first you need, then you bleed

18+ please

[wxntertoast]

Ember ◇ 22 ◇ she/him ◇ requests: open

☆ Masterlists ☆ Blog Info ☆ Request Rules ☆

◇ click the tag on this post for fic recs

◇ I DO NOT give permission for my creations to be edited, translated, reposted, posted anywhere else, or used for anything AI

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Hi im new to ao3 (because of your blog ilysm for introducing this wonderful place to me) and am a bit confused on the tagging system. What's the difference between character/character and character & character? And is it wrong to tag fics with both of the same pairing?

"Character A/Character B" tag means the relationship between Character A and Character B is romantic and/or sexual.

"Character A & Character B" tag means the relationship between Character A and Character B is not romantic or sexual.

it's not wrong to use both "/" and "&" tag if

the relationship between Character A and Character B can be read as either platonic or romantic/sexual

the relationship between Character A and Character B shifts from platonic to romantic/sexual, or if it shifts from romantic/sexual to platonic

[wxntertoast]

18+ mention of sex/very mild sexual content

Simon Riley who's still too insecure to show you his face, but agrees to blindfold you and take the mask off during sex.

Feeling his skin on yours, his bare face pressed places for the first time. Buried in your neck, or his nose against your cheek. Hearing moans that weren't muffled, feeling breath fan your skin.

He lets you hold him, mold him, trace his scars and features with your hands as if painting an image in your mind.

He'd hoped it was a good one.

[wxntertoast]

Clark kent x reader mini fic

Warnings 18+ blog rule. Angst. Dying.

The adrenaline wore off far too quickly.

Perhaps your body knew you were safe with Clark. Perhaps it trusted him more than it trusted itself.

That's the thing about love– its a fatal flaw in human biology. It trusts too much, it clouds judgement in a way that you cant come back from.

Chasing Clark outside during an attack was never a good idea, but you reacted too fast to comprehend such a thought. The bullet was even faster, tearing through your skin and flesh with ease. The Man of Steel was bulletproof, but you weren't so lucky.

Gasping for air was the first thing you tried, though it didnt do much. You hit the ground with such force it knocked every bit of air left out of you. That, paired with the new gaping wound, made it almost impossible to catch even the slightest of breaths.

Clark found his way to you the moment it happened. A sudden, white-hot, pain rushed through your veins as the man landed next to you. He pressed his hands to the wound, trying, and failing, to stop the bleeding. Despite his super-strength, the rushing blood was just too much to stop.

You squeezed his hand with a force you could barely muster, and tried to smile.

He could hear it, though. Your heartbeat was fading. Stuttering in a way he'd never heard before. It stuttered, sped up, slowed down, sped up again, until it finally... stopped.

Clark decided his super-senses were another fatal flaw that day.

[what-even-is-thiss]

The reason your snacks are unsatisfying is that you need both carb and protein.

Carb starts your engine, protein keeps it going.

No carb, engine don’t start. No protein, engine dies out fast.

[what-even-is-thiss]

Easy carb add on:

Cookie

Fruit (canned or fresh)

Chips

Piece of bread

Popcorn

Crackers

Easy protein add on:

Nuts

Spoonful of nut butter

Cheese

Roasted chickpea snacks

Glass of milk (dairy or non dairy)

Small canned sausages or similar

[what-even-is-thiss]

Sugar in there.

[what-even-is-thiss]

I am pleased by people messaging me telling me that after adding a carb or protein to their snacks or meals they feel more satisfied all day. Yes, my plan is working. People are getting through their days with less hangry.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

wattpad really gave ao3 a huge free promo with their new policy update that makes things even worse for their users. so to all the people who are now moving to ao3 due to this…

welcome! here are what you need to know about ao3 and how it’s the complete opposite of wattpad

trigger warning for the mention of contents that are allowed on ao3 that can be triggering to some.

ao3 is a non-profit organization. it runs by fans (people like you and me), for fans.

fans donate to the site on their own free will to keep the site up and running smoothly.

ao3 is not a social media. it is an archive.

