#drabble (??)

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Forever Girlfriend 2

Tags: JJK men x fem!Reader, smau, angst, hurt/comfort, groveling

An: Fluffy ending won so here we are :) For context, Satoru and Suguru were already planning on proposing to you since before the first part. They just didn’t want to ruin the surprise. Sukuna’s is open for interpretation because I just don’t know if I could forgive him. Anywaysss thank you for everyone who congratulated me on getting engaged!

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 - Satoru, Suguru, Choso, Toji, Sukuna

Taglist: @queenmimis @austisticfreak @channnee @ayumigotabitlonely @tiffyisme3760 @lizzie3d2y @ninikrumbs @miizuzu @crookedtimetravelheart @rumi-rants

[melminli]

thanos is just such an easy person to argue with

next.

there was only one thing you wanted from a young age and that was to be the child of fucking rich parents in your next life. Those were the real people who won the lottery and they didn't even have to fucking play it, can you imagine that? Hardly, you were more concerned with staying alive and not drown in debt.

But I suppose I'm not alone in that. You watched the crowd a bit before looking down at your own green tracksuit, which had the number 360 printed on it. What the...

"Huh? What the hell are you doing here?" Asked a voice which you really didn't want to hear right now. You looked unwillingly at the purple head. "I thought you were good with money, but then maybe you wouldn't be here, right señorita?" he asked you sarcastically.

Yes, you were good with money, but too bad that you just didn't fucking have any. "Look who is talking." you replied to Thanos in a playfully innocent voice. He really was the last person you wanted to talk to right now. The shock after seeing his face while his debt was exposed to the crowd had worn off by now, but still. You really hoped you wouldn't have to interact with him. "I mean, who would be stupid enough to put all their money into a stupid cryptocurrency after watching a shitty YouTube video, right?" you laughed as he smiled irritably. You pretended to only now realize who fit that description and poked him on the chest. "Oh, that's you. I'm really not that surprised, to be honest."

His irritated stance only deepened and a few others watching the scene wondered how a hot-headed person like him hadn't ticked off yet. "You're really pissing me off right now, I would have thought you'd be happy to see me,"

You looked a little uncomfortable. "Not the slightest actually since you're pure scum. Please stay away from me, bye!" you said goodbye to the guy and made your way to another corner to create as much distance as possible.

"Damn, what's wrong with her?" Asked number 124, who had been staying by Thanos' side and observing the interaction. "How do you even know each other?" He asked him curiously, but Thanos' eyes were still fixed on your figure. "None of your business." he simply replied, before his grin deepened as he loosened up again.

She wants me. They all do.

[superbat-love]

The Watchtower was unusually festive for a weekday. The halls were strung with fairy lights, and garlands looped over every available surface. Justice League members milled about in varying degrees of questionable taste in Christmas-themed winter wear.

Clark strolled into the common area, adjusting the snug Flash-themed sweater he’d been “convinced” to wear. The sweater fit a little too tightly, clinging in ways that even Superman found a bit embarrassing, but he wore it with a good-natured smile. Flash, dressed in a Green Lantern sweater, gave him a thumbs up.

Batman sat stiffly at the corner table with his tablet, looking like the pinnacle of unfortunate holiday fashion. He wore an oversized, garishly ugly Aquaman sweater paired with Wonder Woman-themed gloves and Green Lantern socks that peeked out from under his usual black boots.

Clark barely managed to suppress a grin. “Nice outfit.”

“I was wearing my usual outfit,” Bruce deadpanned. “This... ensemble was forced on me.”

Diana breezed by in a bat-themed sweater, shooting him a smug smile. “You were brooding in the dark, again. We decided you needed to join the festivities.”

Bruce glared at her retreating back but didn’t argue.

Clark sat across from him. “You look a little cold,” Clark noted casually.

“I’m fine,” Bruce replied curtly.

Before Bruce could protest, Clark had fashioned his flowing red cape into a scarf, draping it around Bruce’s shoulders. “There,” Clark said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Warm and dignified.”

Bruce looked down at the scarf, then back up at Clark. “This clashes with the sweater.”

“Maybe,” Clark admitted, his smile soft, “but it suits you.”

Bruce didn’t respond, but Clark could swear he saw the faintest hint of a smirk beneath the cowl as Bruce returned to his tablet. The Superman crest rested snugly over his heart.

[cod-dump]

Price once called laswell katie accidentally. Years of military work. Countless near-death experiences. Torture. Living with soap and gaz's chaos. Living with ghost. Price was never as scared as the moment kate asked him what he'd just called her. Man ran

The silence after that would be suffocating. He can hear his heart beating so clearly, pounding in his chest. Laswell remaining where she sat, staring at him from the side. He knew what he had done, there was no taking it back.

"I'm sorry-"

"ARE YOU MY WIFE?? ONLY MY WIFE GETS TO CALL ME THAT-"

Price dropped the tablet he had in hand, too scared to worry if he broke it. He jumped over a couch and barely missed a book being thrown at him before he took off down the hall. He felt like a deer running from a bear.

"GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE!"

"I'M SORRY I'M SORRY-"

He knew people were hearing this, watching Captain John Price run for his life from Kate Laswell. If he survived this, this was going to haunt him for years.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Squeak Clean 2

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You start work as a maid but you’re not prepared for the mess your client brings with him. (maid AU – plus!reader)

Note: yeah…

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You’re about done. You just need to take the trash out to the bin and pack up the last of your things. As you wind the cord around your vacuum, a throat clears and draws your head around. You crane to see Steve watching you from the doorway to the kitchen. 

“Oh, just finishing up,” you say as you hook the cord to secure it and stand. 

“No problem. I was actually gonna ask if you wanted a snack,” he says, lifting his arm to lean his elbow on the doorway. You stop yourself from frame your hips, letting that knot in your lower back linger. 

A snack? You hesitate. You’re not bothered by your size or the assumptions people make about it. Still, you can’t help but be reminded of the extra cushion. You’re sure he didn’t mean it that way but it’s not really necessary for him to feed you. You bring your hands forward to fold them against your stomach. 

His eyes follow the movement and he blanches. His cheeks tinge pink and he blinks furiously, “wait, I only—I'm just being... nice. Sarah Rogers raised me right, you know? Not right to have someone in the house and not offer.” 

“It’s fine. I’m not a guest. I’m a cleaner,” you assure him and turn to grab the vacuum, dragging the wheels lightly off the carpet. 

“Sorry, if--” 

“No need. I’m not offended. Not hungry either.” You roll the vacuum to the front doorway and cross the room again. You approach him and slow, waiting for him to get out of the way, signalling with your eyes that you need to get past. “Excuse me.” 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he drops his arm but brings it back up to comb his golden hair. “How about water?” 

“I keep a bottle in my kit.” You assure him as you search out the bucket.  

He stands awkwardly by the door as you heave it up and carry it through to the front room. You put it with the vacuum and return one last time to the kitchen. You open the bin with the pedal but before you can uncurl the edges of the liner, Steve is right there. 

