F Reader - Blog Posts

⋆˚࿔ fratastrophe (⭑)

being in a situationship with frat boy denki kaminari

contains: 18+ content!! minors dni!! f!reader, situationship/fuck buddies, sending pics, lots of pet names and compliments, parties, weed and drinking mentioned.

authors note: i knew nothing abt frats three days ago before i started this so!! it’s probably not very accurate but still this is for fun so :3 enjoy!

due to @cherries4katsuki’s request :P

⋆˚࿔ morning hues

waking up with the mha boys !

— includes : kirishima, kaminari, sero & shinsou (in that order)

contains: f!reader implied, around 0.3k words each,fluff, established relationship (sorry i’m a sucker for romance) suggestive if you squint, usage baby + babe used, light swearing

authors note: my first drabbles ever guys how are we feeling ! can you guys tell who’s my favorite lolol

also here’s a link to the pose kirishimas is cus idk if i described it well enough haha

⋆˚࿔ e.kirishima

eijiro is a light sleeper. so whenever you begin to shuffle in your sleep, your eyes slowly fluttering open, so does he.

when he finally does find himself fully conscious he immediately pulls you closer to him, yearning for your warmth. his big arms wrapped around your neck and his body pressed flush against yours.

“goodmorning baby.” his voice is rugged, eyes still closed as he places a delicate kiss on the outer shell of your ear.

you maneuver your head up so you can whisper out a small “morning.” before placing a kiss on his forearm. he flexes, pretending to choke you with his muscle. you giggle as your hand moves up to caress his biceps, a sign of appreciation.

he’s smiling, though you can’t see it, you just know. “how’d my girl sleep?” he asks, like he has been every single morning since you’ve gotten together. you’ll never get bored of it.

this is how you spend most early mornings. in bed together, waiting for the sunlight to stream through the bedroom window.

eijiro releases you from his grip, moving to gently rubbing your back as you recall the dream you had that night. you boldly explain the actions from your dream as he passionately listens, making additional comments along the way.

“hmm, yeah? that’s nice baby.” he coos into your ear as his hands rub up and down your shoulder, kisses being periodically planted on your skin.

when the words “i have to get ready.” would eventually escape your lips eijiro would insist you stay in bed a bit longer, he’d even ‘fight’ you for it.

his arms are propped up on either side of your face as he peppers kisses over your giggling face. “eiji, please,” you say between short breaths “i have to get ready for work!”

“i don’t want you to go,” he’d whine, only promising to let you go if you give him another kiss 🩷

⋆˚࿔ d.kaminari

“denki.” you complain for the fifth time. the golden haired boy, whose head is resting on your upper chest, remains still. you watch as his chest rises and falls with every breath, his brows occasionally furrowing. you sigh.

denki is a deep sleeper. usually he wakes up in the early afternoon (though if you two had a long night he could sleep until the late afternoon!!) he’s doesn’t like to admit it but you both know that his sleep schedule is so ass.

“babeee.” you groan. though you really enjoyed the view you also really had to get to work.

finally, he moves. “hmmm?” a low groan escapes his lips. he turns, attempting to bury himself into the crook of your neck.

you take time to drink in the image of your sleeping boyfriend as he nuzzles himself into you. you let out another sigh, this one holding less tension than the first. “kami.” you say, sweetly. your hands find their way to the base of his neck and your fingers slowly climbing up to play with his hair. his grip on you tightens, fingers digging into the side of your waist.

“i have to get up now, okay?” you place a soft kiss onto his sun dyed hair.

you wait a few seconds for a verbal reply and to your surprise (not really) you began to feel a wet patch forming on your neck. “denki.” you dead pan.

“yes y/n?” his eyes are sparking as he looks up at you, feigning innocence.

“that’s not going to work on me again dumbass.” you sit up and ruffle his hair, laughing sweetly at his attempt to keep you in bed.

“but baby-“ he starts to whine as he sits up as well.

when you get off your shared bed you finally see how disheveled he is. his shirt is a wrinkled mess, not to mention it’s slightly riding up his stomach. he’s blinking his eyes, very clearly trying to wake himself up. you bask in his beauty, a smile creeping up on your face.

“i have to get ready, really denks,” you try to put on a stern voice, but it’s hard to leave your boy.

“can you at least turn around before you go?” he ask as with a pout.

your brow cocks at the question. though it is a weird request, it’s your boyfriend request. so you oblige. “happy?” you ask, glancing back from your shoulder to examine the expression on his face.

his eyes are lit up and locked onto your body. “yeah,” his says, a dorky smile on his face as he lays back down. “so happy” he giggles, his voice dreamy.

he falls back asleep not too long after that, his dreams full of you.

⋆˚࿔ h.sero

when you sleep with your boyfriend, hanta, you often find yourself waking up comfortably tucked into the corner of his elbow.

surprisingly, hanta is an early bird and is up with the sun on most days. he likes to spend mornings getting ready together so he usually finds himself staying in bed scrolling on his phone while waiting for you to wake up.

when he sees your sleeping figure finally rise to life he can’t help but tease you a bit.

you attempt to rub the sleep away from your eyes as you turn over on your boyfriend's arm. when you finally open your eyes you’re met with a big grin plastered on the raven haired boy's face.

“look who’s finally awake,” he sings, his tone is teasing, but holding no real sting to it. he tucks his arm in, bringing you closer.

“goodmorning to you too hanta,” you say in a low voice, not being awake enough to play along with his playful attitude.

his face tilts to your reaction, noticing your low energy. he lets out a low hum before leaning to bite your cheek “sorry ma,” he mutters as he pulls away. “i meant to say, goodmorning beautiful,” he corrects.

you can’t help it as a smile creeps up on your face. he always knew exactly how to cheer you up. you bite the inside of your cheek as the outside burns a crimson color.

“such a tease,” you pout as your body moves to hover over his. you tilt your head up to kiss along his jawline, ready to get payback. he lets out a satisfied hum as his hand makes his way to your lower back, possessively laying there.

“y/n,” he starts, his voice is soft. he closes his eyes as his eyebrows knit together. you travel from his jawline down to his neck. he shutters when your soft lips touch his skin, as if you put him under a lovestruck spell.

“hmm?” you mumble from his neck. he opens his eyes to see yours locked onto his, their reflections toying with innocence.

he bites back the smile on his lips as his head falls back onto his pillow, his eyes falling closed once more.

when you pull away from his neck he lets out an airy laugh. “evil,” he says, peeking down at you as you laugh at him.

“that’s what you get,” you giggle.

his hands quickly find their way to you. he’s now holding your face in his hands, “you’re cute,” he breathes out as he squeezes your face, finally leaning in for a proper kiss.

“ready to get up now?”

⋆˚࿔ h.shinsou

hitoshi knows the tell-tale signs of you waking up. he’s seen it so many times before. the way your face scrunches when the sunlight hits your eye. the way your lips fall open while intelligible mutters slip from your mouth.

so hitoshi waits. he doesn’t mind waiting anymore. not when you're lying on his chest, practically on display just for him. it’s all finally worth it when your muttering comes to a stop and your eyes slowly open.

you tilt your head up, your sleepy eyes meeting hitoshis. your boyfriends typically weary eyes are soft and tender as his gaze dances down your body.

“goodmorning,” he says in that deep voice that makes you feel so weak. he rubs your arm as you let out a relieved sigh.

