Best Friend Yan offering Stoner Reader a friendly reach around while they're snuggled together in his bed, ridding out their shared highs, because if Reader is as cuddly as teddy bear with a little bud in them - they're out like a light post nut and a few more puffs in their system.
Head in the clouds, clinging onto the nearest person/thing in the vicinity. Slurring out half hearted apologies for stealing their best bud's bed for the night because there's no way they're making it home now. Said friend's hand still firmly lodged down their sweatpants as they drift in and out of consciousness - completely unbothered.
Yan spilt over potentially running the moment snapping photos to commemorate the moment- Knowing full well memory alone will never be enough
Jason Todd/Reader, Peter Parker/Reader, Bullseye/Reader, 3.1K
a/n: i combined two requests into one and the poll vote for Dex :)
cw: smut/18+ ONLY, hookups under the influence, mild dubcon (Dex), doggy style, makeouts, gn!reader (no descriptions provided)
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
And they're all happy to show you why.
Jason Todd/Reader, Peter Parker/Reader, Bullseye/Reader (18+)
Jason Todd:
"Check this out," You boast through bleary vision edged with the stupor of inebriation. You can't resist grinning over at Jason who perches on the other side of the couch, setting watchful, observant gaze upon you.
With a flourish of your fingers that you shouldn't dedicate such articulation to—especially considering how bloodshot your eyes are, how slow it seems to move your hands in such dedicated motion—Jason watches.
You raise the joint still issuing thick arterial plume of smoke, eroded by the exchange of hands between you both, to your lips. And then you reward yourself with low, sizzling drag. You can feel the embers warm your skin, radiating a shoal of heat that blooms across your face, made more intense by the weed.
"Think you had enough yet?" Jason asks with a dry undercurrent in his voice, cocking up a brow in your direction. All you do is grin and exhale a thick, clotted plume of smoke out of your pursed lips. You're too focused on the opacity of vapor to notice how his eyes slink over the minutiae of your mouth.
"Think you haven't had enough," You return in good, inebriated cheer. "You've smoked as much as I have—"
—At this, you wave the joint in your hand, admiring how the rolling paper feels under the pads of your fingers—"—And you're acting like Mr. SuperSober over there."
His mouth twitches in amusement. Whether it's at the joke or appraisal at your current state, you are unable to parse through. "Think you're just a lightweight."
"Okay, okay," You straighten up from the slumped position you've taken to reclining in upon the couch. How seductive the slouch of the velvet cushions are underneath you.
"Tell you what." You brave forward. "This'll be my last one. But—"
—At this, your other hand rises through gravitational molasses to proffer pointed finger at him. You watch as his brows tick up the terrain of his forehead as he awaits—
"—Shotgun it with me." You assert in challenging declaration.
"Shotgun it with you?" Jason asks. The grin is slow but deliberate to manifest across the span of his face. He seems to remain stolidly still. But the atmosphere of the tepid room seems to be pulled taut, stretched with a tension that requires careful navigation.
"You sure you can handle that when you can't even sit up?"
"Behold—"—You shift across the cushions to him with glacial capacity, but move you do—maintaining the scald of his eyes that are riveted upon you—"—Now it's time for you to carry your part of the bargain."
Your knees brush against each other. Though both are clothed, it feels like there's a subdued electricity that sparks with the contact, made that much more intense by the weed. Made that much more intense by the fact that being drawn in such near proximity is forcing your heart to accelerated pace.
So much that it makes the murky fog of your thoughts that much more overwhelming. To allow that tight desire in the joining of your legs flare to a zenith.
"Didn't know I agreed to it," He returns in perfect, stoic delivery—but his hands rise to find acreage on the joint. The scrape of his fingers brush against yours, and the dart of sensation urges through your hand. It blooms out like the dull pain of a bruise, mulberry-red as you absorb it.
"Seems like you did," You chuckle sleepily as you watch through half-lidded, glassy stare. The still-lit joint seems to leave fading visual afterimage in the scope of your vision as it makes the ascent to his mouth, burning white-hot as he takes a pull.
You're certain that he must have taken a lot—the end remains illuminated for longer than you've ever taken. But his cheeks remain flat, his mouth impassive as he leans to place the joint in the ashtray besides you both.
Not that you care. All you can do is watch the approach of his mouth, as his hand takes direct aim for the apple of your cheek.
His palm is rough, worn with callouses from hard work, his eyes lancing through you with a stark ardor. It anchors you as he closes the distance that seems the elapsing of an eternity, and his lips press against yours.
You've shotgunned before; you know what to do. But your mind seems resistant to open, when all you can focus on is the way his mouth seems to fit perfectly against yours.
The heat and pressure of his lips, chapped but soft against you, is too irresistible. But your mouth parts to receive the smoke that he takes care to carefully blow in, letting you taste him on you as you accept the smoke.
He did take a lot—you have to turn to release it into the air as soon as you accept it, letting it dissipate into nothingness. But when you turn back, you're almost not ready for the look in his eyes.
To regard the want that is barely disguised. The desire that makes itself spoken through the cant of his stare as he perceives you.
