#Mentions of Ghost

[bigassmoonchild]

Mirrors

Pairing: Captain John Price x Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Price and the 141 join forces with another special forces team, tracking down a known mercenary and trying to protect a much-hated political figure. Price gets distracted by the captain he's working with.

Content Tags: Smut, Mentions of Violence, Some fluff, Oral Sex (M Receiving), Fingering, Slight Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, PiV Sex, Dom! Price, Slightly Mean Price, Mirror Sex

A/N: I'm really spoiling y'all. I probably won't post this frequently in the future, I've just been in a writing mood. It'll turn out to be once every Friday and/or Saturday. As always, content is under the cut and my asks are open <3.

"Hey Price, how are we going to know who to not shoot if shit goes down?" Soap asked through the comms, Price looking out the windows to try and find the man. He took a sip of the drink he was holding, watered down whiskey that he's been holding on to since they got there.

Price looked around the venue, counting the people working with him. "Anyone wearing red," his eyes landed on you. Bright red dress hugging your curves, a sly smile on your face as you spoke with someone. Your eyes never stopped moving, catching his for a second before moving on.

He kept looking around. Price could see the political figure they were sent to protect, some American whose head was on the black market. A few of your own soldiers were scattered around, some sitting at the bar, others chatting amongst themselves near entry points.

From the debriefing you'd given, it was a hit or miss when it came to whether or not he would be attempting to snipe the man or go in for a quick shot. So you'd gotten Ghost and Soap, alongside two of your own sharp-shooters to set up at vantage points along the outside of the high-rise, the rest would set up inside. It was your decision to mark the teams a color, just in case the sharp-shooters got confused within the confusion of someone causing a panic.

Price had liked you from the beginning. Quick witted and smart, letting him relax from taking the lead for once. He'd known you just under 24 hours and you intrigued him.

"You might want to stop staring, Price, it could lead to some unwanted attention," your voice came through the comms, and when he looked for you, you hadn't been in the same place you were just a few moments ago.

Your arm wrapped around his, giggling a little but staring through him.

"Seriously, the guy in white has been watching me for a few minutes now, and I don't think he just wants to buy me a drink," you shifted just a bit, allowing Prices head to move in the direction the guy you'd been talking about. Price gave a fake laugh, pulling you in closer to him, watching the man turn away.

Price looked down at you. "Do you think he knows?" You looked away for a moment, giving a faint shrug at that. "Is he someone from your past?" You grimaced slightly. "Oh lord, do tell," he smiled slightly.

You pulled back a bit, giving a small face. "He was wanted a few years back for attempted murder on some big guy, he got the military sent after him and we were who got sent. He really didn't like that, especially when he was released with no connections to the crime," you glanced back slightly, eyes flittering to find the man, but he seemed to disappear.

Price looked as well, but couldn't find him, so his eyes found yours again and tugged you a little closer.

"You know what?" You hummed in response. "I don't quite think I've seen someone quite as beautiful as you," you snorted, shaking your head.

"Very forward, aren't you?" You smiled at him. He gave a shrug, eyes looking over you. "As much as I appreciate the compliment, I do think your pretty little eyes should be looking elsewhere," you whispered to him.

Price found himself looking over your head, finding Gaz giving him an interesting look before gazing away. "We both know how often we have time for interesting people, might as well take the time we have, huh?" You rolled your eyes a little, sliding your hands up his chest.

"I can't help but agree with that sentiment, John," you smiled, spinning in his arms and gazing out across the room. "I think it'll seem a little suspicious that we're standing together so long, so I'll be back to 'flirting' with whoever will talk to me," you used air quotes, rolling your eyes softly before disappearing back amongst the crowd. Price gave a small laugh, taking another sip of the watered down whiskey and glancing back around the room.

A few more men walked in, all wearing white as well. This caught his attention, watching as they met up with the first man. He watched you spin slightly towards them, keeping the group of guys in your line of sight. You gave Price a small glance over your glass, looking back at the men and he tilted his head back, going to take a sip from his glass to cover his mouth.

"Keep an eye on the men in white," affirmatives were given to him over the comms, and he could see a few of your own men shifting themselves to get an eye on the group.

The group of them had started to surround the man the group of you were hired to protect, and you watched as a few of your own men started to tense.

Your fingers twitched, making the men in your squad pause. Price watched as you stood, nearly gliding over to one of the new-comers and dragging him away, rubbing yourself on him and whispering something in his ear. Price could see the smirk from where he stood, watching as you guided him to a couch and your hand sliding to his neck.

Price assumed it was a tranq you hit him with, watching the man slump over before you stood. You gave the men a quick gesture, watching as the three others started to press in. Price placed the drink he'd never been able to finish on the table, pushing off and adjusting his sleeves as he moved in on them as well. It was when the man in the back pulled out a gun that any of you moved quicker.

"Hey!" You shouted, pulling a pistol from a holster on your thigh, aiming it straight for the man.

Through the chaos, Price couldn't see exactly what had happened. People had started running and screaming, shoving him around but he could hear a gunshot, quickly followed by the sound of glass breaking and bullets whistling by. The sounds of bodies dropping weren't slow to follow them, and Price kept pushing through the screaming crowd.

When he finally got through the crowd, he saw the three men on the ground, your pistol was lowered, staring down at the men now lying motionless with red staining their suits. You looked behind you and found Price, two of your men on your squad had come around to check the guys.

The guy you were protecting was shaken, and you turned your attention to him. You leaned in to him, arm on his shoulder and guiding him to a seat, getting him to sit down. Price looked back around, the area mostly deserted by civilians.

"Keep an eye out. We don't know if they're the only ones sent," he said through the comms, eyes still moving through the area. As much as Price tried to stop it, his eyes couldn't stop finding you. You were smiling and laughing with the man, and he felt pangs of jealousy.

Why? You were a colleague at this point, there was no reason to feel this way. You'd come and you'd go, just like the others he worked with. There was something different, though. You were beautiful, yes, but you had more personality than the others he'd worked with.

Especially the way you spoke with people, understanding and elegance with the way you talked. He appreciated a well-spoken person.

Price felt a touch on his arm, snapping out of his stupor and looking down at you. Your head jerked to the side, tugging him out of the room.

"He didn't even know he had a hit out on him," you started, finding a mirror hanging in the hall and looking yourself over. "Usually these kind of men believe that they're getting hunted, at all times, but he seems genuinely shaken," you looked at Price. "You think it's just a ruse?"

He had to think for a moment, eyes flittering over you. He leaned against the wall, rubbing his beard for a moment.

"I honestly think he's full of it," he gave you a smile and you huffed, rolling your eyes. Price leaned towards you, hands finding your hips. "Let's be honest, he hasn't got much going for him. I've seen his press, and it isn't pretty," you smiled, leaning towards him, arms sneaking up his chest.

"I'm sure he won't be the only one full of something this evening, like you said, we should take our chances when we can," you slid backwards, tugging him alongside with you, hands sliding into his and turning to find where you were intending to go.

Turning the corner, you opened the bathroom door and dragging him inside. Price locked it behind the two of you, watching as you continued walking, stopping in front of the sinks and mirrors. He stalked up to you, hands sliding along your hips and grabbing at your waist, pressing you into the sink.

He could feel you pressing back against him, sliding his arms up to unzip your dress. You slid the straps off of your arms and let the dress fall, unveiling your braless chest and simple panties, his eyes grazing across you through the mirror.

