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thebigbadbatswife · 20 hours
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I love u angry female characters. I love u deeply misunderstood and problematic female characters. I love u cold hearted and sharp female characters. I love you prideful and reckless female characters. I love u unbeautifly destructive female characters. I love u prickly and snarky female characters. not everyone understands u but I do and I'm listening
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Blurry Ghost
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Bravo 0-7
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Free by Choice
Summary: Simon and (Y/n) don't want children. After his vasectomy, (Y/n) realizes how much the fear of becoming a father has inhibited him.
Wordcount: 1.010
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She had never experienced Simon like this before.
"The tests look good. If you want to, you have green light."
As neither of them wanted children, Simon had decided to have a vasectomy.
As he had never had a relationship before and sex wasn't really a big issue, he had never given it much thought, but that had changed.
(Y/n) didn't want children either. They're cute as long as you can give them back. She was more than willing to be 'just' the cool aunt.
The decision was final for both of them. The pill worked, but this way (Y/n) could finally stop taking it and no one had to worry anymore.
"Good means absolutely safe?"
"Yes, Mr. Riley. Your last semen sample was positive... or rather negative."
Simon just nodded and held out his hand. The doctor tried to grab it, but Simon slapped it away and pointed to the papers.
The doctor handed them to him with a slight blush on his cheeks.
Simon skimmed the pages and nodded with satisfaction.
"Thanks, doc.", he mumbled.
The doctor nodded. "If there's anything, just let me know."
It wasn't until the evening, when they were both lying on the sofa, that it started. Simon began to gently kiss her jaw, letting his hands wander under her shirt.
If only she had known then, what was in store for her.
Three hours later she wasn't really sure, whether she still had a functioning brain cell. She was lying on her stomach, exhausted and drooling on the bed. She hadn't really come down from her last high when she felt Simon's lips on her back again. Her breath caught. Simon moaned with pleasure and a little laugh underneath. "Just one more little mouse. Seven is a lucky number.", he whispered in her ear and bit tenderly into the shell of her ear.
The next morning, everything hurt. Her thighs were covered in bite marks. Her back was a mess. Her neck felt like her thighs looked and all in all, she was mostly sore. No matter how gently Simon had rubbed her with ointment.
Surprisingly, he was still sleeping next to her. Usually he would have been up and away by the time she got up. He had already trained and made breakfast, but today he was lying on his pillow, slumbering, with a cute little pout on his lips.
She turned to him with a smile. What had gotten into him? They'd had good sex, but this? Despite being on the pill, he always insisted on using a condom. He usually never came more than once inside her. Despite everything, he often pulled out and came on her. She had just assumed he was into it, but after last night?
Had he been so afraid of having a child? Had this procedure taken such a weight off his shoulders?
He moves slightly.
His eyes opened slowly.
"Morning," he mumbled.
"Morning," she simply replied.
He rubbed his face and stretched. "Fuck. My back." he grumbled.
She laughed. "Serves you right."
He didn't answer that.
She snuggled against his shoulder. He buried his nose in her hair.
"You realize, you have to carry me everywhere today, right?"
"Hm. Anywhere you want."
"Why didn't you do this before, if it was weighing you down so much?"
He closed his eyes again. "I have a therapist for that kind of talk.", he mumbled.
She punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm serious."
He sighed. "I've never had a relationship and the one night stands were rare and sporadic." He shrugged. "Wasn't necessary up to this point. Sorry, if it was too much."
She kissed his shoulder. "It's okay. Just remember that, when I get ugly, after I get off the pill."
"Why would you get ugly?"
"Hormonal acne and hair loss are definitely coming."
He grinned. "I've been through the meat grinder once and you're worried about a few pimples?"
She pouted. "That's a sensitive subject."
He tousled her hair, "I'll help you squeeze them out, too."
She smacked him on the chest with a grin and no emphasis. He laughed.
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Five months later
Simon looked at the nutritional supplement packs that had been piling up in her kitchen for the last few months.
(Y/n's) skin had rebelled briefly, but the worst of it seemed to have subsided. For two weeks, she had been in so much pain because of the inflammation under her skin that she had sometimes stood in the shower crying.
Simon had given her every bath that could even help in the least.
But now, two months later, it had subsided. Things seemed to be settling down, even if they weren't perfect yet. She had an appointment with her beautician today and Simon had thankfully stayed at home.
He was reading the newspaper, when he heard the front door open and close again.
(Y/n) came into the small kitchen. Her skin was still shiny from some cream, but she seemed to be glowing somehow.
