hiii ur red hood fic really opened my third eye like it was scrumptious !! but may i request tim drake with a bimbo/himbo reader (gn or whatever u prefer !!) who is tired of people thinking that they're the submissive one in the relationship by the media (doesn't help that tim likes to be a brat and feed into the rumors) so they take it upon themselves to put him in his place ! yummy brat taming mmm
“LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!”
pairing. Sub!brat!Tim Drake x Top!himbo!male reader
synopsis. Tim Drake has the internet fooled—he’s got everyone thinking he’s the one in charge, And you? The soft, golden retriever boyfriend who carries his bags. It’s cute. Until Tim starts leaning into the act just a little too hard. Now it’s time to remind your baby boy exactly who’s in charge—and shut that bratty little mouth the only way he’ll learn. — 4.6k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, brat taming, blow-job, soft dom, hair pulling, power play, dumbification, overstimulation, choking, light degradation, spanking, praise kink, subspace, name-calling (slut, baby boy, etc.), aftercare, Tim is a little menace <3
Tim Drake had been smirking all damn day.
It started small—barely-there glances during the morning interview, the casual way he leaned into your side when the camera panned your way. But it escalated. Fast.
By the time lunch hit, the internet was already eating it up. A now-viral clip of Tim sitting in your lap at last night’s gala, fingers twirling lazily through your hair while he whispered something into your ear. The caption? "tim got that man wrapped around his finger 😂😍"
You weren’t mad.
You knew what you looked like next to him—six foot something, soft-voiced, sweet to a fault. The golden retriever boyfriend. And Tim? Sharp suit. Sharp eyes. Sharper mouth.
Of course they thought he was the one in charge.
But Tim knew better.
“You’re really gonna let them think that?” you asked, sometime after dinner, when he curled up on the couch beside you, phone in hand and that same smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Think what?” he asked, too innocently.
You narrowed your eyes. “That you call the shots.”
Tim didn’t even look up. Just shrugged, thumbs still tapping the screen. “Well. I mean. Have you ever said otherwise?”
You stared at him.
He smirked wider.
“I’m joking,” he added, too quickly, slipping the phone into the pocket of his hoodie. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Tim climbed into your lap again, just like he had in the video. He settled in like he belonged there—like you were his throne—and looked up at you, all lashes and mischief.
“I mean,” he said, voice low, “you don’t exactly correct people when they say I keep you in check.”
You arched a brow. “Because I think it’s funny. You, keeping me in check? Baby, you cry when I change the Netflix password.”
“Okay, that was one time. And I was stressed.”
You leaned in. “You pouted for three days.”
“I missed my show!”
Your hands found his waist, big and warm and just a little firmer than before.
“And now you’re feeding into it,” you murmured, tone dipping, breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Retweeting the edits. Dropping quotes in interviews. Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, too fast.
“Like you want me to prove you wrong.”
That shut him up.
His breath hitched.
And when he met your gaze again, the smirk faltered just enough to tell you everything you needed.
You pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw, light and sweet.
Then you whispered, “Upstairs. Now.”
Tim didn’t move right away. He blinked up at you like he hadn’t expected you to actually say it out loud.
You arched a brow. “Did I stutter?”
He swallowed. “No, sir.”
God, he was such a fucking brat. You loved him.
You stood, tugging him up by the hand. “Then go.”
He turned, smirking again—but quieter this time—as he walked. And you let your eyes drag over the way his hoodie hung too loose around his waist, the curve of his ass in those smug little tailored pants.
You followed him up the stairs. Watched him slow at the bedroom door, as if debating whether to keep the act going or not.
He stopped just inside the room and turned. “You sure this isn’t about your ego?”
You tilted your head. “You sure you want to test me?”
Tim stepped back, slow, walking toward the bed. “I’m just saying… all those edits aren’t wrong.”
You stalked in after him.
“You mean the ones where I’m apparently your soft little boyfriend who gets flustered when you hold my hand in public?”
“Mm.” He sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at you. “I mean, you do blush kind of easy.”
You stepped between his knees. Let your hand curl into the collar of his hoodie and tugged him up, just a little.
“I blush because you’re cute,” you said, lips brushing his. “And also because I’m thinking about shoving my dick so far down your throat you forget how to spell your own name.”
That broke something.
Tim’s smirk cracked.
You pushed him back onto the bed, gentle but firm. He landed with a little oof, arms spread, eyes wide.
You pulled the hoodie off. Tossed it to the floor.
Then crawled over him, bracing your arms on either side of his head.
“You think you’re in charge?” you murmured, voice low. “You think you can keep running that mouth, posting those captions, letting people think I’m the one getting fucked?”
Tim swallowed. “I mean, technically—”
Your hand closed around his jaw.
Not hard. But enough.
His words cut off with a sharp inhale.
“You’re real bold for someone whose knees shake when I say ‘good boy.’”
Tim exhaled shakily. “...You haven’t said that yet.”
You smiled.
“Oh, baby. You’ll earn it.”
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
You dragged him upright by the wrist and sat down at the edge of the bed, spreading your thighs wide as you pulled him between them. He blinked at you, confused for half a second, until you patted your lap.
Tim’s eyes widened. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh,” you said, gripping his hips and manhandling him across your legs, “I am very serious.”
He squirmed. “You can’t be—this is childish.”
You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your palm settled against the curve of his ass.
“You wanna act like a brat, baby? Then you’re gonna get treated like one.”
Tim went very still.
His breath hitched when your fingers hooked into his waistband and tugged both his pants and briefs down to his thighs in one smooth motion.
“You should be grateful,” you murmured, smoothing your hand over his skin. “Most people don’t get punished this pretty.”
He made a sound—half protest, half flustered noise—but you didn’t give him time to think.
The first spank landed with a sharp snap of skin.
Tim jolted. “F—fuck—!”
You rubbed the spot you’d just struck, fingers tracing the flush rising there.
“Language,” you said calmly. “Now count.”
Tim hesitated. Then, sullenly: “One.”
You nodded. “Good boy.”
And brought your hand down again.
Harder.
Tim gasped. “T-Two.”
“Louder.”
“Two!”
Another slap. Sharp. Deliberate.
He arched off your lap with a hiss. “Three.”
You kept going. Not fast. Not cruel. But hard enough that each strike landed with purpose.
“Four… Fuck, five—!”
You raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”
Tim froze. “...Five.”
You hummed. “That’s not what I heard.”
He groaned into his arm. “C’mon—”
“No. Start over.”
His breath caught. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”
You smoothed your hand over his burning skin again, slow and warm.
“Don’t make me add more.”
Tim growled softly under his breath, but said nothing.
He took a breath.
And started again.
“One.”
Smack.
“Two.”
Smack.
He was breathing hard now. Not from pain—but from the pressure of it. The control. The way you wouldn’t let him wriggle out with sass or sarcasm.
You felt him twitch every time your palm landed, felt the slight tremble in his thighs. His hips had started to subtly shift with each strike.
And his cock—trapped between his stomach and your thigh—was getting hard.
You grinned.
By the time he reached “Eight,” his voice was cracking.
“...Nine,” he whimpered, burying his face in the sheets.
You held still. Let your palm rest on the warmth of his ass.
“You sure about that number, sweetheart?”
He sniffled.
“Yes—Nine, I swear.”
“Mm.” You gave it a moment. Let him breathe. Let him sweat.
Then delivered the final blow—firm, with your hand curled slightly to catch the same spot as before.
“Ten.”
Tim’s voice was raw. “T-Ten.”
You hummed in approval. Ran your hand down his back.
“Good boy.”
He shuddered.
The words hit harder than the spanks.
You leaned over him, letting your mouth graze his shoulder.
“Now,” you murmured, “maybe you’re ready to earn a little more.”
Tim stayed there a moment too long after the tenth strike. His head was down, cheek pressed to the sheets, hips lifted like he wasn’t quite ready to move—like the weight of you across his back had melted him into something obedient.
You rested your hand on the curve of his ass again, rubbing gentle circles into the pink skin.
“Look at that,” you said softly, fingers dragging down the side of his thigh. “Didn’t even need to tie you down.”
Tim made a sound—something caught between a scoff and a sigh. “You’re acting like this was your idea of mercy.”
You chuckled and leaned in, letting your chest press to his back, breath warm against his neck. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to be mean, you’d still be on the first round.”
He shivered. You felt it beneath you—the slight tightening of his core, the way his hips shifted just enough to let his hardening cock drag against your thigh again.
“I see the little show’s over,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. “Where’s all that confidence now, huh?”
Tim groaned quietly. “I hate you.”
You smiled, wide and full of teeth, and kissed his shoulder again.
“No, you don’t.”
You let your hand trail forward, brushing down his stomach, just barely ghosting the underside of his cock—enough to make him jolt, but not enough to give him what he wanted.
His hips jerked forward instinctively, but you pulled your hand away before he could grind against your palm.
“Nuh-uh,” you said, clicking your tongue. “Not until you ask.”
Tim twisted just enough to look at you over his shoulder. His hair was a mess, cheeks red, lashes wet. His glare didn’t have half the heat it usually did.
“You really want me to beg?”
