Get better Froggi!! You’re the biggest Wally fan Ive seen, we cant have the leader dying here💔
ah thank you babes 🥺🥺 lowk its been killing me to not write abt wally the past few days so maybe a quick wally drabble in between the neglect week stuff…
also a random drawing i did of wally w pikachu (pls be nice im still learning to draw 🥺)
Logan Howlett/Reader, 654 words -> cw: smut/18+only, reader has ambiguous genitalia
masterlist ao3 requests
Logan's a surprisingly tender lover. But sometimes, though—he feels the inclination to be mean. To force you to ride him, to sheathe yourself entirely on the length of his cock in a manner that makes you gasp in jagged breath, your legs spread over the width of his thighs.
To feel the pulse of your heart in between your legs as you struggle to rise against gravity with the might of your calves. To have your concentration fractured as he rolls his hips into you.
"Oh, Logan—"—You whimper as he chuckles around the cigar champed between his teeth. He's leisurely as he watches you squirm on his cock. Watches you lean back to grip the muscular flesh of his legs in your hands to adjust.
"Somethin' wrong, darlin'?" He asks, voice rugged and corrugated as he watches you with barely-restrained lust. "Can't take my cock?"
"No, I—"—You try to stall for clemency by speaking. But when his hips roll into you again, his cock drags against your walls in such vivid pleasure you can only make a keening moan. And he's of no help—his laugh is mean as he watches how you can barely handle him, as the embers illuminate him in sharp definition.
"Try harder, honey," he watches you as you try to adjust to the way he's filled you to the hilt, exertion beading at your temple, "Doesn't seem like you have it in you."
"I do," you begin to plead breathlessly, but your voice stutters as he takes a authoritative hand on your waist and bucks his hips up. And the jolt of electric sensation that rockets up your body is perfect, the air punched out of you as you feel deliciously full. You fall forwards and clutch onto the rasp of hair on his chest for balance—and a cruel chuckle thrums through you.
"Too hot to handle?" He taunts, to which all you can do is reply with a moan into the crook of his shoulder. "Guess I can help out."
Before you can voice your thanks, you hear him take a drag—feel the arterial plume of smoke that bathes you—and then the clasp of his hands on the ample flesh of your waist.
You don't have any time to react before he eases his way out of you—and then his hips snap into you with such immense force you can only make a strangled cry into the shell of his ear. And then he's off to the races, his hips thrusting into you with brutal strokes that have you choked for air, clutching onto him for dear life.
"Ah—ah—ah—"—Is all that you can cry out as the plap-plap-plap of his cock pumps into you. The slap of his thighs against yours as he fucks into you render you nonverbal. As he cracks a hand down the curve of your ass to complement the overwhelming pleasure with a bolt of pain.
"Logan—I can't—"—You whimper into his ear, but he's not listening. Both of you know that you can take it—his pace doesn't lessen as he grinds his cock into you.
Makes you take all of him as he spreads your cheeks open with the hungry clasp of his hands. Makes you wail as his cock sinks into that spot that has you muffling your moans into his shoulder.
"Logan, I'm gonna come," you beg, overstimulated, needy, weepy as you feel your orgasm begin to pool in the hollow of your abdomen. As you can feel the way his cock twitches at the inside of your walls, dragging tight in the way you like it.
"Good," he rasps back, "First one of the night."
All you can do is clench your thighs around him as you start to come—and wonder how long the night will go for you. It doesn't seem like it's stopping anytime soon.
froggers my friend and i have made a pact and now i have access to both a marvel unlimited subscription and and dc infinite one.
give me your best recs, i’m consuming all their content in my free time (also rereading anything i have already read because beside the last odd yeah i’ve been out of the comic book loop for a WHILE) :D
- morph
ooh hell yeah!! i’m not too sure what you’ve read but here are my all-time faves for both
(lowk ive been avoiding giving comic recs for like everrr because it feels like a trap idk 😭)
Marvel:
- Matt Fraction’s Hawkeye run (my FAVORITE)
- Claremont’s X-Men (this one is a lot…)
- All-New All-Different Avengers (2015)
- Young Avengers (2005) (i adored tommy shepherd as a kid)
- Ed Brubaker’s Winter Soldier
DC:
- Batman: Dark Patterns (this one is incredible)
- Mark Waid’s Flash (also a hefty reading order)
- Batgirl (2009) (esp read this if you love steph!)
