RamHa

Come and see all my arts! I draw anything that i like!

[rainbowstar]

Hi little birdies 🥰❤️

[twentytomidnight]

you should work on your flirting, i almost thought you liked me

Bucky Barnes/Reader, Remy LeBeau/Reader, Jason Todd/Reader [and their unwitting third wheels: Steve Rogers, Logan, and Dick Grayson] 2.1K

a/n: a request I received that I enjoyed writing a lot :)

cw: unrequited love on Steve, Logan and Jason's parts, flirting, mention of drinking, gn!reader

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

These men are just so good at flirting. It's amazing how good of an actor they are when it comes to putting the moves on you. Marvel/Reader, DC/Reader

Bucky Barnes:

“I’m a plenty good flirt,” Steve grins at you as he stares openly across the kitchen island, “You just haven’t seen it yet.”

“Oh, yeah, grandpa?” You ask, fumbling a hand for one of the apples centered in the basket occupying the center. This allows you to miss the way that he carries a subtle wince at the jape. But it’s vanished on the wind by the time that your eyes levy back up to him.

“Hit me with something.” You assert with a grin, only barely aware of Bucky as he lopes languidly into the room. There’s an impartiality occupying the real estate of that stern face as he silently appraises the exhibition, occupying the wide doorframe with the spread of his shoulders.

“Like what?” Steve asks with a grin; you’re already making way to let your arms cross above your chest. Bucky settles the meat of his flesh-and-blood arm against the beam of the door to watch.

“Ask me out.” You grin with a blithe smile. “Pretend for me.”

It’s endearing, the way that his shoulders broaden, the look of courage that he shores up on his face as he poises himself across the meridian of the marble. When he says your name, there’s an almost rigid formality that he never articulates it with.

“—Would you do me the honor—”—And you watch the way that his Adam’s apple bobs, the way that he portrays the very picture of awkward shyness so well—“—Of going out with me?”

You can’t help but let an instinctive smile cross your mouth at the display. At the almost-genuine flush that sinks across his cheeks, the way that his eyes seem riveted upon you as he waits for your pretend reaction. You can’t help but provide him a small smattering of applause which gives no degree of relief.

“Very good, Mr. Rogers,” you grin. “Some people like the old tried-and-true formal touch.”

“Do you?” Steve asks. But before you have the whiling span of a second to answer this, Bucky’s voice drawls in such leisurely manner into the fray of your conversation.

“People these days like a more direct approach, Stevie,” Bucky says with a ghost of a grin that sneaks over his face. All you can do is watch as he saunters over to an unoccupied side of the marble island, ignorant to the slow-simmering indignation that burns in Steve’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask with no lack of dubious quality to your voice, directing your disbelief to thing two rapidly approaching. “And what experience do you have in the modern-day love scene to back that up, Barnes?”

And then he leans an elbow—the metallic one, so that it settles with a hollow thunk on the embossed stone—and it feels as though something shifts. Bucky himself doesn’t change, doesn’t undergo drastic transformation. But there’s something about the way that he holds himself with intense gravity, the rivet of his eyes that seem to smolder through you, draw tight within the hollow of your stomach.

“Been thinkin’ you and me oughta go get some drinks tomorrow, doll,” He says—no, husks is more accurate descriptor. There’s something in rugged intonation that sends a frisson of heat up the length of your spine. “Lot of stuff on my mind I been wantin’ to tell you.”

And the way that he appraises you, the cant of his gaze, the tilt of his body towards you—masculine, broad-shouldered, devoted your way—something about it feels oddly surreal, yet grounded in reality. It strings tightly round your neck, in the pulse of your legs as the two of you share the heat of an exchanged gaze.

You let a blustering chuckle escape you. It seems oddly important to redirect conversation to greener pastures, than to focus on the way that the room seems to spinning in intoxicating fashion.

“Wow,” You finally confess to Bucky, who has drawn back, allowed the moment and the indecipherable gravity with it to dissipate—“—Maybe you do know what you’re talking about.”

“Years of practice,” He responds in coarse, unaffected manner. “Me and Steve’ll practice for the next time he asks you.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” you respond—the two of them are such kidders. But the odd, implicative glance between each other escapes your attention as you search for the proper apple to enjoy. And the silent discussion of forbidden fruit that they exchange between each other falls beneath your notice.

Remy LeBeau:

“People want the strong, silent type.” Logan returns in response to your question levied across the tacky bar counter. To better emphasize the point that he makes, he punctuates it with a deep swallow of his beer. The neck of the neck of the bottle is swallowed in his great mitt, allowing you to see the flex of his knuckles, the draw of those wide fingers.

“Not everyone wants the strong, silent type,” You dispute with cavalier ease, buoyed by the drink. He sends you a dark, near-inquisitive look with such immediacy that sober you would have sensed something was up. You angle your old fashioned against your lips, savoring the acrid burn, the faint zest of the orange peel.

“No?” He asks, a rough, low inquiry. “You’re tellin’ me—”

And he props an elbow into your space, drawing into closer proximity so that the conversation becomes confidential between the two of you. You can't help but be drawn in, magnetized by curiosity as to how he will proceed with his example.

It's this, your gravitational pull, that draws the attention of a pair of eyes from across the room.

“—That if I told you right now,” Logan growls in corrugated whisper through his teeth, “Just how I felt about you, and what I’d do if I got the chance—”

Your eyes draw up in amused curiosity, a corner of your mouth turning up at this hypothetical that he offers your way. How very illustrative of Logan to approach with an example of the two of you.

“Yeah?” You ask with a grin that exhibits the inhibition drink has brought to you.

“—You’re tellin’ me that you wouldn’t want to see where it took you?” Logan asks. There’s something stark in the way that his eyes are searching for your reaction. Almost as if he’s not asking from an anthropological point of view. Almost as if he has a vested interest.

“Not every person likes the roguish approach,” You chuckle, pulling back—how silly, how charming, how funny your friend is. “Some people like other methods of attack.”

“Like what?” He asks. There’s something in the crook of his brow as they knit together, still watching. He doesn’t pull away, still maintaining the space that he’s forded into of yours.

“Maybe some people like the romantic approach, no?” A voice takes intrusion into the conversation. You turn with more curiosity than Logan, who seems to be stolid and unappreciative of the newcomer strolling in.

“What d’you know ‘bout it, Cajun?” Logan asks as he regards Remy, who looks the proverbial cat that ate the canary. As though he bears secrets, sacred knowledge that Logan doesn’t. His eyes are fixated upon you.

“Some people got refined taste, Logan,” Remy takes swaggering step towards you, eating up distance so that the two of you are far closer than you and your other counterpart, “They like to be wine and dined.”

“And how many people have you wined and dined, LeBeau?” You ask with a cheeky smirk that he reciprocates in wider manner. Besides you, Logan chafes with the heat of his glare, but you’re only looking up to Remy.

“Enough to know you like a nice sit-down dinner,” Remy says, his eyes dancing with such hypnotic allure, “That you want music, a nice view—”

He leans down so that it’s a confidential whisper intended for the two of you, but his voice is audible enough to Logan—“—Maybe swept off your feet with a little dancin’, no?”

You laugh with a healthy degree of skepticism. “You know how to dance?”

“Remy be real light on his feet when he want to, minou,” Remy smirks at you, “For the right person.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” You grin as Remy seems to bear a smug satisfaction you’re unsure of the source, “For later.”

“You do,” Remy grins, “Maybe I take you up on it soon.”

And you’re far too occupied with picking the peel from your drink to take in the way that Remy grins at Logan. And how he willingly, happily wades further into playing in dangerous waters.

Jason Todd:

“There’s a difference between between flirting and being a flirt, Grayson.” You inform him as the three of you return back from the dire exhaustion of patrol. You make an interesting sight in triad, covered in a sheen of effort and exertion earned together.

“And what am I?” Dick asks as he turns to regard you from the right. On your left, though you are ignorant to this, Jason tenses in quiet, monolithic airs.

“You’re a flirt, of course,” you return; Dick has the good graces to pretend mock-offense as he splays his fingers over the plateau of his chest.

“I resent that observation,” Dick returns staunchly. “I just happen to have a charming personality.”

You snort through your nose at the generous description he’s provided himself. The three of you conclude your journey into the cave, settling the weapons and defenses of the night on the ground, the floor. Wherever acreage is available to hold the aspects of your vigilante identity for civilian facade soon becomes occupied.

“Charming personality doesn’t mean that you throw yourself at everyone that’s available.” You reply back as you unclip your cape, the protective armor you bear over your torso. If Dick’s gaze lingers over the vulnerable skin underneath, you don’t take regard—nor of the way that Jason’s eyes raze over you as well.

“I don’t throw myself at everyone,” Dick’s voice lilts in good-humored glibness, “Just you.”

“Well, you’re doing a fantastic job of proviing that you’re a flirt,” You return back primly with a haughty sniff as you remove your mask. “You ought to be more like Jason.”

“Oh stiff-upper lipped lieutenant?” Dick asks with demeanor convincing enough to persuade you he is not nettled by you involving Jason in the discussion. “How so?”

“With Jason, I know he’s not laying it on thick,” You say, turning to look at Jason relinquishing the heft of his mask to the table, “I know that Jason speaks with the truth in every single syllable.”

“Doin’ me a lot of credit, sweetheart.” He returns in that gruff delivery. You smile knowingly and press the heel of your palms against the table to support yourself.

“It’s true—watch—” You reply, giving Dick a 'better pay attention' glower he returns with ambling grin; you turn back to Jason, who watches you silently—“—Jason, who do you like?”

“You, honey.” Jason says in such sincere delivery that you wouldn’t doubt the cadence of his delivery, the means of his posture that attests to his want, the desire that rings clear in his eyes. And this is what causes the cave to draw into heavy silence.

But it’s interrupted with your impressed chuckle. “Wow. That was pretty good.”

Before Jason can formulate proper retort, you round on your heel back to Dick. “See? You need to be able to speak things with honesty like Jason. Then people would believe you a lot more.”

“I don’t know,” Dick returns in sly bearings—another aimed barb from eldest brother to younger, you think, “I think ol’ Jason speaks from the heart.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” You reassert as you stride past the two of them to the world concealed by winding staircase, “Try to sound genuine and maybe it’ll work for a change.”

The two of them remain in deliberate silence until you have departed—then Dick turns with slow, menacing grin to his brother.

“Yeah, Jason,” Dick beams, “Maybe you should sound more genuine and they’ll believe you.”

“Cold place in hell for you, brother,” Jason returns back with a tone that indicates it’s no skin off his nose. And as he looks up to the heavenly ascent that you’ve taken, past their visual reckoning—Dick knows that Jason isn’t out for the count. Not for long, anyways.

Where you’re concerned, Jason can only operate in the most dedicated of truths. There’ll just come a time when you actually believe it.

dividers and banner made by me :)

request:

feel like i changed it a lil bit but i think i stayed true to the theme hehe

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[bynine]

starter babies

[o0kawaii0o]

In the crows nest probably

[anastasiia37]

Regarding this Anon’s ask about Boruto TBV I will mainly focus on Sakura’s line, i do have to clarify that everything I’m saying is based off of what we have seen up until now. Things like her future involvement i don’t know about, but regardless i’ll speak on this chapter only.

-Sakura top left: ボルトの力に なりたいんでしょ…？

“To Boruto's power... you want to become his strength/support, right?”

-Sakura: …ホントにさ…… つくづくあたしの子だよ

“...Seriously... through and through, you really are my child.”

-Sakura: たった一人の男の子のためにさ……

-“For the sake of just one single boy...”

-Sakura: 他のぜんぶを投げうっても良いなんて……

-“..To be perfectly fine with throwing away everything else...”

** I need to add this but Sakura's framing of Sarada's MS as something used purely 'for just one single boy' is reductive on the narrative's part regardless of whether it is accurate or not. By BV, Sarada's characterization has been increasingly Boruto-centric and the narrative itself has not done enough to complicate that. But in this specific scene, Sarada's silence is the narrative choice that matters, she nods to Sakura’s words about her feelings and cries. She had every opportunity to push back, to say her reasons were broader, that her village, her teammates, her Hokage dream were part of it too. She says none of that. Her silence allows Sakura's reductive framing to stand completely unchallenged, and as a result of that, what should have been a complex conversation about trauma and ambition, the sacrifices, they all collapse into an oversimplified repeat of Sakura's own past. Even as a mother trying to comfort her daughter in a painful moment, this is a missed opportunity for a much deeper conversation, they’re literally discussing her MS but the way its framed here is very underwhelming.**

-Sakura:パパにもそっくり…

-“You're the spitting image of your dad, too...”

-Sakura:いつだって何か とてつもないものに立ち向かってる

-“Always standing up against something absolutely immense.”

“Sakura:どんなに汚名を着せられようともね…

“No matter how much dishonor/infamy is forced upon them...”

Sakura: パパのお兄さんもそうだった

*"Your dad's older brother was the same way."*

-Sakura: あたしはね… サラダ パパとあんたの事 何があっても信じてるから…！

-As for me... Sarada... regarding you and your dad... I will believe in you both, no matter what happens...!”

There are theories floating around online that claim that the previous words regarding Itachi and Sasuke prove that Sakura has full knowledge of the Uchiha Coup and the hidden truth behind the massacre, however, the grammar structure and history completely contradict all of this by itself. Starting with Sakura's dialogue in the second page: she links Sarada to Sasuke first and notes that Sasuke always stood up against ‘something absolutely immense’ (とてつもないものに立ち向かってる). The actual Japanese is vague: とてつもないもの ("something tremendous/immense") with no object specified. From Sakura's life experience, that "something" could be anything from the tragedy of his clan, to the Akatsuki, the war, and later on dimensions full of Otsutsuki.

...どんなに汚名を着せられようともね... ("No matter how much infamy is forced upon them..."). The word Omei (汚名) means a bad name, a stigma, or a ruined reputation it is modified by the passive-causative verb 着せられる (kiserareru), which means to have an undesirable trait or reputation draped over or forced upon you by outside forces or public perception. The volitional form 着せられよう＋とも means "no matter how much they try to force infamy on them." The agent is unspoken: the village, history, public’s opinion, Sakura doesn't name anyone specifically, the infamy was always there and she is simply pointing it out. English translations often flatten this to 'infamy forced upon them,' losing the volitional 'no matter how much they try' and the passive-causative 'draped on by outside forces.' This vagueness lets readers imagine a specific conspirator (Danzo) where the Japanese only implies public opinion.

