If you ever want to be

something about DICK GRAYSON coming back to your apartment after a looong night of patrol, absolutely throbbing for you….

yeah.

he doesn’t know what hit him— one second he’s easily twisting and maneuvering his way through a crowd of gang members, yet the next?? he’s stumbling his way to your shared bedroom, hand desperately pawing at the thick and heavy erection between his legs.

you’re dead asleep, unmoving as the bed dips under his weight; snoring soundly as he crawls up behind you and begins to rut like he’s lost all sense of self-respect.

he should feel embarrassed. he should feel shame— burning, coiling shame.

but he doesn’t.

the only thing he feels is the way, even in your sleep, you’re arching back into him; cunt beating to life as his hips buck sporadically, chasing friction like it’s the only thing on his mind.

“m’sorry,” he mumbles, hot against your neck. dick isn’t sorry though. especially not as he feels the tip of his cock, sticky with pre-cum, kiss your throbbing clit overtop your sleep shorts. “jus’ needed this pretty pussy s’bad,” the man whispers, moans, grunts, and whimpers in your ear— all the while your face barely contorts, unknowingly being used by your horny fucking boyfriend.

when dick feels his balls begin to tighten, he can’t help himself— a finger hooks into the crotch of your sleep shorts n’ panties, pulling them to the side. he gives a few more grinds, eyes rolling and jaw slack, before he cums intensely— cock pulsing and jumping as his hips stutter against yours.

it takes him a few seconds to realize he hadn’t even pulled the lower half of his hero costume down— cum beginning to seep through the fabric at a humiliating rate.

something about dick grayson feeling the blood rush to his cock again as he looks down to see your pussy sopping for him; he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple, before whispering:

“baby,” he gives himself a lazy stroke, watching your eyes blink open dimly, “need your help with somethin’.”

PLUVOiA '25 ® - masterlist

loren's thots: dry humping is a lost art

Anyway, the important part is that they get platonically married, even do a goofy not-kiss where Roy covers Jason's mouth with his hand and then kisses the hand while Jason rolls his eyes. Neither of them are taking it at all seriously.

Every few minutes, Jason pulls his shirt up to flash his chest, he even hold the pose just long enough for Roy to catch a full look before covering back up.

It’s shameless, there’s eye contact, a smirk, traveling fingertips : Jason knows exactly what he’s doing.

Roy keeps stuttering mid-sentence, trying to focus while clearly getting more flustered each time. But when it gets outrageous enough that he has to point it out, and the other two turn finally around, Jason’s innocently focused on his book. Donna snorts and says Roy’s such a perv he’s starting to hallucinate.

Jason : Hi, you're on--

Roy : Hey, baby boy. You didn't reply to my text, you coming over tonight ? I bought the condo--

Jason : Speaker ! Roy, you're on speaker phone !

The rest of the Bats : ...

Roy : Uh... Well, hi.

Batman : Hi.

He’s halfway through the living room when he hears voices coming from the bedroom. The door's closed. What really stops Dick in his tracks though is the tone. At first it sounds like bickering.

Jason’s voice filters through the door, low and challenging. “You keep running your mouth like that, see how far that gets you, you asshole.”

Roy laughs. “Yeah ? You’ve been saying that for fifteen minutes. Starting to think you just like the sound of your own threats, Jaybird.”

Then there’s a shift. A beat of silence, and Dick hears Roy gasp. “Wait--Jay. Ho--hold on. Fuck—warn a guy !” His voice breaks in a groan at the end.

And then Jason again, “You never want me to. You like it messy.” It’s softer, and there’s something about his voice… There’s something… Oh no. There’s something weird about Jason’s voice. A little too thick. Like his mouth is--nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Dick’s brain stutters especially when there’s another sound from the bedroom. Wet. Inappropriate. So specific. Roy curses again, breathless in a way that makes Dick want to bash his own head into a wall just to forget.

When he’s outside, power-walking aimlessly, he texts the groupchat :

Dick : Reminder !! Knock. Always knock.

And then you have Remmick and his song. There's uniformity in the dancing!!! in the singing!!!! in the movements!!!!!!! Those same people who were dancing so freely and expressively!!!!! Now following remmick step after step!!!!!

You've been fighting with him all night. Started small- he got blood on the floor. Got worse when he confessed exactly whose blood it was.

A young charming friend of yours. Sweet boy. You hardly knew him, but you knew enough. Enough to share a few drinks with him in the morning. Remmick would find out. He always finds out. You were lucky he didn't turn you the moment he considered you his own. His family. His. His. His.

"Come on, darlin’," he breathes against your ear, voice gravel-thick and cracking at the edges. "You’re not still mad at me, yeah? You can’t be. Not when I’m- mph- deep inside you like this."

He breathes hot in the crook of your neck- marks mottled on your delicate throat. A few puncture marks or two from his leftover anger, when he had you face down in the sheets. Now all that's left is his desperation.

You say nothing. Your nails bite into his shoulder, and the sharp pain only makes him moan, needy and almost pathetic.

“You’re killin’ me here,” he pants. “Won’t even look at me.” He grabs your jaw- rough and insistent, making you face him even though your glare could cut through steel. “Still got that damn attitude. Thought you were over this.” He scoffs, laughs light, like he can't believe what he's hearing. But his voice breaks.

You clench around him, and he groans like it hurts.

“Oh shit, yeah- do that again, I’ll do whatever you want. Beg if I gotta,” he growls, still thrusting hard, but his rhythm’s off, needy now. “Wasn’t tryin’ to hurt you, baby. You know that.”

You turn your face away again, and something cracks. Not in his voice- in his ego.

“You’re mine,” he spits, patience worn, pride bruised. “Look, I know I messed up," He grits out. "Yeah, I tore out his pretty little throat, but I’m here, ain’t I? Givin' you everything I got."

He's huffing, gripping you tighter when he remembers just why you two are in this predicament. You feel his claws tangle in your hair, tugging gently. Just to show you he needs you.

"Wanna know the best part?" he murmurs against your neck, lips ghosting along your skin. His voice shifting sweetly to that infuriating 'im-not-mad-just-disappointed' tone. "Got his blood under my fingernails still."

Then- without warning, he slips two fingers between your lips. Forces them in, until you're gagging around the metallic tang and sharp nails.

"Wanna taste?" He adds after the fact, sarcastic. One half bitter, one half pleased with himself.

You moan around them, eyes wide and watering. He’s still fucking you, deep and relentless, watching your face as you suck his fingers like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

His hand slides down to your thigh, pulling it higher up his waist. The angle makes you gasp- he notices.

"Yeah? That feel good?" His lips brush your jaw, trembling. "Still mad, baby? Still hate me?" He growls out. Depraved.

You still don’t answer, but your glare is wiped- eyes rolled back into your skull. Back arched, soft whimpers around his fingers. He observes you, scans you over, and finally loosens his hold just a little.

"Please," he mutters, and it’s real this time- raw, low, like it’s costing him everything to say it. "Please, darlin’. I don’t wanna live in a world where you hate me. Don’t- don’t do that to me."

His pace slows, not stopping, just grinding deep and hard, and his lips press to your neck like a prayer.

"I’m yours, alright? Just say the word. I’ll crawl, beg, bleed. You want me on my knees? Say it. I’ll worship the ground you walk on. Forever." He pleads, hips stuttering as he tries to stop himself from cumming. As he tries to convince you this is for you.

Then, cocky again for half a second, he mutters against your neck- the one condition.

exposure checks for jack o’connell (remmick)