synopsis: giving cillian a head while he's having an online interview.
pairing: cillian murphy x reader / cillian murphy x wife!reader
warnings: SMUT +18, oral sex (m! receiving), blowjob, domcillian, implied sex, reader is horny as fuck
notes - rushed, a bit short <1500 w.c, divider and gif is mine
main masterlist | cillian murphy masterlist
It's turned out that your husband has a more complicated schedule than you had imagined, partly because of his notable work as a celebrity. You're very proud of him, especially in light of his most recent success—getting the lead in the movie that everyone is calling the best of the year. Along with receiving positive recognition, which his success has attracted a lot of media attention, that has resulted in a ton of interviews and promotions.
Consequently, your partner's days and nights are occupied with continuous responsibilities. Where you both currently reside, in Dublin, it is currently two in the morning. Even though it's late, Cillian remains involved in his work. His face is softly lit by the laptop screen as he sits in his home office, which is a calm yet busy space. Due to the changes of several time zones, he is preparing for an interview that is taking place at this unusual hour, yet he remains focused throughout.
These late-night interviews are a natural component of his schedule due to the nature of his work. The joy you get from his accomplishments and the commitment to his trade make up for the challenge of adjusting to this fast-paced workplace. His dedication is clear in the conversation as he carefully goes over his notes and collects his thoughts, which is a praise to the ability and hard work he has put into this incredible project.
Although you were always proud of your lover, there was also a hint of melancholy. You two haven't really bonded with each other in a while. sharing a bed, going on a date, or simply staying home.
Cillian's head lifted up when he heard a soft knock. "Baby, why are you still awake?" he asked.
"Can't sleep."
He gave you a little smile and then tapped his thigh to invite you to sit on it. You approached your partner and took a seat on his right thigh. As he did the same to your hips, you put your arms around his neck to support him.
"Is there something on your mind?" Cillian asked, giving you a soft kiss before laying his eyes back at yours.
Sighing, you looked at the screen in front of you. He was already in the logging-in part of the Zoom call, showing how his interview will start in awhile.
"Nothing.. just tired," you lied.
"Hm? What's actually bothering you right now?"
You didn't answer his question, instead you let your lips crash to his, allowing yourself to taste him. Cillian let out a small oh and smirked, knowing what you meant. He kissed you back, deepening it. You moved your position, now sitting on his lap facing him. Your husband gripped your hips and caressed your bare back when he lifted your shirt a bit.
"Need you, Cillian," you moaned in between kisses as the making out session got more heated. Your arms wrapping his neck, grinding your hips to his clothed bulge. Your breath getting ragged.
You felt a familiar spark flare up inside of you after the kiss, awakening the need you'd been craving. His touch, calming and soft, surrounded you with a warmth that only he can give. You got the comfort you were looking for in his hug, and Cillian's hand was a gentle reminder of your strong relationship.
Suddenly, Cillian pulled the kiss out. A short sigh escaped his lips. "Not now, honey. I still have an interview."
"Can't it wait?" you pleaded making him chuckle.
Before turning off the camera and microphone and getting ready for the Zoom conference, his fingers danced across the keyboard as he entered his log-in information. Your lips met Cillian's soft lips in a brief but sweet kiss that held a hint of melancholy. With a trace of remorse, he said, "I'm sorry, honey, it really can't."
The both of you heard a voice, assuming it was the interviewer, coming out from his Apple laptop. "Okay, Cillian," the interview called his name, "we'll start the interview now."
He looked at you apologetically. His eyes pleaded and his lips curved into a small sad smile. You lifted yourself off of his lap and walked behind his desk so that the interviewer won't see you once Cillian turns on his camera.
Cillian then clicked the camera button, turning it on and his microphone as well. He expected you to leave his office and not you crawling below his desk.
He looked at you below, giving you a gaze of what the hell are you doing? but you didn't stop, instead you chuckled.
"So, Cillian! How are you doing?" the interviewer's voice echoed all over the silent walls of his home office.
"Yeah, everything is great. It's actually three in the morning here."
"Oh! I think your family is asleep now, especially your wife, yeah?"
"My wife definitely is." he laughed a little, looking down at his pants as you slowly unzip them.
"So, tell us about Oppenheimer!"
The tension between you increased as your fingers neatly removed his zipper, and the hope in the air practically sparked. His Calvin Klein briefs' fabric pulled against the hardness below, revealing his erect, pulsating length. You gently touched him, feeling the heat escape through the thin material, and then you shot him a playful glance that caused his breath to hitch.
You slid his boxers down slowly, almost like a tortue to him, revealing his entire erect cock. Your mouth started to moisten at the sight, and you found yourself wanting to lean in closer, your breath hot against his skin. He let out a deep, low moan that echoed across the still room as your thumb slowly moved around the swollen tip. There, a bead of pre-cum accrued that provided resisting impossible.
Cillian grabbed a fist full of your hair, letting you take his whole length; his tip hitting at the back of your throat. He let out a groan but tried to cover it with a cough, not letting the interviewer know what was actually happening.
Cillian took hold of your hair with his fist, allowing you to take his entire length, his tip brushing the back of your throat. He groaned, trying to hide it under a cough to keep the interviewer from realizing what was going on. Every time he gave you a thrust, his breath was labored. He tried not to look suspicious at all, but for a few seconds his eyes were forcibly shut.
"Mmp—!" you moaned at his cock, taking him again and again and again. His grip was getting harsher and harsher but it doesn't hurt you. Your left hand gripped his right thigh, allowing yourself to balance while your other hand massaged his balls—which he absolutely loves.
His silent airy moans are starting to hear not so silent anymore. His other arm gripped his swivel chair tightly.
"Cillian, are you okay?" the interviewer asked.
"A-actually, I think I'm not feeling that well, Jimmy," he lied, looking at his webcam. "Can we perhaps—Jesus— reschedule this meeting?"
You bobbed even faster, letting his cock hit your throat, your cheek, everything inside your mouth.
"Yeah, sure. No problemo! We'll just send you an email later. Get well soon, Cillian!" and that's the last voice that echoed through the laptop before you heard him closing it.
Cillian relaxed his back and continued to gasp and whimper at the way you were feeding him. He was having an incredible amount of pleasure, and he most certainly needed this after all the hectic job he had to accomplish. He smiled and said,
"Fuck— you really can't wait don't you?" he was close, because you felt him twitch inside of you. He let out a loud groan as you swallowed him completely once more.
"Oh honey, that's it—yes."
He leaned in closer and said, "Gonna cum inside your mouth, honey. Take it all, okay?"
It took him a couple more thrusts until he came. Inside your mouth, a white, creamy, and salty liquid spurted out of his cock. You licked your lips clean after swallowing it all, got to your feet in front of him, and then sat back down on his lap.
"Looks like I need to reward my wife, hm? Let's go to our room." Cillian said.
ೃ⁀➷ “I think we most fully understood each other when once I tried to kill him with a kitchen knife.” — ‘South and West’, Joan Didion
pairing. switch!jonathan crane x professor!reader
summary. you and your dear friend, jonathan crane, have an odd relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. one day, you experiment your aphrodisiac on him.
warnings. swearing, use of aphrodisiac & fear toxin, oral sex (m), unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, mention of death, murder, drugs, multiple orgasms, slight breeding kink, face fucking, dubcon(?) SMUT UNDER THE CUT!
word count. 6.1k
a/n. the enemies to friends to fucking pipeline is sooo real and i love it. BTW! this is really self indulgent and again, i’m a beginner to writing smut so pls don’t judge😭 the beginning is also oddly plotty, so i apologize for that.
You and your colleague, Jonathan Crane, have a harmonious, albeit slightly sick and twisted, relationship.
Your repertoires, opposite in every way, complete one another like you were made to match. You are messy, frenzied, intimate; he is neat, calculated, distant. He is impatient, histrionic, stubborn. You are tolerant, deadpan, submissive.
This is an odd, good-cop bad-cop dynamic you’ve built, but it works. Your traits uphold the order you’ve built around yourselves; you allow each other to function.
Who ever said something so codependent, so parasitic, would fall apart? That it was dangerous, destructive? Everyone, but in your case, it has been anything but.
These are the simple rules of your relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. This partnership came to bloom when, after years of competing to be the “better” psychology professor at Gotham University, he sent you a gift that sprayed with you with fear toxin, and you baked him a cake that knocked him out for 24 hours following, heart rate so low he could’ve been mistaken as dead.
“Fucking - hell,” You murmured under your breath, stumbling halfway across Gotham City to locate Crane’s absurdly lavish condo in the Diamond District, barely able to keep yourself upright.
You were being visually assaulted by dozens of images, all your phobias no matter big or small, dancing across your senses. Spiders crawled all over your body, you saw yourself about to step off a steep, snowy cliff, you felt yourself suffocate as you were buried to death in a casket. It was utter torture, and you would have to endure it until you found Crane.
You must’ve looked like one of those tweaking drug addicts from down in the Narrows, shivering, sweating, and rubbing all over your body to remove some of the “spiders” taking over your body. The terror was settling into you, into your spine like a terribly malignant disease.
At last, you found the apartment building, blearily snuck in behind a drunk couple, and scanned the mail boxes until you found J. CRANE: 525.
You headed up the elevator, grasping at the walls for dear life, feeling that growing, unmistakable sense of dread start to take over your mind. You felt like you were going mad, now, not just afflicted with something that made you look like it.
When you finally got to his door, it was left open a crack, and you welcomed the small mercy of Crane’s overarching narcissism: he didn’t lock his door, often, because most days he felt more invincible than fucking god.
“Crane!” You shouted, clutching at your head and staggering into his large apartment. “Crane!” you repeated, this time more desperate, more fearful than anything.
However, your deepest fear, at the moment, had come true. You stepped into his kitchen, and found the man laying on the floor unresponsive.
“Fuck me,” you cursed. You’d sent the man home with the cake twelve hours ago, when he took the half-day off from GSU, and you came home from your after-class tutoring hours just moments ago.
You’d opened the mystery package on your front porch promptly, and you found yourself having been gassed with a compound that made you see every little thing you were afraid of. Immediately, you’d known it was Crane; the man’s pet specialty was fear.
As for you, you wanted your… gift, to serve a reminder to him that he should not overstep your boundaries, your territory, as the psychology professor who was there first. If knocking him out was a little bit mad, he was bordering insanity for the toxin he poisoned you with.
Even so, your threat was an empty one. You weren’t counting on the man to even eat the cake - hell, you’d never seen the man consume anything but straight black coffee.
You couldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know now, and laid there on the couch of his apartment, waiting for the twelve hours to be over. Waiting for Crane, the fucking madman, to wake the hell up, blaming him for the predicament despite your very obvious involvement in it.
You breathed in and out, harried and rapid fire as you tried to focus, tried to block out the horrific things you were seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting.
(Your eyes are swarmed, viscerally, by a grotesque hallucination of your family burning to death; you hear them cry out, voices interrupted when they’re fire gets to their lungs; you smell their death, the smell of flesh burning, how the smoke chokes you — you taste their blood on your tongue, how tender a raging fire makes charred flesh.
Tender, you think on your choice of words again, and almost throw up.
What have you done, you think, and what is going through that fucked up head of yours, Crane?)
You tried to ground yourself, tether your lost mind back to Earth. You’re sitting in a field in Northwestern Ireland, you said to yourself, inhaling. Up ahead is the beach; water is crashing on the rocks. You exhaled, the wind tastes like salt, and it is just you and I, here together. It is only I and you, here, together.
Like so, 12 hours passed. Not so much passed — that word gave the connotation the hours slipped past you, the way a peaceful stream of water does; no, more accurately, it dragged by, like when an arm slips out of the ambulance cot on its way to the emergency vehicle, and drags on the concrete. The EMT’s don’t notice what’s making their trip so hard, so slow, until the hand is rubbed raw and bloody.
You repeated that mantra so many times you were starting to get queasy when you thought the words “you’re sitting in a field..” but nonetheless, the string of words kept you sane.
Sane enough, at least - you weren’t sure you’d be the same blissful person you were yesterday. Sure, you were always a little bit… unorthodox? Petty? Competitive enough to bake so many drugs into a cake your opposing professor knocks out?
