The loud speaker crackled to life, the inmates of Arkham varying stages of sedation and dissociation already exhausted by what was surely to be another inane announcement. Some, very cognizant of time no matter the drugs forced into their system, were mildly interested by the change in routine. Others who used their time to recover before escaping to wreak havoc on the city at large were irritated by the interruption of the few z’s they were able to catch.
What none of them expected was to hear the voice of the singular Pamela Isley rasping through the speakers. It wasn’t odd that she would stage a break out, there were plenty of previous noteworthy riots all due to the blatant mastication of salad while staring her down. Thanks Edward. Or the time scissors had been used to trim off her hip in order to be used in a tea. Thanks Jervis.
Needless to say, it was not unheard of, but it garnered the attention of those capable. Some sitting up on the cot they’d previously been rotting in, others leaning forward against the restraints that kept them tethered to the wall behind them in solitary. Not only was this a possible escape, there was tea here, someone had done something very stupid. Much like the good Doctor Fries, Pamela had little use for humanity at whole, so who had done what to trample on her pretty little toes.
“Good evening, Arkham, mostly to my fellow inmates. I would apologize for having lost my temper, but I’m not so I won’t.’
Those sedated began to notice it first, the light pressure on their chest, the way fingers twitched, the warmth at the back of the throat that eased the tissue raw from screaming. The cognizant ones, clever though they may be, took longer as they were attempting to find a way to turn the new development to their advantage without yet having the full details.
“Dr. Arkham decided to boast that we at large are easy to control, myself in particular as my only strength is my ability to chemically manipulate others at a base level.’ A soft hushing sound, a few inmates recognized the muffled protest of a gagged Jeremiah. “And that clearly, I do not belong on the list of dangerous Rogue as long as I’m kept contained in a metal cell with no access to the Earth and all her bounty.’
Eager anticipation begins to shift in those listening, this does not sound like the beginnings of a riot, Mother Nature’s fury unleashed on stone poorly founded. A few of the less inclined to be used as pawns prepare to barricade themselves in, lower ranking rogues that occasionally punched above their station in hopes of rising to elite status. Others, while still confused as to the end goal, are thrilled knowing chaos is soon to be had in the decrepit halls.
“As if I have not personally brought Gotham to its knees with only a briar rose. Taken control of the upper crust in order to smother the city into a lethargic feast for my precious babies.” A pause, the audible slow breath in, and the exhale that is so explicit that it’s practically felt against the skin. “Hearing it for years has been a mild irritant to say the least, from a bunch of misogynistic, egotistical, narcissistic apes.’
A few of the higher tiered rogues have begun to recognize the danger, even those who had not been unwise enough to taunt the avatar of Mother Nature. They hadn’t stopped it either, some muttering a choice curse.
“So before I leave, return to my cell for a bit of rest, I hope you all enjoy yourselves.’ Tone acidic, a click is heard as the switch is flipped to off.
Those not requiring visual aid notice the haze first, spilling from the vents usually used to administer heavy sedatives in the event of a riot. A system long since abandoned as the guards were usually also knocked out amongst the inmates leaving bodies and no one to transport back to cells. The growing clamour slowly quiets as some retreat further into their cells as throats grow thick, muscles taut. Or others take advantage of the long low buzz as cell doors are opened, red lights flickering to green.
What's going on here:
A collection of one to two parters of the inmates in Arkham Asylum
Rogue ship specific.
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Always a Gentleman MDNI 18+
Edward "The Riddler" Nygma x Selina "Catwoman" Kyle
wc: 1.621
song on repeat: She Keeps Me Up - Nickelback
In hindsight, it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. Where Selina was always very touchy, an on and off again annoyance to all, it was very unusual for the guards not to step in. They’d simply stood there, watching as Selina sidled closer to run those well manicured claws of hers along his arm. If nothing else was true, the guards at Arkham were thrilled for a chance to throw their weight around. Especially with him, he’d long since grown so familiar with the thud of knuckles against flesh he could name the guard blindfolded.
But they’d watched the two of them at the visitor’s table, Selina practically in his lap, exchanging gossip and did nothing. His luck just wasn’t that good, but Edward had been too willing to ignore it, another missed sign. Looking back on it he’d been willfully oblivious to what should have been red flags as her touch had gotten bolder and all they did was stare. Not that Selina’s wandering hand left many brain cells left to focus for the common man, but he just so happened to be extraordinary.
