An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
a borderline crack fic solely inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's 'When Did You Get Hot'
Gods.
Raven tries to make sense of the scene before her after walking into the kitchen—brain literally short-circuiting.
Alarm bells are ringing in her head, blaring and flashing, accompanied with a bright red sign in bold letters that’s screaming ‘Reboot’.
Damian’s chopping vegetables on their kitchen island.
In an apron! (That she’s never seen him wear). With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows! And—his hands!
They’re moving in such a practiced way that looks so fluid. The tips of his fingers are curved on the carrot he’s cutting, perfectly dancing parallel to the knife in his other hand as he slices.
His forearms follow the movement, muscles flexing in such a way that is—Sexy??
And—and the veins. She’d read how attractive they are many times in the tabloids but didn’t understand before. Watching him now…
A few strands of his hair fall forward, shadowing his eyes from her while he cuts—the sharp edge of his jaw tight with concentration.
There’s a fleeting thought as her brain begins to restart, in the form of a pop-up notification reminding her that she’s been staring like a complete idiot for multiple minutes now, and should probably move—at the very least get out of the entryway—but…
For some reason her feet are floored to the spot—unable to break free from her trance. She can’t stop staring at him.
She’s always admired his fighting style during training, and had immediately picked up on the quiet grace he carries into everything he does. Just like a leader. Just like a prince.
As Damian gets closer to the end of the carrot, his brows furrow together more. A couple of slices later he bites his lower lip, and she nearly melts into a puddle right there on the spot.
Death by vegetables? Yeah, that sounds about right.
“Raven.”
She blinks hard—completely caught off guard by Damian calling her name. Her eyes meet the warm welcome of his own, and her cheeks heat with the realization that he had just caught her staring.
Like an idiot.
So instead of saying something redeeming and neutral like ‘Oh hey Damian, how are you doing?,’ or ‘What a nice day it is this afternoon,’ she blurts out, “You’re chopping.”
One of his eyebrows rise high as he scrutinizes her face, probably considering if she’s being serious, and how much sarcasm he should deal out. She wants to smack herself. Really? Of all our emoticons, that’s what we came up with?
Raven’s pretty sure she sees Knowledge in her mind, shrugging helplessly at her.
The next best thing is a humble and hasty retreat—cast with a mumbled apology and a dramatic swish of her cape while turning on her heel.
Before she can follow through with that plan, Damian replies with a snort, “That’s very observant. Your detective work is phenomenal.”
Raven tries to backtrack. She knows, of course, from the schedule that it’s Damian’s day to cook. “I mean—I wasn’t expecting to see you making dinner so early.”
It seems to be a fair point, because Damian doesn’t tease her further into oblivion. “I decided to prep now so that all I need to do later is bake it,” he admits.
Her feet finally wake up at the startup sound of her brain beginning to function again. They lead her closer to the island.
“What are you making?”
“Chicken pot pie,” he says, using a single finger to swipe the blade of his knife, guiding the stray pieces of carrot into a bowl. Then Damian takes the cloth tucked into his apron pocket to wipe his hands before causally tossing it over his shoulder. He gets started on the crust, kneading the dough with careful, methodical movements.
Raven finds a stool across from him to sit on. His hands are still working in the dough—arms flexing again—and she’s suddenly wondering what other skills he has with those hands that she doesn’t know about. Up closer she can smell his cologne, some kind of dark spice that she inhales deep—
Raven hasn’t noticed before how good he smells. She’s always known he’s been somewhat attractive. She’s not blind after all. The features in his face and body have always been symmetrically appealing. The sheer amount of fan mail he gets everyday is a testament to that fact. That and the literal trail of women that make a point to track him when he goes out in public. Plus the tabloids that have an entire staff dedicated to his whereabouts. It’s a little obsessive really—and plus they have absolutely no right to violate his privacy like that—
“Are you unwell, Raven?” Damian asks, breaking the silence.
Raven almost slips off the stool.
Oh Gods. She’s been staring at his hands again, watching the easy way they work the dough into a crust for the pie. Damian’s now looking at her with both concern and confusion— clearly finding her behavior odd, but unsure why.
Suddenly the kitchen is too damn hot, and too damn small.
I have to get out of here.
