#rating e fics

[bamsara]

"why would you read a fic with a scene or something you dont like in it" you see i have this ability called using my thumb to scroll down the phone screen really fast

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 31

part 1 | part 30 | ao3

updating the rating to E. cw: recreational drug use/marijuana, foreplay, mild-to-moderate spit kink

“I feel like a water bottle,” Steve slurs. At some point he wiggled his way between Eddie’s legs to get a better look at his tattoos — starting at his ankles and working his way up, pointing at each piece and asking, "What's this? And what's that?"

Eddie explained each one in turn: the quotes, the lyrics, the silly art. "This one's the Elvish word for friend. That one's from an Iron Maiden song. Oh, the asterisk? It's supposed to be an asshole. No, I'm serious! That's how Vonnegut drew them in his books."

Now Steve’s lying flat on his back between Eddie’s splayed thighs, eyelids heavy, body warm. 'Go Your Own Way' plays softly on the stereo, and Eddie continues his tattoo tour, the fingers of his free hand weaving patterns through Steve's hair — lazy, twirling zig-zags that send skitters of sensation across his scalp and down his spine.

Steve feels like he could die right now. Happy. Held. Content.

Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

“This is fucking awesome,” he hums.

“Good,” Eddie grins at him, “I’m glad.” He scratches lightly at his scalp. “What were you, uh— what were you saying about a water bottle?”

Oh, right. Steve lifts a hand; pantomimes tilting a bottle back and forth. “Like, uh….. Sssloshy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie snorts. “You’re so high.”

“Mmmmhm.”

“And you look like you’re jerking off a ghost."

“I’ll jerk off your ghost,” Steve mutters petulantly.

"I’m sure my ghost would love that.”

Eddie reaches for the joint and takes another drag, and Steve tilts his neck, arching up to look at him. Bites his lip at the pretty picture Eddie makes: the sharp shadows and delicate lines, the shape of his full lips exhaling rings of smoke. Big for a guy's. He remembers thinking that a couple weeks ago. That they were big. That they looked soft.

And now he thinks: Kissable.

Steve licks his lips. “What about your, uh- not ghost?”

Eddie laughs like he’s watching a newborn puppy try to walk. “You want to touch my dick so bad.”

“S’probably a good dick,” Steve shrugs, unashamed.

He probably should be — ashamed. Guilty for the feelings stirring deep inside his chest; feelings weed brings to the surface, sends southbound, turns to need. He can imagine how the good, god-fearing Catholics who raised him would react if they could see him now, how they'd foam and froth and rage, red-faced and covered in spittle as they shouted that he's condemning himself to Hell.

But the thing is, he's already in Hell. He's been here since July.

And anyway, Hell's kinda nice. Gentle and warm, surprisingly kind. Hell smells like leather and tobacco, like weed and aftershave, and it sounds like Lindsey Buckingham, and it likes to braid Steve's hair.

Hell has endless, inky eyes and probably kisses him with tongue.

Heat spreads through him like molten honey at the thought, spilling hot over the edges, curling in his core, and Steve turns his head to the side and drags his mouth over a tattoo on Eddie’s inner thigh — a cartoon cloud over a curled-up snoozing fox. He noses at the edge of Eddie's shorts; pushes them up.

Goosebumps pebble under the warm press of his lips. "What's this one?" Steve whispers, nudging the fabric further up.

Eddie’s laugh is quiet and strained. "Something I don't want to discuss with your mouth this close to my dick. Stevie," he warns, but it's breathless, full of want. There's a wet spot on his shorts.

Steve pushes onto his belly, blows hot breath over the spot, liquid fire coursing through him at he stares at the bulge in Eddie’s shorts. Blistering heat, the sweetness dense, rich and thick on his tongue; in his veins. He mouths at the crease of Eddie's thigh. Eddie smells so good, like skin and sweat and boy, and Steve wants this. Wants it so badly he feels the ache inside his teeth. I dreamed the goddess poured ambrosia...