You both move together, as though mutual decision was made. Now that there's no barrier between the two of you, his mouth is eager to open for you, his tongue starved for the taste of you.
All you can do is clutch your grasping fingers into the folds of his shirt for balance. But his hands are already wrapping around the span of your back to pull you flush against him.
You don't know when you get pulled into his lap—everything is so hazy yet drawn into sharp definition. You can only feel the way that his mouth moves against yours, the way that his hands are dragging under your shirt to explore the vulnerable flesh of your back, the bolt of pleasure as you grind on his thigh.
He groans into your mouth, and you can't help but echo it, desperate for more—desperate for him. But he's pulling away, his hands steady as he looks up to you.
"You done smokin' yet, sweetheart?" He asks. For the first time since the beginning of the smoke session, you see him grin. Almost as if he's satisfied over something.
"Only if you promise to keep kissing me," You beam down at him. You know the weed doesn't exaggerate the slow-burning brilliance of his smile.
"I can do that," He swears, as he pulls you back to him with a growl in his throat.
Peter Parker:
Unfortunately, you were never one for restraint. And Peter never packs a joint lightly. You had boasted to him how you would be able to blow a smoke ring, and then promptly failed the first time. And the second. And the fifth.
Peter himself had offered to give you proper demonstration, citing that his superior spider-skills allowed him advantage when it came to smoking. And sometime around the seventh try, you both realized that he was full of shit.
But by that point in time, it didn't matter. Now, the joint remains seated upon the lip of the ashtray, embers smoldering into the depths of dormancy.
And you are far more concerned with maintaining the way that you're seated on Peter's cock. Your attention is far more occupied by the way that his fingers have sunken into the flesh of your waist, holding you steady as he looks up at you with dazed awe. How his eyes are glazed over with a heady, lustful cant as he watches you sink back down on his length.
You can't resist the punched-out, protracted groan that escapes you as you clutch into his shoulders, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. He smells so good—like exertion and cologne and the joints you rolled together.
"Oh, Peter—"—You groan into his skin, your thighs trembling as you clench to rise off of him. The emptiness that it leaves behind inside of you is something that you're eager to fill as you glide back down. There's a slow moan that you're rewarded with from him as his fingers glide up your back, starved for more of you.
"Oh, fuck," He utters your name on his lips, "You feel so, so good—"
There's a low whimper that escapes you as you begin riding him in slow, shallow bursts, taking his cock as best you can. But your muscles are already trembling with exertion, souring with the effort.
"Peter," you breathe, feeling short of air—"—I—I think I'm too high to ride you—"
You bottom out into him and you both make moan in parallel. His is made into the open air, yours is muffled through the sinking of your teeth into the meat of his shoulder. He gasps—but recovers enough to make breathless inquiry of you, rolling his hips into you.
"Do you—"—His voice is broken with need—"—Do you want to stop? We can always try again later—"
It's clear he doesn't want this, but already his grip loosens on you—and this is the opposite of what you need.
"No—"—You pull back, pressing on the firm give of his pecs to stare at him, grinding your hips on his cock—appraising the way that he gasps, flushes bright, ruddy color—"—I just need you to fuck me."
You marvel at the way that his pupils actually dilate in the housing of those brown eyes. The smile that he gives you is both boyish and lascivious at once.
"I can do that," He promises.
So you're not exactly how you ended up face-down, ass up on the couch—but you can't complain. Not when his hands guide your waist to him, and you feel the head of his cock nosing at you. Not when it makes you whine at the torturous way that it presses against you.
"Peter, please—"—You beg, but the remainder of your request is silenced by the way that his cock glides into you with such ease. The way you feel him spreading you open as it continues to taper wider the closer he gets to the base, the fine hair above it scraping against you.
"Fuck—"—Peter groans in abject pleasure—"—You look so hot—"
"Please—"—You beg, calling Peter to action that he obeys. The pace that he sets isn't exactly tethered to a specific rhythm, motivated out of the same need that the two of you are wanting for. He fucks you with abandon, with the need to sink as much of his cock into you as possible.
"Oh my God—"—You beg, digging your fingers into the cushions of the couch—"—Please don't stop—"
He delivers. The only thing that fills the cramped space of the room is the moans of ecstasy, the slap of his skin upon yours—the electric heat is both suffocating and liberating at once.
"You're so perfect, you're so hot, you feel so good," You hear Peter mutter under his breath with each interval of thrust that he pumps into you with his hips. It's a litany of praise that he ekes out of you each time you feel yourself split open.
All you can do is let out a choked sob of euphoric agony as he continues to fuck you into the couch. As you feel him continue to send that shockwave of pleasure over your body.
"Peter—"—You beg, pushing back against him as he makes a significant thrust that has you wrenching your eyes shut—"—I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come—"
The pace that he sets becomes even more merciless, frantic with the need to push you over the edge. Peter's muttering something under his breath that you can barely make out, drowned out by the noise of your bodies, distracted by the orgasm growing to peak in the pit of your abdomen.
It's excruciating, it's delicious, it's overwhelming—it's perfect. You collapse in a heap of limbs as you come, Peter slowing so he can rub his thumbs into the crook of your hips, praising how gorgeous you look, how good you look taking him—
You find footing on the heels of your palms eventually, as Peter noses back into you with a slow caution that has you wanting his previous ferocity.
