#black stone steps
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
louexuv · 2 years ago
Text
Driveway Driveway Toronto
Tumblr media
Here is an illustration of a small front yard with stone landscaping in the fall.
0 notes
notsureaboutnameyet · 2 years ago
Text
Driveway Toronto
Tumblr media
Fall landscaping design ideas for a small traditional shade front yard with stones.
0 notes
richs-pics · 2 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Open invitation
37 notes · View notes
pieflavoredartz · 10 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
(CLICK FOR THAT SWEETUMS QUAILTYYY 🗣🗣)
the part 6 jojo villain… the erick puc 💿
69 notes · View notes
acourtofquestions · 6 months ago
Text
They drifted into the blackness for another day, then two. Still the sea did not appear.
Aelin was sleeping, a dreamless, heavy slumber, when a strong hand clasped her shoulder. "Look," Rowan whispered, his breath brushing her ear.
She opened her eyes to pale light. Not the ocean, she realized as she sat up, the others rousing, undoubtedly at Rowan's word.
Overhead, clinging to the cavern ceiling as if they were stars trapped beneath the rock, small blue lights glowed.
Glowworms, like those in the lantern Thousands of them, made infinite by the reflection in the black water. Stars above and below.
From the corner of her eye, Aelin glimpsed Elide press a hand to her chest. A sea of stars—that's what the cave had become.
Beauty. There was still beauty in this world.
Stars could still glow, still burn bright, even buried under the earth.
Aelin breathed in the cool cave air, the blue light. Let it flow through her.
Rattle the stars. She'd promised to do that.
The emerald on her marriage band glistened with its own fire.
Beauty remained—and she would fight for it. Needed to fight.
It was a constant thrum in her blood, her bones. Right alongside the power that she shoved down deep and dismissed with each breath. Fight—one last time.
She'd escaped so she might do it. Would think of all those still defying Morath, defying Maeve, while she trained. She wouldn't hesitate. Didn't dare to pause. She'd make this time count. In every way possible.
Aelin could have sworn the living stars overhead sang, a celestial choir that floated through the caves.
A star-song carried along the river current, running beside them, for the last miles to the sea.
7 notes · View notes
yutamayo · 7 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
...is it that obvious?
#Yuta: motherfucker it is painfully obvious. that old lady across the street literally just yelled “I hope things work out for you”#Gen: she was talking to me?#Yuta: my brother in pining she was talking to all of us.#Naruto: hey have u seen a guy named Sasuke around?? he has spiky black hair like dark as the night sky n the face of an angel n his waist-#Akutagawa: I swear to god Naruto if you don't shut the fuck up#Gen: can we stop at the national observatory on the way? I need to pick up some stuff at the gift shop#Yuta: idk I gotta hit up the flower shop before it closes#Naruto: do u think Sasuke would want flowers today? he always throws them in the trash but it's the thought that counts... right?#Yuta: shut the FUCK up Naruto#Gen: it'll be quick I pre-ordered everything#Akutagawa: you can pre-order stuff from an observatory?#Gen: well I can I'm a regular. the cashiers & managers & even the security guards all know me#Yuta: well we don't have all day. Ryu and I also gotta stop by the hospital for bandages#Gen: why don't you just go to a pharmacy?#Akatugawa: it's the only place we can get them in bulk#Gen: ... I'm not even gonna ask#Yuta: do I look like I care?#Naruto: Sasuke cares about me... right?#Yuta & Akutagawa in unison: SHUT THE FUCK UP NARUTO#Naruto: ...everything reminds me of Sasuke...#Gen: actually i think i saw the guy ur talking about all the way at the end of the feild#*Naruto already running through the feild*: SASUKEEEE#*Gen jumping in car*: I lied so u better step on it#Akutagawa: ... everything reminds me of Dazai...#naruto#bungo stray dogs#dr stone#yuta okkotsu#get in loser#quick
16 notes · View notes
freshthoughts2020 · 2 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
“Good Grief, Jotaro 🌟 “ 9” x 12”
Signed by Artist,
Framed + Free Shipping
Step into the world of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure with this hand-drawn, one-of-a-kind illustration featuring Jotaro Kujo and Star Platinum in a bold, high-energy pose. With a vibrant pink backdrop, intense DO DO DO!! sound effects, and a classic Stardust Crusaders aesthetic, this piece captures Jotaro's unshakable confidence and Star Platinum’s unstoppable power.
