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xoxorory · 20 days ago

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The Glitter Incident (Also Known as That One Date That Never Happened) !

POV: Fem!Reader Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff | Humor | Chaos | Domestic Softness Featuring: Glitter trauma, Damian being a concerned (and lowkey entertained) boyfriend, and Fem!Reader being Very Done™️ Word Count: ~2.6K Requested by: @simpingmyassoff more damimi reqs pls. . . Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!) A/N: English isn't my first lenguage,enjoy! ! ! A/N 2: This is my frist time writing for Damian. . .l!! Hope y'all like it (don't crucify me pls) A/N 3: This happend once to me. . . when i was getting ready for my gymnastics competition. . .

The Getting-Ready Phase of Doom

There was something magical about preparing for a date.

Maybe it was the soft playlist you had on repeat (romantic pop, naturally). Maybe it was the way your lipstick matched your earrings. Or maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t blown up anything all day, which in Gotham, was basically a miracle.

You twirled once in the mirror. Soft shimmer on your eyelids, a gentle curl to your hair, the most perfect flowy dress you'd found after an hour of wardrobe warfare.

It was going to be perfect. Damian was picking you up at 7 sharp. You were ready.

Almost.

Until, of course, the Universe got involved.

The Glitterpocalypse Begins

While grabbing your phone from the dresser, your hip bumped a small table. A small, rickety, decorative table you kept meaning to fix or get rid of. On said table: a lone, forgotten glitter popper.

The plastic kind from a birthday party six months ago. The kind you meant to throw away. The kind that, right now, decided to fall and detonate on impact like a sparkly bomb from hell.

POP.

A deafening burst.

A mushroom cloud of metallic pink, blue, and gold.

“…No,” you whispered in horror.

It was too late.

Glitter rained down on you like cosmic punishment. It clung to your arms, your face, your curls, your LIPS—

Your dress was no longer elegant. It was a walking glitter nightmare.

Your makeup? Ruined. Your soul? Also ruined.

You looked like a disco ball had exploded on a very confused Disney princess.

Cue Damian.

Knock knock.

“(Y/N)?” Damian’s calm voice came from the hallway. “I’m here.”

You froze. Your hands mid-air. Your eyes wide. The glitter sparkled menacingly.

You opened the door in slow motion.

Damian stood there, freshly dressed in a soft button-up (black, obviously), hair slightly tousled from the wind, holding a single dark red rose like the romantic menace he was.

And then he saw you.

His brow furrowed slightly.

“…Are you… under attack?”

You just looked at him. “No.”

He blinked. “Did someone glitter bomb you? Was this Grayson? Brown?”

“No.”

A long pause.

“…Did you fight a craft store?”

You groaned, stepping aside and letting him in. “It’s worse.”

The Explanation (And the Panic)

Damian stared around the room. Glitter covered the floor, the furniture, the ceiling fan, even the cat (when did you get a cat?). You paced in front of him like a general who had lost the war.

“There was a popper,” you said, distressed, gesturing at the table. “It fell. It exploded. The glitter’s in my lip balm. Damian, I’m shiny. I’m a human mirror. I sparkle in low light. What if someone sees me and thinks I’m trying to join a boyband from 2008?”

Damian just watched you. “You do sparkle.”

“That’s not helping!”

He reached out and brushed a flake off your cheek. His touch was gentle, his smirk subtle.

“…You’re kind of cute, actually.”

You gasped. “Damian Wayne, this is a crisis.”

“An adorable one.”

Plan B (Glitter Recovery Mission)

Seeing your eyes start to water (and not just from glitter dust), Damian immediately switched gears.

“Alright,” he said, taking your hand. “New plan. No crowds. No candlelit restaurant. Just us, here.”

“But the reservation—”

“Screw the reservation. You need a glitter decontamination unit, not crème brûlée.”

“…That’s fair.”

“I’ll run the shower. You’ll rinse the glitter. I’ll start the laundry.” He sniffed dramatically. “Also, the air smells like sparkly trauma.”

You finally let out a laugh, slumping against him. “I wanted tonight to be perfect.”

