🎧🎼📝

Slade Wilson — Deathstroke.

I definitely believe Slade starts of slow, he likes to “tease” in his own way, making you chase his saliva coated fingers as he threatens to pull away from your lips, you’re already drooling after a mere minute or two of him fucking the inside of your mouth with his scarred fingers.

He definitely makes you beg for it, a hundred percent !!

After “gently” — quote on quote because I do not believe that man can be gentle in bed, he gets rougher, you begin to gag, your eyes tearing up as you try choking out a ‘slow down’. You never mean it though , you definitely love the way he fucks your mouth raw.

Back to the begging, he does like it, he likes when your eyes tear up from the fact he’s overwhelming you , simply by using his fingers, he likes the way your lips look around them when he makes you suck them like it’s his cock. — but I think he’s also the type to get annoyed when you start whining a little too much.

I can picture him slapping/tapping your cheek with his wet hand , holding your jaw with his other one as he gruffs out some shit about how you’re being a brat and he does not tolerate little brats.

Max Eisenhardt — Magneto

As much as I don’t like admitting it, because I’m a proud rough old men propagandist, I do think he’s a bit soft — don’t get me wrong he’s still fucking the shit out of your mouth, be he also cares, he plasters kisses on your forehead, once he notices the fact your eyes start to water.

Pampering you and reassuring you on how good you are , and how you’re his perfect little brat.

“That’s it, good job.” His voice is all soft, ‘magneto soft’. He leans in, his free hand grabbing the back of you hair as his other hand continues to fuck you, his breath is everything against your ear, you feel him press kisses alongside your jaw and back up your ear.

finger fucking your mouth is never enough for him though, he’s happy that you’re so into it, but once he’s done fulfilling your wishes he bends you over and begins to fuck you from behind. Usually facing a full length mirror. Since he still really likes staring at your pretty face.

ⓘ KITTENLITTER 𑄝੭ : warning this writer is a weirdo, and quite frankly a really strange person , this will reflect a lot in their fics. All the fics you see here belong to me, yay.

contains Frank castle x reader, nothing but fluff, bedtime stuff

Frank apparently took a little bit of overtime at work.

A little, meaning; he’s regularly home by six, latest. Tonight, you hear his apartment key twist in the lock at ten.

You knew how hard of a worker he was. Part of you wish that he was less so. Or maybe, that he had atleast given you a heads up. A, hey, don’t make me a plate at dinner. Or even a, I’ll be home late, don’t wait up.

You don’t wait up anyways. You went to bed even earlier than you regularly would, pettily, but feeling some kind of victory at punishing Frank. Denying him the loving gesture of staying up late on the couch, waiting to see him.

So, no. When Frank comes back to the apartment, even though you’re conscious enough to register his arrival, you don’t get out from under the covers and kiss him hello. You lay, listening through the darkness as his boots thunk on the hardwood— mentally, you scold him for dragging in dirt. A pause, then the sound of his footsteps lightens, work boots discarded.

You stay in the pantomime of sleeping even as he opens the bedroom door, the faint light from the kitchen bleeding through your closed lids. You listen to the sound of fabric rustling, him undressing and undoubtedly tossing the work clothes in the hamper; the pad of his bare feet towards the attached bathroom. The shower turns on. Maybe five minutes later, off. Again, footsteps.

There’s the sound of his soft grunts breaking through the silence. He must be sore. Tired— no, exhausted.

Your anger has grown a twin feeling, some kind of guilt by the time that his weight dips the other side of the mattress. The feeling only worsens as Frank shifts closer, his warmth against your back, and throws a burly, heavy arm over your midsection.

Still, you don’t say anything. Two things can coexist. Your frustration, and his exhaustion.

To your quiet groan (unfortunately telling to the fact that you’re awake,) that arm over your middle tugs, just enough force to pull you into him. Tight. You feel Frank’s nose nudge the crook of your neck. Can hear the breath inward he takes, in no rush to mumble, almost indistinct, “Sweet girl.”

You don’t make a peep. You have a feeling it’s petty. Still, his beard scratches the skin of your neck exposed by your pajama, as he lays down an unhurried kiss. “Know you’re awake,” he rasps after a long few moments.

You make a disagreeing sound, like he’s bothering your rest. In reality, you feel about twenty times better lying against him. His skin is warm from the shower, his hair damp against your jaw, and one large hand is lying over your stomach. Not rubbing, not grabbing. Just holding.