You tilted your head and let your thumb drag over his lower lip, pressing just enough to part it.
“I want you to be honest. With me. With yourself.”
He sucked in a breath and held it. You waited, still stroking lazy circles on the side of his hip, letting the silence stretch like silk between you.
Then, softer than you expected:
“I want your mouth.”
You didn’t move.
You didn’t answer.
You just kept looking at him—slow, patient, adoring.
Tim swallowed. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.
“Please.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Please what?”
Tim’s lashes fluttered. His hips flexed again, like his body was begging faster than his mouth could keep up.
“Please use your mouth. I—I want you to suck me off.”
You could see the tension in his jaw as he forced the words out, how much it cost him to say them without a smart-ass smile. No games. Just need.
You kissed his spine, slow and reverent.
“There he is.”
Then you flipped him.
Strong hands under his thighs, you lifted and shifted him effortlessly onto his back, laying him out like a gift on the bed. His legs dropped open on instinct. His cock twitched against his stomach, red and leaking.
You settled between his thighs and looked up at him with a grin.
“You want my mouth, baby?”
Tim nodded quickly. “Yes—please, just—”
You cut him off with a kiss to the head of his cock.
“Then you better keep still,” you whispered. “Or I’m starting from one again.”
He whined.
And you licked the drop of pre from his slit like it was honey.
Tim tried not to squirm.
Tried being the key word.
You hadn’t even taken him into your mouth yet—just kissed the tip, licked him slow, let your tongue tease the slit until he was gasping—and he was already trembling. His fingers twisted in the sheets, tight-knuckled and white, like he was holding onto something just to keep from falling apart.
You looked up from between his thighs, chin resting lazily on his hip. “You’re shaking already?”
Tim glared down at you. “You’re teasing me.”
You smiled. “I’m preparing you.”
His breath hitched.
“For what?” he asked, voice breaking on the second word.
You leaned forward, dragging your tongue from base to tip, slow and deliberate.
“To get fucking ruined.”
He groaned—loud and raw—and let his head drop back to the bed.
You took your time.
You let your lips part just around the head of his cock, letting it rest warm and heavy on your tongue, your hands bracing his hips down to keep him from bucking. He gasped the moment your mouth closed around him.
“Oh—fuck—”
You didn’t stop.
You went deeper, slow at first, letting the weight of him stretch your lips open until your jaw ached in the best way. Your tongue flattened beneath him, tracing the underside with every pass. You could feel every twitch, every pulse.
He tried to lift his hips again. You pressed down harder, holding him still.
“Stay. Still.”
His voice cracked. “C-can’t—fuck, you’re so—”
You took him deeper.
Tim’s breath choked off halfway through the word.
You swallowed around him, gagged once—deliberately—and moaned around his dick like he was the best thing you’d ever tasted.
He whimpered. “Oh my god—”
You pulled off just enough to speak, spit clinging between your lips and his shaft. You smiled, voice hoarse and low.
“You wanted my mouth, right?”
Tim nodded frantically, his pupils blown wide.
You licked a slow stripe up the side, fingers tightening around the base of his shaft.
“Then fucking take it.”
You dropped your mouth back down—and this time, you didn’t stop.
You pushed deep, let his cock slide past your tongue, past the gag reflex, until your nose was buried in the soft skin of his lower stomach. Your throat clenched around him instinctively. You heard the breath rush out of him like he’d been punched.
“F-Fuck—M/n—!”
You didn’t let up.
You pulled back only halfway, spit bubbling around your lips, and sank down again with more force—deliberately.
Tim was moaning now—long, drawn-out, helpless sounds that echoed off the walls.
You kept choking on him, mouth slick and hot, eyes locked on his face the whole time.
He looked wrecked.
Beautiful.
Totally undone.
“I can’t—I can’t—gonna—gonna—”
You squeezed the base of his dick and pulled off just in time.
Tim sobbed.
His hands reached for you on instinct, desperate, grabbing for your shoulders, your hair, your face. You caught his wrist mid-reach and kissed the inside of it.
“You don’t get to cum yet.”
He looked like you’d just killed him.
“You’re evil.”
You grinned.
“I’m thorough.”
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
You sat back on your heels, wiping the spit from your mouth with the back of your hand. Tim was panting, chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles. His thighs were still trembling.
You tilted your head, dragging your gaze down his flushed body.
“You’re shaking.”
His eyes fluttered. “That’s your fault.”
You laughed, rich and low, and ran your palms up his thighs—thumbs circling the twitching muscles, moving closer to where his cock still throbbed against his stomach.
“No, baby,” you murmured. “That’s yours. You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”
Tim didn’t answer.
So you leaned in closer. Let your mouth hover just above his navel.
“You were hard in the car. Hard when I told you to get upstairs. And I bet,” you whispered, dragging your fingers lower, toward his inner thighs, “I bet if I spread your legs right now...”
You paused.
Then pushed.
Tim’s knees dropped open without resistance.
And there—between his cheeks, slick already shining against his hole—you saw it.
You went very still.
“…Timothy Jackson Drake,” you said slowly, voice edged with something between amusement and hunger. “Did you prep yourself before I got home?”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just turned his head to the side, cheeks flushing deeper, the tips of his ears bright red.
You grabbed his chin gently and turned him back to face you.
“Answer me.”
Tim’s voice was hoarse. “...Yes.”
Your cock twitched.
You exhaled hard through your nose, trying not to let the groan slip free. But fuck—he really had. He’d done all this knowing how it would end. He’d spent the day riling you up, waiting for you to crack, knowing that when you did, you’d fuck him hard enough to shut that smart little mouth for hours.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” you muttered.
His lips curled into a small smile. “Takes one to—mmph!”
You kissed him—filthy, fast, full of spit and the taste of his pre. He moaned into it, open-mouthed, greedy. You pulled back only to let your voice sink into his throat again.
“You really want it that bad, huh? Couldn’t wait? Walked around all day with your hole fucking ready?”
Tim nodded fast, desperate. “I wanted you to make me wait.”
You blinked.
“Yeah?” Your voice dropped. “You like it that much? Laying there, open, knowing I wouldn’t touch you until you earned it?”
He bit his lip and looked up at you from under his lashes.
“I like being your problem.”
You groaned and kissed him again, hand sliding down between his legs, fingers slipping easily through the slick gathered around his entrance.
“You’re not a problem,” you whispered, sinking two fingers into him with no resistance, “You’re a fucking addiction.”
His voice came out wrecked—quiet, needy, breathless.
“Then don’t stop until I forget my own name.”
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
“F-fuck, M/n—too much, too much—”
Tim moaned like he’d lost his mind.
It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t contained. It was loud, cracked, real—the kind of sound that only came out when everything else had already broken down.
You had just pushed into him—slow at first, just enough to stretch him—but the moment your hips met his ass, flush, heavy, full?
He sobbed.
You gripped his thighs harder, pinning them to your sides. He was already shaking, the insides of his knees clenching around your waist like he was trying to keep you close and push you away all at once.
“You’re the one who got ready for this,” you said through clenched teeth, sweat already rolling down your neck. “You did this to yourself.”
Tim was barely listening. His hands were in your hair, on your shoulders, grabbing at your arms like he didn’t know what to hold onto.
“You’re so fucking deep—”
You leaned down until your forehead pressed against his, panting into his mouth as you rolled your hips once, slow and hard. He whined like a kicked dog.
“I’m not even moving yet.”
His whole body jolted when you pulled back and thrust again—harder this time. Sloppy. Loud.
There was no rhythm. No grace. Just slick skin, the sound of your cock sliding into his soaked hole, and the wet slap of your hips hitting his ass, again and again.
Tim gasped, voice high. “Don’t—don’t stop—just like that, just like that—”
“You sound so fucking needy,” you growled, hands sliding under his back to lift him, to pull him in tighter. “Is this what you wanted all day? Getting stuffed so deep you can’t even lie to yourself about who owns this pretty little ass?”
Tim couldn’t form words. His head tipped back, mouth open, voice caught in his throat.
You slammed in again, dragging a scream out of him. “Say it.”
His lips moved, but nothing came out.
So you stopped moving entirely—just kept yourself buried, cock twitching inside him, chest heaving. “Say it, Tim.”
His eyes snapped open. Desperate. Wrecked.
“You,” he croaked. “It’s yours, it’s all fucking yours—please, don’t stop—”
“Good fucking boy.”
You grabbed his legs, shoved them higher, nearly folding him in half, and pounded back in without mercy.
The moan that ripped out of him didn’t sound human.
You drove into him like you’d lost patience—like he needed to feel it in his ribs—and you knew the angle was hitting him dead-on because he kept clenching around you like he couldn’t take it.
His cock was leaking all over his stomach, untouched.
You didn’t reach for it. You didn’t need to.
Not when he was already babbling.
“Fuck—oh my god—yes, yes, right there—M/n, I’m gonna—”
You snarled and leaned down, biting at his neck just hard enough to make him jolt. “You better not cum without permission.”
Tim whimpered.
You could feel it—his whole body was right on the edge. His toes curled. His legs shook. He was crying, soft little gasps mixing with broken moans, eyes rolled halfway back.
