#fuckin plot twist at the end of the day
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Work was an absolute mind fuck today omg I've not moved from my sofa since getting in. How the fuck am I meant to carry on
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the friend that you are
tags: MDNI, smut (DP), afab gn reader (they/them pronouns), kiri x baku x reader, the beginning of a triad probably, eijiro is a grimy little opportunist and we love him for it, dubcon (reader is hit with a sex quirk), there is absolutely no plot here and this now feels like a crack fic to me but no level of cringe will stop me
wc: 2.2k
Eijiro can't think of a time he's ever driven so fast in his life.
but when Bakugou—pro hero Dynamight—texts him "SOS" without any further context, it feels warranted. he can't pull into the driveway fast enough, fighting with the seatbelt for only a second before he's up the walk and through the door—already hardening his skin in anticipation of a threat he's sure exists. he hears a whimper that sounds an awful lot like you, and that has him nearly kicking his best friend's bedroom door down—
"oh," he says, blinking dumbly at the scene before him.
you, nearly folded in half and naked as the day you were born at the end of the bed, split wide open on Katsuki's cock, in tears and babbling with almost no coherency. Katsuki, flushed red from head to toe, who hasn't even looked up to see that there's an intruder in his bedroom. Eijiro takes a step back, already stuttering out a flustered and half conscious apology like he wasn’t just called here—
"wait, Ei—" Katsuki rasps, and it freezes Eijiro in place because he sounds panicked in a way he doesn't recognize, "they got hit with a fuckin' quirk—"
the thrust of his hips punctuates every staggered phrase out of his mouth. "been at this for hours. s'just getting worse—"
Eijiro knows immediately what's being asked of him and can't find it in himself to say a word. the pauses stretches on between them.
“c’mon, Red,” Katsuki is all but begging now, and Eijiro can almost see the way that each second that passes has his friend's heart skipping painfully in his chest. “you have to—just, do something—“
Eijiro feels his own heart drop at the way Katsuki is so visibly in distress—face contorted both in pleasure and genuine fear. his gaze falls to you—flushed with fever, writhing and sweating through the blankets Katsuki had evidently tried to swaddle you in. he doubts you’re even lucid at this point—your stuttered pleas even less coherent than they were only a minute ago. every roll of Katsuki’s hips has you gasping—gulping for air and twisting your body in search of more. against his own morality, Eijiro feels his cock stir in his jeans.
“did you—have they—” he starts hesitantly, unsure how to ask. unsure how to proceed.
“came fuckin’—a lot,” Katsuki grits his teeth, trying to keep his grip on you—trying to keep you still in your search for some pleasure he can’t provide—not on his own. “don’t know what fuckin’ shit quirk this is but i can’t—”
he’s cut off mid sentence by the force of your next orgasm—Eijiro watches the breath get knocked out of him and it looks painful. Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut tight, his whole body rigid as you try to take more than he can give. he doesn’t stop the movement of his hips—doesn’t dare do anything else but bully his way into your slick, swollen heat, but it’s clear that he’s exhausted.
Eijiro sighs, running a hand over his face. it's not as if he's never thought of this—it's not as if he's never fucked his fist to the thought of his best friend fucking you in the private shame of his own room—but this is uncharted territory between the three of you. he decides that that conversation can be had another time—after he’s sure you’ll be alright. after all, it would be antithetical of everything he’s sworn himself to be for him to turn away from you right now.
“alright,” he breathes, reaching for his belt. he rids himself of his pants with urgency, shamefully hard in his briefs. “you’ll have to move. you alright to get underneath?”
Katsuki pulls out of you with a broken, exhausted groan that goes straight to Eijiro’s cock—he tries not to think about it. he sees the blond nod in his peripheral, and watches as he leans over your limp body.
“baby,” he rasps softly, pressing a kiss to your sweat-slicked forehead, “Red’s gonna help me make it better, alright? just a little more for me?”
you whine underneath Katsuki, arching into his affection, and Eijiro has the thought that he ought to look away from such intimacy, but he doesn't. you're rolled you to your side so the blond can slide in next to you, and then he pulls you up until you’re draped across his chest. Katsuki’s feet stay planted on the floor and with the way that you’re spread open over his thighs, Eijiro can see everything. he feels downright grimy for the way he cannot look away from the slick that drools from your abused little hole and disappears down the curve of your ass, nor from the way Katsuki’s cock still shines with it—rock hard and nearly purple with the strain of trying to keep his own orgasm at bay, cradled between your cheeks. he fights the urge to brush his thumb through the arousal that’s collected at the tip.
“how—do you want to—”
“just fuckin'—put it in,” Katsuki rasps, clearly resigned to the situation.
Eijiro blinks, unsure he’s heard his friend correctly—but there’s nothing but pure desperation on the smaller man’s face, and it clicks.
he’s really doing this.
he shoves his briefs down unceremoniously, exhaling sharp and harsh. he takes himself in hand, pumping once, and then twice—completely unnecessary, because he’s been ready to sink inside you since he walked in the door.
“i’m sorry about this, sweetheart,” he finds himself murmuring down to you, trying to at least be kind.
“p-please—” it’s a broken sob that leaves your lips as you arch back against Katsuki, “please—”
it’s all the redhead needs to line himself up and push forward, unable to stop the gasp that leaves him when you surround him in a vice grip that puts his fist to shame.
he splits you open carefully, or tries to, until one hard kick of your hips sucks him in to the hilt.
you wail, straining in Katsuki’s hold as you fight to get closer. he goes rigid with the effort it takes not to cum right then. you thrash beneath him, trying to fuck yourself on his cock—
“alright,” Katsuki grits, trying to adjust underneath you. Eijiro recognizes the version of Katsuki in front of him to be not unlike pro hero Dynamight—a little cold, focused as if it’s an emergency. he supposes this is also an emergency, and feels some guilt about it also maybe being the best day of his life. “stay there for a second. just let me—”
Eijiro watches his best friend spit into his hand and smear it over himself, and knows suddenly and with certainty that there is no coming back from this. Katsuki looks properly debauched, flushed from his cheeks down to his neck and covered in a sheen of sweat, as he takes himself in hand and lines up with your puckered entrance.
“don’t you have to get them—”
“no,” Katsuki cuts him off, sparing him a glance as he pushes into your body, “already—fuck—tried this today—”
Eijiro can’t say anything, then, because he feels everything—the squeeze of your slippery insides, and the curve of his best friend’s cock pressed snuggly against his own, separated only by that thin barrier.
“oh fuck,” he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. he cracks one open to look at you and immediately wishes he hadn’t.
you’ve gone silent for the first time since he walked in, frozen in some picture of pleasure that he knows is exactly what you needed. your pretty mouth hung open, eyes rolled back into your head, suspended in time between the two of them—
Eijiro’s hips kick forward, seemingly of their own will, and you’re brought back to the present. you clamp down around him hard, and Katsuki must feel it too, because he lets out a strangled whimper that does well to possess Eijiro completely.
and he can’t stop, then—carving out a space for himself inside you, selfishly, he thinks—but he can’t bring himself to be gentle. the pace of his thrusts are brutal and evidently necessary, because for the first time you go pliant against Katsuki’s chest, content to take everything he’s giving you.
and he wants to give you everything.
he feels Katsuki’s cock slide against his—weakly, like he’s at least trying to keep up with Eijiro but can’t quite do it—and it unlocks something primal inside of him.
“you just needed stuffed full, huh?” he hears himself say, leaning down to bite at the soft give of your stomach, and under the curve of your breast. he has no idea if you can even hear him at this point, but he thinks you might, judging by the way you go rigid underneath him.
“shit, ei—” Katsuki gasps—if it’s a warning, he ignores it.
“just needed these sweet little holes plugged up,” he coos, pausing his taunting to fasten his lips around a nipple and suck, scraping it gently with sharpened teeth until he feels it pebble under his tongue.
you cry out, shaking like a leaf underneath his onslaught. he feels half out of his mind at the sound of your choked moans and the slick suction of you pulling him back in every time he pulls out.
“poor thing,” he murmurs, angling his hips until he feels the head of his cock hit where you need it the most, “you just needed both of us to make you feel good, huh?”
he looks down to watch himself disappear inside you, and sees Katsuki’s thick fingers reach over your hip to rub tight little circles into your achy clit. the contrast between his friend’s uncharacteristic gentleness and his own newfound brutality makes him dizzy.
he knows with certainty that it’s going to make you cum. knows that it'll be enough to break the hold the quirk has on you. you just need a little more.
“c’mon sweetheart,” he breathes, leaning down to nip at your jaw, “let’s make Kat cum, hm? he’s working so hard to help you.”
he feels out of his body and knows he is way out of line when he reaches down between your bodies to spread his fingers around where Katsuki still fucks your ass. he brushes his fingers over the base of the blonde’s cock and against his balls—tutting at how tight they are. Katsuki lets out a groan that sounds like it was torn from him against his will.
“fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“he’s hurting for you baby,” Eijiro whispers into the curve of your throat as he picks up the pace of his own thrusts, “you gonna make him cum?”
it’s a chain reaction, then—he feels all the breath leave your body as every muscle locks up—freezing in time for one devastating moment before you’re pushed over the edge. howling like a wild animal and fluttering rapidly around both cocks stuffed deep inside you. it sends Katsuki hurtling toward his own release—Eijiro can’t help but be wholly overcome by the way his best friend’s face contorts with pleasure and unbridled relief—
his own orgasm surprises him and he lets go inside your body, feeling you wring him dry. he fights the grip of your silken walls to fuck every drop of it deep inside you, hooked on some possessive instinct his brain has latched onto. his hips stutter with the effort and the breath that leaves him is ragged and spent, hot against your rapidly cooling body.
you jolt underneath him with little aftershocks as his hips roll forward gently, and he tells himself it’s for the sake of making sure the quirk has well and truly worn off. he feels Katsuki soften inside your body and he feels stuck—unable to pull himself from the feeling of both of you wrapped around him and against him—so he lets out a breath that sounds more fatigued than he feels. hopes it covers the way he wants to keep taking.
“let me out, Red,” Katsuki says weakly, and it snaps him out of it—at least a little bit. Eijiro chuckles, sliding out of you gently and moving back some so the blond can roll you back to your side. for one fleeting moment, Eijiro catches sight of the cum leaking out of both of your puffy little holes, and fights the urge to clean you up with his tongue.
Katsuki tucks you in with the cleanest blankets he can find and lays flat on his back next to you, an arm slung over his face as his breathing returns to normal. Eijiro watches and feels removed—like a voyeur seeing something he shouldn’t.
“the fuck are you standin’ there for?”
eijiro jumps, eyes snapping to katsuki, who is still not looking at him.
“i—uh. do you want me to—”
“just lay down, Ei,” Katsuki sighs, letting his arm drop from his face to reach over and hit the empty space on the other side of you. “we’ll fuckin’…talk about it later.”
Eijiro nods, exhaling shakily as he makes it to the side of the bed in record time, climbing in beside you gingerly. Katsuki doesn’t move his arm—just clasps a warm, calloused hand around Eijiro’s shoulder and it feels like a silent , affectionate affirmation he didn’t know he needed.
“thanks. for helping,” Katsuki whispers gruffly, eyes still closed. Eijiro hums, relaxing under his hold. your breath puffing slow and sweet in his ear.
“yeah. of course.”
#don’t. don’t#kiribaku x reader#kiribaku x y/n#kirishima x reader#bakugou x reader#kiribaku x reader smut#bakugou smut#kirishima smut#mha smut#fic: the friend that you are#bea writes ♡#shh ☾
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top three changes to the star wars franchise?
Like, top three things I would change if I was in charge of the franchise top to bottom?
This is Big Cheating calling it "one change", but scrap the prequels. The original trilogy already implied an incredibly simple by-the-numbers dark fantasy origin story for Obi-Wan and Anakin and if we strip away the space veneer we can easily see that Anakin's original backstory was implied to be "prodigy warrior-wizard is tempted by dark magic (and an established evil sorcerer-emperor who has clearly been in power for more than a scant 18 years by the time of the original trilogy) which slowly corrupts and twists him into a monster who eventually has a fight with obi-wan that he loses, also he has a relationship with a woman who survives to raise Leia for at least a few years". Those are the only points you need to hit, and you could tell a very compelling simple-meal-well-made sword and sorcery adventure with a guaranteed tragic ending. The original prequels fail at holding to the ONLY points of canon they needed to hit - the innately corruptive power of the dark side SLOWLY leading to Anakin's downfall, the empire being an existing threat for a long time and the jedi correspondingly being an ANCIENT religion rather than being less ancient than 9/11, and Padme being alive enough for Leia to remember her a little bit. Close your eyes, clear your mind, let the tropes flow through you - a By-The-Numbers Story will come to you and you will see the completely inoffensive prequel tragedy we could've had. Also, never show Yoda, preserve the fun twist in the original movies.
Easy change for this one. Finn's a force-user with a plot about inspiring a stormtrooper rebellion, another plot that literally writes itself, also let the sequel trio actually all hang out for more than five fuckin minutes because the only thing that ever made Star Wars work was the raw charisma of the actors having a good time and the chemistry was really solid for the only time in the final movie they were allowed to share screentime.
And while we're gutting the sequels, how about letting the hero's victories actually fucking matter. Luke gets to actually reinvigorate the jedi way and doesn't have all his victories ripped away in the name of sequel bait, and can serve as an extremely powerful but very busy Jedi Ex Machina who turns up in the darkest hour to save the day, Mandalorian-s1-finale style. The Empire doesn't just get magically replaced with Empire 2, Now With Less Charisma, let the threat be something actually new or a natural consequence of a newly liberated galaxy in sudden turmoil - feudal tyrants ruling over planetary fiefdoms squabbling to fill the Emperor's power-vacuum, more sith lords coming out of the woodwork now that their greatest rival is gone. Leia and the other rebel leaders struggling to reinstate some semblance of democracy in a scarred and shattered galaxy too accustomed to the crushing totalitarianism of the empire. How goddamn unoriginal to start a sequel by undoing every happy ending from the original series for retreaded drama, as if the universe could only ever hold three problems in it.
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corrupt!Nanami
A/N: For @mozlov. Enjoy! 🫶🏽
corrupt!Nanami shifted personalities like flipping off the light switch on a dark stormy night: Your big soft bear was more savage than ever. "You're not listening. She's not takin time off. And as long as y/n works here, so do I. End of fuckin story." Nanami snarls at Yaga. Rolling and flexing his shoulders like he's getting ready for a fight. He's always so ready to box these days. Especially over you. "Nami, its okay. Let's just go-" You're pulling at his dress shirt, afraid shits bout to go down. But Yaga simply holds up his hand for silence. "If you can control yourself while we figure out your condition.. Y/n can stay, but-" Nanamis already taking a step forward, eyes narrowed. You gotta put yourself in between them to make sure your husband doesn't swing. "We'll allow you on the grounds for visitation but you simply can't teach like this. Not at the moment, Kento." Nanami stares at him coldly for a moment before turning to you. The adoration in his eyes gives you whiplash, but it's relief when he puts away the malevolent beast and returns your loving husband. "Long as she's good, I'm good." Said with too much conviction, slowly rubbing a thumb over your bottom lip, shallowly dippin between your lips to tease the tip of your tongue. You gasp, eyes wide at at how quick Nanami goes through the motions. Fuckin guy is now starin at you like you're his prey. "But she's takin the day off." He quickly pulls you from the room without another word, Yaga starin at Nanami's back in utter disbelief.
corrupt!Nanami turns out to be fuckin elated not to be a teacher anymore and quickly loses his dedication to the cause. He's only interested in the art of slaughter, no longer needing a valid reason to pull out his cleaver. Tries, and often fails, to keep that shit to a minimum. Dont get it twisted, Nanami's a murderous bastard. Isn't limited to just killing curses anymore but anyone that gets in his way. Yet.. he's aware how that fucks with your conscience. Knows he can sleep like a baby after but doesn't fuck with how that shit keeps you up at night. So he hides his bloody clothes after a long day, making sure to shower before coming to bed and scooping you into his arms. Falls asleep peacefully as his mind flashes scenes from his lastest kill.
corrupt!Nanami no longer asks your permission for shit anymore. Bent over to pick somethin up? That ends up with your husband puttin you on all fours, giving you back breaking back shots as your try to crawl away. "Quit that, y/n. Told yo fine ass bout doin that shit, right? Bendin over so just so I can see.. 'S all your fault.. You know I can't help it. Ass is too perfect to ignore." It's worse when you try to work out. Always sneaks up from behind to grab you, accusin you of excersing for hours just to tease him. So you find your self in Nanami's lap, cock warming him as you try to catch your breath from your workout. "Aww.. Poor baby, so tired. Don't worry, won't take long. Dicks been so hard watching this whole time. Help me baby, please. You're the one that did this to me.." Christ you cant even get any sleep round your torturer, most nights waking up to his dick hard between your thighs. This times he's awake, thrusting slowly as he holds you to him tight, growling your name at your ear. "Been waitin for you to get up. Look what you did to me.. Throwing that ass on me in your sleep. Come on, y/n. Lemme fuck. Took everything in me not to fill your sleepy lil pussy. Deserve a reward, huh? Gonna help me out?" Not like he needs it since you already feel his first load starting to dry on your thighs.
corrupt!Nanami doesn't have any more patience for you excuses on why you can't give him a baby. Tired as fuck of talking to you about it. So takes it to the next level and starts to plot on you, replacing your birth control with placebos. Then.. He waits to catch you off guard one pitch black night when you're walking to your car from class. You're energy completely drained, you just don't hear him swiftly comin at you from the side. A huge gloved hand blanketing your lips, trapping your scream. Nanami's snatches your wrist together, brawny body restraining you to the car. You struggle against him, too fuckin weak to curse him due to your overwhelming day. But he knows that already; deceitful ass went through alotta trouble to make sure your itinerary was extra full today. "Shhhh." You ignore him, the familiar voice and planes of his muscled chest against yours back not registering, buckin and tryin with all your might to break free. Fuckin turnin Nanami on watchin you attempting to escape, juicy ass repeatedly trapping his dick between your cheeks as you wiggle wildly against him. He ain't waiting a second longer. Fuck your screams, he'll deal with whoever interrupts him accordingly. Lets go of your mouth to rip at your bottoms like they're paper, making your struggles double. Might as well be laying limp, absolutely no match for the 1st grade. Nanami unsheathes his cock, spitting in his hand generously and lubing up. You're body's tense as fuck when you feel him stab through your opening. Pitiful insides clutching his dick like a dear old friend. "Loosen the fuck up woman.." The fuck? "Nami?!" He let's go of your wrists, slamming his hands on either side of you to trap you further. "I told you to be quiet." Snatches your head back by your hair and thrustin the rest of his dick into you. "Nami!" Shrill cry piercing the air. It's uncomfortable without foreplay to prepare you, still he digs you out without remorse. "Shhhh, y/n.. shhh." Nanami squishes you to the car, molding your body to his. Strokin deep as he can, like he'll never see you again. Literally fuckin loud moans from your throat, so damn good that its not your fault your gettin wet; slick building and forming a white ring around him. "Shhhh. Screamin your fuckin head off, baby.. So you not gone listen? Never do. Just like when I told you I wanted to breed this perfect cunt, make you give me a pretty baby. But you didn't listen then either. Now look what you made me do." So that's what this is? The revelation makes you try to get away again but Nanami's hold on your locks keeps you right where he wants you. Sharp yanks that makes you shriek, scalp stinging. "H-hurts, Nami. 'M sorry. So sorry." You whine to him, body fallin pliant against your car. But your husband rolls his eyes. He aint buyin your BS this time. "Naw, you gonna take this nut. Gonna give me my baby, woman." Pulling you off the car and into his body, your husband pummels your lil puss likes he's in heat. "Ahhh fuck, y/n.. Love you. Love you more than anything, finally gonna show you how much, honey." You're disgusted. At doin something this at the school. At him for startin a family like this. Most importantly, at yourself for still loving him, knowing that this changed nothing between the two of you. Even as he breeds your lil puss without consent. "Here it comes- ohshitohshit! Daaaamn, y/n.. Got so much for you. Mmmm.. So good for me. Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you so fuckin much. Only want a baby with you. Only you, y/n. Always been only you." Youre whining when his hips still, Nanami pressin his dick deep as possible when he finally impregnates you. "Love you so fuckin much, honey." "Love you too, Kento.. Fuckin asshole." He chuckles, pulling out and tucking you into the car. "Let's go home, sweetheart. Gonna make your pretty lil pussy cum before I fill her up again." "Kay, Nami."
#black reader#black fanfiction#black writer#all readers#all welcome#all women are beautiful#smut#dirty talk#creamp!e#sub reader#submisive and breedable#dub con#dubious consent#nanami kento x black reader#nanami x black!reader#nanami kento x reader#nanami kento x you#nanami kento x y/n#nanami smut#jjk smut
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Five Days - A Joel Miller Series
Summary: Joel Miller comes back into your life unexpectedly after a gap of thirty years, and stirs up all kinds of memories and longing. Now, as you're stationed on an outpost for five days alone with the man you stupidly let go of all those years ago, you have a chance to confront him about your past life together and all the things you wished you’d said and done.
But Joel’s different now, and you know you need to tread carefully. Joel Miller is not the same man you once knew in another life.
A slow burn romance set in the post apocalyptic world, approx. twenty or so years after the initial Cordyceps outbreak.
Pairing: Post-Outbreak Joel Miller x MatureF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. However reader is of a similar age range as Joel; in her late forties/early fifties. Joel is slightly older at 56.)
Chapter Word Count: 3.8k
Series Masterlist
☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻
Chapter notes: You've arrived in Jackson. Now it's time to formulate a plan on tackling the threat of the infected horde. Nothing too heavy to note here in this chapter, although there is some angst. Joel makes his appearance.
Enjoy! 🖤
Previous Chapter
The following morning, Joel Miller doesn’t hear his name being yelled over the mitre saw, lowering it to cut through the wooden beam he slides perpendicular to the blade.
Saw dust puffs out in a beige cloud at the end of the table, dispersed by the breeze, and through it he sees his younger brother coming into view.
He jabs at the button with a stubby thumb stopping the saw and wipes his blistered hands on a dank cloth hanging out the back pocket of his scuffed and beaten denim.
He feels the irritating graze of an embedded splinter already nestling into his pointer finger, and his eyes sting from the blow back. He makes a mental note to look for any goggles on his next scavenging mission.
Joel scans the work being done on the foundations to the plot on the left of him approvingly, although his expression doesn’t change; twisted up in a knot of constant frowns that's as regular as the weather. Several houses are going up as planned, and he’s on track to fill the quota he promised Maria he’d deliver by the fall.
Then he watches, with a slight mirth as he shakes his head in haughty derision, as Tommy Miller channels John Baxter from A Fist Full Of Dollars. Strutting towards him with that stupid white Stetson perched on his head, and all he’s missing is a gold star badge pinned to his lapels and a six shooter resting on his hip.
“They were fuckin’ right!” Tommy exclaims as he gavottes up to big bro.
“Who was?” Joel asks, dumbfounded.
