#toss a queue to your witcher

[twistedappletree]

#mdzs #the untamed #wangxian #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan wangji #lan zhan #hanguang jun #mdzs meme #mdzs shitposting #mdzs crack #apple memes 🍎 #twitter #gif #mo dao zu shi #mdzs donghua #he’s both tbh #🌸✨😌✨🌸 #queued memes #toss a queue to your witcher

[whimsicalmeerkat]

I posted 3,070 times in 2022

That's 3,017 more posts than 2021!

56 posts created (2%)

3,014 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@nour386

@pterawaters

@alondradina

@cuteasamuntin

@elytrians

I tagged 2,263 of my posts in 2022

Only 26% of my posts had no tags

#queue all the things! - 2,047 posts

#ofmd - 79 posts

#fanfic - 71 posts

#our flag means death - 69 posts

#teen wolf - 59 posts

#ao3 - 54 posts

#sterek - 51 posts

#derek hale - 45 posts

#deadpool - 44 posts

#writing - 41 posts

Longest Tag: 122 characters

#(which ooh pain bc you had to have multiples bc a. there weren't enough older teen witchers b. they were gonna lose a few)

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Fucking evergreen tweet

15 notes - Posted April 7, 2022

#4

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson Characters: Peter Parker, Wade Wilson, Weasel, Gwen Stacy, Michelle Jones Additional Tags: AU - Mermaids, Hand Job, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, fluff and smut and angst, Angst, Happy Ending, fluff and nonsense, Wade is Sane, for an immortal pirate anyway, Peter isn’t Spider-Man but he is a black widow, thank goodness Peter is pretty, Peter is a disaster, Insecure Peter, Weasel’s life is hard, this gets sad but it gets better, Near character death, but not really because it’s Deadpool, dead boyfriend ossuary, no beta we die like warriors Summary:

“Stop sulking,” MJ ordered, tugging the skull out of Peter’s hands.

“He didn’t really love me. None of them ever love me,” Peter said glumly.

“Hey,” he protested when MJ tossed the skull further into Peter’s memorial cave. “You’ll get them mixed up.”

~

Peter keeps accidentally drowning his boyfriends. Luckily, ye un-killable pirate Wade Wilson is made of stronger stuff.

26 notes - Posted April 10, 2022

#3

Opening Lines

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Tag some people to play the next round!

Thanks to @somekndofnature for the tag! I just went backwards through my AO3 posted works that aren't hockey RPF, so the order isn't particularly meaningful. I love talking about my stuff, so questions are welcome. I'll try not to scream about it too much.

Eric dodged a giggling girl in cat ears and some frankly terrifying shoes.

Alexei stepped as quietly as possible into the bat enclosure.

“So long, Rodney? So long, Rodney?”

Enkidu lay in the bed he’d been directed to earlier in the evening, and tried to understand why people liked them so much.

John had to suppress his groan when he heard his radio crackle.

Geralt was relaxing after dinner when his life went to hell.

“Hello, Bastard,” Lucivar said, walking out into the gardens and finding Daemon on his own.

Geralt stared up at the clouds that obscured the stars, and sighed nearly silently as his traveling companion sighed again, very much not silently.

Geralt submitted to being forcibly shaved with what he was willing to admit was ill-grace.

“Highland Park, neat,” Geralt told the server, then settled in to wait.

Lucivar leaned back in his chair in front of the fire and watched his brother.

{We feel funny.}

Lucivar pushed his way through the door of the Kaleer Hall, his favorite tea shop, and raised his hand to greet a few fellow regulars.

Lucivar regularly came across his brother out in the gardens without considering, even in passing, that he wanted him.

Lucivar jolted awake.

“You were right.”

“Stop sulking,” MJ ordered, tugging the skull out of Peter’s hands.

Sometimes having a secret identity is hard.

Wade was bored.

Oops, edit to add that my favorite of these lines are a toss-up between 7 and 17. I've also learned my 2nd and 3rd lines tend to be more interesting than my first.

Gonna tag some lovely people, if any of you want to play along. Tag me if you do, please! @mrs-steve-harrington @pterawaters @alondradina @mrpinniped @ghoste-catte @bad-at-names-and-faces @only-here-for-the-star-wars @calenlily @shadow-wasser @torrefaction-of-silver @thisdamnwasteland

29 notes - Posted April 3, 2022

#2

@calenlily tagged me in this days ago, but I couldn’t decide which WIP to pull from. The idea is to pull the last sentence from a WIP and tag the same number of people as there are words in the sentence. I’m not tagging that many people, because I’m a rebel like that and it’s a lot of words, but here’s a sentence:

“He was realizing he wanted the other man fiercely, with a need that felt both new as freshly healed skin and as deep as a scar so old you didn’t even notice it was there.”

@cuteasamuntin @alondradina @lunastories @sassinake @bad-at-names-and-faces @dreaminghour @girlwithakiwi @mrs-steve-harrington @raeality

31 notes - Posted February 24, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Stiles' Wiles by whimsicalmeerkat

On AO3

Stiles retracted his finger and took a sip of his coffee. “No, no, this is good. You’re the perfect person to test this on. I would be spending time around you anyway, and the fact that you’re entirely out of my league means there’s no risk of leading you on, especially since you know the plan, and yes, yes, this is perfect!” * Stiles wants to be sure his next relationship is bulletproof. Derek just wants Stiles.

Featuring pining Derek; oblivious Stiles; and a plan where Stiles fails to be wily, but Derek is still charmed

Written for Unconventional Courtship 2022 based on Intent to Seduce by Cara Summers.

Beta by DerRumtreiber (@krabraccoon).

48 notes - Posted June 27, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#why not #I suppose that's the hazard of having a queue tag #I expected more teen wolf tags #although sometimes I'm lazy about tagging #tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[dw-writes]

32 for henry sturges :3

so, for anyone who doesn’t know, Henry Sturges is a character played by Dominic cooper in the movie Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, and one of the main characters in the novel by the same name, while being the main character in the sequel, The Last American Vampire. sadly, the author of those novels is The Worst (TM) and i am now claiming this character as my own and will treat him kindly

i love him so fucking MUCH

I HOPE YOU ENJOY LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK

Saying “I love you”....in a way that I can’t return.

There were parts of your memory that were hazy – days that were missing as you tried to remember why you were in pain, why you were tired, when you had fallen asleep. You remembered the better parts – the parts where you accepted a new job as a personal assistant, where you met your stupidly rich boss, where you found him weird and obnoxious and meeting every cliché that you had ever read about.

You especially remembered the part where you discovered that he was a vampire. That was important.

You shifted, the smooth surface of expensive sheets sliding against your skin. They were soft, and smelled lovely, and you recognized the scent as the one that Henry used for everything that could be washed. It was an older scent, one that wasn’t really made anymore, that he got from a little store on the other side of the city. It was one of the few things that he did personally.

Burying your nose into the pillow, you let out a sigh. At least you knew you were home, and comfortable.

A damp washcloth traced over your temple, down your cheek, and around the back of your neck.

“You’re alright,” whispered a familiar voice, one tinged with accent so faint it could never be placed, “You’re safe.”

You dreamed about that vivid memory of discovery. Henry Sturges had centuries of practice of keeping his identity a secret, something that, if you had been more observant, you would have noticed at lot sooner. But even someone with centuries of experience under his belt was prone to forgetfulness, and that was something that plagued him that day – he had forgotten his own set of keys to the house when he had set off on his usual journey across the city. He’d only realized it when he was too far gone and had called you to get the keys for him.

“If you could,” he had added, “If you aren’t too busy.”

“Of course,” you replied, “I’ll bring them to you.”

You failed to tell him that you, too, were on the opposite side of the city, and that it would take you longer than expected to take the keys to him. That was why you had arrived at the store after closing time, found it unlocked, and discovered Henry hauling a man clean off the ground with one hand, while bearing a mouth full of gleaming shards of bone. He dropped the man when you shouted at him to stop, failed to see you grab a pipe to swing at his skull.

(The memory bubbled up in your dream, descending upon you as though through a fog.)

You held the pipe with both hands, standing between Henry and the stairs leading up into the convenience store. Henry held his head between both hands, groaning, doubling over his knees. The other man, the store own, was still crumbled on the ground, unharmed, but unconscious.

“You hit me!” Henry shouted, “You actually hit me!”

“What do you expect?!” you snapped, “You? What are you?!”

He stumbled as he straightened, examining his fingers, then touched his head again. He stepped towards you.

You lifted the pipe over your shoulder, ready to strike again, yelling out nonsense.

“Don’t hit me again!” he cried.

“Get back!” you shrieked, “Get? Back! And answer my question!”

“Put the pipe down,” he said instead.

“Answer me!”

“Put the pipe down!”

“Answer the fucking question, Henry!” you paused, “If that’s your real name.”

