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sirdindjarin · 16 days

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A Ghoul and a Vault-Dweller Walk Into a Bar

Cooper "The Ghoul" Howard x Lucy MacLean.

TAGS: Fluff, pining, introspection lol.

WARNINGS: Swearing, alcohol consumption.

Based off of this post ! I loved the idea and couldn't get it out of my head.

AO3 link 🤠

A few days after the events of the last episode, the Ghoul and Lucy take solace in a quiet saloon, only to find their dynamic is changing.

“Ain’t this a peach,” the Ghoul muttered, taking in the New Vegas saloon. It was a postwar attempt to recreate what no one still walking had ever experienced, but it was faithful enough to send the Ghoul back to the set of a movie some two centuries earlier. He could smell the burn of the stage lights, hear the staccato of studio executives arguing, and see PAs stumbling over cables in the background.

His bittersweet reverie ended when - what else - the Vault Dweller opened her mouth. Again.

Bouncing on her tiptoes, her wide smile was interrupted only by her exclamation, “Wow! This place is right out of a history book. Oh, gosh, look at that!”

Hanging from the ceiling was a myriad of materials in various stages of rust and decay. Grimy, glaring patrons grumbled as Lucy rushed past their tables to examine some memorabilia plastered to the wall. She gingerly ran her gray forefinger over the rusted farm equipment. “See these? They used to pull these behind a tractor, or a horse, and it made furrows in the ground. That made it a lot easier for them to plant things like corn, tobacco, wheat -”

The Ghoul ignored her lesson. Let the history buff have her boring version of fun, it’d give him some peace. After the past three days, he needed it. He strode toward the far end of the bar, spurs clinking.

Lucy had been silent after the revelation with her father. Downright catatonic, almost. The following morning, still in sight of the Hollywood sign, and out of the daggum goodness of his heart (truly, he’d been a saint to even think about it) he’d offered her a hit of an upper, but she’d curled her lip in disgust. No skin off his nose, he’d thought humorously, he would just let her stew.

Before the sun had set that next day, however, the girl abruptly flipped from traumatized silence to her usual non-stop chatter. He hadn't asked what changed. The Ghoul assumed she'd come to terms with her father being an evil sonofabitch. He expected her trauma would rear its ugly head at some point, but that was a future problem. Once she started talking again, he had again been a saint - he’d only thought about shooting her once. And that only because she had asked him a stupid question.

You mentioned finding your family. You have kids?

Sidling up to the bar top, his ragged coat slapping gently against the stool, the Ghoul’s attention was drawn to a jukebox against the wall to his right. Colorful lights flashed, dimmed by a layer of dust; but the old machine advertised it was ready to sing. He glanced curiously at some of the songs, felt a flicker of some emotion he wouldn’t put name to, and turned away. He drummed his gloved fingers on the wooden counter, impatient to have something to smother the spark of sadness. Here, the weight of the past was literally hanging over his head.

The Ghoul had directed his focus on the other end of the bar, where the barkeep seemed to be pointedly ignoring him, when a dull scraping sound alerted him to someone sitting beside him - between him and the mocking jukebox.

“Hi! Barkeep?” Lucy beamed and motioned between herself and the Ghoul, “Could we get a drink, please?”

The gruff man looked more like a patron than a bartender, all heavy gait and uninterested stare, but he raised his eyebrows at Lucy. The Ghoul laughed under his breath.

“What?” She asked in a whisper. Grimacing, she worried, “Oh… is that not how you’re supposed to do it?”

“There’s a laundry list of things you shouldn’t be doin’, Vaultie, but flaggin’ down the bartender ain’t one of ‘em.”

Lucy straightened her posture. “You know, we have established a mutual goal and I would appreciate mutual respect. I don’t think being laughed at is-”

“Sweetheart, I ain’t laughin’ at you; quit bein’ so sensitive,” the Ghoul stated flatly. “Don’t we make quite the damned pair? A Ghoul and a Vault Dweller walk into a bar…” he trailed off with another chuckle.

Lucy relaxed her shoulders, still feeling awkward. “Oh, haha.”

“All we got is distilled water and tequila. Which’un you want?” The bartender interrupted, though he spoke only to Lucy.

“Uh, I would like to try the tequila. I still have some water leftover and it’ll be fun to try something new.”

The bartender sucked on his teeth, turned, and left - resenting serving a peppy Vault Dweller and outright refusing to serve the arrogant ghoul seated beside her as though it was a person.

“They don’t much like my kind here, darlin’,” the Ghoul grinned lopsidedly. He tapped his holster with his new forefinger. “I’ll have to get my drink a different way.”

Eyes wide, Lucy nearly stood on the rung of the stool as she shouted to the bartender: “Make that two glasses of tequila, please.”

The barkeep went still for a brief moment before deciding it wasn’t worth it. He’d seen some weird shit, but if this wasn’t the strangest duo he’d ever served, he’d eat a radroach. He sent the shots sliding down the well-worn wood counter with surprising skill, and they stopped directly in front of Lucy. She nudged one of the grimy glasses toward the Ghoul, who grunted.

In those old movies, the characters often clinked their glasses together. Excited to perform a toast in a real saloon, Lucy raised her glass toward the Ghoul. Her eyes sparkled so earnestly that the Ghoul briefly considered indulging her. Instead, he tipped the shot glass into his parched mouth, eyes closing in satisfaction.

“Ah,” he hummed. This was nothing like the chems he used to stay sane, and tequila wasn’t his favorite, but damn if it didn’t feel like the alcohol stripped off some of the layers of the past week's shit.

Upon opening his eyes, he was surprised by the mix of amusement and regret in his chest at the way the girl’s face had fallen. It was childishly funny the way he could disappoint her so easily - as though they kept the same standards of behavior - but the pleasure of her disappointment only took the Ghoul so far.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he goaded, his voice deep and persuasive. “It ain’t top-shelf but it ain’t lizard-piss, either.”

“I don’t know what either of those mean,” Lucy mumbled as she brought the glass to her lips; she winced as fumes burned her nostrils. Abandoning caution, she threw the clear liquid into her mouth and swallowed as the Ghoul had. The liquid stung as it slid down her throat; her mouth puckered. Fighting the urge to cough, she cleared her throat instead. Lucy refused to let the Ghoul have anything more to bully her about.

