#goddammit this better show up in the tags
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ROTTMNT Character Fight Style Analysis - Part 3: Michelangelo
This is a continuation of my first post about analyzing each of the Turtles' (+April's) fighting style, their strengths and weaknesses in a fight, and how Rise uses that to highlight different aspects of their character. I highly encourage you read that first before hopping into this one for full context. There is a bit of a TL;DR at the end.
[Part 1: Leo] [Part 2: Raph] [...] [Part 4: Donnie] [Part 5: April]
Next up is Dr. Delicate Touch himself:
Michelangelo: The Wild Card/Disabler
Fight Style:
Dexterous and Versatile
Mikey is a very fast and acrobatic fighter, allowing him to move around and attack in ways his brothers are unable to. His small frame means that he is naturally inclined to be faster than his bigger brothers, and when paired with his gymnastic skills, he becomes an exceptionally swift and nimble fighter. He excels when fighting offensively – in fact, he’s the most offensive fighter on the team - and while he can handle himself on the defensive, it isn’t his strong suit. Mikey’s primary form of defense is to dodge the enemy as he can maneuver himself around foes in a way that makes him hard to keep track of, and even harder to hit.
Mikey also has the greatest versatility of the whole team. Like his brothers, he excels with non-traditional weapons, but Mikey seems to be particularly talented in this regard. Mikey also has a wide range of mystical abilities that he uses to extend the reach of his weapons by manipulating the chains of his nunchakus or kusari-fundo, improving his maneuverability, or even throwing comically large objects. This versatility in combination with his dexterity gives him the ability to attack enemies both nearby and at a distance with relative ease, while slightly improving his defensive skills.
Strengths and Roles in a Fight:
The Wild Card:
Mikey is the resident wild card as his fighting style wide range of abilities and make him the most flexible fighter on the team (both literally and figuratively) and seem very chaotic in a fight. His job is to be the unpredictable element in battle – he rounds out the team by being able to the changing needs of a fight. This is most effective when Mikey is on the offensive as he is less restricted in his fighting method than his brothers are - if a certain type of attack is needed, odds are Mikey can deliver. He can deliver quick, successive hits with his wild movements and fast reflexes, or he can utilize his wide variety of mystic abilities to blindside the enemy with an unexpectedly powerful attack. He can also help in disorienting an enemy or catching them off guard with his acrobatics and impressive strength despite his unassuming size.
Disabler:
When Mikey doesn’t need to fight offensively, he ends up primarily using his abilities to disable his enemies instead focusing as heavily on his attacks. He uses his surroundings to lead enemies into traps or he can manipulate the chains of his weapon(s) to wrap up a foe and inhibit their movement, creating the opportunity to perform a follow-up attack. Even when he throws things like a goddamn building at the enemy, this is usually only used to either crush or stall the enemy as opposed to straight-up defeating them.
Utility:
Due to his smaller size and the nature of his fighting style, Mikey tends to struggle when fighting by himself. He is a much stronger offensive fighter than a defensive fighter, which makes sense when looking at his weapon and physical attributes, but that also means he is at greater risk of losing should he have to fight defensively. While is by no means incapable of fighting alone (we see as much in 'Hot Soup: The Game'), it is noticeably more difficult for him and doesn't work with his strengths as a character.
Mikey's fighting is at his best when he has other people to work off of. His role as the wild card means he is able to assist any of his allies in battle by adapting to their respective fighting style and helping them in a fight without interfering with their attacks. This makes him a particularly good choice as a 'tag team' partner as Mikey can build on others' attacks while they can help him defensively if need be.
How it Plays into His Character:
Since Mikey's greatest weakness in battle (his inexperience) isn't necessarily a character flaw, but simply a product of his young age, his fight style does more to emphasize his personality. We see how Rise directly ties Mikey's fighting style to his character traits, ensuring that his fights still have the same depth as his brothers'.
The wild card role suits Mikey’s character as it complements his energetic and creative personality. Even outside of battle, Mikey moves in a very lively manner, quickly jumping around and rushing from place to place, which would naturally translate into how he fights. It also means that Mikey isn’t tied down to one particular method of attack which wouldn’t mesh well with his ADHD tendencies. His creativity also comes into play as his role as the wild card relies on him being clever and resourceful in battle. If he had a more rigid mindset, this would be difficult for him, but as someone who sees the world in an artistic light, Mikey is more inclined to be a bit more inventive in his attacks.
If Raph is the most protective of his brothers, Mikey is the most supportive. Even though Mikey is the youngest brother, he doesn’t feel overshadowed by his older brothers, nor does he crave the spotlight the way Leo or Donnie does. He wants to prove himself, but he is more than happy to do so by supporting his family, rather than outshining them. The Disabler role fits this part of Mikey perfectly. By disabling the enemy, he supports his brothers by stopping his foe from hurting others or by helping his allies by giving them a better opportunity to strike. Mikey still demonstrates that he is a capable, strong fighter, while still allowing his brothers to take a more prominent role in the fight.
In a Team Battle:
In a coordinated team attack, Mikey is actually capable of filling any position in the order of attack. His versatility gives him the ability to change his fighting method to fit whichever position he needs to, making his placement in the attacking order entirely situational.
When fighting in a strategic attack with the full team, Mikey is most effective going second, third, or second-to-last (depends on how many people are fighting) rather than first or last. Due to his fast movement and weapon’s versatility, Mikey can follow up on almost any type of attack, making him the best choice to go after more wild attacks that would normally throw off other characters. His role as a disabler also makes him a prime choice to set up a powerful final attack by halting the movement of an enemy and making them vulnerable to a finishing blow.
Mikey is able to go first or last in an attack when needed as he is more than capable of going into a fight quickly and delivering a strong attack by pummeling or crushing the enemy. However, considering that Mikey works best when playing off of his teammates, these are probably Mikey’s weakest positions in a team fight. He is also limited to really only one type of finishing blow (throwing large objects at people), which goes against his role as the wild card.
I had a really fun time analyzing Mikey's fighting style and roles. While identifying how he fought was pretty simple, understanding just how versatile our boy is was super interesting. I definitely didn't realize until going through this just how varied Mikey is during a fight, and it totally fits his personality. No wonder he's so fun to watch during an action scene.
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[TL;DR: Mikey is a very speedy, dexterous, and versatile fighter. Due to his adaptability and wide range of mystic abilities has the greatest variety of attack methods out of all his brothers, making him the perfect Wild Card. His wild movements and fast (yet powerful) fighting style align well with his energetic personality, while his role as the Disabler fits in with his desire to support his brothers as opposed to outshining them.]
I really appreciate all the support I've been getting with these. It has been a blast making them and I am so glad people are enjoying reading them. Donnie is up next, but I'll have to push it off two days instead of tomorrow because of a test.
#rottmnt#rise of the tmnt#rottmnt mikey#rottmnt michelangelo#rise mikey#rise michelangelo#you know#I am technically on time with this#once again I just got caught up with stuff#goddammit this better show up in the tags#I think I'm single handedly breaking tumblr with my posts#someone told me my first post crashed their phone when they tried to share it#soooo#wtf this isn't any larger than my previous posts why is this one being stupid#analysis#character analysis#rottmnt analysis
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In the article that came out this morning about Andrew Cushin's album, Pete Doherty was quoted being defensive about his decision to collaborate with Louis, saying, “Look at some of the great labels, look at The Sex Pistols with Malcolm McLaren getting together with Richard Branson. Over the years, labels’ main aim was to be a springboard for their artists to get as many people to hear the music they believe in. Whatever that takes – if that means having a major label take you up the alley for five minutes I will do that for my artists any day of the week.” Initially this just pissed me off (and it still does) but the more I thought about the more fascinating it is actually. There's never been any question that 78 Productions' role in co-releasing Andrew Cushin's album is primarily financial, and I'd say this confirms that, but he's saying more than that; he's saying that Louis and his label, that has never had a single release before now, offer more than just cash, that it is on par with Virgin Records in its infancy because of the position and reach Louis has in the industry... and he can be as sour as he wants about it, that's a hell of an admission and not a position you just automatically hold by being a former boyband member. We already know this but that doesn't mean I don't love it when people say it out loud!
#awwwww did it hurt? when you had to admit that a former boyband member half your age had connections you needed?#I finally listened to the album and goddammit I actually like it#I didn't like Andrew's stuff previously (or his live show); but once again I gotta hand it to Louis and his ear he was fucking right#he just needed some production and polish and I guess I do get it now#and I do really see how the lyrics are right up Louis' street#all of which is irritating cause I still don't like him as a dude but to be fair he's no worse than tons of other musicians I listen to#its just that unlike them he's come closer to home and I'm forced to Know things about him#anyway#blah blah blah#louis songwriting#louis promo#(its the closest tags I have leave me alone)#but I should have a better one no time like the present:#louis business#he was always the boss#is he also positioning himself as malcolm mclaren cause sir one- you aren't and two- would you WANT to be?? for gods sake!#at least be vivienne westwood!
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Repentance
Billy x Gender Neutral! Reader
('Burn' gifs are limited and this was hotter. Sue me.)
Summery: You know the phrase 'sleeping angels?' Yeah, not in this fucking house. Pretty soon it's gonna be you or him, but Billy may have a trick or two up his sleeve to provide a happy ending for you both
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specified genitals for Reader, prequel/standalone fic for 'My Ghost' but not required reading to enjoy this fic, ('My Ghost' may even be enhanced if you read this first, I'll be fr.) Porn with plot (if you are only here for plot, the porn is only in the second half and is easily skippable), snoring, Reader is sleep deprived, non-serious threats of violence, mentions of gun violence, banter, make-up sex, drug usage/alcohol consumption, Dom!Billy, Sub!Reader, Reader goes mostly non-verbal after smoking but their thoughts don't, dumbification, Reader gets spoiled and folds like a lawn chair me too bitch me too, massage turning into sex, doggy style, Reader gets that good dick that knocks their head into a wall, vocal! Billy, dirty talk/talking through it, pet names, possessive sex, mentions of wet dreams, happy ending for everyone :)
Other Works in This Series: 'My Ghost' (Original) • 'Lapses' (Sequel to 'My Ghost')
Notes: This was supposed to be a drabble and it was not gonna contain smut. What can I say, when the holy spirit of a short man with big brown eyes compels you, you compel him into your bitch. Anyways, this was inspired by this headcanon written by @g0ry0re0! So if you liked this fic, please thank her as well in the comments and go support her works because this wouldn't exist without it!! They're a fucking great writer as well.
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Have you ever killed a man?
I might.
Listen, I'm not a bitch. I'm not unreasonable even though that was a hell of an opening statement. But if you'd dealt with the shit I've put up with for the past few nights, you would understand.
How can a man who's not even that fucking large in stature make such noise? What the fuck is wrong with him?
I kick him to try and hit a reset button. It works for five minutes, which is long enough for me to begin to relax again. Right before his snoring revs up like the engine of that bike he loves parked on our front lawn. Maybe I'll run him over with it. Be poetic, take him out with his own weapon. Don't the reports show just how deadly motorcycles are compared to regular cars? It's bad for your health.
Okay, I'm assuming that bit because I'm tired, I'm cold, and Billy won't shut the fuck up. It was a little cute when he was just spending the night and we were hardly sleeping. But now that he actually lives here?
Kick. Stop. Wait. Snore.
Goddammit.
Billy has the fucking audacity to greet me with a smile this morning. Sitting at my fucking table, smoking from the ashtray I fucking made him. He should be ashamed to look so good with no shirt on, displaying his chest hair for the whole neighborhood to see as he sits near the open window with coffee set in front of him like he owns the damn place.
"Morning beautiful," he says with a smile. What fucking nerve does he have to sit there and act so happy about while I hate him?
"You snore," I growl. His eyebrows shoot into the air, this son of a bitch has the nerve to widen his smile.
"I'm sorry?"
"I said you fucking snore," I repeat.
"Don't think I've heard that complaint before," he says, shifting in his seat to look at me better. I don't like the way he looks in those sweatpants, grey and hugging the wrong areas for my attitude.
"You haven't dated anyone long enough for someone to complain about it," I mutter under my breath. His eyes focus on the oversized shirt I wear that alright, maybe I stole from the drawer I stash his things in that I now claim as mine. We live together, it's inevitable, fucking fight me. Watching me as I walk into the kitchen, taking the coffee pot off the dock and pouring some into my cup.
"Something I can do to make up for it, shirt thief?" He asks, leaning back in his seat and manspreading, his hands on his horribly thick thighs. "I was wondering where that one went," he mutters to himself, amused.
"Yeah. See a fucking doctor."
It's day five. I'm genuinely considering homicide.
Dear God, or Allah, or whoever you are. If I shouldn't suffocate this man, give me a sign.
...does the short snore that escapes Billy's mouth count?
It doesn't matter what I do. If I turn him onto his side, if I kick him, if I shove ear buds in and blast whatever music I can sleep to at max volume, he's louder and I'm on my last straw. It's him or me.
"William," I say, poking my head up from the old pillow.
No response.
Maybe it's safe.
Maybe he's dead.
Maybe he'll stay quiet.
I lay my head down once more.
"...what?"
"You fucking snore."
"I'm sorry baby," he slurs in half baked consciousness, turning to wrap his arm around my waist as he presses hot, open mouthed kisses to the back of my neck. "Can I make it up to you?"
"Yeah, let me sleep."
"Sleep is for the weak."
I am weak. I am very, very weak.
"Put your dick away."
"It isn't out."
"I can still feel it."
With a grumble and his face buried in my hair, he abandons his quest in favor of returning to whatever dreams make him keep me up at night. And I am so close to joining him when he starts back up hardly two minutes later. Right in my ear.
With a final huff, I tear the blanket off of him and stomp my bleary eyed way to the living room. Fucker is too sleepy to even notice. Fuck him.
I'm not amused when I wake up in the ungodly hours of the morning sprawled on the couch, Billy's foot in my face as early morning light peaks through the shitty blinds.
"You followed me," I groan, my voice rough with sleep.
"I followed blanket," he slurs.
"It's mine."
"I was cold."
"You snore."
"I've offered consolation, you should take it."
"William, have you ever shot a man?" I ask, bolting upright as I wipe the crust from my eyes.
"Fucking what?"
"Have you ever shot a man?" I repeat slowly, properly enunciating each word.
Billy's eyes dart to the side, then back to me, wide but still tinted from sleep.
"...no?"
"I've considered it," I tell him. "There's a gun in my nightstand. And if I don't get some sleep soon, I'm going to use it. I haven't before, but I can't imagine it's hard."
Billy presses his lips together in a thin line, knowing I'm not serious but that I'm on the last straw.
"... should I go back to bed?"
"I can go back to bed," I say. "You can stay on the couch."
"That's a great idea."
"I'll take the blanket."
"You do that."
It's only two hours later when I'm woken by the alarm, and the smell of sausage is fresh on the air. Even if it was short, the sleep in solitude feels refreshing, no interruptions from Yellowstone volcano on the other side.
When I wander into the kitchen he's in the midst of finishing his preparations for a feast. And by feast I mean a fuck load of eggs with sriracha on top and plenty of sausages to go with it. There's also a pile of toast, the bottle of homemade cinnamon sugar next to the stick of butter besides it.
"Morning beautiful," Billy tries carefully, eyeing me as I lean against the hallway doorframe. "Coffee's on the table."
Whatever I said earlier- which may or may not be blurry to me at this point -has clearly changed his attitude. He's even set out the hazellenut creamer for me, a treat.
"Did you sleep well?" He asks, setting a heaping plate in front of me. I don't know how to tell him I'm too sleepy to eat.
"Better," I say. I take a slice of cinnamon covered toast, trying to convince my stomach to wake up. "Kinda cold, though."
He smiles softly at that, setting down his own plate to join me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I return the smile, taking a small bite of the corner of my toast. He takes a sip of coffee and brushes his foot against mine under the table. The silence is sweet, apart from the radio just ever so quietly playing in the background to add to the calm morning atmosphere Billy has created for me. His hair is ruffled from sleep, his hand nervously fiddling with the thin chain around his neck. He glances at me, smiles apprehensively, then breaks the silence.
"Do you actually own a gun?" He asks, trying so hard to sound casual.
My brows furrow before I realize what he's referencing, letting out a loud laugh and almost dropping my toast in the process.
"I'm not gonna shoot you, Billy," I laugh, trying so hard to maintain my composure.
"Last night you called me William. I did not like that," he laughs nervously.
"William, I will not shoot you."
"My mother calls me that, I don't want you and my mom calling me the same name."
"Willy-"
"Fuck you," he groans, laughing. "You're terrifying."
"When I don't sleep," I add for him. He nods, eyes wide and brows raising in agreement. "Did you seriously make breakfast because you were worried I owned a gun?"
"When you meet the devil, you meet demands," he says. I kick at his foot playfully, giggling.