パパのお兄さんもそうだった ("Your dad's older brother was the same way").

This is a surface-level link at best, and frankly I don't know why people are treating it as if she unveiled the whole truth. Sakura makes exactly two observations: that Sasuke and Itachi always faced something immense, and that infamy was forced upon them while doing so. That is the full extent of what she says. There is no political revelation, no classified detail, no inside knowledge required to say either of those things.

Sakura is connecting a specific phenomenon she has observed in the Uchiha men as they end up labeled as criminals or outcasts while standing up against "something immense." That's the thing both men share and what is known of them. To assume Sakura knows the classified truth requires one to ignore what the entire ninja world already knew about Itachi at that time, it isn’t hidden knowledge he is a “traitor,” he is a famous, high profile historical figure. What Sakura is stating isn't new information as many already know that too. Itachi was a rogue ninja who slaughtered his clan and joined the Akatsuki, Sasuke abandoned the Village, joined the Akatsuki, killed Danzo, was hunted down, that all gives them infamy it’s the outcome of their actions. She doesn't need a top-secret file from Danzo to say that because we readers also saw how they reacted back then too. She is describing what was already known by then, the common surface-level tragedy of the family’s history.

Now let’s go into the dynamic Sakura set up. Sarada is an Uchiha whose stated life goal is to become Hokage, a leader who must prioritize the collective safety of the village and protect everyone and her MS is awakened through immense psychological trauma—Boruto who was framed as a traitor and their friends tried to hunt him down. Instead of treating her impending blindness as a devastating physical handicap or a dark systemic tragedy that needs to be solved the narrative instead chooses to frame it as a sacrifice for her crush, literally look at the direct trajectory of the conversation:

Sakura says: “You're going blind”

Sarada responded: *"I'm sorry, but even so, I must..."*

Sakura concludes: “Ah, you want to be Boruto's strength. You are completely fine with throwing away everything else (他のぜんぶを投げうっても良い) for just one single boy (たった一人の男の子のために). You really are my child.”

Sakura doesn't ask a single question about Boruto—why he needs Sarada's strength, what he's done, whether he's even worthy of Sarada’s suffering or not, not even if her daughter’s devotion is based on anything real. She fills in the blank herself and validates the answer she invented in her mind. Her using the word Nageutsu (投げうつ to recklessly discard, toss away, or abandon value), Sakura herself explicitly is shown validating the idea that Sarada is willing to throw away her eyesight, her health, and her future career as Hokage (everything else) purely for the sake of Boruto. The narrative in this chapter completely strips Sarada of her independent drive and reduces her ultimate power down to a tool for romantic devotion which isn’t inherently wrong, but as the writing stands it still is shown to be shallow.

Sakura has her daughter admit that she is actively going to destroy her own eyes and instead of acting like a doctor, looking for solutions, or expressing horror at the fact that her daughter is entering a cycle of self destruction that will ruin her, Sakura completely surrenders her parental and professional authority and just tells her to do what she wants. She is an elite Medic nin, her daughter has just described a progressive combat induced blindness condition. A real doctor would log the case and restrict the patient or at least consult specialists to try and avoid it, even if it is ‘impossible’ many before her managed to create jutsu, or improve their medical ninjutsu, study it more, give alternatives address it with their patients regardless of intentions. Sakura does none of this and worse, she validates the self-destruction instead and she normalizes the behavior by calling it a genetic trait (つくづくあたしの子だよ / Through and through, you really are my child). And don't tell me the story didn't have room for medical realism, or that this was "just an emotional moment." Tsunade, Sakura's own mentor, faced an almost identical emotional situation with Naruto's Rasenshuriken. Naruto was desperate to get stronger to protect Sasuke—just like Sarada with Boruto. But Tsunade didn't romanticize his sacrifice because she saw that the Rasenshuriken was destroying Naruto's arm at the cellular level, and she outright banned the technique because as a medic nin, a doctor, she prioritizes a patients health above all no matter what they try to argue, if she sees something that is damaging, she will point it out, that’s her job and profession. Thats a real medic nin. She told Naruto "I'm telling you, you're not using it." She acted as Hokage and head medic, she sure as hell didn’t act like a sentimental bystander or a cheerleader just because “his heart was in the right place,” she knows the risks so she put a line. Tsunade also gave Lee a 50% survival rate for his surgery and made sure he understood the risks, she never said "it's your resolve, I won't interfere." She makes sure her patients are aware of their situation, she consults them, she advises them because that’s how someone with experience and actual resolve acts. Tsunade drilled into Sakura that a medic ninja never gives up on their patients, no matter what. Tsunade had no blood relation to Naruto or Lee, yet she intervened to protect them from themselves. Sakura, trained by Tsunade, looks at her own daughter choosing blindness and says "I won't tell you not to use them" and "it's not for me to interfere." She tells her own daughter that. Compare her to Tsunade. One is a medical authority who enforces boundaries to prevent permanent damage regardless of intention. The other is a mother who frames her patient and daughter that her self-destruction is a beautiful inheritance. Where we see Tsunade act and take control, Sakura performs “acceptance.” Essentially it’s medical negligence on Sakura’s part. Her tears won’t reverse her actions or encouragement.

She admits her own defining trait was sacrificing her own identity for a boy, for Sakura’s case specifically, it wasn’t true love or care, it was pure selfishness as Kishi himself describes her love for Sasuke:

“But personally, I actually quite like Sakura's design and character. Everyone has an inner voice like 'Inner Sakura,' and I think it's good that she has a realistic humanness to her, including things like a selfish love. Manga girls aren't just about being cute! ...Though writing this makes me sound like I'm making excuses... Well, I can draw rowdy brats and old man characters as much as I want, but... girls are difficult... truly”

What he uses to describe her love for him is 自分勝手 (jibunkatte) which means selfish, self-centered, egotistical, it carries a negative or at least morally ambiguous connotation doing what you want without regard for others or for practical consequences and 恋 (koi) romantic love, Koi is traditionally viewed as a romantic desire centered on the self, the longing to possess someone or have your feelings reciprocated as opposed to ai which is a more mature, selfless act of love. He acknowledges that the realism in her (her selfish one-sided love) is the human trait itself. Kishi in another interview also calls her “サスケ 中毒” which literally means “Sasuke obsessed” the word 中毒 is a medical/slang term that translates directly to "addiction" "poisoning" or "toxicity" for example things like alcohol addiction or food poisoning. In internet slang attaching Chuudouko to a person’s name or hobby means someone is obsessed with, hooked on, or completely consumed by something. The manga itself shows us through patterns that Sakura’s love for Sasuke is selfish. In their first parting, she makes Sasuke’s tragedies about her, and Sasuke replies with an ‘I knew it..’ in part 2, she chooses to serve the village like her other classmates and go on to play the martyr role by fueling her thoughts on ‘Naruto is doing this for me’ and she decided she will end Sasuke, again proving not only does she not know anything about him (including Naruto), but she’ll also throw him away once he is deemed by others as ‘too deep into the darkness’ she doesn’t bother asking why, or hoping that with every cause there is a reason, she just accepts that Naruto is doing this for her, and he won’t give up because of her, so she plays the middle man. In part 2, she acknowledges the differences between her and Sasuke and Naruto, and says she can’t reach him, but even then she plays a pity party ‘if there even is a thought of me in your heart’ which there isn’t and Sasuke knows this so does she, even then a little part of her hopes if only a little, he thinks of her. Even when we reach the end, when Sasuke leaves the village yet again she tries to leave with him, no matter what Sasuke does, or tries to do, it doesn’t matter because as Kishi says, she is “サスケ 中毒.” And she’s proving it here herself, one can argue that Kishi was describing her as a kid, but Kishi goes on to show that Sakura’s traits don’t change when she becomes an adult.

She romanticizes the Uchiha cycle of martyrdom, brushing off literal blindness as a poetic family trait (パパのお兄さんもそうだった) without ever questioning whether Sarada's relationship with Boruto does justify such sacrifice. But here's the contradiction the scene doesn’t want to acknowledge, if Sakura just finished saying Sarada is willing to throw away her eyesight, her health, her Hokage dream—all "for just one single boy” that's becomes reductive because it frames the Mangekyo (a power born from psychological trauma) as nothing more than a love token, then, in the very next breath, she links Sarada to Sasuke and Itachi: "standing against something immense," "bearing infamy." Now suddenly it's a tragic Uchiha legacy. Which is it? Is Sarada just a girl sacrificing herself for a crush? Or is she carrying on a lineage of martyrs? It seems the narrative wants both—to romanticize her devotion as cute inheritance while also giving it weight it hasn't earned however, this inevitably results the framing to lack depth. Someone might argue these two framings can co-exist, that Sarada's devotion is both personal and tragically Uchiha but the problem is that the scene never shows us what's "immense" about Sarada's fight beyond her feelings for Boruto. Itachi and Sasuke faced world-shattering stakes, war, genocides, manipulation, Sarada is facing blindness for a boy whose situation she doesn't even fully understand. The narrative invokes the Uchiha legacy to add weight but the problem still remains that it doesn't earn that weight. Simply put, the contradiction isn't that two themes exist—because they can—it's that the story treats them as interchangeable when they're not. Itachi and Sasuke faced world-altering stakes whereas Sarada is going blind for a boy with an unknown situation, what makes this (rightfully) infuriating is the narrative borrows the weight of their tragedies without showing us why Sarada's situation has earned that same gravity which inevitably makes Sarada’s story shallow in comparison to the latter Uchiha’s.

Sakura however, exits the conflict completely by saying: あたしが口を出す事じゃない (It's not something for me to interfere with), and walks away with a generic "I'll just blindly believe in you guys no matter what” again, bo questioning about Boruto or why her daughter is doing this, if it might affect her which is the logical thing to think about at this crucial moment—she accepts it. Tsunade never once said 'it's not my place to interfere' about any patient's self destruction but somehow we see Sakura saying it to her own daughter?

Another crucial comparison we need to make is one between Sakura's response and Sasuke's. Sasuke knows the history of the MS because he lived it himself he knows exactly what it costs so seeing Sarada awaken her MS while crying over Boruto, he takes notice but he doesn't romanticize it or downplay it, he plays the middle man until things cool down, trusts Sarada's judgment enough to take Boruto away and investigate due to her awakening, and crucially he doesn't blindly believe—his suspicions are only confirmed when he sees the headband with his own eyes, the one he himself gave to Boruto. Evidence first, and his full faith after. Sakura on the other hand, upon learning her daughter is going blind and has accepted it for a boy, asks zero questions about Boruto. Not who he is now, not what he has done, not whether Sarada's devotion is even based on accurate understanding of the situation, none of it. She fills and validates the answer herself saying 'I will believe in you no matter what,' as if trust can be thrown randomly especially considering the situation, throws in a Shannaro, and leaves. This is the second contrast the scene sets up whether intentionally or not: where Tsunade would have intervened medically, Sasuke intervenes investigatively, Sakura does neither. We’re only shown one parent investigate and verify not just blind trust because Sasuke knows the significance of the MS so it lead to half trust, Sakura doesn’t know anything yet she’s here blindly throwing in her own trust seeing her daughter suffer for a boy who didn’t even yet reciprocate her feelings. Sure, to some, the narrative frames this as a touching mother-daughter moment and on the surface, it is, but that image crumbles the moment you place Sakura next to the two people who should be her reference points. Tsunade never romanticized self-destruction in a patient and Sasuke never confirmed trust without evidence, what’s awkward is Sarada’s own mother, Sakura, does both.

What fans mistook for a lore drop was never about hidden knowledge because it was about inherited blindness, literal and otherwise. The rumors were entirely manufactured but fans ignoring this contrast invented a lore drop where none exists, the scene is a massive disservice to both characters, the author used the ultimate biological consequence of the Uchiha bloodline—blindness—not to advance a complex plot about clan history but to create a superficial parallel where Sarada copy pastes Part 1 Sakura's obsessive devotion, and Sakura stands by and cheers her on for it (even if her later actions show otherwise)

I do have to note that by the end Sakura also says this:

-家族の事で色々言われんのもさ！

- "Being criticized/talked about all kinds of ways because of my family!"

So in these years, with what Sasuke did—protecting Boruto— he has been regarded as a traitor once again. Here she is acknowledging that Sarada is doing the same, and she blindly says that she will trust them both hereafter no matter what. She does leave the room after being called upon to by a nurse, once she leaves, she sheds a tear. The whole interaction was obviously a way to comfort Sarada, the fake smile, comparing her willingness to throw everything away for a guy, telling Sarada what she observed from Itachi and Sasuke, saying she will stick with them even though they have been criticized, it is too much, no matter how many smiles she plasters her true emotions come out. Sakura's cheerful acceptance was a performance, she does feel the weight of what Sarada is doing, she knows it's painful. But rather than confront it directly she chose to normalize it, aestheticize it, and laugh about it in front of her daughter as if the situation isn’t that dire. One might argue that Sakura's tear proves she isn't truly validating Sarada's self-destruction—that she's merely putting on a brave face. But this interpretation actually makes the scene worse. Sakura knows, on some level, that her daughter is walking into blindness and public stigma. She feels the weight of it enough to cry the moment she's alone. Yet she still chooses to say nothing medical, nothing protective, nothing questioning (up until now). She still frames Sarada's sacrifice as a beautiful inheritance ("you're my child") rather than a preventable tragedy. The tear represents the moment a doctor and a mother silence her own better judgment to perform acceptance, she aestheticizes the pain instead of acting on it. The scene does not end with Sakura's tear however, as after she leaves Cho turns to Sarada and asks: あれって どーゆー意味 'what does that even mean?' referring to the ‘Shanaroo’ Sarada's answer is 実はあたしも 'actually me too.' Sarada does not know what her own mother's signature phrase means. But then she says: すっごい… 気合いが入るの…！ — 'it's amazing… how fired up it gets me.' This small exchange is the scene's most honest moment and it changes everything that came before it, we see Sakura spend the entire conversation delivering what looked like maternal wisdom—we see her reframing to the blindness as strength, invoking Sasuke and Itachi, laughing off public judgment. But the actual content of what she said was never the point as Sarada absorbed none of the meaning. She instead absorbed the energy, the intensity, the performance all that led her to feel fired up. Sakura successfully passed down the feeling of conviction without its substance. Sarada doesn't need to understand Shannaro for it to work on her just like she doesn't need to understand the full cost of what she's doing for Sakura's acceptance to validate it.

