#though sometimes john is a bastard. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

skylarsblue · 1 year

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✦I have more C.o.D Quotes✦

Gaz: How’s your head? Y/N: Well, I haven’t had any complaints yet. Gaz: …excuse me? Y/N: Oh uh, I think I’ll live-

-- (Somewhere in Greece with a fuck ton of cats) Ghost, watching Price sneeze every five seconds: What a catastrophe. Gaz: No. Y/N: PFFT- Soap: Stop, no, don’t encourage him. Y/N: Ahem! Right, right. Not funny. Ghost: I am purrfectly capable of being funny. Y/N: *struggling* Gaz: Sometimes I wish you didn’t have a mouth.

-- Just a scene of Y/N taking out a bottle of whiskey, unscrewing they cap, then putting one of those lid caps on. (Like the ones you have on those fancy Gatorades) Taking a huge swig and closing the cap on it as Soap watches in amusement, & Price in fear.

-- Ghost: Quit messing with my hand. Soap: Quit messing with my hair! Y/N: Quit being gay. Gaz: PFFFT Y/N: Both problems solved.

-- Y/N, on the comms: You have thirteen seconds before the building fucking explodes you hot topic wannabe- Ghost: … Y/N: And you green gumball son of a bitch. Gaz: Wha-?! Soap: *WHEEZE* Y/N: You have done nothing but ruin my life; I hope you both die.

-- Soap, Gaz, & Y/N: *cackling* Laswell, losing at poker: I miss my wife, Price. Price: *places down cards* Laswell: I miss my wife.

-- Ghost, overstimulated & a lil drunk: AHHHHHH MY BONES Y/N: *frantically getting headphones* Soap, drunk: *wheeze* Gaz: Ah. I know I should’ve- *dies coughing* Soap: *more wheezing*

-- Graves *kicks in door* WHO POSTED MY NUDES ON TWITTER DOT COM?! Y/N: SUCK IT, BITCH BOY!! Alejandro: *aggressively slapping his leg while silently laughing* Rudy: *pointing and laughing* Valeria, in handcuffs: Ha, dumbass.

-- Graves: Bitch, you are gonna get in this car or I’m popping between ya eyes! Valeria: Hey, I know you. I saw your dick on Twitter! Graves: NOOOOOO Y/N: AHAHA!

-- Graves: C’mon Johnn- Y/N: *chucks a rock at Graves’ head* Graves: OW, WHY?! Y/N: NO JOHNNY FOR YOU! He goes by Soap and we respect that! Graves: Ghost calls him that! Y/N: CAUSE GHOST HAS PERMISSION, you EARN the right to Johnny! And I will be damned if anyone else earns the right before me. I been working my ass off to get the Johnny privilege and you will NOT get it for free! Soap, who’s just been standing there the whole time: *leans to Gaz* Have they actually been taking it that seriously? Gaz: Yeah. They’ve also been working real hard to try and get the right to call Captain “John”. Shoulda seen their face when I said they can call me Kyle. Soap: That’s…really sweet, I’ll give’em permission later. Gaz: Why not now? Soap: I wanna see that bastard get chewed out some more.

-- Y/N, perched on Price’s desk: Captain. Price: *sigh* Y/N: Captain I crave violence.

-- Ghost: Your family line deserves to die with you, only shame it didn’t end before you. Graves: ….I just sat down!

-- Y/N: You’re like…the human incarnation of crumbs in the bed. Graves: Oh c’MON THAT’S REAL MEAN Ghost: It’s true though. Y/N: The kinda crumbs that you keep swiping away but somehow they never leave- Graves: Alright! You know what- Soap: Like getting in bed after going to the beach. Gaz: Sand in the bed, yeah. Feels like that when he talks. Graves: I’M JUST GONNA FUCKIN LEAVE! Y/N: *watches him go* Annnd now the sheets have been changed. Ghost: Clean from filth. Alejandro: You all are so cruel and it’s perhaps the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

-- Gaz: Things Gucci with you? Y/N: It’s Goodwill at best, my guy. Price: I don’t know what this means but I feel like I should be concerned.

-- (Mild NSFW Jokie Time) Gaz: You alright? You been zoned out. Y/N: Hm? Nah I’m good, just having depraved thoughts. Gaz: Depraved, you say? Soap: Oh do tell. Y/N: You just…you ever see someone and think “they have pretty eyes”. And that’s normal. But then the little devil in the back of ya skull goes “yeah they’d look good rolled back”. Or am I just a whore? Gaz: That is depraved. Soap: Got a good point though.

-- Y/N: Ooo! Look! Old pictures of Captain, this one’s dated. You would’ve been…19 in this one. Lemme s-…… Gaz: Lemme see! ….. Price: What? Y/N: …..you were a whore, weren’t you captain? Gaz: That’s the face of an arrogant bastard who fucks regularly. Price: I…might’ve been a bit of a playboy. Y/N: And I would’ve fallen for it you god damn bastard, no ones fACE SHOULD BE THAT NICE!

-- Valeria, painting her nails: I might kill my ex, not the best idea. His new girlfriend’s next- Alejandro: ….. Rudy: ….should I be worried? Alejandro: Move away quietly and pray.

-- Ghost: For the record this is self destructive. Soap, chugging his 5th energy drink in the past hour: For the record, I’m aware of that.

-- MILF!Y/N: Boys. Bed, now. I wanna talk to your captain. Price: No, boys stay. Please stay- Y/N: Go. Price: Stay. The boys: *concern, panic, perhaps a bit of fear* Y/N: Go! Price: Stay! Y/N: You go! Soap: *speed walking* Price: Soap, stay! Y/N: NOW! Gaz: *slowly backing away* Price: Gaz, don’t move! Y/N: YOU GO! Price: SIMON- Ghost: *leaving*

-- Ghost: What was Plan A? Soap: …don’t fuck up. Ghost: And what was Plan B? Gaz: Don’t fuck up Plan A. Ghost: And what did you do? Y/N: …fucked up plan a- Ghost: YOU FUCKED UP PLAN A-

-- Ghost: What’s rule number one? Soap, with dynamite: Party! Ghost: NO! No, not party! No!

-- Graves: How about after this, we get a drink? Y/N: …I would rather gouge out my eyes and blindly navigate a way to turn them into earrings than ever be anywhere alone with you. Soap, grinning: Ooooo brutal! Ghost: Karma.

-- Ghost: Wait…Johnny’s into me? Like…he LIKES me?? Gaz: Oh Si…you poor, sad, dense mother fucker.

-- Ghost: At least nothing of importance was lost. Laswell: …Graves was kidnapped. Ghost: I know. I said what I said. Y/N: Nothing of value was lost but we did shed off some trash! Ghost: Precisely.

-- Ghost: These lights make me wanna pull my eyes out and eat them. Medic!Y/N: *turns lights off in favor of a lamp* …alright, so you’re autistic, good to know.

-- Ghost: Should I get my reading glasses? Y/N: Oh no no, this isn’t an eye test. It’s a GAY test. Now tell me, *holds up picture of Farah & Graves; Price being 1* Number one, or number two? Ghost: Number one?… Y/N: Interesting. *holds up Farah & Soap, Soap being 2* Okay now number one, or number two? Ghost: *gasp* Y/N: Number two, right? Ghost: Maybe I am gay?

-- Waitress: So, I’ve gotta ask, I’m really curious. 141: ? Waitress: Have any of you ever used like…the military language in bed? Soap: Naaaah. Y/N: No, I don’t- PFFFT, I- *wheeze* I’m sorry I’m imagining it- Gaz: *biting back laughs* Y/N: “You gonna come?” Affirmative. *laughs* Soap: *WHEEZE* Gaz: *cackling* Price: Oh lord- Gaz, snickering: Picking up speed. Y/N: COPY- *Laughter x100* The entire team: *giggling like hyenas* Ghost: Uh, that’s a no. I don’t think we’ve done that.

-- Price: *smiles at Soap & Gaz being stupid* Y/N: I like when you smile. Price: …huh? Y/N: Your smile, I like it. Makes your eyes crinkle up and your beard makes you look like a cuddly bear. You should smile more. Price, internally on the verge of tears: *fond sigh* Get back to drills, soldier. Y/N: Yes sir!

-- Ghost: *minding his fucking business* Y/N: You have pretty eyes. Ghost: *chokes on air* Pardon? Y/N: You have pretty eyes. Ghost: No I-…they’re just brown. Y/N: So? Your eyes don’t have to be blue or green to be pretty. They’re pretty because they’re expressive, and when the sun hits them they look like syrup. I like’em best when we’re all at a bar. They get brighter then. Ghost: Ghost: …stop talking, sergeant. Y/N: Copy that, L.T! <3

-- Gaz: *laughing at something on his phone* Y/N: You have a great laugh. Gaz: Hm? Oh…really? Y/N: Mhm. It’s cute, comes from your chest. I’ve never heard you laugh in anyway that’s not genuine. Really fills the room with joy. Gaz: Dude, you’re gonna make me all soft with words like that. Y/N: All according to plan!

-- Soap: *rambling about something* Y/N: *listening intently* Soap: Then-…ah, I been talkin’ at you this whole time, eh? Should probably quiet down. Y/N: No no, I like your voice! Soap: Eh? Y/N: It’s super energetic and loud, and when you tell a joke or talk about something you love, it’s like you can hear your smile. It’s really fun to listen to. I like when you talk! Soap: *inhale* You’re gonna make me cry- Y/N: I have tissues!

-- König: *fidgeting* Y/N: *takes his hands* You have beautiful hands. König: Wh- Huh?? No they are not. Y/N: They are too! König: Nien, they’re rough and calloused, they break a lot of things… Y/N: They also pet stray cats, make the best coffee on base, and create crotchet works of art. They also mend wounds pretty well. Yeah they fire guns but that doesn’t make them less beautiful. König: *he’s actually crying* …Danke. Y/N: Don’t mention it!

-- Rudy: *rolling his shoulder* Y/N: Anyone ever tell you that you have great shoulders? Rudy: Hm? Oh uh…no, I don’t believe so. Y/N: Well you do! Rudy: Ah, gracias. When I was younger I wanted them to be broader, sometimes now I wish they were more narrow. Can never really be happy with’em, you know? Y/N: Well I think you should be. They’re strong! *gently pats his shoulders* They hold a lot of weight, metaphorically and physically. And even when they’re weighed down, you shoulder it and keep moving. You’re real good at that! I like your shoulders. Rudy, prepared to die for them: …gracias. Y/N: No problem! Now c’mon, the guys are waitin’ for us!

-- Y/N: You have good collarbones. Alejandro: What was that? Y/N: Sorry, I know that’s real specific, but I think your collarbones are pretty. It’s like…the rest of you is bulky and strong, rugged. Then you have these delicate bones. I’m probably being too poetic but it’s like a subtle nod to your gentler side, just, built into your body. Alejandro: …you have a lovely way with words, camarada. Y/N: Thank you! I appreciate that!!

