#Dexter Wee

[jetslay]

Superman, Lois, Jimmy, and Krypto by Dexter Wee.

[artphotographyofmen]

Superman by Dexter Wee

[graphicpolicy]

Crowdfunding Corner: The Adept, Assassin G, Immortal Swordsmen, and Fa Sheng!

Crowdfunding Corner: The Adept, Assassin G, Immortal Swordsmen, and Fa Sheng! #comics #comicbooks #indiecomics #kickstarter #kickstarterreads

[comicbookwomen]

[gluevah]

Some Jellycat doodles I did c: the first one is my dragon, who needs a name, and the other 3 are for members of the Jellycat subreddit c:

[bloodprettybutnottasty]

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[gergthecat]

:0

[godsmeet]

there's this girl.. that's his opening to her question. & for once she doesn't think it's bullocks. he looked so sincere, maybe especially in the way he couldn't look at her when he said the words. so she shakes her head, trying to fight the forest fire of a blush - which was spreading wildly up from her neck to her cheeks. shaking her head, licking her lips before she slips her eyes up to meet his. arms still crossed, but her pout has faded. how could it not? well, if it was still there - it wouldn't be the same kind of pout. it would be the pout of a girl who was still secretly hopelessly in love with her best friend. emma morley - she was that girl.

"you think i'm beautiful?" questioning his motives just a bit. not necessarily because she thinks he's lying - but because she's aching to hear it again. maybe more specific this time - not this girl but maybe a you instead. she wanted more. the night made her a dreamer, maybe a bit of a fool too. they'd tried this route before, it didn't work out, but she wanted it to. so damned desperately.

the night was beautiful, but suddenly it isn't the city that sleeps who keeps emma's gaze & investigative attention. it's dexter. once again. the same old story, whenever she thinks she's found a way to live as his friend, he says something like that.. something that could change everything if he wanted it to. something that could change the two of them - but she wasn't sure it would be better. just different. if they crossed that line, they could never go back. & she wasn't willing to risk him. she couldn't lose him for good, yet... she can't stop smiling, (almost grinning) at her best friend. he thought she was beautiful, & right now? under his gaze? she felt it too.

Dexter huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turns back toward the city, like he actually needs to look to answer. He doesn’t. Not really. “ One beautiful thing? ” he repeats, stretching out the words like he's stalling, like he hasn’t already decided. He could say the lights, the way they shimmer like reflections on water, or the way the streets below seem to breathe, alive with movement. He could say the night itself— how it makes everything feel softer, less certain, full of possibility.

But she’s watching him now, arms crossed, lips pursed in that way that means she’s waiting for something real. Something that isn’t just charm & deflection & for once, he doesn’t want to disappoint her. His fingers drum against the railing as he exhales, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “ Alright, ” he says, tilting his head toward her like he’s letting her in on a secret. “ There’s this girl. ”

He doesn’t look at her when he says it. Keeps his eyes on the skyline, like maybe it’ll stop the words from meaning too much. “ She’s got this way of seeing the world— like it’s all still worth believing in. Even when it isn’t. Even when people like me give her every reason not to. ”

He finally dares a glance at her & there’s something unreadable in her expression, something that makes his stomach twist. So, of course, he does what he always does— shrugs, smirks, turns it into something lighter. “ She does this thing where she pouts at people when she wants to prove a point, which is quite possibly the most ridiculous & effective tactic I’ve ever witnessed. ” His smile lingers as he watches her, waiting to see if she’ll call his bluff. If she’ll see through him like she always does. But a part of him hopes — just for a second — that maybe this time, she won’t.

[urhoneycombwitch]

Ok ok hear me out I have a different idea now after reading your phone sex blurb

What about after Eddie comes back from his tour they're out with friends and some other girl is chatting him up, trying to rub up on him in front of reader. And she wants to stake her claim but she can't because he's not hers, not technically; and he isn't into the other girl's attention because he just wants reader, but he can't be too earnest about that bc it'll scare her off.

Do I want them to grind on the dancefloor or have sex in the bathroom? Yeah maybe

foreword: more roommate!Eddie x reader filth. secret situationship fucking at a party style. ty anon <3

wc: 1.8k

cw: secret FWB, Reader with breasts + vagina, femme pet names used, fingering (R receiving), the return of Eddie Cums-In-His-Pants Munson, wee bit angsty, lots of hidden longing

____

This party is the most sound your apartment has ever heard- speakers thrumming bass lines through the floorboards, drunken friends’ laughter echoing off walls.

You and Eddie planned ahead, started plotting weeks ago to bribe various neighbors in the building to avoid catching a noise complaint- scratch brownies for the floor below, some pre-rolls handed off across the hall, party invites extended to whoever was in earshot.

Informal karaoke kicked off around midnight, as the room rose in heat from extra bodies and alcoholic flush; Robin and Steve are bringing down the house on the other side of the bathroom door, charming the crowd with a belligerently intoxicated rendition of a Beastie Boys hit.

Eddie’s got you pressed against the sink, your ass to the unforgiving marble of the counter while he teases his teeth over the skin of your neck.

“No marks,” you whisper, fist seizing up at the root of his hair, tugging. He stifles a moan into your skin while you continue to tell him off, voice just under the protective layer of music. “It’s bad enough there’s only one bathroom in this place. Someone’s bound to notice we’re both gone-”

Eddie suddenly drops to his knees, nosing at the strip of skin above your jeans that he lifts your shirt to reveal. Your breath stutters, and he grins before popping the button with his teeth, chocolate eyes eclipsed by the black-lust of his pupils.

