If you look close enough, you might see a wagging tail and perked up dog ears on his head when you thank him, whether its for him shielding you from an attack or simply holding the door open for you, his eyes soften and he bites his lip in an attempt to stop the dopey grin threatening to overtake his face (he fails). A “you did good” from you is enough to raise his spirits, any fatigue he once felt now gone. Everyone notices his doglike behaviour, even himself. But he’s more than happy to act like a stray begging for scraps of affection when it comes to you. (Please stroke his head—)
Booster Gold, Johnny Storm (“Who’s my good boy?” “ME!”), Roy Harper, Kyle Rayner (Plans out things to do to impress you the night before and gets disheartened when you seem indifferent and refuses to tell you why he’s in such a mood), Kurt Wagner (his tail physically reacts to your praise causing his cheeks to darken, yet his grin remains bright; a devoted man)
He laughs it off, partly due to not being willing to completely accept the compliment and casually redirects your attention. Later, he replays your words and finds himself wanting to hear more from you, even if he thinks you’re being a bit too generous with him. It’s not that he’s unused to praise, but it feels more…precious coming from you. Subconsciously starts trying to appeal to you more through acts of service or bringing you food and trinkets, and then waves off your thanks despite the satisfied look on his face.
Ted Kord (your personal IT guy but tells you that you give him heart palpitations every time you thank him), Barry Allen, Dick Grayson, Peter Parker, Wade Wilson
His thoughts and even body come to a screeching halt at your words, not expecting to hear you commend him so earnestly, suddenly feeling a rising heat at the back of his neck. He doesn’t even know why he’s going through a hard reboot right now, it’s not that he’s never been complimented before (well, maybe he might be in need of a little more love these days…), but your words fill him with a bashful sort of pride. Awkwardly compliments you back but it comes off more clumsy than intended, but at least you’re laughing.
Jean Paul Valley, Scott Summers, Bucky Barnes
He accepts your praise rather easily, the tone of your conversation remaining casual, but your words settle somewhere deep in his chest, solid and clear. He feels warm, almost like you’ve left a mark on him. So, when people notice his smiles come out more effortlessly and his shoulders have lost some tension… well, that’s something he’ll keep between you and him.
Hal Jordan, John Stewart, Bruce Wayne, Logan Howlett, Marc Spector
Just smiles and says ‘and?’, moving closer before he tries to coax out more honeyed words, nose brushing against yours, as he tilts his head coyly. Don’t get shy on him now, he likes it when you’re sweet, it makes him greedy for more but you knew that, didn’t you? So when his fingers begin tracing patterns over your waist, don’t be surprised if he ends up asking for a little more than praise.
Hal Jordan, Wally West, Matt Murdock, Remy Lebeau
It goes to his head (…both of them) but you’re more than aware of that, and maybe you’ve taken advantage of that fact before but he’s also aware of that and is more than willing to play into your hand. But sometimes when every inch of his exposed skin is covered in scratches and bruises, his hair a tussled mess, you soften, words kinder and smile a little more genuine, and he leans into your touch, quiet for maybe the first time in his life.
Guy Gardner, Pietro Maximoff
“Um, anyway—“ Scoffs and throws in a teasing remark for good measure, but even after he redirects your attention, he feels guilty, that you think you’re beginning to really know him, see the best in him, the part of him that’s a hero, but he’s more than familiar with this scenario. He’ll disappoint you eventually. It’s what he does best, after all. He can only try to soften the blow.
Clint Barton
You smack his ass and claim it’s a compliment. He stares back at you with dead eyes.
John Stewart (could have at least gotten him some coffee first…), Bruce Wayne, Logan Howlett (gets you back as soon as your turn your back), Scott Summers (did you have to do it during a team debriefing), Marc Spector (will get you back, and the suspense may kill you)
You end up repeating something you’ve said during sex before (“good boy”, saying ‘thank you’ with a certain tone, etc) and he excuses himself with flushed face. You end up bookmarking this delightful tidbit and torment him with it.
Jason Todd, Jean Paul Valley (don’t be surprised if he gets his revenge if you push him too far)
You’ve inadvertently conditioned him. Continues to make your life easier by doing chores and trying to pamper you in attempt to get his fix. You tell him his hair looks nice, and he starts rubbing your shoulders. You might break him if you ever forget to praise him. Pavlov would be proud.
Booster Gold, Ted Kord, Guy Gardner, Johnny Storm, Peter Parker (the only one to realize what you’ve done, but quickly accepts his fate), Bucky Barnes
Pulls a reversal and ends up saying something so heartfelt and specific, you end up being the one that gets flustered.
Wally West, Dick Grayson, Matt Murdock (makes it his mission to always leave you weak in the knees with just his mouth—), Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner (his gaze is so tender, your heart almost explodes.)
The first time you met him, you expressed your admiration and he immediately fell in love.
Guy Gardner (after you get to know him more you find yourself regretting acting so starstruck because he won’t let you live it down), Wade Wilson
Finds himself in perpetual loop of you saying something nice to him and him becoming too tongue tied to saying anything back. This happens several more times before he’s able to gain a resistance to your casual praise and actually try to charm you.
Barry Allen, Kyle Rayner, Roy Harper
Mind blanks if you give him a sincere compliment and ends up saying something weird (and maybe inappropriate) back. Yes, he’s aware of his own idiocy.
Clint Barton, Pietro Maximoff (Wanda is disappointed but not surprised)
Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public
Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios
God, I love Marvel Comics...
Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man
Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.
He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.
“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.
Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.
Tony Stark aka. Iron Man
Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.
He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.
He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”
The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.