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inkbybambi · 5 months

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bar owner!john price kisses you under the mistletoe —

words: 4.9k rating: e warnings: fem!reader, praise kink/praises, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, multiple orgasms, pet names, biting/marking, finger sucking, size kink, john steals your panties, please let me know if i missed anything. this has been edited to the best of my ability. notes: this is my contribution to @bunnyreaper's call of duty secret santa exchange and is dedicated to @a-very-bored-blogger ♡ my blog and all my works are 18+ so minors dni. proper warnings have been provided.

being the boss’s favorite has its perks.

you’re the first to try new spirits and brews he orders for the bar. he doesn’t bother trying to hide his snort of amusement each time your face scrunches up when something tastes particularly awful.

you try to hide your blush when he delicately takes the glass from your hand, fingers briefly touching, throwing back the rest of the drink without flinching.

smug bastard always winks after.

you’re the only one allowed to lounge in his office on your lunch, even when he’s not there. you ignored the pointed looks from the others when he first gave you the key. it dangles on a pink, heart-shaped carabiner. there’s a drawer of snacks and a mini-fridge that’s always stocked for you. a pile of your books are stacked on his desk with his other papers, most of them he gifted himself.

you never see the way his cheeks go pink every time you read one of the books he chose.

you’re the only one allowed to take the beanie off his head. sometimes he puts it there himself. soap tried it once and never again after his hand got thwacked with a wet dish rag.

your favorite perk?

the way he lingers when you’re the one closing, always nearby as you wipe down the counters and dry the glasses. the gentle press of his palm at the small of your back when he maneuvers around you; when he hands you something you’ve asked for and his eyes glitter when you say thank you; the soft touch at the nape of your neck when you’re finally done and tucking the rag away, gently guiding you to the door.

sometimes he walks you home. sometimes he drives you. you’ve begun to look forward to it now.

lately — more often than not — you find yourself hiked up on the counter, john standing between your legs, radiating heat like a furnace, his big hands cupping your face as his tongue slides deep into your mouth, tasting you and swallowing your soft whines.

he always tastes like cigars, which you complained about at first, but now you couldn’t care about when his fingers thread though your hair, tipping your head to the side so he can slide his mouth along the line of your throat, beard scratching your skin.

he’s careful to not leave any marks. but each time his teeth skim the column of your throat, he presses sharper, harder.

you want him to bite you.

everyone assumes you two are fucking anyway.

he said he’d walk you home.

twenty minutes ago.

he pulls away, leaving you breathless, pressing his nose against your cheek. you close your eyes and lean into him, lightly scratching at the base of his skull.

“should get you home,” he rumbles low in his chest, voice like gravel. it makes you ache.

you can’t say much apart from a small hum of agreement, not wanting to leave the warmth of his body.

he doesn’t make any effort to pull away either.

his lips drag from your cheek to your jaw, nipping at the hinge before soothing it with his tongue. you shudder on an inhale, waiting for what’s next.

“let me get your bag,” he murmurs, voice still soft as if he doesn’t want to shatter the calm that’s settled over you two, like a veil of gossamer protecting you from the outside world.

with one last, slow kiss, he leaves to gather your bags, slipping his beanie on your head and walking you out.

he clicks the lights off.

no matter how many times or how often you find yourself wrapped in winter’s cold embrace of snow and icy wind, you hate it.

you like it from the inside. with a warm drink of whatever — sometimes spiked, if you’re feeling cheeky — and blessedly not outside.

this is your first christmas with the bar — with the boys — and john invited you to help decorate for the season.

this is your first time feeling like you belong somewhere. the boys have been together for years now, as you’ve learned over your time with them, but they took you in and made you feel welcome from the very start.

you, however, felt awkward the first couple shifts, as to be expected. one night, about a week settling into the job, you stood up to a particularly rowdy client — gaz and soap minding the bar with you, exchanging glances with each other and keeping an eye on the situation; simon and john lingering around the billiard tables with some regulars, also with an eagle eye on you. you didn’t back down to his crass attitude and sharp words, damn near throwing the lime you were cutting at his face. a tense moment or so passed before he submitted, mumbling an apology and throwing a twenty pound note on the bar along with the rest of his tab, slinking to a seat in the back.

closing the bar a few hours later, soap handed you a shot of something gross with a proud smirk on his face, gaz excitedly talking with you, relaying the moment with vigor, his eyes sparkling with amusement as if you were some sort of superhero. simon, far more subdued than the others and wearing his skull-painted balaclava, simply gives you a nod of approval as he raises a glass to you.

that was the first night john kissed you.

you’ve felt at home ever since.

snow flurries cling to your lashes as you trudge through layers of snow, scarf wrapped up around your nose and john’s beanie pulled down as much as possible.

you tried to return it last night before he left, but he insisted on you keeping it. you’re grateful for that now, stuffing your hands as deep into your pockets as possible, hating the way the wind bites so fiercely, it feels like you’re wearing nothing at all — bones and blood turning to ice.

ten excruciatingly cold minutes later, you stumble into the bar, shaking yourself off like a wet dog and stomping your boots to dislodge the snow clinging to the sole. some of it buried into the back of your boot while walking, and you try not to make a face when your socks feel damp.

“there she is!” comes soap’s cheerful call, standing behind the bar with a cardboard box in front of him.

you unravel yourself from the scarf and dust off the beanie from the last of the snow, wiggling your fingers as you make your way over so you can start feeling them again. john turns to look at you with a warm smile, and you flush under his attention. simon accepts a glass from gaz, tipping it towards him in thanks. gaz passes glasses to john and soap next, finally setting one down at the seat next to john — intended for you, as he gives you a knowing smirk, which you pointedly ignore with a roll of your eyes — and sipping from his own as he settles next to soap.

“what’s this?” you ask, taking a sip.

“that’s a gin and tonic, love,” gaz replies easily, and you give him an unamused look.

“i meant the box,” you clarify, as soap chuckles and uses a box cutter to open it, taking out a sheet of paper and reading over it with a soft smile on his lips.

“this,” he says, pulling a knit sweater from the box and checking the sticky note on the front, handing it to john, “is tradition.”

you take a healthy sip — gaz uses a heavy hand —and watch as he continues to pull the sweaters from the box, handing one to simon and then gaz. he takes another from the box, resting it in front of him.

“ma nana, bless her, makes us christmas jumpers,” he says with a fond smile. you watch as gaz eagerly strips his current sweater to put the new one on.

your heart aches, but the corner of your lips quirk up as you watch even simon pull his on.

he reaches into the box again, one last sweater being handed to you. “ah told her ‘bout you,” he begins as you take it from him, unraveling it and feeling the sting of tears line your eyes. “she says welcome to the family.”

you blink at him with teary eyes and he coos at you, leaning over the counter to squish your cheeks affectionately.

“go on then, hen,” he says as he releases you, nodding towards the jumper. you eagerly strip out of your jacket, taking the beanie off and settling it on the counter before pulling the sweater over your head.

it fits like a dream.

“don’t ask,” soap says with a wink, taking a sip and turning away so you wouldn’t even have the chance to ask.

you look over to john, blue eyes dark as he takes you in, something unreadable in his expression. his eyes flick to yours, gaze softening as he gives you one of his signature smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners so you know it’s real, reaching out to ruffle your hair before standing from his seat.

“right then,” he says, “let’s get to work.”

after the garland has been hung, mistletoe put over every possible doorway thanks to soap, fake poinsettias and other decorations spread all throughout the bar, you deem it to be ready for the holiday.

or as ready as it can be, but you’ll take what you can.

the boys turn one of the tvs on to watch the premier league game, lounging in their new, festive jumpers and drinks on the table. you take the moment to slip away to the back office where john is, having retreated there himself a half-hour earlier.

the door is slightly ajar, but you knock lightly before pushing it open a little more.

john sits at his desk, sweater pushed up his forearms and stretching across his broad chest. you swallow a pathetic whimper, turning to close the door. you didn’t lock it — fingers crossed the game keeps the boys occupied enough to not worry about you.

john watches you with those same dark eyes — arousal dampening your panties — as you make your way over to him. he pushes his chair back enough for you to climb into his lap, settling yourself comfortably over his thick thighs. your fingers card affectionately through his mutton chops, and he lets out a pleased hum, closing his eyes.

“i got you a gift,” you confess in a whisper, shy and uncertain.

his eyes flick open, clearly intrigued, but doesn’t prompt you any further. he rests his hands on your hips, dipping under the hem of the sweater to grasp your waist, thumbs rubbing affectionately over your skin, pulling you closer.

“did you now?” he asks, clearly amused, hands drifting higher. you let out an indignant squeak, swatting his chest.

“it’s not me!” you say, though the idea certainly isn’t a bad one.

“pity,” he muses, chuckling, before his hands come back to respectfully settle on your waist. “what is it, then?”

you chew the inside of your cheek, suddenly worrying that it’s too much, or that it’s not enough, or he won’t like it or —

“love?” he prompts you, as if he could sense the way you’re spiraling into your own mind.

you balance yourself up on your knees — which doesn’t help your claim that you’re not the gift — pulling out a slightly crumpled, white envelope from your back pocket. you press it against his chest, unable to meet his eyes. his hand — warm and broad and comforting — comes up to rest over yours for a moment before he takes the envelope, opening it with a raised eyebrow.

he looks over the tickets that rest inside, before he looks back to you, taken off guard.

“merry christmas,” you whisper, even though the holiday is weeks away. he surges up to kiss you, tickets pressed to your cheek as he licks into your mouth, a surprised noise rising in your throat.

resting your hands on his shoulders, you sink into the kiss, slipping deeper into his lap as his tongue presses against yours, the familiar warmth settling over you.

“how did you..?” he asks, breathless, moving to press kisses over your cheeks and jaw, and you giggle and push him away, his beard tickling your skin.

“i used this thing called money,” you tease, scratching at his beard as he rolls his eyes, “which my lovely boss gives me every two weeks.”

“cheeky,” he laughs, returning the tickets to the envelope and placing it on the desk. “you’ll go with me, yeah?”

not that he has to ask, but it’s still a sweet gesture.

two tickets to a newcastle game are tucked into the envelope, set for some time in the new year. you can’t think of a better way for it to begin.

you know john has a jersey— he wears it on game day. you always appreciate the way you’re able to unashamedly stare at his forearms, corded muscle working as he pours drinks and cleans the counter top. he’s unfairly attractive in it.

he grasps one of your wrists lightly, breaking you from your reverie, turning it enough to drag his lips across your palm.

you fall quiet as you watch him, kissing each of your fingertips, and then pressing your palm against his cheek, looking up at you with reverence, like you were something to worship, to spread out and show his devotion to you.

“you know soap put mistletoe above my door before you came in,” he murmurs and you raise an eyebrow.

“did he?”

he hums low in his throat, hands going underneath your jumper once more. you bite your lip as they graze up and down your sides, inching higher and higher.

“well i’m not one to break tradition,” you reply, leaning in close to press your lips against his.

you happily sit in his lap as you indulge in his kisses, languid and deep, so content you could almost purr.

“i have a gift for you too,” he says against your lips, biting at it lightly before kissing the corner of your mouth. you make an interested noise, not wanting to pull away from his mouth, from him. he chuckles as he gives in to kiss you once more, hands beginning to ruck up your jumper.

he rocks his hips up against yours, and you whine almost pathetically into his mouth, pawing at his shoulders.

“it’s not this,” he says, clearly amused, but pushes you away enough to bring your jumper up over your head, leaving you in one of your nicer, lacy bras — if you wore it specifically for him, you’ll never tell.

he’s kind enough to fold it over and place it on his desk before turning his attention back to you.

“god, look at you,” he marvels, leaning in to press his lips to your collar, down to the valley between your breasts.

you flush under his attention, one hand braced on the middle of your back, his other dragging the fabric of your bra down, laving his tongue over your nipple, biting it gently to a firm peak and sealing his lips over it.

“fuck,” you exhale shakily, gripping the nape of his neck, feeling the way he hardens under your touch, arousal slicking your panties, sticky and wet where you’re pressed against him.

he deftly unhooks your bra, dragging the straps down until it pools in your lap. he immediately moves to mouth over your other nipple, thumb brushing over the hardened nub that’s already shining with his spit.

he stands suddenly, bra falling forgotten to the floor as he settles you onto his desk, licking deeper into your mouth as you move to undo his belt, feeling almost frantic with the need to feel him.