- Hal Jordan & The Green Lantern Corps
- Flash (2023)
(i have more i could dm you but 😭 again im afraid of giving a proper rec list on here idk)
Helllooo I love ur writing ! Can you pretty please do Dick / Jason / Wally SMAU where the reader is really clumsy but like hella embarassed about it, so she’s always covering giant bruises and the boys think it’s something else and she has to come clean and admit she’s just clumsy
Thank youuu
where did that come from…
dick, jason, & wally x gn!reader
the boys ask you where your mysterious bruise(s) come from
content: established relationship with dick and wally, pre-relationship with jason, allusion to (assumed) abuse with jason, bruising, I kiiinda divulged from the ask (I'm sorry) and I realized after I made them but this flowed better in my brain, I hope you still enjoy!! <3
Summary: you help Jean-Paul when he can't fall asleep
Content/CW -> gn! reader, nightmares/insomnia, mentions of past violence
— requested as part of my neglect week event
froggi yaps -> okok i was sooo nervous to write this one and yet when i sat down to write it i found it went smoother than the booster gold one i was trying to write so :,) lowk i think i need to add him to my regular rotation bcs he's such a sweetheart
Even the rain gently pattering at your window isn’t enough to soothe Jean-Paul back to sleep.
He’s stiff as a board, sitting upright on the mattress next to you, his mind racing. You’re sound asleep next to him, comforter tugged up to your chin, blissfully unaware of the horrors he’s experiencing.
He should wake you up. He knows he should—you’d asked him to—and yet, he can’t. You’re too peaceful, too warm, too wrapped up in the cozy comfort of whatever it is you dream about every night. He wouldn’t dare disturb you, not for something as silly as this.
Still, the things he’s done as Azrael continue to plague him when he closes his eyes, blurry visions of gore burned into the backs of his retinas.
He swipes a few long, blond strands from his face and reaches to the nightstand to put his glasses back on. Squinting at the alarm clock on your nightstand, he cringes when he sees the time. Well past three in the morning.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, mind set on washing those few extra dishes you’d left in the sink before bed. He’s not getting sleep anytime soon, he might as well make himself useful.
He’s just about to stand, half of his weight already in the balls of his feet pressed against the floor, when he feels your soft touch on his wrist.
He glances at you over the shoulder, forcing a smile when he sees the sleep-ridden concern on your face. Your eyes are still half-closed, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Jean?” You yawn, “what time is it?”
“Late, sweetheart.”
You nod, tugging at his wrist, drawing him into you. He gives in, letting himself flop back into the mess of pillows and blankets, laid flat on his back next to you.
He frowns, “did I wake you?”
“Told you to wake me if you couldn’t sleep.”
The guilt sets in, a new weight over the already unbearable weight he carries every day. “I’m sorry.”
“S’fine,” you murmur, rolling over to lay on his chest.
He’s warm, chest radiating heat like the sword that plagues him. You press a hand against the bare skin of his stomach, snuggling close to him. Jean drapes an arm over your side, pulling you in.
“What was it tonight?” You ask.
“Same as usual,” he admits quietly. “Thinking about the things I—Azrael did.”
You look up at him through your lashes, tracing soft circles on his skin. Goosebumps raise where you drag your fingers, muscles relaxing beneath his skin.
You press a kiss to the side of his pec. “You’re not your past.”
“I know, it’s just—“
Sometimes the voice get so loud. Sometimes they roar at him in the dead of night until it’s all he can hear. Punish the guilty, be the avenging angel, seek vengeance.
“It’s too much,” he admits. “Some nights, it’s just too much, and the world is so quiet and—and my head is so loud.”
You prop yourself up on an arm to look at him properly. “What helps to quiet it?”
He pauses for a moment to think, remembering the techniques he’s used to get himself through nights much worse than this one. Nights before you were at his side, before the safety net that he finds in your arms came to be.
“Stories, mostly. About the Saints and other things.”
“Tell me one,” you say.
And he does. He starts to regale you with a story about a Saint you’ve never heard of, spouting off each detail like it’s second nature to him. The sound of his voice soothes you, has you relaxing back into his chest, your breathing steadying.
Telling you the story has him soothing himself, too. The voices aren’t so loud, the guilt doesn’t plague him as heavily, he doesn’t see the snapshots of violence behind his eyelids anymore.
Before he knows it, he’s reached the end of the story. You’re fast asleep on his chest, chest rising and falling rhythmically. He finds his own eyes feeling heavy for the first time tonight, sleep finally clasping his hand.
