#he shoulda never trusted him

[crunchkind]

Yall think he’s a good baby sitter

His fav half brothers guys

[tswwwit]

Crying, sobbing, throwing up after reading Bill vs Bill and knowing that in the Book of Bill, Bill had parents, a family who loved him. And Familiar!Bill has that again in the form of his Dipper loving him back

Thank you! Familiar!Bill is really doing much better than the baseline version, what with forming one (1) honest emotional connection and all.

I'm pretty pleased with the emotional arc of Bill vs Bill, but if I went back to it? I'd alter some of Bill's weaponized embarrassment to include Book of Bill details. It'd just hit so much harder.

[eyeballcommander]

Andy sure is taking awhile...

[kindacreepy-kindaugly]

haven't been sad like this in a long time

[mostly-imagines]

Moonstruck

jason todd x reader

aka sober thoughts and all that

warnings: intoxication

Jason has a thing about drinking around you. He’d kind of skirted around it for a while when you were first dating, but after a while you’d noticed he never really has more than a drink or two regardless of how much you had. The only times you ever see him drink more is when he’s downing whiskey as a pain mitigater when he needs stitches. You’d initially assumed he just wasn’t a big drinker, but eventually you’d come to realize it was more of a matter of not wanting to lose his inhibitions around you. 

You know he’s still working on trusting himself, even sober, because he’s terrified of accidentally hurting you. But you have a hard time imagining him losing control like that in any state and you’re nearly certain he’s just being hard on himself.

You’ve been falling in and out of less than peaceful sleep for the past few hours, having trouble easing yourself while your boyfriend is still out. You at least attempted to get to bed earlier tonight because for once he isn’t out fighting crime and risking injury, though you haven’t found much more luck than usual. 

You lie on your back, half ready to give up and turn on a movie while you wait.

You’re momentarily startled to hear Dick bellow out your name, no regard for the fact that it’s nearing three in the morning and you have neighbors. He’s not much of a shouter so you’re instantly on alert, worried that he or Jason are hurt.

You fumble out of bed and rush to the living room, surprised to find your fire escape empty. You turn, proceeding towards the front door, opening it cautiously. 

“Dick? What—” You don’t need to finish your question because the second you take one good look at the two of them, the state of them is immediately clear. Dick, who’s barely standing upright on his own, supports your boyfriend's weight via Jason’s arm slinged around his shoulder.

“Hey!” Dick grins at you, far more lively than he has any business being this late at night. “Sorry, couldn’t remember which apartment was yours.”

You nod pensively, “Well the perspective’s different than when you’re coming in through the window.”

He continues on past that without thought, “I’ve come to deliver,” he says, gesturing up to Jason with a bit of a strain. You’re pretty sure there were supposed to be a couple more words at the end of that sentence but you understand well enough anyway.

You nod, eyebrows raised and try to hide a smile. “Thanks, Dick.” He shifts your boyfriend off of his shoulder to lean him up against the door frame, where Jason places a majority of his weight.

You eye him warily, not confident in his steadiness. He seems to hold well enough against the heavy door though, his eyes drifting around the tiled floor. Your attention shifts to Dick, who’s clearly satisfied with a job well done and ready to go.

You tilt your head, seeing him turn away. “You good?”

“I’m great!” He calls out with a thumbs up. You watch as he staggers away, nearly missing the exit.

You look back over at Jason, who’s already staring at you with a soft gaze. “You’re pretty,” he fawns, irises blown out and flickering all over your face.

“Oh you’re drunk drunk.” You grin, watching him stumble forward a bit.

He shakes his head, looking a bit dizzy after, “Shoulda seen Tim.”

You pause mid laugh, “…Who drove you here?”

He falters at that, gaze falling to the floor. “Uh…” He winces, “Damian…”

You nod slowly, eyes wide, “We’re gonna talk about that tomorrow.”

“He’s better than you’d think.” You’d hope so. 

Well, at least he’s spending time with his brothers.

You sigh, straightening your posture in preparation for the job to come. “Alright, come on big guy,” you pull him up from his slant against the wall, hauling him into the same position he’d been in with Dick—though you’re struggling significantly more to hold him upright. “You gotta help me out here, Jay,” you grunt, trying very hard not to fold under his weight. You swat the door shut behind you, making peace with the fact that he’ll scold you in the morning for not locking it.

He presses an uncoordinated kiss to the side of your head as you try to shuffle him along, not interested in the least in easing your labor. His self discipline isn't quite gone, but his awareness of how big he is sure seems to be. 

You wobble from the heavy weight of his arm around your shoulders, holding onto him by his waist. You manage to get him to sidestep your cat, narrowly, though Salem hisses at him all the same. Jason takes no notice. You stumble into your bedroom with only about 30% of his usual balance aiding your effort.

He collapses onto the bed the second his legs hit the frame, pulling you down with him. You lie, somewhat awkwardly, on his chest as he holds you tight—probably tighter than he would if he were sober. It feels nice though.

You lie your cheek flat on his chest, relaxing against him. “What’d you guys do? Thought you were just having an easy night.”

He takes a deep breath before answering, “Raided Dick’s liquor c—” he stops, mulling over his words. “...Bruce’s liquor that was in Dick’s cabinet.” He annunciates every word in that sentence very carefully.

You squint speculatively, “Didn’t take Dick for the stealing type.”

He grumbles, “He’s not. ‘Less it’s Bruce.”

You can’t help the smile that breaks out on your face, “Aw, you really do take after your big brother, don’t you?” 

He scoffs at that, “I don’t. I’m the one who gave him the idea.” Yeah, that sounds right.

He taps on your cheek lightly and you pick your head up to find him looking at you with puppy dog eyes.

“What’s that look for?”

“Can I kiss you?” his eyes drop down to your lips, “I really wanna kiss you.” He’s nearly whispering and you feel your heart skip several beats at the feeling of his eyes on you like this.

You press a light kiss to his lips and he practically purrs.  

You pull back, admiring the serene expression on his face. “You taste like whiskey.”

“I like whiskey,” he says honestly.

You smile, nodding. “I know. Don’t know why, but..”

He leans in for another kiss but you parry, only letting his lips meet your cheek. He frowns grimly, attempting to chase your lips. 

“Lemme kiss you,” the pout on his face is adorable and while you hesitate to deny him, you retreat, resting your chin on his chest.

You smile wistfully, tracing his cheekbone, “You’re drunk, baby.”

“‘M not that drunk,” he tells you, though everything about him says otherwise.

Your hand falls flat on his shoulder. “Your eleven year old brother drove you here.”

He shrugs, “He can drive the bat…batcar? Bat…”

“Batmobile,” you finish.

“The batmobile.” he nods, as if he was seconds away from remembering. You suspect he wasn’t. 

“Bruce lets him drive it?” you question, wholly disbelieving.

“No.”

Enough said.

“You’re gonna be hungover as hell in the morning,” you mumble, taking in his uninhibited demeanor.

He nods that off, “‘S okay. You’ll be here, right?”

You tilt your head, observing him chalantly. “Where else would I go?”

His arms snake tighter around you at that, giving you a little squeeze before relenting. 

“I wanna marry you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair out of your face and tucking it neatly behind your ear. 

You blink rapidly a few times, “What?” You push yourself up on his chest, sitting up on his abdomen.

“Wanna marry you.” He repeats, eyes lidded as he breathes easy under you. “You’re m’favorite person…want you t’be my wife.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. “..You want me to be your wife?”

His lips are slightly parted and his pupils are wide as he stares up at you, taking in your features carefully. “‘Course I do.” He brings his fingers up to your cheek, touching you softly with all the wonderment of a little kid. “You’re so pretty.”

You’re quick to return, “So are you.” Especially right now.

He shuts his eyes momentarily, shaking his head morosely, “You gotta stop bein’ so nice t’me,” he lets his hand fall to rest on your thigh. “Don’t deserve it.”

“Shut up,” you lour, “You deserve it more than anybody.”

“No. Not more than you,” his hands knead at your thighs like it’s an instinct. “You deserve everything.” He closes his eyes, tilting his chin up as his head sinks further back into the pillow. “Think I’d do anything you wanted.”

“Jay—”

He continues on, “Want you t’be happy. Wanna make you happy.”

Your face falls into an expression of dazed awe, “You do make me happy.”

He dwindles at that, “No, really happy. Take care of you. Build you a house, give you babies. Wha’ever you want.”

He paws at your thighs, trying to get you to come closer again to him. You lay back down on top of him and his hand instantly buries itself in your hair, stroking softly. “You’re just…you’re so perfect…” He turns his head to mumble against your forehead, “Feel like I dreamed you, sometimes.”

You breathe deeply against the crook of his neck, eyes feeling glassy. “I love you.” It’s all you can get out, and it’s not enough, but it’s all of it. 

“I love you,” he says like he’s trying to turn it into gospel. “So much. I love you so much, so fuckin’ much.” His words start to get lost in his weary babbling.

Your chest feels full and you can distinctly feel every beat of your heart against it. Or maybe it’s Jason’s heart. But what’s the difference?

You press a tender kiss to the nape of his neck. “You’re really sweet when you’re drunk, you know that?”

He hums lowly, head lulling against yours.

You still for a second, finding his breathing has slowed and his hand has seized its movement in your hair. His soft breaths fill the air as you press a kiss to his collarbone before settling in completely. “You’re gonna love when I tell you about this in the morning,” you whisper, letting your eyes shut too.

💗 likes are the poor mans reblog 💗

[callsign-datura]

retired!simon who you get to know after his last deployment. he doesn't tell you about his past, he doesn't tell you about what his career was. all he tells you is that he's a troubled man. retired!simon who you fall in love with, despite his many struggles and closed-off behavior. retired!simon who skips the dating period. automatically claims you as his spouse once you both agree to be together. he's an older man-- in his words, "too old 'ta date". retired!simon who cooks, does laundry, keeps things straightened up on top of managing to remember every date that is important to you. birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, etc. retired!simon who never had his birthday celebrated as a child and doesn't let you celebrate it, but also never happened to tell you why. you just assumed birthdays weren't his thing. retired!simon who comes through the front door and calls out to you. "m'home, love,"

he pauses when he hears you giggling. you come down the hall with a cupcake and card in hand, and you immediately go to greet him. "welcome home, si," you say quietly, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "i know you don't like celebrating your birthday, buuut i just wanted you to feel special for once since you've been working so hard recently." your expression softens when his eyes twitch and he looks away. "i made cupcakes, and dinner's done..."

you trail off as he shrugs off his jacket with a pensive expression. "si? is something wrong?" you ask, reaching up to touch his shoulder. he grunts in response, but he's shaking. he's shaking because he forgot about his birthday, but now... now he remembers being scolded. he remembers having a beer bottle thrown at his head during a fight with his father, on his birthday. he remembers limping back to the safehouse, bleeding out, wondering if his birthday would also be his death day. he remembers tommy nearly overdosing on his birthday. he remembers everything.

he looks at you, his pupils dilated. your eyebrows quirk in worry, and you murmur his name as you reach for his face. he tenses once again but ultimately leans into your touch, his lips quivering and his hands shaking at his sides. retired!simon who decides it's time to tell you. sits down with you, and explains why he doesn't like birthdays. he tells you about his mother, his father and his brother. he's vague about it, but you listen nonetheless.

you listen so closely, and you even begin to cry. he's surprised that you feel so much empathy for him that you cry over his story-- and he's slightly moved by your compassion. he expects you to be angry that he never told you, but... "oh, simon," you whisper, your tone thick with emotion as you look up at him with tears in your eyes. "I'm sorry. i didn't know. that's awful..." and you embrace him so tightly his breath hitches. he leans into the embrace and tucks his face into your hair. "m'sorry, love. shoulda told you a long time ago."

you shake your head back and forth. "no, don't apologize. it's not your fault. i understand why you would feel as if you have to hide this from me," you begin. "but you can trust me. i'd never judge you. i love you and i want to help." again, he's moved by your compassion. he's silent for a moment before he utters, "okay." "take your time. you don't have to spill your heart out to me now. i want you to do it at your own pace..." his chest tightens. you're being so accepting, so understanding, and he doesn't understand why. he doesn't understand how, but he appreciates it. your warmth thaws his heart and his mind, once frozen by his trauma and his history. he wonders if you're really willing to stick around. he knows it's not easy to deal with him. he expects you to leave after he tells you everything, but you don't...

retired!simon who decides to celebrate his birthday with you from now on.

