#they are OBSCENE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jesuistrestriste · 3 months

Text

♡ Cooking & Cleaning; Art Donaldson x Reader ♡

nsfw! (18+) cw: service sub!art donaldson, dom!reader, afab/fem reader, use of ma'am as an honorific, brief food play, oral sex (reader receiving), begging, handjob, brief edging, praise, degradation, multiple orgasms (character receiving), dry orgasm

wc: 6.3 k (whoops)

note: this was pulled from the most depraved parts of my brain. i refuse to be held accountable for the absolute filth this contains ! :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆.

The very second that your key is in the apartment door and you're finally home, you find your legs nearly collapsing underneath you as you step inside and kick off your black kitten heels.

"God," you groan, shutting the door behind you before you move to peel your chic new blazer off of your shoulders. You toss it onto the coatrack nearby and bring a handful of your fingers up to your forehead to rub at it tensely, sighing deeply.

It had been a long day at the USTA (United States Tennis Association) office, and all you wanted to do was come home and see your husband.

After Art had lost several important and consecutive tennis matches, as well as his confidence on the court (despite his actual tennis skills still being phenomenal -- he just psyched himself out too much), he had decided to give up his life as a professional athlete.

At first, this devastated you. Not only did you love your partner and believe in him throughout his career, as well as believing in his very real ability to eventually win the US Open, but this decision of his also meant that your position as his coach would become obsolete..

You actually became quite anxious about you and Art's future at the time.. you had needed a purpose, and so did he. You both were just those kinds of people; you and him both wanted to feel that you were contributing to something bigger than just yourselves, and that you were being useful to someone or something.

Luckily, his many previous years of successful tennis playing had scored you and him a shit ton of wealth. Like, genuinely a lot. You were beyond grateful, but you still wanted a life of your own. You didn't dare to think about the idea of becoming a stay-at-home wife while he went out and did whatever he wanted. Yuck. It just wasn't for you.

Your fears and inner turmoil about this change in your lives were quickly eased once Art had sat you down about two weeks after he had left his tennis career behind. He had taken your hands in his, smiled softly like he always did, and told you that he wanted to stay at home and take care of everything in it while you went out and continued your career in the field of professional athletics.

Of course, you immediately and excitedly agreed with the idea of this new plan, and then that was that!

You two developed new lives and new roles as people over a short period of time, but it didn't take away from the love you two shared. That always stayed consistent and at the center of everything.

Eventually, after a month or so of coming home from your new job to Art doing things like vacuuming the wooden floors of your guys' expensive New York apartment, or making elaborate protein-packed smoothies for the gym sessions that you two still did together, you came to realize that the whole "house husband" persona was actually kinda hot.

He had realized it too. Quicker than you had, actually. In fact, he can distinctly remember the overwhelming feeling of heat that had pooled deep in his gut the first time he had ever served you a home-cooked meal after you came home from a long day at your new job. He had gently rubbed your sore feet that night while you ate, and then suddenly couldn't find a way to deny how this new practice of.. servicing you.. made him feel.

I mean, God, he loved doing that stuff for you.. cooking.. tidying.. pampering.. washing.. he would do it all. You knew that he worshipped the ground that you walked on—reminding yourself constantly of the time he had admitted to you during sex that he believed he would be "nowhere without you"—and you devoured the increased sense of power that came with it every. single. time. It eventually became very easy and comfortable for you to let him take care of you. You grew hungry for it.

And then this persona of his, over time, dissolved into something much more intimate..

After tossing your blazer on the rack and rubbing at your temples, you drag your pantyhose-covered feet across the floor and into the kitchen.

Your nose is instantly filled with the aroma of fluffy, vanilla sweetness and a bit of nutmeg. you sigh happily as you turn the corner and see Art standing over a mess of what appears to be flour and sugar in a large bowl on the kitchen counter. He looks over his shoulder briefly with a smile as he mixes the dry ingredients together with a whisk.

“Hey, hon,” he grins, before turning back to look down at his current baking project.

you shuffle up behind him and hug him, your cheek pressing against his warm upper back as your arms reach to wrap gently around his abdomen. You sigh deeply.

“Hey, babe.. ‘m so tired. It was such a long day.”

He laughs softly, which shakes you a bit as you hold him.

“What’d your colleagues do now?”

You shake your head against him, groaning dramatically.

“I don’t want to talk about it.. what are you baking? It smells good in here.”

“Nothing crazy, it’s just some holiday cookies. I found the recipe online this morning after you left.”

“How many are you planning to make? There’s already some in the oven.” you ask, peeking around his frame from behind to see him set the bowl aside and wipe his hands on the apron he’s wearing. (It was white with small pink hearts by the pockets. You got it for him when he started cooking for you everyday, and he used to feel weird about it. He said it made him feel “slightly emasculated”, but he quickly grew to absolutely adore it. It was just another way for you to claim him as your personal chef. One night before you got home, he jerked off while wearing it, but he would never tell you that.)

“I don’t really know,” he shrugs and chuckles sheepishly, “there are twelve baking right now, but I thought that maybe I could make some for our neighbors.”

You chuckle softly, your hands disconnecting from their place on his stomach to reach down and give his ass a small squeeze. He jumps a little at the feeling, embarrassed laughter bubbling up in his chest.

“Where’d all this holiday cheer come from?” you smirk, pulling back from your position against his back to lean your hip against the counter. You just wanted to look at his pretty face. Your eyes quickly fixate on the fact that he’s got a bit of flour on his flushed cheek.. It’s only a small puff and smear of the white substance near his jaw, but for some reason it starts a flame in your lower stomach. There was just something about the way he got a little messy when he cooked or baked for you.

His cheeks plump up in shape ever-so-slightly as he grins at you.

“I don’t know.. I had time before you got home- I mean, well, before i thought you’d get home, and so i thought I’d just-”

You take a step forward, nodding at his words while your body is now only inches from his. You look up into his glassy blue eyes.

“You thought you’d just.. what?” you purr, your hand coming up to caress his lower back.

He swallows thickly, briefly looking down at the mess on the counter before he looks back to you. His body temperature is steadily rising as he feels your fingertips caress him over his loose t-shirt.

“I just thought I’d make some more,” he whispers.

You lean in, reaching your other hand up to gingerly hold the side of his neck while you press a kiss to it.

“You’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

He nods, slowly, his eyelids fluttering slightly at the feeling of your mouth on him.

“I..I mean, yeah, I guess.”

You lean in a bit more, sucking softly at his neck. His head lolls a bit forward, and you nip at him when the sound of his shaky breathing reaches your ears.

You pull back, a small smirk covering your face as you look up at him.

His focus darts from your eyes to your lips as he reaches both of his hands out for your waist, but he’s rudely interrupted when the timer for the oven goes off— cookies are done.

You both nearly jump out of your skin at the sound; the incessant beeping pulling you both out of the thick fog of tension between your bodies and minds.

“Shit,” he mumbles, flushing pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he turns off the timer at the top of the oven and moves to hastily grab an oven mitt from the lower drawer.

He pulls open the oven door, and you step back to watch him pull the tray out and set it on top of the stove area.

He sighs, pulling off the mitt and setting it aside as he leans over the cookies. His eyes are inspecting each one, and he has a very focused expression plastered on his face. He was as much of a perfectionist in the kitchen as he used to be on the court, that was for sure.

Your body moves in to stand beside him, also peering down at the tray of gorgeous golden-brown cookies. You place a hand on his upper back, rubbing it encouragingly.

“These look incredible,” you say, smiling at him.

He nods, still inspecting them, “They look better than I thought they would.. I actually messed up earlier and accidentally added three-fourths of a cup of sugar instead of two-thirds..”

“They look perfect, don’t stress.”

He looks to you, his gaze meeting yours and then suddenly everything was back to how it was before the timer went off. His hands reach for your waist, squeezing at your hips as he looks lovingly down at you.

“Be proud of yourself, Art.. you did a good job,” you laugh softly, your hands reaching up to cup his face. He pulls you closer.

“I am.”

“Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

You suddenly get a very filthy idea.

“Can.. can you tell me what the recipe called for?”

His brows furrow slightly as he seems taken aback by your request, his cock already starting to stir to life in his sweatpants just from holding your body. He didn’t want to talk about the damn cookies anymore.

“What?”

You roll your eyes, one of your hands dropping from his face to reach around the fabric of the front of his apron and grope him over his sweats. Your other hand moves down too, but just to gently hold the side of his torso. His whole body jolts forward and his lips part instantly.

“You’ll like where this is headed, trust me. Just talk to me.. tell me what you did to make the cookies look so perfect..”

He breathes unsteadily, his fingers digging into your waist as he feels your hand start to work his cock up to a full-blown, hot, twitchy erection.

“I.. uhm.. I just..” he breathes out, his eyes growing lidded as he absentmindedly bucks up against your touch, still trying to maintain eye contact as pleasure starts to flood his senses, “one cup of b-butter.. ngh-!.. two cups.. two cups of flour… and then- ugh!- two.. two-thir-r-ds.. of..”

His voice trails off, shaky and low and broken as he hangs his head a bit, leaking incessantly into his boxers. It was that easy for you to work him up.