He brushes a thumb over your temple, “I love you so much.”
dc masterlist | navigation
thanks for reading & have a wonderful day /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
summary: Turns out you had met the Waynes well before meeting your husband.
pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader
tags and warning(s): Nothing as far as I'm aware, wrote this in an hour and I'm way too sleepy to proofread this. some info might not be accurate, Maybe OOC
word count:1.1k
dc mlist bruce wayne mlist
Bruce Wayne had a hollow pit in his heart that ached for the simple things in life, such as Jason picking up his call, dick staying the night at the manor, among others. But like everyone else, he wished for things that could never happen, like his parents alive and well beyond their early thirties, and meeting you, his wife.
But what if fate had other plans?
It's a random Tuesday as Bruce, and you stand in the middle of your grandfather's beloved attic. The wooden floors creak under your weight, dust particles moving in spirals as the early rays of sunshine flit through the glass panes of the dormer window. Your mother had asked for your help in cleaning your grandparents' place, and so you pulled in Bruce - offering him a break from his corporate duties, which he gladly agreed to.
"Wow, I did not realise my grandad hoarded so many things", you say, looking at the vast number of trinkets and boxes stacked along the walls on both sides of the attic. Each was well organised, with a label pasted on the top.
"Your grandad was a man of culture", Bruce chuckles, looking at the various band posters from the 40s and 50s. There were even autographs from some of them, neatly preserved.
Both of you got to work immediately, knowing it would be hours before everything was cleaned out. You had decided to split the work by concentrating on different ends of the triangular room.
Bruce had struck gold by ending up in the corner where your granddad had seemed to store much of the photo albums and cassettes, stacked on top of each other, labeled in detail about what the insides contained. It gave Bruce an insight to your family, a family from looking at the albums that had photos from back since your grandparents got married, having their daughter — your mother, to her getting married, and having you.
He had seen a lot of your photos since the early days of dating, but these were different. Your grandfather was an avid photographer, and Bruce could sense it through the varied angles and poses that he made everyone do.
"Having fun, huh?" you mumble, looking at Bruce as he suppresses a chuckle while looking at the pictures of you — a two-year-old, wearing a princess gown and a wand gripped tightly within your grubby fingers.
"You get stuck with the more fun part, while I have to dust some old documents", you grumble, looking at files and files of documents.
"Do you wanna exchange, sweetheart?"
"Nope," you say, emphasizing the 'p' as you shift to the next box, "Besides, I like hearing you laugh, even if it comes at the cost of my pictures"
An hour passes by.
You had finished four out of the twelve boxes. Heaving a sigh, you decide it's time for a well-deserved break. And what better to do than annoy your beautiful husband?
"Bruce, Brucie Wayne," you turn to look at him at the lack of any response "Bruce?"
Bruce doesn't answer, his broad back turned towards you. There is something different in the air from a few minutes ago, almost tinged with melancholic fragrance. You move towards, hoping to see what made him go so still, only to let out a gasp when you see it.
There you were, maybe five or six years old, wearing a large doctor's coat that reached well beyond your limbs, dragging onto the marble floor and a cute pink stethoscope around your neck. But that was not what made you gasp; it was the couple you were standing with in the photo.
Thomas and Martha Wayne.
Both of them were crouched next to you on either side. Thomas Wayne in his fitting black suit paired with a dark blue silk necktie embellished with motifs, while Martha Wayne wore a simple black silk dress paired with a blue plaid jacket.
There was a tiny piece of description below the photograph, a little shabby, like your grandpa wasn't sure what to write.
' Y/N & famous couple from Gotham (VHS #155)'
Bruce let out a laugh— loud but bittersweet. It made sense for your grandad to not know them, considering the only people he thought to be rich were the Queens.
You looked at Bruce, his eyes a little glazed as you cupped his face, fingers rubbing against the expanse of his cheek. Pressing a small kiss on his forehead, you whisper, "Shall we watch the VHS tape?"
He hums as you both try finding the exact tape among two hundred of them. Once retrieved, you dust the Toshiba VCR at the corner, pulling it slightly towards the center. You and Bruce try to get it to start since it probably hasn't been used in a while.
After a few minutes, the VCR lights up. Inserting the tape, you press play, and both of you stand back, Bruce's arm over your shoulder as you lay your head on his chest, arms wrapped around his waist.
The VCR displays a blue gradient before buzzing to a grainy film of you in a purple and pink frock , smiling widely at the camera. There's a lot of noise around you — people clapping , speeches being read as your grandad records the stage when Thomas Wayne was giving his speech. Bruce shifted a little, hand holding yours a little tighter, from hearing his father's voice after so many years.