He pulled you into a slow, comforting hug, ignoring the glitter sticking to his shirt. “It already is.”

Phase One: The Shower Battle

Twenty minutes later, you emerged from the bathroom in a bathrobe, hair damp, cheeks pink, smelling like vanilla and regret.

Damian sat cross-legged on the couch, now in sweats, with a vacuum cleaner nearby and a trash bag full of glittered paper towels.

“The floor’s safe,” he said. “Mostly. I think the couch is beyond saving.”

You eyed the spot next to him. “I’ll just sit on the floor.”

“No you won’t,” he said, pulling you down beside him with a grin. “We suffer together.”

You pouted dramatically. “I’m still glittery inside.”

He tilted his head. “...What does that mean?”

“I inhaled it. I can feel it in my soul.”

He nodded seriously. “We’ll get you a priest.”

Movie Night: Glitter Recovery Edition

You ended up curled on the couch, a blanket over your legs, watching an old black-and-white movie while you sipped cocoa through a glittery straw (the last indignity).

Damian pressed a kiss to your temple. “You okay now?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Just embarrassed.”

“You shouldn’t be. You looked magical. Like a chaos faerie.”

You looked up at him. “I hate how weirdly nice that sounds.”

He shrugged. “It’s true.”

You sat in silence for a beat.

“…You’re still a little sparkly,” he added.

“I will fight you.”

Bonus: The Batfam Finds Out

BATPSYCHO'S!!! (oh and Damian's girlfriend)

Steph: [sends a blurry photo of your glitter-covered self from earlier] Steph: “WHAT HAPPENED. WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE A BEDAZZLED PIÑATA.”

Cass: “Pretty”

Jason: “Demon Spawn. Did you lose a glitter war.”

Damian: “She's fine. Do not come over.”

Tim: “So that’s a yes.”

Bruce: “No glitter in the Batcave.”

Damian: “It was ONE TIME.”

Alfred: “I’m making tea. Stay sparkly, Miss.” You: ''Thanks Alfred. . .''

The End (Probably. Unless More Glitter Happens.)

As the night wore on and the movie ended, you turned to Damian, sleepily curling into his side.

“…You really don’t mind the glitter?”

He kissed the top of your head. “Not even a little.”

“Even if it’s in your hair forever?”

“I’ll live.”

“You’re a good boyfriend.”

“You’re a sparkly menace,” he replied.

You smiled into his shoulder. “I’ll take it.”

#— rory ! 🐚#— rory's fics 🐚!#— requested ! 🐚#— rory’s request ! 🐚#d. wayne—al ghul #Damian Wayne #robin damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x y/n #damian al ghul headcanons #Damián al ghul smut #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne smut #— d. Wayne #— Rory and his devotion to Damian Al-Ghul Wayne 💓💞💕💖💗💘🩷💝#— 🐚#—

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buckysleftbicep · 1 day ago

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YAY!! i am glad that you enjoyed it 💞💗🩷🥰 and i hope i will always be able to write for you guys 💝❤️💕❣️

daddy's best friend 𐙚 b.b

pairing: dbf!bucky barnes x fem!reader (modern au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, age gap (reader is above 18, bucky is in his late 30s) dirty talk, oral sex (f rec), rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie

summary: your dad’s best friend has been avoiding your eyes all night, until he’s got you pinned against the laundry room door, hand up your thigh. it’s everything you shouldn’t want, but you always do.

word count: 2.7k

author's note: hi loves! honestly, this fic was just meant to indulge myself because i love it so much, i enjoyed writing this throughly 💓 love ya guys and stay safe out there! based on this request | requests are open!

The barbecue’s in full swing when you spot him.

Bucky.

Leaning against the deck rail like a goddamn fantasy, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, jawline kissed by the dying sun. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, exposing those forearms, thick, veined—the kind that could hold you down and make you beg.

His jeans hang low on his hips, just shy of indecent, and it’s cruel, really, the way the fabric stretches across his thighs like that.

He’s been avoiding your gaze all evening.

Until now.

You feel it when he looks at you. Like heat, sudden and suffocating. That stare — hot, possessive, slow, crawling up your bare legs like smoke, drinking in every inch of exposed skin in your tiny denim shorts.

