Bruce Wayne is smiling with a little luxurious smirk of his own, saying "Alright, darling, I'll see you tonight" before he gives you a peck on the cheek and heads out. He's looking forward to parrying whatever you send his way and maybe giving back a little more.
Clark Kent has a boyish smile on his face and nods cheerily as you tell him. Agrees wholeheartedly, says that he probably deserves it, and immediately changes into his jammies so that you can get about to murdering him with all the love in your heart.
Wally West has a little bit of a goofy tilt to his smile as he hears your command, but he's always game for a little bit of murder. He agrees that the puns he made yesterday were a step too far and is ready to receive his punishment for what he's done.
Kyle Rayner is happy to accept whatever you dish out to him. He doesn't mind the fact that you want to kill him and knows that you'll take him out clean and true. In fact, he's already discussing what weapons that you'll use to take him out with.
marvel:
Kurt Wagner is accepting of any fate that you'll give him. He puts his life in your hands all the time during missions, so it makes sense that he would happily put his death in your hands as well. He gives you a mirthful kiss that has the touch of his lips lingering on yours.
Remy LeBeau cannot resist the wicked smirk that crosses his face as he hears what you intend to do to him. "You gonna gimme a kiss when you send ol' Remy out, or you gonna give me a fightin' chance?" When you refuse to answer, it only gives way for him to give you a roguish laugh in response.
Johnny Storm tilts his head back and laughs as he crosses over the distance to you, steam roiling off of him to indicate the pleasure that the very idea inspires in him. "Will you give me something to remember you by before I shuffle off the mortal coil?" He asks in teasing meter, and you think that you will
Frank Castle doesn't resist the bark of a laugh that explodes out of him; he can't help but guffaw as he considers the idea of you putting hands on him like that. "Go for it, sweetheart," He tells you with the challenge undercurrent in his voice, "I won't stop you." But it's clear he'll try other ways of convincing you to leave him be ;)
Logan Howlett/Reader, Clark Kent/Reader, Scott Summers/Reader, Remy LeBeau/Reader, 2K
a/n: got a request for virgin!reader that i uhhhhh ran away with; NOTE I believe that virginity is a construct and tried to avoid that portrayal in this fic. Enjoy!
cw: smut/18+ only, reader is a virgin/inexperienced, all men are supportive and loving, makeouts, ambiguous genitalia, gn!reader
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
Your man makes a discovery about you that he's eager to help out with.
Marvel/Virgin!Reader, DC/Virgin!Reader (18+)
Logan Howlett
He’s got an instinct for these things. Considering that he’s able to distinguish the heartbeat of a doe in the quiet of the woods, the bull-rushing wind that ghosts through the trees, the flap of wings as they take to the sky—it makes sense.
This is why he pauses in the descent down the meter of your body, the heat of his mouth loitering over the dip of your navel. His tongue scrapes against the divot as his eyes search you, admiring the way that your brows twist up. He appraises how your face wracks in delighted pleasure—but is also restrained with an element of anxiety.
“What’s wrong?” He murmurs, audible enough that you are distracted from the thrill of his explorations. Your eyes alight down to him too-quickly, caught out and without any proper defenses.
“Ah—”—You begin with a stammer that can’t be smothered in your voice—“—Nothing—”
“Haven’t done this before, have you?” He asks, and his voice is a corrugated rumble that snakes through you from your abdomen out. His hands seize around your bare waist, fingers clasping into the flesh, his eyes lancing through you with a deep, proprietary need.
You cannot lie to him in this most crucial of moments. Anything less than the truth will result in the cessation of this pleasure. Pleasure that even his body draped out of you produces.
“No,” You confess, your eyes askance to the bedsheets tangled in labyrinthine knots beneath you. If your body scalded with the torment of pleasure he coaxed out of you, this embarrassment is even more excruciating.
But you have little time to dwell on it before you feel the lap of a tongue up your stomach. Your vision drags to the obscene sight that he makes, his arms drawing you further under his implacable grip. His eyes are rolled over dark with a need to satisfy what you have yet to receive.
“You’re not—mad—”—You try to ask, but the inquiry is choked as you feel the sink of his teeth into the flesh of your thigh. Still his eyes refuse to deviate from you, drinking in every subtle reation that he can encourage from your lips, from the twitch of your body below him.
“Not at all,” He growls into the throbbing pulse where your legs meet, “Just means I gotta make sure I ease you into it.”
When his tongue laps at the heat of your body, making you curl your fingers into the meat of his arms—his groan couples beautifully with your own.
Scott Summers:
You cannot deny that you expected Scott to have a specific type of reaction when you confessed this to him. But the way that he draws entirely still under you, his hands adjusting down the slope of your waist, making further navigation down the cleft of your ass—
You don’t know if you expected this.
“Scott?” You ask, unable to discern the emotion that lurks underneath those opaque lenses. “Please say something.”
“I—”—He bows his head in humble incline, allowing you to see the knit of his brow as he makes a resuscitative noise you realize is a cough.
And this allows you to realize that he’s blushing, a ruddy dusting of color that spreads from the apple of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. You don’t realize that there’s a smile growing on your face, a coalescing of disbelief and amusement.
“It’s not—bad, is it?” You ask, affecting your voice to a low whisper as you look up to him. You take careful visual inventory of him through the fan of your lashes.
