#this is oddly wholesome

[squishyneet]

⋆ ˚｡ eugene x bimbo wife! reader headcanons ⋆୨୧˚

tw dark content: bimbo-ness (bimboism?? . . .), misogyny

a bimbo is his dream type of wife. he wants a wife who looks pretty and smells good all the time. it's a breath of fresh air after dealing with mean, stinky, gangsters all day. literally.

despite having numerous servants; when they got married, it was his hope that she might learn how to cook so he could come home to a warm meal with his wife waiting for him.

he makes hints by saying he would love to taste her cooking or baking, but she is always too dumb to figure out what he is trying to say.

he'll spend as much money as it takes to keep her happy and looking pretty. clothes, makeup, perfume, etc. he loves seeing his wife getting ready and looking pretty for him. he likes having her sit in his lap so he can smell and feel her.

sometimes, he'll even join her in the bath and help her wash up. he indulges himself, feeling up his sweet and soft wife, rubbing soap and lotion on her skin, giving extra attention to her breasts and hips.

his wife is somewhat sex-obsessed and loves intimacy. so he teases his poor wifey.

stopping just before going in for a kiss, rubbing her hips and groping her butt as he's leaving for work, etc.

however, when he gets home, he knows he has to make it up to his wife. so he freshens up and joins her as she waits in bed.

as much as he loves playing with his wife, he likes making conversation, too. he likes asking her about the things she's interested in, like makeup, her hair, her nails, a new skincare product she tried. he knows she is home all day long and the servants are not much fun to talk to, so he asks questions so she can let out what she's been thinking.

Eugene sits by the bath and watches lovingly as his wife picks up product after product from the counter. "I've foamed up this cleanser as much as I can, and it still dries out my skin. Eugene, can we go to the store tomorrow?"

[unlikelychildchaos]

Pete, excited: Vegas! Vegas, guess what?

Vegas, sleepily: gnnnnnnn

Pete, still excited: I lost two pounds!

Vegas, still half-asleep: I'll help you find them, babe. Come back to bed now.

Pete:

Vegas: [softly snoring]

[altocat]

For catboy, from mother

Sephiroth is caught somewhere between rapturous sobbing convulsions of gratitude and also savoring them like caviar. Do NOT touch his cookies. They're SPECIAL.

Also he nibbles on them during his most particularly smuggest of moments. Nothing says murdering your crush's best friends quite like cronching up mummy's cookies on their corpses!

[ghosts-cyphera]

♡ 18+ / mdni - fem!reader ♡

thinking about pornstar!Ghost and how he would—without a doubt—be one of those male actors who’d be whispering the nastiest, most goddamn earth shattering things into your ear while fucking you.

too quiet for the mics around you to pick up: making it so personal, so intimate despite the crew and cameras and studio lights around you.

his fingers closing around your throat, guiding you to look him in the eyes as he fucks you faster and deeper: his crotch grinding against your clit, making you see stars. forehead pressed against yours, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

“look at me, darlin’. keep ‘em eyes on me, yeah? wanna hear you fuckin’ scream for me, baby. not for them—,” he shakes his head with his laugh. “no, you’ll come for me, yeah? you’re mine, aren’t you? all fuckin’ mine, baby—“

his words would push you straight over the edge: your body trembling as you'd come screaming your pretty voice hoarse, and his lips would capture your in a kiss, deep and adoring.

all genuine, from both of you.

“that’s a good fuckin’ girl. did so good for me.” he would plant kisses on your hairline as he’d help you ride down your orgasm, angling you just right for the camera to catch the way you were clenching around him, your pussy milking his cock and drawing the deepest of laughs from his lips.

“y’know you’re makin’ it so fuckin’ hard for me to hold back, right?“

he’d tug a strand of hair behind your ear as you’d laugh against his lips—trying your best to remember that you are on set. because fucking hell, does he fuck you like means it. kiss you like it’s the only thing he knows: eyes twinkling as he looks at you, voice warm as he checks if you’re alright.

like none of it is for the cameras, or the money.

like it's all for you.

it is. it is. it’s now canon that pornstar!ghost is utterly in love with you, and I will gladly talk more about this lmao 💌

more wholesome pornstar!ghost here, hehe.

[charliemwrites]

Part 4 of Mafia!Price

No Content Warnings

There are many things to appreciate about your boss, but one of them is his respect for routine. You’ve gotten him on a schedule and now he seems happily beholden to it; appreciates your promptness with tea and pastries and morning “briefings” each day.

