#he's so fun to write for

[eurydia]

a self-indulgent drawing of Raphael disheveled and covered in blood

I was inspired to write a short fic to go with it, you can read it below or in AO3: [One Last Visit]

Tav finds Raphael bleeding and near-death in her room in Elfsong Tavern—or so she thinks.

One Last Visit (944 words) by Eurydia

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Blood and Injury, Drinking, Alcohol, Older Man/Younger Woman, Ficlet, Minor Spoilers, Raphael is overly protective of Tav, Hope is such a tease (and so is he)

This is also my gift for the support on "The Lover's Gambit". Thank you so much ❤️!

Tag explanations: - Minor spoilers for Wyll's background - Implied/Referenced Torture - Does not actually happen in the fic, but Raphael briefly describes doing it to someone else

      Tav went to her room in Elfsong Tavern. The rest of her party was still downstairs, drinking and celebrating for the night.

      She opened the door and found Raphael slumped against her bed, his white frilled collar stained with blood.

      “Raphael? What in the Hells happened?” she knelt beside him.

      He glanced at her weakly, managing a smirk. Tav wanted to think it was selfishness that made her start tending to his wounds: if she helped him, he would owe her a favor. But that wasn’t entirely true. She had developed a soft spot for the devil.

      “Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence?” he began, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.       “Stop talking and hold still,” Tav muttered. Presently, she had no patience for his theatrics. She grabbed a napkin off a table and began to wipe his smarmy face with it.       He chuckled. For once, he listened and stayed still, silently watching her dab at his curled lip.

      It wasn’t long before Tav realized there wasn’t a single cut or bruise on him. Either he was concealing them—or feigning his injuries. She gave him the benefit of the doubt for now and looked him over. Bloodstains covered his normally immaculate outfit, some mere splatters while others steadily bloomed in size. He smelled strongly of the Hells, of ash, sulfur and infernal metal.

      Raphael was enjoying this. He figured he could indulge himself a little more and drag the show on.

      “I’ll get Shadowheart—“       He grabbed her wrist gently. Worry strained her fair features.       “As much as I enjoy watching you fuss over me, I’m afraid we don’t have much time,” Raphael said, solemnly. “Soon I’ll be sent back to the hells, to the very point where I last stood before I was…beaten. Potentially for good, this time. But since I’ve grown quite fond of you, I decided to pay you one last visit. For old time’s sake.”       Tav stared at his fingers still curled around her wrist. She slowly took his hand in hers.       “A question you may ask, but only one. True to my word, I shall answer, not run.”       Her gaze fell to a stain somewhere on his chest.       “What is a devil like you truly afraid of?” she decided.

      Raphael laughed. A laugh that came from deep within, unabashed and loud.

      “Oh, you mortals are so gullible! It’s adorable. Do you really think I could be beaten so easily? No need to fetch your favorite cleric,” he snapped. All the bloodstains on his clothes vanished. “It wasn’t my blood, little pup.”       Tav sighed. She shoved him away and walked to her wine cabinet.       “You’re insufferable,” she groaned, opening a Berduskan and taking a long, irritated swig.        “Don’t act so surprised. We are well-acquainted by now.”       He stood then brushed nonexistent dust off his clean clothes.       “Do I dare ask whose blood that was?”       “Let’s just say that vile, drunken creature downstairs won’t be bothering you any longer.”

      Tav set her drink down.

      “What did you do?”       “If you must know: I dismembered him,” he grinned. “Limb by limb, fingernail by fingernail. You should’ve heard his screaming, it was utterly delightful.”       Her back was to him, but he caught her shoulders bowing. He grinned.       “Are you worried about me?”       “Merely protecting my assets,” he replied. “Now, enjoy your night. If you’ll—“       “Wait. You didn’t answer me.”

      Raphael approached her. He extended a hand, brow raised in question. Eventually, she gave her his hand. He conjured up a handkerchief and began to wipe the bloodstains off her fingers.

      “I did not,” said Raphael, his eyes sharpening to a point on her palm. “My heart aches for your horned and heroic friend, Wyll Ravengard. If he’s not in the shadow of his fellow devils, he’s in the shadow of his father. I see why Mizora took pity on the poor pup. After all these years, he still hasn’t given up hope of pleasing him. Hope—such a tease.”

      Raphael said it all in his usual tone, full of melodrama and feigned pathos. At the end, however, Tav caught his gaze softening. Their eyes met, and he quickly finished his task before turning away.

      “You don’t get along with your father?” Tav asked, genuinely surprised. She found it strangely human that even a fiend like him was not immune to such predicaments.       “Unless you consider plotting each other’s downfall as a father-son bonding activity, then no. We do not. Thankfully, I have as much interest in making amends as I do in the affairs of mortalkind.”

      He would never admit it, but he hadn’t told a single soul about how he felt about his father, not even his incubus. Usually, he would’ve taken his leave by now. But the way she stared at him, with tenderness and affection, compelled him to linger a moment longer. He let her draw nearer, until he was close enough to see the scarring in her eye from the tadpole.

      Tav kissed him on the cheek.

      “Thank you, Raphael. I owe you a drink."       “A drink? I think you owe me far more than that." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing on her lips. She felt herself rising to meet him, her eyelids fluttering shut, her heartbeat overtaking the murmurs of the Illithid—       He snapped.       “Goodnight, sweetling.”

      She watched him disappear in a vibrant flame. On the spot where he had stood, lay a neatly folded handkerchief. She picked it up and sniffed it, the scent of the Hells—of him—flooding her senses like the most intoxicating perfume.

      Tav put it in her pocket and smiled.

[velvet-paradox]

Vulnerable

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: König x Female reader Summary: somethings just don't stay on the battlefield. Length: Long Warnings: NSFW, 18 + ONLY, canon typical violence, blood, death, established relationship, explicit content, strong language, sexual assault, oral (m receiving), L-bomb, unprotected p in v sex (wrap it up, you know the drill), creampie, smut.

Vulnerable.

König hates the word. Seethes it, loathes it, spits it out like broken teeth in a skin tearing fight. He knows the feeling well. He's missing four of his own (just a couple in the back, nothing too serious) and the front left one is chipped. It might worsen if he keeps tonguing it behind his mask though.

He's been here before. Not in this exact warehouse or chair but he'd been in a familiar position.

The mission was supposed to be a crystal clear cut and dry recon. Get in, get out, get the job done quietly and go the fuck home. Only to find out, the hard way, that himself, you and Ghost had stumbled across what was supposed to be a closed off base of operations. You were just looking for stolen black market weapons; not fucking terrorists.

Ultimately dispatched and taken hostage, they separated your company. The way your head knocked back when one of the men who'd grabbed you after giving your cheek a good blunt hit with his gun, made König wince. Anger, so much anger boiled deep in his belly, even more so when he watched them drag you limply into a different room.

The sound is deafening. His gloves feel too tight, his eyes are too hot, he's sweating and taking notes of how the other three men are pacing rhythmically behind him.

The main guy in front of König tilts his head to the radio attached to his shoulder, after it alerts to the room and he smiles sickly before tuning it to another channel. 

"Has he talked yet?" 

"Not yet. But he will." The bearded man crossed his arms over his lithe chest.

"See if this helps."

König grinds his jaw and flexes his fingers when he heard you in the background, your breathing is heavy and ragged and a multitude of scenarios are bouncing off the walls of his mind. And none of them are any good, each one more devastating then the last.

"Now you have a real audience. So speak up, cupcake." The other man speaks and scoffs when your reply is a spit. In his face, from the sound of it.

"That's cute."

König squinted when you are clearly slapped in the face, a wheeze of air leaving your throat.

"Let's try this again, hmmm?"

"You're not going to break me." Your voice crackles through the speaker. König shifts, as if he could make himself small enough to fit through the device and to where ever you were.