[charliemwrites]

Oooooh I finally did it!! Mafia au part 6! A little bit of that sweet angst/comfort.

Content: Violence, Previous Injury (mentioned), Panic Attack (non-descriptive)

Let it be said: Johnny’s no snitch.

Outgoing (“loud” Simon would grumble) as he is, he doesn’t run his mouth about anything important. Doesn’t talk business over a pint or boast his connections in bar disagreements. Doesn’t drop names, flash heat, throw around the weight of his employer. Has never spilled a single fucking secret, not for knives, acid, a fucking gun to his head.

Oh, and please don’t tell the boss.

Let it also be said: Johnny is loyal.

He would happily lay down his life for any of his comrades, lives and dies for SpecGru – for Price. And even though you’re new, you’re one of them now. You’ve quickly found and secured your place in Price’s inner circle, different as you may be. Johnny would go to war for you, and your silly pink sticky notes.

Still, keeping something – anything from the boss. Even a private matter like this…

It happened on SpecGru property, that makes it SpecGru business. And it happened to you, which makes it Price’s business.

That you don’t already know that is… well, that’s between you and the boss. Johnny’s already too involved as it is. (Not that he regrets helping you. Not a bit. If he had his way, that little prick would have left with his teeth in his pocket and a new appreciation for his remaining thumb).

So now Johnny is stuck. He likes you; he really does. That you trust him with something so personal isn’t lost on him, especially in this line of work. He also has a healthy fear of your wrath. (You may not carry any weapons he’s seen, but you’ve got Price grimacing when you narrow your eyes just so. Johnny knows where his cupcakes are made, and he likes them without arsenic, thank you). So, personally, he wants to be able to honor your request to keep the matter private.

But then there’s Price, and whatever he’ll do to Johnny if – when – he finds out about all this.

Johnny’s solution?

“Christ, Gaz, ya shoulda seen it. Never seen the little miss tell someone off like that. Graves woulda been shakin’ in his boots. Will have to ask security for a recording of it.”

Gaz, unimpressed with Johnny’s volume, rolls his eyes and walks away, muttering about tea for his sudden headache. And Price, sitting at his desk, twitches and reaches for his phone.

Mission: accomplished.

Not the most elegant, but he’s a mafia lieutenant, not a fuckin’ spy. Now, to get those pastries you like before Price sees the footage.

“Luv?”

You glance up from the expense reports you’ve been working through for the better part of an hour. Mr. Price is leaning in the doorway to his office, shoulder to the jamb. There’s… an odd look on his face. You’ve never seen it before, don’t have it categorized in your mental files.

“Yes, boss?” you ask, straightening up.

“A word?”

You blink. That’s… different. You don’t like it.

Price is a steady sort of man. Not predictable, but consistent. That this is new, unusual, unfamiliar, makes you uneasy. Reminds you of your last boss, who could call you into his office with an affable grin, only to spend thirty minutes berating you for anything and everything he could think of.

Price has never done that, nothing even close… but you can’t suppress the slight shake in your hands as you smooth your skirt down. Hide it with a little flick of your wrists before grabbing for your ever-trusty tablet. Hell, you probably don’t even need it, but at this point it’s practically a comfort item. Maybe you should name it, put some googly eyes on it.

“Sweetheart?”

You startle a bit. Realize your feet have already carried you into his office and followed him right to his desk. Except instead of standing at his elbow as usual, you’re facing him across his desk. Like you did during your interview with him, when you were still strangers. Like you used to do for your previous boss.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” you chirp, forcing your usual brightness, “those expense reports, ya know? What did you need me for?”

Without a word, he spins his computer monitor around. Your brow furrows as you process the video playing on the screen. You. Soap. Brandon. Your stomach sinks.

There’s no sound, but there doesn’t really need to be. Even in profile, the expressions are crisp – high end cameras. You feel numb as the scene plays out all over again. You and Brandon snipping at each other back and forth. Your rigid spine, stiff shoulders. Brandon’s sleezy confidence. Soap, getting visibly aggravated as the seconds pass.

And there it is, the moment you spun on your heel, done with the conversation, and Brandon reached for you.

When you see Soap’s hand snap out – just a blur on the screen – you have to sit. Muscle memory collects your tablet in your lap, sweaty hands stacking neatly on top of it. Your heart is beating either too fast or too slow.

Your eyes stay locked on the screen until you and Soap disappear into the elevator, and the video stops.

“Should I play the elevator footage as well?” Price asks, voice low and quiet. “That comes with sound.”

It takes all your years of learned discipline and cultivated poise to resist shrinking in on yourself. It does not, however, stop your eyes from burning.

“Sir,” you say, struggling to keep your voice even, “I am so sorry.”

There’s a beat of tense silence as you gather yourself, throat getting tighter and tighter. Your head is spinning with fear and anxiety. What he’ll say, what he’ll do. How you could possibly damage control this.

“I-I don’t even know how he found out where I work,” you say, “and Soap w-was just trying to help. If I’d known that would happen, I would have taken it outside.”

You can barely look at Price as your voice break midway through, the panic leaking into your tone even as you stay frozen in place.

“Did we – is he suing? Is – is that why—?”

The tears escape despite your efforts, dripping fast and down your cheeks as you shudder in a breath. You can’t pay for a lawsuit, especially not if you’re fired over this. And you don’t want to lose this job. You love this job, you love—

“Oh, darling, what a mess you’ve made of yourself.”

You sniffle as Price rounds his desk and kneels in front of you, plucking his handkerchief from his breast pocket. He tuts at you when you open your mouth to protest, already blotting at your cheeks with a surprisingly gentle touch.

“There now, no need to cry,” he soothes, thumbing away another tear before it can fall. “I know it takes you ages to get your eyeliner right. This is nothing to ruin it over.”

“But…”

“I’m not angry, luv,” he continues, voice still low and quiet. This time, it doesn’t make your shoulders tense. “Wasn’t before and definitely not now. Chin up, there’s a dear.”

“Y-you’re not?” you warble.

“Not a bit,” he answers. “Not at you, at least.”

“Then why…?” You gesture weakly at the computer screen.

He sighs, something almost fond passing over his face. “Darling, you could have been hurt. Imagine if Soap hadn’t been there. All of us on the top floor, waiting for you to get back, not knowing something was wrong.”

He shakes his head, cradling your cheek with the same hand that brushed away your tears.

“You’re one of mine, you understand? Anything that happens to you is my responsibility,” he explains. “And I didn’t… enjoy that you want to keep something like this from me.”

You drop your eyes in shame. Of course. An employee assaulted on company ground, his personal assistant no less. Price would never stand for that sort of thing. He looks out for his own, looks out for you.

“Hey, look at me, luv. None of that now,” he coaxes. “I just want to get to the bottom of why you didn’t want to tell me.”

It occurs to you that that tone you heard earlier might have just been genuine worry and maybe… a bit of hurt. You twist your hands in your lap as you gather your words.

“I didn’t… it wasn’t because of you,” you murmur. “I just… was so embarrassed. And I didn’t want to make it your problem. I’m supposed to make your life easier, not harder.”

He huffs, but you’re relieved to see wry amusement on his face now.

“No more of that,” he orders, as softly as he when he wiped your face. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a love.” He gently pinches your cheek, then stands. “Stay here, I’ll get you a cup of water. Take a moment, yeah?”

You nod, sniffling again. He squeezes your shoulder as he passes, and you finally let yourself breathe. Not getting fired, not getting sued. And Price isn’t mad at you. Christ, he needs to work on his approach.

“Kyle.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Look into that knob from the lobby. And the little miss’s last boss.”

“You’ve got it.”

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Masterlist

[svuguru]

45 😋

This is the ask :3 incest minors and antis dni i'm not responsible for the content you do or do not consume! sorry this is kinda lazy!??!?! it's 9:15 pm here lolol ^_^ idk if this is like suggestive??

Suguru had been wondering where you were all day! You left at 1 PM, and it's already 5 Pm. Sure, that's probably the normal amount of time for a "hangout with friends", but he started worrying after the first hour. So when you walked inside the door, your hair a little messy and there was visible exhaustion on your face.

"Where were you?" Suguru asks the moment his eyes land on you, standing up from the sofa and walking straight for you.

"Huh? Nowhere.. jus saw a boy my friend was telling me about," you answer with complete and total honesty. You didn't do anything with the boy, you didn't even hold his hand, but Suguru didn't know that.. and he definitely didn't trust some random boy he doesn't even know the name of.

"Really?" He raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest, scoffing like he didn't believe you for a second because, well, he didn't. "Where'd you guys go?"

"Um... well..." you look away from him, toying with the hem of your skirt nervously. "He took me to the movies, b-but I promise nothing happened!" Your eyes dart back up to him, begging him to believe you because you would never lie to your big brother.

"Yeah?" Suguru removes his arms from his chest and nods his head, though it was clear he didn't take you seriously for a second even if you were being completely honest. "C'mere," he wraps his hand around your wrist and leads you to the couch. His voice is calm and gentle, but it was clear his demeanor wasn't.

And that's exactly how you ended up laid over his lap, burying your face into a pillow that was laying around on the sofa to muffle your whines. Suguru's hand gently rubbed your ass through your panties before landing a loud smack against it, causing you to gasp and your legs to twitch.

You had a bad habit of making Suguru (unintentionally) jealous. You never mean to do it purposely, he just got possessive easily.

"Always meeting with boys," he tsks, shaking his head in disapproval as his large hand goes back to soothing your poor butt. "Here," he mumbles before hooking his fingers on the waistband of your panties and tugging them downwards until they reach the middle of your thighs so he can stare at your ass with nothing covering them.

"'m sorry... shoulda told you..." you whimper softly into the pillow, hiding your flushed and pouty face. It's not long until Suguru lands a long streak of harsh slaps against your ass again, one after the other, but gradually getting softer to soothe you gently.

"Well, at least you learned your lesson, hm?" Suguru hums and leans down to press a few kisses to the back of your exposed neck, his big palm cupping your ass cheeks and giving them a firm squeeze.

"Y-Yeah, Sugu..." and you think it's over then, but just when you calmed down, you feel his hand against your bum in an aggressive manner again, making you cry out.

It's clear that even though you've learned better, Suguru is still upset, even though you did nothing wrong. He's just mean, likes to bully his poor little sister.

[obsessive-valentine]

Dark-Yandere!Farmer x GN!Reader

Wishing it was summer so bad so have this.

Being used to your captor being crude and rough towards you to keep you in line and obedient, today came as a shock when he seems to be empathetic and soften for you when you get sick during a heatwave. TW- kidnapped reader, non-con touching and hint of farmers past anger issues traumatising reader making them paranoid.

Its stifling hot, all the windows and doors are open for circulation and lace curtains drawn to try keep the house cool, but it does little. He had left the house earlier than usual to start his morning chores before the heat got unbearable, he had kissed your head and left hours before sunrise. You hadn’t seen him since. You probably could walk a few steps outside and see him in the distance somewhere but you barely had the energy to drag yourself from the bed to the sofa- infront of the fan.

You wished you hadn’t wasted energy on finding a cooler spot because the fan was only pushing around the hot air. With a exasperated sight you excepted your fate, waiting to succumb to heat stroke and begin vomiting. Laying flat on your stomach with only a vest top and underwear on, thinking about how good a glass of water would be right about now.

Until the dreaded sound of heavy boots stomp onto the deck, and into the house. “Fuckin’ hell” he huffed wiping sweat from his face with the shirt he instead slung over his shoulder when the sun had risen. You almost jumped a mile when the next time you opened your eyes from a slow blink he was standing right infront of you.

You braced yourself for whatever might come, used to being exposed to emotional whiplash. You could never read his face until it was to late, you tried to calm yourself from overacting by reasoning that you haven’t done anything wrong recently.

He leaned down without a word, the back of his dirty calloused hand pressed against your cheek and then the other one “you’ve been drinking water?” He questions suspiciously straightening up and towering over your form. You stayed laying down wishing to sink into the sofa, how do you tell him you couldn’t be bothered? You mumble a pathetic ‘no’ staring lifelessly at his dusty beaten up boots.

