𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚀𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚜

Pairings: Peter Parker x fem!reader Wordcount: 3k+

Summary: When your quiet neighbor collapses outside your door one night, a dangerous side of him emerges that neither of you saw coming.

Warnings: MDNI,Non-Con/Grape, Explicit Sexual Content, Non-Consensual Bondage, Web Restraints, Forced Silencing, Loss of Control, Feral Behavior, Forced Orgasm, Overstimulation, Monster Fluids, Rough Handling, Fear/Panic, Body Betrayal

A/N: I watched the movie the other day and my goodness he’s so fine esp with the black eyes. Had ya girl hungry up in there. So Ofcourse I had to write this ,that was on my mind. First time writing for Spider-Man and I write smut😂Enjoy this filth I guess😭😭

The top floor of this particular tenement building in the sprawling, unforgiving heart of the city possessed exactly one redeeming quality: it was quiet.When you moved in a year ago, the landlord had warned you about the water pressure, the radiator that clanked like a dying engine, and the five-story walk-up. But he hadn't lied about the solitude. You were the only tenant on the top floor—until a few months ago, when a quiet, perpetually exhausted-looking guy named Peter moved into the unit at the end of the hall.Most of the time, the silence held. But on certain nights, when the city traffic lulled, you could hear the muffled cadence of his voice bleeding through the cheap drywall. He spoke in hushed, hurried tones, sometimes accompanied by a female voice with a clipped, slightly synthetic accent. You had assumed she was a girlfriend or a demanding long-distance relative. They seemed to bicker endlessly about obscure things—mostly about a "suit," its structural integrity, and the cost of polymer webbing. You had half-convinced yourself he was a dedicated cosplayer trying to make it big at conventions.

PAIRING: Jason Todd x Reader

SYNOPSIS: "Sure, baby." He smiles down at her, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, twirling it around his finger before tucking it behind an ear. "You'd think after the last-"

His body catches it before his mind does, and she watches in real time as Jason tenses, then trails off, the amusement draining from his expression. "What is it?" She whispers, confused. Her hand curls around his, squeezing.

Their front door breaks into splinters with a loud bang.

NOTE: It's actually been ages

MASTERLIST

"Let me up!" She giggles, trying to squirm away from under him. Jason is heavy, mostly muscle, and has no problem pinning her down with his body weight. A lazy smile stretches across his face, eyes glinting with amusement. "Jason!"

"Nah, you had so much to say earlier." He digs his fingers into her waist and yanks her back down under him easily. "Where's all that attitude now, huh?"

Rare were these days, where the Gotham smog cleared to show hints and flashes of the stars speckling the night's sky through their apartment's window. Days where neither of them came home with their shoulders set heavy, the slight weight of the world on them despite the years both of them have had to assimilate to the fact that that just is part of living in this city.

She doesn't even remember how they started play fighting, just that there had been a playful jab here, a chase around their kitchen table, laughter, and then the soft impact of Jason tackling her onto the couch cushions before dragging them both to the ground. Always careful, despite his strength, always cautious to cushion her landing physically and metaphorically.

It's carefree, for a moment. She's just her, and he's just Jason, and none of the darkness outside the rusty hinges of their front door exists.

Reaching around him, her fingers tangle in the hair near the back of his head, and she tugs him down. Jason fights it for a moment, just to see her giggle and then he relents, kissing her firmly, taking his time because God knows so much of it is already behind him. "I'm letting you win this time." She mumbles into his mouth, and Jason can't manage to hold back a snicker while he pulls away.

"Sure, baby." He smiles down at her, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, twirling it around his finger before tucking it behind an ear. "You'd think after the last-"

His body catches it before his mind does, and she watches in real time as Jason tenses, then trails off, the amusement draining from his expression. She moves to sit up upon sensing the change, but a hand to her shoulder pushes her back down and still. "Stop." He says, head cocked to the side, brow furrowed in concentration.

"What is it?" She whispers, confused. Her hand curls around his, squeezing.

His eyes narrow. "I think-"

Their front door breaks into splinters with a loud bang.

Jason swears, immediately throws himself forward to cover her body with his own, arms around her head as pieces of wood fly over the couch. Her hands come to grab at him in shock, and once the dust settles they only have a moment to pull away and make eyes contact before Jason is ripped away and thrown against the coffee table hard enough to shatter the glass.

"What the fuck?" He snarls, sitting up with a wince, adrenaline catching fire in his blood. "Who-"

When Jason's finally calm enough to blink the sudden wave of anger out of his vision, his back stiffens. Caught between the smoking barrel of a shotgun and a headlock, is her.

To her credit, she doesn't look panicked. If the pinch in her brow is something to go by she's furious, but there's a controlled glint in her eyes that tells him she's tampering down her real fear to unpack later.

"Stay down." The man says. Two others in similar cloth masks scatter around the apartment, pulling out drawers and shoving things into bags.

Jason stands, and the man shoves the gun against his girlfriend's head hard enough for her to stifle a groan. He catalogues the sound, remembers it for when he'll pay it back tenfold later.

He's cautious, but knows that the man likely won't pull the trigger so soon, not when he has easy leverage against him. Was this a random robbery, or a personal attack on him, is the main question. By the looks of it there's nothing to suggest that anyone is really interested in Jason aside from keeping him from making a move.

"The fuck do you want?" He snarls, hands bunching into fists. Something dark thrums right under his skin, infecting his blood with a poisoning green that Jason has finally come to co-exist with.

"Nothing personal." Jackass 1 says with a shrug, and the inflection in his tone suggests he's smiling. "Running low on cash, my boys and I gotta keep the lights on."

No way Redhood just got caught in the middle of a random robbery.

If Tim was here he'd be laughing.

Jason feels the farthest thing from amused.

If this were just his place, he'd be less bothered about it maybe, but it isn't. It's theirs. Something crafted from years of living together, every corner holding something of value may that be monetary or sentimental. His and his girls. Their bed where they sleep every night, their kitchen table they use for those sleepless nights, their living room Jason often than not collapses in after a long patrol. Echoes of them live in the rooms, and it's one of the few sanctuaries Jason feels he can shed his armour without the fear of it getting thrown back in his face.

And now it's been tainted.

Drawers emptied out, photo frames on the floor, and a gun pressed to his girl's head.

The freak goes to say something else, maybe to taunt him or demand the location of whatever he thinks he's going to find, but nothing but a howl comes out of his mouth as Jason watches the woman he loves rear her head back and crack it against the bastards nose, her free hand pushing the barrel of the gun away from her temple just as it goes off.

The noise is deafening, leaves a ringing in her ears that's almost unbearable, but the momentum is enough for her to shove the man off and stumble against one of the walls, hand pressed against her ear in pain. She trusts him to handle it, trusts him enough to squeeze her eyes shut and focus on not throwing up all over their new rug.

'Atta girl' Jason thinks viciously, and after sparing a glance just to see her whole and in one piece, he launches himself forward with an amount of grace surprising for a man of his stature.

Jason snarls, rips the gun out of the man's hand and slams the rear end of it into his head, kicking him hard in the chest to send him crashing into the wall. The other two men have abandoned their pillaging in favour of pulling out small knives and jumping into the fray, trying to take him down.

Like hell.

They go down easy, further proof that this wasn't a professional job, just an unlucky encounter for both ends.

