[inkievoid]

Inkie • 30 • Genderfluid • Queer • Anti Censorship • Dead Dove Enjoyer

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[twentytomidnight]

tagged by the lovely @splodencible to provide 6 non-selfies from my camera roll so uhhhhhh

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[inkievoid]

:))))) Tysm for the tag!

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[twentytomidnight]

they're the boss

Bruce Wayne/Reader, Lobo/Reader, Miguel O’Hara/Reader, Wade Wilson/Reader, 2.6K

a/n: fun request that beloved mutual @inkievoid dropped my way hehe :)

cw: reader is in charge and everyone knows it, possessiveness on both Lobo and Miguel’s parts (reader is into it), gn!reader

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PREVIEW:

Everyone knows who’s in charge between the two of you. And you like it that way. DC/Reader, Marvel/Reader

Bruce Wayne

To watch the way that Bruce takes defined repose amongst the gargoyles that delineate the upper echelons of the skyscraper they all cling to: he is magnificent.

Domineering in posture, intimidating in mien, with chiseled jaw and defined anatomy that has been gained through lifetime of hard-earned work.

“Fearless leader,” Dick says from besides him in calm recline on the edge. How very languorous he appears as he sways one leg over the ledge—death-defying heights have been old hat for him for some time now.

Bruce doesn’t respond. But Dick has accrued excellent skill to comprehend the hieroglyphics of his body language. So Dick continues into the silence subtly undercut by the ambience of a world teeming with life and soft-suffused light below, bathed in the chill of an unending night.

“Thinkin’ about hittin’ the hay anytime soon?” He asks—Dick has been none-too-subtle about eyeing the clock tower that looms in towering monolith within eyesight across the city skyline. The very one that determines that the time is closer to three than he would appreciate.

“We’ve only done one sweep of the city,” Bruce answers in rather unyielding, characteristic fashion. “It’s not sunrise yet.”

Dick knows better than to voice his opinion on that observation. So, perhaps it is divine providence that the chime of a familiar intercom beeps in the confines of Bruce’s cowl.

It’s a noise that Dick knows as well as he does the pulse of his own heartbeat shuttering in the real estate of his ribs—Bruce even more by intimate degrees.

It means that you’re calling. Dick provides excellent imitation of the gargoyle sitting besides him as he does his best to pretend he isn’t desperately eavesdropping on the muted din of your voice on the other end. Bruce raises the trigger finger to his ear that allows the dam to come cresting through.

“Bruce, it’s too late. You need to come home.” Dick strains to hear the dulcet tones of your voice in saccharine delivery. You aren’t mad: yet.

“We’ve finished one circuit of the downtown district,” Bruce returns in low timbre. But Dick knows the precarious thin ice that he operates upon—and knows what to expect from you in reply.

“Bruce, I’ve been tracking yours and Dick’s location for the past four hours. You two have been as thorough as you possibly can.” There’s a nuance of steel that is communicated in the advance of your argument, something lost in the patience you speak cadence with.

Bruce is no more than marble etching upon the ledge. Dick pretends that the loose thread on his glove is far more interesting than whatever is being spoken with soft threat into the shell of Bruce’s ear.

“Jace and Cass will be going out in half an hour—they don’t need you to double up with them.” Your voice speaks with logical reasoning, without erring in pico-decibel: you don’t need to assert volume of tone when your argument holds water to his.

Bruce’s voice does not err in retort—but there is a weakening as he replies. “It’s been a quieter night than most.”

Dick has to press the heel of his palm into his mouth and pantomime a sneeze.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come home. I don’t want to go to sleep in an empty bed, Bruce.” Comes a reply that is more plaintive in plea: the final death-stroke—appealing to a man’s empathy.

And surely not even the Bat is infallible to his spouse making plea for his presence in warming their marital bed.

Dick holds his breath. The silence makes endured duration measured in the gravity that it settles on his shoulders, his heartbeat.

“We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Bruce says in that infallible voice. But Dick knows a beaten man when he sees one.

“You better be. I’m not going to fall asleep waiting for you.” Loving but bearing an undercurrent of aggression waiting to be tested. The line crackles with a quiet burst of static and Bruce is left standing, regarding the city skyline he has spent a lifetime protecting.

“Let’s go back,” He tells Dick with the monotony that one resigned to their fate does. Dick tries his best to conceal his smile and fails miserably.

“Thought we were staying out later,” Dick responds, to which he receives a scowl akin to the glacial shelf splintering for his troubles. He can wade further in dangerous waters than others can: but even so, there’s only one person who can go for a swim in them.

And Dick knows that that person is at home, curled up in the office chair in the Cave, waiting for their husband to come back to them. They should all be so lucky.

Lobo

No one else understands, truly. It’s an odd thing, to see you, dwarfed nearly double in the way that he towers over you. It’s not that he operates with gentility around you, nor that he is of more gentlemanly, chivalrous quality. But he is, for lack of better word—tolerable.

Much as he is with you seated on the spread of those massive thighs, scratching the barrel of his revolver idly against the stubble of his jaw. Watching the league who views him with open disdain as he runs idle finger down the meter of your shoulder.

“So who you want fragged?” Lobo asks, working his thumb into the nuance of your skin, a self-soothing motion that you lean into. How very like a doll you look, seated upon him like some trophy of past hunt.

Clark sighs silently through his nose, using the remainder of his patience to proceed. “Not fragged, captured.”

Lobo makes a shrug that lifts you with the flex of that great muscle that you’ve taken residence upon, a note of indifference carried in his grunt. “Same difference. Money spends all the same.”

Diana decides to take the torch for Clark on this one, crossing her arms over the span of her chest. “You’re getting immunity for this one. Not money.”

It’s here the bear is successfully poked—Lobo rears forward with subdued outrage spelled on his lips. His hand tucks around you to keep you stable as he takes advancement towards the League.

“Immunity?” He spits out the word like the anathema that he views it to be. “Thought the credits were part of the deal.”

It’s clear that something is burgeoning if someone doesn’t make mollifying statement. And this is where you come in, turning topside to rub a hand on the underside of his jaw, your voice drawing through the miasma of fury roiling on the horizon.

“But if you’re pardoned—”—You make defense for the point, your words level, unhurried.

To Clark’s surprise, Lobo seems to deflate in tick of shoulders as he takes reckoning of your words—“—No one can do a thing until you make another crime. So you get a grace period, honey.”

Lobo weighs the gravity of your argument, considering the virtue of this. Letting reasoning weigh out over knee-jerk reaction. And then: he settles, letting the heft of his body, and you with it, angle back into recline.

“Hmmmm. Alright.” He amends his mood after great interval of thought. His hand works into your cheek, worrying at the sink of the skin to let himself reintroduce his touch to your body.

“So, uh, when’s that go into effect?” Lobo asks through his teeth.

Clark recovers. “Once you bring back the prisoner.”

“Yeah.” Lobo nods in affirmative; a slick grin crosses his mouth. “It matter if they’re missing a limb or two?”

You take point on this one, piping up with careful directive. “Probably does, honey.”

“Ahhh. You justice league fucks are boring.” Lobo’s head rolls on broken swivel as he flexes the tendons of that column of neck.

“Whatever—”—He rises to his feet, not even seeing necessity to let you be relegated to the ground. Up you go in princess carry, one-handed, with such ease and such comfort—you’re exactly where you want to be. Where he wants you to be.

“See you idiots in a few days.” Lobo makes by means of farewell—and departs with you in tow, smiling with cheerful wave goodbye. No one exhales in relief until you both are gone.

It's probably for the best that he always brings you along on these little social calls.

Miguel O’Hara

Miguel stands before the obelisk of information relayed in milliseconds—a flurry of realities that have yet to be comprehended by any but he.

The vortex of information so vast and multitudinous but his to perceive alone, made easier in the translation by the time that he’s spent in the deluge—his to command. His to protect. His to control.

The hours are demarcated by the noise that ebbs and flows from distant hallways. They indicate the patrols that have returned from missions he has organized, rescues he has arranged, acceptances that he has dedicated to the roster.

All his to make mastery over: but still nothing is perfect. Nothing must be left unattended so long as an iota of detail is left out of place.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Comes a voice so dedicated to the sanctity of his memory he can conjure conversations without needing hear the source. He keeps his eyes trained on a strain of information so fluted in passage that he delays response to better decipher it.

“Miguel,” You warn—he is working your patience. It’s something that you permit to a point, which necessitates that he must speak. And in providing an answer, he becomes aware of his other faculties returning to him.

The scent of your body which is his alone to taste. The shudder of breath returning to you in normal meter, disrupted in homeostasis by the mission he directed you to. The smell of fresh, baked dough that barely restrains the fresh aroma of meat.

“I don’t need to eat,” Miguel returns in passive response, which is answer enough. He continues to scroll through screens that dictate avenues yet unexplored.

And a hand that he has felt on every inch of his body makes slow, unhurried journey up the slope of his arm, searching for the Miguel that shares a bed with you. The Miguel that knows you deserve more than dismissive shoulder.

This is why he turns the arc of his gaze away from the screen, so that radiant afterimage winks in his vision, framing you in beatific display of light. Marking you as the heavenly body he does not deserve, come bearing gifts to his humble altar.

“You need to eat,” You offer in determined gentility—and because he has made mistake of directing his body to you, making himself exposed—you go in advancing offense.

He does nothing to stop the journey of your hallowed form into his lap, the muscle of your thighs working around the great span of his.

You are a shape that he takes into detailed worship on instinct; the rough underside of his hands navigating down the flush of your hips. His broad fingers clenching in proprietary nature: you are his and it is uncontested even by you, who works yourself against the plateau of his chest.

But he cannot claim the privilege of your mouth slotted against his. Not until he acknowledges what you press with the encroach of your knuckles against him. His eyes dare briefest of glances to what lies in your hand on unassuming plate.

“Pupusas?” He asks in inquiry. His brow is moved in inquisitive arc, and you smile.

“So you do have object permanence,” You joke in manner only you may do so. He accepts your gift without removing the press of his stare from you. The other hand he works around your waist compensates for what he must sacrifice.

“How else would I keep you in here?” He asks—and here carries multitudes, as does everything for him. In work, in collegial bearings—in the twisted sheets he keeps you pleased in. You finally reward him with a genuine grin.

“You don’t need to try,” You reassure him of a truth he always needs to hear again. “But you do need to eat.”

Your arms work around the impressive schooling of those shoulders that are less-resistant by degrees to your touch. Your forehead presses against his as he drinks in appraisal of you like a starved man.

“So eat, Miguel,” You order him, “Then you can have the main course later.”

And he becomes poignantly aware of the pulse that thrums in the column of your neck: his as well. And because Miguel knows the exchange of quid pro quo: for you alone, he obeys.

Wade Wilson

Logan uses the operative term ‘handler',’ while Cable has adopted the phrase ‘caretaker.’ It’s of assumption that either would be excellent term to explain the categorization of your relationship. But it always comes into excellent demonstration whenever the two of you are tasked into collaborating with other people.

Though perhaps Peter would better describe this as ‘foisted into unnecessary circumstances.’ After all, he needs a sharpshooter, and he needs backup. And this is where the two of you come in.

“Aren’t they, just like,” Wade says as he takes near perch on Peter’s elbow, overwhelmed with ebullient glee, “Just so cool when they post up like that?”

Peter would agree if it wasn’t perhaps the approximate 84738292nd time that he had seen you knelt over the ledge, sniper rifle held in the firm housing of your arms. Watched the way that your eye squinted into scope that perhaps was not even necessary, save for reassurance for Peter’s sake.

“Yes, Wade,” Peter agrees in rather resigned notion, “They are.”

“Just you wait, Spider-Manling,” Wade coos into Peter’s ear, mask doing little to disguise the spittle that is currently splattered on the interior of his cowl, “One day you’ll get to wear the big boy pants and have a partner like mine.”

“Uh-huh, Wade,” Peter says. The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man considers how long it would take for Wade to dissolve the webbing if he pinned him to the concrete ground right now. “I can only hope.”

“Just make sure they have some type of survival skill on hand,” Wade chirrups with oblivious devotion, “Wouldn’t want them to be a liability in the old cape-crusading endeavors—”

Peter doesn’t usually weigh the virtue of manslaughter, but thankfully, this is where you speak up. The diction of your voice is both restrained and layered in a patience that seems near effortless—and with nary a degree of vexation.

“Leave the nice spiderling alone, Wade,” you direct as you trail the barrel of the rifle in refined arc, “And come over here and rub my shoulders.”

“Your wish is my command, my liege,” Wade instantly releases Peter from the crushing grip of what he qualifies as embrace. It’s almost as if there is cartoonish silhouette of smoke where a Deadpool once stood.

He crouches behind you with such diligent airs, fingers pirouetting as he warms up for the attack—and slides Peter a conspiratorial look that Peter perhaps wishes he could’ve gone without.

“That’s my sniper main,” Wade croons, working his knuckles into the slope of your shoulders, “Gonna tranq the baddies Spider-Man needs you to bag, you’re so cool—”

“Just like my man,” you say back without any errant disruption of your expression—but the sincerity layered in your voice is without question. Peter can only marvel as Wade makes rather coquettish giggle, and continues to make diligent craft of massage into the seized knots of your shoulders.