His mouth dropped open with a scoff. You brandished the pipe as he stepped closer, stuttering out a disgusted, “I can’t believe the distrust! The suspicion!” He was on you in the literal blink of an eye, gently prying the pipe from between your clenched fingers like it was nothing. He tossed it away. The comical hurt he had previously worn was gone as he said, “I’m a vampire.” He squeezed your shoulders and set you on the steps. “Stay here a moment? I’ll be right back.”

(He’d left the poor store clerk – Seth, you remembered his name being – with a stack of journals, then swept you away back to his home – your home, the place where he provided you with a room of your own and asked for no rent at all – to sit you down and explain what he could.)

A hand gingerly pressed against your cheek, turning your head enough towards the owner to allow them to drip a warm liquid between your lips. It was bitter, with an aftertaste you couldn’t describe, and you twisted your head away from it.

A warm sigh tumbled across your face. “This is something you’ll have to get used to,” whispered a familiar voice, “And it won’t be easy, I can promise you that. But I’ll be there every step of the way.” A word caught on his voice, scratching in your ear as he cleared his throat. A pair of lips brushed over your temple.

Those words were so familiar. It took you a moment – a moment in which you fell back into a deep slumber – but you recalled where you’d heard them. You had said them, years before, when Seth had approached Henry about a biography. You remembered finding him pacing the first floor of his town house, reading over a letter that you assumed was from the author in question, swearing beneath his breath as he wore a path in the floor.

You told him so as you leaned on the banister, giving him an easy smile. He merely stared at you – you would have called it a glare if you hadn’t known him so well – and waved the paper in your direction.

“He wants to interview me,” he grumbled.

“I think that’s been done before,” you countered.

Henry crumbled the paper and tossed it in your direction. You ducked the projectile with a laugh, almost missing his scathing comment about your mocking. “That was a terrible joke!” he said with a huff, “Awful.”

“You’ll have to get used to it,” you said as you sat on the stairs, “Especially if people take what you say to heart – what the book says to heart.” Henry sat on the stairs, leaning back against the wall to look up at you. You reached out to run your fingers through his clean, un-styled hair. “It won’t be easy; I can promise you that. But I’ll be here for all of it. If you want.”

He leaned into your hand with a miniscule, unnecessary sigh. “I cannot imagine anyone else helping me with this,” he whispered.

You quirked an eyebrow. “Not even the man you trusted your beloved Abe’s journals to?”

(The quip earned you a gentle pinch, and eyeroll, and a smile only you were truly welcome to.)

You had rolled in your sleep, or had been moved, into a position that was startlingly comfortable. You turned your face further into the soft fabric under your cheek.

“Are you awake?” asked Henry, his voice surprisingly close to your ear while whatever you laid on rumbled with his words. Your eyes fluttered. A finger brushed over each of them, brushing the crust from your lashes. You wrinkled your nose. “You are awake,” he whispered, “Take your time. You’ve been through a lot.”

“What happened?” you croaked. You smacked your lips together and groaned; your mouth tasted awful. You rolled away from Henry’s tender hold, burying your face back into the pillow beyond his arm. “How long have I been asleep?”

He didn’t answer you. Instead, he appeared at your side again, the bed bending beneath his weight, and he held a glass to your lips. “Drink,” he murmured. His hand slid behind your head to help you.

The strange taste bloomed across your tongue as you sipped – bitter, and warm, and tangy as it rolled down your throat. You wrapped your fingers over his hand and gulped the concoction down, whatever it was – it soothed an ache you hadn’t noticed. You pressed your knees against his side as you sat up, tilting the glass further towards your face, draining it of everything it had, even going so far as to lick the brim clean before you opened your eyes.

He was watching you. His thumb brushed the space behind your ear while his fingers trailed down your neck. You rolled your lips together as you tried to gather what remained of your drink. You watched him in return: how hadn’t you noticed how beautiful he was before? You could count the freckles across his nose and cheeks in the low light of the bedroom with how vibrant they were against his skin; his swept back hair held various shades of brown, and a scant few strands of silver – from the stress of crossing over from England, you figured, before he was turned, or maybe they’d gone grey during the run from Crowley shortly after; and then there were his eyes, which skipped across your face before holding yours.

The blood that ran through your body – the blood that wasn’t yours anymore – ran cold.

You dropped the glass.

Henry managed to catch it before it hit the wood floor, depositing it on the nightstand at your elbow.

You rubbed your throat as the missing memories returned, first in patches, then like a film playing behind your eyes: someone had broken into the house. You had been downstairs, labeling the few bottles of blood that Henry kept hidden in his fridge, frowning at the unfamiliar sounds of another human in the home. It hadn’t taken you long to react, either – your father had taught you well before he died, had made sure that you would be ready to live on your own when the time came.

You pulled a knife from the butcher’s block and stepped out of the kitchen.

Your view from the hall to the front door was unobscured. Behind you, however, was a puff of hot air as someone growled, “You’re really real, aren’t you?”

A door upstairs slammed open.

You stepped away and twisted around, lifting the knife between you and the intruder, filling the hall as best as you could. You had only seconds before Henry would be down the stairs, before the man, who stared at you with a crazed glint in his eye and held a wooden stake above his head, would be able to figure out who was really the vampire in the house and hurt him instead. Maybe even kill him.

He would kill Henry.

He couldn’t kill Henry.

You wouldn’t let him.

You remembered answering him with a breathless, “Yes,” before the stake splintered your ribcage and plunged down into your heart.

Thumbs rubbed circles over your cheeks. You blinked slowly as the memory fell into place, neatly outlining a time before you were asleep – dead, you supposed – and when you woke up.

Henry whispered your name. You finally met his gaze once again. He let out a deep, unnecessary and dramatic sigh as his forehead fell against yours. “You know that ‘I love you to death’ is only a saying, right?” he asked, “And that was a very dramatic way to say it.”

Your face flushed. “Who said that I loved you?” you squeaked.

“You did, when you went and took a man’s stake to the heart for me!” he shot back.

“Maybe I was just there and he wanted to kill us both,” you argued.

“Hm, and that’s why you said you were the vampire, is it? That you were real?” he asked.

You pressed your lips together.

His fingers trailed down your jaw and under your mouth, gently holding your chin. “There’s not a single way that I can think of that can match that, you know,” he sighed against your lips, “This will have to do.” He said a lot as he kissed you, making sure that you knew how much he loved you, that he’d loved you for an awfully long time, that it probably started when you first walked through his door, and you hoped that the kiss you gave in return said as much as your death did – that you loved him.

That you love him.

That you will always love him.

#vampire #henry sturges #henry sturges x reader #the last american vampire #abraham lincoln vampire hunter #reader insert #vampire boyfriend #toss a queue to your witcher

[chars-creative-corner]

Hello everyone. I hope everyone is doing well during these mad times!

I've decided to keep myself busy with many, many! Games lol and some reading.

I started the witcher game recently! I love the graphics! It's so nice to have such a realistic looking game on the switch that I can enjoy.

The story so far is great, I'm currently following the main story doing very little side quests but I may need to change it up a bit to level up, it's harder that I thought it would be 😛 I know this is old news as I'm late to the party, but I'm really happy to finally have this game! Thanks to @anthonysart616 🥰

I've also started a new farm life on the beautiful new beach update on Stardew Valley and I'm so in love! It's so pretty! Anyone here loving the new update? 😊 I've never really put much thought into my main games farm, but I think I might actually try to be a bit imaginative with this game file :)

Playing stardew again is making my wanna add some more images to my cross stitch piece... so I might get to that soon ☺

#the witcher #nintendo console #nintendo #comics #project red #toss a queue to your witcher #stardew valley #stardew #stardew update #gaming #concerned ape #cross stitch #crafts

[mceproductions]

Best of 2020 Music #16: Sonya Belousova, Giona Ostinelli and Joey Batey “Toss A Coin to Your Witcher”

Even Fantasy worlds can have ear worms.

An original composition for the show brings the one factor never addressed in Fantasy Novels or shows like this.

How do legends grow.

The answer comes in the form of a jesters tune, in the case from Jaskier , the local companion of Geralt who ends up coming up with this on the spot while walking.

Catchy is obvious to the point where the crowd would begin to hum this in other episodes when Geralt arrives. His word already becoming great. Geralt of course never would properly acknowledge the respect from anyone.

But like Jaskier says

“Respect Doesn’t Make History”

SUM 22: What bridges the show to more epic levels than even thought possible, is this epic tune showing the rise of a hero.

