#chunguswrites

pairing: clark kent x reader

synopsis: you could assume simply by observation that your boyfriend clark kent was big down there— and yet in your faultless underestimation, you physically cannot take him

warnings: smut ahead (they do the deed) - size kink for sure.. sweet!clark is the definition of “big d stand for big demeanour” iykyk. also take a shot every time it says big help

a/n: here u go! I KNOW THEY WANT DAMIAN BUT BLAME DAVID CORENSWET I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT CLARK KENT

you knew clark kent was big.

it showed— with the way his dress shirt buttons were always at their last whim, threatening to pop at every little movement; with his shoe and coat size (you had playfully tried on his blazer once— it could’ve doubled as a dress); with the way he towered over you when he’d bend down to hear you; with the way you’d sink into his broad chest and disappear behind his arms when he’d hug you (if you got crushed by his enormous biceps you’d pass out happy); with the way his palm was twice the size of yours, and how his hands would engulf your face when he’d cradle it to kiss you— not because you were ‘petite’ or ‘tiny’, but because he was simply huge.

of course, standing at a great height of 6’4 and weighing 240 pounds (that’s over a HUNDRED KILOGRAMS just by the way), clark’s size was guaranteed. justifiable. obviously made sense.

it was hard to bar the thoughts that often followed that train of thought. lying on top of him on the bed of your apartment with his large palm over your stomach, covering almost the entirety of its surface, and the other at your plush thigh— it was hard not to think about other parts of his body. hard not to think about the faint underline of something long and large in between his legs, sometimes guilty for poking against your butt during cuddle sessions.

it was hard not to feel the size of it. and every time the very thought made your throat dry. made you clench around air.

sometimes you’d wonder (like a freak, but you can’t be blamed, just look at your man) about how it would feel to take him: when you’d reach that eventual stage of your relationship, if it would even fit. would it be possible? you had had exes— you were sure none of them were even half clark’s size.

but you revelled in the thought. the thought of having your sweet, farm-boy, gentle giant of a boyfriend force himself into you, stretching you out so bad you wouldn’t remember anything but his name. it’s a little disrespectful to feminism, the things you’d let this man do to you— simply because you know he’d be the biggest gentleman doing them.

but those were all fantasies. clark kent can’t be that big— right?

and so after a long day of work two months into your relationship with clark, the two of you return to your apartment, both exhausted and truthfully needing to blow off some steam. you’re the first to initiate wandering into new territory, leading clark into your bedroom with hands all over his neck and shoulders, puny against their broadness.

on the contrary, his hands are large yet gentle, framing out your entire waist and back with one swipe along your body. he holds you like you’re priceless, effortlessly lifting you onto the bed. you grab his wrist, dragging it down, and so he— getting the message— meticulously moves his fingers to unbutton your pants, mouth still attached to yours, mindlessly making out.

he carefully pushes down your pants with one hand, trying to start slow and cautious, but you impatiently reach down yourself to kick off your underwear. clark lets out a velvety groan against your ear, peppering kisses down your neck, palm hovering over your mound and then in between your legs. you shamelessly part your legs for your boyfriend whose smile you feel against your burning skin.

“enthusiastic?” he whispers, voice deep and mushy against your ear, and you melt. you nod unabashedly, turning your head to chase his face to kiss his pretty dimple. he buries his face in your neck, smile widening.

clark is diligent as his thick fingers slide up and down your soaking slit. he’s tentative at first, hyper-vigilant on your reactions to make sure he’s doing a good job. you whimper, closing your legs around his hand. he presses a kiss to your jaw as his fingers rub circles on your puffy clit, sliding down. “tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he whispers, caring as always.

a long, hefty finger tenderly sinks into your cunt. your lips part to release a shaky whine, pulling him close, quivering as you breathe. clark nuzzles his nose against your jaw. “you sound so gosh darn beautiful.”

one finger quickly turns into two, crude sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your sopping hole polluting your room. and then there were three, your slot clamping in protest, curses clark would never approve of if not in this circumstance flying out from in between your lips.