“you’re so gorgeous, darling,” he says against your lips, his own hands unbuttoning your jeans. you manage to pull his belt loose, pushing his jeans and boxers down enough to feel the coarse hair at the base of his cock before he stops you.

“wait a second, love,” he’s gentle as he grasps your wrists. “wanna get yours off first,” he adds.

you pout — just a little — but acquiesce to his request, tilting your hips enough for him to pull your jeans and underwear down to your ankles.

“ah. fuck,” he sighs, exasperated, before he kneels down — a little awkwardly, with the state of his own bottoms — to unlace your boots to drop them to the floor, your panties and jeans following soon after.

“there,” he sighs as he grasps your face for a kiss, and you hum happily against his mouth, gripping him for stability.

“are you sure this isn’t my gift?” you ask, a teasing lilt to your voice, as he drags his mouth to your cheek and then to nip the lobe of your ear.

he laughs, and it goes right to your core, molten heat trickling down your spine, leaking from your pussy to the desk underneath.

“i promise,” he says, voice low, pressing a tantalizing kiss to the soft, sensitive skin behind your ear.

when you open your mouth to reply, he rests two fingers on your bottom lip, almost touching the tip of your tongue.

he’s asking permission, you realize, so you take his wrist to draw his fingers further into your mouth, closing your lips around his thick fingers, tongue slipping between them and sucking them deeper.

“that’s a good girl,” he praises, a deep honey drawl that makes you weak. you swallow back a whine. he presses his fingers down against your tongue, and you blink up at him through glassy doe eyes, still grasping his wrist lightly.

you whimper, when he’s too enchanted with the sight of his fingers deep in your mouth, arousal coating your thighs. glazed eyes turn to you, a hum of approval reverberating in his throat. he slowly withdraws them, your lips glossy with spit.

his fingers drift down to your cunt, already soaking with need, dragging them lazily through your folds to mix your own spit into the mix. he leans down to kiss you, and you rest your hand on his cheek to keep him close.

“so wet for me already, darling,” he marvels as he continues to gather your slick on his fingers, moving up to press gently against your clit, rubbing it in slow, soft circles. “think you can take both?” he glides his fingers over your entrance, feeling the way your walls flutter in anticipation.

you nod eagerly and he leans close to kiss you, licking into the heat of your mouth; at the same time, he sinks both fingers into you, far more gentle that you expected. the stretch catches you off guard, gasping against his lips. he pulls back, a hair’s breadth apart, merely breathing you in as your walls clench around him, trying to get used to the feeling of him filling you full.

“too much?” he murmurs.

“just,” with a shake of your head, you breathe in, moving to grip his neck, nails sinking into his skin. you want to leave your own marks on him. “been awhile,” you admit on the exhale, drawing him back in to kiss, relaxing into his touch while he happily gives into you.

your mouth drags from his, to the corner of his lips, over to his cheek, right where the line of his beard starts to tickle your skin. he's kind, and patient, and so, so good to you.

“good?” he asks when you rock your hips into his touch, but he doesn’t start moving his fingers until you actually say yes, pressing the word to his cheek like a promise.

he’s surprisingly delicate with his touch, as he is with everything else when it comes to you, but the filthy sound of your slick and spit fills the air along your quiet noises, choking down your whines and mewls.

soap would be insufferable if he found out about this.

“i know it feels good, love,” he says against your lips, his own curled into a smirk — cocky bastard — “you have to keep quiet for me though, yeah?”

but then his fingers curl and graze the spot inside you that leaves you trembling, head tipping back as your nails dig deeper into the nape of his neck. he continues to rock his fingers against that spot, deadly precision as he takes the opportunity to bite and suck marks onto the column of your throat, the sting of his teeth making you feel delirious with pleasure.

“fuck, john,” you whine as you draw him close enough to hide your face into the collar of his sweater, the scent of cigars and sex making your head spin, thoughts turning to static. “‘m gonna cum,” you pant against his collar, trying so desperately to keep yourself quiet.

it’s not going particularly well.

another few pumps of his fingers, your clit under his thumb, and white hot pleasure pools down your spine. you muffle your moan against him as your legs shake and cum spills over his fingers. he works you through it, soft praises whispered against the crown of your head.

you’re pliant in his arms, all the tension seeping from your body as he slowly withdraws his fingers. your grab for his wrist, eyes bleary and glossy, feeling the weight of his gaze as you draw his fingers into your mouth, licking your release from him.

“fuckin’ hell, love,” he grasps your face, tongue pressing into your mouth, “gonna be the death of me.”

he finally allows you to push his bottoms down enough to free his cock, hard and heavy against his stomach, pre-cum already dripping from the tip. you go to reach for him, eager to touch him just as he touched you, but he captures your wrist and moves to tip you back against the desk.

you grip the hem of his jumper, something of a pout gracing your lips as you blink up at him, desperate to feel his skin against yours. he takes his own off with far less grace than he did your own, but still has enough sense to try and fold it and place it over yours.

it is a gift, after all.

“better?” he asks, a chuckle rising as you immediately move to trace over the planes of his chest, nails scratching through the dark hair that litters his body. faint red marks are left in the wake of your touch, all the way down to his hips, a thatch of hair in a line leading down to his length.

“much,” is your reply as you drag him close to you, nose buried in his throat to smell cigar smoke and sandalwood, the comfort and musk making you keen, impatient for his touch, his kiss, his cock.

he braces one hand by your hip, caging you against him, and you tilt up enough to lace your legs around his waist, wanting to bury yourself into his veins, wanting to be as close as possible. he takes himself in his other hand, dragging it through your folds, teasing your sensitive clit.

you whine at him.

he gives you a soft kiss before moving to kiss your collar, watching as his cock sinks into you — just the tip. he keeps his hold on himself, dragging himself in and out, feeling the way your cunt tries so desperately to draw him deeper. the wet heat makes his breath stutter, tests his patience so he doesn’t sheath himself completely in one sharp thrust, wanting to do this — needing to do this — properly, even if you are fucking in his office instead of his bed.

“john,” you damn near sob against his temple, lacing one arm around his shoulders, unashamed with how desperate you are to feel all of him.

he accidentally slips from your heat, and guides himself back, notching the fat head at your entrance, already shiny with your desire. he pushes in slowly, and you gasp and grab at him, head tipping back as your eyes close, never having felt so full before.

“f-fuck,” you whine, having enough sense to bring your gaze back to watch as he sheathes himself completely inside you, your clit pressing against the dark hairs at the base of his dick.

“such a good girl for me.” his teeth latch on to the side of your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark, keeping himself still until you mewl out a soft move, please.

he captures your mouth with his own when he starts thrusting in earnest, swallowing each moan and cry that rises from your throat, wishing the desk wouldn’t squeak so fucking loud, the schlick of his cock pumping in and out of your soaked pussy making it impossible to focus on anything else.

he lays you down against the desk, hooking your legs under his arms to press them up by your side, allowing him to push even deeper, his cockhead kissing your cervix with his thrusts, each a little more brutal than the last. your nails thread through his hair, the strands damp with his sweat, and you bring them down to his shoulders, his arms, digging in sharp to continue leaving your marks all over him.

“careful now, pet,” he taunts, right in your ear, a shiver going down your spine right to your pussy, clenching tighter around him in response. “only mark me if you’re gonna keep me.”

you’re breathless as you respond, the pleasure pooling in your gut and spreading throughout like liquid fire — unable to think of anything but him, and the way he touches you, and the way his teeth sink into your neck until you squeal with the sharp, biting pain that he soothes with his tongue.

“i will, i will,” you say, nails digging in deeper — a show of devotion, of loyalty. “i promise.”

“my darling girl.” the praise, the possession — it burns you from the inside out.

“please, please, please,” you beg, so close to the precipice of your second orgasm, pleasure like venom lining your blood.

“taking my cock so well, love, fuckin’ made for me.” his voice is low, almost a growl, your cum making a thick ring of cream wet the base of him. “you need to cum so badly, don’t you?”

past the point of being able to form words, you cry and nod, tears spilling down your cheeks, overwhelmed, hands moving down to hold him by his waist, too weak to do anything more than lay there and take anything john gives you.

“cum on my cock, darling, i want to feel it.” you’d never think he’d have such a filthy mouth, but it’s just enough to snap the coil of pleasure that’s been building. you arch up into him, his name on your lips, unable to hold back any longer as you shake with the force of it.

he buries himself to the hilt inside you, feeling the pulses of his cock as thick streams of his cum paint your insides, filling you full. he pants out a jesus christ, pressing his weight down on you, his spend starting to leak from where he’s still buried deep inside you.

you lay there, comforted by his weight and warmth, the scent of sex and sweat mixing with the ever-present smell of cigar smoke that’s practically embedded into john’s skin.

after a few minutes of laying there, john presses soft kisses to the column of your throat — over the marks, his marks, that litter your skin — he pulls out of you slowly. you whine at the loss of him, feeling so empty now without him inside you, burrowed close to your heart. his cum drips from your cunt, gathering on the table below.

“let me get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, pulling his own bottoms up and slipping back into his jumper, walking around the side of the desk — dropping a kiss to your temple — and leaves, coming back only moments later with a washcloth. he wipes you down so gently, a second one dragging over your skin in light strokes to dry you off.

he helps sit you up, gripping your waist and steadying you before gathering your panties and bottoms. he pauses for a moment, eyes flickering to yours before a smirk paints his lips, tucking your panties into his back pocket and helping you into your jeans. as he gathers something from one of his desk drawers, you wrangle yourself back into your own jumper.

“so,” he begins, settling back into his chair and patting his lap, which you crawl into eagerly, as your sense of stability and balance have yet to return, pressing yourself close, “close your eyes.”

you give him a look, though his face gives nothing away. you close your eyes, hearing what sounds like a hinge opening and the sharp snap of a case. his hands go around your throat next, but he doesn’t touch you. he’s quiet for a moment, but then settles his touch back to your waist.

“alright, darling, open up.”

you immediately bring your hand to your throat, feeling the delicate chain that’s now laying there. you gently bring it up, looking over the charm in your fingers, before your breath catches in your throat.

he smiles at you like you’re the sun, and you cup his cheeks, leaning in close to press multiple kisses to his mouth, sniffling a little while he coos at your reaction.

“you’re my favorite christmas present.”

soap is, indeed, insufferable about it when you finally emerge from the back office. he gives you a shit-eating grin, musing out loud that he should hang mistletoe off john’s belt next.

#ink by bambi #secret santa #john price x reader #john price x you #john price au #john price imagine #john price smut #modern warfare imagine #modern warfare smut #modern warfare au

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vixen7243 · 1 month

Text

Wrong Chat: 2

Johnny X AFAB!Reader | TF141 X AFAB!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

MDNI !!!

You watched as Johnny and the guys huddled by the door, well except for Kyle, you weren't sure if he knew of what was happening, had you really sent that video to the chat? Tugging the blanket up to your chin slightly you couldn't help the blush that covered your cheeks when you noticed that Simon wasn't even participating in the talk that was happening between your boyfriend and John. Grabbing your phone to try and distract yourself, you stopped the video that you had started and deleted it, curiously you opened the chat and sure enough, it was right there and so was the responses from the guys, squeezing your eyes shut you covered your face, it wasn't completely your fault, Johnny was just so damn impatient and wanted you to keep sending them all to him right away. "Bonnie," Looking up, you watched as Johnny walked around the bed, resting his hand on your knee sitting by you, he had thrown on a pair of his boxers but his erection was still noticeable, even to you. Looking up to him you notice a lingering hesitancy, "how would you feel bout the lads havin a little taste of ye?"