The man in your room laughs, mocking you. "Is that so? I'm going to tell you something now, sweetheart. The ones with fight, especially the broads with spunk, like you... are the best to break," König flared his nose at the enemies words. He'd seen what unhinged men were capable of. "Cut it off."

Your shouts of NO!, creaking and distress coming from you and whatever you were tied to came through, loudly. That got the attention of the three vultures.

The man in front of König chuckled darkly, turning up the volume some more. 

"Well look at that boys, she's been smuggling melons under all that gear!"

König growled against his restraints, scuffing his boots against the cement floor.

"Are you going to talk now, big guy? Your little girlfriend is getting a nice little once over from the boss himself. One should be such obliged," his grubby hand on his shoulder had him biting a chunk of cheek as he listened further. "I almost feel sorry for what he's going to do." 

"Don't fucking touch me! Don't you fuck-"

The man abruptly turned off the radio, which was a blessing as much as it was a curse. On the one hand it was enough to hear your assault, what he could and didn't want to imagine happening in a room similar to the one he was locked up in. But then he wanted to hear more, make sure you were alright, in one piece. 

König knew for years you could handle yourself accordingly but something like this, caught off guard in an ambush was a whole other can of worms.

"Now do you feel like talking?"

König's laugh lacked humor, he was already a cluster fuck of anxiety and emotions, you, the fucking love of his whole life were being tortured, traumatized, assaulted. He didn't have anything to lose from the jump, what would it take for him to just lunge forward and take a bite, rip out this guy's larynx like the feral animal felt caged in tactical gear and issued boots, that he was?

"You idiots..."

"Oh! So you can talk!" The man exclaimed, slapping his knee as the other men moved around him, one had the fucking balls to push König's head as he did so.

He snapped his teeth.

"We got you good, right where we want you. Locked up, tied up, nowhere to go. Tell us big fella'," one of the quieter men poked him in the shoulder, what was meant to be hard and stern König guessed by the smug look on his face when he did it. "We've been hidden away for months, then all of a sudden three military cunts like you just so happen upon our operation. Who are you? Who do you work for?"

Now that all four men were in front of him he could really work on his restraints. As soon as he woke up from being knocked out, similar to you, he realized the rope wasn't as tight as it could've been. 

Which was good for König; bad for them.

"I work for no one."

"Then how did you find us so quickly?"

"Just lucky I guess," König shrugged, focusing on the task at literal hand, and how to get to you. "Good thing we did though. It's been fun but I think I've had enough."

The main man laughed, the other soon joining, not realizing König was nearly free. 

"Oh man, there's four of us and one of you."

König smiled beneath his hood, eyes twinkling. "I like those odds. How simple minded of you, how one dimensional." König laughed, this time with humor, dripping and stinking with it. "You have no idea who you dealing with, do you?"

"What makes us stupid then, big guy? You're the one tied up."

His smile deepened, he could feel his own dimples indent against his sharp teeth. Another chortle. "Because you think you have me locked in here with you but buddy, that's a big mistake," his accent thickened as he dropped his tone and chin, looking up at his captures sinisterly. "You all have willing locked yourselves in here with me." 

König rose to his feet, inch by inch to his full weight and stature. To them he must've looked like a behemoth rising from the depths of the ocean and for most, he certainly was. In shock, in awe, in amazement they shouted obscenities and couldn't get a hold of their weapons fast enough. 

König gripped the sides of the chair before turning fast enough to knock one of the guys to the ground with it.

He swung it the opposite way making the others stumble backwards or to the floor, he couldn't tell until the rope slipped from one of his wrists. König lunged and grabbed the closest man, grappling with him as he coiled the rope around his neck and pulled him up and up. He used his body as a shield when they opened fire, lighting up their comrade. 

König threw the now limp and bloody body at them, he ducked and grabbed the chair, breaking off a leg hastily, the jagged wood found its new home in the groin and gut of another enemy. Another series of shots rang out in the room but for a man of König's size, he was quite cat-like. 

He grabbed the arm of the last one, twisting it behind his back before taking the gun from his hand and shot the man across from him followed by two executions shots to the one in his grip. The men dropped to the floor like flies, the smell and spray of blood and gun powder weren't foreign but in the small dank room, it reeked like battery acid.

König checked their ammo and weapons, along with his own they had taken, he cocked his shotgun before leaving the room. Red lights flickered above, close enough to his head, he figured the darker the exterior the better and bashed each light that stood in his way. After rounding a series of dark corners he heard the trigger of a gun and stopped in his tracks.

"She with you?"

Ghost. 

König paused and shook his head.

"Fuckin' hell." Ghost huffed and joined him.

This place was a maze, barrels of some greasy substance, weapon crates full and strapped together, metal tables stained with blood and what remained. 

Some dark shit was going down here and Captain Price would need as much intel as possible when they got back to base. By the look of it, this was a far bigger deal than the three of you could snuff out. Strewn crude tools that made König's heart slip up his throat, if anything more than what he'd heard earlier, were to happen to you he'd--

A guttural scream echoed off the cement walls.

Ghost touched his shoulder and signaled to pick up the pace, that you were nearby.

The scrape of metal had them stopping outside of a rusty, tetanus looking door. Ghost gave a nod and König charged the door with his shoulder once, then again, on the third thrust he broke it down, twisted on its old hinges.

"Fuck!"

"Shit!"

When König's eyes adjusted to the brighter room he was shocked by what he saw.

Two men had their guns trained on him and Ghost, the third had his gun pointed to the back of your head. But that was to be expected under the circumstances. What wasn't was the state you were in. 

Bent over another metal table, thankfully no tools were to be seen but there you were, pleading, your tact vest and gear were gone, so was your compression shirt and bra. Naked from the waist up, a split lip had joined your busted cheek. Tears had clumped your lashes and had stained your face, your eyes were wild when they had settled, locking eyes with your sniper. Your pants were at your thigh, thankfully your underwear were still on. That didn't mean a damn thing though as König readied his gun. 

No one said anything.

They didn't have time to.

The two men suddenly crumpled from two precise head shots before them, stunning everyone in the room. You managed to shift and duck under the filthy table, safely out of the way.

Sergeant Soap McTavish joined him and Ghost, looming into the room. "Well, finish 'em off! Wheels up in ten."

König made short strides to the last man as he scrambled back against the wall, his gun had jammed and König kicked it out of his hand anyway. He stomped on it actually, he could feel the knuckles pop as the man yelped. He'd threatened you, your life, your dignity and for what? 

König snorted and grabbed the son of a bitch by the throat, both hands clasped as he dragged him up. He squeezed. Tighter and tighter, his green eyes bulged and squinted in terror as the life was slowly leaving his body. The last thing this bag of bones would see was König's dark, narrowed eyes, avenging you within minutes. König dropped him when he saw nothing left behind them.

He finally looked at you, Simon doing his best to search for your gear while Soap attempted to lure you out from underneath the table.

You had your face pressed into the tops of your knees, shielding and covering your exposed skin.

"Little maus." 

König may have just killed several men, had their last breath and blood on him but he offered his hand to you gently as the name he called you.

You rose your head, anguish making your face pouty.

"Come on maus, you're safe now." König took off one of his gloves then offered it to you again.

This time you took it, he brought you carefully to his chest. Once on your feet you hugged him tightly, trying your hardest to press yourself into him, like you wanted to be apart of his armor, apart of him. He held you as you sobbed and stained his vest. You cried harder when he told you to watch your face, didn't want you to bust it up anymore against the straps and items on his person.

"It's alright maus. You're safe in my hands. Always." 

....

Once the dust cleared König could make you out, taking the stairs two at a time, L.T.'s distress call through the radios got your ass moving. You called for König, alerting him to your location.

You'd thrown yourself into mission after mission after that Russian snafu. He didn't blame you. None of them blamed you.

You blamed yourself though. 

König remembered leaving the debriefing room soon afterwards, waiting outside the door. He frowned under his hood when you made it a point to apologize to Price.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry? And jus' what are you sorry for, solider?"