“morning toshi,” you reply with a small smile. “switch?” you offer him.

hitoshi was quick to nods so you switch positions; toshi now sprawled out across your chest as you laid on your back underneath him. your hands raced to his hair, pushing his lavender locs back and massaging his scalp. the soft mewl of contentment he lets out makes your skin feel hot. “you sleep at all?” you ask, mostly to calm yourself down.

“like three, maybe four hours?” he said with shrug as if he was trying to downplay the situation. he dipped his head low, not knowing you could see the tip of his ears color themselves pink.

“not bad,” you say, placing a kiss to the crown of his head.

okay, maybe he hadn’t told you how he’s been sleeping way better because you're by his side. maybe he couldn’t handle hearing you say how proud of him while you kiss him all over. maybe he couldn’t handle how cute you’d look with a smile that big on your face.

yeah, he definitely couldn’t handle that. not yet.

he’s not new to your shared morning routine, but for some reason seeing you tousled up next to him in bed, early in the morning, still manages to make his heart race.

puppy love and flowers — remus lupin

▸summary: he's absolutely sure he loves you. he's absolutely sure you love him. flowers aren't given to just anybody.

▸characters: remus lupin x f! reader, lil snippets of james and sirius and peter

▸tw: hay fever, small sadness moment

▸a/n: consider this my apology for the previous angst post. also, look at the guy. he's a smol bean

REMUS LUPIN WAS a sucker for a good bouquet. He'd always want to give them to you, yet he could never find the moment. There'd always be something that would stop him.

Today was one of the days where his plans were smudged.

It was a Hogsmeade day, so naturally, he with his posse decided to head into the town to scope out bouquets. There was one he'd seen little bit ago that he was fidgeting to buy. It was a beautiful set of red and white roses with baby's breath surrounding them. They were your favourite flowers.

Sirius Black had never felt so depressed than when he had watched his friends realise that the 'sold out' sign was for the bouquet he wanted to get for you. He felt so out of place when Remus looked like he had just been deprived of his natural resource of chocolate.

"Why not just get her different flowers?" the Black boy asked, awkwardness coating his very body in a tense feeling.

Remus sighed. "But those were for her. They were like, specifically crafted just so that she could have them. And now they're gone. And I still haven't gotten her flowers!"

James sympathised more with Remus that Sirius could. James often got flower for Lily from this very shop. Albeit, she always threw them out when she got them, but it was the thought that counted. Peter didn't say anything. He was too busy drawing stars in the snow.

The bespectacled boy put his hand on Remus' shoulder, noticing his friend's eyes welling with tears. "It's alright, mate. There's always tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day."

"But I wanted to get her those today."

There was something so frustrating about not getting something done on the day you planned. You'd feel so incomplete in your tasks, and he'd never get to sleep tonight. Well, he might drift off if he cried long enough.

The walk back to the dorms was long and awkward and tense and depressing. There were so many emotions. Remus has just been thwarted yet again in his attempts to woo you. Peter was plucking the snow off of his mittens one by one.

"Damn, mate, you are so in deep," Sirius teased, trying to lighten the mood. "I mean, I've heard of puppy love, but this just takes the cake."

"Is that supposed to be a pun?" Remus muttered. It was kinda funny.

"I suppose so."

They had only gotten to the dorm when they heard the girls. They were laughing. No, hang on. They were shrieking. And... sneezing?

The four boys entered the common room to find Lily and Marlene holding onto furniture for dear life, their faces as red as their ties. Marlene tried to heave in a breath and little was wiping her face.

And then you sneezed. They erupted into laughter again.

"What on earth is going on?" James asked, confusion filling his bloodstream. The girls couldn't find the words, too busy giggling, so you decided to speak.

"I bought flowers for Remus," you started, your nose stuffed, "and I have just found out that I am, in fact, deathly allergic to flowers."

You sneezed again. The girls didn't completely fall apart, but they still chuckled.

Remus looked at you with those big eyes of his. "You got me flowers?"

"Yeah," you said sheepishly. "I though it'd be a nice surprise, but now I'm covered in snot, my nose and throat hurts, my head kinda aches, and my eyes are red."

You sneezed, and Remus started laughing. He rested his head on your shoulder, despite your protests.

"How did you never realise you had a tendency to get hay fever?" Sirius asked, trying to stifle his own chuckles.

"I don't know. It doesn't get this bad at home. The flowers there are small, and here, I don't go out much in the spring. It's too warm. Plus, it's not like I get up close and personal with flowers now, do I?"

"Yeah, but still. It's hay fever, it's a pretty common thing."

"Like I said," you sneezed again, away from Remus' face, "there just wasn't enough for me to notice." You paused for a second. "I always wondered why I got the sniffles in the springtime. I thought it was just spring colds."

James grinned. "Well, now you know."

You sneezed twice more, Remus brushing the hair out of your sweaty face.

"I think we need to rescue you from your natural foe." He guided you by the hand outside of the common room, and he stole a glance back at the flowers you had bought for him, his heart swelling.

Red and white roses surrounded with baby's breath.

could you write a sex pollen fic with reader x Nightwing or Red Hood?

I think they would definitely try to take care of it own their own but this time the strand of pollen is stronger so they need more help and the reader would wake up and see them in the living room trying not to look at them and give into the temptation of the pollen but they’re just suffering and desperately want to be touched LOL

Should, could, would...

Jason Todd/Reader, 1.7K words A/N: Can I? Well, I gave it my best shot, and I don't like to brag, but I think you'll like it. Let me know ;] Warnings: Sex pollen | strong language | some roughness | fleeting, minor mention of potentially dubious consent | Jason behaving somewhat more unhinged and a little more pathetic than is normal for him

At this moment in time, Jason doesn’t have the brain capacity to be certain of anything. He could say unquestionably however, that you probably weren’t expecting to find him, your roommate, hunkered over your laundry basket at 3 AM on a weeknight, pants around his ankles, his fist tangled up in a pair of your used underwear, the other wrapped around his frankly painfully throbbing cock, but here you both were. Feet apart, hearts pounding, staring wide-eyed at each other.

He can smell you from here. Not in the same way as usual, not in the way that blends in with your shared surroundings, which obviously carry your scent for better or for worse. No. Whatever that pollen had done to his system, it wasn’t just affecting his libido. He could smell the hint of florals from your fabric softener, the soap and the sweat embedded in your skin, the sweet undertones of your perfume. But it’s not enough. He wants to taste it.

“Jay- I- I’m- sorry. I’ll go-“ “

“Don’t leave.” Though your bare feet have been restless against the carpet, your eyes haven’t left him once. He thinks you don’t want to leave any more than he wants you to. At least that’s what he’s hoping. “Please.”

Were it any other night, he wouldn’t have had the confidence to speak to you like this. He would have cringed at the need and ferocity in his voice. He’d have been burning with shame from the moment you’d made eye contact. Instead, he’s consumed with more hunger than he ever could have dreamed of. So ferocious he thinks he’ll have to hunt you down, strip you off, pin you down, and fuck you till he passes out if you turn tail.

In his defence, you weren’t supposed to see him like this. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to get dusted in the face with whatever Ivy was pumping out tonight, but what’s more, you weren’t supposed to be home. You’d told him you’d be away all week.

“Go home, drink plenty of water, do what you need to do.” Bruce had told him when he’d refused to be locked up and studied at the Batcave. “I’ll be in touch when I have more information.”

