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Johnny Storm:

For all of the bragging and showboating, the problem is that Johnny Storm is a sucker for a traditional romp in bed. There’s nothing he loves more than to coax the meter of your legs in parallel fashion over the sloping muscles of his shoulders.

And then, he’ll press down to meet you. The stretch is a small agony, but it’s nothing compared to the way that his cock feels when it takes slow, torturous entrance inside of you, nosing in with a pervasive, domineering drag. 

And he won’t kiss you either. He won’t take the nonverbal plea for silence you give to let him swallow your moans on the palate of his tongue. Every time you urge forward, the exertion of sex beading at the length of your temple, the stroke of his cock as it pulses and coaxes into you, making your teeth catch around your bottom lip—

“Uh-uh, honey,” Johnny pants, the heavy, huffed breath he makes spilling against the terrain of your lips—he makes another lazy thrust that has you spread open—“—Lemme hear you—”

When his broad fingers clench into the sheets that frame the crown of your head, his hips rolling in protracted arc so that his cock noses right at that heavenly spot—you moan. And Johnny makes a punched-out, gusseting noise of appreciation, his pupils dilating wide at the sight of you coming undone because of him. 

“Oh, there we go,” Johnny grins broadly. Another protracted groan hisses through his teeth as he fills you up with a pump of his hips that has you both making wanton noise in tandem. The frame of his body yawns over you as he adjusts the angle, his eyes deadset upon yours as he watches the way your brow twists in pleasure. 

“Johnny—”—You whimper, watching as the steam begins to roil off of his body in sloughing, inflammatory motion. Every sinew of his body begins to issue steam as he finds himself lost in the pleasure of your body, the way that your eyes wrench shut as you take him. As you find it harder and harder to hold back the moans that tumble in free-fall in the territory of your bed. 

“Good, baby,” Johnny coos, pressing a loitering kiss to your collarbone as he begins to work a rhythm that has you making labored breath, “Just like that. Just like that—”

And when he makes shuddering groan into your ear with another pump of his cock, you can’t help but join him. 

Peter Parker:

Thanks to the webs, the two of you have realized that there’s so much more potential for sex than ever before. Where once a ceiling existed, now there lies a cozy alcove. Where once there was only a set of rafters, now there becomes necessary anchor for your new swing. And where there once was nothing more than a lowly Daily Bugle storage closet—now is a fortress of solitude. 

“Oh, Peter,” You whisper, but it’s hard to do so when you’re trying to swallow the stilted strain your voice undergoes, “It’s so much—”

“It’s okay, baby,” Peter reassures you as he holds you aloft in the air. His arms are ticked around the width of your thighs, ensuring that not only are you held by him, but you have ample space to wrap them around the width of his waist. It’s no trouble for him—especially when he’s promised you the best seat in the house. 

And he proves it when, with a coiled flex of his arms, he lowers you easily onto his cock, letting it glide in so smoothly that the two of you have to draw still with the shock of electric heat and moan. 

“Oh, fuck—”—You begin, but you realize your surroundings and shove the heel of your palm against your traitorous mouth. Peter’s not helping much, considering that all it takes is another coil and shrug of his arms before you’re sinking back down, pinioning your trembling thighs around him for balance.

For mooring—for anything that will keep you grounded as his cock keeps hitting that spot that makes you go nonverbal with each jagged pump. 

“It’s okay,” Peter repeats, lowering you so that he can press his forehead to you; so that he can direct short, shallow thrusts of his hips into you, “They can’t hear through the door—” 

You don’t have the greatest of bearings to spare bleary glance over to the door—made impervious through the layer of webbing that Peter says is good and soundproof for a half hour—

—And less so when he keeps fucking you like this. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” You ask, but you can’t follow-up the second question because he’s mouthing at your pulse, working his hips in that staccato beat that has you crumpling against him. Breathless, needy whimpers are punched-out of you with each gliding thrust, but you can’t find it in yourself to stop. You don’t want it to stop. 

“It will,” Peter reassures you, but his eyes are glassy and soporific with the desire he needs to sate. And you know that you’re not long to debate him when he lowers you down—and you cry out his name in tortured bleat. 

“Please—”—You begin, curling your grasp into the plateau of his shoulders—“—Don’t stop.” 

His face lights up before he gets to work. “Okay.” 

