#Padlocked Boots

[muzzlesandboots]

Locked Military Boots in Old style Shackle Irons

[toyastales]

Givenchy

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Stretch-Leather Bodycon Midi Dress from Versace ($4,600) & Padlock Ankle Boot 55 from Tom Ford ($1,502 - on sale)

[nekoalodo]

Those boots might be a bit *too* heavy to move about with... =ᴗ='

(Art from 2020)

[muzzlesandboots]

Locked Collar leather n Harness Booted Owned Slave

[restrained4u2use]

[eowynstwin]

Lilies

Price x f!Reader. - Dom/sub dynamics. whipping. vivisection as a metaphor for love. boot riding. throat-fucking. angst. aftercare. 18+ MDNI. Ao3

The bedroom is dim when you enter, lights turned low. Price watches you stop in your tracks at the unexpected darkness; watches you look around and catch sight of him.

He’s in the chair in the corner of the room. Hasn’t been waiting long—expected you to arrive, in fact, around this very moment. Your schedule and all of its minute quirks, tiny variations you might insert out of hunger, or boredom, or fixation on some new hobby, play out like clockwork in the back of his mind, no matter when or where he is.

A mnemonic. More accurately, a memorare. Entreaty to some higher power, as if to remind Death that he has someone far more important to get home to.

You take him in. His ankle is propped up on the opposite knee, glass of scotch hanging carelessly from his fingers, crystalline bottom brushing the carpeted floor. Your eyes focus on the orange-red cherry of his cigar—

—you startle a little when you meet his gaze.

He doesn’t blame you. His pulse beats heavy through his veins. Every breath he takes is slow and controlled, miasmic as it leaves his lungs. He feels less a man and more a vessel for something seething and wrathful, smog rolling in and in again on itself, eddying when it hits the boundaries keeping it contained.

Noxious. Fetid.

The glow of his cigar probably reflects in his eyes.

Borderline pyrolic.

You look at the coiled whip resting ophidian and black over his thigh. His free hand rests along it, thumbnail toying with the braided leather.

“Not a word,” he says evenly. His voice leaves him like it’s coated in sandpaper, debriding the column of his esophagus.

Your gaze snaps back up to his. Holds it.

Searching, maybe.

Your lips do not part. Instead, you wait.

The next breath he takes comes and goes a little easier—but only just.

“Strip,” he says, “and cuff yourself to your post.”

On a better night—a kinder one—he would’ve asked if you needed more directions. Checked in first, even, or warned you ahead of time of his intentions. This thing that exists between the two of you was cultivated in the open, fertilized with his own candor as he told you what he wanted, needed, like turning over a rock to see what squirmed beneath it. It grew as you trellised it together and discovered, through trial and error, what you needed to survive it.

Reward incentives. Good reason to give a damn about what he tells you to do.

But tonight is not a kind one. Venom pumps through his veins—caustic. Acrid. Hissing and spitting in his chest, already drawn back and ready to strike.

Maybe you can tell, as you stand there, watching him. Maybe you don’t feel like protesting. Or, just maybe, you need this, too, need it in the way you’ve begged him for in the past when the present moment felt ephemeral and unreal—because you obey.

You toe out of your heels. Pull your shirt over your head, your skirt down your legs. It’s an outfit he’s expressed appreciation for in the past; the wide drape of the collar exposing your clavicles, the long seams down your hips that buckle as your thighs hold the fabric taut.

You fold everything like a good girl and set them aside on the bed, and then remove your bra and panties—nude silk, no lace, sensible and comfortable and paid for with his card—to place them atop the pile.

Price isn’t in a mood to care why you acquiesce. All that matters to him is that you walk to your nightstand and remove the padded cuffs from the drawer, then to the bedpost on your side of the bed. You remove the endcap hiding the loop of steed embedded into the wood, fasten yourself with a padlock only he has the key to—

And then you kneel, naked, on the carpeted floor.

Giving him your bare back, the dim light sinking shadows into the notches of your spine.

Price says nothing. He doesn’t have a kind word anywhere in his alveoli. There usually aren’t any, when he first comes home, nor could a single one get past the bars of his vocal cords if it tried. This has grown too nacreous, too hypergranulated in his mantle, and it demands excision. He taps the ash from his cigar and sips at his scotch, the dregs burning a line hot and corrosive down his throat.

He sets the glass aside. Rises.

Brandishes the whip once with a sharp snap.

You flinch; your skin is filmy and thin in the gloaming. Horripilation lifts the follicles along your bare arms; the scant light of the bedroom catches your hair standing on end.

He watches a slow tremble work its way to your suspended fingers. Your back expands as you take a deep breath in, and contracts as you exhale, shadows the width of his fingers pooling into and draining away from the valleys between your extruded ribs.

You pull in another deep breath, one, two, three, four, five, and let it go at the same meter. Calming the anticipation the way he taught you.

He draws his arm back, lunges, and the whip cracks against your bare back.

You gasp sharply and go rigid in shock. Price watches the pain spread outward from the lash into your limbs. Bleeding down into the fibers of your muscles; sinking through osseous matter into your marrow like dye takes to cloth. You shift on your knees, a shiver snaking its way up your back.

It’s always cataclysmic, that first bite of pain. Every nerve ending suddenly alive and on high alert. Charged up. Inadvertently destining the next strike to fall even harder by sensory comparison.

Then, the welt appears, rising in reply to the scourge. A clean, sharp return stroke, an echo of the braided leather just beginning its reverberation.

Something cleaves in Price’s chest. Some tight membrane splits open, seeping felsic, hot and black, dripping steadily into his bloodstream. Effusive. Not a dam breaking, but a fissure in the stone.

Your breathing quickens—

And then he whips you again, harder, laying the stroke right next to the first. You cry out when it lands, but he leaves no time for you to prepare for the third, drawing, lunging, and lashing again at unspoiled skin.

You shake in your bonds. He whips you again, laying another diagonally from shoulder to hip as fog blooms across his vision. You wail like breaking glass, china falling from the cabinet, cut crystal flowering in pieces on hardwood floor.

The same tenor he hears when he has you on your back, cock burrowed in your cunt and bullying the plug of your cervix.

Too much, too hard, but your nails dig into his arse and you cry even harder when he lets up.

He whips you again. Welts lift across the known topography of your back—intersecting every angle of your shoulder blades, orogenies shifting and transforming the landscape into something new.

Only passing familiar with the dips and curves he often walks the tips of his fingers across.

Again. The planes of your back tighten, as if solidity will lessen the impact of the lash. Again, right across the tight line of your shoulders—you shriek, thrashing, hands fisting as you pull and swing futilely in the cuffs.

Geography added to. New land raised like it was beckoned by the hand of God. Hot and magamatic on the inside, too delicate to touch without collapsing in on itself.

Again. He snaps the whip, shaping the parabola with the jerk of his arm, shaping the line of a hill like a child’s drawing, then brings it down, sharply, cutting the fall across the meat of your hip. A hillside he often dwarfs with the ugly size of his hands.

Price envies the whip sometimes for its privilege. He’s never been able to lay hands on you directly for its purpose; not easily, at least. The flat of his palms have known the meat of your arse, have made ample flesh ripple like tossing stones across water, but he can’t employ them for much else without turning his own stomach.

He can pull your hair, wrap your throat in his grasp, shackle your wrists or the slopes of your hips in an iron grip, dig his fingers into your thighs and stomach like trying to tunnel through wedges of clay. Often afterwards he’s transfixed by the marks he leaves behind—dotted bruises aligned with the arc and spread of his fingers, or blotchy oblongs fitted to the heel of his hand.

Indelible evidence that Price Was Here.

He’ll try to match the grip that left them, his touch as light and gentle as a dove’s wing; a paintbrush without pigment, remembering the strokes it left behind. Synapses in his brain firing colors to match, claiming them for himself.

He put them there. That makes them his. That makes you his.