Jason disarms them both, knocks them out, and leaves them on the ground before picking up one of their knives and approaching the first guy on the ground who's struggling to push himself up against the wall.

He grabs the man by the hair and yanks it backwards painfully, standing over him with a scowl. "Bad day to be you, shithead."

Then he drives the knife straight into the man's wrist that held the gun, twisting until he's screaming and Jason can feel his bones crack and separate. He leaves the blade in their, tightens his grip on the bastard's head and slams it down onto the floorboards to knock him out.

Silence. The noise is over as soon as it started, the threat neutralised, but Jason still feels the tell-tale anger coursing through his veins. It's a struggle to soothe it, to remember that this isn't who he is now, that taking the lives of these three men would not make him feel better in the long run no matter how much his fingers itch to pull the trigger. Shaking it off, he turns to more important matters.

He's by her side in seconds, a hand on her back and urging her to straighten up from how she's standing all curled into herself.

"Hey." He breathes, voice dropped to a lower register. "We're good, it's alright, c'mon."

She shakes her head.

Alarm rings through him. "What's wrong?" Jason says, shifting to stand in front of her, hands on her shoulders. He practically pulls her upright

"Hurts..." She grits out, pale. "I...I can't hear clearly. Ringing." "Shit." She inhales with a shudder.

"Let me see." It comes out firmer, and this time when he tries to tilt her head up Jason doesn't let her fight it.

Blood drips down the side of her face, slick between her fingers that were pressed against the wound. Jason's breath hitches sharply as he brushes away her hair to inspect the damage. It's nothing severe, the gun firing just grazed the side of her forehead but everything's still intact, and she's still breathing, and Jason hasn't lost the best thing to ever happen to him over dumb Gotham luck-

A hand winds around his wrist, one that he hadn't noticed was shaking. "I'm fine." She finally says, blinking hard a few times and straightening up. She wobbles, and offers him a weak smile when Jason immediately steadies her by the waist. "It's okay, Jay."

"It's not." He swallows, glancing over his shoulder at the wreckage of their home. Bloodstains and dents in the walls, possessions thrown around, and blankets torn up. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, a heavy sort of sadness settles in him.

"I don't care about all that." She says softly, holding onto him as the tinnitus starts to fade. The sound is still dizzying, but much more bearable now. "Just that we're alright."

Jason lets out a long breath, and allows himself a moment to bury his face in her hair, breathing in her scent. He winds an arm around her, digs his phone out from his pocket with the other.

The screen is cracked.

"That'll need stitches." He mumbles, pulling away to frown at the bleeding again. "We're going to the cave, Alfred'll help."

Tired, she settles for a nod. They gather the few essential things they need and Jason kicks aside one of the men in front of the door roughly to get past and back outside. There's a little bit of satisfaction in that.

Tonight he'll watch over her, stay by her side and hover. That's just what he does, what Jason has always done after a close call. His bones ache with the need to protect, to stay close, to safeguard. Tonight is for soothing that rush of anger in him that he's barely keeping a leash on, just enough to make sure that she's settled and recovering well.

Tomorrow, however?

Tomorrow, the Red Hood goes hunting.

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Nobody Noticed

They never meant to forget you.

That's what you told yourself, in the beginning. When Bruce came home with reports about Gotham's crime rates spread across the dining table and his eyes passed over you like you were part of the furniture. When Dick ruffled your hair and said "Hey, squirt" on his way to somewhere more important. When Tim looked up from his laptop and said "Yeah, totally, I'll help you with that later" — and later never came.

You told yourself: they're busy. They're saving lives. You're not more important than Gotham.

You believed it for a long time.

---

You were six when Bruce found you.

Your mother was already gone by then — taken in a way that left marks on you that had nothing to do with bruises. You didn't understand all of it, not then. You just knew that the world was dark and cold and that sometimes men could do things that made you feel like you'd never be clean again, even when they hadn't touched you. You'd only watched. Hidden inside the closet, eye pressed to the crack in the door, too small and too terrified to make a sound.

That was your first fear: being trapped somewhere small and dark while something terrible happened and nobody came.

Bruce Wayne looked at you across a sterile hospital room and something moved behind his eyes — recognition, maybe. The shape of a child who had seen too much. He signed the papers three weeks later.

You had a home. You had a father. You had brothers.

For a while, you thought that meant you were safe.

---

Dick was twenty when you arrived, already Nightwing, already brilliant. He smiled at you like sunlight and called you little sister and the first time he did, your chest cracked open with something warm and desperate and enormous. You followed him everywhere. You learned his footsteps. You memorized the way he laughed.

He was kind to you. He just wasn't there. Not really. Not in the way that counted.

Dick existed in flashes — a weekend visit, a quick call, a laugh across the comms. He was the brother who said "I'm so proud of you" without asking what he was proud of. He saw the shape of you, the outline, and he loved that outline genuinely. He just never looked close enough to see what was inside it.

You stopped telling him things when you were nine. He always listened with one eye on his phone.

--

Tim was different. Tim noticed things — that was his whole thing, observation, deduction, detail. He noticed when Bruce's sleep patterns shifted. He noticed when Damian's training scores dropped two percent. He built files on everything.

He never built one on you.

Not because he didn't care. Because you were never a variable in any equation he was trying to solve. You were just... there. Present. Assumed. Like background noise that didn't require analysis.

You asked him once to help you with your combat assessment. You were twelve, newly suited up, still figuring out your footing. He said "Absolutely, let's do Tuesday." Tuesday came. He forgot. You reminded him. He said "Sorry, this week's bad, next week for sure." Next week came and went. You stopped asking after the fourth time.

What hurt wasn't the forgetting. It was that he never noticed he'd forgotten.

---

Jason.

Jason is a wound that never healed right.

Before he died, he was the one who saw you. Really saw you. He'd find you in the library at two in the morning when you couldn't sleep and he'd sit beside you without asking why, and somehow that was enough. He called you kid but it didn't feel dismissive — it felt like a claim. Like you're mine to look after.

He died when you were eight.

You grieved him in a way you didn't grieve your mother, because with your mother you'd been too small to understand permanence. With Jason you were old enough to know that gone meant gone. You put flowers outside his old room for a year. Bruce told you once, gently, to stop. It upset him.

You stopped.

Jason came back when you were thirteen, angry and sharp-edged and burning with something you didn't have a name for yet. You ran to him. You actually ran, across the cave, heart hammering, because he was alive, he was back, he was—

He stepped around you.

Not deliberately. Or maybe deliberately — you never knew. He looked at Bruce and the look between them was so full of history and fury and grief that there was simply no room for you in it. You stood there with your arms half-extended and slowly let them fall.

He never really came back. Not to you. The Jason who sat with you in libraries was buried in the pit somewhere. This Jason looked through you on a good day and said something cutting on a bad one — "Shouldn't you be in bed?" or "You're in the way" or once, terribly, "You're not actually his daughter, you know. You're just the latest project."

You didn't cry in front of him. You'd learned by then not to cry in front of any of them.

---

Damian arrived like a verdict.

He was Bruce's blood. His actual blood, and you understood immediately — with the cold clarity of a child who had learned to read rooms — what that meant for you. Not consciously. Bruce never said it. Nobody said it. But the shift was there, subtle and tectonic, and you felt it the way you felt changes in weather.

Damian didn't like you. He made that clear within the first week. "You were adopted out of pity," he told you, seven years old and vicious with inherited confidence. "I am a Wayne by birth. There is a difference."