Steve Rogers aka. Captain America
Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.
He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.
“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”
But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.
Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder
Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.
He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.
The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”
Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.
Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief
Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.
He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.
His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.
Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.
Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye
Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.
He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.
“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”
The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.
Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow
Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.
She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.
The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.
Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.
Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier
Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.
He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.
Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.
Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.
Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil
Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.
Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.
“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.
Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.
Frank Castle aka. The Punisher
Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.
He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.
The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.
Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.
Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight
Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.
He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."
“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.
Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.
Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch
Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.
He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.
Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.
The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.
Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic
Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.
He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.
For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”
Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.
Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat
Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.
She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.
Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”
Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.
Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange
Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.
He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.
His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”
The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.
Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner
Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.
He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.
The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.
Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.
Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider
Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.
The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.
“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”
Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.
Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom
Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.
He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—
“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.
Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.
T’Challa aka. Black Panther
T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.
He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.
Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”
Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.
Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra
Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.
The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.
“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”
Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.
he loves using his webs to restrain you, gluing your hands and feet onto the bed posts, watching as it balls into a fist as he hits you in all the right spots. he loves the way your face twists into a lewd expression, brows pinching together, eyes rolling back and jaw hanging to let the moans escape.
his thrusts are brutal, vibrating through the entire building, shaking it in its entirety. he lets out loud grunts, low moans as he feels your warmth envelop his cock whole.
"f-fuck... you know i love you so much, right?" he asks, his hand's grip around your waist harsh enough to bruise.
you whine, clenching around him desperately. "i-i love you just as— much!"
his pace is relentless, continuing to abuse your sore clit. the sound of skin slapping joining into a cacophony among other sounds, your slick coats his cock, the burning feeling of his cock stretching you out sending more pleasure into your veins.
everything feels so good. your mind starts hazing, body moving pliantly according to his will.
you feel the webs around your ankles and wrists, banging into the web repeatedly as he sends hard thrusts that make your body move along with it. but somehow, it doesn't budge.
instinctively, you squirm, legs unconsciously trying to close despite wanting more but the webs keep you intact. they keep your legs wide open, letting him have easy access. that's what he loves so much about 'em.
he doesn't think twice before cumming inside you, planting his seed in hopes of making more of him. and so do you.
sharing a bed hcs w various marvel characters (-.-)zz
includes: kurt wagner, remy lebeau, bucky barnes, peter parker, matt murdock, johnny storm *comic inspired, no mcu
i kinda got in the zone and just wrote general sleeping headcanons if you don’t mind
kurt wagner;
always moving around,, tossing and turning even in the deepest of sleeps. he’s warm to lay with, so you often find yourself too hot for comfort!
sleepily wraps or lays his tail onto your leg, especially when he’s right about to fall asleep for the night.
pretty deep sleeper, will wake up if you shake him or say his name loud enough but it will take a couple tries. he’s also very stubborn about getting up before he wants.
often finds himself holding your hand, will be half way across the bed but his arm will still be reaching over to you.
has a ton of blankets even though he’s basically one himself. very willing to share and not a hog actually!
remy lebeau;
clingy in his sleep, even before sleep too! often drapes an arm over you.
messy sleeper. drools and snores lightly but somehow still looks gorgeous?? his face is so so pretty in the early morning light.
bed head is wild, always sticking up even though it usually is messy every day, it always appears messier in the mornings.
another morning mention, sleepy voice is so beautiful!!
if wearing one, his shirt always rides up and stays that way alllll night.
freaking bed hog -_-
bucky barnes;
always nervous before bed. always has trouble falling and staying asleep.
sleeps stiff as a board unless he’s really tired, then he’ll be in a more comfortable “average” sleeping position.
night sweater (yyyeuck)
somehow always ends up on the edge of the bed.
goes to bed around late 12pm but gets up early like around 5:40-6:30 am on most days. never wakes you up though unless you ask!
actually snores pretty loud but swears up and down he doesn’t and that he’s super silent!
likes to take up very little space but is a blanket hog snd always accidentally grabs most of them.
the bathroom is steamy as shit after he showers.
peter parker;
similar to bucky he’s nervous but mostly because he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable!
hasn’t ever shared a bed before so he definitely clings to the edge the first couple times.
very sweet but a slight pillow hog, but he doesn’t really use blankets. only has one which is wild!!
sleeps in corny shirts he has somehow collected over the years. and old ass pajama pants that are too short.
snores softly, it’s more cute and a nice background noise than obnoxious.
ends up hugging you in his sleep, or when he falls asleep too. he really wants to be near you but only if your okay with it!
very cute bed head heh
matt murdock;
not a big cuddler imo, very aware of the space and usually wants some distance himself.
sleeps pretty still unless he’s stressed (which is always let’s be fr)
doesn’t snore but does drool a lot!
slight bed head but it’s so pretty and just a bit messy that looks so good.
tummy sleeper, enjoys having your hand on his shoulder or back for comfort and support.
if he’s had a really hard day he’ll definitely hold you. but won’t say anything unless you start a conversation about anything else other than what might’ve happened.
often sleeps with his back to you, not that he meaningly does it just happens!
will try to make sure you fall asleep before him so he knows your comfortable.
i know i said remy has a beautiful morning / sleepy voice but matt easily wins the contest
johnny storm;
cuddling w you all the time. while falling asleep and during asleep. always has his hands around your torso if possible!
snores somewhat loud and it’s a tad annoying! but swears he’s way too good for snoring and that he’d neverrr
often brings you late night snacks or drinks.
if you don’t wake up when he wants you he’ll poke your cheek until you wake up or he gets bored and just loudly (yells) your name.
