nocturnelle

“Are you hungry?” you asked, not bothering to look up from your book. You already knew the answer. You could tell by the way he twitched from his position strewn across your pink and frilly bedspread, by the way his usual bronzed skin had slowly begun to pale, and the way his eyebrows were no longer knit in concentration over the game on his Switch— instead drawn tight from the edges of a deep hunger. A hunger you would never understand fully.

He hummed in response, thumbs moving over the device that looked almost comically small in his large hands.

“Well, whenever you’re ready, I’m right here.” You stretched in your reading chair, legs extending as you finished the last few sentences of your chapter.

Again, you anticipated his response.

A long sigh. He shifted among the piles of pink pillows and blankets, careful not to disturb your stuffed dog he’d perched on his chest.

“We’ve been over this. No.” The answer rolled out flat, practiced, almost mechanical by now.

You closed your book and set it on the side table. Rising, you stretched until your joints popped, letting out a low, contented groan. From across the room, you felt him go still, the inhuman kind of still. At first, this used to scare you; the Dick you knew before rarely stayed motionless. But you had long since grown used to it, learned to love it even, just as you had come to love every other part of him that had changed when he did.

“Why not? What if I asked with a pretty please this time?” you teased, bending to touch your toes, stretching the last bit of stiffness out from your spine.

He glanced up, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth as he rolled his eyes at your cheeky grin—then dropped his gaze right back to the game.

Ignoring you. His latest tactic when it came to this. You’d had this argument so many times it had carved grooves into the both of you. Usually, you let it slide. But sometimes, like tonight, you were stubborn enough to push.

You straightened with a sigh, eyes flicking to him. His focus stayed locked on the Switch, thumbs moving, jaw tight and that was answer enough.

Fine.

Crossing the room, you climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight as you crawled across the pile of pillows until you were straddling his lap, sliding easily under his arms. He shifted without complaint, making space like he always did, tucking you against his side so he could keep the screen in view.

You played idly with the worn ear of your stuffed dog resting on his chest, eyes following the little character he guided across the game’s bright landscape. The room was quiet except for the faint click of buttons, his dying warmth pressed against yours.

You let the silence hang for a beat, scheming. Then, softly, you asked, “How come you’d do it with Babs and not me?”

It was a low blow, bringing up his ex into this arguement as if you weren’t his best friend. You knew it, but you were so tired of the same tired excuse: I don’t want to hurt you.

It landed nonetheless. His fingers froze over the Switch. A beat later he tossed the device aside and folded you into a full arm-hold, crushing your hand and the little dog beneath his bicep.

“You know that’s different dove.” His voice carrying a familiar sigh.. A cool hand skimmed over your arm, and you could feel it—the edge of his hunger, sharpening with every second. The fact that he hadn’t yet pushed you off and gone straight to the fridge sparked something reckless and hopeful in your chest.

You didn’t need to explain your reasoning. He already knew. You would argue that he’d feel better if he just used you every once in a while instead of those cold, stolen bags of blood. That he would do the same for you if the roles were reversed. That you trusted him so why couldn’t he trust himself?

What he didn’t know (what you would never admit), was that part of you wanted it for yourself. Not just to help him, but because the thought of him so close, mouth against your skin, made something traitorous in you ache. You buried it down where it belonged. You would never jeopardize what you had with him. But still… the desire lingered.

“Look, I know you’re sick of me saying it’s because I don’t want to hurt you.” He said as if reading your mind. “That’s still true and always will be. But—” He broke off, running a hand through his dark hair, and you tilted your head against his shoulder to catch his expression.

It wasn’t the usual stern look he wore whenever you pushed the subject. Instead, his cerulean eyes burned—desperate in a way that made your pulse quicken. You fought not to squirm in his lap.

“When I feed…” He spat the word like it was poison. “…with someone it’s not like just draining a bag—” he faltered, swallowed—“with someone, it’s different. It’s not just blood. It’s… an exchange. An exchange that—well, it creates a tether, a bind of sorts… between us.”

“Are we not already tied together?” you teased lightly poking his chest, trying to ease some of the tension. Dick Grayson was rarely nervous, so the way he was acting now was scaring you, albeit still a tiny bit hopeful that this would be the time.

“I’d say being best friends since we were twelve is pretty damn tying.” you added with a small chuckle.

His mouth curved down. “We are—of course we are. But… fuck.” He raked a hand through his hair again. “It’s like having sex, but deeper and closer. That’s the only comparison I’ve got and it doesn’t even cover the half of it.” He gave a humorless laugh, then met your eyes again, unguarded.

“Oh.” The word left you dumbly, like your brain had short-circuited.

Years. You’d been offering him something that, apparently, was the equivalent of soul-binding sex for years. No wonder he’d resisted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, heat creeping up your neck, embarrassed at your own naïveté.

“Because it’s not that I didn’t want to…” His words tumbled out fast, raw, unguarded. “I wanted to. I— I want to.” His eyes searched your face with almost painful precision, still swirling with that deep, unshakable need. Like he was about to devour you whole.

You dragged shaky breath in and looked away, the weight of it too much to bear. Instead your eyes dropped to his soft lips and you immediately regretted the decision as his mouth was parted just enough to give you the perfect view of his sharp canines.

“You want to what, Dick?” Your voice wavered, eyes flickering back up to meet his.

“I wan…” He trailed off, breathless, gaze caught on the bare column of your throat. “I want to taste you. And I have for years. But I don’t want to hu—”

You pressed your fingers against his mouth, cutting him off.

“If I hear that excuse one more time Dick, so help me God.” Your scowl was sharp, but your hand trembled where it touched him. “You won’t hurt me. I want this.” the words came out different than they had all the times before.

They hung heavy in the space between you, carrying everything you’d never dared to say aloud. And you knew—by the way his pupils blew wide, by the hunger sparking through his restraint—that he understood just as well.

You started to pull your hand back, but he caught your fingers between his teeth. Not biting, not breaking skin—just holding. Your breath hitched, warmth spreading like wildfire through your veins as you shifted to hover fully on top off him. When you moved, your hips accidentally brushed against his; you bit back a groan and he shuddered beneath you at the contact. His large hands shot to your hips, holding you in place with a bruising grip.

“If I can’t promise I’ll be gentle…” His voice rasped low, eyes dragging slowly from the curve of your neck down to where your lounge top dipped, revealing the swell of your breasts.

“And if I don’t want you to be?” you asked with an arched brow, blush deepening as you nudged your stuffed dog to the side like it was witnessing something it shouldn’t.

“But you’ll tell me if I hurt you?” His tone was so earnest, eyes pleading, that you couldn’t bring yourself to scold him for asking.

“Yes.” The word slipped out in a whisper. Your fingers toyed with the ends of his raven hair, gaze lingering on the sharp gleam of his fangs as you tried to pretend and rationalize that this wasn’t tearing right through the fragile border of friendship.

Fuck was this really happening?

“Say it.” He croaked, eyes locked on yours, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before curling his palm around the back of your neck, drawing you down toward him.

“Yes, I—” Your bottom lip trembled as his teeth grazed your skin. “Yes. I’ll tell you if you hurt me. Dick, please.” The plea spilled out before you could stop it—pathetic, humiliating, begging your best friend when this was your offer. And yet, the press of his lips against your pulse burned everything else to ash.

He lays a few soft kisses to the thrum of your pulse, the hand on your hip squeezing roughly as the other threaded through your hair in a shakey pass. For a split second, you were grateful you weren’t the only one completely affected by this.

A sound slipped from you—half incoherent curse, half whine —as you cupped his jaw, trying to pull him impossibly closer, the heat between you raw and unrelenting.

And then his teeth sank into the tender curve of your neck.

Your body seized, startled by the sharp sting before the shock melted into a flood of scorching pleasure that set your every nerve ablaze. Heat raced outward from the puncture, curling through your veins until your vision blurred.

A ragged cry tore free as your fingers tangled in his dark hair. He groaned into you, the sound vibrated against your skin, rattling you to the core. His mouth worked feverishly at the wound—tongue lapping, lips sealing—drinking you in with a maddening hunger.

More, more, more—your body chanted desperately as you rocked against him, grinding your hips fully into his. The barest press of him against your core was enough. Release slammed into you without warning, white-hot and shattering. Your vision burst with stars as your head tipped back, throat bared, offering him more. The rush stole the air from your lungs as your body arched and shook, tears slipping down your cheeks.

He took it all greedily, as if he could consume every tremor and twitch. A growl rumbled deep from within his chest, vibrating through you as he held you tight, moaning against your skin while you fell apart in his arms. It was too much, far too much and yet, not nearly enough.

You hadn’t even drawn a full breath before he flipped you, his mouth still fastened to your neck as he pinned you to the mattress. His weight pressed you into the sheets, suffocating in the sweetest way. Every drag of his chest against your taut nipples turned you into a further whining and arching mess.