Steve feels it drip from head to toe.

"Steve." Eddie's voice is sharp this time, commanding and firm as he fists a hand in Steve's hair — not hurting him; not letting him move. Keeping him from putting his mouth just where he wants.

Steve makes a desperate sound and rocks his hips against the bed.

"Steve, stop," Eddie scolds. Pulls his hair a little harder, like he’s tugging on a leash.

"Eddie, please.” Steve’s eyes roll back, and he shifts his hips again. Just once; just a bit. Not nearly hard enough.

"No. Behave. Be good."

Steve freezes — tenses every muscle, holds himself so still, his face flushing with shame, because he didn’t mean to not be good. Didn’t mean to do anything bad. He blinks at Eddie with watery eyes and says he’s sorry, his voice cracking around the word.

"God," Eddie groans. His fist tightens in Steve’s hair, and his hips twitch off the bed, the curve of his cock brushing the tip of Steve's nose. Fuck. "Holy shit. Roll over."

"What?"

"On your back, like you were before." He’s panting when he says it, and Steve does as he's told; flips over onto his back, face bracketed by Eddie's thighs, the tent in his own shorts embarrassingly big. Obvious.

"Good,” Eddie exhales. “That’s- Jesus. Yeah, that’s good." He sinks back against the wall with a winded sigh.

And then he doesn't say anything else.

Doesn’t even move, just slouches down to catch his breath.

Steve kind of wants to cry; feels chastised and stupid, because of course Eddie doesn't want this. He already said he didn't, didn't he? Not tonight, anyway. And now Steve’s ruined things by being high and dumb and selfish, getting himself worked up over nothing and making it Eddie’s problem, and he'll probably spend the rest of this night miserable and blue-balled because he's a horny idiot, but that's—

It’s fine, if Eddie wants to cool things off; if he doesn't want to— he's allowed to not want—

"Here's what's about to happen.”

Steve snaps his head up to listen. Twists his neck around, sees Eddie lounging against the wall like a bored king on a throne, one ringed hand cupping himself loosely through his shorts. He squeezes once, takes another deep breath; lets it out long and controlled. Steve’s gonna fucking drool. "You’re gonna touch yourself for me.”

Steve moans. Guttural and loud, the sound punched out of his lungs, because Eddie’s voice comes out like gravel — husky, deep, the words authoritative and slow; like Steve needs to be punished; like Eddie’s merciful.

“You’re going to touch yourself exactly how I tell you to, and only how I tell you to. If I say stop, you stop. If I say faster, you speed up. If it's too much—" His hand moves to Steve’s cheek, slapping lightly against the bone. “—you tap out, or you tell me.”

Steve nods his head, entranced. Eddie’s thumb moves to his mouth. “And if you’re very, very good…” He tugs his bottom lip; presses in; lets him suck. “…then I’ll let you watch me come. How does that sound?”

Steve whines; hollows his cheeks, sucking harder, flicking his tongue. Eddie’s thighs clamp down around him, and when he pulls his hand away the spit clings to his thumb, a delicate string connecting them before it breaks. “Asked you a question, sweetheart.” He smears the spit over Steve’s chin. “Does that sound good?”

Steve nearly swallows his tongue.

—

part 32

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[desceros]

I gotta request a mating season scenario with Bayverse Donnie X Reader - Mutual Pining and Smut (I love him so much).

[openly weeping] thank you for giving me the excuse to write this anon-chan, you're too good, too pure donatello/reader, EXPLICIT, female reader, 1.9k. donnie's been too shy to take that plunge, but you just smell so good and it's that time of year

You’ve been friends with Donnie long enough to… think about it. What it would be like to let him know how pretty he is. To sit in his lap and press your forehead to his jaw. 

(To unbuckle those suspenders and maybe see what kind of mischief you can get up to.)

To… hold his hand. To… to belong to him.

