summary : work lost its fun when you dated richard john grayson and broke up with him a year later. what made it worse was having to go on missions with him at bruce wayne’s beck and call. what took it to hell was getting infected by a pollen that made you want him. good news, he needed you.
contains : mouth-watering smut !! mdni, read at your own risk. yearner!dick, ex!dick, aphrodisiac trope, of course poison ivy is involved in this one, yes dick is scrumptious so we want him, munch!dick, ripping of shirts, he’s highkey an ass man, yes consent is involved, he’s still a gentleman, p in v, fingering, mentions of masturbation, riding (+ face), almost kitchen sex but unfortunately not, some witty banter, yk, yk , dry humping, over-clothes munching, did I miss anything?
inspiration : sports car (t.m)
The worst thing about being DICK GRAYSON’S ex was having to get over him.
You’d been doing so well, avoiding scrolling on his Instagram, where he’d reposted Polo Ralph Lauren’s ad of him being their new poster boy. Jeans slung low, the band of his boxers covering half his v-line, shirt bunched up so your eyes could follow the slope straight into your wet dreams, sunnies perched on his nose, baby blues peeking out. Thumb tucked in a belt loop, fingers of his other hand carding through his hair.
Frustrating. Sexy. Making you more chronically online for him than you thought.
When did you start mulling over him like this? Maybe when he once took off the Kevlar of his suit with you in the Batcave. When his abs flexed during a routine stitch-up. His lips dropping open, fixed on yours while you did it.
Maybe you two weren’t over each other. Who the fuck was he to keep you hooked on a feeling?
He wasn’t over you, his eyes followed you when you walked past him. He dropped the sweetheart, dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s when it came to pining over you.
It hurt when he plummeted from heaven, falling for you.
Long winded romances were built to fail, your line of work made sure of that. A year’s worth of kissing in cars, making out on the Batjet and whispered promises sacrificed for fifteen days of bruising.
The kissed brick should hurt less, it was a mutual splitting, but rules as old as time dictated being friends with your ex was taboo. No one said shit about being almost friends, though. Lobbed insults slipped straight down both your waistbands, put rose in your cheeks, shocks in his heart.
Enough about him.
Saving the world from pollution was a noble act, it should be commended, but the line was drawn when biological warfare started to poison intentions. Tim had uncovered radiation signals from the mountains in Alaska, further reconnaissance uncovered a small camp where men in white hazmat suits conducted unknown experiments.
Naturally, Bruce wanted you and Dick to destroy said camp immediately.
The mission had been fine, routine, clean-cut, a trudge into unknown waters when the tent revealed mini-greenhouses, glass cages three holes poked into the top, incubating small, pulsating, glowing flowers, sticky pollen floating, clinging to tendril, stem and petal.
Yeah, they were strange, and supposed to be a passing thought after the charges went off, the tents going up in smoke and flames. After you’d dragged all unconscious personnel out of harm’s way.
“That’d been easy,” Dick had remarked. Oh, if only.
Your cells caught fire within the hour, so had his. Sweat dripped down his neck, his suit felt like a fucking greenhouse by itself, the ends of his hair stuck to the back of his neck, his knees fought against surrender. Your throat dried up, muscles ached, waves of saturated need riddled a heat-addled brain.
This was worse than your luteal.
You needed him, like needed him. It was the only thing your stupid brain could focus on, not Bruce’s hurried voice on comms during the flight home, it was secondary. Call his body the primary.
He wasn’t sleazy. Despite his screaming body, he kept as much distance from you as he could. Distanced himself. Shut himself in his room in Wayne Manor to get away from you, advised you to do the same. Your brain just accepted it, the walls of the guest room closing in on you.
Your hand had slipped past your panties a million times. You’d circled your clit in the way Dick used to, hand moving by itself in the rhythm he’d built into your mind. It was what worked best, but it was just surface shit, it did nothing. Honestly, felt like you were touching hot water, with how flushed your skin was and wet your fingers were but never once did it make a difference with how you felt.
Life was out to fucking get you.
Dick had tried everything too. Swallowing to push saliva down a throat rubbed with sandpaper. Taken off his clothes to feel cold air. He’d run his body over with beating cold water from a shower head. He wrapped his hand around himself and rubbed, but it made no difference, his body still burned, burst into fire for you. Water. He needed water.
The breakup had happened for a reason, ok? Your relationship was chasing you, but work was faster. It was all consuming, the stakes, dangers were running high, something else that crashed and burned with a heated argument and ‘we’re over’s thrown like punches.
Bruised knuckles blanched against the counter, other hand clutching a very full glass of water. His shirt stuck to his skin, even his baggy Calvin Klein sweats constricted him. Everything was claustrophobic, chipping at him with a chisel.
He lifted the glass to his lips. Water dripped past his lips, sliding down his chin, landing next to the sweat stains from his chest clinging to his shirt. It did shit all, his mouth was as dry, throat as scratchy, temperature high as Vesuvius.
You at the door, you stared. Watched, observed, droplets of sweat and water sliding across his collarbone your tongue’s calling, jaw begging for your lips, his lips themself soft, parted, pliable. You could lick up his neck. Shove him down onto a bed, position yourself above his face, he’d let you, probably. He did love eating pussy—
Wait, what?
You shouldn’t have gone into the kitchen, looking for a glass of water to soothe your mouth. Spectacular luck, ending up in the same place as the object of your thoughts right now. Your navel tugged, attempting to drag you closer to him. Your navel succeeded easily.
“Hey.” He rasped, the back of his hand dragging across his forehead. He could see his outline in the sweat when he looked at it. “This— fuck, it feels shitty, huh?”
You hung your head, any chance you grasped to look at him was dangerous.
“Tell me about it.” You mumbled. You couldn’t recognise it, it’d been roughed up by the fucking pollen shoved down your throat. Hay fever had permission to shove itself up your ass at this point. You itched the back of your neck, horniness addling your pussy.
You felt it when you walked, every word, every breath, it was desperate to its core, screaming for Dick. And his dick. Both of them. “I— I don’t know how much longer I can go like this, Dick.” You forced, swallowing (ow). The wince was clear as fucking day.
He started. “It hurts that much? Shit, I—” You felt the jolt in your navel again when he stepped closer, hands flying up, stopping short of your cheeks. He couldn’t. He couldn’t touch you, it would make the coil winding in his brain snap. His hands dropped, sighing, head bowed. “I can’t do anything, sweetheart, not ‘till Tim gets back with a cure to this thing.”
A cure to a reanimated thousand year old plant that was used during Ancient Egypt to encourage procreation. Right.
You turned away from him, dissociated from your body as it reached to grip the jug of water, filling the same glass he’d drank from once again. Taking a long sip, water sliding over the burn in your mouth, no relief, no dissipation. “I don’t wanna be a pessimist, but the plant’s centuries old. I doubt Tim can find a cure.”
“Have more faith in the little guy.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s pulled miracles out of his ass before.” Tim probably had more brains than Einstein.
The glare he got in return was venomous. "I'll have faith when my knees aren't Jello." Faith wasn't much of an option when you'd had five failed orgasms. At least when you were with other one nights after Dick, you felt something. Even if it wasn't as satisfying.
"Touche." The silence beat on your ears, his breath in punctured that. "Look, we can hold out a little longer—" You vehemently shook your head.
Your voice came out unintentionally as a snap. "Can't you see? We're stuck like this. For — I don't even fucking know how long — and this hurts and burns and you're telling me that we can hold out a little longer?" Your fist banged the marble counter. All this frustration stemmed from the intense sexual frustration, so he didn't take it to heart. "I call bullshit."
It was unhelpful that he was also sexually frustrated. "Oh, I'm sorry." He hissed sarcastically. "I'm sorry that I'm working to protect your dignity here and keep the bit of autonomy we have left. I don't know if you want this— shit, sweetheart, do you even think about me?"
Of course you did. You thought about him every day cause your brain was obligated to think about him during every resting moment. Hot sweat plagued your midnights, imagining his lips on your neck in your dreams. The pinch in his brow when he hit the spot. Shameless, loud moans that his neighbour gave him a dirty look for the next morning.
"Of course I do." You said stiffy, spine rigid, need crawling up your back. This seemed like the type of argument which used to end in make up sex. "You're my coworker, I have to see you every day—"
Your sentence was cut off with a scoff. "That's not my question." He pressed, straight, perfectly trimmed brows furrowing. "You know that's not my question."
"Do we need to have this discussion when an aphrodisiac is eating us alive?" You hissed, shrinking into yourself. This discussion was always taboo, you both took the breakup like a brick with your lipstick print and his lip balm on it. "This hurts, ok? I don't have the energy to argue."
His eyes melted on hearing it, it hurt your heart more than it already was pained. "We don't." Folding his arms, a breath puffed from his nose, shoulders slumping. Broad shoulders your nails needed to dig in and break skin. "This sucks balls." I hate seeing you hurt, was the ulterior message.
"It really does." You looked at your feet. Maybe you could drop to your knees, undo his drawstring, suck on him for desperate clarity.
Maybe that would work.
You could feel it oozing off him; the half-baked thoughts of what you’d look like over him. You could take the chain around his neck with your finger and tug him towards you. Or his waistband. All while pain struck your abdomen. “Is it hurting— well, yeah, it’s hurting, but is it too much?” He asked softly, his chest, his broad chest connecting to an unfairly slutty waist calling your name. Despite the sweat adorning his temple, his eyes were locked on you. Out of horniness or concern, though? It was impossible to tell.
The corners of his eyes crinkled. It was concern.
You hesitated, then your head bobbed. Loosely, in what you thought was a nod. You wiped sweat off your neck, white noise pumping into your brain. “Yeah.” You rasp, taking in as much oxygen as you could to avoid delirium.
“I can help. If you want.” He was too close. His voice too gentle, hands raised like you were a fucking wild animal, even then, his eyes searched yours for a sign to stop. “I can kiss you, it might— it could take some of the pain for a second.”
This was the pollen talking, not him, you had to remind yourself. You were broken up.
“You sure?” Your breath came out in a whoosh, your body singing the closer he got. He needed to get closer. Closer. So close he was inside you.
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what I want, you’re in pain.”
“So are you—”
“Just listen.” He said, your vocal cords forgetting their function. “If I kiss you, you could stop hurting. Even if it’s for a short while, it could work.” But if he did, he didn’t know if he could stop.
You frowned. “Weren’t you the guy preaching about autonomy?”
“Do you want to feel better or not—” Your lips sealing over his answered that question. Pretty fucking well.
Fuck.
He’d have let you pull away, but the coolness dousing his head had his lips chasing after yours when your head reared back, the gap you made between your lips closed again when he kissed you hard. Hand gripping your jaw, one coming to grip the back of your thigh, locking it around his hip. Good grief.
Could you pull away? Did you have the strength to pull away? You only had the strength to yank him closer by his sweat-weighted shirt, pushing your hand in his hair, yanking at the strands. Normally pulling that hard with the danger of ripping out chunks of hair would have a man hissing and running for the hills, he just moaned. Loudly enough for you to wonder if he was faking it.
He wasn’t. Every kiss pressed to your lips by his starving mouth went straight to his dick. His hand on the back of your thigh sent signal after signal to your pussy that switched off your rational thoughts. Talk about a downstairs brain.
The ripping of fabric was followed by his shirt flumping onto the floor, a heap of cotton that was torn by the seams at the side. Hot kisses to the side of your neck paired with him massaging your thigh with strong fingers made your pussy clench— you’d never felt close to coming from a hand on your thigh before.
His tongue flattened. And dragged, all the way up your neck, to take your earlobe in his mouth and suck. Suck enough so your nails dug into his shoulders, breaking skin. Pain translated into pleasure, pleasure translated into euphoria, the sick fucking cycle that had your panties clinging to your legs.
“Shit, gorgeous.” His breath pulsed against your ear, tip of his tongue following the shell of your ear. “You gotta use me. Fuckin’ use me, honey.”
“Dick, maybe we should—” Wait, why were you about to preach autonomy?
Jesus H. Christ. Your hands moved forward on instinct, thigh dropping, shoving him in the direction of his bedroom, laving over his pulse, forcing him to bury his hand in your hair, his eyes rolling back, hips jolting forward to grind on your thigh. His body was on autopilot, hooked on a feeling, on the lack of pain, or fire burning his nerve endings.
His back hit the bed. Head sunk back into the pillows, rosy lips dropping open when your pussy dragged over his dick, through thick sweatpants, of course, didn’t stop the aphrodisiac from making him think it was heaven. His voice cracked as he whimpered, he fucking whimpered, grabbing your ass and grinding you back down, so you obliged again, and again, to the point where you were humping him. To the benefit of both of you.
He was muttering nonsense, brain not connected to his mouth of vocal cords, stammering. “So close— shit, shit, sweetheart, stop,” He stilled you, tugging at both your waistbands, five seconds later those garments, sweats and panties, were chucked across the room. He beckoned you with two fingers, flushed cheeks betraying breathlessness. “C’mere, baby.” He mouthed at your pussy over your sweats, it wasn’t enough. Who was he kidding? It would never be enough.
His tongue swiping over his bottom lip told you everything. “Classic.” You scoffed, but your pussy throbbed. It was typical of him, to put you first. He shouldn’t put you first. “We don’t have time for this—”
“Yes, we do.” He said sharply, taking your wrist and shoving your hand in his hair. “I said use me.” His lips burned down your stomach, holding himself up off the bed without his hands. Curse him and his insane ab strength. “You had no problem with that before.”
You rolled your eyes. Your pussy reminded you to get a move on, prompting you to roll your hips over the muscle of his thigh. Without thinking, he encouraged that. Literally without thinking, his hand moved of its own accord. “You can survive without eating pussy.” It wasn’t like you didn’t want him to eat you out, he did a stellar job. Always to the point where you had to go nonverbal. You were just being a jerk.
He fake-gasped. “Wow. That’s offensive.” He pulled you onto his face without further hesitation, his tongue sliding up the length of your cunt— oh. Your hand in his hair gripped tightly, a curse-string rolling past your tongue. Was it meant to feel like you were ascending into some ninth heaven? Was that him or the aphrodisiac?
Maybe just him.
“Mm, Dickie, fuck—” You gasped, even better was his tongue slipping inside you, his thumb rolling your clit, circling, circling, larger, larger, expanding, legs shaking, eyes rolling back, pussy jolting to grind on his nose and lips.
His tongue pulled out, replacing it with his fingers, two slender digits curling, stretching you out till his knuckle pressed on that spot he always managed to find. How did he always find it? It felt unfair. “That’s it. C’mon, honey, that’s it, make yourself feel good.” He breathed, muffled by your cunt, kitten licking whatever juices didn’t drip onto his fingers.
Maybe it was the failure of every one night stand since you two broke up. Maybe it was the aphrodisiac, but you were barrelling towards a high he was making you addicted to. This shouldn’t even be happening. A part of you whispered that this would send you into an impossible-to-leave rabbit hole of yearning and fucking year-long pining.
You shut that part of you up.
“Dickie,” You moaned, a white-hot coil in your core winding up, ticking down — ten, nine, eight — “baby, m’close.” You called him baby. Against all reason, you called him a pet name. That’s it, you were what everyone called ‘in deep’.
He really needed to hear that. His fingers pumped, curled, tongue rubbed your clit, all he could do to help you get there. “Mhm?” He mumbled, drinking you up. Every fucking drop, aching, sandpaper-esque throat soothed. “Yeah, gorgeous girl, give it to me, ok? I’ve got you, m’here.”
Fuck him and his sweet talking. It had you shaking as you came, he didn’t waste a drop, licking everything up like anything wasted was the loss of a billion dollars.
He was honest to himself. Any drop of you wasted was the loss of ambrosia. Can’t put a price on that.
He withdrew his fingers, placing them in his mouth, licking the digits clean with a moan. As if the image couldn’t get more erotic, you smeared all over his mouth, the tip of his nose and his chin. “You get better every time.” He grinned, but, to ruin the mood, his dick gave him a less than welcome reminder that it existed. Pain lanced through his body, making him wince, blunt nails pressing into your thighs. “Sorry, sorry, I—”
You got it. Like hell you wouldn’t. The last of your high ebbing away caved to let aching settle in your bones once again, screaming for you to actually, you know, have his dick in you. No two ways about it.
“No, I know.” You yanked at his drawstring, helping him out of the unnecessary layers of his sweatpants and his boxers, both of them disappearing into a corner of the room. He sat up, finger lifted, tilting your chin so your lips tenderly met his. Like there wasn’t an aphrodisiac making you both desperate. “Condom?”
“I didn’t anticipate this happening.”
“Even better.” You breathed, kissing him, the taste of you flooding your tongue. He groaned, grabbing your tit, squeezing, swinging your leg so your pussy was nestled at the tip of his cock. A millimetre away from bliss.
His nose bumped yours, fighting off his flush, blown-out eyes darting to your lips then back up. Like you were Aphrodite’s gift to men. “We can stop.” He murmured, lips brushing yours again, his lashes fluttering, lids closing. “Just tell me to, and we’ll stop.”
You laughed. Quietly. “We’re kind of beyond asking.”
“Stop that, stop fucking arguing, just tell me if you want to stop.” He moaned in frustration, mouthing at your pulse. “I won’t let you do anything till I hear it. Tell me, sweetheart.”
“I don’t want to stop.” You murmured so he could hear you, grabbing his chin to kiss him, muffling the moan you both let out in that sloppy exchange as you sank down onto his waiting cock. No resistance, just slip, giving way to euphoria that clouded your brain. “Oh, fuck.” You whimpered, clawing at his back.
His eyes rolled back, if he’d been deeper than his balls in this pollen, he’d already be coming. “O—Oh, baby.” He stammered, squeezing your hip to encourage you to move.
This was what the pollen wanted. You feeling full, snug on him, lifting yourself so only the tip of him was in you before sinking down entirely. His lip caught between his teeth, propping one leg up to roll his hips up, matching each and every lift and fall of those glorious hips. This alone was euphoric, this alone sent you spiralling, nails raking down his abs, through his hair, talking dirty into his ear so you could drag him down with you.
Where did the lines blur? When did the line between aphrodisiac and emotion blur, maybe with the whisper of “Shit, baby, I love you” that he whined into your ear? It was hidden by the cacophony of pornographic moans the two of you were surprising yourselves with.
Never in his life had he sounded like that. He wanted to sound like that more often, it told you how irreplaceable you were.
He was holding out, gripping restraint, his high here and approaching fast, his head bowing down. Taking your tit into his mouth, sucking, other thumb flicking and essentially bullying your clit. Telling you to get a goddamn move on.
A cry tore from your throat, your entire being giving way, clutching his hair, his arm, as you came, the constricting of your pussy around his dick making him follow straight after, his low moan humming against your skin, pleasure rolling, wracking, wrecking, voices cracking, words disintegrating into whimpers and indiscernible sounds. His mouth coaxing more, burning up your chest, your neck, your jaw, your lips, tugging your bottom lip down with his thumb.
“I think we’re gonna need to go a few more.”
Around seven rounds of sex, sucking dick and eating pussy later, burning need faded into a pleasant hum of your weary bones. You were never going to go into an environmental terrorist’s biohazard camp ever again.