You frown, “Uh oh.. come on, baby, don’t go nonverbal on me that quick.. we’ve just barely gotten started…”

A small whimper leaves his chest as he tries to finish his words, “Two-thirds, I m-mean- three-f-fourths of a c-cup of.. s-su.. sugar… one teasp’of vanilla.. and.. o-one.. teaspoon of nutm-eg.”

You smile, stroking his cock over the fabric of his pants, “Good boy.. God, you’re so pretty when you’re slurring for me..”

He moans obscenely, melting at the praise while he feels his length grow suddenly intensely hot. A certain kind of numbness starts to creep over his crotch before his hands are flying from your hips to your wrist.

“Wait! W-Wait!” he gasps, his eyes squeezing shut as he blows a concentrated shaky breath from his lips, his fingertips digging into your arm.

Your eyebrow lifts and you smile as you take in the way his body shakes and shudders as he holds it in for you. He knows how to behave.. what would make you happy.. what would make you disappointed.. After all, he’s been trained by you in more than just tennis.

“Close?” you whisper.

His body starts to slowly relax again as he regains some of his composure. He blinks his eyes back open slowly, looking into yours.

“Very,” he groans.

You pull your hands from his body, and he whines softly.

“Take off the apron. Put it on the floor.”

You’re sure you’ve never seen him move so fast— his hands reaching behind his back and undoing the tied string. Then, he pulls the apron off over his head, tossing it off to the side. He watches you study him with parted lips, and he bites onto his own.

“Now take your sweats off for me.”

He does as he’s told; his shaky fingers reaching down to slip his pants down to his lower thighs, and then down to his knees and ankles, and then he steps out of them. He kicks them gently next to where the apron was thrown, now making a mess of grey and white fabric where both items pooled on the kitchen floor.

You step close to his body, cupping his face before running a hand through his messy strawberry-blonde locks. But it doesn’t take long for your eyes to travel solely down to the bulge prominently pressing against the inside of his navy boxer briefs. You run a fingertip up and over the outline of his dick, relishing in the way it makes him shake. He was now just in his tee shirt, boxers, and white socks, while you stayed fully clothed. But not for too much longer.

"My pretty husband.." you coo to him, making his lips part to let out a few uneven breaths. You glance around his frame and notice a bowl off to the side that had remnants of the soft cookie dough from the first batch of the cookies. You smirk.

You lean forward and swipe your thumb along the inside of the bowl, gathering some of the sugary, buttery mixture on your digit. His gaze remains lidded and locked onto your face, not finding any importance in your hand's movements at the kitchen counter. You bring your thumb back in, showing him what you did.

He spares your thumb a quick glance, but then his eyes are back on yours, and then your lips, and then the way that your breasts are peeking out from the low-cut collar of your work top. You bring your thumb up to his mouth.

"Open," you whisper.

He does as he's told, parting his lips further and leaning in to encourage your finger to slip past them.

You push your cookie dough-covered thumb into his mouth, feeling him immediately begin to suckle on it; his tongue swirled over it, and his eyes fluttered shut right after they began to roll back. His brows furrow, and a couple of faint whines bubble up out of him as the taste of his homemade sweetness melts seamlessly on his palate.

While your thumb is in his mouth, you push it down softly on his tongue.

"Knees, baby," you say breathlessly.

Art knew this command like the back of his hand.

Effortlessly and steadily, he dropped down to his knees one after the other, keeping your digit in his mouth the entire time. He didn't dare let it go. He moved to sit on his calves.

"Good job.. good boy..."

He whimpered, the vibrations of his pathetic sounds causing your hand to buzz slightly.

"I want your mouth on my cunt.. can you do that for me, darling?" you purr, running your hand through his hair for a moment. He nods around you.

"Y'sh, m'm.." he mumbled, trying his best to speak while still relishing your touch with enough attention.

You pull your thumb from the heat of his wet mouth, and smirk as you watch his lips chase after it.

"What was that?"

You already had a good idea about what he had murmured, but it was just.. best to be sure.

"Yes, ma'am," he gasps out softly, his eyes glazed over.

He reaches up and pulls at your skirt, shimmying it down and over your ass and thighs, letting it fall to your ankles. You kick it aside, and lean your back against the countertop. Art positions himself on his knees so that he's on the floor in front of you, looking up at you. His hands shakily reach up to the sides of your pantyhose, his tongue licking out over his bottom lip. He digs his fingers into the taut fabric and looks up at you once more, beginning to pull them down.

Immediately you grab his wrists, halting his movements. His eyes look up into yours, worried that he had made a wrong move, but you shake your head with a soft smile.

"You can rip them."

He doesn't even mean to, but he moans when you give him permission to be a little desperate right now.

In an instant, his strong hands are pulling needily at your tights, causing them to rip from your crotch to your lower thighs. He hooks one of his index fingers into the inside of your panties, his thighs tensing up at the feeling of your wetness, and then he's pushing them to the side. His tongue rests out over his bottom lip as he leans in, holding the back of your leg with his free hand as his eyes flutter shut and he engulfs your heat with his mouth.

"Oh, fuck-!" you yelp, reaching down to tangle your hands in his soft curls, "fuck, fuck, that feels good, Art, don't stop.."

He moans, his eyes squeezed shut as he lathes his tongue up and down and over your wet hole. He lewdly sucks and swallows your slick that's quickly spilling over his tongue, trying to focus harder on your pleasure (and less on the feeling of his cock throbbing rapidly in his boxers.. he can feel himself leaking).

You remove your hands from his hair and move to unsteadily grip the countertop, your back pressing hard against it. Art hums around you in his mouth, moving his tongue up to lick sloppily at your clit. He opens his eyes, his brows furrowed, and looks up at you.

"God, you're so good at this.. you're doing so well.. i'm getting.. close.." you breathe out, studying the upper half of his face while the lower half remains buried in your pussy.

He doubles his efforts, smushing his face deeper against you, his lips pursing to suckle against your sensitive nub as his grip on your leg tightens. Art has half a mind at that moment to just scoot forward a bit and slot your ankle between his thighs, but he won't. You came first, in his mind. Literally, and figuratively.

You sling the leg that he's holding over his shoulder, giving him more access, and then you begin to feel an overwhelming, hot numbness creep over your lower half..

"ANGH!" you moan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut as your body begins to shake. Your fingers grip the kitchen counter so hard that you're afraid you'll break a nail.

"I'm going to cum, Art..!"

"Mm! Mm-mm!"

"I'm.. oh my god.... I'm... I'm-! Cumming-!" you whine, feeling your orgasm crash over you.

"MM-!" he laps at your pulsing cunt, squeezing his eyes shut before forcing them open so that he can watch the way your beautiful face moves to contort in ecstasy.

You groan and whine as your orgasm's aftershocks are uncomfortably prolonged by Art's relentless tongue, and your hands release the marble countertop to reach down and grab two soft fistfuls of his hair. You try to tug his head back from your cunt, but he just closes his eyes and presses his nose and mouth further against your core. The repetitive movements of his tongue over your folds cause lewd, wet noises to fill the kitchen.

"Art... A-Art..! Enough!" you slur out as the pleasure from before starts to melt into a prickly sting of oversensitivity.

His eyes flutter open and you shoot him a warning glance as he peers up at you.

"I said enough, yeah?" you snap, "stand up."

He immediately pulls his mouth away from your sticky body and stands up on shaky legs. His eyes look downward, guiltily avoiding your gaze, as he wipes at the clear slick covering his chin with the back of his hand.

You try to catch your breath for a moment, studying his chest as it heaves up and down -- him trying to catch his breath all the same. You reach out and take his lower jaw softly in one hand, forcing him to look at you properly.

"You got a little fucking greedy there for a minute.. didn't you?"

He bites his bottom lip for a second, nervously chewing on the inside of it as he debates what answer he could give that would result in the least amount of punishment from you.

"Did you hear what I said?" you whisper coldly, taking a step closer to him as your hand grazes against the erection standing proudly in his underwear.

His body automatically jolts forward, and he lets out a shaky breath as his brow twitches. "Yeah.. I did.." he huffs out.

You smirk, wrapping your hand around him over the dark blue fabric, "And what do you think, hm? Were you being greedy?"

He looks deep into your eyes, his lips parting as he feels you start to stroke him. He tries to stop it, but his hips start to shallowly buck against your grasp, and now he can't get any words out. He wants to, but he just.. he really can't.

You roll your eyes.

"You know what I want you to say, honey. Use that big brain of yours."

He moans softly, his hands coming up to hold the sides of your upper arms as his eyes grow lidded.

"I'm.. I was being greedy.. I'm greedy," he moans lowly, thrusting into your hand a bit quicker and with a tad bit more abandon.

"Yeah, yeah you are. You're a greedy little whore for this, aren't you?"

He nods slowly but repeatedly as his brows pinch together and his breathing picks up.

"Yesss," he says brokenly, his voice straining a little as his moans start to become whimpers and whines, "I'm.. s' greedy for you.. jus' for you.. mm..!"

You nod and smirk up at him as his face becomes pinker and pinker, "That's it, pretty boy.. good job. You like when I stroke your pretty cock?"

He lets out an obscenely loud moan as his abdomen curls in over itself a bit, his hands gripping the sleeves of your work top and pulling helplessly at the fabric as he feels a spurt of precome burst into the inside of his boxers.