"The devil doesn't really eat breakfast."
"I know, I packed lunch too."
Fuck free will, I should've done the gun thing a long time ago. When I walk back into the ramshack house that evening fresh off my shift, Billy has dinner, a bowl and a bath prepared for me upon my return.
"I did not take your comments seriously and I'm sorry," he says genuinely, taking my coat. "I should have and you have suffered. Consider this repentance."
"Repentance is nice. You hide the gun too while you were at it?" I ask.
"I'm not answering that."
Billy may be many things, and a cook is one of them. It's simple, fresh, and nice after a long day. The backrub I'm getting while I eat makes the flavors even sweeter.
"I feel an urge to clarify my threat was not serious," I joke between bites, taking a sip of the wine Billy had run out and gotten special for the night.
"I'm well aware, but this is overdue anyways," he says softly. "You're mine and you deserve nice nights." He presses a warm kiss to the spot just under my ear, making me blush. "My baby needs spoiled."
"Well, I certainly feel spoiled," I say contently, finishing the last bite. I lean back in my chair, letting him explore my neck as his gentle hands work their way through my many knots, whispering sweet nothings in my ear all the while.
"Wait until I tell you what kinds of oils I slipped in your bath as well," he whispers in my ear.
If this is repentance, he should snore more often.
I'm stoned, zoned, and completely naked across the bed as Billy carefully massages my legs, phone propped on a spare pillow beside my head as I stare blankly at the show in front of me.
His hands are slick with oil, gliding across my skin with ease as he works at a knot on the back of my calf.
"I've been ignoring you too much," he muses, his voice soft and loving as his thumbs work in small circles. "You're much too tense for my taste."
I am too stupid to respond with English. I will tell him later about the day I've had at work, running around for fifteen different customers and a boss I can hardly stand. But for now a low moan will do, my mind too blurry from substance use and the stimulation that makes me dizzy with want.
"Does that feel good?" Billy asks, pressing a small kiss against my shin. I moan again, eyes fluttering shut. "Wanna make sure my baby sleeps well tonight."
Oh, I'll sleep phenomenally.
His hands abandon me, searching for the bottle of lavender scented oil, coating his hands before reaching for the back of my thighs, right below the curve of my ass.
"How's the show?" He asks me, digging deeply into my tissue in a way that makes me moan, arching my back subconsciously as the stimulation takes over my thoughts. "That good?" He asks, voice deep as he chuckles.
"Very good," I confirm, my voice soft against the freshly washed bedsheets. I have never said a bad thing about this man. I would never curse the provider of relaxation. Any claims otherwise are false and slandering against me and my man.
"You're grinding against the bed, you realize that, right?" Billy asks bemused, his thumbs drawing deep circles against the inside of my thighs, making me gasp in want. "There something else you want?"
Whatever strain he has given me has made me nonverbal, but the squeak I let out is answer enough. For me, anyways.
"I need words, baby. Words. Vague noises are not consent," he says softly.
"Motherfucker that noise was not vague," I snap, lifting my head up briefly before resuming my mindless appreciation against the bed. Billy's laugh echoes throughout the room, his hand lightly smacking my ass before reaching for the small towel and bottle of lube on the nightstand, wiping off his hands before squeezing a generous dollop onto two digits.
His fingers press against my entrance slowly, coating it with the thick, cold lube, making me squirm and gasp against him, my eyes rolling to the back of my head.
"I'm gonna start off slow, okay baby?" He says gently, still stroking my entrance as he positions himself above me. "You let me know if you want me to change something."
I moan in understanding, but it's not enough for him. His voice is low and rumbling by my ear, his lips teasing at my shoulder.
"Say yes if you understand," he says softly, breath hot against my ear.
"Yes," I say just as soft.
"Good," he praises, pressing a soft kiss to the back of my neck. "Good baby."
His cock slowly sinks inside of me, the pot from earlier making the sensations deeper and more vibrant as I feel the sweet stretch even at the top of my head. Billy moves slow, taking his time to enter me as though we had all the time in the world. I can't help but pant against the bed, whining for more intelligibly as Billy sheethes himself to the hilt, pressing himself against my g-spot just perfectly at this angle, no real effort needed when I'm like this. My eyes roll at the touch, my hips bucking in uneven, stupid rhythms against him as he remains still inside of me. Fuck it, he could snore in my ear right now and I'd let him.
Billy's voice is breathy, moaning as he brushes my hair with his hand. "Let me know when you want me to move," he moans in my ear.
"I am," I whine. "Fuck me."
He chuckles against me, his voice rough as he continues in a slow, even rhythm. "You don't want to go slow first?" He asks, pressing a kiss to my spine as he slowly slides against my spot again, his cock making me clench tightly around him.
"Uh uh," I moan, still trying to buck rapidly against him. "Want more."
"You usually get so overstimulated if I start fast at this angle," he teases, ignoring the pace of my hips in favor of his. "Can't even finish fucking you if I start out fast, you're so sensitive by the end."
That's a lie. Terrible lie. Slander.
"Do you really want me to go fast?" He asks softly, one hand finding my hip to guide me to a better rhythm.
"Motherfucker, yes," I whine, lifting my head. He chuckles, much to my annoyance. "Fuck me like you own me."
At that he grabs my hips, slamming me against his base before he begins to violently abuse my hole, fucking directly into my g-spot and never missing once as he fucks me hard enough to make the bed slam into the wall, making a painting rattle on the wall behind us.
"Jesus- fuck- wait!" I cry, my hips subconsciously trying to escape his abuse while I clench around him, silently begging for more.
He slows his pace once more, pressing such soft, sweet kisses to my spine as he speaks. "See? You can't handle it like that. You're half fucked out already and that wasn't even five seconds."
He's absolutely right and I should listen to him more. How wise is my man.
"If I was really fucking you like I owned you," he says lowly between slow, long thrusts, his hands guiding my hips gently as I whimper with each move like the bitch I am. "I'd pick the pace. But here you are, telling me what to do and changing your mind the moment I give it to you. So indecisive is my baby." Very indecisive. Go fast again. "And I'll do whatever you want like a good man should."
I will stay home with the kids. I will scrub my permanently stained linoleum floor until it shines like the top of the Chrysler building. I will spend my days barefoot and pregnant if he so requests of me. In Jesus's name, Amen.
Billy moves slow and purposefully against me, grinding his cock and moaning in my ear while he watches me, smacking my ass here and there when he wants to watch it bounce against his hips.
"So pretty," he moans. "Even prettier when you cum. Is there something I can do to help?"
I whine against the bed, feeling edged and whoreish with his thick dick pulsing inside of me, fucking me into blind submission and making me willing to do anything he says.
"Would someone like for me to go faster?" He coos sweetly, slightly speeding up his tempo as he slams more gently into my spot. "Does my baby wanna get fucked?"
I nod stupidly, whining and huffing as he slowly continues to gain speed.
"You gonna cum around me? Take my cock real nice and fast?" He asks, smacking my ass once more. I clench upon impact, making him do it again and again until he laughs.
"Cum in me," I moan. All care has been thrown out the window, my head scrambled and vision blind.
"Yeah? You want that?" He teases. His balls smack loudly against my front, offering additional stimulation and making my eyes roll. "Looks like you're drooling over it." Motherfucker I am, and?
"I'm gonna fuck you so good you sleep for days, sweetheart," he moans in my ear, slamming into me hard enough to make me squeal. "Kept dreaming about you for the past week. Kept getting all nice and hard only to have you wake me up before I could fuck you. Come to find out I was keeping my poor baby up, being my own cockblock."
His cock pistons in and out of me at impressive speed, one of his hands slamming against the bars of the metal headboard to offer him stability while he fucks me, the bed ramming against the wall so loudly it's all I can hear besides him. I think the painting fell.
"Now we can both sleep better at night. My balls empty, your ass nice and full. Think I'll do it again tomorrow," he muses, slamming me against the bed, pushing me higher. "And again." And higher. "And again." Until the top of my head pounds against the ceiling. "Till the fucken cows come home."
Moo, bitch. Moo.
With a pathetic scream, hardly able to make any noise due to the violent climax, I cry his name as I clench around him. His dick pounds my head into the wall absuively as he chants my name like it's the only word ever known to him, his voice raising in volume until he's shouting it so clear it raises above the rocking of the bed, loud enough surely for the neighbors to hear. I'm hardly even aware of when he cums, or really anything at this point, his dick pulsing within me and fucking his admittedly larger than usual load into me so deep you'd think there'd be no chance of it to escape. I'm only aware he came when his cock finally softens, our cum dripping and pooling underneath of me in a mixed puddle when he slips out with a small whimper, his breath so heavy and wheezing I'm almost scared he'll pass out on top of me.
"Wanna go again?" He jokes, his voice worryingly pathetic as he tries to laugh, sounding more like a death rattle than anything. All I respond with is a shaky thumbs down, my head spinning from the possible concussion I may genuinely have.
It's an effective sleep method. Works wonders for both of us.
▪︎》◇《▪︎
After he slips out of the house one winter morning with my gun tucked in the back of his jeans, I can't tell you how much I'd give to hear him snore against our lavender scented bed one last time, feeling his arms that are now ash and bones on the floor of a gas station just outside of town. My only company now being his ghost echoing his bright laughter down the darkened halls of what was once our home.
You like my ending bbgirl? Special just for youuu.
Taglist:
@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 . Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3
Masterlist
#josh hutcherson#josh hutcherson fanfic#billy burn 2019#billy burn x you#billy x reader#billy burn#billy josh hutcherson#josh hutcherson billy#josh hutcherson burn#josh hutcherson burn 2019#burn movie 2019#burn 2019#josh hutcherson x you#josh hutcherson x reader#jhutch#josh hutcherson imagine#billy burn imagine
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Heartless, Chapter 9
🔞 Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader 🔞
Fake marriage/marriage of convenience
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Ghost makes it up to you with a dance. SMUT. Tags under the read more.
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Sorry about the wait. Stuff has happened. Surgery. Really bad autoimmune flares. My back has been bad. I'm depressed. I haven't been doing well at all. Thanks for being patient.
Smut tags: cowboy hat stays on, exhibitionism, public sex, heavy degradation/humiliation, minor bratting, squirting
Ghost POV
This place is a shithole. Ghost has spent time in a few shitholes, and your chosen pub ranks marginally better than that dingy karaoke bar in Sasebo where Roach caught food poisoning from bad sashimi.
And there you are.
In the middle of the fuckin’… wood-paneled floor, your shorts riding low and your shirt riding up.
Some American bloke sings about “country girl twerk,” whatever the hell that means, as you dance. Your cheeks are red, and you have one of the widest smiles he’s ever seen. Fuck phantom pain - phantom happiness coils in his stomach, seeing you so full of joy.
You stomp, scuff your boots on the floor, and keep one hand on your dinky hat so it doesn’t fall off. The hat looks squished and stained like it already has.
And your round, delicious, fat arse… you’re grinding and shaking and doing shit you should never do outside of your bedroom. His mouth goes dry as he watches the recoil. Goddammit. He’s only a man, with a man’s appetites. Your plush, full tits bounce in time-
Ghost tucks himself in a corner without a second thought, the drunk crowd flowing past him like he isn’t even there. It takes a second before he’s as composed and unflappable as always. You’re far too skilled at rattling him for your own good.
He’s so enamored by the show that he almost doesn’t notice the fuckers swarming you like wasps. Tipsy, ugly, bloated wasps, the worst specimens of the Londoner species.
Your little bitch fit isn’t worth the court-martial for murder. Although, he might consider it if that one man’s hand gets any closer to your arse.
Ghost sends them scurrying with nothing more than a look. Pathetic.
“What’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this?” He murmurs, his hand reaching for your waist like you’re a magnet dragging him into your forcefield.
The glitter looks…
Ghost is bad at this. The ‘describing’ thing.
The little flecks of light dance across your face and surround your eyes like fireflies late at night.
Eyes that are currently glaring at him like you’re trying to set him on fire. “I’m not talking to you right now.”
He’s never seen anything more lovely in his life.
“Where’s the Colonel?” Ghost knows exactly where Alejandro is. When he walked in, he saw the other soldier carefully monitoring your situation from a table two meters away.
Awareness prickles down his spine, that extra sense that comes with fighting and (almost dying) with someone. That’s the sound of the Colonel’s stride.
“Behind you,” You grumble sullenly.
Ghost doesn’t flinch when Alejandro clears his throat. “Lieutenant.” Simon turns to meet Alejandro’s tanned, outstretched fist with his own gloved knuckles.
The colonel scrutinizes the visible parts of Simon’s face. It’s like a test.
At last, the colonel smiles and nods, and Alejandro’s tense shoulders fall into a more relaxed position.
That’s when Simon knows he passed. “I got it from here,” He murmurs.
The fuckin’… demented squirrel feeling with claws in his lungs starts to dissipate. You’re safe. You were safe this whole time. And the Colonel was gonna protect you from everything, even Ghost himself.
He should get the fucker a potted plant or some shit to thank him.
Alejandro tips his ridiculous straw hat. “Copy that. Good luck.” The other man melts back into the crowd, no doubt for one last drink before clearing the premises. Alejandro has no interest in witnessing what Ghost has planned.
Simon understands. He almost pities you.
There’s something shiny and slick on your lips. It distracts him when you pout. He wants to take your bottom lip between his teeth and leave marks. He wants to see if that gloss is flavored vanilla or peach. You wear peach-flavored lip balm sometimes - it drives Ghost mad.
“You weren’t answerin’ your phone. Why do you have it if you ain’t gonna use it?” He says roughly. Fuck. Your expression falls, and your cheeks flush red from anger and the alcohol he can smell on your breath. He’s messed up already.
You sway on your cute little boots, and he wants to reach out to steady you, but Ghost is afraid you’ll push him away. “Go fuck yourself,” You hiccup.
“You made me come all the way out here to find you.”
You scared me shitless. I missed you.
That hat finally slips from its perch as you tip your chin down in a sulk. “You didn’t have to. I was fine.” Simon catches it in his gloved hand on instinct. Obviously, you care about the damned thing.
Far more gently than he thought he could, he sets it back atop your head and then smooths a few stray strands of hair behind your ear.
-
Reader POV
It is so not fucking fair that Ghost gets to look so intimidating and handsome when you’re supposed to be mad at him.
And it’s also not fair that the simple act of giving you back your cowboy hat makes your teeth ache and sets drunk butterflies flapping in your stomach.
Everything is so hot. You’re covered in a fine layer of sweat from the dancing, and your husband watches a bead of it drip down your throat past your collarbone.
“Yeah? Three blokes grinding on you is ‘fine?’” When Ghost’s eyes glitter menacingly in the low light under his mask, your heart rate picks up, and your clothes feel too tight.
You gather up the hair stuck to the back of your neck without thinking, inadvertently flashing an even-more generous handful of cleavage.
“They were showing me a better time than you ever could,” You snap, one hand over your boobs to keep them from spilling out of your uncomfortable underwire bra entirely.
That was the wrong thing to say.
Ghost growls, shaking his head like an aggressive dog after a wounded bird. “Got half a mind to take their hands off for touchin’ you.” No, that was the right thing to say.
You like knowing you can make him jealous. “As delightful as that sounds, that isn’t an apology.” You can’t let him off that easily, though. Nope. Never.
“What do I have to apologize for?” He asks, looking away at some random mysterious dot on the floor.
The list is long. But first on the list, above all the other shit, is that he needs to apologize for making you want him to apologize. And for the large hand he’s wrapping around your wrist like a comforting weight anchoring your floaty, tipsy self.
You’re not supposed to lean into Ghost’s touch and long for him to draw you into his arms.
Falling into his orbit is as natural as breathing. “Ghost. You are the most insufferable, rude, miserable pig I have ever had the misfortune of knowing-“ You rant, your voice rising louder and louder over the music.
You never thought he’d be so horrible as to come here and feed you some bullshit, just to watch you pant and debase yourself for an apology that Ghost seems to have no intention of giving.
When you try to hit his chest, Ghost grabs both of your hands.
“‘M sorry,” Simon whispers so quietly that you almost doubt what you hear. The pink spotlights whirling across his mask make his eyes look painfully soft.
“…What?”
Ghost clears his throat. “For not dancing with you. For… for being so… rude. I- I shouldn’t have treated you that way. You deserve better.” His hands slide down your arms until they’re resting on your hips, tight enough to leave you with zero doubt about his intentions but not so tight that you can’t push him away.
And then it’s like he doesn’t need to take the mask off at all for you to see his expression. That’s how well you know the shadows of his face. You could map them in your sleep.
If your hands were free, you’d bring one up to his cheek to feel his remorse under your fingers. “Oh,” You murmur. You don’t feel drunk anymore. You’re stone-cold sober as you gaze into his eyes and find something sweeter than those lemon drop shots lurking in the darkness.
