🚧

[beafond]

𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔥𝔶 ✸ supernatural… developed in 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟒. 𓈄 he/him. 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑒. make me a better man. 𝄞 polkadots && lace. ◞ ྀི fawn. re𝟐 . jeans ⅋⅋ polos. 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧’𝓈 lover. 𐒘𝛠 physical media collector. 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑠. somewhere in northern italy.

( manual to work this computer ) get𝟐know me. discord. rules. tiktok. library. pinterest.

꣖ 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎. ꣓

[maverist]

TEN PEOPLE I’D LIKE TO GET TO KNOW !

thank you for the tag my angel ( @severedlamb ) sending u millions of kisses, you should be receiving them right about... now!

latest song: vicious — bohnes

currently watching: law & order: criminal intent

currently reading: you made a fool of death with your beauty by akwaeke emezi

currently working on: pt 14 of marriage material! (chapt. 13 coming 2 u soon...)

currently wearing: a black oversized matrix t-shirt & red gingham print boxer shorts

current obsession: shit idk off campus i suppose ? i haven't massively been obsessed w/ much recently

last google search: love island itv (i'm seriously behind!)

favourite flower: black calla lilies / jasmine

no pressure tags; @prettysouled @scissorhvnds @bruisedboys @lacyydollette @girrlsoinlove @rottndeer @heavenlypining @beafond @samwspn @gxbbywrites

[beafond]

ty for the tag 😽 !!

lastest song — waco, texas by ethel cain

currently watching — tires on netflix

currently reading — the martian by andy weir

currently working on — playing hard to get with 1940s!bucky , ‘nd something with sam 😼

currently wearing — white tennis shorts with a compression tee cause I just got back from the gym after tennis

current obsession — arguing with people online

last google search — “did people have cars in the 40s” I know it’s stupid but I only searched this cause I wanted to see what kind of car they drove okay dont judge

favourite flower — ngl i dont have one but gun to my head finger on the trigger life on the line i would probably say dahlias

npts : @pawghter @pittsick @slashedgutz @sunetic @amourflores @aphrahdite

[beafond]

𝓣𝗬𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗚…

( 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 ) Bruce Wayne x fem!office siren!reader. workplace romance, employer/employee relationship, slow burn, mutual pining, texting/social media format, light flirting, age gap, food mention, late-night work, overworking, reader is Bruce's assistant, eventual romance.

꒰ fio’s filings : first time making this kind of fanfiction 😗 if it’s ass … suck it up brochacho idfk . also like ignore the time stamps idk how to change em so … actually just dont be picky how about that 😀

© 𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

𝓗𝙄𝙎 𝓦𝙀𝘼𝙆𝙉𝙀𝙎𝙎

( 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 ) benjamin poindexter x black cat!reader. scratching , reader has claws , mention of blood , unprotected sex :p that’s kinda it, other than sex obviously. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

Dex is everywhere—his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath hot against your throat, his cock buried so deep inside you that you can feel him pulsing with every ragged inhale. His hips roll into you with a rhythm that’s almost cruel, each thrust forcing a gasp from your lips, your back arching off the bed like you’re trying to escape—or maybe just take more.

“That feel good?” His voice is a low murmur, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his hand slides from your waist to your thigh, hooking your leg over his hip. The angle changes, and fuck—his cock sinks even deeper, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl and your claws itch to come out and play.

“Yeah,” you breathe, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. Your fingers tangle in his hair, yanking hard enough to make his scalp prickle, before they slide down to his back—broad, muscular, begging for it. His skin is slick with sweat, the perfect surface for your claws to dig in.

And then his free hand finds your clit.

His thumb is rough, calloused, and he doesn’t tease—he attacks. Circles, pressure, the perfect amount of friction to send sparks shooting through your nerves. Your body tenses, your breath hitching as pleasure coils tight in your gut. You’re so close, and the way he’s fucking you—hard, relentless, like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out—only makes it worse.

His thumb flicks, just right, and the dam breaks.

Your claws snap out, sharp and eager, and you rake them down his back without warning. The burn is immediate, searing lines of fire blooming across his skin. Dex hisses, his body jerking forward, his cock twitching inside you as the pain shoots straight to his dick. “Fuck—Jesus fuck—” His voice is a groan, half-pleasure, half-pain, and you can feel the way his cock hardens even more, like the burn is the best fucking aphrodisiac he’s ever had.

His hips stutter, his thrusts turning erratic as he chases his own release. “Again,” he demands, his voice rough. “Do it again.” And you do, because you love the way his body reacts—the way his muscles tense under your nails, the way his breath hitches, the way his cock throbs inside you like it’s begging for more.

You drag your sharp nails down his back again, deeper this time, and Dex groans, his hips snapping forward as he bottoms out inside you. His tip nudges that spot, the one that makes your vision whiten and your body clench around him like a vice. You come hard, your claws digging in as your orgasm rips through you, your walls milking his cock as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

Dex isn’t far behind. His breath is ragged, his body trembling as he slams into you one last time, his release spilling inside you with a groan that sounds like it’s been torn from his throat. He collapses on top of you, his skin slick with sweat and a bit of blood, his cock still twitching as the aftershocks hit.

“Fuck,” he pants against your neck, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You ruin me.”

And you know he means it as a compliment.

© 𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

꣖ 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎. ꣓

𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔥𝔶 ✸ supernatural… developed in 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟒. 𓈄 he/him. 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑒. make me a better man. 𝄞 polkadots && lace. ◞ ྀི fawn. re𝟐 . jeans ⅋⅋ polos. 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧’𝓈 lover. 𐒘𝛠 physical media collector. 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑠. somewhere in northern italy.

cherry flavoured conversations with you , got me hanging on , down to earth from all the waiting take me somewhere beyond.

𝓢𝗘𝗘 𝓦𝗛𝗔𝗧’𝗦 𝓣𝗢 𝓢𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗖𝗛 . . .

( manual to work this computer ) get𝟐know me. discord. rules. tiktok. library.

( 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 ) baking with jason todd. distraction with sam winchester. new haircut with clark kent. jason todd paying for ur nails.

𝓕𝐈N𝐃 𝓦H𝐀T 𝓨𝐎U 𝓛𝐈K𝐄 . . . ?

[beafond]

𝓟𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝓑𝒐𝒚 …

𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯 ⅋⅋ supernatural ... 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟒 he/him. ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑒. make me a better man. lanky. polkadots && lace. fawn. ˃˂ re𝟐. jeans ⅋⅋ polos. 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧’𝓈 lover. 𐒘𝛠 physical media collector. 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑠. somewhere in northern italy.

