#it will not ever be a fic i am sorry

[arsenicflame]

currently riding a post con high which is... really nice actually! probably a sappy post to come but for now, heres my june plans that for once, dont involve sewing !!!! (except the one that does)

scenario out some of the ideas in my notes, including finally pt 2 to the edizzy amnesia post. the list is getting way too long now, its time to type some out

the uncharted steddyhands au gets her own bullet point- ive already put so many words into a draft just trying to explain my motivations behind picking characters, shes gonna be a whole project in her own right (not that i actually know what im doing with her)

podficcing!!!!! i recorded a couple drafts at the end of last year for some friends and they went down pretty well & i had a lot of fun so i want to get more into that now i have time! ill polish up those ones first & then maybe.... record some new ones?

more edits!!! ive got two lyric ones and i think one chat one off the top of my head that ive saved to make one day!!!!

some write ups about anne maybe! i actually did not get greattttt anne content this weekend sadly but. i can at least write about the making side of it? i think i have some things i wanna talk about anyway (thisll be on the sewing blog)

& last but certainly not least, a folding foraging pouch for my dear beloved sage <3 this started as just (sends video) (i want one) (i could probably make it) and now its a wholeeee project that i am very excited to figure out the details of!!!!! i think i have some good ideas for improvements to the design we first saw, but we will have to see as i actually prototype it!

gonna be a busy month but hopefully fulfilling!! the start of this year has been a complete mess for me but i think maybe its finally time to start living <3

[hoshiina]

— a guy asks for your number ft. hoshina, narumi, reno

warnings: mentions dick and profanities in hoshina's

[sunnymainecoon]

How many people witnessed softie food addict horror who needed something in his mouth or he would actively kill and turn to cannibalism 🧍‍♀️ or was that just me.... anyways honestly it was silly.. he'd maybe get along with cook horror... I just like fanon crossovers guys*sadge

Anyways canon horror is also silly(really silly. What an asshole, man)(no seriously he's actually such an asshole.. I might love him for that but-) I don't think he would get along with the others(loser)

[dukeofthomas]

"Jason just needs to see things from his family's perspective and understand how much they love him (despite them never actually communicating or showing him through their actions)" is out. "The batfamily putting a single bit of effort into understanding Jason and reconciling with him on his own terms" is in.

[dinsbeskar]

Two's Company, Three is Torture (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron finds new ways to please his wife as Annatar and Halbrand have their way with you; or:

Sauron Smut 2: Electric Boogaloo

Sequel to Evil Will Find Her // AO3 Link

Warnings: Annatar/you/Halbrand - there's 2 of them now, I am sorry!! Threesome, P in V sex, double P in V sex, overstimulation, mentions of oral sex (female receiving), fingering, teasing, praise and degradation (sporadic use of sl*t/wh*re)

A/N: This fic is @sansaorgana's fault, I blame her for everything 😂 One Sauron is a lot, two of them is torture, but you take it like a champ.

Word Count: 3.1k

"I think," Annatar murmurs in your ear, "that you like this, love."

You can feel Halbrand smirk against your neck and continue his attentions licking and kissing up to your ears, biting your earlobe and making you moan.

"Is that right, angel? Is this making you wet for us?" Your already ragged breath hitches at Halbrand's rough voice in your ear; his fingers trail to your chest, kneading your heated flesh and you gasp aloud, making them chuckle.

"I don't think she's capable of intelligible speech at the moment, right sweetheart?" Annatar continues his ministrations, teasing your mound, tracing idle circles every which way, except for where you ache for them.

~

When your husband returned to you, it was not a form you'd have instantly connected to him. Obviously you knew it was him, your souls singing in their close proximity, his inability to hide his thrill at your presence. But he was clearly a Man, not Elvish in appearance as he had been, and roguishly handsome, with dark curls and the beginnings of a beard. In other words, opposite in every way to what you were used to.

Once you'd got over your shock at his return, and said all you needed to say after your centuries apart, you got to admiring him. Rugged where he had been ethereal, dark in countenance where he had been unearthly and radiant, rough and untempered, calloused hands and stubbled skin that set you ablaze with every gentle touch.

It was unfortunate then, that you did not get the chance to enjoy him as much as you'd have liked, thanks to Galadriel discovering his identity, forcing him to flee. You'd lain awake thinking of him often before he returned to you, and you continue that particular ritual after he flees, but now he appeared more and more often as Halbrand; would he be upset to learn you desired him however he might appear, that the fair forms he chose to please you were wasted on you, if you'd be happy with some man from the Southlands?

You'd stayed in Eregion after Sauron had fled, to await his inevitable return after he'd set his plan in motion in Mordor. You were sure he would have to disguise himself once again, and to your great dismay you mourned the King of the Southlands. Surely you should be happy with him, however he appears, however he acts? Your lord husband had returned to you, that was the only thing that mattered.

So when Lord Celebrimbor lets slip that Halbrand is back and waiting on his front porch, your heart soars. And you feel an unmistakable wave of arousal. He had been nigh insatiable for the weeks he'd spent with you while they forged the three rings; frankly, even the mention of his name was enough to warm your blood and wet your thighs.

"Don't you think we should let him in?" You ask softly, "We can't let him freeze, and we can treat with him tomorrow?"

"Lady Galadriel was very clear, I won't break my word to her." Celebrimbor will not be swayed so easily, and it is only when his favourite apprentice, Mirdania, tells him that Lord Halbrand is injured, it is cold, we should let him in for the night if only to tend his wounds, that he concedes and goes to speak with him himself.

You know your husband will have his way, and so you settle into your soft warm bed to wait for him; he'll be along, he always knows where to find you.

By the time he slips through your door in the dead of night, you have drifted off, hugging a large leather bound tome, candle burning low.

He greets you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, before curling around you and pulling you close. You open your eyes to find the room near dark, with only the moon illuminating the pair of you. His strong arms around you and his familiar smoky scent immediately put you at ease, and you nestle closer, beyond content that he is by your side once more.

"You feel different, my love."

He tenses a little, nuzzling his face into your neck.

"I'm here now, that's what matters." He seems to say it more for himself than you, but you take it anyway, always so greedy for any sweet sentiment he bestows upon you.

You notice long hair tickling your neck, and the distinct lack of friction on your skin from Halbrand's facial hair, and you realise he has disguised himself once more. It would have been nice to give Lord Halbrand a parting gift, you think to yourself, but after all how can you complain when you know he is the most beautiful creature in Middle Earth, whatever form he takes.

~

Lord Annatar is a taskmaster, and his long hours in the forge make you restless and wanting for him. Thankfully for you, he does not require rest and is always the obliging husband.

It is during the afterglow one night when he had ravished you senseless, that the two of you speak of Halbrand again.

"Beloved, I have a question for you."

"It had better be a good one, I was falling asleep," you grumble, but you turn to face him anyway, head resting on your hand while you trace his chest.

"I think it is." He is uncharacteristically slow to speak, making you wonder what could possibly have him so tongue tied.

You take his hand and lace your fingers together, reassuring, steadfast in your affection.

"I know your heart like it is my own," he avoids your gaze, seemingly far-off in his own thoughts, but continues, "and of late I wonder if perhaps you're missing something."

Your brow furrows deeply; what could you possibly long for, now that your soul has returned to you?

"I know you were unsure when I came home to you, that I was... unlike myself," he searches for the words, something you have never seen him need to do. "I could not appear as I once did, and I worried that Halbrand would repulse you-"

"You could never, my love," and you grip his fingers tightly, kissing his palm, "you could appear to me deformed, with three heads, no body at all, and I would still want you." You cannot help but interrupt him, to soothe the nagging doubts he appears to have.

"-but I was wrong." He looks at you finally, his expression making your stomach drop.

"You weren't repulsed at all, in fact you enjoyed the low man from the Southlands far more than I ever thought possible." He graces you with an affectionate smile, and your heart begins beating again.

"He was... different. But he was you, and that is all I ever need." You lean in to kiss him deeply, entwining your fingers in his long silky hair.

"I thought perhaps," he pauses, an uncharacteristic blush painting his features, "that you might want to see him again?"

Your heart melts, aching in your chest as you reflect on his question. Of course you'd like Halbrand in your bed once more. But you were very happy with the man in front of you too. The choice made your head spin.

"I want you, only you, however you appear. He had a certain... quality, that I enjoyed, I cannot lie. But I love you, and I couldn't be without my Lord of Gifts now that I have tasted him." You kiss the tip of his nose, and feel his soul swell against yours, caressing you tenderly.

You roll over and nestle into his chest once more, pressing your back against him insistently, his arms wrapping around you instinctively. After a long pause he speaks again.

"What if you could have both?" He asks, tone steady but heart racing.

"Wouldn't that be nice..." You murmur, already halfway between waking and dreaming. You pull his arms tighter around you and sigh, letting his heartbeat lull you to sleep.

He can only but watch you, eyes crinkled at the corners with a beautiful genuine smile, the like of which he keeps only for you. He kisses the top of your head and waits for dawn.

~

That is how you ended up in your bed, wrapped in two pairs of arms, with two mouths driving you to distraction, adored and sinfully worshipped.

~

"I think, my lovely wife, that you don't want me to know how much you love this." Annatar's fingers at your entrance halt, and you whimper, begging in breathless moans for him to continue.