Expecting a scolding or to be told to ‘toughen up’, you flinched when instead you were met with his rough hand rubbing your back out of pity “hang tight for a moment”. It could have been just a minute or hour from when he left the room and returned with a glass of ice and water, you were to disorientated to get a grasp of the time or if you’d blinked or napped.

Slowly he pulled you up into a sitting position by your wrist, you groaned as a pulsating ache in your skull began “I know, hurts hu?” He steadies you with a firm hand in your shoulder before giving you the glass of water and made sure you drink it all. You feel the cold salvation trickle down your throat leaving your mouth cold for a moment, savouring the way the ice kissed your lips.

“Stupid of me, shoulda checked up on you. Think it’s heatstroke” he takes the cup off you once it’s all gone and places it on the table before bending down to pick you up “Can’t I trust you to look after yourself for just a few hours? This is why you need me sweetheart” he rather softly lectures you as he carries you down the hall, to the bathroom, turning on the cold tap to the bath.

He helped you out of what’s left of your clothes and steadied you as you stepped into the slow rising water. You felt to nauseous and uncomfortable to mind being naked or the fact he was also stripping down and slipping in the small bath behind you.

To tired to fight when he pulled you to rest your head back onto his shoulder or when his hands wandered when washing you with a cold cloth. You just closed your eyes and welcomed the cold goosebumps that spread up your legs and arms. You both stayed there for maybe half an hour, laying back in the cold with his hands mindlessly gliding up and down your body.

...

“Come on, I got work to finish” he huffed out pulling away his hands, watching you stir awake from you half conscious sate before getting out and wrapping a towel around himself. You grabbed ahold of his hands as he helped you out and handed you a towel. He wordlessly left but returned with one of his shirts walking past you to wet it under the cold tap “put this on, it will keep away heat rash and cool you down” his eyes wandered as you pulled it over yourself but you were none the wiser, struggling to pull the wet shirt over you as it clung to your skin.

Pulling on his clothes and boots he then lead you outside onto the shady front porch, sitting you on the old rocking chair with a book and glass of water. “Holler if you need anything, sweetheart” you felt a lot better but still exhausted, and for a moment relaxed and unafraid of the unusually caring man. That is until he turned around for a breif moment as he walked away “don’t you go wandering”

He was half smiling and it sounded light hearted but you knew it was anything but. It was a clear threat. A wave of sickness reintroduced it’s self, but now for a different reason.

You didn’t read the book but rather watch him work in a nearby field with sleepy eyes. How he would lovingly interact with the animals, how scarily strong he was lifting and dragging feed and muck around, how he’d carefully and proudly inspect his vegetables when watering them.

One of the livestock-guard-dogs came up onto the deck to keep you company, laying at your feet, and the cool breeze against the wet shirt sent waves of relief over you body.

...

At some point you had fallen asleep and when you woke up it was late afternoon and your shirt was dry, the chair rocked forward a bit then arms snaked around your waist and under you butt. You almost flew into fight or flight mode until you remembered where you are and who with, even though yet another headache you knew it was useless.

To your surprise he scooped you up and sat back down In the chair with you in his lap “welcome back to the land of the living” he joked, he didn’t even have to look at you to know he’d woken you up, to busy digging around in his pocket for a cigarette. You didn’t answer still getting to grips of what time it is after being rudely pulled from a heat coma.

“How you feeling? Want me to wet the shirt again?” He lit the cigarette before pressing the back of his hand to your cheek seemingly satisfied with how much your temperature has come down “no thank you” you glanced at him but adverting you eyes quickly remembering how unusually soft he treated you this morning when you were dazed and confused. Wondering when he’d become crude and rough again.

He hummed in a response resting against the back of the chair dragging you down with him, he takes a long drag of the cigarette “How about we watch a movie tonight? Got some old DVDs in the attic” he offers looking out contently at his farm and his free hand runs through your hair. “I’d like that” you said sounding more like a question, unsure if there was a catch but there was nothing.

Just a short nod and some peaceful quiet with the chirps of birds and one of the horses whinny’ing in the nearby field. There was no lingering dread or fear, just peace. And maybe if you closed your eyes and imagined hard enough you could trick yourself into thinking you are on a summer country vacation with the man you dreamed of as a teenager.

For the first time since you got kidnapped, you aren’t plotting an escape, trying to stay quiet and unseen, or fearful of facing the mans wrath or worried about spending the night in the shed. Your heads empty and feel rested.

...

Tomorrow you’d lash out again, remembering today and how you seem to be slowly accepting your situation -accepting your kidnapper. With a clear-head in the morning you will grow afraid of the reality that your stuck here for life. But as for today, you have a moment of peace - free from worry and perhaps a bit of contentment even if just for the night. As he finally has the chance to lovingly hold you close -watching the movie he let you pick.

[mashiraostail]

main party.....kink list??? orrrr wah

ya officer thats them thats the horny mf

I know there r some well accepted fanon ones sooo im gonna try to get funky with it for u all but if some of these r overdone i apologize im simple minded

Lae'zel: Sensory dep I think?? Going both ways but I think she really enjoys the trust you puts into her when you let her blindfold you. She also thinks of it as a sort of milestone, when she trust you enough to let things go the other way. Something about the surprise of it, the not knowing what's next heightens the experience for her. Seeing you keening, and trying desperately to find her touch even when you can't see her does wonders for her ego. She likes a power play too, she likes to hear you beg, she loves a little bit of groveling she can't help it. She especially enjoys the feeling of your hands scrambling against her back and shoulders as you desperately try to ground yourself again. She may or may not push you just bit past overstimulation. She can't put it into words, she likes having that control, she likes knowing she could do whatever she wants to you, and knowing she would never actually hurt you in a weird way reminds her how much she loves you.

Gale: Body worship!! Bro shoulda been a cleric he loooovvees to worship sm. He can't even help it and he may not be doing it on purpose either. When he sees you naked he's about ready to drop to his knees and start sobbing, how could somebody so near perfect see him as worthy company? He will kiss and lavish every inch of you all night, if you don't snap him out of it he honestly might forego sex entirely in favor of just doting on you. His hands will NEVER leave your bare skin, once it's exposed he will keep an incredibly curious, wandering hand on you at all times. He just loves every inch of you, and I do mean every inch; he will never turn his nose up at any part of you, he's content to kiss and massage you all night if that's what you want. He can't help getting sidetracked here and there either, he simply cannot promise that he won't be overcome with the desire to fuck into your thighs, or rut against your stomach and chest and he will indulge himself. He's Mr. Pussydrunk, he can't help it. Maybe he's a little pathetic, and he can admit that. There is not any kind of sex that is not centered on you, he just wants to look and kiss and touch and have all of you.

Karlach: She loves a little bit of a risky tryst, she never wants to actually get caught of course but the thought is thrilling alone. Quickies in the bathroom, around dark corners, down secluded alleys and so on. She likes the challenge of keeping you quiet and she loves to see you embarrassed. "Oh no, Karlach we shouldn't..." but you can't resist her and that's what she likes so much about it. Of course she likes seeing her hand over your mouth, watching your head loll around as you will yourself to be quiet; but at its core she loves knowing you just can't deny yourself, you want her just as badly was she wants you. When you have some more privacy she'll take her time with you, make sure you feel the same love that she does when you just can't help yourself. But there are times where nothing seems better than whisking you away, rendering you stupid, and then sending you on your way.

Wyll: He's such a good boy i know i know but I am so certain that he loves leaving some marks on his partner. He honestly feels a bit bad about it at first, and you'll have to put it him at ease about it, tell him you enjoy it, and you're okay if he is. He may have some slight jealous tendencies so knowing that possessiveness in general is enjoyed by you is a huge help to him. He will NOT go crazy with it, he'll always feel a little ashamed of it, but he can't help leaving one or two small love bites around the collar of your shirt, promise him you don't mind and he may been keen on more heavily marking obscured areas like your inner thighs or your stomach. He won't mind you returning the favor at all, a few scratches down his back, some bites on his collar, it's all good to him. He likes to know that he's yours just as much as he likes knowing you're his.

Shadowheart: Lowkey ofc but she's a threesome girl I just know she is. She loves a good threesome, sometimes she just likes to watch sometimes she just wants you to watch her and sometimes she likes all three of you together. She's not the jealous type, she's not insecure, and she loves seeing you embarrassed by all the attention and stupid with pleasure. She also loves a little bit of the princess treatment too (a lot). Doesn't have to be Halsin, but she'd be thrilled at the proposal of course. She doesn't have a preference for the breakdown, men or women, whatever else, it's all good to her and each has it's own unique perks. She likes getting to really take you in, to see everything about your body and your face and the noises you make without worrying about focusing on making you feel good, she likes being a backseat driver and she likes the look on your face when you watch her. It's certainly not an every time thing, she likes having you to herself too, but when the situation is right she'll rarely turn her nose up at a worthwhile proposition.

Halsin: He's a giver, just through and through man. Similar to Lae'zel he likes being in control, but in different ways. He loves the idea of you just being completely in need of him and totally unable to deny any of your desires. He loves to take care of you, and seeing how easily you surrender to him. You can beg, he'll love it, though he'll never ask you to. No, he'll never deny you, he'll be sure you get everything you ask for in due time, he just loves to unravel you, overstimulate you, and just enjoy your body. He loves crowding you into a corner, taking up all your senses and listening to you keen for him. He wants to see you fumble over yourself, blush, or look away from him, he loves to see how easily he can suck the air out of your lungs. He's been alive for a long time and he'd be an idiot to not know the effect he can have on people, or to not be able to tell when someone is interested. He'll lean into the attraction that already exists, lingering touches, fond nicknames, eye contact, general closeness and so on, he just likes to see you fall apart.

Astarion: true love Praise/dirty talk, maybe a little denial at times too but he'll never push you too far, he may seem sadistic but he can't hold out on you very long at all. He likes see how nervous he can make you just with the things he says alone. I think he may bite you during sex if you tell him you enjoy it but I don't think it would be a regular thing and after you really truly get together you'd have to give it time before bringing it up. Obviously he has to feed to on some kind of blood to stay alive and if sex can make it enjoyable for the parties involved he won't turn it down. He could bring you right to the cusp of an orgasm then bite down, partial curiosity partial cruelty. Would it deny you or would it push you over the edge? He'd be happy with either result. He's got a big head but it doesn't hurt to feed his ego, and a little praise can take him a loooonnngg way, before, after, or during sex.

[plussizefantasia]

Don't Call Me Kitty

Bucky Barnes x Black Cat! Reader

Word Count: 2k

Chapter 1/6

Next>

Warnings: Reader is plus size and it's talked about being somewhat of a negative thing (its not) , language, I think that's it

AN: This is part one of the BlackCat!Reader x Bucky work that I've been working on for a while. It was a request although I can't seem to find the original request anymore. This is part one of six, all fully written but I decided to split it up because this is by far the longest thing I've ever written and I wanted to publish it in chunks. Let me know if you like it, or if the rest of this should just stay hidden in my drafts for all of eternity.

If you had to spend one more fucking minute in the same car as James Buchanan Barnes, one of you would be dying. And you are pretty fucking confident that it won't be you.

 He won't get off your back. Every chance he has it seems like he launches himself at the opportunity to remind everyone that you weren’t always the goody two shoes he thinks you are pretending to be. But God forbid you call him out on the obvious hypocrisy he's spewing because then you’d have to face Rogers and the inevitable tirade he’d go off on about how his best friend was never a bad man, just deeply broken and how the actions he’d taken while under Hydra’s control were not his own.

You don’t take issue with Barnes bringing up your past, it's not a secret. Everyone on the team had at one point been the focus of your ire on one of your bad days and that more often than not led to some sort of discussion where you would disclose more and more about the things you were trying to forget. Your issue with Barnes was that he was trying to insinuate you were one of the good guys. And you’d rather die than admit you were an Avenger. 

You are not, nor will you ever be a good guy. You aren’t necessarily a bad guy, but you are not a goody two shoes. Barnes knows that, he also knows that it pisses you off to no end when he tries to tell everyone that you're acting like one.

