down to yours, holding them in his own. "You know, I came here to have a discussion of much relevance to which we've just spoken, given that you'll indulge me with your time."
"As you wish, husband," you replied, giving his hand a squeeze, earning another smile from him.
"I suppose I should first apologize for the coarse subject matter," He began, "but I couldn't help but wonder a thing or two regarding our more... intimate marital duties." You felt your face grow hot at the sudden mention, averting your gaze as your mind began to race with every worst possibility.
"Don't look away from me, sweetling. There is no need." Gwayne murmured, reaching up to grasp you by the chin gently, turning your face back towards him.
"I have not displeased you, have I, husband?" You blurted out, pulling yourself from his grasp, your face growing warmer as you looked at him, scanning his blue eyes for any sign of displeasure. Perhaps the knight had finally grown tired of your timid nature, you feared. "I do my very greatest to ensure I perform my wifely duties to the best of my abilities, but mayhaps I haven't been—"
"No, no– Heavens no—" Gwayne spoke quickly, hoping to avoid your further panic. "I wished to ask the same question. I find myself growing with worry that I mayhaps be falling short of pleasing you. You, my dearest, have no fault." He reassured, pressing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. "I find I am no stranger to your quiet disposition, but I'm not quite accustomed to it during our moments of passion," Gwayne confessed, looking into your eyes. "I cannot help but find myself pondering if I'm not satisfying you enough to earn your voice, to make you 'sing', if you will."
Your face burned as you took in his words. "Ah– You need not hold concern for me. It is a wife's duty to please her husband first and foremost, is it not? Silent or not, if you are pleasured, then I am greater than content." You replied with a nervous laugh, heart hammering in your chest as you watched him frown.
"And it is a husband's duty to care for his wife," Gwayne retorted. "I beg of you, if I am unable of being able to please you, tell me what I can do to remedy it. Nothing brings me greater pleasure than your own." The knight pleaded in an act rare for him. You let out a long sigh, melting at the sight of him, looking at you almost as if he were a sad puppy in pursuit of putting you before himself. You couldn't have been more fortunate in your choice of husband.
"I'm afraid of making myself a fool," you admitted, looking away. "You are nothing but kind when you shower my voice with compliments and tell me of your desire for it, but I do not wish to harbour your distaste with what absurd sounds I may make."
Gwayne let out a chuckle, leaning in and allowing his lips to find your neck, pressing languid kisses to your skin. "You could never upset me, my love. Not even once. Especially not with this pretty little voice." He purred against you. Your hands found his green tunic, fingers digging into the fabric as his kisses turned to soft nips.
"G-Gwayne," you whimpered out in a small mewl. The noise he made in reply, one of pure and adulterated wanton need, made you weak, wettening at his continued touches.
"You're such a good wife for me, aren't you?" He said, voice sultry, hands moving to bunch your skirts up to your hips before moving down to press a hungry kiss to your inner thigh. "Always so eager to please your husband." He pressed a kiss to the other thigh. "Let me take care of you this time, hmm?" Then he dove in, licking and sucking at your wet heat. Your hands fell to his hair, tightly grabbing at his red locks as you cried out due to the sudden pleasure. He moaned at your cry, sending vibrations rippling against your soaked cunt. The bridge of his nose bumped against your clit as he ate, tongue slipping into you briefly before he moved up to your clit properly, sucking at the sensitive bud.
"That's it, my little songbird, sing for me," he encouraged, panting before diving back in, drawing out the exact sounds yearned to hear from your honeyed lips. No choir nor musician could sing as you could; he was sure of it.
"Gods! Gwayne!" You moaned, pulling him by the hair just where you needed him. "Don't stop! I beg, please don't stop!" You could hardly believe the words falling from your lips; once so quiet and cautious, you were now sure the rest of the Hightower could hear you from halls away. "I-I'm so close! Gwayne!" You warned, orgasm barreling towards you.
"Fuck," he groaned against you, pulling away from your cunt, chin drenched in your slick. You hissed his name as he moved further from you, cunt aching for his touch in hopes of reigniting your once impending climax.
"Not so fast, wife," he smirked, freeing himself of his clothing before moving onto yours, both pairs of your hands working to rid yourself of the bothersome fabric. "Surely you can't forget of your husband in this matter?" The knight teased, guiding his cock, hard and dripping with pre-cum at the tip, to your waiting heat.