“..M’sorry.” Frank murmurs after a longer pause. Noses at the skin behind your ear before evidently deciding not to push you, laying his head on your pillow. The bridge of his nose fits against the crown of your head, and you can feel his sigh against your hair. “I’m late. Should’ve given you a heads up.”

“Mhm,” you hum. That hand on your stomach sneaks under your pajama shirt, without suggestion. His palm, calloused and strong, just scrapes upward slightly, thumb in line with your sternum. You’d be a liar to say you didn’t appreciate Frank’s touch, his constantly reaching hands. The facade of anger was getting increasingly hard to keep up.

“Y’know I’m sorry, baby.” Frank mumbles, voice all quiet and close in that way of his. “Please. S’been a fuckin’ day.” You feel him shift and there’s another kiss, now to your nape. His beard is damp against the skin there.

You inhale, deep and slow. He smells distinctly like soap. “You suck, a little.”

A sound somewhat like a huff of amusement leaves Frank. “I know.”

With the plan in mind to thoroughly scold him in the morning when you weren’t so eager to let yourself fall asleep, warm against his chest, you resolve to give your man a break. You shift, laying a hand on his forearm over your waist. Peering over your shoulder and squinting through the dark, you find him already staring at you with those tired, almond eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile in the creases in his face.

“..Hey there.”

“Hi.” You mumble in reply. That almost-smile develops into a real one, however unexaggerated. You watch him push up onto the arm not over you, and lean over to plant a gentle kiss onto your cheekbone. Why would you bite back the soft sound of appreciation that comes from your throat? There wasn’t any hiding from Frank.

He probably knew that you’d forgiven him already, anyway.

“I missed you. Y’know that?” The admission comes natural, looking up at him. He nods, barely.

“Missed you, lady.” His voice stays low, softer than anyone would think a man as hard as he was would be capable of. He squints, brows drawing as he shakes his head in some strange kind of disbelief, “Been waiting for this all day.”

“For what?”

Frank settles back down behind you, arm tugging you ever closer into him. His body is like a furnace; he’s very lucky that the AC is cranked up, because otherwise he’d be banished to the other side of the bed. For now, he gets to sigh against the baby hairs at the back of your neck, and get your pillow wet with shower-damp hair (meanwhile, his own pillow is perfectly functional and available.)

⤷ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʙꜰ!ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ.

Despite your protests, Soon-to-be Boyfriend Smoke continued to shower you with gifts - expensive perfume, designer clothes, jewelry. He'd leave them on your doorstep, or send them to your job, each one. accompanied by a note that read, "Because you deserve better." He'd call you, his voice smooth and deep, asking if you liked the gifts, but never acknowledging the boyfriend who answered your phone.

⤷ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʙꜰ!ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ.

He'd send you texts, late at night, filled with sweet nothings and promises of more, his disregard for your relationship blatant as the red 'Delivered' notifications on your screen. Yet, you found yourself saving his messages, opening the gifts, and wearing the perfume - a heady mix of vanilla and amber that seemed to whisper his name every time you moved.

⤷ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʙꜰ!ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ.

Smoke, that wicked man, reveled in the game of cat and mouse, his touches always a fraction too low, his hands lingering a moment too long. He'd hug you, his hand splayed across your back, his fingers dipping dangerously close to your ass. He'd help you reach something, his hands on your waist, pulling you back against him, his breath hot on your neck. Each touch was a taunt, a silent "I can have her anytime I want," a challenge thrown at your boyfriend, daring him to react.

⤷ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʙꜰ!ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ.

After a heated argument, your boyfriend stormed out, leaving you in tears. It was then that Smoke chose to make his move, appearing at your door like a dark specter. He found you curled up on your boyfriend's side of the bed, your heart aching, your eyes red. He didn't say a word, just climbed onto the bed, his hands gentle as he pulled you into his lap. He kissed your tears away, his touch soothing, his voice a low rumble as he whispered, "He doesn't deserve you, prettygirl. Let me show you what a real man can do."

⤷ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʙꜰ!ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ.

He laid you back on the bed, his body covering yours, his hands everywhere exploring every inch of you. He took you slowly, his thrusts measured, his touch tender, a stark contrast to the argument that just happened . He made love to you on your boyfriend's side of the bed, his groans of pleasure filling the room, his name on your lips as you found your climax . It was a claiming, a declaration, a fuck you to your boyfriend.