You were thirteen. You already knew there was a difference. You just hadn't wanted to hear it said aloud.

You tried, for years, to reach him. You left his favorite tea outside his door. You covered for him with Bruce twice. Once, when he was injured on a mission and Bruce was unreachable, you sat with him in the med bay for four hours and held his hand when he was too delirious with painkillers to tell you to let go.

The next morning he told you to stay out of his room.

You did.

--

You became a vigilante at fifteen.

Bruce didn't exactly give you permission. You didn't exactly ask. You trained in the cave when nobody was there — which was often, because the cave was only crowded when there was something important happening, and you had learned you were rarely part of what was important. You built your own suit from components in the supply room that nobody had catalogued yet. You chose a name nobody had claimed.

Your first night out, you stopped a mugging and a convenience store robbery and helped a woman whose car had broken down on the highway find a signal to call for help. Small things. Unglamorous things.

You filed a report in the cave's system. Standard format, the way Tim had shown you once, two years ago, in a moment of actual attention. Case numbers. Location coordinates. Incident details.

Nobody responded.

You filed another one the next week. And the next.

After six months, you stopped filing reports. You just went out and came back and put your suit away and went to bed. Nobody asked where you'd been. Nobody noticed the mileage on the bike.

You had a symbol, a territory, a growing list of informants. You had a reputation in three of Gotham's worst districts. You had solved four cases that had gone cold in the GCPD for years.

The Batfamily did not know your case number. They did not know your informants' names. They did not know about the apartment you'd quietly rented in Crime Alley with the money from your trust fund — not to live in, just to have somewhere that was yours, somewhere your things weren't adjacent to theirs, somewhere you could breathe without waiting to be overlooked.

You were sixteen when you understood that you loved them and that loving them was making you disappear.

---

You tried, once, to say it.

Seventeen years old. Family dinner — one of the rare ones where everyone was present, even Jason, even Dick, even Alfred who watched everything with sad knowing eyes and sometimes touched your shoulder in a way that made you want to collapse.

Bruce was talking about a new lead on Scarecrow's operations. Dick was animated, leaning forward, offering tactical suggestions. Tim had his tablet out despite Alfred's pointed look. Jason was eating with the focused aggression he brought to everything. Damian was correcting Tim's analysis with the particular smugness of someone who knew he was right.

You had information. Relevant information — you'd spent three weeks building a profile on Scarecrow's new chemist, traced his supply chain to a warehouse in the Narrows. You had coordinates. You had a window.

You opened your mouth.

"I actually have—"

"The eastern route makes more sense," Dick said, talking over you without realizing it. "If we split the team into—"

You closed your mouth.

You sat there for the rest of dinner. You passed the bread when it was near you. You answered when Alfred asked if you wanted more water. Nobody else spoke to you directly.

After, you went to your room and sat on the floor with your back against the bed and breathed very carefully for a long time. Not crying. You'd mostly stopped crying by then. Just breathing. Waiting for the feeling to pass.

It passed. It always passed.

That was almost worse.

The accumulation of small things:

Tim promising to spar with you seventeen times over two years and canceling sixteen of them. The seventeenth time he simply didn't show up and when you asked later he said "Oh, was that today? Sorry, I had a thing."

Dick sending you a birthday message three days late with seventeen exclamation points, clearly composed in thirty seconds.

Bruce looking at your patrol report — one of the rare times he actually opened the file — and saying "Good work" with the tone of someone who had not actually read it.

Damian telling a visiting hero that there were "four" Batfamily members when you were standing six feet away.

Jason, once, when you were eighteen and tried to check if he was okay after a bad mission: "I don't need you to babysit me. Go back to playing house with Bruce."

The way none of them ever asked about your fear.

You'd mentioned it once, years ago, to Dick — that small spaces made you cold, that being trapped made your vision go white, that you'd had nightmares since you were six about a closet door and sounds you couldn't stop hearing. He'd said "Oh, that's rough, I'm sorry" and then his phone had rung and that was the end of it.

None of them knew. Not really. Not the shape of it, the weight of it, the way it lived in your chest like a stone.

---

You were nineteen when the Riddler's new syndicate took you.

It wasn't careless on your part. You'd been careful — you were always careful, you'd had to be, operating without a net, without backup, without anyone monitoring your comms. You'd tracked the syndicate for four months. You knew their patterns. You knew their safehouses.

What you didn't know was that they knew yours.

They'd been watching you watch them. Waiting. Patient in the way that only people with something to prove could be patient.

They took you on a Tuesday. Gray sky, cold rain. You were two blocks from your apartment in Crime Alley and then you weren't anywhere you recognized.

---

The room was small.

That was the first thing. That was the thing that split you open before anything else had even happened — the dimensions of it, the closeness of the walls, the single bare bulb, the door with no handle on the inside. The smell of damp concrete and something metallic.

You pressed your back against the wall and breathed.

They'll find me, you thought. They'll notice I'm gone. Bruce will pull up my tracker—

Your tracker was in your suit. Your suit was in your apartment. You'd been taken in civilian clothes.

They'll notice I'm missing from the cave. Tim monitors the system—

Tim had not responded to a single report you'd filed in six months. The system showed your last check-in as four days ago.

Dick will—

Dick didn't know your patrol schedule. Nobody did.

You sat in the small dark room and understood, with a clarity that was almost peaceful, that no one was coming.

Not because they didn't love you. Maybe they did, in the abstract, in the way you love furniture that's always been in a room. But love without attention was just sentiment. Sentiment didn't open doors.

---

They came eventually. Riddler's people, with questions you didn't answer and methods that made the room feel smaller. You held on to what you could. Your name. Your breathing. The memory of a library at two in the morning and a boy who sat beside you without asking why.

That Jason was gone. But the memory wasn't.

You held onto it.

On the third day you stopped counting hours. On the fifth day you stopped being surprised by the pain. Somewhere in there — you couldn't have said exactly when — you stopped waiting.

Not because you gave up, exactly. More because waiting required believing, and you had run out of the particular kind of belief that made waiting possible. You had spent thirteen years waiting to be seen. This was just the last version of the same thing.

You thought about your mother, in the end. Not the way it happened — you didn't let yourself go there. Just her face, which you barely remembered, which had mostly dissolved into impressions: something warm, something that smelled like cedar, something that had loved you before the world got its hands on you.

You thought: at least I know what that felt like.

The bulb flickered. The room was very small. The door did not open.

---

They found your apartment six weeks later.

Tim, actually — following a thread on a case that had nothing to do with you, a lead that happened to pass through Crime Alley and a building registry that happened to have your name on it. He stood in the doorway of the small apartment and looked at your things — the books stacked by the window, the mug on the counter, the suit folded on the table because you'd always been neat, always been careful, always cleaned up after yourself — and something shifted in his face.

He called Bruce.

Bruce came. Then Dick. Then Jason. Damian stayed in the car for a long time before he came upstairs.

They stood in your apartment and looked at your life, the one you'd built without them, the one that had existed in the negative space of their attention. There were case files on the wall. Years of them. Cases solved, territories mapped, informants catalogued. There were notes in your handwriting — careful, precise — cross-referencing their operations with yours. All the times you'd been working parallel to them, unseen.

There was a folder on the table labeled, in your handwriting: Reports — Unfiled.

Dick opened it.