Your nails carved into the hard muscle of his back, clinging for an anchor as his tongue lavished your hammering pulse. His hands roaming feverishly—tracing the curve of your hip, the arch of your spine, splaying wide as though trying to claim every inch of you. And oh—how you let him.

Your legs locked around his waist, ankles straining against the breadth of muscle. You came down from your high just enough for the force of it all to crash into you like a tidal wave. Shock and pleasure blurred until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. For the first time, you realized how utterly unprepared you had been for this.

The jut of his hips, the desperate sound torn from his throat, dragged you under again. Heat coiled low, slower this time as it wound through your veins until it pooled heavy in your belly. You could feel it building so cosmically; a part of you begged for mercy while the rest of you ached for ruin. All it took was one cruel roll of his hips paired with the drag of his tongue, and you shattered.

Your voice broke on his name, spilling from your lips again and again until it frayed. The sound of it on your tongue seemed to undo him completely; he keened against your skin, one large hand clamping around the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as he came apart beneath you. You felt his cock twitch through the barrier of clothes, and just like the first two, that was all it took for the shock of a third orgasm to tear through you, slamming into the second until there was nothing left but a pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever known.

You were barely conscious by the time he released from your neck. His breaths came ragged against your skin, hot in the crook of your shoulder, while you struggled to catch your bearings. The room filled with the sound of your shared, staggering pants.

His nose dragged along your jaw until his eyes found yours. There was almost no blue left under his half-lidded gaze—his pupils had swallowed it whole, dark and endless.

The bronze in his skin had returned tenfold, a sheen of sweat making him look as if he were glowing. Your gaze dipped to his mouth—lips parted, stained crimson. Your blood. The sight of his fangs, still glistening, nearly had you coming a fourth time. He was so beautiful.

His hazy, drunken gaze flicked to the punctures at your throat, his brows furrowing as if waking from a dream. His lips parted like he wanted to apologize but all that came out was your name. It was pitiful, raw, and yet somehow the sexiest thing you’d ever heard.

Something inside you cracked. Maybe it was years of want, buried so deep you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t there. Maybe it was the wild, unnatural heat still burning through your blood, fraying your restraint. Whatever it was, it broke you wide open, leaving you desperate and shaking as you dragged his mouth to yours.

His lips crashed against yours like he’d been waiting just as long. He made a low, helpless sound into your mouth, his tongue brushing yours in a way that stole every coherent thought. You’d pictured kissing him many times before, but you could have never imagined this. It was messy, urgent, tinged with the metallic tang of your own blood when you grazed his teeth.

You melted in his grip, and he felt it—because in the next breath he had you flipped again, back to straddling his lap. His hands raked down your body, pausing just above the curve of your ass, fingers trembling as if he couldn’t decide whether to hold back or give in entirely.

Your lungs screamed for air but you didn’t care. You wanted to drown in him. When he tore his mouth away, you nearly cried at the loss. You surged forward to reclaim him, not caring about oxygen or reason, but his lips diverted—catching your jaw, trailing from your ear until he hovered over the place he had bitten you.

“Dick,” you called softly, eyes fluttering shut again.

He answered by swiping his tongue over the wound, as if he couldn’t part from the taste of you. It stung, but you welcomed it, tilting your head to bare more. You didn’t want this to end, not when it had taken you years to get here.

“Fuck,” he rasps, tipping his head to rest against your breasts, ear pressed to the wild song of your heart. “I didn’t think it would feel like that,” he admits, dazed.

You slide your arms up his torso, looping them around his shoulders. One hand buries in his hair, holding him to your chest, your thumb brushing the shell of his ear.

“What do you mean feel like that?” you ask, brows knitting. He hadn’t exactly warned you about the multiple orgasms. Sure, he’d compared it to sex, but that had been—well, better than any sex you’d ever had. Still… he’d done this before, right? With people who weren’t you. Did it feel wrong with you? Did your blood taste off? Like dirty socks? Or rotten pennies? Oh god—

“Hey, hey—” he cut in quickly, lifting his head the instant he felt your pulse stutter. He caught your hand before it could slip from his face, threading his fingers through yours and pressing your joined hands hard against his chest. His pupils were still unnaturally blown, his hair a total wreck from your fingers—somehow making the earnestness in his expression even softer.

“It wasn’t bad,” he said, voice low but firm. “Not even close. It was… the opposite of bad. It was—” he huffed out a breath, half-laughing at himself, “—it was incredible. I just… wasn’t ready for it. Clearly.” His chin tipped down toward his sweats, a crooked, sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. “That’s… uh… never happened before.”

You blinked at him.

“You mean with Babs… you never—?” The words tumbled out, clumsy, half-mumbled, heat crawling up your neck.

He shook his head quickly, color blooming high across his tan skin.

“And did she ever…?” You couldn’t even finish the question, but he saves you from having to elaborate with another shake of his head.

Oh. Fuck.

The clarity slammed into you like a freight train. You had just come three times in your best friend’s lap—and he had too. Fully clothed. While drinking your blood.

Suddenly you were excruciatingly aware of your body: the ache burning at your neck where his teeth had been, the low throb still coiled in your belly, the already hardening line of his cock pressing against the thin, soaked barrier of your underwear and shorts.

As if he could read your mind again, his grip on your hand goes slack. You felt him shift beneath you, an awkward attempt to make space in a place where none existed.

He cleared his throat, voice fragile. “Do you… do you regret it?”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No, Dick. I don’t regret it… I—” The words jammed up in your throat. You forced another breath out. “Do you?” you asked instead, eyes locking on his despite the heat still creeping up your cheeks.

“God,” he laughed, breathless. It was so raw it bordered on bitter. “No. I don’t. Dove, I really don’t.”

His gaze searched your face, calculating your reaction before his eyes fall back to your hands, fingers tightening around yours once more.

“I think I need to tell you I’m in love with you.”

Your mouth parted as his eyes flicker back up to yours. It felt as though all the air was just sucked from room as the silence cut in deep.

He kept talking before you could even draw a breath. “I’m sorry, I just… I— we can still be friends. Nothing will ever change that, even this. E-everything can go back to the way it was…” He was babbling now, and you just stared at him, a lump forming in your throat. “But I felt—well, I feel like it wouldn’t be in good conscience to not tell you. I would never want to take advantage of you, I just didn’t think this was going to happen, and if I did, I would’ve told you first, but I—oh God, don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m so sor—”

You cut him off, slamming your lips into his. This kiss was slower than the first, deeper, your mouths moving in sync as tears slipped down your face. Your mind felt clearer now; only one thought ran through it: you loved him, and he loved you back.

You pulled away—slowly, torturously—just as the heat between you started to rise, resting your forehead against his. His breath was warm against your lips.

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” he asked, a crooked, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth.

You laughed and shoved him further into the pillows. He went easily, chuckling, then retaliated by pinching your sides. You squealed, lurching forward, swatting at his hands.

“Hm, I wonder why…” you teased, leaning down to nip at his ear. “Maybe we should do it again to make up for lost time.” Your grin widened when you felt the shiver run through him.

“It’s too soon, you fiend,” he laughed, mock-scolding. “What was it… three? Three orgasms and you’re already asking for more? If I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re the one with the bloodlust.”

“I hate you,” you whined, hiding your face in his neck.

“No you don’t,” he said immediately, smirk dripping off his voice.

“You’re right,” you murmured, “I don’t. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.”

“Really? Tell me more,” he said, wiggling his brows. The motion was so classically him you couldn’t help but giggle.

“Are you hungry?” you asked, not bothering to look up from your book. You already knew the answer. You could tell by the way he twitched from his position strewn across your pink and frilly bedspread, by the way his usual bronzed skin had slowly begun to pale, and the way his eyebrows were no longer knit in concentration over the game on his Switch— instead drawn tight from the edges of a deep hunger. A hunger you would never understand fully.

He hummed in response, thumbs moving over the device that looked almost comically small in his large hands.

“Well, whenever you’re ready, I’m right here.” You stretched in your reading chair, legs extending as you finished the last few sentences of your chapter.

Again, you anticipated his response.

A long sigh. He shifted among the piles of pink pillows and blankets, careful not to disturb your stuffed dog he’d perched on his chest.

“We’ve been over this. No.” The answer rolled out flat, practiced, almost mechanical by now.

You closed your book and set it on the side table. Rising, you stretched until your joints popped, letting out a low, contented groan. From across the room, you felt him go still, the inhuman kind of still. At first, this used to scare you; the Dick you knew before rarely stayed motionless. But you had long since grown used to it, learned to love it even, just as you had come to love every other part of him that had changed when he did.

“Why not? What if I asked with a pretty please this time?” you teased, bending to touch your toes, stretching the last bit of stiffness out from your spine.