“i know,” he whispers, unintentionally slightly patronising, but his intention is to be kind. his other hand is holding your thighs apart, thumb caressing the fluffy skin on the inside. “i’m sorry. you’ll need this,” his voice is apologetic and soft.

need this?

in your daze, you don’t process his words at all. instead, you’re a begging mess. “clark, i need you,” you breathe out, gasping in pleasure when his fingers curl deep inside you, hitting just right. “please—”

clark kisses your mouth shut. he continues to pump his chunky digits in and out of your clenching hole for a few moments until you’re fully leaking onto the sheets and pathetically stretched— only then does he pull away as his other hand moves to his pants.

you make the grave mistake of not looking, too busy savouring the way clark’s fingers feel plunging inside you, rocking your hips against his hand as he’s preparing you, remaining blissfully unaware.

only when clark tugs down his pants and boxers in one go and aligns his leaking tip with you do you realise what ‘you’ll need this’ meant. that his fingers weren’t teasing. they were doing you a service.

a gasp rips through your throat. you full on choke when you feel how thick he is against your entrance. you fumble to grip the sheets, using them as anchors to slightly elevate yourself to look down at him.

your jaw drops. your eyes are wide in a mix of alarm and a strange sense of arousal, moving up to the face of a guilty clark.

“clark,” your voice cracks with how dry it’s become, eyes locked on his impossibly girthy, fat, large dick. you shake your head slightly, voice comedically breathless and meek. “clark that’s not going to fit.”

clark’s cheeks heat up. “you took three fingers,” he whispers weakly to comfort you, fingers still gently stimulating your clit by toying with it. his lips are pursed defeatedly, unsure of how to go about this, dimples sinking into his cheeks with embarrassment.

you’re still bewildered. you hesitantly lay back down, contemplating the pros to cons ratio of your hunk of a boyfriend. you hook your arms around his neck: possessive, nervous, and immensely turned on.

clark reaches up with his other hand, cradling your cheek. “i’ll be gentle,” he leans down, pressing a kiss to your ear. “promise,” his voice is a reassuring whisper. of course you trust him, but he’s just so—

when he pushes in just a bit, your mouth drops in a sharp gasp, eyelashes fluttering as your eyes roll back into your head, closing.

“clark—” you can barely breathe let alone hold it together, arms tightening around his neck, keeping him close for support at the big stretch.

“clark, i can’t—” you whine, wheezing for air, your body suddenly too hot, chest too tight, cunt way too strained around the bare tip of clark’s length. it’s just past the leaky red head, and you can feel every damn vein on his length with how thin you’ve been stretched out.

guilt floods your boyfriend’s chest, his eyebrows creasing, bottom lip jutting out in a frown. he pulls out enough so only his red mushroom tip is buried at your opening, which is still torture for your poor hole.

“sweetheart,” he breathes, hand on your cheek, tapping his index finger twice against your burning skin to bring you back from your dazed state.

you blink, eyes barely opening as you meet clark’s. you clench around his tip, cunt paradoxically desperate to be filled. “too big,” you whine.

your complaint isn’t flattery or dirty talk— it’s genuine. clark’s downright unreal, pornographic combination of width and length seems physically impossible to take.

clark instantly feels worse.

his hand moves down, gently prying your legs apart at a comfortable angle to caress your inner thigh.

“sorry,” he breathes, deep voice low and barely constrained, apologising as if it’s his fault. “i’m— i’m sorry. we don’t have to do this,” he exhales as if it hurts, about to pull himself out when you clutch his bicep, shaking your head rapidly, eyebrows crinkled.

“just— just need a minute.” your chest heaves up and down with every deep breath. gosh you really really want him, and need him, and you’re aching, but—

your back arches off the bed, sucking in a deep breath. you close your eyes, hands sticky with sweat, greedily tracing the muscles of his back.

