killerplink

[killerplink]

reblogging bc tumblr said you can post but not be perceived and honestly, that's homophobic ✋🏻 thank yew

SPOILED

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Plot: what started as a sweet little Saturday grocery run with your boyfriend ended with him spoiling you stupid, in more ways than one.

A/N: hiiiiii besties hello 🥹 how are we feeling 👉🏻👈🏻 emotionally stable? hydrated? horny?? all of the above??? same. I'm so sorry I've been MIA (again) but life keeps kicking me directly in the dick 😭 however ☝🏻 I finally locked in, went feral, and finished this Dick oneshot I promised y'all so long ago 🏃🏻‍♀️

also. it's long. like... obnoxiously long. but I got so carried away (and horny, okay??) so you're just gonna have to DEAL WITH IT ✋🏻

also also. gonna address something real quick: I decided I'm not gonna do the "Jason calls reader a slut for the first time" oneshot 😭 I already have some where he does call his girl a slut and tbh I have no fresh ideas for a first time moment. I'm so sorry pls don't come for my throat 😭 BUT more Jay smut is definitely in the pipeline so stay tuned besties 💅🏻

anyway. take care of yourselves. stay safe, drink water, touch grass, wear cute panties, all that good shit. okay love you byeeee 🫶🏻✨

It starts off innocent, really. Just a regular Saturday with your favorite routine: early morning wake up, cuddles and kisses before brushing your teeth, and then out the door hand in hand with Dick. You hit the farmer's market first, picking out fresh fruit, herbs, and a few of those fancy breads you like, then your usual grocery store run.

Afterward, as tradition demands, he always takes you somewhere cute for brunch. A cozy café you both already love or a new little gem that just opened up, he never misses a chance to treat you. But today's a little different.

"Are you serious, baby?" you ask, raising a brow.

Dick chuckles, sitting across from you with his chin in his hand, the sun kissing his cheeks. "Yeah, sweet girl. You deserve a shopping spree."

Your brows pinch, a little suspicious. "Why?"

"Because," he says, reaching out to brush his thumb along your knuckles, "you quit that job you hated, found something ten times better, and you already got promoted. That's kind of a big deal, baby."

You blink at him, then smile all soft and okay, maybe a little misty eyed because he's not wrong. You walked away from that job that sucked the soul out of you, and somehow, you landed somewhere that actually makes you want to get up in the morning. And not even three months in, they recognized your work and gave you a promotion.

And Dick saw how hard you worked. How late you stayed up fixing your resume, how nervous you were before interviews, how you cried in his arms when it all felt too overwhelming. And now here he is, sitting across from you in a sun drenched booth, telling you he wants to take you out and spoil the absolute shit out of you just because he's proud.

"Whatever you want. Clothes, makeup, books, something stupid and overpriced. If it makes you happy, it's yours."

You giggle into your glass, cheeks warm from more than just the sun. "Okay," you say, soft and just a little breathless, because when Dick Grayson tells you he wants to spoil you, it's kind of hard not to melt.

"Yeah, baby?" he grins, eyes already lighting up.

You nod, setting your drink down, leaning into the table a bit. "Yeah."

He's already leaning in too, brushing his thumb across your cheek before pressing a kiss to your forehead, all soft lips and the faint scent of his cologne. "That's my girl."

You're grinning like an idiot when he pulls back, and so is he. You both dig into your food after that, the kind of easy silence that only comes when you're this comfortable with someone settling between you. The plate in front of you has a soft spread of ricotta pancakes with berry jam and a little cup of warm maple syrup.

Dick's got an egg sandwich stacked high with avocado and bacon and a side of those rosemary home fries you keep stealing off his plate. He's already caught you twice, and still lets you do it with that same smitten smile he always wears when he's looking at you.

Halfway through your plate, you start talking about which stores you wanna hit first. "I was thinking maybe we start at that bookstore I like? And then maybe the shoe store after that. Oh, and I saw this new place that just opened downtown. It looks kind of bougie, but they have those cute silk dresses."

And he listens. Fully, not just nodding along or zoning out like most people do. "Anything else, my love?" he asks, poking his fork toward your plate to sneak a bite.

You hum. "Maybe Sephora. I'm out of setting spray."

"Noted," he says, chewing and smiling at the same time.

You're already glowing from the praise, the food, the way he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon. You both finish eating in that slow, content kind of way that only happens after a perfect meal and even better company. You take the last sip of your latte, licking a little foam off your lip as you push your plate forward and sigh.

"Okay, I'm paying here."

Dick tilts his head, already giving you a look. "Oh, are you now?"

You nod, sitting up straighter, all smug. "Yeah. You're treating me to shopping. I'm covering brunch. That's fair."

But he's already reaching into his wallet. "Sweet girl, come on, just let me—"

"Nooo, baby," you half whine, half laugh. "You said you were spoiling me after brunch. This one's on me."

He raises a brow, but he's smirking. "You sure?"

There's a second where you think he might keep pushing as he usually does but then you hit him with it: the pout. Full bottom lip, soft eyes, tilted head, just a little dramatic like you practiced it in the mirror. You didn't, but it's just that good, and you know it. You learned it from the best, after all.

Dick stares at you for maybe a second too long before sighing like a man defeated. "Okay, you little gremlin. You can pay here."

You light up instantly, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "Yes!"

You do this little wiggly, squirmy dance in your seat—arms tucked in, shoulders bouncing like a delighted noodle—and it makes him laugh as he rests his chin in his hand just to look at you like a lovesick puppy.

A minute later, you flag the waiter down like you just accomplished something incredible and not just bullied your very soft boyfriend into letting you pay.

You step out of the café hand in hand, still giggling from something stupid he said, and the sunlight hits you both—warm, soft, a little blinding. It's one of those rare perfect days in Gotham, the kind where the sky is actually blue, not just pretending to be, and there's a soft breeze in the air that doesn't reek of smoke or something worse. A weird kind of peace that doesn't happen often, but when it does, you hold onto it like a gift.

You hum a little tune under your breath and swing your joined hands between you as you walk. Dick squeezes your hand gently, the corners of his mouth curled up into the kind of smile that makes his dimples pop.

"You're in a good mood," he teases, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

"I mean, it's sunny and I'm caffeinated. I've got my pretty man next to me and I'm about to be a menace in several stores," you grin. "What's not to love?"

That earns a soft laugh from him. "As long as you don't try to sneak another candle into the apartment, we're good."

You gasp offended. "Those candles are thematic. They tell a story, baby."

He snorts. "Yeah, the story is I bought six different ones with the same scent profile."

But you're already tuning him out, rambling about that one bookstore near the corner where you found the rare poetry book last time, and how there's the shoe place you wanna check out, and that thrift store you dragged him into that smelled like old wood and lilac hand soap.

And he lets you. Nods every so often, hums, throws in a "Yeah?" or a "No way" because he's heard you do this a hundred times and he'll hear it a thousand more and still think it's the cutest thing in the world.

Your brain is half in the clouds, already planning your little spree, so of course you don't notice the sign post you're about to crash into, but Dick does. He always does.

He gently tugs you to the side without missing a beat, guiding you around it with a firm hand at your waist, followed by a soft little "Careful, baby" under his breath. He's not even thinking about it, just making sure his girl doesn't walk headfirst into steel. You blink, glance up at him like oh and give a sheepish little smile.

He laughs, eyes crinkling. "You'd think after the fifth time this week you'd learn to look where you're going."

You shrug and loop your arm around his, pulling yourself into his side like you always do. "That's your job, Nightwing. Keep me alive while I ramble about book sales and clearance racks."

A few minutes later, you arrive at your first stop: the bookstore. Which, of course, turns into a whole event the second you step through the door. You make a delighted little noise that's a bit too loud for how quiet the place is, and you're gone. Just gone. Toddling between the shelves like you're on a sugar rush, already flipping through spines and tugging books off the walls like a kid in a candy store. Dick doesn't even try to keep up.

He watches you for a second—how your eyes light up, how your fingers dance across the covers—and smiles to himself before wandering over to the little corner chair near the window. He sinks into it, spreads his legs a little, sets his phone down face up and unread. He's not gonna need it. Not while you're doing this.

Because he knows the drill. You'll be gone a while. You'll disappear into some fantasy section or romance nook or get distracted by a table full of new releases and come back half an hour later looking like a gremlin librarian. And he loves it. Loves watching it, really. Seeing you that happy and in your element it's one of his favorite versions of you.

Sure enough, thirty minutes later, you emerge from behind a shelf with your arms comically full of books. You've got a stack practically up to your chin and you're trying to peek around them with wide, excited eyes and a proud little grin.

"I found a few," you say all sweet like you didn't just raid the entire adult fantasy and spicy romance aisle.

Dick's already up before you finish the sentence, taking half the stack from your arms with ease. "Just a few, huh?"

You just beam up at him. "Mhmm. Smut and ghosts, baby. The classics."

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple as he walks with you toward the counter. "You and your haunted sex books."

"Don't judge," you pout, nudging his side. "You benefit from these."

"I mean... I can't argue with that," he shrugs.

Once they're all paid for and bagged, you bounce on your toes the whole way out of the store, your tote heavy already. You look like you've just robbed the place and Dick's grinning behind you like yeah, that's my girl.

Next stop: the shoe store. You spot it across the street and gasp like you just saw God. Or, more accurately, like you just saw the potential for new platform Mary Janes with absurd accessories.

"Dick," you whisper dramatically. "Shoes."

Inside, your eyes practically sparkle under the store lights. You're already drifting from one display to another, muttering things like "oh my God" and "no because if they have this in my size I'll scream", completely in your own world.

Dick? He finds a seat. Because he knows he's not here to shop, he's here to observe the chaos as you start pulling boxes off shelves like it's Black Friday and you're in battle mode. A pair of sparkly low heels? Tried. Chunky pink sneakers with ribbons instead of laces? Tried. Some platform clogs with little heart charms on the buckles? Tried and twirled in. Every time, you walk over to him like you're doing a fashion runway and give him a dramatic spin or a silly dance.

He loves all of it. Just sitting there, legs spread, leaning back a little, arms crossed with a stupid smitten grin on his face like yeah, that's my girl losing her mind in a shoe store. The happiest little gremlin on Earth.

"You like these?" you ask for the sixth time, wiggling your foot in a chunky black loafer.

"I like all of them," he says, and you know he means it.

You groan dramatically. "That's not helpful, baby."

"Sorry, sweet girl," he smirks. "Not my fault you look adorable in literally all of them."

You fake a little stomp and drag the loafers off with a sigh. But a few more pairs later, just when you're about to give up, you spot them: white Mary Janes with tiny little strawberries on the front, glossy finish, dainty strap, slightly raised sole. They're like cottagecore perfection and you gasp so loudly that the sales assistant jumps a little.

"Oh my fucking God," you whisper. "These are it." You slip them on and turn around to face Dick with wide eyes. "Look at them."

He does. And then looks up at your face. Then down at the shoes again. "Yep, those are the ones."

"They're comfy," you say, bouncing slightly. "Like actually comfy."

He nods. "Okay, that's good. Get those, baby."

You scrunch your nose a little when you look at the price tag. "Are you sure?"

"My love, you gasped like a little victorian lady seeing a ghost. You're not walking out of here without those. I don't care about the price."

You glance down at them, then back up at him, pouting just a little. "But—"

He stands, takes a second to properly look, tilting his head, hands on your hips as he presses a kiss to your forehead. "They're perfect, baby, get them. I mean it."

You take them off gently and head to the register while he follows, still smiling, hands in his pockets, watching as you cradle the shoebox like a newborn. God, that's definitely gonna be your favorite pair for the next six months.

After the shoe store, the second you step into the dress one few minutes later, it's over for you. It smells like warm vanilla and fresh linen in here, the lighting is soft and golden, and every single rack looks like it's been filled by a fairy godmother. Silky slip dresses in jewel tones, soft pastel sundresses with puff sleeves, floaty floral maxis that look like they belong in a meadow. Everywhere you turn, it's another little slice of heaven.

You don't even hesitate before grabbing Dick's hand and dragging him deeper into the racks, pointing out prints and cuts. A butter yellow satin midi with a cowl neck. A deep green wrap dress that looks like something out of a magazine. A navy piece sprinkled with embroidered stars. He lets you tug him along without a word, just watching your excitement with that lovesick little smile of his.

He's already picturing you in half of them. A slinky red one for a gala. A soft blue one for a lazy picnic. A white cotton sundress for a casual dinner. It doesn't really matter, though, because whatever you wear, you always look like magic to him.

By the time you make it to the fitting rooms, you're glowing with anticipation. The first few you try are gorgeous, and he makes it known without saying a word. It's just the way his gaze lingers, the subtle shift in his expression when you step out. But then you hit a snag. Two dresses, both beautiful in completely different ways.

One is a silky champagne slip, the kind that catches light with every move, draping against your frame like it was made for you. The other is a flowy white midi with tiny embroidered cherries, all soft and sweet and summer ready.

You turn between the mirrors, frowning just a little, fingertips brushing over each dress like maybe the fabric will whisper the answer to you. Both are perfect in their own way, and your brain is doing the mental equivalent of a coin toss.

When you glance at him, he's clearly stuck in the same place, eyes moving between you in one dress and the other like it's some impossible riddle. Then he just gives that easy little shrug, the one that says why choose, sweet girl?

So you don't. You leave the store with both hanging in their bags, a stupid ass wide grin, and Dick kissing the top of your head.

You drop the dresses off in the backseat like they're precious cargo before Dick's already circling around to open your door for you. He does it without thinking at this point, one of those little gentleman habits that makes your heart all warm, and a few minutes later he's pulling into the Sephora parking lot, aka your version of Disney World.

You always claim you're just going in for one thing. Every single time. And to your credit, you really do try. You march in with purpose, head high, mentally chanting just the setting spray, just the setting spray.

But then there's the rainbow of displays the perfectly lit new arrivals, the smell of perfumes and new skincare calling your name like a siren, and it's game fucking over.

And because he said he's spoiling you today—and when Dick Grayson says it, he means it—he just trails behind with that little cart in hand, happy to be your personal pack mule. You bounce between aisles, swatching shimmery eyeshadows and highlighters, holding your hand under the store lighting. When both your hands are covered in glitter and pigment, he just offers his without a word, letting you swatch on him too.

By the time you finally make it to the register, your "quick stop" has turned into a tiny haul: your go to setting spray, a Pat McGrath palette you couldn't stop staring at, and what you decided—very firmly—was the prettiest highlighter and lipstick you'd ever seen from Fenty Beauty.

The next stop ends up being the candle store, which is dangerous territory for both your wallet and Dick's patience, but he follows you in without hesitation. You tell yourself you're just going to "look" and somehow you end up walking out with three. You insist they're totally different scents—warm vanilla sugar, toasted marshmallow, and something called campfire cuddles—but if you're being honest, they all smell like some version of cozy dessert. Dick swears you're trying to gaslight him on this one because to him, they all smell like the rest of the candles you have at home, but oh well.

Somewhere between the register and the exit, a little plant in the corner display catches your eye: a trailing pothos with heart shaped leaves in a soft sage green ceramic pot, perfect for hanging on the balcony. Never mind that your balcony already looks like a jungle, he doesn't have it in him to say no when you're looking at it like that. And, in fairness, you do actually take care of all your plants like a proud mama, so it's not like they're collecting dust, because they are thriving.

On the way back to the car, you pass a shop window and freeze. Two ridiculously cute plushies are sitting there, almost begging you to come inside, so you do. One is a squishy little axolotl in pastel pink, the other is a chubby black cat with embroidered sleepy eyes you claim are "so cute you want to die". They're soft, perfectly huggable, and when you press them to your chest, they make that tiny serotonin buzz spark in your brain, so naturally, they're coming home with you.

You're curled up in the passenger seat like a smug little goblin, plushies tucked into your arms as if someone might try to take them away. You've got that post shopping glow—smiling so hard your cheeks hurt—and when Dick leans over the console to press a soft kiss to your temple, you tilt your head toward him without even thinking.

Those big, shiny eyes find his and you murmur a little, "Thank you, baby."

He shakes his head. "Nothing to thank me for, my love. You deserved it."

Then, with that casual tone that means he's already made up his mind, he adds, "How about before we get home, we stop by the mall? I wanna buy something for myself. You in, or are you too tired?"

You pause like you're actually considering your energy levels, but it only lasts half a second before you perk right back up. "No, I'm okay, we can go," you decide, shifting in your seat.

He leans closer, brushing the tip of his nose against yours in a teasing, affectionate way before kissing it. "You sure?"

You nod without hesitation. "I mean... it's the least I can do after I dragged your pretty ass everywhere today."

That earns you a low chuckle, the kind that rumbles in his chest. "Okay," he says, "then we're quickly getting that and going home, yeah?"

"Yeah," you murmur, and then your palm is on his cheek, thumb stroking his skin.

You lean in to pepper his lips with a flurry of sweet, silly little kisses, the kind that make both of you laugh halfway through because your noses bump and you can't help but giggle against his mouth. You end up leaning over the console while he drives, cheek resting against his shoulder, both arms wrapped snug around his bicep.

Every time the car slows or stops, he tips his head just enough to press a kiss into your forehead, and with the way Gotham's traffic is crawling today, you get a lot of forehead kisses.

By the time you finally pull into the mall's parking lot forty minutes later, you feel like you've aged a year. The second he cuts the engine, you're fumbling with your seatbelt, but before you even manage to get it off, he's already at your door, opening it like it's some dramatic reveal and offering his hand to help you out.

Inside? Absolute fucking chaos. The weekend crowd is out in full force, and it's a wall of chatter, perfume, food court smells, and people walking way too slow in the middle of the walkway but you should've known. Gotham or not, malls don't mess around. High ceilings, shiny tiled floors, escalators that miraculously don't squeak, and storefronts lit up like movie sets. For a minute, it almost feels like you're not in Gotham. Almost.

Because of course, you still spot the occasional weirdo: some guy with Joker green hair and an "I <3 clowns" hoodie lurking by the pretzel stand, a girl in full Harley Quinn cosplay arguing with mall security, someone carrying a live freaking pigeon for reasons you will not be asking about. But it's Gotham, so you can't escape the freak factor entirely.

He tucks you into his side, his arm firm around your waist, steering you through the crowd without even thinking about it. And you, predictably, melt. You always do when his Nightwing instincts peek through like this. He's protective on the regular, sure, but this is different. More deliberate. A little more "I'm keeping you close because I don't want you to get jostled" more than "you're mine" and God if it doesn't make you all giddy inside.

It only takes a few minutes to reach his favorite perfume shop. The place smells like woods and citrus the moment you step in, and he goes straight for the shelf where his usual bottle waits, a blend of cedar, bergamot, and amber that's ridiculously sexy without being overpowering. It's been his scent for years, and it's your favorite on him. Comforting in a way that's also distracting because it clings to his shirts and pillows and makes you want to bury your face in them for hours.

Once he's paid, the two of you slip back into the flow of the mall, just strolling, no rush to get anywhere, and that's when you see it: a new lingerie store. Big glass storefront, gold accents everywhere, mannequins in the window wearing silk, lace, and the kind of delicate little straps that would make him look twice.

The lighting inside is warm and a little low, the walls lined with color coordinated sections—soft blush pinks, deep jewel tones, classic black and white. Even from outside, you can tell it's the kind of place that sells matching robes for triple what you'd pay anywhere else.

Truth be told, you do have plenty lingerie sets at home, but your eyes wander anyway. And so do his. Because let's be honest, Dick loves seeing you dress sexy just for him. Sometimes he surprises you with sets himself, all folded up in little gift boxes, sometimes you order them online to spring on him when he's back from a few days away.

He stops in front of the store, gives your hand a little squeeze, and tilts his head toward the entrance. "You wanna go in, sweet girl?"

You shrug, even though you're tempted. But he's already spoiled you today, and this place just screams fucking expensive. He knows that look in your eyes, the one that says maybe you've already done too much for me today. The one that comes from that part of you that's always been careful, modest with your own spending, even before him. You're not someone who needs shiny things to be happy, you've made that clear a hundred times over.

You'd rather have an afternoon tangled up with him on the couch than all the money in the world but that doesn't stop him from wanting to spoil you. Not because he's trying to prove anything, not because he's trying to buy your love—he knows he already has it—but because you deserve it. Every thoughtful detail, every soft little luxury. And if he can give it to you, why wouldn't he?

"Come on, my love," he says, already tilting his head toward the door.

You glance up at him like he’s lost his mind. "Baby, you spent too much money on my ass today. Let's just go home."

He chuckles, low and amused. "Okay, then this is like a little gift for myself, yeah?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Dick, this place looks expensive as fuck. And it probably is."

He smirks. "Okay, and?"

He doesn't even give you the chance to form your next protest before he's tugging you forward, hand warm and sure around yours, already dragging you inside.

Shit, it's somehow even more luxurious than it looked from the outside, like stepping straight into some glossy magazine spread where no one's ever heard of public transit or a day old takeout. The lighting is soft, casting this almost halo effect over everything, and the walls are lined with mannequins wearing lace so delicate it looks like it'd dissolve in water. Even the hangers are fancy: black velvet with tiny gold nameplates.

And the people? Oh, Gotham's elite are out tonight. Girls who laugh like the store owes them rent, all high cheekbones and glossy hair, draped in pearls and diamonds like they were born with them. Employees float around like they're on invisible roller skates, all dressed in sleek black, speaking in these soft, practiced voices that somehow make the prices feel more intimidating.

You catch sight of a random price tag and feel your stomach flip. Nope. Absolutely fucking not.

You stop in your tracks and tug on Dick's hand. "Baby, let's just go home. It's way too expensive."

He turns back, all easy smile and warm eyes, slides an arm around your waist to pull you against him and drops a kiss to your forehead. "Money's not a problem, my love. You know that."

Your brows knit, your voice dipping softer. "Yeah, I know, but... this is too much."

You glance around and instantly regret it because of course, a few of the women here have already clocked your man and they're looking at him like they'd eat him for dessert. Not new, sure, because he's hot, but right now it's just pissing you the fuck off.

Dick doesn't miss the way your shoulders tense. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw until your eyes find his again.

"Baby," he says, low and calm, "focus on me, okay? Let's pick you something hot. Imagine what I'm gonna do to you later when you wear it for me, yeah?"

And okay, that snaps you out of it real quick. You just nod and let him take the lead, because the second he starts flipping through the racks, it's obvious he's on a mission. And well, he kinda is because this man knows you. Knows your size without even glancing at the tag, knows the styles you love, the ones you'd never wear, and the colors that make you feel hot as hell.

It doesn't take him long to start pulling pieces, either. Every time he finds one, he holds it up against you with that little tilt of his head before adding it to the growing armful like he's curating a fucking museum exhibit. And when he's satisfied, he's already steering you toward the fitting rooms before you can so much as pretend to protest.

He stops an employee—a tall blonde in head to toe black with that "luxury retail" air about her—and asks if he can wait for you while you try them on. She's polite, all soft smiles and giggles that are way too sugary to be natural, and you have to physically fight the urge to roll your eyes when she brushes her hair back for no fucking reason.

She leads you both into a separate area, the kind that screams this is for our very important clients. Plush armchairs you could sink into for hours, tables with tiny bottles of imported water, and fitting rooms that aren't just those sad little cubicles with a half open curtain. No, these have full doors with locks, a borderline ridiculous amount of mirrors, and perfect lighting from every angle.

Once she's gone, Dick drops into one of the armchairs like he owns the place, grinning up at you. "Go on, my love. Try them on."

You chuckle, shaking your head as you take the pile from him. "You're so fucking spoiled."

"Yeah," he says, all unapologetic, "and so are you."

You roll your eyes but you're smiling as you slip into the room, locking the door behind you. You strip down, leaving your clothes folded neatly on the little bench, and step onto the ridiculously soft rug in the middle of the fitting room. It's plush enough that your toes sink into it, like they thought of everything to make you feel spoiled in here.

The first few pieces you try are... fine. Gorgeous, sure, but not really anything you don't already have at home. A couple of bodysuits in rich jewel tones, one a deep emerald with delicate lace climbing up the sides, the other black with sheer mesh panels that tease just enough skin. They hug you in all the right places, the straps sitting snug against your shoulders, but you've already got plenty like them hanging in your closet.

Then there are the camisoles—thin, floaty slips of fabric that are basically transparent, the kind that skim over your skin like water. One is pale champagne with a subtle shimmer in the light, the other soft lavender with lace edging the neckline. The fabric is stupidly soft, smooth enough to make you shiver when it brushes over your chest. Pretty? Absolutely, but they're not exactly your style.

And then you grab the babydolls. You weren't expecting to like them this much, but the second you pull the first one over your head, you actually stop and stare at yourself in the mirror. Totally see through. The fabric is weightless against your skin, falling just to the tops of your thighs, and your own red thong is peeking through like it's part of the design.

The lace cups are delicate and sheer, doing absolutely nothing to hide your nipples. If anything, they make them stand out more, framed in little scalloped edges. The straps are thin, the cut low enough to flash the perfect amount of cleavage, and the hem sways when you shift your hips.

The second one is even worse... or better, depending on how you look at it. Black lace, intricate patterns curling over your skin like shadows, the skirt opening in the front so it shows even more of you. It's playful and filthy at the same time, and you don't own anything like it.

You love how they look on you. Enough that you're suddenly picturing Dick's face when he sees you in one,how his eyes would darken, how his voice would drop low when he'd tell you how fucking beautiful you are. You can practically hear him murmuring it, can almost feel his hands sliding up under the lace, palms warm and greedy against your skin.

And before you even realize it, you're worked up. Like, embarrassingly so. Your nipples are stiff, your cheeks flushed, and your panties? Yeah, soaked through already. You try—really, really try—to think of literally anything else as you shimmy into the next babydoll. Like maybe the weather, or that weird pigeon you saw outside the mall, or the fact that you still need to restock your pantry. But none of it sticks.

Not when you know your boyfriend is sitting just a few feet away, probably slouched back in that armchair with his broad shoulders and those stupidly big hands resting on his thighs. Hands that can pin you in place or make you cum in under five minutes, hands that know every single way to ruin you. And you don't even want to get started on that perfect dick you're obsessed with: thick, heavy, and exactly the right kind of stretch you crave way too often.

The babydoll itself isn't helping your self control either. Burgundy lace with these tiny floral patterns that crawl across the cups and down the bodice, fading into sheer chiffon that flares lightly at your hips. The cups are soft and see through, no lining at all, and the neckline plunges low enough that your cleavage looks almost obscene.