So why had he let the way she’d traced the curve of his ear distract him from the not so delicate sneeze that had escaped her? A well known response to only one thing, pollen from a certain plant goddess in Gotham. And yet he’d just offered the box of tissues on the table to her and continued talking as if that hadn’t been a flag so crimson Azrael could have used it for a cloak. Because after months in Arkham’s less than tender embrace he was enjoying the contact.
Idiot.
Not that his current situation was all that terrible, though his wrists ached from his continued attempt to pull them farther than the chain looped through the hook in the table allowed. Something she could easily rectify, if her hands weren’t currently engaged in attempting to make sure he looked as though he’d stuck something in an electric socket. Each yank at his hair was welcome though, feeling the jarring stop of his hands through his body as he tried to slide his hands where they desperately needed to be.
Edward knew that she was aware of the problem because every time the chain rattled she shivered, her hips rocking with a twist that had his fingers digging into the flesh he was able to reach. Sadist, he wanted to complain, but that would mean pulling back from the slippery back and forth that kept threatening to melt his spine. It took practice to kiss like this, surviving on quick gasps as the tips of her fingers pressed just hard enough to hold him in place.
He’d asked once what the point was, and she’d explained the way of depriving oxygen was nicer than a hand to the throat, created a subtle anxiety that heightened the experience. Of course that didn’t help him now, letting out a low groan of frustration as his hands were stymied again by cuff and chain. The amused chuckle that passed from her mouth to his was almost enough incentive to dislocate his thumb and pull his hand through.
“Say please.’
“Please, pretty kitty.’
It wasn’t as if the guards were paying attention anymore, he could give her the treat of his shamelessness, following her receding mouth with a soft cry of outrage. Her murmured I have to see what I’m working with did not appease him in the slightest, taking advantage of her sliding onto the table to squeeze as her backside slid over his palms. Both understandings of that sentence were untrue. Edward had seen Selina pick her way out of handcuffs while hung upside down and being repeatedly dunked in water. And as for the other? Well, they had their on and off again of someone needed a particular itch scratched.
“Again.’
How she could still function was beyond him. Though she hadn’t been run through the gambit that was Strange’s attempts to medicate her into a willing victi- patient. Curling his fingers over her thighs, he squeezed as he struggled to not simply dive between her parted thighs and the damp denim between. If he had his switchblade the pants would have long since stopped being a problem, managing to drag his gaze upwards as he repeated himself and watched something glint between her lips as her jaw shifted.
Considering how thorough the two of them had been, he felt surprise in dull ripples beneath the drowning rush of need that was making it harder and harder to breathe. Fingertips dug in as she pulled the thin strips of metal from her mouth and applied them holding his gaze. It was the attempt at nonchalant expression that pulled a smile from his lips, as if he weren’t able to see the rapid thud of her pulse like a trapped animal in her neck, of the third bead of swear rolled down her sternum to get lost beneath the low cut cropped sweater.
“I suppose asking you to keep your hands on the table is off the table, Eddie?’
“Correct.’
The shiver did delightful things to her for him, letting out a low appreciative sigh as his left wrist was released. But he would need both to wrangle her, reaching behind him to grab fabric and pull the shirt over his head. By the time he’d gotten it down his arm the right hand was free and he balled it haphazardly to shove beneath her as she lifted her hips. Later he could apologize for the way his nails scraped over her skin as he helped her work the tight pants off her hips and down her legs, if she cared.
Edward wasn’t entirely sure that she would, ducking beneath her lifted legs to press a kiss to the back of her thigh before working his way between them. If anyone else laughed at him the way she did he’d have killed them, but the genuine delight in her voice made it tolerable, as did feeling the way her muscles shifted as she squirmed trying to work the jeans off her ankles. The way she arched on the table as he yanked her hips tight to his didn’t hurt either, or the way his name was a shaky exhale as the bottom of her sweater slid higher up her ribs.