Lucy blinked away the wetness in her eyes. The Ghoul was watching her. Lucy couldn’t discern the look in his eye, but it wasn’t one she’d seen before. The Ghoul had made certain of that.

“That was, um, so good,” she grimaced. But the warmth in her chest and stomach was pleasant. “You want another?”

The Ghoul chuckled, “If you’re buyin’.”

***

“No, I only meant it as a compliment,” Lucy slurred, blushing furiously. She was only four shots in, but the Ghoul was starting to get concerned that she would throw up on him. Lucy wobbled on her stool. “Really, they’re nice eyes. No, ‘m okey dokey. Wow, this stuff is strong.” She held her hand out in front of her and wiggled her fingers, fascinated by the way her vision seemed to be a half-second beyond reality.

“Must be. You,” he pointed in her face, “can’t handle your liquor.”

"Hey, it’s my first try," she steadied herself.

“It’s gon’ be your last if you paint my boots. You look a little green, Vaultie.”

Her big brown eyes refocused on the Ghoul. “Okay, well, distract me. I know you won’t tell me anything about yourself.”

He tensed.

“And that’s okay. But I don't even know your name." Lucy threw him a frown, "What if I have to call for you - what am I supposed to say?”

The Ghoul chewed at the inside of his cheek, tearing away some skin as he considered. He’d had twelve shots. She wasn’t asking anything too revealing; and she had saved his life. And maybe all her “Do Unto Others” bullshit wasn’t bullshit, but he still wasn’t about to crack open like a can of biscuits. The Ghoul gazed down into her doe eyes, then he and the tequila made a decision.

“Cooper,” he answered after safely looking away, his voice rough over the word.

Something scratched at the back of Lucy’s brain. Tipsy as she was, she knew this was important - she did not want to ruin whatever progress they seemed to have made. She nodded and replied politely, “That’s a good name. Cooper.”

Lucy watched the rainbow of lights as they reflected off the shiny bar. She slid off the stool and leaned over the jukebox, flipping idly through the songs.

Cooper held his thirteenth shot in his gloved hand as he stared ahead at the blank wall of the now-empty saloon. After they had collectively purchased nearly twenty shots, the bartender had lost all sense of distaste for either of them; he now sat in a chair, dozing, waiting for the Ghoul and the Vault Dweller to ask him for more.

A gasp came from Cooper’s right. His stool groaned as he turned, and he saw Lucy grinning up at him.

“Look at this song: I Walk the Line. It’s from one of my favorite movies -”

Cooper's stomach lurched.

“A Man and His Dog.” Lucy selected the song. “And the main character’s real name was Cooper. Used to watch those old Westerns with - with my dad all the time. The best ones are the ones with him. With Cooper Howard, I mean. He was always the good guy. He never hurt anyone. Well, unless he absolutely had to, of course.” She began to wax poetic about ethics, and her audience of one tuned out. The gruff croon of Johnny Cash filled the otherwise silent building.

Cooper Howard debated whether or not he should tell her the truth. He didn’t know how much she knew about his life as an actor - some of her questions about his family could be answered if she knew about his widely-publicized, definitely-public-record divorce - but seeing her face when she learned that her favorite cowboy movie star was the radiation-ravaged monster sitting beside her would be hilarious.

I keep my eyes wide open all the time

I keep the ends out for the tie that binds

Well, would it be hilarious? Cooper wasn’t so certain anymore. Lucy’s disappointment in him was rapidly losing its luster. Her cowboy had fallen a height that would’ve killed anyone else - had killed almost everyone else. The good man she idolized was dead. He wouldn’t resurrect him just to kill him again in front of Lucy.

For the second time that afternoon, she pulled him abruptly from a reverie.

“I wonder what it was like. Everyone in these saloons… with a jukebox playing while you dance with a handsome stranger,” Lucy gazed out at the empty room. “It must’ve been incredible.”

Cooper didn’t correct her about jukeboxes and saloons. Instead, he took his thirteenth shot, allowing it to burn away what was left of his judgment.

“Well, come on down, darlin’.” He held out his hand - the one that was one-fifth her.

Dubious, distrustful despite their fledgling partnership, Lucy’s eyes darted between his outstretched hand and his dark eyes. This man had cut off her finger less than a week before. He’d tried to sell her.

But this wasn't a desperate game of cat and mouse, and he no longer believed she was a lying murderer. (That conversation had been a hoot. One of the few times he’d asked her a question, Cooper had wondered what possessed her to cut off Wilzig’s fuckin’ head, and, after she told him Wilzig had left her no choice, she tearfully described the sound of his spine severing and nearly vomited. The Ghoul had laughed.) She was here of her own choice. Lucy chose to follow the Ghoul - Cooper - into the Wilds and the Wasteland. She trusted him now, and he her.

“It’s alright, Vaultie. Y’know I won’t bite,” he drawled with a smirk. “Of the two’ve us, which one has bitten the other?”

“Wh-?” Lucy started to ask, then decided better of it. Cooper had given her his name and his trust. He had been as kind as summer by Wasteland standards, and she would be damned if her manners were the poor ones. She took his hand.

As sure as night is dark and day is light

I keep you on my mind both day and night

The room was spinning, and Lucy wasn’t sure if the blame should be placed on the tequila or the Ghoul who held her so gently. This was a far cry from the lasso he’d thrown around her last week. She opened her mouth, fully intent on telling him See, the Golden Rule is golden for a reason. But when his hand slid slowly from the curve of her waist to the small of her back, she found that the words were missing.

He guided them in a small, slow circle. Cooper’s chest was pressed up against her own, and it was though his centuries-deep layers of leather and cotton, and her pristine, thick Vault-Tec suit were non-existent. The vulnerability set his teeth on edge, but it relaxed Lucy. She let the music, the alcohol, and the Ghoul take her. Uncharacteristically shy, and somewhat nauseous, she laid her head on his shoulder.

Cooper hummed along with Johnny Cash, letting himself feel a modicum of peace in this improbable, inexplicable bubble. He could feel Lucy’s heart beating rapidly beneath her garish suit. His own heart felt like the tattoo of a horse’s hooves. Cooper’s jaw tensed as he wondered how she’d feel to know that. He found himself hoping.

