raven-alate

[raven-alate]

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre. 

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp. 

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?” 

Or somethin’ along those lines. 

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark. 

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in. 

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice. 

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor. 

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned. 

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone. 

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice. 

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up. 

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick. 

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression. 

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly. 

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain. 

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread. 

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me. 

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose. 

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it. 

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be. 

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.  

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.  

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”  

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.  

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.   

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it. 

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile. 

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him. 

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else. 

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me. 

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?” 

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply. 

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.” 

He tilts his head away in dismissal. 

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.  

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest. 

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight. 

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too. 

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits. 

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!” 

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.  

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.  

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”  

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices. 

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.  

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate. 

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow. 

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me. 

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down. 

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .  

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work. 

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.  

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause. 

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought. 

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen;   Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night. 

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes. 

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter. 

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger. 

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.  

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.  

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”  

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it. 

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.  

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face. 

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin. 

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.  

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.  

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.” 

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing. 

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently. 

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving. 

Give me strength. Give me strength. 

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe. 

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly. 

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me. 

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact. 

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive. 

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation. 

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?” 

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace. 

“Kiss me again, then.” 

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth. 

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second. 

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid. 

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own. 

A switch in his brain must flick on. 

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt. 

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable. 

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return. 

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?” 

He kisses the hollow of my neck. 

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter. 

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this. 

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me. 

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.” 

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him. 

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.” 

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton. 

I sigh, try not to squirm. 

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing. 

I nod. “Yeah.” 

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering. 

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips. 

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back. 

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world. 

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine. 

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra. 

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut. 

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip. 

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead. 

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl. 

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point. 

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else. 

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 

My cunt flexes. 

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.” 

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager. 

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter. 

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.” 

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.  

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.   

“Lie back.”  

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth. 

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger. 

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit.  My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse. 

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers. 

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here. 

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away. 

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see. 

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him. 

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders. 

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him. 

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside. 

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound. 

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out. 

“It’s okay,” I reply. 

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver. 

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

[raven-alate]

trapped

pairing: robin (dick grayson) x catwoman apprentice! reader

tags: mdni, fem reader, reader is a year older than dick, enemies to lovers¿?, dick calls reader “cat”, reader calls dick “birdie”/“baby”, very hormonal teens, dry humping, enclosed space, forced proximity, making out, groping, sub dick, thigh riding, praise, handjob, p in v, cowgirl, unprotected sex, creampie, reader is more “experienced” (lmk if i missed any)

You had never known stability. Not in the traditional sense.

Your earliest memories were of cold nights and empty pockets, of learning that in Gotham, you had to take what you wanted because no one was going to give it to you. And maybe that was why Selina Kyle took you in—because she saw something of herself in you.

From the moment Selina took you under her wing, normalcy became a foreign concept. She never pretended to be a mother, never showered you in words of affection, but she provided. She gave you food, a place to sleep, and most importantly—a purpose.

Life with her was exhilarating. Nights spent darting across Gotham’s rooftops, breaking into places you had no business being in, taking what you wanted simply because you could. Selina taught you everything—how to move unseen, how to pick locks with delicate precision, how to manipulate, how to charm.

And, of course, how to run.

But no matter how good you were, they were better.

Batman and Robin.

They were always there, always a step behind, always chasing.

Selina handled Batman, slipping through his grasp time and time again, leaving only whispered promises and stolen kisses in her wake.

And you? You were left to deal with Robin.

The first time you saw him, you nearly laughed.

A kid. Shorter than you, all bright colors and attitude, wearing a mask that barely hid the smugness in his expression.

Not like you were a kid yourself, right?

“You’re kidding,” You had said, eyeing the small figure in bright red, green, and yellow. “You’re Robin?”

From the way Selina warned you about Robin, you expected… something else.

Not this short, flamboyant boy in pixie boots and wearing that shit-eating grin.

Robin bristled at your tone, crossing his arms. “Yeah, and?”

“You just seem… smaller than I expected.”

He scoffed. “You’re, like, barely taller than me.”

You hummed, amused. “Still taller.”

It should’ve been easy. You’d spent months training under Selina, learning how to evade, how to slip through fingers like water. He was just a kid—a kid in bright colors, a cape to slow him down, and all energy and attitude.

But Robin was fast.

And relentless.

No matter how quick you were, how well you knew Gotham’s rooftops, he kept up. Every twist, every jump, he was right there, like a shadow that refused to be shaken.

He grinned through it all, like the chase itself was the fun part.

By the time you finally lost him—ducking into a hidden alley, heart pounding, breath sharp—you realized something.

You weren’t annoyed.

You were excited.

For the first time in your life, you were looking forward to something.

And it became a game.

Every time Selina clashed with Batman, you and Robin danced around each other, locked in your own little battle. He was all quips and acrobatics, relentless determination wrapped in bright colors, and you matched him move for move.

And then, somewhere along the way, over the years, the game changed.

It was subtle at first.

The way his hands lingered just a second too long when he grabbed you. The way his breath hitched when you leaned in, voice low and teasing.

And then, one night, after a particularly close chase—

“You’re slowing down, Birdie,” you teased, perched on the edge of a rooftop, looking down at him. “Getting tired of chasing me?”

Robin huffed, rolling his shoulders, the movement fluid yet tense, like he was shaking off exhaustion—or frustration. He was older now, no longer the scrawny kid you used to outrun on Gotham’s rooftops. He’d grown into himself, his frame broader, his stance more grounded, more sure. The suit, once bright and almost ridiculous in its vibrancy, seemed different now. The red looked richer, darker under the moonlight, the shadows clinging to the fabric, emphasizing the sharp angles of his body. His cape, now black and lined with gold, draped over his shoulders with an ease that made him seem more intimidating, more like a real threat than just Batman’s sidekick.

And then there was his voice—lower, rougher, with an edge that hadn’t been there before.

An edge that reminded you of Gotham’s Dark Knight.

Gone was the high-energy bravado of a kid playing hero. Now, when he spoke, there was weight behind his words, something firm, something undeniably commanding. It sent a strange thrill through you, though you’d never admit it.

“Who says I’m not letting you get away on purpose?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Awfully generous of you.”

“Maybe I like the chase,” he said, stepping closer, his gaze sharp. “Maybe I like you.”

The air shifted.

Your smirk didn’t waver, but your heart did.

For the first time, you didn’t have a quip ready.

And then, just as quickly as it came, the moment passed.

He grinned again, all mischief and ease, like he hadn’t just thrown a wrench into your entire world.

You rolled your eyes, shoving down whatever had just coiled in your chest. “You really should work on your flirting, Robin.”

“Is that a challenge?”

You leapt off the rooftop, and this time—

You let him catch you.

You were nineteen now.

It wasn’t that you weren’t grateful to Selina—she’d taken you in when you had nothing, taught you everything you knew. But you weren’t a stray kitten anymore. You had your own ambitions, your own scores to settle, and it was time you made a name for yourself.

Tonight was supposed to be the first step.

A simple break-in. A massive corporation with deep pockets and even deeper corruption. You weren’t just stealing from them—you were stealing leverage. Blackmail, blueprints, the kind of information that could buy you power.

Everything had been going smoothly—until he showed up.

“Still breaking into places you don’t belong?”

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice—low, smug, and just the right amount of irritating.

Robin.

Or, as you liked to think of him now, Gotham’s Most Persistent Pain in the Ass.

You smirked, still focused on the files flickering across the computer screen. “You know me, Birdie. I just love a good challenge.”

“You’re getting sloppy,” he countered, stepping closer.

You caught his reflection in the screen—older now, taller. The bright colors of his suit had been traded for something darker, more tactical. His stance was solid, muscles tense, ready to spring.

You sighed dramatically. “You gonna fight me, or just lecture me to death?”

“I was thinking both.”

And then he moved.

You barely had time to react before he was on you, reaching for the drive in your hand. You twisted away, knocking over a chair in your retreat, and bolted.

The chase was on.

You darted through the office space, leaping over desks, twisting through narrow hallways, all while Robin stayed infuriatingly close. You could feel him at your heels, relentless as ever, and for the first time in a long time, you wondered if you might not shake him this time.

Then you saw it—a maintenance door left slightly ajar.

You shoved through, sprinting inside just as Robin reached for you. His fingers just barely caught the back of your jacket, and in his effort to stop you, he yanked.

Hard.

The force sent you both crashing through the doorway, tumbling down a short flight of metal stairs in a mess of limbs and curses.

You landed first, sprawled on your back against the cold floor. Robin landed on top of you, knocking the breath from your lungs as the door behind you slammed shut with an ominous clunk.

A silence settled.

“…Did you just tackle me down a flight of stairs?”

Dick groaned, pushing himself up slightly, bracing himself on his arms—his body still pressed against yours. His breath was warm against your cheek when he muttered, “You fell.”

“You pulled me.”

“You ran.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly beneath him—only to realise just how close you were.

The space around you was tiny.

Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with old equipment and cleaning supplies. The air was thick with dust and stale air, and the dim, flickering light overhead barely illuminated anything.

You and Dick were practically pressed against each other.

And worse?

The door wasn’t budging.

It’s like it automatically locked you both in the moment you entered.

Dick must’ve come to the same conclusion because he exhaled sharply, muttering a quiet, “Fantastic.”

You turned to face him, looking him up and down. “Aww. Trapped in a tiny, enclosed space with me? Try not to look so excited, Birdie.”

Dick clenched his jaw, shifting his weight, and—

Oh.

That was… interesting.

For the first time since you met him, he was the one who faltered. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested against your waist.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice dropping to a whisper. “Never been this close to a girl before?”

His gaze flickered to your lips before he caught himself, schooling his expression into something unimpressed. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh,” you hummed, tilting your head. “That’s why you’re still on top of me?”

Dick tensed. Then, with a sharp inhale, he pushed off you, moving to sit up—only to immediately hit his head against one of the low shelves with a dull thud.

You laughed.

Dick glared, rubbing the spot where he’d smacked his skull. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, of course.”

You pushed yourself up, stretching out your legs as much as the tiny space allowed. Dick was sitting against the opposite wall now, knees bent, arms resting over them. The space was too small for either of you to fully move without touching the other.

A slow smirk curled at your lips as an idea took root.

You shifted, closing the distance, swinging a leg over his to straddle his lap.

His whole body stiffened.

“W—What are you doing?” he asked, voice suddenly very unsteady.

“Getting comfortable,” you murmured, leaning in just slightly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

His breath shuddered.

This was new.

You’d spent years teasing him, pushing his buttons, testing his patience. But this—the way he was looking at you now, wide-eyed, breathless, trapped beneath you with nowhere to go—this was different.

You could feel the way his heart was racing.

You dragged your fingers down his chest, slow and deliberate. “Still think I’m getting sloppy?”

Dick exhaled shakily. “I—”

He stares unabashedly at the way your plush thighs brush against his sides when you shift to make yourself comfortable, he feels the way heavier breasts push against his chest as you leaned closer.

Dick wasn’t an idiot.

He knew you were doing this on purpose.

You can feel Dick’s eyes, despite it being hidden behind that damn domino mask of his. It was all over your face, and for a moment—you saw the way his breath hitch when his eyes landed on your lips.

That only fueled you more.

And without a second thought, you kissed him.

The second your lips met his, the tension snapped.

Dick made a quiet, desperate noise against your lips, his hands grasping at your waist, unsure whether to pull you closer or push you away. You made the decision for him.

His hesitation lasted seconds before he gave in, melting beneath you, responding with an eagerness that sent a thrill down your spine.

You nipped at his lower lip, earning a shuddered gasp, and God, you’d never seen him like this—needy, breathless, completely at your mercy.

“Is this what you wanted?” you murmured against his lips, your hips shifting just enough to make him choke on a breath.

His fingers dug into your sides as he struggles to maintain control.

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “Fuck—Cat… no—” Despite the words, his body betrays his desire, hips twitching up to meet yours, his hands sliding up your back.

Dick kisses you again, soft and deep, pouring his desperation and desire into the embrace. And you didn’t waste a second to kiss him back, your hips slowly moving against his thigh, seeking out any sort of relief while also trying to provide Dick some.

And Dick—

He whimpered, soft and pathetic, adorable coming from him.

Your hand moved to cup his face, your thumb stroking along the soft skin of his cheek, leaning down to deepen the kiss.

"You're so pretty." You murmur softly, pulling away slightly to stare at him, your hand making its way to remove his mask. But Dick’s hand immediately caught your wrist, stopping you.

“N-no, wait, mask stays on, Cat. We can’t—“ He didn’t finish the sentence as you rolled your hips against him instead, body jerking in his hold. Somehow the gravity of the situation just stills in his head for a moment. “Shit, shit, wait—we should talk about this, right?”

“What’s there to talk about?” You mutter out, as you press kisses along his jawline. “You want this—I want this. We both want this, don’t you agree?”

You could feel his breath, ragged and shallow.

There was no escaping the sheer intensity of it. Every inch of his body was pushing into yours, and his movements—though tentative—were driven by an undeniable need. His hips, for all his effort to hold back, shifted instinctively, and for a brief second, you felt the unmistakable press of his body against yours. And in one swift motion, you removed his domino mask, tossing it aside as your eyes met his baby blue ones.

He looked at you with wide eyes, clearly torn between wanting to pull away and wanting more. You could practically hear his heart racing in the thick silence.

He swallowed hard. “I—” His voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw it. The boyish cockiness was gone, replaced by something more raw, more real. He was trembling slightly, unsure but wanting, and it made something stir in your chest.

You slid your hands up his chest, fingers brushing over the outline of his suit, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the fabric. His reaction was immediate—he let out a quiet, shaky breath as his hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer.

He kissed you again, this time with more force, his lips hungry, as if he couldn’t get enough. His hands roamed, brushing against your sides, your waist, his fingers lightly pressing against the curves of your body. You could feel him struggling to stay in control, his movements growing more erratic, more desperate, but still so careful, as if he was afraid of pushing you too far.

“Damn it,” he muttered between kisses, his voice tight with frustration. “I hate that you’re making me lose control.”

You smiled against his lips, pulling back just slightly. “You don’t have to hate it, you know.”

His eyes met yours again, and there it was—vulnerable, unsure, but undeniably drawn to you. “I—” He paused, exhaling slowly, as if gathering his thoughts. “I want this. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to know everything,” you said softly, running your hand down his chest once more. “Just go with it.”

Dick’s body reacted immediately, the way his hands moved to your back, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough. You could feel the desperation in him, the way his movements grew more fervent, more insistent, as if the moment had finally overtaken him.

There was something so intoxicating about it—the way he kissed you with such intensity, like every second he spent with you in this confined space only heightened the tension between you. You could feel his body pressing against yours, his every movement a silent invitation, a challenge. His hands, once hesitant, were now roaming freely, touching you with a fervor that made your heart race.

Dick reaches up with one hand to cup your breast, thumbing your nipple through the fabric of your suit, and you let out a guttural moan.

“That’s it, baby, don’t hold back.” You mumbled, your hand grabbing a fistful of his hair, tilting his head up to meet his lips once more.

And don’t hold back he did. His hand fondled with your clothed breast, while the other made its way to the zip on your back.

Dick's gaze lazily makes its way up your form, greedily taking in every inch. He gently bites down on his lower lip, face starting to look flushed as he lets his guard down. Bending forward, you close the distance between your mouths, nipping gently and taking that plush lower lip for yourself. He gasps, but gives as good as he gets, tonguing into you with a little groan. When he tries to take control and deepen the kiss, you smirk and pull back, drawing a pouty little sigh from him.

"Ah ah, birdie—let me do all the work, yeah?" You scold him. His forehead came to rest on your shoulder, his warm breath mixing with yours.

“I’m sorry, I just—” You placed a finger on his lips, clicking your tongue.

“Don’t apologise.” You murmur, lifting his head up as you start to press kisses all over his jawline once again, trailing down to his neck. Dick whines softly at the sudden shift, mewling your name.

He grinds against your clothed cunt, the fabric of your suits making it easier to hurriedly slide against each other.

Dick wishes he could feel how tightly you’d wrap around him instead of this but he needed release now, and this was the quickest way to get it.

But you notice his neediness.

You noticed how much he was aching to be inside of you.

He was bucking into you desperately, moving his hands to grope your tits and roll your nipples between his fingers.

“There you go… Good boy, keep going.” You whisper, your hand trailing down to the hem of his pants, tugging at it.

Dick inhales sharply as he feels your fingers brushing against the waistband of his pants, his hips twitching in anticipation. He's breathing heavily now, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“Ah fuck…” His voice is strained, torn between wanting to give in completely and the lingering hesitation. “I want to... but we should... shit.. but we should be careful.”

You tilt your head at that, your hand resting against his growing arousal, rubbing against it painstakingly slow. “And where’s the fun in that?”

Fuck.

Despite his words, his hips lift slightly, seeking more of your touch. “Please, just... let me...” He swallows hard, hands gripping your waist as he looks up at you with hazy, desire-filled eyes. “...let me make you feel good.” His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your bottom, brushing against the bare skin of your stomach, leaving tingles in their wake.

“Tell me what you want. I'll do anything... anything you want.” His voice is a needy whisper, one you knew you couldn’t resist now.

Your eyes darken with lust as you take in the sight of Dick beneath you, seeing the desperation etched into every line of his body. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his heart is pounding against your chest, the tremble of his fingers as they dig into the fabric of your suit.

Slowly, teasingly, you slide your hand lower, palming the growing bulge in his pants. You can feel him, hot and hard, straining against the confines of his costume.

Dick lets out a strangled groan, his hips bucking up into your touch, seeking more friction.

Boldly, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants and slowly, torturously, begin to tug them down. The fabric resistive at first, but with a final, sharp tug, you yank them down, exposing his bare skin to the cool air of the room.

Dick's cock springs free, long and cute and perfect, the tip already glistening with precum. It twitches as the air hits it, and you can't help but lick your lips at the sight. You wrap your hand around his shaft, feeling the weight of him, the heat, the way he pulses in your grip.

Dick is panting now, his eyes glazed over with lust as he stares up at you, taking in the sight of you looming over him, his cock in your hand. He looks wrecked, destroyed, completely at your mercy, and it sends a thrill through you, a rush of power and desire.

You stroke him slowly, teasingly, watching as he writhes beneath you, his body arching into your touch. You can feel him leaking more, his cock throbbing in your hand, and you know he won't last much longer at this rate.

So you lean down, your breasts brushing against his chest as you murmur in his ear, your breath hot against his skin. “That's it, baby... just like that. You feel so good... I can't wait to taste you.”

You take your time, stroking him with long, deliberate movements from base to tip. Your hand is soft and warm, encircling his thick shaft completely as you work him over. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way he throbs and twitches in your grip.

Dick's breath comes in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he struggles to maintain control. His eyes flutter shut, brows furrowed in concentration, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Soft, breathless moans spill from his lips with every upward stroke, the sounds growing louder, more desperate as you continue your ministrations.

As you pick up the pace, pumping him faster, his reactions become more intense. His hips start to lift, meeting your strokes, fucking up into your fist with a desperate hunger. Quiet, strangled moans spill from his lips, each one making your own desire peak in response.

“Fuck... Dickie, you like that, huh? Like how you’re fucking my fist, don’t you? Such a good boy..”

You watch, as Dick’s face contorts with pleasure. His brows furrow, teeth sinking into his lower lip hard enough to leave indentations. The tendons in his neck strain as his head tips back, throat bared to you in a silent offering. His eyes, when they meet yours, are hazy and dark, the blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.

The wet sounds of your hand moving over his cock fill the small space, obscenely loud in the charged silence. You can feel him leaking more, his precum making your strokes slicker, easier. His cock is red and angry, the head an almost painful shade of pink, the slit weeping with his desire.

You lean down, your breasts brushing against his heaving chest as you bring your mouth to his ear. Your lips brush the shell of it as you whisper, your voice low and heavy with lust. “That's it, baby... doesn't it feel good? Doesn't it feel amazing to have my hand wrapped around this big and needy cock of yours? I can feel how much you want it... how much you want me...”

Dick shudders, his body wracking with sensation as he listens to your words. A broken whimper escapes him, his voice hoarse and wrecked as he manages to gasp out, “F-Fuck… please, (Name)… I need you so bad…”

You never knew how much you needed him begging for you until now. And god did it feel good.

You can feel his desperation, his absolute need for release. And you're going to make him work for it. Slowly, torturously, you increase the speed of your strokes, squeezing just a bit tighter, twisting your wrist on the upstroke.

Dick is panting now, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His face is flushed, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight as he tries to hold back. But you can see the way his body is tensing, the way his cock is throbbing harder, leaking more steadily against your palm.

“(Name)... I can't... I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna...” His words dissolve into a guttural moan, his entire body going rigid.

You feel his cock throb and twitch in your grip, and then with a hoarse cry of your name, he's coming undone. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupt from his cock, painting your hand and his stomach with his release. His body shudders and jerks through each wave of pleasure, his hand gripping yours like a vice.

You work him through it, stroking him through each aftershock, feeling his cock pulse and twitch against your fingers until finally, he collapses back against the wall, chest heaving, skin sheened with sweat. He looks utterly debauched, hair disheveled, lips kiss-swollen and parted around shallow breaths. His eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, struggling to regain some semblance of coherence.

Slowly, you bring your hand up to your mouth, making a show of licking his spend from your fingers, my tongue swirling around each digit, ensuring he can see every last bit of him disappearing between your lips. Dick watches closely, his chest still rising and falling rapidly, a fresh wave of desire washing over his eyes as he takes in the sight of you licking his cum off your hand.

“Mmm, you taste good, Dick,” You purr, wrapping your hand around his re-hardening shaft, giving him a slow, teasing stroke. “I could get used to this view—you, all wrecked and wanting, cock throbbing and ready to go again already.” You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, “You really are an overachiever, aren't you?”

You can feel him shiver against you, his hips lifting slightly into your touch. You grin, pulling back to look at him with a wicked gleam in your eyes. Then, slowly, you reach back and unzip the rest of your suit, peeling the tight material down your body until you’re just left in your panties.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband and tug them down, baring your dripping cunt to his hungry gaze.

Dick's eyes widen as he takes in the sight of you, his tongue licking his lips as he stares at your glistening folds. You grab his hand, guiding it between your legs, pressing his fingers against your aching clit. He inhales sharply at the contact, feeling the slick heat of your arousal coating his digits.

“Fuck, (Name).…you're so wet.” He breathes, his fingers starting to move on their own, stroking along your slit, feeling how ready you are for him. “Is this...is this because of me?”

You moan softly, rolling your hips against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. “Yes, birdie...it's all for you,” You gasp, your head falling back as his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. “I'm so fucking turned on right now, and it's all because of you.”

