Archive of Our Own

He keeps coming back. Always in through the window, boots silent, shoulders squared, pretending he’s here to stop you. You don’t buy it for a second. He’s too… comfortable now. He stands in your space like it’s his own, leans against the wall while you sort through your latest glittering finds.

“You’re not even trying to arrest me,” you point out one night, voice syrup-sweet as you dangle a diamond chain around your neck. “You’re turning into him, y’know. All broody stare, no follow-through.”

He rolls his eyes but you catch the corner of his mouth twitch. “I’m nothing like him.”

“Mm. Right. Sure.” You prowl closer, brushing against his chest as you pass to drop a ring into a little velvet box. “He’s got Selina. You’ve got me. The resemblance is uncanny.”

That earns you a little color in his cheeks. Not much, but enough to make your grin sharpen. You hum, deliberately nosing at the curve of his throat when you lean in to pluck something from the table. A low rumble slips from your chest—a true feline purr, content and teasing—and he shivers. You notice. You always notice.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t shove you away either. He just watches, trapped somewhere in between, jaw tight like he’s hanging by a thread.

And that’s the game for weeks: you circling him, brushing close, curling against him like you belong there—while he endures, trying not to crack.

The night he does, it’s different. He’s tenser when he arrives, chest heaving like the rooftop run didn’t burn enough of whatever’s eating at him. He paces while you sprawl across your couch, amused, purring low in your throat just to needle him.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in my floor, birdboy,” you tease.

“Do you ever stop?” he snaps, more raw than usual.

You grin slow, knowing you’ve hit the edge. “Not when it comes to you.”

That’s when he moves. One hand at your throat—not choking, just holding, grounding—as he crashes his mouth onto yours. It’s not neat, not controlled. It’s desperate, hungry, weeks of restraint tearing loose all at once. You gasp, then laugh into the kiss, thrilled, curling against him as his grip tightens just a little, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Your jewels clatter to the floor as he pushes you back, kissing harder, rougher, every ounce of fluster he’d buried coming out in the frantic press of his lips.

And for once, you don’t tease—you just purr deep in your chest, letting him take, because oh, you like him this way.

When he finally tears himself away from your mouth, you’re both breathing hard, lips bruised, heat still buzzing like static between you. His hand lingers at your throat like he forgot it’s there—then suddenly he’s pulling back, stumbling a step away.

“We can’t—” His voice is ragged, his hair mussed from your fingers. “This can’t happen. If Bruce—if Batman—ever found out—”

You lounge back on the couch, chin tilted, smug grin curling your lips. “Bat-Daddy would be so disappointed, huh?”

“Don’t—” he groans, dragging a hand over his face, color flooding his ears. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you purr, rolling onto your side and propping your head up with one hand, body loose and languid. “You kissed me, Nightwing. Not the other way around. What does that say?”

“It says I lost control.” He backs toward the window, every muscle tight, every word defensive. “It won’t happen again.”

“Mhm. Sure.” You watch him retreat, half-lidded eyes glittering like the jewels scattered across the floor. “Run home, birdboy. Pretend you didn’t like it.”

He turns, vaults to the sill. He doesn’t look back.

But you’re already grinning, because while his lips were on yours—while his hands were trembling at your waist—you slipped a little prize into his utility belt. A ruby, cut deep and brilliant, glowing red like the colors he used to wear before he was Nightwing.

He won’t notice until later, when he’s alone, peeling off his gear. And when he does… he’ll remember.

He’ll remember you.

🐈‍⬛.

The window creaks open again. He’s sharper this time—less friendly, more determined—but his mask doesn’t hide the tension in his jaw. And in his hand, pinched between his gloved fingers, gleams the ruby.

“You planted this on me.” His voice is low, accusing, though his knuckles are tight around the gem like he hasn’t been able to let it go since.

You lounge against the edge of your desk, legs swinging lazily. “Mhm. You noticed.”

He steps closer, holding it out like proof. “What were you trying to prove?”

You tilt your head, a sly smile unfurling. “That you’ll always carry a piece of me. And you did.”

Color rises beneath his mask, sharp, and you purr—an audible, feline rumble—as you slide down from the desk. Your hips sway as you pad closer, circling him. “Mm. You smell different tonight.” You lean in, nose skimming just under his jaw, breathing deep. “Cologne. Expensive.”