nice to sleep with if your cold, but terrible during heatwaves and summertime. you actively push him away and he gives you the best puppy eyes ever.
has like 5 pillows and many blankets but only uses one blanket. he never wakes up under it anyway.
either sleeps only in boxers or boxers + tank top combo
actually likes cooler showers, it’s so nice laying with him after a cool shower and sends you both right to sleep.
very odd sleep schedule. most nights he heads to bed around 11 pm but some nights if he’s really invested in a project or something he’ll be up nearly all night. wakes up really late though, enjoys sleeping in
thank you for reading, requests are open for mha and marvel characters rn ^-^ they would be very appreciated
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
Yan!Marvel Men (Peter, Danny, Johnny, Matt, Luke) as Pervs
Note: came from a long haitus, hello! DARK CONTENT BEWARE. Did this during an all nighter, sorry for all the mistakes. Just scroll by if not interested
"Why are men such hopeless perverts?"
Tags: Female!reader. Characters are 616! DUBCON/NONCON, SMUT, yandere elements, stalking, power dynamics, Naive/oblivious reader, panty sniffing, toxic relationships, manipulation, mentions of periods, just overall nastiness
Peter Parker AKA Spiderman
Peter and you have been the closest of friends, thick as thieves. You would never suspect him, after all how could you, it is your Peter. Your too attentive Peter. Who notices when your strap is sliding down your shoulder or when your jeans are too low and Peter never misses an opportunity to give you his jacket whenever it’s cold. But you really don’t know Peter, have little idea of what he has been up to behind closed doors.
The reason Peter is too attentive is because he catches himself staring at your tits out of the corner of his eye or he sees your underwear peeking just above your jeans. And the jackets you borrow, he’s so eager to get it back and bury his face into it. Breathing in your scent; he needs to suffocate in it. Jerking off, holding it as he mutters your name over and over.
You’ve always told Peter that he’s good with the camera. Ecstatic when he was hired by the Bugle. He has many candid shots of you, way too many, but you never minded; you loved being his muse. Some were perfectly framed or blurry, you weren’t safe from the camera even when you were napping. The ones that make Peter sweat the most are the “accidental” upskirt shots he took when you weren’t paying attention.
Peter has been caught more than once hanging around your dorm laundry room. You didn’t give it much thought as he would offer to switch your loud or watch out for “dryer thieves”. When in reality, he is the thief himself. Your panties coincidentally get eaten by the laundry, sometimes a worn t-shirt. Peter would sleep with them under his pillow, or worse, jerk off with them. Great, he thinks to himself as he must wash them again with his cum stains now on them. Then he’ll carefully fold them back into your basket when you’re not looking.
You can’t possibly be this naive, he thinks. I mean you obviously trust him because he is your friend, still you must be somewhat aware how you are tormenting him. He still is just a man with his very hot, oblivious friend.Peter would never forget the time you ate an ice cream cone in front of him and didn’t notice it dripping. Peter’s tongue ran over his lips, he almost offered to lick it off your fingers and when you did it yourself, he had to excuse himself to the restroom again.
Don’t get it wrong. Peter very much feels sick with himself, he doesn’t even know he can wake up in the morning and look at his own reflection. Ben and May raised him to be better than this. Yet here he is now stroking his dick again at the thought of his friend, who trusted him with everything they held dear. The guilt consumes him alive but it’s not enough to put a stop to him. He can’t even rationalize it or even bother to make some twisted lie; he knows all full well what he is doing.
When he’s out as spiderman, he will swing by your window at night. He is just “patrolling”. It was a complete coincidence he came by your place. Yet he doesn’t leave, instead he lingers long enough to know if you’re awake or not. And if he catches you changing or worse in the shower, he can’t leave even when every inch of his mind is telling him to. He stays and gazes upon your naked self. Masturbating furiously that night only to tell himself it would be the last time, only to do it again the next night.
Peter doesn’t snap all at once - he erodes. It’s late at night, he shows up at your door bringing whatever flimsy excuse he has, smelling like the city’s blood and smoke. It was a rough night, a very rough night. Whatever transpired, you knew he needed a hug. What you don’t expect is for Peter to bury his face on your shoulder. Certainly not to nuzzle to your neck, breathing in your scent. His hands fisting at your shirt, and his lips brush against the soft skin. It’s no accident because he pecks the skin over and over, pleading with you to just let him have this and you didn’t think you could really turn him down.
Danny Rand AKA Iron Fist
Danny was the bestest friend anyone could ask for. He was the guy to knock on your door with your favorite takeout in hand. He knew what to say to bring a smile on your face whenever you are down, help carry your groceries without being asked. So how could you ever think that your sweet and thoughtful friend would be some pervert. Danny tries to play it so casually, he lets his shoulder bump yours when he’s laughing, he lets his hands linger on yours a little longer than necessary when he is helping you up. It looks and seems harmless, but his heart races every time.
The day you lent him your hoodie because he “forgot” his is something he will always remember. He kept it at his place for weeks, wearing it around when you weren’t there. Tugging the collar up to his nose, sometimes he sleeps in it, other times he wouldn’t like to say what he does to it. But he returns it eventually, smiling sheepishly as he apologizes for forgetting. He loves “forgetting” his stuff at your place, it gives him excuses to coincidently pop up. Besides it’s not like you will shoo him away if he doesn't have his excuses. Sometimes when you visit his place, he will hide your belongings so he can make you come over then convince you to stay for the night.