…But you’ve probably been friends for too long, you think. The relationship would have changed by now if he was interested. He’s not the kind of guy to want something without having it for very long, not without doing something about it. It’s not gonna happen. It’s a wild, hilarious thought—you’ve been friendzoned by a turtle—but that’s just the life you have now, you guess.

So when it finally, suddenly happens, to say you’re surprised is a bit of an understatement.

You’re in his lab, helping him organize his screwdriver collection. Sometimes they get a little mixed up if he gets worked into a frenzy or so tired his eyes start to blur, and it feels good to help him. He likes having your hands for the more boring chores, and you like basking in the dorky little smile he gives you as thanks.

Lost in the monotonous task, you don’t notice him staring, his eyes burning between your shoulder blades, until you feel him in your personal bubble. It’s a blink of time, a breath of awareness, then everything changes.

Donnie tucks his face into your throat, his plastron pressed along your spine as his hands cup your hips and pull them back into his own. Shocked at the intimacy of the touch, you feel yourself go still in his hold, wondering if there’s a gas leak in his lab and you’re hallucinating. 

His mouth parts, his teeth find your pulse, and you decide this is very, very real.

“D… Donnie?” you manage, voice syrupy in your own ears.

“…Smell good,” he murmurs into your skin, pressing into you harder, stepping impossibly closer, forcing you forward until your thighs are caught between his and the edge of the table and you have to smack your palms onto it to keep upright. A cup of screws falls over, spills; but he doesn’t react. Your eyes dart over to the door of his lab; it’s wide open, and you’re not even remotely tucked away back here. 

“Donnie—Donnie, what are you—” you say, though your voice catches in your throat when you feel him turn his head, tucking his beak behind your ear and brushing a long line of claiming kisses down to your shoulder. Your eyes flutter, blood beginning to rush hot in your veins even as you look again to the door of his lab.

Donnie, if he cares, doesn’t show it. Not in the way he slides one hand up your shirt, seeking skin and seeming intoxicated when he finds it. You feel his moan between your shoulder blades as much as you hear it, making your eyes squeeze shut. Oh, wow, that’s—that’s even better than all the times you’ve imagined it, and you’ve maybe imagined it a lot. 

“…too soon,” he mumbles, though how you’re able to catch it when his fingers are fumbling at the button to your jeans, you’re not sure how. 

“Wh… What’s too soon?” you ask, licking your lips and trying to scoop enough consciousness together to talk. “Don—Donnie, you—Did you drink something? Smell something? This is—”

Donnie stops, his forehead finding your shoulder. He’s shaking, you realize, but when you try to turn he presses you harder against the table, pinning you into place. Oh god, oh fuck.

“About two weeks early,” he says through what sounds like clenched teeth. “Shouldn’t—Shouldn’t be happening yet. Normally I can feel it coming on and warn you, but—Have I ever told you you smell really good? You smell so good—”

He shifts his face again, pressing his beak to the corner of your throat and shoulder to inhale deeply. Your hair stands on end, goosebumps flaring down your skin like wildfire. An embarrassing noise catches in your throat. You swallow it, brow furrowing. “What’s early?”

His lips move in a mumble that disappears into the neckline of your shirt. A neckline which, you suddenly realize, is damp from where he’s mouthing at it. Like he’s trying to take it off of you with his teeth. That’s—okay. That’s a lot.

“Didn’t catch that,” you wheeze. 

“…mating season,” he enunciates, igniting every single cell in your body. 

“You… have a mating season,” you choke, staring deliriously at one screw that slowly spins in a circle. He nods. “And you—You’re doing this with—me?” 

“Always you,” he says, starting to ramble as he tugs at the hem of your shirt like it’s offending him. “Every Spring, I feel it coming and you always look so pretty and happy. I’ve been wanting to ask you for years, but I—I’ve never worked up the cour—You smell so fucking good. Can I—I want to—” He whines, trembling, you think, from the concentration it’s taking for him to hold back and speak. His hands are tight on your sides, gripping you, just shy of where it’ll leave a mark.

