Warnings: prone bone, unprotected p in v, reader is toxic (bc she’s a siren duh), hatefucking, manhandling, dubious consent (again siren) MDNI 18+
Word Count: 900
He keeps coming back.
Clark doesn’t know why, he doesn’t understand it, he fights it every time.
He never wins though, finding himself at your door with his head hung low and his cock twitching.
His lust tastes bad on his tongue, artificial and fake like a chemical sweetener. It bitters in his mouth after, when the fog clears and his mind returns to him.
He feels like a leashed dog. Nipping at your heels and begging for a treat. Heeding your command even when you’re not there.
He hears your voice on the nights when his self-control is at its weakest. Your gentle hum rattling his bones, even from across the city.
It has him at your door in minutes, knocking hard enough to make the wood groan under his fist. You give him the same smile every time, sick and satisfied. As if you knew he was coming.
Clark doesn’t feel like himself when he’s inside you. It’s rough, unkind, and so far removed from lovemaking.
It’s fucking.
Clark will never say that, at least not out loud, but that’s the only word for it.
It’s filthy, sweat beading down his forehead and slick coating your thighs. It leaves your sheets stained and the windows of your bedroom fogged.
You bask in it, moaning wantonly with every unrestrained thrust. Arching your back when he leaves a bruise, as if you get off on breaking him. The closer he gets to no return, the hotter it makes you.
He’s not so far gone that he can’t see that.
You writhe under him now, gasping his name and clawing at his shoulders. “Please,” you ask, hips canting to meet his thrusts, “Harder.”
It makes Clark’s blood boil. You’ve pushed him this far, the sound of his skin on yours nearly makes the walls vibrate from the force of it, and yet you want more?
Clark grunts, pissed and achingly hard.
He spins you over with one hand, pulling your hips up just enough to slide a pillow beneath them. It gives him the perfect angle. His thighs straddle yours, one hand splayed between your shoulders as he pushes your chest into the mattress.
“Harder?” He asks, all bite. He leans forward, sliding his cock through your sopping folds. “Got me actin’ like a feral dog and you want harder?”
He doesn’t go inside, not yet. Pushing between your thighs just enough to nudge your clit with his tip, then pulling back.
“Yes.” You whine, trying and failing to push back against his hips. His strength overwhelms you, keeping you pinned. It’s his only advantage, and even with it he knows you could tip the scales with a simple whistle. “Make it hurt.” You insist.
You’d let it slip once -one of the only times Clark stayed long enough to see the come down- how he’s the only man who’s ever had the strength, the stamina to keep up. The only one who’s ever been capable of giving it to you that way you crave.
In all my years, you’d whispered, curling the hair at his nape between your fingers, No one else could make me feel it the next day. No one but you.
He just wishes you’d have asked him, he’d have come to you willingly. He’d have taken you out and kissed you sweetly. Then he’d take you apart because you asked.
Instead you’ve trapped him in your bed and made him hate you.
Clark hisses as he pushes back in, you’re tighter from this angle. He hooks his ankles over yours, pulling your legs apart for a little more give. He pins them there, leaving you wide and vulnerable to his assault.
He thrusts hard, putting his full weight behind it, but not his speed. Eevery drag of his cock is deliberate, angling for that spot that makes your cunt quiver. The noises are obscene, between the sin that falls from your lips and the wet sounds your bodies make, it’s symphony that could make a whore blush.
He drops to his elbows, one on either side of you. His chest pressed to your back, hips snapping every-time you try to inhale.
It’s punishing, the only way he can express his resentment. It has you sobbing into the comforter, hiccuping as he uses his cock to knock the air out of you. “Take it.” He says it into your shoulder, teeth nipping at the soft skin there. “You dragged me all the way here for a reason.”
His hips go flush with yours, and this time instead of pulling back he draws a slow circle. You gasp, hands clawing at the blanket like you could drag yourself away. He knows it’s for show, knows it’s just because you like the idea of struggle.
His hips keep circling, dragging his cock against your g-spot over and over and over again.
Your body glows, a gentle light emitting as you get closer and closer and closer. You’re clenching around him, hard and vice-like as you keen into the mattress.
“Take it.” He grunts, and this time he pulls all the way out, just to slam back in.
This is the part he’ll dream about later, when he goes home and showers you off of him. After he’s scrubbed his skin raw, he’ll picture you like this- ethereal. He’ll try to not think about how he’s starting to crave you even when you don’t call him. Try not to think about how every day it gets harder to remember how to be gentle.
Then he’ll lay in his bed, and wait with baited breath until he hears your song again,
In the meantime, he’ll fuck you. He’ll make you fall apart on his cock and when the glow fades he’ll do it again.