Your voice wavered and König could only imagine you wringing your wrists like you did when you got anxious. "It's my fault we had to abort the mission. We should've know it was an ambush."

Price chuckled, lightly. "And how we were supposed to know that, hmm? That bit was a surprise to us all, Y/L/N. They weren't supposed to even be there."

"Still... I know how important this was. I mean, you really stuck your neck out for me to be apart of this mission and I blew it."

"You didn't blow a damn thing, don't even talk like that in my presence again, understood?" Price was stern on you and it made König fidget and cross and re-cross his arms. A few other soldiers gave him a nod as they walked past. "Simon did mention an-- indiscretion. When you're ready to talk, we have plenty of staff at your beck and call. Take your time."

You wasted none of it.

Several gun shots brought him to the smoky building, he followed the direction he'd seen you take off in, making sure he had an extra magazine at the ready.

....

One thing about König is that he'd sensitive. Inside and out. Everywhere. Hence the full gear, skin fucking tight so not even a breeze can tickle the fine hairs on his arms, his thick legs or back of his neck. He gets the chills often, shouldering off the feeling.

You like to bring up the first time you accidentally tickled him in the weight room. How were you supposed to know he was as touch starved as he was? And all you'd done was pat his rear when he wavered on a dead lift.

Or the first time you sucked him off.

It was an out-of-body experience for the Austrian. He'd kept his compression shirt on, covered his eyes with his forearm as he tried desperately not to whine and jerk around while your mouth explored his midriff, thighs and sac. That didn't last long though.

Thinking back on it, as he was now, while you teased the crown of his cock with your nimble little fingers had him already bucking into your palm.

You said you wanted to keep yourself busy, occupied so your brain didn't just short-fucking-circuit back to that mission. It would haunt you sometimes, make you lash out. Make you mean. Caused nightmares and shouts in your sleep. Those nights he'd gently stir you awake, pull you to his chest and let you cry it all out. 

Laswell helped with the talking bits, König (your König) got the behind the scenes stuff.

"I can't-- fuck me... I can't take much more." König choked out, his mouth went slack when your snicker of control reached his ears.

"Oh sure you can, big boy. I've had you in worse positions then this." You shushed him before taking a bite of his thigh, the inner, softer meat was so sensitive he jumped. You were right though as he trembled beneath your ministrations.

You've had the big guy in a tapestry of ways, unraveling like an old sweater. You caught him staring, made him nervous, even more anxious when you wouldn't look away. You jerked him off once in a storage closet, he'd somehow not managed to crack his head on the low door frame. You gripped the front of his hood to keep him low and quiet as he came in your hand. The high pitch hum that came from his throat for the first time, startled both him and you when you swallowed him down in your room on base. The way you moved your hand from what you couldn't fit into your drooling mouth, smoothed your saliva down your chin then proceeded to cup your throat. You gave it a flash-in-the-pan squeeze, he could feel you grip his cock through the skin and muscle of your skin. He jerked and almost kicked you in the face.

The way you looked up at him from your sniper lay on his bed, reminded him of the look you gave him when you had him in the best position yet. Sitting on his kitchen counter, just in one of his ratty shirts the morning after a few rounds, caged behind him like some sort of spider monkey. One hand jerking his cock as slowly, toying with him as you pleased while the other held his chin, holding eye contact to save his fucking life while you pumped him to the fucking edge.

He fondly remembered how you matched his moans, breathy and exact as you coaxed him to completion.

....

"No... no don't."

König sighed in his sleep, he moved his leg just in time as yours came crashing into it. He jolted awake then when you whimpered and yelped, thrashing about in his bed. Caught up in his own sheets, he couldn't move his hood faster to see you making that terribly sad face, eyes scrunched tight, mouth open and shaking.

"Liebling, wake up."

You whined and coiled around, muttering somethings he couldn't understand. "Please my love, my maus. It's just a dream." König moved closer, careful of his groin when you kicked out again. His large hand held your wrist, easily rolling you over onto your side to face him. Your other hand balled into a fist when he scooted back.

"No no not again..."

"Bad dream, maus. Just a bad dream. I'm here, you're here." König touched your face, bringing his forehead to yours. "Breathe maus, breathe with me. I know you can hear me in there." This had worked before when nights were bad, like he could siphon himself into your consciousness, become as a real of a safety net in your dream-world, as he was in real life.

"König..."

"I'm here maus, I'm right here."

You suddenly opened your eyes and immediately tear up, your eyebrows making that shape he hates so much because it means you're upset, your hurt.

"I'm here." 

König hasn't cried in six months but he can feel himself cave in towards the water works if he looks at you any longer. So instead he grabs you, holds you against his chest, one of your legs automatically going over his hip to bring you as close as possible. He holds your head as you shakily sob into his neck.

"I'm s-o-orry. Bad dream. I hate this." 

"I know. They'll go away eventually," König soothes, slipping his hand now underneath your sleep shirt which used to fit him but just swamps your entire body. He likes it that way, says it looks better on you than it did on him anyway, joked that if you really wanted to, you could cinch in the sides and make it into a dress. "I've had my fair share of night terrors too, maus."

You wetly mumble against his skin.

"What was that?"

You swallowed and shakily answered with your hands against the bottom of his hood. Your eyes glistening as you tried to explain yourself in the dark. "I sa-a-id, I said... what would I do without yo-ou."

König was touched, his cold heart growing warmer with each look of your eyes, touch of your hand, your skin on his skin, your mouth on his, every laugh had built a hammer strong enough break down the highest of walls he'd built. Little cracks had formed in his healthy foundation but now they were threatened by your...

"I love you."

König blinked. Had he heard that right? Anxiety started to swirl and make his head spin.

"Maus--"

"I love you so much," you professed and gripped his mask tighter, hooking your ankle a little more above his hip, heart to heart. "I just h-hope you know it. If it weren't for you... even before you saved me. My mom was right; when you know, you know." You shrugged with a watery smile and little sniffle.

The big man was at a loss for words, drawing blanks on his tongue. So he did what he felt was right.

....

Lifting his mask to kiss you gently yet deep and with the most meaning, was on the table. How he'd managed to say 'fuck it' between kisses, had him lifting it further until it was off his hot head all together. Exposed to the elements of the room, to the night; to you.

You slipped your tongue into his mouth, sighing into him as a hand snaked under your shirt, running his fingers up and down your back, over your shoulder blades, down your vertebrae. He wanted to mold himself to you, fit inside your molecules, become one with you.

You nodded, rubbing your noses together when he asked, begged to be inside you. Show you he loved you too even though he couldn't bring his voice to let those three words escape it's cage.

König had moved the sheet, eyeing you as you lifted your hips to get rid of your sleep shorts, bare for him to breach your entrance. Which he did, slowly, surely. Holding and pressing just the tip of his cock against your folds, rutting just a little against you, more and more as you wrapped yourself around him. You stared into his eyes, unmasked and for the first time König  didn't feel scared or anxious about how you'd feel about his face, his scars, his insecurities. 

He was content.

"Take in a breath for me, maus. Can you do that?" He rushed, the blunt crown of his thick cock lay waiting and nestled against your hole.

"Yes."

You did as he asked after a few, your fingers tightened in the hair that rested against the base of his neck as he pressed forward. You mewled and huffed out his name. 

You moved together, in a rhythm neither one of you had intentionally set yet here you are, rocking together, fucking away the pain.

König bit his lip watching you writhe against him, his free hand ghosted over your hip pulling you back and forth against the rod that was plunging deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. The push and pull, the suction of your wet pussy drawing him back had left his throat dry with desire. 

Your mouth popped open and before you could make a sound he captured your mouth with his own, groaning against your tongue. He matched licks to your mouth to the thrusts you were chasing.

