#mohawk brute

[bi-writes]

idk just thinking about seeing your lieutenant for the first time, this big giant dog of a man, and thinking to yourself, "hmmm yeah, i'm gonna make that thing mine." (18+)

like. i'm thinking about seeing him walk into the room for the first time. fresh off an op, still in all his gear. he's angry cause he's been awake off and on for 40 hours at this point, and he sinks down into a chair in the mess hall, and your eyes bug cause the chair fucking bends with his weight.

and you're just like "omg omg omg holy shit" cause this fucking brute is just huge and beefy, and you had no idea this was your type until you watched his hand curl around a cup and make it look miniature. and you're wondering like "fuck i bet those holsters are custom made" cause you don't think you've ever seen them stretch that far around someone's thigh.

ughghghghgh, and he's dumb as shit, too, or maybe he's just fucking blind. you give him every hint in the book, every indication of how you feel other than pasting a giant neon sign on your forehead that says "fuck me."

you wear the tightest cargo pants you can get. you let the buttons on your shirts go low whenever he's near. you make excuses to see him late, delivering him paperwork in the middle of the night, meeting him out for a smoke (and he's never seen you smoke anything), shuffling your way in front of him in line so you can bump into him and graze your ass against his front. he even catches you this way--even curls his hand around your waist and steadies you before letting you go impatiently.

fuck, bending over in front of him, the obnoxious giggling, the excuses to dangle your tits in his face. you want this man underneath you, on top of you, tangled around you and suffocating you with those enormous arms, and he barely side-glances at you whenever you're in his vicinity, and it's infuriating.

what do you have to do to reel this thing in? how many bones do you have to give him?

how many times do i have to flash my bra at you for you to fuck me over your desk?!

you can't eat another cherry in front of him. you can't drop more sauce onto your cleavage. you cannot come out of the showers in just a towel in front of him anymore because you're going to lose your fucking mind--

you even made out with his beloved little sergeant, his favorite little know-it-all that can't stop blowing shit up. that blue-eyed, insufferable, yapper of a scot that kisses all wet, with teeth, who pants like a puppy when he asks if he can 'ave a taste of y'r bonnie cunt, please, please, please--

and you say yes, because maybe he'll finally fucking shut up if you drown him between your thighs and never let him come up for air.

face down, ass up, cargos around your ankles, hips pushing past against that puppy's stubble as he devours you on his knees. his big hands spread your ass for him, and his thumbs flick over your folds as he opens you up, a cackle leaving him before he opens his mouth wide and kisses your pussy all sloppy and uncoordinated.

when the door swings open and hits the wall with a bang, the puppy tries to leave. he tries to move, but you reach back and grip his mohawk, scowling as you shove his face back where it belongs as your lieutenant stands at the door and heaves with anger.

"uh uh," you snap, and your sergeant on his knees whines, his blue eyes a little foggy and wet as he blinks up at you. but he complies, his tongue slurping, and you flutter your lashes at your lieutenant as you keep johnny muzzled in your cunt. "sorry, lieutenant. is this your office? must've read the sign wrong."

you reel from the contact. a big hand grips you by the hair, slamming you down against his desk, and you choke as you try and gasp for air. like a good boy, johnny settles where he is, shoving his tongue down your hole and moaning low when he realizes you're dripping down his chin now that his lieutenant has you.

"y'think this is funny, eh?" ghost mutters in your ear. "y'think i don't know wot y'r doin'? think i 'aven't caught on, think i 'aven't noticed wot a fuckin' insatiable bloody pain in my arse you've been ever since y'got 'ere?!"

you whimper, relaxing against the desk, and ghost tugs at your hair again, shaking his head.

"oi! y'don't get to be stupid just because y'r gettin' y'r cunny played with," ghost snaps. "y'r a right headache."

you laugh, getting up to your elbows, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as ghost scruffs johnny by the base of his mohawk and cups your pussy with one big hand. you gasp, leaning your head back, because finally, yes, it's all i want, please, please, please--

"'f you wanted to be my pet so bad," ghost murmurs, fitting himself behind you, leaning over your shoulder as he spits into your ear, "all ya had to do was fuckin' ask, swee'eart."

when your eyes open, ghost hums, clicking his tongue under the mask.

"use y'r words," he growls. "be a good girl, and say wot it is y'want."

"want you," you whine, and he sighs deeply, closing his eyes, and you drown out the sounds of johnny sputtering at your feet as ghost bends you at the hip a little more, arching your back.

"mmm...tha'sit. was tha' so hard?"

[frudoo]

A non Zombie apocalypse 141 poly

They find another survivor looking for supplies and decide to make her their wife.

I went a lil crazy on this one ngl

Warnings: Non-con/dub-con but nothing sexual. Fem!Reader.

It was that colossal motherfucker you saw first—the one you almost wasted an arrow on because of that creepy skull mask he wore. The big bastard was raiding your shelter, a little storage room in what used to be a department store. Believe it or not, the mannequins you placed outside of your hideout were enough to deter the zombies away, so you had a pretty good thing going. That was before this dumb brute decided to ruin all your hard work and steal your canned goods.

     Your plan was to shoo him away and tell him to piss off, but he wasn’t having it. No, instead, he made you carry your own supplies back to his shelter, where there were three other men to feed. Fuck, you had enough food to last yourself about three months, but now, with these giant men who no doubt have massive appetites? You’re lucky if it’ll last a week. 

     You’re sitting on a raggedy couch between the pretty man with the ball cap and another with a stupid overgrown mohawk now, arms crossed with a foul look on your face. Across from you sits the fucker with the skull mask, and beside him in an ancient recliner is a bearded man wearing a weird hat. Every now and then you let out an annoyed huff, earning yourself a pointed stare from each of them.

     “Are ye gonna eat summat, or jus’ pout like a wee baby?” Mohawk Man asks you through a mouthful of lukewarm spaghetti hoops. 

     You flip him off without even looking at him, earning a few snickers from the other men. If you weren’t so pissed off at all of them, you might have allowed yourself a little smirk. In fact, you feel the beginning of one curling at the corner of your mouth, until Ball Cap™ pulls you into his lap and traps you there with his strong arms. You yelp and try to shimmy out of his grasp to no avail. You go to bite him, but the second your mouth opens, a spoonful of beans gets plopped inside.

     “Swallow,” Skull Guy commands, covering your mouth with one wide palm in case you decide to try and spit it out.

     You glare at him the entire time, but still obey his explicit order because you truly are hungry. You give up on trying to escape the pretty man’s grasp, letting your body go limp. It’s probably wise to save your energy, anyway.

     “Good bird,” he praises mockingly. “Now, since you’re through bein’ a brat, I’ll introduce everyone. 

     “M’Simon. Tha’ there,” he points at the one with the mutton chops, “is John, or Cap’n, dependin’ on his mood. Beside you’s Johnny, but we call him Soap. The one you’re sittin’ on is Kyle. We call him Gaz when he’s bein’ a dick, though.” 

     You nod like you’re paying attention, using his distraction as an opportunity to steal the can of beans from his hand. It’s a weird group, for sure, but aside from the fact that they’re thieving bastards, it might be nice to have more humans to help protect you from the hoards of the undead. It’s a step up from mannequins, anyway. Perhaps it also helps that they’re all insanely attractive.

     “Wha’ aboot ye, hen? Go’ a name?” Mohawk Man—or, Johnny, apparently—asks with a cheeky grin. 

     Before you get the chance to tell him your name, the one with the mutton chops, John, interrupts you. 

     “No matter, is it? We’ll call her our wife soon enough.”

     You nearly drop the can of beans when you process the words that just came out of his mouth, choking on the bite you just took. Kyle pats your back until your little coughing fit ceases, and Simon wipes the sticky residue from your mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. None of them, you observe, are as baffled by John’s statement as you are. It makes a weird feeling churn in your gut.

     “A-all… all of you?” You stammer nervously, then start again with a lilt of confusion in your voice. “Wife?!”

     “Yes, dove, all of us,” Kyle confirms, confiscating the can of beans from you and setting it on the ground. 

     “Aw, don’t look so scared, sweetheart,” John stands from his place in the old recliner, stepping in front of you and lifting your head up to look at him with his pointer finger hooked beneath your chin.

     “I take good care o’my men. We’ll take good care o’you, too.”

[occamstfs]

Change Your Tune: Alvaro

Calvin and Eric are thrilled to visit the CYT Music Festival to see their favorite band reunite. After losing each other in the crowd, Calvin's mysteriously drawn to a Latin artist he's never heard of. With each step closer it’s clear there's no turning back.

An exciting collab with Misc TFs! Check out Eric's journey towards country music fandom Here ! For my part, hope you enjoy my first RC/cultural change in a while! Tossed a brief punk TF in this bad boy too ;) Hasta luego! -Occam

One could not ask for a better day to visit a music festival. Calvin isn’t exactly the type of person to attend something as hectic and high-traffic as the Change Your Tune Festival, but when his friend, Eric, heard that North Side was reuniting he knew they had to go. It had been their favorite band back in high school and there was no way they’d miss this one-time reunion performance.

Neither man was quite expecting just how massive the event would be however. They were so focused on their once-favorite band’s reunion that they paid little attention at all to the other artists taking part and were shocked to find out how eclectic the lineup was. From dozens of disparate sections it seems about any genre under the sun could be found. It was a wonder the fairground even had space for all these main stages. 

