#Arrivals fic

[justaz]

magic reveal where arthur doesn't say a word and starts walking away and then merlin is at his heel calling for him, pleading with him to talk, to let him explain everything, begging for him to turn around and look at him, his voice breaking with grief. arthur has never been able to deny merlin anything and turns but he is still hurt and angry and merlin can see it in his eyes before he even opens his mouth to spew accusations. merlin stands, demure, as he shakes his head yet he doesn't say anything - fallen silent under arthur's rage. arthur walks away and around a corner, merlin doesn't follow. merlin breaks down into heartbroken tears and sobs and arthur is just around the corner, leaning on the wall for support, and listening to merlin fall apart.

[keferon]

…..I should be working rn but one of the songs in my playlist hit harder than usual so

[etrevil]

There's a wild world existing in the BSD Staff Book, like Dazai's just welcoming the DOA into the office and the trio looks at home 🤣

[arlenianchronicles]

My first submission for this year's @tolkienrsb (slide 32) in collab with @the-red-butterfly! Manwe takes a human form to visit the Edain; he befriends a blind elder from a village of the House of Beor, and slice-of-life shenanigans ensue XD

[gayspacemonk]

wriothesley a whole ass homosexual looking after neuvillette and saying "WOW"

[sommerregenjuniluft]

@croptopjames submission for mr james fleamont potter's birthday<3

2598 words - NSFW - cw: spanking, squirting, dirty talk, lil bit of degradation theyre being nasty idk it escalated

aka feral fucking your husband after seeing him in a shirt that doesn't quite fit like it used to~

“Baby, I’m home,” Regulus shouts after entering the front door, kicking it closed behind him with his foot as he balances the huge ice cream cake precariously on both his hands.

They’ve invited the whole family as per usual, what with their first year with Harry out of the house coming back from uni for his dad’s special day, Sirius and Remus driving down and picking up Effie and Monty on the way. All their friends will come later this week for brunch.

Today it’s just the few of them though and Regulus finds himself with a spring in his step at the thought of all of them together today.

James has taken the day off and Regulus was able to weasel his way into only half a shift today which he nearly missed entirely after the way James had sat down in his lap first thing in the morning and ridden him until he was shaking, cursing and babbling incoherently, all the while his husband was seated on his throne, smiling brightly, happiest man in the world, practically taking the matter of his birthday gift into his own hands.

“Hi love!” comes from somewhere on the higher level of the house.

Regulus brings the cake into the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket and quickly dispensing the celebratory sweet in the freezer before James sees it.

Not a moment after Regulus closes the drawer to grab a bowl of blueberries from the fridge James comes into the kitchen, huffing and cheeks flushed, a presumably heavy box of just…stuff in his arms that he must have gotten from the attic.

“James,” Regulus starts, blinking, “You were supposed to take the day off.”

His husband smacks a content kiss onto his cheek, grinning brightly. His glasses are smudged and sitting crookedly over his nose and Regulus is pretty sure he spotted a bit of spiderwebs in the mess of his hair.

“Ehh,” James makes dismissively, “I still felt restless after I hit the gym this morning once you left.”

He places the box down with a heavy thunk, petting its side like a horse—he’s such a dad, “And we’ve been wanting to get started on these babies after spring cleaning anyway, remember?”

Regulus rolls his eyes, fondness betraying him when the corners of his mouth tug upwards, “Mm, that might be true. Still it’s your birthd—”

Regulus halts.

“Love?” James looks at him inquiringly, hands propped on his hips.

On his very much naked hips. A palm length sliver of skin exposed between the indecently thin and short gym shorts and the—

“James, baby, what are you wearing?”

Oh, Regulus’ mouth is so, so dry.

“Huh?” James looks down at himself, shuffling in place before his head snaps back up to Regulus, “Oh! Yeah I found one of my old shirts from uni.” His husband snickers, giving a little twirl and shaking his hips from side to side like he isn’t currently taking five years off Regulus’ life expectancy.

“You–” Regulus stops again, eyes glued to the small swell of his stomach over the band of the white shorts, the dark hair splattered all over and coiling at the center, carving a path up and downwards. It’s downright indecent. His arms fill out the shirt just how they used to back in uni but with the difference that it’s more fat than muscle now—though Regulus knows well enough from personal experience how strong his husband still is. His pecs are visibly straining the material, the washed out, maroon letters spelling HOGWARTS cracking from the stretch.

Even more so when James leans back on his palms against the dining table, draping himself all prettily against the edge and smiling coyly, blinking doe brown eyes from under long lashes at Regulus as if he didn’t already have him warpped around his finger hook, line and sinker.

“Baby,” Regulus rasps and he barely recognises his own voice.

“Yeah, Reg?” James purrs, tilting his head and exposing the expanse of his neck.

“How long until Harry arrives?”

“An hour or two, depending on traffic,” James responds, voice all husky. Regulus is going to wreck him. Reduce him to a stuttering, squirting mess in the matter of half an hour, take his fucking word for it.

“Good enough,” Regulus grits out and then he crosses the distance in two long strides, already yanking at his tie.

They meet in a mess of parted lips, clicking teeth and tongues nudging, eager as ever, trying to lick into each other’s mouths and taste. Greedy for it, happily swallowing moans and tugging their bodies close. They slot into each other easily, practiced after all these years, decades and Regulus reckons that’s how they somewhat safely find their way onto the couch.

Regulus’ back hits the cushions with a soft oompf, barely time to gasp another breath and reach for his husband before James is straddling his lap, clasping Regulus’ stubbly jaw in warm, calloused palms and pulling him right back into their kiss. They don’t stay there for long with the way James is restlessly shifting on top of him, grinding his crotch right against the bulge in Regulus’ slacks, making them both groan.

At some point Regulus abandons James’ mouth in favor of kissing over the stubble of his cheek and jaw and latch onto his throat while simultaneously trying to get his stupid shirt buttons open. When the takes too long however James seems to grow impatient, batting his hands away and fumbling with them himself while they pant and grunt into each other’s mouths.

Regulus is nipping at James’ lower lip, already swollen and an obscene kiss bitten red and his husband makes a sound. Downright needy and he’s sitting there on top of Regulus, flushed and with that dazed look in his eyes, moaning like a little slut, so Regulus can’t quite help himself when he pulls one hand around and smacks James’ firmly on the bum.

It elicits a gasp, high pitched and followed by a long, drawn out moan and James sinking deeper into his lap, recapturing his mouth and desperately rutting down against where Regulus is hard and already throbbing. It’s a medical miracle, truly, that no matter how many times they’ve had sex, Regulus’ erection is always at its best form for James.