( 𝓓𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝓑𝐎𝐖𝐋 ) ׅ ࿐ㅤㅤ if he didn't leave all his hell for you , saying if you could, you'd leave it all, no, I knew it was love , when I rode home crying , thinking of you fucking other girls.

still curious ? get𝟐know me. discord. rules. tiktok. library.

𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 five more minutes with dean. jason todd paying 4 your nails. clark kent’s new haircut. distractions with sam.

꣖ 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎. ꣓

[beafond]

❛ 𝓑𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝓙𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝓣𝙤𝙙𝙙 ❜ x fem!reader

ᵋ ݁ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 ﹕ food play. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

Jason kicked the apartment door open with his boot, the hinges groaning under the force as he stomped inside, shaking rain from his leather jacket. The scent of ozone and Gotham’s damp streets clung to him, but he still took the time to hang his coat on the rack—exactly how you’d scolded him to a hundred times before. The jacket slumped over the hook, the weight of the hidden knives in its lining making it sag just a little. He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, flicking water onto the hardwood floor as he toed off his boots, leaving them in a messy heap by the door. Typical.

The apartment was warm, the air thick with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, and there you were, standing at the counter in that stupidly cute apron—the one with the little red cherries that he’d teased you about when you first bought it. Your back was to him, hips swaying slightly as you mixed dough, flour dusting your forearms. Jason paused for a second, just watching.

“Daddy’s home,” he drawled, voice rough from the cold, as he slinked up behind you. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he pressed a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. The heat of him seeped through the thin fabric of your shirt, and you could feel the smirk against your neck before he even spoke.

You huffed, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Ugh, don’t call yourself that, it’s creepy,” you groaned, but the way your voice hitched when his fingers traced the waistband of your shorts betrayed you.

Jason chuckled, the sound vibrating against your spine. “What’re you making, baby?” he murmured, chin digging into your shoulder as he peered over you. His hands were already wandering, slipping under the apron. One palm splayed flat against your stomach, the other sliding lower, lower—

“Cinnamon rolls,” you managed, voice squeaking when his fingers found the hem of your shorts. “I wanted a—a sweet treat.” The words came out breathy, your grip tightening on the spoon as his thumb brushed against the inside of your thigh.

Jason’s grin was wicked. “Why?” he purred, voice dripping with false innocence. “Here’s a sweet treat right here.” His hand cupped you through the fabric, his fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp, your knees threatening to buckle. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

You jerked backward, bumping your hip back into him with a laugh that was half-gasp. “Jay!” you yelped, swatting at his arm, but he just held on tighter, his laugh dark and amused.

“Am I wrong?” he challenged, nuzzling your neck.

“Yes, you are,” you huffed, but the way your pulse jumped under his lips gave you away. You forced yourself to focus, shoving an elbow into his ribs—only for him to absorb the hit like it was nothing. “I wanted a pastry. So I went to that new bakery downtown, but Jesus Christ, they might as well have asked for my firstborn in exchange for a muffin.” You mimed strangling someone, flour puffing up from the dough as you gestured wildly. “Twenty bucks for a single cinnamon roll. Who do they think they are? A regular muffin for twenty bucks. What, did Superman himself spit in the batter or something?”

Jason snorted, pulling his hand back, letting go of you. He reached past you to turn on the sink, water splashing as he washed his hands, his movements efficient, practiced. “Should’ve used my money,” he said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, cracking an egg into the bowl with more force than necessary. “I don’t want your dirty money.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up, his expression mock-offended as he grabbed a dish towel, drying his hands with slow, deliberate movements. “Excuse you, that’s hard-earned money.”

You scoffed, mixing the egg into the dough with aggressive strokes. “A nine-to-five is hard-earned money. Punching a guy in the throat until he pisses himself, then taking a cut of his drug profits? That’s not earning a living, Jason. That’s stealing a living.”

He barked out a laugh, tossing the towel onto the counter before snagging the apron you’d left draped over a chair. It was ridiculously small on him—your apron, made for your frame, barely tied around his waist, the straps straining against his chest. He looked like a goddamn linebacker in a frilly half-apron, and the absurdity of it made your lips twitch despite yourself.

“Semantics,” he said, adjusting the ties with a smirk. “Besides, I do have a nine-to-five. It’s just… flexible hours.” He wiggled his eyebrows, then grabbed the wooden rolling pin from the drawer, twirling it between his fingers like a baton. “Now give me something to do, or I’m gonna start distracting you again.”

You groaned, but you couldn’t help the way your chest warmed. God, he was impossible. “Fine,” you muttered, shoving the bowl of dough toward him. “Knead this. Then roll it out. And don’t mess it up.”

Jason’s grin was all teeth. “Yes, chef.”

The kitchen fell into a comfortable rhythm—you stirring the frosting with a spoon, the metal clinking against the bowl, while Jason tackled the dough with surprising focus. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms flexing as he pressed the rolling pin into the soft, buttery layers. The veins in his hands stood out, the faint scars on his knuckles a reminder of exactly how those hands usually spent their time.

You watched him for a second, the way his tongue peeked out just slightly as he concentrated, the way his dark hair fell into his eyes. A small, fond smile tugged at your lips. “Look at you, good boy,” you murmured, almost to yourself, before turning back to the frosting.

Jason’s movements froze.

His head snapped up, eyes locking onto you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. For a second, he just stared, his expression caught between amusement and something far more dangerous. Then, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, he bit down on his lower lip, teeth pressing into the flesh hard enough to leave a mark. His cheeks flushed—actually flushed—and he quickly looked back down at the dough, but not before you caught the way his shoulders tensed, like he was physically holding back a reaction.

He smeared the melted butter over the dough with more force than necessary, the sugar and cinnamon clinging to the golden surface. Then, with practiced ease, he rolled it all into a tight cylinder, his fingers pressing into the seams to seal it. “Okay, I’m done,” he announced, “Now what?”

You set the frosting aside, wiping your hands on your apron before grabbing a baking pan from the shelf above the stove. The spray can of non-stick hissed as you coated the metal, the chemical scent sharp and artificial. You coughed, waving a hand in front of your face, and Jason’s eyebrows twitched like he wanted to laugh, but he held himself back. For now.

The knife was next, the blade glinting under the kitchen light as you started slicing the dough into even, spiraled rolls. Jason watched, arms crossed, his weight shifting from foot to foot like he was itching to interfere. You placed each roll onto the pan with deliberate care, lining them up like little soldiers.

