“luster★dear„

You’re taken to be purged before packed—your system drained until empty, making you clean and ready for transit—to avoid any messy accidents on the way, of course. You no longer know whether to thank the starvation or not. On the one hand, the ache in your stomach is all but unbearable, but at the same time, you have it to blame for passing out most of the journey, which, funny enough, one might call a sordid blessing in disguise. 

Usually, you’d be put in standard packaging—gagged good and tied up nice and tight inside an unassuming coffin. However, this new buyer had left a different description—very detail-oriented, they were very clear on how they wished to receive you. 

You’re put in a smaller crate than you’re used to. It can’t be bigger than the average moving box, but the handlers manage to cram you in there somehow despite it. As service-inclined as they are, they take the money and make do, following all the directions your buyer had requested. Tying you up all snug with a gag that doubles as a breathing tube lunged down your throat—uncomfortable as all hell, but ultimately what will keep you alive during shipping. You’re on your neck and head, upside down, spine leaning against the wooden wall, ass up, with your knees down by your ears and your feet up against the roof.

Safe to say, everything becomes numb during the trip. It’s a long ride, and still, the batteries inside the plugs they’ve stuffed both your holes with never run out. It had also been a custom detail that your buyer had been very clear about—that your journey was to be fun, so that you could be all perky once they unpacked you.

Before long—or at least before death’s door—there you are on arrival, stuffed inside your neat little box, all for your customer to open up like it’s Christmas morning. And for all you know, it very well might be. 

You’re wavering in and out of consciousness when the box finally opens—misty eyes, blurry and fluttering. You think you can make out two men hovering above you—both large in size and double your age. Clients usually are—grey-haired and filthy rich, with jaded eyes and crooked smiles. 

“Would you look at that? Seems like someone left an orphan on our doorstep,” one of them jokes. “Oh, and she’s been crying all over the place.” He refers to your wet cunt with his hand, giving it a grope.

The other one joins in on the banter, also touching your raised pussy, with a pinch to your clit. Smiling and saying, “Don’t worry, puppet. We’ll take good care of you.”

They don’t bother feeding or washing you first. Once again, you’re not human to them. No, you’re a toy they’ve bought for pleasure, and so they only bother changing your bondage to something better suited to them and their immediate plans.

But you shouldn’t complain too much. Being a rental doll is one of the better deals you could have gotten, after all. Sure, you have to go through hell each time you’re unboxed—but at least, on the twisted bright side of things, you can find comfort in that it’s not a new hell. You found it’s better that way—to accept what’s coming and agree that you had no way of controlling it anyway. Resign yourself. Your body no longer belongs to you, and so it’s none of your concern what happens to it. Just plastic. Recyclable plastic.

Recyclable plastic that’s tied to yet another bed again, on your back, pinned beneath those who’ve paid to use you until you’re all used up.

“There you go, little rope bunny. All secure and ready for inspection.” 

Your arms are locked close to your body in tight bonds, kept out of the way, while your ankles have been spread out wide on each side, leaving you in a perfect split that would have any ballerina clap their hands in praise—just another skill you’ve been made to learn during training. You could rival contortionists with all the teachings you’ve undergone—now the perfect little circus freak—a neat little string puppet they can stretch and steer any which way without breaking.

“Now, let’s see what we have here…”

One of the two stands before your bottom half. He sighs with full-bodied contentment as he leers at you and your parts, stroking the inner softness of your spread thighs in a similar fashion to how you vaguely remember seeing men stroke the polish of a brand new car—proudly, in delight at his purchase, reveling in the ownership.

“Mh, what a perfect piece of cake you are.”

When his hands reach your cunt, he swipes his fingers through your wet slit with a pleased hum, bathing his digits in the slick. He pets the mound with gentle strokes that quickly take a turn. Soon, using the gritty pillows of his fingers to fan your clit with friction, making your hips buck and jiggle. He stops and cups it just as suddenly, having fun playing with your reactions, giving it a fond squeeze before slowly bringing his palm above it, then swiftly down again in a sound slap.

And you croon—like a cat, body reeling, shaking at how the pain makes your every limb writhe with stimuli, already cumming.

“Aw, you like that, hm? My pretty little pain-slut?” He smiles crookedly and does it again, hitting your cunt hard and humming at the display, amused by your hole, watching it twitch and pulse and drip onto the bedding below. “Good—I like my pussy’s red and chunky from a beatin’—makes it feel like ‘m fuckin’ a stuffed animal.” Another loud slap, and he asks gleefully, “You like bein’ a stuffed animal, my pretty pain-slut?”

You would answer, you would say yes, sir, this pain-slut loves being a stuffed animal—squeal in consensus like you’ve been taught to do. But your mouth is kept agape by a wide ring gag, and your tongue piercing has been chained to your collar, leaving it to drape over your bottom lip down to your chin. And so you just nod your head instead, giving him your best obliging and dumb little, “Ah-hah~”

“That’s right—” He continues to slap your cunt—making it welt and weep with arousal. “Little nymphos like you love gettin’ your slutty cunts punished. Reminds you of yer old man. Don’t it, ye’ lil’ freak?”