ᴘʟᴀʏʟɪꜱᴛ

ɪɴꜱᴘɪʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ @pimpcessing

in which jason comes home from patrol, notices you're struggling with food and your body tw eating disorders

Jason walked into the living room, stripping off the heavy leather jacket that still smelled faintly of ozone and street rain. Underneath, his black henley was worn thin at the seams. He caught your eyes as you sat tucked into the corner of the sectional, legs pulled up tightly against your chest, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

He didn't make a big spectacle of entering. He never did when he knew your mind was running in circles. Instead, he just kicked off his boots by the door, crossed the floor with quiet, deliberate steps, and leaned back against the edge of the coffee table right in front of you.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice low and gravelly from a long night out on patrol. "How’re you holding up?"

You gave a small nod, keeping your chin rested on your knees. Jason looked at you for a long moment, those sharp turquoise eyes reading every subtle sign of exhaustion in your face. He knew the drill. He knew the specific look in your eyes when the noise in your head got too loud—the quiet war you fought every day with food, with your own reflection, with the exhausting feeling that taking up space was somehow wrong.

He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing across the cheekbone above your blanket line. His touch was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold draft creeping in from the fire escape.

"You're running on empty," he said gently, not as an accusation, but as a plain fact spoken with pure concern. "I can see it in your eyes. When was the last time you had a few bites of anything?"

You looked down, picking at a loose thread on the blanket, struggling to find the words. The guilt, the friction, the sheer mental fatigue of the disorder always made standard conversations about food feel like navigating a minefield.

Jason didn't push. He just crouched down so he was entirely at eye level with you, leaning his forearms on his knees.

"Look at me," he murmured, waiting until your eyes met his. "No guilt trip, alright? You know I don't play those games. I just care about you. I care about you, every single bit of you. And it breaks my damn heart seeing you wear yourself down like this."

He reached out and gently took your hands, wrapping his larger, rough hands over your cold fingers.

"You look beautiful tonight," he said softly, his voice entirely devoid of pretense. "You always do. Even when you're tired, even when your head is telling you a bunch of lies about how you look or what you deserve. You're absolute perfection to me, sweetheart. I mean that."

He squeezed your hands lightly before standing up. "I'm gonna make something light. Nothing heavy, nothing scary. Just some warm broth and a piece of toast with a little butter. Or whatever sounds manageable right now. You pick the terms, okay? I just want some fuel in your system."

You watched him move toward the small kitchen alcove. Jason wasn't the kind of guy who tiptoed around things, but with you, he showed a patience that felt entirely reserved for this quiet apartment. He moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, setting a small saucepan on the burner, keeping the light dim so it wouldn't strain your eyes.

After a few minutes, he walked back over carrying a small mug of hot, clear broth and a single piece of crisp toast cut into small quarters on a saucer. He set them down on the coffee table, then slid onto the couch right beside you, pulling you back against his chest so you were completely surrounded by his warmth.

His arm settled around your waist, holding you firmly, offering a heavy, steady anchor against the anxiety.

"Here," he said, handing you the mug first. The steam rose gently between you. "Just small sips. Take all the time in the world. I'm right here."

You held the warm mug in your hands, feeling the heat bleed into your palms. You took a tiny sip, the warmth settling instantly in your stomach.

"Good," Jason murmured into your hair, resting his chin on top of your head. His voice vibrated against your shoulder. "That's it. Just like that. You're doing great."

"It's hard," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of the effort.

"I know it is," Jason said immediately, his grip tightening around you in a solid, comforting hold. "I know your brain is throwing a fit right now. But you're stronger than those thoughts, even when it doesn't feel like it. And on the days you don't feel strong enough, you lean on me. That's why I'm here."

He reached over, picking up one small quarter of the toast and holding it out toward you, entirely patient, without a trace of pressure or impatience.

"One bite for me?" he asked softly, a faint, encouraging smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And if that's all you can manage right now, we stop. Deal?"