“You wanna cum?”
He nodded frantically, face flushed and wet.
You slowed your thrusts, just enough to grind.
“Beg for it.”
His voice cracked. “Please—please, let me—let me cum, I can’t—I can’t hold it—please, sir—”
You slammed into him one last time, rough and deep, and held there, grinding into his prostate with punishing pressure.
“Cum for me, baby.”
Tim screamed.
His cock jumped against his stomach, ropes of hot cum shooting up his chest as he seized in your arms, whole body spasming from the force of it. His hole clamped down around your cock so tight it dragged your own release right out of you.
You didn’t even pull out.
You just buried yourself deeper, groaning as you emptied into him, your fingers digging into his hips, holding him still as you spilled everything inside him.
You stayed there—buried deep, panting against his throat, still twitching inside him as your cm warmed his already-slick hole. He was limp beneath you, chest rising in shallow pulls, lips parted in that dazed little O-shape that always told you you’d wrecked him just right.
But you didn’t move.
Didn’t pull out. Didn’t let go.
Instead, you kissed his cheek, soft and slow, and murmured, “You still with me, baby?”
Tim made a sound. Not a word—just a breathy little whimper that cracked at the edges.
You smiled.
“That’s a yes,” you said gently, brushing your nose against his temple. “Color?”
He nodded once against the pillow. “Green.”
His voice was small. Floaty. Like his brain had drifted somewhere far, and he was only now swimming back toward you.
“Good boy,” you whispered.
You pulled back just enough to look at him—his flushed cheeks, tear-slick lashes, and mouth still a little open like he hadn’t remembered how to close it.
“You look so dumb right now, sweetheart.”
Tim blinked at you slowly, like the words were getting stuck on the way to his brain.
You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
“You like getting used like that, huh?” you asked, voice soft and low, like you were telling him a secret. “Letting me fuck you stupid? Letting me fill you up ‘til you can’t even talk?”
He moaned again—soft, almost shy.
But you could feel his cock twitch against your stomach.
You hummed and rocked your hips forward, just enough to grind. Not thrust. Just let him feel the weight of you still inside him.
His body jolted like a live wire.
“Sensitive,” you said, smiling as he whimpered. “Poor baby.”
“I—I can’t—” Tim’s words stuttered out. “Too much, I already—”
“I know,” you cooed. “You already came so hard, baby. Made such a mess for me.”
You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, one hand sliding down to his thigh. You traced lazy circles on his skin with your thumb.
“But your pretty little hole is still so greedy,” you murmured, giving a slow, shallow thrust that made his eyes roll. “Look how it’s holding onto me. Like it doesn’t wanna let go.”
Tim keened. His fingers scrabbled at your shoulders, his whole body arching without control.
You kissed the underside of his jaw. “You can take one more.”
He shook his head—but his legs were already spreading wider.
You smiled against his throat.
“I’ll go slow,” you promised, voice velvet. “Won’t hurt you. I’ll make it so good, baby, you won’t even have to think.”
You started to move—deep, slow grinds that made him feel every inch. His walls fluttered around you, overstimulated, raw, and dripping, but he didn’t say stop.
He never did.
“Look at you,” you whispered, lips ghosting over his ear. “My sweet little thing. All open. All mine. Can’t even form a sentence.”
“C-can,” Tim gasped, but it was a lie and he knew it.
You chuckled low and deep. “Okay. What’s your name?”
He blinked.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
You grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
Your next thrust was harder. Not punishing. Just firm. Measured. Intentional.
His whole body jerked.
You kept your voice soft. Sweet.
“You love when I talk to you like this, don’t you?”
Tim was crying again. Quiet, overwhelmed tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.
You kissed one. “You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking good for me.”
You shifted your angle, pulled one of his legs higher, and aimed a thrust directly into that sweet little spot inside him that made him scream.
His voice cracked.
His cock jumped, untouched.
“You gonna cum again just from this?” you murmured, breath warm against his lips. “Gonna let me fuck your brains out till there’s nothing left in that pretty little head?”
Tim nodded frantically. He was gone. Gone.
“I wanna—wanna cum, I wanna—”
“You need permission, baby.”
“I—I—please—please, let me—”
You slammed in one more time and held there.
“Do it.”
Tim shattered.
He came untouched—again—cock spurting weakly between you, body twitching under yours like he didn’t know how to stop.
You rocked through it, slow and careful, riding out his orgasm until he went limp again, arms wrapped around your shoulders, breathing soft and uneven.
And this time?
You pulled out.
He whimpered when you did.
But you kissed his lips, slow and sweet.
Then you cleaned him—gently, warm cloth and whispered praise, your fingers rubbing soft circles into his hips and arms while he blinked up at the ceiling, too blissed out to speak.
You crawled into bed with him afterward, pulling the covers over both of you, letting him curl into your chest like always.
He pressed his face into your neck and mumbled something soft you couldn’t quite make out.
You smiled and kissed the crown of his head.
“Love you too, baby.”
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
You were half-asleep.
Tim was curled into your chest, breath soft against your skin, legs tangled with yours under the blanket. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Still twitchy, still sensitive. But content.
You were just about to drift off when the tablet on the nightstand lit up.
You didn’t even flinch at the ringtone—Wayne comms had a specific ping. One that usually meant: “Gear up.”
Tim groaned into your collarbone.
“Don’t answer it.”
You reached blindly for the device, not bothering to sit up. “It’s probably just an update.”
The moment you tapped accept, Dick Grayson’s face filled the screen. He looked sweaty, in uniform, leaning half-out of a fire escape window somewhere across the city.
“Hey, sorry, quick one—Tim are you doing Uptown or should I grab it?”
You blinked blearily, still squinting against the screen glare. “Tim isn’t scheduled for tonight.”
Dick frowned. “Really? I thought Tim was on the rota for North End—”
Then he paused.
And tilted his head.
“…Are you naked?”
You didn’t answer.
Dick’s eyes flicked to the side, squinting.
“Is that—oh my god, Tim?”
You turned the tablet slightly.
Just enough to show the very flushed, very shirtless, and very recently-ruined boy sprawled half across your chest, lips kiss-bruised, neck marked, hair destroyed. His eyes were open but barely.
He blinked once.
Then groaned into your shoulder, trying to hide.
Dick lost it.
“Oh my god. I’m hanging up. I am hanging up right now.”
“You could’ve just called,” you said calmly.
“I thought this was urgent!” he snapped, already fumbling for the end call. “I didn’t know I was about to see my little brother looking like—fuck, Tim, are you drooling?”
“I hate you,” Tim mumbled.
Dick’s cackle echoed even as the screen cut to black.
You tossed the tablet face-down on the nightstand.
Tim didn’t move.
You kissed his hair once and pulled him closer.
“I’ll cover your shift.”
He groaned again. “You better. He’s never gonna let me live that down.”
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there's a writing blog @tsunaso that uses AI for their writing and pretends it's their own. when i pointed out all of the AI tells they blocked me so now i'm a sure they did it. (jokes on them i have a second account so i went through their posts and all of their work is AI)
anyway, for those that want to learn how to recognize AI writing tells except the obvious ones here's a link to a very useful video i found
be safe and remember that anything you make will be better than an AI slop because it came from your hearts ♡
Aventurine and his partner have been together for a while when they somehow try working through Aventurine’s past trauma by showing him what a true master is like (reader)
Note - heavy bdsm, master/slave, anything else you’d like but I would prefer this being a healthier one so not non/con or forced
Thank you! 💖💖
“LET ME SHOW YOU WHO I AM”
pairing. Sub!Aventurine x Top!male reader
synopsis. In where Aventurine finally submits on his own terms, he learns what it means to be touched without being taken. — 4.3k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, master/slave kink, collaring kink, light bondage, fingering, blowjob, handjob, overstimulation, begging, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, subspace, aftercare, safe word use, past trauma, discussions of past abuse, implied SA (not graphic), hurt/comfort
The room was quiet.
Not sterile. Not cold. It smelled faintly of lavender and wax polish—warm light spilling from a shaded lamp. The blinds were drawn. The door was locked.
Aventurine stood in the center of the room like a model in a glass case, posed. Perfect. Still.
He had removed his gloves first. Then his rings. Then his coat.
Every motion methodical. Almost clinical.
You’d seen him negotiate with CEOs more relaxed than this.
You sat on the edge of the couch, legs slightly parted, arms resting on your knees, watching him like he was something fragile. Not in the way that meant he’d break—but in the way that meant he already had, at some point, and learned to glue himself together into someone flawless.
And he was flawless.
That was the problem.
"You're not breathing," you said quietly.
Aventurine blinked. Then inhaled like he forgot that he needed to. A short, clipped breath.
He forced a smile. "I'm just… preparing."
"For what?"
He paused. "To give you what you want."
You let that sit.
Let him feel it.
Then you stood—slow, controlled—and stepped into his space.
"Look at me."
He did. Carefully. He always looked carefully, like his gaze was a scalpel and he was afraid to cut too deep.
You reached out, brushing your knuckles against his jaw. He didn’t lean into it. He didn’t flinch either. He simply absorbed the touch like it was something he had to endure—an input to be processed, not felt.