Once in the many nights you were staying at his place, you dozed off in the middle of a movie on the couch. Danny of course instinctively tucked a blanket over you, but then he just couldn't move. Danny told himself to look away, to stop. To do anything instead of just sitting there staring at your chest rise and fall, your soft lips. His hands nearly touched your thighs, nudging them open. He could feel his cock hard under his sweats. He even nearly leaned downed, his mouth hovering over yours, but he forced himself to stop, he had to stop.
Danny wants to be a gentleman. He wants to take things slow. It just seems as his body acts out against his very moral conscience. Like an animal in heat, he wants to act out on his every impulse, cross all boundaries. Danny should feel honored that you called him drunk at two in the morning to walk you home. Yet all Danny could think about is how you squeezed him tight, your tits pressed against his arm. His hands trembled as they held your waist a bit too tightly. He almost kissed you right then, your lips were there for the taking.
Is he truly a gentleman when you were just talking to him. Just laughing together when Danny dares to put a hand on your knee. He continued to smile, casually talking as if nothing were happening. You showed no reaction to it. It’s when his thumb rubs tiny circles on your skin, you freeze up and momentarily stumble over your words. He removes his hand, but he waits till you are distracted to find his place once more.
There were better places to go to when he was hurt but doing so meant missing the chance to see you. His eyes are on you the entire time as you tend to his wounds. He guides you when he sees how nervous you are, steadying your trembling hands. When his hands touch yours, Danny wishes he can pull you closer, have you straddle him, not giving a damn about his stitches. Move you to grind against him with your hands on his chest, both of you panting. He imagines you calling him your boyfriend, his name moaned against his ear as he finally gets what he wants.
Danny isn’t stupid. He is being too careless, too obvious with it. What if you were to ever catch him? Would you be disgusted and call him a creep. Would you cut him off, it hurts to even think about it. You have become such a familiar face, been a part of his everyday life. It would be like tearing a piece of his soul. But perhaps deep down you know the kind of man he is, surely you would forgive him.
Danny received a call from you and poor you, you were just in tears. Today was just horrible. Rocking you gently as he whispers that it’s okay, before he kisses you- all of his training and self control are thrown out the window. He can sense your confusion, you are too stunned to resist. Your eyes are glassy as you gaze up at him while he has you pinned beneath him. He just tells you not to think or fight it; he will take care of you as he always does. And in the morning, he will cook you breakfast and greet you with a smile as if nothing has changed.
Johnny Storm AKA The Human Torch
Truthfully you couldn’t pinpoint when you and Johnny became good friends. Like there was a moment when you both just clicked and the rest became history. At first, Johnny wanted to convince himself it’s nothing more,]. Even he loves how you tease him, how you nudge him when he’s pushing it, how you are there to listen to him whenever he feels down. Sure he thinks you are cute and he is of course not jealous when another guy makes you laugh; okay maybe he is. And he may find himself wanting to fuck you more times than he could count.
He won’t lie, it does kill him inside every time you refer to him as a good friend. Despite his best efforts to let you know he thinks otherwise, even Ben takes pity on him. You don’t give his flirting much thought, not even when he drapes an arm over your shoulder, his casual jealousy towards anyone else you talk to, how he brushes his hands against yours while you’re together. You just assume it’s Johnny being Johnny.
Johnny showing up at your place uninvited is a daily recurrence. He will lounge on your couch like he owns it as he watches tv, and yes he will steal your snacks. Johnny will sprawl into your bed, jokingly pleading you don’t kick him out of it. It’s so warm and cozy, though the second you are away, he’ll bury his face into the pillows and breathe in your scent. He fantasizes about masturbating in your very bed and maybe even leaves a sign he has done something, but he shakes his head inwardly, what the hell is wrong with him.
Sleepovers are his favorite excuse. Whether it’s at his place or yours, though he prefers you. The first time you wore pajama shorts at the sleepover, poor Johnny had to take a “bathroom break” that turned into him stroking furiously while picturing pulling those shorts down. Or when you fall asleep with your head on his chest during the movie; he was so painfully hard, he was silently pleading you would notice and help him with predicament.
Johnny has walked in on you changing more than once, whether it’s an accident or intentional one may never know. The first time you hear a “whoops” as he turns to leave, not missing the double glance he gave. Besides, Johnny isn’t above using your shower and walking around with just a towel around his waist; he wants you to look, to see you all flustered.
He can be so shameless, it’s sickening. It’s almost like Johnny believes it will end with you together no matter the outcome. It has to, you both know of each other more than most people who spend lifetimes with one another. Wherever you are seated, he’ll sit by you, thighs touching. He lets hugs drag on for too long, his lips will touch your ears as he whispers something to you. Johnny will reach to fix your collar, smooth your hair, tug you close during photos, even pulling you to his lap during move nights if you let him. As said, incredibly shameless.
There comes a point where you and Johnny share a bed. Platonically of course. Especially after a bad night, he’ll crawl into your bed, you couldn’t possibly kick him out can you. Johnny tries to keep his distance, but he slowly shifts closer and closer. A brush of his hand, his leg on yours, face pressed into your neck. But you’re too far into sleep to not feel him using your body as friction while he reaches his release.
It happened during a night out when you both drank too much. Well it was more of you being the drunk one, while Johnny’s metabolism slowed down the effects. Too dazed and legs unsteady, you have to rely on Johnny for support as you walk to your place. Before you know it, your back feels the mattress behind you with Johnny slamming his lips to yours, the rough pad of his tongue against your softer inner lips. All you could do was cling to the fabric of his shirt, letting it happen. You are too dumbfounded to even process that his cock is stretching inside you, before you close your eyes and lose yourself to sleep.