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I had so much fun with this concept that there’s another 1k in my drafts of a version of this with a very different siren dynamic that is wayyyyy fluffier and less toxic, so if that’s something you guys wanna hear about or read please let me know!!
it’s just a sweet, sweet fantasy baby (when I close my eyes you come and take me)
Day Twenty-Five of Pinktober: Wet Dream
Warnings: you’re really horny, r has wet dreams, descriptions of sex but nothing too graphic, a lot of hot and heavy wanting, descriptions of male masturbation MDNI 18+
Word Count: 900
You’ve been having dreams.
Vivid, realistic, back arching, sheet wetting dreams.
It’s been almost a month, and it’s driving you insane. Every time you close your eyes, he’s there. Clark Kent.
Maybe it’s your new meds? It’s the only things that’s changed, you think.
You’ve started dreading sleep, knowing that rest won’t actually find you.
Every-night it’s different.
Last night he had you on your stomach, his chest pressed tight to your back while he turned you inside out. You can still feel his breath on your ear, ragged pants shaped around your name. Each one punched out of him in time with his thrusts. ‘So tight,’ he’d whispered, ‘Fit me just right.’
The night before you were on top. Hips circling over his in a torturously slow rhythm. The veins in his neck popping as you lifted yourself up and down his length. When you woke up your palms were hot, his heartbeat still thrumming under your fingers.
The night before that you were on your side. His face buried in your neck and your leg thrown over his hip. The weight of his arm over your stomach lingered the entire next day.
The only thing that’s stays the same are his eyes. Or more astutely, the way he looks at you.
Blue painted with reverence, pupils dilated enough for you to see your own reflection. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re there, real and soft in his hands. It makes you melt, even in the unconscious. He looks at you like he’s grateful, lucky just because you exist.
It’s worse than nightmares.
A nightmare you can pack away under your bed or wash away with a cup of hot tea.
These dreams haunt you well into your morning commute. They sit on your shoulder while you work and laugh in your ear when Clark finally walks into the bullpen and flashes you that million dollar smile. They make you a buy another pair of sheets because you can’t face the old lady at the laundromat a fifth day in a row.
They’re eating up your waking hours too now, becoming more and more invasive. Like an ivy branch, they grow across your vision on the bus, imagining Clark in your shower, towel hanging low and something else hanging even lower.
They creep up your leg at work, commandeering your desk until you’re picturing yourself on his lap. Mirages where you’re grinding against him until his slacks are stained.
You’re exhausted, sleep doesn’t feel like sleep. Which means you’re starting to sleep everywhere.
Your breathing evens out in the back of an uber after leaving the office too late to walk one night. Clark finds you there, pressing you into the car door and holding your entire face in just one of his large hands while his tongue maps out the inside of your mouth. A hand under your waistband that pulls gasps of his name with expert tact.
The driver drops you off with a one star rating and the words ‘That Clark guy is gonna be happy to see you.’
You catch yourself dozing at your desk, waking up with a moan in your throat that you try to camouflage as a cough.
Deep down, you know it’s not your meds. You started those almost sixth months ago and not a single Web M.D. page says this is a side effect.
No, it’s his fault.
Clark Kent who a month ago, you shared a hotel room with.
A conference with the two of you sent to represent the Planet, and a clerical error that left you sharing a hotel room.
He’d let you shower first, ever the gentleman.
When you’d finished, stood with the door cracked into the bedroom as you changed, you heard him.
Choked gasps from the single queen size mattress.
“God, so good.” He breathed, the words whispered to no one in particular. You could just barely make it out, only the bed side light on. Clark’s silhouette on the bed, his head thrown back into the pillows and his hand in his slacks.
His glasses were gone, curls falling over his eyes while his lips parted over the same shape over and over.
You leaned closer, desperate to know what he was saying, thighs clenched tight.
His hand picked up speed, his belt, which he hadn’t bothered to pull loose, clinking against itself with every pull.
Then he moaned, still soft, low enough that you wouldn’t have been able to hear it if the door wasn’t open. He sounded oh so pretty, wanton and pathetic enough to make you consider climbing over him with a warm smile and a helping hand.
A second moan, equally as beautiful, only this time what he’s saying is clear as day.
Your name.
Your ears started ringing, loud and suffocating. You pulled the door shut with a thump.
You never spoke about it, but he knows you saw, knows you heard.
You don’t know how he did it, maybe he paid an Etsy witch (does Clark know what Etsy is?). Maybe the single drop of sweat you watched slide down his collar bone hypnotized you. Perhaps he’s lacing the coffees he brings you each morning?
Maybe that night woke something up in you, a piece you’d try to shove down and feelings you’d stuffed into a mental closet. That night pierced a whole in your dam of want, and everyday it gets a little bigger.
All you know is every time he looks at you, there’s something in his eyes. The same reverence that’s there in your dreams, but also something else’s something knowing.
Like he’s waiting for you to crack.