“I want you to listen,” you said. “And I want you to listen as Aventurine. Not as someone performing. Not as a client trying to impress me. As you.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “…I’m listening.”
“I’m not asking you to submit because I want to dominate you.”
He stiffened.
“I’m asking you to submit because I want to keep you safe.”
A silence followed. Longer this time.
You let your hand fall from his jaw and gently, deliberately, took his hand in yours. You turned it palm-up—his fingers were smooth, trembling ever so slightly.
You pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist.
“That’s the only reason,” you said. “Everything else—the commands, the structure, the rules… those are tools. Not punishments. Not games. They're ways to show you something you weren’t allowed to believe.”
He stared at you, eyes flickering. “Which is?”
“That being owned can feel like being protected.”
His lips parted—then closed again. He didn’t speak.
But he was still listening.
So you guided him to the couch. You sat down first, then tugged him forward by the hand until he was kneeling between your legs. Not to humble him—to center him.
"Now," you murmured, letting your fingers brush along his throat. “Let’s make something clear before we go further.”
Aventurine swallowed again. You felt it beneath your fingertips.
"You are mine only if you choose to be. And that choice doesn’t disappear just because you're in a collar or calling me Master."
His breath hitched. Slightly.
"You have a safeword. And you will use it."
You felt him tense—but it wasn’t fear. It was confusion.
“Why?” he asked softly. “Do you think I’ll regret it?”
“No,” you said. “I think someone else made you believe you weren’t allowed to.”
He froze.
And there it was.
That flicker. That twitch beneath the surface. You saw it behind his eyes—how he wanted to deflect, wanted to throw on that trademark smirk and laugh you off, pretend none of it reached him.
But it did.
Because the first time you called him "slave," he hadn’t flinched.
But he hadn’t melted either.
He had looked like someone waiting to be hurt.
Obedient, yes—but not present.
You didn’t want that again.
“I don’t want obedience like that,” you whispered.
His lashes flicked up. His eyes were wet—but not crying.
You kissed the space between his brows. “I want your devotion. Your trust. Not your fear.”
He went still.
“…Then I don’t know how to be yours,” he said softly.
You tilted his chin up.
“That’s okay,” you said. “I’ll teach you.”
𓆩♡𓆪
The collar was black. Supple leather, lined in deep velvet.
Not flashy. Not harsh. Nothing sharp or ornamental.
It wasn’t a trophy.
It was a promise.
You fastened it slowly around Aventurine’s throat, adjusting the buckle until it sat snug against his skin, resting in the hollow between his collarbones. His breathing had grown shallower with every click, every brush of your fingers. But he didn’t pull away.
He didn’t stop you.
And now—now he knelt.
He looked beautiful like that. Not just in the aesthetic sense, though he always had a way of appearing curated, even when undone. No—this was deeper. He looked like something offered.
The room was low-lit. Heavy drapes. No mirrors. No performance.
Just you and him, framed in candlelight and silence.
Your voice was the only thing allowed to break it.
“You’re trembling.”
His eyes flicked up, fast. Shame tightening his jaw before he could stop it.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you said gently. “And that’s okay.”
He exhaled like the air had been trapped in his chest for years.
You reached out, brushing his hair from his forehead, slow. He didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull back. Still learning. Still testing the depth of the space you’d carved open between you.
“I want to hear you say your safeword.”
“…Now?”
“Yes.”
His lips parted, then closed again. A flicker of pride, of resistance. Not defiance—just fear dressed in finery.
You tilted his chin up, thumb dragging along the edge of his jaw.
“Say it for me, Aventurine.”
“…Citrine.”
The word hung in the air. Soft. Almost delicate. Like it didn’t belong in his mouth.
“Good,” you murmured. “That word is power. Not weakness.”
You saw it flash in his eyes. That old wiring. That ache. The way he’d been taught that power only came through performance or control, through being sharper, cleverer, faster.
And now here you were, asking him to surrender.
You reached for his shirt. Silk, crisp, fitted. The kind of thing he wore like a second skin. You undid the buttons slowly, not ripping or demanding, but unwrapping him like something valuable. Something earned.
By the time you slid it off his shoulders, his breath had quickened again.
“Color?” you asked softly.
He blinked. “Huh?”
You smiled. “Give me your color.”
“…Green.”
Safe. Uncertain, but safe.
You trailed your fingers down his chest—bare, smooth, too still.
“I want to see you move when I touch you. Not freeze.”
He swallowed hard.
You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “You don’t have to be perfect here. You just have to be mine.”
He shivered.
“…Yes, Master.”
There it was. That subtle quake beneath the surface. Not fear. Relief.
You reached for the tie you’d laid on the bed earlier—rich crimson silk, soft and long. A blindfold, if needed. A restraint, if wanted. But tonight, just a tether. You looped it gently around his wrists behind his back—not tight. Just a suggestion.
“Sit back on your heels.”
He obeyed.
You let the silence stretch, letting him feel the leash of your presence even without a word. Your gaze burned into him—watching the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fingers twitched behind him, even restrained.
Then you spoke. Low. Commanding. Steady.
“Say it.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Say… what?”
“Who you are.”
His throat bobbed.
You took a step forward, letting your fingers trail beneath the collar at his throat.
“Say it, Aventurine. Who do you belong to?”
“…You.”
“That’s not enough.”
He shuddered.
“I belong to you,” he whispered. “I’m… I’m your slave.”
The words cracked on the edge of something old—something raw.
And you knew. That this wasn’t the first time he’d said it. But it was the first time he wasn’t punished for saying it wrong. The first time he wasn’t being used like a toy to be broken and left behind.
This was the first time he said it and wasn’t afraid.
You stepped around him slowly, trailing your hand across his bare shoulder as you did.
“You’re mine,” you said, voice smooth as heat. “Because you asked to be. Because I said yes. And now… I’m going to show you what that means.”
You stopped behind him, let your hand drop lower, brushing the curve of his spine.
“You’re going to listen.”
Your hand slid lower—over the waistband of his slacks, down to his thigh.
“You’re going to obey.”
You knelt beside him now, brushing your lips over his temple.
“And if I touch you and you shake, I’ll hold you.”
He let out a small sound—too raw to name. You felt his breath stutter. His entire body leaned just slightly into yours. Like the tension in his shoulders had finally started to give.
“Color?” you asked, voice warm.
“…Green,” he whispered.
You smiled.
“Good slave.”
His eyes fluttered shut. His lips parted. And for the first time since you’d collared him, Aventurine didn’t look composed.
He looked free.
𓆩♡𓆪
You guided him onto the bed slowly. Not forced. Not posed. You didn’t bend him—you invited him. And he followed.
The sheets were dark—deep maroon silk, soft enough to slide against bare skin without a sound. The collar caught the light in a subtle gleam as Aventurine lowered himself down, legs folded beneath him, arms still behind his back. You sat in front of him, letting the room fall to quiet.
He was breathing a little too fast again.
You reached out, cupping his jaw in one hand. His lashes fluttered.
“Color?”
“…Green,” he whispered.
Your thumb stroked his cheek. “You’re doing beautifully, treasure.”
His breath hitched again, this time from something that almost sounded like relief.
You leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Just once. And when you pulled away, you saw the dazed flicker in his eyes.
You didn’t ask for more yet. You just started touching him—slow strokes of your fingers over his chest, his arms, his thighs. Mapping. Worshipping. Letting him feel like something sacred.
“You’ve been holding yourself together for so long,” you murmured, tracing the hollow of his hipbone. “You don’t have to anymore.”
Aventurine’s body twitched under your touch, heat flashing across his face. He was already hard—aching against the front of his slacks, pulse pounding through him in quiet, desperate waves.
You kissed his collarbone, then lower. “I want to see what you look like when you come apart.”
He made a noise—small, breathy.
“I want to see how messy I can make you.”
Another whimper. This one sharper.
You undid the button on his slacks. Pulled the zipper down with slow, steady fingers.
"You’ve kept yourself so clean," you said. "So controlled."
You slid his pants down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, flushed red, already leaking.
"But this isn’t clean," you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base. “This is filthy. Needy. And it belongs to me.”
He shivered violently. You felt his knees twitch beneath him.
“You’re mine, Aventurine.”
He nodded. “Y-Yes, Master.”
You pumped him slowly—light pressure, thumb teasing over the slit. You kissed down his thigh as you worked, feeling the tension begin to fracture.
"That’s it," you whispered, lips brushing his inner thigh. “Breathe for me, pretty boy.”
He did. He tried. He was panting now, head tilted back, fingers clenched behind him like he didn’t know where else to hold the sensation.
“Such a good thing,” you crooned. “So obedient. So sweet. So ready to break.”
Your tongue flicked over the tip. He jerked—gasped.
"Color?" you murmured against him.
“…Green,” he rasped. “F-fuck—green—”
You hummed in approval, then dragged your tongue up his shaft, slow, tasting every drop he’d spilled.
"Look at you," you whispered, mouth just above his cock. "So wet already. You’d let me ruin you with just my tongue, wouldn’t you?"
He moaned—loud.
So you took him in. Not all the way. Just the head. Just enough to pull a shudder from his hips before you pulled off again.