Unimpressed, she threw her bag onto a chair and sat astride his lap. She immediately pressed her lips to his and wrapped her arms around his neck. Taken by surprise, he tried to figure out what was going on when she pulled at his shirt. He had no idea what was about to happen.
Hours later, he lay wrung out on the bed, breathing heavily.
"I want another round. When can you manage that?"
"Today?" He looked at her in shock. She nodded.
He looked up at the ceiling, shocked. "Nothing happens here for the next three to five business days."
She looked at him, pouting.
"What's gotten into you?" he asked, pulling her hand towards him, which was already exploring again.
"Not only is my skin fourteen again, but it looks like my libido is too."
"But I'm no longer fourteen mouse... My jaw hurts... And my back."
She grinned. "Will you at least take a bath with me?"
"At least? That was eight rounds!"
"Nine is a lucky number."
"Oh Fuck."
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DC Comics Men + Post-Patrol Moments
Pairing: Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Clark Kent, Oliver Queen x Reader
Tags: fluff, established relationship, cuddles, soothing kisses, insomnia, denial of feelings
A/N: I would give them the biggest smooches.
BRUCE
Had a really hard time letting his emotional walls down around you. At the start he brushed off your attempts to get closer to him after his patrols but you had every intention to make sure he was okay. It was his own tired mind that enabled you to get close to him. But he was more then a bit flustered when he woke up with his head on your lap.
JASON
Teased you every time you cuddled, he never wanted you to worry about him as much as you were. Yes you were in a relationship but that was the exact reason he wanted to keep you from losing sleep over him. Every kiss was more and more laced with longing and care from you. Until the day you welcomed him home, very late, and he fully collapsed in your arms as he kissed you.
DICK
Sneaks into your bed after patrol, groaning as his body protests from his injuries. It's nothing so bad that a little cuddles and sleep won't fix for him. And while you're his cuddle pillow? He will be good as new by morning guaranteed. Although a few kisses on the really painful areas wouldn't hurt, just keep the kisses on the lighter side, in case he broke something but he doesn't feel like he did.
CLARK
Brings you your favorite midnight snacks because he knew you'd be waiting up for him even though he told you many times that it's not good for you. As a human you need to sleep a lot more then he does. Insomnia will make you sick if you keep it up. It's his superhero duty to make sure that doesn't happen.
OLIVER
Is careful not to wake you up as he gets home. It's almost morning by the time he gets back. As long as he's up, and he knows he isn't going to sleep he might as well take a shower and get breakfast going. That will be a nice surprise for you when you wake up. It's the least he can do since he didn't make it back home last night.
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Photographs That Show Action Figures Interacting with Everyday Objects
Japan, Osaka-based photographer Hotkenobi stages action figures in real life settings to create a series of quirky photographers.
Keep reading
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Okay, so, looks like Google Docs might actually start implementing their rule about not sharing explicit content. (This includes writing.) How in the ever loving fuck am I supposed to back up 1,000+ stories that equate to 3 million+ words into fucking Microsoft Word????? And efficiently, for that matter?! HELP.
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thebigbadbatswife · 2 days
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Death Metal Wonder Woman by Yasmine Putri
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Ollie and Dinah by Ejikure.
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CATWOMAN #33 Variant Cover by JENNY FRISON
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Wonder Woman #9 variant cover art by Julian Totino Tedesco
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Diana in Wonder Woman #7
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Simon "Will fuck you up" Riley
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thebigbadbatswife · 2 days
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an. part two of this | masterlist
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You tell him you broke up with your boyfriend while he’s away for work, bunked up in a safe house in the middle of nowhere with shit reception, hearing your words as clear as day as if they weren’t the chopped-up version coming through his burner phone.
“It just…didn’t work out.”
It didn’t work out.
He pretends his stomach doesn’t pleasantly twist because he’d expected it to happen eventually. He’s not happy about it—although it does make the desert heat more bearable in his heavy tactical gear—and tells Soap to fuck off when he comments on it.
It was a one-time fuck because Simon doesn’t date. He’s tried in the past before he met you—the flowers, the late-night dinners—but with him being gone almost every other month (sometimes longer, shorter if he’s lucky), it never works out in the end. Sleeping with you twice would fall under that category, the quasi-relationship kind, and make everything messier than it needs to be. 
Just some fun, no strings, those are the words he promised.
If only he believed them.
He does, for all of two weeks until he’s home again, and it’s summer, so you’re wearing a flowy dress that shows off the long expanse of your legs. 
(He’s a goner—not even sure why he tried to think otherwise.)