After a few dozen hits and another hearty laugh, he stops, red hand soaking with your slick as he grabs his rock-hard cock and uses it like lube, pumping himself in a tight-woven fist. 

“That’s it—look at that swollen beaut weep—desperate for some lovin’.” Red-faced and blushed with perverted glee, he leers at your abused cunt, shuddering and groaning, “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll be your daddy. I’ll give you all the lovin’ he never did.”

His other hand joins soon after, curiously pinching the chubby meat of your puffy pussy lips together, giving them a playful little tug before releasing them in favor of filling the wet and fluttering entrance with two of his sausage fingers, stuffing them inside down to the knuckles as he angles his bulbous cockhead towards your other quivering invitation—only prodding the taut hole for a short second before eagerly pressing his fat member inside with overzealous entitlement—chuckling and cheering over how it makes you moan and shake.

“Hah! I knew you’d like that! All you daddy-girlies do. Dirty little anal-sluts desperate for daddy’s dick in your hole—needy for a good ol’ ass-beatin’!” Wedging every inch of his cock inside your poor butt in the matter of a mere passing moment, he doesn’t even bother giving it a shallow fuck to stretch you out, but bottoms out on the first go. “That’s right, gutter-girl, Daddy’s home—now give me a warm welcome! Be a happy toy-whore gettin’ butt-fucked fresh oughta the box! Let’s see this pussy weep some tears of joy!”

He feeds your cunt a third finger, then starts pounding you hard and deep, making your moans edge on wailing as he draws you to the brink and makes you squirt hard, raining on his hand, pouring over his crotch, making everything squelch as he stuffs you.

“Good piss-baby, that’s what Daddy likes to see! A good little potty-trained anal-pet! Squeeze me just like that while I fuck your guts and fist your womb.” He grins through his grunts as he straight dogs your poor ass, shoving half his hand inside your sopping cunt and only trying to go deeper—rasping praise as he does so, “You gotta earn gettin’ your cunt fucked by me—I wanna see it sob for cock!”

Meanwhile, the bed suddenly sinks behind you—jostling to accommodate someone shuffling closer. It’s the other man. He gives you a toothless smile as he slaps your face just as hard as the other had slapped your cunt and promptly hooks his thumb over the metal ring gag into the inside of your cheek—holding you steady as he shunts close enough to cradle your head between his hairy thighs.

“Hey there, puppet,” he coos, chunky cock laid warm and sticky along your cheek—you feel it pump and pulse with a heartbeat, pre-cum oozing from the tip, painting your jawbone with heat. “Don’t worry your pretty doll face—I’ll make sure it’s worth every penny we spent on it.” 

When he spits, it splats perfectly on your drawn tongue, sliding into your ready and waiting mouth, gaping wide around your gag, just like a cup waiting to be filled. He watches your throat bob as you swallow, then smiles proudly and does it again. This time, he brings his fingers as well, using three of them to smear it messily all over your lips.

“I’m gonna use you, puppet,” he drawls—balls on your forehead as he rocks his salty tip onto your presented tongue, still with eye contact, looking down his nose into your eyes, smiling at the thought of making them wide and red. “I’m gonna blow your throat out like mole diggin’ a tunnel—so y’ better take a big breath and get yourself ready.”

Then he slides forward through the gag, guided by your tongue, down your hot and tight guzzle in one eager dive. He plants the balls of his feet in the bed and grapples your throat in both hands for leverage, holding it tight enough to feel how his length breaches and clogs up your pipe, then even tighter for good measure, sure to leave a nice bruise-dark collar in their wake. 

You've been trained for it, so you neither gag nor choke but hollow your cheeks around him, graciously letting him sink inside all the way to the base where his overfull balls bury your nose under their weight. But it doesn't matter—you can last without breathing. Holding a proud record of three minutes.

“Goddamn, we got ourselves a magician—look how the young thing makes my whole dick disappear!” he hollers, kneeling on top of your face, pubes-deep between the ring gag, feeling your walls tighten and convulse yet remain relaxed despite it, suckling on him without gagging just like a pocket-mouth.

“Hah, that’s nothing!” the other scoffs. “Her cunt’s keeping my whole fist warm—treatin’ it just like she got a baby in her belly.” He’s managed to work his entire hand inside you now, having your pussy-lips kiss his wrist, graced by the fat watch kept there as he punches your poor womb, making it release flood after flood, all to his livid enjoyment. “A proper stuffed animal!”

They both jeer while your head grows hot with lack of breath. Needing to clench every muscle in order to keep yourself in rein.

