#so stop crying over it and go back to work

[glamorizethechaos]

7 Going On 17 | Girl Dad Jack Abbot

Jack leaned against the hood of the car as he waited for your daughters class to dismiss. She was in the 2nd grade now, the days of crying over her math homework at the dinner table had just begun. Unfortunately so had the days of making Jack go gray— well, grayer.

As the doors opened, out she ran carrying the latest fridge masterpiece that she made in art class.

“Hey bug.” He beamed, taking the backpack from her shoulders and helping her into the car. “How was school?” He asked, getting into the drivers seat and glancing at her from the rear view mirror.”

“Good.” She said matter of factly.

“Just good?” He chuckled, it was the same response every day. “What did you do at school? Learn anything fun?”

“We worked on our times tables.”

“Oh yeah? What’s 5 times 5?”

“That’s an easy one dad, 25.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh I have a boyfriend now.”

Jack hit the breaks with a screeching halt. His face almost hitting the steering wheel.

“What?”

“Mhm” she kicked her feet as she stared out the window, looking for whatever caused her dad to stop the car so suddenly.

“Is that so? What’s his name.”

“Jonathan.”

“Jonathan what?”

“Makowski”

Jack had already planned on recruiting you to find his parents on social media— you were good at that. All you needed was a first name and 5 minutes and you were looking at their cousins, aunts, sister in laws photos from their beach vacation to the Bahamas in 2009. Had you not been an ER doctor, you’d do wonders in the FBI.

“He nice to you?”

“Yeah dad, I’m his girlfriend he has to be nice.”

He felt the closest he’s ever been to an actual heart attack.

He started grilling:

“Where does he live? What’s his dad do? What’s his mom do?”

“I don’t know, dad.”

“Is he nice to the teacher? Does he get good grades?”

“Mhm. He helps me with my times tables.”

“I can help you with your times tables too you know… Does he know your dad carries and has a shovel?”

“Huh?”

“I have a nerf gun too, and I’m not afraid to use it. Does he ever get into any fights? Can he fight?”

“Daddy!”

“Does he like the Steelers or Browns?”

“You mean the Oranges?”

“Honey, I understand their helmets are orange, but they’re still called the Browns…”

“It’s so confusing, why are they called the Browns if their helmets are orange?”

“Yes I know it’s confusing… it’s because the man who created the team was named Paul Brown…”

“That’s stupid.”

“So are the Browns.”

When you pulled into your driveway, you were still asking questions.

“I can’t wait to tell mommy. He kissed me at recess!”

Okay NOW Jack was the closest he’s ever felt to a heart attack.

“Woahwoahwoah,” Jack spun around so fast he heard his back crack like a glow stick. “He did what?”

“Mhm! Under the slide.”

Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

Your daughter unbuckled her car seat and jumped out of the car, running with her art project still in her hand. When Jack walked in, it looked like he saw ghost.

“Mommy! Mommy! Guess what?”

“What sweetheart?” You stood over the stove sautéing some vegetables for dinner. Before your daughter could answer, Jack interjected.

“I have to fight a 7 year old.”

“Mommy, don’t let dad fight my boyfriend!” She protested. You bite your lip in an attempt to stifle a laugh.

“Who is your boyfriend sweetheart?”

“Jonathan.”

“Makowski?” She nodded. “He’s a nice boy.”

“Daddy said he’s gonna bury him in the backyard.”

“Honey, I won’t let him do that. Why don’t you go start your homework and then I can help you with whatever you don’t understand, okay?”

She shot daggers at her father and dragged her book bag down the hallway to her room.

“You’re laughing? I gotta fight a second grader who kissed my daughter and you’re laughing?” You looped your arms around his torso, resting your chin on his chest.

“Jack— come on. It’s funny. She’s 7.”

“Exactly, she’s 7!” Deep down Jack knew it was funny. Deep, deep down, beyond whatever uncomfortable feelings that were bubbling in his chest. Visions of him taking his daughter home from the hospital after installing and reinstalling the car seat 5 times. Just to be safe. He saw her taking her first steps. The first time she said dada. Now one mention of a boyfriend and he is picturing her on her wedding day. Having a family of her own.

“You mean to tell me you never had a little girlfriend when you were a kid? Me and Dale Wallace kissed under the bleachers when I was her age.”

“Oh great. Now I gotta fight Dale Wallace too?”

You belly laughed as he buried his head into your neck, biting and sucking on the warm skin.

“Enough! Now go tell your daughter you won’t bury her boyfriend under the tree next to the cat.”

He sighed and made his way down the hallway to his daughter’s room, turning around when he heard your phone buzz and you chuckle.

“What is it?”

Nosy.

“Jonathan’s mom. Asking to set up a play date.”

“Absolutely not!”

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine Yandere! Zayne who happened to be one of doctor in the hospital you're consulting on.

Imagine it starts with headaches.

Imagine it started with small, persistent ones on yout temple. Fatigue that doesn't go away, no matter how much you sleep. Then the forgetfulness begins, keys left in the fridge, your alarm never ringing even though you swear you set it.

Imagine you think you're losing it. So you go to him. Because Zayne Li has always been calm. Rational. Reliable. With his lab coat and his quiet voice and the soft spoken way he looks at you like he already knows what's wrong before you finish your sentence.

Imagine you trust him. You always have. Ever since you bumped into him that one afternoon in the hospital. And that's one of your first mistake.

Imagine the way he leans back in his chair, clipboard resting on his knee, glasses glinting under the clinic light. "You're under stress." Zayne says, gently. "But I think it's more than that." You blink, unsure. "More than that?" He nods slowly, eyes soft. Too soft.

"You've been feeling isolated. Disconnected. Detached from people around you. From yourself." You pause. That's… Not wrong.

"But.. How would you know that?" You ask. "I didn't say-" "You didn't have to." His smile is reassuring. "I've seen it before." Your throat tightens. "Is something… Wrong with me?" He doesn't answer right away. Just folds his hands together, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. "No." He says finally. "Not wrong." Then, quieter. "Just… Vulnerable."

Imagine the way the world starts to feel smaller.

Imagine the way your friends stop texting back. Your boss pulls you aside about your performance. You start forgetting appointments, missing meals, sleeping at odd hours. And Zayne... He's always there, always picking up the pieces.

Imagine Yandere! Zayne who gives you supplements, says they'll help. They taste bitter. You take them anyway.

"I think the people around you don't understand how delicate your condition is." He tells you one day, after you mention a friend telling you to 'snap out of it.'. "They're not trying to hurt you." He continues. "But ignorance can be cruel, can't it?" You nod. Eyes burning. "They don't know what it's like to feel lost in your own head."

Imagine, you agree. Of course you do. Because Zayne understands you better than anyone. He listens. He explains what was happening to you when you can't find the words. He makes it all make sense.

Imagine what you don't notice the way he's rewriting your reality. You just feel safer with him than anyone else.

"You've been pulling away." Zayne says one night after hours. His office is quiet, lights low, the city a blur outside the windows. "Not from me. From them." You nod, exhausted. "I just… I don't trust anyone anymore." "But you trust me." You look up. "Always."

Imagine his smile was small. Controlled. His eyes soften like you've passed a test.

"That's good." He says. "Because I think they're only making it worse. Your symptoms… They're flaring whenever you're around them." "But I can't just cut people off." You whisper. "They'll think I'm-" "Sick?" He finishes for you. "They already think that, don't they?" You go silent.

Imagine, Zayne leans forward, voice low, gentle. "You've tried everything. Therapies. Meds. Social support. And none of it worked." He pauses. Looks at you carefully. "Except me." He added and you breathe in shakily. "Then maybe it's time you stop fighting it." You blink. "Fighting what?" "Fighting the fact that you need me."

Imagine he lets you stay over that night. His guest room is clean. Warm. Clinical in a way that comforts you. His tea tastes faintly herbal. Your body feels heavy and soft like something inside you has stopped resisting.

Imagine he knocks on your door later. You're half asleep, brain fogged. "Just wanted to check on you." He says, stepping in quietly. His hands feel cool on your forehead. His thumb brushes under your eye. "You looked like you were crying." "I… I don't know what's happening to me." You whisper, voice breaking.

Imagine, Zayne sits at the edge of the bed. "I do." You swallow. "Tell me." His hand moves to your wrist, then gently up your arm, a trail of reassurance and subtle control. "You've been misdiagnosed. Overmedicated. Mistreated. Because no one wanted to admit the truth." "What truth?"

"That you're safest when you're with me." He leans in. His breath brushes your cheek. "I'm the only thing keeping you sane." Your vision blurs. "Then don't leave me." You whisper. "I never will." He says. "Even if you ask me to."

Imagine what you don't realize he was the reason your pills made you foggy. You don't realize he pulled strings to get your file flagged as 'difficult.' You didn't realize he made the world crumble around you just to catch you in the fall.

Imagine you only know that in Zayne's arms, you finally feel okay. That his voice is the only one that makes sense. That when his hand slips under your chin and tilts your face to his, you don't pull away. You close your eyes. And let him take the rest of you.

Imagine it was subtle. Always subtle.

Imagine you only realize your mail isn't coming when your bank freezes your card. You only notice your friends are gone when their messages stop arriving. When you search your inbox and find nothing. As if they were never there. But Zayne is.

Imagine he always is. When the lights flicker. When you wake up gasping. When you stand in the shower too long and forget what you were doing. He was always there. Quiet. Calm. Hands like silk, voice like wind against glass.

"I think the world's just too much for you lately." He says gently one morning, as he brushes your hair behind your ear. "All that stimulation. All those people who don't really understand what you need." "I'm just tired." You whisper. "I know." His voice is barely audible. "That's why I'm here."

Imagine your phone stops working one morning. No notifications. No signal. You mention it over tea, barely a passing complaint but Zayne frowns like it's a serious concern. "Must be a hardware issue." He says calmly, setting down the cup he made for you, something floral and faintly sweet. "I'll take a look." And you never get it back.

Imagine you try to leave once. Not far. Just outside. A walk.

but Imagine, the door won't open. The keypad beeps red. And when you ask, Zayne only hums and scribbles something in your chart. "You had an episode." He says gently. "You tried to go out barefoot. Do you remember?"

Imagine the way your stomach twists. "No, I- wasn't I wearing shoes?" He frowns with quiet sympathy. "They were in your hand." Your pulse quickens. "I… I'm sorry, I didn't-" "It's not your fault." Zayne says immediately, reaching over to hold your hand in both of his. His skin is cold. "That's why I'm keeping you safe, remember?"

Imagine the way you nod, fast. "Right." "You don't have to be scared." He says. "I'm monitoring everything. Your vitals, your sleep. You're stable when you're here." Your voice trembles. "Then why does it feel like I'm not?"

Imagine the way his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Because deep down, a part of you is still resisting. But it's okay." He gently squeezes your hand. "You'll unlearn that. You'll learn to trust me fully."

Imagine Zayne had given you a new pill the next day. "This one's for your mood." He says, carefully placing it on your tongue himself.

Imagine, it tastes bitter. It always does. But you sleep for thirteen hours. And when you wake, he's beside you. His hand on your thigh. His other fingers gently stroking the back of your neck. Too familiar. Too soft.

"I thought I dreamt this." You mumble, dazed. "Shh." He whispers, brushing his nose against your cheek. "It's easier when you stop trying to wake up."

Imagine the way you feel something like a sob rise in your throat. But he's already kissing your temple, already pulling the blanket higher up your body. "Rest." He murmurs. "Let me carry the hard parts." You nod. Because that's what you do now.

Imagine days soon became a blur. You don’t know if it's Tuesday or Sunday or some other invented day he's placed on the clock.

Imagine Zayne says the clinic is short staffed. That the city's chaotic. That people wouldn't understand your progress and might interrupt it.

Inagine he was the only one allowed to touch your charts. The only one who gives you food. The only one who unlocks the door. And when he undresses you before bath time, he doesn't ask. He just says. "Arms up." And you obey like it's a reflex.

"It's just easier this way, right?" He says one night, rinsing your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp in slow, rhythmic movements. "To stop fighting it?" "I guess…" "You're safest here. You know that." "Yes." You whisper. "You belong here. With me." "… Yes."

Imagine the way he kisses your shoulder then. Lingering. Warm. Too intimate to be innocent. You shiver. He holds you tighter. "See?" Zayne whispers, voice low against your skin. "You're adjusting beautifully."

Imagine, you still get flashes sometimes. Panic. Sudden certainty that something is wrong. That this isn't what healing looks like. But then he appears. Sits beside you. Takes your pulse. And you forget again.

Imagine you forget the friends you used to have. The version of yourself that used to laugh. The world that existed before his hands were the only ones that ever touched you gently.

"You're progressing well." Zayne says one evening, brushing his fingers down your spine as you sit curled up in his lap. "You said that yesterday." You mumble. He hums, lips near your ear. "I say it every day because it's always true."

Imagine the way you lean into him. Sleepy. Faint. "Would you ever let me go?" You ask softly. His hands still for just a second. Then he presses a kiss to your neck, and says. "Why would you ask that?" You don't know.

and Imagine, you never ask again.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[total-killer-brainrot]

This is part 2 of this

Ghost knew something was going on. His sergeants were acting... off. Like they were sneaking around. Hiding things from him. He could see them giggling and whispering to each other in the corner of the rec room. Not-so-subtle glances his way when they thought he wasn't looking.

Gaz always seemed extra eager to spot him on his workouts. He didn't mind the company, it was nice to spend one on one time with him. But it was suspicious.

Johnny seemed to get extra flustered whenever he gave him an order directly. The scot was always flirty, not just with him, but with everyone. But lately it seemed to have been dialled up to the max. To the point where even the ever emotionless Ghost was blushing beneath his mask.

And you seemed to be avoiding him entirely. Whenever he gave you a command he had to repeat it at least twice before you would respond. You had a bit of a staring problem. He found it weird.

He was determined to find out what you three were up to. And hopefully put a stop to it so everything could go back to normal.

The ping on your phone drew you out of your paperwork. Feeling a tingle in your lower belly at just the notification 'Gazzy Poo sent a photo'. Already knowing your eyes were about to be blessed.

You had to fully focus on not slipping a hand into your pants at the sight.