The video then shifts to you, standing in front of the couple, wearing a pink stethoscope and a white coat a little too large for your frame. Martha Wayne smiles , a smile so radiant, before crouching down to her knees as she shakes your hand.
"Hi, there. What's your name?"
You say your name before letting out a giggle at her calling you beautiful.
"You want to be a doctor when you grow up?" She asks, hands pointing at the instrument hanging around your neck.
"Yes, ma'am. I want to be a heart doctor," you say, peering at the woman beside you. Thomas Wayne smiles before exchanging pleasantries with your grandfather.
"Oh, that's wonderful! You will be a great doctor one day, my dear."
And with that, the VHS comes to an end.
Bruce sniffles a little , his hands holding your waist, chin placed on top of your head. Silence fills the space along with the sounds of your nieces playing around the house. You don't know how long the both of you stayed like that, but it could have been forever, and you didn't mind at all.
Bruce is beyond happy. While it may not be visible to the naked eye, you could feel the joy emanating from the open crevices of grief and gaps of affection. He was happy that you —his wife, the love of his life — had met his parents. And they had gotten the chance to meet you.
Perhaps both of you really were soulmates.
A/N: Comments and Reblogs appreciated! Writing something for bruce after a long time.
꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ using her to blot your lipstick . . . natasha romanoff x fem!reader, fluff
You're sitting on the bathroom counter, carefully dragging lipstick across your lips. It's a rare night when the two of you can relax and doll up for a fancy dinner.
Well, you doll up.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Nat strapping a gun to her thigh, just above the slit in her dress. It's simple and sleek, the complete opposite of your look. You prefer going all out, layering colors and textures until everything looks like you've stepped out of a Fancy Nancy book.
Glancing back at your reflection, you study your lips. The deep red is too bold. It throws the whole look off.
"Nat—"
"No. We're going to be late," she cuts you off, stepping into her heels.
You pout. "You don't even know what I was gonna say."
Natasha eyes you in the mirror. Then she straightens and stalks over, heels clicking against the floor.
"You were going to ask if the lipstick is too bold." She steps between your legs, fingers tilting your chin up. "It's not."
"It is."
"Baby."
You cup her face and she leans closer like she can't help it. The thought that you could make her lose her control sends a giddy feeling through you.
You turn her head and press a kiss to her jaw, leaving a bright red mark behind.
She exhales through her nose. "Really?"
You admire it with a satisfied grin as her hands settle on your hips. "Done."
She lets her forehead fall against yours.
"Can we go now?" she asks.
You shake your head.
"What now?"
"I need a kiss."
"Of course you do." She mutters, but gives in anyway.
masterlist
wrote this on my phone in 20 mins so if it’s bad that’s why 😭 also i finally wrote my first natasha fic!!!
$ log - bucky barnes has been filing debrief reports on your shared missions since day one. thorough ones. he thinks he’d been private; instead you've been receiving every single one!
$ warn --sfw --fluff --cutie-jealous!bucky --bucky-has-a-crush
$ wc -w 2.1k
$ cd masterlist
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
The SHIELD debrief portal had a lot of options Bucky didn't care about.
CC, BCC, Priority flag. Read receipts, etc. He'd clicked through all of them once when Fury made the whole team migrate to the new system. He'd retained exactly what he needed: Subject line. Body. Attach file. Send.
BCC he'd figured out on his own. Blind carbon copy, so his copy. B for Bucky, obviously, the logic was airtight — you hit BCC, put your own address in, and you got a private duplicate that nobody else could see or trace. His personal record, similar to a filing cabinet that lived in his email.
What the portal's onboarding documentation would have explained, had he read it, was that BCC worked the other way. You put other addresses in BCC. Addresses you wanted to receive the email invisibly, without the main recipient knowing.
What the portal's backend had also done, automatically and without asking anyone, was flag your email address to receive copies of any SHIELD documentation in which your name appeared more than four times.
Bucky's reports averaged twelve.
He didn't know any of this. He hit send, opened his own BCC copy, read it over once with a quiet satisfaction of reviewing something he was privately proud of, and closed his laptop.
The first one arrived on a Tuesday.
You were in the common room with your phone, half-watching something on the TV and not really tracking it, when the notification came through. SHIELD internal. Debrief document, your name in the subject line, sender ID: AGT-J.B.BARNES-2245.
You read it once, then you read it again.
Asset demonstrated exceptional situational awareness during the extraction sequence. Threat neutralisation was efficient and tactically sound.