But striking you barehanded is beyond even his limits. No matter that you’d allow it. Have allowed it—

He whips you again. Draw. Lunge. Crack. You jolt against the bedpost, throw your head back, buck your entire body to work the pain through it.

One scene, similar to this, tephra building up in his craw and threatening to catalyze if he didn’t find some hurried way to exorcise it.

Some mission gone bad; some idiot disobeying his orders. People dying who didn’t need to.

He’d slapped you across the face, after forcing you to your knees with his fist in your hair—sent you tumbling to the floor. The next thing that had occurred to him had been to swing his foot back—

And the bile had risen so quickly up his throat that he’d frozen. He’d stared at you, on the floor. Lying there, sprawled and waiting. Fear in your eyes—but you weren’t moving.

His collapse after had been swift. He’d fallen to his knees and crawled to you, gathered you up like a stuffed toy and buried his mouth in your hair and hadn’t let you go for nearly three hours. Price can count on one hand how many times he’s cried in his adult life, and this had added one more to the tally.

It’s one thing to send his fury along through leather or wood or crop, and quite another to deliver it to you like you actually deserve it.

So, the whip.

You moan as the next stroke hits. Something long and stretched-out. Caramelized—molasses subducting the bite of the fall, sucrose splitting in the phreatic churn of draw, lunge, lash.

He pauses briefly to look you over. Claw-mark weals, like he’s been dragging his blunt nails down your back, hatch the skin paralleling your spine. Your heels press divots into the bare cheeks of your arse; you squirm in his gaze, drawing them together as you tighten your thighs.

There’s a moment when pain transforms. When heat fills the empty spaces between moving, frantic particles and melds in around them. Capturing them in place.

The calcaneus of one foot finds its way between your folds as you shift; your whole body twitches from it, and you lift your hips a little. There’s an obscene squelch as you settle down again, slick dribbling down your heel into the arch.

Price lunges. The whip cracks. You low like a trapped animal, grinding, and the pitch of your voice swoops upward when he lays another lash right on top of the previous.

Dangerous. Taunting something welling up to the surface, testing what it can take before it breaks. Price knows better.

Knows better, but the roil and hiss in his gut yawns wider with every lash, trembling as a fed appetite is only whetted. Horrible feedback loop—the cry of your voice, he often thinks, is the only thing that could possibly satisfy him, but when he gets it, Price can’t be satisfied.

A taste demands mouthful. A meal demands a banquet. When he hears you wail, he wonders how many different ways he can make you do it, how many octaves are there, hidden away, for him to tease out of you.

He knows everything about you. Everything. He knows every dip and curve of your body, every jutting bone, every creaky joint, every fold and roll and wrinkle. Sometimes he thinks he's got individual hair follicles memorized.

With the whip, or the scourge, or any other tool, the reward for his greed is ephemeral. The known plains present themselves as blank canvas, and for a while, after his work is wrought, there’s something new for him to fixate on. New patterns to trace his fingers along.

Sometimes he thinks he wants to cut you open, just to see what more of you he’s been missing.

Stomach. Lungs. Intestines. Arterial pathways leading to your soft, beating heart. All he wants, he thinks, is to see them. Say hello to them. Run his tongue along their membranes, caress each tiny capillary webbing them together with the lightest brush of his teeth, if only just to organize his experience of them into the archives of you that he keeps locked behind his ribs.

More of you. He always wants more of you.

He lunges again. The whip sings in the air, and the cracker bites again into your flesh. You undulate like rippling water, breath coming out in erratic stops and starts, and then you give a full body yank against your cuffs—

This time, he’s broken skin.

You curl in on yourself, suddenly going still. Your thighs tighten; your scapulae rise, shoulders touching the lobes of your ears.

As you’re if holding onto something that will escape; balancing, on an unsteady surface, something fragile. Delicate as spun glass.

It isn’t deep. A pearl of crimson wells up in the trough, collapsing when the mass betrays the surface tension. It trails a thin, straight line down your back as it slips between stark weals still yet to split open.

You haven’t moved; your body is a trembling fist.

Price takes a long, ragged breath. He asks the question, although he already knows the answer.

“Did you come?”

You shake your head.

Of course not. His good fucking girl—you’re waiting for permission.

Price extracts the little key from his trouser pocket and goes to where your wrists hang limp from the bedpost. The lock turns with a small click, and your arms drop like heavy stones. A breath of relief, involuntary, leaves you.

Price wraps your hair around his fist and yanks you back a little like pulling a dog on a leash. He rounds you, looming above your kneeling form, and wedges the tip of his boot between your knees.

It’s not a new pair. He’s had them for years, and the leather shows it, even despite regular maintenance. They’re brutish things, squarish and unkindly shaped, rough at the edges. Meant to trample underbrush and kick through teeth. A scratched-up battering ram between the soft skin of your thighs.

You lift your hips immediately to open the way for him. Automatic. Pavlovian.

He lifts the toe against your clit in reward, circles it, dragging your folds around. Your lips fall open; glittering, rheumy eyes stare up at him as your cuffed hands circle his knee.

Something soft in Price’s chest touches the inside of his sternum.

His hand goes to the zipper at his groin, and he draws his cock out. In the furor of the lash, he hadn’t even realized how hard he was, but he feels blistering in his own palm, the head ruddy and ugly with it, the veins thick and pulsing. Equally as inappropriate to subject you to.

He drags your head to his cock with his firm grasp in your hair. You don’t need to be told—your mouth drops, and he pushes in without preamble, grunting short and hard when the flat of your tongue melts along the broad artery on the underside of his shaft.

“Rut,” he husks, shifting his boot beneath you, “until you come.”

You moan around him. The vibration of your vocal cords travels up his cock, reverberating with an intensity that has him shoving into your throat with a snarl. You choke at the intrusion, saliva bubbling at the corners of your mouth, but your hips bear down on his boot, thighs clenching it at the sides.

Your whole body rolls and humps against his leg, cuffed wrists coming up so your hands can wrap around the meat of his thigh. You scrabble at the canvas, dig your nails into the weave of his trousers like you want to tear through it to get at his skin underneath.

The whole time, your eyes never leave his, glistening with tears that shiver on your lashes as they threaten to fall. He grits his teeth as your lips pull out around him as he withdraws, and then thrusts short and hard into your mouth in time with the frantic cant of your pussy up and down his boot.

He can feel the heat of your sex even through the leather, could swear that he can count the contractions as you clench around nothing, the tiny bud of your neglected clitoris rasping against the unkind fibers of his boot laces.

Obedient to perfection.

You’re past the threshold as you lean back a little, levering your body to change the angle at which your pussy engulfs his foot, and he half-steps forward to follow you so his cock doesn’t escape your mouth. You roll against him, a full-body wave that lifts chest, then stomach, then hips—

And then he sees it take you as you freeze in place, muscles tensing all at once.

Your eyes roll back, throat convulsing around him as quick, reedy mewls travel up his shaft in quick succession. Your whole body shakes with it, frenetic as you hump his boot to prolong it, loosening the knot he’d tied with your vigor.

He pulls out a little to let you breathe through the end of it, but when you realize what he’s doing you dig your nails into his thigh, following him back. You catch his gaze with yours, eyes pleading, brows knitting together in entreaty. The claws become cupped hands, stroking up and down, and you bob your head a little, hollowing your cheeks.

Price huffs a breath. He hadn’t planned for an orgasm for himself for this. Rewards are for people who earn them.

This—this isn’t that.

But your eyelids lower in pleasure as you take him deeper, saliva slicking the way to his base, and Price has never been able to deny you anything.

His grip around your hair becomes a soft palm on the back of your head, guiding you steady, and he props his shin up along your stomach, knee between your breasts to give you balance.

It’s an orison; tossed into the caldera, something precious given to gravity and the incandescent fate at the other side of it. Your lips melt around him softly, tongue skimming his length like the reaching strand of a candle flame twirling around the tip of his finger.

He loves you so frightfully much.

“That’s it,” he huffs. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You moan in your throat, eyes closed, lashes against your damp cheeks.