Your tank top clings in all the right places, sweat beading at the nape of your neck. But it’s nothing compared to the way his eyes drag over your body, deliberate, slow, like he’s undressing you right there in front of everyone.

And maybe he is.

You raise your drink to your lips, taking a long sip just to distract from the flush creeping up your throat. But your eyes stay locked on his. You don’t look away. Not when he tilts his head the slightest bit, raises a brow like he’s already imagining how you’ll sound when you’re whining his name again.

You glance to your dad—still deep in conversation, laughing too loud with someone from work. Good. Distracted.

You’ve played this game with Bucky before. The stolen glances. The tension thick enough to choke on. The brushing past each other in hallways. The pretending that night never happened.

But tonight—it’s different.

There’s something heavier in the way he looks at you.

Hungrier. Like he’s tired of pretending.

You remember every time he’s had his way with you.

It had started last summer. Another barbecue. Another night where the beer had flowed too easy and your shorts were just a little too short. You’d been buzzed, warm and lazy in the heat.

He was drunk. Looser than usual, mouthier, staring too long. The house was quiet by the end of it, most of the guests long gone, your dad passed out upstairs, the stereo still murmuring something low and slow through the speakers.

You’d been licking the last of a popsicle from your fingers in the kitchen, half on purpose, half because it felt good against the heat, and you could feel him watching.

“Jesus,” he groaned from the doorway, his voice thick, wrecked. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You turned, slow and coy, leaning back on the counter. Let your tank top slide just a little lower.

“Just cooling off,” you said, like it meant nothing.

But his eyes were dark, hungry, jaw clenched tight as he stepped into the room.

One hand landed beside your hip, warm and calloused against the counter. The other slid up your thigh, rough and daring, knuckles brushing the edge of your shorts.

You didn’t stop him.

“You don’t wanna play with fire, dollface,” he murmured.

You met his gaze, steady. “Maybe I do.”

And that was it.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Mouth hot, insistent, devouring. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, pulling you close until there was nothing between you but heat.

You clawed at his belt, the clatter of the buckle loud in the stillness, and then he was lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

“I shouldn’t,” he rasped against your neck, even as he pushed your shorts down your thighs, his fingers dragging along bare skin.

“Fuck, your dad—”

“Is upstairs,” you whispered, breath hitching as your legs wrapped around him. “Asleep.”

His eyes were wild. Torn.

But he didn’t stop.

He thrust into you in one deep, brutal motion that made you choke on a gasp, your back arching, fingers gripping the edge of the counter like it could keep you grounded.

“Oh my god—”

“That what you want, baby?” he snarled, dragging out just to slam back in. “Want daddy’s best friend to fuck you stupid?”

Your head tipped back, mouth open in a moan you barely bit back, legs locked around his hips.

It was filthy. It was wrong.

It was perfect.

You remembered how he’d gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him while he fucked you through it, rough and relentless, the sound of your bodies slapping together echoing off the tile.

You remembered the way you bit into his shoulder when you came, muffling your scream in his flesh, and the way he groaned your name like it broke him.

You remembered the way he looked afterward, too.

Hair a mess, sweat gleaming at his temple, lips kiss-bruised and red. Wrecked. Guilty. Starving for more.

And it didn’t stop there.

It never did.

That night had turned into a secret you wore like a second skin. One that burned beneath your clothes. One that only he could touch.

The weeks that followed blurred into a string of reckless, filthy nights. He’d show up with a six-pack, laughing with your dad like nothing had changed, and then, by midnight, he’d be in your bed, hand clamped over your mouth, his body pressed flush against yours as he fucked you slow and deep, every inch of him buried inside you.

“You gotta keep quiet, princess,” he’d murmur into your ear, tongue flicking the shell of it. “Don’t wanna wake daddy, do you?”

You’d shake your head, teary-eyed from how good it felt. From how bad it was. From how much hotter that made it.

One night, he took you in the garage.

Bent you over the hood of your dad’s car, rough fingers in your hair, panties shoved to the side. The metal was cold under your skin, but his body was fire behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other curved over your mouth as he pounded into you, teeth bared in a snarl every time you moaned his name.