“Oh, she squeezes so tightly when she chokes!” one of them cheers, pressing a hand down on your stomach, proud to feel how good he’s filled your insides while you slowly slip into the internal.

You can barely remember your life before this—before the laser treatment made you hairless everywhere except your head, and the surgery where they took your lower ribs to make your waist smaller—along with other special body modifications—the diet consisting only of nutrient pills and iv-bags to keep you skinny and weak, and the constant training, turning you into the perfect sex-toy—one without an existing gag-reflex, a perfect live blow-up doll that will cum on command and otherwise anytime any erogenous zone is so much as ghosted. Yes, as you are now, someone could touch your clit with a feather, and it would be enough to make you see stars.

You don’t remember anymore, but you think you used to be a normal girl. You think you went to college, studied with friends, and worried about the type of stuff everyone worries about—what to eat for dinner, money, rent, finding a better job, building a career, visiting your parents when you have the time, and whether you’re going to get laid soon.

You think you were average like that.

Right before you think you might pass out, your throat’s freed again, joined by another now even harder slap to your cheek.

“What a nice little cock-holster you are—wet and tight and begging to be fed, just like a good cum-guzzler ought to,” he grins, frolicking at the look on your flushed and fucked expression, wet all over with your eyes half-mast and tongue pulled out.

“Mmh, but enough of that… Now that I’ve done you up all nice and sloppy—” He jerks his spit-slippery cock and admires you with darker intentions behind his eyes, looking you deep in your own puffy ones, red and wet just like he likes them. “I’m gonna use this pretty face like a toilet seat.”

He rubs your tongue with his other hand, smiling widely and laughing at the prospect of what he’d just said.

“Understand me, little gutter-baby?” He pinches your nose next, pulling it playfully as if he’s asking an innocent question, continuing just so with a delighted, near-frenzied voice. “You’ll breathe when I let you, only after I wipe my asshole on this pretty pink tongue of yours. Okay?”

Yet another slap, and his hands are back around your throat, steadying himself as he mounts you. “Okay then, doll. Let’s ride rawhide.” 

He lowers himself fast, seating himself rightfully on your face like a throne, asshole pulsating with excitement perched perfectly atop your wet and welcoming tongue.

“That’s it. Good toilet-whore,” he hoots, “My pretty little rimmer.” Praising you with a shameless moan while lightly bouncing himself on your head before switching to sliding front to back, wiping himself on your taste buds from balls to taint to asshole to crack, letting you lick every patch of salty skin found on the way until it was all bathed in your spit, smeared all over your muffled face. “The prettiest piece of toilet paper I ever saw.”

He shuffles his feet under your head, propping it up to keep your tongue pressed neatly against his rim as he leans forward over your chest.

“Look at these round knockers—” He grabs ahold of both your breasts in each hand, squeezing them good and hard enough to make you mewl against his ass. “I like a slut with fat titties—don’t care much about ‘em being real or fake as long as I can fuck ‘em just like this.”

He wraps them around his girth, pressing them tightly against each other 

“Ooh, what a day…” he sighs in satisfaction while roosting on your face and fucking himself through your boobs, giving each nipple a twist and pull and howling at the way it makes you strum his prostate with a muffled out cry.

“This’s just what I needed—been itchin’ for some relief all week long, and now I got a sexy little whore’s tongue in my ass and some fat jugs wrapped ‘round my cock just right.”

“The man upstairs must’ve blessed us,” the other chuckles, cock in your ass and fist-deep in your cunt with your beady clit pinched between his thumb and index.

“He sure has,” the former agrees, skidding back to his former place of cradling your head between his thighs, smacking both sides of your face when hooking his thumbs into your inner cheeks.  “Ain’t that right, puppet?”

Mouth wide, tongue out, you only pant and nod your head, “Ah-heah…”

Gleefully, he rubs your tongue. “Yeah?” Cooing at you in mockery with his cock resting upon your forehead, between your crinkled brows, amused by your cross-eyes where you look at the tip while it leaks hot drops of white down the bridge of your nose. “D’yah have a nice heart-to-heart with my asshole, hm? The two of you close pals now? Best little friends?”

You nod your head again, feeding into his salacious enjoyment. Making him ever more restless with delight, relishing in the exhilaration. “Yeah? Taste good, did it?”

Again, you just nod, to which he only jeers again, “Of course it did, nasty lil toilet whore.” Jostling your face with the pinching grip kept on your cheeks as he goes, spitting into your open mouth again.

“Pussy’s all prepped,” the other one announces then, finally pulling his hand out from within you, making fluid gush out like a faucet, even more when he lays his palm down flat on your lower belly and presses down into your pelvis.

“You hear that, puppet?” the one above you cheers, seemingly lost in the thrill of it all, mindlessly humping the top of your head as though unable to wait any longer. “Finally time to double-stuff that needy whore-hole we paid so much for.”

