Dick Waking Up At 3 A.m. To A Phone Ringing Loudly. The Only Night Off He Takes From Nightwing. He Couldn't

he wants that cookie so damn bad

kinktober - day 22 - deepthroating

price x gn!reader | 535 words cw: noncon deepthroat 'training', implied abduction, restraints a/n: short and not sweet. summary: working you up to the real thing. banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list

“Open.” 

The man’s voice is deep. Unfamiliar and gravel-thick. Reeking of tobacco. Roughness hangs in every word like he’s forcing sound through smoke.

Despite the cloud of fear rendering your mind sluggish and slow, you try to focus on scent and sound. The blindfold tightly wound around your head necessitating it. You force yourself to remember, even as pure terror squeezes your heart as the stranger squeezes your jaw.

“Please, no more, no mo—ough!”

Silicone catches your mouth curled around that ‘o’, and the heel of the man’s hand forces it past your lips and beyond. It barges into your throat, making it impossible to even sob, let alone breathe.

The sudden invasion constricts your chest. The air thickens, the sharp tang of panic rising like a leak in the bottom of a life raft. You thrash with your wrists useless above your head. Your ankles, too. All four limbs immobile and secure, rattling against what sounds like metal posts.

Deprived of your vision, there’s no telling if everything’s fading to black or not. But the unsettling calm that rushes over after several minutes of struggling to breathe around a fake cock is enough. You could die like this. You kind of hope you do. This is torture, and it’s carried on for ages. Your lungs feel bruised.

The silicone pulls out of your mouth. A violent cough explodes from your chest, the air coming in ragged bursts. Another hand strokes over your neck, a mocking comfort, before it fixes to the underside of your jaw. Thick fingers curl and press into where it’s most tender and restrictive. 

“Breathe, sweetheart.”

The endearment is salt in the wound. Your cheeks burn with humiliation.

The toy plunges over your tongue and immediately nudges into your gullet once more. He fucks your mouth with a controlled and uncompromising rhythm. When he started, he called it ‘training’, but there’s been no gentleness. No baby steps. Just this. Brute force and cruel repetition. Beneath the blindfold, your eyes water, and snot beads in your nose. Though you still beg every time you draw enough breath, hoping to wear down whatever barbarity drives the stranger, your body simultaneously tries to comply. It’s not very good, though.

The sound of wet suction repeatedly breaks over your retching.

“That’s alright, sweetheart. Gag. Gag now, because I won’t tolerate it if you gag later.”

He must smile at the fresh surge of tears that summons.

Your nostrils flare, desperately sucking in oxygen as drool escapes down your chin unchecked. The hollow of your throat is a puddle. Cheeks drenched. Your palms must be bloody with how hard you dig your nails into your flesh. 

The pressure relents. He pets your quivering tongue with the cock, patting the fat of it before pulling it out. Strings of your spit stretch and snap, splattering onto your nose and cheeks like a wet cobweb.

The bed creaks. Your body rises slightly as the mattress slowly inflates with the removed weight. The toy, you assume, lands somewhere near your feet a moment later. You breathe heavily, throat burning from its torment. You’re unable to get a word past your cracking lips.

A zipper rasps down its teeth.

“Open.” 

Dick: I just think, maybe, you're wrong.

Duke: Wow Richard, invalidating a young black man during Black History Month!

Dick, confused: Its April

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tim takes the last two cookies for him and Bernard.

Duke, who already had one but wanted one for school: Woooow Timothy, taking from a young black man during Black History Month!!

Tim: Its September!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jason accidently hits Duke a little too hard during a sparing match

Duke, who is completely fine the next second but is in that mood: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW—

Jason: Its fucking November and you're fine!!

Duke, ready to double down: WOW JASON PETER TODD, BEATING DOWN AND THEN INVALIDATING THE EXPERIANCE OF A YOUNG BLACK MAN DURING BLACK HISTORY MONTH!!

fanart

don't know why but it comes to my mind so I draw it

pov: you just looked up from flirting with sgt. mactavish for the past half hour in the rec room wyd

Bear shifter Nikolai desperate to mate bear shifter Price and trying everything in his extensive repertoire to woo him, including gifting him with the biggest king salmon he can find while they're on op in Canada. He caught it with his own two paws while two native bears watched in confusion.

"What am I meant t' do with this, Nik?"

"Gut it, cook it, perhaps sautée some potatoes, be mine."

"Whot?"

"What?"

Nikolai's appetite disappears over night and Price smells a rat.

cw: mention of body shaming, damaged relationship with food.

Nik loved food.

Not in the way that Johnny did, slamming an entire packet of Maryland cookies and then descending into a sugar coma, or the way that Gaz did, by seeing it as fuel to maintain a powerful and efficient body, so every macro counted. But in the way a wine taster did; there wasn't a city on earth where he couldn't steer John to the very best restaurant, be it tiny back alley taverna or sprawling five star hotel.

He loved sampling different cuisines, sourcing exotic dishes and sharing them with John (who had drawn the fucking line at sea urchin and puffer fish, because while he had never considered a rule about eating shit that could kill you in seconds, he made an ardent one in that moment). John reckoned it was a leftover from his army days when he would have had to survive on rat packs and mess food like the rest of them. He was enjoying it now he could.