ao3 doesn’t have ads. it doesn’t have algorithms. it doesn’t have “going viral.”

everything is endlessly free on ao3. there is no “ao3 premium.” you will never see a single ad on ao3, and you can download as many fics as you want to read offline for free.

ao3 doesn’t have an app. and ao3 doesn’t need an app. any “ao3 apps” you see are third-party apps and are not affiliated with ao3, so be careful giving these shady apps your login infos or other personal information.

ao3 was built with the main purpose to 1.) be completely against censorship and 2.) host fics that are banned on other platforms like wattpad.

the reason ao3 doesn’t have an app is because for it to have its own app, appstore and google play store will have to approve it first. and due to the contents ao3 allow, chances are that it won’t get approved. which is actually a good thing. it doesn’t need an app. it works more than fine without an app.

on ao3, every single thing is allowed as long as it is fanfic or fan work (original works, fan art and video edits count as fan works, but if you want to post a video edits on ao3, you will have to post it elsewhere and then link it back to ao3 — ao3 cannot host video edits on its platform due to copyright issues)

by every single thing that is fanfic, I mean every single thing:

the filthiest smut without plot that is written purely for sexual pleasure is allowed. it has its own canonical tag called “plot what plot, porn without plot.”

fics that focus on non-consensual sexual intercourse are allowed, doesn’t matter if the fics glorify or romanticize the act, doesn’t matter if they’re written as kinks. they have their own canonical tag called “rape/non-con.”

fics about characters who are minors are allowed, even if they’re portrayed in a sexual manner, even if they’re non-consensual sexual intercourse. even if the characters they are romantically and/or sexually involved with are adults. they have their own canonical tag called “underage sex.”

fics about incest are allowed. doesn’t matter if they glorify or romanticize the relationship. they have their own canonically tag called “incest.” fun fact: the first ever fic that was posted on ao3 was a fic about an incest ship from supernatural.

fics about self-harm and suicide are allowed. doesn’t matter if they glorify or romanticize the act. they have their own canonical tags called “self-harm” and “suicide” also “suicidal ideation”, “suicide attempt”, “implied/referenced suicide”, etc.

fics about violence and gore are allowed, even if they were written for the sake of shock value. they have their own canonical tag called “violence”, “blood and gore”, “blood and injuries”, etc.

rpf is also allowed. doesn’t matter if the content of the fics are dark and taboo. they’re treated the same way as any other fics.

every single dark and taboo fic you can think of is allowed. and it has its own canonical tag. because it is the main reason why ao3 was created in the first place.

“but what do I do if I don’t wanna see fics about xyz?” you can filter out any specific tag, character and/or pairing you want.

“what do I do if I wanna find fics about xyz?” you can search for any specific tag, character and/or pairing you want.

a lot of ao3 users rely on tags to search for specific tags, pairings, characters they want. they also rely on tags to filter out and exclude specific tags, pairings, and characters that they don’t want to see.

ao3’s tagging system is by far the most efficient one I’ve ever seen.

on ao3, our main principles are “don’t like don’t read” — which means YOU have a responsibility to curate your own internet experience. yes, ao3 allows all kind of messed up fics, but they also allow you the ability to NOT see anything you don’t want to see, by filtering out specific fics, pairings and/or characters.

no. you cannot harass authors who write about things that disgust you. you can and will be reported for harassment, and ao3 takes harassment very seriously. they will not take your side. because fucked up fics are allowed on ao3—fucked up fics are the main reason ao3 was created—whereas harassment is a direct violation of their terms of service.

ao3 is a house of the freaks and the perverts (affectionate). you ARE in the house of the freaks and the perverts. so don’t think about harassing or being rude to the freaks and the perverts who built this anti-censorship house and are kind enough to let you in.

ao3 is proship, profic, and anti-censorship.

any writer can write whatever they want, however they want. the only etiquette is that you tag your stuff properly and accurately

mistagging for visibility is heavily frowned upon here, and it won’t get your works more views. people will either block or report you if you deliberately mistag things with the purpose of getting your fic more views. as I’ve said before, ao3 is an archive. it’s not a social media. it doesn’t have algorithms or going viral.

