#releasing this from my drafts. is this anything

[thatonegirlonhere]

Draw Me Like You Mean It

Hyunjin x F!Roommate Reader

Chat, I’m way too horny for TS. I’m such a slut for hyunjin it’s not even funny omfg.I wrote this in an hour (give or take). I got WAYYYYY too carried away…

Buckle up for this new panty soaking, thigh clenching smut. And as per usual: Eat a snack, drink some water, put a towel down, and get ready to read ;)

Content warning: fingering, hair pulling (light), choking (light), overstimulation, dominance, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it folks!!), multiple rounds, implied aftercare.

word count: ~1400

Master list

Lmk if you want to be added to my tag list ☺️

(I’m also releasing a ton of drafts right now)

MDNI 18+⚠️⚠️

You answered the ad because it was cheap. That’s it.

Top floor loft, central to campus, studio space included. A dream for someone drowning in art school fees.

You didn’t expect Hwang Hyunjin to be the one opening the door.

You’d met him once before at a department mixer. Barely. But you remembered: tall, long-haired, devastatingly pretty. A fine arts major with a full-ride and a reputation.

The kind of boy who didn’t just make art — he was art. All sharp cheekbones and messy paint stains and raw talent.

He didn’t smile when he saw you.

“…Seriously?”

You blinked. “Nice to see you too.”

He didn’t move from the doorway. His gaze dragged down your body like a challenge.

“This is a mistake.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You afraid you can’t handle sharing a space with someone hotter than you?”

That earned a twitch of the lip. Not a smile. Not yet.

But something shifted.

“I don’t do drama,” he muttered. “I don’t do parties. I don’t do clingy. This is my studio and my space.”

“Relax, Rembrandt. I’m not here to fuck you.”

That definitely earned a look.

And just like that, the war began.

⸻

A silent truce formed — tense, unwritten, and fragile.

You kept your mess on your side of the apartment.

He kept his shirt off. Always.

You played music when you sketched.

He muttered critiques under his breath as he passed.

You argued about dishes.

He left brushes soaking in the sink. You cursed his name loud enough for the neighbors.

But somehow, it worked.

Nights bled into mornings. Projects overlapped. Deadlines loomed.

You got used to the sight of him — headphones in, paintbrush in hand, shirtless and focused in a way that made your mouth dry.

You’d watch him from the doorway of his studio, eyes tracing the curve of his spine, the slope of his waist.

He never said anything when he caught you staring.

Until one night, he did.

“You always stand there,” he said without turning around. “You like watching me?”

You scoffed. “You’re blocking the coffee machine.”

He turned then, sweat-slick hair falling into his face, gaze dark.

“You’re a shit liar.”

You didn’t sleep much that night.

⸻

The tension worsened.

It was in the way he passed you a pencil in class, fingers brushing yours like an accident.

It was in the way your thighs clenched when he leaned over you, correcting your brush stroke with his hand guiding your wrist.

It was in the way you dreamed about his mouth.

Then one night, you came home late from the lab — exhausted, overstimulated, raw — and found him in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, a cigarette burning in his lips and his sketchbook open in front of him.

Your name was written in the corner of the page.

The drawing was you.

Half-naked. Eyes closed. Mouth parted. Fingers between your thighs.

You froze.

He looked up slowly.

“Didn’t mean for you to see that,” he said softly.

You didn’t speak.

“I could erase it.”

You shook your head.

“…Don’t.”

That was the first time he smiled.

Not smug. Not amused.

Just wanting.

⸻

It happened two nights later.

His studio door was cracked open. Music low. Air thick with turpentine and tension.

He was pacing, frustrated, hair tied up, lips red from chewing.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

“Stuck?”

He glanced up. “In more ways than one.”

You stepped inside.

And he watched you like a man waiting to pounce then nodded towards the couch in the corner of the room.

“Sit,” he said. “Let me draw you properly.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Properly?”

His voice dropped.

“Like I want to.”

You sat down.

He picked up his charcoal stick.

“Spread your legs.”

Your breath caught.

“What—?”

“You heard me.”

You stared. He didn’t flinch.

Your legs parted.

He exhaled — slow, shaky, reverent.

And he began to draw.

Your shoulders. The slope of your thighs. The space between them. The curve of your lips.

The silence was heavy. Your skin tingled.

Then:

“You want me to stop?”

“…No.”

“You want me to touch you?”

Your pulse pounded.

“…Yes.”

The charcoal hit the floor.

And then he moved.

⸻

His mouth crashed to yours — rough, messy, gasping like he’d held back for months.

You didn’t kiss back. You devoured.

His hands were everywhere — gripping your thighs, your waist, the back of your neck, pulling you to him like he couldn’t stand any more distance.

He lifted you off the stool and slammed you onto the couch, mouth never leaving yours.

“Take your top off,” he growled, voice frayed and deep.

You obeyed. Your bra came with it.

He sat back on his knees and stared at you, lips wet, eyes wild.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered. “I’ve drawn you in every position in my head, but nothing—nothing—compares to this.”

He leaned down and bit your nipple, tongue soothing after, sucking until you arched into him.

You cried out.

“You like that?” he murmured.

“Yes—fuck—”

His hand slid down your stomach, past your waistband, between your legs—

“Fuck.”

You were soaked. Throbbing. Pulsing against his fingers.

“I’ve been jerking off thinking about this pussy for weeks.”

He circled your clit once, slow and firm, just to hear you whimper.

Then again. Faster.

You writhed under him, hips chasing his hand.

“Don’t move,” he snapped. “Be a good girl and let me play.”

He slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped. He curled them perfectly, his thumb on your clit, stroking you until your thighs shook and your eyes rolled back.

“Cum for me.”

“Hyunjin—!”

“Now.”

You shattered.

Your body arched, mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure flooded every nerve.

But he didn’t stop.

⸻

He stripped in seconds. No teasing. Just raw, urgent need.