And he’s quick to respond, with an instinctiveness that is motivated by the need to reassure, to keep you in the span of his broad fingers. You can’t see the quality of those eyes, but you do the brows that twist in a worried desperation, a mouth expressionless with fear. That communicates volumes.
“No!” The syllable is expelled quickly, his fingers supplement to the veracity of his statement—they drape up the small of your back, ambling up you with needful obeisance to assuage your worries. “Not at all.”
He clears his throat again, though it does little to diminish the color that is still rising with the precarious quality of the situation. There’s something endearing. Something awkward—something shy.
“I just want to make sure that you don’t feel rushed into it.” He says, his voice low, deliberate. “I want to make sure you feel ready.”
There’s something that pulls tender, something in the way his hands rest on the ridge of your shoulderblades. He holds you as though you are precious—as though you are sacred.
There is a twist of longing in the caging of your ribs that matches with the beat that thrums between your legs; you can’t help but buck into the bulge that is still growing with nascent interest against you.
“I’m ready.” You tell him, staring at the lenses that are angled directly towards you. “I don’t want to do it with anyone but you.”
Scott’s jaw sets, a taut swallow makes descent down the column of his throat. Something grows firmer, harder still against you—and you chuff out a flustered breath, averting your eyes.
“Can we just—”—You reorient yourself in the clasp of his arms—“—Take it slow?”
His lips are on the slope of your shoulder, an oath of his fidelity, of his gentility. “Of course.”
His mouth makes slow journey up your neck, summoning tight shiver through the grit of your teeth. And his hands make warranted journey back to the heat of your body.
“Let me know if you want to stop, okay?”
“Okay,” You gasp as the rough scrape of those fingers continue lower—you know that you won’t.
Remy LeBeau
“You tellin’ me,” Remy asks next to you—and you’re trying so hard to not focus on the close proximity of his body to yours, “You never been with a man before?”
“Never been with anyone before,” You confess with a shyness that you wish you didn’t bear, shifting uncomfortably in your seating. You’re too focused on the weight of your admission to notice how his eyes draw in particularity over your body, nor to notice the crook of his mouth as he watches you.
“I know,” You continue, still ignorant to the gears that are turning in his mind, “It’s embarrassing—”
“Non,” He corrects with a an alacrity that makes your eyes dart up to him, look at the unexpected neutrality of his voice, “Only mean you gotta find the right person to do it with.”
He inches further down the limited real estate between the two of you, letting you see the clench of those muscular thighs as they flex nearer yet.
“Yeah?” You ask, your heart trapped in the housing of your throat, complex words clotted past articulation. “Like who?”
“Someone you know, chere,” He advises with a drawl that sends a thrill of adrenaline through your veins, and heady want in the pit of your abdomen. “Someone who treat you right—”
His arm slinks down the back of your chair, close enough to make tactile contact with you. You have to grit your teeth to resist the shudder that is trembling up your body.
“—Someone who make you feel good.” His eyes glow with an unspoken fire that scorches you the longer you share his gaze. But you want to feel the heat—perhaps this is why you near closer. Why you ask what you do next.
“Know anyone, Remy?” You ask him. When he chuckles, it’s a confident, arrogant noise. But it carries with it the weight of someone who knows how to fulfill a responsibility given.
“Maybe I do, minou,” He murmurs, and when his knuckles drag up your jawline, you don’t flinch—his touch fits perfectly against your face. As though you have been waiting for his hand to find your body.
His mouth is needy, it is eager to taste your own. To lick the salt from your tongue and to scrape against the back of of your teeth. His hands slink under clothes that are rapidly becoming unnecessary with each passing moment.
You help along the way as you buck your hips into the heel of his palm that grinds against you, that sends a shock of pleasure through your body. That makes him chuckle into your mouth, his teeth catching on the full of your bottom lip.
When he presses his tongue against it, draws it against his soft palate, and sucks, hard—you can’t help but moan. And his hand is eager to convince more from you as his fingers search in between your thighs.
“You gonna enjoy this, minou,” He reassures you as his breath ghosts over the crook of your neck, as his tongue marks territory that he will claim upon further inspection. “I promise you.”
You can only whimper into the shell of his ear. You think that he’ll make good on this guarantee.
Clark Kent:
To your relief, he takes your confession in eager stride, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. It does little to disguise the heady flush, the shyness that you find taking bloom over his face.
To your surprise, he makes further revelation to you as he shifts, letting you settle more fully from where you’re seated on his lap. You both are in various undress, so it falls to reason that goosebumps dart up your arms, your legs as he presses you against him.
“I am, too,” He informs you.
There’s something hopeful, something fearful in the slant of his eyes as he looks to you in worshipful manner. To you, to your altar that he has been given opportunity to lay sacrifice to, to give ample tribute to—with your permission.
“You are?” You ask in incredulous manner—there’s something difficult to believe about this, as you look at the wall of muscle that he makes under you. At the delicious display that he is under the spread of your arms, all power and sinew and warmth—all yours.
“I find that hard to believe,” You inform him as you run your fingers down the swathe of his chest. There’s a sharp intake of breath, of barely suppressed pleasure. Something down the descent of his body, pressing against you, speaks for the rest of him.
“I never got around to it,” He admits in hushed delivery, moving those wide hands up your body. Still, he touches you in hallowed meter, as though the privilege of your body will be rescinded at any moment.
“I always wanted it to be with the right person.”