He stiffens. “It’s nothing—”

“Mmh, no,” you interrupt, playful, brushing your lips near his ear without kissing. “That’s not drugstore spray. That’s luxury.” Your grin sharpens. “Did you put that on for me? Or do all your criminals get this treatment?”

His breath stutters, and that’s all the answer you need. You laugh, low and warm, pressing your cheek to his chest like you’re curling around him. “Knew it. Birdboy’s got a favorite.”

His hand twitches, like he wants to shove you off—but instead it lands at your waist, firm. “You don’t get to twist this.” His voice is rougher now, strained. “You make everything a game.”

You tip your head back, eyes glittering. “And you keep coming back to play.”

The ruby clinks softly as it falls from his hand onto your desk, forgotten, because you’ve already wormed too close, nosing at his throat again, lips grazing his pulse. His grip tightens on your waist, desperate, conflicted, dragging you flush to him even though he knows he shouldn’t.

And suddenly it’s heated, fast—your laughter dissolving into soft gasps as his mouth crashes onto yours again, rougher this time, unrestrained, his cologne sharp in your nose, his desperation bleeding into every kiss.

The ruby’s long forgotten. His mouth is on yours, hot and urgent, gloves tugging at your hips like he can’t get you close enough. But you’re clever—you slip around him, fingers threading into his hair, guiding him without him even realizing until his back hits the wall with a muted thud.

He breaks the kiss, startled, eyes wide beneath the mask. “Wait—”

You grin against his jaw, lips brushing his skin as you nip at the sharp line of it, then soothe the mark with your tongue. “Mm. Not so in control anymore, birdboy.”

His breath shudders out, hands tightening at your waist but not pushing you away. “You’re… you’re gonna get me in trouble.” His voice is low, strained, but you hear the crack in it.

“Trouble with Bat-Daddy?” you whisper, lips skating down the column of his throat, teeth grazing lightly at the point where his pulse jumps. You purr there, loving the way he jerks just slightly, torn between pulling you closer and shoving you off.

“Don’t—god, don’t call him that,” he groans, tilting his head back as you kiss along the edge of his jaw. His hands twitch against your sides, every line of his body taut with restraint.

You smile wickedly, licking at his throat, nipping again. “Then stop me.”

But he doesn’t. He can’t. His head tips back against the wall, breath ragged, while you map his skin with lips and teeth, the sharp scent of his expensive cologne clinging to you both. He looks like everything he swore he wouldn’t be: flustered, desperate, caught.

And you love it.

His hands are everywhere, but it doesn’t take long for you to notice the pattern: again and again, his palms slip down, cupping, squeezing, gripping your ass like he can’t help himself. Every time he does, his hips surge forward, grinding into you harder, rougher, a strangled sound catching in his throat as though he hates himself for how badly he needs it.

“Mhm,” you purr against his jaw, breath warm, lips curving into a grin. “Thought so. You like this.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, voice hoarse, but his fingers dig in deeper, betraying him. His hips buck, sharp, like his body is answering you even if he won’t.

“Ohhh, birdboy,” you tease, nipping the hinge of his jaw before soothing the sting with your tongue, slow and deliberate. “All those rooftop chases, all those nights—was this what you were after? A feel?” You punctuate it with a roll of your hips that has his head knocking back against the wall.

A groan claws out of him, low and guttural, and you take your chance—hooking one thigh over his hip, dragging him flush. The angle changes everything: his hips rut up into yours with a sharp, desperate rhythm, all armor and heat and need pressing against you.

He curses under his breath, hands locking on your ass to hold you exactly where he wants you, grinding up like he’s chasing friction, like he’s seconds from tearing off the suit that keeps him from you.

And all the while you’re relentless—biting at his neck, sucking little marks into the skin, then licking them away, then kissing lower, higher, anywhere you can reach. Bite, soothe, kiss, repeat. Each one has him shuddering harder, breath catching, his resolve crumbling piece by piece beneath your mouth.

“You’re… gonna kill me,” he gasps, thrusting harder against the cradle of your thighs, voice wrecked.

You laugh, husky and wicked, mouthing at the curve of his throat. “Mm. Not kill you, birdboy. Just ruin you.”

And he bucks again, harder this time, like he believes you.

Your teeth sink into the base of his throat again, and he groans—ragged, helpless. But then, suddenly, the grip on your ass tightens and you feel the world tilt. He’s lifting you, hauling you up like it’s nothing, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud.

You gasp, a startled laugh spilling out even as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. “Ohhh—birdboy’s got claws after all.”