Your lieutenant, your gorgeous, terrifying lieutenant. Facing away from the camera. Reaching into his locker. His body side on. You could see the raised mass of scars across both his back, arms and ribs. You wanted to feel them under your tongue. At this angle you got a delicious view of both his muscled ass and pecs. And best of all, his cock. This was the first time Kyle had managed to snap one without a towel on, the damp rag held loosely in Simon's large hand. Leaving his cock on full display. The curve of it, the impossible length, he wasn't even hard and you were sure it would hurt.

You were practically drooling. Abandoning your paperwork to go find Soap. You knew the second he saw the photo he would have even less self control than you. Beelining for his bunk you didn't even knock, bursting through the door with a longing moan.

"Oh my god Johnny... his cock did you see his co-"

You froze. Eyes wide as three pairs of eyes all turned to you. One too many.

Gaz was sitting on Soap's bed sheepishly, hands in his lap. Soap himself was kneeling in front of Ghost.

Ghost was here.

He was here and by the dangerous look in his eye, he knew.

And god he looked so good. Shirt tight and clinging to his still damp muscles. Sweats low on his hips. Balaclava donned instead of the full skull mask this time. His hand gripping Johnny's hair so tight you could see tears welling in his eyes.

A soft disappointed tut pulled you out of you horny stupor.

"You too, Sergeant? I though' you were better than this... Shut the door."

You did as you were told. Your face hot with embarrassment. He jerked his head towards Gaz on the bed and you hurried to join him.

"Sir... I'm so sor-"

He cut you off with a stern look. "Quiet. I'll deal with you in a bit."

And boy did he deal with you. Making you watch while he shoved Johnny's face into Kyles ass and work him open with his tongue. You could see how much Soap was enjoying this. His gaze hazy and submissive already.

Then he fucked Gaz. Hard and fast and with no mercy at all. Even when he was crying and clawing at the sheets after two orgasms he kept going. Eventually manhandling you to ride Kyle's, weepy face. Promising him that he would stop when he made you cum. Only satisfied once you were bucking and grinding your clit down against Gaz's tongue.

Simon moved on to you. Leaving Kyle laying limp, nearly passed out next to you. He had you on your stomach bent over the small bed. Plowing into you from behind. Each thrust making stars dance behind your eyelids. You were right about it hurting. The stretch of his cock so intense you almost begged him to stop. But after all this fantasising you couldn't possibly back out now.

He had ordered you to jerk Soap off. You obeyed of course, but you weren't doing very well. Far too out of it to do much but loosely grip his throbbing cock. He didn't seem to mind though. Too busy writhing on Ghost's fingers while he was stretched out. The lieutenant knuckle deep and curling up against that spot that you knew would leave Soap firing blanks and still begging for more.

After he drew four orgasms out of you he finally moved on to Johnny. You could have cried you were so relieved. Thighs aching with how much you had been clenching around him. He seemed to give the Scot mercy. Having already made him a mess before he even slid his cock inside. Soap was so sensitive that the stretch alone had him whining and jerking. His limp cock twitching in the mess on his stomach. Cumming dry as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Ghost drew back slowly, laughing at how Johnny writhed in overstimulation.

He stood over the three of you. Cock still hard. The view was incredible. But you hardly had the brains left to appreciate it.

"Bunch of fuckin' perverted sluts is what you are. Takin' pictures of me. Fantasising about me. Didn't even 'ave the balls to come and tell me. Whores. The lot of you."

He neared Johnny again. And you saw genuine fear in his eyes, too weak to squirm away. But he relaxed once he saw that Ghost was only jerking off over him. Adding to the pool of cum over his abdomen. When he was finally finished he looked to you and Kyle.

"Lick it up."

There was no room for argument. Your body screamed in protest as you shifted to drag your tongue through the sticky pool. Feeling flushed as the salty taste made your cunt quiver. Part of you almost wanting to go another round.

Gaz didn't move though. Already passed out. He had been since before Ghost had even reached Johnny.

None of you were used to how Simon treated his submissives. But you all had to learn fast if you wanted to keep up with him now that he knew your dirty little secret.

[ghouljams]

all your aus rot my brain into lust filled mush i swear

you have no idea how strong the greek mythology hyperfixation grip is on me i love your hades and demeter bits so so so much i can imagine reader wanting to go full scorched earth and get so far away from hades but can’t because of her foolish ( naïve— trusting) daughter and never in a million years would she leave her with that scoundrel who planned all of this.

it isn't her fault, you just have to keep telling yourself that.

kore is just a little girl, she was hungry so she ate, she couldn't have known what would happen, but now she, and by extension you, are trapped.

you refuse to leave your daughter alone while the gods hem and haw over what to do about her. refuse to give her up to the man that stole her from you. refuse to give in to the will of the gods telling you that those living in Hades' domain are his property, as if she were some thing and not a vibrant little girl being denied the sun. your baby is a goddess of spring and here she is playing with bones.

she digs her fingers into graves where she should be turning over fertile soil. she giggles at beetles and worms as the flowers in her hair wither. you want nothing more than to leave with her, but every passing day brings you closer and closer to the realization that she may never come home, and with that realization comes something much much stronger than anger: despair.

you find yourself in price's office. it is as littered with your child's joy as the rest of his palace. colorful blocks and dolls, paint smears and crayon drawings, as if it were your girl's playroom and not a space for counting off the dead. he looks up at you, the god of Death, as you ghost around his desk to stand in front of him, impassable, unreadable, and yet there is a spark behind the cold blue eyes that makes you nearly rethink your demands. nearly doesn't stop the desperation that leaves your lips.

"give her back," you plead, "give me back my daughter."

Price studies you for a moment before turning back to his work. "no." strange how a single syllable can feel like a curse. you reach out to him, grip him back the shoulder to turn his eyes to you again. you feel no more a goddess than a beggar.

"please," your hands shake, "she's just a little girl."

"little girls die every day." his voice is flat, so the point. you bite down the tears that threaten to spill, the idea of begging this man for anything is bad enough, you will not cry in front of him.

"i don't care about them." you grit out, that draws a chuckle from Price.

"clearly."

"what?" he gives you a lazy smile, and clasps his hands in his lap.

"you said it yourself, people are dying, well," he sniffs, "starving, can't let them die, really a terrible but like you said, you don't care about them-"

"no, i-"

"-you only care about Persephone." the name scratches you, rubs against your brain as unfamiliar as the death it represents.

"No," you grip him tighter, "no, she is not-"

"I need an heir." he keeps cutting you off, crowding you until you have no room to think before the words are pulled from you.

"I'll give you one." you can barely hear yourself but bargaining is all you can do, whatever it takes to get your daughter, to get Kore back. Price's smile splits his face, his eyes sparkling, your breath catches in your throat. what did you offer him?

"Deal."

[lascvitae]

i literally love the way u write so much. i j recently got back into smut and enhypen and i love all of ur niki stories!! idk if ur taking reccs but id love a story where niki is j a straight munch. like he is always ready to please his girl no matter what and simply only wants to make her feel good when he gives head. munch riki is my number 1 thought. tysm in advance 💓

ᝰ.ᐟ katty thank you babyyy <33 i hope you like this 😖😖 munch riki come save me please

ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. smut (18+) softdom!西村力 x fem!reader est. relationship 894wc oral (r receiving) fingering praising ───── ꒰ 𝓿ault. ꒱

YOU WERE JUST KISSING WHEN it started. you’re straddling his lap while you’re both tucked into the couch, his hoodie soft under your knees and his hands warm on your waist. his lips move slow against yours, like it’s all he needs.

and then he groans. a low, breathy sound from the back of his throat that makes your stomach clench. his hands slide down to your thighs, fingers flexing like he’s holding back. when he pulls away, his eyes are already hazy.

“can i? please?” he asks, barely above a whisper. his eyes drop to where your bodies meet.

you bite your bottom lip. “what?”

he licks his lips slowly, hands spreading wide over your thighs now, grip firmer.

“lemme eat you out. just wanna taste you, baby. don’t need anything else. promise.” he mumbles.

your breath catches. “riki—”

“please? been thinking about it all day.” he says again, quieter this time.

he’s already moving, gently shifting you off his lap and laying you down on the couch with a hand behind your back. and before you can even say another word, his mouth is on your thigh, warm and soft.

your shorts are gone so fast that you don’t even remember him tugging them off. he settles between your legs, hooking them over his shoulders like he’s done this a hundred times before.

then his tongue hits you.

you gasp. his mouth is so warm.

he moans, tongue dragging slow and deep through your folds. his lips wrap around your clit to suck, gentle at first, then firmer. he groans, eyes already fluttering shut.

“fuck. so fucking sweet.” he breathes, nuzzling in closer.

you reach for his hair, moaning when his arms tighten around your thighs and pull you closer to his face. his nose is pressed right up against you, tongue sliding in deep as his jaw works. he moans into it like he’s starving.

“oh my god— riki! fuck, that feels so— so good—” you whimper, hips twitching.

“yeah?” he mumbles into your cunt, voice low. “yeah, baby. give it to me. lemme hear you.”

he’s not gentle or slow anymore. his mouth is messy, tongue fast and filthy as it circles your clit. one hand lets go just long enough to slip two fingers in, curling them deep and groaning when you tighten around him.

“you’re so fucking perfect. been thinking about this for weeks, you know that?” he pants.

you cry out, grabbing at his hair again. your voice breaks as he fucks you with his fingers and mouths at your clit.

“fuck, riki— don’t stop, don’t stop— oh my god, i’m gonna—”

“cum for me.” he breathes. “right here, baby. in my mouth. wanna taste all of it.”

your orgasm hits fast and hard, legs shaking and head tipped back as you whimper his name over and over.

and he doesn’t stop.

he keeps licking, tongue lapping up everything and kissing your cunt like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. he moans into it, slightly grinding into the couch.

“riki..” you breathe, voice small.

he looks up at you, lips wet with your slick. he smiles against your thigh before leaning in to kiss it. “can i go again?”

taglist @saysirhc @yuyuy90 @1luvkarina

[timmydraker]

Tim Drake has juvenile arthritis.

It wasn’t all that surprising as most woman in his family got either when they were around 15 or around 40 or so, and a few men in his line had it too.

He assumed that his sore ankles and knees were from skating, thinking it was sprains and twisting that cause the occasional swelling and pain.

It got worse when he started as Robin but thinking Bruce we see it as a weakness and make him stop, he kept it to himself and altered his suit to have more support.

It word out fine for a while, he was able to manage it pretty well even as he didn’t have a proper diagnosis. He knew his families history and knew in the back of his mind that it was most likely JA but he refused to admit to having such a big thing to hold him back.

A few times on patrol some of his joints and even muscles would tense badly and he knew it was only a matter of time before Joe wrist locked while he was grappling but that didn’t stop him.

Unfortunately for him, Alfred himself had arthritis in his left hand due to damage he faced in combat that wasn’t treated properly and he noticed the sighs over time. The butler considered telling Bruce but spoke to Tim privately first and after the young man agreed to see a doctor for it properly if that Alfred wouldn’t say anything, he deemed it better to respect the others choice.

Until Tim lost his spleen and Alfred knew damn well that his immune system was going to give him more and more hell.

Alfred felt bad at first, not wanting to ruin the beautiful reunion, but after a couple of days of Bruce being back he spoke to the master of the house. He explained that Tim wasn’t keeping secrets from Bruce for any reason other than he wanted to be strong enough for his mentor and was afraid to admit a weakness.

Bruce was absolutely heartbroken. His time trapped away from his family had done two things, the first being that he became far more protective of his children and untrusting to everyone outside of it, even people he was okay with previously.

Secondly, he had a lot of time to reflect on how his own trauma responses had harmed his relationships. His anger, his paranoia, his fears, it all caused him to be less than adequate as a parent. He was a good mentor, but only in how he taught skill.

So, to learn that the entire time he was rather aggressively training a child with a chronic autoimmune disease that made his body a prison of tension, pain and inflamed joints. And that same child now was missing a spleen so his immune defences were effectively just suggestions for anything harmful to him.

He had gone straight to Tim and while he wanted to hold his child gently and cradle him, the sixteen-no, seventeen now- year old was clever and would notice him being careful with him straight away. Instead he move his arms to be around his sons torso and picked him up like that, brining a hand to cup the back of his heads and distantly hearing his custom made Martian Manhunter slippers fall to the ground.

Bruce was on the verge of putting his strategies in place to stop crying but he stopped himself and instead let his tears fall, “I-I won’t say I wouldn’t have done exactly what you thought I would, but I’m less of a fool now, Chum. Let me help you with your arthritis. Please, I beg you.”

Tim didn’t cry but he did let go.

He slummed into his dad’s arms and confessed that he was terrified. It was already so hard to live the life he did with such a disability, but to know that now he had to be extra careful when he had swelling and aches?

Bruce held him and to Tim’s surprise promised to make sure that Damian would understand that this doesn’t mean Tim will no longer be a vigilante, that he’d work to actually educate and help his blood son understand.

Tim had cried then, because while he still wanted to smack the kid around again, he knew that all Damian needed was for someone to teach him without it being ‘here’s what America’s like’ and more ‘here’s what the world is like when you aren’t an assassin’.

And the fact he was scared that Damian would use it against him was always present even fi he had managed to hide it from the child who figured out weaknesses quicker than chess masters figured out their first move.

Bruce had asked him if he was sore then and Tim had shyly revealed his angry looking knee. It was red and round and Tim shrugged and said it wasn’t too bad.

Bruce wanted to cry but instead he smiled at his son and thanked him more sincerely than he ever had before.

[raveninfog]

Bat-boys drunkenly confessing that they like they're best friend, the reader, to readers face (maybe some smutt if youre up for it. Also i love your work, sending love from Canada 🇨🇦 ❤️)

A/n: hiii! Thankyou so much for your support! i definitely had to brainstorm this one but hopefully you enjoy it xoxoxo

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୨ৎ Warnings- (MDNI +18)

୨ৎ explicit sexual content and language

୨ৎ Possessive behavior

୨ৎ Alcohol use

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Bruce Wayne

Bruce doesn’t get drunk. Not usually. But tonight, he’s not okay.

He shows up at your place, tie loose, eyes dark, voice gravel.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“But you are.”