“Mnh,” James makes, their lips parting with a wet smacking noise, “Need you, baby.”

Regulus grunts, fingers digging harshly into the meat of James’ arse, “Slut.”

Just like expected, James whimpers, and so prettily at that. Eyebrows scrunching pitifully and he grinds once more, helplessly, “Please, please.” 

“But of course, sweety,” Regulus relents easily, licking a hot stripe up his neck, along his jawbone and then right across his slack mouth, “Anything for the birthday boy.”

James moans in response, nodding his head frantically.

Regulus nods his head towards the end of the couch where the pillows are piled, “Scoot up.”

His husband does so dutifully and it doesn’t take longer than a second for Regulus to make James lift his hips and rip the sheer piece of nylon off and throw it over his shoulder, not quite surprised yet still horribly taken off guard by the lack of boxer briefs underneath.

Regulus is left with nothing to do but stare at the mess of wet, thick curls and pink fold glistening with James’ slick, spit pooling under his tongue in an instant. He grabs James’ ankles, settling them over his shoulders, trainers still on and letting his hands drive over white tennis socks, hairy shins and strong calves. Digging his thumb in there and relishing in the gasp he elicits from his husband that way, hips twitching with the suspense. Regulus strokes up his boney knees, massages the big muscle of his thighs, the hair tickling his palms softly, all the while letting himself pitch forward, making sure to spill warm breath over where James wants him most right now.

He goes further, letting his hands rake up and over his stomach, rucking the shirt up as he goes and tucking it over the swell of his pecks, exposing him for Regulus to play with.

James is panting, short little puffs of breath, brimming with excitement and barely refraining from whimpering on the way out each time.

Predictably, he breaks once Regulus lazily swirls a tongue around his exposed nipple, holding the eye contact and watching with satisfaction as James’ eyelids flutter. He can’t help but grin, nipping at the hardened nub before he retreats, settling himself comfortably between James’ thighs and without warning diving right in.

James positively screams the moment Regulus closes his lips around his cock, sucking him into his mouth and rolling him around between his lips until the bucking of his hips throws him off. Regulus hoists an arm over James’ hips, belting him down, and wastes no time inserting one finger into James’ searing wetness, sinfully hot inside.

“Ahh yesyes, please more, love, please m-hah—” James babbles, throwing his head back when Regulus drives into him with another finger, crooking them upwards and watching shamelessly as his husband’s precum pools all over his digits before diving back in to lick at his little cock. 

He works them steadily up to each finger until he is four in deep, repeatedly hitting that spot inside of James and sucking and mouthing at the bundle of nerves until James’ noises grow an edge.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” Regulus asks, muffled between licks, jaw aching slightly.

“Yeah, yeah, gonna– hnng,” James breaks off, screwing his eyes shut when Regulus gives a particularly harsh suck, noises obscenely loud.

He’s fisting the cushions like his life depends on it, white knuckling them in his grip, and it only takes a handful more thrusts and licks before James is shuddering through his first orgasm. Breaths coming quicker until he eventually breaks off into a keen, thighs quivering around Regulus’ head, squeezing at his skull and riding it out, grinding his cunt uncoordinatedly forward into Regulus’ face all the while convulsing around his fingers.

He squeezes in waves of pleasure and it makes Regulus so delirious that he blinks and the next thing he knows is him kneeling against James’ ass, belt undone, slacks shoved down just enough and prodding at his slick, puffy entrance with the head of his cock.

James is staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, mouth agape and pupils so dilated they’ve swallowed most of the beautiful, dark chocolate brown.

“Baby,” Regulus prompts, bending James’ knees towards his ears with a grunt, “Jamie, be a good boy and hold these there for me.” His husband slowly blinks him back into focus, silently obliging and hooking his fingers into the bend of his knees—thank the higher powers James still does yoga once a week.

Regulus leans in, one hand holding him up off the couch, the other fisting around the length of him and smearing it through James’ wetness, “Now are you going to be able to be good and keep yourself wide open for me or are you already fucked too stupid, huh? An old man? Maybe we should postpone it for next year, ay papi, what do you say?”

James whines pathetically, rubbing his head into one of the throw pillows, knotting his black hair up even more before he swallows frantically, “No, Reg, pleaseplease, I can take it. Please, love, I’m gonna be good for you, I prom–Aah—”

Regulus bottoms out in one smooth thrust, vision dotting with black spots at the mind bending heat and vice grip James has on him, already pulsing around him shallowly.

He grants James a moment to get used to being full, slowly rocking his hips back and forth and listening for when his whimpers turn into soft moans, turning needy again, and then he reaches up to grip his chin, “Then take it, slut.”

The pace he picks up into is hard, not too fast but unforgiving and steady, a sure way to drive James crazy. Regulus nips his way along his husband’s chest, nuzzling his nose through chest hair and biting and licking at his dark nipples, tasting salt and sweat, feeling his cock twitch at the taste deep inside his husband.

When Regulus feels himself lose rhythm he hikes James’ legs impossibly higher, draping one of them over his shoulder before he starts spanking him again. The angle is awkward but it’s working, going off of the way James keeps jerking at the stinging contact, clenching around the length of Regulus and working himself into a frenzy, gasping and whimpering and groaning like he’s getting the best cock of his entire life. 

“Touch yourself, baby,” Regulus demands, breath stuttering as he watches a fat tear roll down the side of James’ face, disappearing into the shorter hair at his temple.

Regulus keeps James’ thighs wide and open, rolling his hips with abandon, groaning and panting with every thrust, feeling sweat bead on his forehead and desperately trying not to lose control when James snakes a hand between his legs, frantically circling his cock while Regulus keeps pumping in and out of him.

“If you could only see yourself, baby,” Regulus grits out, “Fucking masterpiece, splayed out for me like this. Obliging my every demand, so fucking good, baby.”

James moans happily, tongue lolling out and without thinking Regulus sticks two of his fingers into his mouth, rubbing over his tongue and feeling the saliva coat them thickly.

“Can you go ahead and cum for me again, Jamie?”

James whines an affirmative around his digits, slurping messily, a trickle of drool trailing down the corner off his mouth.

“Think you’ll be a good boy and squirt all over me, baby? You know how much I love when you cum like that, hm?”

James breath hitches impossibly, eyes threatening to flutter shut as he nods deliriously.

Regulus quickly grabs him by the jaw, “Keep looking at me, James. I know you can do that for me, baby.”

And so he does.