“And am I the right person?” You ask him, letting something sly run undercurrent in your voice—though it is beset by that nagging self-doubt that hounds you. The way that he looks from the curves of your figure, to search your face, dispels any insecurity you might bear.
“You’re the perfect person for me.” He whispers to you, revelatory and reverent as he speaks. “Always.”
You know that you don’t imagine the smile that is making instinctual passage on your face, nor the way that his hands seek to commemorate your body under his palms.
“And,” Here, an element of mischief establishes itself in the crinkle of his eyes, the arc of his smile, “With any luck, I’ll be good at it eventually.”
“I get the feeling,” You draw your arms to rest on his shoulders, closing in to the plush of his mouth, “That that won’t be too difficult for you.”
He murmurs against your mouth, barely able to resist the taste of your lips, “Tell me what you like.”
Clark’s hands search you with the adoration of a man who has seen God. “So I can keep doing it for you.”
The last word before he finds your mouth with his, and works to fulfill his prayer, is “Always.”
And so, you let your disciple make prayer at the temple he has travelled vast journey to make.
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
Guy Gardner/Reader, Jason Todd/Reader, Peter Parker/Reader, Johnny Storm/Reader, 1.2K
a/n: a request I got from the inbox that I got carried away with hehe
cw: NSFW/18+only, reader is putting on a show for the boy and the boys LIKE it, groping, makeouts, reader wears lingerie but is referred to in gender-neutral pronouns
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
And your man wants to let you know what he thinks about it.
DC/Reader, Marvel/Reader (18+)
Guy Gardner
“Whatcha buy?” Guy asks as he looks at the boutique bag that you come hauling in. There’s an arc of a smile on your face that signals a wicked type of mischief, and he's certainly excited to discern the cause of it.
“Something I thought you’d like,” you grin as you shuffle through the luridly bright tissue paper. “Lemme try it on and see what you think.”
With that, you stride to your shared bedroom, leaving him seated in the middle of the couch. He ambles his fingers down the neck of the bottle and takes a heady swallow, soon distracted again by the game on TV.
In fact, he becomes so immersed in the dallying of incompetent athletes that he doesn’t remember the task at hand until the door squeaks open. He always meant to fix that hinge, may as well get to it sooner or later.
Guy turns, beer in hand, question on his lips. “So what’s the thing ya want me to see—?”
The question never makes its way to complete articulation. After all, the way that you fill out this emerald lingerie, is, for lack of better word, mouthwatering. With the right amount of lace that frames your body, with dainty little bows that perch on the swell of your hips. With just enough fabric to leave nothing to the imagination.
“You like it?” You ask shyly, though the smile on your face makes it clear that you’re pleased by his reaction. From where you stand in the doorframe, illuminated in the soft lamplight, you push the heel of your palm into your mouth to smother the amusement on your face.
“Like it?” He asks, rising to his feet before you can react. The beer becomes soon abandoned to the coffee table as he crosses the perimeter of the room to find your body. To find a way to free you from that lingerie that is hampering him from getting to you.
“How’s about I show you what I think of it?” Guy asks, a leer on his face as his hands sink into your hips with starved intent.
You laugh. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Jason Todd
“You know,” he says, his voice a low, husky drawl from the doorway, “I don’t think I’ve seen this number on you before.”
The number’s not much to write home about—just a nice little black thong that you found while you stopped at the mall. But from the way that you see how his pupils are dilated, even at this considerable distance; from the way that his shoulders have taken way to broaden as though he wants you to perceive him in the doorway—
“I thought I’d look cute in it,” you blithely reply, turning to look at your body in side profile in the mirror. You can all-but-feel the track of those green eyes as you turn. You check to see the taper of the thong settling between the cleft of your cheeks—and someone behind you groans in soft supplication to appreciate you.
“Do I get to let you know what I think?” He asks, and you can tell how his voice is layered thick with need. He’s waiting for your go-ahead to have his way with you.
“Course you do,” you beam at his reflection that is ready to pounce. “Come here.”
When he stalks towards you, all you can do is see the expressionless hunger in the curve of those lips—feel the covetous grasp of those fingers as they explore your skin—the way his mouth settles on the ridge of your collarbone.
As his fingers slide under the taut waistband of your thong, you can’t help but think you made the right choice.
Peter Parker
“Whoa,” Peter says as he sidles in through the window, his eyes absolutely riveted upon you, “Where have you been all my life?”
“Waiting for you,” you grin toothily at him from where you sit on the couch, one leg crossed over the other.
You think it displays the red of your two-piece quite well, giving the opportunity for his eyes to roam freely over what is exposed—and what is not. As though tethered by the sight of you, he ambles clumsily, worshipfully towards you, the mask he’s removed falling to the floor.
“Is this a dream?” He asks in lilting fashion, his eyes still exploring what he has yet to touch. You giggle.
“Do you want me to pinch you?” You ask him as he closes in; at this close proximity you can't help but see the tenting bulge in his pants. And he drifts further into your orbit, his hands outstretched to pay tribute to your well-decorated body.
“Yes,” Peter says almost dreamily. “Among other things.”
“Like what?” You ask as he reaches you; his hands work to cage around you. His eyes tick wide as though he can’t get enough of the sight of you—as though he’ll never get a chance to stare at you again.
“Why don't I surprise you?” Peter asks, and his voice roils tight with an unyielding want.