“Shit, ya don’t know?” Tommy rattles, the jet of his hair under the Stetson appearing damp from the sweat as it catches the sun. Oiled black curls frame his grizzly face that Joel notices is ageing a little more now. Fatherhood, he presumes. “Newbies. Took ‘em in yesterday mornin', five of ‘em.”
Joel tosses down the cloth and retreats back under his workshop canopy lazily with Tommy pulling up the gauntlet. A constant shadow that plagues him when he'd rather just get on with the job at hand.
Gossip isn't his forte, despite Tommy feeling the need to run off the comings and goings of the commune to Joel on an almost daily basis. However, being in the know tends to help him navigate this tight knit community where everyone seems to know everything about everyone, much to Joel's tempestuous chagrin.
“Yeah, n’ what are they right ‘bout exactly? Forgot m'crystal ball today.” Joel drinks from a cloudy glass of homemade lemonade that’s far too sour for his liking; needs more sugar, he thinks.
His brown eyes squint out into the sunlight making them look amber as he sucks the tart taste from his tongue. He's made a whole jug of this shit and it ain't gonna go down too well with his hiatal hernia, despite being parched from working in the heat all day.
“There’s a horde of infected, ‘bout fifteen klicks from here. S’big.” Tommy explains.
Joel eyes him narrowly over the rim of the glass. “How big?”
“Least a thousand strong, they reckon. Wiped out their camp. Poor sons o’ bitches.” Tommy leans against a pile of standing wood beams and it clatters, unsteadying him.
Joel lances him a pissed off look and pushes him out the way to neaten it up again. He’s always coming by and messing with his shit.
“Thousand strong?” Joel mutters out through a strangled gulp. A subtle tightening is felt in the centre of his chest, but he does his best to wring it out before it can unfurl. Some days it's easier than the others.
And catching the splinter in his finger as it scrapes against the wood brings the sting to his focus and he winces. "They sure 'bout that?"
“Yeah. We sent scouts. They just got back."
"Shit," Joel murmurs, sucking his finger, gnawing at the irritation. He can already feel his blood start to ice over at Tommy's revelation.
"Y’ever heard of anythin' like that? They evolving or somethin'?” Tommy enquires.
“S’possible. Behaviour could change.” Joel shrugs and thinks on it for a moment. “Maybe they know there’s no-one left in the cities anymore. Finally picked 'em clean.” Joel grits his teeth and carries on arranging the planks.
He catches Tommy's look which mirrors the concerned ticking in his own mind.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence, congregatin' like that.” Tommy shrugs.
Joel shakes his head, tipping back the remaining lemonade with a hiss around his teeth as it burns his gums. Joel doesn’t believe in coincidences.
Or much more than that these days.
“Maria’s formulatin' with their leader, planning on doin' something ‘bout it. Need you in on this.” Tommy states clearly.
“No, ya don’t.” Joel remarks sourly and turns back to the saw. “M'busy.”
“I ain’t askin’,” Tommy says and Joel's shoulders hunch up.
Joel contemplates it, contemplates strangling him, but nods in defeat as he runs his hand around his aged scruff as his younger brother stares him down into submission. His forehead sweats as he adjusts to the mounting predicament they face.
“M’gettin’ too old for this gallivantin’ around shit, Tommy.” Joel sighs.
His last supply run hadn’t gone so well; ended up with a twisted knee and returning a little worse for wear. He was still tired from days of sleeping rough on hard grounds, from fighting with infected that came his way.
From listening to Tammy and Garret bicker non-stop the whole way there, and then fucking like jacked-up rabbits, thinking he couldn’t hear them when they made up, stuffed clumsily and too tightly into one sleeping bag.
He was always paired up with them as of late for some unknown reason, probably to test him further when Garret would harp on about how using magic erasers would literally clear the dirt and gunk off of anything in a pinch. Is that so? Joel could only reply whilst his fingers became heavier and itchier on the trigger of his rifle.
Probably orchastrated to alert him to his own sense of loneliness too. Everyone, or at least it felt like that, was part of a pair in the commune.
Friends, lovers... and some days it only served to remind Joel at how he was an obvious smear on that schmoozed harmony that orbited around him.
Maria had tried - or rather forced - to pair Joel up with unwitting and unwilling suitors, fearing that the longer he was left to fester by himself, the more of an unhinged liability he was in some way.
He'd agreed, after much wearing down, to a date with Carrie, just to stop Maria from meddling. Although, if what constitutes as a date these days is an over-cooked meal in the Tipsy Bison, where Carrie and Joel were sat on the same table in stunted, awkward silence, whilst everyone around them gawked and whispered like they were in a fish bowl for their amusement, well... Joel wasn't keen to repeat the experience.
Carrie's boy was of similar age to Ellie and apparently that was enough to make her Joel's soulmate.
He was inclined to disagree.
After a frank conversation, and a bitch-fest to Tommy about his woman getting all up in his personal grill, Maria had backed off and left him to his own singular devices.
Joel just preferred the quiet now.
Preferred that to the unzipping of his skin for someone else to bear witness to the horror of his insides that were rotten and tightly wound around his bones like dried out vines.
Despite the nauseating sounds of Tammy rutting like a Red Wattle hog with Garret a few yards from him, somewhere in the back of his mind, Joel would still reminisce about the touch of a woman and how it had been a long time, despite his resistance to it.
And then his mind would think of all his past failures in the dating department and then he wouldn't be able to sleep anymore after that, so would get up and remove himself away from the incessant humping, and try not to shoot himself in the face in the middle of nowhere.
Joel needed rest, needed some damn sleep.
Needed to get these houses up whilst Tommy ran around playing Sheriff, and to stay busy. Keep the thoughts at bay, keep the fear locked up tight in the box he tried - and often failed at, keeping the lid on.
“Ah, we'll fix ya up with some retirement home later. Ya ain’t dead yet, old man.” Tommy replies.
“No. But you will be.” Joel tosses the cloth at him and a small, guarded smile slips off his lips. “T’fuck is that on ya head anyhow? Y'look like fuckin' Woody.” He flicks the Stetson.
Tommy’s face softens as he claps Joel on the back. “Y'eat any breakfast yet?”
Joel shakes his head, feeling the constant loss of his appetite standing in solidarity with him.
“Come on, I’ll buy ya some eggs.”
“What with? Ya ain’t gon’ buy me shit,” Joel snickers, allowing Tommy to drag him towards the bar.
That same morning you’re sitting in The Tipsy Bison with Kelper and the others of your group having some breakfast of your own.
Guthrie eats one-handed with furtive peepers darting madly around the place, and Sal just seems happy to be able to taste bacon again, moaning in orgasmic delight as she crunches around the crispy rind.
Max is fumbling his way through sloppy mouthfuls of mushy oats as he talks with Kelper. You’re still amazed at the variety of food that’s on offer, but the wary faces around you all cut into that enjoyment somewhat.
Their eyes are cautious, yet curious. As you meet some of them, they immediately look away.
Maria’s in the bar with her baby in her arms; a dribbling bundle of gurgles that’s cute as he is loud when he screams. She reassures you all, as she does the rounds, that everyone will soon warm to you; that it’s normal for any newcomers to be looked upon scathingly.
And you agree; you were all just as wary of intruders bundling into your peaceful harmony when your own group welcomed them in. You have to earn people's trust, it’ll take some time.
You get up to dispose of your plate, there’s table service in The Tipsy Bison, but you want to feel useful and at least try to give something back in return as thanks, no matter how small the gesture.
These people are trying to create a normal world within a chaotic one, but manners still exist.
And it fractures you for a moment at how everything seems so… normal around you.
Laughter, chatter. Everyone seems so carefree. Like the stillness has ground everything to a halt, frozen in a snapshot of time gone by that you still pine for; a hedonistic wonderment that's still craved in your blood. It's surreal, almost unsettling.
You can feel it thrash around in your squally gut.
"Hey. You good?" Kelper's voice is beside you and his hand rubbing across the top of your spine, which melts the icicles jarring your vertebrae immediately.
You smile weakly at him. "Yeah. I'm good."
You see two men come into the bar out of the corner of your eye, talking with deep Texan accents that echo into the hollows of your bones, but you pay no mind as Kelper offers you more coffee to go, as you scrape your plate into the waste bin for food scraps.
Makes sense that they’d compost it as you read the signs informing you so. Nothing is wasted here.
You turn, smiling to Kelper, lost in listening to him regale you about something with regards to the plan for the horde, when you brush past the upper arms of one of the men, colliding with him gently.
You feel it again; the wave of it brushes over the fine hairs of your skin.
Something about that accent that echoes in the deepest corners of your mind reminds you of a hole you thought you had cemented over. A bolster of prickles floods your epidermis again, and then it's gone as quickly as it comes.
You don't stop though, not capturing his face, as he throws a muttered apology over his broad shoulder, and you toss one back as the man beside him in a white Stetson talks his ear off listlessly.
You laugh as you leave, probably a little too loudly at something Kelper quips to Max as it pulls you out of any sense of recognition that you just swam in.
You forget it instantly.
Joel looks up just to see your silhouette disappear from the window of the door; your hair flowing behind you like a comet's tail in the summer breeze. The back of your head is all he glances.
He frowns, tossing away any semblance of recall that haunts the base of his spine for a moment and shakes it off as quickly as it comes.
Somewhere deep inside of him, he’s heard a laugh like that before.
A sense of déja vu clouds behind his eyes as he predicts exactly what Tommy will say next and finishes his sentence for him, much to his younger brother's joviality.
He smiles thinly, turning back to the hot cup of brown pouring out for him and wanting to get back to work. Tommy tries pressuring him into eating something, but as Maria approaches with the now screaming baby, Joel has an excuse to finally scarper.
It's not that he doesn't enjoy his nephew, more so that he can't stand the noise he makes at these decibels in his only ear that can hear clearly.
You follow Kelper and the others outside and back towards the houses, readying to meet with Maria and the council shortly.
Kelper tells you that you shouldn’t be nervous, when he clocks how quiet you are this morning, and you're not. If anything you want to get out there and get the job done. Some revenge on those dead assholes might make you feel better for what you’ve all lost.
And Max is only too eager to agree with you as you throw him a small smile.
You stop, sighing when you realise you've left your jacket in the bar. 'I'll be back, you guys go on," you say to them as you head towards the bar entrance.
As you go to push in, you collide again with the same man coming out, and it knocks the wind out of your sails as the fleeting recognition now instantly floods through your senses, as you catch his annoyed features peering at you as his coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup.
Oh my God. No way!
Crumpled Polaroid snapshots of times long since passed rattle and hurtle across your vision as it all comes back to the forefront for you to relive in painful detail.
You feel your heart lurch into your throat for it to regurgitate out of your mouth at his feet in a bloody mess of sloppy ventricles. You feel unsteady for a moment as the whole world tips on its axis and you feel yourself swaying with it.
It boils; your heart palpitating, your fingertips thrumming.
You recognise the wide, rich brown eyes staring back at you filled with regret and longing, or at least that's what you imagine in this moment of pure unadulterated shock.
It's hard to know if any of this is real, or if you've just been shoved cruelly into some torrid dream.
His hand is crushing the coffee cup in his grip as he regards you too with instant familiarity, and something else weaving across his worn features.
“J-Joel?” You splutter, amazed. Holy shit! "It's really you."
He's mute. He hears his name roll out of your mouth, something he never thought he would ever hear again, and it stops time.
Unable to speak even if he wanted to as a croak similar to a toad escapes him from the back of his throat that's now closing in on him.
"W-what are you…?" You fail to finish the question as the unspoken awe crushes and winds you both.
He thought it was you, in a moment of weak, stupid delirium; was convinced it was your laugh he’d heard, but couldn’t be sure.
Couldn’t be sure if it was just another spectre haunting him.
And now that you're here looking up at him, smiling in that way he remembers suddenly, and with watery eyes, it stuns him too. Stops every coherent thought in his jumbled brain, stops his fingers burning from the scalding coffee splashed over them, and words fail him as you stand here before him - having the audacity to be alive and looking just as staggered as he is.
His feet feel like concrete blocks and someone shuffles past him out of the bar knocking into his shoulder gently with a frazzled apology, but yet he still remains frigid in his stance, unmoving.
You speak again, despite the inability to breathe now clogging the words up in your throat.
“If anybody was going to survive the end of the world, it’d be you.” You confirm with a flabbergasted smirk at him.
Your words seems so feeble and juvenile in this monumental moment.
“Only just,” he replies now, summoning the courage to speak back to you, but from where he doesn’t know. He feels like his voice is no longer his own, floating out of him like crumpled, Mylar balloons losing their helium as they sag to the floor.
“Y’were with the group?” He asks in a slow daze.
“Yeah." You nod like you have no control over it.
He nods quickly too. His heart is racing, a blend of nostalgia and anticipation that makes Joel feel sick to his gut.
His chest tightens again as the memories of you come flooding to the front of his mind, blasting out of the locked boxes he'd kept you safe inside; blinding him and deafening him for a few moments.
"This is… I can't believe you're alive." You whisper. "I thought maybe you might've-"
“No.” Joel grumbles. And it pains him everyday that he's still here and refusing to die, the stubborn fuck. "I thought... you-"
"No." You smile weakly. Evidently you're just as stubborn as he remembers too.
He shakes the coffee off his fingers and wipes them on the hem of his plaid shirt. You don’t see that they’re trembling, and he’s cursing inwardly for them to stop.
"Fuck, h-how are you?” You ask him, knowing it’s probably a stupid question of epic proportions.
How's the apocalypse been treating you, Joel?
Oh, just dandy darlin', n' you?
But words fail you and you’re running on some strange autopilot as your brain tries to catch up with what you’re seeing and process it.
It’s failing miserably.
His once sharp features are now a ghost on his face; his head is lowered a little with his neck shrinking into his collar. He seems shorter somehow, if such a thing were possible.
A muscle somewhere inside of your heart snaps.
“Urm,” Joel states to the ground, suddenly very emotionally constipated. Maybe more so than you remember. “Uh, I need to-” He throws his thumb over his shoulder and turns away instantly.
“Yeah… sure,” you nod as he abruptly leaves and takes your remaining breath with him.
There's nothing you can do but stand there, rooted to the spot as you watch him leave. A barrage of millions of unanswered questions batter you and pulverise your bones into dust.
Joel Fucking Miller, here. Of all places in what is left of this tiny, perfidious world.
You instantly think that Joel Miller must shit out Lucky Charms. That son of a bitch made it, but you’re not surprised. He was always strong where you were weak.
The world had already come to an end when Joel had disappeared out of your life, and seeing him now reminds you of that devastation, that loss. All over again.
And it seems worse than the bloodshed somehow. Worse than the constant fighting for survival. Worse than the hunger ravaging you for days on end.
Reminds you, starkly, that you never really got over the pain of it. Never really got over him.
And it's a sucker punch to your jaw that leaves a nasty contusion blooming on it now, with purple spidery veins, as you can only watch him walk away. Rooted to the spot on which you stand with your gut slowly falling out of you.
It reminds you that you'd mourned for him in the early days, convinced he hadn't made it. Then wondering if he had and if he was mourning for you somewhere in that short burst of delusion when all hope seems lost as you're on the brink of checking out.
Convincing yourself that he was searching the world over for you and you had to continue on, for him. To find him again. But of course, when you think about it, he was an after thought through the death and destruction.
And that makes you feel guilty somehow as you look at the back of his head shrinking further away.
A faint reflection in the dusty mirror of your cortex holding onto life, that had faded significantly and was replaced with thoughts that didn't expose their length or colour, other than to focus on the immediate tasks at hand.
Like, not dying.
But now, he glimmers; he burns through the membranes and sinew and blinds your eyes with the sight of him before you. He's killing you all over again.
Suddenly, the last twenty-odd years seem worth it somehow. Even if the thought is razor-wired around the ludicrous.
You watch him go, hauling his tired and heavy bones along with him, somewhat bemused, somewhat bereft. A slight limp now to his once bold strut when you knew him back in a time where the world was still just as fucked up, only differently.
The uninvited memories of him you thought you had buried, rise from their graves; marauders with rotting flesh coming to get you.
They seep back into full technicolour and booming surround sound for you to relive and experience the resentment, the bitterness, and the full elation all over again.
Joel's alive. You're alive.
And in some unexplainable, sadistic twist of fate, you're both here, thrust together into a world where the pieces of your souls, that were once laid bare and entwined tightly together in an unflinching knot, now lay at your feet in tattered shreds.
Fuck.
To be continued...
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Getting Clean
I need to be put into jail, stupid Scottish bitch.
Anyway this is probably lowkey just gonna be smut completely lmao.
I promise the soap pun titles will end.
Also so sorry this took so long because my mind is an enigma and writing for either the COD fandom or the RDR2 fandom has been deleted out of my mind.
Lets go lmao
WARNINGS!: female reader because im a woman and soap makes me yell real loud (nothing against him being shipped with male readers or 141, good for him what a king), NSFW, fuckin, im so bad at warnings just know its gonna be fuckin happenin, choking?? Voice kink???? Breeding kink for SURE. Just major NSFW basically porn with negative plot. Like... .5 plot.
Scottish slang/words may be inccorect due to using google, so please lemme know if its wrong, I'll happily fix it.
I am so sorry for spelling mistakes i finished this at like 2am
The mess hall seemed way too empty, everyone was out on missions, covert, recon, whatever, and while there was a shit ton of others there on base, without most of the 141 team it just felt....wrong.
You sigh and look at your food. It's not that it's bad food. In fact, it looks delicious, but sitting alone, at this massive table that usually you shared with Ghost, Gaz, Rudy and Alejandro, as well as Soap, just made you feel...down.
They were easily the people you were closest too on base. Working so closely with them it was only a matter of time before it happened. All of you were close friends, it was rare for any of you to stray from the group and talk to anyone else.
So today, sitting in the mess hall, was no different.
You stare at the food a little longer, and poke it around with your fork, that strange foreign feeling in your chest.
"Aye Lass, lookin' at it like tha' cannaé change how it tastes."
You smile and twist your head to look at Soap as he nears the table, a tray of food of his own in his hands.
"Johnny! I didn't know you were here!" You smile wider as he takes a seat next to you, and chuckle as he takes a bite of food from his tray.
"Ah, I jus' got back from a mission not too long ago, Price is givin' me a wei break."
You nod and smile at him, your heart seems a little lighter now, someone who you're far closer to now with you.
Plus it was Johnny, how could you not be happy around him? He was the obnoxious fun loving one of the group, he could be serious yes, but it was rare. Most days he joked, laughed, spat out witty sarcastic comments at everyone who passed.
You supposed that was part of the reason you'd grown to have such deep feelings for him in the first place.
Of course you'd never tell him that, you were far too nervous to do that.
Handsome, sweet, a deep voice, which had a Scottish accent on top of it? You could listen to him speak about nonsense for the entire day.
Sometimes missions with him were absolute hell.
He did his job, he was a good Sargent, he knew what he was doing, trained properly, getting things done the way they needed to, but his commentary....
That damn voice of his, he didn't even need to be next to you, all he needed was that voice and his stupid little sarcastic quips.
Hell, sometimes it wasn't even in comms.
He'd yell out something simple, that shouldn't have been attractive, yet it was.
Something as simple as "Changing mags!" Could make your face heat up and turn a violent red, hell, he basically growled at the end of the sentence whenever he said it. Being near him was almost like having a bomb strapped to your chest. Threatening to go off at any second.
Everytime he said "Steamin' Jesus" you couldn't help but imagine him using it in a far more intimate senario, with a slight change of tone, and that never failed to send a flood of warmth between your legs.
You swore that he knew what he was doing too, like he could sense the tension between the two of you, or see the red on your face, but if he did he never brought it up, and for that you were thankful.
Trying to explain fraternization to Price would not be a fun experience. Not only that but bringing it up would probably make you flustered beyond speaking ablity.
"Hey, Y/N. I been talkin' yer fuckin' ear off, you still listenin'?"
You shake your head and look at him, your face feels hot and you're sure you're crimson.
"Ye alright Lass?"
That stupid nickname makes the blush worsen and you simply clear your throat.
"I'm fine Soap. Thinking."
"You can call me Johnny off duty." He laughs. "You usually do....ya nervous about something? Just a wei bit?"
His voice carries a bit of teasing tone and you can't help but feel a bit if irritation at the smug bastard.
"Not nervous, no."
"Ah, not nervous, yet red in the face....Aye...I got yer number bonnie."
He snorts and then continues to eat.
"Really?" You cross your arms and look at him. "Do you now MacTavish?"
"Pretty obvious if you ask me." He shrugs.
"Okay, so tell me then."
Your face burns at the sudden burst of confidence, and as a smirk crosses over Johnny's face you suddenly feel very foolish about what you've just said.
"Lass...tha's not very appropriate for me to say here, where anyone could hear....now is it?"
That smirk stays on his face as he lowers his voice to a low whisper as he gets the last few words out.
You swallow, and your face burns deeper.
"I don't know what you mean Johnny."
"I'm sure." He offers you a laugh and then stands, the look in his eyes makes your body shiver. "I think I'll head to my room...feel free to...visit, if you'd like."
You watch as he walks off as though nothing had happened and your entire body seems to shiver.
He sticks his hands in his jean pockets as he walks away, which you obviously noticed, because of course you did, with an ass like his.
What the hell are you gonna do? Follow him? How the hell did he figure you out so quickly? Did he mean what he said?
Little did you know Johnny was thinking similarly.
"What the hell were you thinkin'? Saying somethin' like that? Y/N does NOT feel that way about you, you probably just fucked somethin' up, fuckin' idiot."
It takes you only a matter of minutes before you stand from the table and head after Johnny, towards his room in the base.
Your heart is thumping so loudly its the only thing you can hear.
Your body seems to be reacting on its own though, your thoughts, while dirty and definetly in need of some....cleaning....ironically, are wondering what'll happen to your friendship afterwards, but your body doesn't seem to care.
Your mind races with the thought of what would happen if you were caught too, it wasn't exactly professional to fuck your coworker in the military.
When you reach his door you breathe deeply, hesitant as you raise your hand to the door. You stopped for a moment and then, you knock on the door.
Johnny opens the door nearly instantly, only a matter of seconds pass before the door knob clicks and he stands in the doorway before you, leaning against the doorframe as he looks down at you.
"Tha' was quick Lass."
"Shut up, let me in."
"Aw...c'mon now...be nice..." He lowers his voice, whispering the last two words, a smug smirk coming over his mouth.
You feel a rush of heat through your chest and look to your feet, your entire face seems to burn, your ears even feel as though they're burning.
"Please Johnny?"
You feel his hand come under your chin and he lifts your head to look him in the eye, not gently but not rough either.
"Try again Lass, look me in the eye."
Fuck fuck fuck fuck
"Please let me in, you stupid Scottish fuck."
"Tha's not very nice...thought I said be nice..."
You clench your jaw and stare at him, that smug grin on his face somehow managing to irritate you and make you horny all at the same time.
"Please Johnny? Let me in?"
"Ye really do want me, don't ye? Dinnaé know you felt so strongly towards me.." He smirks at you and the moves aside, dropping his hand from your chin to let you in.