"That the attention you crave from me cannot possibly be satisfied by one pair of hands, that I must build an army to ravish you, one by one, until you're a shaking quivering mess." His warm breath ghosting over your skin as he teases you is driving you wild, and you buck up into his fingers. He withdraws them completely and fixes you with a scolding glare.

"Ah ah, you're not chasing us tonight, there is more than enough for you, greedy little thing, you have to exercise patience for once." Halbrand's smile is so sweet, you could almost forgive him, no, them, the torture inflicted upon with two pairs of hands, two mouths, not to mention-

"Do you think she's ready? She's dripping for it, she'll feel so fucking good," Halbrand turns to his counterpart, his hard cock throbbing for your attention, seeming to beg to be allowed to touch you further, a reminder of who is really in charge here.

"Do you deserve us yet, love?" You'd beg for their touch if Annatar had not already silenced you, his lips pressed to yours as he languidly strokes himself.

The moment he pulls away, Halbrand takes his place, worrying your bottom lip with his teeth, kneading your flesh with such desperation, it wrenches your heart. He retreats slightly to give you a reprieve, to let you take in a breath and to stare at your face in wonderment.

Your hair is mussed and tangled, your blushing face covered in a sheen of sweat, your lips parted and panting; he looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

Annatar cuts short your respite with a bruising kiss, pulling your head back with his fingers in your hair, tugging at your scalp deliciously, the twang of pain shooting straight to your core.

Halbrand reaches between you and finds your swollen clit, so eager to please, his patience already thin and wanting.

There is nothing but the two sweat-slicked bodies pressing you into submission; you can think of nothing else but the thrills they bestow on your frazzled senses.

Annatar's hard length prods insistently at your back, making you giggle and reach around for him. You feel his lips at your neck; you can picture his self-satisfied expression as he taunts you with his caress, running the tip of his cock along your entrance.

You arch back against him, pulling him closer, but Halbrand holds you firm, claiming your lips for his own once more.

They are relentless; one pulls away so you can catch your breath only for a second before the other steals it, devouring you like starving men.

"You know just how to please us, angel," Halbrand murmurs in your ear, shifting your weight and positioning you over Annatar's lap.

He eases inside you slowly, languorously, with one hand around your throat pulling you back into his dangerous embrace. You lock eyes with Halbrand, looking up at you through hooded eyes, panting in tune with you, his every breath matching yours.

As Annatar starts to move, your toes curl and you reach for Halbrand, your hands on his shoulders as you tense your thigh muscles against the long, leisurely strokes inside you. It isn't long before you feel yourself clench around him, relieved to finally find your release.

"Not yet, love," you hear Annatar sigh, brushing your hair over your shoulder and pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

He robs you of the fullness in your core as he pulls out, breath shuddering as he mourns the loss of your tight wet heat around him, but he perseveres; tonight is for you, his pleasure can wait.

They make eye contact over your shoulder and Halbrand's face lights up; it is his turn with your cunt and he doesn't hesitate, burying himself to the hilt, teasing your breasts with his tongue as you press closer to meet his thrusts.

One hand is entwined with his sweat-soaked curls, the other woven into Annatar's long golden hair, pulling them to meet you in a clash of tongues that spikes a wave of slick between your thighs, provoking a long guttural groan from the pair of them as they take you in all your glory.

"So fucking tight on my cock, so wet, listen to those moans, you'd fuck us both over and over until you can't stand, wouldn't you?" Halbrand's stream of consciousness is ceaseless as he ruts into you, as Annatar traces your sides and kisses you languidly.

The polar opposite sensations have you in a spin and you grip the bedsheets, desperate for any kind of release from this exquisite torture.

"You are beautiful like this, love," Annatar whispers in your ear, biting your earlobe, "anyone would think you like being the Dark Lord's needy little plaything? Is that it? You so enjoy being at our mercy, like a good little slut, that you'll take anything we give you." His voice is becoming rough, his pupils blown, as he gives himself over to the pleasure the three of you share.

Every drag of Halbrand's cock is accompanied by a ragged moan that reverberates in your core; you run your fingers through the soft hair on his chest, face buried in his neck, as Annatar sucks a deep bruise on your neck, fingers tracing your entrance as Halbrand bounces you on his thighs.

You feel Annatar's length once more at your entrance, and you can't breathe. No way is he about to do what you think he is planning. You gasp as Halbrand's thick cock enters you, followed by Annatar's long clever fingers stretching you deliciously, robbing you of breath and sense.

You arch your back, breasts in Halbrand's face only for a second before he takes a nipple in his mouth, giving you all the attention you crave and more.

It's too much, your sensitised flesh screams for release, as Annatar adds another finger, then another, whispering praise in your ear with every addition.

"Good girl, so good for us, are you ready for me, love? Need you, want you, can't wait any longer..." he withdraws his fingers as Halbrand slows his thrusts, idly pumping into you as a wordless agreement passes between them.

"Tell us to stop," Halbrand groans, gripping your thighs like you might slip through his fingers, "tell us you don't want this and we'll stop, tell us you don't need this just as much as we do, that you haven't dreamed of us taking you at once..."

Even if you wanted them to stop, you couldn't find the words to do so, all powers of language and reason seemingly spent.

"She would never," you hear Annatar behind you, readying his cock with your wetness, tip at your entrance. "She wants this more than us, don't you, sweetling? So sweet, so fucking good, but a needy slut all the same-"

He interrupts himself by sliding into your cunt, thrusting up and moaning in your ear, offering you his fingers that you take in your mouth gladly, muffling your scream as you taste yourself on his fingers. You rest your forehead on Halbrand's, body tensing at the new intrusion; they give you a moment to adjust, to accommodate this alien sensation of both of them inside you.

"Are you ready, love? You're ours, and we can have you whenever we wish." Halbrand gives a low chuckle at your parted lips, your blown pupils, and throws all caution to the wind.

When they both thrust inside you, you see stars, you can't breathe, it's too fucking much-

"Don't fucking come, that's a good girl," Halbrand has to be the one to speak, Annatar is buried in your neck, thrusting in time and panting, kissing every inch of you he can reach.

They have you fixed between them, nowhere to go, no way to move, prisoner to their attentions. The way they're stretching you out, you're not sure you'll ever be content with one husband again, you're so thoroughly spoiled with two.

Halbrand finds your lips and swallows your moans, finding your swollen clit amidst your tangled flesh; so in tune are the three of you that you don't know where you end and they begin.

You feel hands clawing at your breasts, tracing your sides, pulling at your hips, but there is no distraction from the incredible fullness in your core. Your thigh muscles burn as you take every delicious inch twice over, the sweet spot inside you coiling, inflaming you and driving you to madness.

"Done so well, love," you hear Halbrand say between groans, "do you think you should be allowed to come?"

They both smirk at you adoringly as you cry out, pleading, trembling.

"Please, fuck... please, I've been so good, please..." Your throaty moans are lost as your husbands hungrily claim your lips one after the other, someone's fingers in your hair, tracing the sensitive tips of your ears; you’ve lost track, only feeling flesh on flesh.

"Come for us, darling, such a good needy little whore for us, for your Dark Lord, given us everything, and you always will, won't you?" Annatar's question breaks you from your reverie and you whimper.

"Yes, love, everything, always." You don't know what you're saying, and you don't care, totally lost in the spell he has cast over you.

Stars explode behind your eyes, warmth floods your body, and you're wracked with a pleasure that surmounts anything you've ever experienced with him before. You can feel them pulsing inside you, a satisfying warmth filling you up as you greedily take it all, your walls milking every drop of seed deep into your womb.

It's too much, intense and drawn out, but they hold you between them, wringing every clench and moan they can from you as you ride your high, exhausting every last drop of pleasure from you, before laying you down between them, still touching you all over, encompassing you in every which way.

It takes a minute for you to come back to them, but when you do, they're already kissing better the bruises they've left, soothing your aching muscles.

"We should do that again," you murmur, each hand tracing their faces, revelling in the different sensations they afford you.

"We have all night, love, rest for now." Halbrand chuckles, stroking your hair, as Annatar parts your thighs, and settles his face between them.

"On second thought-"

You don't get much rest that night after all.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXVII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Danny has another hashtag breakdown! Diana helps mediate. Stinky Dad and the Alien Guy observe.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny’s space-watching time is very important to him. He’s pretty sure it’s on his schedule, even.

Every few days—and even more days in a week, now that people are relatively certain that he’s not going to start hitting the medical staff—Danny gets wheeled over to the big window to stare out at the moon.

The moon hasn’t changed all that much since his first few visits, since. You know. It’s in space. Still, the stars shift in their positions, and sometimes they face Earth, and sometimes they do not, and a couple times Danny sees people flying out there, which is super neat.

Sometimes Danny sees maintenance workers out doing repairs on their buildings, too. They wave back at him when they’re not busy or carrying something, which makes Danny’s core bubble and spark with joy.

So, Danny is watching the stars twinkle in the sky with all the meditative calm his Obsession requires when something plops onto his head. It doesn’t hurt, but it does put pressure onto his neck. Ow.

Danny hisses automatically, but he already knows who it is—the quick-fast-kid-who-hasn’t-introduced-himself practically vibrates against Danny’s skin, all excited by omg/omg/misch/iefomg.

