#batboy x reader

First step? Make sure the individual who is letting their hand linger on you for far too long know that they are way out of line.

His tone gets clipped, his posture stiff, and his already intense eyes somehow narrow even further when someone else is too close to you.

He starts calling people the wrong names— as if to remind them that they are lucky to even be in front of you—… plus to just tick the person off.

“Is this your friend? Jaime, was it?”

“No, it’s actually James—”

“Right, John. You’re a little too close for comfort.”

He is direct. He isn’t hiding the fact he is jealous. Maybe during the first steps of your relationship he’d he confused about these nagging feelings and try and hide them. But, as time progresses, things change. He has no qualms proving who you chose to go home with every day and night.

He’ll stand a little closer than usual, put a hand lightly on your lower back, or subtly pull you toward him when someone is making him feel territorial.

All of this is a warning— the way he tells the person ‘I am giving you a chance to back off.’

But if someone flirts with you in front of him openly— ignoring his warning? Oh, they’ll be getting the sharpest, driest sarcasm known to man.

“Are your eyes malfunctioning or are you just unaware they’re taken?”

“Dami!”

“What? They are clearly overstepping boundaries, even if they are informed that you are in fact in a relationship.”

The self restraint he shows in this situation is only because of you. But, there are some factors that can make him even more jealous. I mentioned how people flirting with you might make him feel inadequate at first— it’s a small and nagging feelings in his heart. It worms his way into him and festers.

If the person flirting with you is smart or shares your interests, Damian gets quietly competitive.

He’ll suddenly bring up topics you two have discussed in private— just to reestablish your bond in front of the third party.

He wants it known that he knows you better.

“Yes, they enjoy postmodernism, but only in photography. Not that you asked.”

If you notice his jealousy? In the beginning of your relationship, he might deny it, but as I said with more time he opens up more.

Once he trusts you more, he’ll admit it with a low voice and clenched jaw.

“I am not accustomed to—… feeling this way. I didn’t like seeing someone else think they had the right to look at you that way.”

There are ways to cheer him up afterwards though.

Clear words and gentle touch work best. Let him know he’s chosen— that you see him.

Bonus points if you tease him lightly after he’s calmed down.

Telling him he’s cute when he’s jealous? You’ll get a grumble from him, but he loves it.

If you get jealous over him, he’s genuinely shocked at first.

Then smug. Very smug.

“Hmph. At least you’re finally being honest about how deeply attached you are.”

He contorts to hold the receiver between his ear and shoulder, ignoring the looks his coworkers send him. He supposes that he must be a sight to see, tipped back in his chair, case documents teetering on the knife’s edge of spilling out of a manila folder in one hand, the other twirling the cord of the landline around his finger. 

“The worst,” you agree with another sigh. It must be the fifth time you’ve done that in the past minute, and if Dick closes his eyes tight enough, he can imagine you in front of him, dragging your hand down your face. “They want my column in print tomorrow—not Monday—and this fuck-ass editor is crossing out everything in my doc.” 

You mutter something about what fucking loaded language and it’s a goddamn opinion piece while Dick shoves his case folder into the depths of some dark cabinet and starts clearing the mess of reports on his desk until he unearths the collection of takeout menus pinned under the keyboard of his computer. 

If you can’t make it to dinner, Dick could just take dinner to you. 

He weighs his options; you’re probably not in the mood for pizza or burgers, and Chinese gets crossed off because you don’t work well on an oily stomach. Vietnamese is out of question too, you had that last week; this leaves Mediterranean and Italian, both of which are too far a drive for him to even bother. The food would get cold before he’d manage to make it up to your apartment. 

(His coworkers think it’s strange that he has dinner dates with his best friend every week. Just friends, they laugh, you’ll be saying that even after you’re married. Dick doesn’t think anything about it— you’ve never thought anything of the teasing, so he won’t either.) 

“When’s the last time you got up and took a walk?” he questions, grabbing a pen and scribbling a quick grocery list onto the palm of his hand. The ink runs out midway through a ‘t’ with a pop, leaving a big blot on his skin. The pen soars into the trash without a single beat passing and Dick keeps scribbling on with another in a different color. “Let the blood go back to your brain. Take a long, hot shower or something.” 

“No time for that,” you say, but he knows that you know he’s right—it’s in the nth sigh you let out, crackling electric over the phone. 

“C’mon.” 

“Fine, five more minutes.” 

Dick smiles—wide, lady-killer, a thousand watts of brilliance—and shuffles all his loose-leaf papers into a stack bearing some semblance to neatness, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. “It’s getting late, gotta go.” 

“Sorry about dinner. Next week?” 

“Sure.” 

He presses the receiver down with ink still drying on his palm. Even when his superior clears his throat and reminds him that his investigative report is due tomorrow— yes, tomorrow, you would’ve remembered if you weren’t giggling to your girlfriend like an idiot— the giddy feeling knitting its way up his throat doesn’t go away. 