“Because I can’t fucking stop thinking about you.”

He cups your face, almost hesitant — but once you nod, everything breaks. He kisses you like he’s starving. Like the world is ending. And when he pulls back, breathing ragged, he murmurs “You’re the only thing that makes me feel human.”

The sex is slow, intense, desperate. He lays you down like you’re precious, undresses you one piece at a time, eats you out so thoroughly you’re crying his name. When he fucks you, it’s deep, purposeful — every stroke heavy, his hand gripping yours, lips brushing your jaw: “You take me so well, sweetheart. So fucking perfect.”

When he finishes inside you, he stays there, forehead pressed to yours, whispering: “If you let me have this… if you let me have you… I won’t let you go. Ever.”

Dick Grayson

Dick’s always been a flirt. But tonight, he’s glassy-eyed, slow-moving, and quiet. He’s been watching you all night — tracking every move you make like you’re gravity and he’s free-falling.

You ask him what’s wrong, and his answer is a choked whisper: “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t pretend like I don’t wanna fuck you every time I see you.”

You blink. “Dick—”

He kisses you before you can finish. It’s deep, slow, starved. His hand slips under your shirt like he’s been imagining it for years — because he has.

You end up under him on the floor, his body over yours and holding your legs back , breathless as he pounds into you and listens to your mewls. Every thrust is deep, intentional. His abs flex, his heavy breathing mixed in with the sound of skin on skin filling the room. “Always imagined myself balls deep in that pretty pussy..fuck You feel like heaven..”

His thrusts get sloppy before he finishes in you with his forehead against yours, whispering, “I love you. I didn’t mean to say it like this. But I really fucking do.”

Jason Todd

It starts when someone touches your waist at a bar. Jason’s drunk. Very drunk. And when he sees it?

He decks the guy hard. Like really hard to the point where the guy fell back on the bar and right down on the floor.

You pull him outside, furious — “What the hell was that?!” — but he grabs your face and kisses you like he’s never going to get another chance.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day we met. You wanna know why I lost it? Because I saw him touch my girl.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I’m not your girl.”

“You will be.”

You barely make it inside his apartment before he bends you over the table, fucking you from behind like he’s punishing you — hands tight on your hips, mouth at your neck.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re fucking mine.” Punctuating it with a hard thrust.

He finishes with a loud groan, spilling inside you, before pulling you to his chest like it was always meant to be this way.

Tim Drake.

Tim is drunk and spiraling after patrol. He texts you something he shouldn’t have.

“Can’t stop thinking about what your mouth would look like around my cock.”

“Tim. Wrong person??”

“Shit—no. It wasn’t a mistake. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

You show up at his apartment, and he looks wrecked — red-faced, ashamed, pacing.

“I’ve wanted you for so long. I didn’t mean to ruin this. But god… I need you.”

You shut him up with a kiss, and then drop to your knees.

He whimpers when you take his cock in your mouth — his fingers in your hair, begging, apologizing, thanking you all at once, rocking his hips into your mouth so you could take him deeper

Later, you ride him slow in his bed, his hands all over you touching you and squeezing your ass all while he just keeps whispering: “Fuck your pussy feels so good gripping my cock like that. I don’t deserve you and , I don’t wanna stop.”

Damian Wayne (Aged up)

He’s not sloppy drunk — not like the others. No, Damian Wayne drinks in silence. Two fingers of something sharp and dark, sitting in the shadows of the manor library like a goddamn ghost.

You find him there. After hours. Alone, jaw tight, sleeves rolled up, shirt slightly unbuttoned. And that look in his eye when you say his name?

It’s sinful.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, voice thick.

“No, you’re not. You don’t drink unless something’s wrong.”

He looks up at you — slowly, eyes glowing under the golden light — and stands.

“Something is wrong. You. You’re the problem.”

You blink, stunned. “Excuse me?”

He crosses the space in two steps, caging you against a bookshelf with his arms. His breath fans across your cheek.

“You walk around here. In my life. In my head. Touching my things, laughing at my jokes, bleeding beside me in the field — and expect me to not want you?”

“Damian—”

“I think about you constantly. I fantasize about fucking you against this desk every time you lean over it.”

The air disappears from your lungs.

Then he grabs your hand — and presses it against his cock. He’s hard. So hard it’s obscene.

“You want honesty, yes? Then understand this: I am one drink away from bending you over and showing you exactly what’s been building up in me for years.”

You don’t answer. You just kiss him.

And that’s it. His control snaps.

He drags you onto the nearest surface — desk, floor, wall, it doesn’t matter — rips your clothes open like they’re in his way, and drops to his knees between your thighs with a growl.

He eats you out like a man possessed, one hand across your hips, the other gripping your thigh like a claim. Mouth warm and wet, tongue flicking your clit just right in slow, steady circles, every movement maddening. He locks his arms around your thighs so you can’t move not an inch.

Then he stands, pants barely shoved down, and thrusts into you with one brutal motion — deep, slow, perfect.

“You are mine,” he snarls in your ear. “No more running. No more fucking pretending.”

He fucks you filthy — one leg over his shoulder, hair in his grip, his thrust fast and hitting that special spot, voice low and cruel: “You’ll forget every other man’s name when I’m finished with you.”

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[joshujin]

build this dream together (teaser)

🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked

🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab

As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.

Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.

♫ Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now Starship

pairing: joshua x fem!reader wc (for the teaser): 4.7k tags (for the teaser): mentions of alcohol, mentions of workplace discrimination (for the full fic): slow burn, smut, coworkers/best friends to lovers, flashbacks, description of a crash but no one gets hurt, more to come! a/n: ahhhh so excited to share this one with you all! as i’ve stated previously, my knowledge of f1 is minimal. i mostly tried to keep it realistic but as far as f1 academy goes, i’ve pretty much completely ignored the way it actually works irl LOL. you don’t need to know much for the teaser, but i’ll be posting a glossary and an outline of what i ignored alongside the full fic! for now, just enjoy :) tag list info at the end :)

ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX 2023 "I can't believe this... I can't fucking believe this."

Joshua’s voice comes through the radio so soft, it’s barely audible over the roar of his engine. Your instinct is to keep your eyes on the screen, confirm that your driver’s tires are fine, fuel levels okay, no other car on his ass. But it’s useless because Joshua is seconds from the finish line with no chance for anyone else to take it and no time penalties to serve.

“Believe it, Shua,” you say into your mic as you swivel your chair around and away from your monitor. Your eyes immediately find his bright orange MCL60 approaching the checkered flag like a bullet. “You did it.”

The words are bittersweet, and if this had been last season, you would’ve been jumping up and down with the rest of the team, screaming into Joshua’s earpiece and losing your goddamn mind. Today, though, you stay glued to your seat. Even when the wind of Joshua crossing the finish line right before your eyes whips at your face, even when the world explodes around you in a vivacious spray of confetti and champagne, even when Joshua Hong becomes a two-time F1 world champion—you stay seated. 

“We did it,” he corrects, sounding as calm as you feel. You wonder if you sound it, though—if you sound lonely too, because you are. “And that’s not what I can’t believe.”

You watch as his car starts to slow across the track. “Oh yeah? Always knew you were going to bag another title, did you?” you joke.

He doesn’t laugh. You clear your throat and sigh, knowing you’ve been skirting around the devastation of this all.

“What can’t you believe, Shua?”

Silence. His car feels impossibly far from you even though it’s only been seconds. You think the irony is cruel. You wait a few more moments for his response, and when you receive none, you assume he’s already disconnected from the radio. Just before you take your headset off, he answers you.

“I can’t believe that you’re really leaving me.”

Your stomach twists painfully. He makes his way back, pulling into the pit lane, where he parks next to the first place sign meant for him. Immediately, staff members are already swarming the car—some to tend to the car, some to offer him water, some to scream and cry and congratulate. But still, he stays inside his vehicle, and he stays connected to you.

There are a multitude of things you want to tell him.

You want to tell him you aren’t leaving him because you want to; you’re sparing both of your careers from the scrutiny that would inevitably come if you stayed.

You want to tell him he’s currently the best driver on the grid. Your absence isn’t going to change that, especially when he’s so seasoned, that most of what you do now is just play music for him and inform him how many seconds he has until he reaches the next car. 

You want to tell him this is the right thing to do, no matter how horrible it feels.

Above all, you just want to tell him you love him—that although you only found out a few months ago, you think you fell in love with him the moment you both turned your radios on the first time you raced together—and that’s why you have to go. That’s why you can’t be his race engineer a second longer.

In the end, “I can’t either” is what you settle on. I’m so sorry rings loudly in your head but never leaves your mouth.

“So this is it, huh?” His breath comes out shaky and you know him well enough to know it’s not from the adrenaline of winning another world title.

“This is it,” you confirm, a knot forming in your throat.

“It was a good run, L/N.” You think you hear a knot in his too.

“The best run, Hong.” You can’t help your voice from cracking when you add: “The best of my life.”

“Mine too,” he says with no hesitation, though his voice sounds watery now. You feel your heart break. 

“Shua,” you croak. 

“Hm?”

“Thank you. For the past five years, for genuinely believing I could get you here, for… being my… my friend.” The word hurts you in unimaginable ways. “The best friend. Thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me. It was easy,” he responds. “You made everything easy—all of it. I should thank you… you… you make this sport worthwhile.”

You press your lips together to keep from breaking out into uncontrollable sobs, nodding to yourself as you try to wrap your mind around this being your last real moment with Joshua. 

He sighs deeply, another brief silence engulfing the two of you before he speaks again. “I’ll see you out there?”

You hum because you can’t bring yourself to tell him he won’t. As you take your headphones off, the first of your tears fall and you let them; it’s the one time you can without being judged for being too emotional or too feminine. Every grown man on Team McLaren is bawling right now, anyway. 

You slide off your seat and watch from the pit wall as Joshua exits his vehicle a few moments later and waves at the deafening crowd. For five years, you’ve guided Joshua through every F1 track in the world, you weathered countless storms—literal and figurative—together, and you’ve made him a world champion twice. 

But for almost ten years, since the time you started as a low-ranking mechanic at McLaren, you also endured misogynistic slights from the more old-school members of your team, comments that it doesn’t take much to do your job when Joshua Hong is the driver, and teasing that you were only in this to snag a rich husband off the grid.

You persevered. You clawed your way up the ranks. You earned the respect you wanted so badly, and as much as you want to say fuck it and just stay, you can’t. Because being around Joshua when you’re knowingly in love with him feels impossible. And if you can’t hide it, then you’ll have to say it. And if you say it, your career will be over, and you can’t let it be tarnished now—not when it’s at its peak. Not when Joshua is at his either.

Loving him will ruin everything you worked for. Loving him will not only cut you at the knees, but every woman after you who vies for this position. And it’s not going to happen.

Joshua doesn’t see you out there. You leave long before he even gets off the track and long before his time is freed up post photo ops and interviews. You can’t stay and confront the betrayal that’s been dancing in his eyes for weeks, even though he swore up and down that he was happy you found something new and exciting. You can’t let him wrap his arms around you one last time while he whispers heartfelt thank yous for an amazing season—an amazing five seasons—into your ear, confetti raining down and champagne soaking the both of you through to your bones. You can’t do any of it because if you do, you’ll lose your nerve and you’ll stay.

And you can’t. You have a flight to catch and the best F1 driver in the world to forget about. 

Abu Dhabi two years ago was the last time you saw or heard from Joshua. A small part of you hoped he would reach out, but you knew that was a selfish thing to want; after all, you were the one that ran off without a proper goodbye after a five-year career together. Still, there were a lot of days you looked at your phone and wished he would send one of his silly memes or just ask how the job was going. 

Conversely, though, you never texted either. Not when he bombed his very next season, and not when he lost this season’s title by a hair. 

But now… now feels like as good a time as any to text.

The computer lab is in an uproar as your current class of female drivers stop what they’re doing to leap out of their seats and crowd around the massive flat screen television mounted on the back wall, gaping at it. You gape from your desk at the front of the classroom.

“Whoa, didn’t you work with him, Mickie?” For McLaren—a nickname that kind of irritated you at first but have grown accustomed to.

“She was his race engineer!”

“He’s crazy!”

Saki, who had been at your desk to ask a question when you noticed Joshua on the TV and immediately unmuted it, speaks softly—surely not meant to be heard amongst the other girls’ shouting.

“He did seem tired.”

You tear your eyes off Joshua to frown at the student. You’re unsure if she was talking to you or to herself, but the observation shakes you to your core anyway. You would never admit it, but you watched every single race of his since you left. Before this, you don’t know that you would describe him as tired, but now, you’re not sure if you managed to miss something your student saw. You choose not to respond, finding your way back to your ex-driver’s face.

“There’s no way he’s serious! Is he serious?” 

“Why wouldn’t he be serious? His career has been tanking.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s because his race engineers haven’t been as good as Mick.”

“Maybe it’s time to get ahead of it and just retire while people still like him.”

“Shut up, Sophia!”

“Don’t talk to each other like that,” you mumble half-heartedly, too distracted by the TV to really reinforce the reprimand.

“He’s a legend! He had one bad season—” 

“Two,” someone says.

“Well, that’s not fair, he did pretty well this season.”

“—and now no one will give him a break.”

“Girl. He’s giving himself a break,” another voice chimes in.

“Anything other than first place is for losers.”

“This isn’t a break, this is career suici—”

“Okay!” a voice cuts sharply into the noise. You don’t flinch the way the girls do, eyes glued to the screen as Joshua patiently answers questions. The unmistakable clacking of the CEO’s heels striking the floor have all the girls straightening their posture. “Crazy news, I know.”

The TV turns off and you fight the urge to whine alongside the girls. You turn to look at Park Jihyo, who puts the remote back down on the edge of your desk where she found it.

“I know you’re all excited to be here together, but the season starts in just four months, and we’re hitting the ground running,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and looking every driver in the eye. “And you aren’t going to let news about the millionth man in F1 derail your chances at getting into a major team, now are you, ladies?”

There’s a chorus of nos as Jihyo nods once and claps her hands before making a shooing motion. 