Typical. Danny wants to feign a bite, but his neck kind of hurts. He settles for grumbling. “What?”

“Dude,” the teenager says, or, uh, Danny approximates he says something kind of like dude, anyway— “Want to come see a feoht?”

Uh. “A what?” Danny asks, ignoring how the guy’s chin keeps digging into his scalp. It might be the most non-medical physical contact Danny’s had since he broke down with Diana. Maybe.

The teen backs up, and models some very quick punches into the air, making his own sound effects to match. It’s all very impressive, or whatever. Danny’s not going to applaud, though; his arms are tired.

“…Sure.” It’s not like Danny has anything better to do.

“Berstan!” the kid chirps, and—

Danny clamps down on his wheelchair wheels because holycraptheyaremoVINGFAST. His wheels aren’t on the ground—the teen is carrying him, chair and all—!

He’s going to be in so much trouble for running. Danny’s wheels touch the ground, and he drops straight to the floor. His hands shake all the way up to his elbows as he grips his wheels. He is going to be in so much trouble when the nurses look for him and he’s not there.

Oh no. Oh no.

“Here we are!” the quickfast teenager announces, grinning. They’re in a room with a big, rubberized floor. It’s basketball orange. The rest of the room is virtually indistinguishable from the cloth folding walls Casper High uses to divide the gym into smaller gyms—giant cloth panels line every surface that isn’t the floor. Walls. Ceiling.

Well. It’s certainly…sound dampening. There’s vents, though. So. At least they can breathe.

The other teenagers Danny recognizes yell out to them, cheerful as ever. One waves—the kid behind him waves back, and then they’re all clustered together, pleased and breathing heavy and slightly sweaty.

“Feel alright?” one teen asks—Danny recognizes him after a second; he usually has a leather jacket on over his brightly colored shirt. He isn’t sure what the huge S is for, but hey, it’s a cool emblem or whatever. Danny used to have his initial on his…

…Danny doesn’t want to think about that, actually. He doesn’t want to think about anything about home at all.

Oh. Someone asked him a question, and now they’re all looking at him for answers. Danny nods jerkily—something sloshes inside his skull, though, which. Ew. He scrunches his face up when everyone else starts to look worried about his expression, though; it’s no big deal! It’s just! Gross!

The boy who is very fast pats his hand before sliding to the other side of the room. There are buttons there, which he presses; the room shifts, just a little, to make a piece of the floor turn away in favor of a rack of weapons. The teenager who’s always masked, but is now in an exercise shirt, whistles approvingly, and two of the teens—whoah—start flying off to grab at the equipment available.

…There’s some cool stuff there. Danny. Danny might…

He doesn’t want to fight, per se, but. Um. Weaponry is intrinsically cool. There’s no doubt about it. Half the reason he liked to play Doomed was collecting the newest and coolest weapon to blast at all his enemies with! And Tuc—

—and—

—Tucker—

Something clicks right up in front of Danny’s face.

He flinches.

“You good?” the teenager asks, big blue eyes on him as Danny struggles to breathe. “Do you want hweorfan?”

Danny gasps around three uneasy breaths before his ears catch up. Or. Well, his ears work, but his brain doesn’t know what the teen is saying?? Danny shakes his head anyway—he doesn’t want more to happen. He wants less.

The teenager frowns. Danny immediately worries that he did something wrong. “Okay, but tell me if you change your mod.”

As soon as Danny figures out what that is? Sure. He’ll tell him.

In the meantime, the kids split up into groups; one set of two goes to one side of the gym and the other goes in the air, floating on the other si— wait, they can float??

…Danny stares, and two ostensibly human-looking teenagers take to the air, loudly teasing the two left on the ground, and, yeah. They’re flying. Danny watches as the one on the ground starts counting, ready to start their match, only to interrupt his own countdown for a sneak-attack at the start and a PIFF of a smoke bomb going off. Danny can’t see the buzzing kid disappear from sight as the air begins to thicken, but there’s a distinct taste of JOY/games/VICIOUS that flutters through him that tells Danny that, wherever he is in that smoke cloud, he’s living his best life.

 And. Well.

The fighting is—there isn’t a better word for it, it’s just so damn cool. There’s kicking and punching and throwing and tossing and—sure, Danny can take a few hits and deal out some surprise punches when he has to, but these kids know what they’re doing, which is so cool, because once Danny lost the benefit of gravity mid-fight basically everything Mom had trained in him had been thrown out the window. The physics were just never right.

(And— Mom—)

Like, all the punches are happening at speeds that Danny can only kind of follow. His neck starts hurting from trying to follow them—but he can’t stop watching, and the kids are really having a blast. They’re laughing. They’re teasing. They show off, even, stopping to pose and flex and be admired by their sole observer, which Danny obliges with some gentle claps. The others are quick to jump on any distraction, though, and are more than willing to have Danny be the center of attention while they sneak up on showstoppers, stick or lasso in hand.

On one hand, Danny should probably be more alarmed by the sight of kids acting as literal child soldiers training to be combat ready. He…he’s pretty sure he’s meant to be one of them as soon as he’s recovered enough to get trained.

And…it is scary. It is kind of a scary thought that Danny might have to go back to…go back to fighting and getting hit and hitting and everything that fighting means.

On the other hand, there’s no one here. All the kids here are Danny’s age, and they’re not fighting because someone is making them; they’re having fun, and their job is to help people.

…Danny puts his legs higher up on his wheelchair, until he can wrap his arms around his knees. They’re supposed to beat up threats, but they don’t think that Danny’s a threat. They’re letting him sleep in a bed and get medical care and making sure he gets medication and everything. They let him hang out with their children and he has toys and fidgets to pass the time, and maybe he’ll have to pay them back later, but… isn’t helping out because he got helped only fair?

And they let non-humans live on Earth! That one teen’s stinky dad said that they could help Danny stay on Earth, he thinks. Or, uh, it’s what he thinks the green guy translated that as? So as long as he doesn’t leave, they could even protect him from the— all the bad stuff on Earth! So really, all Danny has to do is work on getting better. He’s safe here. Diana is here, the stinky dad is here, and there’s a whole team of super-people with super powers ready to help people.

Danny’s safe. He’s calm. He’s fine. He’s…worried that Diana doesn’t know where he is, but she’s smart and there’s probably cameras.

He watches the teens play around with various weaponry like they’re his model rocket. There’re thrown projectiles and giant hammers and dodgeballs and sticks, staves, and lassos; someone pulls out a shield, of all things, glittering gold and gleaming with something that itches at the back of Danny’s eyeball, and there’s a gun that sh—

Danny only breaks out of the memory of RUNNINGRUNNINGRUNNING when he realizes that someone is holding him. He’s choking. He doesn’t know who’s holding him, but they’re not hurting him right now and he can see a crowd of other colorful figures around him, which means he’s not with the Guys in White.

He’s hyperventilating. He can’t help it. He can’t stop it! His lungs hurt and there’s no end to the stress pressing out of his chest. Someone is holding him; where’s his chair? Did he lose it?? That’s really expensive medical equipment—they’re going to be so mad at him—!

Someone lifts him out of the stranger’s arms. It’s one of the older quick-buzzing humans. Not the teenager, and not the oldest one, he thinks. Danny can’t tell. He can’t breathe, and it’s hard to focus.

He’s shushing Danny like he’s a kid. Danny would be insulted, except he can’t breathe, and he really wants someone to help him, and his eyes are all weird and he can’t see and he doesn’t know where he is and his core hurts and his chair is gone—

Oh. The guy puts Danny’s hand on his chest and models breathing in with one big, visible breath.

Danny breathes in.

The guy models breathing out. It’s a long, slow breath.

…Danny struggles through the follow-through, but he manages. Well. He chokes hard enough to cough, twice, but…close enough.

The colorful forms milling about slowly disperse, until it’s largely just Danny, and the fast guy radiating very measured levels of calm, and his friend in black and blue, who is eating a sandwich. They breathe in, and they breathe out. That one guy eats his sandwich.

Danny looks around. He’s…the room he’s in is really big. Tables. Benches. Little stands of foo… Oh. He’s in a cafeteria. Cool.

…He squints through the new haze of green in his eyes. He’s probably strained something, but there are more important things at stake here: can he get some real food here?

“Where is here?” Danny asks. Rasps. He’s mostly horizontal, so manipulating his head around to glance at his surroundings is kind of a strain on his neck. Is that a hot dog cart?

“Wistheall,” the two say simultaneously—the guy in black and blue and a bird on his chest swallows his sandwich. “…Want a snakka?”

You know what? Danny’s going to assume that this means a snack. Sure! Why not. Nodding his head so quickly hurts, but he’s also not walking anywhere, so it’s not like it’s a full-body pain. The buzzing-quick guy sort of just…carries him around and asks Danny what he wants, and the bird guy gets it for him.

The little vibrations the guy is giving off are tinged a little with wor/ryworry/worry, but the guy’s mostly…at peace? Forcibly shoved it all down? Danny and the guy are practically chest to chest at this point, so it’s probably just that Danny’s close enough to feel even really quiet things.

His suit is super smooth, by the way. It’s not, like, skintight—there’s a little armor underneath, Danny can feel—but the fabric itself is like super slick. It’s cool. Texturally.