The hem brushes your upper thighs when you shift, and the thin satin straps feel cool against your warm skin. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and have to swallow hard because well, you look hot. Like, take a picture and send it to him in the middle of a Batfam meeting hot.

The way the deep burgundy contrasts with your skin, the way your red thong peeks through the sheer skirt, the way your nipples press against the lace like they're begging for attention... God, it's actually fucking unfair.

And your body knows it. Every little movement makes your soaked panties rub against your swollen clit, the damp fabric catching just enough to send sharp little pulses of pleasure straight through you. Your thighs keep pressing together without you even realizing, trying to get more friction, and it's a losing battle.

That's when a cheeky and possibly really bad idea slips into your head. You bite your lip, mentally telling yourself to stop, to not do something insane, but your body has already decided for you. Before you can talk yourself down, you're easing the fitting room door open just enough to poke your head out.

To your insane, miraculous luck, it's just Dick in the little lounge area, no other customers, no hovering employees. He looks up from his phone, confusion flickering in his blue eyes as he stands and takes a step toward you.

"Everything okay, baby?"

You nod, maybe a little too quickly, and murmur, "Yeah, I just... I need a bit of help with... something."

His brows pull together, that little crease forming between them. "Uhm... do you want me to grab an employee or—"

He doesn't get to finish, because your hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist, and in one smooth, shameless move, you're tugging him inside. The door shuts behind him, the lock clicking into place, your pulse pounding in your ears.

The moment he steps inside, Dick's already trying to do the responsible thing. His gaze flickers down, just for a split second, and it's enough to make his jaw tighten before he drags his eyes right back up to your face.

"What are you doing? I'm not supposed to be in here—" he starts, but then you turn to him fully, that little tilt of your head and those wide, sweet eyes that he knows damn well are anything but innocent.

"I just wanted to know your opinion..." you murmur, "you know… since it's your money."

He pinches the bridge of his nose like he's trying to physically block the sight of you from sinking into his brain, but it's already way too late. He knows that if he lets his gaze drop again, if he actually takes in the way that burgundy lace clings to your body, he's done for. And yeah, he's Dick Grayson, he's faced death and chaos and a thousand kinds of trouble, but nothing undoes him like you do when you look at him like that.

"Baby, this is insane," he says, exhaling through his nose like he's steadying himself. "I need to get back out there—"

"But do you like it?" you purr, cutting him off as you close the distance between you.

You press yourself right up against him, your palms flattening over the muscles of his chest. Your head tips back just enough to keep those big, pretty eyes locked on his, all fake sweetness and heat.

God, he knows he's in trouble. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, trying to focus on your expression, even though he can feel your stiff nipples nudging into him through that thin, near nonexistent fabric. Every soft shift of your body just makes it worse—he can practically feel the heat radiating off you, the tension rolling off your skin.

"My love," he murmurs, catching your wrists gently, "please. I need to get out of here before one of those girls comes and finds me in here."

You pout like you've just been told you can't have dessert before dinner. "But it was so busy..." you argue softly, letting the words linger. "And no one probably knows you're in here, baby."

And before he can get another protest out, your hand slips between your bodies. You palm the front of his jeans and give the slightest squeeze. It's all you need to confirm it—he's already half hard.

The knowledge sends a hot, dizzy rush straight between your legs. Your pussy throbs in response, the ache inside you tightening, sharp and needy. You're already wet enough that the thin gusset of your thong is clinging to you, already desperate for him to do something about the pulse between your thighs.

Meanwhile, Dick's head is a mess of fuck, fuck, fuck because he knows damn well he should pull away, step out before this spirals but your touch makes every inch of him tighten. But he's remembering how you looked pressed against the mattress last night, how easily your legs wrap around his waist, how you sound when you're dripping for him and well... that's not helping.

He shakes his head like he's trying to physically rattle himself back to his senses, to remember that you're in a damn mall and this is a terrible idea. He catches your hand—your shameless little hand that's rubbing along the thick line of his hardening dick like you have zero concept of mercy and wraps his fingers around yours.

"Baby, please. Just..." he exhales hard through his nose, his voice pleading. "let's get whatever you want and go home, yeah?"

You huff, crossing your arms in a perfect picture of mock annoyance, which only serves to push your tits up in that delicate lace babydoll and it's like you're trying to kill him. His gaze flickers—just for a second—and his brain completely blanks at how good you look in it.

He grunts, adjusting his cock like that's somehow going to make him less aware of the way it's throbbing. "Sweet girl, this—"

But you're already interrupting, stepping into him and taking his hand about to prove a point he's not ready for. You guide it down between your thighs, pressing it right against your pussy. The lace is barely there, but it's warm and damp from just how much you need him.

"I want you so bad, baby," you whine, voice all soft and sweet.

You grind into his palm, the friction making your breath catch, and that's it, his last bit of self control snaps like a cheap thread. He pins you back against the changing room door so fast the little metal hook rattles.

His voice is rough when he says, "You really wanna act like a slut in the middle of the fucking mall?"

Your gasp is sharp because Dick never talks to you like that. Sure, he's called you a brat, shoved you face down on the bed, fucked you until you couldn't think straight, but slut? That's new.

He realizes it the second it's out of his mouth. His expression falters, his voice stuttering, "Fuck, I'm sorry, I—"

"Say it again," you breathe, eyes wide.

He groans, low and guttural, before closing the space and crashing his mouth onto yours. The kiss is a mess—hot, wet, desperate. His tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, licking into you like he's been starving. Your mouths slide together, teeth clicking, breaths mingling. He tilts his head, deepening it, his hand still cupping you, rubbing slow circles over your pussy through the lace of your panties.

You moan into his mouth, the sound caught between you, and he pulls back just enough for his forehead to rest against yours.

"If you wanna do this here," he says, his voice low and sharp, "you'd better keep quiet for me. Can you do that?"

You nod instantly, way too eager, and suddenly, the risk of getting caught feels a hell of a lot smaller compared to how badly he wants you.

"Fuck," he mutters, before his mouth is on yours again.

You fist the front of his shirt with one hand while the other rubs his cock through his jeans, feeling the heat of it straining against the denim. You suck on his tongue just to drag a little groan out of him, your free hand sliding up into his soft hair, gripping tight to keep him right where you want him.

He breaks the kiss so suddenly it leaves you chasing after him, lips still parted, breath shaky. His hand slips from between your thighs, and you whimper at the loss.

"B–baby—"

But he cuts you off, catching your wrist before you can grab him again. Without a word, he turns you around and guides you toward the full length mirror on the wall, his body crowding yours from behind.

You glance at your reflection, still flushed and messy from that kiss. "Dick, what are you—"

"I want you to see yourself, my love," he murmurs, his voice warm in your ear. "Look in the mirror for me."

And you do. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips swollen and slick. Your nipples are pebbling against the sheer fabric, your thighs pressing together because you're already half gone just from the way he's looking at you in the glass. You try to look away, but his hand comes up, fingers curling around your jaw with a gentle grip and he leans down until his lips brush your ear.

"Be a good girl and look in the fucking mirror."

You swallow hard, eyes darting back to your reflection just as his hips press forward. The thick, hard line of his cock grinds against the swell of your ass through his jeans, and the pressure makes you shiver.

Both his hands slide up slowly, almost lazily, until they hook into the thin straps of the babydoll. He tugs them down over your shoulders, peeling the fabric away until it pools uselessly at your waist. Your tits bounce free, nipples hard and aching in the cool air and you gasp when his big hands cup them from behind, warm palms covering the swell, thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks. He toys with you, rolling and circling until your knees threaten to give out.

"So fucking needy, huh?" he rasps against your ear. "Couldn't wait until we got home?"

You shake your head without thinking, your breath hitching. He answers with a low hum, then pinches both nipples just enough to make you whine, the sharpness sending a hot pulse straight between your legs.

He dips his head, lips dragging over the slope of your shoulder before he noses along your neck. You melt into him instantly, tilting your head just enough to give him more access. The first slow lick up your throat makes your knees tremble, and the way he follows it with a wet kiss, then another, then a sharp little suck that's definitely going to bruise makes your pussy throb so hard you have to bite your lip.

You try to push back into him, desperate for more contact, for him to finally do something. And it works. Your bare ass brushes over the thick length straining against his jeans, and he hisses through his teeth.

"Shit," he mutters before it slips out, "such a little slut, huh?"

God, the way he says it... you almost moan right then and there, but you bite it back, chest heaving. He catches it all in the mirror: the flush in your cheeks, the way your lips part like you're dying to make a sound and he can't fucking believe how much you eat this up.

Because Dick? He's not the type. Sure, he teases. Sure, he fucks you until you can't think straight, makes you gag on his cock when you're both in the mood for it, slaps your ass, and maybe, on rare, heated occasions, wraps a hand around your throat or yank your hair to keep you where he wants you. But filthy names? That's never really been his lane.

Yet here you are, squirming for him, biting down on a moan like it's going to save you, pupils blown wide just because he called you a slut and fuck if that doesn't light something dangerous in his chest.

The longer he watches you in the mirror, the more he wants to see what else you'd do for him if he kept talking like that. The more he wants to ruin you right here in this freaking fitting room until you're dripping down your thighs.

His voice drops to that low, rough tone that always makes your knees weak. "You look so fucking hot right now."

The praise makes your stomach flip, your hips shift and you let out the tiniest whimper before you can stop it.

He catches your gaze in the mirror, his eyes steady on yours. "Shhh, baby. Keep quiet for me, yeah?"

You nod, lips pressing together tight.

"Good fucking girl."

One of his hands stays exactly where it is, kneading your tits, teasing at your hard nipples until your breath stutters. The other slides down the front of your body unhurried, until it's pushing the silky hem of the babydoll higher.

"Keep this here."

His voice is soft but there's no room for argument, and you don't even hesitate. With shaky fingers, you grab the bunched up fabric and hold it at your waist, chest still rising and falling way too fast.

His palm hovers for a second, just enough to make your pulse trip before he finally cups your pussy through the thin lace, and the first slow rub has you sucking in a sharp breath. You're so wet the heat of it seeps through, his fingers gliding over your slit, stopping only to circle over your swollen clit. Even through the fabric, the friction is enough to make your thighs twitch.

He groans under his breath, his chest pressing harder against your back. "You're so fucking wet, baby..."

You bite down on another sound, gripping the fabric at your waist tighter when he hooks two fingers into the edge and pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening pussy to the cool air, and his eyes drop to the reflection in the mirror.

You start to look away again, embarrassed by just how wrecked you look, but his quiet tsk pulls your gaze right back.

"Look in the mirror, my love," he murmurs. "You're so fucking beautiful."

The words hit low in your belly, and you do as you're told. You barely get a second to breathe before you feel his fingers, featherlight at first, gliding along your slit. Not even dipping in, just circling, teasing, collecting the slick that's already dripping down your folds. The pads of his fingers are warm and slow, dragging up to your clit but never staying there long enough to give you relief.

When he finally circles your clit with lazy little strokes, your whole body folds inward. Your knees almost give out, but he catches you with his free arm, wrapping it tight around your waist, holding you snug against his chest.

You're trying so hard to stay quiet, but every slow, maddening drag of his fingers makes you want to whine, to beg, to let everyone in this fucking store know exactly what he's doing to you. You're needy, more than needy, and you'd do anything if it meant he'd give you more. The reflection in the mirror is almost too much, your flushed face and parted lips a mirror of exactly how close you are to falling apart.

And Dick knows. Oh, he fucking knows. His cock is hard and aching against your ass, throbbing with every small shift of your hips. Precum is leaking into his boxers, warm spurts that only make him more restless. He's fighting the urge to just yank your panties all the way off and sink into you right here, because God, you look good, you smell good, and every time his fingers drag over your clit, your mouth opens on silent moans.

Your slick coats his fingers, and when he drags them lower again, the wet little squelch is obscene in the quiet between songs playing over the store's speakers. Thank fuck for that background music, because without it, every wet sound would be echoing through the fitting room.

Every time you think he's about to finally give you what you want—just sink those fingers inside you—he pulls back. It's cruel in that way only Dick can be, all patient and steady while you're practically vibrating out of your skin.

You're already begging, your voice breaking. "Please, baby, f-fuck—"

And instead of giving in, he slides over your clit again. Just a lazy little circle, enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch while he watches you struggle to keep quiet.

He leans down, resting his chin on your shoulder so close you can feel his breath ghost against your cheek. His chest presses firm into your back, his cock heavy and hard against your ass. He inhales deeply, and you realize he's smelling you—smelling how sweet and warm you are right now.

"Please what, hmmm?"

His voice is teasing because he already knows the answer but wants to see you squirm trying to say it. You try to guide his hand down to where you need him most, fingers wrapping around his wrist, tugging toward your dripping entrance. But of course, he doesn't move. His grip on your waist tightens, holding you right where he wants you.

His fingertips drift away from your clit and slide lower, tracing along your soaked slit before dipping in, just barely. Just the tip of his middle finger, pressing past your entrance enough for you to feel that little stretch before he's pulling back out to drag over your folds again.

You gasp, sharp and needy, and he answers with a low hum, his mouth finding the curve of your neck, tongue sliding slow over your skin before he sucks lightly, just enough to make your pulse thump there while his fingers spread your lips.

Then his middle finger dips inside again, this time a little deeper. Not enough to satisfy but enough to make you gasp and clench around him, your walls fluttering, begging for more.

You keep squirming in his arms, hips twitching with every little brush of his fingers, every pass over your aching clit. It's too much and not enough, and you feel like you're gonna fucking lose your mind if he doesn't stop teasing and just fuck you already.

"Baby, please..." you whimper, grinding back against him like it might help, like maybe the pressure of his cock against your ass will give you something, anything.

But all he does is hum, so steady it drives you insane. "Please what?" he murmurs, voice warm and smug right at your ear. "Use your words, my love. What's wrong, huh?"

You open your mouth to answer, but the second he circles your clit again, it knocks your brain sideways and all that comes out is a shaky, desperate little moan.

"D-Dick," you whine, voice all breathy and fucked out already. "Please, I need you to—"

He cuts you off with a teasing, "Need me to what, sweet girl?"

You try to pull his hand down again, to guide those perfect fingers where you want them, but he doesn't budge. He laughs, the bastard, and something in you just snaps.

You say it louder than you meant to, all breathless and ragged, "I need your fucking fingers inside me—"

And oh, that does it. He growls, low and sharp, and in the next second he's got his fingers sinking into your dripping pussy.

"Yeah," he mutters, already curling them deep. "That's what you needed, huh?"

You nod so fast it's almost pathetic, a choked sound catching in your throat as your thighs go weak.

His tone goes soft again, almost pitying, and you swear it makes you wetter. "I know, baby. I know. But you gotta keep quiet for me, yeah? Or I'll stop."

That has you biting your cheeks hard, the inside of your mouth stinging where your teeth sink in. You're so desperate to be good for him, so fucking close to crying from how badly you want this. His fingers move deep and steady like he's done this a million times. And he has. Dick knows your body like a song he never forgot the lyrics to, every note perfect.

And God, you can hear it: the squelch of your pussy around his fingers, the slick sounds loud and clear in the silence between the soft music still playing faintly outside. His hand works between your legs, fingers plunging in deep, coming out shiny with your slick only to sink right back in, all the way to the knuckle before he curls them. Your head falls back against his shoulder with a soft, breathless moan.

"Look," he murmurs, nuzzling your jaw as his eyes stay fixed on the mirror. "Look how fucking good you're taking my fingers."

And you do. You watch him finger you, watch your own face melt in the reflection, all flushed cheeks and glassy eyes and parted lips, and you swear it's the hottest fucking thing you've ever seen. His cock is pressed right against your ass, throbbing, and you can feel how tense his body is, and you know he's holding himself back, but only barely.

His fingers fuck into you slow at first, just two, but they're thick, stretching your pussy wide as he scissors them apart and curls them deep. And God, the angle. He knows exactly where to press, dragging against that spot that makes your thighs twitch and your breath catch. He does it over and over again, a steady rhythm, slick and messy and deliberate.

"Fuck, baby," he murmurs, eyes still locked on the mirror like he's hypnotized. "You're so fucking good for me."

It's actually filthy, the way he says it, and it's not like he says anything new. But it's like praise and obsession and awe all wrapped into one, and it makes your walls flutter around his fingers. Makes you clamp down, even wetter, if that was fucking possible.

He groans again. He has to, he's watching his fingers disappear into your pussy over and over, watching how easily they glide in and out of you, how slick and messy and soaked you are. It's obscene. Every thrust drags a new wet squelch from between your legs, lewd and shameless and echoing beneath the soft music playing over the speakers outside.

He can't stop watching. He should. He knows he should. Knows this is insane.

You're in a fitting room from all places, in the middle of a damn mall, and if anyone walks back here, you're done for. But he can't make himself care, can't make himself stop.

You're so fucking hot like this, needy and squirmy, grinding down on his hand, babbling soft, broken little words he can barely understand but feels in his fucking chest.

"Dick—"

"Please, baby—"

"So good, f-feels so good—"

Your voice is breathless, fucked out, falling apart in his arms and God, he's never seen anything more beautiful than the way you look right now. The way your eyes keep fluttering shut, the way your lips tremble, the way your hips can't stay still as you keep fucking yourself down on his fingers.

"You're such a little slut," he grits out, the words sharp but so full of affection it makes your head spin. "Fucking my fingers in public. Couldn't wait, huh? Had to make me touch you right here."

He's practically panting, though. His dick is rock hard, straining in his boxers and leaking more than it ever has from just touching you. He can feel the damp spot spreading at the front of his pants. He's gonna lose it. You're gonna break him.

You whimper again, trembling against him, your voice catching like you're about to sob. He curls his fingers deep and just right and you keen, whole body seizing, too much and not enough all at once.

"Fucking shit," he growls, watching the way your pretty pussy flutters around his fingers. "You're so fucking wet, baby. You're gonna soak the floor."

And you don't even care. You can't. You're so close to breaking, your brain barely holding on, mouth parted, breath shallow, eyes unfocused as you stare at the mirror, at him, at your glistening cunt swallowing his fingers over and over again.

"Tell me," he says roughly. "Tell me how bad you want it."

You try to speak, you really do. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a cracked little moan that dies on your tongue when he drags his palm up against your clit the next time his fingers sink in deep.

"F-fu—D-Dick—" you gasp, the fabric of the babydoll slipping just the slightest bit in your hands but he catches it instantly because of course he does.

His voice is low in your ear, teeth grazing the shell of it as he murmurs, "Keep it up. We don't want a mess on it before I can get it for you, do we?"

You shake your head, barely holding on, knuckles white from how hard you're clutching the hem of the damn thing.

Your legs shake and twitch with every stroke of his fingers inside you, and you swear to God if it weren't for the arm he's got wrapped tight around your waist, you'd be a melted puddle on the floor by now.

You choke on a moan. His fingers are soaked, dripping with how wet you are, and the sounds alone are enough to make your brain short circuit. The wet slap of skin, the messy drag of his palm over your clit with every pump, but you can't even think about telling him to stop.

You can't believe this is happening, can't believe how hot this is, how fucking wet you are. It's like your brain is foggy, all thought reduced to the way he fucks his fingers into your pussy, slow and steady and so deep, and how his palm grinds up against your swollen clit every time he thrusts in.

It's perfect because he knows exactly how to touch you, how to fuck you open with his fingers. He knows how to pull sounds out of you that make your thighs shake, how to make you feel so good you forget where the fuck you are. And maybe it's the setting. Maybe it's how risky this is, how quiet you have to be. Maybe that's why it's so much worse right now.

But you're so close it's almost pathetic.

Your pussy clenches around his fingers, trying to pull him in deeper, tighter, desperate to be filled. You're aching, soaking, dripping and you can feel the sticky mess running down your thighs and slicking up his fingers, can hear the little squelch every time he pulls out just to push back in, curling against that perfect spot. You're fucking falling apart, and Dick knows.

"Look at you," he murmurs, lips dragging down your neck. "Greedy little thing. Wanna soak me before I even fuck you, huh?"

"F-fuck," you gasp, voice barely a whisper, eyes fluttering in the mirror as your thighs tremble. "B-baby—"

It's building. You feel it like a wave, all molten heat and pulsing tension right under your skin. Low in your belly, tighter and tighter, your pussy clenching around his fingers every time he fucks them in. Every slick stroke makes your knees buckle, makes your jaw drop, makes you whimper through your teeth.

Dick moans against your neck, his breath hot as he licks up the side of your throat and sucks just enough to leave another mark that makes your whole body jolt.

"That's it," he rasps, low and way too fond of how fucked out you sound. "My good girl. You're gonna cum on my fingers, huh? Can feel it, baby. So close for me already."

His hand slides from your waist and back up to your chest, greedy and rough because he needs to touch you, needs to feel every inch of you while you fall apart on him. His palm cups your tits, fingers tugging and thumbing your nipples, teasing them until you're gasping for air and squirming like a fucking mess in front of him.

Your ass pushes back against him because he's right there, hot and hard and grinding into you like it's taking everything in him not to just shove his jeans down and fuck you properly. His dick is twitching, rubbing right up against your ass every time you move and making both of you groan under your breath.

"Fuck, you're so hot. So wet, so needy, shit—look at you, baby. Look at how desperate you are for it."

And you do. You can't stop because the mirror is right in front of you, giving you the full fucking view of how he's got his fingers buried in your pussy, soaked and glistening, how your tits bounce under his touch, how flushed and pretty your face is while you fall apart for him. Your mouth is open, your brows pinched, and God, your pussy won't stop clenching around his fingers as you're grinding down on them, chasing it, shameless.

He groans again, a broken little sound against your ear, and the way his cock throbs against your ass makes you dizzy.

Dick's losing it. He's supposed to be the composed one. The level headed one. The good guy. But your pussy is so warm and wet around his fingers—soaked—that all those noble intentions are a distant blur right now. His fingers glide in and out like your cunt wants to keep him there, sucking around the knuckles every time he curls them, all tight and velvety and dripping for him.

You're wetter than usual. He knows your body, knows every sigh, every tremble, the exact pitch of your breath when you're close. But this is different. It's like the setting has got you high, like the risk of someone walking in makes your pussy throb for it. And he can't even blame you because fuck, if he wasn't already addicted to you before, he sure as hell is now.

You're being so good for him, too. Trying to stay quiet, even though your legs are shaking and your whole body is arching into him, seconds away from breaking. He knows how hard it is for you to stay quiet. He can feel it in the way you tremble, how your breaths catch in your throat instead of spilling out loud. And God, you're still holding the babydoll up for him with those trembling hands like the good girl you are, so fucking obedient even when you're seconds from coming undone.

He ruts his hips against your ass once, just once, and it nearly kills him. His cock is throbbing, so hard he's lightheaded. The tip is damp with precum, his boxers uncomfortably soaked, clinging to him with every small roll of his hips. He wants—needs, really—to be inside you, to feel that slick heat around his dick, to fuck you dumb until you can't remember your own name. But not yet, not until he makes you cum.

"Gonna cum for me, sweet girl?" he murmurs against your throat, voice low and wrecked. "Come on, I know you're close. Let me feel it, baby."

Because yeah, his dick is fucking aching, but making you fall apart first? That's what he wants more than anything. You don't even mean to, your hand just moves, like your body has got a mind of its own, and you dig your nails into his forearm, clutching hard as your orgasm crashes through you. Your head drops back onto his shoulder, lips parted in a silent moan you barely manage to muffle, and he feels it. All of it.

You're gushing all over his hand, slick dripping onto his fingers, down to his wrist, so warm and wet it makes him moan into your neck.

"Fuck," he breathes, completely ruined by how you feel. "That's it, baby, just like that. Good girl. Such a good fucking girl for me."

He doesn't stop, just keeps working his fingers into your messy pussy like he's obsessed, dragging them deep and slow, fucking you through it while you're still clenching down around him. His palm grinds against your clit with every thrust, slick and sloppy, making your whole body twitch while he keeps you on that high.

You turn your head to him on instinct, like you're searching for something—air, maybe, or just him—and he leans in immediately, catching your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss. It's all lips and teeth and tongue, hot and wet and needy. His mouth swallows every soft whimper, every shaky gasp as you try to come down, and he moans into it when your cunt tightens all over again, spasming around his fingers.

You kiss like that for what feels like forever—your lips swollen, breaths all tangled, and you can't stop sucking on his tongue. His fingers are still between your legs, rubbing your clit slow and deliberate, and every pass makes your thighs tremble. You're already sensitive, already on the edge again, and it's too much but not enough.

Not when he's still rutting against your ass like he's gonna cum just from grinding against you. You feel the thick weight of his cock in his jeans, rock hard and probably leaking, and God, it's making your head spin.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps his lips pressed to yours in little wet kisses. Your mouth is still parted slightly, trying not to whimper, but he sees it all. Every twitch of your brow, every little gasp.

"You okay, my love?" he asks, quiet and warm, fingers still gliding slow through your dripping folds like he's trying to soothe you, not drive you insane.

You nod, shaky, breath caught in your throat when he rubs your clit again, and he leans in to kiss the tip of your nose, so gentle it makes your heart ache.

"Ready to go home?" he asks.

You shake your head.

His brow twitches. "No?"

"N-no," you whisper.

There's a beat of silence before he sighs, voice strained. "Baby—"

But you cut him off, blinking up at him with those big, glossy eyes and murmuring, "I want you so bad."

His jaw tightens. "I know. I want you too, but maybe we should—"

"No."

His hands still. "Then what do you want?" he asks, trying not to lose it completely.

You take his hand off your pussy for a second, just long enough to bring your own down, slipping between your overheated bodies. Your fingers find his dick through his jeans, and you give him one slow stroke and you swear you feel it throb for you.

"I want you here. You're so hard, baby," you murmur, needy and a little breathless. "Fuck me."

And the second it leaves your mouth, your thoughts go quiet. There's nothing else. Nothing logical, nothing calm, nothing grounded, just the sound of the music muffled outside the fitting room, the heat of his body behind yours, the slick between your thighs, the ache in your gut and the way your whole body is screaming for him.

You need him to fuck you, here and now because you can't wait until you get home.

You expect him to say no. Of course you do, because you know Dick. He's not risky like this. He's careful. He respects you. Loves you. Always wants to take care of you, not fuck you senseless in public where anyone could knock on the door and ruin everything.