“Yeah,” he continues, digging his fingers into your hair. “Too good for the likes of me—mmm—”

You suckle around him, pulling all the way back to mouth at the head of his cock before engulfing him again, cuffed hands rising higher to nestle one into the crevice of his groin and thigh and to spread the other over his hip. His breath quickens, and he brings his other hand to the back of your head, digging the fingers of both into your scalp.

You accept the roll of his hips with a little laugh that escapes through your nose, opening your jaw wide; making room for him to take what he pleases, again, how he pleases, as he thrusts faster, harder, taking what you give freely and delving harder for even more—

The head of his cock bullies your soft palette as his pubic hair tickles your lips, and then it shoots through him, up and down his spine, and he rams into your throat, forcing your nose to his mons as his cock pulsates, erupting hot and viscous, heartbeat forcing his cum out in deep, rhythmic pulses he feels across his whole body.

When you swallow around him his whole body heats up, balls clenching as they empty themselves into you, and he punches his hips in again short and hard as the last vestiges of his climax play out.

You hold him in your throat until he pulls you away, and then you take a long, wet gasp, hot breath fanning across his softening cock as it falls down, drained out. Tear tracks are silvery down your face, lashes stuck together with lipids and salt.

He brings one hand to your cheek, caressing beneath your eye gently with one callused thumb. Sweat beads along your hairline, and your skin is sticky and humid, glistening with perspiration that pools in your collarbones.

He feels his own sweat running down his chest, along and around the follicles of his chest hair and down toward his navel. Your eyes follow each drop; he thinks you’d lean forward and lick them up, if he told you to, even though he can see the exhaustion pulling at you.

“You good?” he finally asks, his voice coated in grit, but steady as it leaves him.

It’s what he always says, after.

You open your eyes to meet his, and this, too, is a moment repeated. He searches. Waits for doubt or fear or dismay to flicker in your gaze, some omen that he’s gone too far, that this, finally, has been too much for you to take from him.

You grace him with a little smile. The lines of your face are slack and loose. Your expression is smooth—languid, floating on satisfaction.

“I’m good,” you say, calm and tranquil—

And the smoke clears from his eyes.

-

He rubs the indent around your finger, branded by your wedding ring in your clenching fist, and brings the knuckle to his mouth to kiss his apology into your skin.

“What happened?” you ask.

You’re boneless, splayed on the mattress with your belly to the duvet. Your head rests against the pillow, face turned toward him.

Even in the haze of afterglow, filaments of oxytocin and dopamine unspooling, your eyes are sharp. Insightful.

You know him too well.

John kisses your ring finger again and returns to the oblations he owes for his violence. The lines on your back are ugly, dotted with broken capillaries and set to linger for weeks. He applies aloe gel, cooled in the fridge, in a thick, generous layer with a soft brush. The kind your aesthetician uses on the rare occasion you treat yourself to some time at the spa, dragging the bristles lightly across your face, around the apples of your cheeks and the corners of your lips.

Softer than he can possibly touch you right now with his callused fingers. A consequence of his vice; flayed skin, lifted weals, cannot tolerate the weight or heat of his hand, no matter how curative or contrite. He destines his own gentle touch to futility.

The one place he broke skin will probably take a month to heal.

A puff of air zips by his ear again. So close as to be your gasp. The rock behind him explodes around a .50 caliber round. Fragments of dry stone, osseous and pale, shower his neck and back.

“The usual,” Price says.

With a q-tip, John dabs bacitracin along the open gash down one side of your back. It isn’t very long or very deep. It might not even scar.

When John is gone—deployed or dead, the difference is negligible, really—there will be no evidence of his presence in your life that you can’t get rid of. It kept occurring to him throughout his deployment, after the near miss.

Everything of his in the house you share, you can box up and donate. Deep clean the place to eradicate whatever traces of his scent are left behind. You can cut your hair in some new style he’ll never see, wear all new clothes, choose a new perfume.

You can take off your wedding band. Shove it in a box in some forgotten drawer, or just pawn it.

It’s childish. Downright adolescent. Snapping your bra like a pimply cunt in secondary school, because the only way he knows how to etch himself into the bedrock of your memory is with pain.

“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching out with one lolling hand.

He leaves the q-tip on your back and clasps it between both of his own, bringing the curl of your fingers to his mouth. He kisses down the side of your palm, trails his lips down the soft skin of your forearm. Squeezes so hard he feels the bones in your hands shift.

You’re sorry. He took a whip to your back, made you hump his boot like an animal, and fucked your face like a whore, all because he couldn’t stand the thought that you would someday be without him. And you’re sorry.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs, scratching at the soft part of your wrist with his beard.

It seems even the softest version of his affection must somehow be abrasive.

There’s a little smile playing across your lips as you close your eyes. A deep, serene breath leaves you.

He places your hand back on the bed and dips the brush back into the aloe, loading it generously up to the ferrule. The brush make little furrows in the gel as he lays it down, the layer already thick; he floats the flat of the bristles overtop, smoothing over his contrition, and then, idly, he wedges them in again, carving runnels down through the clear to your skin.

You must fall asleep as he does, or at least you enjoy it enough to indulge him. John follows the lines of each lash from beginning to end, tracing their length, mapping the way they’ve changed your skin.

In a few weeks, as he cares for them, they’ll fade away completely. Left only to memory—both his and yours. But for now, you’ll feel them every day. Feel him every day, even when he’s not there, brushing along the inside of your shirt, stinging with every light touch.

Remembering the hand that held the lash.

He smooths the painted lines over and begins again.

-

a/n: this started as a casual one-off and became a loose masterstudy of @yeyinde's writing style. Lev, affectionately, you are insane. I know this because in writing this I also went insane.

Also dedicated to @391780. Please never stop being kinky online. I live for it.

Also that one part was inspired by this piece of art.

[bluecravingcc]

SIMS 4 CC - GOTH IS ROCK COLLECTION PART 2

Download: Leather Jewellery [Public Released]

Download: Lace Top [Public Released]

Download: Half Pleated Skirt [Public Released]

Download: Heels Boots [Public Released]

Download: Garter Stockings [Public Released]

Download: Locked Corset [Public Released]

Download: Padlock Skirt [Public Released]

Download: Piercings Set [Public Released]

=> Part 1 of the Collection <=

🔥One click download (Patrons)🔥

——————– TOU ————————–

Do not reupload.

Do not claim my work as your own.

Do not upload on monetized sites.

Do not edit / transform my meshes.

Do not convert to other games.

——————————————————

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery

warnings: smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), swearing, mention of John being abused

John stared at me as I let him in my apartment. His eyes roamed my body as I walked past him, wearing shorts and a crop top. He smirked as he sat down on my couch, arms crossed and jean jacket thrown across the back.

"So how long you going to hide out here this time?" I called from the kitchen. I heard John's boots hit the ground as he got comfortable.

"How long will you have me?" He called back. I grabbed something to drink and some food before heading back out into the living room. John looked over at me, his eyes roaming me again as I set the food down in front of him. "Thanks." he mumbled as he grabbed the plate. "He padlocked the fridge again." I stared at him before taking a deep breath. "Yeah I know." John reached over and squeezed my hand.

"So you know the drill." I said, shifting in my seat. John's eyes flew to where the hem of my shorts rode up. "John." I said. He looked up at me, smirking and shifting as he pushed the plate away.

"Yeah?" He asked, licking his lips and staring me down. I rolled my eyes and got up to walk away. John grabbed my arm and pulled me into his lap. "Where you going?" He laughed, running his hands under the hem of my shorts. One hand moved to rest at my waist, his thumb ducking under the waistband of my shorts and rubbing circles close to my stomach.

"John." I whined, squirming to get away from him. He held me fast and tugged me closer. I could feel him getting aroused. "John." He pulled me closer and kissed me forcefully.

"Think you can walk around here dressed like that and I would sit by with my hands to myself." He whispered, breath fanning over my lips. "I should have known when I walked in I would end up in your bed tonight." I giggled as I ran my fingers through his hair.