His smirk is audible in the dark, lips dragging hot against your jaw as he pins you there. “Thought you had me cornered?” His voice is rough, but there’s a thread of cocky heat now, bolder with you caged between his chest and the wall. “Guess again.”

Your hands slide up, fingers curling around the swell of his biceps, squeezing as they flex beneath your grip. “Mmm. Big bird.” You purr the words right into his ear, nipping at the shell of it before licking slow across the edge of his jaw. “I like your arms.”

That earns you a huff of laughter, broken by a sharp thrust of his hips against yours, grinding you tighter against the wall. “Yeah?” His tone is wicked, testing, the first glimpse of him leaning into just how badly you’ve undone him. “Gonna keep teasing me, when I’ve got you like this?”

“Especially when you’ve got me like this,” you breathe, biting at his jaw again before kissing over the mark. You can feel the tension running through him, every muscle coiled, his body grinding into yours with a hungry rhythm he can’t seem to stop.

His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you in place as he ruts against you, cologne and sweat and leather filling your senses. He tilts his head down, lips hot and messy on yours, cocky now in the way he kisses—taking, claiming, like he’s reminding you exactly whose arms you’re in.

And god, he feels big everywhere—his chest pressed against yours, his thighs locking you in, his biceps flexing with every shift. You’re wrapped up completely, pinned and purring, exactly where he wants you.

Pinned against the wall, you feel him grinding into you, hands clutching your thighs like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His kisses turn sloppy, hungrier, and then suddenly he’s cursing under his breath—yanking at his gloves, tearing them off like they’re the only thing between him and what he needs.

The second they’re gone, his bare hands are on you—rough, warm, desperate—sliding up beneath your shirt, fingers greedy against your skin.

“God—” his voice cracks, hoarse and low, “I needed to feel you.”

You laugh, breathless, tugging at his hair as his palms spread across your back, your ribs, tracing like he’s memorizing every inch. But when he fists the hem of your shirt and tugs hard enough to hear seams strain, you swat at his shoulder.

“Hey!” you scold, sharp but playful, grinning even as his teeth graze your jaw. “Patience, birdboy. You don’t get to ruin my clothes just because you can’t keep it in your pants.”

He groans into your throat, frustrated. “You’re killing me.”

You purr low, tilting his chin so you can kiss the corner of his mouth, teasing. “Mm. No, just making you work for it.”

His answer is another rut of his hips against you, harder, and you feel him trembling with restraint. His hands skate over your skin beneath the shirt, thumbs dragging along the line of your waist, climbing slow like he’s trying to behave but failing. His breath is hot against your collarbone when he mouths there, teeth scraping lightly before he sucks at the skin.

The cologne still clings to him, sharp and expensive, mixing with the salt of sweat, and you know—just know—he wore it for you.

“Patience,” you whisper again, biting his lower lip before letting it slip free. “I’ll let you have what you want… but slowly.”

He groans, forehead pressing to yours, eyes wild even behind the mask. His hands keep roaming, greedy and desperate, and it feels like he’s one heartbeat away from tearing everything off anyway.

You let him tug at your shirt again—slower this time, under your watchful grin. The fabric slides up over your stomach, your ribs, and you lift your arms, arching a little against the wall so he can peel it off. His breath catches when your skin is bared, his hands splayed hot and reverent against your waist like he can’t decide where to touch first.

“Better,” you purr, one hand sliding up his chest, the other curling at the edge of his mask.

He stiffens slightly, but you hush him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth as you hook your fingers under the fabric and tug. “Shh, birdboy. Let me see you.”

The domino mask comes away, and there he is—sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, eyes blown wide, lips swollen from your kisses. He’s so pretty it makes your chest ache.

Your grin sharpens. “Oh, I’m keeping you.”

His brow furrows, confused, flustered. “…Keeping me?”

“Mhm.” You drag your nails lightly through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “I like keeping pretty things.” You nip at his lower lip, playful, purring. “And you’re very, very pretty.”

For a moment he just looks at you, breathless, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or kiss you again. Then, rough-voiced, he murmurs, “If that’s what you want… I don’t mind being kept.”

Your stomach flips, heat rushing low as your hands fist deeper in his hair, pulling him into another kiss—slower this time, deliberate, savoring. He groans into your mouth, shivering like he’s on the edge of losing control, and you can feel how hard he’s trying to be patient, to hold himself back, even as his fingers tighten at your bare waist.