His cock was thick. Red. Leaking. So hard it twitched when you moaned.

He knelt between your legs and lined himself up.

“You sure?”

“Please,” you gasped.

And then he pushed in.

Inch by inch, stretching you wide, groaning through clenched teeth as your body took him in.

“Fucking tight,” he gasped. “So wet—shit—look at you.”

He bottomed out and stilled.

You were shaking.

Then he pulled out and slammed back in.

You screamed.

He set a brutal pace — deep and fast, every stroke hitting that spot that made you cry.

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Take it,” he growled. “You asked for this.”

You were begging by the time he made you cum again — sobbing, breathless, dripping around him.

⸻

He flipped you onto your stomach, dragged you to the edge of the couch, and thrust back in with a guttural moan.

One hand in your hair. One wrapped around your throat.

He fucked you like he hated you.

Hard. Fast. Unrelenting.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“Look at this pussy,” he hissed. “Taking me so fucking well—like you were made for it.”

You came around him again — violently — tears streaming from the pleasure, from the stretch, from the raw intensity.

He growled in your ear.

“You’re mine now.”

⸻

You didn’t know how you made it to his bed.

He laid you down gently. Kissed you like he meant it this time. Slower.

He entered you again — slow, deep, drawn out — and made fucked you like he was worshipping you through every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and moaned into his mouth.

He came with your name on his lips — shaking, teeth gritted, whispering “fuck, fuck, fuck” like he’d waited his whole life for that moment.

⸻

You woke up hours later in his bed, sore and warm.

Hyunjin was beside you, sketchpad in hand.

You looked down. You were naked. Covered in bruises and love bites.

And in his sketch, you looked divine.

“Is that how you see me?” you whispered.

He nodded.

“It’s how I feel you.”

You smiled.

“Draw me again.”

He smirked.

“Only if you spread your legs for me first.”

TYSM for reading!!

Feel free to check out my master list to see more of my works!

tag list : @quaxing-lour @chryssi-kitten @kkd1021 @sagetakami @nojerama-writes @hwangseolover @yaorzu-blog @rrhwang @sayuri122014 @yaangu @eluvsp1hskzbtstxtatz @soojinie-5 @satosugu4l @ynxa-bliss @magikdarkholme @mbioooo0000 @rougegenshin @deadpool15 @simpqueen2025 @stronglychanbiased @kwanniehae @inlovewithstraykids @iovecb97 @rtyuy1346 @minho-kitty @tillaboo @paulina15 @hyunjinnnlvrr @juskz @felixsonlyrealwife @warped-rabbithole @angelbbygrl @xoxomanicpanic

[sorrysamgirls]

not to make ppl wanna beat me with hammers or anything but. i do believe sam and cas are friends. now do i think they’re the bestest bffs ever? no. that’s . so funny to even think abt. but do they actually hate each other? no way. i know the abomination/profound bond/“it” lines get thrown around a lot as a way of making it seem like they dont like/dont care abt each other but. i just don’t think that’s true! they do care abt each other. there is a kinship there. And yes u can say it’s bc of dean bc it literally is. cas says so himself in his confession. but that doesn’t invalidate or detract from anything. cas threatens others with violence on more than one occasion in defense of sam. sam trusts cas enough to let him try to extract the rest of gadreel’s grace which by that point in the narrative takes A Lot of trust for sam to willingly put himself in that kinda position. cas saved sam from the pit!!!! and yes he brought him back without his soul but this is where i like to point out that 1. sam was in the cage! with lucifer and michael! that’s a hiiiigh stakes rescue. and 2. the cage was established in the narrative as a Very Very Difficult place to break in and out of bc the whole point was to hold lucifer for eternity. so it kinda makes sense that maybe cas would run into a few issues. he and his garrison laid siege to hell to save dean. he broke in and out of lucifer’s cage solo. vastly different situations. and the look on his face when he’s accused of leaving sam’s soul behind on purpose? Distraught. classic case of cas trying to do the right thing and take care of dean but not telling him anything and making a very big mess. And still not telling anybody anything (i love cas)

like idk man. i think they’re friends and i think they’re family. and no that does not mean everything is rainbows and sunshine between them all the time. it does not cancel out the fact that they annoy the fuck out of each other. which is a lot of fun honestly i enjoy it <3. Tldr they’re in-laws who occasionally vibe and are bound to one another via their respective ties to dean but like. they’re pretty cool with that arrangement

[somegrumpynerd]

A bunch of doodles inspired by @wickjump saying Cross has an eternal kicked puppy look (and steadily devolving into dadmare because y'know. My Brand)

[m1ckeyb3rry]

tumblr kinda did smth bad to my writing I AM SORRY TO ADMIT IT but like back when i only rlly posted on ao3 i was able to write longer fics and it was sm more motivating but on here everyone knows oneshots are #theplay and so now it’s been like a year of mostly just oneshots and shorter fics to the point that idek if I Could write smth massive again because all of my plot ideas i automatically frame as quick narratives instead of long ones LFJDJDN I AM REGRESSING I AM LITERALLY REGRESSING 🥀🥀🥀🥀

[king-crawler]

wreck it ralph spoilers without context

[milkchocimono]

i wish sethos & cyno dynamic was more popular but i feel like both of them get kind of overshadowed by the popular ships they’re in. it’s a little sad for me because cyno was actually one of my favorite characters in the sumeru aq even though i don’t mention it often. i also just love love love tense family dynamics always and i feel like these two have a really interesting background that should be explored more!!! i like sethoscara as i’m sure most people know by now 😅 but i do really feel like sethos has hit the curse of being an “unimportant” 4 star who’s only ever mentioned because he’s in a popular ship with a 5 star. kind of like heizou with heikazu. which is a shame!!! he’s so interesting to me, even outside of the ship. the inherent trauma of being an orphan child only adopted into a clan for nefarious reasons… having the most important person in your life die shortly after having your sole purpose ripped away from you by someone you’ve been chasing after your whole life, and then having to go back to normal immediately after because everyone is counting on you. oh he is so noble to me. he is so. so thoughtful. polite. princely. etc.