Meticulously drawn with high-quality markers & colored pencils, this 9” x 12” original is professionally framed in sleek black, making it ready for display in your home, office, or anime collection.
3 notes · View notes
sh-photogallery · 7 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Abstract black and white picture with special filter of Santa Catalina Monastery in Arequipa.
2 notes · View notes
sbrown82 · 1 year ago
Note
I read Marsha’s book and saw what Bianca Jagger was doing and was disgusted and disappointed, because how the hell are you going to be a human rights activist and treat Marsha like that. Be for some reason I’m not really surprised because for one, Bianca was always dating men to get a leg up for her so called career. She wanted to make a name for herself that’s the only reason why I could see why she would want Mick, he was convenient and he had lots of money. Her history of dating proves that, also Mick has a thing for jealous women he likes them to fight over him. No black woman that he has dated ever fought over him but every other girl he’s dealt with has and Bianca was the main one fighting for the title of being his wife. Marianne didn’t really want that title because she didn’t even get a divorce when they started dating, Marsha just wanted to have fun she wasn’t thinking about marriage and Bianca was the first woman to actually want to marry him and he did it because he wanted a family. Even though the fucker already had a baby, he wanted to be a family man like Keith. Bianca was delusional tho, she actually thought after saying I do he wouldn’t cheat or see his first baby again, I hated her from the beginning. I never thought she actually wanted him, but he gave her fame and she’s a fame whore. 
When I read that part in Marsha's book, how he wanted her and Karis to come visit him at his house in France and Bianca said she and her daughter wasn't "allowed" in their home....whew, chile! They went low, babyyyy, I woulda went to hell. I can't even imagine being married to man for years and never wondering or question him about his other child and her well-being. That's pretty evil. Also, Mick didn't really have money when Bianca married him (Marsha knew that) but clearly Bianca didn't. The Rolling Stones were basically broke, which is why they went to France and became tax exiles. But I guess people think of Bianca as a social climber. Hilariously, I even heard the bitch say in an interview in like 1975 that she was an "actress" and was getting offered roles. Have y'all ever seen her in anything? because I damn sure haven't.
Tumblr media
She and Mick don't seem to have that much in common other than they're both bougie and really into the social scene, they like fashion and they both speak French. Black women have never really cared for white rockstars like Mick Jagger, which is why I think a lot of them like Black women. In fact, Marsha didn't want to date him. Mick just showed up at her house one night after she turned him down and it all went from there. But I've never seen a woman so disrespected more than Marsha Hunt. Bianca and Mick should be ashamed of themselves.
8 notes · View notes
joribolton · 2 years ago
Text
Tumblr media
#2
portfolio | insta | twitter
8 notes · View notes
fizhle · 11 months ago
Text
ADHD PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE KEEP ME ON THE OOFURI HYPERFIX ITS A DARK DARK HOLE WITHOUT REN MIHASHI
5 notes · View notes
seaseren · 1 year ago
Text
Thinking about combining a couple character concepts. A padjal girl born into a prominent Gridanian family, who were very proud to have a padjali daughter and happily gave her up to the Fane, although they often visited her and maaaaybe spoiled her a bit more than they were "supposed" to. When Chiaki and their mom came to Eorzea, the two kids became very good friends, since the Padjal had always been at least curious about the world outside the Twelveswood. After the Calamity, however, she became more and more frustrated with the state of Gridania and how little she could actually do, chafing against the rules and restictions and how she would get in trouble for arguing back against her elders, even when they were wrong. The last straw was when her mother, who had been impregnated just before the Calamity and lost her husband and other children in the disaster, gave birth to another Padjali child. Although it destroyed her mother to give up her baby and last family member, she had no choice but to peacefully give up the child. The padjali girl got into an argument with the other padjal, who probably viewed the situation as "sad, but nessecary", and ran away to become an adventurer, hoping to find a way to actually help people with the Elemental's Blessing. (She considered asking Chiaki to come along, but at the time they were still way too sick to leave the care of the Conjurer's Guild). Unfortunately for her, the adventurer's life is perhaps far less rosey and full of do-gooding than she initially hoped.