Spinning around, you dropped to your knees in front of him and palming him through his pants. He watched as you undid his belt, undoing his button and unzipping his pants. You gave a little smile, tugging his pants and briefs off of him.

John groaned, letting his head fall back as his hand found your head. He could feel your hand sliding along his cock before the heat of your mouth took him. Your tongue slid along his head before moving to take him deeper.

Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn't comfortably fit and he moaned with each suck, hand helping to guide you to a steady rhythm. When he looked down, your eyes were already searching for his. He couldn't help but let his mouth drop open with his moan, hand pushing for your mouth to move faster.

A short chuckle escaped him with the gag you let out, eyes scrunching shut as he started abusing the back of your throat. He watched as a few tears escaped your eyes, rolling down your cheeks before he tugged on your hair to pull your head off of him.

Your eyes stayed shut, a thin string of spit connecting you to him and he smiled at that. Price tugged you up, sitting you back on the sink and leaning in to suck and nip at your neck.

"You'll be a good girl for me, won't you?" He smiled into your neck, hand sliding down to push your panties to the side. He could feel how wet you were even through the cloth, and stroked from your clit to your opening, sliding a finger in.

Your head dropped back as you moaned, leaving your neck open to more attacks from his mouth. He sucked bruises into it, curling his finger into your g-spot and feeling your hand find his wrist, grasping it tightly.

Price chuckled, sliding another finger in, trying to stretch you out. He could feel you pulsing against his fingers, hand tugging at his wrist with each movement he made.

He nipped your neck. "Come on, sweet girl, beg for me," he whispered into your ear, watching as your eyes just barely opened and mouth closing before trying to talk. When you did, he added one more finger, watching your eyes roll back when he kept pumping against your g-spot, thumb sliding against your clit.

God, he could listen to your moans for hours, little whines close to his ear when he moved to continue nipping at your neck. He pulled his fingers out, tugging you off of the sink and bending you over it instead.

He stroked his cock along your folds, watching your head drop between your arms.

"Please," it was a whisper, slightly crackly from the moans you'd been giving him.

"Please, what?" He urged you on, feeling your hips grind back on him, trying to get him to slide in. John tugged your head back by your hair, making you look at him through the mirror. "I'm not doing anything until you ask me to, sweet girl," he leaned back up, holding your hips still.

You blinked at him, slow and thoughtless. "Please, Captain, fuck me. Need your cock in me, sir, please," and he pressed in, sliding slowly into you. He watched your mouth drop open and brows furrow, eyes struggling to remain open.

Bottoming out, John let his head fall back, moaning low in pleasure. Your cunt was spasming around his cock, pleasure pooling from where you could feel him pressed so deeply in you. Gasping moans fell from your mouth when he pulled back out, fingers finding your clit and stroking slow.

Not waiting too much longer, he started to quicken his pace, dropping your hair to pull your hips back to meet each of his thrusts. Your arms shook from holding yourself up and stopping yourself from moving too much with each thrust, head falling back between them. You finally shut your mouth, swallowing thickly around a moan.

You could feel your cunt begin to spasm, pleasure spreading through your gut and causing a few tears to fall. Each thrust stuttered your moans, your hands grasping the sink under you harder as you came, the pleasure making your legs buckle, leaving John as the only source holding you up.

He didn't stop his rampage on your clit, one of your hands finding his and trying to pull it back.

"No, you don't get to pull me away from your pretty little clit," he shoved you back over the sink, hand getting caught under your body and stopping you from moving it anymore. "I'll keep you cumming around me, sweetheart, and you'll take it," he whispered and flicked his fingers around you clit faster.

You could feel the tears pouring down your cheeks as your body jerked with each press of his cock on your g-spot, each time his fingers stroked on your clit.

Head dropping, John looked down at where he could feel you sucking him in, watching your cunt drag him back in each time he pulled out. Your little gaspy whines echoed in the bathroom, and he slid his hand along your back to grab at your ass.

"Such a good little thing for me, hmm?" He glanced at the mirror, seeing your eyes scrunched shut and feeling your hips begin to twitch with another orgasm. "Cumming again so soon?" John couldn't help but smile at that, giving your ass a smack and feeling your cunt spasm. With a chuckle, he regained his torture against your clit and picked the speed back up.

He leaned over you, biting at your neck and sucking another hickey into it, hearing you gasp into your orgasm and grow silent, your cunt spasming around his cock with each flick over your clit. You could feel the searing pleasure flow through you, sliding against the sink with each thrust.

Seemingly regaining your voice, you let out a high pitched moan and writhed against him. John could feel his own orgasm building up on him and he relented on your clit, grabbing your hips tightly with his hands, tugging your hips back into his thrusts before pulling out, stroking his cock until he came along your ass.

John took a moment to admire you, his cum coating your ass and your slick dripping down your thighs. He tucked himself back into his pants, grabbing a paper towel to clean you up and grabbing your dress, sliding it over you, helping you zip it up.

Wiping the mascara that dripped down your face, he gave you a small smile. "You doing okay?" And all you could do was nod, letting your head fall onto his chest. He stood there, arms wrapping around you and slowly rocking you.

"'m okay," you whispered, wrapping your own arms around him. His head dropped onto yours, letting his smile grow.

[passengerseatprophet]

seek pt.i

Golpari’s never liked bedtime stories. Not even as a child, and when her sisters came along, she figured quickly that she much preferred to be the one to tell them. Nazanin had hated when Golpari tried to read her to sleep—perhaps because listening to another child’s clumsy attempts to decipher an already rather boring string of words wasn’t exactly the most profound experience. Her youngest sister though, Mahzad, had been the most forgiving, and even when she wasn’t, Golpari’s singing was always proficient enough to soothe away her ever-snappy temper.

What she remembers now, when the deeply personal clutter of the house crashes down over her head like stormwater, like she’s tried to part her way through the red sea and failed halfway to shore, are bedtime stories. Told by a cruel man with much crueller intentions, barely out of the grave and already dead-set on putting her six feet under, if only for the hollow victory of offering no hand to a drowning woman. Only so much ground to cover with the bottom of a bottle, and none were thick enough to averse from the apprehension that, really, he had been the one drowning all along. It caught up to him in glass shards and bloody hands, that. Eventually.

Left him plenty of time to let his mean streak run rampant though. Enough time to try and get under her skin with the subtlety of a fucking missile—it had been a dumb bomb, this drunken rage of his, aimless and lethal to even be near when he finally decided to explode.

Hardly any of it fazed her, frankly. The wounds she’d pressed closely to her body had been clawed into sickly pale skin long before Ghost decided he liked hurting her.

She remembers carrying his miserably limp body all the way back to his quarters once he’d had enough. Or been kicked out. The latter was much more likely, violent bastard that he was. Got a real problem getting mean when he was drunk, when he felt helpless. Pulled back his jowls and lunged for a soft throat.

Gets it from his dad, she thought back then. Still thinks so. The only difference to then is that she would never say so to his face.

The equally miserable parallel to how she used to carry her sisters to bed was never lost on her. How she used to brush the hair from their faces gently, kiss their heads and whisper a soft goodnight before leaving the door ever so slightly open so the light from the living room would still illuminate their room. How she hauled his massive frame down several hallways and simply dropped him once the door was closed behind them. Three minutes is what it would take for him to accept that Fog would not move a single fucking finger to help him up. Then, he’d crawl on all fours to his bed, haphazardly throw himself onto crinkled, half kicked off sheets and snarl at her like the wounded dog he was. Sometimes she’d snarl back.