Hope and contentment were as foreign to him as a nose and hair, now. Yet he felt the gnaw of yearning. Lucy was a reflection and a time machine. Maybe that cowboy - the one who deserved both hope and contentment - could live again.

And happiness I've known proves that it's right

Because you're mine, I walk the line.

#OTP: “Just like that.”#myfics #my fics #my writing #the ghoul #cooper howard #fallout #fallout fanfic #the ghoul fanfic #walton goggins #lucy maclean #ella purnell #fluff #cooper howard fanfic #ghoulcy #ghoulcy fanfic #the ghoul x lucy maclean #cooper howard x lucy maclean

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chronically-ghosted · 2 months

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Hey I love you and I’m having thots about vampire!Dieter and his hedonistic lifestyle and his lavish parties at his estate and how he invites you up to show you his private rooms and he-

Oh, you mean like when he asks you about your--

Pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

Warnings: flirting, a bit of blood, maybe dubcon due to The Thrall but i think it's safe to say we all want It from vampire!dieter, unbeta-ed because i needed to write something or someone was going to die

A/N: look at what you've done @sp00kymulderr you've gone and given a perfectly good fic LORE

“Theories.”

“What?”

Dieter’s smirk pulls his mouth and his head towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. He rubs his fingers together, his wrist dangling over the edge of the deep-backed leather chair. The clean lines of his Armani pants and wing-tipped shoes give him the impression of leaning forward, as if he intended to tumble right through those windows and out into the party below. The music is muted, smothered, but the lights illuminate the sky like the sun beneath the waves.

“Your theories. About all of this. About my dad, granddad. Everyone who’s ever walked in here – press or not –,” he lazily drags his gaze up from your ass to your tits for the third time that night, “– has had some wild theories that I just love to listen to. Little bedtime stories to put me to sleep. So let’s hear ‘em.”

You had doubts about this dress when you left your apartment but you have to dig your nails into your palms to keep from tugging it back down over your thighs because you know you have something every time Dieter looks at you. Maybe not for long, but you might be the first person in fifty years to walk out of here with something to say.

Your heart suddenly fluttering higher in your throat, you turn away towards the movie memorabilia lining the walls in glass shelves to give him the angle he’s been inching towards all night. Over your shoulder, you see his eyes drop – predictably. You let the line out a bit more and bend at the waist to examine the original glove from The Natural.

“I’m sure you’ve heard them all, Mr. Bravo. The mystery around your family is nearly as old as Hollywood itself so I’m sure there’s nothing I can say that you haven’t heard before. Which reminds me . . .” You straighten up and, by some miracle, he meets your eyes, gaze no longer wandering. “Why me?”

His mouth curls, but it’s the glint in his eyes that shows razor-sharp teeth.

“I’ve always admired the brevity of wit, but you’re going to have to be more specific.”

Your jacket creaks when you cross your arms, eyebrow arched. “I’ve been with The Mezzanine for five years with half-a-dozen bylines under my belt. There’s a list of more experienced reporters a mile long. Why, after ignoring every press inquiry for the past twenty years, did you ask me to interview you? Oh, and consider this my first official question.”

With an expansive inhale, Dieter draws himself to his feet. He takes a few steps towards the windows, just before the light catches the shine of his shoes.

“Give me a theory and I’ll answer your question.”

You frown at his broad shoulders. Streaks of fuschia and green and gold tangle in his curls, setting the ends on fire. You think of those electric lamps under your grandfather’s porch that drew in moths with dust brown wings. Moths that ended up dead on the wooden floor.

You find yourself inches from his left shoulder.

“That’s not how these things usually go, Mr. Bravo.”

“Humor the old hermit.” He grins and the smell of spice and smoke and lineage blooms in your nose. You school your face, swallowing down your beating heart.

“The mob. So why me?”

Dieter chuckles. “The mob?”

“Happened to Frank Sinatra, didn’t it?”

“I don’t appreciate the comparison,” Dieter sneers. “Blue Eyes was an asshole and an idiot.”

You turn towards him, your turn to grin. “Speaking from personal experience?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Unbelievable.” You roll your eyes and wander back towards the cabinet. It’s now you notice the odd placement of the couch and chairs in front of the memorabilia. As if hours were spent staring at them. “Do you have anything to drink?”

Dieter blinks at you. “Uh. No. Do you want me to call up for one?”

“No, Mr. Bravo, I want you to answer my question: why me?”

“Because you care.”

Dieter turns away from the lights, the music, the night and stares at you. The teasing sparkle, the sardonic grin – they’re gone. A different man stands before you – one with the same beautiful set of curls, with the same soft eyes. But you see something on his face you didn’t think was possible: yearning.

“Everyone who ever came here only wanted a piece of me. Of this. Of my legacy. In fifty years, no one has ever wanted to know the magic in the movies. The magic of . . .” Dieter laughs quietly, joylessly. He looks around and runs his tongue against his upper teeth. “The mob? C’mon, you can do better than the mob.”

You take a step forward. Electric lamps be damned.

“I’m doing a terrible job of interviewing you.”

“Hardly.” His lips pout before pulling back into a grin. “We’re getting to know each other.”

Another step.

“One for one?”

“Of course.”

“Then in debt to the US government for World War II propaganda. Why did your grandfather step out of the spotlight at the peak of his career?”

“Ford was as much a nazi as any of them and no Bravo would ever stoop so low, so no. And Grandpappy Bravo had health issues.”

“He was forty-five.”

“Forty-two, actually. The same age I am now.” He grins down at you and you find yourself staring up at him. Had his eyes always had that golden circle in the center?

“Give me another theory.”

“Drugs – boring but reliable. Why was your father so secretive about his role as a financial backer during the 60s movie revival?”

“He hated the attention, as much as a Bravo can. You’re getting closer.”

“It was drugs?” You tear your gaze that had somehow slipped to his lips back up to his eyes, but Dieter shakes his head.

“A drug of some kind, but not the kind you’re thinking of. A powerful drug. The most powerful.”

“Yeah? And what would that be?”