He’ll happily sit back in his big leather chair and listen to you chatter out his itinerary for the day. Meetings, reports, phone calls. Trips to the dock, now, bless him.

You try not to stare between glances at your tablet. For a rich bastard, he is unfairly handsome. Good taste in just about everything, classy and luxurious without being ostentatious. Old money vibes, for sure, though you know better than to do more than idly wonder. Helps that he’s also remarkably gentlemanly with you. You’re not one to buy into old stereotypes or gender roles, even the ones that benefit you — but you’ll take a chivalrous boss over your old one any day.

Besides, it’s not like he’s spouting off about what women should and shouldn’t be doing. Or trying to use you as an example of an “acceptable” working woman. So, yeah, you’ll indulge in the door-holding and offered arms.

“Alright, best for last — your reservation for Muse is tomorrow. The restaurant is twenty minutes from your penthouse, so Simon will be downstairs by 7:30.”

You check that off your to-do list as you continue speaking.

“Do you have a suit picked out yet, or should I order something? Green is in season and it would go nicely with your eyes.”

He hums; you glance up. Leaning back, one arm lax on the arm of his chair, black watch gleaming. The other is propped to press his index finger against his lips. Like he’s telling you to keep a secret. The corners of his mouth are tilted up.

Your tablet dings and thankfully distracts you from staring.

Oh, for the love of— the only person more inconsiderate than Philip Graves is his damn assistant.

“Is that the color you’re wearing, then?”

Will need to call later today — as if!

“Hm?” You ask, not having caught it.

He arches his eyebrows; ah, you must have been making a face again.

“Are you wearing green tomorrow?” He repeats.

You blink. Are you what?

“Tomorrow, sir?”

He nods, once. “To Muse, luv.”

When you continue to stare with pleasant obliviousness, his eyebrows furrow a bit.

“You do know one of those seats is for you, yeah?”

You press your lips together for a moment. Well… shit. You take it back. You take it all back. John Price is a terrible, horrible, awful man who is so rude.

“I do now.”

Across the office, you make wide eye contact with Gaz. He grimaces in sympathy and ducks his head, though it’s clearly just to hide his traitorous laughter.

“Of course you’re coming along.”

“Sir,” you say, pleasant and sweet, “remember when I first started here? And I told you that I’m not a mind reader?”

“Of course,” he answers. “You threatened to spit in my tea in the same breath.”

“Only if you told me to fetch it for you,” you correct, before continuing, “I feel you may need a reminder: I cannot read your mind. How was I supposed to know you wanted me to go with you?”

“‘S your job, isnit?” He replies. You give him a dark look; he puts his hands up with a chuckle. “My apologies love, I thought you’d be in my pocket next to my handkerchief. Like always.”

You set your hand on your hip, proper cross now.

“It’s outside usual working hours, sir. How could I have possible expected to be invited to your fancy man party?”

“‘Fancy man party’?”

“Well, there’s nothing for it, I’ll have to leave early tomorrow.”

You’re already tapping madly at your tablet, looking up a salon willing to do your hair and makeup. God knows what kind of meltdown you’ll have if you can’t get your eyeliner symmetrical.

“Do whatever you need to do, luv,” Price soothes, standing. “I really am sorry for the short notice.”

You wave him off, then pat his arm as he gently guides you towards the door. Absently, you comply, more focused on getting appointments set and rearranging your own schedule for tomorrow.

“I’ll make it work,” you promise, “I always do.”

You let him bring you all the way to your desk, lower yourself into your ergonomic rolling chair.

“I’ll let you know what color I’m wearing by… one o’clock. Yes?”

“Sounds great, luv.”

You glance at the clock. “Also you have a call with the KorTac Group in ten.”

He chuckles and taps your chin. “Cheers, luv.”

—

Simon is the one to pick you up Friday evening. You both pause in the lobby of your apartment complex, staring.

“You look lovely,” he says at the same time you ask, aghast, “what happened to your face?”

He’s got a dark bruises discoloring the skin around one eye. Clearly some ice has already been applied because the swelling is down, but it must be fresh because he didn’t have it yesterday.

He snorts. “My job happened.”

You tut. “I’ve got something for that but we need to get moving. Mr. Price said he needs some help with his suit.”

You grab his arm without hesitation, habit from any of your escorts or drivers always offering it to you. Usually you accept out of politeness, but tonight you could use the extra stability in your heels. Simon doesn’t seem to mind even though this is the first time you’ve done this.

