#Cracked Cop Skulls

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

RÅPUNK SHITTING DOWN YOUR NECK IN '81.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on Gothenburg-based hardcore/råpunk band, THE SKITSLICKERS (SHITLICKERS), est. 1981. Location & photo credit of live shots unknown.

Tomas -- bass guitar

Lasse -- vocals

Jimmy -- guitar

Bob -- drums

Source: www.picuki.com/media/3206235782358738119.

[veone]

Can't really sleep so mini rambles about Nick and his evolution for me on his look. I am trying to balance his features well because he looks very much his father with some of his mother features and color.

Dark brown eyes, sometimes he wears contacts and he opts for dark blue, so dark you don't notice they are blue. His scerla is touch red all the time due to irritates in the air and his drug us that shades the eyes and blood by extention blue. It be odd to see him with clear skin, he doesn't take care of his skin, it's not to bad all the time but he'd always have a pimple or two on his forehead and or chin until he gets a bit older. I don't think he really cares tbh. He doesn't look in the mirror often. Eye bags and dark circles from the lack of sleep that's been a consistent issue since he was a child. Sparce facial hair, he can grow a beard but it takes a little long and it's unfortunately genetic.

Thick eyebrows, not styled outside of making sure they don't connect. Clothing wise I style him very casual, borderline very lazily, fortunately for him i have stuck the fashion in early 2000s and late 90s look and he doesn't put alot of effort into cloths. Most are borrowed or second hand from the community shelters. He gravitate towards more skater styles, cargo pants, baggy jeans, big shirts and layers. Only really wears two pairs of dirty white shoes outside of work uniform that are ill fit, usually a bit baggy from weight lost or he mistakenly took someone else's cloths. Work boots from warehouse jobs. Mechanic top that was just found. Has nick on it. Don't know who that nick is though.

Hair! Thick dark hair, as he ages it's thining at the temples but he'll never go bald. It's graying, he has a bit of gray peeking through and he is going to be a thirty something year old with salt n pepper hair. He is not doing great tbh, it's a combo of stress and genetics. He dyes it though when he's feeling like taking care of him self. Technically he would be wearing glasses but cybernetics exist and even if they didn't he wouldn't wear them because he think he looks lame.

He doesn't maintain his cybernetics very well. They need some updates but they aren't effecting him to much. He has some fixes to his vision and his hearing in his right ear, along with some corrections to his brain from getting his head actually cracked open at some point in his early 20s. Has chronic migraines that flair up when he's stressed, orginate from a stress headache and takes a nose dive. He needs a dark room, cold and quiet. Can totally turn off his hearing at will because no. He's five eight, he's average hight for the earth's population of men. Most men don't get taller than five ten with some exceptions of being six feet. With him bring trans though if he never transitioned he'd be considered tall for a women. Most women are about five five and shorter but the height difference isn't to noticeable.

Weight-flucicates from lack of appetite from drug use and his mental health just nose diving. When he's sober and relatively stable, he can pick up weight pretty quickly, has a great appetite, and kinda a shit diet of take out and energy drinks. Really enjoys fried foods and dumplings. Can't ever see him being toned or muscular. He don't exercise unless like sid dragged him along with her to the gym or some yoga class. He out of shape in that regards and hates it. I don't blame him.

Tats and scars! He only has a sleave that stretches over one side of his chest. It's to cover old scars and a recovery thing for him that didn't really work but it's not constant reminder of some shitty days. Wanted to cover up track mark-just uses the other arm. He will get a sleave when he gets clean from iv drug use. He got burned at some point as a tween playing with stuff he shouldn't have been, it's on his on tated arm and bits of his abdomen. Not to bad but it's noticeable to note. Random addition but nick is in his late 20s or early 30s, im saying or because he doesn't actually tell people his age because he'd rather have people assume because they aim lower and he has a bit of insecurities about the fact he's not where he "should" be for his age. This is why when he find out sid is like 24 he responses by gagging. He mentally blocks out her age because if he thinks about it to long it send him because he's really use to dating in his age range or older and feels like he should be more of a leader n sid is not allowing that. He's happy with that but he got expectations of "older" men that he gotta work on a bit.

[sluckythewizard]

The Altered Beast[FULL SUITE] COULD be arthur bennett or adjacent to whatever hes got going on in tha finale. if ur brave enough. IF UR BRAVE ENOUGH [tldr its just about Things eating Things and becoming New Terrible Things. it also fucking jams]

[ofbatsandballads]

kindness you can’t afford

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: injured character, multiple descriptions of blood + wounds

a/n: so this is the very first jason fic I’ve written since I was twelve, so forgive me while I find my jay’s voice now that I’m not a preteen. anyways I humbly offer thee my wares.

divider credit: cafekitsune

Gotham’s a shithole. You hadn’t known that when you first moved here. To be honest, you’d kind of thrown a dart at a map and gone where it landed. Alright, maybe it wasn’t literally a dart throw, more so finding the cheapest metropolitan city because New York was tempting but it would bankrupt you. Mostly you just wanted a place to not exist. And so Gotham’s relatively low rent rates and towering skylines were the pick with little to no research.

Gotham’s a shithole. You know that beyond a shadow of a doubt now. It’s surprising, honestly, how little of Gotham’s chaos makes it outside the city limits. One would think a psychotic killer clown that’s prone to gassing a whole city district or a half-plant poison lady or a guy going around dressed like a bat would make national news. And yet, no. You’d known superheroes existed, of course. Superman was the shining jewel in the crown of the country that is Metropolis. Everyone knows about the extraordinary Wonder Woman. It’s not like hyper skilled people working for the greater good aren’t a thing. But Gotham plays her cards close to her chest.

You've lived here almost two years now and you’ve managed to make it through relatively unscathed. An impressive feat especially since you live in the Bowery. The Bowery itself isn’t so bad, but its neighboring district Park Row, more often known as Crime Alley, is about the worst Gotham has to offer. You’ve heard your fair share of gunshots and sirens, and you’ll never forget the time that Scarecrow released fear toxin in the district and you had to shove every towel and blanket you owned against the cracks by the doors and windows to keep it out. However, you’ve avoided being mugged or assaulted or anything like that so far. And you’ve never encountered the vigilantes that run the night here.

But there’s always time for new and exciting experiences.

The loud thunk that sounds outside your living room window makes you jump and starts your heart pounding. You know you should just ignore it. Crawl off the couch and to the bedroom, lock the door. The lights in the apartment are already off, only the television light illuminating the room, so it would be easy to creep unseen. But you can’t. Something pulls you to the window. Maybe it’s the cat killing curiosity, or maybe it’s your own little voice of self destruction, or maybe it’s something else entirely. All you know is that you have to go look.

So you do. And there, out cold on the fire escape, is a man. A very large man. A very large man in a red helmet. A very large man in a red helmet with dual pistols holstered to his thighs. Red Hood. Red Hood is passed out face up on your fire escape. Huh.

You’d heard of him. It was hard not to. The Bat had the most notoriety by far, but it was Red Hood that truly scared the criminals of Gotham. Batman might break your bones, cripple you even, but you’d leave with your life. No such guarantee existed if you crossed Red Hood. Hurt a few innocent people and you might end up with a bullet or three in your skull. Then there was that thing about heads in a duffel bag and Red Hood running crime for a solid year in Gotham, but he’s better now, apparently. None of this is deterring you from unlocking the window, pushing it up, and stepping out into the cold winter air. Not when you see the blood seeping through his body armor start to drip off the fire escape grate.

He needs help and he can’t stay unconscious in the middle of the city. If whoever injured him didn’t find him, the cops would. He’s just as wanted as the actual rogues of Gotham. You think it’s bullshit, which is why you’re trying to find a way to get him inside the safety of your apartment. He’s huge up close. This is going to be very, very difficult. Your mind flashes suddenly to one of your favorite childhood movies and how the princess pulled the dashing rogue around with her hair. You glance down at the street before heading to your bedroom.

You come back out with sheets bundled up in your arms. You’re not even sure if this harebrained idea will work, but you weave the sheets through the gaps in the grates and around Red Hood’s waist nonetheless. You secure a knot and go back into your apartment with the length of the sheets. Your legs are stronger than your arms, so you brace them against the wall and pull. You can feel his body slowly dragging towards you and you pause to check your progress. He’s slumped against the window now. Good. You loop your arms under his, place your feet back against the wall, and pull hard. Your hard work is rewarded with his body breaching the threshold of your window and landing directly on top of you. The air is knocked clean out of your lungs. He is heavy.

It’s a struggle but you manage to roll out from under him and immediately see the massive red stain contrasting against the white of your fluffy pajama pants. A small puddle of blood is emerging on your floor under his left thigh, and droplets of blood have splattered next to his torso. He’s not in great shape. It suddenly hits you what you’ve done. You dragged an injured vigilante, known for shooting first and asking questions later, into your apartment with no plan on what to do after the fact.

What the fuck did I do?

That’s all you can think as you look down at him. Then something snaps into place inside your rattled mind and you run to your bathroom to grab your first aid kit. You’d bought it and learned the basics after Wayne Enterprises ran televised infomercials about the importance of first aid a couple months back. You’re carefully balancing all the supplies in your arms as you head back out to the living room.

The empty living room. No vigilante in sight. Then your world spins. Everything clatters to the floor as you’re yanked backwards by your waist, pinned to something solid and unable to move.

“Who are you?” A growl sounds behind you, modulated to sound semi-mechanical.

Ah. There he is. You think you should be panicking, absolutely losing your shit even. But your brain is moving in slow motion.

“Someone trying to help you,” you breathe out.

“Doesn’t answer the question.”

The grip around your waist tightens. You want to laugh. As if you could’ve made a run for it in the first place. You tell him your name, and explain that you live alone. There’s no one else here but the two of you and you really do want to help.

“You were passed out on my fire escape. I couldn’t just leave you out there,” you explain cautiously.

The two of you stay like that for a minute longer. Then, a mechanical sigh sounds from behind you and the vice grip on your waist goes slack. You turn to him and see that he’s already halfway to your window.

“Hey! Wait! I can help!” you shout, scrambling after him.

“Don’t need it,” he snaps.

“You were bleeding out on my floor!” you exclaim.

You don’t know why you feel so strongly about this. Maybe because he seemed so…mortal. It’s easy to forget that these guys running around at night are people. They’re strong, tough, and capable, but they’re still human. The fact that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the window frame proves your point.

“Please. I promise I won’t take long. Please just let me help,” you beg.

He turns around and even through that unreadable helmet you can tell he’s sizing you up. You’re sure you must be a sight in your fuzzy white cat pajama pants, old Snoopy t-shirt, and fluffy white socks. Honestly, it’s a bit of a ridiculous tableau. Massive armed man in tactical gear opposite a woman in fluffy pajamas, both bloodstained. But either you seem harmless enough or he’s in exceptionally bad shape, because he just slumps against your wall and gives a barely noticeable nod of his head.

You go into autopilot the second you get his consent. A dining room chair is dragged to the center of your living room and Red Hood drops himself into it, the old wood creaking under the force. You go to assess the damage on his torso first. Light slashes litter his waist, none of them are deep enough for stitches. You grab the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls from the floor where you kneel before warning him that it might sting.

“I got slashed. Think that might’ve hurt a bit more,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

The torso slashes are light work. It takes all of five minutes to disinfect them and seal them shut with bandages. It’s his thigh that you’re a little more concerned about. There’s enough blood that it’s soaked his tactical pants around where you’re guessing the wound is. You can vaguely make out what appears to be cut fabric, so you’re assuming he was stabbed.

“How deep did the knife go?” you ask.

“Hm. ‘Bout two inches?” he offers.

“Why’d you take it out?” you ask incredulously. Anyone with half a brain knew not to take a knife out of a stab wound.

“No idea. Should’ve just gone runnin’ around the city with a knife wedged in my leg.”

The mask’s modulator does nothing to hide the teasing edge to his voice. Of everything you’d heard about Red Hood, you’d never heard he was such a smartass.

“You know how to do stitches?” he asks.

Great. So he saw the deer-in-headlights look you had while thinking about how to fix his stab wound.

“If you count mending clothing then, uh, sure,” you reply.

The white slits of the helmet stare hard at you before a warped chuckle comes from under it.

“Well, close enough.”

Oh, so he liked to gamble with his health then. Okay. Sure. Great. You could totally do this. Untrained, unlicensed, unsupervised you. You have to stop your hands from shaking as you thread the curved needle. You have to stop yourself from vomiting with anxiety as you push the needle through his skin. He hisses and you immediately feel bad. He’d handled the alcohol without flinching, but the stitches were a different story. You whisper sorry’s with every puncture of his skin you make. Soon enough, his leg is closed up and the whole thing is said and done.

“Okay, should be good to go,” you start, “Well, not good per se, but functional to go.”

A hum and a quick nod of his head are the only response you get before he’s back on his feet. He’s about to climb out your window for the second time tonight when you call out to him again. He turns around and you’d swear he almost seems exasperated.

“Take these with you. You’ll probably need them,” you say as you toss him a water bottle and a small carton of orange juice.