Of additional note: asset's decision to reroute through the east corridor rather than the designated path resulted in the successful retrieval of secondary intelligence that would otherwise have been lost. This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. Recommend continued field partnership.
This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. You put your phone face-down on your knee, then picked it up to read it again.
Nobody had ever put that in writing before.
You were smiling before you'd fully registered. It was the kind you had to press your lips together to keep reasonable, and you looked up at the TV without seeing it and thought, huh.
Across the room, Bucky watched your face do something he didn't have a word for and felt a pull in his chest he chose not to examine.
You were on your phone a lot. He'd noticed. But, he wasn't keeping track or anything. So, he looked back at his coffee.
The second report went out three weeks later, after the Rotterdam job.
Bucky wrote it the same night, still in the post-mission quiet when everything felt slower and more honest. You'd been good in Rotterdam. Better than good. You'd held a position under pressure that most people would have abandoned and you'd done it without being asked.
You hadn't mentioned it in the debrief at all, just moved on like it was nothing, and it was very much not nothing.
He wrote the report, and he did so carefully. He added a line he took out, then put back in, then reworded three times:
Asset shows consistent pattern of underreporting her own contributions in verbal debrief settings. For accuracy of record, this document reflects observed field performance rather than asset's own account, which trends toward omission.
He looked at that for a while. Then he hit send, BCC'd himself, and closed the laptop.
You got it during breakfast.
Sam watched you pick up your phone mid-bite, watched your expression shift into something soft and private and a little delighted. He watched you put the phone screen-down with the careful precision of someone protecting something.
"Good news?" Sam said.
"Mm." You picked your fork back up. "Just — yeah. Good news."
Sam looked at you. He then looked across the kitchen at Bucky, who was reading the newspaper with the focus of totally not listening into the conversation.
Sam looked back at you, but he said nothing. He was mentally storing all these signs.
Bucky noticed you were doing it more.
The phone thing and the quiet smile. The way you'd look up from whatever you were reading with this expression like something had settled right in you. Then you'd put it away carefully, like you were folding something you wanted to keep.
He'd assumed it was texts. Someone's texts. Someone who made you look like that on a random Thursday morning over coffee, and he sat with that for approximately forty-five seconds before deciding he didn't want to think about it anymore.
He opened his laptop that evening and pulled up the debrief for the Lisbon job. Standard stuff, you know, like routine retrieval.
Except you'd done this thing mid-mission where you'd talked down a civilian who was about to make everyone's life significantly harder, just calm and steady and completely unbothered. It had taken maybe ninety seconds and saved the whole operation two hours minimum. Nobody had commented on it. It was the kind of thing that disappeared into the noise.
He started typing.
He wrote the standard sections firstL objectives, timeline, outcome. Then he got to the additional notes field, which SHIELD technically used for anomalies and escalations, and which Bucky had been using for other things.
Asset's interpersonal management under pressure warrants specific notation. The civilian stabilisation in the market was executed without backup, without prior briefing, and without any apparent increase in the asset's stress response.
It is the opinion of this agent that this represents a skill set that is both rare and consistently undervalued.
He was adding a final line — something about recommended commendation, which he'd never put in a report before, and which he also chose not to examine — when the chair next to him scraped back and Steve sat down.
Bucky tilted the laptop slightly away, reflex.
"Working late?" Steve said.
"Report."
"Which one?"
"Lisbon."
Steve glanced at the screen anyway, as he had no sense of boundaries that Bucky hadn't explicitly built a wall around. He read exactly enough to go very still in the way that meant he was trying not to have a reaction.
"That's very thorough," Steve said.
"I'm a thorough person."
"You recommended a commendation."
"They earned it."
Steve opened his mouth, and Bucky closed the laptop.
"The report," Bucky said, "is classified."
"It's an internal debrief document —"
"Goodnight, Steve."
Steve stood up. He walked out of the room at a completely normal pace.
Steve found Sam in the gym the next morning. He looked up from the bench press, while Steve held out his phone. Sam read the screenshot — received at 11:43pm, the text reading just you need to see this with no other context — and set the bar back in the rack.
They looked at each other.
"Do they know?" Sam said.
"They don’t know."
"Does he know?"
Steve's expression answered that. Sam picked the bar back up. "We're not telling either of them."
"Absolutely not."
"This is the most entertaining thing that's happened in six months."
"I know."
"Your best friend is writing this person love letters and filing them with SHIELD."
"I know, Sam."
You'd started saving them.
Not in a folder or anything organised. Just — you hadn't deleted them. You'd read the Lisbon one four times. On the fourth read you'd hit the consistently undervalued line and had to put your phone in your pocket and go do something with your hands for a while.