He walks you to the car, holds the door for you. Sleek and spotless, a black Jaguar — your choice for the evening. You hum in delight at the warm interior as Simon slides into the front seat.

“Oh, thank you for the compliment, by the way,” you add as he pulls into traffic. “You look quite smart as well.”

He grunts, but you notice a bit of color to his ears in the passing streetlights. You smile to yourself and busy yourself with your tablet. Double checking the reservation confirmation, answering messages from Farah and Gaz, updating Price on your ETA.

The car stops at a luxury high rise just at 7. You hop out before Simon can get the door and receive a sharp look. He holds up a reprimanding finger; blink in surprise at the sternness of it.

“You pull that shite again and I’ll handcuff you to the door handle, miss.” He warns. “Making me look bad.”

You huff, amused, and take his arm again. “Don’t threaten me, Mr. Riley, I’m meaner.”

But you squeeze his thick bicep good-naturedly as he leads you into Price’s building. Your boss lives in the penthouse at the very top; Simon has to swipe a card for access. He’s also got a key to let you both in the door, holds it so you can enter first.

It’s all sleek and modern; not at all what you would expect of your boss’s more classical style. His office has a sort of 20s Hollywood vibe (gangster, you teased once) but clearly some interior designer was paid far too much for something out of a drab minimalist catalogue.

You don’t linger long, heels clicking on the polished floors.

“Sir?” you call.

“In here, luv.”

You grimace at the flight of stairs between you and the loft, but force yourself up them. The whole floor is the mater bedroom and it’s the size of your entire apartment. Walk-in closet, sectioned off lounge with a desk. His bathroom door is open, mirror fogged. It smells like soap.

“Bedroom to your right,” he calls.

You tip-tap in and your mouth instantly dries. Price is standing in the middle of the room, half dressed. Nothing unprofessional, no. He’s wearing slacks, a belt. But he’s also in socks, a white undershirt. No watch or rings or anything yet.

It feels oddly more intimate than it should. Your face warms despite yourself.

“E-evening, sir.”

He turns and you’re utterly unprepared for just how handsome he really is. Freshly groomed, hair trimmed and gelled, eyes bright.

“Well, aren’t you just a dream,” he rasps. “You’re stunning.”

You clear your throat, know that all the makeup in the world can’t hide how brightly you’re flushing. It’s pure politeness, he’s not looking at you with anything more than friendly appreciation. Mind out of the gutter, now.

“All the flattery in the world won’t save you if we’re late,” you manage, shaking yourself back into work mode. “So let’s see what we’ve got.”

You pick his shirt, a pocket hanky, his shoes. Tell him to get into those while calling Simon up the stairs. He’s there so fast you blink in surprise, then gesture him over. Sit him on an ottoman and extract the little bottle of makeup you’ve started keeping on hand for situations like this.

“Bullshite you had that in your purse,” he scoffs.

“You remember two weeks ago, when Soap came in with that bruise on his jaw?”

They told you it was a “disagreement” at the docks. You didn’t ask further, figuring it was some sort of bar brawl in that part of town. Rowdy boys.

“Ever since, I keep a couple minis on hand for you all.”

They’re so small that you just keep them in a pocket of your purse with the rest of your makeup and the tampons. Good for emergencies like this.

“You sure you’re not a mind reader?” Simon grumbles as you gently dab it over his face.

“How would being a mind reader even help in this situation,” you scoff, patting at it with your middle finger.

Price steps out of the closet with arms out. He’s picked a waistcoat as well that you hum in approval at.

“Which cufflinks are you wearing?” you ask, turning back to Simon. He’s sitting remarkably still and stoic — reminds you of a big dog trying to maintain some dignity while getting fawned over.

“The silver and diamond.”

You make a noise of disagreement. “The gold and onyx would go better.”

A pause. You sneak a glance and are relieved to see him smirking. “I’ll wear those then. Any opinion on a watch?”

You hum again, carding through your mental catalogue. “Oh! The Bulova you wore during that meeting with Kate Laswell. You remember?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He disappears into his closet again while you lightly blend in the last touches of Simon’s coverup.

“There we are, good as new!” You declare. “Oh, and here.”

You set a couple of ibuprofen in his palm as he stands. “For the inflammation. Take with water.”

“Yes, mum,” he mumbles.

You wince. “Sorry! I’m being overbearing, aren’t I?”