Matt Murdock AKA Daredevil
To others, you don’t stand out too much but to Matt. You were overwhelming to him in every manner. However, you would never; he shakes your hand and gives a polite smile. But Mat can smell the roast on your breath; the coffee you had in the morning, laced with a trace of sugar. He can smell the creamy scent of the lotion you hastily applied on your skin, a touch of vanilla. He hears the nervous hitch in your braith, the faint tremor in your pulse, the saliva shift in your mouth before you swallow it.
At first, Matt tries to deny what he’s feeling–he was just simply attracted to you. But he is fooling himself, you are very much consuming his every thought. Everything about you just seems so… he just can’t put the right words in. He just knows he wants you, no he needs you. Matt can’t be left alone with his thoughts, too long and he’ll start to imagine what your throat feels like around his hand as he thrusts into you. He must busy himself with case papers or go out to catch whatever poor criminal who crosses his path.
Even as he goes out as daredevil, he keeps finding himself circling back to wherever you work or live. It’s a coincidence, it has to be. Hell’s kitchen is a small place after all. Yet he is always listening for you, for the cadence of your steps, the sleepy hum you make when unlocking your door. How gullible you are, anyone can just take their chance to do whatever they wish. But it’s not like they will when he’s there, he will break every bone in their body.
Matt knows he’s violating every ounce of your privacy, he despises himself for listening. He can hear you through the thin walls, how you hum along to music, even the sounds of you brushing your teeth and spitting out the paste sounds intimate to him. It’s as if you’re letting him in even without your consent. When he senses you shifting in bed and falling to sleep, it takes him a few moments to actually leave. There was a thought of opening your window, his hands moving to slide the glass before closing it again.
He lingers closer than he should. When you lean across his desk, he leans forward too with his chin resting on his hands. When you help him across the street, he doesn’t need your hand, but he holds it anyway. His thumbs brush your palm, he even has the nerve to draw circles on the skin. He doesn’t let go right away, it’s like he’s waiting for you to do it yourself. Matt feels the tiny hair on your skin stand up; goosebumps.
Your heartbeat becomes his favorite sound. It’s like a melody on its own. It changes when you’re flustered, when you laugh, when you’re tired. He thinks he is so slick with it, but Foggy comments that everyone can tell he has the hots for you and tells his friend to just go for it. Still, Matt is drowned in guilt. How many men did he beat bloody for stalking a woman down the streets thinking they could just have their way with her. He is the very man he never wanted to be. But he won’t touch you, won’t say anything, he will just be there…he won’t give into his urges.
And yes as creepy as it sounds, Matt knows your cycle like an open book. Any man would be repulsed knowing such details, but Matt is one sick man. He smells the metallic blood and it makes his cock throb against his pants. He has to excuse himself with a stiff smile. It’s worse, so much worse when you are ovulating. He feels like a man in heat. He wants to rip away your clothes, have you right there on his office floor, imagining how you would sound moaning and begging for his touch. You would love that wouldn’t you.
His breaking point comes unexpectedly to you. Though it’s been building up in him for so long. Once overcome with guilt and while it lingers, he feels a sense of frenzy. There is a bile stuck at his throat he can’t seem to swallow. Matt will have you, selfish it sounds. Because he wouldn’t know what to do if another were to take your attention. You’ll turn around and find yourself cornered by none other than Matt. His mouth is on yours as he hastily removes your clothes, and you hear something tearing as he tugs at it roughly. He whispers to your lips if you know what you have been doing to him, but he doesn't let you respond. As he drops to his knees, his mouth on your clit.
Luke Cage AKA Power Man
Luke is the last man you would ever suspect to be a man with nefarious intentions. And truthfully Luke has always been a good friend, a man you can trust, to go to whenever trouble stirs. The things you have told him, things you couldn’t tell anyone else. You thought the world of him, surely there is no way he could ever think the same about you. But you lay unaware that Luke sleeps and wakes with you consuming his every thought.
Luke always offers to walk you home, no matter how busy he is and how could you refuse his offer. Out of courtesy, you invite him to your apartment, times Luke refuses. But times he accepts, coming inside your apartment as you try to make him feel welcome. And when it’s so late, it only makes sense to offer the couch for him to sleep on and how could Luke ever pass on this offer. You think it’s reassuring to have him there, you feel safe. However, you swear at night, at dusk, you hear your bedroom door creak open and footsteps squeaking on the wood floors, before the door gently closes again.
You’re not aware of how much every move you take is torturing him. Every time you gaze into him with those eyes of yours, it’s taking every might from Luke not to just take you right here and there. Sometimes, he places a guiding hand on your back when you walk side by side, and it lingers there more than it should or when his hands reach for your waist to catch you as you stumble or to move you aside; Luke finds himself squeezing a bit too firmly. He has to tell himself to let you go, otherwise he will do something he will regret, clenching his fists when he releases you.
Why must you be so trusting. Luke at times wonders. Knowing he is in your very living room as you change clothes so carelessly in the other room,and worse, having the door a few inches open. But you never did worry. After all, what a good friend he has been. That you don’t notice the way his head shifts to allow his eyes to linger at the mirror’s reflection you have in your room.
When he’s at your apartment, whether it’s just to keep you company or to offer to check on a pipe or a shelf you have been complaining about needing to be fixed and Luke of course could not deny you. When you’re not looking, Luke knows it’s wrong, hell it’s disgusting in so many ways, but he finds your underwear drawer and takes one or two with him. He feels like some perverted teenage boy. And he is definitely not happy with himself, he knows the kind of man he is and what he is doing.