“Shoulda seen the way she was sucking up to Fury Stevie, she’s trying to be teacher’s pet I’m tellin’ ya.” You were not sucking up to Fury you were stealing his wallet and trying to distract him so he wouldn’t notice the fifty bucks you lifted, but Barnes didn’t need to know that. 

The worst thing about this hate that you have for James Barnes was the fact that you know deep down you don’t hate him at all. Sure, he pushes your buttons and knows just what to say to get you to want to knock his pretty little teeth out. But he's also a genuinely good guy and most of the time isn't all that bad to be around. But god it's so much easier to hate him than it is to sift through all those feelings. 

There was also the fact that the two of you work well together. You can be bickering one second and covering each other’s sixes flawlessly the next. You have a theory on that though, you think that because both of you had been forced to work with people you didn’t trust very much at one point or another you got used to getting the job done no matter what other feelings were floating around in the background. That's what you try to convince yourself is the case. The idea that you and Barnes simply make a good team is nauseating. 

Barnes isn’t only good to have in the field though, he has proved his worth off the battlefield when he knocked around some poor recruit who had been running his mouth about you in the training gym. The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty and honesty you weren’t going to hold his ignorance against him. If he underestimated you because of your size, then that was on him and in a way, was only gonna help you in the long run.

That was something that you had noticed early on, that most people couldn’t fathom that someone who wasn't a size four could be as good at your job as you are. “Most People” also included people on your team, it had taken you saving Tony’s life in the field more than once for him to admit that he was wrong about you. You are still trying to convince Thor that just because you look soft does not mean you can’t still kick his ass. 

You have made people’s lack of faith in you into a good thing. Rich guys aren’t worried about their wallets or watches when a meek little thing bumps into them on the subway and who would suspect the overweight chick to be the one who scales the sides of buildings to get her hands on some unreleased tech from Hammer’s R&D department? Bucky Barnes.

Bucky has never regarded you with the same kind of hesitance as the others. He has never once made it seem like he thought you couldn’t get the job done because you were bigger. And you had to admit, it's refreshing. Not that you need his approval but it's still nice to not be looked at with some kind of doubt, or incredulity. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t piss you off though.

“I swear to God Barnes, if you change the radio station one more time I’m gonna cover your whole arm in fucking extra strength magnets while you're asleep.” An interesting threat sure, but one you will one hundred percent follow through on. 

“The station keeps changing to static, kitty, you want to listen to static for the next three hours?” He asks. He's right, you are both on your way to some ball in Alabama and according to Tony, all the Quinjets are in use for this weekend (bullshit), which leaves you and Bucky to get there the old fashion way, a road trip. 

You're already eight hours in and are currently driving through the small towns and mountains that cover a good section of the south. Which means that the radio is cutting in and out. And yeah he's right, you don’t want to listen to static but you also don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“I’d prefer the goddamn static over the song changing every five fucking seconds.”

“Well, it’s either that or silence, kitty.”

“First of all Barnes, I’ve told you not to call me kitty. It’s demeaning. Secondly, maybe some silence will do you good, you might be able to hear yourself think for once. If you’re capable of thinking.” You shoot back at him.

“Oh, kitty I have plenty of thoughts I’m pretty sure I think enough for the two of us.” He looks at you without turning his head away from the road, giving you a sidelong glance. 

“Oh yeah, about what? How to get more beefy? Whatever the next idiotic insult you’ll hurl at our resident birdbrain will be? Whether or not you'll get wrinkles from the perpetual furrow in your brow?” 

“I don’t think you want to know what goes on in my head, Mittens.” He pulls his bottom lip up in between his teeth to stop the smirk that is spreading across his face.

“You did not just call me fucking Mittens” Your jaw is practically on the floor. The audacity of this man. 

“You said I couldn’t call you kitty. What are my other options?” 

“Maybe my name? Asshole.” You also have to fight back a smile. Teasing Barnes is nice, it was the closest thing you have to a genuine relationship. Too bad you can’t stand him.

“You memorized your cover?” He asks you. You almost scoffed at him, you're not a goddamn amateur.

“Of, course. I’m Debrah Longborne, Georgian peach and heiress to my Daddy’s large fruit processing fortune.” This mission is a simple one. You're here to take down a corrupt governor and what better place to do than at the gala he and his wife organize every year? You had Tony donate to his wife’s foundation under your cover name. Large enough to draw attention but not too much attention that you can’t get your job done. “And you…?” 

“Brantley Moore, Law professor at Vanderbilt, and your arm candy for the night.” You like going undercover, and this assignment is a short one, just one weekend. It's almost like being another person, just with all your skills and an ulterior motive. 

“Who the hell picked the name Brantley?” You ask.

“I know right, I sound like some preppy douchebag” 

“Not too far off then.”

“Fuck off.” He laughs. You like his laugh. His eyes crinkle in the corners when he does it, a brief glimpse into the years he has lived through, not all sunshine and rainbows, but enough joy to have laugh lines. 

“So Debrah and Brantley met where?”

“Vanderbilt has society mixers every winter, where the professors and some select students get the chance to network with some donors and other important people. It’s a believable story plus there’s over a thousand attendees at these things which makes it easy to slip our names onto the list.”

“And whose idea was that?” you lift an eyebrow. “Mine.” 

“How do you know about the Vanderbilt mixers?” 

“I had a life before I met you, didn’t you know that.”

“I knew you had a life I guess I just didn’t assume it involved rubbing elbows with southern socialites at prestigious university parties.”

“I wasn’t rubbing elbows, it was for a deal made by Peirce with the university president, I was there as a bodyguard for Pierce and to cover our tracks when things inevitably got bloody.” Any hint of teasing falls from Bucky’s voice. He says shit like that sometimes. Shit that you think he says to scare you or to remind you how dangerous he was. All it does is make you sad. Nobody deserves to go through what he had, and you hate that those evil bastards had taken a great man and mangled him. 

The conversation peters out after his revelation. The two of you ride in silence for the next two hours. Thirty minutes in, you get closer to the city and the radio sputters back to life. Bucky reaches to turn it off. 

When you finally reach the hotel both of you are a bit on edge. You’ve been driving all day, switching back and forth every few hours but Bucky’s silence for the last little stretch seems to have affected both of you more than you’d thought.

Still, you have a job to do and you’ll be damned if you let the metal-armed nuisance ruin your reputation for perfect follow-throughs. You grab your small weekender bag out of the backseat and make your way to the front desk. You school your features and dust off the southern belle persona that has been stashed away in your metaphorical conman toolbelt.

You can feel Bucky trailing behind you, and an idea pops into your head. Swiftly turning on your heel you pass your bag into his unoccupied hand. Not giving him a chance to say no you rotate back around and march forward at a pace fitting to a very busy society woman. 

Bucky sputters behind you and you toss over your shoulder, “If I’m playing an heiress this weekend, I'm not lifting a goddamn finger if I don’t have to.” 

Marching the rest of the way to the desk you flash the young woman behind the counter a polite smile, “Room for Longborne”. She immediately matches your smile and begins typing away on her keyboard pulling up the reservation that was made for your cover.

“Of Course Ms. Longborne, I have you down for the Iris sweet for three nights is that correct?”

“Sounds correct to me, although if you could hold the room for one more day that would be just peachy of you, we don’t know how long our business here is going to take and it’s better to be safe than sorry. You understand of course.” You put every ounce of Southern charm into your words and pray to God that this interaction can be over sooner rather than later.

“Of course Ms., Here are your keys. Your room is on our twelfth floor and the number is embossed on the front of the card.” She hands you a package of three cards across the desk. “If you need anything at all don’t hesitate to call.”

You nod, taking the key cards from her hand, and motion for Bucky to follow you to the elevator. 

The ride up to the twelfth floor is silent, much like the last stretch of the car ride. What you aren’t expecting is Bucky’s exclamation when he walks into the room before you.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” The first words Barnes has uttered in nearly two hours. “There's only one fucking bed.”

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

The Lookalike (Part 2)

☒ Summary:Your search history was probably alarming, but you trusted that no-one was monitoring it too closely. After all, you hadn’t resisted your fate, had been pliant and sweet for the television demon, even sleeping with your face nestled into his shoulder, his arm draped around you. You awakened in Hell as the near-spitting image of a certain infamous radio host. Having fallen into the clutches of your doppelganger's nemesis, you plan an escape, blissfully unaware that the Radio Demon himself now knows of your existence.

☒ Warnings: Alastor X Reader, Vox X Reader, hermaphrodite!reader, deer!reader, crying!reader, they/them pronouns used, explicit sexual content, reader is in Hell for a reason, Valentino, canon typical scenarios.

☒ Series Links: Part I Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 6 BONUS SCENE Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Epliogue

Alastor sat in his usual breakfast spot on the balcony of the hotel, taking tea. Before him on the table sat an envelope, stamped and sealed with Voxtek logos. No-one sent letters in Hell these days, what with the smart phones that everyone seemed to love, but the weight of the item was such that it could only contain one thing. Photographs.

What was old Voxxy playing at? Alastor turned the envelope over in his hand, looking for anything out of the ordinary. In different circumstance, he might assume that this would be a threat or a blackmail attempt, but there was no-one in Hell he really cared about, and since his return after his seven year sabbatical he had committed no crimes worth speaking of- his deal made sure of that. Still, there didn’t appear to be a trap on the envelope itself, no microchips, not even a trace of Valentino’s irritatingly potent pheromone powder.

With a sigh, Alastor slit the envelope open with a single claw, and dumped the contents onto the table. What he saw took him a moment to register, and when he did he spat his tea.

What Vox had sent him were pictures of him. Alastor, naked and fucked out, electric blue cum dribbling down his inner thigh. Alastor on his back, eyes teary and pleading. Alastor with his knees hooked over the top edge of Vox’s screen.

Alastor crushed the first photograph between his claws, eyes becoming red dials, his grin extending to his ears. Vox had gotten him somehow. How? How had this happened? He’d been so careful, he’d never met in person, he’d brought his full mastery over technology to batter Vox back whenever they had interacted through screens. Yet somehow, here he was, splayed on Vox’s bedsheets. A hiss escaped him, angry static. Someone would pay for this violation.

“Hey, Al-” Angel Dust stuck his head out of the door but froze. “Oh fuck. See you’re having a moment here, I’ll go-”

“Nonsense.” With effort, Alastor forced himself down in size, his eyes returning to their usual form. “Just had a little surprise, that’s all.” With a little canned laughter, Alastor started to scoop up the photographs, in his haste scattering them more.

“So you finally fucked the TV, huh. Good for you, smiles.” Angel Dust squinted at the photograph that fluttered to land by his foot. “Didn’t know you had it in ya.”

“I didn’t-” distress started to creep into Alastor’s voice, a high-pitched feedback tone as he snatched up more of the pictures, grinning with only his teeth. “I would never.”

Angel Dust gave him a doubtful look. “You know there’s nothin’ wrong with fuckin’, right? Hell I’m the last one ta judge-”

“I have no memory of this.” Alastor hissed, crushing another photo between his claws.

“Oh. Fuck.” Angel Dust gave Alastor a compassionate look. “Sorry, man, I shoulda listened. Lemme help you with those.”

“I am quite capable of gathering these-” said Alastor archly as Angel bent over to retrieve some of the pictures that had fallen under the table. To his annoyance, Angel held one photo up to the light, squinting at it. “Give me that.”

“Nah. Wait. Look, I’m a professional at this okay? Nothing I haven’t seen before. And this? This ain’t the tall dark and creepy I know.”

Your stay in Vox’s suite was enjoyable, but not something that could last. Mercifully the television demon worked long hours, which left you a good amount of time alone. It hadn’t taken much persuading for Vox to give you a phone, a shiny new model with his company’s logo emblazoned on the back. And once you had that, this place’s equivalent of the Internet was your oyster.