For a second Calvin is lost as he stares out across the sea of bodies, melodies from every set apart stage demanding his attention. Metal screams, EDM pulses, and R&B beats clash in the air, leaving Calvin wondering what a bizarre experience they’re going to endure until North Side’s set is set to start. Not as enthralled by the din of contrasting music, Eric bumps Calvin’s arm and shouts to be heard over the crowd, “You wanna head to North Side’s stage right now and sit through whatever’s there to make sure we get in the pit?”

Calvin nods and the pair take their first steps into the fairground proper before realizing they have no idea which stage North Side is actually set to perform at. Cogs turning in their minds, both men decide on different courses of action to find it. Nerves at missing the band superseding common sense, they head off in different directions in search of answers. Calvin wanders over to a map while Eric sees a crowd of festival-goers clearly dressed for North Side and approaches.

Only when he makes it to the map standee does he turn around to see if Eric’s still with him. Calvin finds nothing but the crowd. “Shit.” Looking from cowboy hats to mohawks he adds finding his friend to the to do list before turning to easily find the stage on the map. Mystery one solved with more than enough time to spare, he then sets to finding Eric.Checking his phone he finds that his phone has absolutely no service from the sheer volume of people at the festival.

Gritting his teeth he guesses he’ll just find Eric the old fashioned way and wades into the crowd. Assuming they went in completely opposite directions he feels confident that he can stumble across his friend fairly easily, and if not he’s sure they’ll bump into each other in the crowd for North Side. There’s certainly no real danger here as there seems to be a surplus of security wandering around, he thinks about asking one of the burly men if they could help find Eric though he promptly reconsiders as the sheer presence of the men spooks him away.

No he’ll just brute force it. Worming his way through the crowd, he notices that as he nears one of the stages that the crowds are far more homogenous than in the thoroughfares, perhaps unsurprising given fans are likely to congregate near their chosen bands, but something about it seems odd. Given the CYT Festival’s whole multi-genre vibe you’d think there would be some crossover. Thinking on that matter for a few moments as he pauses his search he realizes that he’s overthinking as immediately in front of him there’s a punk who seems to be quite taken with some real squeaky-clean indie pop.

Calvin almost laughs seeing the man’s liberty spikes sticking out above the crowd of bleached lengthy shags and shoddy perms. Swaying with the crowd, Calvin pauses to appreciate the idea of finding something you enjoy where you’d never expect it. Suddenly he’s bumped from behind by another presumed punk, far more nervous than his smiling cohort enjoying the sanitized tunes. The leather jacketed man clutches Calvin’s shoulders, “Hey! You- Have you seen my friend?” 

At first Calvin stares at him with a dumb look knowing how easy it is to see the punk in the crowd, “Sure dude? He’s right over, uhm?” Upon turning back to point, Calvin hesitates as he sees where the liberty spikes were once held high is an inconspicuous brown flop of hair, bobbing to the music. Stumbling over his words he turns back to the man who has now let go of his arms where he sees something even stranger. The man who was seconds ago possessed with anxiety at losing his friend is staring blankly ahead, Calvin would’ve sworn his shaky eyes were brown. 

Put off by the strange punk, Calvin awkwardly smiles and walks away, unaware as the man’s leather jacket shifts into a half-opened beachy button up as its sleeves fall off. Exposed to the open air his thin body begins packing on weight as his mohawk droops before cascading down his shoulders into a breezy curtain, as unassuming as every other aspect of his new personality.

 Uncomfortable in the strange crowd of this droll artist, Calvin spills back into the walkway and hopes Eric did not have the misfortune of talking with those bleary eyed, must-be stoned pop fans. Fingers crossed his friend is at the next venue, Calvin begins to scan the flow of festival goers once more before he’s distracted by a song he’s never heard calling for him over the throng, wholly demanding his attention.

Everything in the world suddenly feels muted besides this far off melody. His waking mind attempts to steer him back on track, to try and get him to return to the task of finding Eric so they can get to their concert, but suddenly that seems a distraction from discovering whatever delightful melody is pulling at him. He stumbles forward, the crowd almost totally parting to allow him to drift onward. In no time at all he finds himself outside the stage for some Reggaeton artist, Alvaro Altuve.

The young man shakes off the surreal pull the music has on him as he realizes he has never heard of the artist. While not the most worldly man, Calvin is incredibly online and prides himself on having at least a passing knowledge of just about anything he can scroll across. 

On top of that, he has friends who are absolutely into the genre and yet he’s somehow never even seen the name before. Clearly everyone around him has] as a large swath of the crowd behind him begins filing towards his stage. All the while, as Calvin continues to wonder how he’s not heard of this man, even pulling out his phone to frustratingly fail to search him, does his music continue to worm its way into and through his head.

Eventually he’s accidentally pushed by the surge of apparent Alvaro fans and stumbles with them, closer to the stage. Irritated at being manhandled, Calvin huffs to himself before letting curiosity get the better of him and opts to go with the flow. Arriving, he finds the stage empty, the Alvaro in question apparently isn’t set to take the stage for about half an hour, and yet the crowd is ecstatic for the instrumental recording blaring from the stage. Calvin tells himself he doesn’t get the hype, he tells himself he isn’t really enjoying the beat pumping through him. And yet-

He dances, he slams and grinds into the people nearby, he is moving like he never has done before. With speed and strength he shouldn’t be able to summon. Seconds lost to the unsung melodies trail into minutes as he experiences ecstasy from the looping track of an artist he doesn’t know a single thing about. The only thing breaking him out of the ecstasy is when he realizes the tunes begin to feel familiar. When he finally notices that his mind is slowly adding the lyrics. Starting like the buzz of a mosquito, soon enough his mind fills in lyrics in a language he can scarcely understand.

As real as the beats bumping in his chest, Calvir’s mind begins to ache as líricas begin to flow freely through him. He has to concentrate to still his lips from mouthing along. Words that fit perfectly with the ebb and flow, with the drumming pumping bass that lights his chest on fire. His vision flickers with the beat as he clutches at his chest, worried he’s experiencing some form of psychosis. There he finds that it’s not in his mind, something has begun to change. His outfit is entirely different.

Calvir feels bare sweaty skin where his flannel once hung, where it should still be. His hands grasp at a chest like they’ve never been able to before, bouncing with the increasingly familiar beats his body has begun to grow and new pecs are not left out. He feels the scratch of curls pricking against his palm as he tries to tune out his mind’s automatic addition of lyrics.

His mind returns to the two punks he saw not long ago, pupils flickering to the crowd around him; he can’t help but recall how concern left the man’s eyes as he too began to listen to that swill. Looking back he remembers an eyebrow piercing falling away as notched eyebrows filled in. How he could see the man's hair begin to restyle itself. Looking down at his own new chest he sees how around each of the new hairs lancing out of his heavier chest his skin almost looks patchy. As if it were splattered with a light brown paint.

Empowered by a new rising fear, Calvir fights back and begins to push his way out of the crowd. Gritting his teeth he’s unaware that his face has begun its own metamorphosis. His paltry blonde excuse for facial hair that has long been cut back to hide his inability to truly grow a beard returns with a vengeance. His upper lip twitches as the few thin hairs decorating it begin to lengthen, darken, and multiply. With each ambling step towards the edge of the crowd a new mustache thickens before it is similarly joined by a small goatee poking out of his chin. 

In no time at all his jaw and mouth are decorated with a facial hair combo that he has long admired. Wiping sweat from his face he feels them scratch against his arm and is stunned as he realizes he has continued to change even after blocking out the music that had him in its grasp. Looking at his arms it’s clear that the changes haven’t slowed in the slightest. 

The patchy spots of tanned skin have continued to expand, his arms too are similarly being enveloped as they join his chest in bulking larger. His hands shake as he sees veins trailing down biceps bulging heavy with muscle, he feels sweat drip down the side of his chest as his garden of pit hair spreads and thickens into an onyx dark jungle of curls.

Finally escaping the horde of Alvaro fans, Calvar stumbles over the barrier and stands to his feet. Grasping at the flimsy barricade he takes stock of his changed body, how muscle moves under his tight brown skin with the slightest movement. He rubs a scratch on his waist from the fall and feels his rough pubes crest into a treasure trail launching upwards towards his powerful chest. He doesn’t need to see his reflection to know his hair has likewise changed. 

“Qwhat es-” Calvar clutches at his thicker throat as he hears a deeper voice rumble from his chest. Eyes wide with fear, he tries again, hoping against anything that it was a fluke, a frog in his throat, “No, I’m not- No soy-” His eyes flicker across the crowd to find that, just like himself, they have begun to change. Their clothes and bodies continue to morph into whatever the music commands, the perfect audience for Alvaro Altuve to perform for. 

Something in Calvar’s chest flutters as the idea is more than alluring to him. He feels himself longing to give into the music once more as it rises in volume. Beyond that, he feels a burning desire to perform. When his subconscious begins to populate the beat with words once more his mouth can’t help but vocalize. It just feels right. He feels a burning urge to move, not the aimless ecstatic ambling dance of a fan however. No, he feels choreography ingrained into his bones yearning to burst free. 

