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cvnt4him · 11 months ago

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Think’n ab cock warming izuku

A lazy Saturday morning, he has to get up later to finish some papers but that's a problem for later izuku. You wake up earlier than him for the first time ever, you admire his beautiful features whilst hes in slumber land.

His forest green hair being portrayed in the most beautiful lighting, said lighting brightening up his face despite being asleep, he's such a bright person he doesnt even need the suns array of beautiful sunshine for that. His slightly chewed lips dry yet so plump and kissable, the freckles that popped out more due to the sun's colors beaming on his beautifully tanned skin. He was gorgeous.

You leaned down to plant a gentle kiss onto his sleeping face, cupping his cheeks as you do so. The touch on his face makes him jolt and try and scoot away, his eyes squeezing shut and annoyance being painted on his features, he groans and tries to pull away but only to stay in the same place due to you holding his face.

Izuku was annoyed and opened his slightly crusted eyes to see your face, his eyes immediately softened. Finally being able to see his gorgeous emerald green eyes, you smile in content. He hums and closes his eyes again before you pepper kisses all around his face.

“ good morning~“

You sing in his ear, making him hum once more. He didn't want to be awake, izuku wanted to lounge around all day and be lazy with his other half before he had to go and teach a bunch of noisy kids, who he did love dearly.

“ you're always awake before me! I'm surprised I managed to get up before you!“

Izuku peers his eyes open slightly to look up at you with furrowed brows in annoyance, he groans and rolls his eyes before closing them again, all you can do is giggle at your adorable husband. You scoot in closer to him and squeeze his cheeks making him huff.

Izuku then sits up and yanks you into him making you bury your face in his chest. Your eyes widened in surprise but you weren't exactly complaining. He holds you close with a tight grip ensuring you can't move even if you tried.

“ go t’sleep baby. ’know you're tired, j’s get some rest hon.“

Izuku lazily gets out, his speech slightly slurred and his voice raspy and groggy do to the morning. He was a morning person, by all means but sometimes all he wanted was to be lazy with his significant other, and you seem to be ruining it by touching him whilst he's trying to sleep.

“ ’zuku m’not tired.“

“ shut up.“

Trying with all of your might you manage to squeeze out of his arms and roll onto of him making him turn over on his back, he groans and looks up to you with angry eyes ones you never really seem to see.

“ can I cockwarm you?“

His once angry eyes were now wide and confused. You wake up and the only thing on your mind is dick? Really? He groans again with a blush to his freckled and still baby-like cheeks, a scar on his right cheek. He was hesitant, he really was fathoming it, debating, thinking about it, whatever you want to say he truly was.

Izuku was having a hard time deciding, he did want you to do that to him only because he was particularly pent up, you two hadn't had sex in about 3 weeks? Thats far too long for someone like izuku, he would never force you to do something of the sort, normally you initiate sex and he happily obliges, but you both have been very busy recently and haven't had time to do much more than hold each other when nightfall returns at the end of everyday.

Izuku finally had an answer, he gulps and looks back up at your happy and waiting eyes. You would've been okay with either answer, really. You just wanted him to be inside of you. With a blush still on his cheeks, he nods to you before looking away.

“ I want a verbal answer my love.“

He sighs at your words, eyes shutting as he clears his throat trying to get rid of the grogginess of the morning time.

“ yes, you can c... cock.. warm me...“

Izuku manages to get the confirmation out as you giggle and lay down beside him, confused he follows you insuit, you scoot back into him and pull down his sleeping shorts just enough to get his flaccid cock out. You stroke him a little trying to get him to harden up, gentle tugs at his fat and heavy cock in your hand, the weight of it is always nice but the stretch is always better. The thought alone brung a smile to your face.

Izuku watched your movements closely, admiring the way you were so sweet and gentle with his member, so careful with such soft movements it made him twitch in your hand. With that, you knew he was ready. He gulped as you turned around and pulled your underwear to the side scooting back onto him and pushing his cock inside of you.

You both wince and groan and make some kind of noise as he tries to push his way inside, you were tight and he felt just how much so, going straight to his head as he gulped down hardly. His brain was getting fuzzy from the intense squeeze to his cock, you really should've prepped yourself first. with a couple of minutes waiting you finally manage to get him inside, he bottoms out almost immediately he's always so needy and impatient when it comes to things like this he ended up thrusting into you making you fall forward and moan.

“ zu what are you.. doing?“

You ask slightly out of breath, he was choking on his breath trying his hardest not to absolutely ram his cock in and out of you like he knows he needs. God izuku was so horny he just wanted to fuck you so badly.