“Here, it’s pretty full. I’ll take care of it.” 

You back up if only to get space. You don’t like how easily he crowds you. You can’t tell if he underestimates his own size or yours. 

“That’s what you hire me to do,” you say. 

“Sure, but it’s one thing,” he lifts the bag out and ties it. 

“Right,” you agree. “I suppose then, I’m done for the day.” 

He lowers the bag to hang from his hand. He smiles at you. “You did a great job.” 

You arch a brow, “thanks.” You’re not sure if it’s normal. Zuli said you wouldn’t have to deal with small talk, well, she was wrong. Figures she’d lie. She never really stops talking. Maybe she should take this one. “I’m going to go.” 

He nods, almost as if he’s disappointed. “I’ll walk you out.” 

“Sure,” you shrug. 

You spin and stride away. You haul up the bucket and latch onto the vacuum. He comes closer again and before you can dodge him, he has a hold of your kit. You want so badly to rip it away. Didn’t he pay for a cleaner? Why is he trying to do everything himself? 

You don’t react. You push it all down and head for the door. You put your shoes on and grab your sweater. You head outside and he follows you. You have to keep from running to your car. The weight of the vacuum helps slow you. 

You open the trunk and lift in the vacuum. Not quick enough. He puts the trash bag on the curb and comes up to place the kit in the trunk first. He then lifts the vacuum and angles it into the car. You suck in a sigh. 

It must be something programmed into him. He is a hero, after all. He can’t just sit back and let others do the dirty work. Even to a lowly cleaner, he needs to be a saviour. 

“Thanks,” you mutter again. 

“No, thank you,” he takes a step back and searches around, “uh, drive safe.” 

“Mhm,” you nod again. “I’ll try.” 

You turn and walk up the driver’s side. You feel him watching you. You’re not the most socially graceful creature on earth. Graceful in fact is not a trait you possess in any manner. Blunt would be a better descriptor. 

You get in the car and shut the door. It doesn’t help cool the heat on the nape of your neck. You buckle your seat belt and glance in the rearview mirror. He’s still there behind you. Watching.  

You want to assume there’s some logic behind his strange behaviour. He must not be used to having people in his space. If it was you, you’d rather just clean your own place than let someone else poke around. You’re sure you have a lot less to hide than Captain America. 

You turn the engine. The rumble seems to jolt him into action. He moves away and grabs the trash bag. You flip your signal on and check your blind spot. You try to see around the cars behind you. 

You peek over again as Steve nears the bins against the brick of the townhouse. He pauses as he drops it inside and waves at you with another grin. You wonder if he rehearses that suburban hero act. It can’t be real. 

You pull out and shake your head. A job isn’t supposed to be enjoyable and rarely is it easy. You can tell already that while the work itself isn’t complicated, dealing with your client will be anything but simple. 

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Maid AU

Steve Rogers

Squeaky Clean 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Bucky Barnes

What a Mess 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Thor & Loki

Dirty Minds 1 | 2

[cautious-soup]

an 'interview'

Superbattinson Drabble :) [nsfw themes kinda]

Clark is a reporter and Bruce is a famous billionaire, so it makes sense they'd meet like this. Only, Bruce is supremely horny in this, and very single minded in getting Clark in a bed as soon as possible.

Curls.

Lovely, dark, messy curls.

"Um, Mr. Wayne?" the reporter asked. What was his name again? Bruce wasn't sure it mattered, so long as he was under him within the hour.

"Sorry, I lost myself." Bruce said, and smiled, "But if it's an interview you want I'm more than happy to oblige."

"Oh!" The reporter ducked his head to look down at his notebook, those curls falling over his eyes, "Um, yeah! I mean, yes..." he said, looking up from his notebook and down (fuck) at Bruce, "Where did you want to...?"

"How about the Orchard?" Bruce said, clapping the man on the shoulder and...wow. He let his hand linger, and slide an inch or two down the other man's forearm before letting it fall back to his side.

"Yes, the Orchard, of course!" The reporter beamed, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. 

Bruce cleared his throat. 

"Then, if you please," he said, nodding toward his corvette, "We'll head there now,"

"Oh...oh you really meant now..." The reporter (Corey? Cal?) said. 

Bruce opened the passenger door, letting the reporter duck inside before moving to the drivers seat.

"Wow," the other man breathed, running a hand along the upholstery before pulling it to his chest and glancing at Bruce, "This car is amazing...what year?"

" '63," Bruce said with a smirk, "I take it you like cars, then?" 

"Ah...a passing interest, but I know a good car when I see it, I mean the body on this is amazing," 

"Yes, yes it is," Bruce said, taking a moment as they stopped at a red light to let his gaze slide over the other man's form. He looked very *very* solid under that ill-fitting suit. 

Bruce gripped the steering wheel, pulling off a bit too rough when the light changed back to green.

After finally making it to the hotel, Bruce swung the key around his finger once as he turned to the reporter, "Alright, let's head up."

Bruce ignored the glances he received from the other patrons as they made their way to the elevator.

"Wow, people sure do like to stare huh?" The reporter said quietly.

"You get used to it," Bruce shrugged, pressing the button, "Let's just hope they don't get the wrong idea, hm?" He said lowly, giving the reporter a much more obvious once-over, and a smile. 

The reporter's cheeks bloomed into a perfect shade of pink. Bruce turned away and swallowed.

Soon.

[isaisliterallyhim]

can you do a fluffy drabble with gojo/reader? like very domestic cuddling teeth rotting fluff (⁠✯⁠ᴗ⁠✯⁠) tytytytyyy

hi anon! <3 yes i can in fact >:D gojo makes me so happy HAHA your wish is my command :3

" hold my hand until we turn to ashes "

ft. gojou satoru, ooc gojou (?), clingy! gojou cuddling (obv), gn! reader, kisses!, established relationship.

a/n: apologies if the english is bad TT also i cant write fluff the best :c

wc: 186

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ imagine gojo trying to catch your attention by cuddling with you

you were on your phone as gojo was happily snuggling himself into you, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. he embraced you a little tighter, hoping you'd pay attention to him a little more. " mmm, [name]... " gojo whined.

you immediately melted at his touch. you placed your phone down and shifted yourself to face him. " 'toru?" you smiled sweetly as he held you tighter. you wrapped your legs around him as he kept hugging.

you were pressed against him. as you shifted your head to face him you smiled softly once more. GOD sent smile. gojo was actually fighting the urge to make out with you right then and there! you were so soft and comfortable!

he peppered kisses all over your face, in which you scrunched your face in return. "[name], i love you so much." he frowned. it's hard to see the strongest being so vulnerable. you giggled, "love you too, satoru."

falling asleep in each others arms, gojo had one last thought before knocking out, i hope they stay with me forever.

— ©isaisliterallyhim, 2024

a/n: aghhh, fluff :(( so sorry if this wasn't what you expect LMAO i'm v v bad at writing fluff i fear </3 and again sorry for the bumcheek englisj and how short this fic was smh hopefully you enjoyed this anon TT i have such a soft spot for gojo smh poor guy is so overworked.