You chuckle a little as you watch him visibly get closer to his climax, but then he suddenly releases the hold on one of your sleeves and urgently grabs the hand that's moving over his clothed length.

You look down to where his hand holds yours, and he lets out a filthy whimper as he pulls your touch off of him and then urgently pushes your hand past his waistband and down into the front of his boxers. You gasp at his seemingly impulsive actions, feeling your fingers finally come into contact with his slicked-up cockhead. Your fingertips just barely brush over his hot, leaking slit.. sliding over a thick glob of pre.. and then he's being sent over the edge. To the average person, the touch would be essentially imperceptible, but not to him.. not to Art. He was just far too sensitive.

Your husband lets out a startled cry as he doubles over your frame in front of him and frantically moans, his whole body trembling and tensing as his balls draw up, "I'm cumming!"

You don't even have time to really process what's happening until you feel your hand being covered in warm fluid, the substance dripping down your fingertips as Art basically comes untouched. You look up at him, dumbfounded, before you feel your abdomen grow warm and tingly. That was kinda.. hot?

"Jesus, baby," you whisper breathlessly as his hips jolt a few more times before stilling as he gulps air down into his lungs, "didn't realize you were that worked up.. that was a little quick, no?"

He moans softly, still feeling your fingers graze him inside of his boxers.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.." he says, his breathing hitching in his throat as he tries to get the words out in spite of the pleasure still thrumming through his veins. He was still rock hard.

You smile, quickly using your clean, opposite hand to pull his boxers down to his lower thighs. His length slaps up lightly against his stomach before bobbing out in front of him, a tiny pearl-like bead of cum still leaking from his tip. He sighs shakily as he looks down at himself, and then up at you. You wrap your cum-covered hand around the base of his shaft, causing Art to jerk forward from sensitivity. He pulls a sharp breath in, his face scrunching up a little as he tries to control his body.

"I'll let you cum again," you start, watching his eyes light up, "but! you need to give me a warning this next time, okay? I want a clear warning, love."

He nods at your words, a more serious expression plastering over his face, "I will, I promise.. I.. I can give you a proper warning, ma'am.." he whispers.

And with that, you slide your hand from his base to his tip in one smooth motion, your thumb gliding over the head.

"GAH-!" he shudders forward, hissing in pain for a moment before he starts to moan again.

"You okay? Can you handle this?" you ask, your tone soft but seductive as you try to tease him but also legitimately check in. You two were always good at looking out for the other's wellbeing during your sessions together; the exchange of love and tender-care came easily to you both-- it was never something either of you had to question.

He nods, "Yeah, yes-ss, I can t-take it.." he slurs a little, watching your hand move up and down over his throbbing length.

"Look up into my eyes, darling," you purr, your hand starting to pick up speed, "does it feel good?"

He meets your eyes, his blue ones swimming with lust and desperation as he felt the beginnings of his second orgasm start to creep in, "Yes, fuck-! Yes! It feels so fucking good--!" he whines.

"Remember what we just talked about?"

He nods fervently, sucking his plump bottom lip in between his teeth as his focus darts from one of your eyes to the other. You speed up your hand, squeezing his shaft a little more to give him some pressure that you assume he needs.

He keens instantly, a loud moan rumbling from his chest as his thighs start to shake and his eyes squeeze shut.

"Art," you murmur in a seductive but warning tone.

He shakes all over, nodding his head, before his back stiffens up and he becomes incredibly tense. You keep your hand moving at the same fast pace, hoping his memory today is as good as his stamina.

"I'm going to cum," he whispers quickly, bringing his hands up to hold onto your shoulders as he pulls you closer.

You smile in approval, leaning in close to his ear and breathing warmly against his skin as you speak softly, "thank you for telling me, angel. do you want to cum for me?"

He nods, whining out a hasty "mhm". He lets out a breathy moan as he feels your hot words against his upper neck.

You press a chaste kiss there, and then you slide your hand up to gently grip his shaft while your thumb moves to rapidly swipe over his frenulum.

"Come."

And he does just that.

Art's back arches as soon as your one commanding word reaches his ears, cumming uncontrollably with an abrupt cry of pleasure. At first, his body is incredibly rigid as he lets go, his brows pinched up together as he feels the first, pulsing waves of his orgasm hit him, but then the full sensation of his release hits him and his whole body shudders deeply. He lets out little breathy moans and gasps as he relishes in the bursts of pleasure rolling over his cock. You slow your thumb down a bit as you watch him spurt rope after rope over your hand and onto the kitchen floor as he comes undone for you a second time.

"Fucking hell," you moan, now going back to stroking him fully instead of just rubbing a digit against his tip.

He grits his teeth in an instant, being pulled from his afterglow by the feeling of your hand forcing him back into a feeling of overstimulation. "Ah-! Ah!.. T-Too much, too much," he whimpers, his hands instinctively reaching down from your shoulders to push at your hand that's currently working him towards a third, uncomfortable orgasm that he's not even sure he wants anymore.

You use the hand that's not stroking him to move his hands away from your occupied one, giving him a small shake of your head.

"Hands behind your back, please. We're not done yet, okay?" you coo.

He quickly follows orders, moving both of his hands behind his back and away from his aching length, although not without letting out a sniffly whine of protest first.

"Please, ma'am.. I'm.. I can't do it I can't do it-- I'm-- AH!"

You cut off his soft moans of agony with a brief squeeze to the base of his dick, looking intently up into his eyes through your lashes.

"If you really want to stop, baby," you tilt your head teasingly, "you can always use the safeword, yeah?"

He bites his lip before he lets out a warped cry, his head lolling backwards in the same instant. You stop moving your hand.

"Art, darling," you whisper to him comfortingly.

He brings his head back upright to look down into your eyes, his face blank with pleasure; he almost looked drunk. His eyes were glazed over, his cheeks were pink, his hair was a mess, and his lips were parted to let out harsh little breaths of air as he tried to regain some semblance of being grounded in his own, ruined body.

You reach your free hand up to cup his jaw, brushing your thumb over the side of his face.

"Does it really hurt that bad? You know that you can be honest," you whisper, now a little concerned that maybe you pushed him too far.

He thinks for a moment before shaking his head slowly and swallowing a bit of drool that he realized has been collecting in his mouth for the past minute or so, "N-Just a little.." he breathes out.

You nod, giving him one soft stroke of his come-covered cock. He gasps and his torso jolts at the sensation, faint tears springing to his eyes.

"Sorry, sorry," you hum, "should we stop here then? I think maybe that would be best for you.. you've already done so well for me.."

The latter half of your sentence, that subtle bit of praise, gives him all the motivation he needs to want to unravel again.

He looks down at his still-hard cock, and then back up at you, and shakes his head. His tongue pokes out over his bottom lip and wets it as he tries to collect his thoughts.

"No.. no, I can do- I can go again, ma'am.. I pro-promise.." he slurs out, thrusting up into your hand.

You raise a skeptical brow at him and his movements, keeping your hand still.

"Are you sure? You know that I won't be upset with you if you want to stop, Art."

He shakes his head again, his lip trembling, "Please."

You smile softly and start to move your hand up and down over his cock again. Despite his previous indications that it was painful, the feeling has now seemed to morph back into unfiltered pleasure as he lets out a high-pitched moan of your name. He babbles endlessly, a mixture of pleas for more, letting out repetitive mumblings of "feels good", and "yes", and an assortment of stuttered expletives.

It doesn't take long for Art to get close again.

"I think 'm gonna come again," he mumbles, letting his eyes fall shut as his head slumps forward against your shoulder. You stroke him quicker, focusing on his hypersensitive tip as you feel a drip of precome come out.

"Oh? You want to come again?" you tease coyly.

You could be cruel sometimes. He had known that this part was coming eventually.

He shakes his head against the crook of your neck with a whine, "don't do this, please.."

You stop your hand at the base of his cock, halting his orgasm just as his load started to rise up his length. Art bites back an obscenely loud moan of protest that is dying to be let out..

"No, no no noo," he squirms against you, repetitively shaking his head as his face remains buried in your neck.

"You know what you need to do, darling."

"Please," he moans, "let me come.."

"You want to come?"

"Yes."

"You do?"

"YES..!"

"How should I make you come?"

"Can y- keep stroking my- I want my cock to be- I-" he mumbles incoherently.

You place your free hand on the back of his head, pushing your fingers pleasurably into his hair as he trembles against you.

"You want me to keep jerking you off? Hm?"

"Y-Yes-ss!" he moans out brokenly, using every bit of restraint within himself to resist the urge to move his hands from behind his back and relieve his aching parts.

He would never do that, though.. no matter how much he wanted to. He would always follow your wants and needs first. Those were most important to him.

"Ask me for what you need again. Nicely; just the way I like it."

"Please, can I come?"

"Again."

He whines, his hips involuntarily bucking up against your stilled hand wrapped around him.

"Please," he sobs, "can I please come for you?"

"Yes, honey, you can come."

You start to stroke his cock once again, and within just a few pumps Art is releasing again. Even though you can't see them because his face is still in your shoulder, his eyes roll all the way to the back of his head as he lets out a couple pitiful squirts of white, sticky liquid over your hand. "Ooh, that's it.. good boy.. are you my pretty little slut?"