So, when Nik suddenly stopped eating, it was bloody noticeable.

He'd still take John out, filling his plate and excitedly watching his face as he tried it, but he wouldn't eat himself. And if he did, it was some poxy salad or plain chicken that looked like it hadn't even glimpsed a spice rack. There were empty tupperware containers stacked in the co-pilot chair of the Black Hawk and Nik remained completely sober during a post-mission arse squeak celebration. (Where they had - in Ghost's words - bum squeaked their way through; Price wasn't sure it was technically an idiom, but he let it pass.)

"You watchin' yer figure, Nik?" Price asked finally, reclining in the wicker chair at the little café they'd stopped in. They were just outside Florence, and the tourists were just beginning to slither groggily into the sun.

"Da," Nik tapped his stomach, "I am, what do you call it, spreading?"

"You look fine t' me. More n' fine."

"I have lost some. But I still have more to do." Nik tugged at his sleeve, a self conscious gesture that John had never seen him do, and it set his teeth on edge.

"Did someone say somethin'?"

Nik swallowed and John wished he'd take those bloody aviators off so his eyes were visible. "Not recently."

"Well, this has been goin' on for months," John said, gesturing at the black coffee that comprised Nik's entire breakfast, while John had polished off the continental version of a Full English. "So out with it. Who said what?"

"I..." Nik cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. "I was not wearing a shirt on a beach in America, visiting Laswell, and a group of young women advised me to go to the gym."

"You can olympic press Ghost."

"Da."

"You can bench press over twice your own bodyweight."

"Mm, da."

"I think you go to the gym plenty."

Nik went silent. He wasn't looking at John, which meant he was embarrassed and not sure how to recover. Whatever this was, whatever had been said, he would have retaliated with his usual bolshy dismissal at the time, but up there in his Heli it would have buzzed around in his head in the quiet until it got its barbs in.

"Fer a smart bloke, you 'n' 'alf thick sometimes."

"That is what I am trying to fi--"

"Not what I meant, Nikolai." John sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard as he considered Nik's slumped shoulders. "You're good-lookin', fit, hotshot pilot with yer gold chain. This is the first time some horrid cow has said somethin' cruel, I bet."

"I might have let myself go."

"You're fifty. It's allowed," John said. "But you haven't. Yer just as built as when we first met."

"I was thirty, John. That is not possible."

"I don't think I stuttered there, but I might be wrong..."

Nik tsked at him and wrapped his arms over his chest. He tried to make it look nonchalant but it was absolutely a barrier. "I am feeling self-conscious. It will pass. I do not wish to talk about it."

"Tough shit, Nik. We're talkin' about it." John scraped his chair loudly around the table and crowded into Nik's space, leaning down with his elbows on his knees to look up into the forlorn expression on his lover's face. "If - and I mean if - I thought your health was at risk, or you were lettin' yourself go, you not think I'd get you runnin' laps with my new crop until you were fit to run missions with my team again?"

"Da, I would expect nothing less."

"Yer part of my task force, Nik. I don't accept anythin' but the best. No exceptions. Tell me I'm wrong."

"I cannot."

"And has my performance between the sheets been any less enthusiastic?"

"Nyet..."

"Right, so, engage that mensa level intelligence of yours and compute the obvious bloody conclusion."

John reached forward, continuing even when Nik tried to recoil, to run his hands beneath his shirt. Nik's belly was warm, the hair on it soft, and John wanted nothing more than to rub his damn face into it.

"I know it's gonna take time to rebuild yer confidence, Nik. Not sure yer tellin' me the whole story but whatever they said, they're wrong. Women like that, they're cruel for sport. You could look like, uh... whathisname, Chris Hemsworth, 'n' they'd still say somethin'. Gives 'em a way to cover up their own insecurity, right?"

There was a small smile of amusement and Nik's arms fell away, letting John run his hands a little higher. "I am impressed you remembered the name of an actor, captain."

"Yeah, I watched a whole film the other night..."

Nik smiled. "A whole film. Impressive."

"Cheers." John lifted his hand to cup Nik's jaw, one hand on his knee. "Still wet my knickers for you, Nik, but tell me what else I can do t' help."

"Nothing, I am... I will be fine."

"Not like you to let some bird get under your skin like that. Sure there's nothin' else?"

Nik cleared his throat, looked to the side and then finally at John's face. "You do not wish to trade me in for a newer model?"

"Jesus fuck... waiter, il conto, per favore."

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the hotel room."

"Why?"

"'M gonna shag your brains out, since they're not functionin' particularly well on the inside. Up. Double time."

Nik reached for his wallet to pay but John had already slapped his credit card on the scanner by the time he looked up. He grabbed Nik's hand and dragged him down the few blocks to their hotel, where he intended to spend the rest of the afternoon making Nik feel like the hottest piece of arse on the planet.

Filipino artist, Gregory Halili, carves intricate skulls into mother of pearl shells.

gotham rainy nights

i firmly believe in Duke doing silly things with his power

hiding under your dad's cape when it's pouring outside can be something very special + bat-rain-poncho, several years later

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.