On the next thrust James starts quivering again, fingers working furiously over his cock, mouth falling open around a silent scream and gazing Regulus right in the eyes as he pounds into him and James squirts around him. Spraying everywhere, absolutely in all directions and fucking messy, wetting Regulus’ torso and the couch—Regulus wouldn’t be surprised if the carpet wasn’t unscathed either.

That’s really all Regulus can take before his hips stutter in their pace and he buries himself deep inside James, letting the pulsing of his husband’s orgasm milk him dry as he spills and spills his cum into James for what feels like minutes on end.

At some point James lets his trembling legs back down, crossing his ankles tightly under Regulus’ bum as this one keeps jerking into his husband’s hole.

Once they’re both done Regulus is too exhausted to do anything else but collapse forward into James’ chest which he accepts with a happy hum.

They take a few minutes like this, James slowly coming to and starting to play with the curls at Regulus’ nape and Regulus breathing in the comforting scent of James, raking his short nails up and down the side of his ribcage.

After a while James presses a feebly kiss into the side of Regulus’ head, huffing out a big breath that makes Regulus rise with the motion of his chest before he snickers, “Well, happy fucking birthday to me.”

Regulus chuckles into the crook of James’ neck, dropping a kiss there before lifting and staring into his husband’s droopy eyes, “Yeah, happy fucking birthday to you, baby.”

[florenceafternoon]

━。゜✿ jily rec list masterlist ✿ ゜。━

I will (hopefully) update and reblog this post every time I post a new jily fic rec list. Additionally, if you search for # jily fic rec list on my blog they should all come up.

first ever rec list I made that has a lot of the fics that initially got me into them - Alternate Universe

for everyone tiered of Lily getting sidelined - Wizarding World

the one where maya was obsessed with historical AUs and also on summer break - Alternate Universe

mostly one-shots - Alternate Universe

some sixth & seventh year stuff but also alternate timeline stuff - Wizarding World

the one with all the pinning - Alternate Universe

the one where maya craves escapism and a hug - Alternate Universe

mostly seventh year jily - Wizarding World

comfort fics - Alternate Universe

the turbulence of adolescence coupled with grief and the uncertainties of war - Wizarding World

[steddielations]

ao3 | hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, pre s4

"Hello? Ed, is that you? What's all that noise? What's goin' on?" 

"Wayne, can you come pick me up ... I’m at a party at the Harringtons’ house ... I don't wanna talk about it, man … Can you please just come get me? Please." 

Eddie hangs up the phone and swallows down the lump in his throat. 

He refuses to cry in Steve Harrington's kitchen.

Making his way through all the teenagers crowding this soulless house, he blinks the fog from his eyes. No tears are gonna take him back to half an hour ago, shooting the shit with his dad in the van, happily ignoring years worth of bloody hatchets and skeletons between them. 

While Eddie was desperate for it to be real this time, dear old dad hadn’t changed at all, taking off with Eddie’s van the second he came inside to scope out the party. Sorry to all the manicured girls of Loch Nora that pay pretty pennies for his shitty joints, but his stash is long gone, along with all the cash he made the last few days. 

It’s all in the wind with Al Munson like always.

The muggy air washes over Eddie when he steps outside, rubbing his eyes against the cool sting of wetness brimming in them. He’s not gonna cry in front of Steve Harrington’s pool either, even if he’s alone out here. 

It’s like a different dimension from the crowd inside, but everyone knows the pool is off limits, though no one seems to know why. Everyone just falls in line to the will of the king. Whatever, Eddie doesn’t give a shit he just needs a minute to breathe. He needs a damn cigarette, too, but of course, his smokes were in the van.

“Hey Munson, you sold out already or something?”

Eddie’s hands drop from his face, whipping around to where the voice came from. Caught off guard, embarrassment rises in his cheeks under the gaze of the man himself, Harrington. There’s an almost eerie blue glow casting off the water where he’s sitting poolside in a deck chair, strangely alone out here when he’s got a whole party inside.

Eddie clears his throat, trying to shield his vulnerability from a moment ago, “Nah man, all my shit was stolen.”

“That bites. Do you know who took it?” Harrington sounds oddly… concerned. “I bet it was that dickhead, Hargrove. I kicked him out like 10 minutes ago.”

“What’s it to you?” Eddie shoots back, instinctively distrustful, hackles raised like a cornered animal. He’s already taken a knife to the back tonight.

Harrington holds up a hand as if to ease him, like somehow in all his prim Polo-wearing properness, he’s used to handling wild things. “Just figured maybe I could help you get it back.”

“Why do you care?” Maybe Eddie’s being too defensive, it’s not like Harrington has ever given anyone hell like Hargrove or Hagan, but they’re all one in the same right? Or maybe Harrington really was ousted from the throne like the rumors in the hallways say. Eddie’s got more on his mind right now than the intricacies of Hawkins High pecking order. 

“Uh, because it’s my house and I don’t want some thief around? Jesus you’re prickly, dude.” With an eyeroll, Harrington waves him over to the empty chair next to him. “Here, just sit down and relax for a sec. We’ll see if we can figure it out.”

Eddie hesitates, feeling like it has to be some kind of trap, but there’s no one else around. Harrington’s never done more than stand by while his jock buddies do their damage to whoever or call Eddie a freak under his breath a couple times, but who hasn’t? Eddie encourages it, even. What would Harrington get out of pulling anything now when it’s not for show?

Honestly, Eddie’s just trying to rationalize it because he could really use the beer that’s also up for grabs, offered with an outstretched hand.

So Eddie stalks over to the empty chair, warily sitting down as if it might snap him inside like a snare. His nerves are all frazzled. Between his dad’s little stunt and now the king of the jocks (former king?) is handing Eddie an open beer that he’s taken a sip from himself, give him a break. Eddie mellows out a tad after a couple chugs.

“Do you have any clue who took it?” Harrington asks, way too much concern in the line between his brows than he should be able to fake for Eddie.

“No one here.”

Eddie sort of wishes it was that simple. A stranger would only hurt his pockets, instead of this bone-deep betrayal he should’ve seen coming. He doesn’t even care about the money, or his van, it’s deeper than that. It aches somewhere the booze can’t wash away. He squeezes the cool bottle in his grasp, blaming the contents for what he woefully admits next.

“It was my pops, man. He ran off with my van and everything in it.”

For some reason, it’s embarrassing to say. Either secondhand for his old man pulling something so low-down, or just his own pride for falling for it. He stares at the unnaturally still water in front of him, instead of meeting the gaze beside him.

He can feel Harrington taking in it, questioning it. Maybe he’s wondering how a father could screw over his own son like that, or maybe he’s thinking everyone knows that’s exactly what Al Munson would do, and Eddie— especially Eddie, should’ve known that.