“Such a fuckin’ tease,” he gritted out, voice dark and filthy. “Always walking around in those little shorts like you don’t know what it does to me.”

Another time, it was the guest bathroom.

Your hands braced on the mirror, fogging the glass with your breath as he fucked you from behind.

His fingers had played between your thighs, teasing, relentless, until you were shaking, gasping his name against the wall while he whispered how pretty you sounded when you came. Then he was inside you again, rough and hungry, growling against your shoulder as you clenched around him.

“Can’t get enough of this pussy,” he’d mutter, slamming into you harder. “So fuckin’ tight for me. Always so ready.”

It was always fast. Always desperate.

But nothing compared to the morning you woke up sore and aching, your thighs trembling with leftover pleasure—and saw the faintest bite mark blooming on your skin.

High on your inner thigh. Just where only he would ever see.

You wore it all day like a secret brand.

Pulling your shorts down just enough to hide it whenever you moved, even though a sick little part of you wanted someone to notice.

And the next time he saw it, saw you tugging your waistband down to hide it?

He smirked.

That same wicked smirk he wore now—leaning against the railing, watching you like he already knows he’s going to ruin you again tonight.

Like he’s already planning how.

Now, in the present, you’re staring at him again from across the patio, thighs clenching at the memory.

You shouldn’t be thinking about it.

Not here. Not in broad daylight.

Not when your dad is just a few feet away, laughing with a beer in hand, completely unaware of the filthy things his best friend’s done to you, who had always painted innocent in his eyes. Completely oblivious to the way your body is already reacting, slick and aching—just from a look.

You shift your weight, subtly. The rough seam of your shorts drags across your bare heat, and it’s almost too much. You bite your lip. Your nails dig into your plastic cup.

Bucky pushes off the rail, lazy and slow, that same beer bottle dangling from his fingers. His walk is confident—a little too confident—the kind of swagger that says he isn’t asking for anything.

He’s taking it.

You hold your ground, letting your gaze slide over him shamelessly as he approaches. The way his broad chest stretches the thin cotton of his shirt. The way his jeans cling to his thighs. That familiar twitch in his jaw when he sees the way your legs are crossed—shorts riding just high enough to give him a glimpse of what he already knows is there.

“Those shorts should be illegal,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, meant for you and you alone. His tone is thick with heat, amusement, and want.

You blink up at him, slow and innocent. “I wore them because it’s hot.”

“Mmm.” His gaze dips again, lingering on the curve of your thighs. “You have no idea.”

You smirk, lifting your drink to your lips. “You keep staring like that, someone might notice.”

He grins, wicked and unrepentant. “Let them. You’ve been eye-fucking me all damn day.”

Your heart skips. Your stomach tightens.

Because he’s right—and because now, you don’t want to wait another second.

“You want to keep pretending,” he says softly, leaning in just enough for your skin to prickle, “or do you want to finish what we started?”

You meet his gaze, steady, unflinching. “You’re the one dragging it out. You wanna fuck me or not?”

He breathes out a laugh, low, dark, full of promise. “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you, princess. I’m just deciding how many ways I wanna fuck you.”

Your knees nearly buckle.

Then his hand wraps around your wrist.

Casual. Calm, like he’s not about to desecrate the laundry room of your childhood home. Like he hasn’t already played this game a hundred times.

He leads you inside, moving fast but not rushed. The hallway is quiet—the music outside muffled through the thick patio doors.

The air’s cooler here, darker.

And the moment the laundry room door clicks shut behind you, it’s like something snaps.

Bucky grabs you by the waist and slams you back against it, his mouth crashing into yours. It’s desperate—hungry—months of restraint breaking all at once.

His hands are on your thighs, your hips, dragging you closer as his tongue pushes past your lips. You moan into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging your nails across his scalp until he growls.

“I’ve thought about this every night since that first time,” he snarls, kissing down your throat, biting at your skin. “You. Spread open. Moaning my name.”

You let your head fall back, gasping as he sucks a bruise into the soft skin below your jaw. His hands slip beneath the hem of your shorts—and he drops to his knees.