He blinks, then puts a hand up. “No, no. That wasnt — I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

You don’t entirely believe him. Know that you can be a bit much when you’re on a time crunch. Especially for something like this — an important business meeting over fancy dinner. You feel like everyone’s appearance is riding on you; this is your job after all. One thing out of place and everything will fall apart and it’ll be your fault.

“Simon, go take those,” Price orders from behind.

You turn as he approaches, a similar apology all set on your tongue. Instead, he gives you a sheepish smile and offers the cufflinks.

“Bloody useless with these,” he explains. “So unless you want to spend fifteen minutes losing respect for me…”

You laugh, amused by the idea of your hyper-capable boss struggling with a bit of jewelry that cost as much as a week of work. You step in close to thread them through his sleeves, fingers nimble and sure.

“You’re not wearing cologne?” You ask, surprised.

Don’t even realize how that might sound until he arches an eyebrow at you.

“Thought you might have an opinion on that too,” he replies. “And you haven’t steered me wrong, yet.”

He shows you his modest, but impressive collection of colognes. You pluck up one, sniff, and make a face, eyes watering a bit. It’s mostly full; clearly one he doesn’t wear often and you’re grateful for it.

“That bad, eh?”

“Sir, why?” You lament, putting it back.

“Gift from an ex,” he explains.

You store that tidbit of information away for further examination. The idea of your boss in a romance. Right now you’ve got a task to focus on.

“Did they hate you that entire time?” You wonder.

He snorts. “Maybe.”

You shake your head and pick a different one. Blink in surprise and sniff again. Feel your stomach flip.

“That one?” He asks when he notices you hesitate.

“No,” you say a little too quickly, setting it down. This is a business meeting, you can’t afford to be distracted by how he’ll smell with that on his skin.

You settle on one that doesn’t make your head dizzy and your panties shamefully damp. Still feel a bit like you’re shooting yourself in the foot, though. He’s going to smell sinfully good regardless.

You leave Price to his finishing touches and have Simon help you down the stairs. Check through the notes you hurriedly collected when you realized you’d be attending this dinner.

Price comes down too soon for your poor, stupid heart. Looks like something out of a magazine or a novel or a movie or… just too good to be real, really.

“Pass inspection?” He asks.

“Barely,” you tease.

His eyes do that thing where they smile more than his mouth; how you know it’s genuine. You try not to fluster, zero in on his tie, a little crooked and loose.

“Goodness, sir,” you murmur, stepping in close. Yeah, you were right. That cologne is going to be a personal challenge all night. “How did you get along before me?”

“With bad cologne and shitty ties, apparently,” he chuckles.

You grin despite yourself, getting it secure and centered, before smoothing his vest over it. Give him a once over. Feel your stomach flip again.

“If I may say, sir, you look handsome,” you offer quietly.

“Should hope so,” he replies, voice dipping in a way that’s detrimental to the state of your panties. “You dressed me.”

You hum, reach for your usual dry, sharp humor. “I have great taste.”

Instead of scoffing, he hums in agreement. Something flickers through his eyes that you don’t dare allow yourself to daydream on.

Simon, bless him, clears his throat and draws your attention. You check the clock above the stove.

“Ah, we need to get going. I can’t walk fast in these heels.”

You slip your arm automatically into Price’s and try not to obsess over how well you two fit together.

[cambion-companion]

Man...

I have post-boop depression.

[kobitoshiningneedle]

AA localization is something that in most cases enriches characterization, but sometimes the context on the original Japanese script gives something really intriguing as well

We all know Manfred von Karma is a perfectionist, and in almost every his line we are reminded of it. He even set his ATM card number to 0001. So an ummovable object in terms of superiority complex

I like the Japanese version of this moment as well if not more, though. There, Manfred's card number is 4649 which by the rules of Japanese wordplay means yoroshiku or "nice to meet you". He also points that this is not an actual date (thanks). It makes him look like a lot more whimsical guy who just isn't 100% of time serious, which I'd personally take over the "hee hee I'm number 1" thing (because let's be real, it's not that funny and falls a bit flat)

It's a really minor detail, but where else people are gonna pick up some bits about Manfred's personality aside from being a perfectionist asshole? Even for a cartoonish villain MVK is often positioned as it's really interesting to peek into other sides of his personality

[nordickies]

My king, I humbly present you my request; SuFin being happy and loving 🙏 it's okay if you don't want to do it though, i know your not the biggest shipper

No please, it's a totally fine request. I saw quite a few people requesting ship content anyway <3 I wanted to properly finish this piece, but aah, I'm on the go and won't be bringing my drawing supplies. Colored sketch it is!

