Damian didn’t usually visit his brothers of his own free will. Most of the time, he only stopped by the apartment to grab a quick snack or pick up some accessory that might be useful to him.

But, surprisingly, on that day—on that perfect day—he had decided to be an inconvenience to Todd, simply because he had nothing better to do.

You were in the kitchen, finishing plating the dessert that would accompany one of your movie nights with Jason.

Used to your boyfriend’s entrances and exits through the window and balcony, you didn’t startle when you heard one of them being opened, continuing to hum absentmindedly.

It was only when you turned to wash your hands that you remembered a small detail—Jason was in the shower.

The humming slowly died in your throat.

You dried your hands calmly—much calmer than you actually felt—and turned your head toward the living room, just enough to peek through the doorway.

And there he was, sitting on the couch like he owned the place, legs crossed as he ate popcorn. He chewed slowly, eyes focused on the turned-off television, as if he were waiting for something to start.

He stopped the moment he noticed you.

You stopped the moment you noticed him.

For a long second, neither of you moved.

His green eyes narrowed slightly, calculating, suspicious. “…You are not Todd.”

You blinked once.

“No…” you answered slowly. “And you are definitely not Jay either.”

He's looking up at you with wide eyes through foggy glasses, big hands desperately pawing at every inch of your waist and hips. You're smiling down at him, hands on his chest as you lazily roll your hips on his cock, his reddened tip leaking deep inside your pussy.

"Gosh… feels s'good," he manages to babble between whines, voice shaky and lashes fluttering with every movement. His words spur you to roll your hips faster, grinding his fat cock right against your cervix, wet squelching sounds harmonizing with his now louder whimpers.

His thick arms pull you down onto his chest, needily wrapping around you as he stuffs his face into your sweaty shoulder. His hips desperately buck upward, creamy slick mixed with his earlier load coating his length with every fervent rut. The viscous mixture creates an obscene glide between your bodies.

This is how it always ends, with him holding you as close as possible, your bodies practically mended together into one. Clark's a clingy man, something you knew before. The intensity of it still surprises you when he suffocates you against him as he thrusts inside, stretching you full for hours.

"Need to cum 'n you, please sweetheart…" he begs, voice slightly muffled against your skin. His balls are tight and aching, covered with slick and cum, slapping against your ass with every needy rut.

"Go ahead. Y'deserve it," you whisper with a kiss against his temple. His body immediately responds to your reassurance, unloading inside your sloppy pussy with a final, impaling thrust from below. Hot white load fills you up and oozes onto his pelvis, his twitching hips making it drip onto the sheets. His cries fill the room, his voice broken and high.

You slowly grind onto him, milking every drop out of him through his climax. His cock throbs hard making your pussy clench and spasm around him. His body starts to relax, his hold loosening around you as he trembles, breaths uneven as he comes down.

He's so fucked out, eyes glossy and mouth swollen. Too bad the tremulous sight turns you on all over again.

“REFLECTION.”

FOR ONCE, gotham was sunny. warm rays shone down through the large, floor to ceiling windows of your bookshop-- air tinged with scents like crisp autumn wind and faintly stale coffee. a few individuals traversed between each row of books, fingers running idly down the spine of the few that caught their eyes. it was calming. natural. a welcomed escape from the harsh reality that existed for many outside of the parameters of your humble store; an environment where worries melted off of the shoulders of even the most damned, and where the innocent could flourish.

from the register, you fiddled with a pen-- twirling it absentmindedly between your pointer and middle fingers. the motion was relaxed; practiced, and exuding only contentment.

however, the sound of your shop's door-bell chimed softly as a new civilian entered; and your movements paused, irises tracking down the face of the potential customer. to your slight surprise, (and something deep within your gut eerily similar to relief, or perhaps even giddy), recognition washed over you.

"jason," you called out softly, waving a hand towards one of your regular customers.

Height Advantage

He did it again.

As you dropped yourself from your tiptoes to flat feet, you couldn’t help the huff of irritation that left your lips.

You could practically envision the shit-eating grin that was no doubt on Jason’s face when he finished drying the dishes earlier that day like you asked and conveniently just so happened to leave your favorite mug on the highest shelf possible.

The shelf that you- just so happened- to not be able to reach, no matter how high up on your toes you pushed yourself. Somehow, your poorly-done pottery red and black mug somehow found itself way up there more often than not nowadays.

“Jason,” You tone was clipped as you called into the next room, rounding on your heels to face the doorway just as your six-foot-something boyfriend peeked his head out from around the corner, almost as if he had been waiting there and expecting your call.

"sweetheart, are you sure you don't want to wear a different coat?" bruce asked. he had been trailing behind you as you tore both closets apart in pursuit of warmth.

you had decided on his navy coat. the one with italian-imported cashmere, hand stitched hemming, and too many visits to the tailor for alterations. you'd sworn up and down it was "so extra" when he first commissioned it.