He snatches them easily from the air. But then he just stands there and stares at the drinks in his hands. You think you may have somehow offended him and go to apologize when he speaks.

“Thanks,” he says, mechanical voice catching on the word.

And then he’s gone. Out your window and off into the night. Once you shut and lock the window you feel exhaustion hit you like a freight train. All the adrenaline drains from you and it takes whatever energy you have left to collapse on to your bed and drift off to sleep.

You’ll never know it, but the Red Hood spends the last fifteen minutes of his patrol sipping his orange juice and dutifully watching your apartment window.

You’ll never know it, but Jason Todd lingers across the street to make sure you get home from the grocery store safely, and he scoffs as he sees you feed and pet a stray dog. It’s silly, he thinks.

Don’t you know that now you’ve shown it some kindness, it’ll just keep coming back?

[yanderedrabbles]

omg I'm drooling over the Yandere Pirate fic. But it's kinda got me curious - who do you think is the worst guy you've written? Who's the absolute biggest bastard?

(On the other end of the spectrum, I think Boyfriend yandere is still the sweetest)

Hoo boy have I written some awful men. I think Yandere! Pirate is pretty terrible because he masquerades his own lust and cruelty as kindness but he's nowhere near the worst. Let's rank 'em.

5. Yandere! Stalker/Cop is a nice guy most of the time, and as a boyfriend he's pretty great. But it's his stalker persona that gets him on this list. He's left your pet's head in a box for you to find. He's broken into your house more times than he can remember. He's threatened and frightened you, all for the sake of getting you in his arms.

4. Yandere! Cowboy is mean, possessive and overly territorial. Instead of asking you out for a dance or bringing you flowers, his idea of courting is pinning you against a wall and finger fucking you until you're shaking and crying and begging him to be gentle. He uses the expectations of society to force you into being his wife. No one will want you now that he's taken your virginity, you know that don't you sugar? And your daddy will be horrified to learn you've been fooling around out in the barn like a slut. You don't want him to find out, do ya?

3. Yandere! State Trooper gets off on power, no two ways about it. He tries to be nice about it at first, make you rely on him by getting rid of all those pesky speeding tickets. But when you don't fall for it, he gets awfully nasty. Police brutality is one word for it, and manipulative malpractice is another. And the worst part? His buddies on the force will always cover for him. If you ever get brave enough to take him to court, you'll find his body cam footage is totally scrubbed. And his dash cam just happened to be malfunctioning on the night in question. You're trapped by the long (and buff) arms of the law.

2. Yandere! Greek Champion is going to the worst place in the underworld for what he did to you. And even knowing that, he'd do it again. He has no fear of the Gods, no respect or reverence. He's a man willing to fuck a virgin priestess on the floor of her temple, right in front of the holy shrine. You think that sort of man will ever be kind? Or noble? No way baby.

And without further ado, the worst man I've written to date is....

Yandere! Cyberpunk Riot Control Officer. You knew it was coming. I knew it was coming. He wins this contest hands down (or tied behind your back preferably). Anal without prep or lube. Fucking you with the baton he was using to crack skulls a few hours ago. Manipulating riot laws just to have his way with you. He's an awful guy but even worse, he's the product of a State just as cruel and depraved as he is. How else could he get away with doing this to you?

(And they aren't even the worst I've thought of - more despicable bastards coming soon).

[brucewaynehater101]

I think it would be really funny if Tim kept up one very specific connection he made during Young Justice. One that no one but Tim and his team know about. One of the most dangerous beings in all the Universe.

Lobo The Space Biker.

The Main Man Himself, who has either tied or beaten Superman in a number of different comics *and* shows. When he showed up during the Justice Leauge Animated show, the entire JL (minus Clark) had to work together to just *barely* keep him in line and even *then* they did not command full authority nor respect from him. He is a top tier threat almost everytime he is spotted.

And I can only think of one person who he canonically will do basically whatever they say.

Tim Drake.

Tim managed to reign Lobo in multiple times during their adventures together, and no I don't mean the weaker clone. I mean The Real Actual Lobo (who had been turned into a teen by Klarion at the start of their friendship but *still*) does what if asked of him by Tim Drake, up to and including *walking away from unfinished fights*. Evidence by the time Tim got him to not fight the Space Cops right before The Baseball Game and got him and Big Bear to stop fighting when both wanted to continue.

All this to say, some kind of all hands on deck happens and the JL needs some back up for some kind of invasion and Tim says, "I have someone who owes me a few favors and it pretty strong." And makes a phone call. All the JL can hear is Tim as he says, "hey, Lil- I'm cashing in a favor... Yeah there's an invasion about to happen... Yes, you are the first person I call for Cracking Skulls, of course.... yes well, with or without you it's happening in an hour. Get here sooner and after we can have an extra meeting... of course I'll make the usual tea, plus Lavender and Rose cookies~... yes I know you very well.... see you in 25 minuets Lil." And he hangs up.

30 minutes later, Lobo breaks into the Watch Tower and the whole JL is like "WE DONT HAVE TIME FOR THIS DAMN IT." until Tim walks past them saying, "Lil! I got some cookies, they're chocolate chunk." And Lobo simply replies, "you know me so fraggin well, Runt."

Tim gets placed on Lobo's shoulder and they start talking about where Lobo will be so he can Crack the most skulls.

I don't know enough about Lobo (so thank you for the explanations), but I am all for Tim's friendship powers.

I don't know how he does it, but he's constantly nestling himself into villainous or morally grey characters' soft spots. Is there a list out there of folks that, for all intents and purposes, shouldn't like Tim but got bedazzled by his friendship charm?

Anyways, I'd love a 5 plus one fic of Tim being like: "Oh? We've got this problem? Hold up. I know a guy." Then he just calls up someone he definitely shouldn't be friends with. They act like the best of buds, too.

[poniesart]

[Image description: A series of images depicting a song-based comic about Stanley and Stanford Pines from Gravity Falls.

Image 1: The top panel shows Stan, a grey-haired older man in a suit, breaking out of handcuffs in an interrogation room. Lyrics to the left read "They tried the handcuffs, but they won't lock."

The bottom panel shows Ford, a similar man with less grey in his hair, wearing a sweater and jacket. He has a shock collar on that emits blue electricity. Lyrics to the right read "electrical courses, but they won't shock."

Image 2: The top panel shows Ford holding a gun, looking behind him and running. There is a "Wanted" poster of him, on the wall beside him. Lyrics to the left read "You pulled the fire alarm."

The bottom panel shows Stan holding a suitcase of money, looking behind him and running. Behind him is a police car with its lights on, and a cop laying on the sidewalk. Lyrics to the right read "You tried punching a cop."

At the bottom of the image, six busts of Stan and Ford show them aging over thirty years. Lyrics above them read "You're just too tired to stop."

Image 3: An all-black background. White text shows the lyrics "You old pine box." Below is a white outline of a coffin.

Image 4: The left panel shows Stan in a basement, looking down at a journal with his head in his hands. The top of his head is breaking open, and flower pot shards drift away. A plant with a few leaves grows out of his head. Lyrics atop the panel read "You old pine box, with your head full of rocks, sharp like a cracked flower pot."

The right panel shows Ford at a cooking fire, drawing plans for a weapon called a "quantum destabilizer" as he glances suspiciously behind him. Eyeballs with bat wings fly out of an open portion of his head. Lyrics atop the panel read "You old paper head, on your skull full of bats, there's no percentage in that."

Image 5: The top panel shows a younger Ford in the foreground clutching a journal. Behind him, Fiddleford, a man wearing circle glasses and a cultist robe, is walking away from Ford. Further back is Caryn Pines, a dark-haired woman reaching out to Ford. In the very back is Filbrick Pines, a man with sunglasses and a mustache. Lyrics to the right read "They called relations, but they declined. They called the fanclub, but they'd resigned."

The bottom panel shows a younger Stan in the foreground with a grim look on his face. He is walking away from a crashed car on fire in the background. Lyrics to the left read "Left your car in a field and some questions behind."

Image 6: A night view of the second stories of some buildings. In the middle building, Caryn is leaning outside the right-hand window. She has grey in her hair, and is smoking a cigarette and looking up at the stars. Text in the sky reads "Your mom thinks you're out of your mind."

End ID.]

Song: They Might Be Giants - Old Pine Box. Again, I recommend reading with the song playing!

Another year, another Gravity Falls lyric comic, because I am always in my feelings about it!! I could froth at the mouth for ages about Stan and Ford being more similar than they might think - self-isolating, determined, desperate - but instead I drew this.

This is another one I had cooking in the back of my head for, probably, years, because my brain makes so many connections between TMBG songs and GF. I hope you like it!!

[stressfulsloth]

I've seen a couple of takes about Disco Elysium being copaganda going around recently, and beyond the fact that DE is relentlessly critical of the police force in general and makes explicit reference to the failures of the system that allow the officers in game to abuse their power, I also think it's important to note that there very literally is an in-world version of copaganda that the writers of the game use to parody that romanticised view of the brutality of policing. The RCM at their inception were structurally inspired by in-world copaganda- their culture, their "fashions, even weapon preferences, borrow heavily from classic Vespertine cop shows." Every investigation is it's own little drama, every officer imagining themselves to be the bad-ass hero of their own crime serial. Detectives name their cases like they're naming episodes of a TV series in a "robust but literary system"; a title that "draws inspiration from snoop fiction and Vespertine cop show staples". They give themselves nicknames to sound like cool, suave fictional officers- Ace, Dick Mullen, etc.- from the cool, suave world of copaganda.

The legend of the RCM's inception, the "point of contention" over its uncertain origins, is even an extention of that; the whole organisation is shrouded in this self-fictionalising mythos that allows for distance that in turn obfuscates much of its violence to the officers that participate in it. They get to convince themselves that they're not abusing their power; they're the hero of the story! The dichotomy of "good guy" taking out the "baddies," a manifestation of the libertarian fantasy of the "good guy with a gun" who does what it takes, just like in Annette's detective novels, and at the same time who rails against oversight bodies like Internal Affairs/'the rat squad' because due process slows down the immediate satisfaction of Swift Justice, despite Internal Affairs existing to protect the citizens from overreach on behalf of the police. "Wanton brutality" from police in their real world is a cold bitter reality but Dick Mullen was "made to crack skulls," "bend the rules and solve cases no one else can," and which version of that story is more comforting to the overworked, underfunded officers of the RCM?

The level of fantasy and detachment required for the cops to still see themselves as the good guys after everything that they do in the line of duty mimics The Pigs and her breakdown too; she parallels Harry so clearly. Both "did right by the kids" in the past, hoping for a better future- Marianne (The Pigs) by looking out for Titus and the Hardy boys when they were young, Harry in his role as a gym teacher. Both abandoned and left behind by the system that the RCM uphold- a brutal capitalist landscape with no safety nets. Both turning the source of their trauma into a costume, a performance, a shield, shaped by "radio waves and cop shows." The Pigs uses RCM items scavenged from the Esperance where they'd been thrown away, while Harry uses the Dick Mullen hat that Annette gives him but both are essentially in costume.

Harry identifies himself with the fictional detective as a kind of wish fulfilment; Dick Mullen is "wicked smart." He doesn't fuck up his cases and when he's sad it's not pathetic; it's effortlessly cool brooding and everyone sympathises. Everyone loves him. His violence- "skull crack[ing]"- is justified because he's a "good guy" enacting that violence against the victims of police brutality sorry "bad guys". He doesn't ever face repercussions; "Dick Mullen won't be sent to the clink for the sake of some legal niceties!" So if Harry is Dick Mullen then his failures, his breakdown, they're all just a part of being a "bad-ass, on-the-edge disco cop." He's not wrong, he's a hero! This idealised fictionalised idea of the police force, this "new, sadly better, reality" that both Harry and The Pigs cling to is "escapist stuff," "receed[ing] into a ludicrous fantasy world," so far removed from the brutal material reality that they're in.

My point is, idk. Disco Elysium is so far from being copaganda. It is a multi-million word long dissection of it, of the purpose of policing, of state sanctioned violence and its interaction with capital and the fallout experienced within the wider community as well as the trauma cycle created for individual officers. A dissection of how copaganda interacts with RCM culture and perception, and by extension how we interact with irl perceptions of police through that lens.

[aemsgirl]

In Spite Of Us.

Modern Aemond x Reader. PT2

Summary: The lines tangle tighter, pulling you and Aemond into something neither of you can fully control—something that could cost you everything. But in the end, none of it matters. Not if the pain fades into something you can stomach. Not if you can tell yourself it’s worth it. Even if he leaves you in ruins, painted in black and blue.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Oral sex, violence, mention of illegal activities, incest, dub-consent, aggression, degradation, mention of blood, childhood trauma, mention of attempted suicide.

The mornings were fucking hell. Shafts of light pierced through every crack, heating up the room that was already suffocating with the windows closed tightly. You'd learned better than to leave them open, or anything else, for that matter. One slip and it was over—whether it was the cops or the worst of the fucking dragnet. Who wanted your head more at this point? Hard to say. Aemond wasn't making it any easier, carving his own path through this mess. The blood was heavy on your side, stained deep under your nails, but his? Worse. At this point, it was hard to tell. The chipped black polish on his nails was the only dead giveaway.