That one time he’d promised turns into a second, both of you stumbling into your apartment after a night out. The music from the pub still thumping loudly underneath your floor as he pushes you against the front door, hands in your hair—on your waist, underneath your skirt, down your thigh to hitch it over his waist—teasing your mouth open with a swipe of his tongue across your bottom lip.
You make this delighted little noise in the back of your throat, arching into him, and his hand spans down your stomach, beneath your underwear, to nudge your messy clit with his knuckle, wanting to hear all the sounds you make now that he has you alone. 
A whiny cry of his name rewards him—jeans tightening around his waist at the sound—when his fingers go down, down until they press against your tight little hole, one finger pressing inside slowly. "If I make you cum, I get to fuck you here.”
You smile prettily, and it disarms him. “If you make me cum, you can fuck me however you want.”
Neither of you makes it to the bed, falling asleep on the living room floor instead, the blanket from the couch draped haphazardly over both of you with his arm curled over your waist.
That night had been a slip of judgment, a product of wanting something warm and soft after several months of only having his hand for company.
It happens again and again, and he keeps letting it happen until there’s no more hiding under the guise of just fun because it somehow turns into a lot more than that.
Simon can’t explain how it happens—maybe becoming something he can touch and hold and think about often—but he finds himself in an exclusive relationship with you that isn’t exactly a relationship because he’s unsure of the ins and outs that they entail.
(Always has been.)
His father was a shit role model, and it was always easier finding someone new who didn’t know his name or care about his scars and only wanted a nice fuck. There had never been any point in shooting for something serious when it was always out of the question for him, until now, that is.
He takes you to that over-rated restaurant overlooking the Thames Marcus never brought you to. A picture of you and him with the sunset in the background—your smile almost blinding in the photo—becomes his home screen, and he finds he doesn’t care when Soap has something to say about it.
He lets you do nonsensical shit, like buying small plants for his house that are surely going to die from him being gone before he comes up with the great idea to give you a key. It’s just a key.
(It’s more than just a key.)
Simon finds himself asking if he can come over more often throughout the week, which slowly moulds and shifts into nights filled with things other than sex—sleeping after a long day of work, cuddling on the couch, cooking together, going to the movies—he doesn’t try to make a big deal out of it because you used to hang out all the time without sex. 
(Somewhere, there’s a but in there.)
There’s still no label to whatever this is, and he wonders if you want him to be the first to say the thing you’ve both been dancing around for a little over…he can’t remember, but he knows it’s been long enough for your things to mix in with his at his house. 
Be with me because I’m yours, and you’re mine, that’s what he’s trying to say, and it’s never the right time. Men like him—a little broken, rough, and jagged around the edges sharp enough to cut—aren’t good with words like that.
(That’s what he thought.)
If he hadn’t seen you talking to a guy at the pub, eyes crinkling in that same sweet way whenever Simon makes you laugh, he wonders if he would’ve been the first to break from the start. He knows it’s your job as a bartender to be nice, but his jaw clicks at the sight of the guy leaning over the bar and into your space, almost too close.
The feeling doesn’t go away until he has you spread out on your mattress under him—clothes haphazardly peeled out of the way for him to put his mouth on you—your lips pursed tight around two of his fingers to give you something to focus on as his other hand works between your thighs, pressing down on your tongue when gurgled little sounds slip out.
He teases you with a small, pink vibrator he found inside your bedside table, your legs kicking out and toes curling into his calves.
“Mine. This is mine, love,” he groans, pressing you further into the bed with his weight. “Do you understand?”
You nod, tears pearling and leaking from the corner of your eyes.
“Lemme cum,” you whine, words muffled. “Simon, I want to cum. Please.”
He won’t lie that he’s close after jerking into his fist to the sight of you writhing on the sheets—swears he can feel his heartbeat throbbing against the back of his fingers—takes in your surprised expression when he pushes forward, impaling you on the first few inches of his cock.
His stomach twists from the squeal that escapes your throat, and fuck, your cunt, so hot and tight with little pulses that drive him crazy, only growing tighter when he turns up the speed on the vibrator.
“‘Mm, gonna cum. I’m—”
He grits his teeth as you start to flutter around his cock once he’s rooted inside you. “Go on—fuck—go on, love. Let me feel it.”
You look so perfect like this, like a dream: lips parted into an enticing little O with his name tumbling out in breathy mewls, tits hanging out from the bra he shoved to the side, eyes glassy and unfocused. 
“So fucking pretty.” He kisses your throat, panting into your sweat-slick skin, and it’s not long before he’s falling over the edge with you. 
