#Rock and Roll Globe

[thislovintime]

Peter Tork and The Peter Tork Project, early 1980s; photos by Michael Ventura/Alamy.

“Eventually, Tork moved to New York City, working odd jobs and performing ‘sporadically.’ In the early ‘80s, after he quit drinking, he started a couple of bands, Peter Tork and the New Monks, and the heavy-metal-leaning Peter Tork Project. But Tork says that heavy drinking had ‘left me with mediocre skills. Until I started working on my skills again, it didn’t matter.’” - Los Angeles Times, October 20, 1992

“In June of 1982, Peter Tork was in my face again. It was at a gritty, downscale, but packed-to-the-gills club in Boston called Bunratty’s. (Long gone.) Tork, then 40, was on a tour he described as the ‘I Have to Laugh to Keep from Crying Tour.’ It was billed as Peter Tork and the New Monks – Tork plus four crack musicians providing a hard-rock ride down memory lane. We talked a bit between sets. Me: ‘What it’s like going through life and to always be viewed as a former Monkee?’ Tork: ‘Compared to what?’ I paused for a moment and thought to myself, ‘Exactly! When this is the life you’ve known, what can you compare it to?’ (This was one of the best answers I’d ever had to one of my queries.) I re-used this anecdote when I talked to Ringo years later – switching up Monkees for Beatles in his case – and he chuckled. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘What can you compare it to? This is where I am and this is what I am.’ So, why were we Bostonians packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the post-punk heyday to hear ‘60s pop done live and loud? ‘A lot of people come out and they want to remember the old songs,’ Tork said. ‘They want to drift back to when they were fetuses or however old they were then.’ [...] ‘When I arrive at the gates of St. Peter,’ Tork quipped, ‘he’s going to say First one to go . . . okay, we’ll let you in.’ One Peter to another. ‘When I quit the Monkees,’ Tork continued, ‘the first thing I wanted to do was divorce myself from the whole thing entirely.’ Tork formed a ‘straight- ahead pop rock’ band, Peter Tork and/or Release, but it failed to go anywhere. In late 1971 and early 1972 Tork spent three months in jail for possession of hashish. Tork, who was a folk musician prior to Monkee-dom, resurfaced in 1977 to play an acoustic gig at CBGB’s, at the time New York’s prime punk club. In a sense, punk was responsible for bringing Tork back to work. The Sex Pistols did a vicious sloppy cover of ‘Steppin’ Stone,’ and other punk new wave bands have embraced the Monkees on two levels: 1) damn good pop tunes and, 2) potential kitsch value. Tork, who was married and living in Venice, Calif., was on a tour playing small U.S. clubs. (Dolenz and Jones, incidentally, had also formed Monkees facsimiles at that time and were rumored still to be big stars in Japan.) Tork has been around the area all week – he was playing an even dive-ier club in nearby Somerville the next night – unveiling a repertoire that consisted of some Monkees tunes, some non-Monkees originals, and some early rock ‘n’ roll covers. He wasn’t exactly playing the Monkees’ songs by the (Boyce & Hart) book. I’d venture to say this was almost hard rock/heavy metal Monkees music. ‘The [Monkees] records are a little thin by contemporary standards,’ Tork said. ‘People who are just into rock ‘n’ roll and had a lot of contempt for the Monkees phenomenon as a whole aren’t going to come in the first place. People who are on the borderline – they liked the Monkees and they like rock ‘n’ roll today – are going to come. If I play it like it was off the records, they’re going to say ‘Well, it was nice to see him but so what?’ If I play ’em right and they want to dance, I’ve got good musicians whacking away and they’re going to come back.” Tork’s musicians – Phil Simon and Nelson Bogart, guitars; Vince Barranco, drums; and Paul Ill, bass – have played variously with Little Feat, Dave Brubeck, Joe Beck and Carolyne Mas. [...] Although not signed to a label, Tork said producer Jimmy Miller (Rolling Stones, Traffic) was ready to record an album with them. (Jimmy Miller, who lived in our region, was had made maybe the greatest Stones album ever in Exile on Main St., but was drug-damaged goods by that point, sad to say.) ‘My goals right now are to make a living entertaining,’ Tork said. ‘Put away something for my old age, cookouts on the weekend, no big thing. You never know what’s going to happen. One of these days I might make a mark on my own.’”- Rock and Roll Globe, February 2022

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

TYPOGRAPHY AS ICONOGRAPHY COLLIDE IN THE WORLD OF '50s ROCK 'N' ROLL.

PIC INFO: Resolution at 1606x2048 -- Spotlight on an original concert poster design titled "In Person "Lucille" LITTLE RICHARD and his Orchestra," c. late 1950s. Published by Globe Poster Baltimore, USA.

Source: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:In_Person_%27Lucille%27_Little_Richard_and_his_Orchestra.jpg.

[stephstars08]

AUSTIN BUTLER WON HIS FIRST GOLDEN GLOBE FOR HIS ROLE AS ELVIS!🎸🎸🎸

GUYS I AM SO HAPPY FOR HIM!!! I am just so happy this was so well deserved! Austin just amazed me and inspired me playing such an incredible role in an incredible and inspiring movie! Austin brought us on a journey through Elvis Presley’s story and if you haven’t seen the movie yet please go watch it, the movie will give you goosebumps! Austin’s speech was so amazing and inspiring! He made me smile so big when he thanked Priscilla and Lisa Marie Presley! The proud look in their eyes was so beautiful! And of course when he thanked the one and only Elvis Presley, my heart just burst! I know his Mom is up in heaven looking down on him and is so proud of him! CONGRATULATIONS AUSTIN! ❤️

[artcalledcinema]

It’s All Daft In F Notes It’s all a draft in footnotes Hear tha bells It’s all daft in f notes Repeat again It’s all a vent in my head scape Clear my head It’s all death in sounds of f Play first It’s all a draft in footnotes Hear tha bells It’s all daft in f notes New now It’s everything and nothing in a life My heart stops Failure of blood fed oxygen Add two It’s all a vent in my head scape Clear my head It’s all death in sounds of f You need to feel it throughout music But feel it on screen death in tha cinema The sinema Rolling in that sound of f now On TV on the media Dear sinema! Stand up clap loud and cheer The itch upon me Hearing the f in you Bells The shooed away In walls me and you Deafening blinding-strapped in a wheel Dog and cats see cd’s The F’s around us all Just listen Oh hey there The toy out up Look at you D C’s Dogs & cats Policy of the stardard few Take a leak Please take a piss it’s just so damn cold out here my dear dc cd just pee oh leak fast it’s dying breath and you are the one wanting to go out side This bell rings The f notes run As like in baseball It’s slower paced For action It’s the Season Thank Mac’ For the last verse run Drink water and sing again Then? I need to piss Smoke a cigarette A drink another beer And guess what fucking what All in different Fucking rooms Ah yeah Different Fucking Rooms Well close to F above In texted picture Does screaming fall with death dying Notes If I could do it all from within one room hey I’m fucking crazy He’s daft Nah Sal, this is importance Barns the barns Intro to heads Said the Living All daft without heat I I I I - I I I I I I I I I I I I I I - I I I said through teeth, too top anyways All daft gnawing and softly scratching Unfixed bleeds against

[festus-eats-tabasco]

Let’s talk more about accents in the Riordanverse!

• Percy with rounded New York vowels and that quick run-together way of saying his sentences. Percy with an accent you can’t quite place until he orders some coffee or water.

• Annabeth with a Virginia drawl and long vowels that don’t quite go away, even after years on Long Island Sound. Annabeth, who will randomly spit out phrases like “nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs”, whose cup always fills with sweet tea in the mess hall/

• Carter with a fairly standard American accent until he pronounces a word so bizarrely it’s clear he must have learned it halfway across the globe. Carter, who gets slightly antsy in the same place for too long and goes to language classes at night just for an excuse to practice.

• Sadie with a London accent that’s begun to fade after years in Brooklyn House, who accidentally says “cheers” when people hold the door for her. Sadie, who skips over her t’s and who drops consonants and, like Carter, isn’t exactly sure where her home is.

• Magnus and Alex with strong Boston accents and nasally a’s that Hearth is glad he can’t hear. Magnus, whose accent gets stronger in battle, who intentionally leans into it when he’s on the West Coast. Alex, who makes people guess where she’s from and tells them something different every time, who argues with Magnus over whose accent is stronger.

• Jason Grace with languid California vowels, who drops the end of every word when he’s relaxed and over-enunciates when he’s in charge. Jason, whose accent is only present when he’s comfortable.

• Leo Valdez with a Texan accent to boot and quick clipping consonants, whose accent sounds nearly the same as Annabeth’s to the untrained ear, but insists that they’re completely different every time someone brings it up.

• Hazel Levesque with a thick New Orleans accent, whose vocabulary is peppered with French and old-fashioned phrases and the occasional Southern saying. Hazel, who sticks to Deep South manners (and passive-aggression, when necessary), who orders in French when she goes to a bakery and watched old black-and-white movies when she feels homesick.

• Frank, who sounds American except for when he says “sorry”, who speaks a bit of Canadian French (which Hazel hates, because she can’t understand it), and gets teased every time he says “about”.

• Piper with a slight valley-girl sound that she’s worked hard to get rid of, but tends to slip into when she’s tired or angry. Piper, whose voice becomes sweet and soothing in charmspeak, who understands every fluctuation and intonation and how to use them to her advantage.

• Nico di Angelo with a seemingly standard American accent, until you pick up on the odd transatlantic pronunciation or Italian rolled “r”. Nico with an arsenal of phrases so jumbled and eclectic that people do a double take when he talks.

Just. Yeah. Riordanverse accents.

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+

“This way, sweetheart, this way!” the clambering voices of the paparazzi build and crowd your ears. Flashing lights of pictures being taken leave imprints on your vision, but you smile through it. Your hands are dutifully wrapped around BLACK NOIR’s thick bicep, and you tilt your head against his shoulder as he leads you through the line of press.

“Black Noir’s girlfriend, over here! Look at me!”

“Right here, honey, right here!”

A warm palm pats against the top of your hand, and you glance up at Noir. You’ve gotten exceptionally talented at telling his signs, and he’s eyeing you from the side. A silent and familiar question that has you moistening your lips, retreating with him to the restroom as soon as you can afford to slip away.