"Oh! Fuck, Gwayne!" You gasped as he entered you, followed by him groaning out your name in bliss. He moved slowly, setting a pace that eased you both into soon wanting more. His mouth fell open, red, sweat-slicked hair mussed as he looked down at you like beauty incarnate.
"I love you," He moaned, pressing his forehead to yours before pulling you into a messy kiss. "I love you so much." His hands grabbed at your hips, pulling them closer and angling you both just right enough to thrust inside of you even deeper, the lewd sound of smacking skin-on-skin filling your shared bedchambers. "Such a sweet wife, so devoted to her husband," he praised, fucking into you faster. "You're going to give me a son, aren't you? A little Hightower with his mother's eyes and his father's courage. You'll be a good wife and do that, won't you, darling?"
You could only let out a mewl in response, legs wrapping around his waist as he fucked you, the head of his cock hitting your sweet spot with every movement. "Yesyesyes— just for you, Gwayne, all for you—"
"I'm going to cum— Fuck, you're going to make me cum," he announced, thrusts losing rhythm, bucking into you with wild abandon. One of his hands moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing it in tight circles as he pounded into you. "Gonna fill you up, yeah? Fuck this cunt full with my cum."
"Yes! I'm cumming! Gods!" You moaned, climax crashing over you as he fucked you through it, helping you ride out the waves of overwhelming pleasure. He followed close behind you, the feeling of your cunt spasming around him sending him spilling deep into you, warm cum flooding your insides as he bred you.
Your legs trembled as he stilled against you, his head buried in the crook of your neck as you both came down from your highs. You let out a whine as he pulled out and lay beside you, white cum spilling out of you and dripping onto your thighs.
"You know, we won't get our babe in just one attempt," he smirked, fingers combing through your hair. "That's all the more opportunity for you to sing for me, darling."
In theory, being a sugar baby wasn't the worst job she had ever had. In practice? She's almost depressed and entirely aimless.
She packs up the few belongings that she paid for herself, writes farewell with an old lipstick and begins a roadtrip across the country.
She does not expect to be missed.
She does not know what to do with the knowledge that she is.
part two
Every morning, she spent eight dollars that wasn’t hers on coffee and an additional six dollars that also wasn’t hers on a loaf of ciabatta from the bakery next store for her daily panini.
She lounged in a brownstone that she didn’t pay for, spending money that wasn’t hers on whatever caught her interest that day while already having a stack of packages that she hadn’t opened yet.
She was sunbathing in a string bikini on her balcony, eyes closed and feeling increasingly restless while trying to think of outlets she hadn’t visited, dream destinations that she hadn’t been to, brands she hadn’t worn when she realized that her problem wasn’t as materialistic as she originally thought. This was when she realized that this life was no longer what she wanted.
What was this? She was living the life of a regency-era mistress.
Using a man’s credit card, living in his apartment.
She attended events with outfits he bought, makeup he paid for. She leaned against his arm and looked beautiful while he spoke about topics that she knew too much about, but wasn’t invited to speak on.
The only thing that she had that was hers was a blacked out 2015 Volkswagen Golf R which had sounded like so little to the version of her from six years ago, when this arrangement first began.
Now she felt her that her Golf was somehow encompassing her entire world. She had hardly touched the car, had only passively kept up on its maintenance.
She shot up, suddenly invigorated and rushed into his townhouse, hardly wasting enough time to shut the door to the balcony behind her and surveyed the room. She had expected to feel a pang of sadness to be leaving everything behind and wasn’t expecting the giddiness she felt at the prospect of nothing.
She hadn’t known when the lethargy started, when the visits waned and she became complacent but now that she had become aware—she could no longer look past it. Being a sugar baby wasn’t bad. Her college self had dreamed of having a man like Bruce Wayne pay for everything she needed and then leave her be—no expectation of sex, though that did happen, just companionship, but the reality of that situation was different.
It left her empty. She had become isolated, waiting for any drop of affection from a man was notoriously distant. She knew that it hadn’t always been like that, but she felt that the days of a Bruce Wayne that was almost suffocatingly affection had been gone for years now.
She hadn’t known when she had stopped messaging her friends, or when they had stopped reaching out.
She was in her mid-twenties, women she had once called friends had careers, or children, their lives were fulfilling even if she didn’t understand the appeal of a child.
She had never used her degree, she dropped to her knees by her bed and shoved aside dust bunnies until she reached her duffel bag—a plain black Adidas that she had carried since high school. It was worn, faded, but undeniably something that she had paid for. She pulled it out and walked into her closet, breezing past racks of designer clothing to a series of tied grocery bags buried in the back that she had kept forgetting to part with.
