acid-ixx

[acid-ixx]

fevered lips &. stolen breaths. pt 1. (yan! batfam headcanons x gn! reader)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

making out headcanons (nsfw: mdni) — ft. bruce wayne and dick grayson for this part. @neerathebrightstar pookie this is for u <3

ah, bruce wayne. lover boy, prince of the city, heart and charm of all of gotham. of all his princely titles, all his noble epithets, yet the only label he ever wants is to be considered the husband of you. despite his reputation of being a playboy billionaire with ample time in his hands spent flirting up and down with socialites and criminals galore, bruce can't deny that the sweetest taste he's ever had was his darling, his sweetheart.

and that's the taste he's simply addicted to, a taste he can never let go.

so much so to the point where he couldn't go a day without the sensation of your lips pressing against his pining ones.

when he kisses, he does so with a purpose. to prove a point, to show the world that every time your faces pop up on the big screens or right in front of the paparazzi's flashing cameras; he'll slot his lips against yours, kiss you passionately, feverishly, until your tongues clash and he's drunkenly engulfing your spit, until his lungs constrict, begging for air, whilst his hands are plastered on your head, a calculated move to keep you in your spot until he's satisfied, satisfied that the world knows his sole dedication for you— how he's settled down, satisfied, that he'd given up the title of playboy philanthropist, now pridefully the loving husband of his spouse, and nothing more will ever replace the joy of having you right beside him in every passing moment.

even in bed, alone, where there's no pair of eyes watching you both, except for bruce's gleaming, willfully amorous ones— his smallest of pecks on your lips, or even the filthiest exchange of saliva, all those are done because he wants to send you a message, too. you're his, he's yours. you're the stability in his life, the only constant, the only person he wants to see in your shared bed all debauched and lost in the haze of pleasure.

the only thing he's proud of in his fucked up roster is his experience. you ask him what that mouth of his can do and he'll answer, in that seductive vibrato of his, "what can it not?" and he'll fucking tackle you in bed, pin you down and barely give you the time or space to comprehend just how easily he'd unclothed you, hands expertly kneading every part of your sore body. his mouth is practiced, it knows every known route that makes you laugh breathily, or gets you to release a small whine. he maps out every future hickey, all in place the public could see; and after he's done staining you with sinful kisses, you'll be suddenly brought atop his awaiting body, the man insisting that you do the same, mark him more than he does you, play with his sensitive nipples, just please touch him the same way he does you— and that's one of the few times you see him subconsciously beg for your attention.

every burning kiss, every warm breath hitting the tip of your nose, every peckish nip on your skin, every moment where he takes your arms in his and tempts you, with stormy blue eyes as vast as the seas, to let him devour every part of you— he does to make up all the lost time from before he met you. before he had made you all his. his thighs are locked against your waist, chiseled arms would be taut just carrying his weight ensuring you don't get crushed by his heavy body (heavy with desire, heavy with need to melt into you, to feel every part of you long untouched).

bruce is never one to articulate, but you know damn well that when his fingers would toy with the hem of your underwear whilst he's still busy buttering you up through his open-mouthed kisses, that that's the time he's pleading without words, massaging your hips and your thighs like he's telling you through his actions that he needs this, needs the taste of you more than you need him. and you should let him, let him eat you out, let him suck you up, let him leave traces of himself on you until you wouldn't know which part of you isn't yours anymore.

because when bruce does something, he does it with a purpose, a meaning, a calculated deed that tells you, in all the shame he's felt knowing he can't give you a lot of his first's, you should at least know you'll be his last.

— no matter how willing you are to reciprocate that matter.

there's nothing more passionate, and desperate, and heated, and devouring as there is a man like dick grayson. whose kisses are nothing but deep fervour for your soul, a hungered man in war, with nothing left to lose, nothing left to embrace in his arms except for you; whose only needs are the sensation of your lips on his, tongue would clashing with yours in a sloppy, saliva-induced mess like it's the only meal he ever craves.

for you, he's naught but a man drowning in deep desire, moaning just a little bit deeper when you nip at his bruised lips, hands tangling itself tighter when your fingers would circle around his swollen pecs, tears escaping his reddened eyes, whines are the only noises his hoarse throat could produce when your lips separate with his, when all he could see is through his blurry eyes is the string of saliva connecting you both— to which he's only wail louder when your lips aren't on his after a mere millisecond without it.

everyone thinks he's the man who leads, a man the mere personification of a guiding hand in the midst of darkness, which is objective, no less true, in the eyes of the crowd— except when he's with you, in the comfort of your bed, your body pressed right against him, hands pinning him down, thighs pressing deep on his crotch, dick would crumble, until no words would leave his aching tongue; aching to be satiated with the taste of your salty sweat on sullen skin, aching to be nothing, just nothing – not a leader, not a hero – just a man reduced to nothing but his body submitting on the bed's dirty sheets.

when he's with you, he lets himself be commanded, be guided on the steps you wish to take. his teeth will clash with yours in sickened ardor, yes, but when you're not satisfied with the way he kisses you, when you think he doesn't deserve to be pampered with your hickeys on his skin, when he's been a bad boy in public, too possessive, too engulfed in his jealousy that he forgets how iron-like his grip on your shoulder is, and you're mad at him: you can rightfully punish him, deprive him of your affection, of your attention and your love and your sweet, sweet kisses, and dick would fall apart into pieces— he'll do anything to have you back into his touch, he'll fucking change, he says, he'll bite his lips, bite his tongue, and accept any pain you induce on his, but don't you dare deprave him of what he wants, what he needs—

which is the taste of tongue, and your teeth, and your nose mushing on him, the feel of your body rightfully slotted in his arms.

so if you even fucking try to separate yourself from him, dick would break.

all his obsession, his deep-seated fantasies are translated in the way his body would feel like it's fusing with yours whenever he kisses you. he's messy, but adept. desperate, but determined to prove a point— that you're his and he's yours and nobody can come in between you two. you don't like it when his tongue touches the roof of your mouth? he'll adjust, he'll change his technique, he'll resort to kissing the crook of your neck instead, or kneading your thighs, or even just let you watch him fuck the mattress instead like a damn dog if it entertains you, if it makes you laugh and reward him with just a kiss on his forehead, anything; ignore the way he becomes more desperate when you give him a lack of reaction, or show any part of dissatisfaction— dick is a man depraved.

dick is a man starved.

and all the man needs to satiate himself is the taste of you.

[acid-ixx]

Hi acid! Just checking in on you—are you okay? I was wondering if you’re currently on hiatus and if you’re still working on the new chapter of Again & Again, or if you’re focusing on other works right now. If so, take your time and no pressure at all. I have to admit, I can’t wait for the next parts—especially Again & Again since the last chapter ended off with such a scrumptious ending that makes me want to find out more. Also, If you happen to know when the next chapter might be out, I’d love to hear, but no rush at all! Please take care and have a good day / good night!

hii !! yes i am okay, just had my finals and had to deal w/ some scandals within my school ☠️ so worry not at all, since i will be posting chapter 6 no matter what it takes. i really just don't have the time to do so since editing in the app itself is the hardest and longest part (i edit with my phone, my laptop is broken) and the app glitches a lot, most of the time delete my drafts so i couldn't even edit without fear of losing my progress. hell, editing chapter 5 took over 4 hours 😭 so there's that. but again, if i can sneak in some free time in my hectic life, i will eventually post it alongside all the million other drafts i have that i accumulated as a gift for everyone's patience 🐭

[acid-ixx]

what if i just post headcanons about sloppy makeout sessions with the batfam or literally any dc characters cause i wanna write something filthy but also bec i yearn for yearner characters

(and yes, i'm somehow alive. my indefinite hiatus was caused by me having to review for finals ahah)

[acid-ixx]

Ya know, the lil drabble thing you did of reader being so inherently kind and doting like Martha Wayne to Bruce whenever he was injured makes me wonder if that means it was the same with the other bats, it makes me wonder if Damian would see this blood older sibling of theirs and mistake their love for cowardice at first, the image of this child soldier meeting a grown child who sees him as the child he is and chooses to adore him all the same, to teach him, so opposite to him yet so similar

for the better, for the worse. (platonic soft yandere damian wayne x gn neglected reader)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; related post ! ; discord server !

it's very integral to the plot (in the series) for me where there will always be at least one or two defining scenes which portray what your relationship with the family is. and for damian, to be treated gently could've only been exclusive to his mother, his grandfather, sometimes bruce at the earliest stage of their relationship, then it slowly shifts to dick, where he's closest to the eldest than he is to anyone else, finding him to be a beacon of light in all his gloomy days.

damian isn't used to affection, to being softly patted down, to gentle words uttered to him after every bruise inflicted upon his developing, scarred body, to lingering touches, to warmth. no, he's more familiar with the sounds of unsheathed swords, of clammering metal hitting each other, of the scent of freshly open wounds and the bathe of the cold night on his cloaked body.

damian wayne is not weak.

never in his life will he ever present himself lower than all the scum he's raised his sword at.

— but with them, with his mother most especially, he's aware of her maternal touch, at how, despite all the grueling training, the unsung trauma he's faced from when he was all but a mere babe, she done everything she could to train him under harsh environments. his pain was her pain, she did all she could to keep him alive amonst assassins ready to draw blood. with bruce, his determined father who helped sway him to the right path. to dick, who ever-so imminently had goodness injected into his very vains. his family, the people he's spent his time, he could at least admit that without them, he might've stirred himself into the wrong fate.

and in all those kind moments, there lays a pattern: they are considered family to him, the people dearest to his heart, beyond surface level labels. to him, they helped shape the compassion in his heart.

to him, you are nothing less than dirt.

at least, that was what his first impression of you is. a stain to the wayne legacy, an obstacle to eliminate, a competition where he's already announced the winner the moment he's stepped into the manor. all eyes were on him, none were on pathetic, little you. all his first thoughts of you were nothing short of negative, filled with misdirected hatred, with jealousy whose origins he couldn't pinpoint.

and i think that in your softness, in your gentle touches, he'll all but interpret mockery instead, cowardice, prey who thinks that just because they lower their head at the monstrosities before them, they wouldn't be devoured at all.

he hates you (he envies your vulnerability), he thinks you think him weak. you see him smaller than you, huh? you see him weaker because he's shorter, he's different in your eyes, that's why you don't find him intimidating when he's raised to be, do you not? you portray him in a different light, give him those damn confectionery as a gift; as if that would change him, as if he'd allow the blooming fondness in his chest to fester longer than it should have been.

that is scum behavior, that is unacceptable, you undeservingly label yourself a sibling to him, when you're all but a mere bastard through and through.

he wouldn't even let your touch stain his already scarred body, even if that meant the hollowness that comes after, the envy he harbors towards every petal your fingers graze, at the closeness between you and that todd who visits the manor nightly, at even the sunlight kissing your gentle fingers— fingers he wished would hold him as gently as it did when he found you in the same room as duke thomas, nursing the injured boy back to health—

no, he will never allow himself to be vulnerable towards you, towards someone who remotely reminded him of his own mother. even if he so badly desired, even if it cost him his own life.