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title so long it could be a fall out boy song anyway I’d like to thank the voices for helping me speed run this entry! I spent like three hours staring at the prompt when all of sudden BAM 45 minutes later here she is
Warnings: p in v, exhibitionism, thrill of getting caught, risk of public indecency charge, Clark hits it from the back! MDNI 18+
Word Count: 900
Clark’s apartment towers over Metropolis.
One of the tallest buildings in the skyline, he can see most of the city from his windows, he doesn’t have curtains because he simply doesn’t need them.
You’re not so lucky.
An old brick building, your apartment boasts a vintage fire escape and one window with a view of a billboard. It has a scenic overlook of an alley. Climbing only about eight stories off the ground, one wrong creak has passerby’s looking up.
That’s why Clark’s hand is over your mouth.
It was meant to be a quick stop, you were waiting for him on the rod iron, planning to get your kiss goodnight and tell him to be safe.
“Make good choices, don’t do anything Batman wouldn’t do.” Your usual line when Clark insisted on doing his late night patrols.
Then he’d floated in, landed without noise and taunted you with those dimples. The stars behind illuminated his cape, the outline of his shoulders and strong arms. He’d taken you into his arms like an old movie, pulling your body against his chest and kissing you so sweetly you swear it could give you a cavity.
Desire crept in like a shadow, claiming your rationale and good intentions. It crawled up from between your legs and suddenly being chaste was never a possibility.
When he pulled away, when you should’ve let go and given him back to Metropolis for the night, you couldn’t help by slip your hand into his waistband.
It was too easy really, to slide your fingers between layers of fabric, just deep enough to find his briefs and that delicious bulge. Too easy to kiss him while you palmed it. Clark, the strongest man on your planet crumbled, groaned, open and tortured into your mouth.
“What’re you doing to me?” He whispered, eyes closed as he pressed his forehead to yours. He twitched under your hand, a few drops of pre hitting the fabric as he already starts to harden for you. “I gotta go back out-“ he tried to argue, a big hand coming up to hold your wrist. He doesn’t pull it away though, just cuffs it between his index and thumb, a warning.
“Can’t go out there like this?” You taunted, voice all silk and temptation. “Gonna save the city with a hard-on Superman?”
Looking back now, you’re not sure what you expected him to do.
“Gosh-“ Clark breathes behind you, his own voice muffled against your shoulder. His hips are relentless, pounding into you with an intensity that makes the entire fire escape rattle. Paint chips under your hands, knuckles turning white as you grip the railing. “Gotta be quiet baby.” He chides, as if he isn’t the one who pulled your pants down.
The alley is quiet beneath you, a few stragglers passing through. You hold your breath with each one, body tensing as you listen to their footsteps, praying they don’t look up. You know what they’d see if they did though.
Clark is in the shadows, but it wouldn’t help. Anyone who’s been in Metropolis more than five minutes knows his silhouette better than their own. An outline of strength and power that is almost as iconic as the ‘S’ on his chest.
Then there’s you, clear as day, body rocking forward over the railing either every thrust. Your shirts still on, but you’re not sure that’d be enough to save you. Then there’s his hand, palm stretched over your mouth to keep you quiet.
You can see the headlines now.
SUPERMAN FUCKS RANDOM CIVILIAN ON BALCONY
SUPERMAN DOES CHARITY WORK
SUPERMAN, TRACKING DOWN HIS HAREM
BIG BLUE? OH ITS BIG ALRIGHT
SHOULD SUPERMAN BE ARRESTED FOR INDECENT EXPOSURE?
You clench down on Clark hard, eyes rolling as he hits that soft spot inside you. It’s a lot harder to care about being caught when he feels this fucking good.
“Gonna ruin my reputation.” Clark grunts, another thrust that’s even harder than the last.
A high pitched moan escapes past his hand, but you can’t even answer. Your thighs are trembling with the effort of standing, words are beyond you.
“That what you want? Make it so I can just stay home everynight? Stay inside you?”
Shamelessly, you nod, frantic and close.
“Needy girl.” He chastises, bending down so his chest is flat with your back. “Was gonna come home tonight and take such good care of you.”
Finally, his hand slips. A rough gasp leaves you as you catch your breath, head dropping down with relief. “I’m sorry-“ you croak, “You’re always gone I missed you.”
Clark ignores you, one hand iron clad on your hips, the other bunched up in the back of your sleep shirt. “Bought a new candle and everything.” He grunts, “Was gonna make it nice.” A hard thrust, “Was gonna make it up to you.” Another one, the slap of his hips on yours loud enough to make you glance down.
Empty.
You don’t know if you feel relief or disappointment. Part of you wants to be caught, you realize. Wants the world to see he’s yours, to know that Superman is spoken for.
The other part of you, the relieved part, she just wants to keep her job.
Another hard thrust, knocks a loud moan out of your chest. High pitched and pornographic, no one who heard it could mistake it.