“Life itself.” Again, you see his teeth and without your control, your heart leaps into your throat. You narrow your eyes against the brilliant light of his mouth.

“Why do you care so much about my theories?”

“Because you’re not asking the right questions. You’re close, but not quite.”

His hand floats against your jaw, fingertips crackling in the millimeter above your skin, and that spicy scent floods your brain in a sudden avalanche that makes your knees wobble. You huff, dizzy, a fog settling across your mind, and you put a hand against his chest to keep you from stumbling. His thumb drags against your bottom lip and that bright sensation becomes a focus point by which the entire universe revolves around.

His eyes are entirely golden now.

“Ask the question you’ve been begging to, darling.”

You swallow through the haze, through the pounding of your heart, through the heaviness of your knees, and the wetness in your underwear.

“No,” you mumble, “I . . . Dieter, you’ll laugh.”

“Try me, sweetheart.” His other hand joins his first, cradling your jaw, dragging you closer. “I want to hear it.”

“I think you’re a vampire.” The words dribble off your numb lips but even through the lag, you know you’ve screwed up. Something has gummed up the crevices of your brain, but that’s not the thing to say to the highly-eccentric social recluse you’ve put your career at risk to interview.

“Dieter, I’m sorry – I-I-I didn’t mean–,”

But he laughs. Laughs and your moth wings get caught in the light of the white gleam of his fangs. His hand slips to your waist as his thumb brushes your cheek, golden eyes anything but angry.

“I knew you were clever.”

Your nails dig into his jacket where you don’t feel a heartbeat. Your knees want you to fall forward into him, but your elbows struggle as the last shreds of a survival instinct.

“Dieter–,”

“Shh, darling, you are smart. Too smart for your own good. You knew the truth the second you walked in here and you did it anyway. But that big brain won’t let you believe it until you see it, so breathe, darling. Breath and it will be over in a minute.”

He lowers his face, his cold breath against your neck cracking through the haze, icing your heart. You whimper, afraid –

Afraid he’s going to kill you.

Afraid that you’ll let him.

A warm tongue saturates the skin of your neck and you realize there are devil faces in the wood carving of the ceiling, your head tipped back and arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“No crying. I will make this very good for you.”

You blink and the ice in your heart melts out the corner of your eyes, tears running off your cheeks.

“Will I die?”

Dieter lets out a noise that’s a whine and a groan all at once. “No. We’re not nearly done having fun.”

And he bites you.

Euphoria erupts across your skin, an electric pulse waking up every sense still left in your control. You shudder, then draw him closer. He groans, not a single drop of blood escaping to the carpet or your shirt or his jacket. He eats well and clean and there’s a part of you that entertains the idea of him losing control.

But as quickly as it comes on, everything fades. Blackness comes on, thick and fast, and you hear him pull off your neck more than you feel it and his tongue is the last sensation you feel.

“No, darling, by the end of this, you’ll be begging me for more.”

His promise is the last thing you hear before the darkness closes in on you completely.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x female reader #the bubble fanfiction #dieter x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #the bubble fanfic #the bubble 2016 #the bubble fic #pedro pascal #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x oc #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfic #the bubble

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wigglebox · 3 months

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Jude and Max 🌈

—

I mentioned a few months ago how I was going to make original characters inspired by Dean and Cas simply because I wanted original characters to draw for my art portfolio and it can’t be fanart.

However, despite it being a haha thing with not much thought behind it, I have developed them into full fledged characters now!

Their full names are Maxwell Clarence Charleston (Born 1830) and Jude Smith (born 1980). I’ll be making more art with them and explaining their background and story and I can’t wait to continue developing them!

Jude is an avid movie buff and loves books. He’s a big fan of old classic horror movies and collects old Hollywood memorabilia and his favorite TV show is Gunsmoke. He loves Skittles and wants to be a movie director.

Max loves being outside and during his nature walks would often collect flowers and leaves to press into his book. He’s a big science guy and loves learning new things about the world and dreams of traveling. He also really likes coffee lol.

That’s obviously not all to them, but I figure this can be their official introduction! I wanted them side by side their inspiration which is Dean and Cas of course!

I imagine I’ll be drawing these four together more lol just for fun

(Why does the Vertigo cover look like Nic Cage lmao)

#spnfanart #wiggleart #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #original characters #did I want Jude to have the Jackles hair flippies? yes #he also is gonna have a nuisance piece of hair always sticking up but it was looking weird with the composition lol #it really was meant to just be a placeholder since I can’t make fanart for an art portfolio but #then I kinda loved them and wanted to explore them more lol #there’s not a real all encompassing story for them just how they meet and where and the world they operate in #but otherwise it’s just open ended sandbox which is fun #I’ll probably still mostly just do spn fanart on my tumblr but every now and then I’ll put them on here!#they’re gonna live mostly on my Instagram #and website once I get that in working order #but I need to finish this portfolio first lol

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idesofrevolution · 2 years

Text

Beach Bum

"SOLD! For eight thousand five hundred to number 29, thank you so much ma'am, please see our associate afterward for your banking information." The auction hall was buzzing. It was all over the news: locker 482 having it's lock busted and the heavy iron door rolled up to reveal the long lost estate of the old school pro-surfer Ronnie "Riptide" Darensbourg. Ventura's very own legend from the 70's, Ronnie Riptide was a local hero who'd passed away in 1991. In fact, he'd been the hero for Francis Cragg since childhood.

To Francis, the heartthrob represented everthing he wanted to be as a teenager in 1977: laid back, efforlessly cool, athletic, flirtatious, sexy... and notoriously "open minded" in the bedroom. To be queer back in the day was quite the scandal that was reserved only for the Hollywood stars and not for the everyday person. Under this strict social law, Francis couldn't look at another guy, couldn't even be suspected of being gay- but he could live vicariously through Ronnie. All the gossip columns, all the magazines, the exposees... through Ronnie's insane stories, Francis felt as if he were the one with the outrageous, ostentatious life. Now 62 years old, the repressed man eagerly sat in the ornate auction hall, eagerly hoping to snag even a small piece of memorabilia. On his phone, the smiling image of Ronnie himself beams from his wallpaper.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, we have lot 35: a vintage 1980's Canvas Duffle Bag Tote. Cylinder shape. Bright abstract southwestern style pattern in red, orange, purple, turquoise, yellow, and green. End has graphic of a surfboard and words 'Laissez les bon temps rouler.' We will start the bid at $300." Francis raised his paddle, immediately recognizing the bag from the old Maxim articles in 1982. With a low starting bid at $300, he couldn't pass up the opportunity. The bid was quickly followed up with their paddles. $500... $1000... $1500... $1750... Francis opened up his wallet, devoid of cash, and holding about six maxed out credit cards. The last hope: his American Express, which was just $5000 shy of his limit. He felt compelled, required to get this small piece of his idol. Holding his breath, Francis thew up his paddle: all in at $5000.