He breaks for air, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving. “You don’t know how badly I—” He cuts himself off with a hiss, lips trembling against your cheek as he breathes you in.

You purr, rubbing your nose against his jaw, satisfied. “Then show me, birdboy. But slowly.”

He finally breaks away, lips swollen, chest heaving, and sets you down carefully, steadying you with those big, warm hands at your waist. For a moment you think he’s pulling away again—until he starts tugging at the fastenings of his suit, fingers clumsy with how badly he wants out of it.

Piece by piece, the armor peels away. Black and blue hits the floor, leaving him in just the thin fabric clinging to his skin. You stare, unabashed, your gaze dragging over every muscle—cut, defined, all that gymnast’s discipline wrapped in heat.

And god, his nipples—peaked, pretty, catching your eyes longer than you mean them to. You lick your lips, grinning slow. “Mmm. Didn’t know Nightwing came with such nice extras.”

He flushes, rolling his eyes but not hiding from you, his hair falling in messy waves as he strips down to his briefs. He’s still covered, but the outline straining beneath the fabric has you aching.

Your breath catches, heat pooling between your thighs, and you know you’re soaked. He notices—you see it in the way his pupils dilate, the way his chest rises harder, sharper.

Then he kneels. He kneels for you, hands sliding up your legs as he hooks careful fingers into the waistband of your pants. His eyes stay locked on yours, blue and burning, searching your face even as he starts tugging them down.

You shiver, clutching at his hair as the fabric slides off, your thighs exposed inch by inch under his reverent touch. He doesn’t rush it. He doesn’t look away.

When he finally gets them off, he just stays there for a moment—kneeling, staring up at you with wide, pretty eyes, lips parted like he’s been struck breathless. His hands tremble slightly against your thighs, as though he’s holding back from touching more.

You purr, stroking a hand down through his dark hair, tugging gently at the roots. “Ohhh, birdboy. Look at you. So pretty for me.”

And his voice, when it finally comes, is ragged and low: “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs stroking small circles as if to soothe you—but really, you know it’s to soothe himself. He leans forward, pressing his nose against the thin fabric covering your cunt. A shaky exhale escapes him, hot and damp against you.

“God—” he groans, muffled in cloth, his voice rough with want. He noses again, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing your scent through the fabric. “You have no idea how long I’ve—” He cuts off, kissing you softly through the barrier, almost reverent.

You purr above him, fingers threading into his dark hair, tugging just enough to make him whimper. “Mm. Smell good, birdboy?”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide. “Better than good.”

Then he’s sliding his fingers under the waistband, tugging the fabric down with excruciating care, like if he goes too fast he’ll spook you—or himself. The underwear slips down your thighs, cool air rushing where the heat of your body has been trapped. He doesn’t look away for a second.

And when he sees you bare, the last thread of composure frays. His lips part, breath catching, eyes locked like you’ve just wrecked him beyond repair. “You’re—” his voice falters, hoarse and trembling. “God, you’re so fucking pretty.”

The words tumble out unguarded, raw, like he can’t hold them back. He stares, devouring with his eyes alone, swallowing hard like he’s dizzy from the sight.

You laugh softly, smug, tugging his hair so his face tilts up to you. “Men who yearn are men who earn, Nightwing. You’re earning this.”

And he nods—actually nods—like he’d agree to anything, still kneeling, still trembling, still staring at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He doesn’t even hesitate. One second he’s staring like you’re divine, the next his mouth is on you—hungry, messy, devoted. His tongue drags hot and broad through your folds, sloppy, saliva slicking your skin as he groans like he’s starved for you.

It’s not neat. It’s not careful. It’s desperate, wet, his mouth open against you as though he’s trying to drink you down. His nose bumps your clit, his jaw working, his moans vibrating against your heat. He’s everywhere at once—sucking, licking, devouring.

You gasp, arching against the wall, clutching his hair with both hands. “Oh—fuck—”

He growls low, muffled in your cunt, and you can feel the curve of his smile against you as he sucks harder, messier. His shoulders are trembling with how tightly he’s holding himself there, and when you tug his hair, instead of pulling back, he pushes closer, burying his face even deeper.

You laugh breathlessly, tugging harder. “Closer, birdboy? Mm—let me help.”

And you hook one thigh over his shoulder, pulling him into the cradle of your body. His eyes flick up, wild and ruined, before he groans loud, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he shoves closer, grinding his mouth against you.