You reach down and grab his wrist, guiding his hand to move faster, to press harder against your clit. You grind against him, coating his fingers in your slick arousal, your body trembling with need. You can feel how hard he is, his cock throbbing and leaking against your ass, and you know he wants you just as badly.

Without warning, you shift your hips, positioning yourself so that the head of his cock brushes against your entrance. You feel him gasp, his fingers pausing in their movements as he realizes what you’re about to do. You look down at him, your expression one of pure, unadulterated lust, and then you sink down.

You take him in inch by delicious inch, your walls stretching around his thick length, wrapping him in your tight, wet heat. You both moan at the sensation, your bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces, made to be joined like this. You don't stop until you’re fully seated on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside your clit, pressing against his pelvis.

“Oh fuck, Dick...” You whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sensual grind. “You feel so fucking good inside me.”

Your words seem to spur him on, and he starts to thrust up to meet you, his hips lifting off the ground to drive his cock deeper into your needy cunt. The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, your moans and cries of pleasure echoing off the metal walls. You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate, and you know he won't last much longer.

“Come on, baby,” You pant, your voice high and breathless as you ride him harder, faster, chasing your own release. “Come inside me. I want to feel you come inside me, Dick. Please...please come for me.”

With a final, harsh thrust, you grind down against Dick. His eyes widen as he feels your walls clench around him, your words pushing him over the edge.

He pistons his hips up harder, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with each punishing thrust. He leans in, burying his face between your breasts, his mask brushing against your skin as he suckles and nips at the soft mounds, leaving marks of possession in his wake.

“Fuck, (Name)...you feel too good,” he pants against your skin, his voice a low, guttural rasp. “So good...”

His words dissolve into a strangled moan as his thrusts become erratic, losing their rhythm as he teeters on the brink of climax. He's so close, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside your clenching walls, your arousal dripping down his shaft with each thrust.

“Ngh— fuck..” he hisses out, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he holds you down, making sure you take every last drop of his seed. You can feel the hot, thick ropes of his release painting your insides, dripping down onto his lap and the floor below, filling you up just as you'd begged him to do.

You're both panting hard, chests heaving as you come down from your highs. You slump against his chest, completely spent, your body still twitching with the aftershocks. Dick's arms wrap around you, holding you close, his face buried in your hair as he tries to catch his breath.

You can't help but smile, cupping his face in your hands and pulling him in for a slow, deep kiss. You pour all of your satisfaction, all of your desire, all of your growing feelings for him into that kiss. When you finally pull away, you're both smiling, both looking at each other like you can't quite believe this is real.

But then, Dick's eyes widen in realization as the final pulses of his release subside, his softening cock still buried deep inside your fluttering heat. A look of panic flashes across his face beneath the mask as the gravity of what just happened sinks in.

“I...fuck, I'm so sorry,” he starts, voice shaking with remorse. “I didn't mean to... shit, I shouldn't have...”

But you silence him with a searing kiss, your lips crashing against his in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of apologies. You pour every ounce of passion and hunger into the kiss, your tongue delving into his mouth, tangling with his own. For a moment, Dick is stunned, his body stilling beneath you as he allows you to plunder his mouth.

When you finally pull back, your chests heaving, you fix him with a stern look. “Didn't I tell you not to apologise?” you demand, voice low and firm. “I know exactly what I wanted, and I wanted this. I wanted to feel you come inside me, Dick.”

Dick swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “But I didn't use a condom,” he argues weakly. “I could have...we could have...”

You place a finger against his lips, silencing him once more. “Shh. I know the risks. But where’s the fun in not taking them?”

Dick's eyes search yours, a war raging behind those hidden depths. Slowly, hesitantly, he nods, your finger falling away from his lips. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Fine, you win, Cat.”

A slow, shy smile curves your lips as you lean in to press a soft kiss to his jaw, your body still nestled against his, his release cooling inside you. “Good,” you whisper against his skin. “Because I think we're going to be stuck in here for a while,” you say with a grin, glancing around at the small, enclosed space. “You’re going to have to deal with me a little longer, Robin.”

Dick laughs, a real, genuine sound that makes your heart flutter in your chest, his hands sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. “You're insatiable,” he accuses, but there's no bite to his words, only a grudging sort of awe.

“But I think I can handle that,” he says, pulling you down for another kiss. “Especially if it means more of this.”

You nipped at his earlobe before soothing it with your tongue.

“You're just now figuring that out?”

—

Safe to say, Batman found you both a few hours later, and him and Selina lectured you both about the need for protection. (At least you were on the pill.)

All Rights Reserved © Works are exclusive to this Tumblr

[raven-alate]

Hello can I very kindly ask Jason Todd smut where reader asks Jason to put a baby in them and Jason very consensually yet disrespectfully did just that? It would be a dream thank you

Pairing - Jason Todd X (F)Reader Words - 2.6K Warnings - SMUT 18+ - Graphic Sexual Content - Breeding!Kink - Size!Kink (he’s a big boy and I am here for it) - Praise!Kink - Hair Pulling - Jason is a bit of a meanie - Wall Sex - Swearing - No plot, just porn - Unprotected sex - So much Dirty Talk - Fluff. Notes -  Babbbyyyy, yes of course!! Jason Todd is a disrespectful little shit but good fucking god I would let this man ruin me. Just fuck me up okay?? Fuck me uuupppppp. Hope you enjoy!! If you’ve got any other requests for either Jason or Dick, send em my way!!

**

He wrecks you from the inside out–twists your chest half open to shove himself between the tiny space of your ribs. He’s got a smart fucking mouth–tugs you straight into blinding tailspin with nothing more than a quick quirk of his lips and a bright flash of perfect teeth. Rough and mean but so incredibly kind and protective–a paradox wrapped in kevlar and littered with bruises.

Jason Todd can be something wicked when he wants to be–something calculating and devastating. He uses all that intellect and training and knowledge to take you apart piece by piece–he’s clever and quick witted and gets you wet with nothing more than a look.

He’s perfect and you love him but sometimes–good fucking god–

Sometimes you hate him.

“C’mon sweetheart, open up for me.” Jason grunts, there’s a feral gleam in his eyes, pupils blown wide and highlighting the thin ring of blue left behind. His teeth clash together with a snarl as he clenches his jaw and when he looks down at you–all pressed up against him like a goddamn gift–the sound that rips up his throat makes you tremble. “Baby–c’mon...please. Open up for me huh? Be a good girl.”

A heaving gasp shudders out from between your kiss swollen lips, head thunking backwards against the wall. The fat leaking head of his cock presses against your weeping hole, thick and blunt and too fucking big. A choked off gasp reverberates around the room when he dips his head and mouths at your jaw, teeth nipping over your pulse point.

“Y’wanted this darlin’,” He reminds you, words vibrating against your throat. “Y’asked me didn’t you? Asked so nicely for me to fuck a baby into you.” Jason holds you up with nothing more than the strength of his hips pinning you to the wall, fingers clamping around your knees–shoving your shaking thighs apart so he can press his heavy cock into you–but it just won’t fit. “Why won’t you let me in, sweetheart? I thought this was what you wanted–don’t you want me to cum in you? Don’t you wanna be full?”

Your body lights up like a solar flare, bright and burning and alive. You’ve always had a smart mouth–or maybe just no verbal filter–always thrown your opinion towards someone who’s stupid enough to listen. It’s gotten you into more trouble than it’s worth–rubs certain people the wrong way and you don’t exactly blame them…you’re a lot to handle.

Except Jason Todd took one look at you and decided that you’re it–smart mouth and all. Caught your eye and swept you straight up into his gravity without a second thought. Sometimes you think he might regret it a little–especially when you manage to piss off the wrong people–but he never fails to surprise you.

And when you jokingly asked him to put a baby in you, he surprised you yet again–made you eat your own words. Out of all his qualities, you think you like this one the best–love the fact he challenges you–puts you straight back in your place.

“Jay…” You plead, fingers scrambling for purchase over his broad shoulders. “Jay–please! M’tryin, I swear I am. You–you’re too fuckin–hng–” Tears bubble up along your lower lashes, eyes wide and pleading. Your thighs flex against Jason’s firm grip and you feel him smirk over the hollow of your throat. “You’re too big…oh–please!”

“I just don’t think you’re trying hard enough baby. I mean, look how wet you are–your pussy is dripping for me, and you mean to tell me I won’t fit?” The horrible mocking tone of his voice makes you whine–makes your cunt clench up tight like a fist. Jason keeps you spread open, thighs split wide around his hips so he can rub the length of his cock through your slit–he drags the fat head from your clenching hole to your clit–the sensation sparking like electricity through your veins. “M’gonna make it fit sweetheart, gonna stretch your little pussy open and fill you up.”

Catching his leaking tip at the weeping entrance of your cunt he groans something feral in your ear and shoves forwards–hips flexing and thick muscular thighs straining. He sinks halfway into your tight little hole before stopping, breath catching hard in his lungs when you clamp down around his length and stop him in his tracks.

Jason glances down your body, sharp eyes fixating on the sight of your puffy cunt swallowing his cock inch by inch. Pulling back he surges forwards and rocks into you, dragging a low moan from your mouth as he grinds against the swollen mess of your clit.

“Jay–” You keen, eyes rolling backwards into your skull. “Oh…please, please put a baby in me–please!”

He chuckles, throat thick with lust, “Y’have to let me in first baby–gotta let me into your sweet cunt. C’mon, it’s not that hard. Why won’t you open up, huh?”

“S’too big!” You wail, blinking back tears. “Y’too big, Jay. It won’t fit.”

Jason snarls, tugging you forwards and slamming you back against the wall, eyes wild. Sweat dots along his hairline, teeth gritted into a mean little growl. The tension in his arms makes the muscles bulge, thick veins puffing up along his biceps–you feel almost drunk on him, on his scent, on the dangerous look in his eyes.

“It’s not too big, you’ve taken it before baby–haven’t you? Fucked yourself on my cock until you’ve cried and creamed all over it like a little slut. It’s not too big–” He thrusts forwards, finally getting your walls to open up–to yield to him. “There you go–see, it wasn’t that hard.” He purrs.

You both moan as he sinks into you with a satisfying stretch, voices catching together and reverberating off the walls. Pressing your forehead to Jason's, you sob at the wet sound of your pussy squelching around him–slick leaking around the sides of his cock and smearing over his navel.

It’s almost too much, “Please Jay–shit, fuuck–please. I-I can’t, oh god–I can’t.”

Drawing back then surging forwards he fucks into you hard enough to make your whole body jolt, “I don’t care. You can take it–you will. I’m gonna make you take it. Y’asked me for this sweetheart, begged me to put a baby in you and that’s exactly what i’m gonna do.”

You hate him–hate how he stuffs your own words back down your throat, makes you choke on each stupid vowel. But good fucking god if it doesn’t make you wet–makes you want to clamp down around him and come and come and come.

Rocking your hips up against his harsh grip you try to get him deeper–try to get the fat head of his cock pressed as far inside your soaking cunt as possible. Jason groans low and thick in your ear, his breath fanning down your neck and dragging a shudder up your spine. His fingers flex around your knees and he hoists you higher up the wall–spreads your thighs even wider.

“Touch yourself for me sweetheart, wanna feel your pretty pussy squeezin’ me.”

Clamping one hand on his shoulder you use the other to snake between your bodies. Brushing down your stomach you press the pad of your finger to your clit–it twitches hard at the contact and you moan, pleasure sparking white hot all over. Dipping down to where Jason stuffs his cock into your weeping hole you gather your wetness and smear it over your cunt.

Circling your clit you rub over it with tight circles, pressure firm and unwavering. Opening your mouth on a heaving gasp you moan when Jason presses his mouth to your own, teeth sinking into your bottom lip and firing that perfect hint of pain through your veins. Licking into your mouth he slides his tongue against your own and you drool at the taste of him–find yourself chasing his mouth when he pulls back with a cocky grin.

“C’mon baby, don’t you want to come for me?” He teases, fucking into you at a steady pace, cock hitting all the most perfect parts inside you. He mouths along your jawline, nipping at your pounding pulse before sucking a mark there–just because he can, because he wants you to look at it and think of him. “M’not filling you up until you come sweetheart ‘nd I’m real fuckin’ close so you better hurry up.”

“Ah–shit. Okay, okay…just–please don’t–” Clamping around his length hard, your pussy convulses—almost like you’re trying to push him out—clit swelling against your fingers. Throwing your head back you moan, voice high and breathy. Your head feels fuzzy, eyes unfocused.

“Don’t what?” Jason urges, lips quirking up at the edges at the pretty fucked out look on your face. “Don’t what baby?”

Teetering on the edge of oblivion you feel tears burn at the backs of your eyes. The pleasure feels alive inside you–feels like it’s going to make you burst at the seams.

“Oh god, Jason! Don’t stop–please don’t stop!” Your body shakes in his grasp, muscles trembling as you reach out and touch the edge of orgasm. You trail off into a heaving babble, words sticking against the inside of your mouth. “Please–please! M’so close.”

“M’not gonna stop baby. Not for anythin’” He assures you, doubling his efforts and slamming his cock into you at a pace that borders pain–strong hips knocking against your own and sending you directly into the goddamn stratosphere. “Come on, y’want to be a good girl for me don’t you? Come for me sweet girl, wanna feel you.”

You’ve never been one to deny him–Jason Todd deserves everything good in the world, the least you can give him is this.

You clamp down like a vice, pussy pulsing around his thick girth. Every twitch of your puffy clit makes you cry out, voice hoarse and pleading. Your cunt gushes, slick seeping around his cock and smearing over his navel and upper thighs. The sensation makes heat scathe up your neck, embarrassment skittering over your skin—you’re making such a mess.

“That’s it pretty girl–so good for me.” Jason coos, soft mouth slanting over your own and swallowing the desperate noises ripping up your throat. His pace refuses to falter and the overstimulation makes you want to flinch away, but you’re trapped between his unyielding body and the wall. Wetness coats the length of his cock enabling him to rock into your cunt without resistance–the slick slide of him rubbing over that sensitive spot inside you.

Your orgasm starts to fade, but Jason doesn’t stop, just keeps going, pounding into your pussy without restraint. Copper coats your tongue when your teeth sink into his lower lip, skin splitting under the strain and smearing over your mouth. He pulls back and stares you down, mouth twitching into a feral grin–blood coats his teeth, you think he gets off on the taste of it–you do too.

“Jay,” You gasp, “I-I can’t–fuck.”

“Shut up.” He grunts, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. “I’ll make you take it.” Your vision whites out at the edges and Jason’s furious rhythm begins to falter, thrusts turning sloppy and uncoordinated. Tangling your fingers into the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck you pull–hard. “Shit! Fuck–do that again, baby, please d’that again!”

Tightening your fist you wrench his head back–expose his throat–and he moans, all low and pretty, eyes rolling back into his skull. His cock twitches in your cunt–getting impossibly harder. You know he’s close–can feel him tremble against you.

“You’re so pretty, Jay.” You grin, dragging your teeth over his throat and sucking a dark mark there. He preens under your words, chest heaving. “C’mon pretty boy, can you come for me? Want you to fill me up, Jay. Want you to put a baby in me.”

His voice cracks when he calls your name in warning, jamming his cock as far into your cunt as it’ll go, thighs shaking–full balls pulling up tight. Rocking your hips up against him you press soft little kisses over his neck, fingers still fisted in his hair as he comes.

He absolutely floods your pussy, come spilling out around the edges of his cock–you feel it dripping warm and sticky down the inside of your thighs. Clamping your squishy walls around his length Jason whines, grinding his pulsing cock into you as he pumps rope after rope of come into you.

“You’re so good for me, Jason. Such a good boy.”

Carding your fingers through his hair he sags under your touch as he comes down, harsh breaths evening out. Wrapping your legs over his hips, Jason hooks his hands under your thighs to hold you against him, cock still trapped in your pussy–preventing his release from spilling out of you.

“You’re such a little shit. Y’know that?” Jason grumbles, pressing his forehead to your own.

“Me?” You croak, mildly outraged. “I haven’t done a single thing wrong in my life.” Pulling back and pinning you with a deadpan stare Jason raises an eyebrow. “Alright, fine! I may have done a few stupid things–but no more than like…five.”

“Seriously? Five.”

“Shh.” You say, smothering a yawn. “Unless the next word out of your mouth is pizza, m’not listening.”

He’s silent for a beat, eyes softening as he drinks you in–flushed and sweaty and beautiful. There’s a quick skip of your heart, a surge of warmth flowing through your veins. Sometimes, when you look at him, you can’t believe he chose you–looked at you and decided that out of everyone, you deserve his time and attention. If you think about it too much, you know that you’ll cry–his love doesn’t come easy and you know that for the rest of your life, you’ll prove to him that it’s worth it.

“I love you.” Jason smiles, all crooked and perfect and yours.

“What was that? I wasn’t listening.”

Biting back a smile he leans in and kisses you–all slow and tender. The gentle push and pull of his mouth makes your eyes flutter shut, hand cupping the nape of his neck to hold him there. Licking into his mouth you sigh at the taste of him, tongues sliding together. Your lungs start to burn and you lean back, breaking the kiss to suck in a full breath.

Jason looks at you–sharp eyes flickering over your face. Having his full, undivided attention sometimes makes you uneasy. He’s a calculating son-of-a-bitch when he wants to be, and he’s managed to catch you off guard more than once. You wonder for a brief moment what’s going through his head.

Sweeping your fingers over the back of his neck you feel him shudder.

“I love you.”

No matter how many times you tell him, Jason still gets a whisper soft look of awe on his face–almost like he can’t believe that you’re real, like he can’t comprehend the fact that you love him. It breaks your heart each time, the fact that someone as precious as him doubts that any ounce of love towards him could be real.

Cupping his flushed cheeks you brush your thumbs over his cheekbones and tip his head down. Pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead you linger for a beat before releasing him from your hold and allowing him to raise his head to look at you.

Waiting for his eyes to meet your own you smile, mouth lifting up at the edges.

“I love you.” You repeat, firmer, more insistent.

His watery smile breaks over you like the dawn and you know that Jason Todd holds your heart in the palm of his hands.

**

[raven-alate]

Can we talk about how Dick would just love to eat pussy though 🤌🏻 He keeps you pinned down by the hips, head buried between your thighs and says he's going to keep you just like that until *he's* done 🤤

Pairing - Dick Grayson X (F) Reader Words - 1.4K Warnings - SMUT 18+ - Graphic Sexual Content - Oral Sex (Female Receiving) - Mean!Dick - Slight Degradation - Overstimulation. Notes - Stop stop I'm already dead. Hfudhfuhf i’m never going to recover from this. I am respectfully resting in everything but peace. I am resting disrespectfully. I’m resting like a whore.

**

Sometimes you think he was born at the centre of a dying star.

Birthed in the face of something powerful, something beautiful, something unbelievably explosive. You think he’s one-in-a-million, utterly unique, bleeds compassion and patience and embodies everything good in the world. Think he took all the qualities of a supernova and wrapped himself in it, curled into its embrace and refused to leave. Became someone bright and alive and deadly.

You don’t blame yourself for being swept into his orbit, never would have been able to resist his pull. Dick Grayson is larger than life itself, holds your beating heart in the palm of his hands. To love him is a privilege, to hold him between your own two hands is something precious, something rare.

And when he loves you back, you think you understand how he was born. All that weight and energy collapsing in on itself to create something incomprehensible, something bright and burning and without words.

You’ll love him for the rest of your life if he lets you.

Providing he doesn’t kill you by sending you into cardiac arrest first.

Voice slurred with sleep, you call out into the dark, “Wha–?”

There’s warm hands sliding between your knees, nudging them apart and rousing you from sleep. You blink through the dark, disbelieving and swimming in confusion. Pressing your hand over the top of the covers your fingers trace the outline of broad shoulders.

“Sweetheart,” Dick croaks from between your legs, fingers pressing into your thighs and forcing them apart. “Baby, wanna taste you, miss eating your pretty pussy.”

Pressing his mouth against your inner thigh Dick drags his tongue over the sensitive skin, forcing your back to arch into his firm hands. Biting on the soft flesh he walks the pads of his fingers up and over your hips, slips under your shirt to paw at your breasts.

“Dick,” You mewl, dipping your hands under the covers to sweep through his hair. “What are you doing? It’s four in the morning.”

Pinching at your nipple you shudder, goosebumps rippling down your arms and across your stomach. Dick smiles against your skin, clever mouth steadily working its way up your leg. Stopping at your underwear he presses his tongue over the fabric, gets it damp; sticks it to the wet lips of your cunt.

“Shh,” He says, “Can’t I eat my girl out? Don’t you want me to lick your pussy?”

Groaning under your breath you swear, “You’re fucking insatible.”

“S’not my fault you taste so good, sweetheart.”

Hooking his arms around your thighs he drags you down the bed, tilts your hips so you’re spread out beneath his pretty mouth. Licking along the wet fabric of your underwear from entrance to clit you whine and try to rock your hips up for more pressure, unsatisfied with the barrier.

Clamping his hands around your hips Dick forces you to remain still, uses the strength in his arms to hold you down. Sucking at your throbbing clit through your underwear you throw your head back and try to clamp your thighs around his head. You feel him grin against you before he starts tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with his tongue.

Moaning desperately, your fingers tighten in his hair, “Please take them off.” 

“I don’t know sweetheart, if you can’t handle it with them on, m’not sure I should be taking them off. Maybe I should keep them on, make you come in them instead.”

“No.” You whine, shaking your head and tugging at his hair. “I can barely feel anything. Please–please take them off.”

Ignoring your pleas Dick goes back to pressing his tongue against your clit, sweeping it back and forth, sucking it between his lips and making it twitch. Trying to guide his head where you want it most he growls and moves one hand to slap your inner thigh.

Arching violently you whimper, “Dick–baby, please…you’re being mean.”

Pulling his mouth away he slaps your pussy and you jolt, “M’not being mean, you’re just being pathetic.”

Choking on a fractured breath you try to twist and kick him in the side, but Dick is quick enough to catch your leg and pin it to the mattress. An amused chuckle rumbles through his chest at your frustration and he hovers over your underwear, not quite touching, just letting his breath blow over the fabric.

Pulling at his hair you grumble, “Dick, I swear to fucking god if you keep teasing me like this i’ll–”

Sinking his teeth into your inner thigh he bites down hard enough to leave a perfect indent of his teeth behind. Licking over the marks as you tremble in his hold he spreads your legs wider, leans more of his weight against you to stop you fidgeting.

“You’ll what, sweetheart?” He teases, voice touching the edge of cruel. “I don’t think you can do much of anything other than take what I give you. And believe me, I won’t be giving you very much if you keep this up.”