Now I just need to come up with names for her and her mom... (I think Chiaki ended up keeping her mom company a lot. She lost her kids, Chiaki lost their own mom, it makes sense).
3 notes · View notes
si-t-rda · 2 years ago
Text
Tumblr media
Yokosuka-City, Kanagawa, Japan/2023
4 notes · View notes
marklikely · 2 years ago
Text
i think as time goes on itll be easier to like the beatles as long as we keep up the trend of younger people not liking them.
#do you know how much easier itd be to accept that they made good music and innovated quite a bit#if i wasnt constantly having them shoved down my throat as THE MOST IMPORTANT BAND TO EVER EXIST#idk from my perspective... they were active in the 60s bro if they didnt exist someone else would have made those same innovations#other people around them were innovating all over the place#and the entire british invasion (which wasnt even just them!!) was built on the forward thinking of black american artists in the 50s#so like. yeah if the beatles didnt exist music history probably wouldnt have been that crazy different#like youre telling me NOBODY else. IN THE 60S. would have made the same steps forward that the beatles did?#like you really think john was this magical being gifted with creativity that invented all these ideas out of thin air???#no. their innovations were because they were active during THE decade of experimenting and making new moves in pop & rock.#people around them were inventing whole new genres and recording styles too smh anyway. its just so annoying.#they were just the most popular and one of the more active groups at the time so a lot of changes were credited to them#(even some of the ones that they didn't actually come up with.)#avpost#anyway. that's my rant. also they didn't even get good until bob dylan taught them to smoke weed.#i also alluded to it before but i don't think the 60s were such a time of innovation bc of them either. tired of that narrative#the beatles were not the only new band doing wildly different things in 1963 the stones crossed over at the exact same time#followed very closely by a lot of other uk bands.#plus like i said these bands were only so different bc they grew up loving black american artists' music .#so... that's the group that was actually innovating. the uk bands wereinspired by THEM. where's their flowers.#and there was tons of evolution in music during the 60s that had fuck all to do with the Beatles or rock at all.#*gestures aggressively to the invention of soul. which affected any and all pop music that came after it*#ive seen it argued that the supremes deserve just as much credit as the beatles do#but as a diehard supremes fan ill keep my opinion on that to myself since im . VERY biased.
5 notes · View notes
luv-lock · 2 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤEVERY INCH IN THAT SUITㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader
☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : He Looks Good In His Thight Suit, So Why Not Just Fuck Him?
☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne.
☆⁠ WARNINGS : NSFW, MINORS DNI, Daddy kink, breeding kink, rough sex, degradation, overstimulation, unprotected sex, a lil bit gun play, blow job, choking, spitting, slapping, riding, power play.
☆⁠ NOTES : Damian is an adult. And yes we have an adult version of Damian who is still Robin and wear a Robin suit. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
Tumblr media
— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆
The cave’s damp air clings to your skin as you stumble in, heels clicking against the stone floor, your breath hitching at the sight of him. Bruce stands there, the suit clinging to every muscle like it was poured over him. The cowl’s still on, those white slits glaring at you, and fuck, it’s doing things to you—your thighs clench just looking at him. He’s fresh off patrol, chest heaving, a thin sheen of sweat making the black Kevlar gleam under the dim lights. Gotham’s knight, your goddamn ruin.
“You shouldn’t be down here, sweetheart,” he growls, voice low and modulated through the mask, but you hear the edge—raw, hungry, barely restrained. He steps forward, boots thudding heavy, and you’re already wet, practically dripping down your thighs because fuck, it’s Bruce, and he’s looking at you like prey.
“Don’t care,” you breathe, bold and stupid, stepping closer ‘til you’re in his shadow. “Needed to see you, Daddy.”
That word—Daddy—hits him like a punch. His head tilts, cowl shifting slightly, and you swear you hear a sharp intake of breath under that mask. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, little girl,” he rasps, gloved hand flexing at his side, and you grin, all teeth and heat, because you want him.
“Then punish me,” you whisper, reaching out to drag your fingers down the bat emblem, feeling the hard planes of his chest. “Show me what happens when I’m bad.”