“ s- sorry.. hon I- ngh~...“

He sentence was ended by a muffled groan, you really were squeezing his cock so tight. You take breather and scoot back into him, his cock still being buried deep inside. It makes him moan softly into your ear as you get closer, a beautiful noose that you always welcome and are always pleased to hear. He hums in a whiney tone on accident, getting extremely red when you laugh at the desperate sound escaping your poor husband.

You sigh happily as you can feel his heavy cock stuffing you full, twitching occasionally when you pulse around him. Izuku held you close wrapping his hands around your stomach, he buried his face in your neck trying to lull himself back to sleep, you intoxicating smell so sweet and driving him absolutely feral. He tried so hard to go back to sleep but he was having a hard time, his cock was so deep inside of you and only getting deeper as time passed yet he wasn't fucking you. Not like he wanted to.

Izuku sighed desperately and defeatedly as he looked down at you only to see you asleep with a smile on your face. For fucks sake. There was no way he was getting back to sleep, and absolutely no way hes not blowing his load deep inside of you.. if he even gets to cum.

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jellyfishsthings · 9 days ago

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Interrupted Dates

navigation , dc navigation

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Dick

The rooftop was aglow with fairy lights, strung haphazardly between a rusted chimney and a disused antenna. It gave the space a dreamy sort of charm—romantic if you squinted and ignored the faint smell of city smog.

You sat cross-legged on a blanket, sharing a plastic container of pasta salad with Dick. He was barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair ruffled by the breeze and the kind of smugly radiant that only came from retelling stories of childhood chaos.

“So then I yell, ‘Ta-da!’—naked, mind you—because I was four and thought I could fly,” Dick said, stabbing his fork into a piece of tomato like it had personally wronged him. “Bruce was mortified. Alfred just... nodded, like he’d seen worse.”

You snorted into your drink. “How are you not traumatized?”

“I am. But charmingly so.”

Meanwhile, twelve feet below, chaos brewed.

Behind a nearby billboard, a truly absurd stack of Batfamily members wobbled dangerously. Stephanie was on top, phone in hand and already live-streaming to a private group chat titled #OperationDickDates??!. Jason had the binoculars. Tim was beneath him, trying to triangulate audio with a dish he may or may not have stolen from the Batcave. Damian, at the bottom, bore the weight of them all with the bitter fury of a betrayed acrobat.

“This is a disgrace,” Damian hissed. “Grayson’s form is off. His landing on the blanket was a ten-degree deviation from optimal angle.”

“Is that what’s bothering you?” Tim whispered. “Not the fact that we’re spying on our grown brother having a date like we’re the Scooby-Doo gang on meth?”

Stephanie shushed them. “Shut up, I think she’s laughing. That’s like, third laugh. Fourth laugh is when I declare it true love.”

Jason adjusted the focus on his binoculars. “Is she feeding him? Bro. She just fed him a tomato. That’s a couple move. This is disgusting.”

“Why are you even here?” Damian growled.

“I was promised chaos and snacks. So far, I have neither.”

Above, Dick paused, brows knitting. “Do you… hear whispering?”

You tilted your head. “Maybe it’s wind?”

“No, that’s definitely someone whispering ‘move your elbow, I can’t see his dumb face.’” He squinted into the shadows. “Give me a sec.”

In one effortless flip, he vanished into the dark like some sort of spandex-clad raccoon. A loud yelp followed.

Moments later, Dick returned, dragging Jason Todd by the back of his leather jacket like a particularly mouthy duffel bag.

Jason looked entirely unrepentant. “Hi. Love what you’ve done with the vibe. Very ‘Pinterest meets crime alley.’”

You sighed. “Hi, guys.”

Stephanie popped up like an excited meerkat. “Hi! You’re really pretty, by the way.”

Tim climbed over next, holding what looked like a home-wired parabolic mic. “Please don’t hate us. I had nothing to do with this. Except the part where I helped rig the surveillance array.”

Damian dropped from the billboard last, landing in a perfect crouch. “This entire endeavor was idiotic. But I recorded Grayson’s subpar trapeze flip for future blackmail purposes.”

You blinked. “Wait—how long have you all been watching?”

Jason shrugged. “Since the pasta salad.”

Stephanie nodded. “She laughed four times. That’s how you know it’s real.”

Dick stared at all of them. “You built a totem pole. Behind a billboard. In a wind tunnel.”

Damian sniffed. “It was Tim’s idea.”