"Five thousand on number 13, five thousand going once..." The crowd grew quiet, only whispers and murmurs breaking through the silence. "Going twice... SOLD! For five thousand to number 13. Please see our associate with your banking information." Francis immediately stood up and rushed to the back of the room, glibly handing over the very last of his funds to the smiling woman behind the counter, blissfully unaware of the middle aged man's complete economic collapse.

"Is it alright if I take the bag now? No need for delivery." The woman nodded with her wide grin, grabbing the arm strap of the bag and handing it over to him. The moment his fingertips touched the old fabric strap, he felt his breath rush out of his lungs; the electric sting of being starstruck. The bag draped naturally over his shoulder, just like it did on Ronnie all those years ago. Beaming from ear to ear, he strolled out the door back to his car, unaware of the gentle squirming within the zipped bag.

The drive home took merely minutes, as he stayed at the Beachcomber Motel overlooking the rolling waves of Ventura Beach. He slammed the door of his old jalopy, waving at the invalid Ms. Parthay mindlessly staring from behind her dusty window. He walked into the room, so used to the smell of mildew and mold that it no longer made his eyes water the way it used to. But in this one singular moment, the depressing everyday life of Francis Tate melted away. He let the bag droop down onto the ratty old bedspread as he eagerly examined every inch of it. The weathered old canvas bag with it's faded Aztec woven pattern, once extremely in vogue, now sat riddled in frayed holes in an unfortunate derlict state. But to Francis, it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Just as he was raising his fingers to unzip the bag, it jolted sharply to the left.

Francis jumped backward, taken off guard. Surely it couldn't be a rat or mouse- the Auction House would never let someone spend thousands of dollars on a rat-infested item... right? The raging thought of some rodent knawing on his prized possession overtook whatever common sense he held, and with a single stroke of his hand he unzipped the bag. No movement. Nothing jumping out. No squeaking. Yet, an unmistakeable smell began to waft out of the open bag: a mix of age old air and sweaty rubber. Peering down into the dark confines, his jaw dropped open. Underneath an old barbasol can and broken plastic water bottle was the famous competition wetsuit itself. His breath labored and his pupils dilated, he gently pinched the rubbery shoulder of the neoprene suit and pulled upward, the sheer size of the thing shocking him to his core. Perhaps the Auction house did not actually thoroughly inspect their items after all.

He pulled the suit close to his face, intensely inspecting every inch of it for rubber rot, as the piece hadn't been used since the 80's. To his delight, the suit was entirely intact, the fabric stretching effortlessly without so much as a single crease. What it did have, however was a stench. Extremely salty and sour, clearly marinating in Ronnie's sweat and skin oils for decades, leaving the odor permanently imprinted within it. Bringing the rubber suit to his face, he pressed it against his nose and inhaled. This was as close as he'd ever been to his idol, the guy who had been an every day fantasy in his dreams. Wrapped in his scent, feeling the slick rubber material between his fingers, it was his life long dream. In his mind, he could feel the rise and fall of Ronnie's chest pushed against his, his lean, muscled arms wrapping around him, the scrunching and squeaking of his wetsuit as he moves...

In reality, his eyes tightly closed shut as his nose pressed against the suit, Francis couldn't see the zipper slowly slide downward and the arms wrap around his shoulders. He couldn't feel his clothes slowly unbutton themselves before it was too late, and they were forcibly ripped from his body by unseen hands. All he could do is gasp loudly as the suit flew backwards with impressive speed, pressing him firmly against the wall as the sleeves quickly slipped onto his arms. Just before he could muster out so much as a whimper, his left hand clasped over his mouth. Muffled and gagged, he could do nothing as his right hand helped stretch the musky suit down and over his legs. Behind him, the suit zipped itself up quickly, compressing Francis tightly within it's rubbery confines.

"Mmmmmmph... Mmmmmmmmsh..." He struggled against his own body betraying his every movement, controlled by some ethereal presence as if a puppet on a string. The smell was growing stronger and stronger, amplified by the spiking body heat and sweat that began to seep into it's fabric. Tighter, tighter, tighter it squeezed Francis as if a corset had been strung tight against his chest until he could barely breathe- and when he could it was filled with the dizzying musk. His gut began to press inward, flattening out with the blasting sound of deflating balloons blowing out of beneath the suit. Barely conscious, he could only look down from behind his pulsating hand's gag to see the liquifing fat start to squirm beneath the shiny black rubber, quickly sloshing into his pecs and broadening shoulders.

All at once, Francis felt the fat within him squish and thrust into his muscles, the suit croaking and groaning as his biceps and triceps began to bulge out and his hands shrink and become lean, soft palms and long fingers. Francis could feel his awareness, the last vestige of control he had within his quickly morphing body, desperately trying to center himself and fight the invasion which was slipping him on like the suit he sported. His bulge started to balloon out, feeling tendrils seep into his elongating cock, his weighty balls, and further slithering down into his quads and calves. His feet cracked and squeaked with pressure as they stretched outward, his toes as long as his ring finger and his arches perfectly bridging his heel with the balls of his feet. He'd lost nearly half his weight and mass, but looking down at his lean, toned, muscular body... He began to recognize just who it belonged to.