Spitting one last time in your mouth, he swings his knee over your head and leaves the bed. Meanwhile, the one below you spoons his fingers through your slit, gathering the thick amount of slick found there and directing it all to your face.

“Taste how desperate that slut cunt is,” he groans, smearing his hand over your expression before burying his fingers down your open throat. “Drink those pussy tears.”

Your cheek is starting to ache now from all the damage dealt as he slaps your face before retracting his hand—lying both palms on your inner thighs as he slowly and watchfully eases out of your ass one girthy inch at a time until the head pops out and leaves the hole to flutter around the sudden foreign absence.

“Aw, look at that gapey baby,” he croons, leaning over to inspect it, humming to himself with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, little anal-slut—I have a friend for your ass. Somethin’ to keep it company so it don’t get too lonely without me.”

Leaving you briefly, he comes back with a big pair-sized butt-plug, which he promptly forces through your loosened hole until it settles in nicely around the fluffy bunny-inspired tuft at the base. 

“There you go, now. Perfect fit,” he praises, rubbing your clit some more. “Lookin’ just like a proper stuffed animal. Our little rope-bunny, ready to have her Wonderland colonized.”

The ropes on your ankles aren’t undone, just moved over to the opposite end of the bed, up by your head, folding you in two—allowing them to lie on either side of you—cocks aimed at your drooling pussy, flinching from umpteenth orgasms, and ever anxious to have umpteen more pounded out of it.

They try entering at the same time, one with a hand wrapped tightly around your throat and the other still playing with your clit—making you see white. 

“Still a fighter,” one of them comments through gritted teeth, failing to make your cunt accept both heads, giving it a hard slap in punishment. “Bad pussy. We paid for hospitality.”

A couple more goes, and it gives, suddenly letting both bulbous tips snap in place at once. 

“There we go.”

“What a good little whore-hole.” 

They praise, side-by-side within you, swiftly filling you out with the rest of their length until both are kneading against the mouth of your womb, rubbing along the wall separating them from the plug in your other hole.

“You like that, hm? Being our stuffed animal?” the one on the right asks, continuing to rub circles into your wet clit with all three gritty pads of his fingers, messaging it while he licks the shell of your ear and fills your head with his breath.

“Of course she does!” the one on your left answers in your stead, winging your neck in his grip, making your eyes roll back with your chest arching off the bed, cunt clamping up as you cum from dancing on the verge of death. “Look at those tits shake! She loves it, the little slut!”

The other bites your earlobe, nursing you through your peak with a firm hand kept on your cunt—feeling every pulse and kick at his fingertips, making him grin with triumph. “You’re gonna love it even more when we fill this little cum-dumpster up too, aren’t yah?”

“Ah-hah,” you answer with a far-gone breath.

And he continues, making your ear damp within, voice cloying, “Yeah, you’ll be a happy little cum-junkie after we feed your womb her favorite drug—here ‘comes.”

“Oh—argh, take it all, take it deep.”

“Good cunt, milk us dry.”

You’re out of it for a few minutes. Neck squeezed free of breath for only a second longer than what you’ve been trained to handle, making you slip away once again.

Taking you back to the twisted bright side of things, you find there are perks to only being a rental doll. Since the customers are expected to deliver you back in one piece, it also means they can’t take it too far. Of course, it’s no guarantee—they can always just pay for the damages, but you’ve found most people want to avoid that. And so yes, in a fucked up way, you're lucky only being a rental.

Dolls up for actual sale have it way worse. They get customized—more than you, in any case—varying from as small as plastic surgery to increasingly more fucked up alterations. Some want their product to have their tongue cut out and teeth pulled—while others want their eyes replaced with pretty glass orbs instead. The worst are those buyers who only want the torso and head, where they’ll amputate both legs and arms before the sale. You think you’d prefer being euthanized and turned into human taxidermy before that, which is another option for those into snuff.

Yes. Being a rental doll is far better. You should be grateful.

Once you come to, the one on you’re right is already on his feet again, pulling out the butt-plug before re-sticking it inside your pussy instead, propping their spend within you.

“Don’t let any of our seed spill now,” he warns, petting your cunt. “We’ll dig it out later for you to eat—our treat since you’ve been so good. We wouldn’t want you to starve, after all. It’d be a real shame if you croaked before our contract is up.”

And then, despite his cock being half-hard now, he still aims it back at your asshole.

“For now, though, since this butt has been so welcoming and sweet, I’ll give it a nice deep douche as thanks,” he smiles, shoving himself inside the hole, which takes him in with ease as a replacement for the plug that had occupied it just a moment ago. “Would you like that, little piss-baby? A warm golden shower from Daddy dearest?”

You nearly shake your head, but the voice piping up behind you has you reminded of your place.

“Of course, she would!” He retakes his spot, cradling your head with his thighs—cock lying sluggish against the side of your face. “Just as much as she’ll love a nice belly-full down her throat as well.” He also smiles—eyes creased and all, saying, “It must be sore after all that choking. Some hot piss-tea will make it feel all better.”