“Couldn’t wait to get me back, huh?” you question, winded from effort as mean fingers dig into the flesh of your waist, guiding you up and down. “You know you’re supposed to be working, right? Can’t believe you needed a pussy break.” you chide. Fat cock drives into you at a harsh pace, bracing your hands on the stall dividers for support. With each of his thrusts up, a soft grunt expels through his nose, and it makes you shiver. Your fingers come to toy with his lips through his mask, the scarring embossed underneath it, sliding against your pads. “So fucking horny, baby. Is it ‘cause they called me your girlfriend?” To punctuate your point, you seat yourself, fully sheathing his every inch. “Huh? You like when they call me your little girlfriend?” He nods, only once, but it’s enough. Tenderly, your cup the nape of his neck, and use it as leverage for how you rock back and forth on his cock. His hands slide down your waist, over the folds of your hiked up dress, to grab at your ass. Gloves knead and smack at it, jiggling the flesh as you take your time in rolling your body on his cock.

“You—“ your own whimper interrupts you, his tip brushing the spongy spot inside of you from this angle. “—you think they know you’re fucking your little girlfriend in this fucking restroom?” At the mention, he claws into the globes of your ass, yanking you closer to him and consequently shoving himself impossibly deeper. A pitchy whine is drawn from you, and one of his hands comes to wedge in between you two. The tips of his fingers smooth out your lower abdomen, as if to let you know he’s right there. You can feel the tip of him right there, poking out. He didn’t have to say much for you to get the picture. Especially when he presses into it, bringing your g-spot right to his swollen head. You arch back with a gasp, stars like fireworks in your eyes as you chase that feeling. Faithfully, he keeps that pressure while you rock into it. His grip on your ass telling you: That’s right. That’s what I want from you. That’s a good little girl.

You’re supposed to be here in support of his newest movie; the premiere had been the talk of the media for weeks. And here you are in the public restroom of the theater, blowing it off so you can leave a cum stain on your boyfriend’s crotch.

[shitpostingperidot]

Things in Carol Danvers’ Ship that amused me

$289 coffee maker that she lets her cat operate

At least 8 water bottles (low estimate)

Rainbow crocs

Guns N’ Roses poster

Joan Jett and the Blackhearts’ I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll vinyl

A very highly recommended 3D printing setup according to Reddit (elegoo brand)

5 extra suits

A chessboard all set up and waiting for someone to come onboard and play with her 🥺

Mixtapes: 1984 tunes, y2k party mix, weekend disco mix, soul of thunder, exo desdemona live on stage, yan songs vol. 1

Cat plushie

Hamburger plushie

Funko pop of herself???

Everything Monica and Kamala wear in space

Fidget spinner

One picture taken on aladna and it’s of goose

Baseball ticket from 2004

Several VHS tapes stolen from Blockbuster

Fan mail, including “a poem for captain marvel”

Jar of gummy bears

Two kinds of popcorn

Various Japanese packaged snacks

3 kinds of hot sauce

Truly so many dirty dishes

Globe of what appears to be aladna

2 foam rollers

Basket of squishy balls

Lesbian flag jellyfish hat

At least 7 confirmed photos of Maria and Monica, probably more

Goose Tunes mixtape!!

[theanimeroom]

NSFW

DREAMING ABOUT…

💎 men who’s cocks are so fucking huge but they have absolutely no idea how to use it. you had somehow gotten yourself in a situation where you had this beauty all to yourself, and you were more than happy to teach him how to split you in two with it.

his hands grip your waist so tightly you’re sure there’s gonna be finger shaped bruises littering your skin in the morning. his mouth is dangerously close to your ear, his breathy moans warming the cartilage until your body is shuddering in his hold. his cock is pressed against your hole, your hand around the base, cunt squeezing around air as you tried to suck him in. with a pained whimper, his hips flexed just slightly, the head of his cock sinking into you.

your voice shattered as the muscles in your thighs tightened, moan tipping over your swollen lips as your head tilted back, clenching down around him. the moment his cock felt the warmth of your cunt, he hissed, fingers digging even tighter into your hip as he bullied himself the rest of the way in. he was big, almost too big for you to take, but you don’t dare tell him to stop. instead, your eyes roll to the back of your head and you force yourself down on him further, the burn eliciting the sluttiest of noises from you, if he had any opinion in the matter.

you’d bounce on him a few times, needing time adjust to the size before letting him have free reign. you rocked back until you felt him hit that little bundle of nerves inside of you, opting instead to release him while trying to hold the position you were in.

the moment you handed over control though? he seized your hips, holding you still as his drilled his cock into your pussy. your voice came out in broken whines, his tip reaching places you didn’t even know existed. your moans mixed with his as he focused on prodding that soft spot inside you, the deep arch of your back only forcing him deeper inside of you.

he stayed close to you, chest pressed against your skin as he let out the foulest of noises. his lips kissed and sucks at every part of you he could find, refusing to leave a single spot untouched. his hands were no better, sliding between groping the globes on your chest, to yanking you onto his cock by your hips, to threading his hands in your hair to see how pretty you looked while fucked out on his cock.

he refused to admit that the expression on his face was comparable to the one you were making right now.

he’d spew shit that didn’t make any sense, his brain muddied and left useless. his voice was light and airy from the endless gasps flowing from him, a string of curses littered in between.

“fuck…you’re so warm baby,” “could sit inside you forever, oh my god,” “mfph, you’re so tight, i can’t even move,”

“you’re just too big, you dumbass,”

kazutora, shinichiro, hakkai, naoto | murasakibara, kagami, kiyoshi | nagi, bachira, reo | ikkaku, ichigo, chad, shuuhei | + your favs 🫶🏽

[poppy-metal]

need tashi to shove my face into arts ass like i need air

usually not into giving rimming but here i wrote two pieces today about it - i guess in very specific contexts i rock w it.

she probably does it because she knows you like to be involved with everything they do - but sometimes mommy wants to pound daddy's tight little ass and since she knows you're their good little girl, she'll let you help -

"need you to get him ready for my cock," she tells you, petting your head. with the other hand she strokes arts thigh, "you know how big mommy is. need him wet like how your pussy gets."

art is biting his lip hard enough to bleed. hes alot of things. embarrassed to be seen this way by you, but also turned the fuck on because you're his little angel, his babygirl, and the thought of you eating him out - your tongue touching his hole - something so dirty - when tashi fucks him - not even she licks there - something about it beneath her, he thinks - the act submissive in some way, servicing him. you're servicing him and fuck that makes his cock throb painfully where it flags against his stomach, hard and flushed. leaking already.

you nod, your eyes innocent but determined to do this task. to please your mommy and daddy. you look at him next, like you're looking for guidance and he swallows. bites back his shyness about the act - he's eaten his own cum from your asshole, for gods sake - and brings up his legs. reaches down to grab up his testicles so they're not in your way.

"Its okay, baby." he tells you softly, "it feels good."

you blink in wonder at his hole. not a place you've really seen before - hes pink - the muscle a small ring - a tight little furl nestled between his cheeks. tashi rubs the back of your neck, gently guiding you forward.

"remember i need him loose." she tells you, "do a good job for me, baby, and you'll get a nice reward after."

your cunt clenches at that and you eagerly let her press your face between the globes of daddys ass - your nose settles against his taint, the tickle of his balls there - and you gently allow your tongue to press slowly over the twitching muscle.

It twitches under your tongue and arts legs rise up higher. he moans loudly "fuck." already he sounds weepy, like how he does when hes about to cum. tashi is there though, with a tight grip around his base to stave off any orgasms. "oh fuck - "

"does she feel good?" tashi asks, genuinely curious. "she looks like shes really putting the work in there."

you've practicallt unhinhed your jaw to lick at his hole. wide wet swipes of your tongue - swirling over the rim, sucking and kissing around it. letting spit drip down your chin, making it sloppy.

art moans. and tashi rolls her eyes. squeezes his cock. "you have to tell her, art. be a good daddy and tell her how well shes doing."

"you're doing - s-so well, baby - fuck - god, her little tongue - ah -"

you whine into his ass, wanting to rub yourself through your panties but mommy didn't say you could. you lose yourself in the work for a few more minutes before tashi is pulling you back, a string of spit connecting from your lips to arts hole - which is nearly swollwen red now from your attention - slick and shiny.

"oh thats very good. gonna slide right in -" she gives you a warm kiss. "up on the bed now. you're gonna watch mommy fuck daddy and you're going to put on a show for us - okay?"

you nod, eagerly hopping up and yanking off your clothes. laying back on their big bed and spreading your legs, sticky with your juices - reaching down to play idly with your cunt as you watch tashi move art into position, all fours, back arched - daddy is so athletic! - the harness hugging her hips so beautifully. the thick silicone cock hanging off it is one you're intimately familiar with yourself, you know the stretch of it in every one of your holes - and you clench at the phantom feel of it now. biting your lip and rocking against your fingers.

"that's beautiful, pretty girl." tashi tells you, her eyes dark where she watches you touch yourself. she angles her hips behind art and you think shes started to push in, the way art gasps and rocks back against her, his eyes squeezed shut. tashi slides a hand into his hair, yanks his head up so its not hanging down like it was - "look at her, baby. watch our sweet girl play with her pussy for us while i fuck you - dont look away."

having arts gaze on you - intense and hot and pleading- at the place between your thighs. you're so wet it drenches down your wrist when you slide your fingers in.

art groans - "please." he gasps. "please, oh my god -"

tashi strokes a hand down his back as she moves the only way she knows how - unrelenting thrusts that make art sway back and forth with every plunge. "what're you begging for?" she asks, fake sweet as she starts fucking him harder immediately after asking it. "hm? speak."

he shakes his head, cheeks flushing and gasps when tashi brings a hand down on his ass. "wasn't fucking asking."

his fingers grip the sheets, curling into them - "touch my cock - please, i - its too much -"

tashi ignores that for awhile, seems to find an angle that feels good against her clit because she starts moaning softly herself.

they look beautiful together - both of them have bodies that are works of art. powerful and strong. you stop stroking through your slit to just watch - clenching around nothing as they get lost in eachother.

you're too horny for that to sting at the moment, the movement of their bodies hot and searing through your blood. you want to be under art, letting him fuck your throat - shit.

tashi finally reaches down, grips arts bouncing pink cock and tells him, "alright, now. you can cum.." trailing off as she gets lost in her own orgasm - biting her lip as her hips roll into arts ass. rubbing her pussy against the harness.

you watch as thick spurts of white shoot out of arts slit. your mouth waters because you want to lick it up. but you stay where you are - an observer as they both come down from their high.

art slumps on the bed when tashi slowly pulls out, tossing the cock to the side and gathering her husband in her arms. art wraps his arms around her - resting his head against her stomach. his body is gleaming with sweat. breathing still heavy. tashi is looking down at him fondly, scratching at his scalp as she cards her fingers through his blonde locks.

he sighs into her.

you feel bad then - the bad icky feeling starting to rise - of i dont belong here, im an outlier, an outsider, they dont need me when they have eachother, why am i here, i should probably go - but just before the thoughts are about to cloud over you - drag you under - tashi looks up.

and its not a look of surprise like she'd forgotton about you, its a look of tenderness. the soft after glow sex she gets when shes all soft and more expressive. a part of her must recognize the direction your thoughts were going because she purses her lips wryly, jerks her head in a come here motion.

you crawl across the bed to her and art and sit there on your knees, waiting. tashi reaches out, cups your cheek - "im very proud of you." she tells you, and your thighs automatically lock together. "i know it isn't easy for you when we focus on eachother - but you did so well letting mommy and daddy love eachother. and yes, we still want you."

your eyes prick with tears. tashi isn't amazing with words but somehow she always says the right thing when you need it most.