He glanced up, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth as he rolled his eyes at your cheeky grin—then dropped his gaze right back to the game.

Ignoring you. His latest tactic when it came to this. You’d had this argument so many times it had carved grooves into the both of you. Usually, you let it slide. But sometimes, like tonight, you were stubborn enough to push.

You straightened with a sigh, eyes flicking to him. His focus stayed locked on the Switch, thumbs moving, jaw tight and that was answer enough.

Fine.

Crossing the room, you climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight as you crawled across the pile of pillows until you were straddling his lap, sliding easily under his arms. He shifted without complaint, making space like he always did, tucking you against his side so he could keep the screen in view.

You played idly with the worn ear of your stuffed dog resting on his chest, eyes following the little character he guided across the game’s bright landscape. The room was quiet except for the faint click of buttons, his dying warmth pressed against yours.

You let the silence hang for a beat, scheming. Then, softly, you asked, “How come you’d do it with Babs and not me?”

It was a low blow, bringing up his ex into this arguement as if you weren’t his best friend. You knew it, but you were so tired of the same tired excuse: I don’t want to hurt you.

It landed nonetheless. His fingers froze over the Switch. A beat later he tossed the device aside and folded you into a full arm-hold, crushing your hand and the little dog beneath his bicep.

“You know that’s different dove.” His voice carrying a familiar sigh.. A cool hand skimmed over your arm, and you could feel it—the edge of his hunger, sharpening with every second. The fact that he hadn’t yet pushed you off and gone straight to the fridge sparked something reckless and hopeful in your chest.

You didn’t need to explain your reasoning. He already knew. You would argue that he’d feel better if he just used you every once in a while instead of those cold, stolen bags of blood. That he would do the same for you if the roles were reversed. That you trusted him so why couldn’t he trust himself?

What he didn’t know (what you would never admit), was that part of you wanted it for yourself. Not just to help him, but because the thought of him so close, mouth against your skin, made something traitorous in you ache. You buried it down where it belonged. You would never jeopardize what you had with him. But still… the desire lingered.

“Look, I know you’re sick of me saying it’s because I don’t want to hurt you.” He said as if reading your mind. “That’s still true and always will be. But—” He broke off, running a hand through his dark hair, and you tilted your head against his shoulder to catch his expression.

It wasn’t the usual stern look he wore whenever you pushed the subject. Instead, his cerulean eyes burned—desperate in a way that made your pulse quicken. You fought not to squirm in his lap.

“When I feed…” He spat the word like it was poison. “…with someone it’s not like just draining a bag—” he faltered, swallowed—“with someone, it’s different. It’s not just blood. It’s… an exchange. An exchange that—well, it creates a tether, a bind of sorts… between us.”

“Are we not already tied together?” you teased lightly poking his chest, trying to ease some of the tension. Dick Grayson was rarely nervous, so the way he was acting now was scaring you, albeit still a tiny bit hopeful that this would be the time.

“I’d say being best friends since we were twelve is pretty damn tying.” you added with a small chuckle.

His mouth curved down. “We are—of course we are. But… fuck.” He raked a hand through his hair again. “It’s like having sex, but deeper and closer. That’s the only comparison I’ve got and it doesn’t even cover the half of it.” He gave a humorless laugh, then met your eyes again, unguarded.

“Oh.” The word left you dumbly, like your brain had short-circuited.

Years. You’d been offering him something that, apparently, was the equivalent of soul-binding sex for years. No wonder he’d resisted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, heat creeping up your neck, embarrassed at your own naïveté.

“Because it’s not that I didn’t want to…” His words tumbled out fast, raw, unguarded. “I wanted to. I— I want to.” His eyes searched your face with almost painful precision, still swirling with that deep, unshakable need. Like he was about to devour you whole.

You dragged shaky breath in and looked away, the weight of it too much to bear. Instead your eyes dropped to his soft lips and you immediately regretted the decision as his mouth was parted just enough to give you the perfect view of his sharp canines.

“You want to what, Dick?” Your voice wavered, eyes flickering back up to meet his.

“I wan…” He trailed off, breathless, gaze caught on the bare column of your throat. “I want to taste you. And I have for years. But I don’t want to hu—”

You pressed your fingers against his mouth, cutting him off.

“If I hear that excuse one more time Dick, so help me God.” Your scowl was sharp, but your hand trembled where it touched him. “You won’t hurt me. I want this.” the words came out different than they had all the times before.

They hung heavy in the space between you, carrying everything you’d never dared to say aloud. And you knew—by the way his pupils blew wide, by the hunger sparking through his restraint—that he understood just as well.

You started to pull your hand back, but he caught your fingers between his teeth. Not biting, not breaking skin—just holding. Your breath hitched, warmth spreading like wildfire through your veins as you shifted to hover fully on top off him. When you moved, your hips accidentally brushed against his; you bit back a groan and he shuddered beneath you at the contact. His large hands shot to your hips, holding you in place with a bruising grip.

“If I can’t promise I’ll be gentle…” His voice rasped low, eyes dragging slowly from the curve of your neck down to where your lounge top dipped, revealing the swell of your breasts.

“And if I don’t want you to be?” you asked with an arched brow, blush deepening as you nudged your stuffed dog to the side like it was witnessing something it shouldn’t.

“But you’ll tell me if I hurt you?” His tone was so earnest, eyes pleading, that you couldn’t bring yourself to scold him for asking.

“Yes.” The word slipped out in a whisper. Your fingers toyed with the ends of his raven hair, gaze lingering on the sharp gleam of his fangs as you tried to pretend and rationalize that this wasn’t tearing right through the fragile border of friendship.

Fuck was this really happening?

“Say it.” He croaked, eyes locked on yours, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before curling his palm around the back of your neck, drawing you down toward him.

“Yes, I—” Your bottom lip trembled as his teeth grazed your skin. “Yes. I’ll tell you if you hurt me. Dick, please.” The plea spilled out before you could stop it—pathetic, humiliating, begging your best friend when this was your offer. And yet, the press of his lips against your pulse burned everything else to ash.

He lays a few soft kisses to the thrum of your pulse, the hand on your hip squeezing roughly as the other threaded through your hair in a shakey pass. For a split second, you were grateful you weren’t the only one completely affected by this.

A sound slipped from you—half incoherent curse, half whine —as you cupped his jaw, trying to pull him impossibly closer, the heat between you raw and unrelenting.

And then his teeth sank into the tender curve of your neck.

Your body seized, startled by the sharp sting before the shock melted into a flood of scorching pleasure that set your every nerve ablaze. Heat raced outward from the puncture, curling through your veins until your vision blurred.

A ragged cry tore free as your fingers tangled in his dark hair. He groaned into you, the sound vibrated against your skin, rattling you to the core. His mouth worked feverishly at the wound—tongue lapping, lips sealing—drinking you in with a maddening hunger.

More, more, more—your body chanted desperately as you rocked against him, grinding your hips fully into his. The barest press of him against your core was enough. Release slammed into you without warning, white-hot and shattering. Your vision burst with stars as your head tipped back, throat bared, offering him more. The rush stole the air from your lungs as your body arched and shook, tears slipping down your cheeks.

He took it all greedily, as if he could consume every tremor and twitch. A growl rumbled deep from within his chest, vibrating through you as he held you tight, moaning against your skin while you fell apart in his arms. It was too much, far too much and yet, not nearly enough.

You hadn’t even drawn a full breath before he flipped you, his mouth still fastened to your neck as he pinned you to the mattress. His weight pressed you into the sheets, suffocating in the sweetest way. Every drag of his chest against your taut nipples turned you into a further whining and arching mess.

Your nails carved into the hard muscle of his back, clinging for an anchor as his tongue lavished your hammering pulse. His hands roaming feverishly—tracing the curve of your hip, the arch of your spine, splaying wide as though trying to claim every inch of you. And oh—how you let him.

Your legs locked around his waist, ankles straining against the breadth of muscle. You came down from your high just enough for the force of it all to crash into you like a tidal wave. Shock and pleasure blurred until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. For the first time, you realized how utterly unprepared you had been for this.

The jut of his hips, the desperate sound torn from his throat, dragged you under again. Heat coiled low, slower this time as it wound through your veins until it pooled heavy in your belly. You could feel it building so cosmically; a part of you begged for mercy while the rest of you ached for ruin. All it took was one cruel roll of his hips paired with the drag of his tongue, and you shattered.

Your voice broke on his name, spilling from your lips again and again until it frayed. The sound of it on your tongue seemed to undo him completely; he keened against your skin, one large hand clamping around the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as he came apart beneath you. You felt his cock twitch through the barrier of clothes, and just like the first two, that was all it took for the shock of a third orgasm to tear through you, slamming into the second until there was nothing left but a pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever known.