“I’m fine!” Raven squeaks while rushing out of her seat, then clears her throat because that came out way too high-pitched, “Just have a little tickle in my throat—I’m gonna grab a glass of water, and I’ll be out of your way.”
Damian pauses in his prepping to watch her stride across the kitchen to the fridge. Raven can feel his gaze at her back.
“You’re not in my way. You can stay if you’d like,” he says after her.
Raven silently wills the blush in her cheeks to fade while searching for a glass in the cabinet. Now focused on the singular goal of getting the heck out, she declines Damian’s offer.
“No, no, I was actually on my way to meditate.” Her hands keep fishing, coming back with coffee mugs. Dammit I just need one glass. Who’s idea was it to put all the drinkable dishwear together in one cupboard? Fucking Garfield. “It might take an extra hour today so I want to start early.”
There’s silence while glass and ceramic clink against one another, until Raven finds a water glass towards the back. Finally! Then she turns to the fridge to fill it.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Damian asks.
“Mhm, all good. Don’t worry about me,” she rambles, internally wincing because this is probably the most nonsense she’s spouted in a conversation with him, “I’ll be ready for patrol tonight.”
“I’m not worried about patrol.”
His words stall her, particularly the ones that he doesn’t say. His concern is touching really, and she feels a need to dissuade him from pushing further.
“Good! That’s great, then I’ll see you later for dinner? I’m sure the pie is going to be hot—I mean great! I mean, I’m sure it will be hot as in it’s coming from the oven hot—not er—“
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“…Right.”
Raven sucks in a breath through her teeth and closes her eyes, desperate to slow down her current spiral. The glass of water clutched in her fingers is cold—a stark contrast to the embarrassed heat fanning her face. She ponders if she can get away with placing it against her flushed neck. He’d notice (he notices everything), but maybe he’d be too polite to comment on it.
“Ooooo’ watcha makin’ in here, Rob?” Garfield calls out a moment later, strolling in with his nostrils flared.
Oh thank Gods. Who knew Garfield would be her saving grace?
“Chicken pot pie,” Damian says, his eyes still on her—now unreadable.
“Oh man,” Gar pouts comically, canines protruding.
Damian finally breaks eye contact to roll them at the ceiling. “I’m making a vegan pie as well, Beast Boy.”
“Heck yeah! I can’t wait. I’m starving.”
Raven can’t help her own eye roll at the Changeling's words while basking in the slight reprieve from Damian’s attention.
“Well the more you talk, the more distracting you are,” Damian deadpans.
“I’m leaving! I just wanted to come see what was for dinner,” Garfield says, then walks over to the pantry to grab a snack. Typical.
Damian deigns not to reply, re-focusing back on his task. Raven’s relieved to find that he leaves her alone for the time being, respectful of her own time to get away so she can meditate. Which is needed even more since she’s been in the kitchen. After watching Damian.
Who seems to be at such ease in his environment while cooking dinner. He grabs the rolling pin already laid out to one side, and starts to flatten out the dough, like he’s done it a million times before. A practiced art. It’s so…so domestic.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Garfield jokes from beside her, snapping her back into the present.
Damian looks back up at the two of them quizzically just as Raven’s power lashes out. It takes the plastic bag in Garfield’s hands, and promptly makes it explode. Barbeque chips rain down on the three of them, shocked silence broken by Garfield’s yell.
Damian’s eyes dart between the two of them, at a complete loss while trying to bridge together what just happened.
“My chips!” Garfield whines.
“Idiot,” Raven growls back at Gar. She doesn’t wait for a response, or even offer to help clean up the mess. Saving grace my ass. Instead she finally turns on her heel like she should’ve done at the very beginning of this disaster (and yes her cape does swish out dramatically). She stomps out of the kitchen, all the way up to the roof of the tower, all while bidding her heart to slow its wild and rapid beat.
When she reaches the railing, she groans into her hands, feeling like one of Damian’s vegetables on the cutting board.
Of all the emotions warring through her mind, battling it out in her mindscape, there’s only one singular conscious thought running through it.
An admission that she can’t take back now that it’s fully formed.
Popping in after being a ghost for ages to say gahdamn I'm enjoying "Consequences to Endure" 👌😫❤️❤️
I assure you there is so much horny angst. It's great watching Raven fall apart morally, but also can't stop herself from wanting to get boned. It's one of my favorite things, honestly. I just need to get my ass in gear a little bit and get it out.