He held your leg and rolled you over, keeping his steady pace, caging arms around your head when you touched his bare face. He flinched and throbbed inside you. Nuzzling his jaw to yours.

"I don't even know where I end and you begin." König sat up a bit, giving you a chance to catch your breath, he arched and hit a deeper spot in your pussy that left you barring your teeth. Your hands moved up to touch his wrists.

Somehow you ended up in his lap, long legs dangling off the end of the bed, perched perfectly in an embrace; inside and out. He held you up with one hand on the back of your neck, looking over your pretty face, his throat itching to scream Ich liebe dich auch! Ich liebe dich auch!. He let the other one leave his own thigh to touch and rub your swollen clit. You yelped and wrapped your arms tighter around his neck.

"I need you. Don't... don't let me go, König. Please baby, don't let me go alone."

He thought you might cry again until he realized what you meant. You took a bite out of his shoulder.

"Never. I'm with you maus, my little thing. My precious girl I'm right behind you, keep going like this and you'll drain me dry."

You shivered at that.

König chuckled in your ear.

"Together. Please cum with me, baby, please!" You wailed when his fingers, though thick and calloused were nimble and soft, knew how much pressure you could take before you snapped in his lap. Just a little more, a little more.

" 'm right there, I'm right there," König grunted your name, breathed out obscenities and thrust up when you rode down. "I can feel you squeezing me, let it go, maus. Let go. Give it to me, share it with me."

You cried against his neck, little puffs of  love you love you tattooed against his skin, your nails in his back, your hair in his face. Your scent and whimpers of your slippery climax pushed König over the edge. He pressed a lingering kiss to your head as you fell limp against his chest.

Once dislodged from your cunt, your joined juices that had stained his sac and the fitted sheet below, he'd laid you down, your back to his chest. You sleepily fit your fingers between his. His chest swelled at your gestures. 

You fell asleep soon after, your little hums and flutter of lashes on his forearm made him smile behind you, curling his massive frame around you like a shield. He whispered in your ear that you were safe, no more bad dreams, no bad men, no wrong.

Just you and him, safe in this bed and finally his throat relaxed enough to say those three words.

Ich liebe dich auch = I love you too Tagging: @synnersaint @kaplerrr

[becca-e-barnes]

Hey lovely! I love your work so much honestly you’re absolutely amazing! I was just wondering if you’d ever write anything for sbf!bucky again? I re read your work about him all the time and I’m a little bit of a whore for him 😅 no pressure whatsoever, it’s just that sweet baby has my heart 🥺

Sbf!Bucky has been really heavily requested recently and now I feel like I've been neglecting him 😩 I really enjoy writing him and it lets me dabble in my dream of being a milf some day

But I feel like he has a real sweet tooth. He's a dessert guy, 110%. Not like your husband or your son.

From the very first Sunday that your son brought Bucky over for dinner, he's been so into your desserts because a good dessert is something he's really missed during his last couple of years at college. It doesn't even really matter what you make, every week he tells you it's even better than whatever you made the Sunday before.

The store bought, dry cakes he sometimes treats himself to don't even come close to the fluffy sponges you make for him. He tells you your lemon meringue is better than the one his aunt used to make and your pies are probably a cure for sadness. He exaggerates but at least he sounds sincere.

And it's nice. It's nice that he appreciates your effort. It's nice that your desserts actually get eaten and enjoyed. It's nice that you're not sitting at the dinner table alone after lunch. Company is nice. Compliments are nice.

"I know it's late but I don't want you to think I'd forgotten." You made yourself busy in the kitchen, talking a little louder so Bucky could still hear you in the dining room. He usually helped you plate up dessert but not today.

"What are you talking about?" Bless him, he sounded so confused. "I can give you a hand if you like?"

"No, it's okay. Close your eyes." You thought your instruction was clear enough but Bucky still protested.

"Just close your eyes, Buck." You could've sworn you felt him raise his eyebrows but he did as he was told anyway.

You set the plate in front of him and laid a little dessert fork above his placemat. "I know your birthday was last Tuesday but I thought we could still celebrate it today. You're only 24 once." Bucky opened his eyes to the most mouth watering slice of chocolate cake he swore he'd ever seen in his life.

Two thick layers of moist chocolate sponge with a rich chocolate icing in between. The cake must have been heated for a couple of minutes, making the icing warm enough to make the layers slide slightly. Thick, warm chocolate sauce rolled down the sides, taking with it a light dusting of powdered sugar, almost washing away the single lit birthday candle. The plate was decorated with a perfect scoop of cool vanilla ice cream and some fresh strawberries, left overnight in a teaspoonful of sugar to draw out their juice.

"You didn't need to make a whole cake just for me!" His genuine excitement was heartwarming, quickly blowing out his candle before wax melted onto his dessert.

"Sweetheart, I make a whole cake just for you every week. Happy birthday." You lifted the little dessert fork, slicing through the sponge with it, making sure to add a little ice cream and a slice of strawberry before raising it to his lips.

You could swear he actually moans when the cake passes his lips. He makes the same noise at dessert every Sunday and you swear you never get tired of hearing it. It's so close to the noise he makes when he first sinks inside you and God, that sound is beautiful.

Your foot grazes his leg, gently but deliberately and there's a battle going on behind those eyes when he takes the fork from his own mouth. On one hand, your husband is in the next room, sitting beside your son, Bucky's best friend. On the other hand, Bucky needs you to know how much he appreciates this. Appreciates you. And if he's honest with himself, your husband and son being so close has never stopped him before.

"Fuck, you've ruined me." He groans, pressing his lips to yours in a hurry. Somehow you manage to stifle your surprise, catching up when he presses you back onto the dining room table.

"You and those fucking desserts. It's not fair. You get me half hard during dinner and then you feed me the best chocolate cake I've ever had? Do you know how unfair that is?" His hands are all over you, pulling your skirt up in between frantic kisses.

The chocolate cake is all but forgotten, the ice-cream left to melt while Bucky kisses your neck before he tugs your panties off, tucking them into the back pocket of his jeans.

[cher-rei]

https://www.tumblr.com/cher-rei/762590447309864960/guys-chapter-4-is-going-to-be-so-damn-good-im?source=share

Girl I could read 20k words if they're from you 5k is nothing

this is so sweet, thank youuu!! (don't tempt me with the 20k, I have no limitations)

[demonic0angel]

Court Story Idea

TW: the Joker

Where the Joker is being prosecuted for his crimes within the Ghost Zone and each side (defendant and plaintiff) is able to choose the lawyer for the other side. So that means that the Joker is able to choose an attorney for the plaintiffs AKA Jason, along with other victims, both alive and dead. (For drama’s sake, let’s say that the Justice League is there too, along with the younger generation of heroes.)

When everyone hears this, they’re like ??? Because isn’t that just going to help the Joker??

And the Joker, realizing this, is looking for the most weakest, most vulnerable person to exploit within this ghostly court room and he looks at the back of the room…

And finds Jazz, who’s sitting in a corner behind King Phantom, head down, trying her best to be unnoticed, nose in her papers as she’s writing down what’s said as the court reporter.

And the Joker picks her.

Nobody understands why everyone from the Ghost Zone is suddenly either 1) flabbergasted, 2) completely delighted, or 3) laughing so hard that it’s like they’re about to die a 2nd time.

Because the Joker chose the only person in the room with an actual law degree who is not only the big sister of the literal Ghost King, but also loves children, is fiercely protective of them, and most importantly, has never gotten the opportunity to show off her hard earned degrees in criminology, psychiatry, or law until now.