But, with this — this being drugged by Crane — made you feel a piece of yourself break away. There would be no more of your life lived without knowing how fearful, well, fear, is. It's like discovering the Boogeyman and never being able to stop checking under your bed; the paranoia moves into your head and never leaves.
Crane began stirring, and your eyes opened as soon as you heard the noise. Surprisingly enough, however, you were no longer being hammered with the hallucinations that had been distressing you just half a day ago.
Had it been the mantra? The near-prayer you now swore was etched on your heart?
“Fucking…” Crane said, getting up off the floor. He was clutching his head, eyes squinted, body hunched and tense. Looks like spending half a day on the floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but you didn’t give a fuck — atleast he was sleeping. If you had to be mentally destroyed by his toxin, you’d best believe you were taking the couch.
“Why - why are you here? What the hell did you do to me?” He said after noticing you, voice raspy. He hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in a while, after all.
“I could say the fucking same for you,” You muttered, giving him a pointed look. “You - what the fuck did you spray me with?”
Immediately, a twisted grin was bared on Crane’s lips, despite his fatigued demeanor. “Did you like it? My fear-toxin,” he preened, like the winning kid at a school science fair.
You rolled your eyes, and before you could control your tendencies, you’d swung back and then socked him straight in the face.
Crane double-backed, looking terribly affronted, as if he hadn’t sent you the gas knowing how it would affect you. “Ow,” is all he said, face contorting oddly around the pain.
“Yeah, “ow”. Fuck you, Crane.”
Crane raised a brow. “You’re acting like you didn’t feed me a poisoned cake!” He said incredulously.
“It wasn’t that poisoned,” you bit out, teeth gritted. “Not so poisoned I was hallucinating my family dying for twelve hours straight.”
“Ah, thanatophobia, not really one of my favourites—“ Crane started, like he was losing himself in a romantic daydream, before snapping back to reality. “Did you just say twelve hours?”
“Twelve hours for me. Twenty-four for you.” You said, reveling in how panicked he looked.
“I — that’s long enough for me to be killed a hundred times over,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck did you put in that cake?”
“I never expected you to eat it, Crane. You’re fucking skin and bones, I thought you’d just throw it out.”
“What did you put in the cake?” he repeated.
“Ugh,” you sunk into the couch, “some amytal, zolpidem. Some melatonin. I didn’t measure, okay, and again, I wasn’t counting on you eating it.” You didn’t know why you had this urging feeling to respond to him, to humor his jabs, his dumb fucking theatrics, but you did anyway.
“Some amytal? Some zolpidem? Some melatonin? Jesus fucking christ - is that what you wanted? To kill me?” He was leaning down, face inches away from yours now.
You pushed him away, disgust on your features clear as day. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not some sociopathic fear-freak like you, Crane. I don’t mix compounds in my creepy little office with the thought of drugging out my fellow professor in mind. It was just an empty threat.”
He let out a disbelieving laugh, “Mixing barbiturates and medications into a cake sounds like an empty threat to you?”
“You know what?” You said brightly, getting up off the couch, “I don’t have to argue with you. I came to get my cure, woke up having cured myself.” Then, you burst out the door, fury rolling off you in waves, and you left.
There was something about the incident, however, that seemed to intrigue Crane to no end. Soon enough, he began entering your office during your breaks, asking to have a chat. Or, he’d walk in during your lessons, forcing you two in the hall alone. Sometimes, he’d even wait for you after school, dozing off in front of your classroom and waiting for you to exit your office.
You couldn’t tell what was making Crane so interested, but he was hanging off you and your every word like some lovesick puppy.
You, on the other hand, also couldn’t get Crane out of your head. Certainly not for some weird, fucked up reason like his, but because of what he had created. A lot of people doubted his intelligence, mostly because of his obsession on things nobody really cared about, but that obsession made way to the destructive fear-toxin you’d inhaled, and it was seriously unlike anything you’d ever experienced, hell, even read about. It was a brand new creation, and downright deadly.
Your interest in the man was more so on… keeping him in check. As rivals did. But his was on how you’d breezed past the effects of his toxin in just twelve hours. He’s expected you to go half mad, honestly. Your threat was empty… his was, decidedly, not.
By the end of the next week following the incident, you two began eating lunch together, asking for joint classes, and spending nights over at each other's places. Not in that way, of course — your way was like a group of scientists having a forever eureka, because your minds fit like perfect puzzle pieces.
Your intrigue had met his intrigue, and it felt natural, coming to a united front like that. You found you had more in common than you thought, something you should’ve found out about a long time ago, 3 ½ years kind of long time ago. Apart, you two were volatile; angry, spewing threats, attempting murder on the other. Together, however, you were absolute perfection: productive, well-mannered, motivated.
Now, fast-forward coming on two years since the incident. You and Crane - now, Jonathan, have been inseparable since that time. You two were close, closer than siblings or children and parents or couples; you felt like the same person that had been split into two. Being together was the only thing that felt right, being back at the origin, like being at home.
Fuck’s sakes, you did have the same home — you’d moved in together. Not to his, nor yours, but to a big house you bought on the outskirts of Gotham, with a big yard and an even bigger lab in the basement. It was like a scientist's amusement park.
Maybe it - this relationship of yours - was codependency. But maybe it was utter genius: your careers had both never seen so many accomplishments until you and Jonathan came together. Partly because you had a greater inspiration when coupled with the other, but, mostly because you had a body to test on during preliminary trials.
Creating things, like the fear-toxin, required human testing, and finding a way to get that done always slowed Jonathan down. Since finding you, however, it’d been a breeze.
You offered yourself up readily, given Jonathan would do the same. And, besides, Jonathan had never been worried about you and his toxin very much — after that first time you took the toxin, you could easily find yourself out of its effects. You were the only person he’d ever encountered who could do this, and it was downright fascinating. He wanted to keep you, see how that strong little mind of yours worked overtime to fight his toxin off.
You, on the other hand, rarely tested anything like that on Jonathan. Your interests lied elsewhere: what smells activate the human mind to recall memories, what are ways to accurately fight off drugs like GHB — all mental stimulation.
That, however, changed one evening, when you had been brewing up a serum for the past few weeks. You’d gotten to the point in creation where you needed to test on someone, and observe the effects.
“Jonathan,” you called out, looking down at your notes. The man in question was grading assignments for the psychology class you taught — now, in joint lessons more often than not — sitting at a desk a few metres away from you in the lab.
“Jonathan!” you repeated louder this time, looking up from your notes.
“What?” He shouted back, still hunched over on the ungodly amount of assignments he needed to mark.
“Come here. I need to test something on you.” You said, nonchalant.
That, however, piqued Jonathan’s interest to no end: you hadn’t tested anything on him in nearly a year. It hurt, a little, to test you endlessly and have nothing to give in return - so this, no matter what it was, Jonathan would take in stride.
Jonathan nodded vehemently, “Okay.” He then dropped all he’d been doing on the desk and made his way over, before sitting in the chair next to you. You made quick work, tying his arms and legs to the chair like he’d done to you so many times before. He watched you work, completely enraptured in how you looked while experimenting.
“So,” He said, tearing his sticky gaze off of you, “what’re you pumping me full of?”
You sat back in your desk chair and scratched your cheek, a little unsure how to say this. “Well, I created a serum that, once injected, would lower or lose all inhibitions of the victim. They’d be completely malleable, agreeable, if you just, um,” you fanned yourself, feeling a little too close to the man in front of you, room feeling incredibly warm.
“Just what?” He pried, leaning back in his chair.
You exhaled shakily, “if you just promise to - to provide relief to them. Sexual - relief.”
Jonathan let out an incredulous laugh. “You made a working aphrodisiac?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly — I don’t even know if it works, for sure. If you don’t want to- take it, then you don’t have to.” You offered up weakly.
“How d’you get it out of the system?” He said instead, ignoring your words and picking up the needle you had ready for him on your worktable, which was filled with a thick, pink liquid.
You flushed. “You, um, help the victim relieve themselves, until the feeling is gone.”
Jonathan looked up at you, a sly smirk on his lips. “And you were going to give this to me?”
You turned away, face red, exasperated. “I told you, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”
“And let you pleasure some random guy you snatched off the street? No way,” he said, before you heard a familiar prick, small whine leaving Jonathan’s mouth.
You spun back around so fast you thought you got whiplash. “Jonathan, wait—“ you said, alarmed. You were really, seriously, considering not giving the aphrodisiac to him — it would disrupt the careful balance you and he had built over the past years.
You were afraid that if he took the serum, and let you, for lack of a better word, get him off, you wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering him needy, hot and bothered, calling your name out like it was the only word he knew.
He’d done it anyway, though. And now, you both just had to get through this… experiment.
Quickly, you grabbed your pen and notebook, ready to approach this scenario as detached and clinically as possible, ignoring the pulsing need in your insides as you saw Jonathan’s face slowly contort into a warm, heavy-lidded lustful one.
“How do you feel, Jonathan?” You said, standing further away from him so he couldn’t so much as feel your body heat on him.
“I…” Jonathan blinked rapidly, licking his lips, looking you up and down. “Warm. I just feel… warm.” He readjusted in the seat, unable to sit still. “And - kind of, tingly? Like I - well, I don’t know…”
You noted his words, as well as some of your own observations: his pupils were dilated, so much so the crystalline blue of his eyes were merely slivers, his lips were pursed, plump, and he was pink all over; pink cheeks, pink ears, pink neck. He was talkative, loose-lipped and a little out of it.
You inhaled, then exhaled, before starting the next phase of the experiment. “Jonathan, how do you feel when I touch you here?” You said, raising the back of your hand to caress his cheek.
Jonathan was affected almost immediately, eyes shutting tight. “It feels,” he said breathily, leaning into your touch, “ah… nice. Good.”
You nodded, promptly pulling away as soon as he’d finished his sentence. Subject enjoys physical touch. Jonathan then peered up at you, looking slightly… disappointed?
You shook yourself, getting back on task. “How do you feel now?” You pried, noticing he looked far more affected than before.
Beads of sweat were dripping from his forehead, making his wavy brown hair stick to his skin. He was breathing heavily, and, when you had touched him, he was extremely warm, like he had a fever.
“I’m, I…” Jonathan trailed off, eyes shutting, shaking his head. “Mmm… my head feels — fuzzy,” he bit out raspily.
“Okay. Good. It's exactly as I thought,” you murmured, continuing to scratch down notes.
You ignored him for a few minutes, writing up a list of side effects and observed results of the aphrodisiac. Then, your gaze drew back to him, who had been focussing intently on you the whole time.
“Jonathan?” you called out quietly, seeing his dazed expression. “Talk to me.”
Jonathan shuddered, leaning forward in the chair, head hanging low, “My - my body’s, hnngh… it feels— feels weird.” He bit his lip, face screwed up and tense. “I’m warm all over…”
His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling. You lifted a hand up to his head, petting him softly, carding your fingers through his hair.
“Ah…” Jonathan squeaked out at your touch, face going slack, “I feel like I need you to - to…” he sighed exasperatedly, “I need you.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek conflictedly. On one hand, you needed to finish up a few more tests, meaning Jonathan would be teased - or tortured, depending on how fast the aphrodisiac was affecting him - a little longer. On the other hand, he was already a breathy mess, begging for your touch. For you.
“Fuck,” you murmured, turning away from the man who’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head at the way you tugged at his locks. “No, no,” you fought your internal struggle. You would not give in to his pleas - you would finish this experiment.
“Okay. Okay.” you said to no-one but yourself, extracting your hand from his velvet soft hair. “Let’s be professional about this. Jonathan, I’m going to take your clothes off, but you can’t move, and you can’t touch me, okay?”
Jonathan’s breathing became more labored as you spoke, and you swore you could see desperate tears filling his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t touch you? But… but why not?” He was practically whining for you.
“Because, Jonathan, it wouldn’t be beneficial to the experiment.” You didn’t look your partner in the eye, because his complete and total change in behavior had you feeling, quite frankly, as warm as him.
You continued by undoing the restraints on his arms and legs, and his sharp intakes of breath as your fingers brushed past his skin didn’t slip past you. Not at all.
