low honour!arthur morgan x virgin!reader
this is really just one long-winded fic idea that i need to speak into existence.
tags: literally save a horse ride a cowboy, afab!reader (feminine pronouns, descriptions, and names used), religious topics/imagery, obsessive!arthur, virginity kink, age gap relationship, loss of virginity, corruption kink
Reader is in her early 20s, privileged to come from a family with wealth from their heritage and inheritance in the oil industry.
The era of cowboys and outlaws has started to become a thing of the past from the shifts in climate and industry throughout the country. Reader has resided in Saint Denis her whole life, never needing to worry about gangs, outlaws, or even cowboys.
She has never even seen a cowboy before, but sheâs heard stories; none of them particularly pretty. The presence of law enforcement throughout the streets and the sheer distance of Saint Denis from other towns is enough to deter most of them from causing trouble.
Functionally, she should never be compatible with a cowboy.
Her father has always preached about her waiting for a âgood, proper manâ that can marry her into another family with obscene wealth. And so, she protects her chastity and innocence just as she is expected toâjust as her father expects her to.
Hell, she doesnât even know how to ride a horse! Her father believes that riding horses is beneath them, so anywhere she wants to go is accommodated by a stagecoach.
Cut to: reader is accompanying her father on a trip to Annesburg to discuss potential investments in the mining industry. He hates leaving her alone. She knows he worries that sheâll get âup to no goodâ.
Her father has chosen one of their more comfortable, flashy stagecoaches for the longer ride, giving him more storage for his financial documents and whatnot. A perfect target for gangs.
And, inevitably, they get robbed.
The robbersâ faces are all concealed by hats and bandanas, and one of them ties her arms behind her back with careful hands before guiding her to her knees on the wet grass.
The man who tied her up stays close by her side, and she can see her father pleading for his life to another man whoâs not listening.
âAre you a cowboy?â Are the first words she says to him, not a note of fear in her doll-like eyes that make her look so fuckable in this position with her on her knees next to him, dress billowing out around her form.
He looks down at her confused. âUh, once, I suppose.â His voice is a little muffled by the black bandana hanging over his nose and mouth.
She can see that his hair is so long that it starts to curl up and out at the ends under his hat.
âWell, you got the hat. And the horse,â she reasons, wondering if sheâs truly meeting a cowboy under circumstances she thought sheâd never be in.
He looks to her again, left hand causally hooked in the leather of his belt as he waits for the rest of his gang to finish up. âI guess youâre right.â He tips his head to her in agreement.
âLeave them! These people are leeches. Let the wolves decide their fate.â A man with a deep, booming voice announces atop his white horse.
Now she starts to panic.
She pulls against the rope around her wrists, looking up to the man who tied her as he begins to walk toward his horse. âWait! Mister, please! Please donât. Please,â she yells to him.
He looks back to her, then his horse, then back to her again. âHold on.â He signals to the man on the white horse before walking back over to her.
âTake me home. Please just take me home, mister. I wonât say nothing, I promise, but just take me home and Iâll give you anything you want,â she begs to him.
He sighs, but not out of annoyance or hesitation for her request. He sighs because he has no idea what she has just done to herself.
He places his bandana over her eyes and leads her to his horse. He unties her hands and lets her blindly climb into the saddle, legs shaking from unfamiliarity.
When she settles, she blindly grips onto the saddle horn for dear life, wishing her father let her ride at least once in her life so she wouldnât appear so delicate in this situation. The man chuckles off to the side before mounting up behind her. She notices the saddle is not quite meant for two as he pushes in tightly against her ass, seemingly not even concerned about it.
This is probably the closest sheïżœïżœs ever been to a man.
âWhere to, miss?â The man leans forward against her back to grab the reigns, caging her in with his arms.
She tells him in a quiet voice, and he kicks against his horse, setting them into motion.
When they arrive at her French two-story home on the outskirts of Saint Denis, the man dismounts swiftly, hand circling her wrist before saying, âSwing your right leg over and Iâll help you down.â
She slowly brings herself around, feeling the man lock his hands around her waist to guide her to the ground.
He tugs at the knot holding the bandana around her eyes, and she doesnât let herself turn around until she feels heâs had enough time to tie it back around his face.
âThank you, mister,â she whispers.
He tips his hat and leaves without another word.
In the following week, the man watches her after the sun sets. He watches her pray before bed and change into her silk nightgown, waiting for the night he can maybe finally see the more explicit side of her. But it never comes.
Sheâs perfect.
Eventually they cross paths again one day. The man purposefully chooses to ditch the bandana, too.
âI donât think my daddy would appreciate me talking to someone like you,â she admits slyly as she continues her trek into Saint Denis.
The man follows beside her on his horse, left arm lazily hanging down by his side. âSomeone like me? And whoâs that?â he asks, a slight smile also on his lips.
âA cowboy. An outlaw,â she says, sneaking a glance up to him as his horse steps in time with her down the path.
âWell your daddy ainât here.â
âNo, mister.â
âCome for a ride then.â
And thatâs how itâs starts for them. He introduces himself as they ride to his gangs camp, and she complains about how sore her legs are when they arrive.
âYou donât ride?â Arthur asks, intending for it to be a joke.
âThat was my second time. Ever,â she laughs.
And thatâs when he understands what type of lady heâs dealing with, so he goes for it.
âMaybe you should practice on me sometime,â he remarks, untacking his horse.
She wonders if she heard him right. âUh, misterââ
âArthur,â he corrects.
In that moment, she realizes he can teach her everything her father has kept from her, show her everything he had protected her from. Throw away the innocence and chastity and truly experience what life should be. But Arthur doesnât know the entirety of her sheltered life. He needs someone like him.
âArthurâŠI donât think Iâm what youâre looking for,â she admits. âIâŠIâve never been with no one. Ever.â
âYouâre untouched, arenât you?â
âYes, sir. Just as my daddy said I should be. Until marriage.â
And Arthur makes it his mission to make her experience her own sexuality in its completeness, so he starts off slow.
He would always touch, never breaching her or letting her do anything to him. The focus was always on her.
Her virginity and pureness made him conflicted: he wanted to ruin her in all the ways she has never been, but he wants to tease and rile her up and watch her experience all the sexual frustrations for the first time.
It was cute. The more bold he got with his touches, the more bold she got in trying to take what she wanted. He would take her behind a tree and slowly lift up the dainty material of her summer dress, gathering it in his left hand as he used his right to rub her clit through her underwear while he licked and sucked along her neck, careful not to leave marks.
She would get weak so fast, Arthur could barely handle how virgin her body truly was. She would grip onto the leather straps of the rifles hanging down his back, trying to force his hand harder and faster.
However, the first time he made her cum was an accident.
He confidently placed a gentle kiss on her lips while they were alone in his tentâhe just wanted to see how she would react.
She leaned in and returned it, snaking her hands around his neck and pulling him down to her. He pulled her into his lap, laying them down on his cot as they started making out like a long-distance high-school couple.
Arthur mindlessly starts grinding against her, ignoring the clothing separating them. She doesnât realize what sheâs feeling as Arthurâs hard cock slides against her clothed pussy.
Her orgasm just kind of happens.
Arthur watches her shake and twitch under him as he pulls away to see what happened. The wet spot on her underwear is all the evidence he needs.
Ever since, sheâs been insatiable. She wants Arthur to show her everything. Teach her everything. She wants to feel everything if that means she can cum like that again.
Around the campfire sheâd sit on his lap, tightly circling her hips against him until heâd grow hard before stopping. Then sheâd do it again.
Arthur would mostly ignore her teasing. He didnât want her to know how much she was driving him up the wall, so heâd retaliate in a way that was ten times worse then whatever she did just to prove a point about her innocence, how she knows so little compared to him.
The first time they fuck, he makes the horse riding joke again: âIâm sure thisâll be good practice for you, sweetheart.â
She huffs a laugh, rubbing his cock through her folds as she straddles him. Heâs built up her confidence so much, itâs all been leading to this.
Heâd guide her up and down, back and forth, testing her body to see what she likes. Seeing what spot makes her tremble.
He finds it. âFuck, there it is,â Arthur groans.
She canât even think. She doesnât know what to think. Sheâs doing everything her father told her not to.
Premarital sex.
Premarital sex with a cowboy.
âOh, Lord, forgive me,â she prays, her pussy sliding so perfectly along him as he grips her hips harder.
Eventually, heâd eat her out in her childhood bedroom. Her father sleeping in the room above her own, separated by the thin wood of the floor. She arches against the bed, and her eyes meet the iron cross hung above her bed frame.
Sheâd often ask him to leave the hat on, and heâd laugh, pleased that she is slowly adopting sexual preferences and interests.
She was his perfect, sophisticated woman that he was free to defile and poison with his desires.
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soap would unironically listen to Slut Me Out quite often and ghost doesnât know if heâs trying to signal something to him or if heâs just feeling himself.
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Tears of Blood
König x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).
Explicit content (18+)
Word count: 3.0k
Tags/warnings: unprotected sex, light choking, mentions of murder/blood (look who weâre working with), mentions of ghostsoap (yay!), explicit language, some fluff, dry humping, friends with benefitsâŠ? (let me know if anything was missed!)
Summary: König reveals a very compelling detail about himself while you prepare him for tomorrow's deploymentâalso inspired by this post/ask and bluegiragiâs art <3
Notes: this has been posted on AO3 for over a year and i just straight up forgot to post it here, tooâŠoops
The barracks are eerily quiet after curfew. So quiet, in fact, that a ghost couldnât even float around without being heard. Sometimes there is one, heâs just not of the conventional sort.