“Lies,” Tim said. “I organized it. There’s a difference.”

You glanced at Dick, who looked like he was oscillating between mild amusement and full-on big brother meltdown.

He sighed dramatically, then turned to you with a hand outstretched. “Would you care to join me in fleeing the scene of the crime?”

“With pleasure.”

As the two of you retreated—blanket in hand, pasta salad container tucked under your arm—you heard Stephanie whisper behind you:

“I’m giving this a nine out of ten. Docking one point for no kiss.”

Jason grunted. “Give it five minutes. They’re totally going to kiss on the next roof.”

“So…should we… follow?” Tim whispered.

“NO.”

Jason

You were tucked into the coziest corner of the bookstore café, the one with the overstuffed chair that made ominous creaking noises when you sat in it, but held firm like a trusted secret. The golden afternoon light pooled on the hardwood floor, catching the soft steam curling from your shared cappuccino. Jason sat beside you, strangely gentle today, his leather jacket shrugged off, sleeves rolled, as he thumbed through a battered paperback of Pablo Neruda.

He cleared his throat—gruff, a little self-conscious—and then looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

“‘I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees,’” he read, voice low and slightly husky. Not quite polished—more like poetry scraped over gravel. Honest.

You smiled, fingers brushing his under the table, and he blinked like maybe he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this—this calm, this softness, this weird, wonderful stillness.

Then—

“Is he blushing?” came a stage whisper from the bookshelf display to your right. You both froze.

From behind a rotating rack of pastel-covered romance novels, Dick and Tim peeked out, both wearing oversized, obviously fake glasses and pretending to browse.

Jason closed the book slowly.

Dick leaned sideways with all the stealth of a golden retriever trying to sneak a sandwich. “Look at him go. He’s quoting Neruda. Neruda, Tim. My angry cactus of a brother has feelings.”

“Do we have this on video?” Tim hissed, digging in his coat like he might’ve bugged the café.

Jason squinted. “Are they... wearing mustaches?”

Sure enough, both of them had slapped on wonky adhesive mustaches. Tim’s was starting to peel. Dick’s had migrated halfway up his cheek.

“They think they’re subtle,” you whispered.

Jason reached for the sugar packets, calmly selected one, then flicked his wrist like a sniper on a sugar-fueled vendetta. The packet arced cleanly over the romance display and smacked Tim right between the eyes.

“Ow!”

Dick choked on his latte.

Tim ducked behind the display, rubbing his forehead. “Did he just bean me mid-sonnet?”

You turned to Jason, impressed. “Did you seriously just assault your brother with sweetener while reading poetry?”

He grinned. “He deserved it.”

“Fair.”

From behind the shelf came Dick’s voice, unbothered and very much still spying. “Hey, we’re just trying to witness emotional growth.”

“And possibly blackmail material.”

Jason raised an eyebrow and called over his shoulder, “Get out before I start reading Yeats in a threatening tone.”

“Threatening Yeats?” Dick said. “You are in love.”

Tim emerged, dramatically clutching his sugar-packet injury. “This is how I die. Not in battle. Not in a tragic lab explosion. Murdered by Splenda™.”

“Get out,” Jason said, standing halfway. “Or I swear to God, I’ll recite sonnets until you sob.”

Dick raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, no need to traumatize the civilians.”

They backed out, knocking over a cardboard cutout of Jane Austen and leaving a half-eaten croissant on a poetry display. The barista glared. Someone in the back clapped.

When it was quiet again, Jason sat down with a long sigh and opened the book again. He didn’t look at you for a moment, just flipped a few pages like nothing had happened.

You leaned in, brushing his hair gently behind one ear. “You were blushing, by the way.”

He met your gaze, eyes warm and half-lidded, lips twitching. “Yeah, well... you’d blush too if you were reading love poems to someone you liked in front of two idiot brothers dressed like a community theater production of Sherlock Holmes.”

“True,” you admitted.

He found the page again, cleared his throat, and murmured, “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where…’”

And for once, no one interrupted.

(Not even when Dick and Tim snuck back disguised as a couple on a painfully awkward first date. But that’s another story.

Tim

It was a clear night at Gotham’s old observatory—cold enough to see your breath, warm enough to be out without freezing, the kind of in-between that made you feel suspended in time. You were perched on a folding blanket with a thermos of hot chocolate between your knees, wrapped in one of Tim’s oversized hoodies, watching him fine-tune the telescope with all the reverence of someone handling a sacred artifact.

