kinda funny that steve rogers, a chronically ill son of first gen immigrants, was raised by a single mom in brooklyn into an anti fascist progressive man who stood up everyday against oppressors. and that cap 2 was about an AI surveillance state & how easily the government could be corrupted/compromised. and that cap 3 was about accords that would strip enhanced individuals of their autonomy and turn them into pawns/breathing weapons & a tortured POW who was villainized. and how in infinity war steve rogers had become a world wide fugitive doing what he thought was right even if it wasn’t legal.
and then endgame said well on that note, we’re sending him back in time to 1950s (the decade epitomes w trad values and when there was still segregation) and he wouldn’t do anything about social issues or hydra or his best friend being brainwashed bc he deserved to rest <3
sitting on rookie leons lap for the first time at a party and he nearly turns completely red. youre so casual about it, so casual about claiming you as his and doing something so intimate in front of a bunch of people youre in a coversation with. he goes quiet and starts losing the ability to form words because youre leaning into him and wrapping your arm around his shoulders and he feels a sense of pride and satisfaction for you to be so openly affectionate.
"is this okay?" you check in, a whisper in his ear, spreading your palm over the back of his neck. you can feel the warmth there and it makes you smile.
"more than okay," he breathes, looking up at you like you're gods greatest creation. you bite your lip and kiss him on the cheek, just to fluster him more.
"i thought so, with those puppy eyes you're giving me."
You find the underwear in a deep corner of Clark’s drawers while you’re spring cleaning — something you’d started doing to while away the hours while Clark was at work. It’s a pair of blue panties with red lace trim and the Superman crest emblazoned across the front; a joke buy dug out of a clearance bin at your favourite lingerie store during one of their annual sales.
You’d bought them as a joke, then worn them as a joke, expecting Clark to laugh along with you. Instead he’d gone almost slack-jawed as he watched you wriggle them up your thighs, then eaten you through your dinner reservation and fucked you so thoroughly you were convinced he’d left a you-shaped dent in his mattress.
You’d had the opportunity to wear them maybe once more since then — with pretty identical results — and then they’d disappeared without a trace. No matter how hard you and Clark looked, how many times you made him lift your couch and then the bed, you just hadn’t been able to find them.
Until today.
They’re freshly washed, the silk soft as you glide your fingers over the material and press them to your nose.
They’re freshly washed and there’s a mischievous tug in your stomach as you imagine the lengths Clark had to go in order to stop you from figuring out where exactly they were.
An idea forms in your mind, and it grows legs as you slip them on under the shirt you’re wearing. It’s Clark’s, stolen from him years before you’d even started dating, when he’d brought you to his and tucked you in after you’d had one too many at a friend’s engagement party.
You strike a pose in the mirror, pulling your shirt up just enough for the bottom of the crest to peek through, a flash of bright red and yellow between your thighs.
You’ll never believe what I found.
You send the message with the picture you’ve snapped attached then lock your phone.
You haven’t bothered asking if he’s alone — he’d learned very early on not to open pictures you sent him when near others — but you imagine his reaction when he realises what you’ve sent him. The steady flush that would creep up his neck and the way his hands would move over his crotch. You feel your stomach lurch when you think of how easy he is to turn on, think of him frustrated at his desk while trying to focus on whatever piece he was writing.
His reply comes no more than ten minutes later. A hastily snapped, slightly blurry picture of him palming himself, print just visible enough to make your breath catch.
You’re not very nice is the only message he sends. Not even one of those frowny face emojis he weaponised so often.
In a moment of lust-induced malice you snap another picture; the hem of his shirt between your teeth while you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of the underwear.
You watch as the typing bubbles appear then disappear over and over until they’re gone.
And then a video.
You chuckle as you press play, the soft trembling breath he takes music to your ears. The camera shakes slightly, but you watch as he palms at himself desperately. The camera is focused so tightly on his hand you can’t quite tell where he is — storage closet? or maybe one of the faraway toilet cubicles he’d dragged you to one lunch time when you paid him a visit wearing his favourite dress — but you can tell he’s fighting hard to keep quiet.
Can you show me more? he asks, and you imagine the sheer focus he needed to type that message alone.
Sorry, baby. Already cleaning again.
You turn off your notifications and busy yourself with laundry, trying not to think of poor, desperate Clark waiting for you to tell him you’re just joking.
Your harmless prank is forgotten until much later in the afternoon when you’ve finished cleaning and taken a much deserved nap. When you pick your phone up, you find 5 missed calls from Clark and triple the texts. All pleases, attempts to bargain and another picture. His tip’s visible, leaking and you almost feel bad for him.
There’s been nothing since then, not even one of the many stickers he’d grown obsessed with using. Just radio silence. You feel a shiver run through you as you thinking about what that means for you, and you try to distract yourself by reading a book.