Even Jeff warned him this time too, having been there since the days that Al would bring Eddie a new bike when he won big at the casino, then steal it back the next week to sell when he lost. Seems like Eddie was the only idiot willing to give his dad another chance, even blowing off band practice the last couple days to spend time with him.

“Your van, huh?” Is what Harrington finally says, soft for some reason. “I could give you a ride home. Forest Hills, right?”

That’s… not what Eddie was expecting at all. Just picturing that hotrod that’s all the rage in the school parking lot kicking up gravel in the trailer park rubs him wrong. It’s all off-beat, Eddie feels so far off his center that he’s normally so sure of. All he can do is push back to try and find it again.

“What, you’re gonna ditch your party to slum it on the wrong side of Hawkins with me? Don’t worry about it, I called my uncle.”

Looking over, he sees how Harrington almost looks disappointed by that.

“Yeah okay, but I don’t really care about this party,” he says, not even trying to pass it off in a ‘cool’ way, he just seems put off by it, “Graduation’s coming up, y’know, it was Tommy’s idea. I should’ve said no, I don’t give a shit about it. Or Tommy.”

Again, not what Eddie was expecting. He feels a thud in his stomach at the mention of graduation, yet another failure under his belt. “Well I’m not graduating, so does it count as that kinda party if you’re out here with the super senior freak?” 

“Guess we’re just having a shitty dads party then,” Harrington tries for what Eddie assumes is a reassuring smile, because for whatever reason in this twisted reality, Steve Harrington is trying to comfort him. 

Him, Eddie Munson.

But it ends up striking an already sensitive nerve.

“What do you even know about it?” Eddie scoffs.

Harrington’s smile drops, snapping back, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A bitter laugh bubbles up in Eddie’s throat. He hates how it sounds as awful as he feels. Gesturing with the beer in his hand, he states the obvious, “Look around, dude.”

Maybe Harrington’s not as popular at school, but he’s still well off at home. A rich, two parent household that he’s never had to worry about scrounging to keep the lights on. The only business he’ll ever have to do is for his Daddy’s fucking letterhead. Eddie will accept his pity to the extent of a free beer, but he won’t sit there and listen to Harrington pretending to know what it’s like for him.

“Yeah, look around,” Harrington retorts, an even more bitter curl on his lip than Eddie’s. “Got everything except parents, don’t I? Like if they buy me enough shit, I won’t notice they’re hardly here.”

The look in his eyes is a little hurt but fierce, grating enough to cut through Eddie’s defenses. Wayne keeps telling him to stop jumping the gun and going off half-cocked. Yet here Eddie is again, assuming he’s got this guy all figured out.

When in reality, all he knows is that despite being the talk of the town, Harrington’s parents are rarely ever seen around. He lost his girl, doesn’t seem to have any real friends to show, and looks about as lonely at school as he does now— while he’s doing nothing but trying to help Eddie.

“I’m sorry, man,” Eddie relents, “You’re just going against everything I thought I knew about you right now. I’m trying to kick the habit of putting people in boxes with the whole anti-conformity thing. Been told I can be a real judgemental asshole.”

“Yeah I wonder why,” Harrington says lightly, his lips curling back into a smile that sort of makes Eddie want to hide his face. It doesn’t feel wrong somehow, like the rare times that a girl spared him a look, more like it shouldn’t be directed at him. Steve Harrington shouldn’t be smiling at him.

“And call me Steve, alright? If we’re gonna be in the shitty dads club together, we should be on a first name basis.”

That actually gets a laugh out of Eddie. Short and pained as it sounds, it’s real.

“Okay then, Steve,” he has to look away after he says it, feeling his chest cave under the weight of that smile for some reason. Must be the state he’s in. Steve made him forget for a second but he’s sinking again, staring out over the pool, trying and failing to see the bottom.

Read the rest on Ao3

for day one of @eddiemonth prompt “Parents”

[halfghostwriter]

“Do Not Offer Sacrifices to the New King.”

No one knows exactly why it happened. One day, there are clear instructions on how to prepare child sacrifices to the ghost king, the next said instructions are covered in green splatters, with bold black letters across them reading “Do Not Offer Sacrifices to the New King.” The phrase was written across every single set of instructions to summon the ghost king ever written down.

Of course, there were skeptics. People who believed some rogue individual was trying to invoke the Ghost King’s wrath by not preparing a sacrifice in exchange for the summoning. It wasn’t long before the first attempt at summoning this new king.

The cultists had prepared a fine sacrifice. The previous king was known to prefer very young sacrifices, as the potential years of life stripped away equated to the amount of power the king would absorb at the child’s death. It was for this reason that they had prepared a child of a mere 6 months old, coating it in the finest jewels and fabrics, and choosing a dull yet beautiful knife to slice through the child at the king’s arrival. The old king was said to enjoy watching the life drain slowly.

As the ritual began, the leader took his place by the child, raising the knife high above his head, preparing to strike down the moment the new king’s eyes were on him. Chanting filled the room, and the sigils on the floor burned with a toxic green glow. The infant began to cry, small hiccups echoing over the sound of ice cracking that began to fill the room. A being whose figure seemed to be made of the cosmos itself began to rise from the circle, eyes closed as it towered over the room. Small tendrils seemed to drift away from it, but kept flinching back, as if actively being restrained. As the beings glowing green eyes began to open, the cult leader leaned forward, preparing to shove the knife into the child.

But he couldn’t move.

He tried to push the knife downward, but it felt as if all of his joints were suddenly fused together. He couldn’t move his body. He couldn’t even move his head. All he could move were his eyes, which locked on to the glowing green pits staring right back at him.

“How… Dare… You….”

The words shook the room, causing the infant to wail. The being, the king, flinched back, and his body began to warp into something… smaller. Younger. A child, barely entering puberty. He floated towards the sacrifice, softly shushing the child as he approached. Delicately, as if it were made of glass, he lifted the sacrifice and held it close, stroking its head as he continued making calm, soothing sounds. He did so until the wails dimmed down to mere hiccups. Once that happened, he turned his eyes to the leader.

“How. Dare. You.”

He kept his voice at a mere whisper. His tone could almost be considered pleasant, had his face not conveyed such burning hatred.

“Did you seriously not listen to my instructions? I wasn’t subtle, writing that on every single ghost king summoning in the world isn’t something just anyone can do. Are you stupid or something?”

The leader wanted to say something. Beg for mercy, plead for forgiveness, anything. But his jaw wouldn’t move. No part of his body would move. He felt cold. He glanced around the room, hoping some other cult member would see his dilemma, would speak up for him. But instead of panicked members on their knees begging for forgiveness, he only saw figures encased in ice.