[ask-playtime-city]

high catnap...share with us your wisdom.

cATnAP: Vera mors sola est in amissione amoris.

DogDay: THE F███?!

cATnAP snuggles up to DogDay.

cATnAP: Quicumque autem in carne sumitur, semper tamen in anima servari potest.

DogDay is horrified but goes along with it.

[superbudsie]

So I’ve discovered you can ask Pizza Hut to draw on your pizza box. Most the time they do it.

And so I’d like to show you all the current Baldur’s Gate 3 drawings I’ve gotten. I’ll update whenever I order pizza!

Currently I've got (in order) Astarion, Karlach, and Halsin.

Or if you want the silly names I refer to them as, I've got Astoreeyan, Kurlachhhhhhh (just german khhhhh sounds), and Hoolsun.

I love these lil guys- they're so derpy and it's my favorite part of ordering pizza in town because my usual pizza delivery guy always asks how far along we are in the game and who we're currently romancing, if we're doing an evil run, etc etc with this big grin. I love that man.

[sukei-dot-exe]

[shepherds-of-haven]

Kinda funny seeing how many Halek-mancers showing up lately. And perhaps, Croelle fans will spawned in the future.

It makes me wonder, though ...

WHERE ARE YOU GUYS, MY FELLOW PRIHINE-SIMP?! IT IS IN THIS TIME OF NEED, A CRISIS OF PRIHINE CONTENT, THAT WE MUST STAY PATIENT AND VIGILANT. FOR WE MAY NOT HAVE A FULL ROUTE, BUT WE MUST STRENGTHEN OUR RESOLVES TO REACH THAT BEAUTIFUL ENDING.

My word of advice for my fellow brothers/sisters is "There will be many temptation to led you astray from her, but worry not, for Prihine's smile will be the reward for your strong conviction."

Thank You.

This is timely because I'm actually writing the reencounter with Prihine in Chapter 9 right now! 😆 Thank you for your loyalty, soldier, I hope your patience will be rewarded! 🫡

[galaxylover06]

What's so special about my AU's shadow you ask? Well not to brag but...

Been absolutely loving getting to make all this wholesome Shadow art, along with different writing ideas for how Chaos energy truly works. more content is on the way

Stay tuuned!

[charliemwrites]

Mafia au with Price perspective

Content: Implied Violence

John, for the life of him, can’t believe he ever ran SpecGru without you.

It’s a hit to his pride to admit it, certainly. That an outsider has discovered a small conspiracy within his own organization less than three months into employment. That, apart from even that, he’s never been less scattered, having someone right by his side remembering details, appointments, bits of information.

Morning smells like Earl Grey and your perfume now. Steam mixing with whatever you’ve spritzed for the day, his own little aroma therapy. Revitalizing after however late the previous night dragged him out.

In general, you’re like a breath of fresh air. A smiley little charm of color and delicacy in his world of saturated shadows, blood and brutality.

Clean-cut dresses with patterned tights, soft-knit scarves. Lace accents and modest stilettos. Thin, sparkly jewelry and smart makeup. The scent of you drowns out the lingering burn of gunpowder; or maybe just transforms it into something heady.

John lingers on your hair. Smooth ponytails, tight coifs, intricate braids. Likes when it’s loose enough to brush you shoulders and neck, a little bounce to it as you toddle in and out of his office.

You’re gorgeous, he knows it like a gun in his hand or the stench of fear in the air. Has encountered (and indulged) in more than his share of stunning women. Women with beautiful smiles, and bright laughter, and sweet voices. Cunning women, too. Women who could outfox all but his best on any given day.

You have all of that in spades, though you’re not the first.

The difference, he thinks, is your sincerity. You’re never anything but honest with him. Even when you maybe shouldn’t be. Not that you share your opinion every time you have one, but if he asks for it, you’ll answer without pulling punches.

Respectful, always. Polite. But scalpels are elegant tools as dangerous as any dagger. You’re not cold by any means, but you’re made of steel. Precise and implacable in some ways. Have never hesitated too look him in the eye and cheerfully explain why he’s wrong.

That, he knows, is a rare commodity.

“I understand this is time sensitive Mister Graves, but raising your voice is not going to open Mister Price’s schedule.”