Youâve learned that Soap gladly letâs his room be haunted most nights.
König never says a word about it. If he did, heâd be a hypocrite. Especially now, as he drifts to the door of your room: after curfew.
By now, you know to leave it unlocked for him. You donât know when it started becoming habit, but it did. A mindless gesture that makes his lips quirk under the hood when he turns the knob and feels the door give in with no resistance.
Youâve grown used to seeing his figure loom in the doorway, but sometimes your brain forgets itâs just him, and your heart instinctually stutters a beat out of fear as you see the shadows from the dim lighting hug around his broad, towering formâjust as imposing and threatening even without the gear.
Youâve mentally noted that not everyone that casts their gaze, usually a fearful and watery one, upon him lives to do so again. But you are fortunate. You never let yourself forget what heâs been trained to doâwhat he does. He doesnât like to indulge in it much, if at all, and his hesitance to do so makes you think itâs better if you donât know the complicated details anyway.
KorTac has quite a different reputation than the 141. König helped make sure of that.
You finish folding the rest of your civvies, tucking them away in their small drawer, and toss a look over your shoulder to the man lingering in the doorway. âSee any ghosts?â you muse, prompting König to step in and lock the door behind him.
A breathy chuckle fills the room. âDidnât see anything, but I wish these rooms were soundproof.â
âOh, no.â You hold a cackle, hand slapped over your mouth as you meet his amused eyes through the rough-edged holes of his hood.
âWell, thatâs just Soap for you. Not even Ghost can shut him up, I guess.â You plop onto your bed with a sigh to compose yourself.
You know Soap will indulge you later.
âSo, how may I be of service to the king?â You offer a playful smile as he stands at the foot of your bed. The unexpected nickname making him more interested in the flooring.
He brings a finger up to the black hood, hooking it in by his jaw and pulling to reveal a sizeable gash in the fabric. A close call with a knife if you ever saw one. âNeedle and thread.â
He unhooks his finger and drags the worn material off of his head, then the plain black balaclava that hides him further under it follows. He drops both onto your clean sheets in front of him, rounding the corner of the bed and joining you.
Dark red hair flops over his forehead and hangs in thick, wavy strands. It hasnât quite reached his shoulders yet, but itâs long enough to have a mind of its own. Itâs a colour you donât come across too often; maybe comparable to a chestnut, or old leaves in autumn before they disappear under a blanket of snow.
âJeez, you ever gonna cut this?â You turn to face him and run a hand up the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in the dense locks and lightly scratching his scalp on the way down.
Soft blue eyes glance to you, still outlined in black from earlier. âProbably not. Canât find the time.â His accent gently rounds out the vowels as he leans into your touch.
âLet me braid it for you, then. To hold it back. I know you deploy again tomorrow.â You tuck a strand behind his ear, following with a fleeting kiss right above his cheekbone. A faint blush creeps over his temples and the barely-there freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks.
âI promise it wonât be the worst thing ever,â you gently plead. âYou can mend your hood in peace while I do it?â
Youâve definitely done worse together. But worse always seems to be easier.
âOkay.â
Usually these nights donât go like this.
3 days ago
âOh, thatâs goodâright there. Yeah. Yeah,â you nearly sob. König holds you against him, left arm reaching across your chest and hand comfortably gripping your throat as you try to roll your hips back against him harder.
His other hand is between your thighsâon your clitâwhich are dangling over his own to keep you spread. Youâre trapped there; under his arms and over his legs as he jerks his hips up to meet your disjointed riding on the rickety office chair.
An empty briefing room. Not really smart, but Soap passed on that it was âout of serviceâ until next week, not knowing that youâd end up in there sat on Königâs cock later that afternoon.
The fabric of Königâs hood rubs uncomfortably against your cheek, making you drop your head back onto his shoulder to escape it.
A breathy moan rushes past his lips as you arch your back. âNo, no. Youâre staying right here.â He tightens and corrects the grip he has across your chest, sliding his gloved fingers up under your jaw to keep you locked in place.
His cock slides itself in and out of you with little resistance, which would usually be slightly embarrassing if it was anyone else inside you, but the way heâs been massaging your clit with such attentiveness and grinding his hips into yours makes you forget anything you could be worried about.
The only thing you can think of right now is how good this orgasm is going to be.
Your hands snake themselves up his arm thatâs pinned to your front to grip his wrist, holding on for dear life as his small thrusts become rougher. âYou get much, much wetter when youâre close,â he observes. His index finger holds a steady rhythm on your clit as it works counterclockwise over you. âFuck, I can hear itâŠcan you?â
A whine bubbles in your throat. The zipper of his cargo pants bites against your ass on every downstroke, and you can feel how wet youâve made the front of his pants. Thatâs what he gets for only caring enough to pull his cock out while he ripped your cargos off entirely.
âIâfuck. Yes, Iâm close, yes,â you choke out, daring to cast your gaze upon where your bodies are connected.
Youâre swollen and slick and you can hear it, too. The quick, sharp slaps of his hips against your ass does little to hide the hungry squelching of your cunt. Youâve probably dripped all down his balls at this point. Heâs always happier with a big mess in the end anyway.
âCum when youâve had enough, Schatzi,â he chirps in your ear, breathless and lost in the wet, suffocating warmth of youâall his doing, of course. The result of far too many minutes spent with his thick cock gently sliding between your folds and nudging itself over your throbbing clit, just to be annoying, before he moved you both to the chair.
You drag in a heavy breath, focusing on the stretch of his cock deep inside your walls as the chair creaks with every desperate drop onto him.
Schatzi. âW-what does that mean?â
Youâve naturally picked up a few German words and phrases here and there from time spent with him, but this one was new. A term of endearment? A degrading nickname? Either could be possible in this moment. The sound and pronunciation couldnât be more ambiguous to you.
âKönig?â It came out as a whisper, quickly silenced by the release of your orgasm throughout your body as he forces you down to the base of his cock.
â
You havenât brought it up since. Neither has he.
Even now it sits in the back of your mind as you divide his hair down the middle into two parts. You remain on your bed, he sits on the floor between your knees with a needle and black thread in hand that he retrieved from the bedside table (stashed there specifically for him).
He lays the hood over his left arm and begins to stitch it quietly as you wind three generous strands of his hair between your fingers at the front of his scalp, pulling taught at the root. You carefully thread more hair in from the sides to have it lay perfectly against the top of his skull when finished. Youâll do a matching one on the right side.
âLet me know if it hurts at all,â you warn as you begin tugging more hair into place.
âHa, Iâve faced adversaries far worse than your little hands,â he laughs, adjusting the hood in his hand as he pokes the needle in again.
The long vermillion markings under the eye sockets stare back at you over his shoulder. âYeah, I donât doubt that.â
Itâs hard to not be curious about all of the parts that make up âKönigâ. The mask is one of them.
âWhy the tears?â you ask confidently while you establish the first braid.
âHm?â He quirks his head to follow your voice, pausing the followthrough with the thread as you give an accidental yank to his hair.
âYour maskâŠunder the eyes. Why tears?â You figured it was either something symbolic or just his personal taste. Everyoneâs got a gimmick.
It seems like every aspect of his existence is a test of oneâs curiosity, and you may have just failed.
He focuses his attention back on the stitch he was occupied with. âFear tactic.â Oh.
Short and sweet. Simple and straightforward. It makes senseâ
âI make them with the blood of my targets.â Oh.
Your fingers lose their rhythm for a moment, caught off-guard by the admission. Not so much surprised by the fact that he would do something like that, but rather that he confessed such a thingâŠto you.
âSo you do thatâŠpresently?â How could you resist following up about that? Itâs the perfect snare. This is the most youâve gotten from him in weeks.
A beat of measured silence, yet itâs not uncomfortable. He likes to think about what to say, how to say it, before speaking his thoughts spontaneously.
âOnly if I believe itâs truly deserved,â he explains. His tone doesnât reveal if heâs displeased with the topic of work. âThe blood actually doesnât hold up against the black on its own, so Horangi suggested using bleach underneath so it will show better. If needed.â He runs a finger over a washed-out tear track. âLess maintenance with the chemical.â
ItâsâŠitâs morbid, obviously, but youâre not sure if you expected anything less from someone in this line of work. And, of course, leave it to Horangi to feed the fantasy. They are nearly inseparable, besides the times that Königâs with you.
Sometimes itâs hard to imagine him as murderous or malevolentâKönig, who has the most gentle, innocent blue eyes that have offered nothing but kindness to you, even in moments of fierce, consuming pleasure. König, who youâve never seen, or heard, raise his voice at anyone in anger. König, who despises small talk because he canât stand the awkwardness.
König, who enjoys the vibrant red sunsets on base and thunderstorms. König, who prefers blueberries over strawberries. König, who is obsessed with entomology books.
But thereâs still another part of him that can take out entire platoons of enemies and have no more than a rip in his beloved hood afterwards.
The man under the facade of a callsign and reputation is someone who you may never truly meet, no matter how much he reveals. It feels like youâve only met half of him despite knowing as much as you do about him, and that fact has settled as an ache in your chest.
âI seeâŠI know itâs not really my place to ask about that stuff, but itâs hard to not wonder about you sometimes.â Youâve reached the end of the first braid, leaving the tail to sit at the crown of his head amongst the uneven layers he has going on.
You tie it off with a small black elastic. Itâs a little messy considering the awkward length of his hair, but it looks like itâs meant to be there.