He snaps. One second you’re standing, the next he’s got you slammed against the Batcomputer console, the cold metal biting into your ass as he looms over you, massive and unyielding. “You wanna be a brat for Daddy?” he snarls, ripping your skirt up with one brutal yank, exposing your soaked panties. “Gonna regret that, sweetheart.”
You whimper, and he’s already tearing the lace off—gloved fingers rough, calloused through the fabric, shoving between your legs. “Fuckin’ drenched,” he mutters, sliding two fingers into your cunt without warning, stretching you open while you arch and gasp. “This all for me? Huh? My needy little slut, soakin’ herself for me?”
“Yes—Daddy—just for you,” you moan, hips bucking into his hand, and he growls, pumping harder, curling those thick digits ‘til your vision blurs. The suit’s rubbing against your thighs, coarse and unforgiving, and it’s filthy—he’s filthy—still stinking of smoke and adrenaline, fucking you with his gloves on.
He pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and smears your mess across your lips before shoving them into your mouth. “Taste yourself,” he orders, and you suck, desperate, gagging around the leather while he watches, those white slits narrowing. “Good girl. Daddy’s gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t walk, ‘til you’re full of me.”
You whine, and he’s unbuckling the lower half of the suit—just enough to free his cock, thick and heavy, dripping pre-cum like he’s been hard for hours.
He grabs your throat with one gloved hand, squeezing just enough to make you dizzy, and lines himself up, the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance. “Beg for it,” he demands, voice a gravelly snarl, and you’re too far gone to care how pathetic you sound.
“Please, Daddy, fuck me—breed me—fill me up, I need it,” you plead, voice breaking, and that’s all it takes. He thrusts in hard, splitting you open, the stretch burning as he bottoms out in one brutal stroke. You scream, nails clawing at the suit, and he doesn’t wait—starts pounding you, relentless, the console rattling with every slam.
“Fuckin’ take it,” he grunts, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the cave. “Gonna stuff this tight little cunt—make you mine, princess.” The glove on your throat tightens, cutting your air just enough to make your head spin, and you’re sobbing, legs shaking as he fucks you raw—Bruce's cock wrecking you, the suit chafing your inner thighs red.
He leans down, cowl brushing your cheek, and the modulator makes him sound obscene. “You want Daddy’s cum? Want me to breed you ‘til you’re dripping, ‘til you’re swollen with it?” he growls, and you nod, frantic, clenching around him like you’re trying to milk him dry.
“Yes—fuck, yes, Daddy, fill me up, please,” you gasp, and he shifts, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half under him. The angle’s insane—his cock hits so deep you feel it in your guts, and you’re screaming, cumming so hard your whole body locks up, gushing around him while he keeps going, fucking you through it ‘til you’re a trembling, overstimulated mess.
“That’s it, cum on Daddy’s cock,” he snarls, pace turning feral, and you feel him swell, twitching inside you. “Gonna pump you full—gonna make you my little breeding bitch.” He slams in one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and cums with a guttural roar—hot, thick spurts flooding your cunt, spilling out around his dick as he keeps thrusting, forcing it deeper, marking you inside.
You’re a wreck—pussy throbbing, leaking his cum down your thighs, the suit’s rough edges still digging into your skin—and he doesn’t stop. He pulls out just to flip you over, bending you across the console face-down, ass up, and shoves back in, fucking his cum into you like he’s trying to make damn sure it sticks. “Not done,” he growls, gloved hands bruising your hips. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t think, ‘til all you know is my cock.”
You’re whimpering, incoherent—“Too much, Daddy, fuck”—but he doesn’t care, keeps railing you ‘til your knees buckle, ‘til you’re drooling on the keyboard, another orgasm ripping through you so hard you black out for a second. He’s relentless, a machine, the suit creaking with every thrust, and when he cums again, it’s a flood—dripping down your legs, pooling on the floor, a nasty, freaky mess that only Bruce could leave behind.
Finally, he slows, breathing ragged through the modulator, and pulls you back against his chest—the suit cold and hard, his cock still twitching inside you. “Such a good girl for Daddy,” he murmurs, softer now, gloved hand stroking your hair as you tremble, fucked-out and full. He doesn’t take the cowl off, just tilts your chin up to kiss you—lips rough against yours, tasting of sweat and sin.