Calvaro can scarcely stop himself as his legs and arms move to enact it. With an iron grip still on the stage’s barricade however he manages to stay strong. “I have- Teng- ohhh” Tanned hands fly to his face as in his mind the line between languages blurs, while still fluent in English quickly his native tongue is usurped, replaced by español.

As each thought twists and alters into his new tongue, so too does the content begin to shift. Fingers scratch down his face as his hands fall in confusion, rushing past thick dark eyebrows before rubbing a jaw sharper and increasingly covered by stubble as his goatee expands to cover his whole face rapidly connecting with sideburns inching down from his newly black hair.

“¿Tenía que- I had to find? Encontrarlo?” Try as he might, as the hair on his chest thickens and expands to cover his built chest, glistening under the sun. Blearily looking around as he tries to remember who or what he was looking for as his back cracks taller, Calvaro is distracted by the swell of the crowd. He feels the bass of the speakers bumping through their bodies, pulsing through his skill. Pushing its way to the front of his mind as his figure continues filling out is the realization that they are all cheering for him. They are all waiting for him.

His lips twist into a smile and he whispers to himself in his sultry, rough new voice, “para mí…” Suddenly members of the crowd begin pointing in his direction and their shouts begin to rise even higher. Alavarooo- Clicking his tongue his shy smile turns into a smirk as he watches the fans, his adoring fans lose their minds at nothing more than his sheer presence. 

Using his wide hand, he sensually rubs down the whole of his body with a wink and watches them shudder. Suddenly feeling a bulky mic in his back pocket, Alvaro knows what he must do. Memories of Eric totally fall to the wayside, buried deep alongside every other memory of being Calvin Dalton. No. There’s only one reason he’s here, and that’s to give his fans the performance de sus vidas.

He sprints alongside the barrier running to the stage, longer legs carrying his star-powered self to the stage. He shouts into the microphone and even then it’s difficult to be heard over the adoring cheers of the crowd, “Ayay- ¿Todos listos, mis all stars?” the little pet name is accented, as all his English is despite his fluency, though he knows that only makes him all the more alluring to his audience estadounidense. 

And with that he stands on stage, allowing the cheering of the crowd propel him into his final form, who he is, who he has always been. Suddenly joined by his banda and a crew of dancers, Alvaro Altuve begins his performance. With each new song his identity is sealed. With each flex and provocative, thrusting move the crowds wail and fuel his transformation even more. Even his time at the festival this very day is wiped away, replaced by warming up in his dressing room, flirting with other performers at this festival to end all festivals.

On the way to this very performance he passed some American band arguing. Dressed in some early 2000’s get up, something at the edge of his mind cried out to go get an autograph but he couldn’t say what. Why would he after all, he’s not in any state to ask for an autograph from some emos gringos. He’s Alvaro Altuve, and he’s got a show to put on.

Epilogue written with Misc TFs:

Rick sighed as he walked up to the bar, quickly ordering another shot of whisky and a beer. He glanced over at the group of good ol’ boys he’d been shooting the shit with all night - Jeb, Cletus, and Earl. They were all decked out in checkered shirts, faded jeans, and ball caps. Just like him now. It still felt so natural, even if some part of him couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly seemed…off about the whole situation.

“Why do I feel like I’m just actin’ a part?" he wondered to himself, frowning slightly, "Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin." 

Shaking his head, he tried to push the strange thoughts aside. Where were these thoughts coming from? Where else would he want to be? He was just a good ol’ boy enjoying a cold one with the boys after a kick-ass country concert. His thoughts were interrupted as a new song started playing in the bar. Rick knew this song… knew this band… a small smile gracing his lips.

"North Side.” He muttered, his foot tapping to the beat of the music, “Well I’ll be…”

He felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him- a yearning for something he couldn’t quite understand in his slower mind. And as the music continued to strum at some past memory, the redneck couldn’t help but notice the striking Latino man with soulful eyes and a captivating smile, clearly enjoying the song as much as he was. 

“Well, would ya look at that." Rick muttered under his breath, "Seems like that fella’s got good taste in tunes, at least.”

Compelled by a force he couldn’t explain, Rick walked over to the man. His thoughts, once focused on music, instead shifted as he drank in the sight of the handsome Latino. The way he smiled, the way his dark hair was styled, the way his shirt hugged his muscles. Rick felt his dick stir.

“Howdy there, friend," Rick drawled, tipping his hat politely, "Name’s Rick. Can’t help but notice you seem mighty fond of this here tune, same as me.”

Alvaro looks up at the man, “Buenas noches. The name’s Alvaro.”

Rick’s eyes flash with recognition, “You mean the Alvaro? Like Alvaro Altuve? I reckon I recognized you from somewhere!”

Alvaro grinned, “Always happy to meet a fan.”

Rick paused for a second, captivated by the singer’s smile. The two stared at one another before Alvaro beckoned him to take a seat at the bar. Rick happily accepted the two chatting it up, their conversation flowing naturally- like two old friends. Their knowledge about North Side and their interest in the band not fitting with their outward appearance.

“I would’ve never expected you to like North Side.” Alvaro laughed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He chuckled, throwing an arm around the man’s shoulder. They both blushed at the mere touch, and Rick pulled his arm away, “Well, I reckon I was always a fan, I think.” Rick shrugged and Alvaro grinned.

“Makes sense! You were the one who introduced me to them after all.” Those words hung in the air, the two became silent and stared at one another- their expressions shifting, their eyes conveying a faint recognition.

Rick, Alvaro knows Rick. He doesn’t know how he does but something deep within him pangs with familiarity or deja vu. Judging by the expression on the cowboy’s face it seems as if there’s some pang of memory behind his eyes as well. Alvaro stares at the fan wondering if he just saw the man at his concert or something but knows that dressed like he is, that cannot be the case, and then he sees his lips struggle to say, “C- Calv- Calvin?”

At once both men flash back. They were having lunch together, as they have done countless times throughout the years. Eric sees his friend who could scarcely put two Spanish words together, Calvin sees his bestie that would never be caught dead in a cowboy hat. They’re just talking shit as friends do when Eric gasps at a notification on his phone, “Dude- North Side is back!”

Before they left the table, the pair had bought tickets to the CYT festival and had begun planning what they were going to wear. Not for a moment wondering what else they’d care to see at the festival, why should they? They were going to see their favorite band of all time and they were going to do so together. 

Together. 

Back in the present as they look at each other in their new forms. Alvaro sees the sweaty, hairy chest of the good old southern man in front of him. Rick sees the effortlessly alluring manicured body of a latin rock star staring back at him. Together has a different spot in both their minds as they hear a grindr notification go off somewhere in the distance. Might as well see what their new bodies can do.

As quick as their feet can travel they’re in Alvaro’s trailer. Attempts to trawl out memories from who they were are fruitless or painful, so instead they delight in the present. The artist cannot believe how enticed he is by the smell of cheap whiskey and cheaper beer on the man’s breath. Rick is less discerning as he hungrily delights in the sweaty musk of the man who was on stage not all that long ago. 

Rick’s rough beard scratches against Alvaro’s neck as he takes a deep breath, he hears a deep whisper from the performer, “volve loco, vaquero.” He growls and his arms shake as he sees no reason to not obey man. Music playing in the background rapidly shifts from Alvaro’s own album, to the b-sides of the Blue Sky Dreamers, to the music that brought them into these new lives, North Side. Before fading altogether and leaving them alone with the sound of their bodies.

With each passing moment in the heady enjoyment of their new selves they feel their identities cemented. Rick’s clean-pressed closet wiped away for life on a farm, his pen-pushing 9-to-5 is nothing compared to the outdoor lifestyle he far prefers. Alvaro’s whole country of origin irrevocably changed, while he loves the life he’s found in the states they will never be where he’s from.

With each thrust they bury their past lives. Rick is and always has been a rough and tumble, rugged man. The rockstar life may be new to Alvaro, but he has always been a musician, even when he was just a small-town artist playing in cantinas. Despite their pasts being erased and their new lives becoming the only reality they know, they remain together. 

Sweatily making out in a trailer as Alvaro struggles to stop the cowboy from leaving cum stains on his stage outfit, when they are together something just feels right. While everything in the world around them may point otherwise, when they are in each other’s arms, everything just seems to make more sense. Even after they’re done having their fun, something remains between them, pulling them together. 

Sheepishly eying the cowboy as he pulls up his Levi’s, Alvaro doesn’t want to let him go, “Oi, vaquero?” The cowboy looks up thankfully, he’d never say as much but even life on the ranch doesn’t hold a match to the past hour with Alvaro, “Queiro- Do you wanna have lunch?” 

“Thought chu’d never ask-”

Neither would’ve guessed what their relationship would evolve into. Initially, it was the talk of the town. The Latin heartthrob and the rough-and-tumble country boy seemed like a totally unlikely couple. Some called it a publicity stunt, others whispered that it would never last. But through it all, Alvaro and Rick stood strong, their bond growing deeper with each passing day.

Alvaro strummed a guitar softly, while Rick leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face. The radio playing softly in the background- the familiar beat of North Side’s music playing.