Aemond used to grunt in his sleep, tossing and turning, his restless movements making the bed feel like a battlefield. Meanwhile, you were as still as a statue beside him, and he couldn't help but wonder how the hell you managed it. But today? Today was different. He woke up without the usual weight of a hangover, his eyes snapping open, the light cutting through the room like a blade. His hand instinctively found his face, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to shake off the drowsiness, but it was futile. Some mornings, he just wanted a shock straight to the skull—anything to wake him up fully and get rid of that corpse-like heaviness dragging at his bones.

Rolling over, his gaze landed on you, as always. Lying on your side, eyes closed, still wrapped up in the sleep-induced haze. He knew you wouldn't wake up now, not with the crap you shoved down your throat every night just to knock yourself out. It was the usual routine. Him waking up first, having to shower alone, eating alone—shit, he didn’t even get to share the fucking morning with you. It pissed him off, made him want to pinch you from head to toe just to see if you'd stir, maybe open those damn eyes and remind him that you were still here. Still fucking human. Still present.

But he didn't move, not yet. Instead, he just watched you, lying there so still, almost serene. Usually, you were a pain in the ass—your tongue sharp, always quick with a retort, too fast for your own good. But like this? Like this, you were calm, a whole different side of you that made his gaze linger longer than it should. It was almost unsettling how peaceful you looked, and he couldn't shake the thought of how fucking strange it was to see you this way.

It was like those beaches he’d seen in pictures, the ones with the waters so blue they looked almost unreal, like a fucking dream. On a hot day, you'd dive in without thinking, wanting to swim every inch of that vast, sparkling expand until your body ached and your lungs burned. But there was always a little sign, tucked away just out of sight, warning you: beware sharks. And even if it looked inviting, even if every instinct screamed at you to dive in, you knew better. One wrong move, and those sharks would rip you to shreds before you could even get tired.

Yet, the thought of being devoured, of sinking into that cold embrace, was oddly tempting. The idea of being consumed by you, torn apart and remade—yeah, that sounded fucking good to him. Almost too good.

Aemond's breath escaped him in a heavy sigh, as if exhaling his thoughts right along with the air, the weight of them pressing on him like an invisible burden. He tore his gaze away from you, reluctantly letting the stillness of your form fade from his view. With a sluggish movement, he sat up, his body protesting the action with every subtle shift. His muscles felt like they were made of stone, every tiny movement pulling at something inside him, making him ache. He glanced around the room to make sure everything was where it should be—nothing out of place. The blue light still bathed the walls in its soft glow, although it lacked the same intensity it had at night.

He stretched, hoping to shake off the lingering heaviness of sleep, but it only worked halfway, leaving a faint ache in its place. His eyes found you again, just from the corner.

Fuck this. Fuck you, he thought.

His gaze, whether he intended it or not, traced the contours of your body. The curve of your hips barely concealed by your panties, your torso only covered by a sheer white tank top, your breasts almost visible, your nipples subtly outlined, calling to him, even if unknowingly. Your body always beckons to him, regardless of the situation, the mood, or the moment. Every woman has an itch, and he knows yours is him. There's no other explanation, and he wouldn't accept any alternative.

His body moved as if he was being called by a siren. The not-so-gentle hands turned your body so you were lying on your back and giving him a better view. You groaned softly, but didn't really wake up. Your body, swallowed by heaviness and sleep, too heavy to actually do anything. Vulnerable, open. Everything Aemond likes, everything he wants. Like a fucking leech, or maggots crawling on dead flesh feeding on what's left of a life, he feeds on these moments. Control, pure and raw. Over everything, over you.

His fingers clawed at your legs, dragging himself across the bed like a really silently predator stalking its prey until he was nestled between your spread thighs, squatting on his heels. His fingers, cold and unyielding, scraped down your thighs, seizing your ankles with a tight grip. He dragged them, forcing your feet to frame his body on the bed, keeping your legs wrenched apart, exposing you. You were so fucking malleable under his hands, like he could take you apart and put you back together however the fuck he wanted, twist your body into any perverse shape his dark mind conjured. And he loved it, loved how you were his to corrupt.

"I'm hungry," he murmurs, the words dripping with that familiar, chilling tone. You've heard it before, countless times, in various contexts, knowing damn well what it means when he says it like that. It's not about food.

He fucking knows you remember, too. The times when there was no food, or when dad, that piece of shit, would beat you until you were sick. The leather belt, the shine of the silver buckle in the dim light, always after a meal, when your stomachs were full. And on your knees, he’d beat you until vomit painted the floor, until there was nothing left but the acrid taste of bile. He remembers that bastard's smile, how he'd grab him by the hair, forcing his face into the mess he'd made. He remembers the shaking, the pain, the hunger that followed. He remembers you.

Like a fucking feast, like you are now.

His fingers slithered over your skin, their tips sneaking under your tank top, feeling the fabric’s edge. He watched as goosebumps erupted across your thighs, your body betraying its response to his touch. Like it always fucking does. When his hunger was palpable, it didn't matter if your eyes were wide open or shut tight, if your mind was with him or lost in some dark dreamscape behind those lids. He'd always been this way, and you? You'd always allowed it. Ever since before that son of a bitch's death, when he first felt you wrapped around him, when you heard him jerking off to thoughts of you at night, whimpering into your ear, his hips grinding against you. You'd always let him because you want him; you fucking need him.

And you'll get it. You bet your ass you will.

His fingers ascend, dragging the fabric of your shirt with them, baring your breasts to his ravenous gaze. At the mere sight of your skin, his mouth waters. Your head turns aside on the pillow, a low moan escaping you. You feel the heat spreading through your torso, warm and alive. His fingers then travel down to your panties, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and slowly dragging them down your thighs, letting them fall to the floor. His eyes lock onto your pussy, so fucking perfect for him. Always so fucking perfect, so good. How in hell could something this delectable even exist?

"I'm hungry," Aemond murmured again, his teeth grazing his lower lip as he visually consumed your intimate space, as if he hadn't already memorized every inch with his own senses.

He lowers himself, almost flattening against the bed, his long fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. He takes a moment to savor the view from this angle, your little cunt in his face, his gaze traveling up past your breasts to your face, turned away, lips parted, teeth just visible. So fucking beautiful, it makes him want to rip your face to shreds with his bare hands, to create chasms with his teeth, to chew on the pieces. He could do it, he wants to do it. But somewhere deep down, he knows that even if your flesh were torn apart, you'd still be this oppressive tightness in his chest. And he fucking hates it.

"And you're going to feed me, aren't you?" he whispers against your skin, his breath hot as it fans over your heat, noticing the slight twitch of your leg beside his head, but nothing more.

His tongue extends from your entrance to your clit, dragging up to your lower stomach, the sensation of his warm tongue unmistakable even through the haze of your disjointed thoughts, the weight of your limbs anchoring you to the bed. His lips return with increased urgency, one hand gripping your thigh, pulling it to his mouth, his teeth sinking into the skin of your inner thigh, while the other hand rises to grab one of your breasts, his fingertips pressing into the flesh. Your breath quickens, your chest rising and falling with mounting intensity.

His tongue traced a path down your inner thigh before making its way back to your core, not wasting time before delving in. It rolled between your folds, coating them with his saliva. As his tongue danced over your entrance again, the taste of your arousal hit him, eliciting a moan from deep within. Your body responded to every touch, tightening, a dim light seeping through your closed eyelids, though the two purple pills you'd ingested the night before made full consciousness elusive, your reactions slowed, your desires muted.

"You're getting all wet for me, little dove," he murmured, his voice low, muffled by your pussy, with no intention of pulling away to speak further. "Dirty girl, I should rip your throat open for this." A growl rumbled from him, his eyes closing as he sank deeper, his entire being focused on the sensations his mouth was exploring, leaving all his senses tethered to the act of licking you everywhere.

Your lips part further, a moan slipping through, your brows knitting together, etching a line of tension on your face. Your hips begin to shift weakly on the bed, up and down, your whimpers soft and muffled by fatigue. Aemond responds with his own sounds against your intimacy, taking full advantage of your semi-conscious state to vocalize his pleasure unrestrainedly. His fingers play with the nipple he's captured, giving it a sharp tug to jolt you further into awareness. Your legs, on either side of his head, fall open wider.

It's too good, too fucking good.

So good that you're unaware when your fingers find their way to the back of his neck, tangling in his black hair, pulling him closer in an instinctive, desperate plea for more.

Aemond freezes.

Your heart pounded like a drum, the shock of wakefulness like a slap across your face. Sweat beaded at your temples, and when you looked down, Aemond's eyes were already locked on you, his mouth still against you. The room seemed to stand still, time itself arrested. The chill that ran through you was like a bolt of ice, your senses suddenly sharp but tainted.

You attempted to rise, but he pounced, his hands reaching for your neck while your legs thrashed to push him off. You knew you were doomed if he pinned you down. Aemond grappled with your flailing arms, your nails raking his skin each time he tried to seize your wrists. But your resistance was faltering, and you knew this could be the end.

His fist slammed into your jaw, snapping your head to the side, blood erupting from your nose onto the pillows. His thighs clamped over yours, holding you down, but you still fought. His hands pressed your shoulders into the mattress, aiming for your neck, when you clawed at his throat, your nails digging in deep. A pained grunt escaped him as he clutched the bleeding marks you left on his neck. You seized the moment to free one leg, using your foot to shove his chest back.

"You fucking bitch!" Aemond's yell reverberated, but there was no time for discussion.

You hit the floor with a thud, a groan of pain escaping you. You saw Aemond beginning to rise from the bed, coming for you, and despite the difficulty, you managed to scramble up, staggering as you bolted. You collided with furniture, each impact a jolt of pain, while behind you, Aemond closed in with purposeful strides, his fists balled, jaw clenched tight. He was boiling over, rage spilling out like steam from an overfilled pot, threatening to scald you.

You made it to the living room, positioning yourself behind the small glass dining table. Aemond appeared in the doorway, his heartbeat almost audibly pounding, the intensity of it pressing against the air in your throat. Your naked body felt too exposed, his gaze raking over you, but not with lust. No, this was the look of someone intent on tearing you apart, letting you bleed out.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" you scream, knowing your words would fall on deaf ears. This wasn't the Aemond you knew; it couldn't be, not in this state.

He moved to the other side of the table, effectively blocking your escape route to the kitchen where you might have grabbed a knife. His eyes, wide and void, met yours, almost lifeless. Your palms were slick with sweat, your feet rooted to the spot despite your mind screaming to move. The mantra echoed in your head, 'he's coming for you.'

"Run," Aemond said, his voice laced with a sinister glee, his smile all teeth, gleaming menacingly.

And you didn't hesitate.

Your feet propelled you forward, his hot on your heels, the air barely making it into your lungs. You clutched the bathroom door frame, ready to dart inside, when his arms encircled your waist, lifting you off the floor. Your legs flailed, your hands clawing at his arms to break free, his grip squeezing your ribs like a vise. He began to retreat, pulling you with him, but you reacted swiftly. Your elbow slammed into his ribs, and when he didn't release you, your head snapped back into his, his sharp cry of pain mingling with the force that sent you sprawling to the ground.

"Fuck!" he shouted, his fingers pressing against his newly bloodied nose, courtesy of your counterattack.

You scrambled across the floor, more like a creature than a human, managing to slip through the bathroom door. You locked it with trembling hands. The door shook under the assault of Aemond's fists, each impact making you jump back, landing on your rear. The wood seemed on the verge of splintering with every hit. Your eyes darted around; there was a small window, but it was too narrow for escape. You'd tried before; it was impossible.

"Open the fucking door!" he yells, his punch so forceful it seems to bruise his knuckles, but the pain is the last thing on his mind now, only you matter. "It's going to be much worse for you, much worse!" His voice drips with venom, and with truth; it would indeed be worse.

But you don't care. Using the sink for support, you stand, and in the mirror, you see the blood trails from your nose to your lips. Your hips will soon bruise from the collisions with furniture and the floor. Desperation grips you as you pull at your own hair, each knock on the door a reminder of your vulnerability. Until his foot slams into the door, and you turn just in time to see it buckle.

You need to do something.

With no time for thought, your fist smashes into the mirror, glass exploding in all directions. The sound halts Aemond's assault briefly, as does your sharp cry of pain, your blood now dripping from your cut knuckles onto the white tiles. You frantically search for the largest, sharpest piece of glass among the debris, feeling the sting of tiny crystals under your nails.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Aemond's voice escalates with new urgency.

With another powerful kick, the door gives way, splinters mixing with your blood on the floor. Aemond's gaze locks on the bloody glass in your hand, his own rage intensifying. Eye to eye, you brace for what's to come.

He's coming for you, so you come for him too.

Aemond steps forward, and so do you; the glass slices the side of his arm, drawing blood. He staggers back, clutching the wound, and you advance, but he quickly seizes your wrist, twisting it viciously. It feels like he might break it, your fingers crushed further into the glass, embedding it into your palm. A scream tears from your lips, tears at the corners of your eyes. You're forced to release the shard, which shatters on the floor. With a knee to your stomach, Aemond sends you crashing down, all air exiting your lungs.

