#i just wanted to draw scar shirtless i think

[crabbbage]

that post going around where people draw scar in their clothes spoke to me but im on break and have therefore not worn a shirt in roughly 3 days. so

[klbzplb]

wanted to do some ddvau fanart bc i love the series and these guys are everything to me

au by the amazing @kitsuneisi and @xmaruu11 you guys are amazing

[moe-broey]

MOE. SUMMER ALT‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

BIGGEST thing about Moe history is that for Literally Actual Years. I have been trying SO hard to get a beach outfit for it Right. I always had some aspects of it in mind (the white cover-up -- initially sheer, but I like the idea that it's a light shawl kinda like Lyon's, here). But a lot of my designs felt too feminine. Moe is about Balance. Moe is about Mishmash. Moe is about The Silly Factor. It's also unexpectedly practical and loves questionable fashion choices.

All this in mind! I think its Look really came together when I decided to give it some sporty touches. I esp love the wet shoes... and the visor works so well on it?? The little fish skeleton is a handmade accessory (not actual bones.), like its "tail" in its everyday outfit. I imagine it's jointed/maybe chain linked, so it has some movement to it! The skeleton adds a bit of edge it always has, and ALMOST. Gives a manta ray silhouette paired with the shawl (most noticeable in the topmost art! Didn't set out to do that, but when I noticed this I ran w it LMFAOO)

And. Some doodles

[littlesapphicraccoonguy]

Uh…i can explain…

[comfymoth]

quick question— how do you guys feel about seeing healed self harm scars in art? specifically just healed scars, like, maybe some faint white or pink-ish lines. they wouldn’t be the subject of the drawing at all, but they’d just kinda be there

[woolydemon]

will I get banned if I post shirtless non top surgery transmasc ppl. will I get in trouble for that

[gatorbites-imagines]

Kinktober day 1

Kakashi Hatake + Body and Cock worship

Happy first day of kinktober everybody!

I don’t really know the full timeline of Naruto, so this just takes place sometime before Kakashi became Hokage, so he could still take anbu missions. Readers a jonin, and has served in the Anbu, but doesn’t anymore. Reader used to be Anbu Leopard.

this is not proofread, enjoy anyways.

Kinktober 2024 masterlist

It was late, and you were meant to be asleep. That of course didn’t mean you were. As a jonin, and former anbu, sleep didn’t come easy. You weren’t from a clan, which had made the climb to your status extra hard and had left you jagged and sharp edged towards the world around you. As a civilian, the Shinobi world was difficult. Not just because there were less to seek revenge when you died, but also because most of the clans ran everything. And even if they didn’t mean too, then they still looked down on civilians. It was why you had quite a soft spot for Kakashi’s student, Sakura.

You had been doing nothing much, simply sitting in your kitchen staring down at a formerly hot mug of tea. You didn’t even like this kind, but Kakashi did, and had stuffed way too much of it into your cupboards for when he visited. With a sigh you were about to stand up to pour it down the sink, when the smallest amount of chakra tickled in the back of your senses.

You may have been shirtless, but that didn’t leave you defenseless. The seals on the inner sides of each wrist flickered, and your beloved tekko kagi weighed comfortably around your hands, chakra adding speed and precision to your strike. It was only registered last moment what mask you were staring back at, Kakashi’s stupid hound mask.

The claws of your tekko kagi slammed into the wall, merely centimeters apart from your lovers masked face, leaving deep gouges in the wall. You were so making him pay for that, even if hed whine about it. “Kaka-“ you growled out, only for his glowed finger to press against your lips, making your brows furrow in annoyance. So, this was his game, huh?

Both of your hands were against the wall, caging your partner in, one hand buried into the wood by the claws of your favored weapon, as the other simply rested against it. Back in the day you had wanted to be different, to stand out from the clan members that surrounded you, so the tekko kagi became yours. It had led to quite a few teasing comments from more than just Kakashi when you became Anbu Leopard.

You squinted at him, and his teasing mirthful eyes could be felt even if you couldn’t so them. Kakashi’s hands both placed on your shoulders, slowly sliding down, drawing a pathway across the myriad of scars that littered your body. All shinobi had them, some more than others, and some came from training themselves bloody. Something you were quite guilty of, even nowadays.

The noise that left your chest could almost have been called a growl, or maybe more akin to the annoyed grumble of a big feline getting chewed on by some bumbling hound who’d decided they were friends. But you could never turn down the image of Kakashi sliding to his knees in front of you, making you lean your head against the wall so you could look down, truly caging him in.

There was more to his touches than just lust today, something more reverent and needy, like he needed to touch you to feel like himself. It had been a difficult mission then. It was something you recognized yourself. Some missions left you feeling less like a person and like you weren’t even in your own body, and you needed something to ground you. The self-inflicted crisscross of scars on your arms reminded you of what you used to do before you had Kakashi, back when you had yourself and only yourself. Of course, that was just what you believed, and now you know your comrades priced you just as much as the next. But old habits die hard.

All the thinking had distracted you long enough for you not to notice Kakashi sliding the casual pants you wore down, just enough to free the halfchub you had gained from seeing him down there. His mouth was warm and wet, like always, but there was something hungrier about the way he moved and suckled.

The hand not stuck in the wall reached down, a small flick of chakra sending your weapon back into its seal, carefully sliding into his silver hair. You couldn’t see his face, the mask had been pushed up so all you got to look at was the slow movements of your lovers’ head, and that painted porcelain face staring back at you.

Kakashi wasn’t pushing himself to get it going as quickly as possible like usual. He may seem all calm and laid back, but you knew how desperate he got when Kakashi was in the mood. The only thing keeping the Hatake from climbing you in public was sheer politeness, and some days you had a feeling even that was barely holding him back. You blamed those books of his. You had tried to read them once, planning to do a little roleplay for his birthday, but you couldn’t get into it. you still did it though, and Kakashi still brought I up when he was feeling extra needy.

The hand clenched into his hair, a shaky breath leaving you as you felt more than saw his mouth pop off your tip, just to lick down, following the veins down to your sack. You could feel his lips mouthing at you, tongue lapping at the skin he could find, the feeling of being not just licked but downright worshipped making your face red.

“K- Hound, what are you doing” you get out between gritted teeth, barely keeping yourself back from saying his name and using his title instead. Some days he just wanted to be Hound more than Kakashi, and who were you to judge.

Of course, he didn’t answer, as Anbu only spoke when absolutely necessary. Instead, his mouth just traveled further down, a jolt running down your spine as the tip of his tongue brushed against your taint of all placed. You almost wanted to slap him, because what the hell was that all of a sudden?

You caught yourself though, instead just wrenching his head back up by his hair, pulling him closer to your front again, where Kakashi thankfully wrapped his lips back around your shaft again. His bopping was more insistent now, like you giving him a nonverbal order got him into gear. A huff left you as you started rocking your hips, letting Kakashi do most of the work. You never really knew what to do when he got in these… almost worshipping moods. You didn’t feel like somebody worth worshipping, but Kakashi clearly did.

The heat gathering in your body was slow building, like a pot slowly heating up on low flame. When Kakashi got like this, he liked to go slow, to work you up before getting his price, as if he needed to prove himself worthy of getting. You would be happy to just fuck his face and get it over with, but Kakashi always got so nice and pliant afterwards and let you take care of him for once.

“Get ready” you grumble out, brows pinched together as you clench your eyes shut, teeth digging into the inside of your lips. Kakashi’s throat fluttered from what you knew was excitement, your silver haired lover burying his nose into your curls and humming, the first noise he had made all night.

You still wanted to smack him as your knees weakened, making you lean further against the wall as you spilled down his throat, Kakashi’s gulps just feeling like he was gloating. Past experience made you know Kakashi would stay like this all night if you let him, here on his knees against the wall with his mouth on you. That wasn’t good for him though, and of course you. The soft almost silent whine that came from him had you chuckling, pulling your lover to his feet, finally letting you see his slick mouth as his tongue flicked out to lick it clean.

You rolled your eyes with a smirk, ruffling up his hair even more than before. “Come on Hound, if your fast ill let you lick the water off my body” you rumble, turning around and wandering towards the shower. His footsteps were completely silent, as always, but the small flickers in the chakra told you he wanted to shake out of his skin. Sure, it was weird to see the mask in the shower, or in bed, but who were you to complain. You were definitely forcing him to have a selfcare day tomorrow though, no questions asked.

[thefemmeeros]

gift-wrapped for them

MEN AND MINORS DNI

summary: it’s your butch’s best friend’s birthday… and you’re their present. or— you get shared and fucked by two butch cocks and really, really enjoy it.

cw throat fucking, t1t fucking, some spanking, some demeaning-ing. calling butch daddy. calling butch sir.

hope you pervs love it and let me know what else you want me to write, missed u all a lot

///—//—//—//—///

the laundry fresh smell of these sheets is familiar. you nestle into them, wanting to reach out and grab your bolster — but you quickly feel the resistance of some silky fabric. your hands are bound in front of you.

“look at that. the princess is awake.”

your head hurts. the last thing you remember is saying goodbye at your butch, charlie’s best friend’s blowout birthday party last night. you’d given the birthday butch, jack, a lingering hug and a kiss on the cheek. she’d responded with a wink, just as charlie elatedly exclaimed a promise that she’d just love her gift, which jack would receive soon. you knocked out pretty quickly once you got home— you were a notorious lightweight.

which explains the trouble you have now opening your eyes, your hazy mind characteristic of one of your hangovers.

“charlie honey?” you slur, forcing your eyelids apart. you’re sure this is one of their kinky little games, something they’re wont to do and something you often gladly partake in. “i’m stuck,” you whine, sleepy but willing to play along.

the lights in your bedroom are dim. it’s still dark out. and the sight before you leaves breathless and afraid.

two figures stand before you, shirtless, hard packing in their boxers.