She pulled the bags out, opening them to check that they weren’t moldy and couldn’t help but smile at her completely mundane black t-shirts, dorky capris, hiking boots. She tossed everything but the three pairs of shoes in the washer and gathered her folder of important documents next, shoving that into her duffel and set to work on looking for items in the townhouse that she had purchased, spending three hours to come up with a total of ten things. Seven of them being books, one being her old purple iPhone, which she would need to get reactivated, a pair of corded headphones and then, surprisingly, an unopened, carefully wrapped present of something that she had bought Bruce and been too insecure to give him. It had been too long for her to remember what was inside, but she tossed it on her bed.
Whatever it was, she had no need for it. He could keep it—she didn’t want to remember Bruce. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but it was easier than admitting that she had a silly, childish misconception that she would be different. She would be the wife, she would live with him, whoever that was.
When her laundry was finally done, she folded everything out of the dryer and felt giddy at the complete mundanity of warm laundry. Then, she did a last survey of the townhouse, lingered on shelves of books that she had accumulated; easy over a thousand but paling in comparison to the library at Wayne manor.
She had expected to feel sad, leaving everything she had ever wanted behind. She had scrolled on LinkedIn after finding her ten items, applied to at least forty seasonal jobs, before she transitioned onto Indeed and various government websites.
She wasn’t entirely sure where she was going, but knew that she missed Boston and had applied to a Seafood Data & Operations role there. She had always wanted to road trip across the United States. Why hadn’t she? All the free time in the world and she had spent it doing nothing—she felt atrophied. She no longer researched, hardly ever drew. She wasn’t entirely sure that she could even be qualified for any of the jobs that she had applied to anymore.
She had the basic yearn of journaling but she no longer eagerly waited for the Hobonichi drop each year and had eventually stopped even purchasing them two years ago.
She would need to dig through her storage unit, but the thought of looking through years of her passions, shoved inside and forgotten about made her queasy.
An entire life that she had abandoned, her eyes were stinging and she choose to look at the ceiling to avoid tears.
Leaving this townhouse was different—her old life had fulfilled her. It was challenging, but it was hers. She visited the library everyday, pirated thousands of books and only bought groceries on sale and most items over one hundred with pay later apps.
When she had met Bruce, it wasn’t with the intention of.. this.
She couldn’t pinpoint when their relationship had transitioned into a sugar baby dynamic.
They used to have fun. She dragged him with her to hike Mt. Tammany, Mt. Rainier, Mt. Whitney, she had been telling him to get time off to backpack the Appalachian Trail, but couldn’t remember why they had never gone.
She looked down at her keys, the embroidered patch style motel keychain of swordtail shark had been a gift from Bruce—the first one that he had ever given her.
She could remember the day with starling clarity—how lucky, how loved she had felt. She wondered if her Golf could make it to California, giddy the prospect of finding out. She thought about writing a note, but what was there to say?
Bruce would be fine. How long would it take for him to even notice? Did he keep tabs on her? Their dynamic had to have been coming to an end even without her decision to leave.
She left the phone that he had bought her on the entrance table, inside the large catch-all bowl he had bought her beside the wallet he had bought her (she only needed the ID and her old, barely non expired debit card.) She looked in the mirror above the entrance table that Bruce had bought her and grinned.
She was in her old chunky New Balances, cargo capri’s and a loose fitting brown and white shirt. Her hair was lose around her shoulders, grown out slightly and she looked considerably different than her fresh out of college self.
She rifled in the bowl and pulled out an old light pink lipstick, scribbling on the mirror, ‘Gone Fishing. Wont be back.’ Before locking the door behind her and slipping the key under the mat as she left.
-
Her phone was ringing.
That shouldn’t scare her as much as it did. No one should be calling her. Her parents were dead, she was an afterthought to her siblings—had she even talked to them in recent years? She was no longer a prodigal daughter, but it did tickle her to still be the only one in her family with a masters.
She was a (hopefully) formally depressed, aimless (working on it) former sugar baby who had been camping in Congaree National Park for the better half of the week.
She leaned over her center console, three missed calls, the same number she didn’t recognize. She had every number related to Bruce memorized, but he had been instantly ruled out—he would’ve called with a familiar number. Maybe it was her nephew? She answered.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” She jumped, let out a small screech and dropped her phone between the center console and passenger seat while cursing, “Hold on, I dropped my phone, let me—” she grunted as she rooted around for it, “Almost there.” She said when she finally managed to grab it.