"Im still your baby?" you ask.

art shifts, lifts his head from tashi's belly and you gasp when one of his big arms bands around your waist and drags you down onto his warm chest. "dont ask stupid questions." he says, squeezing you to him, lips at the top of your head.

"what he said," tashi agrees, cards her fingers through your hair now. "how're you feeling. both of you?"

you squirm. the heat between your legs back - but you dont want to be greedy - so you wait for art to answer.

he rubs his hand down your back, cups one of the globes of your ass. "m'good." he sounds like he does in the mornings. relaxed and croaky.

"still hard?" tashi presses with a grin and art flushes.

"...yeah."

when it'd just been her and art his short refractory period and insatiable lust was a chore, mostly. after an orgasm, tashi was beat. done. art had spent alot of nights either taking care of himself after one round or simply forcing himself to go to bed hard.

that wasn't necessary anymore.

"i think our girl has been patient enough, hasn't she." soft fingers stroke down your cheek. "that poor princess cunt must be aching."

you whine. hide your face in arts chest. "mmm" you mumble against his pec, and you feel both his arms come around you now, two hands gripping and squeezing your asscheeks. dragging you closer to his warm body.

"think daddy should take care of that." tashi intones and art groans. hard cock twitching against his stomach, like its seeking your warmth already.

"fuck yes. baby, c'mere. let me - let me feel -" its so easy - for him to move you around. in just a second you're half deagged up his body, and hes reaching down, fitting his hand between your bodies until his fingers and deleving between your slick folds, hot and slick and - "oh you're so wet. oh baby. its okay - im gonna take care of you."

tashi stretches and yawns, her limbs lax and relaxed and sleepy from fucking. she settles on the soft bed, content to watch art roll you over onto your back, fit your body under his - and slide inside you.

you both moan - his body comes down over yours - your lips meeting desperately as your legs lock around his already moving hips. wet slaps fill the air almost immediately, followed by your little whimpers and arts mumbling against your throat. she cant make out what hes saying but shes sure its something ardent and worshipful. she catches tidbits of "love you -" and "feel so good -" and "pretty baby -"

she doesn't feel any jealousy or inadequacy watching her husband make love to you so passionately. just a sense of rightness. closeness. like all the pieces are where they're meant to be. she could watch art ruin you on his cock all day, and know you'll both turn to her when you're done, seeking her like two acolytes do their goddess.

its not such a bad life, really.

[thislovintime]

Photos by Henry Diltz.

“We’re three separate individuals until we get an offer, then we’re the Monkees again. We’ve got our own lives, and I’ve been spending a lot of time getting to know my kids. What I’d like most of all is to be an entertainer, to sing pop music. I want nothing more than to play rock ’n’ roll for a long time to come.” - Peter Tork, The Boston Globe, August 10, 1989

[imagine-knowing-a-name]

At Your Service

Summary: As a trainee mechanic, you apply for an apprenticeship at Stark Automotives on a whim. What you don't expect is for Tony Stark to reply personally with an offer to train you, and if that wasn't enough, a certain redhead also takes an interest in your sessions.

Word Count: 2303

Pairing: (Mentor/Mentee relationship for both) Natasha Romanoff & Reader; Tony Stark & Reader

Warning: None :)

A/N: Thanks for the response to my last fic, all the comments and reblogs kept me writing even with all my deadlines, and Mechanic!R was the clear winner of the last poll, so here you all go! Enjoy :)

»»————-　★　————-««

You rested centimetres from the cold floor with the sight of oil-covered gears, shafts, and pipes overtaking your vision as you rolled under the automotive.

"Does the axle cover come off?" you said after a short inspection.

"Yeah, those two hex screws, I'll get you the tool. You've worked out the issue?"

"It's meant to be 4-wheel drive and only the front wheels are moving; I'd guess a problem with the connector shaft meeting the rear axle."

"You'd guess or you'd know?"

"I can't know anything 'til the cover's off and I can see inside."

"Good answer," Tony replied. "Hand out."

As instructed, you stretched your arm until your fingers just about reached out from under the car chassis, where a tool handle was placed in your palm.

"One 5/8 hex screwdriver, that's the one you'll need."

"The screws are imperial?"

"'Course, kid, we're in America."

"Yeah, but you sell these cars globally; I just assumed-"

"Dear old dad set up factories all over the globe – allows for some regional differences in the schematics, then each production line just does its own thing. It's easiest for everyone."

You hummed your acceptance of his method, then started to undo the screws, until a light rock to the car paused you. The movement stopped, so you assumed it was just Tony leaning on the car and you moved to continue your work, until the hum of a motorbike -- the sound of which you'd previously ignored -- grew even louder. You jolted when the bike pulled into the garage, causing you to smack your head against the car's underbody and let out a low groan.

"Watch yourself, kid; are you alright under there?" Tony said from above. At your murmur that you were fine, he continued, "roll yourself out, there's someone for you to meet."

"Why's there someone under your car, Tony?" came a woman's voice -- the person to meet, you assumed -- "can't get under the car like the old days, hm?"

When you emerged, the bright light of the outside world temporarily blinded you; you could make out Tony's figure, and as your vision returned, you saw the newcomer's back was turned to you, so only an orange plait could be seen from under her bike helmet.

"Very funny," Tony scoffed, continuing the conversation before he pointed at you. The woman turned and you only just managed to stifle a gasp when you recognised her face. "This is an apprentice, wrote to me a couple months back asking to learn about Stark Automotives, so I've been training them since. Y/N, this is Nat. Nat, Y/N."

From the moment Tony suggested training you here, in the garage of the Avengers Compound, you knew there would be a chance of running into the rest of the team you'd spent your childhood idolising. But truthfully, you were too starstruck that Tony Stark himself had offered to train you to truly believe that moment of meeting the other Avengers would ever come.

Now here you were, facing the Natasha Romanoff, looking effortlessly cool with her white vest, jeans, and leather biker jacket...while you laid on the floor in a Stark branded boiler suit and a definite grease mark where you’d hit your head. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment when you realised that the Black Widow's first perception of you was seeing you smack into an object directly in front of your face. You only hoped the blush didn't show when you finally met her eyes.

"Good to meet you," she said cooly, holding her hand out, but her eyes tracked up and down as if sizing you up.

You took her hand instantly, about to ramble through an introduction before a slight gasp from her shook you back to attention. Your eyes snapped down to where your hands met, and you realised then that you still wore your gloves, coated with oil from working on the vehicle, and now you've smeared it all over her uncovered hand. You instantly broke away -- apologising profusely -- and grabbed sheet after sheet of blue paper roll, offering it to her to help clean her hand.

"I'm so sorry," you repeated again, but she shook her head and smiled at you.

"I've had much worse meetings. I'll happily take a little bit of grease over being shot at."

"Woah-"

"Hey, kid," Tony began. Both your head and Natasha's snap in his direction; you'd honestly forgotten he was still there. "Not to interrupt, but have you ever worked on a motorbike? I made a few modifications to Nat's, and now that she's so kindly brought it to us I can show you how they work."

"Do not lay a finger on my bike, Stark," Natasha growled in a tone that reassured you that if she had actually been angry at the grease before, you would have known.

"I won't," Tony scoffed with a roll of his eyes, "...Y/N will."

You gulped, eyes darting between the two Avengers as you were drawn into the fold. "Me? Tony I'm not sure that's-"

"It's essential learning. We don't just make fancy cars so you have to learn it all. Nat, you wouldn't deprive Y/N of this learning, would you?"

Natasha groaned, but eventually relented, crossing her arms and perching on the counter by the wall. "Okay, but I'm not leaving you alone with it. And Y/N?"

You looked up, fear probably showing on your face. Natasha smiled in return, and allowed you to see a glint of mischief in her eye, "give me a running commentary of what you do. I trust your honesty more than Stark's." She smirked at the last part, rolling her eyes as she pointed to Tony behind his back, an action for you and you alone to see. Something about it put you at ease, so you nodded, smiled back, then got to work, spending the rest of the session under the assassin's watchful eye.

»»————-　★　————-««

You watched the phone in your hand, hoping and waiting for those three little dots. Tony Stark was not a man famously known for his punctuality, but he’d been early to every lesson so far and now, ten minutes after you were due to meet, you’re starting to worry.

The worry wasn’t the lesson being cancelled so much as the worry that one of the other Avengers would walk in and accuse you of trespassing – there were still so many residents you hadn’t met, and without Tony present, you were just a stranger loitering unaccompanied in the Avengers’ garage, surely that looked suspicious. No matter the fact that you were supposed to be there and had gained authorised access with your security card, your anxieties continued to grow and grow.

Your heart rate sped up proportionately to the increasing rumble of an approaching bike. The seconds seemed to elongate when you knew there was no escape to being caught there alone. In the remaining time you had, you pulled your phone back out and, with shaking fingers, messaged Tony one more time – at least then you had proof, you kept your eyes on the device even as you felt the newcomer pull in and dismount from their motorbike.

“Let me guess, Tony didn’t tell you he’s away?” Your head snapped up at the familiar voice, face breaking into a grin as red hair broke free from under the helmet. Natasha had been showing up more and more frequently to your sessions, so her arrival was no surprise, but you were glad to have a friendly figure to justify your presence, lest anyone else appear. Natasha set her headgear to the side and hopped up onto the counter, following her usual routine; you watched her intently until you realised she was watching you too, still waiting for an answer.

"Oh, uh, yeah, no, he didn't- he didn't tell me. He's not coming?"

“He got called on a mission last night. Should be back in a few days, if all goes to plan, but I’ll have a word with him about keeping you informed.”