“Come here, Parker.” You grin, watching the involuntary shudder that wracks through him at your command. “Show me.”
Peter obliges with a fervor of clasping hands, of a hot, insistent mouth—and an unyielding desire to illustrate his point for you.
Johnny Storm
“And you wanna know what the best part is?” You ask as you perch on the spread of his thighs. He’s slow to respond—all he can do is look at the royal blue that you’re clad in that leaves little to the imagination. It's a little flattering how it still has him mesmerized at the shape of your body.
“What is?” He asks absentmindedly, his finger working at the lacy strap drawn around your hip. You can tell how much he loves this from the way his grip curls around the fabric, eager to peel you out of it—but reluctant to ruin the show.
“It’s fire-resistant,” you supply to him, letting the coy manner of your voice express itself. Watching as his hand stutters in exploration—and then admire as the steam begins to issue from the sinew of his skin. As his body begins to roil and warm underneath you, his eyes iridescent as they find your own.
“Is that so?” He asks; his teeth are shown in carnivorous exhibition, those fingers scorching as they slide up your skin. “How’d you test that?”
“I haven’t,” you arc into the way his hands navigate every direction that he can take tactile purchase on. “But I thought that you might want the chance to do it yourself.”
“You always get me the best gifts,” He groans into your neck, breathing in the scent of you, your excitement that he documents on the soft palate of his tongue. His teeth scrape to get a taste as his body continues to bleed steam that grows with fervor.
“Seems good so far,” You gasp as his mouth sucks a bruise he’s willing to nurse, “What do you think?”
“I think we’re just getting started,” He huffs as the temperature under you starts to climb. “What do you say?”
All you can do is moan into the space between you as he takes you into his mouth—but Johnny takes it as a yes.
But they all have their own separate reasons for it.
DC/Reader, Marvel/Reader
Dick Grayson
“Aren’t you lucky that you have such a gorgeous canvas to work on?” Dick asks with such lazy, luxuriating lilt to his voice.
When he stares at you sleepily through the fan of his lashes, an audible soporific quality to his voice as he stares at the beauty of your face, you have to resist the urge to agree. Because saying yes would be tantamount to admitting defeat, as you brandish your weapon of choice.
“It would be easier if my canvas didn’t talk so much,” You grumble good-naturedly, shifting from where you’ve taken proper seating on the span of his thighs.
Try to ignore the thrill of pleasure that rocks up your body as your man shifts his muscular hips under you, his hands draping to find casual purchase on the slope of your waist.
“Now look up,” You direct as you place the black cream liner at his water line, watching as those blue eyes roll up to the ceiling obediently.
“There’s nothing fun up there, though,” He responds blithely, the angle he adjusts to allowing that rich thatch of black hair to fall in cascading waterfall. He makes it look so effortless. “I’d much rather be looking back at my artist.”
“And see how your artist is getting a headache?” You ask in dry delivery, pressing the rounded tip of the chunky pencil to his face. The glide of the pen is smooth and effortless, and with little effort his eye draws lined in kohl-rimmed beauty.
“Wouldn’t know what they’re talking about,” Dick returns your direction with glib ease. He’s enjoying this, the way that you shift into his grasp even though you voice complaint about it, leaning further onto the slope of his chest to better achieve artistic angle to apply the makeup.
“Especially when they have such a good model to look at.” Dick returns with prim mock-offenses that underscores the way he delivers it. But there’s no real heat to it, when the creep of his fingers are already scoring up the length of your back. When the smile you’ve been fighting to remain smothered finally surfaces on your face.
“Well, maybe you’re onto something there,” You return, feeling the way that that beautiful smile of his grows beatific under the heel of your palm. “But you’re going to have to stay still for the lipstick.”
You watch as those blue eyes fall upon the black lipstick that sits dutifully in your lap. And you know you’re not imagining the mischief as his eyes slink back up to find your face.
“Guess I’ll just have to blot the extra on you,” He returns cheekily. “That okay with you?”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” You reply—and you’re given full display of his teeth; he knows a yes when he hears it.
Roy Harper
“Think about it like this,” Roy returns in neutral, impartial meter as you shift up the ridge of his abs. He groans at the additional pressure of your weight, but you know him well enough by now to realize that it’s a noise of subdued pleasure.
And the way that his fingers are coaxing up your thighs enough to reassure you that he doesn’t want to be anywhere but under you on the couch.
That worshipful cant to his eyes as he watches you descending upon him with the liquid liner tells you that much, anyways.
“Yeah?” You ask, giving him a dubious smirk. You smell a verbal stunt; he’s got enough good graces to not try and school the own smirk that grows in parallel on his own face.
“I already have to go through this with Lian because she wants to make sure I look nice for the tea parties,” Roy explains huskily as you start applying the wings with a deft, practiced hand.
“I do enjoy the way that she ties your hair up in those pigtails,” You return dryly as he keeps his eyes trained upon his north star that decorates him so beautifully.
“Think it really brings out my girlish figure,” He replies in wry means. “Dinah always said I had an octagonal face shape.”
“That’s not a face shape,” You snort through your nose as you slide your hand to add extra points to the delicate rim of his eye.
“Coulda fooled me,” He returns, and the two of you settle in a comfortable silence where you administer finishing touches to one eye. “Besides—”
“Yeah?” You ask, your smile instinctive when you rest upon him like this. When you keep your hands in maintaining grasp on that jawline that relaxes under the exploration of your hands.