The pillows were unusually soft, but maybe your sex-exhausted brain was making you think so. So far, all you’d done is stare at the ceiling, as if this was a Tuesday where you hadn’t, y’know, slept with your ex due to an aphrodisiac.
Dick padded out from the bathroom, sweats slung low like in his jeans in that stupid Polo Ralph Lauren ad. Warm, wet, soft towel in his hand, he gently coaxed your legs apart, running the towel between your legs to clean you up.
You rolled your head to look at him. “What are you doing?” You mumbled.
“Taking care of you.” The answer was, apparently, so simple. He pushed the glass of water on your his beside table towards you. “Drink. You’ve had it rough.”
“What about you?” You took the water, letting it slide down your throat. Finally soothing it. That’s how you knew the pollen was out of your system.
He sat down beside you on the bed, tucking his legs under the covers. “Well, my legs feel like pudding, my dick’s been worked nine ways till Sunday, and my kneecaps feel creaky from the backshots.” He shrugged, lips curving into a lopsided smile. “Exactly how I wanna be.”
“You’re weird.”
“I love you too.” He chuckled, your world regaining its footing when he said that. You leaned towards him, kissing him again, this time without lust or motive or anything, just feeling him. Feeling the way he melted, like he always did.
His eyes blinked open when you pulled away. “Can we give us another shot?” He asked, shy. That was new. “Uh, only if you want to. No pressure.”
You took a breath in. This could fail. Crash and burn again, leaving you to thirst over his modelling gigs and all of him. But it’d never be worse than not trying at all.
Batfamily x Vampire!Reader
2.7k words, graphic description of violence and aftermath, use of [y/n], female reader
November 12th.
Winter starts early in Gotham.
It’s cold, but not as cold as it should be. Your friend stands beside you shivering.
“You sure you don’t want my jacket?” You ask, eyebrows raised in concern as you eye her.
“I’m fffine.” She says, teeth chattering. “Aren’t you freezing?”
You shrug and move to peel off your coat anyway. Jen doesn’t protest when you drape it over her shoulders, but she doesn’t move to actually put it on. Her subtle way of declaring she’s against the idea, you suppose.
“You’re gonna get sick.” She mutters as you fix your scarf over your nose.
“I think if anyone should be worried about getting sick it’s you.” You mumble. “Is that your mom’s car?”
Her head snaps up eagerly, and you chuckle to yourself as she darts over to the passenger door.
“Wait!” She yips, turning quickly. “Let me give you a ride!”
“I’m okay!” You call back, “Alfred’s coming for me!”
She hesitates for a moment before climbing into her seat. “You sure you’ll be okay?”
You smile and nod, her mom waves and you wave back. “Call me when you get home okay?”
“Okay!!!”
You watch her drive away for a few seconds before checking your watch. 3:50. The manor’s pretty far from your school, but not 50 minute drive far. You know Alfred, if he hasn’t gotten here yet, it’s more than likely he forgot. Plus, the sun will be setting in an hour or so, if you wait any longer before giving up, you won’t get home before dark. With that in mind, you start the walk home.
It’s pretty rare for Alfred to forget you like this, but with all the chaos going on at home, you can’t really blame him. Especially when you are the direct cause of the entire mess. It’d been a tough year. Senior classes were much harder than you’d anticipated, and you were just a teenager. Stress and anxiety was bound to mess things up once in a while.
Your teachers had all upped their workload at the same time in preparation for the half-way point exams. You’d dedicated all your free time to studying and cramming for the pop quizzes and class competitions. So much so that you’d forgotten your feeding schedule. Unfortunately, it was easy to miss hunger pangs and dismiss them as stress-related stomach cramps. You hadn’t realized you were hungry until it was far too late, and a disoriented walk home from the movies found you face to face with a mugger.
When you’re deep in bloodlust, it's hard to tell what’s what. The entire week before that had been like a plotless nightmare. Filled with migraines and dizziness and nausea. When you came eye to eye with that man, adrenaline in his veins, blood pumping, his heartbeat in your lungs as he demanded your belongings, you blacked out. You woke up three hours later, curled up under a cardboard box in a dumpster. A dumpster that you noted, was nowhere near the alley you last remember being in.
You were pleasantly warm, sleepy, and no longer in any pain, which was all very nice, but the sticky-dry feeling of matted blood drying to your skin and clothes was enough to rouse you. You pulled yourself out, sharp nails retracting into your fingertips as you did.
You kept yourself to the shadows when you transformed, disappearing into a puff of grey smoke and reappearing as an ugly little vampire bat. The first issue was getting back home and getting clean before anyone saw you. The second, perhaps bigger, issue was what the hell happened to the mugger.
Sneaking in was easy. You could practically see their heat signatures through the walls, smell Bruce’s cologne, hear Damian’s pacing. If your senses were right, and they almost always were, there were four people inside the manor. Bruce, Alfred, Damian, and Tim. You flew into the open window of the restroom on the third floor, nearby your bedroom.
You looked even worse than you expected. Your entire body was red, like you’d been dunked in paint, it dried in patches and flaked off into dust when you moved. Despite the clarity of mind and ease of movement that came with fresh blood, you felt sick. There was something thick and fibrous under your nails, pieces of thin pink membrane that clung to your body like a second skin. The sickness was mental, of course, remnants of being human. Your mouth tasted warm in a lovely way and you were a little perturbed at how normal this all was. Your reflection looked monsterous, hair matted with blood, body red, eyes glowing faintly.
You heard the news in the morning. A murder in Newtown, a body ripped to shreds, Gotham News declaring it an animal attack. The damage was done though, the Bats had heard what had happened.
Two years ago, when you first became a vampire, a similar thing happened. You didn’t know what you were then, you thought you could tough out the hunger pains. Wayne Manor was distracted, everyone in a frenzy, no one noticed when you got sick, or when you disappeared. You wandered the slums of Gotham for three days. Pale, sweating, vision so sharp it made you nauseous. No one went up to you, no one asked if you were okay. Your new senses overwhelmed you, your new body screamed in pain. Eventually, a man found you. Ushered you into a warehouse, practically dragged you while your body betrayed itself. Hands tugged at your wrist, your hair, your clothes. It was when that hand grabbed your face, squished your cheeks together painfully, that something snapped.
You came to your senses an hour later. An ocean of blood and bodies staining the ground. You ran.
You woke up stronger the next day. The blood was exactly what your body needed to nourish your new form. To finish adapting to this new life. Your vision was clear, the colors you saw were brighter, the darkness didn’t blind you, you could even see heat signatures if you tried. Your muscles fibers were denser, tightly packed, your bones were stronger, your skin was clear and soft, old scars lightened, injuries faded in hours.
All at the cost of thirty four lives. Not innocent lives, but human lives. Lives you hadn’t even realized you were taking. It perplexed the world, scared it. But eventually it was brushed under the rug the way stuff always is in Gotham. Dark Seid took the blame, and you got better at this new life. Better at hiding, covering up, getting blood without killing. You broke into bloodbanks, used animals, even drugged criminals to poach their blood on occasion. You didn’t kill, you didn’t leave bodies or witnesses. Still, people whispered. You were an urban legend deep in Gotham. The creature in the shadows. Some called you Karma, some called you Fate, some called you The Beast.
The Bats never forgot what happened, it didn’t make sense, it didn’t fit the apparent answers. But it never happened again, so they had no cause to pursue the issue, no reason to spend time pondering a mystery when they had real issues to worry about.
But now it had happened again in Newtown, and you knew Bruce wouldn’t let it go.
And now here you are, walking home. It’s cold, but temperatures don’t really bother you anymore.
4:20. You have half an hour to get home before the sun sets and you’re not even halfway there. You made good time, nearly two miles in thirty minutes, but you live over twenty miles from school. You could run, if you kept yourself at a human pace you could get home in a little over two hours, but sprinting in Gotham while wearing clothes clearly not made for exercise is usually a bad sign. People might think you were running from someone. You decide, instead of running or walking, to catch a train.
At 4:38, you exit Gotham Train Station and hail a cab. Cabs are risky, you never know who’s behind the wheel till you get in, but it’s miles of bridge and forest from here, and there's no way in hell you'll be caught alone in the forest in the dark. You’re lucky, because the person in the driver's seat today is an older gentlewoman who seems as relieved to have you as a passenger as you are to have her as a driver. You get home at 4:49.
The manor is empty, but you can hear the sounds of footsteps and voices in the basement. You stop by the kitchen to get something to chew on. Contrary to popular beliefs, vampires could eat human food. They didn't need to, but it was nice to be human, even if it was only pretend.
You bump into Alfred on the way out.
“Oh! Miss [Y/n]!” He says, a polite smile on his face.
“Hi Alfred.” You smile and nod. Expecting him to sidestep you and move on. He seems like he’s about to, until a thoughtful expression crosses his face.
“When did you get home?” He asks.
“Just now.” You answer, he frowns.
“I was supposed to pick you up tonight.” He says, his words almost sound like a question.
“It’s fine.” You say.
“How did you get back?”
“I took the train and hailed a cab.”
“Ah.” He nods. “I’m terribly sorry miss, I must’ve gotten caught up cleaning.”
“It’s fine, Alfred.” You say and step to the side. You nod at him, and walk away before he can say something else. You can’t really be mad. It’s your fault they’re all so stressed, even if they don’t know that. You try to ignore how he looks at you as you leave.
When you were bitten, you distanced yourself from him, from all of them. Originally it was to give you time to pull yourself together, but as time went on, you never really got back to normal. Sure, you were used to being tucked away, you weren’t a vigilante, nor did you have any interest in being one. You weren’t a part of the family business, and sometimes that meant you weren't at the forefront of their minds. They still cared about you, but they were busy, they had responsibilities, lives of their own, complexes and complexities you could hardly understand. It didn’t mean they cared about you less, it just meant that you weren’t always a part of their world.
Sometimes you wonder about that though. It’s easy to tell yourself you're part of the family, it’s easy for them to say you are, but when it comes down to it, when the answer is more than yes or no, could you really say you were?
You could go days without seeing any of them, they were always so busy, you knew that. Even when one of them could finally be convinced to take a break, it would be selfish of you to demand that that precious time be spent with you, especially when you were so boring, so uninteresting. You couldn’t demand their time, especially when you didn’t need it. Not like how the others need it, not like how Damian needed their love, like how Tim needed their patience, like how Dick needed their time, like how Cass needed their care. You didn’t have issues like Jason, you didn’t need somewhere to stay like Duke. You were just there. You were simple, easy.
But none of that was really true anymore, was it? You did have an issue, you did need time, care, patience. You needed someone to look at you and tell you you weren’t a monster. That it was okay to cry over your kills, that you weren’t bad for doing what you needed to to survive. But you never had any of that before, so how could you ask for it now? When it requires coming clean, putting a bigger burden on them, explaining that you’ve been lying for two years. How could you ask for that?
You learned on your own, did everything on your own. You learned to be okay, be content, to find love in your friends, to find patience in yourself. And you’re okay now, sometimes. It never solved the original issue, but you could ignore it until you felt better. You could cry at night and feel pretty in the morning, you could wrap your arms around your head to drown out the pounding and wrap your arms around yourself to love what no one else will. What you’ve convinced yourself no one else will.
You’re okay being here, even if there are nights you wish you weren’t sometimes. Even if some nights you wish you weren’t anywhere.
Breathe out. Don’t give control to your pain. Look at the walls when you walk to your room, appreciate the architecture, think of something bigger than yourself. Look at the paintings on the walls, think of your ancestors and the lives they lived. Bump into your father on the third floor.
“[Y/n]?”
His hands land on your arms to steady you. It’s instinctive on his part, you didn’t stumble at all. Too balanced with your inhumane body.
“You’re cold.” He murmurs, eyebrows furrowed when he makes eye contact. His voice is deep, you haven’t heard it in a while.
“Just came in.” You say. He stares at you for a while. You can almost see the cogs turning in his brain, remembering who you are maybe, or realizing he hasn’t seen you in awhile, or something else you can’t figure out.
“Where’s your coat?” He asks, his palms rubbing up and down your arms. It’s a gesture meant to be fatherly, you think. You don’t see him much anymore so the gesture is just awkward, but the rare attention gives you pause. You don’t know how to talk to him, you realize. Besides the one-off family dinner once a month, you almost never see him, even at those dinners, if he tries to talk to you, it's awkward. He hesitates when he asks how your day was. Asks about friends like he's questioning if you even have them. Asks about grades like it actually matters to him. You realize this might be the first time he’s talked to you without a reason in over a year.
“Gave it to a friend.” You murmur, torn between making eye contact and avoiding it. “She was cold.”
“Oh.” He breathes, then takes a step back like he just realized he may be crowding you. “..thats.. nice.” He hesitates. “But you could’ve gotten sick. You shouldn’t do that next time.” He straightens. Like he’s remembered he’s your father and can be authoritative. He doesn’t know how to talk to you, you realize. He doesn’t know you. You stare at him for a moment. For no reason at all, your eyes start burning.
“Okay.” You say, voice weak. “I won’t do it again.”
Looking at him like this is overwhelming. He’s just a few feet in front of you, tall and elegant and imposing. You think he’s as lost as you are. You think you might be scared of him.
“Did you eat dinner?” He asks after a moment.
You stare at him, mouth open like you’re going to say something, but you hesitate. Does he care? Is he going to ask you to eat with him? Did you eat?
“Yes.” You mumble.
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but he nods anyway.
“Alright.” He says slowly.
“I.. I think I’m gonna go to bed.” You mutter, he nods.
“Right.. good night [Y/n]” He says.
“Night, Bruce.” You say quietly and pad off.
He turns around when he realizes what you’ve said, but you’ve already disappeared into your room.
But I'm gonna be honest. We need a story where neglected reader is adopted by Talia and Ra’s al Ghul. Like, how funny would it be if, after Damian comes to the mansion, Talia shows up for a mother and son date, but her little gremlin totally stands her up.
She isn’t mad, just disappointed that her son is buying into Bruce’s dramatics. She respects that he can’t kill criminals, but he completely loses his mind because her family does. She should have known he was like all Americans... preaching respect until it doesn’t fit his standards.
She’s about to leave when she sees Bruce’s daughter—the civilian one, the one her beloved left outside his inner circle.
Her reserve is for two people, and two people will go.
"Child, come. We are going to have dinner."
"What?"
"And then we are going to the opera to see Madame Butterfly."
"I’m sold."
Reader had asked for tickets, but Bruce forgot.
Talia was ready to be tolerant, but she ends up setting another date and calling her beloved’s daughter almost every week.
She loves Damian, but she finds herself enjoying being a mom’s girl very much. Damian’s sister has a sensitivity her son lacks.
Some of Talia’s old clothes end up in her dresser. When summer comes, Talia invites her to Nepal; her beloved thinks she’s going to a summer camp, but Talia starts training their daughter. She can bear that she’s a civilian, but not that she’s defenseless.
Still, they take time to do a mini tour all around Asia, tasting local cuisine and shopping for clothes that actually fit her daughter.
Ra’s is curious but not really interested at first.
"So you are the detective’s runt."
"Unwanted, you mean."
"And that doesn’t bother you?" he asks, intrigued.
"I’ve decided my best vengeance is being unbothered by it."
He smiles briefly.
"What would the detective say if he knew you lingered with my daughter?"
"Sir, if you want a video reaction when he finds out, just pay me."
He sends her $10,000 when she ends up sending him high-resolution footage.
To everyone’s confusion—except Talia—Ra’s al Ghul acts like a normal grandpa when he’s around reader.
When Damian finds out, he accuses her of trying to steal his position as heir (he knows he’s already lost it, but he’s jealous). She looks at him like he’s dumb.
"Why would I be the heir when I’m the favorite grandchild?" she asks. "The heir thing is just some game gramps plays for fun. Why would he need one when he’s basically immortal with no plans of dying?"
That pretty much silences Damian for a long time.
No one understands their relationship. She’s welcome to join the League of Assassins, but it’s okay if she doesn’t, they still want her around.
And you know how messed up it is that Ra’s knows more about Bruce’s daughter than the detective himself? Ra’s al Ghul enjoys very much throwing it in his face.
But I'm gonna be honest. We need a story where neglected reader is adopted by Talia and Ra’s al Ghul. Like, how funny would it be if, after Damian comes to the mansion, Talia shows up for a mother and son date, but her little gremlin totally stands her up.
She isn’t mad, just disappointed that her son is buying into Bruce’s dramatics. She respects that he can’t kill criminals, but he completely loses his mind because her family does. She should have known he was like all Americans... preaching respect until it doesn’t fit his standards.
She’s about to leave when she sees Bruce’s daughter—the civilian one, the one her beloved left outside his inner circle.
Her reserve is for two people, and two people will go.
"Child, come. We are going to have dinner."
"What?"
"And then we are going to the opera to see Madame Butterfly."
"I’m sold."
Reader had asked for tickets, but Bruce forgot.
Talia was ready to be tolerant, but she ends up setting another date and calling her beloved’s daughter almost every week.
She loves Damian, but she finds herself enjoying being a mom’s girl very much. Damian’s sister has a sensitivity her son lacks.
Some of Talia’s old clothes end up in her dresser. When summer comes, Talia invites her to Nepal; her beloved thinks she’s going to a summer camp, but Talia starts training their daughter. She can bear that she’s a civilian, but not that she’s defenseless.
Still, they take time to do a mini tour all around Asia, tasting local cuisine and shopping for clothes that actually fit her daughter.
Ra’s is curious but not really interested at first.
"So you are the detective’s runt."
"Unwanted, you mean."
"And that doesn’t bother you?" he asks, intrigued.
"I’ve decided my best vengeance is being unbothered by it."
He smiles briefly.
"What would the detective say if he knew you lingered with my daughter?"
"Sir, if you want a video reaction when he finds out, just pay me."
He sends her $10,000 when she ends up sending him high-resolution footage.
To everyone’s confusion—except Talia—Ra’s al Ghul acts like a normal grandpa when he’s around reader.
When Damian finds out, he accuses her of trying to steal his position as heir (he knows he’s already lost it, but he’s jealous). She looks at him like he’s dumb.
"Why would I be the heir when I’m the favorite grandchild?" she asks. "The heir thing is just some game gramps plays for fun. Why would he need one when he’s basically immortal with no plans of dying?"
That pretty much silences Damian for a long time.
No one understands their relationship. She’s welcome to join the League of Assassins, but it’s okay if she doesn’t, they still want her around.
And you know how messed up it is that Ra’s knows more about Bruce’s daughter than the detective himself? Ra’s al Ghul enjoys very much throwing it in his face.