Finally, you slid the pan into the oven, the heat hitting your face as you shut the door with a clank. “Now we just wait for them to bake.”

Jason didn’t hesitate. He was already yanking at the apron strings, “Great. I’ll go take a nap.”

You turned, hands on your hips, and frowned at him. “You’re not done.”

Jason paused mid-stretch, his arms still raised, his expression shifting from smug to confused in half a second. “What? What else is there to do?” His voice was laced with that tone—the one that said he was this close to rolling his eyes.

“Frosting.” You grabbed a small bowl from the cabinet, the porcelain cool against your fingers.

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. “You already made frosting.” He gestured wildly at the counter, where the first bowl sat, thick and creamy. “Enough to give someone diabetes.”

You shrugged, setting the new bowl down between you. “Yeah, but that frosting is for whoever we share the rolls with.” You tilted your head, your smile turning innocent. Too innocent. “I want my rolls to have different frosting on them.”

Jason just stared at you. His brain was visibly short-circuiting, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “What the hell does that even—”

“Take your pants off.”

The words hung in the air between you, light and casual, like you’d just asked him to pass the salt. Jason’s entire body went still. His dark eyes locked onto yours, searching, disbelieving. “Take my pants off?”

You nodded, holding up the tiny bowl, swirling it slightly. “Yeah. For frosting.”

A beat of silence. Then another. Jason’s expression cycled through confusion, skepticism, and then amused. His lips twitched. “You wanna take my—” He stopped, swallowed. “You wanna use my cum as frosting?” His voice was half-laugh, half-gasp, like he wasn’t sure if he should be turned on or concerned for your sanity. “Like, spread it on the cinnamon rolls?”

“Yes.” You nodded, dead serious. “And then I eat them.”

Jason’s breath hitched. His gaze flicked down to the bowl, then back up to you, his pupils blown wide. For a second, he just stood there, his mind clearly racing. Then, like a switch had flipped, his hands were already moving, fingers fumbling with his belt buckle, the metal clinking as he yanked it free. The button of his jeans came next, the zipper following with a sharp hiss.

You grinned, watching him, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “Good boy.”

© 𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

𝓓𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𓏲ּ𝄢 sam winchester x male!reader

( 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 ) explicit sexual content. dry humping. strong language. public sex ( library). interruption of intimacy. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

This was wrong.

So fucking wrong.

And yet—god, it was good. Too good. The kind of good that made your pulse hammer in your throat, your skin prickling with the kind of heat that only came from Sam Winchester’s hands on you, his body pressed flush against yours like he was trying to crawl inside your damn skin. The library was supposed to be neutral ground. Safe. A place for research, for quiet, for the kind of focus that didn’t involve the way Sam’s hips rolled against yours, slow and deliberate, like he was testing just how far he could push you before you snapped.

You were supposed to be finding that damn book. The one with the sigil on page 47 that might explain the weird ass demon practically up Dean’s ass. But right now? Right now, Sam had you pinned between the shelves, his thigh wedged between yours, his mouth hot and demanding against yours. His breath was ragged, his stubble scraping your jaw as he mumbled, “This is so wrong,” like he was trying to convince himself more than you.

“I know,” you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your cock already half-hard and aching in your jeans. Sam’s own erection was a brand against your hip, the denim doing nothing to dull the pressure. Dry humping like a couple of horny teenagers in the Men of Letters library. Christ.

Your free hand fisted in his hair, yanking just enough to make him groan, and you dragged him back up to your mouth. The kiss was sloppy, desperate—Sam’s lips parting against yours, his tongue sweeping in like he was starving. And maybe he was. Maybe you both were. But then—

Your eyes flickered open. And there it was.

The book. The goddamn book you’d come here for in the first place, its spine catching the dim light of the reading lamp two shelves over. Lore of the Forgotten: A Hunter’s Compendium. Right. Fucking. There.

Sam, ever perceptive, felt the exact moment your attention wavered. His lips left yours, trailing down your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear—the one that made your knees weak, the one he knew would have you arching into him like a live wire. “Focus on me,” he whispered, low and rough, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. His hand slipped between you, palm flattening against the fly of your jeans, his fingers pressing just there.

“Sam,” you choked out, your hips jerking involuntarily into his touch. Fuck, he was good at that. Too good.

“Just—hold on,” you managed, your voice rough as gravel. You twisted your wrist, breaking his grip just enough to reach for the book. Your fingers brushed the spine.

Sam, with a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan, buried his face in the crook of your neck and bit down. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you hiss, your body betraying you by melting into him. “Now of all times,” he muttered, his breath hot against your collarbone, “is the time you try to be responsible? Really?”

His hips rolled again, slower this time, like he was punishing you. Or maybe punishing himself. “I was so close,” he whined, and the sound was so Sam—all long-suffering exasperation, like the world had personally conspired to cockblock him. His forehead thudded against your shoulder. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve gotten to do this? Without Dean busting in? Without a demon trying to possess one of us? Without—”

“Stop bitching, it’s not the end of the world,” you cut in, flipping the book open to the right page. The sigil stared up at you, intricate and ominous. Bingo.

Sam lifted his head, his dark eyes burning with a mix of indignation and desire. “I was about to cum,” he said, voice dripping with betrayal, like you’d just kicked his puppy. “And you—you stopped.” His hand, still between you, gave your cock a slow, deliberate squeeze through your jeans. “You stopped.”

You swallowed hard, your grip on the book tightening. Damn him. “We have a job to do.”

Sam exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumb tracing the outline of you through the denim. “Fine,” he gritted out. “But you owe me.” His other hand slid up your abdomen, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “And I collect.”

The promise in his voice was dark. You glanced down at the book, then back at him with a small grin. “Deal.”

Sam smirked—slow, wicked, the kind of smile that meant you were so screwed later. He finally, finally stepped back, adjusting himself with a wince. “I hate you,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it.

“Love you too, Sammy.”

© 𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

𝓝EW 𝓗AIRCUT with Clark Kent

The moment you stepped into the apartment, the familiar scent of old books, fresh coffee, and the faintest trace of Clark’s cologne wrapped around you like a second skin. You let your bag slide from your shoulder with a tired sigh, the strap whispering against the fabric of your coat as you shrugged it off and hung it on the hook by the door. The floorboards creaked under your footsteps, a sound that usually made you smile, but today, exhaustion clung to your bones like a second shadow. “Clark,” you called, “I’m home. And starving.” The words carried the weight of a long day, the kind that left your fingers numb and your patience thin.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, the soft pad of bare feet against hardwood, the rustle of fabric, and there he was—Clark, filling the doorway to the living room with that effortless, grounding presence of his. But something was… off. Your gaze snagged on the knit beanie pulled low over his forehead, the fabric clinging to the strong line of his jaw. You froze mid-step, your keys still dangling from your fingers. What in the actual hell?