“—You gotta be better than Lian at the makeup.” He returns, and there’s a war-weary note as he admits this to you—a confession that would never be made to his daughter’s face, of course.
“I don’t know,” You tease as you keep your grip level with the stroke of the liner, “I think purple lipstick might be your color.”
“Yeah, cause I want people to know Grimace is my booty call,” Roy mutters—and you really have to stifle the laugh you desperately want to make because it’ll ruin the look.
“Thought I was your only booty call,” You return loftily, archly as you cock up brow in adamant question to him.
“Sure you are,” Roy returns in such easy fashion that you know he humbly speaks the truth. “And you don’t make my mouth turn purple.”
“Yeah,” You groan as you hunker down to make the finishing touches, “But I’ll be putting it to work later.”
Roy’s eyes, fully decorated in dazzling pentacled display, alight with mischief. “Aye, aye, captain.”
Matt Murdock
“I appreciate you letting me do this,” You say, adjusting yourself better from where you sit besides him, “Especially because you can’t even see it.”
Your hip pulls flush against him, the crook of your elbow taking proper posture on the span of his muscular pec drawing taut at the contact. And Matt, for all of his vaunted virtues, only smiles as he reclines back on the pillow, ever the face of sacrificial martyrdom.
“I trust your applicational skills,” He replies with a grin, letting you admire the way his face crests younger every time he does so.
There’s a soft noise that ekes out of him as you glide the spoolie through his eyebrows, doing your best to adjust the cast of the fine red caterpillars taking seat on his forehead. It’s no easy task, but Matt seems to be delighted, happy captive to it all.
“So why are we gluing my eyebrows down again?” Matt asks, and his eyes are directionless as they drift to the ceiling—but the gluestick that he levies into the air is in apt, correct aim towards you.
You make a chuckle through your nose as you adjust attention to the other brow, easing into the way that his arm hikes around your hip, pulling you closer to the warmth of his body.
“Because,” You explain pertly, pressing the hand that holds your tool back to the slope of his stomach, “I’m going to put pressed powder on them to draw your other eyebrows on.”
“How exciting,” Matt returns in jovial manner, “I always did enjoy the Betty Boop look.”
“It’s either that,” You return to that smart-ass smile, “Or I shave them off.”
He makes particular humming note as he ponders the idea of such facial freedom. “I don’t know how the clients would consider me without eyebrows.”
“I get the feeling that Foggy would be the one harder hit by the change,” You reply, running the rasp of your fingers up the stubble of his chin. Watching as his eyes draw closed at the tactile pleasure, the sensation of your hands as they continue to administer their careful, deliberate work upon him.
You know that he loves this. The heightened way that you tend to him, the way that it ekes such definition of you, of the details of your body in such unique way. He’ll always be willing volunteer if it means that he gets this opportunity to enjoy the details of your body.
“You mean,” Matt asks breezily, “Before or after he’s got up off the floor from laughing?”
“Let’s see how he reacts to the Betty eyebrows first,” You reply. You let your smile express itself as a singular note of joy is expressed in silent capacity on his ace—all inspired by the way your fingers card through his hair, slink down sinuous and slow to the nape of his neck. As all the tension, all the toil of the damnable day is leached out with your touch.
“Sounds good, darling,” Matt returns, blissful galaxies away, “It’s whatever you want.”
And when you lean down to kiss him, his mouth already eagerly awaits yours.
Wade Wilson
“Ooh, so what are we doing today?” Wade asks. There’s something rather endearing about how he stares in open curiosity at the small king’s ransom of beauty supplies outstretched on the bed. Of course, he can only spare so much attention to it, considering that you’re taking far more attention with how you’ve sat on his wide-spread lap.
“Am I gonna be an alt baddie or Gene Simmons?” He asks brightly. There’s something so endearing about how he stares up doe-eyed from that ruin of a face that you’ve come to love. You purse your lips as you appraise your canvas, trying to consider the best plan of attack as you look at the smoky gradient of colors on your eyeshadow palette.
“Hopefully somewhere in between,” You admit as you try to select the three best pans that would afford you a nice cut crease. “I’m trying to recreate one of the look I saw at the drag show last weekend—”
Wade interrupts in that cheerfully ebullient way that he always does, perking up at the kernel of knowledge that he bears. “Oh, the queen that was channeling Marlene Dietrich?”
You don’t stop your smile as you watch him luxuriate back on the cushions, thinking of the radiance of the queen as she did a twirling split from the bar-counter to floor.
“Loved her look.” He says and you smile broadly as you make your selection and then reach for the concealer that he’s taken care to tuck behind his mottled ear for your convenience.
“I know—”—You laugh as you produce the applicator dobbed on with healthy glob—“—You tipped her two hundred dollars.”
Wade puts an affronted hand to his chest as you try to keep the layer on his lid smooth and without error. “Are you saying that I can’t support small queer-owned businesses?”
He pitches his voice down to an accusatory whisper, though he lets you keep continuing your ministrations. “I didn’t know you were homophobic like that.”
You let his jape slide with nary more than a dubious snort. “How would you like to have a semi-permanent unibrow for the next week?”
He hums thoughtfully, considering the merit of this idea. “Couldn’t hurt the canvas anymore than it already is.”