#toss a coin to your witcher #toss a queue to your witcher #oh valley of plenty #joey batey #geralt of rivera #geralt #earworm #jaskier #herald #jester #best of 2020 music #best of 2020 #music #16 #tie #best music of the year #best music of 2020 #henry cavill #the witcher #witcher netflix #Youtube #sonya belousova #giona ostinelli #ciri #ciri witcher #ciri of cintra #yennefer of vengerberg #respect doesn’t make history #lute #kicked in my teeth

[lady-jane-sparrow]

Watch "Toss a coin to your Witcher" on YouTube

#toss a coi to you witcher #witcher geralt #the witcher #toss a coin to your witcher #toss a queue to your witcher #henry cavill #witcher ciri #geralt x yennefer #yennefer x jaskier #yennifer #Youtube

[terresdebrumestories]

One night only

FANDOM: DCEU, but I guess more specifically BVS. SERIES: - RATING: Explicit for safety. WORDCOUNT: 7 333 words PAIRING(S): Superbat CHARACTER(S): Bruce Wayne & Kal-El GENRE: Brief encounters of the sexy kind. One night stands. TRIGGER WARNING(S): None that I’m aware of, but it does contain sex and the vaaaaguest hint of strength kink. Also touch!starved Bruce. SUMMARY:

Bruce crashes on an unknown planet as he returns from a League-related mission. Fortunately for him, he manages to survive the accident with nothing more than big bruises to show for it. Even more fortunately, he finds himself rescued by the hottest alien he's met so far.

OR: Bruce Wayne rescued by beefy alien.

DEDICATION(S): To  obviously, who provided the very sexy prompt for this fic, and also to @lorata​, who handled the SPAG betaing of this. I, sleep deprived and unused to GDocs on mobile, may have clicked on the “refuse” button on a couple of corrections so assume any typo left is my fault :P NOTE(S): I don’t know why I was convinced my posting date was July 18th, but I was, which means that the final version of it got finished at 11pm on the 17th, which was a bit of a cardio workout. Thank fuck for timezones giving Lora enough time to hunt my typos without too much pressure :P

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3

The cockpit almost looks like a Christmas tree: it blinks in increasingly bright and urgent colors, the high-pitched beep of panicking instruments loud enough to drown Bruce’s thoughts as the jet plummets toward the ground. There are interminable seconds of falling, Bruce’s soul scrambling to think of Alfred, Dick Jason MomDad—

Lead on his eyelids, a ton each at the very least. When he finally maneuvers them to half-mast the light around him is loud enough to hurt. He closes his eyes. Tries again. The bright gold echoes like a bellow between his ears. Wince. Persevere. The world around is too much and too little, loud light and bright noises. He blinks and blinks and blinks until something warm licks at him, and then another noise, salt in the air and oh, Alfred, I really messed it up this—

Blue, blue, blue, blue, the world moving—a voice above, deep and tense, dark fringe over a frown…Jas—

When Bruce wakes up for the third time, there is something floating above him. An oblong shape, dark against the light, and close enough to touch if Bruce’s arm had any strength left in it. It remains there for a while, trembling until Bruce’s eyes finally shape it back into a face. It seems calm for now, not attacking or moving in a suspicious way, but it does stay where looking at it makes Bruce’s eyes water, so it’s probably best not to discount the risk of hosni—hossi—ill intent. Bruce blinks, slow and sluggish, while the head moves and melts into some kind of silhouette.

Bit by bit, the light grows quieter, and Bruce sighs, squinting to make out limb-like shapes—only four, thank fuck—as the presumed-head leans down—and then recoils as Bruce’s hand strikes at it...or, well. Tries to. It gets stopped halfway through, easy as breathing—Bruce winces, breathes in. Blinks until the shape moves around him, the hold on his wrist firm but not painful. Once it’s out of the backlight, the head looks human enough: curly black hair, eyes just a shade too blue to feel real. The kind of jawline you could sharpen a battarang with.

Bruce blinks harder and, in a bout of stupidity barely excusable even in his state, he glances down—wool-like garment, reminiscent of a sweater, but close-fitting enough to let him know he wouldn’t blush at having abs like that—and says:

“I always thought I’d go to Hell.”

The world fades again.

*

The fourth time Bruce wakes up feels like it’s the one that’s going to stick. He’s healed up enough to remember what he said last, for one, and while that’s embarrassing enough to make him groan—religion, really Bruce?—it’s at least a sign of progress. For two: fucking ouch.

It’s a good thing that he can feel the hurt. Bodies that don’t feel it are either traumatized or permanently damaged, or both. Still, if there is a superior entity somewhere, Bruce is determined to make them pay for the fucking nervous system. Aside from his feet, pretty much everything hurts right now—nothing Bruce isn’t used to, though. Healing bruises, decades-old stab wound acting up in humid weather...all in a day’s work for Batman, really, so much as he dislikes the sensation it really isn’t that hard to find a semi vertical surface to prop himself against. The move makes his head swim, predictably, but at least now he can see the person-shaped thing move around when it comes back to the currently-empty cave. If it comes back.

Rather than sit and wait for an answer on that question, which could keep him there a long time, Bruce gives his nausea enough time to subside—he is pushing fifty there, and surprisingly interested on keeping going—swallows around his cardboard-thick tongue, and sets about slowly taking stock of his surroundings.

He can feel rough stone behind his back. There’s another natural wall at his front. Stalactites line the stone ceiling and, to Bruce’s right, slope down until they meet the ground with only a narrow conduit squirreling away under the bedrock. No exit there. Turning back to the left, Bruce discovers the cave widens for about fifteen, maybe twenty feet—depth perception: still AWOL—until wet-dark stone gives way to the sun-bleached gray of fist-sized pebbles and the ruckus of them rolling through the waves. The sea beyond offers a dull brown color tinged with silver, shining under the sleek pewter of the sky.

Bruce thinks, unhelpfully, of Gotham.

He doesn’t dwell on it too much: he’s unbound and, as far as he can tell, alone in the cave. If he’s going to figure a way out of here, now is the ideal moment, though he knows better than to make it too obvious he knows that, just in case there’s some surveillance he hasn’t found yet. There’s no fire, but the air isn’t cold, and when he looks down at himself he realizes there’s a blanket draped over the Kevlar that means he won’t be catching a cold just yet. It also means that whatever found him either has no malicious intent towards him or is very interested in pretending it doesn’t.

Obviously, he doesn’t trust the thing—person? Alien, definitely—that got him here. He’s lived through more than his fair share of people treating him exceedingly well for nefarious reasons, both as Batman and as Bruce; he’s not about to fall for it. Every second he pretends to, however, is more time to recover and plan his escape. It is with that certitude in mind that Bruce leans back against the stone and, keeping his ears focused on the sounds around him, closes his eyes to fake sleep.

He nearly curses when he wakes up to the sound of footsteps on rocks. Obviously, he’s well trained enough to reign the impulse in, but he’s got more than enough brainpower to recriminate himself while he checks out the entrance of the cave. It’s dark by now, which, assuming the days here are roughly the same as Earth’s, means several hours have passed, during which anything could have happened. Fuck. If Alfred learns about this, Bruce will never hear the end of it… At least he’s still up against the wall. Nothing’s coming at him from behind.

The alien doesn’t attack, though. It walks into the cave, familiarly bipedal, dressed disturbingly like the upscale version of a Hollywood fisherman—the sweater even sports a pattern reminiscent of a cable-knit. When it’s done setting up a rough circle of stone near Bruce—with its back to him! If he were at full capacity, that alien wouldn’t stand a chance—and dumping wood into it, it busies itself lighting a fire. Only when it’s done and the first licks of warmth reach Bruce does it turn around.

Bruce, shamefully caught with his eyes open, allows himself to swear internally. An alien it might be, but if Bruce weren’t profoundly aware of this fact it could have passed for a human easily: aside from the too-blue eyes, there’s nothing to make the alien stand out in a crowd. Or, well. There is, but GQ models aren’t generally considered dangers to the general population...although judging from the way his guts twist when the alien smiles at him, right now Bruce is rather inclined to review that particular assessment.

 Come on, Batman. Get a grip.

The alien, blatantly oblivious to Bruce’s internal battle against his...heart...approaches him with an easy smile and a soft voice, moving slowly, like it’s trying to calm a spooked animal. It makes Bruce want to show his teeth, but considering he’s not exactly in a state to follow up on the threat if the alien reacts aggressively, he decides against it. He does grunt though, just enough to show his displeasure at his current predicament, low enough that it doesn’t fall into outright aggression. Not that it matters: genuine or faked, the alien’s current persona seems too cheerful to mind, and it smiles as it speaks.

At least, it sounds like there are words in its voice. Bruce’s Green Lanterns-issued translator is on the fritz, though: all he can do is assume the emotion projected actually is relief, closely followed by concern. It’s...not often, that Bruce is confronted with something like that after an injury. Neither Dick nor—Dick has always been the type to joke, and English blood means Alfred’s physical expressions of concern come in the form of tea and a duster served with the stiffest upper lip on the planet. To be the focus of eyes that blue, with that sincere-looking an expression on that face with that jawline is...Bruce swallows. Hard.

The alien says something else that Bruce, of course, doesn’t understand, and then it turns away to reach inside its bag and produce something round, purple and leathery looking. It might be a gourd or a fruit, Bruce has no way to know. He is parched though, and so he tries to dip down for a drink.