Behind you, a low a chuckle, a tighten grip and a slow roll.
Maybe, just a little, he wants to get caught too.
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I adore you all! I can’t even lie this is a pretty selfish addition 🫣 it’s been a little fantasy of mine for a MINUTE and I think Clark matches my freak on this one ANYWAY thank you for reading I love you all see you tomorrow!!!!
Warnings: honestly despite the day pretty mild dirty talk its more so a kink discovery, handjob, mentions of fingering, kind of needy Clark, no use of y/n, fem!reader, MDNI 18+
Word Count: 800
You discovered it months before you started dating.
“Ugh, you’re so good to me Clark.” You’d mumbled, barely even looking up at him as you took the coffee cup from his hand. You were knee deep in edits, running on like three hours of sleep and a red bull.
Clark had already started to retreat, walking back to his own desk as he processed your words. Then he stumbled.
A little slip, like the toe of his shoe caught on the floor or something. You wouldn’t brushed it off as Clark being well, Clark, if it weren’t for the noise he made. A painful gasp ripped from his throat, like he’d bitten his own tongue.
You whipped around, turning to check on him and that’s when you saw it. The blush. Pink creeping up his neck and dusting his cheeks. His ears just as bright, like they were on fire.
Huh.
“You okay Kent?” You asked.
Clark choked, straightening his posture and clearing his throat. His voice an entire octave higher than normal. “Yeah,” he straightened his tie, pulled until it was loose enough for him to undo the top button of his collar. “Just uh, just lost my balance.”
Worried, you stood up. “You look a little flushed.” You said, lifting your hand and pressing the back of it to his forehead, “You’re hot.”
Clark sputtered, eyes bulging behind his glasses. You swear even his curls shook. “What?”
You frowned, pulling your hand away. “Your foreheads warm, think you might have a fever.”
Clark exhaled, then he broke into what might have been the most unconvincing smile ever, “I’m okay, don’t worry.”
You didn’t buy it, but Clark looked like he was about to burst into flames, so you left it at that, letting your suspicions die for the sake of your five o’clock deadline.
You didn’t think about it again, not for months. Not until tonight, sitting on his couch with your hand wrapped around his cock, wrist aching as you fight to make him cum.
He’s already gotten you off, almost ten minutes ago and not for nothing, but you’re starting to panic. It’s your first time touching him like this, and you’re feeling the pressure.
You’ve barely gone on two dates (dinner and then the day you went on a walk in the park during your lunch break. The second one shouldn’t count but it was the first time he kissed you so you’re counting it).
Clark fingered you into next Thursday, clocking a record time of only five minutes. You still feel the tremors of it rattling your thighs. Clark is unmoved. Okay not exactly, he’s on the edge. You can tell by the way his hips are fucking up into your hand, his are eyes closed with his head was tossed over the back of the couch. You just need that last push.
Then divine intervention, the memory surfaces. Pink cheeks, clumsy feet, and his twenty minute bathroom break after the fact.
“You did such a good job taking care of me baby.” You press a kiss to his check, wrist twisting around his base. Clark’s breath stutters, cock twitching. His eyes open, neck snapping so he can look at you.
Huh.
“No one has else ever made me cum that quick.” You admit, hand working over his length, tracing where the bulge of his tip meets the shaft.
“Just wanna-” His movements are wild, uncoordinated, hands grasping at the back of the couch like it might save him. “Oh god-“ he’s cut off when your palm wraps around his tip, making a polishing motion, spreading his precum over the entire head.
“Wanna what baby?” You ask, voice gentle, soft as silk.
He whines, high pitched and needy, eyes fluttering as he fights the pleasure. “Wanna be good.”
You smiled, hypothesis confirmed. You doubled your efforts, spitting into your other hand and wrapping it around his base. “You’re so pretty Clark, wanna see you let go.” You whisper.
He nods frantically his cock leaking like a faucet, chest heaving with the effort of holding back. “Please, I-“ he begs.
You shush him, continuing your assault, “Be a good boy,” you hum, smirking when you feel another twitch. “Cum for me.”
Clark falls apart, crying out your name as he topples over the edge. You’d never seen so much of it, spunk covering your hands, painting your knuckles and even parts of your forearms. Clark wasn’t spared, his slacks and the bottom of his dress shirt equally messy.
Lost in your fascination, you keep working his cock, not realizing he’d gone soft until he grabs your wrists, hissing as he pulls you off.
“Sorry.” You murmur sheepishly.
Clark shakes his head, still fighting to catch his breath. “Don’t be, God. No one’s ever talked to me like that before.” He leans over, pressing a thankful kiss to your cheek, “Didn’t know I was gonna like it that much.”
You laugh, “Like it? I think you got some on the ceiling.” You joke.
He groans, tortured and embarrassed.