You were barely conscious by the time he released from your neck. His breaths came ragged against your skin, hot in the crook of your shoulder, while you struggled to catch your bearings. The room filled with the sound of your shared, staggering pants.

His nose dragged along your jaw until his eyes found yours. There was almost no blue left under his half-lidded gaze—his pupils had swallowed it whole, dark and endless.

The bronze in his skin had returned tenfold, a sheen of sweat making him look as if he were glowing. Your gaze dipped to his mouth—lips parted, stained crimson. Your blood. The sight of his fangs, still glistening, nearly had you coming a fourth time. He was so beautiful.

His hazy, drunken gaze flicked to the punctures at your throat, his brows furrowing as if waking from a dream. His lips parted like he wanted to apologize but all that came out was your name. It was pitiful, raw, and yet somehow the sexiest thing you’d ever heard.

Something inside you cracked. Maybe it was years of want, buried so deep you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t there. Maybe it was the wild, unnatural heat still burning through your blood, fraying your restraint. Whatever it was, it broke you wide open, leaving you desperate and shaking as you dragged his mouth to yours.

His lips crashed against yours like he’d been waiting just as long. He made a low, helpless sound into your mouth, his tongue brushing yours in a way that stole every coherent thought. You’d pictured kissing him many times before, but you could have never imagined this. It was messy, urgent, tinged with the metallic tang of your own blood when you grazed his teeth.

You melted in his grip, and he felt it—because in the next breath he had you flipped again, back to straddling his lap. His hands raked down your body, pausing just above the curve of your ass, fingers trembling as if he couldn’t decide whether to hold back or give in entirely.

Your lungs screamed for air but you didn’t care. You wanted to drown in him. When he tore his mouth away, you nearly cried at the loss. You surged forward to reclaim him, not caring about oxygen or reason, but his lips diverted—catching your jaw, trailing from your ear until he hovered over the place he had bitten you.

“Dick,” you called softly, eyes fluttering shut again.

He answered by swiping his tongue over the wound, as if he couldn’t part from the taste of you. It stung, but you welcomed it, tilting your head to bare more. You didn’t want this to end, not when it had taken you years to get here.

“Fuck,” he rasps, tipping his head to rest against your breasts, ear pressed to the wild song of your heart. “I didn’t think it would feel like that,” he admits, dazed.

You slide your arms up his torso, looping them around his shoulders. One hand buries in his hair, holding him to your chest, your thumb brushing the shell of his ear.

“What do you mean feel like that?” you ask, brows knitting. He hadn’t exactly warned you about the multiple orgasms. Sure, he’d compared it to sex, but that had been—well, better than any sex you’d ever had. Still… he’d done this before, right? With people who weren’t you. Did it feel wrong with you? Did your blood taste off? Like dirty socks? Or rotten pennies? Oh god—

“Hey, hey—” he cut in quickly, lifting his head the instant he felt your pulse stutter. He caught your hand before it could slip from his face, threading his fingers through yours and pressing your joined hands hard against his chest. His pupils were still unnaturally blown, his hair a total wreck from your fingers—somehow making the earnestness in his expression even softer.

“It wasn’t bad,” he said, voice low but firm. “Not even close. It was… the opposite of bad. It was—” he huffed out a breath, half-laughing at himself, “—it was incredible. I just… wasn’t ready for it. Clearly.” His chin tipped down toward his sweats, a crooked, sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. “That’s… uh… never happened before.”

You blinked at him.

“You mean with Babs… you never—?” The words tumbled out, clumsy, half-mumbled, heat crawling up your neck.

He shook his head quickly, color blooming high across his tan skin.

“And did she ever…?” You couldn’t even finish the question, but he saves you from having to elaborate with another shake of his head.

Oh. Fuck.

The clarity slammed into you like a freight train. You had just come three times in your best friend’s lap—and he had too. Fully clothed. While drinking your blood.

Suddenly you were excruciatingly aware of your body: the ache burning at your neck where his teeth had been, the low throb still coiled in your belly, the already hardening line of his cock pressing against the thin, soaked barrier of your underwear and shorts.

As if he could read your mind again, his grip on your hand goes slack. You felt him shift beneath you, an awkward attempt to make space in a place where none existed.

He cleared his throat, voice fragile. “Do you… do you regret it?”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No, Dick. I don’t regret it… I—” The words jammed up in your throat. You forced another breath out. “Do you?” you asked instead, eyes locking on his despite the heat still creeping up your cheeks.

“God,” he laughed, breathless. It was so raw it bordered on bitter. “No. I don’t. Dove, I really don’t.”

His gaze searched your face, calculating your reaction before his eyes fall back to your hands, fingers tightening around yours once more.

“I think I need to tell you I’m in love with you.”

Your mouth parted as his eyes flicker back up to yours. It felt as though all the air was just sucked from room as the silence cut in deep.

He kept talking before you could even draw a breath. “I’m sorry, I just… I— we can still be friends. Nothing will ever change that, even this. E-everything can go back to the way it was…” He was babbling now, and you just stared at him, a lump forming in your throat. “But I felt—well, I feel like it wouldn’t be in good conscience to not tell you. I would never want to take advantage of you, I just didn’t think this was going to happen, and if I did, I would’ve told you first, but I—oh God, don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m so sor—”

You cut him off, slamming your lips into his. This kiss was slower than the first, deeper, your mouths moving in sync as tears slipped down your face. Your mind felt clearer now; only one thought ran through it: you loved him, and he loved you back.

You pulled away—slowly, torturously—just as the heat between you started to rise, resting your forehead against his. His breath was warm against your lips.

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” he asked, a crooked, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth.

You laughed and shoved him further into the pillows. He went easily, chuckling, then retaliated by pinching your sides. You squealed, lurching forward, swatting at his hands.

“Hm, I wonder why…” you teased, leaning down to nip at his ear. “Maybe we should do it again to make up for lost time.” Your grin widened when you felt the shiver run through him.

“It’s too soon, you fiend,” he laughed, mock-scolding. “What was it… three? Three orgasms and you’re already asking for more? If I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re the one with the bloodlust.”

“I hate you,” you whined, hiding your face in his neck.

“No you don’t,” he said immediately, smirk dripping off his voice.

“You’re right,” you murmured, “I don’t. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.”

“Really? Tell me more,” he said, wiggling his brows. The motion was so classically him you couldn’t help but giggle.

You had been neglecting Dick.

Which, to be fair, is fairly easy to do. The man has a very liberal definition of neglect—namely, any situation in which you don’t let him open every door, pull out every chair, carry your purse or your bags. The list is long, and by his standards you’re apparently mistreating him on a near-constant basis.

But this time?

This time had nothing to do with doors or chairs or any of his chivalrous rituals.

This time, it was just a book.

Well, a series of books, technically.

Dick had seen these rainbow-spined things before. They assaulted his eyeballs every time he stepped into a Barnes & Noble, stacked front and center like a warning label. He could’ve sworn he’d spotted one or two scattered around Jason and Roy’s apartment as well—which, in hindsight, really should’ve been his first red flag.

That being said, it wasn’t exactly a shock when they appeared on your bookshelf one day. You and Jason had this unofficial book club—unofficial in the sense that there were no meetings, no schedules, just the two of you aggressively ranting about whatever you were reading whenever your paths crossed. More often than not, that meant you often inhaled the same books at the same time.

What was shocking was the overnight personality shift that hit the moment you cracked open the first one. You went from Dick’s doting, loving, painfully affectionate angel to a full-time recluse who spent every free second glued to the pages… and a part-time, completely unhinged sex demon by night.

Not that Dick was complaining about that part. At first he chalked it up to ovulation. He didn’t really understand what that meant—just that when you were ovulating, you tended to act borderline feral.

But when he checked your cycle (yes, he tracks it on his phone, no he doesn’t see the issue), you were squarely in your follicular phase.

That’s when he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, it was those damn books.

He questioned you early on, but you’d give him the quickest of summaries, eyes glazed over like your soul was floating somewhere in another realm. You said something about fairies and magical courts—or whatever—but Dick couldn’t fathom how any of that justified your behavior.

Then again, you were a strange creature sometimes. So was he. That was why you worked.

By the time you reached the last book—the thickest of the pile—your attention to Dick had gone from thin to nonexistent. Every page you flipped was another nail in his coffin of relevance. And once you sank into it completely, he came to a quiet, tragic conclusion:

If he didn’t act fast, he’d be replaced by words on paper.

After an especially brutal, drawn-out night of patrol, the two of you sleep well into the afternoon.

Well—Dick does.

By the time he finally blinks awake, you’re already twisted onto your side in his arms, nose buried in your book, looking far too alert for someone who was supposedly just as exhausted as he was.

He kisses down your spine, slow and familiar, earning an involuntary shiver from you, but that’s it.