“Not yet,” you murmured, hand stroking him again, firmer. “You don’t get to cum until you beg.”
You leaned up, lips brushing his ear.
“And not like a businessman,” you whispered. “Not like a negotiator. Like a whimpering little thing.”
His cock twitched in your fist.
"Say it."
“I—”
"Say what you are.”
“…Your p-pet,” he gasped.
You squeezed.
"Not good enough."
“I’m your—your toy—your slut—”
"Good," you growled. "Getting closer."
You tugged his head back by the collar, made him look at you.
"You’re mine, aren’t you?"
“Yes—yes, I’m yours—please, Master—please let me cum—"
And then he choked on a sound. His whole body jerked.
And the word fell from his lips:
“Yellow.”
You froze.
Not in fear. Not in failure.
In readiness.
Your hand left his cock instantly. You released the collar. Your voice softened.
“Hey.” You cupped his cheek. “You did perfect. You’re safe.”
His breathing was erratic. His eyes were glossy. But he wasn’t panicked. Not quite. Just too much. Overwhelmed. Drenched in sensations he’d never let himself feel before.
“I didn’t want to stop,” he said, voice breaking. “It just—just hit too fast—”
You nodded. Kissed his temple. Held his jaw steady.
“You did everything right,” you whispered. “I’m proud of you.”
He shivered. A small sound leaked from his throat—frustration. Shame. Something old.
You held him.
“You said yellow,” you murmured. “Not red. That means we slow down. We breathe. We check in.”
You reached for the silk tie around his wrists, undoing it gently.
He was trembling now.
And when he whispered, “I’m sorry,” you cut him off immediately.
“Don’t apologize,” you said. “Not for taking care of yourself. Not with me.”
He went quiet. Eyes searching yours.
“…So we can still—?”
You smiled.
“We’re going to continue. If you want to. And this time?”
You leaned in, kissed him slow, deep, open-mouthed.
“I want you to give me your surrender.”
𓆩♡𓆪
He was still shaking when you brought him back to the bed.
Not from fear. Not from regret.
From how much it was.
He let you hold him without asking. Let you kiss the top of his head, run your fingers down the back of his neck, cradle him in your lap like something precious. And when your hand slid to his thigh again—he opened his legs without hesitation.
“I want you inside me,” he whispered. “Please.”
Your fingers traced the line of his inner thigh, featherlight. “You sure?”
His breath caught.
Then, “Yes, Master.”
You smiled, leaned in, and kissed the side of his mouth. “Then I’ll give you what no one else ever did.”
He blinked, eyes fluttering.
“What’s that?”
You kissed his throat, tongue dragging over the edge of the collar.
“Time.”
You laid him out like he was something sacred—chest to the sheets, legs parted, cheek resting against a silk pillow. He looked wrecked already. Hair wild, skin flushed, cock twitching against his stomach. He still had the collar on.
Your hand ran down his back slowly, fingers trailing the curve of his spine. You watched his hips twitch in anticipation.
And then you whispered, “I’m going to stretch you open now.”
Aventurine shuddered.
“Not like them,” you added, voice low and warm. “Not fast. Not hard. Not careless.”
You pressed a kiss to the small of his back.
“Like this.”
Your hand slid between his legs, parting them more. You took your time with the lube—warm, slick, worked between your fingers before you ever touched his hole. You let your thumb rest against the rim, not pushing, just being there.
“Breathe for me,” you whispered. “Color?”
“Green,” he rasped. “Fuck, I’m green—just—please.”
You slid one finger in. Slowly. No resistance. Just heat. Just a shaky, desperate moan beneath you.
“That’s it,” you murmured. “That’s my good boy.”
He gasped into the pillow, his whole body tensing—then softening.
"You're so tight," you praised. "So soft inside. You were made for this."
You curled your finger, watching the way he arched, hips twitching.
“M-Master—”
You hummed, kissing the dip of his back.
“I know. It’s good now, isn’t it?”
He nodded, whimpering.
You took your time. You didn’t rush the second finger. You didn’t stretch him to watch him squirm—you stretched him because you wanted him to be ready. You wanted to give his body the chance to welcome you.
Not endure you.
Aventurine was panting now. His cock leaked freely onto the sheets. Every twist of your fingers sent a sob through him.
“You’re doing so well,” you whispered. “Letting me open you. Letting me feel how warm you are inside. This hole is mine now, isn’t it?”
He moaned—wrecked, high, humiliated.
“Yes, Master—it’s yours—just yours—”
You slipped in a third finger, carefully, watching his back arch as he cried out.
But he didn’t say yellow.
He didn’t say stop.
He pushed back.
You grinned.
“Oh, you’re greedy now,” you murmured against his ear, one hand reaching around to grip his leaking cock. “You want it all, don’t you?”
He whimpered. Nodded. Twitched in your hand.
"Say it."
“P-please,” he sobbed. “Please fill me—break me—fuck me full—I want to be yours inside—please, I need your cock—”
You laughed—low, hot, proud.
“Oh, my sweet little slut.”
He gasped—choked on it.
You leaned down, kissed the back of his neck. Then whispered, “You like being called that now, don’t you?”
“…Y-yes—”
“You like being my toy. My slave. My obedient little hole.”
His whole body seized.
“F-fuck—!”
You pulled your fingers out—slow, careful, teasing.
He sobbed at the loss.
You lined yourself up, pressed the tip against his stretched, slick entrance.
He pushed back instantly.
"Greedy thing," you growled. "Beg for it."
“Please, Master—please—fuck me—ruin me—make me your cumdump—please—”
And you gave him exactly what he asked for.
You sank in.
All the way.
Slow. Measured. No brutality. No rush. You slid into him inch by inch, letting him feel it, letting him open around it, letting the stretch burn sweet and thick as your cock filled his aching hole.
Aventurine gasped—his voice a cracked moan as his body trembled beneath yours.
“Oh, f-fuck—” he choked out, knuckles white as they dug into the sheets.
You leaned down, one arm braced beside his head, the other gripping his hip tight, keeping him spread open as your cock bottomed out, balls resting snug against his skin.
“There it is,” you whispered into his ear. “Feel that? That’s me, inside you.”
He whimpered. You felt the clench around you—tight, slick, hungry.
“This is what you needed all along. Not a man who takes. A man who fucks you like he owns every inch.”
You pulled back—slowly—and thrust in again, long and deep, your cock dragging against the sweet spot that made his legs shake.
He moaned—loud, broken. His cock throbbed untouched against the sheets.
You kept the rhythm slow, heavy, grinding deep with every thrust, pushing the sound out of him with every roll of your hips.
“Y-you’re so deep,” he gasped. “I—I can feel you in my stomach—Master—please—”
You kissed his neck, teeth grazing the collar. “You’re taking it so well. My pretty little whore.”
He shuddered. “Yes—yes—call me that again—”
You thrust deep—he jerked, crying out.
“Say it.”
“I’m your whore,” he whimpered. “I’m your obedient whore—use me—please—just—”
He clenched around you, hole fluttering, walls pulsing like he was already about to cum.
You grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back.
“Don’t cum,” you growled into his ear. “Not until you break for me.”
Aventurine whined, a high, needy sound, mouth open, drool slipping down his chin as you kept fucking into him—slow, deep, deliberate.
“Faster,” he sobbed. “P-please—Master—please fuck me harder—need it—need you to ruin me—”
You slammed in hard. He screamed.
“Oh, that’s it,” you growled. “You like it now, don’t you? You like being fucked stupid.”
“Y-yes—yes, I do—please—don’t stop—”
You pulled the leash tighter, using it to anchor him as you began thrusting fast, hard, pounding into his slick hole until the slap of skin-on-skin echoed with every deep, bruising thrust.
“You gonna cum like this?” you hissed. “Face in the sheets, used, leaking, begging?”
“Yes—yes—I’m your cumslut—I’m yours—only yours—”
His words collapsed into gasping cries, voice breaking every time your cock slammed into that same aching spot deep inside.
You reached under him, fisted his cock—already wet, throbbing, twitching.
“You want to cum, slut?”
He nodded frantically, tears slipping down his cheeks.
“Then fucking ask.”
“Please—Master—please let me cum—let me make a mess for you—please—”
You grinned.
“Cum for me, slave.”
He screamed.
His body seized, hole clenching so tight around your cock it almost pushed you over the edge. His cum splattered across the sheets in thick, hot streaks, and he collapsed beneath you—shaking, moaning, drooling, trembling with every aftershock as you kept fucking him through it.
He was babbling now. You didn’t need to understand. It was all yours.
You growled low, thrusting one last time and spilling inside him, hot and thick, grinding deep as you filled him to the brim. He sobbed into the sheets—completely broken open, your cum leaking from his fluttering hole as he whispered, “Thank you, Master,” again and again.
You kissed his shoulder.
“You did so well for me,” you murmured. “So good. So obedient. So mine.”
He made a small sound—something close to a sob—but there was no fear in it.
Only peace.
𓆩♡𓆪
You didn’t let go of him.
Not once.
Not when he came undone under you, not when his body collapsed into aftershocks, not when his sobs started—quiet and broken, into the silk sheets.