What happens instead is a hand on his shoulder, the pressure dulled by the suit, but there enough to realize he couldn’t easily get out from under it. Slowly, gently, Bruce is pushed back against the rock, intense blue eyes crinkling with a smile that, on a human, Bruce would almost describe as apologetic. One of the alien’s hands comes up to tip Bruce’s head back, fingertips lighting long lines of fire against his throat, catching his breath right in the middle of his chest until he’s tensing without meaning to. Bruce can still feel the path of those fingers against his skin, the phantom sensation pulling at his attention even as the alien’s other hand raises the purple sphere above his head. Bruce’s hand snaps up, catching on a wrist. There is a pause, as if the alien had sensed Bruce’s brief burst of fear through his touch—what if the liquid inside is acid? What if he’s about to be bludgeoned to death? —until their eyes meet. Something shifts in the alien’s face, and he stands up straighter somehow, resumes his movement with a slow grace that somehow makes Bruce want to get up on his knees. He allows the grip of his fingers to soften, thumb resting on the alien’s pulse point—it feels fast, under the thin skin—and watches the purple thing rise above his head.

It pauses right above Bruce’s face, the alien looking at him with something almost like a question in his eyes. Bruce meets his eyes head on, wishing he could think of it as defiance. Then, with his chest heaving and his body straining in the confines of his suit, Bruce tips his head back and opens his mouth.

The alien gasps when the juice—it’s too sweet to be water, despite the clear color—falls into Bruce’s mouth, the blood in his wrist speeding up. Lowering his head a fraction, Bruce meets his gaze again—or tries to. A few drops made their way past Bruce’s lower lips, dribbling down his chin and along his throat, and the alien is clearly too caught in tracking their path to meet Bruce’s gaze. He licks his lips, making Bruce shiver, and just when Bruce is starting to consider releasing the moan bubbling inside his chest, the alien takes the purple thing—the fruit? —away.

Juice splashes on the bridge of Bruce’s nose and he splutters, moment broken and yet still out of breath, fingers still clasped around a wide wrist. He takes his hand away, acutely aware of all the places where it’s not touching skin anymore, and breathes in deep, trying to calm his heart rate as fast as possible while the alien clears his throat and tosses the empty fruit shell away into the water.

He speaks again then, motioning upward with his hand, and although he’s clearly trying to look casual there is a faint dusting of pink over his cheekbones. Given the circumstances, Bruce decides to go ahead and provisionally interpret it as having the same meaning as on Earth. Once that’s done, he tries to follow the other man’s request: he barely makes it to his knees before he topples over, legs reduced to jelly despite his clear mind. For a moment, his rescuer—for lack of a better word—seems almost disappointed. Then he speaks again, slow and soothing, as he steps closer with his arms extended.

Bruce is caught in a bride’s carry before he can even attempt to protest.

For one hysterical second, Bruce’s mind provides an image of Alfred’s—or anyone from the league’s—face should he find out about this. It is mortifying and he vows to take the incident to his grave—but the thought only lasts for that: one second. Right after that, Bruce finally catches up with the fact that his companion is showing no strain whatsoever while carrying him and his thirty pounds of armor and— oh come on Batman, get a grip.

Batman does not get a grip. In fact Batman, who is feeling decidedly less Batmany than usual, slowly unravels as his companion carries him out of the cave and into the open air, the smell of clean seafoam assaulting Bruce’s nostrils while a gentle breeze blows the occasional droplets onto his cheeks. For lack of a more dignified solution Bruce lets himself be carried out to the beach, the view swiftly blocked by a tall cliff of white stone fringed with green at the top, fist-sized gravel crunching under the alien’s feet. There’s a short climb up a gentle slope to a wooden platform, and then Bruce watches as the beach grows smaller under them. The ocean, of course, is endless, but a look to their left reveals a badly damaged piece of rock, deep gouges in the ground leading the eyes to a short stripe of bent metal. There go Bruce’s hope of refurbishing the ship and using it to get off planet. Sure, Bruce is extremely lucky to even be alive right now, let alone as unscathed as he is, but even Batman is allowed a bit of hope now and then. As a treat.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk—or sulking about being stuck on an alien planet without a reasonable means of transportation. Bruce keeps looking. To the right, as far as he can see, is a forest. It rises from the ground in bushes and tall grasses at first, quickly shooting to the sky with ever taller trees that, aside from the height, wouldn’t look all that out of place in the English countryside.

Behind him—under him? Bruce is going to have to figure the logistics of this at some point—Bruce’s companion takes a turn toward the forest as soon as they reach the top of the cliff, and as they come close Bruce finally notices it. It being a tall dome-like structure made of wood and what he can only assume is something similar to glass. It rises out of the ground as if grown there, slender limbs turned to the sky in elaborate latticework, a band of colored windows circling the dome about halfway through.

The whole thing looks airy, the kind of place designed to create refreshing breezes and cool shades, which makes it look entirely incongruous in an environment where cold and damp seems to be the motto. Still, odd choices or no, there’s something appealing about the building. It feels...well, structurally, it is leaning more into something like the Taj-Mahal, which is impressive considering a touch reveals it is made of live wood. Yet as Bruce is carried outside and discovers the furniture—rich embroidered carpets of wool thick enough he could fall asleep there, luxurious piles of cushions in red and blues with the occasional gold accent—he can’t help but feel a little like he’s just entered a large, very elaborate treehouse. Everything, from the sitting space to what seems to be a cooking area to the central staircase—and how did Bruce not see any of that through the windows? He’d love to ask some technical questions about it—feels like it wants Bruce to lie back and relax, maybe even fall asleep. God, this house could probably have entire conversations on this very topic with Alfred—and Bruce is just about exhausted enough to let it.

The air inside is warm but not stifling, like a windy summer day: it chases the chill out of Bruce’s limbs, warms him up from the inside as he’s settled down on a cushion even he has to describe as ridiculously large. Bruce...kind of wants to lean into it. Sure, there’s still a chance he’s about to be hurt, but also it’s not like his host is lacking in strength. Why bother waiting when all the power is on your side? It seems probable that the alien is either genuinely uninterested in hurting Bruce, or playing the long con. Either way, there’s no reason for Bruce not to take the opportunity to rest a little.

“You can lean back, you know.”

Bruce blinks as the gentle golden glow fades from the windows, the seaside landscape once more unobstructed as he looks ahead of himself. It takes some effort to twist around enough to see his host, but when he does it’s—well. It’s worth it. The man has changed out of his Englishman costume and into a pale gold tunic that hugs both his arms and his chest before loosening just a little around the waist and falling past his hips down to his knees. Bruce notices the bottom of fitted crimson pants hugging absolutely lovely calves, and swallows before he asks:

“Is the house translating?”

“Yes,” the alien says with a wide grin. “I am quite relieved that it could do anything for us: you do not seem to hail from a well-known region of the universe.”

“You sound extremely formal,” Bruce remarks without thinking, and swallows again when his host laughs:

“Not to my ears, I assure you. I suppose, however, that where outdated technology is concerned, we had better be grateful we understand each other at all.”

Bruce inclines his head in acquiescence. Sure, he’d like the comfort of his usual translator better than having to deal with the whole house filling with his host’s words—if not his voice—but the perceptible delay between his host’s voice and the house’s isn’t enough to make him wish for the alternative of not being able to communicate at all. Even if going back to that after using the Lanterns’ translators feels a bit like trying to stream a movie with a poor internet connection.

“I guess you’re right,” he agrees. Then, because his mask was already lost in the sea and this is an alien, anyway, he adds: “I’m B.”

“Bee?” his host answers, evidently testing the sound. “That is an unexpected name. Still, I suppose different worlds have different tastes. You may call me Kal.”

Bruce pauses, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” Kal says, as if guessing what Bruce is thinking, “I was not—names where I’m from are quite...long. Much longer than yours. ‘Kal’ is only a diminutive.”

“How long is ‘long’?” Bruce asks, eyebrows raised.

In front of him, Kal blushes, and Bruce refuses to admit it’s not exactly an unappealing sight.

“Well, they build up with our history,” Kal explains, still tinged pink but relaxing enough to step closer and sit next to Bruce on his humongous, satiny cushion. “As a man of thirty-five who has not been idle, mine has grown quite long… I am not reluctant to share it, Bee. I am merely aware that many cultures do not share our patience for it.”

“Mmmh,” Bruce says.

It sounds fair enough.

“Now that is sorted out,” Kal asks after watching Bruce’s lips a few seconds too long, “may I interest you in a change of clothing? I assume your uniform is meant to protect you, but it hardly looks comfortable and it seems to me like your body could use something softer to rest in.”

“I have to get off this planet,” Bruce replies.

Kal nods, accommodating, and leans back against the cushions. It’s Bruce’s imagination that provides the sensation of their arms brushing, the warmth of skin on skin—the batsuit won’t allow for anything less than a full punch to be felt. That knowledge doesn’t change anything to the sensation, though, and Bruce shivers with it, all his senses focusing on the area entirely against his will. His brain, for some reason, reminds him that it’s been at least ten years since he stopped playing the incorrigible playboy and sex-enthusiast.

“This is a vacation moon,” Kal says, voice perfectly even despite the heat creeping up Bruce’s neck. “There are daily shuttles for arrival and departures. When the next one arrives tomorrow morning, I can ask them to send you to the nearest Green Lanterns’ outpost, and from there you should have very little trouble going back to….”