Firstly, you undid the man’s white button-up shirt slipping it past his flushed torso. Jonathan’s skin was actually pink and warm all over, and he was breathing heavily now, gripping the chair so tight his knuckles were white.
“Are you okay, Jonathan?” you asked absently, as you began unbuckling his belt and slipping down his fly.
Jonathan’s breath hitched in his throat, and he didn’t answer you, biting down on his lower lip to stop any desperate moans from escaping him.
You finally finished undressing your partner, then redid his restraints, before you stepped back to see him fully. Jonathan was shivering, faint tear tracks on his pink cheeks, head cocked back.
“It’s just - one, or two more tests, Jonathan.” You murmured quietly, kneeling down in front of him.
Your hands pressed flat on his thighs, rubbing him up and down, grazing your fingers lightly on his feverish skin. You had to regularly ground yourself, stop yourself from inching up to the poor, untouched tent in his boxer shorts.
Above you, you could hear Jonathan let out a low groan, “Ah, hnng— please,” he called out to no-one in particular.
“Does that - feel good, Jonathan?” You ask, getting back up on your feet. His desperate groans were getting to you now, how needy his little keens were.
“So - good,” he panted. “Your— you, I want— need, I need…” he trailed off, babbling, lost to the pleasure of your touch.
“Jonathan, if I… touched you more, would you do anything for me?” You said finally. The invention of the aphrodisiac was intended to sway someone's motivations, make them bend to your will. Sure, there was that added sexual aspect, but it was created with less… pleasurable intentions.
“Anything, anything at all,” he said deliriously, rolling his head around. “Jus’… just need you to- touch me.”
“Would you give yourself fear-toxin, Jonathan?”
“Yes! Yes, just — please… please! Stop asking me— questions… I need you so fucking bad, ah…”
“Jesus,” you said. Your aphrodisiac was stronger than you thought. You were satisfied, however, with the results of it. The first trial was a success, and you saw how you could use this on anyone - even people in particular positions of power, and get them to do your bidding. Quite helpful, indeed.
Now, you needed to… get Jonathan out of this state. By, ah, relieving him.
You had decided to do this, to test him, so you had to be responsible and help ease him out of this experiment. Quickly, you stripped your own clothing, even your underwear, before undoing the restraints on his arms and legs.
Jonathan’s eyes widened as he watched you undress. “Are you - are you… gonna t—touch me? Now? Please?” He practically begged, almost drooling at the sight of your naked body.
“Mhm,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “Gon’ help you get out of this.”
Then, you climbed onto Jonathan’s lap, shutting your eyes as you felt his hard cock within his boxer shorts slide between your legs deliciously.
He let out a guttural groan as your weight pressed down on him, feeling your wetness soak his shorts. That measly piece of fabric was all that was keeping him from entering your plush, velvet folds, and he was going practically insane at the feeling.
“M’god,” Jonathan whined out, leaning his sweaty head on your shoulder. “Y’feel so, a—ah, good…”
You couldn’t help the breezy laugh that made its way out of you. “I haven’t even touched you yet, Jonathan, and you’re already so worked up,” you whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning on his warm skin.
“P-pleeeease,” He begged, slowly grinding into you. Jonathan was barely coherent, mind just focussed on chasing the release he so desperately needed.
You raised a brow, but complied, slipping your warm hands down his boxer shorts and pulling his thick length out. You pumped him lazy, feeling how he writhed under you, tasteful whimpers slipping out of his mouth.
After another second of you stroking him lightly, your thumb grazing past the tip and collected a decent amount of precum, he actually did come, wet hot load spurting upwards on his chest and your face. “Ah - hnngh, oh my — oh my god,” he drooled, jutting into your hand.
It dripped down from your cheek onto your lips, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure. You swiped a handful of his cream off your face, before covering his still hard, curved cock with it.
“You’re not done, aren’t you?” You said to him quietly, his hips stuttering as you artfully smeared his come on himself. Jonathan was arching into your touch, completely putty in your hands.
“Nuh- no, m’still— still need you, need you so bad.” he whimpered shamefully, hands stuck to your waist.
“Look at you go,” you found yourself cooing, dragging a creamy hand down his equally as creamy chest, your fingernails grazing him. “Let me take care of you.”
Then, you lifted yourself up off his lap, and carefully situated your slit on the tip of his head. “Christ,” you called out as you slid down, “you’re fucking big,”
Inch by inch, you took him, and Jonathan’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head, a string of senseless groans and whines leaving his mouth. “Feels so warm, so so warm,” he choked out at last, looking at you adoringly.
You started to lift out of him, your cunt stinging slightly at the sheer size of his cock, when you felt a heated liquid shoot through you, Jonathan’s knees buckling under your ass.
He’d come, again, even before you could get started. You shook your head incredulously at the terribly horny man beneath you, eyes glazed over in the pure ecstasy he was feeling.
“Stop, fucking — coming,” you scolded, bottoming his cock into you once more, “you’re gonna get me so — ah— fucking - pregnant if you keep coming.”
“Sorry,” Jonathan said sheepishly, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “Can’t help it— you feel so — hnngh — feel so good.”
You rolled your eyes at his words, then focussed on getting a good pace of sliding in and out, your hips rolling deeper and deeper into his own. You were bouncing quickly on his cock, dick-riding him like you’d never done before.
With all other sexual partners you had, they wanted to be all vanilla, always just missionary, going slow until they were close, no sense of creativity or any other wishes that just feeling you. With Jonathan - especially in the state he was in now - you could do whatever you wanted, as long as his cock was in your cunt.
“Good — god,” you screamed out, when Jonathan suddenly gained control over himself and snapped into you, rough hands pinching the flesh of your hips. He rutted into you, hard and fast, for a moment like that continually, before his control melted once more into nothingness, and all he could do was let you take the reins.
“Please— how’re you so — ah, how does your pussy feel so good…” he murmured, trailing off into a high-pitched moan when you pulled out, then just as fast sunk down on him.
Jonathan’s fingers trailed up your body, rubbing at your soft flesh, before they found your breasts, kneading you tenderly. He chanced several licks on both your erect nipples, and you shuddered, tightening around him. Your cunt was sucking him in, devouring his length no matter how big he was, and he could feel how his length was stretching your walls wide open.
“So fucking big.” You panted, arms wrapping around his neck, “fat fucking cock all needy, just me.”
“Jus’… just for you! All - ah, all for you,” Jonathan repeated with a squeak, lips bitten delicately between his teeth.
Your hands trailed all over his body, and as the pleasure was getting to you, making your head dizzy and your thoughts foggy, you bounced down on him and your nails scratched up his back, surely leaving small wounds.
This miniscule amount of pain seemed to amplify Jonathan’s endless pleasure, and you could feel him pumping you full of his come once again, the tip of his dick pressed flush against your cervix. His come made you feel so full, fuller than you already did with his monstrous cock nestled into you, continually rubbing up on the toe-curlingly spongy spot in your cunt every time you pushed him back in.
“Mmf,” Jonathan groaned, pleasure muffling whatever he was was going to say, “m’gonna… gonna get you pregnant,”
“Yeah?” You breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut, “Is that what this needy cock wants? To get my wet cunt full and me pregnant?”
“Yes, yes, hnngh, please, wanna come - wanna come more,” Jonathan cried out.
“‘kay, okay,” you nodded vehemently, “then make this pussy feel good.”
Then, you slid out with a whimper, two loads worth of come spilling out of your worn-out cunt, turning around so your ass would face him, before you sunk back down on him. You were chasing your own pleasure now, the unmistakable feeling rumbling within your lower stomach.
Jonathan was completely fucked out, just a shaking, hot and bothered mess on the sticky wooden chair you’d both occupied, but he still welcomed your warm pussy back on him with open arms. Your folds beat any other cunt he’d ever been in, and he knew nothing, not even his own hand, could match up to how addicting you were, how delectably you took him.
The new angle had you reeling, your hands gripping Jonathan’s thighs for some much-needed support. You were buckling, getting weaker with every bounce, but were still desperate for release. It affected Jonathan too, and he was pressing his face up against your hair, biting down lightly on your shoulder to collect himself despite the earth-shattering pleasure you were inflicting on him.
Your fleshy cunt met his rock-solid cock every moment perfectly, and soon enough your back was arching, head leaning back on Jonathan’s shoulder. That knot in your stomach was tightening, a fire burning within you and begging you not to stop.
Jonathan’s needy hands were coursing all over your body, rubbing on you in all the right places, and when his calloused fingers began pinching and twisting at your sensitive nipples, you saw white. That burning feeling dragged across your entire body, your jaw tensing, and you felt positively fuzzy, pure pleasure destroying all coherent thoughts you’d been having, your mind now focussed on the insane way he made you orgasm.
There was nothing that could compare to how you felt now, this being the hardest you’d orgasmed in your entire life. There was just something about Jonathan — be it how unbelievably big he was, or perhaps the odd tension that surrounded you two for the past few years — that made this experience ten times, no, a hundred times, better.
It was like his dick had been artfully crafted to stretch you out and stuff you full; that thick cock, made just for you.
In place of your weakening strength, Jonathan kept his hand tweaking your breast, and his other hand gripped your hip tightly, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. Thus, the pleasure was maximized by his touch, and you rode out your high like that for a few more long moments.
You stayed there, on his lap panting and drooling, for a few more seconds, before you climbed off of him, grimacing at the loss of his sweet cock in you.
You stood shakily, feeling his come ooze out of your sticky hole, and you were surprised to see that Jonathan was still hard. He was panting, head leaning against the chair, hands and legs trembling, but his dick could probably still pump out another round of come.
You did always wondering how he’d taste, and after seeing how long and thick he was, you wanted to know if his dick could make you cry, too. So, you kneeled down on the cold floor, pulling him by the ankles a little further off the chair, so you could get better access to him, and buried your pretty little head between his shaking thighs.
“What’re you— doing?” Jonathan said blearily, but before he could continue, your soft lips wrapped around him, and your tongue began artfully swiveling his sensitive head.
The loudest moan you’d heard so far was drawn out of Jonathan, and more, similar noises came out of him. It was nonsensical, and unintelligible, but you could tell he was having the time of his life — as if he hadn’t just orgasmed three times prior.
You started slowly, mouth taking his cock until you felt like you couldn’t anymore, before forcing past that point and making yourself take him to the back of your throat. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, your head swimming from lack of oxygen, but you couldn’t help how badly you wanted to hear him whimper and whine out from how good you were servicing him, his pretty groans reaching your ears like music.
You pulled his cock out of your mouth when you felt like you were going to pass out, and then you began lapping up at his cock, sucking and curving your tongue around his long length. You sucked him hard and fast, and then, his hands grappled at your hair.
At this point, you believed the aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jonathan, now a little more clearheaded, began face fucking you, filling your sweet mouth full with his filthy cock. He couldn’t resist doing so, especially with you looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes, hollowing out your cheeks and gripping his thighs like your life depended on it.
You gagged on him, several times, but he didn’t care, and with a jolted thrust past your swollen lips, he came, squirting all he had left down your throat. You sucked and swallowed every drop of him into your mouth, loving the taste of his salty liquid.
Now, you were both fucked out, beyond tired, the strain on your muscles settling in. Your core had been properly exercised, what with how many times you rutted into Jonathan, and he, similarly, had a strained back with how much he arched into your touch, his aphrodisiac-clouded mind wanting nothing more but to be touched by you.
“Good god, woman,” Jonathan said, collapsing into the wooden chair, which was sticky with sweat, come and your cunt’s soaking wetness. “You could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,”
You panted, dropping down onto the cold floor beneath you and wincing. “We’re — we were, just friends.”
He waved away your words, “We live together, darling. Not quite sure if that's “just” friends.”
You looked up at him, before laughing agreeably. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” A smug grin made its way on your lips, remembering how submissive Jonathan had been, how desperate he’d been just for the slightest bit of touch.
“Amazing,” he said exasperatedly. “But next time, you’re not topping.”
“Next time, huh?” You said brightly, shakily getting up. Jonathan helped you, both of you limping exhaustedly up the stairs to your actual house, where you really should’ve been fucking, instead of the clinical environment of your large basement lab.