Slowly, he kneels beside you, watching your mouth open in a silent scream, your hand clutching your stomach as if to hold yourself together. Fucking pathetic, he thinks, the urge to spit in your face, to make you swallow every piece of broken glass on the floor overwhelming him.

"I should make you chew this whole fucking glass right off the floor." His threat is punctuated by him grabbing your hair, yanking your face closer to his.

Your pained expression feeds into him. He's aware he's using you as a punching bag, treating you like you're worthless, and he doesn't feel an ounce of remorse. Perhaps he will when the rage subsides, but when does it ever truly subside? Was it ever meant to? He doesn't know. But he's hard, painfully so under his underwear, throbbing with every tear that escapes your eyes, consumed by a frenzy that's pure and intense.

He slams your head back onto the ground with all his might. You squeeze your eyes shut, but there's no escaping the pain. Both his hands encircle your neck, and to prevent any more tricks, he kneels on your thighs, his weight crushing your flesh, drawing a scream that's stifled by the lack of air. There's a high-pitched sound in your ears, reminiscent of chairs scraping or the squeaky springs of that old swing in the dilapidated playground where you once played, where you felt like you could touch the clouds when he pushed you. You almost wish you could now.

"Die! Why wont you die?!" Aemond screams into your face, but you know he's not seeing you; he's not screaming at you.

Your hands claw at him, your nails raking down his bare chest, only adding to your torment. Aemond's eyes close, his body shaking above you. His nails dig deeper into your neck, darkness enveloping your vision. Your back arches in one last attempt to free yourself, and a loud, pained moan escapes Aemond as he climaxes in his underwear, the sensation so intense it could have shattered him instead of you. The pressure becomes unbearable, your lips parting in a futile attempt to breathe. Your eyes close, and you're thrown into a cold, black abyss. Alone.

Nights always carried a kind of mercy. The cold slipped through the cracked window, brushing against the room like a quiet apology for the chaos that had come before. The neon blue light pulsed faintly, painting the walls with something soft, almost alive. You’d always thought the blue was too sad, but Aemond liked it, so it stayed. Yet tonight, when you opened your eyes, it wasn’t blue filtering through your lids. No, it was clear light—sharp and unkind. Strange.

Then the ache hit. It was everywhere, spreading from your fingers to your chest like it had been carved into your very bones. Every muscle in your body screamed, raw and heavy, like you’d become one giant bruise. And maybe you had.

Your eyes moved across the room, desperate to find him. Your chest tightened when you didn’t see him straight away, and panic started to set in. But just as you shifted, ignoring the pain in your ribs, the bedroom door swung open, and there he was.

Aemond stepped inside, his movements deliberate, his frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the light. He was dripping wet, his hair clinging to his shoulders in dark strands, wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips. In his hand, he carried a white plastic bag, casual as ever.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice steady and low. The sound of it cut through the stillness, grounding you in a way that nothing else could.

You glanced down at yourself, noticing the oversized shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders and a pair of sweatpants that didn’t belong to you. His, clearly. You caught sight of your wrist next, carefully wrapped in white splints. The work was precise, too meticulous to have been done by anyone but him.

“Hey,” you croaked back, your voice barely above a whisper. It felt foreign in your throat, raw and strained. The bitterness in your mouth confirmed what you already suspected—he’d forced some medicine into you while you were out. It was just like him.

He moved closer to the bed, his gaze fixed on you as he settled on the edge. The space between you was thin, almost nonexistent, but it still felt like a gulf. You studied him, and he studied you right back. The marks on his skin stood out against the pale light—your nails had left their trails, violent and deliberate, carving down his neck, chest, and arms. There was a deeper wound too, one from the glass, glinting faintly in the morning light.

And he saw it too—the purple bruises on your neck, stark against your skin. His fingerprints. They sat there like inked tattoos. He likes them a lot.

“Do you want a picture?” Your voice cut through the silence, hoarse but steady, your words laced with that sharp edge he knew so well. It didn’t hurt anymore, and that was enough.

“Yeah,” he muttered, almost laughing under his breath. His eye traced your face like he was memorising it, his thoughts catching on the idea. If he had a camera, a good one, and if things were different—better—this house would be covered in you. Your face, your body, your marks. Everywhere. You’d be the only thing worth seeing.

The silence wrapped around you both, not oppressive, but present, like a third figure in the room. His hand, trembling with hesitation, inched towards yours. You caught the flicker of doubt in his movements, and without giving him a chance to second-guess, you reached for him. Your fingers threaded through his, clasping tightly, as if sealing a quiet promise neither of you dared to speak aloud.

The thought settled again at the base of your skull: If it doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s okay. Even if every inch of you was bruised and battered, flesh stained in shades of blue and black, it didn’t matter. It was just a body, after all—just skin and bone. Nothing more, nothing less.

When his gaze finally met yours, it wasn’t with the depth you might have hoped for. His eye held a flatness, void of the kind of emotion he wished he could express—or the kind you sometimes wished you could see. But you’d long since stopped expecting it. He didn’t know how to show it, couldn’t, and that was all right. You had learned to live in the spaces between what he gave and what he withheld. In the end, you told yourself, it would be bearable. Even if the walls of this house crumbled into ash one day, you’d both still be here.

Your eyes searched his, and his mirrored the same dance. Without warning, he pulled hard on your hand, yanking you forward until your chests collided. His arms snaked around your shoulders, locking you into him, as if he were holding on for dear life. Instinctively, your hands found his waist, drawing him closer, your fingers gripping tightly as if the two of you could weld together. Your face nestled perfectly into the curve of his neck—a hollow that seemed carved for you alone. A place to rest, and perhaps even to bite when the need arose.

Holding him like this felt steady. Familiar. Safe. Just as the bruises and scratches had their place, so did the moments like this—the quiet inhalation of his scent, the way your arms clutched at him like he might disappear. It was measured, restrained, the intimacy meted out in doses small enough not to overwhelm. Anything more would be unbearable, tipping into something too raw, too unmanageable.

“I brought you something,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze again.

You said nothing, only watched as his hands left you to reach for the white plastic bag he’d brought in earlier. His fingers dipped inside, searching like a child eager to reveal a secret treasure. When he finally pulled it free, the golden wrapper caught the light, and your eyes locked onto the familiar shape of the chocolate bar.

Of course. It was always this. Sweetness. That was what he saw in you, wasn’t it? Something indulgent. You didn’t mind, not really. Even though you knew it was fleeting—your teeth would rot eventually, fall out maybe. The ants might come, leaving trails of fire across your skin. But none of that mattered, not when the sweetness melted on your tongue. He always brought it to you. Always.

You take the bar from his hand, tearing it open with your teeth like you’ve got no time for subtlety, the wrapper crinkling loud enough to fill the silence. Chocolate smears across your fingers as you peel it back, and you pause for a second, staring him down before sinking your teeth into it. A big bite—half the damn thing gone already. Aemond watches you for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk, but then his gaze drops to his hands resting in his lap.

“You need a shower,” he says finally, voice low but firm, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “The Worm wants to see us at the club tonight.”

Your eyes flick up at that, unimpressed, because of course that bastard does.

“Why?” you ask, exhaling the word more than speaking it, your tone halfway between exhaustion and annoyance. You take another bite of the chocolate, letting it melt lazily on your tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“A little daddy’s boy soirée or something,” Aemond mutters with a shrug. He’s got that look again, the one he always wears when he talks about this shit—a mix of disdain and quiet rebellion. He hates this scene, the pounding music that sounds like it’s on a loop, the suffocating crowds. But then he adds, “There’ll be some good fish,” and his eye meets yours. Just a flicker of understanding passes between you.

The Worm might be a total bastard, but he had a nose for opportunities, especially when it came to sales. The nightclub was his playground, his stage, and let’s not forget his little meth empire ticking along in the background. The man handed you a lifeline—or a leash, depending on how you looked at it—but saying no to him wasn’t exactly an option. He loved to remind you of that whenever he could.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” you mutter, a dry laugh escaping as you finish off the last of the bar, the taste bitter-sweet as it disappears.

Aemond reaches over and plucks the wrapper from your hand, his touch light but deliberate, watching you as you stand. Every muscle in your body protests, stiff and aching, but you ignore it, your bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shiver that shoots straight up your spine. You don’t pause, though. You make for the wardrobe, pulling open the smallest drawer to grab a bra and panties from the mess of clothes stuffed inside. Aemond doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. His fingers stay intertwined, his expression distant, like he’s lost somewhere else.

It’s only when your hand reaches for the door that his voice cuts through again, quiet but razor-sharp.

“I’ll be watching you,” he says, his tone warning but calm, his eye finally lifting to meet your retreating form. “So don’t do anything stupid.”

You let a sly grin slip out before moving on. It's not like you meant to fuck up, not tonight. Could be exhaustion or whatever. Your mess wasn't like Aemond's, not some epic cleanup. Well, at least not usually. You know his real fear is that you'll slit your wrists open and finish what you sometimes started after...incidents. That wasn't your intention tonight.

Your feet drag you to the bathroom, now always wide open thanks to that morning's drama. Inside, it's all spick and span, the sharp scent of bleach hitting you hard. He'd cleaned up, but some things just don't wash away. The door with its frame fucked, the mirror with a new hole in it, and that's it. Everything else, gone, like it usually is. Sometimes you wish you two were like this floor - a little soap and water could sort it out. Fix it up.

You try not to overthink, just strip down and jump into the shower. It's like your second home, scrubbing until your skin's raw. Careful not to drench those bandages he wrapped around your wrist. Eyes shut, you let the water wash you off, even if it's just skin deep.

Drying off and slipping into your undies and bra, you pause for a sec. Just taking a breath before heading back to the bedroom. From the doorway, you spot Aemond in front of the mirror, the little pots of black and white paint open, brush at the ready. His hair's less wet, those heavy black boots already on his feet, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, no shirt beneath. He turns, eyes sweeping over you, unabashed. Head cocked to the side for a moment.

"Help me with this." It's not a request, it's a command, part of the routine.

You don't think twice before stepping up, and neither does he. Aemond slides down in the chair, legs spreading wider, an open invite. You take it, hands on his shoulders for balance, swinging a leg over to sit on him. His hands lock onto your waist, holding you steady.

"Want something special tonight?" you ask, leaning down for one of the black eyeliner pencils.

Aemond's gaze travels your body again, you sitting there like he's your personal, ragged throne. His eyes crawl back up to yours, meeting them dead on. Yeah, he wants something special, but it's not about the paint or the lines on his face.

"Just the usual," Aemond says, his eyes flicking back and forth between yours, pupils blown wide.

You nod, leaning in to start sketching the lines on his face with the precision of someone who's done this dance before. When Aemond does it himself, it's all over the place, but you manage to make it look halfway decent. Not that it's supposed to be pretty; it's more about the vibe. With the eyeliner, you draw from his eyebrows down to his nose, stopping at the tip, then circle around his eye, connecting back to the other brow. It's rough, forming something like a triangle - shapes blurred and edgy. Moving to the other side, his eyes track you, locked on as your face scrunches in focus.

"You know I wanted to kill you, don't you?" Aemond mutters, pulling your gaze to him for a split second before you both return to the task at hand.

He did want to, no question about it. There was that moment when he saw your eyes close, your body go limp on the floor, and he thought, "This is it." But then he stopped. He didn't regret it; he was fucking glad he did.

"You didn’t." That's all you manage, a whisper, the only reply you've got.

You've thought he might end you, on some other nights, on those dark moments when the beast in him roared to get out because of some shit you pulled - intentional or not. But intentions? They're meaningless here. Not yours, not his, even if his was to squeeze the life out of you.

Aemond just stared, maybe with a hint of appreciation or some twisted form of affection. He couldn't tell if he'd fucked up your head, if he'd made you blind to his true nature, the chaos he brought into your life. He saw himself as a plague, infecting everything he touched, and he reveled in it, in you.

"I should take you to the beach sometime." Aemond's voice was low, almost a whisper, and you couldn't help but smile a bit. He'd mentioned it before, but it always felt like a fantasy.

He loathes the beach, despises the sun. The sand that grinds into knees, leaving them raw. Mum and dad never took you, and before that, the orphanage was all shades of gray. There was no sun there, and his pale skin seemed to thrive in the absence of it. You didn't miss what you'd never known.

"Yeah? What do you want to do there?" You play along with the dream, knowing it's probably never going to happen.

Your fingers grab a brush, dipping it into the white paint. You start painting his face, careful not to touch the dark lines around his eyes. His breath is heavier now, chest heaving in what seems like a thoughtful sigh.

"I don't know, just watch you swim." His reply is soft, his words hitting you like a gentle wave. "Some Sunday just watch you get pounded by the waves and some purple and blue in the sky. Being the only motherfuckers filling the place with smoke.”