Your eyes burn as you squeeze them shut. There’s a conversation to be had here, about why he was so fucking stupid and didn’t talk to you, about how much you’ve wanted this too, about what it’s going to mean—but that can be had later, especially considering you’re not completely sure he’s all there. 

“Yeah,” you gasp out, reaching out a hand to snatch at his and bring it to the button of your jeans again. “Yeah, let’s—yes.”

His wrist twists and he’s got his fingers inside your underwear faster than you can suck in a breath at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Beak pressed to your cheek, you hear Donnie chanting thank you thank you thank you, mouth hanging open before he brings his slick fingers to his mouth to slide them inside and wrap his tongue around them. 

“Donnie, fuck,” you breathe when he groans like he took a hit of something hard. It’s wet in your ear, and when he slides his fingers back to your clit and starts to trail biting kisses along your jaw, you can’t help but think about it. Your arms quake where they’re holding you up, helping you press against him, taking the weight of where he’s draped himself like he wants to be your shell.

An impatient noise rips out of his throat, and you feel his other hand tugging at the waist of your jeans. Huffing a laugh at his uncharacteristic ineffectiveness, you grab his wrists to pull him away before you shimmy them down your legs. 

…It’s right when he gets his fingers inside you, stretching you, pretty moans of your name in your ear, when you remember the whole door situation. 

“Donnie—”

“Wanna fuck you,” he slurs against your nape. Your skin stretches too-tight, the bottom of your stomach dropping out in arousal. “Smell like you. Want you to smell like me—” 

He grabs something out of the toolbox, a loud clattering sound, and you feel your panties go slack at your hip, then fall to the floor when he pulls the fabric away. “You—Did you just cut my—”

“In the way. More efficient,” he answers, dropping whatever it was back into place without a care. There goes your toolbox organizing, though it’s maybe hard to care when you feel something slick rub against you, his tail dipping between your legs and pressing close. “Mmm. Spread your legs, pretty. Little more. There, right there.”

He holds you still when he’s happy with your position, one hand at your hip and the other spreading you open in a manner that has the whole door situation falling pretty low on your thinking about this right now list. You’re more interested in the glide of his cloaca against you, the promise of his hitched breath in your ear, the wet kiss that morphs into a low moan as he drops inside of you. 

“Donnie,” you moan, head falling between your rolled shoulders as pleasure makes you tremble. It feels incredible how he fills you, your lungs unable to expand to breathe as it feels like he’s all the way in your throat. His hands grab your hips and tilt them, using them as leverage as he ruts wetly in a filthy glide that makes you mewl and twist. 

Through the fog of bliss, you hear him; he’s babbling, nigh-incoherently. You can just make out a few phrases here and there—so pretty, smell so good, fill you up, breed you full—that make you absolutely incinerate. It feels like he’s consuming you, his whines and moans ringing in your ears. 

The rising tide of ecstasy burns like fire in your veins, your teeth releasing your lip as you’re no longer able to contain the animal noises he’s clawing out of you. Nails dragging along the surface of his table, you come, wailing his name. He presses, making your elbows bend, and you fold into the table as he rails into you with hard slapping hips until he, too, climaxes. His forehead presses hard between your shoulder blades as he fills you, hot and more than you’ve ever taken before, until you feel it running down your legs where you can’t take any more. 

“…Holy shit,” you pant, barking a disbelieving laugh. Donnie, seeming annoyed that you’re able to talk, sinks his teeth into your throat before he kisses it to soothe. 

“Sorry, I, uh. I was hoping we’d talk about that before it happened,” he says once he can breathe again, sounding a little guilty. You shoot him an incredulous look over your shoulder. 

“Are you insane? You just made me come my brains out. How are you apologizing right now? That’s, like, the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.” You glance to the door. “Um. Even if I’m pretty sure everyone else heard it, too.” 