It’s obscene—the sounds of him slurping, panting, your slick dripping down his chin. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even try to be controlled. He eats you like he needs it to breathe, messy and frantic and perfect.

Your purr rumbles out unbidden, deep in your chest, your head knocking back against the wall as your nails scrape his scalp. “God, look at you… Nightwing, you’re so good.”

He moans at the praise, rutting his mouth harder against you, tongue plunging deep before lapping back up, all while his hands knead your ass, holding you right where he wants you.

He’s not just eating you. He’s worshipping you—loud, sloppy, unashamed.

He’s messy, god he’s messy. Your slick coats his chin, shining in the low light, and he doesn’t wipe it away—doesn’t even think to. He’s too busy groaning against you, tongue plunging, lapping, dragging hotly up to your clit only to suck it between his lips with a noise that makes your toes curl.

You can feel how wrecked he is when he moans into you. The vibrations shake through your body, sharp, electric. His nails dig into your thighs, not harsh—just holding on like he’ll drown if he lets go.

Then you notice—because you’re watching him, always watching—that his hips are shifting, rolling against the floor. His cock, thick and straining, is trapped against the fabric of his briefs, the outline obvious even in shadow. He’s palming himself through it with one hand, greedy, needy, trying to find relief while his mouth devours you.

Your laugh breaks, breathless, head tipped back. “Ohhh, birdboy. Touching yourself while you eat me? How naughty.”

His head snaps up for just a second, mouth glistening, pupils blown wide. His lips are swollen, wet, trembling with need. He doesn’t even deny it. “Can’t—can’t help it. You taste so—” His voice cracks, and he cuts himself off with a groan, diving back down between your thighs like he can’t bear to stop.

You hook your heel against his back, leg still over his shoulder, pulling him deeper, forcing his tongue to slide where you want it. He whimpers into you, rutting harder against his palm now, messy and uncontrolled.

“God, you like this,” you tease, rolling your hips so his nose drags just right against your clit. “You’re fucking dripping for it. Look at you—soaking for me like some—mmm—hungry thing.”

He moans again, louder this time, hips jerking helplessly. His free hand abandons your thigh to fist tighter around his cock through his underwear, the fabric darkening where pre-cum leaks, smearing under his grip. He’s desperate, humping his own hand like he’s forgotten anything else exists.

And still, his mouth never stops. Slurping, sucking, tongue flicking your clit with sloppy insistence. He’s drowning in it—drowning in you.

You glance down at him, his hair mussed from your grip, his jaw shiny with your slick, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He looks ruined. Beautifully ruined.

“You’re going to make yourself come like that, aren’t you?” you purr, dragging your nails over his scalp, tugging hard enough to make him whimper. “Just from eating me. My pretty bird, falling apart with your mouth full.”

He whines—actually whines—hips bucking into his hand, and it only makes him hungrier for you. His tongue thrusts deep again, licking like he’s trying to fuck you with his mouth, his nose grinding at your clit, sloppy and loud.

Every sound fills the hideout—the wet slurp of his tongue, your soft gasps, the desperate little grunts escaping his throat as he palms himself harder, rutting against his fist like he’s seconds from breaking.

You can feel the coil in your belly winding, tighter and tighter. He knows it too—he can tell, the way your thighs tremble around his head, the way your purrs falter into ragged moans. And instead of easing, instead of slowing, he doubles down, shaking his head against you, tongue frantic, sucking your clit like he wants to pull your orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

You can feel how close he is. His hips are jerking harder into his palm now, thighs taut, his muffled groans buzzing into your skin. His hand is frantic against himself, cock straining so hard in his underwear that the fabric creaks with every rough drag.

You purr low in your throat, teasing between gasps, “You’re gonna make a mess for me, aren’t you? Come in those pretty briefs while your mouth’s full of—”

He rips away from your skin, panting hard, slick shining across his chin. His voice is ragged, broken with want: “N-no—nngh—can’t. Not until you—fuck—I can’t.”

And he throws his hand away from his cock, fisting it against the floor like he’s punishing himself, trembling with the effort of stopping. His thighs shake, his abs flutter, the outline of him tenting his briefs achingly hard, wet with pre-cum—and still, he won’t let go.

You stare down at him, ruined and glistening, chest heaving. “You’re insane,” you whisper, purring after, “Insane for me.”