No good morning. No rolling over to greet him with that pretty smile of yours. Not even a hum of acknowledgment.

Dick huffs, carefully untangling himself from you. He lies on the very edge of his side and stares up at the ceiling in utter disbelief, before finally dragging himself to the bathroom feeling personally victimized by a paperback and a pink highlighter.

When he emerges a couple minutes later, he finds you in the exact same position. Only this time—as if you’ve just resurfaced from some literary-induced trance—you lift your head, find his eyes, and your face softens. You close the book.

“Hi, pretty boy. You sleep well?” you ask, shamelessly letting your gaze wander down the length of his very shirtless torso.

He wants to stay annoyed with you. Really, he does. He’s been trying for weeks. But you look at him like this and—every single time—whatever righteous frustration he has folds in on itself.

“Mhm, sure did. Did you even get any sleep?” He gives your book a pointed look.

“A little bit,” you laugh, stretching out across the mattress, your joints popping in that borderline-concerning, only-a-vigilante’s-body-could-make-that-noise way.

Dick lets out a dramatic huff and heads to his dresser. You don’t seem to notice, too busy watching him sift through drawers for a shirt before you finally slip out of bed yourself.

“I’ve gotta run home—do laundry, water the plants… assuming they aren’t already dead,” you call as you wander toward the kitchen.

Dick turns just in time to see the book—the one you haven’t let out of your sight for more than five consecutive seconds—sitting abandoned on his bed.

He peeks out of the bedroom, sees you rummaging for a protein bar in the pantry, then looks back down at the book.

“Why don’t you just move in so we don’t have to keep doing this?” he calls, shrugging one shoulder like it’s the most casual suggestion in the world. Which at this point it kind of is.

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “We’ve been over this, Dick. We’ll talk when my lease is up in four months. I am not paying that disgustingly predatory lease-breaking fee.”

“I’ll pay it.”

You groan and head for the door. He trails after you like the extremely handsome golden retriever he is.

“Oh my god Dick.” Annoyance drips from every syllable as you slip your shoes on. “I’ve already told you—just because you can pay it doesn’t mean you should. I am not giving that sleazeball landlord any more money to stuff in his already fat pockets.”

“But—”

“I’ll be back in time for dinner. How about I pick up Marv & George’s on my way back, hm?” You shrug on your coat, lean up on your toes to press a quick kiss to his mouth, and then you’re out the door before he so much as answer.

His plan worked.

He smirks at the closing door, waits a few seconds to make sure you’re actually gone for good.

When he doesn’t hear your footsteps barreling back down the hall, he practically trips over himself racing back to the bed and the book you left behind.

He snatches the hefty thing up in triumph. He knew it—knew that if he pestered you about moving in (which he admittedly did more than he was proud of), you’d get all flustered and distracted and forget the one object you’ve been guarding like a dragon hoards gold. Honestly, he’s shocked your fingers haven’t fused to the pages by now.

It wasn’t even a real plan, more of a heat-of-the-moment gamble. He’d been dying to get his hands on it for weeks, just to see what could possibly be so enthralling that it stole your attention, affection, and, apparently, your sanity. But like he said: you were practically surgically attached to the thing.

He climbs onto the bed, settles in like he’s preparing for a mission briefing, flips to your first highlighted passage—

—and starts reading.

He tells himself he’ll only skim the highlighted lines, just enough to understand what’s been pulling you away from him. But skimming turns into slowing down, slowing down turns into doubling back, and soon he’s rereading entire paragraphs because he must have misunderstood something. Then he’s not skimming at all—he’s simply reading, pulled along page after page before he even realizes it.

By the time he reaches the first sex scene, he feels heat gathering at the back of his neck, a thin sheen of sweat forming that he pointedly pretends is not happening.

Half the time his brain supplies a flat, bewildered What the hell?\

The other half it offers, …Okay. Hang on. That’s actually kind of—

No. No. Focus. He’s here to investigate, not lose the plot.

He keeps reading anyway.

After some time, he closes the book around his thumb and stares blankly at the opposite wall, replaying the past week and a half with new, disorienting context. Then, with a resigned exhale, he opens the book again, drawn back in with a kind of inevitability he can’t quite articulate.

He’s so engrossed he doesn’t even notice the sun shifting across the room, only surfacing when he hears the front door open.

Dick startles so hard the book almost takes flight.

“I’m back Dickie! Pizza is hot and ready!” you call, your cheery voice ricocheting through the apartment.

His head whips to the alarm clock on his nightstand. 7:12 p.m.

Four hours. He’s been reading for four hours. His skin feels hot, his mouth dry, and he feels like he might actually be in the middle of an identity crisis.

“Dick?” you call again, soft footfalls getting closer.

Oh, hell.

He moves faster than Wally—faster than Wally—to slam the book onto your nightstand and throw himself under the duvet like he’s dodging sniper fire.

Your footsteps pause at the doorway. Then the mattress dips beside him, and the covers are gently tugged down.

He pulls out his best “just woke up” performance: rubbing his eyes, blinking slowly, adding a little confused head-tilt for good measure. Oscar-worthy. Truly.

“Aw, look at you. Last night really did a number on you, huh?” you coo, leaning in to press soft kisses along his jaw, up to his forehead.

What can he say? He’s a jack of all trades. Acrobat. Detective. Professional fake-napper.

He hums grabbing the back of your neck to pull you in against his lips, his new found knowledge crawling around in his ribs. He shoves his tongue into your mouth, earning a surprised squeak from you, but your shock is gone as quickly as it came and you melt right into him, matching his speed.

He’s so fucked. How is he supposed to act normal after this?

You’re halfway on the bed, halfway off, panting when you finally pull back. Your lips glisten with his spit, puffy from the kiss, and your eyes hunt his with a curious gleam.

“Have a good dream or something?” you murmur, gaze flickering back to his mouth.

“Or something,” he says with a cheeky smile, brushing another quick peck against your lips before hopping off the bed.

You giggle, following him off the bed, but then freeze, gaze landing on the nightstand.

Oh no.

“Did you touch my book?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

He glances at the book, then at you. Stay cool, she knows nothing he tells himself.

“Yeah. I put it there before I took a nap so I wouldn’t shove it off the bed in my sleep,” he says, sending up a silent prayer to whatever god is listening that you buy it. He can’t be exposed, not yet.

You give a small nod, seemingly accepting it, and he exhales audibly, tension rolling off his shoulders like steam.

He follows you to the kitchen, keeping one eye on your movements—and one wary eye on that book, still sitting innocently on the nightstand, waiting for him to pick it up again.

Dinner passes uneventfully… at least on your end. Dick, however, has an odd, far-off look on his face. Glazed, contemplative, like he’s halfway through solving some case only he knows about. Every time you speak directly to him, he jolts back to attention, and then there’s this look. One like you’re suddenly a puzzle he needs to decode. It’s weird.

After ten minutes of this, worry starts buzzing at the back of your mind. The strange behavior paired with the fact that he slept all afternoon? He loves half a dozen things, and sleep is one of them, but even he never manages more than eight hours. Eleven is… suspicious.

“Dick, are you okay?” You drag the last bite of pizza through the puddle of ranch on your plate, soaking up every last drop.

“Yeah, m’fine, Dove. Just waking up still.” He scratches the back of his neck in the world’s most unconvincing display of casualness.

“Still waking up?” you repeat, frowning. “Are you feeling okay? You slept almost eleven hours today. Too bad we’re not on patrol tonight you might’ve become a meta with that much rest.”

He huffs a laugh and stands, grabbing both your plates. “Funny. But I’m seriously fine. A little extra sleep hasn’t killed anyone, sweetheart.” He flashes you a quick smile as he heads toward the sink. “Plus, what else was I supposed to do with you gone all afternoon?”

“All afternoon?” You roll your eyes dramatically, but behind it, a small prickle of suspicion starts forming. He’s being weird. He’s definitely being weird.

“Fine it wasn’t all afternoon it just feels like I haven’t seen you much lately.” he pouts returning to the couch, slumping down onto your lap.

You snort, fingers automatically slipping into his hair. “I’ve seen you every day for the last two weeks, you freak.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been so busy with those stupid books,” he mutters, burrowing deeper until half his face is pressed into your thigh.

“First of all,” you say, pointing a finger he can’t even see it, “they aren’t stupid. They’re actually really, really interesting.” You give his waves a meaningful ruffle. You’ve tried explaining the plot to him before; you’re pretty sure he absorbed, generously, five percent of it.

“Oh, I bet they are.” Flat. Suspiciously flat.

You pause, frown tugging between your brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Dick.” You narrow your eyes, even though he’s still hiding in your lap. “Wait—are you seriously mad that I haven’t been paying enough attention to you?”