(Inspired by this post where someone says that Jazz would be the court reporter)

[idiotsonlyevent]

i wonder where the idea of chilchuck being a deadbeat came from when theres like. no textual evidence for it ?

he knows what all of them are up to; he still writes to flertom and she sent him his neckwarmer, so that to me implies that they at least have a somewhat positive relationship?

its more ambiguous with meijack and puckpatti, but since meijack is also a picklock, i wouldn't be surprised if he taught her himself, considering how trades are often passed down through families, and because he talks about sending people to her if he dies.

also the way he talks about puckpatti is very like... it's obvious he wants her to take things more seriously, but he's accepting, and his tone here reads more fond to me than anything else.

like, he keeps his daughters' old toys under his desk? that doesn't scream 'deadbeat' at all, it screams 'empty nester' who doesn't know how to reach out or is scared to do so

EDIT: i know a lot of the 'deadbeat dad' stuff is jokes, but some people are Not joking and genuinely think chilchuck is a bad dad. this post is not saying that you cant joke about it; it is just outlining what canon shows regarding his (clearly positive) relationship with his kids.

[swordsandholly]

Double Date - Double Down

NSFW | MDNI

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!plus size!reader

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: When you get a call in the middle of the afternoon from your friend begging you to fill an empty spot on a double date your initial instinct is a hard no. After all, no one wants to go on a blind double date and be surprised by the fat friend. It doesn’t help that this Simon guy is stupid fucking hot and obviously doesn’t like you - if his lack of talking is anything to go by.

A/N: Just a fun little oneshot I used as a warmup between working on chapters of future multi chapter projects.

“I said *no*.” You snap, angrily folding the washcloth in your hands.

Your friend splutters from the other side of the phone, the desperation in her voice only growing now that she’s on her fourth ask. “*Pleeeaase*! Steph backed out last minute and no one else is free-“

“How do you know I’m free?”

“You just said you were!”

You huff. She’s got you there. When she first called, you admitted you didn’t have anything going on but that was *before* she told you the plan for the night. Before she mentioned that her very, very conventionally hot military boyfriend wanted to do a little double date with his friend and one of hers. Plus, you take a least a little offense to being second choice. Really, last choice, it seems.

“Cass, you can’t just set up a blind date and take your fat friend. That’s not-“

“You’re not fat, love. You’re beautiful.” Her words drip with turned honey. You make a gagging face to yourself in the mirror. “You just need more confidence!”

You sigh loudly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You could try, for the millionth time, to explain to her the nuanced ins and outs of dating as a fat woman. The rules and stats that could rival even the most complex rpg… or you could be petty. It takes less time to be petty. “If I go, you’re paying for my drinks.”

“Johnny’s friend will probably-“

“Yeah, and when he leaves you’re paying for my tab.”

“He won’t-“

“We got a deal?”

She clicks her tongue. “*Fiiiine*.”

At least you can get wasted for free either way. A small consolation. She texts you the time and location, barely leaving you with enough time to shower and turn yourself into something presentable. Not that you really care. It’s going to be shit either way, most likely. Staring yourself down in the mirror, you suppose you could at least try to look somewhat attractive. If you’re about to get rejected (or possibly shouted at, you’ll never forget *that* horrendous interaction) you might as well feel your best.

The pub is small as you push through the front door. Casual. A couple pool tables, some darts, a large bar and few booths with stools on the outer side. You scan the room, searching for Cass’s familiar face.

“Over here!” Cass waves with a wide arc at you, a grin plastered from ear to ear. At least she’s having fun.

You take a long breath, bracing yourself for whatever is about to happen. Cass introduces you to her boyfriend - who is somehow even hotter in person. You can see why she’s so smitten with him. Johnny looks you up and down as he shakes your hand. He doesn’t comment, or make a face, or really react in any particular way, but you can feel a shift. Something in his eyes…

Maybe it’s just your imagination. You’ve always been a little over sensitive.

“Si will be back in a sec. Stepped over tae get a drink.” He flashes a grin.

You hum, quietly folding your hand as Cass pushes a cocktail for you that she preemptively ordered. Criticize her as much as you like, she knows her mixes.

“There he is.” Johnny grins, turning slightly.

You follow his gaze, heart sinking as your eyes settle on the man approaching your table. He’s massive. Tall and wide. Total brick shithouse. His face is mostly covered by a black surgical mask. A few years ago you might have questioned it but at this point you couldn’t care less, especially when his dark eyes meet yours, small flecks of gold honey catching the low bar lights. Barely styled tufts of blonde hair stick up from his head. They look like they might curl if he let it grow a little longer.

All in all, wayyyy out of your league.

He settles into his seat with all the confidence of any military man - back ramrod straight. He extends a large hand. “Simon Riley.”

You murmur your name, somewhat enthralled by the half lidded, almost bored look in his eyes. Now that he’s closer you notice a large scar splitting his left eyebrow and light, newly forming crows feet in the corners of his eyes.

“S-so you’re military, too?” You stutter, eyes trained on his the massive hand holding his glass. It’s nicely vascular, his nails are well groomed but it also looks like he could snap you in half with it.

Not that that’s entirely a bad thing - whatever that may or may not say about you.

He nods. “I’m a Lieutenant.”

“Oh! Officer position. So you’re smart, then?” You try to be charming, to give him a sweet smile and keep your body language open.

“Enough.” He deadpans. It takes a few beats for you to realize he’s not going to say anything else.

“Uh…” You squirm awkwardly under his gaze. It’s intense - his dark eyes nearly black in the low light of the bar. “I do hair.”

Conversation is slow, to say the least. The longest answer he gives you is maybe five words. He only flips up the mask long enough to take a sip of his drink every so often. You start to talk less, opting toward a group conversation in which Johnny takes the lead, which he is obviously very good at. He regales you and Cass with a few stories of his and Simon’s adventures. Some funny, some brave, some worrying. He’s setting the man up to be a god, nearly, but Simon himself just shakes his head and insists Johnny is exaggerating.

You wonder what he sees in Simon. Alternatively, you wonder what *you’re* supposed to see in Simon. Besides his good looks, of course. He’s… bland. Obviously bored if his constant glances toward the exits and rhythmic, occasional tapping on the corner of the table are anything to go by.

“Want tae go dance, lovie?” You overhear Johnny as he leans in toward Cass.

She glances at you, then Simon, then back to you before nodding enthusiastically. “We’ll give you two some time *alone*.”

In any other situation, you’d probably beg her to stay in desperation for a conversation buffer. Here and now, though, you’re grateful. You can finally let this poor guy off the hook. You wait until they’re gone; fully out of earshot before turning to the man in front of you.

“I…uh… look…” You chew your lip, glancing between him and your folded hands on the table. “Sorry… I know I’m probably not what, uh, what you expected… I get it if you want to leave. It’s - you don’t have to stay, or whatever. Don’t have to be polite…”

He cocks an eyebrow, eyes boring through your skull. “Why would I want to leave?”

“I know what I look like. You don’t have to be nice.”

His raised brow turns into a slight frown. “I think you’re quite pretty.”

You scoff - blushing despite yourself. “Again, you don’t have to be nice.”

���Do I seem like the type to just be nice?”

You continue to gnaw at your lip. He’s got you there. Simon definietly doesn’t come off as the type to bow to polite society. “You’ve barely talked to me.”

He stares for a moment. It’s his turn to avert his eyes, swirling around the whiskey in his glass awkwardly. Almost bashfully. “It’s not you. I’m… not great in public… especially in crowds…”

Oh.

*Oh*.

You’ve completely misjudged him, haven’t you? Shit. He’s just a big awkward lug isn’t he?You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Oh God, *I’m* the asshole, aren’t I?”

He chuckles, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m sorry it’s just…” you scrub a hand over your face. “Most men don’t really want to be surprised with a fat girl on a blind date. Guess I assumed the worst.”

Simon hums. A low vibration that settles into your bones. He gets up, sliding into the booth side of the table beside you - his massive frame pushing into your space. He smells like spices. Cinnamon and pepper. A little hint of leather and tobacco underneath. It’s heady, and some primal part of your mind wishes you could roll around in it like a dog.

“Some men might like a waifish little thing, that’s their business, but personally…” He leans in, a large hand resting on your wide thigh. “Yeah. I like somethin’ I can get a proper handful of.”