Rough palms press your thighs apart, pushing until you’re forced to widen your stance. He huffs a laugh.

“No panties?” His eyes flick up, gleaming with something dark. “Knew you were a fucking tease.”

“I figured you’d want easy access,” you whisper, breathless already.

He groans. Low and filthy. “Brat.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot, wet and devouring.

His tongue drags through your folds like he’s starved for it, lips sealing over your clit, sucking hard. You cry out, your hands shooting to the doorframe behind you for balance as your legs tremble.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

He pulls back just far enough to smirk against your thigh. “That’s it, baby. Say my name like that again.”

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

Two fingers slide into you, thick and rough, curling as his tongue returns to your clit. He moves in sync—tongue swirling, fingers pumping—merciless and skilled. You grind against his face, unable to help yourself, chasing that heat curling tighter and tighter in your belly.

“Such a greedy little thing,” he mutters, voice muffled against you. “Look at you, soaking my hand already.”

You come hard. Your whole body seizes, your thighs clenching around his head, a moan ripping from your throat that you barely manage to swallow down.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps working you through it, licking every drop, drinking down your release like it’s the only thing he needs. When he finally stands, he licks his fingers clean slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Still think you can handle more?” he murmurs.

You nod, dazed and breathless.

He kisses you again—hot and filthy—and then he’s turning you around with a rough grip on your waist, shoving your shorts down past your knees. Your bare ass hits the edge of the washing machine. The cool metal sends a shiver through your spine.

“Spread your legs,” he orders. “Wider.”

You obey. Of course you do.

The sound of his zipper opening is loud in the small room. Then he’s pressed up behind you, the thick head of his cock teasing through your slick folds. You whimper, grinding back against him, needy beyond words.

“So impatient,” he tuts, fisting a hand in your hair. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I need you to fuck me. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks—”

“Yeah?” he growls, lining himself up. “Thinking about me bending you over in your daddy’s house like a filthy little slut?”

You moan, loud, eyes fluttering.

Then he thrusts in—hard.

Your cry is guttural, punched out of your lungs as he fills you in one brutal stroke. Your hands scramble for purchase on the washing machine, your body jolting with every deep thrust.

“God, you’re tight,” he groans. “Like you were made for me.”

“Harder,” you manage, already shaking.

He gives it to you. Hard, fast and relentless.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you back to meet every thrust, and your legs threaten to give out with each one. He’s panting now, right against your ear, his voice rough and wrecked.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growls, yanking your head back by your hair. “Bent over like a little cockdrunk toy while your dad’s twenty feet away?”

You nod helplessly, mouth open, eyes rolling.

“I should pull out and make you taste yourself off my cock,” he grits out. “Make you clean up your own mess.”

“Do it,” you whimper. “Use me however you want.”

He curses. Loud. Slams into you even harder.

“Jesus” he groans. “You’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

Your second orgasm builds fast, your body too sensitive, too strung out. And when it hits, it rips through you—a blinding wave of heat that has you sobbing his name, your nails raking across the metal as you convulse around him.

He feels it. Hears it.

And with one final thrust, he presses you down hard against the machine and groans your name as he comes inside you, thick and deep, holding you in place while he pulses through it.

You stay like that for a beat.

Breathless, boneless and wrecked.

His chest against your back, his breath warm on your neck.

Then he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Next time, you’re on your knees.”

You laugh, hoarse and wicked. “Next time, I’m riding you in your truck.”

He chuckles, pulling back to zip himself up, swatting your ass with a little too much fondness. “Fucking brat.”

You fix your shorts with shaking hands, tugging them up over your still-aching thighs. He’s already peeking out the door, checking for an escape route.

All clear.

He slips out first, walking like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just fuck you senseless in the laundry room.

You follow a minute later, legs trembling, mouth still tasting him.

No one notices. No one ever does.

And Bucky?

He’s already back on the patio. Leaning against the rail like the sin he is.

But when your eyes meet his across the yard, that heat in his stare.

You know he’s not done with you yet.

Not even close.

a/n: if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves 💕