âItâs fine. Iâm a big boy, I think I can handle it.â He gives a comforting laugh, amused at your timidness.
In every facet, heâs right. You canât help but nod your head in agreement with a small smile, despite the fact that he canât see your expression. âWell, I canât disagree with you there.â
You begin the start of the second, and final, braid, grabbing the three strands at the front and twisting them into place as he speaks again. âI know it was my size that drew you to me in the first place,â he states confidently, shoulders shaking in amusement at the tease.
Your mouth gapes in feigned offence. âWow, okay. Is that a crime?â
âNo, not in my eyes. Look, look,â he brushes past the sarcasm, holding and stretching the now intact hood out in front of him to see the effectiveness of his handiwork. The seam is near invisible in the sea of black fabric (a ratty t-shirt).
Itâs definitely better than the last one he did a few weeks ago. âDamn, thatâs pretty fucking impressive. Iâm almost done, hold on.â You hurry to tie off the hair, gently holding the sides of his head to see how even they came out. âLooks good, from up here at least. Come sit, let me see the front.â You pat one of his shoulders, freeing him from the cage of your legs and scooting further onto your bed.
âDanke. My spine didnât love that, though,â he says with a theatric exhale.
He folds the hood in his lap, setting it on the bedside table with the needle and roll of thread. He all but tumbles back onto the soft sheets, groaning as he stretches his neck and shoulders out and lays comfortably on his back, long legs hanging over the side of the mattress.
His eyes flutter shut from the homely feeling of being inâor onâyour bed. âMm, I think Iâll stay here tonight.â
You acknowledge his thought with a small hum as you lean over his restful form to quickly assess his hair, dragging your fingertips along each side lightly. The shaggy hair will always suit him. It frames his cheekbones and jaw perfectly.
König opens his eyes at your touch. âSo how does it look, doc? Will I survive deployment now?â
Another smile from you with a slight roll of your eyes. âI think itâll do the job. Now go clean the black off your eyes if youâre staying. I donât want it all over my pillows again.â
â
Soap saw the braids in Königâs hair the next day before they deployed. An accident or purposefully, youâre not sure yet.
And now, two days later, he still wonât shut the fuck up about it.
âWould ye do that for me?â he asks, playfully quirking a thick brow.
âProbably not, no.â
An arm shoots out accusingly at you in disbelief. âThatâs my point! Iââ
âWouldnât be able to anyway with that fucking landing strip you call a mohawk.â You poorly stifle a laugh with a tight-lipped smirk.
âAway nâ bile yer heid, Iâm just trying to help!â He rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to stave off his laughter too. Itâs hard to be in his presence and not be overcome with a state of lively energy.
Youâre in Soapâsâand sometimes Ghostâsâroom, for no real reason other than company while König is at a (delayed) briefing.
Soapâs sitting on hisâand sometimes Ghostâsâbed hounding you about the complex being that is König just because he can. You move about the room, finding things to tidy and organize to busy your mind.
âHave ye gone to town on each other yet?â
âDude!?â You rip a pillow from under him and whack his head. Hard. His infectious cackling now muffled through the thick pillow.
âYouâre insufferable. How the fuck does Ghost put up with you?â You try to suppress your giggling as you drop the pillow and join him on the bed in defeat.
A mischievous grin lines his lips at the question. âWell, he tââ
âNo! No. Nope. I donât need to know. It was rhetorical.â You hold up a hand to silence him, bringing it to cover his mouth. His day-old scruff pricks your palm as he tries to talk through your hand.
âWhatever you say next better be insightful or profound or else Iâm gonna suffocate you with your own pillow.â
Soap, in fact, didnât have anything insightful or profound to say about the situation.
âÂ
König wanders into your room again that night, and heâs filled with a gluttonous desire to consume you in any way that he can.Â
Itâs the least he can do for you. Itâs the most you can do for him.
You rut against his clothed cock, straddling his hips tightly while your hands keep a death-grip on his hair. Once again, you find yourself on your bed with him under you, the clock on the bedside table glaring the angry red 12:56am.
His large hands have found their home on your ass, encouraging your pussyâstill covered by your underwearâto rock harder over his length, which is still trapped in his briefs.Â
He breaks away from your mouth when you give a rather forceful roll over him, a surprised gasp slipping through his now rosy lips. His grip on your ass slides down to your quivering thighs, rubbing over them soothingly as you work.
A harmony of softs whines and rough groans dance around the room as your pliant bodies move together. âThis is somehow better than sex,â König mumbles, mostly to himself. âI donât want to admit it, but I can cum like this if you donât stop,â he adds with an overwhelmed huff. âFuck, I will cum like this if you donât stop,â he moans.
You let him, and he holds you tight as if you were something other than casual.
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The Death of Peace of Mind
Simon âGhostâ Riley x John âSoapâ MacTavish.
Explicit content (18+)
Word count: 1.9k
Tags/warnings: masturbation/use of sex toys, explicit language, sextingâŠ?, objectification, possessive/obsessive simon, depictions of sex work, simonâs head is empty yet he has so many thoughts (let me know if anything was missed!)
Summary: Camboy!Soap AU - Simon is Soapâs most dedicated and loyal subscriber.
Notes: i never thought iâd write soapghost tbh. however, do not take this as factual or use it as educational! this world is different for everyone in many ways :) enjoy!
Simon Riley is a calm and collected man until he opens his laptop on Sunday nights.
The days on base are starting to blend together as he quickly approaches his requested leave, desperate for some prolonged peace and quiet to soothe and recharge after months on end of constant impassioned interactions with no time to decompress.
He is drained.
Simon quickly opens a new private tab, typing the desired website into the search bar and pressing the return button a little harder than necessary.
He navigates the explicit site with embarrassing ease, immediately clicking out of the onslaught of clickbait pop-ups heâs started to memorize by now. Various thumbnails of pleasure-filled faces consume his probably too-bright screen until he finds his subscriptions tab to the left under his profile.
A single rational thought isnât able to find a way to his brain as he lands upon what heâs been waiting for all day. All week.
Too many arduous days on base have made him unsettled and irritable. This is his cure...at least for the next seven days until the cycle inevitably repeats itself.
Subscriptions: Soap_Strokes [live show happening now!]
Simon clicks the username and is redirected to the livestream before he can even think to get his dick out.
He should feel...dirty? Remorseful? Maybe sympathetic for himself, for how much he enjoys something he knows he probably shouldnât. He hasnât quite made time yet to think through his ethics regarding this hobby.
He knows he needs to unwind. He knows he needs a good wank. He knows who can give him that.
GhostWithTheMost has joined.
Simonâs alert eyes skitter across the screen as he assesses the violently colourful, and clearly custom, page layout Soap has set-up for his weekly shows. Indistinct music is playing in the background of Soapâs room, but itâs nothing that will be able to hide or cover the erotic sounds of self-pleasure.
Simon finds the small live chat at the bottom of the screen already running rampant with poor excuses for compliments and sexual declarations that hold no real value anywhere besides here.
Then his eyes find Soapâthe man who has made his weekends slightly more bearable and his cock painfully hard on too many occasions, now included.
Soapâs pretty. A real, true âpretty boyâ if Simon ever saw one. A perfect specimen in his (correct) opinion. Toned muscles, well-groomed body, soft yet defined features with the light shadow of stubble, a wavy and very overgrown mohawk thatâs still kept short on the sides, a small septum ring, and barbells through each nipple that glint with every breath he takes.
Simon felt like he had found God when he accidentally browsed his way into one of Soapâs shows. When he joined, Soap was busy sliding a small black prostate massager in and out of his hole at a desperate pace, his other hand firmly squeezing the base of his twitching cock to torture himself. His cheeks and neck had fallen victim to a deep pink blush, either from arousal or effort, but it was the intensity of the scene that caught Simon.
This didnât look like a man simply performing for others and their money, it looked genuine and passionate. Maybe that was the goal. A professional at the job, then. He had Simon fooled, if so.
Simon was instantly enthralled with his seemingly effortless beauty and physique. So much so, that he forgot to do what he was there to do: get off.
Soapâs own abrupt, and loud, orgasm was the thing that brought Simon back to reality that night, and he didnât realize what he had just experienced until Soap ended the stream breathless and with a stomach covered in cum.
Soap left Simon in the darkness of his room, staring dumbfounded at the now empty screen of his laptop, blue-balled by no fault but his own, and with immensely scattered thoughts that couldnât form into something coherent.
He was completely under the spell of whoever this man was when heâs in front of a camera. Soap. Simon later made himself cum to the sounds of whimpers that already housed themselves deep within his memory.
Now, Soap takes up the majority of Simonâs screen, already naked and partially spread with a cheeky smile on his lips, like usual, as he silently pretends to read through some of the âflatteringâ comments.
thekingcock commented: Iâd fuck you so good baby !!!
Gazzy_xo commented: sexy sexy sexyy. I really need a taste of you
MrPriceAlmighty commented: im so hard already. Canât wait another second
Soap is situated comfortably on his bed with his camera angled straight on, shooting between his parted legs and obnoxiously highlighting the huge Scottish flag pinned above his bed, yet everything is still framed perfectly. His cock rests semi-hard against his defined stomach while he teasingly runs his fingertips along the insides of his thighs to maintain viewership.
Simon takes this âopening lullâ as a chance to organize himself. He manages to pull himself out of his trance of devouring Soap with his thoughtless gaze.
Laptop: placed on the small table in front of him.
Pants: off.
Briefs: also off.
Cock: out (and hard).