no.

that was what he thought of at first, until he's older now, until he's realized the faults in his actions, the damning realization that you're now truly out of reach. from the family, from him.

and now that he's matured, enough to realize the weight of his words, the hurt in his actions deeply ingrained in your bones, a part of him didn't.

and it's that long standing, festering desire to be held by you still. by his older sibling. that lump in his throat that'll never recede, knowing he's pushed you away to the point of no return. there, he realizes, that you've treated everyone but him. at their lowest, when the loss of blood was too much, when their heads were too lightheaded to remember the shoulders which carried all their weight and brought them comfort when they couldn't even keep their eyes open anymore.

you've done it all to them, but to him, you've kept your distance.

and to him, he doesn't know what to feel.

the refusal at this present moment, at the way your gaze towards his is different amongst the others. you're unafraid of showing deserved disdain towards other family members, you allow yourself to be spiteful towards grayson, snarky to todd, domineering, sometimes demanding (he sees himself in your angered gaze, at your sharp words, it hurts when he does) when you want to be— but to him, you're nothing but silent, a held breath, a rigid stance, fearful gaze.

even when he apologizes, over and over again. even when he hunches his back to say, without words, that he's vulnerable for you; even if he leans down against your stiff shoulder, tries to cuddle you during dinner— all he's met with are tears, palms pushing him back, pushing him away, unwillingness to be yourself anymore, to love him unconditionally like you did in the past, once upon a time.

the knowledge that there was once a time, once a time where he could've been different, could've treated you different.

if he hadn't presented himself with fangs and sliced your throat nearly enough at the first meeting, if he hadn't threatened you every day, hadn't glared at you with fiery malice— the outcome would've been different. even a feisty jason after his resurrection, he heard, was not that violent towards you. he'd at least spared you the slightest of mercy, and that alone was enough for the second eldest to deserve even the faintest of smile from you.

but for damian? nothing.

nothing but the painful truth.

the closest you've ever been with him, the closest you'll ever be was all those years ago, when you'd find him passed out after a grueling mission, held him unconscious, treated his fresh wounds and his battered up eyes. in his dreams, he felt warmth, he felt comfort, he felt you.

he felt a gentle touch like no other. distant, but it was there, right in front of him. untouchable now, but he dreams of that moment, where in his injured, immobile state, he couldn't fight you back, he couldn't pin you down. you were there, gauze in hand, a palm on his wet cheeks the other. you made a joke you knew he'd retaliate to if he had half a mind to comprehend what you said, you whispered words of comfort, you were naught but his sibling that night.

doing what you do best, which to him, was your worst.

because when he awoke during midday, when he discovered through alfred that it was you who stitched him back to place, he truly did retaliate instead. he hurt you right after, he terrorized your bedroom, threatened to break off your fingers if you dare touch him anymore right after. your act of kindess, again, to him, was just an act of mockery, a jab at his inability to defend himself from a stronger villain—

yet he didn't know, in your eyes, he was the villain. because all that mattered was to prove a point to you, that you're nothing, nothing without the family, nothing without him. all that mattered was to trample you until you're nothing but dust.

he's treated you like one, a mere inconvenience, something so insignificant, easily swept away by the greater winds.

all because he couldn't understand your kindness, your love for him which he so easily decimated. and now, now that he's fully ruined you, he's realized that it was always the opposite.

he's nothing without his blood sibling. nothing without your gentle touch and your kind words. he could've at least produced your vile hatred, he wished you were brave enough to speak a word to him like you do with the others.

because he's changed for the better, you've changed for the worse.

you look at him with dull eyes, only speak with a few words. the happiest you've been was when you're without. without them, without him. and he's back to the little kid he was: jealous of it all, of the winds kissing your skin, of the sunlight beaming upon the crown of your hair, the petals landing on the tip of your nose.

jealous of the things which deserve your presence.

because he knows, deep down, he doesn't.

now he could never feel your loving touch at all, now he could never see his older sibling's precious smile anymore.

and he wishes, in all his terrible moments, that he wasn't such a coward. that, maybe, if he wasn't so afraid of that vulnerability towards you, your laughs which ring out the gardens could've been directed towards him. maybe your tears wouldn't have to be swept away when you notice him nearby, and you'd be left an empty husk in front of him after.

if he wasn't so afraid. of being weak to you, of being true to himself, then what could've bloomed between you two was all he desired when he was all but a mere babe. that unconditional love, that unrestricted warmth that came with your arms.

what he had before, that he could never have now.

not now, not anymore.

[acid-ixx]

in your arms i succumb. (sub! romantic yandere jason todd x gn! reader thought)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

i'm sorry guys, but i can't for the life of me write for a dominant jason todd when i know this man would GROVEL on his knees, i just know that one of the most notable traits he got from bruce is the tendency to MELT into the arms of his darling sweetheart, no hesitation, nothing but him immediately burying his head on the crook of your neck, the heat of his breath a warmth you're accustomed to. you can just simply cup your palms onto his face and his cheeks will puff up, he'll glare at you softly, but his hands are on your wrists, PINNING IT IN PLACE so you wouldn't let go. additionally, if you're on the couch, on top of him, bodies interlocked, chest pressed against each other to the point it's like both your heartbeats are in sync.

i just know you'll hear the smallest whimpers from him whenever you gently press kisses on the scars across his face, and his meaty legs will clamp on to your waist while he's busy releasing breathy moans... i just know it... i know his neck will be all perspired, wet with a sheen of his sweat and the glisten of your saliva atop purplish hickeys, his adam's apple bobbing as he gulps the moment your lips make way for the tip of his ears.

and i swear in all my heart that he's sensitive there...

no, he is not the first to initiate affection. no, he can't find himself be as openly, as physically close to you— but goddamn, behind closed doors, when the only audience to your nightly endeavor are the twinkling stars and the drunken haze of the moon, he's a fucking wreck. it doesn't matter if he's physically stronger than you or not. it doesn't matter if you're taller, or shorter, or if you're a goddamn metahuman with powers which could easily decimate him— he will fucking bite his lips and pant like a pathetic dog at your smallest actions (taking out the trash, cutting up vegetables for dinner, hell, even just yawning in a particular way)— it'll have him wait impatiently for you to notice how hard he's gripping the kitchen counter, knuckles turning white, eyes all diluted, staring profusely at the sweat on your forehead, at your focused stare on whatever it is you're doing.

no, he's not very vocal about his wants and needs in his partner (he still struggles with that part in your relationship, voicing out what he truly wants without scathing sarcasm at himself) and if he is, he does it in a joking, dismissive way— but you know just how easily he'd fold the moment you'd invite him to come sit at your lap and bury his face on your neck. maybe you'll mutter soft praises into his ears, telling him how good he's been for the past few days, no news of his violence being broadcasted in the tv, yet; and that you'll reward him, you'll pepper him in the sweetest kissed and let your fingers linger on his reddened skin, which'll get him so riled up, so desperate that he whimpers at all your promises, looking up at you, mouth agape, hearts gleaming in his eyes like you hung up the stars—

or you can tell him that he's been bad, that you're fucking disappointed in him, and you can laugh that snarky laugh of yours that he adores: the one with that snark infused into your voice; your gentle fingers can suddenly pull at his scalp until he's wincing, or your fingers can hover over his airway until you're almost pressing deeply,, threatening to cut his air supply off. you can punish him by leaning away when your lips are about to touch his bitten ones (and he's in near tears because he wants to kiss you so badly), you can even fucking slap him, then pinch his quivering cheeks in between your pointers and thumb, and he'll still find a way to whine when he's noticed you're still holding back on your punishments. his hands will guide your own to wrap around his neck, to treat him like some scum, to take away his thoughts and his doubts; succumb to the pain and pleasure induced by your heavenly fingers.

yeah, jason todd is a silent yearner. a deviant little shit who will stumble drunkenly into your apartment: not high on alcohol, but on the fantasies of how you'd react, how you'd punish him accordingly once you realize he's involved himself in another crime lord's schemes. now he's all bruised up and bleeding after a chase, but instead of wincing his way to your day, he's secretly all excited to feel you accidentally press against the purplish-yellow marks all over his skin when you're patching him up. he'll kiss his teeth at the sting, bite too hardly on his lips, but what comes after next is a tiny, little moan when your eyes look at him with that familiar, saultry gaze at what he knows await another night of your routinely discipline on him.

he hopes that you'll have him count more than 15 slaps this time...

tl;dr: i don't just want the red hood who's a fucking nightmare to any criminals who loiters the streets (or any threats who dare to threaten your safety: that's where he gets scary, when he becomes serious, all too willing to break a couple of bones 'til it's pulverized to near power, maybe even tear a bunch of teeth out. he's something else when he's the one domineering over everyone else), i also want the jason todd who can be all vulnerable, albeit hesitantly, to someone who knows the right buttons to press, the right words to say, that turns him into pudding.

who, for once, is the one to follow orders, who doesn't have to think for himself when he's at his lowest moments and needs the comfort of familiar arms. i want fics of him being a menace, yes, still being intimidating to anyone who threatens the safety of the gothamites, but i also want the whiplash of him only answering obediently to the calls of one person. a jason todd who doubts if he ever deserves the safety, the warmth of being in another person's arms, whose thoughts of these easily fades away the moment he's on his knees, head laying on your lap while your fingers detangle his hair and his hands kneads your thighs, knowing more than ever that his time with you is the only time he can ever fully be weak.

another note: credits to ciricearts (ily) for feeding us jason todd fanart; bec of u i thought of this on a whim. also, this applies to every member of the batfamily, but jason and bruce (more on the brattier side) especially. there's just this unspoken feeling about seeing typically strong people who momentarily reduce themselves into the smaller person (metaphorically), knowing they're safe in someone's arms.