❥ ︎ Warnings: Mention and use of a feminine reader and feminine body parts; although anyone and everyone can read if you ignore those. all characters portrayed in my fanfics are always 18 years old and up .ᐟ .ᐟ Unprotected PnV, dead dove, do not eat (Kind of?), extreme overstimulation, forced multiple orgasms, creampie for days .ᐟ .ᐟ ( with thick, messy loads repeatedly forced deep and pushed back in .ᐟ .ᐟ ), bloodplay / blood kink ? ( Toby bites you .ᐟ .ᐟ ) choking / breathplay ?, cervix-bruising / womb-fucking ( he just wants to make sure it stays in there .ᐟ .ᐟ ), unhinged feral but also pathetic Toby ( he’s whining and growling with every thrust .ᐟ .ᐟ ), dubcon / some cnc? ( he’s sorry, but he just can’t, and won’t stop, fucking you, even if you beg him to .ᐟ .ᐟ ), some Cum play ( ? ), pain play ( you’re so overstimulated .ᐟ .ᐟ Poor you .ᐟ .ᐟ ), loss of bodily control ( you’re so tired, he promises one more — hes a fucking liar ), mind numbing fucking, doggy-style, no mercy at all .ᐟ poor you ᰔ .ᐟ .ᐟ
❥ Synopsis: Poor Toby can’t feel anything anymore… except when your pretty pussy is milking him dry ❤︎ .ᐟ .ᐟ
❥ ︎ Whispers from the author: The dividers belong to @/uzmacchiato , and I have reblogged the other accounts .ᐟ .ᐟ I got the pictures from Pinterest .ᐟ .ᐟ My first ever Creepypasta / Ticci Toby fanfic .ᐟ it has been so so so fun writing this .ᐟ .ᐟ i hope he isn’t too OOC or OOC at all, and I hope you enjoy .ᐟ to my lovelies who are waiting for Chapter four of my “A Heaven Built from Ruin”: it IS still coming, I just want to get the smut PERFECT for you all .ᐟ .ᐟ please pardon any missed mistakes, I edit and write everything on my phone.
❥ ︎ Word count: 1.5k
The bedframe is screaming like it’s being murdered, wood splintering, headboard slamming against the plaster with every savage snap of his hips: BANG—BANG—BANG. Your whole bedroom wall is going to cave in soon. The bed’s already half-broken, and you — fuck, you’re absolutely ruined.
Toby’s scarred, calloused hands are locked around your hips like steel vices, fingers digging so deep into the soft, yielding flesh that a delicious ache blooms instantly under every twitch and jerk of his grip. He yanks you back onto his cock at the exact same time he drives forward, forcing every thick, brutal inch straight through your overstuffed, messy cunt until the head batters your cervix raw and your entire pelvis throbs with a deep, aching fire.
Your face is mashed into your pillowcase that’s soaked with your tears and spit; you can barely breathe, or speak, every desperate gasp tasting of wet fabric and your tears. Your voice has shredded itself raw: high, broken wails fracturing into helpless sobs every single time he bottoms out, splitting you open all over again. And his cum… fuck, it’s everywhere: thick, creamy ropes from load after load that has been forced back out around his pistoning cock, splattering your inner thighs in sticky white streaks. An obscene, frothy mess of his thick cum and your slick coats the base of his shaft, clinging in gooey strands to your swollen, abused pussy lips every time he drags back.
The moment he slams home again it all squelches loudly with a filthy, wet shlk-shlk-shlk-shlk — mixing into a sloppy, pearlescent slime that drips in heavy, swinging strings onto the ruined sheets and smears between your bodies with every loud, meaty thwack of his pelvis against your arse.
Toby is lost to it now, chasing the only thing his dead nerves can still feel: the way your perfect little cunt clamps and ripples and strangles his cock when you come. That bright, violent spark. Better than blood, better than the axe, better than anything. And he’s fucking ravenous.
“T-t-t-take it—f-f-f-fuckin’ TAKE IT—” His voice is a shattered rasp exploding with tics, head snapping sideways so hard his neck cracks like a whip, shoulders jerking violently, “C-c’mon—squeeze—squeezeme—f-f-f-fuck—AGAIN—” He drops his full weight onto your hips, completely hovering over your bowed spine as his mouth latches onto the nape of your neck with teeth first. He bites down viciously, breaking skin, copper flooding hot across his tongue. The pain detonates white-hot through your nerves, but it only makes your cunt clamp harder around him, pleasure spiking so sharp it rips a raw, animal shriek from your throat and sends fresh tears flooding the pillowcase.
“Y-y-yes—there—there—there—” thé sound rips out of him, half growl, half sob, high and wrecked. He doesn’t pull away. He just keeps his teeth sunken deep into your skin while his hips piston faster — short, mean, grinding strokes that stay buried to the hilt, bullying that gooey, tender, ridged spot inside you until your whole body twitches uncontrollably.
The wet sound of your soaked, engorged walls dragging along his cock is deafening. Your legs are shaking so badly they keep collapsing; he just snarls, wrenches them back up with bruising force and fucks you straight back down into the mattress. You’re begging now, voice completely cracked and whiny and pathetic. “T-Toby… baby… c-can’t—s’too much—!”
He whines against your bleeding neck, almost pitiful, hips never slowing for a second. “I—I c-c-can’t—m’s-s-s-sorry—need you t-to—f-f-f-fuck—cum again—pleasepleaseplease—just one more—s-swear on m-my fuckin’ life—”
He’s a fucking liar. A desperate, filthy, twitching liar.
Because the second your body starts seizing again your thighs lock without warning, gummy walls fluttering in helpless, stuttering waves that knock the breath clean out of you. One of his hands flies up, wrapping itself around your throat, thumb and fingers slotting perfectly under your jaw as he closes them around your throat and he yanks you back, forcing your spine to bow painfully towards him. The other snakes underneath, rough fingertips finding your aching, raw clit and rubbing vicious, merciless circles.
His tics are nuclear, head whipping side to side, shoulders seizing, hips stuttering erratically as he feels every single pulse milk him. “F-f-f-fuck—yesYES—squeeze—squeeze—f-f-f-fuckin’ SQUEEZE—”
He slams in, flush to your arse, grinding so hard the bones bruise, and stays there, his cock throbbing, twitching, pumping out whatever’s left while his teeth find your shoulder again. The sting blooms hot, but your toes curl so hard the muscles cramp and a fresh broken cry tears from you. Yet instead of stopping, he starts moving again, slow at first — agonising, deliberate drags out until just the fat head of his pulsing cock stretches your entrance, then punishingly thrusts back in, each one of his thrusts punches another helpless twitch from your body; he’s making sure you feel every ridge, every vein, every fresh gush of cum forced deeper into your ruined cunt.
“S-s-s-sorry,” he gasps against the fresh bite, voice splintering into static and sobs, “can’t fuckin’ stop—need one more—please—give it to me—break for me—f-f-f-fuckin’ BREAK—”
Your scream is smothered into the pillowcase as he loses the last of his mind, his pounding hips turn faster, meaner, and completely unhinged, his teeth sink deeper into your skin, painting his teeth and mouth red with your blood, one hand is crushing your hip, while the sloppy squelches of your overstuffed cunt fills the room like the filthiest soundtrack.
Your next orgasm doesn’t explode, it drags through you in slow, stuttering waves, legs giving out completely, a choked half-sob the only sound you can manage as your back seizes in one long, helpless shudder.
Toby’s teeth rip free from your shoulder, he licks his lips breathlessly for a quick second, letting the metallic taste of your blood coat his tastebuds, and then drops back to the torn skin of your neck like a vicious animal, reopening another bite wound, that was healing, he gave you previously, in one savage clamp. The pain whites out your vision, but your body betrays you instantly, throat cutting off mid-sob as every muscle locks in exhausted, twitching overload.
He then starts rutting like a rabid dog in heat, his hips slamming into the sore skin of your arse like he’s taking his frustration out on you — he probably is —grunting and growling against your bleeding flesh with every single thrust: “Hnn—hnngh—fuck—fuck—!” Low, guttural, feral sounds ripped straight from his chest as he forces every last twitching, sweat-slick pound of his weight onto you. One of his scarred hands, that is still clamped brutally around your hip, yanks your bottom half higher again, keeping your arse tilted up and presented so he can grind deeper, and force every thick inch of his cock into that leaking, needy, greedy cunt and feel it flutter helplessly around him. He’s using you, owning the angle, making sure nothing stops him from chasing that addictive squeeze even as his chest collapses onto your back.
He groans, “C-c-can’t—can’t s-s-stop—m’s-s-s-sorry—need you t-to—f-f-f-fuckin’ milk me—milkme—” The words tumble out in a shattered chant between snarls, spit and blood dripping hot down your shoulder as he ruts harder, shorter and meaner, his pelvis grinding against your arse like he’s trying to fuse himself inside you.
Shlk-shlk-shlk-shlk-shlk. The filthy, sloppy sounds of your wrecked cunt being fucked through another weak, twitching load are downright sinful as thick white ropes bubble out around his cock and smear everywhere, but he doesn’t slow down.
Toby just keeps rutting through it, hips stuttering wildly, teeth locked deep in your neck, breath hitching with every desperate grind: “feels so good—break—f-f-f-fuckin’ break—”
Only when your whole body is limp and trembling beneath him, when your cunt is giving one last exhausted twitch around his cock and you’re sobbing into the pillowcase like you might actually pass out, does something in Toby finally fracture. His hips give one last savage, stuttering grind, his legs buckling, chest collapsing unevenly so one forearm slams down harder beside your head, the other clawing at the sheets for balance — a broken howl tearing out of his throat as another weak spurt of cum pulses deep inside you.
Then: he’s dead weight on you, teeth still sunk into your neck, chest heaving, his cock still buried to the hilt and twitching like it never wants to leave. Even then his thighs keep making tiny, involuntary little rocks forward, breath stuttering hot and ragged against your ruined skin. The tip of his tongue slithers out of his mouth and he gives a slow lick of the pulsing bite mark om your neck, “j-just… o-one… m-m-more..” he exhales heavily, and the hot breath wafts over the sensitive wound, causing you to whimper pathetically, “mm.. s-so.. perfect… so f-f-fuckin’ per-perfect f’me…”
His weight keeps you pinned completely, his chest heavy on your back, your mattress creaks under the combined weight of you both when he moves. His heartbeat slams against your spine like a second, frantic pulse. And in the hazy, shattered silence you realise you aren’t pushing him off. You’re not even tryjng to — well, it’s not like you can anyway, but you’d let him stay buried inside you like this forever if that's what he wanted.
But Toby isn't stopping, not really: he’s just run out of energy, and he’ll be back at it — at you — sooner than you can catch your breath.
ᓚᘏᗢ Maleanor Draconia x reader
ᓚᘏᗢ Warnings: Fem reader. Non-sexual nudity. Suggestive. MDNI; ageless and blank blogs don't interact.
ᓚᘏᗢ A/N: i sometimes think of maleanor too......................
An eternal downpour blanketed Briar Valley. Thunder reverberated across the frigid walls of Castle Blackscale, and the thunderclap lightened its darkened halls. The residents of this castle had grown accustomed to the chilly mood that had taken over since Laverne’s departure took longer than expected. Moreover, the fact that Maleanor hadn’t received one clue of his whereabouts, whether he was alive or not, further soured her mood. This much was evident if the dreary weather meant anything.
You stood by the door, waiting for any signal that your lady required aid. Under normal circumstances, you would’ve been within those dark tiled walls, scrubbing along her svelte back or other hard-to-reach areas. Or lighting up some aromatic candles—or incenses—whatever her majesty’s whims were. You were but a mere servant; her personal handmaiden, to be more precise.
Earlier, when you had seen that stern look she sent you before entering the bath chamber, your feet stopped dead in their tracks. You hadn’t even dared to ask her if she wanted you to light her favorite candle. As mercurial as she was, the weather did the speaking in her stead. That was a semblance of predictability everyone in the castle (and outside) had to learn by force, lest they have the bravery to imperil themselves into getting stricken down.
Amidst the loud booms of thunder outside, a silken voice called for you in those brief seconds of silence.
A drop of sweat was already rolling down your forehead when you stepped inside. Assuming that her tantrum had finished because of her gentle tone of voice was a beginner’s mistake, after all.
“Come on over, my darling handmaid.” She beckoned you closer with a finger, head tipped back against the corner of the marble tub. Her hum reached your ears when you got within her requested distance. “Be a dear and help me ease my pain, won’t you?”
…Ease her pain…?
“Do you need me to scrub your back, your highness—?”
“Did I enunciate such words?” At your question, she snaps her head in your direction, and lightning flashed from outside, illuminating her now open eyes. “Get to it.”
Maleanor lacks predictability in most parts. She’d demand things in the most cryptic of ways, and if you didn’t figure them out on your own, that would infuriate her too.
You got behind her, following the damp tresses of raven hair clinging to her back and scales. The candles on the chandelier didn’t offer much visibility in this gloomy space, and you weren’t sure where to venture. Did she want you to adjust the temperature of her water? Bring her some medicinal ointment? You had to do something quick before you left her waiting for too long. She wasn’t fond of waiting.
“My shoulders,” at last, Maleanor griped when you reached for the assortment of oils waiting by the small table next to the tub.
How she didn’t strike you down with her thunder before clarifying eluded you. Not like you were about to complain, of course; thus, you got to work. You brushed her hair out of the way, splitting it half and half on her shoulders. With that out of the way, you pressed your thumbs into the base of her nape. A soft rumble vibrated from her throat as minutes went by, working through the knots of her stiff shoulders and upper spine. You were careful with her spines and scales. Imagining you touching her somewhere that would discharge her anger on you made you shudder.
“Mmmh…” body lax into the tub, she submerged more into the water. The claps of thunder had stopped for the time being, although the rainstorm was still present. “These past days have been so bleak, and work keeps piling up. On top of that, everyone has been acting rather strangely. They muster a smile when they see me, but I can see them trembling behind that guise. Don’t you think that’s entertaining?”
“…I do.”
“And you—” the water suddenly rocked into the tub’s walls when she rose from it, rivulets cascading down her smooth skin and dripping past her thighs. You rushed to grab a towel, but you didn’t make it a step far when she shot a hand to grasp your face. You aren’t given a chance to fret over her exposed figure, at risk of tripping and injuring herself if she made a brash movement. “You too shiver when I walk close by.”
“Your highness, please…” your throat closed in on itself, your plea coming out in a pathetic whine. “You-You’re going to slip if you—”
The tip of her nose ghosted over the skin of your neck, and you can’t do more than take it, given that she was holding onto your face.
“There’s this pesky, aggravating scent in the air I can’t shake off. It’s both alluring and exasperating,” she turned your face to the side, opening more space for herself to satiate her curiosity. You grip at your skirt, mustering effort to stay still and control your legs from getting you out of here. “You exude this cloying scent that clings to my nose even after you’re away.”
Your heart rattled in the confinement of your poor ribcage, anticipating electricity to strike you down at any time with how things were developing.
Finally, she parted. However, she didn’t let go of your face yet, redirecting your head towards hers. Her dark slit pupils settled on your gaze, unwavering in their intentions. “What type of fae are you? Surely not one that comes from fire, do you? You’re burning up. You always seem to be rather warmer than the rest of these fretting servants.”
“I’m a regular fae, I promise.”
“Is that so? Regardless, I might want you next to me for the remainder of the night, you see. I want you to keep my company.”
With that, her hand abandoned your face. You had been so focused on surviving, you didn’t take note of how hard she had been gripping your cheeks. If not for seeing her lick her thumb off the smudge of blood, you wouldn’t have noticed.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
synopsis: what comes after the secret you’ve been keeping all your life — that you’re in love with your best friend, manjiro — is revealed in the most unexpected way?
part one
pairings: racer!sano manjiro x fem!reader
content warnings: mature themes, 18+, ns/fw, M.D.N.I.
Dread fills your bones, making your whole body go still on the edge of your bed while the last message sent by Manjiro keeps replaying in your head.
"Let's talk, y/n."
In an instant, it’s like your world crumbles beneath you, stripping away everything that protects you and leaving only your naked, embarrassed self. You didn't expect a situation like this to come — and yet, it arrives when you are at your most defenseless. Nothing could be worse than this.
You feel shameful. Pathetic, even. The tears keep flowing down your face because there’s no way to undo it now — not when the evidence is spitting right in your face: that he answered the call while you were touching yourself, he heard you screaming his name, he listened to you falling apart with him on your mind, and then he texted you, asking to talk. And goddamn, what does any of this mean if not that you have feelings for him?
You thought you could keep your secret locked in a vault for years, only for it to be revealed in the most careless way possible. Now, you can’t do anything but cry, your mind overflowing with the fear that you’ve stained the only connection you have with him — your friendship. The one thing that will now surely meet its end, all because of your selfish desires and the feelings he never asked for.
Weeping eventually leads you to falling asleep. The endless thinking drowns you so deeply that you don't even notice the time passing. You simply fall asleep out of pure exhaustion, and only wake up when your phone alarm goes off.
Just when you thought it was all a dream, you open your phone to turn it off, only to be met with the reality you’ve been living in.
Manjiro's text is still there. As real as everything that happened last night.
You press your palms into your face as a fresh wave of worry sinks in. What now? you think. What are you even supposed to do now that everything is out in the open?
You stare at Manjiro’s last message. He hasn’t followed up, and that somehow makes it worse. The silence feels heavy, loaded with everything you’re afraid of: a disappointed man sitting on the other end, betrayed and disgusted, just waiting for you to finally say it out loud so he can be done with you.
The moment you roll out of bed, you decide you won't face him. Not yet. You tell yourself you need to distance yourself first, that you need time to sort everything out before you can face him.
But deep down, you know that's not it.
The truth is, you're just a coward. And the only thing you can bring yourself to do right now is avoid him completely, at all costs.
So that's what you'll do.
Using every bit of strength you can muster, you prepare yourself for work. Your mind hasn't drifted from thoughts of Manjiro even for a second, but you do everything you can to drag yourself out the door anyway. At least at the office, the pending tasks and deliverables can pull your focus away from him even just for a little while.
But you're wrong about even that.
The moment you step inside, your closest colleagues, the ones who know about your connection to the famous racer, immediately corner you to ask about his performance on the track. Manjiro's wins have been all over social media since last night, so of course they knew, and of course they had to bring it up. You nod along, give them short polite answers, and get to work.
By the time the day ends, it's clear that trying to distract yourself was never going to work. For most of the day, you've been sneaking glances at your phone, waiting for a message from him that never comes. You don't know whether to feel relieved that you haven't heard anything from his side, or more worried because of it. Either way, the dread never leaves your body and you come home that night more exhausted than ever.
This carries on for two days straight — the distance you've put between you and the silence on his end. It starts affecting your performance at work badly enough that you find yourself considering filing for a leave just to sort your head out. But every time you come home to your apartment and are met with nothing but quiet, your thoughts grow louder than anything else — you'd rather exhaust yourself fixing mistakes at work than spiral alone through endless overthinking.
However, this whole avoidance has to end eventually. Whether you are prepared or not, you must face the consequences of your actions, and Manjiro makes sure of that on the third morning when a notification from him finally pops up.
Your heart starts to pound as you unlock your screen with trembling fingers.
Fr: Jiro
y/n…
Are you busy?
That isn't what you were expecting. You were bracing yourself for something devastating, something that would confirm every worst fear you’ve spent two days constructing in your head, not this. However, the innocent message does nothing to ease your mind, and before you can even process it, your phone begins to ring.
He's calling.
The panic hits so fast that instead of answering or declining, you turn your phone off entirely. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your palms against your face.
What are you doing? you think. What are you doing, what are you doing, what are you doing…
And the coward wins again. Instead of facing him after he finally reaches out, you decide to keep your phone off.
You tell yourself it’s just for a few hours, enough time to breathe and figure out what to say. But those few hours become the whole morning, and the morning bleeds into the afternoon. Before you know it, you’re back home, the sun is gone, and your phone is still a dark weight in your hand.