“Don’t look at them. Look at me.”

The leader’s eyes locked back on to the king’s enraged glare.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. I am taking this child somewhere where they won’t be hurt. You,” the king poked a clawed finger into the left side of the leader’s chest, “are going to help spread the word. Make sure everyone knows not to offer sacrifices to me. You have a lot of influence, I’m sure you can get it done. Oh, but in case you don’t…”

Veins of warm ice began creeping up the leader’s chest, beginning from where the king was poking, down his arm, and up his face.

“There. If anyone, and I mean anyone, offers up a sacrifice as young as yours, at any point in time, those ice veins with expand and freeze you to death. After that, whoever offered up that sacrifice will take your place spreading the word. And don’t worry about your cult members, they’ll defrost within a day to help you out.”

The young king turned away, and floated back to the sigils, small infant in hand.

“You’re pretty lucky, you know. If I weren’t having such a good day, I wouldn’t have just left you off with a warning.”

And with that, the king and the infant leave through the summoning circle in the floor.

Within days, it’s known that the new king despises anyone who dares give him a sacrifice.

[ghostbsuter]

They may feel it, but never witness it.

Bart does not explain his impromptu leaves in the speedforce, nor how and why the speedforce seems to only take him and spit him back out few hours later.

Well, bart can't really explain it without sounding ridiculous.

How else do you explain to your family and teammates that grandma speedy keeps bringing him to playdates with some god of times grandson?

At least they're the same age! Danny's very crash, honestly. Got the speedster appetite and running together ensures even faster speed with no obstacles in front of them!

Man, he loves intangibility.

Now how does he explain this to uncle max?

[al-luviec]

I got so insanely mad while drawing this

+ closeup and normalness

[blindmagdalena]

Complete Me

Summary: 18+ 2.5k homelander x reader, sub homelander, bottom homelander, mommy kink, pegging, large toy, lite belly bulge, restraints, praise kink, comeplay, schmoopy aftercare.

It's not always easy keeping the most powerful man in the world satisfied, but as far as he's concerned, you were made for the job. art by @krazyyy & used with permission!

There is a void in Homelander that he is unsure he will ever be able to fill.

But fuck if you don’t try your damnedest.

If he’s being honest, he never thought that sex with a human could compare to sex with another supe, but you’ve found tricks that curl his toes better than the clench of any Compound V charged hole could. You put his wrists in cuffs that he could snap with a thought, and whisper Don’t break those, baby. Or mommy won’t fuck you tonight.

He huffs and twists against them, but never breaks them. He listens to you. He’s obedient. He’s your good, good boy, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. The electric thrill of being bound by nothing but your will empowering these flimsy cuffs has him panting. He wants more from you, as he always does, and like the wicked, wonderful enabler you are, you give it to him.

When he first sees the toy you intend to use tonight, long, thick and barely contained by the harness you wear, he thinks you’re joking. “Christ, are you going to fuck me, or bludgeon me to death?” He asks, adjusting against his headboard. It doesn’t stop his cock from throbbing, steadily drooling precome onto his belly while his stomach churns in anticipation. “Don’t be a brat,” you reply, eyes glinting. He watches you spread a generous amount of lube along the girthy chunk of phallus-shaped silicone, his own neglected cock aching at the sight of it. “You said you wanted something big.” “Didn’t expect you to take it so literally,” he says wryly, mouth feeling dry as the bed dips with your weight. “Expected something, y’know, grand. Impressive. Bombastic.”

“My, my. Look at you and all your synonyms,” you purr, smiling. He jerks slightly when you put your hands on his ankles, drawing them slowly up his legs, spreading them out. He’s malleable under your hands, always is, legs falling open in a wanton splay.

“I’m a walking thesaurus,” he gives back sardonically, but his breath hitches with the way you squeeze his inner thighs before adjusting his legs on either side of you.

“I don’t think you’ll be walking anywhere after this,” you say, voice and expression both downright devilish.

He laughs breathlessly. He knows you won’t be able to hurt him, but the notion still sends a thrill trilling up and down his spine like a xylophone. He sucks a breath in through his teeth at the first warm, wet press of your fingers to his rim, circling it in slow, firm glides. Homelander nods. “Yeah, yeah, yes. M’ready.”

“Yes, what?” You push. He smiles. He loves that you push him like this, push him to say the things he wants to, but holds back from out of shame or embarrassment or both. He loves that you don’t let him hide from or deny himself the things that he wants. He loves you.

“Yes, mommy,” he exhales, despite his tongue feeling leaden in his mouth.

The smile you return is worth it. “Good. Take a deep breath, and lie down.”

He complies, sliding down the headboard until his arms are stretched above his head. You adjust yourself between his legs, gripping his ass in your palms to spread it wide, and as he breathes out, the obscenely large head of the toy presses against his slick rim.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grouses, eyes widening.

“Breathe,” you encourage him, patiently massaging his rump. “Humans can stretch seven inches before anything tears. You’ll be fine. Trust me.” He scoffs, but he does trust you. He knows you won’t break him, wouldn’t if you could. He relaxes his head against the headboard and closes his eyes. It’s not that it hurts, but the pressure that builds as you spread his rim open around the fat head of the toy is intense and alien, more so than anything he’s used to. He twists the chains of the handcuffs, which groan precariously. You reach out to touch his wrist, hushing him. “Breathe, darling,” you remind him again, gentle and soothing. He screws his eyes shut, focusing on the feel of your fingers on his wrist, your other hand under his thigh, and breathes in deeply. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he keens, endlessly shifting and adjusting himself, though never pulling away from the girth of the toy slowly splitting him open.He shakes his head, faith wavering. “What the fuck, that’s not–it’s not going to fit,” he pants, trying to spread his legs further, but no matter how he angles himself, there’s no escaping the slow, aching pressure of the oversized silicone cock sliding into him.

“Shhhh,” you hush, holding the base of the cock in one hand while you use the other to stroke his thigh. “It’ll fit. You’re just poorly prepared,” you say. He can hear the smile in your voice. His cock gives a dripping throb at the pleasure in your voice, knowing that he’s impressing you, even as he complains.

“And whose fault is that?” He asks breathlessly, arching his back.

“Yours,” you answer, giving his ass a sharp little smack. He had asked for this, after all. He didn’t want you to wet or stretch him out too thoroughly. He wanted to feel it.

And feel it he does.