Also, he gives Danny a tube of something that are clearly off-brand Prongles, so Danny’s mostly just enjoying that instead of wondering what’s up with this guy and his friend.

“Are you okay?” the guy finally asks, his chatter mostly winding down into a question Danny can recognize. Danny swallows his bite of chips with a swig from his water bottle, and nods. He’s…unsettled, but he’s fine. He doesn’t know where he is, but he didn’t know where the teenagers had left him either, so this is about what he expected.

Even under his red hood-and-mask, the guy’s eyes are kind. Kinda worried. Not mean. “Something bad happened?”

…Danny looks back at his chips. Something bad happened, but it didn’t happen recently. “No,” Danny muttered around the crumbs in his mouth. He swallowed dryly. “Not…not now.”

The vibrations slow, and dim, melancholy lacing through the air. The sensation makes Danny itch. “Before?”

Danny nods. He thinks about his body melting from the outside in, his face dripping off in chunks of wet matter, his throat torn open still screaming.

“It was a—“ Danny tries, but he doesn’t actually know their word for gun or blaster. He just forces his fingers to make a familiar symbol, holding his own middle and end fingers back, leaving a shaking, uncomfortable thumb and pointer.

The quiet pew pew sound effects probably aren’t necessary, but the more detail, the better, or something like that.

Danny remembers how hot it got. Just…all the heat and light, and he could smell smoke right up until he couldn’t. And his face…everything hurt—everything still hurts, even—but the scary point had been when suddenly his face hadn’t hurt, and there was nothing left to feel.

…The guy holding him pulls Danny’s fingers away from his face. Oh. Danny was pulling at his still-green, still-healing wound. He. Uh. He doesn’t remember starting to do that anymore.

“Sorry,” Danny whispers. He swallows something wet from his sinuses to his stomach, and has to fight back the memory of a blood-and-ecto-and-flesh slurry taking its place in his esophagus as he tried to crawl away to die. Again.

The man sends out pulses of sorrysorrysorry through his skin. “Me too,” he murmurs back.

Then Danny gets hitched up—Danny squawks—and gets thrown into a better position over one shoulder, so Danny has better height to see from and a better perch in the guy’s arms. Danny drops half his prongles on the floor in the process. “Want to go find your chair?” the guy asks, body vibrating just a touch outside of Danny’s conscious awareness. Still, even without seeing the guy’s face, his whole body radiates sympathy/curiOSITy/Hungry.

…Didn’t they just eat?

Either way, Danny’s not torn between staring sadly at the ground where his prongles lay cold and bared to the cruelty of the world or getting up to go find his chair. “Yes,” he agrees, and uses the flat of his forearms to haul himself up higher onto the guy’s shoulders. Kindly, the guy in red doesn’t even budge. “Thank you.”

“Na geswincan,” the guy reports back easily, which Danny is pretty sure is a less-formal you’re welcome. Too bad there’s a whole language’s worth of context Danny’s missing out on here. His friend even snags Danny an extra can of prongles, and is kind enough to rips open the seal for him.

Nothing beats recovering from a crying jag like chips. Danny takes them earnestly.

The quick-fast guy hooks his arm onto his friend’s, and the world starts to stretch and blend into the in-between planes of reality, slices of world layered atop each other. The guy smashes through each one and pulls them both along for the ride.

It’s not quite like dunking his head in the portal, but it’s not not like sticking his head in a homemade portal either. Danny shakily pulls out a chip and starts chewing. He’ll just take the ride as it comes.

*

“Superboy.”

Kon winces.

“Robin.” Wonder Woman’s eyes turn to the more remorseful end of the bunch. “Wonder Girl. Impulse.”

“Wedidn’tmeanto!” Bart wails into a pillow, which. Fair. Cassie is sweating from possibly every pore she’s ever had (and maybe even a few she doesn’t??), and Tim is doing that stoic-faced thing that means he’s flipping the hell out too much to even tell his face to make expressions about it.

Kon just looks…miserable. Just absolutely miserable.

“…Triggered by firearms, maybe…?” Tim mutters under his breath, which means that he’s theorizing about their guest’s symptoms rather than coming up with solutions-oriented paths out of this confrontation and Cassie wants to shake him because this is NOT the time, Timothy Jackson Drake, except he’s kind of made of mortal human flesh and if she actually shakes him too hard he might die.

“I hope you understand how deeply irresponsible it was to take our patient out of his rooms without any form of supervision from either myself, his medical team, or an adult up to speed with our patient’s medical and psychological needs.” Wonder Woman’s voice is sharp—and her eyes are on Timmy Wonder Boy, who’s barely paying attention, making it clear that the majority of her ire is currently on him. “All four of you are being taken off of mission rosters for the next month in favor of remedial training. I hope that you are all satisfied with the decisions you made.”

“Fiiiine,” Cassie groans. Kon slumps in place. Tim nods without really looking.

Bart, still wailing at lightning speed into his pillow, continues doing…that.

[sallymew4]

EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOURE DOING RIGHT FUCKING NOW

EVERYBODY SHUT UP IMMEDIATELY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[dawnofiight]

Now Presenting: The Talbot Siblings

This is an excuse for me to draw Madelyn.

Her and Amanda are BFFs that's why both of them have dyed pink tips.

Amanda adopted Talbot

Tag list:

@sunsickcrab

@professionallyyappin

@themeridian

@ashertickler

@plaqying

@puffin-smoke

@pandoraroid

@infinitelovewiithoutfulfilmentt

@starlogician

@zimix-whispers

@aurorialwolf

@porters-fangs

@skunkox

[lillazyboithings]

Hey y'all! This is my first time participating in the @hatchetfield-bang! This is my art work for @ratsarecute4's fic called Ziria! (Link) Please go and check it out once it's released and make sure to check out the rest of the pieces that will be posted on the official hatchetfield bang account

[kbsd]

reading ww2 rpf is so funny because in addition to “he would not fucking say that” you get things like “that car would not be fucking automatic” or “that item would not be fucking plastic”

[astrobei]

insp.

[honeyywoods]

what do we think about Jack Kelly with heterochromia? either partial or total but just some form of it. we have seen Jack swooning over Davey’s eyes but what about the reverse? what about Davey who didn’t even notice Jack’s eyes when they first met because there’s a lot going on and he’s not big on eye contact and he’s only just met this guy, but then once they’re in the theatre he decides to sneak a peek while Jack is watching the show and oh. he’s stricken by not only the different hues in Jack’s eyes but by the sheer difference between him outside - confident, self-assured, if not a little arrogant - and him in the theatre. He spends the rest of the show musing about this, only to come to the very unfortunate realization that he cannot, in fact, hate Jack Kelly.

[yeyinde]

more john price please. maybe reader is tongue pierced giving him sloppy head? 👀

"Haven't worn one in a while," you wink, cheeky and a little tipsy. Filled with liquid confidence in shades of amber malt that remind you of the taste on his tongue. You lean in close, agarwood tickling your nose. Eyes flash in a mockery of something demure, staid: lashes cresting, babydoll coy and saccharine sweet, over your glossy eyes in the way you know he likes. Your countenance might have been twee, virginal, but the words that seep from your lips are drenched in hedonism: sultry and sybaritic.  "Do you like it, baby?"

⇾warnings: unfettered filth; gendered reader, gendered terminology, female!reader; oral—m!receiving; dom!Price; this is basically just price fucking your throat; reader has a tongue piercing ⇾notes: i am so sorry this took so long. no excuses—but life got away from me for a moment. this has the flavour of sugar daddy Price, and maybe kinda sorta might be a small drabble piece to my sugar!daddy Price fic(s). —i listened to a very specific set of lana songs for this.

"Oh, fuck, love—," his hips lift from the seat of the armchair, forcing more of his spit-slicked cock into your mouth, nearly gagging you. "That's it—just like that—"

You sputter, nose burning at the way he plugs your throat with the blunt, fleshy head of his cock. It bludgeons into the soft lining in the back, pressing taut against the gummy walls that flutter, flexing, around him. His hand is ironclad against your skull, keeping you pliant, open for him. Just for him—

It borders on too much, riding that hazy line between what you can take and what you can't. Your mettle is tested by each inch he forces inside of your esophagus, delicate flesh coloured a mosaic of blue and black as he splits you apart. Your eyes are drenched in tears running down your cheeks as his cock spears your throat, a brackish sea loch, turning you into nothing but a conduit for his pleasure. A receptacle for him.

Really, though: you have no one to blame but yourself.

When you first flicked your tongue out at him, a pretty titanium barbell catching in the soft light of the pub, you thought you broke him. 

Knuckles blanched on the glass tucked inside his palm. The calm lake of his eyes rippled when you rolled the ball across your upper lip, frothing, gyre-intense, and arsenic white.

(It tasted like victory, then. Now it tastes of firth and sea spray.)

His voice was low when he spoke, a brassy rumble that barely fit through the grit of his teeth. "You didn't tell me about this, love."

"Haven't worn one in a while," you winked, cheeky and a little tipsy. Filled with liquid confidence in shades of amber malt that remind you of the taste on his tongue.