“happy birthday, jackie-boy,” says your butch, folding their arms over their chest.

“charlie?” you say with more urgency now, straining against your restraints—you see now that it’s a red, silk ribbon, tied into a bow. “charlie, what’s happening?”

you ignore the heat pooling between your legs at the duo’s ravenous stares as you wiggle on the bed, raising yourself to a kneel on the mattress.

flashing through your mind like a twisted, horny supercut are all the conversations you’ve had with charlie about your desire to be passed around, their enthusiastic reciprocity, your affection for their best friend—the pieces are all there, but is what you think is about to be done to you actually going to be done?

charlie casts you a meaningful look, their gaze softening, but in the subtlest of ways only you can see. they’re so handsome, baring their top surgery scars as they bend down to get on your level, eyes brown pools of ruthless power that, in an instant, tell you how badly they want to hurt you, break you. and it makes you so fucking wet.

“you remember your safe word, princess?” they whisper low, stroking your hair out of your face. your bit lip and sparking eyes and shaky breath give away the game—you’re not afraid, you’re dying for this. charlie sees that. charlie sees your deviance, sees past the white lace and bashful smiles, and draws out the wild woman. charlie asks you to take because they give you faith they’ll keep giving.

being shared, it’s one of your most dirty, secret fantasies—one you’ve never gotten to live out. in taking the control from you, in tying you up like a gift-wrapped femme for their buddy in your unconscious state, they’re telling you, with so much tenderness, there’s no amount of shame too great, no wall you could build too robust to keep them from making you feel good.

you nod, whisper, “i remember.”

you wonder if there’s still traces of alcohol in your breath, if your eye makeup is still intact or smeared already, if your defenceless, disheveled state is turning them on even more.

charlie kisses you, soft and sweet, and you sigh. “this is the last nice thing i’ll say to you tonight, princess. i know you’re gonna be wonderful. i won’t push you past what you can take, and we’ll stop whenever you need to. if you need to safe out and your mouth is stuffed—“

you clench around nothing. oh god.

“—you tap either of us three times. got it?”

you murmur your okay, baby and quickly regret it when they grab your chin, pinch your cheeks with a warning glare. “that’s not what you call me, is it babygirl?”

“no, Daddy. i got it, Daddy. three taps, Daddy,” you make out through their unyielding grasp. they nod, satisfied.

you want them to use you so bad. you want them to get to it already. you don’t need the song and dance. your eyes flick to jack, who’s staring blatantly at your breasts, palming what appears to be an 8-incher straining in her grey boxers.

charlie and jack have always have been the best of friends long before your relationship with charlie began. you knew they had a fling way back in the day, a b-girl for b-girl test that led to them both realising they were stone—but you’d never guess they’d want to share a girl. you’d be lying if you said you’d never thought about it though. they were both big, immense hunks of butches, your type to a tee— charlie with their broad shoulders, jack with those soft thighs and wide midsection, a wall blotting out the light.

“i’m still your Daddy, but tonight, jackie is your Sir. nod if you understand.”

you nod, your gut burning, your skin tingling.

“we’re going to use your holes to get ourselves off, how we want. however we want.” the emphasis makes you shudder. “you come when i say you can. you speak only when spoken to. and your tears won’t make us stop.”

are you doing a good enough job looking scared? you don’t think you are. you’re having to fight a tawdry smile and a drawled out “promise?” that’s dancing on the tip of your tongue.

then charlie says the words you didn’t even know you needed to hear, but the moment they say them, you feel the last cog click into place, a tether that grounds you to the certainty that you’re going to be okay. they grip your chin, and they say to you, “i’m sharing you. i’m in charge here. jack is fucking you because i said she can. because i own your pussy. i own this pussy.” they grab your warm, wet sex through your barely-there sleep shorts for good measure.

you knew, but the solid reminder that your Daddy is in control; now you’re safe and ready.

charlie draws back up to their full height. “c’mere jackie. come touch our fuckdoll.”

“say less,” murmurs the brown-skinned butch, a notorious player from whom sensuality emanates in dizzying, irresistible waves. she licks her lips as she caresses your cheek, before placing her thumb into your mouth.

you don’t even realise how eagerly you’re sucking till charlie tweaks your nipple and makes you gasp, releasing jack’s finger with a pop. “jesus,” jack murmurs, “you gonna suck our cocks like that? all desperate like that?”

“yes, Sir,” you moan around her thumb, charlie kneeling to your right and playing with your nipples through your tiny white singlet.

“i wanna see her tits,” jack turns to charlie, removing and replacing her thumb with her index and middle finger, coaxing herself deeper into your mouth. “wanna see them while she blows us.”

that she’s not paying attention to you is driving you mad. it’s so unspeakably disrespectful, and so rude, and so fucking hot you feel like you’re getting driven to the edge of something blissful and dangerous.

charlie pulls the thin cotton singlet down past your tits, ripping one of the straps with little effort so they wouldn’t have to untie you. they slap one, growling low before catching a nipple between their teeth and making you cry out, and jack’s fingers don’t let up, prepping your mouth for what’s to come.

“get on the floor. on your knees.”

“yes Daddy.”

they mercifully help you off the bed, the hangover and horniness and sleepiness making you weak in the knees, and settle you onto a pillow—tits hanging out, inner thighs wet with need.

standing, looming over you, leering at you, they stroke themselves through their boxers.

“you want these cocks?”

“yes, Sir! i want them so bad. Sir.” you cry out pathetically, your resolve weakening. both of them chuckle at you, and it’s mean and it’s sexy and the way charlie looks at you with so much love and so much reverence, all of it is pushing you, pushing you.

“open your slut mouth.”

you open.

you once told charlie how you find it hot when they pull their boxers down all the way until only the tip of their butch cock remains sheathed, before releasing all of it and letting it bounce free. they both do this now, teasing you with the sight of their members— charlie’s skin-coloured and curved just how you like it, jack’s jet black and perpendicular to the floor, imposing and maddening with ridges that make you drool.

and they’re both squirting dildos, you note with great pleasure.

“tongue out, princess,” charlie murmurs.

mouth open, tongue out, on your knees before these two butches as they jerk themselves off, you do not wonder if you are broken or wrong for wanting this. you do not feel shy or ashamed anymore. they take that from you, and you just want.

charlie’s cock brushes your cheek, taps on the tip of your tongue, but you’re smart enough not to close your mouth around it quite yet. jack’s joins, both their cocks prodding at your lips and tongue and cheek as your two tormentors breath deeply.

“jack first,” charlie orders. “suck.”

having drooled all over their cocks already, taking the first few inches of jack’s thickness is manageable. but when she moans and grips your hair, shoving you down deeper onto it, you wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into. jack is not like charlie—is not your Daddy, does not want to praise you, or be gentle. jack is exacting.

a perfect Sir.

you relax your throat and look up at her and she moves you up and down on her cock, huffing and groaning with each stroke. “i love fucking that cute little mouth,” she grinds out, “that teasing little mouth.”

she pulls you off her cock with a pop and you gasp in your breath, just in time for charlie’s cock to replace it. this familiar silicone, the memories wash over you and tighten your core more. charlie doesn’t grab your hair to start. no, they let you struggle to handle it with no hands to assist you. they watch you swirl your tongue over the tip and spit on it and stretch your lips around it till they feel you’ve done enough.

your reward is them holding your face and fucking your throat. “look at your Daddy,” they command breathlessly, locking eyes with you and trembling. “look at me while I come down that throat. fuck, watch me empty my fucking — load — goddamn—“

they thrust so deep your eyes roll back and you feel their warm cum on the back of your throat and somehow you swallow around their thick length, swallow them down so good.

“fuck, now i wanna blow my load in her whore mouth too.” jack chuckles. she’d been stroking herself as she watched them, fisting her cock. “but nah, i think i’ll cum in that tight pussy.”

“yes, please Sir,” you can’t help but say.

they don’t let you move, still looming over you with their huge cocks right by your lips.

“Sir,” charlie says simply, so you suck jack.

“now me,” charlie says, so you suck them.

back and forth they make you bounce between the cocks, till you’re panting, the sensation of two different cocks in your mouth overwhelming and the exercise so deeply demeaning. they’re chuckling at you, prodding your lips with their cocks, calling you a cockdrunk slut—and you can’t get enough.

when they’re satisfied, Daddy helps you up and lays you on the bed with your head hanging off one edge and your legs wide open.

when you see the thick black cock, you know it’s Sir who’s settled behind you. you figure she’ll use your throat, but as Daddy lines themself up against your pussy, you feel a cold splatter of lube on your chest.

“gonna fuck her tits?” Daddy asks, amused as they slide in. fuck, it’s like you really are a toy. they use your holes so casually. “good choice.”

you’re so wet and ready that with the added lube, Daddy slides in to the hilt easily, buries themself deep with a groan that vibrates through your being. “gotta stretch our doll’s pussy for jackie-boy,” Daddy says, grabbing your hips and slamming in hard and deep.

meanwhile, Sir’s squeezing and plucking at your nipples with one hand, stroking herself with the other. “gonna fuck these pretty tits now.”

you stare at the space between her legs as she squeezes your tits together and slides between them with a holy shit that’s hot, pinching and toying with your nipples as she thrusts. combined with the sensation of Daddy’s thrusts, you are slipping into a space where you really do believe you’re just a toy, you feel limp and helpless and fuzzy and gone, yet deeply present, each brush of Daddy’s cock on your g-spot making you scream, each rough pinch of your nipple and slide against your cleavage heightened.

“my turn, charlie. i wanna cum. i’m close. but i want it inside. i’ll come on her tits the next time.”

the next time, the next time.