“This model’s based on the Cassegrain design,” he murmured, adjusting the focus ring, eyes narrowed in concentration. “The mirrors inside reflect the image back to a focal point—it’s more efficient for deep-sky observation. Which is perfect because Orion’s Nebula is peaking tonight, and you can see the whole trapezium cluster if—”

He stopped, mid-ramble.

“Too much?”

You grinned, sipping the hot chocolate. “Never. I like when you go full-nerd.”

Tim flushed just a little, half-hiding his face behind the telescope. “Right. Well. You’ll see it better if you look around there—” He gently guided your hands. “—past Rigel. That’s the blue supergiant. It’s—”

“—Eight-hundred sixty light years away,” you finished.

He looked at you like he might die a little from fondness. “I think I love you.”

A crunch echoed above you.

You froze. Tim’s shoulders tensed. Another crunch. Muffled whispering. Something—or someone—was shifting behind the dome’s inner wall.

Tim sighed, not even looking up. “They’re watching.”

You tilted your head. “Should we invite them down?”

He shook his head solemnly. “No. Let them suffer in their self-inflicted cringe.”

Inside the observatory’s mechanical guts, Damian muttered, “You’re breathing too loudly.”

Cass responded by flicking him on the head.

Steph hissed, “I told you to bring snacks. You said popcorn was ‘too loud,’ and now look where we are. Starving. Cold. Emotionally invested.”

“I am not emotionally invested,” Damian said with the conviction of someone absolutely emotionally invested.

A beat.

“They’re holding hands,” Steph whispered. “Look. Right there. Hand. On. Knee.”

Cass’s voice: “Aww.”

Damian gagged audibly.

Tim adjusted the telescope again. “Bruce is here too.”

You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Tim just nodded toward the corner of the dome where, sure enough, Bruce stood in a trench coat and fedora like a noir film detective, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Possibly proud. Possibly plotting. Definitely out of place.

You whispered, “Why is he in a trench coat?”

Tim didn’t look up. “He thinks it’s ‘subtle.’”

Another creak. A hushed “Shhh!”

Five minutes passed in silence. Tim showed you the Andromeda Galaxy, soft-spoken and a little breathless as he described the gravitational pull between it and the Milky Way.

Then—

CRASH.

The trapdoor on the upper level flung open. Damian Wayne fell through it like a cat yeeted off a counter.

He hit the floor in a roll, popped up in a dramatic stance, and declared—very loudly—“That was intentional.”

Cass landed beside him a second later in a perfect superhero crouch. “We tripped.”

Damian hissed. “You tripped. I performed a tactical descent.”

Tim didn’t even blink. “Welcome. There’s cocoa in the thermos. Please keep the stalking to a minimum.”

Steph peeked her head down the ladder, grinning and holding her phone up. “I’ve been filming this whole time, by the way.”

Bruce descended the stairs silently like a disappointed cryptid.

You looked around at the chaos, then at Tim, who was now sitting with his head in his hands.

You gently patted his back. “You okay?”

“I was trying to explain redshift,” he muttered into his palms. “Now my little brother has announced his ‘tactical descent’ like he’s a D-list Avenger.”

From the floor, Damian snapped, “I heard that.”

Tim looked at you. “Please kill me.”

You offered him the cocoa instead.

“Same thing,” he mumbled.

Steph flopped onto the blanket beside you. “So... on a scale from one to tragically adorable, how serious is this?”

Cass stated calmly “Eleven.”

Damian made a face that would make the sun turn green as he stated that everything was disgusting. Bruce tried to argue that the kids were simply bonding, which resulted in Damian making yet another disgusted face at them.

You looked at Tim, smiling. “Want to get back to the stars?”

He nodded quickly, tugging you gently back toward the telescope, his hand slipping into yours like it belonged there. “Yes. Away from the goblins.”

“You love the goblins.”

Tim’s smile twitched. “No, I tolerate them. With... grudging affection.”

Behind you, Cass whispered, “He’s so in love.”

Steph whispered loudly “Like... epic poem in love.”

“Please.”

Tim ignored them, realigned the telescope, and said softly, “Okay. Your turn. Let me show you something beautiful.”

And he did.

(The goblins mostly behaved. Until Damian tried to sabotage the cocoa supply. But that’s another story.)

Damian

It started with an invitation tucked beneath a hardcover book you’d left at the manor: On the Aesthetic History of Violence. Inside, in impossibly neat handwriting:

“You are cordially invited to a private tour of the Gotham Museum of Modern Art. After hours. Dress appropriately.”