You felt like a fish out of water, gaping at him jaw hung open slightly as you quickly looked to the door when hearing the front door slam shut and rapid foot steps coming up the stairs before Kyle slouched at the door frame, "You rat bastards. I see thankfully nothing started yet." You tuned them out as small bantered lifted the air between Simon and Kyle, you looked back at Johnny, you two had more than once thrown in a random partner in your sex lives, sometimes he encourage a one night fling with someone he would set up for you on tinder, only if you recorded it and sent it to him, and the talk of even letting his closest mates maybe having a shot with you was a constant reoccurring conversation. That's all it was though, conversation before he taunted you with filthy details of how they would use you and then the both of you screwing like bunnies all the way to your bed, Johnny loved overstimulating himself and you till the both of you were pussydrunk/cockdrunk.

Nervous though of how the teams bond would survive after sharing one of the teams girlfriend, the non promising flirting clearing meaning more if you said you didn't mind. You knew they were all very close, brothers in arms, friends, family, would everything really be okay if they were openly intimate with the same girl, seeing such vulnerable sides to each other? Nibbling on your lip, you wondered if Johnny would be fine with you after, you only had one night stands with men you never, ever saw again, those men never coming up to thought in either your or Johnny's mind. This would be so different though, Johnny would be seeing them all the time, you as well, would he be able to properly handle that? "Are YOU sure you're okay with them, 'having a taste'?" The bickering silenced at your inquiry, "You're not just fine with this because they showed up? This won't bother you later down the road? You work with them, you're all so close. We've made small talk every now and then of... you know... them maybe joining in, but I never thought that those could actually be holding any real weight with you. Did they?"

Johnny squeezed your knee, smiling softly at you, pulling you into his arms, kissing the top of your head, "Oh bonnie, I will be completely fine with this, we had talked about it a lot before, on my end, I did think that we were on the same page of them, that is my fault, probably too light hearted on it before fogging your mind up on my dick, eh?" Pulling back from him you playfully smacked his arm.

"Johnny." Chuckling with him you met him half way in a soft kiss, "So you're really, truly, 100% okay with..." Looking over to the others who were attentively listening and inched closer at your glance, "sharing?"

Taking the blanket from your hands, he slowly started pulling it down and away from your body, shuffling towards the bed you looked to the men, Johnny pulling your ankle to the side, your sopping cunny presented to them. Gasping at the cool air hitting your folds, your eyes followed as fingers nimbly undid buttons, zippers and belts, "You just sit back and relax eh bonnie, we'll move and handle your every need." Sighing, you looked up to Kyle who snuck around Simon and reached your side, guiding your face closer kissing you deeply, tasting you and groaning when you pushed closer with him. Feeling another pair of hands on your legs and hips, you tried to open your eyes and look, but Kyle was insistent on not breaking the kiss as his hand slid into your hair holding you still. You gasping into the kiss as you felt someone's calloused fingers rubbed into your clit, roughly toying with it making your hips attempt to rut against the fingers, only to be stopped by another pair of hands pushing your hips into the bed. Huffing, you pulled back gasping for air as you shot your eyes down and watched as John pushed your other knee down before pinching your clit and giving a short twist, crying slightly you jolted, grunting when Simon leaned into you and bite your nipple.

So lost and overwhelmed with all the stimulation to your body you looked over to Johnny, he was holding his cock back in his hand leaning in to suck at your neck, looking back at Kyle you helped him fish out his dick, licking your lips at the length, "Pretty." Looking up at him when he chuckled you realize you had said that out loud, giving him a few strokes before you shifted to move closer opening your mouth, he met you the rest of the way, groaning when your wet tongue slid over the slit of his cockhead. Sucking him into your mouth, you gave a few bobs of your head, using your hand to pump what you couldn't fit into your mouth.

"Impatient as ever huh, Gaz?" John said as he leaned down, pushing Simon's hands from your hips, shifting you forward slightly, Kyle's cock slipping a little further down your throat making you gag, "Sorry darling, need little more space." Whimpering around Kyle's dick you bucked forward when you felt John's lips against your clit, his fingers sliding down to your dripping slit, pushing the remaining bit of Johnny's spunk right back into your clenching hole. You reached out your other hand, before it was guided to a fat cock, your nimble fingers barely grazing each other as you wrapped them around the shaft, feeling the big hand around yours, you started pumping the appendage. Shifting your eyes slight from the movement behind you on the bed you saw as Johnny removed your hand from Kyle and sat up on his knees, your hand making quick work back on his shaft. Letting you get your pace, Johnny bunched up your hair in his fist pushing you a little further down onto Kyle, a gargled whimper getting stuck in your throat at the action. "Shit, keep that up MacTavish, she's sucking my damn fingers in deeper." Clenching again around John's fingers you felt tears prickling your eyes as Johnny listened and made you move fast.

Choking slightly you tried your best to keep your hands moving, faltering making Simon keep his hold on your hand tight as he helped you drag up and down his thick shaft. Blinking, tears started slipping down your cheeks when Kyle's grunt continued to get louder, his hips making quick deep thrusts against Johnny's guided movements. Gargling you started shifting, hips moving against John's assault on you cunny, you felt close to cumming but darted your eyes to Johnny who let you momentarily abandon his cock, your hand darting up to Kyle's hip, tugging on his pants before both his hands grabbed either side of your head, also grasping Johnny's hand, shoving his dick deep into your throat, his shaven pelvic pushed to your nose, all air halted. You could feel his cum shooting down your throat, forced to try and swallow it down or continue to choke around him as he stayed still, head thrown back, eyes rolled back, his groans filling the room.

As soon as his hands and Johnny's left your head, you pulled back, strings of his cum and your spit connecting your lips to his twitching dick, coughing and gasping you whined turning your head down to look at John, "Stop, no, I'm goin to..." Stopping when Johnny pulled your hand back from pushing John's head away, you rutted your hips into John's face cumming against him, still struggling to regain control of your breathing, your hand around Simon's shaft tighten and pushed down making him grunt.

Once John had licked up your essence, dutifully also sucking up Johnny's cum from your cunt, he gently used his palm to rub fully against your mound. "Damn good job darling." Sniffling you leaned back, Johnny moving a pillow under your head, kissing your temple as John removed his shirt and tugging his pants off before climbing back between your legs, his beard was wet as he leaned into you kissing you, you could taste yourself and Johnny on his tongue, he'd eaten you out while filled with another man's cum like it was nothing and the thought that since it was so easy he probably would even mind sucking from the source to get a taste. Wondering if he was enjoying that he could too also taste Kyle on your tongue you combed your fingers up through his beard to his scalp, moaning when you could feel his tip nudging your entrance. "Sexy little minx, you ready?"

Nodding your head you bent your legs shifting them a little more for him, you arched into him moaning when he slowly started pushing into you, completely overstimulated and spent as soon as he was fully into you to the hilt of his dick, you cried into his mouth cumming already. Twitching beneath him, you sniffled as he leaned up looking down at you, the look in his eyes full of humor and fondness, "Sweat heart, cumming already like that, fuck, almost had me cumming in these tight walls." Pushing the hair stuck to your forehead back he rested on his forearms rolling his hips into you, "You'll let me fill up this poor little cunt won't you?"

Wrapping your weak arms around his shoulders you nodded your head, taking slow thrusts at first, John built you back up, grunting each time your gummy walls squished around him, your cum and still some left over spend from Johnny that was buried deep in your frothing around the base of his cock. He was slowly loosing himself as he hooked your knees up to his chest bending you into a mating press, "I'm going to fuck my cum right into your womb darling, making you right and full of me." Moaning you grabbed his shoulders pulling him down, drooling at the thought that you could very well get pregnant from tonight, Johnny had such a big breeding kink that he had you addicted to the thought of being round and carrying his baby you agreed to stop taking your birth control. You never worried about not being married yet, with how much the two of you love each other you guys knew that it would happen eventually whether you've had kids yet or not. Of course, when you would have one night stands your were more than persistent to make sure they wore a condom and that you took a plan B pill just incase, but the mere thought that John could be possibly responsible for breeding you like a whore in front of your boyfriend made you gush around him again, "You love that huh? Fucking a baby right into this pretty cunt, you won't even put up a fight huh? You would raise it like we had been together for years huh?"

God, yes, yes you would, Johnny even groaned to the left of you, knowing he was agreeing you rode out your orgasm while John's hips lost their rhythm his cock pushing right into your cervix, twitching as his cum filling every crevasse in you. The both of you, held still, John letting his balls drain into you, slotting your fingers up into his beard, dazed you gently pulled him down to you, the kiss a slow burning heat, tongues more gently gliding over each other, lips barely parted as you guys shifted deepening the kiss, the world tuned out as you two soaked in the other. Having collected your self's, John slowly pulled back, and the look in his eyes made your walls reflutter around his softening shaft, pulling out of you he gave you another quick soft kiss. Your legs lowered to the bed, dazed and pliant, you waited for Simon to reach down to you, he started shifting you, he had turned you around and laid you down on your stomach.

As rough as his hands looked, they were gentle as he handled you, pulling your hips up before folding a pillow and pushing it under them, you felt his finger nails, blunt, drag from your arched ass, down and up your spine, goosebumps following the trail, "I'm not much one for being too gentle lovie, I'll hold back starting off for you, but I will use this filthy cunt till you've drained everything I have for you." His voice made your walls flutter around nothing, his harsh promise of possibly absolutely ruining your pussy more than it already was had you drooling and nodding at the promise fisting the bed sheet in your hands. Feeling his rough hands spread your legs, he shifted in between your legs, shoving his pants down half way down his thighs, you could feel the metal bit of his belt dig into your thigh when he start easing himself inside, John's cum a natural lubricant for his girthy fat cock, pushing your face into the pillow you grunted, whining at the stretch, feeling as either hand grabbed the pillow you were gripping, a sharp thrust forward buried him the rest of the way into you, the air in your lungs feeling like it had been punched right out of you. Simon grunted as he held still a moment, giving you as much time as his body would allow before drawing back half way and then shoving back in, lifting your head slightly sucking in air you moaned. Pulling back again, this time the tip of his weighty cock sitting at your entrance, before he yet again ploughed right back in a sob falling from your lips, pushing back into him, at that, Simon followed up onto his harsh promise and fell into a harsh pace, no doubt bruising your walls. Feeling raw under him you couldn't do anything more then feel like jelly under him taking each each thrust.

After 3 more numbing orgasms around his dick, Simon fisted your hair yanking your head up from the pillow, tears sliding down your cheeks, mixing with the drool that was coming from your mouth, your whines and moans forced into the room, body shaking from the blows Simon was pushing into your cunny. "All fucked out, come on, little more love." As sweet dripped from his forehead onto your hot back, you felt as his hand slapped down across your ass cheek, "Say my name love, come on, Simon, say it." An incoherent sound sputtered from your mouth, stuttering, trying again you cried as another smack landed on the other cheek, "Simon, say it." You really were trying, but you just couldn't get your brain to work, the last orgasm had you squirting around him, soaking his pants and the bed sheets under you, absolutely ruining them. "Say it lovie."

Huffing out, feeling his grip tighten in your head smacking down hard, a clean hand print reddening on your cheek, sobbing out, you stuttered, "S-s-s-Si..." Grunting as he shift your hips more, your back arching painfully as he tugged your head back, the thrusts more rough somehow.

"Louder."

"S-S-S-SS-SIMON!!!"

"AGAIN"

Crying out you felt his hips faltering, his cock twitching, he was close, "SIMON!!" His hips slamming against your ass, holding as his cum shot right into your cervix, you squirted, a painful orgasm shooting through your body as you screamed out, crying as he rotated his hips, his balls sliding against your aching clit. You went weightless, eyes shutting, shallow breathing under him, you had officially passed out. Lowering your head into the pillow, Simon carefully laid your body into the drenched pillow and sheets, huffing as he littered your back, shoulders, neck and cheek with soft kisses.