You stare at it for a long moment. Then, you turn it back on. Your heart tightens as the screen instantly floods with notifications.
Fr: Jiro
10:47 AM: I was busy with training, I didn't get to message you.
11:06 AM: Still no reply? Stop ignoring me, please.
11:10 AM: Emma’s birthday on friday. It would be just the usual circle, nothing big. Come, okay?
Before you can even think, your fingers hover over the keyboard and start typing.
To: Jiro
I’m not sure…
The moment you hit send, regret sinks in. It’s too late. Manjiro’s response comes immediately, the notification dinging before you can even look away.
Fr: Jiro
Why? It’s emma’s birthday.
Are you avoiding me…
The familiar nervousness tugs at your heart so sharply you almost drop the phone. His last message sits there like a quiet accusation. Your chest tightens as you spiral: Why is he asking the obvious when you both know what happened that night? Is this a test? Is he waiting to see if you’ll finally be honest, or if you’ll run again?
You stare at the screen for a long time. Then, you lock it.
You can’t reply. Not when your mind can only offer two things: excuses you’re too tired to sell, or a confession that will surely end everything. So, you say nothing. You set the phone face down and stare at the ceiling instead, trying to force your heartbeat to slow down.
It doesn’t.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Then, your phone dings again. You pick it up slowly.
Fr: Jiro
I didn't hear anything, y/n.
The air leaves your lungs. You read it again. Twice, thrice. You search those four words over and over, looking for a hidden meaning.
He didn't hear anything…
Whether he meant he didn't hear your response to his message or he didn't hear anything on the phone that night, you aren't sure.
You aren't sure of anything anymore.
In the crushing quiet of the night, the only response you can muster is a silent sob.
"I didn't hear anything, y/n."
The words echo in your head, a lifeline and a threat all at once. You have to face him now, whether you are ready or not. You have to find out if he truly heard you. You have to see if you are capable of telling the truth, or if you’re just going to fall apart.
Friday arrives before you're ready for it.
You stand in front of the mirror, face adorned with makeup — your best attempt at hiding the exhaustion that five days of sleepless nights have carved into you. Five days since that night, and not once have you had a real moment to think anything through.
You’re still caught in a haze of embarrassment and dread, but the world doesn’t care if you’re ready to face him. Time moves forward, and if you want any hope of returning to a sense of peace, you have to move with it. Even if "peace" means confessing your biggest secret — that you are hopelessly in love with your best friend — and watching it ruin everything you’ve ever known.
You take one last look at yourself in the mirror, grab your bag, and go.
You step into the hotel where Emma's birthday is being held. Somewhere inside that private dining room, Manjiro is already there.
Waiting.
You smooth down your dress, take a deep breath, and walk in.
As expected, the birthday party is an intimate affair. For a moment, seeing the familiar faces of your mutual friends settles the frantic beat in your chest...
But the relief is short-lived.
Your heart begins to thump again the second you spot members of the race team. You know Manjiro's right there. He couldn't be far, and if you just let your gaze wander a little further, you’d find him.
You keep your gaze carefully ahead, focused on nothing, avoiding the edges of the room where you know he might be standing. But before you can blend into the background, someone catches your arm and pulls you into a sudden hug.
"I thought you weren't going to come, y/n! You’ve been radio silent lately!"
It’s Emma. She’s her usual bubbly self, pulling you into a hug so tight it almost forces the air out of your lungs. Your heart slowly eases as you return the embrace, clinging to her just as tightly.
"As if I’d miss your birthday, silly. If I did, you’d never let me hear the end of it" you chuckle. But even as the words leave your mouth, you’re reminded of how close you actually came to staying home, of how you almost disappointed her just because you couldn't face her brother.
You let the thought slip away and focus on Emma, who pulls back from the hug first, beaming at you.
"You know me." She giggles. "Though I really wouldn’t have minded if you were busy. We could always celebrate another day — it's not like there's a law against it."
You squint at her, searching for the lie in her statement, and she laughs at your skeptical expression. "Come on, I’m telling the truth!"
You sigh, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. "Just be thankful I'm here."
You reach out and hand her the gift you've been holding. "Happy birthday, Emms."
Emma beams, clutching the gift to her chest. "Thank you, y/n! And thank you for actually coming. I was lying when I said it would be okay if you stayed home."
The two of you burst into shared laughter, and for a fleeting second, the weight pressing down on your chest vanishes. You bask in the giggles, feeling almost normal again.
Then the laughter slowly fades, and Emma's eyes drift across the room.
"Honestly, I could accept it if you didn’t show up. But you know who wouldn't?" Her gaze lands on someone specific. Even without turning around, the frantic skip of your heart tells you exactly who she’s looking at. "Mikey would have definitely thrown a tantrum. Have you talked to him yet?" she asks, her delight suddenly tinted with a quiet worry.
You don't respond, letting her continue.
"Draken told me he's been kind of off lately. We figured it's the new training — the sponsors have been watching closely with the championship coming up. I think the pressure's getting to him more than he lets on."
The bitterness settles on your tongue before you can stop it. He's out there pushing himself through rigorous training, carrying the weight of an entire season on his shoulders, and here you are, about to add to it. About to walk up to him and drop something that has nothing to do with racing and everything to do with ruining what you have.
Right then, without so much as glancing in the direction of his sister's gaze, you make up your mind.
Not tonight.
"Talk to him, okay?" Emma says, her voice gentle. "He's your best friend. He'd tell you if something was wrong."
You smile at her, small and tired.
He would. But the problem he doesn't know about yet...that's you.
Tonight, like every night before it, you choose to keep your distance.
You immediately try to lose yourself in the room, weaving into casual conversations and forcing yourself to look busy. But despite your best efforts, a restless energy claws at you. A prickling sensation on the back of your neck that tells you you’re being watched.
You aren’t wrong.
A sudden, accidental sweep of the room brings you face-to-face with the source of your unease.
Manjiro is standing beside Takemichi, his gaze fixed directly on you. You catch the slight widening of his eyes when your stares collide. He looks just as caught off guard as you are.
You look away first as the tension rises slowly up your throat, settling there and making itself impossible to ignore.
"You alright?" The voice cuts through the noise as a hand grasps your elbow. It’s Kazutora.
You look at him and quickly clear your throat, trying to find your voice.
"Y-yeah. Of course."
He nods, and the conversation folds back around the two of you like nothing happened. Because to everyone else in the room, nothing did. You are the only one coming apart on the inside, thread by thread, behind a perfectly composed face.
Needing to steady yourself, you excuse yourself to find a drink, desperate to wash down the lump in your throat.
You walk over to the small bar counter and grab a glass of champagne. You down the first one instantly, the sharp bite of the alcohol doing its best to steady your nerves. You reach for a second, but just as you bring the flute to your lips, your eyes traitorous as always, drift across the room on their own. And land on Manjiro.
He’s moving now, weaving his way through the crowd, his eyes locked onto yours. You realize with a jolt of panic that he’s walking straight toward you. Your grip tightens around the glass.
In a frantic attempt to look natural, you set the flute down and pivot, walking away from the bar to lose yourself among your friends again. You let the group crowd you, using them as a human shield.
It’s a game of cat and mouse that lasts the entire night. The moment you find yourself isolated for even a second, Manjiro is there, instantly trying to close the distance between you. His stare never wavers. no matter where you move, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
And you can tell he's growing frustrated. The crease between his brows deepens every time he watches you slip away again, every time you choose a crowded corner over facing him.
The guilt eats at you too. It carves into you steadily the same way it has been for days. But what can you do?
What can you really do?
It's not as if you wanted any of this. But the idiocy had to happen, and now here you are — trapped in this constant, exhausting battle with yourself. If only you could have said it on your own terms. A confession born from courage and not from the embarrassment of being caught, not from something as humiliating as what happened that night.
But could you have, really? Would you have confessed if the circumstances were different? Would you have done it at all?
You doubt it. Because you are a fucking coward.
And you would have kept it buried forever if not for that one mistake over a phone call.
So, for the hundredth time tonight, you bury yourself in the crowd so Manjiro can't get to you.
Then Emma's birthday cake is brought out and everyone gathers to sing. You try to steady yourself, dropping your messy thoughts for her sake. It's the least you can do after spending the better half of the night dodging her brother.
You finally lower your guard, giving Emma the attention she deserves and sing along with the rest.
You don't notice the body that slips in beside you.
Emma blows out her candles just as the last note of the song fades. The room erupts. Clapping, cheering, greetings overlapping from every direction. And in the middle of all that noise, while your guard is still down and your attention is still forward, a hand closes around your wrist.
You're being pulled before you can register it.
Everything blurs. The steps are fast, the crowd falling away behind you, and it's only when the cool air of the balcony hits your face that you understand who has been pulling you all along.
Manjiro releases your wrist and turns to face you.
There is no crowd to hide in. No conversation to slip back into. No way out.
You can’t fucking escape this one.
On the balcony, the crowd you used to hide in is suddenly out of grasp. Even though you’re isolated now, you still don't dare look up. You can’t bring yourself to meet the eyes that have been burning holes through you all night and are now fixed intently on your bowed head.
You swallow and wait for the first blow to land. It doesn't take long.
He lets out a heavy sigh, the sound of someone who has finally run out of patience.
"y/n"
You don't respond but your eyes move. Not toward him. Just anywhere that isn't him.
You’re painfully aware of the relentless beat of your heart. It feels powerful enough to rip through your chest if it keeps up this frantic pace. But you stay still, waiting for him to say the words that will end everything once and for all. Soon, you’ll be left with nothing but your ruined self and a friendship stained beyond repair.
You hear him shuffle, his slow footsteps approaching where you stand. He stops abruptly, just a few feet away, and lets out another sigh.
"Why are you avoiding me?" His voice is leveled, not nearly as cold as you deserve for what you’ve done.
You know that staying silent won't help you escape this. You have to respond, even if your brain refuses to give you the right words.
"I…" you exhale slowly, the sound shaky in the cold night air. "I don’t know what to say. I really don’t."
That's all you have. The only words you could pull from the wreckage of your thoughts.
You still haven't looked up at him but you can feel something radiating off of him in the silence. Something restless. Frustrated, maybe. Or dreading this just as much as you are.
"You don’t have to force yourself to say anything. I understand" he pauses, like he's choosing his next words carefully. "Just… would you stop avoiding me, y/n?"
That’s the cue. You finally find the strength to look up and meet his eyes.
There they are — his midnight irises that have haunted your imaginations, now staring at you, stripped of their usual light and replaced by a hollow, drained expression that almost makes you crumble on the spot.
"What do you mean… I don’t have to say anything?" your voice trembles. You search his face, desperately trying to find the meaning behind his words. Because there’s something underneath them, there has to be. But he doesn't flinch. He just stands there, his gaze fixed on you.
"What do you mean, Manjiro?"
For someone who spent the entire night chasing you, he chooses this exact moment to go silent. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the dark horizon instead of at you. The sudden wall he’s built up agitates you, the uncertainty sparking a frantic need for an answer.
Because what is he trying to say? You don't have to say anything? After all of that and this?
"Manjiro, please" you call out again, your voice rising and shaking. He inhales sharply, the sound suggesting that whatever he’s about to say pains him just as much as it does you.
"I didn’t hear anything, y/n."
His words land like a match dropped into gasoline.
"That’s bullshit!" your voice comes out sharper than you intended. "I was wailing like a mess in there — chanting your name over and over and you were on the other end of that call for a full two minutes. Two fucking minutes, Manjiro! And now you're standing here telling me you didn't hear anything?!"
"What was I supposed to fucking do then?" he snaps in return. The unreadable mask he wore minutes ago is gone, replaced by a raw frustration that matches his voice. "You’ve distanced yourself from me for days. You wouldn’t even talk to me. The only thing I could think to do was tell you I didn’t hear shit, just so you’d stop running away—"
"But you did." It comes out barely above a whisper. The fight drains out of you as quickly as it came.
"You heard everything."
You don't wait for him to fill it. You push forward, even as you shake trying to pick up the broken pieces of yourself in front of him.
"And I was so—" you bite your lip as your vision blurs, tears threatening to spill at any second. "I was so embarrassed."
"y/n—"
"I—" You shake your head, cutting yourself off before he can reach you with your name.
Across from you, Manjiro goes still. His expression torn open, caught between something you don't have the clarity to name right now. He looks like he wants to reach for you. His foot shifts forward as if to close the gap but he stops himself abruptly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
"I didn't mean for any of it to… I mean, I never—" you bite your lip hard, almost drawing blood to ground yourself and stop your flowing tears.
He says your name again. Softer this time, like he's afraid the wrong pressure will destroy you completely. And that's exactly what undoes you.
Because you feel it rising the moment his voice gentles — that familiar pull of retreat. The same cowardice that has kept you silent for years rises in your chest, already building the excuses, already forming the words: It’s fine, forget it, pretend I said nothing.
Maybe you can salvage this without saying another word and just apologize for the mess you’ve caused. Maybe you could choose to believe his lie. Maybe you could convince yourself that you don’t need to confess. You could take the exit he’s giving you and continue living your life, even if the secret would eat you alive day by day.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe it has to be.
But before the retreat can fully form on your tongue Manjiro speaks.
"We can…" He pauses, his gaze dropping to the floor between you.
"If you want, we can forget this. All of it. I can pretend… if that's what you need."
The most generous thing he has ever offered you and somehow, the most devastating. He is giving you exactly what the coward in you always wanted: an exit. A way back to "before." A way to keep him safely as just your best friend.
But you’re so tired.
You’re exhausted from keeping everything hidden away. You're tired of loving him only in your mind — the only place where you could do so without restrictions, without the feeling of crossing a line, without staining or ruining anything.
You can't have that anymore.
"But I can't."
It feels as if a vault has finally been forced open, the words you’ve tried to bury acting as the key. The feelings you thought would never see the light of day are finally laid bare before him.
"I can’t do the 'pretend' anymore."
"Not when I’ve spent years feeling this way."
Every word feels like blood being spat from your mouth. It makes you shake, but it would be more painful to keep it in than to let it out. You continue, even as your voice breaks. Even as your heart does, too.
"Not when I’ve already crossed every line — willingly, Manjiro. All of it, willingly. Just so I could at least feel like you could finally see where I am."
Tears continue to spill, blurring your sight until he’s barely more than a shape in front of you. You pull a split second of bravery to look directly into his eyes as you spill your heart out. Cowardice be damned. Let him see you break. He already heard you at your highest and it shattered you even more after. What difference does it make if he witnesses you at your lowest, standing here as the same shattered self?
"Turn around and see me, Manjiro...I was here. I still am...I'm in love with you."
And you finally break.
You cover your face, the sound of your own wailing sending a violent shiver down your spine. It's terrifying to hear yourself cry this loudly. To feel the raw, unfiltered sound of your heart breaking in the open air. Your legs feel hollow, and you’re certain that at any moment your knees will give out and you'll stumble.
But before you can fall, you feel a sudden, firm tug at your wrist.
And then you're moving.
No words. No warning. Manjiro pulls you back through the balcony doors and into the hall and you don't have the strength to resist. You don't have anything left. You just follow, face still hidden behind your hand trying to hold whatever remains of yourself together.
You’re being led through the crowd, still sobbing openly, and you feel the suffocating weight of every eye in the room following your every move. You’re powerless to shield your messy, broken self from the sudden spotlight. Manjiro’s eager, relentless pace doesn’t break until he reaches the table where Emma and his inner circle are sitting.
Emma's face shifts the moment she sees you. The smile she was wearing dissolving first into confusion, then into something closer to alarm when her eyes find yours.
"Mikey, what happen—"
But Manjiro is already moving. He steps in front of you, catches Emma by the shoulders before she can reach you, and holds her steady.
"Mikey, is y/n alright? What's going on—" Emma’s voice is rising toward panic, but Manjiro reaches out and squeezes her shoulder firmly, grounding her.
"I’ll make it up to you. We have to go now" he says.
He presses a swift, apologetic kiss to his sister’s temple before pulling you away again. He offers no explanation to the confused crowd — not to Emma, who tries to follow, nor to the rest of the guests. Only Draken catches his eye, sending a silent, knowing look Manjiro’s way. The raven-haired man simply nods in return, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
Everything follows in a dizzying blur. Cold city air. The sharp ding of an elevator. Until the world finally stops spinning.
Before you can even process the shift in atmosphere, the heavy doors click shut, and you’re being led inside his penthouse.
Maybe it's resignation settling into your bones that keeps you from responding properly to any of this. It all feels like a fever dream. The avoidance. The confession. Him pulling you through a crowded room without a single word of explanation, and you following without resistance. You don't fully return to the reality until you feel Manjiro's grip tighten around your hand.
The gravity of the situation hits you like a physical blow to the chest.
You confessed. You actually did it.
You told your best friend of years that you are in love with him. For all the time you spent locking that truth away in the deepest part of your soul, convinced it would stay a secret you’d take to the grave, it only took one moment of weakness to bring you here. Standing in his room, the door locked behind you.
Across from you, Manjiro's face gives nothing away. Not anger. Not relief. Not even surprise. Just focus as he reaches up to shed his jacket, then moves to step out of his pants, like this is any other night. Like you didn't just crack yourself open in front of him twenty minutes ago.
Your mind begins to spiral, even as your body makes no effort to move. You stand paralyzed in the dark with him, your head filling with questions that make your skin crawl. Why did he bring me here? Why is he undressing? Why isn’t he saying he doesn't love me?
Why won’t you just push me away?
Before your head can split open from the weight of it, the words slip free on their own.
"Manjiro…" It comes out so soft. The way you utter his name isn't a call for attention. It’s a plea for him to end the silence before it destroys you.
Manjiro catches it. His head snaps toward you, and that focused expression dissolves replaced by something uncharacteristically soft. Almost meek. He waits for you to continue.
"Why are we here? What are you doing?"
He avoids your gaze, turning to sit at the edge of the large bed. Stripped down to only his shirt and boxers, the barrier between you finally feels thin.
In the dim light of the room, he looks reachable. He would almost feel safe if you weren't so paralyzed by the confusion of his actions.
"Why did you bring me here—"
"I just need you to rest, y/n"
"And you think I can? After everything that happened — everything I’ve said? Manjiro, we need to address this."
"We can, yeah? We can" he says, his voice low. "But let’s just rest first. You need it. We both need it, y/n."
He stands to approach you and you instinctively step back. A flash of pure hurt crosses his face when you retreat, but he continue reaching for your elbow. Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's the deep, aching want to just be held, to stop carrying all of this alone for one moment. Either way, you don't step back a second time. You let him pull you toward the bed.
He pulls you down, laying gently beside you. The proximity silences the frantic noise in your head, replaced only by the steady rhythm of his breathing. He wraps his arms around you like a vice, clinging to your body as he buries your face against the heat of his chest.
"Jiro." His name comes out muffled against his shirt, and you're almost grateful for the fabric between you.
Your voice has started to shake again. "I can't think anymore. I can't think about anything."
"Then don’t think. Just rest" he murmurs. You push slightly against him to look up, only to find him staring directly back at you.
"I'm not going to fall asleep and pretend none of this happened. We can't just—" The words die in your throat as fresh tears spill over.
A flicker of what looks like agonizing pain crosses Manjiro’s eyes. Seeing him look at you like this, a devastating thought takes hold: He’s doing this to compensate.