In other words Sakura's internal sadness and her external validation are not opposites because sadness is what makes the validation performative she's hiding her real feelings behind a smile. But performative validation is still validation, she still says the words. She still walks away without a solution. The tear doesn't cancel out the harm, the tear amplifies it.

[starboye]

Kinktober Day 12

starring: remy lebeau x male reader

request: remy gets jealous for whatever reason and he makes you watch him jack off and you can't touch him. You just have to sit in front of him and watch him and when he finishes he makes you swallow all of it

warnings: smut, masturbation, cum swallowing, cursing, voyeurism

you don't even know why he was mad and or jealous, you were just having a fun time with logan and making some cookies, i guess seeing you that close with him flicked something in his brain and he dragged you off to his room, sitting you on the bed before pulling out a chair to sit in front of you.

now he sat there jerking himself off, slowly might i add, making you watch every second of it to antagonize you, make you suffer for daring to even get close to the player that is logan.

he didn't even allow you to touch yourself, you just had to sit there and watch him stroke his lubed up cock, up and down up and down like clockwork "what jealous" he snarled making you even madder that he was doing this.

"please remy" you got up but with a click of his tongue you sat back down "you keep your ass right there till i tell you to move" he sternly says and you shake in fear, he had never been this commanding.

usually he was always so caring and gentle or just outright funny during sex but now he was so much more tough on you, not gonna lie it turned you on more with the smoldering look on his face and the occasional cocky smirk he'd flash when you'd whimper and whine.

"y'wanna help daddy out a little" remy asks and you ecstatically nod your head yes, he points to in between his spread legs and you crawl there, on your knees looking up at his smug face, as he came closer to his release he pushed his finger into your mouth to open it up.

"you want daddys cum" remy asks, his eyes flickering to the back of his head as he's on the edge of cumming "mhm" you voice muffled by his fingers in your mouth, looking up at him with the most puppy dog eyes, coercing him into cumming for you.

"fuckin' hell baby" remy chuckle as he cums into your mouth, you catching every single drop of it like a hungry slut, but no surprise some of it sprays on your face making remy even hornier now as he looks at you with a large smile.

remy wipe some of the cum off your face and you sensually lick it off his fingers, his dick twitching slightly "you still mad at me" you ask with a little pout on your face "hell no baby" remy says picking you up and laying you on the bed, guess he couldn't stay angry at you forever.

taglist:@mailmango@spermeboy@ghostking4m@gayaristocrat@addictedtomalepits@staarb0y@crispysoup318@its-ares@gargoylesworld09@kadenvatsune@fuckshft@wompwomp-1mh3re

[liquid-void]

Mon Cher

Warning. Blood mention. Biting mention. Modern time.

Sunshine! Vampire Gambit x Cold! Vampire Male Reader

Every red moon that shines in the dark sky of the night, vampires from every corner of the planet reunite in Transylvania for one special night all together. The dark, colossal and intimidating castle received many guests tonight, all of them dressed with their most expensive suit or dress, and their most precious jewelry.

There were some chatter and laugher heard among them inside the cold walls. The ball room was illuminated with enormous chandeliers and thoroughly decorated with luxuries and large paintings.

The music played outloud, many guests had a glass of blood in their hands while laughing with their friends, others wanted to have their fill right from the source. As tonight is a special night, humans were gathered in the palace as "snack givers" for the many guests. Some vampires used them and dumped them when they were satisfied, or not satisfied but rather full for the moment, like yourself. Others prefered to play with their food, teasing and flirting with the pretty humans that were offered tonight, like a certain young vampire named Remy Lebeau.

Remy was sitting on a expensive couch, relaxed, with a cocky smile as a beautiful young man and a gorgeous young woman sat by his sides, leaning on him as if they were captured by the vampire's beauty and charisma. Said vampire was enjoying the night surely, but no matter how hard the humans tried to get his attention on them, these red eyes were locked on you, the only young vampire standing straight, discussing with the higher diplomats of their kind.

So strict, so cold, so unforgiving and yet so beautiful. Remy couldn't stop staring at you, you were so captivating in your expensive suit and well fixed hair. Mr Perfect, he shall call you.

You, on the other hand, were growing annoyed with the other vampire. Not because he was staring at you or anything like that, you just disliked the type of vampires to play with their food and take everything so unseriously. You've known Remy for a century already, he's been living among humans, pretending to be something that he's clearly not. Remy is a special case of vampire, he's a mutant as well, so he can disguise his supernatural abilities as mutant abilities so easily. Yet you never understood why he was pretending to be a hero, why was he helping and saving humans just for later take a bite on one of them? It annoyed you so much.

"If you may excuse me for a moment," you excused yourself from the conversation before turning towards Remy and making your way where he was sitting. On the way, you took a glass of blood in your hand.

Remy's smile widened once you stood in front of him, he loved the way you were looking down on him. "My, my, my... Y/n, it's been a while, hasn't it?" His cocky, playful voice was rubbing you the wrong way.

"Remy, I see you haven't changed." Your voice was monotone, your cold eyes not changing even when the companions of Remy were putting their hands everywhere on Remy's torso.

The latter finally gave some attention to both humans, giving them a cocky smirk and some caresses on their waists. "And you're still as cold as ice, précieux." Here we go again with the flattering nicknames. "Want me to introduce you to one of these beautés? It would be my honor if I can get your cold blood to warm up a little bit at least."

You didn't blink at all. "When are you going to grow up, Remy?"

"When your lips curl into a smile, Y/n."

At that moment, the center of the ballroom got filled with couples, ready for the valse. Your attention turned to the dancefloor, and then back to Remy, you let out a soft "tch" before leaving the cajun vampire, making your way to the crowd.

Remy followed you with his eyes as you found a partner for the dance, his smile faltered. He brought the neck of the human woman and pierced the skin with his fangs, causing her to moan while he drank till he got satisfied and stood up when finished from the couch to participate in the valse. "Stay here, mes chers."

The first lady came to his arms, he gave some few praises out of pure flattery, a little cocky smile, and then his attention moved to something much more entertaining. Your eyes were focused on your dance partner, your steps precise yet graceful. The first change came, and he pushed "accidentally" the one who was meant to be your new partner, taking their place in a rush, his hands grabbing yours. "Re-bounjour, cher," he greeted cockily.

"You have blood on your mouth, couldn't bother yourself enough to look more presentable?" Some remnants of the blood Remy just drank stained the corner of his lips, drooling slowly down his chin.

"Thank you for your kind words, I think you look absolutely gorgeous tonight." You rolled your eyes, wanting to focus on the valse rather than the cocky vampire in front of you.

With each step you took, you noticed how Remy got closer to you, your chests brushing together so discretly. This wasn't part of the valse. There was a dangerous, predatory glint on Remy's red eyes, one you knew too well as it was the same glare women would give you once you entered the room.

It was time to change partners once again, but Remy did not release you, instead, he shooed the other person that was supposed to dance with you.

"You're not following the protocole," you commented, not annoyed though.

"When did I ever follow the protocole?" He tightened his grip on your hands and dragged you out of the dance floor. You two hurried out of the buzzy place and entered an empty room, Remy closed the doors behind you and went back to you. His hands went back on your shoulders, his smirk changing to a more seductive one. "Alone at last."

Your hands went to hold his hips with gentleness, bringing him closer to you. "You're so problematic, it's annoying."

"Tell me that's what made you fall in love for me." A sigh escaped your lips before catching the other vampire's lips, ending with a soft and deep kiss.

He annoyed you, his actions were too reckless, too irresponsible, unorganized even, and that's what drove you insane for him.

Remy's hands went to hold your head, bringing you closer to him as your kisses became hungrier. But the moment had to come to an end, your lips separating from each other. Your eyes lingered on his lips while his were on locked on your eyes.

"Wanna go hunting?" he proposed.

Your food groaned on the floor from the pain while you sat on a bench located in a park. Your legs crossed and your posture quite relaxed, you admired the dark sky full of stars and that gorgeous red moon. The man laying on the floor finally fell unconscious, it might not have been the best blood you ever had, but it wasn't completely bad.

From afar you saw Remy walking with a young woman supporting herself on him, giggling nonstop. Remy was also laughing lowly, too cocky as he held her by the waist.

His eyes finally found you, and he seemed to be surprised to do so. "Oh, you already ate?" Like the gentleman he is, he helped the young woman sit by your side on the bench. "Meet Alicia, I thought we could share her together."

"She's almost empty, Remy."

Remy did not seem to care, as with a soft sigh, he sat on your other side, his leg brushing with yours while he leaned closer to you, his hand resting on your chest. "Still, thought it could be romantic." Alicia groaned, barely awake, and leaned herself on your shoulder to which Remy didn't seem to enjoy. "A-ah, non chérie, know your limits." With a hand he pushed her away from you, the girl falling on the rest of the bench, unconscious like the other victim.

You did not care, your eyes were focused on the mutant vampire, the latter was staring at you with a soft smile.

"You're so handsome," he said, breaking the silence.

"And you're too cocky."

"Why thank you," he chuckled.

It was your turn to smile softly. "I like that, somehow."

Silence came back for a moment, the crickets singing in the background made the atmosphere somehow more romantic. You two slowly started to lean closer to each other, finishing with a soft, long kiss full of love for the other.

You pulled back, kissing his forehead before going back to staring at his eyes.

Remy grinned. "What? Are we going to have sex now?"

You thought about it, you weren't really interested in sex, or well, not at the moment. "I have a better idea." Remy raised an eyebrow, curious to what you had under your sleeve. You opened one of your hands and with the sharp nails of the other one, you cut your palm open, letting blood flow freely for a short moment before it calmed down. Then, you brought your hand closer to Remy, who was staring with surprise and awe at what you were offering him.

"Drink," you said calmly, as if this was normal.

Remy's eyes went back to yours, still surprised, and even confused. "Only married couples offer their blood to each other."

You nodded, confirming that fact. "You don't have to accept if you don't want to."

His surprised expression then changed to a happier one, feeling touched and full of love at this special proposal. His cold hand gently took yours and brought it close to his mouth before he licked the blood on your palm to then biting on it, drinking the thick blood as if it was the most expensive wine on earth. After a few minutes he pulled back, his mouth stained with your blood. Remy smiled brightly at you, showing his bloody fangs with pride.

He looked so beautiful, you thought. "You look beautiful with my blood all over your mouth." Remy laughed at your compliment before going to kiss you.

The kiss came to an end and Remy pulled down the collar of his outfit, exposing his neck. "Please, enjoy yourself, mon cher."

You brought him on your lap, your hands moved to his back and the back of his head, bringing him down for you to kiss his jaw, down his ear, and then his neck, before gently biting on the cold skin.

Remy hummed, indeed, this was better than sex. You pulled back after two minutes, blood drooling from the corners of your lips. The mutant vampire held your jaw between his hands, admiring the mess you were. "Not so perfect now, hmm?"

"Shut up Remy, and just kiss me again." He couldn't say no to such demand, kissing your bloody lips slowly while your hands moved back to his waist.

That same night, your symbolic marriage got consumed under the red moon with this new type of intimacy you two had found for each other.

The title was supposed to be "Under the red moon" but I forgot that title eheheh. Oops.

There might be some mistakes of grammar, sorry about that.

[rainbowstar]

Chère ♡

[overh0l]

stuck in the province so i doodled some remy

[overh0l]

not enough Gambit!!

[overh0l]

gambit doodles from twitter

[da-caprinox]

yeh. NOBODY ESCAPES MY ANGST TRAP

[mantisdepot]

Gambit!

[dangerousstrawberryshark]

Wake up, Jason

Pairings — Jason Todd x male reader

⚠️CW⚠️ — gay, gay-sex, top Jason Todd, bottom male reader, rough sex, morning sex, bathroom sex, blowjob, somnophilia (consensually), stomach bulge, cum inflation, breeding, Todd has a big dick, shower sex, and possible ooc.

Word count — 3.7k

Summary — You finished making a hearty breakfast and called for Jason. When he didn’t respond, you took his dick into your hands—erm, matters in your own hands.

Read before continuing: if you are younger than 18 or any of the warnings make you uncomfortable, this is your chance to turn around and leave. If there are no problems, you may continue.

It was early in the morning, if you could call it that. The sun’s everlasting light struggled to pierce the permanent, gloomy, thick smog of Gotham. Instead of the bright blue skies filled with puffy white clouds, like the citizens of Metropolis get to enjoy, you get mute, gray skies and light that casts long, winding shadows on the concrete canyons of Gotham. You got the pleasure of enjoying a dull yellow or orange hue in the morning hours. It wasn’t idle, along with the high crime rate, corruption, and pollution—at least the rent was cheap.

But at least it was morning. The once-sparsely populated streets, walkways, and subways were beginning to fill with frantic crowds. Thousands of workers emerged from their homes and poured out onto the streets. You could hear the city's ambiance below: cars honking and revving—plus the typical sound of police cruisers' sirens wailing in the distance. You assumed they were responding to one of many murders that had happened during the night, or someone had discovered one of Jason’s unique ways of dealing with criminals.

Maybe that explains why the vigilante came to you worn out and tired beyond belief. He nearly gave you a heart attack when you entered your apartment. He was just standing in the darkness, leaning against the kitchen counter with his iconic red metallic helmet in his hands. The lighting didn’t help, as it cast his large, imposing silhouette like a child standing over their sleeping mother. You thought your time was up and validly let out a screech, only to hear a laugh slice through it.

Realizing who it was, you sighed in relief; your fight-or-flight instincts diminished as Jason pulled you into one of his hugs. You should’ve expected who it was by now. Your apartment was practically Jason’s home, an upgrade from the various safehouses scattered across Gotham—though he was careful not to draw attention to you unless he wanted one of his enemies to target you.

But you didn’t have any worries, believing fully in Jason’s abilities—especially his stealth, which made you wonder about the safety of your home if the vigilante could easily break in undetected. Nobody was gonna touch a single hair on your body without feeling his wrath, and because only he can touch your body.