“I don’t get it,” Peter mutters. But he stares—and admires the besotted Wade Wilson—all the same.

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[inkievoid]

Masterpiece as always pookie, Tysm for the good read 🩷

[biglychee]

no request intended by the post from yesterday, but since u got me here………….

Bucky trying to woo reader with all manner of beautiful gestures and whatnot until finding out the best and quickest way to their heart is through a nice fuck

perhaps……….perhaps……..

(@twentytomidnight) 👹👹👹

Lessons in Charmin' Dames

$ log - bucky barnes has exhausted every trick in brooklyn and you're still unmoved. you've just got a different idea of what constitutes a good time.  $ warn --nsfw --dom!afab!reader --sub!bucky --1940s --cowgirl --p-in-v --edging --praise --worship --condescending-talk --clit-play --begging --facesitting(brief mention)--impact-play(mild) --dumbification $ wc -w 2.8k $ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes $ echo "little present for the shout-out 😛" > authors-note.txt

Bucky has always been good with dames. Not good the way some fellas are good — all clumsy hands, too much cologne and the kind of compliment that sounds like it was rehearsed in a bathroom mirror — but good good. It’s like the kind that looks like it isn't even trying because the trying happened so long ago it's muscle memory now.

He's got the smile, the timing, and even the lean. He's got the voice he drops half a register when he wants something and the voice he drops a full register when he's gonna get it.

He has never once in his life had to wonder whether a girl liked him back, because by the time he's wondering, she's already said yes.

So when he sees you at the bar on base, laughing at something one of the girls from the typing pool said, head thrown back and throat moving and your whole body committed to it like laughing is a sport you're good at — well, Christ on a cracker, what's a fella supposed to do? Not try? He's Bucky Barnes. Trying is the whole goddamn act.

The problem is you don't seem to know your lines.

0001 — the drink

He sends a French 75 your way on a Friday night, because that has never not worked. He's had dames accept it with a blush, accept it with a wink, accept it with a slow drag of their eyes that meant neither of them was making it home at a reasonable hour. The drink is the opener; it does the talking so he doesn't have to.

You look at the glass. You look past it at Bucky posted up at the far end of the bar, jaw turned just so, shoulders doing the whole campaign — and you slide it right back across the wood.

"I don't like gin."

"It ain't gin, sweetheart, it's a French 75."

"So it's gin in a nice dress."

"It's a gesture —"

"It's gin," you say, already back to your beer like the conversation's had a funeral and you're the only one who attended.

Steve, somewhere behind him, makes a noise like a man who's been waiting his whole sorry life for this exact moment.

0010 — the walk

He catches you after the pictures on a Saturday.

He falls into step with the ease of a fella who timed this casually enough that it doesn't look timed — which means he absolutely timed it down to the goddamn second.

"Walkin' home? I'll go with you."

"It's four blocks, Barnes."

"Could be rough out there."

"It's four blocks. The sun's still up."

"A gal doesn't know what's lurkin' around —"

"Barnes." You stop walking.

You give him a look that ain't mean, exactly, but so profoundly unimpressed it might as well have come notarised. "Mrs. Peppers is out on the corner waterin' her hydrangeas and she's got eyes like a hawk and a broom she ain't afraid to use. I think I'll survive."

He walks with you anyway, because retreat ain't in his vocabulary. Plus, he's too proud to let a no look like a no.

He talks about the picture, and so do you. It's perfectly pleasant, completely friendly. When you get to your building you say "Thanks, Barnes, that was nice" with the same warmth you'd give the fella who delivers the ice, before shutting the door.

He stands on the stoop a second too long.

"She said nice," he tells Steve later, like he's reporting a casualty.

"That's good, Buck."

"Nice is what you call your landlady's meatloaf, Steve. Nice is what you say about the weather. She said it like I was a — a bus timetable. Like I run on schedule and that's the best thing about me."

0011 — the flowers

The flowers are a last resort, which stings. Flowers are supposed to be a first resort and the fact that he's looped all the way back around to them means the playbook's running thin.

He picks them carefully.

Not roses — too obvious, and he's starting to suspect you can smell obvious on him like cheap aftershave.

Not carnations — too dime-store, and you seem to clock every single thing he does with the quiet precision of a dame keeping a private tally she ain't ever gonna show him.

He goes with dahlias, because the old broad at the flower cart says they mean "good taste," and at this point he needs every ounce of subliminal help the Lord is willing to lend.

You open the door and you see the flowers. Something moves across your face — not annoyance, but not the dewy, weak-kneed, oh-Bucky-you-shouldn't-have he's been rehearsing in his head for the last three blocks, either.

"Those are real pretty," you say, and you take them. Then you do something that throws him worse than any rejection has — you lean on the doorframe and look at him. But, not at the jaw, the shoulders or even at the whole polished routine.

You’re staring straight at him. Slow, up, down, and then up again. It’s like you’re taking inventory, finally seeing something on the shelf worth pricing.

"You know what, Barnes," you say, "you're far more intriguin' than the other fellas who've come knockin'."

Not charming, nor handsome. Not any of the words he's heard a hundred times from a hundred dames who were already halfway to yes before he opened his mouth. Intriguing. Like he's a book you've decided might be worth crackin' open after all — but only 'cause you caught a line on the back cover you didn't expect.

He floats the whole way home.

"She said I was intriguin'," he tells Steve, sprawled in the chair like a man who's just discovered religion. "Not handsome or sweet. Intriguin'."

"Buck, you've been buyin' this girl drinks and walkin' her home and showin' up with flowers for weeks, and the thing that works is just — standin' there?"

"I wasn't just standin' there, I was—" He stops and reconsiders. "Alright, yeah, I was just standin' there."

Steve shakes his head, half amazed and half like he's watching someone win a boxing match by tripping into the other fella. "Bucky Barnes. The smoothest guy in Brooklyn. And all you had to do was stop bein' smooth."

"That ain't even the best part."

Steve looks up.

"She invited me round to her place," Bucky says, real casual, like he's mentioning the weather and not the single most significant development of his entire goddamn year. "Thursday."

Steve stares at him. "To her place."

"To her place."

"What happened to nice? What happened to bein' a bus timetable?"

Bucky grins — not the charming one, or the one he puts on at dance halls, but the real stupid one that makes him look boyish and completely, dangerously hopeful. "Guess she changed the schedule."

The bedroom was thick with the scent of sweat, musk, and the fading sweetness of the cologne Bucky had worn earlier that evening — a cologne he had hoped would impress you. Now, it served only as a reminder of how thoroughly his attempts at courtship had failed. He had brought flowers; you wanted his hands on your hips. He had brought sonnets; you wanted him breathless and broken.

And broken you had made him.

Bucky lay sprawled across your soft sheets, his chest heaving as if he had just run five miles through Brooklyn. His pupils were blown wide, dark pools of need that swallowed the dim lamplight. His fingers dug into your hips, not with the gentle touch of a suitor, but with the desperate grip of a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

You leaned down, your figure cascading like a silk curtain around his eyeline, trapping the heat between you. "See, isn't this better than flirting after me, James?" you cooed, your voice a honeyed venom.

 You traced the sharp line of his jaw with your thumb before delivering a sharp, stinging slap to his cheek just enough to make his head snap to the side.

"Ah, yes — " he whimpered, the sound breaking off into a strangled mess of your name. 

His composure, that polished Brooklyn charm he wore like armour, had completely shattered. He could only nod dumbly, his hands trembling violently where they rested on your waist. In fact, he had fantasised about claiming you properly, but he hadn't prepared for this level of torment.

Your pussy was clenching around his cock so tightly he felt like he might combust. Every time you ground your hips down, milking him with that relentless, rhythmic pressure, his brain short circuited. He was a soldier, a man who had faced down danger without flinching, but here, beneath you, he was utterly powerless.

"You don't ever refer to a dame by her name, James. Where are your manners?" you teased, your voice dripping with sweet cruelty.

You leaned down to nip at his earlobe before deliberately slowing your pace, letting the friction die down to a torturous crawl.

"M'sorry, doll," he choked out, the endearment slipping past his lips like a prayer. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking the friction you had just withdrawn. "Please, I — ”

"That's better," you purred, your lips brushing against his temple as you felt him shudder beneath you. "Keep calling me that, James."

He nodded furiously, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, like a marionette whose strings were being pulled by a capricious god. "Yes, doll yes, anything, doll —" he stammered, his voice thick with desperation. "I've learned — God, I've learned my lesson — No more flirts, no more nonsense. Just this, just you."

The admission made you smile, a slow, dangerous expression that made his heart falter in his throat.

"You're doing alright, James, but you're still missing the mark," you whispered, your voice dripping with venomous sweetness. You reached down, seizing one of his large, shaking palms and guiding it between your thighs. His skin was hot, his pulse hammering against your fingertips as you pressed his fingers directly against your swollen clit.

At the same time, you deliberately angled your hips, grinding down hard until his cock prodded directly against your G-spot. The sensation sent a lightning bolt of pleasure through you, forcing a long, delicious moan from your throat.

"Mmm... ahh..." you keened, the sound vibrating through both your bodies. "If you can flirt and talk sweet enough to charm half of Brooklyn, James, surely you can learn how to work a clit properly."

Bucky's ears turned a vivid, humiliated pink. "I — I'm trying, doll, I swear — I'm trying," he blubbered, his fingers fumbling against your slick nerves. He was working so hard his entire frame was quaking, his knuckles white as he tried to find the perfect rhythm you demanded.

But every time he thought he had it, you would shift, changing the angle, changing the pressure, keeping him off balance and perpetually desperate.

The friction of your pussy was unbearable; it felt like it was strangling his cock, milking every drop of sensation from him while refusing to give him any release.

His hips bucked involuntarily, his cock twitching violently inside you as he teetered on the edge of a catastrophic release. "Please, doll please, I'm gonna — "

"You're going to do nothing but work for me, James," you cut him off sharply, grinding down one more time to send him spiralling before abruptly pulling away, leaving him impaled in empty air. "A real dapper fella doesn't go off like a firecracker before his lady has had her fill. He holds her. He stays steady. He makes sure she gets what she came for."

"I know, I know, m'sorry, doll," he gasped, his voice cracking as he stared up at you with eyes that were completely glazed and unfocused. He looked pathetic, a broken soldier undone by a single command. "I'll do it. Just — don't stop — please don't stop."

"Then prove it," you commanded, leaning down to whisper against his lips, your breath hot and demanding against his mouth. "Show me exactly how much of a gentleman you can be when you're desperate to please."

Bucky let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a growl, his fingers finally finding the rhythm you demanded. He worked your clit with a frantic, reverent intensity, his large hand dwarfing your sensitive flesh. His eyes never left yours, fixed on your face as if he needed to witness every micro expression of your pleasure to know he was succeeding.

"That's it, doll, that's it," he whined, his voice cracking. "I got you. I'm gonna get you there. Just tell me I'm doing good — please, doll, tell me I'm doing good."

You let out a sharp cry as the friction built to an unbearable crescendo. Your pussy convulsed around him in rhythmic waves, milking his cock with such a pace that Bucky let out a strangled, broken noise, his hips jerking upward involuntarily.

His entire body stiffened, his muscles locking as he fought the overwhelming urge to spill inside you. He was right on the precipice of surrender, his eyes rolling back in his head as your orgasm washed over him in waves of heat and tightness.

"That's it — oh god, doll, you're so good — " he panted, his voice reduced to a desperate whisper.

His fingers worked with a feverish, clumsy precision, terrified that if he faltered for even a second, he would lose you. He watched with undisguised worship as your expression shattered, your head falling back as you rode out the peak of your orgasm, your walls clamping down on him like a constricting vice.

He was shaking so hard he could barely breathe, his chest cavity rattling with each desperate, shallow inhale. He watched you with something approaching religious fervour as you came apart beneath him, his own cock throbbing painfully inside your slick, convulsing heat.

The pressure was excruciating; he felt like a dam about to burst, every nerve ending screaming for the release you so cruelly withheld.

"There you go, doll," he whimpered, his voice scarcely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing. His fingers didn't falter despite his agony, continuing to stroke you with a reverent, unsteady rhythm as you began to come down from your peak.

You sank down onto him slowly, your hips rolling in a lazy, torturous circle that made Bucky whimper and arch his back off the mattress. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it, James?" you teased, wiping a stray tear of pleasure from your eye before smearing it across his flushed cheek.

"Please, please," Bucky finally cracked, his voice small and hollow — stripped of every ounce of the confident Brooklyn soldier he pretended to be. His hips gave one last, pathetic twitch against yours, seeking a friction that you refused to grant. "Doll, please, can I cum now? Jus’ this once?"

A melodic, cruel laugh bubbled up from your throat, echoing in the quiet room. "You? Orgasm now?" you repeated, tilting your head as if his request were the most absurd thing you'd ever heard. "After all that hard work, James?"