[acid-ixx]

just a cute office crush, is all! (yandere! immature clark kent/superman x gn! colleague reader)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

speaking of the new superman movie, i'm thinking about how better it is to have an immature yandere clark kent/superman than to have him become obsessed with you once he's fully acclimated to the whole hero shlick. because i totally believe he'd be so awkward with his infatuation like the first time he realizes that, 'oh darn, how do i control my face all heating up because of their cute laugh. what do i do? what do i do— they're looking at me—?! THEY WAVED AT ME!?'

he'd immediately fly back to the kent's to ask for their advice, on how to properly talk to his cute coworker without becoming a stuttering mess, if giving you coffee (and he knows exactly how you like it brewed, don't ask him how he knows, alright?!) in the middle of your shift is appropriate behavior— how to stop himself from flying over your apartment after another day, cooing to himself, pretending to have a mediocrum of respect when he finds you stripping down your blazer, a hard blush plastered all over his heated up cheeks as he looks away at the smallest exposure of the skin of your stomach—

but it's just to check if you came home safely! he reasons to himself, even if he's aware it's a big fat lie. he can't help it, okay? he can't help it if his little office crush is slowly being developed into the need to check up on you every day, despite having barely talked to you, he's sure himself that you probably know how easily the tips of his ears become red and how his dimples become more pronounced when he sees you smiling and laughing around his vicinity— which is all the time.

and he doesn't know what to do! he doesn't know if it's normal to memorize every small detail of your body (from the number of your moles, the quirk of your lips, even the tiniest details like how after you yawn from typing out words, you'd immediately take a huge gulp of your preferred energy supplement like it's your power supply— he thinks it's cute and gosh! he's all flustered again because of you, ugh), he doesn't know if it's a normal human thing to fantasize about your fingers not-so-daintily squeezing his neck like you do your mug whenever you release a frustrated sigh at another pile of workload, your admirer wishing it was his (strong, mind you!) neck your palms are holding in a death grip—

but what he most certainly can agree on isn't normal is the unhealthy degree of him, in literally any location, using his microscopic vision, his ultra sensitive hearing, every sense of his, actually, to always hone in on you when he's not hovering above your body in the air, watching you intently. he's already memorized your heartbeat the moment his ears picked up on the sound of your shoes clacking against the office's tiles, he knows the exact same note the pitch of your laugh is. heck, he can even pick up the scent of your favorite perfume from amongt a thousand people— (it doesn't help the fact that he blitzed across every perfume store to check whatever bottle's scent matches yours, and he's splurge his entire paycheck on it, plus the future gifts he'll soon give you if he finally gained the courage and the balls to actually talk to you beyond the usual greetings).

and he doesn't know why! doesn't even know if other people reciprocate this enhanced sense of longing to always keep tabs on you. i mean, he's sure a lot of others also admire you from afar, but he can't deny the acute jealousy he secretly feels deep in his heart at the prospect of you in a date with someone else who's not him. clark has always felt alienated, and of course, he's afraid of admitting to these feelings out loud, so he's stuck in between confronting them or just letting it be (and watching you from afar, like always, even if the temptations are too strong sometimes. even if he wants to take you away, fly you both to the fortress of solitude where it's only the two of you together, forever living there... that sounds nice...)

yeah, he's had his fair share of sweethearts back in elementary and his following school years, yes he can't deny those awkward, fleeting moments, but nothing ever felt as electrifying as this, as when he finds heat crawling up his spine, sweet tingles erupting from his teeth, and diluted eyes staring fondly at you when you bark orders towards your other colleagues, thinking to himself, 'oh, how i'd love to bark for you too—'

ah, he probably whispered it under his breath instead, but he ignored jimmy olsen's slight tilt of his head, at his friend's obvious soliloquy geared at his also obvious crush on you. the photojournalist thinks it's just a silly thing the man would move on from, shrugging the whole thing away, but he's not aware of how clark, in all his dazed and fantastical imagination, is already dreaming of what it's like to actually feel your lips softly pressing kisses on his cheeks, and how he sighs, like a highschool girl in paradise, kicking her feet back and forth when he imagines you calling his dimples cute while your fingers rub his lovestruck face; ma kent said it's his defining feature, so it must've been true, right?

the only people to know of this crush - if you could even call it that - are his parents, truly. except they're too sweet, too naive as their advice for the infatuated journalist is to just softly, and slowly, they enunciated, court you with his natural kansas charm, glad that their normally timid son is growing a pair of courage and determination to combat his shyness on talking to you. they're immediately in on the plan of giving you gifts (from the heart), like an apple pie from his freshest produce here, baked by yours truly, ma kent, a basket of farm raised poultry eggs there picked meticulously by pa kent, maybe even a bouquet of wildflowers and some seasonal fruits for valentine's day arranged by the sweetheart, clark!

and every time the journalist flies home with a bubbly grin stretched far beyond his cheeks and his signature red tipped ears, his parents couldn't help but be proud when he's mentioned his courting was a success, unaware of how they've been unknowingly encouraging his obsession towards you, thinking that yes, he may sometimes be over the top with just how frequently he mentions you in every conversation, already speaking of plans about your future with him in the farm, or wherever you might please, a perfect fantasy with him providing you everything you ever want without you even needing to move a single limb— he can even be your sweet househusband, he knows a way or two in the kitchen, courtesy of how he was raised!

and his parents, truly, in all their heart and soul, believe that it's just clark finally finding his true love. how he copes with these unknown, buzzing feelings doesn't matter because he never actively made way to harm anybody who even dares hurt you— but even his villains are aware of how the superman is particular about the safety of one particular journalist in the daily planet, becoming just the slightest bit more aggressive when he spots you in danger, his contained anger seeping out the slightest when he sees you, someone so incredibly important to him, sport just a small nick from the rubbles. he's not murderous, oh no, he exhibits all the love for the entire world, that's a given—

but for you? the scale of his affection is broken, his mind's all haywired just even thinking about the very special day your fingers accidentally made contact with each other when he handed out that pie, and how he memorized the small crinkle of your eyes when you smiled at him, at him!

let's just say he hadn't had the smallest wink of sleep that night.

whatever happened with the same fingers that touched yours is his business alone—

so yeah, it's just a little office crush, featuring the cute, bumbling journalist, clark kent, and you, the oblivious, strict superior who loves to order your colleagues around.

a crush.

even if, in truth, it has always run far deeper than that.

a/n: i miss writing for small drabbles, i miss tumblr. not to vent but i just got into another massive fight with my mother so i released all my pent up stress into this fanfic instead and reminded myself of the happiness i felt after i watched superman so !! the movie was so impactful for me so if u guys see a sudden rise in superman content from me— uhm, you didn't! 😶🫢 again, please leave comments if u enjoyed, thank you!

[acid-ixx]

How would (forced) cuddling with dick look like?

I'm very curious pookie 😉

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

ohh, bae, he is a complete mess. dysfunctional, downright diabolical if he doesn't fill out his affection meter with you. although yes, i don't see him as stereotypically affectionate as he is portrayed (as in, immediate hugs towards people, even to mere acquaintances, but since you're a different case—), to be as physically close as he is to someone he absolutely 100% adores (you), you wouldn't even know what the concept of boundaries is anymore the moment he gets his grubby fingers on his precious darling (you).

and i mean he's completely attached to your hip. always watching, always a finger magnetized on your body. a hand wrapped around your shoulder whenever you two walk, maybe his pinky finger attached to yours, even during dinner he's completely insistent that you be seated right next to him, hands always ruffling your hair, slowly shifting your own chair so that you're almost always facing him. he always insists that you be right next to him at any moment when needed.

(or else he crashes out, nobody wants to see him crash out, at least not anymore. bruce suffered the most the moment he merely confronted the boy that your room doesn't need to be as close to his and how you also need to spend time with the others— he's greedy for your love).

so how would cuddling with dick be like? he's not as huge as jason to be described akin to a teddy bear, but god does he feel more like a searing anvil pinning you down on the sofa once he feels another particular wave of cuteness aggression from the moments you push him away with a heated glare. i'm talking head buried deep on your shoulders, muscled legs locked tightly around you, hands stamped right on your back as he lazily mutters about his day, about how happy he is with that stupidly dazed grin of his, that he finally fucking got to talk with you properly, like he isn't busy breaking his posture to fully engulf you with his body whilst crushing your own bones under him.

he's warm, yes, and he's almost like a weighted blanket, but he's a fucking mess, desperate to feel your skin nearly melting with his. some days, it feels like you're sharing the same breath. some days, it feels like you don't ever go a day without him anymore, even though he returns back to bludhaven to finish his heroic duties, he's still always somehow finding a way to call you— even spiritually he's always there, like an affectionate palm plastered on the crook of your shoulders. like he's overcompensating for the lack his presence for years, he's everywhere. nowadays, you couldn't even spend a peaceful moment by yourself because it's like he's imprinted his entire touch on you. you couldn't even sleep without feeling his ghostly fingers gently grazing your cheeks and his familiar voice whispering assurances to you that you'll never feel lonely anymore.

and everyone, even strangers, know it— how substantial dick's presence is.

because even after days without him suffocating you with his cuddles, it's like you could still feel his lips pressing kisses on the crown of your head and his fingers rubbing circles on the expanse of your back.

[acid-ixx]

clark kent vs. bruce wayne: their love language (a loving family, and unpalatable desire incorrect quotes)

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

*your feet finally touches the ground, clark is holding you tight around your waist as he sets you down after an hourly session where he flies you around as superman and helps you pick flowers from all around the parks*

clark, taking your bouquet full of wildflowers, gently patting your hair down and dusting off your top: *kisses you softly on the lips* mm, another day spent wonderfully with you... how do you feel, sweetheart?

you, leaning in to reciprocate with an even longer kiss as you feel your heart race, face lit up with joy, a cheesy smile on your cheeks: oh, love, it couldn't have been better without you. thank you so much for always helping me destress, i love you <3

clark, even more in love, whispering under his breath, leaning in to give you a second kiss, never once breaking off eye contact with you: god, i love you too. anything for you, sweetie.

*cue another hot, steamy makeout session*

*alone, inside of your room, you stand flabbergasted, disgusted, tired, coming home (sadly) to the manor after your cute date with clark*

you, looking at the array of boxes filled with gifts on your bed you definitely did not remotely remember even wanting in the first place, plus the small, mysterious black box sitting gingerly atop the gargantuan pile:

you, slowly turning back at the beeping, red cameras secretly placed on the corners of your room, knowing damn well there's your old ring inside of it:

*bruce, watching your reaction intently on his 4k ultra high definition monitors inside the batcave, quickly zooming in on your face, his own solid in place, heart in a race*

you: *shakes your head in disappointment while still staring at the cameras* this doesn't erase all those empty years of marriage, wayne.

bruce: *turns on the microphone connected to it, coughing into his mouth before continuing* i know, sweetie, but the kids miss you, i miss you. come back to us, please?

your face to the cameras after hearing that endearing nickname only clark is allowed to call you:

[acid-ixx]

hi y'all, a lot has happened in my life 😶 (acads and medical issues) but i miss this app 💔 haven't opened it in so long so here i am again !! <333 i'm gonna *try* to answer asks right now in my (rare) spare time

[acid-ixx]

blind to the love which gently grazed you. (again &. again drabble)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

writing for how the reader confronts alfred about how they knew from the start of bruce's identity as batman has got to be my breaking point, because they genuinely, undeniably believed that that must be the reason why he never seems to have time for them, why he's always busy; busy mourning for you dead brother jason, busy saving the city—

busy saving the world.

too busy to even notice his own child.

all those years, living in delusive naivety, they only realized how imperceptible their presence was until it was far too late.

and yet they still chose to be kind, still.

in a world full of darkness, in a city fueled by imposing cruelty, his child wasn't the light that bruce sees at the end of a tunnel, but they were the flecks of sunshine spilling through the splitting fissures of the solitary cave the dark knight secludes himself in.

something to give you hope for, but something you barely perceive.

unless you look hard enough at the cracks to see just how that dim glow makes your life a little bit brighter.