Your voice goes silky when you get like this. A finely draped, overly pleasant “no” in each word. A wall is still a wall no matter how finely it’s painted.

You’ve just gotten your nails done again, glossy wine red tap-tap-tapping over your customized keyboard. Whatever Philip is saying on the other end does not seem to be impressing you. Soap and Gaz are trying not to snicker. You shoot them an amused look.

“Well, he’s booked every morning for the next two weeks,” you continue.

John is not, in fact, booked every morning for the next two weeks. There are two mornings with two hours open and you’re serenely looking at them on your computer screen. He doesn’t correct you, interested to see how this plays out. You know he hates Philip and are gleefully taking advantage of that fact.

“Well, Mister Graves, a lot of people have time sensitive issues to bring to Mister Price,” you explain, a touch condescending now. “I’m afraid I can’t reschedule them just because you have… a trip to Glasgow, is it?”

You don’t sound impressed. Neither is John. You clear your throat, arch your eyebrows at him. Put up three fingers. He nods.

“I can schedule you in on the 3rd in the evening. Your assistant said you’ll be back by then.”

You blink, an almost smug curve to your lips at whatever is said. A pleasant shiver runs down John’s spine. Philip will just have gotten in then - a full day of travel after whatever business he’s been up to will put him at a disadvantage.

“Well, I’m afraid Mister Price’s next availability won’t be until the… 8th. So shall we schedule something for the 3rd? I can always call if he has a cancellation.”

A pause. Your eyes narrow into a mean little smile at nothing in particular. Practically glowing with satisfaction. Without your attention on him, he shifts a bit.

“Of course, Mister Graves,” you hum. “I can forward your people the details. Have a lovely day now.”

Soap and Gaz start laughing the moment you hand up. You huff at them in amusement, shaking your head, then turn to John.

“Was there anything you needed, sir?” You ask, syrupy sweet.

John snorts and finally approaches your desk, leaning his hip against the edge as he crosses his arms. You tilt your head to give him your full attention, a stray curl falling against your jaw.

“Since you seem to be on rampage,” he says, “I need you to get a reservation for Friday at Muse.”

You blink at him. “Muse? Sir, that’s… don’t they book that place out months in advance?”

He smirks. “Just use my name, luv. I’m sure you’ll have the rest under control.”

You don’t look convinced, but you slide your sticky pad over - light purple clouds, now. With a pink glitter pen.

“How many and what time, sir?”

“Six for eight o’clock.”

You hum as you scrawl it down, pretty round letters that shimmer under the office lights.

“Before you go,” you say as you set the sticky pad aside. “I have those inventory logs from the docks - as well as the incident report from security that evening.”

You pluck up a neat stack of papers, held together by a star-shaped paperclip. Already he can see pink highlighter on the first page, a little memo-note summarizing information for quick review at the top. Somewhere within, you’ve attached a pink tab to something.

“I’ve highlighted anything in the original shipment that wasn’t found in the inventory log,” you explain, tapping at one of them.

He hums, skims the summary, then starts rifling through the papers. Will never admit how much he appreciates the thoroughness, even if he’s comb through every detail himself just to be sure nothing has been missed.

“Oh, also,” you add, spinning the glitter pen between clever fingers, “I think we should maybe set up a camera near that back entrance to the warehouse.”

He pauses. The back entrance where they do the more gruesome aspects of “business.” Odd that you would suggest that.

“Why’s that?”

You hum. “Well, I’m no narc, but I heard from someone who works over there that one of the shipping guys smokes weed with his cousin in that area. Maybe someone saw them and realized that’s a good way in.”

You shrug, leaning back in your seat again. The computer dings, calling your attention. John shoots Soap a glance, who nods and quietly steps out. You don’t seem to notice, clicking your tongue at whatever you see.

“Nicely done, luv,” he says, voice warm in his chest. You beam at him, pleased as always when he recognizes your hard work. “I’ll call if I need anything else.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply.

Twenty minutes later, you tap lightly at the open door to his office.

“Got the reservation!” You announce, a funny little smile on your face. “They were so nice about it too. What are you, some kind of mafia boss?”

He chuckles at your joke, shaking his head.

How did he ever manage all this without you?

[givemaycoffee]

@parad0xymoron these lined up such that my brain went “Ah, yes. Someone will love their penis that gets hard in the sunshine.”

[clownprince]

less constant bombastic all-out huge stakes events in comics more of whatever the fuck is going in one operation joker