“Earth,” Bruce supplies, and winces when that causes Kal’s eyes to widen.

“I have heard of this planet! Some of the more famous Green Lanterns hailed from your world and—ah. Forgive me, I can see you do not wish to be questioned. That is fair, you must still be quite tired from your ordeal.”

Bruce nods, careful not to look too relieved at the prospect. He is tired though. Not as much as he should be by any right, but enough that the prospect of having to balance and measure what he said about Earth to guard it against potentially hostile aliens sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.

“Well, then,” Kal says, still smiling, like nothing Bruce says can possibly alter his good mood. “Shall I renew my offer of clean clothes then? I promise not to touch or alter your belongings in any way. And after that, perhaps a light supper, and then to bed.”

Bruce swallows. Kal, it’s already been established, is not hard on the eyes. At all. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and in a human he’d be pretty much exactly Bruce’s preferred type. As an alien, he still is, but then there’s also the strength, and the entirely unembarrassed curiosity, and the possibilities provided with potentially different anatomies that Bruce has never considered before in his life but now...now Bruce is wondering if it’s a good idea to dress himself in loose fabric.

Then Kal’s eyes catch his, and Bruce decides if he’s only going to spend one night here and never see the guy again, he might as well enjoy it. He says yes, and keeps a very close eye on the way Kal’s ass pushes against his tunic as he gets up, and then retreats toward the stairs.

Of course, Bruce should know better than to let himself get distracted, let alone so easily. He’s still technically on a mission—well, on his way back from a mission—and if anyone on Earth realizes what transpired here, even if nothing else happens, he will absolutely never ever hear the end of it. Ever. And yet….

Well, frankly, maybe Bruce is just getting old, but he thinks he’s allowed to indulge himself here. He’s recovering from injuries that are frankly ridiculously light for the kind of accident he was in, he’s on an unknown planet light years away from home, his transportation is most likely assured—unless he’s really losing it and missing red flags in Kal’s behavior—and he hasn’t had sex in over eight years. He gets to indulge a little. It’s only one night.

“I took the liberty of picking night clothing as well,” Kal calls after a few moments, appearing at the top of the spiral stairs. From below, it looked like the bedroom was empty the whole time, which Bruce must admit is a neat trick. “I figured you would wish to change before retiring for the night.”

Bruce, clinging to the last of his fraying dignity—he’s indulging, that doesn’t mean he has to be proud about it—manages to hum instead of saying something that could be misconstrued as flirting, but Kal doesn’t seem to mind. He says something about preparing the meal while Bruce changes and ‘do not worry, I shan’t be looking your way’, and then leaves Bruce alone.

Peeling himself out of the suit takes more effort than Bruce would like, but it’s also far from the hardest he’s had it, and he gets re-dressed in a decent amount of time. By then, his legs feel less like jelly, and he’s actually able to sit up and scoot on the ground to gather his things in a manageable pile and set them aside in a corner where they should, hopefully, not be disturbed.

After a while, Kal reemerges from the cooking area with a large tray filled with over a dozen bowls of colorful meats and fruits, several things that look like root vegetables, and even a bowl of something that could be a sort of love-child of wheat and rice. It looks both perplexing—Bruce has never had a purple savory dish before—and familiar, which is probably why his hands twitch toward the food before he can remember to ask:

“Anything in particular to eat with?”

“Merely your fingers,” Kal says, rinsing his hands in a silver dish of lightly fragranced water. “Do clean them beforehand, however.”

Bruce makes sure to give him a “duh” look as he reaches for the dish and rinses his own fingers.

“According to the available information, these should be safe for you to consume,” Kal says, grabbing what looks like a grape but turns out, upon tasting, to be a piece of meat.

“Unlike that purple thing before?” Bruce asks, the back of his neck heating up when he thinks back on their interactions in the cave.

“The shell is dangerous,” Kal agrees, “and I didn’t have any way to explain. Doing the pouring myself seemed to be the safest option.”

“I assume you won’t be feeding me for this meal then,” Bruce says.

Then gives himself a mental slap in the face because, really? For anyone else, that would be one thing, but Bruce is, without false modesty, one of the best martial artists on Earth, an honors graduate from the best university the USA have to offer, and the fucking Batman...and there he is, making an ass out of himself just because it’s been a while since he got sexed up and he just happened to fall in the backyard of the most fuckable alien in the universe. Un-fucking-believable.

Kal, either oblivious or going for coy, gives him an amused smile and nothing else, although he does readjust his position until one of his knees points to Bruce, the other leg extended on the other side in a way that must stretch the crotch of his pants under the pooling fabric of his tunic. Bruce is kind of glad for his own, vivid-red flap of fabric at the moment.

“So,” he asks after he’s eaten enough to settle the growl of his stomach, “where are we exactly? You mentioned this was a vacation moon.”

“Indeed. Cidaris orbits around an uninhabitable planet, yet somehow retained an atmosphere for an extremely long amount of time. Kryptonian architects started thinking of kryptoforming it a few centuries ago… It has been a favored vacation post for several decades, now.”

“Are you Kryptonian?”

“I am,” Kal replies, a piece of the grape-like meat resting against his lower lip and staining it purple. “Although I don’t suppose someone whose family possesses as much as mine does can fairly call himself an ordinary one.”

Oh god. He’s a rich alien—for all Bruce knows, he could be a real life, genuine Brucie Wayne with the wits to match, and he sounds like he’s just escaped a Ren Faire. And the worst of it all is, none of that has any dampening effect on the burst of heat that goes through Bruce when their knees brush. There are times when Bruce hardly even recognizes himself.

“What is your home like?”

Bruce throws Kal a look, but he neither looks nor feels like he’s trying to wriggle information out of Bruce...and even if he were, it’s not like he can’t answer without giving away vital information about Earth. He takes a look around before he answers though: the tall, organic and yet intricately carved arches of smooth wood, the invisible shields that leave the eyes free to roam over the infinity of the ocean and a truly spectacular sunset. The quiet, the scent of salt in the air—the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to breathe deeper but quieter, as if it stole all the stress from your lungs and replaced it with a good mouthful of rest.

“Not like this,” Bruce says to start with. “It’s a lot more angular. The buildings aren’t see-through, and you can’t see the stars at night. It’s...an old city. A wounded city. Frankly, with all the terrible things people do to it and in it, it’s probably a miracle it’s still standing.”

That’s...a staggering understatement, Bruce knows. But on the other hand: how do you even begin to explain Gotham to an alien? People who live less than fifty miles outside of it have enough of a hard time trying to grasp its essence as it is—they think it’s a blight on an otherwise very fine state...which, to be fair, it is. In some ways. That’s the easy part, though.

The hard part is trying to explain all the good side, like diamonds in the mud. The way so many people try to turn things around still, in little ways—insignificant ways, but also in the ways that matter most. How do you explain the dirty alleys with their gang fights and their kids laughing around firecrackers in summer? There are no words to convey all of that in a way that even begins to scratch the surface of what the city is—of what it means to Bruce. He knows: he’s tried. Even Dick never quite seemed to get it though—not enough to stay, at any rate. The only one who came close was—Bruce doesn’t have the words to explain it.

And yet, something must show on his face: by his side, still sprawling over the cushion like a particularly content cat, Kal smiles.

“And yet, you would not leave it behind.”

“Never in my life,” Bruce replies.

There’s something trying to creep in his throat as he speaks, and he manages to tamp it down but not before it pokes at his chest in a way he’s wholly unfamiliar with. it’s such a simple statement, and yet somehow, it’s something even his closest friends—inasmuch as he has any—have rarely heard from him, if at all. It’s an unexpected thing to find himself saying to a one-night stand, and Bruce would sigh if he hadn’t accepted the most likely outcome of the evening already.

“If this is a vacation moon,” he asks in a bit to shift the attention, “how come you’re here alone?”

Kal stiffens, and Bruce...deliberately doesn’t wince. He can’t truthfully claim that he hadn’t expected a sensitive topic, but Kal was more than polite about Gotham when, Bruce is very aware, it would have been easy for him to be less than polite about it. It seems...petty, in retrospect, to answer that with a barb.

“In the interest of not spoiling the good mood,” Kal replies with forced levity, “I will say that I was in need of some personal space, and ask that you allow me to stop there.”

Bruce nods. Even if he disagreed, he’s got a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be all that hard for Kal to overpower him. The thought may leave him a little warmer in the neck than he’s ready to admit, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get rude about it. The real surprise, however, comes when Bruce hears himself ask:

“Would you like me to give you some?”

“Space?” Kal asks. He laughs, incredulous, when Bruce nods; the shift of his body making them sink closer into the dip of the cushion. “And waste all the good works of physics when I could just as easily have brought you to a bench?”

Bruce snorts, but it comes out short, almost surprised. He hadn’t realized he’d leaned in too, hadn’t realized how close they were to touching, and now his elbow is resting against Kal’s shoulder and even through the fabric it feels like that’s setting his entire torso on fire, the warmth of it slowly baking up his arm, his shoulder, his neck, until every breath of air on exposed skin feels like a caress. Bruce breathes in, deliberately slow, and then allows himself to sink back, just a little. He does, after all, know how to do this.