Your tense, aching bodies relaxed and melted into each other. You could feel the vigilante’s warm, heavily muscled body molding against yours, defined and sculpted by years of grueling training and resurrection that brought him back. He pressed kisses on your forehead before moving down to your lips, pulling you into a heated dance as your lips moved with rhythm and intent. You could feel Jason’s calloused hands running underneath your shirt, pulling and squeezing your skin as he grinds his crotch—rubbing his tight, clothed bulge on yours.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Jason said, pulling back with a teasing smirk plastered on his face. You frown, whining under your breath as you wanted to go further, but that quickly vanished when Jason stripped himself of his clothing, leaving nothing but his underwear on. You unconsciously licked your lips, not shying away from ogling the manly tank in front of you. He gestured for you to follow his lead—you did so without hesitation.

That was last night, your naked bodies snuggled underneath the thick, cozy blankets. You switched between being the big and small spoon. Jason’s large arms wrapped around you, encircling you as he pulled you closer whenever he felt you were too far. You felt his soft breathing blowing on your nape, and his forehead pressed against your shoulders. That didn’t last forever.

The blare of your alarm woke you up. The annoying, piercing sound assaults your ears as it tells its time to get up. You groaned and begrudgingly dragged yourself out of bed, which was a hefty task with your body tangled with Jason in an amalgamation of limbs. The vigilante held onto you like a koala with a death grip. After some twisting and turning, you were freed from the man’s grasp.

Jason groaned in his sleep, turning over onto his backside, the sheets sliding off to reveal his chiseled, muscular body—one arm over his head and the other resting on his stomach. Even in his sleep, he was effortlessly stunning. He looked like one of those men’s magazine models you’d find at the store and bring home to masturbate to when the internet was still newly available to the public. And he was all yours.

You groaned as you arched your back, stretching the muscles as you propped your hands behind your head, rolling your shoulders backwards. You could hear stiff bones popping and cracking from the pressure. Once the stiffness and tension in your body were alleviated, you planned to make a hearty breakfast for you and Jason to enjoy before his usual routine during the daylight hours—a breakfast burger sounded perfect.

But something caught your attention. You didn’t notice beforehand, but it couldn’t be ignored once you made eye contact. The thick blankets covering Jason’s body slipped below his waistline, revealing his basic underwear and his massive dick resting on his thick, meaty thighs. Your jaw dropped. The massive thing must have slipped through the fly while he slept—it was lying flaccid on his right thigh. How did you not feel that pressing against your ass? You would’ve noticed immediately.

But it was there: Jason’s massive dick in all its glory. As if it couldn’t get any better, the massive thing was gradually lengthening. You watched as the flaccid cock rose to prominence, throbbing and jumping against the vigilante’s clean-cut abdomen. That’s when you heard choked grunts and moans, Jason thrusting his hips into the air—he was having a wet dream. The hand resting on his stomach moved to grip the sheets, his brows twitching as he gritted his teeth.

A burning sensation rushed across your face as you idly stood on the side of the bed, watching Jason have a vivid dream—most likely about you. The more you watched, the more you wanted that massive thing filling your mouth—feeling the heavyweight on your tongue and the thickness filling every inch as you try to take as much as you can. Your dick was tenting in your underwear at the mere thought of giving the vigilante head while he slept, and he continued having his wet dream.

Surely he wouldn’t mind? You remembered a while back, he brought up the idea of sucking him while he slept—it was random, something you weren’t expecting from him. It was after a particularly stressful patrol that left Jason irritated and on the verge of killing someone or breaking the nearest object within reach. He was still irritated, but it somewhat dissipated by the time he broke into your apartment. He came behind you and started peppering kisses on your nape while he kneaded your body with his rough hands, grabbing your hips and grinding them against his crotch.

After the deed was done, Jason lay back with you nuzzled into his body—panting and sweating. That was when he randomly brought up a proposal and gave you his full consent to use his dick while he slept. You never thought of or had the chance, but you couldn’t pass up this opportunity—given to you on a silver platter. He wouldn’t mind you messing with his morning wood.

You climbed onto the bed and crawled to Jason’s side—getting between his legs. You took a deep breath and wrapped your hands around it—it felt warm and heavy in your palm, and you barely managed to fit the thick shaft in your grip. You could feel the veins and ridges pressing against your tight grasp. Jason’s dick still manages to be impressive in length and girth despite sucking and holding it multiple times. There was something about it that made you immediately fall to your knees and beg the vigilante to give it to you.

“Ngh…” Jason’s breath hitched as he let out a soft moan, his body shuddering from your cold hand touching his dick. You smiled, slowly started to pump it up and down—you could feel it expanding in your hand, if that was even possible. As you stroked the massive thing, your warm breathing brushed against it, causing Jason to grunt and shudder.

The vigilante unconsciously started rolling his hips, aggressively thrusting into your hands—he was dreaming about fucking you on a rooftop during patrol, not caring who witnessed the love between two men. To Jason, this dream felt oddly realistic, given how warm and tight the sensation was, but he wasn’t protesting—not at all.

You gave a couple of long, shallow strokes before delivering a deep—Jason responding well to the technique. You wanted more, though. You were particularly salivating, mouth wide open, as you intended to take it. You started kissing the massive pole all the way to the spongy cockhead, licking and swirling your tongue around it before devouring the head, locking your lips around the thickness. You hear Jason sigh with relief, and peering up, you see his pectorals moving.

Smiling with a dick in your mouth, you went to town and started slurping—focusing on the cockhead by flicking the tip of your tongue into the slit, tasting the first beads of precum. You weren’t paying attention anymore as you were completely hypnotized—noises muffled except for Jason’s grunts and you slobbering on the man’s dick. Lust had a tight, restrictive control over your being. You moved to take more, swallowing as much as you can, inch by inch.

“Mmmm…” you whined, struggling to take the remaining inches, so you opted to use your hands. You bobbed your head and stroked the rest, slowly taking more as you relaxed your throat and ignored the gag reflex. You huffed and puffed through your nostrils until a hand rested on your head. You froze and pulled back, Jason’s dick plopping out of your mouth with a wet pop.

“I… uh,” you didn’t know what to say as another rush of heat flooded your cheeks.

“I didn’t say stop, did I?” Jason spoke, his voice deep and raspy after just waking up. There was a lustful glint in his eyes, something that you were all too familiar with. You felt the grip on your head tighten. The vigilante fixed his position, sitting upright before spearing your mouth back onto his massive dick.

Your eyes widen as the massive shaft abruptly fills your mouth. Jason’s fingers dug into your hair as he was determined to push all of his cock down your throat. Tears pierced your eyes, your lungs were burning from the sudden lack of oxygen, and your jaw ached. It didn’t stop until your nose was buried in Jason’s underwear waistband and your chin was resting on his clothed sack.

“Breath through your nose.” Jason grunts, holding your head in place. You followed the advice, relaxing your throat to accommodate the vigilante’s dick and breathing through your nose so you wouldn’t suffocate. “Yeah… just like that.” Another bellowing grunt and groan left his mouth, his head tilting back onto the headboard as you clenched your throat around him—the cherry on top was you stimulating his sensitive cockhead.

Jason controlled the pace, one hand gripping your head as he moved you up and down on his cock. He bounced you like a basketball, using your warm, velvety, tight throat as a personal fleshlight. There was a combination of Jason’s feral grunts and the sound of you slobbering on him—you imagined his dick being generously coated with saliva.

You had your back arched, your ass perfectly on display. Your hole was twitching, clenching, and begging—it was hungry and needed to be satiated, but you had a feeling you were going to get the proper treatment soon.

“That’s enough,” Jason said, pulling you off his cock. You whined, but that was squashed when Jason got out of bed and slung you onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—effortlessly.

“Where are we going?” you asked, looking back to see where Jason was taking you.

“To the bathroom. Need a shower.” Jason replied, as you could see, the familiar interior design was coming into view. You were then hoisted back onto the floor, Jason holding you with an iron grip. “C’mere.”

Jason tilted your head and locked his lips with yours, pulling you into a rhythmic dance of dominance. Your tongues are tied together as he humps and grinds his massive, saliva-coated dick against your clothed tent—smearing your already precum-stained underwear. You can feel his rough, meaty hands move towards your underwear, groping your cheek through the thin clothing, before you hear the sound of fabric tearing and Jason’s hands touching your skin.

“Hey! You could’ve just slid them down!” You complained, pulling back and huffing as the fabric continued to tear until it was ripped in two. Your throbbing dick popped out, grinding against Jason’s dick.

“I’ll buy more, I just really need you. You have me riled up here.” Jason grumbled, squeezing your ass cheeks before slapping the fat mounds. You yelped, your dick twitching as more beads of precum leaked from the slit. Jason took the opportunity to tangle his tongue with yours, swapping saliva and deepening the makeout session—drool seeped through the tiny cracks in your lips and dribbled down your chin.

A heavy, low whine vibrated in your throat, your eyes rolling back from Jason sucking the living soul out of you, and his rough hands having their way with your cheeks—gripping the mounds and thrusting you against him, your moans drowned out.

While Jason enjoyed and toyed with your ass, kneading it like a baker preparing dough. You indulged in his upper body. You greedily squeezed and groped the vigilante’s pectorals like how he was treating your ass—there were subtle, drowned-out grunts, a taste of his own medicine. You were amazed by the rock-hard firmness, yet how squishy they were in your palms. This was most likely a result of your actions, feeding him too well and stuffing him with any junk food he wanted.

You flicked, pinched, and pulled his nipples, feeling the nubs harden between your fingertips. It seemed his dick approved of your ministrations, throbbing against your dick as more guttural growls were further drawn out by the feral, hungry man.

Jason retaliated, pulling your cheeks apart to expose your puckered entrance like Moses parting the Red Sea. You pulled back, a gasp and moan choked out—thick strings of slobber connecting your mouths as the cold air travelled through the valley between your cheeks, brushing against the tight, warm ring of muscle. Whines and whimpers choked out your throat, your mouth ajar as Jason’s thick finger probed your entrance—circling his fingertip around the small ring.

You were in a haze, but your body moved on its own. As Jason teased your puckered hole, the nerves sent signals through your body—straight to your brain, whatever was salvageable. It sensed something thick and long, and your hips instinctively bucked backwards—desperate rolling movements as it tried to grip and drag the vigilante’s finger into the tight, warm depths of your hot ass.

“You want this, sweetheart?” Jason growled, his jaw locking as he watched how eager and desperate you’ve become. There was nothing behind your eyes except a lustful and needy glint.

“Yes! Please, I need it so badly,” you begged and babbled, rolling and bucking your hips as you held onto Jason’s behemoth body—your fingers digging into his pectorals.

“Get in the shower.” Jason bluntly says, moving to open the walk-in shower’s glass door. He still had a grip on your hips and dragged you into the small, confined space. The door closed and locked. The vigilante turned the knob, and the shower overhead burst to life. Warm water sprinkled from above, enveloping and cascading down your bodies. Jason’s thick, wavy hair matted down on his forehead.

The water flowed through every cove and ridge of Jason’s body, highlighting his defined muscles—watching it flow like a river between his pectorals, as if they were mountains shielding a valley. You were knocked out of your gaze by Jason slamming your body against the slippery, soaked wall with one leg hooked on his broad shoulder. The side of your face and hands pressed against the wet tiled walls.

“Ain’t this a beautiful sight?” Jason purrs, smirking—watching you scramble to hold onto the nearest surface for support, but he has you secure, his beefy arm locked and gripping your knee/leg. What was more eye-catching was the water soaking your already disheveled body, your dick throbbing, and your puckered hole, which was throbbing and trying to buck backwards to capture his dick.

He continued to be amused by your attempts to tempt him or push back. The flowing water couldn’t muffle the sound of your frustrated grunts and whines. Deciding to toy with you, he grabbed and positioned his massive dick against your puckered hole, teasing the tight ring by rubbing circles and almost penetrating—the cockhead pushing past the rim before pulling out. He hears your hitched gasps and cries, your body squirming to take what it wants, but is readily denied.

“Jay, p-please…” You whined.

As much as Jason wanted to continue his teasing rampage, his dick wasn’t going to last; it needed to feel the signature warmth and tightness. Precum drooled from the slit, and his shaft throbbed excessively. Your pathetic whining and cries for him weren’t helping either.

With a savage grunt, he once again positioned his dick against your sphincter and pressed forward. The confined space of the shower was filled with groans. You bit your bottom lip as the pressure grew against your rim. Jason gritted his teeth, and his face tightened.

“Fucking take it.” Jason groans as he plunges his dick completely inside your hole, his heavy balls and abdomen resting on the underside of your cheeks—your thighs. Your ass greedily swallowed every inch, massaging and clenching around the massive thing as your mouth spewed moans and cries of satisfaction.

Your chest tightened and heaved, the new angle was undeniably rearranging your guts—he was so deep inside your stomach that you could practically taste it in the back of your throat.

Just from feeling the tight embrace of your ass, Jason gave up rational thinking and became a hungry, feral man—spurred on by you.

“J-Jay… nghh… s-so… g-good!” you moaned, holding onto the tiled wall. Your breathing was harsh as Jason rammed his massive dick, your puckered hole stretching to its limits. His pace was brutal enough to collapse the tiled wall and push you into the next apartment. You can hear his heavy balls slapping against your thigh and the clapping of your cheeks, and the faint sprinkling of water from above.

“Fucking hell,” Jason growls, his heavy-lidded eyes notice a tummy bulge forming every time he thrusts—the size ranged from a tummy bump to his cockhead sprouting out. He managed to choke out a low chuckle, moving his free hand over the bulge to feel it. With each brutal thrust, he could feel his cockhead through your skin. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s me.”

You slowly and shakily peered down to see what the vigilante was talking about, and there it was; your mind was melting, and your vision was rainbows, but you could see the bulge and the faint outline of Jason’s massive dick thrusting into your body.

“J-Jay… J-Jay… please…” Your brain was scrambled, your speech reduced to incoherent babbling and pleas for Jason. Your hoarse throat is pushing the limits. With some momentum, you reluctantly let one hand from the tiled wall. Jason removed his hand, letting you feel the bulge in your stomach. Your mouth stuttered open, marvelling at the feeling. A tightness starts to knot itself, spreading slowly throughout your lower section.

You couldn’t give Jason a warning before your body spasmed and your asshole clenched around the man’s dick with a vice-like grip. Your ear picked up the guttural groans from the vigilante—feeling his dick being suffocated or being snapped off. Your dick throbbed and spurted thick ropes of hot cum, your moans bounced off the walls—the water washing your load down the drain.

