#song blurb

[tigerpeachs]

Hear me out…..

Getou is House of Balloons/Glass table girls. He’s honest with you. When you come into his world it’s apparent that things are different. He gives you the choice of staying, always telling you if it’s tough to be with him you can always leave. It really doesn’t matter because you truly belong to him. Even if your mind wants to leave, you can’t go.

Gojo is The Party and The After Party. You didn’t think you’d get hooked on the Gojo Satoru. Everyone liked having their fun with him and became addicted to a lifestyle with him in it. You thought you wouldn’t be easy swayed but he’s tempting you in. He wants you in love with this lifestyle. He wants you hooked on him. He wants to be your first and your last. Your salvation and your ruin.

[deunmiu-dessie]

boyfriend!ghost who's just a little bit older. boyfriend!ghost who wears a black leather jacket. boyfriend!ghost who has a bad reputation. boyfriend!ghost who uses you to warm his bed. readers!mama who doesn't trust him. readers! mama who says, "he's only here for one thing," but, so are you. ˙ᵕ˙

"s'too big, si--!! wait!"

simon grips your chin and turns your head to face him, pressing a kiss to your pouty lips, thick cock spearing through your slick, gummy walls, his pierced tip nudging your spongey nerves. “you were jus' begging me earlier, hm? does it feel good sweetheart?”

your dripping cunt clings to him, a creamy ring of cum starting to form on his cock. you whine, lips parting and thighs shaking. your voice fails you, his cock bullying your cervix and punching the words from your throat, only a shamefully loud moan escapes your trembling lips.

simon snickers and covers your mouth with his hand. "don' want y'r mum to hear, do we?"

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

connected with this post!

[chrissv4mp]

♱ SOUNDS BETTER

"m'wife's so pretty," she whispers to herself, but you hear. saying you were soaked was an understatement.

WARNINGS. SMUT, breeding kink, cum-filled strap, strap in v, subtop!billie × dombottom!reader, nipple play, pet names, use of y/n a few times, fluff.

SYPNOSIS. when the topic of whose last name one of you would be taking after marriage comes up, billie finds herself in a rather... sticky situation.

LETTERS. i hate this okay bye 💔💔💔

"y/n o'connell," billie murmurs from her place at the edge of the bed, her legs hanging off while her body lays comfortably on the mattress. she rolls onto her stomach, resting her elbows on the bed so that she can lay her chin on her palms, "rolls right off the tongue." she giggles.

you shoot a smirk that matches her own cheeky one, your back resting against the headboard as your legs rested crossed over each other.

"yeah, but billie y/l/n sounds pretty good as well, no?" you ask, voice higher than usual. whenever you and billie landed on this topic, you always got so excited, and she was quite aware of that.

she shrugs, wiggling her entire body onto the bed and crawling over to you slowly. billie takes her lower lip between her teeth, blue eyes fixated on your own e/c ones. she straddles your lap, and you stretch your legs out straight so that she can sit comfortably, hands coming to her hips to pull her closer.

your smile grows as billie's hands cup your face, her thumbs—both adorned with rings—caress your cheeks gently. her smile fades, but you know she's still very much comfortable and happy in your presence. the cool metal of her rings on your warm skin makes you shiver, and when billie realizes, her smile comes back instantly.

in just a few seconds, billie manages to remove your hand from her hip, slip a ring off the ring finger of her right hand, and smoothly push it onto your own ring finger. she examines your hand for a long moment, her hand gripping your wrist possessively as she takes in the sight.

"a little loose, but..." billie speaks, voice quiet. her eyes flick back to yours, and this time, you catch the desire and longing swirling in her eyes—those pretty blue ones that always had you in a trance, "i think it looks pretty good on you," she whispers, eyes slowly moving down to your lips.

"mrs. o'connell." she adds, a lazy smile tugging at her pretty lips. your other hand squeezes her hip gently as you bite the inside of your cheek. it was taking all of her willpower not to beg right now.

you shake your head with a quiet chuckle, leaning closer to her face. billie quickly closes the distance between you two when she realizes. her hand moves to your neck, fingers wrapping around your throat to pull you closer. she scoots closer to your body, her heart beating rapidly and her head spinning.

just the taste of your lips had her going insane, hips rutting against yours so that you could feel the strap she'd hidden beneath her boxers earlier that morning. you groan against her lips, and billie swallows the noise with pride, smiling against you as her tongue swipes along your lower lip.

you allow her tongue into your mouth happily, ears picking up on her needy whines as you fight against the wet muscle. in the end, you win, but billie doesn't give up her role that easily. reluctantly, she pulls away from your lips—but not without dragging your lip between her teeth, the action that always had you soaked, even more than you already were.

her hands leave your face, fingers brushing against the skin of your cheeks before trailing down your half-naked body—thank god you both only slept in your undergarments. her touch leaves a trail of fire behind, only adding to the aching feeling between your thighs. her eyes never leave yours, even as she reaches behind your back to unclasp your bra.

you let the straps fall off your shoulders, leaving billie to rip the piece of fabric from your arms, throwing it somewhere around the room. she practically drools at the sight of your tits on display for her, her hand coming back up to knead one of your boobs while her lips latch onto your other nipple. a soft whimper leaves her, eyes rolling back before shutting closed.

your fingers tangle themselves in her black strands, tugging at her roots and causing billie to moan against your skin. she clings to you like you're her lifeline, fingers digging into your breast so firmly yet with such care, her thumb rubbing circles along your nipple as she suckles on the other. it feels like she's in heaven, her head spinning with nothing but the image of you beneath her.

when she pulls away from your nipple, a thin strand of saliva forms, and billie licks her lips hungrily before trailing wet kisses down your stomach, stopping when she reaches the waistband of your panties. her eyes flick back up to yours, staring at you through her lashes, asking silently for permission to take the thin piece of fabric off of you.

"take 'em off, pretty." you whisper, voice quiet and breathy from how worked up billie had you already. your tone makes her shiver, and she wastes no time, fingers looping in the thin, pink waistband and tugging them down your thighs, legs, and ankles before throwing them to the side like she did your bra.

billie whines softly at just the scent of your arousal, scooting closer and taking her place between your legs, "m'wife's so pretty," she whispers to herself, but you hear. saying you were soaked was an understatement.

her finger glides through your folds, lips parting to let out a quiet sound of surprise at how drenched you were. she grinds against the mattress, the base of the strap-on rubbing against her clit perfectly. her cheek rests against your inner thigh, her breath fanning across your pussy.

you chuckle gently at her needy actions, your hands running down your body to grab handfuls of her hair again. she raises her head again, getting the memo whenever you nod your head in her direction. who was she to disobey her (soon-to-be) wife?

she pulls away from your pussy with a sad whine, eyes locked on your folds as she scoots off the bed to rid herself of her boxers. she steps out of them, the indigo cock standing proudly between her legs. her face flushes in embarrassment as she catches your gaze, her eyes leaving your body as she crawls back on the bed with her head hanging low.

both billie's index and middle fingers come up to her lips, spitting softly. you watch as the saliva drips down her lengthy fingers, your pussy clenching as she lowers her hand onto the strap-on, pumping the large cock in her hand. you huff impatiently, rutting your hips up against the nothing. a silent plea—or, more so, demand—for her to hurry up.

billie nods in understanding, biting her bottom lip harshly as she crawls even closer, her hands moving down to push your thighs even further apart. her eyes are locked on your soaked pussy, enamored by the way you clench around nothing. her heart beats faster in her chest as she lines up the tip of the strap-on with your entrance, breathing getting heavier at the anticipation.

"bil, hurry." you command quietly, your hands coming around to grab at her back, sneakily undoing the clasp on her bra. she bites her lip even harder when she realizes the straps slowly sliding down her shoulders, helping you by taking it off completely and throwing it to the side.

"jus—wait, baby," she murmurs, clit twitching at the sounds of your labored breaths and the faint smell of your perfume. her head hangs low, eyes fluttering closed as she thrusts her cock into your core slowly, her movements gentle as she whimpers, "fuck, ma—can you imagine how much better this'll feel on our wedding day?" she babbles, smiling at the thought.

you throw your head back against the soft pillows, her words barely registering in your head as you feel her splitting you open on her cock. your nails dig into her back, pulling her closer in the process and feeling her chest press against your own. the mix of billie's whimpers and your moans fills the room and both of your guys' ears.

one of billie's hands leaves your thigh as she begins to see a perfect pace—one that's not too fast, but not too slow either. her ring-clad fingers drag across your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake before she reaches your arm and pulls one of your hands from her back. billie pulls away slightly, kissing down your body until she reaches your nipple, taking the erect bud between her lips again.

"jus' like that, love," you praise, mouth falling open into an 'o' shape. your eyebrows furrow as billie thrusts deeper, not even noticing whenever she interlocks your fingers with hers—until you squeeze and feel her large hand squeeze back, "shit, you're such a good girl." you moan.

billie moans against your skin at the name, hips rutting into yours faster. her hand on your thigh spreads you further apart, fingers digging into your supple skin as she suckles on your nipple. the combined stimulation of her cock rubbing against your walls and her lips on your tit makes you feel like you're on another planet—drunk off of her.

"gonna make you m'wife," she mumbles, releasing your nipple with a 'pop' before she continues, "then 'm'gonna make you a mommy." she says, voice laced with nothing but lust and adoration for you and you only. billie lets her head rest in the crook of your neck, placing gentle, open mouthed kisses on your sweaty skin.

at her words, you finally realize that she's fuckjng you with her special strap—one that she rarely used, but it was still her favorite, "s'one?—fuck, y'know how much i love 'ts one, bil." you breathe, nails dragging down her back and leaving a trail of red marks.

she hisses softly at the pain, nipping down on your neck in response before she feels a light slap on her back, "sorry—sorry, didn't mean to." billie babbles, soothing the sting with her warm, wet tongue.

"y'close, mama?" she asks next, voice whiny and broken as she feels her own orgasm approaching. her hips rock the silicone cock deeper into your pussy with each thrust, the base brushing her clit and sending shocks all throughout her hot, trembling body, "please. please, want'chu you t'cum for me." she begs, eyebrows furrowing as her hand leaves yours reluctantly.

her fingertips brush against your sweaty skin, your hips bucking in response before her touch is gone again. your jaw somehow drops lower as billie begins to rub tight circles over your sensitive bundle of nerves, your nails digging into billie's back harder than before and definitely drawing blood.

billie didn't care. the only thing that mattered to her was getting you off, making you hers, and making you a mommy—even if it wasn't scientifically possible, who cared? not billie, that's for sure.

"fuck, baby, you're gonna make me—!" you cut yourself off with a gasp as she bites down softly on your nipple, sending shivers all throughout your body, "god, 'm'gonna cum, bil!" you warn, pulling her closer to your body once again, making her cock slide deeper between your walls—if that was even possible.