To his detriment, his plans hadn’t exactly been wholesome. At first, he’d sought only to lock himself up in his room for the night, but as home grew closer, the ringing in his head and the ache between his legs had grown. The only thing guiding him to the finish line without detour or collapse was the thought of you. He was resigned to your absence, grateful for it even; that you wouldn’t have to see him like this. By the time he’d heavily stumbled through the door, having sluggishly put too much weight behind his push, the fantasies behind his motivations had descended. Now he’d endeavoured to enter your room; to smell and feel your presence in the air, to lie on your bed, to feel you all around him as he relieved himself to the most debauched visions of you his vasopressin overdosed hypothalamus can muster. Alternating promises to himself that ‘you wouldn’t mind’, or that ‘you’d never know’ eased any signs of guilt rearing their unwanted heads from what was left of his common sense.

For all his not-so-thorough planning, he’d barely gotten his foot inside the door before everything started to fall apart. As soon as he was inside the apartment, he could smell your underwear. He followed their scent until he’d found them sitting pretty right on top of your laundry hamper, as if you’d left them there for him to find.

The sound of his fly unzipping, his belt and all its auxiliaries hitting the floor might have been loud, might have alerted you to his return home, if the heavy footfalls of his steel-toed boots hadn’t done that already. He didn’t know. He just knew that the siren song of your soiled panties was too intoxicating for him to resist. It might have been seconds, minutes, or hours before you found him here. He didn’t know. He just knew that whatever lecherous and visceral wound the lace of your panties being pressed to his tongue had been healing was torn open once more, and thoroughly salted by your presence.

“Jason.” The sound of his name on your lips, even as quiet and disconcerted as it is, washes over him like a wave of ice water. It makes him choke on his own breath and his hips buck forward as if his cock is tethered to your voice. “What’s going on?”

If he were himself, he’d see the concern etched into your face as you examine his too thick and prominent veins, his unsettling and luminous green eyes. Call it selective hyper-focus, but all he’s taking notice of is the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the way the outline of your hardened nipples shows through the flimsy fabric of his t-shirt, and especially the way you lick your lips every time your eyes wander to his crotch, where he hasn’t stopped running his thumb over the length of his still uncovered shaft for even a second.

“I can’t explain it. Not right now.” He thinks he manages to steady his voice and shake his head, or maybe he’s losing grip on his own senses, who knows. The fact is, he very much could explain it. He just doesn’t want to. It would take too much time and effort, and he doesn’t have the patience or stability for either right now. “I need you.” He wants to say more. To tell you exactly what he needs, that he needs your touch and your soothing voice. To smell and taste your skin up close and personal. To be inside of you from now until… until… until he can think of anything but you for more than two milliseconds. But “Please. Please, I need you.” Is all he managed to choke out between sobs of frustration and desperation. “Please touch me.”

The wait is excruciating.  Again, he’s not sure how much time passes; he just knows he’ll crawl to you on three limbs if he must. Fortunately, you spare him what little dignity he has left at this point. With each thump of your footfall, he thinks his heart might beat out of his chest, that he might not survive the seconds it takes you to close the gap between you, but what little blood isn’t residing in his dick keeps pumping, and he thinks he manages to murmur the words “thank you” when you drop to your knees.

He'd thought proximity, and skin-on-skin contact would lessen the inferno in his body, but when you look into his eyes, cupping your hand against his cheek, his whole body jolts. An entirely new level of agonising and red-hot arousal coursing through him even as you try to appease him. Not to mention the smell that had permeated his nose since you’d entered now so deliciously close.

“Okay, I’ll help yo-” You gasp as he uses his one free hand to grab you by the back of your neck. Somewhere, far away, he knows he should feel bad for interrupting, for gripping you so hard, for scaring you. He doesn’t. You haven’t even shared a first kiss, hell, he hadn’t even had the balls to confess that he was remotely interested in you yet, but he flattens his tongue on the crevice of exposed collar his t-shirt exposes and drags it all the way to your jawline as though you’re long-lost lovers. The whole time he moans aloud, as raunchy as some kind of sick hedonist, revelling in finally getting to taste your skin and how it makes his body buzz.

In all the ways he’d pictured this moment, not once had he thought it would happen like this. He wouldn’t have wanted it to. You deserve better. He’d wanted it to be slow and romantic, after an appropriate number of dates. He’d pictured candles, maybe roses. He’d imagined nervously popping mints and abusing his ChapStick before lavishing your whole body with a million and one tender and lovingly placed kisses.

Not in the middle of the night, while he’s under the influence of some fuck ass pollen. Someone like you should be made love to on silk fucking sheets, not held into the grubby carpet under his body weight, the harsh edge of his bat emblem pressing against your delicate cheek while he grinds his leaking cock against your stomach. You shouldn’t be squealing in pain as he sinks his teeth into the soft and sensitive skin just below your ear to keep from whining and salivating all over you as he rushes to wrestle off your underwear.

You should be free to touch him and be touched as you wish, not to be manhandled and barked at per the whims of the erratic and all-consuming fire raging inside of him. He really, truly wanted to experience what it meant and felt like to be loved by you, to make love to you, but on all that exists in this world, good or bad, if he doesn’t sheath his cock inside of you and fuck you until his body is devoid of any and all fluids, he’s certain he’ll keel over and die, maybe for the last time.

“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” It’s not human; the grunt that escapes him when your walls, warm and inciting, finally split around him. Regardless, be it the sound or the friction of his cock, you moan in time, a shiver working up your spin and causing your whole body to shake for him. He can’t recall a single moment in his forsaken life in which he’s felt as much ecstasy as when you look at him with half-lidded eyes and quivering lips. Your nails graze his scalp as you thread your fingers through his hair, and he wants nothing more than to stay in this moment forever. To be completely and utterly consumed by the chime of your sweet whispers.

He wants to bask in your arms, in the mutual heat radiating from your bodies and the intoxicating taste of your kisses, so badly in fact that when his phone rings, not only does he ignore it, but he makes the agonising effort to pull away from you just long enough to reach into the inside pocket of his jacket and crush the flimsy piece of tech in a single hand. If anybody wants to take him away from you now, they’re going to have to come here and drag him, kicking and screaming, with their bare fucking hands.

Beating you to the punch >:]

oh my god they were roommates

Good ol' Ivy, always coming through for us

Crawlin' back to you

Black Mask/Wayne!Reader, 1.2K words A/N: Was the concept for this perhaps my subconscious feeling guilty after I've failed to write anything substantial for my #1 daddy after so long? Idk I'm not a psychologist. Anyway, here's this. Warnings: Daddy kink, pet-play, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, smoking. AFAB, fem presenting, reader. Wayne!Reader series: [One] [Two] [Three] (Recommended but non-essential)

“Doll...” His voice is as thick with sardonic sweetness as the plumes of smoke trailing up from his cigar. His foot is tapping against the hardwood floor, and whatever his true expression is, it’s hidden behind that godforsaken mask. No matter how many times you stare back into those empty sockets, your nerves never cease to shiver. “You wouldn’t still be wearin’ that pretty face if not for the fact that your last name makes it hard to keep things shtum. What makes that empty head of yours think for even a second that I’d take you back?”

Honestly, you don’t know. You’re not even sure what you’re doing here.

They say when you’re running from something, you shouldn’t look back. It slows you down, makes you vulnerable to the things in front of you, and can throw you off balance. Yet, here you were, in the maw of the lion. Not just looking back. Like a very brave, or very stupid lamb, leading itself to the slaughter. You’d even adorned yourself in the very same jewels he’d bought you, every shiny stone may well be a piece of steak.