He only groans in answer, diving back between your thighs like a starving man. His tongue is relentless, frantic, sucking your clit so hard you cry out, thighs clamping around his head. His hands grip you tight, thumbs spreading your folds as his mouth works you mercilessly, messy and perfect.

Your orgasm slams through you like lightning. You convulse against him, purring and moaning, nails digging into his scalp as your hips buck. He doesn’t pull back—doesn’t let up. He rides you through it, swallowing every drop of your slick, groaning like he’s the one coming, like your pleasure alone is enough to undo him.

“God—fuck, yes,” you choke out, trembling around his mouth. “My pretty bird—you’re so fucking good—”

He moans at the praise, nose grinding against your clit as his tongue flicks wildly, dragging the aftershocks out until you’re crying out and pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive. Only then does he relent, pulling back slowly, face soaked, lips swollen, panting like he just fought for his life.

His cock is still straining, thick and leaking in his briefs, but he hasn’t touched it again. He looks up at you with eyes that are wrecked, dark and glassy, his jaw trembling.

“I didn’t—” he pants, swallowing hard, “I didn’t finish.”

You smirk down at him, stroking his damp hair back, purring deep. “Good boy.”

The sound he makes at that—half whimper, half groan—nearly undoes him all over again.

He’s trembling when he pulls back from you, lips slick, chest heaving. His cock is a throbbing outline in his ruined briefs, soaked through with pre, the dark patch spreading wider with every desperate twitch.

“Please,” he groans, voice raw, forehead pressing against your thigh as his hands grip your hips. “Please, I need—I can’t—fuck, I need to be inside you.”

You hum low in your throat, nails tracing through his sweaty hair. “Oh, birdboy,” you purr, teasing, “I thought you were the patient one.”

“I—” he chokes, head tipping back so you see the desperate shine in his eyes. “Not with you. I can’t—not anymore.” His voice drops into a ragged whisper. “Please. Let me. Please.”

And then you’re pushing him back just enough to reach his waistband, slow and deliberate. He shudders as you peel the damp fabric down, your claws of patience drawing it out until finally—finally—he’s bared to you.

God, he’s beautiful.

Thick, flushed deep, veins standing out along his shaft, the head slick and glistening. He twitches as the cool air hits him, a strangled sound caught in his throat as he watches you look.

And oh, you look.

You take your time with it—dragging your gaze over every inch, savoring the curve, the flushed crown, the bead of pre sliding down the underside. He’s perfect. Stupidly perfect. Sculpted like the rest of him, just as pretty as the rest of him.

“Mm,” you hum, tilting your head, purring like you’ve just found the crown jewel of your collection. “Now this—this is worth keeping.”

He groans, hips jerking forward as though he can’t help it, his fists clenching at his sides. “Don’t—don’t say shit like that unless—” His breath stutters as you drag your fingertip along the swollen head, smearing the pre across your skin. “Unless you’re gonna—fuck—”

You look up at him through your lashes, purring deep, velvet and smug. “You’re so pretty, birdboy. Do you know that?”

His jaw clenches, eyes wild, body trembling with restraint. You can see how badly he wants to pin you against the wall, slam into you in one deep, desperate thrust. But he doesn’t. He waits, shaking, begging with his eyes.

“Please,” he rasps again, voice almost broken now. “I’m begging you. Let me inside. I’ll be good—I swear—just—please.”

He’s on his feet before you realize it, pressing you back into the wall, the solid heat of him caging you in. His mouth crashes onto yours, messy, breathless, teeth clashing like he can’t bear to slow down.

It’s not a kiss—it’s devouring. His tongue tangles with yours, his lips bruising, and every gasp he drags from you makes his hips rut harder against your belly, the blunt heat of his cock sliding against your skin.

“Please—” the word breaks against your mouth, swallowed by the next kiss. He can’t stop himself, lips chasing yours even as he tries to speak. “Please, I need—I need to feel you. I’m—fuck, I’m losing my mind.”

You moan into him, hands clutching at his damp hair, tugging his head back just enough to see his face. His eyes are wild, glassy with need, his chest heaving. You lick across his swollen bottom lip and purr, “Begging looks so good on you, birdboy.”

His hips buck at the words, hard and helpless, his cock sliding slick against your thigh. “I’ll beg—I’ll do anything, just let me—” His mouth is back on yours, groaning into it like the taste of you is the only thing keeping him alive. His hands clutch your ass, dragging you higher against the wall, thighs spreading, the blunt head of his cock brushing exactly where you’re slick and aching.