When Art hears this, he isn't exactly sure what happens, but it's like the orgasm that's already halfway finished just completely starts over.

"Ohh my fucking- oh my god-dd-! Ugh! HNGH-!"

It's like every single nerve ending in his body is lighting up at once, and he can't do a damn thing about it.. he can't stop it...

His legs nearly go limp underneath him, and he has to lean further into you to prevent himself from collapsing.

Art then releases the most pornographic moans you've ever heard and tenses up in your hold all over again. You're not really sure what's happening until he--

"I'm cumming again! I'm cumm-m-ing-! Again! Ohmyfucking--! GOD!"

He whines and sobs against your body, his arms still held behind his back as you feel his cock jump and pulse in your hand again. This time, nothing comes out. It's odd because it's clear that he's cumming for a fourth time, but there's nothing to show for it.

You slow your hand but continue to stroke his length which is now covered in the creamy-white filth of his previous loads. His cock softens a little, but you're unsure when his orgasm ends because, again, nothing is coming out.

Art's frame suddenly begins to jerk around every time your hand brushes over his tip, and he lets out a hiss of discomfort through his gritted teeth and a sniffle afterwards. As soon as you hear that, you know he's done and you quickly remove your hand. Any extra stimulation and he'd genuinely start to cry. You could save that for another time.. if he wanted you to.

You move your other hand from his hair to his clothed upper back and rub small, comforting circles over it.

"I've got you," you whisper, "you did such a good job, baby. You just came dry for me."

He nods, sniffling wetly and exhaustedly.

You continue to rub his back for a minute or so in silence as he comes back down to earth; the pleasurable waves of his release's aftershocks allowing him to bask in the ebb and flow of it all as he tries to calm his ragged breathing.

"I feel weak," he groans softly.

You nod, "I'm right here, you're okay.. take some deep breaths for me, honey."

He nuzzles deeper against your neck and sighs contentedly, the fuzziness in his head starting to dissipate with your caring words and gentle touch.

"You're my good boy," you whisper, pressing your cheek against the side of his head.

"Mhmm," he hums, "always for you."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆.

notes; WOAH. ok. so this has been like months in the making by now i think..? but i finally finished it :D thank u so much to everyone who has been patiently/loyally waiting for this one after i teased it for over a month on this blog 😭 + thank u to anyone who gave me some kind words of encouragement when i had to put this aside for a while. i luv u guys !! <3

reblogs are always allowed + appreciated!

2K notes · View notes

snaileer · 6 months

Text

Call to My Bedside

When Danny wakes up with shackles around his wrists and chains pinning him to the wall, he’s not all that surprised to see his mother in front of him.

And no, he doesn’t mean Madeline Fenton, although he wonders if he’d be surprised by that either and really, what does that say about his life?

But no, he’s not all that surprised to be staring into the eyes of Talia Al Ghul right now.

Even if his heart stops at the sight of her.

Immediately, he tries to stand, shoulders pulled painfully behind him as he tries not to let her loom over him.

This is a woman he barely remembers, through no effort of her own, but that’s what happens when you left a kid to be trained by strangers before he’s whisked off to America against his will at age 5.

Really she was lucky he remembered her at all.

She crouches down slightly to make up for their height difference, face softening too quickly to be real, “I am Talia Al Ghul. Though you may not remember, you are my child-“

“I remember.” Danny cuts her off, trying to keep the anger from making his eyes glow. He does remember, he remembers enough to know that it would be dangerous for them to know he has powers.

He settles for glaring at her.

For a second it seems she just watches him, but the kindness drops from her face as she straightens.

The slap catches him hard enough to jerk his head to the side, chains rattling behind him as he unsuccessfully tries to catch himself.

Instead, they go taut behind him, leaving him to jerk sideways, breath rough by the surprise of the hit.

“Do not interrupt me, child.” Her voice rings cold in the air.

Danny doesn’t bother to lift his head, instead keeping his eyes pinned to the grimy floor. Had he forgotten how unforgiving this place was? What it was like?

“Look at me.”

Danny kept his eyes downwards. He didn’t want to look at her. He wanted to go home.

“Look at me, or suffer the punishment,” She said, voice steely.

He slowly lifted his head, eyes meeting hers.

“Good. You know who you are then, child? What place you are meant to hold in this world?”

Danny doesn’t answer, only glaring.

She barely blinks but her eyes sharpen in warning.

Danny grits his teeth, “I’m Danny al -Al Ghul, heir to the Demon’s head of the League of Assassins-“

The second hit is just as hard, but Danny is better braced for it.

“Your name is Danyal Al-Ghul, you are my blood and the blood of Batman, your heritage dictates a higher quality of discipline than this and you will show it.”

Everything in Danny’s being rebels against the name. He hasn’t been Danyal in years. And he refuses to go back to it.

He straightens his back, ignoring the ache of his shoulders as he snarls at her, “My name is Danny, Danny Fenton. I haven’t been your precious heir in years, and you can’t make me now.”

They couldn’t and he wouldn’t let them, not when he had the power to-

Talia idly pulls something from behind her and he feels the blood drain from his face.

It’s a picture of him, Tucker, and Sam, next to it is a larger grid of images, each making his heart drop further in his chest.

Sam. Tucker.

Jazz. Mom. Dad.

All of them in cells. Chained.

Hurt.

His family, his family-

“Did you think we would not know of your gifts? Would not know how you would think to leave us? You clearly do not remember as much as you think you do.”

Danny can barely hear her over the static rushing in his ears.

She grabs his face roughly, “We are the League, child, and you are one of us. You may have thought you were like them, but we are better. Meant for better, and you will not be allowed to squander the gifts bestowed on our bloodline through you. Until you can make the right choice yourself, as your blood, we will make them for you.”

Danny looks into her eyes, the certainty behind her words, and he feels a gaping emptiness open inside him. The kind that knows it’s not going away.

He wants to go home. He wants to see his family, and his friends. He doesn’t care that his parents don’t know his secret, that he’s just barely getting a handle on it himself, he just doesn’t want to be here. Not again. Please, not again.

Talia releases him, and he lets his body droop, sinking into himself as he crouches over the ground, the restriction of his arms keeping him from even fully curling around himself.

“Remove the chains, he will not be going anywhere,” Talia says, her shadow falling over him in the dim light of the doorway.

Danny barely moves as the cold metal falls away from his wrists.

And he knows she’s right.

He won’t be going anywhere. Not as long as his family is in danger.

—

The first months were hard. Harder than Danny remembers. Maybe his five-year old self had just had it easy.

He doesn’t now.

“Again!” His instructor shouts, bamboo staff coming down on the back of Danny’s knees.

He doesn’t let himself stumble. Not anymore.

At least his Arabic is getting better, he can understand it completely, as if he’d never forgotten it -as if it’d been his mother tongue- and he can speak it smoothly again, though shallow. You can’t even hear his American accent anymore.

Danny hasn’t spoken English since that first week, when they’d beaten it into him every time he’d tried.

When they’d beaten him for not understanding fast enough. Not reacting fast enough, not responding fast enough, to a language he didn’t know, hadn’t known for years now.

They’re right about one thing.

Pain is an excellent teacher.

“Again!”

He moves fast enough to dodge the bamboo stick this time, body shooting forward against his opponent.

Dodge, lunge, feint, block, swipe, block, block, block-shit-block, reach-

His back slams against the stone floor of the courtyard, knocking the breath out of him.

The instructor doesn’t step in. He won’t.

Not even when his opponent’s hands clamp around his throat.

Danny struggles, trying to use his inhuman strength to pull the arms away, but that inhumanity has waned since he’s been here, drained like the rest of his energy.

He feels the weight begin to build in his skull, he can’t breathe, he doesn’t have much longer, what can he- Danny forcefully moves his arms away, fighting instinct, instead pulling his legs up and rolling, just as they’d drilled into him, the change in leverage giving him the break he needed to be free as he stands-

The bamboo slams into his back, knocking him forward, “Again!”

Danny rolls with the momentum, ignoring the new throbbing in favor of dodging his opponent’s grappling fists.

Dodge, lunge, dodge, swipe, dodge, dodge, hit, swipe, block, forward, dodge, block-

Danny breathes through the sweat dripping down his skin, the way his ribs creak with every breath, the way his muscles feel numb and disconnected. None of it matters.

He just has to win.

He doesn’t have any other options.

He never did.

Not really.

This is why they brought him here.

Why he was born.

He has to win.

Danyal twists the arm of his opponent back until there’s a sickening crack.

“Again!”

A new opponent flies towards him with fists already raised.

He doesn’t have any other option.

He never did.

——

The next time he sees Talia is just before the ceremony to his next stage. She is waiting in his room when he walks in.

“Mistress,” He greets, bowing his head, feeling phantom pain bloom on his cheeks. It’s the only thing that makes him call her that.

“Danyal, your training is going well,” She says, voice idle in that meandering sort of way. This isn’t why she’s here.

“I will improve,” He says anyways. Because he knows he’s not meeting their standards yet, knows they’re disappointed by the heaviness in his bones that weighs him down and drains his energy.

She stands, making Danny go stock still as she approaches, featherlight touch on his chin as she tilts it upwards.

English drifts from her lips, “You have his eyes, his cheekbones…” her eyes drift down again, and it still doesn’t feel like she’s even really looking at him, “My chin and my jaw…not like Damia-“

Her hand drops.