Her undivided attention unnerved you – Tony had always acted as a buffer before – so you fidgeted, avoided eye contact, and wondered what your next move should be. Thankfully, Natasha answered that last question for you: “It wouldn’t be right to send you home so soon,” she said, “And I am officially a Stark Industries employee still, you know, if you wanted…”

“Yes!” you exclaimed instantly, speaking before you thought. “I mean, yeah, if it’s no trouble. That would be awesome.”

“We both know I’d sit here and watch anyway.” She spoke softly and with a smile that you found yourself drawn to replicate, feeling more at ease in the spy’s presence. “Now then, I know about a lot of things but mechanics is an area where you might already have me beat, so how about something else?”

“Like what?”

“What do you want to know?” she shrugged, “Russian? Latin? Artillery? Archery? Wrestling? Weightlifting?” At your dumbstruck expression, Natasha smiled and realised she would have to make the choice for you, “how about the gym? You can impress Tony with your strength next time he makes you use that scissor jack.”

Your cheeks burn at the memory – neither Natasha nor Tony had said anything at the time, but both of them had needed to jump in and assist when you’d been unable to turn the jack enough for it to actually lift the car and fulfil its purpose. From Natasha’s warm smile, you could tell she still wasn’t mocking you for the incident, but you still nodded quickly and murmured agreement with her plan, before following her through the Compound towards the gym.

“Can I ask why you’re a Stark Industries employee?” you asked on the elevator, as a way to fill the silence and out of curiosity from her earlier words.

She laughed, “It was back in ‘09, we had to get intel on the newly revealed Iron Man, and the man behind the suit-”

“Tony-”

“Exactly. So, S.H.I.E.L.D. made some edits to the employee list, added my cover there, and I successfully infiltrated the company for as long as I needed. I only officially revealed myself at the 2010 Stark Expo – do you remember that? – and in all the chaos afterwards, they never officially took me off it.”

“I think I remember seeing it on TV – you were there?”

“I left before the explosions started, but I was around, trying to make sure as few people were in harm’s way as possible-” Natasha cut herself off as the two of you entered a space larger than any lecture hall, fitted with all sorts of workout machines – the majority of which you’d never seen in your life. “Here we are.”

“You use…all of this?”

She nodded, then paused, before pointing to a section in the corner where the machine structures and weights seem almost treble that of the current area. “That section’s for Steve, or Thor if he ever bothered to train. Us regular humans wouldn't move it an inch if we tried to use those machines.”

Natasha smirked and shook her head again, guiding you towards one of the regular machines: a chest pad adjusted to press against your front as you sat on the stool, while Natasha adjusted the weight and pulled the two handles back for you to grab them. With the position set, you looked up to her for advice,

“Pull the handles towards your chest and push them back to neutral, it'll work out your upper arms. That's where a mechanic will need strength the most, so aim for 10 repeats.”

Natasha watched carefully, adjusting your posture where needed, until you completed the set. You broke into a grin at the realisation that you'd managed it, one which Natasha happily replicated as she held her hands up for a high fives. “You'll be a pro in no time,” she promised, “ready to increase the load?”

The rest of the session continued in much the same manner – Natasha introduced you to different bits of equipment and perfected your form until your phone buzzed with a routine alert to mark the end of a session. 

Natasha accompanied you to the door, smiling, receiving, and occasionally rebuking the many thanks you bombarded her with for stepping up. “It was truly my pleasure,” she said at last, “I'll make sure Tony is back next week, but if you want to do this again, you have my number.”

She squeezed your shoulder, turned, and began to walk back inside – all before you came to the realisation: “I don't actually have your number!” you shouted after her. Natasha didn't respond, but when you checked your phone only seconds later, a message had appeared in your notifications.

‘Yes you do :) 

-N’

She really was some spy.

»»————-　★　————-««

Everything changed from then on: you walked in to Tony and Natasha arguing a week later, their sudden pause at your presence a very good indicator that they were discussing you, something they confirmed only moments later.

Next thing you knew, both Tony and Natasha had taken you on as their mentee, a session with each of them once a week, and neither of them wanted you to leave. Your apprenticeship was extended into the next academic year, where you moved even closer to the Avengers Compound to visit them more often, the two Avengers – not to mention the others they'd introduced you to – always making sure you were well cared for whenever you visited. Eventually, Tony even offered you a full-time job post-graduation as the Avengers' official mechanic, and who were you to refuse? You loved the work just as you loved spending time with your mentors, so you could think of no better job in the world.

»»————-　★　————-««

taglist: @canvascoloredin @fxckmiup @wizardofstories

[darkdemeter]

𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍, 𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐈

— BUCKY BARNES COLUMN (ONESHOT)

Dark Pirate! Bucky Barnes x Siren! Female Reader

—- not my gifs, credit to original posters! -—

| A/N | DISCRETION |

A/N — Ey yo let’s go! Here it is, part 2!

Dark, pirate Bucky — possessive Bucky, also feat. possessive reader — profanity — angst! — mention of alcohol — pet names ("Siren") — SMUT 18+ Minors DNI — unprotected (given) p in v sex — mention of marks/hickeys — there be depiction of wenches/prostitutes — semi-exhibitionism — mention of memory wipe through magic — minor cigar consumption (not reader) — very brief depiction of harm against a crew member — Rumlow, he's a bit of a sly creep — I think that's it?

| SUMMARY |

You are his siren. Why do you insist on your curiosity when you know it will only get you into trouble? In your captain's search for the ancient treasure, a temple only you know the location of, the voyage will take momentary port in Nassau. Mina, a fellow siren, reveals to you the dark truth that you have been blind to. Lied to. She encourages you to take back the necklace. The time to be a siren is now, to lure your captain into a false sense of devotion, that your sights and desires only draw to him; and not the necklace bound to his hand and the secrets he's been keeping from you.

*6.1𝐤 ────────────────┘

| M-LIST | TAGLIST:

@identity2212 @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic @mostlymarvelgirl @daddy-bucky @thegirlwholoveslivesfanfiction @armystay89

────────────────┘

Dawn kisses the horizon’s rolling waters, erasing the wicked hue of intermingling black and blue with colours brighter, more promising, to bloom over sky and sea. A sight that portraits serenity in order to inspire a welling of hope. The flaming orb of heat commands to stir the once slumbering crew into action. Little does it work to awaken your captain, already awake and buried deep in the channel of your cunt, his cock surges forward aggressively, tip kissing your cervix with each powerful snap of his hips. 

  Relentless, he rolls in tandem with the rock of the ship, a string of grunted breaths and deep, stuttering groans thrum in the cavern of his large chest, heart hammering against his ribcage. 

  He pulls from you another countless orgasm to add to another countless hour of this tortuous bliss. A flushing, white and hot, seizes hold of you and beckons your body to respond accordingly, trained in his art of greed your legs drag over the terrain of defined muscle to bring him impossibly closer. Skin melding to inked skin, sweat laced bodies mingling in heated, frictional euphoria. 

  “Y’love that, Siren? Huh,” he pants on the shell of your ear, “love it when I have you full of me?”

  You mewl a small, whiney sound. 

  “Yes—” you intake sharply, “C-Captain…”

  “Aye, say it again.” He growls deeply, teeth nip the lobe of your ear, his nose buried in the crook of your neck inhales deeply the sweet dew of your flushed skin. Rough and strong, his hands have yours pinned, as he does your entire body, pressed against blood-red and snowy white velvets and silks and dark, exotic furs once belonging to pompous princes. Now, they belong to the king of the sea and his siren. Hips rolling together in time, fingers interlacing, woven together in bound strength to hold each other as guarded lifelines, the webbing between your slender digits draws and withdraws from their tucked beds of skin. Pupils conflict between dark, slitted lines and circular globes of blackness blown in pleasure. 

  “Shit… fuck– so fuckin’ tight, Siren!” he hisses, “mine… only mine.”

  Already your core burns enticingly, welcoming another orgasm that follows closely behind your one just prior. His navel arcs to brush your clit, the girth of his cock strikes true each time, he pummels harder and faster, his tip the only portion to remain before he thrusts forward with a moistened glide.

  Corded notes of pleasure are threaded into hitched knots, producing small, hiccuping whines as your abused, slickened walls constrict around his cock to milk him of every drop. The small bridge of your back arches, the smooth surface of your salty skin gliding over the defined divots and scars of his muscular front, inch by inch you feel him everywhere; both outside and inside. 

  He’ll never let you go. As a man who prides himself in the fine freedoms of piracy, he’s a blackened heart that guards you with vigorous possessiveness. Nor do you think you’re capable of ever leaving him. He is all you have. He is yours just as much as you are his. 

  The treasure he covets with unmatched greed. No woman on this earth could ever encounter what you have above you and between your quivering legs that loop tightly over his strong waist. And because of this, you equally covet this treasure of yours. 

  His cock ruts your cervix roughly, tugging forth a long, high noted yelp underlined with a breathy huff, the rhythm of his hips stutters at the sound. His pink lips find yours, tongue drawing over your own, your submission allowing him to do as he pleased. He feeds off the chorus of your breathless song, a song meant just for him. Because of him. 

  “Fuckin’ hell…” His voice rasps, teeth sinking into the bend where your shoulder and neck meet. “Love it when y’sing for m— me.” A gut-emitted groan reverberates in his chest, Skin meets skin in synchronised slapping, raw and primal with need. Wooden legs rub and claw the floorboards with heavy creaks. 

  “L–look atcha… huh, whiney and cock drunk– mmm, gonna make you scream for me, Love.”

  His thrusts grow as ruthless as the brewing storms of the sea, lashing and rocking you beyond the point of refusal. There is no denying, no pushing away. Not when it comes to your captain. 

  “C’mon, Siren—” He pants with a series of rushing thrusts that pin you down. “Sing for me.” 

  The erected peeks of your breasts are tender as they push against his chest. You whimper softly. 

  “Captain…”

  “Aye, louder,” he growls. Of his flesh hand, his knuckles whiten dangerously until the skin melts over bone. Another harsh snap of his hips sends you spiralling on the verge of your orgasm.

  “Captain—” you gasp and he bites down into the bevel between your collarbone with a rasping growl. “Captain!”

  Your velvety walls tighten around the hardened length penetrating you, filling you, his cock encumbered by the vice of your cunt. The blinding flash covers your vision and heat spreads through every corner of your body, leaving nothing but a siren blinded in lustful bliss. He groans with each drag and push, muscles glistening in the soft glow of the rising sun. The flowing wave of his precious seed finds purchase in your lower abdomen. 