Next time, he’ll have the courage to tell you: that you’re not someone he calls for a meaningless fuck on the weekend, that Simon misses you when he’s gone and can’t wait to come home, that he wants to try with you—except not when he’s balls deep and trembling inside your heavenly cunt.
But the smile he feels against his shoulder makes him think that maybe…
Maybe you already know.
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thebigbadbatswife · 2 days
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There comes a point where Simon finally admits that he hates your new boyfriend—not that he’s liked any of your past relationships over the years, but this one he’s more vocal about—with a name not worth remembering. Matt? Martin?
He’d stopped trying after his first week back from work.
“I don’t fucking trust him,” he says one night while at the pub right under your apartment; it’s become a weekly ritual of sorts when he’s on leave ever since meeting you there on Soap’s birthday several years back. 
“You say that about every guy I have you meet,” you tell him in that know-it-all voice that you always use with him. “You hardly even know him, and his name’s Marcus, by the way. It wouldn’t kill you to use it.”
He snorts. “Love, the bloke would put his cock in anyone with tits and a warm cunt.”
“He wouldn’t,” your voice is soft because maybe you already know.
He would.
You’re so fucking oblivious that you don’t even realize this, but there’s nothing except stars in your eyes whenever you look at (or even talk about) the Naval officer who thinks he’s some bigshot because he can fly a plane. 
Even now, at your boyfriend’s promotion after-party in some back alley nightclub, he’s hardly talked to you or offered to get you a drink. You’re always too nervous to order one by yourself, and only Simon—tall and imposing standing beside you—could have the grumpiest bartender reach for the blender to make a blended cocktail. 
When he comes back with your drink—too big fingers unfolding the tiny umbrella for you—he watches your boyfriend (Marcus) flirt with a girl in a tight leather dress on the other side of the room. It’s that moment that he decides he’s tired of you giving your attention to someone who doesn’t deserve it, tired of you lying belly up for men who only want to sink their teeth into you and leave once they’ve had their fill. 
He likes to think he’s a pretty good friend—opening your eyes to something better is a job he takes rather seriously.
“It’s just a bit of fun,” he says after coming back with your third margarita, a small amount of frothy liquid sloshing over the side when he sets it down in front of you. “It’s okay to want it.”
You bite your lip, eyes dropping down to where he’s patting his thigh. “Just fun?”
“Yes, love.” He smiles. “Just fun.”
Let me.
Whether you’re tipsier than he thought or he’s just really persuasive, it’s easy to get you crawling into his lap in the corner of the cracked leather booth. His hands wander the span of your smooth thighs where your short skirt doesn’t reach, and he muffles a groan in your shoulder when you start squirming against the tent in his jeans.
You say his name like a warning when his hands find their way under your skirt, yet you’re biting back a moan and don’t tell him to stop.
Simon undoes his jeans and shifts them down before pushing up the back of your skirt and adjusting your hips to watch the tip of his dick slide between the covered cleft of your ass. Nobody in the room can see what the both of you are doing with your skirt fanning around his lap, but someone could if they were truly looking, and that has him tugging your panties to the side so he can feel you.
"Your boyfriend is too stupid to realize you're sitting here riding my lap. What do you think he'd say if he saw you like this?"
 “W-wait, Simon!” you squeak. “What if he sees—”
He’s almost tempted to roll his eyes at your blind devotion—I’ll deal with it—dealing with it would be him making sure the prick never tries talking to you again.
Then, his fingers, like iron at your hips, jerk you back to impale you on his cock. "Fuck," he says, voice trembling around the edges.
“O-oh! It’s too—ah—too big!”
He wraps a hand around the slender slope of your throat, fingers digging into vulnerable flesh as he pulls you back until his lips are at your ear, nose pressing into the soft skin of your cheek. “Come on, love. I know you can take the whole thing. Right inside this tight cunt.”
Simon thrusts into you shallowly, just the tip going in and out, and you whine, little fingers scrabbling at his wrist—gasping and shivering and bucking in the trap of his arms.
A smirk curls at the edges of his mouth when he finally bottoms out in your hot-wet cunt for your boyfriend to see from the other side of the room. He'd laugh at how his jaw drops, but he can only manage little choked intakes of air at the feel of you wrapped so tightly around him.
“Squeeze my cock for me—fuck, there you go.” He presses a kiss below your ear and reaches down to pet your soaked clit with his thumb. Feels the moment you realize that your boyfriend is watching when you tense up.
“I’ll deal with it,” he says again and again until you’re melting into him, thighs trembling around his. “Promise. I promise…”
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I apologize if you see this again! I was trying to edit it, and it wouldn't format right with the gif. You can find part two here.
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