“okay,” you heave out. “i’m ready.”

clark looks even remorseful, a faint crimson painting the tip of his ears. “angel, we don’t—”

your hand firmly clutches his bicep, nails digging into the hard muscle. “clark i want it,” you whisper instead, cutting him off. your hazy eyes open to look at his pretty baby blue ones, and they relax slightly at the sight of your desperate, wretched look. his hand moves up to caress your cheek, thumb rubbing up and down the soft skin— the moment is intimate.

“my sweet girl,” he muses. “i’d never let you get hurt,” he whispers, this time leaning down, pressing a peck to the edge of your mouth.

he slowly, painfully so, pushes more of his length inside. your breath hitches, and the initial stretch from the curve of his tip in comparison to the girth of his length is straight torture. you feel tension build up in your stomach, and you’re concerned you’ll cum just by his head. your lips fall open in a shaky moan.

clark supports his weight with one hand beside your head, nursing your face with kisses while his other hand moves down to angle his length carefully so he pushes in just right, driving another inch inside.

your head pushes back into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. “fuck,” you curse, your grip on his arm bruising. “fuck clark, i need more—”

clark’s mouth finds yours, kiss sweet and delicate. “language,” he simpers against your lips, aware of how annoying that probably sounded. “i’ll give you what you need, angel. i always do.”

his voice is straight up sensual— deep, low, and articulate, butterflies erupting in your stomach.

you’re making a mess on the sheets already, the ring of your opening stretched around clark’s bulky dick. you can feel each vein when he pushes in halfway, your hole choking his length. he lets out a low grunt. “you feel so perfect,” he whispers.

you can’t take it anymore. “fuck it,” you cry out, arms back around clark’s neck, holding on tight for support. “i mean it, clark. just ruin me—”

who’s clark to deny you when you whine so sweetly?

you cry out in pleasure when clark drives the rest of his length inside you. he isn’t rough or quick, but does it in one smooth careful continuous movement. the feeling is brutally filling, a string of curses and moans leaving your pink lips. you feel numb inside, gummy walls taut against the veiny skin of his dick.

clark groans at the feeling, anchoring himself by placing a hand on your tummy. his eyes widen when he feels the outlined shape of him inside you, over your skin at your abdomen, and his cheeks flush.

“oh gosh,” his voice is breathless. “you were made for me, weren’t you? just perfect.”

you’re too fucked out to argue with that— though no human was made for a size as big as clark’s. it’s one of the rare things that are completely alien about him. good thing you’re great at adapting.

clark lets you adjust with his monster dick inside you, pushed till his neatly trimmed base, thighs against your pelvis. his shaft is curved just a little, fitting perfectly inside you, abusing all the right places. when you squirm and whine for him to stop being so slow and careful, he smiles instead, cheeks dimpling.

“so inconsiderate. what about me?” he whispers, leaning down. “i’m inside you for the first time too, and it feels heavenly.”

you could cum just by the vibrations clark’s hot, sweet, rough voice send through your bones.

with those heat inducing words clark pulls half of himself out, slowly thrusting back inside. his tip hits perfectly against you, and he almost goes feral when he hears the disgruntled moan you let out. chasing those sounds, he begins to form the perfect rhythm and pattern of thrusts, obscene sounds of skin slapping and pathetic whining filling your room. his super-strength is foul for the stamina it gives him, and how focused he is on pleasuring you, pushing inside just right, is enough to make you collapse.

as he speeds up and finds a good, consistent pace of plunges, clark’s gasps become more dark and intense, his shaft twitching and pulsing inside you. he has to grip your hip to ground himself, thick fingers digging into your skin, his exhales sharp at your ear. he’s fairly vocal, but it’s mostly grunts, gasps, groans, your name, mixed with the sweetest praises.