[kjack89]

New year, same bullshit. I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA, friends, but I hope you accept this drabble as an explanation of sorts. Love you all ❤️

“Should I be worried?”

Grantaire’s eyes flicker up to Enjolras’s, his cereal spoon halfway to his mouth. “Do you mean, like, in general?” he asks. “Because I mean, like, it’s 2025. And we’re all fucked. So.”

He sticks his spoon in his mouth and shrugs. Enjolras doesn’t smile. “That’s on me for not being more specific, I guess,” he says, scrubbing a hand across his mouth before crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’re not painting.”

Grantaire swallows. “Well, no,” he allows, “mainly because I’m eating breakfast at the moment.”

“Be serious.”

Grantaire’s lips twitch. “It’s somewhat less funny when you know it’s coming.”

Enjolras arches an eyebrow. “And yet that’s never stopped you before.”

“Fair.” Grantaire twirls his spoon between his fingers before pronouncing, like the well-worn, inside joke it had become, “I am wild.”

Almost certainly despite himself, Enjolras smiles, just slightly. “Yeah, you are,” he agrees. “But you’re also not painting.”

Grantaire’s answering smile fades. “Could be,” he says, a little sullenly. “It’s not like you’re around enough to know.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it, but Enjolras doesn’t flinch. “Maybe not but we live in a late capitalist surveillance state so I have my ways of finding out.”

“Well, well, well, typical white man, complaining about the system except for when it directly benefits you.”

“Yep,” Enjolras says. “Are you going to keep deflecting? Because I can do this all day.”

For a moment, Grantaire’s tempted to take him up on it, to see just how long he’ll actually allow this to drag on. It’d almost certainly be good fun, and it isn’t like Grantaire’s got anything better to do.

But he can also see that Enjolras is genuinely worried, can see it in the tightness of his shoulders and the lines at the corners of his eyes that he tries to claim aren’t crow’s feet because he’s not old enough to have crow’s feet. And considering Grantaire’s previous point about all of the other things that are almost certainly more worth Enjolras’s worry, he supposes he owes him at least a semblance of the truth.

“Yes, I haven’t been painting,” he says, dipping his spoon in his bowl of cereal and stirring it, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands. “No, you shouldn’t be worried.”

Enjolras nods like he didn’t really expect a different answer. “Are you depressed again?”

Enjolras’s bluntness, characteristic though it may be, still startles a laugh from Grantaire. He sighs and looks down at his cereal bowl. “There’s not really a way to say this that won’t worry you.”

When he sneaks a glance at him, Enjolras meets his eyes evenly. “Try me.”

Grantaire jerks a shrug. “I’ve never really not been depressed,” he admits, which isn’t really a dirty secret so he’s not entirely sure why he’s saying it like it is.

Maybe because he really doesn’t want Enjolras to worry. They don’t talk about this, really, other than for Enjolras to reiterate more times than Grantaire can count that he’s always there to listen if ever Grantaire wants or needs to talk.

He knows that Grantaire’s in therapy, and takes meds, and had some very low lows previously, but Grantaire’s never felt the need to fill him in on the specifics.

It was depressing enough living it the first time.

He made that joke, such as it was, to his therapist, who didn’t laugh. “Do you frequently feel like you’re a burden to your loved ones?” she asked in response.

Of course Grantaire does, but again, he won’t tell Enjolras that.

Enjolras taps his fingers on the table, the way he does when he’s deciding on the best plan of attack or how to most effectively dismantle whatever asinine argument Grantaire’s brought up. “I thought you were doing better,” he says hesitantly after a moment.

He doesn’t pitch it as a question but Grantaire still nods. “I was.”

“What happened?” Enjolras asks, before pausing and asking, “Did something happen?”

Grantaire sighs and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “It doesn’t always work that way,” he says. “It’s not always triggered by something happening.”

Enjolras’s brow furrows. “Right,” he says shortly, something like disappointment flitting across his expression.

It took Grantaire a very long time when they got together to realize that this kind of disappointment isn’t aimed at him, but at a problem Enjolras can’t fix, an enemy he can’t fight.

At least, not directly.

He clears his throat. “But in this case, I think probably everything over the past few months played at least a contributory role, shall we say.”

True though it is, he mostly says it for Enjolras’s sake. Enjolras just nods slowly. “Are you not painting because your depression is bad again?”

Grantaire exhales sharply. “I’ve painted a lot while depressed.”

Enjolras’s expression doesn’t shift. “Another excellent deflection.”

Grantaire barks a laugh and scrubs both hands across his face. “You know me too fucking well.”

“Or just well enough.”

Grantaire lowers his hands and sighs again. He doesn’t quite meet Enjolras’s eyes as he says, “Every time I go try to paint…it’s like I can’t see it anymore, you know?” Enjolras almost certainly doesn’t know, but he’s struggling to put it into words in a way he can understand. “Like I can’t picture it in my mind, how I want it to look, or how to get there. It’s– it’s like trying to paint in fog.”

It’s not an exact metaphor, but it’ll do.

Enjolras nods slowly. “But I don’t need to be worried.”

“No,” Grantaire says, before wrinkling his nose. “Yes? I never know what the correct response is.” Enjolras just gives him a look, and Grantaire tells him, “No, you don’t need to be worried.” He pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth before telling Enjolras with an almost tired conviction, “It’ll come back. It always has.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire cracks a smile. “Then you can worry.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Ok,” he says simply.

Grantaire eyes him resignedly. “You’re going to worry anyway, aren’t you?”

A smile twitches at the corners of Enjolras’s mouth. “Newsflash, asshole, I’ve been worried this whole time,” he says dryly, and Grantaire’s smile widens at the quote.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Enjolras’s smile disappears.

“What? Why?”

Grantaire shakes his head, mostly because he knows Enjolras won’t like his explanation. “Because you shouldn’t have to—”

Sure enough, Enjolras cuts him off with a scowl, though his voice is gentle as he tells him, “That ship I’m pretty sure sailed when I fell in love with you. Or, frankly, probably a good deal sooner than that.”

There are so many things that Grantaire wants to say that, but he can’t bring himself to. Instead, he stretches his hand across the table and tells Enjolras, sincerely, “I love you.”

Enjolras takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I know,” he says softly. “I love you, too.” He squeezes Grantaire’s hand before adding, “I hope it comes back soon.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees. “So do I.”

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw][crack][fluff][reader is an asshole][this is their karma for some shit they did in the past]

Includes: Damian Wayne; Bruce Wayne; Dick Grayson

A/n: a lil' drabble to broaden my horizons and see if I should stick to smut :3

"Okay, listen here, Sulu, I don't take orders from you. I take orders from your mother. So if she says I need to keep you safe, best believe, I'm doing my job to the best of my ability."

You're off-putting on your best day.

Alfred and Jason love to call you Damian's karma for him being a massive dick, and Bruce likes to call you.... Well... When Damian's not on his best behaviour.