“You mean the canvas I love and adore?” You ask, taking ken of the self-deprecatory tone that only slinks in with private conference. You pinch his cheek for good measure, coaxing that private smile meant only for you—the genuine one. The one that won you over in the first place.
“The canvas you threatened to do the Groucho Marx treatment to?” He asks as you start dabbing at his other eyelid to.
“Not threatened. Lovingly offered,” You reply. “Like you weren’t a little bit curious?”
He opts for silence, dead to rights. “Mayhaps. But bedazzle me first, darling—”
Wade’s hand, scarred and pockmarked and yours, cups your face—“—I’m ready for my closeup.”
“Anyone ever tell you what a giant goober you are?” You chuckle as you reach for the eyeshadow palette.
“I hear they usually give me a kiss after they do,” Wade’s eyebrow ridge dances in mischievous manner.
“I hear they do,” You murmur thoughtfully—and so you lean down to reward your boyfriend for a conversation well fought.
Swimsuit post got me thinking….wearing a two piece around for ur s/o for the first time and they literally drop to their knees in front of u and just grab u by the wait and stare….hoo boy
And there would definitely be some tummy biters there…Lobo and Victor would refuse to let go. they growl when you try to move
man we’re all in the same mood tonight huh…….
dc:
Jason Todd is feral over you. Can’t get enough of your body. Can’t get enough of you into his hands, on his tongue. Can’t stop saying praise as he fucks you with your bottoms pushed to the side so he can sink his cock into you
Bruce Wayne has to pull up your top so that he can place a nipple on his tongue, lave the flat of it up the span of it as his hands encircle the curve of your ass, squeezing needy fingers that can’t hold you the way he needs
Wally West crosses the room in one second to curve his fingers under the straps of your suit, trying to coax you out of it with wicked fingers and an insistent tongue that works to suck a dark bruise on the column of your throat
Guy Gardner takes one glimpse of you and has you pinned against the wall in the caging of his arms, pressing his tongue against the seam of your lips as he peels you out of that swimsuit. Not like you were planning to go anywhere in that, were you?
marvel:
Logan and Victor Creed leave you totally defenseless and without any chance to truly show it off for them; Logan busied himself sucking on your nipples with wet, obscene fervor while Victor buries his face between your legs, summoning wanton moans from you that beg for more
Kurt Wagner’s tail is curling about the span of your exposed thigh as he admires all the vulnerable skin that can be made accessible to the rasp of his teeth—you won’t be wearing your two piece long around him.
Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes don’t mind sharing. All that it means is that Steve will let you sit on his face while Bucky takes care to press his cock into the wet heat of your mouth—and they’re talking about how perfect you feel and taste, sweetheart, you should get more swimsuits like this, huh?
Guy Gardner/Reader, Wally West/Reader, Roy Harper/Reader, Matt Murdock/Reader, 2.1K
a/n: my partner is ginger i hold no ill will against gingers this is in good fun
cw: flirting, nudity (Matt's part), playful discrimination against gingers, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
Too bad your man doesn't like your opinion. Guess it's up to him to change your mind.
Guy Gardner/Reader, Wally West/Reader, Roy Harper/Reader, Matt Murdock/Reader
Guy Gardner:
"What?" Guy asks in abject, offended disbelief. "Who told you that?"
He doesn't seem to be enjoying the particulars of the statement that you just regaled him with—but that's okay. You didn't expect him to—after all, it's not his fault that he happens to be a ginger. Everything else, however, does happen to be his fault.
This is why you offer him nothing but idle smirk as you stand your ground opposite him on the kitchen island, folding your hands over each other. He leans a determined hip on the marble, scowling—though the manifestation of a smile at the challenge you're lobbying at him seems to be making quick headway.
"No one did." You reply back smartly, staunchly. Defiantly—the way his smile grows in size indicates just how much he likes it. "I just know because of interacting with you."
"Me?" His eyes widen, those thick eyebrows tick up his forehead, a wide hand splays over the span of that chest. "I'm a fuckin' paragon of virtue."
"Oh?" Your laugh comes immediately and unbidden at this blatant lie. "Big words, big guy."
His hackles rise, his shoulders spread, he takes a daring step forwards to you across the space that elapses between you both. He likes 'em with a little bit of fight in 'em. And the fact that you haven't provided verbal or physical retreat means he's happy to keep invading closer and closer.
"You know it—"—Guy rolls his head on his neck, in slow, languid swivel, "I got my education and everything."
You chuff in good cheer as he comes closer and you have to bid crane your neck up to him. "And they couldn't teach you any manners while they were there?"
He makes a scoff that clearly demonstrates his opinion on the subject. "Who needs manners when you're a classy fella like me?"
For good measure, he leans in closer to make sure that you're face-to-face with the broad span of his chest that is barely restrained by the tight green shirt he wears. God, it fits him so well. That smug look on his face as he watches you appraising the goods is also excellent complement as well.
You finally tear your eyes away from the appealing display, cocking up your brow. "What's your definition of class?"
Another step advanced, a smile that makes protracted growth. Oh, how happy he is to answer your question.
"Someone who makes sure to tell you how good you look." To provide example, his eyes take dedicated appraisal of your body, lingering on the parts he finds most visually interesting.
"Depends on how you say it, Guy." You say, your tone dry enough that he can't resist meeting the cant of your eyes.