Most nights, she just stood there, waiting for his incessant rambling to commence. Loved to talk, albeit slurred, but Golpari was never quite sure whether he remembered she was still with him until he tried to raise his head and throw a glance her way, until he tried to pry her apart ribs first with a tongue he reinvented into a knife but was unable to wield with anything but his own unfocused misery.

Rare were the occasions where he’d cry instead of alternating between cursing her out and permitting the wispy memories of Saeda Stallard to come back to life, only to turn them vile with the butcherly twist of his mouth. Golpari would have preferred the crying, she thinks, had it not been for the fact that it made her feel a vague semblance of compassion for him. A sacred thing, which he decidedly did not deserve.

Ghost seemed to be of the opposing opinion, seemed to think he deserved every last bit of her compassion, deserved the presence of this phantom he traded his own hauntings for. And he thought he was right to act the way he did, at the time at least. Perhaps that is what caused the most devastation, the fact that he considered himself absolved of his wrongs.

The Patron Saint of glassy eyes and whatever war there was to fight at 04:34. His apostles a cheap bottle he got off of who-fucking-cares and the woman he fucked but never loved.

No one else loved him enough to keep him from the next bottle. Golpari certainly didn’t love him enough to do so either. Couldn’t possibly bring herself to look at his screwed-up face and feel anything in her heart but vague, disappointing indifference for this sorry excuse of a man. She dragged him to bed because no one else would. Same way she continued to allow him into her bed when the woman he loved had found someone else.

Coming back from the dead only to realise the love of his life married some dickhead from wherever the fuck Graves had crawled out from must have hurt—made him violent, too. Fog does not particularly like to think back to any of the things he had said, just grimly recognises how her knowledge of Stallard must far surpass that which Stallard has of her. For a moment she contemplates telling her, if just for the sake of coming clean. The thought is objected as fast as it occurred. Saeda Stallard has a right to her secrets, and Golpari would never dare intrude upon that. She’ll keep them safe with the stones in her pockets.

The house is cold and a little dark, and the other woman giving her an undecipherable up-and-down does not seem to care enough for the comfort of an uninvited guest to change that. Stallard, Fog reminds herself, She’s got a bloody name now. The lights stay off. Fog is not afraid of the dark—or maybe she is and has yet to come to terms with that, years after the concrete cell—but twilight makes her uneasy. Got her the name, too, that squeamishness around early mornings and dark afternoons. But she can manage, of course she can—wouldn’t be where she is now if it weren’t for the fact that she manages. Barely, at that, but she does.

What little light the sun is providing this time of day illuminates the skeleton of a house that could’ve looked pretentiously charming had the ugly knots in the walnut flooring been left out. Instead, it has character, is reigned by anarchy of an amazon-package-graveyard and shoes kicked off anywhere but on the shoe rack. Golpari is fond of it immediately, reminded of the big dark spots on her own doors, where her foots hits them regularly to open or close. The place is as nice as it is a mess.

Stallard leads Fog past several unstable towers of laundry that need to be put away in a manner so natural that she is almost convinced they’d done this before; and Golpari follows her through the labyrinth of clutter with similar poise, as though she already knows the way to the kitchen.

“Apologies for the shithouse,” Stallard says, switching a pile of laundry onto another with one hand. The other has been holding onto a shaker with an iron grip. Protein shake, presumably.

“I’d say we would’ve cleaned beforehand, but that’s not true in any fashion.” The remark is flat, orchestrated by Stallard’s arms gesturing broadly. The protein shake takes the place of a cigarette, while a huff replaces the laugh Golpari thinks was supposed to follow it.

She hums, unsurprised but faintly amused.

“No, no. We’ve all lived in much worse circumstances, I’m sure,” she says, probing the biting edge of the blade of common history with just enough weight to see if it still cuts. Stallard chuckles, and that is all she gets in reply before the conversation resumes to much more pressing matters.

“Do you drink tea, Miss Golpari?”

“Any and all, yes,” she slides the black coat from her shoulders, holding onto the soft suede before draping it over the back of one of the barstools. Stallard’s southern drawl pulls apart the syllables of her name, makes it sound softer. No longer like a question the way the emphasis on the very end always suggested to those unfamiliar with Farsi. Fog does not have it in her to correct Stallard, who nods along to her words. Picks ups her phone for a second and types an almost hectic message. Likely to the other occupant of the house, the one still at the beach. The electric kettle she puts on to heat the water feels slightly out of place. Must be Simon’s then.

“What’s your poison?” is what she asks instead of caving under Fog’s questioning stare, going through a tea cabinet she clearly does not frequent often. “Lapsang souchong, Earl Grey, raspberry, peppermint. I got a thing of Irish Breakfast and Russian Caravan. Honestly, I think Simon’s taste in tea is shit.”

Fog snorts at that, and the scar on Stallard’s face pulls her skin taught as she smiles. Snooping through her file, Fog had deliberately stayed out of the more personal details—not that Ghost seemed to spare her any. She only wanted basic info, wanted to be in the know. The scar hadn’t been in either file or stories, so Golpari does not pry. The questions must be tiring as is.

“If It’s all the same to you, I think I’ll have a lapsang souchong. It’s been too damn long,” Golpari hums, taking a second to consider. A smile not unlike Stallard’s tugs at her lips as she settles smoothly onto the seat of the stool her coat is resting on. Saeda nods again and lapses into silence. Technique turned habit unintentionally or at the very least without ill intent, sit in silence and wait for the other to be uncomfortable enough with it to start talking. Fog recognizes it immediately. Years of training did that to you; using fucking interrogation techniques in polite conversation. They’re easy enough to ignore though, and Golpari does just that. Leans back in her seat, one leg crossed over the other, hands idly folded on her knee. Contenting herself by watching Stallard make tea.

“I’d heard about his diagnosis. Bad business, that. Though Kate says that things aren’t nearly as fucking grim as barracks chatter is making it seem,” Golpari starts after a while, not too sure as to why she leads with that. To strike rapport, perhaps, it is the only common topic so far that she can think of.

It seems to work just fine, has Stallard digging for a cigarette to busy herself from whatever reaction she’d rather not display. “Kneejerk reaction is to ask whether Laswell is still snoopin’ on everyone’s shit, but I’m guessin’ Price has still been doin’ some reassurance for the old guard, before the ink on the retirement papers are official, and Soap and Gaz go Captain and LT respective.”

It gets Golpari to crack too, that vaguely annoyed nonchalance, leaning back on the chair even further. Her eyes glimmer brightly. “Oh, absolutely fucking not. She’s still a horrendous—hmm—let’s say eavesdropper. But, no, that one was courtesy of Price.”

“The old fuck should come and visit,” Stallard snorts the sentence, but it does little to cover for the way her smile dims and bitterness sets in by one droplet. “Any of them should.”

She says it so leisurely, like the information is neither new nor important. Golpari tries her best not to let on just how crushing the weight of it is to her. You’re the first to visit. The only.

Simon’s a loner, always has been. Part of what drew Fog to him was the shared sentiment of not needing—and at times not wanting—company. Her ice had melted significantly with age and Soap’s non-existent awareness of personal space. Get enough liquor in her and Fog might just admit being fond of the kid. No amount of anything could get Simon to admit the same, to admit that he misses them. The sting she feels for him is unlike the compassion she’s had all those years ago. It is outright pity, which is frankly worse. The rest of 141 is out and about saving the fucking world or whatever; he knows that. Knows that there is no room for a dog with a limp and pulled fucking teeth. Golpari’s of use to the mission still, with all her CIA shit, but she does not assume her place in their life to be high enough for any to contact her if it were her in Simon’s place. Pain was the first and only thing communicated between Fog and Ghost, and even years down the line, it is a native tongue they share. The world did not stop to let her settle into a country she’s spent over half of her life being gradually estranged from. It will not stop to let Simon's cancer-corroded stature catch up with it, either.