Danny can’t figure out the change but he can feel it. Hesitantly, he asks, in Arabic still, “Talia, why… are you here?”

The steel returns.

“The bat is dead. You are the last of his power,” She says, then pauses. She seems torn about saying more.

She doesn’t, exiting silently as Danny stares into the air, unmoving.

His… birth father… was dead?

A man that was a great enough warrior to impress the Demon’s Head. Impress Talia.

A man… he didn’t even know the real name of.

It’s not like the Bat was anything more than a name to him.

A name he had to live up to.

Danny sighs and turns to his drawers. He has a training ceremony to prepare for.

——

Danny doesn’t resist the arms that hold him back as they swipe a broad slash across the skin of his back with the whip, simply letting himself curl inwards around the pain before he’s dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

He pulls himself back up just soon enough to see the next person dragged in and thrown in front of him.

The handle of the blade is pressed into his hand.

It wouldn’t be hard.

It should be hard. Right?

Killing a man whose crimes he doesn’t even know should be hard. It’s meant to be hard, right?

Danyal wishes he doesn’t know how easy it will be to fall into it.

But he can’t keep doing this. Collecting scars because he’s clinging to morals that aren’t even his.

He can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep doing any of this.

He has to.

Danyal slices the edge of the blade across the man’s neck.

The cut is clean. Deep.

He’s dead in less than a minute.

Danyal’s own blood continues to flow.

——

Danyal doesn’t know what’s happening. One minute he’s training, trying to push past the exhaustion lining his bones, and the next the entire west side of the courtyard is in flames, crumbling down the side of the mountain.

Danny runs through the rubble of the passageways, searching for the source, searching for reasons, searching for… he doesn’t know, but he knows he can’t be caught doing nothing.

He doesn’t find anything except ruins.

Danny is called to meet Ra’s Al Ghul two weeks later. His grandfather. The Demon’s head.

The man doesn’t even look at him.

Danny stays kneeling all the same, better safe than beaten again.

“Are you familiar with Red Robin?”

Danny inclines his head, just barely, “I… can’t say I am…Great One.”

The following hum is derisive.

“He is one of the Bat’s… followers. Recently, he has proven himself to me. His ruthlessness is impressive, his ability to pursue his goals: admirable. He would make the perfect heir,” Ra’s says and he must know it makes Danny’s heart drop, why else would he say it, “Do you know what Timothy lacks, Danyal?”

Danyal stays quiet, eyes tracking the grit of the floor.

After a pause, near silent footsteps enter his vision, “You are the culmination of his mentor’s blood and my own, blessed with the gifts of the Lazarus pits, and yet-“ the cape swirls as Ra’s turns away, “Yet it is squandered by the mistakes of your upbringing!” He yells.

Danyal clenches his fists, willing himself silent.

The air of the room falls level again, “I grow tired of your mediocrity, Danyal. You will advance, or I will stop wasting my resources keeping your baggage alive.”

Danny’s head whips up before he can think better of it, meeting Ra’s Al Ghul’s eyes where they stare down at him.

“Do not mistake my past grace for mercy, Danyal. Mercy makes men weak. There is no room for weakness, and we are here to purge it from this world. Do not forget that.”

“Of course, Great One.” Danyal’s heart pounds in his ears, fear jumping across each beat sporadically, “I will do better.” He tries to fill his voice with confidence.

He’ll do better.

He has to.

Ra’s looks at him, then turns his back and waves a hand dismissively, finally allowing Danyal to stand and leave.

He feels Ra’s’ eyes on his back the entire time as he leaves. And no matter how much he wants to, he doesn’t stop in the hallway. Even once the door is closed, he continues forward.

In his mind, Danny stops and heaves a breath through the grief crashing over him.

In his mind, Danny is a million miles away, at home, with his family around him, happy and safe.

In his mind, Danny rushes back into Ra’s al Ghul’s grandiose throne room and attacks him with the sword he’s forced on him, not stopping until he’s free or dead.

In reality, Danyal breathes out with false calm and moves on.

He has training to get to.

——

Danyal can feel the pressure of the Leagues- of Ra’s’- expectations pushing down on him.

It’s not new.

But he doesn’t let it weigh him down anymore. He doesn’t have that luxury.

Instead, he uses it to push himself harder, farther, pushing until he reaches those expectations.

And surpasses them.

And keeps going.

He won’t-can’t stop. So he keeps going.

Moving up, learning, training, getting better, faster, getting stronger.

Getting weaker.

Danyal ignores the strained whisper of his core in his chest in favor of aiming at the target in his scope.

An Ethiopian politician, making a name for himself by drafting new acts supporting the build of a dam on the Nile River.

It would endanger the lives of thousands in Egypt, cutting them off from the water that has flowed through their country for millennia.

It would never make it through the legislative ruling without him.

This is their duty. To cull the disease. To burn away the parasites killing the world. The ones feeding off excess.

Danyal pulls the trigger and starts packing the gun away.

His hands move with robotic precision, even without his guidance. No, his eyes and his focus are elsewhere.

Instead, Danny stares at the newspaper laying damp on rooftop gravel, eyes scanning every detail, every line.

May 7th of 20XX. Almost two years.

Alien invasion recently. Superman.

New hero in Russia.

Multiple car crashes in Pakistan. All survived.

None of it really matters to him, not really, it doesn’t tell him anything interesting, nothing he needs to know. It’s not even an American newspaper.

But…It’s the closest he’s come to freedom in three years.

Is it bad that what he calls a taste of freedom is knowing how long it’s been since he’s been free?

The rifle case clicks shut beneath his fingertips and he stands without so much as a lingering glance at the newspaper.

Danyal leaps off the roof, scaling down the side, ignoring the way his legs want to collapse beneath him as he lands in an alley.

He heads towards the rendezvous, job finished. Efficient as always.

Exactly as is expected of him.

———

It is several months more that he begins to realize there may be something truly wrong.

He’s training-fighting, losing- with the Lady Shiva. If Red Robin could beat her, Danyal must as well.

He’s fairing… okay.

They’ve been engaging for a while now, for a fight, a minute at least, maybe two.

He feels his breath rough in his chest, his face slick with sweat, his body buzzing with adrenaline and the push to do better-

His heart squeezes, seizing up tense and frozen for just a second, his body following in surprise-

There’s a sword through his stomach.

Danyal tries to focus again, to swing his sword, like he’s been trained, but everything feels… loose.

The sword is removed from his stomach, wet blood sliding down his tunic. Cold floor beneath his knees, had he fallen? No, he had to stand, get up, get up, get up. Get up!

Please, you have to get-

There’s hands on him, moving him, the hallways are too dark, -get up, you have to get up- he can’t tell where they’re going. No they’re not dark, his eyes are closed, he pries them open, gasping for breath as the pain in his stomach tears deeper.

Please, he just wants to go home.

Darkness still clouds his vision, but the people carrying him barely glance back as he groans.

His eyes flicker shut, too heavy to keep open as he tries to focus on anything but the pain, on not bleeding out, on please don’t let him die here, not here, please.

They enter another door, letting him stumble across steps farther and farther down.

When they reach the bottom, it seems as though every sound is sucked out from the room. An eerie silence thick in the air.

It forces his eyes open, just a squint, darkness prickling at the edges of his vision.

He barely catches a glance of cave walls before he feels himself thrown forward.

And familiar green fills his vision.

Panic surges.

Pain in his stomach. -His hand. The button!-

Green water surrounding him. -The portal is on!-

Liquid fills his mouth when he tries to scream. -There’s no sound between dimensions.-

It feels like burning acid running across every nerve of his open wound, creeping into his pores like tar covering a dying animal.

But it doesn’t feel like death.

He would know.

It feels a little like life.

He doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t get a choice.

He never does.

It feels like a thousand screaming souls, begging for justice and for freedom, just as he is.

They shout and yell at him to do something, to fight where they can’t, why can’t they, they’re so helpless, angry at their helplessness, angry at their inability, angry angry angry

Their pleas fill his ears, louder with each passing second.

He’s angry, angry, angry- how dare they, how dare they- he could win, they can’t stop him, they deserve it-who’s they?- he’s going to kill them, they can’t stop him-

Frigid humid air stings against his skin, no longer submerged, and green fog tinges everything.

But he-they- need to fight, kill them, stop them, do something, do something because they can’t- fight!

Danny lunges at the first person he sees, an assassin in all black at the edge of green waters.

His fist nearly collapses his skull. It doesn’t stop him.

There’s another and Danny lunges again, ignoring the sword that slashes towards him, grabbing it and snapping the metal with one hand, the other around the ninja’s neck, gripping, cracking, breaking-

Something heavy hits him over the head, the world staticking for a second as his hand loosens, a body dropping to the floor.

Hands reach at him, pulling, holding, restraining, and he fights with sharpened claws and fangs and burning fists of glowing energy and hands ripping hearts from their chest- until there’s so many bodies around him and restraining him, that it actually slows him down.

Enough to realize his powers are flowing easily once more, surprise cutting through the fog in his mind.

He stops actively pulling against the arms holding him down, his cheek now pressed painfully against rocky floor.

Where is he?