“Mine,” he growls, possessive, and you feel it—his cum leaking out, the ache settling in, the way he’s claimed you. You’re his, alright—Daddy’s little breeding toy, fucked stupid in the heart of his cave.
— DICK GRAYSON ⋆
The Blüdhaven night’s alive with neon and grime, and you’re perched on a rooftop, waiting for him—Nightwing, the city’s golden boy turned reckless tease. You’ve been playing this game too long: flirting over comms, brushing hands during stakeouts, until he finally snapped last week and fucked you senseless in an alley. Now, he’s late, and you’re antsy—legs dangling over the edge, heartbeat ticking up—when you hear that familiar whistle, cocky and bright.
“Miss me, babe?” he calls, flipping down from a higher ledge, landing in a crouch that shows off every damn line of that skin-tight Nightwing suit. The black and blue clings to him like a second skin, outlining his broad shoulders, tight ass, and the bulge you’ve been dreaming about all day. He straightens, grinning—those white lenses glinting in the dark—and saunters over, all swagger and mischief. “Caught you waiting. That’s cute.”
“Caught you staring,” you fire back, smirking, and he laughs—bright, infectious—before he’s on you, fast as a blur. One gloved hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up, and he kisses you like he’s been dying for it—hot, messy, a little sloppy with how eager he is. His tongue’s in your mouth instantly, tasting you, teasing, and you can feel him grinning against your lips. “Fuck, you taste good,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to nip your bottom lip, eyes twinkling behind the mask.
Dick’s playful, needy, and oh-so-fucking horny. He spins you around, pressing you chest-first against a rusted billboard frame, and you feel the hard planes of his suit grind against your ass. “Been thinking about this all patrol,” he groans, hands sliding down your sides, gripping your hips as he rocks into you. “You in my head, driving me nuts—gonna make you pay for it, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t waste time—fingers deft and quick, peeling your pants down just enough to bare you to the night air. The suit’s rough against your skin, textured where it brushes your thighs, and you hear him fumble with the hidden zipper at his crotch, freeing that gorgeous cock—long, thick, already leaking for you. “Look at you, all ready for me,” he teases, smacking your ass lightly, playfully, before dragging the tip through your slick folds. “So fucking wet—bet you’ve been thinking about me pounding you, huh?”
“Shut up and do it,” you snap, half-laughing, half-desperate, and he chuckles—low and dirty—before sinking in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch stretch you open. “Oh, fuck, yes,” he moans, head tipping back, suit creaking as he bottoms out, balls snug against you. He doesn’t go brutal like Bruce—he’s all rhythm, hips rolling smooth and deep, fucking you with a grin you can hear. “That’s my girl—taking me so good.”
He’s a talker—won’t shut up even as he picks up the pace, slamming into you now, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with the city’s hum. “Goddamn, this pussy’s perfect—gonna dream about this later,” he pants, one hand slipping around to rub your clit with those clever fingers, the gloves slick and cool against your heat. You moan—loud, shameless—and he laughs again, delighted. “Yeah, let me hear you, babe—scream for Nightwing.”
He’s relentless but fun—grabbing your hair to pull you back just enough to kiss your neck, sucking bruises there while he fucks you harder, the suit’s edges scraping your skin in the best way. “Wanna flip you over—see that pretty face when you cum,” he says, and before you can blink, he’s spinning you, lifting you like you weigh nothing—acrobat strength on full display. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, pinning you against the billboard, and thrusts back in, grinning like a kid who stole the candy jar.
“Fuck—Dick—” you gasp, and he winks—those lenses flashing—driving deeper, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “That’s it, say my name—gonna make you lose it,” he promises, voice husky now, less playful, more feral. His fingers circle your clit faster, and you’re done—cumming hard, clenching around him, crying out as your whole body shakes. He groans, watching you fall apart, “So fucking hot—love it when you squeeze me like that.”