[grenadineghost]

*stumbles out of the haunted house covered in hickies*

[chloesimaginationthings]

Abby and the FNAF puppet would get along..

[oblivionsdream]

Character idea- a medium runs an antique store and helps ghosts who haunt old objects move onto the after life. One of these ghosts haunts a 1950's rotary telephone and the medium is able to talk to her through the phone specifically but this ghost refuses to move on. Obviously they're lesbians.

Also there's a poltergeist who haunts the store and is just a pest that knocks shit over. The medium never sees the poltergeist (because ghosts can choose to allow her to see them) and so she thinks he's just an annoying pest. Turns out the poltergeist is a ghost cat just doing cat shit.

[the-autistic-spider]

dp x dc prompt

Danny was on a date with his boyfriend

they where visiting a space meusem

while they where at a space exhibit they asked why

"why do you love space so much?"

and Danny being an idiot said

"oh its technically a genetic need to see the stars but i do like them"

and naturally this made his boyfriend confused

"like superman and the sun?"

" i guess?"

and somehow a week later his boyfriend was sneaking him onto the watchtower to see the stars

[jammyjen26]

You wake up early and stretch, yawning and rubbing your eyes.

You notice the two muscular arms wrapped around you and see Simon still asleep beside you.

You try to get his arm off, but he moves closer and tightens his grip.

But this is your husband we’re talking about, you know how to get out of his grasp. You lean close and kiss his forehead.

He immediately relaxes and you take it as your chance to roll off the bed.

Once you’ve done your morning routine and showered, you go downstairs and start making breakfast.

Not even a full ten minutes after you’ve left the bedroom, you hear the shower running and twenty minutes after, heavy footsteps coming downstairs.

He walks into the kitchen and hugs you from behind.

“Mornin’ Love.” He says and turns your head with his hand softly. He leans down and kisses you to give you your morning kiss.

“Morning.” You say in between kisses, soon you pull away and turn back to the stove.

“What are you making?” He asks, hands on your hips. His hands squeeze your hip and then slide under your shirt, rubbing your stomach.

“Pancakes, omelette, and hashbrowns.” You say, tilting your head back to look at him.

He kissed your forehead and then pat your stomach.

He nods and offers some help to which you accept, you both then start making the batter together.

Feeling playful, you grab some flour and draw a heart on his cheek. To which he looks at you before he does the same to you.

You two continue making the pancakes together, occasionally fooling around and making out.

It’d be hard not to tell what he wants considering the bulge in his sweatpants.

A healthy and delicious breakfast with a side of cock is your perfect morning.

[bluegiragi]

work it out (part 1)

early access + nsfw on patreon

[klaart]

The gangs all here👍

Edit:// hurt no comfort :)

Edit2: I lied part 2 is posted‼️

[moondirti]

(first time doing a ask bare with me)

pretty please a continue of the house distribution thing. the fic where she does military housing to afford rent. just a continuation please 🙏🏽

feel free to skip if your mind is just blank with ideas for it x

simon riley / afab! reader • part one cw: dubcon, intoxication, spanking, wedgies, degradation, dacryphilia, very mild puppy play (mostly just pet names)

"Well, aren' you a sight."

Much like the lamplight, his voice is low. Mocking, almost. You'd think he were amused if it weren't for the dangerous way his eyes assess your sorry state, raking the lines of your bare legs to the way your dress wraps tight around your chest. It almost escapes you that he's maskless at first, so entranced by the glint of his pupils, the shadowed irises that pinch a deep, very primal nerve in you.

His lips curl into an uneven sneer, scar dissecting the bottom and running down to his chin. You wipe your nose with the heel of your hand, giving your best attempt at an apathetic shrug.

"I had fun."

"Did'ya now?" He laughs humourlessly. "Mus' have different ideas of fun, me and you. Can' see the fun in getting pissed out'f my mind, worryin' the people in your life by stayin' out s'late."

Spite flares, fear slinking back your throat to make room for the petulance that froths on your tongue like venom. It completely poisons his admission to the fact that he'd been worried, turns it into something pathetic and hypocritical. You storm closer. Wild. Angry.

"That's fucking rich coming from you. What is your idea of fun, then, Lieutenant? Tormenting women who open up their home to you? Walking in on them in the bathroom, pissing all over the fucking seat? Does it grant you satisfaction to make people so uncomfortable that they'd rather be anywhere but with you?"

His jaw tenses, a "careful, pet." grunted under his breath, but he makes no move to stop you. Just continues sitting on your couch, legs spread, simmering. Waiting for you to tire out.

"Shut the fuck up. Oh my god. Oh my god. I can hardly be at bloody peace in my own house anymore! You're- You're... A fucking nightmare, Riley! So excuse me if I went out and enjoyed myself when I haven't been able to do so in weeks!"

By the end of your little tirade, you're an even worse mess than you had been before. Flyaways stick to your sweaty temple, mascara rims your blown eyes. Your panting does nothing to calm the frantic race of your heart, which beats at your ribcage like doldrums to war. You can feel the effects of it everywhere; your pulse, hot and quick, at your eyebrow, your wrists, the arch of your foot.

Riley stands. Your lip trembles.

You're so close now that your gaze is level with his chest. Tall. You'd forgotten how tall he was. Or how wide. Or dangerous. His biceps – bare given his tight-fitted t-shirt, tree-trunk large and enough to crush watermelons – tense, and all-too-suddenly, you find your jaw clutched in a bruising grip. He jerks your head up so your eyes meet his.

"Simon." He mutters. "But you don't get to call me tha', or anything at all but Sir."

"Letmegomff–" You're rendered mute when his thumb and forefinger press your cheeks together, but that certainly doesn't stop you from whining.

"Y'wanna know my idea of a good time?" Purely rhetorical, of course. Aside from not being able to answer him, it doesn't matter what you want. There's a clear direction this seems to be heading towards – someplace where the hand pawing your ass continues lower, or where the length in his pants fits down your throat. Someplace not unwelcome by you, despite the way you thrash and cry in his arms. "It's putting foul things like you in their place."

He shucks your dress over your ass, the fabric bunching around your waist, and hooks a fist in the waistline of your soaked panties. Your mind is so foggy, influenced by shitty tequila and the subspace Simon bullies you into embracing, that you don't process the cause of your pain immediately. Don't correlate it to the way he pulls upward, your underwear bunching into a tight line that cleaves between your ass-cheeks and rubs abrasively against your poor clit. Don't– can't confront it until the force literally picks you up off the floor, toes barely touching the ground, held up by a wedgie and the grip around your jaw alone.

Tears spring to your lash line, tracing miserable treks down your cheeks. His thumb swipes what it can away, pushing the salty water into your mouth, and stays there while you lap at his calloused fingertips.

"There we go. Look at you, brainless mutt. Jus' need something on your cunt and something in your mouth to keep you quiet, hm? Happy to hang li'e this for hours, I bet."

Your muffled yell is met with another laugh, thumb pushing deeper into your mouth to shut you up.