Ghost furtively glances around to ensure everyone else is too wasted to look twice before lifting your hand to his masked mouth.
The painted cloth is soft as it brushes your knuckles. “Would you… uh… may I- may I have this dance?” He asks, stumbling over the words a few times.
Fondness melts your anger faster than a snowflake would in midsummer, and it’s a better rush than any whiskey they sell in this place. It goes straight to your head and makes you grin from ear to ear. You tuck your hands into the collar of his jacket and pull him down because the couple of inches between your bodies feel like too far of a distance.
He’s here. He’s really here for you. “You’re not dressed appropriately,” You tell him, half-teasing, half-serious.
Ghost immediately shakes his head. “Limited time offer.” But he doesn’t pull away or grow stiff. His hands brush your waist, and then his gloved fingers slip between the waistband of your shorts and your sticky, heated skin.
“That’s not very nice,” You say with a coy smile. This close, you’re sure he can smell the peach-flavored lip gloss painting your mouth.
Ghost grumbles performatively for a second. “You are welcome to… do whatever the hell you want.”
It comes to you in a flash of tipsy inspiration. “Here.” You let go of him long enough to pluck the hat from your head and settle it neatly atop his balaclava. “Looks better on you than it did on me, baby,” You murmur appreciatively.
Oh yeah. Fuck yeah.
Your mouth goes dry as you take in the view.
Ghost looks like this incredible tower of muscle and brawn and cowboy swagger that you want, no, need to climb all over. This man is straight out of a calendar of hot male models. You want him to do disgusting, explicit, horrible things to you in the alley outside. His skull balaclava is as menacing as always, and you feel drunk on its glory. The cheesiness of the hat ties everything together.
By God, does Ghost pull it off.
His gloved fingertips grind into your skin, deep enough to leave rapidly-fading red marks. You want more than that. You want bruises.
“Yeah?” Ghost asks, a little touch of amusement softening his gruff voice.
You want it so bad that your eyes flutter just thinking about it.
Your husband catches it and pulls you towards him until there isn’t any space left between you.
You melt into his chest, wrap your arms around his neck, and look at him through your eyelashes. “Mmhm. So cool. I can’t stay mad at you, not when you’re so,” You trail off, suddenly distracted by the slick dampness of your underwear and your nipples pebbling under your bra. “Pretty! Like a regular Clint Eastwood. You here to arrest me, cowboy?” You tease as you rock your hips toward his.
Then he’s palming your ass with a deep, muffled groan, squishing the flesh like a man obsessed, bouncing your cheeks in his hands.
His tight, possessive grip lights a fire in the bottom of your stomach. “You’re drunk, love,” He tells you as you coil around him and push your tits into his muscular chest.
Ghost is trying very, very hard not to look down your almost-nonexistent shirt. “No, I’m- I’m pleasantly tipsy.” Your mouth moves without you even realizing it. “You do look fine as fuck. God. You know I love those jeans.” Maybe you’re still a little drunk, but you’re not mad about it.
Ghost is totally blushing under the mask. 100%. His eyes dart to the side, and he clears his throat. He’s so cute when he’s flustered.
“We’re in public,” Ghost murmurs. That’s the least effective, least sincere protest you’ve heard in your whole life. At last, your husband miserably loses whatever internal prudish battle he was fighting and takes in your cleavage like he’s taking in a masterpiece.
“I’m not even joking when I say I would, like, crawl, like on my hands and knees to suck your dick right now. With the hat on. Please.”
You’re not like this. You’re never like this. But Ghost wants you. He came out here for you. And you need to show him exactly how much you appreciate it.
He coughs. “Woman.” He sounds so scandalized as if he hasn’t literally cut your clothes off your body and fucked you stupid before.
Ghost tilts his head so you can lift the edge of his mask and kiss his throat. “Pretty please. If you like me at all, you’ll let me? I’ll give you the best head of your life. I can’t believe I’m fucking begging a guy to let me blow him. God, look what marriage has done to me,” You whisper.
One of his hands reluctantly leaves your ass so it can tangle in your messy, sweat-soaked hair.
He tugs your head back. “Look at me,” Ghost hisses, his eyes a beautifully wound up pitch black. “Hey. Behave. Be a good girl.” Your scalp aches but fuck, does that feel amazing. Especially when he slides his knee between your thighs, mixing the pain with pleasure as he forces you to grind.
“Or what?” You gasp.
His other hand grips your chin. “Or I’m not going to let you suck my cock,” He tells you slowly, deliberately.
So blowing him is still on the table tonight.
Ghost tightens his grip bit by bit until your lips part.
“…Fine.”
He releases your hair to shove his mask down long enough to kiss you. There’s his teeth nipping your lips, his tongue insistent against yours, a shared, breathy, drawn-out moan echoing from your throat and his. “So bratty tonight,” Ghost whispers into your mouth. With one last kiss, he draws back.
The brim of his borrowed hat knocks into your face as he does, and you giggle as he straightens it.
For all you know, the rest of the world has gone to hell. Everything is Ghost and his warmth, filling up the cavern in your chest left by his earlier rejection.
The smile drops from your face. “You only care when I act up.” Is this going to be a habit? Do you have to throw tantrums, scream, and cry so he looks at you twice?
No. No. Your marriage won’t be like that. You’ve got years of experience watching your mother pant after your father’s approval, and she didn’t even love him. The thought of living it makes you sick.
Especially because-
Because one day you might love Ghost, and it would kill you to know he didn’t feel the same, yet could still command you like a dog. And out of that hypothetical, alleged, not currently existent love, you’d obey.
“That’s not true.”
You hope the tears welling in your eyes leave your fake lashes intact. “Is to. I just- I just want you to look at me like this all the time. I want you to care all the time. Is that too much to ask? And dance with me because it’s important and, fucking, I want you to take me out for coffee like normal people-“
“What kind of coffee?” Ghost stops your anxious, tear-filled ramble in its tracks.
Suddenly, pink lights silhouette him. They shine around his hat in a delicate, flushed halo, a shade you often see in fresh sunrises and beautiful sunsets.
There’s a sticky sweet center under his prickly exterior, like a mean cat once it gets used to you. And you might not be in love with him yet, but you love how sweet he can be.
When you were younger, you would empty every Halloween candy bowl into your bag while trick-or-treating. You learned how easily people could take things from you unless you were greedy and grasping, unless you dug your nails in so deep that it left marks.
You should do that to Ghost. But in a healthy way. “I like fancy lattes with long names and ridiculous price tags,” You say. “And foam hearts on the top.” You refuse to share his sweetness with anyone else. You’ll protect it - one day, Ghost will learn you’re trustworthy. Just like with Soap, you’ll protect Simon.
“Tomorrow, if you’re not too hungover… we’ll find somewhere with fancy coffee.” He starts rubbing at your cheek as he speaks. It takes you a second to realize that Ghost is picking at the specks of mascara left by the few tears that did fall. He navigates deftly around the glitter and touches you like you’re holy.
“And you’re gonna let me put your dick down your throat.”
His laugh is deep and throaty, a little rough from disuse but plenty warm.
The song playing switches to something slow and easy. A man croons in a low, smooth voice about a last night and the girl he’ll spend the rest of his life waiting for.
“First… we gotta dance.” Ghost takes you by the hand and pulls you toward the center of the dance floor.
-
Ghost POV
It takes every bit of Simon’s concentration to focus on you in his arms and the even pace of his breaths.
Inhale, exhale.
Your pretty eyes glow happily as you look up at him, flickering like opals in the low light.
The drunk on the corner isn’t reaching for a knife. He’s just finishing his drink.
This close, he can smell the coconut scent of your shampoo mixed with salty sweat and a deep, mouth-watering musk. Your hair is a mess of tangles, and the blush staining your cheeks is hibiscus pink.
You’re the most beautiful thing Ghost has seen in his whole life.
That red flicker in the corner of his eye isn’t a sniper dot. The raised voices are friends arguing over who’s paying the tab, not the specter of his father following Ghost even here.
His dad hated music. Fuckin’ hated it. He broke every radio they owned, smashed them into bits in various fits of rage. Once for playing music too loud, once for not being loud enough. And forget dancing. Forget flowers for Mum or family drives on Sunday, or any of the things fathers are meant to do.
Ghost should get you flowers. You’d like them. It would be the sort of gesture that would make you smile as you’re smiling now, like he’s your hero, like you think you’re the luckiest girl in the whole world.
He tugs you closer to knead the soft flesh of your hips and feel your body moving in perfect sync with his. Ghost isn’t half good at dancing, but you have enough grace for the both of them.
Back and forth. Back and forth. He counts the steps in his head.
“Look at me,” You whisper as you tighten your arms draped delicately around his neck.
He watches you sway, and the glitter on your cheeks sparkle with the movement. The flutter of your long, curled eyelashes makes him dizzy. He wants to take this mask off and kiss you, right here, right now, like a regular guy with a gorgeous woman on his arm.
Like in the movies - the ones with happy endings.
The air grows muggy with heat from the people moving and grinding on the floor. They talk, they grin, they take selfies. Nobody shies away from him in fear. He’s part of the crowd.
You rest your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. You’re doing great.” The kiss you press to his jacket goes straight through the fabric and into his bones, warming him like good bourbon.
Ghost feels bold enough to try twirling you. He worries he might be too uncoordinated or awkward, but you take the hint and effortlessly glide away and then back toward him. Your hair fans out behind you as you turn.
Beautiful.
“If you say so, love,” He murmurs.
-
Reader POV
This is a wonderful, amazing, and tender moment and everything…
But when Ghost adjusts his borrowed hat atop his mask, you’re a goner. He’s too busy being perfect and remarkably romantic to notice how you feel like you’re in fucking heat.
“C’mon, babe. I want another drink,” You drawl as you tug him off the dance floor.
You make a beeline for the friendly bartender, dragging your husband through the crowd like you’re parting the Red Sea. His hand tenses in yours, and you stop just long enough so Ghost can move in front of you, away from the people bumping into him.
The bartender winks once she spots you. “Hey sweetie, back already?” She asks as she waves away the bachelorette party trying to order from her.
Next to you, you feel Ghost stiffen and place his hand on the small of your back.
You lean forward so she can see down your shirt and keep one eye on Ghost’s mask the whole time. “Oh, you know me. I can’t stay away from your gorgeous eyeliner and excellent drinks,” You say with a coy smile just bordering on flirtatious.
His hand slowly makes its way up your spine, stopping to snap the elastic band of your bra against your skin to get you to quit it.
“It’s my pleasure. What can I get you, sugar?”
Ugh, that’s so immature of him. “What do you recommend?” You ask before sticking your tongue out at Ghost and crushing his toes under your boot heel.
He responds by resting his hand on the base of your neck where even the bartender can’t miss it.
As the bartender thinks, she taps a manicured nail against her lip gloss. “Pretty girls should have pretty drinks. Isn’t that right, Mr…”
Ghost squeezes your neck slightly - a gentle reminder of who you belong to. “Her husband,” He says curtly.
The bartender makes a show out of raising her eyebrow and looking at your ring finger. “Oh, I didn’t know you were married. What a shame. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. ‘Her Husband.’” She’s not even looking at him when she speaks. She’s only got eyes for you.
Being admired by anybody feels good. It feels even better to know that Ghost stews in silence as you preen. You wonder how far you can take the bit before his self-control snaps and he drags you out of here.
A shiver of pleasure goes through you at the thought.
Ghost exhales through his nose. “Put her tab on that,” He orders as he tosses a credit card on the bar.
She pulls out a chilled shot glass and a variety of colorful liquor bottles. You recognize Kahlúa and Bailey’s, and there’s some sort of vodka. Amaretto might be the fourth mysterious liquor.
“The other fellow with the other hat has her tab covered. But I can definitely put this drink on your card,” She says as she layers the liquors one after the other with a bar spoon to keep them from mixing.
Then she swipes Ghost’s card at her register thingy before handing it back, along with a crisply-layered shot. “There you go. A Screaming Orgasm for the lady. Receipt?” Her smile is as alluring as it is gloating.
He shoves his card back into his wallet like he’s loading a gun, each movement tense with fury.
You feel him forcefully wrap his arm around your waist and pull you into him. “G-Ghost, what’s wrong?” You ask, pretending like you don’t damn well know what’s wrong.
Ghost boxes you in with his legs on either side of yours and both arms around your waist. “Drink that. Now,” He mutters as he rests his chin on your head.
The bartender has made herself scarce by now. That was a good choice on her part.
His grip tightens until the rough material of his gloves bites into your sides. You take your time with the shot, stopping to tap the bottom of the glass on the bar before throwing it back.
The literal second after you put the glass down, Ghost hoists you away from the bar and the bartender trying to steal you away. “We’re going. Come on.” He puts you down only when he can intercept any attempts to return to the bar for more torment.
His rough treatment melts away momentarily when someone almost bumps into you. Ghost’s reflexes kick in and hold you back half a second before the drunk man stumbles, and then he sweeps you past the dude before you realize what’s happening.
You stumble out into the brisk night air. The London light pollution has chased away the stars, leaving a flat, dull black sky behind.
“Where are you-“ Ghost interrupts you by shoving you back towards the brick covering the outside wall of the pub. Your head spins, the inside of your mouth tastes like sugar and alcohol, and your knees grow weak from Ghost’s casual display of strength.
And then he practically tears the fabric of his mask away from his mouth so he can fucking ravage you.
He kisses you repeatedly, one hand fisting in your hair and the other clamped around your hip, helping him grind his dick against your clothed cunt.
Ghost groans with pleasure when he tastes the sweetness from the shot, and you sink your teeth into his lip to extend that beautiful, desperate sound.
Here, pinned between the wall and his broad, muscled torso, you’re absolutely, utterly helpless. You squirm and plead in small, whining noises, your combined saliva drips out of your mouth, and your tongue loses the battle for dominance against Ghost’s tongue.
Just when your eyes start to roll back and your muscles slacken, he moves away. “You want it that badly, eh? You little slut?” He kisses messily across your cheek, then down your throat.
You tug at his shoulders, trying to force him closer, and you can feel your arousal leaking through your shorts. “Yeah, I’ll give you a fuckin’ screaming orgasm,” Ghost swears into your sweat-soaked skin before biting down hard.
You tremble and shake, he bites harder, the pain goes straight to your hard, aroused nipples and the fire burning low in your belly.
“Yeah?” You moan with your head thrown back and eyes shut.
As people leave the bar, Ghost shoves his thigh between your legs, so you have something to rock your aching clit against, then clamps his hand over your mouth when you cry out in pleasure.
“I can’t fuckin’ believe you’re into this. There’s something wrong with you,” He hisses cruelly in your ear.
You moan louder with your tongue out as your hands untie your top at record speed. Your clothes are too tight, unbearably clinging to your skin, and you need them off right now. You work on the fly of your shorts next, hastily unbuttoning them so you’re almost completely exposed.
Ghost shakes his head in disapproval and slides the hand covering your mouth down until it encircles your neck. He tightens his grip, carefully cutting off your blood flow and forcing you into that peaceful, floaty place where you’d beg him to do whatever he wanted.
You let out a low, choked gasp, drool already beading at the corner of your kiss-swollen lips. “Aw, you going dumb already? I just gotta put my hand around your pretty throat, and you’re moaning like a whore?” Not content with being the only one undressed, you scrabble for his belt and unbuckle it with single-minded determination.
“Think the whole block can hear you yet?” Then Ghost kisses your temple sweetly in sharp contrast to his low, ice-cold tone.
He makes no moves to stop you from clawing at his jeans. If anything, he eagerly thrusts his hard-on into your palm as soon as the only barrier between you is his boxers.
You feel him, heavy and thick and warm through the cloth, and smile like a cat who’s got the cream. “You love it, Ghost. Admit it. You fucking love this. I can feel how fucking hard you are, yeah? Is that for me?” You retort, wrapping your hand around his dick and pumping it a few times for good measure.
In the dark of night, you can barely make out his clenched teeth and eyes shut tight as he fucks your hand. “It is, love. It’s all yours. Now are you gonna be a good girl and suck my cock?” Ghost purrs, grabbing your face by your jaw and forcing you to look straight at him.
“I thought you’d never ask.” You sink to your knees eagerly, ignoring the gravel biting into your bare legs.
But just when you move to pull his underwear down, Ghost stops you with his hands manacled around your wrists.
“Hey, now hold on,” He chides.
Your brain fucking short circuits. His dick is right there. In your face. So close. Saliva gathers on the back of your tongue. Why is he fucking gatekeeping you? Do you have to beg?
You see a mean light shine in his dark eyes when you look up. Oh yeah, he wants you to beg. His hand slides into your hair, then pulls your head back until your mouth hangs open.
Someone laughs in the background. Footsteps crunch over gravel.
London will watch you beg on your knees for your husband’s dick.
Yeah, you’re game.