"please. please, sweetheart." she begs in that whiny tone of hers, and that was what finally did it for you. the knot in your stomach snapped instantly, and billie was quick to reach down between your two bodies, squeezing the base of her cock and releasing the fake cum into your tight walls. you almost lost it at the feeling.

billie helps you ride out your high, grunting gently into your ear and muttering, "you're gonna have my babies as soon as we get married, baby. gonna—gonna make you mine. all, fuck, all mine." she stutters, her own orgasm approaching as her thrusts get sloppier and sloppier with every second.

"c'mon, pretty," you breathe into her ear, your hand leaving her back to run your fingers through her hair. that simple motion gives her the final push she needed, her own orgasm hitting her in waves of pleasure as she slowly thrusts into you, "that's a good girl." you praise, and billie cries out.

her hips don't stop, though, slowly and slowly getting faster despite her oversensitive clit. she trembles above you, wanting—needing to fill you up again, although you were already leaking with both your cum and her own, "wan' more," she mumbles.

"jus' a few more f'you." she says it as more of a statement than an ask, and you can't deny her, not when she's giving you those pretty puppy eyes and pouting her lips.

"mrs. o'connell, mrs. o'connell, mrs. o'connell," she repeats it like a prayer, her hips rutting roughly against yours as she whimpers quietly. she was gonna marry you. she didn't know when, but she knew that she was definitely gonna put a ring on it.

TAGS: @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livvydunneness @vyntagess @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @stonerfromlesbos @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @karaeilishh @mybluebossanova @sturnsmia @moralesluvr @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @natbelovasblog @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @hopelessfawn @zayluvss @meliciousmel13

[kisshwa]

Could you PLEASE make texts of Ateez? They send you a daily picture and you're always crazy and unhinged and he's like "and that's exactly why I love you."?

ATEEZ as BFs

and their, as always, unhinged partner

pairing: bf!ateez x reader

warnings: strong language, sexual comments, one kms joke

notes: kind of switched up some of their responses a tad bit but i hope it still works!

[dollerin]

──── 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌. smg.

ׂ ִ 𝐒𝐔𝑀𝐌. 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽. • 𝐩. 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂 𝗑 𝑓. 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝐠. 𝑓𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝐰. pet names, 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝑒𝑡𝑐. | 𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊.

reblogs + feedback = appreciated.

you flipped through the pages of your book, settling into the soft surface of your bed. mingi entered your bedroom as you became more immersed in your book.

he sighed loudly, walking towards the bed, not saying anything at first. he sat on his side of the bed for a moment; his back facing you as you continued reading.

after a few minutes, he turned to you, laying back and resting his head on your shoulder.

“hi, pretty boy,” you spoke softly, bringing your arm to wrap around him, burying your hand in his strands.

“hey.” he mumbled against your skin, almost pressing a kiss there. his arms rested against his sides, seeming like he wanted to wrap them around you but he didn’t.

“what’s wrong? hm?” you asked, glancing down at him for a split second. he inhaled, hesitating.

“nothing, i just..”

you closed your book, “go ahead, im listening.”

“i miss you..”

“but im right here, ming,” you giggled, combing your fingers through his hair once more. he shifted, his arms moving closer to wrap around you.

“no, i mean, you. your touch.. and—“ he stopped himself, his arms slithering around your waist, squeezing. his leg was thrown across yours as his body moved closer.

you started to realize what he meant, so you pulled him closer, placing a kiss in his forehead.

“why didn’t you just say so, baby?”

he shrugged, still trying to move closer, as if that were possible. he picked his head up off of your shoulder, glancing down at your lips before he pressed a small kiss against them.

he pecked them once, and then twice, which eventually turned into more kisses than you could count.

“mmph, mingi!” you laughed as he climbed on top of you, his hands coming to drift under your shirt, resting at your sides as he peppered more kisses against your lips.

“missed you..” he mumbled again before giving you one more kiss, one that was more deep, less playful but filled with love and passion.

💌 ──── finally a post from dollerin (we cheered) ^^

[rafeandonlyrafe]

almost sweet music

words: 900

warnings: 18+ only, smut, thigh job, clit rubbing, brief tit play, childhood friends to lovers, kinda somnophilia?

your eyes are open, but they might as well be closed as you look at nothing but pure darkness. you shift ever so slightly, pressing further into rafes hold.

it's not the first time you've shared a bed. he's been your friend for years, and you used to have sleepovers every weekend before your bodies developed and it became awkward.

you would still occasionally fall asleep in rafes bed, usually when the movie he picked to watch was too boring, or when you were waiting around for him and ended up taking a nap enveloped in his scent.

tonight is different. even when you share a bed, rafe never cuddles so close to you like this. yeah, you'll wake up with your head on his chest or a leg slung over his, but rafe is pressed right against your back.

his chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm, but you can't tell for certain if he's asleep or just relaxed having you against him.

you close your eyes, relaxing back into his hold. his soft breath fans over your shoulder, barely covered by your tank top strap.

you're about to fall asleep when you feel something poking you. your eyes open again, wider this time as rafes hip press forward.

his obvious erection grinds against your ass, slow movements fooling you into believing rafe must be asleep still, body acting on its own, much like yours does when you seek him out in your sleep.

rafe let's out a soft moan, then a mumble of your name, and now you're certain he must be awake since you've never heard him sleep talk before.

his hips begin to move faster, like he's testing out how far he can take it before you wake up. how much movement will it take for you to stir, testing how much he can get away with.

you stiffen for a brief moment before relaxing again. you squeeze your eyes shut as you try to keep your breathing regular. you don't want rafe to stop. 

to others, it's been a clear (and long) game you've been playing, both pining after each other while claiming to just be best friends. this is the first time rafe has shown any clear evidence to you of his sexual attraction. what you don't see is his longing looks whenever your back is turned, or the way he's quick to go after any guy who looks at you for a little too long.

you let out a silent curse in your head. of course he's only doing this because he thinks your asleep as he moves faster against you, barriers of fabric in the way but not stopping his light moans, almost sweet music against your ears.

you wonder how long he's been pushing up against you before it woke you up. you consider your options. sit here silently, let him cum in his pants, or take action, show you're awake, and change your life forever.

you're done with the game as you reach down, startling rafe as he lets out a curse, but you simply pull your shorts down along with your underwear, revealing your bare ass as you spread your thighs, pussy on show and already starting to get wet.

you wait for rafe to continue. when it's clear he won't, you reach behind your back to pull his cock out of his pajama pants.

rafe follows your motions, taking your lead and going as far as you will allow as you rub his cock through your folds before closing your thighs around him.

“keep going.” you say. 

the words is all the encouragement rafe needs as he begins to thrust, the slick between your thighs growing as he pushes against you.

a hand that was holding you close to him travels to your pussy, rubbing you with a single finger, the pad rough against your sensitive clit.

the sound of slapping skin is a telltale sign of what is happening in the dark, as rafes hips meet your ass with every thrust.

you long for him to press into your cunt, but you know you need to have an actual discussion about what this is before allowing him to fuck you properly. the thighs will have to do.

rafe rubs faster, with a clear purpose as his cock swells. you can tell he's not far off, and the pure excitement from finally being with rafe also has your high growing.

you press further into his chest as your thighs squeeze together as tight as you can force them, letting out a moan when rafe spills, cum spurting through the gap onto the bed sheet.

he leaves his cock to soften between your legs as his finger keeps working on you, free hand coming to grab your chest over your shirt, hand possessively gripping your tits until your back arches, a strangled moan leaving your lips as you cum.

rafes hands disappear from off of you. you turn to face him, but can't see his expression.

“im-im sorry.” his words are enough for you to pinpoint where his mouth is as you lean in, pressing your lips together in a heated kiss.

“we can talk about it in the morning.” you say, tucking yourself back into his side. “we will cuddle and sleep and be in a much clearer headspace.”

rafe hesitates for a second before pressing a kiss to the top of your head, a soft smile on his face as your breathing returns to normal, not allowing himself to fall asleep until he hears your gentle snores.

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[diyasgarden]

heat lightning

He isn’t usually an early riser. 

Patrick remembers you told him that you placed the bed next to the window on purpose, so when the sun came up it would pour through the gauzy curtains onto your face. A thoughtful decision among the more careless scatter of objects around your apartment (which in all honestly he also felt had some level of thought behind it he couldn’t comprehend). Regardless, now with both of you squeezing into the twin bed, the hazy light passing through the chiffon is more of an alarm clock for him than you. 

Aimlessly his hand wanders over the hem of your t-shirt. The bed is a bit too small for him, like most of the apartment, but he can’t stretch to get rid of the slowly developing crick in his neck. With your back pressed against his chest, there is no way he could move without waking you up too. 

You’d probably wake up soon anyway; let him borrow a toothbrush and then take him into the kitchen for coffee, asking him to stay for breakfast. He’ll say no and you’ll ask again. Back and forth, until after a couple minutes of this little dance he’ll agree and you’ll smile. He wasn’t even supposed to spend the night. He told himself he wouldn’t, his car still parked outside of the building, but he knows he’ll stay for breakfast anyway.

His finger wraps around a loose thread from your shirt, as the sound of your heavy exhales softens to something lighter. A low, effortless noise as you shift in place, legs moving with a slight stretch before intertwining with his again. 

His hand presses against your t-shirt, resting in the subtle groove between your waist and hip. He has to focus on keeping his touch steady, as the hand gravitates underneath the thin fabric to the warmth of your skin. 

You mumble something that sounds like good morning, too tired to be coherent. For a moment, he rests his palm flat against your stomach, burying his face in your hair and holding you close as he takes in a shaky inhale. The warm, comforting smell pushes his hand to inch its way up to your breast, eventually cupping the mound over the soft cotton of your bra. 

Your lips part with a soft sound he can barely hear over the thumps of his heart, only grounded in the moment by the way your hair brushes against his face as your head turns to meet his. Eyes half-lidded and cheeks flushed, he takes in the lingering drowsiness on your face, slowing each inhale and exhale to the same pace of your warm breaths that brush against the face. His grip on your breast tightens, suddenly feeling his hands are too large and brutish on you, but the thought is drowned out as your lips find his. 

He doesn’t hesitate, tongue pressing against your bottom lip seeking entry. When the warmth of your mouth accepts his, he groans into its depth, closing his eyes as he imagines you swallowing it whole. He can make out the faint rustle of sheets and the way your body moves against his, probably trying to turn to face him and deepen the kiss even more, but his hand slides down from your breast again, back to laying flat on your stomach. Steadier this time, authoritative only in the way an aching body can convey. He holds you still, and when the only sounds are that of your helpless breaths, he lets his hand move down deeper past into the band of your shorts. 

His eyes flutter open with a sudden exhale, as his middle finger grazes the wet mark of your panties. You whimper, and he hooks his pointer to the damp cloth, pushing it to the side and watching your teeth bite down into swollen lips. Not a new sight, but a pleasant one. An instinctive reaction he doesn’t think he deserves to see. He watches the lips part again, as he gently presses the pad of his thumb to your clit, his heartbeat speeding up once more at the gasp that leaves your mouth.  