“No one’s gonna hear you, ‘cuz you’re not gonna make a sound. Got it?”

The gush of arousal that meets Eddie’s fingers is invitation enough. You rock into his hand, and he angles his fingers up- you take two of them like a dream, as if your cunt had just been waiting to be filled by those long, dexterous digits, cold rings quickly warming to the skin-temperature of your thighs.

“That’s it,” Eddie mumbles, never more mouthy than when he’s face to face with his favorite pastime. And then, as if reading your mind- “Been waitin’ for me all night, hm? Poor thing. So wet…”

Outside, the song rises into a fast guitar solo bridge, quickening along with your breaths. Hoping there’s enough sound barrier, you brace yourself with one hand on the counter while the other buries itself into the heat of Eddie’s scalp.

Soft, dark curls slip between your knuckles, your thumb brushing gently under the layer of bangs to touch the bare skin of his forehead. It’s too tender, too endearing for what the moment calls, in direct contrast with the way Eddie’s plunging into you, the insistent, budging slope of his nose near the pounding apex of your thighs.

“Becca’s gonna notice.” Your thumb tracks a path to Eddie’s temple, so now you’re just cradling his head as he fingers you into oblivion. “You know- ah- Becca? The girl from down the hall that you invited, specially?”

If it wasn’t for the public setting, you’d take more time to calculate which buttons of Eddie’s to push; as it stands, you’re sort of flailing around in the dark, hitting random ones and seeing what lights up.

Seems to do the trick, though- in one fluid motion, Eddie shoves your jeans the rest of the way down and takes one of your knees over his shoulders, giving himself enough room between your legs to dip forward and latch onto on your clit.

His plush lips suck, fervently, in time with the rhythm of his curled fingers, managing to hit into that gummy spot that buckles your knees.

“Well Becca- isn’t- here, right now,” Eddie says, around lapping mouthfuls of you, hand on your hip near-bruising with the force it takes to keep you upright. “Besides, she invited herself.”

“I dunno… you seemed pretty excited to see her.” The muscles of your abdomen clench, then release, your head tipping backwards to thunk against the mirror.

There’s an arch in your spine, now, enough space for Eddie’s hand to migrate from your hip to low back, pulling you more insistently onto his tongue and fingers.

In response, the spot behind your navel tightens again, pleasure swelling with the music. It’s irritating that Eddie thinks you’ll drop the subject in favor of an orgasm, so you aim for another button, lashes fluttering at the ceiling, voice stretched thin as your resolve- “She gonna stay the night? Use the same bathroom you’ve finger-banged some other b-”

The wet, hot pressure on your clit disappears, a whine of protest crawling from your throat before Eddie can smother it with his palm. Luckily, the living room speakers are kind of shitty, crackling with feedback as the song reaches fever pitch volume.

Eddie’s fingers still within you, stretching to depths that make your eyes roll back as he rises to cover the length of your body with his own. His hand is big and warm over the lower half of your face, breath an angry huff by your ear as he growls, low- “It’s probably in your best interest to not finish that sentence.”

It’s some consolation that you have the option to bite. Tempting as that is, you let your glare speak for itself, brows knitting together as Eddie draws back to look at you.

There’s a bead of sweat running down the side of his jaw, disappearing into the curls he’s let loose for the night. The eyeliner you’d carefully applied for him pre-party is blurred from the humidity and exertion, a rosy flush in his cheeks to match.

Eddie crowds your vision, close enough for you to note the tiny freckle under his left eye twitch, and for a moment, everything is just him- all you can see, hear, touch, smell, dopamine flooding in a head spin of hormones that respond despite your best efforts to tamp them down.

The background noise fades away, and it’s just you and Eddie, panting and straining against the other. A squelch, as he adds a third finger, your breasts pushing into the solid expanse of his chest as you squirm up, mindlessly seeking release.

“Be good and come ‘fore this song is over,” he’s saying, thick fingers scissoring, your resounding moan stifled by his palm. “Then I’ll kick everyone out and let you come again.”

It’s the promise of another that undoes you, thighs shaking with the growing wave, lashes tickling Eddie’s knuckles as your eyes slam shut.

He keeps all the points of pressure that you need, plus more- hips pinning the frenetic rolls of your torso, tips of his fingers coaxing bright spasms from the channel of your cunt, forehead pressed like an anchor to your own as your body sings.

The whole time, he’s talking you through it, deep timbre just for your ears with rasping praise and encouragement. “Oh, fuck, sweetheart, that’s it. That’s it. Good. Let it all out. S’just me here, yeah? Just you and me. Fuck…”

By the time your hearing returns, Eddie’s dotting soothing kisses up the curve of your neck, apparently trusting you enough to let his hand drop from your mouth. You take a few deep, shuddering breaths, hand still buried in Eddie’s hair like a lifeline.

He doesn’t seem to mind, taking his sweet time pulling out of you, disentangling himself with lingering touches to any remaining bare skin.

While he tugs your shirt back into place, you turn to face the mirror, smoothing over flyaways and making sure you look somewhat presentable. You let Eddie’s hands roam as your heart rate stutters, working itself back down to normal while he refixes the button of your jeans.

His chin settles on your shoulder, arms twining around your middle; you let him take some of your weight, relaxing into his hold, eyes catching his in the mirror as you ask, quietly, “You want me to wingman for you? She seems nice. And it’s never a bad idea to sleep with someone who lives in your building.”

Eddie snorts, your dry attempt at a joke working wonders, grin on its way to devastating greeting your reflection. “You seriously think I’m the one who needs help? After the time I just showed ya?”