“it’s your gift, jack,” Daddy shrugs, “she’s all stretched for you now.”

shuffling and rearranging. your Daddy lifts your head, and kisses your chin. “good girl,” they whisper, “you’re making Daddy look so good because they have such a well-behaved babygirl.”

pride is warm and sweet. Daddy’s shine is like the Sun’s radiance. you’re happy you’re so well-behaved today.

“on her knees,” commands Sir. “i wanna see how that ass shakes when i slap it.”

Daddy unties you and helps you onto all fours. then a thwak! as Sir spanks your right cheek and another when she spanks your left. you cry out, jerk forward but Daddy holds you there, their eyes trained on the arch of your back and the way your needy ass is sticking out, hungry for their buddy’s cock.

then they’re both slamming into you, Sir’s cock stretching you and Daddy’s cock nestled back into your throat. and each of Sir’s thrusts pushes you deeper onto Daddy’s cock. and each time you choke on Daddy, you squeeze around Sir.

“fuck, look at our girl,” jack moans, reaching forward and gripping a fistful of your hair. “so stuffed. the perfect fucking cockslut.”

with Sir’s expert thrusts and her guiding you on and off Daddy’s cock, your only job is to take their cocks, take them as best as you can. so you set yourself free, you fall off the edge, and you let go.

they let go in kind, slamming into you with newfound ferocity. then jack touches your clit and you’re two seconds from coming. you’re so close. you’re so fucking close.

“that’s right, baby,” Daddy says, because they know. they always know. “you can cum. cum around our cocks.”

“fuck, if she cums, i’m gonna—“

your elbows buckle but Daddy holds you and you scream, you scream around them, an orgasm ripping through every molecule in your body, exploding you till there’s nothing left.

then Sir is coming, emptying her warm load deep into your pussy, and Daddy’s coming too, hips jerking and shaking, and all three of you are a writhing, shaking mass of pleasure and electricity.

when they pull out, groaning and breathing hard, you’re empty and full all at once. you collapse onto your tummy, still trembling slightly, nerve-endings still firing uselessly.

“good job, princess,” murmurs your Daddy. “you did good.”

“but we’re not done with you yet.” Sir swats your ass playfully and grabs a handful.

you smile, and whisper, “promise?”

[eyesxxyou]

❝ nude bodies ❞ (artist!hobie x trans ftm!reader)

｡ﾟ･ ¡ content. friends to lovers, a little bit of awkwardness, oral (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), reader has a t-dick, very sweet sex (bordering on love making), creampie, hobie gets a little sappy at the end. you've been long time best friends with hobie for years, both secretly pining after each other. you both think nothing will ever come of your feelings until hobie asks to draw you nude.

wc: 5k

The sun was hot on your face. The rough sound of pencil meeting paper tickled your ears. Hobie hummed a soft tune while his hand carved out the rough shapes of your face into paper. His eyes kept flicking from his sketchbook to you, his gaze lingering on your closed eyes before wandering a little lower to trace the shape of your honeydew lips.

He reached out, his hand tenderly caressing the side of your face to get you to turn your head to the slightest degree so that the sun hit your face at just the right angle to make you glow honey gold. He touched you like a masterpiece, one of the old greats, like you would crumble if pressed too hard. His thumb traced your lip and you shivered ever so slightly.

“Have ya ever though’ of letting me draw ya nude?” Hobie had a way of saying things. Careless or carefree, you chose because he doesn't have the energy to do it himself, too busy drawing or playing the guitar.

You open your eyes, a deep frown painting itself across your honeydew lips. “You want to draw me what?” You sat up on your arms and Hobie sat up with you on his knees, his hand on your chest to push you back down onto the smooth wood of his deck. “Nude. Was I no’ loud enough? Keep still, dove. ‘m no’ done.”

You sigh and relent, laying back in the sun with your head tilted towards him to catch the golden rays. Hobie settled back down beside you and began sketching again.

You won't say Hobie didn't rattle something within you. Nude was intimate, nude meant vulnerable, nude meant served on a platter with all your feelings splayed out so brazenly before him. You couldn't hide anything from him while naked, couldn't hide how every gentle touch of his warm fingertips made your heart leap and your groin ache with feelings you’re forced to call want. You couldn't hide from his wandering gaze powdered with the stark neutrality of someone who didn't care either way.

“Why would you want to draw me naked?” You try not to move too much while you talk, try not to make a big deal out of his request. Why would he want to draw your body? Your body didn't look like everyone else's, the crescent-shaped twin scars cupping your chest made sure of that. Not to mention all the changes gone on between your legs. You’re not the most ideal person in the world to draw nude according to every societal standard.

But Hobie wasn't one to care about a social standard. “Why wouldn' I? I draw ya all the time. Yer my lovely lil muse.” He touched his pencil behind his ear and set his sketchbook down closed beside him. He shifted himself, laid down right beside you with his head propped up on his hand, looking down on you as you lay below him.

Hobie reached out and pinched your cheek. “Jus’ think ‘bout i’. No pressure. I wan’cha to be comfortable with the idea.” He lied down completely beside you, just the two of you lying on the deck of his boat, shirtless, arms touching all the way from shoulder down to the backs of your hands. You could grab his hand if you wanted to. He could grab yours. Your finger twitches with the idea of it. But that's not what friends do.

“What would happen if I agreed?” You asked timidly. Hobie turned his head, eyes carefully tracing the lines of your side profile. “We’d wait a week before we did anythin’. Jus’ in case you became a chicken and wan’ed to back ou’.” He teased as he always did and that set you at ease as you turned your head to meet his gaze.

His deep-set eyes traced the contours of your face with dedication and admiration. If you hadn't known any better you might have said he did it lovingly. But he was an artist at the end of the day and your best friend. Any love he had beyond a platonic one was for what you do for his art. “You bring it to life.” He once said. He did not love you the way you loved him. You were sure of it.

“Lemme finish this piece then we can grab a bite, yeah?” Hobie sat up and placed his hand on your chest, patting you the way a friend pats another in the back. He doesn't let his touch linger even though every atom of your body begged and pleaded for him to just touch you, touch you anywhere, you didn't care where. Just let it stay there, let it linger a little longer, let it hold so you might know that he's real and he’s yours.

You consider it while he draws with your eyes closed and your hands resting on your belly, tracing imaginary lines and imagining it’s Hobie doing it with the tips of his nimble fingers. He wouldn't make it weird, wouldn't tease you about it for the rest of your lives, wouldn't embarrass you by telling others. That's not how he is. It would just be between the two of you, from one man to another.

Hobie sits beside you in silence, hoping he didn't ruin anything you two had, the soft progress you have made with each other years in the making. He’s been dropping hints for years now, the obvious ones only made in the last few months. Unnecessary lingering touches, brushing his hand against yours to give you the opportunity to grab on and stay that way. He holds your face so softly so fucks sake, leans in so close he might just kiss you but leaves it to you to make the final move. You never do. He called you his muse, told you his art is nothing without you and yet you still look at him with that blank, oblivious look in your eyes that makes him want to tell you straight up that he’s in love with you. You’d probably still tilt your head like a puppy, confused and unknowing.

His eyes lavish over your body, every piece of exposed skin being feasted upon by his greedy gaze. Your eyes are closed, you’d never know. He wants to trace his fingers along your scars, kiss them, kiss you, feel your skin on his and know you a little more than he already does.

“I’ll do it.” You concede. “You can’t show it to anyone though. I’d die of humiliation.”

“Never planned to, dove.” Hobie smiled. “It’ll just be between me ‘n you. It’s just anatomy practice.” Anatomy practice sounded good, sounded reasonable, sounded like he wasn't just trying to find any excuse to witness you naked. Did it make him sick, perverted, what he’d end up doing with that drawing as he did with nearly all his other drawings of you? Did it make him bad that he’d end up with his hand firmly wrapped around his cock, pleading for a single moment, a single chance? Did it make him wrong that he’d ruin the page with cum and would have to redraw it all over again?

You remind him, “I don't have regular anatomy.”

“I don't need regular, dove.” Hobie looks up from his sketchbook, flipping his pencil to erase a small imperfection in his work. “I just need you.”

-

Hobie gave you a week. An entire week to reconsider and yet you remained steadfast in your decision. It wouldn't be weird. Hobie has a way of making awkward situations completely comfortable with his light-heartedness. He never took anything seriously so why should you?

Boarding his boat meant accepting wholly that you’d be naked in front of him and a part of you, while nervous, was comfortable with that. If you were to be naked in front of anyone in the entire world, you’d want it to be your best friend, the person you trust most in this world.

Hobie was waiting for you inside, guitar in lap while strumming some cords to a melody he was humming. You kicked your shoes off at the door and let it slam shut behind you as if it were sealing you in. You can't back out now. You had promised.

Hobie put his guitar down on it’s display rack and tossed the pick into a small box of picks he had sitting on a small table beside his bed. “Mr. Punctuality ova here. I wasn' expectin’ ya fo’ anotha hour.” He hopped down from the ledge he was sitting on, stumbling a bit but ultimately landing on his feet. He came over and tossed an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his body for a half-hearted hug.

“You told me to come at 1.”

“But when I say tha’ I really mean 2. You know ion run on other people's time.” He offered a cheeky little dimpled smile across those dark lips of his that you adored more than you could ever say. He rubbed your shoulder a little before patting it and letting you go. You wanted to run back to him, to tell him to embrace you once more but fully this time. You didn't want to embarrass yourself by doing so.

“Are ya sure ya do this?” He offered you one last chance to back out before the two of you started. “We can always stop if ya feel uncomfortable,” he assured you.

You nodded slowly, lips curling into a soft, self-assuring smile. “I’m okay. Let’s do this.” Your heart beat so hard in your chest you could feel it in your throat and hear it in your ears. You balled your hands into fists, thumbs in your palms, squeezing with anxiety. You trusted him, knew he would do nothing to make you feel uncomfortable.