A nauseatingly familiar voice fills the room, “You managed quite the damage, Danyal,” Ra’s al Ghul stands in front of him, when Danny is able to lift his head and look, “Perhaps there is still potential hidden behind your weakness, the capabilities of your rage is akin to my first venture into these pools, so many centuries ago.”

The smile on Ra’s’ face sends twitches down his spine and confusion pools in his gut, “What…?” he murmurs, head still murky, but a bolt of fear races through his chest, and he forces his words into the League dialect once more, “What happened…? I..-“ His voice is small, and slowly he feels the assassins holding him release his arms and back away. He pushes himself upright to his knees, finding less strain in his muscles, in his bones, than he has for nearly two years.

“You failed your training, little Al Ghul,” A voice, Lady Shiva, speaks from his right. Her sword is still red.

Danyal’s eyes jump to hers, the memory rushing back- blood, the sword, falling, the water- his hand grips the side of his tunic even as his head snaps to the side, finally seeing the green waters lurking just next to them.

The Lazarus Pits, his training says.

Ectoplasm, his core whispers.

He looks down at the hole in the fabric of his tunic, any bloodstains around it all but gone. There’s not even a scratch.

The rest of his clothes are still layered with blood.

And Danyal knows it isn’t his.

He stands, watching as other league members file in, dragging away the bodies surrounding them.

There are too many to count.

He doesn’t even try.

Ra’s Al Ghul steps forward, drawing his focus once more.

He eyes Danyal critically, “Walk with me, child,” He says, already turning away with robes moving gracefully.

Danyal hurries to move with him, one step behind as they trail through the halls and corridors, slowly moving farther and farther up through the compound.

Finally they step out from an arch, the gentle late afternoon sun lighting up the sky with colors. Just enough light to see clearly, not enough to blind or burn.

It would’ve been a perfect afternoon to die on.

Instead, Danyal catches the sword thrown towards him with surprising grace. Ra’s face is filled with dangerous curiousity as he speaks, “Attack.”

Danyal doesn’t question it. Doesn’t wonder why Ra’s remains unarmed, doesn’t question if he might hurt him. He just acts, lunging forward at the command with nary a second thought.

“Starting today, you will train with me. Each week,” Ra’s speaks as he easily dodges and blocks Danyal’s hits, forcing him to take a new approach each time.

Danyal nods, “Of course, Great One.”

Ra’s knocks him to the ground, standing over him with sword drawn, “Call me Grandfather, Danyal. You’ve earned it.”

Danny’s heart squeezes.

He nods, “Of course Grandfather.”

——

After that, things change. Ra’s Al Ghul keeps to his word, calling for him each week, sometimes no more than a few days apart.

All too quickly it becomes a part of Danyal’s routine. The brutal training sessions of Ra’s beating him down and letting him up only to do it again.

He wishes he had it in him to question the Demon’s Head, but he doesn’t, so when Ra’s tells him to attack, even when unarmed, even when Danyal should rip his throat out with one use of intangibly, Danyal listens and attacks him.

Months into the now singular training, Danyal realizes that he hasn’t left this compound in a while, there hasn’t been a spontaneous move, or travel for a new master.

It’s just been… Ra’s.

He feels more stable, more stationary than he remembers being in so long. His youngest years had been the same routine of constant movement from base to base, compound to compound. And then he had lived.. in America, and had a single home, a house he knew the direction to from anywhere in town. For so many years, he been able to settle in one place.

Only to be uprooted once more, thrown back to everything he’d left behind, everything he’d-

Danyal enjoyed knowing where he would return to at the end of the day. The sense of familiarity that came with the same room, the same bed and halls, day after day, week after week.

Maybe that’s why it catches him by surprise when Ra’s calls for him at the base of a landing pad, jet idle behind him.

Danyal allows a nearby assassin to pass a pack into his hands, clearly full of materials.

For a moment, Danyal wonders where they are going? What new training awaits him at the other end?

Then Ra’s steps aside, dangerously graceful as ever, and reveals the bay of the jet to be not empty, but filled by assassins, each standing at command.

Danyal looks to Ra’s once more.

“An Al Ghul does not only follow, Danyal,” He says with a sharp smile as he approaches, laying a heavy hand on Danyal’s shoulder, “An Al Ghul leads. And as you are my heir, you must learn to command the respect of our members.” The hand squeezes on his shoulder, making him look up, meeting Ra’s in the eyes, “By any means necessary.”

Danyal looks away, looking back at the assassins waiting for him, for his command.

He’s not ready.

He has to be anyways.

The hand on his shoulder feels like lead as he steps out from under it, filling his voice with power he doesn’t feel, and sending the squadron scattering to new assignments.

Flight, equipment, weaponry, information, planning, infiltration, execution, all of it, it’s all on him to control.

Danyal turns back to gauge Ra’s’ reaction, only to find him already halfway gone, the sight of his retreating back the only response.

Okay, he’ll do this.

He can do this.

He has to.

What else can he do?

——

He takes to leading missions with the hand of a natural.

It’s easy.

Send these people here. These people here. Block every exit, erase every loose end, don’t leave any witnesses. Finish the mission.

Their missions are for the betterment of everyone, they are fixing things, getting rid of corrupt leaders, people unworthy of what they have, everything they’re doing is for a reason. It has a purpose.

He has a purpose.

So he ignores what’s behind every number he sends for each job. Ignores the calculation behind every call to secure the exit that has five private guards. Ignores the number behind the perimeter assignment because he knows the building has a late hour maid present each night.

They’re just numbers.

And he’s good at this.

At least he’s good at this.

He kills the first person to question an order.

They don’t question him again.

Everything runs smoother when they don’t question him.

It’s easier this way.

It’s always easier.

——

He’s traveling again. Spending more hours sleeping in hotels and safe houses than any bed he might deign to call his.

More and more time goes by, bit by bit, hour by hour, each filling his body with sand like setting concrete.

Slowly, Danyal feels it begin to wear on him. The exhaustion of the missions, his own body weighing him down with every strike he takes. Refusing to react with the speed demanded of him to succeed.

Danyal pushes past it. It doesn’t matter. This is his duty, it is all that is expected of him and he will do it. Even as he finds himself clutching his chest in the dark of a mission, blood still leaking from his target below him.

He forces himself past it, eyes flickering, steeling himself, then wiping down his blade and leaving, muscles tense and bones shaking.

He makes it as far as the car waiting in the near abandoned parking garage below, his chest continuing to tighten, heart erratic beneath his ribs. Danyal grunts, pain lacing up his arm, struggling not to stumble as he staggers into his seat with a near gasping breath.

He pulls himself together, his words as confident as he can make them as he speaks to the assassin in the drivers seat, “Call Ra’s Al Ghul. Bring me to him. Now.”

Danny feels his heart twitch in his chest, his hand flickering in his vision, or is it his vision that’s flickering, he can’t tell, still the cold leather soothes him, heart pounding louder louder, yelling, screaming in his ears, angry so angry so angry, rage rage rage, fix it fix it fight fight fight for us fight! Don’t let it go, never let it go, revenge, make them pay, they have to pay-!

He comes back with a gasp and a burst of pain across his shoulder, adrenaline and fury still coursing through his veins in equal measure.

His hair is wet, green liquid dripping down his face in sluggish trails mixed with foreign blood. It lays plastered on the curves of his face, framing his eyes as he stares up at the Demon’s Head.

The same malicious smile sits on his face, “Welcome back, Danyal.” The words are tinged with expectance.

Danyal pauses, collected his words around his tongue like a lead weight in his dry mouth, “I- Why was I put in the Lazarus pit again?” Danyal can only hope he’s showing the right amount of deference to even be allowed such a question.

“You were brought to me collapsed, and your heart failing you. The Lazarus pits provided a temporary solution,” Ra’s says, his eyes sharp, “But it is temporary. This problem will not be allowed to continue.”

“Of course, Master,” Danyal pulls himself to his knees, “…I believe it’s because of my accident-“ Danyal pauses, this is closest he’s come to actually telling them how he got his powers, what it did to him-, “There was electricity, and the shock, my heart was-is damaged. I don’t know why it’s getting worse-“

Ra’s hums, “The body can be fixed, child. The mind cannot. This,” Ra’s places a hand on his back as Danyal stands, “is merely an obstacle to our goal.”

“I will not fail you, Grandfather.”

“I know, child.” His words are a guarantee, an assurance to Danyal.

He will prove that the confidence placed in him is not mistaken.

——

It is barely months after that second time that Danyal once again feels his body’s failings encroach on him.

His heart beats off pattern, falling out of rhythm more with every passing day.

Danyal takes a deep breath, willing it to calm himself.

He will not let this stop him. He is an Al Ghul. He is capable. He is strong, and he will not be held back by his own body.

Danyal turns his focus inwards, ripples traveling along the surface of the ectoplasm in his core he’s left untouched for so long now.

He lets the ectoplasm submerge him, turning his form ghostly, his eyes sharper green than they’ve ever been before.

Danyal lets his feet lift off the ground, just for a second, weightlessness enveloping him, the buzzing of the world a background in his ears.

Then his toes touch the ground again and Danyal snaps into movement towards his closet. He puts on his usual league clothes over the old hazmat suit, feeling the layers lighten as he covers them up. Until it feels as though he’s only wearing the league clothes, and his white gloves stare in his face.