There’s no rational way to explain it to yourself. All you can say is, “I miss you.”

The silence weighs on you, and he knows it; that's why he makes no effort to fill it. He only watches you, puffing on his cigar and waiting for more. It takes him looking away for you to continue.

"I miss you, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I left, but I realise now that I need you."

That piques his interest, but it's not enough, yet. "Go on." He coaxes, leaning back in his ornate leather chair.

You knew you would have to put your pride aside in coming here, but that doesn't make it any easier. Honestly, a small part of you had expected him to be gloating by now, or maybe that was wishful thinking; the hope that he would welcome you back with little resistance.

The longer it takes, the longer it will be until his potential rejection, so you hesitate, slowly approaching his desk and tapping your fingers against the old wood, and he lets you. You can't see his eyes, but you're sure he's glued to your every move, silently basking in your discomfort. He certainly isn't justified in it, not after the things he did to you, but you don't begrudge it.

"You scare me. You frustrate me. You treat me in ways I'd never let any other man treat me... but I love it. I love you. Nobody could ever make me feel the way you do, and it took leaving you to figure that out. I'm miserable and empty and purposeless without you. I understand if you want me to leave, but I will do anything for you if you'd take me back."

"Huh." It's noncommittal on purpose. It's working, it stings. 6 months ago, a confession like that would have had him on you in seconds, but all he does now is put out his cigar. He wants you to squirm and suffer like the sadist he's never denied being, "Prove it."

It's humbling, getting on your knees and crawling along the floor for the amusement and approval of another person. Particularly a person like Roman, who derives pleasure not just from watching you debase yourself for him, but from knowing that you're the child of one of his longest-reigning rivals. You remember, plain as day, the first time you'd done it. How ashamed you'd felt, how wet it made you, how hard he'd fucked you.

Tonight is no different. You can feel your underwear clinging to your wet cunt, feel your skin blazing at your self-mortification. But it also feels right, like it's where you're meant to be. When Roman hums his approval at your display, watching intently as you settle on your knees, at his feet, it fills you with pride.

"Oh, that's good girl." Roman praises you when you press your lips to the back of his hand without instruction. Despite the mocking tone, it sends your heart a flutter. You're deliberate, precise as you kiss each ring and knuckle, ensuring you cover both hands before you look up at him again for approval.

Of course, nothing but an expressionless skull stares back, half-cocked back at you, keeping you on edge and waiting for your next move. "What would you have me do? Just say the word, I'd do anything, daddy, I promise."

"You really have missed me, huh, pup? That or you’re after something." You're not sure if he's joking; the dry laugh that escapes his mask doesn't help.

You feel the need to say something, so you grip his fingers tightly as you insist, "I only want you. I swear."

He hums sceptically, leaning away from you. You attempt to follow, but he grabs you by the scruff of the neck, holding you at bay until you settle and watch as he reaches his other hand into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulls out a sleek, black box.

"I want you to do a lot of things for me, but right now, all daddy's gonna ask you to do is accept a gift." The leatherette is cool under your fingertips, but Roman doesn't let you take it from him. Instead, he cracks the lid himself, presenting his offering, or more aptly, his condition to you. "I bought it before you left and saved it for all this time. I always knew you'd realise your place in the world is right here, and when you did, you'd come crawling back."

Despite the low, murky and smoke-fogged lighting of his office, the gift shines and twinkles. It's a choker and it's beautiful. 5 rows of diamonds embedded in what seems to be white gold.

The only things that give you pause, however, are the 'Property of Roman Sionis' engraved on the inside and the clasp. It's not a clasp at all, but two loops and a padlock.

It's not just a piece of pretty jewellery like the others he’d given you. It’s no ordinary choker. It's a collar. It's a statement of ownership. Of control.

"What do you say?" He's asks, but already he's hooking the necklace over his fingers and discarding the box in the trashcan beside his desk.

"I say: Thank you." You smile as he drapes it around your throat. It matches well with the other pieces he's bought you, and the cool metal feels soothing on your heated skin.

"No objections?" One might think he's genuinely looking for confirmation, for assurance and to a degree he is, but it's not confirmation that things are all safe, sane, and consensual. No, he just wants to hear you confess all over again that you want him, that you want to be under his thumb. "Once I click this lock into place, there's no going back. You may be a Wayne by name, for now, but you'll belong to me. Forever."

"No objections." You confirm. This is exactly what you wanted, to be under his control again. Being free of him had only made you crave the attention and abuse more. "I'm yours."

And with the quietest clink of metal on metal, your fate is sealed.

A kiss for the caged bird

Tim Drake/Reader, 5K

AN: Please don't think too hard into any of the science-y crap I wrote, I was pulling it all out of my butt. Anyway, this was supposed to be a quick 500-1000 thing to clear up my writer’s block and here we are. Bon appetit my loves, I hope you enjoy ♥︎ Warnings: Dub-con (purely by the nature of sex pollen) | voyeurism | swearing | dirty talk | mean-ish Tim | minor slut-shaming ♥︎

His normally tender blue eyes are completely saturated with a dense shade of green. From the whites, to his pupils, they almost seem to be glowing. They've also been watching you like a hawk with a heated intensity that puts your hairs on edge from behind the glass of his cell since you’d entered the cave.

“It's just a shame the one person who could probably crack this in no time is the one person who can't help us right now.” Dick laments as he adjusts his bootstraps. “But I have complete faith that Oracle has got this.”

“Me too.” You agree as you stare at the projected screen, all of Barbara’s research thus far. Most of it made little sense to you but it all seemed technical enough, like she was on the right track.

“Right, so she's gonna keep working on that, Spoiler and Orphan are following the Narrows lead while Red Hood and I check out the Reservoir.” The words breeze through your head, you know you should be paying more attention but you're only half listening. Tim has taken his shirt off and is leaning against the cell door. His toned body gleaning under a layer of perspiration, as his venomous green eyes stay locked onto your frame, in all of its dragged-out-of-bed-at-2 AM-after-a-looonnnnngggggg-day-patrol glory. Seemingly noticing your distraction, Nightwing steps into your line of sight as he continues to relay the plan. “You just have to make sure he doesn't hurt himself or do anything stupid until we figure this out.”

“I know, I got it.” Dick doesn’t seem convinced, frowning as his eyes dart between you and Tim. Ignoring his doubts, you settle into the chair at the centre of the console, clicking away until you pull up the live feed from inside Tims's 6x8 prison. You can understand Dicks caution, the undeniable chemistry you and Tim shared had been evident to everyone for a long time, impeached only by your mutual reluctance to date on the job. If Bruce were here, he’d never allow for this, but Dick is doing the best he can with the resources available. Regardless, all doubts aside, you won’t allow your feelings to cause problems, not when lives hang in the balance. “Just go.”

“You’re sure?” He tries to place a reassuring arm on your shoulder but you both jump at the sudden sound of Tim’s fist needlessly hitting the wall. He’d need superstrength to break out of that thing, you're not concerned. Maybe a little more roused by the lack of restraint than you’d like to admit, but no less confident in your ability to babysit than you had been moments ago.

“Certain.” You wave off Dick when he turns back to you, lips still pursed. “Go. Who knows what that crap is doing to him, the sooner you find Ivy, the better.”

He knows it, probably better than you do.