“Fuck, sweetheart… s-squeezing my dick. Y-you feel so fucking good. So tight when you cum for me.” Jason moans, his muscular body shuddering, almost pained. He couldn’t move his dick; it was lodged completely inside you, and your greedy ass refused to let go. It wasn’t long before he reached his climax.

Garnering his strength, he pulled out slowly, dragging his massive shaft against your walls before slamming back—all you can do is whimper and drool as he fucked you past your orgasm and into overstimulation.

He didn’t last long. He let out a bellowing groan and growl, giving one more thrust to the hilt—his dick and balls twitched before unloading deep inside your ass, filling you to the brim with his hot, thick seed. Your fleshy insides were painted white; you felt the massive shaft throbbing, followed by a flood.

The shower fell silent apart from the labored panting and desperate intake of air, and the water cascading down your bodies. Every part of your being trembled from the intense orgasm; everything was foggy and blurry, and your gaze travelled to the bump in your stomach—you looked pregnant… did Jason really cum that much? It's been a week since you both had sex…

Your mind continued to reel and repair the damage until Jason spoke.

“We should do that again!”

The end

Author’s note — Hello, my strawberries! I hope this was good! I’m popping these fics out like Queen Anne. More food is coming.

Special thanks to my proofreader — @sagethegaywitch

Taglist — @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr @cruelwormcurse @songmgi @qi-rong-husband @roryroro @nightyknightowo @mwttw-lsk @rebelioussavant

[starboye]

starring: scott summers x male reader x remy lebeau

request: Do you think you could do vanilla sex (Doesn't have to be too vanilla but it's just nice and slow and maybe body worship) with Gambit x Scott x bottom reader?? I wanna make Scott all flushed when the reader praises him and Gambit just begging the reader to focus on him as well and he might be a little rougher with his thrusts or something to get his attention!!

warnings: smut, cursing, double penetration, praising, body worship if you squint, vanilla sex, jealous!remy

after a successful mission like today it would be so wrong not to reward your two favorite boys with some loving, bringing them back to your room and slowly starting to make out with them, little congratulation kisses turning into sloppily making out with each other and then you on top of scott with remy standing behind you, both slowly thrusting in and out of your supple hole.

"you did great today scott" you lightly moan leaning down to kiss him deeply "well i couldn't have done it without the team" he tries to say but you stop him with another kiss "and who commanded that team hm" you softly say "i- i did" he stammers to your words, remy standing behind you hoping that he could get some compliments to but no all your loving words go straight to scott annoying him.

"y/n" remy says snaking his hands around your waist "yeah rem" you question turning your head to face him "d-did i do good" he flashes a smile hoping you say something nice "yeah you did good" you shrug your shoulders before turning back to praise scott more, but good just good how come scott gets great and he gets good, what did he do wrong, oh my god are you mad at him, all things remy was thinking as you talked to scott more.

"you were so brave, fighting off the sentinels all by yourself" you further praised him as your hands roamed his body, feeling down his chest all the way to his glistening abs "thank you" he blushes, flustered by all your kind words while remys face turned sour, quietly mimicking your words with annoying facial expressions till an idea sparks in his head and a smirk spreads across his face.

he slowly begins thrusting into you harder trying to get you attention, you feel your body jolt forward a little and some pressure build in you stomach from remys cock hitting the inside of your gummy like walls so you whip around to see the cause, you see remy looking at you with angry eyes, glowing a slight hint of purple at you "is there something you want to tell me remy" you ask, glaring at him with narrow eyes.

breaking down remys walls immediately, his face turning from anger to softness "where's my compliments, i mean you tell scott all these sweet things but not me" he whines sitting his head on your shoulder and slowing thrusts to be more careful "who would've thought that the tough remy lebeau would be a sucker for compliments" you laugh running your fingers through his hair.

"i just wanna hear you" he softly speak into your neck with kisses before wrapping his arms around you into a hug, scott watching in amazement at remy becoming a softy "well you also did so go- no so great today, i saw you out there throwing you cards and blowing stuff up as always" you compliment bringing a little grin to remys face.

"matter of fact both of you did amazing today" you cheerily say making the boys smile widely and inch them closer to their own climaxes "c-can we... cum now" scott asks feeling himself on the edge of blowing "mhm please y/n" remy asks still holding you tightly as if you were going to leave him right there "yes you can" you say feeling them shake under you.

a slew of whines and moans fall from both of their mouths as the pump cum into you, shudders running down your back as their hands search your body for any contacts they can make, groping and grabbing everywhere on you, finally coming down from the high they pull out of you, cum dripping from your sloppy hole and running down your legs.

taglist:@mailmango@spermeboy@ghostking4m@gayaristocrat@addictedtomalepits@staarb0y@crispysoup318@its-ares@gargoylesworld09@kadenvatsune@fuckshft

[urdreamydoodles]

I love your headcanons!! I’d love to see how you think the X-men would react to the reader playfully biting them, in or out of the bedroom, whatever scenario you’d like (you can go with any characters, but bonus points for Logan, Erik, Charles, and perhaps a new one, Victor Creed 👀)

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You bite them playfully

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Victor Creed, Julian Keller, Kitty Pryde, Cable, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Mystique, Magik & Alex Summers

Reply to anon: OMG yes, Victor my little mad dog!

Logan Howlett

- You don’t expect him to react. Not really. He’s endured bullets, blades, and the unrelenting weight of time itself. A playful bite from you should be nothing—should be a drop of rain against an unshakable mountain. And yet, the moment your teeth graze his skin, a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest, something primal and unbidden. His muscles tense beneath your touch, like an animal caught between instinct and restraint.

- His gaze finds yours, sharp and golden, flickering with something unreadable. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, but his eyes betray him—dark with challenge, with something wilder lurking beneath. “That all you got, darlin’?” he rasps, his voice rough as gravel, his fingers curling at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize you right then and there.

- But Logan is nothing if not a man of action. A heartbeat later, his arm is around your waist, pulling you in close, the heat of his body searing against yours. His voice dips lower, a teasing growl, though there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “Y’know what they say, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “You bite a wolf, you better be ready for it to bite back.”

- And he does. Maybe not in the way you expect—not with teeth, but with hands that grip too tight, with lips that press too hard, with a possessiveness that lingers in every touch. Because Logan doesn’t do playful. He does hunger. He does need. And if you dare to tease the beast, you’d best be ready for the storm that follows.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy freezes the moment your teeth press against his skin—not from pain, not from surprise, but from something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk yet, but the promise of one. And then, ever so slowly, he tilts his head toward you, his red-on-black eyes gleaming with mischief.

- “Ma belle, you tryna kill me?” he drawls, his accent thick and lazy, but his voice carries that unmistakable edge of heat. His fingers brush over your arm, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the intent behind your bite. “'Cause I gotta warn you, chérie… I ain’t the kind to die easy.”

- The next thing you know, he’s got you backed against the nearest surface, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His grin is downright wicked now, his gaze molten with amusement and something darker. “See, you play this game wit’ me, mon amour, you best know the rules.” His breath is warm against your lips, teasing, taunting. “You bite me? I devour you.”

- And then he leans in, and oh—Remy doesn’t just kiss. He claims. He teases. He tastes. His lips ghost over yours, never quite giving you what you want, never quite letting you escape, because if you’re going to start a game with the Ragin’ Cajun, you better be ready to lose.

Kurt Wagner

- The moment your teeth sink lightly into his skin, Kurt stills, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, his mind goes utterly blank—because of course you would do this, of course you would find new ways to unravel him, to leave him speechless and stumbling. His tail flicks once, betraying his surprise, before curling around your waist in retaliation.

- And then—oh. Oh, then he laughs. A low, breathy chuckle that rumbles in his chest, warm and so utterly Kurt. “Mein Schatz,” he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, his golden eyes gleaming. “Was that supposed to be threatening? Because I must say… you might have to try harder.”

- But his tail tightens ever so slightly, his hands settling on your hips, his body pressing just a little closer. His voice drops into something softer now, something teasing but fond. “Or perhaps you weren’t trying to scare me at all,” he muses, brushing his nose against yours, an intimate little gesture that makes your heart stutter. “Perhaps you were simply asking for a little attention, ja?”

- And oh, does he give it. He moves fast—so fast you barely register the shift before you’re elsewhere, whisked away in a blink of smoke and laughter. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re tangled in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of his teleportation, caught between breathless kisses and whispered endearments. Because if you’re going to bite him, liebling, he’s going to make sure you never regret it.

Scott Summers

- Scott’s reaction is immediate—sharp inhale, muscles tensing beneath your touch, jaw tightening as if trying to suppress whatever instinct just surged through him. His discipline, his restraint—it has always been his armor, his cage. But you—you have a habit of making him forget himself.

- “What was that?” he asks, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him. His fingers flex at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or set you firmly away. But his ruby-red gaze is locked onto you now, and he is searching—for your intent, for your reasoning, for something he can brace himself against.

- “You can’t just—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, as if that will somehow ground him. His lips part, like he wants to scold you, like he wants to tell you biting is not part of a proper battle strategy, but the words never come. Instead, his hand lifts, cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your lower lip in something dangerously close to reverence.

- And then, ever so slowly, his lips brush against yours—light, testing, but oh-so-intense. Because Scott Summers does not give in easily. He does not let himself have. But you—you are different. You are his exception. And if you are going to play with fire, then you had best be prepared to burn.

Jean Grey

- Jean stills the moment your teeth graze her skin, not in fear or surprise, but in the way someone freezes when they have just stepped into the unknown. She has felt so many things in her lifetime—pain, joy, rage, divinity itself—but the sharp, teasing sensation of you doing this? That is something new. Her lips part slightly, a breath catching in her throat, and though she does not speak, you can hear her thoughts as if they are your own: What exactly are you trying to do to me?

- And then, oh, she smiles. Slow, knowing, the corners of her lips curving into something dangerously affectionate. Her fingers trace lightly over your arm, telekinetic energy humming faintly beneath her fingertips as she studies you with emerald eyes that gleam with amusement. “You do realize who you’re dealing with, don’t you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with something teasing, something nearly predatory. “You think you can surprise me, love? That’s adorable.”

- But Jean is not one to let challenges go unanswered. The next thing you know, her hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers with effortless ease. She doesn’t need to use her telekinesis to hold you there—no, the intensity in her gaze alone is enough. “Tell me,” she muses, leaning in so close her lips barely brush against yours. “Do you bite because you want my attention? Or because you already have it?”

- And before you can answer, she kisses you—deep, slow, deliberate. Not just a kiss, but a response, a promise. Because Jean Grey is made of passion and power, and if you wish to tease her, if you wish to provoke her, then you must be prepared for the storm you have just invited into your arms.

Ororo Munroe

- The moment your teeth press gently against her skin, a low, melodic hum escapes her—a sound not of displeasure, but of acknowledgment. Ororo Munroe has spent years cultivating grace, control, an unshakable presence that commands gods and mortals alike. And yet, this—this quiet, playful act of yours—catches her off guard in the most unexpected of ways.

- Her silver eyes flick toward you, gleaming with something unreadable, and for a moment, the air around you shifts, electricity humming faintly in the space between your bodies. Not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a reaction—as if even the very elements themselves are uncertain how to respond to the way you unravel her. “My love,” she says at last, her voice a soft, indulgent purr. “Was that meant to challenge me? Or are you merely being mischievous?”

- Slowly, her fingers trail along your shoulders, feather-light, teasing, carrying the same effortless power as the wind itself. And then, in one smooth motion, she moves—you don’t quite know how, only that one moment you are standing in place, and the next, the storm has wrapped itself around you. You are pulled flush against her, her presence enveloping you in warmth, in strength, in the quiet promise of something far greater than either of you can name.

- “If you seek my attention,” she whispers, her breath brushing against your ear like the gentlest breeze, “you need only ask.” And then, with a slow, deliberate smile, she leans in, her lips brushing over the spot where your bite had just been—a silent response, a wordless challenge of her own. Because if you are to tease a goddess, then you must be ready to be worshipped in return.

Rogue

- The second your teeth sink playfully into her skin, Rogue gasps—sharp, sudden, entirely unprepared. It’s not that she doesn’t like it, not at all, but more that she did not see it coming. For all her strength, all her bravado, you have just done something no enemy, no battle, no nightmare has ever managed to do: you have caught her off guard.

- “Sugah,” she breathes, her accent thickening just a bit, her voice a mixture of amusement and something else—something dangerous. Slowly, her green eyes flick to yours, and oh, that look—half-smirk, half-warning—tells you that you might have just started something you cannot finish. “Did you just… bite me?”

- And then, before you can answer, she does what Rogue does best—she acts. One moment, you are standing comfortably, the next, she has you pinned. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firmly, her gloved hands gripping your wrists, her breath hot against your skin. “Y’know,” she muses, tilting her head as she studies you, “if you wanted my attention that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

- But the glint in her eye betrays her—because for all her teasing, for all her bravado, the truth is simple: she loves this. Loves that you would dare to play with her, loves that you know exactly how to unravel her defenses, how to make her forget the space she so often has to keep between herself and the world. And so, with a wicked little smirk, she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours as she murmurs, “Hope you know what you started, darlin’. ‘Cause I don’t play fair.”

Erik Lehnsherr

- The moment your teeth press against his skin, Erik goes very, very still. Not out of fear, not out of surprise, but out of calculation. He is a man of war, of tragedy, of wounds both seen and unseen, and he has spent his entire life anticipating danger. But this—this playful, fleeting bite from you—is not something he had prepared for.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. Not in frustration, not in anger, but in something far deeper—something like acceptance. His sharp, silver gaze flicks to yours, unreadable yet knowing, and a slow, deliberate smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Liebling,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as tempered steel. “Do you think this is a game?”

- He does not move immediately. No, Erik prefers patience, prefers anticipation, prefers to let you feel the weight of what you have just done. And then, finally, he acts. His fingers ghost over your jaw, light as a whisper, his touch deceptively gentle. But his grip—when it finally settles—is not. His hand tightens, not cruelly, but possessively, his thumb tracing over your pulse as he studies you like a puzzle he has yet to solve.

- “If you wish to test me,” he muses, his voice a low, dark promise, “then by all means… continue.” And then, in a move so smooth it leaves you breathless, he takes—captures your mouth with his, slow and unyielding, like gravity itself bending to his will. Because Erik Lehnsherr does not play. He conquers. And if you wish to tempt him, then you must be prepared to surrender.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier is a man of the mind, a man who has unraveled the deepest corners of human thought and consciousness, who has witnessed the entirety of existence through the whispers of others’ souls. And yet, for all his knowledge, for all the mysteries he has unraveled, you still find a way to surprise him. The moment your teeth press against his skin—soft, playful, fleeting—he stills, blue eyes widening just slightly, as if he cannot quite believe that you, of all things, could ever be so unpredictable.