He’s holding you now because he knows he has to let you go later. This is the last kindness he can offer because he won't return your feelings, and what’s been said can never be unsaid.
So, you don't speak anymore. You just cry.
He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin to muffle your sobs. His hand moves in slow, soft caresses across your back, your waist, and your arms. He doesn't say another word and he just lets you weep.
He stays there as a silent anchor, listening to every broken sob and jagged breath as the night bleeds away. The weight of your grief and the heat of his body slowly drain the last of your strength, making your limbs feel like lead.
Just as the darkness of sleep begins to pull you under, you feel the ghost of lips against your forehead — a pressure so soft it feels like a dream.
"Just so you know" a raspy whisper brushes against your skin. "I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore."
The morning after is a montage of moments you can't quite grasp. You wake up in his bed, and the flashbacks of the night come crashing down with a force that almost sends you into a fresh panic, only for the air to settle the moment Manjiro re-enters the room.
The next thing you know, he is driving you home because you insisted on going. The drive is filled with nothing but silence, but every time Manjiro brakes, he quietly reaches for your hand. He doesn't look at you when he does it. He just finds your fingers with his, squeezing briefly before the light turns green.
But what seals everything into one big knot of confusion is the way Manjiro kisses your forehead as he leaves you at your door. It’s a kiss that lingers, so long and so heavy, that you can still feel the ghost of his warmth on your skin even after he pulls away.
And then he leaves without a word. There is no rejection, but there is no acknowledgment of the confession you made at the party, either. He just disappears back to his car, leaving you standing there with the weight of everything unsaid pressing against your chest.
You're not stupid enough to miss the shift in him. You know something changed. But the only thing stopping you from leaning into those more hopeful thoughts is the massive question mark still hanging over your head. Two terrifying possibilities and you're caught right in the middle of both.
Did Manjiro do all of this out of guilt — his way of softening the blow before he cuts you off? Or does he feel something too?
That doubt turns the full-blown panic of last night into a tight, suffocating knot of overthinking.
What does any of this mean?
And somehow that question leads you here, to your current predicament — lying in bed, checking your phone every few minutes, waiting for a message that may never come.
Would he text you? Or was that kiss on the forehead the end of it?
You wait and wait until the exhaustion of your own thoughts pulls you under without warning. You fall asleep without meaning to, and when you open your eyes again, the sun is already setting outside your window.
You rub your eyes and reach for your phone to check the time...and find three unopened notifications from him.
Fr. Jiro:
What are you doing?
Just took a break from training. You busy?
Can I come over to yours after my training?
Your heart suddenly remembers its existence. It starts to beat again, but it dances to a different rhythm this time. It’s no longer following the frantic steps of panic, instead, it moves to a slow, hopeful sway of excitement.
You:
sure
And as if he's been waiting on the other end this whole time, the reply comes immediately.
Fr. Jiro
I have something to tell you..
Also, I miss you.
Though your heart is still racing, the heavy weight of that massive question mark finally dissolves. It is replaced by a soft, blooming heat for the man you hope will finally answer your yearning and longing.
You barely have time to prepare yourself when you hear the revving of a motorcycle outside your house. It’s a sound you’ve heard a thousand times, but tonight, it makes your stomach flip in a way that’s entirely new. You don’t have to look outside to know that it’s him.
It doesn’t take long before you hear the steady knock on your door. You exhale, readying yourself for another night of facing Manjiro. You hope, god you hope, that all the silent pining, the wishful thinking, and the secrets whispered into the quiet are finally going to be answered, once and for all.
You pull the door open. There he is — the man who haunts every crevice of your mind, the one you secretly call "mine" every chance the quiet nights give you. Your best friend stands there, looking at you with a soft, knowing smile that feels both familiar and brand new.
"Hey," he says, his voice low and steady.
"Hey," you respond, the word catching slightly in your throat as you look at him.
"Can I come in?"
For years, Manjiro has drifted into your space without a second thought, inhabiting every corner of your life as if he belonged there by birthright. But this sudden hesitation, this soft request for permission, is the cue that the old rules no longer apply.
It is the beginning of something entirely new. And as the weight of the day’s anxiety begins to lift, you find yourself feeling lighter, though your heart still hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You don't answer and simply pull the door wide open. He pauses for a second and stares at you, then he finally steps inside.
He stands in the middle of your living room, eyes still lingering on you. You, on the other hand, avoid his gaze as you make a beeline toward the kitchen.
"Uh... have you had your dinner yet? I can coo—" You hear his soft footsteps following you as he calls your name.
"y/n."
You shut your eyes tightly, your back still facing him. You want to slap yourself for acting this way again, you really do. But you can't help the awkwardness that clings to you like a second skin.
There's no running anymore, though. Right? Please.
"Hmm?"
"Let's talk."
He utters the same words that ripped your heart apart the night he called you — but this time, you don't feel that same dread settling in your chest. What you feel instead is nothing but anticipation. Maybe it's the way he let those words slip out with a quiet, almost imploring tone, as if to say that this is not like that night. He wants to talk, but in a way that won't make you feel like you need to put yourself out of his reach again.
So with a gathered courage, you turn around and face him. You exhale.
"Okay. Let's talk."
Manjiro's expression remains calm as he begins.
"I heard it." His eyes search your face, catching for any small expression that might slip through.
You remain steady, even as you force down the tension rising in your chest from his words. You already knew it — but he had to lie because you yourself weren't ready to accept it. Hence the days of avoiding him. Yet hearing the truth come directly from his own mouth is an entirely different wave to weather.
"I heard it, y/n. All of it" Manjiro shifts his weight, his eyes never leaving yours. He looks as though he is physically weighing the next words to say.
But you beat him to it. Before he can find the right way to piece his thoughts together, you find your own voice. You don't let the silence stretch any longer. You throw the question at him, the one that has been burning in the back of your mind since the night of the party.
"Then why didn’t you say anything further than that? I know you had to lie because I couldn’t face you, and the truth. But why—"
The rest of the question dies in your throat, the air suddenly too thin to carry the words. Manjiro nods, his gaze softening as if he finally understands the tangled mess of your thoughts without you having to finish the sentence.
He takes a step closer, closing the gap as if the distance itself is a barrier to being understood. It is so different from the night of the party. That night, he was afraid to cross an invisible line, and you were in a blind panic at his proximity while you poured your heart out. But tonight, that fear is gone — replaced by a magnetic pull, a shared itch to be closer. And so you stay rooted to the spot, letting him enter your space.
"I couldn’t say anything more than that because I didn’t know what to tell you anymore that would not make you run away again," he confesses as his stares level yours. "I only brought up excuses to forget, if that’s what you wanted, because I don’t want you to run away anymore. That’s all it was."
His eyes search yours, looking for any sign of the flight instinct that usually takes hold of you. But for the first time, you aren't looking for the exit. You’re looking at him.
"But why… why don't you want me to avoid you?" The words come out sounding more like a flicker of hope than a real question.
"Why do you need me to stay close, when everything I’ve done shows that I no longer see you as… a friend?" You shakily inhale, feeling the lump rise in your throat. And as the silent seconds follow, the tears in your eyes start to well. "Why Manjiro?"
That is his cue. He cuts the little distance left between you, fully invading your space. He reaches out, his thumb catching the first stray tear as he caresses your cheek before finally letting his forehead fall against yours.
"Why do you think, baby?"
Hearing that endearment directly from his lips is the final blow to the charade you have both been maintaining. It is a single word that dissolves years of careful distance, revealing the raw truth of what you truly feel for each other.
"I’ve been a fucking idiot for a long time, y/n" He pulls away to stare down at you, as if he is memorizing every inch of your face, as if it were the first time he has been given a chance to look at you this closely.
In his abyss-colored irises, you are the only one reflected, from before until now.
"If only I focused on what you were feeling rather than focusing on mine… I should have known earlier. I should have told you sooner. I should have loved you more sooner."
Your heart finally beats in a way that doesn’t tell you to run away; instead, it pulsates with elation, a damn neon sign that tells you: finally.
The kitchen, with its humming fridge and dim light, feels like the safest place in the world. Manjiro’s hands are steady on your face, his thumbs wiping away the salt of your tears, and for the first time in your life, you don't feel like you have to find an exit. You are exactly where you belong. In his arms.
"I’m sorry it took me this long."
You immediately shake your head in disagreement, reaching up to cup the handsome face that you love so much. He closes his eyes, basking in the warmth of your hands, and then he says,
"But I’m here now."
And then he kisses you.
A sharp gasp leaves your throat as his lips press firmly against yours. For a heartbeat, you stay frozen, the shock of the contact vibrating through your chest. But as he begins to slowly move his lips, the tension in your shoulders finally dissipates.
You close your eyes. Your hands slide from his cheeks to wrap around his neck and pull him closer. You arch your back slightly, closing every inch of the gap between you and begin to move your lips in sync with his.
Manjiro’s hands tighten on your waist, his grip firm and grounding as he pulls you flush against him. You let out a shaky breath into the kiss, finally surrendering to the heat of him.
When he pulls back, he opens his eyes to gaze at your face, feeling his heart rate quicken at the sight of your dazed expression. He bites his lower lip before leaning in once more to press a few soft pecks to your lips. Then whispers against your mouth.
"Let me stay with you tonight"
It doesn't sound like a request despite the rasp in his voice, but more like a certainty. Like something already decided. And you know —you've always known, that there isn't a version of yourself that would ever turn him away.
The way your fingers are already curled tightly into his shirt is answer enough. But he waits patiently and gives you the space to say it.
So you look up at him. You hold his gaze. And you breathe.
"Please."
Manjiro doesn't waste another second. His arms sweep under you, lifting you off the floor in one fluid motion, and he moves toward your room with a certainty that makes your breath catch. The same room that once witnessed everything you ever did with him only in your mind.
And as he lays you down and hovers above you, you realize, this is the same room, the same mattress, and the same sheets that once held only your longing and your guilt and your secret.
But this time, your fatal fantasies are finally and irrevocably about to be real.
You feel it snap. You watch it fade in real time — the invisible line that once connected you to a world you built in your head, the one where you could have him all to yourself.
You would still believe this was a lie, another trick of your mind, if not for the way Manjiro is currently stealing the very breath from your lungs. If he had given you even a few more seconds before leaning down to snatch the air from your lips, you might have basked in the sweet reality of it. You might have finally processed that this isn't just another vision playing against the back of your eyelids.
But Manjiro doesn't give you time to think. His actions echo his words: he has waited long enough.
You both have.
And so, he effectively destroys the final thread of your imagination by kissing you roughly, his tongue sliding deep to explore the heat of your mouth. He devours the sound of your gasp, his tongue tangling with yours in a messy, desperate rhythm.
There is no such thing as reverie anymore. Not when your fingers thread through his hair to tug him closer, eliminating the space between you until you can feel the heavy press of him against your skin. You open your legs wider, finally accommodating the body you once prayed would ride you instead of his motorcycles. You lock your ankles behind him, tethering him to you, making sure he cannot pull away even if he wanted to.
Settling perfectly between your legs, Manjiro doesn’t waste a second. He grinds his groin hard against you, the sudden pressure punching a sharp whine from your lips. It is a fleeting relief from the restriction of his pants, but a delicious ache to your already pulsating heat.
Driven by a sudden spike of impatience, you grind back against him. Manjiro lets out a low, guttural groan and instantly breaks the kiss. He lifts his head just enough to stare directly into your eyes, his gaze dark and blown wide with raw hunger.
He bites his already red and swollen lower lip, his gaze roaming over your face and your body, taking in how completely undone you look beneath him. His left hand moves from your hair to your face, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. You can’t help but let out a shaky sigh at the contact.
"Do you think everything you did in this room... everything you thought about... I can't make it happen?" His voice is raspy, quiet but tinted with confidence. It’s a challenge.
A shiver immediately runs down your spine as his gaze grows even darker. It is a telltale sign that he isn't going to hold back and whatever you imagined before, he is going to make the experience more and better.
Your hand shifts to caress his face, and he turns his head slightly to press a kiss into your palm. "Say it, y/n. I want to hear it from you."
"Make it happen, Jiro," you whisper, the words coming out breathless and desperate.
"Please, baby... do me."
He dives back into you, his mouth clashing against yours as if your air is the only thing keeping him alive. His left hand roams downward, sliding from your cheek to the curve of your neck before dropping to the swell of your chest. He catches you in a firm, desperate squeeze.
A sharp moan escapes your lips as Manjiro continues kneading your clothed breast, his palm heavy and insistent. His kisses shift from your lips to your cheek, trailing down the line of your jaw until he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He focuses his mouth there, his teeth grazing your skin as he marks you.
The temperature rises as Manjiro continues his ministrations, and you are helplessly responsive. You arch your back to meet his lower body, trying to grind against him again, but Manjiro pins you down with the full weight of his frame.
"J-Jiro..." you whine, the sound trapped between your teeth.
You feel Manjiro smile against your skin. He lifts his head to look at your face, stealing one more kiss before trailing his mouth down your chest. Even through the fabric of your clothes, the heat radiating between you is suffocating.
Manjiro’s hand slides beneath your shirt, his fingers roaming with practiced intent until he finds the lock of your bra. He unclasps it with a sharp click. Moving with a sudden surge of energy, he lifts himself up to pull both your shirt and bra over your head. Once you’re undressed, he goes silent, his gaze burning as he stares at your naked body.
The one who had haunted his dreams as well.
You have no time to be embarrassed, not when you feel the painful throbbing between your thighs. You are pulsating with a desire that only Manjiro can ease, and your body aches for him to finally focus his attention lower. But he isn't in a hurry; he is in a trance of his own, as if it would be a sin not to give every part of you the appreciation it deserves.
He starts with your breasts, massaging the weight of them as if he has done it a thousand times before. You arch your body further, offering yourself to him, and he crouches down to meet you. Manjiro sucks your left nipple, and you let out a sharp whimper at the sudden, wet heat of his tongue circling the tip. Your hands immediately fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands to pull him even closer, pinning him to your chest. His right hand finds your other breast, molding and squeezing the flesh at a pace that matches the rhythmic pull of his mouth.
"Jiro—ah!"
He gives your nipple an experimental tug with his teeth, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core before he shifts his attention to the right, giving it the same ruthless treatment. You keep squirming beneath him, but Manjiro doesn’t allow an inch of space between his mouth and your chest; he buries his face deeper, sucking and biting and licking at you as if he can’t get enough of the taste.
Manjiro finally lifts his head to look at you. You are breathless and damp with sweat from the ministrations he just performed. He licks his lower lip, taking in your completely fucked-out expression.
"Baby, you’re not getting exhausted on me, right? At least, not yet."
He smirks when you can’t find your voice to answer him. You can only whine as your hands reach for your own chest, massaging your skin right in front of him in a desperate attempt to ease the ache.
"Please, Jiro... please..."
Something raw and predatory settles in Manjiro’s eyes. The second your hands paw at his shirt, he’s already stripping it off, ripping the fabric over his head and throwing it to the floor. He doesn’t wait for you to ask about his pants, he rids himself of them in one fluid motion while his gaze never leaving yours. You follow suit, kicking off your shorts too.
Manjiro settles between your thighs again, leaning down for one brief, bruising kiss before he starts his descent. His hands stay busy, roaming and squeezing your curves as he moves. You brace yourself, your breath hitching as you watch him trail kisses down the valley of your breasts, over the sensitive skin of your stomach, and finally to the place where you need him most.
You’re still wearing your underwear, but Manjiro can already smell the sweet scent of your arousal. He doesn't waste another second. He presses his mouth directly against the fabric, sucking the sensitive nub of your clit through your panties. The initial contact sends a shock through you — your head falls back, eyes rolling as a ragged gasp escapes you.
"You have no idea what I would have given just to have you like this."
His words make your head spin, but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. Manjiro hooks his fingers into the edge of your underwear, pulling the lace aside to dive in. His tongue finally meets your wet, gushing pussy, tasting you for the very first time.
You swear you see lights flashing behind your eyelids as you throw your head back. You start babbling, the sounds of pleasure incoherent as you feel his tongue continuously swiping between your puffy lips. The sensation makes your toes curl and you close your legs unconsciously, but Manjiro doesn’t let you. He holds your thighs firmly, his grip bruising as he slots his head further between them. He forces you open, giving you no chance to hide from him as he continues his relentless assault.
The pleasure he’s giving you is becoming overwhelming, but he is nowhere near finished, not when he can feel you getting wetter and slicker against his tongue by the second. His eyes lift from your pussy to look at you and watches you squirm as you moan his name. He can’t help the surge of pride. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He knows he’s making you feel incredible, and he’s savoring every frantic move you make.
"Jiro—baby! Ah… nghh… please"
Manjiro pulls away just enough to slide a finger inside you. He bites his lower lip the moment he enters, his expression tightening when he feels your walls instantly clench around him. It gives you another sensation to scream about and if you thought you were the only one electrified by the pleasure, you were wrong. Manjiro is already humping against the mattress, a low groan vibrating in his throat as he finger fucks you while sucking your clit.
"Fuck… I could stay down here for hours," he rasps. He gives you a hard, demanding suck followed by a slow lick, all while his finger relentlessly pumps in and out of you. "Tastes like a fucking dream, if you ask me."
The pleasure is so overwhelming that you don’t know whether to hold on tight until you cum or push Manjiro’s head away because it’s simply too much. But you know yourself, that if you push him away now, you’ll definitely cry. You make a conscious decision to reach for Manjiro’s head, your fingers tangling in his hair to bury him deeper against you. You start to grind small, desperate circles against his mouth, forcing the stimulation even further.
Manjiro lets out a guttural sound against your skin. He continues to swipe his tongue against you until you scream the moment his finger hits that one particular spot. You start to shake, your entire body vibrating with the force of it.
"Ah—Jiro, yes... right there... r-right there—"
Manjiro doesn’t waver. He lets his finger hit that spot again and again, coaxing scream after scream from your throat until the shaking turns into a violent tremor. He knows you’re about to break. Your breath comes in shallow, ragged pants; your vision blurs and your toes curl so tight they feel like they might snap. Then, with one final, deep curl of his finger and an insistent swirl of his tongue, you scream.
Manjiro drinks you in through the spasming, holding you open until your body finally goes limp against the mattress. Once you’ve settled, he begins his slow ascent, kissing his way back up your body until he reaches your face. He peppers your face with soft, loving kisses, his hands now gentle as they stroke your hair.
Your eyes slowly flutter open to see him. Half of his face is drenched, and his jet-black tresses are messy, but his eyes have lost their predatory edge, replaced by a familiar, heavy softness.
"You tired now, baby?"
You push yourself up and kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth. He kisses you back with the same intensity, only stopping when he feels your hand creep between his thighs. He raises an eyebrow at you as you start palming him through his boxers.
"Not yet. Not when you still have this to give me" you say, your voice raspy from all the screaming. You wouldn't mind letting out a few more cries if it meant Manjiro giving you this one last piece — the last thing he has to give to be fully and completely yours.
Manjiro removes his boxers immediately, his cock springing free from the confinement. He gives himself a slow stroke, staring down at you as you discard your panties and start playing with your pussy.