“mm—yes,” his mouth falls open to let out a low, guttural sound at your ear. “you’re taking me so perfectly,” his hips slam against yours. “flawless,” he kisses your cheek, lips parted as he breathes hot air directly against your skin. “gorgeous.”

by the end with the two of you nearing your releases, clark’s thrusts are harder and lazier, the bed creaking in protest and so are you, his thick head pressing repeatedly at the same perfect spot that makes your stomach tighten, bruising it, leaking all over your walls that helplessly clench around his length.

you cum first, because of course— clark’s stamina is inhuman. you tremble, one hand tight on clark’s forearms, nails scratching his skin, the other gripping the sheets so hard they almost rip— your orgasm tears through you, your pussy desperately, uncontrollably tightening so hard around clark’s length he mewls.

you’re dripping from the edges each time clark pulls out to thrust again, thick hot liquid leaking down your thighs. “just a little more,” clark begs, holding your limp body to comfort you. “just— just gonna finish,” he uses your fucked out hole until you clench just right at his tip, gasping as he spurts out right inside you, filling your gummy walls. he pulls out as he does so some filthy white liquid decorates your pink, puffy, tired hole and clit— clark stares for a good minute, mesmerised by how enticing you look, pulsing around nothing, all swollen.

clark needs a minute to regain his own self first, and he’s kissing you more because he needs it, your lips barely puckering in response, exhausted. you’re on the verge of passing out when clark makes himself decent, rushing to the bathroom and drawing you a warm bath. he helps wash and clean you, and you’re almost limp in his arms the entire time, his super strength coming in handy. he dresses you in one big t-shirt of his, laying you down on your bed.

he fixes himself up next before excitedly crawling into bed with you, immediately wrapping his arms around you.

he squeezes you like a kid with a teddy bear, pulling your back flush to his chest. “mmm,” he hums in satisfaction, kissing your cheek from behind with a large grin. “that was perfect. you’re perfect.”

you smile, just a bit, because good for fucking him. you’re warm and clean thanks to him (still aching and sore), but downright annoyed at how perfect your boyfriend is. you groan as you turn around to face him to taunt, but seeing clark’s bright smile, adorable dimples, and scrunched nose makes your heart race.

you want to kiss him, but you’re honestly too tired to even move that much. luckily clark gets the hint, or is desperate himself, moving down and pressing more than three sweet kisses to your lips in succession.

“thank you,” he breathes against your mouth mid-kisses, voice suddenly much quieter. more intimate. “you were so good for me,” he praises, arm rubbing up and down your back. “i really appreciated that. how well you took me.”

your cheeks heat up and you stare at your boyfriend in awe because there’s no way he’s real. there’s no way he’s thanking you when he’s the one who made you see stars living out your sick fantasy.

you bury your crimson face in his chest, grumbling. “god, you can’t be real.”

clark grins wider, hand coming up to gently pat the back of your head. you bask in his scent, cozy and content despite the burn in between your legs. there’s a price to pay for such extensive pleasure.

“i miscalculated bad though,” you mumble against his shirt. “you were way bigger than i thought. and i thought big.”

clark’s smile is sheepish.

when did damian get hot [dcu]

PART 2 | PART 1 | PART 3 | PART 4

pairing: damian wayne (aged up) x reader

synopsis: after sleeping with damian wayne, the boy you hated as a kid and saw again after years, you assume he's grown up into a less entitled, less hostile, better version of himself— but has he?

a/n: THIS IS SPECIALLY FOR MY FIRST ASK THANK U SO MUCH FOR THE REQUEST!! i spent so long thinking so hard about what i could write for the greatly requested part 2 of a fic i never intended to be more than a oneshot, and so my only hope is that this is up to everyone’s standards 🙏 there can be an extra smutty part 3 if u guys want eheh... also damian angst cuz yes. plz enjoy!!

after the night you spent with damian wayne, it was hard to believe that this was the same rowdy kid you’d spent your entire childhood despising. alas, it was reassuring to know that he had grown out of the insufferable child he was, and turned into an almost tolerable, yet still painfully attractive man.