and then on a more headcanon-y aspect, him and cyno reconciling with eachother… going through the awkward motions anyone does when reconnecting with family… learning about eachother. sethos learning to let go of the ideals he thought cyno represented, and learning to see the man infront of him instead. cyno, cracking his ice breaker jokes, always willing to be the one on the outside of the group so others can have a sense of community with eachother, even if it’s to laugh at him. he’s so much more than comedic relief to me whhyyyyyyy hoyoverse whyyyyyy pleaseeee don’t flandernize him like itto…

[durgewyll]

weak in the knees for wyll ravengard call that failing my wyll saving throw

[neixins]

ngl i’m very curious to see the dragons’ reactions to losing their powers (both the guilt of realizing that yona’s trapped bc she wanted to save them and in a practical sense (the disability allegory of it!!)), especially gija, who cares so so so much about his Duty as a dragon warrior and who doesn’t really have any combat skills outside of his dragon arm. there’s just so much potential there. on the combat skills note, if only there was someone who carried a whole stash of weapons on his person and could offer some guidance…..kusanagi if u give me this gijaeha-flavored treat i’ll pardon all of your diabolical crimes

[cowardlybean]

im so serious when i say i need to write a horror fic with teru and reigen as the main characters i just Cannot for the life of me come up with any ideas

[jadelemonadee]

kibhdatkhs

[somegrumpynerd]

-Okay but some of the fears that Color has are in fact the same fears that Nightmare has when it comes to Killer.

Like, Color is worried that Killer's so blindly loyal to Nightmare for whatever reason that he wouldn't even think of complaining if he hated it. And at the start that was something Nightmare probably expected. His henchmen should be loyal and obedient and not ask questions nor complain. But now, after years of learning and bonding and softening up significantly he wonders sometimes if that's still the case.

Nightmare knows Killer well, perhaps better than most, but he's not exactly an open book. Especially when it comes to his own wants or needs. More often than not when he makes a request it's intentionally silly or unreasonable for laughs, like asking if they can take Dust to the nearest pet store and try to trade him in. Very rarely does he want something strong enough to make it known, both to himself and others, like asking to keep the first cat he found.

So.

If he hated this. If he truly struggled and fought and agonised with himself about the position he's in and the work he's doing and the life he leads.

Would he say it? Would he realise that was how he felt? Would he even consider saying no was an option?

If Nightmare asked him to do something he really genuinely did not want to, would he just do it anyway because he doesn't believe he has a choice in the matter?

The only way of finding out (besides making a blatantly difficult request of him, which Nightmare is not willing to do) is to simply wait and trust that Killer will tell him if something is wrong. Which... is not exactly foolproof or easy.

But it's part of why Nightmare hates to be around Color too much, because deep down he's more than a little worried that Color could be right and he doesn't know how to fix it.

[slimslamflimflam]

Just found out if I stop stressing about “good” writing the fic will actually get written 27,000 dead 572,027,728 injured

[voidignitia]

Man if I wanted to choose my own role prior to queueing up I’d just play fucking draft mode????

[allegorism]

every single pmmm enjoyer that i've ever met has been insufferable. the inferiority complex they feel w media like utena or sailor moon is just laughable.

[munsonify]

tipsy and touchy

pairing. steve harrington x fem!reader

summary. steve finds himself a bit drunk and uncomfortably horny with you in his lap, and you decide to help him out when your friends leave

content warnings. smut 18+ mdni, alcohol consumption on both ends, intoxicated sexual acts (consensual), oral (m!receiving, sloppy head), brief handjob, alludes to fingering (f!receiving), praise, steve being needy and whiny, finger sucking, slight oral fixation (i can’t help myself), probably way too much spit, established relationship, pet names (honey, babygirl), r in a skirt

word count. 2731

a/n. not proofread cause when is my work ever. also the first few paragraphs have been sitting in my drafts for like a year or two now so it’s finally seeing the light

———

low music played inside of steve’s house, his radio on the first station he’d tuned into that sounded half decent. a bottle of wine and whiskey were open on the island in his parents kitchen, glasses out with it. it’s weird that his house parties turned into this over the years - low music, very few friends, minimal mess, and just enough alcohol to get everyone where they wanted to be. 3 years ago, steve would’ve never hosted something like this.

it never took long for him to feel a buzz rattling inside of his brain, making the alcohol running through his body known. he was sat comfortably in his armchair, his legs spread in his slightly too tight jeans. it was a perfect fit for you.

with a slight stumble in your walk, you gently slid into the chair with him, perfectly rested against him. with a strong arm wrapped around your waist protectively, the smell of his cologne engulfed you, a slight scent of whiskey mixing with it. his body was warm, and his touch was firm.

steve’s stubbly chin brushes against your neck, lips attaching to your skin there for a gentle kiss. in his tipsy haze, he finds his hand wandering up the side of your shirt. his fingertips brushed against your bare skin, sending chills down your spine. he was slow with the way he dragged his lips up the column of your throat, leaving slightly-too-wet kisses in its wake.

it wasn’t until his lips kissed underneath your jaw that you realized steve was in search of your lips. your hand was quick to find the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair on instinct, guiding the man’s face to yours.