“Ya know," Rick said, breaking the comfortable silence, "I still can’t believe we went from two strangers at a bar to…”

“To this," Alvaro finished, setting down his guitar and taking Rick’s hand in his own, "And I wouldn’t have it any other way, mi amor.”

The two held each other closely, while North Side continued to play in the background.

Find Eric’s side of the story here !

[siriussimon]

just thinking about johnny being jealous and hating when he’s not the center of attention. a scottish man with a mohawk, how could he not be an attention seeker?

sitting at the bar johnny was nursing a glass of whiskey. the boys had been spread across the bar and he got stuck alone and slightly tipsy already. nobody’s come to talk to him yet and that’s brought his mood down significantly. usually he’s gone home by now with a pretty bird wrapped in his arms.

his eyes start scanning the bar looking for his saving grace. if he was getting anything tonight he new exactly where to go.

tha’ fuck?

his eyes had locked on to the big brute chatting up the prettiest thing he’s seen in awhile. she seemed timid, eyes fluttering, her fingers fumbling with her glass as she looked up at this weird fellow with a mask.

johnny downed the rest of his drink before walking towards the two.

“ah was lookin’ for ya, si.” johnny practically purred, pushing his way between the two of you and leaning himself up against the wall. simon gave him a deep hum, eyes squinting, knowing exactly what he wanted. like a dog asking for a bone.

you watched this whole interaction, downing the rest of your drink to ease the tension in your body. they looked pretty close…were they—

“why don’t ya introduce yourself, love?” simon’s gruff voice broke the silence, his eyes looked heavier as they looked at you, it looked like he moved closer to johnny too. what is happening?

“oh, uh, hi..johnny.” you murmured so sweetly, you told him your name, and he gave you a toothy grin in return.

“aren't ye sweet? hud tae see whit's git mah man's attention nicked fae me... Ah kin see why..” his eyes raking down your body, eyes steady on the cleavage peeking from your little top. didn’t help that you had clasped your hands in front of you out of nervous habit, not noticing the way your arms pushed your tits out even further for the filthy bastards in front of you.

“oh my god.. i’m so sorry. i didn’t know!” you frantically apologized, hand coming to rest on his bicep before turning to leave this terribly awkward situation. of course simon was taken, 6’5 bulk of a man, and his boyfriend was just as handsome.

johnnys finger hooked into your loop of your jeans pulling you back agaisnt him. your ass flush against his hips now, arm sprawling across your waist to pull you in incredibly close. you felt your face heat up when you notice simon get in front of the two of you boxing the both of you against the wall, shielding you from the rest of the crowded bar.

“look perfect wrapped up in his arms, birdie.” simon drawled out, fingers grazing along your cheek, pressing his thumb against the bottom of your lip. you felt your knees buckle but luckily johnny was there to hold you still.

you felt so overwhelmed but so fucking good. fuck it. two hot men fawning over you? when will you ever get this opportunity again. suddenly you were turning in johnnys arms, his forehead pressed against yours, hands splayed across the fat of your ass giving it a tight squeeze. a little squeak leaving your lips.

“now give ‘im a kiss. our boy needs us, yeah?” simon whispered agaisnt your ear.

[mrsparrasblog]

Traitor

„Please Lt, ah beg ye oan mah haun 'n' knees fur it.“

„No.“ The conversation went like this for hours, with Johnny begging on his knees for Ghost to go on a date with you.

„Please, Lt.“

„How did that even happen, Johnny?“

„Weel, me 'n' Garrick thought yi'll need tae git leid, sae we made a fake Instagram 'n' wrote bonnie girls pretending we wur ye.“

„I don't need to get laid, so tell her I postpone.“ He certainly needed a good lay, but that wasn’t something he could tell Soap. He was his CO officer after all, and the way he intruded on his privacy made him want to rip off Soap's mohawk and make him eat the hair.

„A dinnae want ye tae kip wi' her, a'm wantin' ye tae gang oan a ill date wi' her 'n' mak' her forgoat ye,“ the Scotsman said, letting his true intentions slowly slip.

„You want me to treat her badly? What's wrong with you, MacTavish?“ Simon Riley was a lot, but not a man who treated a bird badly, or else his mom would come back from the grave just to swat him, and he would have deserved that hit.

„Please, Lt.“ Johnny begged, the despair visible in his icy eyes.

„Ye like her?“ And by Soap's stunned reaction, Simon knew everything he needed to know. That idiot pretended to be him, made this naive girl want him, and fell in love with her. And now he can't have her because she is head over heels, but not with Johnny.

„Yes, please, Lt.“

„No.“

„I’ll give you my ration of tea for the next three months.“ That was something Simon couldn’t resist. Extra Earl Grey—he did worse things for less.

„Okay, I’ll go on a date with her and let her down slowly for you to comfort her.“

---------

Simon believed himself to be a determined man who doesn’t change his opinion just because of a good-looking woman. Well, this changed when he saw you waiting at the bar for him, all dolled up. Your dress matched your heels and the color of your nails; you prepared yourself for him—just for him. That was new. And when you hugged him tight as a greeting and the smell of cookies wafted into his rugged nose, Johnny's little crush was forgotten.

He was sure you wouldn’t mind; you were here for him and not for Johnny. He was better looking after all, he thought.

All he could do was listen to your sweet voice as you explained your job with excitement, how your nose scrunched when you laughed, and how you threw him those fuck-me eyes. He was curious if you’d give Johnny the same eyes if your hand touched his abs too, if you chewed on your red lips.

-----------------------------

Johnny was on his way to play the knight in shining armor for you, comforting you after the big brute broke your innocent heart. But when he walked past Ghost's room, he could hear the desperate pleas and whimpers from a woman.

„Si, please, need more,“ you moaned, trying to get him to finally fuck you after he gave you orgasm after orgasm.

„Need you to be ready for me, love.“

…

„So big, Si.“

„You can take it, love.“

And in that moment, Johnny realized he was betrayed by his best friend and brother-in-arms.

[spurbleu]

soap x personal trainer

soap isn’t a stranger to “at home videos”.

immovable object, insistent drive. cannot put the weight down. on leave, he goes through adrenaline withdrawals. house arrest is tough on a motor like his- powered by gore oil and whistle grime. tank empties rapidly when it’s fed normalcy and the gravel on his running trail. it’s a substitute for substance- that, up until now, never kept him sated.

till of course, you appear on his feed.

exhaust comes in short breaths. nose damp with as much sweat as his forehead. body drools and quivers, muscles spasm- because of you.

and you didn’t even have to touch him.

just smile as you guide him through the third set of reverse fly’s. all the gumption of a captain, dressed down in a pastel matching set, sweat stains it a darker color on the dip of your back and between you thighs.

course he gets smitten. obsessive. equally as addicted to the adrenaline of gunmetal and violence as he is to the soft curve of your ass below the defined lines of your back. parallels. offer him a full belly and heavy balls.

and when he finds out you offer personal training? at some dilapidated corner rental that’s falling apart at the seams and needs brute strength and a cock attached to military income? goner.

you’re in the middle of recording your video for the week, when a knock comes at the door. heavy, demanding. you open it, and in front of you stands an ox with a mohawk and a handsome smile.

“aye heard ye do personal training?”

[kawaiigirly21]

The Beast In His Arms: Chapter 1

“You are insufferable, brother. Why must you use violence against ones who are weaker than you? Are you a brute who hunts rabbits with a cannon? It is most upsetting! Father would be most disappointed and Mother would highly disapprove!” Looking down, Nayera cradled Mark’s head in her lap. His own blood soaking into her silky white fur and royal purple garment.

Tearing off a piece of her dress, Nayera pressed it to his head in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. Not caring if her royal jewels were stained or that her well manicured claws were covered in blood that did not belong to her. Barely able to keep even one eye open, Mark managed to get at least a peak at her and what he did see, blew him away. “A…Goddess?” He asked weakly before falling out of consciousness.

That was the start of a beautiful friendship that blossomed into an even more beautiful romance. “You do know that’s not how you sit on a chair right?” Rex smiled as he watched Nayera perch herself on a chair much like a housecat. “These chairs are not at all comfortable, Rex. I am simply trying to adapt to this mediocre piece of furniture.” Nayera replied as her tail flicked in the man's face.

Mark was her boyfriend indeed, but Rex was her brother from another mother. While her love for Mark was a volcano, her platonic love for Rex was a hurricane. Both equally dangerous and the same level of strength. “Watch the tail puffball!” Since her time on earth, Nayera had joined the Guardians under the hero name Queen and made quite the name for herself. Some of it was good press and some was…not so good press.

“Nayera, look at this! Can you believe those assholes?” Amanda huffed as she showed Nayera her phone. The article in question was about her exclusively. ‘Queen the lion Guardian: Too extreme for hero work? 10 reasons why you should avoid the overgrown homicidal rage kitty.’ Tilting her head, Nayera handed the phone back to amanda. “I do not understand. Is this bad?” She questioned. Amanda nodded.

“Its not only bad, It’s fucking offensive! How dare they call you a homicidal rage kitty!” “That shit doesn’t even make fucking sense! What is a rage kitty?” Rex asked while his fake hand stroked Nayera’s soft fur. “Who is a rage kitty?” A voice spoke up from the entrance to the kitchen. “Mark my beloved!” Nayera jumped out of her chair and wrapped her arms around her boyfriend who picked her up and spun her around.

