I haven’t written my boys in forever but Arra inspired me and I miss them so muchhh. I’m really rusty but here’s some shameless fluff.
"My everything hurts."
A few seconds of silence pass before Peter makes this whining noise again and starts to announce that really, his everything really fucking hurts. But Matt grabs his head and pulls it down on his shoulder—Peter hisses because it hurts remember—and runs his fingers through the messy brown locks. “I know,” Matt says, exasperated, “We heard.”
"I don’t know about you guys, I feel fucking great," Wade grins and sprawls out to be a little closer to the other two. Matt’s bed isn’t small, it’s big enough for the three of them and yet there always manages to be so much empty space like there’s something magnetic about their bodies that refuses to leave any space between them.
Wade is lying with his head in Matt’s lap and over Peter’s thighs, prodding at the youngest hero’s belly, mapping out the discolorations in his skin. The kid looks like shit, but hey, who is he to talk when he looks like he’s been in a fight that escalated to a warzone and back—and that’s on a daily basis. Regardless, he makes sure to affectionately tell each of them just how awful they both look donning bruises.
((Just wanted to write fem!porn pretty much ahhhh~ I am excited to get back into the writing groove??))
“I needed you, Cas.”
It’s a pretty heavy declaration as far as Deanna is concerned and she can’t imagine admitting to it if it weren’t muffled between the space of the angel’s shoulder blades; it’s as if she’s mouthing the words and printing them on her skin instead of articulating it through broken syllables and a faltering voice.
Deanna isn’t weak, she doesn’t need anyone. But she whatever this is, she has an angel of the lord quivering on her fingers and she feels like she’s the one about the fall apart. She’s had woman and men alike in her bed—hell, she’s had a plethora of creatures including one fallen angel. But having Cas like this is different because she can feel the heat of her skin and the muscle tightening underneath her fingers, she can feel her ribs as her hands slide down and over the jutting hipbones.
Sex humanizes Cas in a way that scares Deanna a little. Sex makes her feel like she’s obtainable and not this supernatural being that could crush the hunter in some holy mojo mystic way before she could even comprehend it. That this holy concept has been literally embodied in a form that Deanna is allowed to touch her and leave speckled scarlet reminders on her throat that she had in fact taken Cas.
oh my god it has been forever since I have posted anything but I am starting to write drabbles to get back into the groove and Spock with freckles is just so cute?? slightly nsfw.
Jim doesn’t realize that Vulcans could even have freckles until he finds himself dragging his tongue between green hued speckles across Spock’s skin. He traces lines like connecting the dots, the tip of his tongue slowly tasting its way from his neck and collar down to his hip bones where he finds that the bones jut out more than the standard uniform lets on. And Jim pulls back a moment and is almost giddy with the realization there is a leafy freckle on his First Officer’s hip.
Trying to get back into my writing groove and flow back into style again, so practising with my murder ladies and werewolves today. I’ll probably have a companion drabble for Sabrina for this soon.
Sabrina’s lips close over her skin and follow the shudder from the small of her back to the dip of her hips, the way that her spine arches and bends for her. She leaves angry red petals on her shoulders, proof that she had worshipped here.
I miss my babies;; top!Peter, bratty!Wade, and fluffy, fluff, fluff smut.
Quick 30 minute drabble before I go work on real things.
Peter thinks that Wade might be serious this time, when he hisses that he’s going to kill him and damn it Peter, stop. Because he’s straining against the grip on his wrists desperately and it’s not often that Wade is rendered helpless and that might scare the hell out of him, but the thing that terrifies him more is that Peter is ignoring him as he shakes and threatens him with a hint of a quiver to his voice.
It’s just enough that he can pick up on it, just a twinge of fear to his tone. Because Wade isn’t afraid of things, but Peter’s mouth on his skin slow like a flame lapping at his flesh, a slow, burn, it terrifies him. He had told him not to, and he reminds him again with a buck up his hips and tells him that he’s going to break his fingers, the ones that are languidly dancing down his stomach while his other hand grips Wade’s wrists above his head.
Peter is far too flexible for his own good, which is useful when Wade has him contorted into ungodly positions for him to fuck him into, but right now, he’s able to curve and bend his body to reach the expanse of Wade’s body; all of the scarred skin, to see all of him at once.
Valentine’s Day is coming up and I had this itching at me to be written. Sometime after Your Name Like An Epiphany. A prequel to this one, how it happened, is in the works.
"Peter, come on."
He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t know how to respond to something like this because this is so monumentally huge that the sheer weight of it all is crushing his rib cage. Peter lets his back slide down the locked door, fingers shaking as he lets his head fall into his hands. The bathroom tiles are cold against the skin of his feet, there are goosebumps raised on his skin and he thinks he should have at least locked himself in the bedroom.