“Good. Because there’s no room for distractions when you’re a woman,” she reminds them. It’s something you’ve heard nonstop since coming to F1 Academy as a technical executive and instructor. Most of the time, you felt like it was being drilled into your head, not the girls’. “Now get back to working on… whatever engineering thing Y/N has you working on.” You snort. “You’re due at the gym for cardiovascular training in two hours and I don’t want to hear that a single one of you was late, understood?”

“Understood!” a bunch of girls chirp as they hurriedly turn back to their respective computers. You sigh, ready to get back to guiding and teaching them, when Jihyo steps into your path. 

She smiles mischievously. 

“What…?” you ask slowly, subconsciously slinking away from her as she leans forward.

“Got a minute?”

You want to say no, but as close as you personally are to Jihyo, she’s still your boss and you refuse to show her any sort of disrespect in front of the students, whether or not it’s a joke.

“Sure,” you say, nodding for her to enter your office ahead of you before turning back to the girls. “Listen up. You feel something off in your steering—slight pull to the right, but there’s no warning on the dash. You’re in the points with 10 laps to go. Give me a few minutes with CEO Park and when I’m back, I want to hear what you’re telling your engineer and what your game plan is.”

The girls don’t bother responding, immediately turning back to their notebooks or computers and parsing out their thoughts. You follow Jihyo into the office attached to your classroom, closing the door behind you. She takes the seat at your desk across from your own, obviously expecting you to sit there. Instead, you plop onto the couch face down, making your boss roll her eyes at you.

“So,” she starts slowly and awkwardly, “how are you feeling…?”

You stare at her blankly, cheek pressed into the fabric of the sofa. “Fine?”

“Pfft.” She kicks her heels off before she sinks lower in her seat, making herself just as comfortable as you. “Joshua Hong just announced a sabbatical and you’re ‘fine’?”

The words are surreal. You just watched a news broadcast of his announcement and the subsequent press conference, and still, your brain wants to convince you Jihyo is lying. The sabbatical is one thing—that was becoming a more normalized event in the sport as drivers started to focus on their families and their mental health. But Joshua’s own words during the interview was another.

Joshua, what does this sabbatical mean for your career? Do you plan on returning to to the track?

I’m not sure at the moment what it means. Maybe it’s time for me to rest and get my head back in the game for next season. Maybe it’s the beginning of an early retirement. I don’t know. I just know it’s needed and I’m grateful McLaren is working with me to make it happen.

No hesitation. The words “early retirement” really came out of Joshua “I’m Going to Be Buried in an MCL60” Hong’s stupid, pretty mouth. You never thought you’d see the day.

“Why would Joshua Hong’s career decisions affect me?” you ask stubbornly, knowing you’re being purposefully daft. “We don’t work together anymore.” You throw a hand up to gesture lazily at your office. “Obviously. You poached me.”

Jihyo lets out a single bark of laughter. “HA! Poached! That’s funny considering you had your foot halfway out of McLaren when I reached out to you. Why was that again?” she asks with fake forgetfulness. “Oh, right! You fell in love with your driver.”

“Every day I regret telling you anything about myself.”

“You didn’t tell me. Drunk you did.”

You wave your hand at her in a silent “whatever.”

“Well, if you’re so ‘fine,’ I have a favor to ask of you.” 

“Okay?” you sigh, feeling very much like the teenage girls outside of your office right now. It’s crazy what a man can do to your mood even two years after completely abandoning him. “You need me to look over more designs for this season?”

Jihyo scoffs like she’s about to say no before stopping herself. “Actually, yes, I do, but that’s not what my favor is. Especially because that’s not a favor, that’s your job.”

You try not to laugh. 

“I need you to poach someone for me.”

You immediately tense. She doesn’t continue, letting the words really sink in. You scramble up onto your knees from where you were sprawled across the couch.

“What the hell are you saying right now?”

“I’m saying that the best driver on the grid is on sabbatical a measly 2-hour flight from here, for who knows how long, and these girls could benefit from learning from the best of the absolute fucking best.”

“Joshua wants to rest,” you immediately argue. “And frankly, he needs it! The man has been behind some kind of wheel for an ungodly amount of years!”

“And you don’t think going from his schedule at McLaren to a schedule teaching girls here won’t be a significant change of pace for him?” she asks incredulously. “Please! Tell me that the transition didn’t feel like a full-on retirement, even for you.”

Jihyo isn’t wrong. 

Being a race engineer was deceptively tiring. A lot of people reduced it to sitting at a monitor for two hours, but your days were long and grueling and a lot more demanding than just race days. You were involved in what felt like countless hours of engineering debriefs, research and development, spreadsheets (god, the spreadsheets), and not to mention, Joshua made you somewhat of his personal therapist, begging you to follow him around the facility when he was in for practice sessions or training. If you stood your ground and refused, you’d find him following you around. 

Not to mention the traveling. Or the actual race days.

Coming to F1 Academy was a breath of fresh air. Sure, you came feeling like the wind had been knocked out of you, but that had more to do with leaving Joshua than anything else. F1 Academy slowed life down for you. 

The schedule wasn’t completely less forgiving; you were still on a race schedule, but instead of traveling to 21 different countries and having 24 different races over the course of nine months, you only had to attend 7 races in 6 different countries in roughly the same amount of time. On top of that, you weren’t a superstar driver’s race engineer. You weren’t anybody’s engineer; all you had to do was supervise and step in if someone was struggling with a student driver. Compared to F1, it practically felt like vacation.

And even more than that, it felt meaningful, cultivating the careers of aspiring female drivers and giving them a path into a male-dominated sport. You know better than anyone else that Joshua would absolutely love it.

“I think this would be good for Hong, and I think this would be good for you,” she tells you. 

You try not to balk at her. “Do you hear yourself? You think it would be good for your technical executive and head engineering instructor to work with the man she left her last position for? You said it yourself! I was in love with him!”

You ignore the way Jihyo very obviously tries to keep from rolling her eyes at your use of the word “was.”

“You can deny it all you want but I know there is something very… unresolved there,” she says, lip curling in mock disgust at the sheer thought of emotions. “And even if it’s not romantic—”

“What do you mean?!” you laugh incredulously. “It should not be romantic if we’re going to be working here together! You should actually be discouraging that as my boss.”

“Pfft,” she waves a hand. “I’m not in HR. That is not my job. If I want to ship two of my employees—”

“He’s not even an employee yet.”

“—then I will ship two of my employees.”

“You are so ridiculous.”

“Besides, you didn’t even let me finish,” she pouts at you. You nod in defeat and let her continue. “Like I was saying, even if it’s not romantic—and I’ll proudly be the first to admit I hope it’s romantic!” she says the disclaimer quickly and in one breath, “I’d still love to see you fix your friendship with him. I know it mattered a lot to both of you.”

Your relationship to Jihyo changed overnight. One day, she was your funny, albeit intimidating boss, and then with the help of several bottles of soju and an Academy staff karaoke night, she was suddenly visiting your office at least twice a day, you were constantly hanging out outside of work, and you knew everything about each other. Including how much you cherished Joshua, not as someone you were in love with, but as a human being you loved, period.

“But I won’t pretend this is selfless,” she sighs. “We’re three seasons into the Academy, going on four, and we have yet to see any of our graduates enter F1.”

You fidget uncomfortably. It’s a stress point for the entire organization and something you’re reminded of in what feels like every meeting. 

“I don’t need to remind you what little time we have to prove this program a success.”

Three more seasons after this next one. 

When the program was conceived, F1 agreed to see what the Academy could achieve in seven seasons. They wanted at least two female drivers in F1 by then, but the stretch goal was to have the winning graduate from every season on a team, even as reserve drivers. That didn’t happen, but they could still get two girls in there; it would just mean having to do it very, very soon.

“No…” you shake your head. “You don’t need to remind me.”

You sit on your couch properly and stare at Jihyo, who refuses to continue speaking. She’s letting you stew in your thoughts, well aware your overactive brain will be better at convincing you than she ever will.

Finally, you groan.

She doesn’t even have the decency to wait for you to agree that Joshua is the best answer before she’s clapping excitedly. She’s infuriating but she’s right. It would be mutually beneficial; the girls would inherit a wealth of knowledge from a driver like him, and he would see what you get to every day: how easy it is to make a difference when your life isn’t solely on the track.

And you don’t know why he’s taken this break, but you have a nagging feeling that’s exactly what he needs.

“Okay, okay, relax,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “How do we even do this? McLaren would’ve had him sign an ironclad agreement that guarantees his return to the team from sabbatical… unless he decides to retire.” You feel your stomach lurch at the idea.

Jihyo waves a hand like the legalities of Joshua’s employment don’t matter to her. “You don’t worry your beautiful, little head about that. While you were all busy screaming at the TV like banshees, I was already on the phone convincing the big guy to let us at him.”

“You asked the CEO of McLaren? And he agreed to you stealing Joshua during his sabbatical…?” 

It doesn’t sound anything like the staunch businessman you came to know over the decade you spent at his organization. He was nice enough, but he was also incredibly greedy—in all the ways that rich men always are. But there was nothing he was greedier about than talent. When he liked a driver—and more importantly, when a driver delivered wins, and therefore money—he kept him forever. Even if that meant convoluted contracts with tricky fine prints. You doubt that has changed.

“No,” she says, smirking and looking incredibly pleased with herself, “I did not ask. I bartered. I already had a leg up since that neon orange eyesore of a company of yours is our biggest proponent.”

If McLaren’s CEO’s greed was good for one thing, it was that he wanted the best of the best, and that absolutely included women. As such, he’s been the only CEO very enthusiastically circling the Academy looking for his next star. 

“I told him if he gave me Hong during his sabbatical, he could have first pick from our litter of talented ladies during any one season he’s interested in,” Jihyo informs you.

You stare blankly at her. “Like the NBA draft…?”

“Girl, I only know cars. I don’t know what that means.”

“Right,” you nod, opting to move on instead of explain. “What if that girl doesn’t want to sign with McLaren?”

Jihyo scoffs. “Then she doesn’t sign with McLaren! I’m not the devil, Y/N; I’m not selling souls here. I’m just giving him the first chance to meet and talk to a driver of his choice before any of the other neanderthals. Convincing her he’s good enough to sign with him is all on him.”

You hum in understanding. “Okay, so why can’t he just tell Joshua himself?”

“So that’s my hiccup,” she groans. “He said he’s all ours if he says yes, but he seems convinced that this is the last thing Hong would want to do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Okay… well then, he doesn’t know him at all. This is the exact kind of thing he’d want to do.”

You know because he invited you to enough non-profit events he supported in the off season to volunteer with him, join him on a panel about F1, or just show face. This is exactly up his alley.

Jihyo shrugs. “He says, ‘The boy has lost his spark,’” she imitates him in an exaggeratedly deep and hoarse voice. “Even if that’s true, I have the perfect person to give him that spark right back!”

She grins widely, blinking her eyes rapidly at you.

“Your faith in me is astronomical.”

“No, your doubt in yourself is astronomical,” she corrects, rolling her eyes. “I’m willing to bet $100,000 that even two years after quitting each other cold turkey, Joshua Hong is still willing to bend over backwards for you.”

You wince at the wording. You don’t like the idea that you quit him because it wasn’t like that. You quit the chance to stay in love with him.

“He has never bent over backwards for me.”

In fact, you’d argue the roles were reversed. It was kind of in your job description as his race engineer: bend over backwards to make sure your driver becomes a renowned champion.

“Oh, Y/N,” she sighs, smiling softly. “My naive child.”

You glare. 

“No bet?” she asks innocently before shrugging. “Okay, smart move for you, honestly. You would’ve been out a pretty penny.” 

She starts slipping her feet back into her heels, obviously ready to go off to whatever her next endeavor is. Probably plotting what other ways she can complicate your life.

“Look,” she sighs, slapping her hands against her lap when she finished putting her shoes on, “if he doesn’t want to do it, then he doesn’t want to do it and I’ll just have to take no for an answer. It would suck because I’d still have to hold up my end of the bargain with McLaren either way, but we obviously can’t force the guy to do anything. It would just be a nice plus for not only the girls, but for you. I know it.”

You don’t bother trying to deny it, not because you agree; you actually vehemently disagree, and you have the evidence to prove it would not be good for you. 

Exhibit A: in the months following your realization you were in love with Joshua Hong, you were a nauseating mix of absolutely miserable and absolutely thrilled any time you were with him (almost all the time). It was exhausting and it sucked the life out of you. 

Exhibit B: you were always distracted. Maybe never during a race because your only focus was making sure your driver won and that he won safely. But every other moment of the day, you were thinking about Joshua, talking to Joshua, listening to Joshua, trying not to scream while Joshua followed you around everywhere, watching Joshua, averting your eyes when Joshua looked up, talking to Wonwoo about Joshua, studying Joshua’s stats, debriefing Joshua’s last race, wondering if you’d see Joshua, daydreaming about Joshua, getting hopelessly lovesick over Joshua—Joshua, Joshua, Joshua!!!

None of that can be good for you.

You don’t deny that it would be good for you because you agree with her; you just don’t have the energy to confront the questions that would require denying it. The main question being: would any of that even be a problem if you’re not in love with him anymore? Because wasn’t that the point of leaving McLaren? To stop being in love? And if you’re not in love with him anymore, then why are you so worried about having to be in his proximity?

You take a deep breath as Jihyo stands.

“When do I go?” you look up at her as she walks to the door of your office. She looks back at you and smiles.

“I have the company plane ready for you at Heathrow. Wheels up in an hour.” Your mouth drops in shock. She turns to leave before seeming to remember something. “Oh, and your sub is standing in the hall ready to take over for the girls.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Wrong. I’m efficient.”

a/n: eeeep!!! this one’s gonna be a long one, y’all. i’m at a little over 30k rn and i expect to land nearer to 50 🫣 all fics from the collab will post by the end of the month! to join the official c&e studios tag list, click here! please note that this is the collab tag list and not mine. you can choose to be notified of any or all of the authors’ fics! hope you’ll support all 26 of us! ❤️🏎️

[smutmind]

MONSTER ft. Ningning [TW]

The office door shut with a soft click.

Ningning froze in place, fingers clenching the strap of her bag. The late afternoon light spilled across the desk, turning the room gold and shadowed. Her professor’s silhouette leaned against the shelves, arms crossed.

"You think missing labs and bombing two exams goes unnoticed?"