"Never heard you complain." He offers in sly reply; another step that is made so that you are close enough to grasp. "Mebbe it's someone who's always tryin' to make sure they got your best interests at heart."
"Oh," You snort at this very elegant spin, "Is that what you call it?"
"Yeah," he agrees, his hand already taking familiar place upon the slope of your hips. Pulling you close into an embrace that you know very well.
"Someone who knows how to sweep ya off yer feet." Guy concludes, holding you with a significant stare—before he leans down to kiss you.
And it's wicked, the way that his teeth nip at your bottom lip so that he can summon the noises he likes from you—the way that his hands are already roaming around your body, trying to ensure that you are thoroughly flustered when you pull away.
And when you do, you're heaving for breath that you must take great instance to cycle through your body. He doesn't care—he's the cat who ate the canary, and intends to go back for seconds.
"Mmmm." You hum as you feel him pulling you back to again. "I guess you have a point."
Guy seems to be happy that you agree with the notion.
Wally West:
"Don't trust gingers?" Wally offended voice seems to be threatening octaves he hasn't attempted since prepubescence. You can't smother the smile that's already making tracks across your face as you watch him dart across the perimeter of the room to take closer audience to you.
"What did we do to you as a people?" He asks, stately representative on behalf of Derided Gingers International—and the glare that sparks across his face is clear that he's determined to have this out with you. Which, you already knew was going to happen the second you lobbied this statement at him.
You point an accusatory finger at him that he zeroes in on with disdainful regard.
"Sneaky. Mischievous." You arch a brow at him, daring him to say otherwise—his focus is riveted upon the next point of your argument. "Always have to have the last word."
He opens his mouth, decides that the profanity-laden first response will not suffice, and opts for something more diplomatic.
"That could describe anyone." He returns in rebuttal, holding his hands out to you at this crime that you've committed against him. This willful, hateful prejudice that attacks him to the core.
But you are unmoved. Even if those baby blues seem to be rife with a desperate need for appeasement. You won't succumb to them—yet.
"In my experience," You grin in dry fashion, "It describes you pretty well."
He makes a noise of appalled offense, and crosses his arms in stalwart manner across his chest. "I don't have to have the last word."
You can't resist your laugh as you gesture between you and Exhibit A. "Then what do you call this?"
"Call it—"—Wally searches the foreground of his thought for proper wording and comes away satisfied—"—Having a dedicated debate."
"Where you have to be the final speaker?" You ask with no small amount of amusement running undercurrent in your voice. Wally hems and haws for the span of a second, looking at the ground before giving you what he considers a winning smile. And damn him if it doesn't fit him oh-so-handsomely.
"And if there's a problem with that?" Wally asks with a cheeky smile, taking jaunty stride towards you.
"You're just proving my point." You reply. But the smile isn't chased away at this—he knows that he has a way to worm back into your good graces.
"But I do it so well, don't I?" He asks, and the look that he gives you is dashing, playful—most immoral indeed. But you don't stop him as he inches into the boundary of your space that you allow him to enter. After all, when he regales you with the pleasure of his presence, you know better than to turn him away.
"You do." You finally concede on his behalf as he drapes longing, needful arms around you. "But you didn't convince me."
"Maybe," His eyebrows wiggle in flirtatious manner, "I don't need to speak to do that."
"Oh, brother." You roll your eyes to the ceiling as he presses a slow, loitering kiss on the edge of your jaw.
"Don't you mean," He grins into the shell of your ear, "Oh, Wally?"
Roy Harper:
"You're right." Roy seems otherwise nonplussed at your assertion that you've supplied to him. "We're a superstitious, cowardly lot."
"Exactly." You find yourself relieved that he takes no opposition to what you've told him—so you decide to take further refuge in audacity. "And you don't clean up after yourselves."
"Yeah," Roy also agrees as he lounges in steep recline on the couch, "We indulge in that terrible sin of sloth."
"And wrath." You offer, recalling some rather intense moments of combat in patrols past. He also finds himself unmoved at the continual barrage you are providing to him.
"And greed." Roy says, and it's here that he begins to make significant movement across the couch to you.
Not that you would stop him, when he makes such impressive flex of those biceps across the cushions. When his thighs make such defined flex against those sweatpants—in addition to other…lower assets called into such mouthwatering definition as he shuffles closer to you.
But his statement does draw you up short in confusion.
"Greed?" You ask mildly as he continues to mosey on along your way. "Greed for what?"
"Greed for our partners—"—He drawls as he finishes crossing the meridian of the couch to you—"—And for their kisses."
"Oh?" You inquire as one of those great, muscular arms drapes across the back of the couch—and finds familiar settlement across the span of your shoulders. "Is that so?"
"And lust." He informs you. It's quite interesting how he seems to have energy in reserve for the way that he sidles up with impressive speed.
"Is that so?" You ask, and there's the ghost of restrained smile that is making passage on his face as he looks at you. As he seems to be making rather steadfast regard of the nuances of your mouth.
"Oh, lust." Roy agrees with your statement, letting you see the gleam of those teeth as he continues to admire you.
"Terrible, terrible lust for them." He continues. "And if it isn't sated—"—His hand encourages you to look at him, to see the hunger that is displayed in his eyes—"—Watch out."
You laugh across the terrain of his lips. "Thought you were slothful."
"Not with you. With you—"—He takes deep, circuitous breath to appreciate your scent, your proximity—you—"—Think I can engage in that sin of pride."
