#reposting no shame loll

[bunny-extract]

please can i request feral konig with a breeding kink

i've written and posted this before, but i'll have something new this weekend B^) feel free to throw more ideas in my inbox!

König x f!reader / 18+! MDNI / breeding, dirty talk, size kink.....filth.

You push the head down, lower and lower until it notches back into place, right inside of you. König’s eyes find yours, mutterings finally silenced.

“Again,” you tell him, but he’s searching, sure that he heard you wrong, even if his body understood. His heavy balls pat against your ass when he tries find sense in your demand. "But. But, what if--"

You push your arms over your head in a stretch, your breasts arching up to tease your nipples against the scruff on his chin. You want him to put his mouth back on you. He does too, but the hand that rubs the space below your navel makes his concern clear. You tilt your head at him. “But what? What if it takes?”

And just the words being out in the open has him reeling. His eyes snap back to yours, wide, caught. You meet him with a smile, pressing his hand down lower, firmer until it’s over the bump where his cock bulges from within you. “Isn’t that what you want?”

And it’s deserved, really, when König rips himself out of you just long enough to toss you onto your stomach, hips dug into the bed when he re-enters you in a swift, embarrassingly loud stroke. He pumps you twice before letting his weight sink him lower, deeper into you.

“You have no idea what I—want.” 

The moans that he punches out of you are obscene, and you’re thankful you can smother them in the mattress. König rarely takes you from behind, always wanting to look at you. Was obsessed with your expression, the bounce of your breast, the view of him bulging your stomach, but flat on your front like this his cock kisses the very end of your cunt and threatens to fuck you right to your womb. It’s the deepest he’s ever been, the tip of him feeling like it would reach your throat if he kept pushing it in. Every slap of his hips has your ass shaking in response, and all you can do is let him bludgeon your little cunt, head shaking as he grabbed your shoulder for better leverage. “I’ve worn the shape of my cock into you, Liebling. It feels so good. I can feel your guts when I’m this deep.”

He’s bent over you, one hand gripping the head board hard enough that his tanned knuckles blanch white, the other lifting your face from where you’d burrowed it. You’re drooling, eyes unfocused until you look up and, oh lovely. It’s his black-smudged eyes that meet you, upside down. His face splits in an almost frightening smile. Now he can fuck you stupid and watch.

König meets every moan from you with the slap of his heavy balls to your clit, his head coming down to rest against your shoulder. The briefest prickle of stubble when he leaves open-mouthed kisses across your neck. It has you tightening, fingers twisting around the hand he’s used to prop himself up on. You can feel him smile against your pulse, the only warning before he bites into it. 

When he pulls back you can feel his spit warm at your neck, the tender start of a bruise blooming beneath it. He’s snaked his arms around you in a gentle headlock, squeezing once just to laugh and let go. Another time, he promises. You’re buzzing, and that’s before his other hand takes one of yours, guiding it beneath your stomach to frame his cock. It’s hard to wrap your head around how big it is, how it disappears inside of you. 

“Play with yourself. I want to feel it,” he urges, puppeteering your fingers with his own to roll your clit. You take over, but his hand stays, ghosting along with you. 

“That’s it. I want to see you fat with my child, your little body taken with me. I’ll sow my seed until it’s deep, Liebling. Are you sure you want me to? Tell me that, please.”

You’re cock drunk, absolutely ruined off of this man. Not even sure what you’re sobbing out until it reaches your ears: desperate, pathetic little cries of fill me, fill me, fill me. 

His thrusts are sloppy but no less accurate, the head of his cock grinding too perfectly into your squishy g-spot and sending you halfway off the edge. You’re spasming around him, the wet clutch you have around his cock outright crude, and he laughs, muttering almost to himself, “Messy girl, you always make such a mess.”

He’s pulling apart your cheeks, getting his fill of the sight of you speared on his cock.

“How are you still hard,” you whine, aftershocks wracking you. He can feel them, you’re sure.

König slurs against your neck, almost laughing. His hips snap back down into you, and your pussy welcomes him home. 

It’s hours and hours later, when you’d been fucked half to sleep, sated and full with König resting inside of you. He’s spent, but the more come that leaks out, the more he has to put back in. When his hips shift, you don’t even stir. 

Quietly, he whispers into the outline of his teeth pressed to your shoulder. “Your little quim can take more, Liebling. I’ll fuck you until you are full with a whole litter.”

[dollwritesarchive]

𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐡𝐚𝐥 𝐣𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐧

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), ex gf!justice league!reader, yellow lantern!hal, this is a dark fic, noncon, somnophilia, suggested violence against reader, toxic relationship,  yandere!hal, hal refers to himself as ‘daddy‘, he’s delusional oops, sinestro co-op, all characters featured are 18+ 

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ requested by anonymous. do not repost or translate. please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading <3

you would be so pissed at Hal right now. 

he knew that, but he couldn’t force himself to feel any shame for the way he scooped you up, holding you tight as you crumbled towards the ground. he was hugging you, the way he really wanted to when he’d first heard you call out for him. 

but you hadn’t sounded happy to see him. when your eyes coruscated over the yellow suit he donned, your brows knit together, your eyes narrowed. you were disgusted. appalled. you hated him in that color; the color of pure fear. 

you were going to get that ring off of him, even if it meant you had to beat him down in the process. or, at least, that’s what you said. however, Hal had years more of experience in hand to hand combat, and the ability to create a construct of anything that he wanted to use against you. not to mention all the times he’d sparred with you. it was never his intention to learn all your tricks and how to counter them, but now he was thankful he had. 

“Sure am glad you found me.” he whispers, burying his face in your hair as he doubled over, holding your midsection tight. you were unconscious from the knock to your head, inflicted by no other than your ex lover who now held you so tenderly, so you droop backwards, your head lolling towards the ground. when he pulls back to look at your features, he breathes a sigh of relief when he traces your softened countenance with his fingers. you no longer looked angry with him, you were no longer disgusted by his newfound power in fear. “Saved me the trouble of tracking you down, having to fight the rest of the Justice League to take you back with me, the whole shebang. I didn’t want to kill any of them, but they wouldn’t have just let me take you. I would’ve had to.” unable to resist his deepest, darkest urge to do so, he leans forward and allows the weight of his lips to press against yours. you don’t kiss him back, and he can accept that for now, because he’d missed the taste of your mouth so much. “But you came back…” his words were muffled as he dragged his lips over your mouth, prying it open with his tongue so he can taste the inside. “You came back to me.” 

that was when Hal finally dug his knees into the dirt, hauling your body down with him, slowly laying you down. your figure is mostly on its side, though turned at your midriff so he can look at your face, with both of your shoulders against the hard ground. “You still look just like an angel when you’re sleeping.” he muttered, tracing your lips with his fingertips. his breath caught in his throat, staring at them. they weren’t nearly swollen enough, like they used to be when he’d kiss you hard. even towards the end, when he started to turn and you’d begun to resist him, he still always left your tiers pouty. 

“It’s been so long,” he breathes out, cradling your face in one hand as he leans over you to kiss you again. he simply couldn’t stop. “So long since you were soft and obedient like this. I missed it.” 

as Hal started to lose his way, you’d began to try and distance yourself from him. you knew that he was changing, and you knew that it was into nothing but darkness. but you didn’t know how to help him or how to stop it; you’d hoped the other members of the Justice League would, but he wouldn’t talk to any of them. he only wanted you. you’d even tried once to tell him that you didn’t want to be with him anymore, but he hadn’t taken the news well, slapping a construct collar around your neck to emphasize how you were bound to him, whether you wanted to be or not. 

he’d scared you. 

and now, here he was. a yellow lantern. the pinnacle of fear. wielding it like a ferocious, flaming weapon. 

“But you’ll be a good girl for me now… won’t you?” from your lips down to your neck, his open mouth attacks you in needy kisses, bites, and sucking. he knew every portion of your body, what areas he could kiss to make you swoon, he only wished he could hear it now— the soft whisper of his name when he flustered you. he was thinking about all the times you’d said his name, and he couldn’t help the moan that vibrates against your throat. “You have to.” 

Hal had forgotten just how addicted to you that he was since his time in the Sinestro Corps. he’d been focused on his duties as a Yellow Lantern, and Sinestro didn’t allow too much time for his second in command’s mind to wander. he had, however, granted Hal the permission to take you by force. but only when the time was right. luckily, for Hal at least, you’d shown up, in search of him and hopeful to pull him from Sinestro’s side. you’d fallen right into his lap; he always knew it was meant to be. 