"You ready for more? Or you wanna take a break?" He asks, his voice steady but still clotted with lust.
"More—now—"—You grin up at him from downward angle, admiring the consumptive flush on his face as he takes comprehension. And as it returns to adamant effort when he gets back to work.
You can only sigh around the way he fills you up again, as you think about the way he said 'I love you,' as you came. You'll have to talk about that with him when you're sober.
Ben Poindexter/Bullseye:
You don't know what you were thinking. The idea sounded much more sound and based in logical rationale when you asked him to do this before.
It's not as though he declined. Not as though he didn't arrive at appointed time when you were already under the influence and proverbially a sheet and a half to the wind.
But now he's here. Occupying his time by allowing that gleaming karambit to roll over the ridges of his knuckles in such mesmerizing display—something you attribute to the weed. And something feels different.
Perhaps it's the way that while the TV plays the drone of the news in the background, talking about the dedicated effort to reducing vigilantism in the city—a topic that concerns him—he doesn't devote any attention to it.
Instead, he sits on the opposite end of the couch, allowing the weapon to make menacing, circuitous motion over the slope of his hand.
And watches you, those eyes almost iridescent, even though the shadows cluster to him in the dimmed light of your apartment.
"You don't have to watch me," You assert. A flicker of self-consciousness crests through you at the maintenance of his stare.
"Though that was the job you gave me," He informs you in intentional, husked delivery—a reply meant for only your auditory pleasure.
"Yeah, but you don't need to keep your eyes on me the whole time." You say, allowing your own to dart askance to the ground. This is much less intense than sharing the arc of his gaze. Something feels like it's simmering in the elapsing of your ribs, under the settle of your skin.
"Just keep me safe," You continue in endured address to the ground, "And make sure I don't do anything stupid."
"What's stupid?" He asks, and his voice is loftily, dangerously curious. You cannot avoid this question, much as you cannot avoid him—so you drag your eyes with sluggish quality back to his.
You feel as though you are operating in doublespeak as you supply him with answer. "Something I don't want to remember. Something that'll hurt me. Something—"—
You exhale, the weed denying you the ability to take proper circulatory breath—"—Something that I'll regret."
"Regret?" He echoes, a cool inquiry loaded with implication. Dex angles his head to watch you, as though you are something to observe, rather than something to protect.
"Yeah," You answer tightly, rubbing your hands on the fabric of your pants, suddenly feeling the need to adjust yourself. Feeling a loitering anxiety begin to grow as he finds footing with such lithe, graceful—intimidating—ease.
"And how am I supposed to keep you from something you regret?" He asks, and there's a grin that is making appearance on his face. But there's no warmth to it. Only a hunger that you're realizing has been marked in the depths of his eyes the duration of his stay.
"I—"—You're stymied for words as he takes consumptive step towards you, with so little distance already remaining—"—Say something to me. Use your judgement—"
"You know what my judgement says?" Dex interrupts. He's standing before you, towering over you—all muscle, all power—staring at you.
"What?" You ask, feeling your mouth dry. Feeling something that you've tried to deliberately ignore flare to life in the junction of your legs.
He leans down slowly—so that you would have had opportunity to escape. Even though you wouldn't have—and he's aware of this. So when he cages his arms around you, letting you feel the heat of him in such endured closeness, smell the masculine scent of him: there's nowhere to go.
"My judgement says," He informs you, and there's something so casual but wicked about the gleam in his eye—"—That you didn't bring me over here to be a babysitter."
His words are articulated on the full of your lips—"—You brought me over here, so you could do something you're not brave enough without weed to do."
When he chuckles, you have to cycle a sharp inhale to regulate an internal system going haywire within. But you release it when his his broad hand curves under your chin, and ensures that you have nothing but him in your sights.
"Am I right, sweetheart?" He asks, his smile handsome and terrible at once. You want to wipe it off his face. The only way that your addled mind, your dulled senses can think of way to do so is by kissing him.
Whatever fervor you possess, he's eager to match it, his tongue pressing past the seam of your lips. Rasping against yours as his hand guides to the back of your neck, keeping you there—and his other seeks to free you from your clothes. You're already doing the same to him.
It's a fractured kaleidoscope of sensations as you find your way onto your back, pressed into the couch—his mouth sucking a bruise into your collarbone, your chest. His tongue laving over your nipple, his fingers tugging you free of your pants with ease.
The wanton noises that you can't resist making, the lack of resistance you give him—even as he pulls your legs around his waist. The way you can't help but stare, wide-eyed and dazed as you feel the jut of his erect cock pressing against you.
"Been waitin' to get you like this for a while, sweetheart," He tells you—and the sincerity—the gleam of his teeth—informs you of the truth. The unyielding grasp of his fingers into your thighs confirm it.
You summon that bravery he spoke of. "Then what are you gonna do about it?"
He laughs again, but doesn't respond. All he does is roll his hips in smooth, fluid motion—and glide his cock into you.
And all you can do is find yourself taking it with a stuttering, wanting moan.