You pout your lips. “What? Why? Please? Please? I know you want me to. I can be so good to you,” You beg, your eyes round and dewy with want.
Ghost tsks. “Yeah? But you’ve been so bad, love. You’re acting like a common slut, pawing at me in public. Right here, where everyone can see? Are you sure you deserve it?” His thumb slips between your lips, and you give it the treatment you’re trying to show him; sucking, licking, your eyes fluttering, loud, explicit, over-the-top moans.
“Please. I- I literally, I am desperate. I am begging. I want- let them know, let them see, just- I-“
Ghost takes his thumb back with a satisfied smirk. “Look at you, can’t even make a full sentence. What a stupid, dumb, adorable little princess. Go on.” Then he shoves his boxers down, revealing an angry, mean, painfully-stiff erection, the mushroom tip red and beaded with precum.
You need no further instruction.
You viciously spit into your palm and then draw his shaft into your mouth.
In your first attempt, you get a little less than half of Ghost’s thick cock down your throat. Then you pull off to take a deep breath, your eyes watering from the unexpected intrusion.
Before Ghost can do something annoying like ask if you’re okay, you take him in your mouth once more and bob up and down.
He grows harder with each stroke of your wet, sloppy mouth, you can fucking feel him twitch and strain against your cheeks. Ghost’s hand tightens painfully in your hair, and you hear him gasp and groan when you use your tongue on the sensitive underside of his bulbous tip.
Ghost gazes down at you as if you’re the answer to his prayers, like he believes that he’s the one who should be on his knees. “That’s it, there’s my bitch. Your mouth looks so good sucking my cock, love.”
Your senses fill with the musky, salty taste of him running down your throat with the excess spit and dribbling down your wrist as your hand works the part of his length you can’t swallow completely.
“Fuck. Your mouth- fuck…” Ghost curses, unable to control his hips rolling against your face, pushing himself deeper and deeper in.
You look at him through your lashes and hollow out your cheeks, sucking long and slow.
Under the eye black, his face is flushed red from arousal, and sweat gathers in the hairline you neatened up. “Ahhh, shit, c’mon, you can do it. Take all of it. Attagirl.” You’re trying, really. You’re doing your absolute best.
When the tip of his dick hits the back of your throat, your eyes roll back, and you cry out. Your gasp makes your throat muscles quiver and vibrate around him.
Your jaw aches, and all you taste, smell, and feel is Ghost cracking your mouth open, Ghost fucking your throat, Ghost tearing away your thoughts and your air and replacing it with him.
He growls, spitting out curses like he hates your guts, his grip on your hair trembles. “Is it too much for you, princess? Are you crying? Fucking dumb whore, crying like you weren’t begging me for it. Goddammit, you’re so fucking good at this.” The praise fucking melts you into a malleable pile of mush. You love it. You’re his princess, his whore, and now, everyone knows.
Everyone is watching. You need to be good for him, you want to be perfect.
Your throat muscles relax, allowing him to slip in another inch further.
You gag and retch around his thick, swollen cock. “Christ. Yes, fuck, keep going,” Ghost pants. He’s breathing fast through his nose as if he’s beating someone into the ground. “You are so- fucking- gorgeous when you choke. Do it again.” His command bounces around in your empty, cock-drunk mind and, after a couple of seconds, fully registers.
Just when you pull your fist away and try to touch your nose to the wiry hair above his dick, Ghost forces your mouth open just that tiny bit wider and slips- all the way in.
Your eyes widen with panic, and your hands try to push him back, but Ghost tugs harder on your hair until the sting reminds you who you belong to.
He’ll let you breathe when he wants you to, you just have to trust him. You’re just a warm, wet hole for him to ruin. “No, no, no. Don’t try to run- shit- run away,” Ghost warns as he fucks your throat with a messy, uncoordinated rhythm that picks up. His thick, salty precum gathers in a pool on the back of your tongue, and you gulp it down greedily.
Your tears fall in earnest. They blot out your vision until all you can see is the silhouette of his hat, dark against the dim street lamp.
You brace yourself on his thighs to stay upright.
“It’s yours. All yours. Take it. Take- me-“ His moans are almost as loud as the sound of his cock sliding between your lips, wet and slick, combined with your wordless begging for air, for more, for his cum.
Come in my mouth, you pray deliriously, practically insane with need. You can’t keep up with the pace Ghost sets and struggle weakly to move your head in time. You’re helpless in his capable, dominating hands.
His swollen cock twitches, and he shudders.
He’s going to come soon. Is Ghost also picturing his sticky, salty cum in your mouth and on your cheeks, and how you would look flashing him your messy tongue before swallowing it? He’s practically biting through his bottom lip with how badly he wants that. Your aching, leaky cunt clenches in time with your racing heartbeat.
Ghost shoves your mouth back on his dick one last time. “No,” He tells you as he pulls out.
Wh- what?
You’re stunned into silence. He was fucking your face, but then he stopped but… but why?
You sit there and look at him without a thought behind your hazy, languid eyes.
As bits and pieces come back to you, your brow furrows. “But I want it,” You whimper in the most pathetic, hoarse little voice.
Without realizing it, your slick hands drift back up towards his erection, which hasn’t softened one bit.
Ghost merely shakes his head, entirely unmoved by your pleas. “You ran off without saying a word. You don't deserve for me to come in your mouth. Get up.” His voice is ice-cold. Underneath it, you hear how worried Ghost was. How you frustrated him, how he missed you.
A rush of shame goes through you, dousing some of the burning under your skin. How could you do that to him?
When you don’t move, Ghost reaches down and hoists you up by your elbows with a huff. “Off the ground. Up,” He barks. He still hasn’t taken the gloves off. You can feel a couple of strands of your hair caught in the Velcro wrist buckles.
Ghost efficiently strips you out of your soaked shorts and ruined, filthy panties. You stare blankly at him, so aroused and on the edge that your brain and vocal cords can’t put a complete sentence together.
He pats one of your gravel-bruised knees, then the other. You lift your feet accordingly until you’re naked from the waist down, other than the cowboy boots.
Without the cloth to hold it back, the slick dripping from your bare folds makes a shining trail down the inside of your thigh.
When Ghost pushes you up against the wall and hooks his arms under your knees, holding your plush thighs open and ready for him, you comply in a daze, hardly able to put two words together.
Your back arches as his teeth catch in your throat, alternating between bright pain and his tongue lapping at your skin, soothing away the sting.
Then Ghost gets one of his arms under your ass, carrying your entire weight with ease. “Can’t do that to me again, doll. I almost lost you so you could fuck around with some random blokes at the pub? Nah. I think you need a reminder of who you belong to.” With his free hand, he shoves your bra aside to take one of your swollen nipples into his greedy mouth.
The man fucking feasts on you, growling into your sensitive tits, sucking red hickies everywhere, and insatiably tonguing your nipple. “Ahhhh-“ You moan with your head thrown back and your nails clawing at his hoodie, trying and failing to mark up his back.
Each suck and lick and kiss goes straight to your clit, aching in the cold night air; tension builds in the base of your spine, and you can’t think, can’t hear, or see.
Once he gets his thumb on your clit, rubbing tight, furious circles, your eyes shoot open. “Good girl. Dumb baby,” Ghost taunts as you struggle and writhe, you bite down on your lips to hide your shrieks, and your arousal soaks his glove.
At first, you think he will warm you up, take those messy gloves off and stretch you out on a few thick fingers, but he doesn’t. “‘M gonna fuck you so good that you forget about them. You are going to be a dumb- speechless- brainless fucking mess once I’m through.” He grabs his hard, fat cock, hoists you up a little higher, and rubs the head against your folds.
Your cunt flexes, keeping him from sinking inside you as if your body instinctively knows it’s too much.
He huffs out a frustrated laugh and then lifts you onto his cock despite your protests. “No- Ghost, please, you’re too big. You won’t fit, you’re ruining me…” You sob, helpless, as he slowly feeds his dick into your hungry, needy pussy. Your eyes roll back, and you almost bang your head on the wall.
Gravity- gravity is not your fucking friend right now.
In this position, your body weight forces you down onto his shaft, and every inch feels like it goes on forever. Slowly, Ghost begins to rock his hips back and forth, molding your cunt around him.
Your thighs quiver as you cry out. Your juices drip down the base of his dick that he hasn’t managed to shove into you yet, covering him in slick.
“Aw, it’s okay, doll. Don’t worry. Shhhhh. Relax. You’re okay,” He reassures, his voice steady despite his fingers clutching your legs hard enough to bruise.
Then Ghost does something. He stops holding back and forces your thighs back a little more until he’s almost folded you in half.
When the tip of his cock thrusts into that sensitive spot deep inside your pussy, your eyes cross, and you jolt, strung out, absolutely fucking gone. “Fuckkkk-“ You pant, pleasure tightening in your tummy. Your hands tug on his face until he leans down to kiss you, his tongue slipping between your lips.
In a single smooth motion, Ghost slides home. “Oh shit. Shit. Your poor cunt, you’re so sensitive. I can feel you- clenching- and twitching every time I-“ He cuts himself off with a moan, his heavy balls brushing your ass every time he gently grinds into you.
Your limbs seize and twitch, tingles echoing and building through each muscle.
Overwhelmed, blissed-out whimpers flow from you as he fucks you deeper, faster. “Ghost, Ghost, fuck, you’re stretching me open, I can’t take it-“ You beg, practically feeling his dick in your guts.
His pupils blow out, he has a look in his eyes like a predator subduing prey, and you’re more than a little frightened. Ghost towers over you, and you’re completely at his mercy. He could do anything he wants to you.
He is doing what he wants to you, precisely as you need from him.
Your mind shuts off once you realize it, and you sink into a thrilling, primal, feral state of being a bunch of nerves and trembling flesh for him to use and torment. Ghost pins you in place with so much giving, loving, possessive adoration that it makes your teeth ache.
He gasps when your stretched core flutters around him, sucking his cock in as if your muscles are trying to trap him in your body. “Poor doll, look at you. You can’t take it? You can’t take it?” Ghost mocks your whining while focusing the rest of his attention on fucking your brains out.
“Fuck, fuck, right there, yes,” You wail as your sloppy cunt drenches the front of his jeans.
He hoists you higher in his arms so he can nail your g-spot. “Feels good?” This is how you’ll die; pleas and curses dripping from your lips along with strings of saliva, sweat coating your skin, and webs of ecstasy threading through you like lightning.
You want to feel like this forever; it’s purer than any high and so good that your nerves short out. “Yes, yes, please. More- I need more…” Your plump tits bounce and jiggle from the force of Ghost rutting into you.
Seeing your red cheeks and mouth hanging open and your breasts heaving drives him insane with desire. Somehow, his cock pounds you deeper, even harder, and he finds a way to grind his jeans against your puffy, swollen clit.
Ghost gently presses his lips to yours, a complete mockery of the wreck he’s making of you. For a long moment, it’s just the two of you, breathing the same air, and the slick squelches of your fluttering, sopping-wet folds as he buries his veiny cock balls-deep.
You’re pretty sure your thighs have small cuts from the rough edges of his gloves, and your neck hurts from the manhandling, but you’re too busy focusing on each breath as everything around you goes fuzzy to care.
Ghost tells you something, his tone low and commanding. It’s his fault you can’t answer - if he wasn’t ruining you for anyone else, thrusting into you with a brutal, punishing pace that’s too much for your sore pussy to keep up with, you might have been able to respond.
Each time he bullies his cock inside, you almost feel like you’re coming. The pleasure is a knife laying you bare before him, and you trust him, you need him, and you want him to destroy you and put you back together. “Who’s fucking you? Use that smart- damn it- mouth.” Ghost slows down, switching to a deeper, gentler rhythm, just enough to clear the fogginess clouding your senses.
Your pussy weeps around him, constricting and spasming as he drives you closer and closer to the edge.
“Ghost,” You wail, strung out, your cheeks bright red and your forehead damp with sweat.
Your husband kisses it away, then peppers your cheeks with little pecks. “Who’s making you feel good?” He presses you back into the wall, covering your almost-naked, debauched body with his own.
When your hands seek out the edge of his balaclava, Ghost tips his head so you can get under it and claw the shit out of his neck.
The sight of the hat, still somehow on his head, makes you clench even tighter. He’s just so fucking hot and beautiful, and oh fuck, Ghost is fucking massaging your cunt with his cock while kissing your breath away.
“Ahhh- you- you are, shit.” It’s all him, his dark eyes, and his pale skin flushed with exertion. You flail in his arms, trying to somehow ride his dick while being held aloft.
His voice rumbles in your ear as he growls, his breaths labored as he nears his own orgasm. “Rub your clit, doll. Go on. Make yourself come. Good girl, my perfect, perfect girl,” Ghost encourages you before speeding up again, unceasingly notching the fat tip of his dick against your g-spot, basically helping you use him to get off.
Reluctantly, you remove one of your hands from where your nails are carving bloody furrows into his skin to slip between your arousal and precum-soaked bodies.
It’s like a fucking slip ‘n slide down there, your combined juices trickling into your puckered asshole and all over his balls.
The moment you shakily press the pads of your fingers against your clit, your spine jolts and bows as euphoria rushes through you.
It feels like you’re desperately clinging to the edge of a cliff, trying to maintain sanity and presence of mind, but your oncoming orgasm burns in your veins, the pleasure crawling up the back of your throat and constricting your lungs.
“You’re so fucking beautiful when you take my dick.” Ghost sounds like a man unhinged, in total awe. You keep circling your hypersensitive clit, giving up words in favor of animalistic, high-pitched noises and wails.
The brim of the cowboy hat bumps into your cheek when he buries his face into your neck, biting and sucking hickies in time with his deep, shuddering thrusts.
You squirm, bouncing your hips on his dick, and your wrist cramps. “You close, love? I can feel it.” Tears stream down your cheeks, and drool sticks at the corner of your mouth. “I can feel you clenching around me. Do it. That’s it. Come for me.” You feel Ghost’s eyelashes wisping over the skin of your throat.
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
You come screaming at the top of your lungs to the stars, the night sky, and anyone listening.
Your cunt gushes and gushes as you tremble in Ghost’s arms, making a fucking mess with your come, your muscles milk his dick, rippling, squeezing, and pulsing with the waves of bliss drowning you.
Your nails rip little holes into his mask. Ghost fucks you through it, of course, dragging it out even while your eyes shut because it’s too much. “Fuck fuck fuck Ghost! Aaa- fuuuuck.” It doesn’t subside or die away; your orgasm grows stronger, shaking you like a fucking earthquake, your hips jerk uncontrollably, and you pull your fingers away from your swollen, tender clit, too sensitive to keep going.
You choke and sputter as your mind goes blissfully, perfectly blank. Electricity blooms in your veins, lighting up your guts like the fireworks on the Fourth of July.
You try to catch your breath, but the shocks won’t let up. Fresh wetness coats your thighs when you squirt again, this time weakly.
It’s supposed to end. Why isn’t it ending?
Ghost is laughing at you. It’s not a mean laugh. It’s frenzied, he’s on the brink of shattering. “That’s fucking right. One more. You have one more in you.” He’s so close to coming, but he needs that extra push.
His cock stiffens inside you, and you swear you can feel every prominent vein against your pulsing walls. “Say- hngh- ‘please,’” You moan, a determined, devious look on your fucked-out face. You give as good as you get, and fuck; if Ghost is going to drag this out, you’ll make him work for it.
A cold midnight breeze picks up, sweeping cool air across your heated skin and taking with it the scent of sex and sweat.
He messily kisses your cheek, sweeping his tongue along your tears. “Please? You want me to beg? Please come for me again. Pretty please.” You love the moments before Ghost comes because he always tears away the mask and the bullshit for you, like he finds something worth honesty in the depths of your body. “Need you to come again. Need it so bad.”
Well, how can you resist when he asks so nicely?
You come softly, gently. As your eyes roll back, you gasp, and your swollen, overstimulated core shivers. The sensation ripples and shakes you, then slowly dissipates, leaving behind nothing but clean, pure pleasure, like taking a shot of vodka and sinking into the resulting mindless stupor. Your senses are too overwhelmed for anything bigger.
Ghost comes with you. He hides his long, low moan in his forearm as he grinds into your depths, filling you up with pulses of come only to fuck it back inside. The white spend that doesn’t fit inside your swollen, stuffed folds joins the droplets of squirt blanketing your inner thighs. His spine goes slack, and he almost stumbles backward, drunk on the pleasure of finally coming.
Ghost rights himself before he tips over, reluctantly removing one arm from your hips to brace it on the wall.
Before you know it, he’s placed you back on your weak, shaky legs, completely ignoring his own state of undress to tend to you.
He gets your underwear and shorts back on without letting go of you once. Ghost is rock-solid, taking on all your weight and holding you upright without faltering or asking anything of you. Once you’re covered, he even ties your shirt back together. Ghost is a regular Boy Scout with knots, and he accomplishes it better than you did in the first place. Now, he tucks himself into his boxers and zips up his jeans.