You look around his room, staring at all the posters and things he has lined up on the walls. Considering this was Johnny's room....you expected it to be far dirtier, less organized, yet as you looked around at the rest of his room you noticed everything had a place, everything was neat, he didn't even have dirty clothes on the floor.
Neat and organized....despite his very chaotic and uncooridinated nature.
You're busy looking this over, viewing his room when he comes up behind you.
He leans in close.
"So, you were havin' thoughts then?" He smirks, you can feel it without even looking at him. "You? Havin' thoughts...innocent little Y/N always focused on the job Y/N....havin' thoughts like those....and about me..."
His voice lowers, it's nearly a growl, and a hand wraps around your waist, his fingers slide gently under the bottom of your shirt, touching the bare skin of your stomach, only just barely.
"Naughty...naughty..."
You look down, your face is completely red, scarlet, and it burns hotter than you thought possible.
By looking down you didn't really account for the fact that, that would only leave your neck open, and it takes all your will power you have not to make a sound when you feel Johnny's lips agains the skin there.
"I'm suprised it took you this long to notice Johnny." You breathe out, hoping your voice wouldn't give out on you.
He stops, his lips still gently placed against your skin as he speaks.
"Really now....been very noticable has it Hen?"
The nickname sends a shiver though your spine, though you know the word itself isn't the issue.
"I think so..." You breathe. "Can't you tell when my voice changes over comms sometimes?"
"Ye get that flustered...over comms? Ye don't even see me.."
He chuckles and presses another kiss to your neck, you're sure the next one he offers will be brusing.
"Not my fault..." You mumble. You've almost collapsed against him, leaning your body weight onto him, though he doesn't mind in the slightest.
"Really now...now...can ye explain to me what it is on comms that makes things so hard to focus then Hen?"
"Why must you make things difficult?"
"Difficult?"
He laughs at you and then stands up straight, his hand leaving the skin of your stomach.
He moves to his bed and takes a seat, nearly plopping down, he sits with his legs open and slaps both hands on his thighs, leaning forwards.
"It isn't difficult, it's a really easy question now Lass."
You cross your arms and look at him, watching as he leans back a little a simple smirk on his face.
"If ye really want somethin' tonight Y/N, yer gonnae have to tell me."
That smug look doesn't leave his face, rather it seems like it only gets worse as he utters out your name, emphasising it, lowering his voice as he does. To add to this you watch as his hands leave his thighs, palms upwards in a sort of shrug gesture.
He knows what gets you flustered over comms. He knows, you know he knows, but you also know he's gonna make you say it.
"You damn well know what it is Johnny."
"Oh I do, but it'll be much better when it comes out of yer mouth, preferrably with your face all red."
You swallow and look to the floor, keeping your arms crossed as you speak.
"I swear sometimes you do it on purpose. You do those damn jokes, say those fucking statements and you always lower your voice, especially if you know I'm listening. I told you how I liked your accent ONCE and now you use it everytime you can."
"Aye, I do." Again, as before, you can hear that smirk on his face. "I'll admit it. I take every chance I can."
You scrunch up your nose, refusing to look up at him.
Theres silence for a moment and then you hear him shuffle, only then do you look up.
He simply catches your gaze and makes a motion towards himself with his two middle fingers, pretty much beckoning you towards him.
Despite the stubborness you've shown earlier you can't help but follow his silent command.
As you reach him and stand inbetween his legs his hands creep over your thighs, fingers curling around the back of them, squeezing the meat of them, tightly, firmly. Just the right amount of pressure.
He looks up at you, his face a little more serious now, the smirk from earlier still lingers, but it's far less noticable.
"Ye know Y/N, I've thought about having you in here....a lot."
"Really?" You stop a moment, your body tingling, stemming from his fingertips outwards. Your mind seems a little fogged. "I thought....I thought maybe you'd invited me in here today just to...well honestly I thought you were just fucking with me Johnny, but...I couldn't just ignore it."
"Nae, no fuckin'with you, no this time."
"So...does...um...does that mean..." You swallow, struggling with your words. "Look....Johnny I think it's obvious I've liked you for a while now...are...if we're really gonna do this...I...what does it mean? Anything? Just...are we fuck buddies, or something more because...."
Your words trail off, you can't help but cross your arms, a sudden burst of what you can only assume is nearly shame creeps up through you.
Johhny's face changes, subtly, but you catch it, and you don't miss the squeeze he gives your thighs either.
"Hen, once I get a taste of you I don't think I could have anyone else."
He's quick with his movements as he slides his hands up towards your ass, and pushes you slightly closer to himself.
The action he does next is a simple one, yet it sends all kinds of feelings through you.
His tongue touches the skin of your stomach, his hand gently pushing your shirt up out of the way. He licks a stripe upwards, keeping eye contact with you as he does.
"Jesus Johnny...."
He offers a chuckle and grips your hip with his free hand just a little tighter.
"I'm gonna ask this once Bonníe," he looks at you, only a small trace of a smile on his lips. "Are ye sure ye wanna do this? I'll stop if ye say stop, but after this I won't ask again."
Your thoughts swirl in your head for a moment. Wondering if it is what you wanted. If it was worth chancing your friendship, chancing your job, getting caught fraternizing is no small penalty.
In the end your body decides for you.
You nod.
"I do."
That smile of his fits on his face slowly, showing off those pearly whites. His surprisingly sharp canines.
His tongue comes out once more, again licking up your stomach, this time he stands as he moves himself upwards, only bringing his mouth away when he reaches the area just below your breasts, letting your shirt fall back to its original place.
When he finally stands his mouth goes into good use, his lips meeting yours with a feverancy, practically a need. He fists your hair, and darts his tongue into your mouth without any hesitance.
His free hand snakes around your body, finding purchase on the plump of your asscheek.
You let out a moan against his lips which in turn pulls one from him.
Your hands wrap around the back of his neck, grabbing onto any part of him you can.
His hand nestled within your hair offers a tug, pulling your head back, taking your lips from his and exposing your neck to him.
His lips latch onto your throat, open mouthed hot kisses against your skin, making your body shiver, tingle. His tongue licks along your skin, warm, and again...hungry.
"Johnny..." You whine out his name, and your body flames up, a part of you is curious as to how he'd gotten you so needy so quickly.
The other part did not give a shit.
"So pretty when you whine like that Bonníe..."
He smiles against your skin, moving towards your jaw, still dragging his lips along your neck, refusing to leave it.
"Maybe we should see if I can get any more out of ye..."
"Johnny...we have to be careful..." You mumble. "We...we can't be caught-"
"Yer right Lass...that might even be more fun..."
He pulls back to look at you, his eyes seemed to darken with the idea that begins to plauge his mind.
"Let's see if ye can keep from screamin' huh?"
"Johnny-"
He cuts you off as his hand come up around your throat, offering a gentle squeeze to the sides as he begins to push you down to the bed.
"Do yer best for me Love." He gives you that goddamn smirk again. "Stay quiet...Can ye do that?"
You nod, your breathing becoming heavier as he stares down at you, hand still wrapped around your throat.
"Atta girl."
He coos out the words and everything in your body seems to be completely englufed in flame.
"You this charming to every girl you fuck Johnny?"
You breathe out the words, hands moving to his chest as you settle against the mattress.
"Jus' you Lass."
Rough hands slide under your shirt, over your stomach, bringing the shirt along with him.
His thumb glides up the center of your torso, pushing down slightly as he continues his movement, his other hand only leaves your throat when he needs to remove the shirt fully.
Your bra is taken off with seemingly expert practice, your breasts exposed to the air, but quickly they're found by hands and mouth.
A rough palm on one and a wet mouth sucking and licking the other.
It takes all your power not to moan, your back arching up into the feeling.
You hadn't been aware of just how touch starved you'd been.
One of your hands tangles into his mohawk, attempting to hold onto something of him.
He looks up at you, pulling away from your breasts.
"Nae, I dinnae say ye could touch lass."
"Johnny-"
"Shut tha' pretty mouth lass...see if ye can be quiet yeah?"
You nod, swallowing as he reaches for your pants. His fingers hooking under the waistband as he unbuttons them with the other.
With one swift movement he's pulled both your jeans and panties down, leaving you bare to him.
"Would ye look at tha'...such a bonnie sigh', Love..."
He smirks and moves in, hands finding your inner thighs, bringing a sigh from your lips.
Before you can say much else you feel a swipe of his tongue over your heat, already you were slick, this was certain to make the problem worse.
His grip on your inner thighs gets a little tighter as he continues with you, he moves his tongue with expertise, eating you out as though he's a man starved.
"Johnny..."
You can't help but let his name slip out, grabbing the sheets beneath you, squirming your hips against his face.
He looks up at you from his position, and even in his eyes you can see the smirk he'd wear.
It's far too soon that he pulls away, you'd been so close to your climax, so close to having that release, until he'd denied you that.
Again you whine his name, and he moves, climbing over you, grabbing your face with one hand, firmly holding your cheeks.
"Aw lass...wei bonnie...are ye feelin' a wei bit needy?"
You nod, the best you can in his grip, moving your hips against his clothed arousal, hoping for even a little bit of friction.
You give a nother small whine, this one more of a sound than that of a noise, again reaching for him, only for his other hand to pin your wrists above you.
"Ah...I told ye, nae touchin' lass"
You simply look at him, unable to do much in your senario. It's then that he kisses you, deeply, his tongue gliding against yours, the taste of your own slick in your mouth.
He lets go of your face, only to rushedly un button his pants, his problem suddenly a bit more annoying than it had been.
The moment he's free, his pants and boxers disgarded he simply looks down at you, seemingly thinking.
Its then that he grabs you by the hips and easily, effortlessly, flips you onto your stomach, running his pointer finger and thumb down your spine for a moment.
"Ye look so good from this angle love..."
He leans over you, his chest to your back, head angled right next to your ear.
He lowers that damn voice of his again.
"Can ye be a good lass fer me and arch jus' a wei bit... chest down love, ass up."
Of course you do as he asks, or rather tells, like its instinct, pressing your chest further into the bed, raising your rear higher into the air.
He leans back, taking a look at the sight in front of him, his hands going to the flesh of your ass like magnets, squeezing gently, your ass and hips, as though he can't decide which he likes better.
"Look at ye...such an obediant little lass...ye like doin' what yer told do ye? Is tha' why ye like rankin' under me? Enjoy the way I order ye around on the field? Makes ye think..."
You don't answer, focused on the feel of his hands, its only when he moves one of those hands to the back of your neck.
"I need an answer lass."
"Yes, yes I do Sir."
You can nearly feel the smirk on his face, he squeezes the back of your neck a little tighter.
"Sir?"
"Yes sir."
"Oho...I like tha' lass..."
He grabs both of your asscheeks again for a moment before you feel one leave only to feel him push into you.
You let out a groan as he pushes in, as much as you can take, to the base, you feel incredibly full. He's girthy.
"Fuck Johnny..."
You murmer.
"Nae...yer gonna call me sir from now on Love..."
You swallow, waiting for him to move.
"Do ye understand me?"
"Yes Sir."
"Good lass."
He gices you this praise and gently he moves his hips, his hand pushing your spine back into that arch you'd subtly moved away from.
His hips move slow, almost painfully so, and he knows this, teasing you with his hands gliding over your back.
"Ye look so good lass...all this jus' fer me..."
"Johnny please...."
"Aw lass...what did I jus' say?"
"Please...sir?"
"Tha's better....use yer words bonnie...what is it ye want?"
"Faster sir, please?"
You hear the small beg in your voice, sure that by the end of all this you'd be begging a lot more.
"Tha's a girl."
His hand moves to your hip, gripping hard as the other moves to your hair, grasping the roots of it, giving a tug as he moves his hips a little faster, filling you with his size, over and over again.
It's only a minute or so before he seems to loose that idea of torturing you, his pace picking up, hips snapping against yours, that slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your arousal ringing in your ears.
"Fuckkk y/n...." It comes out in nearly a growl, and he pushes your upper half further into the bed.
"Yer doin' so good bonnie...so fuckin' good..."
Another maon crawls its way out of your throat, the others you'd managed to quell, small sounds here and there, but you can't stop this one.
You push your hips against his, letting your knees spread further apart trying to get him in at a deeper angle.
"Please sir, please, fuck-"
The words tumble out of your mouth before you can register what you're even trying to beg for, your figers clench at his sheets beneath you, they smell like him, everything smells like him.
"Y/N..."
His voice is a groan, it's all you hear as he shifts your position, yanking you up by your hair, bringing your back to his chest, thrusting himself upwards into you.
"Johnny...fuck!"
You find your arm going over your shoulder, wraping around the back of his neck, trying to find purchase on something
His lips latch onto your neck as though he's drawn to it, his tongue swiping over your skin and his teeth leaving bites along your throat and shoulders. He breaths hard against you, inhaling your scent.
"Steamin' bloody Jesus..."
He groans, his pace picking up a little further, one hand still brusingly on your hip, the other slides down your front, fingers finding your clit easily.
It brings a moan to the surface of your lips, and rather than being scolded Johnny simply murmers another praise of 'good lass' in your ear, his hips snapping against yours, rythmic.
"Johnny-"
"Y/N..." He huffs, his fingers going faster against your bud. "'M close...need ye to tell me where..."
"Inside Johnny, please...fill me up..."
"Jesus Y/N..."
His voice is breathy, heavy against your skin as he continues, his hips getting erratic, until finally he gives a groan, shoving his face into your shoulder, riding out his climax, the feeling of his cum hitting your inner walls pushing you closer to yours.
He rides out his, moving his hips slightly, much slower than before, and keeps his hand going, trying to keep his previous pace.
"C'mon lass...ye can let go now...it's yer turn..."
He mumbles, breatheless.
It's not much longer of this praising and the movement of his fingers before you do just that, squeezing around him and moaning out his name as you finally reach that high.
As the two of you come down, breathing hard, Johnny still inside you, head leaning against your shoulder, he slips an arm around your waist and offers a gentle kiss to your shoulder.
"Thank ye lass..." he murmers. "Tha' was fun."
"Thank you Johnny."
"Ye ain't gotta thank me...I've wanted to do tha' for god knows how long."
"Maybe we can do it again sometime."
"Oh trust me lass...we will be."
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Paradise: Old Army Uniform Style
A late midweek (although I suppose it’s the end of the week now) treat for everyone - finally; my fill for the prompt “Army Elvis”.
pairing: fem!reader x 1964-6 Elvis.
summary: reader walks in on Elvis trying on an old outfit in the midst of his struggles with his body image - she takes the initiative to try and convince him he’s still hot af.
I tried, i really tried. I wrote 156 words for an ‘army elvis’ fic where he’s actually in the army but I spent the whole time thinking nope I hate it I can’t get the words right, I don’t know enough…etc etc. Maybe one day I’ll finish the alternative fic I had started but for now, please enjoy how I managed to fit late 1964-6 Elvis into this prompt.
warnings: 18+, use of the term ‘fat’ as both an adjective and a derogatory term for elvis to describe himself, but briefly and very gently. Insecure Elvis, oral (p receiving).
wc: for how long this took me to get out - an embarrassingly small 3.2k
as always thank you for the help + encouragement to the girlies @whositmcwhatsit, @thatbanditqueen, @vintageshanny, @missmaywemeetagain, @ellie-24, @from-memphis-with-love, @powerofelvis
“Fuckin’ hell.” You can hear a clamour from the dressing room off the side of the bedroom when you walk in, clothing strewn about and Elvis swearing. What the hell is he doing.
“El?” You tentatively creep around the doorframe, he’d stormed up here a little while ago, furious about something that had been said to him on the phone during a ‘business meeting’ - shouting that he was “Gettin’ ready to leave - gonna leave y’all here if you ain’t ready when I come down.”
He was meant to be getting ready for the Memphian, like he had been every evening this past week and you’d wondered what was taking him so long since, despite his warning, he’d been up here a while. Of course, you’re in no hurry - the shows don’t start until Elvis turns up whatever time of the night or morning that may be and the boys were happy (and expected) to entertain themselves downstairs until he reappeared.
You round the corner, blinking at the sight in front of you, trying to make sense of the trail of clothing, the mismatch of the fabrics surrounding Elvis in the centre. Your eyes finally manage to focus on him and you wince a little as you see what he’s found. He’s staring at himself in the large mirror, twisting and turning. You try not to draw attention to yourself, yet, wanting to try and decipher his feelings before making yourself known.
You know he’s struggling at the moment - to find the right things to wear. It hasn’t helped his confidence none being shafted by the wardrobe departments. The worst offender being that god-awful brown shirt and pants he has to wear for Hawaiian Paradise; the beige supposedly slimming but everyone seems to be aware it’s having the opposite effect. Any attempt at suggesting a different costume had been put down - arguing that the costuming reflects the character, it’s apparently integral to make it clear he's a pilot. Regardless of the fact that the plot makes it clear Rick has limited professionalism and would, therefore, as a private pilot be unlikely to wear such a thing. It’s worse than that too - you know, Elvis knows, Larry knows, wardrobe knows, hell everyone knows that that outfit, and the way he’s being purposefully shielded from the cameras topless, how even swimming they refuse to film him from the front is all on orders from on high.
Orders that revolve around ‘the state’ of him at the moment, of his ‘hefty weight’ as that one Variety reviewer referred to him. Scarcely could you read a review without some discussion of his recent weight gain or the word ‘pudgy’ being used to describe some part of him. Elvis himself has become a little preoccupied with these comments - he wouldn’t allow them to film him naked from the waist up even if they’d tried in what he felt was his ‘current condition’.
You think - just for a second, looking at him now, that he’s in that uniform although why he’d have brought it home from set and all the way to Tennessee you couldn’t imagine. Before you realise that it was in fact the tan of his summer chino uniform. One of his old army uniforms - perhaps the oldest judging from the badge on his arm. You can see, as he twists and turns in the mirror, tugging at the fabric, that the pants gape at the waist - too tight to zip closed, and the shirt buttons are closed but faintly straining. It’s immediately clear it doesn’t fit. But it’s also clear that it’s not far off, and you dread to think how you would look trying to fit in a dress from five or six years ago - the difference between your very early twenties and being basically thirty seems like quite the jump.
You can see he’s miserable. His hair’s undone and flopping forward - a relief from his recent desire to have it gelled into an unmoving coif - working to hide his face from yours in the mirror, but with every jerking pull of the fabric, accompanied by the swearing spilling out of his mouth, you can tell he’s feeling awful. You repeat yourself from before, interrupting him this time -
“El? You alright?” He stills, glancing up at you in the mirror. There’s a pause that feels longer than it probably is as he makes eye contact before looking away, a flush creeping up his neck.
“‘m fat.” He mumbles it, almost as if not wanting you to hear it, you can’t help but roll your eyes - you appreciate he feels this way but it all feels a bit ridiculous considering you’re looking at him all day every day, and sure there is a difference but hardly to the extent he’s claiming.
“You’re not fat.” He whirls around to look at you properly,
“I am.”
“You’re not. And if you are, god only knows what you’d call me.” You gesture down yourself, he winces - if there’s one thing he’s learnt it’s to never comment on a women’s weight -
“Well it’s, it’s not the same thing at all. It’s different for you - w’men are meant, meant to be soft, ‘m ‘m not. I’ve got,” he gestures to his hips, “handles” You frown, resting your hands in the soft dip of your waist on top of the swell of your own hips.
“So do I.” You flare your fingers out to illustrate your point. He throws his hands in the air, as high as he can with the shirtsleeves too tight on his armpits.
“Don’t know why I bother trying to ‘splain - you ain’t listenin’ to me -“ He sounds it out, “You’re. Meant. To.” You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that he’s just upset and that’s why he’s behaving like a bit of a dick.
“If you weren’t meant to be - You wouldn’t be.” You believe that for him and yourself - wholeheartedly. He huffs,
“Don’t know why I even tried.” He starts angrily unbuttoning the shirt and you wince at his roughness - it might be useless, and it might be impossible to wear but it still feels emblematic of a part of him. “Stupid idea. This is why all ‘m doing is them shitty films. Won’t be getting any Jimmy Dean comparisons lookin’ like this.” He starts to tug at the pants, it would be comical the way he has to attempt to wriggle them off of his, admittedly thick, ass if you couldn’t see the waistband scraping him on the way down, little red marks being left.
“You’re being overdramatic. I promise, babe, no one cares whether you can fit in your old uniform.” He lets out a hollow laugh, sitting on the occasional chair in the corner, shoving the pants to his thighs.
“No honey, they do. That’s what - what the Colonel was ringin’ about, wanted to tell me they won’t be using me as I am now on the albums for the film - gonna use, use some from Acapulco ‘stead.” He can’t get the pants down any further and you have to stifle a laugh - you feel sorry for him, you truly do, but he just looks so ridiculous sat there with his pants bunched around his thighs, shirt open, pouting.
“Babe - I, I don’t know why this bothers you so much - they’re assholes!” He shakes his head, crossing his arms and looking to the side.
“They might be, but they’re right. Soon enough no-one’s gonna want to buy anything from me. I’ll be a fat old man. ‘s just like Germany all over again, ‘m terrified everyone’s gonna move on without me.” He looks affronted when you do laugh at him this time,
“Sweetheart, you’re not anywhere near old yet, and uh, well, you might have put on a little bit of weight, but you’re not out of shape and you’re not - honestly it’s ridiculous I’m having to tell you this. You’re not unattractive.” He sighs at this, like he thinks you’re just placating him, thumping his arm on the chair like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Want me to go grab a couple of the girls from outside?” You giggle, he kicks a foot out. “Bet they’d show you how you still are.” His eyebrows are still pulled together, but you can see his frown relaxing, as if he wants to laugh but still refuses to.
“Or, you just want me to make you feel better? Show you how much I want you still?” He looks you up and down, as if assessing the offer, you smile at him when his eyes linger on your bare thighs for a second. He goes soft for a second, quiet,
“I just thought maybe, maybe I’d fit and-and it would prove that I wasn’t getting all pudgy - hefty. Like they keep puttin’ it.” You don’t know what to say, it’s not altogether untrue - it would just be untrue to say that he doesn’t look good, that the few extra pounds haven’t gone straight to his meaty thighs and stomach making you want to sink your teeth into them, haven’t rounded some of his clean lines to look even better than before; manly, rugged. Even with the hollywood styling.
“What,” You pause, worrying that this is going to be the wrong thing to say, that it will make the spiral worse, “What made you try that particular outfit though?” He huffs again, frown back on his face. Before he seems to come to some sort of decision and sits up, leaning forward,
“I dunno, I just felt real similar to how I did then, and I know I looked good bythe time I was meeting with Sinatra, I was fit and, I don’t know really. I jus’ wanted to be home the whole time I was over there… and now, now I’d do anything to go back.”
“Hmm.” You’re non-committal in your response, you know he wouldn’t like to go back to Germany, back to the army, at all. You remember vividly how homesick he was, how much he hated being away, how miserable he was for those first few months after Gladys’ death. You’re pretty sure he’s just had a bad meeting that’s weighing heavily on him - and that if you can cajole him out the door for a night of fun he’ll be, not fully okay but, at least more balanced or rational about it all by tomorrow. You take a step forward, he’s forced to tilt his chin up to maintain eye contact with you. “I think maybe I just need-ta show you how gorgeous you are?” He frowns, but this time you’re not letting him distract you again, cupping his face in your hands.