An hour later, Dick steps up to the ratty doormat before the door of your apartment, manila folder tucked under his arm, groceries in hand, keys in the other. He doesn’t take long to find the key to your apartment—he knows the shape of it better than his own. 

He’s barely relocked the door and out of his shoes before he’s setting the case folder right next to the reporter’s notebook and laptop on your coffee table, the plastic bag of groceries on the nearby counter. In the corner beside the ratty couch you bought off an online catalog, Dick thumbs through your collection of records (most of them his), picking out a slow jazz album from a long defunct band. 

The vinyl is set on the mount of your record player (another thing of his, again, from when you finally escaped the bullpen) and he lays his jacket across the arm of your couch just as the trumpet and saxophone begin a gentle, crooning dance. You stumble out of the bathroom with your skin still dewy when the butter Dick is pushing around the pan begins to sputter. 

He watches you settle down on the carpet with your back to the couch, level to the coffee table. 

“Thought we postponed dinner,” you groan, popping your neck. Dick can see the red lining your sclera, highlighted starkly with the blue light from your laptop. The lines of your article fly past your glassy irises. “What’s on the menu, Chef Grayson?” 

“Linguine.” He folds his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, and he swears that your eyes are following his fingers as he twists the cuffs over themselves. But that can’t be true, because people don’t watch their best friend with great interest as they roll their sleeves. “Capers or cilantro? Or both?” 

“You know me,” you say, dragging his manila folder towards you. “Proof yours if you proof mine.” 

Dick laughs, tapping the butter off his spatula and turning down the heat. The blue flames simmer as another song begins with a swaying piano solo. “Well, mine’s classified.” 

“Don’t see a big red stamp anywhere.” 

“I’m kidding, those copies are redacted.” 

You grab your laptop and climb up onto the couch, dragging his jacket over yourself as you sink into the cushions, “Yay.” 

The linguine flops into the colander, steam rising in a veil that is pierced when the streetlight beside your window flickers on, bathing your apartment in an orange, yolky hue, the kind that comes from those eggs you love buying from the Japanese mart two blocks down. 

Somewhere in the near distance, a train rattles along its track and sends tremors up the foundation of the building. 

A particularly loud grumble from your stomach punctuates the hiss of the gas turning off. Dick strides over with two shallow bowls, two forks, two mugs. 

Dinner is quiet, quaint affair, interrupted only by the scrape of your fork and the clink of your mug as you set it down. 

“This would be good with wine,” you say, stretching your legs along the length of the couch. Dick looks up from his spot on the carpet, slowly as to not further the ache building in his curled neck. 

You’re painted in the dim, clementine halo that’s streaming in from outside and he swears that the shadows are sublimating right off you. 

He has to fish around in the dark for his words, string them along in a fishing-line sentence, “Uh…next time. I’ll bring over something from the store.” 

“Maybe you should make dinner more,” you suggest, setting down your bowl with nothing more than a soft clink against the coffee table. “Prices are going up, y’know.” 

It’s not like expense is a problem; you know that Dick has quite the sum of money, and you’ve met Bruce before. Still, that doesn’t deter you from fighting for the bill. 

Dick agrees with a smile, and you reach over the table with your computer dangling out of your hand by the corner of the base panel. He swaps it out wordlessly for his case report, swiping back and forth on the mousepad to awaken the screen. 

VIGILANTES: UNINTENTIONALLY HARMFUL 

You start talking about an upcoming journalist’s banquet that your company is hosting at a theatre in Gotham—yea, you say, Gotham, as if isn’t better than Blüdhaven. 

Dick is only half listening, scrolling slowly down your article. 

Growing up in Gotham, encountering vigilantes was anything but rare. I was thirteen when I first caught sight of Batman’s sidekick, Robin. The boy wonder swung right over me with a hand clutching the vine of his grappling wire and five minutes later, authorities issued an evacuation order for that block— 

Scroll. 

—that day, Robin did save me. If I hadn’t seen his shadow fall over the ground, I wouldn’t be here today. For that, I am grateful, but seeing the aftermath I so narrowly escaped from changed me. Do the lives lost really outweigh our growing dependence on vigilantes? 

Scroll. Vaguely, he registers that you’re scribbling notes in the margins of the copy of his report. 

—while it is impossible to dismiss the corruption within legal law enforcement, the question is still raised of whether illegal enforcers truly benefit the wider public or only culminate in bigger threats from worse people like the Joker— 

Scroll. You yawn and draw the jacket that’s been laying over your chest up to your face, pressing your nose into the worn leather. 

—doing what they believe is good at the risk of causing more harm. Even with the presence of vigilantes guarding our streets, it still is not truthful to say that we are entirely safe. 

“I think,” Dick says, and you draw your face out of where you’d buried it in his jacket, “that your editor is one crazy son of a bitch.” 