She swallowed hard. "I didn’t mean to fall behind. I was sick—"

He cut her off. "So was the curve. You’re below it. And one more failure? That scholarship vanishes."

Her stomach flipped. She looked toward the door.

"I’ll make it up. I can write extra credit—"

He stepped forward. "No essays. This isn’t about writing. It’s about learning."

She backed into the desk. "What do you mean?"

His eyes didn’t waver. "Get on your knees."

"You’re insane."

He reached for her bag, dropped it to the floor. "You want to stay? Earn it. Knees."

Ningning hesitated. The quiet outside the office made every second louder.

"Do it. Now."

She dropped slowly, heart hammering. The carpet scratched her skin through her tights. He unzipped and pulled himself out, already semi-hard.

"Open your mouth. Keep your hands behind your back."

She parted her lips, trembling. He slid in slowly, groaning as her tongue hesitantly moved.

"Yeah... there you go. Work for it."

He guided her with one hand behind her head, hips rolling forward. She gagged and pulled back.

"No. Take it. All the way."

Tears welled up as she tried again. He grunted, thick in her mouth.

"You choke so pretty, Ningning. Don’t stop."

She blinked up at him, tears clinging to her lashes. Drool coated her chin.

"Swallow every drop."

He thrust once more, groaning as he came. She sputtered, coughing as he held her in place.

"Don’t let it spill."

She managed to swallow, gasping as he pulled free. Her lips were red, smeared. Her chest heaved.

He reached down, grabbed her arm, and yanked her up. "Desk. Bend over."

"No—" She twisted free. "I did what you wanted—"

He caught her wrist, slammed her against the desk. "We’re not done."

Her blouse ripped as he forced her down, raising her skirt.

"You don’t get to walk out now."

She kicked, heel catching his shin. He growled.

"That’s it. Fight me. Makes it better."

He pinned her wrists to the desk. Her panties were yanked down roughly.

"You’re shaking. But you’re wet. Aren’t you?"

"Please don’t—"

He slid a finger between her thighs. She gasped.

"Soaked. What a liar."

He lined up, pushed in hard. She screamed.

"Shut up," he hissed, thrusting again.

The desk creaked with each motion. She squirmed, tears hot on her cheeks.

"I’ll ruin you."

He pulled her head back, kissing her ear. "You’re mine now."

She whimpered, unable to answer.

"Turn over. Let me see your face."

He flipped her, climbed over, slid back in. Her shirt was half off, bra askew. Her hair clung to her temples.

He gripped her thighs, drove into her with force.

"Look at me. You wanted this."

She shook her head, voice cracked. "No—please—"

"Don’t lie. Your cunt says otherwise."

He pressed harder. Her legs jerked.

"Cum. Right now. I want you to cum while I’m still inside."

She cried out, body shuddering. Her nails clawed the wood.

He groaned. "Get on top. Now."

He sat down. She stared, eyes wide.

"Or I’ll drag you."

She climbed over him slowly. He pulled her down onto his cock.

"That’s it. Ride."

She moved reluctantly, whimpering as his hands gripped her waist.

"Faster. Make it worth the grade."

Her rhythm stumbled. He grabbed her breast, bit down on her nipple.

"Cry louder."

She gasped, riding harder.

"I’m going to cum inside. You hear me?"

She sobbed. "Don’t—"

"You’ll feel me for days."

He grunted, shoved her down, hips jerking. He came deep, holding her still.

Ningning froze, breath ragged, her body limp.

He watched her: thighs trembling, mascara streaked, lips bruised. Her shirt hung open. Her panties dangled off one ankle.

[immaqulate]

take it, baby | m.s

— matt sturniolo x fem! reader

— warnings: smut, condescending teasing, brat-taming, light degradation, pet names (baby, princess, good girl), overstimulation, orgasm denial, restraint (hands pinned), manhandling, size kink, fingering, oral (f!receiving), edging, power dynamics, soft aftercare, possessive behavior, begging, crying during sex, praise kink, voice kink, slow build, implied multiple orgasms

in which!.. you mouth off to your boyfriend, claiming you can “take it.”

dividers by @bbyg4rlhelps & requested by anon!

Matt’s hovering over you, shirtless and flushed, hair falling into his eyes as he stares down with that look.

That look that makes your stomach twist and your legs shake—smug, challenging, dangerous. Like he already knows how this ends, and he’s just toying with you now.

“You can take it, huh?” he echoes, voice laced with mock-curiosity as his palm drags slowly down the inside of your thigh. “That what you said?”

You nod, already breathless, fingers gripping the sheets like they might save you.

He tsks softly. “Nah. Use your words.”

“Yes, Matt,” you whisper, voice shaky. “I said I could take it.”

His smile is slow and cruel—the kind that says oh, sweetheart, you’re in for it now.

“Oh, I know you said it,” he murmurs, his hand inching higher. “But that doesn’t mean I believe you.”

“Matt—” He grabs your jaw gently but firmly, making you look up at him. His eyes flicker with something sharp. Something possessive.

“No. You don’t get to say my name like that when you’re the one who started this.”

You whimper. He chuckles darkly, letting go of your jaw. “Thought you were such a big girl. So eager. Now look at you.”

His fingers finally press where you want them, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. Your hips jerk. He hums like he’s pleased—not by your pleasure, but by your desperation.

“You were mouthing off earlier,” he mutters, lips brushing your jaw. “Now you’re shaking. Already.”

“I’m not—shaking,” you lie.

He snorts. “Baby. You’re trembling like a leaf.”

Two fingers slip inside, slow and deep, curling just right. Your back arches and a moan rips from your throat before you can swallow it. Matt’s smirk grows.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “Sounding so sweet when she’s falling apart.”

Your hands reach for him, grabbing at his arms, needing something to anchor you. He lets you cling for a second, then grabs both wrists and pins them above your head.

“You don’t get to hold onto me, baby. Not yet.”

He leans in, lips barely grazing your cheek, breath hot. “You said you could take it. So now? You’re gonna prove it.”

You try to respond, but the words dissolve into a gasp when he starts moving his fingers faster, curling deeper. And he watches you. Watches the way your lips part, your brows pull together, your chest heaves.

“God,” he mutters, “you’re already getting tight around my fingers.”

Your thighs try to close, but he pushes them apart again with his knee.

“Don’t even think about running,” he warns, voice low. “You wanted to act like a big girl. So take it.”

“Matt—please—”

“You begging already?” His eyes narrow. “Didn’t take much, did it? You think I’m gonna stop just because you’re crying a little?”

“I’m not—” He presses his thumb right against that spot and your sentence cuts off in a moan so loud it echoes off the walls.

“That’s what I thought,” he mutters, still working you through it. “Keep cryin’, baby. Let me hear it.”

You’re close, and he knows it. He can feel your walls fluttering, the way your breath stutters. But just as you’re teetering—right there—

He pulls his hand away.

You sob, actually sob. “No—no, no, Matt, please—!”

He sighs like you’re being difficult. “You didn’t earn it yet.”

“Matt—!” He moves between your thighs now, settling low, and your breath catches—because you know that look. His voice is syrupy-smooth, thick with condescension.

“You really thought I was just gonna let you come that easy?”

You nod frantically, earning a sharp tch.

“Wrong again.” He leans in and licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and lazy, and you jerk like you’ve been shocked.

“Ohhh my god—”

“That’s better,” he mumbles against you. “Now you’re learning how to beg.”

His mouth is relentless. Licking. Sucking. Savoring. And when your hips buck up, he throws an arm across your stomach, holding you down like it’s nothing.

You’re writhing now, panting, babbling nonsense.

“Please—please, I can’t—Matty, please—”

He doesn’t stop. He wants you like this—wrung out and helpless and begging for something you swore you could handle.

“You said you could take it,” he growls between licks. “So fucking take it.”

Your thighs are shaking. Your vision’s gone spotty. And when your orgasm finally rips through you, it’s not soft—it’s devastating.

Matt doesn’t stop. He keeps going and going. You sob his name, squirming under him, but he doesn’t let up. One hand pins your thigh down while the other creeps up your ribcage—slow and possessive.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, lips still wet with you. “You wanted this, remember? You asked for this.”

“I can’t,” you whimper. He hums thoughtfully. “Yes you can. I know you can. You’re my good girl, remember?”

You cry harder, and he groans like it’s his favorite sound. He lets you ride out another orgasm—messy and shaking and completely gone—and then finally pulls away.

Your chest is heaving. You’re completely spent, body twitching with the aftershocks. Matt finally lets go of your wrists and leans down, kissing your cheek gently. “You did so good, baby.”

You try to speak, but your lips just tremble. “Too much?” he whispers, brushing hair off your face.

You nod weakly, and he kisses you again—soft this time, slow and reverent. “Okay. You’re okay. I got you.”

His voice shifts. The condescension fades, replaced with something warm.

“You’re perfect. All mine. You did so good for me.” He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, and lets you breathe—lets you come down from it. His lips stay pressed to your forehead.

Next time, maybe you’ll think twice before you challenge him.

But then again… probably not.

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[jaylaxies]

CHAMPAGNE CONFETTI ‣ making you squirt.

pairing: enhypen x fem!reader

content warning: 18+ content, minors dni! making you squirt, smut, mentions of squirt drinking, fingering, cunnilingus, perv tendencies, mentions of jealousy, lmk if i missed anything.

wc: 1519 words

a/n: hihi loves <3 this was very well inspired by the jake watergun gif :3 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated <3

LEE HEESEUNG

⤷ As your CEO in his office. 

You shouldn’t have been this affected, especially when Heeseung wasn’t even bothered enough to pay you attention, glasses perched on his perfect nose as he read his work emails. 

“Stop squirming, baby, I can’t multitask like this, hm?” He mumbled, eyes flickering up to you for a second, a lazy smirk caressing his mouth, before he focused back on the screen. 

His fingers were casual as they plunged into your dripping cunt, making you arch your back while sitting on the edge of his mahogany desk. Right then, he curled his three digits inside you, dragging them with intention this time, thumb circling your clit, which was beyond sensitive now. 

He chuckled as you clenched around him, his pace more fervent now, “go on, baby, ruin my fucking desk for me,” he said right when your body started shaking. And that’s exactly what you did, crying out his name as your wetness sprayed all over, body spasming, soiling his expensive suit as he only watched with his lip bitten. 

“Guess I’ll have to punish you now.”

PARK JONGSEONG

⤷ As your possessive ex at a wedding.

“You actually brought him?” Jay asked, his voice was calm—but his hands were already pushing you onto the bed, dragging your panties down with his jaw clenched. 

Jay saw you on the dance floor with someone else. Now, you’re pinned beneath him in your hotel room, dress hiked up, as he followed you back. 

“I bet he’s never even tasted you properly,” he mutters, sinking to his knees, “you still let boys who don’t know what this is worth touch it, huh?”

He scoffs, clicking his tongue before licking up your slit with deliberate precision. His tongue flattens over your clit and stays there, heavy pressure that makes your back arch off the sheets.

You gasp out loud, however, Jay just grabs your thighs and holds you there, mouth working furiously, sucking and groaning like your cunt’s the only thing keeping him sane, or rather, driving him insane. 

“You’re dripping,” he groans, “you think he deserves this pussy, hm? After what I did to it?”

Your stomach tightens, legs shaking by now as tears form in your eyes, and then it hits you, hot and messy. You gush hard, spraying his face, soaking the sheets.

Jay doesn’t even flinch, rather, he moans into it. When he finally pulls away, he wipes your release from his jaw and whispers, “don’t make me watch you with him again, or next time, I’ll fuck you where he can hear it.”

SIM JAEYUN

⤷ As your long distance boyfriend who’s back home.

“Did you miss me?” He asks, voice already shaking, arms locked around your waist as you nod, your lips barely parted as he pressed you against the door as soon as you opened it, breathing your scent in. 

Jake laughs softly, as if mocking you, “you sure, princess? Dressed like this? Or do you always answer the door like a fucking whore now?”

You whimper at the tone, He’s never been like this, so feral, however, his hands were already pushing your thighs apart.

“I didn’t jerk off once y’know?” He whispered, sinking to his knees, “not a single fucking time.”

You gasp, staring down at him, and he just smirked, “saving it all for this.”

And then, his mouth’s on you without much hesitation, sucking your clit like a madman who has been starving, as if he needs to make up for every lonely night. His fingers curl deep inside you as you choke out his name.

“Oh yes, princess, you’re gonna squirt for me,” he pants, voice muffled, “gonna give me everything I fucking missed, hm?”

And gosh you did—hard enough to make your legs shake, your floor soaked, and Jake—he moans like he’s seen something magical, mouth open as he practically drinks you in. “

Don’t you ever wear that shirt again unless it’s for me to ruin.”

PARK SUNGHOON

⤷ As your brother’s best friend. 

Sunghoon was doing so well, really. He avoided eye contact when you visited the dorm, sat on the far end of the couch when you wore those tiny sleep shorts without any care in this world. 

But that night—when he passed by your room and heard you moan his name? Yeah, that was enough for him to lose the last bit of his sanity, and so, he snapped. 

Now, you were pressed under his tall frame, legs spread, panties tossed somewhere on the floor as he’s on his stomach, arms locked around your thighs as if you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I tried not to hear it, y’know?” He whispers, voice breaking as he licks up your slit again, “but you were dreaming about me, weren’t you?”

You can barely speak, his mouth’s too good, too warm and inviting, tongue curling right over your clit again and again.

“Couldn’t sleep after that,” he groans, “had to imagine it was real. You, soaking wet for me, screaming under me.”

He flattens his tongue and shakes his head like he’s trying to drown in you, pushing his head further as you shake, moaning out loud just the second you squirt with a cry, and he doesn’t stop—doesn’t let you stop.

“I need more, hm? Just once more, kitten, then I swear I’ll be good again.”

KIM SUNOO

⤷ As your enemy roomie. 

Sunoo wasn’t the nicest to you, in fact, you were convinced that he hated you. At least, that’s what he told himself each time you left the bathroom floor damp from your shower, every time your soft little moans leaked through the thin apartment walls late at night.

“You really touch yourself that loud on purpose, as if you want me to listen, huh?” He’d scoffed earlier, jaw tight, “you think I can’t hear how wet you get in your pathetic little bed?”