“Hey babe!” Rex groaned at the lovey dovey behavior. “Oh great, it’s the blatant reminder of my own inadequacies.” As Mark kissed Nayera’s head and whispered something in her ear, her tail swayed while she smiled all the while. The man then took her hand and bid his friends farewell. “If you guys don’t mind, I’d like to steal my girl for a bit. Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back before 10!”

Later that day, Nayera and Mark sat atop a building relaxing together while having lunch. Mark watched in amazement as Nayera ate her 7th burger like it was nothing before smiling softly and scratching under her chin causing her to freeze up then purr while leaning into his touch. She really was just a big house cat under all that lion dna. “I love you so much Nayera…So much.” Leaning more into his touch, Nayera purred louder as her eyes met Mark’s. “I love you too Mark.”

While the couple shared what was a very important moment, they hadn’t the slightest clue that they were being watched. Elsewhere. “That's so not fucking fair!” Mohawk Mark shouted as he stood amongst his fellow evil Mark variants watching the screen angstrom showed them. “How the fuck did he get a hot lion bitch and we all got stuck with Eve!?” Sinister Mark rolled his eyes under his goggles.

“Fuuuck, If I had known that Battle Beast had a cutie for a sister, I never would have killed him!” Lensless Mark smiled as he watched the screen. “She’d make a beautiful pet. I have the best means to spoil her.” Viltrumite Mark replied as he watched Nayera lay her head on her Mark’s lap while he continued to pet her. “Oh just look at that shit! Fucking pathetic! I’d be fucking her by now! What a pussy!” Veil Mark spat in utter contempt for his non evil counterpart.

Angstrom could tell that something had changed the variants. All they seemed to talk about since they saw her was Nayera. Nothing else. He could use that to his advantage. “Hey, craterface! If we do everything you want, we get what we want right?” Target Mark questioned in his usual loud tone. Angstrom simply nodded. “Anything you want.” He said coolly. He liked where this was going.

“We want our own dimension. One where we can take over and expand our empires. And we want her.” Omni Mark replied. “I like that idea. Our own empire and a pretty kitty to hold at the end of the day.” Spider Mark spoke with a softer tone. Angstrom smirked before speaking. “We have a deal then boys. Our plan begins soon. Prepare yourselves, to destroy his life.”

What do you guys think?

[clairewritesfanfics]

Speaking of love, Mohawk and Sheisty just sitting there doe eyed with dopey smiles as Reader goes on a rant about Angstroms powers and there limits.

"It's clear to me that he either is limited to a localized subset of the multiverse or his subconscious is gearing him towards outcomes that confirm his bias. It's infinitity! What about the the version of Mark where Debbie's the alien an Nolan is human. Or the ones where Humans are the militaristic authoritarian genocidal manics who rule with an iron fist through technology rather then brute strength. What about Marks that are part bee because Viltrums reassemble an alien bug hive society closer to bees or wasps. What about demigod Marks because mythology is real and Nolan is like Zeus or something. What about the Marks with Pokémon? Like dude, there are clearly not only unhinged feral Marks with amoral tendencies, again its infinite like every possibility ever conceivable or not."

Both are nodding along enjoying the passion Reader radiates until Reader says something that makes them freeze.

"For example, there is clear a multiversal subset where I never existed, but this scenario of versions of Mark coming...

Both stop listening and shiver at the sheer horror of the thought. Mohawk feels nausea, and Sheisty wants to punch a wall. They carry this look of horror with them throughout the day, much to the strange looks of the other Marks. Death was one thing, a tragedy of astronomical proportion, but the thought of you never existing at all was too much to bear.

(The two of these Marks seem like they would like listening you the best)

-🌠

Ugh, I love me a man who loves listening to me.

I agree that Shiesty and Mohawk are up there when it comes to enjoying your little rants.

I'm going to add Sinister and Maskless there too (as active listeners).

Full Mask, No Goggles and Prisoner tend to fall asleep, not because you're boring them but because your voice soothes them.

They adore your geekouts and will kill anyone who says otherwise.

Also, imagine telling them about a finite curve composed of all the universes where you have never been born. They would have an existential crisis.

It's one thing to lose you, but to live in a world where not even a trace of you exist? They pity those Marks.

[ninibeingdelulu]

His biggest fan ✧

Plot: You’re Michael’s girlfriend, cheering him at one of his games.

A/N: It’s so bad I hate it😓

The roar of thunderous cheers flooded the stadium as Michael unleashed another stupefying display of lethal precision and brute physicality that defied mortal comprehension.

You watched with breathless awe seated front row as that signature blue mohawk wove a hypnotic cyclone of calculated ferocity carving apart the helpless defense trailing hopelessly in his wake.

Each savage yet eerily choreographed burst from Michael's heavyweight strides reverberated across the pitch warping the boundaries of space and time itself directly proportional to his gravitational soccer supremacy.

Until the entire cosmos distilled into that infinite singularity split-second with just your striker boyfriend, the ball and the yawning maw of the goal awaiting its inevitable oblation.

You bit down hard stifling the visceral shudder trying to escape as Michael's rocket-powered thunderbolt smashed past the defenseless keeper and ignited the back of the net in a blaze of cosmic glory.

Celebrating with that bone-chilling sovereign roar staking his unchallengeable dominion once more before this mortal realm of sporting conquest still so far beneath his transcendent plane of greatness.

Even after the final whistle sounded you remained spellbound observing Michael bask in those rapturous post-coital moments savoring his ineffable feat.

Utterly transfixed upon the hyper-masculine sculpture of your man still slicked with the spoils of carnal supremacy while casting that chiseled nordic profile against the floodlit heavens he reigned sovereign over.

Until his peripheral laser focus abruptly snapped in your direction lancing directly through your aura with a telepathic tractor beam manifesting into actual physics-warping forces.

Almost like each molecule surrounding Michael compressed and bent inward before being shunted aside clearing his path towards you with terrifying inevitability.

You barely had a chance to brace yourself as the unstoppable tsunami slammed into your front row section without mercy or resistance.

The concussive shockwave blasting through your senses while those titanium bulwarks materialized around you scooping your diminutive frame against Michael's furnace-stoked musculature with crushing intensity.

"My sweet empress…I could only hear your voice back there. It motivated me, thank you.”

His rough-hewn bassline resonated against every nerve ending vibrating at some untapped primordial stratum while you strained to surface through the endless whitenoise overloading your synapses.

Only Michael's low gravitic pulses penetrating the oblivion flooding your faculties from that unholy cosmic union now peeling away every layer keeping you distinct individualities during submersion into this event horizon state of indistinguishable polarities collapsed together.

Until finally resurfacing from that singularity after an eternity compressed into nanoseconds - though still deliriously consumed by the aftershocks rippling across your intertwined vessels smoldering in the embers of rapturous conflagration yet still ravenous for more extreme escalations eternally rebirthing from the expended remains!

Only the roaring crescendos from those frenzied supporters still filling the stadium slowly penetrated the vacuous void reverberating between you both savoring that suspended infinitesimal post-orgasmic bliss together.

You felt Michael's stern facade gradually reassemble while withdrawing from your interiors just fractionally enough to restore individuation-yet sense his alpha dominion expanding throughout your reconstituted synaptic matrices cementing his reign over your fused polarities once more.

Then with a subtle shift his smokey granite stare cleaved directly through the veil drawing your reawakened senses under that spellbinding trance spellbinding instantly.

A hushed imperious rasp now caressing your essence from that primal domain where all worldly laws bent to his sovereign decrees:

"Why don’t I reward you tonight, huh, meine liebe ?”

Just experiencing the infinitesimal microcosm of his supreme essence bleeding into your rematerialized corporeal vessel already whiplashed your senses through multiple clinical deaths and resurrections beyond this plane's dimensional limits.

His seismic vibrational frequencies triggered endorphin avalanches detonating every neurotransmitter into frenzied paroxysms anticipating the ineffable escalations still awaiting together...

[shotmrmiller]

pushing on the idea of soulmate AU with actively anti military!reader and I’ve been dreaming about meeting my soulmate since I was a wee bairn!Soup😪 good either go rom-com or dub-con 🥵

no cuz wait.

johnny just wants his goddamn soulmate and he's getting old, yknow? he wants a soulmate, he wants a family, he wants his future.

then to finally meet you, whether the world drowns in color or he spots his name on the inside of your wrist, and you hate him. or his job, whatever. he's been a soldier his whole life, and he definitely isn't changing careers over an opinion. either you love him, such as fate intended, or you'll learn to. but you're his and he's yours-- you can lash out and hit him all you like once he takes you home.

"jus' sit tigh' bonnie."

it's kind of hard to hear what exactly he said over the fact that your heartbeat has been pounding inside your ears since your supposed soulmate tied you up like a hog and tossed you into the back of his 4Runner.

the rough makeshift gag that's presses against your tongue is sodden, the bite of rope around your wrists and ankles burning, a gnawing, unrelenting ache-- the price paid for your defiance.

the last bit of fight in you evaporates into thin air when he tells you that if you kick his vehicle one more time, he's breaking your legs.

"behave. we'll be home soon."

home was back where he kidnapped you. home was with your family, your dog; not some muscle head brute with a bloody mohawk and a streak for violent abductions.

you close your eyes behind the blindfold that's around your head, and a muffled whimper falls from your gagged lips.