"You were going to end up in my bed one way or another John." I teased. He chuckled as he looked up at me. "It was just a matter of time. And what we would be doing." I leaned forward and whispered in his ear. John growled as he moved. I yelped in surprise as he shifted us so I was on my back and he was hovering over me, pinning my hands to the couch and wrapping my legs around his waist.

"But here's the thing sweets." He whispered in my ear. I groaned as his hair tickled my cheek. "We're not going to make it to your bed. See I just gotta have you right here. Right now." My head fell back as John started to kiss my neck. I ground my hips against his as he moved one hand to push my crop top off. Breaking contact with me for a second, John smiled devilishly at me before tossing it across the room. "Much better." He mumbled before kissing along my chest. I fidgeted as John kept a hold on my wrists.

"John." I moaned as he gently bit my neck. He hummed before letting go of my hands to take off my pants. He tossed them over the back of the couch. I reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, hair flopping into his face as I did. John chuckled before shaking his head to get the hair out of his face. "Take me John." I mumbled as he reached for his belt. I ran my fingers through his hair before pulling him into another kiss. He pulled back with a gasp as he lined himself up.

"Alright?" he asked, licking his lips and watching me carefully. I nodded. "Words sweets."

"John. Please." I whined, moaning as he thrust into me slowly. "Cut the torture crap John. Just fuck me!" John kissed me, pulling away as he bit my bottom lip.

"That what you want?" He asked, eyes flashing playfully. I moaned as he ground his hips against mine. "Hmmm? Want me to fuck you? Hard and fast?" John pulled out before snapping his hips against mine, drawing another moan from me. "Scared your buddy is gonna walk in on us doing it on the couch like last time?" John licked a line up my neck and pressed an open mouth kiss to my jaw. He started to suck and nip at the skin until I knew there would be a mark tomorrow.

"For fuck's sake Bender. Fuck me!" I yelled as I tried to grind against him and follow his thrusts. John snickered and snapped his hips against mine. I moaned, tugging on his hair. John growled and thrust into me as fast as he could move his hips. My head fell back, mouth open in a silence scream. John pressed kisses along my throat, licking the expanse where he would nip along the skin.

“just like that baby.” He panted. “Just like that. Taking me so well. Just a bit more. Bit more.” I tried to find purchase on John’s back, digging my nails into the muscles. He groaned, hips canting against mine as he laid down on me. “Cock drunk are we?” He teased when I barely reacted. He reached up and cupped my chin, making my head nod as small broken moans escaped me. “Awe poor baby.” John chuckled breathlessly. “Gonna give it me? Gonna cum?” John groaned as I came. He kissed me as his hips stuttered. “Little more and I’ll be right there. Little more. Fuck.” John’s voice cracked as he spilled in me. He rested his head against my shoulder, breath fanning across my collarbone.

“fucking Christ John.” I breathed out. “Please tell me you didn’t ruin my couch.” John laughed and lifted his head. He shrugged and kissed me again.

“piece of shit couch anyway.” He smiled at me. I glanced up and shook my head.

“I’m just gonna throw something over that. Can’t keep sewing that one spot.” I said, eyes shining. “You ok?”

“yeah.” John said, slowly pulling out and grabbing his boxers from the floor. “I feel better oddly.” I smiled and sat up. I kissed his cheek and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. John leaned into me with a smile.

“good.” I said, leaning my head against his. “Then my plan worked.” John laughed.

“your plan?” He asked, kissing my cheek.

“yeah. Why else do you think I had a crop top and shorts on John?” I teased. John shook his head and cupped my cheeks. He kissed me deeply before resting his head against mine with a smile.

“what would I do without you?” He asked.

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #22

A/N: Surprise! This is a precursor to day 8. I actually had this one planned ages and ages ago, before I'd written 8. I tried to write them so that each one could stand on its own and not be too confusing, since they're being posted out of order. Anyway, enjoy!

xxx oh, that's not good

"I didn't see any sign of him," Guy frets as she and Lamb reconvene at the front entrance of the house.

"Are you surprised?" Lamb says. "These guys aren't exactly geniuses but they're not stupid enough to keep a kidnapped MI:5 agent in their hall closet! Come on, we've still got loads of places to look, and not a lot of time to do it before those idiots come back. Stables next."

Guy sighs and nods. "Right."

Her expression is one of deliberate focus as she exits the house and heads toward the stables, gun in hand. She's so focused on the stables, in fact, that she doesn't bothering observing the rest of her surroundings, which is probably why she doesn't notice the many pairs of boot-prints in the mud. And why she doesn't notice Lamb stopping to look at them. He doesn't call after her, partially because he's confident there's no one waiting in the stables to ambush her, precluding the need for backup, but mostly because he can't be arsed.

He follows the prints to a pair of basement bulkhead doors round the east side of the house. There's a heavy chain and padlock keeping them shut, but the lock obviously cheap. All it takes to get it open is a large stone Lamb finds on the ground and a few heavy blows. He highly doubts there's anything in the darkened basement that he'll need to shoot, but he draws his gun anyway before pulling the doors open and making his way down the steps. It's dark at the bottom, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust.

When they do, he can see that he's in the right spot.

“Fuuucking hell,” he murmurs, holstering his weapon before stepping further into the basement. “Christ, Cartwright, you alive?”

The figure huddled against the far wall stirs slightly, but offers no other response. Lamb makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat (or worried, more like – not that River will be able to tell, the state he's in) and crouches next to the younger agent. There's old blood in his hair, dark red matting the blonde over his left ear and dried onto his neck. An ugly purple-yellow bruise stretches over his jaw on the same side, a few days old. A gash on his right cheekbone looks newer. Lamb doesn't need to see to know that his torso likely took the worst of it; ribs and kidneys tend to be favored targets of this sort of brainless thug. River’ll probably be pissing blood for a day or two, and he'll be hurting for a bit, but he seems surprisingly okay given the circumstance.

“Oi," Lamb says loudly, giving Cartwright's shoulder a firm shove. River's brow crinkles into a frown and he grimaces, blue eyes fluttering open. His gaze lands on Lamb and he groans, letting his eyes fall back shut. Lamb prods at him. “If you think I'm gonna carry you out of here, think again."

Cartwright opens his eyes again, staring up at the low ceiling. He takes two deep breaths (But not that deep, Lamb notes) and then slowly starts to push himself up on his elbows. He doesn't say anything, hardly even seems to notice, when Lamb reflexively puts a hand on his back to help him get upright.

Lamb doesn't like it.

“What," he says, putting a sneer into his words in the hopes of drawing some sort of reaction. “Don't tell me you don't have something smart to say. No, ‘I’d’ve had it’? No, ‘Where the hell have you been’?"

Cartwright sighs, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I’d’ve had it," he says, and looks up at Lamb. “And where the hell have you been?"

Lamb bites back a smirk, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, you'll be fine. Come on!"

He turns, pulling his mobile out as behind him Cartwright makes his way, groaning, to his feet. Shirley answers after the first ring.

"Yeah?"

"I found Cartwright," Lamb says. "Hurry up and finish what you're doing and meet us out by the cars." He glances over his shoulder as he returns his mobile to his coat pocket. Cartwright is swaying slightly, but there's a determined set to his expression. Lamb raises an eyebrow at him. "You coming?"

Cartwright gives him a shaky thumbs-up. "Yep."

xxx

It's not a sunny day—far from it, seeing as they're in the English countryside in October—but the daylight is still far brighter than the hole in the ground where River's been held the last three days. Or maybe it's four? He's lost track. Regardless, he finds himself wincing as he emerges from the basement as the relative brightness sends bursts of pain through his skull.

"Lamb!" Louisa's voice. "He's not in the stables. Where did you go?" She looks over Lamb's shoulder and her eyes widen. "River!"

"Hey, Louisa," River says, raising his hand in a sheepish wave.

Louisa steps around Lamb and grabs River's arms, looking him over, brow furrowed. "You alright?"

