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psylocke bent over for wakanda’s finest [imenaddrawake]
3 months ago
18K (18,244)
0:19
Psylocke’s knees press into the floor as Black Panther moves behind her, steady and silent. Her mission, her focus, all of it slips away the moment his hands settle on her hips. One slow thrust and she gasps, her back arching instinctively, thighs parting wider without thinking.
The heat of him, the weight of his presence, it all hits her harder than she expects. Every movement is deep and controlled, but he’s not just fucking her, he’s claiming her, one stroke at a time. Her palms flatten against the ground, fingers curling, trying to hold on to something that won’t shift under her knees the way her composure is.
She moans, soft and broken, each sound slipping out as her body starts to melt into the rhythm. She was supposed to flank the backline, to distract, to execute. But now, she’s breathless, flushed, and trembling on the floor while the enemy tank takes his time ruining her from behind.
Her hair clings to her face, skin slick with sweat, and she doesn’t care who sees. Not anymore. Every push into her draws out another needy noise, another moment of surrender.
Maybe she came to win, but one look at her now, shaking and moaning under him, and it’s clear. Psylocke’s already lost, and she’s loving every second of it.
The heat of him, the weight of his presence, it all hits her harder than she expects. Every movement is deep and controlled, but he’s not just fucking her, he’s claiming her, one stroke at a time. Her palms flatten against the ground, fingers curling, trying to hold on to something that won’t shift under her knees the way her composure is.
She moans, soft and broken, each sound slipping out as her body starts to melt into the rhythm. She was supposed to flank the backline, to distract, to execute. But now, she’s breathless, flushed, and trembling on the floor while the enemy tank takes his time ruining her from behind.
Her hair clings to her face, skin slick with sweat, and she doesn’t care who sees. Not anymore. Every push into her draws out another needy noise, another moment of surrender.
Maybe she came to win, but one look at her now, shaking and moaning under him, and it’s clear. Psylocke’s already lost, and she’s loving every second of it.