You have to bend to meet his lips, and he has to strain up a little, his hands coming up to grip your thighs. It’s like a switch has been turned on. You swear you can feel his pulse through his fingertips, spreading from where he’s gripping your skin, travelling straight up to meet your own heartbeat that’s starting to thump between your legs. By the time your lips even touch you’re openmouthed, practically begging him to lick into you. You kiss him, soundly, controlling the movement in a way he very rarely allows unless he was feeling particularly vulnerable. You can feel in the way he sinks into you that you made the right choice, the way his cheek rests heavy in your palm, the feel of his eyelashes as they flutter against your cheekbones.
“C’mon Sergeant let’s get this off of you,” You tug at his shirtsleeves, pleased when he shrugs the shirt off the rest of the way while still trying to chase your mouth. “Now these.” You push at his trousers, they’d been stuck before, only a hint of the dark thatch of hair appearing just above the open waistband, but with your insistent motion they start to come down further, he lifts his hips to allow for them to come fully off and you can’t help but smile as you’re faced with him in total nakedness. “There now. That’s better.” He looks up at you, from under his lashes, where you’re still hovering over him. “Now. Where was I.” You start to sink down, between his thighs, your hands trailing over his shoulders. He grabs a wrist,
“Don’t - you don’t gotta do this, don’t, don’t want you to pretend none, honey,” You pull your wrist out from his grip, situating yourself firmly on the floor but kneeling up far enough that your head was at chest height. You look up at him,
“I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you. I’m not pretending, I swear baby,” You brush your fingers down his chest, skimming the side of his tummy, poking a little at his waist, he jerks away, ticklish, and you giggle as you can’t help but do it again,
“No-oo! Honey, no, not,” He’s laughing himself now, unable to stop as you jab your fingers into the soft sides of him, “Not there, stop!” You ease off, stroking where you’d been prodding, at the faint flush of red from the rough contact.
“I love this.” You prod him a final time for good measure, leaning in to kiss the fat on the side. “Love this, my perfect man.”
“Don’t -“ He flinches, turning his head away from you again, tucking it into his neck.
“Don’t what? Don’t tell you the truth? Don’t tell you that I like the look of you any which way? Don’t tell you that I think anyone who says otherwise must be blind. Don’t show you,” You let your hands continue their journey down brushing over his hips, over the dimples just below before coming to rest on his thighs. “How much I love how you look?” You look up at him, sinking back onto your heels, “Let me show you Elvie baby, let me show you how much I love all of you.” You make eye contact, waiting for him to nod, before turning your full attention to what had really brought you to your knees.
He’s still only half-hard, and you pause, looking at him considering for a moment. “Watch me baby.” You take your hand under your dress, pushing into through the leg band of your panties, gathering some of the growing slick wetness onto your fingers, just enough for them to be a little slippery. You pull them out, watching Elvis track you with burning eyes, never moving from your fingers. You reach up to gently grasp his cock, your slick providing just enough lubrication. It jumps when you touch it, and he throws his head back as you move your hand gently but firmly, playing with him until he’s fully chubbed up. Only then do you remove your sticky hand, resting it on his thigh. You look up at him, determined to keep eye contact as he turns back to face you. You sink forward, lapping at his head, little kitten licks as you allow yourself to fall into the blue of his eyes. His hands are staying on the arms of the chair, as if he can tell you’re in charge right now even without you having to say it. You feel his thighs clench after a moment, and you take that as invitation to sink down properly.
The warm wet heat of your mouth causes him to swear violently, and when you glance down at his lips they’re open, parting as he pants a little. You push yourself on, taking him as deeply as you possibly could before pulling back and sinking back down. He can’t seem to still his hips completely moving then back and forth forcing you to chase him back down - to have to try to ensure he doesn’t slip all the way out. You start to pull out all of the tricks, your spare hand coming up to stroke his balls, a gentle encouragement of sorts, while you begin to hum any tune that comes into your mind, causing his hips to circle, a “Goddamn baby.” to spill out of his mouth and his hand to come to rest on your head. You open your throat, pushing all the way onto him, forcing you to break eye contact with how your nose bumps his famous pelvis once he’s fully situated. He’s making little breathy whines and moans as you rock your throat back and forth on him, swallowing occasionally to clear your mouth of his precum and because every time you do you can feel him twitch. You pull all the way off, circling his head with your tongue on the way, he whines as you do, a bereft noise, while you take a few deep, gulping, breaths.
You watch how Little Elvis is left rosy and standing at attention, how when you exhale he twitches from the force of your blow. You capture him in your mouth again, returning to the task at hand. It’s not long, with you using every trick of your tongue that you have, before his grip tightens on your head, hand fisting in your hair. You swallow, and he moves your head himself once, twice, before his hips stutter and he spills down your throat. You glance back up at him, peering past his tummy as best you could, watching his face contort as he grunts out an “Oh f-f-fuck.” His pouty lips parted, eyes shut. You pull back, licking his tip clean, before pressing a kiss to his thigh.
“That make you feel any better?” He smiles as he opens his eyes and you get to see the sparkle in them again.
“God, Jesus. How’re you so good at that.” You shrug, kneeling back,
“God-given talent for me to use on pretty men I guess.” He chuckles, stroking a finger down your face, this time he’s the one cupping your chin.
“`Thank you darlin’. You’re gorgeous baby.” You tilt your head as if conceding, lifting up a finger to poke him again.
“Even so, regardless of all of this, it’s whats on the inside that counts.” You mean it earnestly but he looks back at you, a glint in his eye as he traces a finger over your lips,
“Certainly is doll. What’s inside that counts.” He winks, and you gulp almost choking on your own spit in surprise at his double entendre. He grins, standing up to grab the pants on the back of the chair, finally actually getting ready to go out. You sit back on your heels content to simply watch him go about his routine.
You giggle a little, watching him tuck his shirt into his pants. A thought pops into your head - one that you’re not willing to say out loud and spoil his newfound good mood, remind him of his status that should, somehow, ease the human insecurities he feels, you know he’d hate it. But you can’t stop yourself from thinking it; I can’t believe I’ve just had to spend half an hour telling Elvis Presley he’s a stud still.
#elvis fanfic#elvis smut#elvis x reader#be-my-ally#elvis x you#elvis presley fanfiction#elvis presley x reader#writing prompt game
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I have finished Mysterious Lotus Casebook, and here are some of my thoughts! (Obviously not spoiler free)
The cases are absolutely batshit insane and I loved it every single time they were like 'we totally collected this evidence that incriminates a secret suspect, just believe us and also don't question when the fuck we had the time to do this or when we figured out that we needed to look for it'. 10/10 no notes, that's a hilarious way to have a genius detective. Show us nothing, tell us everything, YES king.
That being said, I could have done with a lot less standing around having the supporting cast repeat whatever Li Lianhua and Fang Duobing announce, maybe in an attempt to make sure their genius is clear for the audience? I get it, but at the same time it felt a little too hand-holdy for me, especially in scenes where LLH and FDB had already discussed their findings between themselves before presenting them to the concerned bystanders. I can read between the lines (or else understand what has just been explicitly stated) without having every conclusion filtered through a slightly different sentence structure to make sure I got it.
Di Feisheng amnesia arc my fuckin beloved
Di Feisheng destroying his 'father' and freeing everyone in Di manor in a vicious act of catharsis that tied nicely into the main Nanyin bug-mind-control-thing narrative my beloved
Di Feisheng my beloved
The amount of times I was like...genuinely surprised he and Li Lianhua didn't kiss is both embarrassing (because I do in fact understand censorship and what I sign up for with these dramas and yet and yet) and numerous enough that I could...possibly...theoretically..write a 5+1 fic of every time I want them to kiss about it. No one hold me to that but it's something I think I'd like to do.
Re: the above point: because what the FUCK was that ending?!!! EXCUSE ME?! I gotta FIX THAT SHIT.
There will come a day when the strength of my hope for an unambiguously happy ending in a queer(-coded? is the source originally bl or is this its own thing?) wuxia drama is rewarded....but it is not this day. I must fix this myself.
Jiao Liqiao's laugh is one of the most annoying things I've ever heard. I was reaaaaally hoping someone would just up and stab her during one of her little evil laughing fits. At one point I was shouting "KILL HER, KILL HER" at my screen because I could NOT take anymore of her (unfortunately, I did in fact have to take more of her).
I still think her insistence on being obsessed with DFS is hysterical when he is so VISIBLY only interested in LLH. Explicitly STATES that his only life purpose is to fuck fight LLH again. Babygirl (derogatory) he is so fucking gay let's get you a nice knife to the gut instead, okay?
I thought the whole Shan Gudao plot was interesting, going from looking desperately for his body -> putting him to rest -> hunting for his murderer -> finding out he's alive/the mastermind behind everything going wrong (which I was proud of myself for realizing before the reveal, I'm normally bad at that) -> thwarting him with sass and superior martial arts at every possible turn -> killing him stone fuckin dead with beginner level skills because he's so up his own hole he can't see that's what's happening - was really fun!
He also has a SUPER annoying laugh he can fuck off
OH OH OH MARTIAL ARTS SKILL OF TRANS YOUR GENDER?! I MARRIED HER SO HER AFFAIRS ARE MY BUSINESS NOT YOURS??? ASKING YOUR WIFE FOR HER FORGIVENESS AND UNDERSTANDING AS YOU LAY DYING AND SHE GIVES IT TO YOU?????? OKAYYYYYYY
The twist at the end that LLH is the one with royal blood was so funny to me. Like it's a good twist and I love that Shan Gudao was just quite literally always a fuckin try-hard loser in ways he didn't even know, but also it was SO funny. Granny coming in clutch at the last fuckin minute with secret knowledge she just literally never shared.
LLH is such a smooth motherfucker. Shame about his insistence on dying when quite literally everyone (bar the people who suck) is begging this man to just live. Just LIVE DAMN IT!!!!! I really liked it when FDB begs him to just consider his own life as important for ONCE and remember that people care about him because YES his self-sacrificing and committment to Chilling Out Farmer Style was not the mercy he thought it was!
LIVE AND GROW OLD WITH DI FEISHENG YOU DAMN IDIOT (the likelihood of me resisting the urge to write at least the one fic for them is zero to none)
Unironically love spitting up blood as a plot device and this show is no different. The Drama. The Panache. The desperation of everyone around you because you have BLOOD coming out of your MOUTH and you are FAINTING. Poison acting up? Spit blood. Someone bitch slap you with their magical palm ability? Spit blood. Get stressed? Spit blood. Get stabbed? Spit blood. It's always good!
Okay I think that might be all I've got for now, if I think of anything else I'll add them in a reblog. I thoroughly enjoyed it, would definitely recommend!
#mysterious lotus casebook#my thoughts#for whatever they're worth#it was nice too because unlike say Word of Honor I didn't mind the overarching plot about the jianghu#and the magical cures/objects that everyone is racing/fighting each other to get to first#WOH was just plain boring outside of the interpersonal relationships in my opinion#but in this there were only a few times I really just did not care about the latest fetch quest and wanted to get back to the relationships
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Summary: Bruised and bloodied, you end up with the last person you thought you'd turn to, and he wants answers.
Word Count: 6.7k
Warnings: alcohol use, drinking
“Who was he?” you asked as he pulled back onto the freeway.
“Someone very powerful. And, like I said, someone you don’t want to fuck with. He gave up your keys too easily, I don’t like it.”
You shrugged. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’m gonna try to get some sleep, but wake me up when we get to a motel.”
You balled up your sweatshirt between your head and the car window and fell asleep almost immediately.
Sweeney took that opportunity to scan your sleeping face, the fear from earlier a stone in his stomach. Why was Fear Doirich looking for you? He had said he wanted whatever it was that you had been sent to retrieve for Wednesday, but that was a lie. At least, it was a partial one. The Dark Man was plotting something, Sweeney just knew it, and it left a bad taste in his mouth.
Sweeney knew he couldn’t do anything about it now, but he could at the very least do his damnedest to make sure that you were protected.
A few hours later, Sweeney shook you awake. You peered up at him groggily and groaned. “Five more minutes,” you mumbled, turning away from him and pulling your sweatshirt-pillow closer.
He rolled his eyes. “We’re here so you can keep sleepin’. Besides, I already paid for the room so you are not sleeping in this car.”
You made a muffled sound that Sweeney was fairly confident was an impressive string of profanity.
He huffed. “We don’t have time for this. Up you get, let’s go.” He leaned down and pulled you from the car, slinging you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Now you were wide awake.
“Put me down!” you snarled, pounding on his back with your fists. “I’m not a child!”
He snorted. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You growled and aimed a kick at his stomach, feeling your foot sink into the soft flesh there. He doubled over, loosening his grip and nearly dropping you, but you managed to land neatly on your feet.
“You are a fuckin’ piece’a work, you know that?” he snapped.
“You’re one to talk,” you shot back. “Don’t manhandle me.”
“Then get your fuckin’ ass in gear next time!” He stood to his full height, massaging his stomach and sucking in a breath. “Every day you get on my nerves a little more.”
You glared at him. “No one���s forcing you to be here.”
He shot you a look as he unlocked the door of the motel room. You stepped in, wrinkling your nose at the faint odor.
“Would it kill us to get a halfway decent room every once in a while?” you muttered.
He pretended not to hear you and made his way into the bathroom, gesturing for you to follow.
“Up there,” he said, pointing to the counter. “Shirt off.”
You smirked at him. “If you wanted to get me naked you could’ve just said.”
He snorted. “Needta change your bandages.”
You moved to strip down but paused.
“You all right?” he asked. “I can get the scissors again, but at the rate you’ve been goin’ through clothes ‘m not sure—“
You cut him off. “It’s not that it hurts,” you murmured, twisting gently to your left and then to your right. “It’s that it…doesn’t?”
His red eyebrows shot up. “What?”
You hurried to correct yourself. “No, I mean it still hurts, obviously it still hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it feels like it should.”
His brow furrowed. “Lemme take a look.”
You pulled your shirt over your shoulders and presented your back to him. Sweeney carefully peeled back the layers of bandages. He sucked in a startled breath and you could see his surprise in the mirror on the wall.
“What is it?” you demanded.
“This is…it shouldn’t look like this,” he said slowly. “I mean, it still doesn’t look good, but considering your flesh was ribbons two days ago?” His eyes met yours in the mirror. “It shouldn’t look like this.”
You twisted to see your back in the mirror and an uneasy feeling settled over you. Sweeney was right, it still didn’t look great, but the deep lacerations across your back looked as though they were at least a few weeks healed, not just a few days.
You turned to Sweeney with wide eyes and were met with an equally surprised stare. He reached out, bracing a hand against your cheek, and gently pulled away the bandage on your face. It was the same. Far more along in healing than it had any right to be.
“What the hell is this?” you demanded.
He held up his hands. “How in the fuck am I s’posed to know?”
“I don’t know! You’re the leprechaun that’s supposedly thousands of years old, I figured if one of us was gonna know what the fuck is going on, it would be you!” You were fairly shouting now, but Sweeney could see the fear that was beginning to creep into your expression.
He shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of things, love, but nothing like this. You’re healing miles faster than you should be.”
You chewed on your lower lip. “There’s gotta be someone we can ask.”
Sweeney shrugged. “First person I can think of is Circe.”
You shook your head. “I dunno, I don’t know that she would be able to help us with this. I don’t know how much she can help with things that aren’t a direct result of magic.”
He looked at you incredulously. “Look at yer back an’ tell me magic isn’t involved somehow.”
Now it was your turn to shrug. “I don’t know, but honestly? As long as I’m not dying from blood loss or infection, this is not at the top of my list of priorities.”
“So what is?” Sweeney demanded.
You blinked. “Are you serious? The weird bitch that had my car? The one that had you about to shit your britches?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. Who was he?”
Sweeney squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose like he could will your questions away.
“Sweeney,” you demanded.
“He’s someone you don’t want to fuck with,” was his only response.
You stared at him in disbelief. “That cannot be your actual answer. Everyone we interact with is someone we don’t want to fuck with but none of them have ever had you acting like this.”
The ginger giant refused to meet your eyes. You sandwiched his face between your hands and made him look at you. “Sweeney. Who was he?”
His grass-green eyes looked at you pleadingly.
“Don’t make me smack you,” you threatened.
He sighed and pulled his face from your grasp. “You know how you won’t refer to Gr — to the old man by name? This is the same. Names have power, and that…that thing doesn’t need any more than he already has, just like the old man. We’ll call him the Dark Man. S’what his name translates to anyway.”
You looked at him expectantly and he took a deep breath.
Sweeney spoke haltingly. “F—the Dark Man, he…he’s fear itself, as it were. Or one of its iterations at least. He used to…take people. He was a servant of the Faerie Queen and he has…an ability, we’ll call it, to strip people of their will.”
“To make them do what he wants,” you said. It wasn’t a question.
Sweeney nodded. “Many have followed him, but few, if any, have ever come back. The Dark Man, the Black Druid, he’s gone by many different names. He feeds on fear and doubt.”
You scratched your chin thoughtfully. “So what could he want from us? Like…I’ve never actually heard of this guy, not in the way we’ve heard of the old man or Czernobog or anyone else. He can’t actually be that powerful, can he? There’s not that many stories about him, there’s no way—“
“Drop it,” Sweeney said sharply.
You blinked, startled at his tone. Usually, you would immediately be inclined to argue with him or to keep poking the bear, but something in his eyes, something that looked an awful lot like real fear, held you back.
“Fine. Whatever.” You turned your back to him. “I’m going to get food. Come with me or don’t.”
He put a warm hand on your shoulder. “You need rest. I’ll go get us some burgers.”
You looked up at him. “Can we get chicken?”
He chuckled. “Can those eyes get any bigger?”
You stuck out your lower lip for added effect and the corner of his mouth quirked up. “All right, we passed a KFC not too far from here. I’ll go, you rest. Don’t leave this room and don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
You saluted sarcastically. “Yessir.”
He rolled his eyes and left the room, grabbing your keys. The door shut behind him, the lock sliding into place, and you were alone in the dank room. You flipped through the channels on the grainy television until you landed on something that seemed even vaguely interesting.
Shucking off your grimy jeans, you dug through the duffel until you came up with a pair of relatively clean sweatpants and what looked like one of Sweeney’s shirts. You pulled on the sweats and tugged the shirt over your head, rolling up the sleeves until your hands were visible.
You flopped onto the bed, wincing when the wounds on your back twinged in protest, and sighed heavily. The bed wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was the best you’d had in a bit. At the very least, it was significantly better than being stuck in whatever shithole the Jotnar had you in. Sitting up, you pulled the pillows and blankets from their positions, building a nest around yourself, but it still didn’t feel like it was enough. Then, you spied the phone on the nightstand.
You dialed the front desk. “Hi!” you said brightly. “Yes, everything is fine. I was just wondering if it would be possible to have some extra pillows brought to room fifteen? Two or three, if you wouldn’t mind, and an extra blanket if you can. Great, thank you!”
A few minutes later, you had the extra pillows and blanket. You arranged everything into a nest on your bed, propping yourself up with a pillow so you could see the episode of Kitchen Nightmares that was playing on the old, staticky television. You were determined to stay awake until the Irishman returned with your chicken tenders in tow, but as the minutes ticked by you found it more and more difficult to keep your eyes open. You didn’t even notice yourself fall asleep.
Sweeney shouldered the door open, balancing the boxes in one hand. “Here’s yer damn chicken, you—“
He stopped short when he saw you curled up in a nest of blankets and pillows, fast asleep and breathing softly. Your hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions, and the circles under your eyes were dark as bruises, but you were asleep. Properly asleep, not passed out from pain or crammed into a car. He knew he should wake you and make you eat something, but you looked so small and fragile that he couldn’t bring himself to disturb you.
Sweeney turned off the TV and slid into the empty bed. Staring up at the blank ceiling, his mind ran a mile a minute. He still couldn’t wrap his head around why Fear Doirich would have taken an interest in you, and it made his skin crawl. The Dark Man had said that he’d wanted whatever it was that you had been sent to retrieve for Grimnir, but that wasn’t the truth. Or at least, it wasn’t the whole truth. He didn’t know how he knew, but he could feel in his gut that there was more to what the Dark Man wanted.
And then there was the matter of your wounds. How were you healing the way you were? There was no way this was occurring naturally, but Sweeney could think of no time between when you’d shown up at his door on the verge of death and now where you would have been able to see a healer. He’d been by your side the entire time and there was nothing and no one that could have done this, but there had to be some sort of external force. He wracked his brain, trying to recall anything that you might have said or done that would indicate that something about you was more than human, but he came up empty.
The leprechaun slept, although fitfully. He found himself waking almost every hour, sitting upright and sweating, eyes darting frantically around the room until they landed on you and he was sure that there was no immediate danger and you were still asleep. That you were still safe.
The next morning, you busied yourself with the coffeepot in the motel room’s dinky kitchenette. The events from the previous day swirled through your mind and you were so preoccupied that you hadn’t noticed Sweeney had woken and was watching you from the counter.
You started when you turned and saw him, almost dropping the coffeepot, and scowled. “You look like shit,” you told him, taking in his bloodshot eyes.
He snorted. “You should look in a mirror, fuck.”
“Did you sleep at all?” you asked.
He made a noncommittal sound. “Here and there.”
You hummed and pointed to a roadmap that you had laid out on the table. “Okay, so the old man’s trinket is in Kansas City, about two and a half hours away from where we are now in Joplin. If we hit the road in the next hour, we can get it and then we’ll be in Kentucky by late tomorrow morning or early afternoon at the latest.”
You set a mug of watery instant coffee down in front of him and he lifted it to his lips, taking a sip and wincing before sliding a flask from his pocket and emptying the contents into the mug. You rolled your eyes.
“I think we should give it a bit before we go get whatever it is that he sent you for,” Sweeney said, eyeing you like he knew you weren’t going to take to that idea at all.
Sure enough, you looked at him incredulously. “Absolutely not. I want to get this shit out of my hands and I want to get paid.”
He glared at you. “You have the Dark Man after you because supposedly he wants whatever it is that you have and the Jotnar are after you for the same reason and because you stole from them. It might be a good idea to lay low for a little.”
“Isn’t that all the more reason to get rid of it?” you asked. “If it gets returned to the old man, it’s not my problem anymore.”
He narrowed his eyes and grunted. “And if you get killed along the way?”
You set your jaw. “I won’t.”
“You’re so sure?”
“I’ve been pretty lucky the last couple of days,” you pointed out. “I’m willing to bet it’ll hold.”
“You’re putting a lot of faith in something that really just amounts to chance,” he muttered.
You grinned. “That’s what I’ve got you for, isn’t it? Don’t you do that every day?”
He chuckled darkly. “That’s not how it works.”
You shrugged. “Either way, I think between the two of us we’ve got enough luck to get us to the other side in one piece.”
He sighed heavily. “Fine, but if you get me killed, I’m haunting you.”
You smiled. “Seems like a fair trade.”
Within the next half hour, you were fed and on the road.