“Well based on my limited data-” your hips grind backwards without warning, and Eddie stiffens, smile slipping from his face as your own wicked grin takes over- “-I’d say you’re the one who came in his pants just from touching me.”

You wriggle in his arms to turn around, noses bumping, lips hovering in a not-quite-kiss as you whisper, “Say please and I’ll run and get you some new pants. Hand-delivered.”

Even with the wall of party noise, there’s a distinctive click as Eddie’s jaw ticks. He acquiesces, though, stopping somewhere just shy of grateful to grit out, “Please.”

You hum, pleased and thoughtful, leaning out of his space to lift a brow- “I think Becca’s into blue-collared boys.”

This fact, you’re basing off the one time you saw a UPS guy at your neighbor’s door. Sounds a lot better if you act like you know what you’re talking about, though, as if the list of things you know about Becca is longer than black hair and occasionally receives packages.

Distance, safety, one and the same, even though what your body begs for is to get closer, to soak all your senses in Eddie again. You wind a particularly pretty curl of his around your index finger. “Those khakis you wore once to Robin’s grad party and then never again- bottom drawer?”

When Eddie nods, he fixes you with a glare, nostrils flaring like he’s about to tell you off.

Before he can, though, you’ve wriggled from his grasp, reaching for the door handle with strict, hissy instructions about locking it after you’re gone and only opening for your special knock.

He obeys, deadbolt sliding into place, door swallowing the noise of the party in your absence.

It’s just Eddie now, leaning into hands over the sink, breathing hard like he hasn’t already blown a load three minutes ago.

The entire length of his middle fingers shimmer in the light, still coated with your arousal.

Eddie’s mouth waters. He thinks about you; how for a second, you were the only thing on his mind, how rare that is, for him to be so singularly focused.

Then he thinks about Becca. And stupid tight fucking dress pants.

The sink water gushes to a start as he jerks the handle on, sudsy hand soap scrubbing away at the smell of you, carrying it down the drain.

By the time you’re back, dreaded pants in hand, Eddie’s fixed an easy smile on his face, bickering at the ready. Almost normal, and certainly familiar.

It’s just simpler to keep some distance. Close quarters aside.

[fallenrocket]

Thinking about Ned Low, and thinking about "creative" killers in pop culture. The characters who need to torture or kill in increasingly inventive ways, who turn corpses or body parts into their "art." Thinking of various killers we see on Hannibal, Dexter, Sherlock, and I'm sure many more.

This is what Ned Low does, and it sucks. There's nothing truly creative or artful about him. His crew is bored and discontented as they go through the motions of his grand vision, and his big "symphony" is just his lame attempt to give purpose to a bunch of people screaming. He can sneer that Ed is a "lowborn" generic pirate (even though Ed "got it in one" re: his brother,) and he can call Stede an amateur, but his art is simply embarrassing.

What's more, it doesn't hold a candle to the wonder and beauty created by a ragtag group of misfits who made up a religion purely for the sake of having a big party. For Calypso's birthday, the crew invents traditions on the fly, everyone coming up with their own little twist on these timeless traditions that are only happening now for the very first time. They fill their ship with paper lanterns and pirate-themed bunting, and they fill the night with fireworks and dancing. Wee John serves drama with every brush stroke as Calypso the sea goddess holds court, while Izzy Hands sings a love song 200 years ahead of its time. Even Stede, the rube they tried to dupe into throwing this party, is fully aware of the con and doesn't care, because he's creating something too: he's turning poison into positivity.

This is art. Ned Low is just a sad, pretentious man grasping for importance.

[illyanarasputinfan]

Magik Vs. Red Sonya by Dexter Wee

[acapelladitty]

Captain Boomerang/Reader - Restraints (Kinktober #10)

Summary - You find Digger all tied up with nowhere to go and decide to tease him a little before setting him free. (This was a wee commission from the absolutely delightful @worri-wort who has fantastic prompts!)

The sigh of exasperation which flees your lips at the sight of him is one that you assume he must be used to by now. Planting your hands atop your hips, you meet his eyes and a silly thought flits through your mind that, at least this time, you’d been lucky enough to find him conscious and clothed.

“Really?”

Digger’s fingers flex in the closest thing he can manage to a shrug as his body writhes against the myriad of twisting, textured vines which pin him to the wall. A thick patch of ivy sits behind his frame, the flora providing a strong anchor for the vines to hold its unwilling prey steady as the base of it seems somehow embedded in the plaster of the wall. The scent of earth is heavy in the air, something primal and heady, and the strength of it makes you clear your throat delicately as you tap your feet against the flooring.

“I know I said I would behave.” Digger begins with the inflection of a petulant child. “But things happened, and I got into a little tussle with the plant bitch,” he smirks at the dismissive nickname as a flash of gold peeks free of his dingy teeth, “so she left me here like this. Told me to fucking rot.”

“And what did you do to deserve that?”

If anything, his grin grows wider and there’s something guilty hiding in the way his lips tilt to the side even as he keeps stubbornly silent.

“Well, that wasn’t smar-”

“Hey! I’m the victim here.”

“Maybe she’s right. Maybe you should be stuck there. God knows it might actually stop you from making a mess.”

“Aww, don’t be like that, darlin’. Come and untie me.” He winks and, as if to make his point, his wide body struggles against the vines for a solid moment to showcase just how trapped he was. “I’ll make it worth your while, sweetheart.”

Sleazy charm in full force, the pet names are desperate but effective as heat touches at your cheeks. A fact he is quick to notice as his expression lights up and his efforts to escape stop in an instant.