"ye'll love it. had it built just fer ye."

[lilianalovespink]

18+ only

He should’ve known.

loitering around his store, staring up at him with those pathetic wide eyes, nervous as a doe- he should’ve known the little thing was nothing but a little thieving cunt.

“P-Please- wasn’t stealing-“ You’re squeaking like a mouse by the time he gets to you, and you have the audacity to go start crying when his greasy, gloved left hand finds your (easily breakable) neck.

He thinks about dragging you out by your hair, but ultimately decides that grabbing the little vermin by its neck and picking it up to drag it along is the better choice.

"I j-just- I needed somewhere to stay- I'm sorry-"

You're pathetic, really. All buried in a sweater that clearly isn't yours, pants slipping down your legs with your hands unable to decide between holding the loose denim fabric up and prying his paw off your neck.

"You're a fucking rat is what you are. How'd you get in?"

"I-I just- p-please- don't call the cops-"

Oh you're so pathetic. Shaking in his grasp, half trying to pry his hand off, other half apologizing for attempting the former.

Spineless.

Still, you yelp like a puppy and cry when he uses the grasp he has on your neck to rattle you proper and growl his question into your ear once more.

"S-Snuck past t-the guy with the- t-the hair-" You gesticulate towards the middle of your head, as if showing a mohawk- "w-while he was uhm, preoccupied."

Simon grunts because of course Johnny's seemingly constant need to be somehow productive and useful leads to him abandoning the things he's supposed to be doing constantly because he just- forgets, or more so, decides that keeping guard is the same as being lazy.

He could hurt you. The shop, the one soap and him share, is in a more rural part of town; hidden away from those snobby hipsters he despises, but in a safe enough part of town that, on sunny days when he's working outside, the neighborhoods kids will run all over and through the shop and the cracked concrete yard in front.

Right now, however, the situation is the following; you're a little rat he caught hiding in one of the cars currently in the shop, he has you by the neck in his fenced off 'car cemetery' and absolutely no one would be able to see what he'd do to you with how you're both hidden away in between the cars.

He knows what little skittish things like you think of big mean brutes like him, that he'll pin you to the nearest car, kick your legs apart and take and push and fuck whatever you have between your legs.

Truth is, he could do that, but he gets enough birds who try to be brave and approach him at whatever bar or pub he'd choose for that evening, and he much prefers those over a little rat such as yourself.

He settles for tossing you onto the ground and making sure you feel small when he scrutinizes you.

Does that helpless look get you any favours? From the state of you, he knows you need them. Probably live on nothing but favours and thievery.

"W-Will you call- call police....?"

He just huffs.

"No."

A beat too long, there's nothing. Then-

"Y-You want me gone....?"

That makes him snort a laugh. What exactly could've made you think he wouldn't? With a few steps, he advances on you, slight limp, gargantuan man and the speed at which you cover your head to protect it against potential blows is worrying.

"M' not gonna beat you, though you bloody well deserve it." He snarls and you slowly ease up.

He opens up part of the fence to the back of the yard, before approaching you and reaching into all of your pockets, much to your chagrin since you squirm like a little worm. A few crumpled notes is all he finds. After taking those because that's the least you owe him after trying to steal from him, he slaps your bum twice, signaling you to get out.

"Y-You- there isn't any s-shelter nearby-"

"Not my problem."

"You took my money for the fare-"

"You tried to stay the night in my shop for free. 'S my compensation for not beating you black and blue."

He expects tears and disbelief- from the state you're in, you're definitely a runaway, he just can't pinpoint from where. You look too old to be a teenage runaway, but he could be wrong. Maybe you're a little leech that's been profiting too much off of her parents who's been kicked out?

But while you give him tears, you don't give him disbelief. Seems you're somewhat used to men who don't care for you.

"P-Please- let me stay t-the night-" You're desperate, that much is obvious.

Before he can chase you off, you offer-

"I'll s-suck... Suck you off."

He laughs.

"You offer that to every man, huh? If you don't immediately gain his favour, you just offer to suck his cock f' a bit?"

Simon advances on you, and when you flinch, he huffs, eyes narrow and he's about to chase you off the same way a junkyard dog would, when-

"I c-cannot be out there- he'll find me." You insist, looking up at him as if to search for pity. You will not find it.

"Does not sound like a me problem, does it?"

You're chewing up your lip now, plump and swollen, he assumes for the same reason that your eyes are swollen and red.

"Y-You can- please, if I can stay here, you can-"

In shame, you lift up your shirt, looking away as to not see his face.

"Y-You can touch my b-breasts-"

He let's out a deep belly laugh that immediately makes you clam up and drop your shirt.

"Those are cute, but not the first pair of tits I've seen."

"P-Please-" You start crying again and he huffs.

"In one of the cars out here. And for one night, got it?" You look overjoyed, thanking him repeatedly as he leads you to a irreparably damaged VW-Bus that's vintage at this point. The leather on the benches in the back is cracked and torn, but you don't seem too upset.

As he gets you settled, he takes your wrists, making you freeze up and start panicking when he uses some zipties to tie your wrists.

"H-Huh-?" He grunts at your frightened expression.

"Can't have you stealing anything, yeah?" Simon hums, as if pleased at your fear, before standing up to his full height, or at least trying before the ceiling stops him.

He looks positively terrifying like that, huge body seeming to block out the light, and the fear in your veins makes your heart nearly explode as he unbuckles his belt.

"Alright." He huffs, and the sight of his fat cock makes you dizzy.

"On your knees then."

[baohanhanesel]

Pirate Crew TF141 Brainrot

Their ship had been sailing high and low, searching for anything that would put a good penny in their pockets. Being pirates had started to become harder each day thanks to Shepherd and his damn seals. Soap found them funny, really. To think they could hunt down the most prized pirate crew of their time with the American navy ships. Funny, truly.

Crew 141 didn't take any of their shit, they had their priorities straight with one hell of a captain to follow. 

Captain John Price was a man to die for, as much as he was a man admired by many, most of his actions weren't actually to be admired… He was a man of few words but he never lacked professionalism. As much as professionalism a pirate could muster anyways. If you were with him, you'd have a warm plate at the end of the day and a trusted leader to follow. Maybe some rum and on your lucky day the occasional whiskey. Who knows. Price was a pirate respected by men and more. He was someone you'd give up everything just to catch up with. And the captain, being himself, never helped with that part. Dangerous situation calling for some down time? He never waited. If you are left behind, you are left behind. That's the way of the pirate world. The only mercy is ruthlessness.

His first crew had been a young boy in his golden age. Ready and quick to jump into action whenever it was deemed necessary. He was reckless, and a rebel in nature. Even with his captain that is John Price, he often ended up voicing any concern out loud. His courage and those soft honey eyes… He was a master manipulator, and the captain often let it slide. He didn't know any man in this world that would be able to say no to that man's persuasion. Kyle was an important asset.

Moving into their next recruit; The Ghost. Now, there were many rumors about the man turned monster. No one had seen his face behind that black cloth mask with the skull in front of it. The bone often made everyone recoil, even the other crews in the ship. Price never exactly told anyone anything about the Ghost, people just started coming up with stories. How The Ghost had been living in the underworld till their ship took him in. Or how The Ghost had been the son of Ares ( which would explain the body and scars) and that was why he was alive. Or how he was a monster made by men, just waiting for his chance to betray the captain and take his place. Price was cruel, but Ghost? He was far worse than him. 

So imagine people's surprise when this sun of a man pokes his head behind that brute's shoulder with the brightest smile one can see. John Mactavish; nicknamed “Soap” by his peers because of his slippery past. Literally, he had been on the run from the navy for a long time till Price took him in. No man managed to catch the man. He was an easy-going guy yet not without his own issues… He was just as reckless as Kyle but unlike him Soap's was uncontrolled. He often ended up bursting and scheming. He wore his heart on his sleeves and spoke nothing short of it. Everyone in the ship knew that Mactavish was an uncontrolled and feral dog. He did have a bite to him and often times people avoided the smiling guy, not being charmed by his pretty talk. But what everyone on the ship also did know was Mactavish was only loyal to the Ghost. 

So take it from here, these guys have been trusting each other and moving forward with the hopes of finding good treasure. Or else, they'd probably be better off surrendering to that old hag’s dog and giving him another bone. 

“There is no hope here too, captain.” Kyle sighed, sliding down the dock and jumping down the stairs swiftly. He pushed the binoculars to Soap's chest. The mohawked guy took it with a dramatic grunt. 

“If there ain't no hope why am ah gettin’ sent out aye?” 

Price could do nothing but to pinch the bridge of his nose, next to him Ghost only snorted. “You know he got a point, captain.” 

Price wished he had gotten paid to tolerate these guys sometimes. But then when he raised his head, he got a glimpse of Soap's proud smile and heard Gaz's soft snicker. And suddenly it all seemed payment enough to see the youngsters alive and kicking.

“Let's sail to the south.” The captain declared, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Take a look around there before we go to the dock.” 

“You got it, cap.” Gaz saluted with his pirate hat and climbed the stairs again, getting his hand on the wheel and making a sharp turn.