"Heheheheh..." A gravelly baritone chuckle rang out within his head, just as his jaw shifted to the left, cracking and sharpening as dark black hairs started to pierce out of his tanning skin. "Almost there, duuuuuuude." The voice was slick as his gleaming suit, yet stained with the aura of stonedness. He felt his jaw crack downward, opening his mouth wide while his lips plumped up and his long tongue snaked outward, a silver ball now piercing it in the center. The sides of his mouth curled into a cheeky grin as his teeth whitened and his moustache filled in. "Fuuuuuuck, bruh. You're a perfect fit for me. Fuckin' bitchin'." Francis's hair burst into a poofy blonde mop, his dark eyebrows falling down, down, down, tooping off his narrowing and increasingly bloodshot eyes. "Ayy, scoot over, dude. Let's let the Riptide take the wheel for a while..." Francis felt pressure within his head, something pushing, pounding against his brain... perhaps it was something deep down within him he'd all but repressed for all these years, or perhaps it was the sheer shock that had overwhelmed him in the moment, but as he felt the slithering present penetrate into his mind and flooding within, he couldn't help but feel satisfied as someone else, his idol, took over. One last crick of the neck, and Ronnie's piercing turquoise eyes now glistened beneath his furrowed brow.

"Awwwwww fuch yeahhhhhhhhhhhhh." Ronnie shot his load in the tight rubber wetsuit, feeling it's warm, sticky texture pressing against his sagging, sweaty balls. Smirking as he saunters over to the mirror, Ronnie gleamed from ear to ear, his perfect million dollar smile nearly sparkling from his new face. He could still feel the body adjusting to having him slip in, merely pinching the skin of his cheek and pulling grotesquely stretched his entire face outward before it snapped back- it'd take a few months before he felt 100% at home in his shared skin. He examined his new face; as if he'd slipped on a mask, once could see the original Riptide beneath it all, but hiding inside a mish mashed amalgamation of his host and his spirit. Unzipping the back of his suit, he pried his upper half free of it, his chiseled pecs and cobbled abs wafting the musky stench that now poured from his pores. He pursed his juicy lips, practicing the smoulder that had bedded a thousand babes and a thousand dudes.

"That's right, baby. Ahah," he gripped his chin between his fingers, admiring every inch of his sexy mug. "I'd fuck me." He laughed and winked in the mirror as he pried the rest of his rubber wetsuit off- he'd get back on the board soon enough. Perhaps he could just enjoy the beginnings of his new life. Snapping his fingers, the suit melted and flowed onto his body: massive, beat up checkerboard Vans, a pair of blue boardshorts, a gold chain and a pair of orange sunglasses now clothed him- just enough to show off to some sexy beach babe, or some hunky surfer dude he could toke and stroke with. "Yeahhhh, that's perfect."

Ronnie strode right out the door of the hotel room, passing by the maid, who stood there dumbfounded. This was not the man who entered the room moments ago... He winked at the perplexed woman, remarking just how familiar that face was under her breath. As the sun set on Ventura Beach, the surfer king sat on the lifeguard tower, smoking a blunt and watching the waves crash down onto the sands. Ventura might have changed, time may have passed, but those rolling waves are just the same as they always were. He smiled, putting his arm behind his head, and sighing in a chill aire. He'd own the town, just like he used to- and the future was bright.

#male possession #surfer transformation #male transformation #wetsuit #rubber #musk #jockification #twunk #original #male tf

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bluestripedspeedo · 2 years

Text

Indiscreet - Extras: Movie Nights Pairing: Writer/Producer!Javi Gutierrez x you (Hollywood AU) SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: What Javi is thinking while watching movies with you and Javi being a Nic stan. Chapter warning: Nothing, this is just fluff with a bit of teasing. Word count: 2,3k

Playlist: A Case of You - Joni MitchellWords - Ronan KeatingDerezzed - Daft PunkPlanetarium - Justin Hurwitz

Author's note: It's set within chapters 1-5 but it doesn't matter if you read this before or after 5.

✧✧✧

NOVEMBER

“Can I confirm all of these?” reads the email from Javi’s assistant. He’s been backed up with meetings after meetings after meetings that he grimly wonders if it’s going to be like this for the rest of his life. Ungrateful, the little voice inside him says. You’ve wanted this life for so long. Suck it up.

“Yes, sure,” says his reply. With the current schedule he’d have to fly out in four days’ time and right on the dot to not miss his meeting the next morning in London, before flying exactly two hours after the allocated 1,5 hour session to Dubai for another one, then to LA to make it to a morning appointment the next day. And repeat for the next 5 countries over 4 days. If his back could make it for the entire ordeal, he’d treat himself to a vacation on his island… for whenever his next free time would be. Not anytime soon by the looks of it.

He puts his phone down and absentmindedly stares at the TV in front of him. He doesn’t know what’s on anymore and ��scar’s son - his godson - is already fast asleep. Huh. He must have missed that. The toddler usually pesters him to pay attention to whatever he’s watching. Guess he’s not the only one exhausted.

“Done.” His phone dings with another message attached with confirmation emails and phone numbers. He scrolls down to carefully check that the hotel reservations all use different fake names when he sees the sliding doors move from the corner of his eye. The footsteps don’t sound familiar, which prompts him to look up.

Holy shit.

✧

“Tell the pilot we’re not flying tonight,” Javi types on his phone. “And reschedule everything else.”

“Why? What happened?” comes the reply from his assistant almost immediately. Javi considers ignoring him but he doesn’t want to deal with follow up questions, in case he really thought something had actually happened to Javi.

“Need-to-know basis,” Javi types quickly. “Confirm Tokyo next week. Thanks.”

He locks his phone while you go over your rack of Blu-rays. You have a very impressive collection and he’s amazed when you said you took your time to find the rarest, most definitive editions instead of just buying what’s cheaply and readily available. It reminds him of the time he used to hunt down his favorite films’ memorabilia – that he sadly doesn’t have anymore, but he’s glad they’ll find their permanent home at the Academy Museum. People deserve to see them instead of collecting dust in his den.

“What about Love Actually?”

“Like I said, your house, your choice.”

“Okay, then.”

Javi’s mostly quiet during the movie, except for his sharp intakes of breath whenever your leg grazes him. He feels like a teenager again, really. And one more sweep of your hair on his shoulder would make his hard-on actually visible. It’s pathetic. In a perfect, uncomplicated world, he would make a blatant move on you and might as well just ask you to fly with him. But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

“I hate this part,” he hears you say when Emma Thompson’s crying over a Joni Mitchell song. “And I hate that I relate to this song right now.”