Jonathan’s hands found your ass, pulling you flush against him and kneading the flesh roughly. “Why not? Don’t you wanna know how I fuck?” he whispered suggestively into your ear, nibbling at the lobe.
“I think, you’ve still got some aphrodisiac in you, Jon.” you said, laughing breezily.
This is over a year old, so please excuse any mistakes, it's also the first smut I've ever written :p
ughghghgsyuhsdig,,, clawing at my cage
cross-posted from my ao3, DollFaceOnFire :3
WARNINGS!
Smutty smutty smut smut, DUB-CON, Fingering (fem), Dub-con, P in V sex, Bondage, Oral sex (fem receiving), Unprotected sex, Creampie, Kidnapping, Student-Teacher relationship, implied age-gap but EVERYONE IS OF AGE HERE GUYS!!! lmk if i forgot any warnings!
You were such a tantalizing little thing. Always all dolled up and so participative during lectures. Those big eyes, who could blame Jonathan for needing to keep you to himself? How was he to blame, when it was you who wore those short little skirts? You who wore those slutty shirts?
He couldn’t help himself, how could he? It was late one night, and you were in his favorite little black skirt, walking to your car. Really, it wasn’t his fault you were so easy to use his fear toxin on. All he had to do was put some in your car- a light dose, and you were practically begging for him to take you, to save you from the evils of Gotham.
She was out like a light, and he swore he’d never seen anyone so angelic, while terrified. The pure fear in your eyes sent pulses to his ever hardening cock beneath his trousers. A gentle hand held her cheek in devotion, hoping he would die looking at such a beautiful creature. Large hands and a face covered by a burlap sack looked and carried her as if she were his bride. God, he’d kill to make her his bride. Just the idea of being her’s, legally, morally, forever had poor Jonathan seeing stars. He carried her to his car, and placed the girl in the backseat, laying her down.
Of course, once he got to his condo, he had to tie up his poor darling. And of course, his cock was practically leaking precum into his boxers at the sight of his sweet girl all tied up.
Jonathan waited patiently for her to wake up, gently brushing her hair and whispering sweet nothings into her neck. When she finally awoke, he found her sweet pleas for freedom to be so symphonic.
_______
You woke up dizzy and in a dreamlike trance. This had to be a hallucination, because apparently, your psychology teacher was holding you as if you were made of porcelain. It wasn’t like he didn’t notice your longing gazes to him, or your tactful bending over to put away your belongings, coincidentally flashing lace panties. Yes, you were possibly in love with your hot psychology professor.
So you almost didn’t question the ropes surrounding your body, or his arms around you, or his hard cock pressing into your side.
He noticed the sudden flutter of her eyelashes, and held her closer, ‘shhh..’ her softly.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.. I’m not gonna hurt you, darling..”,
“Professor Crane?”
He silenced her with a soft kiss on her plush lips. It was short, but he'd wanted it for so long, it didn't matter. The girl in his embrace instinctively kissed him back.
“It's okay sweet girl, don't worry..” his hand fixed her hair and held her head in place.
“Why am I here?... Where are we?” He chuckled softly at her confusion.
“My condo, sweet thing.. I'm gonna take care of you, okay?” large hands caressed her soft cheeks, and cooed at her. She was still drowsy, and mumbled pleas for him to let her go. “I wanna go home..”
A low chuckle escaped him. “This is your home now, little dove.” She seemed to calm down, and gave up resisting. “And call me Jonathan from now on, okay?”
_______
He couldn’t help himself, not with her so close. The pad of his thumb lightly grazed her clit through the panties that’d been the object of his desires for oh, so long. Jonathan couldn’t help the pathetic whine escaping the back of his throat when he realized just how wet she was. He was an utter loser when it came to his favorite student. A soft mewl escaped her parted lips, and he swore he could’ve ascended into the heavens from just her sweet noises.
“Professor Crane.. I …” Another, stronger whimper when his touch got more firm- more demanding. “Oh god… you’re making such a mess on my hand, baby..” This woman had to have been sent from heaven, but then, how could such an alluring figure be holy?
Jonathan couldn’t help himself. He had hardly any control over his limbs when he shoved her panties down, and found himself tying her legs to his bedposts. He had even less control when he put her panties in her mouth to keep her from waking up the neighbors, or when he tied her wrists together. Drool ran down the side of his lips.
If you were to ask anyone that Jonathan Crane has fucked, they’d tell you that man is absolute pussy eater.
He really couldn’t help himself when he dove his head between her thighs and licked a stripe up her slit. He couldn’t help the whine that came out of him when he felt her hips buck against his face. The rimmed glasses that usually sat on his nose were tossed to the side so he could get his mouth at a better angle.
Big hands pawed at her thighs, pulling them apart roughly as he got more and more desperate for her taste. His lips sucked on her clit hungrily, wanting, needing to hear her whines. The man between her thighs was an eager mess, drunk on her slick. She looked down, and felt herself grow wetter when she noticed he was so aroused by getting her off, he had started humping the mattress for relief.
His tongue was working overtime on her sensitive nub, wanting nothing more than to get her to cum for him. Jonathan slid a hand up her inner thigh, drawing closer to her entrance with a reverent touch. The tip of his middle finger found itself pushing into her quivering hole, slowly fucking her on his finger.
The head of his cock was red and dripping precum so rapidly it stained his trousers entirely, and he couldn’t handle not feeling her tight cunt around his dick anymore. He lifted himself up, and tore off his clothes desperately, positioned himself at her entrance, and started to gently push the head through her folds, spreading his precum around her puffy clit. A deep groan came from him, and he couldn’t tease himself anymore.
He slowly pushed his hips against hers, kissing her neck and begging her to moan for him as he sank in, inch by inch. She laid beneath him, moaning helplessly as his tip sat against her cervix when he bottomed out. He tore out the fabric he’d put in her mouth, and her moans spilled out louder, only to be muffled by his lips on hers.
His hips started to thrust roughly into hers, every vein of his cock prominent, and making the experience all the more pleasurable for her. Every deep hit of his tip into her, had her whining and babbling his name like a prayer.
“Jonathan.. Please.. God.. please let me touch you”
“Not now, sweet girl, just be a good doll and take it, okay? You can do that for me, right? Don’t have to use that little brain of yours right now, just cum on my cock, m’kay, sweet girl?..”
She mewled at his sudden change in dirty talk, desperately trying to buck her hips against his, but being restricted by the ropes. His thumb reached between their bodies, and rubbed furiously at her clit, desperate to have her cum before he did.
“You close yet, darling? Gonna cum on my cock? .. God, baby, so fucking tight..”
He felt himself getting closer and closer to cumming, and his thrusts only got more frantic and his hips stuttered between them. She was a whining mess, nodding and begging him to make her cum. His hands shook slightly as he undid her restraints, wanting to hold her hands properly as he made her his own. “Gonna stay with me after this.. Gonna be my little wife here.. Never gonna let you go after this…” Jonathan was mumbling possessive words of adoration, thrusting sloppily until her back arched, and she squirted.
His eyes grew wide. Jonathan was, without a doubt, a skilled lover, but he hadn’t ever made a girl squirt for him before. The efforts of his thrusts doubled and he was practically pounding her into the mattress. She was overstimulated, and her whines grew an octave in pathetic mewls for him to finish.
He buried his cock deep inside her, spurting out his seed into her unprotected hole. They laid together in comfortable silence, until she realized he hadn’t pulled out.
“Jonathan.. Why.. why didn’t you pull out?” her voice had lost all its affection, now dripping in fear, and frustration.
“Sweet girl, you’re mine now. I need to keep you here somehow.”
warnings: smut, non con, lots of chocking, belt kink, power imbalance, blackmail, degradation, unprotected sex, breeding.
words: 2,5k
summary: You didn’t think you’d ever see him again – especially not at the front of your lecture hall. Turns out he remembers everything. And he wants more.
note: I said I wasn’t sure about writing a part 2. But here we are 🫦. Here is part 1. Read the trigger warnings and if any of these makes you uncomfortable, please don't read. All characters are 18+, no minors involved. Also English is not my first language.
It had been weeks since that night — the one you refused to name, the one you tried not to think about. You’d done everything to forget it. Told yourself it was over. Locked the memory away in the farthest corner of your mind, hidden behind walls you hoped would never break. No one could see what was eating you from the inside out.
That morning, the university felt unchanged. The routine of student life moved like water in a mountain stream – fast, repetitive, blurring the lines between days. It was just another class. You tried to focus on your notebook, your pen trembling slightly between your fingers. The professor was running late.
Then the door opened — and your body went cold.
He walked in.
It felt like your heart dropped straight to your stomach. There was no mistake – it was him. He looked just like he had that night, only now he wore the mask of professionalism. His stride was slow and confident. Dark charcoal suit clung neatly to his long frame, the white collar of his shirt crisp and sharp beneath a burgundy tie. Thin glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, catching the pale light as he surveyed the room with a calm, unreadable expression.
His eyes drifted across the rows of students then suddenly paused on you. You felt it land like a blade, before his gaze moved on.
“My name is Jonathan Crane. You will refer to me as Mr. Crane,” he said calmly, addressing the class. “Professor Milton is on temporary leave due to personal health matters. I’ll be taking over this course for the remainder of the semester.”
He didn’t seem like the kind of professor students adored. There was something unnerving about him — a quiet sharpness behind the measured tone. But not many seemed to notice it. To them, he probably appeared composed, confident, even impressive. He didn’t try to be liked. He walked in and expected the room to bend around him — and it did.
He turned toward the chalkboard, outlining the revised syllabus, grading policies, the upcoming assignments. Around you, students dutifully took notes. But you could hardly hear anything over the pounding in your ears.
Then he picked up the attendance list and began reading names aloud, one by one.
Students answered with casual “Here,” or raised a hand, some barely looking up from their notebooks. A few joked at his stiff tone, clearly unaware of who exactly stood in front of them. But you couldn’t focus on any of it. Each name brought him closer to yours, until he reached it.
He paused, eyes lifting to meet yours. He said it slowly, like tasting the syllables on his tongue. He was waiting for confirmation, wanting to hear it from your lips.
You lifted your hand.
"Here," you forced out.
For a moment, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch — not quite a smile. Just a flicker of recognition before he gave the faintest nod and moved on.
The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. His voice droned on about cognitive theory and behavioral patterns. You didn’t dare to look at him directly. But you felt his presence like static in the air, always watching you. The notes in front of you blurred into nonsense. Head low, you silently count the minutes until it would be over.
Finally, he glanced at the clock and closed the folder on his desk with a soft thud.
“We’ll continue this discussion in our next session,” he said.
As the last of the students slipped past you toward the door, you quietly gathered your things, keeping your head down and your breath shallow. Maybe, just maybe, if you moved fast enough, you could get out without a word.
You stood up, heart racing, and turned to follow the others out. But you didn’t make it more than two steps before his voice cut through the air behind you.
“Miss Y/L/N.”
His tone wasn’t raised, but it carried the weight of command. You turned slowly, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.
He didn’t speak. Not immediately. He seemed to be waiting for the room to empty and the quiet to settle. Then he stepped closer.
“Why do you sit all the way in the back?”
You blinked, startled by the question. That wasn’t what you expected.
“I… I don’t know. I’m used to it.”
“No one sees you back there,” he said, his tone casual but edged. “But you see everyone. You’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding,” you said quickly. “I just prefer that spot.”
“Sure,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes slightly.
“A word in my office,” he said softer now, already turning toward the door. “If you don’t mind.”
But you both knew it wasn’t a request.
You followed him down the quiet hallway, your footsteps light but unsteady, echoing faintly in the narrow space. The building felt colder now, more hollow, as if the walls themselves were watching.
He stopped in front of a narrow door marked ‘Dr. J. Crane – Psychology Department’, then opened it without a word, holding it just long enough for you to step inside.
“Close the door,” he said quietly, not bothering to turn around as he walked to his desk.
You obeyed, the latch clicking shut behind you like a trap snapping closed.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft yellow glow of a desk lamp. Papers were stacked in neat, obsessive piles. Bookshelves lined the walls — all medical journals, legal codes, case studies. The blinds were drawn. It smelled faintly of old books and something sharper underneath — like chemicals.