Your search history was probably alarming, but you trusted that no-one was monitoring it too closely. After all, you hadn’t resisted your fate, had been pliant and sweet for the television demon, even sleeping with your face nestled into his shoulder, his arm draped around you. You’d even let him dress you, a fanciful blue outfit with a tailcoat and bowtie, and if that wasn’t a sign of co-operation, you weren’t sure what was.

what is hell pentagram city

As you suspected, you were in Hell. Though you had no clear memories of your death, you were fairly certain you had died. The memory of falling to the ground in darkness was there, along with the pain in the back of your head, a taste like metal in your mouth. And being here rather than the other place, assuming the other place even existed, was no real surprise to you. Heaven was for the meek and obedient, and you’d done things that were neither. Scanning the information online, and reading between the lines, you picked up the basics. Sinners were ruled by overlords, and Vox was one of these, in a coterie alongside Valentino, the man who had pulled you in and a third overlord you hadn’t met. Overlords gained power from owning souls, but a quick scan of the information told you little about what this actually entailed. Was owning souls like slavery? Did being locked in Vox’s bedroom mean your soul was already forfeit? All you found at first was that soul ownership required a contract of some sort, so you continued your search.

how to tell if you have a soul contract can you be forced into a soul contract how to get out of soul contracts

There was conflicting information on the exact nature of soul contracts, but the general consensus was that the contract required the participant to be cogent enough to sign their name, or at least shake the hand of their new owner. That meant that it was unlikely that Vox actually owned your soul. The bad news was that a person could be coerced into handing their soul over, and you still didn’t have much leverage on Vox. Eventually he would want a handle on you, and the thought of it made you uneasy. You needed an out. It looked like murder would work to break a contract, but Hell’s social media sites were full of people complaining about how difficult murdering a fellow sinner was. People, it seemed, could recover from nearly any level of injury. Fascinated, you followed the topic further.

can you kill sinners how to kill sinners

Unsurprisingly, you weren’t the only person on Hell’s internet interested in this topic. Aside from certain massive injuries, the answer that came up time and again was yes, angelic steel could kill sinners permanently.

what is angelic steel how to get angelic steel

The material was apparently from weapons dropped by heavenly exorcists, and highly sought after. It looked expensive, and you doubted that Vox would continue to buy your innocent act if you started asking him to bring you weapons. You checked the uses, scrolling down the list of applications until one caught your eye. Wire made from angelic steel was sought after by audiophiles for its use in the cabling of sound systems. And what was Vox, if not a man who would make for himself the best high fidelity sound system that money could buy? Stalking into the sitting area of Vox’s quarters, you surveyed his sound system. It stood about seven feet tall and a little longer across, the mesh over the speakers so black that it almost registered like a hole in your vision. You could almost imagine the sound it would produce just by standing there before it, the way the vibrations would run through your hooves and into your shins and through your spine. A shame, really. If you had been planning to stay longer, you could have asked Vox to play some music on it and sat there basking in the sound. Maybe even fucked to something slow and sensual, letting an external rhythm dictate your movements, letting the music override you.

With a sigh, you set the idea aside, opening one of the drawers set into the frame of the sound system. The thing was beautiful, so much so that you were reluctant to dismantle it unless you had to. Fortunately, a little rummaging led you to the spare cables that you hoped would be there, and running a talon over the protective coating, you slit one open. The metal inside was a whitish gold, braided thin enough to make a decent garrote. You tested the strength of it, winding each end of the cable around your hands and pulling it taut, and the feel of a weapon in your hands brought a giddy feeling to your chest. After days of feeling adrift, the tension of the wire between your fingers felt like finally hitting land.

You wouldn’t kill Vox. Not only was it a bad idea- you had no idea how much strength he had, and killing him would set Valentino and Velvette both after you- but you didn’t want to. Even if he had spent the entire time moaning the name of the man with your face, he was still a good fuck, and it felt like bad manners to repay those tender services with a red and sticky end.

After a moment’s hesitation, you took the bottle of Valentino’s pheromones from the dresser by the bed, slipping it into the inside pocket of your tailcoat as you tossed the Voxtek phone you had been using back onto the bed. Drugs had never been your usual route of attack, but who knew what would be waiting for you outside the walls of the Voxtek compound?

Getting out of Vox’s suite was easy enough- the override password on the door was fuckalastor, all lower case. But once you were outside, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Even with the length of angelic steel wire wound around your hand, you didn’t feel quite safe.

Alastor watched the V tower from the shadows, an ugly feeling in his chest. If the demon in the photos wasn’t him, as Angel Dust had claimed, he really had nothing to complain about. But the fact that Vox had seen fit to find a demon who was his doppelganger and then find fit to send evidence of those exploits to him? That was still an insult, a figurative glove across the face. His problem was twofold, however. Firstly, the constraints of his deal forbade him from undertaking violent action against anything not a direct threat to the hotel, which V tower very much was not. The second problem was that of his injuries from his fight against the angelic horde. He had lived, barely, but the rent across his chest was a persistent throbbing ache, a gap in him from which static escaped. It rendered him weak. It reduced him to watching and skulking like some street level cur.

It was in this state that he saw you exit the tower through one of the side entrances, your movements furtive and your ears down. You wore a copy of his own outfit in Voxtek blue, and the very sight of it brought a sour taste to Alastor’s mouth. How dare you, an impostor, a fraud, go round the city wearing Vox’s livery, as if the television demon owned you? It was embarrassing. He would make you take it off. Hissing rage between his teeth, Alastor followed you.

There was definitely someone following you. You could feel it. You had been on the other side of this equation too many times in your life, the fear of the other at the periphery of your awareness, chasing down with heartfelt and open-mouthed glee, that it was impossible to miss when you were the one being stalked. The shadows in Hell grew long and strange, studded with eyes and horns and mouths, and you took another blind turn into another darkened alley, grounding yourself with the sting of the angelic steel wire across your palm. You still weren’t wholly used to your new shape, and even now though you were no longer the trembling-legged fawn that Vox had half-carried to his bed a few nights previous, your gait wasn’t the steadiest. If you started running, you were fairly sure you would fall.

You would deal with it, whatever it was. That was how you had always done things. You chose the pragmatic option, you coped. You chose the righteous option, even if no-one agreed with you, even if it meant doing what no-one else could bring themselves to do. You chose the dangerous option, even if it meant staring down the creeping fear in your own heart. You slipped into the shadows, your back hard against the wall, garrote threaded between both of your hands, the pulse of your heartbeat a thunder in your ears, a pulse in your throat, the adrenaline of it making you almost dizzy, almost nauseous, almost aroused. In this your new body was the same as the old. You would catch your hunter, whoever they were.

He stalked round the corner, a figure in red, and with a start you recognized his silhouette as the same as your new body. Alastor. What had Vox said about him? A washed up radio host, a demon with no real power to speak off, feeding off the nostalgia of a bygone era? With a single motion you stepped behind him, looping the angelic wire around his neck and yanking it tight, pulling his body back against yours. He struggled, claws going to his neck, but his claws couldn’t shear the angelic steel any more than yours could.

Hissing, he twisted in your grasp, claws raking a symmetrical gash into your forearm, and you gave an involuntary, crackling cry, holding fast as you felt the blood well. Then two thick strands of shadow sprouted from Alastor’s back, pushing past your chest and wrapping around your own neck. You stumbled back in panic, back hitting the brick wall, vision blurring as the tentacle constricted your blood flow, your grip on the wire slackening. No! You couldn’t lose. There was no air in your throat but you still managed a noise, a soft whine like a capacitor failing to discharge, before your vision went truly black.

Well, that would have been an ignominious way to die. Alastor felt the mark at his throat and his hand came away bloody. His own blood. Sloppy. He gave a low noise of displeasure as he looked down at your unconscious form, the bright blue of that ridiculous parody of his suit now ripped and stained. He hadn’t been expecting a fight, not from Vox’s fucktoy. Had this been a trap after all? No, there were no reinforcements, no cameras. Not the television demon’s style.

Bending down, he took your chin between thumb and forefinger, examining your face closely. As it had been in the pornographic pictures that Vox had sent him, your face was a close match for his own, expression relaxed and naked in something close to sleep. What was more, it didn’t appear to be a disguise, your cervine features quite genuine.

Alastor ran his fingertip over your antler, freezing when he felt the velvet covering, the blood vessels just beneath the skin, a jolt in his heart. You were so vulnerable like this, a single cut and you could bleed out. No deer demon would go out like this. At least, not one who had knowledge of their own body. The implications sank in his gut like lead. How long had it taken for his antlers to mature, when he had come to Hell? A couple of weeks? Alastor felt his lips curl back further past his teeth, hating Vox a little more. Vox had nearly made him kill you, a newcomer to Hell, for the crime of being weak and confused enough to be dragged to Vox’s bed.

What should he do with you? Leaving you here so close to Vox’s domain would get you dragged back to the television, and you were an innocent, well, not quite an innocent, you had tried to garrote him with angelic steel wire, but few people in Hell were truly innocent. He couldn’t kill you, at least not now, with your supine form posing approximately no threat to him. With a resigned sigh, Alastor scooped you up in his arms, disgusting blue suit and all, and began his walk back to the hotel.

You awoke in an unfamiliar place, your face pressed into the pillows of a four-poster bed. It smelled like musk, a rich, smoky sort of smell, with an undercurrent of formaldehyde, and it was oddly comforting, wrapping around you almost like an embrace. Drowsily, you took stock of your body, the ache around your neck and a burning throb that seemed to cover your forearm, remembering the struggle in the alleyway. The scent in your nostrils pulled you back to the memory, with your hands at the back of your double’s neck. This was how Alastor had smelled. This was, unmistakably, Alastor’s bed. He had hunted you, and now he had taken you to his lair to toy with you. Your garrote was missing, predictably, as was the pheromone bottle you had stolen from Vox. You rolled onto your side to survey the room, and Alastor loomed from the shadows.

“Ah, the impostor rises,” chirped Alastor. His smile stretched practically ear to ear. “Tell me, how are you feeling?”

“My windpipe hurts,” you said, frowning at him.

“Oh, quid pro quo, dear child,” said Alastor, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and undoing the collar of his shirt to show the bandage at his neck. “Do you have any idea how long it has been since someone made me bleed my own blood?”

“You were hunting me,” you said, not bothering with any of the cutesyness you had tried with Vox. Alastor had felt you close a wire around his neck- he would never see you as harmless.

“And you were quite the game, little impostor.” Alastor leaned over, and with a slow, deliberate motion, pressed his fingertips to your antlers. You had done your best thus far to ignore the existence of the two prongs sticking up from the top of your head, and even Vox had avoided touching them, so the sensation took you by surprise.

Your antlers were incredibly sensitive. You felt every variation in pressure, every adjustment in position, through your antlers, through their connection to the bone of your skull and further, down your spine and into your loins. Alastor met your eyes, his own half-lidded, and gave a gentle squeeze between thumb and forefinger. You whimpered, feeling the prongs grow under his hand, feeling your face heat.

“Hm. Soft,” he murmured, half to himself, before bringing your attention back to him with another little squeeze, directing your head to his lap. “Not much fight in you now, is there?”

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked, heart in your throat.

“My dear, where would be the fun in that?” Alastor replied, his tone shifting to genuine amusement. “A touch could kill you right now.” As it to make a point, he ran a fingertip from the tip to the base of your antler, and you shivered as you felt the touch echo through your body. “Do you have any idea how much blood you would lose, with just one little nick?”

With Alastor touching you like this it was difficult to think straight. It was as if he knew this body better than you did, each touch intense to the very edge of painfulness, the sensations continuing to resonate through your body. You swallowed, burying your face against his thigh. “What do you want?”

“Now now, little pretender. That’s my line, not yours.” Alastor gave a soft laugh. “Though I imagine I know what you might desire. A world where Vox has no ability to drag you back to his bedchambers would be a start, don’t you think?”

Slowly, you nodded against his thigh, and Alastor gave a soft noise of approval. With both hands now he worked his touch from the base of your skull to your antlers, each movement a vivid, carnal pressure through your body. It was like nothing else, and you felt your antlers grow still further, your pulse throbbing through them, your cock aching untended against the inside of your pants, your cunt clenching unfilled. You bowed your head to Alastor’s gentle, dexterous touch, your mouth open as you moaned against his trouser leg, a clipping edge to your audio.

“Oh my, you are enjoying that.” The growl in Alastor’s voice was salacious. “Is it your first time? Does the mean old television demon not know how to touch you like this?”

You weren’t in the mood to indulge Alastor’s fantasies about Vox, not after days of doing the inverse, so instead you whimpered, “Thank you.”