You lean in close, agarwood tickling your nose. Eyes flash in a mockery of something demure, staid: lashes cresting, babydoll coy and saccharine sweet, over your glossy eyes in the way you know he likes. Your countenance might have been twee, virginal, but the words that seep from your lips are drenched in hedonism: sultry and sybaritic. 

"Do you like it, baby?"

His knee hits the underside of the table, the noise only just drowning out the groan that drags, crumpled and ruined, out of his throat. Heady chamois chokes the giggle from your chest when he looms over you, hand white-hot on the skin of your thigh, pushing up the hem of the pretty lace dress.

(The one he bought for you.)

You glance up, and the air is smothered out of your lungs. Intense, bonfire-bright.

"We're going home."

Fullstop. A command. No room for arguments. Not that you could make any with the heavy way he stares at you, eyes drifting to your gaping mouth where the metal surprise catches in the glow.

There is a click in your throat when you swallow, heart lurching in your chest. Your belly burns with the smoke from his cigar, and amber malt from his glass. 

His thumb notches inside of your thigh. Danger close, as they say. You wonder if he can feel the dewiness staining your skin. 

Price hums low in his throat–a rasping trill that makes you feel like you're a stripped wire. Flayed. Open. Raw. 

His eyes are storm clouds over the sea: a thunderclap in the granite distance. He speaks, a rucked husk over smouldering sandalwood, and your spine tingles with the way his slurred accent curls over the words. 

"And when we get there, love, I want you on your knees," his fingers press into the dampening gusset of your panties, eyes sapphire grey. "And we'll see how much I like it."

Which, of course, turned out to be a lot. 

You pull back, gasping, and wrap your hand around the base of him where he pulses like a heartbeat in your palm. Teary eyes flicker up to him, lashes clumped together, watery from when he'd fisted your hair in his hand and pushed you down to the base. Yeah, take all of me, love. 

His eyes glide to you, lidded and heavy. Price gazes down at you, lips pulled up in a wry smile as he watches you fall to pieces with just his cock buried deep in your throat.

In petulant retaliation, you drag the metal ball across his frenulum; a slow roll that makes his eyelids drop, head falling back with a grunt of liquid sin. 

Suede fills your nose when his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking the skin below your wet, glossy lip. You lap at his sensitive, flushed tip, eyes fluttering. 

You can't get enough of the way he tastes—clean pine, wet skin, salt. You drink it down like you're parched for him. And you are. His taste rides the line of nicotine and power. It's stupid, really, but think you could stay on your knees for his man as long as he'll have you. Desperate in a selfless way: one that makes you want to hear his smoky growls, the grunts of pleasure, and bask in the briny tang of him in your mouth. 

You pull back, dragging your hand up his aching flesh. Precum beads at the tip. Your mouth waters. 

It's a feast: the way his thick, fat cock glistens from your spit, flushed vermillion; long veins throbbing under your fingers, pulsing through the velvet flesh. The flared, wet mushroom head. The bulge an inch below, a swollen slope that stretches you unexpectedly when he has you on your back, your knees; fat head shoved inside. Then the stretch, the burn, as he pushes the rest of his girth into you. Unending, all the way to the base. Price is stocky. Thick. 

Your jaw aches already. 

His stare burns when you meet it over the leaking tip of him, chin falling on his hairy thigh. Lachrymose eyes wide and wanting. An innocent whore. 

(Just for him. Just the way he likes it.)

He groans when your tongue flicks out, lapping at the base of him, tongue ring rolling over his baby blue vein. 

You breathe in the smell of him—musky, manly: weathered wood, wet earth; loam, humus—and feel your core pulse at the heady scent burning your nose, clotting in your lungs. Your eyes flutter, dimming at the intoxicating miasma of him making your head swim. Your head rolls, cheek flattening on his thigh. The coarse hair tickles your nose. You rub your skin against his, the warmth bleeding into your smarting cheeks. 

His hand falls to your head, thumb brushing over your temple as you lick around the base of him, trailing just the tips of your fingers up and down his hard, twitching length. It's lazy compared to earlier, but you need a moment to breathe. To dilute the hypoxia in your head.

His hand is warm on your skin, like the thigh beneath your cheek. They smell of tobacco, smoke. Your eyes flicker up, catching his sapphire gaze. 

It's a small lull: a moment when you just take him in, feeling the pulse of him under your hands. Gentle, despite the burn in your jaw from how wide you had to stretch it to fit him. The scratchy ache in your throat. It's hushed. His hips flex in your hands, cock bobbing and dribbling prespend as your whispered graze only just barely touches the velvet skin. 

His fingers curl in your hair, eyes shaded in desire. He rasps low, a small breathless rumble spilling from his lips. "Better stop teasing me, love." 

You roll the ring over your bruised lips. "What are you going to do about it?" 

His eyes crease, tight around the corner. A little rumbling breath spilled from his lips. His chest sinks with his exhale. "You won't like to find out." 

It's not a threat. Not really. It's a promise.

There is a slight pressure against your jaw. Your mouth parts, falls open under his wordless command. 

"Good girl—," it's almost a snarl: ashy and brittle. "Keep your mouth open for me, yeah?"

He knocks your hand away from his cock, and curls his long, thick fingers over the girth. 

You soak him in, breathing deeply so as to keep the tang of him inside of your lungs. A whimper falls when he grips himself tight, head blooming vermillion and spilling more milky precum. He holds it there, letting you watch the way his prespend dribbles down the hard length, gathering at the seal of his hand. 

A huff leaves him when he sees your thighs rub together, eyes—dewy and lachrymose—fixed on the fat swell of him. The ticking veins running down the sides. Your saliva and his cum pool at the base, covering his heavy balls in the combined slick. 

It's intense. Blisteringly hot. You want him inside of you, splitting you open, and making you take him all the way to the root. Deep, hard thrusts until you can feel them slap against the seal of your cunt pulled taut around the girth of him. You want him to fill you up until you can taste him in your throat, until your belly bulges with the heft, ballooning from the cum he pours into your womb. 

You want him to use you. Fuck you stupid until you're swollen and full to near bursting—

The breath pops in your throat, sticking to your larynx when he pulls his cock down, the slick head dragging over your cheek. The noise he makes is caustic. It burns through you until you're gasping from the blue heat of him. 

He drags his palm up his length until the head disappears through the seal of his hand. The sound it makes is slick, tacky. Your thighs press together, tighter, desperate, to stem the ache, teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue until the metal ball scrapes across your gums. 

Price looks at you for a moment, gaze softening in the flushed light of the lamp, and it's there you feel the throb in your belly start to thunder. You shift your knees, searching for friction, a little whimper spills out, quivering with longing. 

Sprawled on the chair, trousers barely pushed down his thick thighs, and with his flushed, wet cock sitting fat and heavy in his palm, he looks like he was carved from smoke, and made just for you. 

His beard twitches. The hand on your jaw tightens just a little. Just enough to bring you back into focus. Your eyes drop again. Obedient. Docile.

"Fuck," the word falls like the crack of a whip. He lifts the fat head of his cock from your tongue, and pushes it against the metal peaking through your flesh. Prespend drenches your upper lip as he rubs his cock over the piercing. "You suck my cock so good, love. You want it bad, don't you?"

You can't speak. Can't think— 

The wet, heavy thud of his cock dropping over your mouth makes your eyes squeeze shut. A whimper drags out of your throat when he does it again, and again. His cock slaps over your panting mouth, stinging your flesh, and making your cunt ache.

"Please—," it's slurred around the weight of him pressing against your mouth. Your eyes open, find his. Pleading. Begging. The words tumble out, broken and needy, from your blistered lips. "Please, baby. I wanna choke on your cock—"

"Fucking hell, love—"

His cock slips over your lips, your ring, and he pushes it down your throat, until the head of his cock hits the gummy, slick wall at the back. You gag. Tears blur your eyes, leaking down the corners. It's not enough to choke you, but it makes your chest tighten, and your head swim. Black dots moult across your vision. Your hands grasp his knees, fingers digging into the rumbled fabric of his trousers. Ground yourself. Breathe through it. Easy, and steady.

Hypoxia isn't enough to stop you from getting his cock as deep into your throat as you can. 

A briny purl slips out from his mouth when you gasp, tears soaking your cheeks. 

His thumb brushes across your cheekbones, smearing the tears that steam down, and catching them on his rough skin. The touch is softer than it has any right to be with him drowning you in the precum that weeps from the tip, spilling down your throat. It's gentle, reverent. The starchy, warm pads of his fingers ask if you're okay if you can take more. Always so considerate.

Your eyes lift, bleary and gritty, and you find him through the haze of smoke billowing out from the end of his cigar. 

There is a burn in the back of your neck, your jaw, but you breathe through the pain that licks at you, and hold his molten gaze, drenched in pleasure at the warm, wet give of your flesh. The pinch between his brow is full of euphoria, but it oscillates now with unease, with that cosseting veneer that makes his hands ease off your body, giving you distance. The very thing you don't want. 

The sight of him—dressed in shades of smoke and tobacco—pools inside of you like a sickness, a fever. He's a rough cut of a man: guttural snarls and resonant growls of displeasure, of anger brimming in the furrow of his brow, but you'd never been touched with such reverent adoration before. The smeared sheen under your eyes, the deep rubescent flush to your cheeks, and the lost haze in your eyes, all make him shudder with barely constrained desire.