Your eyebrows shot up, furrowing into a line so sharp it could’ve cut glass. “Since when do you wear beanies?” The question tumbled out before you could stop it, laced with equal parts confusion and suspicion.

He shrugged, the movement rolling through his broad shoulders like a wave, the sleeves of his T-shirt stretching around biceps. “It’s a new thing,” he said, as if that explained anything. Then, with that infuriatingly earnest grin of his, he added, “You know… winter.” Another shrug, like the answer was obvious. Winter. Right. Clark Kent, the man who could stand shirtless in a Metropolis blizzard, complaining about winter while literally in a short sleeve T-shirt currently. The absurdity of it short-circuited your brain for a second.

You crossed your arms, one eyebrow arching higher. “Uh huh.” Your voice was dry enough to kindle a fire. “And I’m Batman.” The deadpan delivery was so perfect it should’ve won an award.

Clark exhaled through his nose, a sound that was half-laugh, half-surrender. He rubbed the back of his neck, a habit you’d long since learned meant he was bracing for your reaction. “Okay, fine. You got me.” The words came out slow, like he was testing the waters before diving in. “I got a haircut. And I… tried something new.” His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he wanted to adjust the beanie but was afraid of what might happen if he did.

The world tilted. A haircut. The word echoed in your skull like a gunshot. Your wedding. The one you’d spent the last six months obsessing over, the one where every detail had been meticulously planned, color-coded, and cross-referenced in a binder that now lived on the coffee table like some kind of sacred text. You’d already imagined the photos a thousand times—the way the late afternoon light would catch the gold in Clark’s eyes, the way his dark hair would contrast against the crisp white of his shirt, the way everyone would stare at the two of you and think, Of course. They were always meant to be. And now he’d gone and messed with the one thing you’d taken for granted: his hair.

His hair. Thick, dark, perpetually tousled, like he’d just run a hand through it for the hundredth time that day. The kind of hair that made you want to bury your fingers in it every time he leaned in to kiss you. It was a national treasure. And he’d changed it.

“Oh my God.” The words left you in a rush, breathless and raw, like you’d been sucker-punched. Your hands flew to your mouth, but it was too late—the horror was already spilling out. “Clark, we have a wedding in a week.” Your voice cracked on the last word, pitching upward into something dangerously close to a shriek. The implications hit you like a freight train: the photos, the first dance, the vows. All of it, now tainted by the specter of… whatever the hell was under that beanie. You were already moving toward him, your pulse hammering in your throat, your fingers twitching with the desperate need to see. To confirm, once and for all, that the universe hadn’t just handed you the cosmic joke of the century.

He sidestepped you with a grace that was infuriating, his laughter low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest as he easily evaded your grasp. “Whoa, whoa—” He held up his hands, palms out, like he was trying to calm a spooked horse. “It’s not that bad.”

“Is it a buzz cut?” The question tore out of you, half-panicked, half-accusatory. Your mind raced through the possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last. A mohawk? Had he let his stupid barber talk him into something “edgy”? “Don’t you dare tell me it’s a buzz cut,” you warned, your voice trembling with the kind of rage reserved for people who chew loudly in movie theaters and those who cancel plans last minute. “I will actually scream. And I will divorce you. Even if we’re not married yet.”

Clark’s grin softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners with that stupidly endearing mix of amusement and affection. He reached for you, his calloused fingers wrapping gently around your wrists to still your flailing hands. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, grounding you, even as your heart continued its frantic drumbeat. “No,” he said, his voice a rumble, like distant thunder. “Not a buzz cut.” Then, before you could launch into another tirade, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. “But you’re gonna have to trust me on this one.”

You let out a groan, the sound muffled against the soft cotton of his flannel as you pressed your face into his chest. “That’s what you said about the toaster,” you muttered, your voice muffled against the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The fabric smelled like him—sun-warmed laundry and the faintest hint of woodsmoke, probably from the fire he’d built earlier just because he could. “Now we have a bright red toaster sitting amongst our very black appliances like some kind of rebellious little appliance anarchist.” The mental image of it, glaringly out of place on your sleek countertop, made you groan. Clark had a habit of doing this—bringing home things that were technically fine but aesthetically a crime. And yet, somehow, you always ended up loving them. Or at least, loving him enough to tolerate them.

Clark chuckled, the sound vibrating against your cheek where it was pressed into the solid warmth of his chest. His fingers, rough from years of farm work and saving the world, cupped your face, tilting your head back until you had no choice but to meet his gaze. His eyes were that impossible shade of blue—like the sky over the Kent farm at dawn, all soft light and endless depth—and they were crinkled at the corners with amusement. “You’re so upset,” he observed, his voice thick with the kind of affection that made your stomach flip, “but you haven’t even seen it yet.”

You wanted to stay mad. You really did. But the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world worth his attention, made it impossible. Your lower lip jutted out in a pout so dramatic it would’ve been comical if you weren’t on the verge of actual, genuine tears. His hair. God, you loved his hair. The way it curled at the nape of his neck, the way it looked when he was still fast asleep, curls going in every direction, the way it felt between your fingers when you pulled him close. It was yours, in a way that defied logic. And now he’d gone and changed it.

“Okay,” you relented, your voice barely above a whisper, the fight draining out of you as quickly as it had arrived. “Show me.”

Clark’s hands dropped from your face, but not before his thumbs brushed away the traitorous moisture clinging to your lashes. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion that felt like torture, he reached up and tugged the beanie free. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between his fingers and the fabric, the suspense coiling in your gut like a spring. And then—there it was.

His hair. Still there. Thank fucking God. Relief crashed over you like a wave, so potent it left you lightheaded. But it wasn’t the same. The sides were shorter, trimmed back in a way that made the dark curls on top look even more deliberate, like he’d finally let someone style them instead of just letting them do whatever they pleased. It wasn’t a full mullet—thank the universe for small mercies—but it had that hint of one, the kind of cut that made it clear his barber had been feeling adventurous. The curls were still there, wild and untamed from the beanie, but they looked… good. Really, really good. The kind of good that made your throat go dry.