So when he groans, deep and rough, right against your mouth, and says, "Bend over for me," it doesn't even register at first.

You blink at him, lips parted, stunned and breathless. "W-What—"

His eyes are dark, blown out, voice low when he says again, "Bend over for me."

You freeze like a deer in headlights, but he's already moving. One big, warm hand takes your wrist, the other pressing between your shoulder blades as he gently bends you toward the mirrored wall. You barely have time to gasp as he nudges your hands toward the horizontal bar across the glass.

"Grab that," he murmurs, mouth close to your ear. "Just like that, baby. That's it."

The bar is cool under your fingers, but you don't feel it—your whole body is throbbing, buzzing with adrenaline and lust. You're still flushed and wet and dizzy, and when he crouches slightly to hook his fingers in your panties and tug them down just enough to expose your soaked cunt, you shiver.

He doesn't pull them all the way off, though. He just lets them stretch around your thighs, bunched and useless, more in the way than anything and for some reason, that makes you wetter. He fists the hem of the babydoll and hikes it back up, exposing the curve of your ass, the sheen of slick between your legs, the way your pussy clenches every time he touches you.

"Wider, baby," he murmurs, palm guiding the inside of your thigh. "Let me see that pretty little pussy."

You whimper, grabbing the bar a little tighter, and he hums, pleased. He steps in close, one hand sliding down the small of your back while the other drags down your inner thigh, grazing dangerously close to your cunt.

He teases, fingers gliding between your folds again, slow and deliberate, smearing your slick up and down your pussy like he's memorizing every swollen inch. He traces your entrance, barely dipping the tip of his finger in, then pulls away just to circle your clit. And you can feel how puffy and sensitive it is, how close you still are from earlier, how you're practically twitching against his hand.

"B-Baby—"

You're about to protest, about to whine out some desperate little plea to quit teasing but then you hear it.

That soft clink of metal. The low scrape of his zipper. The sound shoots right to your clit, and any thought of begging him to hurry dies in your throat. Your breath catches as you hear the faint rustle of denim, the low grunt he lets out when he shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free his cock. You don't even need to look back, you feel it. Feel the heat of him, the weight, the desperation in the way he presses in close behind you again.

"So wet for me," he murmurs behind you, fucking obsessed with the way your pussy clenches around nothing before you feel the swollen head of his dick against your soaked folds.

You gasp, and he does too, low and rough, like it hurts to hold back. He rocks his hips just enough to drag the head up and down your sopping cunt, spreading the mess of precum and arousal all over your clit, your slit, your thighs, until his cock is slick and glossy and gliding like velvet.

It's sticky too, wet in a way that clings, that strings between your folds and his tip when he pulls back just a little. It glistens in the low light, obscene and pretty, and every time he ruts back through it, your pussy gives a squelch that makes his breath hitch.

"Jesus, baby," he groans, hand gripping your hip tight. "You're fucking soaked."

You are. You know you are. You can feel the mess between your legs, smeared on your inner thighs, all over the head of his cock. He's rubbing it in slow and so fucking lazy, and you know it's making everything worse. You're leaking, aching, your walls fluttering just from the idea of him finally sinking in.

"Don't move," he warns, breath ragged. "Just—just stay right there, baby."

You whimper, eyes fluttering, fingers tightening around the bar as he finally lines himself up, finally presses the fat head of his cock right at your entrance. His jaw clenches. His fingers dig into your hips. Every single responsible thought he's had goes flying out the fucking window.

He loves this pussy. He loves how you feel, how you squeeze around him just right, soft and hot and so fucking good it borders on obscene. But right now, you're wetter than he's ever felt you. And he should be worried. You're in public, after all. There's music blasting, sure, but not enough to hide everything. But all he can fucking think about is how wet you are, how warm and soft you feel, how your pussy always hugs him just right.

He hasn't even sunk into you yet and he already feels like he's gonna lose his fucking mind. Your pussy is always like this. Tight and wet, warm enough to melt every bit of tension out of him the second he's inside, and the way you grip him when you're this desperate, wrecked for it? It fucking breaks him.

He finally slides inside slow and steady, inch by inch, and your whole body goes tight. Both of you try to bite back the moans that rise up instantly but fuck, he bottoms out and it's impossible not to make some kind of noise. Even if it's just the soft, broken whimper you let out as your pussy adjusts around him, fluttering tight and wet around his cock. You feel so full so fast your knees nearly give.

He doesn't move yet. Just stays deep, buried to the base, hips pressed flush against your ass while he exhales like he's just been punched in the gut.

"Holy shit..." he mutters, low and wrecked.

You're soaking. Tight. Gushing around him already. Your pussy clings to him, gripping around every thick inch of his dick until he twitches deep inside you, breath catching again.

"Fuck, baby," he grits out, his hands smoothing down your back before sliding down to your ass. "You feel—God, you feel so good."

He palms both cheeks, spreading you open just enough to see, and the view makes his brain short circuit. You're already dripping around the base of his dick, slick pooling and glistening as he stays inside, pulsing against your walls.

And then, finally, he starts to move. Not hard. Not fast. Just deep. Controlled. Each slow thrust pushes every inch of his cock into your sloppy pussy before he draws back just enough to do it again, over and over, fucking you with that same slow intensity that always leaves your legs shaking.

Your hands clamp tighter on the bar in front of you, white knuckled as you take it.

Every stroke drags a soft, aching gasp out of you—so full, so hot, so deep it knocks the breath right out of your lungs. God, his dick feels so fucking good inside you.

Thick and heavy and hot, filling you up so perfectly it makes your pussy squeeze down every time he hits just right. You push your hips back to meet every thrust, needing more, needing to take all of him because you can't get enough, because he's giving it to you exactly how you want it.

His grip on your hips tightens and you glance up, eyes meeting his in the mirror. He's watching the way he fucks you, watching his cock slide in and out of your dripping pussy. His brows are drawn together in that fucked out, focused look you love, jaw clenched as he fights every instinct to just lose control and fuck you rough and fast.

And he knows you're watching him. You see the second his eyes meet yours in the mirror and the second they flick down again.

"Jesus..." he groans, voice breaking, hips stuttering just once.

You flutter around his dick, tight and greedy and he swears he's gonna lose it. He fucks you slow, deliberate. Each thrust deep and steady, like he's savoring every single second of being inside you because God, he is. Even though every instinct in him is screaming to grab your hips and start pounding into you like he needs to, he doesn't. He can't. Not here.

Not when the walls are thin and the music isn't quite loud enough to cover the sound of his hips meeting your ass. Not when someone could walk by. Not when your soft gasps are already threatening to get louder and he's trying so hard not to groan like an animal just from the way your pussy clenches around him every time he bottoms out.

He's so deep inside you his tip kisses your womb, thick cock stretching you out so perfectly that you're dripping more with every push, wet little squelches filling the air as he sinks into you again and again. You're so warm and so wet it's insane—you're practically milking him already and he's barely even started, hot spurts of precum twitching out every time your needy walls flutter around him.

His eyes keep dragging from the mess between your legs to your reflection in the mirror in front of you. Glossy, dazed eyes blinking up at him through your lashes, mouth open in little breathless gasps. Tits bouncing every time his hips roll into yours. You're flushed, sweaty, clinging to the bar like your life depends on it.

"Look at you," he pants, "taking it so good, baby."

You whimper when he bottoms out again and his hands slide up, one to your waist, the other up your spine, over your shoulder, palm dragging your hair aside so he can see all of you.

"You're so fucking perfect," he says. "You feel unreal."

You try to respond but your voice breaks, and that only makes him groan, head tipping forward, eyes fluttering shut for just a second when your pussy clenches down again, tighter than before. And then he pulls out, almost all the way just to see it: your slick coating the entire length of his cock, the creamy mess shining at the base.

He groans, breath shaky as he drags the head of his dick through your folds once just to feel your slick again before pressing back in, slow but needy, until you're stretched around him again.

He buries himself to the hilt, gasping, "Fuck—"

"Y-Yes, b-baby—more," you stutter, voice all breathy and broken, "please, just like that—fuck—"

And he groans, low and ragged and from somewhere deep in his chest, your voice alone nearly snapping the last bit of control he had left.

"Jesus..." he pants, hips stuttering as he starts to fuck you a little rougher, still mindful of the noise, still holding back that full blown desperation in his bones, but you can feel the tension in him.

The heat, that sweet, shaky rhythm giving way to something harder, something needier. Each thrust hits deeper, his cock dragging along your walls, thick and pulsing inside your soaked pussy. You can feel how wet you are, how messy this is. Your slick is all over him, coating his cock, dripping down his balls, sticking to your thighs, and every time he rocks into you, it's just a filthy little chorus of squelches and skin slapping together.

You swear you hear him whimper when your pussy clenches tight again. And the angle, God, the angle is insane. Bent over like this, your back arched, hands gripping the bar, his dick hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. The stretch is deeper, thicker, fuller. You can barely keep yourself upright, your knees wobbling with every thrust that knocks the breath out of you.

He leans over your back just enough to mutter, "So fucking perfect like this. This pussy, fuck—"

You shudder when his hand slips down again, finding your swollen clit like he knows exactly what you need, and of course he does. Dick rubs it slow at first, just to tease, just to make you gasp and twitch beneath him, and then circles tighter, faster, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

You bite your lip so hard it stings, fighting the urge to moan out loud. Your whole body jerks when he fucks into you harder, his cock driving in deep, all the way to the hilt, his balls sticky and wet as they slap against your pussy.

His breath is hot and ragged behind you, voice strained as he murmurs, "Yeah, you're taking it so good, baby. You love being bent over for me, don't you?"

Your only answer is a soft, wrecked whimper. You can't even speak because you're so close again. And he knows. He feels it in the way you tighten around him, in the way your whole body shakes under his hand, in the way your thighs tremble like you're about to break apart if he keeps fucking you just like this. And he will. He has to. He's not stopping until he feels you cum all over his cock.

"Yeah, that's it," he growls, voice practically a snarl behind you as his fingers work your clit. "That's my good fucking girl, taking it all."

You gasp. Choke on it, actually, your mouth falling open as your brain starts to short circuit, every thought fizzing out under the weight of everything he's doing to you. Because he's really fucking you. Rough. Deep. Fast.

Each thrust punches out a little breath, the bar you're holding the only thing keeping you from collapsing. Your pussy is so slick and swollen it's obscene—his cock glides in so smoothly, thick and heavy, perfect, but you still feel the stretch, still flutter helplessly around every inch of him. Especially the tip. God, the tip. It keeps kissing your cervix, that firm nudge that knocks your thoughts sideways every damn time.

And he's wrecking you, just wrecking you.

His hand is ruthless on your clit, rubbing fast little circles with the perfect pressure while his other hand holds your hip. And his cock... Jesus. It's pounding into you, gliding through the flood between your thighs, your pussy practically gushing with every thrust. Every time he pulls back, it's so wet it squelches, creamy slick clinging to the base of his dick before he shoves it right back in to the hilt with a filthy little grunt.

You're drooling. Literally. Mouth parted, breath fogging up the mirror, tongue half. out because your brain is officially soup and you can't think. You loved sex with Dick from the very beginning—sweet and hot and intimate—but this is something else.

It's filthy. Mindless. Fucking perfect. You manage to look up, eyes catching the mirror and oh, fuck. He looks insane.

Hair falling in his face, flushed from the neck up, sweat at his temples, pupils blown wide as he watches his dick disappear into your sloppy, dripping cunt over and over again. His teeth are gritted like he's trying not to moan, trying not to lose it, but his hips don't stop. They keep hammering into you, that gorgeous dick filling you so deep it feels like he's in your stomach.

"Feel that?" he pants, snapping his hips again, letting you hear just how messy it is. "So wet—fuck—never get tired of this tight little pussy."

Your moan comes out broken, muffled against your own shoulder as he fucks you through another shudder. Your thighs are shaking, your grip slipping on the bar, your whole body arching off instinct alone.

You're so close you can taste it and so can he because his voice drops low, right against your ear, hot and wrecked as he growls, "Gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my dick like the desperate little slut you are?"

That's what does it. Not the way he fucks you, though Jesus, that alone could ruin you. Not the way his dick pounds into your soaked, overstimulated pussy with those deep, relentless thrusts that make your knees buckle. No, it's the filth in his voice, that fucking word again: slut.

And just like that, you break. It's instant. Blinding. You cum so hard you almost scream, your head dropping forward with a choked little sob as your pussy clenches around his cock, walls fluttering with desperate, wet spasms. It feels like your whole body is shattering—legs trembling, cunt squeezing him so tight he groans behind you, fingers digging into your flushed skin.

"Fuck—there you go, baby," he pants, fucking you through it, never letting up for even a second. "That's it. So good for me. Look at you, making a mess on my dick."

You can't look at anything. Your vision has gone white. Your jaw is slack. You're gasping like you can't get air, your brain turned to mush while he rubs tight little circles over your pulsing clit, coaxing it all out of you like he's cruel, like he wants to see you cry. And you are.

Tears gathering in your lashes, lips parted in a silent moan as your orgasm drags on and on—wet, hot, endless. Your thighs are shaking so hard you almost slip, but he's got you. Keeps you bent, keeps you open, his cock pounding into your fluttering cunt. And then, he slaps your clit. Light, but it's enough.

A sharp little smack that sends another shockwave through your whole body, your pussy gushing all over him as another helpless wave crashes over you. You whimper, like... full on whimper.

"Jesus," he breathes, voice breaking, "you're gonna fucking kill me—fuck, your pussy is so wet—so tight—"

You barely register his hips stuttering. He's not even close to pulling out. Because he's soaked, his dick sticky with slick, buried balls deep in your spasming pussy while you keep clenching around him, milking him for everything he's got.

"You want my cum?"he grits, jaw clenched so tight it practically creaks, his cock fucking into your soaked, fucked out pussy in slow, deep thrusts, each one barely pulling out before sinking right back in to the hilt, his tip kissing your womb.

You nod. Fast. Shaky. Mindless. He slaps your clit again—light, mean, perfect—and your legs jerk like you've been shocked. The whine that slips out of you is so fucking needy it makes him groan deep in his throat.

"Beg for it."

You try, you really do, but your brain is fried.

Your voice cracks, lips parting uselessly as you stutter out, "B–baby, please—"

"Please what?" he rasps as his hand smooths down your back before grabbing your ass, spreading you wide so he can watch his cock split your messy cunt open. "Use your words, love."

Another slap to your clit. Another twitch in your thighs. You're drooling, whimpering, nearly sobbing.

"W–want—wanna—f-fuck—"

He fucks you harder. Filthy, wet sounds echo in the room as your pussy squelches around him, completely spent but still soaking. He hisses, grinding his hips down on every thrust, making you take all of him, using your poor swollen clit as a pressure point with every rut.

"C'mon," he murmurs like it's sweet, like he's not about to ruin you completely. "Say it."

And finally, you do. "W–want your c-cum," you gasp, shaking as another weak tremor wracks your whole body, "Please, baby—I want it inside—"

His breath leaves him in a broken little groan.

"Take it," he growls before he snaps.

He slams his hips forward, buries his cock deep one last time and then he's cumming, hard and hot, thick spurts spilling deep inside your pussy. You feel it. Feel his dick twitch, feel your walls pulse around it, trying to keep every drop.

He doesn't stop moving. He fucks it into you. Keeps rutting in deep, filthy little rolls of his hips like he wants it everywhere, wants to mark your cunt from the inside out. And God, it works because you're dripping, stuffed full, clenching around him so tight it almost hurts.

You're moaning—loud, high, helpless—and he leans over your back, groaning right against your ear.

"Shhh," he mutters, wrapping a hand around your mouth, "you gotta be quiet, baby. We're still in public."

But you can't. You never can when he fills you up like this. So he kisses your shoulder, still grinding into your soaked, twitching cunt, still cupping your mouth with that big hand while he fucks the last of his cum as deep as he can. And you take it so fucking good for him.

His lips brush your damp shoulder, warm and soft, so gentle it should be a warning. And then his hand leaves your mouth, not to let you breathe, not to ease you down from the high he just wrecked you with, but to slide around your waist, pulling you back into him as he starts rubbing your swollen, soaked clit again.

Your whole body jerks. "D–Dick—"

"Shhh. Just one more for me, yeah?"

You shake your head. Fast. Desperate. Your legs are trembling, your pussy is throbbing around his dick, and you can feel the mess between your thighs with every little movement.

"Come on," he breathes into your ear, fingers still circling that puffy little bud, "I know you can take it."

And then he starts fucking you again. Shallow little thrusts. Just his tip, in and out, over and over, his cock dragging slow through your ruined pussy, so sensitive he hisses through his teeth every time your tight, slippery walls flutter around him. He's still so hard, still leaking, but he doesn't care. He's so deep in it, obsessed with the way your cunt clings to him, messy and stretched and gushing around his dick.

He slides his fingers lower, catching the sticky drips of his cum already leaking from your sore little hole. You feel it, warm and slick as he brings it up to your clit again and spreads it all over.

"You're so fucking messy, baby," he rasps against your ear, hips rolling up into you again as he rubs your clit in tight, wet circles. "Look at you, so fucking full."

You whimper, mouth falling open, knuckles white around the bar you're still gripping.

"I love how wet you are," he groans, voice cracking. "So perfect for me. You always are."

His fingers keep working you, slick and fast, sliding down sometimes to press against your entrance before slipping up to circle your clit again. It's overwhelming—your clit is too sensitive, your pussy is pulsing around his cock, and it's so wet between your thighs you can barely take it.

But his lips are brushing your ear, breath hot and ragged, and he's whispering, "That's it, good girl. Just one more. Give it to me."

You're panting, breath coming in short, shaky bursts, hips twitching every time his cock slides deep again and again and again. He's still fucking you, even though you're dripping, even though you're overstimulated and whimpering and your knees are weak from the last orgasm.

He just won't stop. He keeps your body pressed right where he wants it—bent over, spine arched, hands gripping the bar for support while his cum leaks out of you in slick, hot drips that make your thighs sticky.

He moans softly when it happens. When he feels it. The mess he made. The way your soaked pussy clings to his cock with every thrust. The way it squelches when he rolls his hips, slow and deep and deliberate. He doesn't pull all the way out anymore, just shallow thrusts, fucking his cum into your throbbing cunt.

He shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be doing this. You could be caught. But it doesn't matter. His fingers are still working your clit, rubbing you in circles so wet and slippery it's making you crazy. His hips are moving just a little faster, cock dragging through every sweet, messy stroke of your soaked walls.

Your eyes flutter shut. Your mind is spiraling. Everything is slippery: your pussy, your thighs, your thoughts. Even though you're so overstimulated it hurts, the fact that he's still fucking you, still playing with your clit, still keeping you right there with his cock twitching inside your stretched, cum dripping pussy, it turns you on more.

Because this side of him—the way he loses it, the way he lets himself fuck you like this, sloppy and obsessed and desperate to feel every twitch of your pussy—is so fucking hot.

"God, your pussy is unreal," he groans, voice gone wrecked, lips dragging against the shell of your ear. "So tight, so warm—fuck, baby."

You whimper, trembling as he grinds his cock deeper, and he laughs, low and breathless.

"You're so good, baby," he mutters, fucking into you slow and hard, because he wants to feel every little drag of your walls around him.

His fingers dip lower again, gathering more of the creamy mess between your folds before dragging it back up to your clit. You twitch. He moans.

"That's my girl. So fucking sloppy."

And he keeps going. Still rutting into you. Still rubbing your clit. Still talking to you like you're the most delicious, fuckable thing he's ever seen. The kind of praise that makes your mind go blank, makes your toes curl, makes your pussy throb around him.

"Such a good little slut for me," he breathes as his body shudders against your back.

You barely manage to breathe, hands still clinging to the bar in front of the mirror, knuckles white, legs trembling as Dick stays buried deep inside you. He's still fucking you, hips rolling even though you can feel his dick twitching inside you, way too sensitive, just like you.

Your clit is so swollen it aches, and the second his fingers start rubbing over it again, all slick with the mess he left inside you, your knees buckle.

"D-Dick," you gasp, shaking your head even as your hips try to jerk away. "I-I can't—"

"Yeah you can," he pants, hot breath against your ear as he leans over your back again, his arm wrapped tight around your waist to keep you in place. "I know you can. You always do, baby."

You shake your head again, biting your lip so hard it hurts. "It's too much—Dick, I—"

He thrusts in deep at that, sudden and sharp, and you yelp, your eyes rolling up for a second as your whole body tenses. And he groans right into your skin, just barely hanging on.

"Too much?" he says, rough and low. "You were so desperate earlier, weren't you? Couldn't wait to get home. Had to get fucked right here."

His fingers don't stop, dragging tight little circles over your clit that make your thighs shake. You whimper when his cock drags in and out of you, thick and hard and way too deep, filling you up in a way that makes it hard to think straight. Every thrust squelches, filthy and loud in the quiet space, your pussy so wet it's leaking down your thighs.

And then his voice drops lower. "Come on. If you give me one more, I'm filling you up again. Promise."

You shudder. You want to say no, want to say it's too much, that you can't, but what comes out instead is a soft, breathless, "please..."

He chuckles, hips snapping into you just a little harder, fucking your puffy cunt like he owns it.

"Yeah," he breathes, nose buried in the back of your neck. "That's what I thought."

You're a mess. Sweaty, overstimulated, breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The air around you is thick with heat and the sweet scent of sex, of you, of how wrecked you are for him, and he swears it's driving him insane. Your pussy is fluttering around him again, clenching because you're already close, and the slick mess between your thighs only makes it filthier.

He's leaking again too, he can feel it. Not just his last orgasm but how bad he wants it, how good you feel even when his cock is too sensitive, how his body wants to cum again just from the way your body reacts to him. Still so hot. Still so tight. Still so goddamn perfect for him.

And you let him take it. Let him use you like this, overstimulated and dripping, your clit swollen and pulsing under his fingers, your pussy hugging his dick like you need him to give it to you again. And oh, he's about to.

It builds so fast you barely notice it— this tight, twisting, unbearable pressure curling deep in your gut, making your legs shake and your breath hitch and your brain completely blank out except for one single thought: you're gonna cum.

And it's too much, too wet, too full, too good. Your eyes blur, and your whole body tenses like you're about to cry, and you manage a broken little gasp, "D-Dick—" but he doesn't stop.

Doesn't slow. His fingers keep rubbing your clit, soaked with the mess of both your cum, and his cock grinds into you in short, deep thrusts that make your pussy spasm around him. You swear it's like your body is begging him for it, all slick and fluttery and needy.

"That's it," he breathes against your shoulder, voice rough and so close to falling apart. "You feel that, baby? You're so close, I can feel it. You're gonna cum for me again, aren't you?"

You nod, frantic, breath shuddering, and he kisses your damp shoulder—soft, almost sweet—before he fucks into you just a little harder, making you jolt.

"Fuck, you're so good for me," he groans, balls slapping wetly against your puffy pussy, both of you soaked and sticky from how messy it's gotten.

You sob, not from pain, but from how badly you want it. From how badly you need to break again.

"Come on," he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. "Give it to me. One more, pretty girl. Just one more and I'll fill you up again, I swear."

You whimper, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable, your whole body drawn tight like a string about to snap. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, thick and hot and so deep it's kissing your cervix with every shallow thrust. You can feel how he's holding himself back—just barely. He's right there with you, breathing hard, chest pressed to your back.

And you can't hold it. Your thighs twitch, your toes curl, your pussy clenches down hard and your orgasm slams into you so violently you can't even make a sound, jaw dropping open as your whole body locks up. Your cunt flutters around his cock, your clit throbbing under his fingers as the pleasure crashes through you in wave after wave.

And Dick's right there, holding you steady, watching your reflection as you fall apart on his cock.

"God—fuck, that's it," he grits out, hips stuttering. "Fuck, baby, you're gonna make me—"

He doesn't even finish the sentence before he's thrusting deep one last time and spilling everything inside you, his cock twitching hard as he presses his hips flush to your ass and stays there, his mouth dropping open with a guttural groan.

You can feel every thick, hot pulse of it, the way your swollen walls squeeze around the flood of it like they're desperate to keep him, the slick, slippery weight of his second load stuffing you. It's messy, leaking around the base of his cock already, warm and so much you feel it trickling down your thighs.

And even as you're shaking, still cumming, he's leaning into your back, wrapping his arms around your waist like he has to feel you as full and messy and ruined as possible. He stays deep, buried to the hilt, cock twitching with the last, thick spurts of cum as your spent pussy clenches weakly around him.

And he doesn't move, doesn't even think about pulling out, just holds you close, breathing hard, both of you trembling and soaked in sweat and arousal, his hips flush to your ass. You whimper—soft, fucked out, overstimulated—and he presses a slow, tender kiss between your shoulder blades. Then another. And another.

"Shhh, I know, baby. I know." His voice is soft and soothing, warm breath tickling your damp skin. "You did so good for me. So perfect."

His hands are gentle again, splayed over your tummy, then up to your ribs where your chest is still rising and falling too fast. He strokes slow, comforting circles with his thumbs, grounding you. Not rocking anymore, juat staying. Staying inside you, letting your body relax around him, giving you space to come back down.

Your head dips as your forehead rests against the mirror, breath fogging up the glass. You're still panting, still shaking, but his hold feels steady, warm, safe.

"Breathe, sweet girl. That's it," he murmurs again, kissing the back of your neck this time, lips lingering against your sweaty skin. "Just breathe for me. You're okay."

Even with your messy, overstimulated cunt still fluttering around his dick, leaking both your orgasms down your thighs, even as his cock gives a tiny throb inside you like it’s not done, he doesn't rush. Doesn't pull away.

Just whispers, "You're okay, baby. I've got you."

You nod, blinking slowly, still dazed and glassy eyed, lips parted as your pulse starts to slow.

He shifts just slightly, enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. "Good, my love?"

You manage a hoarse little "Y-yeah," breath catching again when you feel a fresh little drip of his cum slide out around his cock and down your thigh.

"Yeah," he echoes, gentle and sweet. "You're okay. That's my girl. Did so good for me."

He nuzzles the side of your face as he speaks, then kisses your cheek and you let out a soft, exhausted whimper, hips twitching just slightly.

"Breathe with me, sweet girl," he whispers, smiling against your skin. "Nice and easy."