“I’m not mad,” he says, exhaling a dramatic puff of warm air against your thigh. “I’m just… a little frustrated.”

Your expression softens. “Well why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You resume your slow, absentminded twirling of one dark strand—only for him to push up abruptly, sitting back on the couch so he can face you fully. His eyes—big, miserable, weaponized—hit you like a slap.

“I thought I made it clear,” he says, and there’s no anger in it, just an edge of genuine exasperation. “I’ve been flat-out begging you to put the books down and do literally anything—anything—that wasn’t reading. With me.”

You freeze.

He… had done that. Multiple times.

You wince, guilt settling low in your stomach. “I just thought… I don’t know, I guess I wasn’t paying attention.” You lean forward to cup his cheek, thumb brushing a lock of inky hair from his face. Your voice gentles. “You’re right. I’m sorry, baby. How about this—no more reading tonight. Just you and me. How does that sound?”

“Does ‘just you and me’ include making out?” he asks, lifting a brow, mischief curling at the corner of his mouth like he’s already picturing it.

You snort, smacking his chest before peppering a kiss to his nose, then his cheek. “What are you, thirteen?” you tease, then tack on, “Yes, we can make out. Maybe I’ll even let you grab my tits if you’re a good boy.”

“Dove if that’s the reward, I’ll be the best boy you’ve ever seen.” he says, grabbing at your waist to pull you into his lap.

You laugh at the wolfish look on his face and push gently at his shoulders. “Wait—no. Let me shower first. I feel disgusting from doing, like, four hundred pounds of laundry.”

He groans, moving to tilt his head back in full dramatics, but you catch his chin forcing him to look at you.

“What did I say about being a good boy?” you murmur, smirking as his lips squish together under your grip.

“Fine,” he whines, full puppy-dog misery, and you giggle again as you peel yourself away from him.

“I’ll be quick, I promise.” You grab his hand, tugging him up from the couch and leading him toward the bedroom.

He collapses onto the bed the second you let go, watching you strip off your shirt before disappearing into the bathroom.

The second the door clicks shut, his gaze snaps straight to the orange book perched on your nightstand, practically glowing like some forbidden artifact calling to him from across the room.

He debates for a moment—it’s risky—you did say you were going to be quick. Definitely not enough time to pick up where he last left of but for sure enough to read through more of your highlights. Just enough to satisfy the itch that’s been gnawing at his brain since the second he put it down last.

He’s already reaching for the book before he even finishes his thoughts.

The book falls open in his hands to a page nearly drowned in pink. Strange—usually you only mark a few lines. Not… three entire pages. He scans the passage, eyes tracking line after line until they snag on one line highlighted darker than the rest framed by little hearts in the margins.

Oh.

Oh.

As he’s staring at the page—conceptualizing—when the bathroom door whips open.

He didn’t even hear the shower turn off goddammit!

He hurls it to the far side of the bed like it’s a live grenade and slams his arms across his chest in a pose that could not look more guilty if he tried.

You stop in the doorway, wrapped in a towel, steam curling lazily around your ankles. Your eyes flick from him… to the book… back to him.

“Okay, you definitely touched my book this time, Dick.” You pad across the room, towel shifting with each step, and snatch it up. You flip through the pages, scanning for damage. “You better not be messing with it. Seriously. I get you’re mad—”

“I didn’t touch it, Dove.” He scoffs lightly, moving to sit at the edge of the bed as if that somehow makes him look less guilty. “You must’ve moved it early without thinking.”

“No, I didn’t.” You shake your head, still clutching the towel with one hand and your book with the other. “I remember leaving it on the bed earlier. Then I came back and it was on the nightstand, and now it’s magically back on the bed?” You cross your arms, holding the book like your afraid he’ll snag it from your grip.

Dick reaches out, catching your wrists and untangling your arms before pulling you into him until your standing between his knees. Your glare down at him despite reveling in the warmth radiating off him in contrast to your damp skin.

“You seriously think I’d mess with your book?” he asks, tilting his head up to meet your eyes. There’s a challenge there, irritation, and something warmer beneath it.

“No, but—”

You don’t get the rest out.

His hands catch your waist and he pulls you down into him, mouth crashing into yours with a force that knocks the argument clean out of your head. You make a half-hearted attempt to push at his shoulders, more out of instinct than intention, but he doesn’t budge. Instead he reaches blindly, snatching the book from your hand, and tossing it aside without so much as a care where it lands.

The towel around you loosens, and then it’s gone entirely—pulled free in one smooth, confident motion. You gasp against his lips as the cool air hits your skin, and then again when his hands slide up your sides, calloused palms finding your breasts, cupping and grabbing with a greedy familiarity.

You make a soft, reactive sound as you move to climb into his lap, but he’s already pushing to his feet. The sudden lift of his body tugs your mouth from his, a slick thread of spit stretching between you until it snaps.

“Wha—” you manage, breathless, but his mouth is already on yours again, cutting the sound short. Your body leans into him instinctively as heat rolls through you. His hands slide down your spine in one slow, steady line until they reach your ass. He grabs you firmly, kneading your flesh like he’s starving for it.

When he breaks the kiss this time, he actually pulls back. His chest rises and falls at a quick pace. His eyes are dark—pupils blown so wide the blue is just a thin halo.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he murmurs. His voice is rough in a way that sends a warm, low ache straight through you.

“This is a little more than making out,” you tease, but your voice is unsteady, threaded with anticipation. You turn without another word, settling onto the bed, palms sinking into the cool sheets. You arch your back just a fraction—just enough to let him know you’re not exactly opposed to where this is heading.

When you glance over your shoulder, he’s watching you with a look that could melt steel. Jaw tight as his tongue drags over his bottom lip, hungry eyes locked on your already soaked cunt on full display.

“Towards the wall.” he orders and you obey again, a little slower this time. You feel the mattress dip behind you, two big hands cup your ass, then his warm breath fanning over your attention-hungry pussy.

“So pretty,” he coos and you bite back a moan at the praise. “And so wet when I haven’t even touched her yet.”

You squirm, pushing your hips back in dire need of something. And to your surprise he complies, tongue flat as his licks one long drag from your core all the way to your clit.

“Fuck!” you cry out, fists curling tight in the sheets as your legs give a warning tremor. You’re braced for more—desperate for it, embarrassingly so—but nothing follows.

Instead you feel him lean back slightly and then—

“Put your hands on the headboard.”

All the breath punches out from your lungs. You whip your head over your shoulder, staring at him like he’s just spoken in another language.

“Y–you did read my book,” you manage, voice thin with shock. “You dirty—”

“Dirty?” His eyebrows rise, that infuriating amusement flickering across his face. “I don’t know if you can call me that after what you’ve been highlighting.”

You can only stare, jaw slack. Your brain feels like it’s trying to run in three directions at once—mortification, outrage, and…hunger.

And he watches it all, drinking it all up like he’s committing every second to memory.

“Sweetheart,” the low timbre of the nickname has your toes curling “don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m asking.”

His voice is calm. Too calm. How the hell did he manage to flip this on you?

“Wait I think we should tal-”

“I’m not going to say it again,” he cuts in, voice dipping into something dark and certain. “Hands on the headboard.”

You give him one last look over your shoulder—wrestling with your pride—but the moment your eyes meet his, your body betrays you. You obey. Your palms press against the cool wood, the position forces your chest open, making it easier to steady your erratic breathing, though it does nothing to ease the pool of sweat forming in the crook of your back.

The mattress shifts behind you and you duck your head under your arm, risking a glance.

He’s shoving his sweats down his legs, fast enough to betray the same urgency you feel. His waistband catches the top of his boxers pulling them down obscenely low. Your eyes follow the line of his happy trail down to the defined cut of his hips, everything narrowing down to the unmistakable and heavy outline of his cock straining against thin cotton.

A dizzy heat rushes straight to your core and your eyes threaten to roll back in your head at the sight alone. Before you can stop yourself, you grind your thighs together, seeking even the slightest bit of relief.

He catches you almost immediately. Clicking his tongue, that irksome—but undoubtdly sexy—smirk plays at his lips, like he’s both amused and entirely unsurprised by you.

“Eyes forward.”

The command snaps through you and you let out a whine. You force your gaze back to the headboard, glowering at the carved wood because it is decidedly not him.

But then his breath ghosts over your aching core once more and every ounce of irritation burns away. You clench around nothing, a reaction that earns a dark, amused exhale from him. The cool air that follows only makes your skin thrum harder.

“Are you going to listen?”

Holy fuck.

You nearly fold in half from the sound of his voice alone. You bite down on your lip, eyes squeezing shut as you nod, the awkward angle probably makes you look like an idiot, but that’s the least of your concerns.

“Say it.”

You feel him shift back, the loss of his presence immediate, and panic flares hot in your chest.