“Buzz if you need anything.” At once you're relieved by his departure, and concerned for his safety, for everyone’s safety.

“Be safe.” You bid, watching as he straddles the Wingcycle.

“Be safe.” He echoes and without another word he's gone, leaving you alone to care for your caged Red Robin.

For a long time, you stare at the empty space Dick left behind, all too aware of Tim and the way his hot-blooded stare makes your skin burn but eventually you have to face him. Can’t monitor him without looking at him after all.

In an attempt to ease the mood, you offer him a smile. Apparently, it does nothing to reassure him or ease his tensions. He simply continues to glower at you. When that doesn’t work you play up your preceding frown, playfully pouting the way you would when you’re teasing his mid-mission stresses, but that fails too. Finally, you curve your left hand in a half heart shape, a common greeting between the two of you from rooftop to rooftop and for a moment you think it might work. He pulls the hand he has pressed to the glass back for a moment, but all he does is clench his fingers back and forth a few times before letting it fall to his side.

At a loss you spin around to the computer, tapping your fingertips on the desk as you consider Barbara’s research once more. The chances of becoming a forensic palynologist within a few hours with nothing but google and whatever research Bruce has backed up in the archives is slim, but it saves twiddling your thumbs, so you start by looking up any chemicals identified by the forensic scanner that you’re not familiar with.

It’s hard to sit still, knowing your every move is being scrutinised but by far the worst part is the silence. Tim and you are muted to each other unless you’re pressing the comms link located on the keypad by the cell door. The only sounds you can make out are the far away screeches of real-life bats located further into the cavern, and the drip, drip, dripping of the wet walls. It’s downright eerie when you’re practically alone, so when Oracle buzzes in about an hour later you jump to answer it, eager to hear another human, and anxious to find out if she has any updates.

“How’s he holding up?” She asks, and you’re glad she can’t see your worried expression. Tim hasn’t moved since Dick left. Except for when you’d crossed the bullpen to look for a fresh pen after the one you’d been using ran out of ink. You exclude that last part from your update, however.

“Okay, just tell him to hang tight, I'm getting closer.” You can tell she’s trying to sound more hopeful than she actually is, and your suspicions are confirmed when she begins to ramble about her findings. She often uses the team as a sounding board when she’s trying to wrap her head around something. “The pollen he inhaled is decreasing his plasma levels and increasing his testosterone.”

“If he’d touched the plant like she’d wanted him too it would re-level those hormones, presumably she was relying on him needing that to keep him under her control.”

“Right.” You’ll pat yourself on the back for impressing her at a more appropriate time. “And if that were it, we could just pump a bunch of oxytocins into him and voilà! But something else is messing with his nociceptors. Not to mention this stuff is packed with things I’ve never even heard of. Have you heard of horny goat weed?”

“Yeah, epi-me-di-um.” You sound the word out from your notes. “Only since tonight.”

“Where do people get these names from?” Babs groans, you can hear her tapping away at her keyboard. “I’m close though, I know it.”

“I believe in you.” She ‘awhs’ at your encouragement.

“Until I’ve got this, there is one thing he can try.” She trails off at the end. Her hesitation strikes you as odd. Surely whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. “If he’s really suffering… ejaculating might help ease any pain if only temporarily. Masturbatory only, obviously, this stuff can and will spread like hot gossip at one of Bruce’s galas.”

“Ah, okay.” You understand her aversion now, looking over at Tim as you consider how you’re going to tell him that. “I will pass the information along.”

The line goes quiet, Babs clearly sensing your discomfort, but however you’re feeling, Tim is likely feeling one thousand times worse.

Habitually, you tell each other good luck and be safe before hanging up, promising to get back to each other ASAP should anything change.

As you pass by the glass of his cubicle to reach the control panel on the other side Tim follows, falling into stride with you like a mirror image. When you stop, he stops, pressing his forearm to the glass and leaning his weight against it as he awaits your next move. Tilting closer when your fingers graze the comms button. Up close you can see that actually his irises are still blue, they’re just almost non-existent, drowned out by his green sclera’s and the sheer size of his impossibly blown-out pupils. 

Bzzt. The mic crackles as you activate it.

“Hi.” You test the waters, but when he doesn’t respond you press on. “Are you in pain?”

He silently gazes at you for so long that you start to think he’s never going to answer you. Dumbly, you tap your finger on the plane to try and coax him out of his head, instantly feeling bad as you remember all those signs in zoos ‘PLEASE DON’T TAP THE GLASS, IT MAY CAUSE STRESS OR HARM TO THE ANIMALS’.

Tim must feel the same, like a caged beast, because the seething in his response startles you. 

“No.” He taunts mockingly, mouth still twisted into a tight snarl. “I feel fantastic.”

At least his sharp humour is unaffected.

“Oracle said… that…” You can’t help allowing your eyes to trail down his body, shamelessly locking onto the subject matter, due to the distance and the darkness of his tights you’d hadn’t noticed until now that he’s rock hard, the length of his erection straining against the close-fitting fabric. Your face burns at the realisation, at your obliviousness. Of course he was, that’s what aphrodisiacs do. But mostly you're ashamed of how much you enjoy looking at it.  

“Wh-” Tim's voice makes you jump. Embarrassed, you inadvertently take your hand off the switch. An uninfected Tim would have rolled his eyes at that, would have laughed at you good-naturedly, but this Tim just tilts his head like he’s cracking his neck, eye still on you. It’s like he physically can’t look at anything else, can’t stop drinking in every inch and crevice of you, cuts and moles and all. When you push down the button again, he repeats himself impatiently. Bzzt. “What did Oracle say?”

You take a deep breath, staring at the wall behind his head to help you concentrate, determined to get the words out no matter how awkward you feel saying it. “She said that masturbating, specifically ejaculating, won’t fix things, but it should… alleviate some of your discomfort, for a while.”

It’s his turn to drum his fingers on the glass, jaw growing tight as he seems to mull on what you’ve just told him. You chance a glance back down to his crotch just long enough to see him palm his hard-on through his pants. You’re unable to keep from imagining what he looks like down there or how he might go about pleasuring himself. Feeling bad for having such depraved thoughts about him while he’s suffering and vulnerable, you remind yourself not to gawk at him.

“No, I’m not doing that.” He states sternly.

“It might help.” Your objection comes purely from a place of concern.

“What would help me is if you’d fuck off.” His response is like a slap in the face, hitting you out of nowhere. You’re only trying to help, had your wondering eyes really prompted this level of ire?

“Wh- “

“It’s bad enough that I can’t control my body and that I’m stuck in here unable to do anything worth doing, but I have to watch you fucking slutting around in those f-.” Shocked by his sudden outburst, you instinctively pull your hand back. You know he’s just trying to let off his frustrations, but it still stings a little. Feeling bad for silencing his partly warranted rant, you tune back in, unable to keep yourself from flinching and jumpily flailing your hands around every time he gets under your skin. Bzzt. “Should be making an antidote or tracking down Ivy but instead all I can think about is bending you over that-”

Bzzt. “-out there trying to help me and I wanted to punch him for touching you like some macho i-” For the first time since you’d started supervising him, Tim finally looks away from you. Throwing his head back and tugging on his own hair as he tries to compose himself. It doesn’t work. You hadn’t thought it possible but when he finally comes back to you, his face is flooded with even more ferocity, like he wants to eat you alive. Bzzt.“-elp me, if you want to help me then fuck me yourself or get out of my sight!”