Tears burn at the backs of your eyes. Making an effort to relax you try to control the reflective thrust of your hips as Dick goes back to sucking at your clit. Moaning quietly your fingers shake against his scalp as he drags his tongue over the throbbing little nub. Wetness soaks into your underwear and Dick groans as your taste seeps through.

Finally hooking his thumbs into the elastic of your underwear he tugs them down your legs, allowing you to lift your hips to slide them off. Burying his face into your pussy he gives you a long, slow lick from leaking hole to swollen clit, collecting your wetness on his tongue as he goes.

Without the barrier you feel every stroke of his talented mouth and you moan, muscles twitching with the urge to grind up against his face. Slipping your clit between his lips he sucks, lavishing attention on it with his tongue.

“Ah–fuck.” You cry out, “Dick, please, don’t stop, s’good.”

Removing one hand from over your hip he teases your entrance, rubbing the pads of his fingers over your soaking hole. Waiting for your slick to drip over his hand he traces letters on your clit, measuring your reactions to each one. Pushing forwards he slides two fingers into your cunt, up to the second knuckle. Crooking his fingers he slowly starts to fuck you, settling into a steady rythym that has you quaking.

Sweeping the hair from his eyes you arch your back, press your hips up towards his mouth, “Oh, Dick please. I’m–m’gonna…”

Pressing the flat of his tongue to your clit he gives it long, hard licks, letting you feel every intentional twitch of his mouth. Moaning into your pussy Dick grinds his hips into the bed. Your wet walls clamp around his fingers, knowing he’s hard and grinding his cock into the mattress.

Grinding up against his mouth you fight his firm grip as he tries to hold you still. The strength in his arms makes you feel lightheaded, maybe even intoxicated, fingers touching up against the edge of bruising.

“M’gonna come,” You babble, eyes slipping closed. “Please don’t stop, m’so so close.”

Your limbs lock up, thighs tensing for a solid few seconds as you dangle on the bleeding edge of orgasm. Dick wraps his lips around your hard, throbbing clit and sucks, one, twice, three times and you cry out, voice reverberating around the apartment.

There’s a desperate twitch of your clit in his mouth, cunt spasming around Dick’s nimble fingers as you come. Licking and sucking you through your climax his fingers keep sliding in and out of you, even though your slick gushes around his hand and drips onto the sheets.

“Hng–Dick.” You whine, trying to push his head away. “S-stop, s’too much. M’too sensitive.”

He pulls away for a split second, looks up at you from between your legs, eyes almost black and smirks.

“Oh baby,” He drawls, “M’gonna keep going until i’m done. This isn’t about you. If you can’t handle it then too bad, I don’t care. I’ll make your pretty pussy come until i’m finished. All you need to do is lay there and take it.”

**

[raven-alate]

thinking about verbally teasing Dick as much as he does to you.

Maybe while he is fucking you from behind you are whimpering and grabbing the sheets so he goes "You are such a baby, I'm going to stop because you can take it" thinking you are going to whine and fuck yourself on his cock when he stops, instead you look over your shoulder and go "When did you start?". my boy would sNAP.

anyways I love you writing

Pairing - Dick Grayson X (F) Reader Words - 1.4k Warnings - SMUT 18+ - Graphic Sexual Content - Swearing - Degradation- Rough Sex - Choking - Multiple Orgasms - Hair Pulling - Begging - Mean!Dick - No plot, just porn. Notes - wHO gave you the right to say this to me?? How dare you put this image in my godawful brain. You’re so right, he would absolutely snap and make you regret saying it 😵‍💫 I’m about to explode hHhhh.

**

You think you’re going to tear a hole through the bedsheets. Fingers white-knuckled around the fabric and aching. There’s something keening and desperate swirling through your veins–something hot and alive under your skin. All the muscles along your back are tight and flexing as you struggle to form a coherent thought. You think you’re going to snap in half.

The only words echoing around in your skull are, Dick, Dick, Dick.

It’s almost criminal how he manages to switch your head off, turn it to the soft static of a dead TV channel and wring every last drop of pleasure from your body simultaneously.

You think it’s a talent, maybe halfway to a goddamn curse.

Face down ass up on the bed you think you’re ready to touch the edge of time itself, vision blurring black at the edges when Dick smooths his rough hand down your trembling spine–along the pretty arc of your back–to settle at the nape of your neck.

Flexing his hips he forces the last few inches of his cock into your cunt, moaning under his breath when your walls clamp around him like a wet fist. With his free hand he grabs your waist, your hip, the delicious curve of your ass, rocks you back on his length until you’re flush to his hips.

Holding you down with one hand he almost pulls out, leaving just the fat, leaking head of his cock in your slick hole. You whine, long and low, hips pushing back to try and get him inside you again. Dick chuckles, if you close your eyes you can see the pretty line of his mouth, see the self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips—it’s infuriating, you want to swing it back around on him, take the control he has over you and wield it like a weapon.

“Please.” You gasp, writhing under his firm grip. “Dick, please.” You’re leaking around his cock, wetness dripping slowly onto the sheets below. Your face is burning, he’s never done this before, made you wait. Your shoulders flex as you twist your fingers in the sheets, a frustrated moan tumbling from your mouth. “Stop being so mean.”

Curling his fingers around his cock, Dick strokes himself from base to almost tip, “You know, I’d take you more seriously if you weren’t this fucking wet. I mean, baby, you’re literally dripping. Maybe I should jerk off just like this and come in your leaky pussy without giving you anything else, huh?” He muses and you shake your head, thighs trembling.

“No please–oh god–just…Dick please s’not fair.” Shushing you gently–mockingly–he hooks his thumbs under the swell of your ass and spreads your cunt apart, watches your swollen clit twitch as your own slick dribbles over it.

Grabbing you by the waist he thrusts forwards, hard and fast and utterly perfect. The thick girth of him stretches you open, walks the fine line between pleasure and pain and you’re ready to cry from it.

Gasping wetly you choke out broken moans, each harsh thrust forcing a needy wail from between your lips. Dick keeps you spread apart so he can watch the way his cock sinks into you, can watch how each time he pulls out he’s wetter than before, length shiny and slick. The sight is almost enough to make him empty his balls then and there, makes him want to bury himself in your sweet cunt and come until it’s leaking out of you.

Trembling underneath his firm body your knees shake, every muscle tense and threatening to collapse underneath you. Dick notices of course, he’s always tuned in, even when he’s balls deep inside you. You don’t mind that he notices, hell, it makes you even wetter knowing that he’s so tuned into your body that he recognises each little tell it gives away. You do, however, hate that he uses it against you.

“You’re such a fucking baby.” He mutters, pulling all the way out and leaving your cunt clenching on nothing. “I’m going to have to stop fucking you because you just can’t take it.”

Your reaction is reflective, you wonder if he’s managed to switch off your verbal filter. Or more likely, you want to tease him as much as he does you, even though your pussy is weeping for his cock.

“When did you start?”

The Earth holds its breath and you feel the air around you crackle violently, in the back of your head, you wonder if he’s holding his escrima sticks. The crackle feels a lot like electricity, almost like being struck by lightning.

Grabbing a fistful of your hair Dick wrenches you upwards until your back is flush to his sweaty chest. Your hands fly to your head with a startled cry, shaking fingers trying to dislodge his grip but he’s too strong, too unyielding.

“Excuse me?” He hisses, low and dark and threatening in your ear. His other hand snakes up your chest, fingers resting over your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, waiting. “You wanna say that again?”

Your mouth quirks up at the edges, thrilled at the reaction. Opening your mouth to speak, Dick suddenly tightens his hand around your throat, cutting your words off into a garbled moan. All the blood in your body rushes to your head, you feel drunk, giddy, nervous and so turned on you feel like you could come just like this, with nothing more than his hand around your neck.

“You’re such an ungrateful slut. Here I am, fucking you nice and hard, making you so wet you’re drenching my sheets and you go and say something like that.” His voice makes you quake, there's something dangerous lingering between his words. He’s too calm, too controlled. Relaxing his fist you suck in a breath and the rush of oxygen has you shaking. “M’gonna make you regret saying that, baby.”

His tone is dark and suddenly, you want to apologise.

Pushing you face down on the bed Dick shoves the full length of his throbbing cock into your pussy, the slick slide of him giving you something to clamp down on. A gasp heaves up your throat when he pulls back only to push forwards again, setting a punishing pace that has you mewling and clawing at the sheets around you in desperation.

The fat head of his cock brushes over that soft, sensitive spot inside you and you can’t help it, you come.

“I can’t believe you.” Dick snarls, not once faltering as you clamp down around him and start sobbing. “Cumming on my cock like a greedy slut after what you said. You don’t even deserve to come, baby. Don’t even deserve to be fucked.”

“M’sorry,” You cry, “Please, I’m sorry.”

Grabbing you by the hair he drags you up, presses you against his chest and keeps going. The new angle has your eyes fluttering shut, slick running down the inside of your thighs. Reaching behind your head with one hand you try to touch Dick, try to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull.

But he doesn’t let you.

Keeping one hand in your hair he uses the other to wrench your wrist behind your back. Holding it firm, Dick pushes it up the middle of your back until the discomfort makes you whine, tears burning at the back of your eyes.

Huffing out a laugh he presses his mouth to the shell of your ear, “Don’t bother apologising now, baby, it’s not going to make a difference.” Untangling his hand from your hair he reaches around your hip and finds your clit. Circling it with his fingers he shoves your wrist higher up your back when you squirm and thrash against him, trying to flinch away. “Am I fucking you now? Or is this still not enough for you?”

“Dick…oh–fuck! M’sorry, please, it’s enough–I swear, it’s enough.”

“I don’t know, baby. M’not convinced.” Ripping a second orgasm from your trembling body he groans as you clamp and throb around him, clit twitching against the pads of his fingers.

“S’too much, I can’t.” You heave, breath coming out in fractured pants.

“Be quiet.” Dick grunts, continuing to play with your swollen, oversensitive clit. “You’ll take what I give you and be fucking thankful for it.”

You’ve decided it’s a curse. Definitely a curse.

**

[raven-alate]

We Got Love // J. Todd x f!reader

requested? yes!

WARNINGS: none

summary: Jason comes home from patrol with a tight back. You offer to help.

“For Gotham’s scariest vigilante, you’re kind of pathetic.”

Your statement was met with a groan, low and gravelly thanks to the modulator in the helmet. Red Hood rolled over from where he had slid through your window and sprawled out onto the floor. You rolled your eyes and shoved the blanket off of you so you could climb off of the couch and head for the first aid kit in the bathroom.

“What hurts?” you called.

“No blood,” Jason replied in his normal voice, indicating that he had removed his helmet. “My back hurts like a bitch though.”

“Well, yeah, babe. You launch yourself at buildings and use a grappling hook. It’s a miracle your back isn’t broken.”

Keep reading

[raven-alate]

LA VIE EN ROSE | kon el kent x reader

DC COMICS MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: smut, swearing

imagine this; Kon finds his girlfriend in lingerie and absolutely malfunctions—hard, fast, desperate, and completely hers.

It started with a harmless trip to the garage.

Kon was looking for a charger. Not the futuristic kind he could get from S.T.A.R. Labs, just the old blocky one that fit that one backup communicator. He was humming some random pop song under his breath, shirtless, hair a bit tousled from flying in earlier. That’s when he saw it—tucked behind an old box of Halloween decorations and a cooler that hadn’t been used since last summer.

A Victoria’s Secret bag. And not just that.

Right next to it, a La Vie en Rose one, the soft pink peeking through the white tissue paper like a secret waiting to be unwrapped.

His heart stopped.

No way.

Kon’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. He ran a hand through his hair and grinned, teeth flashing. “No way,” he muttered again, grabbing the bag carefully like it was sacred treasure.

You had never worn lingerie before—not that he minded. You in one of his t-shirts, bare-legged and sleepy-eyed, was enough to short-circuit his brain. But this? This felt like a sign from the heavens. Maybe you’d been planning a surprise. Maybe you were finally leaning into the whole “sexy superhero’s girlfriend” thing. Maybe—

He hovered into the house like a man on a mission.

“Babe!” he called, practically bouncing into the kitchen where you were sipping iced coffee and scrolling your phone. “Were you gonna tell me about this? Or were you planning on sneak attacking me with it?”

You blinked. “Tell you about what?”

He plopped the bags onto the counter with the most dramatic flair. “This. The finest kind of ambush.”

Your eyes widened when you saw the bags. “Oh my god. Where did you find those?”

“The garage,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Behind the cooler. Are we talking lace? Silk? Something red?”

You burst into laughter. Not a giggle, a full-body, can’t-breathe kind of laugh. Kon frowned, confused and a little concerned his dream was slipping away.

You wiped a tear from your eye. “Those aren’t mine, babe. That’s stuff I bought for my cousin’s bridal shower. I hid them in the garage because she lives two doors down and comes over unannounced.”

Kon’s expression cracked. “Wait… seriously?”

You nodded, still chuckling.

He looked at the bags like they betrayed him personally. “So you’re not gonna randomly show up in red lace and heels?”

You leaned in, smirking as you slid your arms around his waist. “Sorry, Superboy. Not today.”

He groaned dramatically, flopping his head back. “You hate me.”

“I do not hate you.”

“You’re denying me character development!”

You kissed his cheek. “Maybe I just like the way your brain malfunctions when I wear your flannel.”

That got him smiling again. He wrapped his arms around you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Okay… but if you ever want to malfunction me harder…”

You grinned. “You’ll be the first to know.”

“…and I’m allowed to keep hoping?”

“Sure.”

Kon smirked. “Cool. I’ll just be in the garage. Checking behind every box. Just in case.”

It had been a week since The Great Lingerie Letdown, and Kon hadn’t let it go.

Every so often, he’d toss out lines like, “Wonder what’s behind the rice cooker in the pantry…” or “Just gonna go check under the bed. You know. For science.”

You always rolled your eyes. But you were thinking. Planning. He did deserve a little malfunction.

You timed it perfectly. He was out late helping Nightwing track a rogue android in the city. The sun was down, the lights in the apartment dimmed, and you’d set the scene with soft music and warm lighting in the bedroom. Not too much—just enough glow to catch the shimmer of the little number you’d picked out just for him.

Silky black lace. A tiny bow at the center. Straps that sat high on your hips and a matching robe that slid off your shoulders like a whisper.

It wasn’t about the lingerie. It was about the look on his face you were hoping for.

So you waited, sitting casually on the bed with a book in hand, legs crossed like this was just another normal night.

You heard the familiar rush of air before the door even clicked open.

“Babe? I’m home. You wouldn’t believe how annoying androids are—”

He froze in the doorway.

Dead. Silent.

He blinked once. Then twice. His eyes trailed slowly down your figure like his brain couldn’t quite process what it was seeing.

You lowered your book and met his wide-eyed stare. “Hey, Kon. You find anything behind the rice cooker yet?”

He made a sound you couldn’t quite classify—part choke, part laugh, part whimper.

You stood up slowly, taking your time with each step as you walked toward him, the heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor. His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab you or drop to his knees in reverence.

When you stopped in front of him, you brushed your fingers lightly over his chest. “You gonna say something?”

“…I think I forgot how to talk,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Good. Then shut up and let me make you malfunction.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He didn’t even try to hide the way his hands found your waist, fingers twitching against the delicate fabric. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, like he was afraid one wrong move would make the vision in front of him disappear.

“Holy crap,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse. “You’re real. This is real. You—this is for me?”

You smirked, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck, leaning in close enough that your lips barely brushed his. “Took you long enough to find the secret stash.”

Kon’s breath hitched. You could feel the tension radiating off him—pure, electrified restraint.

“I’m trying so hard not to break the sound barrier right now,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t even understand.”

“Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

His mouth found yours with a sudden, desperate heat—like he’d been starving and you were the first taste of something real. His hands slid down, cupping the curve of your thighs as he lifted you effortlessly, walking the few steps to the bed without breaking the kiss. Your legs wrapped around his waist, body arching into him instinctively.

“You feel so…” he whispered against your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, your throat, down the curve of your collarbone. “God, baby. You’re unreal.”

You tugged at his shirt. “Then take this off. I want to feel you.”

He practically ripped it off. You made a mental note to stop buying him shirts—he clearly had a vendetta against them.

Once the fabric was gone, all you could do was admire the way his muscles moved under your hands—taut, warm, real. He laid you down gently, like you were something precious. Sacred. But his eyes? They were hungry. Wild. Focused. His fingers traced along the lace at your hips. “Can I…?”

“You can do anything you want, sweetheart.” That was it. That was all he needed.

The second you whispered “You can do anything you want,” it was like flipping a switch inside him.

Gone was the flustered, wide-eyed boyfriend who couldn’t believe his luck.

Now, his hands were everywhere—strong, possessive, like he needed to touch every part of you to believe you were real. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, your sighs, the way you whispered his name when his palm slid under the lace of your panties and found just how ready you were for him.

“Shit,” he hissed, lips brushing your ear as his fingers teased you—slow, patient at first, then with a growing confidence that made your thighs tremble around him. “You’re soaked. You did all this for me?”

“For you,” you breathed, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripping his bicep like a lifeline. “Just you.”

Kon groaned—a low, filthy sound that came from deep in his chest—and then he was pulling the lace down your thighs, dragging his tongue slowly along your inner thigh as he went.

“Wanna take my time,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Wanna taste you first.”

And he did.

God, he did.

He buried his face between your thighs like he’d been dreaming about it since the first time he met you. His tongue moved in slow, devastating circles, his hands pinning your hips down when you tried to squirm. And when you cried out his name, tugging hard on his hair? He groaned against you like it was the best thing he’d ever heard.

“You’re not gonna last long like this,” he teased, voice husky, smug.

“I don’t care—Kon—”

He didn’t stop until your whole body arched, trembling, crying out his name like a prayer and a curse in one breath. He watched you ride it out with a wild, starstruck look on his face, licking his lips like he’d found the sweetest thing in the world.

Then he was back up—rising from between your thighs with that same wild look in his eyes, lips wet, flushed and swollen from everything he’d just done to you. His mouth found yours in an instant, kissing you deep and messy, tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself on him. You whimpered into the kiss, overwhelmed, electric, your whole body still pulsing from his mouth.

He groaned at the way you kissed him back, your fingers threading into his thick black hair, tugging like you wanted him even closer—deeper. His hips rutted against yours in a slow, grinding roll, and you felt it: hard, hot, pressing against your center through the fabric of his jeans, so thick and heavy it made your thighs twitch in anticipation.

“Kon,” you gasped against his lips, your voice trembling. “I need you—now.”

Your fingers fumbled at his belt, frantic, clawing and tugging with shaking hands. You couldn’t get the buckle undone fast enough and let out a frustrated little sound that only made him grin—cocky, flushed, and barely holding back.

“Easy, baby,” he whispered, breath ghosting over your mouth. “I’ve got you.”

He kissed you again, softer this time—slower—and his hands moved to yours, helping you unbuckle his belt, popping open the button, dragging the zipper down with agonizing ease. You pushed at the denim, desperate to feel him without the barrier, and he chuckled low in his throat, voice thick with restraint.

“I’m not gonna last long if you keep looking at me like that.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered, breathless, needy. “I don’t care.”

His jeans hit the floor. The moment your hand wrapped around him through the thin fabric of his briefs, he shuddered, hips twitching into your touch.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a second, jaw clenched tight. “You’re gonna kill me.”

And when you slid those briefs down and he sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip—you sucked in a breath. He was perfect. And he was yours.

“Kon,” you whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in. “Please. Don’t tease. Just—please.”

He didn’t make you wait.

He grabbed your thigh with one hand, the other guiding himself to your entrance. And with one deep, slow thrust, he slid inside you—inch by thick inch—until your breath caught and your back arched against the sheets, overwhelmed by the fullness, the heat, the connection. His jaw clenching, your nails digging into his back. He was big, thick, the stretch just enough to make your back arch and your breath catch.

Kon groaned like the feeling physically broke him.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped, panting against your neck. “So warm—fuck, baby. I’m never gonna get enough of this.”

He paused for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, letting you both breathe, letting you adjust, and then—

Then he started to move—slow at first, a steady roll of his hips that let you feel every inch dragging against your walls. But that didn’t last long. The moment your nails dug into his back and you gasped his name like it burned, Kon snapped.

His control shattered.

He pulled back and thrust in hard—deep—drawing a strangled cry from your throat as your back arched. You clung to him, breath ragged, every inch of your body sparking under his touch. “God, baby…” he groaned, voice rough, breaking against your ear. “You feel so good—too good—I can’t—” Another thrust, faster, harder “I can’t stop.” You didn’t want him to. You didn’t need him to.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him in for another kiss that was all tongue and teeth and moaning into each other’s mouths. His pace picked up, hips pistoning into you with the kind of desperate rhythm that made the bed creak and the headboard slam softly against the wall.

You were soaked, your body welcoming him with each stroke, your legs locking tighter around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. Skin slapped against skin, sweat slick between you, the only sounds filling the room were your moans, his grunts, and the wet, filthy rhythm of him ruining you in the best way.

“You like this?” he panted, one hand gripping the headboard, the other squeezing your thigh as he fucked into you like he needed it to survive. “You want it harder? Say it, Y/N.”

You cried out, head thrown back. “Yes, Kon—harder—don’t stop—please don’t stop!” That flipped something in him.

He grunted, teeth gritted, and slammed into you harder, faster, rougher—every thrust making your breath hitch, every stroke hitting that perfect spot. You felt yourself building again, spiraling up fast, your body coiling like a wire about to snap. And Kon? He could feel it. “I can feel you, baby—shit, you’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

“Yes—yes—I’m—”

“Come on,” he growled, slamming into you with punishing force, his voice thick and shaky. “Come for me. Let me feel you—now.”

“Fuck, baby…” Kon swore under his breath, hips stuttering before finding a rhythm that had your eyes rolling back. “You feel like heaven.”

He made love to you like he was trying to burn the moment into time—deep, slow, grinding into you with each thrust like he needed you to feel how much he wanted you. But the longer it went on, the rougher he got—hips snapping, teeth grazing your neck, growling things like:

“No one else gets you like this.”

“You’re mine.”

“You wear this kind of thing again and I swear I’m never letting you leave the bed.”

“Say my name—let me hear it.”

You came with a cry—loud, raw, legs shaking around his waist as your whole body clenched around him. He groaned, deep and desperate, and after a few more stuttering thrusts, he was right there with you, cursing under his breath as he spilled inside you, hips jerking until he couldn’t move anymore. You stayed tangled together, skin on skin, his fingers lazily tracing your thigh as your breathing slowly synced.

He leaned down, kissing every inch he could reach, his touch turning from careful to confident—trailing fire across your skin. Every sigh you let out only pushed him further, until he was murmuring things you could barely register between gasps:

You arched up into him, your hand tangled in his hair, lips finding his again, softer this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that said: I love you. The kind that held trust, not just heat.