You smile, soft and smudgy in the clementine light that evaporates all the shadows around you. He almost forgets about all the secrets he’s harboring in the cabinetry of his anatomy. 

(Scars on the back, memory lapses from one too many concussions, a deep-seated ache in his knee that never really goes away.) 

“Told you so,” you sing, pen dancing around your fingers. “Yours is fine, just read my notes.” 

He barely catches the folder when you toss it back— luckily, anything that’s loose-leaf doesn’t slip out. “Careful, I don’t wanna reorganize my report.” 

“Paperclips are in my room,” you punctuate this with a tilt of your head towards the hallway. “Go take a shower too.” 

Dick raises an arm and feigns a couple of confused sniffles. “Do I stink that much?” 

“Yea, you smell like the shitty drip coffee at the office.” 

“You act like we can afford the nice espresso you guys get.” 

You scoff, sliding off the couch to grab your laptop and lead him to your room. The floorboards give with a small creak under his weight; you let the device fall onto the bed and rummage around your drawers for the clothes he always leaves here and the towel you’ve set aside for days like this one. 

“Hurry up,” you say once you shove a bundle of pajamas into his hands. You put your palms on his sternum—he wonders if you can feel the fight his heart is putting up—and push him towards the bathroom. “I’m making you watch a movie with me for the entertainment page.” 

His smile is barebones, a gentle twist of his mouth. It’s the kind that feels like a secret between the two of you. “You’re not usually this excited for an assignment. Is the entertainment editor cute or something?” 

“Shut up,” you blurt, pushing harder with a spark of panic in your eyes, and Dick catches himself stumbling backwards into the counter. 

“Oh, you have a crush, you like him!” The words feel uglier than they should be, rearing a twist of hurt-envy-why around each vertebra in his spine. 

“Talk to me when you aren’t stinky!” You slam the door close, but not before Dick can see the embarrassed look flickering over your face. 

The water starts running cold as he watches the shampoo gather in sudsy clouds around the drain—he’s quick to go through the rest of his routine and slide back into your room with a hand still toweling his hair dry. 

You’ve calmed down since, checking your inbox mindlessly. Now that he thinks about it, Dick can’t remember a time you’ve been without that computer. You look up, and though the light in here isn’t clementine and only comes from the singularity point of your screen, he can still feel his breath tighten. 

“So,” Dick starts. When he climbs into your bed, he finds that you’ve already made room for him. “Tell me all about this lucky guy.” 

You roll your eyes, leaning against his shoulder almost as if on instinct. You’re warm against his cold skin. The tide behind his ribs swells until he’s about to burst. 

“He’s cute, I guess. Funny, smart, dark hair” —then you’re reaching up to card your fingers through his hair, and selfishly, he thinks that no matter how hot this editor guy is, he’ll never get what Dick has with you— “kinda like yours, almost the same cut, but his eyes are green.” 

He hums, taking the laptop from you and navigating to the movie. You continue to play with the hair at his nape absently, sending frisson down his spine. 

“Not gonna say anything else?” you ask, and Dick just puts his arm around your shoulders despite the ache it agitates in his side. 

(He should’ve iced that bruise.) 

He cranes until his lips are half a breadth from the shell of your ear, whispers into the conch of it: no talking in the theatre. 

Y’know, apparently this is his favorite new movie right now— 

Shhhh. 

The plot is so convoluted that Dick starts wandering, and it seems like you are too. Wandering in dreamland, that is, slumping until your breaths puff into the hollow of his clavicle. 

The silence of the aftermath—when the credits run through and he’s not entirely sure whether he should wake you up to brush your teeth (no, it’s almost two in the morning now and you’re too comfortable)—is broken only by the faint wail of a siren. 

It fades as quickly as it had come. 

But Dick can’t get it out of his head. He’s drawn to the fight like a moth to the flame. 

You’ll get up around nine, he thinks, because tomorrow is the weekend and your article is already being printed. 

VIGILANTES: UNINTENTIONALLY HARMFUL 

The words flash through his head, louder and brighter than sirens. 

He knows he’ll hurt you if he gets up right now, leaves a pillow in the hollow of your arms and dons the suit hidden under the false bottom in his car’s trunk. You’re right, everything you wrote is so fucking correct that it makes something in his chest— 

Dick slides—gingerly, with care, because that’s how he’s always treated you and that’s how he always will treat you—out from under the covers. He can be back before nine, with breakfast from that bakery you like and a newspaper tucked under his arm. 

(Your newspaper, your article, your words.) 

“Dickie,” you stir, fingers catching on the hem of his old sleepshirt. 

“Relax, I just gotta pee.” 

He’ll give you one truth for now, even if it stains his mouth sour, like the stale aftertaste of the bad coffee at work. 

Dick—no, Nightwing tries not to dwell on it too much. He has people to protect. 

The door bursts open, and Cassian enters.