“I’ll be back in a momen’, you can get on the bed when you’re ready.” Hobie went to leave to afford you some privacy. You appreciated his thoughtfulness and watched him go with a shaky breath. You wrung your hands, grasping the hem of your shirt to sooth yourself before you began.

You started with your shirt, pulling it over your head and folding it up neatly before placing it on the edge of Hobie’s bed. That was soon followed by your pants, then your underwear. You’re not used to being naked, especially not in Hobie’s boathouse. You felt vulnerable, your hands immediately went to cup your love and cover yourself without so much as a second thought.

You climbed up onto Hobie’s bed and covered yourself with his duvet, waiting for him to return so that you can get this over with. You tell yourself it’s for anatomy practice, that it’s nothing more than that. But there’s something oddly intimate about being wrapped up in his planets, lying in his bed with his deep, musky scent permeating your senses and soothing your raging nerves.

You lay there with your face pressed into his pillow awaiting Hobie’s return. Your fingers gripped his sheets, twisting and fingering the fabric anxiously as you watch the door crack open and Hobie’s head poke inside to ensure you’re properly prepared. He saw you curled up in his bed and smiled with a tender softness. “You ready?”

You nodded, nipping at your bottom lip. Hobie came shuffling in, closing the door behind himself gently. He rummaged about his flat, grabbing his sketchbook and a sharpened pencil before coming over to you in his bed.

Hobie climbed in with you, shuffling over to kneel beside your covered body. He set his sketchbook down and carefully reached out to grasp the edge of the blanket you had covered your modesty up with. “May I?” His eyes were soft looking upon you, they ask for permission too, ask for you to let your guard down for just a moment. They ask for you to trust him

You do. You trust him wholeheartedly. With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you nod subtly and let go of the blanket. You let him peel it away from you but your hands return between your legs to keep yourself covered.

“Jus' relax f’me, dove.” His slender fingers grasped your wrists, carefully and gently pulling them away from your tender lips. You don't resist him, you let him take your hands in his and remove them from the spot where you find yourself feeling the most vulnerable. There's something about his touches that feels more intimate than before. Your nudity amplified every caress of his hand against your skin. You could feel it linger throughout your body.

Hobie gazed at you, his eyes scanning down the length of your trembling body, hitching at your chest and groin for just a lingering moment. You don’t hear the way he murmurs soft prayers under his breath, a plea for strength, for the worthiness to admire such a sacred body in its most bare state.

Starting the sketch was the hardest part. Hobie was used to touching you, holding your face, dragging a finger along the curve of your jaw, his fingertips kissing your eyelids, tracing the underside of your lips. He was a physical learner and with time, he knew your face like he knew his own palm, all the lines and shadows that made it up.

But he didn’t know your body. Not the way he wanted to.

You could see the frustration crossing his face as he turned his pencil and erased his work for the second time, “Is there anything I can do to help?” Your voice was timid and beautiful, ringing with an air of genuine concern. You hadn’t expected Hobie to ask to touch you.

“F’r visual purposes only. I don’ – know ya body yet. No’ like I know ya face.” His hands wrung against his lap, refraining from making himself too comfortable with your pretty body. He imagined your skin would be soft beneath his palms, supple as he dipped his graphite-covered fingers into your flesh. “You don’t have’ta.”

“You can.” You say almost too quickly. Did he catch the desperation in your voice? Did he catch the way you leaned in just a little further, the way you crossed your legs at the mere thought of his hands stroking down the length of your bare skin. Had you given yourself away? Had you shown all of your cards like an amateur?

You watched Hobie place his things down and come over to climb back onto the bed with you. You sat up and let out a startled little gasp. Hobie was suddenly closer than you had expected, sitting beside you with his hands on either side of your legs to prop himself up.

“Jus’ tell me when t’stop, yeah?”

He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help but to touch. Hobie started at your face, the familiarity of it offering you ease and comfort. His hand cupped your cheek. Brushing a soft thumb under your eyes, palm cupping along your jaw and his thumb moving up slightly to skim over your soft eyelid. The pads of his fingers move to your lips, tracing them left to right, right to left. His eyes flick between your lips and your coy gaze, too shy to fully meet his every time he looks at you.

His other hand skimmed at your waist. His fingertips touching at your chest, tracing your scars with such loving care. Hobie likes the way you shiver under his touch, likes the way your body rolls as he makes his way lower to your belly where your happy trail begins, leading lower and lower. He doesn’t go all the way though you so desperately wished he would.

His hand touches your thigh, the other trailing down your shoulder, to your elbow, to your hand where his fingers slip beneath yours. Before you know it, your fingers are laced with his. There was something so innocent about it, something so beautiful and soft. His hand on your thigh, tracing circles into your flesh felt just as innocent in the beginning. But his fingers were trailing .along your inner thigh, gripping the flesh there with something far darker that anything platonic.

It was hard not to melt into his touch, a touch so hot that it left your skin burning where he met it. Your chest burned with desire. Your gaze, a little more brazen now, showed as much. You swallowed thickly as you caught Hobie’s gaze and suddenly you were doing just the same as him, staring at that lip piercing that glinted under the dim lighting of his bedroom.

It was the same thought that crossed your minds.

“Can I kiss ya?”

“For your drawing, right?”

Hobie nodded slowly, leaning in with a subtle tilt of his head. His lips hovered slightly over yours, not exactly kissing you but not, not kissing you either. “Yeah…for the drawin’.” He whispered against your lips, taking them with his. He kissed you like he’s been waiting for this moment since he’s known you. Kissed you like he needed this, kiss you in a way that said “if you stop, I’ll die.”

He can't help the way his hands wander, touching you in places he'd never even dreamt of touching in the first place as his hands grow more greedy. His hands trail everywhere, feeling your skin grow warm under his touch as he commits every brush of skin against skin.

You could feel a heat pool between your legs, your pussy ached and your dick throbbed to attention with each inch gained by Hobie’s fingers closer to your wanton core. You spread your legs for him, silent permission for him to touch where he pleased and where you craved.

Hobie did not touch you there, not yet. His hand held your waist and his lips began to trace a trail down the side of your neck, placing sloppy, open mouth kisses on your exposed flesh leading down to your chest. He peppered kisses along the crescents of your scars, worshiping exactly where they cut into you and made you a little more of who you are.

His lips pressed kisses down your naval. His hand gripped yours tighter. “Lay back, luv.” His free hand pushed you back gently, coaching you to lie in the mess of pillows stained with his scent. Hobie held your smaller hand, pressing it into the mattress, his free hand still roaming and touching and studying your warm body.

How could he possibly go back to pencil and paper after this? His drawings could never satisfy him now that he’s gotten a taste of the real thing. His art was meaningless now, served no purpose now that your flesh was beneath his tongue, in his hands, gripping, touching, loving.

He’s come on your face a thousand times over in his mind, on his page. But he could not bear the idea of sullying your sacred body with such degeneracy. Hobie would only touch, only please. He would come last.

He settled himself between your legs, his hand parting them a little further until your pretty, wet lips parted with a nice, creamy sound. You turned your head away, embarrassed but Hobie found it quite lovely. You are hard and wet for him, your sweet, little cock firm behind the hood.

Hobie kissed your pelvis just above your t-dick, ending his journey to where you desired him the most. He glanced up at you and found your eyes cast away with what could only read as humiliation.

“C’mon, dove, look a’ me.” He kissed the tip of your dick and smiled as you shuddered with something of a pathetic moan. You willed yourself to look at him with timid eyes. Hobie kissed your tip again, his fingers pulling back your hood to give him more space to work. His tongue licked firm strokes between your soaked lips all the way up to your pretty cock which he licks then takes into his mouth.

He sucked on the engorged bundle of nerves, swollen and sensitive on his tongue. Hobie worships the way you cry a little, your back arching from the sheets, his tongue stroking lick after lick against the tip, each one sending jolts of pleasure throughout your heated body.

You placed one of your hands on the back of his head, not applying pressure but to give him a few encouraging scratches to his scalp. “Just like that, keep going.” Your body shows all its cards and you couldn't care in the slightest. Breathless moans and soft whimpers keep him going, keeps him sucking your pretty dick with his tongue occasionally lapping at your sweet little hole.

Hobie used his fingers to stroke between your pussy lips where you ached the most. It was easy to ease a finger in with how utterly soaked you were and with a few slow pumps, the second finger was not too far behind.

He took his time with you, unraveling you like a gift splayed out before him. He could rush, he could take what he needed but he wanted this to be slow, intimate. He needed to tell you just how much he worshiped his body of yours, how much he valued every piece of flesh you offered up to him. He needed to study you, inside and out.

Your hushed moans were beautiful and the whines the broke out between them were just the same. “My lil’ muse.” He hummed against your cock, kissing it and the flesh around it in an act of praise. His fingers worked in and out of you, curled in search of that gummy little ridge that would send you into orbit and make this all the better for you.

He knew he found it when you let out a nice, little, high-pitched moan and your whole body lept. Hobie chuckled softly, much to your dismay and rubbed you at your sweet spot right where you needed him.

“Why– fuck~ why are you always…so mean. L-laughing at me ‘n all.” You pant out, hips bucking against his soaked fingers, all your pretty, little parts rubbing against his knuckles.

“On the contrary, I think ‘m bein’ rather nice, don' you?” He kissed your belly, slowly making his way back up your body to find your lips again. “I only wanna be sweet wit’cha, luv.” His lips pecked yours once, twice, before he kissed you fully again. His fingers thrust into you, his thumb playing with your dick to keep you nice and stimulated. “You don't think ‘m bein’ sweet?”

You shook your head and he pressed his fingers into your sweet spot to make you gasp. “I-I think you’re the meanest person I know, Hobes.” You wrapped an arm around his neck to pull him in, your lips still stealing kisses from one another. “I think you’re mean peck ‘cause peck it’s your fingers inside me and not peck you.”