“Just so ye ken ca’tain. If we cannae find anything, we are sellin’ Gaz.” 

Ghost snickered.

“I don't know Mactavish, prostituting my favorite crew doesn't sound pretty nice to me.” Price sighed.

“Who said anything about prostitution, captain? He got some valuable eyes, does he not?” Ghost, ever the comedian, chuckled darkly.

Soap joined in on the soft laugh, far too genuine for Price's comfort.

“There is no staying in the same room with you muppets...” The captain all but did a tactical retreat, grabbing his hat and making his way down his room under the big flag of their ship.

Despite all the jokes and laughter, that Price didn't partake in, they were actually royally fucked if they couldn't find any treasure to take back.

[yuriosakawa]

Gray Sons - Mohawk Mark III

The room was unusually quiet for once. Lunch trays sat in front of each Mark—modified for their individual needs. Some sipped slowly through straws. Others poked disinterestedly at their food. It wasn’t peaceful, not exactly, but it was still.

And then Mohawk Mark’s tray clattered to the floor.

His breath hitched once—then stopped entirely. His body convulsed, eyes wide in panic as his hand clutched at his chest.

“Mark?” Maskless asked, already half-rising from his seat.

Mohawk Mark didn’t respond—he collapsed.

Everything exploded into motion.

Nurses were already sprinting in, one yelling “Code Blue!” down her communicator.

Mark doubled over where he sat, bile spewing out of his mouth as he choked on his sobs. “Not again, not again, not again—”

Stripevincible turned ghostly pale. His oxygen monitor shrieked a flatline tone before he slumped over, his head hitting the table with a sickening thunk.

Sinister Mark’s hands shook so violently his tray flipped, food scattering to the ground. “Don’t you dare take another one—!”

Omni-Mark was already trying to stabilize Stripevincible, using his one good arm to keep him from sliding off his chair while yelling for more staff. Maskless Mark pressed both hands to his nose as blood began to pour again, his eyes wide with fear.

And through it all, Full Mask Mark whispered hoarsely, floating just inches above the floor, “Please… not him. Not another one…”

Outside, Cecil and Donald watched the monitors, their faces pale, cold silence hanging between them.

“Do something,” Cecil barked.

Donald was already on the radio.

Lunch was over. Peace was shattered. Again. And chaos had returned—like it never truly left.

Mohawk Mark, flat on the floor, gasped like a drowning man. His heart was spasming—irregular, desperate, failing. The med team was seconds away, but Mohawk Mark’s old, deep-rooted Viltrumite stubbornness kicked in first. Through a haze of pain and delirium, he forced his body to move.

“No,” he rasped, eyes wild. “Not going down… not again—”

Even through cardiac arrest, even through the haze, his stubbornness roared louder than reason.

“C'mon,” he wheezed, chest trembling. “Pump, damn you—pump!”

And with a trembling fist, he punched himself in the chest. Hard.

Once. Twice. Three times. Again and again. Trying to restart his own heart the only way he knew how: with brute force.

It didn’t help. In fact—

“No—he’s making it worse! Restrain him—now!” A doctor cried. 

But Mohawk Mark’s body jerked with a second wind of adrenaline-fueled panic. He hit himself again, thinking it would jolt something back into rhythm—but it only strained his heart more, pushing it into deeper arrhythmia. And like a fuse running through the room, the other Marks began spiraling.

Mark, still bent over, let out another violent retch—blood-streaked bile now pouring from his mouth as his system responded to his counterpart’s agony. He curled into himself, vomited bile again, choking on sobs, unable to even speak. His whole body trembled, his fingers digging into his thighs like anchors.

Sinister Mark let out a shrieked groan, grabbing at his temple as his entire head exploded in pain. A nosebleed dripped freely, followed by streaks of blood from the corners of his eyes. He thrashed in his chair.

“Too loud—TOO LOUD—MY HEAD—!”

Full Mask Mark, floating near the edge of the room, began to choke, a wet cough echoing through his frail chest before blood splattered from his lips onto the pristine floor.

“No, no—not now—!”

Maskless Mark’s nose spurted red again, running down his mouth as he tried to get up to help—but his legs gave out beneath him.

Prisoner Mark whimpered from his chair, face clenched in a pain he couldn’t express, skin too sensitive to bear the tension in the air.

Stripevincible remained unconscious, slumped to the side. His vitals now plummeting. Oxygen low. Breathing shallow.

Omni-Mark, barely functional himself, stood with a limp, dragging Stripevincible’s limp body off the bench, trying to lay him flat with just one arm while wheezing himself from the strain.

“We need to sedate Mohawk now or we’re going to lose all of them!” He yelled. 

They were kind of glad that Viltrumite Mark was too stunned to even properly process what was going on. 

In the monitoring room, Cecil slammed a fist on the console.

“Get in there. Restrain Mohawk—NOW.”

Donald was already calling every available med unit. But at the same time, he muttered grimly. “They’re tethered, somehow. When one slips… the others fall with him.”

Cecil’s eyes locked on the screen. Mohawk was still punching himself, blood now trickling down his chest from impact fractures.

Cecil muttered to himself, almost bitterly. “You stubborn little bastard…”

A medic finally tackled Mohawk Mark from behind, pinning him down as another jammed a sedative into his thigh.

“He’s crashing—clear the area! Get the defib! Now!”

“He’s making it worse! We’re losing him faster—!”

“CLEAR!”

His body snapped upward with the jolt. Every Mark in the room flinched.

“I… just wanted to fix it…” Mohawk’s voice was barely audible. And then darkness took him. Again.

The wave of pain subsided only slightly, but the aftermath left the ward soaked in fear, blood, and exhaustion.

Mohawk Mark, unconscious.

Mark, trembling and sick.

Sinister, holding his head in his hands, weeping silently.

Full Mask, curled into himself, blood dripping from his lips.

Stripevincible, unmoving.

Viltrumite, frozen in place. 

Omni-Mark letting out a gasp of relief he didn’t even knew he had. 

Prisoner Mark sobbing quietly to himself. 

Not dead.

But God, barely alive.

[fiepige]

My concept for Venom!Hobie

Okay here goes

DISCLAIMER: I CANNOT DRAW

I've made another post where I mentioned it as well but I'll reiterate it here:

I don't think Hobie would ever canonically accept a symbiote due to his history with them and how they're used in his universe.

Now with that out of the way let's speculate!

This is my concept sketch for Venom!Hobie

Before I go into details about the design and the possible way he would work in universe:

I wanna give the world's BIGGEST shoutout to @levionok for being the coolest person ever and actually make some AMAZING drawings of Venom!Hobie:

(Like how cool is this!?!?!!! I love these so much!! aaaaahhhhhhhhh<3 <3<3)

Okay so, first I wanna talk about his design and then I wanna speculate about the most "realistic" ways I think Venom!Hobie could come into existence/what his personality would be like.

Design:

I wanted the symbiote to exaggerate some of Hobie's physical features so I kinda went with the idea of Venom!Hobie being even lankier and spikier than regular Hobie/Spider-Punk (since the symbiotes seem to take more after the actual suit when it comes to their design I based most of their looks around how Hobie looks as Spider-Punk)

Since Hobie is already tall I of course imagine Venom!Hobie as being even taller/lankier.

Though due to his longer limbs he has a bigger tendency to walk crouched down on all fours (sixs technically?) as beautifully illustrated by @levionok above. (and less beautifully illustrated by me in the top right corner of my drawing lol)

Since Hobie also incorporates spikes into his looks I did the same for Venom!Hobie and added even more! He now has more rows of "mohawk" spikes, his choker spikes become longer and the same goes for the spikes from his jacket + he gets extra spikes along his back. He also gets spikes along his wrists! - He's a spikey boy!

Also all the spikes are made from symbiote "teeth" and could in theory be moved around on his body if he wanted to (though they mostly stay in place).

The "running mascara"-look (Idk what to call it lol) also carries over from Spider-Punk's mask and is once again even more pronounced in Venom!Hobie.

Now one of the more noticeable traits are the arms! I haven't figured every detail out yet, but so far the idea is that his arms split into two at the elbows but he's able to "fuse" them back into one arm if he wishes to (which he rarely does).

Also to get the idea across that it's his arm being split up I tried to add some symbiote goop between the two parts of the arms!

I kinda like the idea of him being able to change his "design" (changing his spikes and arms as he pleases) so to say, kinda referencing to him not believing in consistency and how he changes "filters" in his animation style! Though I picture him as looking like in the concept drawings above most of the time.

I'm also kinda toying with the idea of giving him barbed wire like webbing since I remember reading somewhere that Hobie apparently has used barbed wire instead of webs in the comics from time to time.

But I also headcanon Venom!Hobie as being more animalistic and more likely to just use brute force instead of webs.

He is fast when he's down on all fours (again sixs? idk lol)

Of course he also gets most of the classic Venom abilities and weaknesses (I haven't read the comics so I'm going off memory of the Venom movie which I've seen once like 5 years ago so please bear with me ^^')

The most noticable weakness being sound! I'll take a closer look at how this affects Hobie when I get to his personality/origin.

Okay that's all about his design for now, I might come back and add more stuff later if I come up with anything as this is still a new concept I'm workshopping (and inputs are greatly appreciated!)