You reached down, patting his flushed, sweat slicked jaw as if it were a poor pup’s maw. "I haven't decided if you've earned it yet."

You leaned closer, your lips hovering just shy of his, close enough that you could taste his little whines.

"Besides, I was wondering something while you were busy playing nursemaid…" Your smile turned sharp, hungry. "Does that mouth of yours work just as well as those stupid flirts you're always spouting? Or is all that charm reserved for sweet talk?"

Bucky's eyes fluttered shut, a broken sound escaping his throat. "Anything you want, doll. Anything."

With agonising slowness, you began to slide off him. You pulled away inch by excruciating inch, the wet friction of your pussy leaving his cock exposed to the cool air, throbbing and desperate for the contact you had just stolen. He let out a whimper of pure loss as you dismounted, his hips lifting off the mattress instinctively to follow yours.

He lay there exposed, aching and twitching, his cock standing proud and angry in the lamplight, begging for the attention you had so cruelly withdrawn.

You crawled up his body, your knees bracketing his head as you moved toward his face. Bucky watched you with pupils so dilated they nearly swallowed the blue of his irises, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He looked like a man who had seen heaven and was terrified he was about to be cast back into hell.

Hovering just inches from his mouth, you whispered, "Attaboy, James. That's how a true gentleman bags a dame."

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[biglychee]

What do you think it be like if Tony and Bucky were forced to share Afab/Fem!Reader?

$ log - you're greedy, no fucking doubt. you've got both, bucky barnes and tony stark, absolutely entranced with. both as eager as each other for your attention. $ warn --nsfw --dom!afab!reader --sub!bucky --sub!tony --brief-mentions-of-various-kinks-and-positions $ cd masterlist / marvel $ echo "I put ts together in a PEEL paragraphed essay, bear with me" > authors-note.txt

i think their past issues and personal anger would possibly boil down to one, single pathetic competition: who you favour most for a fuck, or more.

personally, you're just smiling and happy to there, no shits given to their egos — who wouldn't like have two of the strongest men on earth begging for a scrap of your attention?

bucky is so putting that supersoldier stamina and strength to its highest use. he lives to drown in the endless praise flooding out your pretty lips when he rings out that nth orgasm. his cock feels so snug lodged in your pussy — it's like it was custom made to be there. you moaned that out to once, he blushed bad and stuttered his pace.

he doesn't truly give a shit about his own release when he's deep in this headspace. he can handle it, he's a supersoldier. your orgasms and gorgeous moans, and the sight of your body keening into his firm frame is just enough to make him cum hands-free sometimes.

but even with all that power surging through him; bucky's so keen to still be your dog.

omds, he'd actually live and breath just staying there underneath your desk, lapping at your clit and labia while you get through tedious reports. totally not angling himself just right to tease tony from the translucent glass.

tony on the other hand, turns into the ultimate brat when it comes to snapping your attention. once he realises his usual flirty quips aren't cutting it anymore — especially with you being so entranced by barnes' brooding look, ugh — he goes full obsessive.

he'll spoil you with endless toys, obscene lingerie, and outfits you didn't even know existed. and best believe, if you want him to try on all these, he'd do it in a heartbeat, with the 4K UHD lighting and OW32738 cameras and WBL speakers all propped up.

then he's sending all these teasing videos — of him masturbating, twirling in outfits, fucking himself on the toys - to you via the private channel he set up. he'd do it especially during business abroad trips just to get you riled enough to forget that damn barnes and come back to fuck the living daylights out of tony only.

between the two of them, there's obvious rage and difficulty, but with you at the centre, smirking and gleaming at who's pulling out the best orgasms outta you for the night.

tony would absolutely message bucky snippets of home videos you make together, just to twist the knife.

bucky counters via his physicality and stamina - boasting he lasted the entire night, then some more and perhaps by visibly marking you. but not like usual hickies, i'm talking those slight reddening handprints or grips when holding on too hard.

i do think there's an enticing notion of free use here tbh — whether it's the lab, the armoury, or they're mid-work. you would walk in the lab while tony's deep in a schematic or bucky's cleaning weapons, and without a word, you just unbuckle them.

you're palming them hard, demanding they stay still while you suck them dry or force them to watch you fuck yourself right in front of them.

they'll freeze, pupils blown wide, breathing tagged, completed enticed to the way you claim them so casually, mentally probably thinking fuck you barnes / stark before losing themselves to your pleasure.

it feels oddly addicting, especially with their stupid competitive nature - like you're choosing him?

so yeah, i think it'd a very fun experience, well on your end, you're getting like endless orgasms in the best ways possible. on their end, they'd both be stingy as fuck to one another — i really doubt they'd ever agree on a threesome actually. but i think it's more teasing and voyeurism back n' forth.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @hisokamywaifu @rosemint-tea @sheriff-bodecker @axtira

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[inkievoid]

I've watched the Doomsday trailer so many times and all I can think about is Thunderbolts!Stark!Reader getting really pissed off on behalf of Sam and Bucky the second she sees Steve. Just straight five minutes of her ripping him up one side and down the other about him leaving when people needed him. Including herself after the loss of her father.

And Steve would just stand there in silence an take it because he knows she's always had this sort of pent up rage inside of her that needs to be let out. (Especially since she never met/forgot her, now technically ex, boyfriend Peter and had his help learning to talk about her feelings without exploding or pulling teeth to do it.)

Bucky would be the one to stop her though with a hand on her shoulder and a silent look before she goes quiet and walks over to sit with Bob because he'll listen to her talk without judgement just like she's done for him countless times.

[twentytomidnight]

sometimes a man needs a hint upside the head

Scott Summers/Reader, 2K

a/n: this is in response to a request and also because i need more of this dorky needy awkward shut-in

cw: SMUT/18+ only, Scott is objectified/is a clueless dolt, reader goes for it, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing/genitalia)

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PREVIEW:

Scott Summers is the worst man to have a crush on for this very reason. Scott Summers/Reader (18+)

You can’t stop staring at him, across the burnished surface of the pool’s perimeter, past those dappled waves that no one seems to be taking luxury of swimming through. Everyone seems to be devoted to the lawn chairs that dot the acreage, enjoying the bask of sweltering sun that has little to negate the desire to stay topside—and talk.

Or in your case, ogle. After all, with Mr. Summers lying back on his chair across the distance of the pool—there’s so much to ogle. What with how his biceps have flexed in stunning fashion with his arms crooked behind his head.

With those shorts that hang low on his hips, allowing you to see every square inch of those toned, prominent abs that are taking on tack of sweat accumulated from his recline. The v that makes delectable protrusion before descending down his waistband, to avenues you have yet to have privilege of seeing.

Not to mention the shorts are so little used by him that they must be Alex’s hand-me-downs foisted on him, a tad too short for his frame. But just short enough you can see the flex of his thighs as he adjusts, grunts and continues to lie stiffly under the scald of the sun.

He looks so good, he must be playing games with you. There’s no other explanation. This is why you sigh in such gusty manner that your company on either side have cause to look at the source of your internal despair.

“He has to know what he's doing.” You declare at low enough volume that it won’t carry. Rogue, to your right, props herself up on elbow, giving you stunning view of her own musculature in that neon green bikini.

“Who?” She asks, confusion borne in her voice as she searches your visual arc of gaze. Bemusement is quickly replaced by disbelief as she realizes who you’re looking at, and turns back to you.

“...Scott?” She asks. If there’s a twinge in her brow at your choice of men, you are diligent in ignoring it.

“Look at him.” You emphasize with urgency in your voice, trying to avoid using your hands to draw his attention. “All sweaty and glistening under the sun.”

At this, you reward yourself with another eyeful of your fearless leader, who adjusts—letting you see the roll of muscle in his stomach. You wish you could lick off the sweat that gathers there, taste the salt of his body on your tongue.

“Just—”—You make a low noise of need in your throat, clenching your fist. “Looking all gorgeous like that.”

At this, the thin veneer of composure Rogue’s been maintaining finally cracks; she snickers, though it’s not necessarily a mean sound. A sympathetic one, if anything.

“Think he's just trying to get a tan, honey.” She says, looking from you to Scott. As though she’s trying to discern what it is you see specifically.

Logan decides now is a good moment to pipe up from your left in low growl, nursing a cigar in his teeth. “Well, he’s doing a bad job at it. Man’s gonna be redder’n Wade in an hour.”

You send a look at the less-melanated that sit besides you. “Like you’re one to talk, Lo?”

Logan appears nonplussed by this as he lets himself roast in the sun, taking an ample puff from his stogie. “Healin’ factor don’t let me burn.”

“Hmmm.” Is what you settle upon best to avoid insulting the people that you keep company with.

Logan turns his head to you on deliberate swivel, watching you with careful regard. Appraising the way that you continue to admire across the uncrossed meridian, stewing in your unspoken feelings to necessary party.

Logan exhales dissipating vapor into the air, then speaks. “You wanna get his attention that bad, darlin’?”

You give him abashed grimace, sheepishness displayed in your eyes. “Does it show?”

“Okay—”—Something akin to a smirk plays on his lips as he says your name—”—You an’ Rogue, you two laugh real loud.”

For a second, the two of you pause in bewilderment—before following through, making laughter that you hope is genuine enough in cadence. You think that you manage, at the very least, to make it loud enough to draw attention.

You can only keep the facade going for so long before letting it fizzle into silence, “Okay. How’s he doin?”

Rogue lets her own laugh trail off abruptly as she directs her eyes in sidelong glance. “He’s lookin’ over here.”

“Good.” Logan crooks an imperious finger to you, beckoning you closer. “Now come here.”

As though pulled on marionette strings, you oblige, hefting your legs over the edge of your chair. Watching as he leans in with you across the threshold with a whiff of masculine sweat and smoke.

His voice is corrugated murmur in the shell of your ear, making a thrum of vibration thrill up the length of your body. “Come a little closer so it looks like you’re real interested in whatever I gotta tell you.”

Again, you obey, keeping your face neutral. Willing yourself to keep your eyes from the direction of Mr. Summers who still remains beyond your reach. Logan continues, each syllable working against you.

“When I tell you to,” He orders in gruff directive, “Go up and walk over to him and start some conversation.”

It's simple enough that you have enough room to cast doubt on it with dubious scoff. “You sure it’s gonna work?”

“Sure it will—”—Logan returns with easy, cavalier bearings (for him, anyways)—“—Unless you think Summers' is hittin’ that sunburn ‘bout now.”

And now, you finally let the drag of your eyes slink to across the pool—and see, with a thrill of adrenaline that furrows through your veins: Scott still reclines.

But his head is very definitively facing the direction of you and Logan. And the flush he bears across his face is certainly inspired by a degree of emotion he didn’t have before.

“Now get up,” Logan concludes with amusement laden in his voice, “An’ don’t fuck up the chance I gave you.”

It’s hot—but you feel as though you walk on glacial pinpricks as you begin your walk across the final miracle mile. Every single square inch of the real estate of your body feels doused in deliberate sensation, observed by the cant of the people who watch you go forth for the greater purpose of yonder—

And to a man who still remains lying on his lawn chair, acting as though he is not very pointedly watching your approach to him. The scald of the sun is no longer your enemy, as your thoughts pinball against the housing of your chaotic consciousness.

And finally, you find yourself standing at the foot of Scott’s chair, with a smile that you hope is far less nervous than the turmoil you feel within.

“Scott—”—You begin, keeping your voice at pert note.

Scott, to his credit, turns a hair too fast, a degree far too invested. An undercurrent of interest is laden in his voice as his face flushes darker, radiant blush blooming down the tips of his ears, the nape of his neck. It only makes you want to tear him apart with your teeth and tongue, with relish.

“Yeah?” He asks, trying to regulate his tone to nonchalance and horrifically failing. “What’s up?”

You nod your head in the direction of the clearly unused tube of sunscreen that sits on the empty chair besides him.

“Mind if I sit over here and put some sunscreen on you?” You ask, putting a hand on your hip. He bears those opaque glasses; but even they can’t disguise the obvious angle of his head that watches how it settles on the flush of your hop. How his adam’s apple bobs in tantalizing motion as he thickly swallows, his shoulders broadening out.

“You came all the way over here to ask me that?” He asks, never one to not shoot himself in the foot so close to the finish line. Even as the blush darkens further on his cheeks, an unmistakable stammer made clear in his voice.

“Well, yeah.” You grin, feeling a greater degree of confidence. “Maybe I want to make sure our fearless leader doesn’t get a sunburn.”

“Awful charitable of you,” he says—but there’s another unspoken question in that statement. Tell me you came over for me.

“And,” you tack on with a grin that can’t help but burgeon broader on your face, “Maybe I've just been looking for an excuse to feel you up.”

Scott’s mouth seems to draw open in disbelief—though the color he assumes takes the role of communicating what he wants. How exactly he regards that request that you’ve given him.

“I, uh—”—He ducks his head, clearing his throat—"—Well.”

“So how's about it?” You ask, feeling as though you might receive your desired answer—or you might make your leader herniate a lung.

