You were too pent up to feel embarrassed about the way Rio spread your ass cheeks apart and dove mouth first into your pussy. Not to mention you were face to face with his dick. “Ah-!” You were on top laying flat against his stomach as Rio pulled you down onto his face, eating you out like a starved man while you —with your hand wrapped around his base— can barely compose yourself enough to properly suck him off. You slowly licked up his shaft, wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, popping off a second later as the sensation of Rio moaning against your pussy sent what felt like electric shocks up your spine. “Hah… you taste so good~” Rios mouth never left your pussy as he sucked and lapped at your folds, mumbling words of praise. You stroked him up and down using both hands, your tongue swirling his tip tasting the salty precum that beaded his slit. You took him deep in your throat in one go. “! Hah- Fuck!” Rio cursed your cunt leaving his greedy lips. He pants as you started bobbing your head up and down. Gripping your ass once more, his thumbs spread your pussy lips apart before latching onto your aching clit. “Mm!” You try your best to keep blowing him as your body shivers in pleasure unconsciously grinding back against his face. Your arousal wets Rio's face from his nose down to his chin as he smothers himself in your cunt feeling the way your body vibrates, using his skilled tongue to undo you. “Fuck! Fuck I'm gonna cum!”
[09.] sender sits back and has receiver ride them reverse cowgirl.
USFT under the cut.
Yuffie wasn't quite sure how or when they got into their hotel room. She faintly remembered crashing through the door, barely able to close it before they were ripping clothes off of each other. Stolen kisses, exploratory touches, drunken giggles.
She threw her head back in euphoria, using his legs for leverage to lift herself off of his shaft and lower herself back down again. Soft moans cascaded from her lips, heat building within her.
"You feel... so good," she panted, allowing herself to lose herself in his touch.
tukas humping rooi in their underwear cause even tho a part of him does want to go all in one its kinda comfortabl doing it like this cus rooi keeps squirming and he feels good even w the fsbric in the way so tukas keeps cuddling him and lowkey its all cute and snuggly but rooi is suffocating and wants to get to it. Tukas kithes rooi, and he keeps praising and apologizing to rooi like sorry ml this position is jst too warm abd starts stimulating rooi with one hand while still cuddling him. Tukas loves seeing rooi in pkeasure but he cant help just wanting to cherisg and feel him so he humps and touches rooi until rooi cums
better get on your knees and bark like you want it
Matt Murdock/Frank Castle/Ben Poindexter/Reader, 2.5K
a/n: this is a request that's been sitting in the inbox for a LONG time so i hope i delivered :)
cw: SMUT/18+ only, semi-public sex, established polycule, reader loves mess, makeouts, groping, Frank goes down on reader, no mentions of genitalia, gn!reader
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
If you’re the only one who can mess with your boyfriends—well, then you better take advantage of it.
Just be careful: they’ll get theirs eventually.
Matt Murdock/Frank Castle/Ben Poindexter/Reader (18+)
You decide that the safest bet to deal with first is Matt, in the swelter and hubbub of the crowd. In this gala that the four of you have been given propriety of attending—thanks to the poor judgment of Mr. Stark.
You can’t help but feel out of place with delicate marble buttresses, canapés served on immaculate tray, champagne flutes to erode the senses. And therein, expanding upon this concept; you can’t help but feel the need to start up mischief.
And besides—it’s easier to grab his attention, knowing that he’s always tracking the thread of your body as it winds through the throng. Much as he keeps track of the other two that are making individual journey to their own personal mayhem.
You locate them as you wind the stairs, watching as Frank meanders in loping stature to the punch bowl. As Dex looks with far-too-casual mien to the thick wall of plexiglass barring Mr. Stark’s shiny new toys from physical contact.
But you know that while Matt always has them on his radar, he’s keeping specific track of you, as you dart up those winding stairs. It couldn’t be more obvious, as you turn over your shoulder, to watch the way that he remains near-motionless in the crowd, the directed angle of that jaw made to school upon you.
But you don’t allow yourself to laugh until you find shelter behind prodigious column that extends from floor to high-tiered ceiling. Where the whiling, inane conversation seems to grow quieter yet until it is near-indiscernible. And you wait, letting yourself catch your breath, willing your heart to acceptable tempo.
His hands are slow in their encroach as they work to turn the direction of your body to him—this is when you let the smile return to your face. Better to match the one in wicked means that is growing on his own.
“Any particular reason you came up here?” He asks, though his hand takes grasp of your wrist—turns the pulse available to him. His mouth is upon the scorch of your internal metronome, seeking out the meter of it with the soft scrape of teeth.
Now you know that you’re playing with fire. “I just wanted to see if you would come and follow me.”
His laugh is genuine, the tick of his brow jumping up the real estate of his forehead. He’s amused, but you’ve introduced a game; there’s an element of play mixed into this. And Matt is always game to play along.
“Oh, is that so?” He asks, and his hands that are already taking navigatory measure of you pull you closer.