It takes a couple of seconds for you to realize that the thing he’s doing with his arms around your waist is checking your back and seeing if you’re in pain. “Stop it. I’m fine. I highly enjoyed myself,” You scold languidly, a soft, exhausted smile on your face. You are in pain, unfortunately.
Most of the time, you can just tune it out. The pain simmers under the surface as a dull ache promising future consequences. But it’s not anything Ghost needs to worry about right now.
You make this trade-off constantly. A night out at a club for a few days in bed, going to the beach and needing to use a cane the next day. What can you say? It’s worth it. You’ll end up bed bound permanently one day, whether you have fun or not.
Ghost raises an eyebrow, making it plain what he thinks about your statement. “Mm.”
Tonight turned out to be such a lovely night. You don’t want to sour it again with talk about your back.
You wrap your arms around his neck, successfully distracting him and dragging him down for a kiss at the same time. “Thank you for dancing with me. It- um… it meant a lot,” You whisper against his mouth shyly, as if he wasn’t dicking you down in public not five minutes earlier.
When you release him, you gaze at the ground, hoping to hide from Ghost’s knowing look.
“You’re never getting this hat back,” Ghost quips, taking a different tactic instead of calling you out. Then he peels a glove off to nudge your face towards him with his fingers curling under your chin. “I was happy to do it.”
-
Tagging (please let me know if you want off the list by shooting me a message):
@abbiesxox @thedevillovesflowers @averyyreads @lialacleaf @backupgal @kitty-satan1 @androgynoushellscape @strvqtt @pinkwigonmytv @almightywdm @discowizard88 @castielsangelsx @jaymicrosoft @rengokulover96 @copiasratscheese @fluffysmiko @d3athtr4psworld @idesofarch @teenagegever2k22 @badame0224 @toilet-paper-headbands @itsrosebabe @bangirl134 @silverianni @nezukos-number1fan @deadpoetsandhoney @crowsjourney @vanevafu @devcica @xxghostyx @rafaelacallinybbay @akaotv @chibijusstuff @wasteland-babe @anubiseqq @lilpothoscuttings @soapyghost @maliceex59 @valdemarismynonbinarylove @confuseddipshit @sanfransolomitatm @johfaam0 @loser-alert @vantae-tea @cj-theyoungling
#heartless#cod#call of duty#modern warfare#modern warfare 2#cod modern warfare#cod modern warfare 2#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty modern warfare 2#ghost cod#cod ghost#ghost#ghost call of duty#simon riley#simon ghost riley#ghost riley#ghost x you#ghost x reader#simon riley x you#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost riley x you#ghost riley x reader
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Teenage tramp Daniel has the hots for handyman Kreese lmao. Thots?
Gorgeous, seventeen year old neighborhood tramp Daniel LaRusso is…mad. Big Mad to be exact.
It’s all because his attempts at seducing the local, rugged, handsome neighborhood handyman have…fallen flat. Failed to lift off. Closed on opening night. Houston, we have a problem, and his name is John Kreese.
Thing is, Daniel’s gone all out. Taken out all the big guns. Brought out the big, flashy, show-stopping numbers. He’s been coy, coquettish. An innocent and not-so-innocent tease. Sweet and shy. Sassy and spunky. A bonafide ingenue to the Lolita of the Valley, and all around the block and back again!
Jeeze, he’s never worked this hard for a lay in his life!
See now—he’s worn his tiny band crop tops. His tiny tank-tops cut to show plump, caramel nipples. His even tinier, cut off jean-shorts that hardly leave anything to the imagination.
He’s boosted himself up on the front of John’s battered Ford pickup, just to criss-cross those long, bare, coltish legs of his. Straddled (and stolen) ladders John’s been using while he works, to display parted, slender thighs. (And show off how limber he is. How…flexible.) Reached up to grab at nothing on his toes to show off a waist so small and trim that a pair of (large, callused, rough) masculine hands could span oh-so-easily. He’s bent himself over convenient surfaces—countertops, couches, tables, wobbly banisters and kiddie coloring tables for crying out loud!—to show off his sweet, juicy ass. The lush cheeks that spill out. The roundness of it all.
He’s brushed up against John, sat touching him knee-to-knee, fallen across him “accidentally”, faked a sprained ankle in the hopes of a bridal-carry, and still—still goddammit!!—John hasn’t paid him any attention!! Not the slightest bit.
All Daniel has gotten in return is: ‘Hey, you’re in my way.’ To, ‘Put some clothes on, Prima Donna, it’s January, and your sneezing is unhygienic.’ And even a, ‘Join the Service, kid. That’ll whip some sense into you.’
Ugh.
Ugh. Ugh. Ughhhh.
…Why, by this time with his other conquests, he’d gotten railed twice over! All stupid, annoying, teenage boys; simple schoolboy, after-school flings to pass the time. Like that total brain-dead bimbo Johnny, or violent karate bad-boy Mike. To foreign exchange student Chozen, followed by future sociopath Dutch. A real slick wannabe named Ponytail got him next, then sweet preacher’s boy Bobby. Jimmy and Tommy had tag teamed him after, and then finally that dorky piano nerd, rich-boy Twig (he’d gotten real maid service, a night in a mansion, and breakfast in bed for that one!). Between all of them, Daniel had gotten laid in six months more than some people did in an entire year! Lifetime even! Yeah, yeah, the lays themselves didn’t rank too high on the scale of one to ten (some far lower than others!)—but a fucking was a fucking, and he had been sixteen and desperately horny. Besides it had been summer, and California had made it too hot to be too fussy.
…Except that now he is, because there is something about this Kreese that gets him all hot and bothered. Something about those sinewy, hairy, muscular arms. That solid, sturdy body. The heavy booted footsteps. The worn jeans and faded flannel. The fluffy, sandy hair (and matching, coarse stubble). The hairy, broad, hard chest. The squareness of his jaw, the strapping height. The surprising brightness of his blue eyes. The sudden, rare smiles. The fact that he is older, is an adult. A full grown man. That he can do anything to Daniel, and, smitten boy that he is, he’d let him.
Yeah, Daniel wants him like one would want a cool drink on a hot day. He has it bad. But things have to get worse before they get better, right? And all fevers must run their course.
And boy, what a fever this is!
(And may he never recover!)
…
Meanwhile, our John has indeed been stoic in the little tease’s presence—but, thing is, the moment he’s alone, tucked away safe in his bed or in the shower or even that one time in his kitchen for fuck’s sake—John has spent nearly every spare minute in his day jacking off furiously. Getting his sheets, tiles—even kitchen countertop—all sticky with jizz like he was fifteen again, and had seen a pair of breasts for the first time in a dirty magazine. (But those thoughts of his former teenage fantasies have nothing on the centerfold that is LaRusso.)
And, damn it, he spends far too much of his day dreaming about that full, red mouth. The glossy, floppy hair. Those long-lashed big brown eyes. The perky brown nipples, the slightest swell of the soft chest on that tiny, fragile body. The endless, shapely legs. The endless, tan skin. The endless smoothness of it. The curve of that plump ass. The bounce it had, the little tormenting jiggle when the boy walked with a spring in his step. The sweet little puckered cunt hidden between those slim thighs. How it would drip and spill and gush out all that John has to give the little shit. Is dying to.
Oh, John’s got a calendar counting down the days until the boy is legal, until he’s all of eighteen and the law can’t save him—and then John’s gonna fuck him into submission, rail him into obedience. Pound that tight, juicy, boypussy raw until LaRusso can’t think for how good John’s giving it to him.
And then he’s gonna make the little shit his, because fuck it all—the little Italian brat has made him fall for his charms big time.
Only a matter of time kid, John thinks later, watching the boy work his bag of tricks with a stoic, calm expression. Though he all but grins (inwardly) when the boy fumes in frustration at his non-reaction.
Just you wait, Prima Donna, John promises.
You’re mine.
#lakreese#daniel larusso#john kreese#tiny bit of lawrusso/silverusso/danzen/labarnes too#also tiny bit of daniel x jimmy/tommy/dutch/ponytail/bobby#daniel really gets around lmao#DLDS in full effect#in which i chase paper cuts#in which i respond to your inquiries#sweep the leg
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Missing
Summary: Chapter 6 of Countdown
As always this is an 18+ only story. This story is AU based and not your typical Sons of Anarchy story. Some readers may find some plot lines and changes to some characters to be problematic please read at your discretion. This story also time jumps heavily so keep this in mind as you read!
Warnings: General themes of the show such as violence, drugs, swearing etc, minor age gap, minor smut in later chapters.
Tag List @fleureeee
"Where the fuck is she Jax?" bellowed Clay as he slammed the other man into the wall of the clubhouse. "I don't know. Like I said when we called she was gone when we got up. She must have slipped out" replied Jax as he rubbed his face with his hands. "You, where does her phone say she is?" snapped Clay as he turned from his step son to Juice. "She left her phone" stated Juice as he tossed a phone on the table. "Goddammit" yelled Clay as he slammed his fist onto the table. Should have killed them both when I killed their dad he thought to himself as he tried to get himself calmed.
Jax and Juice watched Clay closely as he stalked to the door and flung it open to where the rest of the club was sitting. "You lot find my step daughter and bring her to me. Force or no force." he growled before slamming the door back and whipping around on the two men in the room. "If I find out. Either of you or the other four trouble makers had something to do with this. I'll make sure you all have a front row seat to the depraved shit the Aryans have planned for her" he stated firmly as he glared at the two men. Jax and Juice simply nodded before leaving.
***
Juices Room
Juice had been in his room since Jax and him had gotten back from the clubhouse. He lay staring at his ceiling lost in his own thoughts and feelings. A knock drew his attention to his open door. "You good?" asked Half-Sack as he leaned against the door frame casually. Juice shrugged. He honestly had no idea how to answer that. "Jax thinks you'remad at him" stated Half-Sack as he moved into the room and sat in the computer chair.
"I'm not. Just a....stressful day. It was difficult to ....let her .... go through that. To hear ....her scream and just let it happen" replied Juice carefully as he thought back on the morning. Half-Sack nodded as he considered his best friend. "I'm sorry you had to experience that. I cant imagine what it was like." stated Half-Sack. "She wont be gone forever" he added more for himself than Juice. Juice simply nodded before going back to his own thoughts.
***
Mayans Clubhouse
It was early evening by the time the Mayans pulled into the clubhouse lot. Rocky hadn't made a sound or moved since she had been loaded up. Angel spoke as the two Mayans in the front slipped out of the van. "If we undo your hands can you keep them to yourself and promise not to take off until our presidente speaks to you" inquired Angel thoughtfully. Rocky nodded without looking at him. Coco snorted before getting out, muttering good luck as he shut the door.
Once inside Angel led her to another door where Bishop was sitting. "Have a seat" stated Bishop as he gestured to one of the many chairs around the wooden table. Rocky timidly moved to one of the chairs across from the Mayan and sat eyeing both men wearily. "Angel, why dont you check on your brother while I chat with our guest" stated Bishop. Angel simply nodded before stepping out and closing the door.
The two stared at each other for a couple of silent minutes before Bishop spoke. "I suspect you have questions" stated Bishop. Rocky nodded as Bishop continued to speak. "My name is Bishop. I am the Presidente of the Santo Padre Mayans Charter. Which will be your home for an unknown time" he stated giving Rocky a moment to process his words. "Why?" asked Rocky quietly. "I feel this letter will explain better than I can." replied Bishop as he stood and sat a white envelope in front of her. Rocky carefully took it and opened it.
#ravennasmasterlist#sons of anarchy#ravennasoc#soa fanfiction#juice ortiz#mayans mc fanfiction#coco cruz#mayans mc imagine#sons of anarchy fanfic#soa fanfic#jax teller#chibs telford
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Fanfiction Recommendations! As the summer comes to a close, I want to highlight some of my favorite authors and their beautiful talent with all of you.
Take a moment, read their work, and support them by commenting and reblogging—all to let them know their work matters and their contributions to their respective communities are valued and heard. Heed all warnings before consuming content, the authors and myself are not liable for the content you interact with.
Cherry Blossom Colored Kisses // @queers-gambit [Eddie Munson x Reader]
I am normally a streamlined reader. One of those who doesn’t venture into supernatural, folklore-esq fics but something spurred me to read this and all I can say is that it was perfect. There are few words beyond perfection to describe this work. It is simply phenomenal. I never wanted it to end; the writing was beautifully heartbreaking and lovely, and the emotions—God! The emotions! I have re-read this multiple times and will be reading it until the end of my days. I only wish I could be as brilliant a writer as you. Thank you for sharing your gift with us.
For you, I’ll Go into the Woods // @aniqua [Eddie Munson x Reader]
If you continue reading this rec list, you’ll also see that Aniqua is in the masterlist category too. She is simply amazing. Every work she’s ever produced has been excellent. A true, exquisite talent that I am so happy to call my mutual. Not all writers take time and care into how their readers are represented, but Aniqua shows that with impeccable kindness and strength because in the end, all we want for ourselves is to be the best version we can be—and well, she writes that. Aniqua, you are the best. Your writing transcends from the page and into our hearts. We are so lucky that you continue to write and produce work that we love. Thank you for sharing your gift with us.
My Favorite Henderson // @luvfae [Eddie Munson x Reader]
Listen, I love Henderson!Readers. I do. Plain and simple and very much a fantasy because 1. Dustin is my fav and 2. I adore Eddie. This series is fantastic. It’s long (which is an absolute plus), well written, and totally engaging with great dialogue and a really wonderful representation of Eddie as a character beyond the scope of what we know of him. I tagged the whole masterlist of the series for you to check out—you can’t stop at one, you need to read them all and stay up all night because you can’t stop reading it. Fae, thank you for sharing this with us.
Detention // @mycurrent-hyperfixation [Eddie Munson x Reader]
While I like the good ‘ol canon fic like everyone else, imagining characters outside what we’ve seen is so interesting and goddammit I love this one. First, Eddie would definitely be stuck in detention more often than not because he’s a non-conformist and that bugs teachers; second, he would absolutely fall in love with a student he wouldn’t expect to see in there. This fic is so cute and wonderfully crafted. This author knows how well to write Eddie and the kind of character he is supposed to be—which makes all the contexts that they put him in all the better to be read. Thank you for sharing this with us.
High School Sweethearts // @uselesssomebody [Eddie Munson x Reader]
This is a [ongoing] fic series that just started and I cannot wait to see where this goes. I love the dynamic–Eddie on the outskirts of society while Reader is woven within it trying to find an out. It’s got that enemies to lovers, faking dating trope that we all love and let me tell you, one ‘chapter’ in and this author has me in the palm of their hand. Their username is uselesssomebody and while I don’t know the context for it, I can tell you all (who decide to venture this far and actually read everything I wrote) that this author is far from useless and is certainly not just somebody. They’ve created conflict and empathy and the foundation for the story in a few thousand words while understanding the motivations of reader and Eddie so well. I cannot say enough, and maybe for the second time now, that I am jittery thinking about how this story will progress and I hope all of you will join me in enjoying this journey. I am simply smitten. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Night Moves // @eagerbby [Eddie Munson x Reader]
Oof did I love this. I’m a sucker for exes to lovers and the way Nicole wrote this is not only a beautiful, comprehensive story but the innate ability to be a storyteller in the most amazing sense makes this fic a perfect combination. Reader and Eddie have a realistic, palpable connection and the angst that slowly evolves into the revelations and resolution of the story is just fucking wonderful. And I don’t know at what point I begin feeling like a broken record, but there are phenomenal writers on tumblr (as well as Ao3–in particular) and being able to discover them through fandom is a great honor. They understand characters and their motivations (dare I say) better than the original authors or creators and that says something about the creativity and intellect of them. Nicole is one of those writers. You will also find her masterlist under the ‘Masterlist’ section of this fic rec list because it’s just that fantastic. Thank you for sharing your gift with us.
Spring Break // @strangermarvelss [Eddie Munson x Reader]
This fic. I want more! I want MORE! Enemies to lovers besties and goddamn does Sava do this well. I’ve read this three times because it makes me feel something and that is a testament to her writing. It’s fantastic and I love that authors are taking Eddie and adapting him into different types of scenarios. Like sure, is Eddie a golden retriever type who’s got big brown eyes and is a softy inside? Yes. BUT! Eddie could easily be irked by someone who doesn’t mesh with him in the way others have. Having Eddie in an enemies to lovers situation with a reader who is in the fruity four’s circle is just *chef’s kiss.* So, one, thank you for writing this and I, like many others, would love to see a continuation of this dynamic because you write it incredibly well. Second, thank you for sharing this with us because if it hadn’t been for you posting this, I wouldn’t have known what it felt like to love a fic so much.