“Don’t be shy now.” You say. Remembering the mess on your hands, you can’t help but bring a finger to your lips. Clark’s eyes are blown, blue disappearing and he watches you clean your finger off, then start on another on. “You taste good Clark.”
Clark groans at your words, and your other hand, which had been resting on his thigh, feels his (already half hard) cock twitch.
Warnings: oral (fem!receiving), Bucky using his tongue to win an argument, hair pulling (obvs), no use of y/n, fem reader, MDNI 18+ feeling impatient! you get it three hours early tn my friends
Word count: 400
You feel like you’re drowning, unmoored, hands mindlessly clawing at the sheets as you try to find something, anything to anchor you.
Bucky has your thighs on his shoulders, ankles locked together and digging into the small of his back. He eats like a man starved, like he’s never tasted anything this sweet. You can’t help but writhe under his tongue as his hands hold your hips down against the mattress.
You’d already cum once, screaming his name and soaking his jaw. He’d refused to relent, muttering something about how he ‘likes it long.’
Right, the fight.
He’d already wrung any argument out of you, your insistence that you just wanna see it short, long forgotten when he pulled down your panties and spread your thighs.
Your right hand finds its mark, fingers tangling themselves in dark hair, combing down to the root and grabbing on tight. So lost in lost pleasure you’re not even conscious of it when you pull.
Bucky stops, he’s panting, hot breaths torturous against your cunt. His eyes, icy and wild look up.
You have enough sense to panic, apologies spilling out of your mouth, frantic and nonsensical as you start pulling your hand back,
Bucky shakes his head, grabbing your wrists and pulling your fingers back to his scalp. You can’t see his lips from this angle, but you can feel them moving as they brush against your folds, his words vibrating against you.
“Do that again.” He tells you, voice dark and raspy.
So you do, another tug, this one less certain, not even as much force as when you brush your hair.
Bucky shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your clit. “Harder.”
This time you match the strength you used before, a hard pull on his roots, dragging him closer to where you so desperately want him.
“That’s it.” He tells you, eyes closing. He starts to nose at your clit again, his lips start to mouth at your cunt. “Keep doin’ that.” He mutters against it, sending a shiver up your spine. Then he dives back in.
His enthusiasm doubles, his efforts leave you gasping, hips grinding up against his face while you gasp. You other hand grabs his hair now too using it to pull him even tighter against you.
Bucky moans, you can see his hips grinding into the mattress below, chasing his own high while he hunts down yours.
Hours later, you can’t help but ask him about it, your fingers soft now, massaging all the places you pulled the hardest.
Bucky hums, and doesn’t give you an answer, instead he just says “Sure as shit not cutting it now.” He reached up, lacing his fingers through yours and bringing the back of your hand down to his lips. “Gotta give you something to hold onto.”
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I feel super meh about this one but thank you for reading! same time tomorrow ;)
Crying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off
Day Ten of Pinktober: Dacryphilia
Warnings: p in v, overstimulation and whole lots of it!!! it’s not explicitly states but it is pretty obvious that Bucky is turned on by crying, also slight dub-con if you squint but not really reader is just really tired, MDNI 18+
Word Count: 800
The sheets are long ruined, messes beneath your thighs, and your head. The comforter was exiled to the floor hours ago, the pillows stacked high and out of the way at the top of the bed.
Bucky’s behind you, body curved around yours like a shell, protective and all consuming. One of your legs is thrown over his hip, leaving you open and vulnerable to his assault.
Another thrust wrecks you, just like the last. Tears are streaming down your cheeks, hot, wet, and salty. A sobs tear from your throat, intercut with hiccups and gasps.
Bucky is unmoved by your pathetic display. Babbles of his name falling on deaf ears.
He thrusts again, nailing that spot inside you, the one that you seeing stars, the one that made you fall apart on him three times already.
It’s slippery now, no friction or fight, just a steady slide as his cock turns you inside out.
A symphony of grunts are pants against your neck, his face buried against you.
Your hip aches in this position, the tension of being on your side so long torturous on your tired body. Still you don’t try to move. Bucky’s arm is wrapped around your waist, his hands splayed on the softness of your stomach, keeping you firmly pressed against him.
He hits the spot again, and a shiver chases up your spine. Despite your exhaustion, you feel yourself begin to build once more. The reality of another orgasm washes over you, with it a wave of tears wash down your cheeks.
Bucky, who hasn’t spoken in at least a half hour, too busy chasing your highs to bother, grabs your chin. He turns your face to him, and expression half admiration and pity.
“Oh honey,” he coos, “You cryin’ for me?” The question is murmured against your cheek, his voice deep, like a shockwave through you.
Then he drinks your tears, licking from your jaw to you where your eyelashes kiss your cheeks.
You chase his lips, the comfort only he can give.
He lets you have them, kissing you softly, sweetly. Kissing you like he hasn’t set your body on fire, just to dampen it out and then set you ablaze again.