If Manjiro doesn’t have enough strength, the sight of you, so raw and so goddamn beautiful, might make his knees buckle. If you ever thought Manjiro’s best look was the one he wore after a race, you were wrong. He is the prettiest when he’s above you like this: strong, handsome, and unruly.
And if the world suddenly reverses and forces you to return to the moments where you had to hide and keep everything in, you’re willing to go through all of it again, as long as you’re promised to end exactly where you are now: underneath him, with only his eyes on you.
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he leans down to press his forehead against yours, and you instantly wrap your arms around his neck. He reaches down, his hands steady as he finds the place where you meet. With slow, unwavering pressure, he guides his length into you. You let out a sharp gasp as you feel the slow, heavy breach of the entrance, but neither of you looks away. Manjiro doesn’t rush, despite the heavenly sensation starting to cloud his mind. He wants to feel the pulsing, delicious clench of your walls as he ensures you feel every agonizingly slow inch while he slides deep inside.
You know that when he finally pours everything he has into you, he is in this for the long haul. No more fantasizing. No more imagining. No more looking from afar.
He is yours, from the beginning until however long you want him.
Manjiro kisses your forehead, your nose, and your lips. Against your mouth, he whispers the words that were once allowed only in your mind:
"I love you."
Then, he finally sinks himself fully inside you.
The roar of cheers erupts all over the circuit as the blurring streaks of motorcycles blast through the final lap. As much as you want to close your eyes and pray, the deafening noise is impossible to ignore, and this is not the time to miss the chance to see who reaches the checkered flag first.
The only thing you can do is clasp your hands tightly, your eyes glued to the large display screens that show the play-by-play. It shows that it isn't just one person pulling ahead; there are several frontrunners driving at the same punishing pace. Your heart thumps and nervousness rises when you catch a glimpse of the familiar red and black bike banking to increase its speed, trying to outdrive the motorcycles beside it. It’s the championship race, and everyone knows a win here is a step toward becoming undefeated — a chance to conquer the world.
But you’re not mostly worried about whether Manjiro wins this race, it’s the fact that he’s using critical techniques and pushing his bike to its absolute limit. The risk of an accident is what makes your stomach lodge in your throat.
You can’t help but pry your eyes away from the LED for a second, unable to handle the anxiety that eats at you. But that one second of missing the run is what makes the blonde girl beside you holler. Emma screams at the top of her lungs and starts jumping, pointing at the large screen.
"Mikey! Mikey!"
Your eyes immediately return to the screen to see Manjiro pushing ahead at a terrifying speed — a predatory surge that leaves the other motorcycles behind to eat his smoke. You and Emma face each other and scream in unison, your voices blending with the frantic spectators. Your nervousness instantly fades, replaced by pride as the commentators rain praise down on the crowd’s favorite.
"And look at the inside line! The red and black is screaming through turn four! Sano Manjiro isn't just riding, he’s hunting! He’s pulling away from the pack like they’re standing still — nobody can match that pace, and there it is! There it is!"
The crowd becomes a singular, deafening wave of sound when he crosses the line.
First.
The world seems to blur for a second, the roar of the engines replaced by the sound of your own jagged breathing as the reality sinks in.
"Undefeated! Untouchable! The king of the race track has reclaimed his throne! Sano Manjiro! What a performance!"
You and Emma exchange a tight embrace, both of you shedding tears from the overwhelming excitement. When you pull apart, you pause to watch the screen as Manjiro hops off his motorcycle. The crowd doesn’t falter, erupting further when the camera zooms in on his face. Your heart remains relentless as you watch Manjiro remove his helmet, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He turns the helmet in his hands, pressing a lingering kiss directly to the elegant, bold letters painted on the side before holding it high toward the sky. The camera follows the movement, focusing on the gear to reveal the painted letters Manjiro just kissed.
You cover your mouth in shock, eyes brimming with tears.
It’s your name.
In his helmet, like a victory charm to kiss and raise after a win, and for thousands of people to see.
You don’t have to turn to Emma to see her smiling wildly. You don’t have to hear the questions rising from the crowd, wondering who he dedicated this win to. You don’t even have to watch the screen to see Manjiro being lifted up, his hand still holding the helmet with your name on it high above the world.
You only need to listen to your heart as it screams one thing:
Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself
Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader
Requested: no
Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!
Word Count: 12,874
masterlist
Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.
Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?
Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.
Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.
Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…
Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot.
A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.
You should’ve known better.
As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.
Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway. While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.
“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”
“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.
“Things change.”
As if he needed the reminder…
Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.
“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.
“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”
“That’s not what you said the last time we-“
“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.
“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.”
He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.
“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory- but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”
Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.
Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.
“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“
“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly.
Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once.
“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined.
Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.
“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?”
“No, you’re not-“
“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.”
Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.
History repeating itself, just one more time.
“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.
“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“
“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.
It’s deeper than that, though.
Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.
“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?”
“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.
“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”
“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.
How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.
“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”
It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.
“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them.
Not the way they used to, anyway.
“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.
“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,”
Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.
The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.
Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.
Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.
The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.
Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.
With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.
Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.
This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.
“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.
The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.
You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.
Not after what he did.
“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.
For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.
“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”
You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.
What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.
Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.
You know what you have to do.
The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”
“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.
“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”
“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.
“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.
“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.
“Who are you to try to stop me?”
“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”
“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.
For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.
“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.
He knows you’re right.
While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.
When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.
Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.
It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.
For all of it.
Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.
He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.
“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”
Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.
He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.
“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.
It was foolish to believe any differently.
“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”
He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?
It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.
You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.
“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.
It’s exhilarating.
“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.
Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.
“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.
“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.
“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.
“Can I…”
“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”
He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.
His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?
Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-
“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.
You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-
He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…
He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.
He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.
“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.
He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.
“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.
“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.
“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”
“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.
“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”
It’s going to be impossible not to.
“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”
“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.
“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“
“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”
He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.
A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.
Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.
As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.
He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.
Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.
“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.
You don’t deserve him.
“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.
“No, Dick, I-“
“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”
It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.
Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.
The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.
When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.
Everything splinters.
When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.
Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.
Blue and black, forevermore.
There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.
Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.
a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading!
tagging a few of my favorite accounts: @becauseicantthinkwritings @dxckgrxsonx @lightwing-s @makethatelevenrings @littleredwing89 @bat-writer @wingbcrn @rebelbluerobin @idyllcy @dick-nightwing-grayson @damiansgrayson @gone-batty-fics @graysonspet @graysonswonder @angry-nightwing
Send me some feedback, or request to be added to my taglist! (please specify which taglist you’d like to be added to- character or general) !Requests: OPEN!
i miss fandom before ai. there was no risk of accidentally reading an ai generated fic based on stolen material. i don't want to stumble upon ai generated videos my ship kissing and see comments like "this is what ai should be used for". i don't want to see gifs of those ai generated kisses when i browse for fun reactions gifs of them. i don't want ai generated photos and definitely not ai generated art. i don't want ai to be part of my community and i definitely don't want to hear anything about anyone using it because they "can't write" or they "can't draw".
there's no valid excuse for anyone to use ai. use your imagination.
in which, DICK GRAYSON and KORIAND'R have had their eye on their best-friend & have had enough waiting for her to make the first move.
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includes: dick grayson x fem!reader x koriand'r, best-friend!reader, mature content (17+), pwp, piv, threesome, jealousy-play, teasing, dirty-talk, making out, dry-humping, voyeurism, cuckolding, brief slapping, spitting, fingering, oral (f. receiving), palming, hair pulling (m. and f. receiving), cow-girl, face-sitting, creampie, cum-eating, switch!reader, switch!dick, switch!kori, 6.0k words.
‧₊˚✩彡
kinktober masterlist.
THE APARTMENT was warm, much like it always was following patrol. comforting air crept along the ceiling freely, clinging to the walls and the furniture and the people that made themselves at home in the depth's of dick grayson's couch. both him and kori lounged carelessly together-- a pile of toned and warmed limbs spent from crime fighting away the night. beside them, you laid easily against the couch's throw pillows-- spine decompressing as the movie you had all decided on (something nostalgic, as per dick's wish) echoed throughout the living room.
the smell of popcorn drifted from the coffee table, a bowl of the convenient snack resting teasingly on top of the glass; you reached a hand forward from where you were perched on the other end of the sofa, popping kernels into your mouth effortlessly.
lazy irises of yours gazed towards the couple. dick's hand traced absentminded shapes along kori's skin, and every so often, the girl's lips planted sloppily at dick's pulse-point. it was familiar. normal.
as was the simple pit of jealousy that burned beneath your ribs.
swallowing, you turned your vision back to the movie.
the three of you had fallen into this routine without ever meaning to. long nights blurred and warped into even longer mornings, the sun becoming an awful reminder that you could not spend eternity wrapped up in the amenity of your team-mates; the amenity of your best friends. somehow, though, it became normal for you to crash here, to eat whatever dick burned, to listen to whatever foreign songs kori hummed beneath her breath while you tried not to gawk too longingly.
again, it was easy. familiar.
until it wasn't.
peeking her head out from the crook of her boyfriend's neck, kori tore her vision from the television, allotting it to your frame. hearty cheeks dimpled, and a finger of hers crooked, motioning you closer.
your heart skipped a few beats, though you did not hesitate at kori's silent command. scooting closer, your thigh brushed against hers, palms resting at her ankles. it was light; unthinking. but perhaps it was not so unthinking, because when kori's body seemed to lean into your touch, her smile deepened.
your name echoed gently throughout the room, the sound falling from kori's lips with a certain sort of care that ripped itself through your soul. "you are always so tense after missions," kori commented, quiet enough to almost be hidden underneath dick's laughter at her comment, "even now, resting against me-- your shoulders are like stone."
you hummed, willing the heat that began crawling up your neck to dissipate. "it's the adrenaline," you lied, referring to your nightly patrol, "it'll wear off, kor,"
despite your inadvertent protests, kori's palms still found themselves running along your forearms, all the way up and backwards towards your shoulder blade. "may i?" she asked, green eyes blinking curiously at you. her gaze lingered heavily, question building tensely within the air-- as if her hands on your body were the answer to the inquisitiveness that enveloped her now.
dick glanced over-- damp strands of hair (he had refused to dry his hair properly after his post-mission shower) sticking stubbornly to his forehead. his gaze, you noticed, carried not only something akin to amusement-- but perhaps the same curiosity his girlfriend harnessed as well. permission.
the movie rambled on in the background as you offered her a simple nod.
kori's thumb grazed your bicep, heat prickling beneath her touch. "it is strange," she mused, tilting her head to the side, "when i place my hands on you, your heart-rate quickens," the alien tossed a look behind her to dick, "much like dick's did when i first met him as robin." she swallowed, touch still scorching against your arm, "do you know why that is? perhaps it is a human trait i am unfamiliar with,"
behind her head, you watched dick's face contort into an expression that seemed uncomfortable to anyone who didn't know the man-- but you knew him, and you knew he was fighting back a grin.
your lips parted after a few moments of silence. "i think you know why." the urge to roll your eyes washed over you-- for kori's naivety did not equate stupidity. and in this moment, as you knew koriand'r all too well too, you knew she was weaponizing neither.
the laugh that fell from her lips only confirmed your suspicions. "maybe," she conceded eventually, "but perhaps i want to hear you say it yourself."
envy punctured your lungs as you watched dick raise kori's other hand to his lips, dusting thoughtless kisses along her skin.
"there's nothing to say," you answered simply, ignoring the blood rushing to your cheeks.
"nothing to say," dick echoed, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, as if to himself, "you're not a very good liar, babe,"
you shot the man a glare, nails digging crescents into the plush of your palms; it came out weaker than you wanted though, and landed truthfully instead of coldly-- your expression mirroring a child who'd gotten caught arm's deep into a cookie jar. "what're you even talking about?"
"you," he laughed, the sound raising goose-bumps along your skin, "you get all quiet when you're trying to hide something-- you've always been like that."
the reminder of how long you've known each other-- how well dick grayson knew you-- caused something to churn within your belly. you opened your mouth to protest, brows knitting-- before kori's hand slipped from your shoulder to your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. whatever words you had had, vanished.
"i don't believe it's about lying," kori said, voice laced with amusement, "more just an admission of... uncertainty."
"uncertain?" dick asked, leaning forward to rest his chin on kori's shoulder, eyes lingering intensely on your frame. "'bout what?"
kori nodded, fiery curls bouncing softly. "about what she wants,"
"what i want?" you questioned, a laugh falling from your throat all too shortly, all too breathless.
both kori and dick ignored you, eyes flickering towards each other momentarily-- before landing back on your frame.
you squirmed underneath their gaze, suddenly all too aware of the way your face fit perfectly in kori's palm, and the way dick's eyes scanned your body-- analyzing. dark lashes resting along his cheek, ocean irises locking onto yours again. you shivered.
"this isn't fair," you tried, face contorting into something desperate.
that got both of their attention, all four eyes snapping upwards to yours. "what isn't, love?" kori questioned.
your veins pulsed beneath your skin, finger-tips tingling and ears prickling with heat. "you're talking about me as if i'm not even here," you voice was unwavering, impressively, as kori's digit still pressed lightly against your bottom lip, "you're... acting as if you know how i feel, and you're laughing about it--!"
dick's tongue darted outwards, wetting his lips. "we're not laughing at you." his voice was steady. certain. believable.
"then what are you doing? if not making fun of me," you questioned, eyes lowering and voice trailing off.
"you are misunderstood," kori acknowledged solemnly. "we never intended to make you upset-- all i am is curious about the way you are," she admitted, "curious about the way you get so... bashful, around dick and i."
"i don't get bashful," you snorted, though your voice was thin and unconvincing-- even to your own ears.
dick grinned, jutting his chin forward gently, towards you. "yes you do," he fought, "like right now."
heat bloomed across the expanse of your skin-- your tank-top now painfully revealing.
"you are our best friend," kori continued, "it is only natural i inquire about the way you make us feel,"
"i... what?" you asked, confusion soaking into your expression. "the way i make you both feel?"
"for i have noticed that you are only reciprocal in these feelings." kori finished, ignoring your question. "am i wrong?"
you swallowed deeply, your skin flushing in places you weren't even aware could heat up. "i--"
"what do you want?" dick interjected, voice low. "be honest with yourself," he murmured, circling back to kori's previous comment.
"you're both ridiculous," you finally managed, jaw tightening, "i don't want anything. everything you're... accusing me of, it's adrenaline, i told you."
"so, the way that you stare at kori when you think i'm not looking-- are you saying that's adrenaline, too?" dick asked.
shiiit.
"i don't stare at--" you sighed, "you're imagining it."
"am i?" he asked, tone maddeningly gentle.
kori pressed her thumb harder into your lip, a reminder of the reality of your situation. dick's chin remained glued to kori's shoulder, his gaze warm and taunting-- unrelenting, just as his girlfriend's.
"you're allowed to look at me," kori finally offered, voice impossibly low. her own eyes traced your lips in full now, unashamed in her gawking. "you're allowed to look at dick, too."
"you're allowed to want us," dick added on, blinks slow. purposeful.
you swallowed. "it's selfish."
"it's hot." dick corrected.
"we wouldn't have brought it up like this, had it been upsetting to either of us," he reassured, reaching one of his hands across the small gap between you and kori, his fingers finding the strap of your tank-top, fiddling idly.
"we know what we want-- and it is not to play with your feelings-- so just say with words that it's what you want, too," kori urged calmly, "because your body has said it for you for far longer than you realize."
silence settled heavily between the three of you. the kind that buzzed, electric and full of static. kori's thumb was still against your lip, her skin warm and steady; for the first time tonight, you hadn't felt like there was an insatiable desire burning between your bones that could not be cured. for the first time in weeks, you felt surprisingly close to the edge of contentment-- like this was the crescendo of every yearning thought that wafted throughout your mind, like every flip of your stomach, every jitter within your finger-tips, every throb of your cunt, was finally being answered.
you didn't feel ashamed to be in love with your best friends.
not as you watched kori breathe-- the slow rise of her chest, the curve of her mouth softening. softening as if something inside of her had finally decided that this was a line she wanted to cross. then, so gently you almost missed it, her hand migrated from your jaw to the side of your neck. your pulse raced underneath her palm.
kori's touch was no longer questioning; it was certain.
"may i?" she asked again, quieter this time-- but there wasn't really a question in it.
your answer was barely a nod, but it was enough.
kori leaned forward. the scent of her shampoo-- sweet, intoxicating, something akin to bitter-sweet summer evenings-- hit before anything else. her lips brushed the corner of your mouth, feather-light. not quite a kiss, but something that made your pulse stutter.
from somewhere behind her, dick exhaled-- a low sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. completion, perhaps.
you were not certain who moved-- whether it was you, desperately clambering yourself into kori's lap, or kori, lifting you easily on top of her-- but you had found yourself straddling the woman. both of your thighs wrapped around her hips, your mouths still connected as you kissed without regard for anything else.
it was growing messy, reckless-- your tongues had not waited to meet, and spit dribbled from the corners of your mouth. the sound of your kisses battled the noise of the long forgotten movie, wet and obscene in comparison.
kori hummed against your lips, her palms finding purchase on the plush of your ass-- holding you impossibly close to her body, tilting her head ever so slightly to deepen the kiss. deepen how close the both of you were, deepen how tightly you both were to be infused with the other's soul.
your own hands had snaked their way to the nape of kori's neck-- fingers dancing along scorching hot baby-hairs, tugging at the roots of the mane of curls that made kori kori.
dark lashes of hers batted gently against your cheek as she continued to suck on your tongue-- sounds emanating wildly from the both of you. vaguely, dick huffed beside you; grumbling under his breath, hand running through the dark locks that slowly dried on top of his scalp.
you attempted to pay the man no mind as you and kori continued to kiss; her hands wandering from you ass to your hips, briefly squeezing and rocking you against her crotch-- you whined, bucking your own hips in response.
what little friction you were craving burned between the both of you. your cunt was throbbing beneath the fabric of your pajama pants, panties dampening with each swipe of kori's tongue along your own. the woman beneath you was not shy in her showcase of affections and desire either-- hips rocking upwards into you with the same amount of fervor coursing through her veins as well.
an evil grin broke out across your face as your hands jumped from the back of kori's head to her tits-- groping and squeezing the fat against her chest overtop of her own tank-top; she gasped, and you took the opportunity to tilt your head and stick your tongue down her throat even deeper than before.
the scene was filthy. with the movie long forgotten, heat radiated off of both you and the alien in extraordinary waves.
if only dick had allowed you to continue; big, sturdy palms found your hair and yanked (as gently as he could, given the action) you backwards and off of the alien. opening your eyes in shock, you were met with a prettily flushed koriand'r, and a mean looking dick grayson-- who, despite the cockiness dripping from his face-- had a slight dusting of pink scattered along his cheeks as well.
"m'getting jealous over here," he murmured, blue irises darting towards your swollen lips, before he brought your face to his.
rolling your eyes, you kissed him back; it was sweet, at first. almost hesitant-- before dick remembered he had just watched you and his girlfriend make-out, and you felt as the rest of his resolve crumbled.
where kori had licked your bottom lip in a sweet command for you to open your mouth, dick bit. it was quick and fairly painless-- but the fat of your mouth still tingled as you gasped at the action, feeling the sudden intrusion of dick's tongue in you own mouth.
the grasp dick had on your jaw was intoxicating. gripping your chin with a purpose, your head was tilted within his palm-- giving himself perfect access to your mouth without him having to ask. the strength he used, skin burning beneath his touch, made your pussy pulse. with little care, your hips bucked instinctively again on top of kori-- and you felt her hands snake their way around your waist, guiding your movements to continue.