Covetous in designs unbefitting a Catholic, the avarice of his fingers are demonstrated in the way that they pull down your body, over your fine clothes you’ve worn for the occasion. Desperate to feel what social stricture demands that he may not.
“And looks like you came just like the good boy you are,” You say, because if there’s one thing that you know how to do: it’s add flame to the fire. He makes a growl that is of lustful contempt, that snarls in your ear in delicious way; his hands clutch around the swell of your ass, pulling you against him.
You can feel the way that his interest is restrained by the tenting of his pants, but it’s not confirmed for you until you feel the rasp of his tongue behind your ear. The teeth that sink into your earlobe, the ruinous, protracted grind that he makes against your leg that awakens something most improper.
“Mr. Murdock—”—You breathe in fluster you didn’t expect to summon itself so quickly—“—We’re in public.”
“And you started it,” He groans against the junction where neck and shoulder meet; his fingers squeeze around you and your response is halted by broken whimper. “I’m just trying to do what a good dog does—”
His breath steams over your collarbone. His fingers press further to gain access to what etiquette says he should not.
“—And listen to master.”
Matt descends back down the staircase a few busy minutes later. Each step that he departs down the descent of the stairs makes careful reverb in the ambience he returns to.
It’s not until he’s lost to the crowd—though you never remain lost from him—that you let a soft laugh escape you. You make quick inventory of yourself, the mild dishevelment that you’ve been subjected to.
It’s no big deal, though you suppose that you might need to see if there’s a bathroom up here to take better assessment.
You reveal yourself from behind the column, hoping that you’re not missed—and take regard of the bustling crowd below, who is unaware of your absence.
Matt has circulated back down to while himself in conversation with Mr. Rogers—they seem similar souls—so you search out for your other men. Dex is closer to a shelf of heavily-guarded equipment that detail past version of the Iron Man suits, Ben Grimm keeping sidelong stare upon him as he nurses a martini.
And Frank—your Italian is currently nowhere to be seen. Not by the punch, not by the sumptuous spread of food, not commiserating like he’s supposed to be. You search with keen alacrity, and find yourself rewarded: he’s already looking for you.
His brow is furrowed in that typical manner, a sneer that he wears for bastion of outer defense made clear as he scans the interior of the hubbub he’s swarmed in. Snaking through as he makes careful look through bottom-floor nook and cranny, purposeful strides as he moves.
It’s endearing, and a little hot, you’ll admit, the way he’s set himself in dogged intent to do this. So, though you should be finding a way to clean yourself up, you drape your arms upon the second-floor railing and watch his search. And consider a bad idea that you know you’ll follow through in, when his gaze slowly drags up.
And as he takes acuity of your frame up above, you crook a finger to him in come hither motion that he knows. But because you like a chase: you give him glimpse of this and no more before you dart down the darkness of another hallway.
Might as well accomplish finding proper space to freshen yourself up and host the raging bull in hot pursuit.
There’s a powder room by cozy alcove, further into the recesses of the Avengers Tower. You’re fairly certain guests are not allowed here.
But considering the services Matt and Frank have served in betterment of New York, you think it’s fairly acceptable for you to do this. So you take residence in the silent, cozy space with vanity mirror and stall to the side.
The door that you took care to leave ajar swings open with a thud. Frank stands before you, a satisfied, masculine grunt escaping as he takes survey of you. And you play the part of the innocent, scanning yourself in the mirror.
You hear the huff of disbelief as you pretend to ignore him, as the door shuts behind him—making this conversation far more intimate. When he enters scene left in the reflection, you can see the roguish grin he bares at you.
“Playing games, honey?” He asks as you pretend to adjust your shirt, fix the collar. His thumb is abrasive but doesn’t hurt as he drags it up the apple of your cheek; it’s a greeting in the manner he knows best.
And you: you like to stir the pot. So you do, smiling into the push of his finger. “Just wanted to see if you would follow me.”
The pad of his thumb swipes across the terrain of your face, darting to the cliff of your jaw. “Not a tough decision for me, baby.”
You watch his reflection frown, squint—come closer. The grasp on your face becomes more territorial. “What’s this?”
You let your eyes slink down to the traitorous bruise already making way on the span of your neck. He hisses through his teeth, but still wears the smile. It looks more like rictus of teeth than genuine display.
“Who’s been markin’ you up?” He asks, gruff in his inquiry. You still maintain the smirk as his finger whorls over the spot, summoning a pleasurable type of agony.
“Matt did.” You admit. This brings forth an acerbic noise that barely qualifies as a laugh.
“Oh, so you let Red get to you before I did?” He demands—there’s no aggression—at least, not the one that you should fear. Although exhilaration is making pointed track through your veins, pooling in familiar boulevard down your body.
“Now, that’s not right, baby.” Frank says, drawing up flush to you, letting you taste the cologne he applied just for the occasion. Taking up space that is his to claim, a crude finger working at the buttons of your shirt.
“Think you owe me some interest then.” He says. His eyes are dark enough to let you admire the greed that rolls over in them. Scarred fingers curl with bruised knuckles to pull you to him, implacable as he seeks you out.