Signed only: D.W.

You showed up in a black coat and clean boots. Damian arrived ten minutes early in a bespoke turtleneck and the kind of dark wool coat that whispered money and museum quiet. No cape, no scowl. Just a calm nod and a half smile when he saw you.

“You’re late,” he said, not unkindly.

“You’re early,” you countered.

His eyes softened like a secret.

The museum had shut its doors to the public at 6:00. By 7:15, it was yours alone. Echoing floors, tall ceilings, marble columns leading to hushed rooms, all flooded in warm golden light. Damian walked you through the Impressionists first. He spoke softly, almost reverently—about oil brushwork, the interplay of light and motion, how Manet weaponized color. There was something about hearing him—Damian Wayne, child of war and shadow—talk about atmospheric perspective like it was something holy.

“Look at the emotional architecture,” he murmured, pausing before a muted Chagall. “The structure of grief in the way the lines collapse toward the left. You can see the subject wants to leave the room, but the room will not let her.”

You turned toward him. “That one reminds me of you.”

He blinked. No quip. No snort. Just...stillness.

A breath. Then another.

You watched the silence settle into his shoulders, unsure if he was flattered or panicking. You were about to joke it off—when suddenly—

“HhhHKKk’CHHSHH!”

A violent sneeze echoed across the entire museum like a grenade in an empty cathedral.

You both turned slowly, as one.

From behind a marble bust in the Romanticism wing, a crackling voice came over the coms: “Sorry—allergies!”

“Stephanie,” Damian said in a voice usually reserved for supervillains and disappointed Shakespearean monologues. “This is why I don’t take them anywhere.”

You barely suppressed a laugh. “You knew they were here?”

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hoped I was wrong.”

Down the east corridor, two distinct silhouettes peeked out from behind a 9-foot sculpture of Artemis. Jason was wearing a museum security badge upside down and holding a clipboard he was clearly using as a tray for takeout. Stephanie—crouched beside him in a trench coat and baseball cap—was whispering into a walkie-talkie with the stealth of a small rhino.

“I told you the mic was too close to your face,” Jason muttered.

Steph hissed back, “Sorry, I sneezed. It’s dusty in here!”

Back in the Impressionist gallery, Damian rubbed his temple like this was all personally offensive.

“And why,” he asked the universe, “is Todd carrying egg rolls in a museum?”

“Because,” came a crisp British voice from the main atrium, “someone has to maintain standards.”

You turned to see Alfred Pennyworth—immaculate in a faux security guard uniform—holding a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres like it was wartime Versailles.

“Would you care for a prosciutto puff?” he asked you, deadpan.

Damian looked like he wanted to dissolve through the floor.

Alfred added, with a glance toward Steph and Jason: “Miss Brown tried to bribe the actual docent with a Crunchwrap Supreme. I had to intervene.”

You took a puff pastry and tried not to laugh.

A voice from the shadows: “Pfft. Amateur.”

From behind a false wall, a gloved hand polished a modern sculpture. You blinked. “Is that... Dick?”

“Richard has infiltrated as a janitorial subcontractor,” Damian muttered, sounding so tired. “He insisted it was ‘part of the immersive experience.’”

“I’m wearing coveralls and everything,” Dick’s voice called proudly from behind a giant steel cube. “Museum chic.”

Damian turned to you, exhausted. “Please believe me when I say, I wanted this to be romantic.”

You looped your arm through his and smiled. “It still is.”

He paused. “Despite the surveillance?”

“Because of it,” you teased. “It’s very us.”

Damian blinked. Then—slowly, reluctantly—smiled. A real one. The kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but was still a rare and quiet thing.

“I loathe you,” he murmured to the empty air.

“Love you too, baby bird,” came Jason’s voice over the coms.

“I have no siblings,” Damian muttered, guiding you toward a post-modernist piece shaped like an unraveling staircase.

From behind the bust, Steph whispered: “Did he just blush?”

Dick whispered back: “I’m so proud.”

Jason: “I’m gonna cry. That’s our boy.”

Steph: “Wait—can we do a slow clap?”

Alfred: “If you start clapping, I am tasering everyone and leaving.”

Back in the gallery, Damian took your hand and placed it over his heart. “Ignore the interlopers. This painting reminds me of you. Bold color. Sharp lines. Impossible to look away from.”

You smiled, a little breathless. “Now you’re being romantic.”

He tilted his head. “You started it.”

Behind you, Steph sneezed again.

Damian didn’t even flinch. “I will burn this museum to the ground.”

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