“*Oh*.” You squeak, back stiff. Was that what you saw in Johnny’s face before? Approval?

“‘Ere’s a thought - we go back to mine. S’quiet. Can talk more freely. See where the night goes, hm?”

You smile hesitantly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. It’s honest. Kind. Dark pools of sincerity. It’s against your better judgement. Impractical. Out of character. Even so, you allow yourself to surrender with a warmth in your cheeks and a small nod.

“I’ll get an Uber.” He pulls out his phone, tapping away. “Five minutes out.”

“Want to wait outside?” You offer, nodding toward the front entrance. Simon just nods, following you out close behind. Neither of you say much of anything while you wait, but you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He taps on his leg a few times in much the same way as he did on the table.

He dutifully opens the car door for you, letting you slide in before climbing in beside you, long legs slightly cramped in the small sedan.

“You don’t live on base?” You ask as the Uber drives away from the infamous military housing. You’d been there once or twice - a while ago when you were younger and messier.

“S’too loud.” He shrugs. “Too crowded.”

“Well, at least you’re consistent.” You smile.

Simon hums, resting his hand on your thigh once again. It’s casual, not too high up or too much pressure. Not presumptuous.

“How’d Johnny get you out there in the first place? If you’re so *averse*.” You tilt your head.

He shrugs, “Was supposed to be another Sergeant we work with but I guess he cancelled. No one else was free.”

“Ah, so we’re both last choices, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Made Cass promise me free drinks if I came.”

“Smart girl.” He chuckles, holding out a hand to help you up out of the car upon your arrival. His hand is warm when you take it, and a small part of you feels disappointed when he lets go.

The building is small. Old. All red brick with a thirty year old intercom and an elevator that you’re pretty sure hasn’t been inspected since the place was built. About halfway down the hall, you start to second guess yourself. You don’t know a thing about this guy - you don’t know what’s going to happen as soon as you get on the other side of his door. His weird, bright red door. Wait - why is this whole floor covered in red doors?

“Alright?” He grunts, back turned to you as he wrestles with the lock.

“Uh - why is your floor color themed?”

Simon laughs, wide shoulders shaking with the movement. It’s a low sound, something that vibrates in his chest. Makes you want to press your ear to it, see how it feels. If it will reverberate into your bones as well. “The old lady that owns the building is a bit… unique. Likes to talk about colors and karma and destiny stuff.”

“Ah.” You nod, as if that makes any sense at all. “So you’re red?”

“Apparently.”

His apartment is actually quite homey, as you step into it. From a stiff military man like him you expected something akin to an ikea floor model. Instead it’s furnished with a well worn, green couch. A large TV with an extremely up-to date surround sound system and an entertainment center filled to the brim with CDs sits against the wall. A few movie posters fill the walls. All horror classics - you count three of the scream movies. The first two final destination. There are condensation rings on the coffee table.

Behind you, you hear the door lock and unlock three times, but you don’t pay it much mind.

“Want a drink?” Simon asks, already popping open a decanter full of something gold on a small drink cart beside the kitchen island.

“Sure.” The agreement is automatic - blurted out before you can second guess taking a drink from a total stranger.

You watch a little too closely as he takes off his light jacket, exposing his strong arms and a half sleeve tattoo. It’s a bit tacky, all skulls and military symbols. The black ink has been sun worn over time. The motif of a young getting his first tattoo after enlisting. He settles down on the couch with the decanter and two glasses, patting the spot beside him. You plop down. It’s pretty comfortable, honestly.

His fingers loop into the mask’s straps. You find yourself watching with wide eyes and bated breath as he removes it. His nose is crooked - broken more than a couple times, you think. There’s a scar running from his nose to upper lip that could only come from a cleft palette. It’s charming, in a way. When he turns toward you, you notice a patch on the side of his face that looks like a rather large burn all the way down to his sharp jaw. The roughness of him works, somehow. The scars and tattoos and choppy hair all coming together to create the visage of a life hard lived.

“You’re really pretty…” the words slip from your tongue before you can stop them.

Simon splutters out a laugh, the slightest hint of color appearing across his cheeks. “Didn’t take you for a flatterer.”

“I’m not.” You huff before nodding toward the posters. “Horror fan?”

He hums, passing you a glass. “Are you a fan? Of horror, I mean.”

“Found footage!” You grin a little too excited. “It’s the best genre.”

“Terrible taste.” He scoffs.

“Wrong! Found footage can be anything you want it to be - slasher, thriller, mystery, mocumentary. Anything.”

“Which makes them messy.” He argues. “Anyone can make one.”

“Yeah! Theres so many hidden gems out there.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oh, I’ll put you on them. We just need to get you a good one.”

“Askin’ me on a second date already, love?”

“Oh, fuck off.” You shove at his shoulder. He was right, it is so much easier to talk freely out of the bar. Away from everyone and everything. His posture is far more relaxed, laid back into the couch with his hips canted forward rather than stiff as a board.

“We could watch one now?” He offers. If you were more sober, you might have heard the twinge of pleading in his voice. As it stands you’ve already drained the glass he gave you and are perfectly buzzed enough to be ignorant to the subtler parts of communication.

How convenient.

“Okay.” You whisper.

After a bit of debating back and forth you settle on Hell House. After all, it’s been your tried and true method for getting anyone and everyone into the genre. You don’t notice it, at first, but you slowly begin to scoot closer to him as you fold your knees up on the couch. Eventually, tucking yourself under his arm sling across the back cushions. Between him and the drinks - which you’re pretty sure is a rather fancy bourbon - you feel what could only be described as snuggly. Limbs loose and pliant, smile easy and words flowing as you cheer and jeer at the characters together.

At some point, Simon’s dark eyes meet between yours. You lean in, so does he. Inch by inch until your lips meet. It’s tentative, at first. Testing the waters. His lips are soft and move expertly against yours. You part for him has his tongue darts across your lower lip.

It’s easier than it usually is for you. Easy to let him pull you over his lap. To rest your hands on his broad shoulders as you take each other in. Normally, you’re not a person for one night stands. A commitment kind of gal. You can’t exactly say no, though, when you have a beautiful man’s hands traveling over your body like it’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to right now.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grunt, “Bedroom?”

“*Yes*.” You gasp between kisses.

Suddenly those large hands grasp under your ass as you’re hauled up. You grapple to hold onto the back of his neck, keeping your weight forward.

“Simon!”

“Yes, love?” He asks as if he didn’t just life you like a sack of potatoes.

“A-aren't I heavy?” You question as he makes his way through the apartment, peppering kisses over your neck and jaw.

“No.” He replies bluntly. Like what you asked was stupid.

You’re placed on a bed with all the gentleness of a rare china plate- one hand cradling your upper back and the other tucked under your thighs. There isn’t any time to take in the room before Simon is kissing you again but you do count approximately five pillows and zero navy sheets.

That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Simon leans in close, nose ever so slightly bumping yours. “Before we keep going, I want to establish a rule. Red light means stop. At any time, for any reason.”

You can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

“Say it back, doll.”

“Red light means stop.” You reach up and cup his face. So handsome. So warm.

“Good girl.” He murmurs. “Let’s get these off, hm?” Simon pulls your clothes off deftly - dragging those rough palms over your skin as he moves and kneading at the plushness of your hips appreciatively.

You reach up to tug at his shirt. “S’not fair if I’m the only one naked.”

Simon chuckles and hastily sits back to yank the shirt over his head, giving a lovely show in the process. You think this what people mean when they talk about an Adonis. There’s a comfortable soft layer of his strong abdomen. Something you want to sink your teeth into. Your fingers trace each dip and curve of his muscles, the lovely shape of his pectorals, the raised scars littering his body. Floral shapes from bullets along with slashes and smaller jabs. A particularly nasty one runs down his side, coving his ribs. A burn, you think.