  It’s not until he completely empties his hot load, does he finally slow his pace to a stop. Above you he pants heavily, each breath reminding you of the sea’s spray and sun-tainted breeze that tousles the darkened locks of his hair. 

  Your energy sapped from the unbridled temper of your beloved captain, you find reprieve in the gentleness of his tongue tracing the numerous dark marks covering your skin - his marks. 

  “Know this…” His voice rumbles lowly, his flesh hand harbouring the necklace dangles it mere inches over your parted lips. “There is nothing for you to find in a dried pearl, Siren. I am all you need.” 

  Metal squeezes your jawline, pursuing your understanding. The pink tip of his tongue wets his lips and he arches a brow.

  “Yes…”

  You needn’t be jostled twice by the threat of his grasp, you whisper, voice barely audible, “…Captain.”

  “Atta girl.” 

   Arriving at port in Nassau means safe haven for the crew of The Avenger, a chance to rekindle spirits with a few dozen barrels of liquor and a woman’s belly to keep any weathered sailor happy. In the Caribbean’s turning and heating morn, gulls scavenge for pickings of food, the white banks of sand converging with the blue tinged tide bathe the nudity of your feet with absorbed heat, it brings an irate wince to cross your features. Over the vast stretch of beach and headed further inland, the jolly tune of harboured pirates emit from the wooden, creaky shacks, if not counting the ruckus of noisy patrons enjoying their paid company. 

  Never did your captain have need for such sleaziness, such lazed women who lounge in wait for coins to fill the near-always empty drawstring bag tied to their thigh. He had you.   To hold you close to the scorching warmth of his battle hardened body, to passionately entangle your limbs in an endless thread of desire, and to bask in the radiance that is one another; the possession of a companion no other can have.

  And your own guard for your beloved captain doesn’t go unnoticed, by either him or the hungering gazes of those women yet in wait, your arms encircling around the bulk of Bucky’s flesh arm, in your neck the muscles strain as your fangs become elongated in a threatening display, the disguise of your eyes falters into narrow strips of glaring obsidian. 

  These women are no strangers to the presence of sirens, in spite of the limited number of population, a siren’s prize is never to be taken from her. 

  “Easy, Lass,” Bucky coos, lips drawn on either side into a charming grin. “There’s none suiting my fancy but you.”

  His assurances brighten refocused pupils and the lines around your mouth pull into a smirk. The now scornful glares of ladies unworthy of his time burn into you, and you in turn purse the tip of your tongue between your lips in retaliation. Behind, you hear a few members of the crew huff in their amusement. 

  With the crew tailing loyally behind their captain, each body a weighted husk ready to drown themselves in all that Nassau offers, the striking colour of a scarlet coat saunters forward in the corner of your vision. In a briefly stolen glance to your side, the brilliance of her green irises invade you with a soulless engagement, full lips drawn into a thin line and below the crimson stripe of her bandana, her brows are furrowed. 

  It comes to mind Bucky’s attendance on deck to anchor the ship at port, and so too does the possible thought that during that increment amount of time, Bucky could have very well informed Wanda of your curious skirmish ending in upheaval, caught red handed in the act. 

  And yet the events, the memory of what you experienced - the estranged bond you shared with the necklace - all of it remains. No bouts of stomach churning nausea or blurred hazes that leave you to stumble on your two feet, abandoning you to the mindless plane of confusion where memory is your worst and forgotten enemy. 

  And you prefer to keep it that way. These invasions that leave you more curious, sensing something greatly amiss the more of its occurrence is known, perhaps it’s best if you surrender the search. Your captain is all you need. Nevermind the ghostly songs that haunt the realm beneath the surface. Maybe, just maybe, there is good reason why you don’t remember anything. And if you cease this affair, then maybe with the grace of your beloved, that there will be no need to be swallowed into the misty thicket of her dark, scarlet magic. 

  I am my captain’s siren. I must remain with him. He is all I have. All I want to have…

    ‘Mm hm, mm hm, mm~hmm~hm~mm… mhm.,.’

  The melody chimes to lure your attention, the trickery of the voices blooms thickly throughout the forefront of your mind. You press to ignore the empty promise of their secrets revealed. This search ends now. No more. In defiance to the woeful, bleeding song of murmured hums, your arms hold tighter to Bucky, his chin dips low as his blue eyes look you over, gorgeous eyes of the ocean, captured within the handsome sculpture of his visage. A forbidden make of marble, carven with perfection in mind. 

  ‘Mm hm, mm hm, mm~hm—’

  “Something the matter, Siren?” thrums the husky drawl of your captain. You turn your eyes - your entire form of attention - to him, devoting it to him alone, and not to the tune that wanes with grieving cries that drown in the mists of that plane. You shake your head with refined elegance and bring a smile to grace him with. 

  “Nothing, my Captain,” you purr sweetly. Voice soft enough to easily die in the crashing of heavy waves, but so throbbing to the heart that the lilted beat of your voice could never be lost to him. Bucky grins at your words, respite is found in the security of your vow. Not only does your answer satisfy him immensely, but it draws Wanda’s intense focus away from you. 

  The quartermaster, Steve Rogers, is met in an engulfing embrace by a striking brunette with bouncy curls, lips bright and red and grinning, brown eyes sparkling in the Nassau’s brimming sun. Truth be told, she was far too pretty to be a mere human, her beauty akin to a glistening ruby, and maybe it saddens you the littlest bit that she foresees you with eyes of weariness rather than friendliness. 

  Perhaps if she were a siren herself, you’d both have settled together rather fondly as friends - as bonded sisters. But alas, with her own treasure now ashore for now, she takes to him and welcomes him with moaning cords and absorbing kisses, Bucky chuckles slyly with a wink to his exhausted friend. 

  Weather-beaten tables score the large deck of the tavern, most of them being vacant outside, but given the beginnings of your skin drying out, Bucky takes care to situate you as close to a shaded spot. Something you are noticeably grateful for with your cheek nuzzling into the openly revealed space of his chest, the belted strips of leather strapped over his chest warm your skin as well as his skin. 

  Casting you in flittering shadows are the swaying palms, their long and prickly spine leaves howling in the sea’s constant winds driven ashore. While other members of the crew flee to their own affairs to relax, those of Bucky’s inner circle remain close, like cards held to his chest, and you being the winning ace of his games, are held the closest. 

  “Restock of the ship’s supplies will take all day, not to mention, the girl needs a few restorations herself,” says Bruce, spectacles resting low upon the bridge of his nose, eyes finalising his scrawlings as his voice confirms. His hand runs over the plump of his cheek with a drained sigh, middle finger pushing the brass loop of his glasses upwards. 

  “And that’ll spend us… half our funds.”

  “Wouldn’t need to waste so much coin on crackers ‘nd other shite, had someone not snuck ‘round like a rat.” Clint’s eyes squint in his accusation towards none other than the master of maps and navigation, Stark, who partakes in defending himself behind a weak shrug. 

  “There’s actual rats aboard. T’wasn’t me.”

Clint’s upper lip curls into a sneer, the ship’s cook primed to render Stark into salted meatloaf, a dullened knife he took to using in both battle and kitchen is held in his nimble fingers. 

  “Fuckin’ thievin’—”

  “Quit your squabbling,” rumbles your captain, “strike what isn’t needed for the voyage. Double on reinforcements and armoury.” His gruff voice sends tingles through your still connected cheek to his front, content in hearing its booming and steady beat. Bruce nods and returns his gaze downward to his leatherbound companion, quill resipping ink, he scribbles into his book once again, humming and murmuring to himself. 

  Bruce Banner, though quite brutal in the midst of battles, is a relatively quiet man who tends to keep to himself for most of his membership as a crewmate. Often he dwells below decks, counting stock, taking note of damages and overall engaging the skin of parchment rather than a woman. 

   Not to completely disregard the sometimes scarce glances between himself and the fiery, flintlock dancer herself, Natasha, eyes meeting between the wooden blanks separating their worlds from dark to light. If history is planted there, there is little to know in your knowledge - your hazy knowledge. From what you’ve gathered, Natasha has a tongue that leaves many of the males on board chest torn and heart bleeding, in dire need for her to bandage them with a moment of her time. Time that she rather spent either dancing in the heat of conflict, pulling the ship in order or occupy herself with you. 

  In comparison to the neighbouring woman often skulking silently by Bucky’s heel like a prowling animal on a leash, Natasha offered you what nobody else truly had; a connection. Someone you can maybe call friend. 

  By no means is she completely softened around you, she pushes you beyond your limits, but in her interactions with you, she layers herself with a bout of steadiness and calm to keep you level headed at best. She even takes the time to teach you letters and words of human speech. Too nervous to ask such a tedious task of your own captain, it had been Natasha called upon to teach you.

   Under her mentorship, she had governed you away from the native tongue of your sea dwelling folk, and what had at first been mistaken as the ship’s adored feline, Alpine coughing up a fish bone, had just been you taking the first step in learning to speak the language of humans. Only then and afterwards did your captain also take part in your teaching, albeit through a more erotic means of lessons behind the closed door of his cabin. 

  Steve returns with a sway to his step, Peggy held snug to his hip, the two bound by invisible, sticky sap that glues them together. “We’ve drinks comin’, Cap!” He laughs with a clap to Bucky’s broad shoulder, jostling you forward with a startled whine, eyes stinging and dry in alertness. 

  You miss catching it at first, the sharpened glare of ice in his eyes towards Steve for his abrupt disturbance of you, the blonde haired man, lass-drunken already, clicks his tongue with a grimace of offered sincerity, uttering a quiet apology under his heated breath.

  Bucky is only willing to let his scowl go after you assure the quartermaster that there is no harm done, excusing yourself that your fatigue had gotten the better of your guard. 

  Flared tempers now cooled, Steve leans back against the rickety stage of the deck’s plank railing. The ruffled skirts of his companion’s dress ride a little higher on her thigh as she rests it over his lap, drawstring bag visible… and fattened with coin. Paid very early in advance. Paid full with at least three weeks worth of salary strapped to her leg. 

  A chorus of cheers spill out into the open air when tankards of foam-headed refreshments are delivered. Tony’s chapped lips bend around a cigar stick, catching a flame to his match by the heel of his boot, he lights it and puffs a smog that brings your nose to wrinkle and lungs to jump. 

  “Right,” he says, the end of the word lost in its pronunciation, “Down ter business.” The master of maps of navigation procures from his coat rolled parchments and lays them flat to the wooden rot, he knocks a knuckle hard in indication of the pirate’s haven. 