Someone on the team was writing these. Had to be. The mission details were too specific, the access too internal. Someone who'd been in Rotterdam, in Lisbon, on the extraction job in February.
You were running the list in your head while you made coffee, not really tracking the room, when you said out loud: "Do you think it could be an analyst? Like someone in the documentation department who just — sees the same names a lot and —"
"No," said Bucky, from the table.
You turned around. He was eating cereal and looking at his phone. He didn't look up.
"I mean, it's possible though, right?" you said. "They review everything. They'd have context."
"Analysts don't do field commendations. That's agent-level sign-off." He turned his phone over. "Whoever it is has been in the field with you."
You stared at him. Nonchalantly, he ate his cereal.
"That," you said slowly, "is actually really helpful, thank you."
"It's a logical deduction."
You turned back to the coffee maker. You were smiling again. You could feel it.
Behind you, Bucky looked at the back of your head with the expression of a man who had just realised he might have a problem.
The fourth report was the one that got away from him.
It was after the Geneva job, which had gone sideways in three different directions and then come back together.
It was entirely because of a call you'd made that Bucky was still thinking about four days later. It wasn't even a dramatic call. That was the thing. It was quiet and fast and so precisely right that he'd had trouble focusing for the rest of the op.
He sat down to write the report and he wrote the standard sections and then he got to additional notes and he just — kept going.
He wrote about the Geneva call. He wrote about Rotterdam again, because he'd been thinking about it. He wrote:
This agent has now worked alongside asset in eleven field operations. Pattern of observation across this period leads to the following assessment: asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it.
This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.
Then, because Geneva had also produced something worth noting — genuinely, this part was professional — he added:
Of additional commendation: asset developed a partner communication system mid-mission, Geneva operation. Implemented in under thirty seconds, zero errors.
Examples: "wrong floor" for abort, "you owe me coffee" for stand down. Effective. Recommend standard adoption.
For the record, the coffee was never collected.
He read that back. He sent it before he could think about it differently. BCC: himself. B For Bucky. Private and safe.
You got it during movie night.
You felt your phone buzz, glanced at it, saw the sender ID, and made a decision in real time to read it right now that you would later question.
Asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it.
You made a very small sound that you hoped nobody heard. Sam definitely heard it.
This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.
You were smiling so hard your face hurt and you were staring at your phone like it had personally done something kind to you. You were going to need a moment, you were going to need just a —
You kept reading.
"Wrong floor" for abort. "You owe me coffee" for stand down.
You stopped smiling. You read that back.
Those were yours. The system you'd built in a Geneva stairwell in thirty seconds because you'd looked at Bucky and done the math on how the next hour was going to go.
You'd whispered the whole thing to him while checking the corridor and he'd said got it and that had been that. You hadn't written it down. You hadn't told debrief. Nor, had you mentioned it to anyone because it had felt like — it had just felt like a thing between the two of you.
For the record, the coffee was never collected.
He'd put that in a SHIELD report. You looked up.
Bucky was looking at the TV with his arms crossed, jaw slightly set. The specific stillness of someone who had decided in advance that they were going to look at the TV and they were going to keep looking no matter what.
You looked at him for a long moment, realisation configuring in your head. He didn't look back. You looked down at your phone, then back up at Bucky.
Sam looked at Steve, who just looked at the ceiling, avoiding any stray gazes. Nobody said a word.
You locked your phone, very carefully, and put it face-down on your knee. On screen, something exploded.