He’s flushed and sweaty like he always is after training, strands of hair hanging down from where they’ve ripped free from the knot at the nape of his neck. He brushes them back with a large, callused hand, and takes in the sight of you sprawled on your bed, an open book perched on your lap.

He’s always a little wild and frenetic, an animal that can’t be tamed, but this morning — this morning, it seems…extreme. A fire burns in his hazel eyes, and he licks his lips and rolls his shoulders as though there’s too much tension in them.

“How was training?” You ask casually, thumbing through your book.

“Fuck training.” Is all Cassian offers, and then he’s clambering onto the bed and folding his body over yours. “C’mere.”

He dips his head, clearly intent on capturing you in a kiss. But before it can land, your palm is in his face, pushing him away.

“Take your shoes off before you get on the bed, Cass.” You complain. “You’re all sweaty, too.”

A wicked grin tugs his lips up. He kicks his shoes off without sparing them a glance, and then he’s prowling back towards you. “You love it.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is slanting over yours in a deep kiss. His tongue immediately probes your mouth, and a deep groan rumbles in his chest.

“I couldn’t concentrate.” He huffs onto your mouth, hands moving up to your breasts. He gives a gentle squeeze. “I kept thinking about these.”

Immediately, your back arches into the touch. You tug your mouth off of his and cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “I’m not sure that’s part of the regime.”

“No it absolutely is not. But it still didn’t stop me thinking of them. Of everything I had waiting for me back here. This,” he moves down, pressing a kiss to the soft, pudgy flesh of your belly, “Mother above, I love this. And these,” his palms slip under your thighs, “I could spend all fucking day kissing these.”

He loves your thighs — has a real fascination with them. He loves touching them, stroking them, kissing them. Loves slotting himself between them. And fuck, he loves — is obsessed, even — with watching the way they rub together through your breeches while you walk. The way fabric hugs them and outlines their shape. The silvery stretch marks that create patterns in your skin and — rather conveniently — draw a path that snake up right to the creases between your legs. Yeah — he really, really loves those.

“I can’t imagine Azriel was all too impressed with your distraction.” You smile down at your mate, raking your fingers through his hair.

He growls softly, gently nips the flesh of one thigh, exposed beneath the shirt that you shucked on to lounge in — Cassian’s shirt. “I don’t want to hear another male’s name on those pretty lips right now.” He murmurs. “Only mine.”

“Jealous, jealous male.”

“Always.” His fingers are finding their way under the shirt, and he’s tugging it up, exposing more of you as you allow him to peel it from your skin. He chucks it behind him without giving it another thought, and then his eyes are devouring you.

Naked, now, except for your undergarments, Cassian can see everything from your full breasts to your soft tummy to your chubby thighs, and every dip, swell and crevice in between.

It’s taken you a while to make peace with the fact that you do not have the figure of the other females in Rhysand’s Inner Circle — and to realise that that is in no way a bad thing. That having a different body to them doesn’t mean having a lesser body than them. That yours is just as beautiful as theirs are — in a different way.

And having Cassian, the brilliant Illyrian general, worship you from head to toe every. single. day, most certainly helps.

Such heat flares in his gaze, now, as he drinks you in, that it’s almost too much to watch.

“You’re unreal,” he pants, despite no real exertion — yet. “I am so not worthy of you.”

“You’re more than worthy—”

“You’re a goddess. An actual fucking goddess.”

His mouth meets yours again, but it isn’t staying there long. He slots himself between those thighs he loves so much, his fingers biting into the generous flesh as he kisses his way along your jaw and down your neck, over your chest, down to the swells of your breasts. His tongue immediately flicks over one of your nipples, and you sigh at the sensation.

“I’ve never needed anyone or anything like I need you.” His mouth closes over your breast, a harsh suck puckering the flesh. “All,” he moves to the other breast, “the damn,” another suck, “time.”

“Cass,” you breathe, pleasure rolling down your spine. You need…something, anything — him.

“On it, sweetheart.” He says, and his kisses continue downwards.

They pepper your stomach, your hips, your pelvis. And his hands roam your body as they do, grasping at anywhere he can touch. He’s utterly obsessed with you, and he groans and ruts against the bed as he inhales slowly, breathes in your scent.

“You ready for me?” He grazes his teeth against your hip, dipping his fingers just past the waistband of your underwear. “My filthy mate. I can smell how ready you are.”

“Yes,” you sink back into the pillows, “please, Cass.”

“You never have to ask twice.”

He’s yanking your underwear down, and the stronger your scent becomes, the less he’s able to tamp down on those carnal noises that sound almost like animalistic snarls. He kisses one thigh, the other, and then tugs your legs apart with a hiss through his teeth.

“This is what I was thinking about during training.” He eyes your sex hungrily. “Getting between these incredible thighs. I couldn’t stop myself, and everyone knew it.”