And for the next few minutes, neither of you move. It's just his cock inside your warm, stretched pussy, just the gentle sound of his breathing syncing with yours. Just soft kisses and steady hands and whispered praise as your body stops trembling.

You whimper softly when he shifts behind you, just the slightest movement, but your pussy flutters, sore and stretched and still leaking.

He strokes your waist gently. "Shhh... It's okay, my love."

You hum, a tired little noise that makes his heart squeeze.

"Tired?" he asks, voice low and warm as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

You nod weakly. "Mhmm."

"I'll clean you up a little," he says, already rubbing slow circles into your hip."We'll buy this real quick and go home, yeah?"

"Yeah," you whisper, soft and sleepy and still clinging to the high.

He kisses your temple. "Good girl."

Then he straightens up behind you, one hand bracing your lower back while the other slides to your inner thigh. "Gonna pull out, baby."

You brace yourself, whimpering again the second he moves. His cock slips free with a slow, wet drag, the stretch making your cunt clench down reflexively even as the emptiness hits you like a wave.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath.

His eyes stay locked between your thighs, lips parting at the sight of it: his cum spilling out of your puffy pussy, thick and messy and so fucking hot.

"Jesus, baby..." he murmurs, running one hand up your trembling thigh as he keeps you steady. "I really did a number on you, huh?"

You nod again, barely, knees wobbly and eyes hazy. He's still looking at the glossy sheen smeared all around your inner thighs, the slick mess dripping slowly from your folds, at how puffy and sore and so fucking used your pussy looks. His dick is a mess too, still heavy and streaked with your slick, his cum, your cum, he doesn't even know what's what anymore. It's all just you.

"Stay right there, sweet girl," he murmurs, kissing the dip of your back. "Let me take care of you."

You try to shift your legs, trying to move, but your knees shake instantly and he's already catching you.

He cups your thigh, rubbing it gently. "Easy, baby. Don't move. Let me clean you up, yeah?"

You nod, letting yourself relax again and he's already crouching down behind you, reaching for your bag because of course you keep wet wipes in there. You always do, and he loves you for it. He grabs one and brings it to his lips first, warming it a little with his breath before slipping it between your legs.

"Easy, baby..." he murmurs as he wipes you gently, so careful with your sore, puffy pussy. "You're so good for me. So fucking good."

He kisses your thigh in between each stroke, slow and soft and adoring. You let out a shaky breath, body still humming, still floating. You can feel how messy everything is, how his cum is still dripping out of you, how sensitive your clit is, how your thighs twitch every time his knuckles brush too close.

"Fuck, look at that mess. Took every drop for me, didn't you?"

You whine a little, biting back a tired giggle.

He wipes you clean, then presses one last kiss to the curve of your ass before murmuring, "There we go, my love. All clean."

He grabs your panties and pulls them back up over your soaked pussy, smoothing them gently into place. You hiss a little at the contact, and he rubs your hip, still whispering praise.

Then he helps you stand upright again, steadying you with both arms as you lean into him like your bones are made of jelly. You cling to his side, blinking slowly, cheeks flushed and lips parted. He smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head like he didn't just fuck you dumb in a freaking fitting room.

"Come here," he murmurs, grabbing a few more wipes to clean himself up quickly.

You peek down and catch the way his dick is still half hard, glistening with both your cum. You snuggle into his chest as he finishes, tucking yourself under his arm while he tosses the wipes and adjusts his boxers and jeans again.

"You okay, baby?" he asks one more time, warm palm stroking your lower back.

"Yeah," you breathe, eyes fluttering shut for a second. "M'tired."

"I know," he says, kissing your forehead.

You're still leaning into him, body boneless and eyes fluttery, when he murmurs, "Come on, let's get you back in your clothes, baby."

His hands are gentle as he helps you step out of the babydoll—slow and careful not to jostle you too much now that you're all soft and wobbly. The fabric slips off your shoulders and pools at your feet, and he crouches to scoop it up, both of you instinctively checking the damage like two guilty teens trying to hide a mess.

You both squint at it. It's wrinkled as hell, maybe a little damp at the hem, but no stains, miraculously.

You exhale in relief. "Thank fuck."

He grins, holding it up between two fingers. "Actually... I think we should grab a few more of these. Different colors."

You gasp dramatically, swatting his chest. "Dick!"

"What?" he shrugs, eyes still glinting. "You're hot as fuck in it. I want the whole set. Tuesday pink, Wednesday black, Thursday slutty red..."

You snort, rolling your eyes as you tug your top back on. "You're so stupid."

He smirks, hands sliding to your waist again to help you with your skirt. "Stupid for you, baby."

"Corny and horny," you mutter under your breath, giving your reflection one last glance in the mirror.

You fluff your hair, adjust your straps, check your thighs for any suspicious shine—because you know you're dripping—and eventually give yourself a tiny nod.

"Alright. We're decent."

You reach for the door handle, nerves prickling like maybe the universe is gonna humble you now, and... nothing. No voices, no footsteps, just the same stupid store music, but no one hovering outside the fitting rooms. You both make eye contact and immediately start grinning like criminals.

"Go," you whisper, and Dick slips out first, casual as hell, like he didn't just rearrange your guts two minutes ago.

He slides into the plush chair like he's been there the whole time, phone in hand, legs spread, one brow lifted in mild boredom. A model citizen. You bite back a laugh and start gathering the lingerie sets you tried on and scoop them over your arm as you make your way out with that post sex floaty walk you're desperately trying to disguise.

Dick looks up at you when you pass and just smirks like the devil. "Don't forget we have to get that slutty red one."

"Richard," you warn.

He raises both brows, totally innocent. "What? You'd look unreal in that one."

You step out of the fitting rooms area and immediately do a quick, frantic scan of the store like you're wearing a neon sign that says I just got absolutely wrecked in there. You can feel it on your face, like it's written across your forehead in glossy, post sex sweat, your lips a little too kiss bruised, your thighs wobbling just a little too much.

And Dick notices. Of course he does. He always does.

He wraps a strong arm around your waist, tugging you into his side, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, "It's okay, love. If anyone actually knew what went down in there, security would've dragged us out by now."

You blink up at him, wide eyed, and then giggle, the nerves bubbling out in a soft, breathless sound. "God, I hope you're right."

"Of course I am," he grins, smug as hell, walking with you like he didn't just turn your insides to pudding five minutes ago.

You busy yourself with putting back a few of the pieces you decided not to grab and for a moment you're focused, fingers brushing silky straps and delicate lace as you rearrange them back on the display racks.

Meanwhile, Dick's on a mission. He's already pulling pieces down from hangers like he owns the place: different colors of the same babydoll, a few lace sets in soft pastels, one in a dangerously sheer navy blue you definitely didn't try on, and something strappy and black that looks like it was made to be peeled off slowly.

"Dick—" you gasp, watching him juggle hangers and mesh and satin like it's a damn fire sale.

He shrugs. "You looked really hot in that one. I want a whole collection."

You're trying not to laugh as he grabs your hand again, lacing your fingers and tugging you toward the counter like he's dragging you to safety but instead it's straight into a lingerie bill that's definitely gonna make his bank account cry.

"Baby," you whisper scandalized, "these are too much—"

He leans in, all smug and calm and way too pleased with himself, and kisses the tip of your nose. "As I've said... it's like a gift for me."

And you don't even get a chance to retort, because the girl at the counter starts scanning your items, nose in the air like she knows she's looking at a man who just railed you in the fitting room and has the audacity to act normal about it.

You try not to make eye contact. Dick, on the other hand? He's just standing there with one hand on your lower back and the other casually pulling out his card like this is a Tuesday afternoon and he's buying groceries.

You don't even realize you've been holding your breath until you're finally stepping out of that lingerie store and into the more familiar chaos of the mall. The bright lights, the families walking too slow, the echo of music and chatter—it's somehow grounding. Distracting enough to help shake the thought of how thoroughly you just got fucked in public.

Dick's right beside you, his arm still wrapped around your waist like he didn't have you folded over in a dressing room ten minutes ago. The other hand? Full of sleek little shopping bags, strings of satin and lace peeking out, like a walking please don't look too hard ad.

"Well," he says like he's commenting on the weather. "I think today was really successful. Don't you think, baby?"

You glance up at him, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile, but your pussy betrays you, throbbing faintly just from the sound of his voice paired with the memory of what he did to you. You swallow hard, blinking the image of your reflection in the mirror from your mind, and roll your eyes.

"I guess so," you mumble, letting out a breathy little yawn you didn't even know was coming.

Dick makes a soft noise, all mock affectionate. "Okay, that's enough fun for today."

You blink up at him as he guides you through the crowd toward the escalators, the hand on your waist slipping lower for just a second before settling again.

"I'm taking your cute ass home, we're properly cleaning up," he continues, tone final, "and we're ordering takeout. You're not lifting a finger, you hear me?"

You almost protest—almost—but honestly, you're too blissed out and floaty to even bother trying to win that argument. Not when you're still a little sore, your thighs sticking just a little with every step, his cum still leaking into your panties. You just hum and nuzzle your face into his shoulder like a sleepy kitten, letting him steer.

He chuckles under his breath, low and warm. "That's my sweet girl."

And by the time you finally make it back to the parking lot, the sky is just starting to turn pink at the edges. He opens the door for you, helps you into the seat like you're fragile—and maybe you are a little right now. He sets the bags in the back and leans down to press a soft kiss to your temple before slipping behind the wheel.

Home. God, that sounds real fucking nice right now.

You make it home about half an hour later, riding that dreamy, floaty little high all the way up the elevator and through the door. Your legs are still a bit wobbly, your brain still soft, and Dick just knows. You don't even need to say anything.

The moment the door clicks shut, he's crouched to undo the little buckle on your shoes, slipping them off. He leans up to kiss your tummy over your shirt on his way back up—which makes you giggle—and then lifts you with no warning, big hands gripping your thighs as he sets you down gently on the kitchen counter.

"Sit," he murmurs, brushing his lips over your cheek before grabbing you a glass of wine. "Relax. Let me handle stuff, yeah?"

You nod, toes curling against the counter edge as he gets to work putting away all the things you picked up before the chaos. You sip your wine while watching him move around the kitchen—bare forearms flexing, hair a little messy, that post fuck glow on his skin you know you're probably wearing too. Every so often, he leans in to press a kiss to your temple or the bridge of your nose or the corner of your mouth like he can't help himself. And maybe he can't.

There's no rush, no tension, just this domestic little bubble you both curl into after a day like that. Once the fridge is restocked and your favorites are tucked in their usual spots, he peeks at your wine glass, sees it's still halfway full and grins.

"You done with that, baby?"

"Mhmm."

He sets it on the counter and hooks an arm around your thighs to lift you only to not let you go. Instead, he holds you against his chest with a deep sigh like he missed touching you for the full three minutes you were sipping wine.

"You need a bath," he mumbles into your hair.

You snort. "We need a bath. We reek like sex."

He laughs, presses a kiss to your cheek, and says, "I already ordered the food, my love. Twenty five minutes. We have time for a bath."

And you don't argue. You just melt into his chest like putty when he picks you up and carries you toward the bathroom. Once there, he doesn't even have to ask how you like the water—he already knows. He sets you down on the counter with a soft kiss to your forehead, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work. The perfect temp. Your favorite bubble bath. A little cap of that glittery vanilla oil you love that makes your skin smell like frosting. And of course, the pink shimmery bath bomb you've been saving for a rough day.

He tosses it in, watching it fizz and bloom as the tub fills.

Then he's in front of you again, coaxing you to stand, his voice softer. "Let me, baby."

While the tub fills, he starts undressing you with that quiet reverence that never gets old. Your top first, lifted gently over your head with a warm, appreciative look. Then your bra, unhooked in one practiced move, dropped to the floor. He bends down to pull off your skirt next, pressing soft kisses to your belly, your thighs, your knees on the way down. His hands stay on your skin even after you're bare, warming you up with slow strokes, eyes soft and a little drunk on you still.

"God, you're so fucking pretty," he murmurs, nudging your nose with his. "Every time. Every single time."

You smile sleepily and let him guide you to the tub. The water is perfect—hot but not too hot, the surface scattered with little glimmers of shimmer, the oils already making your skin slick as you sink in. He waits until you're settled before undressing himself. Shirt, pants, boxers all tossed aside in lazy motions, that big beautiful dick of his still flushed, still heavy from what he did to you earlier.

Then he climbs in behind you, pulling you between his legs, his thighs bracketing yours, chest against your back, arms wrapping you up tight. You let out the littlest sigh, soft and pliant against him, and he kisses the top of your head.

"Better?" he murmurs into your hair, hands rubbing slow over your hips under the water.

You nod. So much better. You don't have to ask, he's already got the sponge in hand, soaking it and lathering it up with that soft, expensive body wash you both use way too fast. And then he's dragging it over your skin, slow and gentle, one hand steady on your hip while the other works in careful circles down your back, your arms, your thighs. Every so often he leans in and kisses whatever he just washed—your shoulder, the curve of your neck, the top of your spine—like he's sealing the care into your skin.

Neither of you say much, just little hums and breathy sighs and slow, lazy kisses passed back and forth when he leans up. It's quiet, steamy, and intimate, so soft it makes your chest ache.

When he rinses you off, he tips your chin up, kisses your cheek, and says, "All clean, sweet girl," and you smile, all melty and sleepy and so, so soft for him.

He washes himself next while you lean back between his thighs, letting the heat of the water and the smell of your favorite bath oils keep you floaty. And then he stands, steps out, and holds a towel open for you like he always does, steadying you by the waist as he helps you up and out of the tub.

He dries you off slow, then wraps you in your fluffiest robe with that same look he gives you every single time, like you're the softest, most perfect thing he's ever held.

You throw your hair up in one of those twisty hair wraps, and he finally tugs his own robe on, tie left a little loose because of course it is—he's just that guy. He takes your hand and leads you to the couch, guiding you down with both hands until you're tucked under a blanket like a little baby bird, cozy and warm and bathed and cared for. You're barely settled when his phone buzzes.

"Perfect timing," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair before disappearing to the door.

The second the food is down and the containers are open, it's game over. You're feeding each other like giggly idiots, mouths full, fingers sticky, fighting over dumplings like it's life or death. He tries to steal the last piece of mandu and you pretend to slap his hand away, and he fakes being wounded until you sigh and give him a bite anyway.

Every now and then he wipes sauce from your mouth with his thumb and kisses you like he just can't help it, even when there's a little kimchi between you. And he says I love you so casually in the middle of it and you say it back with your cheek smushed to his shoulder and your chopsticks in hand.

Eventually, you both start winding down. You dry off properly, change into soft pajamas—his shirt, your tiny shorts—and crawl into bed together, limbs tangled, the night winding down with whispers and one last round of brushing teeth and forehead kisses. You nuzzle into his chest, still a little full, still a little warm from the bath, his heartbeat thudding slow and steady beneath your cheek.

And all you can think is how spoiled you really are, and it's not the gifts or the lingerie or the dinner. It's him. It's the little dramatic pouts when you try to be mad at him. It's the way he wraps you in his robe even though yours is right there. The way he tucks you into safety after absolutely wrecking you.

The way he still treats you like something precious, even with his cum dripping down your thighs and your voice wrecked from begging. It's how he can get you trembling with just a few filthy words and then cook your favorite breakfast the next morning like you didn't cry on his dick the night before.

It's yours. All of it. He is.

Dick nuzzles his nose into your damp, fluffy hair, breathing in that familiar scent of shampoo and your favorite leave in. His arm is heavy around you, his chest rising and falling slow beneath yours, and for a second, all he can do is hold you tighter and thank whatever fucking higher power is out there that you're his.

Because you don't give a shit about his money. You never have. You just care that he holds your hand. That he kisses your forehead. That he gets the temperature just right when he runs you a bath. That he notices when you're quiet and makes you laugh again in under ten seconds flat. You care about him. And that? That's everything. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, smiling to himself.

You're it for him. No doubt. No question. You're his sweet girl. His baby. And fuck, he's gonna keep spoiling you forever, just like this. Because you deserve all of it.

[killerplink]

need a full body massage a margarita 400mg of ibuprofen a plate of brownies at least an hour in a jacuzzi and 20,000 dollars cash

[killerplink]

Finally finished this piece after months of reworking. Far from perfect, but I’m glad it’s done. Inspired by the amazing Bruno Redondo, Dan Mora, and especially Dexter Soy.

[killerplink]

SPOILED

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Plot: what started as a sweet little Saturday grocery run with your boyfriend ended with him spoiling you stupid, in more ways than one.

A/N: hiiiiii besties hello 🥹 how are we feeling 👉🏻👈🏻 emotionally stable? hydrated? horny?? all of the above??? same. I'm so sorry I've been MIA (again) but life keeps kicking me directly in the dick 😭 however ☝🏻 I finally locked in, went feral, and finished this Dick oneshot I promised y'all so long ago 🏃🏻‍♀️

also. it's long. like... obnoxiously long. but I got so carried away (and horny, okay??) so you're just gonna have to DEAL WITH IT ✋🏻

also also. gonna address something real quick: I decided I'm not gonna do the "Jason calls reader a slut for the first time" oneshot 😭 I already have some where he does call his girl a slut and tbh I have no fresh ideas for a first time moment. I'm so sorry pls don't come for my throat 😭 BUT more Jay smut is definitely in the pipeline so stay tuned besties 💅🏻

anyway. take care of yourselves. stay safe, drink water, touch grass, wear cute panties, all that good shit. okay love you byeeee 🫶🏻✨

It starts off innocent, really. Just a regular Saturday with your favorite routine: early morning wake up, cuddles and kisses before brushing your teeth, and then out the door hand in hand with Dick. You hit the farmer's market first, picking out fresh fruit, herbs, and a few of those fancy breads you like, then your usual grocery store run.

Afterward, as tradition demands, he always takes you somewhere cute for brunch. A cozy café you both already love or a new little gem that just opened up, he never misses a chance to treat you. But today's a little different.

"Are you serious, baby?" you ask, raising a brow.

Dick chuckles, sitting across from you with his chin in his hand, the sun kissing his cheeks. "Yeah, sweet girl. You deserve a shopping spree."

Your brows pinch, a little suspicious. "Why?"

"Because," he says, reaching out to brush his thumb along your knuckles, "you quit that job you hated, found something ten times better, and you already got promoted. That's kind of a big deal, baby."

You blink at him, then smile all soft and okay, maybe a little misty eyed because he's not wrong. You walked away from that job that sucked the soul out of you, and somehow, you landed somewhere that actually makes you want to get up in the morning. And not even three months in, they recognized your work and gave you a promotion.

And Dick saw how hard you worked. How late you stayed up fixing your resume, how nervous you were before interviews, how you cried in his arms when it all felt too overwhelming. And now here he is, sitting across from you in a sun drenched booth, telling you he wants to take you out and spoil the absolute shit out of you just because he's proud.

"Whatever you want. Clothes, makeup, books, something stupid and overpriced. If it makes you happy, it's yours."

You giggle into your glass, cheeks warm from more than just the sun. "Okay," you say, soft and just a little breathless, because when Dick Grayson tells you he wants to spoil you, it's kind of hard not to melt.

"Yeah, baby?" he grins, eyes already lighting up.

You nod, setting your drink down, leaning into the table a bit. "Yeah."

He's already leaning in too, brushing his thumb across your cheek before pressing a kiss to your forehead, all soft lips and the faint scent of his cologne. "That's my girl."

You're grinning like an idiot when he pulls back, and so is he. You both dig into your food after that, the kind of easy silence that only comes when you're this comfortable with someone settling between you. The plate in front of you has a soft spread of ricotta pancakes with berry jam and a little cup of warm maple syrup.

Dick's got an egg sandwich stacked high with avocado and bacon and a side of those rosemary home fries you keep stealing off his plate. He's already caught you twice, and still lets you do it with that same smitten smile he always wears when he's looking at you.

Halfway through your plate, you start talking about which stores you wanna hit first. "I was thinking maybe we start at that bookstore I like? And then maybe the shoe store after that. Oh, and I saw this new place that just opened downtown. It looks kind of bougie, but they have those cute silk dresses."

And he listens. Fully, not just nodding along or zoning out like most people do. "Anything else, my love?" he asks, poking his fork toward your plate to sneak a bite.

You hum. "Maybe Sephora. I'm out of setting spray."

"Noted," he says, chewing and smiling at the same time.

You're already glowing from the praise, the food, the way he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon. You both finish eating in that slow, content kind of way that only happens after a perfect meal and even better company. You take the last sip of your latte, licking a little foam off your lip as you push your plate forward and sigh.

"Okay, I'm paying here."

Dick tilts his head, already giving you a look. "Oh, are you now?"

You nod, sitting up straighter, all smug. "Yeah. You're treating me to shopping. I'm covering brunch. That's fair."

But he's already reaching into his wallet. "Sweet girl, come on, just let me—"

"Nooo, baby," you half whine, half laugh. "You said you were spoiling me after brunch. This one's on me."

He raises a brow, but he's smirking. "You sure?"

There's a second where you think he might keep pushing as he usually does but then you hit him with it: the pout. Full bottom lip, soft eyes, tilted head, just a little dramatic like you practiced it in the mirror. You didn't, but it's just that good, and you know it. You learned it from the best, after all.

Dick stares at you for maybe a second too long before sighing like a man defeated. "Okay, you little gremlin. You can pay here."

You light up instantly, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "Yes!"

You do this little wiggly, squirmy dance in your seat—arms tucked in, shoulders bouncing like a delighted noodle—and it makes him laugh as he rests his chin in his hand just to look at you like a lovesick puppy.

A minute later, you flag the waiter down like you just accomplished something incredible and not just bullied your very soft boyfriend into letting you pay.

You step out of the café hand in hand, still giggling from something stupid he said, and the sunlight hits you both—warm, soft, a little blinding. It's one of those rare perfect days in Gotham, the kind where the sky is actually blue, not just pretending to be, and there's a soft breeze in the air that doesn't reek of smoke or something worse. A weird kind of peace that doesn't happen often, but when it does, you hold onto it like a gift.

You hum a little tune under your breath and swing your joined hands between you as you walk. Dick squeezes your hand gently, the corners of his mouth curled up into the kind of smile that makes his dimples pop.

"You're in a good mood," he teases, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

"I mean, it's sunny and I'm caffeinated. I've got my pretty man next to me and I'm about to be a menace in several stores," you grin. "What's not to love?"

That earns a soft laugh from him. "As long as you don't try to sneak another candle into the apartment, we're good."

You gasp offended. "Those candles are thematic. They tell a story, baby."

He snorts. "Yeah, the story is I bought six different ones with the same scent profile."

But you're already tuning him out, rambling about that one bookstore near the corner where you found the rare poetry book last time, and how there's the shoe place you wanna check out, and that thrift store you dragged him into that smelled like old wood and lilac hand soap.

And he lets you. Nods every so often, hums, throws in a "Yeah?" or a "No way" because he's heard you do this a hundred times and he'll hear it a thousand more and still think it's the cutest thing in the world.

Your brain is half in the clouds, already planning your little spree, so of course you don't notice the sign post you're about to crash into, but Dick does. He always does.

He gently tugs you to the side without missing a beat, guiding you around it with a firm hand at your waist, followed by a soft little "Careful, baby" under his breath. He's not even thinking about it, just making sure his girl doesn't walk headfirst into steel. You blink, glance up at him like oh and give a sheepish little smile.

He laughs, eyes crinkling. "You'd think after the fifth time this week you'd learn to look where you're going."

You shrug and loop your arm around his, pulling yourself into his side like you always do. "That's your job, Nightwing. Keep me alive while I ramble about book sales and clearance racks."

A few minutes later, you arrive at your first stop: the bookstore. Which, of course, turns into a whole event the second you step through the door. You make a delighted little noise that's a bit too loud for how quiet the place is, and you're gone. Just gone. Toddling between the shelves like you're on a sugar rush, already flipping through spines and tugging books off the walls like a kid in a candy store. Dick doesn't even try to keep up.

He watches you for a second—how your eyes light up, how your fingers dance across the covers—and smiles to himself before wandering over to the little corner chair near the window. He sinks into it, spreads his legs a little, sets his phone down face up and unread. He's not gonna need it. Not while you're doing this.

Because he knows the drill. You'll be gone a while. You'll disappear into some fantasy section or romance nook or get distracted by a table full of new releases and come back half an hour later looking like a gremlin librarian. And he loves it. Loves watching it, really. Seeing you that happy and in your element it's one of his favorite versions of you.

Sure enough, thirty minutes later, you emerge from behind a shelf with your arms comically full of books. You've got a stack practically up to your chin and you're trying to peek around them with wide, excited eyes and a proud little grin.

"I found a few," you say all sweet like you didn't just raid the entire adult fantasy and spicy romance aisle.

Dick's already up before you finish the sentence, taking half the stack from your arms with ease. "Just a few, huh?"

You just beam up at him. "Mhmm. Smut and ghosts, baby. The classics."

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple as he walks with you toward the counter. "You and your haunted sex books."

"Don't judge," you pout, nudging his side. "You benefit from these."

"I mean... I can't argue with that," he shrugs.

Once they're all paid for and bagged, you bounce on your toes the whole way out of the store, your tote heavy already. You look like you've just robbed the place and Dick's grinning behind you like yeah, that's my girl.

Next stop: the shoe store. You spot it across the street and gasp like you just saw God. Or, more accurately, like you just saw the potential for new platform Mary Janes with absurd accessories.

"Dick," you whisper dramatically. "Shoes."

Inside, your eyes practically sparkle under the store lights. You're already drifting from one display to another, muttering things like "oh my God" and "no because if they have this in my size I'll scream", completely in your own world.

Dick? He finds a seat. Because he knows he's not here to shop, he's here to observe the chaos as you start pulling boxes off shelves like it's Black Friday and you're in battle mode. A pair of sparkly low heels? Tried. Chunky pink sneakers with ribbons instead of laces? Tried. Some platform clogs with little heart charms on the buckles? Tried and twirled in. Every time, you walk over to him like you're doing a fashion runway and give him a dramatic spin or a silly dance.

He loves all of it. Just sitting there, legs spread, leaning back a little, arms crossed with a stupid smitten grin on his face like yeah, that's my girl losing her mind in a shoe store. The happiest little gremlin on Earth.

"You like these?" you ask for the sixth time, wiggling your foot in a chunky black loafer.

"I like all of them," he says, and you know he means it.

You groan dramatically. "That's not helpful, baby."