“I can change tha’. I can be so nice t’ya.”

You’re lucky he’s in his pajamas and not his entire getup. It’s easy to get him to pull himself out of his pants enough to reveal his length to you. He’s thick and long, nothing to make a passing statement at. He slips his fingers from your eager cunt and uses them to drag along the tip of his cock, spreading it down his length with a few sloppy strokes against his palm.

Hobie pulled you closer. You settled back against his pillows, whining a little when Hobie pulled his hand away from yours to brace himself against you. You toss your arms over his shoulders and around his neck. Your gaze is a bit more confident looking into his and Hobie kisses you softly.

You're dripping, trembling as he drags the tip of his thick cock between your soaked lips. He teased you, pressing the tip into your sopping entrance before pulling away. It coats him, your wetness, making it easier for him to slowly inch his way inside. He stretches you slowly and your nails sink into his back. You bury your face into his neck, muffling your moans.

His hands caress your body, holding you tight as if he craved that same warmth from you as well. His hips pressed flush against yours, his cock buried deep within you. He lets you adjust while he familiarizes himself with your tight cavern. Your walls hug him, imprinting every vein, every groove of him. Soft and welcoming like you've been waiting to invite him in since forever.

You two stare at each other, the warmth of one’s breath breezing over the other's supple skin. "Move." You encourage, nudging your nose against his. His hands tightened on your waist as he pulled his hips back until only the tip remained inside before surging them forward. He liked being soft with you, liked touching you like you were one of his drawings, like you would smudge if he pressed too hard.

You didn't mind slow or careful. It made you feel all that more special, like you were worth taking up that time where he could be doing other things. He kept his strokes paced, gentle. The soft slapping of skin mingles with your moans that fill the room.

"Hobie~" You claw at his back, leaving your mark on him in bright red lines that cover his skin. His cock filled you to the brim, pressing every point of pleasure along the way to his tip kissing your cervix. Hobie’s size was nothing to laugh at. He touched places never before discovered, his hips rutting into yours in firm, paced strokes.

He pressed his against the side of your head. Your shampoo was nice, lavender and vanilla he supposed. Hobie made a mental note to write that down in his sketchbook with all his other notes about you.

Hobie smelled like subtle cologne and natural musk. It's comforting, not overwhelming or violently invading your nose. You kiss his neck, along his sharp jaw, and over his prominent Adams Apple. Your teeth nip softly over his supple flesh, easily able to leave hickeys on his skin, smooth as paper.

Your moans are like music to his ears. High-pitched and uneven. With each thrust, he's rewarded with such a beautiful sound. You chew on your bottom lip in attempt to contain them but he doesn't like it. "Uh-uh, I wanna hear you. Don't deny me such a beautiful sound." He reaches up and pulls your lip from your teeth with his own. A spark.

Hobie took your hand with his much larger one and laced your fingers with his like before. He pinned your hand to the bed, rubbing off graphite onto your skin, his mark on you, his love on you. “Am I nice enough now?”

You nod, “so nice~”. You sighed out, pulling him in and tucking your face into the crook of his neck. “So good.” You murmured against his skin, sucking on that piece of flesh to calm yourself. His strokes were deep, solid, unquestionable in his dedication to his craft.

He kisses your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, then your lips, a innocent little kiss that belies the way he’s fucking you right now, his pelvis rubbing your dick with every roll of his hips.

His hand touches the side of your face, skimming it, holding it, worshiping it as if he were drawing. Your eyes fluttered softly, your lips parted to let out a shaky breath and your eyes admire him the way he admires you, like an artist looking at its masterpiece.

Hobie’s hand trails down the length of your body and reaches between your bodies to touch your dick. He strokes it between his fingers, smirking at the way you cry into the bend of his neck and take the time to bite. You sink your teeth into smooth muscle, tongue lavishing over smoother skin. You’ll undoubtedly lean your mark and he wouldn't have it any other way.

You were so sweet too, so sweet to tell him before you came in short, fast pants. You begged in soft “please”s for him to keep going. “Jus’ like that.” Your legs hooked over his slender hips to keep him in close.

Your mind went hazy with the rush of your climax, your body tensed and rolled with the waves of it. That pretty pussy of your clamped down around Hobie’s full cock, stroking him in beautiful subtly pulses that coaxed him towards his own orgasm.

“Ya wan’ me to cum wit’cha, pretty boy?”

You nod and whine, nails sinking into the back of his neck. Your legs tuck in and pull his hips closer and oh those silky walls of your milked him so nice and thoroughly he couldn't help but to cum.

Hobie didn't mean to cum inside, didn't mean to sully your body with his spunk. He didn't want to ruin you, ruin the temple of your body but God, he couldn't help it and you weren't letting him move.

And oh, he didn't mean to get so sappy, didn't mean to lift your intertwined hands and kiss the back of yours as he came deep inside, hot cum rushing to fill you to the brim. He sighed with pleasure and contentment and looked you in the eyes. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, luv. My lil’ muse.”

He rolled over with you still holding on to him, slipping from his little sanctuary between your legs with a wet pop. He readjusted himself, made himself decent before kissing you on the head.

God, what would this mean for your friendship? Would this become a regular thing? Did this make you something more. You were too afraid to say anything in fear of ruining the quiet serenity of the moment.

“You got what you need for your drawing?” You ask innocently, as if he did all of this for some damn drawing. Hobie scoffed against your scalp and pulled away to look at you. “Yeah, but ‘m no’ in the mood to draw anymore. Jus’ lemme hold’ja, yeah, dove?”

You could let him do that.

[bucknastysbabe]

So. I saw this picture. He looks so soft and huggable. Therefore my brain spat this out. Obvi I love chubby grump Bucky who can F U C K

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 2, 623 words

Synopsis: Bucky is having a mid-life crisis at 100 something years. His girlfriend is an aggravating little angel shit who doesn’t understand why. Cue pool time and ripped blonde superheroes making poor Bucky extra grumpy.

Tags: Chubby!bucky, avenger!reader, size difference, age gap (twenties and technically late thirties), pnv!sex, daddy kink, Bucky’s hating ass internal dialogue, the reader is a slut for the extra Fluff, pwp, fluff and smut, him Jealous, and Big, I tried to make it humorous heehee

Poolside blues

It was hot. Bucky sucked on his popsicle angrily, sulking under an umbrella. He wore his t-shirt even in the blazing heat. Bucky grimaced at the cloth sticking to his skin, pulling at the fabric with a huff. He didn’t want to run around shirtless when the likes of Steve and Thor were basking in the sun— the golden gods they were.

So Bucky sucked on his popsicle, his fourth one already. He flexed his metal fist, cursing it for being such an eye sore. The assassin was convinced his body had it out for him. Mess of a shoulder, ropey bullet scars, and way too much extra weight he didn’t ask for. Bucky stared down at the soft flesh adorning his midsection, lips twisting into a frown.

Hydra had royally fucked his metabolism up, serum or not. Add a plethora of mood stabilizers and Bucky looked like a damn chipmunk hoarding up for the winter. His girlfriend thought it was cute, cooing and pinching his fleshy hip. Bucky did not think it was ‘cute’. He’d never been like this in his over-extended life. Soft.

He’d held thick muscle since the serum and kept that up at the least. The brunette worked out religiously to rid himself of that extra pudge. Now he was jacked with the stupid layer over it— making him feel like a bulky lummox. Therefore if he was going to sweat to death by the pool, so be it.

Bucky’s icy eyes flickered to his best girl playing around with Thor in the water. She giggled and batted at the blonde god while he picked her tiny frame up. The brunette’s eye twitched while gripping his popsicle stick until it crushed. His girlfriend was too cute for her own good, often drawing attention from the other sex.

“Are you just going to drill holes in them with your mind or get in the pool?”

Bucky glared at his oldest friend. Steve smiled down softly, big hands on his waspy waist. He grumbled, “I’m fine. Punk.” The blonde teased, “That’s why your shirt is soaked then huh? Go get in the water you’re making me miserable looking at ya.”

“Nope,” Bucky shot back, popping the ‘p’.

Steve sighed and dove into the huge pool. Bucky pouted efficiently from the side-lines. Thor had his stupid blonde hair and stupid white teeth and stupid washboard abs. His girlfriend appeared in his line of sight, her brows knitted in concern. Bucky attempted to not stare at her perky tits— nipples peaked under her blue strappy bikini.

She hummed, “I can feel you drowning in self-pity over here. Why don’t you get in babe?”

He was staring at her tits now, he didn’t care, not really. Bucky shrugged, “You have fun I’m fine over here. Thor is waiting.” She narrowed her eyes up at him, pushing back damp hair. Bucky licked his lips, holding the woman’s glare.

In a swift motion she launched onto the concrete.

Clambering up she swayed toward the grumpy man, droplets running down her tight body. Bucky took in the view, getting lost in it really. He could watch her all day and sometimes would. The assassin grunted as she plopped onto his lazily spread thighs, soaking him. Bucky hissed, “What was that for?”

The coolness of her skin felt amazing. He willed himself to not pop wood in front of the few teammates milling around. His girl leaned over, breasts about to spill, and pressed against his padded chest. She simpered, “Buck, c’mon, you know no one around here cares. You’re perfect.”

Bucky snorted, “To you, maybe.”

She frowned and lightly slapped at his shoulder, lips pouting. Bucky hated when the pretty thing pouted— he somehow would up doing what she wanted in the first place.

Every. Single. Time.

She ran a finger down his chest, big eyes begging, “Get in the pool, please? You look so upset over here and that makes me sad.”

Once again Bucky lost to her feminine wiles, groaning out a strained ‘fine’. Her mouth split into a toothy smile, cheering, “Yay!” He rolled his eyes at her enthusiasm. Sometimes Bucky forgot she was a little over ten years his junior. If one took off the cryogenically frozen periods. She hopped back into the water, eyes eagerly flickering to the side.