“You,” he muttered, kissing your shoulder, “are evil.”

You laughed, running a hand through his messy black hair. “Told you you’d malfunction.”

“…holy shit,” he whispered after a long beat, voice dazed and hoarse. “You definitely malfunctioned me.”

You laughed breathlessly, arms wrapped around him, your fingers tracing the sweat-slick lines of his back. “That was the plan.”

He smirked against your skin. “You’re gonna have to reboot me tomorrow morning.”

[raven-alate]

RAIN CHECK — dick grayson x reader

WARNINGS: smut, interrupted sex

The universe was actively conspiring against you and Dick Grayson.

It had been an entire month since you had gotten your hands on him properly, and every single time you tried, something interrupted. At first, it was almost funny—a minor inconvenience, a little bad luck. But after the sixth time? It was personal.

Attempt one: A perfect date night. Wine, candles, your dress slipping off your shoulders as Dick kissed down your neck. Then—his comms buzzed. Emergency. Gotham needed Nightwing.

Attempt two: A weekend getaway. Just the two of you in a cozy cabin. No crime, no distractions. Just as things were heating up? Your best friend called in full-blown crisis mode. She’d just been dumped and showed up at your door, crying into your robe.

Attempt three: The worst one. You were actually naked this time, pinned under him on your bed, fingers tangled in his hair, both of you breathless. Then—Alfred called. And you both knew better than to ignore that call.

And on and on it went.

A car chase. A literal explosion. Jason barging into Dick’s apartment unannounced, flopping onto the couch with a “Don’t mind me.”

By week three, you were beyond frustrated. At week four, you were considering drastic measures.

So, tonight? It was happening. No interruptions. No excuses.

Dick had just finished patrol when you called, your voice dripping with honey.

“Hey, handsome. You busy?”

He smirked, already peeling off his domino mask as he entered his apartment. “Not anymore. What’s up?”

You bit your lip. “I’m home alone… and I was thinking about you.”

That got his attention.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped an octave.

“Mhm. And I may or may not be wearing a satin robe and absolutely nothing underneath it.”

Silence. Then a sharp exhale.

“Give me ten minutes,” he said, already grabbing his keys.

You grinned, twirling a piece of your hair. “I was hoping for five, but I’ll take it.”

“Brat,” he muttered affectionately before hanging up.

He was on his bike in seconds, weaving through the streets of Blüdhaven, hell-bent on getting to you.

And then, because fate had a twisted sense of humor, he saw the flashing lights.

A bank robbery.

“Son of a—”

Gritting his teeth, he veered toward the chaos, pulling on his mask mid-ride. He parked a block away and hit his comm.

“Babe, change of plans. Quick detour.”

You sighed, swirling your wine in your glass. “Should I even ask?”

“Bank robbery. Five guys. Shouldn’t take long.”

You took a sip. “Mmm, take your time. I’ll just be here… in my robe… all alone.”

Dick groaned. “You’re evil.”

Then you heard it—the unmistakable sounds of combat. Grunts, the crack of a punch landing, the sharp zing of his escrima sticks.

Then gunfire.

You tensed, gripping the stem of your glass. “Dick?”

“Still here, babe,” he gritted out, followed by a loud thud—probably a body hitting the floor.

You rolled your eyes, propping your feet up on the coffee table. “You better not be getting shot while I’m sitting here half-naked waiting for you.”

“Not a scratch, promise.”

More scuffling, then silence. A second later, his voice came through, breathless but victorious.

“Alright, I’m back on the bike. ETA four minutes.”

You smirked. “Mmm, you gonna make it up to me, Nightwing?”

“You have no idea.”

You bit your lip. “Hurry, baby.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You hung up, anticipation thrumming through you.

And, true to his word, exactly four minutes later, your living room window slid open.

Dick stepped inside, still in full Nightwing gear, his hair wind-swept and messy. His mask was on, but you could see the heat in his gaze as he looked at you—your satin robe loose around your body, wine glass still in hand.

“Hi,” you purred.

He exhaled, shaking his head with a grin. “God, I missed you.”

Then he was on you, his lips crashing against yours, lifting you effortlessly.This time, nothing was going to interrupt. His lips crashed against yours, hot and desperate, like he had been starving for this just as much as you had. His gloved hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, the cool material of his suit contrasting with the warmth of your bare skin beneath your robe.

You barely had a moment to breathe before he was walking you backward, his mouth never leaving yours. You let out a soft gasp as the backs of your knees hit the couch, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine.

“You’re still in your suit,” you murmured against his lips, fingers tracing the emblem on his chest.

“Couldn’t wait,” he admitted, voice husky. “Didn’t even take off my boots.”

You smirked, running your hands up his chest, feeling the hard lines of his armor. “Well, I do like a man in uniform.”

Dick groaned, dropping his head to your neck, kissing along your pulse point. “You are so lucky I love you.”

You grinned, tilting your head to give him better access. “Mm, I really am.”

His hands slid to the tie of your robe, his fingers brushing over the silky fabric. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his expression dark with want. “Can I?”

You exhaled slowly, nodding. “God, yes.”

He tugged the robe open, his hands skimming your sides as he pushed it off your shoulders. The cool air sent goosebumps across your skin, but his touch was burning hot, his gaze drinking you in like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

“Jesus,” he breathed, his hands tightening on your hips. “You’re so—”

The ringing of his comm cut him off.

You both froze.

Your eyes widened in horror as Dick let out a slow, controlled exhale through his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut, muttering something under his breath before tapping the device in his ear.

“Grayson, we need you back at—”

He ripped the comm out of his ear and tossed it across the room.

Your eyes flicked from the now-silent device to his face.

“That’s it,” he said, voice dangerously low. “I am done being interrupted.”

Before you could even process, he grabbed you, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. A startled laugh left your lips as he carried you toward your bedroom, his lips crashing against yours again.

“Door locked, comms off, phones on silent,” he murmured between kisses.

“Agreed,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Good,” he growled. “Because you’re not getting rid of me until morning.”



Dick kicked the bedroom door shut behind him, his grip on you firm yet reverent, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

“You say that like I’d want to get rid of you,” you teased, your breath hitching as his fingers dug into your thighs, still holding you effortlessly.

“You better not after everything we’ve been through just to get here,” he murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw, then another down your neck. “I swear, if someone knocks on that door—”

“They won’t,” you promised, threading your fingers through his dark hair and tugging just enough to earn a delicious groan from him. “And even if they do, I’m not answering.”

“Good,” he murmured before finally lowering you onto the bed. He hovered over you, his masked gaze raking over your body, his gloved hands tracing slow, deliberate patterns on your skin.

You sighed contentedly, stretching beneath him, knowing full well the effect it had on him. His breath stuttered, his jaw tightening as you arched your back ever so slightly.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Not before you make it worth my while.”

That was all the encouragement he needed.

Dick rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply before finally—finally—tugging off his gloves, then his domino mask, tossing them both to the side. His bright blue eyes met yours, intense and full of heat.

Then he was kissing you again—deeper, slower, more possessive. His hands slid over every inch of exposed skin, like he was making up for lost time, like he was claiming you.

And you? You had absolutely no objections.

You reached for the fastenings of his suit, but he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with ease. “Uh-uh,” he murmured against your lips. “I go first.”

A shiver ran through you at the dark promise in his voice.

“You gonna take your time with me, Grayson?” you teased, your pulse quickening.

He smirked, his grip tightening just enough to send a thrill down your spine.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your ear. “You have no idea.”

The way he looked at you—like he’d been starving for you, like he was memorizing every inch of you—sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

“Dick,” you breathed, shifting beneath him, trying to free your wrists.

He just smirked, holding you there with ease. “Something you need?”

“Yeah,” you said, arching slightly to brush your body against his. “Less clothes.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Patience.”

You huffed, rolling your hips up against him in retaliation. That wiped the smirk off his face. His grip on your wrists faltered for half a second—just long enough for you to slip free and push at the seams of his suit.

“Not fair,” he muttered, though he was already helping you peel off the top half of his suit, shoving it down his arms and tossing it to the floor.

You sucked in a sharp breath. No matter how many times you’d seen him like this, it never got old—the way his muscles flexed under your touch, the scars that told stories of battles won, the way his chest rose and fell, his breaths growing heavier with every second.

Your fingers traced the defined ridges of his abdomen, then dragged up to his shoulders. “You’re so beautiful,” you murmured, just because you could.

A faint pink dusted his cheeks, but the look in his eyes darkened. “Sweetheart,” he warned, voice rough.

You grinned, pulling him down for another kiss. This one was slower, deeper, your hands threading into his hair as his weight pressed you into the mattress.

His lips trailed lower, down the column of your throat, to your collarbone, and lower still. Each kiss, each lingering touch, felt like an unspoken apology for every interrupted moment before this one.

And for the first time in weeks, there was nothing standing in your way. No comms buzzing in his ear, no phone ringing at the worst possible moment. Just the two of you, tangled together, making up for lost time.

And when he finally, finally gave you what you wanted, you were both in full agreement— No more rain checks.

The night unfolded in slow, deliberate movements—like the two of you were savoring every second, making up for every lost moment, every interruption that had kept you apart.

Dick worshipped you, his hands mapping your body like he was relearning every inch of you, his lips tracing paths of fire across your skin. He took his time, dragging out every touch, every kiss, making you feel the frustration of the past month melt away in waves of pleasure.

And when he finally, finally gave in, it was nothing short of desperate.

Your name spilled from his lips like a prayer, his voice hoarse as he groaned against your skin. His grip on your hips was firm but reverent, his body pressed against yours as he moved with slow, deep strokes that had you clinging to him, gasping his name between breathless moans. He slid in easily, your body aching for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered against your neck, his breath ragged, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. “You feel so good…”

Your fingers raked down his back, nails leaving faint red lines in their wake. “Don’t stop,” you pleaded, tilting your head back, letting him press open-mouthed kisses to your throat. Your legs locked around his waist, and he pulled your hips closer.

“Not a chance,” he groaned.

His movements were unrelenting, each thrust sending sparks of heat through you, winding you tighter and tighter until you were right there, gripping onto him for dear life.

“Dick—”

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot against your lips. “Let go.”

And you did.

The pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body arching into him as he guided you through it, his lips murmuring soft praises against your skin. He followed soon after, a deep, shuddering groan leaving his lips as he buried himself deep, his body tensing before he finally collapsed against you, breathless and spent.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your mingled breaths, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his back as he pressed lazy kisses to your shoulder.

Then, finally, he chuckled—low and satisfied. “Worth the wait?”

You exhaled a soft laugh, threading your fingers through his messy hair. “Hell yes.”

He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest, his arm draped over your waist. “Good,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You arched a brow, smirking. “Oh?”

His grip on you tightened slightly, his blue eyes dark with mischief. “Baby, I just spent a month pent up for you. I owe you at least three more rounds.”

You laughed, tangling your legs with his. “That so?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He kissed you again, slower this time, full of promises.

And this time, there was nothing standing in your way.

The second time was slower, almost lazy—like he was savoring every inch of you, making up for lost time. His lips traced along your jaw, down your neck, his hands mapping your body as he moved against you with deliberate, intoxicating precision.

The third time? Filthy.

By then, neither of you had anything left to prove. No teasing, no buildup—just pure, raw desperation. Dick had you pressed into the mattress, his name falling from your lips in breathless gasps as he drove into you like he was making up for every second you’d spent apart. Your legs were thrown over his shoulders, as he drove in as deeply as he could.

And when it was over, when you were both thoroughly spent and tangled together in the sheets, you lay there in the aftermath, your body still humming from him.

Dick sighed deeply, his fingers tracing absentminded circles on your bare back. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed in my entire life.”

You chuckled against his chest, pressing a lazy kiss over his heartbeat. “I told you all you needed was a night off.”

He hummed, tilting his head back against the pillow, his eyes slipping shut. “Yeah, well. Next time, we’re taking two nights off.”

You smirked, running your fingers through his messy hair. “Mm. You planning ahead, Grayson?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he muttered, shifting to pull you even closer. “I’m never going a month without this again.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, nuzzling into him. “Guess I should keep the satin robe handy then?”

He groaned, rolling onto his side so he could kiss you again, deep and slow. “Sweetheart, if you wear that robe again, I will cancel patrol.”

You grinned against his lips. “Promises, promises.”

He smirked, brushing his nose against yours. “You love when I break the rules.” You kissed his jaw, “so no more rain checks?” He laughed, pulling you closer, “No more rain checks, babe.”

[raven-alate]

hi minty, could I request reader with an exhibitionism kink x Fratboy!Wally west? like they end up fucking on every surface possible

WHO NEEDS PRIVACY? | wally west x reader

DC COMICS MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: smut, little to no plot, swearing, fingering (foreplay)

Kindly respect my work. No reposts, translations, or rewrites — AI-generated or not — without my consent. © @mintyys-blog

You didn’t go to frat parties. You went to study groups. To your job. To your dorm, where your roommate’s anime figurines silently judged your nonexistent social life.

But here you were—standing in the too-loud, too-sweaty foyer of Delta Sigma Zeta with a Solo cup in hand and a “What the hell am I doing?” expression you tried to smother behind lip gloss and fake confidence.

You weren’t popular. Wally West was.

Like, absurdly popular. Fast-talking, always-smiling, devil-in-a-varsity-jacket kind of popular. The guy who’d never spoken more than three words to you in class but still somehow knew everyone’s birthday and drink order.

And you had a crush on him. Naturally.

So yes, maybe you came tonight with a plan. A small one. A “use-his-popularity-to-get-into-the-right-social-circle” kind of plan. Which sounded cold, but when you spent most weekends watching Netflix while the campus partied, a little self-serving ambition felt justified.

What you hadn’t planned on? Him noticing you within five minutes of walking in.

He was holding court in the kitchen, surrounded by people who all looked like their Instagram feeds were filtered in real time. He spotted you instantly. Paused mid-laugh. Cocked his head like he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at.

Then he smiled. “Hey,” he called, leaning against the counter like a walking Abercrombie ad. “You stalking me or something?” You almost choked on your drink. “Please. If I was stalking you, you’d never know. I’m much better at it than that.”

That got a laugh. From him. From the people around him. And just like that, you were pulled into his orbit. You didn’t expect him to actually flirt. But he did. Shamelessly. Wally was the kind of guy who made you feel like you were the only person in the room even while he was making three people laugh behind you. He asked you questions—real ones. Teased you gently. Let his hand rest a little too long on the small of your back when he leaned in to talk.

“You’re funny,” he said at one point, eyes glinting. “You should come to more of these.”

“Parties?”

“My lap.” You nearly spat out your drink. “Oh my gosh.”

“What?” He raised his hands in mock innocence. “I said what I said.”

You didn’t plan on ending up in the laundry room.

But around midnight, after a chaotic game of Never Have I Ever (during which Wally definitely guessed you’d made out with someone in a public place and you definitely lied about it), he tugged you away from the crowd with a whisper of, “Come here, I wanna show you something.”

It turned out “something” was a dimly lit laundry room, half-clean, half-terrifying. And before you could ask what the hell he was doing, his lips were on yours.

He kissed like he flirted—fast, bold, just enough hesitation to check you were in it too. And you were. God, you were.

One second you were pressed against the wall, his hands gripping your hips like he’d earned them, and the next, you were lifted onto the washing machine.

“Tell me to stop,” he mumbled, mouth hot against your neck.

“I will,” you promised, breathless. “Eventually.”

You didn’t.

Somehow the machine turned on mid-makeout. You both paused as it started to shake, then looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“This is so dumb,” you said, wrapping your legs around his waist. “This is so hot,” he corrected. “The risk factor? Peak adrenaline.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re into it.” You didn’t deny it.

He kissed you like he wanted to ruin your lipstick and your plans. You let him. The walls were thin. You could hear music and footsteps outside.

“I swear if someone walks in—”

“We’ll tell them we’re doing laundry,” he said, sliding his hand higher under your shirt. “Like responsible adults.”

“On the spin cycle?”

“Gotta get it extra clean.”

You rolled your eyes so hard your brain might’ve reset. And still—you didn’t stop him. Not when he kissed down your neck, not when he muttered something about how good you looked up on that washer, all breathy and wild-eyed.

You liked this version of you.

The bold one. The one who didn’t care if someone heard. The one who got to be the center of his attention, if only for a little while.

And maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t about social climbing anymore. Maybe you liked being wanted by him for you.

Because Wally?

He wasn’t acting like this was casual. He was looking at you like you were daring him to fall, and he was considering it.

You weren’t sure what was hotter—the way Wally’s hands slipped under your thighs to tug you closer, or the steady vibration of the ancient washing machine beneath you that made your brain short-circuit in real time.

Either way, you were losing the ability to form rational thoughts.

“This is so…” you started, trailing off when his mouth found that spot under your jaw that made your toes curl.

“So what?” he murmured, teeth grazing your skin. “Scandalous? Filthy? A tragic misuse of household appliances?”

“Yes.” You pulled his face back up to yours. “All of the above.”

Wally grinned like a man who knew exactly how dangerous he was. His fingers curled into your hips, anchoring you in place like you might float away otherwise. And honestly? You might. Your pulse was on overdrive. Your dress was halfway to your ribs. Your legs were wrapped around him like you’d been rehearsing this since freshman year.

He wasn’t being subtle about any of it.

“God, you’re hot,” he breathed, trailing kisses down your neck. “How are you not already ruining someone’s life?”

“Because I’ve been busy ruining my own,” you said, tugging at the hem of his hoodie with a smirk. “But hey, new year, new goals.”

He laughed—boyish and bright—and then kissed you again, deeper this time. Like he forgot there was a party outside. Like the two of you had all the time in the world and no one was minutes away from accidentally barging in.

Your back hit the wall above the machine with a dull thud, and Wally paused, blinking up at the ceiling like he was having a holy shit moment.

“Okay. I don’t want to ruin the vibe,” he said slowly, “but I think I just had a spiritual experience.”

You cocked a brow. “From kissing me or the spin cycle?”

“Both,” he admitted. “But mostly you. Definitely mostly you.”

And just like that, the air between you shifted. It was still hot—still reckless and humming with bad decisions—but underneath it, something gentler was blooming.

He looked at you like you weren’t just a quick distraction. Like he wasn’t rushing this just to brag about it later.

“Still want to stop me?” he asked, voice softer now, hands steadying on your thighs.

You should’ve said yes. You meant to say yes.

But instead, you leaned forward until your forehead pressed against his, until you could count every freckle across his cheeks.

“Wally?”

“Yeah?”

“If we get caught, I’m blaming you.”

“That’s fair,” he whispered, already kissing you again. “I’d take the fall for you.”

He pulled your panties down, “lace? Naughty girl.” He put them in his pocket, “I’m starting to think you planned getting laid tonight.”

“So what if I did?” you smirked, tugging him closer by the front of his shirt.

Wally didn’t hesitate. He practically growled into your mouth as he kissed you again—hungry, wild, the kind of kiss that made you forget your name. His hands gripped your thighs and hiked your dress up without ceremony, dragging the fabric to your waist like it offended him by getting in the way.

“God, you’re driving me insane,” he muttered against your skin, pressing kisses down your neck as his fingers skimmed along the inside of your thigh. “You know that, right? You have to know.”

You didn’t get the chance to answer. His fingers slipping lower, testing just how ready you were for him. He paused, glancing up at you with that devilish smirk like he’d just won a bet.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Knew it.”

Before you could throw back a sarcastic remark, he dipped two fingers into you—slow at first, dragging the motion out like he wanted to feel every second of it. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes fluttering closed as your head hit the wall behind you.

You were already soaked, and from the way he groaned under his breath, he liked that. A lot.

“Shit,” he whispered, his free hand gripping your waist as his fingers began to move—slick, rhythmic, deliberate. “You’re so wet for me.”

Your hips jerked forward instinctively, chasing the friction. The sound—wet, obscene—filled the room, almost louder than the music pounding outside. It made you dizzy. So did the way his eyes never left your face, like he was trying to memorize the way you looked unraveling under him.

His fingers curled inside you, brushing a spot that made your whole body jolt.

“Right there,” you gasped, voice barely audible over the roar in your ears.

“Ohhh, that’s it,” he said, grinning like a man who just figured out a cheat code. “Got it. We’re in business now.”

He adjusted his angle and did it again, and again—each stroke more precise than the last, his thumb brushing sensitive skin as his fingers pumped steadily, your slick coating his knuckles. You clenched around him without meaning to, and he felt it, too—his eyes went wide for a second like you’d just short-circuited him.

“Damn,” he muttered. “You’re gonna kill me.” You felt like you were floating, hips grinding against his hand, one of your shoes dangling off your toes, his name tangled in your throat but never quite making it out. Your fingers dug into his shoulders for balance, your chest heaving as your body arched into his touch.

He leaned in, mouth at your ear now, voice pure sin. “Anyone could walk in right now. You know that?” You shuddered.

“You’d let them see you like this?” he teased, curling his fingers again until your eyes nearly rolled back. “Let them see how pretty you look falling apart on my hand?” You didn’t answer—but the way your legs tightened around his waist said enough.

He laughed softly, and God, you could feel him—hard against you, barely held back, every muscle tense with restraint. You weren’t sure how much longer you could take it. You didn’t know if you wanted it to stop. All you knew was that you didn’t want it to end here. Not yet.

His hand moved with a rhythm that felt practiced and perfect—fast enough to make your breath catch, slow enough to drive you mad. You were gripping his shoulders like a lifeline, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as your body trembled under the intensity of it.

Your thighs were shaking. Your chest heaved. And Wally—God, Wally looked like he was thriving on the way you came undone for him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, teeth flashing as he caught your eye. “Didn’t know you could be this loud.”

“I’m—” You barely got the word out, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood. “I’m not usually—”

“Like this?” he finished for you, voice full of wicked amusement.

You nodded, breathless.

“Yeah,” he whispered, leaning close until his lips brushed your ear. “You are now.”

He pushed his fingers just a little deeper, and you moaned, the sound strangled and desperate as you jerked forward. Your hips ground against his palm, chasing pressure, pleasure, anything. It was instinctive. Mindless.

You were already gone.

He pulled back just enough to watch your face, your mouth parted, your lashes fluttering as your body rocked with each wave of heat building inside you. And when your hands slipped beneath his hoodie, skimming over his warm skin, Wally sucked in a sharp breath like you had just touched a live wire.

“You’re killing me, babe,” he muttered, dragging his mouth down your neck, fingers never slowing. “You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind.”

There was a knock. A sudden thud against the laundry room door.

You both froze.

“Someone in there?” a voice slurred. “I need to throw my jersey in the dryer!”

Wally pressed a finger to your lips, wide-eyed, grinning like the chaos was a bonus prize.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not with his fingers still buried deep inside you, not with your body screaming for release and your pulse jackhammering in your ears.