Bucky’s hand starts to drift, away from your stomach and further down. Lightly over your pelvis, down to where your poor clit sits puffy and swollen from his abuse.
Knowing his destination, your hips jerk away from the touch. You break the kiss with a caught breath. “Bucky.” You whine. “Please- can’t.” You hardly sound like yourself, voice merely a shell of itself. A reminder of the puddle reduced you to.
Bucky placates you with another kiss, his hand stilling, hovering just above your clit. “Just one more Doll.” He insists.
With a sob, you nod and surrender, body melting back into his chest. With a gentle shush, Bucky guides your head to rest on his bicep. A firm, sweaty, protective, pillow. His index finger and pointer make contact, touching down just above your clit.
You’re so overstimulated that even the indirect contact makes the room spin. He presses hard, rubbing the skin like it’s the bundle of nerves. He works it over, slow rhythmic movements that reverberate down into your clits.
His hips rut into you, the tip of cock continuing its endless assault on your g-spot.
Light flickers at the end of the tunnel, his words a lifeline as your brain breaks.
Just one more.
His fingers slide down, one firm press to your clit combined with a synced thrust and you shatter. Like glass on tile, your entire world fractures into a million little pieces. You’re scattered around the bedroom, body shaking while your cunt squeezes Bucky for all he’s worth, until his hips are stuttering as he falls apart with you.
You feel far away, vision white while Bucky moans praises in your ear.
You feel floaty as you return to your body, what might as well be hours later. Limbs heavy and detached as you lay limp in Bucky’s arms.
“I gotcha.” He whispers, his hand has long abandoned your cunt, tracing soft circles over your ribs instead. He still hasn’t pulled out, his cock nestled deep in your warmth as he softens.
Finally.
He copies his movements from earlier, cradling your face until it’s angled up towards his. Your cheeks are wet again, white hot tears down to your neck. He follow the same path, tongue catching every drop.
He moans at the taste, peppering the skin he just cleaned with kisses.
To your horror, he twitches inside you once more.
“Bucky.” You croak, another single tear from the corner of your eye.
Bucky closes his lips around it, wet and messy. “I’m sorry baby.” He laments, hips beginning to rut once more. “Just so pretty when you cry.”
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WE ARE SO BACK!!! I loved this one!!! wrote it in like two hours and actually had a very good time doing so!!! oh pinktober you are my bitch
Warnings: if descriptions of eating/food make you uncomfortable than I suggest skipping today! love you!!! MDNI 18+
Word Count:1.1k
You’ve always had a sweet tooth.
Since you were a child, you’ve had an insistent itch for something sugary. Gummies that melt on your tongue, chocolates with caramel fillings, or hard candies with foil wrappers.
Every part of your world is littered with junk food landmines, a handful of snickers in your bed side table, a few lifesavers in your purse. At work you have an entire drawer of your desk dedicated to when the craving hits.
You think it’s why you might like Clark so much, pulled in by his saccharine smile and that syrupy southern charm. He’s as sweet as they get.
Your favorite treat however, has always been cherries. A jar of maraschinos kept in your fridge at all times, for the emergency snack or Shirley temple. Clark had held it up one day when grabbing a waterbottle, crooked smile and dimples popping when you just shrugged and said ‘Nature’s Candy.’
“So I just lick it off?” Clark asks, blue eyes wide and eager. In his hand is a can of whipped cream, freshly opening and boasting a label that claims to be ‘extra sweet!’ He looks like an excited puppy, as if you just asked if he wants a treat.
You nod, smiling wide enough to split your face in half. “Then I do the same to you.”
You’re kneeling together on the bed, legs nearly touching. You’d ditched clothes already, Clark has basically dropped his pants as soon as you walked over to the fridge and told him you had an idea.
“Ready?” You ask.
In lieu of an answer Clark shakes the can, the rattle of it bouncing off the walls of the room.
You lay down, presenting your self to him like an empty canvas and wait.
Wh-tch.
Cream splays across your skin, cold and wet. The shock of it almost makes you shiver. Clark struggle to get a grip on the nozzle at first, his initial stripe landing with an underwhelming fizzle across your stomach. It’s too watery a rogue droplet rolling off your side when suddenly-
Clark’s tongue catches it, licking a solid flat stripe up the entire path and over you navel. When he pulls away your skin is on fire and your belly glistens with this spit.
Clark is more confident this time. He splays one hand above your ribs, the curve of his index and thumb aligning with the underside of your breasts. He leaves it there, as if he’s just holding you steady.
Then you hear it again.
Wh-tch.
Cold sparks against your left nipple, a gasp pulled from your throat at the sensation. Unconsciously, you arch your back, both towards and away from the feeling. Well, you try to arch your back, the hand that’s holding you steady is also holding you down, keeping you flattened against the mattress as he lifts the can and creates a second mound of whipped cream over your right nipple.