Now we're moving on to his personality/origin as I feel like these two are very intertwined. Cause I feel like the way Venom!Hobie originates will affect his personality too! Let me explain:

So far I've come up with two possible ideas/reasons for Hobie to even bond with a symbiote in the first place and depending on which version you choose I feel like it would end up having different effects on his personality/how he handles the situation:

Scenario 1:

The symbiote is passed onto Hobie without him knowing!

Possibly from an encounter with the cops where a symbiote manages to latch onto Hobie as he kills its former host.

(Or maybe a villain manages to plant one on him somehow).

This would lead to a slow gradual "fusion" between Hobie and the symbiote as it would be very aware that Hobie is NOT exactly a fan of it and would do whatever he could to get rid of it/kill it if he found out about it.

If I recall correctly Eddie also wasn't aware of his symbiote in the beginning and only found out about it when it decided to make itself known. -(referencing the movie)

So I'd imagine a similar scenario here but instead of making itself known, the symbiote hides its presence from Hobie as much as possible while making small gradual changes to Hobie to prepare for an eventual fusion/take over.

Like slowly Hobie starts getting migraines whenever he plays his guitar or listens to loud music so he does so less and less without being even consciously aware of it.

At some point he even stops bringing his guitar with him on missions since he never uses it anyways and hey why did he even bring it in the first place? - I like to think that the symbiote is somewhat able to manipulate Hobie's thoughts over time to make him more susceptible to it.

Going to concerts also becomes a no no.

Hobie also changes his diet; the thought of going to the community garden just not appealing to him as much anymore for some reason. So he visits it less frequently until he also just completely stops going (affecting both his diet and his social life- the symbiote would want Hobie to be as isolated as possible to make him easier to manipulate).

Hobie doesn't realise it at first but he starts craving meat more and more and as time passes he also prepares his meals less and less until he basically eats meat raw. (I'm once again thinking about the movie and that lobster scene, though his symbiote would have to be a lot more sublte for him to not notice what's going on).

At this point Hobie would have to be almost completely isolated and under the influence of the symbiote for so long that it would finally feel "safe" making itself known, preying on his hunger (having been homeless Hobie has known hunger before but I imagine that the hunger that comes with a symbiote is its own unique thing and that it's rather extreme) and his declining mental health.

While a part of him would still very much hate it, Hobie would begrudgingly accept the symbiote and chaos would ensue.

And then of course the Spider-Gang would try and stop/save him cause they know that Hobie would never want this. Wether they're gonna be successful or not is up to interpretation.

Now personality vise I imagine this version of Venom!Hobie is gonna be mostly taken over by the symbiote and thus being more feral and animalistic. It most likely wouldn't talk a lot and mostly be focused on feeding (and like in the movie, its favourite food is gonna be humans. Hobie would try to make sure they only target cops but sometimes the hunger would win over reason).

I know this is pretty dark but I really can't imagine a positive scenario where Hobie would willingly accept a symbiote so this is my first "solution". (Though I also feel like his friends would intervene before he reached this point but still, I kinda like the idea of the slow corruption and the person not realising it until it's too late)

You still with me? Good, cause it's time for:

Scenario 2:

I'd wish that this one would be more positive but I guess that sadly isn't the case

In this scenario Hobie would have reached his breaking point.

He would have been through an experience so traumatic that he feels like a symbiote is his ONLY option.

(If I recall correctly he's reffered to himself as a "suicide machine" in the comics and this would really come into play here).

He'd become way more reckless and not really caring what happens to him in battle. He views this as his last resort.

Like maybe there's a new kind of symbiote that isn't weak to sound or fire and Hobie has no other way to defeat them than to get one himself.

The only positive is that Hobie would be more mentally in control as he's fully aware of the symbiote and how it can influence his mind.

He'd still have cravings for raw meat but he wouldn't have been as mentally unstable and only target cops/other symbiotes becomming kind of a double cannibal.

Once again his friends would try to stop him and he'd definitely be more resonable in this scenario than in the first one.

But he'd still push them away both to protect them and out of shame over his situation.

This time more of Hobie's personality would shine through but it still wouldn't be a very positive version of Hobie as I imagine any scenario with him having a symbiote would really have a negative impact on his mental health.

But still there's room for a happy ending if the Spider-Gang manage to get to him in time!

So yeah, both of these scenarios are kind of a bummer for Hobie (to put it mildly lol) but I honestly can't imagine a positive situation where Hobie would willingly accept a symbiote! (I'm more than happy to hear any takes you guys might have that prove me wrong though!)

Okay, I think that's everything for now!

I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions of Venom!Hobie!

Also let me know if there's anything you want me to elaborate on! Or of you just wanna talk Hobie or Venom!Hobie in general <3

If you made it this far you are honestly a champ and deserve all the gold stars in the world. As I sadly can't give you that have a GIF of Hobie smiling to cheer you up!

Also I wanna give another huge shout out to @levionok! Both for the amazing drawings of Venom!Hobie and for giving me the courage and motivation to share my concept of him! <3<3<3

also have another Venom!Hobie cause I can't get over how cool she made them look! If you haven't already you should really check out their tumblr! They have made some AWESOME ATSV art there!!!

[gildui]

cant stop thinking about gaz and his equestrian!reader partner. not the western trope, but an english rider.

with his sweet, saccharine smiles as he brings treats to the ladies at the barn. smooth talking them as you brush down your connemara. by the time you’re done and tracking him down, he’s got a group of ladies surrounding him, all enchanted by his stories and his cheeky, little smile. he’d just come to bring you your forgotten helmet, yet now, it was a requirement for him to stop by everytime you showed up for a hack.

suddenly everything is on the top shelf. polish? kyles got it. new set of stirrups? get kyle, heard he was helping muck a stall. saddle and blanket too heavy all of a sudden? huh, look there’s kyle carrying a water bucket. so convenient. your boyfriend is gone, no longer the lovable cuddle bug who’s awaiting you at home between deployments. now, he’s the new stable hand (unofficially, nevermind in the summer the ladies request his duties shirtless)

though the day comes that every rider fears. your little mare, tough as nails, but still spooked due to a branch a few inches off than normal on your route. out like a light. your mare gone. you’re crying, wiping your snot on your jumper when Kyle answers the phone, “babe?”

he’s greeted with more sobs—“she’s taken off, kyle” “i-i can’t bloody find ‘er!”—all he needs to hear is the small stutter in your voice before he’s signaling to his task force with a batman sigil.

cue the squad, he calls the scotsman first. who then calls the big brute with the mask, who then calls, Captain Price, the only one you know the name of. (it’s fucking gaz, we all know that boy gonna be YAPPING about his captain) and before you know it they are searching through the nearby trails with the grace of a special forces unit. who would’ve thought huh.

an hour of hunting and the five of them are walking through the brush. your mare’s reins in kyle’s hands, the bloke with the mohawk is seated on her back pretending to ride the mare like a knight and his mighty steed. leaving the two other men to trail behind in content silence.

even more hysterics ensue. you’re running to your mare—to kyle—unabashedly pressing kiss after kiss to his face in thanks. then, you plant a fat kiss to the mohawk fellow’s cheek and a smile and wave to the other boys. your horse, on the other hand, gets a stern look and she simply snorts at in you, ears lax. completely content despite the havoc she’s caused. fucking thing’s even snagged a branch to chew on as they strolled around.

it isn’t until months later—few deployments between—that kyle’s now riding next to you on your hacks. maneuvering your connemara with the grace and expertise of a rider who’d been at it for years.

just don’t tell him that, you’ll never live it down.

[gnomothrashpank]

G.G version niño, adolescente y adulto creo que nunca explicado mucho sobre este creepypasta oc sobre su contexto

G.G o por su nombre real es Pedro ortiz del carmen Isaac era un niño de la ciudad de Concepcion su creepypasta empieza en 1998 y termina en el 2015 mas que nada ocurre en un momento donde hubo mucha violencia entre subculturas como los punks y skins antifacistas contra los bonehead sobre todo el no cayo como en el punk antifacista el cayo por el lado Punk Not red el cual son ambiguos y terminan cayendo en weas facistas por eso a punks not red y nazi punk no son para queridos por el movimiento son lo mas odiado y despreciable. este personaje fue creado como burla total por que estos son brutos ignorantes que creen ideas totalitaristas y andan con mohicano, piercings incluso tatuajes.

este personaje es una radiografia al nazipunga ignorante que no entiende lo que escucha y piensa

G.G. (child, adolescent, and adult version) I don't think I've ever explained much about this creepypasta OC or its context.

G.G., or his real name is Pedro Ortiz del Carmen Isaac, was a child from the city of Concepcion. His creepypasta begins in 1998 and ends in 2015. It mostly takes place at a time when there was a lot of violence between subcultures, such as anti-fascist punks and skinheads against boneheads. He didn't fall into anti-fascist punk, but rather into Punk Not Red, which is ambiguous and ends up falling into fascist weas. That's why Punk Not Red and Nazi Punk aren't loved by the movement; they are the most hated and despicable. This character was created as a total mockery because these are ignorant brutes who believe in totalitarian ideas and walk around with Mohawks, piercings, and even tattoos.

This character is an x-ray of the ignorant Nazipunk who doesn't understand what he hears and thinks.