He dangles it over your open mouth, just like a pissoar, before sinking inside it—holding your head still as they both start relieving themselves.

“Drink, drink—that’s good,” he spurs out, urging on. “Gulp it all down—every drop until it’s gone.”

The other one, too, in a mollycoddling tone as he fills your anal up. “Such a sweet piss-baby, you are. Sweetest little toilet I ever saw.” Still, rubbing your clit in steady circles, wrangling out another awful orgasm from within you—making him chuckle. “I’m gonna have such fun using you instead of the can all week long."

Once they’re all done, they leave you there. In that position. On your back with your legs raised. Only switching off the lights after saying their goodbyes.

“Get some sleep now, puppet. You have a big mess to clean when you wake up, and only after everything’s spotless will you get your dinner.” 

“But don’t worry, it’s gonna stay nice and warm inside that oven of yours, so you be sure to rest well.”

And sure enough, as they’d promised, when you woke up the next day, you were given a maid’s outfit. Nothing much, just an apron and a bonnet and a pair of black heels. 

The plug had kept their spend inside your cunt all night long and continued to do so while you moved around, and after you were done cleaning the floors and remaking the bed, they scooped your insides clean and finger-fucked the mess into your mouth, making sure you swallowed every last drop of it. 

And afterward, they gave you dessert straight from the source.

When you first meet Armin, it’s easy to be enchanted by his big blue puppy eyes, his cherub cheeks, that little button nose. He looks like the epitome of innocence, but do not be fooled.

You’ll begin to notice how his those same sparkly baby blues tend to sneak glances at any part of you that might be exposed; shoulders, breasts, stomach, legs.

If you attempt to draw attention to his sneaky peeks at your body, he’ll blush and sputter and deny it, and you can’t seem to tell if he’s actually embarrassed, or just gaslighting you.

Make no mistake, Armin is a sweetheart. He’d never want to come across to you as perverted- even if deep down, he knows that’s exactly what he is.

But when he’s at home, locked away in his bedroom all alone, only the filthiest thoughts cross his mind. It starts with remembering how you smiled at him today, how it made him feel when you locked your eyes on his, how you told him he’s funny- no one ever thinks Armin is funny.

And then, the way your tits bounced when you laughed, the way the pendant on your necklace sits so snug between them. How you were wearing a fitted T shirt today, and they looked so round and soft. Your hips, the way your thighs spread when you sit down. Ugh…

He wants you to sit on his face and crush his head between those thighs, he wants to feel them tremble under his palms when he makes you cum.

He wants to watch your eyes roll back while you ride his dick, tits bouncing in his face when you’re telling him he’s such a gooood boy. He shivers at the thought

Your voice, calling him a good boy, calling him names. Even if they’re not so nice.

He’d even be your little bitch if you wanted, your filthy, disgusting, dirty little bitch. The thought of it makes it difficult not to stroke his cock. He’s aching for it.

He thinks, you’d be impressed by how much he knows for a virgin, how skilled he is at pleasing you. You’d probably figure out pretty quickly how desperate he’s been to fuck. He just has to know what it feels like.

He thinks about how humiliating it would be for you to see him like this, he considers lending you something and “forgetting” to take it back, leaving his door unlocked so you’d walk in on him.

He moans out loud at the thought, maybe you’d be so turned on you’d offer to help him out. He just needs you on top of him, touching him, kissing him, fucking him…

He’s going to have to figure something out, he can’t keep running home and beating his dick every time you talk to him, he thinks it may fall off at this rate. Pure desperation, he thinks, and it’s pathetic, but what if you like him that way?

All he knows is, one way or another, he needs to come up with something. He likes you a lot and he’s pretty sure you like him back, but there’s gotta be a way to get you like this. He’d get on his knees and beg if he wasn’t worried it would be off putting.

— Roy Harper:

Roy groans when you tug on his hair, the feeling of you sinking down on his cock almost too much. He bottoms out and a moan slips past your lips, but Roy is quicker than that. He presses his lips on yours, greedily swallowing the sound.

He digs his chewed nails into the meat of your hip. “Gotta be quieter than that, sweetheart.”

You look at him through glassy eyes. “Trying,” you breathe. “Not easy when you’re—so big.”

He chuckles, kissing you again. You grab onto his shoulders for support, using him for momentum to keep bouncing on his cock. Your walls ache—both from the stretch and from your own desperate need.

The fabric of your bunched dress rolls higher and higher with each movement, your hands tugging at the fabric of his black dress shirt. Your slick drips down your thighs, no doubt collecting on the office chair Roy sits on.

You hadn’t set out to fuck in Bruce’s office—but the gala was so boring, and Roy looks so fucking good in that suit. You just couldn’t help yourself, you had to pull him way to the nearest room with a lock.