“How so?”

“‘I really don’t know life at all’,” you sigh. “Or love, even. Do you?”

“And you’re assuming I do, because…?”

“Because you’re old, duh.” You playfully nudge his leg with yours. Ouch. He knows you’re probably a good 20 years younger than he is, but it feels like a cold wake up call, and a rejection too while you’re at it. He already knows it’s impossible, but ouch.

“Everything just falls into place for me. I think it could be better for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t do anything with my situation when I was your age, but you… the whole wide world’s your oyster. Do everything you can while you can and all that.”

“I’m trying, but… I don’t really know what to do with my life. What my real passion even is.”

“Explore your character and figure it out from there,” he winks.

You snort. “Okay, sure. I don’t even know how to act, I don’t even know why you guys bother with hiring me.”

Because you’re fucking captivating, he wants to say.

“And I don’t even know why I bother with dating, speaking of the ‘love’ part.”

Yeah, no, he doesn’t want to hear this. The thought of you going out with other men makes Javi want to clench his fists. Not that he has any sort of entitlement over who you spend your time with, but his ego feels otherwise.

“Too boring for you?”

“Too annoying for me is more like it. Most of them are so immature or just straight up conceited.”

Aim older, Javi wants to say.

“There’s this guy, he’s a lowly lord or something like that, and…”

Your voice trails off as Javi tries to gloss over everything you say. He loves talking with you. Just not about your past lovers. Not that he could tell you that. He shouldn’t anyway.

✧

DECEMBER

Your dress rightfully belongs in a museum or on the bedroom floor because holy fuck. He was grateful the press kept him busy while you were going around the room making acquaintances, otherwise he would have dragged you close to him and raised questions. You were showing so much skin and he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. You could’ve given him a heads up, for God’s sakes, but… on what grounds? He likes to think you put this dress on for him (he’s allowed one or two delusional thoughts per day, thank you very much) but maybe this is just how you dress up for formal events. Too bad, so sad he’s not allowed to bring you as his date to more of those. He would’ve liked to see you all dolled up like this in the evenings and then wearing his shirts the next morning.

But now you’re on the same bed with him, on your stomach, your smooth and glowing back facing him. In a perfect, uncomplicated world, Javi would’ve run his hands all over you as soon as he entered the room, and right now he would’ve been kissing you down your spine instead of failingly trying to pay attention to a movie he’s seen ten times before. It’s kind of funny how their story somewhat mirrors yours, but Javi hopes for a happy ending in his version.

Happy ending, heh. He’s glad you’re turned away from him because the bulge of his crotch is not listening to the head on his shoulders telling it to stand down. This is a wholesome night as far as you’re concerned. A cute way to end the trip with a shared nostalgia. Not an open season for Javi’s other head to seek rele–

“Let’s never come here again, it would never be as much fun.”

He snaps out of it. “...huh?”

✧

JANUARY

“You pick.”

“No, you.”

“You. It’s your house.”

“Exactly. And I want you to pick.”

“Fine. Notting Hill.”

“Romcom?”

“No, London.”

“Paddington 2 for me it is, then.”

“Ooh, nice. Haven’t seen that.”

“You’ve never seen Paddington???” You snort at his outburst. To be fair, it’s a children’s movie. You don’t seem to have a problem with those, but he understands if you didn’t exactly rush to the theaters when it was released. But still. “I’m gonna put Paddington on. Right now.”

“You said I get to pick?”

“Another night.” He shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

You laugh at him and stretch on the plush sofa of his home theater. The t-shirt that he’s lending you rides up your stomach and Javi stares a little too long at your exposed skin. He wants to believe that you’re aware (his third delusional thought of the day, dammit) and you’re doing it to tease him. Women know what they’re doing to men when they wear our clothes, right? And you’re wearing his boxers too. And you took a shower in his bathroom, dried off with his towels, and he made cocktails and ordered dinner for you. Damn if Javi doesn’t feel a little domestic tonight. In a perfect, uncomplicated world - and damn does he get tired of thinking like this - he would’ve asked you to stay with him for the rest of the shoot so he could have this everyday. But you’ve made it clear you were only having fun… leading him on.

Are you really leading him on, though? Or is this another one of his wishful thinking? He does mind that you don’t remember anything from the other night, at least it seems that way. He’s been waiting to bring it up but he doesn’t want to embarrass you lest you think it was a mistake or worse, embarrass himself if you were truly just toying with him for instant gratification and he’s thinking too much of it. But first, Paddington.

“Oh my God…” you say with tearful eyes two hours later. “That was… wow.”

“I know. It’s my favorite movie of all time.”

You choke a laugh between sobs. “I don’t want to watch Notting Hill. I want to watch the first one. Gosh.”

Javi smiles to himself. He lets himself have this little treat; that you love what he loves.

✧

“Try another streaming app.”

“Why?”

“Why not? We’ve scrolled over these twice and found nothing.”

“Not nothing. We haven’t seen Kill Bill.”

“It’s gore.”

“You’re fine with gore.”

“I’m literally eating steak right now. Ew, no thanks.”

“Fair enough.”

“Let’s try another category. I vote for racing.”

“Gone in 60 Seconds.”

“What is it with you and Nic Cage?” You laugh. Almost every movie night Javi’s been suggesting Nic’s movies and he has no regrets about that. You were too young (or weren’t born yet) to see most of them when they were hits and it would be like watching a new movie for you, right? You loved Face/Off when he voted for action and you suggested Con Air yourself too at one point. “Okay, let’s change it a little. Racing movies after the year 2010.”

“Tron Legacy.”

“Oh hell fucking yes.”

It’s not exactly a racing movie but he’s glad you’re in agreement. Turns out you’ve seen the movie too when it first came out but haven’t seen it again since. He sucks his teeth when you tell him that you’ve always wanted the lightcycles even though you can’t ride motorbikes at all. He doesn’t want to tell you, he wants to show you the real thing in his garage in Mallorca. If you ever get there with him.

“What were you going to suggest?” Javi asks you after the movie ends.

“Fast Five. It’s the best of them all.”

“Yes, 100%.”

“So… musicals next time?” You bat your eyelashes. It’s been two weeks and he has always voted no to that.