River shrugs. "Oh, you know..." He looks up at the back of Lamb who, unsurprisingly, didn't stop to watch Louisa and River's reunion. "I'm surprised Lamb came himself."

"Yeah. Marcus and Shirley are here, too."

"Really?" River frowns. "All of you are here?"

"Well, not all of us. Roddy's still at Slough."

River snorts. "He doesn't count."

Marcus and Shirley are already at the cars when they get there, and Shirley grins as soon as she sees River, straightening up from where she'd been leaning against Marcus's car.

"Were they keeping you in the stable?" she says. "'Cus that would be really fucking embarrassing."

"It was the basement, actually," River says dryly. He's not sure why he expected anything else from her.

"Because we're Slow Horses," Shirley continues as if River hadn't spoken. "Horse. Stable. It's funny."

River shoots her a sarcastic smile and holds up his middle finger. Shirley scowls.

"Rude."

He opens his mouth to answer, and is interrupted by the loud crack of gunfire.

"Get down!" Lamb shouts, and River thinks it's a little funny that he bothers saying it; they're all already moving, diving for cover behind the parked cars. They may be Slow Horses, but they're still Service. They aren't just going to stand around while a sniper opens fire on them.

“Shit!" Shirley cries as a round strikes the dirt near her. "Where is that coming from?”

“Uh – barn.” Marcus is the one who answers. “Hayloft, I think.”

Lamb growls. “You didn’t clear the fucking barn?”

“You called and told us you had River! You didn’t say anything about clearing the barn!”

“I said to finish what you were doing, I didn’t think I had to fucking spell it out! Bloody well should have known, though, you’ve all the sense of a toad. Didn't clear the fucking barn..."

"We can return fire, but I don't know what good it'll do us," Marcus says. "He's got better cover, better range, a better vantage point..."

“He’ll run out of ammunition eventually,” Shirley says, and Lamb lets out a bark of laughter.

“Yeah, I suppose we could just roll around in the dirt here and hope the bastard is stupid enough to waste all of his bullets. Anyone else have any bright ideas they'd like to share? Cartwright?”

River, who's only been half-listening to most of the conversation, looks up at the sound of his name. “Erm – what? Sorry?”

Lamb’s irritated expression shifts slightly, his forehead creasing in the middle. Then his eyes flick downward, then back up again, eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion. “Are you hit?”

"What?" Louisa says sharply.

River looks down to where his hand is clasping his hip. He hadn't even noticed he was doing that...He lifts his hand away from his side enough to catch a glimpse of bright red before quickly replacing it, swallowing hard to quell the nausea that tries to rise up.

“Yup. Yeah, I--I think so. Yeah."

He's not sure he would've realized if not for the sight of blood. Adrenaline is a hell of a thing.

"Jesus," Marcus says.

Louisa's voice is tight with near-panic. "We have to get him out of here!"

"It's fine!" River's voice is loud, almost shrill. It comes out too insistent. He swears internally, then takes a breath and forces a smile that he hopes looks less manic than it feels. "I'm alright, it's a good guy wound."

Shirley makes a face. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"The good guys in action movies, they always – you know what, never mind!" His mind is racing. He's pretty sure adrenaline is supposed to bring clarity, but his thoughts are all noisy and competing for attention. The one that makes it out of his mouth, before he has time to really process it, is, "This is a good thing."

"How?!" Louisa and Shirley cry in baffled unison.

There's an opportunity here for River to turn something humiliating—having to be rescued from the ex-military meatheads that had managed to kidnap him—into a win. He just has to make them see it.

"Look, now that their secret hideout isn't a secret anymore, they're just going to go deeper underground. Whoever's shooting at us is alone right now. We can press him for information, I--" He falters momentarily as he sees the doubt plainly written on his co-workers' faces. "I can distract him, and you can sneak around the back of the barn and get the jump on him. We might not get another chance."

"You'll distract him?" Lamb chuckles. "What, for the two seconds it takes to blow your head off? All that'll do is give me an extra pile of paperwork to fill out."

"But--" River begins.

"We're not here for him, Cartwright, we're here for you. And we have you, so we're gonna fuck off back to London. Let the Dogs deal with these pricks."

River blinks in surprise. Of all of them, he'd thought Lamb was the most likely to agree that they should try and get something out of this shitshow. If Lamb notices his shock, he doesn't mention it.

"Guy, Cartwright and I'll go in your car. Dander, you're with Longridge – Christ, I feel like I'm arranging a carpool. Anyway, whoever is up there isn't a very impressive shot, or Cartwright wouldn't be alive right now, but still: move fast."

There's an exchange of glances, some nods. No one counts down, but somehow everyone starts moving at once – Marcus and Louisa yanking open driver's side doors and clambering in, keeping their heads down and trying to make themselves as small as possible (an easier task for Louisa than Marcus) as Lamb and Shirley get into back seats. River is waiting for it, for the sound of gunfire to pick up again, but it doesn't come. He should feel relieved that they aren't being shot at, but all he feels is dread.

"Cartwright!" Lamb barks.

River is still sat in the gravel beside Louisa's car. He's sitting there when a man in a balaclava comes out from behind the small garden shed the cars are parked next to.

Oh, that's not good.

The man's got a gun raised, and it's aimed right at Louisa's head and fuck if River is going to let her get killed. His body doesn't feel like his own as he launches to his feet and places it between the gun and Louisa. There are two loud pops, and then he's falling and the man in the balaclava is falling, too and Louisa is screaming his name but he can't gather the breath he needs to answer because it feels like he's just been kicked in the chest by the world's angriest horse and he can't breathe--

Someone grabs him under the armpits from behind and pulls, and that's enough to shock his lungs back into working.

He screams.

When his vision returns, he realizes he's in the backseat of Louisa's car. He's more than slightly mortified to find that he's laying partially in Jackson Lamb's lap, one of Lamb's hands held tightly against the bullet hole in River's chest.

"Drive!" Lamb yells, and the car lurches into motion and the only sound River makes this time is a low, strangled groan.

River isn't particularly religious, never has been, but as he bleeds and bleeds and tries to breathe in the backseat of Louisa's car, he finds himself pleading with whatever higher power is out there to please, please not let him die in Jackson Lamb's arms.

xxx

[itwasthereaminuteago]

|| Bite ||

Frank castle x female reader!shape shifter

What if instead of finding Max the dog at the Kitchen Irish's place, he found you?

A/n: I wrote this instead of finishing any of my wips 😂

💕 Please REBLOG if you enjoy! Thank you! 💕

You wake with a jolt, the sudden movement briefly shocking your ears as it causes a chain to loudly jangle around your neck. You quickly reach up to where it's fastened by a padlock around a thick dog collar at your neck, it's loose on you now that you've shifted back but the feeling of being chained makes your hackles rise. You're aware of bruises and cuts on your limbs and side and they sting as you move stiffly from lying down to sitting, there's a faint smell of antiseptic. Someone has cleaned your wounds while you were out.

Your eyes dart around in the darkness of the unfamiliar place you're in, an apartment you guess, but somehow the scents are familiar…

You can pick out gunpowder, gun oil, the muted smell of dried blood. As your eyes adjust you can see a table strewn with various weapons, ammo, tools and other paraphernalia, as well as a police radio receiver. Realisation dawns on you all too late as you hear the sound of heavy boots and then a key turning in the lock, throwing your aching and naked body as far back into the shadows and away from the door as the chain will allow as the door softly creaks open.

He doesn't notice anything amiss at first, throwing a duffle bag on the floor under the table then rooting around in the small kitchenette seemingly to make coffee.

His large dark form moves around purposefully, head still covered by his hood as he grabs a mug and then freezes. You hold your breath and clench your teeth as he turns around, painfully slowly, with something held tight in his other fist.

Utter confusion mixed with a tinge of fear and suspicion passes over his features as he locks eyes with you, a woman, where there once just hours ago was a whining dog. You're dirty, naked and carrying the same injuries he had tended to as best he could when he had brought the dog back here after rescuing it from those Irish assholes.