“Where are you?” Bruce asked again, significantly less amused. “Didn’t you see my note? I’ve gone fishing.”
“And you won’t come back? Explain yourself, you have one minute to begin or—”
“Or what?” She spat, “You’ll cut off Daddy’s credit cards?”
“You know I hate when you call me that.”
“That wasn’t a no.” She pulled her leg to her chest, looking out at the campsite and watching families interact with each other.
“You didn’t take my cards.” Came his low, deliciously gravelly voice. There was a unique note to it. She wouldn’t say that he sounded sad, maybe.. distant? Her mouth felt dry, “I’m surprised you noticed.”
“I noticed instantly.” She fought the urge to hang up. “Now, where are you? I’m coming to get you.” Her hand was shaking, “Why would you do that?”
“You’re clearly not thinking straight.”
Ah, now he pissed her off. “I’m thinking with more clarity than I have in years.” She placed her phone between her ear and her shoulder as she started her car.
She hadn’t seen the famous Congaree fireflies, but that was fine, she could come back. She decided her next stop would be the Bayou—drive straight through the night, day, whatever it took. “If that was true, then you wouldn’t be where ever the fuck you are now. You would’ve told me where you’re going and would’ve bought my cards. I see you’ve taken that German piece of shit car with you too. You’re going to end up stranded in the middle of no where with no way to get home.” She was surprised at the vitriol in his tone—Bruce didn’t often cuss. It would’ve made her laugh, if he had used different verbiage.
“That townhouse is not my home & teenage boys everywhere would kill to have my Golf.”
“That thing is a deathtrap, that’s why you have the E-Class.”
“I don’t have an E-class. I can call a driver to bring me the E-Class.” Then, with her eyebrow twitching she added, “and Mercedes is German too.” She could practically feel Bruce’s eye roll.
“How many speeding tickets did you get in the Golf? I had to bail you out of jail for racing an undercover cop!”
“He downshifted next to me! He provoked me! It was a trap.” The laugh that came from Bruce was sardonic, “Yes, yes, I’ve heard. You can explain it all to me again when I come pick you up. Now, where are you? If I need to ask again—” She didn’t let him finish, “Bruce, I don’t need to be picked up.” She could admit that she didn’t sound convincing, there was little conviction in her tone. She hadn’t even really thought she would need to defend her reasoning to him.
“I want to pick you up.” Bruce Wayne couldn’t fathom the idea of her no longer wanting to be with him—to him, this might’ve been her just being difficult, playing hard to get.
She flinched at the memory of his exasperation, a distant memory of him referring to her as ‘annoying’ maybe that had been the beginning of the end, when her wanting affection had transitioned from something adorable, into something that had a crease forming between his brows before he waved her off.
“That’s nice and all, except. When I left, I meant for our arrangement to end.”
Silence. She pulled her phone from her ear to make sure that the call hadn’t been disconnected and only caught the ending words, “—to end?”
“I don’t want to be your sugar baby anymore.”
“You have never been my—”
“Don’t piss me off. If I was your girlfriend, I’d be living in that scary ass gothic manor with your forty kids.” She was bouncing her leg, turning up the AC as her car was growing suffocatingly hot. “You’d be seeing me more than once every few weeks.” Her addition was an afterthought, almost mumbled as she wiped off a small section of dust she had missed off her dash.
“Mature adults would’ve reached out to have a discussion about this.” He wasn’t disagreeing.
“That’s what happens when you hook up with women twelve years younger.” She hung up and tossed her phone to the passenger side, exhaling and slumping into the driver’s seat.
She felt the familiar burn of tears, but wiped at her eyes harshly enough for her to attribute them towards herself and definitely not Bruce. That was it, the last time she would ever speak to him.
She hadn’t expected to end on a bad note, had thought the last memory she would have of him would from a week before she left, catching his gaze lingering on her as she tried to catch a budgie she hadn’t seen before the last few days and had become convinced it was someone’s escaped pet. His smile as she caught the bird.
She had texted Bruce notifying him that she had reunited the bird with it’s owners, but he had left her on read. She might’ve cared a few years back, but that somewhere along the way that had become their dynamic.
She jumped at the ringtone, noticing quickly it was the same number. She blocked the number and pulled up directions to New Orleans.