“God, I missed you…” he was babbling, both of his hands prying at your top, unzipping it as he wrenches it back to expose your bare breasts. his mouth wasn’t far behind, taking one inside, he sucked on your nipple and groaned to himself. he had a thick, hard erection rubbing against the backs of your thighs that needed to be tended to. he wanted you to be awake, to moan for him to fuck you like you used to, but right now, he would have to make due with what he had. your suit’s zipper catches at your waist, and Hal’s hands and mouth are much too occupied with squeezing and kissing your breasts  to continue undressing you, so the topaz flare of his power oozes out from his ring to create another set of hands, a pair that finishes the task of pulling your clothes off until you’re completely nude on your side underneath him. then, his power dissipates. he could’ve, just as easily, used it to position you how he wanted to take you, but he couldn’t keep his focus long enough. “Fuck, I need you, baby. I need you right now.” his hands were already working, one between your legs, priming your sex to life, and the other to get his cock free from his suit. 

his fingers delve into you, prodding along your canal. regardless of your unconscious state, your walls flutter about his fingers as if welcoming him home, and he closes his eyes, biting down on his lip. “You missed me too, I can feel it. So wet already…” he croons, probing deeper, “Don’t you worry, baby, daddy’s home, and he’s never letting you leave his sight again.” his other hand was pumping his recently liberated prick, mighty and jabbing upwards towards his belly, and when he retrieved his fingers from inside you, he marveled at the webs of slick that clung to them, coating his member in your shine. he shudders, giving the swollen tip a final squeeze, running his thumb against the sensitive slit. he’d been left to please himself for too long, his own touch could no longer electrify him, not like he knew your cunt, inches from him, could. 

“You might hate me for this at first.” he mutters, grasping your thigh with one hand, pushing it upwards so your knee bent more, grazing your belly, to reveal your treasure to him. the other directed his tool to it, splitting your netherlips without so much as a moment’s hesitation. usually, he would tease you, rub the head of his cock along your folds, but that had always been to watch you squirm and mewl and beg for him to stop teasing. all he really wanted was to dive into you, as deep and hard as he could. bury himself there. so, this time, he does. he plunges in deep, and bottoms out hard. “It’s gonna hurt when you wake up,” but he doesn’t stop, he can’t. your walls spasm and struggle to stretch around his forceful girth, but he grabs your leg with both, massive hands and jerks your body back to ram into it. “A lot.” he’s already panting, pounding you so violently that your entire body ripples against his thrusting, your head dragging along the ground. you make a little sound, as if you might come around soon, your eyes rolling behind closed lids. 

“But, just give it time, baby girl. You’ll start to like the pain.” 

his moans turn to growls, fingers digging into the supple flesh of your thigh, bruising the delicate skin as he drills himself home, past your sweet spots, to batter the entry of your cervix with relentless and cruel bucking, over and over again. “Fuck, you feel good,” one hand trails up to grab your face and turn it back towards him; he wished you’d open your eyes so he could see the shock on your face when he bumped against your cervix. you didn’t, and he squeezes your cheeks, hollowing them. he may have done it out of frustration, that he can’t hear you whimper for him, or maybe it was just pent up anger at you for pushing him away. “Too good…” 

“‘S too tight! Too warm!” 

he was already close. 

“You’re gonna make me cum right now, baby girl.” it was uttered in bemusement, amazed that he wasn’t the marathoner he used to be. the two of you would go round after round of lovemaking until neither of you could move an inch, and you were holding on to him for dear life. but he wasn’t making love to you, not like he used to. 

Hal was fucking you. brutally. primally. 

“I wanna give it to you so bad, wanna fi— fill you up so fuckin’ full!” his breathing ragged, he pats your cheek as he lays your face back down against the dirt on the ground and allows his fingers to roam; they hesitate for a moment near your throat. he throbs with delight at the thought of wrapping his fist around it, but he wanted you to be awake for that. he wanted to hear the sounds you made when he held you down and choked you; he’d be sure to play with your sensitive clit at the same time, so he could show you how to cum while he hurt you.

 instead, he presses his palm against your chest, smashing your breast in the process, to keep you pinned in place for him to rut like a beast. “Close,” he grunts, his jaw drawn taut. “So— so close… take it for me, baby, take it!” 

he hadn’t given you a choice. 

with a string of desperate grunts and snorts, Hal buried himself in your belly as he came, hunching over to kiss your slack mouth, moaning your name over and over as he starts to come down. you were whimpering in your sleep state, probably on the cusp of waking up— no doubt the discomfort following such a rough romp would seep into your subconscious and draw you out of it. but the sounds you made only made it that much harder for him to want to pull out of you. 

he does so, albeit begrudgingly, telling himself that there would be plenty more opportunity to have you how he needed. besides, he was spent after violating you in all the ways he’d dreamt of, without your voice to cry for him to stop. dilated eyes trailing along your body, he could already see the sections of flesh that would be littered with darker bruising in the coming days, and the way his cum leaked from your quivering sex was almost too sordid for him to bear without shoving himself inside you again. 

tucking himself away, back into his golden uniform, he’s busy with those construct hands, reaching for your suit to dress you again. 

“Leave it,” it was Sinestro’s voice, and it was then that Hal realized his superior was leaning against an outcropped rock nearby. “Wouldn’t want her thinking she’s still a superhero, now would we?” 

Hal frowned, looking from him to your naked body. “She doesn’t have anything else to wear.” he muttered; it was a moment of the true Hal shining through the power of the wicked ring on his finger. 

“And if she’s a good girl for you, you’ll gift her with clothes.” Sinestro floats closer, the tips of his toes barely treading the dirt before he claps a hand on Hal’s shoulder, as if reminding him who he was now. “She has to earn the right to wear them. By pleasing her master. If you give a pet too much freedom, it’s only a matter of time before they run away, right?” 

“Right.” Hal muttered, his features hardening again. the constructs melt into an altogether, different shape. an oversized box, one that resembled the way a Barbie might be packaged. it envelops you, golden twist ties wrapping around your wrists and ankles and locking you in place, a transparent sheet of construct sliding into place to lock you in the box. “I can’t give her too much freedom. Or she’ll try to run away from me.” 

“You know the way to control her, don’t you, Hal Jordan?” 

“… With fear.” 

“Very good.” Sinestro hums, admiring the craftsmanship of his favored soldier, and gives his shoulder a firm pat. “If the Justice League comes for her, we’ll let her watch our army cut them down. But for now, take the time and enjoy her.” 

your eyelids flutter, groaning as you start to come around. your head is throbbing, and you feel like you’ve been donkey kicked in the gut. not to mention the sickening feeling of something all too familiar oozing out of you. your head rolls around against your shoulders as you squint. “H—Hal? What did you—“ you jerk your arms, but the power holds them in place at your sides, posing you like a doll on the shelf. “What did you do?!” 

but it didn’t take a genius to figure it out, when you look down to realize you’re naked and sore. 

“Hal… oh, god, Hal…” 

Sinestro is watching with his arms folded over his chest, and when you catch sight of him, you grimace with disgust. “Take back your fucking ring and this monster you created. Give me my Hal back!” squirming in your golden cell, you scream it at the top of your lungs. 

Sinestro chuckles, shaking his head. “‘Your Hal’? Oh, love, this is your Hal. He can take the ring off any time he wants to. The problem is, that he just would rather have the power that it can give him. I’m the only one that will sanction his desire to own you.” 

Hal gets to his feet, and takes a few, slow steps up to the box you’re trapped in, pressing his hand against it. he doesn’t seem to be listening to the banter, nor does he care. because he’s staring at you, fondly, as if admiring a piece of art. 

“Hal… please…” 

“You won’t ever leave me again, I’ll make sure of it.” 

[masuchu]

warnings. cunnilingus, f!reader, clit biting, slight degradation, edging, mommy kink, squirting

yosano is patient, she likes to watch you crumble before you break. how long, she thinks, will you last like this?

kinktober 22’ | navigation ⋆˙⟡♡

𝐘𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐎 eats pussy like a champ. she has all the time in the world to watch as your face falls, eyes crossing and tongue lolling out. she especially loves to hear the high pitched whines that tumble out of your mouth, both of pleasure and pain.

she has, of course, memorised every single spot inside of you that makes you crumble. she’ll swirl her tongue around your clit as preparation before she bites it, grinning like a menace when you can’t hold back the loud whimper you let out.

she’s mean too, holding down your legs with her pretty fingers when you try and push into her and holding down your hips when you arch. if you push your luck more then once, then she’ll dig her beautifully manicured nails into your thighs, saying “ah, i liked this set of nails. such a shame i had to ruin them.” as if you aren’t the one getting terrorised and edged!

she can and will eat you out for hours before letting you cum, it’s her talent! if you can still speak and form coherent thoughts then you aren’t done.

“pl— please let me cum!” you pleads fall on deaf ears as her tongue continues to dive deep in your pussy, slurping up your juices like honey and coming up occasionally to bite at your clit— an act that leaves you shaking and breathless each time.

“hmm? i think you can do better then that, baby.” a harsh pinch stabs into your thigh, and you squeak at the feeling, intensified almost ten times, an undoubtable effect of the constant stimulation.

“need it so bad, m— mommy! m’ gonna die if i don’t cum, please!”

“that’s more like it.”

without warning, her two fingers slam straight into your sopping cunt, leaving a loud squelching noise with it. they slam repeatedly against the spots inside of you, and you feel something building up inside of you, something big.

your hands fumble for something to hold, anything really, and her soft fingers intertwine with yours and pin then down on the sheets, the other hand still reaching parts inside of you you didn’t know existed. every slam sends waves of pleasure rippling through your system, the extra added pleasure of her mouth around your clit doing nothing for your composure.

your moans become higher in pitch, all breath leaving your body as your chest heaves. yosano looks at you with lidded eyes, a crazed glint shining in them— unlike anything you’ve ever seen in her before.