The drive, surprisingly, was relatively peaceful. You bickered about radio stations and music choices, argued about directions, and tried to play road games, which then devolved into a shouting match in which you almost swung on him over his interpretation of the rules for the alphabet game. But nothing came after you. You sighed and patted the dashboard of the car.
“Thanks, darlin’,” you murmured.
Sweeney looked at you. “Talking to the car? And they say I’m the one that’s lost it.”
“You’re just jealous,” you shot back.
“Of who? You or the car?”
“Open to interpretation.”
He swatted at you with a meaty paw and you leaned your seat back as far as it would go, laughing.
He mimicked your laugh in a high tone. “You’re not gonna be laughing when I run us off the road,” he sang.
You sat back up and pouted at him. “You wouldn’t do that to me, you’d be lost without me.”
His eyes flicked to you for a moment before his attention was back on the road. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I would.”
Taken aback by the change in his energy, your eyes darted around for something to change the subject. In the signs whipping past, you saw that you were about half an hour outside of Kansas City, where you had utilized a bus station locker as your storage. You’d lost the key when the Jotnar had caught up to you, throwing it as hard as you could into the Arkansas River, but you were confident that even though your knowledge of spells was limited, you had one to unlock things. And even if you didn’t, you knew how to pick a lock.
You turned to Sweeney. “If we don’t get something to eat soon, I’m going to do something to end up on national news,” you threatened.
“You’re the one that’s having us make this detour, you can wait a couple hours,” he replied.
You grumbled something under your breath about stupid rat bastards and he pretended not to hear.
When you arrived at the station in Kansas City, you shifted your body so you were facing Sweeney. “Can you please, for the love of all things sacred and holy, wait here?”
He shook his head. “Not a chance. I’m not letting you go in there by yourself.”
You groaned and pinched the bridge of your nose. “I can get in and out without anyone seeing me. Please, Sweeney. In and out, I promise.”
He shook his head again. “No. What if it’s a trap? What if they’re waiting for you?”
“Then I’ll scream.”
“I won’t be able to hear you from out here,” he countered.
You huffed. “If I’m not back in this seat in fifteen minutes, you can barge in and rescue me, okay?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Ten minutes.”
“Oh my god, fine. Ten minutes.”
He seemed slightly more satisfied with this, but still unhappy. “At least take this with you,” he said, taking a pendant from his neck and placing it over your head. His fingers brushed your collarbones and seemed to linger for a fraction of a second longer than they needed to, making your cheeks flush. You inspected it and found that it was a small clay pendant with knotwork molded into its face.
You looked at him questioningly but he wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“It’s the Dara knot,” he said quietly. “The shield knot. We…we used to use it for protection.”
You wanted to say something, but your tongue was leaden in your mouth. You were overwhelmed with a surge of affection or the giant idiot in the passenger seat of your car and, unable to speak, you settled for patting him on the knee. “I’ll be back soon,” you promised.
He looked at you with a look in his eyes that made your chest tighten. “Be safe,” he murmured.
You climbed out of the car and pulled up the hood of your sweatshirt as you made your way inside the station. Your eyes scanned the rows of steel storage lockers until the landed on the one you were looking for. You made a lap around the station before approaching, eyes bouncing from face to face and scanning every nook and cranny, every corner where someone might hide. Satisfied that it was safe, you approached the locker as casually as you could.
The initial aura that hung around it seemed undamaged and you breathed a sigh of relief. Running your fingers around the edges of the door, you felt for the wards you had set. These, too, remained unbroken.
You whispered a few words and the door popped open. The contents within remained undisturbed and your legs jellied with relief. The canvas backpack was crammed into the back, same as you had left it, and you snatched it from the locker, rummaging around and doing a mental inventory. All of your charms and amulets seemed to be present and accounted for, but you kept digging until your fingers closed around what you were looking for. The rough wooden rod was there at the bottom, its warmth seeping into your hand and the carved runes pressing against your skin. You released a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Gungnir was safe. You wrapped it in a silk cloth that had been tucked into one of the outer compartments of the bag and placed it back inside alongside a small number of vials and herbs before quickly making your way back out to the parking lot, conscious of the fact that your ten minutes was almost up.
Sweeney saw you coming and unlocked the doors. Tossing the bag into the footwell, you slid into the passenger seat and he immediately reached for the bag to begin rummaging through until he produced the cloth bundle. He unwrapped it and his jaw fell open.
“Are you serious? The trinket you were talking about was Gungnir?”
You nodded and he scrubbed his hands over his face.
“Christ, no wonder they were after you! You had Gungnir.”
You looked at him reproachfully. “Don’t take that tone with me.”
“Tone? You had one of the most powerful weapons on the planet in a bus locker and you’re worried about my tone? There’s no way we make it to Jack’s without dying, this might as well be a beacon for everything within a hundred miles!”
You flashed him a grin. “Ah, but therein lies the beauty of this old girl!” you crowed, smacking the dashboard. “She’s warded! Nigh impossible to find.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And you’re sure about this? Even with something this powerful?”
You chewed your lip. “Like 87% sure.”
His eyes bulged and he made a disbelieving sound. You glared at him. “I’ll say it again, no one’s forcing you to stick around,” you snapped. “If you don’t like it, no one’s making you put your ass on the line. I can get there just fine by myself.”
Sweeney didn’t say a word, but tightened his grip on the wheel and stared straight ahead.
“That’s what I thought,” you muttered.
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he shot back.
“No, but it does mean you have to stop bitching. If I was forcing you to come with me I’d let you complain all you wanted, but let me remind you that you were the one that attached himself to me. So let me do what I need to do and shut the hell and fuck up about it.” You were beginning to get angry.
He didn’t answer but sulked in the driver’s seat. You rolled your eyes and flipped through the radio stations, settling on one that was blaring Alanis Morissette.
Sweeney groaned. “For chrissakes, can’t we listen to something else?”
“No. I’m not listening to your bullshit for the next ten hours.”
He made a face. “So I have to listen to yours?”
“It’s my car!”
“What happened to your rule about the driver picking the music?” he whined.
“When I’m driving,” you said, jabbing a finger at your chest for emphasis. “Otherwise it’s passenger DJ rules.”
“That feels rigged,” he grumbled. He opened his mouth to make what you could only assume was another smartass comment, but his eyes locked on something in the rearview mirror and his face paled. His hand shot out and gripped your thigh.
The sudden shift in his energy made you nervous. “What? What is it?”
He didn’t answer, but pressed his foot against the gas and the car leapt forward. You twisted in your seat to get a glimpse of what might’ve been after you. Three massive goat-headed figures were charging up the road after you, and they were closing the gap.
“Sweeney, what the fuck are those?” you demanded, unable to keep the tremor from your voice.
He swore. “Bocánaigh. He must’ve sent them, but I don’t know how—“
His words were drowned out by an earsplitting wail that turned your blood to ice. Something landed on the roof of the car with a thud and Sweeney jerked the steering wheel in an effort to throw it off, spewing profanities.
“Bran, the last time I saw one of these was…fuck it was millennia ago. Where did he find them?” Sweeney was talking more to himself than to you, but you still shook your head.
“I don’t know! I’ve never seen—“
Before you could finish your thought, there was a tremendous bang as one of the front tires exploded. The car swerved dangerously, but Sweeney managed to wrestle it to the shoulder of the road, narrowly avoiding colliding with a telephone pole.
Your eyes were squeezed shut and you white-knuckled your seat as you chanted every protection spell you could remember, sifting through the recesses of your mind for even the smallest thing that Circe had taught you that might help. You didn’t know what else to do.
“Is there any iron in here?” Sweeney demanded.
Your chanting stuttered. “Do I have any what?”
“Iron!” he bellowed. “Iron, do you have iron anywhere in this car?”
You blinked. “Horseshoe in the glovebox. Everything that was in the trunk is gone.”
He clenched his jaw. “It’ll have to do. Stay here, stay in this car, and pray to whoever the fuck might be listening that the enchantments Circe put on this thing hold.” He yanked the horseshoe from the glovebox, gripping it like makeshift brass knuckles in his fist, and launched himself from the car with a howl.
You returned to your incantations, doing your best to block the awful sounds. Every time one of Sweeney’s blows landed and the iron made contact with the flesh of the goat-headed men, you could hear their flesh sizzle and their screams of rage. You heard a nasty thwack followed by Sweeney grunting in pain as they head-butted him and did their damnedest to gore him with the curved and cruelly pointed horns that arced out of their heads.
You wracked your brain for something, anything, that you could do aside from sitting on your ass and muttering spells that may or may not have been working.
Sweeney’s head hit the ground with a sickening thud and you swallowed. Fuck it, you thought. If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging. You kicked open the car door, armed only with Sweeney’s pocketknife and a snarl.
You howled at the top of your lungs, slinging every word of Greek protection that Circe had taught you. The beasts turned to you, yellow eyes narrowing. Your heart picked up in your chest but you held fast, reciting the verses over and over, but they had no effect.
You opened your mouth to try again, but what came out was not Greek. It wasn’t any language that you knew and it certainly was not part of the meager arsenal Circe had armed you with, but the words flowed from your lips as though you had known them for years.
"Ceathrar a leag an tsúil, fear agus bean, buachaill agus cailín, triúr gortach, an tAthair, an Mac, agus an Spiorad Naomh!”*
The Bocánaigh hissed and cringed at your words and you moved towards them, more of that familiar-yet-unfamiliar language rolling off your tongue like you had never known another.
You picked up the horseshoe and began smashing your way through the three of them, your words never faltering, never slowing, until eventually the beasts fled.
After a moment, when you were sure the danger had gone, you hauled yourself to Sweeney’s slumped form against the side of the car.
“Hey dummy,” you said, crouching in front of him. “You okay?”
He groaned and rose to his feet, swaying slightly before sitting back down heavily. “I might be concussed.”
You nodded. “Yeah, you took a few slams to the noggin there. You hit the ground pretty hard, too. Other’n that though it doesn’t look like they did too much damage. Looks like your luck is holding.” You flashed him a grin, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. Instead, his eyes skated over your face, suspicion knitting his brow.
“Yeah, those things might as well just be specters that pack a punch, can’t do much damage to someone like me.” His voice was distant, he was distracted. “You, though…there’s barely a scratch on ya. And what the hell was that? Where’d you learn Gaeilge like that?”
You shrugged. “I didn’t even know that that’s what that was. I was trying to recite a Greek incantation, but that came out instead. I guess I got lucky.” You paused as you realized what you said. “Hey now, see? I told you you had enough luck for the both of us.”
Sweeney shook his head. “No, that wasn’t luck, love. That was…that was something else. I think we need to have words with Wednesday.”
You hummed. “Fine, but we need to get him his thing first. Get in the passenger seat, princess, I’m driving the rest of the way.”
He made a face but did as you said.
“C’mon, up you get,” you grunted, pulling one of his arms over your shoulders. He groaned as you pulled him to his feet and led him around the car, gingerly lowering him into the passenger seat. “Big baby,” you teased.
He glowered at you, but there was no heat behind it. “I did just get the living daylights beat out of me.”
You laughed. “My knight in shining armor. We’ll stop and get you some Advil on the way, yeah?”
“An’ a bottle of whiskey.”
You gave him a mock salute. “Yessir, a bottle of Jamo should get you right as rain.”
You managed to make it the rest of the way to Knott County without incident, the ride passing much smoother once Sweeney got his Jameson and his painkillers. You sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever it was that seemed to be looking out for you. Helping the ginger giant out of the car, the two of you made your way into the bar.
Instantly, the hair on the back of your neck stood on end as you were assaulted with the sounds and smells of Jack’s Crocodile Bar. You hated this place. As often as it had been the site of many rowdy nights and raucous fun, it was also the place where you had functionally sold your soul to the Devil. A devil with one eye and no care for anyone but himself.
You had hoped that you would have some time before the old man saw you, desperately needing a pint before whatever was about to happen, but it seemed that your luck did not extend that far. A familiar voice called your name, and it made your skin crawl.
The old man beckoned you to where he sat with a wide grin. Sweeney took the seat on his left and you took the one on his right. Wednesday had already ordered for you, a pint of lager sitting beside his glass of what you could only assume was Jack Daniels. The man had few vices, but apparently Tennessee whiskey was one of them. You eyed the pint glass suspiciously, not trusting anything he put in front of you.
“I see we have one more joining us,” he said jovially, clapping Sweeney on the shoulder. “Mad Sweeney! I wasn’t expecting you for another two days. Oh, this is delightful.” The Irishman grunted and flagged down the bartender and a few moments later a rum and coke was on the bar in front of him. You could see a muscle in his jaw feather as he grit his teeth.
“I’m not particularly in the mood for pleasantries,” you said coldly, reaching into your pack and producing the cloth bundle that held Gungnir. Wednesday’s cold eyes brightened and he reached for it, but you snatched it from his reach. “Payment first.”
He sighed. “Always business, never pleasure. When was the last time you sat and enjoyed a drink with an old friend?”
“We are not friends,” you sneered. “You are my employer and I am your employee. This is a business relationship.”
He pouted and then gave you a knowing look that made you want to poke out his other eye. “We know you’re more than that now, don’t we?”
“They were held by the Jotnar for almost a week,” Sweeney cut in. “Where were you?”
The old man looked at him coldly before producing a fat envelope from inside his jacket. “Payment, as agreed.” He turned to Sweeney. “And you! Let me buy you another round. Consider it thanks for bringing my favorite employee back to me in one piece.” His words oozed sarcasm. It made you itch.
“Weren’t for lack of trying on their part,” Sweeney muttered.
You cocked your head. “Yeah, about that. Some guy’s after your stick.”
Wednesday chuckled. “You’ll have to be more specific than that. There’s plenty of people that would love to get their hands on this.”
“Tall, dark, radiates fear? Ring any bells?” You were losing what little patience you had.
He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“The Dark Man,” Sweeney snapped, clearly no more in the mood for games than you were.
Wednesday’s face remained impassive, but his eyes widened. Just a fraction, but it was enough. It wasn’t fear, but at the very least he was unsettled hearing the name.
“The Black Druid?” His voice was careful, measured. He knew something that he wasn’t telling you.
Something new and different, you thought bitterly, but you nodded. “He stole my car and seemed pretty keen on finding this.”
Wednesday’s face pinched and he sighed. “The Dark Man isn’t after this, I’m afraid. He’s after you.”
Your face paled and Sweeney gripped the glass he was holding so tightly that it shattered.
“What? What in the hell could he want with me?” you asked.
He sipped at his whiskey. “I believe you have something that he wants.”
You stared at him, mouth agape. “What could I possibly, possibly fucking have that he would want? I didn’t even know who he was two days ago!”
The old man didn’t answer, merely gazed at you with an indecipherable expression. “I’d be very careful if I were you,” he said simply, before downing the rest of his drink and taking his leave before you could so much as blink.
The two of you stared after him, dumbfounded. “Great, we’ve got more questions than we had when he got here and he left us with the tab,” you said, scowling at your untouched pint.
Sweeney knocked back a shot. “Wish I could say I was surprised.” He clapped a hand on your shoulder and pulled you from your seat. “C’mon, let’s do what we do best.”
You looked up at him. “Get shithoused?”
He knocked back another shot and slammed the glass against the wooden surface of the bar. “Get shithoused,” he grinned.
That was how, several hours later, you ended up standing on top of the bar, belting “Mr. Brightside” at the top of your lungs. Sweeney watched you with a smile on his face as you led the entire bar through the chorus.
The song finished and you swept your arms wide, a huge grin plastered on your face. You moved to take a bow and pitched too far forward almost immediately. The world fell out from under you as you toppled from the bar, but you never hit the concrete floor. Warm arms encircled you and you found yourself gazing into a familiar pair of green eyes.
“I think it might be time for us to go, love,” Sweeney said.
You looked up at him and giggled. “Awh, we can’t stop now! The party’s just getting started!”
He chuckled and set you on your feet, steadying you as you swayed. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think we need to bow out. Before you split your skull.”
He pulled you out the door and you pouted. “Can’t believe my king is telling me the party’s over. Y’know, if you’d acted like this before Mag Rath we might not’ve lost.”
At your words, Sweeney’s blood turned to ice. “Wh-what did you just say?”
Something in your eyes had shifted. There was a wild and determined look in them now as you held up your hands. “Look, don’t get pissy with me. All’s I’m saying is if we’d been more careful, Donall wouldn’t’ve—“
“No. What do you mean ‘before Mag Rath’? How would you know anything about that battle?”
You flicked his nose. “I was there, dummy. I led your battalion like you aaaaasked and you still booked it. Not that I blame you, honestly. That shit was horrific.”
Sweeney stared at you like he had never seen you before. A memory flickered at the back of his mind.
“Go!” you bellowed. “Go, I’ll hold them off!” You raised your arms wide and a gust of wind ripped across the field, forcing Donall’s men back.
He blinked, his mind reeling. His lieutenant…
No. That wasn’t you. It couldn’t have been. That was almost two thousand years ago. That wasn’t you.
And yet…and yet. He couldn’t deny the magic that ran through you. The way the Irish incantations had pulled themselves from you like you had always known them. The way you were healing faster than you had any right to.
He grabbed you by the shoulders.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you?”
That wild look in your eyes cleared and you stared at him in confusion. “I’m me? Sweeney, what? You’ve known me for years, you know—“
“Who are you?” he bellowed. “How do you know about Mag Rath?”
You flinched and backed away from him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice shaking. “I don’t know what Mag Rath is. Sweeney, please, you’re scaring me.”
He stared at you, his expression frantic. “What about what you just said? About us losing and Donall…” he trailed off. You were looking at him with so much fear written on your face it made his chest ache. “Do you remember what you just said to me?” he asked slowly.
“I…I don’t…I fell off the bar and you caught me and then we were outside and then you were yelling at me.” You sounded like you were on the verge of tears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He gripped his hair in his fists. You didn’t remember. You didn’t remember what you had just said to him, you didn’t remember fighting at his side. And he didn’t remember you. Why didn’t he remember you?
“What did you do before you worked for Wednesday?” he barked.
“I-I dunno. I don’t remember what I did, I don’t remember what my life was.” You were crying now. “Before Wednesday, everything is blank.”
He knew this. You had told him this before, that Wednesday had found you wandering through northern Minnesota, half-frozen and with no memory to speak of. But now…he had to wonder. Did Wednesday happen upon you by chance? Or had he lied? Knowing the old man, the latter was far from impossible or even unlikely.
He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against his chest, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I think we need to get some answers,” he murmured against your hair. “But first, let’s get you to bed.”
*"Four who set the eye, man and woman, boy and girl, three sick, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!"
tagged: @imaginethatneathuhpartdos @kind-wolf
#mad sweeney imagine#mad sweeney x reader#mad sweeney reader insert#american gods imagine#american gods x reader#american gods reader insert#bear writes
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Wedding-seasonal depression.
Quick summary: What if Pierce actually did get married to Wu Mei way back when in the second season? You and Jeff are both struggling to come to terms with the fact that this is Pierce’s eighth time getting married, while you’re both still sad and single and alone. You decide to take your frustrations out on each other.
Word count: 7.8K
Warnings: SMUT (you have been warned, this is essentially porn with a lil’ plot), but it's not like super kinky; lots of swearing; first time writing second-person, so buckle up, I guess; kind of angsty (??); many suppressed feels.
A/N: Hey, guys, what’s up 😃🌈🦶! Uhhhh, I know this fic is a little random, but I’ve literally had this story in my drafts for six months. Since then, I have finished the entire Community show and have brought you this gem of a smut fic for Jeff Winger (particularly Jeff Winger with a fuckin’ beard 😩😩😩 he’s such an asshole). Please excuse my horrible attempts at dirty talk. Also, this is the first fic I’ve written in second person, soooooo I’m sorry if it’s, like, bad. Okay, enjoy!! :)))
***
You know, the wedding is perfectly nice. You have nothing against weddings. Apart from the strangely sexist ceremonies (as Britta will agree), the giving away of the daughter to her new owner kind of thing, the virginal unveiling thing, they’re perfectly fine. There’s free alcohol, free food, dancing, friends – sounds pretty nice at first, doesn’t it? Yeah, you’d think that, wouldn’t you? Except, now, the only kind of enjoyment you can feel is the pleasure of yet another scotch burning its way down your throat. You’ve had three, now, and it’s only a matter of time before they start to kick in. And you don’t come to weddings just to get drunk, okay? Your friend is getting married today, and no matter how blatantly racist and sexist and homophobic he is on a daily basis, you want to support his happiness (Annie forced you to come).
The fact that it’s Pierce getting married (again) hasn’t really hit you yet. Pierce. Pierce who talks about women like they’re objects, who treats them like they have a fucking expiry date, who has had his shot at marriage several times before, is now at the altar again, having another wedding while some of you are left to wallow in your own self-pity and loneliness until the night’s end.
You ask the bartender for another scotch.
You swivel in your stool to survey the venue – tables are dotted all throughout the hotel’s expansive ballroom, swathed with elegant white tablecloths, with elaborate centrepieces of white lilies and tulips and curling ferns to adorn. The ceiling reaches up, up, up, and intricate moulding compliments and fills its area, leading to the elevated centre where a glimmering, twisting chandelier dangles, its large gems scattering rainbow light here and there around the room. It’s pretty – the bride knew what she was doing. Pierce had refused to get involved in any of the wedding preparation because, and you quote, “it’s a woman’s job”. When you asked him what a man’s job was, he had looked at you condescendingly, as if it were as plain as day, and said, “To attend the bachelor party, of course.” You didn’t blink or breathe for a whole ten, fifteen seconds, you believe – you thought he was joking at first. But you shouldn’t’ve underestimated Pierce and his miraculous ability to infuriate you. Lord knows why anyone would want to marry him.
Your table – the study group’s table – is right in the corner of the room. The location is a little questionable (you’re all pretty sure the bride detests you for being more important than she is to Pierce, and you don’t blame her at all—but, you know, she could’ve sat you a little closer to the snack bar is all you’re saying), and it’s not close to the altar, it’s not close to the buffet, or the bar, or the toilets, or the band. But, of course, the group has found its own way to keep everyone entertained. Abed and Troy have napkin hats placed on their heads, acting out some movie scene, you’re sure, and Britta’s well on her way to becoming black-out drunk by the time the vows start, and Shirley’s trying to figure out the recipe of the cheesecake Annie ordered, reaching over the table for another forkful and another and another, face scrunched up in deathly concentration as she tries to identify the ingredients by taste. Poor Annie, you think to yourself, but you’re smiling.
Your eyes immediately start searching for Jeff. It’s an unconscious thing that you do every time you enter a room. You just want to make sure he hasn’t done anything stupid yet. And if you know anything at all about him, he’s going to be glowering the whole night away, rolling around in his bitterness, torn between his jealousy that Pierce gets to be married (again) and between his fiery disdain of weddings. He’s just a little bit too much like you – that’s how you can foresee his scowl when he approaches the bar, how you just know his hands will be shoved childishly in his pockets, and that he’ll roll his eyes when some bridesmaid will stop him and ask how he knows the groom. It happens just like clockwork. Jeff thinks he’s some wildcard, but, in reality, he’s so predictable.