it had been a week since your rendezvous with him, and though it was slightly awkward— seeing damian around, pretending to be casual, waving, smiling— it hadn’t been too weird. damian had earned himself redemption points— a) he had been careful and unusually sweet that night b) he was no longer annoying and or always fighting with everyone at the manor c) he hadn’t been excruciatingly insufferable or awkward about the fact that you two had taken each others virginities. three for three.

and so, you concluded: damian had truly grown out of being horrid, which was great! guess you both grew up: less childish, less aggressive, less arrogant, with good emotional regulation.

or so you thought.

here you are, a week later, stepping out of your room at night to make yourself a snack, simply loitering around the manor when you hear loud dialogue. immediately curious, you follow the sound of chatter, down the hallway, to the batcave.

you don’t want to eavesdrop, but as you get closer, you instantly recognise the voice. you sneak close enough to the entrance, close enough to make out—

“just because we have dinner every week does not mean i blindly do as you say as if i am your prisoner, father! i’m old enough to live my life how i want it!”

your heart drops.

you could recognise damian’s angry voice from a mile away, even if it had been four years since you’d last heard it. even if he had grown up past the ten year old version of himself you hated, it was all too familiar— he sounded eerily similar to how he did when he was a child. snappish.

you, now with heightened curiosity and an old habit of peeping even when it isn’t your business, tip toe further ahead, and peep right behind the entrance of the batcave. you recognise damian’s voice, but still pray that the sight won’t be what you think it is.

it is. bruce, in his batman costume; damian, dawning his robin outfit— face to face, in the in the middle of a full blown argument.

memories come flooding back to you. you had seen this before: “a biological accident doesn’t make you my father, and it sure as hell doesn’t make me your son!” damian would yell at bruce, stomping off to his room, bumping shoulders with you, who had been wide eyed with clenched fists at the edge of the hallway, eavesdropping on their conversation when the two of you were children.

back then you had hated damian for many reasons, but there was always a specific distaste for the way he’d constantly dispute with the man who had only ever tried to look out for him. maybe it was personal— you defended bruce because he gave you refuge when your parents weren’t there to— but mostly, you were a kid who didn’t know better than to hate what you didn’t understand. quite frankly, you didn’t know anything about damian at all, but the bad things.

damian looked the same right now, from the exact same corner of the hallway; you couldn’t see much but the outline of his furiously creased eyebrows, his eyes wild with rage. his lips were contorted in frustration, a sharp glare directed at his father. you could make out only a few expressions of fury, only a few gestures of aggression.

and yet, seeing damian fight with bruce again after so long evoked something in you that you knew had no place to be there. an unbridled resentment that you had no right to possess— the matter didn’t involve you. but you had grown up around damian’s loud behaviour. with his uncontrollable temper. with his walls and walls of internal defences.

your eyes widen when you see batman leave the batcave in the bat-mobile mid-argument, leaving a furious robin back. you couldn’t blame him— you knew the routine. arguing with damian was pointless. he didn’t know how to regulate his emotions. didn’t know how to accept his fault, much less apologise.

you hear a growl and a large thrum in succession. your eyebrows furrow, chest heaving up and down.

you shouldn’t. you really shouldn’t— and yet your feet move on their own, two steps revealing you from the shadows. you get a proper view of damian— frowning in his robin suit, domino mask thrown across the room on the floor. he has the same petulant, childish glower on his face from as a kid.

damian looks up, sees you, and his teeth grit.

“being back means you return to your old habits of eavesdropping?” damian spits, his voice hostile, and he seems almost unrecognisable from the boy you had slept with, and recognisable as the one you had grown up with. his hand is clenched into a fist atop one of desks— the reason of the loud bang you heard, you assume— the other hand on his waist, clutching tight.

your eyebrows furrow, riled up; unsure of what to say, your mouth opens and closes for a moment.

“looks like you still have the habit of enjoying fighting with bruce,” you finally retort, jaw clenched.