“So get between them, General.” You drag a hand down your body, stopping between your legs. Your fingers mop up the wetness gathered there, swirling around your clit. The action dangles in front of Cassian like a toy. “Look how wet I am for you.”

The poor male is damn near salivating, his eyes almost rolling into the back of his head. He growls, moving your hand out of the way, and he can no longer stop himself from lowering his head to that sweet, dripping pussy he’s spent all morning fantasising about.

He licks right up the centre of you, tongue diving between your folds. At the first lick, you give over to the pleasure, the moans, pressing your hand to the back of Cassian’s head.

“Taste so good, my girl,” his tongue flicks your clit, “all this for me?”

“All of it, Cass. Always.”

“Yeah? You going to come for me?”

“Yes.” A moan escapes you as you tug at the strands of his hair. “Gods, yes.”

“That’s my girl.”

Your head falls back as he simultaneously sucks at your clit and flicks it with his tongue, and you feel fingers sinking between your folds. The sensations Cassian manages to wring from you never lessen in their impact. There’s something about having this brilliant male kneel between your legs and paint you with stunning pleasure. He calls you a goddess, and he treats you like one.

“Fuck,” you breathe, canting your hips up in time with the strokes of his tongue. “Cass…I want you inside me.”

“I want you to come for me first.” Without warning, he pushes a finger into you, and you moan. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

“Gods—yes,” you’re rocking against his hand, gasping as he adds a second finger. His lips smile against you.

“Go ahead — fuck my fingers and take what you need. Come for me, my girl.”

The two of you work together, him thrusting his fingers and continuing the strokes at your clit, and you taking it all so, so well. And you can tell he loves every moment of your pleasure — the way it builds up in your bones, your veins, and readies itself to implode.

And then your mate curls his fingers deep inside you, and it does exactly that. Release bursts through you at an unstoppable force. The impact of it surges to every corner of your body and has you shaking, gasping, screaming.

Cassian moans as if the climax is his own. He drinks and drinks and drinks, not letting a drop of you go to waste. He takes the clenching of your walls around his fingers and the harsh tugs of his hair. Takes it all, happily.

You’re not sure how long your head is spinning for, but you’re eventually coming down, just in time to see Cassian press a kiss to your belly. You tug his hair again and breathe, “Want you, Cass.”

“My beautiful,” he kisses your belly again, “beautiful mate.” As he pulls back, his hands drag down your thighs. “My goddess.”

He jumps up from the bed, and never have you seen him rid himself of clothes so quickly. Clothed, Cassian is stunning. Naked, he’s breathtaking.

Your eyes study him in utter awe, and you wonder — not for the first time — what you did so right in a previous life to have Cassian as your mate in this one. Every inch of him is firm and honed. Tan skin nicked with scars; bold, beautiful wings; rippling muscles and sharp edges. And his cock—

His cock has you swallowing.

It stands to attention, hard and proud and leaking at the head. Cassian wraps his hand around it and pumps a few times, his eyes still intensely on you. He grits his teeth.

“When you look at me like that,” he says, “you make me feel like a god.”

“You are.” Your chest rises and falls heavily. And you mean it — to you, he is. A god and goddess together.

Stark heat crosses his face, and he jerks his chin in signal. “Come here. I want you on top.”

He’s told you time and time again that having you on top of him is like having his prayers answered. Feeling you rocking on him, riding him, your thighs at his sides…a feeling like nothing else in the world. And you’re more than happy to oblige.

So you’re swapping positions. He’s sprawling back on the bed, wings beneath him, and you hover above him. You’re eager to feel him inside you, but you stop short at the weighty gaze that follows your every move.

You do not balk from it, though. This confidence is a stark difference from the early days of yours and Cassian’s sex life, when you’d do everything to avoid him staring at you for too long, when you’d insist on fucking in the dark. Cassian watches you approach like you’re the last meal he’ll ever get to have. He looks…lost for words.

You reach down, cupping his face between your palms. “You’ll give me an ego.”

“You should have an ego.” He turns his head, kissing your hand. “Fuck me, you’re exquisite.”

With a smile, you’re dipping down and slanting your mouth over his. And as Cassian kisses you back, he takes your hands, gently, slowly pulling you down, until you’re straddling him.

“Did you think about this during training, too?” Your voice shakes as the head of his cock brushes your entrance. “Being inside me? Having me ride you?”

Cassian kisses you so deeply, it leaves you breathless. A loud, wet kiss with his lips moulded to yours, his tongue and your tongue dancing. He pulls away only to tell you, “I think about being inside you, and having you ride me, all the fucking time.”

You smile, reaching behind you to palm at his cock. And a soft groan breaks from him as you pump his length gently. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, moving his hand down to grab your thighs.

“Put me inside you,” he shudders, his callused thumbs sweeping your skin. “Need to feel your cunt around me.”

You can’t wait any longer, either. You steady his cock at the base, and the second it’s brushing through your soaked folds, you’re both moaning.