Her phone had rang three more times after that, she had blocked each number and after the fourth time, turned her phone off and went off highway signage.
She ended up conceding and turning her phone back on a few hours later after the stretches of spotty radio connection left her alone with her thoughts for too long.
She tried not to see the four new missed calls, the series of text messages. She didn’t want to think of them—they confused her, opened topics that she didn’t want to think of.
-
She made it to New Orleans in the middle of the night, or maybe it was early morning? She was tired. Exhausted and too broke to sleep in a hotel, so she searched for Hiltons with free parking and tried to blend in with the cars in the parking lot.
From her previous car camping days, she had immaculate window blinds that covered each window and let almost zero light in. She pushed her back seats down and rolled out her bedding and stared the lighting she had installed in her ceiling to mimic stars—some of them were out, but majority were in great shape.
She had been avoiding looking at the messages Bruce had left, but was tossing and turning too much with the knowledge that they existed to sleep. With a frustrated sigh, she checked her voicemail first—nothing, and no with no longer being able to avoid the inevitable, she opened her messages.
‘Hanging up on me was extremely immature.’ Well, that’s what happens when you screw younger women.
‘This is completely out of the blue and deeply concerning.’ Was it though? Or had Bruce just stopped reaching out, or talking to her?
‘You are welcome to leave, but you do not have a job, or an apartment.’ She had her car. That was good enough and how she had first moved into the brownstone originally—her decrepit apartment had been condemned and she had been sleeping in her car for almost a week before Bruce had offered.
She still didn’t know how the man had known she wasn’t in a hotel (too expensive) since she hadn’t told him about the apartment being condemned—ironically, it seemed too personal.
Too open-ended, her younger self had considered it like she would’ve been asking to move in with him.
‘At least be angry with me where I know you’re safe.’ That tugged on her heartstrings.
‘If you do not pick up this fucking phone, I am going to drag your ass back to Gotham with me.’ Where did this mouth come from? Why, she ought to wash it out with soap.
She typed a threat, ‘I will get a restraining order so fast your head will spin.’ Her finger hovered over the arrow, she deleted it, tucked her phone into the pocket behind her passenger seat and forced herself to count sheep.
-
She woke up to her phone vibrating and still half asleep, made the horrible mistake of answering it—too tired to remember the only person who could be calling was the one person she didn’t want to talk to. “Hello?” She heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side. “Where are you? I’m in Congaree and I don’t see that piece of shit car.”
It took her a few moments to register what Bruce had said, “You’re.. in Congaree?”
“Correct and before you repeat the next half, I’m not seeing your piece of shit car either.” She was wide awake now.
“You’re looking for me?”
“I warned you that I would drag you back to Gotham if you refused to pick your phone up.” What could she say? I didn’t think you were serious? I didn’t think you would notice that I was gone? I didn’t think you’d miss me?
“I told you I don’t want to be your sugar baby. What’s not clicking?” She tried to look for constellations in her ceiling, but didn’t think her past shelf had thought to add any. “Yes and that is fine—if you didn’t leave everything you owned behind and start driving across the country. You can stew in a different townhouse if you’d like, a penthouse, a loft, a studio. It doesn’t matter where are long as—” did his voice crack? She didn’t want to dwell on it.
“I am safe.” She snarled, growing more annoyed and less endeared. “Go back to ignoring my existence. I preferred when you left me on delivered.” She hung up, deciding future attempts at sleep were impossible and that she suddenly no longer wanted to see the Bayou, so she folded up her window blinds and pulled up her seats and had no destination in mind as she started driving.
She didn’t stop til she was in Texas and decided that peeing was no longer optional.
She wanted to grab gas station snacks, but could only afford a slim Jim after using the bathroom and spent twenty minutes slouched in a parking spot, scrolling Craiglist looking for odd jobs that paid yesterday and ending up depressed that her only options were related to agriculture.
She scrolled her inbox next--zoom interview invitations, in person ones that she would need to ask to be done over zoom, a few rejections sprinkled in.
She made quick work of replying to the zoom interview inquiries, sent the same copy and paste ask for a zoom interview to the ones asking for in-person before she finally decided to look at her messages.
‘New Orleans? Are you serious?’ She shouldn’t be surprised that he is somehow tracking her. He was insanely wealthy—big corporations did this shady shit all the time. ‘I would prefer you broken down on the side of the road, rather than a city with drive-thru Daiquiris.’ She couldn’t recall asking what Bruce Wayne thought.