He sits back on his couch, laptop mere inches away and potentially damaging his retinas if they havenât been already from times previous, and he confidently clicks the DONATE button flashing in the top left of Soapâs page.
The default amount he set goes through in seconds.
GhostWithTheMost donated ÂŁ5!
A small ping echoes throughout Simonâs dark room as it goes through to Soapâs side of the screen, the donation popping up in the corner for everyone else watching to see.
He sees Soapâs attention move from the comments to the sound. âAh, the ghost wants to get started, aye? Alright, letâs fucking go.â Another smile blooms across Soapâs face.
Simon reaches for his cock at the same time Soap reaches for his. But for Soap it was a mindless gestureâmaybe instinctâjust to keep it in place as he leans closer to the camera to press some buttons on his keyboard.
Simon notes how biteable and lickable his shoulders and neck look from this perspective.
âPrices are going up now. You control me and what you want to see.â Soap flashes a quick wink as four bold lines appear at the top right of the page:
15 SECONDS - ÂŁ30
45 SECONDS - ÂŁ80
2 MINUTES - ÂŁ250
10 MINUTES - ÂŁ500
âThe show ends when I cum, so...donât make it too quick.â He teasingly glares at the camera with a light chuckle that makes Simon turn his volume up a few notches.
He wonders how fast he could make Soap cum. A shiver crawls up his spine and his cock throbs at the thought.
Simon is willing to lose (and has lost) as much as it takes to see Soap cum, but he squints at the list, noticing that the prices arenât what they usually average out to.
Has Soap just become that popular? Simon frowns at the idea. It feels like Soap is a secret between him and a handful of people, and he wants it to stay that way. It makes it feel more special, even if it isnât. He likes the delusion.
Soap repositions his camera, angling it higher and tilting slightly downward so watchers will have a better view of the entirety of him, not just his cock and hole. He ducks to shift something into frame, and Simon very quickly realizes this isnât going to be like Soapâs other shows.
Simon fixates his glare on the sizeable dildo that has been brought centre-frame in front of Soapâs bed. Itâs very pink and very big, probably bigger than him, ribbed with prominent veins near the head. He follows the thin silver rod itâs attached to until it disappears out of frame.
Itâs a goddamn fuck machine. A fucking machine. A machine that fucks you.
An excited-anxious feeling fills Simonâs gut, and a light sweat breaks out over his neck at the knowledge of Soap being in possession of one of these realistic and elaborate toys.
This is not how this is supposed to go, Simon thinks.
Well, technically yes, it is.
But to this extent? Technically, also yes. Itâs Soapâs job. Two weeks ago, it was a translucent jelly stroker that Simon wished was his hand. Last week, anal beads and a body-wand that Simon wished was his cock and tongue instead.
And now this.
Soap slides back onto his bed with a bottle of lube in hand with that shameless smile on his face again. He sets himself back into the position he took beforeâleaning back on his elbows with his legs spread for everyone, and even the Holy Spirit, to see.
âIn case you all havenât put it together yet, donations control the amount of time the machine will fuck me for. You donate thirty, itâll automatically fuck me for fifteen seconds, and so on,â he trails off, popping open the cap of the lube and squeezing a generous amount onto his cock and stomach.
Simonâs mouth has fallen open and gone dry. âYouâre fucking kidding me,â he whispers into the darkness like a prayer that will save him from whatever he is about to experience.
His fist starts slow movements over his cock. Not even some spit needed to aid him; the amount of pre-cum leaking from him already should be embarrassing.
Soap tosses the bottle aside, takes that same hand, and rubs it over his now hard cock to spread the lube around and down to his hole. A heavy sigh releases itself from his throat as he presses two fingers in himself immediately, pumping them a few times before going back to carefully stroking his length. The slick sounds of his hand tugging on his cock has Simon adjusting his volume higher again.
Is it bad that Simon can tell he had a plug in before the show to better prepare for the dildo? Definitely bad.
Soap indulges the audience with this light foreplay until more donations begin to roll in. âA-ah, as soon as donations hit one-hundred, itâll be the machines turn.â A breathy laugh is pulled from him on a particularly good downstroke of his fist, eyes fluttering for a moment as he shudders.
Simon is about to risk it all. He looks at the donation meter total: ÂŁ75.
With his left hand, he clicks the DONATE button again, this time changing the amount before sending.
GhostWithTheMost donated ÂŁ25!
The meter flashes as it hits its first milestone. ÂŁ100!
Soap glances over to his monitor, hand never slowing or leaving his wet cock, and his lips turn up into another mischievous smile. âThe ghost saving you all once again, huh?â His accent almost slurs the sentence to something unintelligible.
Soap lets out a soft moan as he pulls his hand away, gathering the excess lube on it and leaning forward to stroke the dildo waiting for him. âThanks, ghosty. Dinnae know how much longer I could wait.â Another smile for the camera.
No. A smile for Simon.
Itâs easy for Simon to forget that heâs not the only one watching this right now, but he forgot that fact as soon as Soap acknowledged his presence earlier.
Simon watches how Soapâs hand works the silicone, making sure to cover its entirety with the leftover lube. âBastard,â Simon growls, still pumping himself with a lose fist just to ease some of the ache thatâs settled deep in his cock.
Simon notices a light pink has already begun to paint Soapâs cheeks as he falls back onto the bed with wild eyes, some of his unruly mohawk flopping onto his forehead in divine strands.
Simon knows better than to screenshot something of this nature, but fuck, if his self-restraint is ever being tested right now.
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the mandalorian/din djarin x reader not being in AO3âs top 100 ships for 2023 when it just ended in april, meanwhile soap x ghost is in the fifth spot and mw2 came out last octoberâŠ
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i love to be evil and be a little fucking menace
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9 days since the finale of mando s3 and the lack of impact/cultural significance the season as a whole has left on the internet is astounding.
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the hilariously fast downfall of ghost x reader content after mid-november simply because of soapâs chaotic existence is something that needs to be studied.
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i canât believe i had to witness paz die in arguably one of the most brutal star wars deaths to date, filoni and favreau count your fucking days
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i wanna support him and hug him and kiss him and bite him and suck him off
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The Spaces Between Walls
Din Djarin/The Mandalorian x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).
Explicit content (18+)
Word count: 2.1k
Tags/warnings: (unprotected) shower sex, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering, teasing/edging, explicit language, creampie, pussy play (let me know if anything was missed!).
Summary: (In)correct use of a shower. Thatâs it. Itâs only shower sex. No plot.
Notes: yes this trope has been done to death and no i do not care. writing is not always that serious :) happy s3!
Din gives a hard suck to your clit, making your thighs jerk against his head unwillingly.Â
He keeps a firm grip on the underside of the thigh that rests over his shoulder as he kneels on the hard flooring of the âfresher, keeping you tight against the slick durasteel that encases you.
You press your hand firmly against the wall on your left, failing at saving you from shaking too much. The other gently tugs and combs through Dinâs wet, overgrown hair in appreciation.
He lets his tongue glide over your cunt a few times, from your hole to the tip of your clit. The steam from the hot water slightly obscures his gaze, but he finds your own as he purposefully closes his soft lips around your swollen clit again.
âPlease. Please, please, please,â you chant in a whisper, gladly allowing your aching cunt be massaged by his warm mouth and firm tongue.
Water droplets bounce off his shoulders and mix with the spit that coats your pussy. He kneads the flesh of the underside of your thigh a few times to calm you, feeling how your hole flutters against the tip of his tongue as he teasingly prods at you.
âAh, f-fuck. Fuck,â you gasp, head snapping forward as he forcefully rolls his tongue flat over you, using his unoccupied hand to spread your lips further apart.Â
And he buries his mouth into you. His nose bumps your clit as he teases your entrance a few times, tasting your wetness eagerly.
The inconsistent stimulation makes your stomach and thighs tense on their own accord, and you harshly pull on a few locks of his hair, making him grunt and detach from your needy cunt.Â
Your cheeks burn, and you canât tell if itâs from the steam engulfing you or your arousal at this point.Â
Your thighs gently quiver from the loss, and Din looks over your pussy for longer than youâd like him to. He watches a string of your slick and his spit drip down slowly from your core, and his cock pulses at the sight. Another rush of blood flowing to the already leaking and flushed tip you can see bobbing between his legs.
Heâs teased you with many fleeting licks and kisses, and now youâre desperate for some unyielding relief. Anything.
You let your eyes fall shut as you rest your head back against the hard steel, trying to manage your breaths that are becoming increasingly more shaky the longer he drags this out.
âDin, pleaseâit hurts,â you whine with some exaggeration, hoping heâll show some mercy when you give your best pleading eyes.
âI know, baby, Iâm sorry,â he purrs against you, making one last firm pass of his tongue between your folds. His eyes hold their contact with yours, and you become lightheaded when he lets the tip firmly flick your clit.
âOhâfuck o-off,â you chuckle, mindlessly wiping sweat, or water, from your brow. He smiles softly, placing a gentle kiss to your puffy clit before carefully moving your leg off of his shoulder.
Thereâs just barely enough room for both of you in here, but his grip stays on you, though, making sure you can hold yourself as he lifts himself from the ground with a huff.
You tilt your head to try and meet his sudden height. âYouâre so mean,â you sigh, scrunching your brows, hoping to make him feel just a little bad for denying you.
He smirks half-heartedly. âYeah?â A quick finger slips through your wet folds, and you stretch onto your toes at the satisfying pressure with a surprised squeak.Â
âWell, youâre wet,â he taunts, dark eyes watching how you try to squirm out of his teasing hold, but thereâs no where to go.Â
The closeness of him makes the air even thicker around you. Drops of water fall from strands of his hair that hang off his forehead, and they come down onto your chest; plunging down to where you run hotter than what flows from the shower-head.