It wasn’t enough, grinding against her like some jock bedding his first cheerleader, but it helped soothe the ache, gave him just a bit of room to breathe as he rutted against her. She could be almost as detrimental as the drugs that corrupted the streets of Gotham, leaning in when her hands reached for him, eager for the way those fingers twined locks of hair and pulled. Never too hard, just enough to send pinprick sharp sparks skittering down his spine.
“Pants?’
At least he could have solace that her clever tongue was as hindered as his own, feeling one of her hands like water running down from the crown of his head, over his chest leaving trails of fire in its wake to push impatiently at the waistband. She was right, of course, but he was loathe to relinquish the feel of her slick skin and the way her body shifted. The feel of her ribs under his palm as they slid higher, the vibration of her heart racing.
Didn’t mind the dull ache of her heels digging in, attempting to force the degraded elastic band to slide lower. If anything it was an incentive, hips grinding against her as he unconsciously tried to move away from the unpleasant sensation.The noise that pulled from Selina’s throat almost did him in, barely managing to restrain himself, fumbling one handed with the front of his pants. Hard to do when neither of them seemed capable of realizing it would require separation, knees going weak when she whimpered as he pulled away finally.
He wasn’t so arrogant as to believe he was the only one capable of pulling that noise from her, but Edward knew it was a very small club. And he had the practice, dragging glans along slick flesh before pressing in with a snap of his hips. And another, and another, bullying his way in as the slick walls clenched around him. Was that an orgasm already? She’d be furious about that later, setting a punishing pace that set his teeth on edge.
-od evening, Arkham, mostly to my fellow inma-
The words drifted in one ear and out the other, leaving only torn fragments in their wake that made little sense. And it was nothing he wanted to hear, the sharp note at the end of Selina’s huffed exhales were important, the way she panted his name as her body coiled around him mattered. The sharp clap of their bodies meeting blotted out the rest, feeling places where her sweater had rubbed the skin raw as her teeth and lips left their mark along his neck and shoulder.
He was expending far too much concentration on simply holding skin and muscle between his teeth as he came and not biting into it like some sort of crazed animal. Not a fan of that, desperately trying to recapture even a shred of his beloved decorum that was in absolute tatters. But that was impossible when Selina’s fingers were stroking his hair, quiet praise for a job well done and coaxing at the same time.
“One more? Please, for me…’
And again, and again, until the purred words were ragged, his forehead pressed into the crook of her neck. He was a gentleman after all, and a gentleman always acquiesced to a lady’s polite request.
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Lick of Fire Taste of Brimstone MDNI 18+
Deacon Jospeh Blackfire x Garfield "Firefly" Lynns
wc: 1.264
song on repeat: Killing in the Name - Rage Against the Machine
He felt feverish, which was not new by any means, but this particular fire wreaking havoc was not his own. It was an intruder, unwelcome, glaring sightlessly ahead of him as he battled against the compulsions whispered in the back of his mind. Seek, touch, taste, he would not. The only voice he listened to was his own, the commandments set ahead him his own making not… whatever this was. Even the slow slide of the door on its track did not assuage his suspicions.
A test, he knew that to be true to the marrow of his bones and yet still he rose, shambling forward on limbs heavy. It was something on the air, hands gripping the door frame as though to stop the rest of him from leaving, head falling back and seeing what almost seemed to be sparks dancing under the too bright lights. Brightness to cause discomfort, light meant to make sleep difficult. A low considering noise in his throat sent subtle vibration lower, leaning farther and feeling joints stretch and ache.
And who had the woman been, he’d been roused by the bitter bite of the voice without truly hearing what it had said. Not one of his flock, head slowly lowering and arresting as his eyes caught those far too close. The smell of ash and singed hair filled his nose when he took in a breath to speak, settled against the back of his throat and dammed it. Instead an arched brow is offered, a silent reprimand ignored as the Firefly shifted closer.
“I’ve things to confess.’
That was not his problem, jaw shifting angrily as throat is cleared to lash out at the blasphemer. His gospel was not a joke, the faith he coaxed from the coal dull eyes of non believers not to be mocked. But the graze of fire scarred fingertips skimming over his stomach is hard to ignore, the way they creep slow and inexorably up his chest like licks of flame tempting.
“I’m no priest, boy.’