- But then, oh, then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not the refined sort of amusement he offers in conversations of wit and charm, but something richer, something real. A warm, low sound that spills from his lips like honey, as if you have just whispered the most delightful secret in the world. He tilts his head toward you, curiosity sparking in his gaze, and for a moment, you see it—the boy he once was, the one who believed in the simple joy of being alive. “My dear,” he muses, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, “are you quite certain you wish to play this game with me?”

- Charles is a scholar, a tactician, a man who has spent his life wielding words and thoughts like weapons, and he is not one to let a challenge go unanswered. Before you can pull away, his fingers ghost along your wrist, light as a whisper, and suddenly—you feel it. Not words, not images, but a sensation, a feeling, as if he is pressing the weight of his affection directly into your soul. This is how he fights back—by letting you feel what you do to him, by drowning you in the sheer, unshakable depth of his love.

- “You are a fascinating creature,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, intimate thing, meant only for you. And then, with deliberate slowness, he leans in, his lips grazing the same spot where your teeth had just been, a silent response, a quiet promise. Because Charles Xavier is a man of the mind—but with you, he has learned to love the body, too.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has spent her entire life on the precipice of chaos. Magic flows through her like a storm, raw and untamed, and though she has learned to control it, there is still a part of her that lingers on the edge—uncertain, fragile, waiting for the world to turn against her. But you—you are different. You do not fear her, do not tread lightly as if she is glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. No, you play with her, tease her, press your teeth against her skin in a gesture so human, so simple, that for a moment, she forgets the weight of her own power.

- Her breath catches—just a little, just enough for you to notice. Her fingers curl against your arm, not to push you away, but to steady herself, as if grounding herself in the moment, in you. And then, slowly, her lips curve into something soft, something real. “You’re bold,” she murmurs, her voice laced with quiet amusement, but there is something else there, too—something dangerous. A challenge. A warning. Because Wanda Maximoff is not someone you tease without consequences.

- Before you can react, she moves. The world shifts around you, a flicker of crimson in the air, and suddenly, you are weightless, as if gravity itself has forgotten you exist. Her magic hums against your skin, curling around you like the brush of unseen fingertips, and she watches you with a look that is pure mischief. “Tell me, darling,” she whispers, tilting her head ever so slightly, “was that meant to tempt me?”

- And then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she leans in—her lips barely grazing your skin, a phantom touch, a promise of something more. Because Wanda Maximoff is chaos incarnate, and if you wish to play with her, then you must be prepared to dance in the storm.

Pietro Maximoff

- It happens so quickly that even you don’t realize what you’ve done. One moment, Pietro Maximoff is standing before you, talking, teasing, filling the space between you with his usual boundless energy, and the next—your teeth graze his skin, a fleeting, playful bite, quick as lightning itself. And then? He’s gone. A blur of silver and laughter, a gust of wind where he once stood.

- But before you can even blink, he is back—and oh, that look on his face. His lips are curled into a smirk, his blue eyes gleaming with something wild, something electric. “Really?” he breathes, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You think you can bite me? Me?” His laughter rings out, sharp and bright, and suddenly, he is moving again—circling you, his presence a flickering pulse in the air, there and gone all at once.

- And then, he strikes. Not with speed, not with force, but with something far worse—anticipation. He stops right behind you, so close that his breath is warm against your ear, his voice a whisper of pure, unfiltered mischief. “You know what they say about quick reflexes, don’t you?” he murmurs, and before you can even think to react, his lips brush against your neck—a flicker of a kiss, a ghost of a touch, so fleeting you almost question if it happened at all.

- And then? He’s gone again. Laughing, running, taunting. Because Pietro Maximoff is not someone who is caught—he is the storm itself, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to chase the wind.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, unraveling the mysteries of science, of genetics, of the very fabric of existence itself. And yet, for all his intellect, for all his careful observations of the world—he does not see you coming. The moment your teeth press playfully into his skin, his entire body freezes, blue fur bristling slightly, golden eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

- “Oh, my stars and garters,” he breathes, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of a man whose entire world has just shifted. Slowly, his gaze flicks down to you, studying you with the same meticulous focus he applies to his research, as if you are some rare, fascinating discovery he has yet to fully understand. “You do realize,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “that by initiating such an experiment, you are opening yourself up to… repercussions, yes?”

- And then, oh, his smile. Slow, wickedly amused, utterly delighted. Before you can react, he moves—not with the hesitant carefulness of a man afraid of his own strength, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how to turn the tables. One moment, you are standing, the next, you are swept off your feet, cradled in arms that are both impossibly strong and impossibly gentle. “Ah,” he muses, adjusting his grip as if holding you is the most natural thing in the world, “I do believe I now have the advantage.”

- And then, with a quiet chuckle, he leans in—not to bite, not to tease, but to kiss the very spot where your teeth had been, slow and deliberate, a scholar testing a theory. Because Hank McCoy is a man of knowledge—but when it comes to you, he is more than willing to be a student of the unknown.

Emma Frost

- The moment your teeth graze her skin, Emma Frost’s response is immediate—a slow, measured inhale, the faintest arch of a perfectly sculpted brow. She does not startle, does not react with anything so crass as surprise. No, Emma assesses. A woman of elegance, of control, she has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one catches her off guard, that no one slips beneath the carefully constructed ice of her composure. And yet, you have done it, a playful bite against porcelain skin, an action so simple yet so bold that, for the briefest moment, even the White Queen falters.

- But then, oh, then she smiles. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. A curl of her lips that carries no warmth, only sharp amusement and something far more wicked. “Darling,” she purrs, voice smooth as silk, laced with the faintest edge of laughter, “if you wanted to get my attention, there are… other ways to do so.” Her fingers ghost along your wrist, deceptively gentle, a reminder that while you may have started this game, she is the one who will dictate how it ends.

- She does not retaliate with force, nor does she melt into you like some lovesick fool. No, Emma punishes in the most exquisite way possible—she makes you wait. A brush of her fingertips against your jaw, a lingering glance, the press of her body close enough to promise but never enough to give. “Tell me,” she murmurs, tilting her head, voice rich with amusement, “was that truly your best effort?”

- And then, when you least expect it, she strikes. A shift of movement so swift, so precise, that you don’t even register it until it’s happening—her lips against your pulse point, her teeth grazing the same spot where you dared to mark her. It is not surrender. It is not an answer. It is a lesson. A warning. A challenge. Because Emma Frost does not lose—but she does enjoy playing with her prey.

Laura Kinney

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Laura reacts. No hesitation, no pause—her body tenses, muscles coiling like a predator poised to strike. Instinct kicks in before thought, before reason, before she can even register that it’s you. And for a split second, you feel it—the sheer, terrifying violence that lurks beneath her skin, the razor’s edge of a woman who has spent her entire life as a weapon.

- But then, just as quickly as the tension rises, it fades. A sharp exhale, a flicker of recognition, golden eyes narrowing as she processes what you’ve done. There is no laughter, no teasing retort—just a look. Calculating. Intense. Confused, but not displeased. “…You bit me,” she says at last, voice flat, as if stating the most bizarre fact in the world.

- And then? She tilts her head, considering you in that unnerving, almost animalistic way of hers. “Why?” The question is genuine—Laura has never been one for mind games or coy affections, has never understood the subtle language of teasing and playfulness. Biting is something she associates with combat, with survival. But with you? With you, it is different.

- Slowly, tentatively, she mirrors the action. A nip, precise and measured, as if she is testing this new form of affection, as if she is learning you the way she has learned every other part of the world—through experience, through instinct. And when she pulls back, there is something new in her gaze, something raw and unspoken. Because Laura Kinney may not understand why you did it, but she knows one thing with certainty—if you bite, then she will bite back.

Wade Wilson

- You barely have time to finish biting him before Wade gasps—loud, theatrical, utterly over-the-top. “OH. MY. GOD.” His hands fly to his chest, staggering back as if you have mortally wounded him. “DID YOU JUST—YOU DID. YOU ABSOLUTELY DID.” His voice is thick with emotion, somewhere between scandalized and delighted. “Babe. You bit me. Like a feral little love-goblin. That’s so hot.”

- And then? Then, all hell breaks loose. Within seconds, he is biting you back—but not just once, no, because Wade Wilson is incapable of moderation. He is nibbling at your cheek, at your shoulder, at your hand, peppering you with playful, exaggerated love-bites while making increasingly absurd noises. “CHOMP.” He sinks his teeth into the air dramatically, eyes wide with manic glee. “RAWR. Oh, sorry, that was my dinosaur impression. But honestly? If I were a dinosaur, I’d be a love-raptor. A snuggle-saurus. A Wade-a-don Rex, if you will.”

- The worst part? He does not stop talking. “You’re lucky I don’t have rabies,” he chatters, waggling his brows. “I mean, I might. I did lick a questionable taco truck the other day. But, y’know, if I do have rabies, then I guess that makes you my one and only transmission method—romantic, right?” He grins, then gasps again, as if struck by a sudden epiphany. “WAIT. Does this mean we’re in a vampire romance now? Am I your dark, brooding, undead lover? Babe, I gotta be honest, I am so ready to emotionally gaslight you across centuries of longing.”

- But then—just when you think he’s going to turn this into a full-fledged one-man show—he pauses. Just for a moment. The humor dims slightly, enough for something softer to slip through. And then, in a rare, fleeting act of sincerity, Wade leans in, pressing a kiss—not a bite, not a joke, but a kiss—to the very spot where your teeth had been. “…Seriously, though,” he murmurs, voice warm and uncharacteristically quiet, “that was, like, really cute. You’re really cute.” And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment is gone, swallowed up in another round of ridiculous, dramatic antics. But for that one, brief second? He meant it.

Victor Creed

- The instant your teeth graze his skin, Victor Creed laughs—a low, rumbling thing that vibrates in his chest, a sound that is both amused and hungry. He does not startle. He does not pause. No, Victor reacts the way a predator does when something small and delicate dares to bare its teeth—with interest.

- His fingers curl at your waist, grip firm, possessive, a wordless acknowledgment of what you have done. “Now that’s adorable,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Little thing thinks she’s got fangs.” His golden eyes gleam as he studies you, head tilting slightly, as if debating whether to play along—or devour you whole.

- And then? He leans in. Closer, until his breath is warm against your ear, until you feel the sheer size of him, the sheer power in every inch of his body. “You wanna play rough, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, something edged with promise. “You sure you can handle that?” And then, without hesitation, he bites back. Not gentle. Not teasing. But slow, deliberate, lingering—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who you are dealing with.

- When he pulls away, his grin is wolfish, sharp and deadly. “That all you got?” he taunts, dragging a thumb over the mark he’s left behind. “C’mon, now. If you’re gonna bite, bite like you mean it.” And with that, he watches, waits, golden eyes glinting with something dangerous, something wild. Because Victor Creed is a man who thrives on blood and instinct, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to lose.

Julian Keller

- The moment your teeth graze his skin, Julian smirks. A slow, lazy curl of his lips, equal parts cocky and intrigued. He doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t react with surprise—no, Julian Keller is a man who thrives in the unexpected, who wears confidence like a second skin. “Well, well,” he drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable, “look at you. Feisty today, huh?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with the kind of arrogance that makes you want to bite him again—harder, just to wipe that smug expression off his face.

- But then, before you can so much as think about it, he moves. Swift, fluid, his telekinesis pressing against you, pinning you in place—not harsh, not cruel, but playful. A silent reminder of who he is, of what he can do. His grip at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his body angled close, so very close, and for a second, it feels less like a game and more like a challenge. “That supposed to be some kind of warning, babe?” he teases, his breath warm against your ear. “’Cause if you’re picking fights, you should know—I never back down.”

- He doesn’t retaliate immediately. No, Julian waits. He lets anticipation build, lets you think you’ve won—that you’ve caught him off guard, that he’ll let this slide. But then, just as you relax, he strikes. A sharp nip against your jaw, quick and precise, a mimicry of what you had done to him. But unlike you, he doesn’t stop there. No, Julian Keller is competitive, and if you’re playing this game, then he’s playing to win.

- “Gotta admit,” he murmurs against your skin, voice a quiet rasp, “you’ve got guts. I like that.” His grip loosens, but that smirk remains, his green eyes gleaming with challenge. “But next time? Maybe try a little harder.” And just like that, he pulls away, walking off as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just left you standing there, heart pounding, already plotting your revenge.

Kitty Pryde

- “Oh!” The moment your teeth press into her shoulder, Kitty lets out a startled squeak, her entire body jerking in surprise. She phases instinctively, and before you even register what’s happening, you’re biting nothing—your teeth sinking into empty air as she slips through you, her molecules scattering like mist. It’s not that she minds, not really. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it. And Kitty Pryde does not like being caught off guard.

- “Did you just—?” Her voice is breathless, half-laughing, half-accusing, her wide eyes locking onto yours. There’s no anger there, no real irritation—just confusion and delight, an almost incredulous sort of amusement at the fact that you, of all people, had dared to bite her. “Okay, rude,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in mock offense. “You can’t just do that without warning! What if I phased and got stuck inside the floor? You’d feel really bad, wouldn’t you?”

- But her protests are all for show, because the next second, she’s grinning, her playful side taking over. Kitty Pryde is mischief wrapped in kindness, and if you think for one second that she’s letting this go unanswered, you’re sorely mistaken. “Y’know,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin, “if this is how we’re communicating now, I could phase my hand into your ribs and just… give your heart a little squeeze. Not lethal! Just, y’know… uncomfortable.”

- And yet, despite her teasing, despite her empty threats, there’s a warmth in her gaze, an unmistakable fondness in the way she leans in, brushing her lips—soft, fleeting—against the spot where your teeth had been. “But,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something gentler, something real, “I think I like this way better.” And then, with one final cheeky grin, she phases through you once more, vanishing just before you can grab her in retaliation.