His finger just barely breaches your entrance, but itâs enough to make you latch onto his forearm tightly to brace yourself. He leans over, letting his head hang next to yours, and his mouth stops right beside your ear.
âI wish I could have you like this every time,â he admits quietly, pushing his finger in the rest of the way with ease.
Your back curves with a choked gasp to accommodate the intrusion, and your drenched chest meets his. He brings his other arm around your back, placing his hand on the middle of your spine to keep you against him as he leans you both back onto the wall.
You let your hands travel from his arm and up to his shoulders to make room for his wide presence.
âY-you can,â you stutter out as he presses his thumb to your clit.
He lightly presses a small kiss underneath your ear, leisurely pulling his finger halfway out as he firmly starts rubbing his thumb over you in random motions.Â
âYou should,â you state firmly with a tight whine. Your cunt hugs onto the single finger for dear life, hopefully showing him how badly you need his cock instead.Â
The stretch is nothing compared to what youâre used to, but itâs still able to satisfy the steady throb in your core for the time being.Â
Din suddenly drags his tongue down your neck, humming with satisfaction from your answer, and your hips buck against his hand when he rubs against the responsive spot inside you.
He chuckles darkly, kissing back up your neck and pulling away from you. âFound it.â Â
His cock slides up against your stomach and rests in-between your bodies as you arch into him again, pulling your lip between your teeth with a groan. âMm, m-moreâplease,â you nod your head.Â
Your heavy eyes find his focussed ones just as he pushes the finger deep into you again, rubbing hard circles into your clit simultaneously with an entertained smirk.Â
His heavy length lies against your stomach as you keep your lower half close to him, trying to get as much stimulation as you can without grinding onto his hand pathetically.
Small whimpers tumble from your lips each time his hand retreats and returns it fully into your wet heat just as fast. You might not have much time left with the warm layer of steam that swirls around your bodies, or the sporadic shower of feverish water over you. You need things to move along faster.
Dinâs eyes flicker between your own and his tolerant fingers continuously, letting the jerky yet precise movements pull more moans and arousal from you.
Your thighs ache viciously from the need for release, jaw hanging open to pull in more air, compensating for the tiring of your contracting muscles.
âThe water will get cold s-soon,â you pant, gripping onto his shoulder cruelly, your fingers biting into his firm shoulders.
It was a poor attempt to ask for his cock, essentially. But your effort doesnât go unnoticed. Yet you decide to push him even further by hitching one knee over his hip, letting him have better access to your dripping centre as you open yourself up.Â
A small laugh rumbles through his chest, and he slows his wrist when your leg settles around him.
âThen I guess we better hurry,â he prompts, letting his mouth find yours quickly as he pulls his finger from you.
He drags that hand to the underside of the thigh that tries to pull him closer, and the other leaves your back for a moment, moving his cock from your stomach and letting it slide down through your folds, perfectly hitting your clit on its journey as it presses against your hole.
Dinâs mouth distracts you as he adjusts himself, and he never falters his movements. His controlling lips slot between yours forcefully, slipping his tongue past your teeth at the same time he enters you easily.
You cry out against his mouth as he pushes his hips up into you mercilessly. His stubble rubs against your lips slightly when he reaches his end; his height now uneven with your own as he makes your cunt swallow the entirety of his cock.
âFuckâthatâs not gonna work,â Din thinks out loud, offering a lingering kiss to your jaw before running the hand on your back down behind your other thigh.Â
He leans down just enough to be able to kiss his way back up your chest as he hooks your leg and hoists you up, letting your ankles lock behind his back.
You bounce deeper onto his cock as he brings you up, and you both gasp sharply at the unfamiliar angle. Your weight makes you sit fully on him, and itâs almost too much. Almost.Â
He keeps his chest pinned against yours and your back pinned against the wall as he straightens again, almost leaning his full weight into you. This eases the strain on his shoulders and arms, because you know that in a few minutes, he wonât be able to manage with that.
âYeahâthatâs better,â you breath, your cunt burning from the quick stretch as you wiggle your hips to ease it.
Din hums, eyes closing for a split second at the relieving sensation before he claims your mouth again. You welcome it, stray drops of water mixing in when you part to readjust.
He starts thrusting softly when he feels your body relax into the wall, and he consumes your startled moans with his lips and tongue.
Holding you in place, Din rolls his hips into yours at an even pace, letting you feel every ridge and curve his cock possesses.Â
You whine continuously deep in your throat, feeling overwhelmed by him. His hands kneading your ass harshly, his lips sucking your bottom lip between his teeth, his cock piercing your throbbing core.
You break away unintentionally when he changes the pace, now snapping his hips roughly into you, and the euphoria that washes throughout you makes your forehead fall against Dinâs shoulder.
He lets out a soft groan at the shift, burying his face in your neck and biting into the skin at the base before sucking gently.Â
âFeel so fucking g-good,â he murmurs, licking over the new mark and collecting tiny water droplets that have landed across your skin from above.
You whimper in response, cunt clenching as another wave of pleasure rips through your core and down your thighs. The warmth of his body is dizzying, and he presses you tighter against the steel with each precise and deft thrust.Â
Your body aches with a desperation that grows stronger with each second that passes, and Din fucks himself deeper into your dripping pussy when he feels your legs hug him tighter.
His shoulders start to quiver. A sign that heâs close, too.
The heavy breaths he exhales fall into earshot, and you hear the short, tight whines that quietly follow each time he fully sheathes himself in your heat.Â
âDinâbabyââ You plead, pulling away from his shoulder and pulling his face from your neck.
You nudge your forehead against his, letting him rest against you as he slowly loses himself within your burning, wet cunt.
His eyes are clamped shut, brows drawn together as he focuses on the mounting pleasure. You cup his jaw gently, pulling his lips to yours in one final, messy kiss. Â
Your tongue glides over his confidently, tracing his bottom lip when you pull back and seal your mouth against his.
The fire in your core has reached its peak, and your cunt pulses uncontrollably as his rhythm becomes uneven.
âIâm closeâ fuck, Iâm close, sweetheart,â he hisses against your lips, breath stuttering with a moan when you clench around him again.
âCum inside me. Please,â you rush, crying out a string of curses as your body tenses.
You slip a hand down between your bodies, rubbing your clit harshly to give you that final push over the edge.Â
âOh, fuck. Dinâlâ You cum before you can put together a coherent sentence.
A shudder racks your body as an airy wheeze is ripped from your lungs, tightening everything up and making you go numb. You feel Din snap his hips violently a few more times before he pushes into you with everything has, stilling with a broken groan.
âMm, perfect.â You feel him kiss your jaw tenderly, nuzzling his face into yours as your ears slowly stop ringing.
Your legs relax around him, and he carefully letâs you down onto your feet. His cock slips out of you easily as it softens, his cum dripping from you immediately when you touch the ground again.
You pull in heavy breaths, leaning into the wall for support. He gives you some space, letting his body slip completely under the stream of water as he rinses himself again.
âItâs cold,â he observes with a tight-lipped smile, letting the frigid water cover him anyway.
You laugh lightly, pushing yourself from the wall. You shake your head and move closer. âAnd you havenât even washed your hair yet."
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there isnât a heterosexual explanation for this
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soap would be the type to read the amount of tylenol tablets that should not be exceeded within 24 hours, and then proceed to take the maximum dosage all at once đ
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Nightcrawler
Bruce Wayne/Batman x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).
Explicit content (18+)
Word count: 6.3k
Tags/warnings: descriptions of blood/injury, angst, allusions to sex, groping/touching, descriptions of medical treatment (suturing), fingering/pussy play, explicit language, unrequited feelings (let me know if anything was missed!).
Summary: Bruce confronts his feelings after you put him back together. Again.
Notes: wrote this all the way back in 2020 right after the first trailer came outâŠfound it sitting in my computer files and figured i shouldnât let it go to waste! since it was written before the movie came out, please excuse/forgive any inaccuracies regarding the batsuit, terminology, setting, and characterization (and the painfully amateur writing) đŁÂ
The cave is always a little too frigid for your liking.Â
Especially when itâs already well into the late hours of the nightâa time you definitely shouldnât be awake. The long fluorescents buzz and highlight the metallic sheen of everything, while still piercing through any inch of unguarded darkness in the gloomy room. Â
A light breeze swirls around your huddled figure every so often, and the rhythmic sound of water continuously dripping onto floor somewhere echoes throughout the quiet, isolated space. Thereâs still some changes and additions that need to be made to the current set-up he has, but it does the job for now. You donât bother taking note of what needs to get doneâyouâll probably forget it all an hour from now anyway. Â
You let your head roll back onto the chairs headrest, and your eyes skim over the time at the bottom of one of the monitors screens.Â
3:43am. Itâs been almost four hoursâyou always wait.Â
You wait even though he tells you not to, and even though you know you maybe shouldnât sometimes. But you canât help it. Itâs habit at this point. Youâre down here at 10pm on the dot. Daily.Â
You donât need to be, but you are; itâs tradition for you to be part of his prep and routine before the nightly endeavour out into Gotham, even if you just sit and watch as he slowly works his way into the suit piece-by-piece, fiddling with various tech accessories that you donât even know the names of yet.