“aki— cumming, m’ cumming! ah, fuck!”

“i know baby, let go for me.”

with her words, the coil inside you snaps and a sudden rush of everything hits you like a truck. it all feels so much harsher, and you find yourself squirming away from her still moving fingers and hand on your waist. the sheets feel damn underneath you and a soft touch pulls you into a warm embrace, your lover a bit to quiet for your liking.

“akiko? you okay?” you ask timidly, admittedly a little bit worried you had done something wrong. as you turn to face her, her eyes are wide and your eyebrows raise at her out of it expression.

“baby..?—“

“you squirted.”

© 2022 masuchu, do not repost, reword, plagiarise, take inspiration, translate or share my work anywhere!

[neetily]

Bad Dog - KINKTOBER DAY 22 (COLLAR) - (SDV) Alex

— ✧ warnings: Petplay, puppyspace, Collar, Sub Alex, dom reader, spitting, pillow humping, Choking, Breeding — ✧ word count: 1,546

— ✧ A/N: reposting from my old account since i was asked to! formatting might be off, but it's still readable.

This is the most pathetic he’s ever felt. Down on all fours, tongue lolling out his open panting mouth and collar bell ringing with every tug you make on his leash. He should be ashamed, completely embarrassed about the fact that his cock is hard and straining mid-air, jerking desperately for attention as you prepare the bed for him patiently despite his needy whines for even a glance in his direction. Should be humiliated with the fact that a puddle of pre sits below him, mixing with the copious amounts of drool he lets drip from his puppy tongue. It’s not often he’s collared, reserved mostly for when he’s been bad, and he knows he’s been acting out tonight but it’s just because your cunt feels so good to his puppy brain. Dumb dog only thinking about breeding your tight hole despite your warnings to slow down, and so when you eventually got him to stop mounting you ordered him to wait by the bed on the floor. He does, though reluctantly, because he wants to be good. But as you tug on the leash for him to follow you to the bed he finds himself not full of shame, but of lust. Enjoying the situation he’s found himself perhaps a bit too much as he eagerly climbs to your side on all fours, huffing and panting as his leaking tip grazes across your sheets as he settles comfortably before you.

“Been such a bad pup tonight, haven’t you?” You coo softly, petting behind his ears as if he really were a dog and he laps it up, nodding vigorously to agree that yes, he’s been bad, but he’s sorry. Trying to nuzzle into your touch as all forms of verbal communication disappears when he’s this deep into puppy space. The folded pillow you have placed before him catching his attention while you lay the back of your hand flat atop it. “Here.” You direct, eyeing up his angry red cock and he rushes to place it in your palm, sighing into your touch as you lovingly stroke it a few times. You don’t provide him any warning for your next actions and it causes him to immediately hump your hand in response, the feeling of your spit covering his cock and the subsequent rubbing it in you do leaving him a whimper mess. It doesn’t enter his numb mind that this feels like a reward for acting up, but he’s thrown out of his blissed out haze the moment you pull harshly on his leash, the collar tightening around his throat and cutting off all moans of appreciate he spills for you.

“Dumb mutt.” You reprimand, and the unkind tone you regard him with leaves him a little dizzy. He stares back at you, his humps slowing down the more you just stare back until he eventually stops and you remove your hand. The loss of contact barely registering to him as you helpfully push his cock down against the pillow at guidance. It still takes another pull of his leash for him to catch on to what you’re doing, whimpering at the long sigh you let out. “The pillow, puppy. Is there anything in that brain of yours besides breeding?” He shakes his head, grabbing two corners of the pillow eagerly as you continue talking down at him. “Suppose it’s not your fault. That’s just how dogs are, isn’t that right?” He nods this time, eyes unfocused and throat dry with choked moans as you tug him closer, and closer, up until his tip digs into the soft pillow below and causes him to hum in satisfaction. Leaking more precum to ruin your pillow, though he isn’t of mind to worry about that yet. “You can’t even help yourself can you?” You ask through a faux pitying tone, but he eats it up. Looking at you with big pleading eyes as he struggles to properly breathe, the light-headed feeling you force him to endure only causing his cock to ache with how hard it gets. Hardest he’s ever been, his hips instinctively rutting against the pillow even though he’s neglected to wait for your orders.

Bad dog.

He can somewhat hear you tsk at his actions but you don’t stop him and he takes that as consent to continue, humping slowly to accommodate how sensitive his ignored cock is until he just can’t help himself any more. Already fucked stupid and he’s barely even started, head hung low to drool all over his already saliva covered cock some more as his pace picks up, encouraged by the addition of your unfair snaps of his leash towards you to prompt him into fucking faster. He’s got no choice to oblige, if not for your insistent tugging but because his hips won’t fucking stop. Too far into his puppy headspace to do anything but hump, truly a dog in heat as he fucks your pillow still with the intent to breed, nothing else mattering at the moment besides getting off. Mounting it on all fours, bunching the fabric up to produce a makeshift hole for him to feel wrapped around his needy cock, adding pressure to it with one hand to make it as tight as possible without even thinking about it. The choking you do on his neck with the doggy collar has his vision glazed over, reducing him to nothing but a horny mess of various fluids as he imagines he’s actually fucking into your sweet cunt. Doesn’t matter particularly to him right now what he’s fucking, so long as he can get his cock wet, but thinking about you has him as hard as a rock.

The only restraint he’s showing is the one you’re forcing upon him, keeping him in check with the collar and leash, making sure he stays right where you want him to while he humps himself into overstimulation, howling with pleasure every time you gasp at his lewd display. God it feels so good to act like this, truly stupid with how nice it feels to rock his cock against your soft pillow, to have your eyes trained on his every movement to make sure he’s acting like a good boy. Causes his whole body to shiver into your sheets, his upper body lowering to hover properly over your pillow as if you were actually under him, his hips snapping desperately into the pretend hole he’s made.

“Is this all you think about, huh? You just need your cock in something all the time? S'at it? Dumb pup can’t think of anything else?” You taunt and he can hear the smirk in your voice without even looking up. He nods adamantly at every word you say though, too focused on getting off instead of actually listening, but he assumes you’re right anyway. Big stupid mutt, can’t do anything right but fuck — and even then he can’t even do that right, punished by way of no cunt and collaring. It’s fine, he makes do, throwing his head back just to choke on some more moans, your grip unrelenting on his leash to hold him in place. He sputters, his hips following with several stutters at his complete lack of breath. “Gonna cum again? Look at you, such a cute puppy, if you cum now you’re gonna ruin my pillow!” Your tone mocking, expression even more so since you know how close he is. It causes him to whine, brows furrowed in a plea for permission when he’s unable to stop fucking, dangerous thrusts as he teeters on the edge of his orgasm.

And then he utters the first words in a while that night. A strained, needy, “Please.” As serious sounding as he can muster with his struggling to catch up lungs. For a moment you just stare at him, watch as he very nearly comes undone before you without the secret words. His cock throbbing with need to breed, balls tight and taut at your undivided attention — just like he’s wanted all night.

“All right. Cum.”

Three magic words, his downright dirty bark of pleasure swallowed up by your lips as you pull him towards you, muffling his inevitable high pitched whines as he shoots his load all over your clean pillow, marking his seed right where you sleep. And knowing that makes his orgasm all the better, his hips unrelenting as he continues to thrust into the overtly wet patch he’s created, gliding his wet tip across your pillow to smear his cum everywhere.

You pull away from the kiss once it seems he’s calmed down a bit, praising him sweetly with good job and knew you were a good puppy. And he can’t bear to hear it, because before you have a chance to scold him for acting out again he’s flipping you on your tummy, easily exerting more strength than is necessary to take control of the situation as he slips his too sensitive cock into your cunt once more.

“More.” he growls. “Need more-” he whines, heart caught in his throat at how tightly you squeeze his cock. After all, he really is just a puppy, and for now, he’s all right being a bad one if it means being buried in your cunt.

[samwilsonsbabymama]

Directions

18+

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Black F!Reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: Sam asks reader to follow some simple instructions, but he and Bucky make it extremely hard for her.