“Sure,” Scott finally recovers enough, plateaus his shoulders in manner to make himself stolid, stiff, endearing man you are so fond of. “Only—”

“Yeah?” You ask, taking seat besides him on the chair, letting it settle to your weight. Watching as he takes ample regard of you, doused in sun that sloughs off your shoulders and illuminates you as fellow heavenly body. As he works his tongue over the full of his bottom lip, making internal risk—and daring out into the beyond.

“Only,” he confesses, “If you let me do the same to you.”

You can’t see his eyes, but you know they’re fixated on yours, as you feel great heat not inspired of the sun radiate up your body. Pulse in the junction of your legs, want that you’ve smothered finally given outlet to be expressed.

“Promise?” You ask, trying to ensure that your voice is not as breathless as you think it is.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he says in such shy, awkwardly charming manner—you can’t help but finally let yourself beam back at him.

It’s not until later, of course, when the two of you have retired to Scott’s room, that you get the chance to admire the fuller nuance of his body. To feel the smear of the lotion on his pecs as he lopes your ankles over his shoulders, tacky with exertion he’s gained from between your legs.

There’s something so intoxicating about the way his jaw is wet from his duration there, gorgeously obscene as he stares down at you with open desire.

“You want this?” He asks, running a broad, possessive—yet gentle—hand over your thigh. Making deliberate care to work you into necessary angle for this mating press.

The question feels almost ridiculous, considering how much you’ve moaned at the work of his tongue. Especially given how you whimper with such blatant need at the way his cock feels, nosing against your entrance.

“You want me?” He asks. There’s such yearning hope as he ruts his cock against you, making your fingers that clutch over his hands tighten. Your mouth fall open in a stuttering moan.

“Yes—please, Scott,” you beg, “I need you. Please.”

There’s no mistaking the openly covetous nature of your voice, the way you push the angle of your body against him for relief. And how he sucks deep, circulatory breath through himself at this admission. How his jaw sets in such handsome manner as he settles it within himself to satisfy you.

“Okay, honey,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss to the full of your calf—leaving scalding tactile afterimage when he pulls away, “Let me take care of you.”

And then he sinks his cock into you, the slow drag filling you up with such delicious stretch. You can’t help but let your head fall back against the sheets, and moan in tandem with the chuffed sigh of satiation Scott makes with you.

“God,” Scott groans into the muscle of your leg, pushing the curve of his length further into you, “You’re perfect.”

If you could answer him, you think you’d say the same thing. But you hope the way you fit against him in such perfect complement, in this little slice of heaven—and the gasp of lewd satisfaction you make—tells him enough.

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[ohcaptains]

knuckle velvet

synopsis. he walks you home, then lets himself in.

pairing. logan howlett x f!reader. tags. [18+] dubious consent, vaginal penetration, female receiving oral sex, spitting. honey don't feed it, it'll come back type beat.

Some deep part of Canada, where everything was white. Snowstorms that swarmed through the sky, and the only warmth you could find came from the bottom of a bottle.

The wood floor of the sticky bar you worked in was soaked from frost covered boots – haphazardly scraped across the welcome mat, owners preoccupied with getting their first drink than keeping the place tidy.

You existed there, behind the bar that patrons lent against, like a metal cage with leering onlookers. They paid in drinks, but you took the money home as tips, your warmth stoked in a fireplace.

How you’d ended up there in that forgotten part of the world, you didn’t know.

Perhaps you’d followed a narrow path, one strung out with thorns and rubbish, but the money was okay.

When it got slow, and there wasn’t much else to do, your boss let you read a bit, too, while you sipped on your endless supply of Coca-Cola.

At the end of your shift, your teeth were fuzzy from all the sugar. 

An easy existence, but some nights, the patrons got too friendly.

They were fresh off their trucks, looking for some place warm to bury for the night, but you weren’t offering.

So, you’d peer at them, watch them make a fool of themselves as they spewed putrid words in your general direction – alcohol and lack of sleep causing the floor to sway from beneath their feet.

It was always the new boys who would try it.

Risk it all for a chance between your thighs, unaware of the hound sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a whiskey and a vendetta.

The first time he fought for you, the air had changed. Gone cloudy with the chance of a brawl – that sixth sense that all bartenders have switching on.

“Lady said no, ain’t she?” he bellowed from across the bar.

The voice thick with smoke and alcohol, you recognised him as the guy who’d been drinking whiskey all night, but he was as sober as a nun. No stumble to his step, or slur to his cadence, either.

He was built like an oak tree. You noticed when you served him. Slid him his drink and gazed at the sheer bulk of him. At the weathered, handsome age to his face, to the spray of grey in his brown hair.

His thick arms were snugly buried under a button up shirt, and you didn’t see, but rather imagined, the way his muscular legs were stuffed into jeans, and the way his size 12’s rested against the hardwood.

His eyes though, were hiding something. Milky brown concealing his curiosity – easily done with the hard panes of his face.

You imagined letting him take you home, and you thought about being friendly, before a whisper in the back of your cranium told you to back off.

Perhaps safer.

You didn’t know where this man had come from, let alone where he’d been. So, you continued to serve him drinks, and tried to ignore the quiet hum of his presence, until the hum turned to a crash.

The patron was scorned. He paused, and turned to the end of the bar, where the brown eyed stranger was waiting. “What’s it to you?” he slurred.

But the man with the whiskey wasn’t looking to him. He sipped his drink, and said, “she said no. You don’t remember your manners?”

The bar adorned an eerie quiet. Nerves sat low in your belly, heart picking up speed.   “This guy serious?” he asked you.

You went to say something, but he was already throwing words at the stranger.

“She yours or something?” “It matter?” “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” The stranger scoffed, and brought his drink to his lips, “whatever bub.”

“We got a problem?” the man uttered, stalking towards him, but his friend took him by the arm and whispered something in his ear, forcing him to deflate.

You wondered what he’d uttered. Whether there were rumours about the guy – a reputation you didn’t know about.

Brown eyes didn’t bat an eye when the man and his buddy slid out the door, cold filling the room before the door slammed shut.

The bar exhaled.

People went back to their business, and you thought about it, you really did. Thought about leaving him alone. Going back to your measly existence. Your home – the pit for all of your things.

But it didn’t win over in the end.

You topped up his drink. He took it, and glanced at you, brown eyes ringed with mystery.

“That happen often?” he uttered, voice a gruff grunt.

You put the bottle down, and looked away, thinking back to last week when you nearly fought a guy for staring for too long. You glanced back to him. “Sometimes.” “Your boss is an asshole for letting you work here alone.” “That so?” you laughed, shocked at his candour. He nodded and downed his drink, eyeing you from over the rim.

Finished, he put the glass down on the bar, and shrugged his jacket on. He got up to leave, and you felt a chasm begin to open up in your chest.

You went to say something. Anything, to make him stay. But he paused and looked over his shoulder.

His jaw was clenched when he tentatively offered, “be safe.”

When you locked up, he was waiting for you. 

It didn’t scare you. Really, it should, but when you left the bar and saw him standing there, toking on a cigar in the cold, all it did was make you pause. He stood there, gazing at you, eyes clouded by smoke. 

“You waiting for me?” you uttered, making it real, even if the light drift of snow was giving the world a dream like quality. 

He shrugged. “Just waiting.” 

You nodded, and put the bar keys in your bag, ignoring the chasm get wider. If he was going to rob the place, he’d have to get through layers of receipts and tissues to get in. But you knew the bar wasn’t what he was after. Something about his posture, the luring look in his brown eyes — curious, like he was trying to figure something out. 

You began to walk past him, but when he didn’t follow, you paused. You peered over your shoulder, and he was still looking at you. 

Taking you in. “Well,” you started, hitching your bag up your arm, “you gonna walk me home, or what?” 

He followed you in comfortable silence.

Just you, the night, and the crunch of dirt under his boots. His cigar smoke drifted by, and it wafted through your subconscious, followed by pine, and crisp scent of the snow.

He sounded like the noise of the woods — ever present in these parts. A comfort, if one had adapted to its unpredictability. When you got to your familiar walkway, you opened the gate, but he didn’t follow you through.

Instead, he stood by the entrance, watching you unlock your door like he’d just dropped you off from a date. it was when you were halfway through that he spoke up. “You work every night?”

“Yeah,” you started quickly, looking to him. “Apart from Wednesday and Sunday.” He considered you, then gave you a sharp nod, and turned to leave.

That’s how you ended up with a wolf at your door.

Every night, he was the last one left, then he silently walked you home.

Some nights, you’d find him leaning against the entrance, and he’d quietly peel away from the door and follow you. At first, he simply walked closely behind, a looming shadow, until he began walking beside you.

Then one night, you let him in.

Made him a cup of coffee to fight off all the liquor he consumed, and he sat at your kitchen table, and drank every drop.

Watched you in the low, fluorescent lighting, and you did the same. Curiously studied him. He looked different in your home. In your kitchen. Looked a little softer around the edges, even if he couldn’t relax completely.

It went like that for a while. It was on one of these nights that he gave you his name, followed by a shitty cup of coffee. Sometimes two. Maybe a biscuit, or a piece of cake. Leftovers turned into home cooked meals. Sat at the kitchen table and watched him eat. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Lasagna. Sipped at your cup of tea as he slopped up his pasta, using the back of his hand to wipe the sauce off his mouth.

You left him finishing off his plate to get ready for bed, and it was when you were sorting your hair out, that he came into your bedroom and began taking his boots off.

You stood at your mirror and watched him place them near your door.

Then he reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

One by one, you watched his thick fingers reach the bottom. He took it off, revealing a white tank off and broad chest, and hung the shirt up on your door frame.

Jeans next.

Popped the button and shucked them to his feet -- threw them with his boots and dragged himself towards your bed.  

You went to say something. Anything.

But he looked so exhausted as he crashed onto your frilly bed, that all you could manage was, “You lock the door?”

Logan nodded. His eyes were already closed, and he was hugging the pillow when he uttered, “you coming to bed, or what?”

You let him stay the night.

Maybe it was raining, maybe he was too tired – it didn’t matter. All that mattered, was that he was warm, and sometimes, when you woke and felt the terrifying ache of being alive, he’d be there to quiet the pain.

Hush you with the soft swell of his lips and wandering hands.

You’d come with a hushed whisper, hot and sticky over his calloused fingers -- drowsy from how high he took you. Then he’d kiss you, fix your clothes, and go back to sleep.

Always the middle of the night. When it was dark and quiet out, and it felt as if you were the last people alive.

His skilled hands bringing you to the brink, a soft kiss, then back to bed.

You would wait for it. Watch him nurse his whiskey at the end of the bar, the night dragging with every drink you poured. Then, he watched you lock up.

Waited at the door for you, so you could walk home together, wordlessly taking the familiar trail.

He’d eat, you’d watch, then leave for your room.

Once, you woke to his head between your thighs. The night was quiet, room dark – slither of moonlight from your window cutting a line through your bodies.

You were slick with sweat, and as you flexed your taunt muscles, they fizzled and singed. Hot heat pushed low in your belly, rooted between your thighs.

Logan hummed, and you reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, whimpering his name to grab his attention.

He had palm fulls of you. Fists of your thighs, soft of your belly, leaving marks with his desire – desperation. The first thing he did was apologise. Muttered a hoarse, m’sorry, into your soaking cunt, but continued tasting you.

You used his hair as leverage, and hitched your hips up an inch, causing his nose to bump into your sensitive clit, and you hissed, as if in pain, but the sound trailed off into something similar to his name, and Logan grunted, moving your hips further up so he could twist a thick finger inside.

You took all he gave.

Moaned into the pillow beside you as you rocked your hips against his face, soaking his nose and mouth. Said shit you didn’t mean, but meant all the same, and Logan got off on it.

This mysterious man who had taken over your life, grunted your name like it belonged to him. Made you come on his thick beard and puffy lips, then made you taste yourself as he kissed you.

You hugged his sweat slick frame to you, fingers scratching his scalp, mindlessly grinding against his clothed cock. You were content to just kiss him, until he dragged his fingers between your thighs again.

You startled, gasping into his hot mouth, but Logan hummed, near smiling against your lips.

“’think there’s another in there for me,” he drawled.

When he fucked you, there was so much of him that you went blind with it. Eyes half lidded, delirious as he pushed inside, making himself fit. Stuffing you full, then pulling out, just to feel it all over again.

Again and again. You moaned his name into his soaked, scarred chest. Felt yourself leave your body, so hot, so wet, that it was all sensation. Just the slap of his hips against yours, the feel of his hands on your tits, in your mouth, telling you to open wide.

He spat, and when he missed, he smeared the mess off of your chin and rubbed it into your cunt.

Made you come, then filled you with his own. Leant back, and watched it drip out of you. You were so consumed by him, that you didn’t have enough energy to feel self-conscious.

No, when he had his wild eyes on you, you reached between your thighs and stuffed it back inside.

The next evening, and he was back at the bar, waiting for you to bring him his whiskey. When you placed it in front of him, those wild eyes were on you again.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting to play out your usual routine.