A low chuckle escapes you as you shake your head, your fingers continuing their task with the white paint, transforming his face into something that feels more like a phantom than the man you know. You'd like that, at some point, to see him in such a scene. Perhaps perched on that motorcycle in some secluded spot, hiding from the sun, a cold beer in hand. His blue eyes would mirror the sea, his silver hair the sky, though you know he'd never let them be seen again. It's all just a daydream.

"Would you be there?" he asks, causing your hand to pause, the brush set aside.

The question strikes you as almost absurd. There are so many answers to it. He's pulling himself into the abyss, into a personal hell with all its promised torment, and you'd follow if only to hold his hand. Your answer is always yes, never no. He knows this, and still, he asks.

"I would be wherever you were," you confess in a whisper, meeting his gaze with unfiltered honesty, more than you'd wish to reveal, more than you could ever conceal.

His eyes shift from yours to your lips, perhaps searching for the taste of those words, or seeking some unclaimed piece of your skin to press them against. He doesn't speak, but the silence says he'd be with you too. You're like a persistent bit stuck in his teeth; no amount of licking or prodding or thinking he's had enough or moved you aside would ever truly dislodge you. Ever.

You pause, focusing back on the brush, cleaning off the white paint and dipping into black. The brush follows the eyeliner's path, shaping the design more distinctly. It's not your best work, but it's far from your worst, even if it's not art gallery material. But it'll do.

"It looks good," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, knowing better than to stroke his ego too much.

Aemond's eyes are locked on your lips, reading your words off them rather than through sound. His breath is warm, careful not to move and ruin your work. He's learned from experience you wouldn't like that.

"Yeah, it does." His gaze shifts up, impatience simmering under his skin. Being still isn't his forte.

With the final stroke, you complete the look. The white paint has dried, melding into his skin like a second layer. As you move to get up, his hands reluctantly slide off your waist, resting back in his lap. You take a moment to admire him - the corpse paint fitting him like a second skin, like he was born to wear it. The desire to have him take you, right there over the paints, until your drool becomes part of the artwork, is intense.

"Take a look," you say, motioning towards the mirror, keeping your darker thoughts at bay. If you let them out, there'd be no stopping.

Aemond looks into the mirror, not seeing himself but the mask he's donned. It's good, it's something. Just paint, toxic and transformative, embodying much of him yet not all. It's good, truly good.

You head to the closet, pulling out one of the usual dresses - same color, similar cuts, limited choices. Slipping it on, the fabric clings to your body, barely covering your thighs, the straps mingling with those of your bra. As you adjust it, Aemond turns, catching the motion of you smoothing it over your hips, his teeth catching his lower lip. You're a vision of sin, a gift to behold, stoking the fire in his veins and elsewhere.

You sit at the bed's foot, tugging on your black knee-high boots, similar to his but with higher heels. Aemond approaches just as you zip up, standing close enough that you nearly collide when you rise. His silent steps are always so damn stealthy. Your eyes lock, and without a word, he kneels before you, your gaze tracking him down, lips parting slightly.

Your heart races. He lifts your dress, bunching it at your waist, revealing you in just your panties. You anticipate warmth, but what you feel is cold. Opening your eyes, you see the pocket knife he's just stuck in your panties.

"You know how to use it," he murmurs, his breath teasingly close to where you're most sensitive, a slight dampness forming. "So use it if you need to."

He stands, eyes never leaving yours, fingers sliding the dress back down, covering you once more. It's like a cold splash of reality or a sharp stab of withdrawal; he steps away, and you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, regain some semblance of control. He moves to the table, grabs his keys, cigarettes, and lighter.

"I'm going to get the bike out of the garage. Don't delay." His tone is devoid of warmth as he heads for the door, leaving you in the center of the room.

You adjust your dress, feeling the pulse of anger and desire because that bastard always knows exactly what he's doing. The knife's tip, so provocatively close to your core, feels like a taunt. You hate him, more than when he breaks you apart. With that hatred, you move to where he was sitting and look at your reflection, noting the bruise on your jaw that you'll need to conceal with makeup. Not for the opinions of those at the club, you couldn't care less about them.

But, that's what you do. You cover his marks. And tonight, you'll do it again.

[just-a-sewer-goblin]

Not A Hero Just A Good Man

Simon Riley x Reader (probably ooc) Simon's home from deployment and he needs his spouse Fluff and very slight hurt/comfort Should be gn!reader, if I messed up anywhere please tell me There is mentions of a girly bodywash that is owned by the reader but... anyone can own those

"I need you to understand that I'm not the nice one out there, luv. I'm not the good cop. I'm not the hero."

You're sitting next to Simon on your shared bed, he's still in his gear, but his mask is in his hands and he's absent mindedly grabbing and rubbing at it.

"Luv, if you knew only half the stuff I've done. The absolute horrendous things I've done to people. And I'd do them again. And I will do them again."

He's growing distressed. His brows are drawn together and his rubbing over the skull part becomes harsh. He'll hurt himself at this rate.

So you get up and kneel down before him, force yourself into his view. Your hands oh so gently take the mask from his and the care with which you put it onto his nightstand chokes Simon up.

You slip your hands into his. He's still wearing his gloves, there's blood all over them.

As he looks down and sees your delicate, perfect hands in his blodied hold, the tears start gathering. He's trying to pull his hands away but you grip him harder. His glistening eyes find yours.

"I didn't marry a hero, Simon. I didn't marry someone who has a nice job or lives in a nice reality."

He's looking to the side trying to avoid your gaze. His hands are still limp in yours, refusing to hold onto you when there's still the gore of his actions clinging to his clothes and his skin.

You're gently easing the gloves off his hands and let them fall to the floor. His knuckles are bloody and split, even under the protective layer.

He swears he lets loose a sob when you bend down to press two soft kisses to the palms of his hands. He's ripping his hands away from you, cradling them to his chest.

"No.", your harsh tone makes his gaze snap back to yours again and when you grab his hands again he reluctantly lets you have them.

"Don't you dare look away from me, Simon Riley." You can see how hard he has to fight to obey your words. You can see his panting breaths get harsher and your grip is so soft, that if he truly didn't want to have you touching him, he could pull away. As if you could ever hold him against his will.

You take one of his hands and press it against your chest, deliberately drawing in deep and steady breaths and waiting until he is following your example.

"I didn't marry a hero, Simon. I married a good man."

You can audibly hear him gulp.

"I married a good man, who is willing to do the ugly work. I married a good man, who gets his hands dirty so the world is just a tiny bit cleaner."

His entire focus is on you as he hangs on to every word you say.

"I married a good man, who does horrible things. But those things need to be done. I'd rather have a good man, like my husband, do them, than someone who doesn't care at all. Someone who finds joy in them. I married a good man. And when you come home, blodied and bruised I will still love you. And when you come home after you did the worst imaginable things, things I don't even know possible, I'll still love you. And when you do horrendous things again, I will still love you. I love you."

He's looking at you and the tears catch in his eyelashes like soft morning dew on the most intricate petals. You have never seen a man more beautiful than your Simon. You have never seen anything more beautiful than the man, he allows you to see through the cracks in his walls.

"Love...", he breathes. And it's reverent, a prayer. As if you are the deity that holds his absolution. As if your words alone can save him from the damnation he suffers.

His hands slowly reach up, cup your cheeks. He's about to pull back when he sees the blood on his hands next to your unblemished face but your hands cover his and you nuzzle into the hold of a killer.

His body bows foreward, into your warmth and his chapped lips fit against yours. As soon as your lips touch he whimpers and your hands find their way to his cheek and neck, holding him close.

You only pull back enough to touch your forehead to his, both of you keeping your eyes closed.

"My Simon.", you whisper into his skin and his arms wrap around you as he lets his head fall to your shoulder, buries his face in your neck and starts shaking.

You grab onto him just as tightly. It's uncomfortable the way you're on your knees half risen to meet him in the middle but you don't care when you start humming and gently swaying.

You don't know if he's crying, probably not, but he's still shaking so you tighten your hold and whisper your love for him into the quiet of your bedroom.

When his breaths start to get quick and shallow again you force him back, cup his face and demand "Simon, look at me."

He does, his gaze is unfocused, and he's panting way too fast, but he's trying to focus on you. He's not too far gone so you check in first "Touch?" He nods in a jerky movement.

Your hands go to his again and you hold both of them to your chest with one, the other one finds his neck and puts gentle pressure there.

"Match my breaths, darling.", you instruct. He obeys.

Today is a good day, as you are able to bring him back from the brink for a second time. Slowly his eyes blink back into awareness and your gentle smile cracks open his ribcage and sets his bleeding heart free.

"There he is. Hi."

"Hi, luv." His voice is horribly rough a splintering sound like old rotten wood breaking apart but he doesn't miss the way your hand on his neck squeezes affectionately.

"Let me give you a shower?" He nods, too tired afer two almost panic attacks to answer. You stand up and offer him a hand which he takes and allows you to pretend to pull him up.

You don't let go of his hand as you pull him into the bathroom, maneuvering him so he can lean back against the sink. You know that he's tired, but you also know that the last thing he needs to see right now is himself, still covered in blood, and you taking care of that mess for him. So you don't give him the opportunity to gaze at the reflection of what's going on in the mirror over the sink.

Once you've eased every piece of armor and clothing off of him, you usher him into the shower, under the warm spray of water before following him.

Once your both under the water, your wrap your arms around him and just hold him. When he sighs you can feel the way his lungs fill up to their limit.

It's a long time before you take the bottle of shampoo into your hands and put some of it in your hands.

"Bend down for me?", you murmur.

Simon gets on his knees before you instead, buries his face in your tummy and relaxes as your hands begin to massage the shampoo into his scalp.

You're careful while rinsing it out and he presses a soft kiss to your tummy before standing up. A thank you and a offering at the altar of the only deity he'll ever worship. Then he's standing again, his hands on your hips, while you begin to lather his body in your own body wash.

You can feel him relax and it doesn't take long before he gives you the gift of his voice, even if it is so say: "Damnit darlin', making me smell like a princess?"

He's grumbling affectionately and you grin. There he is. It's always a good sign when he starts being a grump about stuff he secretly loves. It's always a good sign when he starts with his horrible dry humour.

"No one says that big dangerous men can't be princesses.", you quip back and see the way the corner of his mouth lifts up.

"I'm too manly to smell like...", he squints at the bottle. "Rainbow sunshine." He snorts. "Sounds like something that would come out of a unicorn's ass."

You laugh and slap his chest. "You are the worst, Si. Guess you gotta suck it up and smell like unicorn ass."

"The shit I go through for you.", he grouses and you can hear the grin in his voice.

When you've rinsed him off again he puts his arms around you again and pulls you into him, resting his head on yours.

"Thank you, luv."

"Always, baby."

...

"Now get your unicorn ass out of this shower so I can dry you off and cuddle with you."

He laughs roughly and slaps your backside. "The only one with a magical ass here, is you, luv."

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

PROBABLY MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE SWEDISH HARDCORE RECORD -- REMAINS THE ULTIMATE RÅPUNK STATEMENT ON VINYL.

PIC(S) INFO: Mega spotlight on the "Spracta Snutskallar" 7 inch EP by Gothenburg-based hardcore/råpunk band THE SKITSLICKERS, self released in 1982 (Not On Label). This the original pressing made by the band, where the sleeve comes as two individual printed sheets like most self releases did at the time. Only 200 copies were ever pressed in total.

Source: www.picuki.com/media/2939521094117599619.

[callsign-mustang]

The sergeant was a wily thing. One hell of a soldier, keeping up with Soap and Gaz. Could handle their asses and throw some snark back when given. Had a demeanor like ghost, snarling at any hand offered, thinking it’s raised in violence. Yet, though almost invisible, clings to those very few words of praise given.

Skittish, almost in their aggression. Cold in their professionalism. A good soldier of course- never failing to meet expectations and go above if they absolutely must. Relishing their solitude. -Alone is safe- they remind themselves.

Ghost is the one to offer them up to price, like a guard dog bringing the limp body of their conquest to the feet of their master with that nervous expression. Of course, reader couldn’t see it. Thought it was just the LT trying to make them a better soldier.

-wanna be like you when I’m older, LT.-

Reader standing still, that same raw gleam in their eyes that price recognized from Ghost. (Before he’d tempered him, weathered him to fit his hand like a glove, a sword to wield.) A sense of… ease filling reader when the captain agrees, relenting to Ghost’s request for him to take her under the captain’s wing.

Like a mutt in the pound, unknowingly welcoming the noose around their neck. No clue of the games and tricks price would be playing to keep them docile- complacent.

Scheduled to the captain’s liking, tied to the Lieutenant’s own routine; can’t escape. More training than other soldiers- harder, intense. Almost alarming, the significant drop in free time or rest periods they had between training and marksmanship practice. Break their body, punishments and rewards. Running till they drop, feed them a compliment to feed that little worm he’d put in their skull.

-No energy to give attitude.- price would mumble to Ghost who stood by, remembering his own time trained under Price. He’s using the same tactics he used to ‘tame’ ghost. Now he’s the warden looking in on their shared prisoner who was on mile five with that heavy gear on. Good cop, bad cop. The LT dishing out heavy tasks, making reader struggle to complete them until they’re grasping at straws, begging for help.