That’s how you got here, with Roy balls deep inside of you and you biting back your salacious moans.

He grabs your hips tighter, the muscles peeking through his rolled up sleeves flexing as he guides you along his length. His hips rock into yours, each harsh thrust sending arcs of electricity up your spine.

You arch into him, a particularly loud moan slipping from your lips. He’s quick to cover your mouth.

“It’s like you want Jay to come kick my ass,” he whispers.

You shake your head, rolling your hips into his to try and make up for his sudden stop in momentum. You look at him with desperation, a silent plea to keep going, to keep filling you up in that perfect way only he can do.

He slams you down all at once, his cock so deep that it almost hurts. You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut.

Then the door to the office bursts open, Jason Todd shoving his head through the doorway. “Hello? You in here?”

It’s a small mercy that Roy is able to pull down your dress and pull his cock out of you before Jason makes it into the room.

Still, his hair is messy and his tie is undone, and you have no explanation for what the two of you were doing in here together.

“I’ve been looking all over—what is he doing here?” Jason squints, taking in Roy’s disheveled appearance. “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Jason—“

“Roy.” Jason’s voice is impossibly calm.

“Yeah, man?”

“Get the fuck out.”

Roy doesn’t waste a second leaping to his feet, grabbing the suit jacket he’d carelessly tossed on the desk not even twenty minutes ago.

He looks at you, flashing you a toothy grin. “Same time next week?”

You glance from Jason, annoyance all over his face, back to Roy. “Who says we have to wait for next week?”

You follow Roy out the door, giving Jason a wave on your way out.

— Wally West:

Wally pulls his head out from between your thighs, his mouth glistening with your slick. “Shhh, baby, gonna get us caught.”

“K-kinda hard when you’re—“

He doesn’t give you a chance to finish speaking, his tongue grazing your clit. He has your panties pulled to the side, the fabric hopelessly soaked. You squeeze your thighs around his face, red hair tickling your sensitive skin.

You hold your breath and try to swallow back your moans, but even the tiniest sounds echo off the wide, vacant halls of Wayne Manor. This is a bad idea, this is a bad idea, this is—

Wally slips a long finger into your pussy, curling it into your walls. You clench the arms of the old chair you’re sitting in so hard it makes your fingers ache—a small price to pay to avoid getting caught.

Twenty minutes ago, when Wally had come up to you mid-conversation and rested his hand on the small of your back, you never thought it would lead here. He’d rested his chin on your shoulder, his lips dangerously close to your ear: “I need you, can’t we get out of here?”

Upon reminding him that this gala was important to Bruce and it was imperative you be here, the redhead had just smiled. When he suggested a ‘quick compromise’, you never expected to be folded into an armchair in Bruce’s study, Wally on his knees for you.

Another finger dips inside of you and this time, it’s too hard to bite back your moans.

He looks at you through his long lashes, that pussy drunk look in his eyes. “That feel good?”

You nod, clamping a hand over your own, traitorous mouth. Your other hand tangles in his hair, tugging on the mess of red strands to keep yourself grounded.

You’re lost in pleasure, your legs shaking around his shoulders—and then his fingers start vibrating.

Small gasps and whines leak through your fingers, and even when you dig your palm in so hard it hurts, it does little to muffle the noises.

Heat washes over you, your walls fluttering around his fingers. God, you’re so close—

Dick calls your name, and before you can react, the door to the study is opening. “Are you in here?”

Wally’s on the other side of the room before you can even blink. You let your dress fall back over your knees, suddenly grateful Wally left your panties on.

“H-here.” You swallow, trying to regain your composure. “Everything okay?”

His eyes move from you to Wally. His suit jacket has long since been discarded, his white dress shirt wrinkled and tie loosened. He slowly wipes his face and offers Dick a goofy smile.

“No.” Dick shakes his head, looking between you. “No fucking way.”

A sheepish smile makes its way to your face as you loosely shrug your shoulders.

He blinks slowly, turning to face Wally. “The fact that the two of you are fucking aside,” he narrows his eyes. “Did you have to do it in the manor?”

“You’re right.”

For a second, Wally’s tone is so resigned that you’re confused—where could he possibly be going with this?

Then he’s crossing the room and grabbing your hand. “We’ll take it somewhere else.”