The soft sound threads together his fragmented assurance in the reality of the moment, echoed through the increasing rhythm of his thumb against your clit. His middle finger pushes his way into you, and he groans alongside the next breathy moan that escapes your lips. Your body moves against his in a wavelike motion, guided by the growing pleasure and pushing your hair back against his face. His mouth finds its way to your ear, tongue tracing the edge of it as he pushes his index finger into your cunt as well. He bites down on your earlobe when you gasp at the added stretch, the sound intensifying the tender desperation in his chest. His free hand sneaks under and around you, holding you close, as he continues to push the fingers of his right hand in and out, attention split between the sounds you make, the smell of your body, and your wetness coating his fingers. 

Your breath hitches, hand reaching for the bed sheet. He feels you squeeze around him as his heart somehow beats even faster. Your fingers grasp the sheets and he groans as one final harsh swipe against your clit sends you over the edge. The sounds of his panting breaths and your high-pitched sighs come together, your body shaking with a delicate tremor. 

He isn’t oblivious to the growing ache between his legs, the straining in his boxers pressing into the plush of your thighs, but he just watches your chest heave in pleasure. He pulls away, to see you properly, letting you fall to your back, eyes half lidded, face completely flushed. Your hair is strewn around the pillow from sleep and satisfaction. Bliss, for you and for him. 

Eyes opening properly, your lips move with your chest up into a breathless smile. He exhales, slow and deep, a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. As your hands move slightly towards him, he instinctively lays back down next to you. Closer, than before, head resting in the crook of your neck. His heart beats against yours at an erratic pace matched by the way your chest heaves with the aftershocks. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, settling in place with a gentle kiss to your throat. 

He lets himself smile into your neck when you chuckle.

author's note: this was really just an excuse to practice writing smut, which isn't something i usually do. shout out to @artstennisracket, @jesuistrestriste, and @newrochellechallenger2019 who really helped me find a balance between being smutty and my own writing style! and @voidsuites and @itsrensfairygardenn to just being angels who gave me the confidence to post this. i may make this into a longer fic? we'll see! thank you for reading, ily all <3

[squishykitty825]

Jason, amidst a heated argument with Bruce: Does my death mean nothing in this family?

Out of nowhere: "In the arms of the angel. Fly awaaaay..."

Jason: What the hell?

________________________________________________________

Tim, low on sleep and caffeine trying to convince Jason to give him back his coffee: You think your time as Robin was bad, you never had to deal with Bruce after your death.

Jason: Maybe not. But I was a little busy being dead, Timbo.

"In the arms of the angel. Fly awaaaay..."

Jason: Again?!

________________________________________________________

Damian: Stop being so childish, Todd.

Jason: I died. I can do whatever I want.

"In the arms of the angel. Fly awaaaay..."

Jason, now seriously confused and angry: WHO IS DOING THAT?!

________________________________________________________

Dick whining to Jason about life after his death: You died. I didn't have anyone to talk to.

Jason: I'm so sorry my death was such an inconvenience to you.

"In the arms of the angel. Fly awaaaay..."

Jason now infuriated with whoever is playing the song every time he mentions his own death: I AM GOING TO MURDER WHOEVER IS DOING THAT!

Jason storms off in search of the culprit, leaving Dick staring after him wondering what he's on about.

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

OMG no way are you going to write an AU of Daemon's visions at Harrenhal??? I know its AAAAAGES away from where you are in the current story but desperate hos wanna kno ;)

Ask, and ye shall receive!

until i bleed myself dry

Note: This is technically using the characters/characterisation I have established in my terms of endearment series, but really you only need to know that the Reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and that, instead of marrying Laena, he spent a decade ho-ing it up in Pentos before coming home and getting dazzled by his niece before deciding to wife dat gurl.

WARNING: Please note this is dark, dark stuff. Discretion is advised. Please use your judgement wisely before engaging.

Triggers: graphic depictions of violence, violence against children, character d*ath, MAJOR hallucinations, sexual scenes including visibly underaged character/s.

There is something fucking wrong with this place.

Daemon feels like a skittish child as he withdraws to his chambers, covers drawn up to his neck like the fabric will keep away the very worst of midnight evils. He does not know if the steady drip, drip, drip he hears is in his head or if the stone ceiling is cracked enough to let through the rain. Knowing Harrenhal, he would hardly be surprised by the latter. Still, the noise only serves to speed the racing of his thoughts, turning them fearful as he has not felt since the weakness of his youth.

In this moment, he curses his own doings. If he had stayed his hand—if he had held his tongue—the boy would not be dead, and mayhaps you would not be so wroth with him. He would not be alone in this shithole of a keep a world away, chilled to the bone and miserable as he thinks of you warm and safe in your bed with the children. Without him.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams.

He knows it is a dream, for he can hear your humming. Soft, sweet, the kind of tune you sing to Daeryx after one of his tantrums. His head lifts from the pillow and he finds himself back in your shared rooms on Dragonstone, eyes finding you in the chair by the hearth. Your hair, unbound, shines like molten amber in the firelight, swaying softly as you tend to business that is concealed from his gaze. Enthralled, he rises, making his way to you.

Drip, drip, drip.

He pauses. That sound… it doesn’t belong here. He calls your name. You ignore him. He moves closer, tentative.

“Come look,” you murmur suddenly, startling him. “Come, kepus.”

His feet move unbidden, out of his control.

Bile pools at the back of his throat, gut curdling at the sight of the boy—the boy—cradled in your lap. You and he are wet with blood, and it drip, drip, drips to the floor, echoing eerily. His eyes are open, face petrified, and Daemon realises that the dark at his neck is not in fact a shadow but a gaping wound, made jagged by the weapon used.

You look up at him, skin shining with sweat and expression exultant. “Look at him, kepus. Look at what you made.”

Memory flashes—he brings his son back down to rest beside his daughter on your lap, two moonshine miracles side by side. “Look at them, kepus,” you whisper, spellbound. “Look at what we made”—and his lungs constrict. You make to lift the child up, but the movement jostles his head off its perch, and it rolls to the ground to stop by his feet. He cannot move. He is frozen, horrified.

You smile, tucking the headless corpse under your chin. Gore pulses against your throat as your chin settles to the yawning maw of the child’s open neck. You rock in your seat, a faint squelch each time your shifting weight disturbs the sodden cushion beneath you.

“I love him,” you whisper, lips pressing to where flesh meets innards. Your mouth comes away red. “I love him so much.”

Daemon awakens with a yell. He swallows once, twice, and then—

He leans over the side of the bed, retching violently. When it is over, he curls up on his side, shaking, staring at his hands. They are wet with blood.

It does not take long for terror to settle in his bones like a longtime companion. It follows him each day, in every waking moment, manifesting in strange visions that he knows—he knows—must be untrue, cannot possibly be real, and yet… And yet. There is a sort of verity in them.

Dark Sister feels like a leaden weight at his hip as he stalks the keep, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Rhaenyra. Only she was not the Rhaenyra he knows, and instead a strange sort of blend of child-queen, the face of the girl peering out accusingly from under her father’s too-large crown, exclaiming all manner of hurt as she stepped from the Iron Throne upon which she perched.

“You put me on that throne. And you love me, and you hate me for it. You created me, Daemon. Yet you are now set on destroying me. All because your brother loved me more than he did you.”

And, without warning, he had taken his blade up in arms and struck off her head, a puppet on strings pulled by another. As her body fell, it morphed into the boy again. Jaehaerys. The child he had murdered. He heard your humming even while Simon Strong’s voice filtered through his unconscious mind, alerting him of the raven that just arrived.

The healer woman’s concoctions have helped little. He still wakes to strange noises, still finds himself stalking after his monstrous one-eyed nephew down the halls, only to find that it is himself he is pursuing. He hears the words you yelled at him in that last great quarrel— “get away, leave before you turn on us and murder us like you murdered that boy”—interspersed with the sound of your screams, and perhaps they are the screams you let out when birthing his children, or perhaps they are screams of a different kind, a version of himself making good on the implication of your words, steel in hand and pursuing his love, his life, his blood—

These figments blur with reality to the point that he becomes unsure of what is before him and what exists only in his head to haunt him. He comes to dread the resting hours, only to find their horrors bleeding into daylight. Whatever strange power has come to roost in his mind serves only to bring him torment.

Perhaps this is why he is not immediately suspicious when he comes face-to-face with you once more.

You stand by the window, the dim light filtering weakly over your bare form. Your back is to him, curls spilling to brush the tops of your buttocks. Their gentle sway—the barest kiss to your skin—is tantalising, and his mouth dries even as he watches your neck crane, sly smile tossed back over your shoulder at him.

“Daemon,” you beckon. Like a cuntstruck fool, he is helpless to resist the call.

His hands settle to the familiar divots of your waist, up and up and up to cup the fullness of your tits. You lean into him, a quiet huff of pleasure escaping as his fingers squeeze and his lips fall unbidden to the slope of your jaw. He inhales deeply, stirred even now by the simplicity of your scent, a throbbing line straight to his groin. You turn in his hold, nose nuzzling against his chin.

“You were right,” you say, eyes shining. “You were always right.”

He is under some enchantment, surely, for he is incapable of coherent speech. All he can do is feel the satisfaction heat his veins, allow it to tug at the corner of his mouth. I knew it, he thinks. I knew her will would bend eventually.

You speak still, even as he backs you toward the bed. “Papa was weak. Rhaenyra is weak. Only you are the true blood of the dragon.”

You shift backward onto the mattress, legs parting invitingly. The split of you opens, revealing flushed folds and the teasing glimmer of want, shining slick for his hungered gaze.

“Fearless”—your hand trails down your belly, fingers tracing around your pearl—“brave”—you venture lower, pressing teasingly at your cunt, your lip caught between your teeth—“strong.”

Daemon drops to his knees before you, tongue licking through the spill and catching on your finger. He bullies it out of the way, arms locking around your thighs as he gluts himself on the sweet tang of you, senses clouding and narrowing to a singular point of existence. You grip his hair, the arches of your feet digging against his back.

“It is not my place to question you,” you breathe, twisting and writhing with his ministrations. He watches your face, enraptured by the toss of your head and the shape of your lips as they form moan after moan. Your release is quick, a final sobbing yelp followed by a flood of slick warmth. When your eyes reopen, they are blazing with reverence. Reverence for him. Your knees flex up, your lower half folded almost to your chest. Your cunt contracts, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “I live to serve you, my king.”

His head feels heavy as he rises just barely to crawl over you. He frowns. When he lifts his hand to extricate yours from his hair, he finds not flesh, but cool metal. A crown.

“My king,” you coo below him.

Your surroundings are changed. It is not the meagre offerings of Harrenhal that frame you now, but the sumptuous trimmings of the king’s chambers in the Red Keep, only brighter, more lavish than they ever have been. Jewels sparkle at your throat, in your hair, at your wrists. The sheets are molten gold against your silver-pale, and you wind your hips up at him provocatively, catching his cockhead against your opening.

“You belong on the throne, husband,” you say, fist closing around his shaft and pumping once, twice. You lead him back to the core of you, nudging him just inside. “Uncle. My love. And I belong at your side—at your feet—under your body.”