There's no way you’ll let him get away with talking to you like this, but now is not the time. Swallowing your pride and clenching your fists, you leave him be, hurrying back to the desk, cursing him under your breath as you pull your feet up into the chair and turn your back to him in order to try and make yourself as small as possible. You hate to admit it, but if it weren’t for the risk of infection, his parting words might have worked. Fuck. The thought of opening that door and letting him bend you over whatever he’d had in mind makes your blood rush. 

To distract from the thought of Tim’s cock being buried tight in your walls, or how hot he’d look, panting and red faced beneath you as you fucked yourself on his length, you return to your research, glancing at the live feed to Tim’s cell every few minutes purely to confirm that he’s still alive. 

You consider changing into something more conservative, this might be the one and only time you could consider slut-shaming somewhat okay, but to do that he'll be forced to look at you, so ultimately you elect not to.

Filthy thoughts continue to plague your imagination as you try to work, and the knowledge that Tim is thinking them too, only makes it worse. You’re so tired and tense and horny that after a while it becomes difficult to focus. You’re pressing your palms into your eyes when you hear a ping; A message from Spoiler to say that The Narrows was a bust, they’re moving on to another location. Another ping from Red Hood reporting a similar issue with their own intel. One more from Oracle to say that she’s pinpointed 90% of the formula and should be able to start reverse engineering soon. 

You chime in to state that Tim is holding up. The computer pings once more, a private message from Oracle asking if it helped. You’re part way through typing that he refused when you glance at the video feed, Tim still has his back to the camera, his body pointed toward you the same way he had been all night. You freeze as you notice his bare ass.

His hose are around his knees, back bent in a hunched position, one arm jerking rapidly to and throw as he presumably strokes his cock. Without thinking you turn to face him, and he brazenly stares back at you. Once your suspicions are confirmed, you rapidly swing back. 

He’s working on it. You amend. Unsure what to do from there you needlessly stare at the jagged ceiling, restlessly pulling at your fingers as you try to calm and distract yourself from the fact that Tim is currently playing with himself, and using whatever 2-inches of your skin he can see to fuel his fire. Brain and libido at odds, you force yourself not to look at the spectacle he’s putting on.

He’ll be mortified when he’s cured, don’t make it worse, you think. Yet ultimately you crack, too intrigued not to sneak another peek and once you give in to the temptation it becomes impossible to stop.

You could watch him like that all day. Watch the fierce look of concentration on his face, the bulge in his cheek where he’s biting his tongue. Watch the pink crown of his cock, and the way his balls tighten with each brutal thrust of his fist. Watch the way every lean muscle in his body tenses and twitches as waves of pleasure roll though his body. The way his green veins grow more pronounced as he chases his climax? Wait. That can’t be good. 

Had they been green this whole time and you just hadn’t noticed? You've only seen one thing like this before. Venom. Could that be the missing 10%?

As though you hadn’t just been ogling him, you cover your eyes as you approach. This time he doesn’t follow you, legs firmly planted on the ground, but when you glimpse through the cracks in your fingers his head is turned to watch you still and you hastily snap your digits closed again before you speak to him.

Bzzt. “Tim, your veins are turning green.”

At the sound of your voice his knees buckle, your hand falls away to watch as his weakened muscles cause him to fall forward. His weight rests precariously against the glass as he hangs between standing and kneeling.

“Tim. Y- “

“I know.” The aggressiveness in which he snaps at you makes your skin run cold, but he follows it with the most pained, puppy dog eyes that you immediately forgive him. As if you have ever been able to hold anything against him for a substantial period of time.

“It hurts.” His teeth are gritted as he explains. “Hurts when I stop.”

You’ve no idea what to say. You wonder if there’s a painkiller on earth that could help him right now but he speaks again before you can suggest it.

“Help me.” He sounds so solemn, despite the fact that he hasn’t once stopped stroking his dick, closely staring at every curve of your body.

“We’re trying.” Your words barely seem to register with him. “It won’t be much longer.”

“No. Help me.” The repeated instruction does nothing to clarify what else he could mean until he continues. “Your voice sounds so sexy, fuck. Talk to me.”

Oh. “And say what?”

“God, fuck. Do I have to spell it out for you? Anything!” He barks, simultaneously carnal and irritable. Each word out of his mouth is more breathless and desperate than the last.  “Fucking anything. Tell me you want me, that you want me to fuck you. Come on, please do this for me.”

“Okay, okay.” You can do this. “I do want you. I want to fuck- I want you to fuck me so bad, Tim.”

Despite it being true, you feel lame, clumsily parroting him, but Tims full bodied reaction spurs you on. He takes the final plunge, dropping onto his knees, leaning back on his haunches and practically presenting his engorged shaft to you. From here you can see how his skin is tinted several shades of pink and red. His blush seems to stem from his chest, running along his neck and shoulders, highlighting his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. You’ve never seen a prettier sight. It’s so enchanting, it almost diverts from his unnerving blood vessels.

“You’re so beautiful.” You purr, finding more confidence with every quiet huff and moan that spills from his lips. “I wish I could do this for you. I want to make you feel so good, I’d let you fuck me anywhere.”

He nods rapidly at you, encouraging you to continue while bucking his hips forward.

“I know your cock would fit just right in my mouth and feel so good, would make me gag until you came down my throat.” You open your mouth and stick your tongue out to show him, feeling silly until he replies.

“Fuck. Yeah. You’d look good sucking on my cock.”

“Yeah!” You agree, just the sight of him is enough to make your heartbeat race. But the thought of taking him in your mouth, slobbering all over his cock and watching him enjoy every second of it makes you rub your thighs together. You want so badly to get yourself off too but the little voice of conscience in the back of your brain is telling you not to, that it would be taking advantage. “Or you could bend me over, rip off my clothes and fuck me. I’d love to feel you pounding into my tight pussy.”

“Oh, pleasepleaseplease.” The words are slurred as he sinks his teeth hard into his tongue.

“You don’t have to beg, Timmy.” He hangs on your every word as you vocalise the thoughts and fantasies you’ve only ever indulge in when you’re alone at night. “You can have whatever you want. Fuck me however you want, you can fill me up over and over. We’ll make sure everyone knows who my pussy belongs to. Would you like that?”

“Yes.” The confirmation is instant, no-nonsense. Followed by him closing his eyes and slamming his spare hand against the window to steady himself. 

“Mine…” When he opens his eyes again, they unsurprisingly immediately lock onto you once more, zeroing in on your throbbing centre as he tells you. “Let me see it.”

“What?” The saliva in your mouth turns dry in an instant. Despite Tim baring all to you the thought of getting your whole pussy out in the Batcave scares you. In a strangely invigorating way.

“Need to cum and I fucking can’t.” Tim explains weakly, punching the wall again, this time with less vigour. “Show me your cunt.”

The c-word sounds so strange on Tims lips, so filthy. He’s frantic. You’re no closer to understanding how to cure him, and apparently your presence has only made things worse but maybe this is how you help him.

Hurriedly, you scurry over to the Batcomputer, Tim asserting his discontent by hammering his open palm on the wall repeatedly until you return moments later with the desk chair.

You waste little time shimmying out of your sleep shorts before you lose your bravado. Falling back into the chair, you adjust the height until your now exposed pussy is level with Tims eyeline. His demeanour changes in an instant, lips morphing into the first semblance of a smile he’d given you all night as he shifts closer.