“You’re beautiful.” You murmur. Definitely out of your fucking league. You move to sit up, reaching for his waistband.

His hand pushes your shoulder back on the bed. “Let me take care of you tonight, bird.”

Your face warms. Simon kisses your cheek, continuing down to your chest and taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Gently sucking and nipping at it while flicking the other with his hand. A shameful whimper escapes your throat.

Simon leans up to murmur in your ear, “What do you want, sweet girl?”

“Want you to fuck me…” You murmur, embarrassment making you want to close your legs. His solid hips block you.

“Oh, I will, but first I want those beautiful thighs wrapped around my head.” Simon continues to place kisses down your body, over your stomach, stopping right at your panty line and tracing along it with rough fingers. His arms circle your thighs and in one swift motion your hips teeter on the edge of the bed, Simon kneeling between them. His fingers hook in the waistband of your underwear.

“W-wait…” You sit up on your elbows.

He freezes, looking up at you.

“I, uh, I haven’t exactly *landscaped* in a while… wasn’t really planning-“

Simon huffs out a laugh. “I’m a grown man, love. You think a little bush is gonna scare me off?”

All thoughts related to anything within the proximity of embarrassment come to an instant halt as Simon’s lips wrap around your clit- sucking and nipping and lapping like a man starved. Like he’d die without it. A low groan rumbles through his throat.

“F-fuck!” You gasp, whimpers and moans interrupting any chance you may have at putting words together.

“Taste so fucking good, princess.” He mumbles against you. A shaky moan rattles through you as he pushes a thick finger in, working it gently. His other than grips your hip tightly, pinning you in place. The pet-name sends a shiver down your spine - leaving you rolling your hips and clenching on the finger inside you.

“Fuck, Si…” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I can tell your close, baby.” Simon groans. “Cum for me. Come on, be a good girl and cum all over my fucking tongue.”

The bastard knows the power he has in that voice. He *has* to. That baritone gravel sinks in your veins and all you can do is whimper. Panting pathetically the closer you get. His fingers curl up and your back arches harshly as your climax washes over you. Your legs tremble as he works you through it; stopping just shy of pushing you too far.

“Hey!” You gasp indignantly as a jolt shoots up your spine as he settles a final, harsh suck on your clit.

Simon taps your hip, climbing back over you as you scoot up on the bed. He carelessly kicks off his pants as he goes, toeing them off before settling between your legs. Those dark eyes rake over you leisurely - taking in every inch. Every curve and dip and flaw categorically. He sucks in a breath and sighs. “Bloody ‘ell, look at you… so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your face heats and you look away. “Who’s the flatterer now?”

“Not me. Just bein’ honest.” He places a quick kiss to your soft jawline before reaching over to dig through his nightstand drawer. You don’t miss the gold foil of the condom wrapper.

You can’t stop yourself from licking your lips as he pulls off his boxer briefs. Simon is uncut, already ruddy and leaking and just begging for your mouth. Maybe next time, though. He’s already slipped on the condom, carefully hooking one of your legs over his shoulder and the other around his hip. The man has a laser-focus to him, you’ll give him that.

“Still want t’ keep goin’?” He mumbles, eyes locked on his cock as is drags between your folds.

“*Please*.” You whine pathetically. Simon’s chuckle turns into a gasp as he presses in. It’s achingly slow and you roll your hips in demand for more.

Simon lets out a low groan as his hips meet yours. The stretch is perfect - just enough to feel completely full without pushing you too far. As though your bodies were made to slot together just so. Your head falls back, chest heaving as you beg him to move, to fuck you, just *please* for the love of god-

“Needy little thing.” He gives you a sloppy smile before setting a brutal pace. You find yourself clawing at his back, clinging to him as your back arches and the most obscene sounds are systematically torn from your throat. The angle he has your hips placed causes his cock to bully that sensitive spot inside you - dragging over it with every thrust.

Simon leans toward, bracing himself on his forearms and pinning you under him as he fucks into you. “So fuckin’ good f’me. Knew you would be. So soft and sweet and goddamn *pretty*.”

“*Fuck, Simon*.” You gasp, nose bumping against his as your lips intertwine. Breaths and moans intermingle as you both chase that edge. There’s nothing else, in this moment, just you and Simon and the sounds only he has ever managed to pull from you.

Your orgasm hits you like a train. Out of nowhere and all at once, tensing every muscle into a trembling mess as you clamp down around his cock. Simon sinks his teeth into your neck as his own climax takes him, cradling you close and moaning out your name so muddled you almost miss it.

For a few moments, you stay frozen in place trying to catch your breath as you come down. Your limbs feel like jelly when you finally try to move, body limp and pliable. It almost feels like a loss as he pushes off of you, leaving you open and vulnerable to the cool night air while he ties off the condom.

“Be right back.” He murmurs, slowly climbing off you and heading for an attached bathroom off to the left.

You let your eyes slipped closed only to jump and shoot back open as a dap rag drags between your thighs. A little yelp escapes you as the rough material drags across your oversensitive clit. Simon chuckles at you, tossing the rag back somewhere in the bathroom before crawling into the bed beside you. It’s so easy to curl into his chest and let those strong arms encircle you.

“Have fun, love?” Simon murmurs into your hair.

You just hum happily, smiling against his hard chest.

“Good.”

It’s just as easy as the rest of it to fall asleep like that. To seek out the warmth of his body in your satiated haze and press into him, allowing the night and rhythmic beating of his heart to overtake you. You feel four small taps between your shoulder blades just before tipping over the edge into comfortable nothing.

You wake slowly to an empty bed. The light from the window above you streams in - bathing the room in a light golden tone. It’s cozy. The blankets seem to pull you in, keeping you snugly in place. Distantly, you hear the sound of pots and pans clinking.

Shockingly, you’re not hungover. Well, not much at least. There’s a slight twinge in your head and a not unpleasant soreness in your hips. You dig around, finding your clothes strewn across the room haphazardly. Your underwear are nowhere to be found and you eventually give up with a shrug. They weren’t one of your best pairs anyway.

When you come out of the bedroom, you pause. Simon stands in the kitchen, working on something over the stove wearing only a pair of sweatpants. They hang loosely around his hips, showing off the rises and dips of his strong muscles and well defined waist. This scene somehow feels too intimate despite your activities the night before.

“Perfect timing.” Simon turns, placing a plate down on the kitchen island. The omelette before you looks immaculate, all the way down to a light garnish on top.

Your eyes turn to saucers. “You…you made me breakfast?”

“Course.” He nods sharply as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if *not* doing so would be some sort of affront. Either you’re still asleep and this is all a dream or you stumbled upon the perfect man through pure happenstance.

He turns the stove off and on and off twice before standing at the counter across from you while you sit on one of the stools at the island. It’s a comfortable silence as you both eat. Simon keeps glancing up at you as if waiting for your disapproval. Boyish, somehow, despite the size and breadth of him.

It’s perfect. The eggs practically melt in your mouth and the goat cheese and vegetables taste fresh. You can’t help but him happily as you eat.

By the time you’re done, you think you might be a little in love.

Maybe you should text Cass and thank her or something. Maybe a gift basket. “Oh. My phone’s dead.”

“Didn’t charge it before y’left last night?” Simon cocks an eyebrow, chewing on his last bite.

You snort. “It was last minute, remember?”

“What if I’d been some sort of psycho? What was your plan?” He grins as he takes your empty plate. If you were a more impulsive woman you may have gone so far as to lick the damn thing.

“Are you a psycho?”

“Not generally, no.”

“Well then, nothing to worry about.” You grin, watching a little too happily as he rinses down the dishes and loads the dishwasher.

Simon just scoffs at you.

You glance at the time above the stove, disappointment settling deep in your chest. “Shit. I should get going.”

“I’ll get you a cab.” Simon offers automatically, reaching for his phone.