"Sorry, sweet girl," he smirks. "Not my fault you look adorable in literally all of them."

You fake a little stomp and drag the loafers off with a sigh. But a few more pairs later, just when you're about to give up, you spot them: white Mary Janes with tiny little strawberries on the front, glossy finish, dainty strap, slightly raised sole. They're like cottagecore perfection and you gasp so loudly that the sales assistant jumps a little.

"Oh my fucking God," you whisper. "These are it." You slip them on and turn around to face Dick with wide eyes. "Look at them."

He does. And then looks up at your face. Then down at the shoes again. "Yep, those are the ones."

"They're comfy," you say, bouncing slightly. "Like actually comfy."

He nods. "Okay, that's good. Get those, baby."

You scrunch your nose a little when you look at the price tag. "Are you sure?"

"My love, you gasped like a little victorian lady seeing a ghost. You're not walking out of here without those. I don't care about the price."

You glance down at them, then back up at him, pouting just a little. "But—"

He stands, takes a second to properly look, tilting his head, hands on your hips as he presses a kiss to your forehead. "They're perfect, baby, get them. I mean it."

You take them off gently and head to the register while he follows, still smiling, hands in his pockets, watching as you cradle the shoebox like a newborn. God, that's definitely gonna be your favorite pair for the next six months.

After the shoe store, the second you step into the dress one few minutes later, it's over for you. It smells like warm vanilla and fresh linen in here, the lighting is soft and golden, and every single rack looks like it's been filled by a fairy godmother. Silky slip dresses in jewel tones, soft pastel sundresses with puff sleeves, floaty floral maxis that look like they belong in a meadow. Everywhere you turn, it's another little slice of heaven.

You don't even hesitate before grabbing Dick's hand and dragging him deeper into the racks, pointing out prints and cuts. A butter yellow satin midi with a cowl neck. A deep green wrap dress that looks like something out of a magazine. A navy piece sprinkled with embroidered stars. He lets you tug him along without a word, just watching your excitement with that lovesick little smile of his.

He's already picturing you in half of them. A slinky red one for a gala. A soft blue one for a lazy picnic. A white cotton sundress for a casual dinner. It doesn't really matter, though, because whatever you wear, you always look like magic to him.

By the time you make it to the fitting rooms, you're glowing with anticipation. The first few you try are gorgeous, and he makes it known without saying a word. It's just the way his gaze lingers, the subtle shift in his expression when you step out. But then you hit a snag. Two dresses, both beautiful in completely different ways.

One is a silky champagne slip, the kind that catches light with every move, draping against your frame like it was made for you. The other is a flowy white midi with tiny embroidered cherries, all soft and sweet and summer ready.

You turn between the mirrors, frowning just a little, fingertips brushing over each dress like maybe the fabric will whisper the answer to you. Both are perfect in their own way, and your brain is doing the mental equivalent of a coin toss.

When you glance at him, he's clearly stuck in the same place, eyes moving between you in one dress and the other like it's some impossible riddle. Then he just gives that easy little shrug, the one that says why choose, sweet girl?

So you don't. You leave the store with both hanging in their bags, a stupid ass wide grin, and Dick kissing the top of your head.

You drop the dresses off in the backseat like they're precious cargo before Dick's already circling around to open your door for you. He does it without thinking at this point, one of those little gentleman habits that makes your heart all warm, and a few minutes later he's pulling into the Sephora parking lot, aka your version of Disney World.

You always claim you're just going in for one thing. Every single time. And to your credit, you really do try. You march in with purpose, head high, mentally chanting just the setting spray, just the setting spray.

But then there's the rainbow of displays the perfectly lit new arrivals, the smell of perfumes and new skincare calling your name like a siren, and it's game fucking over.

And because he said he's spoiling you today—and when Dick Grayson says it, he means it—he just trails behind with that little cart in hand, happy to be your personal pack mule. You bounce between aisles, swatching shimmery eyeshadows and highlighters, holding your hand under the store lighting. When both your hands are covered in glitter and pigment, he just offers his without a word, letting you swatch on him too.

By the time you finally make it to the register, your "quick stop" has turned into a tiny haul: your go to setting spray, a Pat McGrath palette you couldn't stop staring at, and what you decided—very firmly—was the prettiest highlighter and lipstick you'd ever seen from Fenty Beauty.

The next stop ends up being the candle store, which is dangerous territory for both your wallet and Dick's patience, but he follows you in without hesitation. You tell yourself you're just going to "look" and somehow you end up walking out with three. You insist they're totally different scents—warm vanilla sugar, toasted marshmallow, and something called campfire cuddles—but if you're being honest, they all smell like some version of cozy dessert. Dick swears you're trying to gaslight him on this one because to him, they all smell like the rest of the candles you have at home, but oh well.

Somewhere between the register and the exit, a little plant in the corner display catches your eye: a trailing pothos with heart shaped leaves in a soft sage green ceramic pot, perfect for hanging on the balcony. Never mind that your balcony already looks like a jungle, he doesn't have it in him to say no when you're looking at it like that. And, in fairness, you do actually take care of all your plants like a proud mama, so it's not like they're collecting dust, because they are thriving.

On the way back to the car, you pass a shop window and freeze. Two ridiculously cute plushies are sitting there, almost begging you to come inside, so you do. One is a squishy little axolotl in pastel pink, the other is a chubby black cat with embroidered sleepy eyes you claim are "so cute you want to die". They're soft, perfectly huggable, and when you press them to your chest, they make that tiny serotonin buzz spark in your brain, so naturally, they're coming home with you.

You're curled up in the passenger seat like a smug little goblin, plushies tucked into your arms as if someone might try to take them away. You've got that post shopping glow—smiling so hard your cheeks hurt—and when Dick leans over the console to press a soft kiss to your temple, you tilt your head toward him without even thinking.

Those big, shiny eyes find his and you murmur a little, "Thank you, baby."

He shakes his head. "Nothing to thank me for, my love. You deserved it."

Then, with that casual tone that means he's already made up his mind, he adds, "How about before we get home, we stop by the mall? I wanna buy something for myself. You in, or are you too tired?"

You pause like you're actually considering your energy levels, but it only lasts half a second before you perk right back up. "No, I'm okay, we can go," you decide, shifting in your seat.

He leans closer, brushing the tip of his nose against yours in a teasing, affectionate way before kissing it. "You sure?"

You nod without hesitation. "I mean... it's the least I can do after I dragged your pretty ass everywhere today."

That earns you a low chuckle, the kind that rumbles in his chest. "Okay," he says, "then we're quickly getting that and going home, yeah?"

"Yeah," you murmur, and then your palm is on his cheek, thumb stroking his skin.

You lean in to pepper his lips with a flurry of sweet, silly little kisses, the kind that make both of you laugh halfway through because your noses bump and you can't help but giggle against his mouth. You end up leaning over the console while he drives, cheek resting against his shoulder, both arms wrapped snug around his bicep.

Every time the car slows or stops, he tips his head just enough to press a kiss into your forehead, and with the way Gotham's traffic is crawling today, you get a lot of forehead kisses.

By the time you finally pull into the mall's parking lot forty minutes later, you feel like you've aged a year. The second he cuts the engine, you're fumbling with your seatbelt, but before you even manage to get it off, he's already at your door, opening it like it's some dramatic reveal and offering his hand to help you out.

Inside? Absolute fucking chaos. The weekend crowd is out in full force, and it's a wall of chatter, perfume, food court smells, and people walking way too slow in the middle of the walkway but you should've known. Gotham or not, malls don't mess around. High ceilings, shiny tiled floors, escalators that miraculously don't squeak, and storefronts lit up like movie sets. For a minute, it almost feels like you're not in Gotham. Almost.

Because of course, you still spot the occasional weirdo: some guy with Joker green hair and an "I <3 clowns" hoodie lurking by the pretzel stand, a girl in full Harley Quinn cosplay arguing with mall security, someone carrying a live freaking pigeon for reasons you will not be asking about. But it's Gotham, so you can't escape the freak factor entirely.

He tucks you into his side, his arm firm around your waist, steering you through the crowd without even thinking about it. And you, predictably, melt. You always do when his Nightwing instincts peek through like this. He's protective on the regular, sure, but this is different. More deliberate. A little more "I'm keeping you close because I don't want you to get jostled" more than "you're mine" and God if it doesn't make you all giddy inside.

It only takes a few minutes to reach his favorite perfume shop. The place smells like woods and citrus the moment you step in, and he goes straight for the shelf where his usual bottle waits, a blend of cedar, bergamot, and amber that's ridiculously sexy without being overpowering. It's been his scent for years, and it's your favorite on him. Comforting in a way that's also distracting because it clings to his shirts and pillows and makes you want to bury your face in them for hours.

Once he's paid, the two of you slip back into the flow of the mall, just strolling, no rush to get anywhere, and that's when you see it: a new lingerie store. Big glass storefront, gold accents everywhere, mannequins in the window wearing silk, lace, and the kind of delicate little straps that would make him look twice.

The lighting inside is warm and a little low, the walls lined with color coordinated sections—soft blush pinks, deep jewel tones, classic black and white. Even from outside, you can tell it's the kind of place that sells matching robes for triple what you'd pay anywhere else.

Truth be told, you do have plenty lingerie sets at home, but your eyes wander anyway. And so do his. Because let's be honest, Dick loves seeing you dress sexy just for him. Sometimes he surprises you with sets himself, all folded up in little gift boxes, sometimes you order them online to spring on him when he's back from a few days away.

He stops in front of the store, gives your hand a little squeeze, and tilts his head toward the entrance. "You wanna go in, sweet girl?"

You shrug, even though you're tempted. But he's already spoiled you today, and this place just screams fucking expensive. He knows that look in your eyes, the one that says maybe you've already done too much for me today. The one that comes from that part of you that's always been careful, modest with your own spending, even before him. You're not someone who needs shiny things to be happy, you've made that clear a hundred times over.

You'd rather have an afternoon tangled up with him on the couch than all the money in the world but that doesn't stop him from wanting to spoil you. Not because he's trying to prove anything, not because he's trying to buy your love—he knows he already has it—but because you deserve it. Every thoughtful detail, every soft little luxury. And if he can give it to you, why wouldn't he?

"Come on, my love," he says, already tilting his head toward the door.

You glance up at him like he’s lost his mind. "Baby, you spent too much money on my ass today. Let's just go home."

He chuckles, low and amused. "Okay, then this is like a little gift for myself, yeah?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Dick, this place looks expensive as fuck. And it probably is."

He smirks. "Okay, and?"

He doesn't even give you the chance to form your next protest before he's tugging you forward, hand warm and sure around yours, already dragging you inside.

Shit, it's somehow even more luxurious than it looked from the outside, like stepping straight into some glossy magazine spread where no one's ever heard of public transit or a day old takeout. The lighting is soft, casting this almost halo effect over everything, and the walls are lined with mannequins wearing lace so delicate it looks like it'd dissolve in water. Even the hangers are fancy: black velvet with tiny gold nameplates.

And the people? Oh, Gotham's elite are out tonight. Girls who laugh like the store owes them rent, all high cheekbones and glossy hair, draped in pearls and diamonds like they were born with them. Employees float around like they're on invisible roller skates, all dressed in sleek black, speaking in these soft, practiced voices that somehow make the prices feel more intimidating.

You catch sight of a random price tag and feel your stomach flip. Nope. Absolutely fucking not.

You stop in your tracks and tug on Dick's hand. "Baby, let's just go home. It's way too expensive."

He turns back, all easy smile and warm eyes, slides an arm around your waist to pull you against him and drops a kiss to your forehead. "Money's not a problem, my love. You know that."

Your brows knit, your voice dipping softer. "Yeah, I know, but... this is too much."

You glance around and instantly regret it because of course, a few of the women here have already clocked your man and they're looking at him like they'd eat him for dessert. Not new, sure, because he's hot, but right now it's just pissing you the fuck off.

Dick doesn't miss the way your shoulders tense. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw until your eyes find his again.

"Baby," he says, low and calm, "focus on me, okay? Let's pick you something hot. Imagine what I'm gonna do to you later when you wear it for me, yeah?"

And okay, that snaps you out of it real quick. You just nod and let him take the lead, because the second he starts flipping through the racks, it's obvious he's on a mission. And well, he kinda is because this man knows you. Knows your size without even glancing at the tag, knows the styles you love, the ones you'd never wear, and the colors that make you feel hot as hell.

It doesn't take him long to start pulling pieces, either. Every time he finds one, he holds it up against you with that little tilt of his head before adding it to the growing armful like he's curating a fucking museum exhibit. And when he's satisfied, he's already steering you toward the fitting rooms before you can so much as pretend to protest.

He stops an employee—a tall blonde in head to toe black with that "luxury retail" air about her—and asks if he can wait for you while you try them on. She's polite, all soft smiles and giggles that are way too sugary to be natural, and you have to physically fight the urge to roll your eyes when she brushes her hair back for no fucking reason.

She leads you both into a separate area, the kind that screams this is for our very important clients. Plush armchairs you could sink into for hours, tables with tiny bottles of imported water, and fitting rooms that aren't just those sad little cubicles with a half open curtain. No, these have full doors with locks, a borderline ridiculous amount of mirrors, and perfect lighting from every angle.

Once she's gone, Dick drops into one of the armchairs like he owns the place, grinning up at you. "Go on, my love. Try them on."

You chuckle, shaking your head as you take the pile from him. "You're so fucking spoiled."

"Yeah," he says, all unapologetic, "and so are you."

You roll your eyes but you're smiling as you slip into the room, locking the door behind you. You strip down, leaving your clothes folded neatly on the little bench, and step onto the ridiculously soft rug in the middle of the fitting room. It's plush enough that your toes sink into it, like they thought of everything to make you feel spoiled in here.

The first few pieces you try are... fine. Gorgeous, sure, but not really anything you don't already have at home. A couple of bodysuits in rich jewel tones, one a deep emerald with delicate lace climbing up the sides, the other black with sheer mesh panels that tease just enough skin. They hug you in all the right places, the straps sitting snug against your shoulders, but you've already got plenty like them hanging in your closet.

Then there are the camisoles—thin, floaty slips of fabric that are basically transparent, the kind that skim over your skin like water. One is pale champagne with a subtle shimmer in the light, the other soft lavender with lace edging the neckline. The fabric is stupidly soft, smooth enough to make you shiver when it brushes over your chest. Pretty? Absolutely, but they're not exactly your style.

And then you grab the babydolls. You weren't expecting to like them this much, but the second you pull the first one over your head, you actually stop and stare at yourself in the mirror. Totally see through. The fabric is weightless against your skin, falling just to the tops of your thighs, and your own red thong is peeking through like it's part of the design.

The lace cups are delicate and sheer, doing absolutely nothing to hide your nipples. If anything, they make them stand out more, framed in little scalloped edges. The straps are thin, the cut low enough to flash the perfect amount of cleavage, and the hem sways when you shift your hips.

The second one is even worse... or better, depending on how you look at it. Black lace, intricate patterns curling over your skin like shadows, the skirt opening in the front so it shows even more of you. It's playful and filthy at the same time, and you don't own anything like it.

You love how they look on you. Enough that you're suddenly picturing Dick's face when he sees you in one,how his eyes would darken, how his voice would drop low when he'd tell you how fucking beautiful you are. You can practically hear him murmuring it, can almost feel his hands sliding up under the lace, palms warm and greedy against your skin.

And before you even realize it, you're worked up. Like, embarrassingly so. Your nipples are stiff, your cheeks flushed, and your panties? Yeah, soaked through already. You try—really, really try—to think of literally anything else as you shimmy into the next babydoll. Like maybe the weather, or that weird pigeon you saw outside the mall, or the fact that you still need to restock your pantry. But none of it sticks.

Not when you know your boyfriend is sitting just a few feet away, probably slouched back in that armchair with his broad shoulders and those stupidly big hands resting on his thighs. Hands that can pin you in place or make you cum in under five minutes, hands that know every single way to ruin you. And you don't even want to get started on that perfect dick you're obsessed with: thick, heavy, and exactly the right kind of stretch you crave way too often.

The babydoll itself isn't helping your self control either. Burgundy lace with these tiny floral patterns that crawl across the cups and down the bodice, fading into sheer chiffon that flares lightly at your hips. The cups are soft and see through, no lining at all, and the neckline plunges low enough that your cleavage looks almost obscene.

The hem brushes your upper thighs when you shift, and the thin satin straps feel cool against your warm skin. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and have to swallow hard because well, you look hot. Like, take a picture and send it to him in the middle of a Batfam meeting hot.

The way the deep burgundy contrasts with your skin, the way your red thong peeks through the sheer skirt, the way your nipples press against the lace like they're begging for attention... God, it's actually fucking unfair.

And your body knows it. Every little movement makes your soaked panties rub against your swollen clit, the damp fabric catching just enough to send sharp little pulses of pleasure straight through you. Your thighs keep pressing together without you even realizing, trying to get more friction, and it's a losing battle.

That's when a cheeky and possibly really bad idea slips into your head. You bite your lip, mentally telling yourself to stop, to not do something insane, but your body has already decided for you. Before you can talk yourself down, you're easing the fitting room door open just enough to poke your head out.

To your insane, miraculous luck, it's just Dick in the little lounge area, no other customers, no hovering employees. He looks up from his phone, confusion flickering in his blue eyes as he stands and takes a step toward you.

"Everything okay, baby?"

You nod, maybe a little too quickly, and murmur, "Yeah, I just... I need a bit of help with... something."

His brows pull together, that little crease forming between them. "Uhm... do you want me to grab an employee or—"

He doesn't get to finish, because your hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist, and in one smooth, shameless move, you're tugging him inside. The door shuts behind him, the lock clicking into place, your pulse pounding in your ears.

The moment he steps inside, Dick's already trying to do the responsible thing. His gaze flickers down, just for a split second, and it's enough to make his jaw tighten before he drags his eyes right back up to your face.

"What are you doing? I'm not supposed to be in here—" he starts, but then you turn to him fully, that little tilt of your head and those wide, sweet eyes that he knows damn well are anything but innocent.

"I just wanted to know your opinion..." you murmur, "you know… since it's your money."

He pinches the bridge of his nose like he's trying to physically block the sight of you from sinking into his brain, but it's already way too late. He knows that if he lets his gaze drop again, if he actually takes in the way that burgundy lace clings to your body, he's done for. And yeah, he's Dick Grayson, he's faced death and chaos and a thousand kinds of trouble, but nothing undoes him like you do when you look at him like that.

"Baby, this is insane," he says, exhaling through his nose like he's steadying himself. "I need to get back out there—"

"But do you like it?" you purr, cutting him off as you close the distance between you.

You press yourself right up against him, your palms flattening over the muscles of his chest. Your head tips back just enough to keep those big, pretty eyes locked on his, all fake sweetness and heat.

God, he knows he's in trouble. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, trying to focus on your expression, even though he can feel your stiff nipples nudging into him through that thin, near nonexistent fabric. Every soft shift of your body just makes it worse—he can practically feel the heat radiating off you, the tension rolling off your skin.

"My love," he murmurs, catching your wrists gently, "please. I need to get out of here before one of those girls comes and finds me in here."

You pout like you've just been told you can't have dessert before dinner. "But it was so busy..." you argue softly, letting the words linger. "And no one probably knows you're in here, baby."

And before he can get another protest out, your hand slips between your bodies. You palm the front of his jeans and give the slightest squeeze. It's all you need to confirm it—he's already half hard.

The knowledge sends a hot, dizzy rush straight between your legs. Your pussy throbs in response, the ache inside you tightening, sharp and needy. You're already wet enough that the thin gusset of your thong is clinging to you, already desperate for him to do something about the pulse between your thighs.

Meanwhile, Dick's head is a mess of fuck, fuck, fuck because he knows damn well he should pull away, step out before this spirals but your touch makes every inch of him tighten. But he's remembering how you looked pressed against the mattress last night, how easily your legs wrap around his waist, how you sound when you're dripping for him and well... that's not helping.

He shakes his head like he's trying to physically rattle himself back to his senses, to remember that you're in a damn mall and this is a terrible idea. He catches your hand—your shameless little hand that's rubbing along the thick line of his hardening dick like you have zero concept of mercy and wraps his fingers around yours.

"Baby, please. Just..." he exhales hard through his nose, his voice pleading. "let's get whatever you want and go home, yeah?"

You huff, crossing your arms in a perfect picture of mock annoyance, which only serves to push your tits up in that delicate lace babydoll and it's like you're trying to kill him. His gaze flickers—just for a second—and his brain completely blanks at how good you look in it.

He grunts, adjusting his cock like that's somehow going to make him less aware of the way it's throbbing. "Sweet girl, this—"

But you're already interrupting, stepping into him and taking his hand about to prove a point he's not ready for. You guide it down between your thighs, pressing it right against your pussy. The lace is barely there, but it's warm and damp from just how much you need him.

"I want you so bad, baby," you whine, voice all soft and sweet.

You grind into his palm, the friction making your breath catch, and that's it, his last bit of self control snaps like a cheap thread. He pins you back against the changing room door so fast the little metal hook rattles.

His voice is rough when he says, "You really wanna act like a slut in the middle of the fucking mall?"

Your gasp is sharp because Dick never talks to you like that. Sure, he's called you a brat, shoved you face down on the bed, fucked you until you couldn't think straight, but slut? That's new.

He realizes it the second it's out of his mouth. His expression falters, his voice stuttering, "Fuck, I'm sorry, I—"

"Say it again," you breathe, eyes wide.

He groans, low and guttural, before closing the space and crashing his mouth onto yours. The kiss is a mess—hot, wet, desperate. His tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, licking into you like he's been starving. Your mouths slide together, teeth clicking, breaths mingling. He tilts his head, deepening it, his hand still cupping you, rubbing slow circles over your pussy through the lace of your panties.

You moan into his mouth, the sound caught between you, and he pulls back just enough for his forehead to rest against yours.

"If you wanna do this here," he says, his voice low and sharp, "you'd better keep quiet for me. Can you do that?"

You nod instantly, way too eager, and suddenly, the risk of getting caught feels a hell of a lot smaller compared to how badly he wants you.

"Fuck," he mutters, before his mouth is on yours again.

You fist the front of his shirt with one hand while the other rubs his cock through his jeans, feeling the heat of it straining against the denim. You suck on his tongue just to drag a little groan out of him, your free hand sliding up into his soft hair, gripping tight to keep him right where you want him.

He breaks the kiss so suddenly it leaves you chasing after him, lips still parted, breath shaky. His hand slips from between your thighs, and you whimper at the loss.

"B–baby—"

But he cuts you off, catching your wrist before you can grab him again. Without a word, he turns you around and guides you toward the full length mirror on the wall, his body crowding yours from behind.

You glance at your reflection, still flushed and messy from that kiss. "Dick, what are you—"

"I want you to see yourself, my love," he murmurs, his voice warm in your ear. "Look in the mirror for me."

And you do. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips swollen and slick. Your nipples are pebbling against the sheer fabric, your thighs pressing together because you're already half gone just from the way he's looking at you in the glass. You try to look away, but his hand comes up, fingers curling around your jaw with a gentle grip and he leans down until his lips brush your ear.

"Be a good girl and look in the fucking mirror."

You swallow hard, eyes darting back to your reflection just as his hips press forward. The thick, hard line of his cock grinds against the swell of your ass through his jeans, and the pressure makes you shiver.

Both his hands slide up slowly, almost lazily, until they hook into the thin straps of the babydoll. He tugs them down over your shoulders, peeling the fabric away until it pools uselessly at your waist. Your tits bounce free, nipples hard and aching in the cool air and you gasp when his big hands cup them from behind, warm palms covering the swell, thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks. He toys with you, rolling and circling until your knees threaten to give out.

"So fucking needy, huh?" he rasps against your ear. "Couldn't wait until we got home?"

You shake your head without thinking, your breath hitching. He answers with a low hum, then pinches both nipples just enough to make you whine, the sharpness sending a hot pulse straight between your legs.

He dips his head, lips dragging over the slope of your shoulder before he noses along your neck. You melt into him instantly, tilting your head just enough to give him more access. The first slow lick up your throat makes your knees tremble, and the way he follows it with a wet kiss, then another, then a sharp little suck that's definitely going to bruise makes your pussy throb so hard you have to bite your lip.

You try to push back into him, desperate for more contact, for him to finally do something. And it works. Your bare ass brushes over the thick length straining against his jeans, and he hisses through his teeth.

"Shit," he mutters before it slips out, "such a little slut, huh?"

God, the way he says it... you almost moan right then and there, but you bite it back, chest heaving. He catches it all in the mirror: the flush in your cheeks, the way your lips part like you're dying to make a sound and he can't fucking believe how much you eat this up.

Because Dick? He's not the type. Sure, he teases. Sure, he fucks you until you can't think straight, makes you gag on his cock when you're both in the mood for it, slaps your ass, and maybe, on rare, heated occasions, wraps a hand around your throat or yank your hair to keep you where he wants you. But filthy names? That's never really been his lane.

Yet here you are, squirming for him, biting down on a moan like it's going to save you, pupils blown wide just because he called you a slut and fuck if that doesn't light something dangerous in his chest.

The longer he watches you in the mirror, the more he wants to see what else you'd do for him if he kept talking like that. The more he wants to ruin you right here in this freaking fitting room until you're dripping down your thighs.

His voice drops to that low, rough tone that always makes your knees weak. "You look so fucking hot right now."

The praise makes your stomach flip, your hips shift and you let out the tiniest whimper before you can stop it.

He catches your gaze in the mirror, his eyes steady on yours. "Shhh, baby. Keep quiet for me, yeah?"

You nod, lips pressing together tight.

"Good fucking girl."

One of his hands stays exactly where it is, kneading your tits, teasing at your hard nipples until your breath stutters. The other slides down the front of your body unhurried, until it's pushing the silky hem of the babydoll higher.

"Keep this here."

His voice is soft but there's no room for argument, and you don't even hesitate. With shaky fingers, you grab the bunched up fabric and hold it at your waist, chest still rising and falling way too fast.

His palm hovers for a second, just enough to make your pulse trip before he finally cups your pussy through the thin lace, and the first slow rub has you sucking in a sharp breath. You're so wet the heat of it seeps through, his fingers gliding over your slit, stopping only to circle over your swollen clit. Even through the fabric, the friction is enough to make your thighs twitch.

He groans under his breath, his chest pressing harder against your back. "You're so fucking wet, baby..."