“Fine.” You agree, attempting to sound nonchalant about the whole thing and failing miserably.

The vines are rough against your hands, feeling oddly alive as you delicately and methodically unravel the most prominent ones which cross his chest and arms. So focused on the task, you push away the embarrassment which sits warmly in the pit of your stomach as your fingers brush across his thick body; first trailing across his tensed bicep before wrapping around his thigh to coax off a particularly tight vine from just below his crotch.

Heat radiates from him like a furnace. His naturally warm frame is soothing, and you enjoy the sensations of his skin peeking through the vines as you return to his wrists, unknotting and loosening with dexterous fingers as you work as quickly as you can.

“Get the lower ones first,” Digger cuts in, the words startling you from your focus, “they’re trying to strangle me goolies and it’s not something I want to live through.” His voice has deepened, the accent coming through more pronounced as he slurs over the syllable with a sudden roughness. It’s hot and you bite your lips as you follow his request.

Dipping your hands back to the vines on his thighs, a gasp snaps free of your throat as your wrist brushes the crotch of his jeans to alert you to the stiff bulge which juts out from the denim.

“Digger…”

“You’re the one touching me, love. Can’t blame a red-blooded man for getting’ a little hot under the collar and cracking a fat when-”

He breaks off into a throaty laugh as you bury your head against his chest, blocking out the worst of his vulgarity and hiding your embarrassment by focusing on the racing pulse of his heart.

His shirt is ripped, the pale blue fabric torn enough across his chest that the exposed reddish chest hair below tickles your cheek as you press against him.

“Babe, heads up! Look!”

Following his instructions, you tilt your head up and immediately feel his chapped lips pressing against your own as he uses the little bit of purchase you’ve given him to catch you by surprise.

His mutton chops are rough against your skin, scratching your cheeks as he devours your lips in a filthy kiss. He tastes of cheap beer and even cheaper cigarettes, the palette of a man long haven given up any pretence of giving a single fuck about his health, and it’s nasty in a way which makes your head spin. In an instant, your fingers are pressing into his reddened hair, the strands there sitting flat against his scalp due to his recently abandoned beanie as you hold him in place.

“Chances of a gobbie?” He growls as he pulls away. “Can’t get a guy all hard like this and not do anythin’ about it. What’ya say, baby?”

Fresh heat creeps along your cheeks as you shake your head. No way he was getting a blowjob. Not like this. Those were a reward for a good well done and he had really messed this little meeting he attended up. But the idea does have a little bit of appeal, particularly when he’s so restrained and unable to do anything and the mental image of you on your knees before him sparks a wicked heat in your chest.

Chuckling at your headshake, he offers you a childish pout.

“And here’s me thinking you liked me, darlin’. Not even chucking me a pity handy.”

Mischief rises in your thoughts, pushing past the embarrassment as a cheeky determination settles in your mind and your hand drops deftly to his crotch.

Unzipping his fly, you don’t miss the way his chest heaves in surprise as you pull his straining cock free. He’s already painfully hard and the obvious droplets of pre-cum which are smeared across his cockhead are hint enough to how turned on he is.

“Is this what the big baby wants?” You coo, rolling your fingers across his fat length as it juts free of his groin. The base of his cock boasts a health patch of russet pubic hair, and it tickles your fingers as your stroke away at him with a slow pace.

Panting already, his expression is slack and content to allow you to do what you want with him as he remains unable to move more than a few inches. A lurid, deep moan slips free of his lips as you rub your thumb across his cockhead, spreading the mess there further as arousal tugs at your own stomach, heat spreading across your skin.

“Just like that, babe.” Digger groans, his hips jerking slightly as he chases your hand. “So fucking good to me, so fucking good.”

Mouth going dry at the praise, you settle into a steady rhythm as you use his reactions to guide your actions. He makes a little whimper as you run your finger along the line where the shaft meets the head and the sound goes straight to your groin, inspiring you to do it two more times until the pre-cum is steadily leaking from his slit.

“Are you close, baby?”

“Yeah- oh yeah.” He mewls out, the noise utterly pathetic. “Gonna shoot off all over your hands, love.”

Before you could respond to that, he follows through with his claim and you feel his cock twitching in your palm as he comes. His release is stuttered; the mess coating your fingers as a few erratic droplets spray across his own stomach, staining both the shirt and vines which cover the wide area.

Continuing to stroke him through his orgasm, you keep your hand moving along his shaft until his groans have shifted from pleasure to discomfort as overstimulation touches at his heaving body. You release him quickly, your fingers shifting over to the final vine which holds his right hand in place as you pull it free with renewed strength - confidence thrumming through your veins.

Now freed, even if it were only one hand, his determination is immediate as his hand strikes forward to wrap around the back of your neck and a surprised squeak flees your lips as he pulls you flush against his frame. The heat radiating off him is even more pronounced and the blush in his cheeks is reflecting in the warmth of your own as he grinds his cock against your clothed thigh.

“Fancy a quick root, babe?” He asks, his one freed hand dropping to roll across your clothed chest as he squeezes the skin there roughly. “Give me five mins to recover and the little guy’ll be raring to go for another round.”

“Root.” You mutter, mildly pissed off at how good the pun is there.

Moving your feet quickly, you kick away the vines which are littered around the floor beneath you to make way for a decent space for a quick fuck once you’ve finished releasing him.

[faegoddessog]

Day 17: 9AM

Enjoy this soft but demanding space of reclamation.

@dailydoseofaustinbutler has all the deets pinned for this challenge!