You gasp into his mouth, and he seizes it, grinding against your entrance with a broken sound.

“I need to be inside you,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours now, his voice trembling, desperate. “I can’t—I can’t wait anymore, I’ll lose it—please, please—”

And then his lips are on yours again, swallowing your answer before you’ve even given it, rutting against you like he’s seconds away from breaking.

Your back is flat against the wall, your thighs spread wide as he folds you up, his hands firm behind your knees. The flushed head of his cock drags against your entrance, slick and hot, every twitch of him making you ache more.

“Please,” he groans, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours, his mouth just pouting against your cheek. “Please, I can’t—I can’t hold it anymore.”

You draw it out—just one beat, one wicked, purring hum—and then whisper, “Yes.”

That’s all it takes.

He doesn’t waste a second. His hips slam forward, the thick length of him driving into you in one rough, desperate thrust that steals the breath from your lungs. You cry out, nails raking down the broad planes of his shoulders, clinging to him as he buries himself to the hilt.

“Fuck—” he chokes, head tipping back, a raw sound tearing out of him as he feels you clamp down around him. His grip on your legs tightens, hauling you higher against the wall, his body pinning you like he never intends to let you go.

You’re scratching him again—shoulders, back, arms—leaving stinging red trails down his perfect skin, and instead of pulling away, he groans, grinding deeper, almost arching into the burn of your nails.

“Oh, god,” he gasps, voice trembling, hips jerking forward again, rougher this time. “Do that again—please—fuck—”

Your claws dig in, and he likes it, his rhythm shattering into frantic thrusts, desperate and hard, every movement slamming you higher into the wall. His mouth finds yours again, feral, all teeth and tongue, muffling the sounds he’s dragging out of you.

Every inch of him is trembling, shaking with the force of holding back for so long, and now that he has you, he’s wild, rough, ruined by how good you feel.

He slams into you hard, messy, rutting like an animal starved. Every thrust shakes the wall behind you, his breath tearing out in gasps against your neck. He’s gripping you too tightly, nails digging into the backs of your thighs as he folds you up tighter, chasing the sound of your cries with raw, desperate need.

“God—fuck, you feel so—” His voice is breaking, words shattered by the rhythm of his hips, by how lost he is inside you. He’s not Batman’s soldier anymore—he’s just a boy coming undone in your body, groaning like he doesn’t know how to stop.

You drag your nails down his shoulders again, and he slams into you so hard your head tips back against the wall, a loud, sharp moan spilling free. His hips stutter at the sound, his body shuddering.

And then—he freezes. Just for a moment.

His wide, glassy eyes snap to yours, chest heaving, panic flickering across his face as if he’s only just realized how rough he’s being. His lips brush yours, trembling. “I—shit—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

You can feel him trembling inside you, cock twitching deep where he’s buried, his whole body strung taut with guilt and desperate want.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move away. Instead, his thrusts shift—slower now, gentler, though still frantic with need. His forehead presses to yours, his hands softening their hold, cupping instead of gripping.

“I can’t hurt you,” he whispers, voice ragged, kissing the corner of your mouth like it’s an apology. “I don’t want to hurt you—god, you’re so perfect—”

He rolls his hips instead of slamming them, his cock dragging deep and sweet inside you, and the sound that slips from him is broken, reverent. His kisses rain across your face—your lips, your jaw, your cheek—as if he’s trying to make up for every rough thrust with worship.

And yet—even gentled, he’s frantic. His rhythm stutters with need, his breath hitching with every squeeze of your body around him, as if he’s hanging on by a thread not to fall apart too soon.

His thrusts stay deep and frantic but not punishing, every grind of his hips brushing right there inside you. He’s shaking with the effort of holding himself back, his mouth hot and desperate on your neck.

Then one of those big hands slips down between you, fingers pressing against your clit in rough, messy circles. His voice is wrecked, right in your ear—

“Come on—please, come for me, I need it—I need to feel you—”

The combination of his cock grinding deep and his callused fingers working you has you arching against the wall, gasping. It’s too much, it’s perfect, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave raised welts.

He groans at the sting, hips bucking harder, and his other arm locks tight around your waist, keeping you pinned while he works you open. “That’s it—fuck, that’s it, don’t hold it—”

And then it hits.