He's greedy for you. Hands always on your skin like an addict; desperate for one more pull. One more hit. 

And yet—

Price doesn't take. 

He gives you what you want, always: the searing heat of his hands, the bulk of his body, the brutal snap of his hips sending you into the throes of nirvana, his teeth digging into your neck when you offer it up so prettily for him. But rarely, rarely, does he give into that rapacious hunger that curls like fine smoke in the pits of his eyes. 

You want him to break. Shatter. You want this man to fall apart in your arms, so you can reassemble him again. You want to be crushed under the weight of it with him until the end of him and the beginning of you is a blurry line. A pulverised puddle of sex and sin and the feel of your atoms stripped bare and congeal into one. To feel his flesh moulding to yours. 

The softness in his alder eyes makes you melt, makes you mewl, unable to keep the gale from spilling out. 

You want this. Want him. Want the hickory-scented ashes of his resolve in your hands. Calcined and charred. You want to tuck the smouldering husk of his propriety between your teeth until the charcoaled remains are ground out, and masticated with your effort. You'll see this gruff man shatter. Break. 

Leaning forward, you flash him a look—that pretty one he likes with your lashes fanned over your eyes, half-mast and full of lust, desire for him—and flick your tongue out again, barbell catching in the ochre glow. His hand trembles when you seal your mouth around the thick of him, hollowing your cheeks as you slurp up the mess of prespend and saliva that covers his throbbing length. 

He jerks in your hold, head falling back with a husk of pleasure. Ruin me, you think, molten tongue worshipping him. Wreck me.

He tastes of amber and salt when you swallow him down: heady and musky. You can't get enough of the way he wrenches you open like this, leaving you feeling like a raw wound, a livewire, with just his fat cock sliding down your throat. 

Fingers dig into the back of your head as he cants his hips up, thrusting inside the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. Your nose is stuffed, the scent of him clogs the air around you. You can't breathe, but despite the black dots in your vision, you stay put, gasping for air when he allows it. 

It edges into discomfort, but you fight through the strain in your jaw, and take him deeper, and deeper. You don't stop until his knuckles press against your nose, until you can feel his hand slipping away from the base, giving you more room. The coarse, auburn hair tickles your lip. You slide down further, tongue flat against the underside of him, and the blunt nudge of his weeping cock battering against the soft walls of your throat makes you gag, makes you choke. 

You sputter, tears running down your aching cheeks in an unstoppable deluge. Your nose burns, stings, when you breathe in. You cough around him, and he grunts at the way your muscles spasm, squeezing him tight. 

You pull back off the length of him, swallowing thickly. The ragged gasps you take do little to abate the burn in your lungs. 

Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to open your bleary eyes, staring up at him through damp, clumped lashes. As your sight slowly focuses, the image of him leaning back on the chair, teeth grinding together is enough to make you dizzy.

It's the expression of euphoria that etches itself into the furrow of his brow, the curl of his lips—bared, snarling at the feel of your mouth—and the dangerous narrowing of his eyes that makes you whimper, makes you shake. White-hot pleasure spumes inside of you. 

You want more. Everything.

Your fingers curl around the base of him, little finger nestled in the wry bed of hair. He throbs in your clutch; a glob of prespend breaks free from the puddle pooling on his engorged, mushroomed head, and slides down the length of him. 

It makes your mouth water. It feels a little bit like battling the ferocity of a Chinook. Chafed cheeks, stinging lips all covered with the slickness of your efforts.

You must wear it on your expression, then. Price looks down, and groans, his cock jerking in your hold. His mouth falls open a touch, a huff of pleasure slipping through the seam. 

You shuffle forward, knees aching, and place your tongue against the swell of his cock beneath the slow glide of his prespend trailing down. It drips down, and you catch it, smearing the pearlescent bead over the soft, fleshy tip. The muscles in his thighs twitch when you lift your chin, showing him the droplet gathered there.

"Bloody fucking hell—"

You don't wait for him to continue. You want him broken.

He groans as the gluey, wet walls of your mouth surround him, slurping up the excess saliva that pools in your throat, spilling down your chin. You nearly choke on him, then, when his hips jerk as you lave your tongue across the head of his cock, pressing the bead of your tongue ring into his frenulum again.

His smell envelopes you. Heady and rich. A potent cocktail of salt, smoke, and cured wood that liquefies your self-control. 

Price's hips lift, more of his cock slips down your throat. You tremble when his hand threads through the loose strands of your hair, fingers curling around the locks until he has a fistful gathered at the base of your skull. You know what's coming. Know, even before his hand tightens, and the lash of pain makes your cunt throb. 

It's when you look up at him through misty eyes, lidded and sticky, that he finally crumbles. 

The sound he lets out makes you shiver. A moan cut by the jagged end of a broken bottle; husky and molasses heavy. 

You moan around him again, unabashed, and taken by the sensation of having him fuck your face in shallow, pointed thrusts. His hand tightens in your hair, pilling your pliant mouth closer. 

You love it. The taste, the smell. The inexorable feeling of him using you however he pleases, unleashing something dark and primal that curls around you, wrenched up from the hypoxia of having his cock spear through your esophagus.

There is barely time to brace yourself before his hips buck into you, forcing his cock deeper. The force of his brutal, shallow thrust makes his balls slap across your chin. The forceful gait of his hips increases until he's pounding your throat, groaning deep in his chest.

The noises he makes barely sound human. They drip molten sin, and burn your flesh when he leans over you, eyes sparkling embers in the soft light of the room. 

He stops when you gag around him, hands pressed flat against his thighs. 

"It's good, isn't it?" he husks, eyes tightening when your throat spasms around him, fluttering. Another grunt when you moan, a weak whimper that vibrates over him. He pulls you back, head tipping back with another rasp of pleasure. You squeeze your thighs together to stem the ache. 

Misty-eyed, you stare, transfixed, at the strain in his pale neck: skin pulled taut, veins bulging through his flesh. His Adam's apple rises and falls like a buoy in the middle of a turbulent ocean with each harsh swallow. His cock grinds against your gummy flesh, and you wonder, distantly, if you'd even be able to speak tomorrow. 

"Gonna cum—," it's rucked out of him, hissed low: the sizzle of a cigar on dry flesh. Your cunt throbs, jaw twinges with pain. Spit runs down your chin in rivets, pooling over your bare breasts. You feel battered, and bruised: throat raw and aching. But there is something intense about it, about the way he looks at you, now. The way he handles you. This, you think—thoughts a wisp in the static of your pounding head—and seeped in delirium, is him taking. 

His eyes lift. Sapphire shatters; a crack, a crevasse, a fissure split down the middle. Black pools, desire-thick, and covetous.

Price's mouth drops: the breath that spills from his lips is drenched in bliss. The hand in your hair tightens, fingers knotting through your locks until your skull stings, and tears leak from your babydoll eyes. A torrent down roseate cheeks. 

Broken cerulean falls, catches the cascade of them dripping on the swell of your flushed chest. His feet shift, thighs tensing under your hands, and then he lifts his hips again, sinking his cock all the way to the back of your throat. It's controlled, measured. Inch by inch until he's smothering your nose in the wry bed of auburn that scratches your wet nose. The heady scent of him is intoxicating. Your head swims, dizzy and burning at the sun-warmed moss and rain-soaked granite that clots, congeals around you.

"That's it," he slurs, eyes fixed on you. They tighten around the edges, eclipsed blue: the ocean at night, but his stare doesn't waver from the mess of you over his lap. Pleading, begging. Your gaze turns desperate. "Take it all." 

Liquid pleasure blooms in your core. Your cunt aches at his timbre: a cauterised wound; the hiss of a raging fire doused in water. The muffled whimper you let out makes him twitch against your larynx; a hushed groan falls from his lips. 

He pulses like a heartbeat when he cums; molten liquid spurting down your throat with each rumbling groan he lets out. He holds you there for a moment before slowly, deliberately, pulling your head back until the tip of his cock rests on your tongue, the slit perched against the barbell. He drenches the piercing in the last mouthful that spits out, eyes sharpening at the sight of it covered in his milky cum. 

You know better than to swallow it. Not until you're told. You hold it on your tongue, tastebuds overwhelmed by the salty, ozonic thunderhead tang. You keep it there, in your mouth, like a good girl. Like his good girl, and wait for him to catch his breath. For his eyes to clear from the sea mist that clouds them. It's liquid bliss in shades of blue and sea foam.

His eyes crease, heavy and lidded in pleasure. Pride rears in his languid expression. Good girl lingers in the crevasse you wrought. You shiver, spilling a dollop of his briny release down your chin. 

Price cocks his head, eyes hooded. His thumb catches the drop, staining his skin milky pearlescent.

His voice is a smoky purr when he speaks. It makes tremble, flesh fever-hot, at the stormcloud grey in his gaze.

"Any more secrets you'd like to share, love?" 

[bo0tleg]

Maverick and Rooster aren't going to be able to immediately fall back to what they were. They care for each other deeply, and saved each others life on the mission, but this sort of shit needs time. One conversation isn't going to cut it with those two.

Look: I like the idea of them falling back into what they were before just as much as the next person, but that's.... not what realistically would happen. And that's ok! It makes sense for them not to know what to do with each other at the start.