"i know," she hummed, finger-tips digging into your midsection, "dick kisses so good, huh? makes you want to grind your cunt against me, right, sweet-heart?"
you moaned into dick's mouth at kori's words-- nodding along to the filth that fell from her lips as though you had no clue what else to do. your hips seemed to move on their own, bucking and bucking and bucking, chasing a friction only kori's body seemed to cure.
dick continued to kiss you back with an intensity that only made your cunt ache desperately-- his tongue, his lips, his saliva purely taking up every thought that floated within your mind. only when he pulled back ever so slightly, did you open your eyes; blinking hazily at the couple, vision flickering between the two of them as if they were god's greatest gift to you.
"hey," dick whispered, thumb running along the bottom of your lip, "did kori tell you you could stop trying to fuck yourself on her?"
a shiver travelled tantalizingly up your spine-- igniting something impossibly needy and loud between your legs.
"well, no--" you tried, before kori's palm met your cheek in a muffled slap!
...
your panties were beyond saving.
"that's right," dick spoke again, paying his girlfriend's hit no mind as he brought his lips impossibly close to yours, forced your mouth open with his thumb and spat right into your mouth. "she didn't."
kori purred beside dick, her hands leaving your waist only to find purchase on dick's cheeks instead-- forcing his face mere inches away from her own. "it's alright," she said, feigned sympathy dripping from her words, "since you simply don't want this," she beckoned to dick by sticking her tongue outwards and slooowly licking her way from his adam's apple to his mouth, "you'll just have to watch dick and i instead."
rendered speechless, you watched painfully as kori and dick's lips found each others-- and the both of them fused as if it was the most natural thing in the world. dick groaned against kori's lips, tongues slotting against the other's with zero regard for you-- who, little by little, was being inched off of kori's lap.
"no, i do want that," you whispered.
when the couple heard you and pulled away from each other, a strand of saliva kept them connected-- green and blue irises boring themselves into your figure.
"oh, you do?" dick asked, cocking his head to the side.
you nodded, head bobbing.
the duo laughed, and kori gently pushed you off of her-- your knees meeting the rug of dick's apartment with a soft thud.
"you should've said it properly, n' like a good girl, when we asked the first time then." dick mother-fucking grayson giggled, leaning forward to suck on kori's neck. they were both turned towards each other on the couch now, bodies facing away from the television, and you, as kori's fingers tangled themselves in dick's damp hair.
"say what you really want," kori addressed to you, your name stuttering from her lips as dick pressed a hot kiss to pulse-point. "then we'll consider it."
no words came to you as you continued to watch dick imprint himself onto kori-- searing lips travelling every inch of her skin, hands fondling and groping where yours had once been-- over top of her tits, onto her toned belly, beneath her tank-top.
the woman whined as, what seemed like an eternity later, dick's fingers finally dipped below the waistband of her sleep-shorts. "dick," she muttered, eyes squinting as her boyfriend's hands slinked south, "isn't this about her tonight?"
your stomach flipped from your spot on the carpet.
how fucking pathetic. you were sure if you had had ears and a tail, they'd be perked upwards and wagging with a stupid amount of anticipation. it was shameful, how worked up you had become, at the thought of being given attention.
not that you cared though. not with the heat that was becoming painful within your lower belly.
all dick did in response, however, was shake his head-- peeling kori's shorts and panties off of her body and tossing them somewhere across the room.
"maybe," he sighed, looking pleased at the way kori's pussy had glistened underneath the lighting of the television, "but i think she's better off sayin' what she wants if she can see what she's missing, first."
dragging a finger through kori's cunt, dick grinned. dimpled cheeks suddenly faced you, pointedly, as two of dick's fingers found kori's clit-- rolling heavy and tight circles methodically.
"isn't that right?" he asked you, fingers unrelenting against kori's clit.
you whined, bottom lip being caught between your teeth as you watched dick continue to finger his girlfriend. "m-mhm,"
dick tsked, vision moving back towards kori's pussy at your response. his pupils were blown, and his digits were steady along kori's cunt-- all the while she shuddered and gasped, hips bucking against his hand in a steady rhythm.
"gods-- dick," she heaved, hands clutching desperately at a throw-pillow. strong thighs closed and re-opened against dick's hands as he leaned forward again-- painting feather-light kisses along her collarbone.
dick's free hand found one of her thighs, shoving and holding it open as his thumb replaced his two longer digits, pointer finger now prodding at her sopping entrance. when the man pressed in, your own pussy pulsed in anticipation, as if you could feel him within you too, and kori's back arched meanly away from the couch.
he hushed kori, finger beginning to pump in and out of her with obscene squelches emanating from her cunt. "see? isn't this what you want?" dick asked you, as your name echoed throughout the room.
"yeah, yes-- please," you stuttered, your own grip on your thighs going iron.
dick added a second finger, crooking them within kori juuust right-- causing her to cry out in pleasure. "c'mere then; come put your mouth to use, prove that you want us to fuck you."
he motioned with a jut of his chin towards kori's weeping cunt-- and you, making no mistake, crawled between her legs.
pressing kisses up kori's thighs, you watched her shudder against dick's fingers; the man knuckles deep within his girlfriend. your lips dampened with your saliva and her sweat-- an oddly sweet and exhilarating taste filling every possible sense.
when your lips reached impossibly close to her pussy, dick finally pulled his fingers out-- they shone obscenely underneath the lighting of his living room, and, shameless, dick popped them into his mouth. he groaned at the taste of her, using a sturdy hand to push your face into her cunt. "she tastes so good, so sweet," he moaned, "try for yourself."
(you could've sworn the tiniest of whimpers fell from kori's lips).
you peppered hot and teasing kisses to her cunt, feeling her fingers explore the back of your head-- pulling you closer to her. with a certain dip of your head, your lips connected to her pussy-- wet kisses painted across her folds with reckless abandon.
kori moaned into her fist, head tilting backwards onto the couch as dick stuck his fingers back down onto her clit-- rubbing, rolling, pinching as if only to tease his girlfriend as you finally stuck your tongue out. dick had been right; as you swirled your digit along kori's folds, a passionately sweet taste annihilated your senses. kori's slick dampened the lower half of your face, and you continued to lap at her as she tugged you impossibly closer to her pussy.
"yes--!" she gasped, hips bucking against your face, "just like that,"
flattening your tongue, you dragged it up and down again and again and again along kori's cunt-- chasing her pleasure as if it was your own. dick's fingers remained glued to her clit, pushing her closer and closer towards her release; glancing over at the man above kori's toned thighs, you saw how he was palming himself.
despite your best friend doing nothing to deserve it-- one of your hands left kori's thighs, and reached beside her to dick's. you gave his leg a hearty squeeze, muscle thick underneath your palm-- before moving towards the outline of his cock. your ministrations at kori's pussy, however, remained unrelenting. curling your tongue and poking it forward, your appendage breached her entrance; slick sweeter than ever before. you moaned against her at the taste, hand curving delightfully against dick's bulge.
you heard the man hiss, his own hips jutting forward ever so slightly to keep your hand against his hardening cock-- the pressure of your palm against him just enough to keep his satiated for now. "shit," he mumbled, watching you begin to tongue-fuck kori, "aren't you the over-achiever?"
at his teasing, you managed to flip him off; the sound of dick's laugh reverberating throughout his living room playfully. you felt a finger-- one of dick's, that had been incessantly rolling kori's clit-- push forward to flick your nose gently, before going back to their previous action. you grinned against kori's cunt. she clenched around your tongue, throbbing underneath the sheer desire to cum.
kori's fingers still remained curled along your head, keeping you impossibly close to her pussy. her chest was heaving, a glittering sheen of sweat glistening against her apricot skin. "it d-does not matter," kori mumbled, hips steadily rocking against your face, "she's doing such a wonderful job,"
dick hummed in agreement, your palm still rubbing and aiding the dull throb underneath his sweatpants. "that's right," he purred, "being such a good girl for us."
breaking the rhythm that had lapsed over the room, kori cried out-- back arching off of the couch again. at her pleasure, dick glanced downwards to see that you had, somehow, managed to pull your face away from kori's pussy. in the abcense of your tongue, however, you had stuck two of your own fingers inside of the woman; crooking and curling them against kori's g-spot, pistoning them in and out and in again.
the combination of your fingers, as well as dick's, had kori spiraling quickly towards an orgasm. her legs twitched in an attempt to close around the two sets of hands that ambushed her pussy, but dick's grip of her legs kept her spread and open for the both of you. "take it," dick groaned, bulge grinding into your hand, "i know you can, kor,"
"please," you whined helplessly, fingers sliding in and out of kori with ease-- "i want you to cum on my fingers so bad, baby,"
hearing your pleas, kori shuddered; her mouth fell open, the slightest trail of drool beginning to seep down her chin, and the silent cry of her orgasm washed over her. the intensity had you reeling-- watching kori's cunt weep and pulse right in front of you, you couldn't help it; your mouth found her pussy again.
dick grinned widely, his fingers also keeping a steady pace against her clit-- your mouth and his digits now pushing her orgasm, milking every single tremour and twitch her body could provide.
"that's it," you hummed, muffled vibrations sending shocks up kori's spine, "been wanting this so badly."
green irises blew open, and kori suddenly gasped-- her entire body aching away from your actions. "it's too much!" she sobbed, pussy beginning to ache with overstimulation.
there was a pause in your movements, to dissect kori's face, and-- god. several curls stuck to her forehead from sweat, and her cheeks were tinged a deep shade of orange; if you squinted, you could even pick up flickers of emerald and ivy dancing within her irises. she was stunning.
pulling away, you used the back of your palm to wipe your chin; not before licking any remaining residue of kori from your lips, though. dick delivered a few careless smacks to her cunt, causing the alien to jolt, before pulling his hand off of her. he too, stuck his fingers in his mouth-- desperate to taste whatever lingering traces of her orgasm remained seeped into his digits.
warmth radiated off of all three of you-- and you pressed your palm, harder than before, onto dick's cock. he exhaled shortly at your action, cobalt irises blinking down at you through thick lashes as your voice broke through the comfortable silence that had formed.
"can i fuck you now?" you questioned, to neither one of them in particular. on any other occasion, you would have despised sounding so desperate; but your own pussy was pulsating with a need you were sure now, had grown insatiable. it clenched and throbbed against nothing, craving nothing more than to be filled by someone's fingers, mouth, or cock--
"well you've certainly earned it, love," kori said eventually, after letting her breathing even; "dick," she mumbled, tilting her head towards the man, "lie down on the couch."
✩✩✩
there was no way to tell how long you had been riding dick's cock, save for that the movie's credits had longed ended. your bare body glistened underneath the soft lighting of the living room, hands holding steadily against the back of the couch as you rocked back and forth, grinding your cunt against the bottom of dick's lower stomach. he throbbed inside of you, his own hips rocking upwards to meet your sloppy bounces, moans muffled by kori's cunt.
"f-fuck," you breathed, head tilting backwards to expose your neck to kori-- who, from her seat on dick's face-- leaned forward to suck and kiss and lick at your throat. she too was bare, and grinding her own cunt down onto her boyfriend's mouth-- reveling in the feeling of his big, sturdy palms grasping and molding the flesh of her ass underneath his grip.
the tip of dick practically abused your g-spot-- rubbing again and again and again along the spongy tissue within your cunt, every vein and every ridge of his cock massaging your insides. "you feel so good, dick," you moaned, ass slapping against dick's thighs as you continued to ride him.
in response, all the man could do was moan against kori's folds-- causing kori to moan against your neck.
every sensation you had was being ravaged all at once. the room stunk of sweat and sex and lust, not a single coherent thought beyond fuck me floating around any of your heads. it was almost too much-- but perhaps, that was what made it tantalizingly enough. every second you had spent yearning for something more with your best friends, remained now a thing of the past as your pussy squelched around dick. there was no telling where you began and where either kori or dick ended-- only the sensation of being filled, being stuffed, consuming your mind.
"you like-- haah-- being used like this, don't you?" kori asked dick, suddenly, reaching behind her to grab a fistful of raven locks. through hazy, tear-ridden vision, you watched dick nod-- his tongue still working tirelessly at his girlfriend's cunt. kori tugged, and the man whined from beneath her; you felt his cock twitch impossibly within your pussy, and you grinned.
bringing your body upwards, you slammed down onto the length of dick once again-- causing his back to arch off of the couch, and hips to stutter against yours. he throbbed again, growing desperately, achingly hard within the plush and warmth of your cunt.
"you gonna cum, dick?" you asked, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you continued to riiide dick into the couch. frantically, you watched the man nod-- his chin dripping with kori's slick, and palms gripping almost painfully hard at her thighs.
kori laughed-- an airy sort of sound that broke through one of her moans. you joined her, hands diving into the thick mop of curls on top of her head.
"'course," you quipped, hips speeding up on top of dick, "such a slut for us."
with kori's teeth sinking into your shoulder, suddenly-- (dick had begun spelling his name out against her pussy)-- your cunt fluttered, strangling the man's cock. and that was what sent dick over the edge; a strangled set of moans and expletives flew from his mouth, muffled by kori's cunt, as dick's cum flooded your cunt. his cock throbbed and throbbed and throbbed-- hot ropes infiltrating your womb as if there was an endless supply. you moaned in tandem, too, the sensation of being filled up letting you teeter precariously close to the edge of your own orgasm.
without thinking, you reached upwards softly-- gripping kori's face, only to smash your mouths together. kori made of a sound almost akin to shock, before kissing you back with no hesitation. it was just as sloppy as kissing her before had been; drool everywhere, lips swollen, and cunt's throbbing-- puckering and sucking on the alien's mouth messily.
just as her hands found your hair-- you paused, pulling off of her; pleasure wracked through your body, and you wanted to speak before your orgasm hit you. "shiiit," you moaned, pussy clenching desperately onto the cock within you, "k-kor," you gasped, "switch with me,"
kori had not faltered at your words-- pulling herself off of dick's face with little struggle, her cunt was sopping and easily sucked in her boyfriend's cock as she took the seat you had once been. you, on the other-hand, placed yourself easily onto dick's mouth, ignoring any protests falling from the man.
coincidentally, though, you did not think you had heard any.
you sighed, back arching as dick's tongue began to lap your cunt-- the taste of your arousal and his cum bombarding his senses. he whined underneath you-- crying out about how it was t'much! but you hadn't paid him much mind as your hips rocked against his mouth. you were chasing your orgasm now, grinding your cunt down onto dick's tongue with little regard for the man beneath you.
"c'mon dick," kori cooed from behind you, tone mockingly sweet, "you can take it."
a laugh broke itself from your chest as kori mocked what dick had told her earlier-- before plump lips wrapped around your clit. you gasped, hips stuttering on top of dick's face as he sucked harshly on your sensitive bundle of nerves.
much like your alien counter-part, your hands had found dick's hair with no issue-- pulling on it as a means to make yourself cum on your best friend's mouth.
dick had had the same plans too-- his hands, momentarily, found your hips to raise you off of his face, and he muttered (voice terribly fucked out), "please, baby-- please, cum on my tongue-- we taste s'good together, it's all i want,"
cutting him off with a slam of your cunt back down on his face, you moaned as his tongue curled its way inside you-- prodding at your insides, coaxing your orgasm out.
his efforts proved fruitful as your pussy began to spasm along his mouth-- hips rocking forward desperately to draw every last twitch and flutter and pulse of your cunt, out. your mouth had fallen open silently in an 'o' shape, eyes screwing shut in pure ecstasy.
dick moaned whorishly beneath you, as if he, too, could feel the pleasure that prickled your finger-tips-- the taste of your cum coating his tongue, your lust causing his vision to blur. the sound of skin slapping-- kori's ass now against dick's thighs-- echoing distantly throughout the room as your own thighs closed desperately around dick's head.
"holy shit, dick--!" you cried, legs twitching.
he groaned between your folds, hands keeping your cunt impossibly close to his face. "m'not done," you heard him say, twisting your head backwards to watch kori fuck herself onto her boyfriend's cock. she moaned and whined feeling his appendage keep her terribly full, the tiniest bulge in her lower belly appearing every time she slammed herself down onto him again.
your cunt fluttered, and the hot, raging sensation of needing to be filled again consumed you; "you better-- fuck-- not be," you whispered, grinding down onto dick's mouth, "wanna watch you fill kori up,"
from behind you, kori moaned-- the idea of dick's cum stuffing her cunt entirely too intoxicating. the feeling of it dripping down his shaft as he continuously pulsed inside of her, perhaps even the feeling of you licking it out of her-- made her hips stutter, a slutty little whimper falling from her lips. "god--"
"then i want you to fill me up," you moaned, pussy drooling into dick's mouth, "again n' again n' again."
the words tumbled past your lips with a reckless sort of passion, absorbing and engorging every feeling of lust, desperation, love-- that had somehow tangled itself between you and your best friends. from beneath you-- dick's hands gave a hearty squeeze to your waist, keeping you anchored to him (perhaps in more ways than one). behind, kori had snaked her fingers onto your wrist, threading her steady and slender ones with yours; the three of you somehow seemed to move in sync, and despite the absolute obscenity of the entire night-- you felt oddly at peace. oddly wholesome. oddly, not overwhelmed-- at home.