if you come across a fic that has the tag “creator chose not to use archive warnings” it means the fic may or may not contain topics that can be triggering, but the author won’t tell you what these topics are, or if there are any at all. so proceed at your own risk.

that said, because ao3 is a non-profit site that hosts millions of works about others’ copyrighted characters, you CANNOT mention any donation, commission—or anything that involves money—anywhere on ao3. that is against their terms of service.

and because ao3 is a place for fanworks, the “work section” of your post has to actually be fanwork (fanfic, original work, fan art, link to a video edit count as fanwork). anything that isn’t fanwork is not allowed.

you cannot post something on ao3 that is not fanwork. so no political statement, no call-out post, no “I’m looking for fics about xyz”.

ao3 is anti censorship as long as what you post is actually fanwork and as long as you don’t violate their terms of service that I’ve mentioned above.

last but not least, ao3 has their own team of lawyers to protect them, their users, and every fanwork that is posted on their platform.

that’s all for now. have fun and happy writing/reading!

[i-will-write]

[silverlullabies]

The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenant’s current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.

Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.

There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.

This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.

Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.

Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.

Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.

Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.

Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.

He blinks.

He studies them again.

The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.

“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.

The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”

“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks back at the photograph.

Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.

There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.

“Right,” Price says.

The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.

You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.

Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.

Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.

Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.

Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.

The next report arrives shortly before lunch.

“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.

Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.

“Forensics?”

“Lorazepam, sir.”

“What dosage?”

The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”

Price stares at him.

The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”

“I know what lorazepam is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.

It doesn’t.

“Zero point five.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”

“No, sir.”

“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”

“Yes, sir.”

They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.

The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.

Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.

In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.

Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.

“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.

You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.

You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.

After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.

Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.

Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”

Price says nothing.

“Do you want us to assemble a team?”

“No.”

There is a pause.

“No, sir?”

“No.”

“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”

“Has he?”

The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.

“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”

“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.

He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.

The operator watches him. “Sir?”

Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.

“Captain, what are you doing?”

“Administrative work.”

“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”

Price checks the box beside personal leave.

“He’s been missing for two days.”

Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.

“Sir.”

Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.

The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.

Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.

“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”

“But- ”

“Simon’s exactly where he wants to be right now.”

[ghouljams]

thinking about omega!princess who goes into heat while on the road with knight!ghost.

he wants her so badly, but clearly not as badly as she wants him given the way she lunges, the way she pins him down with snarling teeth and tears in her eyes, pressing her leaking cunt against his codpiece and riding it like it's his cock. begging him to breed her and ghost is going crazy because he wants to knot her more than he's ever wanted anything in his life. the man is salivating, foaming at the mouth to be inside of her, and poor princess who is sobbing and crying for him, asking why he won't fuck her, she can feel how hard he is but he won't fuck her :( as if he codpiece were his cock and not hard steel. and poor ghost who is going to come in his armor, fat cock attempting to knot his breeches while his princess rubs her poor pussy raw on hard metal until she manages to come and relieve some of the heat insanity.

poor knight!ghost holding his charge in the chill of a stream as she thrashes and growls at him, trying to avoid looking at her as the water makes her under-dress cling to her sweat sticky skin and her sweet voice demands he fuck her, please, please fuck her, he said he would take care of her, why isn't he taking care of her? :(

[twolegsandbleeds]

the text comes through at an unreasonable hour of the morning, when the moon is still out and you're flat out asleep.

the same as it usually does.