You shatter around him, your body convulsing, slick spilling, squirting against his abdomen and hand. Your cry is sharp, guttural, and it makes his entire body jerk.

“Jesus—fuck—” His head drops to your shoulder, a choked groan ripping out of him as your release drenches him. He stills for a heartbeat, trembling, then pulls back to look.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown, chest heaving as he stares at the mess you’ve made of him. His fingers drag through it, glistening, shaking. “Oh my god… you—fuck, you’re so beautiful, I can’t—”

The sight kills him. His cock twitches hard inside you, his hips snapping once, twice, against his will. His jaw clenches, and he groans like he’s being broken in half, barely holding on.

“Do it again—please—please, I want to feel it again—” His voice is shredded, desperate, his thumb circling your clit even as he grinds into you, completely ruined by the way you just drenched him.

He’s trembling, voice wrecked as he stammers, “I—I gotta pull out—shit, I should—” but his body betrays him. His hips buck deeper instead, helpless, like your tight, soaking heat has him locked in place.

You clench around him again, your walls fluttering, and it makes his cock twitch so violently he groans like he’s in pain. “Don’t—fuck, don’t do that, I can’t—”

But you do, pulling him deeper with your thighs, dragging your nails down his back until he’s a mess of shuddering muscle and broken breath. He tries again, one last gasp of discipline—“I’m serious, I’ll—fuck, I’ll come, I can’t stop it—”

And then you squirt a second time, gushing around him, soaking down both your thighs, clenching so hard he cries out into your neck.

That’s it. His restraint shatters.

He whimpers—actually whimpers—as his hips piston hard and messy, cock twitching helplessly deep inside you. “Oh my god—oh my god, I can’t—I can’t stop—” His voice climbs, rough and desperate, every word broken by the pulse of his release.

His cock floods you in thick, hot waves, each spurt dragging another guttural moan out of him. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut, nearly sobbing with the intensity of it. “So good—feels so fucking good—I can’t—fuck—”

The way he throbs inside you, the desperate whine in his throat as his climax overtakes him, it tips you over again. Your body clenches around him, dragging every last drop out of him while he cries out into your mouth, kissing you like he’s drowning.

When it finally slows, he collapses against you, panting, shivering, still buried to the hilt, his cock twitching in the aftershocks. His voice is barely a whisper, cracked and ruined:

“Fuck… I’m so sorry… I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop…”

But even as he apologizes, he’s holding you tighter, like he never wants to let go.

He’s still pressed tight to you when his breath starts to even out, chest heaving against yours. His hair is damp with sweat, his voice shredded when he mutters, “I wasn’t supposed to… we weren’t supposed to…”

But you’re already nuzzling at his jaw, purring in your throat like it’s instinct, rubbing your cheek against the stubble on his skin. Your legs are still around his waist, your body clinging as if you could climb inside him.

“Don’t care,” you murmur, lips brushing his neck. You drag your mouth lower, kissing at his collarbone, tasting salt and heat. “You’re mine now.”

That makes him freeze. His big hands, still trembling, tighten on your waist. “…Mine?” he echoes, half-scandalized, half-breathless, like he doesn’t know how to handle the word.

You hum, rubbing your nose against his skin, catlike, slow and possessive. “Mmhm. Pretty things belong to me. And you’re so pretty…” You lick at his pulse, then bite it lightly just to soothe it with your tongue after, your little signature.

He groans—embarrassed, turned on, completely at your mercy. His hands hover like he doesn’t know if he should push you off or pull you closer, and of course he does the latter, dragging you up higher against him.

“You’re insane,” he mutters into your hair, but his voice is too soft, too fond. He kisses your temple without thinking, like it just slips out of him.

You smile, slow and feline, still rubbing your cheek along the side of his throat. “So are you. You let me wreck you, Bird Boy. Twice.” You punctuate it with a gentle nip to his shoulder.

That pulls a sound from him—half laugh, half groan, equal parts wrecked and endeared. “You’re relentless,” he says, but his body betrays him, because he’s petting down your spine, slow and steady, grounding himself in the feel of you.

And you? You won’t stop. You’re kissing and nosing at every inch of exposed skin you can reach, marking him with invisible touches, scenting him in your own little way. “Gotta make sure no one else thinks they can have you,” you murmur against his skin. “You smell like me now.”

He lets out a helpless laugh, burying his face in your neck, voice muffled and low: “You’re gonna kill me…”

But his arms tighten around you, and he doesn’t let go.