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[twentytomidnight]

Thoughts on Bucky Barnes?

the way I would let homeboy have it every single way he desires with a smile on my face as he calls me “doll” and sullies me seven ways to heaven while I do an Olympic worth split that would be judged as perfection on the mohs scale of hardness if you know what I’m saying

also check out the biggest @biglychee for excellent Bucky fics

[twentytomidnight]

did someone say...s((ex)) pollen?

Scott Summers/Reader/Logan, Venom/Reader, Guy Gardner/Reader, Colossus/Reader, Reed Richards/Reader, 4.2K

a/n: i said I had never written a sex pollen fic before and @eatfeet69, @cinnamon-girl-writes, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @gr0und-zer00 and @inkievoid for helping me out :]

cw: SMUT/18+ ONLY, sex pollen, consent given on all sides, threesomes, cunnilingus, mention of breeding kink in Venom's part, choking in Reed's part, reader has a pussy and/or ambiguous genitalia and is referred to in gender-neutral terms

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PREVIEW:

Looks like everyone's a different take on how to deal with it. Thankfully, you like their ideas. Marvel/Reader, DC/Reader (18+)

Scott Summers/Reader/Logan

You feel as though you can’t quite remember how to circulate air through your body without deliberate, manual effort. As if there’s something trapped in the span of your throat as you stand before them. Watching as they sit on the cots that they’ve been assigned, breathing with heavy, roiling need.

You don’t know why you’re here: and yet you do. The way that Scott’s hands clutch into the sterile sheets, the way that you can see Logan openly eyeing you up and down. The way that they are both stiff in the tenting of their pants. The way they look like they want to eat you alive.

“You both asked for me?” You finally settle upon as statement, unsure of how else to cross this meridian they’ve set up. Watching as they have to physically focus on the question in different manner; so distracted they are by internal dialogue of plans they intend to do to you.

“Only way I could stand to stay in the room with Summers.” Logan sends back—his jaw twitches, works as he swallows. Licks his lips as his eyes drag down your legs.

Scott picks up the slack, trying to sound more composed—but there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he tries to remain composed. But even that’s cracking.

“We need you—”—And there's no mistaking that tone of voice—“—To help us. If you’re willing.”

Hope against hope strains him on the edge of the bed, waiting on tenterhooks for your response. His knuckles clutching so tight they jut white through the housing of his skin.

“I mean—of course.” You say. Logan’s shoulders jump like he means to have you there on the floor, but he resists it.

“Only—”—Your voice is halting, fleeting, embarrassed—“I don’t want to make things worse when you’re back to normal.”

Logan chuckles and it’s a ragged noise, something bitter in the intonation of the chord.

“Honey, you’re the only thing that’ll take us back to normal.” He grits through the champ of his teeth. “We been thinkin’ about you for a long time.”

If you had any coherent response, it’s washed away clean from the slate of your mind with this as he continues, staring at the button of your jeans. It’s obvious what he wants to do.

“Think you’re the only thing that’ll keep us in line.” Logan informs you. And you start at this.

“What?” A flush of heat runs under your skin at “keep us in line—”—are you even going to be able to walk after this? Do you even want to when these two men are making such desperate, mouthwatering displays of themselves?

“It’s true.” Scott chuffs out a pained breath to the ground, obviously desperate for relief. “He’s telling the truth.”

Under such duress, you know that he’s not lying. Not from the way Logan licks his pink tongue against the full of his lips. Your mind races.

“Oh. So—”—You let your voice peter out and dissolve into the air. What can you say? When they want so badly to fuck you? When you’re already tempted to absolve conversation and satisfy what they need?

“You wanna keep fucking after this, we can.” Logan asserts. It’s clear he's reaching some kind of agonizing threshold with no immediate relief in sight.

“But right now—”—His eyes practically roll over dark—“—Let us blow off some steam.”

“Are you okay with that?” Scott asks, looking directly to you. Hoping against hope.

You know your answer. “Yes.”

This is how you find yourself spread in between the two of them, Logan’s thick cock sinking into your entrance with such wonderful stretch you nearly come on the spot.

But Scott’s cock pressing into your hole makes any coherent thought, nothing but a deep, guttural, animal noise escape you. Scott’s arms tug around you, keeping you steady as he utters curses about how good you feel, how good you’re taking him, how much he needs you—

“Take this,” Logan says. Before you can comprehend through the whited-out plane of your mind, he stuffs two fingers into your mouth that you start to suck on without hesitation.

Greedy, wanting noises as you work your tongue around his knuckles. And then his hips start to roll into you, making delightfully obscene noise as he drags his length in and out of you.

Angry, rutting thrusts like he means to make you take his cock like you owe him something. And all you can do are make muffled noises of overstimulation into his hand; not that you would ever want to stop.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Logan groans as he slams his hips into you, hard enough to bruise later. Scott is busy fucking your hole, mouthing sloppy kisses at your pulse, his hands working at your nipples.

Each lick, each pinch drives you crazy, makes your eyes roll back in your head as your whimpers are muffled by the digits you lick like your life depends on it.

“Think—”—Scott moans, his statement catching as he sheathes himself inside you and you tilt your head off of Logan’s fingers with a wet pop—“—Think they look good like this—”

All you do is collapse back on Scott’s chest as his tacky palms knead at your chest, working to make your skin aflame with tactile sensation. Each time his fingers clutch at you is in tandem with the way he jumps his hips against you, bobbing you on his cock. And further pushing Logan deeper into you.

“God—”—You cry out in ecstasy, as Logan leans forward to catch one of your nipples in your mouth and bite. As Scott catches your earlobe in his teeth and sucks. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come—”

As you do, full-bodied and with a keening wail, you know it’s far from your last. Especially as they continue to savage you with their mouths and the works of their ever-determined hands.

Venom/Reader

They find you, flustered and overstimulated, humping a pillow in your shared bed. The sight is enough to make something roar to life in the meter of them both: except for the tear tracks that have dried down your cheeks.

Except for the fact that your hole is stuffed with a vibrator he’s used on you before, but never at full speed. As you look at them with such abject relief: but don’t do anything to greet them.

So Eddie comes to you, as you paw desperately at his shirt. As you beg, “Come fuck me—please, Eddie, please.”

“Sweetheart, what happened?” Eddie asks, though Venom doesn’t care to ask questions when he can satisfy.

You’re trembling, shaking through another unfulfilling orgasm, your mouth caught in half-helpful ecstasy— “—I got blasted by this weird pollen—”—Your voice catches in Eddie’s arms as you try to unbutton his shirt—

“They say there’s only one cure.” You look at him with half-lidded eyes even though your head is already lolling back on lazy, fucked-out swivel. Even though it’s clearly not enough, even though it’s clear that you need what Eddie can give. What Venom is demanding within that he give you right now.

“I—”—Eddie searches, thinks of a past incident where Peter went through something like this, and realizes there is a first for everything. You're already making quick work of the buttons on his shirt.

“You can’t be serious.” He starts. But makes no move to halt you as you continue to work. All the while your hips keep grinding in maddening display.

“I am. Please—”—Your hands make quick work of his belt, starting to drag on the glide of his zipper, “I need you.”

There’s no denying the lust in your eyes, the way you scald to the touch. The way the pillowcase you keep riding is soaked with you. The way you’re trying to persuade him to touch you, to do anything.

He can’t resist. Not when you give yourself on platter like this.

“Okay, honey—”—He says—the sigh you make is guttural—“—I’ll do it.”

You make a breathless laugh that halts around another approaching orgasm. But your voice breaks through clearly enough in audible manner.

“Both of you.” You hold his gaze. “Please.”

“We thought you’d never ask, sweetness.” Venom says. And then it’s not Eddie who’s driving the car anymore. It’s your other man, who hulks over you in such dominating fashion in such blink-of-an-eye speed you can barely register it. All you can do is sigh in relief.

This doesn’t last long; you’ve barely comprehended how you’ve ended up with your ass in the air, on all fours. Venom hasn’t taken care to remove the vibrator—he pushes it in deeper, the way your toes curl and you groan in delight summoning a growl.

“Think you can take us all, sweetness?” He asks, and you feel the press of that cock against you. The one that you and Eddie have tried to work you to with little success.

But all three of you can tell something’s different. Especially when you beg, “Yes, yes, yes—do it!”

“So wet for us,” Venom’s finger sinks into you and you greedily push back for more relief, “So good already.”

“Please,” you cry into the sheets you’re pushed into. “Please—”

Venom needs no further encouragement. When he slides into you, spearing you on that impossibly wide length, stretching you open—all you can do is open your moth, though no sound escapes. Though your eyes have wrenched closed and your fingers have fallen slack against the sheets.

“Good,” Venom makes throaty chuckle as he continues to work into you with so little effort. You’re so wet and aroused that if you were in proper state of mind you’d be embarrassed. But all you can focus on is the way that you finally feel full. You finally feel like the orgasm you get will be satisfying.

“So nice,” Venom hisses, “Maybe we’ll fuck you fat with kids, sweetness—like that, huh?”

His claws dig into you—you moan, nodding mindlessly. “Yes, yes, yes—”

“Like thinking about having our kids, sweetness?” He works further into you, deeper, deeper still. Still not enough. “Getting bred?”

“Breed me,” you beg. “Breed me.”

“Don’t ask twice,” Venom coos—and he hits the back. You sag into the sheets, though this is no trouble for your man, who lifts you easily.

“Don’t worry,” Venom says as he holds you flush against his chest, cold, unblemished, smooth. “We’ll make sure this takes. We’ll make sure you like it a lot, sweetness.”

You can’t tell if he's serious or not. But when he lifts you bodily off the length of his cock and then sinks you back down with ease, filling you to the hilt—you don’t care. You want it more than anything you've ever had.

“Yeah,” Venom purrs as he fills you up, “Best you ever had.”

Guy Gardner/Reader

Guy seems marvelously in control of himself as he regards you, fully stark-naked. He’s lying on his side, letting his cock bob in such tantalizing motion that it’s so difficult to be able to keep your eyes riveted on his own.

“Nice’a you to stop by, sweetheart.” Guy grins as he watches you, shifts that shelf of muscles that makes up his toned stomach. Lets you see the way his biceps gleam with sweat he seems disinclined to give any attention to right now. His arm coils, framing the display of his body.

“You look real good right now.” He says, and at this, you swear you see his cock twitch flush against him. You have to think of something to say before you’re far too gone, past the point of no return.

“Guy?” You ask carefully, watching him with caution. He doesn’t seem anything like how they described he would be. He’s gleaming with a sheen of energy expended, for certain, and his cock is certainly at angle you’ve never seen it torqued to before—but he’s in good form. Almost a good mood, given the circumstances.

“How do you feel?” You ask, taking a careful step towards him. He chuckles, because this is a waste of a question. His thighs flex, tick out as he bends knee on the one he doesn't prop weight on. God—he’s perfect like this.

When he replies, he’s quite cheerful with his answer. “Feel like I wanna fuck ya til I gotcha creamin’ on my cock.”

You have to take a deep, circulatory breath to make sure that you heard him right—when he laughs at your lack of reaction, you can’t help but feel something flush to life. Something roll in wanting need between your legs, making your mind blissfully blank.

“You like that?” He asks, his voice drawing lower in pitch and timbre. Waiting to see what you’ve yet to say, what he’s dying for you to say.

But you can’t help but indulge the urge to needle him. To see how he’s going to hold up—even though he’s in, er, fantastic form.

“Sure you got it in you?” You ask with a smirk. The way his teeth show look likes he wants to take a bite out of you—and in several choice places.

“With this shit?” He asks, and at this, he rolls his fist up the length of his cock, letting you watch the mesmerizing show. “Baby, we’re going for days, not hours.”

You laugh, unexpected and bubbling out of you before you can stop it. “Promise?”

“Get over here.” He commands—and his smile grows ever-wider as you dutifully approach.

He wants to fuck you against the wall first, pushing you so your hands have to clutch against unerring surface as he pulls your ass back. When he fucks into you, the wet slap of his hips snap into you with such brutal need that every thrust punches the air out of you. Has your walls clenching tight around him, gasping for more as he takes care to sheath you to the hilt.

Then, Guy wants to make sure he gets to see you proper—so he has you ride him reverse cowgirl, watching as your ass bounces on the spread of his hips as his cock fucks up into you.

As his fingers grasp so tightly around the width of your waist, guiding you so dominantly as he helps you keep pace on him. When you have to stop so that you can shake and moan through your orgasm, he takes care to keep thrusting in to you to carry you to the finish line.

After, Guy wants to shake it up, so he has you sit on his face while you take your cock into his mouth—or you would try, should his tongue give you any rest. If he wasn't pumping his fingers with such aim to make you collapse on top of him, at the mercy of the way his tongue sucks at your clit.

It seems his favorite, though, is when he fucks you sideways, wrapping your legs around his waist as you bite into a pillowcase. As he slams his cock into you to the hilt with such delicious drag that all you can do is whimper into the pillowcase as he takes his fill. As he keeps fucking into you with such abandon that you know he’s nowhere near satisfied—and neither are you.