"Listen, Cobra Kai, you better get your shit straight and listen to Batman." You stare at Damian, your eyes narrowing at him with distaste, upper lip curling in disdain before you look up at Bruce, your expression warm and your eyes fucking sparkle like a supernova.

"Huge fan." You reassure Bruce before looking back at Damian, finding those emerald eyes simmering with barely contained rage and he just about has it when you take two fingers, pointing them at your eyes and then, pointing them at his.

And almost as if to drive in your point (which you definitely do not have), you take a hefty bite of the nearest edible thing to you as you stand in the centre of the kitchen.

The nearest thing being an onion. Freshly peeled.

Your teeth sink into the flesh of the vegetable, and your throat burns but you don't waver, simply retreating back to your assigned bedroom and Jason lets out a whistle, muscular arms crossing over his broad chest.

"I expected her to start tearing up at the taste." Jason comments, taking a bite of the orange in his hand, the fruit already peeled and missing a few bites, which suggests that he didn't even cut it.

"I don't think she can cry." Bruce mutters quietly, before letting a shiver run down his spine and he visibly shudders. "She's intense."

Meanwhile, you're in the en suite of your room, coughing your lungs out your ass and trying not to gag as you feed yourself palmfuls of water from the bathroom sink. The water's clean, clear enough to be drinkable and you rinse your mouth. Your lashes are wet with unshed tears as you allow yourself to sink to the cool bathroom tiles, resting your back against the wall and you wipe the water droplets from your chin, letting out panted breaths.

"Holy shit." You mutter quietly.

Talia had trained you personally, wanting you to be her son's bodyguard when he needed it the most. And she deems him 'needing it the most', as now. When he's been living with his father for about 9 years. When he's 6 foot 2. When he's jacked and a fucking ninja who quite literally, is like...

Have you ever seen that movie? Ninja Assassin?

That's Damian.

Moving organs and shit.

It's barely midnight when Damian clomps into your bedroom, arms folded across his chest and he stares at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes glittering like jewels in a cove as he spits out.

"What do I have to do, to make you leave?"

His expression is tight, eyes narrowing and the muscle in his jaw is wound tighter than... Well a wire. That's wound super tight around a thing.

Damian's fingers tap impatiently on his bicep as he waits for you to answer his question, the fabric of his T-shirt stretching tightly around the muscles of his torso, extending past the waistband of his pants. And he runs his tongue across his teeth, stopping at the sharp point of his canine.

"I'm waiting, vermin."

You scoff.

"Calm down, Beverly Hills Ninja." You watch Damian's jaw tick in annoyance at the nickname.

Somehow, they always seem to get worse. Even when they're... Awful.

"I'm not gonna be here for any longer than you need me to be."

Your voice is as grating to his ears as nails to a chalkboard, but that stupid cadence and the lilt of your tone have his mind wracking for ways to put your stupid mouth to better use.

"I don't need you to be here." Damian grumbles.

"Listen, Kung Fu Hustle," you roll your eyes, readying yourself to go to bed as the back of your head makes contact with the puffed up pillow, the satin pillowcase making you let out a sigh of relief, "I'll tell you what you need."

Bruce would actually rather be in that alley again than work another case with your dumb ass.

Commissioner Gordon's protege, the only officer that somehow seems like a combination of Spencer Reid and Jake Peralta. But more Jake, than anything.

"Come on, Sherlock Homo." You snap your fingers in front of Bruce's cowl-covered face, but you watch as his eyes narrow while he stares down at you. But he doesn't speak, simply glancing back towards the clues laid across the surface of the desk in front of you two.

In the archives of the GCPD building, Bruce and you remain working silently. His wards having taken over his patrol, giving him the time for a physical breather but God, his jaw finds itself clenched tighter than Arthur's fist.

The air smells like musty books and ink, a hint of pine cleaner and you settle into your seat, lifting the clue to your eyes, scanning over the parchment for any kind of spot that could mean something.

"I think we should refer to previous riddles." Bruce hums softly, biceps bulging beneath the Kevlar of his suit, his cape fluttering in the breeze that creeps through rusted vents.

"Or we can use Chat GPT?"

Bruce watches, his expression falling to one of incredulity as he watches you grab your phone from your bag, the device just so...

He's distressed, on your behalf.

15%. A few cracks in your screen guard and that bright notification that says your storage is far too full for your phone to be functioning optimally.

And Bruce watches as you type the riddle into the AI app, and he watches as those dots appear, signalling a response being formulated. And Bruce nearly groans aloud when he sees an ad light up your screen.

And he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration when he watches you screenshot the name of the stupid widget app, saving it for later when you can download it.

"Should we use my phone?"

Bruce's question is unexpected and you crease your brows, shaking your head.

"Nah, I just need to connect to the wifi."

And Bruce wipes his hands over his face, a low groan rumbling in his broad chest before he drops into the seat beside you, and he waits for you.

Each minute seems like a lifetime, and he hears that little beep.

"Did you get an answer?" Bruce questions, his voice tinged with barely contained annoyance, frustration. Almost everything that points to him yanking out his luxurious, inky hair.

"It says I used up my free messages." You purse your lips. "I'm gonna make a new email really quickly."

Half an hour passes before you get an answer. Which is, that there is no answer.

"This...—" Bruce let's out a shaky breath. "Have you ever been told that you're disorganised?"

And you scoff, raising a hand in Bruce's direction to dismiss him.

"Listen, Karate Kid, who went to police academy?" You question Bruce. "Not me, but still. I've still got the badge, American Ninja."

"You're not a legal officer?!"

"License and registration, Mr Wing."

Dick can't believe this.

He's getting a speeding ticket for chasing a fucking criminal on his bike.

"They have my secret identity on them, so I can't give it to you." Dick answers, pulling his bike onto the curb and cutting the engine, and he rests his forearms on the space between the handlebars. Because he just knows this is gonna take a while.

"So you're impersonating right now?"

Dick rolls his eyes behind his mask, and his lips part to protest.

"Listen, officer, I'm in a bit of a hurry and it'd be really nice if you could just... Not do this right now."

Dick's trying to be nice, really. Trying to respect the law and act like a model citizen, like the kind of citizen he'd be happy to protect and serve.

"Well, too bad Britney Allen, justice... Isn't nice. Justice is messy, hard and fast. Like a creampie." And you pull the notebook out of your back pocket, the action of tilting your body just a bit draws Dick's attention to your body.

Perfect hips, only accentuated by those stupid cuffed, cargo pants and that bulky holster belt.

Dick clears his throat.

He seriously cannot be finding you sexy right now.

"So, Twinkle toes, you wanna tell me why you're going 130 in a 80 zone?" You hum, eyes lowered to the notebook in your hands, continuing to scrawl his parking ticket before you glance towards the number plate of the sportbike.

Or more accurately, the lack thereof.

"Oh, Pom Poms," you muse, laughter in your voice as you continue to scrawl, "riding without a number plate? That's an 80 dollar fine."

Rummaging through a hidden compartment, long gloved fingers wrap around a hundred dollar bill before handing it to you. And you pocket it.