— they always accompany alfred in his task to help fix bruce up after every grueling patrol.

not just because they were used to treating their own mother, but because, in the mind of this hopeful five year old, was a love so deeply instilled for their distant father, for a family that they've only seen through television interviews and news headlines.

so whenever bruce gets sick, or injured, concussed, maybe dislocated some joints; where he suffers through physical turmoil beyond the point where he wouldn't remember what had happened the prior day— somehow, this little kid is always on standby, learning how to wrap gauze onto his bleeding sides, watching alfred demonstrate the proper ways to disinfect bleeding cuts on a barely conscious bruce.

they'd listen profusely at alfred's unofficial lessons, always on alert at whenever bruce breaths too sharply, squeezing his palms for when he nearly dozes off, sitting by his side, sometimes resting their forehead against his perspiring ones whenever alfred has to stitch up any cuts, just to comfort him, even if by just a little.

and day by day, week by week, until months stretched past years, they slowly gain the confidence to fully hold bruce, to hug him faintly in his bed when they feel afraid, when he's unconscious and barely breathing, when they fear they'll lose their only father.

bruce, in turn, came to acclimate to this gentleness.

because instead of the familiar, aged wrinkles of alfred's hands patching him up, bruce would then feel smaller palms gently cupping his warm face after the butler ruled out another fever, even if he was close-eyed, to the brink of nearly passing out, there would be a delicate graze buzzing warmth on his bruised skin. unprofessional, unlike alfred, but curious fingers would apply ointment to treat his burns, inexperienced hands would relieve the ache in his shoulder—

he was treated with a gentleness which reminds him of how his mother used to run her fingers through his unruly hair. when she'd cup his face and pinch his cheeks playfully, kissing the crown of his head, softly, slowly, gently.

lost in the passage of time.

a gentleness he's forgotten after the grueling years of her death, a gentleness his own forgotten child inherited from his late mother.

a tender touch he's long forgotten.

somehow, bruce has come to like this foreign touch.

somehow, bruce, in all his due diligence, his skills and talents, would never notice this forgotten kindness, for maybe he's deluded himself once more, that the gentle hands which held him were his mother's and not his own spawn; because he'll never believe for there to be a time that a child of his — of him, who's oh-so undeniably broken, so incredibly flawed — can be as gentle as the warm arms which used to circle around his once tiny body.

somehow, bruce finds himself comforted in these small moments.

after he'd lost jason, after dick moved out, lived a life of his own, after everything the world throws at him, pain, loss, grief— in his moments of sickness, in times where his body is falling apart, when all he wants to do is close his eyes and see his parents in his dreams, to find his mother waiting longingly for him at the other side with open arms and her kind smile, he could at least be vulnerable at the familiar graze of this kind stranger.

somehow, bruce never realized this unknowing affection for a love he's never seen.

and somehow, this tradition of this little kid helping their family members — through treating their physical injuries, comforting them when they're on the verge of losing their breath, or sometimes even just listening to their woes — lives on until they realize how there will never be somebody as close to them as they were one-sidedly close to everyone else.

a kind ghost stalking through the halls, a friend who listens to everyone, but never having someone to return that kindness.

and i think about that a lot.

a reader who isn't a textbook definition of a hero within their family, but in more ways than one, their compassion to care for the sick — despite being hurt themself, despite never having anyone else to treat their bleeding heart, despite the fact that they've never been held so close, never been seen for way longer than a minute — someone who cares ultimate for bruce, not just because he was a father, their father in their eyes, but because they also cared for the batman.

because, despite it all, they're still their father's child.

and bruce wayne, no matter how ruined his image may be in their eyes, no matter the fact that he's never seen them, spent time with them beyond the moments where he's sick and needed comfort, when he acts like the little boy who had knelt and cried over his parents' cold corpses— was just a man who loved gotham too much he couldn't love you.

and you are your father's child, you love too much, too, to even love yourself.

a selflessness so innately instilled into you, (name) wayne. a compassion, a profound sense of tenderness you inherited not just from your own father but his late parents too. care for the sick, care for the pained, care but not for yourself.

and i think about it too much.

the flawed similarities between you and bruce. how, just like two magnets, the same sides would always repel. how in a game of twisted fate, the closest you'll ever be with your father is when he's never seen you, when he's too broken from a fight, too tired to even open his eyes and see.

see how it's always you who looks at him, how you once looked up to him. see himself in your eyes, see his greatest failure as bruce wayne, and realize just how much of your youth he's lost.

how much you reflected the more tender parts of him — the parts of him he's hidden, a part of him which long since felt foreign, like you — how much you reflected his mother, too.

but he never did, for the closest he'll ever be to his first, biological kin— is when he's blind to the hands which gently graze his skin.

a/n: just a little drabble i wrote in less than 30 minutes. i apologize for the delays in writing, i'm going through so much mental issues, so much projects, so much of everything in such a short period of time. for those in my discord server, they're probably aware. anyways, late happy father's day. otherwise, take this little dissection i have of bruce and his child, based off of my own experience with my father who was also 99% absent in my life. i wanted to give the reader more dimension and not just define them as just "neglected", so i explored some dynamics too.

as much as i like nonchalant, maybe asshole-like readers. i also like characters with so much compassion, not in a self serving way but something that's just naturally them. someone who's angry, traumatized, yes, but once they were kind, they were gentle. it makes it worse for the batfam to have a reader who was once a ball of joy.

[acid-ixx]

you are the only exception. (yandere! damian wayne x gn! reader drabble)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

tw: implied s/h, bullying, and self-esteem problems.

ngl i'm thinking of damian — who's well past his childish tantrums and haughty behavior, once a child who has bloomed into a fully mature individual who can hold back his irritation towards his blockmates, courtesy of being raised dutifully by his family — paired with a pick-me reader who's the complete opposite, one so insufferable to everyone, to every professor, to the people who sit beside them, but most especially him.

you who loves to run your mouth off, talking in woes and poor attempts at prose to earn sympathy point: at how nobody ever likes you at all, how your friends are all unsupportive trash, how nobody ever chooses you as a group mate for class projects — not because you were some loner, no, your loud, grating mouth guarantees it could be heard from beyond the four walls encasing the suffering class; you were just lazy, cynical, someone who depends on others to achieve your goals yet somehow, some way, you'd end up with passing gpa — and when your professors would beg for anybody else to just pair up with you, while you sulk some corner and throw out some more venomous words to everyone else; it's oddly damian who has to stand up and just take one for the team, no matter how much he wants to shove a piece of paper down your throat to shut you up, no matter how much he sees his old self in you but denies it at every accusation.

at first, he actively despises you, because you're every bit of a liability under his responsibility whenever you're grouped with him.

and worse yet, he's the only guy around who can ridicule you without any sympathy for how you may have felt at the moment when he's degrading your poor attempt at your part for a project, he's the only one who can match up with your heartless statements, reduce your arguments with an equally unyielding drive to back you up to a corner when you realized he's the only one who wouldn't fold to you in defeat, when he wouldn't take your excuses at being late or absent to another group meeting. people around him praise him for how he handles the situation, somehow, even his professors, who'll greet him by the hallways, happy, smiles reaching past their ears, like the boy's a miracle granted by the world, and thank him for another job well done.

but he's also the same guy who breaks past your shell of false pretenses, who sees a misdirected sense of self-hatred in your widened eyes when he brings up another point to bring you down. who, as much as he pretends to hate you, hates it worse when you run off and past the double doors whilst the people in the background would emerge in celebration at another one of damian's win in your losing arguments; the boy could only drown out their pats in his back and invitation to treat him to lunch, he could only focus in the way your eyebags have been progressively worse, in the way bruises would appear more and more on your once, pristine skin, and how you'd just about avoid everyone else now— fear, he knows that emotion like he does the back of his hand, an undeniable weight swimming in your eyes when his "group of friends" would throw mockery in your way.

he's ultimately the only one to track you down afterwards.

actually, he's the only one who ever searches for you.

and then he finds you sobbing — without your normal bravado, without your fabricated, laid-back smiles — by an unlocked restroom. your cries were loud enough that you don't even flinch back at the sound of the stall's door opening, whilst he sees you emptying the contents of your empty stomach, witnesses you cry, and cry, and cry, unaware of his existence from behind you, as you beat at your heart endlessly, cry some more, scrape your bleeding knees against the tiled floors while he watches in utter dismay.

you mumble incoherently, in silent stutters through bitten, skin-peeled lips, yet somehow his sharp ears hear it.

— or maybe he's trained himself to always be the one who hears your voice, who recognizes it from a far distance when the people in your vicinity would groan at the sound of it; who knows its vibrato, its little quirks, how it wavers and how it quivers, all memorized by heart and by mind—

and he says it's part of what being born and raised as an assassin would do to you, but he's integrated into a seemingly normal life during the daylight, he knows when to block out people's voices, knows when to mind his business and knows when to carefully stay silent to analyze the surroundings like what a vigilante could do— and you're not villain, you're just a nobody to everybody, especially to damian, especially to him.

so it's strange, truly, how he knows you better than any person would, knows you better to the point where he knows your cries weren't a product of crocodile tears, to know that his words, how he called you "useless, a classless waste of air, pollution in the minds of like-minded, actually intelligent individuals," in a class of over thirty students, where all eyes are plastered on you; they did more than hurt you, they did more than just stinging your already crumbling persona— broke your rotting confidence, sliced it in half, sliced your heart in half at how everybody else laughed, agreed with his sentiments all mustered in a momentary whim.

even damian knows he doesn't mean those words, yet he also knows that everyone's perception of you is what he's stated— he knows the damage he's done.

he knows the sound of your heartbreak, feels the same pit of doom trembling in his heart as he watches you, watches your fingers dig deep into your battered skin, the high pitched scream rattling far beyond your parched throat.

and you are his business, you are his responsibility, even if you weren't, even if it wasn't his business to look after you after he's said all those cruel, degrading words.

he hears your legitimate woes: your undeniable self hatred, how it's your fault that everyone really does hate you, and it's your fault, it's your fault— that the only friend you could consider to be yours, that him, damian wayne, the same person who'd put you down, broke you with the simple truth, to the point where everyone else thought it as an invitation to destroy you even further; you hate yourself for leading him to hating you.

the only guy who's willing to share a desk with you, who listens to another wave of your superficial rambling, who sat beside you on the cafeteria table when you're all alone because all your old friends have cut you out of their lives, told you you were too draining, too attention seeking, too fucking annoying to be with and you know you are— and yet damian somehow managed to conceal his bubbling irritation at yet another one of your statements, talking about how, "people just can't get me, dami. they just can't."

and he listens, he listens because he's the only one who could, whose patience never wavers amidst your terrible display of affection; when your laughs sounded like crackling fire, which only burns brighter and warmer, when you'd slap his shoulders way too hard at another unfunny joke of yours, when you belittle your ex-friends because they can't handle your true self, or whatever you call it.

he does it with an air of coolness, until he couldn't anymore.

he slammed his fists on the plastic desk, and told you to shut up, insulted you, spewed venom towards you in front of everybody else after days, stretching past weeks 'til he couldn't handle the months of being forced to hear you rambling about yourself during a lecture, always yourself, that he loses it.

heartless as it is, you know his words were true.

you know you're hated by everybody, why else would damian be the exception to that hatred for an individual so unwanted like you?

it's shameful of you, it's terrible of you. you're a waste of space, a waste of air, a waste of life that you scream: about wanting to die, about wishing you were never born in the first place because everyone hates you.

damian, whom you thought made you an exception, hates you.

he hates you, he hates you so, so much and he admits to only tolerating you, everyone only tolerates you.

and he hates you.