He leaned in slowly, mouth right at your temple.

“Be quiet,” he whispered. “But don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

His fingers curled again—deliberate. Merciless. Your eyes slammed shut as you bit down on the sleeve of his hoodie to keep yourself silent, shaking under the weight of the pleasure curling like fire in your belly.

Whoever was outside the door gave up after a second, footsteps staggering away, music swelling louder again in the background. Wally pulled back just enough to see you, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Still with me?” he asked softly. You met his eyes. And then you kissed him—hard, grateful, reckless. You weren’t stopping. Not yet.

Not when you could still feel his fingers inside you, slick with want. Not when your thighs were still trembling. Not when his voice was thick and needy in your ear, saying, “Come on, baby—let go for me.” You didn’t stand a chance, cumming around his fingers for the second time that night.

He pulled back just enough to catch your breath, his fingers still slick and slow, teasing and driving you closer to the edge. Your heart hammered so loud it almost drowned out the pounding bass from the party beyond the laundry room walls.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered, voice thick with need. His thumb brushed your skin in lazy circles, every touch electric. “I swear, you’re going to ruin me.”

Your breath hitched as his lips grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You pressed into him, desperate to feel more, to erase every line between where he ended and you began.

His hand slid lower, fingers tracing bold, deliberate patterns along your skin. The tension inside you coiled tighter and tighter, every inch of your body alive with raw, delicious anticipation.

Outside, muffled noises drifted in—the distant shout of a friend, the clink of a bottle—but here, in this charged bubble of heat and secrecy, nothing existed but the slick warmth of his touch and the wild, reckless promise in his eyes. You let your fingers tighten in his hoodie, your voice barely a whisper as you said, “Don’t stop.” He smiled—dark, confident, and utterly addicted—and obeyed.

You kissed him like you couldn’t breathe without it—needy, messy, all tongue and desperation. When you finally pulled back, your voice came out ragged.

“Wally,” you whispered, clutching the hem of his hoodie like it was holding your soul in place. “Do you… do you have a condom?”

He blinked, startled for half a second. And then he grinned—the slow, cocky kind of grin that made you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.

“Babe,” he said, reaching into his back pocket without breaking eye contact, “I always come prepared.”

He held it up with a little flourish, the foil wrapper glinting in the soft light of the laundry room like it was some kind of prize.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you just carry that around at all times?”

“Would you prefer I didn’t?” he asked, leaning in, lips brushing yours as he added, “Because that’d be a real shame—especially right now.”

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse thundered. The fact that he had it on him, like this was something he wanted—not just tonight, but maybe for a while now—lit a fire low in your belly.

“Good,” you whispered, reaching down to tug him closer by the belt loops of his jeans. “Then don’t make me wait.”

His smirk faltered—just for a second—as something hungry, almost reverent, flickered in his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

You barely heard the crinkle of the wrapper over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Wally stepped back just enough to slide off his hoodie in one smooth motion, revealing toned arms and a trail of freckles you hadn’t even realized you wanted to memorize. He caught your stare and smirked—cocky, but there was a softness beneath it, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real either.

“You good?” he asked, voice quieter now. Still playful, but gentler. Real.

You nodded, a little breathless. “You’re not gonna brag about this to your entire frat, are you?”

He stepped between your legs again, hands braced on your thighs, and leaned in close—close enough that his nose brushed yours.

“Only if you want me to,” he murmured. “But… I kind of want to keep this between us for a bit. Just mine.”

Your stomach flipped. Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Maybe it was the way he said mine like it wasn’t just about tonight.

And then?

Then he kissed you again—slow this time, deep and grounding. Like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth. Like he wasn’t in a rush anymore, even though you both felt like you were going to combust.

Clothes came off in stages. Some you helped with, some he practically tore off you. The cold air bit at your skin for half a second before his body was on yours again, all heat and want and reckless focus.

Your back hit the wall above the washer, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and then—Everything disappeared.

His voice broke in your ear when you moved against him—low, ragged, somewhere between a curse and a prayer. Like he was barely holding it together. Like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your nails dragged down his back, leaving hot, red trails in their wake, and he hissed through his teeth—sharp and breathless. One of his hands fisted in the side of your dress like he needed something to hold onto. The other slid beneath your thigh, gripping hard, lifting, angling, until— Oh.

Wally’s breath stuttered, and he buried his face in your shoulder, lips parting against your skin, gasping something that sounded like your name but didn’t quite make it all the way out. Like it caught in his throat on the way up, too wrecked, too real.

You held onto him like the world was spinning off-axis. And maybe it was. Maybe it had been since the moment he touched you.

It was messy. Dizzy. A blur of breathless moans and half-formed words. His name on your lips like a broken promise. Yours in his voice, like he didn’t want to stop saying it, like he wanted to carve it into the air between you, into your spine, into the spaces that hadn’t been touched by anyone else before now.

The washing machine thudded beneath you—off rhythm, knocking against the wall like it was warning you it couldn’t take much more. But Wally didn’t falter. He rocked into you with a steady, determined pace, the kind that didn’t beg or fumble—it took. Bold. Focused. Devoted to the way you melted beneath him.

His grip under your thighs tightened as he pressed into you again, deep, like he wanted to feel every inch of you wrapped around him.

You gasped—sharp, high-pitched—and your hips tilted into him without thinking.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “God, that’s—yeah, just like that.”

Every thrust sent you tipping further into the edge of something you couldn’t name, couldn’t slow down. You were all sensation. All heat. All desperate, clinging need. His cock throbbing against your slick walls.



He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, off-center. You didn’t care. Neither did he. His lips chased yours between every ragged breath, every groan, every time your body jolted from the force of him.

“I’m not gonna last,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, voice thick and hoarse. “You feel too good. You feel—fuck, babe—” You could barely answer. You were already unraveling.

Together, you fell into it—into each other, into every wave of sensation that pulled you under like a riptide. And when it broke, when the tension finally snapped— You didn’t come down gently. You crashed. Straight into his chest, his arms, his mouth whispering your name like it was something sacred.

Your back hit the cold dryer as you tried to catch your breath, legs still shaky, dress bunched around your waist like a trophy of war. Wally leaned over you, one hand braced against the wall, chest rising and falling like he’d just run laps around the block.

You blinked up at him.

He looked like sin incarnate—shirtless, flushed, freckles on full display, hair a mess from your hands. His grin?

Devastating.

“Okay,” he said between panting breaths, voice still a little wrecked. “So that… definitely wasn’t just about doing laundry.”

You laughed, a weak sound, your body still buzzing. “Pretty sure we broke the spin cycle.”

He glanced down at the washer beneath you, which was blinking red like it had given up on life. “That’s fine. I’ve got frat house immunity. They’ll just assume someone made it fight a raccoon again.”

You snorted, dragging your hands down your face. “Wally.”

He stepped back just far enough to help you off the machine, hands lingering a little longer than necessary on your hips, like he didn’t want to let go. And once you were standing—knees wobbling and all—he bent to pick up his hoodie, offering it to you without a word.

You blinked. “What’s this for?”

“Shielding your walk of fame,” he said with an obnoxious wink. “Also your dress is inside out and you lost a shoe halfway through. You’re not exactly blending in.”

You groaned. “Kill me.”

“No way,” he said, stepping in again, voice suddenly softer, teasing but sincere. “Then who am I gonna drag into closets and laundry rooms from now on?”

You met his eyes.

And that was the moment it hit you—not just the aftermath of what you’d done, but the way he was looking at you. Not like you were just a party hookup. Not like this was some brag to toss to the guys later.

No—he looked at you like he’d just found his new favorite secret.

You coughed, trying to play it off. “So… we’re gonna pretend this never happened, or…?”

“Oh no.” He stepped closer, one hand sliding into your hair, smug but fond. “I’m pretending like this is absolutely happening again.”

You opened your mouth to argue.

And then the door flew open.

“DUDE—” Some poor guy stood frozen, arms full of laundry, jaw hanging open as he took in the wreckage. The disheveled dress. Wally’s half-naked state. The deeply haunted look on the dryer’s face.

Wally didn’t miss a beat.

“Laundry’s taken,” he said cheerfully, pulling you flush against him. “Try the basement.”

Then he slammed the door in the guy’s face and turned back to you, eyes glittering.

“So. You wanna sneak out the back,” he said, “or do we walk out like legends?”

[raven-alate]

Clark Kent x f!reader x Bruce Wayne

Tags: threesome , poly relationship, breeding kink, kryptonian heat, overstimulation, p in v sex, creampie, jealousy, slight voyeurism, praise + filth, they love you fr, needy clark. possessive bruce, ruined reader, reader is babygirl and we love her

a/n — okay but listen… this started as a what if and turned into a holy shit. clark in a breeding season is something so feral and intense and just? delicious. add possessive, calculating bruce into the mix and now we have a very overwhelmed reader being absolutely ruined by two men who can’t decide if they want to protect her or fuck her senseless.

Clark Kent, mild-mannered, sweet-hearted alien… hits Kryptonian Breeding Season.

It’s instinctual. Biological. A deep, primal shift in his body chemistry that he can’t control. His pupils dilate when he sees you. He can smell your hormones, your arousal, your fertility. And it drives him wild. All he can think about is breeding you. Not just sex—breeding. Stuffing you full. Watching you swell with his child. Claiming you so thoroughly there’s no doubt you’re his.

And poor Bruce?

At first, he’s pissed. Annoyed that Clark can’t keep his hands off you. Jealous, territorial, growling at him across the Watchtower when he sees the way Clark stares at you. But then—he sees what Clark is becoming. The way he trembles with restraint. The way his voice drops when he talks to you. The way he almost loses control when you so much as touch his arm.

And Bruce, being the dark, possessive bastard he is, starts to get off on it.

Because maybe he realizes that no one—not even an alien desperate to breed—can take better care of you than they can, together.

So… what does Bruce do?

He helps.

He pins you down while Clark fucks you full, whispering filth in your ear like,

“You feel how desperate he is? He needs to breed you, baby. Needs to put a baby in you. And I’m gonna make sure he does it right.”

He watches Clark pump into you over and over again, coaxing every drop of Kryptonian seed from him. Bruce kisses your tears away when it’s too much. He strokes your hair while Clark fills you again. And when Clark can’t stop shaking from how badly he needs you again, Bruce wraps an arm around your waist and murmurs,

“Let him. Let him do what he’s built for. You can take it, can’t you, pretty girl?”

And Clark—sweet, gentle Clark—whimpers through it all. Apologizing even as he holds you tighter, begging, “Let me put a baby in you, please—just need to—can’t stop—need you so bad.”

[raven-alate]

Jason who's favorite position is prone.

Don't get it wrong, he's a complete amateur when it comes to sex. The first time you two fucked, he cried. So this little discovery, it was an accident, truly. He didn't mean to get carried away but you were squeezing him so good, and the pretty sounds you were making had his knees giving out.

At first, he had you face down, feeding you those deep strokes, the kind that leaves you breathless. But then he began to move, pushing at the curves of your hips, then your spine, forcing you down until your tummy presses against the soft sheets. And he can't help it, naturally wherever you go, he follows. So he lays himself right on top of you, he's so big too. Big thighs cage around your ass, grinding real deep and slow. It’s downright sinful. Jason Peter Todd in all his 6'1 glory, smothering you against the mattress and it's like something inside him clicks. His mind won’t shut the hell up because suddenly, you’ve gone all soft and pliant, and he’s whispering real filthy, “just needed some good dick, huh?”

His mind is so fucked out, he hasn’t realized how good he’s been fucking you until he registers your squirming and soft whining beneath him. Sometimes he forgets how big he is, all of him. Because in this position, he basically kisses your cervix. He’s taking his time, it’s torturous, the slow drag of his hips, and the way he bullies his way back in- pushing up against that sweet spot that makes you cream.

He’s got his lips pressed against your ear, cooing and shushing you so sweetly when you say you can’t take it. One hand pushing past your hips to pet at your sensitive clit, and you paw at his wrist- a weak attempt at pushing him away. It’s too much, he’s too big and he’s talking so fucking nasty in your ear you just can’t take it.

But every time you try to shut your legs in protest, his thighs flex and his ankles lock around yours, easily pushing them back open. Wordlessly saying, “take it, take it, take it”.

And after fucking you through your third orgasm, this man has the audacity to blush. Shoving his face into your neck but at some point, his mind gets all hazy. He latches his canines onto your throat and you cum. Still fucking you through the mattress, he works you up to your fourth. Finally coming down, you sob out a half-hearted “mean”, but he doesn’t budge- just hushes you with a sickly sweet “so good, baby”.

reblogs are appreciated! ⋆˙⟡

[raven-alate]

ROOFTOPS | tim drake x reader

DC MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: smut, power play, slight dom! tim, uniform kink, slight degrading.

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

© @mintyys-blog

IMAGINE THIS: Tim thinks his shy girlfriend is innocent—until she confesses a secret kink for his Red Robin suit. Intrigued, he agrees to meet her fantasy on a rooftop, only to discover she’s a total freak for his dominant side. What starts as curiosity turns into a charged, masked powerplay neither of them expected.

Tim had always found your shyness adorable. The way you’d fidget when he looked at you too long. The soft voice you used when you complimented his work. The flushed cheeks whenever he teased you. He liked it. You were soft. Safe. The kind of gentle presence that helped him unwind from Gotham’s shadows.

But that night… everything changed.

It began like most of your visits to his patrol. You’d asked him if you could tag along while he made his rounds. “I just want to be with you,” you’d said sweetly, bundled in your coat as he suited up.

He’d smiled under the cowl. “Of course.”

The city was quiet, relatively speaking. He’d cleared two attempted break-ins, scoped out a drop point, and now stood with you on a rooftop, the wind brushing past. You leaned against the ledge, watching him with a look he couldn’t quite read. Your eyes followed every motion he made as he adjusted the gauntlets on his forearms.

“You like watching me work?” he asked playfully, walking up behind you.

You hummed softly, but didn’t turn around. “I like you in that suit.”

He chuckled. “Well, it’s not exactly cozy. Kevlar and utility belts don’t scream luxury.”

You finally looked at him—except it wasn’t shy anymore. Your eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide with heat, the kind of look that sent a quiet jolt through Tim’s chest. Your lips were parted slightly, your breath shallow but steady—measured. Like you’d already made a decision.

“It’s not about comfort,” you said, your voice a soft, silken thread. “It’s about… what it does to me.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “What it… does to you?” he echoed, almost cautiously.

You took a step closer, slow and deliberate, like you were approaching something dangerous and wanted it to bite. Your fingers came up to the center of his chest, just above the black-red emblem etched across the armored suit. You didn’t hesitate. You touched him like you’d been waiting—aching—for the chance.

You traced the Red Robin symbol like it was something sacred, eyes locked on his. “You look powerful in it,” you said, voice low, steady. “Controlled. Cold. Untouchable. But I know you. I know what’s underneath.”

His heartbeat stuttered—and then picked up. Not out of nervousness.

Out of recognition.

Something in the way you said it—the subtle shift in your tone, the desire barely veiled behind it—triggered a darker instinct in him. One that lived beneath the training, beneath the responsibility. A part of him that always walked the edge between control and chaos. The part of him that thrived in the suit.

His gaze sharpened.

“And tonight…” You looked up at him from under your lashes. “I want you in the suit.”

He stiffened slightly, surprised—but not flustered. Not this time. He stepped in closer, backing you up a few inches with nothing but the weight of his presence. “You want me,” he said, voice dropping low, gravel threading through it, “like this?” He gestured to the armor, the mask, the full persona of Red Robin. “You want me to fuck you in it.”

You nodded slowly, lips parted, almost breathless from how close he was.

That was when it hit him. The way your thighs pressed together. The way your fingers trembled just slightly as they traced over his suit. You were already aroused. Barely touched, and already wet for him.

Tim inhaled slowly, gaze dropping to your mouth before dragging back up to your eyes. He crowded you with his body, forcing your back against the rooftop’s brick wall in one fluid motion. One gloved hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your jaw just firm enough to make you gasp.

“Oh,” he murmured, lips curling into a quiet smirk. “So that’s what this has been about.”

You squirmed beneath his hold, blinking up at him, and for the first time that night, he saw the flash of the girl who usually hid behind the quiet. Now she was exposed, caught, pinned—and loving it.

“You like this suit?” he whispered, leaning down, his mouth brushing your ear. “The mask? The gloves? Is that what gets you so worked up?”

“Y-Yes,” you whispered, voice breaking slightly.

“Good,” he said darkly, dragging his fingers down your throat to your collarbone, savoring the way you arched into him. “Because now you’re going to take everything you asked for. Everything. Right here.”

You shuddered. “Tim…”

“No,” he interrupted, mouth brushing hotly against your cheek as his gloved hand slid under your coat, fingertips grazing bare skin. “You wanted Red Robin tonight. Not Tim. That’s who you’re getting.”

He grabbed your thigh and hiked it around his hip, grinding into you—slow, firm, with purpose. You moaned, and he smirked against your jaw.

“Already this wet for me?” he murmured. “You’re filthy. Sweet little girl with her shy voice and innocent smiles—turns out you’re just a freak who wants to be fucked in an alley by a man in body armor.”

You whimpered, clinging to his shoulders. He tilted his head back just enough to look you in the eye through the mask.

“You’re going to do exactly what I say. You’re going to let me bend you over this ledge, glove over your mouth so no one hears you, and you’re not going to come until I tell you.” He dragged his fingers lower. “And you’re not going to take your eyes off me. Not for a second. Got it?”

You nodded quickly, breath catching, pupils blown wide. “Yes. Yes, sir.”

He growled softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he reached behind you, grabbed your coat, and spun you around, pressing your front against the rough brick. His cape shifted over both of you like a dark curtain. Gotham stretched out before you—but all you could feel, all you could think about, was the masked vigilante behind you, already pulling your panties aside and growling against your neck.

“You wanted Red Robin?” he whispered, pushing into you slowly, deliberately. “Then take him.”

And God help you… you did.

This was the shy girl who blushed when he said “good morning.” Now she was panting, crying out, taking him in the open night sky like a fevered dream.

The bricks were cold against your chest, your breath fogging in the night air as you braced yourself against the rooftop’s edge. Gotham glittered below like a city that would never sleep—but up here, you could barely see straight.

Not with him behind you.

Red Robin.

Not Tim. Not the quiet genius with the sharp eyes and steady hands who held you like something breakable.

This version was different.

Dominant. Dangerous.

Deliberate.

“You’re quiet now,” he murmured behind you, voice filtered through the modulator built into his cowl. It made him sound deeper. Rougher. Like he was made of smoke and threat. “Not so bold when I’ve got you where I want you, huh?”

You gasped as his gloved hand smoothed over your hip, fingers curling under the waistband of your panties and dragging them down in one smooth motion. He didn’t even wait for them to fall—he kicked your feet apart with a controlled nudge of his boot, then pressed his hand to your lower back, pinning you in place.

“Tim—” you started to whisper, needing something to ground yourself.

“I told you,” he cut in sharply. “You don’t call me that up here.”

You trembled under him. “Red Robin,” you breathed, the name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“That’s better,” he growled.

You could hear the shift of armor, the telltale click of his belt coming undone, the hiss of his breath as he gripped himself behind you. You tried to twist and look, but he was already crowding you again, one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to press over your mouth.

“No turning around. You wanted me like this—so take it like this.”

And then he was inside you.

Slow at first, torturously controlled. He pushed in deep, inch by inch, until your back arched and a muffled moan broke against his gloved hand. He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep inside you, letting you feel all of him while the city breathed beneath you both.

“You’re so wet it’s disgusting,” he muttered in your ear, and yet his voice trembled—barely. “You got off on this before I even touched you. Didn’t you?”

You nodded desperately under his hand, moaning again when he drew back—then slammed forward, hard enough to make your knees buckle.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed. “That’s it. Arch your back. Let me see you take it.”

He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping against yours with the kind of force you weren’t expecting. The cape draped over you like a shroud, hiding you from the sky while he ruined you—each thrust hitting deeper than the last, every snap of his hips paired with a rough grunt in your ear.

“This what you wanted?” he growled. “Me, in the suit, in the mask? Filling you up while you moan into my glove like a little slut?”

Your moan came out broken, tears springing in your eyes from the sheer intensity. He was everywhere—his scent, his voice, his body pounding into yours like he was staking a claim.

And still, you nodded.

Because this wasn’t just about the kink. It wasn’t just about power or danger or masks.

It was about him. Tim Drake. The man who held everything in—who wore masks inside of masks—and how you were the one person who could make him let go.

And he was letting go.

You could feel it in the way his hand tightened on your hip. The way his rhythm faltered just slightly. The way he leaned down and whispered—voice raw now, not modulated anymore:

“You’re mine. No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”

You sobbed around his glove, coming hard—your whole body locking, then trembling as you shook apart around him. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The suit creaked as he braced both hands on your hips now, driving into you, chasing his own edge.

“Gonna—fuck—inside you,” he grunted. “You’re gonna take all of it, and you’re not gonna waste a drop.”

You whimpered something that might’ve been yes, or maybe just please.

He groaned—a low, primal sound—and then thrust deep one final time, burying himself inside you as he came hard, hips jerking, breath ragged in your ear.

The rooftop was silent for a few heartbeats after. Just your gasps, and his uneven panting against your neck.

His hands slid up your back, slow now. Gentle.

“…You okay?” he whispered, voice finally soft again. Not Red Robin. Just Tim.

You nodded weakly, turning your head to meet his masked eyes. “More than okay,” you rasped. “Holy shit.” He pulled you close against him, the cape still around both of you like a shield.

Tim finally spoke, voice low. “You’ve been hiding that side of you this whole time?”

You grinned into his neck. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

He pulled back to look you in the eyes, still flushed and disheveled. “Scare me?” he repeated, laughing breathlessly. “You just gave me a new reason to love rooftops.”

[raven-alate]

All That Glitters is Snow -T.D. [18+]

Warnings: Language, fluff, angst, way too many tropes to be considered healthy, NSFW smut, fingering, oral, vaginal sex, sight degradation

Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 9.8k

Check out my pinned post if you want to be on my taglist!

A/N This is my second and final entry for @angstigone​‘s writing challenge! I hope you love it as much as I do Tavi! And big thanks to all my proofers who totally enabled this to be almost 10k words long, oops. 

Tim paced back and forth in his office as though the walls were closing in around him. He was waiting for you to arrive, asking to meet you during lunch. It was a stupid idea honestly, why did he think this was ever going to work?

You’d been his best friend since kindergarten, been through thick and thin together. Tim held no secrets from you, not even when he became Robin nor when he became Red Robin.

So why was this so hard to ask?