Clark ran a hand through his hair, the movement self-conscious in a way you rarely saw from him. “My barber said he wanted to try something new,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was nervous. “You know, since I’ve had the same haircut for, like, a hundred years.” A sheepish grin tugged at his lips. “He figured since I’m getting married and all, it was time to… I dunno, mix things up a litt—”

You didn’t let him finish. The words died on his tongue as you surged up onto your toes, your hands finding his face like they’d been magnetized. And then you were kissing him, your lips crashing into his with a desperation that made his breath hitch. He tasted like coffee and Clark, and the faintest hint of the caramel candy he’d been sneaking from your stash, and it was perfect. His hands came up to cradle your waist, pulling you flush against him, and for a moment, the world tilted—just a little—like it always did when he touched you.

“You look so sexy,” you gasped against his mouth, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. And it was true. The new cut made his jaw look sharper, his cheekbones more defined, like someone had taken a chisel to the already absurdly handsome man in front of you and somehow improved him. The curls on top were a mess, but it was a deliberate mess now, the kind that made you want to drag your fingers through them just to see if they’d spring back into place. And his eyes—God, his eyes—were brighter than ever, like the change had lit something new in them. Or maybe that was just the way he was looking at you.

Clark’s laugh was a low, warm thing, vibrating against your lips as he kissed you again, slower this time, like he was savoring the moment. “So… you like it?” he murmured, his voice soft.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the new line of his hairline, the shorter strands prickling against your skin. “I love it,” you admitted, your voice soft. And then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you added, “But if you ever get a buzz cut, I will divorce you.”

His grin turned wicked, his dimples flashing. “Noted.”

© 𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

Jason Todd would absolutely pay for your nails. Not just because he liked the way they looked—though god, he did—but because it was his money, his treat, and if anyone so much as suggested you shouldn’t, he’d laugh in their face before flipping them off. He’d let you drag to the salon, slouching in the chair beside you like a bored prince, scrolling through his phone with one boot propped on his knee. But then he’d glance up, catch the way the light hit the fresh gloss on your nails, and suddenly he’s leaning in, voice low. “That one. The dark red. Like blood.” And when you raised an eyebrow, he’d smirk, all teeth. “What? It’s hot.”

He liked your hands on him. Everywhere. The way your fingers curled around his cock, nails biting just enough to make him hiss; the way they tangled in his hair when he was between your thighs, his name a prayer on your lips; the way they scraped down his back when he was inside you, leaving half-moon imprints he’d trace later in the mirror with a grin.

His favorite, though, was the way they scraped. Not hard—just enough. The light drag of your nails over his scalp when you were half-asleep, your fingers splayed in his hair like you were anchoring him to the earth. He’d go boneless under your touch, all that restless energy finally still, his breath warm against your collarbone. You could feel the moment he gave in, the way his muscles loosened, the way his weight settled over you like a second skin.

That’s how you found yourselves now: him sprawled across you on the couch, one of your hands fisted in his hair, the other slipped under his shirt, tracing the ridges of his spine. He was limp, completely out of it, his face buried in your neck like he was trying to breathe you in. You, meanwhile, were rambling, because of course you were.

"And get this," you muttered, your voice muffled against his hair, "when they’re playing against each other years later, Patrick does the serve Art does. And Art immediately knows. Like, his whole face just—" You pulled your hand from his hair to mime an explosion. "—because he recognizes it."

Jason made a sleepy, incoherent noise. "How?"

You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve been audible. "I told you this. You weren’t listening."

"Was listening," he mumbled, but his voice was thick, his words slurring together. "Just… don’t get tennis."

"It’s not about tennis," you scoffed, giving his hair a sharp tug. He hissed, but didn’t move—just pressed closer, like he was daring you to do it again. "It’s about the subtext. The way they’re all lying to themselves. Art thinks he’s finally won Tashi over, Patrick thinks he’s over Art, Tashi’s just… there, smirking like she’s already won everything in life when really all she ever wanted was to play. But that was taken from her. Because of the injury. "

Jason went quiet for a long moment. You could feel the gears turning in his head, slow and reluctant, like a rusted engine. Then, with a sigh that ruffled your hair: "Sounds like a bunch of people making bad decisions over a game they take too seriously."

You laughed, because of course that’s what he’d take from it. "It’s about love and competition and—"

"Scratch." His voice was suddenly sharp, his head lifting just enough that his breath ghosted over your pulse point. His fingers found your wrist, guiding your nails back into his hair, pressing down. "You’re not scratching hard enough."

And just like that, the conversation was over. Because Jason Todd had the attention span of a goldfish and the focus of a predator, and right now, all he wanted was the sting of your nails.

"Jason, I was talking. "

"Mhm." His teeth grazed your throat. "Talk, then."

You huffed, but your fingers curled tighter in his hair anyway.

© 𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

⌇ ❛ 𝓦𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓞𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 ❜

saint laurent ﹐ rainy city mornings ﹐ scheduled meetings ﹐ leather-bound books ﹐ late evenings at the office ﹐ luxury perfumes ﹐ red bottoms ﹐ heels clicking against marble floors ﹐ office gossip ﹐ handwritten signatures ﹐ dirty martinis ﹐ candles ﹐ fashion magazines ﹐ french manicures ﹐ organised planners

( 📁 ) office siren!reader who always looks perfectly put together. Not flashy. Not over the top. Just effortlessly polished. Their shirts are always crisp, their accessories are always tasteful, and their perfume or cologne lingers long after they've left the room.

( 📁 ) office siren!reader who is terrifyingly intelligent. People get distracted by their appearance until they start speaking and suddenly remember why they're one of the most respected employees in the company.

( 📁 ) office siren!reader who is always the last person to leave. The office lights are dim, the cleaning crew is working, and they're still sitting at their desk with their glasses on, quietly finishing tomorrow's workload before anyone else even thinks about it.

( 📁 ) office siren!reader who lives with OCD. Most people only notice the little things—the way they straighten crooked picture frames, align pens on their desk, or reread emails multiple times before sending them. What they don't see are the exhausting mental rituals and intrusive thoughts that can turn simple tasks into uphill battles.