You try to pass the time by organizing and sorting his skewed files, papers, and small pieces of armour that have been damaged beyond repairâmeticulously placing them in their rightful spots on the seemingly never-ending line of desktops, shelves, and hidden drawers.Â
But mindlessly arranging anything and everything only lasts for so long before thereâs nothing left to do but sit. And think. And then sit some more.
Not knowing how long youâll be rolling around in one of the padded office chairs for is one of the prices you have to pay for caring too much, and he reprimands you for it, even as you furiously dump an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol onto his body, and he never shows that it affects him in the least.Â
Heâs stubborn. Heâs stupid.Â
Your eyes wander along the blank stone walls as you slouch further into the chair, stopping when you see the time again: 3:47am.Â
You let out a heavy breath through your nose as you repeatedly click the tip of a pen in and out. You push yourself around in slow circles with the toe of your foot, letting the spinning room distract you for just a few moments just to pass another minute at least.
This isnât necessarily part of your job. He knows that, and you definitely know that. A lot of things have changed with your workplace duties, clearly, as you notice some earlier pieces of his armour piled in one corner of the room.
Unsurprisingly, things haveâŠhappened here and there. Itâs becoming a more common occurrence, but it feels circumstantial andâŠconvenient. Maybe itâs all meant to happen at this point. You think about it often enoughâtoo often. Enough to make things awkward for yourself sometimes.
Another anxious glance at the leering clock: 3:51am. âThis is fucking ridiculous,â you reason with yourself, getting up from the chair and tossing the pen on the desk.Â
You resort to pacing around the grand floor space, now closely watching the entrance and exit as you circle by. All you can do is waitâ
And just as you turn your back to the computer displays and monitors, the clocks turn to 3:59am.Â
You cut back sharply to begin another circle, and there he is. Four hours later. Alive.
The broad shadow makes your heart stop for a split second, but the only physical reaction you have is your knees locking, keeping you in place and giving you no choice but to stare at the familiar, broad outline of him.
âYouâre a fucking idiot, Bruce.â It slips out, a little rushed and aggressive, but you mean it. He knows you well enough to not take any literal offence from it.
Your harsh acknowledgement prompts him to walk in further.
âYeah, you said that last time,â he points out casually, sauntering into the blinding lights with calm steps, coming around to the front of the desks.
You observe his gait with a hard stareâyou take notice of how he hesitantly bends and twists at the hip when he leans back to rest against the edge of the metal desk, rolling his head back until his neck pops with a relieved grunt.Â
Heâs already got the cowl, cape, and gloves off, so whatever the problem is, it must be worse than what heâs playing off, as usual.
And then you see the issue. âDo you need help with that?â You point at his stomach and drop back into the chair, deflating with concern.Â
Your alert eyes study the suit, looking at the damage.Â
âWith what?â he counters, seeming unawareâavoiding; yet his dark eyes confidently meet yours as he rests back on his hands, trying to find some comfort and seem unbothered by whatever desperately needs your attention underneath the sturdy armour.Â
A very thin layer of blood has seeped through a small displacement in the suits plating, soaking into the tri-weave fibers that cover the titanium. You roll your eyes and scoot back to a shelf where a med-kit sits, one that you put together specifically for nights like these, which is every night. Â
Positioning yourself back in front of him, the chair brings you to the perfect height to get a good look at the impairment. You can already tell itâs a knife wound just by the location. Itâs at the perfect height. It cut perfectly in-between the overlapped layers of plating, perhaps the biggest flaw the suit has. Youâre sure heâs aware of that now.
You inspect it briefly, tugging up on the bent piece slightly to see the amount of blood beneath. He takes a deep breath as the dense pressure is relieved from the tender area.Â
âShitââ he breathes in relief. Youâve only heard that clipped tone slip out of his mouth on very few occasions, one of which was barely a week ago, yet you still tense at the vivid memory that you never really want to let go of. Â
Heâs not one for reminiscing, but unfortunately, you are.   Â
âItâll only be a few stitches,â you say gently, letting the plate mold back into place softly. You tap the hard armour pointedly. âTake it off.â
You flick your eyes up to hisâthe black paint has smeared around just a bit more compared to when he smudged it on with no real technique earlier.
Youâll help him get it off later.
He brings a quick hand through his damp hair and starts unclipping the few clasps hidden on his shoulders and chest. One by one, the durable pieces are detached, and you carefully place them off to your right as he hands them over.
âCan you get the one in the back?â He motions over his shoulder. You nod and mumble a thoughtful âmhmâ as you both push yourself onto your feet again.
He turns his back to you, leaning forward on his palms and presenting the last clasp that sits in the middle of his spine. You know he can reach it, youâve seen him do it before. You flick the clip, carefully pulling away the last plate. He physically relaxes his already tense muscles as soon as the extra weight is removed.
âI donât know why you do this every night. Itâs not worth it,â you confess while rummaging through the med-kit for a needle, surgical thread, topical antiseptic, a gauze pad, and a self-adherent bandage wrap to hopefully hold it all together.
He doesnât say anything for a moment as you carefully lay out the supplies next to him on the desk.
âI have toâŠâ he whispers, trailing off, but you catch it, shaking your head as you thread and ready the needle with severe concentration.Â
âTurn around, please.â He shifts back to where he originally was without a word, leaning back against the cool steel with hesitation once again.
You grab the bottle of antiseptic and apply a generous amount onto the pad, delicately holding it as you take a seat in front of him once again.
âAre you sure you wanna stand for this?â you grimace. The hot sting of a sterile compress isnât the most enjoyable sensation to experience, especially while bearing weight.
He looks down at you, looking rather uninvolved with the priority. Dazed and distracted; something that could be mistaken for the potential amount blood loss, but the gash isnât big enough for that possibility.Â
This is something youâve seen more often than youâd like to.
âJust get it done,â he starts, âYou know I can handle it.â He dismisses the option, letting his head roll back with a deep inhale as he waits for you to start.
You say nothing in return. Carefully balancing the compress in one hand, your other cautiously pinches the soft, spandex material of his base-layer shirt. It fits comfortably, hugging tightly around the curvature and muscle of his body, improving his movement in the suit.
The shirt is slowly pulled away from his stomach. The thick blood sticks around the tear in the fabric, making it peel away instead. You drag it halfway over the rest of his lower abdomen, pulling and letting it bunch up tightly, staying isolated from the torn skin below.
You stare at the ugly cut for barely a second before you quickly dab the antiseptic around, patting it into the irritated, puffy flesh and watching it fizzle with each pull back.
Sometimes, you feel like he likes the pain. Like he purposefully seeks out the discomfort of an incapacitating injury in hopes of suppressing the turmoil of concernâŠworryâŠloveâŠÂ
It gives him something else to focus on instead of the sorrowful emotions that avoiding you doesnât seem to fix. Itâs only been making it worse, and things are beyond saving now.
Your free hand gently rests against the burning skin of his waist, and his head drops forward at the surprising contact.
âCalm down. It keeps me steady,â you chuckle, shaking your head lightly.
He hums thoughtlessly in response, unconvinced with your excuse, maybe.Â
Thereâs that sudden anxious tension in the room from nothing but a fleeting graze of fingertips. The uncertainty of whoâs going to make the first move this time.
You do one more press and then pull the soaked pad away, examining your progress before discarding the bloody material.
âIt might only be four sutures or so,â you determine while gently squeezing the inflamed edges closer together to try and gauge the amount of work needed.
He inhales sharply, tightly gripping the rim of the desktop. âWell, the faster you stitch it, the faster Iâll be able toââ
âDonât even finish that sentence.â You cut him off with a harsh but accidental hard squeeze of the torn flesh, making his words die in his throat with a groan. Â
That wasnât something you really needed to hear right now, let alone think about as if he wasnât just bleeding out in front of you only minutes ago.Â
You know how that sentence ends; youâve heard him say it more times than youâd like to admit, but you canât let him have his way tonight. Â
You glare at each other for a moment. Your eyes hold a tired frustration behind them, but his hold a different kindâŠsomething that is able to get you to do whatever he says, something that makes you giddy with anticipation, and something that makes you feel just a little more alienated afterwards.
âYou canât lie to yourself anymore,â he says instead.
You laugh coldly. âWell, neither can you. Iâve stopped doing that a long time ago. You should try it sometime,â you counter, snatching the threaded needle with anger while maintaining your unimpressed gaze.
He sighs, messing with his drying hair again as you begin suturing quicklyânot so you can get to what he was alluding to, but the opposite.Â
For once, you donât want that, and you donât want the burden of sadness that comes with it.
But itâs soâŠtempting.
He gave himself away. You havenât. And of course heâs leaning against the very spot you were pinned down against a week ago, feeling the contrast to the emotions youâre feeling now: excitement, passion, comfort, loveâ
It puts you into a conscious daydream for a moment. But youâre awoken from it when you feel his body jolt suddenly. You see the needle poking into the tough muscle of his side instead of the spongey cut.
âShitâ sorry,â you mumble, shifting your focus back to the final suture and looping it through itself securely in a rush.
Seven stitches in total, you notice. You were close.
You grab the bandage wrap and press it firmly over the closed wound before snaking it around his back. Youâre able to get two layers from it; the pressure should stop any possible bleeding, but he always manages to tear it open anyway. Sometimes you think he does it on purpose just so he has a good excuse to see you.
âDone,â you sigh, packing up the med-kit and rolling back to its shelf.
You stand from the chair and go to make your way to the exit without another word, not interested in any other interaction tonight. Well, thatâs what you hope for, but youâve learned that he will never let you go peacefully.