— he doesn't.

it doesn't take much for him to drag you out of that stall, pin you down on the floor when he sees a blade on your dominant hand, inches away from drawing out blood from your wrist, from landing on a vein and slicing mercilessly like your life doesn't matter.

— like you don't matter to him.

it doesn't take much to shove that piece of metal away and onto another empty stall, far away from your reach, as he finds himself heaving on top of you, his arms pinning down your wrists to stop you from hurting yourself, legs locked on your waist to ground you even further, as he finds unfamiliar panic rise in his throat at— at that.

at your disregard for your life, at how he could've been the reason he's lost you.

when he returns to his senses, when he sees your disbelief on your poor, sunken eyes, hollowed, tear-stricken cheeks. when your attempts at kicking him, at the muscles on his thighs wouldn't do you any good, you're forced to return his heartbroken gaze towards you, forced to feel every shiver racking from his body.

how his fingertips would press deeper on your wrists, how he gulps in a patterned succession, how you never really see someone like damian be so utterly wrecked, even more-so than you that another tear escapes your waterline, your eyes closing in resignation, ignoring the way his head has slowly been lowering itself to you.

until the tip of his nose touches yours, nuzzles against it even, until you open your eyes and find his face so intimately close with yours, his warm breath hitting your skin clashing with the cold feel of the clean tiles. you can see every imperfection littering his skin: the split on his lips, the slit at his brows, those brilliant eyes greener than emeralds; wide, imposing, looking at you and only you.

"wh—!"

"don't you even dare do that again, (name)."

his right hand releases its harsh grip on your wrist, making way to cup your face whilst his face only moves closer, so close you could almost feel his disheveled hair touching your forehead, his lips nearly slotting with yours, almost feel your chest fuse with his— hear the thumping in his chest match your own heartbeat. when his palms move to touch your chin, thumb nimbly pressing itself on your cracked lips, he releases a tsks, swiping away at the blood as he brings it up to his lips to taste it.

you can only watch in breathless awe as his tongue licks away at the remaining blood, his eyes still plastered on you, glaring, squinting as he waits for your reply in bated breaths. the fingers from his other hand pinning you down eventually tangles with yours, calloused palms warm, refusing to let go; his other hand, meanwhile, returns to your face,

you can't comprehend the gears churning on his otherwise stoic expression, but you can tell from how his brows subtly furrow, that he's probably irritated, or nitpicking you like some specimen. you don't know, you can't tell, you're still... still experiencing the withdrawals of your wasted tears easlier, unable to understand the brewing desperation in damian's chest.

(and you can't exactly imagine the exact process going on in his mind. you can't picture someone like damian trying his damned best to not kiss your pretty face while you're on the floor with him right now. how he wants to feel your chapped lips pressing deeply against his own moist one, for you to taste the chapstick on him that you lovingly complimented him using one day; what it would feel like for his face to fuse so closely with yours until he could feel his eyelashes batting on your own— he can't, not while the restroom's doors are unlocked and he wouldn't want to share that intimately passionate moment with anyone else but you, and not while he can see the fading colors of yellows and blue splotched on your eyes that he once clumsily dismissed as imagination).

"tell me what happened," he bluntly demands, a grunt reverberating from deep in his throat. he's becoming more and more like his father these days, he notes to himself, but he can't deny how effective the intimidation factor is when he sees your eyes widen, knows he's gotten you right where he wants you to, when those precious orbs would flitter somewhere else in hesitation—

"(name)," this time, he calls more domineeringly, shifts in his leaning position just so that his face would be even closer to yours than it already possibly is — to the point you can smell peppermint and hints of that tea he loves to drink during early morning break time — yet you refuse to share eye contact with him, looking away, drowning out the sound of his heavy intakes of air; afraid, possibly, of the consequences if you were to confess how those friends of his loved to torment you in more ways than one—

no, you'd rather nobody knows about how truly weak you were, not even the person you proclaimed as your own friend.

those people would push your body to the walls of the campus' main building, uncaring if it inflicts bruises all over your body. they'd take your belongings, record you begging on your knees that they won't hurt you, and they'll fucking bash your face against the surface of the nearby garbage bin once they discover you're short on cash to pay enough for a day where they won't bother you.

you don't want him to worry about someone like you, who already caused him enough irritation. and if it means masking this stupid weakness of yours with artificial confidence, then you'll fake it 'til you make it.

that's what you're good at, that's what makes you survive in this world.

at least, that's what you thought until damian eventually had enough, clamps his thumb and index fingers on the sides of your face to force you to look him straight in the eyes, still unyielding from his position. you can't exactly move, you don't have anything else to distract you from damian nearly breathing down on your neck, and you don't know why he's so insistent on finding out what's wrong with someone he oh-so obviously despises.

"i—" he sighs before you could get a word in, like he's predicted an excuse to befall from your tongue, warm fingers gently grazing your cheeks, eyes still focused on your befuddled face.

"... fine, if you wish not to tell me..." his fingers stop mapping your face, thumb settling on the marred bruising on your right eyes, feeling the way you wince at even the slightest of contact. he can feel his adrenaline spike, the anger boiling right beneath the seams of his fingertips, ready to inflict pain and suffering on whomever dared to touch you.

because with just how avoidant you are of discussing the issue with him— that means it's someone else who caused these injuries on you, someone idiotic enough to mess with him of all people.

"... i will find out myself, and i will impose the proper punishment on those... those sub-humans who dared touch what is mine."

"wh- what do you mean—?" it's the first time he hears you talk without that grating pitch in your voice, the first time he hears that airy disposition that comes out in your most vulnerable moments; shit, he swears by the world that he'll protect this side of you from anyone who dares it away from him.

"i mean what i said. you are mine."

"so do not take my previous words to heart, i never meant it, i never meant to hurt you, habibi/habibti."

you're frozen in place as he sighs again, shakes his head, moves up so that his lips could kiss your temples, then it trails down to your cheeks, all the way to your heated ears. he mutters an apology in his mother tongue, you know because he mutters it with a pout during the times when his strength was too much, when he'd accidentally deliver an all-too powerful strike on your body that one time when you'd attempt to wake him up the first time you witnessed him sleeping in classes; and you can't tell the exact words, but it sounds like poetry, like silken honey dripping down on your thoughts.

all you can do is nod, which garners a kiss on the shell of your ears, before he ultimately shares another stare down with you.

"i am your boyfriend now," he declares, like it's some unbreakable law with no loops to escape from, "and because i am yours, and you are mine, that means i have every right to find the people who hurt my beloved, i have every right to deal the necessary pain towards anything that hurts you."

"you do not have to pretend around me anymore, do you understand?"

somehow, some way, the only thing you can plaster up right now is a shaky hum and your own fingers cupping his cheeks — the action alone caused tingles to erupt from his spine, and he swears it's like magic, your touch — afraid to reject him after he's practically confessed to you... which was enough.

enough for him to seal the deal, to finally slot his warm lips on yours, eyes closed, on the clean, restroom floors, sealing the deal.

you can only return the passion ten fold, when you realize just how devoid you are of human contact.

and that's when it clicks— how much he means it, how much he's deeply in love with you, with this persona of yours and the real you.

how he's willing to make an exception as long as it was you.

damian never expected already having planned his wedding vows to the likes of someone like you, someone so terribly foul-mouthed, that in some strange, twist of the world, he ends up falling in love real hard for you.

day by day.

he ends up falling for you when he's the only one you show your true colors to: someone vulnerable, someone who reflects the past him, someone who didn't have anyone to correct your mistakes.

he loves that version of you, he loves it when he is your exception, too.

to the point that when you eventually returned to your old persona, when you go off into another insufferable tangent— when someone rolls their eyes at you, or when someone opens their mouth to rebut and tell you to, for once, shut your fucking trap; somehow, this guy who used to glare daggers at you during chem classes, who would dig his fingers on your shoulders as a warning that it's not even the time to talk—

he was now actively defending your statements with all his passion, no matter how ridiculously ear grating, unrealistic, downright egotistical it may sound. those people would end up with dirt dug up on them, suspended, sometimes even expelled. his old "friends" were no exceptions once he realized they were the reason for your bruises, from when they pushed your body and beaten you black and blue from behind the campus' main building; they were thoroughly dealt with, efficiently, silently.

they were no more.

and just as quickly as he defends you, you're both now renounced as the gotham u's most untouchable couple. professors couldn't possibly attempt to expel any one of you because your behavior conducts, paired with damian being oddly professional with dealing the people who'd talk you down, doesn't truly disrupt anything.

... or at least, that is what everyone convinces themselves out of fear that they'd tick you off and they'll be victimized by another one of damian's threats.

'cause in the end, you did end up being chosen by, quite possibly, the worst contender for your own attention seeking method of gaining affection.

in the end, you're the only exception.

no matter how insufferable you may be.

a/n: if this flops, i will cry and then disappear some more /j also, june 16 is again & again's one year anniversary, and i have writer's block 😭🙏 that's the worse nerfing in one of my most special occasions. anyways, don't mind the subpar writing, i wrote this on a whim since i just got a random burst of inspiration but it's not the best i have so far because again, writer's block. apologies for this 😔✊ it's genuinely so bad but it's what i can only produce rn.