He huffs a laugh, nuzzling his face into your nape. “They’re, uh. Gone. For the week. I’m usually on a bit of a delayed cycle from the others, but I think you being here triggered it. I always love how you smell, and I guess the turtle brain just decided it was tired of waiting on me.” 

Oh, that’s… really sweet, you think, trying not to cry. You lick your lips, opening your mouth to speak only for a whimper to come out instead, forehead rolling on the table’s surface, when you feel his cock start to slide out. 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s—” he breathes, hips pressing a little harder against your own until you feel empty again. As he moves, you hear the wet sound of his cloaca rubbing against you. “Huh. You’re kind of a mess.” 

“Yeah, thanks for that,” you wheeze, trying not to get turned on again when you’d just come. “So, um… season. That’s like, more than once, right?” 

There’s a moment of silence, and then you feel a smile on your back that’s a little shy, and a lot hungry. 

[dangerpronebuddie]

I Can See You Being My Addiction (3k)

“I'd wear a costume for you.” Buck snorts. “You already are. You suggested it.” He reaches over with his free hand to tap Eddie's thigh and then just… leaves it there, the heat of his palm adding to the heat in Eddie’s belly. “Yeah,” Eddie says. “Cause you were excited about it. You should get to be excited about things and- and have someone who wants to see that grin on your face.” “Eddie,” Buck whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the music, but it drowns out the noise anyway. Eddie cranes his neck to look at Buck, his head landing on his shoulder. Buck looks down at him, his pupils blown wide. His gaze flits down to Eddie's mouth and he licks his lips. “Eddie,” he says, or maybe begs, and then his mouth is on Eddie's.

[Read on ao3]

[steddieunderdogfics]

ink you up by genesisofrhythm

@ruthofrhythm

Rating: Explicit

7,375 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Minor Robin Buckley/Chrissy Cunningham, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eddie Munson Lives, Chrissy Cunningham Lives, Tattoo Artist Eddie Munson, Semi-Public Sex, Workplace Sex, Getting Together, Making Out, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Tattoos

Summary:

“You’re doing okay?” Eddie asked. He was steadily moving the tattoo gun, but Steve knew if he said the word, he’d stop right away. Steve nodded minutely. “Mm hm, I’m fine. All good.” Too good, in fact. Steve was becoming aware of a different sensation now. Steve felt… well, he frankly felt a little turned on. The pain was melding in his brain, mixing with the adrenaline coursing through his body, and creating a very concerning reaction. He thought tattoos were supposed to hurt. What the fuck was this? Or: Turns out the only thing Steve likes more than getting tattooed, is his tattoo artist, Eddie. And he really likes getting tattooed.

Thanks for the rec!

This rec is a part of Theme Weekend. The theme this weekend is Tattoo Artist AU.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[bougiebutchbinch]

last day in hospital.... to help me heal... does anyone have any good poolverine smutfic reccs? I need this for art inspiration and also reasons you might get cheeky fanart of your fanfic is what I'm saying teehee

dom!top!logan x sub!bottom!wade only plzzzzz

[pearltiddys]

catra as a sexy fanny pack

fanart for my fic years in

[affixjoy]

Oh beautiful, doomed Edith Keeler, you deserved the world

And if you couldn’t have the world, you at least deserved some really fantastic sex.

Featuring! Spirk getting together! Edith being remarkable! A threesome! Canon appropriate amounts of sadness because fuck this is a tragic episode!

Thank you @ncc1701ohno and @twinkboimler for beta reading this for me! This is one of my favorite episodes and having you assure me I didn’t fuck up the tone before posting was much needed! ❤️

[bon-sides-sw]

I've been obsessed with Blasphemous (E), Fic written by @tatooinetourism

I'm doing another thing inspired on the Fic, but here's a lil redraw from a screenshot meanwhile :3c

[cloneshipficquotes]

“Swiped something from the senators’ break room.” He wiggles the box, and Fox takes it, his curiosity overriding his annoyance at being interrupted. He’s careful with the silky red ribbon tied around it, the crisp white tissue paper inside.