You didn’t wait for permission. With quick strides you marched up to the desk and, without thinking, swept a stack of papers to the floor.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” you snapped, voice shaking with rage. “Do you think I won’t report what you did?”
He stopped mid-motion and slowly turned to face you, giving a small, patient smile.
“By all means, report it,” he said softly. “But let’s think about what that would look like. No witnesses. No evidence. A drunk girl, alone on the highway, claiming she was… what exactly? Attacked by her professor?”
He took a step toward, close enough for you to feel the heat of his frame.
“Who do you think they’ll believe? A respectful professor like me or some random student?”
You opened your mouth to answer, but the words never came.
He studied your expression for a moment, then lowered his voice.
“Speaking of records,” he added, pulling out a folder, “I happened to read your last paper — the one you submitted to Professor Milton before he fell ill.”
He opened it with a slow flourish.
“Remarkably similar to another one I read two years ago, and I have a feeling you plagiarized it.”
Your blood turned cold.
“I-I didn’t—”
His smile widened, slow and merciless.
“Sure you didn’t. Near-identical phrasing, questionable citations. A very poor attempt at hiding it, if I’m honest. You will automatically fail the course. Do you know what that means?”
He let the words hang heavy between you, holding your gaze.
“You’d be placed on academic review. Probably the end of your degree entirely. Do you want that?” he asked.
There was a long silence. Something in his tone, in his certainty, made your confidence falter.
He leaned in, his voice now barely above a whisper.
“Or… we could keep this between us. No scandal. No consequences.”
You stared at him, heart thudding like a trapped animal.
“I don’t want to hurt you, my dear,” he said, almost tender. “But you’ve made things very complicated for yourself. And now, you owe me.”
“I hate you so much,” you whispered.
He didn't really care about your negative comment. The balance of power was already in his favor – and you both knew it.
“Hate me all you like,” he said. “That’s your new reality, sweetheart. You can still do exactly what I say.”
You didn’t respond to his last remark. You just stood there, your breath coming in shallow bursts. Tears pricked at your eyes, sharp and hot, but you held them back — one of the last defiant acts you still had control over.
Then his voice again, lower this time, dark with command:
“Lock the door.”
You froze.
“I said lock it.”
You moved before your mind caught up. The quiet click of the latch echoed louder than a gunshot. The silence stretched as he crossed the room slowly, deliberately, closing the distance. Your body tensed as you felt him behind you, the air shifting with his presence. He didn’t touch you. Not yet.
“You’ve already made your choice by staying,” he murmured, his voice grazing your neck like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear. “Now you’re going to show me just how far you’re willing to go.”
Before you could react, his hand clamped around your arm, and he yanked you forward with sudden force. You stumbled, barely catching your balance before he shoved you hard against his desk. Papers scattered, a pen rolled to the floor, but he didn’t care. He pressed into your back, caging you in with the unyielding weight of his body.
“You really thought you could walk away like nothing happened?” he hissed. “That I wouldn’t recognize you, wouldn’t come find you?”
He let go of your face just long enough to tug at your blouse, popping open the buttons with practiced ease.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not for one goddamn second.”
You gasped as he yanked the fabric down, exposing your bra. His hands were rough, impatient – he didn’t treat you like something to be cherished, only claimed. His fingers grazing the lace before curling possessively around your breast.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your neck, lips grazing your skin as his fingers brushed lower. “But your thighs are pressing together like a desperate little slut.”
“Shut up,” you spat, but your voice broke.
He chuckled darkly. “Still pretending? You’ve been thinking about it too. Every night. I bet you’ve touched yourself imagining my hands on you again.”
You shook your head, biting down the sob rising in your throat.
He pressed his knee between your legs, forcing them apart. His free hand sliding up your trembling thigh, slow and deliberate, dragging your skirt higher with each inch. When his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and yanked them down roughly, the cold air hit your skin.
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened – enough to bruise and remind you he was in control.
“I like you better like this,” he said. “No attitude. Just a pathetic, wet cunt waiting to be used.”
You wanted to scream at him, shove him away — but your body wouldn’t move. Not out of fear. Out of anticipation you hated yourself for.
“You don’t get to pretend you’re innocent anymore,” he said behind you, unfastening his belt. “You lost that the moment you let me have you.”
In one swift motion, he wrapped the belt around your neck, pulling tight through the buckle. You choked on your breath, panic exploding through you like a shockwave. Your hand flew up, clawing frantically at the leather, but your fingers felt clumsy and weak.
He didn’t loosen it, belt cutting into your throat with every shallow gasp you managed. Your knees threatened to give out. Your pulse roared in your ears, vision flickering at the edges. But even as the darkness crept in, something shameful pulsed low in your belly — hot, insistent, undeniable.
“You look so pretty when you’re afraid,” he whispered, the buckle creaking as he pulled it tighter. “It suits you.”
Your vision blurred, black edging into the corners. The part of you that still cared about dignity wanted to scream, to fight, but the rest of you was paralyzed — trapped between terror and something far uglier.
With that he unfastened his pants and freed his rigid cock, positioned himself at your entrance. He buried himself to the hilt, a low growl of satisfaction rumbling in his chest as your body enveloped him.
"Fuck, you feel incredible. So wet for me even as I choke the life from you."
He began to move, each powerful thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. With his free hand, he reached down to rub your clit in slow, deliberate circles. Your breath came in ragged gasps, the pleasure and pain mingling into an intense, overwhelming sensation.
"What do you want more? To breathe? Or to come and soak my cock?"
His words were a dark, seductive promise as he continued to tease your sensitive flesh, the belt still snug around your throat, a constant reminder of your vulnerability and his absolute control. You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly until it was teetering on the brink of release. As if in response to his words, your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your inner walls rippling around his pistoning cock.
He groaned, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he felt your walls clenching around him, your body trembling from overstimulation. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep and let out a roar of pleasure as he spilled his seed inside you.
His breathing was ragged as he finally stilled inside you. The only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the desk lamp and your desperate gasps as you fought to refill your lungs.
Slowly, he loosened the belt.
The pressure around your throat gave way, and you collapsed forward onto the desk, wheezing, skin slick with sweat, your body trembling from the aftershocks.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just stood there behind you, still buried deep, watching the way you shook beneath him — chest heaving, fingers clutching at the desk’s edge.
Then, slowly, he withdrew. You felt the hot mess he left behind dripping down your thighs. Without a word, he tugged your panties back into place — rough and careless. The soaked fabric pressed against your skin, sticky and humiliating.
“You’ll leave like this,” he said, voice calm. “Let it remind you who you belong to.”
He stepped away from the desk and adjusted his shirt cuffs with the same quiet precision he had before.
“There will be rules going forward,” he continued. “You’ll show up when I say. You’ll do as I say. You’ll keep your pretty mouth shut in class. And in return, I’ll make sure that little plagiarism incident never sees the light of day.”
He paused, letting the silence settle like dust before stepping closer again. His hand reached out, and with firm fingers, he lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. His grip was steady, unrelenting.
“If you stop fighting me,” he added, voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial, “maybe I’ll even start being nice to you.”
He smiled — a cruel, amused curl of his lips that made it clear how much he enjoyed the game.
give me everything you've got on the riddler! please
dating the riddler 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
warnings — SFW and NSFW , just headcanons, Edward Nygma being a dick
a/n — I want him so bad unfortunately.
SFW 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
So… high maintenance is certainly a way of putting it.
If you’ve earned the Riddlers trust, and affection, enough to be in a romantic relationship, it’s safe to say he is incredibly needy.
Constantly demanding reassurance, and then when receiving it, getting defensive and waving his hand; “you don’t think I know that?”
Although, the more he trusts you the less bite there is. The longer you stay the more he understands that there is no condescension in your voice; only sugery praise and love.
However he’s still an ass, and you’ll forever be met with “I know.” But it’s softer, met with a glance your way. please tell me more.
Total spoiled princess. You aren’t paying attention to him: are you kidding, What better do you have to do?
He’s very odd about physical touch, as he doesn’t get it a lot, but truth be told a human has needs and he’s very touch starved.
Despite this, he almost never initiates. But you can tell when he wants affection from the way he shivers when your hands touch, instead of snatching his own away.
When he’s comfortable with you, he’s a huge yapper. He almost never stops talking.
Unlike the Riddler who is cold and methodical, deviously amused and yet irritated all at once why the world around him — Eddie is curious, and child-like in his ramblings. His eyes sparkle with excitement when he has questions, which he wonders out loud to no avail. If his mind is ever quiet it doesn’t show.
Let him lay his head on your lap while you play with his hair, especially while he thinks out loud. His smile would be animated as his eyes flicker with thoughts, spewing them out to you like a leaking foset.
Birthday gifts are… interesting. Always a homemade contraption — some sort of puzzle, sometimes reminiscent of a jigsaw, others a rubix cube. But personalized, applying to you specifically.
He knows you, that’s what it’s showing. However, clearly not enough to know that you really wanted a new shirt and not a riddle.
Riddler can be very kiddish when he’s proud of something;
“See that old trick? You see, i’ve been cooking that one up for a while. But it certainly went how I planned! Wouldn’t you say, y/n? I think it was quite nifty, myself—“
Tell him you’re proud, it’s all he’s wanted to hear since he could remember. Of course, your still met with a cocky response, but he really does like your approval.
Interrupts your conversations with anyone else to inject himself as the star. He’s either jealous or bored, but probably both.
Not exactly a neat-freak, but very particular about things. “What is this mess! Y/n, you put the plates in the wrong place… top shelf left, they’re supposed to be on the right. Leave it to the genius…”
Inexplicably clingy and yet hates when you’re around too much.
“You’re crowding up my workspace, out with you!” and then he spends the next twelve hours thinking about what you could be doing now that your not with him.
He’s not a people person, but you are the only one who understands him. Although he simply can’t handle it sometimes, his attempts to push you away are never serious.
In reality, he just craves your love.
NSFW 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
So he’s definitely a switch but everyone talks about his dominant side too much — so here are all the ways in which he is a sub.
Can I just say something crazy? He cannot possibly be experienced.
Once or twice TOPS, and even then it’s been years. He’s been too focused.
Praise kink!
It’s kinda crazy. Just start cooing at him about what a smart boy he is, and how good he is, while your hands roam his chest.
At first he’d freeze: “What are you doing.. stop that… don’t patronize me.”
And then you’d start unbuttoning his shirt, and he’d stop breathing.
He’s so not used to attention like this it’s kind of bizarre to see him react. All of a sudden he’s so unsure of himself, his hands pick at his seat, his shoulders tense, and his face flushes in a sweat.
Defensive even during sex. “You’re so good, Eddie” “Well, that’s obvious— ungh”
Don’t be afraid to get rough, he can take it. He’s practically begging you to make him shut up. Inside he wants to behave so bad but his bratty responses are compulsive.
Also, PEG THIS MAN!
Grab him by the waist and bend him over. Press his face deep down into the mattress as he squeals about how humiliating this is for genius such as himself.
Hit his prostate once talking about some “Who’s mommy’s smart boy?” He just came everywhere. And now he’s denying being into something that deprived. Sounds like round two is necessary!
He’s such a little attention whore he loves when he’s the only one receiving.
He probably cums really fast and he’s probably really annoyingly defensive about it. Like he gets nasty rude when he’s embarrassed.
All and all, he just wants your undivided attention, and praise, which is why he makes a great sub. Despite his bratty demeanor.
They realize they love you after a nightmare about you dying
Characters: Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bane, Scarecrow, Two-Face, The Riddler & The Penguin
The Joker
- The Joker had always laughed at the idea of love. It was messy, inconvenient, and far too human for someone as “elevated” as him. So, when the nightmare came—your lifeless body crumpled beneath the rubble of some grim Gotham alley—it caught him off guard. His cackles turned to hollow echoes as he screamed your name, the vibrant color of his world bleeding into dull gray.
- He jolted awake with a gasp, his face covered in a rare sheen of sweat. His usual smirk was absent as his wild eyes darted around the room, landing on your sleeping form beside him. You were alive, breathing softly, your face peaceful in slumber. The sight of you alive was a jolt to his twisted heart.