Slowly, he removes them, staring for too long at the green lines like cracks trailing up his arm.

Danyal turns away.

He has work to do, he can’t let himself be held up with small feelings like that.

As Danyal travels the halls, every step an effort to remain flat on the ground, he feels the ectoplasm within him roil, coursing faster and stronger than he ever had before, even in the Ghost Zone or in A-.

It revitalizes him and Danyal arrives to Ra’s Al Ghul’s training with bold confidence filling him.

Ra’s greets him an enigmatic smile and a challenge of his strength.

Danyal meets him kind, dodging every lunging, swiping every parry, light on his feet like he hasn’t been in years now.

Their fight lasts longer than any other they’ve had, his muscles able to hold up stronger in this form, his stamina infinite as the ectoplasm he draws from without any need for breathing or rest.

Ra’s Al Ghul is impressed even as he holds Danyal beneath his boot, his sword pressed to his neck.

Glowing green sluggishly leaks from the scratch.

Danyal pays it no mind.

Instead he stares at the small cut on the crown of Ra’s’ head, a single crimson red droplet crawling down the side of his face.

Danyal did not win. But he didn’t loose either.

Satisfaction fills him in a rush, carrying him through even as they reengage.

——

Danyal strives to reach his goals, to hit every target set out for him, beat every opponent put against him, to reach the expectations and the potential that the Demon’s head sees him.

To make himself worthy to be here, to stay.

And he knows his weaknesses hold him back, make him vulnerable, put everything-one- in danger.

So he stops being vulnerable. Stops letting his body, his weaknesses, dictate his capabilities.

Faster and faster his store of ectoplasm drains within him.

And Danyal makes himself stronger and stronger, short exposures of the Lazarus pits to keep it from stopping him.

He can’t stop.

So he keeps going, keeps training, fighting, growing- when had he gotten tall? When had he gotten older?

He keeps working, to be better, to be the best.

And as he approaches the Demon’s chambers weeks later, he is surprised to hear yelling.

More than that, he is surprised to hear Talia’s voice be the one yelling.

He pauses outside the door, eyes narrowed and body resting on the edge of invisibility.

He does not want to know the punishment for eavesdropping, nor for interrupting them… and yet…he hasn’t spoken to Talia, not truly, not since she told him the Batman was dead. Barely seen her except beside the demons’s head in ceremony as he stands at the edges of a room.

It has been entirely too reminiscent of his childhood.

Danyal’s ears prick up as the volume increases once more.

“You cannot ask me to bring him back to use him for-!”

“I do not ask for anything, Daughter! He belongs to the League! And the League to me! It was a mistake to allow you to keep-“

Ra’s’ voice drops too low to be heard through the door, muffling the rest of his words.

Danyal steps back from the door, standing in the hall with questions blooming in multitude.

Moments later, Talia Al Ghul steps through, a force of fury in every step. She catches sight of him immediately, and when Danyal makes eye contact, her eyes are filled with worry, stress, regret, a thousand what-ifs and plans and concerns.

Somehow he knows none of it is for him.

He bows slightly, and she passes by him without a word.

Danyal watches her hair flow as she retreats further and further down the hall until he finally turns around to enter the room.

Ra’s Al Ghul is waiting for him.

He gives no indication that he knows Danyal heard him, so Danyal doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t make the mistake of thinking that means Ra’s doesn’t know.

He always knows.

His training continues.

For days, and weeks, and months more, he continues.

But even a ghost cannot lie to himself forever.

——

When Damian wakes up with chains around his wrists and the familiar feeling of harsh metal beneath his knees, he is not surprised to see his mother standing in front of him.

He wishes it were only his mother.

Instead, his grandfather stands in front of him as well, eyes staring down at him with impassive judgement. Damian feels his spine straighten against his will, the feeling of ‘never good enough’ creeping through his limbs.

He glances at his mother behind Grandfather’s looming form. Her face is uncharacteristically open, the barest hint of tension evident in her jaw, her eyes almost brighter with the concern hidden behind them.

Damian forces his eyes away as Grandfather begins to speak.

“You’ve wasted your time with your father Damian,” he starts, “Letting your training go to waste as the league continues to work to better the world.”

Damian wants to sneer, a scowl forming on his face, “The league does nothing but hurt innocent people. My time as Robin has saved hundreds.”

Grandfather’s eyes sharpen, “And I see it has taken your discipline as well.”

Damian grinds his teeth, “Anything I have learned, I learned from my Father and my family,”

“Your family?” Grandfather says, his tone almost mocking as he raises an eyebrow, “You are an Al Ghul-“

“I am a Wayne too!” Damian says, straining as he rises to his feet, “I am Damian Al Ghul-Wayne! Just as you wanted me to be! And it is my choice to be a hero, to be Robin, and I stand next to Father and the others with pride!”

Grandfather’s glare intensifies, “Do not interrupt me again, Damian. You will not be exempt of the consequences.”

Damian stares him down, fear pressing against his insides with a scream too familiar to his youth.

He turns away with a click of his tongue.

Shame whispers at his cheeks.

Grandfather waves a hand blithely as he turns his back, “Bring him.” He pauses at the door, “He remains bound.”

Damian watches his Grandfather leave, his eyes drifting sideways to his mother.

“Mother, why am I here?” He demands, tone sharp and clear. He tries not to let show how lost he is.

Mother steps forward, laying a gentle hand on his face and the other at the crook of his neck, cupping his cheek as her eyes soften. Regret sits behind them.

“Mother.” He says again, pulling slightly away from her hand, “Why am I here?”

She sighs, stepping back, “The Demon’s Head has need of you.”

Then he watches her leave as well, and Damian finds his arms and hands grabbed as assassins unchain him and push him forward.

He reluctantly lets them lead him through the unfamiliar halls of wherever they are, just a few paces behind his mother.

They stop in front of an open doorway, and when Damian is dragged in front, the sight he is met with brings confusion over anything else.

In front of him is a young man, no older than Todd or even Drake, laying asleep in a hospital bed with a heart monitor attached to him.

The beeping that fills the room is shallow and unsteady, much like the boy’s breathing. His hair is dark with speckled streaks of grey and a natural paleness in his skin.

Worse than that is the IV Damian can see tucked into the crook of his arm, tube trailing up to a bag.

Slowly feeding Lazarus water into his veins.

Damian whips his head around to look at his mother, only to find her staring disdainfully at the boy in the bed.

It only serves to confuse Damian more.

What had this man done to cause his mother such ire?

“Take the sample.” His Grandfather’s voice commands. And Damian feels the arms holding him shift to a more secure grip, pulling him to his knees even as he fights them. A man in a white coat approaches him, and Damian fights harder when he notices the syringe in his hand.

The sting of the needle is dull against the fear crashing through him as his grandfather watches.

His mother looks away.

Finally, Damian jerks as the hands he now knows are Ubu’s release him, still hovering close as he is dropped. He is surprised to see that they actually took blood, rather than dosing him with something. Sedative or worse.

Damian scowls at his grandfather, but he simply looks unconcerned as the assumed doctor moves forward to take a second sample, this time from the boy laying in the bed.

“Why am I here, Grandfather?” He asks, eyeing all parties critically.

“Haven’t you realized, Damian?” His Grandfather asks with a mockingly raised eyebrow, “His heart is failing, and the Lazarus waters can only fix so much by the nature of his defects. Your brother needs you, Damian,” Grandfather says, voice serene, “And you are going to help him.”

Damian barely has a moment to process his words before the hands are pulling him back once more, he yanks his arms from their grip, “Grandfather! What are you- let me go!” Damian turns fully to incapacitate the assassins, only to have Ubu pull his binds harshly sideways and give the servants leverage enough to actually tame his movements.

“Who is he?! Mother!” Damian turns to her, unsurprised to see her turning a blind eye once again, “Mother who is he!? What is Grandfather talking about?! What are you doing!?” The assassins pull at him again, successful in getting him through the doorway as he struggles.

Just before the door closes, he hears the Doctor speak to his grandfather, and his response.

“The boy is a match Great One.”

“Good, prepare Danyal for surgery. As soon as possible.”

The surprise is enough that the door closes in his face and he is dragged back through the hallways.

He stands as much as he can, walking at pace, refusing to allow them to disrespect him by letting them drag him.

He glares at Ubu as he shuts the door of his cell between them.

Once he knows he is alone, Damian takes a better register of his situation. He is still in his Robin uniform, so that means he was out with the family- he has a brother- they’ll be looking for him. He believes he’s on a boat, the rocking, the design of the doors and walls- a brother!- he has to make sure he can be found. Grandfather has plans for him-why tell him now- he doesn’t seem to be listening to Mother’s decisions- his brother’s name is Danyal- he might be in danger-they both could- how is he going to get out-

Damian stops.

He readjusts his clothing, feeling the minute shift once more. There’s something between the collar of his suit.

Slowly, Damian runs his hand along the fabric, finding a small bump he recognizes as a tracker.

One of his own bat made trackers. But how..?

Mother.

Damian scoffs to himself. Of course, he should have known she would never show such an obvious display of affection without reason. She was still largely loyal to Grandfather, but Damian was not so naïve as to think she did not care for him at all.