Never Have I Ever // @me-gongoga [Eddie Munson x Reader]
Angsty fics that resolve with fluffy romance are bloody brilliant. They can make you feel ten different emotions if it is written well and shit, I’m here to tell you that yes, this fic is written exceptionally well. Not only do we feel every emotion and slight second hand embarrassment from the question Eddie thinks he has stumped everyone with, we also feel so profoundly rewarded by the end. UGH the satisfaction of that is amazing. As a reader who is getting older and who has been doing this *thing* for a decade, I adore when I come across stories that touch me in ways I wish I knew were possible ten years ago. So, thank you. Thank you for sharing this with us and creating feelings that are realistic and sound to the point where I kick my feet and giggle at myself. You make me feel sixteen again.
Right to the Bone // @havecourage-darling [Eddie Munson x Reader]
This fucking fic blew my nonexistent socks off. I loved it so much. Not only is it more than one part, it is incredibly written and the characters are wonderfully crafted. V, it’s not enough to simply recommend this story because I need to scream about it from the rooftops. Lovers to exes to ??? Exactly. Exactly what I’m looking for and because we are all simps for Eddie, only happy, complicated ends for this man and V gives that to us. It’s also not short. I love when fics are long so knowing that I’ll be reading it for more than a few minutes is the best, exciting feeling to have before actually jumping in. Thank you for writing this and sharing it with us. I hope those of you who take the time to read it simply adore it as much as I do.
I am a top gun girlie simp. It’s not something I will apologize for.
Bad Habit // @seasonsbloom [Jake Seresin x Reader]
There is no reasonable place on earth for me to sit and enjoy something this much. One, I love Jake. He’s exactly the guy I shouldn’t like but I do anyway and you know what? Fine. If he was real I’d hate him but I’d love to hate him… get the gist? This little series is amazing. Great writing, great use of the characters, and totally feels in canon too. All the top gun writers are great—and it’s fucking wonderfully long! I love long fics because I write long fics and to see other authors embracing the wc’s over 6 thousand words is amazing. Thank you, May, for taking the time to write this and sharing your talent with us.
Small Doses // @purelyfiction [Jake Seresin x Reader]
Again, here with another Jake fic but let’s be honest, this whole section will be Jake x Readers and so long as these fantastic writers continue to bless us with their work, it will a solely Jake list. Knockout. Not the call sign, but the code name for the fic. It’s a fucking knockout of a fanfic and I’m so happy to have come across it. It’s sexy and makes my heart do leaps because it has snark and steam and love and thrill. Hit the goddamn trifecta here, Ashley. Thank you for sharing this work with us.
Save a Jet, Ride a Pilot // @bradshaw-fanclub [Jake Seresin x Reader]
Please. The name for this fic alone should make you want to read it. There is a commonality between many Jake fics and I’m not mad about it (the “you hate him but love him at the same time” trope) and this fic… this fic does it brilliantly. I literally feel like kicking my feet from under by comforter because it’s just so fucking good. I signed my name with a heart in Hangman’s whorehouse just for this fic and I don’t regret it. Won’t apologize either. Thank you, Hayley, for sharing your talent with us.
Wine-Eyed // @whirlybirbs [James Norrington x Reader; POTC]
I used to sell myself as solely a Will Turner kind of gal but the older I got, I realized that Norrington was totally my vibe. I will die on that hill now. So, as any sane person does, I read all the fanfics I can and when a new one comes along, I read it, I love it, and birbs—listen… you knocked it out of the park. Absolutely wonderful, phenomenal, brilliant, amazing, life changing, awesome-ness. You keep this small fandom living for content alive. Thank you for sharing your work with us.
Ride or Die // @writefightandflightclub [Santiago Garcia x Reader; Triple Frontier]
I am 90% sure I’ve recommended at least one fic, if not the whole masterlist, of Luna’s before and every time I’m looking for something good, I come back to older fandoms I’ve been in and find new or past fics that I adore. Santi is a whole man of mixed emotions and complications that just make you want to say “I can fix him.” Ride or Die is that. Ride or Die is Santi at his antithesis and Reader being at the center of everything. I love it. And I highly suggest if you read this one, you’ll love all the fics that they’ve ever written because it’s not just Santi but many of Oscars other characters that are written perfectly. Thank you for continuing to write and share these wonderful stories with us.
Hot Summer Nights, Mid July // @luxurybeskar [Johnny Soprano x Reader; MSoN]
I went back through my archives to see what fics I may have forgotten to recommend in my last list and this is definitely one that I should not have looked over. Actually, probably all of Thea’s fics should be on here too. I love the Sopranos and while The Many Saints of Newark wasn’t the best film in the universe, the cast was sizzling and JB’s Johnny was certainly one of them. Thea writes him so well and self-indulgent too which is the best kind of writing tbh. If you enjoy this one, check out Thea’s other Johnny works and other writings because the catalogue is vast my friends. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Aniqua’s Main Masterlist // @aniqua
From Moon Knight to Shadow and Bone to Stranger Things, Aniqua’s writing will take you from universe to universe and leave you in love. Take the time to explore the masterlist she has created for all of her works because they are absolutely terrific.
Masterlist // @eagerbby
Everything on this masterlist is gold. It’s slowly growing with more content every week and I seriously cannot wait to see what else this author produces. Please, if you’d be so inclined, check out this author because their work is great and just like Aniqua’s work above, they’ll transport you to a little island of happiness for as long as you stay.
Masterlist // @masterofmunson
From Eddie to Peter Parker, everything is amazing. Amanda knows how to write these characters that I’m sure she could do it in her sleep, but I couldn’t pick one that I loved more than the others so I just smacked the whole masterlist on here for everyone to enjoy. Enjoy it, dear readers. They’re phenomenal and deserve all the love and support.
Um. How did we get here?
I’m a writer too, I guess… and I’d like to plug my own work—because Jesus Christ if no one else will, then I’ll do it myself! My name is Kelsey, I’m 24, and have been writing and reading fanfics for nearly a decade. Below are a couple of fics (and my masterlist) that I’m immensely proud of. It takes a lot for me to admit that I like my work—and certainly not all of it—but there are a few that I can’t help but love.
Thanks for all the support. Go check out the authors above and show them unconditional tumblr love.
Masterlist // @inknopewetrust (aka me!)
This masterlist contains every written fic I’ve ever posted on tumblr. You can find some of the work on Ao3 and different fandoms on my Wattpad.
Exile // @inknopewetrust (still me) [Darkling x Reader; Shadow and Bone]
This is a short series based in the shadow and bone world. Darkling x Fem!Reader that kind of set me on a path here on tumblr. It was the first mainstream series I’d ever done and the attention brought to it was very kind. I am very proud of this fic. I think it represents me as a writer very well and I was able to explore different themes of sensuality, romance, heartbreak, pain, and hatred, all in one.
The Hideout | It’s You and Me | Secret | Electric Music | and The Denim Vest // @inknopewetrust (oh yeah, still me) [Eddie Munson x Reader]
These are all of my Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader fics. Eddie is a comfort character. He’s the guy I would have been crushing on in high school and just like millions of other people on the planet, completely swept me off my feet. A few of these fics contain scenarios deeply personal to me—conversations I’ve had, situations I’ve been in—and to be able to therapeutically write about them through fiction has been a great pleasure. I’ll always believe Eddie to be one of my favorite characters to write for. He’s wonderfully odd—just the way we all like him.
Resolutions // @inknopewetrust (do you wanna guess?) [Marc Spector x Reader; Moon Knight]
I grew up loving Marvel. After a very traumatic experience writing for the fandom, I decided to take a step back a few years ago but I found a connection with Marc and Steven. There was an acceptance that I hadn’t been privy too, so it makes me incredibly happy to have extended my hand back into the pond. I am proud of this little series because I feel it dives into the complexities of what it means to be a partner—a loving, committed person when so much is going on. I hope that shines through for you too.
Volition // @inknopewetrust (Mhm… me) [Rafael Barba x Reader; L&O: SVU]
Rafael Barba is my favorite SVU character. Maybe that’s because I’m a Broadway girlie and RE is an absolute legend, but Barba is a whole deal by himself. I wanted to write a story aligned with canon and this is what I came up with. A complicated, dueling interest fic with a sequel that leaves lingering potential for the hypothetical future to be happy. I love Barba; he deserved better in the end.
#x reader#fanfic#fanfiction#stranger things#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#marc spector x reader#rafael barba x reader#James norrington x reader#Johnny soprano x reader#Santiago Garcia x reader#Jake seresin x reader#top gun maverick#top gun#triple frontier#moon knight#shadow and bone#darkling x reader#x female reader
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apologies to all of my followers but i'm gonna continue being insane abt ff14. no end in sight. hope everyone bothered by that has blocked the tag by now
anyway anytime i say literally anything abt zenos' narrative position i feel the need to preface it with a VERY large "ymmv dependent on your wol" disclaimer bc even if it's got nothing to do with shana and is entirely canon based i know the degree of like. reciprocity there. varies wildly. anyway pretend i said that better the important thing is i'm yes-anding his bit. anyway
ANYWAY i think zenos and ardbert are really great narrative parallels.
like, to both of them, the wol is their only friend and equal. both of them share or believe they share a kind of experience and mentality with you that basically nobody else could understand. both of them show up after all of your other friends/allies have been completely stomped by an expansion's final boss, while you're the last one dragging yourself forward, to be the one who helps you to victory. they both, in some sense, give their life to you (ardbert gives his remaining aether to put your soul back together, zenos cuts his head off rather than live outside your fight and then rides to the end of reality for you later if you don't want to count that one). they both get their dead body possessed by elidibus, which is more of a "two nickels" thing than a total parallel but i think it's fun so i'm putting it here anyway. they both serve as both enemies and allies at different points in the story without changing their core mission statement much at all.
they are also diametric opposites. obviously.
i think to a degree they are expressions/mirrors of two semi-opposing sides of the wol. The Hero and The Hunter. ardbert is the other half of your soul, the warrior of light, and by his own admission his favorite part of the job was never the battle itself, it was the calm that came afterwards. the warmth and security of knowing they'd helped and protected people. he lives and dies by those bonds - he's got a whole party behind him, and they all choose to give their lives twice over to try and give norvrandt a tomorrow. his stand with you is him remembering that fact, reaffirming his desire to help them despite the struggles. he cares deeply abt the world, abt giving them hope. your fight against hades is a manifestation of that determination. you'll drag each other up no matter how much it hurts because goddammit this world is yours and you are not going to stand by and let it die.
zenos by contrast is nothing so lofty. he does not give a flying fuck about people's hopes, or pain, or any of their emotions, or the general concept of tomorrow. he is the part of the wol that is the hunter, the person they become in the heat of battle that scares the shit out of their enemies. the one who finds joy in their work not bc they know it's bringing hope and light to the world but purely bc of the thrill of it. you are an adventurer—you wouldn't do what you do if you didn't find some pleasure in it. his bond with you is completely inextricable from your capacity for violence. he throws off the endsinger's despair not bc he gives you hope but bc hope and despair are foreign objects to him. he reminds you that your friends, the star, the hopes and dreams of reality are all outside the room, and inside it is just you, and your enemy, and you are nothing before you are death to your enemies. so why the fuck is it not dead yet.
like, you could make the case that it's the Best and the Worst, but i think that's only circumstantially true bc again: the wol couldn't be the wol, couldn't keep fighting and winning the way they do, if that part of them wasn't there. but i DO think it is a very present duality, that they reflect matching and opposite parts of you—the part that fights for love of the world, and the part that does it for love of the game.
#the nemesis speaks#swift plays ff14#ffxiv spoilers#endwalker spoilers#like so many spoilers#i thought abt putting this under a readmore but then: i didn't#read my essay boy.#also so so many thoughts abt shana specifically that i kind of want to type up but also. nobody is here for this lmfao#AND ALSO one of these days i'm gonna write that whole thing abt the narrative reprecussions of zenos showing up for you#it's got layers. one of them was this thing. there's others.
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Nine people I'd like to get to know better
Got tagged by @vasheden! Thanks, Vash! Here we go!
Last song: I Wanna Take You For a Ride (Inspired by Marvel vs Capcom 2) by the 8-Bit Big Band. Absolutely love their music - big band stuff just has so much energy, and I love that! I don't think I've heard any of their stuff that's bad, or even meh. All Really Good music! (Did you know they did a full version of Mordin's little ditty from ME2? >3 https://youtu.be/UxVekZRIWyg)
Favorite color: Okay, this one is tough. Usually Blue or Orange. Not the overly bright, pastel versions. LIghtest blue I like is sky blue, or azure. And lightest orange...well, the fruit. xD I tend to favor darker variants of the two, and which I like more depends on my mood for the day, or what the subject being discussed is (whether this influence my two favorite reptilian ninjas, or vice versa, I cannot say... xD)
Last movie/TV show: Okay, last movie, simple - The Jim Carrey version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Aside from the original animated film, this one is my favorite. Jim's very physical acting, plus his amazing facial expressions paired with the makeup, and he does the Grinch Smile™ perfectly! For new movies? Godzilla Minus One. Go see it. Just... you gotta go see it! TV Show would be anime, and that would be Burst Angel, a show I got a preview DVD for an never was able to find again, until on a whim (and after catching sight of my wall scroll of such) I looked it up on Crunchyroll and there it was! I think the transfer from Funimation may have dinged the subtitles, but it's still pretty good.
Sweet/spicy/savory?: Yes. Very yes. BUT, if I absolutely have to choose, savory is top, especially if it's got a little kick to it. xD I cannot handle super sweet stuff, like cake frosting that isn't buttercream, and even that needs to be moderate. Spice tolerance...is alright. But there has to be flavor that I can get before the capzasin kicks in. I think some of my favorite spice comes from Indian food, cause it is spicy AND savory. x3
Relationship status: I am but a single okami. Am comfortable with it, and have been for a while, but I do miss a few things I'd like to have again. I have some things to lock down first.
Last thing I googled: The proper spelling for "Capzasin", because I keep think there's an extra c in it for some reason...
Current obsession: Um... I don't have anything demanding my time, though HALO Infinite is close. It's fun playing Firefight again, and I want the Superintendent AI companion, goddammit! (ODST my favorite game? Why would you think THAT? >3) But as games go HALO, FFXIV (I have a house that needs decorating, and maybe learning some gpose things so I can do sappy screeenshots of AKagi and his girls. x3 Or Gev being...himself. xD) and Armored Core VI, and really wanting to tweak some of my gunpla, honestly. I need to adjust my toolkit some. :P
Much like Vash, I think I will thumb through the activity page and tag folks who I don't think have done this one. No pressure, of course, I just did mine because I am trying to be more active and stuff. Cheers!
@elveny, @reucrion, @techietacotrain, @kunstpause, @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond, @vazaymir, @clockworkdragonffxiv, @thelorekeeper, @dragon-saint
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@burdened-boy
Continued from here!
“Trust me, you’ll be back to your plants before you can say ’succulent,” the killer muttered, retrieving the shotgun. With one hand on the wheel and the other on the gun, Limbo popped the breech open and slid one of the cupholder shells into one side. He reached over to the glovebox, hesitating for a moment (he didn’t want Kira to think he was reaching for her legs) and drew another, nearly identical projectile. The only difference was that this shell had a slit cut across it, about halfway down. Maybe Kira knew, maybe she didn’t; this was a trick borrowed from the Great Depression, and one Limbo was quite fond of using.
With the now-typical dual consecutive booms, Limbo’s humble shotgun crushed the front doors of the undercover cop car like soda cans. The cut shell, filled with buckshot, was the star of this show, as it exploded out from the weapon with enough force to smash concrete.
He sped away from the scene, the entire drive-by seeming to be done in just a few motions.
She wanted to be a smartass- say 'succulent' like it would magically transport her back home.
But she wasn't Dorothy, and this wasn't Oz.
Made all the clearer by him taking the sawed off shotgun into his hand. Reaching over her for the glove compartment. She merely moves her body out of his way. Pressing up against the door of the car. She didn't recognize that this shell was different. Only that it was a shell sliding into the chamber.
And as they drove by, she wasn't sure what she was expecting. But the booms emitting from the car make her hands fly to her ears and a hiss to pass her lips.
Eyes watch as the front of the car is practically smashed inwards. The people inside likely shredded if not by the first shot, then the second shot most definitely.
Her nerves are fried, she wails at him, her head turning swiftly to watch the sight disappear behind them.
"What the FUCK is WRONG with you?! Goddammit!"
She'd shove him if she didn't know better. As if she wants to be on the receiving end of the ultra violence he didn't even flinch at dishing out.
She understands that he can't afford to get pulled over. Let alone have a vehicle matching the description of her kidnapping and robbery be tagged heading this way at this time. Even if they didn't get pulled over. It, of course, made sense in a fucked up way.
But she's just a civilian. Fried and just wanting to go home.
Kira sinks back into her seat, facing forward. Curling in on herself and pulling her jacket further over her form. Pouting it would seem.