“I’m actually the head of what used to be his favourite escort business. He was one of my best customers, but, uh—” he hisses cynically, “—you can’t win ‘em all, can you?”
You smile. He’s predictable until he opens his mouth.
The bridesmaid looks absolutely horrified. She leaves promptly with wide eyes and an open mouth, trying to stifle a laugh for the sake of her friendship with the bride.
A self-satisfied look overcomes Jeff’s face – he’s probably laughing internally at one of his own jokes again – and then his attention shifts up over to you, and his gleaming eyes grace themselves upon yours. He’s such an ass.
“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” you snort, turning back to the bar and digging your nail back into this narrow groove in its mahogany surface – maybe, if you’re patient enough, you’’ll soon be able to carve your initials into it forever. Jeff steps up onto the platform that perimeters the bar, sighing from deep within his chest as he slumps himself forward in the viridian, velvet-cushioned stool beside you. “You could have at least pretended to be nice for a few seconds.” While your manner is joking, there’s an underlying seriousness to your words. He needs to stop introducing himself as a prick to everyone – it’s off-putting.
But he just grins over at you – it’s hard not to smile back. “That was me being nice, I’ll have you know,” he says meaningfully, “and it just kills me—” he slaps a hand right across his heart, “—to know you don’t think I’m genuine.”
“She looked abhorred, Jeff. Abhorred.”
He scoffs violently. “Don’t say she looked abhorred, okay? She did not look abhorred.” Then, a pause. Then, “What does ‘abhorred’ mean?”
Oh, Jeff. You’d think that, what with his lawyer days (or rather, his days faking a law degree), he’d have a better vocabulary than he actually does. You’re pretty sure he looks up fancy words in his free time, just to impress people, most of which he doesn’t even know. You can just picture it: Him, sitting in the armchair of his ridiculously clean apartment, a dictionary in his lap, a thesaurus to the side, trying to comprehend what “sporadically” means so that he can use it in class the day after. You haven’t proven this theory yet, and Jeff always avoids the question, but you’re 100% convinced that this act is entirely true.
“It means horrified, Jeff,” you deadpan. You watch him make a mental note to use that in conversation later.
He hums lowly, and you let out a long sigh. Wordlessly, the both of you turn your heads to look back at your table. There are a few, special moments in life where someone will resonate so much with another’s feelings that they feel as if the two of them have become melded together. The borders of their mind will collapse, and that shared emotion will just mingle between the two of them like a strange, little ghost. It’s like that now, with you. It’s a melancholy type of feeling. You both can’t quite place the sadness, even as you’re looking on at the happy study group, and you can say that, with confidence, Jeff feels lonely. Just like you. You can feel the ache in his heart.
But, as quick as the intimacy came, it disappears again. Jeff swallows hard and frowns down at the counter, clearing his throat before commenting drily, “So, this sucks, huh? The wedding and everything.”
You nod.
“I just don’t get why Pierce is the one who gets to get married. Like, why not one of us or something? It’s just kind of unfair.” And then he stops abruptly, inhaling sharply like he’s just broken some kind of code. You nudge him and ask if he’s alright, to which he responds with, “You’re not gonna tell any of the others about this, are you? I don’t want Pierce finding out and having one of his little tantrums again.”
“He wouldn’t throw a tantrum,” you smile, completely missing the trust he’s putting in you right now. “If anything, he’d gloat about how you, the Jeff Winger, are jealous of him.”
He scoffs exaggeratedly. “I am not jealous of Pierce.” Jeff doesn’t admit to being jealous of anyone, but it’s always obvious when he is – his sarcasm will somehow double, his face will squint up into a semi-permanent, sour expression, and his voice will up an octave or two if he’s feeling extra shitty. It’s always funny to see him try to keep it together. That man’s got an ego like no other. Under his breath, he finishes, “No more jealous than you are.”
Damn.
Truth is, even though you’re fucking bitter as can be about Pierce getting married, you know that you have no actual desire to ever enter matrimony. It’s not a Britta “fuck marriage as a whole” type of thing; it’s a “wow, someone is achieving something, and you are achieving nothing” kind of situation. What can you say?—it’s your toxic trait. Anyone “beating” you at anything is enough to discourage you from that sector as a whole. If you’re not naturally gifted, what’s the point? Not to say that Pierce is gifted at relationships. No, he’s just rich. It takes everything in you not to strangle him whenever he opens his goddamn mouth. But you just suck at navigating true, meaningful romantic connections with people, and having to watch Pierce enjoy a pretty party and tick off that milestone (again) is just a kick straight to the fucking vagina.
But you’re not going to say all that to Jeff Winger of all people. So, you suck it up, deepen your scowl, and say, “Ah, yes, ever since I was a foetus, my one goal in life has been to wed a person half my age so that they can drain me of my non-existent fortune and give me pity sex for the rest of my shrivelled-up, little life.”
“Can’t tell if that’s sarcasm or not, ‘cause that actually has been my goal since I was a foetus,” Jeff whips back, and you snort. His grin widens.
Stupid Jeff Winger and his stupid Jeff-Winger smile. You hate it when he does that with his fuckin’ face. It’s infuriating. He’s infuriating. You always feel it tugging at your stomach adamantly whenever you’re in his proximity and he does that, and it’s unsettling. Could be annoyance, could be something else. You’re not ready to explore that.
“Anyway, you wanna go find a back room and fuck?”
The words are so swift and casual that you have to take a moment to realise that that is not something normal people say when attending their friend’s wedding and having a conversation at the bar with their completely platonic other friend who has never before made any hints towards attraction.
You turn and blink hard at Jeff, your lungs buffering in your chest.
“What?” you stress to him.
He darts his eyes away from the great hall and shuffles them back to you like he has all the time in the world, like he hasn’t just said what he just said. He raises his eyebrows innocently and politely continues, “Oh, sorry, I just thought that was where this conversation was going.”
The commotion of the party, to your surprise, carries on as usual.
Your wrists are numb with shock, and they’re sparking with what you think might actually be excitement. Did Jeff really just say those words out loud? Are you angry about it? You can’t fucking tell.
Instead of addressing the problem, you swallow thickly, hoping he won’t notice, and ask through an incredulous scoff, “Is this how you get people to have sex with you?” Would you be mad about that? About the fact that he’s just asked, essentially, to sleep with you, right to your face, right in public, at Pierce’s wedding, where there are people that you know and that can see you clearly from where they’re sitting? God, do you look as thrown-off as you feel right now? You would hope to die before looking thrown-off in front of Jeff Winger. The very Jeff Winger that’s finishing your drink off for you and watching you amusedly from over the rim of the glass, smiling his fucking smile to himself as he watches you glitch and hesitate like a browser with too many tabs open.
“Don’t say the s-word,” he hisses patronisingly, narrowing his gaze, leaning closer to you, glancing warily around the room. “There are children.”
“You just said fuck.”
“Yes. Yes, I did. And also, would you like to?”
He’s analysing your expression with fond eyes, you see from your peripheral vision, setting your glass back on the counter gently as he waits, all patient, for your answer, for your reaction. This is probably the most patient he’s ever been in his life. It’s certainly the most patient you’ve ever seen him, and you’ve seen him through a lot.
You tell him (a little breathlessly), “You’re fuckin’ crazy.”
He lowers his voice. “Did I read the situation wrong?”
There’s a silence that’s far too long to be salvageable. Then, a flustered, “No.”
Jeff raises his eyebrows, like he’s impressed with himself, and he looks smugly up at the ceiling. Damn him, you think to yourself. And, sweet Jesus, he has pretty nice hands. You also think to yourself that he has—he has pretty nice hands. Nice hands fixing the cuffs of his shirt and jacket. Nice hands scratching at that awful thing he calls a beard. Nice hands shoved in his pockets all nice-like. Nice hands that you’re sure can do a lot of—nice—things. Jeff clears his throat, and your attention snaps back to where it belongs.
“So,” he drawls. “Back room?”
And just like that, his pick-up somehow works for you. Somehow, you end up stumbling into the janitor’s closest, and you’re shushing each other and telling each other to be quiet as he helps you on top of the wobbly desk. It’s clumsy and fast and you’re both more than a little drunk. “Ow!” he exclaims when you accidentally elbow him in the ribs. Maybe it’s that you’re both just extremely lonely at this wedding – you’ve both kind of realised that you may just have to spend forever alone, that Pierce has a better chance of getting married than you do, that happiness might not be for you after all. And that’s always a nice thing to hear. You just want solace, and both of you are fighting for that by getting it on in a barely sanitary janitor’s room. Think of it—as a favour for a friend. Yeah. You think, with Jeff, the Jeff who blunders over a bucket when he tries to kiss you, it’s just pheromones and genetics doing their thing. Skin-deep. That’s your excuse as you grab him by the tie and press your lips to his as he positions his arms either side of you to keep himself from falling. “Your hair smells kinda nice,” he tells you before he helps zip down your dress, and you slide down your underwear.
He goes down on you first, after you both mock each other about who you bet is gonna finish first. “Oh, I’ve spoken with Britta about you,” you’d said lowly, smiling, and his eyes filled with sweet, sweet defeat. “Yeah, she told me everything—One-Minute Wonder.”
And this had gotten little, insecure Jeff all riled up. “Alright,” he huffed, voice scraping against his throat like he hadn’t had anything to drink for a week. “Alright, we’ll see who cums first, then, huh, doll?” And instead giving you one of those classic Winger smiles, he whispered a request for permission to use his mouth on you. You didn’t even have a response to that. He kneeled down in front of you, hands eagerly spread on your thighs, and his breathing was slightly uneven as he awaited your answer. It made you feel some type of way. You gave a quick nod and shuffled forward to meet his hot mouth. When his tongue delved deep inside your cunt, all coherent thoughts went straight out the door, and now you’re weeping into the back of your hand and clenching down your teeth down on your fingers, trying your best not to cry out.
Now, there are a few things you do to try and stop yourself from finishing immediately: you try clenching your legs together, but this only makes Jeff moan right into your pussy, and that doesn’t do you any good at all; you pull lightly at his hair and scratch at his back and his neck and his arms, holding on for dear life, but he only grows more enthusiastic; and you try insulting him under your breath (“twat”, “asshole”), but he just chuckles into you, and you have to bite down on your knuckles all over again, wrestling with that increasingly violent fluttering feeling in your legs.
Near the end of it, you just give up that bet with Jeff; you’ll cum, you’ll finish first, you’ll lose the bet, and you’ll do whatever you can to get to it. You grind shyly, and then shamelessly, against Jeff’s face, finding a delicious friction with his beard, a lovely contrast to the soft, velvet slickness of his tongue – that is, until he uses his hands to press your hips firmly back down onto the table, rendering you powerless to his actions.
You’re just about to finish when he pulls away. You think it’s a mistake at first, trying to lower him back down onto you with your hand cradling his head, but then you catch sight of a shit-eating grin wanting to take over his face, and you whine out, “Jesus Christ, Jeff, don’t be mean!”
“C’mon, honey, I thought the point of the bet was to not cum. You don’t wanna lose, do you?” His chin is still slick with you and he’s talking to you like you’re not hot and flustered and half-naked for him in a fucking supply room, on the brink of an orgasm, legs shaking like there’s no tomorrow. What a fucking prick, you think to yourself. You’re still gonna fuck him, of course, but he’s still a prick to you, and nothing will ever change that. “What? Can’t talk anymore?”
“I’m about this close—” you narrow my index finger and thumb down to a microscopic space between, “—to leaving you alone in here with blue balls, Winger. You hear me?”
He stands up and massages your legs gently, almost tenderly, and makes you forget, just for a second, that you’re probably another one of his escapades, another one-night stand, just another girl for him to forget in the morning. “Aw, just look at you,” Jeff taunts, twisting his face up in mock-sympathy as you scramble to regain control. “You’re cute when you’re angry, you know that?” His nose brushes up against yours. He comes in real close and whispers against the shell of your ear, “You know, I think you just might get us caught, sweets. I think you’re gonna be crying out my name by the time we’re done, and all those wedding guests are gonna be shocked at the dirty things I’ve done to you and you’ve done to me. You think you’re gonna be able to walk right when they ask us to come out this room? Or do you think everyone’s gonna know how hard I fucked you in here, how I fucked you senseless, how I fucked you so good that you can barely sit down without thinkin’ ‘bout how my cock felt up inside of you?” Your clit throbs painfully. How can it not? You try to snake your own hand between your legs, but Jeff softly moves it away and kisses your shoulder. “Hmm? So, which is it?”
“I think I want you inside of me,” you say breathlessly, needily. Yes, you knew that Jeff likes to sleep around a lot, you knew that he was experienced, you knew that he knows how to get someone hot—but you didn’t really prepare for this. How many other girls has he had in the janitor’s room? How many other girls has he had at a wedding?
“I think I want to play with you for a little while longer,” he replies huskily, and you very nearly finish right on the table. You take his hand and guide it between your glistening thighs, taking him through the way you like to be touched, and he soon takes control, finding out what makes you squirm and what makes you bite into his shoulder and scratch at his back. Jeff has always been a person who loves knowing that he’s good at something, that he’s in charge, that he’s in control – it’s not hard to figure out he loves praise. So, when you tell him, “You’re doing so well,” and he kisses you roughly, hand in your hair, and pinches your clit, you take satisfaction again in his predictability. You yelp right into his mouth, brimming with smugness. Then, he dips a finger into your cunt, and maybe the attitude is punched out of you, but you lose a little respect for yourself with how eagerly you sigh out. After a while, he asks if he can add another, and you agree, grinding against the heel of his palm.
What you’re really scared of is that he won’t let you cum again, that he’s into edging, and that you’re going to be denied the sweet release you’ve been craving for what seems like years, now. “Let me cum, please,” you say, kissing his neck. “I’ll go down on you later, but just please don’t edge me again.” Ew. You hate how desperate you sound. You’re usually a little more dignified than this. Jeff’s there, quick-witted and sharp-tongued as always, and you’re sitting here, tongue-tied and helpless. This is sort of the most bottom you’ve ever been, give or take. With sex with other people, there was a mutual bond rather than a power dynamic, but, here, there’s a very clear distinction. It makes you a little uncomfortable. You’d feel, oh, so much better if it were you saying all those dirty things to Jeff, making him sweat with his cock on your tongue, being the one he asks for permission to cum. But you’re saving that fantasy for another time – you don’t have the willpower to do anything like that today, not when Jeff wants to be in charge right now.
And maybe it’s your imagination, but he grows just that little bit harder at the desperation in your voice. Maybe he should let you cum, since you asked so nicely. “You don’t have to go down on me,” he says, even though he’d definitely love to see your pretty, little mouth wrapped around his cock. Instead, he reaches down and starts to kiss and lick and suck and bite at your breasts, making sure to linger at the swell of them – he has an odd thing for that area between your side and your breast, that little swell, you both learn, and he strokes that area tenderly with one hand as he continues to fuck you with his fingers.
When you finish around his fingers, he licks them clean and wipes the rest on the little square handkerchief in his pocket. He’s going to save that for later, he decides. Say he gets hard at night thinking about you and needs the smell of you to get off—or maybe he’ll just tease you at the post-vows dinner and make eye contact when he presses the damp fabric against his nose, just to see you clench your thighs together. Who knows? You, on the other hand, are only just realising that he’s still fully clothed. You are as naked as the day you were born, and he’s still prim and smart and handsome in that navy-blue suit and tie.
Pulling him closer to you by his belt, you fumble with the buckle as you tell him, “I’ll go down on you.” You just want a grasp of control after him having seen you so bare, so vulnerable. You don’t know if you’ll be able to face him after this if you just don’t get his dick in your mouth right now – it’s a strange logic, yes, but there’s no stopping you.
Jeff watches you passively as you frantically undo his belt, somewhat enjoying seeing you so flustered and out of control. It doesn’t only feed into his desire and lust, but it also adds to that weird, warm feeling in his gut, one that he hasn’t really experienced before. He can’t quite figure out what it is – heartburn, maybe; indigestion? – but he’s not stupid, and he’s a little suspicious, so before his tipsy subconscious can come to that terrifying conclusion, he tells you, “Can you spread your legs for me?” At your surprise, he adds, “Please?” Just to be nice.
“So fucking demanding, aren’t you?” you huff, but you do as you’re told, gut wriggling with apprehension.
He kisses you nice and slow, storing this memory in his mind carefully for later, trying to be the most genuine he can because, at the end of the day, you’re his friend, his good friend, and he would never do anything to harm or lose you. If he’s going to fuck you, he’s going to do it nicely, the way you’d fuck a friend (I don’t know). You remove his jacket as he loosens his tie, and he unbuttons his shirt as you tug down his trousers and his underwear. He rifles through his wallet for a condom, and you make fun of him for carrying a condom in his wallet (“You’re such a skeez, Jeff.”; “Hey, you’re fucking this skeez!”).
You both have a brief moment, a brief pause, of should-they-shouldn’t-they – after all, you’re going to have to see each other practically every day after this, at school, at the study group, at lunch, at hangouts. But then, you tell him, “Well, get on with it, then,” and he e-e-eases into you, taking his goddamn sweet time with it, letting you grasp at his arms and his back and his waist and his neck and hair and face and chest. He loves how handsy you are. You try not to be so vocal – you don’t want his ego growing any bigger than it currently is – but your touchiness always gives you away. And it makes him feel special as well – you’re not the most affectionate person usually, and you rarely give out hugs and touches and pats like some of the other members of the study group, so the fact that you’re touching him so much and so freely makes him feel blessed.
When he thrusts up into you, you bite into his shoulder again, and he nearly loses it. There’s a sinful, explicit, wet noise that’s made when he moves in and out of you, and it’s almost enough to make him cum on the spot. He’s suppressing his moans, now, trying to do well for you, trying to be good, be strong, be satisfying enough for you.
“Good girl,” he chokes out when you whine high in your throat for him – he says it more to himself than to you, feeling the need to give praise after receiving it, wanting to make you feel as good as he is (say what you will about Jeff, but he’s respectful when he wants to be). But little does he know that you love being called that. Some weird insecurity issue is probably to blame, but you whimper for him and clench around his length, making his hips stutter and his pace falter. He decides to play around a bit, just to see how far he can push you while you’re sedated like this – usually, you’d be up to speed, quick and sharp-tongued and tough and sickly sweet, but, now, he has you a mess in his hands. “Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?” he chuckles darkly. “You’re such a good girl for me. Such a good—” he thrusts harder, “—little—” harder, “—girl.”
All you can do is gasp and try to take it well. You can barely form words – it’s like you’re drunk. Well, you are drunk. Of course, you know you’ll have a hard time getting rid of this picture – this picture of him panting and sweating, of his mischievously glinting eyes, of his large hands digging right into your hips and thighs and waist – and you’re probably going to get yourself hot later just thinking about it. You blame him. You blame him for all of it. He’ll probably forget about it in a heartbeat, you think to yourself. He’s Jeff Winger, after all – ladies’ man, professional man-whore, completely indifferent to everything all of the time. You try to plan ahead, try to plan for later when you’re sad and alone and hating your body and hating your life choices, but then Jeff moans breathily into your ear, and you’re right back in the moment. You curl your legs tightly around his waist, letting your head fall back as he takes further control.
“You know, I think this is the first time you haven’t had some comeback ready to go, isn’t it, hon?” he says, then softly biting your earlobe. You can only choke out a moan. “Thank you for that addition.”
You groan and roll your eyes. “I fuckin’ hate you,” you say in a feeble attempt to put up your guard again.
“No, you’re just fucking me, actually.”
You sob dryly into his shoulder, and Jeff starts to encourage you a little, probably the kindest he’s ever been during sex: “Come on, darlin’, why don’t you cum for me? You’re doing so well, you know that?” And that just sets you over the edge. You finish, body quivering, exhausted, and slump right forward onto Jeff’s chest. He somehow manages to hold on – he’s not done yet, and he’s going to want to drag this out for as long as he can, that much he knows. He plants his hands on the table, either side of you, and rests his head forwards on your shoulder, panting.
“Nice one, Jeff,” you say to him awkwardly. What does one say to the friend they’ve just fucked? There’s no right thing, of course, but you know straight away that that was definitely a wrong thing.
But he laughs. “We just fucked the shit out of each other, and that’s what you’ve got to say to me?”
“Well, what am I supposed to say?”
“I dunno,” he tells you, and he genuinely doesn’t.
You stay like that for a while, him laying light kisses on your shoulder and neck, you running your hand gently through his hair, both confused as to what to do now. That is, until you point out, “You’re still hard, huh?” You can feel him throbbing painfully inside of you. This must be torture for him – you’ve finished twice, now, and him none.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I was gonna wait for a better time, but.”
“I don’t think there is a better time in this situation.”
Jeff swallows thickly, throat suddenly dry as he pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. His dick twitches inside you when you grin up at him, and you pretend not to notice (but, oh, you’ll definitely remember it the next time you smile at him). He’s quite nervous, and he can’t pinpoint why. His brain’s just still a little too fuzzy to really process any coherent thoughts, even despite that sobering experience just then, but, again, he isn’t stupid – he knows what that knotted feeling in his chest probably is – so, before he has the chance to figure out what he already knows, he asks you, “Can you turn around? Bet you feel real good when I have you bent over this desk.”
“What a charmer,” you mumble under your breath. You know that’s about as sweet as he gets. You’re about to turn around for him when he surprises you:
“Of course, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He strokes your arms nicely. “We can go back to the party if that’s what you’d prefer, have a few more drinks, make fun of Pierce a little. Or we could try something you decide on. Got a favourite position? I’m sure we could make do with the space we have in here – maybe move a few buckets and boxes around, and we’re good. What do you like?”
Your mind goes completely blank, except for one very clear thought: “You’re what I like.” Not out loud, of course. You’d probably do anything he wanted right about now. You half-expect him to pull a 180 and say something snarky or sarcastic, but he doesn’t. He just kisses your cheek sweetly and waits for your answer. What do you like? You don’t even know anymore, and yet you’re getting wetter than ever before. Your breath is picking up, now. “You know,” you mumble, trying to contain your nerves, “the usual: a little light asphyxiation, a bit of hair pulling. I dunno. What else is there? I guess overstimulation can be nice sometimes. And, you know, I liked it—” a blush starts to form on your cheeks, “—I liked it when you...”
“Liked it when I what?”
“You know,” you huff frustratedly. “Said all those nice things to me.”
Jeff raises his eyebrows. “Praise?” Internally, he smiles to himself – he likes that he shares that in common with you. “Don’t worry, I like it, too.”
“Nice to know.” You maintain a neutral expression, but your clit is fucking beating right now, and your cunt is dripping wet. Your efforts not to clench around Jeff are herculean.
“Well, how do you want it?” he asks you brazenly, the usual Winger way. Okay, now, you squeeze tight around him, and Jeff presses his hands around your thighs in response—but, outwardly, the two of you are perfectly normal about this. “I can dial it back a little if you wanna take charge.” His eyes darken just slightly. “I don’t mind.” And that’s genuine enough – he certainly doesn’t mind the mental image of you with your fingers wrapped around his cock, teasing him as he whimpered and begged for a release, completely submissive to you in the moment. He wouldn’t mind that at all.