“jesus christ get a room!” robin exclaimed, groaning as she walks past the two of you cozied up in the recliner. your boyfriend let out a little huff as he releases the desperate kiss. steve’s hand lingered on your skin for a few moments, before reluctantly moving it, smoothing your shirt back down in place. his soft lips found his way back to yours briefly, gently kissing away the cute little pout you grew.

you decided it was best for you to get up, wiggling slightly in your place as you grasp steve’s toned bicep for leverage. one of his large hands caught your hip before you could pull away, eyes wide as he stares up at you. he drags you down into his lap again without a word, safely securing you back into place. you kept your hand firmly placed on his bicep while your eyebrows knit together at him. all steve did was adjust you a little, letting your thigh brush against his aching, half hard cock through his jeans.

your eyes wandered down at the feeling, catching glimpse of his prominent bulge pressed against you. it was difficult for him to contain when he wasn’t hard, let alone when he was. his fitted blue jeans never leave anything for the imagination. it was no use trying to contain your giggles, the cute noise slipping from your lips without meaning to.

“poor baby,” you teased in whisper, a small, playful pout on your lips as you look back up into his eyes. steve’s grip on your hip tightens for a few moments, a daring glint in his eyes. your fingers comb through his hair, feeling him readjust beneath you again. you lean in to his ear, placing a warm, slow kiss beneath it before you briefly continued your teasing. “so worked up.”

you placed another warm, chaste kiss below his ear, pulling away the moment you heard robin come back out into the living room. steve’s eyelids were a little hooded now, fluttering down at you as he thinks. another shift of his hips tells you that your teasing is working, his heavy erection pressing against your thigh again. it was a friction he was so desperate for, yet didn’t mean to find. you watched as he swallowed thickly, adam’s apple bobbing with it.

“only cause you’re a tease,” steve whispered back, a slight desperation clinging to his voice. if he wasn’t hosting your friends, he’d take you right then and there. “can’t help myself around you.”

you cooed at his words, the hand at his steadying at the back of his neck, fingers toying with the baby hairs as you lean in close. your soft, gentle lips press against his in another kiss, this time a lot shorter. steve would complain if he knew robin wouldn’t make a sly comment again. instead, he settled on smoothing his hand up a little to your waist, fingertips tracing small patterns over your shirt.

neither of you seemed to notice how late it’d gotten until jonathan started shuffling around the living room in search of nancy’s shoes, who seemed not at all bothered by finding them. instead, she had her face in her palms, body a little slack from the alcohol. robin was fumbling with her own shoes, somehow managing them on.

“we’re gonna head out, man,” jonathan spoke, breaking steve’s trance on you. he handed nancy her shoes before he slipped on his own. “nance needs to lie down and i think robin might throw up if she has to looks at you guys for any longer.”

robin started to grumble as she pushes herself off of the couch, balancing upright the best she could manage, before pointing at the two of you. “you two are a bunch of horndogs. not to mention i was having a great conversation with y/n before you went and stole her.”

she was swaying in place a little as she spoke, putting extra emphasis on her words to get her point across. steve, however, couldn’t pretend to care even if he tried. he just shrugged robin off, hand swatting her away, even though she was across the room. jonathan helped nancy to her feet, letting the girl lean against him just slightly as they started to walk towards the door, all three waving goodbye.

“thanks for having us!” nancy said, smiling proudly as the other two follow suit in agreeing. you gave them a small wave and a grin, still perched up on steve’s lap cheerfully.

“‘course,” steve told them, watching as they stumble through the door. he pointed at jonathan with a fake sternness. “get them home safe.”

that was the last of the conversation before the front door clicked shut. all steve did was mumble a small ‘thank god’ before his mouth was on your neck again, kissing at it in a wet desperation for your warmth. the hand that wasn’t cradling the back of steve’s head found its way to his broad chest, shifting yourself slightly, facing towards him a little better now that you weren’t attempting to hide his bulge.

“baby,” you whisper, drawing him away from your neck to speak to him. he let you guide him, faces inches apart as you spoke to the boy. steve was always eager for you, though it was much was when he was drunk. he clung to you tighter, searched for your warmth a lot more. “let me take care of you.”

steve nodded quickly at your words, eyebrows knitted together as he tries to figure out his next move. while his mind went to your small skirt and what was hidden underneath, your mind went elsewhere. before he could do or say anything, you slowly slide off his lap, finding your place on the floor, knees pressed against the hardwood as you wedged your way between his still parted legs.

your hands found his thighs quickly in attempts to steady yourself, a little more drunk than you thought you were. your hands were slow and more precise with their next move, sliding gently up towards his large bulge. your fingers found it first, tracing his length, feeling him twitch beneath your touch. next was your palm, solid and warm as you rub against him. steve let out a choked gasp at your movements, hands gripping the armrests to ground himself.

he was so zoned in to the moment, into the warmth of your hands, that it took him a long few seconds to notice you fumbling with his belt. you had that cute little pout on your face again as you struggle slightly, eventually figuring it out on your own. one of steve’s hands found yours, gripping them both and steadying them. your eyes went wide the moment he stopped you, head snapping up to look at him. before you could overthink it or ask if you’d done something wrong, steve spoke instead.

“you sure, honey?” he croaked, looking down at you for reassurance. you were quick to nod.

“yeah, so sure,” you hummed, grasping at the hand he had down at yours. you brought his knuckles to your lips, pressing slightly sloppy kisses to his skin, staring up at him through your eyelashes. you pressed one firm kiss on his palm before your focus returned to his blue jeans, tugging them and his boxers down just enough for his aching cock to release and sit comfortably.

a pleased hum rumbled in your chest at the sight of his leaky cock, spit dribbling from your lips right after, falling into your palm. all steve could do was stare down at you admiringly, hand reaching to the side of your face, cupping your cheek as you get to work. you were as precise with your movements as you could be, hand finding its way to his tip, gripping slightly, before slowly dragging your hand down his length. your hand settled at the base of his cock, gripping a little tighter now, giving yourself time to admire how pretty it looked covered in your spit and his precum.

you used your other hand to push up the hem of his shirt slightly, revealing his soft tummy and the perfect happy trail. you watched as his stomach tensed slightly, cock twitching in your hand right along with it. you finally began stroking him properly, a little sloppy, still slow. steve’s lips had a permanent part to them as you felt him, low gasps and whimpers pushing past them at every perfect upwards flick of your wrist. his drink was long forgotten on the side table next to the chair, all of his focus still on you.