‘The sooner you come back to Gotham, the sooner you can be rid of me.’ She was trying to be rid of him now.
She didn’t need to be in Gotham to do it—she wasn’t even from New Jersey. She was from Nebraska! Then, below that was an Apple Pay of $400 with a note, ‘Noticed your bank account is getting a little low.’
She immediately sent $390 back with a note ‘Inconvenience fee’ he immediately sends $900. “Are you fucking kidding me?” She sends back $910.
‘For the love of god, take the fucking money.’ He sends $3,000.
She sends back $2980 with a note , ‘no.’
He sends her $25, ‘At least eat.’
Her lip wobbles. She was hungry. She sends back $45.
-
She was sitting in the parking lot of a Chilis somewhere near Alamosa, $30 richer from helping an old lady with her lawn and sapping some of their WiFi for a zoom interview when her phone chimed. She didn’t need to look to know it was Bruce.
She waited until after the interview to reach over to and open her messages. It was primarily Bruce complaining about being in places that she had just been, asking if she was eating and sending her money that she promptly returned.
He complained about having to work on the road, about important meetings that he was going to have to reschedule. Bruce had always excelled at making her mere existence feel like a burden. Her sheer presence too suffocating to tolerate.
The distance had helped her realize how little she had been wanted in the last few years. The reminder had her tucking her laptop away and driving.
She stopped in Flagstaff next, not because she wanted to, but because if she didn’t stop she was going to run out of gas and really be stranded. She leaned against her car, staring into the dark past the lights of the gas station and despite the exhaustion that had her eyes closing, she knew she couldn’t stop driving.
She didn’t want to—Bruce was ruining her roadtrip. Not with his messages, but the knowledge that he was only ever a few cities behind her, a few hours away and yet he felt closer to her than when he was beside her.
She stops in San Diego, at an isolated beach she doesn’t know the name of and almost stumbles out of her Golf. It’s late, so late, she has never driven for so long and doesn’t ever want to sit in a car again.
She grabs her sleeping bag, bundling it up and almost falls down the stairs that lead to the beach. The night air is humid, the smell of the sea overwhelming and the sounds of cars distant. The city isn’t quite asleep, but it’s late enough.
She unceremoniously drops her sleeping bag onto the beach and falls asleep as soon as she’s inside.
She rises when the sun does. Groggily, half-conscious and still unbearably tired she forces herself up and still doesn’t miss the townhouse, the safety net of billions behind Bruce. She shakes out her sleeping back, more gentle as she rolls It up and tucks it into the trunk of her car, grumbling when sand flakes off into the boot and she knows she has to find a laundromat, a hotel, a shower.
Only two of those she can afford, but she quickly discovers, it’s easier to find work in San Diego.
-
She didn’t intend to stay. It was accidental, a serving job that she couldn’t pass up and the perfect spot for a hammock in a hidden part of the beach. She showered, she did her laundry, she thought about apartments but didn’t want to look just yet.
She would need to reset a dozen passwords that she couldn’t remember. Were her credit cards still active? Bruce hadn’t messaged her since Flagstaff. She had made the mistake of looking at their texts and cringed at the sentence she had texted in her exhaustion, before deleting the thread entirely.
She was sitting behind the building, a shaky chair pulled up near the door that the line cooks sat and smoked at.
There was a trail of sweat sliding down from her temple, the heat of the kitchen wafting out with the familiar scent of the family meal that she was only allowed to partake in on the condition that she would fall into the rotation of cooking—something she hadn’t expected to agree to but found it came naturally.
“Aye, there is someone asking for you.” A gruff voice called from inside, the cook that it belonged to was considerably younger than the voice implied, but that was what happened when you chain-smoked everyday for years.
“A table?”
“A man.”
“You can tell him I died for all I fucking care.”
“Said he won’t leave til you talk to him.” She cracked her neck, standing and debating on the merit of asking for a cigarette but couldn’t stand the smell of whatever he smoked and knew she would only end up embarrassing herself by coughing out a lung.
She walked past, knowing that the cook said something but the buzzing in her ears was too loud to comprehend as she walked out of the kitchen, almost immediately smacking into Bruce who had the audacity to be waiting immediately outside of the kitchen entrance despite the hostess—Araceli, attempting to politely redirect him to a table.
She wasn’t sure what she was expecting when Bruce finally caught up. Was she expecting to regret her decision to leave? A pang of longing? was she expecting her chest to constrict? Or for her to break down into uncontrollable sobbing?