SR: flight lands at 0600.

it's a summons more than a request.

you frown in the darkness of your room and, not for the first time, debate ignoring the message. debate for once in your life showing a tiny bit of spine. debate not picking him up; letting him arrive to no one there.

but you don't ignore it.

you fucking heart react the message like some pathetic dog begging for a scrap of attention and set an alarm for 0445 to make sure you have time to shower and make yourself presentable before you leave to collect him. before you let him inhabit your life and your bed and your heart for days - maybe a week - before he disappears again and you're left hollow and the cycle repeats.

you're awake before your alarm goes off.

staring firmly at the ceiling as the first shrill buzz cuts through the quiet of what can barely be considered morning.

you move on autopilot: shower, the body lotion you know he likes, the one actually nice bra you own rather than just whatever's clean.

you tell yourself it's not for him. it's just personal pride.

you've told yourself that for the better part of a year now.

you keep the radio up high on the drive to the airport, fingers tapping along to the beat as you try and focus on the road and not the man waiting at the other end of it; coffee going cold in the cupholder because your stomach is too knotted to actually drink it.

you don't examine why.

can't.

no, you were right the first time. won't.

he comes through the revolving airport door looking like he always does after a deployment. dark circles under his eyes, jaw rough with days of stubble, kit bag slung over one broad shoulder like it weighs nothing and not the same as a medium-sized child. he clocks you before you clock him; the soldier in him too ingrained to ever actually switch off.

you hear the boot of you car click open, the thunk of his kit back landing, the thud of the door closing again.

you brace. plaster a smile on your face as he opens the passenger side door.

"you look like shit, riley." it comes out light - almost too light - more brittle than anything.

he clocks it. immediately. the faux brightness in your voice. he can read the tension in the line of your shoulders, in the way your smile doesn't reach your eyes.

he doesn't mention it. not yet.

just leans over and presses a rough kiss to your temple, "charmin' as ever, dove."

he doesn't say anything else until you're on the motorway, orange streetlights flickering over the dash, the airport disappearing in the rearview.

"yer quiet." he mutters, watching the road instead of you. "an' yer never fuckin' quiet. always babblin' about somethin'."

"i'm just tired." you reply. a lie. a bad one.

he doesn't buy it. obviously.

but he also doesn't push.

he never pushes. that's part of the problem.

by the time you're back at yours the tension lingering between you has nowhere left to go - stumbling backwards down the short corridor to your bedroom, his mouth on your neck, your hands already pulling at the buckle of his belt, clothes coming off impatiently. his mouth is on yours; hot and open - then back on your neck, then lower. kisses pressed down your chest, tongue flicking over your nipple, teeth grazing over the soft skin of your stomach until your knees are over his shoulders and his breath is hot on your cunt. he always goes down on you like it's the last meal he's ever going to eat - messy, desperate - and this morning is no exception. you come quickly, you always do the first time when you haven't seen him for a while, legs trembling around his head and his name cried into the air of your bedroom.

he barely gives you time to catch your breath before he's wrapping a hand around the base of his cock; sliding the swollen head over your slit before lining himself up and sinking inside you. your knees are still over his shoulders, the angle obscene as he pushes all the way inside you in one thrust, your back arching at the sudden, overwhelming fullness.

he doesn't take his time. can't. not right now with you still fluttering around him from your last orgasm. his hips snap, your knees pressed to your shoulders, his forehead on yours. your nails dig into his back when he angles his next thrust just right; mouth dropping into a little 'o' that he can't help but kiss. he keeps his pace steady; drilling into that same spot until your vision whites out and you clamp down around him - he fucks you through it, always does, always wants to drag it out for you; but he can't help but follow you a few strokes later, burying himself deep as he spills inside you with a broken groan against your neck.

it's good. it's always good with him. too good, really, in a way that makes you feel even worse about your current… situation.

after, he drags you out onto the sofa, wrapped in blankets, watching whilst he makes scrambled eggs that he burns at the edges.

it's domestic, soft, in a way that makes your chest ache, makes the backs of your eyes burn and your stomach twist. in a way that makes the question claw it's way out of your throat before you can stop it.

"do i mean… am i... is this... anything to you, simon?" you ask quietly, awkwardly, staring at the back of his head like you might be able to see through his skull and into his brain.

he goes still at the hob.

then he turns, spatula in hand, eyebrows furrowed like the question doesn't compute. like you've asked something that's been obvious to him this entire time.

"what sort of fuckin' question is that?" he mutters. "it's not like i fuckin' call anyone else, it it dove?"

then he turns. goes back to the eggs.

like that settles it. like that's supposed to be enough.