“How you doin’—”—He asks through his teeth as he leans over you in mating press, your ankles ticked over his shoulders. There’s a perfect ‘o’ on your lips as you sink your nails into his biceps, dragging them down with terrific rasp that makes him groan in pleasure.

“Perfect—”—You manage out, cock-drunk and glassy-eyed and so, so happy—”—Please don’t stop, Guy, please please please—”

“Anythin’ for my baby,” He grins as the head of his cock noses at that spot that makes you go stiff, curl your toes. Guy Gardner’s always happy to oblige for you.

Colossus/Reader

“Peter—”—You ask as you step into the room—”—why are you chained?”

Even in the throes of the pollen’s effects, he is still so clearly seized by some modicum of embarrassment. Even though his cock is so clearly visible in this metallic form, jutting against the tenting of his pants.

“I asked them to—”—He admits in that soft Russian lilt—“—I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You chuckle in disbelief; you and Peter have been through a lot of bedframes. You doubt that this will be any different than the other times.

“Let me free you,” you begin, reaching for one of the manacles that encircles his wrist. But before you can, his fingers splay out, his arm jerks against chains that would crack concrete and moves them with ease.

“Nyet—no!” There is fire, worry written in the manuscript of his syllables, as his eyes, already glassy with lust, find yours. He articulates deep breath that makes that plateau of his chest rise and fall, though it's clear it takes so much concentration to do so.

“You will do this for me—”—He continues, avoiding your eyes though it’s clear all his interest is directed towards you—“—Because I don’t wish to risk anything.”

He swallows thick, slow, his adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes find you once more, as he ruts his cock along the air to no relief.

“You are too beautiful—”—Even through the haze you can detect the sincerity—“—Too precious to me.”

Even in the throes of fuck-or-die sex pollen, he still has such a poetic way with words. As he tries to breathe but clearly struggles without salve to his troubles.

“Okay.” You say, clapping your hands against your thighs—his eyes watch the movement with such dedicated interest— “—So what do you want?”

His life depends on it. His vitals have already demonstrated sharp decline. But his face darkens in burgeoning rust, his eyes avoid yours in his shamefacedness.

“I do not mean to ask—”—He begins, something wanting but reticent in the cadence of his voice. You put a hand over his arm, feel the scorch of his metallic skin. Hear the hitched moan as you draw physical contact against him.

“Ask.” You assert with determination. “How do you want me to fuck you?”

Your thumb soothes against his skin and clears house of any other thought than pleasure.

“Please—”—He begs—“—Get on top of me. Ride me.”

And when you find yourself perched on his cock, sinking your hole down onto that curved metal shaft; his wrists jerk against the chains that do not give. His whole body shudders as he mutters whispered praise to your body, your hole, your gift to him.

“I am lost without you,” he praises in worship as you bounce on his cock. As he watches the way the flesh of your body twitches and trembles as you hold onto his calves backwards—and fuck yourself on him. Your thighs burn, your breath comes tight—but he fills you so perfectly. He was made for you.

“I am yours,” he whimpers quietly, “I am servant to your body. Bozhe moi—I am liberated by you.”

You work him all the way in he can make—pausing as you feel how impossibly full you are, how your body twitches in perfect agony—

“I am made anew with you,” Peter groans, “You are my savior.”

As he spills into you with near-roar of pleasurable relief, without softening within you, you can’t help but smile with relief. Even though you huff for lost air, your body covered in thick layer of sweat. Looks like you definitely have your work cut out for you.

Reed Richards/Reader

“Reed,” you begin, unmoored, bearing no small amount of horror as you stare at his reclined body, “You did this to yourself?”

“Just,” he grunts, a fine sheen of sweat coating his face, a long trail of exertion slinking down his slick chest, “Thought it would be a worthy pursuit for science.”

Science certainly explains the way his cock angles out in such incredible arc—to the point of painfulness. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen it so large, with such great vein that trails down the shaft, precum already dribbling down the head.

“To infect yourself with it?” You ask, licking your lips in spite of yourself. “And what’s the cure?”

“Well,” he groans as he looks at you, his cock making traitorous twitch, “We have to have sex.”

You take a step forwards. “You think once is enough?”

“The assumption,” he says, “Is that we go as long as we need to. That’s what previous studies have found.”

“Previous studies—”—You begin, breaking off abruptly. “Reed, have you done this to yourself before?”

“Yes,” he admits, “though all I had were uh, other methods to relieve pressure.”

“But now you have me,” you return, sucking through your teeth. Reaching out to touch the shaft that jolts at the curve of your palm. Precum freely dribbles down at the merest contact; you gasp.

“Yes,” Reed says, and there’s ghost of a plea in his voice that even pride, in this haze, restricts him, “And I need you.”

You make experimental pump up his cock, hear the raw, ragged noise of pleasure as you work your thumb at that sensitive bundle of nerves behind the head. And you decide to hop on.

You’ve ridden him like this before, canted your thighs up and down on the length of his cock. Groan around the way that his curve fits so perfectly into you, dragging with such deep intensity against your walls that you can only let your head fall back and moan.

But he’s not content to watch you; his hands, his arms reach out for you, his fingers going against the conceivable rules of anatomy to tug both of your hands behind your back. You let him, something wicked and wanting as he restrains you with the easy pinioning of one hand, digits wrapping around you.

“Reed—”—You begin as you relax your thighs, sink onto his cock again. As you swallow another moan that makes you dizzy.

“I can go bigger,” he murmurs, a rasping breath huffing out of him, “For you.”

“What?” You ask, confused and lost as you fuck yourself on him. And then: your sense of grounding shifts. Your hands, still tugged behind you, begin to tilt as you’re eased back—as Reed’s body moves in malleable manner—as his hand seizes around your throat.

“There we go,” Reed coos, “That’s better.”

“What do you—”—You ask, before his hand clenches with just enough pressure to help you toe the line of pain and pleasure. The groan of want you make is barely stifled by his fingers that seek to keep you trapped under his grasp—and then you feel yourself lifted.

“Reed?” You ask, confused, searching for what’s happened. Through the glassy-eyed desire, you look on in bemusement as you lean against his lower thighs, your angle adjusted to recline on him like you would a lawn chair, bathing luxuriously in the heat. As though you’re not in your husband’s lab, bound and restrained in such flustered state of nakedness.

And then—his hips roll up into you. And whatever follow-up question you were going to make is silenced. And all that escapes you is a tight, “Oh, fuck—”

You don’t know what he’s done—he's never this big. He's never this thick and wide as he fucks into you at this perfect angle that you're unable to do anything more than take it. He must be using his powers—it must be the pollen—you feel like can’t think of anything save the way your thighs tremble before him.

And how he’s still sinking into you with the rut of those desperate hips, making your walls stretch more than they ever have before. You want it more than anything else.

“Reed—”—You whine—“—Please—”

He knows what you want. So he obliges—and starts to set a pace. A quick, desperate, needy fuck to satisfy this want that’s been boiling over in the both of you. As he glides his cock that is so impossibly tight inside of you, taking every bit of space that he can as he keeps fucking that spot that has you a shaky mess.

“Oh my god—”—You’re vaguely aware of saying—”—Don’t stop, don’t stop, don't stop—”

If there’s one thing that Reed can do, it’s listen to orders. And he fucks you without resistance, without difficulty, keeping his hips tethered in singular direction, pumping it into you with such speed that your moans are broken up by each wet slap.

Each sink of his cock bookended by satisfied groan from him as he keeps you bound and helpless. As you try to work your hips, arch your back against him—sing his praises.

“Reed, I'm gonna come—”—You beg—and if you thought the speed was mind-numbing before—when his hips begin to rock into you with such starved cadence, making your flesh bounce with each snap of his hips—

“Oh, fuck—”—Is your only preamble before you come, collapsing fully into the cradle of his arms, his body. Still, lazily he keeps deliberate pump to keep you familiar to the shape of him. But when you resurface enough to send him shaky smile; you know that starved, needful look in his eye.

After all, Reed’s a scientist. He must exercise experimentation to the best of his abilities to confirm his theorems. And you, to your delight—happen to be his guinea pig for this avenue of study.

When he starts to pick up the tempo of rocking his hips back into yours, you can’t help but think about how lucky you are.

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[sex-isnt-real]

i went to bed and had the most vivid dream about getting eaten out by scott summers while getting pet on the head and praised by jean grey that i needed to make it a reality so here we go

this was done in one sitting go easy on me

phoenix x afab gn!reader x cyclops

contains: cunnilingus (obviously), hair pulling, pussydrunk scott summers, scott and jean are implied to be in an open relationship, they/them pronouns used for reader, inexperienced (not a virgin though) reader, praise kink, blink and you miss it implications of reader being plus size, i dont know dude this is just pure self indulgence

you really weren’t expecting to get this far, go figure you only just realize how out of your depth you are. not so much that you’re wanting to back out, quite the opposite, actually, but still.

your hands fumble with the waistband of your shorts, doing a ridiculous little hip shuffle so you wouldn’t have to stand up.

you manage to get your shorts and underwear off in one fell swoop, and the clothes get tossed off to the oblivion beyond the bed. the second you get your shirt off, your eyes drift down and you see scott sitting between your legs, his hands hovering over your thighs.

“oh, um-” you clear your throat, trying to ignore the way your heart flipped in your chest. “hi? what do you…?”

“easy,” he chuckles, the texture of his hands on your bare skin calming you as much as it only riles you up more.

svelte arms wrap around you just under your chest, and you spot red hair in your peripherals. “are you nervous?” jean’s question is soft, no hint of teasing or mocking, so it makes you feel a little less embarrassed about nodding your head and looking away.

your hands lift before either of them can say anything more. “i-i do wanna do this, like really, i just…” you trail off into a sigh. “this is still sorta new for me.”

“that’s okay,” she tilts your face up by your chin with her thumb and index, forcing you to meet her eyes, looking at you with kindness as much as desire. why does that do something to you? “it’s like we said, we can take this slow.”

scott’s palm brushing against your thigh brings your attention away from her. “i… have an idea, to help ease you into it,” his hand slides to your inner thigh, and then his thumb brushes against one of your lower lips-

your legs open wider, and the smirk that he gives you makes them go completely limp on the bed.

jean giggles, putting her head on your shoulder. “he’s really good with his mouth, if you want my opinion,” her hands slip up to brace your shoulders, and you feel her smile at your shudder.

scott leans down just enough that he’s resting his chin on your stomach, looking up at you through those red lenses. “would you like that, sweetheart?”

you nod instead of answering with your words; you’re pretty sure the sound you’d make would be intelligible.

“okay,” he lifts his head, shuffles back until it’s between your thighs and if you weren’t wet before you can feel the moisture between your folds now.

jean runs her hand down your arms, coaxing you into laying against her chest, pecking your cheek and temple.

the first graze of scott’s lips against your pubic mound, right above where your clit’s hidden, has your whole body tensing before it goes lax again. how are you already so sensitive?

“they’re so responsive,” jean’s coo against your ear doesn’t help, just makes the skin on your shoulders bloom with goosebumps.

“be gentle, baby, don’t wanna overwhelm them too soon, yeah?”

scott’s hum of acknowledgement reverberates through you from your groin and it takes what little strength you have left not to lock your legs around his head.

you feel him stare up at you once, and then those strong hands of his come up to cup the back of your thighs, tilting your hips upward into his mouth, where he starts kissing your clit through the seam of your labia and oh good god.

he’s going slow, he’s going slow like jean said, and somehow that’s even more intense than if he’d just cut straight to tonguing you.

your hands claw at the bedsheets behind you, eyes squeezing shut- “shh, shh,” jean lifts a hand and runs it through your hair, and the sound you let out at the contact is humiliating, but not nearly as much as the one you make when scott’s tongue licks a long strip up from your opening to your clit.

the pads of his fingers press into your skin, pushing you up against his face- when you squirm all it does is just grind you up against the flat of his tongue, amplifying the electricity that’s coursing across your pelvic muscles.

“ffffffff- wow, that’s really—!” you can’t finish your words without mewling and raking your hands through the front of your hair. jesus christ.

she wasn’t lying, you don’t know why you’d think she was, but you’re no less blindsided.

jean’s hand interlaces with one of yours, and she guides it lower until it’s on top of scott’s head. your other one finds its place next to it, shakily tangling through the dark brown strands.

“you can pull if you need to,” she’s tracing circles into your collarbone. “he likes it.”

and when the tip of his tongue prods at the underside of that bud, you do, maybe a little harder than you wanted to.

the groan he lets out into your cunt makes your mind go blank before you can apologize for being too rough.

you grit your teeth, head falling back onto jean’s shoulder, strained noises punching out of your throat, melting into breathy, desperate sounds you’ve never heard come out of you before.

the licks he gives you are languid, but he’s putting pressure exactly where he needs to and every time you yank on his hair out of reflex he moans against you.

whatever inhibtions, nerves, anything that was making you antsy- all of that is gone, you’re simply putty in the hands of two very, very attractive people and getting devoured within an inch of your life.