"Jesus Ghost, that was some of the hottest shit I'd seen." Gaz said, his limp, pumped cock resting in his hand, his cum dripping down onto the bed, the other men fisting themselves, unable to hold out to the show.

"Pick her up yeah?" Johnny asked as he went into the hall opening the closest grabbing a spare bed sheet, blanket and a few towels. Walking back in, he handed the towels to Kyle, "Clean her up will ye." John had already removed the soaked bed sheet, also throwing the pillow you soaked into the hamper with the sheet before assisting Johnny spreading out the new sheet, tucking the corners. Johnny laid out the pillows, helping Simon lay you into the middle, Kyle coming back with a couple damp towels, laying the dry ones at the foot of the bed, each one taking a towel to carefully drag along each limb and between your thighs before taking the dry towels to wipe your damp body down.

"Right." John was gruff as Johnny started getting situated beside you, an arm tugging you into him spooning you.

The lads started making to getting dressed about to leave till Johnny looked at them bewildered, "Where are the lot of ye goin?"

Shocked they looked to each other before Kyle spoke, "Well, home, give ya'll space?"

Johnny looked confused, "For what? Ye think she'll be happy to wake up an the lot of ye just left after getting a good rump in?" Shrugging his shoulders he shift into you, "Alri, if that so suites you guys, thought ye would at least want to stay after that."

Little taken aback, Kyle restriped his pants and laid on the other side of you, wrapping you up, an arm slightly over Johnny's ribs. John and Simon glanced at each other, pushing their clothes off, before also going to the bed and climbing in, flicking the lights off. John slid in behind Kyle, big arms going over his waist to grip yours, Simon doing the same behind Johnny, his hand snaking up cupping your breast comfortably. Snuggly tucked in under the blanket you all rested holding each other.

Part 3

---

Viola 😍😘 Part of me wonders if I'll do more parts to this, I slightly feel like there could be potential for little drabbles of before, you know, when Johnny had you sending him videos of you riding other guys, ruining them, then him showing you exactly who you belong to😵‍💫. Or the after bits or the lads truly and properly confessing controversial feelings for you?🤔 IDK?!?!?😉 Anyways, hope ya'll enjoyed.💕

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keeganbrainmush · 1 year

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So.. 141 + los vaqueros and konig with a very short and is mildly muscular reader and looks kinda weak but is hella STRONG

⚜I start levitating everytime Floods by Pantera plays ⚜Headcanons ; Gender neutral ; Slight nsfw mentioned, Minors dni. ⚜KEEP FLOODING MY INBOX WITH REQUESTS GUYS ITS WORKING ⚜Writing for Rudy is my adrenaline

navigation.

Cpt. John Price

Flabbergasted

Is actually surprised when someone of your figure could lift as much as Ghost.

Likes to massage your back if you were ever tense or sore.

Gets extremely flustered thinking of the ways you could manhandle him into positions easily.

If you had toned arms he'd love to trace the visible muscles on your arms.

In public he gets confused looks from people when they see you carrying a majority of the stuff after you insisted on taking some cause Price had injured himself the day prior.

Simon " Ghost " Riley

He's surprised by it, but doesn't make it obvious.

" Were you always this strong? "

Loves being your little workout buddy.

Asks if you can pick him up.

Not in a shitty teasing way, but in a more curious manner.

Hot at the collar after his idea of you being able to lift him without a sweat is confirmed.

John " Soap " MacTavish

Weekly Arm Wrestling is a must.

His eyes lit up like a starving man seeing a table full of food when he found out you were strong as shit.

Competing with you is his favorite past time.

Every during sex, he teases you about being able to last longer.

if you're competitive as well, He only uses it as a tactic to piss you off to get you to fuck him harder.

Loves the thought of you pinning him down against the mattress and fucking the living daylights out of him while he can do nothing but moan and keep cumming. (With the safeword on hand, of course.)

Kyle " Gaz " Garrick

Yall know those memes with people giggling and kicking their feet. Thats him.

Likes getting piggy back rides if you're willing to give it to him.

Adores your muscles. Will spend a long time just tracing his finger over your arms, abdomen or legs if they're exposed.

Hes always fantasized about having a super strong boyfriend, so he thanks the stars every single day when he wakes up by your side.

Has a small blush on his face whenever you're lifting something heavy around him.

Alejandro Vargas

NGH HES SO

Alejandro is buff too, but kinda scrawny as well? He's alil mix of both.

Hes a cocky lil bastard too, always teasing and asking if you guys can spar to work on his form.

It always almost leads to fucking.

He's inlove with your toned arms. Will always be touching them or resting his head on your shoulder while massaging your hands or wrists.

Rodolfo " Rudy " Parra

He's literally so inlove with you and your strength was also a huge bonus for him.

He likes carrying you, but if he's every drunk or his legs just hurt you'd better offer to carry him too.

Rudy likes it when he has his head in his lap with your arm draped over him. It comforts him in a way.

LOVES your shoulders. Will be standing up while you're sat down and just massage them while talking to you.

But he'd always demand ask you to put him in his place. Shove his face in the pillow while fucking him so good from the back and leaving him no choice but to bite it to muffle his moans.

König

König is honestly excited from it.

His scratchy voice gets slightly higher whenever you tell him about your day at the gym.

If you're strong enough to lift him. he gets startled. Its not often such a big man can get lifted off the ground by someone else.

You both offer eachother massages in exchange. Since it's more common for taller people to have back pain, his back will almost always be aching in some sort of way.

Sometimes you just give him massages so good he can't help but think of his cock being stuffed in your mouth though.

His big ass hands give amazing rubs too though, when he's done you'll be the most relaxed man to ever exist.

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sophaeros · 3 months

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arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)

ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head

Words Sylvia Patterson Portrait John Wright

The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.

"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."

In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.

The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.

Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.

NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"

JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."

MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"

Alex? Al? Are you there?

ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."

Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.

Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".

"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:

Describe the lovely villa you were in. AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."

Of what? AT: "Well, we were up quite high."

The downtown LA lights going on forever? AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."

What were you driving? AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.

So your favourite adventures were what? AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"

Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps? AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"

Yes, please. AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"

And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.

Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.

"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…

"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"

With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.

At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.

"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."

Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.

Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.

You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair? AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."

If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt. AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"

The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".

"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em… it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."

A wasted opportunity?

"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."

Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."

For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"

There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).

Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa. AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]

It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head. AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."

Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her? AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."

She must be curious, at least. "Maybe."

Did you ever watch Popworld? AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."

Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes? AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."

Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me." AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."

Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”

In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.

To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")

Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"

Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."

O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."

Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"

Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")

His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".

A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".

No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."

Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."

He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.

Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."

"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"

Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.

"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.

"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.

"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."

The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.

"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”

The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”

The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.

“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”

Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.

Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans? AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."

What makes you tick in the sexy department? AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."

Tell us about all the lovely groupies. AT: "No!"

If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano? AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."

How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand? AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."

Are you cool? AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."

Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now. AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"

Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head? AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."

Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.

"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”

—

RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy

Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”

Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders

#arctic monkeys #alex turner #matt helders #nick o'malley #jamie cook #sias era #interview #q magazine #my image id #bands #this is such a funny interview honestly shfjwjs #self proclaimed housewife nick my beloved......#also why did the interviewer describe alex's hands as small pale and girly HELPME #btw im missing page 93 it's probabky just a photospread but yeah #i managed to find the dead links' images on vk #eye contact #not my scan

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starry-eyedblog · 4 months

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voyeuristic johnny makes me go craaaazy i’m sorry but he would be wide-eyed and perving in on your most intimate “me-time” moments, having absolutely no shame about watching you get off. actually i don’t think this man has any shame EVER and i can’t get enough of him. he’d def be rubbing one out right there too, dry-palmed and jerking himself harder the second you catch him watching. big stupid fucking grin on his face.

i am positively squealing cat!! yer soooooo right my god he's so gross i hate him (i love him).

warnings/tags: john mactavish x gn reader, 18+ content, dub con, voyeurism, masturbating

johnny has no sense of boundaries or shame, he gets so horny that his brain just falters and is driven by lust. he loves perving in on you when you're getting off, standing in your doorway with his hands down his trousers. it's a nightly routine for him, coming to your room every night to check if you're having some 'me time'.

johnny loves the way you whimper and pant as you touch and tease yourself, the way your eyes can barely stay open when you're drowning in the pleasure. he can't get enough of the way your hand touches yourself, whether that's pumping a nice thick dildo inside your hole or using your fingers. though, he always loves when you use a vibrator, how loud and squirmy you get from the harsh vibrations pressing on your sensitive spots.

he's panting outside of your room, tongue hanging out as he drools, unable to look away for even a second because he doesn't want to miss a single moment. his body is hunched over, one hand resting on the wall while his hips are humping up into his other hand, imagining he's inside of your tight hole instead.

johnny doesn't even bother to spit into his hand, too worked up to bother with finer details like that. sometimes he enjoys the uncomfortable pain of jerking himself off dry at the start, but near the end theres so much pre-cum he's slick.

he's gotten away with it every single time, and you're non the wiser. sometimes he thinks you do it on purpose with the way your door is never fully shut. it's like you want him to watch, well that's what johnny believes.

but this time, you finally caught him, your eyes fluttering open as you shift around and pull your blankets down as you get too warm and flustered. as you stop and sit up a bit, getting ready to get comfortable again, you have that unnerving feeling of being watched. you scan your room with frantic eyes and that's when you notice a figure at the door.

you curse yourself for not double checking the door was fully shut, body rigid and embarrassment washing over you. it takes a minute to figure out who it is, and once you do - johnny's smile grows wide and his hand speeds up, jerking himself even faster in his boxers with the fact you've caught him.

it only takes him a few seconds to cum after that, your horrified eyes staring at him bringing him to his orgasm, the sick bastard.

#anon ask #thanks anon!#john soap mactavish #soap mctavish #soap call of duty #soap cod #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #gn reader #tw dubcon #tw perv behaviour #pervy soap #gender neutral reader #gn reader smut

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 11 hours

Text

1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relived. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…” You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon x you #aegon x y/n

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spacedace · 2 months

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John Constantine knew what he was. Knew he wasn’t a good man. He tried, sometimes. Got credit for it more often than he should. But at the end of the day, he was a bastard of the highest sort and nothing was going to change that fact. A rogue and a rake through and through. He lied, he cheated, he stole, and delighted in doing so. Cut from the same cloth as ol’ Stingy Jack who tricked the devil into letting him live longer than he should and managed to keep himself out of hell to boot after he’d finally shuffled off his mortal coil. John liked to think his cloth had been sewn into a much sharper suit though. He’d been clever enough to avoid the dying altogether, no carrying around smoldering turnips in the bleak between of closed-off afterlives for him, thanks. He was a charlatan and a scoundrel, and many, many worse things besides. John knew what he was. The woman who appeared in his dank and stinking flop house room in the middle of the night knew what he was too.

The Wild Hunt calls. For better or worse, John Constantine answers.

Chapter 6 is up! 😄

#dpxdc #john constantine #valerie gray #leader of the wild hunt valerie gray #liminal valerie gray #names have power #the wild hunt #the reluctant war #reluctant war au #ghost king danny #the ghost zone goes to war #ancient of the speedforce dani phantom #love me some putting two characters who never spend any time together even in fandom in a buddy roadtrip comedy #low key feel like all this ends with John at the very least sleeping with Valerie's dad if not outright dating him #Val would hate it lol

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call-sign-shark · 11 months

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To Bark and Bite || Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC

Summary: Arthur has to face the awful truth: there is another man in your bed tonight and there's nothing he can do about it.