“watch it!” damian barks, his voice loud and childish. your eyes widen at the unexpected burst of volume. the two of you sound so much like the past versions of yourselves, it almost gives you whiplash. his chest is heaving up and down roughly, breathing stiffly. “you have no place to comment on how i speak to my father!”

your eyebrows furrow deeper, jaw dropping in offence. “i lived with him before you even came here!” you throw your hands up in the air, lips curled in annoyance. it’s a pathetic, crude defence.

“i’m his son,” damian growls, glaring hard at you, his emerald eyes aggressive. “what are you?” his voice is sharp and bitter.

the arrow he shoots pierces right through your heart.

“well you don’t act like his son though, do you?” you fire back, angrily stomping deeper into the batcave, fists clenched. you probably shouldn’t be egging on someone who’s borderline feral, but all you can see right now is the same aggressive ten year old who’d fight with you over the smallest things, and you couldn’t stand his entitlement any longer. how could you brag so much about being the son of a man you refuse to listen to? and you thought he had changed.

damian’s jaw clenches, and it’s clear that that line hurt. he breathes laboriously, snapping his head away, and suddenly he’s not just heaving, he’s panting. your eyebrows crease deeper in confusion, looking over him when he doesn’t respond. did he take it that personal? “..what?” you breathe out in scepticism, stepping forward.

your eyes move down, and that’s when you see it. a sharp gasp rips through your lips.

there’s crimson seeping from beneath damian’s fingers at his hip, his hand shaky as they clutch his waist. your eyes widen when you notice the dark colour staining his robin suit, and your legs move automatically, rushing to his side and shakily reaching out.

“damian,” you breathe, eyes wide in horror, all the anger flushing straight out of your body. your hand moves down to his bloody one, trying to pry his hand off to assess the damage.

“get away—” he tries to keep his voice sharp, but he winces, his body slumping against the desk.

your hand clutches his other arm, holding him. “sit down,” your eyebrows are twisted in panic, swirling the chair behind him. you don’t have to tell him twice— damian weakly plummets onto the seat, panting.

you pull his hand away, his blood coating both of you two’s fingers. you hastily snap off his belt, peeling up his sticky costume. he groans but he doesn’t protest, head simply lolling to the side, refusing to look at your worried face, because he’ll simply break.

your skin pales when you see the gash at his side, heart continuously missing beats in your chest.

“where— where’s alfred?” you exhale, breathless, eyes finding his grimacing face.

“out.”

your jaw drops in bewilderment. “and bruce just left you like this?!” your voice raises. you spin on your heels, rushing to retrieve a bunch of medical supplies from the supply closet to help the bleeding boy.

damian bites the inside of his cheek. hard. why did you care so much if you hated him? a flood of humiliation and guilt floods him— realisation that he had been caught acting indignantly immature. damian can’t seem to get the sudden memory of that night out of his head either— not just the physical aspect, but the intimate one. damian had never been that vulnerable. not with anyone. and now he’s probably blown his chance with the one person being vulnerable with feels okay— damian is snapped out of his thoughts by a sharp pain in his chest that reminds him he’s actively bleeding out.

he tries to sit up, to pretend like he doesn’t need help (doesn’t want to be weak) but when you bring all the supplies over, spilling them onto the table, fumbling to find the right bandages— his heart aches.

maybe he does want to be taken care of. just this once. maybe he wants to bask in how intimate this kind of touch feels again, from you, like it did that night in his bedroom on his birthday.

you clumsily grab a cloth, bunching it up and placing it to his wound so it soaks up the blood. damian’s teeth grit in a feeble attempt to stop himself from crying out. he hisses when you rip open alcohol wipes, shakily pressing them to his gash. you’re hyper-focused, scrunched brows and concentrated eyes, panic driving you to work fast to clean him up.

his lips press together as he silently watches you. watches you clean away the blood at his side. watches you unroll the bandage and wrap it around his waist (to which he assists by hesitantly lifting his back up from the chair). watches you let out a deep sigh of relief when the bleeding subsides enough to not completely soak through the fresh bandage.

your eyes finally dart up to his, lips parted as you take shaky breaths, arms limp by your sides. his emerald eyes are sharp and dark, lips pursed into a thin flat line.

and then he looks away. his heart rate is still accelerated, and a faint layer of heat coats his cheeks. his jaw is clenched. “father was lecturing me on staying back after getting hurt on the patrol. i argued so he left.” he begrudgingly addresses your previous concern.

your heart stings. you shake your head, gulping.