You grip the edge of the table and run a tongue over your teeth briefly. “I can turn around.”
“Really?” he asks. “You want to?”
“I want to.”
“Alright then,” he says, smiling. “Better get to it. We don’t want the others realising we’re gone, now, do we?” And you shake your head in response. Now that Jeff’s a little nicer, you’re more comfortable around him. He realises it, too, and so he allows himself to do the things he normally wouldn’t, brushing your hair out of your face for you and really looking into your eyes. Sex sort of became meaningless for him sometime along his life, full of emptiness and loneliness even in that intimate act – that’s the trouble he gets for sleeping his way out of his problems. And so, looking in his partner’s eyes has always brought him some type of shame – he’d always close his eyes and power through it. But you’re nice. You’re familiar. You’re safe and warm and soft. It might be a little to do with the friend thing, but, even when he was with Britta, he never felt this type of comfort, this okay-ness, this general acceptance. It was nice to have, for once: a friend.
He carefully pulls out of you, and then you turn around and bend over the table. Jeff almost stops breathing at the sight in front of him. And it’s not bad, don’t worry – he’s just a bit dramatic. “Jesus Christ,” he curses, and he moves his hands to massage gently at your hips. “You’re so fuckin’ wet.” And it’s true. Slick spills down your thighs, some of it slathered across the table and a fair amount dripping down onto the ground below them. That’s the type of stuff you see in pornos, he thinks amusedly to himself, and he continues to stare in awe at your cunt. Now, what Jeff really wants to do is to kneel down and lay his tongue flat against you. But he controls himself, and, instead, just sucks it up and praises you for it; “Keep that sort of energy up, yeah?”
“You sound like you’re a key-note speaker addressing an assembly of seven year-olds,” you say to him as he places his hands on your ass, spreading the sides apart slightly, his dick straining when he catches a better view of your aching cunt, and then he runs two fingers along your slit – he grows silent for a few heartbeats, amazed at how easily you drip down the length of his fingers and onto his wrist. You then turn back to see him place those fingers in his mouth, and you turn back around, blushing, before he can notice.
“Ah, so you’re into role-play?” he teases, lining himself up with your entrance.
“Sh—” but Jeff is already pushing into you, heavy and strong and thick; you try to continue your sentence without your voice shaking, “—shut u-up.”
He continues all the way to the hilt, and both of you use your hands to hold onto something for stability, his on your hips, and yours flat on the table. “You know,” he says as he bends over you, chest against your back, one hand coming to rest on the wall by your head, coaxing a pant or two out of you as he does so, “it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Role-play’s good once in a while.”
“Uh-huh,” you manage breathily. “You sound like you’re covering up a deeply concerning fantasy, there.”
“Don’t shame me.”
“We all know what it stands for, Jeff. ‘Role-play’s good once in a while.’ Really? Show me where you hid the goddamn body.”
He exhales amusedly through his nose. “I feel like you’re just trying to ease in with your officer-perp kink.” And he’s just casually gri-i-i-in-ding up against you, carefully pushing you back down so that your stomach is flat against the table, his lips pressing kisses into your hair and upon your shoulder blades as he starts to find a pace.
“It’s h-hot, okay?” you stutter out, trying to continue the conversation. It’s true enough – police officers can be hot when they want to be, and Jeff would certainly make for an interesting experience in that sector. Not that you were planning to sleep with him again. Fantasies are what’s discussed between a couple – it’s not really something you tell a one-night stand, especially if that one-night stand happens to be one of your closest friends who would never let you forget anything embarrassing you did—ever.
“Really?” Jeff says through a smile, though, now, even he’s having trouble composing himself. He should’ve cum when he could’ve – he feels like he’s about to give way any second, but he, oh, so wants to finish inside of you while you crumble apart around him. “Hands—” his breath catches, “—above your head.”
“I’m literally bent over a table in front of you.”
“Could still apply to some other positions, though.” And, with that, he begins to slowly pull out and push into you, nice and gentle at first, very controlled, but, as I said, Jeff was very quickly losing control, so one can imagine the animalistic desperation that soon kicked in for not just him, but for both parties. You buck up against him feverishly, letting out whines and suppressed, breathy moans and little, desperate whispers of his name (he absolutely loves those), and he just goes at it with all his energy. Who cares if he looks like absolute shit at the party later on? That’s a lot coming from him, he’ll have you know. As long as this memory is playing in his head, he doesn’t care about his hair or his suit anymore (the suit might be a stretch). He tells you breathlessly, “You know, you look good like this. Such a pretty girl.”
There’s the praise that you love. You squeeze around him and pant, “Take a picture—” and Jeff slides a hand between your legs, rubbing at that golden spot, and you have to choose between pressing into his cock or into his hand; the indecision makes your head reel, and the continuation of your sentence is twisted high and quiet, “—it’ll la-ast long-e-er.”
“Is that an invitation, doll? ‘Cause I’m not exactly against it.”
He pounds and pounds into you, nice and firm and precise, until you’re mewling and whining for him. “Be quiet, now,” he whispers against your ear – there are people chattering outside the room, passing through the exit after the party. But you can’t exactly keep it in. You try to hold your breath, you really do, but you end up grunting out when Jeff kneads at one of your breasts. “What?—d’you want those people to hear you or something? You wanna get caught?” You whine suppressedly again. “I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Dirty girl.”
You clench once again, so fucking close to cumming, and he asks, “Can I try something?” And you nod frantically, alongside giving him a rushed, weak verbal affirmation. “I want you to prop yourself up a little more, hands on the wall – can you do that for me?”
“Uh-huh,” you mutter, adjusting yourself, and, with your movement, Jeff groans and grips your hips tightly.
“Good girl,” he praises, kissing the place behind your ear. And he continues thrusting, and then swiftly lifts one of your legs right up into the bend of his arm, leaving you to press the side of your face into the wall, your entire body swaying with the sheer force of the rutting of his hips. You feel so full like this, and he’s reaching that heavenly spot inside of you. Your knee gently brushes against his corresponding shoulder whenever he moves into you, out of you.
“Shit,” you curses sharply when he roughens his pace. “Jeff.” His name comes out as an awfully high-pitched sigh.
He huffs, “Yup, that’s me, doll.”
“You’re such a prick.”
“You could at least wait until I’m not inside of you to insult me.”
“Tell me something nice.”
“Something nice? I dunno if I can muster it up – all the things I’m thinking aren’t exactly nice. Definitely not things I’d say to anyone’s grandma.”
“Well, then, be mean,” you chuckle, and he jerks inside of you. “I don’t care.”
“You like getting off on my voice, do you?” His voice is nice and low and gravelly, and it practically grates against your pussy in some magical way, and your whole body shudders beneath him. He keeps at that perfect pace, pressure, and you commend him for his technique, you have to say. “You ever think about me when you touch yourself?” You nod. “Such a perfect, little girl. Fucking perfect.”
And he’s got a good-ish look at your face from this angle. Your eyes are closed in ecstasy, mouth open in silent pleasure, and you’re chasing, chasing that feeling. He can’t help it. He cums. And you follow immediately after – your fists screw up uselessly against the wall, and your legs quake and quake, and you squeeze so impossibly tight around him that he lets out a choked moan at how good it feels. He continues sloppily thrusting up into you, helping you ride out your orgasm while also riding out his own. “God, you’re hot,” he mutters, smiling.
You grin back at him, and his cock twitches again – it’s instinctive, he swears. “You’re not so bad either,” you reply, eyes shimmering in the dim light. Those eyes flutter shut again when he carefully pulls out of you with a sinful, wet noise.
Shit, he thinks to himself as you slip your soaked underwear and your pretty, green dress back on.
Shit, he loves you, doesn’t he?
After he’s put his suit back on, you help to adjust his tie, and he has to try his very, very hardest not to blush. He’s pretty sure you notices anyway, but it’s the effort that counts, right? He really, really wants to kiss you, but he doesn’t know if he should. The one-night stand is over, right?
“Call me tonight?” you ask after a brief pause. Was that the correct thing to do? You and Jeff call sometimes, obviously, when he’s at the store and wants to ask if you want anything, or when you want to order a pizza for yourself but get too nervous and ask for his help—but this’ll clearly be different. Are you still friends? Of course, you know you’re still friends, sure, but is it still the same?
And his heart rate has picked up significantly. You want him to call you. You want to talk to him later. “So you can get off to my voice?” You laugh. He made you laugh. He just made you laugh. The sound is like music to his ears. “I’m not a phone sex line, you know. Not a free one, anyway. If you want my services, you’re gonna have to pay.”
You’re smiling. “What’s your price?”
“$100, give or take.” He neatly folds his pocket square back up and places it into his breast pocket. Like he said, he wants to save it for later. He’s not sure for what, but it seems important to him now. And then, what he bumbles out next is said on a whim – the words are quiet and shy. Yes, shy. Jeff Winger is shy. He’s blushing. His stomach is full of butterflies. “Can I come visit your room instead?”
“Yeah, but it’ll cost you $100, give or take.”
Jeff approaches the door, and you line up behind him. “Ready?” he asks you. And you grab a fistful of his suit jacket from behind, going up on your toes, and kiss him lightly on the corner of his mouth in response.
He doesn’t even notice that you wrinkled his suit. He just closes his eyes and turns around for another kiss.
(Spoiler alert: You don’t end up seeing each other in your hotel room because Britta gets black-out drunk and nearly starts a vodka fire on the bride’s dress, so Jeff has to take her to get her fucking stomach pumped. But he gives you a call, and you come, and you sit together by Britta’s bedside as she sleeps. You talk about weird hospital experiences you’ve had, and then you fall asleep. He lets you rest your head on his shoulder.)
#jeff winger x reader smut#jeff winger x reader#jeff winger#community#pierce hawthorne#abed nadir#troy barnes#britta perry#shirley bennett#annie edison#have fun with this#i have no idea why i wrote this#but i do love it#also i’m very proud of the title
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what were your thoughts on Age of Calamity? I saw a bunch of ppl hating on it recently and it was weird bc i had found myself REALLY liking it and felt as if the general consensus was that it was a fun game
I don't tend to put much stock into "a bunch of people are all suddenly saying they like / dislike some piece of media". I think it's fair to assume people are going to have diverse opinions on anything at any given time forever, and sometimes people's thoughts change over time, and sometimes people feel like talking about it & sometimes they don't.
Anyways, I liked it. I think Musou games are inherently kinda divisive. You either like the gameplay formula or you straight up hate it. I'm the Musou Enjoyer, & I think it's one of the stronger entries in the franchise. Do I like it better than the original "Hyrule Warriors"? Hard to say! That's some really damn big shoes to fill. "Hyrule Warriors" was fuckin phenomenal. One of the peaks of the series, IMO (up there with "Samurai Warriors 4-II" and "One Piece Pirate Warriors 3"). "Age of Calamity" is definitely close, though. Real fun spins on the formula. Lotsa fun and diverse movesets for the characters, which is one of the things you hope for in these games. Frankly they coulda met just that bar and it would've been at least okay in my book. Surprisingly big roster!! I never checked out the DLC stuff but I'm glad Purah and Robbie got to be playable characters. Their designs in this were real fun.
I don't really go into a Musou game expecting much out of the story, especially if it's a licensed spin-off thing. I thought its writing was fine, though. It was a cute "what if" scenario, and I liked that characters from "Breath of the Wild" got more of a spotlight, had more room to breathe, got to be characters. I thought their writing & interactions were fun. It's the sorta thing I wish we got more of in "Breath of the Wild", though IDK how that could have fit into the original game without it being a different game entirely. I felt pretty "whatever" about the original characters, but that's how I felt about the original "Hyrule Warriors" too, haha. (I did like Li'l Baby Eggs, though.)
The overall plot was... fine. You go into it expecting "well this is just a retelling of the past, we know how this ends", and then they do their fun twist, and everything after that is Fine. It's Okay. The thing that really gets me into the writing of a Zelda game is the atmosphere of the world, and that's not something you're going to get out of the "beat up 30000 bokoblins with your friends" game. And, again, I don't expect anything writing-wise in a Musou game to wow me, considering how it's usually "here's broad strokes about the setting this is based on, now here's justification for you to get into fights". I thought it was fine, and it didn't detract from the bits I really liked (the character interactions & the mechanics).
There's a buncha stuff I never ended up unlocking or finishing in the game. (I finished the big main storyline, but that tends to be, like... a quarter of what these games have to offer. I'm pulling that number out of my ass, haha.) I'll go back to it some day. IDK if I'd want to stream it again, but it might be fun to slot in at some point when Puzz and I hit up the other Zelda games.
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The Spreadsheet Digest - Vol 19
Hi friends!
Thanks for being patient with me -- I had one hell of a day yesterday and didn't get the Digest out when I usually do. It's short this week: only 10 fics (still not bad, considering, lmao). I read a 40 chapter fic this week that was about 400k words (rec'd below) and I was hooked (am hooked, I have like 5 chapters left). Apologies to all my moots whose fics I have ignored in favor of having my face buried in AO3 for a week, I'm catching up now!
As always you can find the Spreadsheet here and all of my previous fic recs here. Tag me in your fics if you want to be included in a future Digest :)
Recs below the Pedro in a v nice suit:
you can't trust anyone these days - a Joel/Tess one shot by @walkintotheriveranddisappear
TW Noncon - read the warnings - I really thought this was such an interesting take on Raider!Joel. I don't usually see Tess there with him and I also liked the power dynamics/trust thing going on. The plot twist? That was everything!
All over you - a Javi G drabble by @theywhowriteandknowthings
This is super fucking hot ah!! I love needy men who can't wait to get their hands on you. You're at a fancy party with Javi G and you look so hot he has to drag you into a closet. So good
Take My Hand - a Pero Tovar one shot by @pedrito-friskito
Okay so the prompt ended up being Pero Tovar, “is this real? are…are you real?” for fluff and “take off your clothes before I rip them off your body” for smut. And it's perfect. It's got this touch of angst, but it's so fluffy and sweet and then the smut is so hot. I am in love
John Wayne - a Joel one shot by @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin
SOOOO fuckin sweet, man. Like it's heartbreaking obvi. You show up in Jackson and Maria is all "this is my husband Tommy" and you're like that's the brother of the love of my life (pre-outbreak). And I won't spoil what happens but I love it so fucking much
Cherub - a Joel series by @cherubispunk
TW Dubcon - read the warnings - Mean old trailer park drug dealer Joel? The mouth on that man... Yeah this is filthy in the best way.
Stay - a Javi P one shot by @millerscoffee
Motherfuckin daddy kink with Javi P???? Hell yes. Yes on every level. This is so fucking hot ugh. The mouth on that man is criminal.
Religious Corruption - a Dave York two shot by @absurdthirst
Just reading the fuckin warnings/content summary on this fic got me screaming. Reader is an innocent virgin beginning her freshman year at a very religious school and she gets a crush on her professor, Dave York. This is not your average loss of innocence fic, not your average Dave York fic, not your average professor fic.... This is unlike pretty much anything else I've ever read and I loved it. It's sweeter than you might expect, but it's got penty of angst and the smut is insane.
I Will Always Find You a Din series by @lahooozaherr
Bodyguard!Din is one of my favorite things ever, seriously. I have only read the first chapter of this, but I'm so excited to read more. The way the whole first part of this fic is a flashback and you know eventually you get kidnapped???? It gives you this feeling of doom the whole time you're reading lmao (good thing, I promise) but like... our Mandalorian is gonna save us, yeah?
Be-All and Endor - a Din series by @djarins-cyare
Listen... this is the most well researched Din fic I have ever read. The amount of thought that went into this fic is insane. The linguistics are fascinating -- I think she absolutely nails the voice of everyone in this fic, especially Din. The knowledge of Mando'a and Ewokese on display here is incredible and if you ever wanted to hear Din Djarin growl strings of (actually coherent) Mando'a (with thorough translations) right into your ear... This fic is for you. The characterization and the way that every single decision made by Reader and Din make sense and build to such a gorgeous character arc? UGH. And while you have to wait... a long time... for smut -- it is so worth it. GODS this fic is gorgeous. I love it so fuckin much. (This is the one I was talking about in the intro)
Breaking in the new house - a Din one shot by @beskarandblasters
AHHHH this is so fucking hot. It's literally husband (so helmetless)!Din fucking you on like every surface of your house on Nevarro. There is not a refractory period in sight in this fic and I love it with all my heart. He is so hot, I want to die. <3
--------------- my fics --------------
I finally made a masterlist for A Ghost of You and updated all the headers which I'm very excited about. I also added a new fic to that series called Faulty System. The series is a mostly angsty, sometimes smutty Dieter Bravo x f!reader fic.
---------- Oldies but Goodies ----------
Here's some fics from before I did the digest or made commentary!
Jack Daniels x tattoo parlour AU - a Jack one shot by @fuckyeahdindjarin
Early Morning Moments - a Dieter one shot by Jazzelsaur on AO3
Over and Done With - a Javi P one shot @loquaciousferret
Every fic by @frannyzooey (I have too many of her fics on my spreadsheet to rec separately lmao)
In an Instant - a Joel one shot by @mishasminion360
A fool for you - a Joel one shot by @supernaturalgirl20
It would be - a Din Series by @fuckyeahdindjarin
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Happy Reading!
#fic recs#the spreadsheet digest#fanfiction recommendations#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro fics#pedro pascal character fanfiction
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Are there any romance stories or romantic subplots that specifically worked really well for you? Maybe because they were "good friends being good friends" plots first and "romance" plots second?
it is very depressing to me that for a while I could only give a conditional "yes" to this one. There are romantic subplots I liked up to a point that the writers made decisions about them I thought were weird and dumb, or that I liked in hindsight but didn't really appreciate at the time. And despite having watched a not inconsiderable amount of live-action media, every single halfway good example I could conjure up was from a cartoon.
Catra and Adora have a fascinatingly tumultuous arc to me, but I spent the entire show genuinely believing we'd never get a payoff, and when we actually got the big kiss I was too busy being shocked to really process the ramifications. In my head I'd filed them right next to Charles Xavier/Magneto and Optimus Prime/Megatron, enemies so clearly soulmates with each other but in that special murdery way. I've been planning a full rewatch, so I might get to fully appreciate it this time!
When I watched through Ben 10: Alien Force I remember being genuinely surprised at how much I liked the romantic subplot between Kevin and Gwen. I think because they were both kinda assholes about it, but in very synergistic ways. He's the platonic ideal of an Edgy Emotionally Repressed Lancer but he's kind of too blunt and straightforward to remember to be emotionally repressed all the time, and she's a smart snarky ass-kicker who figures out that they're clearly into each other immediately and bluntly asks him when he's gonna ask her out in like episode three, which completely throws him off his game. It was very cute, and Kevin got in a few good "take the bullet for the love interest to save her" moments that I'm always a fan of, but after the first couple seasons something shifted in the writer's room and Kevin got shunted back down the "actually a dickhead" route and the characters stopped acting like they cared about each other so much. It was a bummer, and since the characters stopped acting consistently in-character I kind of disengaged. But I did like how they handled it early on!
I am, obviously, broadly a big fan of the romantic subplots in ReBoot, as I am with all other major parts of that show. The main one that got focused on was between protagonists Bob and Dot, which was kind of standard background will-they-won't-they fare for the first three seasons - some miscommunications and arguments and daring rescues - until they get in a big kiss in the finale. The problem, as ever, is in season four, when they start doing some really weird sitcom telenovela twists, including a second Bob popping out of a portal and claiming to be the real Bob, and everyone in the show spontaneously sheds 90% of their braincells to forget the fact that their Bob is the one who saved the day over and over again since getting fished out of the Web, so everyone ignores our best boy who actually did the heroics to play favorites with Other Bob. Obviously Other Bob turns out to be a bad guy in disguise, but this is revealed at his wedding to Dot, and it's just fuckin stupid that it would get to that point at all. This is a big part of why I mentally carve season 4 off the canon timeline and just let it end at the season 3 finale.
The other romantic subplot is between Matrix and AndrAIa, who meet as children in season 2 and have a cute kind of mutual crush thing going on before they get lost in the games in the season 3 timeskip and, offscreen, grow up together and enter a fully-established and completely solid relationship. Aside from a brief "matrix gets jealous" subplot in the back half of season 3 that really just serves to reflect his fascinating cocktail of trauma-induced self-loathing issues, they're remarkably stable and play off each other well. I think the fact that we skipped all the romantic will-they-won't-they drama and went straight to "they did, they have, and they're totally good" did it a lot of favors - and despite Matrix being, by any metric, an asshole, it never feels like AndrAIa is settling or putting up with him or tasked with fixing him. It's more like they're each the only person the other truly feels safe and whole around, so Matrix is truly an asshole to everyone but AndrAIa (and later Bob and Dot, his other loved ones) and AndrAIa is not guarded or defensive around Matrix.
Gargoyles also had two different romantic subplots I liked - one between heroes, one with villains. Goliath and Elisa have a great dynamic that's a little less will-they-won't-they and a little more of an unspoken agreement, "we're both really into each other but we also don't really think this can happen on account of being fully different species and we're too mature to get dramatic about it." Since they're basically on the same page about it, they don't have much in the way of drama or miscommunication, it's just all that good "rescuing each other from peril" content I like.
On the villain side, David Xanatos and Fox had a surprisingly wholesome relationship considering they're full-blown villains for the first couple seasons. It's a case where their romantic subplot made them both better people in the long run as they developed priorities that weren't selfish. They ALSO skipped all the will-they-won't-they and went straight into a wholesome, committed, mutually supportive relationship.
I do also recall being genuinely surprised how much I liked the romantic subplot between Trevor Belmont and Sypha. I think what made it work for me was the tendency for them to clearly and honestly communicate with each other - about more than just their romantic subplot. There's a great bit in season 4 where they just sit down and are like "everything's been happening a LOT lately, let's talk about how we feel about that", and I appreciated the moment I think is in season 3 where they're like "hey… maybe… leaving Alucard alone in his dead parents' castle ten minutes after helping him kill his dad… was bad for him?" It's a romantic subplot that doesn't feel like it eclipses the rest of their characterization and it doesn't mean they stop caring about anything other than each other. And it also skipped over the will-they-won't-they, so honestly no wonder I liked it.
I know there's more, but I genuinely had to google lists of shows to remind myself of the one-in-a-million examples I actually liked, so let's leave it here for now.
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CKB (crookedkryptonitebeliever) DATING SIM
[ACTUALLY THIS SERVES MORE LIKE CHARACTER DESCRIPTIONS FOR MY OCS]
Tw: yandere, infantilization, , incest, noncon, sexual content, foot injury
So you got transmigrated into an otome game. Cool.
To your surprise, you're not the villain or villainess! But instead, the main character. That should be fun and easy, right? Main characters always get their happy endings with hot anime boys.
Right?
I'll let you be the judge of that.
This game is created by crookedkryptonitebeliever on Tumblr, if it helps.
The anime boys are not boys. Nor girls. Nor non binary, nor anime but a scarier firth thing. Da Creator's OCs.