Once during a night out with friends when you were drunk, too drunk, you called Luke. He picked you up and while he didn’t give you a lecture, a sigh of exasperation told you he was disappointed. After all, didn’t you realize the danger you were in. He took you to his place instead, since it was more near and carried you to his bed. As he laid you on the mattress, the straps of your dress slid down your shoulders and your tits were in full view. Luke felt his hands reach for them before his moral conscience seeped in, his fingers hovering an inch over your nips before pulling them back. He left the room, he had no choice, a second longer would have pushed him over the edge.
There are days where Luke needs you at night, particularly rough nights. He shows up at your door, knowing you will never turn him away. You look so beautiful in your nightwear as you sit close to him asking him what's wrong. He can’t resist letting a finger run down your face, caressing it and you don’t push him away. Not even when his other hand traces up your thighs as you console him.
Luke knows he can’t keep going like this, he won’t be able to hold himself back. Unless he gets out of your life and Luke considers it, it would be the best for you. But when he sees your name pop up on his phone, how he could he decline your call. When he walks by your apartment, he must see you. It's embedded. A habit. So can you blame him when he finally has enough. He feels your face getting warmer against his skin as his lips press against yours, his hands moving down your body, and when his hand reaches between your legs, he can feel the dampness. To think he was holding back when you wanted him all along.
TW: Brief descriptions of injuries, Blood, A situationship
Synopsis: As the friendly, neighbourhood Spiderwoman, it’s not uncommon for you to get injured during fights. However, what is rare, is the infamous Black Cat coming to your aid when you’re hurt more than usual.
A/N: This is for one of my irl besties (@tankajahari90) in order to help revive her wife’s tag :)
Being a superhero is much deeper than a flashy outfit or a catchy name. It’s not a brand to sell, it means becoming a symbol.
As Spiderwoman, you fight for the innocent people of New York. You protect the vulnerable, combat the corruption, make civilians feel safe and secure. To do that, you’re strong, protective, funny–if you’d say so yourself–and you take on this identity with a resilient grit.
Well, you don’t feel so resilient right now.
Faintly in the distance, you can hear the loud crashing of Lizard tearing through the office building. There’s the crumbling of cement walls, the bangs of furniture slamming to the floor and the horrified screams of civilians caught in the crossfire. You’re already anticipating the headlines calling this a “tragedy” or a “disaster” and it makes your heart hurt at the thought. You should stop this.
Yet, you’re pinned to the floor under a plethora of injuries and there’s a throbbing that powers through all of your senses. Perhaps it's the result of the multitude of slashes that came from your battle against Lizard or maybe you hit your head too hard at one point and it’s a concussion. You couldn’t care less about what it is, only how much of it you can take to get up.
Get up.
You suck in a deep, shaky breath, repeating those two words in your mind like a mantra as you push yourself up on your elbows. Even with how much your muscles scream and your arms shake under the effort, you keep going until you’re sat up.
“That’s progress.” You whisper to yourself under your breath, finally taking a moment to take note of your surroundings.
You’re in a deserted meeting room on the top floor of a colossal building. A long table is pressed up against the wall while its chairs are thrown across the grey carpet, coupled with a conveniently chair-shaped hole through the window that overlooks the city.
You hear a deafening roar before his unmistakably scaly form rampages past the door. It’s only a glimpse, enough to make a normal person run and hide, but to you, it’s an opportunity.
If you know where he is now, then you can more easily track him and stop him.
The motivation pulls at you and, before you've even thought about what you’re doing, you’re pushing yourself to your feet. You can feel tension within every inch of your body, your blood sticking your suit to your skin; it almost feels as if you’re trying to move a mountain. But then you remind yourself, you’re Spiderwoman; if anyone should do this, it’s you. You have to help those people.
Firmly setting your jaw, you set forward, out of the room and down the hallway, after Lizard. You grit your teeth as the edges of your vision blacken with the effort but you keep pushing yourself, stumbling down the space until it opens out into a larger atrium.
First you see the smudged tile, then the shattered glass railing and past it to the lobby it overlooks. As you approach its edge, you see the splayed out form of Lizard at the bottom, already being circled by the Police and the more decorated FBI. Even though this should mean everything’s resolved, the sight makes your breath catch in anticipation for him to explode into action.
He could rip all of them apart in seconds, ruin so many lives with one claw, their families too, you would’ve failed and–
“Well if that isn’t a sight.” Your thoughts are cut off by a velvety voice.
Your head snaps to look over your shoulder, instantly catching on the sight of Black Cat. From where she’s crouched on the edge of a smashed skylight, she peers down at you through her lashes. Her white hair flows in a breeze behind her like a picturesque cloud, her sleek, latex suit a stark silhouette against the evening sky while her signature, sly smirk plays on her lips.
Though the crazed look in your eyes must’ve conveyed through your mask, as her seductive gaze almost instantly dissolves into a concerned stare.
“What happened to you?” She asks, her voice now sharper with concern.
Your eyes flicker back over the edge to Lizard’s form being restrained, your panic breathing gradually evening out as you back away, muttering. “N-Nothing.” You wave a hand dismissively to her. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“You are not ‘fine’, darling.” She responds, effortlessly sliding from the window to your side as her eyes scan over your form. “I’m sure you can’t even get out of this building alone.”
True to your nature, you flash her an unserious look. “You really think so low of me?”
“Right.” She huffs. “Clearly not injured enough to not act like yourself.”
You have to place a hand on the wall to keep your balance as you side-step her to get to the skylight.
“You can’t seriously be trying to get out of here by yourself.”
“You worried?” You murmur, smirking playfully under your mask as you begin to pull yourself up and through its frame. Groans involuntarily fall from your lips as stabs of pain shoot through your body, pulling all of your playful quips from your mind as you basically crawl up onto the gravelled roof.