“Mm. At least you have manners, I suppose.” Alastor lifted his hands from your antlers, and you gasped at their absence, the air cold where his fingertips had been warm. With a touch to your chin, he indicated that you should rise, and you did, propping yourself up on your elbows before sitting back.

Sitting up, you noticed that you were not the only one who had grown an impressive rack. Alastor’s antlers extended like the shadows of trees in winter, his own arousal written over his smiling face. They curled, dendritic and beautiful and unmistakably tied to his own libido, echoing through his own body in the same way as yours did. The way he touched you told you that, if nothing else.

Your eyes glazed, head tilting forward. You wanted to lock antlers with him. You wanted to touch him, bone to bone, and feel the same waves resonate through the two of you. You wanted it very, very badly.

Alastor caught you by your injured throat with a hiss. “If you do that,” he said. “You will die. Your antlers are too fresh, and you will damage them, and you will bleed out on my bedspread. So instead, sweet little pretender, you are going to lay quite still and let me tend to you.”

“S-sorry,” you stuttered as Alastor released you, the pain from his grip bringing you a little way back to your senses, your heart fluttering as tears stung your eyes. What did he see in you, you wondered. Was it a way to get one over on Vox? Or simply a reflection of his own face?

“Silly creature.” Alastor sighed, pushing you onto your back, and crawling over you, a depraved gleam in his eye. “You strangle me half to death in an alleyway, risking damage to my precious voice, and now is when you are tearful and apologetic? When I am trying to stop you from hurting yourself?” He placed a hand at your neck again, though with less pressure this time, just enough to hold your head in place.

You didn’t just want to lock antlers with him. You wanted to feel his lips against yours, sharp teeth against yours. “Would you kiss me?”

“I suppose I don’t see the harm. Hold still, now,” Alastor warned, and you felt how carefully he closed the distance between the two of you, how carefully he avoided even a brush of his antlers against yours, though electricity sang in their proximity, the shivering static of not quite the barest touch as Alastor’s lips closed on yours.

Compared to Vox he was a chaste kisser, not bullying his way in but leading you to him, leaving you wanting him, touching tonguetip to tonguetip, nose to nose, needlepoint tooth to lip. It left you gasping, left you quivering, your cock straining against the fabric of your trousers. With an almost coquettish roll of his hips, Alastor pushed his pelvis flush with yours, and you felt his own matching tent. Through four layers of fabric it was still an aching kind of hot, his pulse through it as surely as it was through his antlers. With a slow, measured motion he ground himself against your length, making you whimper soft distortion into his mouth, the tip of your cock leaking wetness and your neglected cunt absolutely slick.

“Oh, this will be fun.” Alastor’s eyes creased at the corners as he pulled back a little, his cock still pressing hard and hot against yours. “Call me a narcissist if you will, but I know that expression. Are you really going to climax, just from a little kissing?”

You would have corrected him, but he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair how well he knew your body, how adeptly he stroked along the tines of your antlers, sensation resonating deep and intense through your body to your core, a master on an instrument you had yet to learn. Locking smug eyes with you, he rolled his hips against yours, grinding against you further, and you mewled for him, hips bucking a little as sensation threatened to overcome you, fighting against the inexorable tightness that built. But just as in the alleyway, this wasn’t a fight that you could win.

You came, your cock pulsing wetly against the inside of your pants as the reverberations through your body sang, a static whine on your lips, absolutely understanding why Vox had moaned Alastor’s name.

Both of you stilled for a moment after that, your body still wracked with aftershocks, Alastor watching you closely, his expression contented. He made no move to please himself, but rather traced the edge of your face, from your temple to your jaw, with his talons. “Good?” he asked, nonchalantly.

Good didn’t begin to describe it. It was sublime, another aftershock hitting you even now. You closed your eyes. “The best. Thank you, Alastor.”

“My pleasure.” Alastor looked down at you with a pleased smile. “You’ve made a real mess of that suit,” he said, a tilt of his head, his own desire for release seemingly forgotten. “Allow me to take it off for you.”

Alastor grinned at the hidden camera on the suit’s lapel, saying nothing but making sure it got a good shot of his face before he crushed it between thumb and forefinger.

[schrijverr]