"Now what about the fine?"

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Happy New Year, BuckTommy nation...

... have a little treat!

"First coffee of the new year," Evan says with a smile as he lazily spreads his whole body against the bed frame. 

The smile spreads across his whole face, etching a hollow in his birthmark, and then – it must be magic – takes a leap onto Tommy's features. He’s standing beside the bed, coffee in hand; their fingers touch lightly as Evan takes the cup, a tiny jolt of electricity, but not because of the lack of humidity. There’s no lack of moisture and friction between them, not at all.

“Right,” Tommy replies nonchalantly, his mind wandering over to Buck's naked torso, up and down the tattoos, and he thinks sweet, the coffee is sweet, like you. It’s cheesy, sure, but what else is he supposed to think?

What is he supposed to think after spending the night on sweaty sheets with this guy, this power plant of a body; heat spreading from the inside that cannot be extinguished, not even by a firefighter. That’s a funny thought. 

Evan clutches the cup with both hands as if he were cold, while Tommy is still standing there, heat between his thighs he shouldn’t be capable of, not after this night. Memory fragments: hands clawing at each other, teeth digging into his shoulder, the slippery feeling of sweaty thighs rubbing against each other. But also: a curl tickling his collarbone, Evans' head a familiar weight in the crook of his arm. A hand holding his own in a tight, confident grip. Lips pressed to his neck, a vibrating voice telling stories for hours. 

There's more to this, more honesty, even more intimacy. As if they’d peeled each other of their outer shell to reveal a core, raw and unpolished, but ready for each other. 

Tommy's own cup becomes heavy in his hand, as if it were filled not with coffee but with possibilities. Almost somnambulantly, he slips back into bed, next to Evan, who’s still smiling and sucking the steam out of his cup as if the product from Tommy's Italian coffee machine were just another intoxicant.

“Happy New Year,” says Evan, not for the first time today. 

They clink their cups, just like they did a few hours ago with that expensive champagne. Nothing tastes as good as Evan, Tommy thinks, and maybe, maybe that sparkle in Evan’s eyes means the same. 

Words tumble out of Tommy's mouth, “I want this year and all the following years with you.”

Was that too much? It's a risk Tommy is willing to take now. Or maybe it’s no risk at all, because Evans's features seem to melt at the sound of those words. 

“I want that too. It's going to be an amazing year.”

Every year is gonna be amazing with you, Tommy thinks, his lips still hot from the coffee – or maybe more - as he leans over to kiss Evan’s birthmark. 

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

What are we doing?

Tags: JJK men x fem!Reader, smau, pre-relationship, cursing, nsfw (toji’s), mdni

An: i just want to make it clear that the picture toji sends is NOTHING dirty. it’s actually a screenshot from love and deepspace, but you can pretend LOL

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 - Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, Choso, Toji, Sukuna

Taglist: @surgeonsofazeroy @cottonlemonade

[michaelsfavgirl]

tied & taken

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: Michael finally indulges one of his most sinful fantasies: tying you to the bed like the perfect present you are and fucking you stupid over and over, until you're utterly spent.

Tags: smut, bondage, blindfold, pre-established safe words, dom!michael, sub!reader, nipple play, oral (fem receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, overstimulation, dom/sub undertones, rough sex, dick too big (but that's not new here).

Word Count: 5k

Requested: yes/no

Author’s Note: let's finish this year with a bang!

Links: navigation | masterlist | taglist

The room glows softly, the only light coming from the twinkling Christmas tree in the corner. Outside the frosted windows snow falls in lazy flakes, blanketing the world in white. Inside, though, your world is anything but calm. Goosebumps pebble your skin and your heart beats faster as you lie back on the bed, completely bare, just as naked as he is.

Above you, Michael’s chain dangles, catching the warm light. It sways slightly as he leans over you. Your breathing hitches when his warm fingers wrap gently around your wrist, bringing it up to the headboard. The luxurious red silk ribbon glides against your skin, making you shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the winter weather.

He works slowly, taking his time, as though savoring each second. His hands are careful but firm, tying the ribbon around your wrist and securing it to the headboard. When he finishes, he takes the loose ends and ties a small, elegant bow. It’s almost ridiculous how much care he’s putting into the details.

Your eyes wander up to his face, and you catch a look in his eyes that sends another shiver through you. It’s a look of control, of desire, and something more—something deeper, a hunger that he’s clearly been holding back. How long has he been waiting for this? The thought makes your cheeks warm.

He notices your dazed expression and gently tilts your chin up, drawing you back into the moment. “What color?” he asks, his voice low, grounding you even as it makes your heart race.

For a second, your focus drifts to the slickness trailing down your slit, a mortifying reminder of how ready your body is for him. You swallow hard, blinking up at him before quietly responding, “green.”

Michael’s lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your forehead.

He moves to your other wrist, repeating the process with the same care. Once it’s tied you tilt your head up, looking at your wrists and you tug lightly, testing the bonds. They hold firm but not uncomfortably so.

Michael notices and reaches out to cradle your cheek. His thumb strokes the soft skin there as he asks, “Want me to loosen them up? Don’t want my baby to be uncomfortable.”

The tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache, and you shake your head, unable to look away from his deep brown eyes. How does he do that? How does he manage to be so gentle and so commanding all at once? It’s maddening and intoxicating.

“Use your words,” he prompts, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

You feel heat rising in your face, and you whisper, “No.”

A proud smile spreads across his face, and he coos softly, “Just like that.”

His big hands begin their descent, trailing down your body with deliberate slowness. When his fingers brush against your breasts, your nipples pebble even harder, the mix of the cold air and your arousal making them hypersensitive. He pauses there, cupping your tits in his warm hands and giving them special attention. His thumbs brush over your stiff buds, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your pussy.

Your breathing picks up, shallow and quick, as he kneads your breasts, his focus so intense it makes you wonder. What other freaky shit is he into? The thought almost makes you giggle, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Michael notices immediately. His head cocks to the side, an amused smile playing on his lips as he looks down at you. “What’s got you smiling, huh?”

You quickly shake your head. “Nothing,” you mumble, trying to stifle the grin.

“Nothing?” he repeats, his smirk widening. “You sure about that?”

Before you can answer, he leans down, his lips wrapping around one of your nipples. The teasing tug of his mouth erases the smile from your face in an instant, replacing it with a gasp as heat pools low in your belly. He sucks gently at first, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before he pulls back slightly, only to take it deeper into his mouth.

Your head falls back against the pillows, your body arching into him as his hands greedily squeeze your waist. He alternates between your breasts, worshiping each one with his lips and tongue. Your tied wrists tug instinctively at the ribbons.

“Michael,” you breathe, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

He hums in response, the vibration against your sensitive nipple sending a shockwave through you. His hands slide lower, skimming over your ribs and settling on your hips. He grips you firmly, holding you in place as his mouth continues its assault on your chest.