"Shh, I know. Still need'ta be taught a lesson. I haven' forgotten." The stitches on your panties begin to tear, the rips loud and relieving, especially when you start to sag back down to the floor. Simon doesn't take it with any kind of urgency, though he cocks his head at the way you blink up at him, lashes fanning in rapid succession. An unspoken, desperate plea. "Was gonna hold out, get you sobered up for your punishment. But you're practically itchin' for it, aren' you?"

He puppets your head into an enthusiastic nod, which he meets with a faux huff.

"Course you are." The forbearing quality of his tone is promptly betrayed by the way you're manhandled over his lap. Pivoting one hand opposite to the other, he's able to sit on the couch and get you thrown over his thighs in a mere matter of seconds. "Normally I'd make y'count, but I figure you're too far gone for that. Jus' try to keep your wailing quiet."

Your underwear gives in with a final tug, ripping from the soaked gusset to become nothing but a flimsy piece of fabric around your hips. Simon swipes the tattered remains off your raised bottom, taking longer than necessary to smooth over the area. It's all the indication you need to what's coming – his rough palm teases the nerve endings below your softer skin, bringing them to frenzied life. Preparing them to hurt.

When he breaks away, you hold your breath.

The air behind you whistles as his hand comes down.

A sharp, resounding crack fractures the baited silence of the room. Your mouth flies open. Searing pain roars across your backside like wildfire, worsening every second it's exposed to open elements. Your scream is belated, thunder to the lightening, tearing from your throat only after the initial shock subsides.

A series of lighter blows land on alternating cheeks, two fingers returning to gag you through the onslaught. Unlike his thumb, these reach the very back of your tonsils, prompting wet gags as they fondle with your throat. Drool dribbles from the corners of your lips, slicking your chin with lipstick-tinted fluid.

"Fuckin' beautiful when you're not givin' an attitude, puppy. All stupid and submissive, cunt droolin' on my lap."

You groan, choke, then cry some more when his spanks grow incrementally harsher again. Gratefully, they're never in the same place twice. He beats the top of your thighs, your lower back, the sides of your hips. Your cheeks especially, which start to emit a steady kind of heat the longer he keeps it up.

Eventually, as a matter of coping, your brain starts to consider the cruel sting as pleasurable instead, sending little bolts of pleasure directly to your clit every time his hand comes down on your ass. It swells, fattening up with blood, pressing tighter against the steady mass of his thigh. Inadvertently, you start rutting against it to find more of the same relief, humping his leg like the dog he's making you out to be.

It doesn't escape his notice, of course.

His foot pushes one of your flailing ankles outward so that your legs are spread, pussy made vulnerable to his scrutiny. The next slap is thus aimed straight at your fluttering hole, slick doing nothing to affect his deadly precision. When it lands, it lands exactly where he meant for it to, and introduces you to a whole other degree of pain that has you seeing stars. You're openly bawling around his fingers now, vision so cloudy you can't tell light from dark.

"Didn' like tha', did you?"

"Nngh– nmmph!"

"There's more where it came from, pup. Best listen to everythin' I say from now on, then, 'less you wan' your little hole beat black 'n' blue."

Simon stresses his point by tracing the seam of your cunt, collecting the lubrication there to smear across the hotspot at the top. Presses into it. Grants you a little gratification, as if to say: and here's what you can have if you behave.

"You gonna be a good pet?"

This time, he withdraws his fingers from your maw. Expects a response, even though it takes you ages to recover from the lack of oxygen. You swallow the saliva pooling behind your teeth, inhaling ragged gasps that make your lungs ache.

He pinches your clit when you take too long. Lightly, but it's enough.

"Yes! Yes, s-sir. I'll be good."

[bluerosefox]

Bittersweet and Sweetheart Exes

12 am brain rot

Can...

Can I get an AU where Talia, Danny and Bruce dated each other and later break up? Maybe have them meet when Bruce is in Batman training years and its a whirlwind romance between the three. Like we know how Bruce and Talia are together as exes (both a little toxic to each other, a love hate kinda thing and yet still have something) BUT Danny is the ex they always are sweet for, like he is the one they love flirting with when they see him (Talia more so regardless where and when, Bruce can only openly flirt as Bruce/Brucie, he has to be sneaky when Batman)

I want Talia and Bruce both trying to one up each other for Danny's attention. They know he's Phantom btw, and his human side as well. They however don't know he's also the Ghost King (in training at the time) Danny keeps forgetting to mention it.

Oh, oh. Let's have the Batfam find out due to a cult summoning, like someone in the League is trying to usurp Talia's rule (I want LOA leader Talia) and Damian is taken by them (which means Talia, Bruce, and the Batfam are coming to save him) and they try summoning the Ghost King to try to offer Damian as a sacrifice for power in order to take over the League.

Both Bruce and Talia weren't expecting to see their ex appear in a swirl of stars, aurora lights, and galaxies with a crown to match, a cape that looked like it had a cosmos swirling, and a Kingly outfit though.

(Or if we wanna make it extra funny, why not have them both had dated Danny at different times, and didn't know they are all exes to each other until Danny goes "DANNY!" "Talia? Bruce? What are you both doing here?" "Wait you know him/her? How?" "....Yes? And well...I dated them...")

[whoslibby]

simon when he catches you with a cigarette, it’s placed between your two fingers as you hold it. taking long drags from the familiar stick. ‘not good f’you,’ he tells you as if he’s all high and mighty with his little addiction.

‘really wanna go there?’ you questioned taking another drag, letting the smoke build up in your lungs. ghost walked over standing next to you taking the cigarette from your fingers, pulling his mask up to his nose. his scarred lip appearing as he placing the cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag. his eyes were piercing yours as he did it.

‘touché.’ he mutters placing the cigarette back into your hand as you exhale the smoke that once remained in your lungs. he copies you, releasing his smoke, the cloud leaving its smell as it leaves.

‘when d’you start?’ he grumbles, pulling out his own cigarette, placing it between his lips; grabbing a dark lighter as he lit it between his fingers.

‘few months ago,’ you tell him taking your final drag from the cigarette. stepping the cig out under your shoe into the floor. ‘bad habit,’ atleast you were self aware.

‘it is,’ he countered feeling it, it was something you hated but it was hard to quit. ‘how about,’ ghost had always been a bargaining man, he’d bargained with death itself he needed be. ‘you quit, I quit.’

this perked your interest, he had been smoking since the day you joined the force, a few years ago. ‘deal,’ there was no thought about it, if he could do it, you could certainly do it.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hi, I just found your blog, and I love your Simon's fics! I was wondering if i could please request something where Reader and Simon had broken up bc he thought he put her in danger. After a few months, he comes to her after a mission and they spend the night but he leaves before she wakes up thinking hes doing whats best (and all that angsty jazz 🥲🤭) . A few weeks after she finds out shes pregnant and decides to take on her own, as reader thinks simon wouldnt care. But maybe one of the guys see her heavy preggo and tell simon, and hes fuming and super protective mode is on.

Sorry if it is too specific and for the terrible english. I just have this idea, and i dont think i can picture it right. Anyway, thanks for reading this and for your good work on your fics 💗 hope you have a lovely day

—Digging Gaze

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [You indulge in a one-night-stand after you'd both called it quits, only, it leads to more problems. When he sees you again, how will he react to the swelling of your stomach?] ❞

You knew it was the effects of a less-than-gentle breakup, but you should have at least cursed him out before you let him have his way with you on the living room couch. You’d woken up back in bed, alone, and had gotten dropped back to where you had been weeks earlier—stuck in the throws of confusion and hurt. 

