#biproducts

We've reached the end of Bisexual Visibility Month, but the celebration and visibility don't stop here! 💖💜💙

As we close out September, we're ready to head straight into LGBTQ History Month to honor the community's past!

You can keep the pride going all year long with bi+ merch and a wide range of LGBTQIA+ pride items from the BiProducts Etsy shop.

Every purchase supports @biwomenquarterly, a FREE nonprofit publication uplifting bi, pan, and queer voices worldwide.

  Clark opened his mouth to reply and then snapped it shut with an audible click of teeth, not sure if it would help his case or not to point out that the shirt he was currently wearing wasn’t actually his own. He hadn’t really been paying attention to the shirt he grabbed when he zipped his way out of Steve’s apartment this morning, after all; the light blue fabric of the t-shirt pulled so tautly over his chest that his nipples peeked through, which was exactly why he had never participated in casual Fridays at work. “Hmm… and as an artist, I have to assume that you’ve pictured me in plenty of tight things that I haven’t even worn yet,” the reporter reasoned, licking his lips and doing his best to take the attention off himself. “Perhaps I can rectify that, for you…”

Sure, everyone else—even the ones from Clark’s side who teased the so-called Man of Steel—has been teasing Steve with the same thing in the name of kindred comparison, but seeing it for himself was a different point of view that Steve surely welcomed; that with Superman himself… Clark Kent... despite his usual properness and righteous resolve, was right there in front of him… almost shy with how he moved about the apartment with nothing but such simple clothes that didn’t hide the bountiful form that he got on him. Not one inch. In fact, it almost accentuated them too—because Steve didn’t avert his gaze when he caught a glimpse of those nubs that poked through the fabric. And Clark trying to put a fight by being coy about it didn’t help his case either. Steve just had to walk up to Clark… just press his own massive form from behind the curvy hero and just keep him in a hold.

“Don’t need an artist for that—I’d say at least half of New York would start thinking of you in tight things… or none… when you walked out of the door all squeezed in my shirt…” Steve whispered against the shell of Clark’s ear, hands moving up to squeeze the hero’s heavy breasts—and almost immediately, Steve just pictured Clark squeezed in something skin tight while being… really full. “But you tell me… how can we fix this, hm?” he teased on as he ran his thumb over a nipple.

By the way they moved as one unit, as if they were extensions of one body one mind, leaping out of the way from an attack as one or two others move in striking from all sides, it was clear they belonged to the league. The League of Assassins had made their way to Gotham, and Terry had just become their target.

They fought to kill, striking hard and fast, despite the protection of his suit Terry had felt when they cracked two of his ribs. The taste of his own blood filled his mouth when one got in a solid punch to the jaw. But in the end it was Terry who was the better, it was he who stood while the team of five assassins laid beaten but still alive at his feet. Leaning on one of the walls the rough brick scrapping against the exposed circuitry along the arm of his torn suit. One hand clutched at the broke ribs The other peeling off the sleek cowl around his head. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.

“Like the show, Ray?” Terry turns until his back was against the cold bricks head tiled and eyes glazed over. With the blood and the way his body hangs sloped back he looked more the part of a beaten drunkard than vigilante. His wet lips pull into a tight smile for his friend. "Mind flying me back to the cave? I need a shower and...rest."

random asksalways accepting

the moment it’s brought up, peter’s sweet face flushes red as his suit. a pale hand cards through soft chestnut locks till his hand is in place to scratch nervously at the nape of his neck. a nervous chuckle as he searches for the words and he hesitantly ventures to answer the question.  ‘ it’s everything you’d imagine it would be, ’  peter answered excitedly. soon the damn broke and his oversharing kicked into high gear.  ‘ i mean, the dude’s a wall of muscle. its like he’s everywhere, all around me and - inside of me too. he can toss you around, but it always somehow feels sweet? like that damn smile - he’s, like, the ultimate gentleman and still the hottest guy i’ve ever seen, ’  peter gushes until he’s breathless. he chews his lips nervously as he ponders the second question.

@biproducts:

  Nik snorted and bounced on the tip of his toes, his wrapped fists raised back up to guard his face as he looked at Carroll over his knuckles. “Fuck masculinity,” he retorted with a rather biting grin. His tongue pushed out to clean up the blood that had spilled from his nose after he purposely took the full force of Carroll’s last punch, and just to have the upper hand for a fleeting moment. “I feel alive.” Nik corrected and then immediately pushed in for his next attack. 

“You know I like ‘em masculine, though...” smirks Carroll to a purr. Nik was one of the few Avengers Carroll actually enjoyed sparring with; his ability to take a punch was deceivingly high. It also just felt good to connect with another person who could relate to his specific,  y’know, life experience. As much as he got along with Steve or Tony, there was a deeper camaraderie between himself and the Russian than most of their colleagues. Also, Nik was just plainly as competitive as the blond bruiser was.

“Sorry about the nose—” retorts Carroll, dodging Nik’s blow and capturing his first, using his momentum to slam themselves down to the ground and straddle his opponent. “What about now? Still feel alive, Romanoff?