Who steps in to comfort with gentle words and open arms? Price, reinforcing the bond between them. Finally treated as something other than a living weapon, more than just a tool to be discarded at the first crack. Reader welcomed it; First time in their life they’re shown decency or compassion. -Cling to it like your life depends on it- the voice in their head whispers and they agree. Not just a martyr in their eyes but someone with purpose.

Becoming malleable like clay in their hands as time goes on. How long? Depends…. Got reader to stop snapping at ghost after five weeks, stopped flinching at Price’s ‘adjustments’ when they’d spar and his fingers would graze the smallest of exposed skin after three months. Stopped clawing at them, didn’t feel like a mutt anymore.

Couldn’t say when it started, but they found themselves getting fewer and fewer punishments. The fact the less harsh treatment started when they stopped fighting them so hard on anything. More sweetly manipulative words from price, ghost brushing against them and getting his timbre scent all on them.

Didn’t mean there weren’t times when old habits would arise, making comments on a stupid plan for their mission. Of course the behavior was usually short lived when it came around. only to find themselves almost coughing their meal up after a brutal sparring match with Ghost. Mumbling apologies, coughing up ‘I’m sorry’s’ after each blow until they accept.

Looking up from their kneeling position with a pretty purple and blue bruise on their cheek. A little drop of crimson from a split lip, the shade matching the color on Ghost’s glove. What a sight… Their cheeks in their Captain and Lieutenant’s gloved hands, skin not touching. Pleading for forgiveness like they were at an altar of their god, pathetic for grace. When it’s given, they finally feel that euphoria the duo had been systematically training reader to crave.

Finally had them after a year- under their thumbs, welcoming the collar around their neck with an almost dazed expression. Knowing the collar meant comfort, familiarity, meant a purpose. Not just embracing the hold they had- craving it. Needing it like oxygen. Pliant- tamed.

Theirs

[the-californicationist]

Cali's Kinktober: Day 18

Kinktober Masterlist dis manibus - "for the ghost" Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader Kinks > possessive, dub con, ghosts?? Full tags on AO3 - MDNI - Read at your own risk.

In your little town of Sleepy Hollow, it’s usually not hard to make the news. But, when the headlines start bringing up ghosts from the past, and your fellow residents make claims that a ghoulish biker is attacking drivers on Route 330, you start to regret being the lone journalist in town. Legend has it that the masked rider is on the hunt for the most perfect sacrifice, and he won’t stop his reign of terror until he finds it.

Warning: actual ghosts, possession, dub con?, general spookiness

Yellowed teeth and a dangling cigarette, the stench of sweat and cheap tobacco, shaky hands and disordered movements, plus a wardrobe of ill-fitting, oil-stained jorts with a crooked-cropped Bud Light tee shirt completed Brandi Reddman’s signature look. Mrs. Reddman was standing in her usual spot outside of a dilapidated Pilot truck stop on the corner of Hatchet and Simmons. But, the leather-skinned, bleached-blonde, trailer park queen didn’t go by her late husband’s surname anymore. She preferred to be called by her well-earned title: Beaumont Brandi.

“And don’t you go putin’ no damn Reddman on my fuckin’ report,” she glared at you from her perch on the bright red bollard just outside her favorite Pilot truck stop, “Don’t even know what I’m gettin’ a goddamn ticket for. Two consentin’ adults can do whatever the hell they like, cain’t they? Ain’t this still America?”

“Ms. Brandi,” you sighed, “I’m not a cop. I’m a reporter. And I’m not sure what you want me to do when Mr. Brunson calls me down here to tell me about you tearing up his dumpsters again. You know there's a whole town full of people upset about the destruction of property here.”

Your stomach turned just thinking about writing this ridiculous article. What would the title even be? The Trash Takes Itself Out: a Sleepy Hollow tale. Or, Lot Lizard Strikes Again! With a full cover spread? No. This could not be your life. You tried to control the look of disdain on your face. 

“It wasn’t even me! That asshole is crazy!” Brandi protested, the cigarette in her mouth holding onto her dry, cracking lip with nothing more than God’s will at this point. 

“He said he saw you and a certain truck driver come out of the alcove just a few hours ago,” you reiterated.

“Hell, no. I ain’t gonna fuck no John in no smelly-ass dumpster. I’m a high class lady,” Brandi gestured to her ensemble, “And I’m tellin’ you, that lock was busted before I even stepped over here this mornin’. It’s that damn haint is what it is.”

The Haint of Sleepy Hollow. The Hollow’s Hell Rider. The Ghoul of 330. He went by many names, or sometimes, he was just called The Ghost. 

Back in the late seventies when everyone was doing a little too much of everything, your town earned a bit of a reputation. There had been a string of disappearances off of the local highway, Route 330, and locals claimed to have seen a masked soldier on a motorbike, fresh home from Saigon, carrying his M16 slung across his back and wearing a skull mask over his face. He was riding an Indian 900, blacked out with no headlight and no plate. 

Of course the truckers had been the first ones to sound the alarm, and there was a city-wide manhunt for any bikers matching that description. But back then, no one had cameras in their hands as readily as they did now, so it was all just a bunch of hearsay and over-exaggerated stories about the boogeyman. 

But, that’s all it was. Just stories. There was no masked rider. 

“Hey, you got another one of those?” Brandi pointed to the pack of smokes in your pocket that you’d brought along to bribe her with. 

You sighed, lighting one for her and then for you. You told yourself you needed it to get through the rest of this conversation. 

As she took a long drag, her timbre changed. She became quieted by her own voice, it seemed.

“I seent him, though. He was there. Parked under the bridge.”

She pointed to the overpass, her wrinkled finger trembling a bit as she guestered to the black shadows under the highway. You followed her line of sight, trying to imagine a dark rider in a skull mask, parked in the umber and looking for vengeance in the most boring town in New England. 

“Did he do anything?” You asked, trying your best to scrounge up something more interesting than sex work in gas station parking lots for this write up. 

Beaumont Brandi stared into the darkness with you, remembering… or maybe she was just fucking with you. But, it didn’t seem like it. She took another puff of smoke into her mouth, hissing it out through her stained teeth, 

“No, but it felt like he was looking for somethin’. Felt… lonely. I dunno.”

Shaking you from the eerie moment Brandi had crafted between you both, a big, rumbling Mack truck pulled into the back lot, turning your gaze away from the bridge. Your interviewee hurried to smoke one more pull from her pilfered cigarette and gathered up her glittery, denim purse. 

“That’s my ride. See you around,” she said, her voice still distant and restrained, lacking all of the ruffled animosity she’d presented to you earlier. 

You stayed there, watching her scamper across the wide, drab concrete field, dodging pot holes and puddles, heading for the blue semi that had just parked in the trucker wash station. You watched her until she knocked on the door, standing on her tiptoes to reach the wide passenger window, shuffling around until the latch popped open and she disappeared inside. 

The dark hollow of the highway’s bridge caught your gaze as you turned away from Brandi and her “ride”, and a cold chill shot down your spine. As you peered into the shadowy underpass, a lone biker, all in black, was sitting on his Indian motorcycle, staring right at you. His body was enormous. Even though the bike he rode was large, he was simply unfathomably tall and broad. When he leaned forward on the handlebars, idling there, his shoulders bulged in his leathers, threatening to break free. He was wearing a full-face helmet, but you could feel his eyes burning into your skin. 

The problem was, you had no idea how he got there. You hadn’t heard his engine rev, and you knew you would’ve been able to listen to the roar echo through the underside of the highway, it’s enclosure making an accidental amplifier. 

You stared back at him, but you reached into your pocket and clutched your car keys. Everything in your body was telling you to run. So, you quickly turned away, needing to force yourself to break your gaze, making yourself walk briskly back to your beat-up Miata. 

Get in, and drive away, you told yourself. Get in. Drive away. Get in…

You were trying to calm yourself down, your mind feeding you a million excuses as to why you hadn’t heard him approach, or telling yourself it was just a guy on a bike and not a ghost, but you could still feel your heart in your throat, pounding away like a fist inside your veins. 

Popping open the door to your car, you climbed in and immediately shut it behind you. Luckily, the soft canvas top of your ratty old convertible was already pulled up, but the sooner you got back to your apartment, the better you would feel. You cranked the engine, threw it in reverse, and sped off out of the gas station parking lot, sending your work bag spilling out across the floor. 

As you pulled onto Hatchet, you headed east, avoiding 330. You tried to tell yourself it was because you enjoyed the senic route instead of the shorter path, but you knew that was a lie. 

Behind you, you heard the roar of a bike. 

You looked in your rearview mirror, but you didn’t see any headlights. Then, as you checked the side mirror, you saw him. It was the blacked out biker from the bridge. He was riding close to your back wheel, sitting in your blindspot, staring hard at you. 

He followed you for miles. You doubled back, avoiding red lights, trying to make circles so he would get tired of tailing you, but he never did. If anything, he was getting braver and braver, moving his bike up and down the length of your car. Getting in your way, toying with you just to get a reaction. 

You tried to speed up, but your junker was no match for his machine. So, you turned into a neighborhood, trying to lose him in the curvy, bumpy side streets. 

He followed, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. With every turn, he would drive up next to your window to peer inside, staring straight into your eyes. You almost hit the curb, and when you finally exited the neighborhood, you took a right, trying to race him on a wider road. 

It was one lane, but he didn’t seem to care. He reached out and planted his gloved hand on the glass of your driver’s side window as if he was trying to touch you through it, and you screamed at him through the glass, illogically,

“Leave me alone!”

He threw his head back, and you knew he was jeering at you. If a masked, faceless being could laugh, that’s what it would look like. 

You had no idea what else to do, so you got aggressive. You swerved, trying to sideswipe him, desperate to get rid of your masked tormentor. 

He dodged, nimbly moving himself out of your way. Then, he was right behind you, so you slammed on the brakes. 

There was no way for him to stop in time. No way. 

But, it didn’t matter. You watched in horror in your mirror as his bike and his body dematerialized, and he faded into a black mist, filling the interior of your tiny car, and reconstituting itself in your passenger seat. Your nose filled up with the smell of stale cigarettes and something undeniably masculine. His body filled in next to you in inky layers, pouring from a gas to a solid like smoke into a bottle, and what was supposedly impossible was becoming very, very real in your car. 

You screamed, pressing the brakes even harder, coming to a full, screeching stop in the middle of the road. No one was behind you yet, but you wished there would be. You prayed for someone - anyone - to turn down your street and find you stopped in the middle of it. 

The ghost - because what else could he be? - was staring straight at you, as if he was waiting for something.

“Leave me alone,” you begged, your voice feeling so small and strained. 

You were staring into your own eyes, seeing your face as it was warped and contorted in the gleaming black shine of his helmet visor. Suddenly, you felt your car lurch forward, and it was moving on its own. You tried to turn the wheel, and your foot was glued down onto the brake, but nothing you did mattered. The car was driving itself.

You yanked at your seatbelt and pulled on the door handle, trying to throw yourself from the car, but it wouldn’t budge. You ripped at the handle even harder, trying to slam your shoulder into the door, ignoring the pain. In a last-ditch effort, you reached into the steering column and pulled the keys from the car, hoping to kill the engine. But, it didn’t. Your vehicle was taking you wherever your ghost wanted to go, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

With your keys held tightly in your fist, you lashed out at the biker, using the metal shards to rake across his mask, scratching the visor. 

The speed with which he reacted startled you, and as his hand wrapped itself around your wrist, he tilted his head to the side as if to study you, curious about you and your choices. 

You felt your throat burn with despair, and tears ran from your eyes. 

“Please don’t kill me,” you sobbed, trying to pull your wrist away. 

He yanked your arm to his chest, tugging your body closer to his, forcing you into his space and taking you almost out of your seat, if it wasn’t for your belt. 

You were face to helmet with him, and you could smell the menthols that inexplicably clung to his clothes. He could touch you, and you could touch him. He felt so real, so warm. And yet…

Slowly, he reached out to you with his other hand to touch your face, caressing your cheek and wiping away a stray tear. The feel of his leather glove was so gentle against your skin, it made your head spin. His earlier aggression was still fresh in your mind, and you sobbed from the fear. 

Out of nowhere, a pickup truck swerved around your stopped car, blaring its horn at you, kicking up dirt from the side of the road, obviously upset at the stopped Miata in the middle of a street. 

In the few seconds your attention was snatched from the ghost in front of you, he disappeared. Your passenger seat was immediately empty, and you were alone once more. Your car was dead since your keys were in your hand, and the clicking of a warm engine cooling down was the only noise you heard. 

Another car was honking behind you, less aggressively than the pickup, but it moved around you and you turned back in your seat. 

As you drove home, you were numb. You couldn’t reconcile anything that happened to you, and you had no words to even describe it. You thought about driving to the police, or to your office so that your phantom biker wouldn’t know where you lived, but something in you laughed at your naivety. Why would that matter? He was a ghost. He could reach you no matter where you were. You might as well leave your front door wide open for how much good it would do you. 