“Let’s not.”

“Aw, come on. I’m sure Nic has a musical movie.”

“No, but we can do Moonstruck.”

You throw your head back and cackle gleefully. He doesn’t need to watch Moonstruck again and he doesn’t mind watching musicals if it pleases you. He wanted to suggest Evita but he wanted to make you laugh first, so that’s what he did.

“I vote for La La Land. Shit, it always makes me so happy. And it should’ve won the Oscar, by the way.”

✧

MARCH

“Do you even know what this is about?”

“Uh… they’re flying over the Andes. Yup.”

“To…?” Javi asks you amusingly. You are so not paying attention, and it’s all his doing.

“I… I don’t know. Take the money… somewhere? Do you know?”

“Noooope.”

And neither is he. It’s impossible when you look like that next to him in your slip dress, and on this damn bed-like theater seat, and it’s empty except for the two of you. You, squirming in your seat because he’s been running his hand up and down your inner thigh and whispering what he wants to do with you in your ear in his low, raspy voice and kissing you whenever he pleases.

He’d been frustrated, just like you, that his schedule was cockblocking him for the past week. He’s taken care of that at your request, of course, and he would’ve liked this night to go a little differently to be more according to his plans, but all’s well that ends well. He didn’t say no when you suggested the coffee shop where you braved the thunderous rain together a couple of months ago but he was relieved when you changed your mind. There was no way to do anything inside that small cafe compared to this place that he booked out. Not at your request, but he didn’t want to leave anything up to chance of being seen.

Because he has plans to push you to the edge until you beg for him. Really, really beg for him.

“Fuck, how long until this is over?”

“We’ve only been here for 40 minutes.”

You fully lay down in frustration and Javi drapes himself over you, trailing kisses all over your neck and the tops of your breasts. He’s making his way down your cleavage when you pull him off.

“We can’t, we’re gonna get caught.”

“No, we won’t.”

“There are security cameras here, Javi.”

“I asked them to turn them off.” Asked is stretching it, because what Javi did was pay them a little extra. A little is stretching it, too. “Do you still want to watch the movie?”

“NO. I don’t care. Crash over the mountains or… fuck, I think that’s what’s happening.”

Javi laughs against the crook of your neck and presses himself to your side.

“Baby,” you whine softly into his ear. “Let’s go.”

“Hmm? Yours or mine?”

“Yours. You wanted me in your bed.”

Damn it if Javi doesn’t feel his pride swelling tenfold at that. He lifts himself off of you and pulls you to your feet, leading the way to his car. He keeps his hands between your legs the entire drive home and steals kisses at red lights, and it’s finally perfect.

✧✧✧

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fizzycherrycola · 2 years

Note

22 and 23 for Canada or America or both? I adore your writing so much.

🥺🥺🥺 thank you!! I'll do both.

22: Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

With a very low tolerance for boredom, America snatches the paper before Canada has a chance to react. His first instinct is to make a paper airplane and doodle some designs on it; an eagle on one wing, perhaps a catchphrase on the other, and a wreath of flames as an outline. Before letting it soar, he asks Canada if he wants to add something to the little plane. Canada draws a maple leaf and he paper airplane flies perfectly.

But I'd be wary of leaving America with nothing to do for too long. Now, Canada? Not a problem. He can easily slip into dreamland and imagine himself in a canoe, fishing for rainbow trout along freshwater, backcountry rivers for hours at an end. But America craves stimulation and if he's in a rather bad mood, he'll try playing Five Finger Filet with the pencil and his own hand. He's immortal and if he makes a mistake, it'll heal quickly anyways, right? Canada nags him as soon as he starts playing, and with enough passive aggressive fuss, America rolls his eyes and flips the pencil eraser-side down.

However, if America's in a good mood, and there's still nothing to do, he'll explain how worm holes work, by folding the paper in half and poking the pencil through it; a trademark method that appears in every Hollywood sci-fi film. Slightly forgetful, he doesn't realise that he's explained this to Canada many times before, but Canada doesn't interrupt. Instead, he offers up a few questions and lets his brother babble about the spacetime continuum until the sun goes down, not because it keeps America occupied, but because America loves the topic, and has a wonderful habit of turning anything he loves into something genuinely interesting through his own sheer excitement. Even when said topic involves a lot of heavy math.

23: How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

I'd give them both a 5/10 when it comes to their organizational skills. Part of this is because they're physically younger than their Old World counterparts; college-aged nations with some college-aged habits. However, I think it's also woven into their personalities a bit.

⭐ America ⭐

Leaves empty soda bottles in his pickup truck

100+ tabs open in his internet browser

No sorting system to the catalogue of video games on his shelves

Bad habit of buying gadgets he won't use

Sports & Hollywood memorabilia cluttering the walls

Unpaid credit card bills

Low-priority government docs MUST be labeled, otherwise he'll lose them

"It's fine, I'll clean it later," and "I know where everything is," are his mantras. His mess doesn't bother him and it rarely impacts his daily life. However, if certain people are coming to visit, (senators, the President, certain nations that make him uncomfortable, etc.,) then America will definitely tidy up.

🍁 Canada 🍁

Often 5 - 20 minutes late to everything

Forgets to do his laundry; wears dirty blue jeans

Some fresh fruits and veggies go bad before he uses them

Cannot fit a car in his garage because it's filled with hiking gear and old woodworking tools

Too many canoes

Unless it's important, he forgets to respond to text messages

Spaces out during meetings, asks for notes, misplaces the notes

Unlike his brother, Canada's disorganization gives him anxiety and he chastises himself for it. He'll tidy up in a panic at the last minute when guests are on their way.* Then, he's the type to say, "Sorry, my place is a mess right now," even if he just finished cleaning and only forgot to dust one bookshelf. Truly, he should cut himself some slack once in a while.

*The only exception is America. If he's the guest, Canada won't panic-clean. He'll just sort a few things out and welcome his brother inside no matter the state of his house.

Excessively Detailed Headcanon Meme

#aph america #aph canada #hws america #hws canada #alfred f jones #matthew williams #hetalia headcanons #my writing #ask game #sorry that got a bit long #i also struggle with organization so it's easy to relate to these boys #my headcanons

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