PLUVOiA 25’ ® - masterlist
loren's thots: i feel like a deadbeat dad the way i abandon yall and then sometimes come back. ......... can yall forgive papa 💔 speaking of deadbeat..... i think i got ghosted by my situationship,,,, wtvvvv more time to write for yall ion een want him fr....
synopsis: you meet damian wayne, the boy you hated as a ten year old, again after years and suddenly he’s the hottest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on, so might as well get laid by him too
warnings: [nsfw] - smut (sex) long ahead in the story - both of you hate each other as kids - he grows up way too hot - you are thirsting almost the entire time - very intimate damian - they do the deed - idk how to put warnings - enjoy!!!
a/o: oof 4.3k this is a little long but i hope it’s good i love writing dami like this + pfft who am i to not jump on the sabrina carpenter bandwagon so here u go, inspired by ‘when did you get hot?’
you had met damian wayne as a kid.
back then, he was the embodiment of everything you hated. arrogant, cold, and undeniably lethal. he had been, quite frankly, a brat and a demon spawn the moment he arrived at wayne manor— unable to follow batman’s staunch moral code, always desperate to prove himself, and always fighting with everyone. you included.
he was just plain point blank annoying. the second you’d see his grimacing face with those thick arched eyebrows complimented by his scrunched small button nose, and that chubby with baby fat chin, and his full lips that were always frowned, with his big, always narrowed almond shaped hazel eyes— green by the irises and brown around the edges— decorated with unfairly long eyelashes, somewhere in the manor— you’d scowl; wanting to hit his stupid little entitled face; wanting to tug at his dark wavy brown hair, which was short but enough for you to grab and drag him around the manor with.
he wasn’t even that big nor tall, so it’d be easy to fight his 4’8 frame, with his tiny arms and tiny shoulders and tiny legs— though deep inside you knew better than to provoke the literal ticking assassin who grew up with the lack of a moral compass.
you didn’t understand, living under bruce too at that time— since your parents were big business owners who worked in tandem with wayne enterprises, thus living abroad often, leaving you here in gotham—how someone so similar in age to you (and circumstance, but you only thought that because you didn’t know much about what he had gone through at the league), could act so differently to you.
you despised him for the way he acted; for the way he treated bruce, idolising him yet arguing with him all the time, as if that wasn’t your guardian figure first; the way he was entitled and cocky, arguing with dick, tim, and jason about how he was the blood son— how he was superior to them.
there were absolutely no redeeming qualities of damian wayne, and so, as a child— you hated him. you had every reason to.
but then you had moved to a different country for boarding school when you were fourteen, and you didn’t have to see him again. not for years.
four years, to be exact.
your jaw drops when you do see him again.
you’re in the batcave, eyes wide, trying to glue your jaw shut. your flight had landed about an hour ago and alfred had come to pick you up, bringing you to the wayne manor where you’d be residing during the period of applying to colleges and such.
but bruce, or well, batman, was out on a mission, and so the man of the house to greet you was unfortunately— or maybe fortunately— his son.
damian had grown into his disproportionate scowl. his eyebrows had become bushier, furrowed as usual, yet there was something about them that made them so natural on his tan, brown face.
you gulp, the spit barely making it down your dry throat when his dark emerald eyes meet yours. you did not remember them being that detailed. he had grown much taller of course, some height akin to his father’s, maybe 5’11. definitely, unfortunately, much taller than you.
his hair, still clipped but longer and wavier, framed the structure of his face perfectly. there was, of course, no longer any baby fat— or well, fat at all— instead stood a lean, domineer figure with the prettiest features and face you’d ever seen.
there is a quiet grace and calculation in the way he walks up to you: not his old arrogance, but rather a disciplined outwardly look— straightened back, hands by his sides, lips flat.
“welcome back,” his voice is smooth, almost like silk, but it still has that rough undertone it had from his childhood. zero inflection. the sound of your name at the end of the sentence feels foreign and almost authoritative on his lips.
his eyes move over you once and once only, and it makes your cheeks heat up. your fingers tighten around your luggage.
“let me take your luggage to your room.” it’s not a question: it’s a blank statement. he’s indifferent as he reaches over, brushing your fingers on the handle and you pull away as if his hand burns. he doesn’t acknowledge, simply tilting the suitcase and dragging it along him as he turns to walk towards your old room.
oh god. when did damian wayne get hot?
it had been four months since that encounter.
four months of pure agony and torture. at first it was seeing damian almost every other night for family dinners with the bats. he was often uninvolved in the discussions, simply eating and going back to his room or training. then, when family dinners fizzled out, it was mostly running into damian by accident.
you were constantly tormented by the beautiful sight of him. most times, he was eye candy from afar. when he’d come out of the training room, all sweaty and bothered, rubbing himself off with his towel while you were in the kitchen in your pyjamas, sandwich mid-bite in your mouth, eyes wide and staring abashedly as he passed by the hallway to his room. or it was seeing him work away in the batcave, eyebrows furrowed in focus on some mission data or files or something— you didn’t care. he looked annoyingly good, all serious and preoccupied, leaning forward with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
what was extra brutal were the awkward conversations. the blurted out ‘good morning’s to which he’d simply acknowledge with the nod of his head. the casual ‘how was your day?’s when he’d come back, tending to his wounds in the batcave at 3 am while you’d come out of your room to make yourself coffee to power through applications. often you felt unemployed in comparison to his almost daily missions and patrols, but you were too distracted by his stupidly good looking scowling face; lean, chiselled body; and meticulously maintained short hair, to take it personal.
the first time you saw him in his robin suit your legs pressed together themselves.
and then came his birthday. you knew there was some sort of celebration at night with cake for him with the batfamily, but you had already made a commitment with friends you hadn’t met for years (you can’t blame you for forgetting his birthday, it had four years), and so were out most of the night. when you return to the wayne manor, it’s just half an hour before midnight. just enough time for you to rush upstairs, knock on damian’s door, crossing your fingers in prayer that he’s in a good mood and also doesn’t look delicious so you don’t lose it.
the door clicks open and your open mouth, which was prepared to blurt out the wish, cannot let out words. this has to be some sort of joke.
damian’s dark, emerald eyes are almost lazily open— slightly tired, mostly unimpressed. his eyebrow raises leisurely, hand gripping the knob of the door. his hair is slightly disheveled from it being the end of the day, but still mostly neat, lips flat in a line. he’s wearing a casual black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his veiny forearms, and loose pants. he doesn’t say anything, waiting for you to speak first. your throat feels dry.
“happy birthday,” you blurt out haphazardly, lips pursed, looking at him with slightly wide, wary eyes. your voice is a little awkward, unsure of how to interact with the boy you’d spent your entire childhood fighting and arguing with, and then not even conversing let alone seeing for years.
damian looks at you, expression controlled and disguised as always. all you can see to get a hint of his emotion is the slightly elevated rise of his chest when he breaths. instead of a normal ‘thank you’ in response to your wish, his eyes linger on your face until his mouth finally opens.
“when we were children,” his lips purse in between phrases, voice flat. “father forced me to have a fourteenth birthday party with my classmates.”
you blink. okay. totally unexpected, but sure. you remember. this was probably your first normal conversation with damian during your entire stay here, and also in, well.. four years.
your heart is beating so fast you swear you’re going to pass out if he doesn’t get to the point of his story quicker.
“they were all so frustratingly childish,” he mutters, realising how petulant he sounds. “i hated it, so i fought and threw a tantrum on my own birthday. everyone had to go home.” he sounds almost indignant as he recalls. your heart skips a beat. “you must remember.”
you do. vividly. you remember damian had one of his worst fights with bruce that day. it was the first time you had seen damian as something other that entitled, because he had..
damian looks away. “i had gone to my room and cried.” he sucks in a deep breath. “you know this because you came in. i tried to shout at you. you hugged me instead.”
your eyes feel almost glossy for some stupidly pathetic reason. you remember. you had never seen damian cry before that, not even after. just that once. you remember how he struggled against your grip. how you had forcibly held him until he finally gave in and cried in your tiny arms on the floor. that was the first time you ever saw him as what he was— a kid. that was the first time anyone ever truly saw him. that’s why he hadn’t forgotten. neither had you.
you pitifully stare at his side profile with twisted eyebrows while he looks away from you, his own indifferent expression cracking.
“i knew you hated me growing up,” his eyes finally find yours again, dry and controlled once more. “but i couldn’t hate you anymore after that.”
you look away. you can’t bear to look at him again. you had moved away after that, not to see him again for years.
your lips are sealed together, unsure, and also too scared to say anything in return. your eyes finally return to his face, lingering for a long moment.
“you’re not as annoying grown up,” you finally breathe out, deciding that if you spoke even a word of vulnerability, either you’d cry or he’d cringe.
he lets out an amused scoff, almost grateful you didn’t say anything sappy about his story. he hated being pitied, and yet he knew you got the message he was delivering by the retelling. “right back at you.”
your jaw drops in offence. “i was never annoying as a kid—”
your freeze, words still on your lips when damian gently leans forward, hand delicately placing on your cheek, tipping your face closer and pressing the softest kiss in the world to your mouth. his own eyes are closed, while you stare at him in shock, his lips holding the fuzzy kiss against your mouth for a moment before pulling away with a soft mch sound.
you’re a blushing, frazzled, panicked mess. and well.. damian had gotten hot, okay? it wasn’t your fault that he had just practically confessed that he didn’t hate you, and that he still vividly remembered the first time you were nice to him, while looking slightly tired and horribly attractive. it wasn’t your fault that you felt the need to press your thighs together.
damian raises an eyebrow, fingers still delicately placed on your cheek as his casual, emerald eyes finding yours. “you didn’t kiss back, but i assume you enjoyed that.”
you wish you could melt into a puddle and escape this situation. he had noticed.
“it’s not my fault you got insanely hot,” you look away, cheeks red and blazing. “like— you were just normal then. but now..”
damian’s eyebrows raise in surprise and he scoffs, coated with humour, but there’s a slight telling pink tint on his cheeks. “i was ten.”
you blush. “yeah well i was ten too. never had a crush or anything back then. but now you’re like—” you suck in a breath, realising how stupid you must sound, blurting out random pathetic confessions. you gulp, hard in your throat.
damian watches you gulp, his other hand reaching out so his finger can trace down your throat.
your breath hitches.
he bends a bit and leans in, much further, lips by your ear. “you’re yet to give me a present,” he breathes out, and your whole body lights on fire.
you dare to ask. “what— what do you want?” your voice is shaky despite your best efforts.
he lets out a soft breath, yet his voice lacks any inflection. “maybe some catching up.” he whispers it plainly, as if this is normal, as if that doesn’t make you pool in your underwear.
“it’s been four years..” his hand moves down your throat, over your curves to your lower back, and in one graceful move he steps back while pulling you into his room, using his other hand to close the door and simultaneously back you up against it.
your whole body ignites. his hands are nimble and big on your body, sliding from your lower back to your abdomen, tickling up your sides, mapping out your frame.
he leans closer, pressing a hovering kiss to your jaw. it barely touches your burning skin. your eyelashes flutter as your eyes struggle to remain open, heart beating insanely fast, thrumming against your ribs.
“how was school there?” damian has the audacity to ask, his lips peppering kisses from your jaw down to your throat, down to your nape, over your pulse point.
you blush. “f-fine,” you breathe, chest heaving up and down, back against his door, hands hovering over his arms before firmly gripping his biceps for support, since your legs feel like jelly. “k-kind of.. boring.. with lots of studying,” your breath hitches as damian’s mouth lingers over a spot on your neck, his tongue moving out to kitty lick over your skin.
he hums absentmindedly, eyebrows furrowed in focus as his hands slide up and down your waist, and then rest at your hips. he pulls away, just enough to whisper in your ear.
“i’m going to touch you,” he states plainly, eyelashes fluttering against your skin when he presses a peck to your burning ear. “tell me now if you don’t want it.”
you can barely breathe, fingers tightening around his biceps. “i’ve been ogling you for months,” you confess, way past shame because you’re sure you’re dripping down there. “shoot me if i ever say no.”
damian, who maybe smiles once a year, lets out a short, breathy chuckle against your ear.
destroy this earth for not letting you get a visual of his face during that.
damian’s long fingers move down your abdomen, lifting your shirt with his thumb just a bit before he slides his hand underneath your pants. you try to control your ragged breathing.
his knee moves in between your legs, resting against the door behind from in between as he keeps your thighs apart. his hand finds the fabric of your underwear, and you pray that he doesn’t taunt you for how soaked it is.
he doesn’t.
instead, he presses the pads of his fingers over your clothed clit, rubbing up and down. dissatisfied by the feeling, he moves his hand back up to your waistband, and directly shoves his hand down your underwear.
you can’t help but gasp when two fingers slide up and down in between your folds, gathering your slick in between his digits.
“that’s better,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. and then. casually. “was the standard of education satisfactory there? was the city pleasant?”
your mind is a jumbled mess and he’s questioning you like you’re giving an interview, while his index and and middle finger hold your folds apart, his thumb rubbing and toying against your clit.
you have no idea what you’re saying, honestly, because you mumble out something about it being good. “n-yeah,” you whimper, eyelids falling down for a moment as your lips part to let out a shaky breath. “pretty place.. f-fun, but tests—” his thumb presses hard against your clit, and you shiver. “all the time..”
he hums, pulling away to look at your fucked out face. your eyes open to meet his concentrated eyes, and it’s almost annoying how serious he looks. same lazy eyes, creased brows, flat, pink lips. but his cheeks are darker, and that propels you to ask.
“did you ever think about me while i was gone?” you find yourself blurting out, a little pathetic, but there’s nothing more pathetic than the sound you let out from your throat when a long, nimble finger buries deep inside your hole, down to his knuckle.
he thinks for a moment, eyes on your parted lips as you let out a string of shaky breaths.
“sometimes,” he finally confesses, finger sliding in and out of your hole. “father showed me a picture of you once, a few months before you came back. told me you would be returning,” he explains, and you try to listen while he slips another finger inside your aching cunt. he continues, voice flat and unbothered:
“touched myself that night.”
your jaw drops, eyes comically wide. he raises an eyebrow at your reaction, as if he hadn’t just said the hottest, most confusing thing ever.
“excuse me?!” you rasp out, mouth agape. he bites the inside of his cheek, and you blush when you notice he’s hiding a smile.
this whole time you’ve been finding damian hot without ever considering that he could also find you hot.
“you looked good,” he shrugs, shiny eyes finding your own bewildered ones.
your face tints hotter, remembering the picture you had sent bruce as an update. remembering the tight top you were wearing. the cleavage. you look away.
“you’ve grown up into such a boy,” you whisper-scoff, feeling shy.
he sneers, eyebrows raised, plunging his two fingers in deeper.
“as if you didn’t confess to ogling over me.”
you melt into the door behind you, pouting slightly, legs beginning to tremble from the feeling of his fingers working you up.
and then your eyes drop to his pants.
damian notices.
“don’t,” he says simply, unknowingly chivalrous, eyes on yours. “you don’t have to think about that.”
your body tingles, clenching around his fingers at the thought. “i want to,” you analyse the bulge, straining against his pants. “if— if that won’t, you know, make things weird between us,” you mumble shyly.
“i made it weird first,” he reassures, voice still casual, never vulnerable. your eyes land on his.
he kisses you.
“kissed you first,” he breaths against your mouth. “touched you first,” another kiss, right at the centre of your lips.
in a second you’re wrapping your arms around his neck, wrapping your legs around his waist. damian’s a little surprised but he wastes not a second before one arm is snug under your ass, one around your waist, leisurely taking you to his bed. he gently places you down on it, crawling up over you.
“if you’ve done this before, tell me now,” he breathes, leaning back on his knees and unbuttoning his pants while you kick off your own.
you raise an eyebrow, a little thrown off by the question. “the question is usually ‘if you don’t want to do this, tell me now’,” you smile a little, confused.
he looks down at you, suddenly a little serious, hands pausing at his zipper. he exhales sharply before looking away.
“i haven’t done this before, so if you have, i would be offended.”
you blink. oh. your heart skips a beat.
you sit up, tugging him closer by his waistband, hands moving to unzip his pants for him.
“yeah, there’s not a lot of hot guys where i went to study,” your eyes are focused on his thighs as he lifts his hips to help you tug down his pants. “you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
he blushes. damian wayne actually blushes. your eyes move up to his face, and your eyes soften, a small grin on your lips.
you think for a moment for teasing him before you instead tug him closer by his jaw, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.
he melts into the kiss, hands already on your body, over your curves. his hand moves down to pull off your panties, tossing them irrelevantly to the side. he uses his free hand to part your thighs, still kissing you.
still precautionary, he pushes two fingers into you, moving them in and out of your dripping, clenching hole whilst he tugs his boxers down, his hard length springing free. you stare shamelessly, and he groans, embarrassed.
“it’s better if you gawk when i don’t notice,” he pulls his fingers out and you clench around nothing, cheeks turning crimson.
“yeah,” you breathe. “more used to that anyway.”
he gives you a small, intimate smile. just the hint of one, the slight curvature of his lips.
your heart thumps in your chest. “you’re fuckin’ beautiful,” you blurt out by accident, and his smile drops, eyebrows furrowing in irritation as his cheeks heat up.
“that’s supposed to be my line,” he whispers, a blushing mess as he strokes himself twice. he leans over, opening his drawer to quickly pull a condom out of the side-table. his heart speeds up when he sees you notice the whole pack in his drawer, your jaw dropping, and he quickly comes to his own defence.
“it was a gag gift from jason,” he rushes to explain, face hot. “some.. stupid joke about how i’d never get a girlfriend,” he flushes as he fumbles to put on the rubber, and you can tell he’s telling the truth by his inexperience. who are you to judge? you’re as confused as you watch his roll it over himself. you bite your lower lip, concealing a genuine smile.
he grumbles at your smile, narrowing his eyes at you in disdain while lining his covered yet leaking mushroom tip against your puffy cunt.
suddenly things are a little serious.
you whimper. “damian,” you breathe out, arms reaching out to grab his forearm. he hums as if to reassure you he’s there, before gently pushing just the tip inside. he’s long, thick too of course, but longer, and it takes a few minutes of whining and gripping the sheets until he snuggly adjusts himself in you, his neat, trimmed base hitting your pelvis.
“good?” he asks simply, eyebrows furrowed, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead. his arms are on either side of your head, leaning down to kiss your cheek in a rare moment of intimacy. his chest heaves up and down with heavy breaths, lips parted. when you nod rapidly, he pulls out a bit, thrusting himself back inside.
when he finds a pace that’s good based on your moans and whimpers, and the way your eyes roll back, he begins to rock back and fourth, pounding with the perfect rhythm. it’s almost smart and calculated, the way he’s perfected even having sex.
you’re a moaning, vocal mess when you come. damian is the opposite. you wouldn’t even think he’d have reached his high if it wasn’t for the most unhinged breathing you’ve ever heard— he’s panting heavily, still mostly silent except for a few awkward grunts, but his chest is rising up and down so fast you’d be concerned if you weren’t busy shaking and whining yourself.
damian is gentle when he slides himself out, and your hole aches from the emptiness, missing the stretch. he’s careful when he pulls the condom off, a little more focused on disposing it off properly than on you, but he does make sure to come back to ask if you’re okay, pressing a shy kiss to your cheek.
damian, who is also a little bit of a neat freak, isn’t comfortable until he cleans himself up in the bathroom with a shower (also bringing a towel to wipe in between your legs while you complain and claw at his biceps about how he’s ‘cruel’) and clothes himself in a shirt and shorts (also of course throwing your own clothes for wash and bringing you one of his own large t-shirts)— you’re still complaining about him being mean when he crawls into his bed beside you, raising an eyebrow.
when your big eyes and pouty lips meet his slightly judgemental raised eyebrow, you flush, looking away. “yes i too am realising i am slightly clingy after sex,” your voice is muffled as you bury your face into the sheets. “i’m discovering this for the first time too, so don’t judge.”
damian scoff-chuckles. “not just slightly,” he comments condescendingly, but still reaches out to slide an arm under your waist (you of course accommodate by lifting your back off the bed for him), tugging your body beside his to cater to your clinginess, despite him classifying himself as a non-physical touch person.
you sigh, finding your spot on his shoulder. it’s comfortably silent for a long moment, your head on his shoulder, your fingers toying with his fingers, his arm around you and resting on your chest.
until you speak.
“it’s a little weird to think about how we grew up together and then didn’t see each other for four years and then lost our virginities to each other the moment you turned—” your voice becomes strangled when damian’s hand cups your mouth, physically shutting you up, palm against your lips.
he cringes. “don’t,” he says simply, his other hand rubbing his forehead while he winces.
“do not make me think about that. i might want to do this again in the future.”
you smile against his hand, cheeks hot. honestly, you couldn’t breathe with his hand cupping your mouth, but oh boy would suffocating like this be a good way to go, especially because damian wayne had gotten exceptionally hot, and you couldn’t get enough of it. you knew damn well you’d be taking full advantage of this new development in you two’s relationship.
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