“Halfway there,” you murmur, close enough to kiss him now. He leans into it eagerly, savoring the gentle, plush press of your lips, gripping the chains of his cuffs, wishing he could touch you, even as he relishes this hold you have over him. He keens against your lips, opens up easily for the wet slide of your tongue only to suck at it, greedy for more, more, more. Your hips are almost flush with his. You’re so close, and he’s so full. The sheer size of it inside him doesn’t leave space for anything else, no thoughts or feelings about anything other than what’s happening, other than your touch and your warmth.  He’s panting now, giving sharp little bucks of his hips, though you remain stubbornly still. “It’s too big,” he moans, overwhelmed by this inescapable, full feeling. You soothe him with gentle sweeps of your hands up his thighs, his hips, his sides.

“You’re doing perfectly,” you tell him. He can hear your excitement, smell it in the air. He cracks his eyes open to gaze up at you, and flourishes under the open adoration he finds in your stare. The praise warms him. He adjusts himself again, but there’s no way to make this feel anything less than. He cannot minimize it, cannot escape it. His cock throbs, the leaking head bouncing against his stomach of its own accord. You give one last push, and he moans with your body finally slotting snugly against his, buried as deep as you’ll go. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Homelander nods fervently, swallowing back the lump in his throat. “Good, good, s’good, mmm…”

He leans into it when you touch his cheek, nuzzles your palm before pressing a wet kiss into it. You have a way of touching him that renders him senseless, used, but treasured. He knows that even when you’re done with him, when you have finished playing and this intensity is gone, he will not be left empty or alone. 

You’ll be there. “I’m going to fuck you now, baby,” you whisper. His breath hitches with excitement, the chains above his head clanking lightly against one another. He nods, bites down slowly on his tongue to hold back the little noise that threatens to slip from him when you pull almost halfway out, only to drive firmly back in. You don’t have to move very fast, the sheer size of the toy does most of the work for you, unraveling him with every movement. “Oh f-fuck, ffffuck, nnngh,” he groans, pulling on his bindings. The steel loop they’re hooked to groans precariously. His eyes snap open when you wrap your hands around his throat, slowly leaning your weight down on him. “Look at me,” you tell him, your own eyes clouded with arousal, pupils blown wide. His eyes flicker constantly to the wet part of your lips, aching to kiss them. You squeeze. You may not be strong enough to crush his windpipe, but it’s more than enough to restrict his airflow, to make him keenly aware of every breath he takes. You brace yourself that way, make him feel it as you settle into a steady rhythm, rocking in and out of him, the size of the toy making every push and pull twice as intense.

“There, that’s it. You’re taking me so well. Knew you would, baby. Always so good for me. You’re gonna make a mess for me, aren’t you? Come so hard, I bet you’ll mess up that pretty face,” you coo, the words going straight to his cock. The toy is too big, too unwieldy for you to fuck him fast, but the intensity of being carved in and out of by something so large is just as good.

“Y-yes,” he chokes out. “Yeah, yes, fuck, I’m fffucking–” He can’t think long enough to string a coherent sentence together. He chokes on his own breath when you move a hand from his throat to his belly, pushing down on it as you slide all the way back into him. “Look,” you tell him. He obeys, tipping his head down to see where your hand is, bleary-eyed and feeling as though he’s slipping outside of his own body. Where your hand is, he can see his own skin slightly distended around the sheer girth of the toy. Seeing this extension of you inside him, is dizzying, but the way you press your hand down on it nearly makes him come right then and there, a shiver running through his whole body.

He almost throws his head back, but you stop him, catching him by his hair. “No, no. Keep watching. Keep watching,” you tell him, your own voice thin, growing desperate. Your grip in his hair tightens and he moans for you. “Just like that. Good boy. Good boy.”

Keeping one hand in his hair, you move the other from his belly to his cock, taking it in a firm hold that sets his teeth on edge, biting back a high keening noise. His eyes snap wide open when you start to mercilessly pump it, no preamble or extra lube, just sudden and intense friction and pressure. He chokes on his own fumbling words, no longer holding himself back, openly gasping and making startled, desperate little noises. You look fucking thrilled. You give his hair another sharp tug, keeping it down, keeping his gaze on your hand stripping over his dick, and the barely visible swell of your cock grinding back and forth deep, deep inside him. “That’s it, baby,” you say breathlessly, sweat prickling on your skin, voice thin with exertion. “Show me how you come. Show me how you come on mommy’s cock.” Beyond the capacity for words, all he can do is let go a ragged sound halfway between a sob and a moan, screwing his eyes shut tight as the catastrophic crash of his orgasm overtakes him, his body locking up tight while his cock unloads a ribboning torrent of come so intense, it paints across his whole face, wetting his lips, his cheek, hanging heavily on his eyelashes, spraying all the way up to his hair. You thoroughly milk him of the experience, squeezing out every last drop with gradually slowing strokes, emptying him of the very last drop that spills out onto his stomach. Homelander feels fully outside of himself, transcendent from his physical form, free floating on an upward current of pure sensation. Not even the weight of the toy inside him can keep him tethered to reality, his eyes rolling back into his skull as he sinks down onto the bed, his arms dangling loosely from his bindings. Gradually, however, reality does slip back in. It’s a slow trickle of grounded touches: your fingers tapping on his thighs, his sides, his chest. You drag your nails carefully along his skin, eliciting goosebumps. You lure him back to his body not with demands, but with soothing, purposeful touches. With love.

The toy slides out slowly, and he lets go a tired breath with it. The warmth of you is gone, but only briefly. You’re quick to slide right back between his legs, minus the toy. One at a time, you free his hands, holding each one and lowering it to the bed. Every single moment of putting him back together is full of the same practice and care that you took him apart with.

You trail kisses up his body, the occasional hot slip of your tongue like a static shock. You lap at every drop of the mess he’s made of himself. Your lips feel like worship, your hands like reverence. He doesn’t feel used like something dirty or disposable, he feels like something that has been used and cherished.

His eyes flutter open as you cup his face. His lips spread in a lazy smile while you kiss him, cleaning away the salty mess of his come from his lips, his cheek. He rumbles contentedly when you bring your lips back to his and he can taste himself on them, his own movements languid and weak. He doesn’t bother trying to lift his hands. He’s too busy enjoying the way you tend to him, taking it upon yourself to set his limbs into comfortable positions before you lay down atop him, fingers in his hair, lips on his throat where you had previously been squeezing.

“How do you feel?” You ask eventually. “I’m fucking great,” is what he thinks he says, but to you, it comes out more like, “M’f’k’n’gr’t…”

You laugh softly, your love and affection so palpable in the sound, he wants to bury himself in it. “You were wonderful,” you say, your words settling over him more warmly than any blanket, warmer than the sun itself. He could bask beneath them forever. “So, so very good for me. You always are,” you say, punctuating your words with delicate butterfly kisses. “I love making you feel good. I love you.”