He didn't hurt you when you were a dog, but that didn't mean anything now that you were human. Hurting and killing other humans was this guy's speciality.

You remain still, staring back at him as he considers his next move. Your human nails and teeth are unfortunately no match for the arsenal of weapons that are within his reach, but that worry vanishes when he merely picks up a spare hoodie from a chair and throws it at you.

“Here.” You catch and clutch the clothing to your body, it smells like him. He slowly lowers his hood. “M’gonna take that chain off you now, alright? I won't hurt you, but you gonna bite me if I get close?”

His voice is like burnt gravel but his body language tells you he's open and unguarded as he waits for your consent to approach. You know he's still got a knife on him.

“Depends,” you reply, your voice cracked and hoarse from disuse. “only if you give me a reason to.”

He shrugs. “Ain't plannin’ on it.”

You catch his eyes again, dark brown and curious as he waits for you to decide, then you finally angle your head so he can access the padlock on the collar and take it off.

Once he steps back you pull the hoodie over you, it's big enough to cover your ass and you're glad of its warmth.

“You want some coffee?” He asks.

You nod, you wouldn't mind a full cooked breakfast to go with it but you don't imagine this guy has much else in the fridge going by the look of the place.

“You don't seem surprised…” You say.

“That you ain't actually a dog? I guess I've just seen my fair share of weird shit in this place.”

He hands you a mug and tries to find you somewhere more comfortable to sit amongst all the mess.

“Either way, couldn't leave you there in that fuckin’ shit hole.” He growls at the mere thought of it, and you shiver thinking of it too.

“Thank you for taking me with you. You didn't have to.”

He scoffs as if it was ever a choice.

“You alright? Bathrooms right there if you need to wash up or anythin’.”

“No, thanks. I'm okay…?”

“Frank.” He replies at the inflection in your voice. You nod, despite already knowing who he is, you just needed him to say it himself. He doesn't ask for your name but you give him it anyway. It's clear by now he doesn't mean you any harm.

“You got somewhere to go back to?” He inquires, taking a sip from his cup.

“I uh-” you try to think how long it's been since you last paid rent on your shitty place before the Irish had caught you and made you fight other actual dogs for money and their own sick amusement.

“It's alright, crash here if you need to, till you get somethin' sorted out. I got another place.”

And that's how you ended up living with the Punisher in his ‘other place’, he felt it was too rough just leaving you to get on with it in the hideout, and you didn't argue. He got you some temporary clothes from the thrift store and gave you some cash so you could shop for what you needed. You didn't ask where the money came from although you had your suspicions. Your scratches and bites healed up fairly quickly, the deepest ones he had stitched himself and helped you change the dressings regularly so you didn't need to go to urgent care and have all the wrong questions asked.

“So, how long you been a weredog, huh?”

You can't help the cackle that bursts out of you at the situation you're in, sitting on Frank Castle's couch eating takeout pizza about to have the weirdest conversation he's probably ever had in his life.

“Shifter.” You correct him. “I can control when I change, I think that's the main difference.”

Frank just nods, listening to you intently.

“and obviously when I do I'm a dog, not a giant half-wolf half human.”

He smiles at that, “Yeah, y'know things might’ve gone down different if that was the way.”

He's pondering something before he speaks again.

“When I uh, rescued you, I kinda fussed and petted you… I just wanna say I'm sorry for doin' anything you didn't ask for.”

You smile and shake your head. “How could you have known? And besides, I don't mind it. It's nice.”

His brows raise, a tiny bit of colour dusting his face. “Yeah?”

You shrug and chuckle. “Yeah, you mean you don't like being petted and fussed over?”

Frank looks away, it amazes you that he looks almost bashful now especially as you've witnessed him in full bloody rage. “Heh, guess it depends who's doin' the fussin’.”

You nod and smile, and the silence returns but it doesn't feel awkward.

“Does it hurt you…when you ‘shift’?” He asks finally.

“Uh, it feels a little weird, but I'm kinda used to it now. Been doing it since puberty though I guess.”

He slaps his hand to his face. “Wow. That's a hell of a thing to get hit with at that age when you're dealing with enough shit as it is. You got people that know? Family, friends?”

You deflate a little at that question. You didn't know your birth family, you even didn't know any other shifters despite searching for most of your life for them.

“I keep it fairly private, it makes things simpler.”

He nods again. You can see he's itching to ask something else. You don't mind, you haven't had as candid a conversation with anyone since...

“Go on, what else do you wanna know?”

Frank scratches at the two day old stubble on his chin and neck.

“Just wonderin’, how come you changed back at my place if you wanted to keep it on the down low? I wouldn't have kept you chained up forever, you coulda got away.”

“Sometimes, if I'm really tired or hurt, I'll slip back because I'm not able to control it.” Or if it's someone I trust, you think to yourself.

His face as he's listening to you is so intense, he's the second person you've explained this to and he's treating you with so much respect. It's almost overwhelming compared with your daily experience of the people of this city. It's a relief to share your 'condition' with someone else.

“I won't tell anybody, you got my word on that.”

“Thanks, you've already done so much for me, I owe you.”

Frank shakes his head putting up his hands. “Nah you don't owe me nothin’. Can't stand seein' animals gettin’ hurt, doesn't matter if there's actually a girl under there.”

You get up and go to the window, gazing out at the blur of coloured lights through the rainy pane of glass.

“I was thinking, I could help you.” You tell him, turning back. He's looking at you with those big brown eyes but his brows are narrowing so you keep going so he won't have a chance to shut you down because you know he will try.

“I can scope out the places you need to hit, tell you how many people there are, what they're packing. I've got a crazy good sense of smell, I can find people for you. And I can fight-”

“No.”

“Whatever it is you're doing, I know it's for a good reason, and I can be of help. It's the least I can do. Let me.”

“Jesus, you don't know that, you don't know anything about me.” His voice has bite, a warning that you're getting too close to the bone.

“I told you you can stay for as long as you need till you get back on your feet but you ain't getting into any of my shit, you hear me? It's mine to deal with, I won't have anybody else gettin' hurt cos of me.”

“I only got trapped because I was stupid, desperate. That won't happen again, I won't let it. C'mon Frank, you know I can give you a real advantage.”

“No, I'm tellin' you-”

Then he doesn't know where to look as you shift form right in front of him, your clothes sloughing off you like a skin until you're down on four paws looking up at him. You start to growl, your hackles raised, baring your teeth, barking loudly.

The Punisher shrinks back just a hair at your display. “Aw c'mon now don't do that…”

One more growl for good measure and then you stop, lick your lips and give him the most powerful puppy eyes you can muster, your tail wagging slowly as you pad towards him where he sits on the couch.

He can't help himself from reaching out to scratch your head and stroke your fur and you swish your tail even more.

“Fuck. Goddamit, that ain't fair.”

You nuzzle into his hand for more and he snorts, amused.

“Jesus christ, alright. I guess you can help. Hey!” He chuckles as you give him a slobbery lick up the side of his face. This new partnership was going to be a lot of fun.

[beansprean]

I adore Derek’s new gothpunk e-boy aesthetic and am sprinkling my own weeb hc on top!! I love him 😍

(Feel free to use his nakey self if you want to draw other fits on him, just don’t erase the watermark!)

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Full body of Derek smiling nervously, left hand at his side and the other held up like ‘nya’. He is wearing a black studded collar, a scoop neck black shirt with crying anime eyes, bleach stained light jeans cuffed over black combat boots, and a puffy camouflage jacket with a hood. He also has fingerless gloves and several chains attached to o rings looped around his belt.

2. Repeat. Derek is wearing a dark blue long sleeves shirt with thumb holes, frayed hems, and elbow patches under a tattered white tee shirt with horizontal rips that says "blood lust rave" in dripping black font. Beneath are black jeans with a studded belt and red suspenders hanging tucked into knee high burgundy leather combat boots. He has on several gold and silver rings, a tattoo choker, a studded collar, a long necklace with a few rings, and a dark red beanie.