Nathan Summers

- The moment you bite him, Cable pauses. No visible reaction. No sharp inhale, no startled flinch. He simply stills, his entire body locking into that unnerving, soldier-like stillness. His metal hand, which had been resting at your waist, remains unmoving, his entire frame rigid as if waiting, assessing. It’s instinct, honed over decades of battle, of survival. Because Nathan Summers is not a man accustomed to softness, and affection—even when playful—is something he has never learned to anticipate.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. His head tilts just slightly, his cybernetic eye dimming, the faintest flicker of something amused passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. “…Did you just bite me?” His voice is low, gravelly, tinged with something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “Huh.” He says nothing else for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you as if trying to decipher what exactly prompted you to do such a thing.

- And then, finally, he shakes his head, a quiet huff escaping him—something that might, under very specific lighting conditions, be mistaken for a chuckle. “You’ve got guts,” he mutters, the corner of his lips twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk. “Reckless, but gutsy.” His organic hand brushes against the spot where your teeth had been, as if committing the sensation to memory.

- He doesn’t bite back. Doesn’t tease or taunt or retaliate. No, Cable is not a man who plays games. Instead, he opts for something simpler, something quieter—his hand cupping the back of your head, his lips pressing against your forehead in a rare display of open tenderness. A silent acknowledgment. A wordless acceptance. Because Nathan Summers may not understand softness, but for you, he is willing to learn.

Warren Worthington III

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Warren lets out a sharp gasp—a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to pleasure. His wings flare instinctively, feathers rustling with a sudden, unconscious movement, his entire body reacting before his mind can catch up. Because Warren Worthington III is a man of control, of composure—and yet, with you, it seems to shatter so easily.

- “Did you—” His voice is breathless, his pupils blown wide, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You just—” He swallows, as if struggling to find the right words, as if the simple act of you biting him has completely short-circuited his mind. He is an angel carved from marble, all sharp lines and celestial grace, and yet here he stands, utterly undone by something so small, so mortal.

- And then, something shifts. A slow, wicked smile tugs at his lips, the sharp edge of his Archangel persona slipping into his gaze. “You really shouldn’t do that,” he murmurs, voice a velvet purr. “Not unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His wings snap forward in an instant, encircling you in a cocoon of soft, gilded feathers, trapping you against his chest. His fingers ghost over your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

- “Because now?” His lips brush against the very spot you had marked, his voice dropping into something dangerous, something electric. “Now it’s my turn.” And then, before you can even think to protest, Warren Worthington III—heir, angel, warrior—bites back.

Kevin Sydney

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Kevin’s entire form shifts in surprise. One second, he’s his usual self—sharp jaw, bright eyes, that ever-present smirk—and the next, he’s you, your own expression of mischief mirrored back at you. His voice, now an exact replica of yours, lilts with exaggerated amusement: “Wow, is this what I look like when I do something reckless? No wonder you love me.”

- He lets the illusion linger just long enough to make you blink in disbelief before shifting back, his laughter spilling out in warm, unrestrained waves. There’s no irritation, no reprimand—just the unshakable joy of a man who thrives on unpredictability, who relishes in the absurd. “Biting, huh? I like this new development,” he teases, rubbing the spot where your teeth had been with faux contemplation. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that, but hey, I do have a thing for surprises.”

- He retaliates in the most Morph-like way possible—by suddenly growing a pair of exaggerated fangs and snapping playfully at you, his grin widening as if daring you to test your luck again. “C’mon, babe, if we’re making this a thing, let’s make it fun,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top display of challenge. “What’s next? Claw marks? A dramatic villain monologue? Give me something to work with!”

- And yet, despite all the jokes, despite the effortless laughter, there’s something softer underneath. Because Kevin Sydney is a man who hides behind humor, who masks emotion with theatrics—but the way he touches you now, fingers brushing idly along your wrist, is genuine. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, his usual grin dimming into something real, “I like when you do things that catch me off guard. It reminds me that life’s worth sticking around for.”

Raven Darkhölme

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Mystique doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t jerk away. Instead, she merely stares, her yellow eyes sharp, assessing, calculating. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking—whether she’s amused, annoyed, or considering shifting into someone entirely different just to make you regret it. “Interesting,” she murmurs at last, her voice low, velvet-smooth, carrying an edge of intrigue that makes your heart stutter.

- Then, before you can so much as blink, she moves. A blur of shifting colors, of muscle and bone rearranging in an instant—and suddenly, she’s behind you, her lips a ghost of a presence against your ear. “You really think you can surprise me?” she purrs, her breath cool against your skin. “I’ve spent lifetimes being a step ahead. If you wanted to catch me off guard, you’d have to try harder than that.”

- But despite her words, despite her unshakable composure, there’s an undeniable interest in her tone. Because Raven Darkhölme is a woman who’s spent decades in control, who rarely allows herself to be touched without permission—and yet, you’ve just walked right through every layer of her defenses without fear. And that? That fascinates her more than she’d care to admit.

- “Brave,” she muses at last, her fingers tracing the very spot you had bitten, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she adds, “But reckless.” And just like that, she shifts—her form melting into someone else, someone entirely unfamiliar—before disappearing into the shadows, leaving only her voice lingering behind: “I will be returning the favor.”

Illyana Rasputina

- The moment your teeth sink into her skin, Illyana freezes. Not in shock, not in discomfort, but in something else—something unreadable, something ancient and dangerous. Because Illyana Rasputina is not a woman accustomed to softness, and affection—even playful—has always been laced with sharp edges in her world. Her grip on her Soulsword tightens, and for a fraction of a second, her eyes flicker with golden fire, as if Hell itself has stirred in response.

- And then, she turns to you—slowly, deliberately, her expression eerily calm. “Did you just bite me?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s something lethal beneath it, something that makes even the air around her still. She doesn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounds… curious. As if she’s trying to decide whether this is something to be annoyed by—or something to encourage.

- And then, after what feels like an eternity, she laughs. It’s low, dark, a sound that carries the weight of fire and steel, of war and something far older than you could ever comprehend. “Hah. You’re bold,” she muses, tilting her head, considering you with something between amusement and fondness. “I like it.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, her Soulsword vanishes, and she leans in—so very close, her breath warm against your throat.

- “But you do realize,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper of shadows, “that I always bite back.” And before you can so much as react, she’s gone—vanished in a flash of eldritch fire, leaving nothing behind but the lingering heat of her presence and the unshakable knowledge that this game has only just begun.

Alex Summers

- The second your teeth graze his skin, Alex jumps—a sharp, involuntary reaction, his entire body tensing as if you’ve just electrocuted him. “What the hell?!” he blurts out, twisting to look at you with wide, startled eyes. There’s no immediate anger, no irritation—just sheer, genuine confusion, as if he cannot comprehend why you would do something so reckless.

- And then, as realization dawns, his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips twitch, and before you can so much as breathe, he lets out a laugh—not the kind you were expecting, not cocky or smug, but genuine. It’s warm, boyish, disbelieving, the kind of laugh that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You bit me,” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “Are you—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

- And yet, despite his reaction, despite his initial shock, there’s something undeniably fond in the way he looks at you now. Because Alex Summers is a man who has spent his life in the shadow of expectation, of responsibility, of chaos—and here you are, bringing something light into his world, something unexpected, something good. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind that as much as he pretends to.

- “Alright, fine,” he relents at last, rubbing his neck where your teeth had been, his grin turning almost challenging. “But just so you know? I’m keeping score.” And with that, he leans in—his lips brushing against your jaw, a teasing warning before he suddenly nips at your skin in retaliation, pulling back with a satisfied smirk. “Your move.”

[dangerousstrawberryshark]

Multiverse Anomaly: Calm before the storm

Pairings: Mark Grayson x male reader, Sinister Mark x male reader, Mohawk Mark x male reader, Maskless Mark x male reader, and Viltrumite Mark x male reader

⚠️CW⚠️: brief smut in the beginning and towards the middle half.

Requested: Yes

Word count: 4.5k

Summary: ever since Mark told you about his cuckold kink, it became an almost daily thing. It was mainly during the weekends which made you eager. However, that changed in the most dramatic way possible.

[Multiverse anomaly Masterlist] [Part 2] [Part 3 coming soon]

Read before continuing: if you are younger than 18 or any of the warnings make you uncomfortable, this is your chance to turn around and leave. If there are no problems, you may continue.

You didn’t expect this to be how your weekend would go. You’re sure no one across the world expected their weekends to go like this. You had plans for the few days off campus, plans that Mark suggested, as he would be free as long as nothing interfered. You already knew what the Viltrumite was planning: a ritual every weekend whenever he had time.

But at last, that was never meant to be. The plans for the weekend weren’t ruined; they were dramatically improved.

Mark sat across from the bed where you were, naked and stroking his dick to the sight before him. He watched with bated breath as alternate versions of himself ravaged and used your body for their pleasure.

His balls ached, and cock throbbed as fresh globs of precum gushed from the tiny slit. He knows he should be out protecting the world and stopping some of his variants, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away or stop masturbating.

Eve, Cecil, and others were definitely gonna berate him for abandoning the world to its own vices, but that was something to worry about later.

At least he doesn’t have to worry about these variants inflicting any more death and destruction. Their focus was wholly on you and only you; they didn’t pay him any mind.

Main Mark’s presence was completely ignored, with only brief side glances and smirks before they returned to the task. The Viltrumite is confident that the GDA has the global situation under control, even if it means sacrificing some heroes; this was for the greater good.

This was better than any man you or Mark brought home. Better than when multi-Paul fucked you to the point where the mattress collapsed, and Mark had to step in to see if you were okay before escorting Paul back to prison. You’re still impressed by how Mark convinced Cecil to release Paul temporarily.

You remembered how Kate’s brother used you, his clones using your mouth and ass at the same time, double-stuffing your holes like a double-stuffed Oreo cookie. Of course, this was better than the Paul encounter because the men using your body was your boyfriend, or well, his alternate variants from different universes.

You were lost in the throes of sex. Your holes are stuffed to the brim with dicks that share the same length and thickness as Mark. You couldn’t even remember that the same men fucking you were the same ones who wreaked havoc across the world, murdering thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people, and reduced humanity’s greatest cities and hubs to rubble and ash, toppling civilization in just two days.

You were too cock hungry, slutty to think about the implications of your actions – too busy giving a sloppy deepthroat to one of the variants and having your ass being split open by another two.

One of the variants—the one without a mask—was the most vocal of the four. His hand gently gripped your head as he slid his cock deeper into your warm, wet mouth. You peered up to look at the disheveled state of the variant; he looked so much like your Mark whenever you sucked his cock. It was endearing.

That shifted when another variant, who stood beside maskless, yanked your hair to pull you off the other one. This one had a sinister grin on his face, bearing his shaped canines before he started throatfucking you—ramming his cock deep into your mouth.

You gagged and choked as your eyes rolled back. The voices around you were fuzzy and muffled, but you could make out that the maskless variant was reprimanding the variant next to him, telling him to be gentler with you.

Sinister replied with “He can handle it. Just look at him. He likes this.”

Another voice chimed in, this time it was the variant with a mohawk who lay beneath you. “Holy shit, look at that. There’s a fucking bulge!” you then felt his hand gliding over your exposed throat.

Mohawk let out a cruel cackle as he began to thrust faster into your hole, and the other variant followed suit. This one was more serious and authoritative; he bore the Viltrumite attire before stripping. You could feel his hands kneading your shoulders before he leaned forward and kissed your nape.

You were completely overstimulated. Your cock is throbbing and gushing precum onto Mohawk’s abdomen. Everything was blurry and fuzzy. Peering to the right, you could make out Mark humping his fist as it looked like he was about to cum, his toned body coated with sweat as it glistened in the light. The superhero tweaked his rock-hard nipples for extra stimulation.

You both make eye contact…

October 18th, 2024. Upstate University. 1:30 pm, 5 hours before the Invincible War.

You mindlessly typed away on your laptop, the keys clicking and clanking as you were enthralled with completing your notes before you walked to your next lecture. Your eyes were darting back and forth, making sure there were no typos or errors in the notes. The beaming lights from above became an annoyance, too bright and straining your eyes, and a headache. Just a few more, then you’re out of here.

Background noises were blocked and muffled as you paid no mind to anyone around you, ignoring the chatter and footsteps of your peers exiting the lecture room for their time off or next class. That was until someone managed to pull you out of your empty daze.

“Hey, Y/n, it's been a while since you and I last saw each other.” The other man grins as he leans his head against his hand. Giving the man your full attention, you recognized him as the first man who fucked you other than Mark.

Eric was his name, a player on the college’s football team. The memories of that night flooded your mind.

—Flashback (one or so year ago)—

Before Mark dropped out to focus on being a full-time superhero, you took him to a party, sort of as a token or toast of goodbye to a normal life. You both enjoyed the time, drinking and chatting with others. You wanted to make sure that Mark still had a great time before he returned to his hero duties and subsequent training under the GDA.

“You'd better still make time for me,” you said with a not-so-serious voice, but still meant it. You poked at Mark’s chest while drinking from the solo cup. You know that Mark is invincible, one of the newest, most powerful heroes in the world. With that power comes great responsibility, and Mark couldn’t keep up with classes or studies when he was constantly fighting and saving the world from world-ending threats.

“I promise. If I don’t keep it, then you’re more than welcome to slap me or something.” Mark chuckled as he leaned forward to press a kiss on your forehead before moving to your lips. His hands were resting on your hips as he pulled you closer to him, almost dropping your drink on him.

“Would that even be possible? You barely felt anything when I accidentally kicked your shin,” you replied, a warm smile on your face, chuckling at Mark’s proposition. You placed your drink on a nearby surface so you could rest your hands on the other man’s shoulders.

Mark simply shrugged.

As the night continued, Mark was getting a little tipsy. Leaning closer to you, searching for your touch, and that’s when he said that he always fantasized about other men fucking you. The confession caught you off guard. Your eyebrows raised, your words choking in your throat as you tried to formulate a response, but your brain was still processing. Mark Grayson—your boyfriend—fantasized about you being fucked by another man while he watched.

“I, uh… sorry for saying that…” Mark sheepishly apologized, his face flustered with embarrassment as he realized what he said. The man scratched the back of his head, a nervous smile etched across his face as if his heart hadn’t dropped into his stomach.

He tries to avoid your gaze by looking away; perhaps you were too drunk to hear or remember what he said. News flash, you were still sober and retained the words.

“No, it's okay… I just didn’t take you to have that sort of kink,” you replied, pulling Mark to face you and giving him a reassuring expression. Mark chuckled nervously, his body still tensed but relaxing from your comfort and nonjudgment, or were you silently judging him?