The first time you cared for him this way, he had fallen to pieces in your hands. Even now, there is the threat of it in how his eyes burn, prickling with tears, but he does not fall apart this time. Instead, he relaxes into your every touch, and lets himself feel freedom in this sense of deconstruction, knowing without a doubt that you will not leave him to pick up the shards alone.

“Love y’too,” he gives back slightly more coherently. “Why’d’ey m’ke ‘em th’big?”

“They make them bigger,” you answer, effortlessly understanding his slurred question.

The look he gives you makes you laugh again, a sharper bark of amusement. “Relax,” you tell him, stroking his hair. “I think we’re good. For now.”

“Fiend,” he accuses you affectionately, putting in the herculean effort to lift a hand to your cheek, stroking it with his thumb before he kisses you, melting into the warm, sweet aftermath of the session. He likes that you always tease him with more. It’s a clever way of assuring him that there will always be more to look forward to.

[melestasflight]

Now rumour came to the camp in Hithlum of the march of Fingolfin and those that followed him, who had crossed the Grinding Ice; and all the world lay then in wonder at the coming of the Moon. But as the host of Fingolfin marched into Mithrim the Sun rose flaming in the West; and Fingolfin unfurled his blue and silver banners, and blew his horns, and flowers sprang beneath his marching feet, and the ages of the stars were ended. ~ "Of the Return of the Noldor", The Silmarillion

a little art throwback for the first day of @march-of-the-noldor

Two beautiful writings were created for this art: Flowers sprang beneath his marching feet by @that-angry-noldo Longed-for a poem by @searchingforserendipity25

[theerurishipper]

Superbat Week Day 4: Undercover

For @superbatweek2024

Just as Clark flies into the Batcave, he can hear the telltale signs of Alfred’s disapproval, directed at the only person foolish enough to invoke them constantly. The subtle inflections in Alfred’s voice, and the dry, sardonic tone indicates to Clark that Bruce has done something reckless, though not exceptionally so. Alfred would not have held back otherwise.

“What did you need me for, Bruce?”

The man in question lifts one eyebrow upon his arrival. “You’re late.”

“Nice to see you too.”

Bruce grunts, and turns to Alfred, who picks up a fancy suit, handing it to Clark with not a small amount of disapproval, though it is not directed at him. Clark can only stare bemusedly at the fancy suit that probably costs more than his entire salary. “If this is your way of telling me— again— that you don’t like the suits I own, I’m sorry to tell you that this is not going to change my mind.”

“Ah, I suppose it was worth a shot, sir,” remarks Alfred, the very picture of sarcasm.

“It’s not a commentary on your fashion choices,” Bruce responds, still typing away at his computer. “It’s a bodyguard uniform.”

Clark stares at the sleek, shiny fabric. “And you’re giving this to me because…?”

“You’re now Bruce Wayne’s official new bodyguard. Congratulations.”

--

“I can’t believe you just sprung this on me without asking me if I would agree!” Clark huffs, even as Alfred makes final adjustments to the suit he’s now wearing.

“Are you saying no?”

“…No…”

“Then I don’t see a problem. Besides, I checked your schedule, and you seem to be free enough to assist me.”

Clark blinks. “You what?” Beside him, Alfred sighs as he adjusts Clark’s sleeves.

“I see that our previous talks about boundaries have entered through one ear and escaped through the other already, Master Bruce.”

“I don’t remember any such talk.”

“As I said,” Alfred intones, waving a dismissive hand towards Bruce, who responds with a childish pout. Or as he would call it, a dignified silence.

“Aw, it’s alright, Alfred,” Clark consoles. “I don’t mind. It’s kind of sweet, actually.”

Alfred directs his eyes to stare down Clark judgementally. “You both certainly are made for each other.”

“Thank you.”

The details of the case are simple enough. Bruce Wayne is being targeted by a fellow competitor, a man by the name of Maxwell Steele, who wants him gone. Batman is currently looking into this competitor to find out why. Bruce is to be meeting with this competitor in an hour, and wants Clark to tag along as a lie detector posing as his bodyguard.

Clark can’t say he’s displeased with the idea, or the thought of helping Bruce out in this way. It’s even kind of exciting. He’s only ever seen this happen in movies.

“You’re a superhero, Clark. You can fly and shoot lasers from your eyes.”

“But I always preferred the secret agents over the bombastic superheroes,” Clark responds, grinning at his reflection in the mirror. “And now I get to be one for real! It’s cool.”

“If that is what ‘floats your boat,’ Master Clark.”

Clark grins, and slips on the shades the Bruce hands him. “So, do I look the part?” he asks, and listens with great satisfaction to the uptick in Bruce’s heart rate.

“…Yes, you do.”

Clark grins. This just might be fun after all.

--

Maxwell Steele is a man who is very much not upending the stereotypes this evening. He is as suspicious looking and sleazy as one would expect when they think of an evil businessman. Clark feels like he is way more excited than he should be; after all, he is standing right before someone who is trying his hardest to kill Bruce.

The man in question is rambling about his latest business ventures, while Bruce sits before him pretending to be someone who is only pretending to be interested. Clark finds it almost baffling how well Bruce can embody the spirit of the character he puts on.

“And, of course, we intend to finalize our dealings, of course—”

“I just have one question,” Bruce interrupts, leaning forward. “Your company has come under fire— several times, in fact— for your alleged involvement with some of the more… notorious criminals of Gotham. I must admit, I find the idea of doing business with someone involved in those kind of affairs rather frightening. Wouldn’t you think so too?”

Steele gives his sincerest effort to put on an expression of affront. As is, he just looks nervous and guilty. “Mr. Wayne,” he sputters, “I must tell you that everything you have ever heard regarding that is unsubstantiated!”

Lie.

“I would never support criminals in such a manner—”

Lie.

Steele leans back in his chair, and takes a deep breath.

“— and I have always tried to use my wealth to deal with them.”

Truth.

Clark frowns. That can’t be right.

“Honestly, Mr. Wayne, I take offense to your assumptions about me! Why, certainly you must have experience with having the vultures assume the worst of you. The most uncharitable tabloids are always looking for something to invent to disparage the characters of good men, and—”

“Yes, yes, I understand, Mr. Steele,” Bruce interrupts. “Thank you for meeting with me. We will get back to you with further details.”