Caf additives, the expensive kind. Flavours he loves – caramel, vanilla, hazelnut – and ones he’s never seen before. White chocolate raspberry… now that’s a thought. He’s a little bit tempted to just pour that directly into his mouth.

“Sooo,” Stone prompts, nudging a toe against his.

“Thank you,” Fox whispers as he looks up. He’s not good at saying what he wants out loud. What he has. What he’s so scared of losing, if anyone finds out. He’s not sure what he’s hiding. Just all of himself, really. Except in moments like this. “Stone, I’m… You’re… This…” He stops, helpless, with no words to describe what the gift means to him, never mind the man behind it.

— lizardwrites, from can you make it feel like home if i tell you you're mine

[ebongawk]

"“Not––”  Fuck.  Try again.   “Not that I’m not fucking delighted, baby, but––”

“Wanted you to touch me that whole movie,” Chrissy whined, and oh shit, oh shit, she was––  She was rolling her hips––  “Wanted you to touch me for weeks, but you’re so nice and respectful, and I-I just can’t take it anymore.”"

overheated heart (head over heels) a hellcheer AU by makeshiftcandy rated E | 5k | ch 1/1

read on ao3

[magecrafts]

MENACE

natasha romanoff x reader ; you've never been more helpless. nat likes you best like that.

warnings: nsfw, explicit smut, cnc, unsafe bdsm practices, no aftercare, somnophilia, heavy choking, one single mention of medical kink

RATED E FOR EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT ; 18+

a/n: i think i remember how to do this. cheers.

Natasha Romanoff is grumpy when you meet her (and sporting a week’s worth of insomnia under her eyes and wearing a tee that’s a little too tight, too, but as appealing as both of those are neither endears you as much as her furrowed brow and little frown).

Two weeks later you’re on recon with her, some assignment dropped into your lap an hour before wheels were expected to be up.

“You’re going into the field, rookie,” Stark told you, and, “Romanoff will babysit you, but if you’re as good as your resume claims you shouldn’t need her.”

Recon only. No engagement unless necessary.

The two of you post up in a slimy cave high in the mountains, half a mile above the entrance to a long forgotten mine that may or may not be the newest hideout of one of Stark’s most-wanted. It’s a stupid assignment, Stark could have sent drones, but you reckon he just wants to see how well you do with bullshit assignments, last minute takeoffs, and taking orders.

“Could be fun,” Natasha says, dangling a flask in front of your face.

“Is this a test?”

She smiles.

An hour later you’re tipsy and breaking a protein bar in half to split for dinner.

“I know this is bullshit,” she says, and to her credit she does sound apologetic, “but Tony likes to test people. He wants to see you prove yourself, you know, make it known that you’re as competent as you are on paper.”

You can’t say that’s not fair. This is, after all, no nine-to-five, but, “How am I supposed to prove myself when there’s fuck-all to do?”

Natasha laughs.

An hour later Natasha’s her own stoic version of piss drunk, you’re far worse off, and you’re staring at each other with a vigor that would scare the hell out of you even if she weren’t your immediate supervisor.

But you’ve always liked fear.

You make the first move: you crawl onto her lap, sink down against toned thighs, and tuck in. Her lips are warm, softer than you’re used to, and she doesn’t protest. She licks into your mouth and clamps her hands around your thighs and though you’ve never crossed a boundary like this before, you can’t see yourself ever going back.

Natasha makes the first move next time.

When she asks you out for drinks the week after you return you assume the address she sends you will be a bar.

It’s her apartment.

Bold.

She answers the door in black fatigues and a tank top and takes you right to her bedroom, sinks down on the edge of the California king, and puts you on her lap. She likes you there, where she can reach all of you, where your chest presses up against hers, and your mouth is right there for the taking. She’s gentle until you push your hands through her hair and tell her, “You don’t have to be so nice, you know.”