[acid-ixx]

i don't even get why she was so salty over "woke" propaganda when the fandom she literally writes for is inherently woke from the start 😭 you can never deny how superman is an illegal alien immigrant who is titled champion of the oppressed, who fights not just for america but for human rights as a whole, then there's also batman, wonder woman, literally green arrow, every superhero you idolize are woke as hell, let's not forget how writers planned to make conner kent a trans woman? 🤨—

then you gotta tell me she came to a conclusion to form bigoted opinions, and THEN tell others not to dabble into her own country's politics when she spews shit about the damn issues happening in america (fuck ICE, fuck the government, and most especially you tr*mp 🤮)??? also, as far as a stretch as this sounds, the tim drake hate feels very much targeted, cause ik she mentioned how the writers "ruined" his character by making him bi and ruining his romance with steph, when the latter has already broken up with him long ago (homophobia much??? for someone who claims she actually doesn't care about his character, why so salty then? and why complain about him being bi when that was also announced YEARS ago)

and also, her one pinning a long message saying the blog is supposed to be free from politics or whatsoever, but damn what a hypocrite, especially when she calls everyone who rebuts the r slur? i have had so much gripes on her from the start damn 😭

just saying, if you're a writer with a big following, like me with a big platform, that doesn't mean you automatically have the power to talk about your dogshit, uneducated opinions and expect to NOT get attacked or called out for it, ESPECIALLY if it's targeted to minorities, and especially if you know you can't defend yourself and end up deleting your blog cause you know you're in the wrong LMAO

(yes, this is about luv-lock. i once vaguely mentioned her in my account, idc if i get attacked for this, i'm just pointing out my own observations)

[acid-ixx]

DAMN FINALLY 😭 someone ought to say something about it. i've long since blocked them because they've been saying so much questionable stuff months ago when i used to read their stuff, which are all pretty much bigoted and very geared towards the minority. they also believed in straightphobia and racism towards to white people and i'm ??? they've had more controversial takes than whatever i mentioned though.

obviously, i don't promote hatred or harassment towards an individual but i also don't promote bigotry overall, some takes were straight up dogshit. and the fact that this person has very problematic views and were willing to call everyone who rebutted or tried to point out their own point of view the r slur felt very disturbing to me 😭

Maybe we should be a bit more careful on who we support and are mutuals with (You know who this is about lmao).

There's so much more weirder shit they've said over the months.

EDIT!: You know, instead of actually apologizing or admitting they fucked up, they decided to delete their blog.

EDIT 2!: I just want to make it clear that the dark fiction they wrote wasn't the problem (I'm also a fan of dark fiction), it was the weird shit they had been spewing for MONTHS on end. If you think the stuff you see in the screenshots is bad, you should've seen the other shit they had said.

[acid-ixx]

just a rant, will delete later

tw. talks about overdosing, suicide, what transpired last night w/ me. sensitive topic

so my attempt didn't work out last night sadly, i have no other explanation for what happened since i don't remember much other than the excruciating pain in my stomach and how the main factor was another psychotic episode that i was experiencing (alongside the depression and spontaneous splitting episodes i have every moment). i'm awake now and i'm still in pain, especially my lower stomach. waking up after an od has got to be the worst experience since the last time i did, i was at the er with the doctors trying their best to revive me.

do i regret my actions? no, not really. my mental health has been declining every single day but i still have to find the will to live after all the traumatic shit that's been happening to me for the past few months (which i will not mention). i've been clean for a month or two now but last night was kinda insane for me that i've did unforgivable things to my body. i'm still not okay now and everything tastes like medication (luckily i had no aspirin around cause that's a different story since im deathly allergic to that) but whatever

for those who checked up on me, thank you, i have no other excuse for what happened and moving too much still hurts but at least i can see a bit more clearly now. the funny thing, though, was my dream about the literal superman telling me to not end it all and him saving me every time something bad would happen (like a roof about to fall on my head if not for him sweeping in to save me) so maybe that is a sign and i love superman so yk

[acid-ixx]

discord server announcement !

—> link here! (my user is @acid_ity)

hi guys ! as you all are aware (and if you are new), i am the author of the series, again &. again and a loving family— and now i have a discord server (courtesy of @i-might-be-too-obsessed thank you!) up and open for all of you to interact w/ me! there, i will be posting series updates, drafts, story ideas, future projects, and many more things you guys are interested in! there's also a channel to which i will host qna's for the series i have if you want clarifications, updates, or whatever comes to mind!

you all are also encouraged to post your own thoughts, art and ideas, or if anybody wants to socialize and settle for idle chat, there will also be plenty of roles there to pick since it centers around the arkham asylum theme ! <333 thank u all for your massive support and most importantly, have fun !

[acid-ixx]

pick me, choose me, mark me! (masochistic bottom yandere! batfam x feral top alpha reader).

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— og post ! ; ao3 link !

a/n: sorry for the spam guys, but tumblr won't filter out the most debauched thing yet they hide my content instead and it makes me sad like i don't want all my hard work to be just buried yk? :( anyways, fic under the read more for those who hasn't seen it yet. sorry again for the repost, i'm just really hurt over the censoring, i won't stand for it, it admittedly made me down in the dumps.

look, i'm just saying that in an omegaverse scenario, where you're the alpha and you go to the same uni as tim drake, a well known and respected omega, where you're a good friend of his: not too close in your eyes, study buddies, maybe, but you're not attracted to him, but it's still in your natural instincts to drive away other alphas despite the omega being capable enough of defending himself. because you're noble, always protecting him by shielding him away from those other vile alphas trying to force themselves on him— and he likes that feeling of protection from you, wants something more out of it.

and he knows that beneath those dull eyes of yours, beneath your willingness to hold back at the scent of omegas in heat, his family is well aware of your darker fantasies. he sees the way you pin down other alphas, how your knees would press up so close to their crotches as you release a growl from your throat, how your muscles would flex and how your teeth would bite on your lower lips to control your raging desire to pin down an omega in heat.

it's an unspoken rule that you've the qualities to rule a pack, strong enough to subdue every other alphas with your unbridled rage and sharp teeth, feral enough to dick down any willing omegas who wants to be well-bred with your knot (he's a willing omega, he wants to be filled by you, wants to know what it's like to be smothered with the scent of your sweat, saliva, and any emissions released from your body).

so i propose the idea that tim would do everything in his waking days, with the guidance of his family, to make any necessary sacrifices in his schedule just so that he could time your monthly ruts and have you be attracted to his pheromones. he'll secretly shove his family's belongings inside your locker just to get you used to their scent, dick, jason and damian take turns to sneak into your home to steal your dirty laundry, your used jackets and pants, buried deep beneath your cabinets, just so that they could smother their nose into it, try to lick at any remaining sweat that clung to the fabrics.

you best believe that they're possessive over your things. even a beta like dick couldn't help but claim your jackets just to wear it for himself. damian, who's all talk about placing himself high above a pedestal as an alpha, seems way too eager to spend a minute or five scenting himself up with your blankets and arguing with jason over the comms on who you get to mark first— as if tim would let them be marked by his alpha.

tim is the luckiest to hit the jackpot though. he could just borrow your clothes after pe classes with the excuse that he forgot to bring a spare, then pretend to clumsily forget to return it to you because he's all too busy shoving it deep in his throat. every time you strip yourself half naked in the shower rooms, he's already had his head peeking by the doors with a camera in hand and a boner down under. every little action of yours done in campus is accompanied by the click of a camera and an all too excitable omega who touches himself to the thought of what your jagged hands could do to his body.

(and god, tim, who loves to hump into your stolen underwear can only provide himself so much pleasure, his heat wants him all marked up by you but you're just so oblivious to his ministrations. to his obvious need to share a nest with you. the family wants you too, jason's been snappy lately and dick is so close to convincing bruce that they all just collectively kidnap you if you weren't so dedicated in your academics).

the only thing holding them back is that you're known to be not like the other alphas. you don't shove your scent into most unwilling nostrils, your momma raised you right, you drink suppressants to keep you on the low, you do just enough to respect the boundaries of every omega who passed by your way, and you're a smart fella, easily picking up on most omegas who only try to befriend you for the intentions of dating you or having a quick fuck (damian makes a mental note to eliminate every known competition, he despises how those lowly beings slot themselves right beside you and think they deserve to be marked up. the others and most especially tim shares that sentiment)— the only reason tim is the sole exception to your friend group filled with betas is because he has enough self respect, at least, that's what he's convinced you to believe.

you're not aware of the trackers littered in every corner of your belongings. you're not aware of the cameras hidden in your apartment as the family entertains themselves just watching you break another toy of yours because you're too big for just a measley fleshlight, they watch you rip another blanket with your pointed teeth that snaggles into the sheets, fantasizing what it's like to have someone crying and begging for you to stop thrusting your knot right beneath you. bruce has to control the pack from breaking into your apartment just for them to offer that you claim them instead, he makes them cycle between steak outs, focus on something else, because he can immediately sense their heads turning to the direction of where your house is— and yet even an omega like him can't deny how tempting it is to share a nest with you as he secretly saves all the files of you pleasuring yourself in a drive he's going to watch repeatedly once patrol hours are over.

thinking about how the months would stretch and you slowly notice the shift in demeanor with tim. suddenly, instead of reviewing in cafes with other friends or simply visiting the library together, he'll invite you all too eagerly to the manor, in due excuse of wanting to study with you alone since he says he prefers a quieter environment. you accept, only because you feel the risk of losing yourself amidst the familiar scents scattered all over your life, on the newer scents on your clothes making your mind go crazy; only because you can't deny how tempting it is to fuck your supposed friend on top of a creaking table, in public for all the eyes to see— so your excuse to study with him alone, in an entirely alien environment where his family are there to monitor your sessions meant you'd have to be on your best behavior.

except the moment you step inside the gothic manor, your nostrils are hit with a multitude of familiar scents. bruce wayne, the omega philanthropist known to love caring for children, who greets you at the door with a gentle smile and expectant eyes, smells of fresh vanilla, cashmere and faint lavender, as he steps to the side and all-too eagerly confesses you that he's been waiting for the moment that tim's closest friend visits his home. like most omegas do, you can only describe the man's scent as soft and nurturing, natural traits for an omega, obviously, as he almost ushers you — a hand resting comfortably on your back, you don't feel his palms rubbing up and down your spine like he's known the feel of it from the start — and your... friend to the library if not for tim insisting that you'll both be heading off to his room instead.

you don't question why he specifically wanted you alone, though, because you swore you smelled the same, imposing vanilla on your damn sweaters.

but when you look to your right, eyebrows raised in curiosity at the whistling omega, he only reciprocates with a shrug and tells you that you should both already head upstairs since there's not much daylight left and that he wants to consume as much knowledge as he can in one sitting.

such a cunning scum he is.

for when you entered the room, stepped inside and dropped your bag to a nearby corner, your nose immediately picked up on the smell of freshly baked cocoa, sweet caramel, and the same, damn fruity scent of zesti cola.

your vision fogs all too quickly, fury an all too intimate feeling rising to your chest.

"tim, you fuckin' vixen—!"

you pin him down on his well nested bed the moment the waft of his room's familiar scent hit the air. you growl, too dizzy on the hazy realization that it was him and his family who's been scenting themselves all over your things all along, you can even smell your own scent in this room. your clothes, your jewelry, even your damn notebooks, they reek of sandalwood, lavenders, musk, vanilla— scent which all don't mix well, all you've individually sensed in all your different items. your underwear is stained with tim's sweat, you realize as you snarl between the vast, unmarked space of tim's neck.

and you should've, you could've held yourself back, but the timing was perfect, you've forgotten to take your suppressants because tim was rushing you; yet his legs are wrapped around you, you feel your own sizable crotch rubbed in between his own hard ones. he's tempting you, inviting you to stake your claim on his clean skin, as he releases a shaky breath right on your ears. his lithe waist is a perfect slot right in your palms, and those stupid, wide eyes are too expectant, too inviting to even deny the lack of surprise, like he's predicted this reaction— like he knows that underneath that false, caring exterior of yours is an alpha that wants to claim, and claim and claim until his skin knows the imprint of your teeth against his.