“there you go, baby,” jean’s hand combs through your hair, serving as your anchor while scott takes you apart. “you’re doing so well… so soft and sweet for us…” she glances down to the man between your legs with mischief in her eyes. “they must taste so good, don’t they?”

he muffles an “mm-hm” into your skin that has your nails scraping against your scalp.

he hasn’t pulled back to stop for anything since he started and you’d worry about him needing to breathe if you weren’t losing your goddamn mind from how good this feels.

a string of barely coherent curses starts to flow from your lips.

“f-fuck— holy fuck- i- i g- shit, that’s- that’s so- oh my god, scott,” when you whine his name he deepens his kiss, his tongue sliding inside of you and flicking up against that sensitive spot-

your legs kick at the mattress in your hopeless attempt to ground yourself in the fabric. without moving or looking away, scott, this absolute bastard, he lifts your legs up and onto his shoulders, flattening his palm against one of your thighs.

he’s encouraging you to put them around his head when you were trying so hard not to do that…

the shrivel of restraint you had left is completely lost, your calves press against the back of his head and push him in deeper, trapping him against your cunt exactly how he wanted to be.

jean’s laugh is hot on your neck, every touch to your skin is painfully, blissfully scorching, you swear you’re gonna die. “look at you, you’re so cute,” nothing she says is demeaning, it’s all genuine adoration and it’s making you dizzy.

“j-jean, i— i don’t— i’m not gonna- i’m not gonna last if he keeps-” of course, just as you mention it, you feel scott’s determination to wring that orgasm out of you, what, with him suddenly speeding up his pace.

you damn near sob at the sensation. “close?” jean asks, her fingers smoothing at the sides of your face.

you nod and press your head into her neck, and she murmurs something you can’t hear over the sound of your own irregular breathing and the squelching sounds from scott’s mouth as he drinks from you with a thirst no one’s ever shown you before.

one of your hands lifts away from his head to grab onto her arm, and she catches your hand in hers when it slips down, her thumb smoothing over your knuckles.

her caresses, the way he’s lapping at you relentlessly, god, god it’s too much, it’s too much it’s too good—

your stomach twists, twists, and then everything goes hot white, your muscles pulse and contract and you choke on your own voice. you grip jean’s hand for dear life while you twitch and throb against scott’s tongue.

he moans into you, opening his mouth a little wider but keeping his head still, letting you ride out each tidal wave without overstimulating you any further.

the exhaustion hits you like a brick when the aftershocks fade, and you collapse against jean’s chest, heaving for air, eyes too heavy to open. “fuck, dude, oh my-” you tilt your head to the side so your coughing doesn’t get on anyone.

“scott,” jean laughs, and as your awareness starts to return you shiver at the feeling of him exhaling against you. has he not moved at all?

you peek at him through blurry vision; yeah, he’s still between your legs, and with the little you can make out of his face (the parts of it that aren’t buried in your cunt, obviously) he looks… dazed.

that’s so hot it almost hurts with the state you’re in now.

jean lets go of your hand so she can tug him back, and the lower half of his face glistening in the dim light of the room gives you a second heartbeat.

he swallows thickly, wiping himself off with the back of his hand. “i get the feeling i did a good job,”

“no shit, what the f—” you almost laugh at the absurdity of his words. why does the man have any doubt after the way he-

jean gives his cheek a light smack and he chuckles, voice hoarse. “alright, alright, sorry.” you can hear her rolling her eyes (of course, with nothing but love) with the way she says “read the room, honey.”

he rises to his feet at the end of the bed. “wait here, i’ll go grab something to clean you off,” he turns toward the en-suite bathroom door across the room.

you slump back against jean, and she wastes no time, cradling you with her arm and petting your head. “how are you feeling, baby?” you make a tired noise that’s halfway between a grunt and a mumble of ‘i dunno’.

she kisses your temple, her thumb running up and down your arm. “well… let me ask this, then,” her voice drops lower, ghosting against your ear. “do you think you have another round in you?”

“…i think i have more than just one.”

[twentytomidnight]

pinterest tag game: lyrics, color, character, place, outfit aesthetic

[ @lushberrys thank you for the tag hehe, I didn’t want to keep the chain going too long so I’ll redo it here]

no pressure tags: @skeeets @biglychee @rotrabbitrot @heraldofgayness @fanfictionwarrior-chills @inkievoid @novatheory @finniestoncrane @gilverrwrites

[inkievoid]

no pressure tags: @dollfacefantasy @darkfaethedestroyer @withjust-a-bite @merkeplier @kris-bliss

[ciricearts]

ohh so proud

[brinawing]

✶ pillowtalk

fluff, suggestive, MDNI based on this request

✶ DICK GRAYSON

Your boyfriend was not a serious man.

When you woke up this morning, your body had been sore. Like you had been through the meat grinder kind of sore but in a good way.

You had looked over at Dick sleeping soundlessly. Half his body on top of you and half on the bed with his messy raven hair falling over his eyes, his long lashes almost brushing his sharp cheekbones.

Yeah, a very good way.

But when you got out of bed and basically limped around the apartment, he gave you the smuggest look ever. Seriously no one had ever looked as proud of themselves as he had.

You wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. You were still deciding.

That didn’t stop you for asking him for help though, since he had been the one to carry you around the apartment and draw you a warm bath. The shoulder massage he gave you in the bathtub wasn’t too bad either. Plus the pancakes he had prepared with a little smiley face on top with chocolate syrup.

But that didn’t take away from the fact that he was an unserious man.

He had known you were supposed to have lunch with your friends today so he had been an exceptional tease last night in bed. Not just a tease, he was also apparently under the impression that you were made of rubber and could bend you however he pleased.

Just because he worked out eight hours a day didn’t mean you did too. You’d be lucky to even squeeze in a workout once a week and he knew that and yet he chose to manhandle you.

Not that you were against it. He was very skilled in the bedroom and the nights where you had to just lay there for him to do all the work were your favourites.

But damn now you were limping on your way to meet your friends. You and Dick walked out of the car, hand in hand towards where your friends were sitting outside the cafe.

And he had the audacity to snicker.

“It isn’t funny!” You huffed out, hands clutching his arm to hold for balance since your legs were way too sore to even walk.

“You weren’t complaining last night,” he replied and pushed his sunglasses up on his nose, looking way too amused.

“Shut up,” you scoffed instead of replying since thats all you could do. He wasn’t wrong.

Once you reached the table, Donna, Wally and Roy immediately greeted you with hugs.

“You okay?” Donna was the first one to speak, noticing your limp.

“Yeah,” you swallowed and sat down on the chair next to Dick’s, shifting a little. “Just walked into a chair.”

“Uh huh,” Roy narrowed his eyes at Dick’s smug face.

“And was the chair named Dick Grayson?” Wally added.

“Wally!” You gasped and looked at Dick for help but he just laughed and draped his arm over the back of your chair.

The rest of the lunch went by with way too many jokes about Dick’s dick and you’d think he’d be offended by it but he was the one initiating most of them.

Like you said, unserious.

✶ JASON TODD

Jason was out running when you woke up. It was your usual morning routine –he woke up before you, gave you a small kiss on your forehead and left for a run then returned an hour later with coffee and sometimes pastries.

This time however, you had told him you were making pancakes so he wasn’t surprised to find you standing in the kitchen wearing his shirt that he discarded last night.

He walked over to you, black tank top clinging to his body due to the sweat like a second skin and if you weren’t sore from last night you would have done something about it.

The minimal clothing you were wearing –Jason’s t-shirt and panties– didn’t do a lot to hide the marks he had left on you last night. Your thighs looked like a crime scene with how many hickeys he had left there.

You waddled over to the fridge to grab the eggs when Jason noticed you.

“What’s up?” He frowned and came up behind you.

“Hmm?” You asked and cracked an egg in the bowl.

“You’re waddling like a penguin,” he pointed out.

“Oh,” you blushed and immediately looked away from him. “You know,” you shrugged.

“Babe what?” He asked and turned you around to steal all your attention.

“Last night,” you said. “You’re not exactly small.”

“Well thanks,” he gave you a confused smile. “Is that why you’re limping?”

“That and my legs being folded like a lawn chair over your shoulders for over an hour yes,” you quipped.

Jason in response let out a cackle.

“Great, hope you’re proud of yourself,” you scrunched your nose and turned back to prepare the pancake batter.

“I mean it does wonders to a guy’s ego,” Jason let out a dramatic breath. “Seven orgasms in one night is my new record.”

“Jason!” You huffed and pushed him away. “You cannot count my orgasms you freak.”

He laughed again and came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle before nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck.

“Seriously though, I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He asked, pressing fluttering kisses to the hickeys he had left on your neck.

“No,” you hummed and craned your head back.

“You liked it?”

“Yes,” you breathed as his kisses made their way down to your shoulders.

His fingers busied themselves with massaging your hips, causing you to close your eyes in relief and rest your head back on his shoulders. Which gave him even more room to kiss on your neck.

“Let me make you feel better,” he murmured and turned you around before getting down on his knees.

“Jason,” you said through a shaky breath.

“Yeah?” He looked up at you through dark eyelashes and hooked your thigh over his shoulder. “Is this okay?”

You nodded your head which was all the permission he needed.

It was going to be a long morning.

✶ TIM DRAKE

In hindsight, waiting for your boyfriend to return from his week long mission at the manor probably wasn’t your brightest idea.

He had texted you that he would be back today and would just crash at the manor instead of coming back to your shared penthouse.

But you hadn’t seen him in a week! So it was only fair you drove to the manor and let yourself into the batcave to wait for him.

It had almost been an hour since you made yourself at home on the little beanbag chair with a book in your hands in the Batcave along with Barbara who was perched at the Batcomputer, doing whatever it is that Oracle did.

Tim returned soon along with the rest of the Bats on his Batcycle (Batman wasn’t a very creative person you were beginning to realise).

Damian made a ‘TT’ sound at you before making his way towards the shower area.

Tim on the other hand broke out in a grin the second he looked at you. He didn’t even bother taking off his mask or the suit before he was launching himself at you on the beanbag.

“Tim!” You grunted when his armoured chest collided with yours. “You’re crushing me.”

“Don’t care,” he muttered and pushed his head in the crook of your neck.

“Take a shower you stink!” You said and pushed him off.

“I see how it is,” he raised his head to look at you and if you could see his eyes behind his domino mask, you knew he would be narrowing his eyes at you. “I come back a week later after saving the world and my girlfriend says I stink.”

“You do,” Jason mumbled somewhere behind him.

“Ignore him he’s jealous,” Tim said to you before leaning down to give you a fleeting kiss. “I’ll be back,” he murmured and finally got off the beanbag to go take a shower.

That had been enough of your loving and sweet boyfriend for the night.

Because he was soon coming out of the shower without a shirt and in only a pair of sweatpants. He didn’t even bothering talking to anyone or even debriefing the case like he usually did, he just made his way towards you and picked you up and threw you over his shoulder.

Thankfully everyone else was busy cleaning themselves and only Barbara was present in the Batcave. She shook her head at you like she knew exactly what was happening but didn’t want to be a part of it.

It had been a very long night.

The night for which you were paying now.

Tim’s heavy arm was thrown over your stomach in a tight grip like he never wanted to let you go.

Squinting open an eye, you flicked the bedside lamp on –having no clue what time it was outside due to the blackout curtains being drawn.

You turned over in Tim’s iron grip and looked around the room which looked like it had gotten robbed last night.

Your shirt was thrown on the floor along with your shorts, your bra dangling down the knob of the door –no clue how it got there. And your panties were probably torn in half somewhere. Even the pillows were thrown haphazardly, the covers weren’t even covering you.

Half the reason you woke up was the chill in the room causing goosebumps to rise on your naked body. The only source of heat you had was Tim’s equally as naked body wrapped around you like a koala.

You rubbed your eyes and tried to look at him. The first thing you saw were the red scratches on his chest, glowing against his pale skin and you were sure if he turned around his back would look the same.

“Tim?” You whispered and brushed his hair away from his face.

He only groaned in response and tugged you closer but his grip on your back was beginning to hurt.

“Hey,” you tried again and pushed at his shoulder –which you now saw had a bite mark on it.

Images of Tim’s bicep wrapped around your neck came to your mind but you quickly shook them off. Not the time.

“Tim come on, you’re hurting me,” you winced, which finally caught his attention.

“What?” He asked, voice laced with sleep and somehow deeper like you’ve never heard before. “Where are you hurt?”

“It just feels sore.”

“Fuck I’m so sorry,” he sat up straight in bed and leaned down to pull the covers up.

“It’s okay, you didn’t do anything I didn’t like,” you giggled when he turned around and yep his back looked every bit like his chest. Red scratches all over.

“Your back,” you whispered and reached out to lightly brush your hand over the marks. “What the fuck did we do last night?”

“I think I just missed you too much,” he chuckled. “Turn around let me give you a massage.”

“Yes please,” you moaned and turned around on your stomach to let Tim rub the soreness out of your muscles with his nimble fingers.

The knots in your muscles immediately came loose with each movement of his warm hands on your much colder body. Maybe they taught massaging the pain away at vigilante school or wherever Bruce took all the kids of his he seems to adopt.