But now? Now you were bent over the kitchen counter at two in the morning, your legs shaking with his fingers buried between your thighs like he’d been waiting months for this. Your panties were shoved to the side, soaked through, your pussy dripping, too sweet for him. 

“Thought you hated me,” you panted, knuckles hurting as you gripped the edge.

“Oh I fucking do,” he breathed against your ear, fingers rubbing firm and fast circles on your clit, other hand pushing into your clenching cunt, “I hate how wet you are for me. I hate how you’re about to soak my fucking floor.”

“Sunoo, I—I can’t, stop—”

“Oh yes you can, baby. Come on, hm? Show me.” He curled his fingers just right—again, and your legs collapsed, your whole body jerking as a gush of wetness splattered down his wrist, across the cabinet doors.

You moaned so loud, it reverberated the room. He caught you, still rubbing through it, practically soaking his palm.

“Told you,” he whispered smugly, taking his fingers out slowly, “that’s it, I’m not stopping now.”

YANG JUNGWON

⤷ As your younger neighbour. 

Jungwon had always been your sweet neighbour, just a few years younger, always offering to carry your groceries, always lingering at your door a smidge longer than necessary, regardless, he was pretty harmless, kind by all means, and perhaps, cute too. 

You had no idea he was watching you every single night through the sliver in your blinds, so, when you opened the door in your tank top and shorts, thanking him for bringing your charger back, you didn’t expect the sudden demeanour change—the way his eyes dragged down your legs, how he licked his lips slow before stepping inside.

“I like this look on you,” he murmured.

“What look?” You asked softly.

“This one,” he said, chuckling, “the one that doesn’t hide you, so fucking pretty.”

You looked his way, gasping just a little.  

“I see you, y’know?” He added, “every fucking night.”

Before you could respond, he was already walking towards you as you stepped backward—until your legs hit the couch, and he sank to his knees in front of you like he’d been waiting years for this.

“Let me show you what I’ve been dreaming about.”

You didn’t stop him, you couldn’t, and then your shorts were yanked off, but not your panties. He shoved them aside with one hand, and his mouth was on you, messy enough to show he’s been starving. His tongue dragged slow up your folds, circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth.

You gasped, grabbing at his hair as his fingers pushed in, curling deep inside you.

“Oh—fuck! Jungwon!”

“Yeah?,” He groaned, not even looking up, as if he knew exactly what was to come, “right now, hm? On my fucking face.”

The orgasm ripped through you too fast to stop—your back arched, legs snapping tight around his head as you gushed, soaking his mouth, your couch. You squirted so hard it splashed off his chin, and he moaned, licking through it, drinking every drop like he was insane. 

When it was over, when you were still shaking, his lips curled into the sweetest, filthiest smile.

“I knew you’d be a mess for me.”

And then he spoke again, quieter.

“Do it again.”

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© jaylaxies | tumblr

[chrisstvrns]

⌞hooking up with chris backstage⌝⸝⸝

warnings: smut, public sex, dom!chris, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink, possessiveness, choking (?? hand lightly around throat), overstimulation, established relationship, rough sex, please let me know if i missed anything

word count: 910

youtuber & rapper!chris x popstar!reader au here

you’re still glowing from the stage.

sweat slicks your collarbones, glitter dusts your cheekbones, and your voice is raw from screaming lyrics into the mic, the ones the crowd sang louder than you. the bass is still thudding in your ears, echoing down the dressing room hall like a heartbeat. you’d barely walked offstage when you felt him. chris was lurking, waiting, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed like he hadn’t just flown in, from boston, to LA, and then back to new york, on two hours of sleep, to catch the last show of your tour.

his eyes were already locked on you.

and now, in the dim back room behind the greenroom, with the door locked and your body pressed to the wall, he’s all over you.

“you looked so fuckin’ hot up there,” he mutters, voice low, mouth dragging down your neck like he’s starved. “had to watch you grind all over that mic stand. you do that shit on purpose?”

you’re already breathless, hips arching forward into the heat of his body, your legs trembling from the adrenaline still running cold through your bloodstream. “yeah,” you breathe, teasing, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “knew you’d be watching.”

he smirks, all dimples and control. his rings are cold against your skin as he drags them up your thigh beneath your stage skirt, pushes the fabric higher with a greedy palm.

“fuck, baby…” his fingers brush over the damp lace of your underwear. “you’re soaked.”

“was thinking about you,” you admit, gasping when his mouth crashes onto yours. hungry, wet, and open. like he’s trying to taste what he missed while you were onstage.

you claw at his hoodie, needing him closer, needing him now, your thighs squeezing around his hand as he teases you over the lace, slow and cruel. he’s still smirking into the kiss, pulling back just enough to look you over, messy hair, swollen lips, thighs twitching under his touch.

“could barely keep my fuckin’ hands to myself, watching you,” he growls, dragging your panties down. “you think i’m gonna let you walk around like that and not remind you who you belong to?”

you whimper when he drops to his knees, spreading your thighs wider, and kisses up your inner thigh like it’s his only mission. his breath is warm, his tongue hotter, and the first swipe of it over your clit makes your whole body jolt, a curse tumbling from your lips.

“chris-” your fingers twist into his hair, tugging.

he groans into you, voice muffled between your legs. “god, i missed this pussy. always so fuckin’ sweet.”

your head falls back against the wall, your body trembling as he works you open with his tongue, his fingers, his words. he’s filthy with it, praises you with every moan, every stroke of his fingers inside you, every filthy “that’s it, baby. let me hear you” that leaves his mouth.

you’re close embarrassingly fast, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, even when your hips twitch away and your thighs squeeze his head and you’re coming with a cry into your clenched fist.

he keeps going, licking you through it until you’re pushing him away, whimpering.

“too much,” you breathe.

he grins, standing, mouth wet with you. “nah,” he murmurs, kissing you again. “not even close.”

he spins you around, pressing your front to the wall, his hips against your ass, one hand dragging down your back, the other unzipping his jeans with messy urgency. you hear the rustle, feel the heat of him against your thigh, and then he speaks again

“tell me you want it,” he says, voice low in your ear. “tell me you need me.”

“i always need you,” you whisper, pushing your hips back into him.

he sinks in with a groan, deep and slow and possessive, his hand sliding up to lightly wrap around your throat. your mouth falls open, and the moan you let out is loud, louder than you meant. you slap a hand over your own mouth, gasping.

he fucks into you with a roughness he only uses when he’s been gone too long. when he’s missed you too much. when the only thing that can fix it is being buried inside you.

“look at you,” he pants, rutting deep, dragging your body back onto him again and again. “all famous. all sparkly. all mine.”

you whine at that, clenching around him, his words hitting deeper than his hips.

“say it,” he orders. “say you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, head thrown back against his shoulder. “fuck, chris, i’m yours.”

he groans loud at that, kissing your neck, biting it, fucking into you harder, chasing both of your highs like it’s the only thing that matters.

you cum first. shaky and wrecked, clenching around him like your body knows what he needs. he follows with a groan into your skin, hips stilling, breath heavy.

for a moment, all you can hear is your breathing. his hand stays on your hip. your forehead presses to the cool wall.

then, he speaks in a soft tone, full of love and adoration. “you’re unreal.”

you turn to look at him. flushed, hair messy, pupils blown. he looks proud. ruined.

“you miss half my set again.” you say, still catching your breath, “and you’re gonna be working the merch table, i swear.”

he laughs, kisses you slow and sweet and lingering.

“worth every fuckin’ second.”

────────────୨ৎ────────────

aurora's notes: i wrote this like a month ago and im finally posting it yayaya

- aurora ᯓ✮⋆˙

likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated! ੈ✩‧₊˚

to be added to my taglist, comment on this post!

[guppyyuri]

tug on my necklace

WARNINGS ★ rough billie, strap usage, oral (r!receiving), gentleness, mommy kink, multiple rounds (3), rough reader, degradation, praise kink

AUTHORS NOTE ★ my bsf told me she was into that rough shizzle and todays her birthday so happy fucking birthday zaria, and for the second part pls pls pls minors dni. PLEASE ITS SO BAD💔

your back hits the mattress soft.

the room’s dim—just the glow of a candle flickering on the nightstand, shadows crawling up the walls like they’re watching too.

billie leans over you, slow and deliberate, her necklace dangling between you like a pendulum, like she knows it drives you crazy. the low-cut black tank she’s wearing clings to her in all the right ways, and her lips are pink and parted just slightly.

she’s already got you squirming and she hasn’t even touched you yet.

“nervous?” she asks, smirking, brushing her fingertips up your bare thigh under the blanket.

you swallow. “no.”

“liar.”

she presses a kiss just below your jaw.

and then another.

and another.

you can’t help the way your hands come up to tangle in her shirt. she laughs softly, kisses your mouth like she’s got all the time in the world.

“so impatient,” she teases. “can’t i just admire you for a second?”

you open your mouth to answer—but her hand slides between your legs before you can. and your whole body jolts.

“jesus, billie—”

“shhh,” she says sweetly, like she’s comforting you. “don’t be loud.”

her fingers move slow. careful. like she’s figuring you out. and maybe she is.

you’ve been here before, sure—skin to skin, under sheets, learning how the other tastes, breathes, breaks—but this is different. slower. more deliberate. like she’s not just trying to get you off. she’s trying to make you melt.

“you’re so wet already,” she murmurs, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “is that all for me?”

“maybe,” you whisper, because it’s the best you can manage.

billie kisses the corner of your mouth and whispers, “good girl.”

your hips buck.

she catches it with her hand, grounding you, keeping you still as her fingers slide lower. the pad of her thumb finds your clit with that perfect kind of pressure, circling like she’s done this a hundred times.

your breath catches. “billie—”

“mmhm?” she mumbles, lips now on your neck again. “you gonna be good for mommy?”

you nod, frantic. she stills her hand.

“words.”

“yes—yes, i’ll be good—”

“that’s what i thought.”

her voice is low now. darker. more dangerous. and it sets your whole body on fire.

when she pushes two fingers into you, you gasp so sharply it makes her smile again.

“god, you feel so good,” she murmurs, curling them just right. “so tight for me.”

you’re moaning now, hands gripping her back, clawing just enough to leave red streaks. billie’s biting her lip, watching your face. every twitch, every flutter of your lashes, the way your thighs shake.

you arch up. “i’m close—”

“already?” she teases. “we’re just getting started.”

you almost cry when she slows down.

almost.

but then she leans down and whispers in your ear:

“be patient baby. let me take care of you.”

her fingers move faster, harder, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over until your hips are grinding against her hand, and she has to press her mouth to yours just to keep you from moaning too loud.

and when you finally fall over the edge, she doesn’t stop.

she keeps going, working you through it—kisses you through it—makes you ride it out until you’re clinging to her, breathless and shaky, trying not to cry from how good it feels.

when you finally go limp under her, she presses one last kiss to your lips and grins.

“told you,” she says. “i got you.”

you’re still catching your breath.

your chest rises and falls in slow, uneven waves, skin warm and flushed under the soft throw blanket tangled around your waist. billie’s lying next to you, propped up on one elbow, thumb tracing lazy circles against your hipbone.

she hasn’t said anything yet.

just watched you.

“you okay?” she asks finally, voice quieter than before. her other hand brushes your hair back from your face, gentle.

you nod, eyes fluttering. “more than okay.”

she smiles. soft. like she’s proud. like she’s in love.

you reach for her hand and squeeze it. “you… wanna keep going?”

her brows lift, just a little. “you sure?”

“yeah.”

you swallow.

then add, a little shyly, “if you wanna.”

billie presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“i do,” she murmurs. “but only if you let me be slow.”

you blink up at her.

“the strap,” she adds gently. “i know it’s gonna hurt a little. i just wanna make sure i’m being careful. that’s all.”

the words melt something deep in your stomach.

you nod again, heart hammering behind your ribs.

“i trust you,” you say.

and you mean it.

she disappears for a moment—quiet footsteps, the faint sound of a drawer opening—then comes back, holding the harness in one hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

but her eyes are still on you. scanning. checking.

“lay back,” she whispers. “just breathe for me.”

you do. you let her crawl back over you, slowly, like she’s testing the air between you first.

she kisses you once more before sitting up, pulling the straps into place over her hips. her hands move confidently, like she’s done this before—but her eyes never leave yours.

“color?” she asks.

you smile a little.

“green.”

she smirks. “good girl.”

and just like that, your body goes warm again.

when she slides her hands down your thighs, she pauses.

“legs open, baby.”

you do as you’re told, cheeks burning, eyes locked on her.

billie leans down and kisses your inner thigh, then just above your mound, like she’s worshiping you before she even touches you again. she drags her tongue up your slit, slow, tasting you.

you gasp.

she hums.

“still so wet,” she says softly. “you ready?”

you nod, breath shaky. “mhm.”

“words, baby.”

“yes—ready.”

her hand cups your jaw, and she kisses you like a thank-you.

then—she presses the tip in.

you inhale sharply. it’s bigger than her fingers. and slower.

you can feel every inch as she slides forward, inch by inch, stopping when you tense.

“breathe,” she whispers. “you’re doing so good. i’ve got you.”

you cling to her shoulders as she stills, letting you adjust. her hands are everywhere—your hip, your side, your chest. grounding you.

and she’s whispering, over and over:

“look at me.”

“you’re okay.”

“tell me if you want me to stop.”

your eyes sting a little. but not from the pain. from how soft she is.

and when you finally whisper, “okay,” she moves.

slow. measured. careful. like your body is made of glass and she’s memorizing how it breaks. you arch into her, mouth falling open as she starts a steady rhythm, her strap sliding deep inside you.

you gasp again, and her hand cups your cheek.

“you feel so good around me,” she says. “you’re taking it so well, baby.”

you let out a soft moan, clinging tighter. “fuck, billie…”

“shhh, i know. i know. i got you.”

her forehead presses to yours as she rocks her hips—slow, perfect, each thrust deep enough to make your toes curl. your nails dig into her back.

and when you whimper from the stretch, she slows down.

“too much?”

you shake your head. “no—don’t stop. just… stay like this.”

and she does. her hips grind into you, slower now. deeper. the base of the strap brushing your clit just enough to send sparks through you.

you feel it building. again.

your stomach tightens.