"no, i do not, honey." you replied, a tad bitterly.

stubbornness. that was great.

bruce tried to keep the edge out of his voice, "what about that jacket you bought in–"

"none of mine fit me." you snapped, slipping the coat on. "maybe you should have put more thought into that before getting me pregnant, bruce."

"that's..." bruce let out a long sigh as he rubbed his temple. he gave a moment's consideration to his words before he spoke again, "y/n. i love when you wear my clothes, you know this. it's just..maybe we should look for a different coat? that color doesn't really go with your outfit anyways. fault of the coat of course."

"i don't care if the coat matches my outfit or not! i'm about to have a baby in like three weeks. so long as something fits and is warm, fashion is the least of my worries."

bruce's jaw worked for a moment before he let out a small disbelieving laugh, "baby, you cared yesterday.."

"yes, well, that was yesterday." you muttered as you shoved your hands into each respective pocket of the coat.

bruce visibly winced, which you raised your eyebrows at.

"if you're hiding your burner phone in here, you should have found a better–" the words died on your tongue as your fingers closed around something small in one of the pockets. you glanced at bruce.

he stared back with a small grimace on his face, his lips pursed into a thin line.

you pulled the little object out before staring at it.

a square...box.

oh.

oh.

a ring box. in your favorite color.

you let out a gasp as you hurriedly looked back at bruce. he stared at the box for a moment more, an "oh well" expression blossoming across his features.

bruce met your eyes finally. "i was going to get a different box–"

you made haste shoving the box back into the jacket pocket before he could completely begin his tangent. "maybe we should look for another coat," you said, slipping it off and handing it off to him.

bruce smiled as he took the coat back from you, holding back a laugh, "you think?"

"yeah. this one doesn't go with my outfit."

note: bruce wayne who can't keep his soon-to-be-wife out of the loop for long, so he immediately starts spilling every thought he's had and every step he's taken during the proposing process to her the moment she finds out 🥹

⌗ HARDER !

JASON TODD who insists you choke him during sex.

it happened accidentally— your hand resting against his throat while riding him, pressing down a little too hard against the hot, flushed skin, and not noticing until he suddenly spoke up.

"you fuckin' choking me?" he makes a noise between a scoff and a groan, voice low and gravely, breaking you out of your pleasure induced trance. your hand flies away like you've been burned, your hips faltering in their desperate bouncing movement on his cock. "ohgod–" your eyes widen, "jay- m'so sorry baby" you rake your eyes over his body for any sign of discomfort, did you hurt him? is he okay? did he--

"i didn't say stop."

it catches you off-guard, that gruff voice telling you to do something to him rather than the other way around. his large, calloused palms meet the fat of your hips, directing your movements so that his cock starts plunging in and out of your sopping cunt once again. he's amused, watching your brows furrow softly in confusion and pleasure, a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

"cmon, baby" he gives your ass a slap, enough to have your velvet heat fluttering around him. "you're not dumb, are you?" he speaks so casually, taking entertainment in the way you can't decide what to do. you shake your head hesistantly, earning a low, soft chuckle from him. "yeah, you're a smart girl..." he trails off, taking your hands in his and bringing them to rest against his neck. "just press down, s'all you gotta do" he reassures you, practically cooing at you to strangle him.

and what can you do when he's looking at you like that-- eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen and bitten, his face tinted a pretty pink, expression one of pure hunger, except for wrap your fingers around his throat and squeeze.

the smirk on his face falters, his face twisting in pleasure when you start bouncing on his dick again, lewd plap plap plap! sounds filling the room, your hands around his neck an added stimulation. you tighten your fingers where they rest around his throat, feeling the muscle and tendons underneath his skin. the hitch of his breath as that pressure increases.

"there ya' go" he wheezes out a string of praises, what's left of his breath fanning over your hot skin. his cock is practically impaling you, your orgasm building unusually quick low in in your tummy at the sight of him. the veins are popping on his forehead, skin a deep, beet red from the blood flooding his head.

his eyes are half-lidded, like he's about to pass out. his hips bucking up into your heat speak for him though, he's right where he wants to be.

you could laugh at this if he wasn't so deep that you could feel him in your throat, your big, burly boyfriend being choked by someone nearly half his size. you're barely scratching the surface of "hurting him".

his mind is clouded with arousal, he's so dizzy that all he can focus on is you-- how beautiful you look cutting off his air, and how good you feel wrapped around his shaft, a creamy white base of slick forming at the base of his cock from just how long the two of you have been fucking. how did he get so lucky with a girl like you?

he chokes out a raspy groan when your thumb presses down harder on his airway, the exact thing that sends him over the edge. you cum together, because god, it's hot knowing jason todd is a masochist, that you abusing him is enough for him to cum quicker than he ever has.