Warnings: MMF threesome, degradation kink, praise kink, anal sex, unprotected sex, I think that's it (let me know if I missed any)

A/N: So I've been trying to write this all day lol it's pure smut 18+ for the whole thing and I'm pretty sure this is how all of my SamBucky fics are gonna be from now on cause this was PURE self-indulgence and I absolutely love it

✨I don’t give anyone permission to copy/translate/repost/rewrite my work. Minors, DNI at all. ✨

💖 Please let me know what you think by leaving feedback 💖

Sam's got you pressed against the wall legs hooked around his arms as he fucks into you

your head lolls to the side and your eyes are glazed over

he's trying his hardest to make you cum on his dick while also telling you that you better not cum

you know it's a test and you better follow his instructions

you lock eyes with Bucky over Sam's shoulder as he watches the show in front of him

his hand wrapped around his dick as he jerks off at the sight before him

he winks at you when he sees you looking at him

Sam doubles his efforts when he realizes that your attention is not on him anymore

you cry out at the pleasure as he fucks you

you feel your orgasm approaching and you try your best to not cum

but Sam is fucking you just the right way and you can't help it

you hear him chuckle as your walls ripple around him

"Poor baby, couldn't even follow simple directions" he chides as he continues to fuck you

he's not going to let you catch your breath

you watch as Bucky strides over with his dick swinging

your sensitive pussy grips Sam as you watch Bucky and his hips stutter

you cry out when Bucky clasps his hand around your neck

"Such a pretty little thing," he says. "I think we should give her another chance, Sam. what do you think?" and he squeezes tighter

the tighter he squeezes, the tighter you squeeze Sam

you're holding back your orgasm and Bucky praises you, calling you their 'good girl' and telling you how well you're taking Sam and how beautiful you look with tears running down your cheeks

Sam on the other hand is fucking you like there's no tomorrow

his hips move harshly as he fucks you

filthy words fell from his lips as he pointed out how much you love being ruined by them and how he couldn't wait to see you bouncing on both of their dicks

he loved reminding you of how well you took them both

relief washed over you when Bucky removed the pressure from your throat and moved behind Sam

you shuddered when Sam stopped his movements knowing, anticipating, what was to come

Bucky winked at you as he slipped his dick into Sam's puckered hole

Sam groaned at the feeling of Bucky filling him up

Sam clenched his teeth as Bucky pushed into him

the pressure from Bucky sliding into Sam pushed Sam deeper into you and the three of you groaned

You loved when they fucked like this and you nearly cried when Sam reminded you that you weren't allowed to cum

The force from each of Buckys thrusts pushed Sam deeper into you

You weren't going to last much longer especially as you watched Bucky shove his tongue down Sam's throat

Your pussy throbbed when Bucky pulled his lips away from Sam's leaving behind a thin trail of saliva connecting the two of them before he crashed his lips against yours

Sam continued fucking you as he fucked himself on Buckys dick

"You love it when we fuck each other while fucking you, don't you, yn?" Sam growled in your ear.

You wanted to answer but all you could do was moan and Bucky swallowed them all

Bucky released your lips and rested his head between Sam's shoulder blades

Your orgasm washed over you without warning and you threw your head back against the wall

Sam chuckled again "I knew you couldn't do it."

You cried in frustration, you wanted to try again and prove to him that you could indeed hold your orgasms

Bucky cupped your cheek and smiled 'you did such a good job, baby girl'

You never knew how to feel when they did this to you

You never knew which emotion to focus on the delight from the praise or the determination and shame from the degrading

You knew that at any moment they could switch roles and that excited you more than you were willing to admit

You also knew that they weren't done with you since both of them were still hard so you weren't surprised when Bucky pulled out of Sam and took your hand as the three of you headed to your bedroom where you were sure to be bouncing on both of their dicks in no time

💖 Please let me know what you think by leaving feedback 💖

[ahh-fxck]

Warrior’s Blues repost event, part 4! In which there is morning light, grief, and an inadvisable encounter between fist and wall. When Geralt’s host tries to help, will Geralt let him?

Chapter 4: I Need A Hospital

Tags/warnings: Injury, PTSD

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog​

~Ao3 Link~

His heart aches as he tries to meet his own gaze, finds that his stomach churns when he tries. Worse, his face is littered with white stubble, making him look grizzled and unkempt. Untrustworthy looking, he decides; undesirable. Still, he realizes as he gingerly flexes his injured hand, there is no way he can safely shave with his straight razor. With a disgruntled sigh, he tosses the shirt back onto the toilet and begins to clean up after himself. 

By the time he is done, there is a tentative knocking on the outside door. Feeling his whole body contract with sudden tension, he stops dead in his tracks halfway to the bed. The little loft is suffused with light and warmth, a peaceful heat that sinks deep into his bones. He stares about the little room, searching for answers as he tries to figure out how to react.

“Geralt?” A muffled voice calls from outside of the door. Geralt recognizes Jaskier’s voice instantly; Would recognize it anywhere, even though he’s only known him for a night. A flush creeps across his whole body as he dithers, damp towel clutched tightly. “Geralt? Is everything all right?” Jaskier calls again, sounding worried. “Just, it’s two o’ clock in the afternoon… I thought you might be hungry. May I come in?”

Above Jaskier’s house was a small attic studio. It was painted a mellow sky blue inside, with white moulding, furniture, and decorations. It consisted of one room divided into two parts. First, there was a sitting area on a white tiled floor, with wicker chairs and a wicker table with a clear glass top. On a shelf below a windowsill there was an electric kettle and a box of rather rumpled looking tea sachets in their paper envelopes. Mugs were visible on the lower tier, stored neatly upside-down. Behind a half-wall, there was a sleeping area with a twin-size bed and two small dressers emblazoned on the sides with painted cornflowers. By the dusty, empty smell, no one had been up here in some time. There was a bathroom in the corner, with a full sized bathtub and a little sink above which a white mirror hung with makeup lights sat. There was only one entry, a simple white door that led to a steep staircase wrapping around the outside of the blue house and terminating in the driveway. 

The light in the room turns to grey, dim fingers of it penetrating through the windows to caress the simple wicker decorations on the low half-wall separating the sleeping area from the main room. In the bed, Geralt breathes deeply, head lolling awkwardly where it rests halfway on his pillow, his injured hand resting on his chest. 

By the time he had arrived here last night he had barely been able to hear Jaskier explain the little apartment over the roar of exhaustion in his ears. He had fallen into bed, fully dressed save for his boots, and had moved only once during the night to pull the creamy blue and white duvet over himself when the temperature had finally dropped. He had barely even managed to get his head on the pillow.

Now the temperature creeps back up again as the dawn light warms, turning a rich buttery color as the sun comes up over the horizon. Geralt’s eyes flicker open, habit and light conspiring to rouse him from slumber. He glances around, disoriented, then closes his eyes again quickly. The blue and white room is frighteningly unfamiliar, friendly colors and new smells crushing up against him as he begins to wake. It stirs half-remembered guilt and shame, burning feelings that he would much rather escape. Dimly realizing that he is no longer on a schedule and doesn’t have to wake, Geralt heaves a heavy sigh. Rolling over, he puts his arm over his head and curls softly under the covers. His arm blocks out the light and he retreats into the warm hollow that his body has made in the blankets. With a yawn, he drifts back to sleep.

This process repeats several times, until the room is bright and hot and Geralt’s bladder is achingly full. Each time the guilt and the shame press harder, a growing static that gnaws at him even in his sleep. Finally he is forced to open his eyes. As he lays there with his arm over his face, squinting out at the hot light of the attic, he hears a stereo turn on below him. It’s muffled, too quiet to pick out the words, but the beat is happy and strong. His heart speeds up and stutters as he tries to parse the addition of the music to his already overwhelmed senses, and his lips pull back to show his teeth. He growls in irritation and sudden tension races along his arms, whipcord strong and hot as lightning. His hand lashes out, bandaged knuckles slamming into the wall before he can think. The world vanishes for a moment in a brief, hot flash of pain that whites his vision out.

The wall reverberates, and below, quiet footsteps pause. A moment later the stereo volume lowers, and the rhythmic sounds of daily living resume. Geralt shakes his head to try and clear the cottony feeling away, tries to shake off the stars exploding behind his eyes from the pain in his hand. Rolling, he staggers out of bed and cradles it to his chest as he limps towards the door he faintly remembers Jaskier indicating as the bathroom. 

The little room is clean and quiet, with very little to say for itself aside from an empty towel ring and a plastic basket full of half-used toiletries sitting on a back shelf. As he passes the mirror he spots his stubbly reflection out of the corner of his eye and remembers that he needs to shave. 

After relieving himself he retreats to his backpack. Squatting down, he eyes the khaki sack critically and braces himself to confront the contents within. His mouth tastes like ashes as he reaches out and tugs open the zipper. The discharge papers tumble out, pages upon pages of his career sifting to the carpet like dead leaves. Pages of reminders of what he has lost. He can feel his face go numb first, then his tongue, a wave travelling outwards until it robs even his feet of sensation. 

His eyes go blank as he paws automatically through the rest of the sack, retrieving his last pair of clean fatigues, his socks, underwear, straight razor, and soap. He sets these aside jerkily on one of the dressers, then turns and kneels, gathering the papers back into the folder. His movements are sloppy and disjointed as he fumbles the papers together, scanning them without really reading them, placing them back in order on autopilot. Then he shoves the folder under the bed, right next to the sack, and straightens. Below him there is still the faint sound of music, and someone’s voice, presumably Jaskier’s, breaks out into a muffled song. In a fog, he grabs his things off of the dresser and heads for the shower.

After he is clean he gets out, dressing himself. The music has stopped by now, and the bathroom has descended into dripping silence. The soggy bandage is still on his hand, but he’s not ready to confront it yet. Instead, he takes his dirty shirt to the mirror, scrubbing some of the steam away. He eyes his reflection critically, then the makeup bulbs, giving them a puzzled grimace. Turning, he retrieves his shaving implements from the shelf next to the plastic basket, coming back to the mirror only reluctantly. The last of the fog from his shower is beginning to clear, and he eyes his reflection uneasily. 