She found that she felt none of that. It was weird, slightly uncomfortable to be seeing him. It was as if any affection she had for him as carved out of her, leaving an empty void where she knew once, maybe, had been something adjacent to love.
There were a few hairs out of place, his two top buttons were undone. “Are you available to talk?”
“I’m in the middle of my shift.” That was a weird sentence to say.
“I’ll wait. Please place me in her section.”
Araceli nodded and it was only when the hostess got back from settling Bruce in that she swapped sections with another server.
The restaurant was small enough that Bruce could see her from every end. It was unnerving, the feeling of his eyes following her as she weaved between tables and dodged customers with no spatial awareness.
There was an electricity in the air, reminding her of when she had accidentally electrocuted herself at her first job when plugging in the motorized cart.
The last few hours of her shift seemed to pass agonizingly slowly. She tried to slip out the back, she really did. She was almost home free, speed walking to her car when she noticed the giant fucking barnacle on her windshield and knew exactly who had done it.
She had spun on her heel, almost throwing open the front doors to the restaurant to storm up to a completely unbothered Bruce who definitely had noticed he hadn’t seen her leave. “My compliments to the chef.” He dabbed at his mouth
“He did a line of cocaine off between a servers back dimple dermals last night. I don’t think he cares for your compliments.” Bruce’s expression remained carefully blank.
“I take it your shift is over?”
“You have five minutes to get that barnacle off my car.”
Bruce stood, lifting the chair up slightly as he pushed it back against the table. “I’m afraid that won’t be happening.”
She couldn’t remember being so angry before. He had never provoked her like this—had never challenged her like he was now and she hated it.
Outwardly, she was silent as she spun on her heel and walked out, shooting one last glare at the nosy staff suspiciously congregating in perfect view of Bruce’s table.
Inwardly, she was going absolutely insane. She was going to gnaw the barnacle off with her teeth. She was going to key his Maybach, she was going to break his phone and throttle him with his own tie.
She was going to scream and scream and she was going to stomp his foot. She was going to break the window just to have the barnacle off her car and she was going to be using his giant, hard head to do it.
She was standing beside the drivers side door of her car, running her hand on the handle of the locked car to avoid pacing.
She needed an anchor, a tether. She wanted to be calm, but felt increasingly unable to. Bruce, on the other hand, seemed to feel nothing but calm, even as he chased her half across the country after half-ignoring her for years. She hadn’t looked too far for his car, but she doubted it was too far.
“Get this off my car.” She repeated, proud of how level her tone was.
Bruce stopped hardly a foot away from her. She didn’t turn to face him fully, but she straightened her shoulders. That make Bruce any shorter, didn’t make her any more intimidating.
“Will you be returning to Gotham?”
Her grip on the drivers handle tightened. She exhaled, Bruce wasn’t used to being told no.
He wasn’t used to being the one ignored, so she released the handle and leaned against her drivers side door, crossing her arms as she looked first his chest, the peak of chest hair and the few wrinkles on his shirts he usually kept impeccably smooth.
“I genuinely don’t want to return to Gotham.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Let me pay for an apartment here.” She shook her head, “I was serious Bruce. I don’t want that life anymore.”
“You would rather be broke and homeless?”
“It’s just difficult now. It won’t be like this forever.” She was going to argue that she was moreso unhoused—she had felt better sleeping in her hammock, in her car than she had in that egregiously large bed but knew Bruce cared little for what she said, especially evident as he closed the distance between them, raising a hand to her softly cup her cheek.
Was she breathing? He drew a circle on her cheek with this thumb, before his hand trailed slowly along the side of her face, he drew another circle just above her jaw line before lowering to her neck.
“I don’t know what to do with you.” Bruce sounded almost reverent, completely at odds with his choice of words and his hand on the back of her neck, which tightened to keep her firmly in place.
It seemed he knew exactly what to do with her and it involved keeping her from running from him, again. Though she didn’t really think of it as running.
He didn’t need to follow her across the country. “I’m missing work for this tantrum of yours.”
“I didn’t ask you to. You were welcome to go back at any time.”
“You refused to come with me.”
“I am still not going.” She refused to flinch from eye contact, even as he looked more monster than man. Then, a flash and Bruce loosened his grip on the back of her neck, but didn’t remove it entirely as he pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes were closed.