“Stay still.” Clark says, and then he’s gone. In an instant the warmth of his hand disappears and the bed jumps as he dismounts.
Your eyes are closed, trying to fight the urge to wiggle or giggle at the feeling. The cold sends a thrill up your spine, it leaves your cunt tingling and goosebumps across your skin.
You hear the featherlight padding light padding of his feet, a distinct popping noise, and the clatter of something light and metal thrown onto the end table.
His weight is back, the bed dipping as he kneels on either side of you this time. Then you feel two gentle drops, a minute change in the weight on top of your tits.
When you open your eyes Clark has settled himself over top of you, arms on either side of your shoulders as he stares at his handiwork.
Your breath catches, The pretty piles he made on tits, now topped with bright red maraschino cherries.
Clark watches your reaction, barely there smile hinting at just how proud he is of himself for this one.
Then he dips his head down, swallowing the pile on the left in one fell swoop. He doesn’t pull back right away though, going back the whipped cream until his lips latch around your nipple.
He sucks hard, letting the coolness of the cream mix with the heat of his mouth around the sensitive bud.
“Clark!” You gasp, head falling back against the pillows at the sensation.
He pull off with a wet noise, licking his lips with a smirk letting you see the way the red cherry juice has already stained them red. Then he goes back down.
He’s slower with your right breast, licking around the base of the whipped cream with a slow drag of his tongue. When he sucks the rest of it into his mouth, he’s lazy with it. Then he pulls your nipple into his mouth with a punishing suck, giving it the same treatment of hot and cold as the other side.
He lets your back arch this time, moaning around you as he does. His hand slides under your back, holding you up against his mouth with that same effortless strength he uses to catch buildings.
When he finally separates, he leans over, grabbing another cherry from the jar.
Without saying a word, he holds it to your lips, a silent command to open.
Of course you do, taking it between your teeth. You’re about to bite down when Clark positions a finger over your lips.
Then he’s laying back down, almost his entire weight on top of you as he gets as close as possible. His mouth slots over yours and you can feel your teeth against his when he bites down on the cherry as you hold it. The cool gush of the sweet juice floods your mouth, delicious and oh so satisfying as it coats your tastebuds. When Clark slides tongue into your mouth you taste it on him, making it sweeter than ever before and pull his lips harder onto your own.
After you part, gasping against his mouth with bright red smeared against your lips, Clark look at the nearly full jar now sat next to the whipped cream on the night stand. Sitting back up he grabs the can with one hand, and a single cherry with the other and after pressing one last slow kiss to lips whispers “You’re gonna have to buy more cherries baby.”
Warnings: okay so yeah intox kink, steve rogers can get high because I said so, dub-con because he’s high and r knows better, also a religious motif??? ANYWAY can’t even begin to figure out where this came from so…. yeah MDNI 18+
Word Count: 1.4k
Sacrilege.
The only word to describe what you had done to America’s golden boy.
He holds the joint between his lips, between two fingers like a cigarette because it ‘feels better.’ The tip burns, flaring as he inhales.
He pulls away with a cough, face flushing as he struggles, passing the joint back as he fights to swallow another.
Smoke fills around the room in tendrils. It wraps around your lust, defining its shape and making it impossible to ignore. You wonder if Steve can see it too, how hazy is the world for him right now?
“God, Bucky was right weed is way stronger now.” He tells you, a smile plays at his pretty lips, mischievous and childlike. He looks looser, like every movement doesn’t cost him as much as it normally does.
Logically, you know the corruption of Steve Rogers began long before you. However, as you watch him smoke the joint you rolled, a different type of pleasure, a possessiveness coils in your belly.
You know how rare it is to see him like this, relaxed. To see a crack in the shield, to see him put down the mantel, even if only briefly. It’s like sitting in an empty church. The weight of what’s sacred clings to the walls, but there’s nothing stopping you from doing whatever you want, as long as you’re brave enough to face repentance.
It’s even rarer for him to let you this close, to let you sit beside him and linger. He always finds an excuse, a reason to step away or pull back.
Steve looks at you, eyes glassy and just a little bloodshot. His eyes flit from your face, to the blunt being ignored in your hand and then back.
“Want me to stamp it out?” He asks, nodding towards the ashtray on the coffee table. He’s letting you know he’s done, that was his second and last hit because Captain America has a shit tolerance.
You shake your head, a better idea taking shape. As you stare at him, muscular legs spread wide on the couch cushions, arms thrown across the back of it.
It’s like an invitation.
Maybe it’s the hit you took earlier, filling your mind and leaving no room for anything but the overwhelming desire to be close to him. To claim him. Maybe it’s the dreams you have about him late at night, the ones where he looks like this. But not because of a drug, but because of you.
You take a long drag, pulling until the back of your throat starts to burn. Then you put the joint down on the ashtray, leaving it lit.