Keep reading

[raven-alate]

don't want to walk alone | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader | chapter four: the honeymoon pt. 1

summary: the infinite undressing and undoing of mrs. berzatto -- or how you and carmy spend your mini-moon at the langham hotel.

warnings: so much smut so this chapter is 18+ only!! also the smut is from carmys pov and im shaking!! husband!carmy who comes with a warning label of his own, swearing, lots of tooth rotting fluff, marriage, no use of y/n, second person pov, she/her pronouns

wc: 4.9k

listen to: the official don't want to walk alone playlist

a/n: surprise! i decided to split the honeymoon into two chapters because it was getting way too long and i refuse to cut any of it so there's that.

on another note: this series, this world, is so special to me because it is my first: first series on tumblr, first series for carmy, first time writing fanfic again as an adult that i actually followed through with. it was the universe that got me through unemployment. the fic that helped me fall in love with writing again, so i will always hold this world near and dear to my heart. but aside from occasional one shots here and there, it may be time to let them ride off into the sunset, into their happily ever after. let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist.

part three | masterlist | part five

Before he can even get the door properly closed, you’re all over him, your mouth covering his own with kisses that feel like promises, as your hands multi-task, fumbling with the door to get in closed the rest of the way. 

“As much as I loved celebrating with our friends and family, I’ve been waiting for this moment all damn day,” you say, in between kisses, satisfied as soon as you hear the clicking sound of the door locking. 

“Hmmm and what’s that?” Carmy asks you, coyly. 

His lips curve into a cocky smile mid-kiss, and he hears you chuckle, knowing exactly what buttons to push to wind you up.

“Getting you alone, Mr. Berzatto,” you giggle underneath your breath, taking a few steps away from him. 

Carmy watches you in awe, his eyes traveling from your kiss-swollen lips, to the way your hands begin to trail down your body, to the careful steps that you take backwards. His breath hitches in his throat as he watches your fingers delicately undo the first button on this goddamn blazer dress he thinks he’ll never be able to get out of his mind – not after tonight, that’s for sure. He watches them dance over the second button from the top down, peeling it open, as a bright pop of red begins to peek out from underneath your dress. 

“Carm?” you ask him, your eyes flickering down to your hands as you undo the third button, then the fourth, before returning your heated gaze to him. 

“Yes, baby,” is all he can reply, as if he’s under your spell already. 

Carmy gulps, his pants feeling incredibly tight, the air noticeably thick as he watches your little strip tease. 

It’s just a few more buttons before your dress falls open, revealing the crimson red set you’re wearing underneath. 

Red Floral Lace. Mesh. See-through. 

“Come get me,” you beckon, as you let the dress fall to the floor. 

“Fuck,” he growls on an exhale, before charging towards you. 

It’s all hot, all-consuming kisses as he pushes you back onto the California king-sized bed, eagerly following as he lays his body on top of yours. Long gone is the sport coat he was wearing earlier, and he thanks whatever deities he may owe this to that he really only has to get three articles of clothing off. 

Carmy pulls away, because he’s gotta get one goddamn good look at his wife. 

His wife. 

His breath picks up, as he drags his fingertips over the straps of your red lace bra, down to the mesh cups, watching your face twist in pleasure as his fingers run over your already-perky nipples. 

“You like?” you ask him, a small amount of vulnerability in your voice as you do. 

“Do I-, baby, have you seen yourself?” he stammers, in disbelief that you could even ask, only to be met with a smirk because you know you look good. 

But that’s not what you’re asking. You want to know if Carmy likes it, because you have much more where this came from – lingerie, you mean. And instead of telling you, Carmy has bigger and better plans to show you instead. He begins to leave hot, open mouthed kisses along your neck, across your chest, nipping at the top of the bra cup with his teeth when he gets there. 

Carmy’s eyes move to yours, watching you for a reaction so he knows that he’s giving you exactly what you want. To his delight, you hiss in pleasure, arching your back as an invitation, offering your body to him in a silent effort, begging for more. 

“This why you put on this dress?” he rasps, in reference to the fact that you had insisted on doing an outfit change from the courthouse to the reception. His tongue snakes out, running over the mesh fabric that barely covers the nipple of your left breast. 

You moan, letting out a small giggle in between breaths, as you cook up a witty reply.

“‘S not like I could wear anything underneath my wedding dress. Had to come up with a plan B,” you counter him, just another part of your seduction. 

Carmy lets out a well earned-groan and it’s music to your ears as he continues to move down your body, worshiping you with his mouth, his tongue, muttering to himself that he’s not sure whether he would’ve preferred that – you in your wedding dress, nothing underneath – or this, all fire and lace. 

But he doesn’t have time to think, settling on the fact that as long as he gets to have you, he’s not sure he cares. 

“This is so fucking sexy, baby,” he groans, shaking his head in disbelief as he sits up on his knees, taking you in. He almost forgets to breathe for a moment, as it dawns on him that you’re his, and that you’re here, all spread out for him tonight, aching for him and only him. 

Before you can get in a word, he’s pushing your legs apart, settling down in between them to get exactly what he wants. You let out a gasp of surprise, considering he hasn’t taken off our panties, your eyes fluttering shut as he pulls them to one side instead. 

“Fuck,” he hears you whine, as he buries his face between your thighs. “Oh my god, Carmy.” 

His favorite thing.

Tasting you. Bringing you the kind of euphoric pleasure that makes you feel high.

 He loves the way you say his name, and how it changes, when his tongue traces tight circles around your clit; how it changes when he flattens his tongue up against your wet heat, painting broad strokes; how you cry out when he’s busy tracing abstract shapes across you till you’re completely lost in your own pleasure. Carmy moans against you, as he feels you thread your hands through his golden locks, and the sensation of your fingertips running along his scalp goes straight to his cock. 

“Carmy, don’t stop!” 

And how could he? How could he deny you the one thing you’re asking for? His mouth on you, bringing you higher and higher, winding up that coil buried so deep inside you that it has to explode, knowing that it’s him and only him that makes you feel this way. 

You’re pulling at his hair, grabbing at the bedsheets, bucking your hips up into his mouth, writhing underneath the weight of his hands that hold you in place. He can’t keep his hands off of you, desperate to feel the way your body responds to him at every touch – holding your hips down, pressing your legs wider, grabbing at your breasts as he dips his tongue inside of you. 

“Oh my God. Carmy, fuck. Don’tstoppleasedon’tstopdon’tyoudare-!” 

The feeling of your orgasm ripping through you completely rendering you speechless as you come. Carmy slows down the movements of his mouth, working you through your orgasm, wanting you to know that he’s here for you, that he’s got you as you come down. He uses his tongue to clean you up, watching you carefully as you try your best to catch your breath, committing this image to his memory. 

There are two places he feels like this – triumphant, untouchable, on top of the world – in the last push of a hard won dinner service, and when he’s right here, between your legs, in the falling action of your climax as he waits for you to come back to him. 

Carmy waits for you, watches as your eyes begin to flutter open, your breath still heavy, as you look down on him. 

“Shit. Who knew married sex would hit so differently,” you pant, let out an incredulous laugh from how hard you just came. 

Carmy grins up at you, and he loves the way it feels as you pull him towards you once more. Your hands are desperate, needy, impatient as they tear through the buttons on his shirt, practically dragging the top over his head and tossing it onto the floor with a vigor he knows only comes from how much you need him. 

“You good, baby?” he asks, cockily, because after years of this, he thinks he’s earned the right to know just how good he always makes you feel. 

“Just need you, Carm,” you rasp, propping yourself up so that you can chase his mouth with yours. “Need you so much. Need you inside of me.” 

“I know, sweet girl. I-,” he begins to say, before freezing, as if there’s an alarm going off in his head, his voice full this time as he swears, as if he’s just forgotten a really important date:

“Ffffffffffffffffuck.”

“Everything okay?” you ask, sitting up this time in response to his sobering pitch.

Carmy can feel the heat rise to his cheeks as he flushes red, completely embarrassed that he’s put the heat of the moment on pause for this, knowing fully that he won’t be able to stop thinking about it now. 

“Yeah just I just gotta-... give me like… five seconds. I promise,” he nods, though his eyes silently plead with you. 

You shake your head as Carmy leaves you, his footsteps rapid and hurried as he practically sprints over to where you left the suitcases in the hallway. He swears underneath his breath, rummaging through his bag before finding a certain plastic tupperware, a feeling of relief washing over him. He can hear you laugh as he runs through the room, tucking it safely in the mini fridge, and he can only imagine that it’s quite the sight to see.

By the time he returns to the bed, cheeks flushed, and an apologetic look in his eyes, you’re sitting up on your knees, waiting for him with an amused look on your face. 

“Do I want to know?” you ask, skeptically.

“You’ll thank me later,” he chuckles, still embarrassed. Shyly, as he steps towards the edge of the bed, he works up the nerve to ask, “Will you uh.. Think we can pick up where we left off?”

Still stunning as you were moments ago but now with that post-orgasm glow, you wrap your arms around Carmy’s neck, pulling him in closer so that he’s standing across from where you kneel. 

“You can come back to bed. But lose the pants, jerk,” you reply, feigning disapproval. 

He nods, eagerly taking off his pants as he joins you back on the bed in only his briefs. 

Carmy’s intent on making it up to you, his mouth back on yours as soon as possible, lowering you to the bed as his hands grope at any exposed flesh he can. He’s dragging the straps of the red bra down, but refuses to take it off completely. Keep it on, he insists, because he can’t get the image of you riding him in it out of his mind. It’s not till he’s tearing your panties down your legs, tossing them somewhere on the floor that you know he really means business this time. 

“No more interruptions,” he promises you, as he settles in between your legs, his briefs long gone and his hard, aching cock desperate to feel you. 

As Carmy presses into you, reeling over the fact that every time feels like the first – it’s that glorious, that wondrous – you know, without all the trauma of your actual first time. You’re all tight, wet, heat pulsing around him and for once, he doesn’t have to think for a moment. 

Carmy’s always been a thinker – an overthinker, really, calculating each and every move with strategy – rarely ever a doer because that’s just not who he got to be. But with you, inside of you, it’s all instinct, and breath, and I love yous, both in pursuit of your shared pleasure. In these moments, he gets to be a doer, responding to your every moan, taking the lead when he knows what will set you off, showing you just how much you turn him on with every kiss, every touch, every thrust. 

It doesn’t take long for you to push him onto his back, reminding him that he has some making up to do for the earlier coitus interuptus and that he should let you fuck him instead.

But as you climb on top of him, turning around so that your back is to him, he swallows, admiring the view you’re so intent on giving him. He can picture it clearly, exactly – your head thrown back, biting down on your bottom lip, brow furrowed as you sink down onto him – even though he can’t see your face. 

Instead, he listens to the way you whimper his name as you begin to move your hips, traces the curves of your body as you settle into a satisfying rhythm, digs the pads of his fingers into your hips and your ass because he just can’t not touch. 

It’s music to his ears as you let out a keen-like moan when he begins to meet your hips with thrusts of his own, speeding up the perfect rhythm you’ve set. He can feel you squeezing around him, chasing your own high as you fuck yourself on him, and he can feel that familiar tightening at the bottom of his belly. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw tightening as he can feel it coming. 

All it would take was a few more thrusts, a vigorous pace, take hold of your hips and showing you just how he wants it. But instead, Carmy sits half way up, reaching out for you as he stills your hips against his. His movement causes you to shift as you realize he’s sitting all the way up, wrapping an arm around your waist, the new angle causing you to squeeze around him.

“Baby,” you whine, beginning to grind your hips in circles where you’re connected.

“I wanna see you. I wanna see you cum again,” he requests, his voice tender yet intent, as if he plans on embedding the words into your skin. And as he leaves little kisses against your shoulder blade, his words go straight to your heart. 

“Okay,” you agree with a soft whisper. 

Carmy sits back just enough to let you switch positions, before propping himself up on both hands that rest behind him. With the softest smile he thinks he’s ever seen, you climb back onto his lap. Grabbing the back of your head, he pulls you to him, kissing you like he wants to give you the world and then some. Your hands smooth over his strong shoulders and inked arms, then you’re reaching down between the two of you, guiding him back into you as you take him once more. 

He swears his eyes roll to the back of his head as he feels you again, beginning to move your hips in perfect harmony together. This new position is passionate, intense, intimate. Your hands are cradling the back of his head, kissing him like he is oxygen, as he surrenders to you, to the moment, to the dance between you.

“I like this,” Carmy finally says, as he notices the way the straps of your bra hang loosely off your shoulders. 

“Me on top of you?” you smile, devilishly. 

“This,” he repeats, his eyes hungrily taking in the image of you on top of him in this sexy lace little thing, as he toys with the red elastic. “But that too.”

You grin before pressing your lips against his once more, because he truly has no idea what else you have in store for him. 

“Feel so good, sweet girl,” Carmy grunts out, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, sloppier as the feeling returns. “You feel so good.” 

You throw your head back in a moan, and he knows you’re letting him set the pace. He’s so goddamn close to cumming, as the two of you chase both of your highs this time. 

“I love you, Carmy,” he hears you whine, your head leaning against his shoulder. “So much. I love you, baby.”

He can feel it – feel you – and he knows you’re close. 

“I love you,” he manages to get out, in between a clenched jaw. 

His hips stutter, and you’re tightening around him, losing all control, surrendering to your release as you cry out. Watching you come undone around him, feeling you contract and release around him, calling out his name till your voice is hoarse is what brings him there with you. Carmy continues to fuck up into you, filling you, as his hands begin to slow down the pace of your hips.

You’re magic to him – somehow just as and more electrifying as the day he met you, the day you told him you loved him, and today, the day you both said, “I do.” 

“I think you’re right,” is what he says, in between pants, finally breaking the tension. “Married sex is a whole ‘nother level.”

“Cheers, Mrs. Berzatto,” Carmy toasts to you. 

“And a cheers to you too, Mr. Berzatto,” you reply, clinking your champagne flute with his before drinking. 

After coming back to reality – recovering from your joint discovery of just how damn good married sex is – you and Carmy spent a few more precious moments in each others’ arms, sharing languid kisses and whispered words. And after cleaning up, you both came to an agreement that if this weekend is anything like how it started, you will absolutely be in need of fuel – Carmy encouraging you to order a few things for room service off the hotel’s late night menu. 

So here you are, drinking clinking glasses of fancy champagne over overpriced burgers and truffle fries, as you begin a new journey with your husband, thinking to yourself that there’s no other way you’d want this to be. Wrapped up in his Ralph Lauren Oxford shirt that you’d gleefully pulled out of his suitcase after your quick rinse off in the shower, Carmy’s got one of those looks of deep admiration in his eyes while he listens to you you wax philosophical about something or other. 

It’s not that he’s not listening – it’s just that he cannot get over the fact that you made it here – something his twenty-five year old self probably never would’ve believed. 

“Any chance you’re still hungry?” Carmy asks, a hopeful look in his eyes as he watches you polish off the last bite of your burger. 

“Actually, yeah. Someone wore me out,” you answer cheekily, with a flirtatious shrug. 

He smiles, “Good. Stay right here.”

As you watch Carmy jump off of the bed, beelining for the minifridge to retrieve whatever he put in it earlier, you note that it’s the second time that he’s left you tonight whatever the hell it is he’s keeping in that goddamn plastic tupperware. With an arched eyebrow, you ask:

“Watcha got over there?” 

Carmy climbs back onto the bed, kneeling as he offers the square-shaped box to you, careful not to knock anything over on your shared room service tray. He begins to peel back the plastic lid, pulling it away from the storage container, earning a well-won sound of surprise from you as you realize exactly what it is. 

“Tiramisu?” you gasp, completely moved by your husband’s gesture. “Carm, when the hell did you have time to make this?”

He gives you nothing but a boyish shrug, before gathering your two unused spoons that came with the silverware sets that room service brought up with your late night dinner. 

“Had a little extra time at the restaurant this week,” is all he says, which you know is a lie. 

You send a skeptical look his way, because rarely does he ever have extra time at the restaurant where he’s just hanging around. Sure, a tiramisu isn’t wildly difficult to make, but it’s been off of The Bear’s menu for years now.

And you should know. You’re the one who put it on there in the first place. 

“Thought you didn’t bake,” you challenge him, as you pick up one of the spoons off of the room service tray.  

“Yeah ‘s about the only thing I can do… considering it requires little to no baking at all,” he shoots back, picking up his spoon as well. 

With no hesitation of being first, you dig your spoon into the soft cocoa powder covered cream and espresso soaked lady finger dessert, before raising your spoon to your lips for a first bite. 

“Ohhhh, baby…” you practically moan, your eyes closed as you throw your head back in pure bliss. 

Carmy snorts with laughter, but he’s satisfied with your reaction, knowing that he did a damn good job with it. 

“Would you two like to be alone?” Carmy teases you, pointing his spoon to the tiramisu then back to you. “Thought this was our honeymoon.” 

You lift your head, rolling your eyes playfully, before going back for seconds, “Don’t be jealous. You’re still the only one making me moan like that.”

And suddenly, the room feels about five degrees hotter, as Carmy feels heat rise to his cheeks. But he’s not quite ready to go there again, just yet, so instead he just explains:

“I know we both promised we wouldn’t do any of the food today, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to show you how much I love you in the only way I know how.” 

“It’s not the only way,” you tease him with a smirk, as he shakes his head incredulously. 

You can tell you’ve made him blush, which is only a little bit funny considering the dirty things that came out of his mouth barely an hour ago. But the silver lining is this, and it’s not lost on you: after all this time and all of these years, it’s good to know that on your wedding day, you still know how to flirt with your husband. 

Carmy’s eyes are fixed to the tiramisu as he focuses on digging his own spoon into the tiramisu, inhaling the spoonful right away. 

Damn. It is good, he thinks to himself, though he’s usually quite hesitant to give himself a compliment. 

“So what were you and Sugar talking about?” Carmy asks, curiously changing the subject. 

“Oof. You really wanna kill the mood with that answer?” you counter him, and he can hear the reality of the situation in the way your voice drops. 

“That bad?” he pries, hesitantly. 

“No,” you’re quick to reassure him. While you’re not sure you want to ruin a perfect night by talking about Donna, you also feel like there’s no escaping it either. “Sugar and I’s talk was great but… she was upset… about your mom not coming.”

With a quick raise of his eyebrows, Carmy nods along, only slightly disappointed by the answer. 

Leave it to Mom to ruin a perfectly good day without even showing up, he thinks to himself. 

“Are… you… okay about it?” you drag out, cautiously. 

“Yeah,” he answers with a curt nod. You’re not convinced, eyeing him carefully as Carmy chooses to charge through. 

“Didn’t really expect her to come anyways. Would’ve been more drama than it was worth.” 

“Bear,” you sigh in response to the impossible situation, because there’s no way that he’s not at least a little disappointed. 

He shrugs, his eyes evasive of yours as he scoffs dismissively, shaking his head. 

“Welcome to the fuckin’ family, I guess.”

You really don’t want to get into it now – not on your wedding night – so you shut your mouth even though you’re not exactly satisfied with his response. You know Carmy has every right to not want his mom there knowing that everything he’s said is true, but it still hurts your heart that he’s closed off his heart to her like this – that it has to be this way. 

You let out a heavy exhale, before digging back into the tiramisu, pushing the thought out of your mind. And just when you think you’re done talking about it, Carmy presses you once more, his voice softer this time as he asks:

“What’d you uh… say? To Sugar?” 

You take another breath, a sympathetic smile on your lips as you explain: 

“I told her that I was sorry… that things are the way that they are, but I really just think she just needed someone to listen to her.” 

“Yeah.”

A half beat. 

“And I told her that… well, I told her that… we get to change things. You and I. Her and Pete. With the baby coming and everything too and… and us. Getting married, you know?”

Carmy hums in response, nodding his head as he processes what you said. Returning his gaze to you, it feels like he’s looking right through you, his blues so intense as he softly speaks again.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Me too.”

You wait a beat, then another, noticing that your champagne glass is almost empty. You reach for the bottle, topping off Carmy’s flute first. You search your mind for something else to talk about, because you think he may actually be done talking about Donna this time, a small laugh escaping your lips as you think about today. 

“Hmmm?”

Your eyes move to Carmy’s, then back to the almost-empty champagne flute that you’re refilling as you smirk with, “Bold move putting me on the spot like that with the vows.” 

He laughs, a blush running across his cheeks as he shyly replies:

“You know, we got there, and I uh… well, I wanted to. Should I uh-, you know… think we shoulda talked about it before?” 

“No, I actually kind of liked it,” you reassure him, raising the champagne flute to your lips once more. You take a sip, before continuing to flirt with your husband. “You’re gettin’ the hang of this whole… romantic gesture thing, Berzatto.”

“Anything for you, Berzatto,” he shoots back, emphasizing your new last name in a way that makes your heart flutter at the reminder.

You hum a satisfied hum in response, relaxing a little more into where you sit on the bed. 

“Though if I had known ahead of time, I guess I could’ve prepared something. ‘S too bad,” you say playfully, causing Carmy to smile.

“We could do it now,” he offers, his voice going up at the end like it’s a question, and there’s something so boyish in his charm that it makes your heart melt. 

“Hmmmm,” you begin, pondering where you’d like to start. He had promised to love you forever, and you him, but as you think about all the ways you want to love him, a smile spreads across your lips. 

“Okay,” you accept, ready to play along. “I promise… that on the days you want breakfast burritos… that I will go to the place you like a few blocks down from ours.”

“Even though you think the place across from our place is better and closer?” he asks, unable to hide his shock as his eyebrows raise then lower. 

You giggle, “Even though I think the place near ours is way better and is so much more convenient to get to, Bear.” 

“Wow uh. Okay then,” Carmy says, taking this as an invitation. “Then I promise to always make sure to check that they put extra green salsa in the bag for you, no matter where we get the breakfast burritos.”

You grin, nodding your head alongside a, “You’re too good to me.”

This time, you take a moment to think it over, taking it more seriously now. 

“I think… we should promise… to always have each others’ backs; to always be each others’ teammate.”

Carmy nods his head in agreement, “Yeah I uh… I think that’s great, babe.” 

Two of you settle into a comfortable quiet, eating tiramisu and drinking champagne, while Carmy continues to steal glances your way when he thinks you aren’t looking. 

He takes a beat. Then another, before propping his head up on his hand where he lays on his side across from you.

“What about this?” he proposes. “We promise to love each other, even when we disagree.”

“Even when you’re being a dick,” you tease him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah. Even when I’m being a dick and you’re fuckin’ fed up with me,” he agrees with a head nod. “What else?”

“That we grow old together,” you say, without question, before painting him a picture of what you dream it could look like. 

“And we promise to take care of each other when we’re cranky and smelly, and you’re telling the grandkids about your glory days as a hotshot chef….” You take a beat, giggling at the thought. “... while I roll my eyes because you’re yelling at someone to bring you your old chef’s knife so that you can show them that you still know how to perfectly Brunoise a carrot.”