You hear Black Cat–or Felicia, as she’d confessed to you one, quiet night–leap up behind you, undoubtedly watching as you shakily push yourself to your feet once again.
“I’ll be fine.” You mumble, though you're unsure if you’re reassuring her or yourself.
Still, when you peer over your shoulder again, you see the anxiety continuously present in her eyes where she stares at you.
It’s almost disconcerting to see. While it’s difficult to label your relationship–with you sometimes at odds, sometimes saving each other’s lives–you’ve never seen her scared. She navigates dangerous situations with ease, flirts with a nonchalant smirk plastered on her face and can even take down some of your villains with such pure strategy and skill that she almost makes it look easy. But you’ve never had her watch you as if you’re another injured civilian, a vulnerable person she wants to help.
You’re not vulnerable, you’re Spiderwoman. That’s… that’s your whole thing. You’re strong, protective and funny. Not… this.
She doesn’t even know your true identity, she shouldn’t be seeing you so weak. Right?
“Please don’t look at me like that.” You whisper, shaking your head.
“I want to help you.” She responds, stepping closer to you. “You’re hurt.”
You can feel yourself swaying slightly on the spot as you glance down your body. Your suit is marred with an uncountable number of tears, some bruises visible through them yet its the dark patches spreading over the fabric that really stings. It’s undoubtedly your own blood, though the numbness spreading through your form makes it impossible to tell where it’s from.
For a split second, your throat catches at the sight and you disorientingly stagger backwards.
Felicia instantly steps forward, tossing your arm over her shoulders until she can snake a hand around your waist. “Right, we’re not doing that.”
A shaky breath falls from your lips as you look meet her gaze, the genuine emotion staring back at you making giving in far too easy. “How would you help me?”
She sighs, some of the tension in her expression instantly dropping in relief. “I’ll try to patch you up myself. I assume you don’t want hospitals.”
“Where?” Your eyebrows furrow.
You notice her hesitate, though only for a moment before she responds. “A safehouse of mine. No one will find us, you’ll be safe.”
“You have the right supplies there?”
“Should do.” A weak smirk pulls at her lips. “Don’t you trust me, darling?”
Perhaps you should be more cautious with your trust, maybe you should be scared that she might find out your identity through this. But the way she quietly coaxes you with a quiet: “Spider?” and looks at you like that, makes it impossible to refuse.
“Okay… okay, I’m trusting you.”
–
To say the trek to her safehouse was anything less than gruelling would be an understatement. It was an agonisingly drawn-out torture.
Traversing New York’s rooftops while teetering on the edge of passing out from blood loss isn’t a fun experience. Your usual balance has fallen out of whack and you keep tripping over yourself, the sun setting making you somehow even more prone to walking straight into vents and satellite dishes.
Of course, Felicia tried to help by leading you the entire way, even attempting to carry you at one point, though entirely to no avail.
By the time you reach the safehouse, you feel more than ready to just lay down and accept whatever fate the world decides for you… Except Felicia isn’t willing to do the same.
With her arm still cemented around your body, she briskly locks the door behind her before tugging you alongside her into the apartment.
Your eyes scan over the surroundings, taking note of the raggedy couch, the flickering light bulb, the falling-apart furniture. It’s dingy, dark, so unlike her that it’s almost startling. Though, admittedly, that should be the point of this safehouse; to be a safe haven that is so unsuspecting that no one would find her here.
Still, you’re not sure if she’s allowing you here as an act of vulnerability or a way to separate her true identity from you. You don’t ask.
“Sit here. I’ll get the medkit.” She mutters as she drops you down onto the sofa before walking into what you assume is a bathroom.
You instantly sink into the cushions, your eyes closing at the sheer relief of being able to finally rest.
It doesn’t last long as she speedily returns, snapping her fingers as she orders. “Don’t pass out. Wake up.”
“But I’m tired.” You find yourself practically whining under the effects of your injuries.
“Aren’t you always tired?” She teases even though her voice is weary and still heavy with concern.
“No.”
“We both know that’s not true, baby.” She murmurs as she crouches in front of you, digging through the medkit she’d retrieved from the bathroom.
You huff, watching her through half-lidded eyes and furrowed eyebrows. “You’re acting too serious.”
She pauses, flashing you a questioning look. “Well I can’t exactly flirt when you’re dying.”
“If it were the other way around, you’d be flirting with me.”
“You’re acting like you enjoy it, darling.” She responds, raising an eyebrow at you.
For a long moment, you stare back into her eyes before shaking your head and trying to dismiss it. “It’s just weird without it.”
“Well,” She starts, standing up in front of you. “If this all goes smoothly then you won’t have to miss it for too long.” Her gaze slides down your form. “There’s only one issue.”
Your suit. You feel your heart skip a beat. Anxiety or fluster? You dismiss it from your brain before you can figure it out. “Well, I– um,” You splutter out.
“It’s okay. It’s fine.” Felicia placates, holding up her hands reassuringly before you can work yourself too deep in panic. “I don’t need to know who you are. You don’t have to show me everything, just the worst injuries.”
You suck in a shaking breath, the brief alarm having brought enough clarity for you to understand. “Right… Okay.”
It takes another moment of mentally reassuring yourself before you begin to slip off your suit, leaving your mask on but revealing your skin and tank top underneath.
Even though it’s nothing scandalous, Felicia almost instantly turns away to gaze at a wall, shuffling awkwardly on her feet. Once again, it’s unlike her, almost as if the more barriers broken down between you–first the secrecy of the safehouse, now your suit–the more uncertain she becomes.