“My queen,” he gasps, driving forward with a grunt, and oh, he has missed you, missed this, missed the clutch of your walls like a mother’s embrace and the sound of your breathy cries as he plunges deep. Plunges home.

“My king,” you call out, rising into him with unrestrained abandon, precious gems clinking frantically with each fevered hitch of his hips against yours. “My lord. My master. I was made for you.”

“Yes…”

“Chain me to this bed, my king.” Your spine arches toward him, hands grabbing for his own and leading them above your head. He takes this for the encouragement it is, pinning your wrists to the pillow and rutting harder. You shout, elbows flexing to no avail. “Give to me my purpose. Give me your heirs.”

He is helpless to stop the noises escaping his mouth, feral and uninhibited, fucking with near painful intent. You take it all, curving yourself deeper, holding yourself more open so that he may lay claim to his conquest. As only a king can.

“And when I have birthed one,” you say, though now it is more a prolonged keening sound, “give me another. Never stop. Oh! Make me—make me take it—”

He does not know if he is imagining it or if it is happening before his eyes, but he can see it: ruling the Seven Kingdoms, sitting the Iron Throne the way his brother never could, striding down the halls of the keep as the commons bow and scrape to their sovereign, bursting into his chambers after small council to find his queen, to find you where you always are, naked in his bed and belly round and leaking milky white between your thighs, for it is his kingly law that the only part you play here is this, waiting for him to find you and fuck you and fill you and keep you, his little niecewifequeenpet—

He snarls, pulsing and burning. You squeal as he pushes past onslaught and straight to violence, bodies colliding so forcefully that his bones ache and his brain feels like jelly wobbling in his skull. What leaves his mouth can only be bestial in nature now. “I’ll make you—”

“Yes, make me take it until I cannot. Until my cunt is ruined by you.” He feels his end rushing up with every word you wail, his joints locking and grinding and gut roiling with the anticipation of it. “Until my womb is destroyed. Until I bleed myself dry, my king. Only for you.”

“Wha—”

The horror of it escapes him, for it is too late: the release crashes on him like a tidal wave, shoving him below its surface and imprisoning him in its current. He makes a noise like a wounded boar, chasing through the high despite the alarm in his mind, so at odds with the soaring rhythm in his loins.

You laugh, tilting welcomingly to receive him. “Make me bleed, my king. Make me bleed like my mother.”

It is enough to chill the heat in his blood to ice, destroying any semblance of enjoyment. But he cannot stop the unsteady eking out of what remains of his peak. He tries, but he cannot stop.

“No,” he says, a contradiction to the enthusiasm of his flesh prison. “No, no, I cannot. No—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, a strange quality to it. A duality. It crystallises into something comprehensible with every word that comes from your lips. All at once, it is not your voice he hears, but something much higher, younger, blending and overlapping with the cadence he recognises. “You already have.”

He looks down as he makes his final groaning thrusts, only to feel his stomach drop through the floor. Your thighs are soaked in blood, his cock sluicing a path through it all the while. All that flesh covered in red, and he glances up, only to see that you are gone, you are replaced by someone so small, so frightfully small, and he realises you are not replaced, it is you, but it is a you he has not seen for well over ten years, eyes wide and frightened and gleaming like game stuck through by an arrow and taking its final breath.

Daemon rears back, but it is too late. You begin to cry. A dark patch spreads out from underneath your broken body, from where he had torn your fragile opening apart. What have I done? he thinks.

“It hurts, kepus,” you say. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fixed to stillness by revulsion. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

“But you did,” you insist, childish pout despite your obvious agony.

Your hands reach out, and he leans away, too horrified to touch you—and he doesn’t know if it is you or he that he is more afraid of in this moment—but you are not searching through the air for him, no. Instead, a bundled weight is settled in them, and you bring it into the crook of your arms, gripping it as though it is the most precious of objects. You smooth the fabric from the top of it to reveal a tiny head of silver hair. The babe gurgles and roots at your flat chest, absurd and awful.

“This is what you wanted,” you say, eyes filled with betrayal. “Am I going to die now, kepus?”

Your Grace…

He shakes his head, but he is no fool. You are too little to withstand the sheer volume of blood you have lost if the bedding is anything to go by. He feels it stain his legs. He feels it drying on his cock.

“Your Grace?”

“I will, though. I’m too young. You’ve killed me.” The babe begins to suckle, and you cry harder. Your body isn’t built for this task, not yet, not like this. He wants to protest, to tell you that this is not his work, cannot be, for he has and would never do something so foul, so wholly inhuman, that the you he has gotten with child has only ever been a woman grown, but it is like you know his thoughts for you scoff and say, “You’re lying to yourself. I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He stares down at you, immobile, unable to even think. The metallic scent of your life leaving you fills the air, floods his nostrils with stinging heat.

“… Your Grace?”

Daemon jolts, blinking. Ser Simon Strong looks back at him. “Is the duck not to your liking, Your Grace?”

All at once, you are gone. The king’s chambers are gone. He is not even within his dank chambers at Harrenhal. Instead, he sits at the table in what passes for the dining hall here, a plate full of food steaming before him. The smell makes him ill.

“There’s also goose, if you’d prefer…”

He swallows, trying to ground himself in the present. Voices waft all around him, but he finds it difficult to pay attention.

“I’m not hungry,” he says shortly. It sounds stronger than he feels.

A pause, and then—

Simon clears his throat, turning to his companions. “I was saying, given the rather dire news…”

Daemon tries to concentrate. He does. He knows the others are speaking of matters of utmost importance. Of  Rook’s Rest, of his nephew, of the war. But his mind can only turn over his encounter—his vision? His nightmare? Or is it merely truth finally unveiled to unworthy eyes?—with you, the last of your words haunting him near to madness.

“I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He has grown restless here, revolving between the frustration of securing an army from those who see naught in him but the very worst and the torment of these terrible visions that seek him out at their pleasure, heedless of his duty or desire. Tedium or terror—when he is entrenched in one, he wishes for the other, and there is always a sick sort of irony in the granting of said wishes. In truth, he is able enough to tolerate the resistance of these riverlanders, insulting as it is. The phantasms that pursue him have almost become too much to bear.

What is worse? The accusations from the mouth of a juvenile Rhaenyra, full of admonishments for the way he’d so thoroughly undermined her claim before she ever got the right to exercise it? The condemnations from Viserys, a retracing of steps trod so long ago, brought to life once more and forcing Daemon to relive the very worst of his brother? The boy’s laughter darting through the stone halls, an ominous prelude to the sickening sound of steel sawing through skin and the rolling of his head, landing always at the feet of the one responsible for his fate?

They are all bad enough as they are, but for the simple fact that they do not surprise him. Monster, they call him, and he wears the name well. In most all aspects, he is a monster. But never has he thought himself monstrous to you.

He has come to despise the sight of you here, sometimes docile and worshipful, sometimes angered and raving. Sometimes you appear as a siren come to lure him to iniquity, and like a fool he always falls into the trap. Other times, you are battered, caged, a shell of yourself. No matter how it begins, the end is always the same: bloodied, beaten, fading from the world, and it is always his hands he finds the cause of it in. A new reminder every time of all the ways he has thought of taking you, owning you, keeping you. Always, he thinks to save you—to protect you. Always, he destroys you.

Just as he thinks himself finally driven to the edge of all reason, the Rivers woman beckons him to the godswood.

“When you came here,” she says, “you were a closed fist. You wished to bend the world to your will. But you’ve discovered, I think, that… this world will not be governed. There are omens here for those who seek them.”

She pauses. The air seems to whisper, to creak in the dark. Daemon suppresses the urge to shiver. Her eyes move to him, an odd little quirk to her mouth. Amusement, he thinks. Or pity.

“You do not scoff?” she asks.

How can he, after all he has seen here? He has been brought to the very edge of sanity by these omens. What irony, it is, after the great complaints he has made of superstition in past weeks (and months, and years).

“I’m no longer inclined to,” is his short reply.

She laughs. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She stops before the heart tree and turns to him, expression solemn.

“Do you wish, then, to learn what is given to you?” The answer must lie in his face, for he cannot do anything but stare, silent, tense. “All your life, you have sought to command your own fate”—she takes his hand—“but today, you are ready.”

Gentle pressure at his wrist, and something in him knows to move past her, to take those final few steps so that he is close enough to make out the details of the face carved into the wood. His arm raises by itself, acting on its own power, or perhaps some higher power, his fingers brushing bark and the hot pulse of… blood? But he has no time to truly question it for—

He is flying—

No—

He is a raven, staring at the face of a pale-haired man with a wine-dark stain on his face and he flies into the forest, towards an army, only there is something wrong with the soldiers, they are blue and their eyes glow ice-cold and their breath is frosted with death and their bodies carry the look of corpses stood upright once more—

And then the dragons are dead, all of them, the ground wet not with water but with blood and he walks through it, falls straight into the ground and he is drowning, steel plate armour dragging him down into the depths and he looks up at the sky—

A red comet bursts through the air, hot like fire, and he sees eggs embroiled in flame, a girl sat in ash cradling the bodies of three newly-hatched dragons, a whisper of a memory on the air, “we are the only ones able to bring the fire to life… It is the secret”—

And he is before the Iron Throne, suddenly silent.

Rhaenyra stands before the seat. Viserys’s crown is in his hands. She moves toward him, down the stairs of the throne. He hears her speak.

“From my blood…”

But she does not finish. A roaring conflagration engulfs her and she screams, twisting and warping before him, burning, only not, because you step from the flames, unburnt, voice mingling with that of your sister’s, a haunting echo.

“… come the Prince Who Was Promised…”

You are before him, taking the crown from his grasp and retracing the steps your sister took, and then you are stepping over a charred body, Rhaenyra, oh gods, and ascending the steps. You sit. You lift the crown. You place it on your head.

“… and his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

He is on his knees now, right on that final step at your feet. He feels the warmth of you as you bend forward, your palm caressing his jaw. You look otherworldly in the shadow, backlit silver and gold and wearing a king’s accoutrements far better than any of your predecessors.

“You know what must happen now, Uncle,” you say gently, kindly. “You know what you must do.”

He bows his head to kiss your ring—the seal of the king—no, the queen—and then wind is whistling in his ears, chilling him to the bone and spraying his hair about wildly, so much so that he can barely hear the words yelled at him by the boy sitting astride Vhagar.

“You have lived too long, nuncle.”

—and he wrenches away, panting, body collapsing before the heart tree like a puppet with its strings cut. The world comes back to him in fragments: the scent of dirt and woodlands, the sharp sting of cold, the ache in his muscles that has since settled like sludge at the bottom of a river, ever-present and persisting. Finally, finally, he withdraws with hands washed clean, free of his many sins.

At last, he has come to the crux of it. At last, he understands.

He sits at the base of the tree, stunned and overcome, as faint words slither on the breeze, a final knell from the liminal space of prophecy. Your name. A cheer.

“Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

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[delusionsofgrandeur13]

CASUAL

two weeks and his dad invites you to his beach house..

chapter three

NSFW!! MDNI. seriously. please look away.

tim drake x reader

readers can expect: many sexual acts, sex sans condom, shower sex, semi-public fingering, oral like reader receiving and face fucking, blurry relationship lines, missionary and cowgirl, etc. i went buck wild and so reader did too.

one chapter left, it’s just gonna keep getting crazier. thanks for waiting so patiently, it’s a LONG one. enjoy!!

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

“well, i need you to decide now.” 

“this would’ve been a lot easier if you’d given me even a week’s notice..” you trail off under your breath, rolling your eyes. 

you’re gonna have to call out of work, and see if your neighbor, or maybe lydia? could water your plants. you’d have to write up a note on which plants need some sun and which need more water than others. you’d need to make sure you have everything you need, from shorts, sandals, a bikini, to definitely something fancier, knowing tim’s family. 

you sigh, shaking your head, lost in thought.

“no?!” tim asks, incredulous. you snap to, blinking. 

“what? no. yes, i’ll go with you. calm down.” you reply, making a face when he huffs at you. 

———————————————————

earlier 

“you look antisocial.” bruce wayne’s voice echoed around the empty den, the ice in his whiskey glass clinking as he set it down.

“i’m the president of a frat. being antisocial is borderline—no, downright impossible.”

bruce rubs a hand over his face, sighing. 

“i know that, tim, and you know that, but we: the family, the frat…” bruce sighs again. “we need the good publicity.” 

“it’s been a few weeks already, though.” tim gestures with his hands, getting exasperated. feeling like he’s trying to climb out of a sand pit. he will not be winning this argument. “doesn’t enough happen in gotham that people have already forgotten?” 

“you’d think, right?” bruce chuckles darkly, shaking his head. “but unfortunately for you, no.”

“but—bruce, i’m not dating right now. who am i supposed to bring?” tim looks incredulous, his hands spread wide. 

“you’ll figure it out.” bruce is hiding a smile behind his whiskey glass, taking a long sip.

“oh, come on—,” tim shuts his mouth when bruce holds up a hand. 

“you have a month.”

———————————————————

the week of..

seagulls call out to each other as the sea crashes beneath them, the sun a spotlight onto this beautiful little town you’d never thought you’d see. 

old, colonial style houses with gardens full of obnoxiously huge hydrangea bushes, beautiful old women walking their pedigree cocker spaniels, golden retrievers, groomed poodles. the town center built on brick, with shops selling salt water taffy and artisanal, locally made ceramics. an old mustang drives past, rumbling down the cracked, well-worn streets. 

the air itself feels premium, a deep breath bringing the fresh smell of clean earth and a lower note of salt from the ocean’s immediate presence. 

it’d be overwhelming if it didn’t seem so perfect, the smile on tim’s face sending your heart stuttering. why didn’t you get out of gotham more often? 

he grabs your suitcase from the trunk, setting it onto the gray gravel of the driveway with a crunch. how did they make even rocks look expensive? you take it, wheeling it over to the front door the best you can, tim behind you. 

“master timothy.” an elderly man dressed to the nines opens the door, his mustache and beard gray but groomed to perfection. “they’re expecting you in the backyard.” 

“we’re late?” you hiss to the boy next to you as he starts after the butler.

“..nah,” tim replies, looking back to give you a lazy and meant-to-be reassuring smile. you breathe in again, thinking about what this place would smell like as a candle.

“timmy…” the closest guy shouts, raising the cup he’s holding. his deep brown skin shines in the sunlight, glistening along with his wet swim trunks as he reclines on the deck furniture. 

the blonde girl next to him turns, along with the girl she was talking to, who’s smaller, with a haircut not too different from tim’s. you try to roll your shoulders back as they take you in, the blonde girl giving you a solicitous smile. 

the back yard is beautiful, and huge, the grassy lawn neverending, the pool attached to an almost pool-sized hot tub and a bar, tall trees surrounding the fence for privacy, but not blocking the sunlight. 

the butler comes out with a tray of sandwiches and a refilled pitcher of lemonade, to cheers from the group.  

the sun starts to set before you know it, and exhaustion sinks into your bones. your face hurts from smiling, voice scratchy from all the talking. 

making a hasty excuse, you scamper inside. the silence of the kitchen helps loosen the vice on your ribs, letting you breathe in the cool air. 

the butler watches you with an amused look from where he stands, behind the kitchen island. you notice him with a start, trying to play it off as the corners of his eyes crinkle into well-worn divots.

“could i please get some water, mr...?” 

“pennyworth. but just alfred, please. and you are?” he extends his hand, nodding as you tell him your name, shaking his hand how you were taught to. “it’s lovely to meet you. would you like a bottle of water or a glass?” 

“just a glass, if that’s alright.” you fidget, putting your hands behind your back. 

“of course it’s alright, dear.” he hands you the glass, filled with frigid water but no ice. you thank him, gulping down a sip. “is there anything else i can do for you? show you your room? the bathroom?” 

“maybe just my room, if it’s okay.” you say, clearing your throat. 

he takes you upstairs, opening the door to your bedroom for the week with a sweeping gesture. your suitcase sits across the bed on the floor, your covers turned down. an open window beckons evening air inside, the smell of salt and flowers drifting into the space. 

“your room, miss.” 

“thank you very much, alfred.”

your new favorite place in the world, and it’s tim’s?

you shut your eyes, burrowing deeper into the cooled sheets and comforter.

tossing and turning, you can’t seem to shake the rolling feeling in your stomach that you’re not really supposed to be here. you settle onto your stomach, your face smushed into the pillow. a soft, cool hand brushes hair from your forehead, trailing down your burning skin to rub your back. 

eyes glued shut, you sigh contentedly. the restlessness leaves you in waves, peace settling into your bones. 

you feel the press of lips against your temple, and you fall into sleep as the presence fades. 

the house is alive, the smell of bacon flirting with your nostrils. you roll out of bed, pulling on a hoodie and putting your hair up. 

you come down the stairs, greeted by a small smile from cass who’s walking a loaded plate of pancakes to the table. your stomach growls, and duke chuckles from behind you.

“don’t worry, alfred’ll get you right.” 

you smile in reply, nodding sheepishly. you follow him to the kitchen, grabbing the plate he hands to you, taking it to the table. 

everything’s set, the bacon’s settled next to a steaming bowl of scrambled eggs, a pitcher of orange juice next to the basket of pre-toasted bread. 

the sound of footsteps hits your ears, tim yawning as he enters the dining room. a faded old hoodie hangs off his shoulders, pajama pants slung low on his hips. he stretches like a cat, overdramatic as ever. but his hoodie rises, and your eyes track the line of hair leading from his navel, disappearing into his waistband. your mouth starts watering, definitely from the food. not because you just remembered his habit of going commando in flannel pajama pants. he passes your side of the table, tugging at your ponytail.

tim seats himself across from you, shooting you a sleepy smirk. dark circles ring his eyes, his hair tousled. 

“good morning,” he says, his voice deep and thick with sleep. butterflies play tag in your large intestine as you and the table return the greeting. 

tim raises an eyebrow, the bacon plate in his outstretched hands. you nod eagerly, and he chuckles quietly at the look on your face. duke chatters to cass about how he hopes to even out his tan at the beach tomorrow, steph quietly talking to alfred about his dinner menu for the week. 

his bare foot pokes yours, and you stretch out your legs, slotting your feet between his on the ground. he leans over the table, the epitome of innocence as he shovels food into his mouth. 

the day is mellow, one spent to laugh and chat with new friends, to twine your fingers into tim’s hair and scratch. 

you’re given a tour of the small town, tim buying you your favorite flavor of saltwater taffy at the candy store, a souvenir necklace, the deep blue pendant made of seaglass. the way it catches the light reminds you of his eyes. 

later, bruce wayne and his eldest son, dick grayson, arrive. cass notices the rumble of the engine first, starting the charge into the house with her siblings following. tim stretches out a hand for you to grab, leading you in. 

“hello, hello!” dick says, gathering his siblings into a big group hug.

he brushes away your hand when you try to shake his, pulling you into a quick hug as well. 

“you must be here with tim,” dick says, his eyes twinkling and full of warmth. “welcome to the family!”

“what do y’all think..family game night?” duke asks, holding open a cupboard door, revealing stacks and stacks of board games.

“not monopoly, though!” steph shouts. “bruce is way too good at that one.”

“i beat him last time we played,” tim whispers into your ear, the smirk on his lips clear in his voice. 

he wins a game of uno, folds quickly in the following game of poker, salt water taffy as the chips. the wrapper crinkles as he pushes the candy out into his mouth, tucking the trash into his pocket. the hollowing of his cheeks as he sucks at the candy shouldn’t be as erotic as it is. 

steph rolls her eyes, pulling her pile of taffy away from him. 

“you always give up so early.” she says, tim’s eyebrow raising in response. 

“what’s it to you,” he replies, crossing his arms. cass laughs, duke chuckling under his breath. 

“either way,” dick says, “i’m gonna smoke you losers.” 

bruce drops his hand, effectively shutting him up. 

“royal flush!” duke shouts, pointing. cass’s eyebrows are touching her hair, her mouth a perfect ‘o’. steph scoffs, snatching up a taffy from her own stash to chew angrily. 

tim smirks, sliding an arm around your shoulders. 

“you’ll get ‘em next time, tiger.”

__________________________________________

the next day

“it’s probably a crime to ignore the way you look in that suit, babe.” 

you scoff, rolling your eyes. “too cheesy. try that on a different girl and see where it gets you. i am not the one.” 

tim smirks, crossing his arms. his sun kissed biceps look back at you as he leans in.

“i’ve gotten your pants off without a word, and i can do it again.” 

“shut it, drake,” you shove him, laughing. 

“usually i try to open it, doll.” he replies, and you roll your eyes again, starting down the beach. 

you look back, adding a sway to your hips when you see his eyes locked onto your retreating figure.

“tease!” he shouts after you. 

you bask in the sunlight, sliding your sunglasses up to watch the guys toss around a football. dick throws a perfect spiral to duke, who jumps to catch it one-handed. tim tackles him into the sand, dick cackling all the while. 

cass motions to you, and steph nods, stretching her long legs out onto the blanket, feet nested in the sand. 

“so,” she starts, tilting her head as she looks at you. “you and tim, huh?” 

you blush, nodding. cass rolls her eyes at steph, giving her a look. 

“yeah, yeah.” steph says, shaking her head. “look, did he tell you about us?” 

you furrow your eyebrows, tearing your eyes away from the boys by the water. 

“his family? of course.” you say, unsure. cass sighs.

“no, like, me and him,” steph says, her words sending your stomach off of a 50 foot cliff. 

“..no, he hasn’t.” you say, keeping your tone light. 

“we used to date, that’s all. nothing special for me, or anything.” she waves her hand. “water under the bridge, for sure. definitely got closer with his family, in the long run.” cass nods approvingly, giving you a reassuring smile.

“like, i promise there’s nothing there. it was a long time ago and we realized we’re much better off broken up.”

“okay,” you say, drawing circles in the sand.

“i just wanted to make sure you knew,” she continues, as you look up. “i knew he was never going to say anything.” 

you nod, leaning back onto your hands. “well, no hard feelings. i promise.” 

steph gives you a firm nod in return, her lips pulling into a grin. 