"oh fuck--! baby--" his name comes out in a cry, tearing from your throat as your pussy clenches around him, leading you to forget that you're still controlling your boyfriends air intake.

as for jason, he simply cannot make any noise, because of the two hands not allowing him to, except for a low, wheezing groan, while his load inside of you-- hot and sticky pulsing into your womb. he never signals for you to let up though, he wouldn't dare to tap out.

when you finally pull away, you watch him sputter at the sudden abundance of air, clearing his throat and letting that cocky smile take its place back on his face.

there's remnants of your hands— dark purple fingerprints blooming beautifully on the sides of his neck. you wish he could see, because you know he would get hard all over again from the prospect of his girl marking him up.

the bruises almost look like hickeys, something far more vanilla than what he just had you do to him.

he doesn't pull out, simply coaxes you down to rest against his broad chest, pressing soft kisses to your hairline like he's the one who should apologize.

"fuck-- we gotta start doin' that more" he's still catching his breath, chest heaving up and down. you can't exactly tell what he means by "more", if he'll make you choke him, or if he'll choke you.

either way, you're not complaining.

© mayhemi 2026. do not claim my work as your own, and do not feed my content into ai systems.

The Italian coast glittered around you. The sun turning the white cliffs and water to diamonds.

The sea was impossibly blue, bright enough to burn through your closed eyelids. You had melted bonelessly into the vinyl cushions at the bow with no intention of moving. Not from the overwhelming heat. The sun was warming its way through your skin to the marrow of you, turning your body loose and golden and heavy.

You were too hot. Overheated, definitely. Your breathing had gone shallow from it.

But it felt so good.

Eventually, you would roll off the side of the anchored yacht like some dramatic, half-dead thing and crash into the water to cool yourself down.

For now, you were content to sun like a spoiled lizard.

Till a shadow fell over you.

You did not open your eyes.

“You’re going to burn,” Damian said. “When’s the last time you applied sunscreen or drank water?”

“Mm.”

There was a disapproving sound above you. A click of his tongue. The sound your long-suffering husband always made when you were being unreasonable on purpose.

Then his hands were on you.

You whined, immediately going limp in protest. “Nooo, ’m all sweaty.”

He ignored you, of course. Gathered you to him with appalling ease, as if you were not a grown woman but some indignant cat. You made yourself dead weight just to be difficult, and he handled you anyway. He settled against the cushioned backrest and arranged you so you were lying atop him, front to his bare chest. His heartbeat slow under your squished cheek.

You huffed but made no attempt to move.

He tugged the strings of your bikini top, tossing the pesky thing away so he could run his broad hand lazily up and down the length of your spine uninterrupted.

“Open, beloved.”

You opened your mouth without opening your eyes to see what it was.

Blood orange burst over your tongue, sharply sweet and cold. Juice ran down the corner of your mouth before you could catch it.

Damian simply ducked his head, licking the red trail clean for you.

“Greedy,” you mumbled. Your eyes opened halfway to look up at him.

“My wife makes restraint difficult.” He placed another slice between his teeth and leaned close enough to make you lift your head for it. You took it from his mouth, licking your lips.  

You inspected the plate that sat beside you. Washed fruit, cut neat and pretty because he had no capacity to do anything carelessly. “Cherries next.” You demanded, because you had him wrapped around your finger and you both knew it.

And next came black cherries, dark and glossy as polished stones and already pitted. He hand-fed them to you one by one, letting your lips brush his fingertips every time. Crisp pears, cold and pale. Then blood orange again, peeled and segmented, ruby-bright and dripping between his fingers. He ate what you did not, had you lick the juice from his now sticky fingers, and kept his other possessive hand spread across the bare, sun-hot skin of your back.

Waves licked at the sides of the yacht and the whole world smelled like salt, sweat, citrus, and him.

You were still too hot. Still drowsy with it. Half-planning your escape to slip into the water.

But Damian’s chest rose and fell beneath you, steady and hot. His mouth pressed once to the crown of your head. His muscular arms wrapped around you, as if he had all the time in the world to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

So, you closed your eyes again.

DC Masterlist

CLINGY IN THE DARK , Damian Wayne

The manor was quiet in the way only deep nights could be — the kind of silence that made every creak of the old floorboards feel louder than it should. You woke up slowly, blinking against the darkness, your throat dry and your mind fuzzy from a half-remembered dream. The clock on the nightstand read 3:42am. You’d only been asleep for a few hours, but your body was already demanding water.

You tried to slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Damian. He was curled up beside you, one arm draped possessively over your waist even in sleep, his breathing deep and even. His dark hair was messy against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way it rarely was during the day. You smiled softly, brushing a stray strand from his forehead before easing out from under his arm.

The second your feet touched the floor, he stirred.

“Mm… where are you going?” His voice was thick with sleep, rough and low, but his hand reached out immediately, fingers brushing your wrist.

“Just getting water,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”