He finally let your nipple slip free, a thin string of saliva still connecting him to you. The sight alone has your breath catching, but it’s the way he leans back, his movements slow, that makes you squirm.

Michael’s body shifts, his broad shoulders and toned chest glistening faintly under the soft light. His cock, thick and heavy, bobs between his legs as he moves, curving downwards from how fat it is. His tip peeking from the hood all glossy from his precum. You can’t help but stare, your mouth watering at the sight. You’re so caught up in the sight of him that you barely register his hands sliding down to your ankle, his lips pressing soft, heated kisses up the length of your leg.

He reaches your knee, his kisses growing more seductive. His gaze locks with yours, and the lookon his face tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. Slowly, he wraps the red ribbon around your bent knee, his fingers brushing your skin as he ties it off. The silk is soft but secure as he ties it to the headboard, your knee now folded up so tightly that it’s nearly touching your shoulder. The position leaves you gasping softly, the exposed stretch of your body making your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

He leans over to do the same with your other leg. His cock hovers dangerously close to your slippery folds, and you let out a small, involuntary whimper when it doesn’t quite touch you. Michael’s smirk deepens at your disappointment. When he finishes tying your other knee to the headboard, he finally sits back on his heels, surveying you like an artist admiring their masterpiece.

You swallow hard, testing the restraints. Your legs can barely move, and the angle leaves you completely exposed. Your pussy is spread wide, glistening in the soft light, your swollen clit and drooling entrance on full display. You can feel the heat radiating off your body, your vulnerability making your cheeks burn hotter. You look up at him, searching his face for any sign of mercy, but all you find is his smug, knowing smile.

“You look perfect, sweet girl,” he murmurs, his large hands pressing against the backs of your thighs. He pushes them closer to your chest, folding you even tighter, and the motion has your walls clenching around nothing. A desperate whine escapes your lips as your head tilts back against the pillows.

Michael bites his lip and lets go of your legs, leaning back slightly as he picks up another length of ribbon. The crimson fabric slides through his fingers as he looks at you thoughtfully. “Sure about this too?” he asks, his tone teasing.

You nod quickly, your movements impatient, feeling like you might combust if he doesn’t touch you soon.

He tsks softly, shaking his head. “What did I say about using your words like a big girl?”

A frustrated whine escapes your throat. Your body is strung so tight that you feel like you might snap. “I’m sure,” you say through gritted teeth, your voice wavering. “Just… please.”

Michael leans forward, his hand cradling your cheek. His thumb brushes against your heated skin as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. The tenderness soothes you slightly, but it’s not enough to ease the ache between your legs. While kissing you, his hands move to the sides of your head, lifting it gently.

The blindfold slides over your eyes, plunging you into darkness. The sudden loss of sight heightens every other sensation—the warmth of his hands, the faint scent of his cologne, the sound of your own uneven breathing filling the room. 

When Michael pulls back, the bed shifts slightly under his weight. You strain your ears, trying to figure out where he is or what he’s doing, but all you’re met with is silence. The anticipation is maddening, your chest heaving as you try to steady your breathing.

“Michael?” you call out softly, your voice trembling.

There’s no response, only the sound of the bed creaking slightly. Did he get off the bed? Is he watching you from somewhere else in the room? You feel so exposed, so utterly helpless, and it’s almost too much to bear.

Michael watches you from his spot on the bed, a satisfied smirk on his face. He can see how worked up you are, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your thighs trembling in their bonds. The sight of you like this—vulnerable, needy, and completely at his mercy—makes his cock twitch painfully. But he’s not done teasing you yet.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “Remember your safeword?” you nod and lick your lips. He hums satisfied.

Michael’s presence looms, his gaze burning into you even though you can’t see him. You can feel him watching, his attention laser-focused on your completely exposed form. The silence is maddening.

He sits back on his heels, stroking himself slowly, his hand wrapping firmly around his thick shaft. He’s been hard for what feels like hours, teasing you and himself, drawing this game out longer than you thought possible. His eyes stay glued to your puffy cunt. The way you’re spread open for him, your knees tied up near your shoulders, your weeping pussy on full display—it’s enough to make his cock leak with need.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice soft but edged with heat. “So needy. Always begging without saying a word.”

You don’t respond, your throat too tight, your body too aware of the weight of his gaze. He doesn’t need an answer anyway. His thumb swipes over the leaking head of his cock, spreading the precum as he strokes himself lazily.

The moment his tip makes contact with your clit, you gasp, your body jolting at the sudden stimulation. The wet, heavy tap makes your eyes flutter against the ribbon. 

He lifts his cock away just as you instinctively try to grind your hips upward. The movement leaves you empty, aching for more, and you let out a frustrated whine. Your wrists and knees tug at the restraints, but there’s no give. You’re completely helpless.

“Ah, ah,” he coos, his tone mocking but affectionate. “Don’t get too greedy now.”

Greedy? The word makes you want to scoff. He’s been tormenting you all day, bringing you to the edge of release over and over, only to pull back at the last second. Your body is on fire but you bite your tongue. You know better than to talk back—it’ll only give him an excuse to draw this out even longer.

Michael notices the way your lips purse, the telltale sign of your irritation. It makes him smile. “Atta girl,” he murmurs, leaning forward to hover over your bound frame. His weight shifts the bed, and you feel the heat of his body radiating down to you.

He stops close to your face, his breath ghosting over your lips. You can feel how near he is, so close that you’re sure he’s about to kiss you. Your body tenses in anticipation, your lips parting slightly as you tilt your head up to meet him. But he moves at the last second, just out of reach, and your head falls back against the pillow with a frustrated sigh.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and teasing. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, his voice dripping with amusement. “Were you expecting something?”

You pout, your lips trembling slightly. He’s playing with you, toying with you, and you can’t even see his expression. It’s infuriating.

Feeling a pang of guilt at your defeated expression, Michael finally closes the distance. His lips press against yours, warm and tender, an apology of sorts. You sigh into the kiss, your body relaxing for the first time in what feels like hours. His tongue slips into your mouth and for a few blissful moments, he gives in to you, letting you taste him, feel him, and your heart swells at the intimacy.

But it’s over too soon. He pulls back, leaving you breathless, and begins trailing kisses down your body. His mouth moves slowly, savoring every inch of you. He kisses along the curve of your neck, down to your collarbone, his hands greedily squeezing your sides as he goes. His lips continue their journey down your stomach. His hands knead your thighs, his fingers pressing into your soft flesh as he takes his time worshipping you.

On instinct you tilt your head upward as if that will help you see something—anything—but the blindfold holds firm, the dark fabric blocking out all light. You can’t even find the smallest gap to peek through. Frustrated, you let your head fall back against the pillows again.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Michael says, his voice muffled against your inner thigh. “Completely helpless. Completely mine.”

Your walls clench instinctively around nothing. The need inside you is almost unbearable. But Michael doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. He’s savoring this—savoring you—and it only makes your desperation grow.

He reaches your dripping core, and your breath catches as you feel the first teasing puff of warm air against your sensitive, slick folds. The sensation is maddening, a small, desperate whimper escapes your lips, and you can feel the corners of his smirk even though you can’t see it.