Simon had left you, and he never gave you a reason. 

A part of you was heated; pissed off and feeling betrayed by the insult, yet, the rest of you knew that Simon needed to have his reasons—he always did. Even if you didn’t agree with them, and you knew he tended to look at life with a glass-half-empty type of glance. 

So that left you here. 

You were pregnant. 

You’d found out two weeks after you’d slept together for that last time, your cheeks still hot from the memory and your fingers clutching the plastic of a test. 

Pregnant.

It had been a shock, a deep panic. The both of you had been reckless. Stupid. And while you had stared at those two pink lines, you felt a sinking in your gut akin to a drowning ship. Should you tell him? It would be proper, of course. 

But you don’t think you can face him again after you’d awaken to an empty bed—as if your entire relationship had only been about sex and not the deep nights of confessions and soft brushes of skin. You knew Simon Riley better than he probably knew himself.

And you wouldn’t put this on him.

At seven months, you couldn’t walk as much as you could before—and you would huff for breath as you went up the stairs to change the sheets—but who else could do it but you? Shopping also fell to you, and so, you pushed a large cart around and packed the metal basket with cravings and necessities. That was when you fell to a familiar face. 

“Johnny?” You ask, blinking. 

The Scot pauses, turning. His brows furrowed for a moment before a kind smile peeled his lips back.

“Hen!” He comes closer, laughing. “Well, I haven’t seen you in a good minute, then. What have you been up to in all—” 

The man freezes at the sight of your stomach, jaw going slack as you fight an internal war with yourself to say pleasantries and leave. 

“Hell,” Johnny clears his throat. “I guess you’ve been doin’ a great deal.” 

You sigh, shaking your head softly. “Thanks, Johnny.”

“I’m just joking, Little Lady.” The man laughs and waves a hand. “Who’s the lucky man then? I’ll have to meet him one of these days.”

Your face blanks and your lips snap shut in an instant. 

Blue eyes wait for an answer as the silence laps over itself. Slowly but surely, the realization dawns on his face in a tight pull of horror.

“You can’t tell him,” you interrupt his tight gasp. “Not a peep, MacTavish, you hear?”

“What the fuck,” he breathes at you, hand coming up to his mouth as he glances down at your swelling bump. “Holy hell.”

“Johnny,” you snap, his eyes jerk back to you. 

“It’s bloody Ghost’s—”

“You can’t,” you growl, coming closer, “tell him.”

“What do you mean I can’t tell him,” Johnny hisses under his breath, looking at the people passing by and lowering his tone. “You’re pregnant and he doesn’t know!”

“That’s the point,” you ease out, exasperated and feeling drained already. Jesus, you needed to go lay down—your back was killing you. “Johnny,” you breathe, growing softer as you reach out a hand and put it to his arm. He grips it and holds on, looking incredibly concerned. “He doesn’t need to know, okay? That’s a lot of stress on him, and you know what he does for work. Even worrying about me was hard on him, what do you think a child would do?”

“You can’t think like that,” the Scot mutters. “He can help—what, you mean to tell me you plan to do this by yourself?” It isn’t malicious how he says it; Johnny’s worried about you. Incredibly. “Hen, no,” he shakes his head. “No, you can’t.”

“I can, Johnny,” you frown, dread filling your heart. “And I will.”

In the future, you really had to take into account Johnny’s flapping lips when under the spell of alcohol. Maybe you had enough faith in him to watch himself for the last little while of your pregnancy as he had into the latter half of the eighth month.

And then three firm knocks were at your door, and when you opened it, you were face to face with a painted balaclava and frazzled brown eyes.

Those eyes immediately snap down, and not even a word is uttered to your face until then.

The both of you are stone-still. Frozen. Dead to all else. 

You swear it was hours of this—standing in the doorway with Simon’s fingers stiff in his pockets and his chest not even moving in a pulse or flare of his lungs. He doesn’t even blink. 

“How far along?” His voice is monotone. A low drone in the ringing of your ears.

Damn that Scot.

“Eight and a half,” you say quietly. 

Brown eyes shift up to yours. Simon stares, and you see his jaw clench under his balaclava, his shoulders moving. Again a long pause. 

“When’s the next appointment—”

“It’s a girl.” You see his eyelids peel back and halt there, watching you. “In case you care to stick around and see her.”

Cruel perhaps, but it was nothing short of how he acted while leaving you. 

Simon’s hidden face is slack, stuttering silently for a moment as the light fades outside.

“Didn’t…didn’t know,” he grunts out, blinking quickly.

“I know you didn’t,” you utter. “That was the point, Simon.”

“Johnny told me ‘bout it, didn’t believe him.” His brown eyes swirl, breaking. “Thought you’d mention it if you were.” 

“You left,” you breathe. “Why would I reach out to someone that did that to me.”

“M’sorry, I-I don’t…” Simon clears his throat, looking away. His eyes are glossy, fingers moving out of his pockets so his twitching hands can splay out. “Could have explained, but I didn’t know how, Love. I’m not…this isn’t…”

Words fail him just like his ability to explain his emotions. Part of him was angry—angry that you’d gone all this time without reaching out when he could have helped.

A daughter. 

But he was afraid, as well. Terrified. You were in the right and he knew it. Simon didn’t know the first thing about being a father…but then again, you didn’t know how to be a mother, either. 

This was new territory.

“Marry me,” Simon pushes out with a quick force of breath. 

“Wh—,” you choke on air. “What?”

“Let me make it up to you, yeah?” Gloved hands move at his sides, eyes honest but still shiny. “Wasn’t thinking—my fault and I can’t go on if I don’t know you’re safe.” He licks at the corner of his mouth. “...Both of you. Thought leaving would make the best sense, but I was…fucking hell. M’sorry.”

“Simon, there are many more ways other than marriage.” Your anger wasn’t something that could be washed away that easily, even if your heart fluttered at the idea and his apology.

You had more self-respect than that.

“Let me fix this,” he whispers, leaning closer. 

Your hand rests over your stomach, staying there as the minutes draw. Simon waits, nervous and his fingers tap on his thigh. You know he’s afraid. You know he’s nervous about what he could bring home from work, even if those are only his paranoia talking in his ear like a demon. 

You frown. 

You huff.

And you open the door wider.

“The sheets need changing in my room. Get on it.”

The man says nothing before he enters the house and slips off his boots; disappearing into the linen closet.

[chloesimaginationthings]

FNAF Cassidy knows how to “help” Michael Afton

[tojisun]

biker!simon (ghost) riley x fem reader

!! smut - minors dni; mask kink; D/s; off-screen scene discussion (like power play); dacryphilia; extended foreplay; petnames; mean simon // 2.6k words

biker!simon mlist

it is carnal. desperate. pawing hands finding each other, trying to get rid of the leather.

you fall on the bed with a huff, body bouncing as the mattress ripples, soft sheets tickling your bare skin. you look up, blinking past the haze, watching as simon gazes at you – clothed. helmeted.

there is something that stirs in your stomach at seeing the disparity – you, naked and bare for him; him guarded. shielded. like he is a mere spectator of your body. like you are made to have you served on a silver platter for him to nip at your flesh and to etch his passions on your skin. like all that you are is his to enjoy – a one-sided servitude. 

you tremble with need, watching as he fiddles with his belt, metal clanking together when he goes to unbuckle it. you bite your bottom lip in anticipation, following the way his thick fingers pinch his zipper to tug downwards, giving you a glimpse of his black boxers. then, he reaches for his helmet.