And even louder, still, as you sink so, so slowly onto him.

The more his cock slides into you, the harder Cassian grips onto your thighs. He grits his teeth, watching closely as you pause, allow yourself to adjust to his size, and sink down to the hilt.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” His hands smooth upwards, skating over your hips and round to grab at your generous ass. He squeezes, and then he’s lifting you, and you’re moving on his cock.

You could do this forever — have his long, thick length sliding in and out of you. In seconds, you’re slick enough, drenching him enough, to bounce on his length. You roll your hips, bracing your hands on the headboard and throwing your head back at the pleasure that skitters through you. Cassian leans down, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth.

“So full,” you whine, grinding against him faster.

“Yeah?” He breathes. “My cock fills you up nice and good, doesn’t it? I know exactly what this pretty cunt needs.” He lifts you up by your ass, growling, “You want it hard, my goddess?”

“Fuck, Cass, yes.”

“You gonna scream for me? Make sure those lot training on the roof know that I rushed away to fuck my mate like she needed me to?”

“Yes—gods.”

“Scream for me, then.” He grips you hard, and he gives you no choice but to scream.

He slams up into you, again and again, the angle so desperate and deep that your control utterly slips. You can’t pull it back. You can’t grab the upper hand and pin him down to ride him — and you don’t want to. Not as he hits a spot so deep inside you that another climax knocks the breath out of you, and you’re screaming, moaning, clawing.

A deep, smug chuckle breaks through the haze of your orgasm, but Cassian doesn’t falter once. His brow furrows more and more with every thrust. He’s holding you closer to him, burying his face into your neck, and you know he’s not going to last much longer.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses, bracing himself, “how do you feel better and better every damn time?”

“Because I’m yours,” you pant, and Cass chokes on a groan, “and you are mine.”

“Always.” His mouth finds yours in a deep, unforgiving kiss, and he doesn’t pull away as his body begins to tremble beneath you, his thrusts faltering and becoming sloppy.

He slumps down, lying your body flush against his, and just like that, he’s on the home stretch.

“Give it to me, Cass,” you watch the pinched pleasure on his face, “I want you to spill inside me.”

Your mate throws his head back, a shout escaping him. His hips still as you feel the explosion of his orgasm deep inside you, painting your walls with his come. Spurt after spurt, it feels never ending, and Cassian groans gutturally through it all. He well and truly fills you up.

He stays inside you for a while after — while you catch your breaths. But when you’ve both calmed a little, he’s pulling back to meet your gaze, and a dazed laugh leaves him. “Fuck, that was good.” He breathes.

“Mmhm.” You smirk, leaning in to kiss him. “Better than your fantasising?”

“My fantasies can be pretty elaborate, but even this brain couldn’t conjure up anything as brilliant as you.” He kisses you back, his hand gently patting your ass. “My delicious little mate.”

You can only smile against his lips. And you’d be content to stay here all day, wrapped up in him, his mouth on yours. But you grin and snake your arms around his neck. “Cass?”

“Yes, my love?”

“You really need a bath.”

He jumps up without a word, your combined wetness spilling down those thighs he loves so much, as he carries you with him to the bathroom.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The Manor was too quiet for a place

with so many ghosts.

Damian sat in the study, elbows on his knees, hands steepled in front of his face. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows against the walls, but it did nothing to warm the storm brewing in his chest.

“She’s back,” he said aloud, voice low.

Alfred, ever poised, paused in his tea-pouring ritual. “So I’ve heard.”

Damian didn’t look up. “She’s the same. she’s still… her.”

Alfred set the cup gently beside him. “Grief, Master Damian, often disguises itself as anger. And love, when buried, has a habit of clawing its way to the surface.”

He scoffed. “You make it sound poetic.”

“It often is.”

Footsteps creaked behind him—lighter, more familiar.

“Alfred’s beating me to the heart-to-heart again?” Dick’s voice was teasing, but his expression softened when he saw Damian’s face.

Damian didn’t rise. “If you came to lecture me—”

“I came because I know that look. You’re spiraling.”

Damian looked at his hands, rain still clinging to his gloves. “She remembers pieces. Enough to break me.”

Dick sat beside him. “And Raven?”

Silence.

“She’s good to me,” Damian said finally. “Patient. Strong. She deserves better than being someone’s second place.”

“But you’re not sure she is.”

Damian’s jaw tensed. “I don’t want to hurt her. Or (Y/N). But I already am. Both of them.”

Dick leaned back, thoughtful. “You loved (Y/N), didn’t you? Before?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I didn’t get the chance to find out. I was... afraid.”

“And now?”

“She came back. And all I want is to protect her. Be near her. But Raven—she’s been here. She didn’t give up on me.”

Alfred spoke from the doorway, his tone gentle but firm. “You must ask yourself not who deserves your loyalty, but who holds your truth.”