For the record: I'm also not blaming anyone for writing fics about them immediately going back to the father-son or uncle-nephew dynamic because, because come on. It's cute as HECK! I'd just like to think about how to explore their feelings and hang-ups about each other in dept!

They're both stubborn fucks and this has been simmering for far too long for anything to be resolved instantly with a single conversation. Bradley un-learned how to talk honestly to people the day he left, and Mav's scared about what honesty can bring. They've sat on this pot for so long they no longer feel it burning their asses, and forgot what they put in the damn thing in the first place, so they stay there. On top of it. Still burning their asses.

Bradley holds onto grudges like it's a lifeline, and one mission isn't going to change that. He listened to Mav in the canyon because he rescinded what he had said with his actions. Mav said that he 'wasn't ready' but then chose Rooster as his wingman, communicating that he is ready and that he trusts him with his life. But that was a life or death situation that Rooster was both present in and could interfere in if he so chose. He saved Mav because he didn't want him to die, and they seem more inclined to deal with it back on the boat, but it's still a long road ahead.

What happened was they rekindled their care for each other, because neither had ever truly given up on it in the first place. Mav never stopped caring and knew it, Bradley did the same without knowing. This just so happens to be the first time they're forced to deal with each other since the fallout.

Just because they care about each other doesn't erase the history that's separated them for all of this time. In fact, it probably makes it worse.

Bradley thought highly of Mav, and he didn't live up to it. Mav wanted the best for Bradley, and did what he thought would be best. Their problems came from the root of care. And it's more bittersweet because of it.

Because of it, resentment and guilt have settled over their shoulders, respectively, and it refused to go away.

They talk, and they try, but it's still not great.

Mav is inclined to just sweep it all under a rug and ignore the lump it forms on the floor. Because of his guilt, he takes all of the blame and sugarcoats Bradley's part in said blame to try and make up for it. Bradley is just as fault as Mav is, but Mav doesn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

So instead of fixing things, they look slightly less crooked, but not entirely right. It's a 'their problem' not 'his problem'. They're both at fault, and they both need to deal with it.

Maverick refuses to give up any of the blame, and Bradley is going to refuse to take any of it.

Sure, Mav fucked up, but Bradley blew it out of proportions. Storming off and refusing to talk is a normal response, but not for fifteen years. He barely let Mav explain himself.

Everything "wrong" about himself he blames on Mav. He thinks that Mav fucked him up by breaking his trust as his father figure, so he doesn't trust anybody anymore. He thinks that him being completely emotionally stunted and sensitive to critique is Mav's fault because of the 'your not ready' comment.

Thing is, it's his own fault. It's his fault that he's been fucked up for so long because he never tried to fix what was broken. It's not Bradley's fault that Mav pulled his papers, but he threw away everything, everyone he had before because of a single (justifiable!) mistake. And he doesn't recognize it for what it is, and refuses the blame. Carting it all off to Mav instead of dealing with his own shortcomings.

Mav is aware of this (that Rooster refuses to take the blame), but agreed with Rooster in his analysis of the situation, and takes it all on himself, which is not a healthy mechanism for either of them. It pats Rooster on the head for somewhere he fucked up on, and overloads Mav with guilt that shouldn't be that intense and deep.

But they don't know this. So Mav isn't angry at Rooster, because he's blindsighted by his care.

Thing is, I want someone to be angry. I want someone to be offended on Mav's behalf because he himself won't do it. I don't know who it would be, could be a good number of people, maybe even a child OC.

For fifteen years Bradley left without looking back. He left, and Mav suffered. Someone saw that. Someone was there with him all or most of those years, sitting right beside him as his guilt grew with every holiday that went by, with every letter or call left unanswered.

The obvious option is Ice. However, I want to pull away from that option, because if Ice is dead (stay with me now) it only creates more conflict, more nuance to what's going on.

Bradley cut Mav out of his life, and it's implied that he cut out any association with him too. That includes Ice.

What if he never spoke to Ice either for those fifteen years? Ice died. Bradley went to his funeral. Bradley went to his funeral as a fellow aviator, as an underling obeying orders.

Bradley's face in that funeral was blank.

That is the face of a man watching the burial of someone he once could potentially have considered a father figure that he hadn't spoken with for fifteen years. And he's never going to be able to speak to him again.

At that funeral, I don't think he regretted it. Sad, maybe, but no regret.

The regret only hit later.

He got to mend things with Mav after the Uranium Mission and beyond, but that is no longer possible with Ice.

Bradley regretted what he did, how he neglected them for years, but he regretted it too late for one of them.

I think Brad probably ended up at Ice's grave at some point, and owned up to everything he didn't– couldn't– own up to at the funeral. And he fucking sobbed. Begged. Apologized, over and over.

This is the reason I suggested maybe a child OC, because if the child is Icemav's or just Ice's, Bradley's gonna have a warped perception of them. (Note: When I say "child" I mean that it was their child as in gender neutral for son/daughter, it doesn't necessarily mean the person in question should be an actual kid.)

Bradley's gonna see that kid as penance.

And they're gonna fucking hate him for it.

Bradley is going to look at them and see Ice, and they're gonna hate him for it. Their father is dead, and for the last fifteen years of his life he'd never been truly happy because this prick never bothered to own up to his mistakes. Not even at the funeral Bradley owned up to his shortcomings, and now all of a sudden he waltzes right back like he never left? What the fuck!

Bradley could have done this, idk like a week sooner? But he only came to his senses after Ice died. Their father died and Bradley barely looked like he cared is what they're going to think. But all of a sudden, he goes on a suicide mission and almost died and he's suddenly back? Because when his own life is in danger he changes his mind, but when Ice died he couldn't care less? What the fuck!

That man went to that funeral as a subordinate, not as the son he was.

The kid doesn't have the tinted lenses Mav has on about Bradley. All the resentment Mav doesn't feel, this kid is going to feel for him.

Bradley is going to understand their resentment because of Ice, and is going to focus on fixing that part with them, without noticing that the resentment isn't just because of Ice, it's about Mav too.

The kid is going to be pissed because they are not Ice. Bradley is going to be too worried about making it up to a dead man through his child that he's going to neglect the very much still alive man he ALSO has to make amends with.

But Ice didn't have a direct hand in pulling his papers, so Bradley understands his mistake with him (he shouldn't have cut him out over someone else's mistake). Mav, however, did have a direct hand and he's still bitter about it. And the kid sees it. They see him doing exactly that.

Bradley is focusing on the wrong thing, because he's trying to redeem himself in an impossible way, trying to answer to someone who no longer demands it.

He goes after it because the silence is a more comfortable answer than the conflict he's bound to face from someone who's still alive.

In the process, he's going to hurt Mav.

Bradley's gonna be so caught up in making it up to Ice (the one he can no longer make up to) that he doesn't think to properly make it up to Mav (the one he can still make it up to) because he thinks he has to.

Ice is gone. Ice is gone and there's nothing he can do about it. And If he'd just changed his mind earlier maybe there could have been. Admittedly, Ice still would have died, but maybe he'd have died more settled than he did. He'd have died with the knowledge that his son came back. That his son still cared. But he didn't, and Bradley hates himself for it.

So, he veers to the kid. He doesn't outright apologize other than the first time, but he's gonna treat them like either a piece of glass or a carbon copy of his father figure. Regardless, they're going to hate him for it.

It's not them he cares for, it's what he sees them as. They can see straight through his bullshit because there's no deep emotional connection there to blind them.

They could try to care and love for him for Mav's sake, but it'd be much better if it were on their own terms, that Bradley would care for them as them and not as Ice's child.

On top of that, the neglect Bradley has for Mav is humongous. And he himself doesn't see it because the resentment he feels is still there. Mav was the one who pulled his papers. He blames Mav for his own decisions.

He's alone, and he blames Mav. He doesn't let anyone in or near, and he blames Mav. But it wasn't Mav that made him shut everyone out, he did that on his own.

He hasn't thought about why Mav did what he did, choosing to believe what Mav claimed to be the reason. It's blatantly obvious that Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell of all people would never stop someone from going to the Academy because he thought they aren't capable. That's what they did to him, he's not going to do that to someone who is virtually his son.

Bradley was irrational and stuck to that irrationality for fifteen years. He used the emotional stuntedness he himself created as a guise to not actually process what happened. He refused to think about it, and still does.

He and Mav reconnected after the mission, but it's a frail margin. Bradley was more inclined to listen because he's confused that Mav cares at all. In his rage, he didn't notice that he did it out of love, and doesn't know what to do with it. The entire training, he's confused, pissed and uncertain all the while.

He still doesn't know the real reason Mav did what he did, and doesn't understand the love he still sees in his eyes. Rooster thought that he shattered everything he had with Mav when he felt, most of all cemented it with all the time spent in that state.

By the end of the movie, he knows for certain that Mav loves him, and understands that he, himself, never stopped loving Mav either, despite what he claimed.

Bradley wanted to be a pilot because of his dad. Goose wasn't a pilot. Maverick was.

The betrayal hit him harder because he wasn't running after Goose, he was looking up to Mav. He wanted to be like Mav.

And he became a pilot, even when Mav pulled his papers, even after having the person he did it all for ripped him into shreds. He still did it.