  “We’re here, Lassy. Show us where it is.” Silence falls over those of the inner circle, each pair of eyes lace between the strewn papers and your expression, gauging the lines around your eyes that speak of your concentration. In wait for either your truthful answer or another lie. 

  The tips of your fingers run the inked lines that describe the landmarks of islands, points of interest, known ship routes and x marks, whilst your captain’s own fingers trace along the outer of your thigh teasingly beneath the cover of your robe and the table. His touch is distracting you, but could you be to blame for their failure in search of the ancient treasure? After all, your memory wasn’t of best quality these days. 

  Tony rolls his fingers in a drumming pattern, each minute it grows louder and pounds in your eardrums, the wafting curtain of thick, cigar smoke clouds your senses. 

  Your captain, scowling at this, shoots his metal arm forward and plucks the cigar from Tony’s mouth and pushes the burning ash and tobacco into the veiny hide of his bare hand. Tony bites a string of curses as his hand retracts. 

  “Next time, it’s shoved down your fuckin’ throat, got it?” 

  “Aye, Cap…,” mutters Tony. He shoots you a seething glare but nevertheless, relinquishes his attempts to intimidate you into answering. 

  “You forget, sirens speak a certain way.” Comes the low purr of his lilt, breath hot against the shell of your ear, the encouragement of his hand snakes your thigh over into his lap, leaving your core, though hidden to others, exposed to his addictive touch. Your breath becomes latched in your lungs, struggling to be free and your toes curl as his flesh hand slips between your parted legs. “You just need to know how…” 

  You barely hide the hiccup in your erupting breath. His thumb, rough and firm, toys with the delicate bud that spurs the welling of arousal to moisten your folds. Behind the sealed line of his lips, he breezes a rich chuckle that courts you with promised, devoting attention to your clit, circling it slowly as the long, thick body of his middle finger runs further down your folds. The chill of gold grinds into your skin gently, the pearl hums lowly in the deep reverie of your mind once more, grazing your skin with a harmonic resurgence against the combating of Bucky’s explorative touch. 

  If the air had been thick with the sun’s heat before, then it was downright unbreathable now, your skin aches and itches to be submerged in the tranquil waters. You all but claw a single rocky formation on the far edge of the map. All eyes zero in on the point, taking in the towering form of inked rocks. 

  “You’ve to be jokin’,” Clint hisses quietly. Sam Wilson is the next to speak with a sigh, “That’s a death wish, Captain.”

  “Siren, you’re sure?” Your head bows slowly to Bucky’s question and his thumb ceases its movement. Your finger situated over the landmark trembles, your throat is dry, saliva collects in thick rivulets and makes it difficult to swallow your despair. 

  Hushed whispers fall over the crew as Bucky’s smouldering eyes darken in thought, contemplating the high stakes. For your finger lands not just on the precise location of the temple harbouring the world’s greatest treasure horde any pirate or king alike could dream of. 

  It spans over into dangerous, uncharted territory. Territory that resides as a mass graveyard for ships and souls. The Misted Song Isles. 

  A bedded corner of the world untouched by sunlight, forever shrouded in a mist that never falters in its opacity, leaving many blinded to the ambushing predators that await them. 

  These cousins are the cause of your repulsion. They are not sirens. They do not possess the ability to sing beautifully anymore. That which haunts the mists are not curated melodies to turn a heart soft and a man stirred in longing, no, but devilish shrieks and wallowing howls that scream in revel of their kill.

  “Captain, think about this for a sec—” The quartermaster, as is everyone else, silenced within an instant. You yelp and pull your hand close to your chest as the sharpened point of a blade punctures right where your finger had been. Your heart races against your ribcage. 

  “We set sail at dawn.” 

  His command goes unchallenged and hangs in the eeriness of uncertainty. His lips formulate into that smirk, daring of the course ahead, ready to face whatever thrilling adventure awaits him and his hardened crew. 

  “Prepare yourselves. We’ll soon amass a fortune like no other. Riches beyond belief,” Bucky preaches with a deepened, growling cord, thumb reviving the pleasing buzz between your thighs. Your head presses back into his shoulder, arching your core slightly into his hand. “I’ve never known those of my crew to shrink away from glory and plunder. So what of it, mates? Are you lot ready to take what’s ours?”

  “Aye!” erupts a booming throng of cheers and hollering, tankards fly skyward with trickling, foamy ales, and fists pound the tables enthusiastically. From you, Bucky draws a softened, pleasured whine only captured by his ears, a musical note he licks his teeth in savouring delight. 

  “What a rousing speech, Captain Barnes. Touches my own heart.” The inner circle becomes disrupted, parting into a narrow corridor to give their captain sight of the outsider. Bucky’s thumb comes to pause again, much to the displeasure of your quiet grumbling, your eyes seek out the intruder and gape with widened eyes. 

    “Rumlow,” growls Bucky. His hand bares upon your thigh a tightening squeeze. 

  Brock Rumlow, captain of The Lady Strike, stands present, brown coat beaten and done in by the rough life at sea, tricorn equal in match to the rest of his dishevelled attire. Dark, matted and oily hair is swept behind his ears, stubble very much unkempt and in need of a shave. His brown eyes take in the near bareness of your form, your hand pulls the robe’s fabric over your already covered breasts, and Bucky curls you further inward, protecting you from the fowl leering of Rumlow’s dark eyes. His jaw is set hard as a deep, possessive growl emits from his large chest, the storm of his jealousy on the rise. 

  With a cock of his head, Tony shoves the plans back into the confines of his coat with a huff, missing the tangy flavour of his cigar.

  By now, those of Rumlow’s crew move in behind him, a battle of glares and curled snarls, only one amongst the opposing crew brings a grin to fall over your face, eyes brightened in relief. Long, raven black hair sweeping down the curve of her back, strips of plaits are decorated with beads and small shells, A tall and lean build of a woman a few years older of your age, eyes the shape of almonds and disguised as kindly, sparkling hazels of greens and browns. 

  Her thin lips form a smile to match her tender features. You barely have another chance to second guess your next move, taking care to keep the intricately patterned robe around to protect your modesty, you push yourself away from your captain and fly into her open arms, her embrace a welcomed one after all these weeks. 

  “Mina!” 

  She greets your name with a softened breath, the calming lull of a siren’s power. The prodding of shells poke into your chest, but you pay little heed to them, too much absorbed into a fellow siren’s hold. To be held and nurtured by one so connected to the sea as you, and who is also held prisoner above its beckoning tides. 

  “My dear, your skin!” she gasps. Her lithe fingers skim the lengths of your exposed shoulders, shoving under the flowy sleeves to do the same along your arms. “How long has it been since—”

  “She does not speak that way anymore.” 

  The voice of your captain is sharp, cutting right through to the bone, it chills you. You know you did wrong by your actions, caught in the flurry of your excitement to meet Mina. He hadn’t expressed his permission for you to leave his side.

  Her eyes forecast the irritated slits, the ridge of her mouth shifting. You shake your head quickly. “Don’t…”

  She listens to your plea and directs her gaze aside, retrieving back a more composed appearance. “Apologies, Captain Barnes. I forget her tongue falters and is now consumed by human speech. Please, forgive me.”

  His eyes stare point blank akin to the barrel of his flintlock, finger locked ahold of the trigger and primed to fire a metal ball right between her eyes. He takes into account that her voice is dry in its sincere case that begs forgiveness. A case he finds unmoving. 

  And so it falls to you. Her arms fall from around you reluctantly, you press on towards Bucky, hands caressing the carved shape of his jawline. “Please, Captain… forgiveness?”

  For a moment he is silent, his stare unwavering and unblinking, it churns your innards unassuredly. “Aye.” His response brings you to breathe again with a smile. You swallow thickly, steadying yourself with the words you have become accustomed to, at first rehearing it over in your thoughts before you speak.

  “May I go to the Pools? My skin… is dry.” As if to further accentuate, the inflection of your voice matches your statement, having to clear your throat gently. 

  He nods. “Very well, Love. Hour’s half.” Ingratiating yourself in his good graces, you capture his lips in yours, his own chase after your brief kiss but the embarrassment that they give away just how parched your body is steers you away quickly. 

  You are blind to the narrowing of cold, steely eyes following Mina who walks at your side, arms encircling around you protectively, her own eyes meeting the ferocity of Bucky’s glare, her own hardened stare watered down to save you from being caught in the crossfire for her temper. She knows that you would suffer just as well as her if Bucky turned his decision around. 

  The conversing crews are drowned out noise in the back of your head, Mina guides you along the dirt path towards the haven’s centre. 

  The Pools, a central hub that extends low into the island’s heart, and a system of interconnected tunnels for sirens to rejuvenate their exerted bodies, confining them to an enclosure with no means to swim directly back into the ocean. By all means, it was a natural formation turned into a cage. 

  Peering over the rocky lips, the inviting waters below reflect minute glimpses of the sun, a portion of it concealed under the shrubbery and towering palms. The hue of bright blue blankets the surface before the long stretch of abyssal black that cascades down the rock walls.

  The waters, as expected, are vacant of any other sirens, and those scarce few could only be seen in flashes of shining scales and shadows moving beneath, dipping into the mouths of the tunnels. Hidden from sight.

  You shed the covering of your robe and set it aside, its luxurious fabric smelling of yours and Bucky’s intermingling scents, the decorative stitchwork and colours flaunt it as one of a kind, a nabbed piece from a Japanese merchant schooner Bucky and his crew pillaged, and which your captain presented to you as a gift. The first of many he would later present. Intriguing artefacts.

  Mina didn’t have need to discard herself of human-given clothing, plunging into the heavenly waters before you, her attire made with the natural ingredients of the sea, leather strips and woven cords stretch around her chest and back with rings of shells to fasten over it, keeping her breasts pushed together. The wispy lengths of her skirt flows with sheeted seaweed, circling around her slim waist as a ghostly curtain. You follow not long after with an eager dive, your nude skin is soothed by the cool waters. Your legs morph together into the singular, powerful tendril of your trail, the webbed fins attached to your lower back flutter like the wings of a dove finding freedom on the winds. 

  Your bodies take refuge below the surface, skin no longer assaulted by the lacerations of the sun’s light and blazing scorch. How sailors could idle by whilst under the cruelty of it, you will never understand. Your back arches into a spiralling twist, a high pitched chirp bouncing from your throat and coursing through your gills. 

  You bask in the excitement with Mina who twists and bends, circling you with a teasing swish of her tail, she gargles a sweet note that bubbles around her lips, her forehead presses to yours affectionately. 