Works Alone

When trying to pull the team together, Bruce’s ideas are dismissed, because he works alone. He goes home to his kids to pout about it.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none

~~~~

Bruce isn’t pouting. He isn’t! He’s not even a little bit miffed, because he doesn’t want the Justice League to succeed anyway. He doesn’t trust them, hell, he’s not even a full time member, he’s only playing along to keep the others in check. So why would he care?

However, attempting to convince himself doesn’t mean it is working or not clear on his face. The second he steps into the Cave, Dick comments: “Someone is pouty. Did anything happen with your new friends, B?”

He sounds a little too jovial about the whole thing for Bruce’s taste, because despite what he’s telling himself, he is pouty.

“Ridiculous. Father would never stoop so low as to pout,” Damian sticks up for him.

Damian had been sparring with Dick when Bruce arrived, but is now taking a break to drink some water. Seeing the two of them work together makes Bruce both feel better and more prissy, so he just grunts.

“He’s totally pouty,” Jason crows, from where he’d been ruffling through Bruce’s equipment. He would gladly give Jason all the stuff he needs, but Jason insists on stealing it, even if he’s stealing it in plain sight, which is more closely to just taking it.

“Take it back,” Damian frowns.

“Nah,” Jason says. “You know how he gets when y’all don’t come by enough. I mean, you shoulda seen him when Dickface first moved out. Man’s a pouter, I dunno what to tell ya.”

“What’s B pouting about now?” Steph asks, falling into the conversation since she’s only just arrived to start getting ready for patrol tonight.

“We don’t know yet, he’s still denying he’s pouting,” Tim calls out, not having looked up from where he’s working on the Batcomputer all throughout. “Though it’s likely something with the League, since he just got back from giving back up.”

Heads turn his way and Dick concernedly frowns: “Are you okay? Did they do something?”

There is a dark, yet gleeful glimmer in Damian’s eyes as he asks: “Do we need to go out there and vanquish these super powered morons, father?”

“No,” Bruce sighs, still a little miffed, though his mood has definitely been improved by his kid’s banter, as well as their worry for him.

“Then what happened, old man?” Jason demands. “Stop that vague bullshit you always do.”

“Oehhh, Jason swore!” Steph immediately chimes in. “I’m telling Alfred.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Jason whips around to her, pointing his knife at her.

“Knock it off, I wanna hear why B is being pouty,” Tim interrupts them.

“Yes, cease this chatter,” Damian adds, a rare show of agreement with Tim. They’ve all been growing, Bruce thinks proudly.

“So what happened then?” Steph asks, rolling her eyes, though stopping her fight with Jason.

Jason luckily also lets it go for now, so Bruce can answer: “They aren’t working as a team. It’s just a group of skilled individuals now and it’s becoming a problem.”

“You’ve been observing that for a while, B. Why suddenly the long face about it?” Dick asks.

And now the embarrassing part, Bruce thinks as he admits: “John is trying to do something about it now. I offered my help, but he refused, stating that I don’t know how, since I work alone, while he has been in the army.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then, the whole group bursts out in laughter.

“What?” Jason wheezes, while Dick cackles: “He actually said that? Are you for real? Oh my god.”

“I’m going to loose my shit,” Steph snorts, Tim chuckling in the background.

Even Damian is looking amused, although also slightly judgmental. He disdainfully comments: “They are not very bright and must lack observational skills, father. Are you certain you wish to proceed in sponsoring them?”

“Yes,” Bruce sighs again. He’d already had that conversation with himself. Many times. “There is a lot of potential there too. Which is what makes them dangerous. However, out there is dangerous too. They can protect like an army can. Like we can’t.”

“Tt, we can take on extraterrestrial threats and some villains,” Damian huffs, obviously displeased. Out of all his siblings, he’s been the most vocally against the Justice League.

“The brat has a point,” Jason surprises him by backing him up. “I mean, between us here and those still on the streets or running late, you basically have your own little army right here. Just recruit Wonder Woman and I’m sure we’d have a chance.”

“You just wanna work with Wonder Woman, don’t you?” Dick says, sounding a little smug as he slides up behind Jason to make a kissy face at him.

Jason just pushes his face away as he blushes and exclaims: “Shaddup, Dickhead.”

“Yeah, shut up! That’s the most sensible thing he’s said all his life,” Steph hollers.

“Kids, kids, calm down. We’re not disbanding the Justice League and adopting Wonder Woman,” Bruce interrupts, wondering how his life ends up with him saying sentences that he never thought he would be saying.

“I never said nothin’ ‘bout adopting her,” Jason scowls.

“Cuz you want to kiss her!” Dick sing-songs.

“Isn’t she like a few thousand years old or something?” Tim asks.

“Also not marrying Wonder Woman. Any of you,” Bruce says. “Why don’t we all just stay away from Wonder Woman. And the rest of the Justice League, which will continue to exist and not fall apart because they struggle at teamwork. Maybe John’s idea will work. It’s too early to say.”

All of them are giving him a judgmental look now and Bruce struggles to not react to it. It’s always harder when he agrees with them.

“But Green Lantern’s plan is hinging on esprit de corpse,” Tim says. “And that will never work, because it’s a military mentality and while you’ve been working together, there is no real interdependence outside a few emergencies.”

“Yeah, what Timmy said,” Dick agrees, gesturing towards Tim.

“I loathe to admit it, father, but Drake has a point,” Damian nods and that truly shows that it is a hopeless mission for John.

“We’ll just have to see,” Bruce says, deciding to end the conversation there. “Now get ready for pre-patrol brief. We have a few open cases to assign. Cass and Harper will soon be reporting from their early rounds, so get suited up.”

There are a few groans around him, but his kids grant him the mercy of dropping it. They probably know as he does that this won’t be the last time they discuss it.

Indeed a few days later, Bruce comes walking into the Cave again, trying not to let the thunder cloud above his head show too much. However, he knows his kids notice, some sending him a raised brow or an inquiring look. Bruce is glad that he’s come far enough as a parent that not even Dick or Jason are put off by his bad mood.

Dick is also the one to tentatively ask: “Not a good training session with the Justice League?”

“John has us running drills,” Bruce grunts. “It’s showing us each other’s moves and how to play into each other, but…”

“It’s not turning you into a team?” Dick suggest.

“Yeah,” Bruce says, sighing.

“Esprit de corpse,” Tim sing-songs, walking by with a steaming mug of coffee that he went upstairs to refill, ready to start working on the case he’s in the middle of.

Bruce ignores Tim, knowing he’s right, and pulls the cowl off to card a hand through his hair. “We don’t need to run drills, but we need to do trust exercises, talk with each other, get to know each other better, be- be-”

He doesn’t know how he wants to end that sentence, but Cass does, materializing out of the darkness in her sweats, she says one word: “Family.”

“I thought you didn’t like the Justice League,” Duke asks. Luke is covering his day shift today since the last few days have been busy for Duke, but as a true Bat, he doesn’t really know what taking a break means, so he’s in the Cave training.

“Hn,” Bruce replies, thinking. “I mean, I do like them, I just-”

“He doesn’t trust ‘em,” Jason says. He wasn’t supposed to be at the Cave, but it’s clear why he’s there when Bruce looks his way in surprise. He’s holding a box of files, likely stuff he needs for his organization, Bruce wouldn’t know. They’re at a point where Jason doesn’t kill and Bruce doesn’t ask.

“What? Why?” Duke asks. “You fund them and go on missions with them. Even share intell and use them as backup, despite the fact that there are metas and aliens among them. Why do that if you don’t trust them?”

“’Cause he’s also paranoid,” Jason answers for him. “He’s monitoring ‘em.”

“But also befriending them,” Dick says, defending Bruce. “He just needs to vet them closely first, before he does that.”

“Right, ‘cause he’s paranoid,” Jason says.

Duke looks at Bruce, who sighs: “They’re not wrong. The Justice League has a lot of potential to do good and they’re showing they want to be that goodness. But they also have the potential of mass destruction. We need to be sure they won’t be a threat and that we have the right contingencies, before we let them in.”

“Like I said, paranoid,” Jason repeats.

“But trying,” Dick adds.

“And is stepping in to help them get better teamwork going to backfire?” Duke wonders. “Like are we scared we’re going to teach them how to destroy everything as a team? Is that it?”

“No,” Bruce answers, before the peanut gallery consisting of Dick and Jason can. “I offered help to John, he didn’t want it. I don’t think they’re willing to listen to my opinion on it, since I work alone, so have no expertise.”

Duke snorts loudly at that, then suddenly says: “Wait, you’re serious?”

Bruce grunts as conformation.

“Why?” Duke asks.

“Paranoid,” Jason says, rolling his eyes, before hoisting his box up again, before walking off.

Meanwhile, Bruce actually explains: “I haven’t mentioned you, like I said I would. It’s best if they don’t know we’re connected, nor that Gotham hosts more heroes. Connections like we have could be exploited by them and Superman can do a lot more damage should he so choose than Killer Croc or Bane.”

“But they’re good guys, right?”

“For now,” Dick answers morosely. “I’m not saying I agree with B’s paranoia, I mean, I was doing team ups before him and it worked out fine for me without the layers of paranoid he has. But a lot of things can go wrong, especially when working with people that powerful. I also maintained a semblance of mystique just to be safe.”

“But you can try to tell them this isn’t working, right? They must see that it’s not,” Duke says.

“From what I’ve seen both Hawkgirl and Wonder Woman are warriors like John, so they think the same about this. Superman and Flash are office workers, they’d think of horrid team-building days. While J’onn is used to working together with people who can read minds,” Bruce answers. “Out of all of them, only J’onn might listen.”

Cass nudges him and signs: ‘You are not saying something. There is hiding in your shoulders and a bit of guilt in your jaw.’

“What are you hiding, B,” Dick prods, a little bit of genuine judgment and worry coming through the tease.

“It’s a risk to tell them,” Bruce answers sulkily, knowing it’s a little silly, but unable to stop his brain from providing pop-ups of all the ways it could backfire.

“B,” Dick whines, throwing himself to hang over him. “You can at least try.”

“I will, I will,” Bruce says, placating yet also meaning it. He wants to do right by his kids and they want him to have friends, most of them encouraging him with the Justice League.

And, he does. Tentatively he suggest doing some trust exercises among the drills they’ve been running. As expected he gets weird looks and even a scoff from Wally and a frown from Clark. But he manages to play into John’s ideas brotherhood, which means the others are forced to give it a try.

It’s not perfect, of course it isn’t. They still have to deal with the fact that they never agreed on a strategists or a leader of sorts. They still have to build an organization, a system, a proper way of working as a unit.

However, they are getting somewhere. Some prodding here and there helps and the more it helps, the more others prod.

Though it’s not until years later, when Damian is nearly outgrowing the Robin mantle, that Bruce finally allows them to meet his kids. To let them in on the inner workings of Gotham vigilantism.

Then John will point at him and exclaim: “You son of a bitch, you lied to me! You let me struggle on my own to pull these idiots together.”

And at that point, Bruce will be comfortable enough to ignore everyone’s protests and smirk: “I offered you to help, didn’t I? Too bad I work alone.” Making his kids – though they’re adults at that point – laugh like the day they first heard.

~~

A/N:

I think the League thinking Batman works alone is hilarious, especially if they establish later than the batfam

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

girls just wanna have fun 5

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, blackmail, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your struggle to push back against your controlling father result in a misguided crush. (Silverfox AU)

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

Shelby leaves and you deflate. You’re bored. You’re going to be bored forever. Your dad bitches at you until you do the dishes and vacuum but that only makes you more restless. 

As you decide to read on the porch, more a cover for your peeping behaviour, your dad appears with his golf bag and clears his throat. You sit up on the bench and take your feet off the little table. He hates when you do that. 

“Going to play a few rounds. Try not to make a mess.” 

“Yes, sir,” you say dryly. 

“I mean it,” he sniffs. 

“Alright. Jeez. Not like I'm doing much to make a mess.” 

“Oh yeah? Definitely not,” he mutters. “I didn’t find an empty bottle in the recycling...” 

“What?” You bat your lashes innocently. “I swear, it’s not mine.” 

“Sure, whatever. One won’t kill you but I don’t want it in my house,” he points at you. 

“Fine,” you huff. 

He leaves without much fanfare. No see yas, no I love yous, he’s never been that kind of dad. Only the type to point out everything you’ve done wrong.  

You wait for him to drive away as you plot behind your book. You can’t use your own friend to get your way. That made you feel too rotten. The answer is obvious but not one you relish. There is someone you can use but you don’t know if it’s worth it. 

As you mull over the failure of last night and hide behind the book, the low whir of an engine approaches. A car door brings your gaze above the pages and the very man on your mind appears. For once, it isn’t Bucky. 

Hm. Your mouth slants as you weigh the choice. Sam gets out of the car and bends to check his reflection in the side mirror, taking off his sunglasses as he winks at himself. God, he’s so annoying but he said he could help. Everything you’re doing is exactly wrong. 

You close the book and drop it on the table. You skip down the steps in your crop top and cut-offs and come around the white picket. He stops as he sees you and smirks at your advance. You stop before him, your chest bouncing shamelessly. 

“Well, hello ladies,” he makes no effort to hide his leering. You scoff. 

“Sam,” you say pointedly and fold your arms over your chest. “How?” 

“How what?” He tilts his head as he eyes you, bring up the arm of his glasses to chew on the tip. 

“How can you help me get to Bucky?” You ask. 

“Ha,” he laughs, “you’re really serious about that? You ran away last night.” 

“That was for my friend. She was scared.” 

“I don’t know, you looked pretty freaked out yourself.” 

“I’m not afraid,” you insist. “Maybe you are. Maybe you lied. Talk a big game. I shoulda known. You’re just like all the boys I know--” 

“Now hold up, I’m no boy. This right here, that’s grade A man. American meat,” he declares, “you want Buck, I get it. He’s got the whole angry old man thing the girls drool for. But I want something first.” 

“You’ll get it but how exactly can you help me get what I want?” You barter. 

His cheek dimples and he sucks his teeth, “well, I know my guy. Trust. And I know what he wants.” 

“Which is?” You narrow your eyes. 

“Now, now, I can’t just give away the good right away.” 

“Tell me, please,” you plead as you clutch your hands together.  

He huffs and looks towards the house, “are you sure you wanna go down this road?” 

His doubt stokes your own. Why wouldn’t you? It’s harmless. Just sex, right? It’s what adults do! You’re twenty years old and you don’t want to go back to campus a virgin. 

“Please,” you whimper. 

He chuckles again, “you’re exactly his type. He’s playing hard to get.” 

“Hm?” You perk up, “really?” 

“Yeah, I hate to admit it but he’s into you.” 

“He is?” 

“Calm down, sweetheart, we have a deal. You wanna get to him, you go through me. Which ironically, is what he’s into.” 

“Uh, what?” Your voice crackles. 

“Yeah, he loves to watch.” 

You laugh nervously, “you’re messing with me. I knew it.” 

“I’m not,” he’s more serious than you’ve ever seen him. “One day, when you’re older, more experienced, you’ll realise the freakiest freaks walk around like they have a stick up their ass. Hell, sometimes they do.” 

“So, what does that mean? What do I do?” You lower your voice, shaky as you realise what you’re asking. 

“Well, pretty kitty,” he boops your nose, “you look real good in those shorts, but you got anything sexier?” 

“Um, sure, I have some thongs.” 

“Good start, Lace?” 

“Probably,” you shrug.  

“Right, why don’t you show me? You need an expert.” 

“Really?” 

“You asked for my help. I’m helping.” 

“Ugh, you better not be fucking with me.” 

“Not right but hopefully soon,” he snickers. 

“Whatever, come on.” 

You turn and stomp back up the sidewalk. He follows casually and you peer around. You hope no one sees and tattles to your dad. Maybe you can make something up about a clogged pipe. Doesn’t matter right now. You doubt he even cares. 

Sam pulls the door shut behind him as you reach the stairs. You make a swift ascent and he comes up a few steps back. You enter your room and rush over to the dresser. You sift through and pull out your sexiest pairs. You can hear him tinkering around with your shit. 

“What are you doing?" You snap over your shoulder. 

“Just looking,” he comes up next to you and reaches into the drawer. He pulls out the vibe and rolls it between his fingers, “Mmm, this will be handy too.” 

“So?” You ignore him and spread out several pairs across the wood. “Which ones?” 

“Now, baby, I can’t decide if you don’t try ‘em on. I need the whole effect.” 