Word Count: 2.6k

TW: mention of animal abuse

Notes: This work is a part of Heaven in Your Eyes' universe, but you can obviously read it as a stand-alone. Reader has chosen their new companion, following this polls' results.

Masterlist here if you want more.

The fresh air of the night jumped at Arthur’s face when he exited the bar, the frozen fangs of the wind biting his skin so suddenly he winced. Wrapping up himself a bit more in his long black coat, he let out a grumpy groan and started to walk through the sleepy streets. It has been a few months since you have both left Birmingham’s filth and stink to move into a cozy house at the end of a vast forest. The more day passed, the more he was satisfied with such a decision. Sometimes, he would spend hours outside listening to the murmur of the trees’ thick foliage shaken by the wind and the soft melody of the stream nearby while you were gardening. But despite this new setting and your peaceful life, you still remained traumatized by your stay in Birmingham’s jail for women. The sensation of the hanging rope tightening around your neck had stirred painful memories you had spent years locking up in the deepest part of your brain. Since then, you would often wake up at night, screaming and pulling your hair because your dreams were plagued by the grim sight of your father’s limp body dancing at the end of a rope. When John asked both of you to go for a drink, you politely refused and decided to rest at home after two sleepless nights. At first, Arthur wanted to decline and take care of you, but you insisted he spent time with his brother. Especially because you did not see him very often since you moved here. He accepted and had fun, but his thoughts never left you during the whole evening.

Arthur, fighting against the cold, blew in his hands before rubbing them in the hope of warming his skin. His steps hastened, motivated by the warm fire and the cuddling time in bed that was awaiting him. He was about to turn to his left when a loud howling sound tore the silence of the night. Slightly jumping, he turned around and looked in the direction from which the sorrowful scream came. Right after the thrilling shriek followed an odd sound of chains rattling against the concrete and muffled whines. Arthur stood there, conflicted. A part of him just wanted to go home while the other, tinted with a childish curiosity that never left him, wanted to check what was hidden in this dark alley. It did not take more than a few seconds for him to give in to his curiosity and walked toward the source of the noise. He had barely stepped in when he froze, welcomed by two threatening eyes glistening in the twilight. When the creature noticed Arthur’s presence, growls echoed in the dark alongside the ringing of chains dragged on the ground.

“Bloody hell!” Arthur exclaimed, taking a few steps back as the mighty silhouette of a dark dog came out of the shadow, chops curled and teeth bared, “Back off, bastard,” He growled back at the massive brute, showing his teeth as if it was enough to shoo it away.

But despite the dog’s firm will of attacking the tall gangster, it suddenly collapsed on the cold pavement with a painful whimper. Realizing how weak the beast was, Arthur’s muscles relaxed. Now that his piercing blue eyes were adapting to the darkness, he could look at the dog more carefully. The latter started to lick its flank, where a gruesome and infected gash was exposing its swollen flesh. It was not mad, it was wounded. Moreover, the poor creature was so emaciated its ribs were poking under its skin, “Yer in a really bad shape, aren’t ye tough boy? Would you let me check?” The gravel in his voice caught the dog’s attention again, who let out another growl even though it did it with less fury this time for it was far too exhausted, “Absolutely no, alright,” Arthur rubbed his mustache, lost in his thoughts for a few seconds, before exhaling deeply through his nostrils. The dog needed help, and he knew exactly where to find it.

“That’s okay buddy. I’ll take ye with me and we’ll get you all fixed, eh.”

“Argh! Come on!” He barked, desperately trying to control the beast by holding its chain firmly and doing his best to avoid getting bitten all along the way. Usually, Arthur as well as the rest of his family had a gift with animals, let alone Thomas who knew how to charm dogs. However, no Romani tricks could make this one obey, “No, no, stop that! How many fookin’ times should I tell ye eh?!”, The black dog, completely panicked, had tried to jump at Arthur several times, which resulted in muddy paw prints all over his new suit. Not content with ruining his clothes, it also pulled so hard on the makeshift leash that Arthur had tripped at least tenth times on his way home. Along with the dog barks, a collection of flourishing insults echoed in the night, “Aaah yes, good ol’ Arthur thinking it was a good idea to bring a damn stupid hundred pounds monster home, eh. Serves me right for trying to be nice.” He cursed, opening the door of his house while still trying to overpower the dog.

The brute barked and growled in reply. Arthur stopped in the corridor and looked at the dog, bewildered.

“What the hell? Yer talking back? I can’t bloody believe it. How about I shoot you right in ye fucking face, eh?!” Arthur was so busy yelling at the beast he did not notice you at first. You stood there, arms crossed on your chest and an amused smirk plastered on your juicy lips, wondering why your fiance was arguing with a dog in the midst of the corridor.

“Who is he you want to ‘shoot right in his fookin face?’” You finally said, mimicking his gruff voice and accent to tease him, “Care to explain?” You raised a brow, halfway between amusement and surprise. Let’s say that the evening was taking an unexpected turn. A turn that weighed around one hundred pounds and who took the shape of a massive Cane Corso. When he heard the enchanting tone of your voice, Arthur raised his gaze to you and strengthened his grip around the chain he was holding for the mutt kept pulling and he did not want it to jump on your frail body.

“Look — I’ve found it in the streets and noticed it was wounded,” He paused, trying his best to handle the situation, but the fact remains you feared for Arthur’s long and thin arms. At some point you were pretty sure the dog would break them, “But I also thought about your nightmares and how anxious you are when I’m not by your side. So, I thought having a guard dog to watch over me angel when I’m not home could be a good idea eh — FOOK!” This time, Arthur stumbled on his own feet after the dog had wrapped the chain around his ankles. He fell on the wooden floor, his body collapsing in a big thud, “YOU BASTARD, I’M GOING TO MURDER YOU, GODDAMN BEAR-LOOKING FURRY THING.”

Now you could not help but burst into laughter at the whole scene, especially when Arthur screamed so loud and spat swear words so fast it sounded more like barks than the dog’s howling themselves, “Oh! Are you okay, chéri?” You inquired, trying hard not to give in to the giggles even though the way Arthur looked at you, confused and mad, cracked you up harder.

“Can I try?” You asked, managing to calm your giggles.

“You can but if I were ya I wouldn't give it a try, love. He’s nothing but an uncontrollable idiot.” He groaned, looking side eyes to the beast.

However, you still came closer to the nervous and unruly animal, both curious and worried for him. As soon as his amber gaze dived into yours, the dog froze as if he had been petrified by a deadly blizzard in a bleak midwinter, “Hey. It’s alright. It’s alright cutie…” You whispered, offering the palm of your hand. The dog’s big and wet snout gently bumped against your skin, after a long seconds of hesitating, and he ended up smelling you. The warm sensation of his breath as it sniffed your scent brought an endeared smile to your face, “There. You’re a good boy. A very good boy.” The dog sat and let out a pained whimper in response, letting you pet it with indescribable tenderness.

Arthur looked at you, half surprised and half fascinated. He knew you were the best when it came to fixing broken creatures in the middle of the night — after all, that was what you did with him the first time you met.

Surprisingly enough, the dog fell limp in your hands and allowed you to manipulate its powerful body as if it had been a rag doll. Despite the awful infection it suffered from, you managed to clean its disgusting gash from pus, filth, and maggots properly before applying a homemade ointment and stitching up everything. Following the laborious treatment, you offered it fresh water, rice, and chicken — all of these it ate with haste, starving and afraid someone would steal its food. But the most tedious part had been when Arthur and you had to bathe the stinky beast.

“I got him! Oh wait — no no I don’t! HELP! I’m slipping in the bathtub!” A hoarse scream echoed.

“Arthur, darling, can you — Oh no really?! He’s chewing on my expensive nightgown! Bad, bad Kaiser!”

You had decided to call him Kaiser, in reference to the German word which meant Emperor, as well as being a kind of pastry.

“Fucking bastard, he almost swallowed my wedding ring! I swear I’ll cut you open if you do so.”

“Okay, now you gotta listen to me big boy alright?” You said with the quietest and most patient tone you could make. The huge dog looked at you with his large pink tongue hanging from his mouth, “You’re all clean and smell nice. Now I’m going to wrap this towel around you alright? No shaking off water okay? I want you to act like a proper gentleman.”

“I don’t think he understands you angel, he’s got a wicked gleam in his eyes eh.” Arthur whispered. He was on his knees, next to you, facing the bathtub with his sleeves rolled up. Following the mess Kaiser did, you were both soaked wet, and exhausted, “he’s up to something.”

The dog barked joyfully.

“You see Arthur! You’re not positive enough. He’s all quiet. All obedi— NO!!” You didn’t finish your sentence for the dog shook off his body, splashing water everywhere in the bathroom, and soaking you more than you already were. While you tried to protect your face, Arthur remained motionless, his face neutral even though he gazed at the animal with a desperate look.

“All quiet, eh. Of course, he is. As quiet as John in a Russian orgy.” He grunted.

"You weren't quiet neither."

"Oh," Arthur gritted his teeth -- he hated to recall this memory, for he was still very much ashamed. Even though he was not happy with Linda he always felt it was no reason to cheat on her, "It was... Different... I'd never do this to you."

“I know, Arthur. At least it made you sober up.” You remained silent one short moment before chuckling, unable to hide your amusement any longer. Letting out a sigh from his lips, Arthur looked at you and your beaming smile infected him. How beautiful you were when you laughed, he thought. Joining in the fun, the tall gangster laughed along, his shoulders jolting as he did.

“By the way, you’re hot when your hair is a mess.” You added. Blood rushed to Arthur’s cheeks, who looked away, all flustered, and mumbled something only the dog seemed to understand. No matter what the gangster had said, Kaiser seemed to agree for it trampled on Arthur and gave him one huge lick all over his face, drooling on his mustache.

“FUUUCKK!” He yelled, falling back under the Cane’s weight.

You laughed even harder to the point your ribs were hurting, joy filling both the bathroom and your soul. The awful memories winced, knowing you’ll soon find enough strength to lock them back in their cage.

After encountering so many struggles in a matter of three hours, peace fell again in the house. After the hellish bath time, Arthur and you decided to have a well-deserved cuddle session in bed. You were half naked, the tall gangster's body above yours and his tongue dancing with yours when the dog started to cry. At first, you both decided to ignore his little whimpers, far too eager to find each other’s warmth and body. But the noise went so bad you ended up gently pushing Arthur away and got up from the bed to open the bedroom door. He obviously complained, pestering under his breath, but he resigned himself and pulled up his boxers. His steel-blue eyes looked dagger at the giant beast when you allowed it to lay on the bed, right between you and him.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, angel?” Arthur asked, one brow raised.

“He’s scared. And I haven’t been sleeping for two nights. So I’m trying my best to stop him from crying.” You answered, right before gently putting your small hand in the dog’s short fur and stroking him while taking care not to touch his wound, “The poor baby is all confused you know… The gash looks like a knife wound. A human did this to him. Probably a man. That’s why he was scared of you.”

“Yes I get it but how about you cuddle me instead?” His gravelly voice asked, visibly displeased by not keeping you in his arms. As stupid as it seemed, he was getting a bit jealous. But silence was the only thing that responded to him. Even the gargantuan mutt had stopped whining. Arthur lied on his side and leaned on one elbow to lift his upper body and looked at you above the massive creature to see if you were okay. As soon as his piercing eyes fell on you, he was met with the softest sight he could have ever imagined.