“i think we’ll be good friends.” 

cass hands you a peach ring from the bag. 

—————————————————

later, 

you head upstairs to shower before dinner, tim waiting a beat before following you up the stairs. 

he can barely take it, thinking about how you looked on the beach today. 

he wanted to take you right there on the sand, roll around with you until he had you on top of him, hips clapping into his as you bounce on his cock. 

he had to get you away, all to himself.

it was almost dinner time anyways. you two should probably work up an appetite, no?

steam envelops the room, the beat of the water on tile drowning out the soft moans that escape from your lips. your leg’s wrapped around his waist as he pounds into you, his eyes darkened with desire. tim’s barely able to hold back the rough noises leaving him, grunting as he watches the way your tits bounce with each of his thrusts. 

need burns through his body, sending waves of heat off of him onto you. you know he’s about to come, can see it in the furrow of his brows and stutter of his hips. 

he moans into the crook of your neck as he finishes, burying his hot cum deep inside of you.

you blink and tim’s beneath you, your back pressed against the shower wall as your leg rests on his shoulder. 

a rough lick across your clit has you arching away from the pristine tile, tim’s first three fingers buried inside of you, pushing his cum deeper. 

he’s relentless, sucking at your clit, messily shoving his fingers farther and farther into your pulsing hole. you can’t take it, the sensation making your thighs shake, your toes curl. you throw a hand over your mouth as you cry out. and before you know it:

you’re coming onto his tongue, and he laps it up, suckling and kissing away the mixture of your fluids. 

he kisses his way over your stomach, licking a flat stripe up the valley of your breasts. you grip at his back, scratching into the muscled skin. he moans from where he’s situated, sucking your nipple into his mouth as he works the other with his fingers, arousal burning ever hot between your thighs. he moves, and your resulting whine is swallowed by him as he kisses you, passion laced in his lips as his tongue dances with yours. you lean into him, arms around his neck, letting him hold you up on your shaky legs. 

gathering shampoo into his hands, he lathers it into bubbles before massaging it into your scalp. you practically go limp, his long fingers working, fingernails softly scratching. 

he carefully rinses out every sud, smoothing conditioner into your hair to let it sit as he grabs the soap bar. 

he slides it along your skin, his flushed cheeks and swollen lips making your heartbeat pound so loudly in your ears it’s a wonder that he can’t hear it.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

dinner’s at the local lobster restaurant, their neon sign winking at you as you enter. 

you’re happy: it’s not somewhere hoity-toity with seven spoons just for different courses. you know how to eat lobster, you know how to get messy. 

the plate in front of you makes your mouth water. you’re famished, the butter dripping off the corn on the cob and pooling under the herb-laden lobster has you blinking in disbelief. 

the rest of the table digs in, and duke watches in awe as you crack your lobster easily. 

“how’re you so good at that??” he asks, jaw dropped. 

you giggle, sucking the butter off of your finger, extremely aware of tim tracking the movement like he’s a wolf and you’re a bunny. funny, he does chase after you wherever you go, doesn’t he?

you beckon to duke, who hands you his plate. the shell of his lobster cracks easily for you, even with your butter-greased fingers. you slide it back over to him, bruce giving you a nod, a warm smile. 

“she’s so cool, but she never has the time to do anything. trust me, i’ve asked.” dick sighs.

you ponder this, pointing your seafood pick at him. 

“are you sure she’s not just saying she’s busy?” you ask, and dick’s eyes widen.

“yes, i swear. she’s got a ton going on. always, always working.” he says.

you nod, chewing on another bite of food.

“just take her lunch. on her break. find out where she likes to eat and what her order is and bring it to her. have a date at her workplace.” 

duke and dick’s eyes widen in unison, and duke nods. 

“dude. that’s perfect.” 

“why didn’t i think of that?!” dick says, disbelief painted across his face. the face he’s making along with the plastic bib is too much for everyone, just beyond comical. 

steph giggles beside you as cass snorts, the table dissolving into laughter. even tim chuckles, shaking his head. 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

that night 

“it’s not like he was given a month in advance, or anything.”

you can feel yourself opening and closing your mouth like a fish. A MONTH?

and he took his sweet time, too. floundering around, always looking like he needed to say something to you every time he saw you. 

god, he’s so baffling!

“he—he asked me two days ago.” you’re looking at your hands, folded in your lap. you were barely even able to squeak out that sentence to her, feeling like it was some big secret or something.

“you’re his girlfriend, and he took a month to ask you to come on a family vacation? we do these every year, the date is always on the calendar..” steph’s looking at you with wide eyes, shaking her head. she looks baffled too. that’s somewhat reassuring.

a low knock sounds at your door. you look to steph, who shrugs. 

“yeah?”

no reply, just tim sweeping the door open before lifting his arms to hold onto the door frame. 

steph rolls her eyes, and you just look at him expectantly. 

“steph, i need to talk to her.”

“..okay?” 

he leans against the frame, crossing his arms. his biceps bulge, looking bigger in the low light of the lamp. 

“alone?” 

steph looks to you, and after you nod, gets up with a sigh. 

“yeah. whatever.” 

she brushes past him, and he moves quickly, the door closed and click locked behind him. 

“what do you want,” you start, but he’s over to you before you can blink. his arms circle your waist, and your palms rest on his chest, smooth, like it was choreographed. 

“you.” he smiles as you roll your eyes. “i missed you.” 

“….uh-huh.” 

he pulls you impossibly closer, looking deep into your eyes. 

“you’re so cute when you’re annoyed with me.” 

you try to push him off, and he relents. but instead he grabs your hands, walking back until he hits the bed, sitting. you’re standing over him now, your hands naturally going to his neck as you play with his hair. he’s been letting it grow since summer started, but you know he’ll probably want to cut it soon. 

you thread your fingers into the little curling hairs at his nape, cherishing the length while he has it. you know he’ll spend a week after his trip to the family barber obsessively looking in the mirror and messing with his bangs until he’s (barely) satisfied. 

“where’d you go?”

you blink, his gaze boring into yours. you feel your cheeks heat as you realize he’s been studying you as you drifted into nowhereville thinking about his haircut habits. ridiculous. 

“nunya.”

he scoffs, an amused look on his face as he raises an eyebrow at you. 

“oh, really?”

“mmhm. yep.”

he digs his thumb into your hip, right where you’re ticklish, and you yank a little where your hand is gripped into his hair. 

“okay, okay,” he holds his hands up in surrender, and seeing the opportunity, you grab them and push him onto the bed, straddling his hips. 

he makes a surprised noise that has you stifling a giggle as you hold his hands above his head. 

your turn. 

“you think it’s sooo cuuute when i’m annoyed, huh?”

he nods, a stupid grin on his face. 

“you’ve got that right.” 

—————

he moans into your mouth, one that would’ve been loud, were you not tongue deep. 

you roll your hips against him again. you can feel the wet spot on his boxers through your panties, and you lean back to tug him free. 

his length bobs out, and he’s hard as a rock, a pearl of pre glistening on his tip. you swipe it off with your thumb and he slaps a hand to his mouth to stifle a groan. you’ve been relentless, to say the least. and you don’t plan on stopping anytime soon. you push his bared cock against his stomach, not bothering to remove anything but your shirt as you rock back and forth against it. 

“god, fuck! fuck me,” he pants, his hands gripping into your thighs in a way that’ll no doubt bruise. 

“i will if you’re good.”

“if i’m good—,” 

and you know he would’ve finished his sentence in some smart-aleck way if you hadn’t leaned back, running a finger over his tip. 

his exhale is a whimper, his eyes slammed closed. 

you pull your panties to the side, spreading your folds over his shaft. the wet warmth of the spot between your legs has tim hissing, his hands clenched so tightly at your hips you’ll be bruised in the morning. you move your hips back, sitting up on your knees. 

he looks so concerned, you giggle, the idea of you moving just devastating to him. 

you grab his cock, pumping it in your hand before lining it up with your entrance. you’re so wet, so ready, that you bottom out easily. you’re not paying any attention to tim, your hands planted on his chest as you roll your hips over his, the friction sending shocks of pleasure up your body. you press tim further into the mattress, his groans mixing with the wet sound of your bodies melding together. 

“tim,” you pant, and he knows immediately, starting up exactly where you stopped, his hips lifting from the bed to drive his cock deeper into you. throwing your head back, you suppress a moan feeling the way tim’s hitting that perfect spot.  

__________________

tim can’t believe how good it feels to have you clench around him like that, pulling him further in. his back is damp with sweat, his skin hot against yours. 

he loves having you underneath him like this, letting him pound you into the bed like you don’t have to walk around tomorrow. 

your nails scratch into the soft skin of his back, the thought of bearing evidence of your pleasure makes his eyes roll back. 

he whimpers into the crook of your neck as he fucks into you, the roll of his hips driving him deeper and deeper still. 

but you want his attention. you need his attention. you’re not just some plaything of his.

“so i’m your girlfriend, huh?” you grit out, fingers grabbing at his chin to keep his eyes on yours. 

“where’d you hear that one?” tim replies, his slanted brows becoming angry slashes on his face, the darkness exaggerating his features in an unrecognizable way. 

“your family, tim.” you say, smirking when you feel his hips stutter and stop, the look on his face making you giggle. “what, like i wasn’t gonna hear about it? i’m living in your dad’s house.” 

he’s opening and closing his mouth like a fish, and when he opens it again, you stick your middle and ring fingers in. his eyes widen with surprise, but he relents, sucking on your digits, swirling his tongue around them. 

“now move.” you say, feeling him jump inside of you. he can act high and mighty all he wants, but he’s aching to finish just as much as you are. tim starts up again, snapping his hips into yours. 

you pull your fingers out with a pop, using how wet they are to rub circles on your clit, just how you like it. tim’s eyes are huge, he’s unable to stop watching the way you’re using him for your own pleasure. 

two can play at that game, can’t they?

—————————————————————————

the next day

you’d really love to be concentrating on the conversation you’re in, but that’s borderline impossible with the way tim’s playing with your clit. 

his fingers pet over your lacy underwear, hidden by the long tablecloth and your dress. 

you fight the urge to curl your toes in your dressy sandals, tim’s hand nothing but a hard surface to grind up against. as he chats with mr. whoever about who knows what, he’s pulling your panties to the side, sliding a finger through the gathering slick to then push it into you. 

you stop breathing, thinking about the amount of people surrounding the two of you. 

he’s slow, methodical, trying to make you loud while he stays quiet.

he turns his attention back to your clit, noting the way it’s making you squirm.  

you turn the resulting moan into a cough, nothing tim’s smirk. asshole. 

tim rubs slow circles around the little pink bud, tutting under his breath at you when you try to cross your legs. you sigh, giving him a little nod, and he continues, pulling you right to the edge just to stop. you bite back a gasp at the sudden lack of stimulation, your pulse pounding out a beat between your legs. 

you’re coming around his fingers, pussy clenching as you try to pull him deeper. you feel heat creeping up your neck, burning your ears and cheeks as you fall apart for him in public, the noise of the party growing louder and louder in your ears. you grab your drink, gulping down the cool liquid. 

he pulls his hand away, slowly, nonchalant as ever. 

your pussy flutters around the lack of him, and you ache for another release, three, four. you doubt you’ll ever be truly sated when it comes to tim and the things he does to you.

he grabs his glass, spilling a little on his fingers. without so much as a glance to you, he sucks the liquid off of his middle digit, the one still warm from being inside of you. 