“You’re right,” he says, faux-nonchalant, “let’s not be rude.”

Kal smiles, bright and brilliant in a way Bruce has only ever seen on Diana before—it’s the kind of smile you don’t often see on adults, and it’s all the more precious for it. Not that Bruce would ever admit it. Still, combined with Kal’s jawline, the blue of his eyes, the circumstances...Bruce leans in closer, half expecting another witty exchange. Kal responds in kind instead and, after a heartbeat’s pause, presses their mouths together. Part of Bruce, up until then, had been expecting something a little different from the usual, but Kal’s mouth has a regular mouth taste, with a thin echo of that purple meat hidden in the flavor. Other than that, and the acute awareness of the damage he could inflict with those teeth of his, it’s no different from kissing a nice, smiley, really good looking human.

It has been roughly a decade since the last time Bruce indulged, though, and he is begrudgingly forced to admit that maybe that’s what makes it so intense, lips so sensitive they almost hurt with it, his chest heaving just from that one point of contact, the rest of his body tensing not to go overboard right away. Around them the lights dim a little, highlighting the transparency of the walls, and the heat spreads from Bruce’s head to his chest, to his groin, and every other extremity he has.

With a sigh, he goes back to kissing Kal, one hand coming up to push at his shoulder...and be met with resistance. He pulls back, body cooling fast enough to feel cold, and asks:

“Did I misinterpret?”

“Not at all,” Kal replies with a satisfied smile and a shrug. “I merely had a different image of the proceedings and failed to consider you might have your own opinion on the matter.”

“I can’t fucking believe I’m about to sleep with a guy who speaks like he’s in a Jane Austen space novel,” Bruce mutters.

If it wasn’t enough to stop him before, though, it’s certainly not enough to stop him now.

“What did you have in mind?”

Kal’s grin turns impish and, in the blink of an eye, he’s on his knees and hovering over Bruce’s lap.

“Do feel free to stop me at any time,” he says. “Things are so much better when both parties feel properly enthusiastic.”

Bruce kisses Kal again as a way to make him stop talking—he does have limits—and it works perfectly except for the part where it sets his skin ablaze again. He doesn’t complain about it though: he may be sensitive to the point of near pain, but he has no intention of giving up on the feeling, and revels in the intensity of it, the feather-light feel of Kal’s fingers against his wrists, Kal’s lips on his neck, Kal’s knees around his thighs.

Bruce sighs when he’s pushed down on the bed, and pushes his hips and erection up against Kal’s ass when he is given a few seconds to object. From there, the heavy weight of another body settles over him, and he pushes up again—the friction against Kal’s clad crotch sends sparks flying all through Bruce’s nervous system, pulling every hair on his body to stand as goosebumps overtake him before there’s even been a move made towards removing his shirt. Bruce really needs to do this more often.

He’s distracted from the thought when, after some awkward maneuvering that almost has them toppling to the side, Kal finally manages to get his hands under Bruce’s tunic and on his waist, barely waiting long enough to get consent before he pulls it off Bruce’s shoulders—Bruce is fairly sure he catches a smug look in his Suit’s direction and...well. Fair. He still reaches up to worry at a nipple in retaliation, satisfied with the reaction he gets right up until he receives the same treatment. Evidently, the days when he was perfectly capable of ignoring his own body until he was sure to leave his partner satisfied are long gone.

He can’t say that he minds too much.

It feels like an eternity before Kal’s mouth finally moves past his pectorals, kissing and caressing his belly, his arms, until it feels like Bruce could come just from that and he makes an impatient noise and pushes down on Kal’s shoulder. It feels a bit like pushing a brick wall, which turns out to be an extremely pleasant sensation, and so Bruce doesn’t even bother with performative annoyance when Kal lifts his hips off the mattress and slides the back of his pants over his ass.

“Oh,” he starts, pleased when he finds bare skin there, “I must say I find this detail very—what is that?”

It’s a good thing no one is here to witness Bruce blink dumbly at the transparent ceiling, or turn around to look past the furniture into the night, where there’s nothing but trees and grass to look at him. Eventually though, he does turn back to Kal and finds him staring at his crotch with a perplexed face. Bruce looks down at where his erection is flagging under the jockstrap he favors with the special fabric of his undersuit. Back up at Kal.

“Problem?”

“Where I am from,” Kal replies with the slow diction of someone trying not to offend, “one may go with underwear or without. This seems like a...an interesting in-between.”

“Do you want me to keep it on?” Bruce asks.

He’s done far more adventurous during one-night stands, and with people he found far less pleasant than Kal. It wouldn’t even be that big a deal. After a moment of consideration, though, Kal asks:

“Is your species capable of climaxing more than once during the night?”

“Yes.”

Given how his body has been reacting so far, Bruce is even cautiously optimistic about attempting a third round, should they be inclined.

“In that case, I should like to admire you in full just now, if you are amenable.”

Bruce has to roll his eyes at that, otherwise he runs the risk of getting caught in the moment and finding this way of talking sexy when it’s anything but. He does dispose of the jockstrap, though, and makes sure to leave it on a nearby cushion where it’ll be easy to retrieve. After that he lies back down on the cushion and gestures for Kal to proceed.

He’s half expecting Kal to take him in his mouth, the break having diminished but not destroyed his erection, but instead the man dives straight for Bruce’s balls—he licks and sucks at them, makes them roll over the bridge of his nose in a way that leaves searing burns over the skin, fills him with heat like a cup in long, slow licks until finally, with one long pull of mouth around his length, he tips over and comes with a silent shudder.

He stays in place for a while, lying down and breathing hard while Kal massages his muscles into a more relaxed state. Eventually—a shorter length of time for him than for most men his age—Bruce’s heartbeat is back to normal, or close enough. Only then does he allow himself to sigh again, and sink even further into the giant pillow.

“Am I to understand you are—”

“Do not say ‘amenable’,” Bruce warns, and Kal chuckles. “But yes.”

“Oh, good. Would you like to proceed as you first intended?”

“Not if you want a third round.”

Kal smiles like a kid at Christmas, and Bruce tries very hard not to groan, even though he knows he’ll get there at some point of the night. He might as well fight for what little dignity he has left, right? Right.

Somehow, he gets even less sleep that night than he’d anticipated.

Bruce wakes up well past sunrise the next morning, the sound of waves in his ears and the smell of salt on his tongue. He still aches in a myriad of different ways, but a lot of them have turned pleasant, and his legs aren’t made of jelly anymore. He takes advantage of the fact to get up and walk to where Kal is seated at a small table turned toward the ocean. The shields, or windows—whichever it is—are gone from between the wooden arches, allowing Bruce to spy the hints of a very large net in the platformed bedroom above before he steps up to Kal. The young alien hasn’t noticed Bruce’s presence, yet, which gives Bruce time to notice he looks extremely pleased with himself.

To be fair, Bruce would be too if he’d managed to bring a near-fifty-year-old, injured man off four times in one night. Not that he’s told Kal about the exceptional aspect of it, but it is possible he was a little too well fucked to hide his own surprise entirely… Either way, Kal is very satisfied, breakfast is still waiting for Bruce, and the mist is only just clearing from around the trees. The air around them is crisp, bracing in a way that makes Bruce half-heartedly wish for Kal’s ridiculous sweater. At the table, Kal still looks entirely oblivious to Bruce’s presence.

Bruce clears his throat, and laughs when that surprises Kal enough to send him sprawling down onto the wooden deck.

“Good morning,” he deadpans while Kal throws a napkin at his head.

“Is that how people on Earth court one another?” Kal asks in mock outrage. “Mind-shattering sex and then heart attacks?”

Bruce doesn’t smile at that, too aware of where he’s going and who he will need to be soon, but he does allow his lips to quirk up.

“Maybe I didn’t think you’d be so affected by something so...inconsequential.”

“Oh, it was plenty consequential enough,” Kal replies without missing a beat with a saucy glance at Bruce’s crotch. “I might even consider letting you know if I ever visit Earth, someday.”

“You can do that?” Bruce asks, satisfied when his sudden spike of stress remains inaudible.

“I do work with the Green Lanterns,” Kal shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it probable, but I suppose it isn’t entirely impossible.”

Bruce hums and, to his relief, Kal doesn’t take offense to it. They share a peaceful breakfast instead, with fruits, fresh water and some kind of crackers that Kal dips into what must be a Kryptonian equivalent to coffee. Bruce tries to get some of it, the house encyclopedia informs them that it might not be safe for humans, and between one thing and the next the time for Bruce to get dressed and follow Kal to the shuttle.

He’s not reluctant about it by far, but if he’s being honest with himself—which he usually tries not to be—Bruce has to admit he’s also not quite as impatient to leave as he thought he’d be.

It was an excellent night, after all.