( 📁 ) office siren!reader who secretly adores being taken care of. Everyone assumes they're independent enough not to need anyone, but the fastest way into their heart is remembering they skipped lunch and showing up with their favorite coffee.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ◠ ◠ 𓈒 🖊️ 𓈒 ◠ ◠

⸝⸝ works in their file ݂

typing… smau with bruce wayne.

can be shipped with the people in the tags however more will be added over time ♥︎

© 𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐒 with dean winchester

( 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 ) somnophilia themes. hints of cockwarming at the end. sleepy/half-asleep sex. dirty talk. light praise. unprotected sex. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

The motel room was a cocoon of warmth, the kind that only comes when the sun’s been up for hours but you’ve got no intention of leaving the bed. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the air thick with the scent of Dean—leather, gun oil, and that stupidly expensive body wash he insisted on buying whenever he found a Walmart. Sam had been gone for hours, probably elbow-deep in some dusty tome at the diner, and Dean had taken full advantage.

You were still half-asleep, your body heavy with dreams, when you felt the first brush of his lips against the back of your neck. His stubble scraped your skin just enough to pull you a little closer to wakefulness, but not enough to actually wake you. His arm was a warm, heavy weight around your waist, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against your stomach like he was memorizing the shape of you all over again.

Then came the real tease—the slow, deliberate press of his hips against your ass, his cock already hard and needy against you, even through the thin fabric of his boxers and your sleep shorts. You mumbled something incoherent, your body instinctively arching back into him, seeking more of that delicious pressure.

Dean chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Still asleep, huh?” His voice was a sleepy rumble. His hand slid under the waistband of your shorts, his fingers finding you already wet, ready—because even half-asleep, your body knew him. Knew what he wanted. Knew what you wanted.

His touch was maddeningly slow, his fingers parting you with a groan that sounded like it’d been torn from his chest. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re dripping for me, and you’re not even awake yet.” His thumb circled your clit once, twice, just enough to make you whimper, your hips rolling back against him on instinct.

You were still floating in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, your body moving on autopilot, chasing the pleasure he was coaxing from you. Dean’s other hand fumbled with his boxers, shoving them down just enough to free himself, soon after there was the hot, heavy press of his cock against you, the tip already slick with pre-cum as he nudged it against your entrance.

“Gonna slip right in, okay?” His voice was a whisper, rough with sleep and need, but there was a softness there, too. His fingers still worked you open, his thumb pressing just right against your clit, and you moaned, the sound sleepy and needy all at once.

And then he was inside you.

It wasn’t a thrust. Not yet. It was slow, deliberate—the thick head of his cock pressing in, stretching you open inch by inch, his groan muffled against your shoulder as he sank deeper. You were so warm, so tight, and the way your body clenched around him had him biting his lip to keep from waking you fully. Not yet. He wanted you like this—soft, pliant, his—for just a little longer.

Once he was fully seated, he stilled, his breath coming in slow, deep pulls as he let you adjust to the weight of him inside you. His cock twitched, and you whimpered, your body instinctively clenching around him, like it was trying to pull him in even deeper. Dean groaned, his hips rolling forward just a fraction, testing the waters.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he muttered, his voice a sleepy whisper. His hand slid up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple through the thin fabric of your tank top, and you arched into his touch, your body moving on instinct. His other hand stayed between your legs, his fingers still working you in slow, lazy circles, keeping you right on the edge of pleasure.

He started to move— just barely. Just a slow, shallow roll of his hips, his cock sliding in and out of you with a rhythm that was maddeningly teasing. It wasn’t fucking. Not yet. It was deep, slow, intimate—the kind of thing that made your toes curl and your breath hitch in your throat. Every time he pulled back, you could feel the drag of him against your walls, the way your body tried to keep him inside.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Just take me. Let me stay here.” His voice was soft, almost reverent, like this—you—were something sacred. His hips rolled forward again, his cock sinking deep, and you moaned, the sound sleepy and needy, your body moving with his like you were made for this.

For a long, lazy moment, that was all there was—the slow, deep slide of him inside you, the warmth of his body curled around yours, the way his breath hitched every time you clenched around him. It was perfect. It was everything.

After a while you started to wake up for real.

Your body tensed, your eyes fluttering open as the pleasure coiled tighter inside you, and Dean felt it. Felt the way your walls fluttered around him, the way your breath hitched in your throat. His hand tightened on your hip, his fingers digging in just enough to ground you, to keep you.

“There you are,” he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. His hips rolled forward, his cock sinking deep, and you gasped, your back arching into him.

His pace stayed slow—every thrust deep, every withdrawal agonizingly teasing. His cock was so hard, so thick, and the way it dragged against your walls had you whimpering, your nails digging into the sheets. Dean groaned, his breath hot against your neck, his hips rolling forward again, his cock sinking deep.

“Gonna come inside you, baby,” he whispered, his voice a sleepy promise. “Gonna fill you up so good, you’ll feel me all day.”

And god, the way he said it—like it was the most natural thing in the world, like there was nothing he wanted more—sent you spiraling. Your body tightened around him, your orgasm crashing over you with a cry that Dean responded to with a filthy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder. He followed you with a groan, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt, his release pulsing inside you, hot and thick.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Dean stayed buried inside you, his breathing slowly evening out, his lips pressing soft, sleepy kisses to the back of your neck. His cock twitched, still half-hard, and you knew—he wasn’t done with you yet.

But for now, you let your eyes drift shut, letting the weight of him pin you to the mattress, his warmth seeping into your bones.

Just… five more minutes.

© 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

༊࿐⠀ ׅ⠀ㅤ 𝕴𝐍 𝕿𝐇𝐄 𝕯𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝕹𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 . . .

𝖜𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖞 … black eyeshadow. louboutins. silver. agent provocateur. late nights on the rooftops. elegance. cigarettes & wine. acrobatics. expensive taste. maximalism.   black cats.  antique stores.  lace & leather.  bones.   candles.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ◠ ◠ 𓈒 𓃭 𓈒 ◠ ◠

𓊈 ♰ 𓊉 blackcat!reader who … wasn't born a panther hybrid. she was made into one. depending on who tells the story, it was either a scientific experiment, a government project, or a criminal organization trying to create the perfect predator. what everyone agrees on is that it went horribly right. enhanced senses. enhanced strength. enhanced reflexes. instincts nobody knew how to control. by the time she escaped, she wasn't entirely human anymore—and she refuses to let anyone decide whether that's a tragedy or a gift.

𓊈 ♰ 𓊉 blackcat!reader who … has small details that give away the panther DNA if people pay attention. her pupils widen more than normal. her canines are just a little too sharp. her eyes reflect light in photographs. and every so often, when she's caught off guard, she smiles in a way that's a little too predatory to be completely human.

𓊈 ♰ 𓊉 blackcat!reader who … is strongest at night. her reflexes seem sharper. her senses clearer. her confidence higher. everyone else is slowing down while she's only just waking up.