“Yeah… maybe I should’ve kept that to myself.” An awkward silence fell over the area despite the party continuing around you. You tried to speak, lighten the mood, but the words got stuck in your throat.

The same could be said for Mark; you could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to think of something, most likely to change the topic to something else and forget whatever happened. It looked like he was detaching himself from reality. He was probably praying for the alcohol to kick in.

“So, care to explain? Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” You broke the awkward silence with that simple question. Mark still seemed out of it until you poked his nose and cheeks, and it took about a minute for the superhero to break out of his empty daze.

“Uh, could you repeat what you said?” Mark asked with that dumb face, even though you knew he wasn’t listening. A dumb face you loved, along with everything else about the man – even if it can get annoying.

“I just wanna know…” You paused, momentarily, trying to find the right words. “Just wanna know… erm, I want you to go into depth about your fantasy… yeah…” You slowly nodded – your eyes squinted and your jaw clenched. “But you don’t have to! We can overlook this.” Adding that extra bit so Mark doesn’t feel forced to explain himself in an already uncomfortable situation.

“I just randomly stumbled upon it, and when I watched it, my mind went to you. I-I… thought how hot it would be for another man to fuck you, like aggressively. Give something that I can’t,” Mark said, his voice hushed so nobody could eavesdrop.

You were confused by what Mark was saying, “give something that I can’t.” But he already gave you everything you could ever want. He’s an amazing boyfriend, despite hero duties cutting through – he still pushed some time aside for you. On the sexual side, you’d say he’s doing great in that category. He gave you the most mind-numbing orgasms you could ever receive – pushing you to your limits of sanity as his cock fucked you dumb.

The superhero possessed an above-average-sized cock, but it was the thickness that made you drool – splitting your ass open and hitting all the right spots. He was always gentle with you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he pinned you to the bed, thrusting his cock in a slow but powerful pace… then it clicked.

Mark’s fantasy sprouted from his hesitation. He wasn’t sure if you’d be able to handle a Viltrumite, human-Viltrumite hybrid like himself. He worried that he might hurt you, and in a worst-case scenario, kill you.

Sounds kinda stupid when said aloud, but he took it seriously. He engaged in vanilla, soft sex because he didn’t want to hurt you, despite how he wanted to let go of control and ravage your body – leave behind marks on your skin and bring you to another level of pleasure. You understood where he was coming from, but you still enjoyed having sex with the superhero.

“I still enjoy doing it with you!” you replied, pausing again. Your brain was conjuring an appropriate, supportive, nonjudgmental response.

Maybe extinguish this awkward situation or give in to Mark’s fantasy? You were intrigued by the cuckold fantasy. You went with the latter option. “But if you want, we can try? If that's okay with you.”

Mark's eyes widened as he took a sip from the cup before choking on the liquid, aggressively hacking and coughing–drawing the attention of nearby partygoers, giving Mark the side-eye treatment. Muffled giggles could be heard, but were drowned by the loud music and chatter.

The superhero grabbed your arm, pulling you to a secluded area away from everyone else. He gasped, wiping some of the alcohol dripping from his mouth before turning to you. “Y-you… You know you don’t have to! I–”

“You have a boner.”

Mark froze as he peered down to see that there was a prominent bulge in his pants. You could only smirk, observing how the clothed bulge throbbed underneath as your mouth salivated.

You took a few strides forward, pressing yourself against Mark’s body and groping his bulge. Both hands stroked, doubling the effort. “F-fuck.” You heard your boyfriend’s breath stutter as he latched his hands onto your hips, pulling you closer so he could grind against you.

“Y/n… fuck… do you really wanna do this? I just don’t wanna put you in an uncomfortable position.” Mark moans, humping and grinding against your hand. He held you closer, desperate and needy for stimulation and the thought of watching you get fucked by another man. You couldn’t see, but Mark felt beads of precum ooze from the slit, staining his boxers with the pearly substance.

‘He’s really into this,’ you thought. You’ve seen the superhero become needy and horny, but this was new. You only saw this when he was about to cum, your hole clenching around his thrusting cock, pulling him deeper, and milking his cock. His face when he was close to an orgasm always replays in your head.

He was like this just from a fantasy–a fantasy you agreed to do. Your cock slowly started to harden, filling the space in your underwear.

“Oh, quit your yapping. Maybe I do want this… If I get to see you like this more often,” you whispered into his ear while staring into those beautiful brown eyes. You continued stroking his clothed bulge before squeezing the tip, causing Mark to groan.

“If you do want to do this… I already have someone in mind.” Mark replied.

“Oh? That was quick. How long have you been planning this?” Eyebrows raised as you moved your hand from Mark’s bulge to wrap them around his neck — much to the superhero’s displeasure.

“I’ve been noticing how he’s been looking at you… Eric’s his name.”

That name vaguely rings a bell. You weren’t very attentive to other people's names, because your focus was often needed elsewhere. The cogs and gears were churning in your head as you looked through memory logs–Mark watched with amusement.

“You mentioned him to me. More like complained.” After a minute, it clicked; he had the same Calculus class as you.

He was assigned to be your partner at the beginning of the semester – you complained to Mark about how much of a moron the man was while watching a movie with him. One of the only good things was that he wasn’t that bad-looking, but he lacked brains and incentive.

Mark figured he’d be the perfect–he saw the glances the jock gave you when you weren’t looking. He also saw how much Eric was packing… the perfect specimen.

“Ohhh, you mean him… You wanna go? Also, you might wanna hide that.” You said, pointing to Mark’s noticeable bulge. After fiddling with and adjusting his pants, you dragged Mark to see if Eric was up for it.

—Flashback over—

The memory flashed through your head: Eric putting you into a mating press as he rammed his cock deep into your depths. You remembered the grunting and groaning above you as the jock didn’t hold back and took what he wanted… it felt amazing.

Eric lacked the thickness but made up for it with length. From the sidelines, Mark stroked his cock to the sight of his boyfriend, just like how he imagined it. That night, you both enjoyed yourselves.

“Yeah, it has been a while.” You said, closing your laptop and packing it into your backpack. You weren’t interested in small talk with the jock as you prepared to leave for the rest of the day and head home. Dealing with Chicago traffic was the last thing you wanted to do on a Friday.

“Was wondering if you wanna go back to my dorm, tutor me on some calculus. You can bring your little boyfriend along,” Eric said, following your movements as you headed towards the double doors.

You knew what the jock was insinuating; it was obvious, but you weren’t giving in to what he wanted, as you had plans for the weekend. After agreeing and playing out Mark’s cuck fantasy, Eric was the go-to man whenever Mark couldn’t find another guy.

“Sorry, see, I’m gonna be… busy for the weekend and later today as well!” You tried to make an excuse. It was a half-truth: you weren’t busy at all, but you did need some things done after you returned home. Before Eric could say anything, the rest of the students in the lecture hall were leaving, the professor's voice muted by chatter and footsteps.

You were able to make out on the whiteboard that the midterm exams are next week; you should prepare for them. You groaned in annoyance, but took the time to slip past while Eric was distracted by some of his teammates and the flood of students leaving.

You bolted for the doors leading to the great lawn, pushing past them and being greeted with the massive complex of Upstate University. The grounds were populated with students, professors, and aides, as well as students from other high schools touring the place.

William was already notified of your departure to return home. The twink asked if you and Mark were gonna do anything special over the weekend, then added a winky face emoji. He was aware of your relationship with Mark, but not to the extent of knowing Mark’s cuck kink. It would definitely intrigue William, as he never would’ve thought his best friend would have that type of kink. He’d probably poke fun at Mark.

As you walked the campus grounds, you wished Mark were here to carry you home. You didn’t want to walk half a damn mile just to reach your car. Curse this massive university. But you still love your precious baby. Once you reach the student parking lot, your phone begins ringing with the familiar ding, and you already know who’s messaging you. Pulling the device out of your pocket, you skimmed through messages.

They were from Mark

Today at 1:45 PM

Marky (or whatever name)

Can’t wait to see you this weekend. Bringing a special someone.

As long as no jackass decides they want to wake up and destroy the capital.

Also, I’m bringing food, your favorite :)

You smiled at the messages as they came through, your body filled with warmth and adoration, your heart beating faster than usual, and your eyes brightening. He was the perfect boyfriend in your eyes.

Despite his complex family life—his father nearly killed him before leaving to have another family before returning to Earth with his half-brother, Oliver –, duties as his superhero alias, Invincible, and near-death experiences, he still manages to make time for you and protects you from imminent danger, like when that Viltrumite woman crashed your date and threatened you if he didn’t comply. The memory of her cold, rough hand grabbing your neck and slightly squeezing it still sends shivers down your spine—you’re confident Mark handled it properly.

Ignoring the gloom, he always treated you to dates or late-night flights whenever he could, even taking you to other cities you had on your checklist. You relished those moments, scrolling through videos and photos whenever you missed him too much. This was gonna be a great weekend: spending time with Mark, then doing your weekly weekend ritual. There was another notification, this time from your mom.

Today at 1:46 PM

Mom

Your father and I are gonna be gone for the weekend and will return in one week. We got some business in [random US city]. The fridge is fully stocked, and some emergency money.

Please don’t trash the place.

Love you!

‘Yes!’ You exclaimed internally; you had the whole house to yourself! Things just keep getting better. You yanked at the door handle and entered the vehicle. You couldn’t wait for the weekend to begin as you drove home to freshen up.

Meanwhile, in an undisclosed location, a man was assembling an almost unstoppable force. Fueled by vengeance and hatred for the hero whom he blamed for everything: Invincible. He turns to the waiting people across from him—they all wore different suits, had different histories, different motives, and different wants, but they all shared the same face and body.

He promised that these alternate variants can have whatever they want—expand their empires across the multiverse, settle some scores, perhaps exact revenge on dear ole’ dad. In return, he wants them to ruin another Invincible’s reputation and turn the hero over to him. He was hell-bent on this mission, itching to enact his master plan as the time drew closer.

‘Just a few more.’

Timeskip—you’ve arrived home. 4 hours before the Invincible War.

The engine came to a screeching halt–shutting down as you turned the key in the ignition switch. You managed to beat the traffic and the rush home three hours in advance. Gathering your belongings and exiting the vehicle, you stood in front of your childhood home.

It felt relieving to be home; being in a familiar place was comforting. Your room was your personal haven, plus Mark’s haven, especially after his confrontation with his father—you remembered tending to his injuries and comforting him while he slept in your arms.

You turn to see some of your neighbors out and about; some are preparing to pick up their children from school, others are taking out groceries, and some are tending to their cars or other appliances. It was a nice neighborhood. You walked to the door's threshold, a welcome mat on the floor with two potted plants standing on either side. Lifting one of the potted plants revealed a spare key, granting you access to the house.

“Home sweet home,” you said, fiddling with the key before opening the door. The first thing on your agenda was to get a bottle of water. Locking the front door and dropping your items on a nearby table, you dash to the kitchen, swinging the refrigerator door open to reveal a fully stocked interior — enough food and drinks to last, confirming what your mother said in the texts.

You grabbed a bottle and popped the cap off, gulping the cold, refreshing water. You could feel your body cooling, the heat dissipating, and your thirst quenched. You sighed, crushing the plastic frame and tossing it aside. It wasn’t long before you opened another bottle and closed the refrigerator.

As you closed the door, you saw a note from your parents. It read the same as the text message, except it mentioned Mark. “Use protection, sweetie.” Seems like they already knew what you and Mark were gonna do in a free house. Shaking your head and rolling your eyes at the note, you head upstairs—the floorboards creaking with each step, and your hand gripping the guardrail.

“Just like how I left it,” you said to yourself, gripping the knob and opening the door – the hinges squeaking and groaning before it was silenced. You stripped off your day clothes and put on some clean, comfortable ones. You took off your shoes and socks, letting your feet and toes breathe before doing the same to your pants.

“Maybe I should take a nap… got the whole weekend,” you mumbled, collapsing onto the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight as you pulled the sheets over yourself and nuzzled into the soft pillows. You scrolled through social media for a bit, reading the news and watching short clips. You turned off your phone and moved to your side. With no distracting videos playing, your mind wandered to the guy Mark was gonna bring this time.

Blood began rushing down to your lower regions, and your flaccid cock sprouted within your underwear. Your breathing grew heavy as your hand moved to grasp your throbbing erection – just a little touch caused it to twitch. Ever since the party, it has become a weekly ritual for Mark to bring a guy over so he can watch him fuck you.

There wasn’t a weekend when Mark didn’t bring one or more men to fuck you into bed. Hell, there probably wasn’t a single man in the city who hadn’t been inside you—except men who are married or in relationships, and older. You enjoyed the feeling of being used and fucked, ravaged by a horny man while Mark sat on the sidelines, stroking his cock.

Your hand slips into your underwear, stroking your cock as memories of past encounters flood your head. After the deed was done, Mark would come over and praise you, peppering kisses and soothing your aching body—his fingers rubbing your hips and back before moving down to your puffy hole.

You moaned softly as Mark’s finger circled your entrance, gathering the leaking cum and pushing it back into your hole.

It would then transpire to your body being flipped onto your stomach, Mark pulling your cheeks apart to reveal your puffy hole. It looked like a petal, undamaged and untouched, despite being used multiple times.

Mark would salivate, a complete munch as he buried his head between your plump rear. His tongue lapped at your hole—eating the leftover cum or pushing it back in with his tongue, his hands kneading and squeezing your cheeks, pulling the mounds apart before releasing them. He ate you like a hungry, deprived man—starved and dehydrated.

After he had his fill, he would fuck you into the bed, softer as per usual, before dumping another load into your ass. You were in bliss. While you did enjoy the rough manhandling of the men Mark brought, you still enjoyed having sex with the hero. To be held and comforted was everything.

But you weren’t going to waste an orgasm. You begrudgingly stopped, your weeping cock throbbed with need, and precum stained your underwear. It was better to hold off on your climactic release until Mark arrives. Maybe some sleep will do the trick and help quell your urges.

Unbeknownst to you and the world, a cataclysmic event was brewing.

To be continued

Author’s note: hello, my strawberries! I really hope y’all enjoyed this part! Part 2 is complete but I decided to postpone it cause i wanna rewrite and expand some of the backstories. Part 3 is almost complete with the last scene. This fic is THE longest I’ve ever written, word count at 21k as the total… insane.

Special thanks to my proofreader: @sagethegaywitch

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