Has he ever actually said ‘please’ before now? It really took this much for him to use a rudimentary gesture of politeness—it would be funny if it were any other time but now. Any other time but Peter so overwhelmed with the little letters screaming up at him on his wrist. He’s a war between conflicted opinions, his biology and instincts flushed with satisfaction, his mind and free will barking that this isn’t right, that this is not only betrayal but against everything Peter has built for himself.
"It’s not like it wasn’t genuine."
Idea from a post by christy. Feelings and care and nice things.
The clock flickers to 2:37 and Wade wants to go home. Except home is three hours on a bus or hijacking a plane away, and so he knows that he might as well set up camp in a dirty motel. Because maybe Wade hasn’t ever been the most hygienic, or far from it more accurately, but he wouldn’t mind stripping off the spandex and laying out in front of Real Housewives for a bit.
He’s got a wad of money in his pocket and less ammo in his gun. It’s easier for him to do this when he’s away from Peter, when he can separate himself from the irritating thoughts that itch at his brain because Peter is more of an influence than he knows. And Wade partially works on a reward-punishment system, where the disappointed expression that falls on the younger’s face is just enough to make him think twice.
The voices in his head insist that it really is crowded enough up there, that Peter’s conscience needs to stop leaking into his brain because they’re getting a bit claustrophobic and good intentions won’t pay the mental rent.
For Sydney ♥ who is the bomb and makes me want all these MorMor and fem!John things so here you go, doll, it’s quick but hopefully you like it!
That had been fun, Jen thinks to herself, wrinkling her nose at the blood caked in her fingernails. Messy—and she may or may not need to soak her hands in bleach for hours—but fun. Jen Moriarty’s definition of fun had a tendency to deviate from the normal standard, but at least hers is a thrill unlike the boring games of complacency the rest of the world plays.
Jen’s version of fun involves kissing Sabrina’s cheek before she’s had her morning coffee because she knows she hates being bothered before consuming an appropriate amount of caffeine and telling her that she’s playing with the boys today. She doesn’t miss the slight flare of jealousy because Sab is so funny like that, and can’t help the grin that curls on her bright red lips.
Mostly, Jen enjoys late nights of coding, bombs and emotional manipulation. But anything involving making Sabrina Moran tick has also earned a place on her list of things that she enjoys to do.
For billywick ♥ You asked for this and I want you to know that I looooove you. And I miss you so let me throw porn at you as a sign of my love.
This thing between them is confusing enough without the cultural and racial barriers, but Noh-Varr doesn’t get it. Because Tommy comes to him when he needs someone to make him forget the world, someone to make him forget himself, and yet he leaves just as quickly. And there’s the physical component when they’re alone, where Tommy tends to run his mouth a little less and Noh thinks that things are getting a little easier until they’re not.
Until Tommy speeds off again, a flurry of movements and words unsaid and leaves Noh with an odd wrenching in his chest. He’s a Kree, but he’s capable of emotion and he recognizes that there’s something there. That he wants to reach out and grasp Tommy’s hand and slow him down just for a few seconds, just so that he’ll look at him, really look at him. Even in the moment where Tommy is writhing, his body wrapped around Noh’s in what is the epitome of intimacy, he never really has the boy. Not really.
((For Gianna because everyone is getting me back in a Sherlock mood and her Sebastian makes me need MorMor like I need air. Hopefully psychopaths being crazy son of a bitches will make my sick girlfriend feel better.))
There are benefits to belonging to Jim. The money, the clothes and booze—the guns. Those are all nice, sure, but Sebastian comes from money with the nice little military family and the older brothers who ooze nothing but arrogance and pride. And he can’t help but tire of all the luxuries, finds himself wanting more rough terrain and arid air.
Sebastian goes to Afghanistan and thrives in the dirt and sand and heat. The best part of belonging to Jim is being able to live again. Because it’s the rush of adrenaline like teetering on the edge of everything larger than himself that Sebastian gets off on and Jim knows that. Jim dangles a rusty knife on a silk thread and promises Sebastian not to have the world, but to burn it.
Jim keeps him at his heels, not quite like a dog but close enough to attack like the loyal mutt he is. Barks at him like he’s shouting a command, to shoot, to kill, to stay. But Sebastian is smart, he knows the tricks and he obeys without questioning him. Because there are benefits to this sort of thing, he’s not a dog. He’s the tiger that drags the corpse back to Jim as a token of his affection and loyalty.
And god does Jim reward him well.