She averted her gaze as her mind was racing, when was the last time he had been so close to her? “Please, just let me—just let me pay for a hotel. Until you get an apartment. I just—” She was too scared to look up, she didn’t want to see his expression. “—Want to know you’re safe.”
“Will you remove the barnacle?”
“Yes.”
She allowed herself to relax under his touch, his breath ghosted her face.
“Okay.” She ducked out from under Bruce, unlocking her car and sliding into the driver’s seat and barely stopped herself from locking the door. He leaned against the door she had been and she chose to organize her center console as she waited for the barnacle to be removed.
-
It had taken ten minutes for the barnacle to be removed. Then, she had been so engrossed in pretending that Bruce wasn’t outside of her car that she didn’t notice he had moved until he was sliding into her passenger seat.
“Excuse me?”
He looked unbelievably awkward in her car—his head almost touching the ceiling, his knees touching the dash until he adjusted the seat. “You’re excused.”
“I think you made a joke, just then. It wasn’t funny either, which is on par with your sense of humor.” He ignored her jab and moved to adjusting his seatbelt before clicking into place and reaching over to grab her phone.
“What is this, an iPhone 14?” He tapped a code on her screen, frowned when it didn’t immediately unlock and tried another, “What’s your password?” She snatched it back from him. She couldn’t remember Bruce ever having this much audacity. “Nunya.”
“Nunya? Your password was—”
“Nunya business.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, “You are a child.”
“That is what happens when you--”
“I practiced consensual intercourse with a woman well into her twenties.”
“Please never say it like that again.” She unlocked her phone and handed it over without thought.
A few seconds after Bruce had opened her maps, typed in directions and then gently placed her phone on her magnetic mount she remembered that Bruce was no longer entitled to that level of trust. She took a sip of her day old Dasani.
-
She had expected to drive to a hotel, not a towering apartment complex in the middle of downtown. Their drive was spent in silence, other than occasional directions and the top 40 rock hits of the last decade on the radio, “I didn’t know you knew how to drive a stick shift.” She wanted to start mentioning all of things that Bruce didn’t know about her, but didn’t want to risk inviting further conversation.
She turned into the parking garage, “Or that you drove so well.” Bruce added, she waited an appropriate two seconds before slamming on her breaks, laughing when Bruce’s head bounced lightly off her ceiling, “Oops! Guess not that good.” Then, she stalled in the immediate aftermath for added effect.
She didn’t find a parking spot til the second floor, which would’ve typically been a godsend if she wasn’t in the car with Bruce Wayne—brooding extraordinaire.
She parked slightly too close to the SUV on Bruce’s side to see how the huge man would navigate sliding out without damaging either car.
“This doesn’t look like a hotel to me.” She commented when instead of attempting to squeeze out the passenger side, simply lifted himself over the center console and out of the drivers side. “You’re not looking hard enough.” His hand hovered at her lower back, close enough for her to imagine feeling the heat from his hand but far enough that he wasn’t touching her, unless she abruptly stopped and she was exceptionally careful not to.
Bruce guided her to the elevator, a dynamic that despite abandoning, she fell into without much thought.
It was habit, she told herself. They bypassed the receptionist, there was no keycard for Bruce to swipe when they reached the elevators, nor was there an option for a floor to be selected. Bruce entered a code on the pin pad she instantly recognized as her former phone password: 8008 and the elevator immediately came to life.
She to be less aware that this wasn’t a hotel. When the doors opened, the apartment wasn’t sparsely furnished, but the furnishing was boring.
A gray couch, a glass table, hardwood floors, a gray rug—everything was gray! One wall, facing the San Diego skyline was floor to ceiling windows, though the bottom level of curtains were half raised and created somewhat of a balcony effect.
“I was thinking more of a Motel 8.” Bruce snorted.
“This will be fine til you’re able to get situated in an apartment.” Silence came over the pair—she found it to be suffocatingly awkward, but he didn’t seem bothered.
“This was conveniently close to my work.” Bruce remained silent, but inched slightly closer to her. She wasn’t stupid, but knew that arguing with him was fruitless.
He had arranged this apartment before she had even agreed to return to Gotham so maybe, there was a part of Bruce that knew she was serious.
finally finding what seems to be a well written x reader fic about your character only for y/n to wear thigh highs, pig tails, be 4'9, have hands so small they should be a genetic anomaly, tagged 'size difference', and fav character intimately speaks ONLY to them in eye dialect that sounds suspiciously like baby talk, such as 'do it f'me' ... i know what u are fanfic authors in 2025. we all know.