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When Your Line Is Crossed - Chapter 6
Your new neighbour is pretty fit, and the walls are pretty thin…
Sam Drake/Uncharted/Post-U4
Viewpoint: 2nd person female reader
Warnings: very nsfw (this chapter not thaaat naughty)
Wordcount: ~10.5k (6 Chapters) [incomplete]
Tagging: @bluewingedangel @killergoddessmm @marshmallow--3 @mrob-dream if you want added or removed let me know!
Heavily inspired by the song I Get Off by Halestorm
Read on Ao3
Chapter 5 | Chapter 7
*BANG BANG BANG*
Rhythmic thumping pulls you abruptly from your dreams. You grumble and try to drag the pillow over your head to block it out. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was Sam next door, going at it yet again.
A wave of embarrassment drowns you as you remember exactly what happened last night. The noises you made. The noises you both made. You moaned his name. When he was with someone else. That’s a line you just don’t cross.
Reaching for your phone, you notice with some relief you’ve slept in later than usual. You wouldn’t dare go out on the balcony this morning, should you bump into You-Know-Who. Maybe you can browse for a new apartment later, give notice, pack your things, leave the country, who knows?
*BANG BANG BANG*
The second time it happens you realise the noise isn’t a headboard slamming into the drywall next to you, instead it’s coming from the outside door of your apartment.
Must be the landlord. He has a habit of turning up whenever he feels like without any warning. Gas check this. Water check that. You secretly think it’s weird, a little creepy even, but you don’t want to give him any reason to bump your rent, so you smile sweetly and put up with it.
You throw on a baggy hoodie to cover yourself, in your sleep-addled state not thinking to check if it definitely is the landlord first before opening up.
“Hi, ye-“
“Morning, neighbour!” Sam greets you cheerily, grinning from ear to ear.
Instantly, you are wide awake.
“Nope!” You try to slam the door in his face, but he’s too quick for you. With barely an inch left before it shuts he blocks the opening with his boot and leans his full weight against it. You struggle briefly before realising the cheap-ass door will probably give out before he does. The man is solid.
“Aw c’mon, try harder, baby!” Sam’s laughing at your efforts. It’s all just a game to him.
I will not cave. I will not cave. Sweet talk will not work this time.
Shit why is he calling me baby now?
“What do you want?” You yell at him.
“Can I have some sugar?”
You don’t believe what you just heard. The nerve of him. Something snaps. You stop pushing back, swinging the door open wide and glaring at him. “Very funny. Is that some kind of a sick joke?”
You are so not in the mood for his sense of humour right now.
Sam turns serious in the blink of an eye when he realises you aren’t taking it well. “No, sweetheart. I genuinely need some sugar. I’m all out.”
“Hmmm...” You’re watching him suspiciously, waiting for his ‘ha, gotcha!’ that never comes.
Hard to Handle by Otis Redding is faintly drifting down the hallway towards the pair of you.
…but I can love you better than him…
“Swear it. Cross my heart.” In a way, his sincerity is worse than his humour.
“Why, because you used it all last night?” That comes out a little sharp, double meaning dripping heavily from your words.
He shouldn’t be calling you sweetheart anyway, you are clearly not his sweetheart.
“No, because this morning I made enough coffee for you too, y’know…it was kinda nice, yesterday, talking, out there, with the sunrise-“ His voice is quiet and low.
Goddammit.
“-I thought, I hoped you’d show, and then you didn’t, so I got worried.”
“You were worried about me? You barely know me.”
“Alright, alright. I guess, concerned, is maybe a better word.” Sam stops to lean against the frame. “And as for barely knowing you, I’d like to change that, if it wasn’t already obvious.”
“Ugh.” You scoff before you can stop yourself. “You know way too much already.”
“Seriously? Are you okay?” He cocks his head and looks hard at you, while you avert your eyes down to an interesting scuff on the ground. “Oh…I get it. Is this about last night? Look, we’re both adults. It’s no big deal.”
Really? That’s it? No big deal. It’s that easy for him?
Sam continues. “If it helps, you sounded adorable.”
Oh jeez.
You make a show of rubbing your sleepy face to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, that really doesn’t help.”
He shrugs. “Eh, then I got nothin’. Except coffee, so…ya want some?”
“Ummm…” You swither, apparently a few microseconds too long for Sam’s patience.
“Look, honestly, I’m kinda getting mixed signals here. If you’re dead set on avoiding me, why’d you open the door?”
“Oh, uh-“ Your turn to shrug. “I thought you might be my landlord, sometimes he just shows up, and…yeah-“
“Woah, woah, woah.” Sam holds up a hand to stop you. “He just comes in here without calling ya first?”
He looks less than pleased when you nod mutely. Then, like flicking a switch, his expression darkens. He seems really pissed off, and you can see a different side of him. One you would never dare do wrong in a million years. It makes you tighten your grip on the doorknob. It makes you want to run. When he speaks his voice is cold, friendly Sam long gone.
“Next time he pulls that shit, you call me first before you answer him, okay? That ain’t right, you in here by yourself…”
Once you mm-hm your agreement, Dangerous Sam vanishes in a flash and your smirking neighbour is back again. You aren’t quite sure what to make of the behavioural one-eighty, but he’s probably right. Confirming what you’ve always felt but been too nervous to do anything about.
Fuck, him being so protective of you does make your heart flutter a little.
Maybe it is no big deal, your little outburst in bed. Despite everything that’s happened between you already, he is definitely the least troublesome neighbour you’ve ever known.
And the best-looking.
God, he smells amazing.
Sure it was embarrassing, for both of you, but he clearly doesn’t care, maybe you shouldn’t either. Shit happens.
“Anyway, I’ll make coffee…again. If you feel like joining me, I’d be honoured.” He turns to leave.
“Sam?” You call after him.
“Yeah, angel?”
“Don’t you need that sugar first?”
“Shoot, yeah…” For a second his self-assured air slips away and he loses his cool just a fraction. “Uh…Ya got some?”
“Maybe.” It’s your turn to lean casually against the door. No big deal you say, Sam?
He just blinks at you when you show no signs of moving. “Can you…go get it?”
“If you say please.”
“Huh?” Exactly the same tone as last night, when he heard you moaning through the wall, which makes your nerves wobble (after all, what the Hell are you doing?) but your mouth curves into a smile and you keep going.
“Say please.”
“Ah, shit…Please.” The word is clearly an effort. “I’ll pay you back, one way or another.”
“No rush.” You somehow sound breezy despite your racing pulse. Is this still flirting? Or is it foreplay?
“I will, I’m a man of my word.” He leans in close and everything outside of the two of you dissolves away. “I told you. Knock on my door and ask. Anything you need. Anything.”
You remember every detail of the earlier conversation you had when Sam offered to ‘help you out’ with your needs.
“We’ll see. And I told you Sam, if anyone was knocking and asking for stuff, it was going to be you!”
Damn, that little win felt good.
“Jeez-“ He remembers too. Sam turns away out into the hall and runs a hand through his hair before coming back to you. “That’s good, that’s cute. You’re sharp. C’mon, quit messing around. Cough up the sweet stuff.”
“Fine, wait here.”
Sam’s desperate to be in control again, he just can’t leave it alone. “You could invite me in, just give me the whole cup of coffee while you’re at it? I made one for you already. Return the favour.”
“Nice try, but I never got that cup, so it doesn’t count.” You catch him trying to peer around the door to find out what the inside of your apartment looks like. “Hey! Stop being so nosey!”
���Can’t help it.” He mutters. “What’s got into you, why you Miss Feisty this morning?”
“I’m a little mad.” You fess up as you hand him a bowl of sugar, your fingers briefly touching as he takes it. Electricity.
“Mad? At me? For what? For getting laid?” His smirk is just unbearable. “Aw, are you jealous, sweetheart?”
“Hell, no!” Your answer is too quick, over-the-top nonchalant. It’s so obvious you care.
“Oh my God, you are. You are jealous.” Sam shakes his head in wonder, seeing right through you. “Well, shit. How rude of me.”
“Isn’t she bothered you’re over here paying attention to me instead?” You slyly enquire, not sure what you should be hoping for as an answer.
“Nah, she’s long gone.” Sam looks slightly regretful. “I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again.”
You should not be so over-the-moon at his confession. You try not to let your face show it, and catch your grin just in time.
And then you realise why the woman isn’t coming back. She must have heard you too. She saw Sam’s reaction first hand. It was your fault. You ruined it for her. For both of them.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you ain’t. But it’s okay. Guess she didn’t take it the way I did.”
What, as a compliment?
Before you can figure out what to say next, Sam throws you another curveball.
“Listen, how about I make you dinner tonight?”
Your stomach feels like it’s just abandoned ship and your heart isn’t far behind, suddenly blood is rushing in your ears.
“Oh-“
“What, you already got plans?“
“No, it’s just…surprising.” The thought of you and him alone for at least a few hours makes your knees weak. Is it possible he actually cares for you? This isn’t just an elaborate ruse to get you into bed? Sam cooks?!
“Oh, I’m full of surprises.” He drops his voice low and lets his gaze linger on your mouth. “You’ll see. How about it?”
You shouldn’t. He was with someone else just last night. This feels like definite trouble.
But you want to. In spite of everything, you so badly want to.
“Yes. I’ll have dinner with you.” Oh my God. It’s happening.
“There’s a catch, though.”
“Which is?” You only just manage to croak out.
“Dinner at your place. I’m still fixing mine up. Sawdust everywhere. And I do mean ev-er-y-where-“
“That’s fine.” You cut him off before he goes into more detail about what exactly he means by everywhere. But Christ, you’ve got some cleaning to do.“That’s…more than fine.”
“Alright then. We got a deal. See you later, sweetheart.”
As you shut the door, you know deep down you’re still somewhat mad with him. But you’re also biting your lip in anticipation, because fuck you’re really looking forward to it. That damn smooth talking sure did the trick.
You’ve got a date with Sam.
Tonight.
***
Thanks for reading!
Still trucking away on this I’ve not forgotten 😁
#sam drake fic#sam drake x f!reader#sam drake x you#sam drake smut#sam drake fanfiction#uncharted fanfiction#when your line is crossed#uncharted#sam drake#naughty dog#samuel drake#my writing#my fanfiction#no y/n#uncharted fluff#protective sam drake#en es ef dubbleyoo#uncharted female reader
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Thanks for the tag @galaxycunt
Tagging: @roofgeese @poetikat @direwombat @funkypoacher @strangefable @natesofrellis @marivenah @thomrainer @adelaidedrubman @strafethesesinners @clicheantagonist @aceghosts @schoute and anyone else who has something to share.
Got some more goodies from Kit's canon timeline. I wanted to write some Seed brother goodness and I've been really enjoying trying to get inside John's head more. So have some John and Joe after Kit escapes her confession:
Word had spread to the Father that Kit had run, under the watchful eyes of the Herald she had slipped through his grasp and spread ruin amongst their numbers. More dead, more bodies to bury, more blood spilled at their feet left for them to clean up. She left a trail wherever she went and this time had been no different.
John had failed. Again.
He twisted the point of his blade in the palm of his hand, barely noticing the sting as layers of skin began to shred and blood rose to the surface in a crimson bubble. Resting against the tool bench in the dark, away from the eyes of his prisoners and his people, alone with his own thoughts. He would be punished, he knew it, he deserved it. He’d been reckless, careless, got too close. He had given in to his sins. Memories of his old life flooded back to him - the debauchery, the hedonism. Joseph had saved him, showed him a better way and that…Whore of Babylon…made him turn his head, his eye slipping away from the goal. She was a menace.
She was a sinner.
He’d tried everything with her, baptised her, was set to mark her with her sin, he told her how he meant to save her. She’d said ‘Yes’ goddammit, and still she spat in his face. Taking more lives with her, more precious souls meant for New Eden had been stolen away.
Blood dripped down his hand, droplets landing on the concrete and each one sounded like the crash of waves upon the shore. How could he have been so blind to her games? Given in so easily to her wiles? He slammed his fist down on the tabletop, jamming his nails into his palm, squeezing more blood from the stone.
He’d make her pay for her choices. He’d teach her the error of her ways. He’d make her suffer for her wrath.
Wrath…she was brimming with it. It trickled out of her pores, followed her like a miasma, and she infected everyone who came near her with it. She was a pestilence, a strain of disease that he thought he had the cure to. But even he had fallen prey to her…
…And now Joseph was coming…
He paced back and forth, he’d have to be honest, come clean with how he had made a mistake. He thought he could trust her to leave her alone for one moment…
Footsteps descended the stairs, his stomach twisting and tightening. He knew Joseph would be kind and calm, accepting as always. But that little voice in his head, the one that followed him when he was just a boy and went by Duncan, roared at him. Told him to run, to hide. He’d be beaten, terrorized, or worse. He wasn’t allowed to fail, he already had so many times in his life before. He could see it in Joseph’s eyes when he looked upon him, the look screamed disappointment, he was an embarrassment. He had to do better. He had been given this role for a reason, he was a Herald. He wouldn't let her take this from him.
The red lights reflected off Joseph’s glasses, his eyes blurred by the beams. John tried to read his face, but his brother, stoic as ever, was an impossible book to grasp. He hung his head, feeling Joseph’s eyes upon him. The all-knowing eyes of the Father.
He had failed. Failed. Twice over. Failed.
“John.”
Joseph’s voice was always so calm, resolute, never wavering from his path, from his vision. He had put so much trust in the voice and what it told him, he never strayed. John wished he could say the same. He had faith, a boundless supply, but the urges…most could be forgiven, put to good use. This time he’d stepped in it, made a mess of things. Not just for himself but for his family as well.
The Father pressed his hands to John’s shoulders, “Look at me, John.”
Big blue eyes drifted up, looking up through his brow at his older brother, lip damn near trembling. Expecting his father’s fury and was met instead by the gentle, cradling embrace of his brother’s hands upon his cheeks. Their foreheads meeting.
Would he be forgiven?
“You know what you have done. I can see it. I told you to help her reach atonement. To help her see.”
“I tried, Joseph. I swear…” the little boy who fought off his parents violence for so long began to cry out, the punishment would be too much. He wasn’t sure he could take it.
“She is the light, John. The one who will end the darkness. We need her to reach Eden’s Gate.”
“I know…” His voice dropped to a nearly inaudible whisper, “...I’m sorry.”
Joseph stepped back, pulling away from his brother. He rubbed at his temple, another migraine coming on. But his duty to his people, to his family, to his followers - those he claimed to want to save - could not wait.
“Where are the others?”
John rubbed the still wet palm of his hand against his jeans, his hand stained with his own blood this time, instead of those who had yet to see the error of their ways. “Follow me.”
#this whole scene was brought on by the line of dialogue from Joey about Joseph visiting and just staring at them#so that tells you where this is going#wip wednesday#far cry 5#fan fiction#john seed#joseph seed
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Tag 9 5 people you want to get to know better
Tagged by @bzedan and I am showing my gratitude by actually doing this instead of thinking "Oh cool I'll do that later" and then never touching it again
3 Ships: Victuuri (Victor/Yuuri from Yuri!! On Ice), Bloodweave (Gale/Astarion from BG3 YES EVEN THOUGH I WRITE OC/ASTARION I CAN SHIP CHARACTERS MULTIPLE TIMES), and Imector (Imelda/Hector from Coco).
First Ever Ship: Jack and Sally when I was just wee bab
Last song: "I Want To Live - Instrumental Version" from BG3
Last movie: Five Nights At Freddy's and it fucking slapped.
Currently reading: Struggling through A Court of Mist And Fury because goddammit I'm going to finish the first three even though I want to personally sit Sarah J. Maas down and yell at her about fairies for three hours. Just starting a re-read of The Once and Future King, which is much better.
Currently watching: Ghost Stories (dub)
Currently consuming: Nothing but I'll be getting some tea in a hot minute.
Currently craving: Just a straight-up loaf of french bread.
I am doing the same as my predecessor and sticking with 5 people so I tag @sybalion @falmerbrook @littlemomentsofgold @sneakygreenbean and @dancingalpaca!
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...okay, in lieu of the reblog, but no tags, I am going to leave ONE fanfic title prompt here and just...see what happens.
Fanfic Title prompt: Boom! Comics; Drakkon or Omega Jason + "a house of lies and pride and bone; a house afraid to be alone"
So this got a lot longer than I anticipated. I also got another short plot bunny up and running. Tinkered with combining but thought they were better apart.
This actually reminded me of the scene in Drop Dead Fred, where they visit the house in Liz's mind and have to overcome the different people blocking her through.
So without further ado:
Frightened, Lonely Child, Under Lock and Key
Chaotic. Turbulent. Violent. Abusive. Intense. Invasive.