“billie—i’m gonna—”

“cum for me,” she breathes, hand sliding between you to circle your clit. “cum while i fuck you, baby. come on.”

and when it hits, it hits hard.

you cry out into her neck, shaking, your legs wrapping tight around her waist. billie keeps whispering your name, holding you through it, slowing down only when your body starts trembling too much to move.

and then—she stills.

you’re both panting.

her arms wrap around you like she’s afraid you’ll fall apart if she lets go.

and you’ve never felt more safe in your life.

- BILLIES TURN (EXTREMELY 18+ MINORS DNI)

billie’s still glowing from earlier.

legs tangled with yours, a lazy smile on her swollen lips, flushed cheeks and damp hair clinging to her forehead. there’s a bite mark blooming on the slope of her neck where you pulled her close during your last high. her voice is quiet now, wrecked in the prettiest way.

but you see it—

that glint in her eyes.

want. again.

you lean over her, brushing hair from her face.

“what?” you say, already knowing.

she tries to play innocent, but her thighs squeeze together, and her fingers dig into the sheets.

“you think i don’t know you by now?” you murmur.

“didn’t say anything,” she whispers, barely audible.

“you don’t have to.”

you kiss her once. then again. harder the second time.

when you pull back, you grab her chin between your fingers.

“you want more, baby?”

she nods quickly, pupils blown wide. “please.”

you tilt your head. “please who?”

her breath stutters.

you don’t give her a second chance—you slap her thigh hard enough to make her jolt.

“say it right.”

she bites her lip. “please mommy.”

you smile. slow.

“thats my girl.”

you have her on her knees ten minutes later.

face-down, ass-up, fingers curled tight in the sheets, panting like a bitch in heat. her back’s arched, her cheeks flushed deep pink already, and she’s whining under her breath just from the sight of the strap swinging between your thighs.

you slap her ass, firm.

“such a fuckin’ brat,” you mutter. “can’t go five minutes without wanting to be filled again.”

billie moans at that, head pressed to the bed.

“you wanna be my little toy tonight?” you ask, running the head of the strap along her folds. “just something i can fuck until i’m tired of it?”

“yes mommy,” she says without hesitation.

you press it against her entrance and don’t push in yet—just lean over, one hand in her hair, pulling her head back so her mouth is open.

“then say it. say what you are.”

“your slut,” she breathes. “i’m your slut mommy.”

and just like that, you slam your hips forward.

she screams into the mattress, choking on a moan as the strap fills her fast and deep. you don’t give her a second to adjust—your hands lock around her waist and you start fucking her hard.

sharp, rhythmic slaps of skin on skin echo through the room.

billie’s moaning like she doesn’t care who hears. like she wants someone to.

“so fucking loud,” you growl, snapping your hips against her ass again. “such a needy little whore.”

she whimpers. “i’m yours—i’m your whore, mommy—”

“damn right you are.”

you reach up, grabbing a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back again. her back arches deeper, pushing her hips into you, begging for more.

you spit on your hand and bring it down to rub her clit—fast and rough, just the way she likes it. her body jerks under you.

“god, fuck—i’m gonna cum—”

“don’t.”

she cries out, clenching around the strap.

“please—i need it—please, mommy, please—”

you pull out.

her whole body slumps, sobbing softly into the sheets.

you lean in close, dragging the tip along her entrance again.

“you cum when i say so.”

billie nods quickly, desperate, her voice breaking. “yes, mommy, i’m sorry—please, i’ll be good—”

you shove it back in, even harder than before.

and now she’s shaking. her hands clawing the sheets, body trembling with each brutal thrust. she’s gone, fucked-out and drooling, moaning so loud it’s a miracle the walls haven’t cracked.

“say it again,” you demand. “say what you are.”

“your bitch,” she sobs. “your dumb, desperate slut—please, mommy, fuck me, use me—”

you slap her ass again and grab her hips, holding her still as you drill into her. she’s clenching so tight it’s hard to keep rhythm—but you manage, watching her fall apart for you.

and when you finally let her cum, it hits her so hard she screams your name into the mattress.

you don’t stop.

not right away.

you fuck her through it, then slow down—gentle now—dragging it out until her body twitches and she’s shaking too hard to keep her knees under her.

when you finally pull out, she collapses.

you rub slow circles down her spine, brushing the sweat-damp hair away from her face.

“you okay, baby?”

she nods into the sheets, voice hoarse.

“never better.”

you kiss her shoulder.

“my good girl,” you whisper. “such a good fucking slut.”

she turns her head just enough to smile at you, dazed and glowing.

“love you, mommy,” she mumbles.

you laugh, wrapping your arms around her from behind, pulling her into your chest.

“love you more.”

TAGLIST ★ @agentbils @st0nerlesb0 @bilsbabyma @bitchesrbreakinghearts @bilsbunni @bitchesbrokenpromises @caliscomettt

[siennayaps]

College AU

Ex Boyfriend Satoru x Reader X Boyfriend Sukuna

What the actual fuck is wrong with both of you?

You’re standing in your college hallway and two of the most dangerous men in existence staring each other down like this is about to be their battleground.

Sukuna’s jaw is clenched, the black tattoos on his face practically twitching. “You got five seconds to fuck off, Gojo, before I paint this wall with your smug fucking face.”

Gojo doesn’t flinch. If anything, he grins. “Still can’t form a sentence without threats. So cute. You think violence’s the only way to keep her?”

His head tilts, shades pushed up, eyes flashing at you. “Bet he fucks you like he’s trying to prove something. Quick, messy. No finesse.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Sukuna steps forward. “You think slow strokes make you a better man? She was mine the moment she cried from the stretch.”

“Oh, so you are stretching her?” Gojo clicks his tongue mockingly. “Funny. When we were together, she used to beg me to stop teasing her. You know what that sounds like? Trust. You ever hear that word, Sukuna? Or do you just hear her sobbing under you and call it love?”

Your hands are balled into fists.

“This is our college, you freakshows,” you hiss, eyes darting around. “Everyone’s listening. Are you two seriously arguing about who fucks me better, here?”

Neither of them care.

Gojo smiles, like this is fun for him. “She was always loud for me. You ever hear the way she says my name when she’s right there, holding onto my arm like it’s the only thing keeping her on earth?”

Sukuna growls, “She screams my name now when she does fall apart.”

Oh my god,” you mutter, turning to walk away.

But Gojo’s voice chases you: “Hey, angel. If you ever get tired of getting tossed around like a ragdoll—”

“She won’t,” Sukuna cuts in, voice low and deadly. “She likes being ruined. Don’t you, princess?”

You stop. Turn around slowly.

Your expression is nothing but fire. “You both can go fuck yourself.”

Gojo whistles low. Sukuna smirks like he just won.

You sigh, exhausted beyond belief. “I should’ve let my vibrator kill me instead of choosing either of you.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose, but Gojo isn’t done. He steps closer, invading Sukuna’s space like it’s his birthright, all smoothness and venom under sugar.

“You can threaten me all you want, but you and I both know she still gets soaked remembering how I used to make her beg.”

“You mean when you’d edge her for hours and she’d cry because you wouldn’t fuck her?” Sukuna snaps. “Yeah, I remember. She told me everything. Said you’d drag it out until she could barely talk, then act like it was some holy ritual.”

Gojo shrugs, eyes burning with challenge. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Sukuna’s jaw twitches. “She likes it rough now. Choking, biting, face-down. I bend her over and she thanks me.”

“Yeah?” Gojo’s smile turns sharp. “And after she comes, who does she call when you’re asleep like a corpse?”

Your breath stutters. That one hits. Hard.

They both look at you now.

Sukuna’s hand curls into a fist. “Is that true?”

You stare at the ground. Your silence is its own confession.

Sukuna licks his teeth, furious. “You really let this bleach-haired twig crawl back into your head?”

Gojo laughs- laughs. Like this is the best show he’s ever watched. “Crawl? Sweetheart invited me. With those late-night calls? That voice? Sounded like she was gonna fall apart without me.”

“I was venting,” you are lying through your teeth.

“You were moaning,” Gojo corrects. “Want me to play the recording?”

“Don’t you fucking—”

You shove Gojo back, but he grabs your wrist, lightly. “Say the word and I’ll remind you how good it felt to be loved by someone who doesn’t treat you like a punching bag.”

Sukuna moves in a flash.

Grabs your other arm. Pulls you to his side. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Gojo steps closer.

“Then prove it.”

And you’re just, standing there. Torn between a curse and a god, both speaking in lust-laced rage, both claiming you like you’re some prize they’ve earned through blood and bruises.

“…I came here for a file.”

They both pause.

You yank your arms free and hiss, “The next one of you who brings up my pussy in a public building is getting neutered.”

You storm off, heels echoing like gunfire.

Behind you, Gojo chuckles.

“She’s still cute when she’s mad.”

“She was cuter gagging on my cock last night,” Sukuna snaps.

—————————————————————————

Here goes my first filthy fic 😌

[romanwitchgirl]

The Soft Between

aka my obligatory 5+1 fic of five soft moments shared between you and Jason, and one seen by the whole Justice League

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

j. todd x fem!reader

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort (a lot of that), teeny tiny bits of angst

mentions of other batkid relationships, specifically birdflash, timkon, and damijon. they aren't a major focus tho

wc: 2.8k

notes: YO PLEASE LOOK AT THE WARNINGS. Nothing nsfw (as is a rule on my blog for my writing), but some graphic and violent stuff dealing with trauma. back to your regularly scheduled jason content (you're getting a lot of soft moments here friends). ALSO this is my last prewritten fic, i guess. i wrote this in a fury and spite to get it done in like, a day. this is not my usual writing pace at all but you know, THE VOICES. anyway, have fun!!

prodigal son 'verse || masterlist

warnings: blood and injuries, scars on reader, mentions of torture, graphic descriptions of violence, innaccurate medical information, physical fighting (not between any of the batfam), swearing, college, innaccurate phd study information, no use of y/n, nightmares, crying, panic attack (kinda), unreliable narrator in part v, the joker and jason's trauma associated with the piece of shit, alien invasion

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

-I-

While the beginning of summer and the end of the spring semester meant relief for most students on campus, you knew your work had just begun. That didn’t mean you didn’t have free time—free time that would be dedicated to all of the other human-like things you had to do, like napping. 

When your weekends weren’t spent at the lab or out guarding your city, they were spent with a certain Jason Todd. At least, when he wasn’t out saving his city. You checked your watch—2 a.m.—around the time Jay would be ending his patrol of Crime Alley. As far as you were aware, the Bats hadn’t needed any extra hands on patrol tonight, so Jason would run his usual rounds and come back to your apartment. 

As soon as you heard the window creek open, you wandered out into the living room with a blanket around your shoulders. 

“You didn’t have patrol tonight, why aren’t you in bed?” Jason asked as he took off the mask. 

You knocked your shoulder into his. “I always wait up for you. An afternoon lab session isn’t going to stop my weird sleep schedule.”

Your hands came up to cradle Jason’s face, your thumbs swiping over the red lines the mask left on his cheeks. In turn, Jason wrapped his hands around your waist and leaned into your touch more. The moment seemed like one out of a fairy tale. A pair of lovers illuminated by the moonlight, holding each other close. Of course, you hadn’t heard of a fairy tale happening in Gotham City ever, but you could pretend. Just for a few minutes. 

)|(

After Jason was out of the shower, the two of you curled up in bed. Jason’s arms wrapped around your frame under the comforter, keeping you both safe. The sound of Gotham City bled through the walls as the two fell asleep, huddled close in each other’s arms. 

-II-

Wayne Manor was never quiet, but there were some quieter places. One of Jason’s favorite of those was the expansive library, which housed a rather large collection of first edition classics. There was a soft, sun-worn chaise in one of the back corners of the library under one of the large bay windows where Jason liked to spend his quiet afternoons with you when they had managed to visit the Manor. 

That’s where Jason was now: curled up at the end of the chaise with you laying down next to him. Patrol had been particularly brutal the night before with most of the Bats sustaining at least a couple injuries. You, unfortunately, had gotten a knife to the leg, leading Jason to make you rest. Said leg was resting on a pillow as your head was cushioned by his thigh while you slept. 

Right as Jason turned the page of his book—Castle by Franz Kafka—he could hear voices from the hallway entrance to the library. He could pick out all of his brothers’ blabbering on about something or the other. Then, much to his dismay, he heard the library doors open and three sets of footsteps get closer and closer to where he was sitting.

“Could you three be any louder? She’s sleeping,” Jason whisper-yelled while gesturing down at you.

Dick raised his hands in surrender, but quickly put them down after his bad shoulder twinged. Speaking of, where was his sling? Alfred was going to kill him when he found out. Tim had stopped mid-rant, face set in a scowl. Damian, however, kept his face indifferent. 

“Sorry, Jay,” Dick started, “we were just in here to pick up some of Dami’s stuff.”

“Well, do it quieter,” Jason said with an eye roll as he went back to his book.

“Oh, my God, you’re so whipped for her. I thought I was bad, but that’s just plain domestic at this point,” Tim added with a smirk.

“That’s because you are bad, Drake. When Conner is over you two are practically attached at the hip,” Damian said.

“As if you have anything to say about being attached at the hip with a Kent,” Dick rebutted with a ruffle of Damian’s hair. 

Tim scoffed, “Dick, you and Wally are so much worse than the rest of us.”

Dick leaned back with a hand on his chest in mock betrayal. “We’re literally engaged. Wally and I are getting married in less than a year.”

What the boys failed to notice during their bickering, however, was Jason and you still on the couch. When you had started to stir, Jason had moved one of his hands to gently rake through your hair. You had flipped onto your stomach and gotten more comfortable as Jason moved to trace nonsensical patterns over your back, making sure not to lift the back of your shirt. 

Just like each member of the Wayne family had their own physical reminders of the injuries they had collected, you had almost two dozen jagged marks on your back from the time you had spent in captivity with the League of Assassins. It was a sore subject, especially when you felt vulnerable when sleeping. 

Lost in thought, Jason hadn’t noticed the rest of his brothers leave their quiet corner of the library, nor did he notice the picture Dick had snapped of the two of them, curled up on the couch. Jason would find that picture printed and in his room the next day, a small note and the date on the back: Little Wing and his girl.