[ghouljams]

pornstar!ghost haunts me…

fingers wrapped around his cock any time he's not on set, a constant refrain of your breathy,

"nobody fucks me like you"

that drives him mad.

maybe he's been too lenient with you, let you go off script so much that he can't tell what you mean and what you've been coached on. but he doesn't think it matters anymore,

nobody fucks you like he does.

presses you down into the mattress like he does, ruts their fat cock between your wet folds like he does. when he wraps his hand around your jaw, pulls your head up to drool for the camera, it's not because he's the best it's because he won't let anyone else try. you're meant to be his, you just met him at the wrong time for it.

doesn't matter, he supposes, not when you keen and moan, legs shaking and hips swaying at the first touch. you don't want anyone else, do you sweetheart? no. no, he shakes your head for you, shoves his fingers into your mouth to make you slur the words.

"i'm yours," he loves it "i'm yours," he loves you.

so maybe you've been too lenient with him, let him take more than he's owed.

but nobody fucks you like ghost does, and you're too cockdrunk to ask someone else to try.

[twolegsandbleeds]

coming back to [this] idea because i can't not.

the first time you blow john 'soap' mactavish it's in the dingy bathroom in the pub just down the road from credenhill with more than a few drinks in your system.

it's not the first time you've been in this bathroom with him. not the first time his mouth has been on yours tasting of beer and terrible decisions. he's not someone you should be doing this with. not a teammate. you're pretty sure there's rules against it.

and even if there's not, there's a million reasons you shouldn't be getting involved with someone you walk into gunfire with.

but after one drink his eyes look even prettier than usual.

after two, you can't help but imagine his bicep tucked under your chin whilst he fucks you.

and three? three leads you here, to the cramped bathroom with cracked tiles and a singular bare bulb swinging from the ceiling.

the last time it was you perched precariously on the edge of the porcelain sink with johnny's fingers buried inside of you, his mouth on your neck, his free hand cradling the back of your head like you were something more than just a drunken hook up.

but this time it's you doing the giving; sinking to your knees, tiles cold and uncomfortable even through the thick denim of your jeans. his hands cup your jaw, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

as you pull his belt undone you wonder - does he like it slow? sloppy? messy? does he want you to use your hands as well?

you get his belt open. then the button and zipper. shove his jeans and black boxers down just far enough.

and there… it is.

inked in simple black letters, just above his pubic bone, nestled under the hair of his happy trail.

worship

you freeze for half a second, fingers still hooked in his boxers, staring at the word. johnny freezes above you, thumbs stilling on your cheeks

you glance up. he’s watching you with a particular look he gets sometimes - the one that sits somewhere between challenge and shame. the one that makes you wonder how many times he's spoken through the wall of a confessional just to go out and do something that would make the priest's heart stop in his chest.

you drag your thumb over the letters, feel his breath hitch.

"didn't know you had this." you murmur.

johnny swallows audibly. "aye." a beat, "you know what they say, love. prayer's best done on your knees."

you lean forward and press an open mouthed kiss to the word; feel his cock twitch against your cheek. when you glance up at him again his eyes are on you, jaw slack.

"well then," you say quietly, wrapping a hand around the base of him. "guess i'd better get to it."

you drag your tongue over the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock; press a kiss to the spot underneath his head that makes his thighs tremble. one of his hands shifts to your hair - not pushing, just holding - the other dropping down to his side loosely. as you take him into your mouth properly, johnny's breath leaves him all at once.

you keep it slow, at first. wet. the kind of messy that leaves his skin shining and your mouth swollen. every time you flick your tongue against him, or hollow your cheeks, he makes a quiet, wrecked sound that doesn't quite make it all the way out of his throat.

like he's trying not to be loud. trying not to enjoy this. like maybe the bare bulb or the cracked tiles or the people on the other side of the door might report him to someone higher than command.

you glance up once. his head is tipped back, throat working visibly, eyes shut tight. there's a tiny crease between his brows. you can almost see the war happening in his head - the part of him that wants to fuck into your mouth and the part of him that still thinks about sunday school and the weight of a rosary and the fact that he’s got a teammate on their knees in a pub toilet with his cock halfway down their throat.