"Pride over what?" You tease, already knowing that you'll be most pleased with his answer.
Roy doesn't disappoint. "Pride I got such a babe in my arms."
And with the way that he pulls you to him in passionate kiss, you find that you're more swayed to his argument than you expected to be.
Matt Murdock:
"Frankly, I find the stereotype insulting." Matt says from where he lounges on the span of your bed, in state of delicious undress. Unfortunately, you can't appreciate it as much as you wish, for you've summoned the more litigious side of your naked lover.
And he seems to be on the good-humored warpath to discuss with you, so you prop yourself up on elbow as he begins cross-examination.
"To be judged for something I can't even see." He says, and there's a crooked smile that tells you it's all in good fun—if you play along.
"Unfortunately though," You return in retort to him, "You fit all the aspects."
Matt makes wry noise at the fact that you would commit such prejudiced statement against him—his eyes stare in your general, reproachful direction.
"Aspects that are based on slander and centuries of discriminatory practices?" He demands, and you chuckle at the heated note that bleeds into his voice.
"Aspects that you fit to a tee." You return, finding yourself instinctively moving across the diameter of the mattress to him. Trying to soothe that offended smile on his face into something more reconciliatory.
"Such as?" He asks, awaiting for you to provide proper thesis. But the smile seems to grow as he hears you approach, as he reaches out to find the incline of your arm and rub a calloused thumb into it.
"A need to be incorrigible." You provide to him, and he makes dubious laugh at this.
"Something that could be attributed to my lawyering." He replies without missing a beat. Still his arm continues to coax its way up your shoulder, making a shiver of goosebumps dart up you.
"The desire to find loopholes in any argument made." You incline your head to visually analyze him through the span of your lashes, though he can't see it.
He appears unmoved at this reasoning. "That could be my tenacity."
"The overarching desire to be morally just in any situation." You declare in progression of your argument.
"My personal code I abide by, perhaps?" He asks, his knuckle drifting over the pulse in your neck. How warm and welcome his hand is here.
"The lingering guilt—"—You proceed forward, and then pause in sudden realization—"—Wait."
"What?" Matt asks, his hand taking protracted analysis of your cheek. "Change of heart?"
"Yes—actually." You say—his eyebrows jump up in surprise, waiting to hear your hypothesis.
"It's not that you're ginger—"—You lean forward to him in conspiratorial manner so he can hear the smile in your inflection—"—It's that you're Catholic."
Matt laughs long, loud, and clear—and you can't resist joining him.
"Well," Matt closes in to find your mouth, "We can't all be perfect, can we?"
Perhaps not—though the way his mouth fits against yours certainly is.
Which DC and Marvel men do you think would let you "fuck out" the rage/annoyance with them? Like you come home annoyed and just need some good ol' fuckin to make you feel better?
lmao better than using healthy therapeutic emotionally regulating techniques sometimes /j
dc:
Guy Gardner is beyond happy to be used like a piece of meat like this. Can’t help but groan as you ride him into the next week, sinking down on his cock as he looks up at you glassy-eyed, your fingers sinking into his shoulders as you try to get a better grip—letting him fill you up as you moan into his mouth.
Clark Kent has never had angry sex before, but when you go down on your knees and edge him three times—leaving him flushed and shoulders heaving—he can’t complain. He’s happy to heft your legs over his shoulders and fold you into a mating press as he fucks the anger out of you, checking to ask nervously “Is this okay?” And being pleased when all you can whine out is “Harder”
Dick Grayson loves spoiling you when you get like this. All you have to do is get out some tension and the anger—so he’s happy to let you ride his face, his tongue lapping at you in a way that makes you hiss through your teeth and whimper; he’ll curl his fingers into you to make you see stars, bend you over your shared bed to get all those unsettled emotions out. Dick Grayson lives to serve, after all.
Dinah Lance loves it when you get angry, because then it means that she gets to spend as much time between your legs as she wants. Using her tongue in a way that has you gasping for breath, using the strap on you in a way that has you begging to come, saying her name over and over again—kissing you with such heat that you can’t help but know that you found the one.
marvel:
Logan Howlett loves putting that temper of yours in check, so to speak—he’s happy to push your head down into the pillows and fuck you from behind, letting his cock hit the back of your walls to make you cry out in tortured pleasure. He’ll praise how well you’re taking him as he has his way with you and has you coming on his cock, over and over again.
Bullseye loves putting you in your place like this. Loves seeing how many different positions you can either ride him or how he can have your legs spread open to take his cock, how he can have you a sweaty, whimpering mess from the way that his hips roll into you. Loves saying how you look all cute, angry and flustered like this—you would care, but you’re too busy shaking through another orgasm.
Bucky Barnes can’t wait to get his hands on you when you’re like this. When you just need a good fucking, and he’s happy to do it—using the implacable grip of those arms, flesh and steel, against you—holding you pinned perfectly under him as he pumps his cock into you, making your breath staccato as your walls swallow him up. As he grits out praises for how well you take him—and helps relieve stress the best way he knows how.
Emma Frost absolutely enjoys having the chance to fuck you when you’re like this. Loves biting you, bending you over her knee so she can spank you, being absolutely wicked with her tongue. Of course, she’ll use the strap on you—and you’ll be restrained in nice fuzzy white handcuffs. You’ll be too busy getting fucked into next week by her to really care how sore your arms are