#Superbat #Clark Kent #Kal-El #Bruce Wayne #DCEU Fic #My Posts #Fanfiction #Toss a queue to your witcher

[terresdebrume]

Papa Mousesack - Snippet 9

Other snippets: In the tag

Note: So it’s been mentioned that I put those out really fast, and while I’m not sorry exactly, I do realize that can be A Lot, so I’ll try to space them out a little by queueing them when I remember. Also I want to reassure everyone that while I’ll keep tagging you unless you ask me to stop there is zero hard feelings if you don’t comment/read/acknowledge these! It’s really, really absolutely not meant as an obligation whatsoever so you do whatever you want with those, no problem :)

Also fyi we are now in “I’ve done a decent chunk in order and I have a plan for the future fic so I’m gonna do snippets for wherever I’ve figured the plot out” realm, so don’t worry if you’re confused with the timeline, it’ll be sorted out in the full fic version.

Lastly: this contains a mostly light discussion of the fact that Jaskier has been doing sex work since before he turned of age, and that Mousesack doesn't like that fact, even if he tries to be supportive.

Ping list: @theheirofashandfire @nyliekeo @flatlineghost @haselover @weresehlat  (Again, please lmk if you want off, or on, the ping list^^)

Mousesack knows, well before he opens his mouth, that he’ll loathe how fatherly he sounds. It’s in the words themselves, there’s just no way to say that and not sound like a bedraggled parent. He still steps out of the main room, almost bumps into Jaskier halfway up the stairs to the attic, and completely fail to sound casual when he asks:

“Any chance you’ll tell me who that was?”

The change in Jaskier is instantaneous. In the blink of an eye, the boy goes from decently relaxed to tense and sharp-eyed, the same as he was on that first day in the alley. He squares his shoulders, unusually wide for a pre-hormones boy, and raises his chin at a clearly defiant angle before he says:

“He’s a client.”

“A client,” Mousesack repeat, dumbstruck and feeling very much like he should know what Jaskier’s talking about. “What kind of client?”

“Well,” Jaskier replies with false cheer, “I started underage and I don’t want anything to do with drugs. Do the math.”

Mousesack is fairly sure he’s going to be sick. The boy isn’t even twenty yet! What kind of fucking world lets these things happen? Mousesack sighs, running a hand over his face. He wants to tell Jaskier not to do it again. He wants to yell and ask if he’s aware of the risks—for the bar, yes, but mostly for himself—and a host of other things besides. What he does instead is take a deep breath, then a second, and then ask:

“Did you tell Dr. Nenneke about this?”

“Did you know some doctors call the cops on whores?” Jaskier retorts, and Mousesack has to force himself to calm down again.

His heart is beating too hard in his chest, his breathing coming too fast, cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck, but if he makes Jaskier feel like he’s being blamed or chased away….

“Fair point,” he says through gritted teeth. “Would you like me to take you to a health clinic? They’re better trained to handle your situation.”

“Look,” Jaskier says with a click of his tongue, “I told you I didn’t need pity—if you want me out—”

“If I wanted you out I’d have told you so,” Mousesack snaps back, “and if I pitied you I’d be telling you to stop all of that right now.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, but Mousesack stops him with a raised hand. He has to breathe again, though it doesn’t work half as well as he’d want it to, before he can continue:

“I don’t like it, Jaskier. That man was twice your age, and probably your height too—if he’d decided not to pay, or if he’d disliked what you’ve got in your underwear—”

“I don’t market myself as a guy,” Jaskier groans, “I’m not that reckless.”

“Yeah, see,” Mousesack replies, hands clenching into fists, “now I’m even more worried about what the work does to you.”

“I don’t—”

“You don’t need my pity, yeah, I know,” Mousesack sighs. “But I’m not pitying you, I’m worried about you. I…do realize…that you need income.” Fuck, but the words are hard to get out. “And I realize you don’t want to depend on me—though, again, you really don’t have anything to fear for me on the financial side—and I realize there’s not a lot of options for a guy in your position. So I’m not going to tell you to stop. I’m not even going to ask you to stop. But I am going to ask you to let me help you stay safe, alright? Please?”

Jaskier still looks mulish as anything, but there’s something shiny in his eyes now, and a tremble to his chin that Mousesack would never have expected. He turns his face away when Mousesack continues to look at him, and then after a while he shrugs, barely there enough to be seen.

“Thank you. And at the risk of making things uncomfortable again—if you do want to find a different job, I’m here to help. I can ask around if someone needs anyone—or you can meet Eist and he’ll give you pointers on how to spruce up your CV.”

“Without a single diploma in my pocket?” Jaskier challenges, jauntiness back in full force now that the moment has passed.

“I’m sure he’ll be able to think of something,” Mousesack promises. “If you’d like him to help, that is.”

Jaskier hums, noncommittal, but at least he didn’t say no. When he climbs back upstairs for a shower—“I was only going to lock the door behind him.”—Mousesack watches him go with something heavy in his stomach, and then he calls Priscilla to ask if she’s still got that camping bed her ex left behind when they broke up.

#The Witcher #Mousesack #Jaskier #chelseabunnyhoney #itsmrscrouvanbitch #Matt writes #Papa Mousesack #Toss a queue to your witcher

[twistedappletree]

Qin Su & A-Ling 🌼

#mdzs #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #mdzs fanart #jin ling #jin rulan #qin su #fanart #my art #OOPS it’s my headcanon that they played dress up together~ ✨😌🌸 #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #art #was gonna do more with this but got lazy and tired so this is all y’all get LMAO #queueing this one too #💕💕💕💕 #toss a queue to your witcher

[incorrectly-quoted-queers]

Jaskier: Hmm, how about this: "Toss a coin to your Witcher, you assholes aplenty"?

Geralt: No

Jaskier: Yes, perhaps it's not exactly friendly, even if it's correct. I'll rework that one

Jaskier: What about a song where a Fisherman has a sexually liberated lush of a daughter?

Geralt: And where did you get the idea for that one?

Jaskier: The noises coming from my bedroom last night

Geralt, blushing: ???

Jaskier, not even looking up from his notes: It's not my fault you sleep like the dead and miss out on my bisexual adventures

Jaskier: Now should I write a song about threatening Posada's safety or...?

#Incorrect Witcher quotes #Incorrect quotes #Geraskier #Bisexual Jaskier #Bi Bard #Bi #Toss a Coin To Your Witcher #Fishmonger's Daughter #You Think You're Safe #Bard x Witcher #Jaskier brainstorming #Songwriting #inspiration #Posada #queues are for queers

[dw-writes]

Mistletoe - Lucifer Morningstar x GN!Reader

So, @outside-the-government suggested something with Lucifer Morningstar and mistletoe and HERE WE ARE!!!! For some nice holiday fics!!! I hope you guys enjoy this! Let me know what you think! (this is actually separate from Dial Tone Devil (i know, right? shocking) so...yeah! but still a LUX apartment because those are gorgeous)

“You know, when I gave you this apartment, I didn’t expect you to turn it into such a…” Lucifer was wrinkling his nose when you turned to him, staring from atop your step ladder. He waved one hand and threw his coat on your couch with the other. “What’s the word…” he muttered.

You shrugged and turned back to your task of hanging tinsel and lights over the windows of your LUX loft. From the door walked in Maze, who stared at Lucifer, and Chloe, who carted a very excited Trixie behind her.

“A garish display of cheerful spirit?” Maze offered.

Lucifer snapped his fingers and nodded. “Exactly.”

Chloe scoffed. “You two just don’t have Christmas spirit,” she pointed out.

“Of course not, why would I wish to celebrate such a ridiculous day?” Lucifer shot back. You stretched out to reach a hook almost out of reach, and Lucifer hurried around the couch to stabilize you. “He wasn’t born in winter?” he scoffed, “There’s bloody lambs in all the stories – does the Church not realize that still?”

You grunted as you balanced a hand on his shoulder and straightened out. “Of course not, that means they’re wrong,” you said, looking down at him. You smiled. “Hi.”

“Hello, darling,” Lucifer murmured. He helped you off the step ladder. “What the me compelled you to decorate here and not the Detective’s home?” he softly asked. You stepped around him and pulled the ladder to the last place, then climbed up to finish hanging the lights and tinsel.

“Well, Lucifer,” Chloe loudly stated, “This might come as a surprise, but I don’t have to host everything all the time.”

“Exactly,” you agreed once the decorations were hung. You jumped from the ladder and smiled, “So, I’m hosting this year.”

“I’ve already gotten my presents stashed here and everything,” Chloe murmured as she passed behind Lucifer, who was folding up the step ladder.

He turned with a grin to say, “Did you get me anything?”

“I’m not gonna tell you?” Chloe replied with a huff.

As they spoke, you wandered to your box of decorations, which Trixie was digging through while humming. She sat up with a small box between her hands, then opened it as you leaned over her shoulder. “Where can we hang this?” she asked.

You picked the thing up and smiled. “You know what this is?” you asked her.

She leaned back against your legs and huffed. “Yes? I’ve seen mistletoe before,” she said.