You bite down on another sound, gripping the fabric at your waist tighter when he hooks two fingers into the edge and pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening pussy to the cool air, and his eyes drop to the reflection in the mirror.

You start to look away again, embarrassed by just how wrecked you look, but his quiet tsk pulls your gaze right back.

"Look in the mirror, my love," he murmurs. "You're so fucking beautiful."

The words hit low in your belly, and you do as you're told. You barely get a second to breathe before you feel his fingers, featherlight at first, gliding along your slit. Not even dipping in, just circling, teasing, collecting the slick that's already dripping down your folds. The pads of his fingers are warm and slow, dragging up to your clit but never staying there long enough to give you relief.

When he finally circles your clit with lazy little strokes, your whole body folds inward. Your knees almost give out, but he catches you with his free arm, wrapping it tight around your waist, holding you snug against his chest.

You're trying so hard to stay quiet, but every slow, maddening drag of his fingers makes you want to whine, to beg, to let everyone in this fucking store know exactly what he's doing to you. You're needy, more than needy, and you'd do anything if it meant he'd give you more. The reflection in the mirror is almost too much, your flushed face and parted lips a mirror of exactly how close you are to falling apart.

And Dick knows. Oh, he fucking knows. His cock is hard and aching against your ass, throbbing with every small shift of your hips. Precum is leaking into his boxers, warm spurts that only make him more restless. He's fighting the urge to just yank your panties all the way off and sink into you right here, because God, you look good, you smell good, and every time his fingers drag over your clit, your mouth opens on silent moans.

Your slick coats his fingers, and when he drags them lower again, the wet little squelch is obscene in the quiet between songs playing over the store's speakers. Thank fuck for that background music, because without it, every wet sound would be echoing through the fitting room.

Every time you think he's about to finally give you what you want—just sink those fingers inside you—he pulls back. It's cruel in that way only Dick can be, all patient and steady while you're practically vibrating out of your skin.

You're already begging, your voice breaking. "Please, baby, f-fuck—"

And instead of giving in, he slides over your clit again. Just a lazy little circle, enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch while he watches you struggle to keep quiet.

He leans down, resting his chin on your shoulder so close you can feel his breath ghost against your cheek. His chest presses firm into your back, his cock heavy and hard against your ass. He inhales deeply, and you realize he's smelling you—smelling how sweet and warm you are right now.

"Please what, hmmm?"

His voice is teasing because he already knows the answer but wants to see you squirm trying to say it. You try to guide his hand down to where you need him most, fingers wrapping around his wrist, tugging toward your dripping entrance. But of course, he doesn't move. His grip on your waist tightens, holding you right where he wants you.

His fingertips drift away from your clit and slide lower, tracing along your soaked slit before dipping in, just barely. Just the tip of his middle finger, pressing past your entrance enough for you to feel that little stretch before he's pulling back out to drag over your folds again.

You gasp, sharp and needy, and he answers with a low hum, his mouth finding the curve of your neck, tongue sliding slow over your skin before he sucks lightly, just enough to make your pulse thump there while his fingers spread your lips.

Then his middle finger dips inside again, this time a little deeper. Not enough to satisfy but enough to make you gasp and clench around him, your walls fluttering, begging for more.

You keep squirming in his arms, hips twitching with every little brush of his fingers, every pass over your aching clit. It's too much and not enough, and you feel like you're gonna fucking lose your mind if he doesn't stop teasing and just fuck you already.

"Baby, please..." you whimper, grinding back against him like it might help, like maybe the pressure of his cock against your ass will give you something, anything.

But all he does is hum, so steady it drives you insane. "Please what?" he murmurs, voice warm and smug right at your ear. "Use your words, my love. What's wrong, huh?"

You open your mouth to answer, but the second he circles your clit again, it knocks your brain sideways and all that comes out is a shaky, desperate little moan.

"D-Dick," you whine, voice all breathy and fucked out already. "Please, I need you to—"

He cuts you off with a teasing, "Need me to what, sweet girl?"

You try to pull his hand down again, to guide those perfect fingers where you want them, but he doesn't budge. He laughs, the bastard, and something in you just snaps.

You say it louder than you meant to, all breathless and ragged, "I need your fucking fingers inside me—"

And oh, that does it. He growls, low and sharp, and in the next second he's got his fingers sinking into your dripping pussy.

"Yeah," he mutters, already curling them deep. "That's what you needed, huh?"

You nod so fast it's almost pathetic, a choked sound catching in your throat as your thighs go weak.

His tone goes soft again, almost pitying, and you swear it makes you wetter. "I know, baby. I know. But you gotta keep quiet for me, yeah? Or I'll stop."

That has you biting your cheeks hard, the inside of your mouth stinging where your teeth sink in. You're so desperate to be good for him, so fucking close to crying from how badly you want this. His fingers move deep and steady like he's done this a million times. And he has. Dick knows your body like a song he never forgot the lyrics to, every note perfect.

And God, you can hear it: the squelch of your pussy around his fingers, the slick sounds loud and clear in the silence between the soft music still playing faintly outside. His hand works between your legs, fingers plunging in deep, coming out shiny with your slick only to sink right back in, all the way to the knuckle before he curls them. Your head falls back against his shoulder with a soft, breathless moan.

"Look," he murmurs, nuzzling your jaw as his eyes stay fixed on the mirror. "Look how fucking good you're taking my fingers."

And you do. You watch him finger you, watch your own face melt in the reflection, all flushed cheeks and glassy eyes and parted lips, and you swear it's the hottest fucking thing you've ever seen. His cock is pressed right against your ass, throbbing, and you can feel how tense his body is, and you know he's holding himself back, but only barely.

His fingers fuck into you slow at first, just two, but they're thick, stretching your pussy wide as he scissors them apart and curls them deep. And God, the angle. He knows exactly where to press, dragging against that spot that makes your thighs twitch and your breath catch. He does it over and over again, a steady rhythm, slick and messy and deliberate.

"Fuck, baby," he murmurs, eyes still locked on the mirror like he's hypnotized. "You're so fucking good for me."

It's actually filthy, the way he says it, and it's not like he says anything new. But it's like praise and obsession and awe all wrapped into one, and it makes your walls flutter around his fingers. Makes you clamp down, even wetter, if that was fucking possible.

He groans again. He has to, he's watching his fingers disappear into your pussy over and over, watching how easily they glide in and out of you, how slick and messy and soaked you are. It's obscene. Every thrust drags a new wet squelch from between your legs, lewd and shameless and echoing beneath the soft music playing over the speakers outside.

He can't stop watching. He should. He knows he should. Knows this is insane.

You're in a fitting room from all places, in the middle of a damn mall, and if anyone walks back here, you're done for. But he can't make himself care, can't make himself stop.

You're so fucking hot like this, needy and squirmy, grinding down on his hand, babbling soft, broken little words he can barely understand but feels in his fucking chest.

"Dick—"

"Please, baby—"

"So good, f-feels so good—"

Your voice is breathless, fucked out, falling apart in his arms and God, he's never seen anything more beautiful than the way you look right now. The way your eyes keep fluttering shut, the way your lips tremble, the way your hips can't stay still as you keep fucking yourself down on his fingers.

"You're such a little slut," he grits out, the words sharp but so full of affection it makes your head spin. "Fucking my fingers in public. Couldn't wait, huh? Had to make me touch you right here."

He's practically panting, though. His dick is rock hard, straining in his boxers and leaking more than it ever has from just touching you. He can feel the damp spot spreading at the front of his pants. He's gonna lose it. You're gonna break him.

You whimper again, trembling against him, your voice catching like you're about to sob. He curls his fingers deep and just right and you keen, whole body seizing, too much and not enough all at once.

"Fucking shit," he growls, watching the way your pretty pussy flutters around his fingers. "You're so fucking wet, baby. You're gonna soak the floor."

And you don't even care. You can't. You're so close to breaking, your brain barely holding on, mouth parted, breath shallow, eyes unfocused as you stare at the mirror, at him, at your glistening cunt swallowing his fingers over and over again.

"Tell me," he says roughly. "Tell me how bad you want it."

You try to speak, you really do. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a cracked little moan that dies on your tongue when he drags his palm up against your clit the next time his fingers sink in deep.

"F-fu—D-Dick—" you gasp, the fabric of the babydoll slipping just the slightest bit in your hands but he catches it instantly because of course he does.

His voice is low in your ear, teeth grazing the shell of it as he murmurs, "Keep it up. We don't want a mess on it before I can get it for you, do we?"

You shake your head, barely holding on, knuckles white from how hard you're clutching the hem of the damn thing.

Your legs shake and twitch with every stroke of his fingers inside you, and you swear to God if it weren't for the arm he's got wrapped tight around your waist, you'd be a melted puddle on the floor by now.

You choke on a moan. His fingers are soaked, dripping with how wet you are, and the sounds alone are enough to make your brain short circuit. The wet slap of skin, the messy drag of his palm over your clit with every pump, but you can't even think about telling him to stop.

You can't believe this is happening, can't believe how hot this is, how fucking wet you are. It's like your brain is foggy, all thought reduced to the way he fucks his fingers into your pussy, slow and steady and so deep, and how his palm grinds up against your swollen clit every time he thrusts in.

It's perfect because he knows exactly how to touch you, how to fuck you open with his fingers. He knows how to pull sounds out of you that make your thighs shake, how to make you feel so good you forget where the fuck you are. And maybe it's the setting. Maybe it's how risky this is, how quiet you have to be. Maybe that's why it's so much worse right now.

But you're so close it's almost pathetic.

Your pussy clenches around his fingers, trying to pull him in deeper, tighter, desperate to be filled. You're aching, soaking, dripping and you can feel the sticky mess running down your thighs and slicking up his fingers, can hear the little squelch every time he pulls out just to push back in, curling against that perfect spot. You're fucking falling apart, and Dick knows.

"Look at you," he murmurs, lips dragging down your neck. "Greedy little thing. Wanna soak me before I even fuck you, huh?"

"F-fuck," you gasp, voice barely a whisper, eyes fluttering in the mirror as your thighs tremble. "B-baby—"

It's building. You feel it like a wave, all molten heat and pulsing tension right under your skin. Low in your belly, tighter and tighter, your pussy clenching around his fingers every time he fucks them in. Every slick stroke makes your knees buckle, makes your jaw drop, makes you whimper through your teeth.

Dick moans against your neck, his breath hot as he licks up the side of your throat and sucks just enough to leave another mark that makes your whole body jolt.

"That's it," he rasps, low and way too fond of how fucked out you sound. "My good girl. You're gonna cum on my fingers, huh? Can feel it, baby. So close for me already."

His hand slides from your waist and back up to your chest, greedy and rough because he needs to touch you, needs to feel every inch of you while you fall apart on him. His palm cups your tits, fingers tugging and thumbing your nipples, teasing them until you're gasping for air and squirming like a fucking mess in front of him.

Your ass pushes back against him because he's right there, hot and hard and grinding into you like it's taking everything in him not to just shove his jeans down and fuck you properly. His dick is twitching, rubbing right up against your ass every time you move and making both of you groan under your breath.

"Fuck, you're so hot. So wet, so needy, shit—look at you, baby. Look at how desperate you are for it."

And you do. You can't stop because the mirror is right in front of you, giving you the full fucking view of how he's got his fingers buried in your pussy, soaked and glistening, how your tits bounce under his touch, how flushed and pretty your face is while you fall apart for him. Your mouth is open, your brows pinched, and God, your pussy won't stop clenching around his fingers as you're grinding down on them, chasing it, shameless.

He groans again, a broken little sound against your ear, and the way his cock throbs against your ass makes you dizzy.

Dick's losing it. He's supposed to be the composed one. The level headed one. The good guy. But your pussy is so warm and wet around his fingers—soaked—that all those noble intentions are a distant blur right now. His fingers glide in and out like your cunt wants to keep him there, sucking around the knuckles every time he curls them, all tight and velvety and dripping for him.

You're wetter than usual. He knows your body, knows every sigh, every tremble, the exact pitch of your breath when you're close. But this is different. It's like the setting has got you high, like the risk of someone walking in makes your pussy throb for it. And he can't even blame you because fuck, if he wasn't already addicted to you before, he sure as hell is now.

You're being so good for him, too. Trying to stay quiet, even though your legs are shaking and your whole body is arching into him, seconds away from breaking. He knows how hard it is for you to stay quiet. He can feel it in the way you tremble, how your breaths catch in your throat instead of spilling out loud. And God, you're still holding the babydoll up for him with those trembling hands like the good girl you are, so fucking obedient even when you're seconds from coming undone.

He ruts his hips against your ass once, just once, and it nearly kills him. His cock is throbbing, so hard he's lightheaded. The tip is damp with precum, his boxers uncomfortably soaked, clinging to him with every small roll of his hips. He wants—needs, really—to be inside you, to feel that slick heat around his dick, to fuck you dumb until you can't remember your own name. But not yet, not until he makes you cum.

"Gonna cum for me, sweet girl?" he murmurs against your throat, voice low and wrecked. "Come on, I know you're close. Let me feel it, baby."

Because yeah, his dick is fucking aching, but making you fall apart first? That's what he wants more than anything. You don't even mean to, your hand just moves, like your body has got a mind of its own, and you dig your nails into his forearm, clutching hard as your orgasm crashes through you. Your head drops back onto his shoulder, lips parted in a silent moan you barely manage to muffle, and he feels it. All of it.

You're gushing all over his hand, slick dripping onto his fingers, down to his wrist, so warm and wet it makes him moan into your neck.

"Fuck," he breathes, completely ruined by how you feel. "That's it, baby, just like that. Good girl. Such a good fucking girl for me."

He doesn't stop, just keeps working his fingers into your messy pussy like he's obsessed, dragging them deep and slow, fucking you through it while you're still clenching down around him. His palm grinds against your clit with every thrust, slick and sloppy, making your whole body twitch while he keeps you on that high.

You turn your head to him on instinct, like you're searching for something—air, maybe, or just him—and he leans in immediately, catching your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss. It's all lips and teeth and tongue, hot and wet and needy. His mouth swallows every soft whimper, every shaky gasp as you try to come down, and he moans into it when your cunt tightens all over again, spasming around his fingers.

You kiss like that for what feels like forever—your lips swollen, breaths all tangled, and you can't stop sucking on his tongue. His fingers are still between your legs, rubbing your clit slow and deliberate, and every pass makes your thighs tremble. You're already sensitive, already on the edge again, and it's too much but not enough.

Not when he's still rutting against your ass like he's gonna cum just from grinding against you. You feel the thick weight of his cock in his jeans, rock hard and probably leaking, and God, it's making your head spin.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps his lips pressed to yours in little wet kisses. Your mouth is still parted slightly, trying not to whimper, but he sees it all. Every twitch of your brow, every little gasp.

"You okay, my love?" he asks, quiet and warm, fingers still gliding slow through your dripping folds like he's trying to soothe you, not drive you insane.

You nod, shaky, breath caught in your throat when he rubs your clit again, and he leans in to kiss the tip of your nose, so gentle it makes your heart ache.

"Ready to go home?" he asks.

You shake your head.

His brow twitches. "No?"

"N-no," you whisper.

There's a beat of silence before he sighs, voice strained. "Baby—"

But you cut him off, blinking up at him with those big, glossy eyes and murmuring, "I want you so bad."

His jaw tightens. "I know. I want you too, but maybe we should—"

"No."

His hands still. "Then what do you want?" he asks, trying not to lose it completely.

You take his hand off your pussy for a second, just long enough to bring your own down, slipping between your overheated bodies. Your fingers find his dick through his jeans, and you give him one slow stroke and you swear you feel it throb for you.

"I want you here. You're so hard, baby," you murmur, needy and a little breathless. "Fuck me."

And the second it leaves your mouth, your thoughts go quiet. There's nothing else. Nothing logical, nothing calm, nothing grounded, just the sound of the music muffled outside the fitting room, the heat of his body behind yours, the slick between your thighs, the ache in your gut and the way your whole body is screaming for him.

You need him to fuck you, here and now because you can't wait until you get home.

You expect him to say no. Of course you do, because you know Dick. He's not risky like this. He's careful. He respects you. Loves you. Always wants to take care of you, not fuck you senseless in public where anyone could knock on the door and ruin everything.

So when he groans, deep and rough, right against your mouth, and says, "Bend over for me," it doesn't even register at first.

You blink at him, lips parted, stunned and breathless. "W-What—"

His eyes are dark, blown out, voice low when he says again, "Bend over for me."

You freeze like a deer in headlights, but he's already moving. One big, warm hand takes your wrist, the other pressing between your shoulder blades as he gently bends you toward the mirrored wall. You barely have time to gasp as he nudges your hands toward the horizontal bar across the glass.

"Grab that," he murmurs, mouth close to your ear. "Just like that, baby. That's it."

The bar is cool under your fingers, but you don't feel it—your whole body is throbbing, buzzing with adrenaline and lust. You're still flushed and wet and dizzy, and when he crouches slightly to hook his fingers in your panties and tug them down just enough to expose your soaked cunt, you shiver.

He doesn't pull them all the way off, though. He just lets them stretch around your thighs, bunched and useless, more in the way than anything and for some reason, that makes you wetter. He fists the hem of the babydoll and hikes it back up, exposing the curve of your ass, the sheen of slick between your legs, the way your pussy clenches every time he touches you.

"Wider, baby," he murmurs, palm guiding the inside of your thigh. "Let me see that pretty little pussy."

You whimper, grabbing the bar a little tighter, and he hums, pleased. He steps in close, one hand sliding down the small of your back while the other drags down your inner thigh, grazing dangerously close to your cunt.

He teases, fingers gliding between your folds again, slow and deliberate, smearing your slick up and down your pussy like he's memorizing every swollen inch. He traces your entrance, barely dipping the tip of his finger in, then pulls away just to circle your clit. And you can feel how puffy and sensitive it is, how close you still are from earlier, how you're practically twitching against his hand.

"B-Baby—"

You're about to protest, about to whine out some desperate little plea to quit teasing but then you hear it.

That soft clink of metal. The low scrape of his zipper. The sound shoots right to your clit, and any thought of begging him to hurry dies in your throat. Your breath catches as you hear the faint rustle of denim, the low grunt he lets out when he shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free his cock. You don't even need to look back, you feel it. Feel the heat of him, the weight, the desperation in the way he presses in close behind you again.

"So wet for me," he murmurs behind you, fucking obsessed with the way your pussy clenches around nothing before you feel the swollen head of his dick against your soaked folds.

You gasp, and he does too, low and rough, like it hurts to hold back. He rocks his hips just enough to drag the head up and down your sopping cunt, spreading the mess of precum and arousal all over your clit, your slit, your thighs, until his cock is slick and glossy and gliding like velvet.

It's sticky too, wet in a way that clings, that strings between your folds and his tip when he pulls back just a little. It glistens in the low light, obscene and pretty, and every time he ruts back through it, your pussy gives a squelch that makes his breath hitch.

"Jesus, baby," he groans, hand gripping your hip tight. "You're fucking soaked."

You are. You know you are. You can feel the mess between your legs, smeared on your inner thighs, all over the head of his cock. He's rubbing it in slow and so fucking lazy, and you know it's making everything worse. You're leaking, aching, your walls fluttering just from the idea of him finally sinking in.

"Don't move," he warns, breath ragged. "Just—just stay right there, baby."

You whimper, eyes fluttering, fingers tightening around the bar as he finally lines himself up, finally presses the fat head of his cock right at your entrance. His jaw clenches. His fingers dig into your hips. Every single responsible thought he's had goes flying out the fucking window.

He loves this pussy. He loves how you feel, how you squeeze around him just right, soft and hot and so fucking good it borders on obscene. But right now, you're wetter than he's ever felt you. And he should be worried. You're in public, after all. There's music blasting, sure, but not enough to hide everything. But all he can fucking think about is how wet you are, how warm and soft you feel, how your pussy always hugs him just right.

He hasn't even sunk into you yet and he already feels like he's gonna lose his fucking mind. Your pussy is always like this. Tight and wet, warm enough to melt every bit of tension out of him the second he's inside, and the way you grip him when you're this desperate, wrecked for it? It fucking breaks him.

He finally slides inside slow and steady, inch by inch, and your whole body goes tight. Both of you try to bite back the moans that rise up instantly but fuck, he bottoms out and it's impossible not to make some kind of noise. Even if it's just the soft, broken whimper you let out as your pussy adjusts around him, fluttering tight and wet around his cock. You feel so full so fast your knees nearly give.

He doesn't move yet. Just stays deep, buried to the base, hips pressed flush against your ass while he exhales like he's just been punched in the gut.

"Holy shit..." he mutters, low and wrecked.

You're soaking. Tight. Gushing around him already. Your pussy clings to him, gripping around every thick inch of his dick until he twitches deep inside you, breath catching again.

"Fuck, baby," he grits out, his hands smoothing down your back before sliding down to your ass. "You feel—God, you feel so good."

He palms both cheeks, spreading you open just enough to see, and the view makes his brain short circuit. You're already dripping around the base of his dick, slick pooling and glistening as he stays inside, pulsing against your walls.

And then, finally, he starts to move. Not hard. Not fast. Just deep. Controlled. Each slow thrust pushes every inch of his cock into your sloppy pussy before he draws back just enough to do it again, over and over, fucking you with that same slow intensity that always leaves your legs shaking.

Your hands clamp tighter on the bar in front of you, white knuckled as you take it.

Every stroke drags a soft, aching gasp out of you—so full, so hot, so deep it knocks the breath right out of your lungs. God, his dick feels so fucking good inside you.

Thick and heavy and hot, filling you up so perfectly it makes your pussy squeeze down every time he hits just right. You push your hips back to meet every thrust, needing more, needing to take all of him because you can't get enough, because he's giving it to you exactly how you want it.

His grip on your hips tightens and you glance up, eyes meeting his in the mirror. He's watching the way he fucks you, watching his cock slide in and out of your dripping pussy. His brows are drawn together in that fucked out, focused look you love, jaw clenched as he fights every instinct to just lose control and fuck you rough and fast.

And he knows you're watching him. You see the second his eyes meet yours in the mirror and the second they flick down again.

"Jesus..." he groans, voice breaking, hips stuttering just once.

You flutter around his dick, tight and greedy and he swears he's gonna lose it. He fucks you slow, deliberate. Each thrust deep and steady, like he's savoring every single second of being inside you because God, he is. Even though every instinct in him is screaming to grab your hips and start pounding into you like he needs to, he doesn't. He can't. Not here.

Not when the walls are thin and the music isn't quite loud enough to cover the sound of his hips meeting your ass. Not when someone could walk by. Not when your soft gasps are already threatening to get louder and he's trying so hard not to groan like an animal just from the way your pussy clenches around him every time he bottoms out.

He's so deep inside you his tip kisses your womb, thick cock stretching you out so perfectly that you're dripping more with every push, wet little squelches filling the air as he sinks into you again and again. You're so warm and so wet it's insane—you're practically milking him already and he's barely even started, hot spurts of precum twitching out every time your needy walls flutter around him.

His eyes keep dragging from the mess between your legs to your reflection in the mirror in front of you. Glossy, dazed eyes blinking up at him through your lashes, mouth open in little breathless gasps. Tits bouncing every time his hips roll into yours. You're flushed, sweaty, clinging to the bar like your life depends on it.

"Look at you," he pants, "taking it so good, baby."

You whimper when he bottoms out again and his hands slide up, one to your waist, the other up your spine, over your shoulder, palm dragging your hair aside so he can see all of you.

"You're so fucking perfect," he says. "You feel unreal."

You try to respond but your voice breaks, and that only makes him groan, head tipping forward, eyes fluttering shut for just a second when your pussy clenches down again, tighter than before. And then he pulls out, almost all the way just to see it: your slick coating the entire length of his cock, the creamy mess shining at the base.

He groans, breath shaky as he drags the head of his dick through your folds once just to feel your slick again before pressing back in, slow but needy, until you're stretched around him again.

He buries himself to the hilt, gasping, "Fuck—"

"Y-Yes, b-baby—more," you stutter, voice all breathy and broken, "please, just like that—fuck—"

And he groans, low and ragged and from somewhere deep in his chest, your voice alone nearly snapping the last bit of control he had left.

"Jesus..." he pants, hips stuttering as he starts to fuck you a little rougher, still mindful of the noise, still holding back that full blown desperation in his bones, but you can feel the tension in him.

The heat, that sweet, shaky rhythm giving way to something harder, something needier. Each thrust hits deeper, his cock dragging along your walls, thick and pulsing inside your soaked pussy. You can feel how wet you are, how messy this is. Your slick is all over him, coating his cock, dripping down his balls, sticking to your thighs, and every time he rocks into you, it's just a filthy little chorus of squelches and skin slapping together.

You swear you hear him whimper when your pussy clenches tight again. And the angle, God, the angle is insane. Bent over like this, your back arched, hands gripping the bar, his dick hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. The stretch is deeper, thicker, fuller. You can barely keep yourself upright, your knees wobbling with every thrust that knocks the breath out of you.

He leans over your back just enough to mutter, "So fucking perfect like this. This pussy, fuck—"

You shudder when his hand slips down again, finding your swollen clit like he knows exactly what you need, and of course he does. Dick rubs it slow at first, just to tease, just to make you gasp and twitch beneath him, and then circles tighter, faster, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

You bite your lip so hard it stings, fighting the urge to moan out loud. Your whole body jerks when he fucks into you harder, his cock driving in deep, all the way to the hilt, his balls sticky and wet as they slap against your pussy.

His breath is hot and ragged behind you, voice strained as he murmurs, "Yeah, you're taking it so good, baby. You love being bent over for me, don't you?"

Your only answer is a soft, wrecked whimper. You can't even speak because you're so close again. And he knows. He feels it in the way you tighten around him, in the way your whole body shakes under his hand, in the way your thighs tremble like you're about to break apart if he keeps fucking you just like this. And he will. He has to. He's not stopping until he feels you cum all over his cock.

"Yeah, that's it," he growls, voice practically a snarl behind you as his fingers work your clit. "That's my good fucking girl, taking it all."

You gasp. Choke on it, actually, your mouth falling open as your brain starts to short circuit, every thought fizzing out under the weight of everything he's doing to you. Because he's really fucking you. Rough. Deep. Fast.