“no!” you yelp, scrambling to stop simon from removing the gear. you don’t even register what you did or how the word ripped through your lips until it resonated in the room, your chest heaving when the realization struck.

simon’s head cocks to the side slowly, looking animated with his helmet. it makes you clench your thighs close, putting pressure on your throbbing clit, and you watch with bated breath as simon’s head dips down to follow the length of your legs.

there is something in not seeing his face that has you aching, desire creeping in from the base of your spine to the tips of your fingers. something that simon must have felt too because he unhooks his hand from his chin strap to continue shucking his cargos just low enough that you can see the chub underneath his boxers.

“like what you see?” he asks, his crooning voice muffled by his helmet.

your legs squeeze tighter, your arm unconsciously coming up to cover your tits. you do not answer him, too caught up in watching as he slowly palms himself through his boxers, cupping his hand around his tent like he’s reminding you what he’s packing.

like he’s showing you what he promises he’ll give you.

but your silence makes him snarl, his hand falling to his side before he stalks towards you. his shins bump the edge of the bed, then he bends forward, his big frame towering over your trembling figure. you feel like a prey caught before him, naked and grappling with the desire that chokes you because there is something addicting at being so powerless before him.

simon laughs, something faint and mean, like he knows what got you spiralling. like he understands. 

he reaches a hand out and pushes your hair away from your face. “i should’ve known that y’r a slut for this.”

the words are whispered, barely breaching the mouth guard of his helmet, but they pierce through the building static between the two of you and you couldn’t help the whimper that falls from your lips nor the willowy gasp of his name. 

simon breathes in sharply before surging towards you, his gloved hands reaching to tug your arms away from your body so he can see you again. you resist with a little pull on your end, your mind buzzing with a building fog, but simon’s hold only gains strength as he tightens his fists around your wrists. 

“show me,” he grunts, pulling you towards him.

you glide across the sheets easily, simon’s overwhelming strength stirring your desires even more. shamefully, you feel your cunt dampen, slick gathering at the lips of your pussy just at having been manhandled by your lover. you want to press your face on the inside of your arm and hide how affected you are by simon’s display of dominance, but his hands are already sliding down your sides, hooking by your hips, before stopping just at the meat of your thighs.

you tumble backwards, head falling to the mattress when simon kneels between your legs, slotting himself there like that is his rightful spot; like that is where he has always belonged. 

then, he stops. you think you know why.

“oh, sweetheart,” he croons, folding himself towards you just enough to make it easy for him to peer at your glistening heat. “look at you leakin’.”

you tear your eyes away from the ceiling to peer down at him, your cheeks burning at the attention he pours into your cunt, only to freeze, your breath getting stuck in your lungs. 

because how could you even forget?

the expanse of your wet cunt is reflected on his visor, the details stark and clear, and you hiccup, ripping your eyes away from the image and thrashing to curl into yourself. shame unfurls in the pit of your stomach, snuffing out the rumbling want that had just overwhelmed you, but simon holds you down to make you stop. 

“you have nothin’ to be shy about, kid,” he says, easing his hands away from your wrists to grip your hips. “look at me. i said look at me.”

you sniffle as you gaze back at him, flinching when all you see is your face reflected back. simon pauses at your reaction, his hold on your hips going lax.

“do you want the helmet off?” he asks, genuine concern now lining his voice. 

you blink, twining your hands together now that simon isn’t holding them. yes please tickles your lips but you hesitate, battling with yourself because-

because you still want the thrill of this – the brief imbalance of power between the two of you where you are simon’s prey, and all that you are is at his mercy; the temporary display of his darkness, stretching over the horizon as he bears down onto you, diminishing your very being into nothing but his to use for pleasure.  

because you ache to feel small. 

so you shake your head slowly, steeling yourself as you continue to look at simon’s visor, trying to see past your reflection as though you can catch a glimpse of his eyes if only to show him that you still want this. 

but more than your want, more than the hunger you have for simon, you want to show him that you trust him. 

and when you feel simon’s hands spasming from where they are gripping your hips, you know he understands. 

“okay,” he says, nodding. his bobbing head almost makes you giggle. “but tell me when you want to stop, alright sweetheart? remember your safeword?”

“mhmm,” you hum, writhing on the bed to get closer to him, sighing when your greedy hands finally get to rub along his abdomen. “cake pops.”

he cups your cheek, the leather smooth against your skin. “that’s right. cake pops.”

—

“please,” you sob, trembling in desperation as simon continues to tease his fingers along your slit. he has yet to give you a taste of what you want even when his cock weeps, staining the fabric of his boxers. you want to commend him for his self restraint but you know he is doing this to tease you. to drive you to insanity. 

simon remains unmoved, pushing down on your stomach when your squirming turns erratic, before scooping out a glob of your slick and rubbing it along your hardened clit to make a mess out of your weeping cunt. you squeal, clawing at the sheets when his fingers pinch your clit, the muted pleasure razing into something that stings. 

and yet it is still not enough.

“simon pleasepleaseplease,” you babble, blinking bleary eyes at him and shivering when all you’re met with is the sight of your tear-stained face. 

you look like a wreck with your hair sticking to your damp face, your lips swollen from the way you have nibbled on them to bite down your sobs and whimpers whenever simon ripped his fingers out of your cunt every time he felt you tighten up. 

“no cumming without my permission, doll,” he crooned, all mean and playful. 

then he’d repeat the process – fucking his thick fingers into your pussy, pumping them with a broken tempo so that you’d never get use to the stretch, crooking them just right until your back arches off the bed with a broken scream, only for simon to push you back down again with a faux disappointed sigh.

“stay put or y’r not cumming.”

it isn’t like it mattered anyway if you had followed his commands, not when simon’s too familiar with your body; attuned to the way you react when you’re near your orgasm. and you know this is all a play to him – something that gets him off as he pulls you to the edge of your euphoria only to drag you back down from your high, crooning words lilting and fading into the background as your ringing ears struggle to grasp the sudden loss of your peaking orgasm.

he plants his hand on your belly, rubbing soothing circles as a sob racks your body. “y’ve been so good f’r me,” simon murmurs. his other hand swipes at your cunt again. “gonna reward you now, princess. gonna give you what you need.”

you sigh, a happy contented sound, and simon laughs at your reaction before lifting his hand up to cup your jaw. the action is tender and soft even when his thumb traces along your bitten lips, wiping away at the thin sheen of spit that pooled at the edge of your mouth.

you watch it all through his visor, feeling breathless at the image you make. at the image that simon reduces you to.

simon notices. of course he does.

“pretty, aren’t you, baby?” his head falls closer to you as he says this, purposefully encompassing your full visage so that your teary eyes could see your wrecked self. 

you feel faint watching as his thumb finally dips into your mouth, pushing past your plush lips until the pad of it bumps into the front of your teeth. you move to suck at his finger even when he doesn’t ask, cataloguing the way your lips wrap around his thumb or how your cheeks hollow when you begin suckling.

you look erotic. sinful. 

simon groans like he is thinking the same thing, his helmet bumping your forehead.

“christ, sweetheart. y’ve ruined me.”

you giggle softly as he nuzzles his helmet on your sweat-stained forehead and squeezes your jaw for the last time before pulling away. he leaves you there on the bed, your eyes blown wide as you watch him tug at his boxers to finally free his pretty, pretty cock.

the moan that leaves your lips is pornographic and carnal, and simon jolts, his hand coming up to fist his cock as the sound ricochets in the room. you see his chest heave and, had your mind not been reduced to a needy mush, you would have realized that he’s gripping his cock to stop himself from cumming just from the sound you made.