When you finally crawled into bed, you left every light in the house on, but it didn’t help.

It was 0417 when you jerked out of your restless sleep, opening your eyes in your unusually bright room. You were breathing heavily, trying to calm yourself down, and the horrors of the night before felt more like a bad dream than a true memory. 

You looked around, trying to determine whether you could manage to go back to sleep or not, when a faint noise pricked your ears. It was coming from outside your apartment window, down in the parking lot below your balcony. 

You sprang out of bed and pulled your curtain. There, parked and sitting on the side of his bike, was your ghost. He was looking up at your window, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he was waiting for you. Waiting for you to say something, to do something. But, you didn’t know what.

Grabbing your keys, you flew out of your door and rushed down the stairs, hurrying to see if you could catch him. But, he was gone. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say to him, but you needed to know the truth. Your instincts as a reporter were driving you forward. You craved answers, needed them. 

You turned back around and headed for your car, starting it up and driving out of your complex, back onto the street. You headed for the highway, and he was waiting for you, parked on the shoulder. He took off, and you followed him, swerving in and out of early morning commuters, pushing your crappy Miata to its limit. 

He took the exit toward the old part of town, turning on the road to Ichabod Farm, cutting his speed and letting you catch up to him. Then, as he got further and further away from civilization, the farms turned into forests, and the roads went from pavement to dirt. Just as the sun was staining the clouds with its pink dawn, he stopped, sticking his leg out as a kickstand, and turned around to look at you. 

You waited, sitting in your car, but after a while, nothing changed. He was still just sitting there, staring back at you. So, you killed the engine, and you climbed out of your car. 

“Who are you?” You called to him, willing your voice to carry in the quiet morning. 

As if he was tired of your questioning, he turned forward. He swung his leg over the body of the bike, and stood beside it, still waiting for you. 

You started walking around to the front of your car, beginning to feel like you were a rabbit being led into its own trap, a lamb to its slaughter, and your skin tightened, the hair prickling on the back of your neck.

He put his hand out, gesturing toward the bike. 

“Do you want me to go with you somewhere?”

He seemed impatient. He stalked forward, marching in black leathers and boots, and grabbed your wrist just like he did in the car. 

“Wait! Hey! Wait, no!” You tried to fight him, but he held you fast, dragging you over to the bike. 

He lifted you without struggle and sat you on the back of his seat, and he climbed in front of you, bringing the bike back to a loud roar. He took off, nearly toppling you over, and in your shock, you wrapped both of your hands around his middle, holding on for dear life. 

To your shock, he turned off of the road and into the trees. The leaves made his tires slip and the roots of the tall yews made the ride bumpy and wild. You gripped him tighter and tighter, trying to remember which direction you were going, sure that he was taking you straight to your death, but just in case you escaped, you wanted to be able to try and make it out of the woods.

Suddenly, you came to a clearing. In the middle of it stood a huge, dead tree. The trunk had been struck by lightning, and the branches hung low, dipping towards the ground. Its roots were gnarled and popping like broken bones out of the dark earth, and it gave you a sense of immediate dread. 

He stopped the bike, throwing down the kickstand and climbing off. Then, he held out his hand to you. 

You looked at his helmet for a moment, trying to determine what he wanted, and then you realized he was trying to help you down. You placed your hand in his and felt him support you as you climbed off of the old motorcycle. 

He released you, and he stood beside you, looking up at the tree. 

You waited for a moment, again unsure about what he was trying to show you, but then you stepped forward. Something compelled you to touch the tree’s wide, twisting trunk. 

You were suddenly aware of the state of your dress. You were in socks, sleep shorts, and a tattered old tee shirt, shivering from fear and from the chilly morning. But, still, you stepped forward, moving with your hand out towards the tree, trying to ignore the pinch of stray rocks and sticks beneath your feet. 

Right before you touched the bark, you looked over your shoulder at the biker, and he was still standing there, waiting for you. 

So, you pushed forward, laying your palm against it, and you were instantly overwhelmed with flashes of images and sounds, memories which were not yours. You saw him. It was your ghost. He was fighting in a war with muskets and swords, and then he was in a trench with grenades. You watched him crawl on his belly through a wet, dense jungle. Then, you felt the heat and the sting of desert sands, and watched him dragging the bodies of his friends from the rubble of a bombed building. 

As quickly as they had begun, the visions stopped. You looked back at the masked rider, and he stepped toward you. His hands went to the neck of his jacket, and he raked the zipper down, revealing his bare chest and belly. He was riddled with scars, but he looked very much like a real man. The jacket fell with a thud on the forest floor, and he moved to shuck off his helmet. 

You watched the reveal with wide eyes and an open mouth. Black, inky smoke surrounded his face. He didn’t have a head. It was only a skull mask, cracked and broken around the edges, perched on him where his face should have been. It was just a swirling darkness, nothing else. His head was gone. 

Your heart nearly stopped.

“What… happened….” You managed to ask, your voice lower than a whisper. 

The helmet clattered to the ground, rolling until it rested against a thick root. 

He walked toward you, and you were staring into two black pits where there should have been soft brown eyes. You’d seen him in the vision. You knew what he should look like. And yet, all you were left with was this ghastly form. 

His body was warm. You could feel it as he towered over you, mere inches away from your face. You reached up to touch his cheek like he had touched yours in the car, and he let you. As your hand swiped across his jaw, you saw flesh appear where there was none before. More and more, you touched him, painting his face back on with your hands. You moved over his eyes and nose and mouth, feeling the softness of his lips and watching in awe as he became a man again. 

“Oh, my God.” You gaped, watching his face twist into an unknown expression, “You’re…”

“You made me real,” he spoke, his words sounded hellish; the noise was a terrible smear of shadow and violence. It was as if a million of voices were speaking at once. 

“I…” You were trying to talk, but he wasn’t interested. 

He leaned forward and slanted his mouth against yours, kissing you with a smoky musk on his tongue, forcing you to open and take his writhing muscle inside of your cheeks. He was breathing just as raggedly as you were, pushing himself onto you, dragging you to the leaf-covered ground. 

He repeated his mantra, gasping it, his timbre full of disbelief,

“You… made me… real…”

His mouth was on you again, the top half of his face still hidden by the skull mask. He kissed your neck, and you felt his gloved hands grabbing at your clothes, shoving down your shorts. 

“What are you doing?” You whispered. 

“You.” His voice reverberated through you like a snarl of thunder. You could feel the sound move through your bones, “You can bring me back to this place.” 

The air was cold as it billowed across your skin when he pulled away your shirt. The leather of his gloves was such a rough contrast to the smooth, furry expanse of his chest and belly, and he crushed himself against you, pressing you with all of his weight into the forest floor. 

Your mind was in a haze. All of the magic and memories from the tree were whirling around you. His many lives, all stacked together, repeated like the rings of its trunk, year after year, his wars, his scars. All of them now real and raised to the touch. 

His mouth moved over you, hungry and wanting. You weren’t ready to be taken so roughly, with so little regard, in the dirty, dank mud of this clearing. But, you wanted to be. You found yourself completely captivated by his movements, his hands, and the way he consumed you, making you feel like you were the key to his entire existence. 

You spread your legs for him, and he had the audacity to laugh softly in his ghostly throat, rolling his hips between your legs to fit himself there, spreading you further with his wide body. 

You felt the button of his leather pants loose and dangling, flapping open against your thighs which meant…

His cock lolled across your mons and belly, warm and hard. He humped himself against you, rutting along the curve of your tummy and teasing you with a preview of his strength. You reached down very slowly, stroking him carefully, barely touching his velvety foreskin, feeling the slip of it as he moved against your hand.

He let out a long, heated moan, his breath warm as it surrounded your neck, and he whispered to you in his million voices,

“Give yourself to me,” he chanted, “Bring me back.”

No sooner could you whisper back your consent than he grabbed you by your jaw and forced you to look into his black, soulless eyes. He notched his cock at your trembling hole, letting it dip into the wetness he had crafted there. Then, he pushed forward, stretching your walls around him, making you take his drooling head, raking himself in and out so that he could go deeper and deeper with each thrust. 

You cried out, grasping your hands around his shoulders, and he squeezed your face in his huge paw, making you feel like he might break your jaw if he held you any tighter. 

Once he was fully sheathed within the hollow of your body, he moved with a powerful, pistoned thrust, slamming himself through you and making your core heat from his friction. You felt yourself being broken by him, the parts of you that were holding together your sanity were slowly slipping away with each punishing movement, and the deeper you allowed him to fuck you, the further away from reality your thoughts were. You were back in his memories, imagining his life before, his warfare, ancient and modern, and all you could think about was why he would want to be back here. What did he want? Was it you?

His hand slipped between your lips, and he pressed into your throat, rubbing your tongue and making your jaw ache from his pressure and invasion. You tried to suckle from him, taking his fingers past your teeth, licking and slurping up your own spit from his glove. 

“Such a good girl. Perfect for me. A new vessel.”

Vessel? What were you holding?

You whined, trying to understand, and he silenced you with a growl, low and deep. He was fucking you at a pace full of fire and fury, and your whole body felt like it was being pounded into submission. You could hear the wet, gushing slapping noises that his cock was making as it churned inside of you. Your legs felt weak, and you couldn’t help but leave them hanging open, allowing him to fill you as deep as he could go. 

Your mouth burned from his fingers, and your pussy was begging to come, clenching and shaking with need. He felt you, and he pushed through your shuddering quim harder and harder, using you to bring himself to his own crescendo, joining you on the edge. 

“You’re mine…” He hissed, moving himself right against your most pliant spot, massaging you up to a tumbling explosion of feeling and fervent want. 

As you came, you screamed, but it was muffled by his invasive hand. He came with you, filling you as you tightened around him, dumping his thick load into your hole, smearing it all over your lips with each covetous thrust. 

Then, you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was melting into you, his body turning back into mist, covering your skin and seeping into your flesh. You felt him inside of you, curling and twisting around all of the parts that made you who you were, turning them for his own benefit, staining your soul with his own. 

You gasped, searching for air, watching helplessly as the last thing you saw before he disappeared completely was the black sockets of his skull mask, and it felt like he was smiling. 

You lay there, alone, and yet full of him. He was feeling and sensing and thinking right alongside you. And he was… playing with you. You could feel him moving his cock deep within you even though, when you looked down, there was nothing there. 

“Please…” You begged, closing your legs together, trying to stop the sensation from happening.

“Pretty thing,” the Ghost chuckled, “We’re just getting started.”

[shotmrmiller]

Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaselleasepleasepleasepleaseplaaeeplaseapleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleas can we get more pen pal Simon 😭🧎‍♀️

i wish i had more but i wrote all i could without it turning the way i picture it to be.

this man is insane. either you go back 'home' with him, or he takes you. he's cuckoo for cocoa puffs. it's all fun and games until you say no ty to his date the 7th time. pushy mf who doesn't try to pretend to be someone else to get in your good graces. he's military; has been his whole life. he knows nothing else. he doesn't even want to try to know what working a blue-collar job is like.

ew, cops? military? eat dirt.

wait! cuz what if he pays someone to 'mug' you at night and he comes to your rescue? doesn't change your anti-military ideology but at least you don't hate him anymore.

maybe he pretends to be on the phone as he walks past some shady drunkard that's leaning against a wall outside a pub like 'some pretty girl is walkin' all by herself by blank and blank street. would hate for her to get hurt or somethin'.' he really gets to use his fists then— swings til he hears a sickening crack emit from the man's skull while you whimper behind simon horrified.

yeah, you almost had a heart attack but you're clinging onto his arm like a lifeline. just say yes and all this torment will end, he promises.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Villain's Coffee Shop part 3

Warnings: bleeding out, gravely injured Villain, stab wounds, corrupt Superhero

"Where's your hideout? Is it close by? And does it have medical equipment?" Hero bombarded him with a barrage of questions.

"Like I would ever... kff... tell you where I live..." Villain coughed wetly, the metallic tang of blood coating his tongue.

"Shut up," Hero hissed, and the uncharacteristic urgency in her tone gave Villain pause. Why did she even care? Wasn't she going to kill him anyway?

"You are dying, Villain," Hero growled, tearing open his leather jacket with ease to get a better look at him. "These injuries are deep, and you've already lost a lot of blood. Tell me where your hideout is and I'll take you there to be treated.”

"...No hospitals?" Villain rasped in surprise.

"No hospitals," Hero confirmed. "Pretty sure you would never let me take you to one anyway, considering you're the most wanted criminal in the city."

Villain hummed in acknowledgement, but flinched with a pained hiss when Hero lifted up his shirt, examining the stab wounds. She paled, and Villain knew it wasn't good. "That bad, eh?" He croaked. He was dying, she'd said... but that couldn't be true, could it? Villain was strong... and yet... he'd never been this weak. Was he in denial? Is this what dying actually felt like?

"Are you armed?" Hero asked, drawing him back to reality.

"I'm a villain. Of course I'm armed."

"What did I say about dropping the attitude?" Hero scolded, but Villain knew she was just trying to distract him from the pain. Hero gave him a quick pat down, confiscating every blade she found on him and tossing them aside.