His white hair is shaved short, too short to be mussed by sleep and showering. He has a handsome face. It is pale, with high cheekbones, a square jaw, and lips that have a surprisingly lovely cupid’s bow. Under his wide amber eyes there are shadows though, dark and hollow. The lines of care in his face are graven deeper than usual, darkened by stress and tight with pain. His heart aches as he tries to meet his own gaze, finds that his stomach churns when he tries. Worse, his face is littered with white stubble, making him look grizzled and unkempt. Untrustworthy looking, he decides; undesirable. Still, he realizes as he gingerly flexes his injured hand, there is no way he can safely shave with his straight razor. With a disgruntled sigh, he tosses the shirt back onto the toilet and begins to clean up after himself. 

By the time he is done, there is a tentative knocking on the outside door. Feeling his whole body contract with sudden tension, he stops dead in his tracks halfway to the bed. The little loft is suffused with light and warmth, a peaceful heat that sinks deep into his bones. He stares about the little room, searching for answers as he tries to figure out how to react.

“Geralt?” A muffled voice calls from outside of the door. Geralt recognizes Jaskier’s voice instantly; Would recognize it anywhere, even though he’s only known him for a night. A flush creeps across his whole body as he dithers, damp towel clutched tightly. “Geralt? Is everything all right?” Jaskier calls again, sounding worried. “Just, it’s two o’ clock in the afternoon… I thought you might be hungry. May I come in?”

Geralt turns to look at the door, seeing the lanky shadow of the handsome man through the shade. He rasps, “I’m fine.” The words seem to unstick him. He strides across to the bed in a swift, efficient movement, drops the towel, and calls gruffly, “I’ll be right there.” He tucks the rest of the items back into his bag in a neat roll, followed by the discharge papers. His injured hand flashes with bright hot pain as he stuffs the papers into his bag, and he growls under his breath. Then he rises with a quick movement and opens the attic door for the man waiting patiently outside.

He is met by a charming, crooked smile as Jaskier greets him over a little tray holding two coffees and a couple of open faced bagel sandwiches. There’s sugar, even cream, each in little bowls that bear a buttercup motif. Jaskier himself is dressed in a loose yellow tank top and denim shorts, though unlike yesterday these hang down to just above his knees. His face is lightly stubbled; he hasn’t bothered to shave yet today. Seeing this, Geralt isn’t sure whether to be irked or charmed by how informally the man comports himself. 

“There you are,” Jaskier sighs happily, tilting his head and fixing Geralt with a wide smile. “Breakfast?” As Geralt steps stiffly aside to let him in, he nudges past him and into the loft, humming, “Well, I suppose it’s more like lunch, but never mind that. How are you today?” Bending over, he places the tray on the little table, then straightens and glances over his shoulder at Geralt. 

Geralt is still standing in the doorway, studying the other man with quiet intensity. While he’s been around civilians before, he’s never seen one quite like Jaskier up close, never seen a man so perfectly comfortable in his softness. It makes him want to bark him to fuck off, it makes him want to run away… it makes him want to sit and eat and never stop looking at him, ever again. He clears his throat as he feels Jaskier’s gaze upon him, closing the door with a little soft ‘thump’ that he half-feels, half-hears.

Jaskier turns and sits himself down in one of the wicker chairs, gesturing an invitation at the other one. Giving the chair a long stare, Geralt weighs his options. He is right next to the door; all he has to do is turn and walk away. It’s not like he needs anything in his backpack, not really. Even the documentation proving his identity is practically worthless now, and what isn’t, he can eventually replace. 

As if sensing Geralt’s thought process, Jaskier carefully picks up his coffee cup and leans back in the chair, fixing him with a gentle but frank look. “Breakfast makes vanishing into the wild blue yonder a little easier, Geralt. At least have a bite before you go?” 

Geralt fixes the younger man with a look of guarded astonishment. His injured hand twitches on the doorknob, then slides down to rest at his side. It gives a dull throb, but he crams the pain down, ignoring it with practiced skill. Rumbling doubtfully, he rocks back and forth once on his sock feet before tentatively advancing towards the empty chair. His ears burn as he realizes that he is so disoriented that he was genuinely about to run out the door without his shoes, and subsides into the chair across from Jaskier with a sheepish grimace. 

“There, now,” Jaskier says, pleased, and pushes the coffee towards Geralt. Geralt takes it gratefully, humming with pleasure as he picks the warm cup up gingerly in his left hand. He leans his elbows on his thighs and blows on it, feeling the pleasure of the warm steam and rich scent playing across his lips. Unlike the coffee available on base, this smells lively and rich. He takes a tentative sip and raises his eyebrows, impressed. Jaskier beams and pushes the sandwich towards him, too. 

Geralt tentatively tugs the sandwich towards himself with his bandaged hand, cradling the coffee mug in the other. Jaskier’s eyes flicker as he grimaces in discomfort, his gaze dropping to the soggy bandage that Geralt is still wearing. 

A little furrow appears between his brows, but instead of addressing the pain Geralt is obviously in, he says, “Normally at this time of day today I’m off at work, but luckily for us, I have the day off.” He fixes Geralt with a sunny smile, picking up his bagel and taking a bite out of it. “Which means I’m at your disposal for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Day job?” Geralt inquires, his voice thick and a little hoarse. He grimaces again and takes a swig of coffee to clear his throat. 

Jaskier nods pleasantly, chewing. He watches Geralt’s sore hand out of the corner of his eye thoughtfully as he continues, “Mmhm! I’m an adjunct professor at the college a few blocks from here, get to ride my bike to work on nice days. It’s summer so it’s only office hours and faculty meetings once a week right now, but in fall it picks up.” 

Geralt tilts his head to the side, considering this information, trying to conceal his surprise. “What do you teach?” he asks, after a moment, then picks up his bagel and takes a bite. There’s ham on it, lettuce, tomato, cheese, even a fried egg. The mayonnaise has hints of garlic and rosemary, sharp and delicious. Probably not store made, then. Impressed despite himself, he eyes the sandwich, then Jaskier.  

“Medieval music theory!” Jaskier proclaims, eyes twinkling. “Terribly arcane, I’m afraid, but I simply fell in love with it as a young man, and now here I am.” He sips his coffee and licks a drop of it off of his lower lip reflectively. “At least it helps pay the bills. Worse things could be said for a passion.” Shrugging, he sets the cup back down and takes another bite of his sandwich. “Do you have any plans for the day?” Despite himself, he finds his eye straying back to Geralt’s bad hand, watching with concern as the other man painfully cradles his bagel. 

“No.” Geralt replies shortly, taking another bite of his sandwich. Now that he’s started eating, he can finally feel how hungry he is, and he makes short work of the food. 

Jaskier watches in fascination as the bagel vanishes in only three or four big bites. Geralt finishes by unceremoniously draining his coffee cup. Jaskier searches for something to say, settling on, “Well then. Let’s at least take another look at that hand of yours, darling. I have a first aid kit downstairs.” He puts his half-eaten sandwich back on the tray, along with his empty coffee mug, and stands. “I’ll meet you down there. Do you remember where the front door is?” 

“Yes.” Geralt says, who doesn’t remember anything of the sort. He was far too tired to remember what his name was last night, much less the exact location of the front door of the house. He figures it won’t be hard to find, though, and he is desperate for an excuse to be alone for just another moment while he tries to collect himself. Jaskier nods and heads for the door, beginning to fumble with the tray in an attempt to get the doorknob. Standing hurriedly, Geralt steps around him and pulls the door open. It puts him face to face with Jaskier, and when he turns another thousand-watt smile on him Geralt feels like the floor has dropped out from under him, leaving him in free-fall. 

Jaskier studies Geralt’s face for a moment, kind blue eyes tracing the contours of his scarred cheeks and square jaw. He lingers briefly on his lips, chapped and cracked from dehydration and stress. A quick sad expression flits across his face, and he turns away. “All right then, I’ll see you in a moment Geralt.” As he turns and exits, the tension humming between them snaps and dissipates, leaving the air of the attic feeling oddly empty in its wake. 

Geralt closes the door behind him as he leaves, slow and soft, like he half doesn’t want to shut it. He steps back from the door bewildered, feeling his hand pulse and ache with the sudden pounding of his heart. Reluctantly, he glances down at it. The bandage is beginning to dry again, a stiff, disgusting brown from where the blood has soaked into the gauze. His hand itself is swollen and red, far worse than it was yesterday. Running his eyes across it, his lips pull back in a grimace as he notes the mangled skin peeking out from where the bandage has peeled back. He would take care of it himself, Jaskier be damned, except that he doesn’t have any medical supplies. Deep down, he knows that an infection isn’t worth his pride. 

After a further moment of delay, he returns to the bedside and sits next to his wet towel, staring at his leather boots. They are worn but well-cared for, stained, a little thin around the heels on the inside. He ponders how to get them on, as his hand is becoming stiffer by the moment. The pain is growing from a distant misty throb to a full blown, gnawing ache, which makes it difficult to think properly. Gritting his teeth, he decides to just grab them in his good hand and shove them on. The laces he pulls carefully tight. He fumbles with them for a long moment, trying to tie them, but his injured hand is so stiff that he can’t manage proper knots. Grumbling with frustration, he shoves the laces into the top of his boots and stands.