“I’m trying to get clean, Frankie.” You say, pressing your hands against the unyielding plateau of his chest. But you don't resist, and he knows you won’t. You’re too busy luxuriating in the radiance of his body that both melts and cauterizes at once.
“Uh-uh, you ain’t.” He disagrees, his thumb crooking your jaw up. You raise an eye brow, waiting for his prognosis, as he closes in, fills up your field of vision.
“You wanted to get clean, you wouldn’t have called me up here, honey.” He chuckles against your mouth. “You know I’m a dog.”
“Yeah?” You ask, as his hands are already working to free you from unnecessary strictures such as clothing.
“And a dog’s gotta eat, baby.” He says, urging you against the wall. “So siddown.”
You watch in the opposite mirror as the imposing frame of his body descends between your legs, your fingers curling into his nice dress shirt for the occasion. A gasp makes exit as you feel his breath exude over places yet unexplored. Looks like you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.
Frank has sauntered out of the room, the memory of his mouth between your legs still fresh but fading from the tapestry of your body. You feel thoroughly satisfied, legs trembling with the slightest shake, as you take a final glance in the mirror.
Salvageable enough. Perhaps you can say that you fell down a trash chute and no one will question otherwise. You’ll just play it calm and cool, and none will think the wiser.
You turn to the door, left open by Frank to avoid arousing suspicion, and find a figure leaning against the frame of the door. You couldn't possibly guess how long he’s been there, silent as the grave, eyes riveted upon the shape of you. He’s smiling—which is no indicator of positivity.
“So you let Frank and Matt have a taste,” Dex says, eyes akin to the glacial shelf as they perceive you, “But not me, sweetheart?”
He’s rolling something over the dedicated ridge of those knuckles—Mr. Stark said it was a strictly no-weapons policy upon entry. You realize after a little more visual inspection that it's one of the prototype blades behind the display.
“I was gonna come for you once I got myself cleaned up.” You inform him with blithe sincerity. You adjust your collar to hide the new mark that Frank put in opposite bearing from Matt’s.
He moves without sound. The only reason that you know he closes the space with consumptive air is because you see him in the corner of your eye.
“Doesn’t seem like you got yourself cleaned up.” He asserts in deep monotone. He looks the very picture of lethality as he draws his hand proprietary up your back, the length of your body known to him.
“Looks like you got yourself real dirty tonight.” He directs, and his stare rakes over you in open, exploitative manner.
“Maybe I did.” You answer back with pointed particularity. He doesn’t need to flex his fingers over you, only pause the ascent of his palm over the nape of your neck. The touch is almost reprimanding—prompting you to remember his significance in your life.
As if you could ever forget. A smirk crooks up the corner of his mouth, making him no less dangerous, but adding to the show.
“So what’s it gonna take,” Dex inquires, a brow making arch on his face, “For me to get my invite?”
He doesn’t want acquiescence—he doesn’t want fear. Not from you. You know how to play the game with him. This is why you roll your eyes, flout the danger that others would run from. Speak through sly grin.
“I didn’t know that you were an invite-type of guy.” You say up to him; the soothe of his thumb that rubs over your skin summons both shiver and reassurance that you played your cards right.
“What type of guy am I to you, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice barely erring upon the silence. It’s only meant for your ears.
And you know how to take refuge in audacity, your voice slick with flippancy you have privilege to wield. “The type that knows how to come on your hands and knees before I even say anything.”
He laughs, but those eyes are blank, wolfishly dark in the way the big cat looms in wait for the kill. When he leans in, his voice sends a prickle of goosebumps that make thrall up your arms.
“Only because I know that I’m gonna get rewarded with a nice cut of meat.” He croons.
When he hefts you up with such little effort that all you can do is shuck a breath in surprise, what remains from your lungs is expelled as he presses you against different acreage of the wall.
One arm is all he needs to carry you—the other works to undo the belt buckle, an accessory to better pretend that he’s normal folks. Not the animal that’s working you out of clothes you just clambered back into.
“Might not make it back down, sweetheart,” Dex grins, before he claims your mouth with a starved kiss.
Not that, it seems, either of you mind.
Matt slaps down a letter on the coffee table, embossed in both braille and in language the other three of you can decipher. He would appear almost penitent if it weren’t for the fact that he was one of the accused.
“We have been,” Matt declares with long-suffering airs, “Officially disinvited from any future Avengers events.”
You sit up from between where you’ve been nestled between Frank and Dex, a laugh tumbling out of you. “How did they find out?”
Dex rolls that knife that has since become keepsake from the party, over his forefinger. “Don’t think we were exactly subtle.”
Frank appears unmoved in similar bearings. “Food sucked, anyways. Besides—”—He runs a caustic hand up your thigh—“—I like it when we get to do it all together.”
You both share a smile as he continues. “Makes it real interesting then.”
Matt, the most polite and sophisticated of you four, sighs deeply as he presses a knuckle to his temple. But you don’t find him disagreeing either.