Damian closed his eyes. The weight in his chest was unbearable.

“She looked at me like I was home,” he whispered. “Even after everything.”

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” You yelped. You had been reading and walking, a terrible habit. You took a step back to look at the tall fit handsome man in front of you. He was covering his shape in a baggy hoodie and jeans but it’s harder to hide when you run into someone. You flushed instantly.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” he said subconsciously rubbing his collarbone where the hard corner of your book had shoved into him.

“Did I hit you?” You asked. “I feel terrible.”

“I’m fine,” he replied. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I mean I jabbed the heck outta myself with the book but that’s my fault for walking and reading,” you said with a laugh. “Is your book okay?”

“Yeah, all good,” he said looking it over.

“Crime and punishment? Wow. Light reading?” You teased. He nodded while looking down.

“I’ve already read it. I just don’t have my own copy,” Jason said. He thought you were cute but he was a little disoriented. He had planned to look at old books in silence.

“What’s with guys reading depression books?”

“It’s not- okay it is. But I don’t just read depression books. What are you reading?” He quipped and his heart beat a little faster when you grinned up at him while shoving the book behind your back. It was adorable.

“I don’t want to say,” You answered while evading him looking over your shoulder to see.

“You don’t want to say? Is it bad? Bodice ripper or something?” He teased. “Fairy porn?”

“No,” you protested. “Take me out for coffee and I’ll show you.”

“Coffee hu? There’s a place across the street,” Jason answered. “Count it as done. Show the book,” he said with his hand out.

“How do I guarantee that?” You turned sharply to press the book against the shelf when he tried to look behind you.

Jason put his arm high up on the shelf above your head. You could see how tall and handsome he was. “Trust me. I’m taking you out for coffee,” he said seriously. You gulped.

You didn’t have an answer, a quip. All you could think about was the man before you that held your attention like a good book.

He slowly reached behind your back and you could smell his pleasant aftershave as he grabbed the spine of the book.

“The Ethics of Superman: Man or Menace? And you said my book is serious? I didn’t peg you as the type to read this kind of book, I’ll admit,” Jason said. He didn’t want to act like it but if you were obsessed with superheroes, he was disappointed.

“It’s for college. My debate class. I was hoping to read the important part without buying it,” you admitted. He nodded knowingly.

“I get that. Coffee?” He said sitting the books on the table.

“What about your book?” You asked.

“Not the one I want,” he replied while looking at you. Jesus, this man was intense.

You both went to shop across the street and over coffee, talked about books you actually liked. You found out that, yes, Jason did read depression books but also loved Jane Austen books. You laughed at the idea.

“Are you laughing at me?” He asked, pretending to be wounded.

“No, no. It’s not everyday that a big tall strong guy says he likes Pride and Prejudice,” you laughed. He grinned at you.

“Wow judging a book by its cover,” he teased.

“Hey now, I judge all books by their covers. Not just your cover,” you said and he raised an eyebrow. “That did not sound the way I meant it. I mean-“

“I get what you mean,” he replied before taking a drink of his coffee. “One cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”

“Are you quoting Jane Austen? Keep that up and I’ll be taking you home,” you whipped before taking a drink of your own coffee. Jason choked on his drink. His eyes were wide as he cough.

“Sorry! Sorry,” he said. His cheeks were bright red. You noticed cute freckles across his nose as well as you grinned at him with a giggle.

His phone rang and Jason looked at it with a frown. “It’s work. I have to go. Sorry. Can I have your number? Call you sometime?”

“Sure,” you said before telling him. He sent you a quick wave text. “Call me sometime. Maybe you can quote some Shakespeare or something next time.”

“Next time- sure, yeah,” he said before racing out the door.

A few weeks of texting and calling and even a few meet ups when Jason wasn’t busy with his night job had you quite strung along. You caught yourself grinning at his texts and waiting for his calls. Talking about books with him had your passion for reading at an all time high. When you weren’t thinking of the tall handsome reader, you were reading.

So much so that you always had a book in your hand. Jason had warned you to not walk and read but have you ever really listened to anyone?

Now it wasn’t your fault that an idiot drove a motorbike on the sidewalk as you meandered to the bus stop. Jason wasn’t always watching you but when you left Gotham U late in the evening, he found himself watching and following from the rooftops.

Just as you went to take a step, an arm grabbed you around the waist and you felt yourself swing on a rope. You shrieked as you swung up to a rooftop. You grasped at the red masked man that grabbed you as you looked down to the street level.

“Oh my god!” You gasped before you even turned to look at the man before you. The Red Hood stood tall and imposing as he let go when you were safely on the roof.

“How many times have I told you to look when you’re walking? Don’t read and walk. You were almost ran over by a motorbike,” the vigilante said exasperated. You frowned. The voice was disguised but the tone and word use was familiar.

“Jason?” You asked with sudden clarity. He froze. “You’re- seriously?”