He looks around for the keys to the attic, spotting them on top of one of the dressers where he tossed them the night before. Those go into his pocket before he heads for the door. But, as he reaches it, he stops. His heart constricts in his chest as he hovers there, feeling the weight of his vulnerability pressing down on him. The idea of going into yet another new setting, of sitting across from that unbelievably kind man and letting him touch his hurting hand, is too much to handle. He feels like the oxygen is going out of the room as he stands there with his fingers on the doorknob, unable to move forward, unable to retreat. The room fades into a blurry blue and white impression as he begins to pant, lips numbly tingling. He steps back from the door instinctively, staggering to one of the wicker chairs and sinking into it. 

Time swims as he hunches in the chair, awkwardly pulling his hand in close to his chest and huffing short breaths. Shame sweeps up his body, his posture collapsing as he tries to fight his way out of the panic. When he was young this never happened to him, but recently it had been coming on more and more frequently. He begins quietly, subtly rocking in the chair, pressing his face into his arm. The warmth of it is grounding, the smell of his skin bringing him slowly back into himself. In the end, he stills, leaning back into the chair with a heavy sigh as the tension in his body begins to run out. A fuzzy haze settles over him, and he closes his eyes as the numbness sweeps up and blankets him in darkness. 

He becomes dimly aware of footsteps on the stairs some time later. Stirring, he sits slowly up in the chair, gold eyes focusing on the door as the footsteps come closer. The tall shadow of Jaskier shows through the curtains again, and he hears a gentle knock. “Hey, is everything ok?” 

It is not ok, but Geralt doesn’t know how to say that, so instead he calls thickly, “M’fine. Got distracted.” Outside, Jaskier is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I brought my first aid kit upstairs. Would you mind terribly if I came in and looked at your hand?”

Geralt sits stiffly, hand cradled along his collarbone, feeling uneasy and a little trapped. Even his closest friends had rarely treated him with such persistent kindness; had rarely needed to. He was not a person who made himself vulnerable easily, and had gone to great lengths to keep his distance from anyone who might see him that way. On one level, he knew that accepting the man’s kindness was fine. Sensible, even. On the other, all he wanted to do was run until he found someplace dark and quiet to hide and never emerge from, ever again.

Outside, Jaskier sighs. “Geralt, are you sure you’re okay?” His voice carries a little worried note in it this time that makes Geralt flinch. 

Geralt is tempted to lie again. It comes right to his lips, but stutters and stops before he can speak it as he watches the little movements of the man outside. Feeling oddly light, he stands to walk across the room and opens the door. He steps aside and looks down into Jaskier’s uncertain face, his own expression unreadable, then gestures shortly for him to enter. 

Jaskier does so without argument, ducking inside before the ex-soldier has a chance to close the door on him again. He places the first aid kit on the little glass table and sits, making himself smaller immediately, and Geralt feels himself relax. Seated, the man looks softer, less demanding. He notices that his face is cleaner, too, all the stubble shaved away. Geralt’s bright gaze rakes over him sitting in the wicker chair, taking in the gentleness of his posture, the frank kindness that he regards him with. Stomach still churning uneasily, Geralt notices that he is nevertheless warmed by the gaze fixed on him. He feels his own face soften from a glare into an expression of uncertainty, eyes flicking between Jaskier and the empty chair. 

Jaskier makes no movement whatsoever, his body language quiet and gentle as he continues to watch Geralt in the doorway. He can feel the man’s hot golden gaze searing across him, feels the weight of his attention as he considers what to do. He is hummingly aware of how dangerous the tall man looks, his toned body alert beneath his fatigues. Despite that, he finds that he is unafraid. He slowly leans back, sweeping his hand towards the first aid kit. 

“I won’t touch you if you don’t want help. I just thought you might need this.” He feels his heart constrict a little in his chest as Geralt obviously relaxes, his uncertain expression easing. All he wants to do is stand and push him into the chair, to lavish him with gentle affection, but he gets the sense that this could cause him to shut down or worse, lash out. So he holds still, exquisitely still, allowing Geralt to come to his own conclusions. 

Geralt relaxes as Jaskier leans back, offering him the first aid kit. He feels by turns ashamed and relieved, his throat tight and his cheeks burning. Flexing his good hand slowly, he pushes at the numbness that is trapping him, urging it to abate. Feeling begins to return to the tip of his tongue, his lips, slowly spreading until he finds himself able to move freely again. Clearing his throat, he walks to the empty wicker chair and sits without further comment. Rummaging through the first aid supplies, he pulls out what he needs in silence. 

Jaskier watches as he bends to the task of caring for his hand. When he peels the bandage off, he leans over to the side and grabs a small wastebasket from near the tea shelf. Jaskier extends the basket to Geralt, and Geralt flicks his gaze briefly to him, nodding an acknowledgement as he tosses the bandage into the bin. Then he begins to methodically clean his wounds, face tight and wooden as he wipes them clean with cotton balls soaked in soothing antiseptic. 

Jaskier inspects the wounded hand from a distance as he does so, finally able to get a clear look at it for the first time since yesterday afternoon. The skin is raw and ugly around the knuckles, pitted from the impacts with the tree. His fingers are curled thickly inward, held in place by swelling that makes his whole hand look angry and bruised. There is a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as Jaskier realizes that these are no mere abrasions that he’s looking at. Not anymore, at least; unless he’s missed his guess, Geralt’s hand looks broken. 

Silence stretches as Geralt cleans, wraps, and tapes his hand. Then, he looks up and flicks his eyes to Jaskier’s for just a moment before cutting off to the side. “I need a hospital for this,” he rumbles, his deep voice cutting through the silence. 

Jaskier’s thinned lips pull into a grimace of dismay and he nods, unsurprised. “There’s a hospital not far away from here. I can drive you.”

Tag List: @astouract​,​ @smolpoe​​, @yes-im-the-violin-girl​, @ladyknight-keladry​, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde​, @your-lordsherlockholmes-posts​

[jellydishes]

i was tagged in fic back friday by @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold, and i think i'll share the very first dragon age fic i shared that wasn't a repost of minifics i sent in askboxes from tumblr, Amaranthine Nights (Tell Me More Tell Me More), which is a carver hawke/nathaniel howe porn without much plot story i wrote back in 2016. i'm also tagging anybody who wants to play!

Carver was always out of sorts when Nathaniel was away on scouting trips into the Deep Roads, and not just for the rather visceral reminders of a time he'd rather forget. It was the twelfth day since Nathaniel had left and he'd paced restlessly about the keep for most of the morning, enough the warden commander eventually took notice and ordered him to do something constructive with all of that energy, which is how Carver found himself trailing upstairs exhausted from a long day of running the recruits through their paces.

He was smothering a jaw cracking yawn behind his hand as he opened the door to his and Nathaniel's shared room, fully expecting it to be just as cold and dark and empty as he'd left it because who else would trouble themselves to make sure the fire in their room was lit with Nathaniel off splitting heads, only to find that slow sinking in his gut pleasantly replaced with a ballooning feeling of warmth to match the heat that met him. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, along with scattering of candles that sent rosy gold shadows dancing across Nathaniel's face where he turned from he was crouched their storage chest. His careworn face eased into a smile that eased the last of that tight knot clenched tight behind his ribs, and Carver found himself crossing the room in five swift strides to throw himself into Nathaniel's arms, burying his face into his neck to smother a sob that would have shamed him not too long ago but that now made him laugh, made him pull back to cup Nathaniel's face to kiss him again and again and again.

"Hello, lovely," Nathaniel murmured, easing them back step by step until the back of his knees hit the bed and they sank down upon it. "Its okay. I'm alright, see?" He reached up to cover Carver's shaking hands with his own and smiled against Carver's mouth.

"Yeah," Carver croaked, relief spreading through him like he'd just swallowed a bolt of mulled wine. "I knew you would be, but..." He bent his head to bump his forehead against Nathaniel's easing out a shuddering breath. "Its good your back. Minds tend to wander to dangerous places after too long."

"Don't I know it, Nathaniel said, carding his fingers through Carver's hair. "I started to think you'd be so desperate for my company you'd start to-"

"Do not." Carver growled, but he was laughing, shoulders shaking with that strange amusement that came from relief thay made even the worst jokes wonderful, because Nate was back, was safe. He couldn't seem to stop touching him, running his hands across his shoulders and back down. It was as easy and automatic as breathing to start reaching for the ties of Nathaniel's sleep clothes, suddenly needing to feel him, to see him.

Nathaniel, it seemed, had had a similar idea. Caught at Carver's hands and settled them on his shoulders, using the new angle to give him better access to Carver's neck. He mouthed where it met his shoulder, making Carver's hips roll thoughtlessly against him with a soft sound that went straight to Nathaniel's cock, made his hands clutch convulsively tight around Carver's hips before relaxing.

"Let me see you," Nathaniel said, and Carver couldn't find the breath in him to argue, not until he had wriggled out of his own work trousers and shirt and binder, until he was sitting naked on Nathaniel's lap and Nathaniel still hadn't made the slightest move to remove his own.

"You've got too many clothes on," Carver complained, whined really, wanting, needing, to feel Nathaniel's skin against him right now, but Nathaniel wasn't cooperating. Carver wriggled in his lap, hoping to give him the message, but that just made Nathaniel laugh, made him catch Carver up by the hips and ease him back onto the bed. "My, aren't we impatient tonight." He sounded entirely too smug, and Carver gave him the glare he deserved.