It was everything you'd never said. Not a journal, not a letter — you hadn't written it for them, you'd written it for yourself, the way you wrote everything, because writing was the only place you'd ever been fully heard. Patrol notes. Case summaries. And threaded through them, small and unadorned, the record of being invisible: Tim canceled again. Dick called, didn't ask how I was. Bruce said good work without looking up. Damian said four.

And at the very end, dated two weeks before you disappeared: I think I'm going to stop waiting. Not for them — for anyone. I think I've been waiting my whole life and I'm tired and I think that's okay. I think it's okay to be tired.

I love them. I just don't think they'll notice I'm gone.

Dick sat down on your floor.

Jason stood very still in the doorway of your bedroom for a long time.

They found you three days later. What was left of you.

The Riddler's syndicate had moved on, left no living witnesses, covered their tracks with professional efficiency. The GCPD report was clinical. Bruce read it in the cave at three in the morning with Alfred's hand on his shoulder and did not speak for a very long time.

You had been afraid of small spaces. They had put you in one. They had known — somehow, because you'd never told your family but you'd mentioned it once to an informant who'd been compromised — what you were most afraid of.

You had died in the exact shape of your greatest fear.

Waiting for someone to open the door.

They held a service. Small, private. Alfred cried in the way Alfred cried — quietly, with dignity, with the devastation of someone who had seen this family make the same mistakes over and over and had never been able to stop them.

Nobody said we should have known. That was perhaps the most honest thing.

Dick didn't speak at the service. He'd tried to write something and hadn't been able to finish it. He kept thinking about the phone calls where he hadn't asked how you were. He kept thinking about how he'd loved the shape of you without ever learning the contents.

Tim thought about seventeen canceled sparring sessions. He thought about the reports sitting unread in the system. He thought about how he'd built files on everything — everything except you.

Jason thought about what he'd said. You're not actually his daughter, you know. You're just the latest project. He thought about it with the particular torture of someone who cannot take words back. He thought about a library and two in the morning and a small girl who had run toward him with her arms out and he had walked around her like she wasn't there.

He thought about that for a long time.

Damian stood at the graveside and looked at your name on the stone and thought about a mug of tea left outside his door. He had not thanked you. He had not acknowledged it. He had told you to stay out of his room.

He had been seven. He did not think that excused him.

---

Bruce went back to the cave that night. He opened your file — your real file, the one Tim had built after, pulling together everything, trying too late to see you whole. He read every report. Every case. Every small careful note.

He read the line: I love them. I just don't think they'll notice I'm gone.

He sat in the cave for a long time.

Then he closed the file.

He went upstairs. He stood in the hallway outside your room — your old room, the one you'd kept because you'd never officially moved out, the one with your books and your drawings and your second-best mug because your favorite was in the apartment in Crime Alley. He stood there and he put his hand flat against the door.

He did not open it.

He stood there for a very long time, in the dark, in the quiet.

And then he went to bed.

Because Bruce Wayne had always been better at grieving in retrospect than preventing it. Because the people he failed were always, in the end, the ones already inside the house.

Because you had been right.

18+, ab-riding, praise, aftercare, pet names (baby/babygirl, sweet girl)

YOU'RE DRAGGING your leaking, aching cunt across the hard lines of his torso until a squelching sound emits with every movement of your hips. he's simply laying there, an amused smirk playing at his lips as a result of your desperate whimpers. this usually happens when he's too tired or injured after patrol to fuck you in the way you crave.

"such a needy girl, huh?" he teases, resting two heavy, calloused hands on the fat of your hips. "jesus-" he huffs a low, gravely chuckle, entertained by just how much you're leaking. "makin' a goddamn mess, baby" he tuts, admiring the glistening slick smeared across his front.

you're so close, the friction of his firm, warm skin against your sensitive clit is making your nails dig in to his pecs. he knows when you're close before you do, always kept track of the way your body nearly loses control.

"you gonna cum like this?" he asks, "don't even need my help, huh?" he cups your cheek, making you lock eyes with him as your grinding grows sloppier. you couldn't care less about the embarrassment anymore, it's so intoxicating getting off on him like this, all while he sits back and watches.

your pathetic noises only grow louder with each grind, with each swipe of your pussy across his abs. "j-jay– m'gonna cum" you breathe out, clenching your eyes shut. you can feel his clothed, throbbing cock, probably making a sticky mess in his pants with pre-cum, pressing against your ass every time you move, a sign that he's getting off on this just as much as you are.

"i know, babygirl" he coos, leaning up slightly to press soft, fluttering kisses to your neck. "you can let go f'me, sweet girl" he purrs, brushing the hair from your flushed face and simply admiring the way your expression is twisted in pleasure. his precious girl, using him to get off.

your breath hitches when your orgasm finally comes crashing over you, leaving you twitching against him. he holds you through your high as you cry out, his name heavy on your tongue. he's bucking his hips up, trying to get in any last stimulation before you collapse against him, exhausted. "there we go" he speaks softly, gently, as if he's coddling you.

"you feel better? hm?" he asks, "not so needy now, i bet." he chuckles lowly, and you're too fucked out to retort back. a calm settles in your bones as he holds you, rubbing soothing circles into your back and kissing the crown of your head. he'll make sure to take care of you properly once you've both rested.

𓐍𓈒𓂃. obsessed.

bakugou doesn't want to admit it, but he's obsessed with you, within barely a month of actually dating you.

you settled on the stool in the kitchen, eyes droopy with sleep, the slight chill of mint toothpaste still lingering in your mouth, yawning you looked at bakugou.

"hi." you grinned, toothy and wide, eyes squinted shut at the mere site of him, "what are you upto, handsome?" teasing and cheeky, so early in the morning, your be the death of him.

"nothing." he mumbled, cheeks dusted with a rosy hue, eyes darting between you and the decor he had on his walls, "made you breakfast."

plate of savoury pancakes placed on the counter beside you, followed by a glass of water, cup of steaming coffee rested beside him on the counter, strict with his rule of no coffee on empty stomach.

"this isn't nothing." you quipped, leaning over to grasp at his hand, pulling him closer so he stood between your legs, albeit at least 3 foot taller from were you sat on the stool, "did you wake up extra early for this?"

you squeeze your thighs around his, fingers fiddling with the hem of his apron, looping and unlooping around the straps, grazing touches that leave behind a tingling sensation.

"had to wake up early anyways." shrugging his shoulders, he meted in your hold, body absentmindedly chasing your touch, his own hands coming to rest on your cheeks, "eat up, you have a long shift today."

you tilted your head, pressing a kiss against the pad of his thumb, mischievous glint in your eyes, as your lips parted and swallowed his digit, cheeks hollowing softly.

bakugou shuddered, letting out a weak sigh, feeling himself harden to full mast, breakfast, work, all pushed back to the back of his mind, one cheeky little gesture and he's ready to go back to bed.

you pull away, thumb slipping out of our mouth, glossy with a sheen layer of spit, wiping your mouth, with the back of your hand, you turned towards the counter, "I'll have to give you something to eat too."

oh, you will.