Also, I have written most of an "afterwards chapter" from A Dragon's Hoard that is all about their mating frenzy. ✨PORN✨
He blinked, his heart tumbling into his stomach as he silently prayed he misheard her. “I'm sorry, what?”
“A romance novel. We're in a fucking romance light novel, okay!?”
He balked. “How do you know that?”
Raven glared, heat crawling up her neck again. “I plead the fifth.”
Oh, that was telling. In spite of the severity of the situation, Damian felt a smirk pull at his lips. “Are you telling me that you read this… what did you call it? Saccharine drivel?”
Damian swallowed as he stared at the small double bed that took up most of the room in the inn. The last room, of course. Because, of course it was the last room, and of course there was only one bed. And of course there wasn’t enough floor space to even think about sleeping down there. No, all four walls were pressed tight around the bed, leaving only enough room to sidle awkwardly around the mattress.
With a muttered curse, he turned and moved toward the door. “I’m going to sleep in the stables with the rest of my men.”
As if on cue, the heavens suddenly opened up and a raging storm flew through the trees, rattling the branches against the windows. Through the trees, he could see the lanterns by the stables shake as his men made the race to get inside. The air in the room turned almost icy, and Raven seemed to unconsciously shiver. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the oil lamp on the side table. Apparently there wasn’t enough wood or peat to heat all the rooms tonight either, so they would have to share body heat.
Damian couldn’t even find the energy to pretend to be surprised. Even if he made it out to the stables, he bet something else would just guide him back here. The only choice was to just accept his fate. He sighed and started shucking off the ridiculous, overly flamboyant dress clothes, dropping them into a pile in the corner of the room.
“What are you doing?” Raven’s voice was an awkward breath, and he turned to see her staring at him, gasping softly.
Her breasts strained against that ridiculous piece of lace that was performing miracles at holding them in. Damian found himself staring, his thoughts wandering to what they might feel like if he touched them. Had her breasts always looked that good? Probably. She did have very nice breasts… not that he was admiring or anything. It was just an observation. Purely scientific, of course.
A screen reflected his dull, expressionless mask back at him as he typed into the dreary, darkness of midnight. Dick slumped over and slid a hand down his bleary face. In a matter of months, he had gone from egomaniac to pod person to a shell. By contrast, the Robin that led the team in his youth seemed like a level-headed tactician. These days he was hardly a dog with a bone, desperate to make disjointed pieces fit a theory—he'd been neutered months ago. He felt helpless, like a toddler. Because this 'work' was little more than a pacifier. It was hardly dire, it was basic. Data entry. Did he urgently need to finish digitizing their old backlog of cases?
Obviously not.
Hell, they all knew Victor could have done it in minutes, but he didn't. Because it was a project. And a project meant something to do. Something to keep busy. And these days, it was best he kept busy, better in fact if he stayed far away from the others. His moods seemed to put everyone off, but he didn't care. He worked better alone anyway. He sighed for the thousandth time. This was frightening dull work, but it at least was numbing. Anything, so he didn't have to think about—
Intruder! Tower Main Entrance... Intruder!
Dick bolted upright like a Pavlovian response. Without warning, the room blazed with light, shining red, white, and yellow straight into his face. It was blindingly bright as his computer began to flash incessantly with the same alert.
Intruder! Tower Main Entrance... Intruder!
Something had tripped the Tower's silent alarm. Or maybe even someone. Dick felt an odd excitement stirring in his bones. Surely, he could take care of this one on his own. There was no need to even wake the team. If he were to be completely honest, he longed for danger and the thrill that accompanied it. It was the only thing that could make him feel alive anymore. A leader shouldn’t open himself up to constant risk. But this was different. It wasn't as if he had gone out to seek it this time. So Vic couldn't tell him he was being reckless when it had come to him directly.
Who could fault him for defending the Tower?
He molded with the shadows as he propelled forward, cutting around corners and bending behind archways. He tried not to think about what or whom he was channeling as he crept along. Sleepless nights and overwork meant that Dick had lost a little muscle mass, but he hadn't lost a step. He was silent and stealthy as ever.