You’re stretched out on the couch, trudging through a tawdry romance as you read and re-read pages in an attempt to ground yourself when you hear the front door swing open. You sit up, trying to look focused.
He’s back earlier than you thought he would be, and his hair is windswept, glasses sitting precariously on his nose as he stalks up to you.
He doesn’t greet you, just closes your book gently with one hand while the other slips under the shirt you’re wearing.
“Hi Clark, nice to have you home, Clark. Oh how was my day? Just swell,” you grit out as his hand grips your thigh.
“You didn’t ask me all that before you sent me pictures,” he reminds you, tossing your book onto the coffee table.
“I can’t remember where I was, Clark.”
You pretend to be annoyed as he lays you down with firm hands, a soft kiss pressed to your cheek.
“Weren’t focusing anyways.” A hand presses over your heart. “Can hear your heart beating. Humming almost. Such a pretty sound,” he murmurs in your ear as he squeezes.
“Clark I need to make dinner,” you remind him as he presses you deeper into the couch.
“Later,” he mumbles as he pushes your shirt off, heat pulsing through your body when he leans down to trace his tongue along your stomach. “I put those away for a reason,” he says as he comes back up to graze his teeth along your nipple. “Never to be used again.”
“Is that why they smell like a detergent we’ve only been using for a month?”
He smiles into your skin, but he doesn’t answer. The cool buckle of his belt presses into your thighs, but the feeling becomes static when he shifts and you feel how hard he is.
Poor Clark probably spent the rest of the day aching while you organised and dusted to your heart’s content.
“Let me help,” you gasp, reaching for his buckle when his hand pins yours above your head.
“I’ll do it myself. Like you made me earlier,” he says.
“That’s petty, Clark,” you half-scold, but it dies when he looks up at you, eyes dark but brows furrowed in confusion.
“Not tryin’ to punish you. Just somethin’ I’ve been thinking about since…”
He draws a deep shuddering breath, pressing firm, hot kisses down your body until his lips are just above the waistband. He lets your wrists go so he can work his buckle, then the button and zip of his slacks so he can kick them off unceremoniously.
Then his mouth is back over the waistband, teeth on the skin of your lower stomach. His fingers press into your clothed clit, rubbing at the bud through the silk. He works slow, experimental as he presses his nose into your stomach.
His other hand keeps your thigh pressed to the couch when you start squirming, trying to buck your hips up into him.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles into you, “I’m getting there just wanna remember how she feels,” he says, fingers prodding at your slit, pressing the damp material into you.
Impatience hums beneath your skin as you tangle your fingers into his hair, but he doesn’t move, just keeps mouthing at the waistband.
“She feels so warm, sweetheart. Pulsing like crazy,” he mumbles through the lace, his saliva dampening the material.
Your attempt at an answer is disrupted when he places a soft kiss on the crest, inhales desperately as he nuzzles into you.
You feel the dull warmth of Clark’s tongue as he presses it flat against the crotch, eyes fluttering shut as he groans into.
“Tastes so good in this I swear,” he moans as he mouths at you through the material, both hands pressing your thighs open as he pushes you deeper into the couch.
You feel heat pulse through you with every ragged moan, relishing in Clark’s whimpers as your nails scrape softly against his scalp.
You’re grasping at the collar of his shirt, trying to pull him up for a kiss, desperate to feel his lips on your but he doesn’t budge. You’re restless with want when you hear the soft scrape of the sofa legs as Clark humps into the sofa.
The visual has you keening into the no longer quiet living room when you feel the thick, warm press of Clark’s fingers as he gently pulls the dripping material aside and presses his tongue against your bare clit.
Your nerves are frayed, and he finally lets your other thigh go so he can grope at your breast, barely controlled as you gasp beneath him. He doesn’t flinch when your thigh presses against the side of his head, hips bucking as he devours you, the sloppy wet sound filling the air. Sweat beads on your forehead as your stomach tightens, but no matter how much you try you can’t get Clark to move faster, and your orgasm builds and builds and builds with no end in sight.
“Clark, honey, please. Feel so empty. Want you,” you mewl, fingers digging into his collar again. He finally looks up at you, eyes dazed as he slips his fingers beneath the material, sliding a finger into you so easily it makes his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“You need it that bad huh. Sorry for making you wait,” he apologises as he pushes a second finger into you, curling both of them in a way that immediately unlocks the relief you’ve been waiting to feel. You press your heel into the muscle of his back as the sensation washes over you.
“There you go, honey, all warm for me, let go,” Clark soothes as the feeling washes over you in harsh waves, stealing the breath from your lungs.
He pulls his fingers out of you in one slow gentle stroke, pressing them into his mouth as he finally kneels.
A twisted, carnal approximation of pity shoots through you when you catch sight of him, so hard he throbs and leaking before you.
“Lemme help,” you’re saying as you attempt to reach for him but he pushes your hand away.