You don’t exhale, you move.
A shuffle forward until your knees hit his thigh, close enough that you can reach up a hand and cup his face.
Steve goes rigid, shoulders tightening, feet flattening against the floor. Ready to launch.
Then you touch his bottom lip with your thumb, resisting the urge to trace it, to drag your nail along the curve and memorize the swell.
You keep it light instead, tapping a silent command.
Open.
Always the good solider, he obeys, disastrous pink lips parting for you.
You lean in close, just enough for noses to touch. Then you finally exhale, blowing your smoke directly into Steve’s mouth.
His eyes flutter shut, lashes kissing his cheek as he leans into you. You feel him inhale, chest rising as he takes all you give. It sends a rush of heat to your cunt, sharp waves of the want crashing against the tides of your better judgement.
When his eyes open again almost all of his familiar blue is gone, swallowed by his pupils.
Your leg swings over his thighs and in one swift movement you’ve planted your weight on his lap. Your chests falls to his, pressing yourself tightly against him, making sure he can feel every curve.
He watches you with a hooded gaze, his hands coming to rest heavy on your hips as you settle.
“You makin’ the room spin?” He asks, voice raspy. “Or is that the weed?”
Sativa strain with live resin. It’s the weed.
Equipped with a better tolerance, you can see through the haze. See that you probably shouldn’t keep going. He’s Steve Rogers. He’s the man who apologizes for touching your back when he walks behind you. He pours your coffee with extra sugar and covers his eyes when he walks in your bedroom even after knocking.
He should get the same respect he gives you, a fully conscious mind.
Then you feel him, a solid outline against your cunt.
The devil rolls your hips, hard and slow against him.
Steve’s head falls back against the cushions, and a breathy sigh of your name falls into the air between you. Vulnerable and delicious, it’s tastes so good on your tongue you can’t help but do it again.
Steve’s hands push you down harder, helping drag your hips.
He looks down at where your bodies collide and watches with unfiltered fascination, grunting with every pass.
You’re working on his shirt, clumsy hands pulling at the cotton until it’s bunched up under his arm pits. He refuses to move his hands so you hold it there, drinking in the twitch of his abdomen and the flush that creeps up from beneath the line of his jeans.
Steve suddenly stops, halting any movement below the waist with a firm grip.
You look as his face and find something unsettling, the hard set of his jaw, the tortured expression in his eyes. If you looked close enough you could probably see his shoulders creeping back up, all your hard work being washed away by-
“We shouldn’t.” He chokes out. “It’s not right.”
You cock your head, tracing a line down his cheek with your index finger. Your touch is featherlight, gentle, afraid to spook him and break the spell completely.
You hum, “You want me, right?” You purr, devious and tempting.
Steve lets out a strangled noise, like you’ve stabbed him. It’s pained and almost gurgled. His dick twitches again.
“So much.” He promises and squeezes your hips for emphasis. “But not like this.”
How cute, you think he thinks he’s the one taking advantage.
His hands still don’t move, anchored to you like he doesn’t really mean it. As if he’s sewn himself into your skin.
When you can feel his heartbeat in his hands, his cock against your cunt- is it really taking advantage?
Is it taking advantage when two hundred and forty pounds of muscle is taken down by two measly little hits and a little dry humping?
“I want you-“ you whisper, fingers sliding down his chest, stopping just short of his waistband . “Like this.” You flatten your palm over his bulge.
Is it really taking advantage if it doesn’t take anymore convincing?
You’re bare on him in minutes, sinking down on him in as if he’s always belonged there. A lock for which only he has the key.
He touches you like you’re a deity, an idol. Breakable and sacred, made for the sole purpose of being worshipped. As if he’s not the holy one.
He’s gentle, like your body is a church. Doesn’t he know that you have no alter for him to kneel at?
When he’s bottomed out, your clit flush with his pelvis, you tangle your hands in his hair, pulling so his eyes gaze locks with yours.
Is it really taking advantage when he looks nothing but devout?
You reach behind you, feeling blindly for the ashtray. You bring the joint back around, and this time you hold it against his lips. He inhales without hesitation, his gaze stays locked as the flame ignites. Reduced to an instrument of your lust, you clench around him as tight as you can.
Steve gasps, and you take the opportunity to steal his smoke. Pressing your lips to his, you take a kiss and all the air in his lungs.
When you pull back you’re dizzy, the joint is still between your fingers, finally it has fizzled out. The end gone dull and black. You flick it back onto the table, exhaling through your nose as you bring your lips back to Steve’s.
Through the fog, you wonder if maybe, just maybe you can find holiness in him.
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steve rogers I miss you! Okay jokes aside what the fuck is this???
Not proofread, not edited, I will read this back and hate it I’m SURE but here it is on my digital footprint forever anyway I love you all!!!! tomorrow we return to normalcy (if you call oral fixation normal!)