3. Repeat. Derek is wearing a black and white striped long sleeve turtleneck under a black Otoboke Beaver tee shirt and loose black jeans tucked into white platform boots. He has several silver rings a silver chain around his neck, and another looped through several o rings around his belt.

4. Repeat. Derek is wearing a loose dark red striped sweater with a rip at the neckline affixed with safety pins, dark wash skinny jeans with multiple rips down the thighs and knees over fishnet tights, and checkered high top sneakers. He has dogtags, a pentagram necklace, and a studded collar around his neck and multiple chains, padlocks, and handcuffs hanging from his belt with o rings.

5. Repeat. Derek is wearing a dark loose sweater with thumb holes, a ripped off collar connected with safety pins, and fishnet material from the waist down. It's tucked into loose black skater pants with dangling hooks and suspenders and an askew studded belt, unzipped at the calf to show red material underneath. Black converse peek out beneath the flared cuffs.

6. Repeat. Derek is wearing a white collared shirt under a black tee shirt that says “vampire weekday” in slashy red font and black jeans with red splatter on the knees tucked into red ankle boots. He has on several rings, a few chains and a padlock around his neck, and a studded belt.

7. Repeat. Derek is wearing a short sleeve dark grey button up with a white scallop pattern and rolled sleeves, unbuttoned past his sternum to show off the gold pendant around his neck. The shirt is tucked into dark wash jeans with a snakeskin belt, cuffs rolled to mid calf, a few inches above shiny burgundy ankle boots.

8. Repeat. Derek is wearing a pale lavender turtleneck with black fishnet sleeves that hook around his fingers like gloves tucked into black skinny jeans with a studded belt. He has a thick black studded collar with an o ring and a matching harness strapped across his chest, the center o ring attached to a leash he holds in his left hand. He has several chains attached to o rings at his belt and his jeans are tucked into huge black gothic platform boots with several straps.

9. Repeat. Derek is wearing an oversized black hoodie over distressed and ripped up jeans and scuffed brown hiking boots with the laces double wrapped around his ankles. His hoodie has some red lacing down the arms and at the cuffs, and at the center is a red square with a crying anime girl rendered in black with white lineart. Red text in Japanese on either side reads "lonely vampire"

10. Repeat. Derek is wearing black briefs. /End ID

[leatheredlibrarian]

When you shop for clothing at the Men's Bodysuit Warehouse, you are bound to enjoy the fit if you choose the right color, because there is always room for yellow!

[attapullman]

The Boys Are Back / Whodunit? Origin Story

Summary: When best friends and childhood sleuths Bob Floyd and Mickey Garcia grow up, everything seems less fun. Thankfully things are about to completely change for these two hometown goofs.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: 18+ as always, language, 80s inaccuracies, sci-fi opinions do not reflect that of the author

A Note From Mo: As would be the only appropriate gift for providing the inspiration for Whodunit?, happy birthday @bobgasm! Thank you for loving these two as much as me and helping make their story as fun as it is. Wishing you the best birthday on New Zealand time (we'll be celebrating America time as well, don't worry 😉)

origin story / prologue / whodunit? masterlist

“Are you really trying to convince me that Return of the Jedi is better than The Wrath of Khan?” Mickey couldn’t wipe the look of disgust off his face at this zit-faced teenager at the counter. The two fairly recent box office hits were a common disagreement, and this kid came in thinking he knew all that and a bag of chips.

“Force lightning? Luke trying to redeem his father? Dude, George Lucas made the last two movies true masterpieces, cinematic perfection!” 

Rolling his eyes, aware that this knucklehead has no clue who he’s going against (all the best film geeks in town knew to not go against Fanboy Garcia and his sci-fi knowledge), Mickey dropped the copy of Raiders of the Lost Ark into a plastic bag along with the receipt.

“The Wrath of Khan brought people to tears. Invested us deeper into the characters we’ve loved for years, grown up with. Spock’s death shocked an entire nation, no doubt about it. And don’t be stupid, Vulcan nerve pinch defeats Force lightning every time.” He slides the bag across the counter with a scoff. “Movie is due back Tuesday. Come back with some real ammunition next time, airhead.”

Cheeks red, the teen grabs his bag and scuttles out of the Blockbuster. The bell chimes and suddenly the shop is empty. 

While the access to new releases and movies in the break room were great perks, Mickey was so over this job. The blunderhead teens with their gnarly opinions, the bratty moms who always complain about the return dates. It’s just renting a movie for a week, not that complicated. When was his cousin going to get back to him about that maintenance gig at city hall? The sci-fi fan slumped against the counter and continued watching the copy of Legend they just got in.

Across town, Bob was also struggling with his work day. When was everyone going to realize he didn’t set the price of parts? He wasn’t even really a mechanic, just a guy who needed a summer job in high school and never stopped coming in. A star employee, he enjoyed the puzzle of putting components together and the purr of a perfectly oiled engine. 

It may not have been his dream job, but the free parts for his ’65 Mustang and the content silence he and his uncle worked in wasn’t horrible.

Two more customers come in and try the haggle the price. Neither are impressed with the calm way Bob explains the cost of labor and parts, rubbing his greasy palms impatiently on his coveralls as he breaks down why he doesn’t work for free. And when he asks if they’d like him to undo the work to cut the cost, pocketbooks are pulled out and he’s got money in his pocket for beers later.

His uncle is long gone by the time Bob locks up the shop with a heavy padlock on the garage door. His boots scuff in the dirt as he makes his way to the Mustang, her blue paint shining in the late summer sun. She was stunning.

The breeze whipped through his hair - too long for his mother’s liking - as he drove across town. Mickey was just opening the door to The Alibi as he parked on the street. The best friends tip their heads in greeting.

“Bobby.”

“Fanboy.”

The two slap their hands together. Palms first, then two slaps from the back, before looping around to fist bump. A handshake from elementary school that somehow has carried on twenty years. After a few drinks a shimmy will make its way into the mix.

They take up residence at the bar, the same spot they’ve occupied a few nights a week since they walked out of that Navy enlistment meeting and never looked back. The bartender always knows to hand out whatever’s cheapest unless they’re holding paychecks.

“How many people confuse Star Wars and Star Trek today?” The cutting glare Mickey gives him says it all. Probably not the best time to make a Darth Khan joke.

Lost in the clatter and whoops of the bar, the best friends mull over their meaningless hourly jobs and contemplate the meaning of ‘the man’. Bob’s leather jacket hangs off the stool back, the sticky air of the bar clinging to the twentysomethings’ skin. One beer becomes two, two becomes three as the weekend arrives.

A loose curl hanging over his forehead, Mickey makes eyes contact with a babe across the room. He’d happily spend the evening with those beautiful eyes. The only perk of this dingy bar is it’s the only one in town, and a mix of old classmates and new-in-towns keep the dating game fresh.

Bob himself does a quick look around at the night’s prospects, doing a double take. No, it couldn’t be. When did the police captain’s daughter get back into town? She shoots an amiable smile and nod back before turning to her own drink and friends. 

Mickey raises his eyebrows at his bud. Bob shoves him off his stool on the way to the bathroom.

As the night progresses, only the young and the young at heart (and alcoholics) are still in their seats at The Alibi. The best friends are a handful of beers deep, leaning across the bar to chat with Mickey’s childhood neighbor, Tom - a gruff guy with a beer gut and a penchant for belching when he laughs. They love making him laugh.

“I tell you two about the rocks that keep showing up on my doorstep?”

Mysterious rocks? The boys lean in closer, their light denim-clad pelvises nearly over the bar top. Shaking their heads, all ears, they urge Tom for more information.

“Been happenin’ for months now. At first I didn’t think anything of it. Animals maybe? But they keep getting bigger and bigger. Tripped over one the size of a melon yesterday, stupid fucking rock. Belchhhh.” The boys snicker into their beers. “Can’t figure out who’s doing it. Gonna end up breaking my front step with a mountain one of these days.”