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ jason has a thing for thighs

⠀⠀⠀— 0.8k ៸៸ fem! reader , suggestive content , established relationship , jay is a flushed sweetheart

jason is a thigh man. not boobs nor ass, he loves how soft the skin is in that area and how good it is to lay on them. but nonetheless he loves your thighs. obsessed with them actually.

when you started dating jason you didnt take him as a touchy guy. he was more reserved at first and mostly you had initiated physical contact. but the truth was that he was shy —scared even to touch you. it was that you were just so pretty that be physically shook while looking at you!

and something you never noticed early on about him is that his sight lingered on your thighs. he couldnt help himself! he was just a man after all but he would do nothing you werent comfortable with, he was serious about you and wanted to do the best he could be for you.

as the relationship goes on tho you started to notice and one day it was very clear about his… ordeals.

jason had asked you to come to a gala with him. he normally dips these things one hour in but with you? he wanted to stay until the planners kicked him out just to see you in your pretty dresses he liked to buy you.

but tonights dress? pheww he had his work cut out for him. the way the dress clung to your curves and the slit showed off your legs — he was a lost man.

you had seen his eyes, the way he bluntly looked at your figure and stopped on your thighs and just… stayed there. he was being obvious about it too, so obvious that bruce was shaking his head in embarrassment and slight disappointment at his son. but — jason could care less, his girlfriend was hot, why gotta hide it?

on the way back from the event, the car ride was quiet. the grip he held on the steering wheel was tight. he knew you caught him staring and he was scared he fucked it up — like he always did in past relationships.

“you can touch them yknow?” you say, cutting the silence. your legs sat crossed in the passenger seat while you looked at his side profile. his jaw was tight and he looked like he was holding back of god knows what.

jasons eyes widen, he flicked at you before looking back at the road and you swear you can see his cheeks flushing.

“touch what?” he mumbles, coughing slightly as he adjusts his position in the drivers seat.

you scoff with a smile on your face. you grab his free hand and pull it to rest on top of your thigh. he lets out what seems to be a small whimper as his hand is barely touching you thigh out of embarrassment.

“jay weve been dating for a while now and i saw you looking at them tonight, its fine to touch them you know?”

saying that in your warm voice of yours made him melt. he awkwardly nodded. the fact that you noticed made him feel embarrassed but he had to remember that you loved him very much and this reassurance coming from you made him feel safe — wanted even, and he couldnt want it from anyone else.

so with a squeeze on the plush skin and his grounding hand on there the whole ride back to his apartment, you knew it wouldnt be the end of it.

and oh boy it wasnt.

⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁

at anytime he got he would have his big hands on your thighs. it was his anchor, he couldnt not touch them for less than three times a day.

he had a habit of grabbing you by them instead of your waist. if you passed by while he was on the couch, he would grab your thighs and pull you to his lap or give them a squeeze. and for moving past by you, he would put his hands on the back of your thighs, right under your ass cheeks, and scoot with a big grin on his face.

every night when he was with you, he made it a routine of massaging them with lotion, making circular motions. and — of course — always with sweet words, telling about his day and how much he missed you, or the little things he noticed about you that week. its secretly your favorite part of the day.

buying you clothes that flattered them was something he loved. jason adored spoiling his lover but might as well get something in the process, am i right? dresses, shorts, skirts, tights, garments, everything that accentuated those pretty thighs of yours, he was all in for. and the cute smile on your face when he does so makes it impossible to resist.

and nights where he had it rough at patrol or just life in general, he would barge into your place, nuzzling his face in your thighs and laying there as long as he wanted to. how could he not? you ran your fingers through his black hair and the touch of your thighs on his cheek was so soft, it was heaven to him.

his death wish would be to lay on them, just one last time. he loves the softness but he might love whats between them more.

—————————————————————————

bruce wayne loved to fuck you senseless

don’t me wrong, he loves making love to you. how your bodies surrendered to each other with nothing but devotion and adoration for one another. how your lips would move in unison. how both of you knew where to touch and where not to touch

but something, something about watching you crumble from his touch… it made him breathless “fuck, fuuck, that’s it sweetheart” bruce groaned on the collar of your neck with another rough thrust in your warm pussy. both of you were propped up to your knees, though you were slightly leaning forward and bruce’s large arm wrapped around your stomach to hold you still, his chest pressing on your back

his thrusts were everything but gentle, your boobs bouncing from how rough his hips were snapping behind you as your warm cunt was taking every inch of

his eyes were fixed on your reflection in the body-length mirror facing both of you. and god, bruce would fucking kill for this view everyday

you, one hand on the back of his head while the other was gripping the sheets under you. his blue eyes were holding contact with your wide, blown ones, seeing how there was nothing but pure ecstasy in them as lewd yet addictive sounds kept leaving your lips from how he was fucking you senseless

bruce took his other hand and slid two digits in your fully parted lips, muffling your moans. “look at you” he whispered in your ear, darkening his gaze with each second he looked at you, grunting with his thrusts. “a fucking mess for me. gorgeous”

all you could was whine, swirling your tongue around his digits with saliva seeping out from your mouth, watching bruce’s cock disappear in you and hearing the filthy, wet noises it came out with

“look at her go” bruce continued cooing in your ear, tilting your head down with his fingers still in your mouth to get a good look of the reflection of your pussy. “takin’ me so well, thaaat’s my girl”

his hand slid out from your mouth to squeeze your boob firmly, feeling his fingers coated with your saliva and smearing it on your skin. “and how could i forget these?” you did nothing but moan and clench around his cock as a response, making a groan leave his lips

you arched your back for both more of his hands and more of his cock, the buzz in your body making you feel numb. bruce let go of your boob to tilt your head up and claim your lips hungrily, a type of kiss that was possessive and consuming— a mess of his own 

and there did you realize just how much of a mess you were, his mess

—————————————————————————

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☆゙ ALL THE DAMN TIME #𝟢𝟢𝟨

──────── SYNOPSIS ⚘ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝟤𝟦/𝟩.

𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 . 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗒𝗌𝗈𝗇. 𝗃𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖽. 𝗍𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗇𝖾.

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 . 𝖿𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍. 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿. 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾. ⠀ᰔ

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 . 𝟥.𝟦𝗄

DICK GRAYSON

You're going to kill him.

Like actually physically kill him.

"Again?" he laughs, that bright, easy laugh that made you fall for him in the first place.

Oh god oh fuck you're horny again.

Don't get him wrong, he's not complaining. He's never complaining. He loves you. He worship you. He gets off on making you cum.

But his dick is literally chafed and he's running on two hours of sleep and a protein bar he ate between round three and round four and—

You're already tugging at his belt.

His belt. Which he just buckled. Thirty seconds ago.

He's hard again.

How?

How is he hard again?

He's not twenty anymore, he's pushing thirty, his knees click when he does certain positions, he pulled a hamstring last week doing that thing you like where he folds you like a pretzel—okay, he has been slacking lately BUT it's your fault because you don't even let him leave the house—

"No, no, baby, I'm— I'm not complaining," he says, already breathless, already getting to his knees because you've got that look, with glassy eyes, and pouty lips, "I just— hah— give me five minutes? Ten? I need to rehydrate, I need to—"

"You don't want me?"

What?

The words hit him like a bullet to his chest.

No. No no no no. Don't ever say that. Don't ever think that. He wants you. He wants you so much it's ruining him. He wants you when he's asleep, wants you when he's awake, wants you when he's bleeding out on a rooftop wondering if he'll make it home in time to taste you before patrol—

He's already got his mouth on you. Already. Didn't even make a conscious decision. His body just moved because his body wants you and your pleasure, your smile, the little gasp you make when he gets it just right—

"I want you," he mumbles into your thigh, "I want you, I want you, I want you, don't ever say I don't, I'll— I'll prove it, I'll stay down here all night, I don't need sleep, sleep is for people who aren't dating a goddess, I'll just—"

You pull him up by his hair. He whimpers. He whimpers like a puppy because his girlfriend touched his scalp.