i think its funny how superman and superboy prime are literally the alternate versions of each other yet act so so differently
not even just from their behavior, but from the way they fuck too. and how did you know? well, probably because superboy prime was balls deep behind you while your hand was wrapped around superman’s cock
“ohhh baby, you’re a star” clark— superboy prime— moaned, his hands ruthlessly pulling your hips to make contact with his and his chin resting on your shoulder to whisper in your ear. “jerkin’ off superman and gettin’ fucked by superboy prime” a dazed smirk formed on his panting lips. “now that’s what i’d call an intro—"
a choked moan left him when he felt your pussy squeeze him. the pace was almost merciless, the speed and depth of his thrusts making lewd noises come out of your poor cunt. it pulled out an ah! ah! ah! and other soft sounds from your parted lips
meanwhile, clark — superman— was panting under you, his blue eyes blown and pinned on your boobs bouncing with each thrust as his hand was on top of yours, guiding you. your name left his lips in a moan, feeling your soft hand brush a vein on his cock just right it made his length twitch in your grasp
“just like that, honey” clark whined, his big chest heaving and his hand speeding. “god, you’re perfect” it was amusing, really— the great superman, now undone and at your mercy just by your touch
“look at him” clark— prime— whispered in your ear, his eyes on his alternate self. “look how ruined he is, all from your— hah— hand alone” his mouth went behind your ear to place an open-mouthed kiss with a chuckle. “and hear how well she’s takin’ me”
of course, he was talking about your pussy— the same one that was handling each and every inch of his cock, wet slaps and squelches heard
“clark i— ohhh my god, clark!” which one were you moaning about? probably both
and to add on to the stimulation you were already feeling, clark’s other hand slipped down to press on your clit with his thumb. the added pressure along with clark’s cock— prime— drilling in you made a loud moan leave your lips and your hips jolt as a response
but the large hands on your hips immediately pulled you back, holding you back in place. “ah ah” clark— prime— murmured, his hands sliding up to your boobs to squeeze and fondle with them, his pace not stopping for even a second. “not yet pretty girl, let me fill you up first”
could this be considered a threesome if you were fucking two alternate versions of the same person? yes and no, but who cares?
Summary: you help Jean-Paul when he can't fall asleep
Content/CW -> gn! reader, nightmares/insomnia, mentions of past violence
— requested as part of my neglect week event
froggi yaps -> okok i was sooo nervous to write this one and yet when i sat down to write it i found it went smoother than the booster gold one i was trying to write so :,) lowk i think i need to add him to my regular rotation bcs he's such a sweetheart
Even the rain gently pattering at your window isn’t enough to soothe Jean-Paul back to sleep.
He’s stiff as a board, sitting upright on the mattress next to you, his mind racing. You’re sound asleep next to him, comforter tugged up to your chin, blissfully unaware of the horrors he’s experiencing.
He should wake you up. He knows he should—you’d asked him to—and yet, he can’t. You’re too peaceful, too warm, too wrapped up in the cozy comfort of whatever it is you dream about every night. He wouldn’t dare disturb you, not for something as silly as this.
Still, the things he’s done as Azrael continue to plague him when he closes his eyes, blurry visions of gore burned into the backs of his retinas.
He swipes a few long, blond strands from his face and reaches to the nightstand to put his glasses back on. Squinting at the alarm clock on your nightstand, he cringes when he sees the time. Well past three in the morning.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, mind set on washing those few extra dishes you’d left in the sink before bed. He’s not getting sleep anytime soon, he might as well make himself useful.
He’s just about to stand, half of his weight already in the balls of his feet pressed against the floor, when he feels your soft touch on his wrist.
He glances at you over the shoulder, forcing a smile when he sees the sleep-ridden concern on your face. Your eyes are still half-closed, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Jean?” You yawn, “what time is it?”
“Late, sweetheart.”
You nod, tugging at his wrist, drawing him into you. He gives in, letting himself flop back into the mess of pillows and blankets, laid flat on his back next to you.
He frowns, “did I wake you?”
“Told you to wake me if you couldn’t sleep.”
The guilt sets in, a new weight over the already unbearable weight he carries every day. “I’m sorry.”
“S’fine,” you murmur, rolling over to lay on his chest.
He’s warm, chest radiating heat like the sword that plagues him. You press a hand against the bare skin of his stomach, snuggling close to him. Jean drapes an arm over your side, pulling you in.
“What was it tonight?” You ask.
“Same as usual,” he admits quietly. “Thinking about the things I—Azrael did.”
You look up at him through your lashes, tracing soft circles on his skin. Goosebumps raise where you drag your fingers, muscles relaxing beneath his skin.
You press a kiss to the side of his pec. “You’re not your past.”
“I know, it’s just—“
Sometimes the voice get so loud. Sometimes they roar at him in the dead of night until it’s all he can hear. Punish the guilty, be the avenging angel, seek vengeance.
“It’s too much,” he admits. “Some nights, it’s just too much, and the world is so quiet and—and my head is so loud.”
You prop yourself up on an arm to look at him properly. “What helps to quiet it?”
He pauses for a moment to think, remembering the techniques he’s used to get himself through nights much worse than this one. Nights before you were at his side, before the safety net that he finds in your arms came to be.
“Stories, mostly. About the Saints and other things.”
“Tell me one,” you say.
And he does. He starts to regale you with a story about a Saint you’ve never heard of, spouting off each detail like it’s second nature to him. The sound of his voice soothes you, has you relaxing back into his chest, your breathing steadying.