Bucky hauled himself up and reluctantly peeled off his dark shirt, revealing his pale skin and soft parts. He willed himself to not curl into a ball or run away screeching. Steve wolf-whistled, sending an embarrassed flush across the brunette’s full cheeks. He barked, “Knock it off Rogers!”

Sam, as always, had ESP for people flustering Bucky. He shouted from the grill, “Looking thick my man! Whole slice of beef!” The assassin was convinced he was going to self combust, sliding into the water to cover himself up. His girlfriend snickered when Bucky resurfaced from his shame dive, splashing his face.

He frowned down at her, the spitfire raising a brow in challenge. Bucky slung her over a thick shoulder, hand across the backs of her thighs. She laughed and kicked, playfully squirming. Bucky had half a mind to leave a mark on her ass, show the Asgardian who she really belonged to. She stopped thrashing and murmured, “If you do not stop being jeal-“

The assassin cut her off when he dunked under the water. She spluttered and cursed at him, Bucky laughing, “Sorry sweets, what were you saying?”

“Put me down or I’m ripping your hair out!,” she howled. He chuckled and slowly let the angry avenger down. She shook her head, flicking the sensitive skin below his belly button. Bucky winced and gaped petulantly— horribly trying to block of the feeling of jiggle. The woman latched back onto him, pressing a feathery kiss to his bearded jaw. With a dirty smirk, spirits lifted, Bucky led them to the shelf in the deep end.

Sitting back he groped at her ass under the water, earning a squawk and another slap in return. She whispered angrily, “Stop that! Not in public!” Bucky grinned dumbly, eyes flickering to her perky chest. He apologized, saccharine sweet, “Sorry baby, you’re just so pretty I couldn’t help myself.”

Tony Stark and Natasha approached the pool, him lowering his sunglasses at the pair. Stark sipped his drink and loudly observed, “Horndogs at it again. Barnes you’re a nasty old man, you know that?”

Sam sniped, “They call him Bucknasty for a reason!”

Bucky’s temples throbbed with annoyance. He shouted at Sam, “No one calls me that but you! Bird brain!” He needed to scoop the girl up and take off— now. Steve was howling with laughter, hand slapping his chest, Thor smiling in confusion. She turned and grinned at Tony, “He’s my nasty old man.” The woman laid an exaggerated kiss on his cheek. Stark pretended to gag and situated himself in a lounge chair. Natasha’s lips quirked up, green eyes sparkling with amusement.

Bucky rumbled quietly, “I’ll show you nasty if you keep it up acting like that in my lap.”

Her tits bounced when she inhaled sharply, shit-eating grin falling from her face. Bucky lecherously grabbed another handful of ass for example. Her voice quavered when she weakly replied, “Very funny Buck. Not in front of everyone!”

“I’m not being funny. Seeing you getting flipped around by the blondes has me feeling…some type of way.”

Bucky was proud of his updated lingo, courtesy of the sexy trembling thing in front of him. She huffed quietly, squirming minutely on his thick thighs. “Jesus Christ, they’re all going to know when we both leave.”

“I think Clint complaining about us being loud all the time lets the team know what the deal is,” he smoothly pointed out.

With another harsh look Bucky regretfully watched her get out of the pool. Now he had to walk in front of everyone without a safety blanket again. He briskly climbed out after her, keeping his eyes focused ahead. Tony complimented, “Looking yoked there Barnes, trying to bulk right now?”

Bucky wanted to hiss at the billionaire like a feral cat. He felt like he’d been bulking for months. Just not allowed to cut— so sayeth the metabolism. He grabbed a towel and threw it around broad shoulders, aggravated with how his belly was on display. She was toweling her hair off.

“C’mon then you beast,” she snickered.

“Beast?,” he echoed.

Bucky hauled her up again, the smaller one yelping. He snatched his sweaty shirt up and carried her to the elevator. She sarcastically questioned, “Do you always have to carry me around like a caveman when you get jealous?” Bucky grunted in agreement, thumbing at the soft skin of her thighs.

She said, “You do know I only think about you, like, all the time.” Bucky couldn’t help but let his heart skip a beat. Still he whinged, “I don’t know why when there’s all these… ripped guys hanging around.” His girlfriend scoffed and rolled her doe eyes. She remained quiet on the walk, ensuing quiet ride up the elevator, and the remainder of the trip to his rooms.

Deposited on the bed she informed Bucky, “No matter how many times you shrug it off, I think you’re really hot. I like a little fluff on my men.” The brunette shook his head, crawling onto the covers. He muttered, “I don’t. I follow you around like some goddamn oaf.”

She pinched his cheek, grinding out, “You’re a little soft and I happen to enjoy you fucking me into the bed. Stubborn mule.” Bucky’s dick twitched at her words, grabbing an ankle to pull her closer. She continued matter-of-factly, “It’s also nice to have my big scary boyfriend behind me. It turns me on.”

Bucky peered at her, face set in suspicion. She ran a hand down his side, finishing it’s path at the laces of his swim trunks. Her face was cutely set in determination, deft hands untying the shorts. The assassin groaned low in his throat as the cloth fell down, exposing his aching cock. He climbed out of them and threw the shorts across the room.

Bucky eyed her up, watching her cheeks heat at his gaze. He gently positioned himself between her legs, pointedly keeping his weight off to her chagrin. Bucky sealed his watering mouth over a covered nipple, sucking eagerly. She whined and flexed under him, thighs wrapping around his hips.

“Ah! Buck!”

Her long lashes fluttered when his other hand untied the strings on the top. Bucky eased off the flimsy fabric, whistling lowly at her full tits. He nipped and flicked his tongue on a peaked bud, tweaking the other. She cried out, rutting up against his heavy cock.

Bucky’s lips split into a grin when he realized she was also untying her bottoms with shaky hands. He pulled off a nipple and teased, “That needy for it, huh?” She yanked off the offending fabric with a nibble at his jaw. Bucky would purr in contentment if he could. Until the nip at the flesh under his chin— which granted he has always had but still didn’t appreciate it.

He grumbled and lightly swatted her ass with a grimace. She mused, “You’re so hot. Honestly. I wish you would believe me Buck.” The assassin ignored her comment, instead sucking marks on her collarbone. She writhed underneath him, the wetness of her pussy sliding against him. The woman whimpered, hands holding his cheeks insistently, “C’mon and fuck me, please daddy.”

Bucky almost exploded, came back, just to explode again into a puddle of goo. She wanted to play like that today. He gripped her hips with low moan, eyes traveling up the expanse of skin. His girlfriend’s chest heaved, eyes darkly glazed. Bucky growled, “Y’want me to fuck you? Shouldn’t daddy finger you first?”

Huff. She shook her head no, dragging the molten slick across his need. Softly she begged, “C’mon daddy please, want to feel the stretch, need you.” Bucky’s eyes rolled in sheer desire, nudging the blunt head of his cock against her opening. He slid in with a curse, eyes clenching shut.

She was snug as always around him, pulsing and seemingly sucking Bucky in. The woman whimpered, wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulders. She gasped, “So big, fuck daddy, don’t stop!” Bucky was not going to stop unless he magically disappeared.

He braced an arm beside her pretty flushed face to get leverage. With a lewd smack Bucky clapped his hips into her, enjoying the wanton whine. The brunette pulled back to give another roll of his hips, moaning lowly. He got into the rhythm he knew she liked— slow but forceful. Bucky smiled down, cooing.

“You’re so pretty babygirl, taking me so well,” he emphasized with a deep thrust. She clawed at his shoulders, pressing sloppy kisses to his throat. Wide eyes met his, her breathing, “No you’re pretty.” Bucky narrowed his lids, apparently his girl wanted to be a little shit.

“I don’t understand why you won’t let me- shit! Daddy!,” she cried out with a smile, “Compliment you!” Bucky picked her legs up and hiked them higher, driving his hips into that silky-soft spot. He grunted in pleasure as she arched and yanked at his hair, mouth hung open with punched out ‘ah’s’.

Bucky rumbled, “I don’t like it- fuck sweets so tight- because it’s exaggerated!” He was panting with exertion now, reveling in the tell-tale slaps of skin echoing. The petite Avenger under him whimpered when Bucky hit her g-spot dead on, tears pricking her eyes. Bucky kissed a droplet, murmuring sweet nothings.

“Keep fucking me daddy, I’m gonna hah- cum!,” she wailed. Bucky urged, “Yeah babydoll, want you to, c’mon need it.” He thumbed around her clit, breathing into her lax mouth, swallowing up those broken keens. She sobbed his name into the kiss, clawing and scrabbling when she clamped down on him. Bucky’s eyes rolled up at the pulsing and gush of slick, fucking her through the orgasm.

His baby’s loud keens turns into little whimpers as he kept thrusting into her tight body. She quavered, “Cum in me please daddy!” The woman nipped along his jaw again, rubbing at his flexing ass. Bucky felt his lower belly tighten, a swirling fog gathering in his brain purely driven by need. He growled, “I’m gonna fill that sweet pussy up, you want that from Daddy, huh?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

Ask and one shall receive. Bucky felt his balls draw up and he came with an embarrassingly slutty groan. He drooled onto her neck, gasping through the brunt of his body emptying into her wet heat. She cooed, “Oh, so good, ah thank you daddy.” Bucky collapsed halfway onto his girlfriend, still firmly snug inside.

She rubbed a trembling hand across his bloodied shoulders, serumed body already working on knitting the claw marks back up. Bucky simply breathed, unable to come up with intelligent words. His brain had probably shot out of his dick. She maddeningly caressed his, ugh, love handle.

Bucky groaned, “Stop it.”

