sunshine soap zine crashed and burned so here's one of pieces from it! dragon ghost protecting his favorite treasure from the hoard
John price has a needlessly big bed.
Something the rookies and others like to winge about. "What is it with Captains and higher up needing huge beds?"
Contrary to the rumours, John didn't feel he needed a huge bed for power reasons, or to feel important.
No he just valued his large bed because every night at least one of his team, if not all three other team members would crawl their way into his bed in the middle of the night.
And a single bed just really wouldn't fit 4 muscular tall military men.
pronebone with simon pronebone with simon
laying so comfy on his bed, just whining and whimpering to be fucked. he’s tired, and so are you. but his heart always swells at the look on your face when you’re trying to cum but can’t.
so he’s always so sweet about it. pulling your soaked panties to the side and rubbing against your slit for a little. his big bulky thighs on either side of your legs while he’s jerking of his heavy dick.
using his other hand to spread you open a little and spit down onto that spot that ‘just hurts so bad’. prodding his thick tip into you while cooing at your little mewls and whimpers. he’s so sleepy, so there isn’t much force behind it.
just sliding his cock in and out of your tight cunt almost lazily. his half shut eyes just watching how the sticky wetness soaks the first five inches of him. and he’s usually more vocal, but right now he’s just trying to get you to sleep.
“jus’ calm down little baby . . daddy’s gonna cum soon.” he’s stretching you open so harshly and stuffing your cunt full it feels cozy almost. knowing he’s right there. “he promises.”
people will be like "go to therapy" when they see people engaging w freaky kinks as if a therapist wouldn't sit there, look you straight in the eye, and tell you that there's absolutely nothing wrong with that
Summary: Simon Riley never learned to let go. He lets the pain follow him, swallow him, devour him whole.
For once, he wants to be the one who consumes.
Warnings: Dead dove do not eat, cannibalism, blood and gore, whump, hurt no comfort, 18+.
A/N: Vague ghoap thing. Not sure what it is actually blacked out wrote it stared at it in horror then proceeded to post it anyways.
“Used to be a butcher, y’know.” Simon breathes into the open air, dragging the cigarette to his lips with an unsteady hand. “When I left school. Smelled like shit, but taught me to be good with knives before I knew I’d need to be.”
The block has been pulled from the wall, torn down and leaving a gaping hole in it’s emptiness. His knives are scattered across the counter, unorganised and glinting in the clinical white light that swings above them. It creaks. He’d tear it down if he didn’t need it.
He’s reminded that he doesn’t need it; that he could close his eyes and bring the cleaver right down where he needs it to be and it would cut clean. He was always good at that bit. Heavy-handed enough so that he never had to sit and hack away at the meat. Not like the other lads. Better. He had a natural affinity for it.
For hacking and sawing and tearing and skinning. For bleeding dry and hooking and hoisting up over his shoulder until his arms burned.
“Wasn’t bad pay either, for a youngin.” He adds. “Got me by. ‘Till I joined up.”
He stubs the cigarette out on the table, pushing it down until the ash whispers out around it and the butt crumples up beneath his fingers. He brushes it away but it leaves a sear stain on the wood.
“Shouldn’t have brought you here, Johnny.” He admits. “Don’t know why I did.”
That’s a lie, and he grimaces at how badly it’s told. Something in him nags, like he should at least do his Sergeant the dignity of seeing the deceit through. Playing it up, they both know he knows how. He hasn’t made it as far as he has without being a liar.
He’s been lying all day.
Lying to the Captain was the hardest. Not because of any difficulty in doing it, lying came to him easier than breathing did these days. It was knowing the Captain knew he was lying, and knowing he didn’t do anything to stop him.
God, Simon wanted to say something. He wanted to be stopped. He wanted to be kicked in the teeth and to bleed his own blood into his mouth. Be his own victim for a change. But he didn’t want it enough. Couldn’t help himself, and then again…he never really could.
He could never keep up with his mouth, eyes too slow to catch what he was doing, brain whirring on and on beyond and before what he could trap between his teeth.
“But, you’re here now.” Simon whispers, but the words echo anyways; bouncing off of the checkerboard tiles plastered on the wall. “And I can’t take you back.”
He blindly skims the counter, hand dusting across until the thick of the blade presses a papercut into his thumb. Then, he closes his fist around the handle. Knuckles click, chains rattle as he ambles around the room.
It’s an art. A dirty art.
But Johnny is beautiful. Johnny is clean. The morgue did a good job; painted the warmth back into his skin, the redness back into his lips so it looks like the blood’s still flowing. Simon leans over, thumbs the cold, cracking skin there and smears the lipstick away. Rubs until it comes off on his own skin, and there’s only pale white death left on Johnny’s mouth.
He streaks a line of it across his own. It smells chemical, dries too quick on his skin.
The light creaks again.
Simon clatters his free fist against it, drawing back and back again until the strip hangs lopsided and flickers out of life. The darkness swallows him whole, buries the room in it. His eyes adjust quick, enough to see the outline of Johnny’s bicep- where it attaches to the shoulder.
It’s art.
The moment he brings the cleaver down, it’s art. When the blade lodges into the table and he doesn’t bother to yank it out, it’s art. He cradles the cut in his hand, softly dislodges it from any stringing cartilage attaching it to the shoulder and runs his fingers over the separation, buries into the now loose muscle, the blood bubbling up around his nail beds and burrowing beneath the overhang.
It’s art. It’s art. It’s art. It’s beauty, it’s creation not desecration.
The ashes wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to share them, split them. Halve and quarter them and quarter them again until he gets maybe an eighth. Simon can’t bear to lose a morsel of him.