he watched you lean in further, your hand steadying its pace, mouth hovering just barely over the tip of his cock. steve couldn’t help but drag his hand to the back of your head, gently cradling it in anticipation. when your soft lips finally met his tip he couldn’t stop a small gasp from exiting his mouth. you left gentle kisses down the underside of his heavy shaft, staring up at him the entire time. you licked your way back up with a flat tongue, slowly finding your back to his leaky tip, swirling around it teasingly.

as much as steve wanted your mouth on him, to rest inside of your warm, wet mouth, he still waited, as patient as ever. you were gorgeous on your knees like this, having your fun with him. who would he to be to ruin this perfect sight?

his patience paid off quickly. you took his tip into your mouth with a breathy moan, lips wrapped around him all pretty. a gentle suck was all it took to make steve moan, thighs tensing underneath of you. he was always sensitive for you, more so now that he was intoxicated. he couldn’t help but feel everything you generously gave him intensely.

you took his cock down your throat little by little, wrapping more of his length into your warm mouth. it took everything in him not to thrust up into you, to force you to take more. you seemed to notice that as you take the rest of his cock, nose brushing against his pubic hair, scent in bulging you. your soft hands found his hips, both to steady yourself and to keep him in place. to show that you truly wanted to take care of your man, a silent way to tell him to sit back and relax.

small whimpers begin to erupt from steve’s mouth as you slowly start to bob your head against the length of his cock. you never fully released him, simply stopping at his tip, before dropping back down again, slow. his large hand was gentle with guiding you - while he let you go at your own pace, your rhythm was uncharacteristically off, something your slightly drunk haze cursed you with -, helping you find a somehow steady rhythm. your mouth was a drooling mess as you started to speed up, spit spilling slightly from the corners of your mouth, helping you take his cock much better. this would normally embarrass you, cause you to ease up a little. tonight, however, you couldn’t care less. and, lucky for you, your boyfriend seemed to love it.

“so good honey,” steve whimpered out, head thrown back against the chair. he couldn’t bear to look at you. if he did, he’d risk blowing his load too soon, something he had a feeling was going to happen regardless. it was evident in his voice and his slumped figure that he was sensitive, needy for you. “so fucking good, so messy, oh god-“

steve’s rambles were cut short by more whines and whimpers slipping from his mouth, a quick jerk of his hips fighting passed your grip. you didn’t mind at all, throat closing slightly at the feeling, only causing more pretty noises from him. his eyes squeeze shut in attempts to ground himself, a hand desperately gripping the armrest of the chair he was sat in. you started hollowing out your cheeks, a soft, wet slurping sound becoming audible to him.

the moment one of your hands found its way to his lower stomach, fingers scratching so gently at the patch of hair there, steve was a goner. he forced his eyes open and his head up, finally looking back down at the sight of you, mouth full of him, ready to take his cum. how could he deny you that?

“right there, honey, shit,” steve whined, a noise that had your pussy fluttering and pulsing. his hips rocked slightly into you as he came, eyes dead set on yours as you took every last drop you could manage, a few white, pearly streaks falling out of your mouth and down your chin. both of his hands found their way to your cheeks as you finished working him through his orgasm, careful with the way he pulls you off of his cock, slightly overstimulated.

“y’so perfect,” steve murmured out as he caught his breath, watching your round, teary eyes stare up at him as he praises you. your thighs press together on instinct, a small pout playing on your lips at the loss of him in your mouth. “always so good f’me.”

he was careful with the way he helped you up off the ground, guiding you back to his lap. this time, you were straddling him, soft thighs on either side of his. with one hand on your hip, steve brought his other up to your chin before you could clean it up yourself, scooping what escaped onto his middle and ring finger. and, as if on instinct, your jaw went slack again expectantly, waiting just as patiently for him as he did for you. he gave you what you wanted, pushing his fingers into your mouth gently, resting them right against your tongue, firm.

your lips were quick to wrap around his him right at his knuckles, tongue swirling his thick fingers eagerly, taking back the cum that got away from you. you hummed out a low moan as you sucked at his fingers, finally letting yourself find friction against his body. your skirt was flared around you, letting you grind down slightly against his slightly softened dick with only your soaked panties in the way.

“i know,” steve cooed at you, slipping his spit soaked fingers out of your mouth. you would’ve protested if they hadn’t immediately found their way down to your cunt, slipping right past the waistband of your panties. “gonna pay you back the favor, babygirl, promise, gonna give you exactly what you need.”

and that he did.

[fromdove]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⁞ what is wrong with me?

word count: ~4025 words

pairing: damian wayne x fem!reader

warnings: no warnings!! just damian wayne in agony (in-love)

content: damian wayne can't stop sketching you or thinking about you

dove's notes: this has been sitting in my drafts, waiting, begging to be released. also i was listening to artic monkeys when i was editing this. also this is my longest work yet .. lord.. enjoy!!

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Damian Wayne has officially lost his mind. (Or—at least, that’s what it feels like, which is almost worse than it being true.)

It doesn’t come on all at once. It’s not loud like breaking a door down a flash of gunfire. no, it creeps in slowly. subtly. It starts with the nausea, the quiet kind, not the kind that doubles you over or makes you rush to the bathroom. not food poisoning. not a training injury. nothing that can be pinned down to anything practical.

It's just this low, burning discomfort that curls in his gut and stretches upward, making a home beneath his ribs, curling around his spine. the kind of unease that originates from something deeper, something more inconvenient. something more emotional.

He can’t stand it.