You were lying on the bed, facing the dog, and cuddling with it. One of its paws was wrapped around you, and its big snout rested against your little nose. Every protest, every complaint, choked in Arthur’s throat, who found himself captivated by the way you were looking at the dog. You were staring at the beast with your Celeste blue irises shining with sincere love. Despite not being the center of your attention tonight, Arthur could not help but grin — his eyes squinting as his lips stretched. That was at this precise moment he realized another man had just entered your life, and no matter what he would do he had no other choice than to share your love with this troublesome giant.

“Alright, but just for tonight eh. Cause he’s not a little pug or something. That bastard has the size of a fookin small pony.”

“Just for tonight,” You whispered, your nail scratching behind one of the dog’s ears. Its tail wagged in contentment.

Arthur rolled his eyes, reluctantly giving up on the idea to sink into your body tonight. However, he still passed his arm above the dog to rest one large and calloused hand on your hips, unable to sleep well if he was not touching you. He closed his eyes, and even if he was at the edge of the mattress because Kaiser took all the place, Arthur stayed in bed.

“I might allow you here and accept to share me angel’s love, but I ain’t sleeping on the bloody couch, mate.” He warned the dog.

Kaiser looked above his shoulder and opened up his mouth in a big teasing smile, his tongue hanging. A smile in which Arthur Shelby could almost read the words “maybe, but I’m the one in her arms tonight.”

Say hi to your new best friend and slightly catastrophic guardian, Kaiser!

✞ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

Tag: @meowtastick @babayaga67 @sired-to-hybridrid @shelbyssins @kxnnxyasdfg @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @woofgocows @anathemasworld

#Peaky blinders imagine #Arthur shelby x reader #Arthur shelby #Peaky blinders x reader #Arthur shelby x oc #Arthur shelby x ofc #peaky blinders #Tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #Peaky blinder fanfic #Heaven Shelby #Arthur shelby imagine #peaky blinders x y/n #peaky blinders x oc #Paul Anderson #tommy shelby

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ssaflorencem · 7 months

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The thrill of killing you| BAU x unsub reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. This contains mentions of SA and CSA. It is not graphic detail at all but please do not read if that is something that triggers you. Mention of weapons. Murder (not graphic detail at all again). Also I hope this all flows and makes sense, I’ve read over and over again so it kinda of feels like it doesn’t make sense.

Summary: this is both from your POV and Hotchners POV. This is present day, and the BAU are catching on to there been a serial killer.

Chapter two: Death of a party

Your POV:

You hadn’t been caught so far; you were safe for now. You left no DNA, you changed your location, you didn’t kill in the same state for at least a year. You hadn’t changed a lot since your first kill, accept you now never left letters, you couldn’t have a signature, you couldn’t let anyone knew that you existed.

Sometimes, when you were just doing your day-to-day activities, you would look at someone and wonder if they were a rapist, a murderer, or someone just as bad. That’s when you would think of all the people you had killed, and what they had done. Then you would think about the people who were still alive and whether they were like those people.

You had a strict moral code, but you did what you did to protect others, it was the only thing you were certain of. It was the only thing you had be certain of for a while.

‘The moral code I follow is simple, it is this:

I will not kill unless I know for a fact the target is a rapist.

I will kill rapists, even if they are not in my area.

I will kill serial rapists/child molesters/abusers/human traffickers.

I will not kill anyone who does not deserve it.

I will not get caught.’

And while you had this moral code, you still enjoyed the rush your kills brought.

You were doing what the police should be doing, but you found out a long time ago that the police, especially the FBI, do not care about abusers they only cared about murderers. They only cared when it resulted in someone’s death. The people you killed had to die, that was the only way the people they had hurt would get any justice. You knew it was only you who could make the difference. You had committed yourself to this. You had no choice.

See, when the FBI did go after a criminal, they used profiling, or to put it in a better perspective, guess work. They would use the minimal evidence they had and find someone who fit the profile. You though, you had information you had names, you had the faces of abusive. You did research, you made sure the person you were about to kill was guilty.

You just wished that you could have hunted all abusers, but unless you were part of a team that would be nearly impossible.

You were not going to get caught, you knew that. You made sure all evidence was covered up, you made sure all your bases were covered. You did your research, and you knew that you were safe.

You read about a story of a man who was a rapist, not as bad as some of the others you had killed, but he still did it. His name was John Andrew Hamm, he was a teacher and would give his students alcohol or drugs and then rape them. He was a sick bastard. He had been abusing since the eighties. He was arrested numerous times, but his charges were dropped every time, the main reason was because his victims were too afraid to speak up. They were his students, and with the influence he had on the school board he was protected. He was a monster.

You knew everything about him now, his routine. He was, apart from been a monster, a simple man. While he had a lot of influence, and he was well known, he had no friends, he was not married, and he had no children of his own. He lived by himself, he never had anyone over, and he never went out. God, you almost felt sad for him, but then you remembered everything else about him.

*Ten years ago, *

You only talked Dutch at home now, your mom refused to speak English and she didn’t dare to talk Swedish anymore. It had been seven years since your mom and dad divorced, and they had a good co-parenting relationship. You often stayed weekends with your dad, which your mom with fine. But then once you turned 18 your mom refused you to see your dad.

“Ik wil niet dat je, je vader nog ziet. Hij is niet de persoon die je denkt dat hij is.”

I don’t want you seeing your dad anymore. He is not the person you think he is.

“Mam, ik begrijp het niet. Tot nu toe vond je het goed dat ik hem zag. Nu ik volwassen ben, wil je niet meer dat ik hem zie. Dat is niet logisch.”

Mom, I don’t understand. You were okay with me seeing him, until now. But now I’m adult, you don’t want me to see him anymore. That doesn’t make sense.

And every time you brought up your dad, she would basically say the same stuff. It had been a year of her saying; he just isn’t the person you think he is. You were sick of hearing it, why couldn’t she just say who he truly was.

You knew if you truly wanted to find out who he was then you were going to have to find out all by yourself. Which was going to be hard as seen as your mom wouldn’t say anything, and you knew your dad wouldn’t.

*Present day*

You waited for Mr Hamm to start his typically Saturday routine. Which was going to his local grocery store to do his weekly shopping.

As you followed him around the store, you couldn't help but feel disgusted by his presence. You watched him as he mindlessly placed items in his cart, completely unaware of the fate that awaited him.

You had planned this for weeks, meticulously going over every detail to ensure that there was no way you could get caught.

As you followed him out of the store, you made sure to keep a safe distance. You didn't want to give him any indication that you were following him.

He walked down the street and into his car, not noticing you following behind. You waited until he drove off before starting your own car. You had already prepared everything you needed in your trunk, including the tools necessary to carry out your plan.

You followed him for another ten minutes, watching as he turned into his driveway. You parked a few houses down, making sure that your car was hidden from view. This was the moment you had been waiting for.

You stepped out of your car and walked towards his house. He was taking his food in to his house. You took a breath; you had planned this, and it wasn’t your first time.

“Erm, excuse me.” You said in a low tone, it was loud enough for him to hear you. He slowly turned around, his face was neutral, no smile, no nothing really. If you didn’t know what you knew about him you wouldn’t have been able to guess, not from just looking at him.

“Are you okay?” he said in an almost friendly tone. His voice suited his looks, but not his personality.

“Yes. Yes, I am. I’m new to the area, I was wondering if you knew the woods are good to hunt it?” His neutral face had contoured into one of a happy face. His brown eyes were looking you up and down. He was trying to get a feel of you. You felt like he was undressing you with his eyes.

“They are. I can show you some of the best areas if you want?” Man, that was just a friendly gestured. If you weren’t genuinely asking for help you would have fallen for his trap.

“If you don’t mind, I would love. I’ve got my gun in my car. I’ll go grab it” You wanted to let him know you were armed.

He nods his head, not suspecting a thing. As you make your way back to your car, you feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins. You know what you have to do, and you're ready to do it. You grab your weapon and make your way back to his house.

He's waiting outside for you when you arrive, smiling as he takes you deeper into the woods. You keep your guard up, knowing that he's still dangerous despite his friendly demeanour. You follow him for a few minutes before stopping in a clearing.

"This is one of my favourite spots," he says, gesturing to the trees around you. "You should be able to find some good game here."

You nod, pretending to be interested in his hobby. You keep your eyes on him, waiting for the right moment. It comes when he turns his back to you, looking out into the woods.

You raise your weapon take aim at him.

“What’s good game to you Mr Hamm? School girls? The students you teach?” He looks at you, shocked you knew his name and what type of person he was. His friendly, happy demeanour had gone. His face was now full of fear.

“How do you know my name? Why are you saying such terrible stuff about me?” Oh god, did he really think this was going to work on you. You weren’t new to the game.

“Shut up. Let me talk, you hold no power here. Don’t lie to me, I know everything about you. If you were smart, which you really aren’t, I’d start praying now. Because you won’t be able to soon.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never done anything wrong.” You sigh, this guy is such a terrible liar.

“Oh, but you have. You’ve done so much wrong. Do you know how many victims you have?” He looks down, nervously shaking his head. You smirk. This was too easy. He had no game; he had no plan. He was nothing.

“You have 17 victims. I know that for a fact. I’ve seen the proof.” He looks at you in disbelief.

Aaron Hotchner POV

The BAU had been called in for a case, one happening in a small town in Montana. The police chief that had called us in had a hunch, he said we didn’t have to take the case, but he would like us to look over the case files.

I called the team in and gathered them around the round table, I didn’t want Garcia to present this one as she didn’t have all the information. I looked at everyone around the table, I knew if we did take on this case it would be a hard one. The person who had been killed was an apparent rapist, it wasn’t for me to comment on whether he deserved to die but it was on us to find out who killed him.

“Okay guys. This case is different. I mean we have had ones like this before, but there is only one apparent body at this time. A body of a man called Mr Hamm has been found in Lewistown, Montana. He has been accused of some crimes, and the police believe this was a vigilante kill”.

The team nodded in agreement, knowing what this case would entail. I continued, "This is going to be a tough one. We need to find out who did this and bring them to justice. We don't condone vigilante justice; it only leads to chaos."

We all got to work, looking through the files and interviewing the people in the small town. It was clear that there was a lot of tension between the locals and Mr Hamm, who had a history of sexual assault. But it was also clear that the locals were protecting whoever had killed him.

As the days passed, we started to get some leads. We discovered that Mr Hamm had been in a relationship with a woman named Rachel. She had suffered at the hands of Mr Hamm and had been seeking revenge. It was plausible that she had killed him, but we needed concrete evidence.

We decided to bring Rachel in for questioning. As we were driving to her house, I couldn't shake off the feeling that something wasn't right. There was multiple people in this town who could have killed, who had a motive to do this. But his body was clothed, he wasn’t tortured. It was a quick and simple kill.

I got a call from Garcia;

“Hey sir, I’ve been doing some research, and this is the fifth kill in Montana over the past five years. I mean there has been more murders, but I mean of this kind. A man murdered in some woods, but the man has been accused of crimes but never convicted. I think there is a connection.”

“Well, I mean there could just be a lot of vigilante murderers happening. This isn’t just a hunch is it Garcia, you’re better than this.”

“No, it’s not. They all are killed by a similar gun, and nothing else is done to them other than been killed.”

“I’m sure there is more than just five accused rapists in Montana, and a year is a long cooling off period.”

“Well, I’ve been looking across the entire US and, in every state, apart from Alaska, there are these kinds of murders happening for the past five years. I mean in Ohio there have been a few more. But I think, I think there is a connection here I just can’t see it.”

As Garcia spoke, my mind was racing. This was not just a simple case of vigilante justice; this was a serial killer. A serial killer who had been operating for five years and had somehow managed to avoid detection. I knew then that this was going to be the toughest case we had ever worked on.