Once the man leaves, and Bruce returns to his office, Clark closes the door behind them with a grin. “Who’s gonna tell him that being accused of sleeping around and being accused of colluding with criminal masterminds aren’t exactly in the same ballpark?”

Bruce grunts. “If he doesn’t know that by now, then no one’s ever going to be able to change his mind.” He levels Clark with a look. “What did you learn?”

“Well, he’s definitely lying about almost everything. But he did seem to be telling the truth when he mentioned that he was dealing with the villains, even though I don’t quite buy what he said.”

Bruce taps his finger on his chin, deep in thought. “Dealing with the villains… perhaps his phrasing is where we need to look. He’s making some sort of deal with one of them.”

“To kill you?”

“Possibly.” He looks back at Clark, eyes steely and focused. “I will pay him a secret visit tonight, and see what I can find regarding any unsavoury dealings. Maybe then—”

As it turns out, Bruce doesn’t even need to go looking for the trouble. The trouble just comes to find him. Clark throws himself over Bruce, rolling him across the shiny floor of his office as fire shoots in through the now shattered windows. Clark lands over Bruce’s body, and they watch as Firefly comes barrelling in through the window, spraying pieces of glass everywhere. Clark surreptitiously blows away some of the stray pieces before they can hurt Bruce.

“I gotta thank you, Wayne,” Firefly goads. “I just got a massive payday for trying to get rid of you. It’s almost too easy to make money these days, huh? Where’s the challenge?”

Clark rises to his feet. If he finds a way to get Bruce out of here, Batman can come and clean up this mess. But it wouldn’t do to break his cover, either…

“Get back, Mr. Wayne,” Clark growls, putting on a deep, intimidating voice. Behind him, Bruce does an excellent impression of a cowering puppy. Clark reaches out a hand as though shielding him. “I’ll protect you.”

Firefly bursts into laughter. “That’s rich. You think you can take me on? With what, your dopey sunglasses?”

You’d be surprised, Clark almost says. But he doesn’t. Because he’s a bodyguard, and they aren’t really supposed to quip around. That’s what the movies say.

Instead, Clark jumps for Bruce as Firefly unleashes another spray of fire. He shoves himself over Bruce, and then pushes him towards the window. “You’re toast, you asshole!” rages Firefly, flying towards him, flamethrowers at the ready.

In the three seconds it takes for Firefly to reach him, Clark takes the time to observe the crowd gathering outside the building, watching with bated breath. He watches Bruce’s expression twist into one of utter exasperation, the look of fear falling off his face once he is sure that Firefly is focused on Clark completely. And he watches the wires connected to the tank on Firefly’s back sway with the force of his flight.

As Firefly shoots towards him, Clark grabs onto the wire, pulling Firefly with it before the man can use his flamethrowers. Using the one on the left, Clark deftly spins the man around and around, wrapping him up in his own weapon. And then he knocks him out with a solid right hook.

Clark secures Firefly to Bruce’s fancy desk, which is bolted into the ground, making it a convenient restraint. With Firefly taken care of, Clark turns back to Bruce.

Only to find him teetering on the edge of his own building, hanging on to the edge of his destroyed wall. People are screaming, outside, and Clark just gives Bruce a judgemental look, knowing that no one can see him. “Don’t you dare.”

Bruce, for his part, just gives him an expression of utmost satisfaction. “Whoops,” he says, completely deadpan, before he lets his fingers go lax, starting his descent towards the pavement below.

Clark doesn’t even think twice. Grabbing Firefly’s flamethrower— the one connected to the wire on his right— he jumps after Bruce, and grabs him by the waist. Bruce, steady heartbeat belying that he is quite unconcerned despite the expression of fake terror on his face, turns to face him as they hang midair, and wraps his arms around his neck.

“My hero!” he simpers, loud enough for people to hear, and then he kisses him. And despite the sheer audacity of the man, Clark lets him, because he really does feel like he deserves it today.

--

“Hey, listen to this,” Clark says, laughing. “Bruce Wayne seduces new bodyguard after near death experience. Bruce, you’re famous again!”

“Very funny,” Bruce grumbles. “Of course they’d report on that instead of on Maxwell Steele’s arrest.”

“I guess being arrested for colluding with Firefly isn’t juicy enough for the Gotham Gazette.”

“Hm.”

Clark lets Bruce type at his computer a while longer, happy to just sit there and soak up the feeling of satisfaction of a job well done.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Bruce finally says, cutting through the silence. “How did you manage to speak in such a… different voice?”

Clark grins. “Extremely precise muscle control.” He lets his voice drop lower into the deep, silky baritone he’d adopted for his role. “Do you like it, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce turns to face him, and Clark grins. He speeds off, and returns dressed in the suit, just in time for Bruce to give him a once-over. “I suppose I do,” Bruce replies.

“Which does remind me,” Clark vocalizes, slipping the shades onto his face. “We haven’t yet discussed the terms of my payment.”

“How much would you like?”

Clark stands, and stalks over to Bruce, keeping a serious, emotionless expression on his face. He rests his hands on the armrests of Bruce’s chair, and leans into Bruce’s space until their lips are only a few inches apart. “I believe,” he rumbles, “that we can come to some other arrangement.”

Bruce licks his lips, otherwise expressionless. But his hands come up to run all over Clark’s chest, over the muscles of his arm, around his neck. They come up to his face to trace around his eyes, or rather, around the shades covering them.

“So do I.”

Clark just grins, and kisses him. Being disguised as a bodyguard really did have its perks, even if it was only for a day. He got to have the whole movie experience, down to getting with a hot love interest in the end. It doesn’t get much better than that.

---

Read on AO3

[tethered-heartstrings]

hannigram 5.3k pwp

Hannibal took another sip of wine, then reached out with both hands to cup Will’s face. He moved slowly, intentionally. His fingers caressed from the point of Will’s chin through the coarse dark hair of his beard, fanning out to his cheeks. When his fingertips reached Will’s ears, he stopped, cradling Will’s jaw in his palms while his thumbs brushed against old scars. He smiled, eyes moving from Will’s reflective gaze down to his slightly parted lips. “Instinct is nothing more than lessons learned and skills acquired over millions of years of self-preservation. Genetic patterns built to keep us alive without thinking. Legs to run or kick, arms to climb or scratch…” “And mouths to bite?” Will spoke low, eyes darting across Hannibal’s, unsure where to settle his gaze. Hannibal hummed. “The mouth serves many, many purposes."

i.e. hannibal gives will an anatomy lesson (fingers in his mouth)

[javelinbk]

Paul McCartney is a Disney princess: Bambi edition

Next up:

Sleeping Beauty