You go to pass by him mindlessly as heâs carefully pulling his shirt back down, but he manages to grab ahold of your sleeve quickly when he sees your destination. The effortless pull makes you skid to a stop, twisting back towards him with your inverted momentum, almost smashing your face in his chest, but you stop yourself with your forearm.
He holds onto you tightly, with a purpose, as you share a moment of mutual hurt and resentment. His dark eyes, the opaque paint making them look just as black in the hazy lighting, search your conflicted ones desperately.
âIf I asked you to stay, would you?â he asks quietly. Thereâs no demand behind it, seemingly afraid itâll scare you away.Â
His face softens, perhaps relief from asking. Heâs never had to before.
You furrow your brows together in shock, dumbfounded at his apparent stupidity in this continuous situation. You scoff lightly at his rather domestic request. âWhy? So we can just dance around the truth like always?â Your voice never raises in volume, but your tone gets harsher as you continue.
âSo I can hope that maybe youâll come to your senses and fucking realize that I loââ
The hand he had wrapped around your arm moves to the back of your neck before you can even say the word or finish your passionate rant. He promptly pulls you right to him, his deft lips quickly doing the much-needed apologizing in that moment.Â
Itâs feverish and assertive, seeming out of place in the cloud of desolation and melancholiaâŠyet you donât stop him. You donât want to.
He knows youâve needed this. Not the rushed, messy, convoluted kisses that come from your desperate fucking after a hard night or a close call, the ones that seem to happen almost by accident, by pure circumstance. Thereâs just always something missingâŠ
Fervour. Thatâs what you feel nowâthatâs what youâve wanted from him every single time he took control of you with ease for the night. Youâre never able to make it back up to the manor either.
You shudder slightly when his hand moves to your jaw, gripping it firmly as he slides his mouth against yours consumingly, sucking your lips gently and teasing your tongue with his cautiously. You moan when he deepens the kiss further, letting his tongue fully overlap yours with a practiced versatility. It subdues you, inviting him to give and take as he pleases.Â
Several whimpers fall against his lips as you stretch onto your toes to meet his height as best as you can, trying to get more even though heâs already giving you plenty. Itâs pensive. Each movement thought out and executed with a purpose, something that you can feel has a very clear destination in his mind.
You let him maintain authority, let him kiss you with a force that could bruise if he didnât soothe the pressure with his soft tongue occasionally, dipping it back into your mouth quickly after. Your taste seems insatiable to his starved soul.
It all draws you in further, and your hands find themselves grasping at his shoulders instinctually when a forceful hand snakes through your hair to gain better control of you.
Your mouth feels a little numb and swollen from the welcome force, and he pulls away hesitantly when he feels your soft touch finally rest at his collar delicately. He barely lets more than an inch get between your lips, and you can feel the reluctancy in his movements as he pulls back.Â
You open your eyes slowly and see his sombre expressionâmore sombre than usual. The sorrow in his eyes and the agony on his brow is enough to force you to speak up first.
âI wish you told me months ago,â you whisper, lightly resting your forehead against his own as you wrap your arms around his neck, confident that he wonât pull away like he has before.
He looks longingly into your forgiving eyes, taking his hands and sliding them down to your hips in solace; an abrupt switch from from their dominant spot around your face. You understand the conflicts he has to live with. Most of them are caused by his vigilant habits in the night, yet you expected everything outside of that to still be easy for him.Â
Unfortunately, trauma picks and chooses its victims at random.
You find yourself looking for words. Maybe for the moment you realized he was different, when he changed. Â
âI wish it wasnât so hard for you, Bruce.â You try to comfort him, provide some ease for his always anxious mind.
He squeezes your hip, silently reassuring you that itâll be fine, that it wonât kill him.
âI wish it wasnât so hard for you,â he retorts in an indignant tone, irritated with himself.Â
He regrets all of it. Most of all, he regrets making you feel unloved. The nights where he used you as a release, when he would act like nothing happened, when he would unconsciously ignore you, and when he ultimately closed himself off in the end.
âIt wasnât fair. It wasâŠselfish,â he finishes forcefully, taking a quick breath to regain some composure.
âI just donât want you to be part of that life,â he admits tentatively.Â
You can see heâs telling the truth. The way he doesnât meet your gaze again. He does it to avoid the confrontation that comes with honesty.
You pause to take in his confession, closing your eyes for a moment with relief, but his tone is like a bullet to the heart. The dejected feeling of you possibly not wanting to be here with him in this moment. Â Â
ââThat lifeâ?âŠYou mean your life?â you reason, sounding surprised with his absurd claim.Â
Youâd think that having done this religiously with him for a year would make him think otherwise, regardless of your acts together. You always showed up no matter the circumstances or emotions.
He pushes against your hips lightly, making some space between your bodies, and you shuffle back without hesitation. You let your arms fall away from his shoulders, and he does the same as you distance yourself.
âMy life is your life,â he explains. âWhat happens to me affects you, why canât you see that?â His face falls slightly. The realization of you not knowing youâre significant enough to be considered part of his life isâŠheartbreaking.Â
Thereâs so much you could say to that.
You let the silence linger briefly. âMaybe Iâd be able to see that if you werenât afraid to be in the same room as me,â you say, voice quiet as you test your reasoning.
You donât want to start a fight. You just want to understand. You want to know why.
You notice how he hesitates when around you, and not in a flattering or complimentary way. Itâs avoidant, scared, and even worried. Worry of confrontation.
He takes a deep breath and wraps his arms around his stomach in comfort, carefully avoiding the fresh bandage.Â
âIâŠIâm notâŠscared. Iâmââ Batman doesnât get scared from feelings, but maybe Bruce Wayne does.
âYouâre unsure,â you finish for him. His eyes meet yours with a sense of hope that youâre understanding.
âI justâŠdonât know how to go aboutâŠall of this,â he motions between you with a flick of his hand.Â
All of thisâŠmeaningâ
âLove?â you try, making it more of a rhetorical question.
He presses his lips together in surprise before offering a firm nod. He doesnât trust himself to say it. Itâs hard to wrap your head around. It couldnât just be that, it had to be something more problematic? Complicated?Â
But yet, it all makes sense because heâs himâhe doesnât necessarily do romance; thereâs no time. You know that. Youâve seen how he is, nothing but a fleeting moment in the night to most, even to you.Â
It all clicks, and you rub your face in relief and exasperation. You canât blame him for it all. You can for some, of course, but a relationship needs communication from both. It canât be a one-person effort, but thatâs what it ended up being.
He was just trying to protect you. Thatâs all someone can really ask for, but the execution wasnât right. He abandoned you emotionally to protect you physically, and thatâs not the right balance. Â
âWhy didnât you just tell me the truth at the beginning? So I wouldnât spend all this time thinking I was doing something wrong,â you pleaded, stepping closer to him again to pull an answer from his huddled form.
The closer you get, the higher you have to tilt your head to hold his gaze.
He looks right back, overwhelmed. âI didnât know how to say itâŠI didnât know if you felt that way. When I realized you did, I thought it was justâŠtoo late,â he admits, stuttering briefly at the end.
It was clearly hard for him, too. But was it not apparent that you were waiting? For him. For anything.
You look down, nodding your head in understanding. âI donât think I couldâve made it any more obvious, but lust can be confused for love, so I understand.â You were serious, but some sarcasm slipped through at the end.
Lust is deadly; it will bait you, hook you, and then drag you under itâs pleasurable and irresistible cloud of euphoria, disguised as the domineering man in front of you.
âAt least you know now,â he says, matching your tone.Â
He straightens his posture and locks his cold stare onto yours momentarily, searching for something he still canât seem to find.Â
Giving up, he turns to collect each piece of armour you set aside, and he busyâs himself with meticulously putting it back in its rightful spot for tomorrow.
You watch him with surprise, but thereâs no anger at his dismissal. You feel relieved. Relieved that you know. You donât expect things to be normal right away, not with him.Â
You know heâll come around, but you canât help but ask a prying question just to entertain your already validated thoughts. And to keep him talking. Thereâs still so much you want to know.
âSoâŠâ you start lightly. âYou said you werenât sure if I was interested at the beginning,â you say carefully.
He stops moving the instant he hears the curiosity in your tone. He turns back to you slowly, an amused expression on his face. Shitâ
You hesitate when you catch his look, but continue cooly. âSo, if you didnât knowâŠthen why did you keep, uhâŠâ You lose your words, too afraid to be so blunt and direct about your past endeavours.
It seems taboo to discuss it while not in the moment itself. Sometimes you wonder if itâs just a dream. Too good to be true.
He raises his brows knowingly as you trail off, entertained with your hesitation and embarrassment.
âWhy did youâ why did we continueâŠâ
âFucking?â he finishes for you bluntly, a small smile playing on his lips, yet itâs devoid of genuine humour. It screams danger.
He chuckles when you nod your head wordlessly. âLike you said, lust is confusing. You can never seem to get enough, and I donât think I wanted to.â He pulls the sleeves of his tight-fitting shirt over his forearms, watching you carefully as you consider his words.
His tone was suddenly light, confident. He could feel that you were walking the fine line of giving in or leaving without another word.Â
âIâm not trying to persuade you into doing anything, if thatâs what youâre thinking about,â he clarifies softly when he sees your eyes dance across the floor rapidly.
You laugh lightly, glancing at him reluctantly. âIâm not, but you wouldnât have to, anyway,â
That makes him narrow his gaze in question.Â
You raise a brow in response. âWhat?â
He glances over his shoulder at a monitor, very obviously reading the time: 4:29am.