She’s never gentle after that.

She likes throwing you around, and likes that you can take it, knows it makes your heart flutter and your cheeks flush when she reminds you time and again how much stronger than you she is. On your back is how she likes you best, with your legs spread open and your knees pushed back as close to your chest as they’ll go.

Sometimes she’ll clamp a hand around your throat and dig her nails into the soft skin beneath your jaw until you can’t breath and you’re clawing at her arm and your vision’s starting to go. Sometimes she won’t let go at all, not until you slip away and your body slackens and she’s left fucking a fake cock into your helpless cunt.

You don’t know what she does to you when you’re out cold until she starts to film it.

Filthy fucking videos, those are, full of her laughter and your inability to protest while she does things like stuff her fist into your sloppy hole or perform a full pelvic exam wherein she dons rubber gloves and leaves you gaping around a speculum far longer than any licensed practitioner ever would.

“Look at you,” she’ll say later after she slaps you back to consciousness and queues up her newest video, “you’re so easy to break.”

It’s easier when you come back to with your mouth empty; when she brings you back and you’ve still got your own panties stuffed into your mouth she never lets you pull them out to catch your breath until she’s had her fun holding you down while you struggle to regain your hold on the world.

Sometimes you wake back up on your own while she’s in the middle of things. You either love or hate those times the most, but you’re never sure which.

“...doesn’t matter if you don’t want it,” she’s saying this time, and she’s blurry above you (and there are three of her and three sets of nails carving jagged red lines down your torso, but you know there will only be one of each in a minute or two), “gonna fuck your whore pussy anyway and you’re going—to—take—it.”

“—Nat—”

“Look who’s awake.”

You can hear the smirk in her voice, can see the bright white glare of her cell camera, and you’re sure you look like hell and that she’s going to give you shit for that later, but that’s the least of your worries.

“Stark should fire you,” she says. “Maybe he will once he finds out you’ve been getting your stupid hole stuffed on camera for months. Or maybe he’d like your little videos. Maybe he’d even want a turn with you, huh? Would you like that?”

No, but only because by her rules you're not allowed to think about anyone else like that.

But you can't say that, not unless you want her to go and make it happen. You learned long ago that Natasha Romanoff is nothing if not genuine in her threats.

“Maybe I would,” you say, low and hoarse, and it almost sounds like a growl.

She finds a pressure point and digs in, and, “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me,” she says, and you’re out again.

The next morning you wake up to the sun cutting through the window and warming your bare back, waking with you the memories of the night before and bringing it all to a boil in your belly. You want to relive them. You want her to fuck you again, to stuff you full and flood you with desperation and desire.

She pulls the sheets from your body and flips you onto your back, coasting a hand up your shin as she settles at the foot of the bed.

“Show me your pussy,” she says, soft, mocking, like she’s requesting the easiest thing in the world from the dumbest little thing she’s ever met.

Your knees part, legs falling open without thought, and you can tell the slick between your thighs from the night before is still there.

She lifts her brows and looks.

“You look sloppy,” she says, pulling your lips apart and dragging a nail over your clit. “Let me make it worse.” She slaps you before you have time to think and though it hurts it’s the lingering sting that pulls a cry from your throat. It’s been a while since she’s hit you like this, between the thighs, where the shame hurts worse than anything else.

The next time you see it coming, but you don’t stop her. You don’t even bother to keep your legs from trying to clamp shut when she slaps your cunt for the second time, you just screw your eyes shut and force your legs open again because for that you know she won’t stop until you’re crying and begging her to do something—anything—to get you off.

It takes you a minute to focus up when she’s done, to familiarize yourself with the steady throb between your legs and the warm pressure of Natasha pushing something into you.

She’s kneeling between your legs, hands clamped around your thighs to keep them apart as she lazily fucks into you with a cock as thick as your forearm.