You took the bite. It was simple, warm, and manageable. As you chewed slowly, Jason shifted slightly to look you in the eyes, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Look at you," he said gently, genuine pride in his voice. "Every small step counts. You're doing the work, and I couldn't be prouder of you. You deserve to be nourished, babe. You deserve to feel strong, to live comfortably in your own skin. And I'm gonna keep reminding you of that every single day until you start believing it yourself."

frankie on the big screen i’m creaming

making out with frankie on the couch one night, giving the older man a bunch of kisses as his hand roams across your body and you start getting horny—reaching your hand over his bulge and stroking it back and forth through the fabric.. a smile will creep onto franks face from seeing you get all needy, unbuckling his pants, “there you go, that’s a good girl..” he’ll praise as he gives you hickies all over your chest and neck, letting you hump your leaky cunt over his hard on like some kind of puppy. you guys are like that for a couple minutes until peter comes home, looking all gloomy as he heads straight to his office.

of course you’re worried for your boyfriend, so you stop humping franks leg to find out what happened. “peter? what’s wrong baby?” you question, only getting a short response from the boy,” nothing, m’fine..” peter waves off and you pout to look back at frank, wanting him to do something but he just shrugs. but he can see that you’re concerned so he calls peter back, catching him as he’s halfway down the hallway, “c’mere kid I got somethin’ for you.”.

about five seconds later, peters standing at the doorway, his hands folded across his own as he watches you guys on the couch from afar.

“what’s got you all glum huh? you’re worrying the missus over here.”

“nothing—“ peter goes to say, but gets interrupted by frank.

“ah cut it with that bullshit, there’s obviously something wrong. why don’t you come and let her help you out a bit. yeah, you’ll help petey out real good won’t you sweetheart?” frank gruffs, smoothing his hand around your ass and giving it a light smack. your older boyfriend is grinning when you smile ear to ear and basically bounce on his lap in excitement from the suggestion. “mhm! cmon peter let me help you feel better.. please?”

a best passes before peters head falls and he picks up his feet to make his way over to you guys, taking his shirt off. you crawl over to him and his hands rest on your cheeks soothingly, “okay, we gotta be quick though I have stuff im working on..” peter mumbles, its more directed to frank because he knows how long frank will go with you if he has the time, he’s seen and heard it from his office. peters standing above you and caressing your heated face, breaking eye contact from the older man to dip his head down and offer a swift kiss to your lips as he takes his cock out. “atta boy.” frank would laugh in approval..

next thing you know you’re on your back, still on the couch with your head hanging off the edge while your legs are spread open and propped up on peters hips. he’s dragging his length out of your pussy about halfway out before driving back into you, rubbing your clit in little circles with his thumb as you squirm—if you could you would be a moaning mess. but frank was occupying your mouth so you could only be reduced to whines and muffled whimpers :( “doin so well for us pretty girl..” frank lowly groans, his head tilted back in ecstasy as he works his cock down your tight throat again, his calloused hand tightening around your neck. “jesus, you got a mouth on you sweetheart..”, and you can feel his cock pulse in your mouth, just waiting to burst a load down your throat.

all the while peter was working on your sensitive little bud and had already made you cum :(( arousal dripping onto the couch and making a wet patch on the fabric.. and all you can do is writhe between the men because they have you trapped between them and peter is trying to make you cum again. making you close your legs on his waist in overstimulation, whining with franks cock still prodding in your mouth. “I know it’s so much, being so so good.. but I need you to give me one more please? I had such a rough day sweetheart I n-need to feel you cum again cmon.” and there’s not much you can do but obey, you did offer to make him feel better after all.

but frank, the old man that he is, was watching from the side just waiting to make a correction on peters movement, “push her legs open, and rub her like—“

“think I know how to make her cum frank.” peter breathes out between his thrusts, eyes still steady on your tits bouncing side to side.

“nah i got more than a couple years on you kid. listen—“

and the two of them go at it like they usually do, arguing back and forth as they subconsciously touch you all over.. touching you so attentively that you cum on peters cock like he told you to do earlier, twitching and putting your hands up to push at peters abdomen—earning back the attention of your bickering boyfriends. you hear a grumble of, “fuck princess..” come from frank, obviously he liked seeing you squirm and whine under peter because it doesn’t take long for him to cum. groaning as he abuses your throat a couple times until he spurts his load in your mouth, holding you there to make sure you take it all. “swallow it all sweetheart—thaats it, shit..”

peter follows as well, he’s grumbling little curses as he fills you up with all that he has, all the frustration he had from the day leaving him.

it feels so strange when the both of them slide out of you, the needy hole between your legs all empty and dripping once peter was done with you—and your mouth sore :(( peters immediately on you and telling you how well you did and made his day so much better <33