“Yes!” The word tears out of you, embarrassingly shrill. “Yes, I’ll listen—I will, Dick, just—please.”

His laugh is low, pleased, and then he leans back in again—this time bracing his large palms on your hips as he presses his nose into your swollen cunt.

“Good girl.” He says, the sound of his voice vibrating against you deliciously, but the sensation folds into the next as he gives you another long lick.

His tongue curls around your clit and you cry out, the pads of your fingers go pale against the wood. Cruelly that’s all the attention he gives your clit before trailing his mouth back down to your entrance. He shoves his tongue inside you, nothing slow or gentle in his movements as he laps at you incessantly.

Maybe it’s this, maybe it’s all the teasing, or maybe it’s the fact that he read your book behind your back and took it upon himself to recreate one of your favorite scenes you’d thought you’d never see outside of your imagination… Whatever it is—perhaps a combination of all of the above—it has you coming the fastest you think you’ve ever come.

All you can do is whimper and moan as he works you through it, his pace never slowing once. When the stars in your eyes and the heat in your belly begin to come down, he gracefully relents.

“Holy hell, Dick.” You pant, pressing your clammy forehead into the cradle of your arm. You barely manage a breath—your arms still locked to keep you upright—when suddenly he’s sliding two fingers inside of you.

You hiss, jerking forward at the contact. His movements are slower now, but the drag of his fingers is still—

“Dick—s’too much—” The words tumble out, slurred and frantic as you writhe against his hand. Everything is too sensitive, too raw in the aftermath of your abrupt high.

“You know how to tell me no sweetheart.” He says and you can practically feel his eyes on you.

“Tell me to stop.” He says it not as a reminder but as a challenge, he makes that much clear as his fingers curl, hitting that devastating spot you swear only he’s ever managed to find.

“No, no please don’t stop!” You moan, the plea is ripped out of you as the pleasure begins to eclipse the sharp edge of too much. He takes this as permission to move faster, fingers scissoring in and out at a brutal pace, curling in at just the right spot. You feel your orgasm building this time unlike the last. Pressure builds in your tummy, spiraling downward until your vision starts to spot.

And then his mouth finds your clit again, groaning the second he gets a taste of you. He adds a third finger, pumping in and out of you at a brutal pace, and it’s so so fucking good, too good. Some wild sensation that spreads all around, curls around your temples and shoots down your spine. It pools in your gut and it feels like—

“Wait—ohmygod—Dick!” You move an arm away from the headboard, reaching blindly behind you but it’s too late. A garbled scream cuts from your throat as you feel a rush of liquid. The feeling runs down your thighs, severing through your nerves, swallowing you whole.

Dick is there sucking, gulping, lapping up every drop. Pleasure and utter shock mingle as your vision twinkles in and out, your mouth is hung open in a silent scream. Only the filthiest, dirtiest sounds of his muffled whimpers and his mouth licking your soaked cunt are there to fill the air.

When he’s sure he’s coaxed every last drop from your sweet, trembling heat, he trails lower, lapping up the spill along your inner thighs. His hands knead your shaking muscles, holding you steady as the peak ebbs out of you. The moment your adrenaline breaks, your arms give, and you collapse into the pillows, your hips the only part of you still held aloft by his grip.

Sweaty, dazed, and slightly mortified with your ass still offered up to him, you turn toward him as far as you can manage. His gaze catches yours as he drags one final lick up your thigh, finishing with a string of soft kisses and a teasing nip at your cheek. He looks nearly feral—chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm that matches yours, hair sticking up in wild tufts, eyes dark and blown as they sweep over your face.

“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart… that was so hot,” he breathes against your spine, kissing his way upward as he presses your hips down into the mattress. “You did so good for me.”

“I—I didn’t know I could do that,” you manage, the tips of your ears burning as he stretches out beside you. “I should’ve tried to give you a bit more of a warning.”

“Warning?” He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Dove, that might’ve been one of the best things that’s ever happened to me in my entire twenty-eight years on this planet.”

The praise makes your stomach flip. You look away, embarrassed, and he gently tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, thumb skimming your flushed cheek in slow, soothing circles.

“Are you sure? I’m sor—”

He cuts you off with a genuinely irritated groan. “If you apologize for that, I swear to God I will—”

“You’ll what?” You counter with a mischievous smile, eyes drawn helplessly to the gleam still coating his mouth and chin. It’s stupid to tease him when the feeling in your legs is just now returning after the two earth-shattering orgasms he gave you, but the temptation is impossible to resist.

“I’ll show you,” he whispers, hand sliding to the back of your neck as he pulls you in. His kiss completely betrays the promise in his tone, soft and sweet in a way that makes you melt into him. You hum against him, fingers slipping into his damp waves, the taste of yourself on his tongue sending a fresh ache rolling through you.

You’re shifting closer, ready to chase more, when he pulls away with an uneven breath.

“…in about thirty seconds, give or take,” he says, glancing down sheepishly.

You follow his gaze to find a wet splotch soaked into his boxers over his now half-hard length.

“When you were—Oh my god,” you moan, eyes practically turning into saucers.

In this world there are many erotic and erogenous things a man can do—like perhaps acting out a smut scene from a book he knows you love—but what has to be on the tippy top of your list is a man coming in his pants without so much as laying a finger on him. And while eating you out? God you are GONE.

Without much prompting and very eagerly, you prop yourself up on an elbow and shove a hand into his underwear. He groans, tipping his head back, giving you perfect access to kiss and nip at his neck. This, and a few expert strokes are all it takes for him to be fully hard once more.

You cease your motions briefly, leaning your forehead into the crook of his neck to watch as you push the waistband of his briefs down, letting all 8—delicious, aching—inches of him spring free.

Your mouth waters automatically, and you feel him angle his chin against your temple, watching as you pick back up what you started.

His breath stutters as you swipe your thumb over his pink tip, collecting the precum gathering there. He writhes under your touch, hand tightening at the back of your neck.

You begin to lean down—entirely too eager to have him in your mouth—but Dick pulls you back up before you so much as get a taste.

“Why?” You whine, pouting like the brat you are.

“M’not gonna last.” He huffs, pressing a kiss to your pouty lips. You chase his mouth, but intent on torturing you—repaying you for the last couple weeks—he pulls away.

“Think you can give me one more?” he asks, already guiding you up off the bed and back onto your hands and knees. Your arms and legs wobble beneath you, a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin. The sticky mix of everything he missed and his saliva along your thighs almost has you protesting, but the moment you feel him line up with your entrance, every other thought melts away.

Moving at an achingly slow pace, he slides into you inch by inch. The sounds of your collective pleasure fill the air, it’s all too much as his tip pushes up against your cervix. Your elbows give out causing your front half to plop unceremoniously against the mattress.

“’s too much,” You slur, hissing at the feeling of your taut nipples brushing against the sheets as you shift.

“It’s okay. C’mere.” Dick pulls out with a low, strained sound, his hands firm and warm on your hips as he shifts you. You go pliant in his arms, letting him move you like you weigh nothing.

He leans back against the headboard and draws you onto his lap, guiding you until you’re facing him, knees braced on either side of his thighs. The new position brings you close, chest to chest, breath shared.

“This better?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your face with slow, careful fingers.

“Yes. Now get inside me.” You deadpan, wrapping hand around his cock, already rolling your hips to line you both up again.

A quiet laugh leaves him, warm against your mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

He kisses you unhurriedly, one big hand moving to cover yours where you’ve gripped at the base of his cock. He guides the movement with you, easing you back down.

The moment you meet again, you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

Your fingers slip from his hand, sliding up his body until they settle on his face. Your palms bracket his jaw as your fingers thread into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging ever so slightly as he slowly pushes up into you, filling you to the brim. He groans into the kiss, one hand tightening at your hip while the other smooths a slow path up and down your back, palm broad and steady.

You break apart from him, meeting his eyes. You swear the fire you find blazing there could swallow you whole. You keep you gaze locked on his as you experimentally give your hips a little roll, his head falls against the headboard and your mouth pops open in a silent moan.

While this position is significantly better for the last, it does nothing to ease the almost painful edge of overstimulation, the hammering of your heart, nor the shaking of your legs as you seek out a slow rhythm.

Without breaking eye contact, he dips his head forward taking a taut nipple into his mouth and sucking gently. You whimper, rolling your hips against his at a more than desperate pace. He groans against you, struggling and failing to keep from bucking up into you further.

“Please,” You whine breathlessly, carding your fingers further up into his waves as he switches to your other breast. Your eyes sting, heat pooling behind them as everything inside you turns liquid and unfocused. Your legs feel useless, trembling where they brace around him, and the only thing you can manage is the slow, needy roll of your hips.