Telling you the story has him soothing himself, too. The voices aren’t so loud, the guilt doesn’t plague him as heavily, he doesn’t see the snapshots of violence behind his eyelids anymore.
Before he knows it, he’s reached the end of the story. You’re fast asleep on his chest, chest rising and falling rhythmically. He finds his own eyes feeling heavy for the first time tonight, sleep finally clasping his hand.
He brushes a thumb over your temple, “I love you so much.”
dc masterlist | navigation
thanks for reading & have a wonderful day /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
Or: Clark returns after a seemingly never-ending mission with the Justice League
Warnings: Not really, a little angsty at the beginning but only because you miss / are worried about Clark. Pure fluff after. — NOT PROOFREADING DONE
Morph's thoughts: Hadn't done one of these for Clark yet so here it is, I'm thinking weather i should do masterlist by charters now that i have one of each recurring character or wait a bit until there's a bigger collection — Also, I'm preparing a little series of fics that i hope to get out before June ends, if i don't please pretend i did. Thank you.
It had been an exhausting two weeks. You'd been woken up by Clark in the middle of the night, now fifteen days ago, brain still too sluggish to fully comprehend all the information he was throwing at you while getting his Superman suit on. Still, you had caught enough of it, something about a Justice League emergency, some intergalactic things going on that required his help. All you'd managed was to nod along to his words, getting out a quick request for him to be safe and make it home to you before he'd pressed a soft kiss to your lips before disappearing though the bedroom's window.
When your alarm had woken you up the next morning, eyes opening to find his empty pillow instead of his usual sleepy smile, it had dawned on you. It hadn't been a weird dream, Clark had really left for a mission that you had no idea how long could last.
Still, you'd avoided dwelling on it for too long, taking a shower and getting ready for the day, mentally reassuring yourself that it would go by quickly. After all he hadn't gone on his own.
That strategy had worked for about three days, where you'd been busy enough with work and meeting friends and family to not think about it too hard. But when the weekend had arrived —and just your luck, it being one of the very sparse rainy weekends in Metropolis— you'd found yourself spending most of your time in a too-quiet apartment.
This is what you hated the most about this kind of mission, how lonely it felt without Clark around. If he was somewhere on Earth, even if he was gone for days at a time, he'd always sneak in a call or a message, something quick to check in. However, the moment he had to go into space all forms of communication got cut, even the coms system Oracle had given you that one time your phone had been compromised by Luthor.
From then on the days had dragged on by, the hours at work feeling long, but those spent alone in your apartment feeling longer. By the week and a half mark you'd started to space out your meetings with friends, clearly none of your non-super friends knew about your boyfriends identity so your worry over his "work trip" had started to rise questions about the well-being of your relationship. And your mutual friends that knew of Superman, well, they were preoccupied with the same intergalactic-level threat as Clark.
The best way you'd found to distract yourself was to have something playing on pretty much all hours of day. Like right now. It was bit sad, spending a Friday night cooped in while eating takeout from the Chinese restaurant down the street —one you'd have to avoid for a bit after Clark got back, given that they had greeted you by name as soon as they'd picked up your call— in an old pair of your boyfriend's pyjamas while watching some kid's movie that was playing on TV.
It's not that the plan itself was a bad thing; however the fact that your usual Friday night would entail either date night with Clark or a couple of drinks with Lois and Jimmy added to how frequent the take out and random movie combo had been just in the last week, did make you feel a little extra bad tonight.
Pitying yourself a little too much, you'd set down the chow mein container, getting up from the couch and shuffling your way into the kitchen for a much needed glass of wine.
The task of finding the bottle opener and managing to take the cork out had been arduous enough after the last two weeks that you hadn't heard the balcony door squeak open. What you had undoubtedly recognised though was the sound of Clark's voice calling out your name from the living room.
In an instant the half-filled glass of wine had been completely forgotten as you run back into the room, jumping into your boyfriend's awaiting arms. Not caring about the dust and grime clinging to his face and suit, you hold onto him like a koala, pressing kisses all over his face.
He laughs as his arms wrap around you, tight, and gods how you've missed that sound. It makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, like you've laid down in a sunny spot after a long day at the beach. You only stop your rain of kisses when one of his hands moves to cup your cheek —the other arm easily holding you up— guiding your lips to his.
"I'm back," he murmurs softly, lips brushing against yours with every words. "In one piece, just like i promised." He steals your breath with another kiss, and then another. Your forehead rests against his while the two of you focus on catching your breath. Your eyes lost in his blue ones when he steals one more little peck. "I'm home, baby."