The vibration of the tracker is rhythmic beneath his fingers, the only solace he gets.

His family is coming.

He knows it.

He just hopes it’s fast enough.

——

Perhaps Grandfather’s first mistake was taking him as Robin, when his family was always the most on edge, the most prepared, the most connected.

Or perhaps his first mistake was training Bruce Wayne in the first place.

Either way, Damian watches from the other side of an observation window as his Grandfather and Father engage in a fight racked with fury on both ends.

Richard jostles him, bringing his attention back into focus.

Right.

His newest brother.

He mumbles an explanation to them, words slurred as they leave his mouth. But he knows they heard him. The shock-caution-suspicion painted across their faces could mean nothing else.

Perhaps his Father was under a curse. Surely there was a limit to how many unknown children one person could have in a single lifetime?

All the same, once freed, he moves to help Drake and Richard remove the boy-brother, Danyal- from the operation table next to him, stepping over the doctors knocked unconscious at their feet.

Reluctantly, he allows Drake to support him under one arm, the anesthesia still weighing down his eyelids.

They rush through the halls like a bull, both him and Drake separating to fight off more than one assassin. Even Richard has to set down Danyal to join the fight at least once.

But finally, they make it to the Batplane idling next to the hull.

The moment they are onboard, the plane starts to move away, but his Father is still on board.

Still fighting with Grandfather as they burst through the doors, fists and weapons engaged in equal measure.

Father dodges sideways, blocking hits until he reaches the rails, then he jumps over without hesitation. And just as Damian is about to shout for him, arm reaching out futilely, Richard blows past him.

He is leaping out of the open cargo door with just as much surety as his father leapt, a cord tied around him, and with perfect precision, he watches Richard catch his father at the extension of his swing.

It’s a perfect demonstration of their partnership.

And Grandfather is left scowling out at them from the ship.

His mother stands alone and calm on the upper deck, watching.

Damian turns his attention to his family.

And to Danyal with them.

——

Returning to the cave is less of an affair than Damian may have expected from such a mission.

His father is-has been- silent for most of the flight, staring at the body of Danyal with blank eyes.

Even Drake and Richard conspicuously cast a glance back every few minutes. Damian controls himself from doing the same. He is not so undisciplined as to be as obvious.

Still, the tension only rises the longer Danyal continues to remain asleep. Even by the time Damian feels the last of the anesthesia leave his own system, Danyal is unchanged.

Damian is certain his grandfather would not choose someone so sickly to be his heir, someone so incapable of protecting themselves in this state. Surely there was a reason he was kept, a reason he was allowed this weakness when Damian was-

Regardless, Damian didn’t trust it. The others could get pulled into this invader’s lies all they wanted, Damian would be there to stop him, he was sure of it.

Still, he watches Pennyworth dote over him in the medbay, Father laying him down on a medical bed with harried care, removing his cowl with barely a thought.

Damian ground his teeth, did they not understand that this was an operative trained by his Grandfather? An assassin with no attachment to them that was favored enough by Grandfather to warrant Damian being-

Damian turned to his locker, glad to replace his weapons stores and feel the weight of his sword at his side once more. It would be a pain, but he would have to find a way to receive a package from his mother if he wanted his other sword back.

It was merely a replica of one of his betters but the desire remained.

He watched from the corner of his eye as the family began to gather in front of the Batcomputer, the screen’s light casting shadows on them even in the artificial cave lighting. Finally, they were going to be doing something.

Damian approached, lingering at the edge where he could still see through the curtains of the medbay.

“I’m not the only one who noticed a suspicious lack of life threatening wounds right?” Drake began, turned away from the console with one hand still on the keys, “I mean, there was that first surgery cut, but that was the same as on Damian. It certainly wasn’t enough to necessitate Lazarus water being entered directly into this kid’s bloodstream.”

Damian scowled, “He was like that before they attempted this. Grandfather said that there was something wrong with… Danyal’s heart, said that I would be able to fix it.”

Father cast another brief look at the medbay, Pennyworth’s shadow still moving within. “I’ll have Agent A call Leslie. Robin,” he turned towards Damian, “Did Talia or Ra’s mention anything else to you? Where .. he’s been this whole time?..Why you didn’t know of his existence?”

Damian shook his head, “No, only that he was my brother and that the pit water was being used to fix him somehow. That I was needed to save him.”

Father hums, turning back with pensive silence.

“B, we don’t even know how long this kid’s been there, he’s older than Damian,” Richard pleads. And it makes Damian duck his head with clenched fists. Who was he? Why was he so much more favored by Grandfather?

Why had they told him he was the firstborn of mother? Of father?

“He could always be a clone with advanced aging, we know Talia is capable of it, she’s done it before,” Drake adds. But the theory sits uncomfortably with all of them. Something just not quite right.

“But then why did they need Damian?” Richard says back.

Father grunts.

“Is it really…” Richard starts, “I mean, we have to consider that she actually kept it secret again. Even from Damian.”

“But B wasn’t even with Talia before that, Damian was the first time they… y’know.” Drake says, a grimace on his face at the end.

Father hums, “But I’d fought Talia before. And I had trained with Ra’s.”

“All it would have taken is one DNA sample, right.” Richard says with a sigh, carding his fingers through his hair, “Well, we might as well-“

There’s a slight clatter on the medbay level, silencing everyone as their heads snap to the sound.

When nothing follows, Father motions them all to head up, flanking the room.

Damian is the closest, entering first. No sooner does he notice Pennyworth laying on the floor before he feels a hand slip around his neck and another quickly snatch the sword at his side. Within seconds, Damian feels his back pressed against another body, the cold steel of his own sword stinging at his neck as he stares into his Father’s eyes.

Except his father is not looking at him, he’s looking at the person holding him.

Danyal.

“Where am I!? Who are you!?” The voice behind him demands, the vibration buzzing against him with the familiar staccato of Damian’s native league dialect.

His family shares a weighted look, clearly hesitant to say anything. Already Damian can see the way their fingers twitch towards weapons and utility belts.

The steel at his neck tightens, “Tell me now or I slit his neck and deliver your bodies to the Demon’s Head myself.”

Father’s stance tightens, anger pulling at his gloves even as he forces himself to put his hands up in surrender. When he answers, it is in the League dialect, “We’re not a danger to you, Danyal,” the blade doesn’t so much as twitch, “Put down the swor-“

Stephanie Brown’s voice rings out across the cave, “Hey, Kate and I just finished patrol and-“

Damian doesn’t pay attention to the rest of the sentence because the moment Brown starts speaking, his assailant’s group loosens just a bit, accompanied by a low, broken whisper of, “English?…”

Damian immediately jabs the flat of his arm up, putting the blade farther from his neck as he begins to grapple with him.

In the blur of movement, Damian sees his sword coming at him, throwing his body back with a barely a second to spare, feeling the supporting hand of Richard on his back as he joins their combined front.

Danyal now stands alone in front of them, stolen sword extended in warning.

And now that Damian can see his face, he knows why his family was hesitant… Danyal’s eyes flicker a bright Lazarus green.

“What do you want from me? Why am I here?” he demands once again.

His Father steps up, “I don’t know how much know about me: my name is Bruce Wayne,” There’s barely even a flicker of recognition, “But you might know me better as Batman.”

The eyes widen, eyes scanning them with fervor before narrowing with suspicion and denial, “The Batman is dead, the Demon’s Daughter told me so herself.”

Drake steps forward, “She was wrong. He came back-“

Damian rolls his eyes, “Clearly Mother must have told you. Do not be stupid.”

Danyal’s brow furrows, silently mouthing the word ‘mother’ beneath his breath.

“I don’t-“ He cuts himself off with a grimace, hands tightening on the shaft of the sword, “I don’t believe you, what-“

“What happened? Did we bring back the demon spawn, why are you all-“ Brown bursts into the room, words already filling the air. Only to stop when she sees Danyal.

He raises the sword at them again, noticeably less stable as he supports it with two hands, “Who are you!? Why am I here!? Tell me-“ He grunts again, putting a hand to his chest, “Tell me, now! I-“ the sword drops, Danyal using it to support himself like a cane. Father steps forward, hands extended. It only serves to make Danyal lift his head to glare at him.

“Stay back-“

“We’re only trying to help-“

“I said-“ Danyal grunts, hand clenching at his shirt as he drops to his knees, “Stay- Stay back- I’m-“

The sword falls from his hands with a metallic clatter on the stony ground, Danyal gasping for breath.

“Back- off..” He whispers, the English falling from his lips with desperation as he curls in on himself.

Father rushes forward the moment Danyal’s body goes limp, lifting him onto the medical bed as the room bursts into motion. Richard is grabbing medical equipment as Drake helps father with providing CPR as Brown moves to get Alfred, all of them quick to jump to action.

Damian slowly steps forward, picking up his abandoned sword from the floor.

He turns it over in his hands, making sure it is unharmed from the ordeal even as he watches his family rush to help each other.

Just what had Grandfather been doing to Danyal?

#the way I literally was just going towards that last scene #and just had to get there #this got so obscenely long but I love it #dpxdc #dp dc #Danny phantom crossover #league of assassins #Talia Al Ghul #Damian Al ghul #Danny Al ghul #Danyal Al ghul #Ra’s Al ghul #Batman

1K notes · View notes