It’s not as if you haven’t thought of this: if she’d ever be so entertained by you if she knew your true identity. You know she lives for the thrill of a secret. You can sense the impulsive excitement of her actions when she flirts with you on patrol, you see how she grins when she strokes your arm, almost as if she’s staking her claim to something she knows isn’t hers. Sometimes it feels like she’s more into the mystery than anything.
But you can’t know for sure… and perhaps that’s why you’re here right now.
You slip the suit off of your shoulders until the top half pools around your waist, revealing a number of purpling bruises and seeping cuts that stain the fabric of your top.
“Those look pretty deep, spider.” Felicia murmurs as she finally looks back at you, her gaze sharpening as she scans over your form.
“Well, unluckily for me, Lizard doesn’t hold back.”
“Yeah… I can tell.”
She wastes no time in perching on the edge of the couch beside you, pulling out an antiseptic wipe to begin wiping down the blood staining your skin.
Your breath audibly catches at the sharp sting and she instantly murmurs. “It’ll be okay. It’s fine.”
But you still wince, clutching tightly onto the sofa cushions until the intense, sudden pain bubbles into words spluttering from your mouth. “Do you actually own any black cats or is it just your name?”
She momentarily pauses, her eyes snapping up to you incredulously. “What?” When you glare at her, trying to get through this struggle as quickly as possible, she instantly returns back to healing you. “I- No. I don’t own any cats.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t have any time to care for them. I’m a burglar, darling. Remember?” She exclaims, then sighs and mutters under her breath. “I didn’t realise that you acted like this outside of the persona.”
“Hey,” You huff, immediately cut off by another groan as she presses the wipe to another slash.
“Don’t worry, I’d still love you, baby.”
You can’t help but simply stare at her in bewilderment. It’s flirting, you know it is, but you don’t just casually say that to someone! You know her first name and that’s it… or is it? She did just say she owns no cats after all so–
Oh. She finished with the antiseptic.
“That’s better.” She whispers, tossing the wipe effortlessly across the room and into the bin without looking before pulling out some gauze and bandages to finally patch you up.
“I don’t understand you.” You whisper.
She peers up at you through her lashes. It’s just as she’d done early, though now with a less romantic look, but rather a sincere gaze, packed with things unsaid. “Well doesn’t the mystery add to it all, hm?”
By the time she’s finished bandaging your wounds, your head feels clearer now that you’re not losing so much blood. There’s still undoubtedly cuts all over your legs and your face, though that remains an uncharted territory for her. Doing all of this was already more than enough.
“Thank you.” You murmur sincerely, giving her a small nod.
“Of course, baby.” She murmurs, already standing up and walking back over to the bathroom to put the medkit away. “Just don’t go around telling your vigilante friends about this. This kind of service doesn’t come for free.”
You watch her disappear behind the door and let your eyes fall shut for a moment once more. Even though the overwhelming weariness that has settled in your frame feels heavier without the adrenaline, the sinking feeling of digging too deep grasps at your mind once again.
It feels like a constant alarm in your mind that you don’t truly know her… yet, your connection just feels so genuine that it’s hard to shake. Some part of you is saying that you should remain professional and just leave, but another part of you–louder and more insistent–screams to give in.
Both quieten as she enters the room again. “You okay now?”
“Yeah.” You give her a tired thumbs up. “I’m good, just exhausted.”
“That’s fine, you can stay here.” She says nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders.
“You don’t need to do that.” That part bubbles up now. “I’m sure I can work something out.”
But the persistent stubbornness that you’ve come to associate with her is already present on her face. “You just said you’re exhausted. There’s no way I’m letting you walk around at night like this.”
You can only stare back at her through your mask, any argument dying on your tongue under her care.
“I can stay at my apartment for the night, if you’re worried about your identity, then I’ll come back in the morning…” She watches you carefully. “You’re safe here.”
“It’s a lot…” You trail off, though she knows what you mean. It’s not just giving her a lot of trust, but also the amount of favours you’d need to make up for it.
Luckily, she doesn’t fuss too much when it’s you.
“I’d only want one thing in return, spider.” The seductive tone that was lost in her voice throughout this whole ordeal seeps back into her tone.
“What’s that?”
She smirks, crosses the room and then presses a kiss to your masked cheek, just under your eye with as much ease as if this were natural for her. Even through the fabric, it feels like electricity on your skin and your eyes helplessly follow after her when she pulls away.
“There,” She murmurs. The wickedly satisfied look in her eyes immediately telling you that she’d left some sort of lipstick mark that she’s proud of. “I’ll see you tomorrow, spider. You’re gonna need some rest after all this.”
You only muster a small: “Okay.” as you watch her turn and saunter out of the small apartment, sending one last adoring glance over her shoulder before the door clicks shut behind her.
What she doesn’t see is that as soon as she’s gone, you’re already lifting your hand to brush over where she’d kissed.
Is there even a line between your personas and real identities anymore?
imagine Frank Castle who’s a sweet man but only with the privilege devoted to you: who brings you the flowers that he knows you like, who kisses you on the crown of your temple without any preamble. Who groans into the pulse of your throat how much he loves you when the two of you awaken
Who sloughs off the tough guy persona the second he meanders into your shared space, who becomes Frank again the second that his eyes settle on you—who knows that he’s home when he’s able to wrap you up in the swathe of his arms
“Missed you, honey,” he grunts in the tender spot behind your ear, his breath coaxing goosebumps up the vulnerable nape of your neck. “Y’miss me too?”
He already knows the answer—but like any big lug worth his salt—he wants to hear you say it.