She retracted the touch and rasped, throat bruised from yelling, “One day I’m going to convince you Buck. Perfect as you are.” Bucky snorted, “We’ll see about that.” He softened at her lithe hands pushing his sweaty hair back, grinning like he’d hung the moon. He murmured, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

She giggled and cuddled up like a damn koala. Bucky didn’t truly mind, albeit she may be delusional and think overweight one hundred year old former assassins are sexy. He was glad he’d been able to find the loon, all his to boot. Bucky shook his head in amusement, the feeling of her sharp teeth on his chin again, him starting to protest.

[gildedkrone]

KINKTOBER 2023 🔞

“Liebling.”

“Schnucki.”

“Schatz.”

He is a man of few words and yet, a majority of them are terms of endearment in the privacy of his office and your shared apartment when they seem to slip through his trademark iron jaw with unnatural ease.

König is a man once too large to be in his dream profession, once a man too large to be considered friend material in early education and yet, he finds himself basking in the warmth of the sun filtering through the glass windows in the apartment. The couch dips with your body pressing against him and on clockwork, a heavy arm drapes over your flank to rest at your stomach with fingertips eager to touch.

“Handsy today?”

“Always handsy for you,” he mumbles with affection and warmth touches your skin in pinpoints of pressure. The warm weather with the broken AC meant a swelteringly hot afternoon and it was decided the afternoon would be spent shirtless on the grey couch. His fingers trace circles on skin before his palms press down and glide to rest at your hips.

“What are you doing, König?”

“Just admiring my schatz, ja?”

“Admiring? You sure you are just admiring?”

He mumbles something fond in German and handsy the man moves his hand to dip below the waistband of your boxers. In the background, the TV blares with some noisy ad and you level a glare at König.

He pouts—don’t be like this—and reveals a small bottle of lube from his hands. The clear liquid is smeared all over his hands in a prelude of what’s to come. The first intrusion is cold and you gasp when he stops at a single knuckle depth.

“König, move your stupid fingers if you are going fuck me.”

“Patience. I will reward you in time.”

The man has thick fingers and at just two, it already feels full even if he whispers three or even four if you are good. His other hand draws a line up your abdomen and comes to rest at the scars on your chest.

“What pretty scars, liebling.” You both know what they are and König whispers praises. A battle scar from the toughest battle you’ve ever fought.

The second knuckle pushes past your rim and you grip on his arms becomes vice tight in response to the way he pushes them against your walls. He finds your mouth in a sloppy kiss as he continued to fuck you with his fingers on the couch. The glint in his eyes  before his fingers leave you and enter his mouth. Suckling on his fingers, like a lollipop.

“You taste so sweet and addicting.” Stringy ropes on blunt fingers and obscene sucking sounds before they enter you again, this time in three. The base of his fingers push against your rim and when they press against the spot, you are throwing your head back and taking a sharp breath.

König chuckles and presses harder and you struggle to keep your hips still. Fuck my fingers, and you are moving against his fingers while he slams his fingers into your folds. He rewards you with a harsh drag of fingertips against your tight walls.  

“König … ah!”

“Yes, just keep making those sounds. Let me hear you.”

Satisfied with the how earnestly you are gripping his hand, you yell when the fourth finger joins the fun and when he curls them while slamming them into you, you crumble into his neck and a hard moan gets your boyfriend absolutely hard beneath your ass.

“Kö, please, I need …”

“I know. Be patient, bärchen. You sound so good for me and I want more.”

“More?”

“My pretty boy, all drunk on my fingers. Does it feel good?”

“Y-yes!” You will feel your abused rim tomorrow, but now, you can’t think clearly and König flicks your lips harshly before burying his fingers to the hilt. Your cry of pleasure drowns out your consciousness and König moans when his hands are suddenly drenched in a flood of your juices.

He keeps his hand in your quivering lips greedily sucking to keep the intrusion in as you rode out the climax in waves. Eventually, you are fully wrung out and König extracts his hand when you unclench to let him out. The rush of fluids out immediately stains your boxers and you lay back into his arms.

“You look better this way, you know? All soft in my arms after a good fuck. Such a pretty boy, and all for me.”

“Sweet talker much, Kö?”

He pulls your boxers off with some wiggling of your hips and presses the ruined garment to his nose and inhales. Something digs into your ass and König tongues the stain like a man starved for water as his devious tongue slips through pink scarred lips.

“You’ve had your fun. Now, it’s my turn, liebe.”

Do not edit, reupload or translate my works without prior consent || masterlist || kinktober masterlist || with editorial input from moots cosmo and rot

[daftdrac]

POOLVERINE PRIDE WIP!!!!!

I'm at someone's house rn so the picture is bad, and I just finished this so I can't do anything with it until I get home, but i'll probably digitize and color it. Extra details+individuals below!!!

Logan here is a transgender man, and takes HRT, but isn't medically transitioned otherwise- you can see his boobs kind of. Obviously not too well, cause testosterone and working out redistribute body mass. He's got a little trans pin on his shirt ("FREE DAD HUGS") (Wade and Logan would absolutely be supportive gay dads to queer kids with no/crappy parents)

He's holding a big flag, because of course he is, he's bisexual.

(I didn't do this intentionally but his eyes are drawn weird and it looks kinda like he has eyeliner on and lowk I dig it-)

WADE!!!

Wade here has gone shirtless to pride to show off their top surgery scars! (I wanted to draw him shirtless/with skin showing cause everyone draws him in his suit more often than not and I think Wade should finally get some recognition instead of Deadpool. )

He's got shorts on, NOT underwear 😭- my non marvel fan friend saw me drawing it and gave me a weird look and said "why are you drawing a polka-dot man in underwear?" And it TOOK. ME. OUT. (that's where the super cancer label came from, if anyone was wondering ❤️‍🩹)

I tried to illustrate their expression, but I'm not great with eyebrow-less expressions or mouths, so it was a BIT of a struggle- I'll definitely work on it to make it better in the final piece or future fanart.

He's Transgender MASCULINE, not Man, because imo Wade feels very disconnected from gender? Like, all he knows is they DEFINITELY aren't a woman. He's comfortable with any pronouns, doesn't really give a fuck how you refer to him. Actually this is something I'm comin up with right now but he'd probably use mirror pronouns. He's got a trans flag painted on his cheek, and he's pan so he's got the pan flag cape of course :)

Actually I just wrote all that and had an AMAZING idea, intersex Wade!! Male chromosomes and a dick but also BOOBS which he promptly chopped off upon reaching the age of 23 idk why 23 but he did it at 23 you're welcome this is SO UNREASONABLY LONG I hope someone enjoys this BABSBBSB

[dazeddoodles]

Yeah this basically sums up my thoughts

Some people may think I get upset over acknowledging at all that Raine was either "born female" or "born male". But that's not the case, I know there's technically more "proof" that Raine is AFAB and transmasc, that's why I draw them with top scars.

Maybe it's not as obvious to some people but since I constantly draw Raine and get the same type of comments on posts where their gender isn't even the main focus, I can tell when someone just wants to know their "real" gender.

I'll draw Raine in a dress and someone will go

"But aren't they biologically male???"

That's not confirmed and even if it was why would it matter? Or I'll make a JOKE implying Raine is the dominant one during intimacy and someone will go

"But aren't they biologically female???"

That's not confirmed and even if it was why would it matter?

I drew Raine shirtless at the beach and got comments saying they shouldn't be shirtless cause they're "biologically female". Raine didn't have boobs in the picture, they had top scars implying it's post top surgery.

But these people view Raine as "actually a girl" and therefore this girl shouldn't be topless.

I had to turn the comments of a post off once because people were debating what AGAB Raine is BASED ON THEIR BODY AS KID (saying young Raine doesn't have boobs so they must be AMAB) Like do people not understand how creepy that is?

[maharlika]

tend

a little hasltarion ficlet written for @cielsosinfel for the prompt "halstarion wound tending"

warnings for blood and implied (non-graphic) abuse/torture

--

Halsin wakes in the middle of the night to the smell of blood. He raises his snout into the air, paws shifting restlessly on the soft dirt. The coppery scent lingers for but a moment, but it is enough for his heightened animal senses to snag onto. He pushes his way out of his tent, an elf again, and walks towards Astarion’s humble abode.

The camp is deathly silent, and the night is cool. He finds Astarion sitting just outside of his tent, shirtless and twisting awkwardly in what looks like an attempt to reach a spot on his back. 

Halsin stops a few meters away, hesitating, but then he sees Astarion’s ears twitch in annoyance. 

“I know you’re there. I may not know how to spontaneously turn into an animal, but my hearing is just as keen. Though I suppose a vampire is just another kind of beast.” 

Halsin sighs internally—he’s always so prickly, their vampiric companion. But he soldiers on: “Apologies. I smelled blood and thought—but I can leave you to it.” 

Astarion frowns, his shoulders sagging. 

“Unless you could use the help?”

“One of the goblins may have gotten too close,” Astarion admits. He turns as Halsin draws closer, and shows him the deep gash on his back, raking across the circle of his gruesome scars. The blood around the wound is caked and dark, but it’s still bleeding sluggishly, which is worrying. Why hadn’t Astarion told anyone?

Halsin winces in sympathy. “I have healing potions—”

“No,” Astarion says, rather forcefully. He takes a deep breath, then says, with an air of forced lightness, “It’ll heal on its own, there’s no need to waste a potion.”

“It wouldn’t be a waste,” Halsin says. “And if you don’t want to use a potion, we can wake Shadowheart.”

Astarion shakes his head vehemently, his curls swaying with the motion. “It’s fine.”

“Then how can I help?” Halsin asks instead, feeling his patience start to fray. He’s never been good with people who refuse help—all the time spent playing a healer out of necessity should have rid him of this trait, but alas, it only seems to have compounded it.