God, he's pathetic.

He loves it.

He loves you.

"You were saying something about rehydrating?" you ask, and your voice is teasing but your hand is wrapped around him and his vision goes sparkly at the edges.

"Who cares—ah fuck," he hears himself say, "I-I don't...ugh... Give a f-fuck."

And later, when he's lying on top of you, every muscle screaming, a single tear is rolling down his cheek, because fuck he's overstimulated, He press his lips to your sweaty forehead.

"You're gonna break me someday, you know that?"

You smile.

"That's the plan,"

His dick twitch again, and he'll laugh hysterically into your hair because he's the luckiest man walking in the entire goddamn world.

Pairing: Yandere!Batfam x Reader (DC).

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner <3

Word Count: 5.0k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Omegaverse, Alpha!Reader, Rampant Pseudo-Incest, Familial Neglect, Nonconsensual Touching, Bitching, Knotting, Controlling Behavior, Slight Dehumanization, and Choking. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Wayne family meals were sparsely attended events.

Not for lack of trying. Alfred kept a strict schedule, unyielding to the scattered lives of your eclectic siblings. Breakfast at 7:00 AM, dinner at 8:00 PM, and lunch left out for the scavengers some time in between. Who would actually show up was anyone’s guess. Dick was fairly consistent, Cassandra a close second, Stephanie a distant third. Tim would attend religiously for three or four before disappearing off the face of the planet for six months, and even when Damian was at the table, he had his nose in a book. The only constant was Bruce, of course, stern and statuesque at the head of the table. The dominant alpha, eager to lord over his pack. He’d never missed a meal.

Neither had you, for the record. But who’s really keeping track?

This morning, the table was fuller than you’d come to expect. Dick and Tim bickered on Bruce’s right and left respectively. Cassandra sat a couple seats down from Tim, watching the fight in her unblinking, owlish way. You were on Dick’s side of the table, but like her, you’d left a gap between yourself and the worst of the noise. With so many alphas crammed into one estate, minor spats were common. Tension always seemed to be thick in the air, whether from territoriality or resource anxiety or the bitter, curdling tang of a pre-rut haze. None of it made any sense, obviously. The manor was big enough to wander for hours at a time, Bruce Wayne was closer to owning every square foot of Gotham than he was to ever going broke, and there were plenty of places for your siblings to spend their rut cycles that weren’t the manor. Not that any of them seemed to realize that.

it started with his hand grabbing your jaw roughly, forcing you to look him in the eyes as he relentlessly pounded into you… soft groans and grunts leaving him as the other hand wrapped around your throat— not cutting off your airways but he could if he wanted. your hands were tied behind your back.. wrists red from rubbing against the rope as you squirmed in your spot, "y— you think you can just.. flirt around with whoever? huh?!" his eyes burning into yours, practically spitting out his words…

eye fucking you

perverted benjamin poindexter who undresses you and fucks you with his eyes

you knew it the moment you started talking. the way his gaze settled on you. you kept your voice light and your gestures casual. playing dumb like you couldn’t feel him getting you naked with his eyes.

you were mid-sentence, gesturing about something. work, maybe, or that ridiculous thing that happened during your day. but the words dissolved into background noise. dex’s focus traced the curve of your lips. watching the way they parted, closed, or shaped each sound. the slight gloss from your lip balm caught the light. forgive him for his mind was occupied with the thought of how those lips would feel slick and warm under his tongue. how he’d slide it inside your mouth and taste every corner until you forgot whatever you were saying.

you let the silence stretch just a little longer than it should. you knew he hadn’t heard a word.

you paused, frowned, and tapped his arm. his pupils dilated as he snapped back, a low hum leaving his throat. “hmm? yes, baby?” his hand found your thigh instantly, palm warm and heavy.

“are you still listening?” your voice was perfectly measured. a flawless mask of half-annoyed and half-flustered.

he pinched your cheek gently, thumb brushing over the soft skin. “of course. keep talking, sweetheart.”

his attention dipped first to your neck, lingering on the faded purple marks near your collarbone. he was already planning again just where to put marks. below your ear where your pulse fluttered, the hollow of your throat, the delicate skin right above your shoulder blade. all perfect places to press his mouth and suck until you gasped.

then down to your shoulder, where the strap of your top sat. he wanted to bite there and leave crescent-shaped impressions that would ache sweetly for days.

his focus slid lower.

your chest rose and fell as you talked. his gaze lingering between the cleavage where your skin peeked through. fuck. all he has to do is pull the neckline down along with your bra and your tits would pop right to his face. is it too much to ask?

his gaze slid lower. down to your waist and your hips. he could already feel his fingers tugging the hem of your shorts and panties. digging into the soft skin there and leaving bruises that would bloom violets under his touch.

then lower.

your thighs pressed together as you sat. the way he could just slip his hand between them, rubbing through the fabric of your panties until they grew damp. hooking his fingers into the waistband... pulling it down to savor every inch of your skin slowly being revealed to him... orrr ripping them clean off.

his tongue traced the corner of his mouth. your own pussy fucking throbbed at the sight. you could practically feel his tongue on your clit. your hips shifted involuntarily, searching for friction that wasn’t there.

you knew exactly how he was looking at you. you’d known this whole time. you played dumb, pretending your skin wasn’t prickling and your thighs were not pressing together.

he watched the movement, his gaze dropping lower. he wanted to grip them, spread them, kiss up the inside until you trembled. oh he absolutely goes crazy whenever you wear a skirt. the way he could just push it up and have you right there, your legs draped over his shoulders. he wanted to kiss down your calves and your ankles. savoring how they shook from the pleasure he gave you.

his gaze climbed back up slowly and deliberately until it met your face.

your own little act crumbling under the weight of his return stare. your voice came out shaky when you tried to hold it steady. “you’re not listening.”

he tilted his head slightly. “i am.” his eyes softened just a fraction. but you knew the real intent. it was the look of a man who knew exactly what he was going to do to you. his tone was sweet but his eyes were something else. sticky. something that made your stomach flip and warmth pool between your legs.

your fingers curled into the cushion beneath you. your thighs pressing tighter together as if to contain the heat spreading through you.

he watched that micro-movement. seeing the way your breath hitched . a faint knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

then his hands slid under your thighs, firm and possessive. he pulled you into his lap in one smooth motion. you were straddling him now. your knees on either side of his hips and your chest inches from his. his hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking circles over the bare skin where your top had ridden up.

he looked up at you, lips parted slightly.

“now,” he said, voice low and rough, “you have my full attention.”

A Rabbit in His Trap

Sum: A rabbit can mistake an open snare as food. You happen to make the same mistake. Yandere! Bruce Wayne x Reader // 1.9k Warnings: Yandere, Fem!Reader, age gap, use of daddy, bratty! reader, praise/degradation, spanking, hair pulling, overstimulation, dub-con -> non-con, ignored requests, drugging, implied stalking, condom removal, forced creampie, abuse of power, mdni a/n: loosely inspired by that new cigarette-smoking anime with the old man. Sorry for any errors. My brain got a little too horny at 3 a.m., nothing screams Bruce Wayne quite like drugging you after ten dates of blue-balling you.