You stayed inside him, shallow and warm, one hand on his waist, the other splayed across his chest. His breath came in shivers. His body twitched with every small pulse of aftershock, still spread open, still marked by you.
And still, he whispered, “Thank you, Master.”
Over and over again.
Like a prayer. Like a child afraid of silence.
You kissed the back of his neck. Gently. “You don’t have to thank me for not hurting you.”
His fingers curled in the sheets. He didn’t answer right away.
You pulled out slowly. Your cum dripped down the inside of his thighs, hot and wet, and he didn’t move. He just exhaled—long, cracked, like the last of his performance was melting out of him.
You left only briefly. Warm towel. Cloth. Water. When you returned, he hadn’t shifted.
He was still kneeling.
Silent.
Shaking.
You moved behind him and eased him into your lap. Chest to back. He folded like he’d been waiting to. You wrapped your arms around him and held him there—wet, ruined, open—and he let you.
You cleaned him gently. Slow, soft, reverent. Not possessive now. Not hungry. Just present.
“I want to hear your color,” you whispered.
“…Green,” he breathed. “Just… slow.”
“Slow is good.”
Another breath. Then, quieter: “I don’t want to go back to my room.”
“You won’t.”
You tightened the towel around him, pressing your palm over his heart. The leather collar was still warm under your fingers.
“Does this still feel good?” you asked, thumb brushing it.
“…Yes.”
“Does it still feel like a leash?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You tilted his face toward you. His eyes were red, wet, shining.
He swallowed.
“I kept waiting for it.”
You blinked. “For what?”
“For the part where you stopped asking,” he said. “Where you just… took.”
Your breath stilled.
He looked down, shame creeping like old blood into his voice. “They didn’t ask. Not after I was sold. The first ones just—”
You adjusted your hold—firmer now. Grounded.
“I know.”
“There was a man who called me by my serial number,” he said. “Said names were for people.”
You didn’t speak. You held him tighter.
“I used to think… if I offered it first, let people use me, I was in control. If I moaned loud enough or spread my legs fast enough, maybe they’d forget I didn’t want it.”
His voice cracked. His jaw clenched.
“But none of them ever stopped.”
You found his hand. Laced your fingers through his.
“…And you did.”
You didn’t say of course.
You didn’t say I’m not like them.
You said: “You said yellow. So I slowed.”
And something inside him shattered.
He didn’t break pretty. He broke real. Face crumpling, shoulders shaking, tears falling hard against your skin as he buried his face in your chest and wept.
Not from shame.
From being seen.
You rocked him gently. Back and forth. Holding him through every sob, every tremor, every time he tried to apologize only to collapse again.
“I didn’t think I could ever be like this again,” he whispered.
“Like what?”
“Soft.”
You closed your eyes. Kissed his hair.
“You’re not soft. You’re just safe.”
His breath hitched.
“I don’t remember the last time I felt wanted,” he said, voice thin, “without needing to win something first.”
“You didn’t win me,” you murmured. “You let me hold you.”
His lashes fluttered. His voice dropped to a whisper:
“…Was I good?”
You cupped his cheek, thumb wiping a tear from his flushed skin.
“You were perfect.”
He laughed. It broke halfway. “I look pathetic right now.”
“No,” you said, smiling. “You look mine.”
He flinched—just slightly—but he didn’t deny it.
You kissed his nose. Brushed his damp hair back.
“Can I ask you something?”
“…Anything.”
“What do you want me to call you now?”
You didn’t rush it.
“You can keep Aventurine. Or Slave. Or…” You paused. “Kakavasha.”
He blinked.
His breath caught in his chest.
“I haven’t heard that name in so long,” he whispered. “It feels like it belongs to someone else.”
You nodded. “It does.”
He looked at you, startled.
You smiled.
“But maybe… that someone still lives here.” You placed your hand gently over his heart.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
His throat worked. His lashes fluttered.
hiii, I love ur writing, could u do a fic where Jason Todd is a mafia boss, and the male reader is his most loyal 'guard dog'? Jason literally treats him like one—giving him orders, rewarding him, keeping him close. Maybe there’s a moment where he calls male reader his 'dog,' and male reader just smirk and say, ‘Yeah? And who put the collar on me?’
thank u sm!
“BARK LIKE YOU WANT IT”
pairing. Sub!Mafia Boss!Jason Todd x Top!male reader
synopsis. In Gotham's underworld, Jason Todd holds the city by its throat. But every king has a dog at his heel—and M/n is loyal, brutal, and always watching. Jason calls him a mutt. But he forgets one thing—who put the collar on who? — 2.3k
Jason Todd ruled Gotham’s underground like it owed him blood. And in many ways—it did.
The Red Hood Syndicate didn’t move without his order. Rivals were ghosts before they made it to sunrise. Contracts vanished. Witnesses disappeared. And yet, for all the stories about Jason Todd’s brutality, his trigger temper, his high body count—
There was one man even the worst of the underworld feared more.
His shadow.
His guard dog.
You.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
"You’re late."
Jason’s voice was sharp, not raised, but biting all the same as you stepped into his office, the double doors clicking shut behind you. You didn’t answer him. You never did when he was in one of his moods—irritable, pacing, hands stuffed into his pockets, a fresh line of blood drying down the corner of his jaw like he forgot to clean it off.
Or didn’t care.
He looked you up and down once. His mouth twisted slightly.
"You smell like smoke."
You stared, unbothered. "I burned a man alive in his own Porsche tonight. You wanted it done quiet."
He laughed. Dry. A little sharp around the edges.
“Messy job for quiet work.”
“Your note said ‘make it hurt.’ So I did.”
Jason stopped pacing. The city light from the penthouse windows caught across his eyes—green-blue, sharp as broken glass. He licked his lips once, slow. Then, “Come here.”
You didn’t hesitate.
Your boots echoed on the polished floor, each step solid. Intentional. Controlled. You moved like a weapon kept in a velvet box—danger tucked into civility, teeth beneath tailored suits.
Jason sat on the edge of his desk as you approached. Still calm. Still composed.
But his fingers twitched once where they gripped the edge of the wood. You saw it. You always did.
“You want to be praised?” he asked, tilting his head, voice half-daring.
"No." Your tone was even, flat, as you stopped in front of him. “I want you to stop testing me.”
Jason’s smile twitched. “But you’re so good when I do.”
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
It was like this. Always.
The tension. The push-pull.
He gave the orders. You obeyed. He treated you like property—his muscle, his executioner, his dog. And you let him.
But Jason, arrogant as he was, had always mistaken obedience for submission.
And that was going to cost him.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
His hand lifted to your collar, two fingers brushing the sharp seam of your dress shirt. His knuckles grazed your throat, casual. Thoughtless.
But that’s where his control ended.
Your hand closed around his wrist.
His eyes jumped to yours, sharp with surprise—but not fear. Never fear.
“You like to call me your dog,” you said, low and measured. Your grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him still. "Throw me scraps. Snap your fingers. Expect me to sit."
Jason’s breath hitched. Just a little.
Your voice dipped, threading a heat beneath the threat. "You like pretending I belong to you."
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His mouth was parted, his pupils wide, and every inch of him was screaming yes.
"So let me ask you something, Todd." You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dark with knowing.
"Who put the collar on me?"
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
Jason shivered.
It was subtle—but it was there.
The slow exhale. The twitch of his thigh muscles. The flush creeping into his neck that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with being caught.
Owned.
He swallowed thickly. His hands clenched into fists against the desk.
And you—still gripping his wrist—lowered your mouth to his throat and let your teeth drag just beneath his jaw. Not biting. Not yet.
Just reminding.
Of what?
Of everything.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
He jolted slightly under your touch. A sharp inhale. A curse under his breath. Then his voice—thin, almost petulant:
“You’re supposed to take orders.”
Your smirk was razor-edged.
“I do. Because I want to.”
Your grip dropped. But you didn’t move back.
Instead, you leaned in closer.
Jason didn’t flinch. He never did. But his breathing was heavier now, pulse hammering against his throat—visible. Vulnerable.
"You bark all day, but when I get too close," you whispered, dragging your hand down his thigh with deliberate slowness, "you start to sound like a mutt that wants to be bred, not obeyed."
Jason made a sound in his throat. Half-growl, half-gasp.
"Fuck you."
You grinned.
“You’d beg.”
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
He hated how much it was true.
He could sit on his throne all day—snapping orders, collecting blood money, running the city from his penthouse and dark alleys—but when you stepped into the room?
He was something smaller. Simmering. Waiting.
He wanted you to tear it out of him. To push him back onto the desk, force his legs open, make him say please.
You didn’t even need to touch him to get him there. He was already half hard just from your voice in his ear.
And you knew it.
You always fucking knew it.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
“You don’t really want a guard dog,” you said, low against his throat. “You want a muzzle. You want a leash you can wrap around your own throat when no one’s looking.”
Jason’s fingers twitched again—this time reaching.
But not for a weapon.
For you.
And you let him. Just this once.
You let him grab your shirt, let him yank you in like he was desperate for something he couldn’t name. Your hand slid up the back of his neck, tangled in his hair, pulled his head back until he was looking up at you—eyes hooded, breathing uneven.