Even to his own ears the words aren’t harsh enough, a hiss of irritation at best, not the thunderous disapproval he’d meant to convey. It’s enough to cause Joseph to take a step back, fingertips dragging along rust pitted metal. The unintended invitation is taken advantage of, clammy palm sticky as it presses insistently, stuttering down to shamelessly grope him beneath thin protection of fabric. This close he can see the fire is attempting to devour the other as well, it’s there burning deep in his eyes. But where he’s fighting it, Garfield allows the heat to drive him as it will.
It would be so easy to give in to temptation, to sink into the scalding waters and allow it to over take sense and dignity. With each breath the urge to submit is harder to resist, feeling the scrape of chapped lips against his throat as the hand squeezes rhythmically. Relentless, demanding, and almost a century of iron will threatens to waver beneath the onslaught. A master of personal fate threatened to be forced by insidious means to become collared slave to a mindless lust that croons even as it flogs.
But at least it can be on his terms, cupping the man’s shoulders and pushing. Down, not away, and his body jerks when force is met with so little resistance. Almost topples over the man who’d fallen to his knees with more ease than the supplicants who’d once craved his teachings. The back of his head hits the wall with a thunk, as if he could manage to knock loose the claws that are burrowing into his thoughts. The rough pass of lips low on his belly guides his hand, cradling the patchwork scalp of soft bristle and scar tissue.
He barely has time to reset his feet, shoulders pressing against the wall as he stares up at the ceiling. Decades of self control struggling to regain some measure of control failing miserably, hushed praise falling from his lips as fabric is dragged out of the way. The feeling of the other man’s mouth moving lower before the obstacle is removed fans the furious flames that threaten to steal his wits. As does the shameless way unshaven cheek scraped against his hip as his cock is cradled in the man’s palm.
It is a kind of devotion, Joseph supposes, though he refuses to look down, unwilling to accept this surrender gracefully. Eyelids flutter, struggling not to close them at the heat that breezes past the new slick glans, breath catching with each shameless drag of tongue as the hand slowly encircles. Tactical retreat, feeling teeth catch foreskin and tug, but the way the fingers tighten against stiffening flesh. It’s not enough, by any means, hand pressing, nails digging as he twists and is rewarded by the rasp of chapped lips over exposed sensitive flesh.
The lack of technique in itself is seductive, taunting, thrusting harshly into the heat and feeling the flesh reluctantly give. Who is he to deny such desperation, feeling the jerk of Garfield’s head as he’s forced to take the head of Joseph’s cock to the back of his throat. The odd knock against his knee is distracting, finally forced to look down and finding Garfield grinding the heel of his hand against his still confined length.
A show of modesty, or was he just a mindless thing of lust, it was obvious he had little experience in fellating but the lack of self preservation made up for it. Though that could be the drive to seek release, which he struggled against, a hand scruffing him like a poor mannered mongrel and dragging him where he did not want to go. And he did not want to go, did not want to end this moment of smoldering that would end with the taste of ash in his mouth and the cold of his cell.
But the whines and whimpers while he tried to thrust even deeper, as if there farther to go, breath whistling past clenched teeth. As if the hand Garfield had placed on his hip wasn’t frantically shoving when he was forced to try and swallow around the flesh ruthlessly grinding just behind his soft palate. Choking as Joseph came, spine curving with the intensity that bordered on pain, hand slipping as the man on his knees managed to wrench his head free.
Not that he tried to escape by any means, staring down at the dazed expression, the flushed skin as the mouth opened wide. Shameless, feeling a sliver of control assert itself, a lie that he willingly accepted watching the way the mess is cleared away. With sharp sucks that make his already weak knees threaten to collapse altogether, watching hazily at the way he cupped the hanging testes to lick upwards, pressing the flagging cock upwards to then suck at the tip.
Too much, but the grin offered was a challenge and Joseph managed to avoid kicking the man in the chest to force him away. Body tense as that furnace coaxed his cock back to stiffness in spite of itself, teeth dragging foreskin over glans. The moan in response to the heel that slammed down over his hand made the room still, the silence broken by heavy breathing as Joseph felt the hand slide away. A silent invitation, cautiously accepted, seeing whites beneath lids that fluttered as a groan rattled in the other's throat.
There were all sorts of acceptable supplication, Joseph supposed, watching the man’s breath grow ragged as he ground his heel.
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