-III-

To put it plainly, you felt like shit. You had woken up with a headache after last night’s patrol, Jason was at the Manor for some curveball reason Bruce had thrown at him, and your research had not gotten where you wanted it to today. Luckily, you didn’t have to patrol tonight, but you weren't tired enough to fall asleep either. Stupid vigilante sleep schedule. 

As you were wandering into the kitchen to grab a late night snack, you heard the door unlock. Realistically, you knew the only people who could pick Jason’s locks were the Bats, but you grabbed the small handgun you kept loaded in the junk drawer just in case. It had come in handy more often than you wanted to admit. 

Thankfully, tonight was not going to be one of those nights as you saw Jason’s frame walk through the door. That’s odd. He wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow. You put the gun down on the counter before walking over. Jason’s shoulders were hunched, his steps heavy. 

“Jay? What are you doing back early?” you asked him. 

Jason flinched. Flinched. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“It’s only eleven,” you said. “What’s wrong?”

You watched as Jason’s shaking hands locked the numerous deadbolts and chains on the door before he shed his leather jacket and turned around. His eyes were bloodshot, a sharp contrast to the green creeping in around the outside of his iris. His hair was wild and untamed, like he had ridden back to the apartment without a helmet. 

“Can I hug you?” you asked in a quiet voice. 

Jason gave a small nod and you wrapped your arms around him, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Jason’s arms came to wrap around your waist as he buried his head into your shoulder. 

“He’s back. He broke out of Arkham, again,” Jason mumbled into her neck. 

The Joker. 

Your blood boiled. You agreed with Bruce on a lot of things, how he handled the Joker situation was not one of them. But Jason didn’t need your anger right now, he needed your comfort. 

You hugged him tighter. “Do you want to leave the city?”

Jason muttered an agreement into your skin and started to unwind from your arms, heading into the bedroom to pack some clothes for the trip. You texted Bruce.

You: We’re leaving Gotham for a couple of days.

Bruce: I assumed you would. Be safe.

Bruce: And tell Jason I’m sorry.

You: Tell him yourself.

You didn’t have time to argue with Bruce, at least not the way you wanted to. If it was up to you (and some other members of the family), the Joker would have been six feet under a long time ago. 

)|(

Dahservauth Manor wasn’t far, but with the looming threat of the Joker on the loose, the half an hour to Nightborne City felt like four hours. Your dads were out of town for a week or so on a business trip in Paris, but you had asked for their permission to use the Manor for a bit anyway. Dahservauth Manor was situated on a hill, overlooking the city. With Bruce’s help, you had integrated Wayne Tech security with runes, keeping the place locked down enough to give Selina Kyle an aneurysm. The woman would be proud. 

You and Jason entered through the front, leaving the car parked outside until it would be moved. You could still see how Jason curled in on himself, even outside of Gotham City. Unless the Joker wanted to target Jason specifically (again), the two of you would be safe at Dahservauth Manor. 

You linked hands with Jason and intertwined your fingers as the two of you went deeper into your childhood home and towards the kitchen. There, in the dim lights of the kitchen, you tugged Jason closer again and started to sway back and forth. The “dance” was a long way from what the two of you would do at one of Bruce’s galas, but it was enough. Every once and a while, you would try to spin Jason around, even if the man was much taller than you, making him chuckle and giving you a proper twirl.

It was there, in the softly lit kitchen of Dahservauth Manor, where time slowed and love grew.

-IV-

It was only twenty minutes after Alfred had dispatched the call to you when you came speeding into the Batcave on your motorcycle. Bruce had known the second Jason had gotten hurt that he was in for it, if not from Alfred then from you. The mission they had run tonight was risky and would have benefited from your rune magic, but Bruce decided that they would be fine to do so anyway. His son laying on the infirmary bed was the consequences of his actions. 

You tore off your domino mask as soon as your bike was stopped and marched your way over to where Jason was laying. Bruce watched as you scanned his face and body for where the injury was—a stab wound on his abdomen—before brushing his hair back and kissing his forehead. 

You steeled your shoulders and looked up to where Bruce was standing, cowl off. “What happened.” 

While most people issued it as a question, your tone left no room for argument as you gave the command. 

“One of Black Mask’s men got him with a dagger. It didn’t hit any organs and won’t cause any more problems.”

“Black Mask,” you paused. “I told you not to go on that mission, Batman. You should have waited for me.”

Bruce distantly heard the rest of his children filter in behind him. While he didn’t show it, he did share Dick’s sentiment when he whistled at the look on your face. 

Their arrival distracted you for a moment. “Is anyone else hurt?”

A chorus of “no”s rang around the cave and your shoulders lost a bit of their edge. Despite your unwavering loyalty to Bruce’s second son, you cared for all of the family fiercely. 

“Good.” You took that as your cue and sat down on the chair next to Jason’s bed. 

Dick walked over to you. “If you’re gonna sleep here, you’re gonna want to change.”

You scoffed, but didn’t fight it when Dick placed a hand on your shoulder. “I really hate it when older siblings are right.”

)|(

When Bruce returned to the Cave after his own shower, he found all of his children, plus you, surrounding Jason’s bed in all sorts of uncomfortable positions. You had found your chair again, this time in Jason’s sweatshirt and sweatpants with a blanket. Your hand grasped Jason’s in your sleep, from which you would wake up from with a sore neck. Dick had settled in on the chair opposite of you, tangled in some odd position. Stephanie and Cass had drug over a couch to share while Tim and Damian had curled up on top of Jason’s legs. 

)|(

The next morning, Bruce found you and Jason sharing the too small infirmary bed, the rest of the family scattered around. They were going to be fine. 

-V-

You woke up with a shout. It was just a nightmare. A very realistic, more like a memory, nightmare. Ra’s wasn’t here. Your back wasn’t bleeding. A pulsing hot knife wasn’t anywhere near you. Ra’s wasn’t here. Your back wasn’t bleeding. A pulsing hot knife wasn’t anywhere near you. 

Distantly, as if you were sitting in a vat of syrup, you could feel the weight dip in the mattress as Jason woke up next to you. His calloused hands came up to gently cradle your face, thumbs wiping away the tears you hadn’t realized were falling. He was murmuring something in your ear from where your head had found its way to his shoulder. Your hands gripped the back of his shirt like a vice. His touch was nothing but gentle as he drew soft shapes against your scars.

“—you’re not there anymore, sweetheart. That monster can’t hurt you anymore, not here, not with me. It was just a nightmare. You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.”

“I’m—I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry. Nothing of what happened to you is your fault. You can’t control your nightmares, or your memories.”

“Thank you.”

“Always.”

You stayed cradled in Jason’s arms until you fell asleep again, exhausted from crying. For the rest of the night, Jason kept you close. 

+I

If you had a nickel for every alien invasion…

God, these things sucked. Every hero that had been available had made their way to the nation’s capitol, trying to contain the peoples’ panic about the aliens flooding in from the sky. You were working along with Zatana, Constantine, Dr. Fate, and the other magic users of the Justice League to try and find a permanent solution to your problem. 

“If you get me close enough to the portal, I’m pretty sure I could close it with my runes,” you suggested.

Wind whipped around you from where the group had found shelter in a broken building. 

“And how would we get you close enough to the portal without you getting your head sliced off?” Constantine asked. 

“Usually, I turn myself invisible to sneak places. But I won’t be able to be invisible and concentrate on the runes to close the portal at the same time,” you said. 

Zatana flicked her hand up. “I would be able to turn you invisible long enough for you to close the portal if I have someone guarding me. Invisibility is more difficult on moving objects.”

You met all of their eyes with determination. “Then let’s send these aliens back to where they came from.”

)|(

It is at times like these that you thank your constant determination to practice and train. Sneaking around a bunch of aliens while drawing runes is about as difficult as it sounds. Soon, the magical marks that you had drawn around the portal began to glow as it closed shut. Aliens started to screech as they were all sucked back towards wherever the hell they came from. Mental note: ask Hal for the answer. 

Of course, magic also had its price. As your runes closed the portal and began to fade away with their job done, you could feel your exhaustion crawl through your bones. Man, you were going to take the greatest nap of your life after this was over. 

You barely felt it as the younger heroes and non-essential Justice League members made their way up to the Watchtower. You hadn’t been paying attention to the Bat Comm much, only when you were needed if Bruce decided so. Realistically, you knew Jason was up here somewhere. Your mind, however, liked to give you the worst-case-scenario on a constant loop. 

“Red Hood,” you rasped through the comm. 

Thank the gods Jason was paranoid. 

Jason met you in the middle of the Watchtower just as the rest of the Justice League came through. He gladly supported your weight as you sunk into his arms, thoroughly worn out. 

Some gasps rang around the room from those who didn’t know, but the BatKids just rolled their eyes fondly at the display. 

“Holy shit,” Hal said, not quietly. 

 “Watch your tone, Green Lantern,” Bruce warned. 

But under the cowl—much to the Justice League’s dismay—Batman smiled.

fin.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

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[stlllle]

Please Namgyu giving head in the games I BEGGGGGGGG

No One Tastes Like You

Character: Nam-gyu (Squid Game au)

Setting: Inside the Games (abandoned storage area)

Narrative: Second-person (You)

Kinks: Giving head (fem!receiving), obsession, possessiveness, power play, roughness, face-sitting (ish), overstimulation, dubcon tones

Warnings: NSFW +18, explicit sexual content, possessive behavior, obsessive thoughts, possible dubcon (reader is wet/into it but overwhelmed), violent undertones, languag

Masterlist squid game

Main masterlist

You don’t even remember how you ended up alone with him.

One minute you were sneaking off to find water. The next, he was following you — silent like a shadow — until he cornered you in one of the old storage rooms the guards abandoned after the last game. Dust hangs in the air. The floor is cold. And you’re sitting on a pile of discarded mats like you’re a fucking throne, thighs spread, his head between them.

“You’ve been hiding this from me the whole time,” he growls, voice raspy with want. “This little pussy—so pretty, so wet—and you were just walking around like it didn’t mean anything.”

His tongue laps up your slick like it’s honey. Sticky. Sweet. Addictive. You whimper when he groans into your cunt, mouth hot and wide and desperate like he’s trying to drink you.

“Fuck, you taste unreal,” he pants, nosing your clit, breathing you in like a line he’s about to snort. “You taste like life. Like something real in this fake-ass place.”

Your back arches. The heat of his mouth, the mess of his fingers digging into your hips — it's too much. Too much because it’s Nam-gyu. Because you’ve seen him kill. Seen him laugh with blood on his hands. You should be afraid.

But your body doesn’t give a shit.

All it knows is his mouth on your cunt, and the sick, sick thrill of being devoured like a drug.

“I knew you’d be like this,” he says, licking a long stripe from your hole to your clit, moaning deep in his throat. “I fucking knew it. The moment I saw you. You walk around all quiet, all sweet—trying to survive. But I knew underneath it all you were just waiting to be ruined.”

You gasp when he sucks hard on your clit — lips wrapped tight, tongue flicking like he’s punishing you.

Your fingers shoot to his hair, gripping, pulling, begging. You don't know if it's to slow him down or make him go harder. Maybe both.

He hums like he likes the pain. He wants you to hurt him.

“You like this, don’t you?” he snarls between licks. “You like that I’m on my knees for you. That I’d let the others die just to taste you again.”

You shouldn’t want that.

But the way your thighs shake when he spreads them wider, the way your cunt pulses around nothing—you're past caring.

Nam-gyu’s tongue fucks you, deep and sloppy, like he’s starving. Spit and slick drip down his chin, but he doesn’t care. His hands keep your legs open, bruises blooming under his fingertips, and his mouth is a weapon — fast, rough, unforgiving.

When your hips buck, trying to escape the overstimulation, he growls and drags you back down.

“Oh no, baby,” he breathes against your clit. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re gonna sit there and take it. You think I’m stopping after one?”

He slaps your thigh — not hard, but sharp enough to make you gasp.

“One’s not enough. I’m gonna make you come until you cry. Until you forget your name and the only thing you remember is my fucking tongue.”

And fuck—he’s not lying.

He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath. His mouth goes back to work, faster, meaner, more focused. His lips wrap around your clit again and suck, just the right pressure, just the right rhythm — and it hits you like a wave.

Your orgasm crashes over you, loud and wet, your cunt spasming on his tongue. You moan something incoherent — a sob, a plea, maybe his name — and he fucking growls like an animal.

But he doesn’t stop.

You try to pull away. He doesn’t let you.

Your legs shake. He holds you down.

“I said you’re not done,” he pants, voice wrecked with lust. “Don’t make me tie you to this fucking floor.”

His words shouldn’t make you wetter. But they do.

“God, you’re so wet,” he groans, pulling back for a second to admire the mess between your legs. “You’re dripping down my fucking chin.”

And he’s right — his face is soaked. But he just dives back in, like he wants to drown in it.

You’re sobbing now, from pleasure, from overstimulation, from the way he keeps repeating your name like a chant, like a promise, like a threat.

“This is mine,” he whispers against your folds. “Your pussy. Your moans. Your fucking soul. You belong to me now.”

Another orgasm builds. Fast. Painful. You didn’t even know you could come this quickly again — but he’s relentless. His tongue works your clit in circles, then figure-eights, then messy, raw patterns that feel like fire. You can’t think. Can’t speak.

You’re just gone.

You scream when the second orgasm hits. This time, harder. Wet. A gush against his mouth that makes him moan, swallowing everything you give him like a reward.

“Holy fuck—do that again,” he begs. “Do it again, baby. Drown me.”

Your hips jerk uncontrollably. Your whole body shakes. Your throat is raw from crying out.

And Nam-gyu just fucking smiles.

Covered in you. Drunk on you. Eyes glazed over like he’s high on the only thing left that matters in this broken world.

You look down at him, dazed, ruined.

And he whispers, dead serious—

“If I die tomorrow, I’ll die happy.

Because I got to taste heaven before hell took me.”

And you believe him.

Because when Nam-gyu licks you like this — like you’re the only thing keeping him sane — there’s no room for anything else.

Not the games.

Not the guards.

Not survival.

Just his mouth.

Your cunt.

And the sick, twisted worship he gives you like it’s religion.