  She intends to regard you with the native speech of your kind but stops, brows falling into a firm, saddened line over her eyes. In shame, your head bows. 

  Those of your crew may have stripped you of your right to recollect the siren dialect, but if she can count on anything, it is the motion of her hands and arms. The common communication of one’s body. 

  In a sequence of expertise, her arms rotate and her fingers stretch and curl. 

  What do you remember?

  Your eyes analyse her movement, careful to decipher her code. Not as fluent, given the occasional puzzled twist of her head, followed by a nod of understanding and correcting signal, she encourages through your hesitation, wanting for your answer. 

  I… remember a necklace. Bound to my Captain’s wrist.

  And what did this necklace look like?

  Again, it takes you a moment to find the rhythm of your response, her eyes narrow in their deep seated concentration, almond curved eyes that widen upon realisation.

  You tell her of the golden chain, sleek and elegantly thin yet strengthened, the many, tiny crystallised pearls that line the gilded netting over one larger pearl, with a finer shaped one looped beneath it that dangles.

  Given her momentary pause, you nervously motion. 

  What is it? 

  She raises her hand over her head, webbed fingers fused together, she rotates her wrist in circles.

  Royalty. Pearls represent royalty. 

  The sudden confusion presently blinking in your eyes gives Mina reason to continue. She moves quickly, it’s hard to exactly understand, you motion for her to pace herself, that you’re struggling. With an apologetic chirp, she starts over. 

  You must get it back. That necklace is more significant to you than you realise. Undoubtedly, a gift from your late mother—

I don’t understand! What… of my mother?

  Mina truly sees the sickening infection of your hazy memory, all too aware that it’s the doing of that scarlet witch, tainted by the dark magics that spawn from the mangroves, the teachers there no strangers to utilising sirens as part of their rituals. And all by the order of your captain. A crew lacing you with deceit. 

  Her waterline is touched by tears that form into uplifting bubbles. She organises her words slowly. Each one brings a sharp pang to your chest and your stomach to drop further and further down into the abyss below. 

  Your mother - the Queen - is dead. 

  Your heart is scored by the penetrating daggers of Poseidon's trident, the creeping of unnatural coldness sweeps the back of your neck and down over your shoulders, you huddle into yourself. You shake your head and it ensues into a maddening display of denial, your body trembles, the water grows increasingly troubled, once a calm settlement over the surface now laps at the surrounding edges of the enclosure. 

  This cannot be right, this cannot be the truth. No, you don’t wish to believe it. A weight is crushing around your chest, you want to resurface. For the first time, you crave to be out of the water. All you seek now is the scent of your captain washing over you, drowning you passionately in his possessive devotion, to be treasured by him and him alone, bathed in his dominating presence. His shadow. 

  At this point, you’d happily let him fuck the knowledge out of you. 

  In your abrupt desperation you take to moving swiftly, your head breaches through the barrier with a sputtering fit of coughs and gulps, but Mina follows you. Her webbed hand catches your wrist, her voice plucks through the ripples like the baritone string of a guitar. She calls for you to wait. Gently, she coaxes you to delve below once more, her eyes imploring you to remain, to not go running off to the very same man who wants for you and holds you captive. 

  The milky glaze of your eyes brim with tears, tiny bubbles run to the corners before they float upwards. 

  She rests her head to yours, silky thumbs caring over the form of your cheeks, running smoothly under the bend of your tearful eyes. When she believes you have calmed, she asks another question. 

  What else about this necklace can you tell me?

  I hear… voices. A-a melody. I don’t– don’t understand the words. It plays faintly.

  If the crew who harbours you stays for the festivities tonight, get the necklace and bring it to me. I may be able to appraise it.

  A lump catches in your throat, eyes bearing your terror, the harrowing thought of being caught again. You aren’t sure if the potential of another scarlet mist is worth the risk. 

  Steal it? I-I can’t! He’d know if I stole—

  You cannot steal what’s already yours, young one. Besides, you know just the way to get it from him. I saw the softened regard in his gaze for you. 

  What she suggests is laughable, and your disagreement shows, your head shaking and throat bobbing in motion akin to a scoff. But still, her insinuation brings warmth to bloom in your cheeks. Her brows furrow at this display, tail idly swaying, the length of her hair creating a dark, winding halo behind her. She dissects the gestures of your words. 

  His gaze never softens to me…

  In spite of this, she rolls her eyes, but they are hopeful in their stare towards you. You were done with the search… before. Now, you want answers. 

  “Siren!” A familiar voice booms, tone muffled by the watery barrier. Answering his summons, you return to the world above, sighing a deep breath of air, the few faces you recognise are mere blurs, unfocused in your vision. Your eyes meet the wintery cold of his eyes, not softened, and clouded in their ever present desire to have you under him - pinned skin to skin to him - and his beautiful lips shaped into a smirk. His stance high above you dominates you in his darker shadow that casts over the water. 

  “Hope you’re in a festive mood, my little Siren.”

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 23 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

-You think that maybe you’ve gotten off easy for the night, when the two of you practically doze together in the warm tub, the hot water up to your necks. You are endlessly relieved, when you feel him relax behind you, possibly even asleep. You daren’t look, not wanting to disturb him, afraid of what he might dream up next if you rub him just the wrong way.

You can still hardly believe that your relationship has come to this.

The water has started to cool by the time he stirs, kissing behind your ear with a tenderness that fills your heart with a stupid hope, his arm like a band of iron around your waist. “Will you wash me?” There is a softness, damn near vulnerability in this request, and you nod, knowing you cannot refuse.

It doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself too.

You lather up with artisan soap that smells like sandalwood, sliding your hands over the contours of his skin. He tilts his head back, seemingly content, and you hope he will remain like this, passive as a sleeping leopard. Maybe he’ll be ready to snooze after this, and you’ll survive the night.

You try to avoid the area between his legs, but when his lips curl in a wicked little smile your heart skips a beat. “That’s especially dirty,” he tells you through a smirk, as though amused that you thought you might get away scot free.

He should count himself lucky, that you are gentle as you run your soapy hand over the bulge of his heavy sac. Then you are alarmed—and impressed—to find him rock hard again.

So much for your old man jokes.

“Jesus, what are you, fourteen?” you snipe, hoping to cover the state of your own frustrated arousal. Running your hands up and down his thick shaft does not help you at all.

He actually chuckles at that. “You do make me feel young again…not that young, luckily.”

You find yourself exploring him a few more strokes that what is necessary, just for you, because you like the feeling of him in your hand. He grumbles with approval, his eyes half closed. Then because it only seems fair you stop suddenly. “See how you like it.”

You try to slip away, but quick as lightning he grabs you up, water sloshing over the side of the tub. A playful scream escapes you, and his smile is like a baring of teeth. There is a dangerous glitter in his dark eyes that takes your breath away, even as you know you’re doomed.

You shouldn’t play with this man. There must be something missing in your brain, that makes you keep pulling his tail.

“My turn,” he says, perching you on his knees, reaching for the soap.

At first, he really does just wash you, running those strong hands over your body, and it’s all you can do not to melt. But then his focus keeps returning to your breasts, your soft globes floating at the waterline.

Men.

“I think they’re clean…”

“Not for long.” He rolls your nipples between his fingers and you whimper, that ache between your legs that never really went away returning with a vengeance. Somehow, you know begging him to stop will only make it worse.  

“You should sit up here,” you tell him, tapping on the edge of the tub, and just for a moment you think you may have succeeded in fogging his brain just enough to make him forget he always has to be the boss. He looks at you with intrigue—and suspicion.

“Why?”

“Because I want you in my mouth.”

It’s a little funny, as you watch him war with himself, trying to weigh what exactly you’re up to against his desire to put his cock between your lips. You already know it was on his mind earlier. The remnants of that spicy surprise in your mouth from earlier have faded. In the end, the promise of a blow job wins.

It always does.

Almost warily he lifts himself out of the tub, perching on the edge so you can reach him. His big hand fists in your damp hair at the back of your neck. “No teeth,” he warns you.

You make a pouty lip, watching as his gaze turns to your mouth with laser-focus. “Not even a little?” you tease. “Just lightly, on this big beautiful vein?” You trace it with your thumb, your hand dwarfed by the size of his erection in your little fist.

“Fuck. Woman…”

You take that as a yes, and swirl your tongue over his swollen head, before taking him as deep as you can. You actually enjoy giving head, when it’s an act of love, and not a chore in exchange for a boy’s affection, the way it was in your teens. This is…somewhere in between, truth be told, but you give it your all. You can tell by the way John grips your hair, guiding your rhythm upon him, that you haven’t lost your touch. Your jaw starts to ache, and you are relieved when he gives a strangled moan, pulling you off by your hair. He takes himself in hand, pumping himself two or three times before cumming all over your breasts, thick white ropes that paint your chest with hot seed.

Maybe you don’t get it, but the sight of you marked like this makes his eyes burn like low banked coals.  

He actually lets you slip from his grasp, floating away to rinse the evidence of his enjoyment from your skin. He continues to watch you, as you get out of the tub, and dry off with one of the plushy soft towels.

He only catches up when you try to go to the closet for pajamas, sweeping you up into his arms and depositing you in the bed. You can’t help but feel like you won the round, when he tangles you up in his long bare limbs, and promptly falls asleep behind you.

[mandos-mind-trick]

Kinktober Day 7 - Stuck In A Wall

Summary: You get stuck while helping Tech fix the Marauder. He takes advantage. 

Pairing: Tech x reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, established relationship, implied consent, fingering, glove kink, unprotected sex, reader gets stuck in the wall, slight claustrophobia but it’s very brief.

A/N: I don't have much to say about this one. Enjoy!

MASTERLIST

“This attaches to the green-tipped wire at the front of the converter.” Tech says, holding up the wire connected to the device in his hand. 

You nod, taking the device. “I think I can manage that.” 

You step in front of the hole in the side of the ship, a panel having been removed at roughly your waist height. It’s a narrow hole, far too small for Tech’s broad shoulders. It’s a tight squeeze for you too, forcing you to press your shoulders in as close as you can to your ears. The converter is angled downward from the panel, putting you at an angle in the hole. You lift onto your toes, up to your hips in the hole, ass on full display for him as you connect the device. 

Something begins to hum as the wire clicks into place, making you grin. “I did it!” You say, moving to push yourself out, but you find you can’t. You can’t get good leverage from your angle, the hole suddenly feeling tighter than it was. “Tech?” You call out, kicking your legs to try and shimmy out. “Tech, I think I’m stuck. Can you pull me out?” 