You watched his mouth part.
You watched the fight bleed out of his body.
And then, just loud enough to ruin him—
"Good boy."
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
The leash comes first.
Black leather, clean and heavy, pulled from your coat pocket like you were always planning to use it.
Because you were.
You knew Jason would mouth off. You knew he’d call you his dog again.
So now you’re going to make sure he was your bitch instead.
You’re sitting on his desk, legs spread, Jason on his knees between them—cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. Still pretending to be angry. Still acting like he’s got pride left.
"Take your shirt off."
He hesitates. Barely. Then obeys. Peels it off like it’s armor, like maybe the fabric will hold him together.
It won’t.
You pull the collar tight around his throat and let the buckle snap into place. His breath catches.
"Doesn’t it suit you?" you murmur, thumb brushing the pulse at his neck. "No tie. No suit. Just a collar. That’s how I like you."
Jason mutters something low under his breath.
You grab his jaw. “What was that?”
His mouth twists, defiant. So pretty like this. “Fuck you.”
You smirk. “You’ll get there.”
You shove two fingers into his mouth before he can talk back. He chokes slightly, but glares up at you through his lashes. You drag them deeper, until his throat works around the intrusion and his spit starts to run down his chin.
"You wanted to talk back?" you murmur. "Then earn the right to use your mouth."
Jason moans around your fingers, eyes fluttering.
His knees shift. He’s already grinding down against the floor, trying to rub the ache building in his pants. You grab a fistful of his hair and yank—his eyes fly open.
"Are you hard just from choking on my fingers?" you whisper. "Are you going to cum from being used like a toy, Jay?"
He shakes his head. He wants to say no. But you curl your fingers around the collar, tug—not hard. Just enough.
He whimpers.
"That’s what I thought."
You unzip. Jason’s eyes drop, hungry. You slap your cock against his cheek, watching the weight of it sink in before gripping his hair again.
"Open."
He does. Mouth wide, eager.
You sink in slow—and he moans. Not a groan. Not a grunt. A real, ruined moan, like he’s been waiting for this all week.
"You love this, don’t you?" you growl, hips pushing forward until he gags. "Love being on your knees like some two dollar whore. Mouth wide open. Ready to be used."
Jason’s face is dripping. Spit down his chin, lips stretched wide, pupils blown. He nods. He nods.
You grab the leash.
Just the feel of it in your hand makes him shudder.
You wrap it around your fist and pull. Not hard. Just enough.
"Good boy," you murmur.
Then you start fucking his throat.
He chokes.
Of course he does.
You don’t stop.
You let him gag, let his shoulders shake, let his tears spill over—he loves it. He’s rutting against the floor now, desperate, whining around your dick like you’re the only thing he needs to breathe.
"You gonna cum just from getting facefcked like a bitch?" you hiss.
Jason nods—fast, frantic.
You laugh. Spit in his mouth. Slap his cheek. Pull the leash again and hold him there while your hips snap forward with brutal rhythm.
When you pull out, he’s wrecked. His jaw is hanging open, tongue out, spit dripping down his neck. And he looks gorgeous like this.
You grab his face. Make him look at you.
“Say it.”
He pants. "Wh-what?"
"Say who owns you."
Jason hesitates—just a second.
Then: "You."
"Say it louder."
"You fucking own me," he moans. "I’m yours. I’m your fucking dog."
You grin.
"Now beg to get fucked."
He doesn't even pause.
“Please,” he gasps. “Please use me. Please, I—I need it—I’ll be good, I swear, just—please.”
And just like that, Jason Todd—the Red Hood, the most feared boss in Gotham—is on all fours, begging for the dick you’re about to be giving him.
Face red. Lips swollen. Hair stuck to his forehead. He’s panting now, thighs trembling as he tries to hold himself together, cock hard and leaking with no relief. The collar glints under the light, tight around his throat, leash trailing from your fist like a reminder.
Jason Todd doesn’t look like a mafia boss anymore.
He looks like a dog.
And he’s about to get treated like one.
“Get up,” you say.
He moves. Clumsy. Obedient. You shove him over the desk, chest flat, ass up, back arching perfect for you. The position makes him groan.
His pants are already gone. You never gave them back.
His thighs part without being told.
Ready.
“You were begging so sweet a second ago,” you murmur, palming his ass. “What happened to all that pride, Boss?”
Jason bites his lip. Doesn’t answer.
So you slap his ass. Loud. Sharp.
He jolts. “F-fuck—!”
“You forget how to talk?” you growl, leaning in close, letting your weight press into him from behind. “You forget who owns this?”
Your fingers drag down to his entrance. Wet. Twitching.
Jason gasps. “N-No—no, I know—I know—”
“Then say it.”
You shove two fingers inside him without warning. He screams. His back arches off the desk, legs shaking instantly.
“Fucking say it.”
“You—y-you own me,” he moans. “Please, please—I'm your fucking toy—”
You laugh against his ear.
“Yeah, you are.”
You press your cock to his slicked-up hole, teasing, dragging the head against him until he’s shivering and whining, back arched beautifully. The moment you press in—
He sobs.
"F-fuck—you're big—slow, slow—"
You don't go slow.
You grip the leash and pull as you sink in, one sharp thrust that fills him to the hilt. Jason’s scream gets buried in the desk wood, his fists clutching the edges like he’s trying to ground himself.
"You’re taking it," you growl. "Every inch. Just like you begged for."
Jason moans—high, desperate.
You start fucking into him, pace unrelenting, cock pistoning in and out as his hole squeezes around you so tight it hurts. He’s already leaking onto the desk, leaving a wet spot beneath him.
“Gonna cum like this?” you hiss. “No hands, no touch—just getting bred like the good bitch you are?”
He nods frantically, words lost in sobs and moans.
You feel the tremble before you hear the whimper.
Jason’s voice cracks. His whole body shudders. And then—his cock twitches untouched, shooting over the desk as his body clamps down around you.
He’s crying now. Quiet, desperate.
“C-Came—fuck, I came—”
You don’t stop.
“You think we’re done?” you growl, voice filthy. “You begged for it. Now fucking take it.”
You grab the leash, twist it around your fist, and pull his head back as you thrust harder, pounding into his overstimulated, raw hole until he’s a sobbing wreck on the wood, dripping and broken.
You feel it building. Heat low in your spine. Jason’s still twitching, every thrust making his legs shake, tongue hanging out as he begs for more, whimpers turning breathless.
“You want it?” you growl. “Want me to fill you up?”
Jason nods frantically, barely coherent.
“Fucking say it.”
“Please—please cum in me—want it—need your cum—breed me—!”
You snarl, bury yourself to the hilt, and let go.
Hot, thick, endless—you spill into him like you’re trying to mark him from the inside out. Jason gasps, back arching beautifully as he milks you, his hole clenching greedily with every spurt of release.
The air reeks of sweat, sex, and ownership.
And he loves it.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
He collapses the second you pull out, limp and twitching, cum leaking down his thighs in thick streaks. His face is flushed. His eyes are barely open.
You wipe him clean with your handkerchief. Gently.
You kiss his shoulder once. Then his temple.
He breathes slow. Even. Peaceful.
And the collar? You don’t take it off.
You brush your fingers over it softly, smirking.
“You looked better on your knees than you ever did behind a desk.”
Jason—wrecked, dazed, marked from the inside out—manages a breathy laugh.
Could I get Zenitsu from demon slayer that swears he straight start to fall for male reader? Like maybe reader is confident and flirty/make dirty jokes with him but he is so deep in denial that he’s always refusing and stuff until he realizes he’s daydreaming of reader and wanting to go along with it?
Not sure if I’m describing it well, and you’re welcome to take the concept and run with it however you like but I thought bi disaster would be funny and a cute bottom
“IN A FLASH”
pairing. “Straight”!Zenitsu Agatsuma x Top!male reader
synopsis. Zenitsu is 100% straight—or at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. But between your constant flirting, your cocky smirks, and the unwelcome daydreams about being pinned against a wall, he’s starting to lose his mind. And maybe, just maybe… he likes it. — 1.7k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, dirty jokes, tiniest bit of power play, first time (with a man), overstimulation, handjob, aftercare
a/n: You did a great job describing what you wanted! Thank you for sending in my first request!
Zenitsu was not in love with you.
Nope. Not a chance. Absolutely not.
It didn’t matter that you were tall, confident, and smirked like you owned the place. It didn’t matter that you rolled up your sleeves during training, your arms a little too toned, a little too veiny for him to not notice. And it especially didn’t matter that you had a habit of leaning in too close, whispering dirty jokes just low enough for only him to hear.
Because Zenitsu?
Zenitsu liked women.
He loved women. Soft hands, long hair, big br—
"Are you blushing?"
The sound of your smooth, teasing voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Zenitsu immediately flinched, whipping around to see you grinning down at him, elbow resting on his shoulder.
His stomach flipped.
"No! I—Why would I—?! I AM NOT BLUSHING!"
In his panic, he stumbled backward—tripping over absolutely nothing—and fell flat onto his ass.
You burst out laughing, loud and shameless, crossing your arms as you watched him writhe in his own embarrassment.