He’s close—hips stuttering, grip tightening—and he pulls you flush against him, suit rubbing your tits raw as he chases it. “Where do you want me, huh? Tell me quick,” he pants, and you smirk, breathless—“On me, all over me.” That’s his cue—he pulls out, stroking himself fast, and cums with a loud, “Fuck, yes—” painting your stomach, your thighs, even catching your chin with hot, thick ropes. He’s grinning, chest heaving, swiping a finger through it and popping it in his mouth like a goddamn tease. “Tastes better with you.”
You’re a mess—panting, covered in him—and he’s still got that cheeky spark, tugging you close, kissing you soft now, all lazy and satisfied. “Round two back at my place?” he murmurs, tucking himself back into the suit, adjusting the escrima sticks on his back like he didn’t just fuck you stupid. “Got a bed with your name on it—and maybe some handcuffs.”
“Lead the way, Grayson,” you say, and he scoops you up—half-carrying, half-dragging—already plotting the next way he’ll wreck you.
— JASON TODD ⋆
The safehouse reeks of gunpowder and copper when Jason kicks the door open, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. He’s a fucking mess—blood streaked across his Red Hood helmet, leather jacket torn at the shoulder, crimson dripping down his gloves from a night of cracking skulls. The guns strapped to his thighs clink with every step, and he’s still riding that adrenaline high, chest heaving, muscles coiled tight. He wasn’t expecting you here—not tonight—but there you are, sprawled on his shitty mattress, fingers buried deep in your own cunt, moaning his name like a prayer.
“Fuck me,” he rasps, voice distorted through the modulator, low and guttural as he freezes in the doorway. His helmet tilts, taking in the sight—your legs spread wide, pussy glistening, eyes half-lidded with lust. You don’t even flinch, just keep fucking yourself, smirking like you knew he’d walk in like this. “Couldn’t wait, huh, you needy little slut?” he growls, kicking the door shut with a bang, already shrugging off the jacket but leaving the holsters on—guns and all.
“Jason—” you whimper, fingers slowing, and he’s on you in a flash, still bloody, still armored, grabbing your wrist and yanking your hand away. “Oh no, you don’t get to stop now,” he snarls, smearing your slick over his glove as he shoves your thighs apart wider, the cold metal of his gauntlets biting your skin. “You wanted me, you’re fuckin’ getting me.” His free hand rips at his belt, pulling his cock out—thick, hard, tip already leaking—and you barely get a breath before he’s hauling you up by your hair, forcing you onto your knees.
“Open that pretty mouth,” he orders, voice rough as gravel, and when you do—lips parting, tongue out—he doesn’t wait. He grabs one of his guns from the holster, still warm from the fight, and presses the barrel to your temple, cold steel kissing your skin. “You like this, don’t you? My dirty fuckin’ girl,” he taunts, smearing blood from his glove across your cheek as he shoves his cock past your lips, deep and brutal, hitting the back of your throat ‘til you gag.
He’s feral—nothing gentle, nothing soft—just pure, unfiltered Jason. His hips snap forward, fucking your face like it’s a goddamn mission, the wet choke of your throat filling the room as he grips your hair tighter, pulling ‘til your scalp stings. “That’s it—take it, choke on me,” he groans, modulator crackling with his ragged breaths, the helmet’s red glow casting shadows over your tear-streaked face. The gun stays steady, a fucked-up promise—he won’t pull the trigger, but the threat’s got your cunt dripping, thighs clenching as he uses you.
“Fuck, you’re a sight—drooling all over my dick,” he mutters, yanking you off with a wet pop, strings of spit hanging between your lips and his cock. He doesn’t give you time to recover—just drags you up by the hair, spinning you around, and shoves you face-first into the mattress. “Ass up, now,” he barks, smacking your thigh hard enough to leave a welt, and you scramble to obey, pussy throbbing, aching for him.
He doesn’t bother stripping—keeps the helmet on, the leather creaking, blood still tacky on his hands as he lines up, slamming into you with one vicious thrust. You scream, the stretch burning, and he laughs—dark, filthy—grabbing the gun again and pressing it to your lower back. “Move, baby—fuck yourself on me,” he growls, but he’s already pounding, hips slamming so hard the bed shakes, his cock splitting you open, hitting deep and relentless.