There have to be better things to do with your night. Anything, really, besides pacing your shoebox apartment, cheeks hot, shoving another impulse-buy magazine into the wire basket you turned into a bonfire.

Gotham's Top Playboy

The headline sizzles. White letters blister, then sag into cinders.

If Bruce can so much as fuck half the planet, why can't he fuck you?

Smoke claws at your throat. You bat at it, fling the small bathroom window open and rattle the glass so hard it almost slips out of place. It's just smoke, you convince yourself, swiping at the tears pricking your eyes. The lie works for maybe two seconds.

You march back to the couch, arms folded, kicking off a pair of heels - one bouncing off the coffee table. The red bottoms stare back at you.

Pity party rules: the tenth date entitles you to one tantrum. Ten dinners, ten end-of-night drives, and still nothing but (you shout into the nearest pillow, can't afford another neighbor complaint) a kiss to the forehead, a fond ruffle of your hair, then those maddeningly large, rough fingers tipping your chin for a PG-13 press of lips. No tongue, no teeth, no fingers inside you as your nails scrape down the hard lines of his back.

Old Geezer.

imagine how friendly dick is when he catches you spray painting a building with some friends who all ran away faster than you when they saw the police lights and heard the sirens. he catches you wrist as you stumbled over some beer cans on the ground, but smiles at you when you turn with your hackles raised like a feral cat.

"woah, hey, easy there" dick speaks like he's trying to soothe a wild animal, but his grip is iron clad. "busy night?"

imagine how jovial he speaks, seemingly oblivious to your scathing glare as he pulls you from the alley to the light of the streetlamp. this wasn't the first time you had the displeasure of meeting this particular young officer. it had been dick who had pulled you over on your motorcycle for some obscure "noise complaint", broke up the undergound party you went to, and told you and your friends to clear out of the punk house you had squatted in for a time.

imagine dick's boyish grin as he looked you over in the artificial light, unbothered by your vibrant, almost toxic looking, dyed hair, the metalic glint of your piercings in the light, and your overall hostility.

"got nothing better do than stalk me, pig?" you spat as he all too cheerfully pushed you into the back of his squad car.

he chuckles, but doesn't outright deny the accusation "trust me, it's for the best it was me instead of anyone else"

imagine sinking into the seats of the cop car, bitter and resigned to the fact you'd be spending another night in holding before one of your spineless friends came to bail you out. for the time being, you'd just have to bear with the all too chatty cop who seemingly thought you were friends after every encounter. even in a cell, he'd be constantly hovering nearby with some excuse of getting you coffee or a blanket or anything to stay near you.

imagine watching the scenery of bludhaven passby in a slight blur as dick drove. the cheap beer in your system still wasn't enough to make the incessant chatter tolerable, but it muffled the noise slightly.

"didn't think bludhaven was such a small place. It's like I find you up to something every night"

"trust me, it'd be a helluva lot easier on me if you stayed in your own damn lane"

"yeah? and let someone else take you in? i don't think you'd want that"

you huffed bitterly and watched the blur of neon lights out the window as he chucklws again.

then, after a beat of silence, he grows serious, but doesn't look back at you.

"...to be honest, I get worried about you, y'know? if it wasn't me who found you, you wouldn't get away with a slap on the wrist"

you bark out an incredulous laugh as you shook the handcuffs around your wrists to emphasize your point.

"i know, i know, but trust me i'm not doing this to hurt you"

you swayed with car as he turned a corner, but didn't answer.

"you do this everynight, run around with a bad crowd who don't think twice about you. i know your tough, I know you think that, but it'd kill me if something happened to you..."

imagine the growing unease as you notice you aren't taking the same route as usual to the police station. in fact, you notice with alarm, you were starting to go to the outskirts of the city.

imagine your breath catching when the car stops abruptly. your far from the city now, in some desolate dock yard.

you catch dick's icy blue stare in the review mirror before the panic surges foward and you ram your shoulder into the locked door.

"hey, hey, it doesn't hafta be rough, alright? i'm not going to hurt you like those other cops. they'd just lock you up and throw away the key, right?"

you were scratching at the handcuffs still locked around your wrists and even when he opens the back seat door to crush you against the seats as he climbs on top of you, his body is to broad to push aside and escape.

imagine dick not even bothering to close the door behind him, your last line of escape, because he knows no one is around and he knows you can't overpower him. you smell his cologne and undertones of steel as he places a far too gentle kiss on your racing pulse.

Warnings: Yandere, fem! reader, non-con references, captivity, stockholm-ish, slight breeding talk, coercion, unwanted touching, dry-humping, forced kiss, MDNI

Something about home-workout videos just screams Dick Grayson - maybe it's the way moonlight and city glow glaze his abs during every hip roll, catching sweat beads while those blue eyes stay locked on a vintage Tone It Up VHS. Each rep is a desperate attempt to burn through the frustration you keep stroking instead of his cock.

You stop in the doorway to see what's actually going on. The grunts and muffled moans made you think he'd finally dragged a girl in here, but no - he's power-stepping across the rug to a disco beat. His bright grin never quite reaches the baby-blues fixed on your reflection in the glass. Sweat slides down his chest, glittering along every ridge of muscle. Your throat goes dry.

jason todd can never fuck you without seeing your face.

he works himself up just to lean himself all the way over, breaking his neck just to kiss you. ignoring how his bones ached in protest and his hips bucked.

at first you think he’s just being sweet, not letting you suck him off because he wants you closer, or making you lay on your back instead of your stomach. his eyes watching yours and trailing across your face as though it was all he needed.

even when you closed your eyes, basked in the feeling of him and tried to get used to the stretch. jason didn’t even need words when they failed you, instead he read your face. felt how you tensed and your hands grabbed at his back. he cooed a response out of you.

“that feel good ma?” rasping with difficulty as you gasped softly. then you nodded and he cupped your cheek, voice soft as feathers as he spoke to you. “can you tell me how it feels?”

a shudder runs through you as he shifts his hips just barely. “good. it feels really, really good.”

then he smiles and rolls onto his back, pulling you into his lap as he did it. you sink back onto him so easily this time, sighing in unison as he seated himself fully inside. his hands fell to your ass, taking cupfuls as you fluttered your lashes at him when he began moving you. slowly at first but quickly his movements grew more frantic as the sounds rumbled from his chest and echoed through your skin, penetrating your thoughts in the same way he did your body.

jason loves to watch you lost yourself in it, seeing the hunger grow from your shyness and fucks you til you’re begging him for more. because you are as insatiable as he is and even more is never enough.

after he coaxes you through an orgasm and stares through half lidded eyes, you try changing the position yourself. though you fail, collapsing onto his chest and begging for more with that hoarse tone in your voice that told him you were exhausted.

jason could never deny his sweet girlfriend from his touch could he?

pulling off his lap, he moved to situate himself over you once again. pulling out just for a moment while you flop onto your stomach, sighing into the pillow dreamily. he blinks as he hovers over you, hand grazing your side as he says your name. swallowing thickly as the sight of you arching for him, stomach flat on the mattress as you pulled your arms under the pillow, burying your face into it and got more comfortable.

jason breathes heavier as he rasps. “i wanna see your face too princess, come on.”

though you only hum and murmur something that sounded like ‘mm too tired’. jason snakes his arm under your chest and pulls you up by your throat, not enough to hurt, but just enough to coax. your hand slides behind you, guiding his throbbing length through your puffy folds before sinking back onto him. sucking him in and moaning as you arch your back further. jason nearly chokes on his spit and pulls your face towards him, craning his neck just to kiss you even as you start to fold in on yourself when he picks up the pace.

the sound of his skin on yours is obscene, the pace he keeps is relentless. his eyes watch your shut ones as pushed you into another orgasm and reach your peak with a whimper. jason swallows the sweet sound from between your lips and lets your hands weakly tug at his hair at the crown of his neck more harshly than you’d intended.

the pain doesn’t bother him then. if anything, the sting reminds him you’re still there.

when you’re limp against him, shuddering from the feeling, he lets you gently onto the sheets. jason manhandles you onto your back again, fucking you right as you’re blissed out on him, humming with his name on your tender lips from how hard he’d been kissing you from behind. he’s rougher with you now that he can see your face fully again. that was exactly what he needed to tip over the edge. he moans your name out broken, dark hair sticking to his forehead as his perfect heterochromic eyes bore into your glazed ones.