His palms are sweating, and that alone is enough to make him scowl. his shirt sticks just a little too tightly at the collar, suffocating in a way it never has before. there's a feverish heat crawling up the back of his neck, winding behind his ears, and it makes his skin itch with irritation.

he’s already scanned himself for symptoms. checked his vitals, ran through every checklist and possibility in his head. besides the nausea, he’s not actually sick. his pulse is as steady as it can be. reflexes are sharp. no bruises he’s missed, no toxins in his system. nothing out of the ordinary. on paper, he’s fine. perfectly functional. but something’s still off.

because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop thinking about you.

your face has apparently decided to move in and take up residence in his mind. your face has staked a claim on his sanity. It keeps showing up, again, again, and again. relentlessly. a ghost with no regard for personal boundaries.

there you are, when he closes his eyes. when he blinks. when he spaces out for a single second.

the image of you burns at the backs of his eyelids with a persistence that borders on cruel. It’s not just your laugh, though that’s bad enough. It’s the details, the things he shouldn’t have noticed. the things he has no business remembering.

The way you hold a pencil, balanced so precisely between your fingers like it grew out of your hand. the way you bite your bottom lip when you're focused, completely unaware of the way it softens your whole face. the furrow between your brows when you’re reading something the teacher assigned. the exaggerated eye-roll you give him when he’s being, as you so kindly put it, “uptight.”

he hated the word. he still does. but the memory of you saying it loops in his mind anyway. the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. the way you exist, so thoroughly and vividly, in every god forsaken part of his head.

He clenches his fists and holds them there, knuckles white and aching, like if he grips hard enough, he can force the thoughts out of him by sheer will.

Enough.

A breath hisses through his teeth, tight and thin and far more emotional than he’d ever allow himself to sound out loud. he throws himself onto the old leather chair shoved into the corner of his bedroom.

The thing groans beneath him like it’s just as exasperated with him as he is. It’s been his brooding chair since he was ten. It’s seen everything: blood, bruises, silence. tonight, it sees a kind of ache it's never seen before.

Rain drizzles down the windows in a soft, half-hearted rhythm. It’s the gotham kind of rain. but this time it's not the angry kind, not storming kind either. just tired. persistent. the sky outside is a smear of cold, colorless gray. he doesn't need to check the time. not again. he already has multiple times, it's 2:00 am.

Wayne Manor at night is its own sort of living thing. It breathes in silence and exhales memory. every hallway feels too long. every portrait watches too closely. the air seems too still. you can hear a clock ticking from three rooms away. even the shadows feel old. and when the house is this quiet, his thoughts get loud. they expand. echo. and right now, his thoughts are the last damn thing he wants amplified.

His sketchbook rests open on his desk. The page stares back at him-blank. waiting. taunting. page number... who knows. It doesn’t matter. he’s filled hundreds of these pages by now. but somehow this one feels heavier. more expectant. like it already knows what he’s going to draw. and like it’s laughing at him for trying to fight it.

It’s mocking him.

the blank page. the pencil in his hand. the silence of the room. all of it. mocking.

he would say it aloud-confess that he can hear it laughing at him. that would sound insane. and Damian Wayne doesn’t do insane. at least not the kind that makes you talk to paper. but sounding crazy isn’t even what’s bothering him right now. that’s how far gone he is. that’s how bad this is. right now, everything else seems like a minor inconvenience.

he’s not worried about sleep or the exam he has tomorrow in a class with the worlds most insufferable teacher. what’s getting under his skin is the idea that his own brain has decided this piece of paper knows him better than he does. and the fact that tonight you've followed your own yellow brick road right into his head and made yourself at home.

To be honest, quietly, bitterly honest, this isn’t the first time you’ve found your way into his head.

It started the day he met you. he doesn’t know why. you weren’t the loudest voice in the room. you didn’t chase the spotlight or try to charm everyone like the people he’s seen at his father’s galas. their perfect smiles and polished words. that kind of performance never worked on him anyway.

You didn’t demand attention the way those people did. didn’t perform for the room or try to catch anyone’s eye. but by some divine intervention, you slipped past his guard like it was nothing. beat the odds of staying in his head, like the kind of odds and luck people win the lottery with. only, he wouldn’t call it luck. it's not lucky for him though. If it were luck, you wouldn’t be there all the time. you wouldn't be there constantly, threaded through his thoughts, sitting stubbornly in the back of his mind when he’s supposed to be focusing on literally anything else.

you showed up, a director to his brain, and announced action and his brain has been following your lead ever since.

you’ve been showing up in his dreams. in quiet moments between drills. between breaths. between the pages of books he doesn’t finish anymore because he ends up thinking about how you’d probably like them. he’s tried everything to push you out. he meditated until his limbs went numb. that didn’t work. tried ignoring you which lasted two days before he cracked and said something cold and clipped just so he could break the silence, he trained until his hands were shaking from exhaustion. that didn’t work either.

he also can’t talk to anyone about it. he has to deal with this on his own, despite having no experiences with feelings like this.

not grayson, who would tease and then say something ridiculous like “it's just a crush, it's okay to feel like this yada yada.” because it wasn't okay. and this obviously was way worse than just a crush.

he couldn't ask father, who would raise an eyebrow and say something vaguely wise and completely unhelpful. not todd or drake. and definitely not his mother. she’d sneer. call it weakness. maybe it is. maybe she’s right. maybe he agrees with her.

what kind of warrior gets undone by a girl?

the thought of therapy crossed his mind once. he’s heard of it. read enough reports to understand how it’s supposed to work. talk. process. heal. whatever. but it’s not for him. he’s Damian Wayne. he doesn’t talk about feelings to some stranger in a white coat. he gets through. he survives. therapy was never for someone like him. and even if he did try, what the hell would he say?

that there’s a girl stuck in his head and it’s annoying? that it gets under his skin in ways he doesn’t have names for? that some days, it feels like your voice echoes louder than his own thoughts, and no amount of training, of silence, of bruised knuckles can push it out?

he would never say that some part of him, some small, treacherous part, would give up the fight, the league, all of it, just to sit across from you in peace, to live a life where he never has to say the words “assassin” or “bloodline” again. nope. he will also never say that your absence leaves a sharper ache than any blade he's ever taken to the ribs.