“Oh, you’re gonna have to pry my chef’s knife out of my cold dead hands,” he warns you, humorously.  

You laugh, “Honey, I knew that when I signed the marriage license.”

“I think we’ll be those grandparents, don’t you? The ones that pass on all of our recipes to the kids and the grandkids, and even when we’re not there anymore, we live on in everyone’s kitchen,” you conclude, and you can’t take your eyes off of him. ��You know? You and me.” 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

You exchange a silly laugh, because neither of you know where to go after this, your and his hearts warmed by the thought of growing old together. You’ve been together for years now, but in so many ways, it still feels like you have so much life ahead of you; a life with Carmy that you’re only just getting started. 

Carmy waits a beat, allowing your shared laugh to subside. 

“I like the sound of this. Of us,” he declares, his voice soft yet sure. 

“Me too, Carm. Me too,” you agree.

[raven-alate]

it's perfect, chef | carmy berzatto x fem!reader | bonus smut scene from 'still into you'

summary: carmy surprises you with a ring & an engagement dinner, but you're not hungry yet. bonus scene that takes place after the last chapter of 'still into you' sunday (you'll want to read this first)

warnings: fluff, engagement smut, swearing, 18+ only

wordcount: 3.9k

a/n: here is the long-awaited bonus engagement smut that i owe @carmensberzattos. i think this is the spiciest smut scene i've written them yet. also, hypothetically, if i wrote some cute fluffy shit about them getting married/planning... would you read that? y/n?

(^^ this is NOT an amatriciana BUT this scene is 'chef' is the same energy so it felt right.)

And you think to yourself, that maybe, this was always how it was supposed to be.

You can’t stop smiling.

Your eyes flicker from the ring on your finger to where Carmy stands over the stove. He’s put his apron back on, very serious about this engagement dinner he’s got planned for you. You watch as Carmy begins pulling the sauce together, giving the pan a shake over the gas burner in your shared apartment. Carmy uses the wooden spoon to evenly distribute the onion and guanciale mixture across the bottom of the pan once more. 

It’s perfect, really, that he’s decided to make you an amatriciana for your engagement night. The man knows you love a Roman pasta, and you love that they’ve managed to play such a special part in your love story. 

You glance back down at your phone, seeing a slew of messages in your group chat with Syd and Sugar, in response to the picture of the ring you snapped earlier:

Sugar: HE DID IT!!! HE GAVE YOU THE RING!

Syd: We did good, huh?

Sugar: You’re welcome ;)

Syd: It really is a beautiful ring. We love you!!!! Go enjoy your night, but spare us the details please. 

You’re so focused on your group text with Sugar and Syd that you don’t notice how close Carmy hasn’t gotten to where you’re perched on top of the kitchen island.

“Health code violation, don’t you think?” he teases you, giving your thigh a little squeeze.

You look up from your phone, letting out a small laugh as you lock eyes with your now fiance. While grabbing the bowl of tomato passata, he maintains eye contact, the smallest smirk on his face as he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

Carmy takes a few steps away from where you sit, causing your heart to beat a hell of a lot faster. That can’t be all he came over here for you, could it?

“Good thing our place is not a restaurant then,” you reply, your gaze following him as he returns to the stove.

Even though he’s gone back to cooking, Carmy’s touch lingers on your skin. You can still feel the pads of his fingers along your inner thigh and you’re not sure if you’re ever going to get your heart rate back down. You clear your throat in an attempt to collection yourself before offering:

“Need any help?”

Your ears fill with the sound of the tomato sauce hitting the searing hot pan as Carmy responds, “I got this babe.”

He steals a glance your way, before giving the sauce a shake in the pan. You swallow, watching as his forearm muscles flex prominently as he grips the hand of the saucier. He swirls the pan a few times, creating an emulsion of the ingredients inside, and it suddenly feels five degrees hotter in the room. You’re like a moth transfixed by a flame as you hop off of the kitchen island, taking a few steps to where he stands. 

“Can I at least watch, then?” you ask, suggestively.  

A smile spreads across Carmy’s lips as he feels your hand snake around his waist, your fingertips dipping underneath the hem of his shirt. He hisses in response to your touch, as your fingertips hit the hard planes of his abdomen. 

“Baby…” he sighs out, a smirk on his face as you press your forehead against his shoulder. “What’re you up to?”

“Nothin’,” you answer innocently, even though there’s not a single innocent intention behind this. You bite down on his shoulder blade gently, earning another laugh from his lips. 

He chuckles, “Doesn’t feel like nothin’.” 

You giggle, “Just testing your focus, is all.” 

You pull away from him almost instantly, pulling off to his left side. You press your back against the counter, leaning up against it as you watch what he’s doing. As Carmy leans over the stovetop, reaching for the salt crock towards the back of the stove, you can’t help but notice the newly exposed skin the hem of his shirt has revealed. 

Did his perfect vintage jeans always sit that low on his hips? 

Down girl… you remind yourself. 

“You tell Sugar and Syd yet?” Carmy asks, changing the subject. 

“Yeah. They’re very excited that you gave me the ring,” you reply, trying to distract yourself. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We have a group text, actually.”

“Uh oh,” Carmy sounds, shooting you another look. 

You smile wickedly before reassuring him, “Nothing to worry about it. They’re happy you finally, and I quote, did it right.”

“You three in a group text? Got nothin’ to worry about. Sure,” he replies with a playful eye roll, completely unconvinced that this group text is nothing to worry about. 

“I thought maybe we could call Liz and Maya after dinner. Or maybe tomorrow depending on what we get up to tonight,” you suggest. 

“Oh yeah?” Carmy replies, a hint of amusement in his ask. 

He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows he’s winding you up, teasing you till you’re begging for him to fuck you. And you hate that you love it so much. 

Carmy leans towards you, his piercing blue eyes holding your gaze for a moment, watching you squirm. 

“I uh-, need to get a spoon,” he says, gesturing towards the drawer you’re standing in front of. His lips are inches away from yours and you forget to breathe for a second. 

His lips practically ghost over yours when you don’t move and you have to admit that you're so turned on by this little game of cat and mouse. But you’re not going to let him win. Not yet. You bite back a moan, nodding your head and stepping aside, murmuring a ‘sure.’ 

You run a hand through your hair, trying to calm yourself down. Carmy grabs a spoon, returning to where he’s planted himself in front of the stove. He dips the spoon into the sauce to taste for seasoning, and you can see the gears turning in his head. 

“A little more salt,” he murmurs to himself, before adding another pinch. 

“Can I try?” you ask, bold enough to get close to him again. 

You’re not sure if you’ll have the self-control to resist him, but you’re not sure you’ll care by then. 

He laughs dryly, dipping the spoon back into the sauce. 

“Let me know what you think, chef,” he replies, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. He holds the spoon out as you open your mouth to taste. He doesn’t look away and neither do you, until the tangy, salty tomato sauce hit your tongue. 

Fuck. 

You close your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. 

“It’s perfect, chef,” you answer, opening your eyes. 

Carmy smiles smugly in response. 

Because he knows it is. 

Because he knows he has you right where he wants you.

The only thing that could rip him away from you in this moment is the sound of the pot of water he has on the stovetop coming up to a boil. It feels near-impossible to rip his attention away from you, but he does, throwing handfuls of salt into the stock pot, with his deli container of dried rigatoni following.

He sets a timer, before stirring the pasta water a few times.

You’re hungry. Sure. But between his perfect amatriciana and this little game you’ve been playing, you’re not sure you can wait any longer. 

Dinner will just have to wait. 

“Carm?” you ask, your voice coming out breathier than you anticipated. 

“Hm?” he hums in response, completely satisfied with just how worked up he’s gotten you. 

“I… need your help with something,” you drag out, as he turns to you. 

“Yeah?” he asks, coyly. 

“Yeah,” you answer. 

Using your left hand, that left hand, you pull him towards you so that he’s dangerously close to you now. Your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips before reaching up to press your lips to his. Carmy kisses you with the confidence of a man that knows he’s got you in the palm of his hand, pulling you in towards him for more. 

“This what you need help with?” he asks, as you feel his lips twist into a smile against yours. 

“Yeah,” you answer, in between sucking on his top lip. 

“It’s just…” you start innocently, tugging his hand to follow you. “Nat and I had some snacks right before I got back. Didn’t know my very sexy chef fiance would be here making me dinner and asking me to marry him again.”

In between kisses you manage to continue backing the two of you up against the kitchen island now.

“Think I need a little help working up an appetite.”

You hear him laugh against your lips, before turning his head towards the stove. 

“But what about the pasta?” he teases, cockily. 

You pull away for a moment, and with a shake of your head you reply, “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

Carmy laughs again before grabbing you back the back of your head, pulling you deeper into the kiss. In an instant he’s hoisting you up onto the kitchen island so that you’re seated there once again, nudging your legs open to make space for him. 

“You set a timer right?” you manage to ask, wrapping your legs around his waist. You run your hands down his chest as Carmy’s eyes follow, focused on the engagement ring he’s just put on your finger. 

Fuck it. 

The pasta can wait. 

“Yeah, but that means we got ten minutes,” he finally answers, looking up at you. 

You smirk, satisfied, “That’s plenty of time.”

He can’t believe this is real. 

He can’t believe he deserves this, and yet, you make him feel like he does. 

He grabs your hands to stop them, before focusing all of his attention on your left hand. He looks down, focused on your body and everything he wants to do to you. 

His fiance. 

His future wife. 

His Mrs. Carmen Berzatto. 

“This what you want, pretty girl?” Carmy rasps, kissing your ring finger. 

You watch as he bows he head to you, his mouth leaving slow kisses up your arm. He’s gentle in the way that his lips brush against the tattoo on your forearm, and then into the crevice of your elbow. You sigh as he drags his lips up your bicep and your shoulder, before burying his face into the space between your shoulder and your neck. 

“This what you need help with?” he asks you again, his voice low and sultry. 

“Yes, baby,” you whimper, as he leaves a gentle bite on your neck. His tongue snakes out, quick to soothe the sting of his teeth, and you’re leaning your head back, offering up more of yourself to him.

Carmy’s hands trace up your thighs, tugging on your hips so that they press up against his. You grind your hips against his denim clad hips, searching for any kind of friction you can get. With the movement of your hips, Carmy chuckles confidently. He knows he’s dragging this out, teasing you for distracting him and possibly ruining his flawless amatriciana with your desire for him. 

Finally, finally, he crashes his lips into yours again, letting out a groan as surrenders to his own desire. Your hands are everywhere: in his hair, wrapping around his shoulders, grasping greedily at his back as he bucks his hips between your legs. 

“Wanna move this to the bedroom?” you pant, in between kisses. 

“Nah,” Carmy smirks in response, watching your face twist into a look of confusion. But he can’t deny you for too long, his next words sending you into a frenzy. 

He grabs a handful of your hair before whispering against your lips, “I wanna take you right here.”

“Carmen,” you gasp in surprise, feeling him pull on your hair. 

“In all the kitchens we’ve worked in together,” he starts, fire in the way his voice sounds. “Can’t believe we’ve never done this.”

“Think that’d definitely be a health code violation,” you tease him, before bucking your hips against his. You can feel how hard he is, if the tent in his pants and progressively tight-feeling jeans wasn’t enough. 

“Think about that a lot, Carm? Hoisting me up over my prep station in the middle of my mise and taking me right there?”

“Fuck yes,” he groans, feeling you bite into his chest. 

He gives you a half smile, before he’s untying his apron, throwing it somewhere on the kitchen floor. He returns to you in an instant, and you’re practically ripping his t-shirt from his body along with yours. Your mouth is on his again, your tongues tangling in a dance for dominance. Carmy’s hand is in your hair, his hips pressed against yours, and he’s laying you back on the kitchen counter. 

He thanks his past-self for cleaning up earlier. He’d hate to have to break any of your favorite ceramics by shoving them off of the kitchen island, his mind completely clouded with his need to consume you. He lets himself get lost in the heated makeout. He loves the little noises you make, the way your skin tastes underneath his tongue when he kisses your neck, the way you run your fingers through his curls as you whine his name. 

“Baby,” you sigh as his mouth moves from your neck to your breasts. 

Carmy’s pulling one of the cups of your bra down, exposing your right breast. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, as you feel his tongue snake out to draw circles around your nipple, causing your to arch your back. He’s hard at work, earning moans from you with his mouth pressed against one of your nipples when the timer for the pasta goes off, interrupting you.

“Fuck!” he practically shouts. 

“Shit.”

You laugh, flattening your back against the kitchen counter before sitting up. Carmy looks so upset that it’s almost funny. He swears again before returning to the stovetop. He’s quick to use a mesh sieve to pull the rigatoni noodles out of the boiling pot of water and into the saucier. You laugh again, watching him, because of course he can’t help himself. 

“You okay, Carm?” you tease him. 

He shoots you a playful glare, shaking the pan a few times. After giving the pasta a few tosses in the pan, he’s practically slamming the stainless steel pan down on the stovetop, flicking both burners off, before returning to you. 

“Now where were we?” he asks, his voice gruff with lust. 

You’re more than happy to pick up where you left off. 

“I think somewhere around here,” you say, pulling your bra off in one swift motion. 

“Jesus,” Carmy groans again, his hands moving up to your breasts. 

“And I think… you had me on my back,” you say flirtatiously, as you lay back over the kitchen island. 

“Fuck, babe,” he hisses, his hands snaking up and down your torso. “Mine.”

“Yours,” you confirm as he glides his hands over you. 

And he’s back to work, consuming you with his mouth and tongue as you arch your back off of the kitchen island. You let out the most surprised gasp as Carmy practically yanks your shorts off, tossing them and the pair of panties you’re wearing onto the floor to join the rest of your discarded clothes. 

Carmy takes his time, leaving kisses and love bites along your inner thighs, and you know this is payback. He has you breathless, dripping wet and squeezing around nothing before he’s even put his mouth on you. He’s got you so wound up that when he finally licks a broad stripe up your core, you’re screaming his name loud enough for the neighbors to hear. He’s gotten so damn good at this over the years. It’s not that he’s ever been bad at it… but the way he’s memorized everything you like, what makes you tug at his hair when he’s between your legs like this, what makes you come undone, has you cumming faster than you ever thought you could. 

Carmy’s got one hand palming at your breasts while the other holds your opposite leg open as he eats you out. Your legs are practically shaking as you cum, and he’s not letting you go anywhere. Not letting you have a single moment of relief as his tongue works you over, his fingers buried deep inside of you. 

“Holy shit, Carm,” you sigh, trying your best to catch your breath. 

He finally looks up at you, his mouth wet with your slick as he wipes it against the back of his hand. 

“Don’t think I’m done with you,” he promises, his eyes locked in a gaze with yours. 

Before you can pull yourself together, he’s wrapped your legs around his waist, and he’s dragging you off the kitchen counter and over to the couch. You want nothing more than to ride him as he lays you down on the couch, hovering over you. You watch as he removes his jeans and briefs, stepping out of them. You swear your heart skips a beat as you see his erection standing hard against his abdomen. 

“Let me ride you,” you beg, sitting up on the couch. You reach for him, wrapping a hand around his dick, earning a hiss from him at the feel of your soft hand. 

“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” he smirks, because he has other ideas. He makes his way down to the couch with you, moving you so that you’re on top of him. “Not yet at least.”

You shoot him a look of confusion as you straddle him, before letting out a yelp as he moves you up his body. You practically have to catch yourself on the edge of the couch with his movements, as soon as you realize what he’s doing. Carmy’s got you straddling his face, wrapping an arm around your waist, so that he can taste you again. You’re so sensitive from your last orgasm that you cry out as he pulls you down against his mouth. 

“Carmy, I can’t-. I-, I’m too sensitive,” you wince, feeling his tongue move over your clit in feverish circles. 

He shakes his head, earning another moan from you as you feel the drag of his mouth against you. You try to sit up, try to pull away, but he must’ve known you’d try something like this as the arm wrapped around your waist catches you from moving any further. 

“Nuh uh,” he tuts, scolding you as he holds you in place. “You said you wanted me to help, sweet girl. So I’m helping.” 

You know it’s no use, as those are the last words you hear him say before he’s pulling you down to him again, his mouth and tongue back on you. You feel the tip of his nose bump against your clit, and you’re begging him to make you cum again, surrendering to the beautiful, pleasurable torture he insists on inflicting on you. Carmy’s hands move to your ass, keeping you pressed against him as he works you over, refusing to let up.

Two can play at this game, you decide. 

You bring your fingertips up to your mouth, sucking them for a moment to gather enough saliva, before reaching back behind you. Your wet fingertips meet his hard cock, aching to be touched. With your back arched, you use your saliva and his precum to stroke his length, earning a groan from Carmy against you. You can feel him bucking up into the hand you’ve wrapped around him, moaning against you as you continue to ride his face. The vibrations are too much as another orgasm rips through your body, as you let out another sob of pleasure. 

Satisfied, Carmy finally releases you, and you’re not sure how you manage to hold yourself up over him. Breathless, he slides you down his body, your knees straddling his hips as you kiss him. You can taste yourself on his mouth, as you drop your hips, dragging your pussy against his hard on. 

“Fuck, babe,” he groans, because you feel too fucking good. 

“You gonna let me ride you yet?” you ask, your voice low and sultry. 

“Please,” he replies, his pupils completely blown out in pure lust. 

Your knees dig into the couch as you sit tall, grabbing his thick cock before guiding him into you. You both gasp at first contact, and the way he feels inside of you sends chills down your spine. You start to move your hips slowly, grinding against him as Carmy closes his eyes in pleasure. 

He’s enjoying this too much. 

And he gets to do it forever. 

With you. 

With one hand on his chest, bracing yourself, you begin to speed up the motion of your hips. Carmy lets out another moan, bucking his hips up into you. You close your eyes, throwing your head back in pleasure when you feel the slightest pressure on your neck as a tattooed hand wraps around your throat. You moan, beginning to fuck yourself faster on your boyfriend. 

With a groan, Carmy sits up straight, both arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. The change in angle makes your eyes roll back as he begins to thrust up into you with a fervor you’ve been wanting all night. 

The room is filled with the sounds of the kitchen overhead fan, the sounds of slapping skin, and both of your moans as he pushes you closer to your third orgasm. 

“Jesus Christ, baby. You feel so good,” he murmurs, lost in pleasure. “Always feel so good. Like you were made for me.”

“I love you,” you whisper back, tangling your left hand with his right. 

Carmy glances over to your ring, then back to you, his eyes trained on yours as he explores this deeper angle. 

“I’m gonna come, pretty girl. Shit,” he swears, his thrusts becoming more and more desperate. 

“Me too, Carmy. Fuck… make me come again,” you beg him. 

You let him fuck you till you’re squeezing around him, gripping his shoulders, with your face buried in his neck as he follows suit. Carmy grunts, filling you up, pausing the motion of his hips while he’s still inside of you. You pull back with a sigh, trying to catch your breath as you brace yourself on his shoulders.

He leans in, planting one more kiss to your lips, a fucked out grin stuck on his face. 

“Hungry now?”

You laugh, “Absolutely.”

*

Carmy fills two pasta bowls with a sigh, using a microplane to grate over more cheese for garnish. 

“Doubt it’ll be al dente but…” Carmy apologizes with a shrug, though he’s not sorry that you took a much needed sex break. 

Still shirtless, you watch your boyfriend move towards you, bowl of pasta and a fork in hand. He’s slipped on a pair of sweatpants while you wear one of his old Original Chicagoland Beef t-shirts you found in the clean pile of clothes. 

He hands the bowl to you, where you sit on the kitchen island once again, a smirk on his face as he remembers what transpired here moments ago. 

You dig your fork into a rigatoni noodle, before raising it to your lips and taking a bite. Instantly, you’re met with the taste of what you swear could be the world’s most perfect amatriciana, even if the noodles are cooked past al dente. You can tell he’s watching you, searching for a reaction as you close your eyes with a groan. 

By the time you open your eyes again, a stupid smile plastered to your face, all you say to Carmy is:

“It’s perfect, chef.”

*

taglist: @allthefandomstogether @gaysludge @sobshoney @harrysmatcha @starbritestarlite @tpwkkmila @cool-girl-is-hot @nunya7394 @galaxyprincess51-blog @carmensberzattos @blue-weekends @rexorangecouny @ridingthehotmessexpress @the-nursery@strawberryalicia @astronautelilanded @veryplatoniccircunstances @fonteyn @hlkwrites

[raven-alate]

still into you | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader | bonus smut scene

summary: the bathtub smut scene i robbed us of. a continuation of chapter one.

warnings: 18+ chapter -- minors dni, smut, unprotected sex in long term relationship, p in v, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), spanking (just twice, lol) she/her pronouns & fem anatomy mentioned

word count: 2.2k

listen to: holy - king princess (playlist here)

a/n: can we talk about this iconic and incredible banner that @allthefandomstogether made for this story?! thank you so freaking much. it is pure perfection. anyways in honor of the bear season 2 teaser being released, i need a cold shower after writing this send help.

read: chapter one

*

“Let’s put it on the list… for when we’re ready to move to a new place,” he suggests, quietly. 

“Somewhere with a big tub?” you ask, only sort of surprised by his request. 

“Yeah.”

You turn your head to look at him, as Carmy presses a searing kiss to your lips. You feel his hand snake between your legs and you begin to understand exactly why he’s enjoying this whole bath thing. 

“As much as I’m enjoying this…” he whispers against your lips. “Think you maybe want to get out of this tub…”

Another kiss.

“… dry off…”

You slide your tongue against his as his fingertips move higher up your inner thigh, earning a hiss of pleasure from you. 

“…not put our clothes back on?”

And then he’s swallowing your moans in his mouth, as he continues his exploration. Your head is spinning, and it’s not just the hot water that makes you feel as if your soul was set aflame.

“Yes,” you whimper as he fingers begin their exploration. He slides them through your folds and you throw your head back, grateful that his shoulder catches you. 

You relax into Carmy, hissing as he dips his index finger inside of you. Your breathing begins to become heavier as he continues touching you, alternating between sliding his index finger inside of you, then dragging his rough, calloused fingertips up and down your core. His mouth pressed against the shell of your ear, his tongue leaving patterns in their wake. Carmy nips at your earlobe before murmuring a few words, his voice heavy with lust:

“You trust me?”

“Always.”

He waits a beat before saying:

“Good. I wanna make you cum on my fingers first, pretty girl.” 

You feel his words shoot straight to your core as you clench around the combination of his index and middle finger he’s now slipped inside of you. 

“If that’s okay with you.” 

Even after all these years, you love how eager to please he still is.

“Yes, baby,” you say, a smile in your voice. “Very okay.” 