"You totally were," you smirked. "What’s the matter? My rugged good looks getting to you?"
Zenitsu felt his entire soul leave his body.
"SHUT THE HELL UP!" He practically threw himself back to his feet, pointing at you in a wild panic. "I AM 100% STRAIGHT, OKAY?! I LOVE WOMEN! BIG BOOBS! SOFT HANDS! LONG HAIR!"
You just raised an eyebrow.
"...Alright, bro. You want a medal or something?"
Zenitsu twitched violently.
This was your fault.
For months, you'd been torturing him.
The casual hand on his shoulder. The way you'd sit too close, your thigh pressed against his. The way your gravelly, stupidly deep voice sounded whenever you murmured some filthy joke into his ear, leaving him to short-circuit in real-time.
He hated it.
He hated you.
He was definitely not going to start thinking about it later.
Absolutely not.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
It started small. Little things.
Like how your voice was kind of deep.
Not too deep—but just enough to make his stomach flip when you said his name.
Or how your hands were huge.
Not that he was paying attention to them. Not that he was imagining how they’d feel gripping his waist, holding his wrists, pinning him—
WAIT, BAD. BAD THOUGHT.
Zenitsu shook his head violently, slapping his own cheeks.
He was just tired. That was all. He needed to train more.
…But training wasn’t exactly helping.
Because lately, you were standing too damn close.
"Need help with your stance?" you murmured from behind him, your chest almost pressed to his back.
Zenitsu froze.
His entire body locked up as your hands brushed over his hips, adjusting him like it was nothing.
Like you weren’t completely ruining his life.
"I—I GOT IT!" he shrieked, flailing away from you like you were on fire. "THANKS, NO NEED TO TOUCH ME, I’M PERFECTLY FINE—!!"
You just blinked at him, amused. "Dude, chill."
Zenitsu was not chilling.
He was losing his fucking mind.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
It got worse.
He started having thoughts.
Thoughts like, "What if he pushed me against a wall?"
Or "What if he held me down?"
Or "What if I just… let him?"
"NOOOOOOO—!!!" Zenitsu bolted upright in bed, screaming into his pillow.
What the hell was that dream?!
WHY WAS IT KINDA GOOD?!!
He buried his face in his hands, rocking back and forth in despair.
"This isn’t happening," he whispered. "I love women. BIG BOOBS. SOFT HANDS. LONG HAIR."
…Your hair didn’t look like a womans, but it always looked kinda nice.
WAIT, NO, STOP—!!!
Zenitsu launched himself out of bed. He needed a distraction. Immediately.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
Zenitsu was determined to prove his 100% absolute heterosexuality.
Which is why, the next morning, he could be found on his knees in front of a random woman, gripping her hands, screaming into the sky.
"HELLO, BEAUTIFUL LADY! HAVE I MENTIONED I LOVE WOMEN?!"
The woman blinked. "…Are you okay?"
"I’M SO OKAY!" Zenitsu laughed, manic and desperate. "SO, SO, SO OKAY! WOMEN ARE BEAUTIFUL! GORGEOUS! PLEASE MARRY ME!"
You watched from a distance, arms crossed, fighting back a smirk.
"He’s been acting weird lately," Tanjiro mumbled beside you.
You chuckled. "Yeah. I noticed."
Zenitsu’s entire body stiffened.
Because your voice—your deep, amused, cocky voice—was right behind him.
He turned slowly, staring up at you with wide, panicked eyes.
"Yo," you grinned.
Zenitsu squeaked.
Just straight-up made a noise like a fucking chew toy and bolted in the opposite direction.
You laughed.
Because oh yeah.
You definitely knew what this was.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
Zenitsu’s back hit the wall, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants.
His whole body was shaking, his hands gripping at nothing, his legs weak beneath him.
This was your fault.
You were too close.
You had him trapped, one hand flat against the wall beside his head, your strong, calloused fingers gripping his chin, forcing him to look up at you.
He tried to glare.
Tried to resist.
But his face was burning, his eyes were wide and panicked, his chest rising and falling way too fast.
This was wrong.
This was not supposed to happen.
"I—I don’t—” Zenitsu stammered, but his hips twitched forward, betraying him instantly.
You smirked. "Not like what?"
Your voice was too deep, too smooth, too much.
Zenitsu let out a sharp, shaky breath, his fingertips digging into the wall behind him.
"I—I'm not—"
He cut himself off, biting his lip hard, his eyes squeezing shut.
Because if he looked at you any longer, he was going to break.
And then—
You grabbed his chin, tilted his face up, and kissed him.
Zenitsu shattered.
A sharp, wrecked little noise escaped him, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp, his body going stiff—then melting completely.
His hands shot up to grip your shirt, his fingers fisting the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He didn’t pull away.
He couldn’t.
His whole body was burning, his mind spinning, his lips parting helplessly as you deepened the kiss, teasing, taking your time breaking him apart.
Zenitsu’s legs gave out.
You caught him instantly, one strong arm wrapping around his waist, keeping him pinned against you.
He hated how good it felt.
He hated how easily you overpowered him.
He hated that his dick was aching, twitching, throbbing, already soaked with precum—
But most of all?
He hated how much he loved it.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
Zenitsu didn’t remember how you got him to bed.
All he knew was that he was on his back, his clothes half-off, his skin burning, and your hands were on him.
Too much.
Too good.
Too overwhelming.
His breath was shaky, his legs spread open beneath you, his whole body trembling like a leaf. He should’ve been embarrassed—should’ve pushed you away, should’ve pretended he didn’t want this.
But when you dragged your palm up his inner thigh, tracing over sensitive, untouched skin, his whole body jerked violently, a shocked little whimper spilling from his lips.
His hands shot up to cover his mouth, his fingers pressing against his own lips as if that could stop the noises from escaping.
You smirked.
“Oh? You like that?”
Zenitsu furiously shook his head, eyes blown wide, face burning.
"NO—"
You hummed, dragging your fingers up his trembling stomach, stopping just at the waistband of his underwear.
"You sure?"
Zenitsu bit his lip hard, his whole body twitching in anticipation.
He could feel himself leaking, soaking the fabric, his thighs clenched but trembling, struggling to stay still.
He was too sensitive.
Too needy.
And when you finally hooked your fingers into his waistband and tugged his underwear down—
Zenitsu gasped, his breath catching, his dick twitching against his stomach.
Fuck.
He looked away immediately, his chest rising and falling way too fast.
He couldn’t do this.
He wasn’t supposed to like this.
Then your fingers wrapped around him, slow, teasing, barely applying any pressure.
And Zenitsu cried out.
A sharp, wrecked moan slipped past his lips, his hips jerking forward before he could stop himself.
"S-Shit—"
You chuckled. "You're shaking."
"Sh-Shut up," he whined, his voice cracking, his fingers digging into the sheets.
He was burning up.
He felt too hot, too exposed, too weak.
But it felt good.
Way too fucking good.
Your grip tightened just slightly, your thumb swiping over his leaking tip, and Zenitsu’s whole body twitched.
His breath hitched, a choked moan spilling out.
"I-I—oh fuck—"
You smirked. "Already close?"
"NO—" Zenitsu’s voice cracked, his cheeks burning.
He was not going to cum just from this.
He was not going to embarrass himself like that.
He was not going to—
You leaned down, dragged your tongue over his tip, and Zenitsu screamed.
His fingers fisted the sheets, his whole body seizing up, his dick twitching violently.
And then—
He broke.
"OH—OH FUCK—"
His back arched sharply, his hips bucking up, his breath stuttering, and then he let out a wrecked little sob, cumming way too fast, way too hard.
His chest heaved, his legs shaking, his body completely wrecked beneath you.
You pulled back slightly, grinning down at him.
"That fast?" your voice was low, amused, teasing. "Thought you had more stamina, Thunder Boy."
Zenitsu whined into his hands, his whole body trembling, his mind completely blank.
He should’ve been mortified.
But then—
Your hand wrapped around him again.
And Zenitsu twitched violently.
"H-Hah—w-wait, I just—"
Your grip tightened slightly, stroking him slow, teasing, letting him feel the overstimulation creep in.
Zenitsu gasped, his hips jerking forward weakly, his thighs trembling.
"You're still hard," you murmured, voice silky smooth. "Guess that wasn't enough for you, huh?"
Zenitsu let out a broken little noise, his nails digging into your arms.
He couldn’t handle this.
He was too sensitive.
Too fucking weak.
"B-Be gentle," he whispered, his voice tiny.
You smirked, kissing his heated skin.
"No."
Then you kept going.
And Zenitsu?
Zenitsu didn’t stand a chance.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
Zenitsu refused to let go of you.
His arms were wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your chest, his breath still shaky.
You smirked, running your fingers through his messy hair.
"You okay?"
Zenitsu huffed weakly, his fingers tightening their grip on you.
"I still like girls," he mumbled into your skin. "I just… really like you too."
You chuckled. "Oh yeah?"
Zenitsu whined. "Don’t make me say it again—!"
You grinned. "So you liked it?"
Zenitsu froze.
Then, with a mortified little whimper, he hid his face in your chest.
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