There’s no response, no sign Tech is even there. You know he wouldn’t walk away, especially not with you messing with the ship. 

“Tech?” You call, trying to avoid the panic welling inside you. You’re well and truly stuck, and you know it’s going to be a while before the others get back. 

Hands suddenly grip your hips, making you jump. You let out a sigh of relief but it’s short lived as suddenly cold air hits your exposed skin. You let out a shocked noise as your pants pool around your ankles, leaving your pussy fully exposed. Gloved hands grip the globes of your ass, pushing them apart to expose you further. You swallow thickly, breaths coming in pants as your body strains to keep you in this position. 

“Oh!” You gasp out as rough, gloved fingers drag through your slit. You shift on your toes, pushing back against his hand as much as you can. 

His gloved fingers drag through your folds again before focusing on your clit, drawing slow circles. You whimper, quickly getting wet from his touch. You curse quietly, wishing you could get yourself unstuck from the hole, but at the same time, you don’t want him to stop. 

You get wetter and wetter as he continues to circle your clit, your pussy throbbing for attention. 

You’re so close to cuming when he pulls his hand away, making you groan. You hear quiet shuffling for a moment before the head of his cock drags through your damp folds. You whine, shifting on your aching toes in anticipation. 

He presses the head of his cock in, the stretch burning a bit. Your hips are aching from being bent over in the same position, but you don’t care as he pushes his cock inside you. Your eyes roll back, and you can practically see the smug look on his face as your body opens to him, pussy throbbing around his cock. 

His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he slowly rocks his hips. You’re helpless to do anything but stay still and let him take you, your pussy dripping at the thought of being used like this. It’s exciting, and a bit bold for him. 

He snaps his hips into yours, jolting your body just slightly. You let out a loud moan that echoes through the ship, legs shaking from holding yourself up for so long. Your body is aching both from the strain of being in the same position for so long, but also from desire. 

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard and fast. The sound of skin slapping skin is loud, even from behind the wall. The head of his cock pummels against that spot inside you, your eyes rolling back as unintelligible sounds get pulled from your lips. You’re close to cumming, your pussy squeezing tight around his cock. 

His fingers find your clit, your legs giving out as pleasure burns through you. His hands hold you up as you shake through your orgasm, his own pace stuttering before he cums with a deep groan, filling your pussy. 

His seed begins to drip from you as he pulls free, sliding down your thighs. With a quick tug you’re suddenly falling backwards against his chest, his arms wrapping around you to hold you up. You tilt your head back, still breathless as you stare at him. 

“You said anytime, anywhere.” He says matter-of-factly. 

You nod, relaxing back against him. “I did, didn’t I?” 

Ragu list:

@kaminocasey @rosechi @mxkyrie @bobaprint @star-trekker-0013 @padawancat97 @bamfahsoka @rain-on-kamino @thrawnspetgoose @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @starrylothcat @sev-on-kamino @freesia-writes @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @dystopicjumpsuit @littlemissmanga @madameminor @eris-k @clio3kantarella @moonlightwarriorqueen @sleepingsun501 @originalcollectionartistry @maddiedrmr @idontgetanysleep @clonemedickix @523rdrebel @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sunshinesdaydream @mooncommlink @lickylickylicky @sweetheartsnips @commanderblood @crosshairlovebot

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+ NOTES: based on the tags on this post

"All the way down, baby, let me see it." HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN purrs, drunk on lusts as his gaze greedily guzzles down the sight of your ass stuck up in the air when you arch your back. Your cheek obediently presses to the mattress and a low groan vibrates from the base of his throat. A large hand smooths over a globe, giving it a loving squeeze. "Atta girl." he breathes, and rolls his tongue between his lips watching your folds part for him and glisten in the dim light. His warm presence approaches you, you can feel his exhale against your sensitive hole and his nose brush the inside of your ass cheek. Like he's done it a thousand times before, he shoots a gob of spit onto the crest of your pussy, letting it slide down to lubricate the slit. That specific sound of how he spits causes you to quiver, clawing into the sheets when that familiar sting electrocutes your insides in preparation for what's to come.

"You like that, sweetheart?" he asks as fingertips graze your folds, and you jolt in response. The very edge of his nail scrapes against you gently when you move, you whimper at the feeling. "Fuck, wish you could see what you're doing to me." If you could, you would see a proud standing cock waiting to fill you up. "You want this? You want me?" he asks, and you nod, squishing your cheek up against the mattress as you do, babbling eager "mhm's." Another groan from him ripples up your spine, and when that hand comes down onto your asscheek, an influx of cream floods your desperate hole, seeping from the opening to mix with his spit. "C'mere, then. Let me give it to you." he whispers as he slides his palm over your tailbone, pressing you back into him as he stands on his knees, feeding his swollen head right into your cunt.

You cry out at the stretch, his fist at his base banging against your thighs when he sinks in. The way he didn't give you time to accommodate him makes you wetter, rocking back on him unconsciously to take advantage of that delicious stinging sensation while you still have it. "Fuckin' Christ, baby, you drive me crazy." he hisses while he's pushing you into him, spearing you on his long cock with his steadying hand on your tailbone. Picking up the pace gets you to start bouncing on him, ass and thighs jiggling from the impact as mixed fluids string out.

"Don't stop, don't stop. Feels too good." you manage to sputter out, unable to keep your eyes open as he fucks your brains right out of you. At the sound of your pathetic voice, he slams into you harder, every muscle in his abdomen flexed to curl in just the way you like, making you scream into the covers. An experimental thumb ventures between your cheeks to swipe over your little asshole, fingers splayed over the dimples on your lower back. "Please, Hayden, please,"

Sharp exhales emit from his mouth shaped in an "o" as if he's working out using you, controlling his breathing for every thrust. His other hand settles on your hip to draw you back into him, and the pace is painful. His tip kisses your cervix every time he bottoms out, and after your choked sounds privy him to that information, he releases your hip, so his thumb can join the other. The two spread apart your cheeks even more, giving him a clearer view of your cunt struggling to swallow his length, and your asshole flutters from loss of his contact. "You make me feel like I'm twenty years old again, you know that? Gonna fuck you all night. Gonna fuck this young pussy all night."

[gogogodzilla]

Daybreak

mike schmidt x reader warnings: nsfw 18+, mike's pov, 1 (one) instance of dirty talk, creampie, consensual somnophilia, alternative continuation of this post ✩ masterlist ✩ read on ao3 ✩ ✩ part 1 ✩ part 2 ✩ part 3 ✩

Mike’s mind tended to drift on his drive home from Freddy’s. Most mornings he spent thinking about you — what you were wearing, if you were awake or if you were sleeping, whether you left the light on the nightstand on. Your panties were nestled in his free hand as he drove, which gave him a pretty good idea of what to expect when he came home. He rubbed the lacey fabric between his fingers as his entire body hummed with anticipation. 

As he pulled into the driveway, his thoughts began to run wild. He planned what he’d do as soon as he entered your shared home. He could picture himself entering your bedroom, eyes scanning over your hardly covered form. He’d gently pull the covers off of your sleeping, exposing yourself to him. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to rein in his thoughts. 

He hurriedly exited his car before he could get too worked up. His keys jingled against the lock of the front door, and he took in the early morning silence of his home. The house was still, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. 

He set his bag down quietly beside the door and kicked off his shoes. He threw his jacket and vest over the top of the couch and made a beeline for his bedroom. He gently pushed open the door, careful not to wake you. The soft glow of the rising sun filtered in through the blinds illuminating your sleeping form. It was still dark enough that he could see the faint glow of the lamp on the bedside table. 

Mike gently pulled the covers back and was satisfied to see that you were just wearing one of his old t-shirts. You were sleeping on your stomach, the round globes of your ass peeking out at the bottom of your shirt. 

His cock jumped in his jeans at the sight and he palmed himself. He eagerly popped the button of his jeans and let them fall around his ankles. He slipped his hand past the waistband of his briefs and wrapped a hand around his weeping cock. 

He could’ve come undone just looking at you, but he forced himself to stop after a few hasty strokes. His briefs quickly joined the pile of discarded clothes along with his shirt. He climbed onto the bed and kneeled beside your legs. You had one leg hiked up while the other one was straight, providing him a small glimpse of your heat. 

He situated himself in the space between your legs and ran a finger through your folds. You were already wet for him, and he wondered if you’d dreamed about him, about this. 

He pulled away, and his hands drifted over your ass cheeks, squeezing the soft flesh. He guided his cock between your folds, biting his lip to stifle the groan that left him. He ran the tip of his cock over your clit and watched as your breathing stuttered. 

He wondered if you’d awaken once he sheathed himself inside you. Would you wake up as soon as the head of his cock breached your tight cunt? Or would take a few thrusts of his hips to rouse you from your slumber? 

He teased your entrance with his tip before moving to circle your clit once more. He wondered who he was torturing more, you or him. He couldn’t wait a moment longer and he was plunging inside you, inch by agonizing inch. He moved slowly to not disturb you, but he was rapidly losing his hold on any restraint he had left. 

He stayed fully seated within you for a few moments so you could adjust to his length— he didn’t get to play with you as long as he normally would’ve liked. Slowly, he began to move his hips, and with each thrust, he pulled himself out farther and farther. You stirred slightly under him, and he hesitated for a moment. You let out a small whimper. He wondered if that was your way of begging him for more, and he gave a cautious roll of his hips. 

You clenched around him, and he let out a needy moan. He began rocking his hips once more, eventually finding a rhythm that had his eyes rolling the back of his head. 

He leaned down to press sloppy kisses against the side of your neck, and you stirred once more. Your eyes fluttered open as you turned your head to the side. You furrowed your brow as you regained your senses before letting out a breathy moan as he hit a particularly sensitive spot within you. 

You arched your back and lifted your hips, allowing him to reach even deeper inside you. He reached under you and drew sloppy circles against your clit. 

“C’mon baby, be good and cum for me,” he urged as he felt the familiar coil in his belly tightening. 

You responded with a high-pitched whine and before he knew it you were cumming around his cock. His hips stuttered against your own as he neared his own orgasm. 

With a final, deep thrust of his hips, he was filling you to the brim with his release. He groaned as he continued to ride out both of your orgasms. 

After a few more drags of his hips, he stilled within you and attempted to catch his breath. Slowly, he pulled out and watched his cum drop out of you. He wished he could sear the image into his mind forever. 

You slowly rolled over onto your back and looked up at him. “Good morning,” you murmured, grinning sleepily. 

He breathed out a laugh, “Good morning to you too.”