“you’re so perfect ma,” he whimpers gorgeously. “god, you’re so beautiful.”

though the fucked out grin you gave him made him sputter and groan. hips stuttering as he gave powerful thrusts into you and let go, painting your walls a milky white you could practically taste. even then his eyes are open, arms braced by your head so he didn’t crush you with his weight and also to continue to see your face as your mouth gaped open in a silent moan. tongue touching the tip of your top teeth before you giggled at him weakly. grazing your fingernails up his back as he shudders again and continues to thrust into you like he couldn’t resist, not when he’s got you under him like this.

you have to pull him to lay all the way down so he is laying over you, his weight like a heavy blanket that could lull you to sleep. dick so good it sends you into full rem quickly.

though when you wake up in the morning, jason’s laying on his side, his hand draped over your waist as your leg hung over his. and his eyes were set right on yours, lips ready to say your name like it had taken permanent residence on his tongue.

A WARM EMBRACE

SUMMARY: how each batboy hugs you (duh)

warnings: fluff, f!reader, sfw but there's some touchy-feely stuff, established relationships (gf!r for everyone but wife!r for bruce), HEADcannons so probably OOC

wc: 445

featuring... dick grayson, jason todd, bruce wayne, damian wayne, and tim drake

a/n: i'm sorry that this is so short!! :(

dick grayson:

i feel like dick would hug his girl around the neck and rest his head atop her own

he'd press sweet kisses into your hairline and whisper about how pretty you are

whole time your head is buried in his chest, your arms around his waist or torso

his hand would rub soothing strokes on your shoulder or back, thumb brushing softly to ground you and slow your thoughts

eventually a hand would come up to stroke your hair, smoothing it down and tangling itself in the strands

jason todd:

full on bear hug. no other answer.

one arm around your waist, the other around your back. hand splayed out over your spine to make sure you're really there

he'd have his head in your neck and would undoubtedly be pressing kisses to the skin and leaving marks

every so often his hand drifts downward to squeeze your ass in his palm. yeah, he's 100% an ass man, no doubt

he's got wandering hands, that's for sure. despite everything i said, his hands would constantly be moving, feeling all over you

bruce wayne:

bruce is a simple man, so i think he'd hug his wife around the waist with his head on top of hers

one of his big hands would rest on the small of your back, the other probably rubbing your hip

he'd lean down, ducking his head to whisper sweet or scandalous things in your ear

if he's feeling especially desperate, his hands would feel over your hips, ass, and thighs, squeezing the flesh, but he usually tries to keep it pg in around the family

damian wayne:

oddly i feel like damian would prefer to be hugged rather than to do the hugging. he doesn't realize how much he loves your touch, but he's not quite ready to be the initiator either

so when you approach him and glide your hands up his arms and over his neck to clasp around his nape, he melts

his hands would tentatively find your hips after a bit before sliding all the way around your waist

he'd get comfortable enough to drop his head to your chest, murmuring a "thank you, habibti"

tim drake:

loves having his face against your chest when you're hugging, so he'd especially enjoy hugging you while he's sat at his desk

you'd stand between his legs, your chest at the perfect height to meet his face. he'd tug you closer by the thighs and bury his face there

his arms definitely wrap around your upper thighs, hands barely grazing the bottom of your ass

he'd be soo content right there, sighing softly and breathing in your perfume

dick grayson- you fell first, he fell harder

Let’s be honest, he’s quite a pretty sight, and when you actually got to know him properly, you learnt that he was so much more than he presented himself. It was easy to fall for him, all charm and natural attentiveness, and he cared so much about you without being overbearing that it was hard to hide.

When he got to learn about what made you, you, he just couldn’t look away from his feelings and had to face the truth that he had fallen so, so down bad that it was embarrassing for others to witness. He’s the complete opposite of nonchalant, so it didn’t take long until he confessed and you started dating, and the rest is history.

jason todd- he fell first, he fell harder

Jason has the natural tendency to people watch under the excuse of “knowing his environment” to keep his façade up, but in reality, he had been staring at the drop-dead gorgeous person who had been reading for 5 consecutive hours without moving an inch in Gotham’s public library. After getting himself pumped up, he finally got the guts to talk to you and start and easy conversation that led to a first date, which then lead to another, and another, and, well, you get where things went.

You truly are the light of his life and he’s eternally thankful of your relationship. Not only he ensures you are as happy as he can make possible, but he feels so much love oozing out of you when you look at him that it’s impossible for him not to be head over heels. Disgustingly in love, like his brothers say.

tim drake- he fell first, you fell harder

You’re pretty much his ideal type, what can I say. When you came to the café where your friend worked at ordering a quadruple shot of expresso into your americano, something captivated him. He came up to talk to you while you worked tucked away in a corner, and after momentary confusion, you got more intrigued as seconds pass, leading to him getting your number, texting you the moment he did a quick background check (some habits never die or whatever).

Now don’t get me wrong, Tim absolutely adores you and would give you his kidney without a second thought, but sometimes, you fall after his work. Even if he does end up retiring after, work was always a priority, which meant that you sometimes fell into second place. Nevertheless, he’s such a doting partner, making sure you never had an issue in your life, and he makes an effort for you, always.

damian wayne- you fell first, he fell harder

“It was destined to be” you friend said, “tbh I always knew they had something going on” a classmate thought. The both of you had a childish rivalry at university that it was almost endearing to watch. You didn’t feel an ounce of envy or anger towards him, but rather a high school crush that spiralled deeper every time he smugly raised his eyebrow at you when he got right a question that you didn’t. Being honest, one-sided rivalry was such a great idea to get him to talk to you, even if it’s for bragging his higher grade “by 0.75%, but still more than you”.

Damian really struggled to realise his feelings for you, and even an intervention was staged by his brothers because he couldn’t physically stop talking and thinking about you. He confessed in such a Damian Wayne way, always proper but very targeted towards the enjoyment of both of you. Now, he knows how you take you tea in the mornings and at what temperature you like the bath to be, and he loves way more than he’d ever admit being the only one who knows you that well.

roy harper- at the same damn time

You two match each other’s freaks TO THE SECOND. You fell at the same time he started catching feelings. True friends to lovers, you’d been friends for some time already, meeting through your other friends, and you just liked to hang out with each other. At some point in time, those hangouts turned into dates, and friendship evolved into something more.