It sounds weak. soft. pathetic, even.

something he would’ve scoffed at not long ago. something he might’ve called pitiful in someone else.

but it’s so very real.

because he’s been shot. stabbed. left in the dirt with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the sting of his own failures. he’s taken hits that shattered bone. fought through pain so sharp it made the edges of the world go white and still, none of it ever made him feel this exposed.

this unguarded. like someone cracked open his chest and left everything on display. every nerve, every feeling he never wanted to name. It’s not physical pain that unsettles him. he can handle pain. he can't handle the fact that you matter though.

somewhere along the way of all those thoughts, the pencil made its way into his hand. he doesn’t remember reaching for it. doesn’t remember curling his fingers around it. but it’s there now, resting lightly between calloused fingers, like it always does. he’s on autopilot. which is already a bad sign.

he tells himself to get it together. to sketch something practical. a bird’s wingspan. a new gauntlet modification. the layout of a building if he has to. something tactical. something with purpose.

but when the pencil meets the paper, it doesn’t obey. his hand moves on its own. long, confident strokes, trained muscle memory. a familiar line forms. then another. the slope of a jaw. the curve of a mouth. the arch of an eyebrow that always seems to rise whenever you’re being particularly annoying. and then, worst of all, the eyes. not just generic ones. yours. the ones that squint when you’re holding back a laugh. and the ones that widen when you taste something you really love, so much so that you’d swear it’s life-changing.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s already done.

he scowls, swears under his breath in arabic, and slams the sketchbook shut. the sound is loud in the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat, which seems to speed up at the thought of you. he tosses the pencil down with too much force. it rolls across the desk, hits the edge, falls. he lets it.

damian leans back in the chair and stares up at the ceiling, jaw clenched, hands pressed together. His arms are stiff. His spine aches. His chest feels tight, like there’s something inside him clawing to be let out.

he tells himself- no, commands himself to draw something else. anything else. a skyline. a katana. the curve of a rooftop edge, the silhouette of a bat against the moon, the outline of a fucking grapefruit. this time he doesn't care about drawing something tactical or practical. he just needs to get you out of his mind, or try to.

he should draw something safe. neutral. objective. Something that proves he is in control of himself and his brain and his hands. something that proves he is not thinking about you.

but.

of course.

you’re already in his head.

you’ve moved in and brought noise with you.

not actual noise. not your voice. he knows that much. he hasn’t quite crossed the line into hearing things that aren’t there. at least, not yet. but with how things are going, he wouldn’t be surprised if that happened soon.

you’re probably asleep right now, tucked away somewhere on the other side of the city, curled under a blanket with half your face smashed into a pillow. the same pillow you shamelessly drool on, though you’d deny it if anyone called you out.

he knows how you sleep and how you sprawl. it's in the way that looks like your limbs forgot they belonged to one body. arms flung this way, legs tangled that way, taking up every inch of the bed.

he’s seen it.

on movie nights you insisted on. when your eyes got heavy halfway through some old black-and-white film you were adamant on watching. you’d knock out leaning against him. mouth open, breathing slow, completely unaware of what you were doing to him. and he let you. sat there like a statue, an idiot statue. but letting you rest against him was a test he refused to fail. he could’ve nudged you off. could’ve cleared his throat, shifted away.

but he didn’t.

not once.

he told himself he didn’t care.

he told himself it meant nothing.

but that was a lie.

and he hasn’t stopped lying since.

back to the sketch. or the lack thereof. he's starting over.

he doesn’t bother picking up the pencil that rolled off the desk. just lets it stay there on the floor, like it’s exiled. maybe it deserved it for betraying him by drawing you in the first place.

instead, he grabs another.

the graphite scratches quiet across the page.

the first line is nothing. a curve, shapeless and vague. could be the edge of a rooftop. the arc of a blade. the bend of a cat’s back mid-pounce. it doesn’t matter. he keeps going. another line. then another. his hand moves on instinct, not intention.

It should be nothing. just muscle memory. just form and technique.

but it’s not. he knows where this is heading.

his wrist keeps moving. thoughtlessly. confidently. it seems his fingers have a map his mind hasn’t seen yet. and by the time he registers what he’s doing and really, truly looks down, it’s too late.

there’s your jawline.

crisp and familiar.

Your cheekbones begin to form, graceful and sloped in that way he won't admit he’s spent time analyzing. the bridge of your nose is there now, and worse, his hand has already started filling in the curve of your lips. he’s not even halfway done and his body has betrayed him once more. his heart beating fast and loud and infuriatingly alive.

no. no, no, no.

this is not happening. he’s not doing this. he cannot be doing this.

and yet, he is. he is doing this.

his grip tightens around the new pencil. of course, this one ends up turning on him too.

his stomach twists, it’s punishing him for something he hasn’t come to terms with yet. His shoulders lock out of habit, discipline digging in where softness tries to get through.

it’s really annoying.

his body already made a decision his mind hasn’t agreed to. he's feeling like every hour he spent learning control, precision, resistance-- every scar, every strike, every silence, meant nothing the second he laid eyes on you.

He shuts the cover of the sketchbook gently before he even finishes the drawing. the lines are still half-formed, the image incomplete, but he can’t bring himself to keep going. his hand stills, hovering for a moment like maybe he’ll change his mind and re-open the book, but he doesn’t. the pencil drops beside his sketchbook with a soft, final sort of sound.

he sits there thinking about how there’s something unkind about it. about what's happening to him. about what he's feeling. that even now, even with everything he knows about control, about restraint, about keeping his distance, his hands still choose you despite him not wanting them too.

maybe it’s karma. he wouldn’t be surprised. that would make sense, wouldn’t it? he’s not naive enough to think he’s owed peace, or grace, or anything soft. he can admit he’s made mistakes, though even that word feels too gentle, too forgiving.