"mmph, c'mon..." he calls out your name, rubs himself shamelessly against your soiled underwear, takes your cold, unforgiving fingers to cop a feel around his areolas. lidded, deep blue eyes and raw, bitten lips, a red flush overtakes his body; an picture perfect canvas of an entirely submissive omega is right beneath you, inviting you two to fuck like the shameless animals you both are.

proclaiming to you, without words, without thought, that he's yours the entire night.

yours to breed, yours to fuck deep into the mattress until he memorizes the shape of your knot by the end of it all.

you don't remember when or how it happened, how you're both wearing almost nothing but the underwear blocking tim from fully seeing your own rock hard boner, but he's too hungry on want, on the need to have it shoved far deep in his throat and you're too drunk on the hazy desires to have an actual, warm cavern wrapped around you right now.

he whines a bit louder, you can smell the pre oozing and dribbling on his own briefs. he smells so pure, so delicious, so ready to be claimed that you just...

you lick at his clavicle until your tongue reaches into the perfect spot on his neck, devoid of any alpha's mark. you feel the boy shiver under you, feel the way his arms snake around your neck as his feet push back at your underwear until it drops at right your ankles, where you can hear his breath hitch at the sight of your own dick rubbing against his clothed boner.

he moans, pulling his hips up, and you snarl at his impatience, pull his body up in one, quick swipe, like the strong alpha you are, and rip away at his own underwear.

and he's drooling at your display of strength, his smaller thighs wrap around your waist until his puckered hole slots itself perfectly on your tip, you feel the slick dribbling down, feel the natural slip of your dick sliding inside of him.

he's all lubed up, this fucker prepared himself for this. but there's no condom in sight, no damn contraceptive the longer you look around. the truth lies in plain sight: he wants to be bred, he wants to take you raw.

as if sensing your thoughts, as if he doesn't want your attention on anything but him, he voices himself out, calling your name.

"don't lie to me... i know you want this," his palms cup your cheeks, gently prying your head to look at his straight at the eyes, "i know you want me. you picked me, you chose me, didn't you...?"

he pushes his hips upwards, pushes deeper, memorizing every vein stretching his hole— except his attempts are futile the moment he feels you pin his body down, he nearly releases an aching cry when he senses the lack of dick inside him.

he almost begs, almost.

"puh-PLEASE—!" he almost begs, if not for your immediate, hard thrust, a loud plap echoes throughout the empty room. if not for you shoving your dick in his slicked up hole in one quick motion, maybe he could've mustered up another word. but you've dicked him down, rendered him thoughtless and wordless, dumbing the omega down until he's subdued with only breathless moans.

"fu-fuck! oouh—" whispering under his breath, you only snarl in response, feeling him squeeze you in. this is better than any toy you've destroyed, he was warm and aching and you were hungry to just take him all.

tim drake is the picture perfect omega. it was no wonder why so many alphas fight themselves to the death to even grab a sniff of his own sweat, you've told yourself you only let yourself become friends with him because it was your duty to protect the weak, but fuck. you knew deep down, you were as dirty as all the others, maybe even worse, maybe even the worst as the sight of the debauched, snotty, drooling mess underneath you made you way harder, made your diluted eyes take in his writhing body, made you thrust in just a bit harder just to hear that high pitched moan escape from his wrecked throat.

his mouth would feel so good wrapped around your dick, it'll feel so nice to just slide it deeper and deeper until it reaches the back of his throat, and oh, you'll make him hold his breath until he has to scratch at your thighs, until salty tears escape those stupid, wide eyes of his, just to beg you for even the smallest intake of air.

next time, you think. there will be a next time.

for now, your steady pace is enough to induce pleasured tears dribbling down his cheeks. you snap harder, he squeals. he's cute, cute but disgusting. but you're worse, you wish you weren't but it's natural. you try to be soft, though, as your dominant hand swipe away the hair clinging on his sweaty forehead. you lean in, ignoring how tim shivers in delight as his nose gets a closer whiff of your scent, and softly kiss his cheeks.

softly, but that doesn't stop his disappointed, little sigh. you could only stare back in disbelief as his thighs pull your hips closer.

more tears escape his shaky eyes, hiccups escape his quivering lips.

"show me how much you love me..." he whispers, taking your mouth in his, biting your lower lips just so his tongue could get a taste of your saliva mixing with his. in response, you collect you spit and let it dribble down to his awaiting mouth, and god, he moans when the liquid meets his tongue, swallowing your spit with due diligence, like it is his ambrosia. and he sobs at the overestimation of having to feel, taste, and breath every living part of you.

"i love you, i love you, i— ah! i love you—!"yet it doesn't stop you from thrusting, doesn't stop you from wanting more as you stop kissing him, making your way towards his neck, tongue licking and sucking his skin until it's sullen with ugly love marks. he only responds with thoughtless whines, dissatisfied pleas at your teasing, at your refusal to just bite his skin and to just— mark him already.

you feel the rise of a familiar knot on the base of your dick, and with just how louder and louder tim has been moaning — you're sure that his pleas and the heavy creak of the bed can be heard from outside his door, you hope it does, you hope his family hears just how much this freak loves being bred — you know he's close, his dick is practically oozing with salty, watery precome, and his little whole is weeping with slick. your ears can pick up the plaps, how well your cock slides in and out of him to an unstable rhythm.

and yet he's crying, he's crying because throughout it all, your mark still isn't on him. his alpha still hasn't staked their claim on him and he feels so ashamed, so desperate to relieve that empty ache on the skin of his neck that begs to be pierced by your sharp teeth.

"— muh- mark- ah!"

"puh- LEASE! please, please, please, alpha, please—!

and he begs the moment he felt a thread snap, when you palm his throat, squeeze his dainty neck until all he could do was wheeze, until you let go when you see his reddened lips turn purple, and he releases a shout as ropes of cum escape his violently flushed dick.

he begs with incomprehensible requests, sucks in a breath whilst you accompany his moans with a growl when he feels your knot was slowly but surely becoming bigger and bigger inside him as your thrusts slowed, as you try your best to move despite the overstimulation riddling his body.

slowly, until your bodies are locked together, tim unable to move from right beneath you as his hole adjusts to the considerably large knot, until he swore you two are one, until your eyes shut in bliss when you felt your warm cum staining his insides. through both your hazy zenith, through his breathless panting and desperate intakes of air, tim still isn't satisfied.

and he'll only be satisfied if, no, once he's utterly sure he's yours and you're his.

he musters up the last of his strength, shifts his little hips seductively just so he could feel that strong knot pinning him to you, and stares at you with dazzling eyes, shimmering with fresh reserves of tears.

and just like how he's manipulated you to fuck him the moment you've stepped inside the room, he makes sure his quivering voice was as sultry as the taste of his sweat, as inviting as the nest he's been preparing for months.

he pouts, bites his lips, and licks at your warm ears as he whispers four, shaky words:

"mark me, my alpha."

[acid-ixx]

pick me, choose me, mark me! (masochistic bottom yandere! batfam (mostly tim) x feral top alpha reader).

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist !

tw. smut, a/b/o concept, top reader, bottom character, aged up tim and damian, dub-con, breeding and knotting mentioned, reader has a fleshlight, they steal your clothes and underwear. alpha male reader but it can be read as gn.

look, i'm just saying that in an omegaverse scenario, where you're the alpha and you go to the same uni as tim drake, a well known and respected omega, where you're a good friend of his: not too close in your eyes, study buddies, maybe, but you're not attracted to him, but it's still in your natural instincts to drive away other alphas despite the omega being capable enough of defending himself. because you're noble, always protecting him by shielding him away from those other vile alphas trying to force themselves on him— and he likes that feeling of protection from you, wants something more out of it.

and he knows that beneath those dull eyes of yours, beneath your willingness to hold back at the scent of omegas in heat, his family is well aware of your darker fantasies. he sees the way you pin down other alphas, how your knees would press up so close to their crotches as you release a growl from your throat, how your muscles would flex and how your teeth would bite on your lower lips to control your raging desire to pin down an omega in heat.

(it's an unspoken rule that you've the qualities to rule a pack, strong enough to subdue every other alphas with your unbridled rage and sharp teeth, feral enough to dick down any willing omegas who wants to be well-bred with your knot (he's a willing omega, he wants to be filled by you, wants to know what it's like to be smothered with the scent of your sweat, saliva, and any emissions released from your body).

so i propose the idea that tim would do everything in his waking days, with the guidance of his family, to make any necessary sacrifices in his schedule just so that he could time your monthly ruts and have you be attracted to his pheromones. he'll secretly shove his family's belongings inside your locker just to get you used to their scent, dick, jason and damian take turns to sneak into your home to steal your dirty laundry, your used jackets and pants, buried deep beneath your cabinets, just so that they could smother their nose into it, try to lick at any remaining sweat that clung to the fabrics.

you best believe that they're possessive over your things. even a beta like dick couldn't help but claim your jackets just to wear it for himself. damian, who's all talk about placing himself high above a pedestal as an alpha, seems way too eager to spend a minute or five scenting himself up with your blankets and arguing with jason over the comms on who you get to mark first— as if tim would let them be marked by his alpha.

tim is the luckiest to hit the jackpot though. he could just borrow your clothes after pe classes with the excuse that he forgot to bring a spare, then pretend to clumsily forget to return it to you because he's all too busy shoving it deep in his throat. every time you strip yourself half naked in the shower rooms, he's already had his head peeking by the doors with a camera in hand and a boner down under. every little action of yours done in campus is accompanied by the click of a camera and an all too excitable omega who touches himself to the thought of what your jagged hands could do to his body.