“Patience, my girl,” he murmurs.

“If you’re good, I’ll give you what you want.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with promise. But even as he speaks, he doesn’t touch you. Instead, he just stares, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of your swollen, sticky folds. Your hips jerk instinctively, seeking any kind of relief.

You hear him chuckle softly. “So desperate,” he says, more to himself than to you. “But that’s exactly how I want you.”

Before you can respond, his tongue finally makes contact. The first broad lick of his hot, wet tongue over your folds pulls a choked gasp from your lips. He doesn’t rush, taking his time as he laps at you, savoring the tangy sweetness of your slick like it’s his favorite dessert. He drags his tongue slowly along every crevice, deliberately avoiding your throbbing button.

He sucks gently on your folds, his lips closing around them as he alternates between soft kisses and teasing nibbles. His tongue dips lower, swirling around your entrance before sliding inside, the wet heat of it making you clench helplessly around the intrusion. A shaky moan escapes your lips as your body arches toward him. But still he ignores your clit, leaving the most sensitive part of you aching for attention.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice breaking. 

He pulls back just enough to speak, not wanting to be too separated from your delicious cunt. “Please, what?” he asks, his tone casual, almost amused.

Your cheeks burn hotter, and you swallow hard, trying to find the words. “I- I’ve been good,” you manage to say, your voice trembling. “I’ve been so good.”

He hums thoughtfully, his wet lips brushing against your inner thigh as he considers your plea. “You think so?” he asks, his tone playful, almost taunting. “You think you’ve earned it?”

“Yes, yes,” you whisper. “Please, I-”

But he doesn’t let you finish. His mouth is on you again, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold, tasting you so thoroughly it’s almost obscene. But still, he avoids your clit, leaving it untouched, the neglect driving you to the brink of madness.

Your body trembles as you tug at the silk ribbons holding you in place. The heightened sensations of being so bound and blindfolded only add to the insatiable craving. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You want to beg, to cry, to scream—but you bite your lip, trying to hold back.

He notices, of course. He always notices. “Poor thing,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You look like you’re about to cry. Is it that bad?”

“Yes,” you sob, unable to hold back any longer. “Just let me-”

Relenting his tongue moves higher. The first deliberate flick of his tongue over your clit sends a shock wave of pleasure through you, and you cry out, your entire body jerking against the restraints. He doesn’t stop this time, his tongue flicking your sensitive nub with just the right amount of pressure.

Your head falls back, a high-pitched moan spilling from your lips as the pleasure builds rapidly. He holds you there, right on the edge, his lips sealed tightly around your pulsing clit.

And when you finally cum, it’s like a dam breaking. Your body shaking as you cry out his name, your voice cracking with the intensity of it. He doesn’t stop, his tongue and lips drawing out every last shudder, every last tremor, until you’re left gasping for air, completely spent.

Michael pulls back slowly, his lips unlatching and covered with your slick, his eyes dark and satisfied as he watches you come down from the high. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of praise. “So good for me.” 

The room is silent except for your ragged breaths and the faint creak of the mattress beneath you. The blindfold remains snug over your eyes, leaving your other senses to compensate. Every little noise—his breathing, the subtle shift of his weight—feels magnified.

You try to move, to close your legs and shield your overstimulated pussy, but the silk ribbons binding your knees to the headboard keep you helplessly spread. The effort only causes the restraints to tug against your skin, a reminder of just how exposed you are. You whimper softly, the vulnerability making you hyper aware of your slick dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

A low chuckle rumbles from him. “Trying to close up on me?” he teases, his voice dark and smooth. “Thought you know better than that.”

You hear him shift closer, and then his fingers are there, just barely ghosting over your drenched folds. The touch is featherlight. Your hips buck instinctively, seeking more contact, but his hand moves away just as quickly, leaving you panting and desperate.

“So twitchy,” he says. “So sensitive. That’s what happens when my pretty girl is all tied up, isn’t it?”

You swallow hard, your chest rising and falling as his fingers return, this time pressing gently against your quivering entrance. The tip of one finger dips inside, just enough to make you whimper, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. He doesn’t push further, though, just toys with your hole, circling and teasing until you’re nearly in tears again from the frustration.

“Look at you,” he coos. “Just made you cum, yet your greedy little pussy wants more, doesn't she?”  

His fingers finally press deeper, sliding knuckle-deep into your wet depth. Your mouth falls open as the stretch sends a jolt of pleasure through you, but it’s still not enough—not nearly enough. 

He curls his fingers inside you, brushing against that sweet spot that makes your back arch and a sharp gasp leave your lips. “There we go,” he says, his other hand reaching down to wrap around his stiff, lengthy cock. He strokes himself slowly, his eyes locked on your needy cunt. The bulbous tip of his cock glistens with precum, and he lets a thick bead of it drip onto your folds, mix with your juices.

“Look at this mess,” he murmurs, his fingers moving in and out of you in a steady rhythm. “No one gets to see you like this, only me.”

He adds another finger, spreading you open, the stretch deliciously overwhelming, and you cry out, involuntary tugging at the restraints. His free hand tightens around his cock, fisting the veiny length as he watches you squirm and writhe beneath him.

He slows his movements, his fingers sliding out of you as you whine at the loss. You can hear him licking his fingers clean, the wet, sinful sounds making your cheeks burn. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice sincere, lacking that teasing tone. “Once I’m inside you, I won’t be able to hold back. You know that, don’t you, my clever girl?”

“mhm,” you gasp, nodding vigorously. “I know, I know.”

He chuckles softly at your eagerness. “Good,” he says. 

He positions himself at your entrance. His girthy, meaty cock presses against your sticky lips, teasing and testing your limits. Your breath hitches, the tremors running through you making it impossible to stay still. He notices, of course, his sharp eyes drinking in every quiver of your restrained body.

“Shh, easy now,” he murmurs softly, his voice a low, soothing rumble. His hand caresses your hip before gripping it firmly, his possessive touch grounding you. “Need you to relax, sweetheart. If you don’t, I won’t be able to fit.” His tone is gentle but laced with command.

You nod obediently, biting your lip as you try to relax, though the very thought of his monstrous size has your walls fluttering in anticipation. His hand tightens on your hip, anchoring you in place as he lines himself up. He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the warmth of his tip nudging at your entrance. Slowly, he slides the glossy head through your folds, mixing his precum with your slick.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he begins to push inside, his tip stretching you open. A whimper escapes your lips as your body struggles to accommodate his girth, the slight sting of the stretch making your eyes flutter behind the blindfold. He groans deeply, the sound guttural and full of restraint as he fights the urge to shove himself in all at once.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice deep.

He glides in deeper, each thick inch making your body tense. His hold on your soft hip tightens, his thumb brushing over your skin in an attempt to soothe you. When he finally buries himself to the hilt, his heavy balls pressing firmly against your ass, you let out a strangled cry, your head pressing back into the pillow as your mouth falls open. The stretch is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that leaves you breathless.