Emboldened by his enthusiasm you spread your legs wide, resting your feet on the glass and using your fingers to spread apart your folds for him to get a real look. You’re not sure how he’ll feel about the shameful amount of moisture you’ve produced later, but for now his mouth very visibly waters. You don’t think he’s blinked since you sat down.

Uncurbed, you brush your finger over your sensitive clit, toes curling in response. You’d love to say you did it to put on a show for Tim, to help him find relief but in actuality it’s entirely self-serving. Unable to resist touching yourself at the sight of him on his knees for you, mercilessly fisting his cock in frenzied, rhymeless strokes. Regardless of your motivation, Tim seems to appreciate it.

Strands of his dark hair fall into his face as he leans forward, partly hiding his glassy eyes and reddened cheeks, but he quickly whips them back once more ensuring he maintains an uninhibited view of your fingers as they rapidly paw at your sex. Angling yourself so that Tim can see every minute detail, every roll of your hips as you lower your hand and sink two fingers into yourself. All the while you keep massaging your sensitive bud, Tim’s name a prayer on your lips as you watch him, watching you, fevered and hungry. 

It comes as a surprise when your orgasm hits first, walls convulsing and spasming as you objectify yourself for Tim, acting like his personal pornstar. It’s a shame he can’t hear the wetness of your hole or the strangled, lewd gasps and moans that escape your throat as your body trembles from the intensity of your climax.

The slick of your release leaks from your sex, trickling between your legs, down the chair, and onto the metal floor. Like a man starved, Tim slams his face into the glass, finally closing his eyes and lapping at the pane with a flattened tongue.

Whatever vision he’s conjuring works, his lids twitch, eyes darting open to watch your panting frame. He looks sacrilegious, full body blushed and sweating. His face softens, mouth slack and drooling as rope after rope of cum spills from his reddened tip and hits the pane.

You’re only able to enjoy the sight of him coming apart for a moment before you notice that the viscous fluid is unsettlingly coloured. Not milky white as it should be, but a strange, luminous green colour.

Tim slumps downward once he’s spent, and you watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest while he comes down from his high. Your heart aching as you wonder whether his pain has been even slightly alleviated. The fact that the swelling of his veins seems to have subsided bodes well. Eventually he comes too, enough to also notice the puddle of green excrement between his legs and it’s your turn to all but lunch yourself at him. You shout falls on deaf ears until your kick’s echoes into his cell. His hand freezes and he watches, still hunched as you stumble to the control panel on unsteady legs.

“Don’t touch it.” Tim nods sheepishly in agreement. It probably won’t hurt him, having come from inside him, but better safe than sorry. “I’m gonna grab you some gloves and slides to take samples with.”

Before he can concur, you’re gone, inelegantly hiking your bottoms back on as you go. You feel bad, jumping straight back into business without so much of a ‘how was that for you?’ but these are strange circumstances, and whatever freaky substance he just shot out of his balls might be the missing puzzle piece in treating him.

Eventually, once you’d collected everything you’ll need and updated the Team, you do ask, holding the mic down with your elbow as you pull on a pair of rubber gloves, waiting to take the samples from him. “How do you feel?”

“Hot, and sore.” He tells you. He’s pulled his trousers back up, but you can still see the outline of his half-hard penis. “It’s still in me, I can feel it, but it doesn’t hurt as much. I can think. Which is something.”

“I’m glad it helped. Hopefully we’ll get you back to normal before it gets bad again.” He offers you a smile then. A genuine, none-hedonic one that makes you feel fuzzy. You’ve missed that smile.

“Yeah, hopefully.” He places the slides, tools, and used gloves in the containment slot and closes his side of the two-way mechanism. You offer him a half heart which he returns before you start sorting and bagging everything.

You’re about to turn your back when he taps gently on the glass, gesturing for you to open the comms line again and you oblige with your elbow once more.

“Listen, I’m really sorry for being an ass earlier. You didn’t deserve what I said to you.”

You can tell he’s stressing about it from the gloomy look in his blue-green eyes and the way he tugs at his waistband. Normally he fidgets with his gloves or his collar, but needs must an’ all. You’d give anything to be able to hug him right now.

“Don’t worry, I know you didn’t really mean it.” Admittedly it had shaken you, for all of five minutes, but you’ve never been able to stay mad at Tim, even at his worst, and you’ve seen him do far worse. “You weren’t really mad at me, right? Just the situation?”

“Yeah. Mostly myself but that doesn’t make it okay.” He’s still fiddling, still looking at you mournfully. It means a lot that it bothers him so much, but you need that to stop. You need him to be normal for like half an hour so you can get some work done without worrying. And you need to get the work done so you can make up for your own misdeeds.

“No really, it’s fine I don’t care.” You stress, hoping if you chide him a little it will absolve him of his guilt. “Just don’t do it again.”

“I’ll try not to.” He promises. You can tell by the way he works his jaw back and forth that he’s working up to say something else, something that has his ears and cheeks turning pink. That or the absolved symptoms are coming back already. “And thank you. For the other stuff.”

“Oh good, I was worried you might regret that part.” You hadn’t realised how badly you needed to hear him say that until it happened. It’d kill you and whatever situationship you have going on if he’d considered your actions exploitative.

“No! Not at all. I mean, I always kind of hoped that one day we might end up…” He vaguely gestures into the air which doesn’t help his point, but you understand what he’s getting at and nod, urging him to continue. “You know? But I never would have imagined it happening like this.”

“I know what you mean. I always figured something might…” You’re floundering. This is not the time or place for this conversation, you’re completely unprepared and as badly as this conversation needs to be had, you really don’t have time. “I mean, I wouldn’t wish what’s happening on anyone, but if it had to happen, I’m glad it was you. Because you’re the only person I would have done that for.”  

You can’t imagine having done that for Dick, or Barbara, or God forbid Bruce. Just thinking about it makes your stomach churn.

“Good.” He seems more relieved now than he had when he’d cum. “I’d hate it if you’d done that with anyone else.”

If this were a movie or an action-romance novel, this is the part where you’d kiss, you think. But it’s not, and every second the two of you spend stammering about your feelings and making go-go eyes at each other is a second that could be spent on finding an antidote.

“We’ll talk, later.” You promise.

“I’d like that.” Tim replies before you pull away from the keypad. In a moment of whimsy, you blow your hot breath against the glass until it’s steamed up before pressing your puckered lips on it. No sound escapes the barrier between you, but you can see Tim laughing, his cheeks still palpably pink. He returns the gesture just moments before the Batcomputer begins to buzz.

Hi friend! I just wanted to let you know that I'm glad you exist. ♥︎

Ooh Bruce taking care of his secretary is so 🤭 Would he comfort you through out it? If you try to apologize, will he be all like “it’s okay, pretty girl, just let me take care of it” while he’s spreading your legs (and maybe pressing your knees to your chest?? Bc even if he’s just doing you a solid, he’s not *not* going to preform)

━ [Post in reference] Oh of course he would, if you're the type that needs it. Selina, Talia, they're seasoned, they can handle him at his worst, but his meek, inexperienced little secretary whose already going through it for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? He'll take good care of you. Warnings: age gap, boss/employee, dubious consent via the nature of sex pollen.

You’d be forgiven if for a moment you weren't sure who had been affected by the pheromones. Bruce practically tears off his belt and shoves his boxers out of the way to free his cock, but when he looks back at you and sees the worry in your features he quickly reins himself in.