"All I've had is my hand for almost two weeks," he growled. "A man can't survive on that, not after having had-"

"Such a marvelous specimen to compare it to?" Nathaniel clicked his tongue against his teeth as he settled between Carver's legs, smiling up at him. "Its a heavy burden having had my attentions. Did you weep as you brought yourself to completion without me? Tell m about it. In detail."

"Smug bastard," Carver started to say, then gasped when Nathaniel closed his mouth over Carver's clit and started to flicker his tongue in just the war Carver liked. Let his head loll back on the pillow with a fervent curse as Nathaniel delved his tongue between his folds, lapping inside him until Carver gasped, he pleaded. The muscles in his legs started to leap as Nathaniel pressed closer, gripping his thighs tightly to keep them spread wide as he made up for every hour, every minute they'd been apart, refamiliarizing himself with Carver's every shift and sigh. Rediscovered that a long swipe of his tongue up the length of his cunt made Carver whine, that doing it again as he started to flicker long fingers over Carver's clit made whimpering sighs catch in the back of Carver's throat, made his hips leap up to push Nathaniel's mouth where he wanted him. Without thought, he reached for Nathaniel's hair, threaded his fingers through silky strands and tugged, desperate to bring Nathaniel where he needed him most, but, again, as always, Nathaniel wasn't cooperating.

Nathaniel made a pleased noise and pinned Carver's hips to the bed, earning another groan and a whap of a pillow over the head when he kept right on teasing Carver, which disturbed him not in the least but which made Carver arch, made warmth flood through him. He'd come, he knew he had, had felt liquid head squirt down across Nathaniel's mouth, but he did not let up for one second. Kept right on licking and suckling at his clit, drawing it into his mouth and flickering his tongue as he slowly pushed one, then two fingers inside of him, crooking them until Carver sobbed, until the spreading coils of warmth that had been building and building at the base of his spine grew and expanded and burst. Made him jerk, made his spine bow again and again, tense as a bowstring, and all the while Nathaniel kept pumping his fingers in and out, murmuring how beautiful his love was against his skin until Carver slowly eased back down onto the bed.

He caressed Carver's legs as the aftershocks threaded up and down his spine, kissed the inside of his knee. "Now that I've had my dinner," he said, as Carver's breathing started to slow, "I think its time for the meat course."

"You did not," Carver groaned, then squealed when Nathaniel gathered him up and flipped him around so that his arse was in the air. Anticipation made him breathless, made him press his thighs together, catching his breath at the slick that made them slide and letting out a whine when Nathaniel eased them wide again, one hand on his hip as he used the other to line himself up, but not before teasing Carver with the head of his cock, running it up and down Carver's folds until he squirmed, slicking himself up with Carver's arousal.

"I did," Nathaniel said, all casual, as if he wasn't teasing Carver to the point of frustration, as if they were sitting down for dinner instead of lying sprawled in what would be an incredibly compromising position, should anyone choose to walk in just now. That hadn't seemed to occur to Nathaniel though, or maybe it had. "Did you expect any less?"

"I expected-" Carver started, then gulped down a moan when Nathaniel tugged him back onto his cock, pushing himself deep inside in one long thrust. Carver bit down on the inside of his wrist, mindful that the others would be returning to their neighboring rooms within the hour, but he'd barely closed his mouth on his skin before Nathaniel rocked his hips in shallow arcs, burying himself in Carver until Carver hiccuped out a sob. "None of that now, I want to hear you," Nathaniel grunted, shifting Carver's hips so that on his next stroke he brushed against that spot that made Carver see stars. Carver let out an obscene sound he wouldn't have thought he was capable of a year ago and pushed back to meet his next thrust, groaning at the sensation of being stretched and filled.

"Nate," he pleaded, "Nate Nate Nate." He couldn't have said what he needed at the time without further babbling but Nathaniel did. He bent to press his chest against Carver's back and reached around to tease at Carver's clit just as he snapped his hips forward, burying himself deep in Carver's cunt. They both groaned as he slowly pulled out until the just the head remained inside then drove in hard.

Carver hiccuped when he bottomed out, he groaned, pushed his ass higher in the air to meet Nathaniel's every thrust. "Please," he cried out against the pillow in a cracked voice, sounding needy, wanton, and he didn't care on bit. In fact, it inflamed him further, made him spread his legs wider for Nathaniel until every stroke made him hover on the verge of a shout.

Nathaniel understood without another word needing to be said. Set one hand on Carver's shoulder and another on the curve of his hip and set a bruising pace. They both needed this, needed to feel each other, mark each other, wipe away every mile and every day until there was nothing but the sounds and smells and immediacy of sex. Nathaniel's balls slapped wetly against his cunt with every hard thrust, wringing out a wail. Carver lifted a hand to grip at Nathaniel's hair just as Nathaniel reached around for his breasts where they swayed with every thrust and started to pinch and twist them until Carver jerked, until his chest ached with need and a fierce love.

"Please, please," he gasped, "I need to see you."

Nathaniel stopped long enough to turn Carver around, making him sob with loss when Nathaniel's cock slid, dripping, out of him, and then Nathaniel shoved back in hard enough the headboard knocked against the wall, then again, setting a rhythm, a dance, that tasted like home as Carver closed his teeth on Nathaniel's neck. He started to suck hard as Nathaniel groaned his name, as his hips started to stutter against him, signaling his release, but Nathaniel had no intention of coming before Carver did.

He worked a hand between them and started to finger Carver's clit. It was slick where Carver's arousal had spattered them both with every thrust, and Carver groaned at the wet, fast tattoo, cried out Nathaniel's name on a broken moan, and then he was flying apart in the circle of Nathaniel's arms, the whole world whiting out at the edges. He heard Nathaniel give a shout and grip his hips bruisingly tight as he thrust once, twice more before spending himself deep inside Carver, the both of them shuddering against each other in quick succession, enough the whole world was lost to them.

They came back slowly, gradually, Nathaniel braced on his elbows over Carver. He pulled Carver forward to kiss the top of his head, or tried to. Partway there Carver twisted to seek out his mouth. He could taste himself on Nathaniel's lip and tongue, and he hummed contentedly before he let out a breathless laugh, tucking himself against Nathaniel's chest as he sank onto his side next to him. "Tired already, old man? Good thing for that warden stamina to balance it out."

"Brat," Nathaniel huffed, reaching around to slap Carver's ass just as he gave hard thrust where he was still buried inside Carver, making Carver gasp and clutch at his hair. "You're insatiable. You'd age anyone before their time. These grey hairs are from you."

"What, one hair for each time?" A slow, self satisfied grin settled on Carver's face. "Surprise you have any black hair left at all."

That earned him a laugh and a kiss, and that, too, tasted like coming home, as it had always been.

[twinxyjinx]

Tick...Tock...Tick.....

Plot/Prompt: A game of tag goes horribly wrong for Peter and Tony.

TW: Major character death

Reposts are appreciated ^^

You can also read it here on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739538

                                                  __________

Every night, Peter went out to save the world in his own little way. Swinging through the air and doing flips, shooting a sticky fluid at muggers and crooks, and even just helping that one orange tabby cat get out of a tree. It was always something he did. A routine that had been engraved so deeply into his mind that it was an automatic system his body seemed to have. He would always go out, school homework or not. He always threw himself high above the streets below, eyes wide and scanning for any signs of threats. Sometimes he was even accompanied by a friend on the phone or even another “hero.”

This night was one of those nights. That being said, it was a much less active night. Nothing terribly amazing had happened, and Peter found himself chasing around a red and gold suit at ten pm. Not what he had exactly expected this whole “Spider-Man” gig to lead to, but here he was. Chasing around the Tony Stark, aka Iron Man, in a game of tag. It was an odd and hilarious sight to see when you first saw it, but it became something common after a year or so. There was even a group of little kids that sat at a park sometimes that would jump up excitedly when they saw Iron Man diving low to avoid Spider-Man.

It was good. Life was good. There was nothing that could go wrong! ...but then it did.

“Having trouble catching up there, webs?” Tony taunted over the coms that had connected the suits automatically once in range. The billionaire was currently weaving between street lights, his thrusters humming softly so as to not disturb anyone. He was flying through the air on his back, palms aimed towards his feet as he looked back at Peter. The boy was flinging himself high into the air, swooping low, hooking himself on a street light, and then proceeding to arc back into the air. An obvious attempt at gaining momentum.

“You should add some of those fancy thrusters to my suit.”

“Not happening.” “Oh c’mon! Why not”

“Because,” Tony stopped in place, hovering in air near a taller building and slowly letting himself rise higher into the air. “Because I said so.” He finished, clearing his throat and looking down. He expected to see Peter speeding up the side of the building or shooting webs at him, but he didn’t see a thing. Just empty space with no sign of the spider-themed vigilante. Stopping his ascent, Tony furrowed his eyebrows and hummed thoughtfully. “Peter? You there? ...Marco?”

“Polo!”