His hands went lower to gently rest your calf over his shoulder –much gentler than last night. He pressed soft kisses to your leg as his fingers rubbed all the way to your ankles.

Later when you two went down for breakfast (it was around lunchtime), Cass and Damian gave you a disgusted look. Jason raised an eyebrow at the bite marks on Tim’s forearm while Dick only laughed in amusement. Even Barbara was staring at the hickey on your jaw since apparently Tim had forgotten he was human.

✶ BRUCE WAYNE

You were sitting on the chair in the little breakfast nook when Bruce entered the kitchen. A crossword puzzle was sat on the table next to a plate of toast and orange juice in front of you as you mindlessly scribbled on the puzzle.

Bruce came up behind you and gave you a little kiss on the back of your head before walking over to the cabinets to pull out a mug.

“Oh wait! I made you a yogurt bowl,” you said and hopped off the chair.

Bruce raised an eyebrow and watched you limping towards the fridge in nothing but his old uni sweatshirt. Your hair was falling over your shoulders, messy from a good night’s sleep. And other activities.

His eyes wandered lower to the backs of your knees where he was gripping your legs last night and sure enough there were marks to show it. For a second he was worried but when you turned around and gave him your million dollar smile, he forgot what he was thinking about.

“It has raspberries, nuts, pumpkin seeds, chia seeds. It’s good for your health,” you beamed and set it down in front of your own breakfast on the table.

Bruce joined you in a beat and eyed you as you grimaced a little while sitting down.

“Everything okay?” He asked.

“Yeah,” you said, voice a bit sarcastic which he didn’t miss.

“That’s not convincing,” he frowned.

“You rearranged my guts last night. I think that has something to do with me having trouble sitting down,” you smirked and he immediately blushed.

You heard a sudden noise from behind you and when you turned around to look, Tim was standing there, looking nauseated. “I’ll uh… have breakfast in my room…” he said.

“I didn’t know you stayed here last night,” you said to him.

“I wish I hadn’t,” he gagged and grabbed a cup of coffee before leaving the two of you alone.

Bruce scrunched his nose and turned his face towards his breakfast.

“Oh don’t go all shy now! You were very vocal last night,” you teased and nudged his foot with yours just to watch his ears turn even redder.

“I think we should take a warm bath together to you know, let our bodies heal,” he suggested.

“Uh huh,” you narrowed your eyes. “And no other reason at all.”

“Of course my darling,” Bruce smiled and tugged you out of your chair before picking you up in his arms.

“No other reason at all.”

my first multi part fic ever feeling nervous

didn’t know which photos to use so…

if you couldn’t tell i’ve been extremely tim drake pilled lately thanks to all the requests ive received for him 😭

likes comments and reblogs appreciated, hope you guys enjoy <3

[inkievoid]

Taking requests, feel free to shoot me an idea and I'll see what takes my interest 🩷

Please take a look at my rules before sending an ask

[twentytomidnight]

YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

THANK U OMG OMGOMG

[innorality]

aliendick!clark and pavlov conditioning

summary// you ended up realizing that making clark your lab rat would simultaneously be the best and worst decision of your relationship.

content warning// conditioning, mating press, doggy style, nasty filthy sex, creampie, clark is feral, clark has an alien dick, clark swears, improper use of x-ray vision, kryptonian breeding kink, squirting, clark is pathetic

2k words whew

with clark kent fucking you like that, you don’t think you’re making it out alive.

well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.

.

on monday, on the evening, you decided that you could begin your sick little experiment of conditioning on clark. after reading an article about it online, you wanted your alien boyfriend to be your lab-rat for it, and saw no apparent downsides to the experiment, so you went on with it.

starting with the trigger, you decided for it to be a duck emoji. weird enough for clark to be confused, not too weird for it to have him worrying like the sweetheart he is. ten minutes before you arrived home after work, you had sent him a singular duck emoji with no context or follow-up to it, which, as expected, had your poor clarkie as confused as ever. you smiled when he immediately texted back with ‘???’—success. as soon as you arrived home, you barely let him finish his questioning before pouncing on him, interrupting his sentence with a kiss he welcomed with open arms.

that night, you rode the man to the moon and back—gave him such mind-numbing pleasure that he couldn’t even bother to remember his previous confusion about the duck emoji.

and so, with the first day being a success, you repeated the process.

every day following that one, you would do the same thing—no texts or news all day, a duck emoji ten minutes before coming home, mind-blowing sex.

after a few days of repeating the process, you began to space out these encounters, opting to send the duck emoji every two to three days—a great way to keep the man on his toes, anticipating, waiting for the next time you'd send him that emoji.

then came the most awaited experiment—your greatest mistake.

it was on a friday night that you had decided tonight was the night. you had sent clark the usual duck emoji, smirking as he had immediately seen the text. however, when you arrived home, it wasn't like usual. usually, upon sending the emoji, you'd pounce on him and drag him to the bedroom. tonight, however? radio silence. well, not quite, but that's it felt to clark. you didn't give him those bedroom eyes you usually did on nights you were feeling particularly needy, you insisted on taking a shower all by yourself (he almost crumbled at that) and after dinner, you lounged on the couch to watch a tv show without even asking him to follow you! you just did!

the thing about clark kent is, he's a gentleman through and through. his ma had raised him to be one, and for christ's sake, he was superman! how could he not be a gentleman? but, he sympathizes with himself, you can't spell gentlemna without man, and clark was a man before he was anything else. a very aroused and hopelssly in love man, at that.

he stands awkwardly in the doorway of the living room, staring at you. you noticed, of course, but this wasn't unusual. clark has always had sort of weird quirks—you had always found them endearing. "is something the matter, honey?" your sirupy voice cut through his stream of thought, and suddenly his eyes focus again, gaze meeting yours.

clark has his phone in hand, and he brings it up to look back at the duck emoji you had sent. duck meant sex. you wanted this. he can indulge. you want this.

he knows you do. you sent the text, and he feels like he can almost smell your arousal and it's driving him fucking insane because he just wants to dive in it and taste it and fuck you everywhere so the entire place smells like you and-

in the blink of an eye, his phone is abandonned and he's on you, lips smashed against yours. you barely have the time to react but you do, arms now hanging around his thick neck. his hand latches itself onto your cheeks, fingers pressing into both of them, urging you to open your mouth. as soon as you do, his tongue, which was inhumanely long, snaked into your cavern, exploring its depths. he moaned at the taste of your saliva, almost melting into you as if the flavor of you was his ultimate salvation.

noticing the lack of air filling your lungs, he pulled away, his eyes softening at the sight of you catching your breath. "c-clark... what's... whta's gotten into you?" you licked your lips, face flushed. he looks at you like a puppy begging for its treat. "the emoji... you sent the emoji but you didn't... i thought..." his mind is a rush, moving at a thousand miles per hour as his entire body is begging him to rip your clothes off and take you.

he gives up, his head falling into the crook of your neck. "i just... i really need to fuck you, sweetheart." and as he's confessing this, his hand is gliding towards the waistband of your bottoms, sliding swiftly underneath it.

you think you could ascend.

you bite your lip, rendered mute at the sheer tension of the moment. "i know you want it, baby..." he scoffs, eyes closed. "can smell it."

curse him for being such a dangerously hot and multi-abled alien.

his hand makes its way underneath your panties, finger running through your slit, collecting the slick you've been trying to keep to yourself for the past hour. "ah..." you let out a low sound, almost imperceptible but clark was so hyper-focused on you that the little moan made him shudder.

he uses his forearm to push himself upwards, his hand escaping your bottoms to rush up to his mouth, and when you look at him, you gasp, feeling your walls clench.

because clark has never looked this feral.

his eyes were half-lidded and impossibly dark, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows your juices, eyes nearly rolling back at the taste. he moans, his cock twitching and growing inside his sweatpants.

"you're gonna give it t'me, right sweetie?" he asks in that low, sultry voice that he only allows himself to use when he'd rather die than not touch you.

the eager nod you gave him marked the moment you knew you were done for.

.

how long has it been? you don't know. you don't know anything, actually. your brain is fogged with how clark was pounding you into the fuzzy carpet, your eyes crossing when the buds running along his dick grazed against the ridges of your walls, the added sensation making you spasm. "f-ffuck-! clark- oh my god, ohmygod—" you can barely form a sentence, let alone link two words together when he knocks at your cervix, your tits bouncing in rhythm with every thrust.

and clark isn't even listening to you, his eyes laser-focused on the sight of his cock splitting you open repeatedly, a vein bulging on his forehead at his intense use of his x-ray vision. "look at that, b-baby... look..." and you don't even bother, too lost in the ecstasy. he sees it all though, the strings of your arousal clinging to his tip every time he pulls away, the ridged of your pussy hooking onto his buds, the contractions of your muscles.

he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the sight, only to be met with the even prettier, albeit messier sight of your fucked out face. tears and drool glossed your skin, your eyes rolled back nearly to the back of your skull, throwing your head back when clark's hips stutter against yours, a white-hot wave washing over him over the sight.

he stilled when his buds hardened and hooked onto your walls, pulling him impossibly deep as he shoots buckets worth of cum deep into your womb. "a-ah! holy sh- hmm, fffuck, baby- i- fuck!" he sobs, jerking down towards you and you moan at the feeling of him filling you up once more, droplets of his sweat dripping onto your buzzing skin.

despite his orgasm, he doesn't stop, "n-need m-moree- needa fill you up-! ah, fuck!" his voice jumps up an octave when his buds finally relax again, allowing him to keep pistoning into you. "d-don't stop, clark! please dont- oh-!" he suddenly grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders before beeending down, succesfully folding you in half. his face is now slotted right in front of yours, and the eye contact is so intense you almost feel shy under his gaze.

a mating press. clark kent had you in a fucking mating press.

you get lost in his ocean blue eyes, barely able to keep the eye conatct when he fucks you almost like he hated you, digging in your pussy. "you're... you're so beautiful, honey... so fucking pretty- all f'me, yeah? all f'me?" you nod, hands pressing against the back of his head to bring him impossiby closer to you, "all for you, clarkie," you confirmed being hastily pressing his against you, imprisoning him in a feverish kiss. clark moans into your mouth, eyes closing. you jolt slightly when you feel a tear drip down on your cheek, peeling your eyes open to see clark crying.

he pulls away, gasping for air as his throat restricts. "i l-love you, love you s'much— need you so, ngh, so bad... wanna breed ya'..." he sobs, whimpering for you. seeing clark become such a slave to his love for you had an inescapable effect on you, and your orgasm was almost immediate. you came with a gasp, the pleasure being so heavy that your eyes had given up on their function, unfocusing and leaving you with the blurry image of clark's flushed expression. your back arched as cream dribbled out of your hole, creating a white ring around clark's base.

in the midst of your orgasm, he pulls out, making you whine for the few seconds your face isn't smushed against the carpet because in a matter of moments, your world tilted before you found yourself face down ass up for your boyfriend. he pressed a hand on your back, urging a deeper arch. "m'sorry baby, m'so sorry..." he apologizes for the his unceremonial behavior but his apologies fall on deaf ears as you couldn't be happier.

your hands clutch the fluff of the carpet when he slams back into you, kneading the flesh of your ass. "just... just need this. s'your fault for making me wait... so long.. to have you- ngh, gosh..." he's hypnotized by the rippling of your ass, and the way your back bends impossibly for a second each time he rams back inside you, pressing you further into the carpet.

with clark kent fucking you like that, you really don’t think you’re making it out alive.

well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.

your moans are rhythmic, matching the pace of his hips. leaning in, he wraps an arm around you to squeeze your tits, massaging them and rubbing your hardened nipples. "so obedient..." his comment makes your walls flutter around his fat cock. he begins to roll his hips, not quite thrusting. he presses against you, making you drool. "nghhh... fffuuuck... love you... so much.. c-clark-!" you slurred, going crazy at the sensation of his buds hardening slowly again, hooking onto your insides.

"w-want your cum-! want you to b-breed me!" you egged him on, "yeah? y'want it, baby? oh gosh, i'm cumming, m'cummingm'cumming-" he gritted, spilling into you once more. "oh my god! oh god, sweetheart!" he whined, your name escaping him as his hips bucked again, releasing rope upon rope inside you. his orgasm triggered yours, drops of your release trickled down onto the carpet before his hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing furiously and suddenly an intense stream released itself onto the now soaked carpet, the intensity of both of your orgasms making the two of you collaspe in a heap.

he layed on top of you, both of you catching your breaths. "i feel so... sticky." he remarked, "shit... i ruined the carpet." you groaned, knitting your eyebrows together.

a silence settled in, before you broke it. "i'm glad my experiment worked." a beat passes before he reacts, "experiment?"

"i tried conditioning you into associating sex with the duck emoji. it worked."

clarks hums, choosing not to react any further.

a few days later, minutes after the end of your shift, you receive a text from clark.

a duck emoji.

taglist : @mina-do-malik, @chroniclesofdyingmen, @onlyblackorpheus, @lanavelvetgoldmine, @kaerimango