Lobo:

O, foul and vainglorious beast, needing his ego stroked every time he has you on his arm. With the need to show everyone just how he earned your favor, your affection, your presence around him.

After a few pints of Korugarian ale, overly implicative glances shot your way, an insistent hand that takes care to trundle you in the direction of the bathrooms—Lobo always gets what he wants. 

And what he wants is you pressed up against the thin bathroom walls, occupying the only stall, so that he can fuck the daylights out of you. And that leaves you in the precarious position of having your bottoms rucked down in pathetic pool around your ankles.

It keeps the spread of those impossibly large hands grasping in greedy measure around the meat of your hips. Allows the tick of his wide combat boot nosing your legs apart for better access. 

And it ensures that all you can do is push flattened palms against the impossible jolt of his body as he fucks you—a kaleidoscopic fractal of sensation.

The clink of his belt buckle slaps against your exposed skin, the grate of his happy trail as he bends his entire body over you, the dirty chuckle he makes that fills your chest and the claustrophobic room—

“Right where ya wanna be, huh, sweetcheeks?” Lobo asks as he pumps his hips up into you and summons a broken moan from your already-ragged throat. You’re not sure what orgasm you’re on; the fluorescent lights have shuttered and winked over your half-naked bodies in what seems eternity. 

All that matters are three things: the way that he keeps filling you up with every terrible dragging sink of his hips into you, the dirty praise that he keeps sending your way—and the necessity that you stay loud. Just how he likes it. 

“Lemme hear it,” Lobo warns through his clenched teeth that are working around a smoldering cigar. The acrid smoke is something that you’re used to, but getting fucked stupid is something that you’ll never manage without difficulty. You drunkenly sort through the wave of pleasure that he fucks into you and speak your mind. 

“Yes—fuck, Lobo, please—”—You beg, making each word earmarked in crescendoing volume so that he won’t miss the point. And nor will the patrons outside who have most likely heard everything. But you don’t care. 

All that matters is the suck he makes through his teeth before exhaling gusty chuckle. And how his fingers clench around the tack of your sweaty skin in this hole-in-the-wall. 

“That’s what I thought,” He grunts coarsely—and then the Main Man makes good on his promises. 

Superbat:

None of you three are anything official, though people like to talk. After all, the three of your gravitate so closely in the tedium of meetings, during the sanctity of monitor duty, in the chatter of the mess halls. People are bound to talk. But no one knows the truth of it except for you three—or to the extent that it goes in the bedroom. 

What would they think, to watch you sandwiched in between them? To admire the expert way that you take Bruce’s cock into your mouth so well, your tongue lolling around the swollen head, lapping greedily at the precum that already starts to bead? 

Bruce keeps proprietary clutch around the crown of your head to help work your mouth at a pace that lets his stern brow finally ease some relief. And you can only chuckle in pleasure, sending a thrumming note up the length of his cock. 

But it’s hard to keep working at these ministrations when Clark is so very good at fucking you from behind, at making you come unmoored as you try to desperately maintain balance on the plateau of your hands, your trembling knees.

And with each slick slap that Clark makes into you, the sinew of his skin making that obscene plap-plap-plap as he keeps a steady pace building crescendo in the pit of your belly—

When you pull away from Bruce’s cock so that you can groan out a “Oh, fuck, sorry—”—you find yourself crumpling to the mattress beneath you on your elbows. 

“You okay?” Bruce asks, and there’s a ragged edge to his voice as he watches Clark fuck you into the bed. The pace bottoms out, slows as you try to find your way back to your hands, blindly searching out for Bruce’s cock with a breezy smile. 

“Yeah—just—felt so good—”—You huff out, and you’re rewarded with the increase of pace. “I can get back to it—” 

“Bruce can watch,” Clark grits out through the biting grind of teeth, “We love hearing you.” 

You barely have any time to consider this admission, the relish Clark speaks it with. The lack of disagreement from Bruce as he draws back a tick to see how your face twists up in tormented euphoria as Clark keeps fucking you. As his hand draws around the length of his cock made slick with your spit, jutting out further at the sight. 

“I—I love this—”—You barely stutter out, trying to find coherency past the orgasm that’s building to zenith in the tremble of your legs. 

“Good,” Bruce says with a smile you’re too far gone to register. “We do too.” 

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