The shriek that came spewing out of Tony’s mouth left the man a bright red and Peter a laughing mess. The boy had come down from above, tapped Tony’s shoulder, and proceeded to swing away. With the added advantage of falling down and gaining more momentum, the first swing he took was big and propelled him forward a good amount of distance. But that wouldn’t save him. Tony blinked his eyes and shook his head, bending his knees and curling his body in on himself. A moment later, he was kicking his legs backwards and zooming forward after Peter. It was nights like these where he truly allowed himself to relax. Peter was an entertaining kid, and that was saying something since Tony didn’t like children. He was a verified genius in Tony’s eyes. But that wouldn’t stop him from making mistakes. 

He narrowed his eyes on Peter’s form, watching as the kid webbed onto the corner of a roof and sent himself hurling around the building. Tony twisted his body, dipping his right shoulder towards the ground and turning the corner less sharply, losing some of the speed he had built up. Thankfully, it wasn’t very hard to get it back with his thrusters. “You can only outswing me for so long, kid.”

“You aren’t swinging, mister Stark. I can only evade you for so long.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me.” 

“Don’t you take that tone with me.” 

Peter parroting what Tony had just said was enough of an encouragement to call for backup. He brought his right wrist up to his mask, raising a hand and tapping a holographic button labeled “Bird V2.” Then his focus was set back on Peter… who was nowhere to be seen again. Tony’s first instinct was to look up, but he got one hell of a surprise when he was suddenly being pulled down. 

His head snapped down so fast that he thought he’d given himself whiplash. But it was worth seeing Peter crouched on top of a streetlight with some web attached to it. Said web was also attached to the heel of Tony’s suit. “Cya mister Stark!” The kid stood upright, saluting lazily as he fell backwards off the streetlight. Tony watched as the kid shot out a web towards another building, yet again, but he wasn’t worried about Peter escaping. He watched, humming in amusement as a sign showed up in the corner of his screen. Back up had arrived.

“Getting a little windy, Peter. Wouldn’t you say?’

“Huh- Woah!”

And suddenly, the air is howling. Peter’s web that he had just shot towards the corner of a building goes slack and flails around while the kid desperately twists in the air, legs churning and arms shaking around wildly. But Tony doesn’t panic. He knows what caused that burst of wind, and he can say for sure that Peter is safe. His suit brings him forward towards Peter where he taps the boy before reeling away.

A moment later, Peter is perched on top of a roof. “That isn’t fair! Sam can’t help you!”

“Yes he can.” Tony cocked his head, hovering a few feet in the air in front of Peter. “You never said he couldn't.” He pointed out jokingly, pointing a finger at Peter as if to tease the phrase ‘i gotcha there.’ He craned his neck over his shoulder at a faint humming, raising an eyebrow as Sam wandered over. He stopped a little above Tony, a smug smirk plastered across his face. “That’s for Germany, web-head.” Sam sneered in a teasing tone, earning a thread of sputters and word vomit.

“Thank you very much my bird friend.,” Tony waved a hand at Sam, a little chuckle leaving him at the annoyed expression that danced onto Sam’s face at the nickname., “but me a bugs here have a game to get back to playing.” He threw a thumb towards Peter’s direction, who had now fallen silent and was definitely glaring icily at the two heroes. Sam snorted, folding his arms. “Ah, yes. A great game of tag… y’know, it’d be a shame if I told the others that you were playing tag.”

“Steve already knows, and it's safe to say Natasha knows too. The only people you’d surprise would be Clint and maybe Bruce… and honey bear if you count him in.” 

“Man, you are no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun!” Tony threw his arms out to his slides, facing Sam. “Now shoo. Go on, now. A little birdy told me that Clint is trying to beat your high score in Mario Karts.” Tony waved his hands, carelessly tossing a few jabs and teases here and there. Sam reeled backwards, eyes widening. “He’s what?!” And before Tony or Peter could get a word in, he was doubling backwards and whirling around in the air, zooming off towards the tower.

Tony snorted and turned back around to see Peter standing with his arms folded, tapping one foot. “No more enlisting the help of other Avengers from now on. I let it slide the first time with Steve, but now it's just unfair.” And Tony can just see Peter rolling his eyes beneath his mask as he recollects what had happened when he got Steve’s help. Sure, the kid almost got hit head first with a shield, but it was worth hearing him shriek and Steve panicking.

“Fine, fine… No more outside forces. Got it. I understand.”

“Don’t lie to me mister-”

Then there’s a crack. A terrible, loud crack that shatters the calm atmosphere. He can practically feel the air around him breaking like glass. There’s a brief moment of frozen shock and he manages to briefly catch a warning flaring in his vision: “high-speed object incoming.” And then there’s this terrible, terrible feeling that pools in his gut. This terrible feeling that sends him reeling- wait. No. Peter just did that. Because one second later, Peter is jumping off the building straight into Tony. 

He hits him with a thump, and the sudden weight brings the suit down. Having set his thrusters on a low setting to keep them quieter had meant that the suit wouldn’t be able to support too much weight. Having done that meant he was sent crashing to the sidewalk below, his thrusters flickering as he clumsily falls to the ground. The heel of the suit hit the ground first, sending him tumbling backwards onto his back with Peter still pressed up against his suit. For a moment, his suit scrapes against the cement as his thrusters push him along before dying off.

“...Jesus.” Tony breathes out shakily, letting his mask retract. He brings his chin to his collarbone, looking at Peter who is sprawled out on top of his chest suspiciously quiet. “Up and at ‘em, kid. The cement isn’t getting any comfier.” He jokes, ignoring the fact that he has just used a word that isn’t in the dictionary. But all of his focus is on Peter. Because he still hasn’t moved. Not even a grumble of words. Nothing. He blinks a few times before slowly sitting upright, his hands moving to guide the motionless body on top of him to the cement.

And then all the air in his lungs is violently ripped away.

There’s a stomach-churning amount of dark red forming around Peter’s stomach on his suit, turning the vibrant red into something close to black. He way his body slumps lifelessly to the side and how his neck lolls at a sickening angle is enough to send Tony into overdrive. He’s on his knees in an instant, ripping off Peter’s mask. “Scan him.” He spits out, tapping Peter’s pale cheek with his hand gently. Nothing happens except for Peter’s head lolling another way. “GSW to lower abdomen. The bullet hit him in the side around his hip and traveled up, finally stopping around his rib cage on her left side. Immediate medical attention required.”

“Call Sam.” He had to be closest. He had just flown by, after all. And so what if he saw the kid’s face. This was a matter of life or death. “Tell him to get medical and get here fast.” His voice broke off into a whisper as his hands moved to Peter’s side. He shakily intertwined his fingers and pressed his palms down on the area where the red was coming from, trying to even his shaky breathing.  

“Jesus- fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

“Boss. You need to calm down.”

“I am calm!”

“Judging from your elevated heart rate and-” Tony cut the AI off before she could finish, practically snarling into his mask. “Not now!” He’d seen the kid in bad shape before, but never this bad. Sure, he got a concussion sometimes and maybe a broken bone. Hell… When that big guy in Germany hit him, it nearly gave Tony a heart attack. But this was different. This was a gunshot. This was life or death. 

“ETA on Sam!”

Time was moving too slow. Tick.. tock… tick…...tock……….tick……

“No heartbeat detected.” The blood in Tony’s veins turned to ice. He shook his head, peeling his hands away from Peter’s body. No… no, no, no, no, no! A low, mournful sound left him, eerily rising out of his throat. Oh god… No. No. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening! “Pete? Peter? Buddy… hey, hey. C’mon. Open up those eyes now.” He whispered, his voice coming out as a croak. Trembling hands slowly slid up towards Peter’s face and he gently tapped his cheek once again.

Nothing.

“..get up.” He whispered, voice trembling. He stared for a few moments before his body just moved on its own. He drew his arm back, suit still encasing his hand, before swinging it forward and slapping the boy. “Get up! C’mon!” He demanded. Frantically, he moved his hands over top of Peter’s chest and began compressions. He couldn’t think clearly on whether or not this mattered right now, but he didn’t care. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon… breathe, Parker! Fucking breathe!” His voice was shrill, cracking and shaking. This wasn’t happening. Clenching his jaw, he reeled backwards and threw his head back, letting out an animalistic scream. And then he was slumped over, arms folded on top of Peter’s chest as he sobbed. No, no, no… This couldn’t… it was fake. “Wake up… c’mon… you can do this.” His gaze drifted blearily to Peter’s face, his stomach churning as he stared at the lifeless face that didn’t even twitch. Skin ghostly pale… lips turning blue.

“You can’t do this to me, kid! Goddammit!” 

He shot upright again, hands flying to Peter’s shoulders. He jerked the boy upright into a sitting position, shaking his body. “Open your eyes! Please! Just do something! Anything!” He begged, a sob rising in his throat. But nothing happened. Peter’s head lolled lifelessly, dropping so that his chin met his chest. His arms were dangling at his sides, knuckles turned towards the sidewalk and brushing up against it. 

“Please.” 

And then he pulled Peter close. He brought the lifeless body of the kid he was supposed to protect close to his body, cradling it. With one hand wrapped around Peter’s back holding onto his shoulder and the other cradling his head, Tony wept. He bowed his head, ugly noises rising from him as his shoulders bounced up and down. He squeezed his eyes shut, fat, salty tears waterfalling down his face.

Tick...tock...tick…………..tock.