"Can't risk you trying to stab me in the back," Hero rumbled. "Now. Are there any henchmen at your place I need to worry about? Or do you have anyone you can call to take care of you?"

Villain let out a weak laugh that ended in a cough. "You said it yourself; I'm a lone wolf. I don't have anyone. I'm alone."

Hero's eyebrows arched with skeptical surprise. "No teammates? Nothing?"

"Nope. Just me, myself, and I, one big... not-so-happy family..."

Hero shook her head, slipping one arm behind Villain's back and another under his legs behind the knees, effortlessly lifting him off the ground.

"Whowhoawhoa put me down," Villain hissed, startled.

"Which way to your lair?" Hero asked firmly.

"Why bother helping me?" Villain groaned, his eyes rolling back in his skull as he fought to stay conscious. "I'm just another villain to the city. No one will miss me if I die, and it'll be less trouble for you later."

Hero fell silent, and Villain forced his eyes to focus on her face, spotting the flicker of sorrow in her expression before her usual composure returned. "You can question my motives later, but right now you are quite literally bleeding out in my arms, so will you please just tell me where I'm taking you! I'm helping, so be grateful, and help me help you. I can't save you if you don't want to be saved. The choice is yours."

Villain balked. He hadn't expected that. Another surprise. But as much as he wanted to be stubborn and tough it out like he always did, he was highly aware of his blood soaking into Hero's suit with every one of his sluggish heartbeats.

He didn't want to die. Dying was terrifying, and agonizing--

"Okay," he rasped weakly, giving in. "My hideout is two alleys to the right of this one, there's a place called 'cops and coffee'. I always leave the back door unlocked. It leads to a secret back area where I keep all my stuff when I'm not running the main shop."

"Cops and Coffee? Seriously? How have you not been caught yet?!" Hero scoffed in disbelief. "Me and the other heroes go there all the time -- wait... are you the hot guy always taking orders at the front desk?!"

"Did my undying charm and charisma give it away?" Villain wheezed sarcastically, a small smile cracking his lips.

"You've been right under our noses this whole time?!" Hero gaped down at him in shock, still holding him in her arms.

Villain tried and failed to shrug nonchalantly. "What can I say, the last place I figured people would look for me is in the center of a bunch of cops and heroes in a coffee shop. It's great camouflage."

Hero shook her head and started walking briskly down the alley, muttering to herself under breath the whole way.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@federthenotsogreat @everynameistakencarrots

[sanguinedipity]

Off The Hook.

mike x vandal reader

smut (16+ only)

wc: 2.3k

mike catches you in the act and you have to spend the night with him in the security office while he tries to contact vanessa

tw: age gap, smut, language, dub-con, blowjobs, cock worship

“Hey!”

Mike shouts down the hallway, torch light bouncing off the linoleum tiles. You freeze and your spray paint can hits the floor with a guilty thud. Instinctively, your hands shoot into the air in defence one shielding your eyes from the blinding flashlight. He lowers it with a sigh, when the owner had mentioned break-ins he’d imagined someone a little bigger and meaner than the cowering girl in front of him.

“Come on man, what do you think you’re doing?” he calls out to you, trying to sound intimidating but failing to hide the lack of concern in his voice. Taking a few steps towards you with his torch now pointed towards the floor to prevent any further blinding and one hand on his radio. Without thinking you begin to back up, slowly and delicately like a startled baby deer, until your foot rolls over your deserted paint can sending you hurtling towards the checkerboard tiles. Your skull hits the ground with a sickening crack.

“Oh my god, Vanessa is gonna kill me!” are the words that rouse you from your unconscious, taking a few moments to fully open your eyes and be aware of your surroundings you realise you’re in a rundown office, six monitors stand on the desk in front of you - their light threatening to seal your eyes again for good.

“Please can you turn those things off…" you manage to whimper despite the seismic waves of pain radiating from the crown of your head. A ginormous sigh of relief escapes Mike’s lips as he makes his way to where you’re propped up against the far wall of his office.

He’d panicked when you’d hit the floor earlier and hauled you to his office, drenched in sweat and pulsing with fear he’d ran around the pizzeria in a frenzy searching for anything remotely soft or comforting. Unfortunately Freddie’s was more of rotting carcass of a place than a cosy place you’d want to nap at. Eventually he’d settled on an old burlap sack from the kitchen, rolled up neatly and tucked behind your head and his zip-up hoodie over your bare legs. Desperate to talk to someone with some kind of first aid experience he’d been whisper shouting into his radio for Vanessa’s attention without success for the better part of half an hour.

“Oh, um sorry!” he scrambles over to his desk to shut off the obnoxiously bright monitors, always eager to please. How likely are 2 vandal break-ins in one night anyway?

“Is that better? I’m sorry I don’t have any water for you to drink, I have 1 tylenol in my pocket but it’s been there for a while,” the words shoot out of his mouth before he has the chance to think them over. If he was smart he’d have zip tied you to a pipe and played the mean cop like they do in the movies. No that’s weird. Maybe he should’ve just let you do what you came here to do and leave, then he would’ve had a chance to clean the paint up before it dried, the thought of scraping the dried neon green off the wallpaper made him a little annoyed.

Mike’s now sour attitude made him want to mess with you, just a bit, before he let you go to luckily face no real consequences.

“Don’t think i’ve forgotten about what I caught you doing.” His brows furrow with pretend irritation which causes your eyes to widen like a deer in headlights. Long eyelashes batting against your flushed cheeks make him reconsider what he was doing for a second before going right back to glaring holes through your flesh.

“I’m so sorry sir, I didn’t know anybody was in here I swear!” You squeak out your defence. Sir? Something stirred in Mike’s pants that he tried his best to ignore. God why did you have to be the worst criminal ever. Your tiny skirt and your doe eyes and stupidly soft skin. Nothing in Mike’s life is fair.

“Please don’t call the cops- I’ll do anything, please-“

“Why shouldn’t I? You not only trespassed but vandalised the property that I’m supposed to protect from delinquents like you.” He decided not to reveal that not even his personal law enforcement connection could be bothered to drive up here and arrest some dumb college student. Not only that but he’d be in deeper trouble than you for sleeping on the job and letting said college student get in.

“I’m not a delinquent! If anything I was doing this place a favour, at least it smells like paint now instead of rot-“

“You’re not helping your case little miss. No one in your position would be that mouthy.” Mike surprises himself with this unexpected bout of confidence and tries not to let it show on his face. Honestly, you could’ve bolted down the hall the minute you woke up and gotten off the hook so why were you still looking up at him from the floor?

“Like I said, I’d do anything to get out of this position.” Your words hang in the air like cigarette smoke, swirling around his head and intoxicating him more with each breath. Your eyes are crawling down his body now, taking in every inch of him from his perfectly messy hair and charming face to his spread legs which gives you an idea. Without a word you’re stalking towards him on all fours, stopping just in front of him to sit on your knees and stare up at him again.

It takes a lot of strength for Mike not to let his jaw hit the floor, lips pressed into a tight line seems to keep him from slobbering, never in a million years would he have expected this to happen to him at this job. You must be joking right? Just some silly practical joke, all of your friends are gonna come running in with their cameras out any minute now… right? Or was there really a pretty girl begging at his feet right now? Deciding to trust that you weren’t about to disappear into a cloud of smoke when he touched you, he caresses the side of your face so gently like you’re made of glass. His rough calloused hands hold your cheek while his thumb strokes your cheekbone tenderly.

This completely catches you off guard and you can’t help but just stare at him in a daze until he pulls your head up to lock eyes. His are chocolate brown and covered by a glossy lust-filled haze that makes your heart skip a beat. Without thinking you cover his hand on your face with your own and guide his thumb to your open mouth. Your lips wrap around the digit and your tongue circles it slowly making sure to close your eyes in performative ecstasy before releasing his thumb with a loud pop.

Mike can’t help the groan that rips its way out of his throat. Maybe it was his severe lack of intimate experience but he’d never seen something so pornographic. His dick twitches and aches inside his pants once again and this time he gives in to its demands, unzipping his mid-blue jeans and pulling them down to relieve some pressure.

Your eyes widen watching him remove his jeans, now there’s only one layer of clothing between you and where you so desperately want to taste. His cock strains against the thin grey cotton of his briefs when your palm slides up his thigh, so slow he has to stop himself from whining. Finally, your hand grasps his throbbing cock, palming it lightly to elicit a strained groan from the man standing over you. Mike’s mouth is hanging open in ecstasy while his eyes are screwed shut as if he’s trying desperately not to wake up from a dream. The desperate noises coming from Mike were all the encouragement you needed to continue, so you decided the boxers needed to go. Moving your hands from his hard cock to the waistband of his underwear made him let out a tiny whimper that he hoped you didn’t hear, but as the tight cotton and elastic were pulled down he couldn’t help but sigh with relief when his shaft felt the cool air of the security office. It was incredibly hard, embarrassingly so for the small amount of foreplay that had transpired so far which made his cheeks flush, but even in the low light of his office he could see that he wasn’t the only one.

From where you were sitting, knees tucked neatly beneath you and his cock looming just in front of your face the reality of what you were doing finally set in. Were you really about to get this guy off in a dingy, dimly lit security office inside an abandoned kid’s restaurant? Just to get yourself out of trouble? Okay maybe not just to get yourself out of trouble, you steal a glance at his face again his big brown eyes and embarrassed smile and are reminded of the arousal pooling in your underwear. Rubbing your thighs together you look up into his eyes again through your lashes and take the tip of his thick cock into your mouth. The noises that escape Mike are unintelligible at this point and feeling your soft, plump lips wrapped around him has him seeing stars. He grasps your hair gently to keep steady while you suck him slowly, taking every inch of him deep into your mouth and tracing his veins with your tongue playfully. Hearing the sweet whimpers of the man above you had you desperately rubbing your thighs together for any kind of friction and taking him as deep down your throat as you could.

“ ‘feels so good, please don’t stop.” Mike manages to groan out in between his hushed moans. You let out a moan yourself at the praise lips stretched around the thickness of his cock before taking him deep again, his tip hitting the back of your throat. The pleasure makes him jolt and he can’t help but want to hear more of your beautiful sounds.

“ ‘look so pretty with my cock in your mouth” he says, louder than last time, and grips your hair tighter guiding it up and down his shaft. The sudden change in Mike makes pleasure shoot through your core and your eyes close in bliss as he takes control of your mouth around him. You hollow out your cheeks as he begins to fuck your mouth, his hips thrust wildly and obscenities fall from his lips at the sight of you taking his thick cock so well.

“Fuck," he drawls out, your eyes never leave his as he uses your mouth and he's never felt anything so good before. Tears build in the corners of your eyes but you still bat your eyelashes at him so sweetly making his shaft twitch with arousal, he pulls out of your mouth so quickly, so close to shooting his cum straight down your throat. Before he even gets a chance to ask you where he should cum you take him into your hands once more, pumping it desperately in your first before rubbing the tip of his twitching cock against your swollen lips and your soft, flushed cheeks stained with running mascara. Mike can’t believe what he’s seeing and tries to commit your dazed, cock-drunk face to memory before his orgasm spills all over your face. Thick ropes of cum paint your cheeks and mouth and eyelids until all of the pent up arousal is drained from his cock.

“W-woah,” Mike stutters out bashfully looking over your pretty face covered in his cum, it’s possibly the hottest thing he’s ever seen and he tries not to imagine his cum covering other parts of you or his cock will be painfully hard again. Your heart races taking him in fully now, his soft brown hair is completely messed up sticking out in every direction, his eyes are blissed out and heavy-lidded and a faint red blush covers his cheekbones and freckled nose and your staring must be noticeable because he stiffens when his eyes meet yours. He’s suddenly hit with a wave of embarrassment as he hurriedly pulls up his pants and helps you to your feet, then tries to find anything to clean your face.

“I’m so sorry, I’m such an idiot sometimes I didn’t even ask if that was okay, and now you’re all messy and-“ Mike trails off desperately searching for a rag and avoiding making eye contact with you at all costs.

“I think it was pretty worth it, actually.” You cut him off thoughtfully, watching him run around frantically searching even though you’d already cleaned yourself up with some tissues from his desk. Taking the time to scan over the clutter he kept there you saw a name sticker with ‘Mike’ scrawled clumsily on it, and a calming nature sounds cassette tape inside a worn-looking walkman. A small smile crept onto your face at your discoveries and your eyes fell back onto Mike who was now calmer after seeing you cleaned up.

“So, Mike, am I off the hook?” you ask with a sly smirk. Inching closer to him so you could look up into his big brown eyes again. He tries not to show his surprise at your question and clears his throat to answer.

“Well I think you’ve, er, learned your lesson and received a fair punishment.” he states awkwardly, blood threatening to rush to his face once again because of how much of an idiot he was being.

“Just, uh, try to stay out of trouble.” he finishes looking directly at the floor in shame, any prior confidence completely evaporating and his heart pounding in his ears just as it usually would when speaking to a girl.

“Yes, sir.” She replied with a grin before giving him a quick parting kiss and running down the hallway and out of the fire exit.