𓊈 ♰ 𓊉 blackcat!reader who … enjoys luxury but isn't impressed by status. wealth gets her attention. power gets her attention. confidence gets their attention. a title means absolutely nothing. she’s met enough corrupt politicians, spoiled heirs, and arrogant CEOs to know that expensive suits don't automatically make someone important.

𓊈 ♰ 𓊉 blackcat!reader who … is covered in little scars she never explains. every single one has a story behind it. nobody gets to hear those stories unless they're incredibly special to her.

𓊈 ♰ 𓊉 blackcat!reader who … loves the feeling of textured surfaces under her fingertips: brick walls, leather seats, rough denim, scratched metal. tactile details ground her instincts.

𓃭 ⠀゛𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘

his weakness ft. benjamin poindexter.

can be shipped with anyone in the tags ! list will most probably extend however , smut will be in bold

©𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

smut will be in bold. 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎.

𝐃𝐂 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄

𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔨𝔢𝔫𝔱 ꒱ new hair cut 𖬺 gn!reader.

𝔡𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔶𝔰𝔬𝔫 ꒱ humping your foot 𖬺 gn!reader.

𝔧𝔞𝔰𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔬𝔡𝔡 ꒱ paying for your nails 𖬺 gn!reader. baking with jason 𖬺 fem!reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐋

𝔰𝔞𝔪 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 ꒱ pronebone with sam 𖬺 afab!reader.

𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 ꒱ five more minutes 𖬺 afab!reader. distractions 𖬺 male!reader.

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐋

𝔟𝔢𝔫𝔧𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔵𝔱𝔢𝔯 ꒱ his weakness 𖬺 black cat!reader.

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒

office siren. black cat.

© 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜 𓏲ּ𝄢 𝓢leepy pronebone with 𝓢am 𝓦inchester

The room is bathed in the dim, golden glow of the salt lamp Dean insists on keeping in every motel room “for vibes, Sammy”, but right now, the only vibe is the slow, heavy drag of Sam’s cock inside you, his body a warm, solid weight pressed against your back. He’s half-asleep, his movements sluggish, like he’s fucking you in a dream. One he never wants to wake up from.

A pillow’s wedged under your hips, tilting you just enough that every time he sinks in, he stays there, buried to the hilt, his pubic bone grinding against your ass with a lazy, circular roll. You can feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the way his cock twitches inside you when you clench around him, like he’s surprised by how good it feels, even now.

His arm is a band around your waist, his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back onto him with every slow, deep thrust. His other hand is clamped over your mouth, but there’s no real force behind it. Just the quiet understanding that Dean’s in the next room, and if he hears anything—even the wet, obscene sounds of Sam fucking you—he’ll never let either of you live it down.

“Mmm, fuck,” Sam mumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice thick with sleep, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so tight like this.” His hips rock forward, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you whimper against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate. He smiles, you can feel it against your shoulder—because he knows what he’s doing to you.

His hand on your stomach slides further down beneath you, his fingers finding your clit with the kind of lazy precision that comes from knowing your body. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His thumb circles you in slow, maddening little swirls, his touch feather-light at first, then firmer when you buck back against him, begging without words.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a sleepy purr. “Take me. All of me.” And you do. You do, because how could you not? When he’s like this—warm, heavy, his cock throbbing inside you with every shallow breath—there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you, the slick slide of skin, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.

His thrusts are lazy, almost drowsy, but no less deep. Every time he bottoms out, he stays there, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his cock pulsing like he’s savoring the way you clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little, and the sound of it has you squeezing around him harder, earning a broken groan from his chest.

His thumb presses down on your clit, and your body shudders, your orgasm building slow and deep, like a tide pulling you under. You can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his cock buried inside you, his fingers working you over, his breath hot against your neck. “Sam—” His name is a plea, a whine, and he swallows it, his hand pressing harder over your mouth as his own rhythm stutters, his hips losing their careful pace.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t last,” he admits, and the admission is raw, so Sam it hurts. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into your hip, his cock twitching inside you as he chases his own release.

And then his thumb presses down, hard, and the world tilts. Your orgasm rips through you, slow and deep, your body clamping down around him so tightly he groans, his own release following with a shuddering, broken cry against your shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing, his whole body trembling.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the thud of his heartbeat against your back, the way his grip on you loosens just enough to let you drag in a lungful of air. His hand slides from your mouth, his fingers lingering against your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them.

Then, because he’s Sam, because he can’t not say it—“You okay?” His voice is rough, worried, even now. Even after.

And you laugh, breathless, because of course he’d ask that. Of course he’d still be checking on you when he’s the one who just got fucked senseless.

You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, sleepy kiss, tasting the salt on his skin, the faint hint of coffee from the diner down the road. “I will be,” you murmur against his lips, “when you do that again.”

His chuckle is quiet, low, and full of promises. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that again.”

© 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜 𓏲ּ𝄢 𝒟ick 𝒢rayson humping your foot ꣖ 𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔲𝔡𝔢𝔰 foot fetish kind of ? dirty talk light degradation/humiliation humping teasing orgasm (m) ꣓

The couch dipped under your weight as you sprawled out, legs stretched across the cushions, your feet landing squarely in Dick’s lap. The fabric of his sweatpants was warm beneath your socks. He didn’t complain. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he let his head loll back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, the picture of exhaustion.

“What are we watching?” he murmured, voice rough with sleepiness. His fingers curled lazily around your shin, thumb tracing idle circles on your soft skin, just enough pressure to make you hyper-aware of his touch.

You took a bite of your sandwich, the crunch of the bread drowning out the low hum of the TV for a second. “The new season of Love Island,” you said around a mouthful, swallowing before adding, “Try to contain your excitement.”

A beat. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hm. Fun,” he drawled, the word dripping with sarcasm. His free hand lifted just enough to gesture vaguely at the screen. “That the one with the British people and their… aesthetic enhancements?” His fingers tapped your leg, mimicking the rhythm of a drumroll. “All the lip filler, the spray tans, the dramatic slow-motion entrances?”

You snorted, nearly choking on your food. “Yup. That’s the one.”

Dick’s grin turned downright wicked as your laughter filled the room. He loved that sound—loved causing it even more. His hand abandoned its innocent perch on your shin, fingers sliding upward with deliberate slowness, inching beneath the hem of your shorts. You could feel the heat of his palm, the callouses from years of gripping batarangs and punching villains, and then—

Smack.