Warnings: Explicitly Mature material 18+, touching, stroking carressing. Fellatio just for her, a Unprotected PiV (stay safe loves), wee bit of overstim

Here is my Master List which includes the og 72 hrs of Bliss that these two come from. Also here it is on AO3 if you like that better.

The other new installments for this series are listed here .

Enjoy!

Austin hadn’t realized he too had fallen asleep until he noticed the cold. Eyes blinking open as the light of dawn glowed behind the curtains. He found himself devoid of covers. The mound of covers rolled away from him, he assumed to be his wife. He burrowed in behind her, big-spooning his way into the warmth. She snuggled back against him, murmuring somethin. With a contented sigh, he slips back into sleep.

When Austin woke up again it was nearly 9 AM. He hadn’t expected them to sleep so long.  Clearly they both needed it. He gets up to pee and brush his teeth. As he looks at her, still  conked out in the tangle of the white sheets, flashes from the day before creep into his consciousness.

Watching her tongue loll about on another man’s cock. Feeling her pussy soak his cock as she sucked Arsene into her mouth. Pounding into her and pushing him deeper. How she smiled when he kissed Arsene, like she knew he had to.

He worms between the sheets, pulling her close. His hands roam her body, lightly touching her neck here, the inside of her wrist there. He pauses for a bit, letting her drift before starting up again. He gently strokes her back, running his fingers along her spine, lower, lower, teasing the top of her crack. Her hips move, tilting back encouragingly in her sleep.

Pause.

Brushing past her nipple to trace the curve of her hip like a ski slope before swooping down and around her ass. Slowly she unfurls, every touch bringing her closer to consciousness. By the time her eyelids open, her body was yearning for him. 

“Morning sunshine,” his voice low and sure, dragging fingertips up her thigh.

“Mmm, what are you doing to me,” she says with a stretch and a smile. 

“You want me to stop, Kitten?” he says with a smile, but also seriously.

“No, no I do not, but I’m gonna wet the bed if I don’t get to the bathroom,” she pulls his hand to her lips for a kiss. 

“I’m sorry, all I heard was ‘bed’ and ‘wet’,” his blue eyes sparkle with mischief. 

“It’s not the sexy kind babe,” she pulls back the covers. 

He watches her walk to the bathroom, appreciating the roundness of her ass and the cords of her strong back. God she was gorgeous. 

She slips back into bed, curling herself over his lap, back to him. She wiggles just a little, getting him to resume the long strokes along her back. 

He assumes that she isn’t up for sex. It only makes sense with how yesterday went, hell he wasn’t sure he was ‘up’ for it.  He plays his dexterous fingers up and down her back, over her shoulder and down her arm circling back around her buttocks. He’s just enjoying being with his girl.

She loves the feel of his hands on her, soft and sensual. When he dips down around the curve of her buttock a tiny glowing particle sparks in her belly.  Her back arches. He keeps up his circuit of caresses. When he gets to her ass again, he takes a moment to squeeze, pulling her cheeks apart. 

She pushes off his lap. He opens his arms, assuming she is going to curl up on his chest for a nice cuddle with some loving ‘not now’ body language.  Instead she uses his stomach as a pillow, wrapping her leg around his. She takes one of his hands and places it on her head. He starts smoothing her hair back while his other reassuringly strokes her back. She practically purrs, curling her hand up under his inner thigh. 

He smiles, relaxing into the snuggle with his Kitten, his love, his wife. He can’t imagine a better way to start the day. 

Without warning, she reaches out her tongue, the tip just barely able to reach his semi hard dick.  She brings him closer and pulls just the tip into her mouth.

“Oh!” He gasps, not expecting it at all. 

She lets her mouth explore the feel of him, not moving up and down, just sucking, her oral fixation taking the reins. Suckling his cock and happily drooling saliva onto his belly, she feels him grow hard in her mouth. It’s all just so soothing to her, comforting, pacifying.

He lays his head back, just enjoying the titillating feel of her mouth and the wet slurping sounds. Slowly the sensuality builds, his desire rises. Still, he tells himself, it doesn’t need to go anywhere beyond this pseudo cock warming.

She isn’t sure where this is going either, but she’s gonna follow it to it’s end.  Still mouthing him like a plaything, she wraps her hand, forefinger and thumb on his shaft. Sliding perpendicular to his shaft just enough to provide different stimulation. 

Without thinking, Austin holds her head and starts to push into her mouth, caught up in just how good she is making him feel.  Normally she likes this, but it’s not what she wants. Clarity strikes her in this moment. His dick in her mouth isn't about him. It’s about her, about the gratification of him on her tongue. His pleasure is merely a happy by-product. She taps his hand and pulls off him with a muttered ‘uh ungh’ and a little shake of her head. 

“Ok baby, sorry,” he whispers, going back to stroking her and trying to re-regulate himself. 

She nestles right back down onto his stomach and gobbles his cock back into her mouth.   She pulls him to the back of her tongue, filling her mouth with the smooth soft head. Slurping off him to nibble her lips over his ridge and across his little hole.

His hand flows down her spine to her ass, gripping her cheek as her cocksucking becomes more greedy.   Her ass arches up into his hand as he strokes between her cheeks. She scoots her butt back to make it easier for him to reach as if suddenly she is made aware that she has other erogenous zones. 

She is lost in the oral beauty of him. 

He licks his finger and presses it against her rosette. He only swipes across it gently, knowing she’s bound to be sore. She moans around his cock, the vibrations causing him to suck breath through his teeth in an effort not to have a go at her mouth.  

The crescendo builds and she needs more. Pulling off with a sudden pop, she climbs him like a predator. She gets only as far as straddling one leg before she finds herself humping his toned thigh. Driven by something else, something not exactly need, but more like instinct. 