You grinned. “Then,” you sang. You held it above her head. “You know what being under the mistletoe means.” She squealed when you planted the loudest kiss you could manage against her head. You stepped back with a laugh, holding the sprig above your head. “Now, where should we hang this, Trix?”

Before she could answer, the decoration was plucked from your fingers. You turned around. Lucifer slowly smiled and gave it a gentle shake. “This is one tradition I can get behind,” he murmured. He brought it down in front of his face before you could say anything. “Did you know this is actually a pagan thing? Can’t remember the details, but bloody marvelous if you ask me.”

You took the mistletoe from him. “Yes, I know that,” you said, “Just like I know about yule logs and the symbolism behind the Christmas tree and all that jazz.” You tilted your head. “Do you want your kiss?”

His smile changed, became a little naughty, and he asked, “Can it be anywhere?” You rolled your eyes and stepped around him. He took your arm. “No, wait,” he whispered. You looked up. He stared at you, the mischief fading from his face. You heard Maze clear her throat and loudly ask Trixie and Chloe if they should get the tree out of the car. Then the door shut, and you were alone. Lucifer tilted your chin up, brushed his knuckles over your cheek. You swallowed, biting the inside of your lip, then held the mistletoe over your head with a small smile.

“Don’t break tradition now,” you murmured.

His hand slid into your hair and he leaned into you, whispering, “Not this one,” just before his lips gently brushed yours. You cupped the back of his neck and stood on your toes, pressing your mouth harder against his. His other hand took the mistletoe from between your fingers and tossed it over his shoulder, then pulled you closer with a hand on your waist. He tilted your head just a bit, his tongue tracing over your bottom lip, and you sighed wistfully while granting him access.

He only pulled away when the door opened several minutes later. Your legs trembled as you dropped back onto your heels, watching him, brushing the spot behind his ear with your thumb.

“Okay, you two can stop staring soulfully at each other now,” Maze loudly declared, “We have a tree to put up.”

Your face burned. Lucifer cleared his throat with a small, bashful grin. He squeezed your waist before you stepped away, and whispering in your ear, “We can do this again later.”

“Count on it,” you replied.

#lucifer morningstar #lucifer on fox #lucifer on netflix #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar/reader #lucifer morningstar imagine #lucifer morningstar fanfiction #toss a queue to your witcher

[leftsidebonfire]

Vassia: *signing* I told Eleni that her ears turn red when she lies and now I can always tell when she's lying.

Ziona: What? How?

Vassia: *signing* I'll show you. Hey Eleni, do you love us?

Eleni: *covering her ears with her hands* no.

#Eleni Santiana #Ziona #Toss a bard to your Witcher #Captain El #Vassia #Queue #She's got a heart of gold I promise

[that-fkn-graphitepusher]

I had ended up with another job where I could doodle when it was slow.

I’m a slut for Jaskier and I’m not afraid to admit it. Bring on S2.

#my art #the witcher #netflix witcher #jaskier #joey batey #toss a coin to your witcher #oh valley of plenty #her sweet kiss is actually my favorite tho #I think this scene is during fishmonger's daughter #work doodles #doodlings #pencil sketch #practice #see queue in hell

[betterdcyz-a]

♡   THE GOOD PLACE   [  𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝚂𝟷:𝙴𝟹 ]. / accepting!

@getlostsqdwrd​ asked: Whatever. This whole thing is stupid. ( geralt @ jas )

“Stu—” The word was still lingering on his tongue, his eyebrows raised, expression almost comical. “Stupid?” Finally, the bard speaks, his jaw dropping. “No, you have no right to label this as stupid, Geralt! It’s pampering. It does wonders!” Jaskier playfully slaps at Geralt’s bicep. “Come on. Bath first, lather up, put some rosemary and lavender in the water, make it all nice.” 

#i won't be but silent back-up. [ in character / jaskier ] #toss a coin to your witcher. [ v. main / jaskier ] #answered. #getlostsqdwrd #queue.

[terresdebrumestories]

Guapo’s funeral

FANDOM: Will & Grace SERIES: - RATING: General audiences WORDCOUNT: 867 words PAIRING(S): Mainly Jack & Guapo, though there are tiny bits of Will/Jack CHARACTER(S): Jack McFarland, Will Truman, Grace Adler, Karen Walker. GENRE: Funerals and moments of vulnerability. TRIGGER WARNING(S): None that I’m aware of. SUMMARY:

Guapo dies, and Jack shares a secret.

DEDICATION(S): - NOTE(S): This is the result of knowing that parrots can live for a really long time (up to 80 years, I think?) and finding it sad that the show decided to retire both of Jack’s pets without even a mention.

---

“Oh, honey,” Karen says, reading Jack’s card over his shoulder, “it’s okay. I can tell the story.”

Jack, eyes still caught on the tiny hole in the ground, doesn’t have enough strength to answer. Luckily for him, Karen is enough of a trooper to keep going anyway.

“They’ve been through everything together,” she tells everyone in the softest voice she has. “When Steve dumped Jack, Guapo was there. When Raul dumped Jack, Guapo was there. Mike, Dan, Tom… Guapo, Guapo, Guapo… There—”

“I told Will I loved him, back in college,” Jack interrupts.

“What the—” Grace starts, but Karen shrieks over the end of her sentence.

Jack leans into the way Will’s fingers tighten in the dip of his clavicle—not because of the pain, even. It’s just that it’s comforting, and nowadays he’s allowed to.

“He called me a family pet—”

“What?” Grace shouts again. “You never told me told me about this! When did that happen?”

“Honey, come on”, Karen protests, “there’s no way any of this happened outside of Wilma’s fevered dreams!”

“Right, yeah, that probably explains why we’re real-life practically married!” Will shouts back.

His arm tightens around Jack’s shoulder hard enough to send his face crashing into the armpit of Will’s cashmere turtleneck. Jack has to flail a little before he can get out of the stranglehold—damn him for actually listening when Jack complained he wanted to be carried around again—and by the time he manages it the other three have escalated to a full-blown shouting match in the pet cemetery. Worse, they’ve forgotten about Jack and that will simply not do.

“Hey,” he says, then when they don’t react: “HEY!”

They twirl around to stare at him. Will, at least, has the good grace—heh—to look at least a little guilty, instead of confused and irritated like Grace and Karen. Jack glares at the three of them all the same, though.

“I’m trying to have an open, vulnerable moment here!”

They try to speak, but one quick closing of his fingers is enough to silence them. On the one hand, it’s good to know he can still command their respect despite the poor state he’s in. On the other had, now he has to actually go through his Moment, and it’s a much harder endeavor without the help of impulse.

“So, ItoldWillIwasinlovewithim, and after he broke my heart—”

“What?” Will exclaims, arm freezing in the middle of trying to hug Jack again, “but you said—”

“Will! This is not about you!”

“Sorry,” Will says with a face that means Jack had better brace himself for a Conversation about this in the near future. “So, after I uh, rejected you...what happened exactly? I remember you running off to the frozen food section and then—”

“Then you ran into Grace and forgot all about me,” Jack cuts in with an impatient flick of the wrist. “I know, story of my life. The point is, I needed to fill the void in my heart with something, so I decided to get myself a puppy. I went to the nearest shelter, thinking I’d be in and out faster than a high fashion trend, when I saw this poor, depressed rescue bird perched on the front desk. I thought ‘that’s perfect! I’ll train it to go up to Will’s window and whisper ‘I love Jack McFarland’ into his ear until it takes root and he falls in my arms!’”

“That sounds a little—”

“Not! About! You!” Jack screeches.

He doesn’t get out from under Will’s arm, because he does actually need the comfort, but there are limits that shouldn’t be crossed, for Cher’s sake!

“It doesn’t really matter, anyway,” Jack concludes with a heavy sigh. “I couldn’t do it. The moment my dear Guapito repeated the words—I couldn’t help but pour my heart out to him. And I know, if he’d had the words, he’d have poured his little bird heart out to me, too. For all these years, he’s been the guardian of my most precious secrets. The one creature on Earth who knew everything there was to know about me. I—nothing’s ever going to replace that. I’ll miss him more than words can say.”

Jack’s voice actually breaks on the last few words, and he has to swipe at his eyes before he can be accused of having actual feelings or something equally embarrassing. He’s been great at maintaining the unshakable queen image that became his trademark, he’s not about to lose it at fifty.

Guapo truly was his life, though: the one constant, the one friend who never rejected him, never relegated him to second place. Picturing life without him is—Jack shudders and, without bothering to wipe his nose first, shoves his face in Will’s cashmere-clad neck.

This time, instead of calling him and animal, Will pulls Jack in tight, kisses the top of his head, and pretends he doesn’t know Jack’s crying even though it doesn’t take long for the tears to soak through his sweater. It doesn’t take the pain away by any mean but it does, at least, make it just a little bit easier to bear.

#Will and Grace #Will & Grace #Jack McFarland #Will Truman #Karen Walker #Grace Adler #My Posts #Fanfiction #W&G Fic #Toss a queue to your witcher