Those were just a few of the words that came to Drakkon’s mind when he thought back on his childhood and early teen years, if he admitted to thinking about that time period at all. But, of course, no one would even dare to ask the tyrant such personal questions. It was best to keep your head down, do your job, and blend into the backdrop.
More often than he cared to consider, the nightmares still found him; late at night as he lay under the plush, emerald comforter and silken sheets surrounded by downy pillows. It crept upon him like a feral cat stalking a rabbit. Before he was even aware of it, the sharp fangs had punctured his delicate neck and then bounded off with him in its grasp.
Drakkon felt deep frustration that he would awaken suddenly, heart pounding, muscles tensed, waiting for blows from literal ghosts. His jaw would ache from the constant clenching as he twisted and thrashed his head side to side. The bedsheets would be soaked with sweat and he would have to peel the clinging material from his scarred flesh.
In the bathroom sink, he’d splash cold water on his face, the shock snapping him back from the past. Deep steadying breaths as he gripped the white porcelain and avoided looking at himself in the mirror. Drakkon had no desire to gaze upon a weakling fearful of terrors in the dark.
Goddammit, he was the monster that elicited fear and horror; powerful and God-like, he would pass his decrees of punishment for those unlucky enough to be caught transgressing his edicts.
His palace was solid, grey stone, looming against the sky. Prisoners being escorted toward the massive, impenetrable walls would quake in fear as they knew there was no way to escape. The accents, art, and furnishings were opulent and grand, intricately detailed, and usually constructed of expensive and rare materials. Only the best found a place in Drakkon’s abode and his private bed chambers dripped in gold, silver, ivory, silks, and furs.
In another lifetime, the man once known as Tommy Oliver resided with his adoptive parents in a nondescript two-story yellow house with a short, cracked driveway leading to the garage. The windows were always obscured with heavy curtains and the front door was always shut against the outside world. Visitors were discouraged; not that there was usually concern for anyone to show up unexpectedly.
Unless you counted the police and CPS.
Inside these particular walls, one could always count on seeing large, gaping holes punched or kicked in the drywall or a door, broken dishes, liquor bottles lining the linoleum floor of the kitchen, and cigarette butts smoldering in chipped mugs. More often than not, the sound of drunken yelling and angry screeches sliced through the air as Mr. and Mrs. expressed their many differences of opinion or contempt for the other. Tommy would cower in his room upstairs, usually hiding under his bed, which sported a bare, lumpy mattress, pillow, and used cartoon-themed comforter. He tightly squeezed the well-worn plush dog to his chest; the pup was missing an eye and in some places the stuffing breached the seams.
He would tremble at every screamed insult, crash of glass, or slam of a door. His face would bury itself in the puppy’s warm, soft hair and it acted as a buffer between the outside world and his inner one. The little creature had carried so many hot tears soaked into its fabric.
Eventually, the flash of red and blue lights would illume the outside of his window as the cops arrived, the warbling siren heard long before they pulled into the drive. It never comforted Tommy; he was never truly safe.
As he’d gotten older, the frightened child grew to care less and less. Slipping into the dented refrigerator, he’d grab the long, cold glass necks of his old man’s liquor bottles and spirit them away upstairs. The drunk never noticed. So, Tommy hid away in his room, drinking to quiet the voices in his head that hissed to him how unloved and unwanted he was, that he was a failure and a disappointment.
Tommy’s body grew bigger and stronger, muscles bulging under his skin as he found his niche in martial arts. He used his strength to intimidate and harass, pick fights in school, and run from the police who would show up at altercations. He just didn’t care anymore.
He was an admired vandal; Tommy’s ‘artwork’ graced many businesses and abandoned buildings. Spray paint and brick walls were his first mediums. Not that everyone appreciated his ministrations. Despite his swift speed, he’d been cuffed many a time and hauled back to face the music.
His ‘dad’ would rant and rave about what a disrespectful little shit he was, how he couldn’t keep his ass out of trouble, thumbed his nose at authority. Tommy thought this was all rich coming from him, but the old man didn’t seem to note the similarities. A dirty, cracked hand would swiftly knock him across the face for ‘back talking’. As time went on, the physical abuse came to rival the verbal.
Why couldn’t Tommy act right? What was wrong with him? What mental defects did he have in his unknown genetic pool? His ‘concerned parents’ only wanted to help, as they assured CPS that they would provide whatever help the poor child needed.
Too many doctors, shrinks, and medications to count. His list of diagnoses was lengthy and debatable among the physicians attempting to provide care. Clearly, he possessed a defiant, surly attitude, lacked basic appropriate social interactions, and was a chronic liar.
Damn right, he lied to the doctors! Tell the truth about what went on at home? Who wanted to stir that shit storm? It wouldn’t change anything anyways.
The medications frequently made him sleepy and fuzzy minded. He either felt ravenously hungry or lacked any appetite at all. His frame became more lanky over time, but no less strong. Eventually, he pocketed the pills in his cheek and chucked them when no one was looking.
Tommy used to spend so much time curled on the stained-up mattress in his room, staring out the window and imagining a different life, one with more power and prestige, money, fame, and admirers. He promised himself that one day things would change, and he would be the one making the orders and commands. His voice would carry the weight, his opinion would be of the utmost importance.
You could bet your ass, too, that he would live some place grand and expensive, luxurious in its appointments. No broken doors or walls, trash littering the floor, secondhand bedding featuring cartoons he was way too old to associate with. He didn’t know how he’d make it happen, but it just had to be. Tears dripped from his lashes to dampen the pillow he’d hugged to his chest as he sobbed.
It didn’t matter who he had to step on to get to the top. People were fickle; they’d kiss your ass one minute and stab you in the back the next. They were unpredictable and could leave you bleeding out in the street if you were no longer of importance to them. There were no guarantees. People who were supposed to love you were no different if his real mother and father were anything to go by.
He didn’t need a fucking soul, he sniffed to himself, hugging the pillow tighter. Who needed all those strings? He’d couldn’t miss what he’d never had: love, comfort, understanding, support, the warmth of a partner’s body cuddling close. The tears scalded the skin of his cheeks as his heart clenched with desire for these experiences just the same.
But unless you exercised complete control of another human being, there was no way to be sure of them. Their choices had to be taken away, the very cadence and details of their days determined for them. Tommy knew that even then, he could never allow himself to be weak and feel reciprocal caring. Never again he be vulnerable to a fragile human’s emotional variability. There could be no ties.
Rita had underestimated the young teen’s commitment to cutting out the weak roots tying him to others. She’d never seen the blade coming, never could have predicted it. His loyalty was only to himself at the end of the day.
Tommy, now Lord Drakkon, placed himself far above humanity. He took power by force, by intimidation, by fear, by torture, by blackmail. If he had something in his sights, it was a good as his already. He didn’t concern himself with the pain and suffering of those weaker than himself; they were no more important than cattle in his eyes.
Whatever he felt could comfort the frightened, unloved child at his core, the tyrant made an obsessive mission to obtain it. No material item had ever been able to silence the broken loneliness that he determinedly tried to ignore.
He kept strict order, both in his palace and in his private life. Routine, dedication, planning/plotting, story weaving; each had its own compartment in his mind. His servants knew to keep everything running like clockwork from his usually decadent breakfast preference to the time he luxuriated in his baths to the precise way he wanted his bedlinens creased. You didn’t want to be slacking in any area if you wished to keep breathing.
Drakkon did have a secret though, a secret that he kept locked away deep in the bowels of his dungeon. One that screamed, cursed, and resisted his authority. A dark-haired, dark-eyed skilled fighter whose brilliance with tactics and strategies made him extremely valuable. Otherwise, the tyrant would have merely snapped his neck like so many others.
That’s what he claimed to the Sentries who were aware of the Red Ranger’s continued existence. Drakkon didn’t answer to them of course, but he knew the human propensity to gossip behind another’s back. God help them, if he ever heard his name in their mouths. If they wanted to huddle like a flock of diseased pigeons and speculate on someone’s personal business, it had better not be their master’s.
The Red Ranger.
Yes, such a lovely possession. So fiery and wild in his anger, so mouthy and irritating. Drakkon wasn’t lying when he said that Jason was a trophy he’d joyfully claimed; but as a trophy there wasn’t much point. No one outside the palace knew he still lived. The deliciousness of the secret, the smug knowledge that he kept to himself when he battled with the Coinless resistance. It was his alone.
But if he were honest with himself, at least, he would admit to there being more to his desire to keep Jason alive. Drakkon found a strange fascination with the Red Ranger, a pull towards the other boy. It wasn’t something he could easily verbalize. This was mainly why the Red Ranger still lived after he’d crumbled and gave up his information.
There wasn’t another individual Drakkon could name as being someone worthy of admiration besides himself. Except for Jason.
The Red Ranger was strong, determined, brave, fiercely protective, a pure wall of safety if you were in his care. Drakkon vividly remembered the night he had dinner with Jason at his home, how he’d easily invited him to eat there again, the concern in his beautiful brown eyes. Of course, he would never forget their drunken foray at the seedy bar, how easy Jason had been to talk to once he’d loosened up.
Jason had borne the brunt of his sadistic fuckery for far longer than he expected. His bullheaded stubbornness had also been an annoyance but Drakkon could appreciate the strength of his will under hellish treatment.
Yet, underneath all that flashy bluster was a soft teddy bear, a cocoon of safety and warmth. Sometimes, he wondered what his life would have been like if he’d met Jason earlier, before everything went to shit. But it would have not mattered in the long run.
‘That shit’ wouldn’t be happening under his old man’s roof. The drunk claimed he tolerated the bullshit antics and wiles that the teen routinely put them through, but there would be zero acceptance for disgusting, unnatural acts while he was on watch, by God. If Tommy wanted to be a ‘little princess’, he’d spat crudely, he’d have more to worry about than a goddamn broken arm.
Now, Jason was trapped like an animal in a cage, completely at his mercy. Much like a butterfly fluttering against the glass sides of a jar. Drakkon could brutally rip his wings, his life, away at the slightest whim, but he did not. Every day the frightened, confused teen bawled in misery, not knowing what more the evil Ranger expected from him.
The tyrant was obsessive in his desire to completely control the other boy; no, not a boy, not a human being. Not anymore as far as Drakkon was concerned. His ‘puppy’ required a firm hand to train him, to discipline him, to demonstrate who the alpha of the pack was. In that way, Jason would NEVER leave him. His pet would always be by his side, dedicated to pleasing his master.
In that way, Drakkon would never, ever be alone again.
#coinless jason#lord drakkon#jason scott#power rangers#boom! comics power rangers#fanfic#by request#augment-techs#"a house of lies and pride and bone; a house afraid to be alone
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I posted 3,484 times in 2022
That's 707 more posts than 2021!
1,786 posts created (51%)
1,698 posts reblogged (49%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@kurozu501
@ladyloveandjustice
@kilruas
@dingdongyouarewrong
@badnewsmouse
I tagged 3,453 of my posts in 2022
Only 1% of my posts had no tags
#sailor queuepiter - 878 posts
#awesome fanart - 869 posts
#fanart - 866 posts
#nev reads 7 seeds - 199 posts
#nev watches the demon girl next door - 178 posts
#nev watches the aquatope on white sand - 178 posts
#nev reads girl genius - 157 posts
#gifs - 150 posts
#art - 132 posts
#nev watches glitch techs - 128 posts
Longest Tag: 140 characters
#it's especially funny with better call saul in comparison because it takes jimmy a lot longer and he tries to hold himself back so much more
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
one thing I think is underrated about FMA is that while May’s search for the perfect shoujo love interest, is while it is played a bit for laughs, it’s not like “her quest is stupid and she’ll never find a guy like that! girls and their stupid romantic fantasies!.”
No it’s that she’ll absolutely find a guy like that! and it’s Al. Ed isn’t remotely qualified, but Al is Fully Qualified to the be the Perfect Wholesome Shoujo Love Interest, May zeroed in on that immediately,and she was fuckin’ right and got what she wanted. She found herself a guy who’s gallant (yet troubled! They’re a bit starcrossed!), pets and kidnaps stray cats and believes firmly in being a gentleman. Arakawa was like “yeah one of my main characters is an ideal shoujo love interest. I want to stress that”. May isn’t ultimately punished for having a shoujo romance mindset in a shonen manga, she’s rewarded and Arakawa forces the reader to realize one of their leads would be pretty cute love interest in a manga aimed towards girls. I enjoy that. Delightful.
(It also forces readers, if they care to think about it, to realize Al has a pretty romance oriented mindset too, that the gag comics don’t come out of nothing. Because of all the other stuff that’s going on and the neverending horror of his life, it’s limited to little asides like “man i wanted to find a gf before I died :/” and stuff like that, but he would love to be in a shoujo romance too. He’s there already, he just got fucking sidetracked by all this other nonsense. That’s what I’m thinking is missing from the “Al was supposed to be the mc”. He is! But he’s not a shounen mc who got derailed. No, in Al’s world he’s the lead guy in a shoujo who got derailed, goddammit).
1,493 notes - Posted March 4, 2022
#4
Gundam having a girl react to this line by calmly saying “yeah we all knew it would be tight get over it” rather than getting flustered and angry and in denial over the horror of being flat chested...this show truly is breaking barriers in anime.
2,201 notes - Posted November 20, 2022
#3
See the full post
2,866 notes - Posted August 17, 2022
#2
Rewatching FMA also reminds me like, what a failure it is that My Hero Academia had that episode where Deku realized the huge emotional strain that him hurting himself and not including her in his decisions has put on his Mom and resolves to do better, but as far as I can tell the narrative completely,,, fuckin’ forgets that?
When the same basic thing happens in FMA, as far as Ed and Winry go, Ed NEVER FORGETS IT. “I will not do things that hurt Winry, and when I don’t value myself or communicate it hurts her” never stops being a thing in Ed’s mind. He still sometimes acts recklessly but then literally thinks “I fucked up better fix this I promised not to make my girlfriend cry” She is genuinely always in his thoughts.
like other shonen action manga try to replicate this but don’t do the followthrough. It’s just a one episode thing and then it’s like BYE CIVILIAN FEMALE CHARACTER BACK TO THE SHELF WE’LL NEVER THINK ABOUT YOUR NEEDS OR THE EMOTIONAL LABOR YOU DO AGAIN but Winry’s needs and the moral of valuing her emotional labor and getting her up to date on what’s happening are present throughout the whole narrative. She’s not an action hero yet she has an arc?? She’s important? this STILL is never present in all the shonen I’ve seen that have come out since, like somehow arakawa still stands out for grasping this simple concept, we haven’t gotten past this yet.
Can other shonen action manga learn about follow through please.
Edit: Did an entire article about this! Here it is!
2,977 notes - Posted January 8, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
Love how Loid is like ‘my wife, a supposedly average woman, is demonstrably better and stronger than me, a top spy who trained to take out multiple people at once, in hand to hand combat, and in our briefest encounter where she was drunk, I was sure she was going to kill me, thank god she passed out” and then continued on his merry way without suspecting a thing, like what were his thoughts??? “Guess she really learned a lot in that self defense class she said she took! Impressive as always, Yor”???
3,043 notes - Posted May 7, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
#my 2022 tumblr year in review#i was like why did i reblog myself the most??? but it's because of the start of liveblog posts#gifs#long post#year in review
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WIP Wednesday
Thank you @swiftlythebest for the tag!
Here's something for the Check Please fandom in which I finally get to put a character through all of my college computer science woes.
---
Programming is really fucking hard.
Dex has been staring at his software engineering project for hours and it still refuses to compile. He’s tried everything he can think of except deleting the whole thing and starting from scratch and, honestly, that’s sort of sounding like an appealing option. Anything would be better than the stupid red error message taunting him from the bottom of his screen.
He’s about to do something crazy, like flip the monitor over or dramatically beg the code to just fucking work, goddammit, when he hears the door to the computer lab open.
“Dex?” It’s Nursey, because of course it is. They’ve both developed some sort of sixth sense for each other’s stress levels of the course of senior year. Dex will be about to pull his hair out over a line of code and Nursey will show up, food in hand and armed with a plan to distract Dex from the woes of computer science.
Nursey’s signature green cap is perched on his head, his overstuffed book bag slung across his shoulders, and he’s wearing what looks suspiciously like the flannel that Dex lost two weeks ago. Dex doesn’t have time to process that particular fact right now, though, because he’s hit with inspiration for one last error-solving hail mary.
“So, how’s it going?” Nursey asks casually, setting down what looks like a soda and a basket of chicken tenders. Dex isn’t one hundred percent sure. He’s too busy glaring at his computer screen in an attempt to make the error message go away through sheer intimidation.
“Great,” Dex grumbles, furrowing his eyebrows to glare at the screen even harder. “Super great.”
“Seems like it,” Nursey says, pushing the food closer to Dex. “Although if you want me to believe you, maybe tell your face to chill.”
“My face is extremely chill.” Dex’s eyes are starting to water a bit, but he thinks the error message is close to giving in.
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