“damian, i..” your voice is much quieter. defeated. “i’m sorry. it wasn’t my place to say anything.”

“you were right,” he cuts you off, voice indignant, like it pains him to admit so. his teeth grit. “i barely act like his son. i can barely act right at all. i know i am terrible at managing my temper.” his voice is harsh. he’s clearly hurting, attempting to disguise it. he takes in a shaky breath, forcing words to come out.

“it must be frustrating to return after years and find that i am still the same. that i am still detestable.”

your eyes soften at the way his voice cracks. he continues. “so i apologise for being your first time,” his voice is completely muted now, embarrassment coating his tan skin. he refuses to look at you.

your blink rapidly at the sudden mention, cheeks tinting pink. you hesitantly reach forward, hand hovering over his face. it pauses, before delicately planting on his cheek, tilting his face towards you. his lips are curled in a scorn, eyes narrowed at you, but if you look close enough, you can tell they’re shiny.

“what are you apologising for? that was perfect,” you whisper, thumb caressing his cheek, looking down at his twisted eyebrows and glossy eyes. “i was the one who said cruel things whilst being unjustifiably mad,” your voice is low and guilty. it’s silent for a moment.

“and damian— i didn’t understand you as a kid. i think i kind of do now.”

damian feels his throat dry up.

“you shut people out. but you can be so sweet when you let yourself be vulnerable,” you blush at the memory of his hands on you. how intimate the two of you had been. “when you let people in.. like you did then..” you bite your lower lip, a small smile on your lips. “that makes you like ten times hotter than you’ve already gotten.”

damian groans in embarrassment, cheeks firing up. your lips curl upwards even more, stepping forward in between his parted legs. you tip his chin upwards, lean down, and press a soft kiss to his mouth.

damian’s breath hitches. his heart stops momentarily, eyes wide, eyebrows crinkling deeper. you pull away before he can even process the action and so he hastily reaches up, tugging you down by your nape so he can return the kiss. his eyes close forcefully while his mouth encloses around yours, firmly kissing back.

when the kiss breaks, damian puffs out a breath as he pulls back, hand loose at your neck. he gulps, voice low, eyes dark and locked with yours.

“do you hate me?”

you blink, slightly taken aback. you’re still bent down, face close to his, flustered from the kiss and proximity.

“of course i don’t hate you anymore,” you confirm, inhaling deeply. it’s hard to miss the way his eyebrows relax at that. “but you know what traits of yours i have hated in the past,” you raise an eyebrow, tone almost scolding, eyes on his.

his lips are flat. he breathes in and out, steady— and then his voice is a low whisper, at the cusp of being vulnerable.

“i don’t want you to hate me.”

you feel your whole body heat up. your heart thrums against your chest. your hand on his cheek slides behind to his nape, fingers toying with the short hair at the base of his neck. you shake your head slightly.

“i meant it when i said you’re not as annoying grown up.” you voice is soft and reassuring.

damian’s cheeks heat up. he tugs you closer by your nape, burying his face in your neck. your eyes widen.

“will we ever do it again?” he whispers, heart racing in his chest. his voice is barely audible, a rough mumble. “what we did in my room? on my birthday?”

your cheeks flush red, and you feel yourself pool in your stomach. “if you behave,” you find the guts to reply, exhaling sharply. “and recover quickly.”

damian bites his lip, face buried in your neck, breathing you in.

“i’ll behave,” he purrs, voice deep and fuzzy on your skin. you can barely keep it together.