- For the first time in a long while, he didn’t laugh. He sat there, his thoughts in chaos, a war between his denial and the crushing realization that he couldn’t imagine a world without you. It scared him more than Batman ever could. He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the emotions bubbling to the surface.
- “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, his voice shaking. But his hand moved on its own, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent, and he froze, a flicker of vulnerability flashing in his usually unhinged eyes.
- He stayed awake for hours, staring at you, convincing himself that this was just some fleeting weakness. But the image of your death lingered, gnawing at him, turning his denial into reluctant acceptance. “You’ve done it, haven’t you?” he whispered bitterly. “You’ve made the Clown Prince of Crime care.”
- The next morning, his usual theatrics were toned down. He stayed unusually close to you, his hand lingering on yours longer than normal. You raised an eyebrow at his behavior, and he waved it off with a manic laugh, but deep inside, he knew he’d never let you out of his sight again.
- That night, he held you a little tighter than usual, his arms wrapped around you as if to shield you from the world. “You’re mine,” he whispered into the darkness, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “And no one will take you from me. Not even death.”
Harleen Quinzel aka. Harley Quinn
- Harley’s dreams were usually chaotic, filled with explosions, bright colors, and nonsensical antics. But this one was different. It was dark, quiet, and horrifying. She saw you, broken and bleeding, calling out to her with your last breath. No amount of laughter or jokes could save you.
- She woke with a start, her heart pounding and tears streaming down her cheeks. “Puddin’?!” she gasped instinctively, but then her eyes landed on you. You were there, next to her, your chest rising and falling steadily. Relief washed over her, and she let out a shaky laugh.
- Harley wasn’t one to dwell on emotions—she usually masked them with jokes and a bubbly exterior. But this dream? It shook her to her core. She sat up, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch your face, as if reassuring herself you were real.
- “What’s goin’ on with me?” she whispered to herself. She knew the answer deep down but wasn’t ready to admit it. The thought of losing you had torn her apart in the dream, and the intensity of her feelings scared her.
- For the rest of the night, she stayed awake, her mind racing. She replayed every moment with you, every smile, every laugh, and every time you’d stood by her side. “Guess I’m hooked,” she murmured with a small, bittersweet smile.
- The next day, she was more clingy than usual, following you around and cracking even more jokes than normal. You noticed her odd behavior, but she brushed it off with a wink and a kiss on the cheek. “Just feelin’ extra lovey-dovey today, sugar!”
- That night, as you lay in her arms, she finally whispered the words she’d been too scared to say aloud. “I love ya, ya know? Like… the real kinda love, not the crazy kinda love. Well, maybe a lil’ crazy, but still real.” She kissed your forehead, her heart lighter than it had been in years.
Pamela Isley aka. Poison Ivy
- Pamela’s dreams were rarely nightmares. But this one? It was a haunting vision of you lying lifeless among her beloved plants, your blood staining the green foliage. The image was so vivid, so horrifying, that it shattered her usual composure.
- She woke with a sharp inhale, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes darted to your side of the bed, relief flooding her as she saw you curled up peacefully. The nightmare lingered, though, its dark tendrils wrapping around her thoughts.
- Ivy wasn’t one to let emotions control her. She prided herself on being logical, detached. But this dream forced her to confront the truth she’d been avoiding. She cared for you—deeply, irrevocably—and the thought of losing you was unbearable.
- She reached out, her fingers lightly tracing the curve of your cheek. Her touch was soft, almost reverent, as if she feared you might disappear if she pressed too hard. “You’ve rooted yourself in my life, haven’t you?” she whispered.
- For hours, she stayed by your side, watching you sleep, her mind racing with plans to ensure your safety. She’d protect you, no matter the cost. “No one will harm you,” she vowed quietly. “Not while I still breathe.”
- The next day, her demeanor was gentler than usual. She handed you a cup of tea, her green eyes soft as they met yours. “Drink this,” she said. “It’ll keep you healthy. And stay close to me today, alright?” Her protective side was in full bloom.
- That night, as you lay in her arms, surrounded by the soft glow of her plants, she finally let herself be vulnerable. “You’re the one thing I can’t afford to lose,” she admitted. “I’ve spent my life fighting for the earth, but you? You’ve become my world.”
Bane
- Bane’s dreams were typically filled with battles and conquests, but this one was different. He saw you, broken and defeated, your life slipping away because he hadn’t been strong enough to protect you. The sight of your lifeless form was a blow worse than any he’d taken in the ring.
- He woke with a start, his chest heaving as if he’d run a marathon. His eyes immediately sought you out, relief washing over him when he saw you safe and sound, curled up beside him. But the dream lingered, the pain and helplessness gnawing at him.
- Bane wasn’t used to feeling weak, but that nightmare had shaken him. He sat up, his massive frame tense as he stared down at you. “You are my strength,” he murmured, the words foreign on his tongue but no less true.
- For hours, he sat there, replaying the nightmare in his mind. He realized then just how much you meant to him, how deeply you’d carved yourself into his life. “I cannot lose you,” he vowed, his voice low and resolute.
- The next morning, his protective instincts were in overdrive. He insisted on accompanying you everywhere, his large hand resting possessively on your shoulder. When you questioned his sudden behavior, he simply replied, “You are important to me. That is reason enough.”
- That night, as you lay in his arms, he finally let his walls down. “I have fought many battles,” he said quietly. “But the thought of losing you? That is a battle I cannot win.” His voice was thick with emotion, his vulnerability laid bare for you to see.
- Bane’s love was fierce and unwavering, and from that moment on, he made it his mission to keep you safe. “You are my heart,” he admitted softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And I will protect you with every ounce of strength I possess.”
Jonathan Crane aka. Scarecrow
- Jonathan’s dreams were often macabre reflections of his own fears twisted into nightmarish landscapes. But this time, it wasn’t about him. The nightmare was about you—your lifeless body crumpled in a dark alley, surrounded by shadows, your voice calling his name in desperation before falling silent forever.
- He woke abruptly, his breath shallow and ragged, the echo of your scream still ringing in his ears. For a moment, he sat frozen, his hands trembling slightly. Then his eyes darted to the bed, where you lay peacefully, your chest rising and falling in soft rhythm.
- Jonathan wasn’t one to embrace vulnerability, yet this dream left him shaken. He stared at you, his mind racing with an uncomfortable realization: he cared for you far more than he’d ever allowed himself to admit. Losing you, even in a nightmare, felt like losing a part of himself.
- He leaned closer, his hand hovering over your cheek but not quite touching, as if afraid to disturb the calm you radiated. “You’re more dangerous than fear itself,” he murmured quietly, his voice tinged with a rare warmth. “Because you’ve made me weak.”
- The following day, Jonathan was quieter than usual, his sharp words softened when directed at you. He lingered in your presence, finding excuses to stay close, though he masked his concern with his usual intellectual aloofness.
- That night, as you stirred beside him, Jonathan finally let his guard down. “You don’t realize it, do you?” he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You’ve made me care… and that terrifies me.” His fingers brushed against yours, a silent vow to keep you safe.
- From that moment on, he became even more meticulous in his plans, ensuring no one could ever harm you. Jonathan Crane, the master of fear, had found something he feared more than anything: a world without you in it.
Harvey Dent aka. Two-Face
- Harvey’s nightmares were like a coin flip—sometimes they reflected his inner turmoil, other times they felt like cruel twists of fate. This time, it was the latter. He saw you, the one person who made him feel whole, bleeding out in his arms as he screamed for help that never came.
- He jolted awake, his hands clutching the sheets tightly as he gasped for air. His scarred side twitched involuntarily, but his eyes sought you immediately. Relief washed over him as he saw you sleeping soundly beside him, completely unaware of his inner torment.
- Harvey sat up, running a hand down his face. The nightmare had been too vivid, too real. He couldn’t shake the image of your lifeless body, the way your eyes had stared at him, full of trust even as the light faded from them.
- “You’re my anchor,” he whispered, his dual voice cracking slightly. “You make me believe there’s still something good in me.” The thought of losing you wasn’t just painful; it felt like losing the last shred of humanity he had left.
- The next day, Harvey was unusually protective, his coin flipping idly between his fingers as he shadowed your every move. When you teased him about being overly cautious, he brushed it off with a half-smile. “Can’t be too careful,” he muttered, though his eyes betrayed his deeper worry.
- That night, as you curled up beside him, Harvey wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. “You’re the one thing in my life that doesn’t need a coin flip,” he admitted softly. “I’ll protect you, no matter what.”
- From then on, his duality softened slightly when it came to you. Both sides of Harvey Dent—man and monster—agreed on one thing: you were worth everything. And he wouldn’t let anyone take you from him.
Edward Nygma aka. The Riddler
- Edward’s nightmares weren’t random; they were puzzles of his subconscious, riddled with hidden meanings and twisted scenarios. But this time, the riddle was cruelly simple: you were dead, taken from him in a moment of chaos he couldn’t control or predict. The answer to the nightmare was devastatingly clear—he couldn’t solve it.
- He woke in a cold sweat, his mind racing as if trying to piece together clues to prove the dream wasn’t real. When his eyes landed on you, still peacefully asleep beside him, he let out a shaky breath, relief flooding his system.
- For once, Edward was at a loss for words. The nightmare had shaken him in a way few things could. He prided himself on his intellect, his ability to plan for every contingency, yet the thought of losing you felt like an unsolvable equation.
- “You’ve become my greatest mystery,” he murmured, brushing a hand through his hair as he watched you sleep. “How did you manage to make me feel this way?” His voice was tinged with frustration, but beneath it was an undeniable warmth.
- The next day, Edward was more attentive than usual, his riddles and taunts aimed at others rather than you. He stuck close, his sharp eyes scanning for any potential threat, though he masked his concern behind his usual arrogance.
- That night, as you curled up against him, Edward allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. “You’re the only thing in my life that doesn’t need a riddle to explain,” he admitted softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. “And I’ll make sure no one ever takes you from me.”
- From that point on, Edward’s plans always included you at the center, his mind working tirelessly to ensure your safety. For a man obsessed with answers, you had become the only certainty in his life.
Oswald Cobblepot aka. The Penguin
- Oswald’s nightmares were usually filled with power struggles and betrayal, but this one was personal. He saw you, his constant companion and solace, gunned down in a rival’s crossfire. The sight of your blood pooling beneath you was enough to send a chill through even his cold heart.
- He woke with a start, his usual composure shattered as he sat up, his breath heavy. His sharp eyes immediately sought you out, relief flooding him as he saw you beside him, alive and unharmed. But the nightmare had left its mark.
- Oswald prided himself on his control, yet the dream had revealed a vulnerability he couldn’t ignore. He sat in silence, his mind replaying the nightmare over and over, each iteration driving home just how much you meant to him.
- “You’re more valuable than all the riches in Gotham,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. He reached out, his gloved hand brushing against yours, the gesture unusually tender for a man like him.
- The following day, Oswald’s protective instincts were in overdrive. He doubled your security, barking orders at his henchmen to ensure your safety. When you questioned his sudden behavior, he simply replied, “You’re too important to risk.”
- That night, as you rested your head on his shoulder, Oswald finally let his walls down. “You’ve done the impossible,” he admitted quietly. “You’ve made the Penguin care about something other than power. And I won’t let anyone take that away from me.”
- From then on, his love for you was evident in every action. For a man who thrived in Gotham’s cold, dark underworld, you were his one source of light—and he’d do whatever it took to keep you safe.
𓆩☾𓆪 Nightwing - Dick Grayson | بالشب - دیک گریسون
He's mesmerized by the sight of you between his arms. Definite little doll smiling up at him through tear-soaked eyes. He floods your essence with saccharine kisses, sweet vows, and anguished 'I love yous' all paying testimony to his sugar-laced obsession. He's desperate to taste your sweetness on his tongue, lick through your flesh like a lollipop, and unravel your bones with his teeth.
He had been so young once, chasing virtue and strength into every dark alleyway, following bats and hope into vicious nights. Back then, he hadn't understood his mentor's desperation for paper-thin kisses and phony love. But now feeling the push of your body beneath his fingertips makes him understand how satisfying real love can be. To observe you in the sun's gentle rays. To feel your body curled next to his on cold nights. He plays hero under the moon's watchful gaze only to return home to you upon daybreak.