“fuck -” the word is cut off with a hiss of breath. he tries again, quieter. “you’re… christ. you’re good at that.”

you hum around him and his hips stutter forward before he forces them still. the hand in your hair tightens - not rough. desperate.

you take him deeper. angle your head and let your throat open, sinking down him until your nose touches the tattoo and johnny can't think of anything other than the way your throat flutters around him and the way he feels like he's going to burst at the seams.

he lasts less than another minute. his thighs start to shake and the quiet, suppressed noises turn into something almost feral. when he comes it's with your name half formed on his tongue like a prayer (or a curse) and his free hand slapped across his mouth to try and keep the rest of it in.

you stay on your knees until his breathing evens out. until the hand in your hair turns gentle again, thumb stroking once behind your ear like a wordless apology.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and stand, knees cracking.

johnny tucks himself away with slightly unsteady hands. doesn’t look at you while he does up his belt. when he finally does meet your eyes there’s colour high on his cheekbones and something complicated and guilty sitting right behind the usual blue.

“we should -” he starts, then stops. clears his throat gently. “table.”

you both wash your hands in the cracked sink like that somehow undoes what just happened. johnny holds the door open for you on the way out.

no one looks twice at you. all the other punters too busy with their drinks and stories.

you slide back into the booth. the others are mid-argument about something that happened on the last training exercise. ghost glances up once, eyes flickering to you, then johnny, then back to his pint again. price frowns. gaz rolls his eyes.

no one says anything.

johnny sits down beside you. close enough that his thigh presses against yours under the table.

he doesn’t move away.

you take a long drink from whatever is left in your glass.

johnny’s knee bumps yours once. deliberate.

when you glance at him he’s already looking at the football playing on television above the bar, jaw tense, ears still faintly pink.

and his hand in his pocket, fiddling with the cross you know he keeps in there.

[twolegsandbleeds]

something something simon riley shirtless and working on his bike in the sun.

you, in a folding chair with a canned cocktail in one hand and a ciggie in the other, watching the muscles in his back work as he moves. pale scars catching the sunlight. sweatpants dangerously low on his hips. a slow smile spreading over your face when you notice the crescent moon shaped indents on his shoulders; evidence of how well he fucked you last night.

edna, the 83 year old next door neighbour, sipping tea in her lounge, slightly disappointed her view is obscured by an overgrown shrub.

something she just happens to mention the next time you and her share a cuppa and a gossip.

she's entirely thrilled to see the next time simon's working on his bike, you've trimmed the leaves back.

you catch her eye through the window and wink.

simon sees the exchange in his peripheral vision. the tips of his ears go red.

[rescuedfawn]

A controversial take but as a woman who’s been wronged by men several times before, I genuinely find all those “men bad” and “men should die” posts in poor taste and an opposite of what feminism is.

I know we all say “not all men”—because it’s really is not all men—but how would you feel if you saw a “women bad” or “women should die” post made by a man and then he said “well it’s not All Women so if you’re not xyz then this post isn’t about You”?

So I don’t know. I think instead of a vague “men bad” or “men should die” post and “well if you’re a good man then this post isn’t about you” we should call out specific harmful behaviors without grouping All Men together and expecting good men to 1.) know this post isn’t about them 2.) not feel Bad about / unsafe for being a man whose only crime is being a man.

And if you genuinely think innocent men are bad and deserving of mistreatment and bad things just because they’re men then please block me because you’re the type of person I want to stay as far away from as I can and you do not represent feminism.

[toboldlymuppet]

my bonnie lad

[velvetground-6]

Oh Clark def likes a finger or two up the butt and anal trains for u <33

I was able to fit two fingers today, Clark texted one day. He has a wild blush staining his face and cheeks while he continues typing with a meek smile. It didn’t hurt. I think I can take even more.