Each thrust punches out a little breath, the bar you're holding the only thing keeping you from collapsing. Your pussy is so slick and swollen it's obscene—his cock glides in so smoothly, thick and heavy, perfect, but you still feel the stretch, still flutter helplessly around every inch of him. Especially the tip. God, the tip. It keeps kissing your cervix, that firm nudge that knocks your thoughts sideways every damn time.

And he's wrecking you, just wrecking you.

His hand is ruthless on your clit, rubbing fast little circles with the perfect pressure while his other hand holds your hip. And his cock... Jesus. It's pounding into you, gliding through the flood between your thighs, your pussy practically gushing with every thrust. Every time he pulls back, it's so wet it squelches, creamy slick clinging to the base of his dick before he shoves it right back in to the hilt with a filthy little grunt.

You're drooling. Literally. Mouth parted, breath fogging up the mirror, tongue half. out because your brain is officially soup and you can't think. You loved sex with Dick from the very beginning—sweet and hot and intimate—but this is something else.

It's filthy. Mindless. Fucking perfect. You manage to look up, eyes catching the mirror and oh, fuck. He looks insane.

Hair falling in his face, flushed from the neck up, sweat at his temples, pupils blown wide as he watches his dick disappear into your sloppy, dripping cunt over and over again. His teeth are gritted like he's trying not to moan, trying not to lose it, but his hips don't stop. They keep hammering into you, that gorgeous dick filling you so deep it feels like he's in your stomach.

"Feel that?" he pants, snapping his hips again, letting you hear just how messy it is. "So wet—fuck—never get tired of this tight little pussy."

Your moan comes out broken, muffled against your own shoulder as he fucks you through another shudder. Your thighs are shaking, your grip slipping on the bar, your whole body arching off instinct alone.

You're so close you can taste it and so can he because his voice drops low, right against your ear, hot and wrecked as he growls, "Gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my dick like the desperate little slut you are?"

That's what does it. Not the way he fucks you, though Jesus, that alone could ruin you. Not the way his dick pounds into your soaked, overstimulated pussy with those deep, relentless thrusts that make your knees buckle. No, it's the filth in his voice, that fucking word again: slut.

And just like that, you break. It's instant. Blinding. You cum so hard you almost scream, your head dropping forward with a choked little sob as your pussy clenches around his cock, walls fluttering with desperate, wet spasms. It feels like your whole body is shattering—legs trembling, cunt squeezing him so tight he groans behind you, fingers digging into your flushed skin.

"Fuck—there you go, baby," he pants, fucking you through it, never letting up for even a second. "That's it. So good for me. Look at you, making a mess on my dick."

You can't look at anything. Your vision has gone white. Your jaw is slack. You're gasping like you can't get air, your brain turned to mush while he rubs tight little circles over your pulsing clit, coaxing it all out of you like he's cruel, like he wants to see you cry. And you are.

Tears gathering in your lashes, lips parted in a silent moan as your orgasm drags on and on—wet, hot, endless. Your thighs are shaking so hard you almost slip, but he's got you. Keeps you bent, keeps you open, his cock pounding into your fluttering cunt. And then, he slaps your clit. Light, but it's enough.

A sharp little smack that sends another shockwave through your whole body, your pussy gushing all over him as another helpless wave crashes over you. You whimper, like... full on whimper.

"Jesus," he breathes, voice breaking, "you're gonna fucking kill me—fuck, your pussy is so wet—so tight—"

You barely register his hips stuttering. He's not even close to pulling out. Because he's soaked, his dick sticky with slick, buried balls deep in your spasming pussy while you keep clenching around him, milking him for everything he's got.

"You want my cum?"he grits, jaw clenched so tight it practically creaks, his cock fucking into your soaked, fucked out pussy in slow, deep thrusts, each one barely pulling out before sinking right back in to the hilt, his tip kissing your womb.

You nod. Fast. Shaky. Mindless. He slaps your clit again—light, mean, perfect—and your legs jerk like you've been shocked. The whine that slips out of you is so fucking needy it makes him groan deep in his throat.

"Beg for it."

You try, you really do, but your brain is fried.

Your voice cracks, lips parting uselessly as you stutter out, "B–baby, please—"

"Please what?" he rasps as his hand smooths down your back before grabbing your ass, spreading you wide so he can watch his cock split your messy cunt open. "Use your words, love."

Another slap to your clit. Another twitch in your thighs. You're drooling, whimpering, nearly sobbing.

"W–want—wanna—f-fuck—"

He fucks you harder. Filthy, wet sounds echo in the room as your pussy squelches around him, completely spent but still soaking. He hisses, grinding his hips down on every thrust, making you take all of him, using your poor swollen clit as a pressure point with every rut.

"C'mon," he murmurs like it's sweet, like he's not about to ruin you completely. "Say it."

And finally, you do. "W–want your c-cum," you gasp, shaking as another weak tremor wracks your whole body, "Please, baby—I want it inside—"

His breath leaves him in a broken little groan.

"Take it," he growls before he snaps.

He slams his hips forward, buries his cock deep one last time and then he's cumming, hard and hot, thick spurts spilling deep inside your pussy. You feel it. Feel his dick twitch, feel your walls pulse around it, trying to keep every drop.

He doesn't stop moving. He fucks it into you. Keeps rutting in deep, filthy little rolls of his hips like he wants it everywhere, wants to mark your cunt from the inside out. And God, it works because you're dripping, stuffed full, clenching around him so tight it almost hurts.

You're moaning—loud, high, helpless—and he leans over your back, groaning right against your ear.

"Shhh," he mutters, wrapping a hand around your mouth, "you gotta be quiet, baby. We're still in public."

But you can't. You never can when he fills you up like this. So he kisses your shoulder, still grinding into your soaked, twitching cunt, still cupping your mouth with that big hand while he fucks the last of his cum as deep as he can. And you take it so fucking good for him.

His lips brush your damp shoulder, warm and soft, so gentle it should be a warning. And then his hand leaves your mouth, not to let you breathe, not to ease you down from the high he just wrecked you with, but to slide around your waist, pulling you back into him as he starts rubbing your swollen, soaked clit again.

Your whole body jerks. "D–Dick—"

"Shhh. Just one more for me, yeah?"

You shake your head. Fast. Desperate. Your legs are trembling, your pussy is throbbing around his dick, and you can feel the mess between your thighs with every little movement.

"Come on," he breathes into your ear, fingers still circling that puffy little bud, "I know you can take it."

And then he starts fucking you again. Shallow little thrusts. Just his tip, in and out, over and over, his cock dragging slow through your ruined pussy, so sensitive he hisses through his teeth every time your tight, slippery walls flutter around him. He's still so hard, still leaking, but he doesn't care. He's so deep in it, obsessed with the way your cunt clings to him, messy and stretched and gushing around his dick.

He slides his fingers lower, catching the sticky drips of his cum already leaking from your sore little hole. You feel it, warm and slick as he brings it up to your clit again and spreads it all over.

"You're so fucking messy, baby," he rasps against your ear, hips rolling up into you again as he rubs your clit in tight, wet circles. "Look at you, so fucking full."

You whimper, mouth falling open, knuckles white around the bar you're still gripping.

"I love how wet you are," he groans, voice cracking. "So perfect for me. You always are."

His fingers keep working you, slick and fast, sliding down sometimes to press against your entrance before slipping up to circle your clit again. It's overwhelming—your clit is too sensitive, your pussy is pulsing around his cock, and it's so wet between your thighs you can barely take it.

But his lips are brushing your ear, breath hot and ragged, and he's whispering, "That's it, good girl. Just one more. Give it to me."

You're panting, breath coming in short, shaky bursts, hips twitching every time his cock slides deep again and again and again. He's still fucking you, even though you're dripping, even though you're overstimulated and whimpering and your knees are weak from the last orgasm.

He just won't stop. He keeps your body pressed right where he wants it—bent over, spine arched, hands gripping the bar for support while his cum leaks out of you in slick, hot drips that make your thighs sticky.

He moans softly when it happens. When he feels it. The mess he made. The way your soaked pussy clings to his cock with every thrust. The way it squelches when he rolls his hips, slow and deep and deliberate. He doesn't pull all the way out anymore, just shallow thrusts, fucking his cum into your throbbing cunt.

He shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be doing this. You could be caught. But it doesn't matter. His fingers are still working your clit, rubbing you in circles so wet and slippery it's making you crazy. His hips are moving just a little faster, cock dragging through every sweet, messy stroke of your soaked walls.

Your eyes flutter shut. Your mind is spiraling. Everything is slippery: your pussy, your thighs, your thoughts. Even though you're so overstimulated it hurts, the fact that he's still fucking you, still playing with your clit, still keeping you right there with his cock twitching inside your stretched, cum dripping pussy, it turns you on more.

Because this side of him—the way he loses it, the way he lets himself fuck you like this, sloppy and obsessed and desperate to feel every twitch of your pussy—is so fucking hot.

"God, your pussy is unreal," he groans, voice gone wrecked, lips dragging against the shell of your ear. "So tight, so warm—fuck, baby."

You whimper, trembling as he grinds his cock deeper, and he laughs, low and breathless.

"You're so good, baby," he mutters, fucking into you slow and hard, because he wants to feel every little drag of your walls around him.

His fingers dip lower again, gathering more of the creamy mess between your folds before dragging it back up to your clit. You twitch. He moans.

"That's my girl. So fucking sloppy."

And he keeps going. Still rutting into you. Still rubbing your clit. Still talking to you like you're the most delicious, fuckable thing he's ever seen. The kind of praise that makes your mind go blank, makes your toes curl, makes your pussy throb around him.

"Such a good little slut for me," he breathes as his body shudders against your back.

You barely manage to breathe, hands still clinging to the bar in front of the mirror, knuckles white, legs trembling as Dick stays buried deep inside you. He's still fucking you, hips rolling even though you can feel his dick twitching inside you, way too sensitive, just like you.

Your clit is so swollen it aches, and the second his fingers start rubbing over it again, all slick with the mess he left inside you, your knees buckle.

"D-Dick," you gasp, shaking your head even as your hips try to jerk away. "I-I can't—"

"Yeah you can," he pants, hot breath against your ear as he leans over your back again, his arm wrapped tight around your waist to keep you in place. "I know you can. You always do, baby."

You shake your head again, biting your lip so hard it hurts. "It's too much—Dick, I—"

He thrusts in deep at that, sudden and sharp, and you yelp, your eyes rolling up for a second as your whole body tenses. And he groans right into your skin, just barely hanging on.

"Too much?" he says, rough and low. "You were so desperate earlier, weren't you? Couldn't wait to get home. Had to get fucked right here."

His fingers don't stop, dragging tight little circles over your clit that make your thighs shake. You whimper when his cock drags in and out of you, thick and hard and way too deep, filling you up in a way that makes it hard to think straight. Every thrust squelches, filthy and loud in the quiet space, your pussy so wet it's leaking down your thighs.

And then his voice drops lower. "Come on. If you give me one more, I'm filling you up again. Promise."

You shudder. You want to say no, want to say it's too much, that you can't, but what comes out instead is a soft, breathless, "please..."

He chuckles, hips snapping into you just a little harder, fucking your puffy cunt like he owns it.

"Yeah," he breathes, nose buried in the back of your neck. "That's what I thought."

You're a mess. Sweaty, overstimulated, breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The air around you is thick with heat and the sweet scent of sex, of you, of how wrecked you are for him, and he swears it's driving him insane. Your pussy is fluttering around him again, clenching because you're already close, and the slick mess between your thighs only makes it filthier.

He's leaking again too, he can feel it. Not just his last orgasm but how bad he wants it, how good you feel even when his cock is too sensitive, how his body wants to cum again just from the way your body reacts to him. Still so hot. Still so tight. Still so goddamn perfect for him.

And you let him take it. Let him use you like this, overstimulated and dripping, your clit swollen and pulsing under his fingers, your pussy hugging his dick like you need him to give it to you again. And oh, he's about to.

It builds so fast you barely notice it— this tight, twisting, unbearable pressure curling deep in your gut, making your legs shake and your breath hitch and your brain completely blank out except for one single thought: you're gonna cum.

And it's too much, too wet, too full, too good. Your eyes blur, and your whole body tenses like you're about to cry, and you manage a broken little gasp, "D-Dick—" but he doesn't stop.

Doesn't slow. His fingers keep rubbing your clit, soaked with the mess of both your cum, and his cock grinds into you in short, deep thrusts that make your pussy spasm around him. You swear it's like your body is begging him for it, all slick and fluttery and needy.

"That's it," he breathes against your shoulder, voice rough and so close to falling apart. "You feel that, baby? You're so close, I can feel it. You're gonna cum for me again, aren't you?"

You nod, frantic, breath shuddering, and he kisses your damp shoulder—soft, almost sweet—before he fucks into you just a little harder, making you jolt.

"Fuck, you're so good for me," he groans, balls slapping wetly against your puffy pussy, both of you soaked and sticky from how messy it's gotten.

You sob, not from pain, but from how badly you want it. From how badly you need to break again.

"Come on," he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. "Give it to me. One more, pretty girl. Just one more and I'll fill you up again, I swear."

You whimper, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable, your whole body drawn tight like a string about to snap. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, thick and hot and so deep it's kissing your cervix with every shallow thrust. You can feel how he's holding himself back—just barely. He's right there with you, breathing hard, chest pressed to your back.

And you can't hold it. Your thighs twitch, your toes curl, your pussy clenches down hard and your orgasm slams into you so violently you can't even make a sound, jaw dropping open as your whole body locks up. Your cunt flutters around his cock, your clit throbbing under his fingers as the pleasure crashes through you in wave after wave.

And Dick's right there, holding you steady, watching your reflection as you fall apart on his cock.

"God—fuck, that's it," he grits out, hips stuttering. "Fuck, baby, you're gonna make me—"

He doesn't even finish the sentence before he's thrusting deep one last time and spilling everything inside you, his cock twitching hard as he presses his hips flush to your ass and stays there, his mouth dropping open with a guttural groan.

You can feel every thick, hot pulse of it, the way your swollen walls squeeze around the flood of it like they're desperate to keep him, the slick, slippery weight of his second load stuffing you. It's messy, leaking around the base of his cock already, warm and so much you feel it trickling down your thighs.

And even as you're shaking, still cumming, he's leaning into your back, wrapping his arms around your waist like he has to feel you as full and messy and ruined as possible. He stays deep, buried to the hilt, cock twitching with the last, thick spurts of cum as your spent pussy clenches weakly around him.

And he doesn't move, doesn't even think about pulling out, just holds you close, breathing hard, both of you trembling and soaked in sweat and arousal, his hips flush to your ass. You whimper—soft, fucked out, overstimulated—and he presses a slow, tender kiss between your shoulder blades. Then another. And another.

"Shhh, I know, baby. I know." His voice is soft and soothing, warm breath tickling your damp skin. "You did so good for me. So perfect."

His hands are gentle again, splayed over your tummy, then up to your ribs where your chest is still rising and falling too fast. He strokes slow, comforting circles with his thumbs, grounding you. Not rocking anymore, juat staying. Staying inside you, letting your body relax around him, giving you space to come back down.

Your head dips as your forehead rests against the mirror, breath fogging up the glass. You're still panting, still shaking, but his hold feels steady, warm, safe.

"Breathe, sweet girl. That's it," he murmurs again, kissing the back of your neck this time, lips lingering against your sweaty skin. "Just breathe for me. You're okay."

Even with your messy, overstimulated cunt still fluttering around his dick, leaking both your orgasms down your thighs, even as his cock gives a tiny throb inside you like it’s not done, he doesn't rush. Doesn't pull away.

Just whispers, "You're okay, baby. I've got you."

You nod, blinking slowly, still dazed and glassy eyed, lips parted as your pulse starts to slow.

He shifts just slightly, enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. "Good, my love?"

You manage a hoarse little "Y-yeah," breath catching again when you feel a fresh little drip of his cum slide out around his cock and down your thigh.

"Yeah," he echoes, gentle and sweet. "You're okay. That's my girl. Did so good for me."

He nuzzles the side of your face as he speaks, then kisses your cheek and you let out a soft, exhausted whimper, hips twitching just slightly.

"Breathe with me, sweet girl," he whispers, smiling against your skin. "Nice and easy."

And for the next few minutes, neither of you move. It's just his cock inside your warm, stretched pussy, just the gentle sound of his breathing syncing with yours. Just soft kisses and steady hands and whispered praise as your body stops trembling.

You whimper softly when he shifts behind you, just the slightest movement, but your pussy flutters, sore and stretched and still leaking.

He strokes your waist gently. "Shhh... It's okay, my love."

You hum, a tired little noise that makes his heart squeeze.

"Tired?" he asks, voice low and warm as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

You nod weakly. "Mhmm."

"I'll clean you up a little," he says, already rubbing slow circles into your hip."We'll buy this real quick and go home, yeah?"

"Yeah," you whisper, soft and sleepy and still clinging to the high.

He kisses your temple. "Good girl."

Then he straightens up behind you, one hand bracing your lower back while the other slides to your inner thigh. "Gonna pull out, baby."

You brace yourself, whimpering again the second he moves. His cock slips free with a slow, wet drag, the stretch making your cunt clench down reflexively even as the emptiness hits you like a wave.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath.

His eyes stay locked between your thighs, lips parting at the sight of it: his cum spilling out of your puffy pussy, thick and messy and so fucking hot.

"Jesus, baby..." he murmurs, running one hand up your trembling thigh as he keeps you steady. "I really did a number on you, huh?"

You nod again, barely, knees wobbly and eyes hazy. He's still looking at the glossy sheen smeared all around your inner thighs, the slick mess dripping slowly from your folds, at how puffy and sore and so fucking used your pussy looks. His dick is a mess too, still heavy and streaked with your slick, his cum, your cum, he doesn't even know what's what anymore. It's all just you.

"Stay right there, sweet girl," he murmurs, kissing the dip of your back. "Let me take care of you."

You try to shift your legs, trying to move, but your knees shake instantly and he's already catching you.

He cups your thigh, rubbing it gently. "Easy, baby. Don't move. Let me clean you up, yeah?"

You nod, letting yourself relax again and he's already crouching down behind you, reaching for your bag because of course you keep wet wipes in there. You always do, and he loves you for it. He grabs one and brings it to his lips first, warming it a little with his breath before slipping it between your legs.

"Easy, baby..." he murmurs as he wipes you gently, so careful with your sore, puffy pussy. "You're so good for me. So fucking good."

He kisses your thigh in between each stroke, slow and soft and adoring. You let out a shaky breath, body still humming, still floating. You can feel how messy everything is, how his cum is still dripping out of you, how sensitive your clit is, how your thighs twitch every time his knuckles brush too close.

"Fuck, look at that mess. Took every drop for me, didn't you?"

You whine a little, biting back a tired giggle.

He wipes you clean, then presses one last kiss to the curve of your ass before murmuring, "There we go, my love. All clean."

He grabs your panties and pulls them back up over your soaked pussy, smoothing them gently into place. You hiss a little at the contact, and he rubs your hip, still whispering praise.

Then he helps you stand upright again, steadying you with both arms as you lean into him like your bones are made of jelly. You cling to his side, blinking slowly, cheeks flushed and lips parted. He smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head like he didn't just fuck you dumb in a freaking fitting room.

"Come here," he murmurs, grabbing a few more wipes to clean himself up quickly.

You peek down and catch the way his dick is still half hard, glistening with both your cum. You snuggle into his chest as he finishes, tucking yourself under his arm while he tosses the wipes and adjusts his boxers and jeans again.

"You okay, baby?" he asks one more time, warm palm stroking your lower back.

"Yeah," you breathe, eyes fluttering shut for a second. "M'tired."

"I know," he says, kissing your forehead.

You're still leaning into him, body boneless and eyes fluttery, when he murmurs, "Come on, let's get you back in your clothes, baby."

His hands are gentle as he helps you step out of the babydoll—slow and careful not to jostle you too much now that you're all soft and wobbly. The fabric slips off your shoulders and pools at your feet, and he crouches to scoop it up, both of you instinctively checking the damage like two guilty teens trying to hide a mess.

You both squint at it. It's wrinkled as hell, maybe a little damp at the hem, but no stains, miraculously.

You exhale in relief. "Thank fuck."

He grins, holding it up between two fingers. "Actually... I think we should grab a few more of these. Different colors."

You gasp dramatically, swatting his chest. "Dick!"

"What?" he shrugs, eyes still glinting. "You're hot as fuck in it. I want the whole set. Tuesday pink, Wednesday black, Thursday slutty red..."

You snort, rolling your eyes as you tug your top back on. "You're so stupid."

He smirks, hands sliding to your waist again to help you with your skirt. "Stupid for you, baby."

"Corny and horny," you mutter under your breath, giving your reflection one last glance in the mirror.

You fluff your hair, adjust your straps, check your thighs for any suspicious shine—because you know you're dripping—and eventually give yourself a tiny nod.

"Alright. We're decent."

You reach for the door handle, nerves prickling like maybe the universe is gonna humble you now, and... nothing. No voices, no footsteps, just the same stupid store music, but no one hovering outside the fitting rooms. You both make eye contact and immediately start grinning like criminals.

"Go," you whisper, and Dick slips out first, casual as hell, like he didn't just rearrange your guts two minutes ago.

He slides into the plush chair like he's been there the whole time, phone in hand, legs spread, one brow lifted in mild boredom. A model citizen. You bite back a laugh and start gathering the lingerie sets you tried on and scoop them over your arm as you make your way out with that post sex floaty walk you're desperately trying to disguise.

Dick looks up at you when you pass and just smirks like the devil. "Don't forget we have to get that slutty red one."

"Richard," you warn.

He raises both brows, totally innocent. "What? You'd look unreal in that one."

You step out of the fitting rooms area and immediately do a quick, frantic scan of the store like you're wearing a neon sign that says I just got absolutely wrecked in there. You can feel it on your face, like it's written across your forehead in glossy, post sex sweat, your lips a little too kiss bruised, your thighs wobbling just a little too much.

And Dick notices. Of course he does. He always does.

He wraps a strong arm around your waist, tugging you into his side, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, "It's okay, love. If anyone actually knew what went down in there, security would've dragged us out by now."

You blink up at him, wide eyed, and then giggle, the nerves bubbling out in a soft, breathless sound. "God, I hope you're right."

"Of course I am," he grins, smug as hell, walking with you like he didn't just turn your insides to pudding five minutes ago.

You busy yourself with putting back a few of the pieces you decided not to grab and for a moment you're focused, fingers brushing silky straps and delicate lace as you rearrange them back on the display racks.

Meanwhile, Dick's on a mission. He's already pulling pieces down from hangers like he owns the place: different colors of the same babydoll, a few lace sets in soft pastels, one in a dangerously sheer navy blue you definitely didn't try on, and something strappy and black that looks like it was made to be peeled off slowly.

"Dick—" you gasp, watching him juggle hangers and mesh and satin like it's a damn fire sale.

He shrugs. "You looked really hot in that one. I want a whole collection."

You're trying not to laugh as he grabs your hand again, lacing your fingers and tugging you toward the counter like he's dragging you to safety but instead it's straight into a lingerie bill that's definitely gonna make his bank account cry.

"Baby," you whisper scandalized, "these are too much—"

He leans in, all smug and calm and way too pleased with himself, and kisses the tip of your nose. "As I've said... it's like a gift for me."

And you don't even get a chance to retort, because the girl at the counter starts scanning your items, nose in the air like she knows she's looking at a man who just railed you in the fitting room and has the audacity to act normal about it.

You try not to make eye contact. Dick, on the other hand? He's just standing there with one hand on your lower back and the other casually pulling out his card like this is a Tuesday afternoon and he's buying groceries.

You don't even realize you've been holding your breath until you're finally stepping out of that lingerie store and into the more familiar chaos of the mall. The bright lights, the families walking too slow, the echo of music and chatter—it's somehow grounding. Distracting enough to help shake the thought of how thoroughly you just got fucked in public.

Dick's right beside you, his arm still wrapped around your waist like he didn't have you folded over in a dressing room ten minutes ago. The other hand? Full of sleek little shopping bags, strings of satin and lace peeking out, like a walking please don't look too hard ad.

"Well," he says like he's commenting on the weather. "I think today was really successful. Don't you think, baby?"

You glance up at him, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile, but your pussy betrays you, throbbing faintly just from the sound of his voice paired with the memory of what he did to you. You swallow hard, blinking the image of your reflection in the mirror from your mind, and roll your eyes.

"I guess so," you mumble, letting out a breathy little yawn you didn't even know was coming.

Dick makes a soft noise, all mock affectionate. "Okay, that's enough fun for today."

You blink up at him as he guides you through the crowd toward the escalators, the hand on your waist slipping lower for just a second before settling again.

"I'm taking your cute ass home, we're properly cleaning up," he continues, tone final, "and we're ordering takeout. You're not lifting a finger, you hear me?"

You almost protest—almost—but honestly, you're too blissed out and floaty to even bother trying to win that argument. Not when you're still a little sore, your thighs sticking just a little with every step, his cum still leaking into your panties. You just hum and nuzzle your face into his shoulder like a sleepy kitten, letting him steer.

He chuckles under his breath, low and warm. "That's my sweet girl."

And by the time you finally make it back to the parking lot, the sky is just starting to turn pink at the edges. He opens the door for you, helps you into the seat like you're fragile—and maybe you are a little right now. He sets the bags in the back and leans down to press a soft kiss to your temple before slipping behind the wheel.

Home. God, that sounds real fucking nice right now.

You make it home about half an hour later, riding that dreamy, floaty little high all the way up the elevator and through the door. Your legs are still a bit wobbly, your brain still soft, and Dick just knows. You don't even need to say anything.

The moment the door clicks shut, he's crouched to undo the little buckle on your shoes, slipping them off. He leans up to kiss your tummy over your shirt on his way back up—which makes you giggle—and then lifts you with no warning, big hands gripping your thighs as he sets you down gently on the kitchen counter.

"Sit," he murmurs, brushing his lips over your cheek before grabbing you a glass of wine. "Relax. Let me handle stuff, yeah?"

You nod, toes curling against the counter edge as he gets to work putting away all the things you picked up before the chaos. You sip your wine while watching him move around the kitchen—bare forearms flexing, hair a little messy, that post fuck glow on his skin you know you're probably wearing too. Every so often, he leans in to press a kiss to your temple or the bridge of your nose or the corner of your mouth like he can't help himself. And maybe he can't.