It suddenly made sense. How he was so fit and muscular for a librarian. How he had so many random bits of knowledge. Why he was almost always radio silent at night.

“I don’t know who-“ he started but you were already reaching over to the helmet. “Stop,” he said. He clicked the locks open and making sure no one could see either of you, he removed the helmet.

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly with a wary look on his face as he tried to gauge your reaction.

“Okay. Okay,” you repeated. You sat down while avoiding the edge. “Hu. Were you following me?”

“No. I just happened to be there. Sorry about the roof. I know you’re not a big fan of heights,” he said.

“Yeahhh.”

“And I hate to say this but the only way off the roof is to jump,” he added.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Why don’t we go back to my place and I’ll tell you more,” Jason suggested.

“And when you say jump…”

“Grappling hook, swing down to the street or across to another building. I won’t let you fall,” he added. You looked at him and down to the ground before sighing.

“Fuck.”

He put the helmet back on and opened an arm to grab you. You grasped him so tightly that it hurt a little. He walked you to the roof edge and you inhaled quickly before burying your face in his jacket.

“Fuck,” you repeat.

“We’re going to the building across the street, okay? Just breathe,” he said and you nodded without looking. He shot the grappling hook and grabbed you tight before jumping. The feeling of free falling before the rope went taunt pulled a scream from your throat. Suddenly the arch of the swing went a different direction and you shrieked.

“Got you,” he said before swinging up to a different rooftop. It was probably a minute before he could peel you off of him. “We’re here. Come on.”

Jason pulled you to the emergency staircase on the outside of the apartment building. You groaned as you went down a few floors to an apartment. Jason opened the window and you both crawled in.

“I guess I have a long story to tell you,” he grimaced. Over the next few hours he told you everything. After he had exhausted himself with as much info as he felt he needed to say, Jason looked over at you.

“You’re telling me that you’ve had an apartment a few blocks from Gotham U and you never told me?”

Jason laughed, surprised.

“I mean, I’ve been going all the way across town when this place was here. You owe me so many bookstore dates,” you replied.

“Oh yeah, I can do that,” he sagged in relief. You sat in his lap and pulled him into a hug.

Standing in the doorway, disheveled and sweating was none other than Damian Wayne. The two of you made eye contact and you felt the air and color leave you. Heart hammering, you froze for a singular moment, long enough to see the recognition and relief in his eyes.

Something warm blossomed in your chest, a wave of joy that wrapped around your throat. It squeezed at your heart as a bitter taste coated your tongue and you weakly took a breath in. He was here, he was here. It was almost instinctual to lean in and hug him. To start some sort of physical contact as if you make sure he was here-truly here. Then the tight pulsing of your veins and breathing of your lungs yanked you back into reality. He- he had betrayed you, he- he had abandoned you. Pulling back, you squeezed your hand into a fist, eyes raking over him before noticing the movement just beyond his shoulder. No, the person behind him. She looked a little frazzled, but still as perfect as ever. Looking back to Damian the sluggish feeling of betrayal up your spine.

A wave of emotions fierce and roaring climbed up your throat as you backed away from the door. For a moment you couldn't breathe, and the world was spinning as a realization crashed down around you.

He was here.

Why was he here? Why did he have to come just as you were starting to get numb to all those emotions? Why did he have to come after you just made it past an episode? Why did he come? Why? Why?!

Swallowing you pushed back your worries and fears, back the questions and pain. Gripping your hot chocolate tighter as you let out a slow breath, then you began walking towards the door. Hoping your nonchalant attitude would make them ignore you or so baffled you could slip past. As you made it to the doorway, you began to slide towards the street, outside of the store-the place with no escape, to the open and free air that allowed you the opportunity to turn and leave.

Unfortunately, your hopes were in vain. A hand clamped down on your arm, pulling you in. And you blinked, looking to find Damian Wayne practically towering next to you. Eyes frantically racing over your face and body, worry covering every feature as you felt his heavy breaths on your skin. Hell, his heaving chest nearly touched your arms as you felt his heat.

"Y/N."

Taking another breath you gave him a blank look, your eyes instantly drawn to your sister loitering behind him. A muddled mixture of emotions on her face.

"If," You began calmly, your eyes locking on his nose, so you don't have to look into his eyes, "you're here because you think I'm trying to steal Jon or poison him against you, you should know I'm not. And there's no reason to worry."

You saw his jaw twitch and his grip tightened on your arm as he pulled you in even closer. Faintly, you could feel Jon lingering behind you. Clearly watching and waiting for a moment that deemed too much for you or a spot to intervene.

"I am not here because of that."

You bit the inside of your cheek as you looked away from Damian's face. Eyes once again drawing to your sister, whose brow was furrowed, a scowl of sorts on her face.

"Then why are you here?" You softly asked nails digging into your palm as you looked towards the floor.

"I'm here for you."

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