Your hand came down on his, swatting it away before it could go any further. “No,” you said, tearing your gaze from the screen to pin him with a look. “I am watching Love Island.” You popped the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. “If you’re horny, go jerk off.”

Dick’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened, like a blade unsheathed. “It’s more fun with you,” he purred, voice dropping into that register that made your spine tingle. The one that promised trouble and delivered every time.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, curling up despite your best efforts. “Not happening. I am not moving from here.” You gestured vaguely at the couch, as if that settled it.

For a second, his grin faltered—just a flicker, a crack in the armor. But Dick Grayson didn’t stay down for long. His hand retreated, fingers trailing down your leg in a way that felt intentional, like he was memorizing the path. Then, without warning, his palm settled over your socked foot, pressing it firmly against the growing bulge between his thighs. His hips lifted just enough to make his intentions painfully clear, and a breathy sigh escaped his parted lips, the sound so obscenely pretty that it should’ve been illegal.

“You don’t have to move, just lie there,” he whispered, voice thick with amusement and something far more dangerous. His dark eyes locked onto yours, daring you to call his bluff.

You stared at him. Then at your foot. Then back at him. And then, because you were you, and he was Dick Grayson, and this was just how it always went—you pushed down.

His breath hitched, hips jerking up involuntarily, the couch creaking in protest beneath you. For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the tinny voices from the TV, the rasp of fabric against skin, and the way Dick Grayson’s entire body tensed, like a coiled spring ready to snap. A whimper tore from his throat, soft and needy and so unfairly hot that it sent a jolt straight through you, pooling low in your stomach.

“Fuck,” he muttered, but he was smiling. Of course he was. Always smiling, even as his hips rolled up against your foot, the motion shameless, relentless. Essentially humping your foot like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dick’s fingers dug into the arch of your foot, his grip desperate, as he held you against his cock. The fabric of his sweatpants did little to hide the way he throbbed against your sole, the rigid outline of him pressing insistently, demanding attention.

A broken moan spilled from his lips, his head tipping back against the couch, throat exposed. The tendons in his neck stood out sharply, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His other hand clawed at the cushion beside him, knuckles white, like he needed something to ground himself—or maybe to restrain himself from doing something somehow even more depraved.

You watched, mesmerized, as his body unraveled. Dick Grayson was a mess before you, his usual poise shattered, his control in tatters. The man who could outmaneuver Gotham’s criminals, who could sweet-talk his way out of anything, was reduced to this: a trembling, needy wreck, fucking your foot like it was the only thing in the universe that could satisfy him.

His cock pulsed against your sole, the heat of him searing even through the layers of fabric, the pressure almost unbearable. You could feel how hard he was, the way his length twitched with every roll of his hips, the way his thighs quivered as he chased the friction, his body begging for more. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his lips parted and glistening.

“You look really pathetic right now,” you murmured, your voice low, laced with amusement and something darker, something that thrummed in your veins as you took in the sight of him. Your toes curled slightly, pressing into the thick ridge of his cock, and the reaction was immediate—his hips stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as his body jerked against you.

“I know,” he breathed out, the words soft and whiny. His voice was wrecked, rough with need, and the sound of it sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes were still shut, but his face was twisted in a way that was half pleasure, half torment, like he was drowning in it and didn’t even care. “Fuck, please—” His hips lifted again, this time with more urgency, his cock rubbing against your foot in a way that was almost too much. The friction was maddening, the pressure building with every desperate roll of his body.

You bit your lip, the taste of copper sharp on your tongue as you watched him fall apart. The way his muscles tensed, the way his breath came in sharp, uneven bursts—it was too much. And not enough at the same time. You shifted slightly, pressing the ball of your foot down harder, grinding it against him in a slow, deliberate circle. The sound he made was filthy. A choked, needy whine that made your stomach clench.

“That’s it,” you taunted, your voice dripping with sin. “Good boy.” The words were a spark to the kindling of his desire, and his hips snapped up, his cock throbbing violently against your sole. His fingers tightened around your ankle, his grip almost bruising as he held you in place, his body moving on instinct, needing the pressure, the friction, the release.

“Fuck—fuck—” His voice was a broken thing, his words dissolving into a string of curses and pleading. His free hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, yanking it up just enough to expose the taut plane of his stomach, the muscles there tensing as his body arched off the couch. The sight of him—wrecked, desperate, yours, sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.

You could see how close he was. The way his cock twitched, the way his breath hitched, the way his entire body coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap. His hips were moving faster now, erratic, sloppy, his control completely unraveled.

“Gonna cum like this?” you asked, your voice a purr, your foot pressing down just a little harder, just where he needed it most. “Gonna cum all over my foot like a good boy?”

His eyes flew open, dark and wild, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath stutter. “Yeah—” The word was a whine. His hips lifted one last time, his body shuddering as his cock pulsed violently against your sole, the heat of his release soaking through the fabric. A broken cry tore from his throat, his back arching as pleasure wracked through him, his body trembling as he spilled.

And then he collapsed back against the couch, his chest heaving, his body boneless. His grip on your foot loosened, but he didn’t let go, his fingers still curled around your ankle, like he was afraid you’d disappear. His eyes were glazed, his lips swollen from biting them, his entire body glowing with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

You pulled your foot back slowly, revealing the now damp fabric of his sweatpants clinging to himself, evidence of his release.

Dick let out a shaky laugh, his voice rough. “Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. “That was…” He trailed off, like he couldn’t even find the words.

You giggled lightly, “You are so pathetic.” And once again, he didn’t deny it.

©𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[beafond]

𝕽𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝕬𝐍𝐃 𝕽𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 im unc, i dont want children around, i know you guys are curious but please go be curious somewhere else. ageless blogs will be blocked. please respect that ♡

𝐍𝐎 𝐀𝐈 do not feed my work to ai or even consider posting it onto c*****ter.ai, i will find you.

𝐍𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 for the love of all things holy, do not copy or take inspiration, especially without permission. I put time and effort into everything I do on this blog so you just swooping in and stealing will push me to my limit, I will find you.

𝐍𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐀 i just don’t want drama 🧍‍♂️

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒/𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒 I’ll take requests but I’ll probably take a while to actually put it out so, if you’re impatient i am not the person to come to for requests. I do however, love to yap. talk to me about anything and everything. if you want you can even add my discord and we can be friends.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 almost anything but the things listed in the please avoid section.

𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐃 rape , illegal age gaps , necrophilia , vore , incest , age play , furries , fecal play , a/b/o