He groans at the wet swaths her heretofore untouched pussy leaves on his leg. He tightens it, giving her more to ride. She starts to feels wild as she grinds onto his leg. Holding his head, she licks her way into his mouth. Sucking his tongue and lips, devouring him without mercy.  She nearly cums just riding his muscular thigh. She’s not been this high on him in a long, long time. 

“I need that cock,”  comes out more like “mmm cock”  but he udnerstands nonetheless. He guides her leg over his hips. She rocks back and forth over him, rubbing her clit on the ridge of his head. He groans at her wetness. He clenches his ass, lifting his cock just enough for her to scoop him in.

Deep, god he’s in so deep with the first flush. Filling her. Her mouth opens, tongue out. Without even thinking, his fingers are instantly there. She guzzles them in, sucking first one, then two. Playing with her tongue between them,  spit drips over his knuckles. She rides him, sucks him, grips his shoulders, her nails leaving crescent moon marks on his beautiful skin. 

He knows he is being used and he is fucking here for it. He is in awe of her wantonness. Of how she has totally given herself over to the untamed urges he knows are seated deep in her soul. 

She whines, so close to cumming but not quite there yet, or is she? Sensation overriding any goal, orgasm both here now and just over the horizon. She is stepped aside, her body taking over, no thought, no judgment put on what it wants. Feel it, take it, ride it out. 

Her sounds are wild, frenzied and fucking gorgeous. He tips the pad of his thumb onto her clit and it’s all it takes. She screams around his fingers, unfettered spine whipping, hips shaking, pussy drenching. It’s mindumbing just how good it is. 

He can’t, he just can’t. She is just too hot pulsing around his dick. He grips her hips in both his big hands and fucks, fucks, FUCKS up into her. The sharp lines of his face contort in the intense focus of lust and fervor. 

She is frozen on him cumming and cumming and cumming as he rails into her. It’s as if, as she was using his body, he was storing up all his reactions, his lustful ardor, to let it loose all at once in a tumultuous explosion of hip thrusts and passion. He dosn’t edge, doesn’t hold back. He sprints with the monomaniacal focus to  plunge into her until he splashes his cum deep inside her. To his credit, it takes longer than he realizes. Overstimulation takes over and she’s thrashing. It’s enough to take him over the edge, his milky seamen jettisons into her core with a roar. 

Panting, sweating, spent but giddy, fulfilled and euphoric. 

By the end, it was hard to say who had been reclaiming who.

........

This might get continued?? Don't yet know.

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[gnome-adjacent-vagabond]

Doing a compromise and posting an EXCERPT of the Johnny and Einstein fic. Trigger warnings will be up here and in the tags; the story will be under the cut. Please let me know if I miss any!

A little context first: Jonathan and Einstein have been hiding out in a motel in South Bend for a long while, and they killed the motel owner (well, not killed, per se...he died of pneumonia). This is a moment of reflection from Einstein's pov in the wee hours after Jonathan has fallen into a very heavy sleep.

Trigger warnings: nongraphic violence, blood mention, surgery mention, drugging (noncon), non consensual touching, murder mention, crime in general, toxic relationship, obsession. This fic's content is looking askance at somnophilia but it isn't TECHNICALLY somnophilia.

Saving Face (working title)

Einstein liked him best when he was asleep.

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t in awe of Jonathan Brewster when he was awake—he was! His purposeful gait, his burning eyes, his frightful and inquiring mind…the man was a terror and a wonder, but one to be observed from afar like a tiger in a zoo. It was incredible that he let Einstein get even this close to him. When he was asleep, though…well, that was a different story altogether. Einstein could get as close as he liked.

The moments when his companion actually closed his eyes and rested his mind were few and far between; Johnny slept infrequently. When he did, he slept light at best. At worst, he was half-awake, his heavy lids fluttering as he dozed in whatever corner they had tucked themselves into for the night. That said, his dreams never appeared troubled. He was ever so still, his breaths slow and steady with only the occasional sniff or sigh. He never snored, he never shifted—it was as if he died every night. The peacefulness of his slumber had been unsettling at first, especially that first time in London when they hid out in the abandoned tenement building. They’d been on the move without rest; Einstein hadn’t slept for two days. Yet Johnny had settled down in a moldy armchair and gone out like a light. After everything that had happened, he just went to sleep like it was nothing and woke up in good spirits the next day.

Einstein remembered fixating on the relative stranger’s hands in those forty-eight hours: They were long, curious things like great pale spiders at the end of either arm, ever restless and roving when he was awake. They were strong, too, as Einstein had seen when Johnny choked the life out of that poor young officer. He would later see they were also dexterous with a knife. During the night, though, they laid still and perfect in his lap or the arms of the chair, and Einstein had crouched at his side and gazed at them in admiration. These were what had made him stay—the chance to see those clever hands at work again was an intoxicating prospect. Now, five years on, he had watched them perform miracles over a hundred times.