“Jason—fuck—too much—” you gasp, but he just pulls your hair ‘til your back arches, forcing you to take more, the gun sliding up your spine, cold and dangerous. “Too much? Nah, you can take it—you were begging for it with your fingers in that slutty little cunt,” he snarls, voice dripping with lust and menace. Blood smears on your skin where he grips you, and the helmet’s modulator makes every grunt sound inhuman, primal—fucking you like an animal fresh from the hunt.
He leans over, chest plate digging into your back, and bites your shoulder through the suit—teeth scraping, bruising. “Gonna mark you up—let everyone know who owns this pussy,” he rasps, thrusting harder, the gun now tracing your jawline as he reaches around, shoving two bloody fingers into your mouth. “Suck ‘em clean, c’mon,” he demands, and you do—tasting iron and him, moaning around them while he fucks you into the mattress.
You’re close—too close—clenching tight around him, and he feels it, growling, “Cum for me, you filthy bitch—let me feel it.” The gun presses harder, his pace turning sloppy, brutal, and when you shatter—screaming, gushing all over his cock—he doesn’t slow down, just keeps railing you, chasing his own end. “Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he grunts, yanking your head back one last time as he cums, hot and thick, spilling deep inside you ‘til it’s leaking out around him.
He pulls out, panting, helmet still on, and smacks your ass one more time for good measure, leaving a bloody handprint. “Stay there—look at that mess,” he says, voice low and smug, watching his cum drip down your thighs. He drags the gun barrel through it, smearing it over your skin, then leans close—modulator crackling—“Next time, I’m fucking you with this loaded.”
You’re wrecked, trembling, and he’s already holstering the gun, adjusting his jacket like he didn’t just destroy you. “Clean up, princess,” he tosses over his shoulder, but the way he lingers by the door says he’s not done—not by a long shot. Red Hood doesn’t play nice, and you’re his favorite fucking toy.
— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆
The Wayne Manor study is a damn fortress—dark wood, flickering lamplight, and Damian hunched over a desk littered with maps and case files, looking like he’s about to murder someone. He’s in that stupidly hot Robin tunic—green and red clinging to his lean frame, mask off, black hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times. You’ve been pacing behind him for twenty minutes, thighs rubbing together, pussy throbbing, because he promised he’d fuck you hours ago and now he’s buried in work like some self-righteous little bitch.
“Damian,” you snap, voice dripping with heat, leaning over his shoulder so your tits brush his back. “Put the damn papers down and fuck me already.” He doesn’t even flinch—just keeps scribbling, muttering something about “Gotham’s safety” like you give a shit. “Beloved, I’m occupied,” he says, all clipped and cold, that posh accent making your blood boil hotter. Occupied? Oh, fuck that.
You grab his chair, spin it around so fast he drops his pen, and he’s glaring up at you—emerald eyes sharp, jaw tight, all that bratty defiance he’s so damn good at. “I said I’m busy,” he growls, but his hands twitch, like he’s fighting not to grab you, and you clock it—he’s hard under those tights, bulge straining like a liar’s promise. “Busy being a little bitch,” you spit back, and before he can snap, you slap him—hard—right across that pretty face. His head jerks, cheek blooming red, and his eyes widen, stunned, then darken with something feral.
“You—” he starts, but you don’t let him finish. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, yanking his head back by his hair ‘til he’s forced to look at you. “Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, grinding down on that thick, trapped cock, feeling it twitch under you. “You don’t get to play martyr while I’m soaking wet and dying for it.” He groans—low, broken—and you smirk, spitting right into his open mouth. He chokes, swallowing it, and you see it: the moment he cracks, pride crumbling, lust taking over.
“Fuck, you’re disgusting,” he rasps, but his hands are on your hips now, gripping tight, and you know you’ve got him. “Yeah, and you love it,” you taunt, ripping your shirt off, letting your tits spill out, nipples hard and begging. His eyes lock on them, hungry, and you slap him again—lighter this time, playful, but it still stings. “Eyes up here, asshole,” you say, spitting again—this time on his cheek, watching it drip down as he shudders, cock jumping against you.