Carmy smirks contently. 

The fingers he has inside of you journey up through your folds, expertly finding your clit as he begins to rub gentle and deliberate circles. You sigh his name, letting the man you love make you feel absolutely incredible. He buries his face in the crevice of your neck, gently biting then soothing the little marks he leaves with his lips and tongue. 

“Carmen,” you pant, suddenly remembering that you’ll be in front of people tomorrow. “Not right there.” 

“Hm?” he hums, only half-focusing on what you’ve just said. 

His mouth moves further down the top of your shoulders, as he begins to speed up his ministrations, earning another cry from you.

“Don’t want everyone to see what I do to you? How I make you feel?”

You cry out in response as he bites your shoulder, a little harder this time. 

“Somewhere I can hide under my chef whites please,” you practically beg him as he begins to speed up the pace of his fingers. 

“Think I can do that,” he murmurs into your skin. 

Carmy lifts his head off of your shoulder, leaning back against the tall walls of the deep bathtub. His other hand moves around your waist, pressing your back against him, and you feel how absolutely hard he’s become. As his hand comes up to play with your nipples, he stops any movement with his fingers, sliding them back down to your entrance. 

You buck your hips up into his hand, impatiently.

“This what you want, pretty girl?” he asks, his voice husky. 

His fingertips circle your entrance, but he’s still not where you want him. You let out an impatient groan, whimpering out his name. He knows he’s teasing you and there’s a part of him that loves hearing you beg. 

Loves hearing how much you need him.

“Yes, baby,” you pant. “Please. I just want you inside of me.”

And he loves the way it sounds when you say it. 

He slides his fingers back inside of you, in and then out of you at a dangerously slow pace, earning a sob from you. 

“Just wanna make you feel good, sweetheart.” 

And just like that, his hand on your breast begins squeezing, pushing you against his chest, desperate to have you closer to him. He continues fucking you with his fingers with the hand between your legs, as you let go, enjoying this too much to have a care in the world about anything else.

“You are,” you breathe out. “So good, Bear. You make me feel so good.” 

Carmy lets out soft moans into your skin as he mouth returns to your shoulder. He’s bucking his hips against you as his fingers find that spongy spot inside of you. You let out a loud moan the minute he hits it, his lips curling into a smile against your skin. 

“Right there?”

“Yes.” 

Carmy curls his fingers, making a ‘come hither’ motion with them, and you can no longer contain your moans. He knows you’re on the verge and he has no intention of stopping you. The sound of your moans, the way you pant his name, how desperate you are to cum – it’s like crack to him.  It all goes straight to his cock, hard and weeping, yearning to be inside of you. 

But he’s not ready for that. 

Not until he makes you cum first. 

He’s a man on a mission with only one goal in mind. 

“You gonna cum, baby?”

“Carmen,” you whimper. 

“Yes, god. Please let me cum.”

He takes you higher. 

And higher.

You feel it like a wave reaching its peak. There’s a tension building, so close to snapping, and as it does, you feel the waves of pleasure crash within you as you let out a loud moan. You’re writhing against your boyfriend as he presses your back to his chest, and you’re gripping the edge of the tub with your hand closest to it. Carmy’s not letting you go anywhere. He wants you exactly where he has you, his hand between your legs, completely at his mercy. 

As you begin to come down, your mouth feels dry from all the panting and gasping you’ve been doing. You swallow, and Carmy begins to release you, his grip loosening around your waist. 

“What was that… about getting out of this tub? Drying off?” you ask, unsure of how you’ve managed to get words out after that. 

“Not putting our clothes back on?” Carmy completes your sentence. 

“Uh huh.”

In an instant, you’re standing up in the tub, letting the hot bath water fall down your naked body. Your nipples stand erect against the round, full shape of your breasts as Carmy follows suit, making his way to a standing position. You can’t help but notice his extreme erect dick just begging to be inside of you and the thought alone sends chills down your spine. You’re both quick to towel off, only half way drying your bodies off before Carmy is walking you back to the messy hotel bed from your nap earlier that day. 

And he’s very much looking forward to messing up this bed in another way with you. 

You fall into position like it’s second nature: Carmy on top of you, your legs wrapped around his waist as he grinds against your wet heat. He reaches down, ready to guide his hard, leaking cock inside of you. 

“Wait,” you say.

Carmy stops, his eyes wide. 

“I want something else,” you say again. 

He nods as you sit up, shifting him onto his back. As you climb on top of your boyfriend, your knees straddling his hips, you crash your lips into his. You’re sucking on his top lip, then sliding your tongue against his, then dragging his bottom lip between your teeth as you begin to make your way down his gorgeously sculpted chest. 

“Baby, what’re you-?” he begins, trail off as you begin to kiss down his chest. You take your time, allowing your mouth to leave little love bites across his chest, down his torso, then snaking your tongue across his hip bones. 

He hisses in anticipation, as you reach down, grabbing his length in one hand. You pause, looking up at him, his eyes catching yours. With a wicked grin on your face, you lick just the tip of him, causing his eyes to close as he sighs on in pleasure. 

“Ffffuck,” he groans, as you begin to take him into your mouth. 

You slide your mouth from the head, all the way down his shaft, earning another heavy sigh from Carmy. Your mouth meets your hand, then you’re pulling back up, allowing your hand to follow, getting his dick ready to be inside of you. You use your hand and your mouth in tandem, and Carmy’s trying his best not to buck his hips into your mouth too hard. His head is thrown back, and he reminds himself to open his eyes, wanting to memorize the way you look while going down on him. 

He gathers your hair to one side so that he can see you as you alternate through movements, knowing just what he likes. 

Suck, lick, sliding your mouth down his length to meet your hand again. The gentlest squeeze… 

And then you’re sitting up, making your back up his body and guiding his achingly hard length into you. Carmy’s hands go to your hips as you sink down onto him, muttering something inaudible as he makes you feel so incredibly full. Your hands go to his chest, propping yourself up as you begin to move your hips, his eyes rolling back. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans as you ride him. “What did I do to deserve this?” 

He knows he’s been an ass all week and he thinks you’re making him feel better than he deserves. 

You shake your head, moving your hips forward and back at an even pace. 

“Just wanna help you relax.” 

He moves a hand from your hips to your ass, raising up before coming back down with a loud smack. 

It’s just an encouragement, an ask for more. 

“Yeah?” he asks, feeling the fire in his belly grow stronger and stronger. 

You nod, beginning to ride him faster as he spanks you again causing you to throw your head back. You can feel his hips bucking up into you with a sense of urgency, as you meet each one with your own. Your hands go to your hair, just searching for something to hold onto because the way he makes you feel should be illegal. Carmy’s bouncing you on top of his hard length, and he’s hitting that spot so deep inside of you that you have to shut your eyes so tightly you’re seeing stars. 

Carmy doesn’t realize how wound tight he’s been all week – not until he’s watching you move on top of him, all feelings of worry and stress out of sight and out of mind. 

And then he’s pulling you down to him, keeping the fierce pace he’s set for the two of you. You roll your hips against his as he crashes his lips against yours again.

“Please just let me fuck you,” he murmurs in between kisses. 

You’re nodding with a, “Yes,” before he’s flipping you over onto your back, still inside of you. 

Carmy sits up, pulling your legs around his waist, slowing the pace of his movements down. He thinks the sight of himself disappearing inside of you will drive him absolutely insane, and he can’t tear his eyes away. 

In. Out. In. Out. 

Then he’s folding his body on top of yours, hiking one of your legs up higher on his hip so that he can hit that spot so deep inside of you that drives you wild.  

“Fuck, Carmy!” you cry. 

With the way you’re squeezing around him, he can tell you’re close. And so is he. He’s driving into you, one hand tangled in your hair as he buries his face into your neck. His other hand meets yours, interlacing his fingers between yours, pinning you down to the bed. His thrusts are deep and hard and you’re gasping – holding onto his shoulders, his biceps, and part of him that you can hold onto – as he moves on top of you. 

“Are you gonna cum?” you ask, barely able to get the words out. 

“Fuck,” Carmy howls as he lifts his head up. 

“Yes.”

His lips are back on yours for the messiest, wettest, hungriest kiss before he buries his face in your neck once again. His dick hits all of the right places, and you’re crying out his name, clamping down around him as he brings you to your climax. Carmy fucks you through it, his thrusts becoming more chaotic as he chases his high too. 

You’re practically hanging onto his arms for dear life as he gets closer. He’s driving into you, and you're losing your mind as his hand squeezes yours. Carmy lets out a few grunts as he cums, finally slowing down the pace of hips, before coming to a halt.

“Holy shit,” you say, shaking your head. 

You’re both flustered, sweaty messes, running your tongue over your kiss-swollen lips. 

He chuckles, lifting his head up to look at you. 

“Hi," he says.

“Hi,” you say back with a smile. 

Carmy moves up your body, leaning his forehead against yours, before leaving a small kiss on your nose. 

“I needed that.”

You giggle, “Me fucking too.”

He gives you a half smile in return. 

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

read: chapter two

taglist: @allthefandomstogether @gaysludge @sobshoney @harrysmatcha @starbritestarlite @tpwkkmila @cool-girl-is-hot @nunya7394 @carmensberzattos

[raven-alate]

smut & fluff with rivals!star lord x fem reader please,,,

Prepare to have your teeth rot <3

Hearts and Ribbons

Star-Lord x Fem!Reader

Description: Your boyfriend interrupts your beauty sleep to present you with a Valentine's gift... of himself!

Warnings/Disclaimers: SMUT (18+ only, Minors DNI!!!!), cursing, vaginal sex, cowgirl position, Star-Lord being canonically insufferable with his sense of humor, lots of fluff and comfort

A/N: I really let my cringe fly with this one. Star-Lord was actually stupid fun to write because of the joke potential. Also, I let the feels propel me forward, so this is barely proofread and I apologize.

Word Count: 2.9k

“Rise and shine, sweetheart!”

You groan sleepily, rubbing your eyes as the light to your sleeping quarters interrupts your slumber with its artificial yellow glare. With your brow furrowed, you narrowly blink one eye open to see who the perpetrator of this punishable offense was, and groan again when you see your boyfriend grinning ear to ear in your doorway.

“Peter,” you grumble, “what the hell? Why did you wake me up?” He winces at the irritation ringing clear as day in your voice. You wipe the sleep from your eyes as your vision begins to clear. “...and why are you in a bathrobe?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot!?” he exclaims as he stands at the side of your bed. You sit up to get a better look at him, your hair falling messily around your face. When you blink at him tiredly, giving him an unamused look, he sighs in defeat. “It’s Valentine’s Day! Well, back on Earth it is. I’ve been keeping track. Call me your calendar-ling.”

He’s too proud of that.

“Mmff… well we’re not on Earth, so…” you mutter in annoyance as you lie back down and tug the covers over your head. “...we can do Valentine’s in about 3 hours or so. Need my beauty sleep”

“Aww,” he whines, and it should be annoying, but there’s something adorable whenever he pouts like a little kid. “And to think, I got your present ready and everything!”

Your ears perk up at that. Material girl living in a material… universe, or something like that. He sees he’s piqued your interest and grins cheekily. His hand gives your comforter an experimental tug, just to see if you’ll let him, and you finally relent, rolling back over to face him.

“Okay, okay,” you sigh, giving him a slight smile as you start to sit yourself upright again. “What’d you get me?”

Tongue-in-cheek, his hand finds its way to the tie of his robe. The fuzzy fleece-like fabric zips with a whisper when he pulls it loose. It slips off of his shoulders and crumples to the ground in a puddle of cloth around his feet, leaving him entirely naked as he proudly places his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. A red ribbon criss-crosses his body, wrapping around his waist, his pecs, outlining his thighs, until finally it all comes together in a perfectly tied ribbon around his half hard penis.

“Me!”

Of course seeing him wrapped up like a pretty present is enough to get you a little hot and bothered. But he had interrupted your sleep presumably for Valentine’s sex, so in turn you had to tease him. With your best poker face, you cross your arms and look unimpressed.

“Oh. I was hoping you made breakfast or something,” you tut.

He deflates immediately, his arms flopping down at his sides, and you almost feel bad. “Well, I… I mean I could go grab--!”

You interrupt him with an airy giggle and take his hand in yours, pulling him onto the bed with you. It’s not the most graceful thing, and he lands with a soft “oof” on top of you while half crushing your rib cage, but you quickly pull him into your embrace. Your arms wrap around his neck while his find their place at your waist, though he does still look a bit befuddled by your sudden change in attitude.

“I’m kidding. Well, mostly,” you snicker before kissing the tip of his nose, loving the way it crinkles. “I am a bit hungry…” you add teasingly. The pad of your index finger trails along his jawline, tilting his chin up to press your lips softly against his. “...and you seem to have wrapped up a perfect snack just for me.”

His eyes darken slightly at the seductive purr of your voice, and he props himself up on his elbows to hover over you. “Oh, I’m a whole Happy Meal, babe.”

“You are the worst,” you respond with a giggly snort, but you contain any further laughter as you press that same finger to his chest, trailing along the line of the ribbon he’s wound himself in. Your touches travel lower, fingertips grazing along the soft silk almost ticklishly. While your eyes follow your hand, his are locked onto your face, watching your expression with rapt attention and studying the details of your face. He could probably draw it by memory if he were any good at that sort of thing, but he could never grow tired of looking at you. Feeling his gaze burn into your very soul, your eyes flicker back up to his.

“I’ll be anything as long as I still get to look at this gorgeous face,” he breathes. It’s so genuine that your face heats up immediately and your expression softens as your heart clenches in your chest. He could say a thousand pick-up lines, a million terrible jokes, make you groan and roll your eyes a billion times, but he could never stop you from loving him. Hell, you loved him because of that, and so much more, not in spite of it. Your palm rests against his cheek, and he leans into it happily. 

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” you tease, the mirthful lilt in your voice ensuring he knows you’re kidding.

“Said,” he corrects you with a cheeky smile as his fingers card soothingly through your hair. “Now those words are all yours.”

“Sweettalker,” you hum as you toy with the neatly tied bow between his legs.

He gives you a throaty chuckle. “You know you love it.”

You hum your agreement before your hand wraps around his cock, the heat of your palm drawing a hiss from his lips as you begin stroking him languidly. He kisses you hungrily then, nipping and tugging at your bottom lip before his tongue is dancing with yours. Bracing himself on one elbow, his other hand grips your hip before sliding up beneath your nightshirt, groaning into your mouth when he cups your breast.

With every flick of your thumb over the tip he’s bucking into your hand, precum dribbling forth as you collect it on your fingertips and smear it over his length. He’s so hard, so ready and needy for you, and it makes your mouth water in anticipation. His lips leave yours, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, and you tilt your head to the side to give him better access as he leaves heated kisses along the column of your throat.

“Peter,” you breathe reverently, exhaling a blissful sigh when his fingertips roll your nipple between them.

You can feel him smiling against your neck. “‘Could listen to that all day,” he muses aloud before he continues sucking a dark spot into your skin.

“Mm… maybe I could record my own mixtape for you then,” you chortle as your hand quickens. “Let you listen to my moans, the sounds of you fucking me…”

A broken moan staggers from his throat as he bites down onto your neck and you gasp softly. Well, now you have his birthday gift planned, at least.

The wet heat of his tongue laves up your neck, soothing the reddening mark and indent of his teeth. “I think I prefer the live show more.”

“Then why don’t you give me a show, lover boy?” you taunt as you guide the tip of his cock to drag up and down the dampening fabric of your underwear. You bite your lip and suppress the soft moan in the back of your throat when he brushes against your clothed clit.

He shakes his head, his blonde hair tickling your face as he suddenly sits back. Now it’s your turn to let out a dissatisfied whine, and he takes way too much pride in the way you pout up at him. You’re a complete mess, with bruised lips, hickeys lining one side of your neck, and your shirt pushed all the way up your chest to expose your breasts. No, he has something else in mind entirely.

“You’re the star, babe. And Star-Lord deserves VIP treatment, don’t you think?” He takes himself in hand then, swatting yours away as he taps his cock against your inner thigh. “I wanna watch you ride me,” he says huskily as his eyes meet yours. There’s so much want, so much raw desire in his gaze, that it makes your heart pound in your chest. You need him so badly that denying such a request or even making fun of such a cheesy use of his hero name never crosses your mind.

You scoot over wordlessly, and he grins wickedly before flopping onto his back. It was an undeniably tantalizing view, seeing him wrapped head to toe in that shiny red ribbon. You shimmy out of your panties before throwing your leg over his hip to straddle him. His hands find your waist again before sliding up, cupping your breasts as you make a show of removing your shirt and your hips rock against his. He could feel just how wet you were when his dick slides along your slickened slit, and it drives him crazy. When your hands rest atop his, guiding him as his fingers squeeze into the plush of your tits, he lets out a shuddery groan.

“Like this, Star-Lord?” you ask with mock, saccharine sweetness. He bucks up into your heat. Oh, how he loved when you used his moniker in the bedroom.

“Fuck, yes, baby. You’re so sexy,” he rambles, moaning when your grinding makes the tip of his cock nearly slip into your sex. You line him up properly then, easing down onto his length almost too easily, and he grips your thigh possessively as his head falls back against the pillow. You take him to the hilt and he snaps back up, watching where the two of you meet as you immediately begin bouncing up and down with breathy moans. “That’s it. Give me a show.”

Your eyes squeeze shut and your brows knit together while your lips part with your soft “oh”s and “ah”s. His hand falls from your breast so he can admire the way your tits bounce with your movements. The sensation of a loose silk knot nudging your clit every time you come down is strange but not unpleasant. Peter sees you looking down at it and chuckles.

“Look at you. So needy that you can’t even properly unwrap your toys before you play with them,” he teases before pressing his palm flat against your stomach and finding your bud with the pad of his thumb. The added sensation leaves your thighs quivering around him, and you bite down softly on your finger to muffle the keening sound in your throat. You want to tease him back, to point out how he’s calling himself your toy, but he doesn’t give you the chance. Instead he lifts his hips up just a bit, nearly setting you off balance as you gasp and lean back to brace your hands on his knees, and he thrusts up into you at an angle that has you seeing stars.

“Oh, fuck!” you curse, barely remembering to bounce back against him as he pounds up into you. He knew your body too well, knew every spot, every way to touch you to turn you to putty in his hands. Your eyes are too busy rolling back into your head to see the way he smiles devilishly up at you. Watching you come undone because of him was intoxicating, and he was absolutely drunk on you.

“That’s it, Y/N, keep singing for me like that,” he praises you, swiping feverish circles into your clit in time with his thrusts. “Let the whole ship know who’s girl you are.”

That idea shouldn’t turn you on, and in your right mind that would be the last thing you would want to think about, but the thought of it now has your walls clenching around him and milking him for all he’s worth. Pressure coils low in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every nudge of his cock head against your g-spot and every flick of his thumb on your pearl. Your moans turn into begging and praising.

“Yes, yes, Star-Lord, yes!” you babble between pleasured sighs. If you keep that up, there’s no way he’ll be able to last much longer. He pulls you down, earning a surprised yelp that he muffles with a searing kiss. He doesn’t relent, pistoning in and out of you as your moans grow higher and higher in pitch. With a tilt of his head the kiss deepens, and your mind goes hazy with desire while your tongues engage in another messy battle that leaves your head spinning. It’s all too much and finally the coil snaps, and you orgasm deliciously while your cries are swallowed by his kisses. He can’t hold back anymore, wrapping his arm around your waist and holding you down before going into an absolute frenzy. His cock hammers into your sensitive walls and he buries his face in your chest, moaning and groaning as you cry out from the overwhelming sensations. 

Your name leaves his lips over and over, uttering it like a prayer before he lets out a guttural cry, stilling and spilling himself into you.

The two of you slump against each other on the bed, panting as the afterglow washes over you. Resting your head on his chest, you roll your neck so that your cheek is smushed against his shoulder. In your post orgasmic bliss, your eyes gaze up at him lovingly, and a dopey smile spreads across your face. Peter looks down at you and smirks, bringing a hand up to brush through your now even messier hair.

“You know I love you, right? For… for you, I mean,” you murmur as you stare into each other’s eyes.

He gives you a quizzical look. “I… what do you mean?”

Your hand rests on his chest, and you draw lazy circles into his skin with your fingertip. “That I don’t need you to be Star-Lord. That I fell in love with Peter Quill, the man, and not Star-Lord, Guardian of the Galaxy.”

His eyes widen for just a moment before they narrow and soften. Arms wrap around you tightly then, squeezing you into a hug that nearly relieves your lungs of all their air.

“I… I know,” he responds, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing in the scent of your shampoo. “Even if it’s still hard to believe sometimes.”

It’s rare that he lets himself be insecure around anyone. You do your best to return his hug, draping your arms around his shoulders and pressing soft kisses to whatever skin you could reach. Taking the moment to savor each other, intimately enjoying one another’s embrace, you allow your eyes to wander about your room and… wait, hold on… when did…?

Strings of paper hearts, seemingly cut out by hand, zigzag and drape from the ceiling all around. A box of chocolates rests on your nightstand next to a vase of gorgeous flowers.

“Did you…?” you start, lifting your head to get a better look around you.

Peter’s laugh rumbles in his chest. “Finally noticed?”

“I-I…” you stutter, embarrassed at the realization that you had been entirely oblivious to the rest of his preparations until now.

“Figured you’d just wanna skip to the main course, so I didn’t say anything,” he teases with a wink. He reaches over, divesting the box of its lid before procuring a chocolate and offering it to your lips. You playfully roll your eyes at him before opening your mouth, taking the morsel gently between your teeth. It’s good. You haven’t had chocolate like this in a while. Your eyes close and you hum in satisfaction, and your reaction brings an ecstatic grin to his face.

“I’m glad you kept track,” you admit, “of Valentine’s, I mean, but… why?”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “We… we’re in space all the time. Dealing with, you know, other planets and types of people. Different rotations, different calendars, different days. It gets hard to keep track of time passing or even when it’s supposed to be day or night. But since you and I are both from Earth, it… I guess it feels important. To remember, I mean. It grounds me, even all the way out here in space.”

You smile fondly at him and lean up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “That’s surprisingly poetic of you, Peter.”

He snorts, giving you a playful flick on the head. “I’ll have you know that many people have told me I have an excellent way with words.”

“Imaginary friends don’t count, you know.”

“Hey!” he exclaims as you fall into a fit of giggles. It’s impossible for him to stay mad when you look so perfect, so sweet, so comfortable and at home in his arms. The back of his fingers brush along your cheekbone, and your giggles gently fade into bare titters as you continue to flash him a toothy grin.

“I love you,” he breathes out.

Your heart flutters no matter how many times he says that, and you lean into his touch. “I love you too, Peter. Happy Valentine’s day.”