“spread y’r legs f’r me, baby,” he growls, his hand still gripping his cock. 

and you do as he says: your hands ball on top of your chest as you spread your legs spread apart, the soles of your feet rustling against the sheets. cool air hits your dripping cunt and you mewl, feeling and seeing how exposed you are before simon.

“so pretty,” simon groans as he shuffles close, lining his cock against your cunt. “an’ it’s all mine, yeah?”

you nod, you think. you honestly don’t know. not when your attention is rooted to simon’s visor, watching with stuttering breaths as he moves to rub his cock along your folds. the first touch makes you squeal, the rush of pleasure jolts you into closing your legs. it’s only simon’s hand pressed on the inside of your thigh that stops you from doing so, the pressure he’s putting on your leg gluing your muscle onto the bed. 

“fuck, sweetheart,” he croaks, still slicking his cock along your folds, the sounds so filthy as they filter through the air. “so fuckin’ wet f’r me.”

god, this is torturous. you need him so desperately, it hurts.

you break into sobs as you reach out to grasp at his arms, feeling untethered as your sanity slips under the fog, feeling it grow taut like a band that’s about to snap when simon’s cock rubs against your clit. he tilts his head up just enough that you know he’s watching you, his beautiful eyes roving over the devastation on your face.

knowing that he’s looking eggs you on – desperation clawing underneath your skin, needing to be itched. “inside, please! simon, please-!” you hiccup. “i wan’ feel you! i wan’-”

you scream, your words petering into a garbled wail when simon finally sinks his cock in you. your head falls back to the pillows, your eyes rolling back to your skull. but he keeps on sliding, keeps on thrusting in – his cock is so long, it feels endless. 

you’re babbling, moans slithering into a noiseless squeal when simon’s pelvis finally bumps the inside of your thighs. 

he’s in. you realize with a tremble. all of him, in you.

your ecstasy bloats, peaking, and your toes curl when it explodes, razing through your sanity until all you can feel is a buzz. you go numb, your ears ringing with a growing static and you fall lax on the bed. a marionette with strings cut.

“fuckin’ hell, princess,” simon hisses, almost like a happy purr. a muted thump somewhere beside the bed tickles your ears. “you jus’ squirted.”

what?

he laughs, the sound so giddy as it spills from his lips. lips which, you realize amidst the satiated thrums spreading throughout your body, you can see. 

oh, you think with a start. his helmet’s gone.

“si?” you murmur, voice hoarse and rugged.

“i’m here, sweetheart,” simon replies, burying his face on the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. “y’came so good f’r me. so perfect f’r me.” he presses a kiss on your skin as he says this.

time stops becoming a blur for you and it trickles back to you in bits, starting from the buzz underneath your veins and the satisfying weight buried in your cunt.

oh-

“simon, i’m sorry-”

simon kisses your lips and devours your apology, his tongue licking into your mouth, claiming with such ferocity. you moan, feeling the expanding warmth running from your throbbing lips to your fluttering cunt; not yet satiated. needing more. 

you gasp when he finally pulls back just enough that his lips hover above yours, ghosting a touch. clingy even when you are wrapped around him. 

“y’came like a good girl,” simon murmurs, his breath tickling your spit-smeared lips. “my good girl.”

you let out a happy sigh when simon draws out, the drag of his cock slow and delicious, before he’s pressing it back in, filling you up once again. you feel the wet patch on his pants and his boxers, and your cheeks burn when you catalogue it as your mess. 

but god, you want more. 

“harder, si,” you mewl, weak hands coming up to tangle in his messy hair. “i want it harder.”

simon braces his arms on either side of your head, his nose rubbing along your damp cheeks until he’s pulling back just enough that you see the way his eyes are blown wide with his lust.

“anythin’ for you, sweetheart.”

 he kisses your cheek – the last of his gentleness for the night.

“anythin’.”

[ew-selfish-art]

DP x DC AU: Bruce is the one to invite Constantine over, and no, it's not to improve his tenuous working relationship with the asshole. It's the opposite of that.

---

Danny had become a frequent visitor of Wayne Manor in the last few months, and Bruce had to admit that while the kid was certainly a bit ominous for his liking for a partner to Tim, he was a generally kind and happy soul. They'd been dating for a lot longer than the Bats knew of- Kon had been the one to let it slip to Jon who told Damian and so on- and since the relationship was no longer secret, Tim brings him to family functions.

The thing about Danny is... He's dead. More than half of the time. Which again, is not Ideal for Bruce's wishes for Tim's future husband, but it also means that he reviles in being alive. Danny is downright joyous about using his time left on earth properly. He makes Tim eat real food, enjoy real sleep and generally live a more fulfilled life than he had been. The whole family noticed the changes in Tim, and it made them like Danny even more.

So after a particularly grueling day of dealing with Trigon and therefore the JLD's lack of coordination and sensible planning- Bruce gets the idea. John couldn't fucking contain himself admonishing Bruce, and perhaps it was vindictive, but Bruce figures that John should meet Danny. Sans context of course.

...

John is really over dealing with Batman's prissy, over complicated and perfectionist attitude. Come to the Cave he'd demanded, as though John didn't have a favorite bar to get back to, deal with a ghost he ordered like John didn't have other priorities than some random shade.

When walking into the space however, the second his teleportation portal closed, John knew something was deeply, deeply fucked. The shadows were growing longer, the second hand on his watch ticked slower, the air smelled of sulfur and... Red Robin was sitting working at the computer like nothing was wrong. But what was wrong, was the kid was marked by The End. Marked by The Infinite. FUCK.

John knew Death, the Endless, and knew she could pick favorites just like her siblings (Dream's immortal drinking buddy comes to mind). But this wasn't her work, this was something other.

"Mate- the Bat said there was a ghost?" John feels like he might throw up, the eerie atmosphere complicating what should have been a simple request.

"Uh, obviously." The kid didn't even look over from his screen or pause his typing.

John slowly approached, looking over each shoulder a few times, turning in a few circles as the shadows appeared to dance and echo within the cave. He could see his breath, the air became so cold so suddenly. And then, with the gentleness of a pin drop, a new agonizing sound appeared with a Kid walking down the cave stairs. The aura of the room turned dark, every cell in John's body screaming to run, that this was basically the little girl from the ring crawling through the TV as the young man walked down the steps.

"Babe, your grampa says that dinners going to be ready in a second. Oh, uh, hey dude." The creature speaks, turning his eyes to John for only a moment to study him. It feels equivalent to a butterfly being pinned by its wings.

"Y-y-you, you're, you're one of the Endless?" John stutters, his body reacting in fear despite the nonchalant posture of the Beast. The young man rolls his eyes.

"Nah, one of the Ancients but like uh, I'm new in town. And hon seriously don't be late, A made tiramisu for dessert and you're not allowed to have any if you're late and I don't want to deal with you pouting."

"You had me at Tiramisu!" Red stands up from his computer and then turns, "John, what are you doing here again?" Red Robin finally looks over at him, completely confused.

"Just leaving." John mutters, his eyes still trained on the ANCIENT.

---

Bruce could barely hide his laugh when Tim reported the Magician meeting Danny in the cave.

That'll show the asshole to question Batman's knowledge of the occult.