At last, he saw it: A silhouette of an intruder gliding through the west entryway to the Operations Room of the Tower. Were they trying to get in using the cover of darkness? Well, they were in for it now. Trespassing was enough of a pretense. His lip curled into a sneer as he approached deadly and dangerous.
"Don't. Move."
The figure froze.
"You have exactly ten seconds to explain who the hell you are, and what the hell you're doing here." He paused. There was still no answer, just more dead air. "Staying silent? Bad move. Whoever you are, you better start talking—now."
His escrima sticks cast crackling spotlights in the dark. They oscillated with blue electricity as he approached—far less cautiously than he should. The shroud leapt backward. And the umbras seemed to move with it, like a squid hovering above the ocean floor, using ink clouds of its own making for cover. Something was eerily familiar about it all. He tried to shake the feeling that he recognized the way this shadowy figure was moving.
But it couldn't be.
He'd dreamt about it enough times. But… There was just no way.
"Fine." He widened his stance, the escrima sticks moving like electric nun-chucks. Though his body's rhythm was languid, it was seamless. Second nature. But mercy wasn’t anymore. "Don't say I didn't warn you—"
"Wait!" The hoarse voice was insistent. "It's me." The cyan pulses outlined an outstretched hand and a pale visage, widened eyes. That face... Her face. "Please, don't."
The weapons clattered to the floor with a resounding clang.
An ebony brow creased in confusion. He gazed blankly, struck dumb, as a petite girl walked into the moonbeams and electronic sea of dotted blues and greens. It was her standing in the entrance. It was her in a tiny black sweater and baggy low rise jeans. Really her, like no time had passed at all. She took a single step, letting the duffel bag slip off her shoulder to land in a noisy heap on the ground.
He fell out of his fighting stance—he was powerless against her. She had overtaken him completely without drawing her magic or a fist.
"Raven."
"Dick, I—" Her voice was barely audible. "I thought... No one would be awake—at this hour..." But he was. Dick's eyes were growing wider and wider. "Hi..."
"Raven," he repeated, dumbly. He knew nothing else but her name. Because it was her. All he could think of was the fact that it was her.
"I'm sorry I didn't call first," Raven croaked. She swallowed, blinking quickly. "Maybe I shouldn't have come... I can go—"
"You're not going anywhere." Dick's voice rumbled low and threatening. Suddenly, he rushed forward again. Then, he grabbed her. Not to apprehend her, but to hold her, to bring her into a full and tight embrace. Lifting her off the ground, cradling her to his chest. Threading his fingers through her hair. Touching her. Breathing her in as deeply as he could. "Raven, you came back." There was a river of emotions rushing and Raven was quickly swept away as the flood poured through the cracks in the dam of their bond to break free. Her legs shook until they gave out. And she closed her eyes and let him hold her and hold her up.
"You're back—you came back."
"Yes," Raven whispered. "I did—I am."
"You came back to me," Dick said, almost questioningly. He brushed the longer locks out of her eyes as he searched them. They were different. Her hair was different.
It didn't matter. Not just this second. Not ever. Not when he'd soon be able to open her up and search her at his leisure. He registered this briefly before his mind went blank and he crushed his mouth hard into hers. She melted into him, so he could drink her up, after drinking her in.
Dick was unrestrained, claiming her lips furiously, holding her so tightly, his hands fumbling all over her body. He just needed to feel her. Make sure she was really real. Really there before him. Gods, she tasted so damn good. And she felt just like he remembered.
Perhaps a bit thinner, but he didn't care. It was her all the same.
"Dick. Dick, what are we doing—" She whispered on each erratic breath falling between their lips.
But she knew what they were doing. And what she was doing to him. She let out a squeak of surprise as he pushed into her mouth. He hissed when her tongue pressed back against his. It was so hard and hot, their teeth clashed before they had to breathe.
"I missed you." Her words tumbled out clumsily. Drunkenly. But she couldn't fight it. "I did."
"Gods, Raven." He grunted in approval, tucking her lip between his. Dick sighed. "I really was losing my mind. A moment ago, I thought you weren't real." Each day had been more painful than the last. "I just...missed you so much."
"Oh, Richard..." Her eyes were moist, but she couldn't stop. And neither could he. She gave in completely the soft sensation of his lips on her neck. "Mm—"
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
dededos
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