There's no rush, no tension, just this domestic little bubble you both curl into after a day like that. Once the fridge is restocked and your favorites are tucked in their usual spots, he peeks at your wine glass, sees it's still halfway full and grins.

"You done with that, baby?"

"Mhmm."

He sets it on the counter and hooks an arm around your thighs to lift you only to not let you go. Instead, he holds you against his chest with a deep sigh like he missed touching you for the full three minutes you were sipping wine.

"You need a bath," he mumbles into your hair.

You snort. "We need a bath. We reek like sex."

He laughs, presses a kiss to your cheek, and says, "I already ordered the food, my love. Twenty five minutes. We have time for a bath."

And you don't argue. You just melt into his chest like putty when he picks you up and carries you toward the bathroom. Once there, he doesn't even have to ask how you like the water—he already knows. He sets you down on the counter with a soft kiss to your forehead, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work. The perfect temp. Your favorite bubble bath. A little cap of that glittery vanilla oil you love that makes your skin smell like frosting. And of course, the pink shimmery bath bomb you've been saving for a rough day.

He tosses it in, watching it fizz and bloom as the tub fills.

Then he's in front of you again, coaxing you to stand, his voice softer. "Let me, baby."

While the tub fills, he starts undressing you with that quiet reverence that never gets old. Your top first, lifted gently over your head with a warm, appreciative look. Then your bra, unhooked in one practiced move, dropped to the floor. He bends down to pull off your skirt next, pressing soft kisses to your belly, your thighs, your knees on the way down. His hands stay on your skin even after you're bare, warming you up with slow strokes, eyes soft and a little drunk on you still.

"God, you're so fucking pretty," he murmurs, nudging your nose with his. "Every time. Every single time."

You smile sleepily and let him guide you to the tub. The water is perfect—hot but not too hot, the surface scattered with little glimmers of shimmer, the oils already making your skin slick as you sink in. He waits until you're settled before undressing himself. Shirt, pants, boxers all tossed aside in lazy motions, that big beautiful dick of his still flushed, still heavy from what he did to you earlier.

Then he climbs in behind you, pulling you between his legs, his thighs bracketing yours, chest against your back, arms wrapping you up tight. You let out the littlest sigh, soft and pliant against him, and he kisses the top of your head.

"Better?" he murmurs into your hair, hands rubbing slow over your hips under the water.

You nod. So much better. You don't have to ask, he's already got the sponge in hand, soaking it and lathering it up with that soft, expensive body wash you both use way too fast. And then he's dragging it over your skin, slow and gentle, one hand steady on your hip while the other works in careful circles down your back, your arms, your thighs. Every so often he leans in and kisses whatever he just washed—your shoulder, the curve of your neck, the top of your spine—like he's sealing the care into your skin.

Neither of you say much, just little hums and breathy sighs and slow, lazy kisses passed back and forth when he leans up. It's quiet, steamy, and intimate, so soft it makes your chest ache.

When he rinses you off, he tips your chin up, kisses your cheek, and says, "All clean, sweet girl," and you smile, all melty and sleepy and so, so soft for him.

He washes himself next while you lean back between his thighs, letting the heat of the water and the smell of your favorite bath oils keep you floaty. And then he stands, steps out, and holds a towel open for you like he always does, steadying you by the waist as he helps you up and out of the tub.

He dries you off slow, then wraps you in your fluffiest robe with that same look he gives you every single time, like you're the softest, most perfect thing he's ever held.

You throw your hair up in one of those twisty hair wraps, and he finally tugs his own robe on, tie left a little loose because of course it is—he's just that guy. He takes your hand and leads you to the couch, guiding you down with both hands until you're tucked under a blanket like a little baby bird, cozy and warm and bathed and cared for. You're barely settled when his phone buzzes.

"Perfect timing," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair before disappearing to the door.

The second the food is down and the containers are open, it's game over. You're feeding each other like giggly idiots, mouths full, fingers sticky, fighting over dumplings like it's life or death. He tries to steal the last piece of mandu and you pretend to slap his hand away, and he fakes being wounded until you sigh and give him a bite anyway.

Every now and then he wipes sauce from your mouth with his thumb and kisses you like he just can't help it, even when there's a little kimchi between you. And he says I love you so casually in the middle of it and you say it back with your cheek smushed to his shoulder and your chopsticks in hand.

Eventually, you both start winding down. You dry off properly, change into soft pajamas—his shirt, your tiny shorts—and crawl into bed together, limbs tangled, the night winding down with whispers and one last round of brushing teeth and forehead kisses. You nuzzle into his chest, still a little full, still a little warm from the bath, his heartbeat thudding slow and steady beneath your cheek.

And all you can think is how spoiled you really are, and it's not the gifts or the lingerie or the dinner. It's him. It's the little dramatic pouts when you try to be mad at him. It's the way he wraps you in his robe even though yours is right there. The way he tucks you into safety after absolutely wrecking you.

The way he still treats you like something precious, even with his cum dripping down your thighs and your voice wrecked from begging. It's how he can get you trembling with just a few filthy words and then cook your favorite breakfast the next morning like you didn't cry on his dick the night before.

It's yours. All of it. He is.

Dick nuzzles his nose into your damp, fluffy hair, breathing in that familiar scent of shampoo and your favorite leave in. His arm is heavy around you, his chest rising and falling slow beneath yours, and for a second, all he can do is hold you tighter and thank whatever fucking higher power is out there that you're his.

Because you don't give a shit about his money. You never have. You just care that he holds your hand. That he kisses your forehead. That he gets the temperature just right when he runs you a bath. That he notices when you're quiet and makes you laugh again in under ten seconds flat. You care about him. And that? That's everything. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, smiling to himself.

You're it for him. No doubt. No question. You're his sweet girl. His baby. And fuck, he's gonna keep spoiling you forever, just like this. Because you deserve all of it.

[killerplink]

Life lately 🧍🏻‍♀️

“I can’t fucking do this” - I mutter for the twentieth time as I continue to fucking do it

[killerplink]

These four idiots (they're not idiots, they're smarter than I'll ever be)

[killerplink]

I know Jay is fed up with his ass sometimes lmao

giving (unsolicited) advice 🫶

[killerplink]

walk with me here, roys girl whos a giant tease and is worse than him calling him angel to mess with him

OMG BESTIE, YOU'RE SPEAKING TO MY SOUL RN ✋🏻 so Roy's a menace, yeah, we know that, okay? filthy mouth, wandering hands, always whispering shit in her ear just to see her squirm. but his girl??? oh, you best believe she's worse 🙂‍↕️

she calls him "angel" in public, coo it while tugging on his arm in front of the boys like she doesn't know he's already turning red 😭

"could you carry this for me, angel? you're so strong, baby" 🥺

he short circuits on the spot. Jason's gagging, Dinah's howling, and Roy? he's gripping the nearest countertop like it personally offended him 🏃🏻‍♀️

he'll be shirtless, sweating, muscles flexing, fixing something under the sink, and she'll squat next to him like "need any help, sweet thing?"

sweet thing. like he's not a fully grown man with arms like steel beams. like he doesn't rearrange her guts nightly 😌

or worse—better actually—she calls him a "good boy" 🤭 she whispers it real low in his ear when he opens the door for her or lifts something heavy like he didn't do it with one hand lol

and she just walks off like she didn't just ruin him for the next five minutes. the first time she did it he fucking dropped the toolbox, straight up 😌

"Jesus... 'm NOT a good boy," he muttered under his breath, all pouty, face RED (yes, redder than his flannel shirt)

"yeah you are, baby," she sing songed. "my BEST boy"

he whines every time without fail and he can't even retaliate properly because the second he tries, she hits him with a "oh, don't pout, angel. you know I love you" and kisses his cheek like she's innocent (she's absolutely NOT)

he's so whipped it's embarrassing, your honor ✋🏻later, though? she ends up bouncing on his lap like a menace, dragging her nails down his chest while whispering "you gonna be my good boy now or do I have to make you behave?"

and he fucking melts like butter in the sun while trying not to bust. big hands grabbing her waist, hips jerking up, begging under his breath while she fucks the thoughts right out of his pretty little head 🙂‍↕️

so yeah. Roy Harper? filthy, no doubt, but his girl? she's got him on his knees by the balls and he loves it 🤭🏃🏻‍♀️

[killerplink]

It's my birthday!! I woke up to a scrumptious piece of writing and immediately thought of your blog and then it got me thinking. What would our boys do on our birthdays?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BESTIEEEEE 🥳🖤

you deserve all the cake, kisses, and dick/pussy you can carry 😌💅🏻 thank you for thinking of my blog OMGGG I'm emotional 🥹

now let's talk about what our men are doing for your birthday 🏃🏻‍♀️

ROY, menace of the century

he's up before you, making pancakes shirtless, tattooed, and smug as hell with your name spelled in syrup. buys you a ridiculous amount of gifts you didn't ask for

"what do you mean this necklace isn't necessary? you're hot and I love you and it's your birthday, baby."

also gives you a charm bracelet with tiny, meaningful little trinkets he picked out himself. one of them is a tiny frying pan, another one is a bow and arrow. you cry, he panics 😭

sucks your tits while you're still holding a fork 🏃🏻‍♀️ later, he bends you over the kitchen counter and hits you with a "make a wish, pretty thing" right before rawdogging you so good you forget how to spell it 😌

you wake up the next day with a sore back and your birthday balloons still tied to the bedframe 🙂‍↕️

DICK, golden retriever demon

this man has an itinerary ✋🏻

spa day. brunch. surprise outfit laid out. your favorite playlist. candles. dinner reservation. romantic walk. everything. you don't have to lift a finger 😌

gifts you a custom photo book of your best moments together, handwritten notes included. a silk lingerie set for "later" (he picked it with help from Steph and he will NOT admit that)

until you tell him you're not wearing panties under that dress and suddenly you're in the backseat of the car, legs shaking, bouncing on his dick like he's your present 🤭

"anything you want, my love. it's your birthday" 🙂‍↕️

you're not walking straight for the next 24 hours. Bruce knows. Alfred knows. everyone knows. you wore flats the next day and no one asked questions 🏃🏻‍♀️

JASON, your personal slutty bodyguard

gives you a card that says "to my gremlin girl: I love you more than books, bikes, and bullets"

also gives you a rare first edition of your favorite book, a new leather jacket "so you match mine" and finally a knife with your name engraved on it (he says it's sexy. you agree) then proceeds to rail you like you're gonna disappear at midnight 🤭

"you want birthday kisses, baby? how about birthday spanks, hmm?"

You: giggling like a menace while grinding on his thigh in nothing but a bow

Jason grabs your ass with both hands: "You're lucky I didn't put you in a box and gift you to myself"

later that night, he makes you sit on his lap and open your presents while he's still inside you. it's called multitasking 🏃🏻‍♀️

COLE, disaster in a leather jacket

doesn't say happy birthday first, just kisses you, slips a wrapped box into your hands and mutters "don't make a big deal out of it" 😌 inside? vintage jewelry he somehow "acquired" (you don't ask questions), a designer perfume that smells like sex and danger, and lingerie that's more strap than fabric 😌

plans? NONE. "I figured we'd just do whatever you want, birthday girl" which somehow translates into you getting bent over the couch mid movie with your dress hiked up and his pistol on the coffee table because OF COURSE it's within reach 🏃🏻‍♀️

"gotta fuck you stupid before anyone else texts you "happy birthday", doll."

later, you're in one of the barely there sets he bought, straddling him while he lights a cigarette and tells you how good you look ruining him 🙂‍↕️

hope your day is full of love, orgasms, and violently good cake, bestie 🫂 thank you for being here and for bringing this unhinged energy to my inbox on your birthday 🥹

[killerplink]

POOR JAYBIRD BHAHAHAHAHA (he'd hate my ass, I'm a yapper too 🏃🏻‍♀️ but he could shut me up real quick with that fat deck and a hand around my throat, no problem)

and don't even get me STARTED on those abs. I'm tryna ride them like a mechanical bull. Damn... WHO SAID THAT?? 🏃🏻‍♀️

mr yapperton 3000 vs mr broodicus maximus

[killerplink]

listen, I'm an ass slapper through and through, and I simply refuse to believe Roy Harper's girl wouldn't be the EXACT same. like be fucking serious, he walks around with that big, fat, biteable ass in sweatpants?? be so fucking for real ✋🏻

anyway, here's a chaotic little drabble of a regular evening in the Harper household 😌

Roy bends over for like half a second to grab something off the floor and suddenly he hears feet scuffling behind him.

"MMM YEAH, SHOW ME THAT SLUTTY ASS, HARPER."

*dry humps him like a menace*

"YOU'RE SUCH A WHORE. BENDING OVER LIKE THAT FOR FREE?"

"YUM YUM, CAKES OUT, BAKERY'S OPEN. DEEEELICIOUSSSSS."

He FLINCHES, smacks his head on the edge of the coffee table, and YELLS.

"JESUS CHRIST, BABY—"

"Don't act like you didn't want it, Harper. You arched for me."

"I did NOT arch."

"OH YOU DID, YOU DID A SLUTTY LITTLE WIGGLE."

"I was balancing—YOU FERAL WOMAN."

"MY LITTLE FAT BOTTOMED BABY. I WANNA MAKE YOU A WIFE."

He's red in the face, laughing and flustered, half trying to fend you off while you're dramatically grinding against his sweatpants like a gremlin, still yelling.

"DIDN'T KNOW YOU WAS LIKE THAT, ROY. BUT I'LL TAP THAT BOOTY. I GOT YOU COVERED, BABY."

*he's trying so hard to be serious but he's fucking wheezing*

"I'm gonna throw you in the yard with the dog, I swear to God."

"I AM THE DOG. A DOG FOR THAT ASS. ARF ARF ARF."

"You need a cage, trouble. A muzzle."

"Put a leash on me then. But turn around first."

Eventually he tries to walk away and you just follow him, still humping air behind him like a freak. You're cackling, throwing your head back, screaming about how you're gonna breed that slut Harper real good next time he bends over again 😤

The only time he stops bending over around the house is if Dinah or Jason are visiting, because he knows you have no filter and he REFUSES to be clowned in front of your friends 🏃🏻‍♀️ (they absolutely know you're a menace and they ADORE you for it. Roy knows you're gonna pull some shit the second his back is turned but he can't even be mad ✋🏻 he bagged a baddie with no self control and a hand magnetized to his ass, and that's on him 😌)

anyway, I hope this made you laugh, besties. I know I laughed my ass off writing it 🤭

also, I promise I'll finish the Dick oneshot ASAP 🥹 I'm working 10 days in a row (five down, five to go) 😖 my brain is soup, my body is dust, my soul left around day three and I'm held together by caffeine and spite but I'm trying, besties!! 😭 send thoughts and prayers, I'm about to get raw dogged by two back to back 12 hour shifts this weekend, yaaay 😃

thank you for your patience while I fight for my life in the capitalist trenches, YOU'RE PRECIOUS AND ILY 🥹🫂

[killerplink]

Prince of Gotham

(heavily inspired by this post op if you see this, I didn't want to bother you 🙈)

[killerplink]

BESTIES ✋🏻I haven't stopped thinking about that "what if their girls are nastier than them" ask y'all dropped a while ago 😭 because imagine the GIRLIES when they're a little tipsy. walking, horny little disasters. I'm talking zero filter. gremlin behavior activated. the boys? panicking. sweating. blushing. SUFFERING 🤌🏻

ROY, the dinner date menace (your friends are there too)

you whisper filth into his ear everywhere, so that's nothing new, but tonight you're tipsy, glowing, leg bouncing under the table. your pasta is currently untouched aaand the cocktails keep coming. he's already eyeing you like a threat, but you obviously don't give a shit

You, leaning in and giggling drunkenly: "Roy. Baby. Look at me. I want your dick."

Roy, blinking like you just smacked him in the face: "We're at Olive Garden, pretty thing."

You, beaming, palming his dick under the table: "Your breadstick is the only one I want."

Roy: silently shoves some pasta in his mouth to stop himself from moaning

Dinah is wheezing. Jason is completely unfazed.

DICK, the social event saboteur

he's trying to behave, shake hands, make Bruce proud. you're tipsy and sparkly and currently ruining his life (dw, he loves it here)

You, whispering hot into his ear: "Do you think if I bend over to "pick up" this napkin and stick my ass out you'll take me home early?"

Dick, visibly short circuiting, adjusts his tie for the fifth time: "You've already done that twice, my love."

You, giggling like you don't know what you're doing: "It's working though, right?"

Dick: tight smile, nods once, excuses you both from the conversation

Bruce is in the background, sighing into his wine because he knows exactly how whipped Dick is for you, and honestly, he saw this coming after your second cocktail. third just confirmed it

JASON, the at home victim of thirst

he's on the couch. relaxed. minding his business. you? tucked into his side, tipsy and horny with zero decorum

You, squinting at him hard: "Take off your shirt, Jay."

Jason, eyeing you suspiciously: "Baby, what—why?"

You, licking your lips and shrugging: "I just wanna see your tiddies."

Jason groans, drags his hand down his face, lifts his shirt anyway. "...Christ."

seriously considers prayer while you motorboat his pecs like a giggly menace

and YES, you bet the girlies end up fucking their men until they're so full of cum they can't even think. legs shaking, brains scrambled, bodies wrecked. the boys never stood a chance 😌

thank yew for coming to my ted talk 🏃🏻‍♀️ stay nasty, besties, love youuu

[killerplink]

hi i hope you are doing WELL!!!

i was wondering if we could get your thoughts on roys reaction to her getting a tramp stamp of some sort?

specifically if he went on a mission for a while, and she got it done while he was away 🤭

first of all, thank you for checking in 🥹 I'm doing better and this ask healed me further because YUM 🤤 buckle up because Roy Harper is 1000% losing his mind over that damn tramp stamp 🙂‍↕️

now, Roy goes away on a mission for a few days. nothing wild, just off doing Arsenal things. he's tired, bruised, smells like gunpowder and leather, probably still has blood on his boots, but the second he gets home and sees her standing there all sweet and soft, he's already thinking about bending her over the nearest surface just because he missed her 😌

but then, she turns around to grab something and her shirt rides up just enough for him to catch the edge of it 🤭

a tramp stamp. fresh. maybe still healing. a sharp little dagger wrapped in lace and roses, black ink and soft curves right at the dip of her back. sexy. as. fuck. and he fucking FREEZES 🏃🏻‍♀️

"baby," he says, voice low and sharp, the kind of tone that makes her thighs press together instinctively. "the fuck is that."

she giggles. GIGGLES. like she doesn't know she's just activated every caveman switch in his brain lol

"surprise?"

oh, you bet he sees the smug little sway in her hips as she walks away and he follows her like a man POSSESSED. his dick is already hard, straining in his pants just from the sight of it

he loves it way too much. like irrational, feral obsession levels. grabs her by the waist, fingers digging into her skin, and groans something like "you got this while I was gone? you wanted me to lose my mind, huh?" while he's already guiding her towards the kitchen counter, cussing under his breath because goddamn, she knows EXACTLY how to ruin him 😌

he doesn't even get both their clothes all the way off—he barely unzips, just enough to free his dick and push her legs apart. tugs her panties to the side and they're SOAKED, practically clinging to her pussy. one hand keeps her pinned to the counter, the other fists his cock, already leaking, already twitching. he hisses through his teeth as he slides into her, because it's been days and she's already so wet for him 🙂‍↕️

usually, he loves to watch himself fuck into her, watch the way her pretty pussy clings to his dick every time he pulls back, shiny and swollen, slick with all that mess she makes just for him. one of his favorite fucking sights. the slide, the stretch, the squelch of it, it's all filthy and perfect. he loves how tight she is for him, how her pussy gives just enough to let him in, how she pushes back to take every inch even though she still gasps, still trembles a little, every single time. it NEVER stops driving him crazy ✋🏻

but NOT this time. no, this time his eyes are locked on that new tattoo 😌 because it's right there, perfectly placed, like she got it just so he could look at it while he rails her from behind (and maybe she did, who knows 🏃🏻‍♀️). the black ink of the dagger framed by the dimples of her back, flexing every time he rocks into her is taunting him, turning him on more than anything else ever fucking has

he groans, and it's deep, almost pained, because fuck, it's too much. she's too much. her pussy is so warm, soaking his cock, gripping him so tight, drooling all over him with every thrust. his balls are already sticky with it, the sound of it wet, messy, perfect. she moans every time he bottoms out, breathy and high pitched, and now she's got that fucking tattoo tipping him over the edge like she PLANNED this ✋🏻

"fuckin' hell, trouble," he mutters, voice ragged in her ear as he leans over her back, pounding into her, each thrust harder, rougher, wetter. "you know what that shit does to me? you tryin' to kill me, huh?"

he can't even last long. not when she's this tight, this loud, pushing back to meet every thrust. the slap of his hips against her ass echoes in the kitchen, each wet squelch making him growl low in his throat like a fucking animal 🙂‍↕️

one hand slips between her legs, fingers rubbing her clit in fast, messy circles because he NEEDS her to cum, NEEDS to feel her squeeze him while his dick's buried balls deep in that perfect pussy. and when she does—when she gasps, back arching, sobbing his name and she's fucking ruined—he chokes out a moan and spills inside her, hot and thick, cock twitching as he pumps her full of cum (still doesn't take his eyes off that goddamn tattoo)

"you're never getting rid of that," he pants against her shoulder, breath wrecked, dick still buried inside her sloppy pussy, throbbing with aftershocks. "ever."

he tells her she's never allowed to cover it up again and you KNOW this man kisses it every chance he gets. so yeah, Roy's official stance on tramp stamps? 10/10 life changing, would rail again 😌

P. S: okay might be ovulating rn based on the way this answer had me clawing at the air like a bitch in heat but oh well 🏃🏻‍♀️ not my fault Roy Harper is THAT man ✋🏻

[killerplink]

OH MY GODDD a tatted colored hair baddie runs this blog 😮‍💨 I cannot. Not only is your writing 10/10 but your style is ALSO cool?!! PLS have mercy 🙏🏽

What tattoos do you think the boys would get? Who is most likely to get a drunken tattoo? Who would get matching tats with their boo?

OMG BESTIEEE 😭😭😭 first of all THANK YOU, you're feeding my ego rn and I'm eating it up like the gremlin I am 😭

second of all, TATTOOS?? one of my favorite subjects??? buckle the hell in because I've got thoughts 😌

okay so... Roy? our tatted king already. first of all, I 1000% think he'd get some more pieces connected to his Navajo heritage as a tribute to Brave Bow, like traditional linework or geometric symbols inked across his ribs or upper arm (maybe protection symbols or something honoring his people, his roots, his family) and I just KNOW he'd treat those tattoos with deep respect 🙂‍↕️

BUT ALSO... we know this man. we KNOW he is an absolute menace for his girl. he's the one to suggest matching tattoos in the first place. he'd literally sit there and let her pick the dumbest little thing: tiny ghosts, smiling frogs, cursed cats, a fucked up looking heart, and he'd get it without blinking 😭

he'll rock a sparkly little bat tattoo if it makes her giggle. proudly. smugly, even. calls it their "bond ink" like he didn't just get a doodle of a jellybean with legs on his forearm. he's got a little grave with "here lies my patience" next to a smiley face just because she said it once during a Target run while they were standing in line at checkout and he liked how her nose scrunched up 😭 bonus, man's got her initials next to a dancing skeleton and wears it like it's a medal of honor 🤌🏻

Jason? look, I know he doesn't have tattoos canonically but respectfully, he does in my mind. he's a full sleeve baddie, idc ✋🏻 definitely has black and grey gothic linework, maybe some literary quotes (because he's a nerd under the trauma, duh), maybe even a medusa piece bc he said women deserve to be terrifying 😤 DEFINITELY has a tiny red bat tucked somewhere hidden 🏃🏻‍♀️

now... matching tattoos? he's gonna grumble. he's gonna scowl. he's gonna say "that's dumb and too permanent and what if we break up blah blah blah" and then get the tattoo anyway because she looked at him with puppy dog eyes and pouty lips and he physically CANNOT say no to her. I feel like they'd get Halloween themed ones, like a Jack and Sally duo, skeleton cats, a tiny gravestone that says "RIP sanity" or she gets a little bat and he gets a pumpkin 😌

because his girl? she's ABSOLUTELY a spooky little nerd. 100% into Tim Burton, loves Corpse Bride and Nightmare Before Christmas and he's sooo down bad for his batshit Halloween gremlin who probably makes him rewatch Coraline every October 😭🖤

Dick, though? oh bestie, he's a pretty boy and he KNOWS it. not in a douchey way, more like that effortlessly perfect, model energy all the time way. hair always falling just right, skin glowing, eyelashes illegal, ass biteable. he definitely walks around like he's in a shampoo commercial 😭

and because of that, I don't really see him with tattoos 🤷🏻‍♀️ BUT don't let that fool you 😭 if his girl so much as breathes the words "matching tattoos" he is already rolling up his sleeve. this man is in love, okay?? he's a simp in the most down bad, lovesick, heart eyes way imaginable. if she wants to match? OH, THEY'RE MATCHING.

if she wants to wear coordinating outfits? he's already picking out accessories. if she dyes her hair? he's letting her bleach and color a whole strand of his just to match, even if it's hot pink or lime green or literally glows in the dark. he's all "yes, baby, do whatever you want to me" 🥰

and don't even get me started on how much thought SHE puts into it. she knows that before life threw its trauma at him, the circus days were his core memories. so when she brings up the tattoo idea, she goes full sentimental. something soft, nostalgic, something that reminds him of a time he was just a kid flying through the air, free and laughing. like a tiny acrobat silhouette, or a little flying trapeze, something that quietly says "I remember where you came from and I love all of it" 😭 he'll melt into a puddle. she owns him. FULLY 😌

also, drunken tattoo candidate? 100% Jason. he's had a night. he's grieving. he's hungover. and now he has a tattoo of a cartoon rat flipping the bird on his hip. Roy thinks it's art. Dick is crying laughing. Tim is taking secret pictures. Damian mutters "disgraceful" under his breath while secretly sending it to Steph and Cass. Jason THINKS about getting it removed but his girl calls it "his angry little rat" and kisses it every time she sees it so he never does 🏃🏻‍♀️

[killerplink]

ngl, my brain switches between Jay, Roy, Dick and Cole like a game of russian roulette 🏃🏻‍♀️ can't pick one, so I just lose my damn mind over all of them at once lol

[killerplink]

Sir yes sir