We arrived at Rachel's house, and she willingly came with us to the station. As we questioned her, I could see the fear in her eyes. She denied any involvement in the murder of Mr Hamm, but I could tell she was hiding something. We needed to find out what that was.

As we continued to investigate, we discovered that there were other suspects in the small town. People who had a motive to kill Mr Hamm and had the opportunity to do so. It was becoming clear that this case was not going to be solved easily. We were going to have to dig deep and work hard to solve it.

Days turned into weeks, and we were no closer. We had to go back to Quantico as there was other serial killers to catch but I knew everyone had been keeping an eye on this case, especially Garcia.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #aaron hotch x reader #spencer reid x reader #jenifer jareau #luke alvez #aaron hotchner smut #spencer reid smut

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lazarushound · 3 months

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The Official lazarushound Dean Winchester Playlist

Okay so this playlist is a big deal to literally no one except me but I spent like two hours explaining every single song on my dean playlist and I'll be damned if I don't share it with SOMEONE.

The playlist in question, which I update and add songs too fairly often(ish). It's roughly arranged in order of Dean's story, from pre-canon to the finale. A fair few of the songs are courtesy of catgirlhannibal, whom I adore.

Warning that is is a VERY LONG READ and almost definitely is plagued with typos. Without further ado, here is the 9.5k word explanation of every single song (at time of posting) on the playlist. Call that shit explicable Dean Winchester vibes, complete with my favourite lyrics from each song.

• Ramble On - Led Zeppelin

Dean's favourite song! The whole song is basically about having no choice but to keep going, even when things are tough. It's also actually about LOTR which is funny cause Dean's secretly a nerd lol. But yeah, it reflects a lot on Dean's nature as a traveller and someone who never settles in one place for long. Sometimes I grow so tired but I know I've got one thing I've got to do - I ramble on.

• Travelling Riverside Blues - Led Zeppelin

Dean's other favourite song! Probably not a popular reading of this song but for me, it definitely has a level of queer coding. Asked sweet mama, let me be your kid, she said "you might get hurt if you don't keep it hid" is the most obvious example of it.

• Psalms 40:2 - The Mountain Goats

Very biblical song lol. It's a lot about small town America (as many TMG songs are) and shitty motels which resonates with Dean pretty heavily. Not to mention: He has raised me from the pit and set me high.

• Night Moves - Bob Segar

This one is literally in the show so naturally reminds me of him. But it's about a teenage romance which definitely makes me think of young Dean. I mean, come on: out in the backseat of my '60 Chevy when the man drives a '67 Chevy??

• Father - The Front Bottoms

A few songs on this playlist are pretty much only there for one or two lines. This is not one of them. I could write another essay about this song and how it relates to Dean, every fucking line. You were high school, and I was just more like real life, and you were okay as a girlfriend, but I was just more like his wife 😮‍💨

• Old Number Seven - The Devil Makes Three

This is another song I'm pretty convinced was written about Dean. Once played it on guitar and my dad asked if it was about him so that's all the validation I needed. Angels start to look good to me, they're gonna have to deport me to the fiery deep.

• Mission - Alex G

This song to me is very much pre canon/season one Dean. It's all about following orders and being a good soldier, much like Dean's devotion to his father. I was trained to stick to the mission, I was trained, I kept it on track. To me, Mission has a slightly bitter tone, as though the narrator is resentful that they've followed orders so obediently and only suffered as a result.

• Adam Raised a Cain - Bruce Springsteen

Courtesy of catgirlhannibal. What a surprise, another biblical song. Dean sees himself as nothing more than a soldier, violent and aggressive. He sees his father as a hero, despite the fact that he's an abusive bastard. Well, daddy worked his whole life for nothing but pain, now he walks these empty rooms looking for something to blame.

• Shoulders - Big Thief

Okay, I'd argue this song is more akin to Sam than Dean but fuck you, this is my playlist and I choose the music. And the blood of the man who killed my mother with his hands, it's in me, it's in me, in my veins is obviously related to Sam and Azazel but also to Dean and John, as though Dean comes to realise that he's just like his father.

• Celene - Gigi Perez

End of season two! This song is about losing a sibling and is very much the mindset I pictured Dean to be in after losing Sam for the first time. I'd also argue it's how Dean felt when Sam was at Stanford. The other day I thought of something funny, but no one would have laughed but you.

• Like Real People Do - Hozier

Why were you digging? What did you bury before those hands pulled me from the earth? HELLOOO CASTIEL! Very season four Destiel, those boys will NOT kiss like real people do.

• It's Only Sex - Car Seat Headrest

Okay so post-resurrection Dean is VERRRRRY traumatised which makes it difficult for him to enjoy the things he used to love, including sex. This song is also about his struggle over his feelings for Cas: what happens if I don't like it? I like you.

• Not Allowed - TV Girl

Well, you may not like it but you better learn how cause it's your turn now! Very much following on from It's Only Sex, similar themes in this song but more relating to Dean's insistence on keeping up The Act and pretending he's the same man he was before Hell.

• Presumably Dead Arm - Sidney Gish

Second catgirlhannibal song to make the list. Just to start this off, this isn't the start of anything. To me, this whole song is Dean skirting around his feelings for Cas and trying to pretend they don't exist in hopes they go away eventually. They don't. Honey, you are nothing to me, (but alcohol and dopamine)/(I don't call people anything thought to be so sweet).

• Tangled in Ropes - Holy Locust

I literally wrote a whole essay about this one so I'll keep it short with just the best lyric. Had a laugh made of wax, house made of butter, how they melted that summer.

• Hate Yourself - TV Girl

If there's one thing we've learned about Dean Winchester, it's that the man loves to use sex as a means to avoid his problems. How long will it take? Before you start to hate yourself and go straight into the arms of someone else is just straight up Dean struggling to give himself time to grieve and overcome his trauma. He'd rather just hookup with someone else and pretend it doesn't make him hate himself more and more every time.

• Cherry Wine - Hozier

See: my whole essay about this song and Destiel. And it's worth it, it's divine, I have this some of the time.

• Body to Flame - Lucy Dacus

Another catgirlhannibal song! I see you holding your breath with your arms outstretched, waiting for someone to come rip open your chest. This song to me feels like Dean kicking himself for every trusting Cas, after Cas betrays him for the first time. To accept Cas as his family was going against his every instinct to close himself off from outsiders, and Cas just proved him right by betraying him.

• Motion Sickness - Phoebe Bridges

Okay this one is basically just for I hate you for what you did, and I miss you like a little kid lol. It just perfectly encapsulates Dean, bitter and resentful towards Cas whilst simultaneously missing him so much his heart aches.

• I'm Your Man - Mitski

Oh, woof. Continuing the betrayal arc, this song is all about Dean's guilt. It's his fault Cas fell from Heaven, his fault this angel isn't holy anymore. I'm sorry I'm the one you love, no one will ever love me like you again.

• Not Strong Enough - Boygenius

Where do I start? Always an angel, never a god 😮‍💨 I think if you played this song to Dean it would break him a little bit. I DON'T KNOW WHY I AM THE WAY I AM!!!

• Legit Tattoo Gun - The Front Bottoms

I was aware of this song but catgirlhannibal brought to my attention that it's Destiel coded 🧐 Who did I think I was? Who did I think that I could be? Oh, how dare me. Dean just kicking himself for ever thinking he could allow himself to have something with Cas.

• SHALLOW (PPL SWIM IN SHALLOW WATER) - Saya Gray

Okay, this one is a bit of a "hear me out." I'm seeing Mother Mary, she says I'm closer to Hell than the clouds are to Heaven. Dean's mother is called Mary so she's LITERALLY Mother Mary which scratches my brain very nicely. Obviously Dean sees himself as a sinner and doomed for Hell, despite the fact that he's a hero. And I left my enemies, cause nobody hates myself more than me, GOOD LORD DOES THAT MAN LOVE SOME SELF LOATHING. My mother's evil and the angels too is soooooo self explanatory. Dean has an idealistic version of Mary in his head which is challenged when she comes back to life and he interacts with her as an adult. There's also the fact that real angels aren't as "good" as you'd think. Sometimes I don't think I'm cherished enough.

• John Wayne Gacy, Jr. - Sufjan Stevens

This song is an allegory for being gay. The narrator sees himself as evil, just as bad as the serial killer for which the song is named, just because he's gay. And in my best behaviour, I am really just like him, look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid.

• Always - Panic! At the Disco

Another one that is less obvious without me explaining it lol. The light in this song is a reference to the Great Gatsby which is a whole other queer coded story in its own right. But I always (hehe) picture this song as Dean struggling with Cas' feelings for him which are becoming more and more evident. It was always you falling for me particularly stands out to me, along with you are taking me apart like bad glue on a get well card.

• Star Tripping - Kevin Atwater

Okay I looooooove love this song. But it's another song which relates to God and being queer. It's about a very toxic relationship, in which one person is relatively okay with their sexuality and the other is incredibly repressed (seem familiar?). I could use any lyric from this song but I'll go with: you think He made you wrong, I think you're giving Him way too much credit, crying at the party, know it only bothers you if you let it, later you can kiss me, blame it on the stuff you took to forget it.

• The Calendar - Panic! At The Disco

Another Panic! song 💀 also from vices and virtues. Another "hear me out." There's the more obvious I will come back to life but only for you but I also think the rest of the song relates pretty strongly to Destiel. You said if you don't let it out, you're gonna let it eat you away, I'd rather be a cannibal baby, animals like me don't talk anyway. For me, it strongly resembles Dean's view of himself, an attack dog. Cannibalism as a metaphor for love. And obviously that man loves to repress stuff and let it eat him away, so to speak.

• Lacy - Olivia Rodrigo

Lawd. This song has a lot of queer subtext in and of itself. It's all about adoring someone to the point where you become insecure because you know you'll never be as good as them. The song is bitter and resentful whilst simultaneously loving and adoring. I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you, yeah I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you. He hates himself because he loves Cas. HE HATES HIMSELF BECAUSE HE LOVES CAS.

• Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want - The Smiths

Dean does not let himself have nice things. Lord knows, it would be the first time. This song feels pretty self explanatory to me lol.

• Feeling Oblivion - Turin Brakes

Okay this is my favourite song of all time so I'm slightly biased for including it HOWEVER. I feel it also applies to Dean pretty well. We're now at the point in the story where Dean is about to/has already lost Cas. This song invokes an incredibly deep feeling of nostalgia for me, like looking back on when things were better. Now it is night time, maybe we're cruising avoiding the anti-cruise, like tell me this isn't Dean and Cas just driving around Kansas cause Dean can't sleep 😭 and don't even get me fucking started on so don't leave me here on my own, by the time fear takes me over, will we still be rolling? Feeling oblivion cause this song makes me cry every time I hear it I stg.

• Who We Are - Hozier

Poor Dean :( bro has just lost his best friend, and is now realising that he'll never be able to tell him how he felt. It's like he's seeing things plainly for the first time, realising what he's been missing. He never had Cas because they spent so long avoiding their relationship, and now it's too late. You only feel it when it's lost, getting through still has its cost, quietly, it slips through your fingers, love, falling from you drop by drop.

• Crack Baby - Mitski

I don't know if I really need to say more than: crack baby, you don't know what you want, but you know that you had it once, and you know that you want it back.

• Knockin' on Heaven's Door - Bob Dylan

This is another song that's in the show (dark side of the moon, I love you) so naturally reminds me of Dean. It might be a bit on the nose putting it right at the end but it just feels like Dean finally letting himself rest (die of tetanus). Mama, put my guns in the ground, I can't shoot them anymore.

#supernatural #cw supernatural #spn #dean winchester #castiel #deancas #dean and cas #destiel #spotify playlist #character playlist #playlist

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