You shift side to side, twiddling your thumbs. “Y’know… we never finished the movie…”

Simon cocks and eyebrow. From the pleased smirk on his face you can tell he knows what you’re implying. He still patiently waits for you to say it out loud.

“Would, uh, would you want to exchange numbers? Maybe… meet up… again…?” Your voice is more timid than you’d like. This fear of rejection is new. Being rejected is nothing new for you, so why does it suddenly feel so high stakes with this one guy you barely know?

You don’t miss the way his eyes light up ever so slightly at the question. “I’d love to.”

[da-janela-lateral]

It seems that 'popular', 'athletic' and 'bright blue eyes' aren't their only similarities.

[zan0tix]

ALPHA KIDS: Draw your best friends!

DIRK: I'd say I'm better at one on one character interaction work of the more intimate variety, but I think this piece came together nicely. DIRK: Fun for the whole family style wholesomeness, any motherfucker in the radius of a screen displaying this image will instantly get hit with a sore case of heartburn and their tear ducts will clock in overtime at the weeping factory.

ROXY: im so proud of these i think these are my best designs yet :3 but omg dirk callie and jake were SOOO peculiar about their damn designs over my shoulder. jake wanted me to clarify that even in pink pen form his little guy is BLUE. so there. sigh this is the one occasion they could take notes from janey.. JUST LET LE ARTIST WORK!

JANE: Boy! I don't draw often but I always was fond of calligraphy growing up. I was kind of inspired by all of the other's works, but especially Calliope's swirls she puts in her art. It's very fun to add!

JAKE: Im not quite the best with posing, but i find the head very fun to study! Especially skulls.. so good ole calliope makes for the perfect muse! (hehe)

CALLIOPE: i realized i hadn't ever made a piece with Us in the same place at once. u_u CALLIOPE: bUt since it's reality now here's all of Us together, United at last! ^u^

==->

[ohposhers]

This started as a shitpost and then I just kept going anyway AU where Floyd eventually forgives Veneer and they end up becoming besties a few years down the line and have girls nights ugh [NOT SHIP ART!!!] aaand Bonus doodle of when they take the curlers out or some shit dont look at me man

[thaltro]

Atrophy is the main antagonist is the psych sans comic (NightWatch Au) and I love writing him. The comic is going well and my first chapter should be out in August ❤️ love y’all

[spiritsong]

wyll.y.am ravengard, I love you so

everyone loves to put him in gold (rightly so) but my personal style is lots of silver jewelry + heavy eyeliner so that's what I gave him. also roses because he's so damn venusian

[unicornpopcorn14]

Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt during the Lovecraft fight has always been so interesting to me...

Because it's the kind of worry you'd never expect from a character as gruff as Chuuya, who had displayed nothing but hostility towards Dazai so far. Usually, characters that are labelled as "angry" or "anger issues" (which Chuuya is much more complex than that but you get my point) act more as a tsundere type of way when the one they "don't care about" gets hurt. And show their care in very, very subtle ways (ex. their eyes widen, their mouth parts and closes again, etc) before putting up their front once more.

Chuuya, however, is open, and vocal about it. His worry is clear not only to us, but to Dazai himself, the one he shouldn't be displaying the concern to (as per the cliche). Shouldn't it be some sort of secret that Chuuya does care? Isn't that what skk's dynamic has been shaping up to be until now?

I'm telling you- the way my mind blanked when Chuuya just casually.... showed concern not once, but twice, was a sight to see.

Besides, the context makes it much more confusing, because Dazai isn't some rookie, and Chuuya knows that more than anybody. He was the youngest executive in Port Mafia's history, of course he can handle a hit or two. Of course he'd seen him handle a hit or two, sometimes without batting an eye.

Heck, Chuuya himself was hurling Dazai like a ragdoll in their reunion, which was their last meeting. And you could argue that he was going easy on him, but Dazai has mostly withstood the same damage (as far as I could see), and Chuuya was as bitter as ever.

So that kind of contradicts both what we knew of Chuuya so far, and how their dynamic was shaped to be. I mean, that just makes Chuuya a hypocrite, yeah? What makes him care now, all of a sudden? What makes him care at all?

Well, to me, this backasswards reaction implies one (or more) of the following:

- Dazai rarely got physically hurt during their partnership and thus this is an unexpected thing for him to see (during a mission).

- The four years of separation made Chuuya unsure of how much Dazai can withstand physically now. Also the fact that he isn't in the mafia anymore, aka fighting enemy organizations on the weekly, would naturally make Dazai lose his touch in a way, what prompts Chuuya's reaction.

- Dazai getting taken off guard took him off guard which led to panic. Especially since the situation was (momentarily) out of their depth. Seriously wtf even was Lovecraft?

- During the dungeon scene Dazai was an enemy, while in the Lovecraft fight he was as an ally. The difference might be significant to Chuuya.

- This has always been Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt regardless of the situation.

- "Only I can hurt him like that" ahh logic

- Asagiri was still experimenting with their dynamic and thus there are some inconsistencies.

This scenario didn't play out again (after their reunion) for me to exactly determine which one is more plausible, but it is 100% canon for Chuuya to shamelessly show his concern and run to Dazai to check on him before properly dealing with their opponent, which I find to be such an appealing layer to their dynamic, and a good spin on the type of character he gets stereotyped as.

Bonus: Dazai also becomes a softy when Chuuya's hurt, especially post corruption. Dead Apple alone displays that multiple times.

All in all, Skk are doing a terrible job at maintaining their 'hostile' and 'antagonistic' relationship post their reunion. Freaks.

[starry-bi-sky]

Incorrect Quotes for the Blood Blossom Au - DPXDC

Original Post Context Here but TL:DR - Vlad poisons (orphan) Danny with blood blossom. He runs off, finds Pre-Robin Battinson, Battinson saves his life. Danny is currently staying with him until the time being. Batdad all around, found family, woo!

————————

Bruce after giving Danny an antidote: poof. Just like that, the toxin’s gone

Blood Blossom, not gone just sedated: wrong! toxin’s right here you fucking brussel sprout

————————

Vlad at a gala while his godson is (allegedly) missing: Mister Wayne! A pleasure to meet you, I wanted to speak with you about hopefully setting up a deal between our brands—

Battinson, currently housing his (allegedly) missing godson: I don’t like you.

Vlad: —and it’d be a— i’m sorry?

Battinson, louder: I don’t. Like. You.

Vlad:

Bruce:

Vlad: If you could tell me what I did to offend you--

Battinson, with the intensity of a thousand suns: No.

————————

Danny: 🧿🧿

Bruce: 🧿🧿

Danny: 🧿🧿

Alfred, in the corner: Can you two socialize like normal people

————————

Danny: gun to your head, who would you rather kiss: riddler or the joker

Bruce:

Bruce: gun to my head?

Danny: gun to your head, yes.

Bruce, without missing a beat: pull the trigger

————————

Danny (is currently unaware Bruce = Bruce Wayne): hey Vlad's planning on poaching Mr. Wayne's company out from underneath his nose, would you be able to prevent Mr. Wayne from making any deals with him? Or just in general from being alone with him?

Bruce, realizing Danny doesn't know he's Bruce Wayne:

Bruce: ...yes.

————————

(Danny and Bruce are leaving Wayne Enterprises, Danny is wearing a face mask and obscuring most of his identity. There's a swarm of paparazzi at the doors)

Bruce:

Danny:

Danny: there's an open window on the first floor bathroom

Bruce, immediately turning on his heel: mh. mhm.

————————

Aunt Alicia:

Bruce:

Aunt Alicia:

Bruce:

Bruce 🤝 Aunt Alicia: "Vlad Masters can go fuck himself" club

————————

Bonus! Because looking at it makes me giggle and I think it needs to be shared

POV: You're Alfred living with two of the most socially awkward people in Gotham. Now with biblically accurate heights!

[gammija]

tiefling jon's first day at the Archives

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"