You huff. He keeps delaying. And it feels like he’s playing with you. 

“Promise you’re not lying.” 

“I swear,” he shows his palms and backs up. “I’ll close my eyes. The black lace.” 

He sits on the foot of the bed and slaps his hands down on his thighs. His pants are taught across his bulge. Oh god. He closes his eyes and you turn back. You pull of your shorts and switch out your panties for the black lace thong. 

“There? How is it?” You stand before him. 

He opens his eyes and grins, “turn around?” 

You cringe but obey. He lets out a long breath and tuts, “damn, that is a fine ass.” 

“Sounds like a yes,” you face him again, “so, it’ll work?” 

“Oh, you think it’s just the thong? No, baby, no,” he scoffs, “this is how it’s going to go down. I’m gonna tell Bucky I found a real fun girl. It’s been a while, he needs it, and you’re going to be waiting, in just that,” he reaches forward to touch the lace, “and you’re going to let me fuck your mouth, you can fuck mine too. That’ll get him nice and worked up.” 

“What?” You bluster, “you’re fucking with me. Oh my god. I can’t believe--” 

“I’m really not. We share all time. Or used to. Been a while, not gonna lie. Like I said, he is in need.” 

You step back and stare at him. You were prepared for Bucky. Prepared for just one guy at a time, but both. You’re not so sure. You put your hand to your neck and turn as you think. 

“I don’t know... maybe it’s stu--” 

You hear the digital shutter of a lens and face Sam as he holds his phone up. 

“What the fuck? Did you take a picture?” 

“Collateral,” he shrugs as he stands, “can’t have you flaking.” 

“Delete it.” 

“No.” 

“Delete--” you try to snatch his phone and he holds you at arm’s length. 

“Your dad would hate to see this, wouldn’t he?” He taunts. “You want help, you got it. You bring your fine ass and I’ll bring Bucky.” 

[tinydefector]

Laboratory logs 7

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: attempted kidnapping, getting left behind, revelations about the past.

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Request and ask are open

________

The room they enter is bare looking like it has been used, there's a berth in the corner  which Traxies sits on to let Tony climb down. "What was that about?, you got rather snarly " the young man asked with a raised eyebrow to his much larger friend.

Rattler glowered about the dim room, engines rumbling unsettled. "That slagger Swindle - can't be trusted as far as I can throw 'im and i can throw ‘im. Always got some angle workin'." He vented heavily, meeting Tony's gaze. 

" he's a mech i use ta run with, Mech deals in illicit and illegal activities. And he took too keen an interest in you two, makes my platin' crawl. We gotta get movin' soon." He informed. 

Traxies peered at him in concern. " he’s dangerous?" The younger mech asked. Only for Tony to talk up again. “ wait, wait, wait. your telling me you used to be a trafficker and dealer?” It makes Rattlers jaw clench. 

“Yea, but when the war broke out took it as my sign to get out before the Pits broke out, lot of us had to do what we had to to keep fuel in our lines, ain't something I'm proud of” Cycling a gusty vent. His optics turn to Traxies as he gives a nodded grimly. " he's a viper in platin’, we disappear while he recharges. Avoid his notice, an' any other bot out here fittin to make a profit. Pit, I never shoulda brought you here..."

Traxies lays on the berth optics off as he tries to reset his systems,  he doesn't want to crash them or break something that he couldn't fix himself, he couldn't risk it right now. Rattler can see the young mech needs energon soon. Especially if they want to get out of here.

Tony sits with Traxies helm rested in his lap keeping him company while Rattler tries to figure out the best way to get Energon for the younger mech. He had the shanix and he's pretty positive even if he did mechs would just bill it to him line, give himself in the past something to deal with. But truthfully he didn't want to leave them by themselves.

"Stay low an' quiet, the both of ya." He rumbled gently to Traixes and Tony. "I'll be swift fetchin' fuel, an' don't spare Swindle anythin if he comes sniffin' round. Tell him I'm out having a cig Can you do that for me?" 

Tony gives a nod. “Yea I can do that, be safe out there, I'll look after kiddo” he calls out to the shuttler.   

Swindle's quarters, and warehouse passed in blur - then he's outside amid the scape of Cybertron, part of him yearned and missed it but another part of him knew Earth was home now. Rattler shook off the awe, focus honing to the nearest fuel station. 

Tony and Traxies watch as the shuttler disappears out the door. Once it's closed again they speedster and human quiet murmurs very quietly chatting. “You look like hell blue” he chuckles while tracing patterns over Traxies helm. Hoping it gave the mech some ease with the Whirlwind that he seemed to have gone through. 

Traxies lets out a soft laugh. “feel like it, wanna go home” he states softly. Tony gives a smile to the blue speedster. “ we'll get you fueled and figure out how to get back.” it goes quiet between them for a moment. Only for it to be disturbed by a loud knock. 

“Rattler is having a Cig” Traxies calls out, optics shuttering on as he eyes the doorway.  

The loud sound of the door opening has Tony flinching at the sound. Swindle saunters in standing there as a much larger mech follows behind him, his optics land on both Tony and Traxies appraising the two. 

Swindle smirked wickedly, having caught the two without their large guardian. Two sets of optics gleamed avariciously at the sight before them - one speedster slightly worn but still beautifully wrought, the other an alien prize who was worth a price. 

"Just as described," Swindle purred to the Prime, who circled caged them into the room. Traxies curses himself for not having any weapon on hand. "Practically untouched. And the little organic there just as I promised Proteus." 

Sentinel's field rippled barely-leashed lust and authority as he loomed over the human staring up at him in mute terror. "Indeed it seems to be, The senator will compensate you greatly."

He canted his helm, meeting Traixes' wide optics glittering with fear. "Take the speedster to the transport. I think I'll take the organic." A brutal smirk twisted the Prime's mouthplates. 

“Traxies run!” Tony shouts only to be snatched up in Sentinels servos.  Traxies tries to bolt only to get tackled by Swindle in the hall as he quickly raises his Blaster at the young mech.  

Rattler froze at the threshold, taking in the scene within an instant dropping the cubes of Energon as he flings himself at Swindle. A guttural snarl ripped from Rattler's vocalizer. "Unhand them. NOW." His field erupted in menacing wrath. 

"Rattler get the Kid out of here, Now!!" Tony shouts as he struggles in the large mechs hold as Sentinel raises his own blaster at the shuttler. Rattler peels Swindle off before  slammign him doen onto the floor wrapping an arm around Traxies. 

"NO!" Traxies howled, twisting in his arms while trying to reach out for the human man. "Not without Tony!" Sentinel's scowl deepened as the human fought like a cornered turbofox. Rattler knew any sudden moves now meant death with the blaster aimed At the. he yelled. "Jump kid, we need to jump now!" The young mech continues to yell for Tony. "Get out of here!, Now!" Tony shouts at them.

Sentinel fires a shot at them but with a surge of Energy they are gone with only the lingering fade of a blue light. Time obeyed his outlier call for once, bending like molten glass to swallow them in a prismatic shimmer, and he had only one thought on his Processor 'Lost light’. The room stretched and blurred, colours melding into a maelstrom of light too bright to behold. Before they both stand in the lit halls of the Lost light. 

When sight and hearing returned, they stood, the stain and dreary walls vanished along with the gutted building. Traixes staggered, energy all but drained, supported only by Rattler's unyielding grip. "Tony - no..." His vents hitched a static sob. As they both drop to the floor. Rattler drew him close, field pulsing steely determination. "Easy,. I've got you… i got you" 

Tony watches in agonising relief when the two blip from existence in front of him. He sags slightly in Sentinel's hold. Slowly sobbing, they got away, they got away. Is all he can think.

 Sentinel snarled at the space where the two had vanished from, clutching the organic tightly. Swindle clicked his glossa derisively. "Well, looks like Rattler found himself a little Outlier.'" He sauntered nearer, running a digit tauntingly over Tony's trembling back. 

With a roar, Sentinel flung the human aside. Tony yelped as he struck the wall dropping to the floor, slumped and stunned. Sentinel loomed over Swindle, grabbing him and slamming him against another wall, plating crackling. "This is your doing, you glitched pit walker!."

Tony tries to stand up on shaky legs hoping to try and make a run for it. He stumbles as he makes it down the hall only to collapse in front of another mecha Pede. His eyes slowly trail up the frame when he realises he's truly tucked. 

"What have we here?" Proteus purred, pede nudging Tony's limp form. "My prize, it seems...rather damaged." Cold displeasure crept into his field. Sentinel dipped his helm respectfully. "Apologies, Senator. It seems Swindle failed to inform that the speedster was an Outlier."

Swindle edged closer. "How in the pit was I supposed to know!, I still got you the Organic!." He argues back only for Sentinel to snarl at him. Proteus sighed, as if greatly inconvenienced. He leans down picking up the organic as if to inspect it.

"I'm rather disappointed in you, Prime, though you said you had it under control." His tone dripped acid disdain. Sentinel recoiled, optics flickering away from the mech before Proteus' merciless authority. 

"As for you, merchant..." he hums, nudging the fleshling to check it was still alive. "Consider our...association...terminated. With extreme prejudice." Darkness shrouded Tony's perceptions, the world fading in and out through a haze of pain.  He struggled feebly, limbs refusing to obey as something colossal cradled his sore form. 

"Such fragility, and yet such resilience," the Senator mused, digits flexing idly. "Survival interests me, little fleshling. I'm sure you'll make for a rather amusing gift to someone I know." 

Rattler gazed into the void, holding Traxies close as silent grief wracked them both. His firewalls threatened to crumble under the tide of horror, regret and raging fury consuming him from within. Tony - his best friend, trapped now in the clutches of monsters. The images his processor conjured brought fresh dents to Rattler's plating from how tightly he clenched. Traixes' field pulsed numb shock through his own. 

 Rattler stir, tensing protectively over Traxies. As a medic emerged, relief washed through Ratchet field at the sight of the lost speedster. But Rattler crouched lower. "Back off," he rasped, engine growling death. 

Ratchet's energon ran cold at the state of the half-shuttered speedster tucked into the ominous mech's plating. His protocols shrieked alarms at the readings even from this distance. fury blazed through Ratchet's lines at the sight of grime-encrusted paws around his young charge. A raging snarl tore forth as his lights flashed, field pulsing murderous intent.

"Unhand him. NOW," Ratchet thundered, magnetising wrenches in his servo joints with audible clicks. Rattler bared dentae, crouching lower over Traxies. "Back off, Autoscum!" But unease sparked his optics at the sheer savagery rolling off the medic. 

Ratchet advanced in a deadly prowl, every strut humming taut with hackles raised. "I won't ask again, slagger. One wrong move and I'll pull your spark out through your rusted exhaust!"  

"Stop it!, Stop it!" Traxies finally shouts. Coolant runs down his face.

At Traixes' desperate cry, both bots froze, fury flickering across their features. Rattler still clutched the youngling close. "It's alright, sparklet. I won't let this scum hurt you." Traixes shook his helm weakly. "N-no...please. Rattler...saved me." A sob crackled his vocalizer. 

Ratchet cycled a ventilation, optics narrowing as he scanned their state - minimal surface wounds but they both seemed very rattled. His field gentled as he settled. "Rattler, was it? Bring him, I'll treat you both."

 Drift stood off to the side watching Rattler like prey, not Trusting the mech one bit. Ratchet checking Traxies for running rest and scans. Traxies is curled up in a ball even with Rattler on one side and Ratchet checking him. He should feel safe but he just feels empty. He shuddered as expert digits probed his plating, curling ever tighter despite Ratchet's field.  

Ratchet vented softly. "He's in shock. Needs time." His optics hardened as they lifted to Rattler's. "And you - what did you drag him into, to leave him like this?"

Rattler growled, plating clamping taut. But what defense remained, in the face of his failure to protect? Only the truth, and the promise of vengeance still to come.

"I didn't do slag, kid appeared on Earth, and next thing we know we're on Cybertron before the war, I just lost my best friend!" It makes Traxies curl in more before Rattler leans down. 

"Ain't your fault Traxies, never should have gone there, should have found somewhere else to lay low" Rattler states softly. He didn't blame the young outlier, he blamed himself. Ratchet's optics narrowed as Rattler spoke. 

"Easy, sweetspark," Ratchet soothed Traxies, field soothing. But it did nothing to mask the fierceness lingering in his intent gaze, boring through Rattler with surgical precision. 

Drift crept closer, Drift slowly moves towards Traxies, sitting beside him. "Little one, I found something for you, the ambassador told me what happened, so I did some digging and found this for you. I know you're upset but I wanted you to have something of your Carrier" Drift says softly.

Handing him a data pad. It has photos of a human man smiling with a beautiful white and lime and blue mech who's smiling happily at the camera and a small blue sparkling rested on the man's lap. But as his optics look over the image all he can feel is dread flushes over his system when he sees just who the human in the photo Is, It was Tony. 

_______

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[aheathen-conceivably]

Antoine’s job at Abraham’s ranch was more difficult than city life had prepared him for. Most days he spent hours on end shoveling hay or cleaning stalls while Abraham trained the horses. For three generations, his family had bred and raised the finest horses to sell to the region’s cattle ranchers and farmers. Antoine found him, and his ranch, surprisingly comfortable despite the constant heat and warm smell of animals that permeated the air. 

The work itself left him sore and exhausted, but at peace. When he had first tried wrangling or taming any of the horses, it had been a nightmare; but slowly Abraham explained to him how to tune his movements to their cues, and he learned how to respond to them as though by second nature. Every day and every attempt became easier, and Abraham allowed him more time with them. Then as they learned to trust him, the horses seemingly came to love Antoine just as much as he had always loved them.

Only for all his weeks at the ranch there was one horse who had never let him come near. She preferred to spend all her time in the darkened silence of her stall rather than outside in the sun like the other horses. Each day when Antoine entered to spread hay, she whinnied from the distance as soon as she smelled him, kicking her feet and backing into a corner until he finished his tasks.

But compared to the unrelenting sun at noon, the hostility of the darkened barn was peaceful. So any minute he had free, Antoine sat there with her, whistling quietly and calmly, as he looked into the distance so that he wouldn’t frighten her with his gaze. As the months went by she gradually became calmer in his presence, eventually coming to sit peacefully on the ground as he whistled for her. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like his whistle was the only thing that calmed her, and the songs overpowered the initial fear she held for him.

He had been sitting there month in and month out during the height of the noonday sun, when he heard the soft rustle of hay that meant she had risen to her feet; but there was no scratching or angry neighing afterward, just the quiet clacking of her hooves that told him she was coming nearer.

She poked her nose over the curve of the gate, signaling to him that she had finally grown to trust him enough to come to him on her own. He moved forward slowly, still whistling the same tune that he did every day. To his surprise, she didn’t move away at the sound of his boots. As he brought his hand close of her face he eased his whistles into words, “Hey there, girl. Abe told me you don’t much like anyone, huh?” He laughed quietly, blending it into another soft, whistled tune so that the sudden sound wouldn’t scare her, “Can’t say I blame you, you know? Knowing what I know about some folks in the world.”

His quiet speech was interrupted by heavy footfall and an impressed whistle. At its sound the horse retreated back into the shadows. “Silver, huh? Must say I am impressed. Only person she ever liked was my granddaddy.”

Antoine turned toward Abraham, following him to the stools facing the stalls and grabbing the cigarette he offered, “She’s the only horse here who ever actually met my granddaddy, God rest his soul. Her breeding days are past her, so I suppose I shoulda sold her long ago. Probably not worth a cent anymore, but I just can’t do it to her, not with how long she’s been here, when she was granddaddy’s favorite horse. I wouldn’t push her, but you get her to let you ride her and you’re welcome to, anytime you like. Promise me you’ll be cautious though, huh? I’ve seen her buck off one man too many to try myself. But then again, she never let me pet her the way you just were.”

He took another drag off his cigarette and then rose to go back outside, giving the horse in the corner a sad look, as though she knew more about his life and his family than he wanted to share with Antoine that day. Then he tipped his hat at her and walked away, telling Antoine that their brief moment of respite was over and there was work still to be done.