And you realize exactly what heâs doing. Why would time matter unless you were to suddenly become busy. Tonight was on the shorter end of time spent putting him back together, and you never fall asleep quickly or peacefully anywayâŠthatâs if you were to attempt it or even make it that far.
You watch him speculatively, still mindful that heâs injured, and probably very, very sleep deprived at this point, even though you can never say for sure.
He doesnât sleep much. You seem to be his biggest distraction.
He twists a dry strand of hair between his fingers as itâs brushed back from his face, black eyes full of self-assurance as he turns to you for what will be the last time tonight.
âYou think we can make it back to the manor?â His relaxed yet serious tone startles you, making you consider the options quickly.
Hard and cold floor, small and cold desktop, small rolling chairânone are ideal, but youâve made all work beforeâŠwhen he didnât offer another option, mind you. It was never momentous enough to have taken place outside of the cave. But the manor isâŠfarther. Thereâs a buffer you donât think will be beneficial.Â
Who fucking caresâ
âHere seems to work just fine,â you quip nervously. You havenât taken notice of how your legs have gottenâŠshaky.Â
Thereâs a burning heat between your thighs, an ache that blazes bright from anticipation and just him. Just knowing whatâs to come. It feels like youâve done everything imaginable at this point, but that doesnât lessen your excitement.Â
He gives a small smirk that fades just as fast. âFigured youâd say that,â he finalizes.Â
Stepping back to you with graceful movements, youâre chest-to-chest again in an instant. He glides a delicate finger up your neck, hooking it under your chin and tilting your gaze to his intimidating one.
âTell me what you want.â
You desperately want to say âanythingâ, but you know he wonât settle for that.Â
You get lost in your thoughts, thinking of the possibilities you can choose from, and he waits for your answer patiently.
âA week agoâŠwhen you came back with a torn rotator cuff in y-your shoulderââ you stumble through the sentence but never break from his studious eyes.
âYou, uh, didnât pay any mind to it even though you definitely shouldâve, and you had me down against the desk,â your voice turns to a whisper as you recount the eventsâas vague as possible to save you the embarrassment of being too vulgar in, perhaps, an irreplaceable moment.
As soon as you finish, you swear you see a flame flicker in his eyes. The same one you feel grow stronger in your cunt at the same time. Your knees almost buckle from anticipation, and he can only make it worse from here.
âThatâsâŠa good choice, even though it was kind of impersonal,â he ponders, clearly running through the events of that night.
Heâs not wrong. He kept your chest pinned tightly to the surface of the frigid desk, taking you from behind. No hand-holding, no kissing, no eye-contact, no nothing.Â
You went on to figure that it was betterâeasier for him that way. You never seemed to mind anyway.
âThatâs nothing I canât fix,â he mutters, finishing the thought; already set on an alternative for both of you.
Your brows pinch together, curious of what he means exactly. But you donât have much time to think about it.
His hands quickly curve around your jaw, keeping you still as he swiftly interlocks your deprived lips again. Itâs zealous and luring, pulling you even further under the crashing wave of temptation and craving.
The soft joining of your mouths makes your stomach jump with exhilaration and eagerness, clawing your hands into his hair with a gasp of bliss as he grabs your waist just as hard in response. You let out a soft sigh of relief, feeling brave enough to gently bite at his bottom lip as his warm, encompassing hands slide under your shirt.
He barely lets you break for air, delving back into your mouth just as fast as he left it to reposition. The intensity of the heavenly moment builds its tempo, and you find yourself pushing against his chest. Not to pull away, but to try and push him towards the cold, awaiting desk behind his wide shoulders.
You manage to get a single word out in between the consuming and now sloppy kisses he offers. âBruceââ
He hums contently as he swallows your thoughts, connecting your tingling lips forcibly. Heâs too fixated on the passion. He wants it to last forever, but there are more demanding impulses that will be tended to first.
âBruce,â you gasp when you break apart again reluctantly. He notices the calm assertion in your voice, and only slows the onslaught of kisses enough to reply.
âI know,â he soothes your neediness, now delicately pressing his greedy lips to yours repeatedly in understanding. The heartfelt action controlled by nothing but spirited lust.
His hands glide back up to your jaw, cradling your face in comfort as you twirl the long strands of hair at his neck between your fingers. Heavy breaths cloud your already tangled thoughts, leaving him to take the lead again.Â
He gives you one last intense taste of him, stroking his tongue teasingly over yours, firmly capturing your lips together in the process with a pleased moan. Youâre almost chest-to-chest, a minute sliver of space keeping your bodies just distanced enough to not completely lose what little control both of you have left.
Heâs taken note of how tight your thighs have been pressed together, and how your breaths are becoming shaky with each passing second he uses to dominate your mouth.
Youâve taken note of how his tactical pants, in fact, canât hide his very prominent arousal for you, and how you can feel the warmth finally releasing from his exerted and thoroughly worked muscles. The heat seeps through his shirt and goes directly to your body, making you shudder when you feel the change in temperature.
You draw in a breath when he finally pulls away. His obsidian eyes wild with excitement and dominion. Youâve seen this look a lot, and youâre ready to hop on the desk without another word.
He floats his eyes down your body observationally, but you donât notice. All of this is a lot slower than youâre used to. Well-paced. If it were any other night, youâd be on round two by now at least. Youâd be whining with pleasure, shaking from release and overstimulation, dripping around his cock as he buries himself as deep as your cunt will allow, over and over until he simply feels better.Â
He was always generous with what he gave you.
You press a hand against his chest again, and he moves this time. Taking a long stride back, he tries to conceal an amused smile as you push him toward the desk. Your eyes light up when you see the knowing and teasing look on his face.
A quiet laugh rumbles against your hand. âThis isnât how it usually goesâŠâ He smiles lightly.
You smile with him. âI never said itâs gonna stay this way,â you challenge, your eyes twinkling with mischief.Â
You never take charge. You never dominate. Heâs more well-versed with it, and you wonât dare to try to match his competence.Â
The backs of his thighs bump the rounded edge of the desk, and your stomach jumps with elation when his index finger instantly hooks into the waistband of your pants, pulling you just a little closer.
But he leaves it there. He slides it side-to-side along the hem, gently caressing the sensitive skin of your lower stomach playfully. You look into his eyes as he casually continues the slow motions.Â
Your eyes flick down to his hand instinctually, out of pure reflex, and you watch his finger disappear further as he smoothly twists his wrist, palm resting against your lower stomach momentarily before his shoulder shifts tooâŠangling his hand to travel down.Â
His fingers graze lower, creeping to a spot that so easily welcomes him.Â
One of your hands grabs onto his shoulder, simultaneously steadying yourself with a gasp as you bring your faces closer again. He gives a fleeting, comforting kiss, not leaving much behind.
His towering height makes it easier for his hand to reach its destination all too quickly. And when a careful and precise finger slips in-between your folds, your eyes close in anticipation and with the thought of relief.
Your minor reaction makes him smirk. Thankfully, for him, you donât see it.
Itâs sad just how wet you already are, but it spurs him on. He letâs his fingers explore, alternating between rubbing you and slipping a single digit inside, only doing so to gather your arousal to rub across your clit smoothly.Â
A quiet moan gets caught in your throat as he repeats that process a few times, building you up and teasing you onto the edge continuously.Â
âMmâ please, f-fuckââ you whimper, fisting the shirt in your grip on his shoulder.Â
You donât need to finish that sentence for him to know exactly what you mean. He needs it, too. His tactical pants have become increasingly uncomfortable.
Your plea makes him apply more pressure to the slow strokes he gives your throbbing cunt. You all but drip onto the two fingers that glide over your aching clit and back to your slick entrance, occasionally giving you what you want.Â
He pulls them slowly in and out of you, making sure you feel them nice and deep before he drags them against something that makes you pant with desperation. Your eyes remain shut, brows pulled together tightly as you focus on the sensation of his intent touches, but he watches your face appreciatively, analyzing your pleasure with each movement he makes.
A particularly harder jolt of his fingers up into you makes you choke, caught between a gasp and a whiny moan. That makes his eyes drop to where his hand disappears.
He hums in satisfaction. âIs that the spot?â he questions with a mocking tone, knowing full well what the answer would be. âI think it isâŠâÂ
You nod your head quickly, eyes reopening ever so slowly to meet his.Â
His eyes are full with devilish aspirations, and your knees almost give out when he roughly thrusts his fingers back in again for a final time. You let out a small cry of bliss and dissatisfaction when he slips them out of you, wiping them off on his pants carelessly.Â
You were decently wet before, and you are definitely abundantly wet now.
âI think you need to lie down.â He sounds concerned, but you know itâs just for show to make your heart pound harder.
He takes your hand from his shoulder, holding it securely as he shuffles your bodies around, putting you in his place and himself in yours. Now your thighs rest against the desk, and he crowds you against it.
âLift your arms,â he says cooly, observing your dazed expression with care.
You raise them, and he pinches the hem of your shirt, delicately dragging it up your torso and over your head with caution. He tosses it on the chair off to the side.
Your eyes catch the mangled slash at the bottom of his shirt again, and you quickly reach for the thin material.Â
He doesnât question your intentions, letting you maneuver the thin fabric over the bandage, his chest, and extend onto your toes to pull it over his shoulders. He peels it from his arms, and your hands canât help but wander across the firm muscles that stretch around his entire body.Â
The power he holds within himâthe Batmanâis unparalleled to anything youâve ever seen. It was terrifying. It was unbelievable, the things youâve seen his body do. And he would continue to push his limits.
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