As if testing his own self-restraint his hands dig deeper into your hips, clamping you in place as he finishes his way with your nipple. Then he kisses and nips his way back up to your mouth, catching your lips in a swift bruising kiss before pulling your hips up until just his tip is left inside of you, before he finally slams you back down on top of him.

You damn near lose it after the first thrust alone, a string of incoherent profanities escape as you snake your arms around his broad shoulders, burying your face into the crook of his neck. He’s no better off, lips pressed into your hair muffling his whimpers and groans, his movements already sloppy and erratic.

Stars dance in your vision and you dig your nails into his muscular back, etching half moon crescent marks into his skin as he pounds into you.

“Together please Dick, can we—” You moan into his salty, hot skin, eyes rolling in pure ecstasy everytime he sinks into you fully and your clit rubs up against his pelvis.

“Mhmph” He barely manages through a clenched jaw, your pussy gripping him so tightly his mind is entirely blank except for you.

It almost instantaneously hits you both at the same time.

Your vision bleaches white as you bite down where his neck meets his shoulder, a reflex born of panic as much as pleasure, something animal reaching for the nearest solid thing as the sensation crests too quickly to brace against. Beneath you, he jolts upwards, burying himself inside you with a broken whimper.

His hands leave your hips and wrap around you instead, arms locking tight as he pulls you flush against him. Your bare chests press together, overheated skin sliding against skin, his heart hammering wildly against yours until the rhythm feels shared, frantic and unsteady between you.

He buries his face into your shoulder while you cling to him just as fiercely, your fingers still tangled in his hair. His grip turns desperate, hands flexing into your back like he’s trying to tether himself to this moment before it slips out from under him. Your legs tremble around him, and for a few suspended seconds neither of you is moving with any real intention—just holding on while it moves through you.

You feel it everywhere. You feel him everywhere.

Time has no meaning in his arms, but eventually your mind returns to your body. You drag your tongue over the mark your teeth left behind, earning another helpless whine from your boyfriend before you draw back just enough to rest your forehead against his.

“You did so good for me.” He nudges his nose against yours, still just as breathless as you.

The words strike deep and a sharp, insatiable want sparks through you. You swallow it down, knowing exactly where your edge is, even as your body argues otherwise.

“Bet your little book boyfriend can’t make you feel like that huh?” He asks, and you crack your eyes open to find a shit-eating grin spread across his face. Normally you’d roll your eyes at the jab, deflect it with practiced indifference, but you’re loose with satisfaction now—unguarded. You laugh instead, soft and breathless, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“No one can make me feel the way you do, Dick.” You lean back, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. The boyish spark in his eyes melts into something slower, sweeter. Deep cobalt eyes gone soft at the edges.

“I’m sorry if you’ve felt overlooked these past couple weeks,” you add lightly. “But I’d gladly do it again if this is the result.”

You watch him with a fondness that surprises you every time, your lovesick gaze matching his. Moments like this make you wonder how you ever got so lucky—how this boy ended up yours.

“If that’s the case,” he says, smirking, fingers toying with the baby hairs at the nape of your neck, “I’ll have no problem doing a little reading myself. Nesta’s pretty hot and badass, if you ask me.”

“How much did you read, Dick?” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

The movement knocks your hips back just enough to pull a hiss from you—and a low groan from him.

He recovers quickly, already grinning, breath still uneven as he fires back. “Look! I was just doing some investigative research on why my girlfriend’s been ignoring—”

“Hey!”

“—me for the past week and a half,” he barrels on, words tumbling over each other now, “and I accidentally fell into what turns out to be a very addictive trap. I mean, seriously—does the author lace that shit with crack?”

You laugh, the sound spilling out of you before you can stop it. You lean in, peppering kisses over his face—his cheek, the corner of his mouth, his nose—soft, affectionate, unhurried. “Something like that.”

He hums under your mouth, hands tightening just slightly as if to keep you there.

You turn in his arms, slow and careful, making sure he stays fully locked between your legs, your body fitting to his with an ease that feels earned. He follows the movement instinctively, chest to your back, one arm settling around your waist like it’s always belonged there. The room grows quiet again, the air heavy with warmth and shared breath.

Before long, the tension drains out of you completely. Sleep creeps in, gentle and inevitable. Your body sinks, your thoughts soften, and everything else—time, noise, the world beyond him—falls away.

You drift off feeling full in the deepest sense of the word.

You turned to find his mismatched eyes already on you—soft, almost reverent, brimming with something painfully tender. He reached over to smooth your damp hair from your face, fingertips tracing through the strands until his hand took an unexpected detour toward your parted lips.

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip once, slow and deliberate, before pressing past it. You watched as that lovesick haze in his eyes darkened—adoration melting into something hungry and wolfish—as he hooked his thumb gently behind your teeth.

Curious, you dragged your tongue over the pad of his thumb, tasting salt and skin. His eyes went wide, pupils blown, breath catching like he’d forgotten how to use it. You didn’t entirely understand what was happening, only that the fire low in your belly sparked to life again.

And when he murmured, “You were such a good girl for me. Think you can go again?”

In that rough, deep voice of his...you knew you were done for.

Little did you know that one simple gesture would turn into a full blown addiction for Jason.

Mid makeout session? Fingers in your mouth. Just finished you off three times with his fingers alone? Oh they were ending up in your mouth, forcing you to suck your mess off his digits until the pads of his fingers were pale & wrinkled. (This was your personal favorite because you got to watch the way his wide, hungry eyes followed every sweep of your tongue and the hollows of your cheeks with a predatory intensity, like an animal studying its prey.)Even when he was absolutely obliterating you from behind, he would somehow manage to reach around your body, that too-big hand of his cupping your jaw so his fingers could hook the inside of your cheek.

Moral of the story Jason Todd is a nasty freaky slut & you literally eat it up.

A/N

He loves it when you give him absentminded kisses in public, little things that feel like a quiet hello or a reminder that you’re still right there with him—even when you’ve been beside him the whole time. You press them anywhere you can reach in the moment—his hands, his wrists, his biceps, the dip of his collarbone, the side of his neck.

But he loves them just a little more when they leave a pink impression behind.

Like the time the two of you were wandering through a farmer’s market and you convinced him to lean down and smell a candle. With his stupidly irresistible face finally at your level, you pressed a quick kiss to the side of his nose—completely forgetting you were wearing lipstick.

You moved to wipe the mark away with your sleeve, but he caught your wrist before you could. Those gorgeous mismatched eyes gleamed, boyish and pleased, as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss of his own to the exact same spot on your face.

He wore the impression of your lips—and maybe you imagined it—but he stood a little taller for the rest of the afternoon.

He never wipes the kisses off.

Even after the two of you sneak away from your friends at dinner to make out in the bathroom, leaving an entire mess of lipstick across both your faces. You’ll clean yourself up in the mirror, reapplying with a few quick, practiced swipes before turning a damp paper towel toward him—but he just bats your hand away.

Next thing you know he’s tugging you out of the bathroom and back to the table, your fingers laced together. You’re blushing furiously, like you haven’t done this little routine before, while Jason drops back into his seat with a lazy smirk, looking around the table like he’s daring someone to say something.

To him, it’s a declaration. A quiet but very visible one.

He wants everyone to know it’s you, and only you, who leaves marks like that on him. And he revels in that shit, because it makes him all the more yours. Jason Todd is nothing if not completely and hopelessly devoted to you.

And as much as he loves wearing the imprint in public—strutting around like a hockey player doing a victory lap with the Stanley Cup—he might love it just as much, if not more, when it’s only the two of you there to see it.

The first time—and, quite frankly, the moment that fueled this entire obsession—happened completely by accident.

You’d been wearing the boldest lipstick you owned: a deep, intense burgundy to match the dress you wore to one of your friend’s weddings. Jason, attending as your plus-one, had been forced into a sleek all-black tuxedo via the dress code.

He looked devastating.

Naturally—you had spent almost the entirety of the evening drooling at the thought of his heavy, leaking cock on your tongue.

And naturally—it ended up being the blowjob of a lifetime.

He never stood a fucking chance at lasting more than a minute with a.) how starved you were for him all cleaned up like that, and b.) that fucking lipstick.

And the sight of the aftermath? Yeah, that alone nearly made him blow a second load on the spot.

His fist was tangled in your hair like it was the last thing tethering him to the earth as he tilted your head back, needing a long, hard look at your puffy, almost lipstick-free lips, committing every detail to memory. Most of the color had smeared across his groin, mixing with spit and cum to form a chaotic, beautiful mosaic—the kind that would star in every wet dream he’d have from that day until the day he died.

Ohhhh and the individual prints littered over his pelvis and thighs… he was in complete and utter ruins.

It was the first (and probably the last) time he ever asked for you to take a picture of his own dick.

Needless to say, Lipstick Sex™ returned many times afterward—different places, different outfits, same catastrophic results for Jaybird.