“Look at that,” she says with a little laugh. “Even when you’re looser than a ten-cent hooker I can still find something to stretch you out with.”

And you know she can feel you clenching as she tries to ease out, like you’re pulling her in, and if she were any man she’d be spent in sixty seconds or less, but her stamina knows no bounds and even as your hole gushes with relief she’s still driving into you, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[stratocumulusperlucidus]

Hey- so whats your fav rwrb classic fic ? Please rec top 5?

OMG WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME???? This is so hard, there's like a million fics I love with all my heart in this fandom!

I guess here's a list of five fics that I regularly think about, that I've kudoed + commented + bookmarked + saved and that I would devour and/or marry if it were possible, but since it's not, I just really really want to read them again:

No Consequences (@anchoredarchangel)

They Take Their Shots, We're Bulletproof (allmylovesatonce / @three-drink-amy)

False Dichotomy (chamel / @cha-melodius)

Going Platinum (@cricketnationrise)

This Feeling Inside (everwitch / @everwitch-magiks)

Choosing only five fics was torture, this fandom has so many talented writers and I love them and I'm so grateful for all of them 💖

If you want more, here's my ao3 bookmarks, and I also share a lot of recommendations here on [tumblr].com

[remyfire]

What we as a fandom do not discuss or incorporate enough into our work is that Margaret canonically loves to be thrown around, pinned down, and just generally wrecked in bed. This is a terrible missed opportunity and I believe that if we band together, we can give Margaret all the passionate feral rough sex that she craves.

[steddieunderdogfics]

🪑 by teddywesworl

@teddywesworl

Rating: Explicit

30,101 words, 2/2 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Head Trauma, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve "Sexuality Crisis Speedrun" Harrington, Steve Harrington kins Lucy Honeychurch, Coming Out, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, irresponsible (but not self-destructive) post-traumatic coping mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, which then becomes rst in short order bc steve harrington ain’t no coward, Under-negotiated Kink, Kink Discovery, Kink Exploration, Bondage, Rope Bondage, Praise Kink, Light Dom/sub, Mild Subspace, Soft Dom Eddie Munson, literally the softest dom imaginable, Self-Denial, First Kiss, First Time, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Multiple Orgasms, Blow Jobs, Grinding, Frottage, Overstimulation

Summary:

It’s incredibly normal. It doesn’t feel like Steve just asked Eddie for the weirdest favor of his life. That’s how he knows he asked the right guy, probably. Still, it’s not like he forgets about it. They pick a date (the next Tuesday afternoon, after Steve works an opening shift and before a Wednesday he has off), and it looms on the horizon as he navigates his day to day. He almost tells Robin about it, and then he decides only to tell her if it goes well. When it goes well. After it has gone well. Or: There’s a slow and mundane after, when they weren’t sure there would be. Sometimes healing is a soft cotton rope.

Thanks for the rec!

This rec is a part of Challenge Monday. The challenge this week was Fics posted in Summer 2023.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[kangofu-cb]

Rated E - please mind the tags

Summary:

“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Clint says, instead. Barnes snorts. “Having a drink,” he says, then gives Clint another one of those appraising looks. “You a professional?” he says, after a second, and Clint is momentarily confused. A professional what? And then he realizes Barnes must be talking about pool, and Clint huffs a laugh. “Only when there’s money involved,” he says, smirking, and Barnes kind of nods, like that makes any sort of sense. Then Barnes nods again, a little more firmly, and says “You got a place?” Which is about the point that Clint realizes that he’s not meeting the Winter Soldier in a bar, he’s being picked up by the Winter Soldier in a bar and- “Yeah,” he croaks, clears his throat, thinks wildly that he’s really fucking glad Kate has Lucky for a few days, and says “Yeah, I got a place.” Or, how Bucky got his groove back. (And Clint too, but it was a different sort of groove.)

Now finally complete!

And with bonus photoset art from the incomparable @drgrlfriend