“well, montgomery, i think that if you continue to build your portfolio in such a way, it'll cause financial ruin down the road. i suggest you have it sent to my father’s assistant at wayne enterprises and i’ll take a look at it for you, find you some new stock.” 

mr. montgomery nods at tim’s suggestion, obviously trying to suppress how eager he is at the chance to have timothy drake-wayne look at his poor attempts at investing. 

ice clinks in glasses as soft music floats over the garden from the band in the corner, string lights twinkling overhead. 

his arms cross over your lower back, guiding you to sway along to the beat as you rest your head on his shoulder, your arms circling his neck. 

the spot between your thighs still aches from where his hand was, where his fingers had been pushed deep inside of you. 

you know you’re being watched, a sweet smile plastered to your face as the select few members of the press allowed in snap shots of you and tim. 

you can still feel your pulse down there, and you pull ever closer to tim. you feel his already hard cock react, twitching from where it’s pressed between your bodies.

haven’t even touched him, but he’s walking around with his need for you obvious. you’re shocked he hasn’t pulled you into an empty bedroom yet. 

probably too much press present.

the song ends, and tim breaks the embrace, those on the dancefloor clapping politely for the band. 

he leads you off to the side, saying he’s going to grab something to drink. you nod, feeling eyes on you, trying to not look like you’re shrinking into the corner, but trying to shrink into the corner. 

you’re in all white, pristine linen that feels dirty from being pressed up against tim like that in front of press, bruce’s friends, his family. 

it’s been awhile now, and the crowd’s cleared away from the little poolside bar, no tim in sight. 

“hey,” dick says, sidling up next to where you’re waiting. “you all good?” 

his thick eyebrows are knitted with concern, and he’s so endearing you can’t help but want to tell him the truth. 

“yeah,” you smile, watching his face relax in response. “just waiting for tim. he said he’d grab me something to drink, but..” you look around, lifting your hands as you shrug. 

“well then, this is perfect.” dick says, handing you one of the champagne flutes he’s holding. 

“thank you!” you gush, beaming up at him, cheeks rosy. did manners skip a generation in this family? 

dick returns your smile, grabbing your elbow to pull you closer as a guest pushes by. he asks about school, interrogating you about your major. 

he smirks when you talk about the mess hall food, laughs at a retelling of the time you fell down the stairs in a lecture hall, nods with fervor when you talk about protests on campus, eyes crinkling when you bemoan the way bubblegum flavored vodka smells on drunk breath. you don’t remember the last time someone paid this much attention to you, his eyes locked on yours as you talk with your hands, gesturing about with your glass. 

the golden, bubbling liquid has you babbling, giggling over whatever quip dick inserts into the conversation. you realize that you’re being rude, cutting yourself off abruptly, much to dick’s surprise. 

“but enough about me! what’s going on with you?” you rush out, shutting your mouth to give dick the stage.

dick chuckles, his grin like a little spotlight. 

“i’ve been working for the nonprofit side of wayne enterprises recently, trying to get a feel of where we could best help gotham.” he starts, and a sense of hope rises in your chest, flutters its wings delicately against your ribcage. 

“that sounds wonderful, dick!” you say, feeling yourself smiling like a dork. what a good idea. “does tim help with stuff like that?” 

dick notes the hopeful tilt in your voice, the responding sinking feeling in his chest. he’s got to take the chance while he can. 

“sometimes, but look—,” he starts, sighing into his glass. “tim’s not..he’s never been in a good relationship, honestly.” 

you look up, confused. 

“and that’s never been the fault of the other person.” he runs a hand through his hair, a little apprehensive. his eyes dart around. “that’s all i’ll say on the subject.” 

your mind’s reeling, moving through thoughts at lightning speed. you can’t say you’re surprised, but can you even do better? 

his face when he laughs flashes in your brain, the deep blue of his eyes, the little smile he gives you when he sees you after a long time. how he holds you, teases you. he brought you flowers on your birthday, paid for you to get your car a brand new radiator, driving you everywhere when it was in the shop getting fixed. 

the forehead kisses, the feeling of his hands on your waist, the press of his lips on your neck. you’d turn the way he smells into a candle if you could, a cologne that you could spray everywhere he wasn’t. 

the way he holds your hand, like he’s scared you’ll run if he lets go. the look on his face when you talk about guys in your classes, moving away from gotham after college.

and—

what would’ve happened if you’d met dick first? his blue eyes that hold a warning, contrasting with his light brown skin and his smile: one that’s easy, that he wears often. 

or stephanie, tim’s ex-girlfriend? would she have warned you away? held you close to her instead, defending you as a best friend would?

or even cass, silent, and obviously endeared towards her family—it seemed as if even through her love she was able to see past the shiny teeth and empty promises tim peddled. 

but you? it was too late for you. you were in much, much too deep. 

tim had to run off to the bathroom. there was no other way. he felt like he was going to explode if he didn’t. 

he darted up the stairs, knowing the house would be completely empty. locking the door to his bathroom (the one en suite to his room) he undoes his belt with practiced speed, yanking his boxers down. 

the ones he’s wearing are your favorites, the pair you steal to wear every time you sleep over. the thought sends his cock jerking, the tip red and swollen, already dripping precum. the last time he was this hard you’d been on your knees under him, and that memory alone almost has him repainting the bathroom door.

you were so ready for him, sitting next to him at dinner. so warm, and so, so wet. the feeling of you clenching around his fingers is all he can think about as he fucks his hand, bracing himself against the counter. your little gasps, the thin line your lips formed as you tried to bite back moans, all while tim was two fingers deep in your pretty pussy, curling his digits further into you. was he not supposed to react? 

and then dancing afterwards, his body pressed to yours lengthwise—he’d already been hard, but was practically dizzy from how fast the rest of his blood rushed to his cock. 

so that’s why he’s here, biting his lip so hard he’s probably drawing blood, harshly tugging at the length of his cock, eyes squeezed shut.  

tim groans, cum covering his hand as he shudders, breathing heavily. 

cleaning himself up, he hears laughter from the backyard. happy, full laughter, not the kind that most guests at the party would have. but you’re not most guests. tucking his shirt back in, he buckles his belt. 

he leans over, peering down through the window pane to try and get a glimpse of who you were so animatedly talking to. he goes up on the balls of his feet, and growls.

his brother.

“getting her drunk, dick?” tim’s voice sends a chill up your spine, feeling his presence behind you. you look down at your drink, watching the bubbles float to the surface, popping when they reach the top. tiny little deaths, tiny little fireworks. 

“no, just doing what you couldn’t.” dick replies, a tight-lipped smile glued to his face for onlookers. 

you try to suppress the shocked expression you feel your features reaching towards, opting to take another swig. you sling an amicable smile at dick, looping your arm through tim’s as he glares at his brother. 

in an attempt to ease the tension, you turn to tim. 

“have you chosen your classes for next semester yet?” 

“hm?” tim replies, distracted. “oh, my career consultant does that for me.” he smiles, that cheshire cat smile, and grabs your drink from you, tilting his head back as he finishes it. 

“did you hear she’s planning to ask bruce for a letter of rec?” dick says, smiling warmly at you, but addressing tim. 

“she..what?” tim looks at you, his eyebrows furrowing, his facial expression leaning into incredulity. 

“yeah, for my international affairs internship this fall. i told you about it last month, and..” you trail off, remembering that he hadn’t seemed like he was listening then, either. “well, anyway, i figured mr. wayne would be a good person to ask, and dick agreed, so.” 

you shrug, feeling like you’re shrinking by the second. 

“i’ll help you, babe. good idea.” tim relents, punctuating his sentence with a kiss to your temple. 

looking down, you squint. what is that on tim’s shoe?

——————————————————————————

the next day 

“you’re full of shit, drake,” a voice growls from the speaker of his phone. tinny, but the power behind it is evident nonetheless. 

“me? i’m full of shit, todd. me.” tim spits out, body language directed at his phone like the caller is really there. 

“did i stutter?”

tim scoffs, a sneer distorting his features as he delivers his next blow. 

“i don’t know why i entertain this. you. one push of the button and you’re dead to me.” 

“that was low, drake, but i can’t say i expected anything else.” 

“hmph.” tim’s scrubbing his hands over his face, through his hair. 

“but this shit? stop being such an asshole. i know that’s almost impossible for you,” the voice continues. “but this poor girl doesn’t deserve it. i have half a mind to pay her fucking college tuition. in your name, mind you.” 

tim’s rendered speechless, opening and closing his mouth. the voice chuckles. 

“you want me to stop selling to your ‘frat bros’?” the speaker says, the end of his sentence dripping in sarcasm. 

“i think i made that plenty clear,” tim says, words being grit out from behind his teeth. 

“so stop being a shithead.” 

tim’s fist clenches, and he almost hangs up. 

“still don’t see what the fuck this’s got to do with her.” he says. 

“you don’t need to see anything. i’m trying to keep the people of gotham safe.”

“..by selling them drugs?” tim laughs, sounding a little crazy. 

“mmph, well. if that’s how you want to phrase it, then yes.”

the call disconnects, and tim tosses his phone on his bed, a little too harshly. 

_________________

“let’s go.” tim snarls, pulling you into your room from the hallway. his grip on your hand loosens when he notices how wide your eyes are. 

he’s wearing that look on his face where he wants to yell but won’t. the resulting silence is usually worse than if he’d just do it. 

“is everything okay?” you ask, keeping your tone light.

his response is a jerky nod, grabbing your things from the dresser to toss into your open suitcase on the floor.

“can you at least fold them?” you plead, and he glances at you. you’re smirking, but it falters when you see the cold fury in his eyes.

you push the door closed, locking it before coming to stand right in front of him. 

his eyes widen when you drop to your knees, unbuckling his belt, pulling his boxers and jeans down. 

you pull at his shaft until he’s hard, cooing over his angry, red tip and cupping his balls in your hand. 

kissing along the side of his cock, he threads his fingers into your hair as he watches you go down on him. 

his lips are pulled tight as he fights the urge to thrust into your mouth, to fuck your face. but that’s why you’re on your knees.