A scribbled recipe sits untouched by the oven. Simon’s eye catches the crinkle of the paper, the yellowing sheet crumpled and then smoothed out over the countertop.
He can’t keep up with his mouth.
His teeth vanish into the cut of flesh, incisors cracking against canines, molars clinging to what meat they can find. It’s acrid in his mouth, his tongue swims in the blood that floods there. He pulls too hard, the arm almost slipping out of his grasp as he yanks his head back in some failed cinematic replica of how he’s seen the consumption go in films.
It doesn’t go down easy, fights every inch of his mouth and gullet as he rips it apart with his teeth and sits the chunks on his tongue. He’d laugh if it meant he wouldn’t choke. It’s just like Johnny, to make things so difficult.
He almost pukes the first mouthful up, has to tenderly set the arm down and grip the table with one hand, barricading over his mouth with the other until the nausea in his stomach settles. Until Johnny settles.
Simon sucks the blood from his teeth, wipes it down with his tongue, content to make it go down with his own saliva out of fear that water might dampen the taste. He’s so used to death that he can’t distinguish the smell of it, but the taste is fresh. Only ever been had second-hand, when too much blood seeps out of the bodies he leaves behind him and taints the air with its decay.
He won’t taste it ever again. Not like this, not this whole, not this fresh. Not if it’s not Johnny.
He could’ve left anyone else at the morgue. Quite happily, he could have visited the body and said his goodbyes and walked away and been okay.
No one else fills him with the desire to have and be had like Johnny does.
Looming over the corpse, Simon sighs. He presses a bloody hand to the outline of Johnny’s face, tugs the man’s lips ajar. Sobs into his open mouth. Spits the blood back in, heaves and crushes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see. Clumsily travels his fingers down the arm that’s still attached, interlocks their fingers together. He has to curl Johnny’s into his manually. Stiff bone by stiff bone, until they sit, lax, in his own.
His head wants to apologise, to sew the remaining arm back on and zip Johnny back up in the bag. Put his tux back on and drive him back to the morgue before morning light, take his eighth of the ashes and pour them into a vial he can keep in his jacket pocket.
Shaking and swallowing back salt and iron, Simon peels himself away from Johnny. He fixes the man's fingers back into place, before rounding the table and jiggling the cleaver out of the wood.
The cut of arm feels less heavy, and it’s jagged around the top where the bone peeks out above the mountain of flesh. Simon turns, fumbles for his phone and clicks the flashlight on- angling it at the floor as he drags his feet along the tiles and trudges to the freezer door.
He doesn’t bother with a coat, but winces at the way the cold nips and tugs at his skin. An array of hooks decorate from wall to wall, hanging from ceiling to floor. He presses his thumb into Johnny’s arm, before sinking the meat into a hook- watching the sharp point pierce up through the skin, the tiny squirt of blood that follows it.
A weak apology mumbles it’s way out of his mouth. The bite mark, the chunk missing, makes the meat look ugly. He squeezes a hand around a cold finger, before stepping out and slamming the door behind him.
He squints, and the cleaver glints on the wooden carving desk.
He like boob )-:
fyi i do not “crush” i experience violent, all-consuming devotion and yearning that leaves me physically ill
Jason should kill the Joker and just not tell anyone. like, lets be real here, if he were to silently slip in and kill the Joker in his sleep, are any of the workers at Arkham really going to give enough of a shit to say anything??? with the paperwork they’d have to do, and the attention they’d get once the media caught wind of the break in/murder, i bet all Jason would have to do is leave like, a basket of muffins next to the dead body as a thank you and the staff would just dispose of the body and shut the fuck up about it.
i bet you he could get through a solid six to eight month period of being weirdly happy and interactive with the rest of the family before Dick finally asks why he’s been in such a good mood lately over family dinner
Jason, casually: i dunno, i guess i’ve just had a weight lifted from my shoulders; there’s less to drive me away now.
Bruce, thinking he’s finally done something right: aw Jaylad, i’m so happy you’re feeling more comfortable!
Dick, the only batkid around when Jason was Robin, remembering all the times Jason would transform into the happiest kid on the planet only for them to find out a week later it was because he’d pushed a bully down the stairs at school and fractured his wrist: hold on B.
Dick: Jay, what weight has been lifted?
Jason, still nonplussed: well i finally got my GED, and the Joker thing really calmed the lazarus rage. also Steph got me into puppy yoga, we go once a week.
Bruce:
Bruce: what Joker thing.
Jason, glancing up from his food: ? d’i not mention that? he’s dead, man.
Bruce:
Dick:
Dick: sorry, what?
Tim: why the fuck am i never invited to puppy yoga?
Bruce, having a panic attack: y- what are you talking about Jay-
Tim: i would LOVE to go to puppy yoga. what the FUCK?
Jason, shrugging: you can come to puppy yoga, replacement, it’s all good
Bruce: the Joker’s dead?
Tim: FUCK YEAH, PUPPY YOGA
Jason: i think they do it with goats too.
Damian: i would be interested in this activity.
Jason: hell yeah family yoga session
Bruce: JASON PLEASE EXPAND ON THE JOKER THING
Jason: no i don’t like your tone. anyway, dick, puppy yoga?
Dick:
Dick, glancing at Bruce’s glare nervously: …i would be down for puppy yoga
riley: [barking]
price: simon, please make riley stop
ghost: [starts barking too]
riley: [barks back]
ghost: he says he won't
price:
price: this base is a fucking nightmare
Dick remembered a word to say when people are yelling!! man, I wonder where he learned that...
He does get very upset when he learns it's bad to say,, Bruce isn't mad of course he thinks it's hilarious