Over the next half a decade, when the nightmares kept him from sleep or he was on first watch, Einstein stared at Johnny for hours, admiring his slack features as an artist admires one of his own paintings. Very little had actually changed about Johnny’s face, in his opinion, which was the result of meticulous effort on his part. Skin had been added and removed, stitches administered here and there, lips widened and shortened, but Einstein could still see his Johnny under all the other masks. It was most apparent in sleep, when the face and body were freed of pain and stiffness. Something remained of the aristocratic nose, the puppyish chin, the impish mouth. The mouth was most recognizable when Johnny smiled, rare as that was. He hadn’t done it often to begin with, and the constant facial reconstructions didn’t make it easy. Einstein had accomplished something great with every face—well, almost every face. He had always wanted Johnny to stay himself. He fought with him about every surgery, every change, and when he was inevitably shouted down he went to work with the intent to preserve, not to erase. The eyes, arresting in their intensity, were most important; Einstein couldn’t bear to alter such a captivating gaze. He turned Johnny’s features into a tribute to his soul, a work of art in which the centerpieces were two darkened windows. He strove to carve new odes into his muse each time he took the scalpel in hand, never repeating a previous modification and never failing to frame the eyes that were so dear to him with the utmost reverence. Johnny, whose aesthetic preferences were limited to shades of red and sanguinous pink, was none the wiser.

Sometimes, on the quietest nights when there was no chance of sirens jerking them both out of their dreams, Einstein would caress Johnny—never on the face, for that would wake him for sure. It was always the chest or arms. It was a surefire way to get himself hurt or killed—if he was ever caught he was sure he would wish he’d never been born. But, he reasoned, there was no safer time to be near the man to whom he had given his life, except perhaps when he was under anesthesia. Every so often he would slip Johnny a little something in his food or drink, just so he could actually hold him in his arms, cradle him and stroke his hair without worrying about the beast stirring. Johnny never found out, of course; Einstein wouldn’t be alive now if he had. Usually he woke up groggy and in high dudgeon a few hours later, angry that he’d overslept. Einstein would then depart, giddy and fearful until he got a few drinks in him. Johnny had all the fun, after all, and Einstein had been so loyal, so devoted…he deserved a reward. It wasn’t so much to ask, was it? To be held and pretend he was loved back.

It wasn’t a perfect arrangement by any means. The fear of waking him tainted his tenderness with caution and often shook his resolve so badly that he fled the area after only a minute. Even now as Einstein lay with his head against Johnny’s chest and their fingers interlaced, he trembled at the memory of those poor men in Chicago. Liars, traitors all three of them, but Johnny hadn’t had to use the Melbourne Method on the first two. He could have just snapped their necks. Einstein knew he could. But no, some things were personal, and Johnny liked a little fun now and then.

Einstein shivered and nestled further into the crook of his sleeping companion’s arm. He’d run out of schnapps about an hour ago, and though it had calmed his nerves somewhat he could feel that familiar chill creeping back to him. It was hard not to think about it when he had himself wrapped up in the very same arms that not two weeks ago had been wrist-deep in a heaving stomach. Einstein, his hands coated in bile and viscera from helping, had sat down and wept until Johnny boxed his ears so badly that one of them bled. But it wouldn’t do to think of these things now! It was quiet here, and relatively clean—they’d found a motel in South Bend, a rare treat, and Johnny had deemed it safe enough to sleep in.

[batsarebetterthanpeople]

ok what do you think every character in ofmd's highest dnd stat is?

Oooh ok let's get going. Ed and Stede are both very long and the others are rather short.

Ed- ok so I think Ed is definitely maxed out in both intelligence and wisdom. I think he's actually got a surprisingly low charisma. He just has expertise in intimidation and proficiency in deception and maybe persuasion. But more likely his player is looking at that persuasion skill and asking can I make an intimidation check instead.

Now if I was playing a d&d game and the assignment was play Ed in d&d I would give him a high charisma because I would stat him out as a lurker of the deep warlock BUT I think in canon where they're all rogues and fighters his charisma is ass.

Stede- Stede's difficult to stat out. I think most of his stats are probably pretty bad but he has the lucky feat. And some other means of making sure he roles well. He's not dexterous, I'm not sure on his strength, his constitution seems middling, his charisma is hard to pin down because everyone initially hates him (implies low) but he frequently wins people over with the power of friendship (implies high) but I'm leaning towards low on charisma because the winning people over is through persistent whimsy rather than true people skills. They become begrudgingly fond of him because he's impossible to get rid of rather than because he's charming is what I'm saying. He's a good problem solved he thinks on his feet and he's got a good insight which makes me think high wis but also every survival check he makes fails in comical ways so maybe this is another situation of his proficiencies tricking me into thinking he's got a higher wis than he does. The one thing he does have going for him is that he's pretty book smart so I have to go with int by process of elimination, but again, maybe strength, that's kinda the dark horse stat for him he doesn't show it but he doesn't fail any strength rolls either. He knocked a guy out with a punch tho so maybe strength. But his defining trait is problem solving so maybe wis? Idk. Not Con Cha or Dex tho those ones are definitely negative modifiers. If I had to guess middling wis, middling but slightly higher int, most of his proficiencies are in int and Wis skills, medium to high strength but he never uses it.

Jim- Dex. I will not elaborate.

Olu- I generally see Olu as the Jack of all trades build. He's a well rounded individual. None of his stats are all that exceptional but he's good to have around because he's got no negative numbers, and can do it all if push comes to shove.

Lucius- Charisma. He's an artist and his most used non-technical skill is being good with people.

Zheng- Charisma. I feel like this doesn't need any explanation.

Archie- fighting your way out of a snake takes grit, not being digested, and quite a few successful checks to not pass out while holding your breath. Constitution.

Frenchie- Frenchie is very cerebral, but not very book smart. That being said artificers are intelligence casters so I'm going with INT.

Pete- strength or con. He's a silly little guy but his mental stats aren't great and he's not giving me dex vibes either. Human fighter build.

Fang- Strength. See him breaking a guy over his leg and him holding onto the side of the ship with the goat in hand for an hour at least so Ned Low wouldn't find them.