He's so gentle with his big strong hands as he cups your cheek, bringing you closer to him even as he starts to run his tip between your folds.

“Is this okay?” He keeps his voice controlled, calm. “Do you want this?”

Though he's dying to fuck you, to fill you up, he holds back until he gets your confirmation. He’s gonna need more than the nod of your head too. He needs to hear “Yes, Mr Wayne.” “Please, Mr Wayne!”

And though he wants nothing more than to slam into your needy cunt, he takes it slow. Excruciatingly slow. Gently running the tip between your swollen pussy lips and asking; “Have you done this before?”

Whatever your answer, it doesn’t change his pace. Although something perversely prideful scratches at the back of his brain when you say. “No.” Whether or not you mean that you’ve never been fucked at all, or just never been fucked by your boss.

“But I want it.” You grab at the lapels of his suit and look at him with a face so needy he couldn’t refuse you if he wanted to.

You’re so appallingly wet from the pollen, from him, that there’s no friction as he glides in, agonisingly inch by inch, but you’re sensitive and you hold onto him for dear life, twitching and whining at the overwhelming sensation of his thick cock entering you.

“Please, please, please.” You chant, like you’re afraid he’ll take it away for wanting it so bad.

“Anything you want, pretty girl, just let me take care of you.” He consoles you, kissing the burning skin of your forehead, smiling as he soothes your concerns whilst still gradually working his length all the way inside your perfect, soaking pussy. “You’re taking it so well, just a little bit more.”

He means every word. You take his whole cock like it was made for you. When he hooks a hand under your knee and brings it up so that your heels rest on the edge of the desk you copy, bringing the other leg up and your whole body trembles at the heightened tightness. You squeeze his cock just right. He could get used to this, that’s for certain.

“Feel good?” He checks in, even though he knows the answer.

“Yes, Mr Wayne.” The two of you should really revisit the ‘call me Bruce’ conversation since professionalism is without a doubt off the table, but he'll 'suffer' through it for now. “Don’t stop, please!”

“I won’t. Just sit still and let me make you feel better, okay? Can you do that for me?”   

Being Bruce’s secretary, a recent college grad straight from the temp agency, that Bruce has the hots for. But he tries to keep a distance because…well, you’re a little young for him. Until you accidentally ingest sex pollen and you’re looking at him, sweaty and embarrassed as you try to keep your hips from obviously grinding into your chair, praying you aren’t leaving a wet spot, because you need to be played with so desperately. He feels awful, especially after you awkwardly confess that you don’t have a ton of sexual experience, but your temperature is only going to rise unless you get some sort of relief. You need his big hand to toy with your pussy until your skin stops heating up and you need to big cock to fill you until your temperature goes down. You’re so shy about having your hot boss get you off, but if it’s a life or death situation…Bruce isn’t going to let you die on his watch.

I love being sent little stories like this, it's like a reward. A delicious little treat and I had to extend on it. Warnings: age gap, boss/employee, dubious consent via the nature of sex pollen.

He tries to keep a distance because…well, you’re a little young for him. But everybody in the building has noticed that he’s been in the office far more since you’ve been hired than, well, ever.

Slowly your duties are extending past typical secretarial work. “You should really hire a PA, Mr Wayne.” You joke.

“And have no excuse to summon your pretty face to brighten my day? No thanks.” He answers instantly, kicking himself under the table when you laugh softly in reply.

And ‘Mr Wayne’. He’d insisted on you calling him Bruce but you’d refused, citing wanting to maintain an air of professionalism, but he’s pretty sure you do it because you know it stirs an untameable fire within him that nobody else has come close to. It’s almost as bad as that tight little pencil skirt you like to wear. The one that’s just an inch above the dress code, not that he’s say anything, or that he’s even looking at the skirt of of his secretary who is no older than most of his children.

You’re wearing that very skirt the day it happens. He could tell something was wrong the moment he got off the elevator. The distinctly sweet, earthy smell of Ivy’s latest batch of pheromones permeates your office space, mixed with something else, something strong and tangy. It smells like sex.

You’re looking at him, sweaty and embarrassed. Shifting in your seat, your chair pulled up uncomfortably close to your desk. He watchs you intensely as he rounds the room. You don’t know that he’s piecing it together; the package of vials he’d had sent up from the lab and how there’s a damp patch, it must have leaked out and got on your skin somehow. The way you’re trying to hide that your skirt is hiked up to your hips, your panties in a bunch unsuccessfully hidden under your heel as you obviously grind into your chair.

You just know that his bright blue eyes are only making you feel worse; so hot and desperate. 

His hand is like ice as he presses it to your clammy forehead and you hiss, leaning back, uncaring that you’re now shamelessly exposing your soppy, swollen pussy.

“M-Mr Wayne, I need help. I n-need you.”

Bruce has never been one for swearing, but he can’t help uttering a quiet “fuck” At your display, at your breathy, needy voice and your enticingly spread legs. But he can’t take advantage of you like this.

“No. You need release.” He informs you, ignoring how his dick is throbbing, trying to sound as formal and cold as possible without slipping into his Batman voice. “Do it here, then go home. Stay there until you’re better. Don’t worry about money, you’ll get full pay.”

He’s been studying the pollen and its effects for weeks and the stuff you’d touched was an attenuated version anyway. You’ll be fine once you ejaculate it out of your system and get a good rest.

You don't question how he knows what's wrong with you or how to fix it, your mind obviously occupied with the burning sensation that's pooling through your body and making you an anxious, needy mess.

He backs up, determined to enter his office and give you some privacy but you grab his arm with a strength he didn’t know you were capable of, staining the sleeve of his suit with your slick. He can see the unease in your eyes, the bite in your lip. You don’t want to say what you’re about to say but you awkwardly confess; “I’ve been trying, I can’t do it. I’ve never done it. Please, Mr Wayne, I need you.”

He's not proud of how easily he succumbs to temptation, in fact he feels awful as he drops to his knees. Needing his big hand to toy with your pussy until your skin stops heating up is where it starts. You’re so responsive, thanking him repeatedly between such sweet whimpers as your cunt twitches around his thick, curled fingers, getting louder and louder with stroke.

He does his diligence though, trying to protect any pride you have left by calling the reception team and telling them that nobody, visitors or staff, are to be allowed on his floor until he states otherwise before he crosses the line by fixing his lips to your clit. Your whole body jerks, it’s endearing, how you want it so badly, yet can’t control yourself, can’t sit still long enough to take it, even when you grab at his hair to try and reel yourself. Makes him feel like a sick, lecherous old man for enjoying the turmoil of a woman far too young for him.

But he won’t prolong your suffering, he isn’t going to let you die on his watch. So he holds you down with his spare hand, keeping you in place as he takes care of you, his other hand plunging between your dripping walls, his mouth never leaving your sensitive clit no matter how hard you pull on him until you release all over his mouth, adding to the stain you’d already ground into your chair before his arrival.

That’s where he should call it a day, but in an emotional show of gratitude, the moment he leans away, you pull him into a heated kiss. Unbothered by the taste of yourself as you whisper ‘thank you, thank you, thank you' into his open mouth.

You’re still shaking when he lifts you by your thighs, hurriedly placing you on your desk, he’ll replace anything broken later. Right now, he needs to keep kissing you, keep hearing you moan for him. Needs to fill you up with his cock, just until your fever breaks. Just to be sure.

— [Part 2 Coaching you through it]

Brucie taglist: @wandalfnation