The boys exchange a look as they contemplate the conundrum. Who would just leave rocks on Tom’s doorstep? Wouldn’t it get old after a few weeks? And rocks of all things?

“It’s not that big of town. Who could it be?” Mickey cocks his head to the side. Tom has always been a nice guy. A little oblivious, but harmless. “Your ex-wife back in town?”

The bearded man shakes his head, scratching the underside of his belly as he realizes it’s time to call it a night. 

As Tom goes to pay his tab, Phil, who’s been manning the bar at The Alibi since before LBJ was in office, spoke up. “You two solved mysteries as kids, yeah?” 

The young men give him a perturbed look, confused why he’d bring up their silly sleuthing games from decades before. Hesitant, Bob nods. Who could forget the years spent hunched in random hiding spots, notebooks and binoculars at the ready. Mickey still had a scar from falling out of the second floor stairwell in the community center.

Tom is delighted, his drunken eyes lighting up. “Any chance you two could take a whack at figuring out who’s leaving all these fucking rocks on my doorstep? There’s a twenty in it for ya.”

It’s been…years since they last solved anything. Petty crimes from other classmates, some neighborhood drama, but that was before puberty. Did they still have the gift?

“Sure man, why not?” Shoulders are shrugged, hands are shook tipsily. They’d stop by in the morning before their shifts. Natural curiosity has them dying to see the assortment of rocks.

Tom heads out and the boys clink the necks of their bottles together, enjoying the last sip of the night. Who knew where this was going, but they were always up for a challenge.

A week later, the two returning sleuths are hunched over behind a bush with a pack of pretzels and a six-pack, mud caking Mickey’s new Air Forces. There’s cigarette stubs in the dirt and they’ve been arguing over the best flavor of Fanta for an hour.

In the wee hours of the morning Tom’s next door neighbor sneaks into his garden to place a rock roughly the size of a pumpkin on the front step. The shared fence issue Tom thought to be resolved? Definitely not. 

Another neighborhood drama solved. Twenty dollars in their pocket.

But with the solve comes a burning itch that Mickey can’t scratch. Keeps him up at night, lives in the corner of his brain while he rents movies to bored-face teens. A blazing fire that can only be tended, not extinguished.

“What if we started our own detective agency?”

Bob spat out his ginger ale on Mrs. Garcia’s freshly cleaned granite countertop. Was Fanboy tripping?

“C’mon man, why not? Put up some flyers and solve whatever rinky dink shit comes up in our free time? Make some extra cash? We might actually be able to move out on our own. Don’t you want freedom?” 

They’d been bitching about it for months, wanting to get out of their childhood bedrooms and actually do something with their lives. So the Navy wasn’t for them, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t serve their community in other ways. Maybe this was the answer to their unsure futures.

Bob grabbed his best friend’s hand, the decade-old handshake turning into a brotherly hug. “Just promise me we won’t get into anything too crazy. I like my Sundays on the couch.”

In six months they’d raised the cash for their own apartment, a small two bed in the dusky pink modular building off Main Street. In a year the amateur sleuths had been in the local paper twice. And two years and several police case assistances later, they stood across from the police captain’s daughter, not a smile in sight.

join the taglist for whodunit? and more

taglist:

@bcarolinablr

@berryvanille

@bobfloydsbabe

@bobgasm

@bradshawsbaby

@buckys-estrella

@cosmoeticss

@creatchie8

@desert-fern

@drxgxnslxyer

@eloquentdreamer

@hangmanapologist

@hiireadstuff

@himbos-on-ice

@jessicab1991

@just-in-case-iloveyou

@kmc1989

@littlemsbumblebee

@mariaenchanted

@maryelizabeth13

@midnightmagpiemama

@nerdgirljen

@nouis-bum

@petersunderoos96

@rhettsluvr

@roosterforme

@seitmai

@senawashere

@smoothdogsgirl

@sometimesanalice

@sorchathered

@spidervman

@sweetwhispersofchaos

@sydsommersss

@tastefulregularthots

@theamuz

@topherwrites

@unpretty-reader

@whoeverineedtobe

@xoxabs88xox

@yuckosworld

[charles-smith-pillow-princess]

oh! :3 or or or arthur saving charles's life for once, or protecting/defending him even though he doesnt need it 😌

(not sure if its what you had in mind! to be fair, Arthur does TRY to defend Charles--Charles just beats him to the punch)

Arthur crawled up into the cliff’s edge overlooking the rail crossing, staying tight and low to the ground. 

“You’re sure this is the way the bastards are headed?” Arthur asked Javier. A job had gone wrong yesterday. Arthur and the rest had made it out, but their newest gang member—Charles Smith, a supposed master hunter—had gotten snatched by the local law.

Javier nodded, knocking his boot against Arthur’s own. “Sí," he said. “Idiots said they were meeting some Army fuckers at the fort south of here at noon—this is the only road between town and the fort.”

Arthur shrugged, drawing his rifle from his back, settling into a sniper’s stance. “Let’s hope you’re right,” he drawled. “For Mr. Smith’s sake.” 

Ten minutes passed. A cloud of dust came up on the horizon, floating above the tall bushes and overgrown scrub that lined the red-dirt road.

Just as the prison cart rolled up about a hundred yards from the intersection, the loud, low whistle of a train signaled the cargo rail approaching the intersection. 

“See, Arthur,” Javier said, pulling his own rifle into place as he patted Arthur on the shoulder. “Right on time.” 

Arthur grunted, sighting in on the prison carriage with his scope. He could see the slumped form of their newest gang member against the floor of the rolling cart. Smith's hands were tied behind his back with a thick rope, and he was motionless. 

“He look dead to you?” Arthur asked, more annoyed than worried. He’d no desire to start anything with the law over retrieving a corpse. Smith hadn’t been running with them long enough to earn that level of loyalty. 

Javier sighted in beside Arthur. He sucked his teeth. “Nah,” he said. “He’s moving—looks like he’s picking at his belt.” 

Arthur squinted. He could see it now—Smith was making subtle movements, almost too small to see. “Did those fools miss a knife?”

“Not sure.” Javier shifted, grinning as the carriage rolled to a stop to wait out the train making its way across the intersection. He sighted down the barrel of his gun at the two guards. “You take left, I take right?”

Arthur nodded, sighting in. “Sure—” he cut off, mouth dropping open in amazement.

“Holy shit!” Javier exclaimed.

Smith had freed himself from his ropes, leaping up and looping some sort of long wire through the bars of his cage, catching one of the guards around the neck. A garrotte wire, Arthur realized, sewn into the lining of Smith's belt. It must have been what he'd used to cut the ropes, too.

Smith yanked, pulling the man back against the bar. A line of bright, arterial red spurt from the guard’s neck, splattering the other guardsman who was scrambling for his gun.

Smith reached through the bars, snagging the pistol from his twitching victim. He swiftly shot the other guard in the head, splattering his brains in the red Texarkana dirt.  

The whole thing took less than five seconds.

 It was the most beautiful act of violence that Arthur'd ever seen. 

Javier whooped as Smith turned and shot the padlock off of the cell door. “Charles!” Javier called, popping up to waive Smith up the ridge. “Up here!”

Smith startled, whirling. Through the scope, Arthur could see that he’d hardly gotten a speck of blood on him. His expression was befuddled, then shocked. The man obviously hadn’t thought anyone would be coming to his rescue. 

Arthur swallowed, mouth dry, as that shock morphed into a bright, relieved grin. He didn’t think he’d seen the surly man smile a single time since he’d joined up with the gang. 

Arthur’s stomach lurched as he looked, butterflies flapping up a storm. Brown eyes bright, long hair flowing, dimples flashing—Charles Smith’s smile was one of the prettiest things Arthur'd set eyes on.

Arthur was often a fool. But even he knew, then—watching the wonder that was their newest gang member quickly scale the cliff to join himself and Javier—that he was in trouble.