Roach- survival and medicine are both Wis skills and historically my DMs have made players role wisdom for cooking checks.

Wee John- Strength but Charisma is definitely second.

Buttons- Druids are Wis casters.

Swede- drank poison. Lived. Con.

Ivan- he wields an Axe which is a strength weapon so probably strength.

Spanish Jackie- Charisma or Dex, but she displays more charisma.

Calico Jack- Charisma definitely.

Anne- Charisma is the one we see her use but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say her Dex is better.

Mary R.- Strength on the Ivan principle. Definitely not charisma

Mary B.- Commoner stat block with proficiency in painters tools

Izzy- Strength. But much like Stede this is a process of elimination. His Constitution is the worst Constitution we see in OFMD (Izzy the spewer), his Charisma is ass (see everything about him) his wisdom is so bad he can't succeed on an insight check to save his fucking life (and his life has depended on it) intelligence is not so good, Dex is good given how often he lurks in the corner unseen and appears places and the thing he does to Stede's shirt in 1.02 but the beginning of the duel with Stede is the most clear instance of a character using a versatile weapon with their strength stat I've ever seen so I think his strength is probably equal to or better than his dex. Also all the things we see him teaching Stede in 2.05 are strength and dex skills so I think that's where his skill set is.

Damn this crew is not a dexy bunch. Jim said "I'm playing an assassin rogue that throws knives" and everyone else said "alright let me not step on your toes then"

[scotianostra]

On March 8th 1936 The Oor Wullie and The Broons cartoon strips first appeared in the "Sunday Post".

Jings , Crivven's, and Help ma boab!!! He's Oor Wullie! Your Wullie! A'body's Wullie!

Yes 89 years ago publishers, DC Thompson introduced a four page "Fun Section" which included two comic strips written in Scots vernacular. Little did they know these would still be running almost 90 years later.

Oor Wullie, chronicles the adventures of a mischievous young boy in an unnamed town. Much speculation prevails as to where Wullie actually lives; some think it is Dundee where the Sunday Post was published; whilst others believe he lives in Glasgow because in 1938, the characters walked to the Empire Exhibition held in Bellahouston Park: later in 1988 the family again walk to and from the Glasgow Garden Festival. In a later episode he even cycles to Loch Lomond. But as the decades have rolled by it became clear Oor Wullie lived in the imaginary town of Auchenshoogle .

More controversy prevails as to what was Oor Wullie’s surname; some sources quote MacCallum whereas others cite, Russell. Wullie had an uncle Wattie Russell, a wartime private in one of the Scottish regiments. No one is quite sure however whether Wattie was related to Wullie's father's or came from his mother's side of the family.

Oor Wullie was created by Scottish comic writer and editor, Robert Duncan Low who wrote word sketches which Dudley Dexter Watkins illustrated. Low insisted the characters be based on real working class people and Watkins took Robert’s son, Ron for inspiration. The wee lad had innocently accompanied his father to work one day wearing dungarees and carrying a bucket of potatoes. Watkins added the famous spiky hair and Oor Wullie was born.

Our hero shares his home with his Ma and Pa, Harry the West Highland Terrier and Jeemy his pet moose. In the early days and for a short time he had a younger sibling (the bairn). The next door neighbour much later was Moaning Mildew (modelled on Victor Meldrew from One Foot in the Grave). Our hero’s favourite food is mince and tatties and his Ma’s Roly-poly pudding. His three best friends are Fat Boab, Soapy Soutar and wee Eck and the gang meets in a caravan called Holly Rude. Wullie is the self-proclaimed leader a position which is frequently disputed by the others. The boys love to go fishing in the nearby burn (the Stoorie) or race their cairties (boogies) down Stoorie Brae.

The mischievous Wullie’s of old, loved to steal orchard apples and use P.C. Murdoch‘s helmet as target practice with his catty (sling shot). However what was seen as youthful high jinks in the 1930s might be considered anti-social vandalism today so as the decades passed his antics have become a lot tamer. Otherwise its business as usual and Wullie’s unrealistic get-rich-quick schemes lead to mischief and continue to give his long suffering parents and local constabulary humorous concern.

Come what may the strip always ends with Willie seated on his bucket procrastinating about the day’s events. Occasionally he rests on padding or cushions especially if he has had his erse skelped.

Everyone knows the Broons. Hen is still the tallest beanpole in Scotland, Joe's still flexing his muscles, Maggie's still as gorgeous as ever, Daphne's still trying to get a man, Horace is constantly swotting and the never-named Twins are always up to mischief. And that's not forgetting the brainiest Bairn in Scotland, the ever youthful Granpaw and heads of the whole clan - matriarch Maw and put-upon Paw.

Although they've only ever appeared in the pages of the Dundee-based Sunday newspaper, the annuals - which alternate year about between Oor Wullie and The Broons - are still flying off the shelves faster than Granpaw's false teeth during a toffee apple eating contest.

The annuals are always in the top ten Christmas bestsellers at booksellers Waterstone's.

While the two strips adhere to the traditional format there have been some changes over the years, not all go down well, like when hen they tried printing the comics strips in colour the 90s, Michty me! There were shoals of complaints from readers and they had to go back to black and white In the most recent annuals, Horace gets a makeover and is mistaken for Harry Potter, while other characters are seen clutching mobile phones, checking e-mails on laptops, singing on karaoke machines and watching satellite TV

The Broons own a small cottage, called the but an' ben, somewhere in the Highlands but within a relatively short distance of their home. They enjoy weekends away there, although the younger Broons show some reluctance to go there. The older bairns in the family have also taken holidays in Spain rather than their traditional break.