❀࿔ Red Hood - Jason Todd | نقاب قرمز - جیسون تاد
He glides your fingers across his scars, shuddering under the weight of your touch. Stardust cauterizes ancient wounds, licking away the rotten grime. Jason clenches his teeth, there's something so intimidating about the softness of your touch. It stings worse than any crowbar or bullet wound, intruding, harrowing. It's almost like you're plucking the constellations of his past from under his skin, trying to rearrange the stars into something cathartic.
He can't help the hapless way his nails scratch across your bones, the gurgling laugh that escapes his throat. You're Elizabeth Lavenza and Ophelia trying to mend a broken boy, with your wry smile and terrified eyes. Jason traces his lips across yours, his kiss is ravenous, frantic. Faux-hero desperate for an inkling of love, of bliss, of softness.
He likes to think he's shed his human skin long ago. Left it to die in that burning warehouse with his old mask and youth. But when he hears your laughter, that haunting echo reverberates off the edifice walls. He can't help but think maybe, just maybe a trace of humanity still lingers beneath his armor. Your smile glares at him in every carmine puddle he treks through. He dreams it's your blood marring his gauntlets, syrupy sweet as he licks them clean. Daydreams about your ethereal face painted in reds and purples by his iron-clad hands.
His kisses are razor blades cutting through your lips, forcing his love down your throat, and watching as you choke on the rust and ache. He's trying to merge two bodies into one void, to engulf you. Mirror his scars upon your flesh with dull knives and jagged fingernails. He kisses you again, you swear you're going to drown in his sea of red. Maybe that's all the love he has left. He
｡♦｡ Red Robin - Tim Drake | رابین قرمز- تیم دریک
He plays hero in the night, little bird chasing villains and evil by moonlight. When he blinks it's you he sees lying on the couch watching TV. He's starting to think you're his favorite show, afterall your window is about the size of a flat-screen TV and he's always too eager to peak through for the next screening. Episode 84, you're hugging your favorite teddy bear, lost in euphoria as your knuckles turn white around the controller. Tim watches heart in his throat as you claw out the boss's eyes. Sanctimonious champion vying to save the holy princess.
Tim bites his fingers, addresses each tooth mark to you. He pens his love letters upon his own skin, sealing them in red when he finally punctures through. Maybe life is just a video game, an endless kaleidoscope of cutscenes. And he's just a besotted hero dying to kiss the precious princess who doesn't even know he exists.
ꨄ︎ Robin - Damian Wayne| سینهسرخ - دامیان وین
His heritage pounds between his bones. The deja vu of an ancestral lifetime runs rapid through his veins as he chases you across the rooftops. His father, his mother, his brothers, always chasing, running after things they know they'll never reach. Your blades clash against his and Damian can't help but wonder if this is the closest he'll ever get to kissing you.
You leave him with paper cuts that feel like venom, like saying 'I love you' while chewing on his bones. He ponders, does his father have the same scars, if Damian pulled away Bruce's skin what would he find? Kittycat claws and dragon bites engraved in the nth-wielded ivory. He feels legacy clawing at his throat as he pictures your fingers between his teeth. Tears blooming in your eyes as he uses diamonds and ceremonial knives to engrave his name upon your flesh. Dotting the I with a heart and entwining each letter. God, he's so tired of being lonely...
🦇 Batman - Bruce Wayne | بتمن - بروس وین
He can't help but pick you apart, chip away at the bones and flesh until he reaches your essence. Dissecting your heart with his tongue and savoring the ichor between his teeth. He's the world's greatest detective and yet he can't unravel his own ardor. This mania, this addiction festering within his crux gnawing at his sanity until every thought is consumed by the cadence of your voice and the stars scintillating in your big doe eyes. This desperate need burning inside of him are you really divinity? Will you bleed glod, if he tears you apart with his teeth?
You're so ethereal squirming beneath, kicking and screaming vying desperately for freedom. He's fought this love for far too long, tried to preserve you in the light. Cover your eyes and ears and make you forget about the monsters that roam in the dark. But he can't not anymore, maybe he never could. Maybe the only way he knows how to love is by trickling his darkness like nectar between your lips and watching as it paints you in his shades.
ᯓ★ Superman - Clark Kent | سوپرمن - کلارک کنت
His kisses melt into your skin sweet like molten sugar drizzled on jasmine rice. Like lava smothering roses, leaving a trail of fragranced ashes. Clark smiles and he notices how you cover your eyes. Like you're staring directly into the sun. Like you're scared of being burnt. Clark can't help but bury his head in the crock of your neck, inhaling your ather. Molten roses and floral ashes he likes the amalgamate of your scents. Like how his presence lingers upon you.
He holds you like a doll, like the little straw dolls his mother used to make. It's easy to be gentle, coddling when everything is so fragile compared to you. He kisses down your neck, your jaw, nuzzling his nose into your soft skin, trying to earn a giggle a gold star. Trying to wipe the fear from your eyes. He kisses you again, mumbling cloying words between your lips, wishing he could just push his love between your fragile bones.
˚✶˚ Superboy - Conner Kent | سوپربوی - کانر کنت
He's fighting back the urge to peel your heart from between your ribs. To trail kisses across it and marr his lips with your ether. He wonders if your heart beats as frantically as his. He wonders if your ribs rattle when he enters a room.
He wants to push little superboy earings into your ears, to lay upon you the piercings he could never have. It'll be his way of telling the world you belong to him, that you belong to Superboy. And yet he settles for draping his leather jacket across your shoulders when senses a shiver run up your spine. He settles for the friendly hugs and airy hello-kisses. He wants to say he's he loves you. he can't. It's all so annoying, tasting the dead words on his tongue.
𓂃✮ Superman - Jon Kent | سوپرمن - جان کنت
He's scaping his nails along the Hershey's kisses re-aligning the red blue and gold wrapping. It'll be obvious, right? If he leaves them in your locker you'll understand the colored metaphor you'll answer the question he can never ask. You'll know it's him, everyone always does, for the byproduct of the world's greatest hero, he's terrible at keeping his identity a secret.
He blames it on the legacy flooding his lungs. On the promises that beat in his blood. He's born to be a hero, to play the role of savior, but aren't heroes promised love too? Aren't they meant to save the girl from burning skyscrapers and crumbling sidewalks, to fly above the skyline and kiss her in tune with the setting sun? He's so desperate for the sweet fairytale ending, so desperate to kiss the girl who always knows just what to say. He leaves the chocolate in your locker before making a dent in the metal door.
˚｡⋆🪙⋆ ˚｡ Two Face - Harvey Dent | دو چهره - هاروی دنت
He can taste your pain on his tongue, swallow the barbed wire, and relish in the familiar sting of hope, expectation, responsibility. Maybe that's why he can't stop himself from chasing after you. Burning the world demanding you stop him, desperate for a silver of your deficit attention. God, you're so ethereal with his gun aimed at your head, his pretty little girl with big starry eyes laced with dread as they follow the cascade of his coin. 'I know' he wants to scream 'I know what it feels like' but the words never quite spill out that way. And Harv only laughs at his foolish attempts to play hero once more. Sanctimonious bastard, the words reverberate in his skull.
You may claim to be a hero but Two-face knows you'll fall, plunder to the ground like all the rest, that's what happens when you reach for the sky, deem yourself Icarus, and let the flames of glory engulf you until there's nothing left. 'You can't save them' Harv screams only for Harvey to hear. They want to get closer, to slip the coin between your lips and make you taste defeat, maybe then you'll understand why he's so keen on fighting you out of your crusade. Maybe then you'll take their hand willingly, letting them sprinkle kisses across your knuckles like dying stars.
˙⋆☠︎︎⋆˙ Black Mask - Roman Sionis | نقاب سیاه - رومن سیونیس
He wants to cut out your big heart and sink his teeth into it, engrave himself in every vein, and chew on the heartstrings. HIM he needs to be the only one in that plushie heart of yours. The only one with the right to be graced by your ethereal smile. He wants to awaken to your soft nimble fingers tracing hearts and stars across his chest. Pretty pink lips weaving feathery kisses across the scar of his pacemaker. Giggles tickling his neck as you bid him 'good morning' in that all too cheery voice of yours.
Roman almost moans as he hears his name spill from your mouth, each letter cradled carefully between your lips he can't help but want to push his thumb inside your mouth, to feel your purity and shock. There's so much he wants to call you so much he wants to whisper in your ear as he watches your cheeks glow red. To hold you in his lap and trail his fingers across your legs, to dress you in pretty dresses and short skirts and skin-tight tops. To taste the fear and dread on your tongue palpable like the blood he draws with every kiss.
༄✩༄ Scarecrow - Jonathan Crane | مترسک - جاناتان کرین
He likes the stars in your eyes, the mini constellations spelling out your greatest fears. The tears blooming in the corners of your dopey eyes have his lips twitching. You're so gorgeous like this, curled up on the floor trying to make sense of such an eerie world. Jonathan doesn't anoint himself a fool, he knows it's chimeric to think that you'd love him without the toxin, without the heavy drugs he's spilled into your veins. That's why he keeps you like this, scared and depressed. Always in need of him.
What's your greatest fear? He wonders when you tuck your head between your knees and sob all so quietly as to not disturb him. Is it him you see in your grandest nightmares? Is it the mask jumping at you from within the darkness, or is it Professor Crane abandoning you in such a macabre world? Mask on mask off it makes no difference. He just hopes he's the star of every nightmare, as long as you fear him as much as he fears losing you.
｡??｡ Riddler- Edward Nygma| ریدل - ادوارد نیگما
It's frivolous to think he will not solve this riddle. That he will no unearth this plague you have bestowed upon him. This fixation, this obsession, he needs to understand you, to peel away your skin and glimpse at your inner clock workings. To undo your screws one by one and find out what exists between that haunting laugh and those knowing vicious eyes. To rip apart your wires, and feed upon your mind. To understand, he needs to understand you.
He got close once when he had your neck under his shoe, but the evil lith of your laughter rings across the room and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't unnerved. He doesn't know what question to ask first. 'what have you done to me'? 'why do you think you're better than me?', 'Why don't you love me?' Instead, the silence shatters with your voice, proud melody rivaling his own, your eyes lock on him and he can't suppress his shutter. "Well Eddie, riddle me this. What can kill any man, but isn't even alive itself?"
⁺♡⁺ Deathstroke - Slade Wilson | مرگ سکته - اسلید ویلسون
You're like a shooting star, dancing across the night as you stalk his latest kill. Little asssasin, you know your stuff but he finds your thirst for ineage and morality both exhausting and honorable. Most people grow up and spit out their morals with blood and broken teeth. Let the world's cruel realities claw and gnaw at their skin until it's hardened enough to survive. He's yet to see you extend such a courtesy to the world, makes him think that pulling the trigger on you would be some sort of mercy. Bullet through the heart leaving your body coated in his essence and one final kiss pressed onto your paling lips.
He dosen't notice the inkling of you rattling around in his brain until he realizes that this is the eighth him he's seen you smile at the end of his barrel. Pretty little girl chasing after morals and sand, hoping to escape the endless night by spilling just a little more guilty blood. You look like some sort of ethereal doll, immortal in your innocence and vicious in your virtues. He can respect that, truly but Slade isn't naive enough to think you have what it takes to survive. Maybe that's why he wants all so badly to feed you his victim's hearts and eyes and livers, to push them past your pretty lips, staining them the deepest red. Watching your delicate throat constrict as you swallow everything he gives you. Reveling in the sensation of your greedy little tongue swirling around his fingers licking up the access gore. Can almost picture your smile and stupid little head tilt as you thank him for the 'candygrams'.
⭑.ᐟ Respawn | احیا
Respawn drowns in his love. Pulling apart his heart to lay at your feet. It's all he's ever known, broken boy built to harvest spare parts. But you don't look at him like that, you don't even look at him like an assassin. No, you smile fondly as you nuzzle his neck with your nose. You look at him the way his father used to, like he's actually worth something more. He's never quite kissed you, he's not even sure he knows how. Instead, he holds you close to his chest making sure you hear the dull patter of his jagged heart.