(and god, tim, who loves to hump into your stolen underwear can only provide himself so much pleasure, his heat wants him all marked up by you but you're just so oblivious to his ministrations. to his obvious need to share a nest with you. the family wants you too, jason's been snappy lately and dick is so close to convincing bruce that they all just collectively kidnap you if you weren't so dedicated in your academics).

the only thing holding them back is that you're known to be not like the other alphas. you don't shove your scent into most unwilling nostrils, your momma raised you right, you drink suppressants to keep you on the low, you do just enough to respect the boundaries of every omega who passed by your way, and you're a smart fella, easily picking up on most omegas who only try to befriend you for the intentions of dating you or having a quick fuck (damian makes a mental note to eliminate every known competition, he despises how those lowly beings slot themselves right beside you and think they deserve to be marked up. the others and most especially tim shares that sentiment)— the only reason tim is the sole exception to your friend group filled with betas is because he has enough self respect, at least, that's what he's convinced you to believe.

you're not aware of the trackers littered in every corner of your belongings. you're not aware of the cameras hidden in your apartment as the family entertains themselves just watching you break another toy of yours because you're too big for just a measley fleshlight, they watch you rip another blanket with your pointed teeth that snaggles into the sheets, fantasizing what it's like to have someone crying and begging for you to stop thrusting your knot right beneath you. bruce has to control the pack from breaking into your apartment just for them to offer that you claim them instead, he makes them cycle between steak outs, focus on something else, because he can immediately sense their heads turning to the direction of where your house is— and yet even an omega like him can't deny how tempting it is to share a nest with you as he secretly saves all the files of you pleasuring yourself in a drive he's going to watch repeatedly once patrol hours are over.

thinking about how the months would stretch and you slowly notice the shift in demeanor with tim. suddenly, instead of reviewing in cafes with other friends or simply visiting the library together, he'll invite you all too eagerly to the manor, in due excuse of wanting to study with you alone since he says he prefers a quieter environment. you accept, only because you feel the risk of losing yourself amidst the familiar scents scattered all over your life, on the newer scents on your clothes making your mind go crazy; only because you can't deny how tempting it is to fuck your supposed friend on top of a creaking table, in public for all the eyes to see— so your excuse to study with him alone, in an entirely alien environment where his family are there to monitor your sessions meant you'd have to be on your best behavior.

except the moment you step inside the gothic manor, your nostrils are hit with a multitude of familiar scents. bruce wayne, the omega philanthropist known to love caring for children, who greets you at the door with a gentle smile and expectant eyes, smells of fresh vanilla, cashmere and faint lavender, as he steps to the side and all-too eagerly confesses you that he's been waiting for the moment that tim's closest friend visits his home. like most omegas do, you can only describe the man's scent as soft and nurturing, natural traits for an omega, obviously, as he almost ushers you — a hand resting comfortably on your back, you don't feel his palms rubbing up and down your spine like he's known the feel of it from the start — and your... friend to the library if not for tim insisting that you'll both be heading off to his room instead.

you don't question why he specifically wanted you alone, though, because you swore you smelled the same, imposing vanilla on your damn sweaters.

but when you look to your right, eyebrows raised in curiosity at the whistling omega, he only reciprocates with a shrug and tells you that you should both already head upstairs since there's not much daylight left and that he wants to consume as much knowledge as he can in one sitting.

such a cunning scum he is.

for when you entered the room, stepped inside and dropped your bag to a nearby corner, your nose immediately picked up on the smell of freshly baked cocoa, sweet caramel, and the same, damn fruity scent of zesti cola.

your vision fogs all too quickly, fury an all too intimate feeling rising to your chest.

"tim, you fuckin' vixen—!"

you pin him down on his well nested bed the moment the waft of his room's familiar scent hit the air. you growl, too dizzy on the hazy realization that it was him and his family who's been scenting themselves all over your things all along, you can even smell your own scent in this room. your clothes, your jewelry, even your damn notebooks, they reek of sandalwood, lavenders, musk, vanilla— scent which all don't mix well, all you've individually sensed in all your different items. your underwear is stained with tim's sweat, you realize as you snarl between the vast, unmarked space of tim's neck.

and you should've, you could've held yourself back, but the timing was perfect, you've forgotten to take your suppressants because tim was rushing you; yet his legs are wrapped around you, you feel your own sizable crotch rubbed in between his own hard ones. he's tempting you, inviting you to stake your claim on his clean skin, as he releases a shaky breath right on your ears. his lithe waist is a perfect slot right in your palms, and those stupid, wide eyes are too expectant, too inviting to even deny the lack of surprise, like he's predicted this reaction— like he knows that underneath that false, caring exterior of yours is an alpha that wants to claim, and claim and claim until his skin knows the imprint of your teeth against his.

"mmph, c'mon..." he calls out your name, rubs himself shamelessly against your soiled underwear, takes your cold, unforgiving fingers to cop a feel around his areolas. lidded, deep blue eyes and raw, bitten lips, a red flush overtakes his body; an picture perfect canvas of an entirely submissive omega is right beneath you, inviting you two to fuck like the shameless animals you both are.

proclaiming to you, without words, without thought, that he's yours the entire night.

yours to breed, yours to fuck deep into the mattress until he memorizes the shape of your knot by the end of it all.

you don't remember when or how it happened, how you're both wearing almost nothing but the underwear blocking tim from fully seeing your own rock hard boner, but he's too hungry on want, on the need to have it shoved far deep in his throat and you're too drunk on the hazy desires to have an actual, warm cavern wrapped around you right now.

he whines a bit louder, you can smell the pre oozing and dribbling on his own briefs. he smells so pure, so delicious, so ready to be claimed that you just...

you lick at his clavicle until your tongue reaches into the perfect spot on his neck, devoid of any alpha's mark. you feel the boy shiver under you, feel the way his arms snake around your neck as his feet push back at your underwear until it drops at right your ankles, where you can hear his breath hitch at the sight of your own dick rubbing against his clothed boner.

he moans, pulling his hips up, and you snarl at his impatience, pull his body up in one, quick swipe, like the strong alpha you are, and rip away at his own underwear.

and he's drooling at your display of strength, his smaller thighs wrap around your waist until his puckered hole slots itself perfectly on your tip, you feel the slick dribbling down, feel the natural slip of your dick sliding inside of him.

he's all lubed up, this fucker prepared himself for this. but there's no condom in sight, no damn contraceptive the longer you look around. the truth lies in plain sight: he wants to be bred, he wants to take you raw.

as if sensing your thoughts, as if he doesn't want your attention on anything but him, he voices himself out, calling your name.

"don't lie to me... i know you want this," his palms cup your cheeks, gently prying your head to look at his straight at the eyes, "i know you want me. you picked me, you chose me, didn't you...?"

he pushes his hips upwards, pushes deeper, memorizing every vein stretching his hole— except his attempts are futile the moment he feels you pin his body down, he nearly releases an aching cry when he senses the lack of dick inside him.

he almost begs, almost.

"puh-PLEASE—!" he almost begs, if not for your immediate, hard thrust, a loud plap echoes throughout the empty room. if not for you shoving your dick in his slicked up hole in one quick motion, maybe he could've mustered up another word. but you've dicked him down, rendered him thoughtless and wordless, dumbing the omega down until he's subdued with only breathless moans.

"fu-fuck! oouh—" whispering under his breath, you only snarl in response, feeling him squeeze you in. this is better than any toy you've destroyed, he was warm and aching and you were hungry to just take him all.

tim drake is the picture perfect omega. it was no wonder why so many alphas fight themselves to the death to even grab a sniff of his own sweat, you've told yourself you only let yourself become friends with him because it was your duty to protect the weak, but fuck. you knew deep down, you were as dirty as all the others, maybe even worse, maybe even the worst as the sight of the debauched, snotty, drooling mess underneath you made you way harder, made your diluted eyes take in his writhing body, made you thrust in just a bit harder just to hear that high pitched moan escape from his wrecked throat.

his mouth would feel so good wrapped around your dick, it'll feel so nice to just slide it deeper and deeper until it reaches the back of his throat, and oh, you'll make him hold his breath until he has to scratch at your thighs, until salty tears escape those stupid, wide eyes of his, just to beg you for even the smallest intake of air.

next time, you think. there will be a next time.

for now, your steady pace is enough to induce pleasured tears dribbling down his cheeks. you snap harder, he squeals. he's cute, cute but disgusting. but you're worse, you wish you weren't but it's natural. you try to be soft, though, as your dominant hand swipe away the hair clinging on his sweaty forehead. you lean in, ignoring how tim shivers in delight as his nose gets a closer whiff of your scent, and softly kiss his cheeks.

softly, but that doesn't stop his disappointed, little sigh. you could only stare back in disbelief as his thighs pull your hips closer.

more tears escape his shaky eyes, hiccups escape his quivering lips.

"show me how much you love me..." he whispers, taking your mouth in his, biting your lower lips just so his tongue could get a taste of your saliva mixing with his. in response, you collect you spit and let it dribble down to his awaiting mouth, and god, he moans when the liquid meets his tongue, swallowing your spit with due diligence, like it is his ambrosia. and he sobs at the overestimation of having to feel, taste, and breath every living part of you.

"i love you, i love you, i— ah! i love you—!"yet it doesn't stop you from thrusting, doesn't stop you from wanting more as you stop kissing him, making your way towards his neck, tongue licking and sucking his skin until it's sullen with ugly love marks. he only responds with thoughtless whines, dissatisfied pleas at your teasing, at your refusal to just bite his skin and to just— mark him already.

you feel the rise of a familiar knot on the base of your dick, and with just how louder and louder tim has been moaning — you're sure that his pleas and the heavy creak of the bed can be heard from outside his door, you hope it does, you hope his family hears just how much this freak loves being bred — you know he's close, his dick is practically oozing with salty, watery precome, and his little whole is weeping with slick. your ears can pick up the plaps, how well your cock slides in and out of him to an unstable rhythm.

and yet he's crying, he's crying because throughout it all, your mark still isn't on him. his alpha still hasn't staked their claim on him and he feels so ashamed, so desperate to relieve that empty ache on the skin of his neck that begs to be pierced by your sharp teeth.

"— muh- mark- ah!"

"puh- LEASE! please, please, please, alpha, please—!

and he begs the moment he felt a thread snap, when you palm his throat, squeeze his dainty neck until all he could do was wheeze, until you let go when you see his reddened lips turn purple, and he releases a shout as ropes of cum escape his violently flushed dick.

he begs with incomprehensible requests, sucks in a breath whilst you accompany his moans with a growl when he feels your knot was slowly but surely becoming bigger and bigger inside him as your thrusts slowed, as you try your best to move despite the overstimulation riddling his body.

slowly, until your bodies are locked together, tim unable to move from right beneath you as his hole adjusts to the considerably large knot, until he swore you two are one, until your eyes shut in bliss when you felt your warm cum staining his insides. through both your hazy zenith, through his breathless panting and desperate intakes of air, tim still isn't satisfied.

and he'll only be satisfied if, no, once he's utterly sure he's yours and you're his.

he musters up the last of his strength, shifts his little hips seductively just so he could feel that strong knot pinning him to you, and stares at you with dazzling eyes, shimmering with fresh reserves of tears.

and just like how he's manipulated you to fuck him the moment you've stepped inside the room, he makes sure his quivering voice was as sultry as the taste of his sweat, as inviting as the nest he's been preparing for months.

he pouts, bites his lips, and licks at your warm ears as he whispers four, shaky words:

"mark me, my alpha."

a/n: happy pride month 🌈🏳️‍🌈 !! part two? maybe, maybe not. leave comments on how it is 🙏 i had to research scents because i realize i'm not that well versed in omegaverse and also ngl this unlocked a feral side of me. i miss writing smut y'all, so this is the first time in a while since i've written a full-fledged oneshot of tim being dicked down LMAO.