Astarion raises a hand, and Halsin sees what he’s been holding on to this whole time: a needle and thread.

“It’ll heal faster if it’s closed,” Astarion says, eyes averted. “I’d do it myself, but it’s in a…tricky spot.”

“Let me get this straight,” Halsin says incredulously, “you’ll not accept a healing potion or a healing spell, but you want me to sew your wound closed, causing you a fair amount more pain. Is that right?”

“I suppose you’re not as stupid as you look,” Astarion says, but the haughty smile that graces his lips is a frail line, easily broken.

“Oak Father preserve me against stubborn vampires,” Halsin says, but he takes the needle. 

Astarion startles when Halsin puts a hand on the cold curve of his shoulder but relaxes when Halsin murmurs an apology. 

He does not stir when the needle slides through skin, through flesh. 

How many times, Halsin wonders, has he done this to himself before? He has seen Astarion sew, hunched protectively over bloody, fraying clothes. The light, easy movement of his hands, the glimmer of the needle, the pull of the thread. How many times has Astarion sat by himself, in the dark, sewing his body back together? 

Halsin is no surgeon, but he’s mended enough broken bodies to make quick work of the wound. Soon, it is neatly laced shut, and he hands the bloody needle back Astarion, who has not uttered a word since they started.

“Astarion?” Halsin asks.

Astarion’s shifts, turning to him, eyes half-lidded. He looks exhausted, his lower lip broken and bleeding, as if he had bitten himself to stifle any sort of noise.

How many Gods-damned times, Halsin thinks again, feeling the surge of some helpless, molten anger rise in his chest.

“Thank you,” Astarion says, looking as if he’s about to keel over any second.

“Would you like to feed?” Halsin asks. 

Astarion blinks, slow. He licks his lips, eyes darting to Halsin’s neck. But eventually, he shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. “No, you’ve done enough. I’ll sleep it off. Thank you.”

And as much as he’d like to push, Halsin knows Astarion has already revealed more than he’s comfortable with, tonight. So he nods, turns around, and walks towards the river, where he washes his hands. Blood meanders through the water, then diffuses into nothing. 

How precious that blood must be to Astarion, who must take it from living creatures to survive. How cruelly it must have been spilled by a sadistic hand. 

When they find Cazador, Halsin thinks, he would very much like to rend his limbs apart until they are unsalvageable, nothing that can be put back together by needle and thread.

[itsclydebitches]

Cinder is a lot more sexualized then the male parts of Salem's inner circle

Like tyrian is shirtless sometimes but that does not feel as...drawn attention to, as say, the lingering shots of Cinder's butt or thighs. Or her wearing short shorts and high boots you know what I mean?

I do, anon. RWBY got a lot of attention back in the day for its anti-upskirt technology, but that doesn't give it a free pass for all the other ways you might (and it does) sexualize the cast. I've never been inclined to give RWBY too much shit in this regard because it is pulling from media with a LONG history of such designs and cinematography - it feels unfair of me to act like RWBY is uniquely responsible for such problems when I'm simultaneously willing to overlook, say, the 90's "gag" of Yusuke flipping up Keiko's skirt - but there's nevertheless a voice in the back of my mind constantly asking things like, "Why are so many of the girls fighting in heels?" and "Why are they dressed like they're going to the club and not the literal TUNDRA??" I'd kill for the whole cast, but the girls in particular, to get a re-design that focuses on fashionably compelling practicality, rather than sexy fanservice. (Though Ice Kingdom did a good job overall, particularly for Ruby.) Sure, RWBY didn't give us panty-shots, but one of the first characters we're introduced to is literally designed like a dominatrix.

If we're talking about outfits though... I'd say Emerald gets hit the worst out of Salem's minions. Yeah, Cinder is definitely sexualized in a more general sense as the tall, white (that's not a coincidence), long-legged beauty who sensually conjures fire as she prowls towards the heroes, camera focused on her hips swaying. But Emerald?

She suffers from the same problem Yang has. AKA, if your woman isn't classically beautiful (like Wiess and to a different extent Blake), or cute / child-like (Ruby, Penny), but is instead going for a sporty, comparatively masculine-esque vibe... then they've got to show a LOT of skin. RWBY makes it sexy by just denying them clothes. You're entering dangerous battles on the daily? You want to protect yourself? Too bad. The audience needs a midriff and cleavage and your whole arms to stare at. Shorten the skin-tight pants so we can see some leg too. Oh, Yang has to have long pants because she's heading into the coldest Kingdom in Remnant? Never mind that, cut a strip out to show her thigh.

"But Clyde, the girls don't need to wear armor because of aura--" then why the hell does Jaune bother wearing that heavy-ass suit? Is it weight training? Does he just think it makes him look cool? ...or does it exist in case his aura breaks and he's allowed to wear more protective gear because there are different gender expectations attached to his design? The aura argument is just a modern rehashing of the Supergirl sun argument: using made up lore to "justify" getting your women characters into skimpy outfits, despite the men rarely being held to the same standards.

Tyrian is actually an interesting exception here and if I were less tired I'd think through this argument more, but something something as the "crazy" character he's allowed more leeway in breaking those expectations. Also the open shirt shows off his scars, which likewise help sell how dangerous he is. With the exception of characters like Cinder and Nora - whose injuries are Important Character Moments the audience gets to see play out - scars are surprisingly uncommon in Remanent. Or, again, they're severely downplayed so as not to interfere with that classic beauty design (like Weiss', or even Yang who gets a perfect cut when losing her arm). So when you see a character with giant scars spanning the length of his chest, an open shirt drawing deliberate attention to them... that makes you go, "Oh shit. What's he been through to scar like that in a world where most people make it out of fights with no permanent damage?"

[alwayssassydreamer]

Cutting Through Doubt

Day 18 of Kikitober

Plot: It started with a simple question. "Do you trust me?"

Warnings: Knife play, blindfold, swearing, established relationship implied, blood, MDNI , not proofread

Characters: Kid x Killer

Sitting in the big and rugged chair, shirtless, wearing only his underwear and gripping the armrest with his flesh hand, Kid anticipated what was about to happen, a challenging look on his face.

Killer stood in front of him, knife in one hand, blindfold in the other.

"Still wanna do this?" He asked his voice soft with a teasing undertone.

"You should know that I'm not one to back down from a challenge" Kid replied smirking cockily.

With a nod the blonde walks behind Kid tying the blindfold around his eyes. The moment Kid lost his vision he started to feel a little tension rise in his stomach.

"Ready?" Killer whispered in his ear warm breath caressing his neck. The loss of his sight amplifying the sensation. A small hiss escaping his lips as the cold metal of the knife made contact with his skin.

Killer chuckling darkly at the reaction of his captain. Killer’s movements are slow and deliberate as he presses the flat side of the blade against Kid’s neck, just enough to sting but not cut the skin. At least not yet.

Kid could feel a rush of heat run through his body, muscles tensing, his hand gripping the armrest. Killer moved from behind, to stand in front of Kid. Spreading his legs with his knees and stepping between them. He moved the knife along his collarbone adding a little more pressure than before. Still not cutting the skin though increasing the sensation.

Kid clenched his jaw trying to suppress a grin. Killer was good at this. But it wasn't surprising thinking of how he was handling his scythes. The knife now moved over Kids' chest.

Killer moved it to Kids heart and lingered their for a moment. Kid gasped. He expected some sort of discomfort from his captain. If he wanted to he could kill him right now. Push the knife deep into his beating heart. But Kid stayed surprisingly still, completely trusting Killer.

"you are unusually quiet." Killer taunted leaning in, his face just mere inches from Kids'. But the latter didn't answer him, too absorbed by the thrill and the tension he felt.

Killer mustered his captains face which was full of primal desire and the urge of taking back control while at the same time craving the arousal of vulnerability

Smiling to himself Killer let his free hand ghost over Kids skin. The mix of the cold steel and the warmness of killers hand added a new sensation. With each drag of the blade, Kid’s body reacted —muscles twitching under the sensation, his breathing growing heavier as the tension built up.

As the knife was carefully moving over the scars that covered Kids body Killer watched Kids expression closely. The captain was clenching the armrest even harder, letting out a low growl through gritted teeth. The slow teasing was taking it's toll.

Kid wanted to rip the blindfold off, push Killer to the floor taking back control. But he couldn't after all it was his idea to do this. Show Killer how much he trusts him.

Killer moved the knife to Kids abs, pressing on it a little harder, enough to prick the surface but not break it. Keeping Kid on the edge never cutting deep enough to draw blood but making sure his captain knew exactly who’s in control. Till Kid couldn't take it any longer.

"God dammit, thought you know how to use a knife properly" Kid snapped.

"You want me to draw blood" Killer cooed lips brushing Kids ear.

"No I want you to cut me a slice of bread" Kid mocked arrogant smile on his face. Not for long though. The sudden feeling of teeth biting sharply into the tender flesh of his neck almost made him choke, shiver running down his spine.

Killer didn't let up until he could taste the iron-containing liquid in his mouth.

"Fucking shit-head" Kid hissed, breathing deeply a low moan escaping his lips.

"I thought that's what you wanted" Killer taunted him, even though he couldn't see him right now he knew that the bastard was smiling like an idiot.

As he was about to protest his body was exposed to a new sensation as Killer moved the knife from his chest downwards this time cutting enough to leave a path of small red droplets. Kids body jolted, jaw clenching, fingers gripping the armrest so tight that his knuckles started to turn white, followed by a loud moan.

"Happy know" Killer teased while Kid mumbled a barley audible yes, still too absorbed by how good the mix of pleasure and pain felt. Killer leaned down, pulling the blindfold off and droping the knife to the floor.

" You're better at this than I thought." Kid said staring into the blondes blue eyes.

"I’ve always known how to handle you, Kid"

"And I've always trusted you with my life"