He's born from greatness, left to rot in the dark. He refuses to play pawn, anymore. So maybe that's why, when he finally kisses you -with all the grace of a schoolboy's first kiss- it's so desperate and erratic, clumsily licking your lips and nicking his tongue along your teeth trying to think what his father would do. His fingers dig into your arms, preassing prayers into your flesh, screaming 'Don't leave me, you're all I have left'.
⭑☽ Ghost-Maker - Minhkhoa "Khoa" Khan | روح ساز - مینه خوا "خوا" خان
There's nostalgia in your essence, in your presence, something he can never wash away. He's grown addicted to the erratic reverbate of your pulse between his teeth. Kissing the bites he leaves marring your perfect body.
Why can't you just love him, let him haunt your every thought, and erode those pesky creeds, until he is the only thing you'll ever need? Khoa hates to admit it but he sees something in you, something so reflective of the little boy laying in the sand of the gobi desert, shooting phantom bullets and mocking stars. You scream every time he kisses you, recoil your tongue, and cry at the bitterness sweeping in. But Khao loves the challenge, the fight, loves forcing you into submission, even as your knife digs between his ribs. He's only ever content when your pith floods his mouth and your melodic voice rings through his ears. His precious little princess tucked away between his arms forever.
☾⋆ Phantom-one | روح یک
he never shows you his face. He blames it on his upbringing too used to old rules that he can never escape their clutches not even for you. His kisses are always clouds dancing across your skin, so light and airy they may as well be the wind. But tries to leave traces of himself with every kiss. Desperate pleas for you to look at him, to touch him, to love him back. All so he knows he's alive, still real enough to love.
He's always trapped between the land of the living and the realm of the deceased. Always so gentle with the love he's stolen, so careful to not break his lover, as his mentor did to him. He laces his fingers through your hair, sucks gently on the length of your neck, all while pushing 'I love yous' into your soul, marking you as his forever.
Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolan!verse Batman) x F Reader
Just a spicy extra for you late one night in Jonathan's study...
Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.
Jonathan had been working in his study for hours while you waited for him to come to bed one Sunday night. It was just before midnight, and you knew he had the board meeting at Arkham at 8 sharp. Yes, you knew he wanted to give a thorough account of how things were progressing at the asylum after everything it, and Gotham, had been through in the last few months. And he would. But he really needed to get some sleep too.
You'd been down there once already to ask when he was coming to bed. You'd stepped fully into his study, letting him see the nightgown you wore. It was longer and elegant, just like he preferred. And you swore he liked you mostly covered up in bed just so he'd have an excuse to uncover you. But your new gown was pretty much diaphanous, and your libido had grown fangs at the way his gaze hungrily took you in.
As he always did, he paused. Well, you called it his buffering face because he was switching gears from his work to you. And he really didn't like the term 'buffering face.' You grinned. Then he'd smile, tell you he was almost done.
That was two hours ago. It was almost midnight.
Yes, he needed sleep. But you needed something too. Attention from him. What did a girl have to do here? The man was so wrapped up in prepping for the meeting in the morning that you could probably set up a string quartet in his study, and they'd be almost done with Air on the G String before he'd notice.
Would it help if you just put on a G-string and walked back in there?
You sighed. Plus, he looked so adorable in there with his tie loosened, his vest unbuttoned, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His glasses were perfectly perched on his nose, and he was reading parts of his report back to himself under his breath as he went along, completely absorbed.
At fifteen after midnight, you really couldn't take it anymore. You walked back down to the study without him saying anything. Normally, he'd notice your steps as you approached. When you got to the doorway, you dropped to your knees and crawled under the desk with no warning, settling between his thighs.
Jonathan didn't react until you reached for the fine leather belt he wore. He jerked as you quickly worked it open, plucking open his slacks. He stopped and leaned back to glance at you under there, his eyes wide behind the lenses.
"Love, this has to be finished for my meeting in the morning," he said softly.
Color flooded his face as he watched you roughly pull those slacks down his thighs, taking his boxers with them. When you got your hands on him, his lips parted. When you got your mouth on him, his breath came out in a rush. You gave him no more time to react, just wrapped your lips around the head of him, tasted him.
Your name was a quiet whisper on his lips as you gripped him, caressing him with your hands while running your tongue over the head of him. It didn't take him long at all to get hard for you, and once he did, you slid him into the warmth of your mouth. The moan you pulled from him was truly porno-worthy and for once mister I-have-to-be-in-control didn't seem to care.
You smiled around him, glancing up at him through your lashes.
Slumping in his chair now, he let his head fall back. "This is bold for you."
You grinned around him, enjoying the way he swelled against your tongue. You stopped just long enough to say, "You kept me waiting."
Getting back at it, you felt him twitch in your mouth, so you doubled your efforts. Your hands stroked his base, his sac. You bobbed over the length of him, taking him to the back of your throat firmly each time you went down. He was full-sized and throbbing after only a couple of minutes, his hips starting to move with you, urging you for more. And you were all too happy to oblige. The growing cadence of his breath, the chorus of moans you were pulling from him now only incentivized you to keep going, moaning around him.
When you stopped abruptly to start running your tongue over the head, along the length of him, the quiet sobbing sound he made had your thighs squeezing together in need. When you started teasing his sac with your lips and tongue, his hand dropped to clutch in your hair. You'd never done that for him before.
"If this is... what happens when I keep you waiting," he was struggling to speak, "I might have to do it... more often."
You didn't reply. You just went back up to the top and took him back into your mouth, quick and deep. Another sob. Oh, you could learn to love that sound. You moaned around him again, took him deeper. When you started hollowing your cheeks, he plucked off his glasses and he gripped your hair harder, until it almost hurt.
Now his hips were pushing his rock-hard length up at you, and you were only too happy to oblige him. You teased him with your tongue, surrounded him with your mouth. His breathing was ragged, the broken moans and sobs you pulled from him only pushing your own needs higher. You loved the sight of him with his flushed face, the dark excitement in his blue eyes, the way his full lips parted for you.
Jonathan fought you for as long as he could, but finally he came shaking, groaning. You swallowed him down as he struggled to slow his breathing, his heart. Then you licked him clean, slowly and thoroughly, in all the ways you knew he liked. You took your time, greedy about it as you watched him recover.
He smiled as he released your hair, his hand sliding along the side of your face now. His thumb brushed the soft skin just beneath your eye.
The genuine emotion in his eyes? That had your heart squeezing in your chest.
"Come here, love," he whispered, tucking himself back into his slacks and pulling you into his lap.
Now his focus was solely on you and the knowing look in his eyes told you that he realized that was what you were after. Wrapping his arms around you, he pulled you close, his face nuzzling the soft warmth of your throat.
"Were you feeling neglected?" he asked, trailing soft kisses along your neck.
"I was," you told him with absolutely no shame.
Jonathan hummed. "I suppose I can manage the meeting just fine with what I've got."
He didn't sound too put out about it.
You smiled. "Jonathan, you could go into that meeting in the morning with no preparation at all and be brilliant. You know that."
You felt his smile against your neck. "Your faith in me is appreciated."
You absolutely did have faith in him.
"But I think this may be a ploy to redirect my attention tonight," he teased.
When he glanced up at you, you covered his mouth with your own. Your kiss was seeking, yearning. You wanted him to taste his own pleasure on your tongue. You wanted him to taste your growing need.
Apparently, he did. Grabbing your hips, Jonathan moved you onto his desk in front of him. His hands grabbed handfuls of your gown, hauling it up with dizzying speed.
"Now that you have my undivided attention," he whispered heatedly, "allow me to return the favor."
- This relationship is not entirely healthy but also not entirely unhealthy
- He started off stalking you because you peaked his interest and would try to interact with you as much as he could, though he never hurt you or even gassed you, the worst he did was frightening you just by being him
- He confesses his interest in you first, if you like him back great, if you don't, he still wants to see you every so often
- He gets possessive and jealous sometimes
- He's eccentric and there's always a method to his madness that isn't clear but always works out. Like he'll escape in a way that has you sure he died, and he'll pop up the next day like nothing happened.
- He's very touchy and sometimes fidgets with your clothes or hair without realizing it
- He introduces you to his crows
- He was abused by his mother (hence why he killed her) so try to be sensitive about that for his sake
- He sometimes plays around with toys because he feels like it, he feels safe with you and sometimes age regresses (due to trauma from his mom) and only comes clean about it to you once he knows he can trust you
- If anyone dares hurt you, he will kill them unless you talk him out of it
- He loves his cake, he has a mega sweet tooth. If something is too sugary for your taste, give it to him pls
Disclaimer: people who age regress are usually not harmful in any way and are more often victims than perpetrators.
SCENARIOS TO AID W SLEEP - Hazbin Hotel vers. (Part 1 of ?)
Vox
Vox smiled serenely, something you didn’t see often. You basked in the rarity, overflowing with a peace you found yourself chasing the feeling of when it left. The warm buzz of his screen by your cheeks made you realize your head had drooped to rest on his shoulder. He spoke, voice warm and charismatic, but you couldn’t keep up with the subject. You smiled as you felt your thoughts ease away, your fading focus narrowing on the scent of his cologne. Clean notes of tea and amber, a simple yet intoxicating fragrance that lingered in the rooms he’d leave. You breathed deep into his collar, settling in comfortably. As if to respond, you felt the familiar touch of his free hand encase your figure, securing you in the comfort. He was warm, not unbearably so, as you buried your face in his neck. You felt his throat rumble with a low chuckle at the gesture. Both hands tended to you when he paused his work to think. They raked slowly through your hair, stroked your lower back, planted securely on you, not stopping even long after you’ve fallen asleep.
Alastor
You lounged on a couch, the soft cushions sinking some body parts and supporting others. The crickets of the bayou sang you a sweet song while a radio buzzed an old show tune somewhere. The footsteps you’d learned to listen carefully for streaked with familiarity through a mixture of sticks, mud, and hardwood flooring. Alastor’s shoes made their click-clack and as they grew more intense you also heard a soft hum under his breath, carrying the radio’s melody.
“Ah, there,” You heard him faintly, smelling something freshly floral and the clink of glass. Either he’d come back from the hotel bar or perhaps he’d come with flowers. Click-Clack, Click-Clack, he walked closer. A hand gently squeezed one of yours, soft and delicate fingers exerting a hidden strength. A warm sugary sandalwood wafted through, emanating from his coat. The hand relaxed over yours as you heard the rustle of sheets. The other smoothed out the warm comforter over your body, settling you further into sleep. Alastor whispered a French phrase you were too gone to register, the words dripping with the accent of a seasoned speaker.
*A pair of arms wrap around your waist, your back colliding with the familiar plane of Alastor’s chest*
𝐘𝐨𝐮: *Gasps* Hey, let go of me!
𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫: No! That’s it. *Wheezes as he spins you around* You’re banned from drinking.
𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭: *Catches up to the two of you, pale skin flushed red* Come here, you little shit!
*You squeal as Alastor transfers you to Vincent’s arms, who proceeds to toss you over his shoulder*
𝐘𝐨𝐮: Wait, what? No! Whyyyy?
𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭: Because you have a fucking drinking problem, that’s why!
*You wriggle around, but Vincent holds the back of your knees hostage with a singular arm, keeping a steadfast grip on you*
𝐘𝐨𝐮: I actually have no problem with drinking!
𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫: That’s the problem! And then you run away when you’re utterly inebriated and make us, two full grown men, chase after you. Do you have any idea how bad that makes us look?
𝐘𝐨𝐮: *Slumping in Vincent’s grip, defeated* I… well, I never thought of it like that.
𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭: Also, do you know what happens to your joints once you enter your 30s? Jesus H. Christ, my knees! How can you run that fast with three cocktails in your system?
*They carry you down the dimly-lit street, making their way back to your shared apartment, both of them irritated and exhausted*
𝐘𝐨𝐮: Hey, I mean, someone has to keep you two young… right?
*A loud ‘Thwack!’ pierces through the silent night, including a surprised yelp from you*
𝐘𝐨𝐮: What the fuck, Vinny? *Pounds a fist into his back* Al, he just… he just smacked my ass!
𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫: Oh, sweetheart, that’s what you get for calling us old when you’re in your late 20s.