He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, your folds stretched impossibly wide around him. “Such a perfect present for me, stuffed full of my cock.” His voice is thick with pride and lust.

His words send a flush of heat to your cheeks. Before you can respond, he leans down, his broad chest pressing against yours as his lips capture yours in a hungry, sloppy kiss. His kisses swallowing your whimpers as he devours you.

You lose yourself in the feeling, your senses overwhelmed by the feel of his lips, the press of his body, the stretch of his cock buried deep inside you. Then, without warning, he starts to move, his hips pulling back before driving forward with a powerful thrust. The force of it knocks the breath from your lungs, and you gasp against his lips, your moans spilling freely as he sets a brutal, unrelenting pace.

Each plunge is hard and fast, his hips pistoling against the back of your thighs, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room. The squelching sounds of your soaked pussy are loud, debaucherous, and they seem to drive him even wilder. You can feel the creamy ring of your juices forming at the base of his cock, coating his dark, coiled pubic hair, and the thought makes your pout. It’s a shame you can’t see it for yourself.

“God, baby,” he groans, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. “You’re making such a mess on my cock.”

Your wrists tug at the ribbons binding you to the headboard, the tension making your arms ache slightly, but the sensation only adds to the intensity. Your tits bounce with each powerful thrust, your body rocking against the mattress as he takes you with an almost animalistic fervor. His groans mix with your cries, the smell of sex filling the air.

His lips latch onto your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin as he nips and sucks, marking you as his. Each bite sends jolts of heat through your body, claiming you in a way that feels primal and possessive. You tilt your head to the side, giving him more access, even as his pace leaves you gasping for air. His cock hammers against your cervix with each thrust, and the pressure makes your legs tremble and your toes curl.

The blindfold over your eyes grows damp as tears of pleasure stream down your face. The fabric, already a deep red, darkens as it absorbs the evidence of your ecstasy. Your outstretched arms and legs ache from being bound for so long, but the sheer intensity of being impaled on his cock makes the discomfort fade into the background. Your entire world narrows to the sensation of him, the overwhelming stretch, the animalistic rhythm, and the heat of his body pressing against yours.

Your release builds quickly, your walls fluttering around him as your body reaches its limit. Without warning, you squirt, a gush of liquid soaking his cock, his abdomen, and his thighs. The release is powerful and uncontrollable, a strangled cry escapes your lips. He groans in response, his voice rough and laced with desire.

He curses under his breath, his hips never faltering. If anything, he fuck you harder, the wetness only spurring him on. The bed creaks louder, rocking with his movements, and you swear it might break under the force of his pounding. “Come on, baby, give it to me. Drench cock.”

Your body spasms, squirting again and again as he drives you into overstimulation. Your juices spray in every direction, soaking everything. The sensitivity becomes unbearable, and you start to shake, your voice high-pitched and breathy as you babble incoherently. “It’s too much, too much!” you manage to whine, your words slurred from the overwhelming sensations coursing through you.

He leans down, his lips brushing your ear as he coos softly. “Shh, I know, sweetheart, I know. But you can take it. Just one more for me, yeah?”

His fingers find your slippery, swollen clit, rubbing it in tight circles. The additional stimulation sends your mind into a haze, and you scream as another orgasm tears through you. Your gummy walls clamp down on his cock, milking him as you soak him once more, your body convulsing uncontrollably. Your hands tug at the ribbons, and your hard nipples graze against his chest, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through you.

He groans loudly, his hips stuttering as your tightness pushes him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, his heavy cock throbbing as he spills his hot, milky load into your fluttering pussy. The warmth of his release soothes your overstimulated walls, but the sheer volume has it spilling out of you, dripping down to coat your asshole and the sheets beneath you.

He stays there, pressed against you, his length still buried inside as he lets you come down from the high. His rough demeanor softens as he reaches up to gently remove the blindfold, revealing your tear-streaked, flushed face. His fingers brush your hair back as he cups your cheek tenderly.

You let your eyes adjust. Gaze drifting to his face illuminated by the twinkling tree in the corner. You can see his curls sticking to his forehead and his lips parted, breathing heavily. What a man.

“You okay?” he asks softly, his voice filled with concern. “Was that too much?”

You shake your head, your body too spent to form words. He presses a kiss to each of your wrists before carefully untying them, his touch delicate and soothing. He does the same to your knees, unbinding them and letting your legs fall limply to the bed. The relief of being able to move again is immediate, and you groan softly as the ache in your limbs starts to fade.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, his tone filled with affection. He grabs a glass of water from the nightstand and helps you drink, holding the glass to your lips as you sip slowly. Once you’re rehydrated, he sets it aside and slides out of you with deliberate care, your walls weakly squeezing around him, his softened cock wet with your combined release. He groans quietly, clearly struggling to keep himself from getting hard again as he watches your pussy gape, leaking his cum.

“God,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “We should do this again someday.”

You manage a weak laugh, your voice hoarse from crying out. “Only if I get to tie you up next time.”

He smirks, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

You pout, rolling your eyes, but a mischievous smile tugs at the corner of your lips. You’re already scheming on how you’ll get him to agree. After all, isn’t he the one who always says, “happy wife, happy life?” Well this is exactly what will make you really happy.

© michaelsfavgirl 2025

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[superbat-love]

Old!Superman: Happy New Year, young Bruce! [grabs him and kisses him]

Bruce: Superman. Wouldn’t it be Happy Old Year to you?

Clark: [horrified] What the— It’s you again! Please go back to your own timeline!

Old!Superman: But it’s a tradition for me to give all my beloved Bruces a kiss on New Year’s Eve!

Clark: [gritting his teeth] Stop cheating on your husband!

Bruce: Technically, it’s not considered cheating.

Old!Superman: [cheerfully] That’s what my Bruce said too. Goodbye, young Bruce! See you again next year! [disappears into a portal]

Clark: Ugh. How and why did I turn into a perverted old man in the future? I regret everything.

[cod-dump]

DONT sneak up on soap, he will punch you. Hard. Usually in the stomach, but faces have been bruised.

The only one that does it successfully is ghost because he has enough anticipation to catch johnnys fist, and he thinks it’s hilarious. Graves and Alejandro have each been punched somewhere in the double digits, but they keep trying because they swear they can dodge. They can’t. Roach does it on accident all the time and soap always feels bad. Gaz just walks around like, “I am announcing my presence now! I am here! I am three feet away and approaching!” Price just walks around to his front like a normal person.

Some soldier in the SAS has definitely been keeping count. Graves definitely has been punched the most, Alejandro a close second. Ghost got punch once (that everyone of) and has been a master of avoiding Soap's startled wrath.

Gaz occasionally gets swung at, but he's good at letting Soap know he's there. Price has seen Soap nail Nik in the gut and decided to be smart and make sure the man can see him or hear him coming. Announcing their presence is the most logical thing to do when you're not quick like Ghost.

Roach hasn't learned to announce himself like Gaz and Price, he has so many bruises from Soap. He doesn't learn.