“You’re going to,” he says as he slips himself between your folds and the soft silk, already sighing in relief as he ruts into you. “Stay still, please,” he pleads, a hand pressing into your stomach to keep you still while he watches his swollen tip push into the crest, the material stretching around him.
“Clarkie,” you whine, but he’s laser-focused and slack-jawed as he continues sliding himself through your slick folds, thrusts growing increasingly desperate as his grip on you tightens.
“Gosh, these drive me crazy,” he groans, pressing his thumb against his tip so he can push it into your clit. You buck, still sensitive and you feel the erratic twitching of his cock as it lays nestled in you while he tries to catch his breath. “So pretty on you, so perfect. Like you’re mine and just mine,” he grunts out with a harsh snap of his hips. “Had to put them away. T-too dangerous,” he mutters as he finally presses a soft kiss to your lips, your taste faint on his tongue.
You whine as you fist your hands in his shirt, and you feel that pulsing heat as his weight presses into you.
“I am yours Clarkie, always,”you whisper between kisses, pulsing and fluttering around him as he continues to fuck into the panties.
It’s like magic, the way your words make him push his face into the crook of your neck as his thighs quiver against yours, the space between the silk and your skin filling up, quick and warm and sticky while he suckles at the skin of your throat. It feels endless, the breath slowly pressing out of you as he crushes his chest into yours.
“Shoulda hid these better,” he laughs into your neck.
“Probably,” you laugh back.
You wriggle your hips, trying to push him off you as you feel him leaking down your slit.
He twitches against you, still half hard.
“Not done yet. More to do with these,” he mutters, his fingers pressing the sticky material to your skin.
You’re beginning to see what he means about this specific pair being so dangerous.
joker is so interesting because he fills the big brother role to futaba so easily but at the same time there's absolutely zero doubt in my mind that hes an only child back home with his real parents. he's adaptable to people and likes being around them and can handle banter but there's an unspeakable loneliness to him, especially at the very beginning of the game, that just kinda makes me go yeah. you had nobody else growing up did you
Keiji Akaashi was seated on the couch, sipping a glass of red wine, reviewing proofs on his tablet with the precision of a man who files his soul into folders. The living room is silent. Soft jazz. City lights outside. Calm. Refined. Controlled. Until you came in.
“Keijiiiiiiii!! LOOK WHAT I GOT!!” You burst out of the bedroom. In cat ears. Fuzzy black ones. With bells. JINGLING with every step. You're practically skipping. Holding the ears like a 5-year-old who found treasure in a cereal box.
“They jingle when I shake my head!!”
Jingle-jingle-jingle.
Akaashi looks up slowly from his tablet. One blink. Two. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a war with his own face. “...You're wearing bells.” You nod like it’s the most exciting discovery of the century.
“Jingle bells,” you sing, proudly jingling side to side. And now the corners of his mouth are trembling. He sets the wine glass down like he’s making a business decision.
“I see.”
You hop in front of him and strike a pose. “So? What do you think?”
He stares. The ears. The bells. The delighted chaos in your eyes. He adjusts his glasses. And says, with the calm tone of a man rapidly combusting inside: “I think... ”
“You’re the most absurdly adorable thing I’ve ever seen.” You tilt your head in confusion. “You’re not even gonna boop them?” He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”
“Yes.”
He sighs dramatically, sets the tablet aside, and stands. You expect a soft little boop. Instead, he leans down. Slow, deliberate, sleeves rolled up, and cups your face, fingers brushing under the cat ears, bells chiming softly as your breath catches. “I hope you understand,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes dark, “that you’re very lucky I have self-restraint.”
“Oh?”
He straightens his tie, “Because if you jingle like that again...”, he steps closer. "I will show you exactly how much of a mistake it is to tempt a man like me in bells.” You go completely silent. Then, “Jingle-jingle.”
“Get on the couch.” he says with no hesitation. And he said like he’s asking you to review legal documents, not brace yourself for cat-eared consequences. You blink. “Keiji. I was jingling. For joy.”
“And now I’m jingling with restraint.”, he says plainly. “You can't just tell me to get on the couch like this is a performance review!” He sighs, removes his glasses slowly like it’s a ritual before sins are committed, and tosses them onto the side table. “You're in cat ears, my love. And you're jingling. And you bounced.” You're wide eyed at this point, like a deer caught in headlights, “I was excited!” He just calmly says, as if he verbally and mentally didn't just rewire your brain, “So am I. Get on the couch.”
"Did I accidentally pull out Akaashi Keiji's hidden kink?", you try feigning innocence but fail because of the mischievous glint in your eyes. He takes a sharp breath. Reconsiders your entire existence. Then quietly says, “One more sentence from you, and I will flip you over this couch like a book I’m about to annotate in red pen.” You forget to breathe for a second and then finally breathe out, “...I'm suddenly very literate.”
To which he simply adds, “and about to be well read.”