“mistake” sounds like tripping over a crack in the sidewalk or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. he wouldn't consider what he's done as "mistakes". they’re not mistakes. they’re choices. intentional. calculated. final. blood on his hands that no amount of training, time, or water can wash off. every decision, every action, feels etched into him in a way that no word can fully capture.

and then there’s the thought. an ugly, persistent whisper in the back of his mind, the one that won’t shut up: what would you think if you knew everything? If you knew the full measure of his deeds, the cold precision with which he carried out his orders, the blood and ruin left in his wake and also the way he’s thinking about you right now.

would you recoil in horror? Would you look at him with disgust, seeing in him a monster too far gone to be redeemed? the idea gnaws at him, twisting his insides until it feels like his stomach has tied itself in knots.

Why is he terrified of what you’d think? why would he care if you see him as a monster? Why is it that, at the same time, he thinks about the fact that you make him forget all of it? even if it’s just for a second. the way his mind turns to you, even when he knows he has no right to feel this way.

the guilt presses down hard, suffocating. But what hurts more is the disgust. the way he can’t stand the idea that he’s even capable of feeling this about you.

he tells himself he deserves every ounce of this self-reproach. he’s not innocent, not in the slightest. but despite all the harsh logic and unyielding discipline he’s clung to, there’s a softness in his heart that makes him long for redemption, or perhaps even forgiveness. every heartbeat is a reminder of his past, echoing the silent question: Could you ever see beyond the sins of his past to something different?

Would you? He knows you. or at least he thinks he does.

He knows the softness of your expressions. the curve of your smile. the light in your eyes when you’re teasing him. the exact tilt of your head when you laugh, and the way your eyes crease at the corners. he remembers everything.

and all of it has bled onto the pages of his sketchbook. line by stupid line.

there’s a dull throb behind his eyes. he blinks, finally, and swallows hard around nothing.

What the hell is happening to him? deep down he knows, but he won't accept it. so for now, he'll play the fool.

his body feels wrong. slow. off-balance. his thoughts are moving faster than his skin can keep up with. It's like he’s chasing something in a dream and keeps waking up just before he catches it.

And you are the center of that dissonance.

he shouldn't crave any of this. not for warmth that asks nothing of him. not for feelings that arrive uninvited. quiet, persistent things that slip beneath his guard in the dead of night and make a home out of the places he swore were impenetrable.

they settle in his chest like they’ve always belonged. but they can’t. because Damian Wayne doesn’t fall apart. he doesn’t lose focus. he can't afford to. he can't want something just because it makes him feel good.

He was trained before he knew what it meant to choose anything for himself. before he had a chance to want anything. and yet here he is, wanting. but at the same time not wanting to want. and it’s unbearable. he's so very conflicted.

there’s no margin for any of that in his bloodline. no one trained him to sit still with his feelings. no one handed him the cure for this kind of ache. there were no lessons on vulnerability. only on how to strike first, how to read a threat before it made itself known, how to shut every door that made him human. he was taught to break bones, not fall in love. he certainly wasn't taught how to navigate the tremble in his hands when he sees your name on his phone screen.

this thing he's experiencing takes up too much room inside him. this ache in his chest that spikes every time he sees you talking to someone else. this frustration that coils in his stomach when he can’t seem to find the right words to say to you.

no one gave him a blueprint for this.

and he never asked for one.

but now he thinks maybe he should’ve. despite whatever answer he would've gotten.

because whatever this is, this thing with your face tangled in every corner, this thing with your name written all over it, is not fading. not blurring. not leaving like it should. it’s staying.

He's angry. at you. at himself. at whatever cruel, laughing god decided this was his fate. why the hell is he here. sitting in the dark with a sketchbook on his desk that he closed after whatever just happened and your face living in every corner of his skull?

he forces his eyes shut. breathes in through his nose, slow and deliberate, he wants to believe discipline alone might save him from whatever the hell this is. He sits motionless for a beat, jaw tight, spine stiff, a soldier awaiting orders. maybe if he holds still enough, it’ll all fall away.

because he is not some moonstruck teenager. He does not sit around sighing at ceilings like an idiot with a crush in some poorly written teen drama.

his childhood was silence where there should’ve been comfort, order where there should’ve been chaos, expectation where there should’ve been choice. He was built to survive, not to feel. everything he’s ever felt, he’s learned to hide. emotions are weaknesses. vulnerabilities. and he’s always kept his locked away, sealed tight like volatile gas behind reinforced glass. out of reach. out of sight. contained.

he tells himself once more that he shouldn’t be feeling any of this.

He hates how much he does.

this entire spiral feels beneath him. It’s inefficient. irrational. weak. there is no function to this emotion. It doesn’t sharpen his aim. It doesn’t enhance his reflexes. It clutters his thoughts, derails his focus. and he prides himself on focus. discipline. efficiency. his brain has always been a fortress. impenetrable. calculated. he trains harder, pushes longer, endures more than anyone around him. because he has to. because he always has.

His breathing stumbles, uneven, shallow. and it disgusts him. he presses his fingertips to his temple like he could physically push the thoughts out of his skull. his other hand curls into a fist in his lap, nails digging into his palm. he can feel the pulse in his jaw. fast. reluctant. he’s getting a headache, and he can’t even sketch his way out of it this time.

he tips his head back, eyes open now, staring at the ornate ceiling of his room like it might offer some sort of answer. It doesn’t. It never has. the silence in Wayne Manor is heavy and constant, stretching through the halls like a second atmosphere. He’s used to it. but tonight, it feels suffocating.

there’s no solution in the ceiling. no clarity in the walls. only this feeling. this wild, rising pressure inside him that he doesn’t have the words for.

“What the hell is happening to me,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and ragged.

He lets the question hang in the silence. no answers come, only the steady pulse of his own breath and the distant city sounds bleeding through the windows.