“let loose, drake.”

he nods, letting out a shaky sigh. you brace your hands on the top of his thighs, relaxing your throat as he slowly pushes himself deeper into your mouth. 

he keeps an eye on your face, watching your reaction as he slowly starts to thrust, your cheeks hollowed as your lips stretch to fit his cock.

tears stream down your cheeks, your hair tangled into tim’s fingers as he uses your mouth to get off. he’s gentle, but his pace is still relentless, your mouth so wet and warm. the look on his face is almost pained, like it feels too good. you know he loves having control like this, figured it would be the quickest way to calm him down, tire him out too much to be angry without actually dropping your pants. 

you look up at him, holding eye contact as he watches you bury your nose into the tuft of curls at the base of his cock. one last push of his hips, and you know he’s done, informed by months of experience at the way his stomach muscles tighten and he throws his head back.

a groan escapes from behind his gritted teeth, his hands gripping harder at your hair as he comes in your mouth. 

white, hot ropes of cum paint the back of your throat in excess as he falls apart, your hands pumping his length to get every last drop. 

he moans, eyes rolling back as you bob your head. but he stops you before you can get him worked up again, arousal rolling through his body as you let him out with a pop. 

you pull his pants back up, and he buckles them, getting you on your feet and leading you to the bed where he sits you on his lap. 

tim wipes your tears away, licking his thumb to smudge off runny makeup. you get a kiss on the forehead as he smooths your hair down, a kiss on the lips as he rubs your aching knees. 

__________________________________

rolling down the window, you wave like a little kid to your new friends, beaming at alfred, who returns the favor with a shy smile and a raised hand. 

“bye!”

“bye! see you later! bye!”

“bye cass, steph!! bye dick!! bye duke!!” you quickly pull yourself back into the car when tim tugs on your shirt, and once you’re buckled he rolls up your window.

he settles his hand onto your thigh as he makes his way down the driveway, speeding off down the road.

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tim drake's fan club:

(taglist)

@dfgcbgdc @benditlikegumby93 @agent-nobody-knows @jaybunsblog @astermos-74 @ravenna-reid @borutoistrash1-blog @slut4animedilfs @nuggget-consumer-9000 @turtleturtleturtleturtleneck @hellishattempt @trashhighwaybird @sergeant-angels-trashcan @lilithskywalker @natsukicookies @flowrs-on-an-empty-windowsill @athenastar27 @timdrakeisasugardaddy @1cxndy

(also added those interested in new parts, i can remove you from the taglist, just ask!)

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[crsssie]

walk - spencer reid x sharpshooter!reader

"Snipe and I will head to the other house."

You turn on your heel, tugging your rifle along with you as Hotch motions for you.

You don't notice the way Spencer's brain stops working when your hips sway as your boots clack off, shaking his head to snap back to the papers on the table when you're out of sight.

"Distracted, Reid?" Morgan grins, and Spencer huffs.

"It's a biological response to those you like."

Spencer goes back to the files, flipping through the paper as Morgan continues staring, brow raised, grin still there.

"Morgan, drop it."

"Nuh uh. You like 'em sooo bad."

"I do. What about it?" Spencer raises a brow, and Morgan blinks.

"Woah, woah, pretty boy, I was just teasing."

Spencer pouts, putting the folder down as Garcia calls in, and he blinks twice, thrice, and then a fourth, unable to get the image of your walk out of his mind.

Strange he misses you already.

[cheralith]

character ; hiori yo || cw ; gn!reader, no pronouns used

while it's a well-known fact that hiori enjoys being alone and prefers to keep it that way, i do like to think there's that only exception with you that he finds himself gravitating towards your company steadily.

he avoids people, specifically in romantic terms, because he's anxious that one day, he'll look in the mirror and see his parents, where a false happy marriage is shown off to the world despite closed doors revealing a broken, true nature between two people who are just barely hanging onto each other's threads. he likes his friends, sure, but being alone is better. it's safer.

until you come along. he tries to place a comfortable distance between you and him, trying to convince himself that he's content with his own loneliness, he finds the same pleasure in talking to you, in being around you. you enjoy a lot of the same things he does, and he finds the hours of the day ticking a lot faster when you and him game together. he likes it.

until he catches glimpse of his parents and their sickeningly sweet smiles that they only give to him and never to each other. no... not even him, as their prodigy of their own making. not as their son.

but you see it. you see him. you see him in fullness and in warmth. you don't seem to attribute soccer to him as much as his parents and others do. you just see him as a regular guy that likes video games, buys yakult at the local konbini, and to reread level e. he just so happens to also be good at soccer.

you see him, hiori yo. and the closed box he confined himself to keep himself safe, finally opens.

[chrissv4mp]

need to sit on her lap...

[kisshwa]

could you do texts of the reader thirsting after bf!ateez? i think you would make it super funny too!!

ATEEZ as BFS

and their thirsty s/o

pairing: bf!ateez x reader

warnings: strong language, sewerslide joke, sexual comments, reader is not (necessarily) healthy minded

notes: i think reader’s responses are valid but maybe that’s just me :p

[vsimp]

"glimpse of us"

pairing: zhongli x reader

genre: angst, no comfort

w/c: 850

summary: "glimpse of us" by joji, but you are not her

You have been through everything with him. Through the archon war, through the cataclysm, through the ongoing erosion, and through the “death” of Morax. You wanted to think that you were the closest person to him. You knew all of his likes and dislikes. You knew what all of his hobbies were. You knew how much he cared about his people, the people of Liyue. You understood him more than anyone.

“My dearest and oldest friend…” Zhongli’s deep voice rumbled through the plains of Liyue, like a gentle breeze that could soothe even the most unfortunate of souls. “My y/n… You have truly proved yourself to be my most loyal companion. I was once an archon, and now I am merely a man, yet you love me anyways, and it has taken me this long to realize that. Will you accompany this old soul for the rest of his modest life?”

When he had proposed to you, you felt like the happiest person in the world. The man who you had been in love with over the last thousands of years had finally realized your feelings, and you were ecstatic. But despite his whispers of love to you, despite all of the passionate feelings that he vocalized, there was always a lingering thought in the back of your mind. 

Indeed, you knew everything about Morax. Even his heartaches and troubles. Even his old love who he lost many, many millennials ago.

The death of Guizhong broke your heart as well. She was loved by many, that included the Geo Archon himself. You didn’t think your unrequited love would ever be returned, and yet, you still somehow felt guilty now that you’ve taken the place of your old friend, the one who used to stand by his side.

He had never once looked at you the way that he looked at her. He had never once smiled at you the way he did her. And even at night when he dreams, he dreams of her.

But you smiled on, hoping and wishing that Zhongli would be happy by your side. Minutes passed like hours, as you kissed his lips, and hours passed like seconds as you laughed by his side. But you knew that you were just her replacement. You knew that whenever he looked into your eyes, he was not looking at you, but instead at a glimpse of her. 

“I love you, Guizhong,” Zhongli had let out one day. Whatever you had in your hand had fallen to the ground at the time, leaving a loud thud amidst the silence. “No… No, I meant y/n. I love you, y/n.” Zhongli was flustered, which was unlike him, and also quick to correct his mistake, but it was too late. You had already found out about his true feelings.

He chased you outside as you ran straight into the rain, calling your name and asking you calmly to come back inside. You didn’t know how to feel. You didn’t know how to react. You just knew that you could no longer face him. The thunder roared loud in the sky as your heart ached.

Your fears were confirmed that night. You had never seen Zhongli look so desperate and scared before. It was like he knew what his true feelings were, but he just didn’t want to lose you. The damage, however, had already been done.

He held you in his arms tightly, catching you before you got too far, your back against his chest. 

“Y/n,” he pleaded, “please… come back inside. It’s raining and you’ll get sick.”

“It’s been thousands of years, Morax.” Zhongli’s grip tightened as he heard your firm voice, as if he was afraid he’d lose you like how he had lost everybody else in his life. “I’ve always been yours… but when will you ever be mine?”

“I apologize. I truly am sorry. It was a slip of the tongue.” But he couldn’t deny the truth. You had hoped he would say that you were the only one in his heart right now. That you are the only one he thought about. He remained uncharacteristically silent but still clinging onto you.

It was time you put yourself first for once. Everything you had done had been for him, the man you love. But his silence spoke louder than his actions in this case, and it cracked open your heart even further. 

“I think… we need a break. I’m sorry.”

There was a long pause before Zhongli let you go.

“Very well,” he said hesitantly and cautiously. “I cannot force you to stay. But remember this, I truly love you. And when you would like to speak again, I will be here waiting for you.”

“Unfortunately, I’m tired of doing the chasing,” you said simply. 

“The chasing…? Oh, my dear…” You couldn’t look at his expression, but you could tell he finally understood your feelings. Still, he hesitated to say what he truly wanted to say, a long pause between his words. “It appears I cannot convince you to stay…”

“Yes. Goodbye.”

Zhongli watched as you walked away. The light of his life had faded, and now, he truly was all alone.

[ddejavvu]

I'll hit it from the back just so you don't get attached - ex!peter parker x reader

Happy Indy day @hanasnx!!! Indy i hope you enjoy this. I used your peter content to get myself familiar with his character so i hope this feels right to you. you deserve to get sloppy with your ex boyfriend peter parker

You can't stop crawling back to Peter. He's been such a constant in your life for years, you've moved twice with him, you fostered a cat together, you stuck birthday candles in his cake for more years than you kept track of. But it just doesn't consistently work with you guys. You're so hot and cold, yes and no, back and forth. Like sticky, pronged ferns you tangle together out of crippling dependency, desperation to belong, stunting your growth and pricking bleeding, oozing wounds in each other. You make up, you fuck, you fight, you separate. You make up, you fuck, you fight, you separate.

You want sex and no one but Peter can give it to you. You're not going to waste your time with someone who doesn't know you, and listen, fucking Peter one time doesn't mean you're back together. You mean it this time, you're really not trying again. All you want is a fuck.

"Don't kiss me." You decide, jerking your head away from his lips. When his eyes glow wounded your frustration with yourself multiplies, because you shouldn't be here doing this with him. you shouldn't be in his bed, you shouldn't be letting him put his hands on you, because you're done. But you need him, you miss him, you love him, you hate him.

"Okay." Peter nods, reluctant but respectful, "Can I kiss- you? Your neck?"

"Whatever." You bite, growing increasingly antsy for the sex that's about to come, "Just not on the mouth, we're not together anymore."

If you let Peter kiss you you will get back with him. You'll fold and bury yourself in his toned chest, shutting yourself back in to the life you keep trying to step out from. You have to stay strong, and you steel yourself against the emotional component of Peter's lips brushing softly but hungrily over your bare shoulder. When he kisses against the skin you inhale, swallowing a pool of saliva that had gathered over your tongue.

You're not getting back together with him.

When he flips you over to spread your legs and bury himself inside of you you're met with his face, his teeth digging into his lip, his hair sticking up with sweat, his eyes, god his eyes looking anywhere but your own face. It takes you only a split second to realize that you're not going to be able to do this; that you're going to cave and kiss him yourself if you can see him like this. So you push him clumsily away, flipping over on all fours to bury your face into the pillow.

"There." You lean back on your knees, letting Peter look at the round swell of your ass, "From the back. We're- I can't look at you. We're not together anymore. I don't want to get attached again."

That's your rule. That's how you regulate, how you can twitch around Peter's cock without begging him to take you back. He has to press you down with his weight, whether it be over the arm of the couch or into the pillows at the head of his bed. Whatever you do, you cant look at his face, so he'll hit it from the back so you don't get attached.