You don’t bother with his tunic—just shove the tights down enough to free that gorgeous dick—long, veiny, leaking precum like he’s been aching as bad as you. “Gonna ride you ‘til you cry,” you promise, lining him up, and he snarls—“Try it, harlot”—but it’s all bravado, because when you sink down, taking him in one brutal drop, he moans like a fucking virgin, head tipping back, throat bared. “Oh—fuck—” he gasps, and you laugh, nasty and loud, starting to bounce.
You ride him hard—hips slamming down, pussy clenching tight around him, wet and messy, soaking his lap. The chair creaks, threatening to collapse, and you don’t care—let it break, let the whole damn manor hear. “Look at you,” you pant, grabbing his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. “All that big talk, and you’re just my little fucktoy now.” He growls, but it’s weak, hips bucking up to meet you, desperate, and you spit into his mouth again—harder this time. “Swallow it,” you order, and he does, choking, eyes glassy with need.
Your pace is relentless—grinding, bouncing, thighs burning as you fuck him stupid. His hands claw at your ass, your tits, everywhere, and you slap them away, pinning his wrists above his head. “No touching,” you snarl, and he whines—actually whines—struggling but loving it, cock pulsing inside you. “Please—fuck—beloved—” he begs, voice cracking, and you grin, feral, leaning down to bite his lip ‘til it bleeds, licking it clean while you ride him faster.
“Thought you were too busy,” you mock, spitting on his chest now, rubbing it into the Robin emblem with your fingers. “Too good for this pussy—guess you’re not, huh?” He’s a mess—sweat-slick, bloody-lipped, moaning your name like a prayer—and you feel him throb, close, so you slow down, dragging it out ‘til he’s thrashing under you. “No—no, don’t stop—” he pleads, and you slap him again, sharp and loud. “You don’t tell me what to do,” you growl, picking up speed, riding him so hard the desk rattles.
“Gonna cum for me, Dami?” you purr, clenching tight, and he nods, frantic—“Yes—fuck, yes—” You feel it building, that tight, hot coil in your gut, and you spit one last time—right on his tongue—as you slam down, cumming hard, screaming his name as your pussy milks him dry. He breaks—crying out, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you, hot and thick, shuddering through it ‘til he’s whimpering, wrecked.
You don’t stop—keep riding, slow and mean, overstimulating him ‘til he’s squirming, gasping, “Too much—fuck—” but you just laugh, grinding ‘til he’s twitching, cum leaking out around his cock, staining his tights. “Should’ve fucked me sooner,” you say, climbing off, leaving him slumped, panting, a sweaty, bloody mess in that chair—work forgotten, pride gone, just your perfect, ruined boy.
“Next time,” you warn, wiping your spit-slick hand on his tunic, “don’t make me wait.” He looks up, dazed, lips swollen, and mumbles, “Never again,” voice hoarse, and you know he means it.
Tumblr media
— MASTERLIST ☆
— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆
4K notes · View notes
ghostsgrl666 · 11 months ago
Text
roommate!ghost who's waiting for you when you get home in the middle of the night after going out with your friends. Sitting on the couch in those fucking grey sweatpants when you stumble through the door and drop your keys. Has to stare at the crack on the ceiling when you get down on your hands and knees to find them, pretend for his own sanity that he hasn't seen the tiny excuse for underwear you've got on under that little black dress.
Like clockwork, he's got you sitting on the icy bathroom counter as you giggle, telling him all about your night. He's got cotton pads and makeup remover in one hand and the other holding onto your thigh because you started unconsciously squeezing his broad frame when he stepped in between your open legs. He gently wipes away all the traces of the night, carefully mapping out the contours of your face like you're a masterpiece he's carved from some precious stone. Until he gets to your lips. The shiny, fucking sparkly gloss is all thats left on your skin but his hand freezes as he studies the crease in your bottom lip. You catch up two seconds later in your dreamy, relaxed haze, and without even thinking about it you close the gap, softly pressing your lips to the one's silently hovering over yours.
His breath catches and his grip on your thigh becomes molten hot as you just as quickly pull away. Innocently you smile at him, like you hadn't just killed him, like you hadn't just made him start planning your wedding down to the way your eyes would shine as you walked down the aisle, all for him.
Your laugh is the only thing that can pull him out of his stupor, "you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that." 
But he does, he really, really does.
17K notes · View notes