He offers Dick a wink, before dragging you off down the halls.

dc masterlist | navigation

taglist: @raspberrie-rising, @wiwiwikitty @chloeee20 @shecleansup @beabogsims @angelryex @loreofsarai @cumming4seb @missmanlykink @sheissopink @marvelhoe13 @legendaryhumanoidalienfriend @imsosorrys-posts @underwxrldqueen @kelbrave @tojisgdgirl @rarebambi @raggatasinthewind @thetoastghost222, @kentpaws @sturnskiss @booboobear-12 @biagaloree @stevesxwhore @beabogsims @angelryex @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @aileen1237 @dontasklolo @belleberryz @mel1sooverrated3d @sophiesnotes @n4tsredbra @itsnearafish481 @iloveneilperry @feathers-from-cupid @losraire @hbagelzzz @inafieldoflilies @memedin4 @kekeanna266 @ohmybelladonna @sabrinaslotus @f4lin3 @vanillakirstein @zarquit @holowhaze @luvekent @tomatolaunch @cokepewpsii @nayacmenayadont2

squinting down at his stupidly attractive face, you shake your head, “don’t be a smartass.” suddenly able to see the drool he left on your shirt you grimace with no malice. “ugh you got spit all over me you gremlin.”

he laughs aloud and pinches your side to make you jolt. “what this? it’s just drool.”

“same shit as spit.”

then he smiles, “no, spit is when i’m intentionally doing it. drool is mindless. see, i just love your tits even in my sleep.”

he leans over and bites you through your shirt. since you don’t wear a bra to sleep, you feel the press of his teeth completely and it makes you jolt and gasp again. you shove at his head and he just catches your wrists, still smiling at you.

the domesticated annoyance melts into something even more tender as his eyes seem to sparkle up at you. like he’s drinking in the sight of you like this but not consciously doing it. as though he could burn this memory into his soul and not flinch when his flesh form remembers.

you feel yourself fall into him when he raises your shirt over his head and ducks underneath.

“what’re you doing?” giggling as he presses wet kisses onto your abdomen. taking small bites enough to leave a little indent but not to break skin.

“shh it’s sunday baby.” he coos, “this is worship time.”

you’re still laughing and he’s making it up the valley of your breasts, bringing a hand under your shirt too. he gropes one of your breasts while the other takes familiarity in his mouth. suckling and moaning as though this was the best thing to ever happen to him. a laugh turns into a moan before you can stop it.

“shit— jay, i gotta study, come on.” you sigh but you really didn’t want him to move.

luckily he doesn’t because you don’t seem to stop him. he pulls your shirt up higher as higher until it comes off from over your head. unable to help it, your hands go into his hair and hold him there, humming as he groans against your skin. your back arches off the mattress and he decidedly perches you up a little higher with his hand slithering up your spine, stopping between your shoulders blades. bringing your chest closer to his mouth by pressing you right into him. he moans egregiously and sucks in pulses, making the most delicious pressure. he takes the opportunity to bite the flesh again. leaving teeth marks on your breast beside the reddish purple marks that were already forming.

he was purposefully giving you hickeys.

breathing through your teeth as you feel the graze of teeth a little harder, biting down and tonguing at you at the same time. when you tug at his hair, that’s enough for him to moan at the feeling and he looks up at you again, gauging your reaction.

when you finally get a look at your chest, it looked like you’d been punched by a bunch of little fists. shades of the galaxy—purple and blues with hints of red surfacing. you scoff and look at him. jason looks entirely sorry, his bottom lip sideways and his brows pressed low.

“oopsies baby i just meant to put a couple on there—”

you cut him off, “just a couple? i look like i’ve been beat up. oh my god, someone is gonna think i got jumped.”

he blinks and his expression falls, “who else sees your boobs?”

“no one?” you shove him but he just falls back ontop of you as if his bottom half wasn’t already slotted between your legs. regardless of what you’d just said, he’s still nuzzling into your skin like none of it mattered.

“good then. it’s my canvas.” he hums as he settles on the plush part in contentment. “five more minutes.”

you sigh, “three.”

“ten. and i’ll make you pancakes.”

pretending to think as your hands find their way into the hair at the nape of his neck again, he makes a small sound of approval. you use it to coax him more.

“eight and you have to make coffee too.”

he lifts his head so he’s face to face with you and squints before he pecks your lips. “i was gonna do that anyways.”

just as quickly as he got up, he settled back into the position he’s kept you in. though sleep tugged at you as the lazy sunday took full effect on more than just jason. and even though you debated him on how long you’d stay pliant under him, you both knew you could stay there forever.

bored and thinking of jason todd.

— Dick Grayson: 

“Can I stack donuts on it?”

Dick grins, tilting his head in that way he does when he’s not sure he’s heard you right. A dark curl falls over his forehead, casting a shadow over his eyes.

“What?”

You gesture to the tower of powdered donuts the waitress just brought to the table. “Can I stack donuts on it?”

“Like, now?” He blinks.

“Yes, Dick, because I want you to drop your pants right now so I can eat mini donuts off your cock.”

He laughs, “hey, I can never be too sure.”

He glances from you to the donuts and back to you, the gears turning behind his eyes. “They’re not big enough,” he concludes.

It’s your turn to laugh, plucking a donut from the top of the tower and sliding it down the length of your pointer finger. You spin it around, dramatically squinting your eyes to examine the size.

“Not big enough,” you repeat. 

He nods self-assuredly.

You pop the donut into your mouth, trying to suppress your smile while you chew on it. “Yeah,” you say. “We’re gonna need some bigger donuts.”