He still wanted to be like Mav. Deep down, he still saw him as a role model even through all of the repression.

But he still doesn't know why. He doesn't know why Mav did what he did, because Maverick himself refused to say why.

Mav isn't going to be doing great either. He fucked up, and he fucked up big time. He shouldn't have pulled Bradley's papers, period. I know about Carole, but still. He should have communicated with Brad about it, and they'd fight about it, but Bradley wouldn't have walked out to never return then.

To worsen matters, Maverick has a horrendous martyr complex that makes him take the brunt of Bradley's resentment instead of Carole, the actual perpetrator.

Over the years, he's blamed himself more and more every year that passed, but I don't believe he ever regretted it.

He fulfilled Carole's last wish. It didn't stop Rooster from becoming a pilot. He gave both of them what they wanted.

But he's trying to protect the Carole Bradley has in his head because he doesn't want to stain his memory of her as he did with himself. This has been discussed a hundred times over, so I will try to be brief.

Mav is scared that instead of him, Bradley's gonna resent his mother. His dying, cripple mother that said that in her death bed. His widow mother who saw her husband die in the skies and didn't want her baby boy to have the same fate. His sorrowful mother that had to watch her friend, someone she considered a little brother, keep going up into those same skies and hear all the whispers the people on the ground flung upon him because of it.

So he took it all on himself. Because he sees himself as expendable in favor of her.

So, safe to say he's not going to be the one to tell Bradley the truth. Because of it, Bradley's resentment is going to continue to fester.

After the mission, Bradley knows that Mav's not telling him everything, but he refuses to talk about it so what the hell is he going to do?

They fix things well enough for them to talk to each other, but don't make it too deep in fear of opening up more wounds instead of stitching the old ones back together.

Mav thinks this is as good as he can get. Bradley is annoyed at Mav's hesitance.

Despite mending things, Bradley is still going to think all of his problems are Mav's fault. And he's a petty bitch, so he won't let it slide.

He hasn't properly processed it due to the lack of information, and can't let go because of it.

He's going to slip in dry comments about how Mav affected his mental health and life because of what he did. He's going to be cagey about everything that happened in the in between. He's not going to know basic shit about Mavericks life because he refuses to acknowledge that he was wrong in more than one way.

And Mav's gonna fucking take it.

He's not gonna say anything, not gonna even defend himself because he thinks he deserves it.

Bradley is a stubborn fuck whose pride has been hurt once, and refuses to acknowledge that it could be hurt again. He's just like Mav when he was younger, but ten times worse in the emotional department (I have no fucking idea how he managed that, but he did).

So yeah, soon enough they're going to be balls deep in miscommunication with grudges held close to their chest.

Maverick wants to communicate but doesn't want to communicate a very important piece of information that could potentially make things better and Bradley straight up doesn't want to if he doesn't have to.

Which means they're going to come to a stand-still. And someone is gonna have to interfere.

If I were to guess, it'd either be Slider or Sarah (Kazansky). Regardless if Sarah is Ice's sister or wife (up to interpretation), she knew how important Mav was to Ice and obviously cares about him too from the few scenes we got of her. Slider also knows, and it's obvious he also genuinely cares about Mav too despite claiming otherwise.

I'd honestly vote for Slider to be the one to do it, simply because he'd also see the Ice favoritism and the Mav neglect, and would pull Bradley's ear about it to hell and back. Because he also knew Goose, and this... entire thing is not something Goose would be happy about, at all. Slider has a much more subdued connection to Bradley, so he'd have no qualms about calling him out on everything.

Especially if he ever found out that Bradley said 'My dad trusted you, I'm not going to make the same mistake.' I sorely believe Slider would end up in jail if he ever heard about that one.

If Sarah were the one to do it, she'd probably be more understanding and much less violent than Slider, but she'd be blunt. That's still someone she cares deeply for they're talking about, and she also saw all of it. She wouldn't sugar coat what needs to be said, but she'd be understanding too. Not you did nothing wrong kind of understanding, but a you had your reasons to be upset kind of understanding.

Either of them would probably do this without Maverick's consent, because that's the only way to get it done.

When Bradley finally comes to know exactly why Mav did what he did, he's gonna be in shambles. Not only for Mav, but for himself.

His entire life has been built around that single happenstance and now it's gone, he was wrong. He was so wrong. He can't go back to being the way he was, he doesn't remember how he was.

He's gonna have to start over, rebuild himself from the ground up to be someone better and spare everyone in his life the suffering. Everyone in his life has suffered the consequences of his resentment. He doesn't know if he can make up for it.

To start over, step number one is apologize.

This right here is were he finally lets his ego drop, and fully apologizes to Mav. Finally owns up to his mistakes to the person that deserves it most. He's not gonna leave Mav be, he's definitely going to demand a full explanation from him and then is going to scold him for it, but he's gonna finally fully let go of the grudge he held this entire time.

That's to say, everything isn't a sea of roses.

Maverick isn't the only person he needs to apologize to, and on top of it, Maverick is probably the only one who is going to let him down easy.

Bradley is going to be on a tight leash with everybody else for a while, and they don't have any hold ups about calling him out on his bullshit. He's going to need to learn how to take critique to improve himself rather than read it as a straight up insult that he's going to get mad about.

Maverick is going to need to learn that Bradley isn't going to up and leave, and that he shouldn't hold himself to such low standards. Not only that, he's also going to need to learn that Bradley is bound to make mistakes just like any other human.

Bradley is still gonna fuck up in some places, but he's gonna be better at recognizing it. Mav's also gonna fuck up sometimes, but he's going to get better at accepting it and moving on.

With time, Mav is going to call Bradley out on his bullshit too, and Bradley is going to do the same when Mav starts doing his 'I'm less important than other people' shit.

They're going to be sad about it because they think that the reason the other does some of the things they do is because of themselves, but that's a story for another time.

They try. That's what matters.

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Desperate Fool - Part 7

Part 6

Last time: Eddie learns why everyone quit calling

~~~

He runs a hand through his tangled hair, bringing him back to the present as he looks across at Nancy. She’s leaned into the back of the couch, feet still perched in his lap. Eddie’s almost forgotten what the force of Nancy’s gaze feels like, full of heavy emotions weighing him down. He’s lost so much time with his family, missed so much. Nancy hands him a box of tissues as he dries his eyes on his sleeve.

A look of regret crosses her face. “We can take a break, you know. We don’t have to go over it all right now.”

“No, Nance. I need to hear this. I want to hear this.”

She looks at him for a long moment. Eddie’s not entirely sure what face he’s making, but Nancy must sense his resolve, so she continues with her story.

While living with Nancy, Robin was able to get them both a job working as servers at a cafe around the corner. Between making a decent amount in tips and scheduling his own hours, Steve was able to finish his teaching degree.

“Robin quit her job?” Eddie asks, surprised. “I thought she made good money as a private language tutor.”

Nancy chuckles, like he’s missing out on the joke. “Really? You don’t think Robin wouldn’t quit her job in a heartbeat if it meant getting to work with Steve? Especially when he needed it most.”

He smiles. Yeah, of course she would. Even when Eddie and Steve were at their best, he’s still not sure he could ever love Steve as much as Robin, but fuck if he didn’t try every day to prove otherwise. 

Why did he ever stop trying?

A happier occasion than the last move, the two found a bigger place closer to Steve's new job. By October, Steve had charmed the Principal into hiring Robin to teach Spanish and French. They were doing well– and still are, Nancy adds on with a smile.

Eddie doesn’t deserve to feel proud of Steve, knowing he’s the reason Steve had to put his life on hold, but he smiles regardless. Nancy squeezes his ankle, still propped in her lap, like she can read his thoughts. It’s encouraging to know that after everything, she’s still here with him. He doesn’t deserve her either.

“He loves his job, Eddie. You know he’s always been good with kids.”

“I know,” he says, tipping his head back to keep the tears pooled in his eyes. “Elementary, right?”

Nancy sighs, a small laugh escaping on the exhale, “Kindergarten Phys. Ed., to be exact.”

And god, Eddie can’t help but laugh. He can imagine Steve in his favorite blue track pants, white t-shirt, with a whistle around his neck, teaching the kids how to play parachute and tag. Running around and building obstacle courses with them, consoling them when they stumble. 

The tears fall anyway, but Eddie’s smile is still bright and shiny. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed, true happiness fizzing like tiny bubbles in his chest.

It’s a little bittersweet to hear Steve's doing well, but that's just the small, selfish part of him wallowing in the fact that he's not the person making him happy. Still, Steve's doing well, and that means everything in the world to Eddie.

~~~

Part 8

Tag List!!!

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[omaano]

"Cassian's face is a brittle thing, no person's eyes should shine as painfully tearful as his. Kino offers his hand and Cassian - bright as the sun, steady as a roc, fluid as water Cassian - accepts it with shaking fingers. He tells Kino everything."

Art for we're spitting off the edge of the world by Xenomorphic for the 2024 Star Wars Big Bang @swbigbang. It is an amazing Canon Divergence Fix-it fic from one of the most memorable moments of Andor onwards, with beautiful prose that fits the mood of the show so so well and will make you feel just as deeply for these characters. Please give it a read and heap some love on my team's amazing and hardworking author, they were such a delight to work with!❤️