We got,
2718 the aloof, magical Venusian cowboy who doesn't speak English, easiest way to get to his heart is through his stomach
Unnamed androgynous entity carrying an Abacus, the freak in the sheets and freak in the Venusian streets who also doesn't speak English, loves french kissing a little too much
Your unnamed big brother who would rather take care of you than do anything else. No, he doesn't give a shit that you're 18, 25, 52 or 75 or a millennia old, you are still baby to him. Now what would you like for dinner? Big brother will cook you up something yummy
Your unnamed best friend turned fiance then husband who seems the sanest of the bunch. I would personally go for this guy because he pays for all your bills and supports you, and gives you enough freedom and cooks good and he would-
Leveret, brunch lover and destroyer of bottomless mimosas, the least developed of the bunch, he's fuckin weird but rich though. Lovely elegant fingers, elegant posture and gait, nothing like a bunny despite popular belief. More like a snake
An unnamed hitman who only has the hots for you and eats your pussy like groceries, camps under your bed to spawn kill that kitty
Da Translator, she's not even a love interest nor does she have any interest in love. Da Creator just shoehorned her in to make communication between 2718 and Abacus easier. Faulty nanobots in her bloodstream and corrupt intergalactic governments strike again. She just wants to go home.
And many more that have yet to crawl out of the deepest crevices of my drafts and make their grandiose (or creepy) appearance.
In this series, or oneshot, or waffle, or whole nothing burger, everyone is slightly altered from canon to fit with the setting.
Let's begin.
You were just dropped here. Literally. From the fucking sky and you broke your fucking foot as a result.
You, a modern day salary person, or student, or surgeon, or sturgeon, or whatever with almost tangible question marks around your head, is clutching your pained foot. The last thing you remembered was sneakily sleeping on your job after giving up on your task at hand. You were rudely awakened by the ticklish feeling of your organs floating inside you, a rushing gust of wind against your face and ultimately a bone fracture.
Howling and sobbing from the excruciating pain, you caught the attention of more than enough citizens in the town square you were dropped in. Of course, a person manifesting from thin air and falling from the sky already had their interests piqued.
This sucks, you thought. Usually transmigrants wake up in bed, as someone else-in someone else's body, mild to severe confusion is to be expected. But generally, initially unharmed. You didn't expect to be flung down from the fucking sky with no plot armor.
Da creator argues that you do have some plot armor, you're still alive, aren't you? You would become a flattened reader patty by falling at that height if this was in real life.
Back to the plot at hand. You're suffering with a broken foot, everyone around you dress Amish, no tech in sight- still using oil lanterns to light up the place. They seem human enough for you to realize that they're frowning, gaping, gasping, murmuring and knitting their eyebrows in concern.
The more you look away from your horrifyingly twisted foot, the more you notice that... there is modern technology around! There are people wearing casual hawaiian shirts, baseball caps and a DSLR camera hung around their neck. Must be tourists from the city.
Now there are 7 ways this can go. Each path you choose will have... probably another 3 more ways. Then each will branch off again to another three more ways and so on. Da creator is not doing this game on Tumblr cause it will be a nightmare to masterlist and keep track.
I was planning to be like Degrees of Lewdity inspired, text based and using twine to do it but I know squat shit about coding. So this may probably be an empty promise, but I want to make like a visual novel out of it.
Maybe not... visual. I don't know how those talented VN artists do it, but I simply CANNOT draw all of that.
I'll probably start off strong and fall off the face of Earth doing this, my motivation is never consistent. So don't expect much, I'm just throwing this out here in case maybe in a couple months I decided to reread my crap and see this and go "hey why not" and pick it back up.
Then disappear for a couple weeks, abandon the project, reread my stuff, rinse and repeat. Keep in mind I haven't have a slightest idea how to code or any of its' jargons.
Anyways, you get to choose how to meet one of the 7 OCs.
You could either:
Have 2718 swoop in and save you from some bad guys, true to the first installment of Language Barrier. But he is not going to treat you like a mature, self critical adult, if that's what you were expecting. You're injured and he is not letting you do anything for yourself. But you find it strange that your pain is gone whenever he's touching you. You can see that he's upset over your injury, but he does whatever he can to soothe you. He's awfully quiet, don't you think?
Abacus guy comes in and act like a caretaker of yours, since you can't understand what most of them are saying due to your limited... unevolved biological hardware. And poor you, howling in pain with your ankle shattered like that, of course you're not going to notice that some of the tourists are speaking in English. Abacus guy is going to gently pick you up, coo at you and turn you into putty in their arms. They pressed their lips against the crook of your neck, suckling on a very sensitive spot. It feels good...
Oh no! His baby! Your big brother will sob, taking you into his strong arms, burying his face in your hair, muttering soft, sweet nothings to soothe you. Quickly but carefully, he zipped through the curious crowd and loaded you in his car, making sure you're comfortable with your favorite plushies and blankies. Are you thirsty? Big brother has some refreshing drinks he keep in his cooler. Hungry? There are packets of healthy snacks he neatly arranged in his car organizer. Big brother will open the packets for you if you ask, but please... please eat your painkillers first. It's going to be a long ride to the hospital and you're going to suffer. And that breaks his heart.
You noticed a shadow looming over you. You looked up to see the worried face of your beloved best friend, tears from his puffy eyes streaking down his sunken cheeks. There were dark bags under his eyes from the stress. Presumably from work and the worrying he endured while you're away. He scooped you up carefully and hastily placed you down on the stretcher prepared by the best medical team in the... galaxy? They placed a complicated looking helmet over your head before pressing a button on a metallic device. You heard muffled glass shatters after that. Each of the members held on tight to the stretcher, your best friend held onto you, hugging you tightly as he whimpers, rubbing your arm up and down. You don't know what happened, but you can't describe what you're seeing through the glass. It's like watching the world's most indescribable movie, it's not giving you any feelings of pain or fear or nausea.
Leveret is too green and unripe now, I can't exactly write for him until I write a part 2, will get back to this later
Same goes for our pussy devourer hitman, too incomplete, will get back to this later as well
You were momentarily distracted from your pain when you heard a scream looming in the distance... From above. It's getting louder and louder until you hear a devastating thud and crunch against the ground, silvery specks flew past your eyes. Accompanied by multiple gasps. Sobbing, groaning and cussing soon followed. You craned your neck to see a woman, dressed in office attire, howling loudly in pain. Looks like she shattered both legs and an arm. Strange metallic liquid ooze out of her wounds. The two of you remained on the ground, injured and exhausted while everyone else just stared. All the while, feeling that something big and bad is about to come.
When all of them have their names already, I'll change the fic accordingly. But for now, this is all I can provide. Lackluster in everything <3
Actually no, no choosing. The game chooses for you and it's all up to chance. Probably have an introduction where you get up on your own and girlboss your way out. But eventually have one of my OCs catch you.
Yeah I don't know where I'm going with this.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere oc#yandere male#yandere concept#tw yandere#male yandere#yandere tw#tw incest#tw infantilization#tw noncon#male yandere ocs#yandere ocs x reader#dating sim
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Haunted chapter seventeen
Christ. Long one this. NOT PROOF READ. I’m playing COD:Ghosts and I’m busy following Keegan like a lost lamb.
Warnings - self-harm/scars/Ghosts past/trauma/explicit smut baby!
Part 18
Small fragile circles being traced on your skin woke you from your sleep. Fluttering your eyes open you saw Ghosts large hand encasing your forearm, his thumb mindlessly tracing a pattern. Stretching your legs you moaned a good morning under your breath. He leant down and kissed your forehead but didn’t respond. ‘You ok?’ You asked confused, he was more of a morning person than you were, it was unlike him to be so quiet.
‘Why’d you do it?’ He asked, voice muffled by your head on his lips. It took you a moment to realise what he was asking. Scars adorned the skin he was stroking with his thumb, a reminder of your youth. You turned into his chest laying your arm over him, ‘if I tell you. Tell me why you don’t sleep?’ He let out a feint of amusement before nodding and placing another kiss on your head.
‘Remember I told you my dad was a bastard? He made me believe everything was my fault. Mum leaving. Him beating her up. How he and my brother treated me. It was the only way I could process the mental pain I was feeling. Physical pain is easier than mental pain yanno.’ You sighed into his chest. ‘I felt like I deserved to feel like that. I’ve done a lot of work on myself, but I still sooth myself by self-punishment.’ Your voice was soft, somber.
‘That why you had the water so hot that night in the shower? Were you burning yourself?’ He asked staring at the ceiling, he resonated all too well with what you were saying. ‘Old habits die hard’ you scoffed ‘can’t help it sometimes, it feels like I’m compelled to do it. Like I have to in order to move on, because I still believe it’s my fault. I need to hurt …’
‘To make amends’ he interrupted. You looked up at him, a sad smile of agreement.
‘I don’t sleep because of nightmares. They’re too real. The pain, the memories. I know you know about my father and what he did to me. But there’s more.’ You rolled off him and propped yourself up on your elbow. Stroking his face you offered him silent reassurance. ‘Was captured by Mexican Cartel, tortured, they tried to brain wash me and two others. Sparks and Washington. They managed to escape but left me, Cartel realised they couldn’t break me. So threw me in a box with a corpse, buried me alive.’
Your face twisted, you tried to remain placid to allow him the space to open up to you. You pressed a loving kiss into his bicep.
‘Used his jaw bone to dig myself out. Some sheriff in Texas found me. Pretty much a blur after that.’ He shrugged.
‘Jesus Christ Simon.’
‘Yeah. I can still feel the box around me, suffocating, the air was putrid from the decaying body. But, the plot thickens’ he huffs, it was almost a laugh. ‘Go home, see my family, ended up meetin Sparks in a pub n we get chattin. Fucker tries to rape this girl was were walking back. He didn’t, I phoned the Police. So, we get back to his hotel, pulls a gun on me, I manage to get out and get home.’ His breath catches in his throat as his body tensed, he was rigid beneath you.
‘We can stop. You don’t need to say anymore. I … I shouldn’t have pushed. I’m sorry …’ the words fall out of your mouth, worried you’ve pushed him too far. He pulls you tight to him, ‘it’s ok. Nothin I don’t see every day.’ He continues, ‘I get home, see my entire family dead. Fuckin executed. All of em. I’m the only one left. My fuckin nephew, they killed my fuckin nephew.’ His fists were tight now, shaking next to you. He looked through you, lost in the image of his family sprawled out on the floor. The Christmas tree in the background casting a poisonous shadow on the scene before him.
You cupped his face as you straddled him, desperately trying to bring him back. ‘Hey. Simon. Focus on me.’ You put his hand to your chest ‘feel me breathe. Breathe with me, come back. Feel my heart, my skin, look at me Riley!’ The commanding tone in tone voice snapped him back. His lifeless eyes once transfixed on the ceiling, now coming back to life as he looked at you. He gripped your hips as his breathing slowed, his muscles giving out beneath you.
You leant forward and placed your forehead on his. ‘I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for you. I’m so sorry.’ You led there, breathing each other in for what felt like a lifetime. That was until his phone buzzed in his drawer. A defeated smile crept across your face ‘better get that Lieutenant.’
Sighing you got off him and led back in your spot in the very cramped single bed. ‘It’s Price.’ He answered the call, a series of ‘sir’ … ‘yeah’ and ‘affirmatives’ left his lips. As he put his phone back on his bedside table he rolled over and pulled you back into him. ‘They’ve found Makarov. Wheels up in an hour. Price needs us in the meeting room ASAP.’ You sighed into his chest, back to reality. He lifted his mask and placed his lips on yours, he was gentle, more tender than usual. ‘Now where’s my Christmas present?’ He grinned.
—
The last hour had been a blur. Makarov had slaughtered a mass of civilians at an airport in Moscow. He’s found out he’d had a mole in his team, killed him and left him at the airport with a US badge. Absolute carnage. You boarded the plane and nuzzled yourself into a corner, Soap didn’t join you this time. Instead keeping to himself, his eyes locked on the floor as he twisted his hands together. You, Soap and Ghost were on your way to Rio, to locate Makarovs arms dealer. Price and Gaz would meet you there in a few days, they were running a lead on a Russian Submarine.
It was all go from here on in. You landed in Rio and the heat smacked you in the face as you left the plane. You definitely weren’t in Wales anymore. Laswell had set up a safe house for you to run your operation from. Soap and Ghost were gone most of the time, they seemed fine together: working like the well oiled machine they were. But when it was the three of you it was … tense. You chose to isolate yourself away, give them their space. It was the least you could do, after all this was your mess.
Standing in your room you looked out across the desolate Russian landscape. Snow was falling, small fluffy white pieces kissed the ground. You were lost in your own thoughts completely oblivious to a presence behind you. Feeling someone behind you you went to turn around but two large hands grasped at your shoulders. You knew it was him, straight away.
He pulled you into him, your back flush against his chest. He smelt so good. He slowly brought his hand to your throat causing your chin to lift, as his firm hold held you in place. ‘Hi’ you whispered. His eyes were black, hungry. ‘Shh’ he cooed as he wrapped his free arm around your waist. His fingers danced along your hips, tracing small burning lines against your skin.
His mask already lifted he pressed his mouth to your ear. ‘I have a proposal for you’ he purred. His voice had never felt so smooth before. You twisted in his grip, seeing him eye to eye. You flicked your lips down to his before he initiated the kiss. It was hard, messy, longing. His tongue fell into your mouth claiming it once more. He held you tightly against him, hands running down your body, wanting to feel every inch of you. Your nails bit at his neck, pulling his hair into your grasp. Anything to ground yourself from the intensity of this kiss. You moaned into his mouth, the primal need for him ever growing.
Not breaking the kiss he began to walk you backwards towards the small bed. You struggled to keep up with his demanding pace as he assaulted your mouth with his. As he backed you up, you came to an abrupt halt. Your back hit something solid. But it wasn’t a wall, it was living. Opening your eyes you pulled away and peered over your shoulder. You were met with Soap, peering down on you through hooded eyes. Your mouth went dry. All moisture seemingly now non-existent. Swallowing hard you glanced back up at Ghost.
‘I think we need to clear the air love’ he said nipping at your neck. You felt Soaps ever growing erection on the top of your ass. Instinctively you bucked into him causing him to release a low moan. Peering over your shoulder you whispered to him ‘I thought you hated me?’ Slowly he gripped your hips, pulling you into him. He kissed the back of your neck ‘never.’
Ghost pulled off your shirt before removing his tactical vest. It hit the floor with a thud as he marvelled at your body, your glowing skin, which was littered is bruises from him. Claiming you. Cupping your face he kissed you again, keeping you distracted while Soap edged his hands to the front of your trousers. Popping your button he snaked his hands into your panties and along your slit. Finding you already dripping with pleasure. A groan rumbled from his chest as he gathered your juices on his finger tips. Ever so slowly he teased you open with his middle finger. You broke the kiss, a breathy moan filled the space between you and Ghost.
Keeping your eyes locked on his you felt paralysed with pleasure, Ghost watched as your eyes screwed together tightly. You bit your lip as Soap added a second finger, his hand traced your jaw before he pulled on your bottom lip. You nipped at his thumb pad before licking it base to tip. ‘I want you to come undone. I wanna hear you. I want to destroy you’ Ghosts voice slipped into your mind, taking complete control. You’d do anything for him. There was no doubt in your mind who was in charge here.
Soap was quiet, focused on tearing an orgasm from you. You felt close, between his fingers inside you and his palm rubbing along your clit you felt the closest to heaven as you could. Ghost gripped your throat a broken moan came from your chest as you clawed at his back. ‘Fuck,fuck,fuck’ you moaned into his chest. ‘That’s it. Let me hear you. Let me hear how pathetic you are.’
Fuck you loved it when he degraded you. When he make you feel weak and small. You were close, Soap could feel it on his fingers, you were becoming tighter and tighter. ‘Do it. Cum on Johnnys fingers love. Let him feel your cunt cum for him.’ He tightened his grip on your throat as you frantically chased your high.
‘Jesus Christ’ Soap whimpered breathlessly into your neck, your ass still rolling into him. You came fast and you came hard. You threw your head back onto Soaps shoulder, panting, shaking. He removed his fingers and brought them to your mouth. Locking eyes with Ghost you sucked your juices from Soaps fingers. ‘Fuckin hell’ was all Ghost was able to muster. Seeing you come undone like that, sweat glistened on your forehead from the heat between them. ‘Get on the bed so I can fuck your cunt.’
Releasing you, you stumbled over to the bed completely blissed out already. Removing your boots and trousers you led on the bed awaiting instruction. Ghost pulled his trousers down slightly before freeing his engorged cock. He enjoyed the power imbalance of you completely naked with he and Soap remaining dressed. He wasn’t in the mood for foreplay, he wanted to wreck you. Flipping you onto your hands and knees he landed the palm of his hand across your ass cheek. A crack of skin on skin echoed in the room. A defiant giggle left your lips as you smiled up at Soap who stood in-front of you.
Ghost pressed his leaking tip against you aching cunt, as he lined himself up and pushed into you. The stretch burnt, your pussy already overstimulated. Soap lifted your chin, his cock met your gaze as you bit your lip. You’d always wanted to go to Paris. You stuck your tongue out as he tapped it lightly. Taking it in your mouth you began sucking and trying to establish a rhythm.
Ghost dug his fingers into your hips, surely bruising you. Not that you cared. He settled into a lunge position, enabling him to thrust into you deeper. Harder. Faster. He pace was brutal. His body pounded against yours, god it hurt, but it felt so good. Your moans bordered on pornographic but was music to his ears. The cracks in your voice, the whimpers, the panting, it spurred him on. He needed you so bad, you were like heroin to him. If he could he’d inject your moans into his veins.
Soap cradled the back of your head as a flurry of praise and expletives dribbled from his lips. He’d missed you. He was still hurting but this? Reopening the wounds had never felt so good. The way your tongue felt on the base of his cock, how your saliva dropped from your mouth, your eyes rolling in the back of your head. Christ. It would be permanently engraved in his mind. ‘Fuck, so good, so good’ he panted ‘almost there.’
Ghost had wrapped his arm around your waist and was rubbing your clit. Small, firm, circles. The sensation was beyond words, the feeling of them having completing power over you? Was like nothing you’d ever experienced before. Ghost upped his pace, he pushed an arch into your back, he watched as your muscles tensed beneath him. ‘Turn over.’
Pulling out you gasped and the sudden empty feeling. Tears pricked at your eyes from the loss of contact. Falling onto your back Ghost lifted your ankles to his shoulders as he re-entered you. Stretching you out again. ‘Good girl … doing so well for me.’ You clenched at the praise sending shockwaves up his spine. He watched as your breast bounced in time with his thrusts, how your eyes were blown out. A filthy grin adorned your lips as you looked up at him through thick lashes.
Soap found your mouth again, pushing back in, feeling the warm walls of your mouth on his sensitive skin. He watched as Ghost fucked you, the sound of your arousal filled the room. Fuck you were so wet. He watched as his cock slid down your throat, bulging, full of him. He caressed your neck, it was gentle, tender, loving. Johnny all over. ‘Gonna cum hen, gonna … ‘ he couldn’t even finish his sentence before he came. Ribbons of cum dropped down your throat as you swallowed. Wanting to take all of him. He withdrew allowing you to breathe. You gasped as he pulled out of your mouth. He planted a firm kiss on your lips as Ghost continued fucking you.
‘Cum for me Simon. Please,please,please’ you begged. You whined as he buried himself deep in your needy cunt. His voice cracked as he whimpered your name, your real name. As he let himself come undone. He reached up to your neck as you felt you second orgasm on the horizon. You were on the precipice of going borderline insane. Feeling your self clench around him you arched your back, mouth open as you moaned and moaned. Repeating his name like some kind of mantra. Ghost rode out his high, gripped onto your ankles, watching as you rambled his name. How it fell so sweetly from your swollen lips.
Soap withdrew, leaving you both alone as he went to go shower. Ghost dropped your ankles and crept forward, his leaning down by the side of your head. He claimed your lips once more, wrapping your arms around him you let slip those three words again. You tried not to say it much, in fear of freaking him out. But what you didn’t expect was for him to say it back, able to hear him this time. ‘Don’t ever leave me?’ He asked desperately. All signs of Ghost now gone. This was Simon, innocent and childlike Simon. You pressed your lips into his with a smile, ‘Never.’
——
A/N: ALL ABOARD FOR PARIS. Does it go? I dunno. But I wanted it in there. I wanna be them ok? Coming to the end soon! Onto 2009 MW2 timeline now. Enjoyyyyyy
#simon ghost riley#call of duty#cod mw22#ghost x you#fan fic smut#ghost x reader#fluff#smut#john soap mactavish#mutual pining#simon riley#soap x reader#modern warefare 2#simon ghost riley x reader#cod#ghost#john mctavish#simon riley smut#john soap mctavish x you#soap mctavish x you#soap smut
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I watched a movie last night that I had a difficult time with. I didn't want to see it, but then I ended up enjoying it for the most part, but then I'm just a little annoyed with how much better it still could have been.
I'm talking about Wish. Spoilers ahead.
First, the things I liked:
Ariana DeBose was a very good lead with a great voice.
Chris Pine was wonderful, if not a little campy (which made him more wonderful). I would put, "This is the Thanks I Get," up against Bruno any day. Fight me.
The songs were mostly good with some stumbling here and there.
That fuckin' star sidekick is adorable.
The lore-building, especially with it being an, albeit heavily foreshadowed, twist, was surprisingly decent.
The runtime is an hour and a half. Perfect.
The things I did not like or was fairly indifferent to:
The performance of, frankly, any of the characters other than Ariana DeBose and Chris Pine.
Alan Tudyk as the obnoxious unfunny goat. My 4-year-old is more naturally funny than they wrote this character, who is played by an incredibly gifted, comedic actor.
The plot just wasn't interesting. Antagonist want more power; protagonist want stop bad guy. Obviously, I'm being reductive, and the concept of restoring people's lost dreams so they may pursue them for themselves rather than leave it up to an omnipotent being, is something I agree with wholeheartedly. I just feel it missed the mark in so many other ways that the plot suffered under the weight of terrible performances and animation.
The animation was bad.
Obviously, it's a technically marvel that they can create something like this just 30 years after Beauty and the Beast (which has objectively better animation). But parents might notice something uncanny about this movie. It's almost like a slightly more advanced cel-shading that they use in Disney Junior Shows like Myra the Royal Detective.
It feels lazy. Again, OBVIOUSLY work went into this, and I applaud the animators for doing something I couldn't dream of, but it just looks meh.
The performances of her seven-dwarf-analog, friends was fucking abysmal. The voices barely match the characters and were just obnoxious the whole movie. I appreciated what they did with Jennifer Kumiyama's character as far as representation, but it also felt like her voice was mixed really high in the audio and it was exhausting to listen to.
Also, having the seven dwarf friends that aren't dwarves is just weird when you consider everything else. Taken literally, this movie essentially acts as a lore-igin film for the enchanted mirror and Cinderella's Fairy Godmother. But the mirror is in Snow White. So...are these supposed to be the dwarves or just identical two-dimensional characters defined by literally the same traits as the dwarves or a multiverse thing or does it not matter at all?
Anyway, this was just a quick rant about a movie that I feel was unfairly, harshly judged. It's better than I expected, but worse than it should've been. 6.5/10.
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