— Jason Todd: 

“Can I stack onion rings on it?”

Jason doesn’t even flinch. “No.”

“Please?”

He dips a fry in gravy and pops it into his mouth, finally flicking his eyes up to meet yours. You do your best attempt at a pleading face, looking at him through your lashes.

“Gonna need some big onion rings, then.”

You laugh, “someone thinks highly of himself.”

He shrugs awkwardly, eating another handful of fries. “I’m not the one who complained about being sore.”

That shuts you up immediately, Jason quietly laughing at your expense. He takes advantage of your silence to eat some more of his fries.

Jason can’t bear the silence anymore, “wouldn’t the onion rings burn?”

The way your eyes light up with joy has his heart swelling.

“We’d cool them first.”

He nods, “they’d get crumbs everywhere.”

“I’ll clean you up.”

Finally, he sighs. “Okay,” he says, “but we’re doing it in your bed.”

You’ve never asked for the bill so fast.

— Wally West:

“Can I lick butter off of them?”

You stare at Wally. He stares back, eyes twinkling in that way they always do when he’s begging you. You blink. He doesn’t blink back. 

He whines, holding up the small plastic container of yellow butter. “Babe, butter? Please?”

“Butter,” you say slowly. “On—on me?”

You look down, placing your hands overtop of your chest through the fabric of your shirt. Wally follows your gaze, and as if his powers contain xray vision instead of super speed, flashes you a grin.

“It’s gonna melt.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And I’ll get all sticky.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

You open your mouth to speak but you’re silenced by Wally grabbing your hands across the table and flashing you a serious look. A look you’ve only seen in the most dire of situations—off-earth missions, rogues breaking into your apartment.

It’s laughable, really.

“Please?” He begs. “Pleasepleaseplease, I’ll let you lick butter off of it, please?”

You lose your composure there, dissolving into a fit of giggles. “Why would I want to do that?”

His face falls and he drops your hands from his. “Wow,” he crosses his arms over his chest and turns away from you, “I thought you loved me.”

“Wally—”

“Nope, I get it.” 

He pulls out his phone, thumbs speeding over the screen so fast they look blurry.

“Who,” you lean over the table, trying to see his screen, “who are you texting?”

“Dick. Maybe he loves me enough.”

You sigh.

— Hal Jordan:

“You’d look pretty damn good in this.”

Hal snaps out of his thoughts, almost choking on his food as he glances from you to the small container of butter in your hand.

“Butter,” he says. “I’d look good in butter?”

You nod, taking another bite of your food like you didn’t just flabbergast the man in front of you. Hal stares at you—dumbfounded—trying to force the blood away from his cheeks.

“Would taste good, too.”

He shakes his head, fixing his gaze on you. “You want to lick butter,” he says, “off of my dick?”

You hum in acknowledgement. “That a problem?”

He holds his hands up in surrender, a cheshire grin slowly spreading across his face. “Hey, baby, I’m just making sure I know what I’m getting into.”

A spark of hope ignites in your chest.

“Tell you what,” his eyes lock on yours, “you can lick the butter off of it, but I get to do you next.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

— Roy Harper:

“Can I lick whipped cream off of them?”

Roy’s mouth falls open mid-bite, his fork stalling inches away from his agape mouth. His lashes flutter closed, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath.

His cheeks flush. “Come again?”

“Can I lick whipped cream,” you say slowly, gesturing to his chest, “off of them?”

He follows your gaze, looking down to his pecs that are clearly poking through the fabric of his tight t-shirt. Dropping his fork back on his plate, he cups them with his hands.

“On them?”

You hum in agreement. 

“Whipped cream?”

You nod.

He grins, “can I do it back?”

It’s your turn to be taken aback, warming slightly at his words. “You want…to lick whipped cream off of me?”

“Off of them,” he points to your chest. “Deal?”

You reach out your hand, colliding your palms and shaking his hand. “Deal, Harper.”

— Barry Allen:

“Can I put a fruit roll-up on it?”

Barry’s so surprised he drops his sandwich. You watch as it hits the plate and falls apart, a perfect mess of meats and cheeses and lettuce.

His face is already starting to flush. “Come again?”

“Can I wrap a fruit roll-up around it and eat it off?”

Barry practically glows red. As if the way you said it the first time wasn’t embarrassing enough, his face is practically an inferno now. He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath.

“Barr? You okay?”

He nods slowly but says nothing, waiting for the heat in his face to subside. Some days, he swears you’re going to be the death of him.

It’s at least two minutes before he comes back to himself, blue eyes piercing through yours. “So,” he says finally, “a f-fruit roll-up?”

“Blue raspberry if we’re getting specific.”

He scrunches his nose, “it’s gonna get all sticky.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

He blinks. Yep, you’re going to be the death of him.

dc masterlist | navigation

thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