He palms his own cheeks and lets his hand wander back down to his exhausted hole with a sigh, remembering how much he came while pressing in hard on his prostate without even needing to merely graze his dick. It made him so excited, proud, and ready to stretch himself out to fit more and hopefully be able to ride one of the toys bought specifically for the occasion.

He still humps the toys sometimes, pretends he’s frotting with a real cock while he reaches back and rubs his finger over his rim, closing his eyes, letting his body let go and feel. He forgets his worries, forgets his to-do list, forgets anything that lived outside of this moment while he rides the tip of his fingers and splatters cum all over his own stomach.

She didn’t judge him, she encouraged him. She always voiced her compliments on his ass, how perky and squeezable it was, how he’d look pretty bouncing up and down on a toy. She was able to wring the subby side out of him without any protest, any hesitation. Clark was on board to fully explore the depths of his body, how much pleasure he could find from touching areas he didn’t usually touch.

And his ass was tight. Too tight at first. Had to slather a skinny finger in lube and go at snail speed to ease him in without it hurting him. Clark would duck his head and whimper, plead to go slow, that he was fine, but most importantly to keep going. It was nothing short of adorable, the sight of him surrendering, loosening up. A sight to cherish while he got more brave to steadily ride the finger inside him, hump his ass back and grind in little experimental circles. He gasped when the angle was just right, that he found the money spot while he rolled his hips around. Spurts of pre-cum would easily start dribbling out, sweat starting to gather on his forehead and his neck. Makes a fist with his knuckles and breathes out, warns her that he could bust if she crooks her fingers that way again and this could all be over too soon. She laughs and kisses the side of his neck, assures him it’s okay and that she’s delighted that he’s feeling so good.

She decides he’s loosened up plenty for her to go deeper, knuckle deep, and Clark whines when she pulls the digit all the way out all to slip it all the way back in again. The slide felt delicious, filling, satisfying — it was everything Clark needed.

After a few more minutes of her repeating the motion, leaving him empty all to fill him right up to the hilt again, he stutters a warning and his ass clenches and tightens on her finger, balls scrunching up to prepare for release. She steadily sped up and he welcomed the new speed, moaning and humping back until his face screwed up in a tense state of concentration before his eyes roll back and cum starts to spurt out from his untouched cock all over his belly, their sheets, even thicker stripes landing up to his nipple. He whines long, breathy, and heavy as he humps his dick into nothing besides air and is sure to fuck his ass back on that finger, feeling the tip graze his prostate and making him shiver all over again, enough to milk out another shy little spurt.

“I wanna ride the toy soon,” Clark breathes. Eyes still closed as she takes a finger from her other hand that’s not inside him to glide through the sticky milky mess, licking the cum off that was gathered. Clark remains out of breath, almost cross eyed but stays sitting right on that finger. “Want you to bend me over and fuck me with it.”

“We’ll keep stretching you out. You’ll get there, honey. Just need patience and more practice is all,” she assures.

“It feels — it feels so good.”

“I know,” she chuckles, wrapping her arms around him after carefully pulling out, leaving his hole empty again while she graces him in kisses and aftercare. “You can practice with your fingers too. Yours are nice and thick, longer than mine.”

“Could you get us more lube, please?”

“Of course baby.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles sheepishly. Tumbles face down on the bed, lazily allowing his eyes to fall closed and sticking his ass out, almost showing off on purpose. She devilishly grins and leans over to playfully smack his ass, watch his cheeks jiggle, how he worms around and whines with a smile.

“You like it. I know you do,” she teases, grabbing a cheek and tightening her fingers to give him a nice grip. He hums and pushes his ass further into her hand, body blatantly agreeing with her. How he really, really likes it.

. . .

sub boy Clark sub boy Clark subby baby Clark

[wxntertoast]

18+ sexual content

Clark makes a deal with you.

The deal? He could fuck your ass, but... you get to peg him.

"An eye for an eye, right?" Your smile was evident in your voice. Clark sighed, nodding.

And thats how the Man of Steel ended up on his knees– Face down, ass up– making sounds you'd never thought you'd hear from him.

By the end of it he's asking–no, begging–to do it again.

(A/N: inspired by this by @velvetground-6 )